For reasons we sometimes can’t explain, we are drawn to characters.
humanityinahandbag‘s OC Clover (Bog and Marianne’s adoptive daughter) is someone I am drawn to.
Here is the fic that started it all, and inspires me! http://humanityinahandbag.tumblr.com/post/125556507091/four-leaves-to-a-clover-the-king-the-princess
I see myself in her at times and I can’t wait to read more of her.
I am pretty excited about this piece because it came out like I pictured it in my head. It is also the first piece in a little while I am proud of.
I very much debated about giving her clothing. It was so pretty without the corset. In the end I felt it was more appropriate to put it on.
DA Link: http://goldenwerewolf.deviantart.com/art/Four-Leaves-563169026
CREDITS
References: First I referenced the face and pose from one of my model packets from posespace.com
The second part was the clothing. I referenced the work from this artist on DA. http://pinkabsinthe.deviantart.com/art/Rotten-pearl-V-399163502
A series of drabbles about pregnant Butterfly Bog. Much fluff, enjoy!
Discovery
It was just another day in the household of Bog and Marianne King.
Bog was brushing his teeth at the sink, hazily thinking about the long day before him. Marianne was rummaging in a cabinet for a new box of dental floss, wondering if she had time to work on her paintings before running over to visit Sunny and Dawn. Marianne's nephew and nieces—an adorable batch of triplets—were nearly a year old now and were getting into everything. Dawn welcomed Marianne and Bog's help, her sister and brother-in-law cheerfully herding the small children and giving their exhausted parents a break.
Marianne was just making a mental note to bring the finger paints—and tarps—on the visit today when her rummaging dislodged a small pile of toiletries, knocking them onto the floor. Grumbling under her breath she shoved the items back inside, but paused when she picked up a white and pink box, a nagging thought surfacing in the back of her mind.
“Hey, Bog?” Marianne said, still crouched on the floor by her husband's feet.
“Mmhm?” He said through toothpaste foam and the fatigue of staying up late finalizing some blueprints.
“Okay, don’t jump to conclusions or anything, but I haven’t had a period in maybe three months now.”
Bog responded to this information by choking on his toothbrush. He bent over the sink, coughing, while Marianne stood up, saying, “You jumped! I said don’t jump to conclusions!”
“I didn’t jump!” More coughing, “I sort of slipped.”
“Well reverse that train of thought right now!”
“I can’t! The train of thought crashed! It derailed, it can’t go anywhere else! Are you–”
“I DON’T KNOW MAYBE”
“But if you are–”
“I SAID I DON’T KNOW”
“But–”
“What if I AM?” She started pacing up and down in the bathroom, “But maybe it’s just stress. I’ve been really busy lately. But what if it ISN’T?” She was gesturing wildly and end up smacking Bog right in the chest, knocking all the breath out of him.
“Marianne!” He wheezed, grabbing her by the shoulders and looking her dead in the eye, “Just use one of the pregnancy testing kits my mother keeps slipping into our bathroom when she visits.”
“Yes. Right. Good idea.”
It was positive.
Telling Mom
They stared at the phone.
“You call.”
“You call. She’s your mother.”
“She’s your mother-in-law. And you’re the one who’s pregnant. You tell her.”
“We are in this together, you ridiculous pinecone. This is a collaborative effort, got it?”
“Yes. I’ll dial the number and you talk.”
“I’m pretty sure the judge won’t convict a pregnant woman of homicide. I’m willing to risk that. Are you?”
“Fine, but you have to tell your sister.”
“Deal. Seeing as how she’s occupied with triplets I think she’s the safer option right now.”
“Still, remember to cover your ears. Her squeals could break glass, even over the phone.”
And they finally called Griselda and she just said:
“FINALLY!”
Within the hour she showed up at their house, lugging all the baby stuff she had been saving against this day. And the grandma nightmare began.
Morning Sickness
Bog came home to find Marianne curled up in bed. She gave a feeble groan when he turned on the lights and came over to sit with her on the bed.
“I hate you.” She hissed.
“You hate me?”
“Yes, it’s required of me now that I’m pregnant. I’m irrational with hormones and not responsible for my actions. I’m going to despise the very sight of you because it’s your fault I’m in this condition.”
“Only my fault, huh?”
“I don’t make the rules or write this script. And apparently I’m supposed to shout obscenities at you when I go into labor. So prep for that.”
“Mmhm. How’s the nausea?
“I’ve been vomiting up things I ate in high school, I’ve been so thorough.”
“Do you hate me too much to accept the vanilla ice-cream I bought you? Mom swears it stops the nausea.”
“Produce the carton and a spoon and I’ll reconsider my stance.”
“What stance? You can’t even stand up.”
“I don’t have to take this laying down.”
“Yes, you do.”
“I’ll break your face as soon as my stomach stops flip-flopping.”
“I look forward to it.” He drops a kiss on her forehead and goes to get the ice-cream.
“Take me seriously, darn it!”
“Yes, dear.”
“I’m fire! I’m death! I’m–I’m going to need that basin to throw up in.”
Collaborative Work No. 1
Waking from a vague dream about insects scuttling over his face and shoulders with damp little feet Bog cracked an eye open to find Marianne carefully brushing watercolors onto his face. He was laying on his side, arms crossed tightly over his chest and shoulders humped up so she currently only had access to the left side of his face and his neck. He could feel the cold dampness of the paint decorating his neck and where the collar of his shirt had soaked up drops of excess moisture. At least the pillow would be spared. He hadn't gotten far after coming home and collapsing side-ways on the bed, managing to take off his shoes before swiftly falling into a restless doze. He was curled tightly against the chill of the room, having been aware of it but not awake enough to do anything about it but shiver. The chill had been reduced, he noticed, because it seemed Marianne had tucked the comforter around him before beginning her latest artistic enterprise.
“Why?” Bog asked, straining his eyes to see Marianne where she was sitting behind his back, trying not to move and disturb her work. No doubt she had the cup of paint water sitting precariously on the bed and if he shifted it would spill a new muddy purple-brown stain onto the comforter. Marianne really needed to stop using their bedsheets for paint tarps.
“Hormones.” Marianne said promptly, leaning over to kiss the side of his head.
“Hormones is not a get out of jail free card and it loses its potency when you overuse it. It doesn't excuse you from stealing my power tools or washing the whites with the colors. Now stop vandalizing my face, woman.” He shifted his head, trying to escape the next brush stroke. Marianne merely pulled on his ear until he was at a more convenient angle for her to work with.
“Stop questioning my hormones. The kid has been punching my internal organs all day and someone has to pay. That's the deal, right? The pact sworn since the beginning of mankind and women agreed to do all the hard work. I put up with being a beached whale for months straight and you cater to my every whim, rational or irrational.”
“I want a lawyer.”
“Denied. Now tilt your head so I can finish up under your eye. Anyway, you're right, this isn't hormones. This is revenge.” Marianne explained.
“For what in particular?” Bog asked, squinting an eye when the paintbrush came too near his line of sight. He didn't really want to move. The longer he stayed as he was the longer he could pretend that the haze around his thoughts was just from fatigue.
“For being asleep when I needed some serious loving. When I signed up for this enterprise I do not remember seeing a clause about having to put up with a nocturnal partner-in-crime.”
“Oh, so sorry, did you have an appointment? Unless you have an appointment, booked at least two days in advance, you can only get cuddles and a sympathetic ear between the hours of 9 to 4, Monday through Friday. Seeing as it is currently past six that means I am clocked out for the day.”
The wet paint brush was stuck into his ear.
Bog clapped his hand to his ear and sat up with a yelp and, as he had feared, a cup of paint water toppled off the bed when his movements dislodged the comforter, an arch of grayish water splattering the carpet. “Marianne!”
“You wouldn't kill a pregnant woman!” Marianne said, scooting toward the foot of the bed, waving her paint brush in defense of herself.
“You keep pushing and we'll find out!” Bog extracted himself from the comforter and lunged at her, grabbed her wrist and liberating the paint brush from her grasp, tossing it onto the floor near the emptying cup.
