#princess juicebox

[raystarkitty]

🍪Cookie thieves!!🍪

For @kawaiiking64 💖

[yourfavslanterncorp]

What about The Long Quiey from Slay the princess?

(Idk if you welcome frequent anons but i’d love to be - 🧃 anon!)

Oh! Frequent Askers are more than welcome! (Looking at you, Cullen!)

The Long Quiet is the player character, so it is general practice to consider the Green Lantern Corps first. However, the name of the media in question rather puts a damper on that. From all appearances, The Long Quiet has very little will of its own, only enough to decide on whether to do what the voices surrounding it tell it to do. That leaves what the voices are telling him, and that is to slay the princess. That is the one real order, knocking at their head throughout the first chapter, if not longer. That would make me a bit temperamental, not going to lie.

The Long Quiet from Slay the Princess is a Red Lantern.

[dragonsdenstudiosofficial]

The Pizza Knight Saves The Princess is a fantasy-comedy choose-your-own-adventure-style visual novel being developed by Dragon's Den Studios. Set on the planet Comestibla, where everything & everyone is made of food, we play as the Pizza Knight as he tries to save his beloved Water Ice Princess from the castle of the evil Chocolate Count. You can download the demo for free HERE: https://dragons-den-studios.itch.io/the-pizza-knight-saves-the-princess

Over the course of this month I'll be posting some of the game's art to this blog!

This image depicts the Pizza Knight and his boss, the Cranberry King, Sovereign of the Kingdom of Antray. The Cranberry King is a dwarf prone to fits of anxiety, with this scene in particular showcasing his over-the-top nervousness well. Behind them are the Apple and Purple Punch Juicebox Guards, two drinks who lack knighthoods and are basically those two guys who are always seen together and are probably platonic besties.

[mongo-the-liensis]

The Faction Wars except it's just Safehome Yolanda and Juicebox having a group therapy session with Juicebox acting as the de facto therapist

[portaltothevoid]

God Called In Sick Today — Chapters 1 & 2

Summary: It’s the ghafia fic you didn’t know you needed… When a mission goes south, Copia is left scrambling to figure out a plan to get the mayor-to-be in favor of the Emeritus family. That’s where Arianna Diodati, the Mafia Princess of his (very Catholic) rival, comes in. He plans to use her as a bargaining chip to get what he wants. Did he place the right bet or did he take more than he bargained for?

Word count: 5.8k ~//~ Warnings: mafia au, copia x oc, death/murder, gun usage, angst, physically and verbally abusive relationship, domestic violence (between oc x oc), (brief, almost subtle) dacryphilia, kidnapping, dark copia, cliffhanger, enemies to lovers, slow burn

A/N: Surprise! It's a double feature! Fair warning, the next chapters won’t be up til I have a few under my belt so that they can be posted regularly and since I’m still working on You’re Losing Me as well… it might be a while. But I am so so excited for this, that I had to give you all a taste! Massive, massive thank you to @fishwithtitz @da-rulah and @copias-juicebox for beta reading and listening to me talk about this non-stop as I worked out the plot 🖤(photos in mood board all found on pintrest and dividers by @gothdaddyissues!)

Chapter One -- The Sermon and The Plan

It was never a good sign when Papa Emeritus IV demanded a mandatory mass that wasn’t on Sunday. Usually, meetings such as this would be for the upper echelon of the clergy and the Ghouls, but this time around, every single member of the Satan’s Ministry was in attendance. No one dared speak or even look away from their Papa as he stood, eyeing everyone in the room like the disappointed father he was. 

Those in the front row could hear his leather gloves squeak against the oak of the pulpit as he gripped it like a stress ball. His unique set of eyes, one green and one white, focused on one specific Ghoul. His expression darkened like an approaching storm, which made for his already intimidating skull-painted face to become menacing. As for the Ghoul, if it weren’t for the silver-horned mask covering his face, even Papa would have seen the beads of sweat dripping down the sides of it. He knew he was the reason everyone was here and why Papa looked beyond furious. He knew it the moment he saw the blue and red flashing lights at the docks.

“As most of you know,” the Satanic pope began, “our latest operation was thwarted by carelessness. All of you deserve to know why, but first, it isn’t a true Mass without a sermon, hm?” 

He clasped his hands behind his back as he turned to walk to his right, addressing those in the pews in front of him. “Pride and greed. Two sins that often go hand in hand. Sins which we celebrate here. It seems I need to remind you all that the celebration of sin, any sin, does not give one a free pass to do whatever the fuck they want, eh?”

He turned again, to walk to the other side of the sanctuary. “Every coin has two sides. At what point does living in sin, celebrating sins, become a hindrance? 

