Jareth, Goblin King

There are a great many things that frustrate me about mortals. Your fickleness. Your ephemeral natures. Your strange obsessions with questions that have no meaning. Your incessant need to make the world fit into the little boxes you make for it. Your complete inability to let go of things. Your mind-boggling arrogance, and I say this as one of the most supremely arrogant beings in creation. But what frustrates me, what annoys me most, is this game you play called 'morality'.
 

Jareth found himself humming, whispered snatches of the old, dark songs, the hunting songs, the fighting songs. He caught himself, laughed a little. He hadn't felt so energised in a long time. Not this way. He felt the wildness rising inside him like the music, the magic and mayhem flowing to his fingertips, and around he sensed his Labyrinth pulse in reaction, the harmonies of her magic singing in sympathy. She was wild, his Labyrinth. Wild, and so barely restrained, and so passive for so long. She wanted prey. She wanted blood. And he wanted, oh, how he wanted to give it to her.

He could feel the plans unfolding in his mind, feel the dark eddies rising beneath the Labyrinth's surface at their call, the traps and poisons and oozing intelligences hidden in her depths. No matter what this petty Lord set against them, his Labyrinth would entice and entrap and devour, with greedy delight.

He wanted to share that wildness with Sarah, wanted to share the hunting hunger, the pulse of fierce magic. He was uncertain, though, how much she was prepared for. This Labyrinth, the dark Labyrinth, the killing Labyrinth ... was not the one she had fought, crossed, beaten. Well, not quite. Not even for Sarah could he have taken all the fangs from her. Not that he needed to. Sarah, his Sarah, was more than capable.

Yes. She was more than capable. And perhaps, in that courageous and glowingly cruel mind of hers, she might shape some design that had not occured to him, to further voice their displeasure to the Lord who dared threaten them. He felt the grin spread, felt himself sing with the viciousness of it, the delight. Oh, but that was a sight he longed to see! And he would, as he had promised, hold her coat while she destroyed their enemy.

"Sarah," he murmured, almost purred, looking out over his killing Labyrinth, holding her hand in his.
 

From the prompt on musing_way . I've said before, and I'll say again, you mortals are strange.

For broken_dolly

The room spins dizzily, draped in silver, gleaming like crystal, many-tiered and intricate. The music, sweet and haunting, thrilling, pours through the room, lapping at the dancers' feet, kissing them, playing. The dancers! Oh, the dancers. Swirling, twirling, prancing like children, laughing raucously. Unimaginable beauty and unconscionable hideousness, all together, blurring into each other, the devil's own playground.

But no. Not the devil. Not near so blunt as that. The master of the ball steps forward, dark and smiling, wild and fey and darkly laughing. Old games, these, remembered from darker times, and rich with wild energy. No softness, here. No poignancy. Only celebration.

"Welcome, lady," he says, offering his arm courteously. "Welcome to my Labyrinth."