“Think of the kid! No!” Marianne protested when he put an arm around her and pulled her back toward him. Bog grabbed the sleeve of her shirt and scrubbed is over his face, pigment rubbing off onto the pale purple fabric. “My shirt! My painting!”
“My face!”
“I was just enhancing your natural beauty!”
“I'm returning the favor.” Bog wrapped his arms around her and rubbed the painted side of his face against her cheek. Marianne squirmed, but Bog was too strong and she was currently too big to be very maneuverable.
“You need a shave!” She complained, “This is going past exfoliating straight on to removing the top two layers of skin!”
“Oh, I'm so sorry, are you uncomfortable?” He slid his hand under her arm, tickling her ribs. Marianne shrieked with startled laughter, trying to gather herself enough to hit him, but he redoubled his attack and all she could do was flail, giggling for him to stop. “I'd hate to make you uncomfortable. It's not like you'd ever do something like that to me.”
“I'm going to end you!” She was laying on her back now, kicking her legs and trying to swat Bog's hands away. He knelt beside her on the bed, laughing almost as hard as she was as he mercilessly tickled her sides.
“What are you going to do, love? Sit on me?” He taunted.
“You had better watch your back, you miserable—oh!”
“Marianne?” Bog stopped his tickling when she grabbed her stomach and gave a pained gasp. She was just into her seventh month now and the baby had been very active, much to Marianne's discomfort. It was also getting close enough that every time Marianne gave a gasp like that Bog's heart jumped, fearing that the baby might be coming too early. He moved to sit on the side of the bed, feet carefully placed to avoid the paint on the floor. He eased an arm between Marianne and the bed and helped her sit up again.
She waved away his fluttering hands, “Don't get yourself into knots. She's just kicking. Really, really hard. Parasitic freeloader,” Marianne said fondly to her stomach, wincing again at another kick, “Apparently she has her mother's natural grace and her daddy's big feet. Ow. Baby, don't hurt me no more.”
Breathing out a heartfelt sigh of relief, Bog shoved the rest of the painting paraphernalia aside before picking Marianne up and sitting her sideways on his lap, his arm supporting her back. He kissed her forehead. “Don't do that to me.” He murmured to Marianne's stomach, running a gentle hand over it. A kick answered him, making him start and Marianne laugh even as she shifted uncomfortably.
“She's determined not to give me a moment's peace today.” Marianne said, fitting her head between Bog's chin and shoulder. He shifted his head a little so his chin held her in place.
The burst of energy, the moment of near-hysterical hilarity, had burst and faded when Marianne gasped in pain, chilly gray reality reasserting itself. The paint on his face and neck itched, reminding him how the conversation had begun and giving him a reason to keep talking. He was afraid if he sat still and quiet all the things he didn't want to think about would rush in to fill the empty spaces caused by silence. “So why am I in trouble for sleeping on the job?”
“I've had the worst day. Ever. All I wanted was someone to gripe at and you were passed out cold.” She grumbled into his neck, “My back aches. My feet ache. Everything aches, I walk like a penguin, and your mother has been telling me horror stories about her pregnancy with you. Were you really a month late being born?”
Bog groaned and rolled his eyes, “Two weeks. She increases the length every time she tells that story. Someday she'll be talking about how she carried me for an entire year, just wait.”
“I don't doubt it. Anyway, it seems you weighed fifteen pounds and she was in labor for a week. Or something like that.”
“Something like that.” Bog snorted.
“And the implication being that I'll suffer a similarly gruesome fate and give birth to some sort of mutant Scottish pinecone for all my troubles.”
“Oh, nobody told you about the mutant pinecone in our family tree? Pops up every other generation. Skipped me, so . . .”
“I may be as big as a tugboat and prone to capsizing but so help me I will kill you, Bog. Ow!” Marianne curled around her stomach, drawing up her legs, her back going tense. “She definitely has your feet. And she's wearing steel-toed boots, I'm positive.”
“Leave your mother be,” Bog said sternly.
“All day I've been telling her, 'wait until your father comes home, young lady'. She thought I was bluffing.”
“She should learn early that her mother's threats are never idle.” Bog squeezed Marianne's shoulders, “Not even two months left, tough girl.”
“She's going to gnaw her way out before then.”
Bog squeezed tighter, trying to comfort Marianne and himself, because while sometimes all of this felt too real, other times it felt like it was a dream that would vanish when he woke up. He was holding his beautiful wife and she was carrying their child. Good things didn't happen to him. This couldn't be real.
He began to sing, because when words failed him he found music to be a good substitute. And he knew Marianne liked him to sing.
“Hush my love now don't you cry
Everything will be all right
Close your eyes and drift in dream
Rest in peaceful sleep
“I think she likes that.” Marianne sighed, “She's stopped squirming.”
Oh my love... in my arms tight
Every day you give me life
As I drift off to your world
Rest in peaceful sleep
Marianne relaxed, leaning against Bog and closing her eyes, letting his voice wash over her and carry away the worries of the day. Doctor's appointments, Griselda's horror stories, all her fears about being a mother, all drifted away as Bog's voice rose and fell, his fingers resting on the top of her round stomach, thumb rubbing gently back and forth over the spot the baby had kicked last.
If there's one thing I hope I showed you,
Hope I showed you
If there's one thing I hope I showed you,
Hope I showed you
Bog trailed off.
“I think she's gone to sleep. Such a daddy's girl.” Marianne's contented sigh brushed over his neck, her head on his shoulder. He looked down at her and his heart squeezed because she looked so happy. Eyes softly closed, purple lips curved up in a sleepy smile, hair falling over her eyes, one hand covering his as it rested on her stomach, the fingers of the other curling into the collar of his shirt.
Such poses made Bog's breath catch and his heart stutter. She looked so completely happy in these moments. Her aching back, bruised stomach, tired feet, all forgotten for a few seconds as she turned inward, smiling at her daughter. She was happy. Unconditionally happy. And she was beautiful in that happiness. So beautiful he couldn't believe he had anything to do with her, with the child growing inside her. There was no way someone so . . . so perfect would have anything to do with him.
His fingers tangled in her hair and he rested his forehead on hers, a brief smile crossing his face at the feeling of dried paint on his skin. Smudges of paint adorned her skin from their tussling, a smear of purple over her nose and a hint of green beneath her eye. He could only imagine what a mess he looked.
“Mm.” Marianne said when he began to sing again, “I love it when you go all Scottish.”
“My ancestors are probably rolling in their graves over my pronunciation.” He replied when he finished the verse.
“It sounds sad. What're the lyrics in English?”
Bog obliged her and sang it again, the last verse sung softer than the rest,
Good night, my love,
in your warm fragrant bed,
may you have a peaceful sleep, and then
awaken in health and happiness.
I'm here in the cold trench,
in my ears the racket of death,
with no expectation of getting out victorious,
the sea takes so long to swim.
His voice trailed away into silence.
“That is a seriously down thing to sing to our baby.”
“Sorry.”
“You're a real stick in the mud, you know that?”
“Yeah . . .”
When her attempts at playful argument failed to elicit a significant response Marianne cracked her eyes up and found her husband's blue eyes averted, for all he held her so closely. The long fingers threaded in her hair moved anxiously and Marianne could see lines of worry creasing his face. Marianne tilted her head, careful to avoid getting poked in the eye by Bog's nose—again—and kissed him, hoping to banish at least some of his troubles, reminding him she was here and she loved him.
For a man who had been married nearly three years and had a baby on the way, Marianne mused, he still reacted in the most adorably awkward way sometimes. Right now he suddenly forgot what to do with his hands and Marianne had to grab the front of his shirt to keep from falling back when he automatically released her to hold up his hands, making a muffled noise of surprise against her mouth. But she refused to break off the kiss, persisting until he let himself relax against her, melting into her touch and giving a contented noise from the back of his throat. He put his arms back around her, pulling her as close as her round stomach would permit, lines of worry easing away and eyes slipping closed.
“Oh!” They both said, breaking abruptly apart when the baby gave a vicious kick. With Marianne pressed up against him Bog felt the kick quite clearly. “Demanding wee thing.” Bog laughed, a little breathless, bending over to drop a kiss on Marianne's stomach, “Wants to be the center of attention.”
