![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
clo_againAlways when you least expect it.
Apparently my Jareth muse was unimpressed with the quality of the Labyrinth fanfic I was able to find last night. He rebelled. And I just spent over four hours indulging his rebellion and got over 2,000 words of a Jareth/Sarah ficlet. The muses always strike when you least expect it.
Title: Dreams of Silk
Fandom: Labyrinth
Pairing: Jareth/Sarah
Rating: PG-13 (kissing and mild touching, hints of non-specific violence and abuse)
Summary: Sarah finds a gift from an old acquaintance when she needs it most.
Notes: Written out of sheer fury for the state of some Labyrinth fanfic out there. And to avoid spontaneous combustion from Roman Satire exam revision. Unedited, beware of myriad mistakes.
Dreams of Silk
There’s a rose placed with utmost care on her pillow.
Sarah stares at it, wondering how she missed it this morning. The flat’s been locked all day; no one else has a key. Someone must have sneaked in to leave it while she was in the shower. The thought makes her shiver and she turns to check she’s locked the door behind her. This is a nice neighbourhood but when mystery burglars start leaving flowers behind perhaps it’s a sign of things going downhill.
She kicks her bag to one side, caring little for the crack and snap of plastic make-up boxes, the mascara tube breaking to leak stains of black into fashionably mid-priced leather. It’s already left black-rimmed tearstains down her cheeks and she brushes absently at the damp lines to leave mascara-fingerprints instead. Her well-patched denim jacket follows the bag as do her boots and hair tie. She pushes the tangled dark strands back off her face and gives the rose a final suspicious glare before going into the bathroom.
The mirror is smudged with toothpaste and lipstick kisses where she’d been unable to find a tissue in the rush this morning. Her expression is reflected back through the mess, empty, blank, just another face that could belong to anyone. She traces the circumference of the black eye in her reflection, the greeny-grey eye like a dulled jewel in the centre of the purpling bruise. It’s almost aesthetic and she’d smile if she could remember how or why.
She cleans off the smeared mascara first, wielding the cotton ball almost defiantly close to the bruises. The sticky lines of green eye shadow follow and she’s left with a useless piece of black-and-green cotton wool. It’s almost enough for her to quit when her reaching hand encounters an empty packet but sheer determination drives her to fill the sink with water hot enough to burn. It’s pleasantly painful as she dunks her head under; searing away salty tears and ruined makeup alike. When she straightens up and looks in the mirror her face is red and clean, for a brief second almost familiar.
It doesn’t last and she looks away.
The ripped white shirt gets tossed into the bin in the corner; the jeans are only dirty but get thrown after the shirt anyway. She strips and washes quickly, shivering without realising as she leans against the cold tiles for balance.
She’s forgotten to turn on the heating again. Never mind.
Avoiding the bruises is second nature now. Her roughened fingers scrape almost painfully around the edges and she lets her hair fall over her shoulders to cover the yellowing finger marks as she rinses her feet. The socks are another write-off; she hurls them with unnecessary force against the wall and they bounce back in silent mockery of her efforts. Once she’d have lost her temper but now it’s too much trouble, too much of who she used to be and nothing to do with who she’s become. She leaves them lying on the tiles and goes back into the bedroom, shrugging into her faded blue robe for warmth. The towelling material is harsh against her skin and she thinks wistfully of velvet or silk, something that caresses instead of itching. It’s an unaffordable dream and she knows it but the rose drives the thought out her head.
It’s still where she left it and she doesn’t know why that surprises her. She hasn’t progressed to full on hallucinations that she’s aware of and she’d seen the crimson petals as clearer than her own face in the mirror under the sickly yellow lights. Just to make sue she flips the switch once; twice and when the bulb buzzes back to life it’s still there, the delicate bud touched with silvery condensation.
It must be new then, she thinks as she approaches the bed, it wouldn’t still be damp from this morning. It’s the little voice at the back of her mind speaking; the one that clings on to speak common sense even when she tries to force it into silence. She tries now; pressing the niggling doubt back but it’s persistent and she hesitates with a hand outstretched towards the dewed petals.
