A/N: Essentially porn with character study.

"Marceline, you should not—ah—you should not be here…!"

Authoritative, just the way she likes it.

"I'm serious, this—oh man, this is—you haftah…yeah, right; no, no, you gotta—oh Glob, don't do thaaah…okay!Okay, justdon't—!"

Commanding but pleading, the smallest kiss of annoyance roiling beneath, and damn—Marceline wants her to say it again, wants to hear that polite façade bend and crack and shatter; to the Nightosphere with propriety and getting caught and whatever else is running through Bonni's weirdly responsible little head.

"This is not—this is highly inappropriate," the princess says, breathless and rushed, the words coming out all at once: music to her ears. "You—hah—what if someone sees? Everyone in Ooo is here tonight!"

"Yeah, thought about that already. So what?" she quirks a smile, sucks neck a little more; laughs into the crook where her jaw and neckline meet, tastes sweat and mmmm it's good, salty but sweet. Crisp. Seasalt taffy in a gentle arch begging for her teeth. "They ain't here right now, yeah?"

"Just—ugh, you're so…" and the princess huffs, cheeks puffing out, giving Marceline a light push, "Just once, I wished you'd listen to me," eyes searching, mouth finding more reason to protest: "And Ricardio's here too, ya dingus. It's dangerous! You—ha—you know how he gets!"

Marceline laughs, finds Bonni's earlobe and gives it a quick bite, noting the silver studs there by how her tongue shivers and burns. You're right, I shouldn't be here, she thinks, almost says—doesn't though, because visiting dignitaries mean jack-all to her. Instead, tongue slightly numb as it stitches back together: "Yo, don't you know my middle name's danger? I'm all about rooftop battles and fights to the death," Unironic statement, seeing whom her father is, "Just relax brainlord—this'll be the most fun you've ever had at one of these things," idle, before kissing her again. "If you let it be."

She doesn't, not immediately, but the way the princess grabs fistfuls of shirt, tugging Marceline closer with every bite to her neck? It's answer enough. Marceline bites down harder, drawing sweet-tasting skin between her teeth. The princess shifts against her, her leg sliding between Marceline's legs, hiking up between her thighs. "Someone's in a hurry," the vampire purrs, a shiver running up her spine, wild and electric. "Marcey like."

Bonni smiles—a quick quirk of the lips—before pulling Marceline closer, before reciprocating with bended knee and open mouth. Thank Glob that they're finally getting somewhere now. Nah, I shouldn't be here, Marceline thinks again, and she really shouldn't be, not at all: because dealing with suitors catching them in flagrante delicto is such a freaking headache, but. But? –No one's keeping you here, Princess.

Bonnibel smacks her shoulder without warning, her dainty fist surprisingly solid for a girl made out of freaking bubblegum. "Not so hard, geez. You'll leave a mark."

"And?" that's the best part, Marceline doesn't say.

"And it took me over an hour to get this make-up right, so I'd appreciate if you didn't ruin it," and damn, what a smile. But, it's a fleeting, secret thing: a glimpse of what the princess wants, what they both need—what Marceline will no doubt give her if they can steal enough time to themselves.

It's the annual Candy Kingdom Royal Ball, time-honored masturbatory celebration where all of Ooo's weird royalty get together and blah, blah, blah; who even gives a shit—it's an excuse for Marceline to crash a party and she does. Did, anyway; the Banana Guard are chumps of the highest caliber, totally bluff and bluster, so all it really took for her to get in sans invitation were a few ruffled peels and a quick climb up the ramparts. She came to raise a little bit of hell, to see if Finn and Jake wanted to cut loose and go beat on some Why Wolves for a bit, go adventuring or whatever to kill the monotony the last few months have brought. The usual—literally anything to get away from her dad calling her to ask why she hasn't taken over all of Ooo yet. Or, brought Gunther to heel.

As if.