Marianne noticed how quickly his smile faded and the lines of worry reappeared on his face when he stopped talking, his eyes drifting off to start at empty air in a worried way.
“You haven't been sleeping, have you, Bog?”
“No. Because your snoring rivals chainsaws revving and aluminum cans being compressed in a trash compactor.”
“Hey! I thought we were tactfully ignoring the whole snoring thing.”
“Trust me, ignoring it isn't even a remote possibility.”
“It's all the fault of this mutant pinecone spawn that's feeding on my life essence. And we got you earplugs.”
“The seismic activity cannot be blocked out with earplugs.”
“It's so tragic that our daughter is going to grow up fatherless.” Marianne glowered.
“That's assuming she doesn't grow up completely orphaned.” Bog readjusted his feet on the carpet, making sure not to step in the soggy patches of carpet. “Don't think I'm not going to yell at you about those stains later.
“You're the only one who cares. I think they add character.”
“Then stop painting my face. I have too much character as it is.”
“I love you stupid face. I love all its character. I love you.” Bog ducked his head and smiled, but the smile was not quite what Marianne would have wished for. It was one of his shy smiles, that still happened now and again when he was overwhelmed and uncertain. Usually it was endearing. Now it was a little worrying.
“Bad day?” She asked, her voice a little softer.
He bent his head further. “I'm sorry.”
“For what? For having a bad day? Didn't I just unload on you like five minutes ago?” Marianne scrambled off his lap and awkwardly sat herself on the bed so she could put her hands on his shoulders and look at his face straight on.
“Sorry for . . . being me, I suppose.” He wove his fingers together and stared at the scars that were etched throughout his skin and at the edges of his tattoos peeking out from under his sleeves. The tattoos covered up some of the bigger scars on his arms, but he couldn't conceal every gray line and puckered seam. “For bothering you with my bad days.”
Two small hands, tipped with chipped red nails, smacked on either side of Bog's face, squishing his features together, making his eyes pop open, “You are cheesing off the pregnant lady, buddy, and she does not appreciate it. I'm pretty sure I agreed to love all of you, put up with you for better and worse. Good days and bad days. This is your weekly reminder of that. Now tell me what's on your mind.” She squished his face one more time and then let him go. She sat back, taking one of his hands and clasping it between her own, rubbing warmth into his cold fingers.
He considered the tiny hands, their delicate bones, marveling all over again to see them wrapped around his rough, ugly hand. “It doesn't feel real. Sometimes. Or that it can't last. You,” He trailed a finger along the curve of her face, feeling almost as if he shouldn't be doing it at all. He laid his fingertips on her stomach, “Your baby.”
“She's not mine.” Marianne exploded, shaking off his hands, “She's ours. This whole . . . project . . . is a collaboration, okay? This is our daughter. We made her—stop blushing, you ridiculous stick insect—and we have been taking care of her. You've been a one-man army when it comes to organizing. You've arranged practically all my appointments, organized my vitamins, made sure I don't eat hamburgers for lunch every day, handmade every piece of furniture in the baby's room, and put up with all my stupid mood swings like some sort of saint! This is so very, very real, Bog. And I'm scared nearly out of my mind! The only thing that keeps me sane is you, tough guy, so don't you ever think you're not part of this.”
Bog was holding his hands out in in an attempt at a calming gesture, frozen as she ranted, her golden-brown eyes glittering with tears and her voice starting to crack on the last few words. When she finally stopped talking he asked, “Are you done?”
“Think so.” She sniffed, rubbing the back of her hand under her nose. “Stupid hormones.”
Bog scooped her up into a hug, burying his face in her neck, taking in the soft warmth of her, the faint smell of flowers still left on her skin from her perfume. He just held her, as tight and close as he could. “Thank you.” His hands were splayed over her back, nearly encompassing its entire width. And suddenly the strangeness, the invisible barrier that had been settled around him in a haze, it was gone, and he was part of everything, of this. This family. He knew the gray haze wasn't gone, but it had lifted for now and he could breathe again.
Marianne felt a warm tear drip onto her neck.
“Don't you dare.” She was hugging him back, her hands gathering up handfuls of his shirt and clenching into fists, trying to hold him just a little closer. “Don't you dare cry, Bog, because I am on a hair-trigger as it is.”
“Sorry,” Bog said, more tears streaming to follow the first, “Hormones, you know.”
Marianne gave a sharp hiccup of laughter and burst into tears.
“Collaboration?” Bog asked, voice teasing through his tears, rubbing her back comfortingly.
Collaborative Effort No. 1 took that moment to renew her apparent efforts to punch her way free. Marianne groaned, sagging tiredly in Bog's arms. “Do something about your child.”
“Why do I have a feeling I'll be the one getting up in the middle of night to change diapers?”
Bog fished his handkerchief out of his pocket and blew his nose before laying down on the bed face-to-face with Marianne, pulling the comforter over them and putting his arms around her. They were both grimy with tears and watercolors but neither of them cared. Closing her eyes Marianne pressed her ear to Bog's chest so she could hear his heartbeat, letting the slowing pace of it calm her, reassure her that he was okay, that all was right with the world.
“Go to sleep, Callie,” Bog said to the baby, “Your mother needs her rest.”
“We're not calling her Callie.”
“I am. You sleep, too.”
“Sing.” Marianne ordered.
Soft and low, his voice still cracking, he sang the first song that drifted into his mind, one, oddly enough, from Dawn’s music selection. But it reminded him of songs he heard at family gatherings so many years ago. Maybe after the baby was born they could all go and see the family in the Highlands together.
Little Baby Hear My Voice
I'm Beside You O Maiden Fair
Our Young Lady Grow And See
Your Land Your Own Faithful Land
Sun And Moon Guide Us
To The Hour Of Our Glory And Honour
Little Baby Our Young Lady
Noble Maiden Fair
Little Baby Hear My Voice
I'm Beside You O Maiden Fair
Our Young Lady Grow And See
Your Land Your Own Faithful Land
Sun And Moon Guide Us
To The Hour Of Our Glory And Honour
Little Baby Our Young Lady
Noble Maiden Fair
Songs:
Lullaby by Creed (suggested by my-badgerpride)
An Ela Bhan/The White Swan (suggested by loveanimationfan)
Noble Maiden Fair (suggested by goldwerewolf)
And thanks to jaegereska for reading it over for me!
EDIT: thechickwiththesketchbook and her human au fanart is the inspiration for Marianne smooshing Bog’s face.
And thank you to everyone who suggested songs, I’ve had fun listening to them all day!
And how do Bog and Marianne know it’s a girl? Ultrasound.
And a comment from jaegereska about Bog’s scars compels me to make a note: they are not from self-harm. Not deliberate self harm. During his low points he got into a lot of physical conflicts and while he didn’t go looking for trouble he didn’t run either. Fighting, the resulting injuries, made him feel something. Made him feel a little more real.
Questions, comments, criticism, always welcome! Likes and reblogs give me strength to write more fics, keep that in mind.
This took FOREVER. I need to invest in an art tablet if I’m going to continue trying to color my sketches on the computer.
Not 100% happy with it, but then I rarely am with anything I draw. I feel like I’m getting noticeably better, though!
EDIT: I went back and recolored it a little. I like this version better, but if anyone likes the original over this one, I can post them separate?
Bog, King of the Dork Forest, is scared stiff to ask Marianne to marry him. But they have been courting long enough, that the idea of being married to her, imagining them together as husband as wife, just feels so right. The idea of asking Marianne to marry him terrifies him. It terrifies him because he can imagine more ways his gesture can go wrong and be turned down. The old fear of rejection still haunts him, runs deeper through him than Marianne’s love, but he can’t get the picture out of his mind of how lovely- no, not lovely, he dislikes that word, it is too plain, too easy- how awe-inspiring she is, how they'd be together, rulers side by side, in action and in word. Sometimes the romantic pictures in his mind give him cavities. Yet he can’t stop the imaginings any more than he could stop the sun from rising. They invade his dreams, make his mind wander incessantly during the day, till finally the courage to try grows greater than his fear of rejection.
