Sarah glowered at herself in her bathroom mirror, then managed to glare a little harder when she spotted the dark crease that had formed between her eyebrows. It was already well on its way to becoming a permanent wrinkle, thanks to her own stubborn nature. She had still been a child when that obstinate groove first made its appearance. Her father had tried to use it to his advantage to coax her out of her worst sulking fits. 'If that thing gets any deeper, we'll be able to plant veggies in it,' he'd had the habit of saying, before getting her giggling over the potatoes he claimed were growing behind her ears. Sarah's current expression lightened some at the memory. She hadn't heard her dad say that in years. Toby had grown up into a relatively mellow preschooler, proving that the family's penchant for drama – in every sense of the word – ran solely on Sarah's mother's side. At the age of twenty, Sarah liked to think she'd put most of her own bratty tantrums behind her. It made it all the more frustrating that a single encounter with the Goblin King – the man who had helped to put her on that new path to maturity – had the power to make her feel like kicking and screaming all over again.
It had taken almost three exhausting hours to persuade her friends from the Underground to leave her alone with time to think. It was all well and good to make fun of their king in a realm where he held little to no real power, but back home in the Underground there would be summons despite his highness' request for solitude that day, with dire consequences sure to follow. Only Sir Didymus, in his own kindly way, expressed more concern for the lady Sarah's well-being than his own. He didn't want her caught up in the fray, despite said fray being one of her own making. After all, she had been the one to speak Jareth's name – an error Sarah swore she would not be repeating any time soon. She refused to acknowledge that her skittish laughter had been only the first of her reactions to finding a half-naked Goblin King standing in her bedroom. She thanked her lucky stars he'd seemed too occupied with his own predicament to notice her blushes. The mirror before her divulged that the damned frown line of hers was back in full force. Some habits died hard, it seemed, or not at all.
By the age of ten or twelve, she had already realised that her private thoughts and fantasies ran along a slightly different path to those of her friends. She knew that she would feel much more at home as the fabled heroine in one of her storybooks than she would as the star of one of the latest teen movies; she had always been much more sixteenth century, than Sixteen Candles. Though she had sometimes chosen to confide in those friends, sharing whatever idle fancies filled her head, there was always another, deeper layer hidden beneath, where her true secrets could live and grow, and where only she could reach them. There were no sprites or faeries living at the bottom of her garden, any baby knew that, but in her private world of make-believe, the leavings of their miniature civilisation were scattered all over the forest near her home. You just had to know where to look. That whimsical sliver of her soul could only be set free when she was certain she was alone, wrapped up in the richly woven fantasy worlds of her favourite authors, and in her own painstakingly crafted costumes and plays.
It was only at the age of sixteen, when she found herself pulled into a real world of magic – a place that she had foolishly wished her brother away to, and that no one would ever believe truly existed – that she came to realise that some fantasies might be better off staying buried for good. It was easier on her sanity, that way.
If she'd had the time, money and inclination to see a good therapist, Sarah guessed that he or she would have told her that the whole thing had been some grand delusion, something to be kept at bay with hours of talking about her feelings, and handfuls of mood-stabilising drugs. Perhaps it was the last vestige of a broken and troubled childhood, where her parent's divorce had sent her tumbling down deep rabbit holes of her own making, the entire Underground a flimsy safety net woven from fear and fantasy, for when the real world became too much to take. It had been over four years since the time she had walked the confounding paths of the labyrinth, watched over by a host of strange creatures, unearthly orange skies, and a bewitching and unforgettable king. To return there in any way was to cling onto the past, busying herself with childish games of make-believe instead of facing up to adulthood. The only problem was, she knew that no amount of psychotherapy or pills would be able to change the hard facts: it was all real, and it apparently wasn't going away any time soon. He wasn't going away any time soon.
