Kissing Princess Bubblegum is as sweet as you would expect. She tastes of pink sugary goodness, and whenever they part afterward and Marceline licks at her lips, tiny specks of sugar coat her tongue. Her candy texture sings of the red mixed in with white, and Marceline has to force a moan out through her nose—as embarrassing as it is—to hold herself back. And as difficult a struggle as it is to not let go and suck out the red from her pink, Marceline is thankful she is not human or else she fears she might eat her whole. That is how sweet her lips are.

Other things are sweet about Princess Bubblegum too. She small eyes and thin lips sit sweetly on her face, contrasting her harsher personality. Her hair rests daintily and glossy, and when Marceline pets it, it is smooth to the touch. Her name is sweet, a song on her tongue, a song she sings more than any she has written herself. Her voice is sweet—when she is mellow and content at least.

But there are things about her that are bitter as well. Her genius is bitter in her calculating judgements. Her actions are bitter when punishments are needed, when scorn wraps itself around her. She is bitter when push comes to shove, and Marceline finds herself not only yelled at but tossed from the palace like a heap of garbage. Her insides are bitter from age and responsibility. Bitterness found her through pain and loss.

Marceline knows these things; she has felt them. She wonders which parts of herself are sweet, and which are bitter. She wonders which type of candy she herself would be. A fruit drop covered in sour powder?

Princess Bubblegum is extremely bitter, but when her lips are pressed to hers all she can taste is her sweetness. And Marceline knows that that is all she can taste of her as well.