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[bnnibel-blog]

Whimpering like an abused puppy, Chopper lowered his head to the adorable woman, hoping to show her the utmost respect. "My queen, may I please be your knight?" He asked in a hopeful tone, having always wanted to meet and serve a legendary King or queen. This would be a dream come true. Perhaps he was taking his game of pretend too far, but he didn't care. He wanted to indulge in his fantasies and being her bodyguard would do just that.

     the proposition’s vendor, bonnibel surmises, is short. like, really, really short——because she sets about yawing to seek them out and she’s actually got to look down to find them. now that is what you call short. and it’s adorable. she exhibits this inference by splaying her fingers aloft her knight-to-be’s head, and the violaceous sunsets of lavender eyes melt to lilac. bonnibel reflects that he’s lacking not only height but perceivable ability, but she’s the heir to a kingdom primarily based on candy with inhabitants to follow its confectionery orbit. 

    so, conclusively, what’s the real harm? a dexterous double-up is the first step of project nose-tap, which isn’t initially successful when she careens to the left. the broad ball of her forefinger paps the wet bead of his little nose. she considers and presumes that he’s possibly the prodigy of a dog hybrid. or… a deer? moose? whatever he is, he’s absolutely delightful. he is small but he is to be treated with equal respect as most of her civilians are. (EXCEPT MARCELINE.) the pen in her hand is used to resemble the blade of a makeshift sword. 

    because, hey, this entire transpiration is completely impromptu. candy swords aren’t just lying around——everyone is practically stunted at the aptitude capacity of a humanoid child. someone could get hurt! you know what’s a commodity that you can barely go two-to-three inches without alighting upon, though? you know, besides candy: pens. yeah, pens. it’s whatever. so she anchors it down upon his tiny shoulders one-at-a-time, individually, and by that alone he is already renovated, sword or no sword. 

     “henceforth you are at my service, royal knight,”         she muses like waves, nobly gratifying.      “your eternal apparition is to defend me at your capability’s maximum value.”         now she’s backpedaling. reevaluating. remembering.     “and, u-uh… hhhh— some other royal monarchical equivalents.” 

[bnnibel-blog]

     ( * — ●●●ＥＰＩＳＴＬＥ：                allweirdandsoulsearchy ! )

     “whoa, whoa, whoa.” magic. yeah, okay, that word--word because that’s all it really is--siphons all catheterized solemnity contrived in their conversation. “hold it,”she slews over her passel of unkempt textbooks and journals that decor her palms like two twin towers of downright ugly: they assort on the floor in a semicircle around her ankles and she stands in their intermediary midpoint, props her hands up on her narrow hips and gives him a look. “magic? magic... magic isn’t real, finn. if you are looking for quality reads, stay out of the magic sector.” 

[bnnibel-blog]

forgetfuldemontamer:

What made her think that? “Candy? You’re saying that most people here are made of candy? Yes, I am a human. Is that exactly rare around here?” A feeling of disgust emerged within his gut. What exactly happened to humans here? Is Finn the last one around here?“

     “all citizens residing in the candy kingdom are manufactured of confectionery biomass, and people outside of my kingdom--yes, they’re just weird-looking. rare is quite the understatement, mister suzumoto: humans are archaic beings, irrevocably defunct after,”--she squints--“the great mushroom war. it is most absurd having interaction with a boy who doesn’t harness himself in a hat purloined from a bear’s very skin.” her hands, they fold like two temples at the base of her chin, and she lurches into them slow, reneging her proposal of a map until after her transient commentary.

     “finn is the residual of humankind, yes, or so i assumed up until now.      my name is bonnibel, by the way, and i’m delighted to meet you.” 

[bnnibel-blog]

( * — ●●●ＥＰＩＳＴＬＥ：           forgetfuldemontamer ! )

“You must be like, the mayor of CK, so…I accept. Thank you.” He smiles at the female. “I am Kazuya Suzumoto. It’s an honour, ma'am.” He offers to shake her hand. She definitely came across intelligent. | This kingdom was very colourful, a stark contrast to the ruins of his home he was accustomed to. It was pretty much a complete conceptual difference.