She had spent the best part of her teenage years trying so hard just to forget. She had wasted most of the past four years trying to quash her yearning for the weird and the wondrous, the strange part of herself that yearned to burn its brightest. She had done all she could to make herself 'normal', putting aside her dolls and her costumes to concentrate on college choices and overall life choices. Her guilty get-togethers with the creatures she had befriended had been confined only to summer and winter breaks, when that memory of magic had been too strong to resist. She had endured hours of soul searching in her bedroom mirror, before it all became too much and she had to call upon her friends as a distraction. Unfortunately, that tiny glimpse they gave her of the Underground always whet her appetite for more. On that particular day, her damned curiosity had finally gotten the better of her. It seemed like the more she tried to distance herself from the Underground and its keeper, the more determined that magical world was to drag her right back in. The memories and bonds she had made there were too strong to just fade away. Now, she had accidentally reopened a door, his door – one that she had always sworn would remain closed.
Though a tiny part of her couldn't help but hope to one day meet the enigmatic Goblin King a second time, she had never actually expected him to appear – and especially not in just his underwear. From the look of confusion she'd seen in his pale blue eyes – eyes that she promised herself would not haunt her daydreams, the way they sometimes threatened to – he was as bewildered by their brief reunion as she. His sudden and quite startling appearance back into her life had given her little time to process a mess of unwelcome emotions, ranging from confusion and anger, to the much less acceptable exhilaration, and yes, even a little, shameful lust. It was that last emotion that bothered her most of all.
It took her a long time to realise that the sharp pain she felt then wasn't her overtaxed mind begging for mercy, but her poor, abused mouth; in her distraction, she had been scrubbing at her teeth for well over her usual three or so minutes, and with a grim determination that might have eroded stone. Her clenched fist flew open, her whitened knuckles darkening back to their usual pink. When her toothbrush clattered into the bathroom sink, the foamy bristles held bright red flecks of her own blood.
"Shit."
Sarah scooped a handful of water from under the running faucet and rinsed out her mouth, wincing at the coldness against her lacerated gums. It was yet another thing to blame on the Goblin King. Just seeing him, even just for those brief couple of minutes, had been enough to turn her world on its head once more.
Of course, she remembered the scowling, sneering thief who had taken her brother; that cruel captor of innocent children. There hadn't been a day over the past four years where she'd fully been able to forget his piercing gaze, wild hair and elaborate make-up, and those tight, tight pants. Even the ridiculousness of the moment hadn't fully robbed him of that ineffable presence he seemed to carry with him in every step that he took, his majestic poise, every slight gesture of his pale hands a needlessly elegant performance in its own right. He had been every bit the king that she remembered, the one who ruled without question over all he surveyed – all except her.
He had no power over her, just as she had once stood tall to tell him. She had dragged him into her world with just a simple call of his name, pulled him from … well, whatever the hell he'd been doing in that outfit, and there hadn't been a damned thing he could've done about it. Before his humiliation had forced him to disappear – and that in itself was no small surprise, that he would flee from her – he had made no scathing last remark, and offered up no dark vows of vengeance for her audacity. For all these years, calling upon the Goblin King by name was, in her eyes, to give him the permission he needed to turn her life upside down at his whim. However, this time, unlike the foolish wish she had made as a teen, she had held all of the power. It would've been stupid to deny just how much she liked it.
She stared at her reflection for ageless seconds as she contemplated that last, short meeting – that too short meeting. She wondered if there would ever be another – oh, but not if she could help it, obviously. It would be even more stupid to put herself through all that again. Her heartbeat seemed to accelerate, in outright defiance of her denials. No way. She couldn't sit through that wild roller-coaster of emotions again … could she? Her stomach gave a dangerous little twist.
Oh, fuck it. Why not?
She watched as her reflection parted its lips with clear purpose. "Jareth," it said, and that was all. There was nothing more, save for the slightest echo of her own voice. She wasn't surprised that the Goblin King did not make a second appearance that day. It was probably just as well – in a plain black tank-top and faded powder-blue pyjama shorts, she was hardly dressed for receiving royalty, that night. She watched the mirror sneer back at her before she snapped off the bathroom light.
"Asshole," she muttered, more to her herself than to the absent king.
