A/N: For Royal.
I'd maybe be willing to write the smut that obviously follows this. Let me know in the comments if you'd like that.
She had not anticipated just how much there is to consider here. When Marceline does this sort of thing she is effortlessly uncouth, rufflingly graceful, and with things reversed Bubblegum wonders just how exactly she does that: how she finds new ways each time to—well to do this. The princess suddenly wishes she'd had the wherewithal to take notes, but then, if she had, the notes wouldn't have been worth taking, and either way, the more she considers this the more it becomes abundantly apparent to her that she has no idea what she's doing.
Thumbing the button on her jeans in and out of its hole helps her think a little. She bites her lower lip and finally decides to wiggle out of them, the jeans. The shirt is an important component to this, but really her pants will only get in the way, and they're easier to slip out of now than kicking them off later would be. Her hands shake as she folds them: it makes the creases uneven, so she shakes them out and does it again. After the fourth attempt she berates herself under her breath, you're wasting time, and places them carefully atop Marceline's dresser.
The bed presents another bevy of problems, of possibilities. The sheets and covers are already a mess. Bubblegum wonders idly why that is: it's not like Marceline ever sleeps in the bed, and the last time they were together here was months ago. The princess sincerely hopes that Schwabl has been where he shouldn't, that it hasn't been that long since her girlfriend changed the bedding. Shaking her head rattles that thought around enough that she can breathe deep and begin a ginger crawl over the mattress.
Of course it's now, when she's dug a knee into that mattress and leaned over to push herself up, that the whole thing goes to absolute gumdrops.
"Hey, woah. Bonnie, babe, you want me to come back or—" she chokes off into a laugh. Bubblegum groans, because of course she would make fun. This was a terrible idea, horrible, stupid, ridiculous, she should never have tried to— "wait. Wait, is this, um. You're not waiting for me, are you?"
"Who else would I be waiting for, in your house, half on top of your bed?" and while she's at it, "When was the last time you changed your sheets anyway?"
"Wha—um, dunno exactly," she sounds distracted. "Before I left, pretty sure."
"How do you not remember something like that?"
"Well," Bubblegum straightens, stiffens: Marceline's voice is closer now, rumbling low just behind her right ear, "see, I've got somethin' else on my mind at the moment."
There's no way this is all it takes.
"Oh?" she tries to be coy, but her throat thins the question too high to be smooth.
"Mmhmm," Marceline intimates, walks the fingers of one hand over Bubblegum's hip to her stomach and flattens her palm there, "You're even wearing your shirt."
Bubblegum can hear happiness in that, feel it in the rest of Marceline's arm around her: yes, you are all it takes, and it blends her courage thick enough to let her close her eyes and tilt her head and reveal, "there's more underneath."
Marceline chuckles and tugs at her collar, and what do you know?
Indeed there is.