And so. She decides to crash the party. And then, lo and behold—holy crap, once she's broken in, Finn and Jake aren't even there (the losers), everyone's dressed to the nines (why the heck), and there's Bonnibel walking down the stairs looking like Glob took the definition of radiant and sculpted a wad of frilly pink bubblegum out of it.

The first thing she notices is the height difference, shortly followed by the crisp scent of lilac and vanilla. Bonnibel's dress is something out of the old fashion magazines Simon used to teach her to read: perfectly slim and functional, immaculate white silk and lace and whatever the hell satin feels like wrapped around Bonnibel tight enough to emphasize her figure, yet loose enough to, well; shit—Marceline doesn't even know the word for it. Beautiful comes to mind, obviously, but it isn't because of the dress. It isn't the bright jewels, the expertly applied make-up, or anything else the Candy Kingdom has on hand that has all eyes glued to Bonnibel—there's something more. Something the princess brings with her wherever she goes, intangible and painful to ignore.

Princess Bonnibel holds herself as though she can't be anything but, like elegance and grace come to her as naturally as breathing—and seriously, fuck Marceline for being a Queen only in name: Bonnibel breathes it—all of her glowing, all of her faultless somehow. Shining. There's a ruby choker around her neck, glitter dusting her skin, a slit running up the side of her dress, every step showing quick flashes of long, sculpted leg and daaaaamn. Damn and damn and damn; Marceline's over a thousand years old, has seen some shit, seen old men go crazy and demons crapping bananas from their ears bonkers weirdness, and still: watching Bonnibel go down those stairs makes her forget how to breathe.

"Hey, wait up—Marcey; yo, Earth to the Scream Quen! You're gonna tear it the dress!" a rushed whisper, another jolt of up the spine at the nickname. She hisses in annoyance when her fingers tangle in the dress, wonders why bad things happen to good-bad half-breeds. Bonni sighs, this time exasperated. "Chill out, geez. It's not something you can beat into submission."

Back in the present, the world is a small, dark corridor tucked away from the proceedings. Music echoes from the main hall, majestic but distracting—would it kill them to drop the orchestra, to try and maybe pretend there's a party going on and not a fucking funeral? It's embarrass—wait, wait. Just a little bit more pressure and she's sure she's got this thing dead to rights, fingers on her left hand attacking the knot while her right ghosts over Bonni's hip, fingernails lightly pressing down.

"Ah, no; ugh—stop. Stooooop. You're doing the thing wrong. It's not a Why Wolf, Marceline. You have to be gentle—gentle." the princess wraps her hands around Marceline's wrist, pulling it away from where she's currently fumbling with whatever demonic weirdness is holding her dress in place. "Relax."

"It's stuck," the vampire growls, relenting despite herself, "And there's all these knots—why are there knots back here?"

"Because it isn't meant to come off, duh," The princess kisses her nose. "Pebbs put a lot of work into it, so I'd rather not break it. You know how he gets."

Marceline backs off, reaffirms her belief that dresses are lame, so freaking lame—how do girls even wear shit like that, really? And willingly? No way—give her a slip-on or some jeans and a nice shirt any day because screw this noise. She sighs. "He'd probably try to perma-gank me, I guess? Or do something equally weird-but-terrifying that neither of us could explain," like call her dad and tell on her, ugh. She shudders and it has nothing to do with how Peebs is looking at her. "Why do you even keep that guy around?"

The princess smiles, kisses Marceline on the nose again; makes the innocence ironic by reminding the vampire where she's keeping her knee. "He's asked me the same about you, once or twice."

Oh-oh. "Yeah, and?"

"He likes you," like it wasn't even impossible.

"He caddies for my dad, yanno," Marceline says, as it was all the explanation needed. "That's pretty high up there on the evil-henchman pyramid."

The princes shrugs, "So?" and then again, as if the words made sense: "He likes you."

It hits Marceline like a steak through the temple—and, no: don't ask. It was a long time ago.

