Disclaimer: Hallo, darlings. No, my time missing was not spent acquiring the deeds to Labyrinth, but rather recovering from a rather nasty peanutbutter addiction. Thanks to the Fire Gang for their support.

Special thanks to my wonderful beta, TrashedXandXScattered. You are fabulous, darling!

An Occasional Dream

There is a distinct difference between loving someone, and worshiping someone. In the act of worship, one ignores the object of his affection's faults; blindness to flaws is a harbinger of tragedy. Love, conversely, recognizes the shortcomings and downfalls, and embraces them as a part of the whole.

Sarah worships the boy.

It does not bother me. I have time. She has not noticed, yet, that her hair never grows more than two inches, no matter how long passes before she remembers to trim it; she doesn't find peculiarity in the fact that her clothing size never varies in the slightest, despite her irregular diet; she hasn't realized that no matter how distressed she becomes, not a single careworn crease appears in her lovely face.

Oh yes. Sarah and I have time.

And one day, she will realize that though she worships the boy -

She loves me.

It's been a long day.

I don't want to think about people and their utter lack of creativity. I don't want to think about my director that has never worked a day on the stage in his life, but it apparently an expert on how to 'really get into character'. I don't want to think about the lighting guy with a grudge against my retinas, or the make-up girl who's jealous of me, or the costume team that can't sew.

So I don't.

I'm getting married in a week, and I don't want to be stressed. I want to relax and drift, and maybe take a bath and have a dream.

Yes, a dream… That sounds lovely.

I wander to the bathroom and twist the taps, pleased by the soothing sound of falling water, and pick out the most calming, serenity-inducing bubble bath scent I can think of and dump half the bottle under the steamy, running water.

I'll stop taking baths next week. In fact, this may be my last one.

Gareth doesn't know about them. I'd never tell him, and who else would he learn from? I'm scared he might find out one day. What would he think of me then? Would he still marry me?

It doesn't matter, though. I'm going to stop. Once I'm with Gareth, I won't even miss them. It's just because I'm a little lonely, without him around.

Gareth insists on having separate places until we're married. And not sleeping together until after the vows, either. In an age when everything is test driven before the purchase, I think it's romantic. It makes me love him all the more.

Though, the nights would be warmer with him next to me.

But, that's why I take baths. My little fix. No harm in it, really; he'll never be the wiser, and it's just a fantasy. An occasional dream.

I slip into the tub before it's completely filled and engage the auto-drain, and rest my head to the side of the faucet, letting the hot water run over my neck and shoulders. It feels lovely, easing the tension and stress from my muscles. I sigh and relax, my mind already drifting. I love the way the streams of water nearly feel like fingertips…

Just a dream…

She's calling to me. Practically begging me to come. I can feel her prodding me, prying at my edges, tugging with slow, lazy insistence. I smile. She thinks this will be the last time, but I know better. I know she needs this, needs me, and I know that she knows it too, even if she won't admit it to herself.

I slide into her neck first. Gentle fingers working at the stiff, tender muscles. She sighs leans into my touch, a contented smile on her lips, a slight tilt of her head to give me better access. Small circles with my thumbs, slight pressure with my fingertips, alternately press and rub as the tightness slowly fades. I move to her shoulders, kneading the knots loose and smoothing the tension away, small circles, slight pressure. A light moan, so soft I nearly miss it, but I brush a kiss against the back of her neck so she knows I didn't. She leans back toward me, asking for another kiss, and I smile. She's impatient tonight. No need to rush, though.

My lips play along her ears - sweeping along the shell, grazing behind them near her hairline, a barely-felt lick at her lobe - as my hands move down her arms. She has chill bumps, though not from cold. I realize I want her more than I thought. Perhaps not so slow, then.

I try to reign myself in, slide my hands back up to her neck, but my fingers creep to her collar bone, tracing the water trails downward, and it's futile.

I'm whispering against the side of her throat, words in an old tongue, forgotten and unused, and I don't remember starting. She's pulling me in, I realize, and I smile again.

Impatient, tonight.

I missed this. It's only been a week since the last one, not even, but I missed this, more than I thought I would. Craved this languid heat, these fairy-wing touches, without realizing the source. Made me antsy. I know now, though. Needed this. But it's too slow. Been too long.

Hot breath is ghosting along my neck, and even though I don't know the words, my chest grows warm. So sweet, so heavy. I wish the hands would follow the path of the water, tumble over my breasts, slide along my stomach. I can imagine them, skimming so lightly along my skin, tracing whorls around my nipples.

