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"You are... insane.»
That's the Bog King, in all his rattling glory, eyes large and blue and eyebrows trying to escape from his face, and Marianne knows, because his face is extremely close, the point of his nose almost touching the tip of hers, and she should be terrified, a fairy alone with a goblin in a dark room with perfect moonlight, but she isn't.
"Let me put it like that-"
And that's Marianne - long flowing billowing maroon skirts, like she is dragging a whole rose on her waist, and knowing Dawn, she might, and a corset so tight, her chest heaves out of her sweetheart neckline - all on purpose, it's all on purpose, and it's working, because the Bog King can't seem to keep his eyes to her face, or his hands in check - they claw on the bannister on the either side of her hips, and she is pretty sure the bannister is going to give up first - because if she knows one thing (thanks to her magenta lilac dress, the one with a slit on the side of her hip, and a row of mother-of-pearl buttons trailing up a high narrow collar, tight enough the top one dug into the milky skin of her thin throat when she raised her head, and with the Bog King, she had to raise her head a lot, but not anymore) -
The Bog King loves to pop things.
"-It's either five minutes of embarrassment for you, and a lifetime of freedom for me, or-"
She leans slightly, her back arching, and her skirt rustling at his feet, and oh, her toes curling deliciously as the soft sound of growling from the King's tightly shut bared teeth.
"-we will both be forced to deal with a king who is a step away from screwing another of his lovers right in a middle of the next council meeting. They would be delighted, I bet."
"Or I can just kill him. The offer still stands, Marianne," says her goblin, and wouldn't that be easy, and wouldn't that be sweet for both them, but-
"That would be murder, love," she coos, relishing in a memory of him whispering vicious brutal things into her ear with her ripped skirt around her hips, and her legs around his. "And that tends to mean war, and as much as I love our fights," and his scrawl lessens for something tender, so paradoxically sharply gentle, like the rest of him, "that will be counter-productive to our diplomatic efforts. And also exactly what he wants."
The Bog King, as Marianne also knows, likes things that smell sweet.
"If I didn't know better," If, he starts, and her stupid heart flutters, so girly and silly and not bruised at all, if, a word not common in their conversations in the beginning, but look at them now, dancing with almost preposterous implication. "I would have thought of this as you trying to use me," he hisses, and his breathing is faint, like he is underwater attempting to keep as much air as possible, when she raises one hand, her sharp dark nails scraping against the front of his carapace, catching the edges, a soft ratatat over the ridges of his chest, and then away, before he can turn his head and feel them on his jawline, into the thickness of her fringe, tasseling it out of order and into a controlled chaos that smells of primroses, honeysuckle, tuberose and white violet. Her fingers are heavy with glittering rings, one heavier than the rest (emerald and clearcut diamonds and self-loathing regret), but in the hollow of her breast lies a pendant of copper and amber, its warmth reflecting in her irises.
"No, Bog," His nostrils flare with a thin white line of his mouth, almost pained, when she draws her strands away and behind her ear, as if her hand is his, and this is a memory relieved. "Using someone implies lying to them and you know me. I am nothing but honest. Always. Straight as a staff-"
"Yet sharp like a sword, I know, Marianne, but-"
"Do you trust me?"
«Yes, but…» He bites his tongue, trying to swallow back his concern. She feels it, thick as shackles in her dungeon, thick as gold and emerald and diamond on her finger.
«But?» Marianne pets his white knuckles, strained, smooth and warm like a lizards hide but not quite - simply leathery, turning softer the closer it got to his scales. He notices it too, fingers unfolding, and for a moment, her hand lies on top of his, large and taloned and callused, and very very goblin.
«Why do you trust me?" He bursts, looking away, and oh, she wants nothing more than bring him to her heart, nothing more than to kiss him long and hard enough so that he forgets that there was a time when he was unloved.
So Marianne stretches her neck and raises her chin, and presses her lips to the angle of his jaded brow.