He asks his mother for help, but she just starts up on these grandiose proposal ideas and he cringes. None of her ideas sound like Marianne, or even him. He should have known better.
Finally, the question will not be held back and denied any longer. It just slips out. There isn’t even the typical ‘down on one knee, ring in a box’ scenario for his Tough Girl. It’s just out of his mouth before he can swallow the words down and bury them deep in his gut. Marianne freezes, shoulders hunching up, and that is all Bog needs to wish he could snatch the words back from the air, wave them away and pretend they never existed. He tries to backpedal, hands out, as if there is still a possibility of waving them away, but Marianne just gives him a long stare.
“No, Bog it’s alright. I’ll…I’ll think about it.”
That’s it. She'll 'think about it.' She leaves in a hurry after that. A couple days pass and Bog still hasn’t seen her or even heard from her and the fear begins to grow again from long ago buried roots in his heart that he’s been rejected For Good this time, he’s done it now, the status quo was fine, why did you have to go and interrupt it, you moron, you beast, you didn’t deserve her, she’s too good for you-
It starts to leak out in his leadership and he’s cross with all his goblins, so they try to steer clear of him as often as possible. Stuff makes sure to always be the one to deliver any messages from the mushrooms, for fear of Thang dying from the King’s out-of-control temper, except nothing comes down the line. The Bog King spends his time either pacing around mumbling and grumbling or sitting around on his throne morosely.
Finally, Marianne reappears late in the evening of the second full day after he asked her to marry him. Those two days felt like two hundred years to Bog. His first reactions are relief, followed by a leap inside his chest that always comes when he sees her. Those emotions come crashing down after just a few seconds when he remembers the Dumb thing he did. She’s probably here to tell him no, to tell him it’s over in fact, and to tell him what his mind has been nagging, that he’s an idiot-
Still, he can’t stand from the bone throne fast enough to meet her halfway at the entrance to the new castle, Stuff already delivering the message that the mushrooms had seen her cross the border. Bog clutches his staff tightly, knuckles white as his hands work at the metal so hard he could practically re-forge it, the amber orb spinning and reflecting the light of the waning half-moon.
“Marianne, I-”
“Sh,” she stops him, fingers on his lips and oh, how he almost melts under that familiar touch, he missed you, Tough Girl, his Tough Girl- “Come with me,” she says, gently taking one of his hands from his known security blanket. She tugs lightly on the arm before taking off and Bog marvels for the millionth time at the glow of her wings in his forest, how she was made for his world, his world and hers, the perfect combination of wild and magic, light and dark-
“You coming?” She teases him, turning around to look at his love struck face, her stained lips quirked up in a smoldering smirk.
Bog shakes his head to clear the love fog in his brain, his lanky frame crackling like leaves in a breeze from the action. “Yes,” he squeaks, clears his throat and tries again, in a deeper and more controlled tone. His wings unfold and he is following this butterfly fairy to…well, he doesn’t know where, but even with his mistake hanging over him like a dark cloud, he’d still follow her to the ends of the Earth if she asked.
In the time since their relationship began, she has been learning about his lands. After that first night, she seemed so enamored with his forest that when they were not dealing with royal duties, she’d simply turn to him with honeyed eyes full of wonder and whisper, “take me on an adventure,” and oh how that sent shivers down his spine and every time he’d take her somewhere new. Eventually, he had a whole list of future destinations planned out in his head, so the next time that delicious phrase was whispered in his ear, he’d already be pulling her along before she could finish saying it, but laughter would bubble out of her like a brook, and he always looked forward to hearing that phrase, that laugh-
Bog, you are an enamored fool, he growls to himself. He’d only been following Marianne’s purple glowing wings in the growing darkness and didn’t know where he was in his own kingdom for a few seconds. Eventually, he recognizes the place; one of the tallest trees in his forest. One can get an uninterrupted view of the lower trees, the moon and stars, and maybe even see the fairy palace boulder. Their first adventure here, he’d shown her a family of owls that nested in the tree and she’d love coming back here, day or night to either catch the owls or the stars.
She sits down on a high branch, eyes turning up toward the half waning moon and more stars than she could ever hope to count, before she turns to see Bog still hovering awkwardly behind her.
Marianne’s eyes soften and she pats the section of branch next to her. Still tightly clutching his scepter, Bog slowly sinks down beside her, stiff as a board until Marianne leans against him with a hum. His breath hitches in his chest, heart pounding like a drum through his frame. He feels like he may fall off this branch to the earth below from the force of it, wings too frozen to catch him. She nuzzles into him and finally he slowly wraps his arm around her shoulders. Content as a cat now, she sighs softly and closes her eyes.
It seems to Bog that Marianne is just going to ignore what happened that fateful day. This is good. If he were being honest with himself, he would rather pretend it never happened either. Yep. Never happened. It’s already gone. Poof. Phew. What a rel-
“Did you mean it?” she suddenly asks.
Bog stiffens up again, wings folding with a harsh flick behind his back. “I…uh…I don’t kn-”
“C’mon, Bog.” She sits up and fixes him with a hard gaze. Knowing he’ll fall into those eyes if he’s not careful, Bog looks up, away, anywhere but at her-
“Marianne, it was silly of me to ask such a thing-”
“Bog-”
“Just a crazy idea I’ve been having, ye know, ha ha-”
“Bog-”
“I guess the pressures of ruling have just been getting to me lately-”
“Bo-”
He is rambling now, but he can’t stop the stuttering words coming out of his mouth like a fountain now. His wings jitter as he tries to come up with a good sounding excuse, not so much for her anymore, she’s clearly turned down his proposal, now he just has to convince himself that it didn’t mean anything, but every excuse sounds terrible when suddenly spoken out loud, oh please skies above, make his mouth stop moving-
Marianne’s fingers are suddenly pressed to his lips again and his shoulders slouch in defeat, wings going still and his blue eyes look down at her amber ones.
“Did. You. Mean it?” she emphasizes, removing her fingers from his lips.
“Marianne-”
“Yes or no, Bog, it’s not that hard.” Harsh when she wants to be. Just like a rose bush, she is; mostly soft, delicate, beautiful petals, but a surprise bite that can leave you bleeding.
She cocks her eyebrow at him and it’s her Smolder, and he is Lost. Her eyes seem to say, “you tell me the truth right now, buster, or I am pushing you off this limb.”
He opens his mouth, pauses, before slouching in on himself. “Aye,” he rumbles. Suddenly, he jerks, sitting up straight and he’s waving his arms around, scepter in his lap. “But Marianne, I’m sorry, I know how you must feel about all of this, I shouldn’t have asked you, it’s just been on my mind lately and I guess I just couldn’t hold it in any longer, I’ll completely understand if you don’t want to, I’m fine with the way things are between us I-”
“Yes.”
Bog goes on for a few more seconds before freezing, which makes Marianne snort, because his wings were in mid-motion.
“You…what…?” Bog breathes out before his breath leaves him as Marianne is tackling him, wrapping her arms tightly around his neck. He feels his staff start to slip from his lap and quickly paws at it to keep it from plummeting while simultaneously trying to keep Marianne in his grasp, too.
“Yes, I will marry you, Bog King,” she whispers huskily into his ear and he shivers in delight before launching into the air with her in his arms, spinning her around.
“Ye will?” Bog asks, disbelieving, but his blue eyes shining bright with joy in the moonlight.
“Yes!” Marianne laughs. Her own wings keep her aloft now as Bog’s grip is tight on his staff in one hand, but their arms are still entwined.
“But, I was so sure ye wouldn’t say-”
“Yes?” She tilts her head, cocking her eyebrow again. “I know, I’m sorry I kept you waiting for so long.” She flutters forward and kisses his forehead before parting back again. “You must have been beside yourself. I just had to go home and really think about it. You and I both know the last time was hard on me.”
“Aye, Marianne, I’m sorry-”
“Don’t be. The moment you asked, I wanted to say yes, believe me. I just didn’t want to-”
“Rush in?” Bog finished for her, heart somersaulting at her words. She wanted to say yes all along!