Jareth. The name had seemed to lack its usual pleasurable cadence, thrown back as flat as it had been by the bathroom tiles. There was no wonder in that word, no spark of passion or taste of magic upon her lips within those two cold and stony syllables. Earlier that day, when Hoggle had grumbled about His Royal Halfwit's latest orders, Sarah had virtually spat out his true name without thinking, caught up in the guilty satisfaction of a good old bitchfest. It had made her lips tingle and her lungs itch, her chest lifting and swelling to hitherto unknown proportions. The second she spoke that name, those two simple sounds that felt so strange on her tongue, some small spark within her had flared to life. It almost felt like a hand, one of enormous power, had reached out to seize him, surging up from deep within her body to make its claim over a king. That feeling of unworldly strength was something she could definitely get used to, if only she knew how the hell she'd managed to tap into it in the first place.
It was a puzzle that continued to niggle at her long after she climbed into bed, haunting her the way he always had. The last thing she recalled before sleep found her was the pale and perfectly-sculpted face she had almost managed to keep at bay for four long years, the sweeping hair and sinful little smile; those curious blue eyes that glittered like shards of ice, yet held more seductive heat than the midday sun. That face, and the two simple syllables that, together, might just hold the power to bring her world crumbling down around her once more.
Jareth.
She had dreamed of her time spent in the labyrinth more than once. There was still the occasional nightmare, where she found herself trapped forever in the blackest of oubliettes, or held back by an endless sea of disembodied hands until her time to save her baby brother had run out. She dreamed of failure, of panic, and would more often than not wake in a cold sweat, thankful that in real life, her journey had not taken such a bleak turn. More often, she dreamed of that strange time spent disengaged even further from reality: that glistening fever dream within a waking nightmare where she had been dressed like a princess, and she had danced with a king. After seeing said king in the flesh again only that day, it seemed only the natural path for her thoughts to take.
She floated through the murky grey sea of sleep for a while, and when she landed, she was in a pale and glittering ballroom, and she was not alone. Sarah felt her eyes widen in recognition. It was near enough the same party she had tumbled into so many years ago, after eating a certain enchanted piece of fruit: a sinister masquerade of grotesque and grinning faces surrounded her; heavy undertones of liquor and lust darkened their roaring laughter and stained every step of their ghoulish dance. She was accepted into their midst without question, though she retained some vague awareness that she was still dressed only in her pyjamas. She blushed at the exposure, but doubted it really mattered; there was more than enough bare skin on display as the crowd swirled and closed in around her, eager to welcome the naïve newcomer.
Behind the safety of their elaborate masks, the other guests enjoyed a certain degree of intrigue and anonymity that Sarah found herself longing for. Just as it had back when she was a teenager, she felt her stomach tense and tangle into knots, a mess of desire and trepidation. She envied these strange creatures, and longed to know the face behind every mask. She longed to float among them with just as much grace and strange beauty, but dared not think of what the consequences might be. There was already something amiss about this particular dream, and the longer she remained in it, the clearer the issue became – literally.
It occurred to her then that this was the first time she had ever truly seen this ballroom. Before, every shimmering chandelier, each gauzy white drape and flickering candle had possessed a fuzzy, dreamlike glow, awash in the fluid dance of magic. Even the tall, polished mirrors had been veiled somehow, trapped beneath some filmy layer that gave everything a softer, almost surreal quality. Even during her time in the labyrinth, that impromptu waltz, she had never dared to speak in that not-quite dream-place. Somehow, she had sensed that her words wouldn't taste quite right there; they would linger, heavy and greasy on her tongue, like the remains of an overly rich meal. It was all wrong, in some itching way she couldn't quite place, and she knew – knew – that it wasn't quite real.
Now, every surface of silver and gold shone brighter, and the chandeliers above would change their rich sparkle every time she shifted her head. She could feel the coolness of the floor tiles beneath her bare toes and, when she rocked her feet, the smooth texture of the stone pushed back against her soles, every weathered crack and seam pressing into her flesh. As vivid as her dreams tended to be, she didn't think that even her mind was capable of such fine details. It left only one, worrying possibility.
Without taking her eyes from the nearest revellers – a beautiful older couple with matching long, silver hair, and ornate volto masks – Sarah found her hands creeping up from her sides to fold over her stomach. She gave the tender spot just above her left hip a vicious pinch, hissing in air through her teeth when the immediate pain that bloomed did not show signs of leaving her any time soon. Two thoughts hit her simultaneously: she seemed to already be awake and aware, and she was ill there – a confused guest once more in Jareth's kingdom. Before she had time for more troubling thoughts, a firm hand was on her shoulder, forcing her to turn around.