It works, and the fingers are trailing the spreading heat down over my shoulders, and I arch in anticipation, letting my head fall back.

They tweak my nipple, just that way, and I groan. Little lightning thrills race through me. I groan louder as my other breast is treated in kind. Perfect, just like that.

"Lovely," breathes the silence, and I like the way it sounds.

Teeth, sharp but light, nibble along my ears. I shiver as they worry my earlobe, lean up into them, looking for more. More chill bumps on my skin, and my hips move a little. A tongue is at my neck, sucking my pulse, and I'm wet in a way that has nothing to do with the water I sit in.

"Yes," I encourage the silence.

"Yes," she says, and I kiss her neck a little harder.

She's getting married in a week. It does not bother me. Once that boy, her infatuation, touches her, she'll realize that he could never know her the way I do; he can't make her yearn with a touch the way I do; he won't ever make her writhe with a simple flick the way I do. I give her hard, aching nipples another tap, and she shudders and her hips twist a little, and I know I'm right. She will not give me up for him. She hasn't yet. The first time, she tried to pretend to herself I was him, the boy she chose to use as me in her waking world, and called out his name. Gareth. So close. Doesn't she see? I left her that time. She didn't try again.

She mewls, a needy, desperate little sound, and I realize I've pulled her against me, our hips spooned together, front to back. My fingers dance along her thigh, and her legs beckon me in. Hard to resist her, when she's like this. Wanted to take it slow, though; wanted to make it last; wanted her to think about this when she's letting the boy muddle his way around her. But when her hands slide up into my hair, wet fingers curling around the strands, nails lightly scoring along my scalp, it's a lost battle. I slide a hand along her stomach, slowly down, run my fingers through her curls as I slip one between the folds, and as she cries out I growl. Mine. She'll see.

"Yes. Just there," she says, but I already know. And I know if I press this way…

My breath runs away from me, a forceless moan, and the lips on my neck smile. The fingers twist just right, and again, and again, and my arms shake a little. Tingles shoot through me, my toes curl and my legs shudder, and I can't decide whether to move my hips toward or away from the touch. It's too much to endure, but I can't bear it to stop.

There's a body at my back, a set of hips pressed to mine, and I rub against them in a way I know will make the silence groan. It does, and the fingers press harder for a moment, move just slightly out of sync, and I groan to match, twist my hands in the silk-soft hair and pull the lips closer. They slide along my jaw, nipping and licking, and I can't help but tilt my head back to let them press against mine. We mold together, each just a shade too aggressive, and I whimper as he takes my lip between his teeth.

I can feel his hard, eager length at my lower back, and I reach down, taking hold of it, and smile at the groan it elicits. I need him, want him, must have him, right now. Arching up, I try to lead him where he belongs, but his hands are firm on my hips.

"Not yet," he says, a little amused but strained.

She's far too insistent.

Her hips, those lovely, lithe hips, are writhing against me, soft and supple and decadently irresistible, and then she has me in her hands and I'm slipping. I try to stop her, slow her down - this has to last - but a couple firm tugs, her fingers skimming in that way she knows will shatter my control, and I'm hers. She shifts her hips again, but I stop her, spin her around. Need her facing me, need to see her face as I'm inside her, need to see the expression I can put on her features. Her eyes are closed, always closed, but I know she knows it's real; I'm real. She pretends it's a dream, a fantasy she conjures, but no fantasy could fulfill her like this. I let her keep her eyes shut, let her keep her illusions. It does not bother me.

It does not bother me.

His hands twist my waist, turn me in the buoyant water, and I settle my hands on his shoulders for stability. Can't help but run my hands over them, though, over his chest, hard and defined. Down across his stomach, light enough to make his muscles shiver, down and down and around his hot, ready cock. I wish we weren't in water; I'd love to taste him. Can taste his mouth, though.

Leaning forward, I find his lips and run my tongue along them, moan a little as he opens up and his winter-and-magic flavored tongue melds with mine. His fingers slide down to my clit again, and I shudder against them, press down a little and tighten my own hold. He growls into my mouth and I lick at the vibrations.

Wish I could open my eyes. I'd love to see him. This is a dream, though; to open my eyes would break the spell, and then I'd be alone in my bathroom and cursing myself. No names, no sight; those are the rules. I'm okay with that. Mostly.