There’s a note beside it, creamy note paper that blends with the pillow beneath. She picks that up first without really knowing why. What else could she do? Call the police? Complain someone was leaving her roses and little notes in her bed? If they didn’t laugh at her they’d just ask about the bruises and she’s not willing to be interrogated. So she squashes the voice of common sense and brings the note to her lips.
It smells of lavender and rain, sunshine and innocence and it’s almost enough to make her drop it. It’s the smell every child associates with summer and excitement, with unexpected presents and a day out at the fair. She can almost taste the candyfloss, grainy against her teeth and the heady thrill of adrenalin from the rickety old roller coaster her parents would never have let her try if they’d known. It’s everything she didn’t know she still remembered, the sharp tang of magic, the pinprick sensation of eyes watching her every move and owl feathers brushing her face like fingertips…
…And then she’s just standing in her bedroom, holding a piece of scentless paper.
She’s shivering from more than just cold now and her grip is crushing the creamy paper in her hand. Opening the note is pointless; she already knows what she’ll see but nagging uncertainty forces her to unfold it anyway.
The calligraphic swirled ‘J’ is close to a reproof for her doubt and she smiles for the first time since she walked through the door, a wavering ghost of an expression long forgotten but a smile nevertheless.
With shades of reverent awe she reaches for the rose, fingers shaking around the stem to draw a splash of blood from a sharp thorn. Undeterred, hardly noticing, she lifts it to her cheek to brush silken petals against her skin and the trail of cool dew it leaves in it’s wake softens the sting of the black eye, tastes sweet across her lips. The tip of a tongue darts out to touch the crimson bud and it tastes of flowers, of kisses, of silk. She smiles into the half-kiss, wider this time, brighter as she tries to hold on to the sensation. It’s fleeting and elusive and a frown crinkles the corners of her eyes as it starts to slip out her grasp.
She crawls onto the bed with her eyes half closed, rose pressed to her chest with something approaching desperation and she’d be crying if she had the energy for more tears. Her other hand traces the elegant J like a charm, like a call.
“Please,” she whispers into the pillow. “Please, …”
But there’s nothing there except a rose and she cries herself to sleep.
~
He’s just like she remembers him, perhaps a little hazier, a little shorter but she’s grown which would explain why she can now look him in the eyes, one blue, one green. Her dress is silk and his gloves are velvet, both moving across her skin in entirely different levels of intimacy, one like a second skin, the other a possessive caress. Her hair is elegantly coiffed and curled, the tiara of silver leaves the same she wore the last time they danced like this.
“You left me the rose.”
He smiles and she’s missed it; it brings a lump to her throat in a way she’d have laughed herself silly over a few years earlier. Such a simple little expression - the corners of his mouth quirking up in a manner that speaks amusement, arrogance and right now more than a little reassurance. Moonbeam-pale blond hair brushes her cheeks softer than rose petals and she leans into his slender warmth, unwilling to take her gaze off his face in case he disappears. One velvet-encased fingertip comes up to trace her cheekbone as they spin slowly across the glittering white room.
“And the note.”
Still smiling, edged with familiar condescension now and she stumbles, lets him right her, grip warm and gentle around her waist. It’s the gentleness that finally overwhelms her and she leans in to bury her face in his ruffled shirt. A moment of startled hesitation on his part then his hands come up to cradle her shoulders and she mumbles thanks, relief, wordless gibberish of gratitude into the warm chest pressed against her face.
“Sarah,” he whispers for the first time, lips brushing her ear.
She shivers, letting him guide their steps around the dance floor. There’s a surreal kind of brightness to the scene, a haze of fuzziness to the edge of everything that lets her know she’s dreaming and she doesn’t care. If she hides her face for long enough, if he says her name like that again it’ll be real. She won’t have to wake up. She buries her face deeper in the ruffles and against her lips tastes warm silk covering warmer skin. She can’t tell if it’s him or her who shivers first but it ends up belonging to both of them, a shared trembling that more than anything assures Sarah he’ll be there when she opens her eyes.