Her unexpected dance partner caught her mid-spin, one large hand spanning her lower back as the other seized hold of her trembling fingers. "What," Jareth hissed, in what must have been a monumental effort to keep his voice low, "are you doing here?"
His pallor was even whiter than she remembered – not surprising, really, as during their last brief meeting he had been blushing – but his eyes blazed with cold fire. To his credit though, he seemed to be taking the utmost care not to let his rage reflect in his handling of her. The hands that held and subtly turned her were gentle, his dance steps elegant and effortless. It was only after she'd taken several drunken, stumbling steps just to keep up with him that Sarah realised she had placed her hand upon his shoulder of her own free will. Her fingers smoothed over the soft, dark blue fabric of his jacket without quite meaning to. She fell into step with him soon after, and felt an even more unexpected rush of pleasure at that easy sync the two of them seemed to have. If it wasn't for the confusion in one partner's eyes and the dull anger in the other's, one might never have guessed it had been over four years since their last ill-fated waltz. When she didn't reply right away, he gave an impatient twitch of his eyebrows, pale eyes wide and expectant. It instantly put Sarah's back up. What right did he have to be angry at her this time? She had been sleeping; it wasn't like she could have called on him a second time.
"I was hoping you'd tell me the same thing," she hissed back, unwilling to let that piercing stare intimidate her.
The fingers clutching her own tightened marginally. "I will warn you only once, Sarah: I am in no mood for games. How did you come to be here? You will tell me, or-"
"Or what?" she spat at him. "You'll throw another snake, or … or a messed up cleaning patrol, or a whole army at me? You'll toss your little cloak, or roll those precious balls of yours in my face?" It was a poor choice of words, ones she would cringe over later, but in the moment she was too incensed to let it embarrass her. "'You're not going to scare me, or trick me into anything, and this time – this time, you lousy fuck – you don't have my baby brother to steal away."
His eyes narrowed at the reminder. "Perhaps not, but there are all kinds of unpleasant places I could put you." He did not miss a beat of the dance, losing not a shred of his elegant form, but he began to push her harder. The sweeping turns they took grew dizzying, pulling at her head and at her stomach as the Goblin King did his utmost to unsettle her. He was the only man she had ever danced with, but she had never imagined a waltz could be quite so vicious. The couples around them became nothing more than the odd discernible splotch in a swirling palette of colour. Her only point of focus was him. There was a fierce determination in those eyes of his, and it was almost enough to hypnotise her. She couldn't look away, trapped in his gaze and by the subtle strength of his hands, thrust along by his lithe body. Dark, masculine energy poured from him in waves – a raw sexuality that inspired his every movement. Though she had clearly surprised him again, he was determined to dominate that night, pulling her body close as the music grew louder around them, forestalling the need for speech.
When she stumbled, he was one stride ahead of her, dragging her along with him. When she proved slow to yield to him, he insinuated one long thigh between her own to guide her steps. With each one, she ceded more control to him, and a small and perverse part of her didn't mind at all. She could feel every shift of his hips, the full heat and hardness of his body hitting her above the waist and below. There was no carefully guarded embarrassment now, no hint of him backing down. She was wholly in his territory, and damn, it showed.
Confidence was something she'd always found sexy, and paired with that intense blue stare of his, it was proving to be downright irresistible. It really wasn't fair at all. He had her moving far too fast to think properly. She found herself starting to struggle for breath, but the Goblin King hadn't even broken a sweat.
"You will answer me, Sarah, and you will do it in haste – I swear it."
Despite her clumsy attempts to keep up, the dizzying spin of her surroundings and the heave of her rising gorge, she mustered the will to scoff at him. "As if threatening me is going to make me more willing to tell. Even if I did know how I got here-"
The sudden, squeezing grip of his hand brought them to a complete standstill – the calm and unblinking eye at the centre of the roiling crowd. "You mean you truly don't know?"
Spared the confusion of their frantic dance, this time it was an absurd sense of guilt that flooded her belly, dampening some of the indignant fire there. It was the first time she had ever heard him anything less than sure of himself, and it caught her off guard. The uncertainty in his eyes, that quizzical note to his voice gave him something of a softer, more innocent quality, absurd as it was. As always, she was drawn in, unable to ignore anyone who was in need. She answered him before she realised what she was doing. "No. No, I really don't."