     “approximately, but not precise.” an offer-up handshake promises its nearing proximity. handshakes——they’re common but only in the framework of physical concord. this doesn’t mean she's ignorant to a concept not pertaining to the occasional hostilities and skirmishes many kingdoms alight upon, though. then it prompts, and she’s complaisant: contributes to a chary handclasp, but doesn’t shake upon contact and forgoes her futile attempts at being eloquent during what comes next.      “kazuya,”--the princess endeavors, sputters in the process of enunciation--“forgive me, but, what are you? you do not look nor do you feel like candy.” no, he looks and he feels like a human. those, though—yeah, they’ve been obsolete for a long, long time. barring finn from question, there really are no reliable sources of human reproduction that she knows of. but that’s infernal tomfoolery; bonnibel knows everything there is to know of ooo. “might you be that of a human, mayhaps?”

[bnnibel-blog]

"Excuse me, but where exactly on Ooo are we?"

“the candy kingdom.” an attenuated query, unpredictable to say at the least, is countered by a half-there-half-not whisper. the basal of a pen sinks into a nest of creases at her mouth’s corner, spills a shadow down her chin up until the fissure is chased away by exposure to sunlight, maintenance of an inclining head. lavender surveys the newcomer. 

     “you are, at present, sojourning within the environs   of my kingdom. would you like a topographical depiction?”

[bnnibel-blog]

abadeerie:

“tough crowd.” marceline whispered, temporarily sitting her guitar aside. “c'mon, sugarwits, lighten up! aren’t you bored of being in the lab all day making candy?” she laughed, “scientist…, chef is a more fitting term for you, princess,” with a barely detectable smirk on her lips, marceline back flipped into the air and executed two full rotations before sticking the landing at bonnibel’s side and casually draping an arm around her shoulders. “but anyway…,” she sighed, “i don’t imagine they call it the land of ooo for nothin’. what do you say we go out ‘n’ have a bit of fun, huh, bubblebuns?”

     “i am having fun.” bonnibel empathizes her barely-there enthusiasm with a prompt outstretch of her arms, gesturing to their surroundings: this is where i want to be,  like thin fuchisa branches that involuntarily rasp the eroded textile of marceline’s bass. (it feels like rusty spoons & aging library shelves bestrewn with dust--elicits a foreseen “eugh”.) gone blue-violet in the green spectral glow of the laboratory, her eyes constrict. narrow. then she smudges her cheek against marceline’s and rolls her shoulders inward, shrugging out from under her arms.      for good measure, she drives the piston of her elbow into marceline’s side gently!! and is literally wrist deep in a passel of paper aligned in a semicircle punctually after she clumps away from the vampire: the spectacles perched on the ramp of her nose slips to the snub of it until she castoffs them entirely. her tiara’s golden circlet gleams to garner, then the inlaid turquoise, and--“marceline,”--she beckons, hooking the first light-pink section of her pinky around the tiara’s hoop. “if... i were to go with you,” deposited secretively, she adds. “for research, would you still want me to come?”  

[bnnibel-blog]

abadeerie:

not a fan of fish, hey? fair enough. i wrote this song about a sciencewoman. goes a lil’ somethin’ like this…

♫  you look so cute sittin’ in your lab coat, i wanna suck out your eyeballs and rip out your throat. i wanna suck out your eyeballs and rip out your throat.  ♫

     marcy--eline--marceline.      (* a cough sounds of an ephemeral clink in her throat,       pursued by a distort of expression that might as well      represent the epitome of anger—— or embarrassment.      fear? disgust? oh yeah, bingo! ) i will call the banana       guards if you keep writing songs about extracting my       eyeballs. and fishermen. and! (* a matter-of-fact jab       from her finger says she’s persistent on the matter. )      it’s ‘scientist’. not ‘sciencewoman’.   

[bnnibel-blog]

I wrote this next song about a fisherman.

     marceline,      my lab isn’t your stage and i am most definitely not your audience.