She does so to see if he’s still smiling but he’s not, he’s watching her with his odd-coloured eyes, an unreadable mask covering any expression. It’s so exactly like what she remembers from before that she panics; she pulls back, pushes him away and he lets her go with a disappointment so palpably familiar that her breath catches in her throat and-
He catches her when she falls, strong arms closing around her to hold her up and she leans on him because she’s tired, tired of fighting, tired of existing, tired of knowing she’s going to wake up in a moment and there’ll be nothing but salt on her pillow to prove this ever happened. He leads her to a black leather couch, sits her down then sits beside her, letting her use him as a prop to keep her upright. She half-laughs, half chokes at his concern.
“You know this is absurd.” It’s a statement, not a question but his soft chuckle answers her anyway.
“This is only a dream.”
“It doesn’t have to be.”
It’s an offer laced with promise and she clings to it like a child with a favourite toy, a fuzzy bear she gave away, a small red book with golden letters on the cover. It’s everything she wants and everything she needs and she knows without thinking it’s utterly impossible.
“I can’t,” she whispers brokenly. “This is illusion and faerie magic and even if it weren’t…” She looks up to sad understanding and shadowed grief. “I can’t.”
“You’d go back… to that?” It’s rare that she ever managed to surprise him but there’s a definite shock in his tone. Her answering smile is bitter and closer to a grimace.
“It’s my world and my life. I can’t run away.” Her tone is sharper than she intended and she feels him flinch from it. Her hand is on his shoulder before she can even think; she pulls him closer and hides her face against his neck. He’s warm and alive under her touch, the beat of his pulse against her cheek and he couldn’t feel less like a dream that’ll vanish at any moment.
“Thank you.” She breathes the words against his skin. “For the offer. I appreciate… Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” She can feel his smile pressed against her hair. “And the offer will always stand. If you ever need me…”
“I’ll call,” she answers with more than a hint of irony. Her giggle mingles with his laugh and they meet each others’ eyes. Their smiles fade and he reaches up to trace her bruised eye.
“I can make it stop,” he says quietly. “All you have to do is say the word.”
“And then how long would I wait before running to you with the next problem?” Sarah looks at him and part of her realises she still has to tilt her chin ever so slightly to meet his eyes. He’s watching her again with that knowing smirk that she doesn’t find as irritating as she once had and could actually describe as endearing if pushed to it. “It’s just another way of running.”
He considers her words seriously for a moment then his mouth twitches. “You’re too stubborn for your own good.”
“I know.” She smiles and doesn’t even flinch when he leans in to kiss her because it’s natural and gentle and it’s what she’s wanted him to do since she first opened her eyes to find herself dancing with him. She closes them now to feel more; his velvet gloves caressing her bare arms, stroking the silk of her hair, her shoulders, her back and she leans into his touch even as her own hands explore him in wonder.
He kisses like the rest of this illusion, hazy, bright, filled with shivering, giddy pleasure that she could live forever on if given enough. His lips are warm; his tongue hot; the blonde hair brushing her face a teasingly light annoyance and she draws back just fractionally enough to exhale a long sigh that ends in a name she hasn’t said aloud in a long time.
“… Jareth.”
She knows before she opens her eyes that he’s gone. The only thing touching her face is her pillow and something light and tickling that a moment ago was moonbeam-pale hair and now she discovers, opening her eyes, is a crimson rose dotted with silver drops of dew. She kisses it, barely stirring the petals and tastes silken lips, warm skin under a ruffled shirt and his pulse against her mouth.
“I’ll call,” she says softly into the darkness. “I promise.”
~ Fin~
And now to bed since I have to write essays all day tomorrow. I'm still mildly shocked my Jareth-muse showed up again with no warning. *shakes head in bemusement*
G'nite all.