Though he tried his utmost to conceal it, the slight sag in his posture was noticeable, just as she saw the fine muscles along his jaw lose some of their tension. That hand that held hers relaxed. When he next spoke, the Goblin King gave voice to the last thing Sarah would ever have expected him to be capable of. "My apologies. I thought you'd deliberately chosen to be difficult with me."
Her need to refute him almost choked her. "I'm being difficult? You're the one who-" She cut herself off and forced herself to suck in a deep breath instead, releasing it again with a sigh. Arguing wasn't going to get them anywhere fast, no matter how tempting it was to really get into it with him – especially as he now seemed to be smirking at her. "Apology grudgingly accepted, but I gotta ask: is it normal royal procedure to threaten everyone who winds up here?"
"Hmm. Nothing is written in stone, but I find intimidation tends to suit my purposes better than mindless small talk."
"You must be a real hit at parties."
Jareth's low, rich laughter tickled at her spine, and served as a reminder of just how closely they stood, clasped together. He made no effort to let her go. "I think I've rather missed your insolence."
He resumed his steps, leading her more gently this time, and the dance went on. The music itself seemed to bow to his better mood, slipping into a slower, more stately tempo. The dancers around them became mere couples once more, and Sarah caught more than one admiring glance thrown in their direction. She found herself in want of a mirror, so that she could see just what kind of a couple the two of them made, and quickly quashed the urge. Though his touch was light and innocent – hip and hand, never daring anything more – there was a growing intimacy between them that filled her with reluctant delight. Now that Jareth had stopped with the interrogation, there was silence, but it was far from uncomfortable. It startled her, just how close she came to admitting that she'd missed him too.
Though her mind would always remain on full alert around him, her body settled into the steady motion of his easily enough. He seemed to feel it too, more instructor than adversary as he guided her to the music's slow beat. His careful feet picked up the slack whenever her own were unsure. One small step was all it took to bring the warm, full length of his lean frame against hers. He was so close that he filled her vision entirely, so close that she could see the faintest golden flecks of stubble upon his chin, the tiny creases at the edges of his mouth and at the corner of each eye as he smiled down at her. The stimulating scent that tickled her nostrils – musk and leather, and something fresh and green and faintly smoky, that she could not quite place – cinched it so that he consumed more than one of her senses. It occurred to her that she had been staring at his mouth for too long, and yet she could not make herself look away. It was that or his eyes, and she knew it would take only seconds to lose herself there. She had never been so conscious, so damned aware of him as a man. He made her feel almost weak, and she felt oddly grateful that he chose to speak first. Even the low, purring notes of his voice did a number on her.
"I must admit, I was … surprised to see you again so soon."
Unable to hold back, she released a short burst of uneasy laughter. "To be honest, I think I'm more surprised that you don't know why I'm even here, seeing as this is your party I'm crashing." Still keeping pace with him, she looked around, noting once again just how solid everything seemed, from the gilt-edged furniture to the river of people that flowed around them. "Though it seems less … floaty, here. Is it … is it real this time?" she asked.
"It is to me," Jareth answered, after a slight pause. "I've been to this place in person many a time before; when you saw it in the past, you hadn't had the privilege. A mere projection of a place in one's mind doesn't hold as much realism, no matter how detailed it is. However, if a vision has at least some grounding in reality through actual memories, and as this is my memory that this particular vision is feeding off …" When Sarah turned her full attention back to him, he had his head cocked in thought, his eyes fixed, trance-like, somewhere above her head. "I am, of course, dreaming at this moment," he went on, his voice soft with contemplation. His gaze seemed to sharpen when it met hers. "This ballroom is my own, plucked directly from my mind, but you … you aren't a projection or a memory. You're actually here, within my dream. The real question is, how?"
Sarah stiffened in his embrace. The idea of being a fragment of someone's dream, particularly his, gave her the most evil chills along her spine. It was like being told she wasn't real. When she spoke again, it was a little louder than usual, as if to assert that she was, in fact, a person. "How do you know I'm really here? How do I know you're really here? Maybe this is just another weird dream I'm having." The fading ache just above her hip from where she'd pinched herself said otherwise.