She chuckles. “Yeah. I just had to be alone to think and make absolutely certain. And picturing you…and me,” her eyes flick down for a moment as she tries to convey her thought process. “It just…felt right. I just…had to be sure I wasn’t falling in. That I was walking in willingly. And Bog?”
“Aye?”
“If you’re the destination, I’d walk down an aisle to you. I’d walk across the Dark Forest, I’d walk to the ends of the Earth to you.”
Bog inhales sharply, feeling like he could shoot to the moon, he’s so happy. He lifts Marianne over his head, spinning her around and laughing like a maniac and she is laughing with him.
~
Oh sure, Marianne can look back on that night fondly. Now, all she wants to do is run from all this.
Tradition has been thrown out the window this go around. Screw traditional, Marianne thinks. It only brought her heart ache last time, and she is trying hard not to have flash backs as it is. If it were up to the fairy princess, she’d forgo the wedding entirely and just sign some stupid papers that say, “yes, I marry this pine cone twig, Bog King of the Dark Forest of my own free will. Signed Marianne, Crown Princess of the Fairy Kingdom." She imagines Bog would write something like, “I marry this Tough Girl Fairy Princess of my own free will. Signed Bog, King of the Dark Forest.” But no process like that exists for them, especially as royalty. They must go through with the large ceremony, and it is indeed large, as this time both kingdoms will be in attendance.
The sun as Marianne’s witness, this wedding will not be Traditional. She will do everything in her power to make it Different.
Last time, Marianne and Dawn had planned almost everything, while the only requirement of Roland was to look dashing and show up. Nuts to that, the brunette thinks. This time, Marianne involves Bog as much as she possibly can, but aside from a few opinions, Bog just smiles at her and says, “Whatever you wish, Tough Girl.” Eventually, Marianne just hoists a majority of the planning onto Dawn, who is only too happy and eager to take over. She knows the both of them best, and as much as they want Griselda to participate, the bride and groom know that she’d go over the top flamboyant that neither of them like. So Marianne tries to distract the matron of honor in other ways.
On the day of the wedding, they see each other. They started spending nights together long before this, so they spend the night cuddled close, although they barely sleep for the excitement and nerves of the coming day. They spend all morning and afternoon together, holding hands and talking about nothing, upcoming meetings and events in their kingdoms, the weather, weapons technique and verbal review. Somehow the fact that they are getting married that very afternoon never comes up, but it shines in their eyes, exists in the flutter of their heartbeats, tumbles in their stomachs like butterflies, graces the shared smiles on their lips. The couple would love nothing more than to spar, to burn off some of their nervous energy, but of all people, Dawn ordered them not to. "I will not risk either of you mucking up and somehow managing getting hurt mere hours before the ceremony," she grumbles. Honestly, Marianne thinks a fighting injury for a wedding ceremony would make an awesome story, but she loves her sister and does what she's asked. "Besides," Dawn adds, "after the ceremony, you two can fight to your hearts content. Although I think you're both weird." The light fairy mutters that last part under her breath.
It’s not that Marianne doesn’t trust Bog to be out of her sight, that the moment she turns her back on him, she’s going to find her second attempt at a wedding ruined again. It’s that she needs him nearby to keep her grounded, to make sure this is all really happening and not just a dream. Last time, something had niggled at the back of her mind that something didn’t feel right, that there was something to be questioned. Oh sure, Dawn fusses at first about it being bad luck for the groom to see her, hovering around the bride-to-be, but Marianne waves her off. “Luck had nothing to do with it last time, Dawn. Bad or Good. This time I am making my own luck.” Dawn huffs, but flies off to make sure everything is ready. Marianne is right. This time there is no question and no doubt. What she told Bog that night months ago still rings true down to the very fiber of her being: that it doesn’t feel like Love, but Logic. To have Bog be there waiting for her as she walks towards him feels like the Most Right Thing in the world.
It is only a few minutes before the ceremony has to begin, yet Marianne hasn’t even put on her dress yet. She didn’t even put on her usual make up that morning. Bog doesn’t care: he likes her both ways. The berry juice makes her eyes dark and feral, like a wild cat stalking his forest, and turns her into his Dark Princess, but without it her eyes shine like sunlight. Today, though, she is positively glowing and he is happy to stand in her radiance.
“I have something for ye,” Bog says, voice barely above a whisper. Anything louder feels like he might shatter the dream he’s clearly in. He is full of a zinging energy today that won’t let him be still and his wings reflect that. He is already dressed in his royal wear, a crown upon his brow and a narrow cape wrapped around his chest and flowing down his back between his wings.
“I am already getting you as my husband today, what more present could I need?” she teases, lightly tapping his nose. Bog blushes slightly at her compliment, still not used to be cared for, even though he is about to marry the one doing the caring. He clears his throat. “Dawn, uh, told me about the boutonniere tradition you silly fairy girls have,” he rumbles, making Marianne laugh and her heart leaps into her throat when Bog pulls something out from behind him.
It is a beautifully arranged corsage, made from the plants in the Forest. And in the center is the purple and black flower. Not the original, that one is long gone. But every time they had a fight or he wanted to give her a nice gesture, he’d always bring one or more of these to her and if she was in a bad mood, she’d brighten and if she was in a good mood when he did it, her spirit would soar towards the sun. Now, she looks up at him with shining eyes, her grin stretching from ear to ear and it hurts so much, but she can’t stop smiling-
“Oh Bog,” she coos, holding out her wrist for him to put it on there. She can move it later if she wants when she puts on her dress, but for now it’s better on her wrist, where she can see it.
“It doesn’t match my dress, though,” she tells him flatly.
“Oh! Uhh…” Bog suddenly straightens, wings folding behind him. Marianne giggles, reaching up to his hands to help him put it around her wrist. “But it matches me,” she continues, “and that means the world to me.” She pulls him down to kiss his cheek before turning her head and admiring the corsage on her wrist. Her favorite flower.
Bog blushes even deeper than he did before, at a loss for words, his mouth too dry to make anything coherent anyway-
“Marianne!” Dawn scolds, zooming in out of nowhere and grabbing her sister's arm. “We have to get you ready. The ceremony is starting in five minutes and you’re not even dressed yet!”
Marianne laughs. It is so much more fun to torment her sister this go around, but she allows herself to be dragged off.
“Wait-!” she implores her sister, pulling her arm free. She turns back to Bog and throws her arms around his shoulders, giving him another chaste kiss on his face. “Will I see you on the other side?”
For a split second, sky blue meets hazel and Bog barely catches that flicker of fear and nervousness in his Tough Girl’s eyes.
“Aye, Marianne. I’m not going anywhere but to the end o’ that walk. I’ll be waitin’ for ya.” Bog watches as Marianne relaxes and this time she allows her sister to drag her away, watching him until the sisters have to turn out of sight. "At least this time you aren't gallivanting through the fields getting your dress dirty..." Bog hears Dawn nagging and he chuckles.
Before walking out in front of everybody, Bog clears his throat, rolling his shoulders to crack his joints. Straightening his back, he does just as he told Marianne he would do, taking his place in the wedding ceremony.
Marianne chose a clearing in the Fields, very near the border to the Forest. She would have preferred it to be right smack in the middle, but terribly cut primrose stalks were in the way, she joked. Just because Love was allowed in the Dark Forest again, didn’t meant the threat of some love sick fool, or worse, wanting a love potion from Sugar Plum wasn’t still real. This time, fairy guards helped goblins cut down and destroy the primrose flowers. Ultimately, they both agreed to have the wedding on the fairy side, where the sun shines bright and warm and everyone can have access to the ceremony, goblin and field creature alike.