Clo
Apparently my Jareth muse was unimpressed with the quality of the Labyrinth fanfic I was able to find last night. He rebelled. And I just spent over four hours indulging his rebellion and got over 2,000 words of a Jareth/Sarah ficlet. The muses always strike when you least expect it.
Title: Dreams of Silk
Fandom: Labyrinth
Pairing: Jareth/Sarah
Rating: PG-13 (kissing and mild touching, hints of non-specific violence and abuse)
Summary: Sarah finds a gift from an old acquaintance when she needs it most.
Notes: Written out of sheer fury for the state of some Labyrinth fanfic out there. And to avoid spontaneous combustion from Roman Satire exam revision. Unedited, beware of myriad mistakes.
Dreams of Silk
There’s a rose placed with utmost care on her pillow.
Sarah stares at it, wondering how she missed it this morning. The flat’s been locked all day; no one else has a key. Someone must have sneaked in to leave it while she was in the shower. The thought makes her shiver and she turns to check she’s locked the door behind her. This is a nice neighbourhood but when mystery burglars start leaving flowers behind perhaps it’s a sign of things going downhill.
She kicks her bag to one side, caring little for the crack and snap of plastic make-up boxes, the mascara tube breaking to leak stains of black into fashionably mid-priced leather. It’s already left black-rimmed tearstains down her cheeks and she brushes absently at the damp lines to leave mascara-fingerprints instead. Her well-patched denim jacket follows the bag as do her boots and hair tie. She pushes the tangled dark strands back off her face and gives the rose a final suspicious glare before going into the bathroom.
The mirror is smudged with toothpaste and lipstick kisses where she’d been unable to find a tissue in the rush this morning. Her expression is reflected back through the mess, empty, blank, just another face that could belong to anyone. She traces the circumference of the black eye in her reflection, the greeny-grey eye like a dulled jewel in the centre of the purpling bruise. It’s almost aesthetic and she’d smile if she could remember how or why.
She cleans off the smeared mascara first, wielding the cotton ball almost defiantly close to the bruises. The sticky lines of green eye shadow follow and she’s left with a useless piece of black-and-green cotton wool. It’s almost enough for her to quit when her reaching hand encounters an empty packet but sheer determination drives her to fill the sink with water hot enough to burn. It’s pleasantly painful as she dunks her head under; searing away salty tears and ruined makeup alike. When she straightens up and looks in the mirror her face is red and clean, for a brief second almost familiar.
It doesn’t last and she looks away.
The ripped white shirt gets tossed into the bin in the corner; the jeans are only dirty but get thrown after the shirt anyway. She strips and washes quickly, shivering without realising as she leans against the cold tiles for balance.
She’s forgotten to turn on the heating again. Never mind.
Avoiding the bruises is second nature now. Her roughened fingers scrape almost painfully around the edges and she lets her hair fall over her shoulders to cover the yellowing finger marks as she rinses her feet. The socks are another write-off; she hurls them with unnecessary force against the wall and they bounce back in silent mockery of her efforts. Once she’d have lost her temper but now it’s too much trouble, too much of who she used to be and nothing to do with who she’s become. She leaves them lying on the tiles and goes back into the bedroom, shrugging into her faded blue robe for warmth. The towelling material is harsh against her skin and she thinks wistfully of velvet or silk, something that caresses instead of itching. It’s an unaffordable dream and she knows it but the rose drives the thought out her head.
It’s still where she left it and she doesn’t know why that surprises her. She hasn’t progressed to full on hallucinations that she’s aware of and she’d seen the crimson petals as clearer than her own face in the mirror under the sickly yellow lights. Just to make sue she flips the switch once; twice and when the bulb buzzes back to life it’s still there, the delicate bud touched with silvery condensation.
It must be new then, she thinks as she approaches the bed, it wouldn’t still be damp from this morning. It’s the little voice at the back of her mind speaking; the one that clings on to speak common sense even when she tries to force it into silence. She tries now; pressing the niggling doubt back but it’s persistent and she hesitates with a hand outstretched towards the dewed petals.
