We'll figure it out might have been overly optimistic, she realized a few hours later.

"Why in the world can't you and I simply produce the play as it is? Why the need for outside intervention?"

Sarah rolled her eyes and flopped back on Jareth's bed, resisting the urge to bury her face in an oversized pillow. "Because outside intervention is a GOOD thing. Good plays don't happen in a vacuum."

Jareth stood up from where he'd been hunched over the writing desk, the original script and Lori's notes scattered across it. He paced slowly between the desk and the window. "But she wants to remove things that are important to me. Things that I worked hard on."

"Murder your darlings."

"I beg your pardon?"

Sarah stood and went to the window, looking out over a dream-like expanse of maze and castle battlements—and, she noticed as always, chickens. They really were everywhere.

"Murder your darlings," she said again. "It means that you have to destroy things, even things you love, in order to make something great."

He stared out the window, his gaze focused on something beyond the maze that she couldn't see. "This sounds like yet another mortal sensibility that is beyond my scope of comprehension. Not that I'm not familiar with destroying things, I've just mostly done it for amusement."

Sarah tentatively reached out and took his hand. "Do you remember…what I was like, when you came back to me?"

His gaze stayed fixed on the horizon, though she felt him squeeze her hand. "You were full of rage," he said quietly. "At your mother, surely, but also at yourself."

"And do you remember how I got better?"

He smirked. "I'd like to think that very good sex was a part of it."

"Sure, asshole." She gave him a not-so-gentle shove. "That was a part of it. But I also had to destroy some things. Illusions. Grudges. And then I sort of…built something new on top of the wreckage."

He smiled at her, a kinder sort of smile. "Mortals do love their metaphors."

"Yeah, maybe I do more than most." She took both his hands and stared up at his mismatched eyes until she earned an all-too-rare blush. "Would you trust me?" she asked him in Goblin.

He cocked his head at her. "Trust you? In what way?"

"We can start with trusting that I know a little more about this whole playwriting thing than you do. Also trusting that Lori and I will help you make something good."

He reached out to touch her cheek. "I believe I can trust that much, yes."

She smiled. "Good. Then I need you to ask the goblins to bring up a cask of wine from the cellars."

Jareth blinked. "Wine? Why?"

"Because the first thing that any sane person does after a mostly-positive response from Lori is get messily, joyfully drunk."

She'd definitely forgotten how potent Underground wine could be.

That, at least, was the excuse echoing in a distant part of her brain as she found herself draped in a variety of scarves and jackets pulled from Jareth's closet, forcing him to perform scenes from the play with her.

"And my…" She squinted, his delicate handwriting as usual proving somewhat difficult to read. "my legions of incest will rain down upon your family until you are reduced to dust…"

Jareth guffawed, clearly feeling the effects of the wine himself, though as usual not as strongly as Sarah did. "Insects, precious. Not incest. That would be a very different sort of play."

She laughed harder. "My legions of incest…legions…of…incest…"

She sank to the floor next to his bed, her chest hurting from laughing so hard. He sat down next to her and started to pour more wine, but she waved him away.

"Please. I'd like to remember some of this evening."

He smiled and produced a crystal, in which she could faintly see images of herself. "Indeed. I really should preserve your performance for posterity."

She reached for the crystal and he held it away from her. "That would be a horrific betrayal of trust."

He eyed her quizzically. "Would it, now?"

She smiled, feeling that familiar drunk sensation of watching herself from afar, mildly shocked by what she was saying and doing but helpless to stop it. "Yeah, it would. The only other person who's ever seen me like this is Miguel."

He seemed genuinely surprised, though he hid it quickly. "Well, as you've made clear, we'll need trust in spades if you're going to convince Lori that my play doesn't need any revisions."

Sarah groaned and started removing the costume pieces she'd draped over herself. "For the last time, every play goes through revisions, and you will be fucking lucky to have Lori revising yours. And if you challenge her and make me look bad I will throw you in the fucking bog myself."

Jareth shook his head. "You are truly a marvelous thing to behold when you're intoxicated."

"Just wait till you see me during tech week."

He continued to stare at her. She smiled at him, and then something in his gaze made her blush and look down. "What the hell are you looking at?"

He looked away and was silent for a long time. "Why do you write, Sarah?" he finally said.

She shrugged, her own voice sounding slightly off through the buzz of the alcohol. "Because I suck at everything else?"

"You know that's not true."

She sighed and leaned against his shoulder. "Yeah, maybe not. I guess the same reason a lot of people make art…to leave something of myself behind after I'm dead."

"Is this why people make art? Because they fear death?"

Sarah massaged her temples, trying to coax her less-than-willing brain into a higher level of thought. "Not fear death, per se, but…yeah, it's connected to mortality, I guess. If we knew we were never going to die there'd be no urgency, and I'm guessing we wouldn't make much art, if any." She paused, feeling a shadow settle over her mind. "Nick's been writing a lot of poetry."

"Nick?"