Bog tries to stand still and wait patiently, but he can feel himself shaking like a leaf. No one is with the poor King at the front of the ceremony. His mother is there in the front row, watching him, already dabbing her eyes with a cloth, sitting next to Stuff and Thang. Thang looks about ready to cry, too, while Stuff seems bored and unimpressed by all the going ons. Marianne will have only Dawn and her father with her. His mouth is still dry and he feels like he’s dying, like he’s about to have a heart attack, or throw up, or he’ll shake out of his very exoskeleton. Dawn said only five minutes, how can five minutes be so long…? No one is paying attention to the nervous groom having an internal meltdown, his hands twitching and aching to wring his staff, which is leaning just behind him for the ceremony, maybe he could sneak out and get a quick drink of fairy wine to calm his racing heart-
He debates too long internally and by the time he has made the decision to get Stuff’s attention to run the errand for him, an unseen signal was given, and some fairy string quartet starts playing. Marianne had threatened that if they so much as played two notes together that sounded even a bit like the infamous Bridal March or Pachelbel's Canon, she would not be walking calmly down the aisle towards her groom, but storming towards the quartet with her sword and she would slash every string before smashing each individual instrument a la Cobain style. The musicians feared for their beloved instruments, and took Marianne at her word, no matter how much Dawn or Griselda tried to interfere with other song suggestions. Bog had cackled long and hard when he heard Marianne's threat and had swept her into a kiss afterwards. His Tough Girl acting as evil as him made him feel things. To Bog, the song didn't sound like anything familiar, just well-matched and flowing chords. He didn’t hear it much anyways because the blood was rushing in his ears. It's starting, he marveled to himself, knees going weak.
When Marianne had said No Traditional, she really meant it. There were no little fairy flower girls to scatter petals along the walkway, for what did a Warrior Princess need to walk on delicate petals for? She did joke about scattering destroyed primrose petals, but Bog pointed out that even a small piece of a petal could still make a love potion and they didn't want any guests getting ideas and taking a souvenir. There was only Dawn, the only bridesmaid, a crown of white daisies in her gold locks and a small bouquet of matching daisies and red carnations in her hands. Bog came back to Earth as his brain started processing his own wedding ceremony and realized Dawn was wearing a simple, long white dress.
Don't the brides wear white? Bog was thinking, trying to keep a composed face and not scrunch it up in confusion. Since Bog thought he'd never fall in love, he'd certainly never fantasized about a wedding. Dawn had filled him in on a lot of traditions. Brides wear the white and get all upset if anyone else wears white...right? But if Dawn is wearing white, does that mean-
"Hello, Boggy," Dawn whispered to him, smiling wide. No matter how often he corrected her, at some point, Bog had accepted his inevitable nickname from his almost-sister. But skies above help anyone else that tried to give him awful nicknames. He swallowed his growl and held back his eye roll, giving the girl a nervous smile that turned a bit scary on him.
"Relax, Boggy," she tried to comfort. "She's coming. And she looks beautiful."
She always looks beautiful, he wanted to counter, but right then Marianne came around a corner and into sight on her father's arm and Bog felt the very air rush out of him.
Sure, Bog had never imagined his own wedding. He wouldn't even curse the daughters of his worst enemies to a life with him. When Dawn and his mother told him brides wear white, that's what he'd started picturing Marianne in. Honestly what he had pictured was her normal tunic outfit, just in white. He had underestimated his Warrior Princess again. Marianne had truly not only tossed Tradition out the window, she had gleefully pushed it. She came floating-it seemed to Bog-down that aisle in an elegant strapless ball gown made of layered red rose petals, violet wings trailing behind her like a cape. On her head is the diadem for Crown Princess, a wrapping thing that resembles vines and leaves and blooming flowers with amethyst jeweled centers. In her hands was a bouquet similar to Dawn's, mostly daisies, mixed with green decorative plants. If one had never seen Marianne's room in the castle, they might never had suspected that daisies were her favorite flower. Well, second favorite now, her purple and black corsage from her King proudly displayed on her right wrist.
As Bog struggled to remember how to breathe, he finally looked up into Marianne's eyes, which were surrounded by the most gorgeous blue shading he had ever seen. And there went his air supply all over again. Marianne was going to be the death of him today, Bog just knew it.
Today and ever onward, nothing in Bog's past mattered: Marianne is the most beautiful being he has ever seen.
Before the goblin king knew it, Marianne was right in front of him, delivered by her father as the best present in the world. Dagda kissed her cheek and released her to Bog, albeit reluctantly. It is not that the father is hesitant to marry her to Bog. He said she’d be stronger with a King at her side, and by the sky, if she hadn’t gone out and got one. But deep down, every father hates to give away his little fairy princess on her wedding day. Marianne hands off her bouquet to Dawn and reaches out for Bog, who eagerly grabs her, hands finally happy to hold something. Her tiny fairy hands are dwarfed by his, her entire hand filling his palm, but despite desperately needing something to hold onto, he cradles her hands as gentle as a feather's touch.
Dagda comes around the couple to stand beyond them. For no one in each kingdom, save for Bog being his equal, has more power to officiate a royal wedding. A Look is shared between the three: father and groom both look at Marianne, eyes asking, "are you sure this is the man you want to marry?" And she looks between them both, her beaming smile her only answer.
Griselda had told Marianne of some well-known goblin marriage traditions - that had been one of the ways to trick the matron to distraction. Marianne may not have liked tradition, but there was certainly nothing average about including goblin ways in a fairy wedding. When Marianne had heard the goblin wedding vows, Marianne gasped and knew that those were the vows she wanted to say. Even Bog, before giving up on love, had been raised on those vows. Her husband-to-be already knowing them sealed the deal, and it was these vows that Dagda helped guide the couple through now.
Time seems to pass in the space of only a few breaths for the couple until Dagda is suddenly saying, "Bog, you may...kiss...the bride.” His hesitancy is only noticed by the couple, but who cares, Marianne is suddenly pulling Bog down by his cape and is pressing her lips to his. There are a few teasing whoops from the guests along with applause, then Bog moves and wraps his long arms around Marianne's waist, pulling her closer for a longer kiss, which elicits even more yells, mostly from goblins.
There is an interlude after the ceremony for the guests to move to the reception area. It’s a short walk away to the elf village and the stage that is already set up. So the couple has a chance to sit and take a breather after that display.
Bog flops down into the first chair he can find with a loud groan, one arm draping over his eyes. “I’m parched. I’ve been dying for a drink for ages,” he complains.
“Aw, you’ve only been married to me for a few minutes and that’s already driving you to drink?” Marianne teases.
Bog lifts his arm away from his face enough to spot where the snarky fairy is and pounces, pulling her close to him with a playful growl that sends her into a fit of giggles.
“Never,” he breathes into her neck. This fairy is his wife now. His wife. He gently pushes her away from him, to fully look her up and down in her gorgeous dress.
“Marianne, you look…” Bog can’t even come up with a word, she makes his brain stutter so. She sees him at a loss for words and that is all the compliment she needs.
“Thank you,” she says, while he finally finishes with, “stunning.” They chuckle before Marianne finally moves to sit down in another vacant chair opposite him with her own obnoxious moan.
“Glad that parts over,” she comments, propping her feet up on her new husband’s lap. She grins to herself as she thinks that word. This goblin is her husband now. Her husband. “After all of this planning and stress, I’m going to need a vacation.”
“How long of a vacation?” Bog teases, accepting his fate as a foot rest and placing his own arms on her offered legs.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Marianne sighs, leaning her chair back. “A week? Two weeks? Probably more.”
“Sounds wonderful. You know, I have some free time coming up in my schedule, maybe I’ll join you.” They share a smile about the inside joke of their honeymoon the following day.
“Like you were sooo stressed about it, Mister whatever-you-want-Marianne.” She tries to mimic his accent, simultaneously going high pitched. Bog grunts and frowns at her terrible imitation and Marianne tries to control her grin, giving Bog a sly look before gently kicking his knee.
Bog gasps. “You little-” He pushes her dress up to her knees. “Marianne, were you barefoot that whole ceremony?” He was suspicious when her legs didn’t weigh as much, and that kick didn't hurt as much as it should.
She throws her head back and laughs. “Yeah. My boots were hot and uncomfortable and the slippers Dawn picked out for me kept sliding off my heels on the way to the ceremony, so I said, “forget it,” and just threw them off.” She waves her hand in a gesture that shows just what the slippers did.
Bog leans towards her predatorily, grinning. “Marianne King, you devious little wild child.”