There’s a note beside it, creamy note paper that blends with the pillow beneath. She picks that up first without really knowing why. What else could she do? Call the police? Complain someone was leaving her roses and little notes in her bed? If they didn’t laugh at her they’d just ask about the bruises and she’s not willing to be interrogated. So she squashes the voice of common sense and brings the note to her lips.
It smells of lavender and rain, sunshine and innocence and it’s almost enough to make her drop it. It’s the smell every child associates with summer and excitement, with unexpected presents and a day out at the fair. She can almost taste the candyfloss, grainy against her teeth and the heady thrill of adrenalin from the rickety old roller coaster her parents would never have let her try if they’d known. It’s everything she didn’t know she still remembered, the sharp tang of magic, the pinprick sensation of eyes watching her every move and owl feathers brushing her face like fingertips…
…And then she’s just standing in her bedroom, holding a piece of scentless paper.
She’s shivering from more than just cold now and her grip is crushing the creamy paper in her hand. Opening the note is pointless; she already knows what she’ll see but nagging uncertainty forces her to unfold it anyway.
The calligraphic swirled ‘J’ is close to a reproof for her doubt and she smiles for the first time since she walked through the door, a wavering ghost of an expression long forgotten but a smile nevertheless.
With shades of reverent awe she reaches for the rose, fingers shaking around the stem to draw a splash of blood from a sharp thorn. Undeterred, hardly noticing, she lifts it to her cheek to brush silken petals against her skin and the trail of cool dew it leaves in it’s wake softens the sting of the black eye, tastes sweet across her lips. The tip of a tongue darts out to touch the crimson bud and it tastes of flowers, of kisses, of silk. She smiles into the half-kiss, wider this time, brighter as she tries to hold on to the sensation. It’s fleeting and elusive and a frown crinkles the corners of her eyes as it starts to slip out her grasp.
She crawls onto the bed with her eyes half closed, rose pressed to her chest with something approaching desperation and she’d be crying if she had the energy for more tears. Her other hand traces the elegant J like a charm, like a call.
“Please,” she whispers into the pillow. “Please, …”
But there’s nothing there except a rose and she cries herself to sleep.
~
He’s just like she remembers him, perhaps a little hazier, a little shorter but she’s grown which would explain why she can now look him in the eyes, one blue, one green. Her dress is silk and his gloves are velvet, both moving across her skin in entirely different levels of intimacy, one like a second skin, the other a possessive caress. Her hair is elegantly coiffed and curled, the tiara of silver leaves the same she wore the last time they danced like this.
“You left me the rose.”
He smiles and she’s missed it; it brings a lump to her throat in a way she’d have laughed herself silly over a few years earlier. Such a simple little expression - the corners of his mouth quirking up in a manner that speaks amusement, arrogance and right now more than a little reassurance. Moonbeam-pale blond hair brushes her cheeks softer than rose petals and she leans into his slender warmth, unwilling to take her gaze off his face in case he disappears. One velvet-encased fingertip comes up to trace her cheekbone as they spin slowly across the glittering white room.
“And the note.”
Still smiling, edged with familiar condescension now and she stumbles, lets him right her, grip warm and gentle around her waist. It’s the gentleness that finally overwhelms her and she leans in to bury her face in his ruffled shirt. A moment of startled hesitation on his part then his hands come up to cradle her shoulders and she mumbles thanks, relief, wordless gibberish of gratitude into the warm chest pressed against her face.
“Sarah,” he whispers for the first time, lips brushing her ear.
She shivers, letting him guide their steps around the dance floor. There’s a surreal kind of brightness to the scene, a haze of fuzziness to the edge of everything that lets her know she’s dreaming and she doesn’t care. If she hides her face for long enough, if he says her name like that again it’ll be real. She won’t have to wake up. She buries her face deeper in the ruffles and against her lips tastes warm silk covering warmer skin. She can’t tell if it’s him or her who shivers first but it ends up belonging to both of them, a shared trembling that more than anything assures Sarah he’ll be there when she opens her eyes.