"I assure you, it's not. This is all happening in my sleep, playing out within the supposed privacy of my own mind – and you, dear Sarah, are playing the voyeur once again."
A hot rush of pleasure, sudden and unexpected, seized her body. Rather than trying to analyse or deny it, she was quick to move on. "So … you're sleeping now, and you were asleep before?"
"Not quite." Their dance went on, seemingly eternal. "I was awake and … wool-gathering, for lack of a better word, earlier today. You happened to catch my mind in a rare moment of whimsy – a small moment of weakness, if you will. In a similar fashion, you've managed to come into my sleep, uninvited, while my mind was in an unguarded state. My dreams and daydreams are usually just that: my own. You'll forgive me if I'm not the best of hosts to an intruder."
Sarah gave a snort. "Well excuse me if I don't offer to stay and clean up after the party, seeing as I didn't want to be here to begin with. I didn't even get the chance to shop for a ballgown."
His gaze dipped down towards the tank-top she wore, as if noticing it for the first time. He lingered long enough to mark her, chin to cleavage, and collarbone to collarbone. "An interesting choice of evening wear," he said, with a smirk. Those strange eyes found hers again, and they danced with mischief. "I assume I must've caught you in bed – and so soon into our reunion. What a scandal." His mocking tut only showcased those plush lips of his further. Their appeal made Sarah speak up swiftly to regain the upper hand.
"I could say the same for you, with what you were wearing before. Do socks and g-strings pass for high fashion in your kingdom nowadays?" The Goblin King's answering rumble of laughter placed her lungs somewhere high up in her throat, and tied her stomach in a knot.
"I think you might be projecting, love; the shirt wasn't cut quite high enough for you to sneak a decent peek at what I had on underneath. However, you can consider me most flattered if you've fantasised, and then dressed to match me." His palm slid downward an inch or so along her back, slowly enough for her to complain if she really wanted to. When she did not, he allowed it to drop even lower, just enough for his fingertips to probe along the waistband of her shorts. He did it with such finesse, such easy familiarity, that it took Sarah several heart-jolting seconds to realise that he wasn't actively groping her; he was searching for a panty-line. His left eyebrow arched to new heights when his efforts proved to be in vain. The smirk widened. "Or perhaps you didn't dress at all. Is that what you hoped I was wearing, Sarah? Or rather, what you hoped I wasn't wearing?"
Sarah flushed and huffed, and almost choked. "No! What I wear to bed is none of your business. I didn't try to look at you or anything! I just thought … the g-string … well, it's you, and you're all … showy … and I just guessed-" She bit down on her tongue before it could dig her any deeper. "I refuse to waste any more time talking about underwear preferences with you."
"A pity. I rather like yours."
"I'd like it if you just shut your mouth."
"Impossible, I'm afraid. Now, if only you had something on your rather under-dressed person to gag me with. I wouldn't object."
This time, when Jareth smiled, he ran the very tip of his tongue across the points of his teeth, almost of it he could taste her wariness of him. Like any apex predator, he didn't waste his time moving in. As Sarah was already starting to discover, he was far too easy to flirt with, irritating as that little fact was, and he seemed far too willing to delve further into such a dangerous topic. As it was, she had done absolutely nothing to reposition his hand. Instead, she just danced there and took it until, after a long silence, and with an expression containing more smugness than she had ever thought possible, Jareth moved it himself. He gave her hip a gentle squeeze as he drew her more firmly against his body, and Sarah was alarmed to find more than just her face growing warm.
This wasn't how her evening was supposed to be going at all. For over four years, she'd wanted nothing more than to somehow forget all about the Goblin King. Now, after being in his arms for little more than four minutes, she'd gone from a vague hatred of the man, to a more pronounced hatred, combined with the sudden and undeniable urge to climb the man like a tree. Her right knee twitched at the idea, far too ready to betray her and hook itself onto his hip, and she stumbled over her next step. It only brought her closer to her calculating dance partner, who smiled as if he could read her thoughts. After all the tricks he'd managed to pull on her in his labyrinth, she wouldn't put mind-reading past him. Unfortunately, a charming, flirtatious Jareth was proving to be a decidedly trickier foe than a just plain evil one.