"Oh." and she tries not to be embarrassed; hides it by looping fingers around Bonnibel's neck, pulling her close, biting her lips when they kiss. "That's—" light kiss, don't smile. Play it "—Cool," and there's another kiss to keep up the charade, but now Bonni's smiling too (the little dweeb), and it's getting harder to breathe. "—I guess. For a mint."

The princess drags her knee down the inside of Marceline's thigh, looking at her through half-lidded eyes. "You guess?"

Augh;there's nothing cute about that and she knows it. The minx. "Yeah." Augh, stop it, stop it—she is not going to blush. "Okay, whatever!" slightly louder than she intended, her cheeks hot and this is stupid, she's thinking. "He's awesome. You got me. I mean the dude is friends with Death—how metal is that?"

"Nice save," Bonnie smiles again. Glob, that smile—so simple but so telling; just a slight quirk of her lips, eyes half-cast down, her fingertips tracing the edge of Marceline's belt erstwhile. "He—didn't like you at first," that knee hikes up again, softly spreading Marceline's legs around it, "You were too…vulgar?" she shakes her head, taking part of her lip between her teeth, biting down. Concentrating, fingers idly playing with the hem of her shirt, "He said 'improper,' first, then…other things. We had a fight about it."

Marceline gently rocks herself forward, honestly indifferent: better have said worse. "That's…me, I guess," quiet at the end, her hands splayed atop Bonni's naked thigh, hips slipping back, riding the smoldering pulse building in her stomach. "Terror of—ah, shit that's nice—terror of all of Oooooh…of Ooo. Fuck," fighting back a moan, fighting back the urge to take control—Bonni usually doesn't, usually lets everything come as it may (ha ha!) so today? Today's a treat. "—You know what I mean."

"Apology accepted, Marceline," a quick kiss, a giggle bubbling up saccharine behind a soft smile. "It isn't that big a deal, though. You aren't very scary to begin with."

Hold up, rewind. That takes Marceline out of it.

"Er, what?" sheepish despite the friction, trying for indignant and failing: sounding annoyed instead. "I am so, brainlord. Don't mess—people've been scared of me all my life."

Another giggle, another kiss. Innocence. "Nope."

"Yes huh," she assures, confident. "It's kind of my thing?"

Stalwart, unrelenting; the way Bonnibel smiles speaks volumes. "You're harmless as a butterball, Marcey. I couldn't ever be afraid of you."

That gets the princess a grimace. "What is even your damage?" and this time Marceline manages indignant, manages a scowl. "I'm a vampire, you dweeb. That's like an automatic nine on the crap-your-shorts scale around here."

Bonnibel shrugs, casual as the day they first met. "Sorry girl, but them's the breaks. You're just not very frightening," a quick kiss on the nose, and then "Cute, maybe. Sometimes. But, scary?"

It's a dare, a challenge unspoken. "Oh, yeah?"

Real smart, that comeback. Bonnibel rolls her eyes. "Is it really an issue?"

"You are a foolish mortal," she answers—half-growls, really; a sound like chainsaws rumbling low in her throat. "I'll give you reason enough to scream."

Puffed cheeks again, a sigh that sounds like she has experienced with temper tantrums. "Marceline, I—"

She shifts cinematic: Vampire one moment, skin roiling, churning, then Werewolf the next: her face all sharp angles and massive teeth, thick, gnarled fur and wild crimson eyes, black-rimmed lips and lolling tongue. "Heed me, for I am Marceline the Vampire Queen—" an intonation like thunder rumbling out from her throat, clawed hands running the course of Bonnibel's thighs, hiking up her skirt, sharp claws pressing just so. "Terror of Ooo, heir to the Nightosphere, destroyer of worlds and shitty mooching boyfriends—" her wide tongue traces roughshod over the princess' collarbone, dipping lower and lower, trying to slip beneath her dress and further still, "If ye do not know me, then ye shall be made to—"

"Down, girlfriend." Authoritative, again. Firm. Slim fingers clamp her jaw shut, nails digging into skin. The knee interposed between them asserts itself again, rising, spreading Marceline's legs. Her attempt to snarl "Fear me," comes out more like fuck, wires getting crossed somewhere between conception and Bonni's knee swiftly reaching what's between Marceline's thighs—holding there, then, a hard length between them.