She does so to see if he’s still smiling but he’s not, he’s watching her with his odd-coloured eyes, an unreadable mask covering any expression. It’s so exactly like what she remembers from before that she panics; she pulls back, pushes him away and he lets her go with a disappointment so palpably familiar that her breath catches in her throat and-
He catches her when she falls, strong arms closing around her to hold her up and she leans on him because she’s tired, tired of fighting, tired of existing, tired of knowing she’s going to wake up in a moment and there’ll be nothing but salt on her pillow to prove this ever happened. He leads her to a black leather couch, sits her down then sits beside her, letting her use him as a prop to keep her upright. She half-laughs, half chokes at his concern.
“You know this is absurd.” It’s a statement, not a question but his soft chuckle answers her anyway.
“This is only a dream.”
“It doesn’t have to be.”
It’s an offer laced with promise and she clings to it like a child with a favourite toy, a fuzzy bear she gave away, a small red book with golden letters on the cover. It’s everything she wants and everything she needs and she knows without thinking it’s utterly impossible.
“I can’t,” she whispers brokenly. “This is illusion and faerie magic and even if it weren’t…” She looks up to sad understanding and shadowed grief. “I can’t.”
“You’d go back… to that?” It’s rare that she ever managed to surprise him but there’s a definite shock in his tone. Her answering smile is bitter and closer to a grimace.
“It’s my world and my life. I can’t run away.” Her tone is sharper than she intended and she feels him flinch from it. Her hand is on his shoulder before she can even think; she pulls him closer and hides her face against his neck. He’s warm and alive under her touch, the beat of his pulse against her cheek and he couldn’t feel less like a dream that’ll vanish at any moment.
“Thank you.” She breathes the words against his skin. “For the offer. I appreciate… Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” She can feel his smile pressed against her hair. “And the offer will always stand. If you ever need me…”
“I’ll call,” she answers with more than a hint of irony. Her giggle mingles with his laugh and they meet each others’ eyes. Their smiles fade and he reaches up to trace her bruised eye.
“I can make it stop,” he says quietly. “All you have to do is say the word.”
“And then how long would I wait before running to you with the next problem?” Sarah looks at him and part of her realises she still has to tilt her chin ever so slightly to meet his eyes. He’s watching her again with that knowing smirk that she doesn’t find as irritating as she once had and could actually describe as endearing if pushed to it. “It’s just another way of running.”
He considers her words seriously for a moment then his mouth twitches. “You’re too stubborn for your own good.”
“I know.” She smiles and doesn’t even flinch when he leans in to kiss her because it’s natural and gentle and it’s what she’s wanted him to do since she first opened her eyes to find herself dancing with him. She closes them now to feel more; his velvet gloves caressing her bare arms, stroking the silk of her hair, her shoulders, her back and she leans into his touch even as her own hands explore him in wonder.
He kisses like the rest of this illusion, hazy, bright, filled with shivering, giddy pleasure that she could live forever on if given enough. His lips are warm; his tongue hot; the blonde hair brushing her face a teasingly light annoyance and she draws back just fractionally enough to exhale a long sigh that ends in a name she hasn’t said aloud in a long time.
“… Jareth.”
She knows before she opens her eyes that he’s gone. The only thing touching her face is her pillow and something light and tickling that a moment ago was moonbeam-pale hair and now she discovers, opening her eyes, is a crimson rose dotted with silver drops of dew. She kisses it, barely stirring the petals and tastes silken lips, warm skin under a ruffled shirt and his pulse against her mouth.
“I’ll call,” she says softly into the darkness. “I promise.”
~ Fin~
And now to bed since I have to write essays all day tomorrow. I'm still mildly shocked my Jareth-muse showed up again with no warning. *shakes head in bemusement*
G'nite all.
Clo