“Ah ah,” she leans back, wagging a finger in his face. “I am your Queen now.”
Bog hums, leaning back again. “Not quite, darling. That’s a whole other ceremony. Would you like to hold it tomorrow?”
“Pft, as if,” Marianne dismisses. “After today, I am not getting out of bed for days.”
A wicked glint flashes through Bog’s eyes like lightning. “That’s because I’m going to keep you from walking or flying straight.” To emphasize his point, he drags a claw up Marianne’s bare leg. Who knew her flesh looked so good outside of those black leggings of hers?
“Bog!” Marianne scolds, eyes wide and cheeks blushing bright red. She removes her feet from his lap in an instant so she can better lean forward and back hand his leg.
He merely chuckles, voice dropping low and husky. “I could even call you my Queen tonight if you want me to-”
“Seriously, shut up!” she hisses, smacking his leg again, cheeks becoming a brighter shade. Bog snarls, lunging forward so she’s pinned down to the chair and he’s in her personal space. “Boooog,” she whines, trying to lean away from him.
He visibly relaxes and raises a hand to gently stroke her cheek. She closes her eyes and leans into his touch. “Why blue?” he asks suddenly.
Marianne knows exactly what he’s referring to. “Well, if you believe that traditional stuff,” she rolls her eyes, an unspoken, naughtier word hanging in the air, “there is the saying of ‘something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue.’” She looks him in the eye, the gorgeous blue that meets her gaze shining like a clear sky. “But Dawn suggested it, saying that I could match you.”
Bog’s heart falters at that. The two stare into each other’s eyes for a while, the realization finally sinking in that they are married and they absolutely adore the person that is in front of them.
“You’re so different,” he tells her, adoration shining in his eyes.
“I know. That’s what I like,” she teases back.
Bog grins, straightening up. He holds his hand out to Marianne. “Come on. I’m sure the party’s started without us by now. And who can really party without the bride and groom?”
She smiles, taking his hand and he easily pulls her up from her sitting position. “Yeah. Let’s go get you that drink.”
~
The reception is wild, but what else could be expected from a royal wedding? After all, goblins, elves, fairies, plus visiting dignitaries all have to be fed and entertained. As if a fairy princess marrying a goblin king wasn’t entertainment enough.
The music is the most important thing to all the cultures. Goblins get to perform, elves get to, fairies... The whole event is hosted by Sunny, though, and him and Dawn even do a sweet duet dedicated to the new couple that Marianne swears she saw Bog wipe a tear away, but Bog claimed he was just choking on his ale. If Marianne only knew how grateful, lucky, and loved Bog felt at it all and how suddenly the feeling overwhelmed him, Marianne probably would have cried buckets of tears herself from such strong emotions.
The new couple certainly enjoys dancing together, though. Turns out, dancing and fighting are pretty similar footwork as well as how you might expect your partner to move. They took to each other as dance partners immediately when Sunny and Dawn were helping them review dances. After all, both cultures have balls, where dancing was a requirement. But the couple had to learn with each other now. The lessons from the light fairy and the elf always amused Bog, because Sunny had to dance the girls part since he was so much shorter than Dawn and most of the time Marianne tried to scold Bog and keep a straight face and be the adult, but some days she lost and the both of them ended up rolling on the floor, tears of laughter streaming down their cheeks. That’s not to say the two were old fashioned and thought a guy and girl switching parts was funny, merely the situation itself was. A wee elf who couldn’t spin his lady partner under his arm because he barely came above her waist, even with his hair styled up. Maybe one would just have to be there to enjoy the humor.
“Marianne, I have a surprise for ye,” Bog says at one point in the evening.
“Oh no, not another one!” Marianne throws her hands in the air, corsage flashing in Bog’s vision and he smiles.
“Aye, another one. Now kindly pull up a chair on the dance floor and merely enjoy the show.”
Marianne wonders if maybe Bog has had entirely too much liquid courage this far into the party and if she’s really going to like this surprise, but does as her new husband asks. She feels awkward just sitting in it with other couples still dancing, so she instead stands by it, feeling more awkward by the second. The song ends, though, and the crowd seems to know to clear away, leaving her alone. Feeling like everyone is suddenly watching her and her awkward feeling growing exponentially, she suddenly flops down into the chair.
Without any music, everyone is mingling, the sounds of light conversation, laughter, and tinkling glassware washing over Marianne like a gentle wave. What is Bog planning…?
As if summoned by her thoughts, Bog walks onto the stage, leaning his scepter on the back trellis. The King is never too far from his weapon, microphone, and security blanket. After ensuring it won’t fall over, he moves to the center of stage and clears his throat. This makes all the goblins immediately stop what they’re doing. The sudden loss of sound from about half the party makes everyone else slowly go quiet as well; the King is about to speak.
And when a King speaks, he does not stutter or mumble or allow terror to take control of him. Bog knows what he wants to say and he will say it like the King he is. “When Marianne and I first met, not many of you know this, but she gifted me with a song.” His demeanor softens as he looks down on the fairy before him. “Today, not only has she decided to shackle herself to me in matrimony,” some of the goblins chuckle at his joke, “but I am going to repay the favor.”
“Bog, no-” she wants to say, but Marianne can’t get her voice to work. It screams in her eyes, though, and Bog looks down at her with a “Bog yes!” grin.
A tiny guitar riff comes from the stage, some goblin that snuck up when Marianne was too busy ogling her husband. The notes stop, before something seems to kick on and the guitar riff is suddenly way more powerful. As the guitar kicks in, Bog lets out a wicked cackle.
“Sky almighty! I feel my temperature rising,” he sings, the note ending in a coo and Marianne’s eyes widen as big as the moon rising in the sky.
“Higher and higher,” Bog gestures. “It’s burning through to my soul.”
Baby, baby, baby, you’re gonna set me on fire, yeah
If the fairy tale folk in attendance had ever seen Elvis, they would say that Bog strongly resembled him, invoice and demeanor. There were some moves of his long legs moving left and right, a hand flying upwards.
My brain is flaming and I don’t know which way to go,
Bog gestures to his head, acting like he’s in pain, before indicating confusion between his left and right hands.
Cuz your kisses lift me higher
Bog is in the air now, wings working furiously behind him, cape flapping behind him, making him into a majestic picture.
Like the sweet song of a choir
A choir he certainly has now. A full band has joined him onstage, complete with fairy and elf back up singers. How did Bog arrange all this Marianne thinks, without her knowing?
You light my morning sky with burning love
Bog points at her, before bringing his hands to the center of his chest, grinning like the King of the stage that he is.
Ohh, ohh, ohh,
I feel my temperature rising
Help me, I’m flaming, I must be a hundred and nine
Bog lands after the chorus, fanning at himself like a love struck fairy princess, eyes rolling cutely that has everyone laughing.
Burning, burning, burning, nothing can cool me
I just might turn into smoke, but I feel fine
The Goblin King just struts about the stage, trying to keep his moves interesting and different.
On the chorus again, he raises into the air and Marianne can’t take her eyes off him, losing the fight to keep a grin and blush off her face.
At one point, Sunny himself hands off a guitar to the king and boy, does he let the solo fly. Bog hopes Marianne appreciates this song, because it took him months to finally figure out what he was hearing in his head and putting it to an actual instrument, not to mention getting himself to play it the same way over and over. Marianne does indeed, because now her jaw has dropped practically to the floor as multiple people have gathered around the fairy princess to enjoy Bog’s performance.
It’s coming closer, the flames are now licking my body
It takes the next line for him to finish the solo, but he does it with a flourish before handing the guitar back to a stage hand. Everyone applauds and yells for the magnificent solo.
Oh, won’t you help me
He holds out a pleading hand to Marianne
I feel like I’m slipping away
He glides back along the stage in a shuffle, away from his bride, who so willingly reached out her own hand for him.
Marianne, you can’t save him from the fire. You are the fire.
It’s hard to breathe. My chest is just a heaving
Bog places a hand over his chest and snakes his chest upwards on the rhythms so his hand ends up touching his chest on every beat.