It seemed like four years had done a lot to change them both. She, for one, had definitely done a lot of growing up during their time apart. If the subtle pressure she felt against her hip was any indication, Jareth had definitely noticed. She was almost in a position to start grinding on the ruler of the Underground, and it bothered her a whole lot less than it should have. It was tempting to do just that, and despite the steadily growing heat between her legs, she knew she had to come to her senses. She thought of the dank oubliette she had once fallen into; she thought of the seemingly endless wall of sentient hands that had probably saved her life, and she imagined every last gnarled one slapping her soundly across the face, one at a time. Lord knows she needed it, with the shit she'd just been contemplating. She wasn't there to fall in lust with a real-life fairytale villain; she still wasn't sure why she was there at all. It looked like it was up to her to get them both back on track.
"Can you stop cracking jokes and playing grab-ass long enough for us to figure this out?" she demanded, a little more harshly than she had intended. "Someone here must have the power to tell us what's going on – though guessing from the last time I saw you, that someone definitely isn't you."
Oh, that sly little dig got him hard. That smirk of his might as well have been slapped off, for how quickly it disappeared. Though he didn't release his grip on her, he did take a small step backwards. The bit of extra breathing room was welcome, despite Sarah's sense of regret. Seduction needed to be last on their respective lists of priorities right now. When Jareth next spoke, his words were clipped and businesslike. "It goes without saying that you should not be here."
"So send me back."
Jareth waved away the idea with a roll of his eyes and an infuriating little flutter of his fingers, before he took up her hand again. "We'll come to that. First, tell me exactly what you were doing before you arrived here. Leave nothing out."
"I was sleeping," she told him.
"And?" Jareth pressed. "What did you say? What did you do that brought you here?"
She let loose a frustrated sigh. "And nothing. I was just … asleep. I didn't do anything."
Jareth scoffed. "I beg to differ. My kingdom isn't in the habit of just admitting intruders without provocation – not even those who believe themselves to be … to be …" His lips parted, and then quickly closed again. When Sarah looked at him more closely, there was a gleam in his eyes that she swore hadn't been there a minute before. Then, it was gone. Whatever piece of information had come to him, however small, it was obvious he wasn't willing to share. His gaze hardened once more, and he offered her a cool smile. "You brought yourself here, Sarah, and now, as pleasant as this little catch-up has been, I'm going to have to insist that you leave, until I've had the time to contemplate this situation of ours further."
"What?" Sarah shook her head. "You're the one with the magic; you send me back. I can't make myself leave. I don't even know how to-"
Jareth leaned further into the respectful gap between them, and the intrusion was enough to effectively cut her off. "Yes, Sarah, you do." His every word was a soft whisper across her lips. His eyes – those deep, soul-fucking eyes – captured hers wholly once again, leaving her with no escape. They twinkled with mischief as he smiled. "Unless, of course, you'd prefer to stay. Is that what's stopping you, precious thing? Is this all just one big hint that you'd like another stroll through my kingdom, perhaps even a second try at my labyrinth? Bear in mind that you're a big girl now, love, and I'd have to treat you as such. I'd have you screaming and begging me for mercy in minutes."
The twisted smirk that accompanied his last claim told her just how much the idea intrigued him. Sarah decided to speak up before his undoubtedly filthy thoughts could take him any further down that path. "You know you're not going to scare me or charm me into giving you a second chance at beating me, right?"
The Goblin King only chuckled. "Give me time."
He bent his head towards her with clear intent, eyelids heavy at half-mast, his lips angled to take. Without thought, without question or protest, or even pause to draw breath, she opened her mouth to him. She would worry about reasserting her disinterest in him once she'd finally felt his kiss. It was the only plan her rattled mind was capable of making right then, but as it turned out, Jareth had other ideas. As instinct curled her body into his in readiness for her surrender, his gloved hands moved along her body with purpose, skimming up along her back until they reached her bare shoulder-blades. There, his grip tightened marginally, and she felt her breath catch in her throat as anticipation clutched at her chest.
With no warning, he flattened both of his hands against her shoulders and shoved.