That's unfair, Marceline wants to say, but between shifting back to normal and fighting the urge to whine, all that comes out is a noiseless, impassioned sigh.

"My—mmph. Relax, I said," pause, Bonni's hands now on Marceline's hips, thumbs hooked through the loops of her belt, pulling her close, so close; a fast, hard kiss that has them clicking teeth, and then: "You're my terror, you goof. No one else. You literally can't scare me anymore."

Pause, brief and pregnant. When it dawns on Marceline, her mouth bypasses her brain completely. "That's…dumb."

The princess laughs. "The unscientific has a tendency to be."

Another pause, kind of like she's thinking of what to say next. There's—something here, down beneath what the princess is admitting. Something important, but damn if Marceline can understand it. (Or want to understand it. Emotions are too messy, too complex to thread through. It's why she prefers her caves and her rock bands, her broken father-figure and Finn's stupid little everything.)

She goes with the simple answer.

"You're mine," it's a whisper—Marceline's promise, sealed with another slow, lingering kiss. "I'm yours." another promise, broken once before. Stupid, that; she gives Bonnibel another kiss. "Queen and princess."

Bonnibel laughs, kisses her again. Marceline knows it's to hide a quick frown, an almost-grimace. "Liar," the princess replies, voice small and tender, but Marceline ignores it. Knows they're both terrible at this—horrible, really; inexperienced though long-lived, the only two in Ooo capable of hurting each other in the ways that matter anymore.

"I am," Marceline assents, her lips at Bonnibel's throat again, whispering: "Yours, though."

"Mine…" and Bonnibel seems to taste the word, repeating it as if surprised it fits in her mouth. "Mine," said with a slow assurance, the princess gradually withdrawing her knee to decimate the distance between them, her body pressing into Marceline's, molding into it. "I like that sound of that—when you say it, to be specific," she shudders, arching herself into Marceline, fingers searching, searching, searc—finding her breasts beneath the vampire's cotton top. "Say it again."

"Yours," another kiss, right at the crook of her neck, "Yours," with emphasis, half-groaning into Bonnibel's mouth, the hands beneath her shirt surprising spry; experienced, she would say, and doesn't that just beat all? Princess Bonnibel Bubblegum: actually good for things that don't involve science and horrible lemony monstrosities. Marceline almost—almost—says a much before Bonnibel relents, hands withdrawing. It makes her hiss instead.

"Why'd you…?"

"Marceline." Too firm.

"What?" Confused.

"You're not wearing a bra. Again," not quite shocked, but she goes idle-contemplative. Dangerously quiet—and then, without thinking for too long: "…Did you plan this?"

Oh oh. "Er." Fake laugh, play it off like she planned it. "Maaaaybe?"

The princess snorts, an indelicate sound. "I can't take you anywhere."

Safe. "I try to be consistent with my badassitude. It keeps me honest," Marceline explains, sticking out her now-humanoid tongue. "I mean. You're always going on about controlled experimental values, so—random variables annoy you, right?" asked faux-innocent, mouth back to Bonnibel's ear again, nibbling while her fingers ghost down the side of her neck. Distraction, distraction. "Simon really never taught me math…but I remember hating it when he brought 'em up." Smile. "Super-gross."

"I try to cut them out of my life, yes," Bonnibel admits, neck arching back to allow Marceline more room on the downward journey from her mouth. "They're—messy. Convoluted; I don't—" a sigh cuts the princess off. She holds Marceline a fraction that much tighter. "Even when accounting for as many as possible, something always…" the teeth settling on her jugular inspire a brief moan. "Mmmesses things up."