"Because you have more grace and honor in you than the rest of my court," she whispers raggedly, his bark-like skin against her petal one and this should be wrong, unnatural, perverted, oh, she should ask what made her like this, melting against the roughest of loving touches, and finding the answer in her very own definition: Love. "And I should never have wanted anything less than what you are."
Marianne knows that she won when his thumbs get close enough to her to pierce the thickness of the material and tug at her skirts, and then are followed by the rest of his palms on the curves of her hips, and now she has to hold herself, biting onto the inside of her cheek to keep her whimper, when a knee presses between hers. Now, she thinks she can wait a little more, she can wait for another time, because this silvery silk moonlight on her skin, kissing between her wings, has a potential to feel even better than candlelight in the night, spread on the cold floor of a library with slits that were never supposed to be this high, mother of pearl rolling on the weathered tiling, among precious scrolls and ancient books, the wings of her bare back - like belladonna bright, you don’t know, you really don’t, my fairy queen, how dangerous you are, how perfectly terrifying - lifeless and alive underneath them, and need, so dark and deep she didn't know such thing existed.
Marianne, the Bog King knows, has a thing for delicate violence.
"Fine," he breaks her out the reverie, and nips on the rim of her ear. She could giggle at his frustration, if not for teeth, and lips, and his words crawling into the shell of her ear. "But we are doing this my way."
"Mmm. Does it involve us wrestling?" She trails her hand, the free one, not occupied by a pointy ragged head of weathered leaves belonging to a goblin man, busy licking sweat of the side of her neck. "Or a least has something to do with my corset coming undone. Please tell me it is."
That earns her a confused pause and a questionably raised eyebrow. "That is oddly specific."
"I might have overdone it today," she whispers, dropping the fainting maiden act, well, maybe just the maiden one, and tries to ply the lacing on her back apart. It seems rather silly right now, the eagerness with which she strained herself just hours before, to seem breathless, to feel confined, in a need of release, literal and metaphorical, by a set of sharp eloquent claws. "It's quite... tight."
"Marianne," her name gets a life of its own, turning in his mouth into a strange mix of a reprimand and an endearment. "Marianne." His talons skid over the petals, barely scraping, until they reach the small of her back. "What am I to think, Marianne? Perhaps," his pinky finger crawls under the string of her binding, right under the soft curtains of her wings, restless with anticipation and something only he knows about, the secret of a spot right between them that is pure magic (just like that time, right under that little button on the throbbing artery of her throat, and her lips part with a silent yes). "That you set out to drag me down on your trail of impropriety?"
The talon snags on the string sharply, in a quick tug, and her new breath amidst petals unfolding is like a first breath, and that breath is a moan, and that breath is his, given to his lips, to his tongue, to his mouth, to his lungs, and taken in full and then some.
She parts away lightheaded. "Maybe... just a step further. Don't you know," she nibbles on his bottom lip coyly, and that is enough for the talons on her back to curl and rip into the meticulous oeuvre of Dawn's labor, slowly tearing it to shreds, lacing and trimming and all, exposing more of her to the moonlight. "I'm Evil," his little song hums on her tongue, the little joke not lost on him and his endearing bewilderment. "My middle name is Misery?"
Next Marianne is swung into the air, into an embrace that is tall and towering, and she would joke that she could see the Dark Forest from up here, if she could, if her mouth wasn't full of joyous laughter, fringe falling over her face - so unladylike, so un-queen-like, but damn it to hell - and his forget-me-not eyes, shining brighter than stars, shining brighter than the white circle of the moon, shining for her.
"And what a misery you are."
He utters a revelation, no dread, no sorrow, no heavy heart at the inconvenience she keeps turning herself into, continuously, even now, with her stupid hope that she can fix the stupidest mistake of her life and gain a whole new world.
And him.
Marianne grins, but her eyes sting. "Yeah, sure, fine," she sniffs, and rubs her face, probably smudging her soot-black make-up across her burning cheeks, what a sight she must be, what a mess. "You win. My way, your way. Doesn't matter."
And it really doesn't. What matters, is that in that very moment, when he frowns and kisses her cheeks, Queen Marianne almost slips out of the blood-red rose dress, and the Goblin King… he figures it out.
