Author's note: Well, I'm usually very skittish with this Fandom, and don't write in it as I never feel I get the characters right, but a friend of mine (livingdeadgirl on here) was asking for Jareth/Sarah smuttiness and while listening to VAST, I felt inspired and tried my hand at it. It feels a little incomplete, and I hope to write a Sarah POV counterpart to help with that someday, but it depends on my muse and if she ever wants to venture into Labyrinth again. I'll stop rambling now. Please review, they are much loved, and critiques are welcome.
Disclaimer: I do not own Labyrinth or any of it's characters, not do I own Peter Pan or any characters from that realm. I mean no copyright infringement, please do not sue me. Savvy?
She was sleeping now. Peacefully, and he was both thankful and spiteful that she had escaped the pain he had brought to her. He brushed some hair out of her face, watching as she stirred slightly, her cheek moving to instinctively nuzzle his hand.
Jareth smiled faintly, his eyes bittersweet. The Goblin King was dying, and it would finally end when she woke up. He had killed the part of her that kept him alive, because that was what he was for, after all. He was created to end his existence. Not much of a life, but he had tried to accept it, tried so hard.
But what happens when figments of the imagination become real? What happens when they no longer want to exist solely because of someone else's mind?
Or more importantly, what happens when they fall in love with their creator?
They live a damned, doomed life as best they can. They have fun, they be what they were meant to be and enjoy the hell out of it. Which, he had done to a certain extent. But he didn't like being the villain. At first, it had been fun, it was what he was created for. The seductive villain the girl had to triumph over.
But triumphing over him would lead to the end of existence, wouldn't it? It would be his end, her end.
Poor, childish Sarah. Clinging to childhood dreams and outlandish fantasies to forget the cold truth of abandonment and neglect. A modern day Wendy.
And he was her Peter Pan and Captain Hook all wrapped up into one body, one character. He was her childhood fantasy, he was her adulthood beckoning. She loved him and hated him, and no matter what, she could not keep him, even if she had wanted to.
Jareth smirked, though it held no trace of humor. It was empty, void of the proper emotion as he thought of the tragedy of her. He was wanted now, now when she realized she had created him only to destroy him. But they had both accepted that.
The blood stain on the sheets proved that. But when she woke up, it would disappear, same as him. It wasn't real. Just like him. All this was a fantasy, a symbolic fantasy that had become more real to both of them than it should have.
He ran his fingers over her bare form, the sheets a tangled mess at the foot of the bed. They had long ago freed themselves of those, their bodies not liking the constraining material, tangling in their limbs during desperate movements of rising passion and growing bliss that promised death and life.
Her body shivered and trembled beneath his touch even now. Not even sleep could keep her from reacting this way to him. And it would never react the same for anyone else. That fact did give him some satisfaction to hold to in his last moments.
He had come to her at eighteen, she had called him subconsciously. Thinking that it was the age of her childhood life to end, for her to become an adult. But she had been scared, unprepared. She had thought this only because of the world, because of the law. The law had no control over when the mind and heart were ready for that final step, the final shift into adulthood.
Now, only days away from twenty-one, she had come to understand that. And he had come, enticing and threatening, just as he was made, just as he was meant to be. He had grown to accept his role as villain and tragic hero. He was at last her knight in shining armor, but knights often died.
And he was dying.
He had been bitter at first, rough and violent, but she had accepted it, letting him. She had, pitied him, had realized her selfishness in making him. She had let him take her in violence and hate, spilling her blood with maliciousness.
But the moment white sheets had been stained with crimson, he had changed. He had accepted as he saw the pain and the peace in her face, the sorrow, the acceptance, the apology of her sincere and truly adult heart, he had changed.
Violence turned into tenderness, pounding into rhythmic thrusting, going from beating drums to gentle lullaby, gradually returning to beating drums as passion flared in them, under their skin, burning them to the core. Fire burning in their loins, the hottest spark where they were joined. He had kissed her when she came, capturing her first cry emitted from that peak of rapture given by another.
Her cry of rapture had ignited his own, and he had found release, sweet release at last. He had clung to her, his life, his dying life, arms tight and possessive, owning her for a few, brief moments. He had kissed her, tasted her, savored her. He had regretted taking her fast, but another would come, would give her everything.
But they would never be what he was. He was no longer just a figment of her imagination, a part of her. He was his own being, though his being depended on her. And he was her first, he was her enemy she had overcome, he was her knight to be won, he was defeated, conquered, and had done the same to her now.Shifting so he was lying next to her, not sitting, he pulled her body closer, until she was again pressed against his. He gazed at her, admiring, adoring, his spite dying faster than he was.
She was beautiful, her features thinned slightly, mature and elegant. She was slender and curved, filled out, an grown woman. Her eyelids closed, hiding beautiful eyes of green, emerald tinted and ensnaring. Black hair, thick and soft enough so that it could not be considered straight, splayed out on the pillow. Her limbs were long, slender, delicate. She looked so frail here, yet she was so strong.
He had hurt her, and she had not shown weakness. She had accepted it, had forgiven him, and had taken everything he gave, violent and gentle.
Even now he longed to be buried deep within her again, longed to feel her around him, holding him, taking him in, his creator. But once she woke up, their Neverland would be gone, erased. Just like him. He would never taste her again, never touch her, kiss her, take her.
But as he thought of that, his spite left him, and he gave in, as she stirred. He knew she would never forget this, would think of it as she laid in bed, alone. Would remember his body thrusting, her limbs wrapped around him. She would remember the feel of his release inside her, the cry silenced by his mouth. The violent breaking, the gentle taking.
He would cease to exist, but she would remember everything. She would remember him, remember the others, remember the Labyrinth, remember how she said goodbye to childhood dreams and accepted adulthood reality.
Wendy was all grown up, and Peter Pan, Tinker Bell, Captain Hook, their parts to play were fulfilled, and they would forget and die. But Wendy never forget.
Sarah would never forget.