Brief silence; to Marceline, what Bonnibel means is always inside of her eyes, never what she says. They're alike in that respect—it's why she won't look at Bonnibel, now. "And I'm not? Complicated, I mean," asked as if Marceline already knows the answer; has always known the answer. They've hurt each other before this, burned one another raw without waiting around to heal the scars. Her voice is surprisingly—worryingly—small: "That's news to me."

Pause.

Damnable, horrible silence.

But only for a moment.

"You're my constant," said as if it's the only answer to the question, and just like that? Marceline doesn't care about who she is, who might see them; doesn't care about dresses and parties and Bonni's picture perfect hair. She wants it tousled, wants it haywire, wants it in her hands and in her teeth and everywhere: that sweat-sweet perfume on her skin, in her nostrils, her mouth, and tongue. Her tongue everywhere: exploring the inside of Bonnibel's mouth, tracing her lips—plump, bruised, red, so red—running the length of her teeth, her jaw; her neck. With a growl, she presses into Bonnibel, the back of the princess' heel digging roughshod into Marceline's calf before settling with a hard click against the marble floor.

"…Guess this means you like my dress?" Bonni's voice is husky, just a little lower than usual—hungry, almost. At some point, her hands snake toward Marceline's breasts again—more specifically settling on her hard, pert nipples. There's a brief moment, a tense moment where Marceline's weighing what to say, how to say it, and whether or not the way PB is looking at her means she's hot for it or just teasing her. (The way she's playing with her chest throws her off just slightly.)

Fuck it; she takes a chance: "It'd look better on the floor, I think."

"So would you," she licks Marceline's nose, laughs—then the princess' lips are against hers, and that's still a wonderful surprise, so soft and warm. Inviting; her tongue, moreso—it's like they're (relatively) teenagers again, exploring each other's mouths like pirates on the Sea of Sure Death, violent conquerors and hoarders of spaces unknown. Mapping everything they can touch, feeling teeth and skin and the roof of each other's mouths, laughing when that tickles like it always does; moaning when that tickle turns into something else.

When they break the kiss, near struggling for air, a thin line of saliva stretches and snaps simultaneously between them. "Shouldn't we—" kiss "At least—" bite "Try to go—" Shut up "Somewhere?"

Marceline nibbles the shell of her ear, serpentine tongue tracing its outline, wary of the silver stud. There's still a taste of burned skin in the back of her throat, heady but not entirely unpleasant—thanks Dad. "Still scared we might get caught now that you're into it, eh?"

"I've got a reputation to uphold, you know," another unironic statement, considering who she is. There's never been a princess more beloved. "Tier Fifteen with someone in the middle of a hallway might sully what people think of me."

The vampire laughs, nuzzles the side of the princess' face. "Reputation, smeputation." Thanks, Finn. "Let go and be calmed by my saliva." Thanks, Jake; the kiss that follows is extra hard to compensate for the smarm, her hands looking for purchase and finding only fabric everywhere. The princess laughs, low and quiet. Sighs and rakes fingers down Marceline's ribs.

"…Sorry Marcey, you're tragically underdressed. Peps said only guys in suits get the goods," barely eked out, barely words, but the singsong tone gives the joke away easy enough. "And since you're off the guest list, I can't—can'tgiveyouanysugarohglob," her breath hitches when Marceline's hand closes around her breast, thumb to the pert nub poking through the fabric. "That wasn't—oh, Marcey that was so rude."

"You love that I can't do more than this, don't you? Sadist." The vampire smirks, laughs again quietly before circling Bonni's breast with her thumb. She always liked how perky they were; it made it easier to find them whenever she wore puffy clothes—this dress notwithstanding. And they're big. Bigger than Marceline's, at least, and she used to hate that until she realized bigger meant more to grab, and that she does; an entire handful, squeezing and pressing, rolling the heel of her hand over her nipple until Bonni shivers against her.

"—Mmmasochist," Bonni's biting her lower lip (bruised, red) when she says it, but. Hm.