Sky have mercy, burning a hole in me
Both hands are over his heart now and he acts pained again, bowing his head.
The chorus returns again and his head snaps up, but he doesn’t take off as far into the air this time. Instead, he hovers over to Marianne, who just doesn’t know what to make of these events happening before her eyes.
With burning love
I’m just a hunk a hunk of burning love
He helps her by holding his hand out for her to really take this time and he pulls her upwards and pulls her into simple dance moves away from the chair. Most of them involve a lot of spins and some basic steps, one hand holding hers while the other braces her back.
On the last word of the song he dips her low, lower, lower still, his large hand fully supporting her back, she weighs almost nothing to him, as his vocals range all over the scale. His audience goes nuts, and can’t take much more until he finally brings her back up and kisses her as the audience roars with approval.
“Wow,” is all Marianne can whisper, honey eyes sparkling as everyone around them congratulates Bog for the performance.
Bog can’t keep his grin off his face at the awed look on hers and he touches his forehead to hers, chuckling and panting hard after his performance.
“Alright, Mister King, let’s go get you another drink,” Marianne says, trying to lead him to the refreshments.
“‘m fine,” Bog pants. “Jus’ a wee bit winded is all,” he waves a hand.
“All the more reason to get you something.”
“Whatever you say, Missus King,” Bog kisses the top of her head and stands upright on his own once they reach the serving area, leaving Marianne to blush at her dumb nickname.
The night and the party wear on. Guests start to trickle away into the night. Despite Bog’s performance, it’s Marianne’s energy that starts to wane first. Bog seemed to gain a second wind after his song and since the couple has to stay later anyways, he continues to lead a quickly tiring Marianne around the dance floor. He senses her getting slower, so he supports her back with his left hand, other hand holding hers as he leads with simple dance steps. He is happy to have a real dance partner, not like some of the couples he saw today, girls’ arms wrapped around boys’ necks and all they did was sway and spin in a circle. Peh, he scoffs internally, any flighty fool can do that. He’s enjoying the feeling of Marianne leaning against him as he continues to lead her. Partly she’s doing it to stay upright and therefore awake.
“So…” Bog breaks their companionable silence, as well as the silence around them. The last song is coming up, and even with no music, Bog can still lead her feet to some unheard tune in his head. He spins her out and away before pulling her back in again to finish his thought. “Was your wedding everything you wanted it to be?”
Marianne parts an arm's length from him and looks him dead in the eye with a serious face.
“No.”
Bog stops at that. Had it not been a perfect day? Had they not been in the same wedding ceremony? Had he done something wrong-
Her face suddenly splits into a grin at his frozen face, and she brings his hands up to her lips to gently kiss his knuckles and Bog’s face softens as his heart skips a beat from her gesture.
“It was even better,” she finishes. One foot steps back as she throws her hand out behind her and Bog recognizes the signal, spinning her in close to him, her back to his chest, his chin leaning against her bare shoulder and his arms wrapped around her waist as they sway to the last dance.
“Come fly with me,” he sings into her ear from the song, a well-known goblin lullaby, accompanying the performer on stage. “Into a fantasy.” Marianne’s eyes close and she sighs. “Where you can be whoever you want to be. Come fly with me.”
Marianne reaches up and touches his sharp cheek, turning her head to kiss the other next to her face. “Always,” she whispers back.
With a last few plucked notes, the last dance song ends and Marianne sighs with relief. Even barefoot, her feet are killing her and she is exhausted. The couple dismisses the last remaining guests. Clean up will probably happen tomorrow morning...today. It is a very late night. Cleaning is not their responsibility anyway. Marianne stretches her arms high, back popping in three places, which makes her wince in combined pleasure and pain. Her wings fan out for a good stretch as well when suddenly they’re being pushed down.
“Wha-”
Marianne can’t finish the word as she’s suddenly swept into Bog’s arms, wings deftly folded. Oh. Well, this is a nice surprise.
“Tired, Tough Girl?”
Marianne hums, snuggling close to him. “You have no idea.”
“Then let’s go home.” And with that, Bog takes off with her in his arms.
Even though she kind of wanted the exercise, her wings being folded up all day, it’s nice to be carried like this. She probably couldn’t fly a straight line right now anyways.
Bog lands at the entrance to his new castle and Marianne shifts for Bog to set her down and let her walk on her own. But his grip on her tightens. “Ah ah,” he scolds gently. “A groom’s got to carry his bride over the threshold."
Marianne knows she must be tired and tipsy, because she begins to slowly erupt into a fit of giggles at how cheesy Bog is being. She can’t stop and sounds more maniacal as Bog actually carries her through the entryway and up the stairs to his- their room. It really is a sweet gesture, she just can't stop laughing!
"A'ight, that's enough out of ye!" Bog mock growls and he dumps her unceremoniously onto the bed.
"I'm...sorry...Can't-" she chortles and heaves for breath. Bog rolls his eyes and moves to remove his royal decorations from his person and put them away. He will need them again soon, whenever Marianne decides to have her queen coronation ceremony. As Marianne’s giggle fit finally begins to calm down, Bog sighs with relief at removing his crown, face scrunching up; it is too tight and has left slight indents on his head. He should really get a commission to adjust that.
Bog sits heavily on the bed with a satisfied moan, rubbing behind his ears at the imprint from the crown on his temple. Marianne's bubbling giggles have finally subsided and she sits up to crawl over to her husband, resting her head into his lap and looking up at him. Bog smiles down at her and starts massaging her scalp instead. His claws feel wonderful through her hair and she hums, pleased.
"Do ye...need any help with..." he gestures down her body, indicating her dress.
"I'm good," she replies. Her body protests as she tenses her muscles to roll off the bed and out of Bog's lap and magic fingers. Fairies have no zippers, so the dress stays on her figure by sheer gravity and magic, supported mostly at her hips. She simply slides it down her frame, steps over the poofy skirt, grabs the first comfortable article of clothing she can find of hers and slips it on, all in a manner of seconds.
"Much better," she sighs to herself.
Dressed for bed, she walks back over to Bog, who is back to massaging his own ears from his crown, either lost in thought or finally displaying the same weary symptoms she's feeling. Marianne steps in between his arms and legs and he automatically wraps his arms around her. She can barely hear the rustling his frame makes, but it's there and she loves that sound, reminded her of an autumn day in the Forest. The shine of alertness returns to his blue eyes and he starts to gently trace his claws around her back, near her wing joints. Her eyes slide shut and she moans. She returns the favor by running her nails gently down his spine.
Bog’s head falls forward onto her chest as he slowly hisses out a breath. "Keep up with tha', Tough Girl," he breathes, his accent becoming a little thicker at the pleasurable tingles running through his body from her ministrations, wings bobbing, "and Ah'll certainly carry out my promise of calling you my Queen tonight."
"Oh, not tonight," she sighs, moving her hands to his head. "I'm far too tired for any of that." Instead, she continues where his hands left off, massaging and petting the imprints of his regalia.
"Mmm," Bog hums, turning his head to get her to massage a certain area. He feels like he could practically purr like a cat. "Tha' feels nice." In that case, she'd happily do this for you all night. But...
"C'mon," she encourages, lifting his sleep-heavy head up and planting a kiss on his brow. "Let's go to bed." Bog just buries his head into her stomach and grumbles. "To bed, to bed, says sleepy head," she quotes, scratching the offered section of pointy scalp that is offered to her. Bog rumbles, pushing up into her scratching fingers. "Tarry a while, says Slow," he quotes back to her before loudly inhaling and letting his new wife go so she can walk around to her side of the bed.
He turns down the covers for both of them as she's moving and as soon as Marianne’s horizontal, he's pulling her close for cuddling and she eagerly assists. Each is practically asleep by the time heads hit pillows, and Bog manages to wrap his arm around Marianne's waist and bury his head in her shoulder, placing a chaste kiss on her exposed neck.
"I love you, my Tough Girl, my wife, my Queen," Bog whispers into her neck.
"And I love you, my pine cone, my husband, my King," Marianne sighs back.
And as they drift off to sleep on the night of their wedding, the couple hears the song of the last dance in their heads:
