IMPORTANT: This is a collection of unrelated ficlets that center on the pairing of Jareth and (adult) Sarah. They vary in rating and genres. PLEASE HEED THE RATINGS AND APPLICABLE WARNINGS IN THE BEGINNING OF EACH CHAPTER. I fully support you skipping some of these stories if you need to!

Rating: T
Genre: Drama, Dark
Summary: She has defeated him, but never forgotten him. And that's just the way he wants it.

OBSESSION

Everything that you want.

A careless promise tossed at her in the climax of her adventure. Mere words meant to distract her. A temptation she was too young to comprehend. But it lingers, hidden in the dusky corners of her mind until she is old enough, until she experiences enough heartache, disappointment, frustration.

She clings to the belief that everyone suffers, that no life is perfect, but his promise is there each time she closes her eyes. It seeps into her skin, becomes the air she breathes, the blood in her veins. She wants to run, but can she flee that which has become a part of her?

Too afraid to call for him, she finds herself in cobwebbed bookstores, perusing cracked-leather tomes with sepia pages. Searching. Always searching. For understanding. For him. There are only pieces, incomplete hints of a mythical king who steals away with babies. He is folklore so ancient he has nearly passed out of memory.

Her reality narrows to her research. It takes her to the countries which gave birth to every myth, every legend. She walks the moss-covered stones of crumbled castles, explores every enchanted forest, every mystical hillock. She rakes her fingers over the dewy grasslands of Ireland, stands in the fog beneath the dilapidated pillars of Stonehenge, and finds only half-heard whispers which disappear when she turns her head.

Days, weeks, months, years pass, unnoticed. She lives two lives. In one, she is a distracted artist whose paintings grow darker, more desperate in stark reflection to her own despair. In the other, she is an orphan of magic, barred eternally from a world so vibrant all else was grey in comparison. The former feels like the dream, lacking any substance while the fantasy seems as tangible as he had been standing just inside her parent's bedroom window that terrible night.

He is real. He has to be. And he had offered her everything.

Except she can't find him.

Every morning, she promises herself she'll stop searching; she'll sell her books, pick up a new style of art. Anything to forget him. Anything to anchor herself to this world full of traffic jams, toasters, and coffee shops. By nightfall, she has broken her promise after finding some new website about goblins or discovering a hidden reference in some obscure fairy tale of a magical king with wispy blond hair.

She dreams of him, his shrewd eyes studying her as though she is some puzzle he's determined to crack. He holds in his gloved fingertips not her crystalline dreams, but golden threads—slender cords which stretch toward her like snakes uncoiling. She wakes, screaming. And yet, there is a part of her that wants to let him entrap her, bind her to him—and that frightens her even more.

Her friends stop calling and her family worries. Her obsession is becoming poisonous, but she can't stop. He won't leave her alone. The ghost of his breath stirs her hair as she paints. She feels the heat of him behind her when she gazes up at the velvety sky, secretly hoping for the flutter of white wings. He whispers to her each night as she lies in bed, hoping to dream of him and hoping she won't.

I ask for so little.

He is there again, waiting with slender fingers steepled beneath his chin. When their eyes meet, his grin pebbles her skin with gooseflesh. His presence is overpowering, magnetic, drawing her to him. She should fight this—fight him—as she had years before. But there is no baby brother to rescue this time, no purpose to strengthen her resolve.

So little. The words wind around her along with the gilded filaments flowing from his fingertips. Such a small price to pay for everything. She lets them come, even as her heart thrums audibly. The threads caress her as they coil up her arms. They vibrate with power and she holds her breath. She wants this, doesn't she? She can't remember.

His eyes darken with triumph, and with a flick of his wrist, he yanks her to him. He tips her chin up, grinning as he leans down. The cords twine around her throat.

Mine.

She screams until she awakens in her tangled sheets. She screams until her voice becomes raw and hoarse. It's more than hour before she realizes it was only a dream. It should have no meaning, but she knows better when it comes to the King of the Goblins.

The bonfire in her backyard burns bright and high, crackling, sweltering, fed by dozens of paintings and books. She doesn't care that some of the tomes are priceless first additions; her only desire is to purge him from her life. He is a viper and she dared to get too close, too easily swayed by his silver-tongued promises.

She picks up a slim red volume, the tiny book that started it all. The Labyrinth. A place of magic and peril. She hates that she misses it, with its gnarled gardeners, valiant knights, gentle giants, and wicked kings. Her hand quakes as she tries and fails to toss the book into the flames. She wants to be free of the fairy tale; she wants to be possessed by it. The weight of her indecision bows her shoulders, and she weeps.

"Poor little Sarah," comes the whisper in her ear. She spins to face her nemesis, her tempter. He tilts his head, traces a tear down her cheek, and tastes it.

Her fear makes her want to step back but perverse desire compels her toward him. She doesn't move. "You can't be here."

He smiles. "Oh, but I can." In her periphery, there is a glint of gold—threads that travel from his fingers to her arms—but when she looks at his hands, she finds only a glowing crystal. He holds it up. "Do you want it?"

No. The lie sticks in her throat. "Everything," she whispers instead, bringing her eyes to his. "Did you mean it?" It is the answer she has sought all these years—the seed of her obsession.

"Perhaps," he says with a small shrug. "Or perhaps it was merely a ploy." He steps closer, forcing her to crane her head to keep her eyes on his. "Now, I am quite sincere." His tongue drags across his lip.

She turns away from his hungry gaze. "Why?"

"Because, Sarah," he says, stretching out each letter of her name as if to savor it, "I am everything that you want."

She shakes her head in denial, but the truth of his statement cuts through her, steals the air from her lungs. "No," she croaks. "I don't want it." She pushes the crystal away. It vanishes, and he captures her arm.

"But you already took it," he says, drawing her hand to his lips. He kisses the inside of her wrist and, with eyes closed, presses it against his smooth cheek.

She shivers, resisting the urge to splay her fingers into his feathery hair. He is all things dangerous, and she wants to touch him—taste him.

He opens his eyes, pulls her to him. "You've eaten the pomegranate seeds, Persephone." His gloved hand rises between them, revealing the golden threads from her dream. "You let yourself be seduced by Death," he leans forward and whispers against her cheek, "and now you're mine." His lips brush against her neck.

Horror tightens around her like his cords. She understands now why she couldn't find him in the ancient tales. He is in them all. He is Hades, Osiris, Azrael, Pluto… He rules the Underground—the Underworld. She frantically claws at the threads, tries to break them.

He grasps her hands, holds them between his effortlessly. "Don't defy me." He kisses her then, with every hunger, every passion of an immortal who is as old as time. She staggers beneath the onslaught, tears coursing down her cheeks. But she doesn't fight him because he is right. She wants this, wants him like an addict craves the slow poison of drugs or alcohol.

He did this to her. He tricked her into eating the peach, and it awakened in her an attraction her pubescent heart couldn't understand. The seeds were planted with that dance, nurtured by his silky promises and her curiosity turned fixation. And now, he has come to harvest his crop.

He breaks off the kiss, and she hates herself for feeling bereft without his touch. He wipes away her tears. "Don't weep, Sarah," he murmurs. "It's only forever. Not long at all."

With the echoes of his laughter, Sarah Williams vanishes from the world of traffic jams, toasters, and coffee shops—eternally.

~FIN~

A/N: Thank you so much for reading! If you have a moment, I would love to hear your thoughts!