I do not own Labyrinth.
Author's notes: Angstangstangst. Title & quote courtesy of Billy Shake's Hamlet.
The Lady Doth Protest
Shivering.
You feel as though your mind and thoughts should be in other places, but right now, all you can focus on is the fact that you are shivering. It is a breezy-warm night in June, the temperature barely below seventy five degrees Fahrenheit, and yet there you are, in your tiny, two bedroom apartment, shivering.
It is either very late at night or very early in the morning; you can't decide, but to be perfectly honest, you don't care. Steve or Paul or Rob, whatever he said his name was, whatever name you moaned in an attempt to convey ecstasy while his unskilled fingers trailed your lithe frame, has just left your tiny, two bedroom apartment. He was slightly disoriented and slightly shirtless upon his exit, but you were too busy shivering to notice.
It has been like this for the past two years, ever since you moved out of the safety and comfort of your childhood home in a well-to-do New York suburb and into an urban apartment building to purse acting with a childhood friend. The same childhood friend innocently sleeping in the next room, or at least pretending to innocently sleep so as not to disturb your latest conquest.
Conquest (noun): the act or state of conquering or the state of being conquered; the winning of favor, affection, love, etc.
Scratch that, Steve or Paul or Rob was not a conquest. None of them were. They were all casual liaisons, strung along for a week or two before realizing their hopes and wishes for a commitment from one Sarah Williams were nothing more than pipe dreams in an idle world. For the life of you, you could not seem to invest more than your body into a relationship; no mortal man had yet to capture your mind and soul in a way that matched how he had captured your body. Which, sadly, had yet to be that tremendous anyway...
You are about to pull the navy blue comforter around your body and turn in for the night when, still shivering, you feel the change in air, the shift in atmosphere. Your gray-green eyes land on the desk chair halfway across the room. He's tapping his boot against the hardwood floor, you're still shivering in your white satin camisole and matching boy shorts. Tapping, shivering. Tapping. Shivering. Tappingshiveringtapping.
"Really, Sarah?" He smirks cruelly, as though he has the upper hand in this situation, "Not even a 'hello'?"
If one were to look at the scene from an outside perspective, without any background knowledge, one would think he did indeed have the upper hand. While you sat with your long arms around your thin torso, appearing more than vulnerable in your innocent attire, he looked seductive, almost dangerous, in his dark finery. A typical black satin shirt, buttoned to just below his chest, revealed lightly defined muscles underneath his royal pendent. His bottoms were equally as dark but surprisingly less revealing, as he had abandoned the blushingly tight breeches that you remember with bitter fondness, now replaced with more structured, masculine trousers that buttoned at the sides. His gloves and boots were made of the finest black leather, and his white-blond hair contrasted the look with its wild layers and pieces flying about his near-flawless face.
You choose to ignore his comment, instead opting to stretch your legs out from your bed and grab your silky white robe from its position in your closet. You slide it onto your frame and tie the belt around your waist as tightly as you can, trying in vain to conceal yourself from his preying mismatched eyes.
"As if I haven't seen all of you and more, young Sarah," he drawls smoothly, reading your mind for what seems like the millionth time since you two met, those four and a half years ago.
"Typically not willingly on my part, please do include."
"And so she speaks," he says, and you realize he is now behind you, cupping your waist with his gloved right hand. You don't know how he got to you so quickly and so silently, and you don't care, as you are too distracted by his body against yours, his breath on your neck. He moves to sweep your raven-silk hair to the left side of your neck, but before he can finish, you smack his hand from your waist and turn to face him. If you have grown these past years, then he must have as well, because your face barely comes up to his chest. You sigh, trying to form words. Nothing comes out.
"A silent protest? Do I really make you that speechless, precious thing?" He inquires, lightly brushing a few shorter layers of hair away from your hooded eyes.
"No," you practically spit, swatting his hand away and rebelliously letting more hair fall back in front of your eyes, "I'm just tired." Lie.
"Well," he steps away from you, as if admiring the scenery on a faraway land, "maybe if you refrained from staying awake into all hours of the night with your men, you-"
"Or maybe if you would just let me sleep," you counter, cutting him off before he can finish his statement, "Why do you enjoy these visits to be at the witching hour?" He laughs, and you try to ignore the little dip in the space behind your navel. He would know if you acknowledged that dip, and you would not give him that power. He makes an inquisitive face, and you realize he does know about that dip, but thankfully, he does not mention it.
"I wouldn't want to interrupt your incredibly booming day life," he tips his head, a smile tugging at his lips, "You are so terribly busy these days, why, there is just no time for me." He's joking, of course. He watches you, knows you too well.
"Don't mock me, Goblin King." Venom laced into your words, you defiantly walk closer to him, almost daring him to step closer.
He accepts the dare.
"You're tense," he says, and all at once he has turned you around and began to massage your neck and shoulders. Your mind is getting cloudly and your knees are beginning to buckle and you're still fucking shivering, but you can't seem to move from where you stand. His fingers are working their way down your back and arms, and before you know it, his hands are trailing above the waistband on your boy shorts. He is purely teasing, but you're weakening none-the-less.
And then he has you on the bed. He hasn't laid you down and he hasn't begun to ravish you. Merely, he has propped you against the wooden headboard, and sat himself across from you, holding your hand in his lap. The darkened room has an almost blue tint to it, a mix of the late night/early morning sky and the silver-cool light from the full moon trickling in past your standard blue curtains. His face is illuminated by the moon, his eyes, usually so serious and even, twinged with a slight sadness. He didn't have the upper hand here.
His grip on your small hand tightens, as he intensely stares into your eyes, questioning. "Why can't you just accept me, Sarah?"
You want to roll your eyes, to click your tongue, to do something, but he has slowly drained you of all your energy over the years. "Why can't you just leave me be, Jareth?" You do not surprise him half as much as you surprise yourself when your voice cracks mid sentence, your eyes welling with unshed tears.
"Because that isn't what you want." And you know it, he leaves unsaid. It goes without saying. You want to accept him but can't. You can't allow yourself to accept this man that you have built up in your imagination as cruel and uncaring. No matter how much he has disproved that. Your pride won't allow it.
Before your mind can form words, his mind forms actions. His hands have snaked their way around your torso, and his lips are on yours within milliseconds. It's nothing new, not a surprise that he has moved to this. His lips and body have found yours too many times over the years, but you never could prevent it. It wasn't unwilling, you merely couldn't find the strength. Your mind was screaming no when your body and heart had already begun.
He has already undressed you before you realize he is undressing himself, and you meekly reach your hands up to prevent him from going further. Against your heart. Always against your heart. He seems to have had enough of this, as he grabs your hands and kisses them.
"The lady doth protest too much," he mutters, before slipping out of his royal attire and cradling you in his embrace, "methinks."
And so you let it happen, this love making. You let him electrify your senses and caress every inch of you, like no mortal man can wish to. You carry each other through the waves and back, riding against the current time and time again. The guilt you used to feel for giving him false hope over the years is slowly but surely being replaced, although not necessarily in the greatest way. You will say yes eventually, give in eventually. He knew it and you knew it and you both knew it from the very beginning. But stubbornness reigns over desire for some, and you are one of those unfortunate fools.
In this situation, there is no upper hand.
Heyyyy, it's almost five in the morning here and I can't sleep. Obvious solution? Poorly written angst! Yaaaay!