And if there could ever be something stranger, like announcing their torrid affair to her unfortunate husband and the whole world, she still doubts it would be as strange as seeing the snarling paramour (of all the people, she would have said just months before, and if she could go back, she would have looked herself in the eye and mutter: how dare you) treating her as something more than she ever though she'd be: a person. And if it still surprises him that she, in return, treats him as nothing less, well, she just has to try harder.
In the end, their meeting goes unnoticed, the Queen doesn't feel well, they say, poor dear, overexerting herself like that - they don't know, how hoarse her voice rings in the night with the Goblin King’s name, as claws rake skin and nails scratch between the outpouring our wings that are too crude to be fay, surrounded by a sea of ripped roses and feelings that can’t stop being fresh and raw, like wounds on hearts that reopen only to finally start healing, under cunning moonlight that compels them both to be foolish, to be daring, to be silent and tender and violent and bold, to be in love that has no word vast enough to be described with.
«So what do you have in mind?» her fingers play with the tear-shaped amber pendant on her bare breastbone. A simple trinket, really, cruder, rougher treatment of material than any piece of jewellry elf can produce, with intricately woven floral patterns, and gemstones - like her crown, surprisingly still wrapped tightly over her forehead despite the recent activities she partook in - but it looks like her eyes, dangerous and wild and warm and full of secrets, and its the sentiment that makes this one little thing most precious to her. «Not that I don’t trust your judgement, but some warning would be nice.»
He just hums in his baritone, mirth on his content smile, and he is wicked, in a tired flash of teeth. «I’m going to ask politely?»
Moon washes over their feet in gentle tidal waves. Hers are soft and white, and almost porcelain translucent, thrown over him grey ones, talons and callused and rigged bark. One of his sharp claws trail up and around her knee. Together, they are of shadows, wrapped in them like blankets, overflow in fuzzy caress weaving a cocoon in their dark and cozy conner.
Marianne thinks that she can be cheeky, that she can be true. «Fay or goblin polite?» She covers his hand with hers, and wishes for fullness what she experiences when their fingers lace together and he presses her knuckles to his lips to never leave.
«You know me well, my Queen,» he pecks the underside of her wrist, eyes trailed on the band of gold and emerald as if trying to find a use for it of her hand and failing to do so. Finally, his eyes crinkle, with crow feet sprouting in the corners of his eyes, and a glint, of something malicious and mischievous, of something so goblin that her loins awaken with new greedy demands, being born in their sure depth. «I do like an occasional flourish of dramatic.»
«Occasional?» She scratches under his chin. The Goblin King purrs. Marianne will never stop being delighted by this man.
Man who pulls her on his lap and nuzzles into her collarbone. «Minx.»
«I lay my claim,» he says, tall and loud and, by Thistle and Thyme, so commanding the whole of the Council chamber goes silent from his mere presence in it. «To the Queen of Fay. To call her mine, of heart and mind and body.»
Marianne has to admit, this is dramatic, and good thing she is wearing the flashier one of her dresses, in stripped red and white carnations, with all the meaning it entails. Her eye slips over his shape, and catches his with a raised brow. Now, really?
Bog smirks, as the Council slowly comes to their senses, in loud haughty gasps of elderly men, and ounces her way with all the determination of a bee smelling the honey. Her illustrious husband harks something mocking - «I’m sorry, I think we misheard you. Buttercup?» - and she should pay attention, really, but Marianne finds she can’t breath, heart thundering louder and louder in anticipation with each of his steps, threatening to rip in two when he finally reaches her.
It doesn’t. Instead, it stops.
«I lay my claim to you,» he says - very softly, just so only she can hear, not the shouting men, not Roland, jumping over the table. «If you have me.»
Marianne presses her hand over her heart, covered with amber and bronze.
"Ask me like a goblin would."
He passes his stuff from one hand to another. Only she knows that the hint of colour on his cheeks is blush. "I just did. And now I'm going to ask you like a fairy."