Perked eyebrow; yeah, let's go with that."Scuse me?" because Marceline's thought about it, but never really asked. Seemed improper—and fancy that for stopping her.

Bonni shakes her head, leg hooking around Marceline's, the heel of her platform digging into the back of her calve. "Go back to kissing me. It isn't important."

"No, wait—" she'd be happy to oblige, but. "Did the innocent princess just say—"

Forceful hands grip the neck of her shirt, pulling her mouth back to where it belonged—always belonged, Marcline thinks, but won't ever admit out loud. The princess is already making quiet noises, swallowing them in the back of her throat before they become anything more, always prim, always proper. Always a lady; never loud; not unless they're alone, and even then.

"Harder,'' breathless and rushed, Marceline's hands tracing the curve of Bonnibel's waist with hard nails just sharp enough to—and that isn't enough, not enough. No, no; Marceline wants her screaming, wants her clenched hard around her mouth, her fingers; just wants. Indiscriminately—that dress, Glob. It'd be easier if she could just rip it off. Her fingers ghost the knot-work keeping it in place and Bonnie makes a decidedly improper noise, growling low in her throat before grabbing Marceline's hand and holding it behind her, nestled in the small of her back.

"Don't."

Fine.

Marceline rakes teeth down her jugular, slow and full of purpose, her tongue a mad cartographer, a lost pilgrim seeking home. The fingers around her wrist tense, but stay, gripping harder now, and the Vampire Queen laughs against the clavicle in her mouth—the princess is strong, but not so strong; she can't possibly keep her there.

"You need to—ah, you need to settle—" Marceline feels the wall before she sees it, Bonnie suddenly to her side, then behind, and where in the Nightosphere did she learn Jujitsu? "Settle down. You're going to make me yell, sheesh. Row-dy."

Pressed up against the wall, tables turned as they are, Marceline feels a pit open up in the back of her stomach. It's all over, damn: the princess came to her senses, and just when Marceline was about to—hello, okay that's happening.

"Princess, I—" she tries to make a joke, to be coy and cute and whatever, but the hand rucking up her t-shirt and the mouth at the back of her neck steal the rest of the sentence from her throat. All she manages is a soft moan, the princess a supple weight—and yeah, that's silk. Holy cow that is nice—slowly molding into the S of her spine.

"There is a time and place for these things, Marceline," the princess whispers, voice sotto voce, her warm breath tickling the inside of Marceline's ear. "And none of them are here and now, when I am trying—" and the word is a herald, the calm before Bonnibel's fingers slide down the crest of Marceline's hip, down and down and down. "—Exceedingly hard," and when did her belt come off? And when—fuck: when did Bonnibel learn how to do that with her fingers, so sure and forceful and "—to be a responsible Monarch."

"Responsible…? Fffffffuck that." Marceline hisses, all electric nerve and squirming hips, a hand drifting back protectively to press into the flat plane of Bonnibel's stomach. The princess bites her in return, pulling herself away from Marceline's fingers—tease.

"You're incorrigible." Bonnibel's middle finger presses southward, the elastic of Marceline's underwear rucking up, stretching over her first joint, her knuckle, her wrist. Hnnnnng; she gasps uncertainly, eyes snapping open (and when did they close? When did she lose control?) but the sound is more delight than shock, more gentle appreciation for Bonnibel's worshiping lips, for the loving, fleeting kisses the princess trails down the back of her neck, pressed into her skin like moonlight, like warm beads of candlewax.

"Manners," Bonnibel chides, her breath hot against the knife of Marceline's ear, her tone of voice almost…smug? Haughty? But. That's not right. This isn't—wow, Bonnibel really did know what she was doing, but it still isn't—

"If you're going to—ah—if you're going to fuck me, then just go ahead and do it," Marceline bucks her hips back, pressing into the princess' searching grip. It's enough to make her stomach swim; Bonnibel has long, thin fingers; has long and thin fingers that easily slip in and out of Marceline, palm settled over the bump of her pubic bone like she doesn't even know how crazy-good it feels, how that pressure right there is just enough to—

"Manners." The offending digit presses in hard, nail lightly scraping against the bundle of nerves Marceline was so sure she herself had taught Bonnibel how to find. Her first thought is—well, unfair comes to mind, but the moan building in the back of her throat sounds more like—ah, ah.