"Miguel's husband. He's been sick, and…they think he'll get better, but he might not, and he's never had a creative bone in his body, but suddenly he just can't stop writing poetry, like really bad poetry, I'm sorry to be harsh but it's true, but Miguel saves every single one and thanks him for them and keeps them in a little notebook." Her voice was cracking, and she shook her head vigorously, trying to physically shake off the emotions. "Anyway, yeah, maybe the fear of death and leaving nothing behind is a bit stronger for someone like him."

Sarah suddenly turned to Jareth, shocked that she hadn't asked him before. "Could you…is there anything that—"

"No."

In the back of her mind she realized she'd known what the answer would be, but it still crushed her. "You're sure?"

"I deal in dreams and memories, and occasionally the manipulation of time, precious. But I cannot stop death or heal the sick."

Sarah sighed. "Well, it was worth a try."

They were both quiet for a while. Eventually Jareth leaned forward, his face deeply contemplative. "You say mortals make art to leave something behind after they die. Why would I feel compelled to make art, then, if I'll never die?"

She regarded him, as usual fascinated by the places that his mind occasionally went. "I don't know. Why do you think?"

He stood up on (slightly) unsteady legs and went to stand by the window, gazing out at a sky now filled with stars. "I told you long ago that I wanted a glorious ending," he said, so quietly that she could barely hear him. "Or at least a poetic one. You gave me one, in your play. Though I'll repeat that I wish I could have died slaying a dragon."

Sarah was about to give her usual retort about budgets and egos, but something in Jareth's demeanor kept her silent. When he turned and looked at her his eyes were piercing.

"I wanted my existence to mean something, something beyond goblin mischief and tormenting careless wishers. And perhaps if I create things…things that move mortal hearts…then maybe it will mean something." He turned away from her. "Maybe making art will turn me into something extraordinary, the way your work has made you extraordinary."

Sarah stared at him, her mind whirling with emotions undoubtedly made more intense by the goblin wine.

He was staring out the window again, and she stood up on (much more) unsteady legs and joined him, wrapping an arm around his waist and standing on tiptoe to whisper in his ear.

"Just to confirm, you're saying that I'm better at something than you are, right?"

The corners of his mouth twitched and he gave her a playful shove. "I will deny ever having said such a thing in a mortal or goblin court of law."

She shoved him back. "You're a goddamn monster, you know that?"

He caught her hands and pulled her against him, easily overpowering her less-than-genuine struggles. "Of course I am. And you love it."

She stuck her tongue out at him. "Yeah, I do love you."

She felt his whole body go rigid. Through the very powerful haze of the wine she could hear a voice screaming in the back of her head.

IT. I love IT, I didn't mean to say…or did I…

He pulled back and stared at her, and she suddenly had a horrible sensation of vertigo—he's going to think that he should say it too, even if he doesn't feel it, or he's just going to be blunt and tell me that he doesn't feel that way, and either way it's going to be horrible, fuuuuuck, I should NOT have had so much goblin wine…

But maybe luck was with her, because after looking at her for a moment and maybe sensing her terror (or maybe not), he just lifted her effortlessly off her feet and kissed her.

She kissed him back just as hard, as if she could erase that moment by force, wrapping her legs around his waist. He moved slightly and she felt herself pressed up against the wall, his body pushing between her legs as he whispered into her ear.

"Taunt all you want, precious. We both know you're no match for me in certain areas."

She snickered, feeling the fear and the tension melt away under the intensity of the kisses he was spreading down her neck. "You're certainly good at talking about how skilled you are."

He laughed against her neck, one gloved hand reaching under her shirt. "I never make claims I can't defend, you know that."

She shivered under his hands, one of which had slipped under her bra, the other reaching down to pull her leg up around his waist. She could feel heat and tingling even through his gloves.

"I think I've learned enough about what you like," she whispered, her teeth grazing his neck as she rubbed her body slowly against his, eliciting a slight moan, "to put us on an equal playing field."

He laughed and claimed her mouth again, his tongue making slow, languid circles with hers in a way that he knew made her melt. She gasped when he pulled back. "Do tell," he said.

"Mm hmm." The wine and the intensely pleasurable sensations were making her bold, she realized. "Maybe I'm even better than you by now now."

He regarded her for a moment and smiled, a smile that anyone else would have taken for adoration…but she could see a glimmer of something dangerous behind his eyes, and a split second later he'd grabbed a handful of her hair and yanked down hard.

"Better?" he said sweetly.

He moved so quickly that she felt certain he must have re-ordered time, and suddenly he was straddling her on the bed, his hands pressing her wrists into the mattress. She squirmed underneath him, but his strength was effortless, his eyes gleaming slightly in a way that made him look almost feral.

"Sounds like someone needs to be reminded of their place," he growled, pulling her shirt up and off of her body.

She flipped over onto her stomach and grabbed one of the bedposts, but he easily wrenched her hand free of it and flipped her onto her back again, pinning her with his body as he pulled off his own shirt.