And with that, her hand is taken and she spins, a pirouette, a turn, her skirt rippling lie a tale of an exotic fish, wings fluttering in excitement, and then she is bended back, her spine arching over a strong arm, another on the curve of her hip, and she is so deep she is almost horizontal, staring into the sky trapped in a pair of eyes. For just a moment, they seem fragile like glass. Like it would take just one word of hers to shatter them and everything behind them on the floor, so that no one ever again would be able to put him back together.
A single heartbeat passes, in their newly created passage of time, like jumping off a cliff, like diving in the stream, like stepping into the Dark Forest -
-and then her hands wrap over shoulders and neck, and claw into ridges of his fringe, and she sears his lips with hers with such ferocity it even stuns her accomplice, until he remembers what he wanted to do and kisses her back.
"Adultery!" Someone proclaims, in a voice well versed with loud declarations.
"Marianne, what is the meaning- I'm ordering you to-"
"Adultery," repeats someone else, from an entirely different corner, and the damage is done, ripping through the hall in voices and whispers. "The law proclaims-"
The law proclaims, Marianne curls against the dear carapace, that Roland can go and fuck himself, and no one's hurt, no treason claimed, no rules rewritten.
She parts for breath, lungs burning, and feels the sigh of relief against her lips. The corners of her mouth spread so hard her cheeks start to hurt. "No, I'm sorry, this wasn't goblin enough for my deviant tastes."
"Let me remedy that," he says and takes her hand into one of his, bringing it to his mouth, and Marianne thinks he is going to kiss it, except, except his lips and teeth part, and he takes the whole of her ring finger into his mouth, teeth knocking against the metal, wet tongue tickling the underside, and pulls, tugging off the ring into his mouth, and then spitting it out on the floor with a loud ringing. "Hail the Queen."
And in echoes, the councilman follow, hail the Queen indeed, well, this is certainly a scandal, well, more excitement than we had in years, true that, Marianne certainly is an unexpected gem, seducing the goblin king to do her bidding - did she? - oh, clearly - well, this is one kind of diplomacy -
"How uncivilised," she breathes into his offence. "I'll have you on your knees for that."
"Sounds like an adventure."
"Oh, you'll like this one."
"YOU CAN'T DO THIS TO ME, I'M A KING," a sword leaves a scabbard, clumsily, flashily, her husband's - ex-husband's - voice trembling with anger and betrayal, and oh, how sweet the sound. "YOU- YOU WHORE."
"Can I kill him now?" Bog pulls them up, watching her fix her dress gone askew. She ponders for a moment, while something happens - Roland continuing to dig his grave by offending the ruling monarch, really, even the guard can deal with him now, council muttering, someone running to tell her father - oh, this will be a talk on itself, her ruining the family honour and so on, but if the honour is to be a wife to a lying sack of goblin dung, the honour can go screw itself.
"Let's not test our luck, shall we?" Clothes fixed, she pauses at the ring, still lying on the floor. She kicks it with a point of her shoe further under the bench. "That thing never suited me."
Bog nods in agreement. "Ready for more than?"
Her hands go still fixing her hair and crown. "There is more?"
"Tad overdramatic, remember? Haven't got a chance to do the fireworks yet."
"Fire-what," she starts, but the next moment, she is lifted, again, weightless, and cherished, and careful, yet playfully rough, and thrown over a wide shoulder - no, sitted on a wide shoulder, and boy, she can see Dark Forest from up here through the large gated windows of the Council chamber. "Bog?"
"I will let the whole world know, if I have to," he growls, and starts walking back, to the large door, ladder, and the front gate of the castle. "But for now, I will make your whole bloody kingdom remember who their Queen is."
There are fireworks. Marianne doesn't know how that works during the day, or if Sunny had anything to do with that, or maybe goblin were even more technologically advanced that she though. Doesn't matter. Sitting tall on the Bog King's shoulder, Marianne looks over the crowd, created by the commotion, looks at the hooting goblinbs, and murmuring elves and sprites and smiles.
Yes, I am your Queen. And he is the the only King I'll ever need.