Quivering knees. Clenched fists. Eyes wide. Then shut. Then—

Perfect.

Marceline twists as the orgasm wracks her body, heat rising from her stomach, up her spine, up her lungs. Up and up and—and there's the most excruciating, the most delightful—and she hates that word, hates admitting femininity but it works here—delightful like a fine, age old red wine, like the first hit of a cigarette coming off months of sobriety, this delightful throbbing in her abdomen building to a crescendoof oh, oh, right there; right there, don't stop don'tyoufuckingsto—through her veins and her wrists, ten fingers splayed across the wall and she doesn't care what it looks like anymore. She comes with bowed head and tiny gasps, with heat-haze veins and eyes shut so tight they hurt, vocal cords constricted tight to fight a scream rising from the very elastic between her toes—mind her manners, after all.

Bonnibel kisses the side of Marceline's face on the come down, fingers retracted and hands settled lazily on the vampire's stomach. Their breathing is erratic; Marceline forces herself to calm down, obviously, but Bonnibel? She's a rattling railroad spike of need, a mess of desire and want Marceline can feel thrumming against her spine, heart running wild, thumping manic like a dryer overburdened and improperly placed, thump-tha-thump-tha-thump-tha—that's all she needs, all she wants, all the go-ahead Bonnibel will ever give her.

"Marceline."

Commanding, just the way she likes it. And Marceline is already finding her way down to her knees.

"You shouldn't be here."

But it was never about that, was it? It was never the rejection of a lover, never the need to keep up appearances amongst those who never quite got Princess Bonnibel Bubblegum in the first place.

"I know."

Marceline whispers it like a prayer—low and quiet, and the words don't feel like they belong to her, like they've never belonged to her, but damnit they're sincere. They're all she has—words and the ability to make them mean. Because Bonnibel didn't ever need this, didn't ever need any of it, not Marceline's warm wet tongue sliding roughshod over her thin ankle, her calf, her thigh, lips tickling bone, teeth biting lightly—so light, so careful—into flesh that ran from her but never really stayed away. Bonnibel didn't need Marceline hot and wanton between her legs, didn't need her warm mouth at her soft places, her hands like spiders scurrying for purchase in dark, wet places they had no right to be.

Bonnibel Bubblegum did not need to tremble and squirm, to pant and gasp; the princess could have anything and anyone she wanted, whenever she wanted. Need was a foreign concept to her.

…But want?

Oh, want—the want to scythe fingers through Marceline's long hair, pulling hard and unapologetic like winter harvest come early; the want to have thighs touched only by silk ravished by sharp tooth and claw, every little cherry-kissed suckle needing to be harder, to match dancing fingers in how they scrape down whenever she bucks her hips forward in anticipation. Want like a forest fire, like test tubes screaming as acid meets water—everything all at once, all now, now, now and Marceline can feel it, can taste the small rivulets of desire running down Bonnibel's thighs as clearly as she can hear the small, frustrated noises she's hiding.

A dark laugh leaves her throat, her hands deftly moving to brace Bonnibel against the wall. Long legs drape over her shoulder, squeeze once as the vampire gives an inner thigh a kiss of gratitude; she's been kissing everywhere but where the princess wants, where her fingers pull toward and her waist squirms to show.

For once, Marceline decides to be kind.

At the touch of her mouth to wet heat, Bonni's thighs clench around Marceline's neck, the hard points of her heels digging into the middle of the vampire's back. She holds the princess in place—super strength, gotta love it—and decides the pain is trade enough for how the princess almost folds, for how the small flicks of Marceline's searching tongue inspires a visceral reaction of Glob, dainty royal hands fisting her dark hair hard enough to hurt.