"Where're you running to, precious?" he said, his voice still a mix of sweetness and danger. He quickly tied his shirt around her wrists, pinning them above her head. "You know there's nowhere for you to go unless I will it. Not," he tugged her bra aside and grazed her nipple with his teeth, "that you really have any desire to leave."

He pulled off his gloves and ran his hands over her breasts and stomach, slipping one hand into her jeans before quickly unbuttoning them. The sensation of his hands combined with the effects of the wine made her feel weightless with pleasure.

"I think it's time," he said, pushing himself between her legs, "for you to beg me."

She turned her face away when he leaned down to kiss her, and instead he bit her shoulder, a little harder than usual. She gasped.

"Beg for what, exactly?" she whispered.

She heard the sound of his pants being unfastened. "Mercy, to start with." He leaned down to lick her nipple slowly, and she arched her back into him, pushing herself into his mouth, and he pulled back, not giving her what she wanted. "Maybe your very life. Or maybe just what we both know you want from me."

He yanked her jeans off completely and ran a feather-light finger over her cotton underwear. She moaned and quickly stifled it by biting her lip.

"I don't need…anything…"

He slipped a finger beneath the edge of her underwear, pushing gently against the heat that he found there, and she moaned again. He smirked at her and withdrew his finger, then slowly, deliberately licked it.

"That tastes like a lie, precious."

He pressed himself between her legs again, and she felt the hard length of him pushing against her, so close…

He licked her ear. "Beg."

Her breath was a hiss. Her whole body ached with need, and she could feel how it was affecting him, his own breath quickening against her. She always drew this moment out for as long as she could, but lately it was getting longer, he was getting more insistent, and she always wondered how far she could push him.

Dancing near this sort of edge set every part of her on fire.

She turned her face away and he gripped her jaw, forcing her to meet his eyes. "Don't you dare look away from me."

Jareth reached up and squeezed one of her wrists just enough to make her wince. "I could end you in an instant," he whispered, twisting her wrist again for emphasis. "You know that, don't you?"

Sarah squirmed under the iron grip of his hands. "Yeah."

"Then give me what I want, precious," he murmured, pushing her legs wider apart. "Now."

She felt dizzy, like she always did in this moment, but she still managed to speak. "Please," she whispered.

She heard a tearing sound as her underwear came off. "Please what?"

She struggled against the fabric holding her wrists in place, and his hand moved up to tighten it. "Please what, Sarah?"

She moaned and felt her last reserves of resistance give way, wrapping her legs tightly around him and pulling him against her. "Please use me."

He pulled back slightly, so agonizingly close to being inside her. "Again."

"Please use me."

"Again. And tell me how."

"Please fuck me hard, fuck me until I'm raw—"

And then he was inside her hard and fast, and it was painful but also delicious. She gripped his shoulders with fingernails that she knew would leave marks, and then he flipped her over on her stomach, and then onto her side, until finally she was standing pressed into one of the posters at the corner of the bed, his fingers moving expertly between her legs as he thrust in and out of her, her body riding a seemingly endless wave of pleasure…

…and then he stopped, smirking through his gasps, and the ache was so deep that she thought she might collapse. She tried to pull him deeper inside her but he pressed his forearm against her chest.

"Tell me you belong to me," he whispered.

She nodded, knowing that in this moment she would do anything he said. "I belong to you."

He pushed himself inside her slowly. She cried out.

"Do you want to come, Sarah?"

She moaned. "Yesssss."

He smiled. Dear God, she loved that look of utter glee that came over him in these moments. "Then ask me nicely."

"Please…"

"What?"

"Please let me come."

His slid in and out of her again, a bit faster, his hand reaching down to touch her in just the right place. "Again."

"Please let me—"

The wave crested as her body seemed to fully merge with his, and she cried out, every part of her shaking with wonderful spasms of pleasure. He drank in the sight of it, his eyes locked with hers, and then he winced and shouted her name and pulled her sweat-soaked body against him as he followed her a moment later. They both fell into a tangled mess of sheets and pillows, gasping.

She lay there for a long time, delightfully dazed, savoring the ache between her legs and the faint, bruising echo of her tied hands and other places that might have been squeezed or grabbed just a little too tightly. This, she realized, was what she really loved, almost more than what came before—this momentary feeling of floating above and distant from everything, free of all thought and memory, her body so thoroughly spent that her mind seemed momentarily separate from it.

As she slowly drifted back into herself she wondered absently if he would say something about what she'd said earlier—some snide comment, or worse, some awkward apology that he didn't feel the same way. But he was silent next to her as they both drifted toward sleep. At some point, surprising herself, she reached for his arm and pulled it over her body, nestling herself into the crook of his chest. Half-asleep, he pulled her tightly against him, his grip firm, but nothing like it had been before.

His breath tickled her neck occasionally, his chest moving in slow rhythm with hers. As she drifted off to sleep she thought he might have murmured something in Goblin that she didn't quite understand, or it might have been a dream.