Panic erupted inside Sarah's head, white-hot and blinding. She was falling, tumbling backwards to crack her head on a solid stone floor with no time to save herself. In those terrifying few seconds, her single, desperate thought was 'soft'.
She hit some kind of plush surface with a low grunt, her eyes flying wide. She found herself on her back, sinking into softness, and surprisingly free of pain, staring up at the man standing over her in confusion. There was just enough time for her to catch the expression of sheer astonishment on Jareth's face, before he had hidden it away again.
"Just as I thought," he said, his lips pulling taut.
Sarah spluttered and tossed her hair out of her eyes. She couldn't believe the sparkly son of a bitch had actually pushed her over. She tried to at least haul herself into a sitting position, but as soon as she did, she began to sink back down into the yielding surface beneath her. When she pushed again, a softness that felt like silk encased nearly her whole hands. When she twisted her head to find out the cause, she realised she was lying on a well-stuffed cushion; at the same time, she realised that the cushion was covered in winding gold embroidery – almost an exact match for what had once been her favourite vest. It was soft enough to break her fall, and almost soft enough to keep her trapped within its warm clutches for good. Struggling to her feet to try to reclaim her dignity was all but impossible. "You asshole!" she cried, too caught up in her present, tortoise-like predicament to even think about how she'd managed to find that mysterious cushion. "I could've split my skull open!"
"Yet you didn't." Unsmiling, Jareth came two steps closer. It was only when he stood, towering over her, that Sarah realised just how goddamn regal he seemed; just how tall and commanding. She had a moment to think that he might help her to her feet, as he came to stand with one boot planted on either side of her legs, yet he offered her no aiding hand as he bent down closer to her. "It's extremely rare I act without already knowing what the outcome will be, Sarah. You'd do well to remember that."
Did he have to lean in quite so close as he spoke, close enough that he just had to see the way her blood came pounding to the surface of her skin, lighting a fire beneath each cheek? No, of course he didn't. Lording it over her in her one minute of weakness was His Royal Jerk-off's way of trying to put her back in her place. Clearly, he hadn't forgiven her for that little dig, not to mention his afternoon of embarrassment.
It was just like her visit to his labyrinth, where he'd come to mock her misfortune in person, and she'd been unable to resist the urge to call him on his bullshit. Fresh out of oubliettes to throw down before her, the Goblin King had wanted a tired, scared little girl, awed by his twisted creation and repentant for her bullheaded efforts to defeat him. In the dark tunnels of the Underground, she'd given him boredom and contempt instead, refusing to play the timid little mouse in his game. His immediate response had been to raise the stakes even higher, successfully calling her bluff. Now, he had a grown woman to play with instead of a stubborn girl, and it was clear he'd decided a little change in tactics was in order.
With his toned thighs spread on either side of her body, the unsubtle v of his crotch all but pointing her in the face from that height, he wanted her cowed and submissive, overpowered this time not by his cruel tricks, but by his raw sexuality. It wasn't going to be that simple. Sarah struggled to sitting once more, keeping her eyes locked with his and ignoring the fact that the tip of her nose was now only a foot away from his crotch. She scrambled onto her feet with as much dignity as she could lay hands on – and all without laying a single finger on him.
"I guess I'll be leaving, then," she said, with more confidence than she felt, and was stunned to see Jareth already beginning to fade, along with her surroundings.
She fell out of sleep with an almighty crash, left panting and floundering as if she'd found herself clutched in icy water, rather than the familiar, if slightly sweaty sheets of her bed. Though it took her precious seconds to grasp that fact, to come down from the pinnacle of that blind panic, there was no part of her mind that doubted what she had witnessed, no sweet relief to be found in the concept of 'just a dream'. It had been a dream, all right – his dream. Somehow, without quite meaning to, she had stumbled once again into the Goblin King's private world, and she knew that he would not take it lightly. Her eyes rolled around the familiar grey tones of her darkened bedroom, as if she might suddenly spy a nasty little goblin sneaking beneath her dresser, or even worse: an aggravating king sneaking his way into her bed.
The thought was enough to send her rocketing out from beneath the covers, and well on her way towards the kitchen. It was time for coffee. She had absolutely no intention of rediscovering sleep – or him – that night.