I shift myself forward a little, away from his fingers and hold his wet, slippery head against my center, let him in a bare inch. I feel his breath catch feel his legs tighten under me. Grin against his lips and let my head fall back as I ease him in a tiny bit more.

He growls, shoves his hips against mine, and I gasp, cry out as he's suddenly inside me, my unseeing eyes fly open and I try to control my reaction. I was so close already, it was nearly too much.

When the stars clear from my vision, I wiggle a little bit, fit him in a little tighter, a little deeper, and bring my head forward, hungry for more kisses - and I see him.

Jareth is looking at me, and I'm looking at him, and he's not human and he wants to devour me and I want to let him. He draws back, the first thrust, and I feel my gaze unfocus slightly. I blink.

He's still here.

My waking dream has a look on his face. Hungry. Lusting. But it's more than just that; something deeper and baser. Like he's been waiting for something that's finally happened.

I might be smiling as I push my hips down against him. I might be delighted for reasons I don't really want to think about as he groans, tightens his hands on my waist, bucks against me without drawing out first. A shudder runs my spine the feeling, and I nearly close my eyes again, but I force myself to watch him. Haven't seen him in so long. Is this real, is he real? Can't think right now.

Jareth moves his hands to the center of my back, pressing me into an arch, baring my breasts to him. His eyes, huge and dilated and uneven, never leave mine and I watch as he lowers his mouth to my chest, feel my cheeks heat at his devious, predator grin, hear my instinctive moans and mewls as he teases my nipple first with lips, then tongue, then teeth. I rock against him, a semblance of rhythm, as I clutch at his hair, though my fingers can't decide whether to encourage or stop his attentions. I don't realize he's moved a hand from my back until I feel his fingers on my clit, rubbing in time with my pace, and even as I falter he takes over, thrusting up into me as I writhe, crying out and clutching to him. It's too much, too good, always too good because it's always Jareth.

It's always been Jareth.

It's my last thought as my world shatters, and his name on my lips the last word, and his own strangled cry in my ears the last sound.

She can't stop looking at me. Suspect she's isn't even blinking as often as she should. Even when her body's pleasure blinded her, she kept her unseeing eyes locked on mine, kept her arms wrapped firmly around me. I'd be lying to say I wasn't pleased.

We're lying on her bed, each watching the other, and she's pressed so close to my side she might be trying to fuse to me. Hasn't let an inch of space come between us since we dried off and I carried her here. Her right hand is in constant motion, touching any bit of me that seems to intrigue her, exploring as though I were an undiscovered oddity, while her left hand twines with mine, resting on her waist. I've memorized her face many times before, but new expressions keep flitting across it, and I find myself reluctant to look away.

She looks pensive. I want very much to know what she's thinking, but I won't ask. She has to speak first. I thought she would, when her hand stilled, but I'm beginning to wonder if she's fallen asleep with her eyes open.

"Jareth?" she whispers. Hardly even a whisper. Just her breath shaped by lips.

I smile. Brush my fingertips against her cheek. "Yes, precious thing?" I answer quietly.

She smiles back, and there is something in my chest that seems to have broken.

She sees me.

I'm not getting married tomorrow. I'm moving.

Gareth doesn't understand. I don't expect him to. Someone he thought was perfect is suddenly flawed - it's a bit of a shock. He'll get over it. It was bound to happen anyways. I couldn't blind myself to his glaring faults forever.

Jareth hasn't left my side. I tried to be peeved about it, demand my space, but I don't really mind.

He's sitting at my kitchen table, watching me make toast as if it were the most fascinating activity he'd ever witnessed. I'd be lying if I said it wasn't flattering.

I depress the timer on the toaster, and turn to sit in his lap. He welcomes me and settles his arms around my waist, as though this were my natural position, and I had simply left it temporarily.

I kiss him lightly. Smile as I pull back and realize he hadn't closed his eyes. I'm not sure he's slept at all, the past week. We've been having trouble not looking at one another constantly.

"I love you," I say.

He looks surprised. Pleasantly so. He hasn't said he loves me. I think he might have been waiting for me to say it first. It didn't bother me. I knew. The way he looked at me, the way he touched me, the way he kissed me. Yes, I knew.

"I love you, precious thing," he says, and his voice is warm.

I kiss him, once, twice, and then we're wrapped up in each other and I think my toast may be burning but I don't really care.

AN: So, drastically different style. What do you all think? I'm always open for constructive crits, you know. :) Reviews are awesome!