'Masochist,' Marceline remembers, and the laugh that bubbles out from her throat is not entirely kind.

"What?" breathless and hot, slightly confused; but before she can continue, well.

Marceline's tongue teases her opening, licks once and twice and again, then a fourth and fifth and the thought of Bonnibel helpless, of Bonni allowing her to gobble and gobble, eat her out, fill herself was too damn hard to say no to. And so. She starts by barely paying attention to it, by laying incongruous patterns of kisses around it, hard then soft, fast then slow, tongue flicking out every so often to keep her engine running, to keep her hot—invested, she doesn't try to think.

She knows it pays off when the princess attempts to force her back, to control what's going on because she just can't sit there, can't take anything given because she's from a long line of candy-ass rulers too obsessed with results for their own good. Marceline bites down hard enough to threaten, but not enough to hurt; the princess throws her head back with a soft thud, hips bucking, stomach rolling, her body an undulating livewire connected to Marceline's mouth and grounded to the wall behind. It's only when Bonni tries to crawl away, when Marceline hears her breathing go ragged, sees her stomach concave, sees hands attempting to walk up the wall behind the princess as if gravity were only the briefest of suggestions, that Marceline asserts herself.

Hands hold Bonnibel in place, nails dig into skin, and then? Then, Marceline opens her mouth wide—opens wide and searches for a bundle of nerves hidden just out of sight, for a small round ball of flesh that Bonnibel could find easily enough, so for Marceline it should be a cakewalk. Her tongue snakes out, pressing gently up and against Bonnibel's folds; writhing, almost, as her cries grow in volume and frequency. Sure as an ice age or a kettle frothing, an earthquake readying to decimate every carefully constructed anything in the land: Bonnibel falls into Marceline's pace, hips moving counter-rhythm to her teasing mouth, her probing tongue and—fingers. Fingers sliding in warmth-wet-solid behind Marceline's tongue and oh, the taste that floods the vampire's mouth is…

"Don't—stop…!"

A rush of blood to the head—for both: Bonnibel curling in to herself even more, both hands on the side of Marceline's face, squeezing alongside her thighs—the feeling of every muscle in the princess' body going taut, going ramrod against Marceline's tongue, around her fingers, that hurts-so-good moment of her own just barely cresting the horizon and—

"Marceline!"

A short shout like an angel's sigh, and the princess just about tears her head off, all raw nerve and shaking everything; tumbling avalanche of need, tsunami of desire, all of her tight and then looooooooooose, liquid and soft and vulnerable, near-collapsed in on Marceline like some punch-drunk refugee seeking solace. There's laughter, here and there—Marceline's and Bonnibel's, and then the two are looking at one another, blood-red-demon-fire to pure-crystalline-bubblegum pink.

Quiet and empty on the way back down.

Marceline touches the side of princess' face, strokes her cheek with the back of her fingers. The princess smiles, half-demure-half-utterly-pleased, gently nuzzling back. Marceline calls her something she can barely hear over the pounding in her ears, over her heart trying to settle back from screeching Hot-Rod to Sunday driver Volkswagen. The princess perks an eyebrow.

It's a while before Marceline can try again.

"Brainlord," said without a shred of embarrassment, without the smallest hint of irony. They've untangled from each other, Marceline helping Bonnibel put herself back in decent order. The princess turns after the vampire helps her straighten out her skirt, kissing her feather-soft and chaste.

"You still shouldn't be here," she says, lightly bopping her on the nose. "Everyone probably heard that."

Marceline sticks out her tongue, blowing a raspberry at the princess. "I know."

"Seriously can't take you anywhere," Bonnibel answers, smiling.

Marceline rolls her eyes, gently chucking her on the shoulder. "—Constants, right?"

The fact that Bonnibel laughs is "I love you," enough.

Fin