“Pride. An excessive belief in one’s abilities. Pride can make one think they are untouchable. Pride is the sin that pushes us to achieve greatness not just in the name of Satan, but for ourselves. And there, we find greed. A desire for wealth, for gain. But, again I ask you all, when does celebrating these glorious sins become a hindrance?” 

Now, he was in front of the pulpit. Leaning against it was a cane, something he only brought out for show or to inflict pain. While he was addressing everyone, his dichromatic eyes landed on the trembling Ghoul in the center. “Excessive or grandiose sinning becomes a deterrent when it puts the lives of others at risk, when it puts an institution, a family, that you’ve devoted your life to at risk.” Grabbing the cobra head handle, Papa gracefully jumped down to walk in front of the first row. “Many of you are aware of a mission we set out on recently. A mission to save helpless women and children from a sex-trafficking ring. There also was to be an exchange of money. These degenerates were exchanging quite a large sum of money for this transaction. Those prisoners were denied the choice of freedom we offer here. We were denied what was to be used as payment to put the malleable Gregory Osorio in our corner. We have very little time to come up with this sum to get a powerful, up and coming politician in our corner. One who could turn votes in our favor. One who would look out for us. One who would defiantly oppose the Diodati dickheads.

“This mission was not successful. By the time our Ghouls arrived, the prisoners were ‘rescued’ by the police. The money – that should have been ours – confiscated. I know many have wondered how this could have happened. Well, children, the answer is simple.

“Pride… and greed…” he spoke slowly, as he walked down the center aisle, dragging his cane along the ends of the pews. “Someone felt too secure in themselves… Felt they could just… open their fucking mouth to anyone who would fucking listen… while not realizing… They were fraternizing with an informant for the enemy.” He paused his promenade. “This was not a simple mistake. This was blatant negligence from someone who I know, for a fact, knew better. This Ghoul broke our Sacramentum Secreti (Oath of Secrecy).” He began walking again. His cane hit a pew with every word. “Internal problems will be dealt with.”

He stopped. Everyone turned to look at Papa, except for one Ghoul. Papa reached over, using the tip of his cane to force him to look at his figurehead, his boss. With a look that could kill and a wave of his hand, he indicated the Ghoul to walk in front of him back up to the sanctuary.

After twenty paces, “Ghoul, you seem to be limping. I wonder why that is… Is it because your pain and suffering is a message from La Famiglia Diodati?” he remarked snidely. 

When Papa planted himself behind the pulpit, he pointed the cane to indicate a spot on the ground. “Kneel,” he commanded. On shaky legs, the Ghoul did as he was told.

Papa dragged his gaze up to the choir loft before him, where one of his best Ghouls was waiting for the signal. Painstakingly slow, he looked back at the insurrectionist. “Per aspera, ad inferi,” he prayed. Again, he made eye contact with the one in the choir loft, giving a solitary nod.

In the blink of an eye, the Ghoul to Papa’s right jolted back slightly, a red dot forming in the center of his forehead. As deep burgundy liquid dripped from it, the congregation gasped, and the Ghoul toppled forward onto his masked face with a deafening thud.  

Papa bowed his head, but his eyes passed over everyone clutching their rosary beads in front of him. Somehow, this look was more sinister than it was at the start. “Let it be known that internal problems will be dealt with,” he paused dramatically, “by whatever means necessary.”

And with that, he turned heel and left through the back door, concluding mass.

“Do we really need Osorio this time around? Putting our efforts into driving back the Diodatis would be more beneficial,” Secondo, the second oldest Emeritus, argued. The highest members of the clergy and of the Emeritus family were gathered in their meeting room reserved for familial “business” matters. 

A leather clad fist slammed on the dark cherry wood table. “And what the fuck do you think getting Osorio on our payroll would do?” Papa snapped. Secondo just rolled his eyes in response. “We’re running out of fucking time.”

“There’s that charity gala, or whatever the fuck, tomorrow. I could just use my lascivious charm to reel in Osorio,” Papa’s predecessor and brother, Terzo, waggled his eyebrows suggestively. Papa pinched the bridge of his nose, leaning back in his luxurious leather office chair. 

“Copia, he actually–and it pains me to admit this–might be onto something. That gala could be a way in,” the eldest Emeritus agreed as he pressed his elbows into the table, his fingers interlacing in front of him, as he stared down his youngest brother and the church’s current Papa. 

Terzo waved his hand and his smirk deepened with Primo proving his idea had some merit. 

“We have nothing to give Osorio! The whole point of that mission was to dangle that money in his face,” Copia countered. 

“So instead we ask him his price,” Terzo shrugged nonchalantly. 

“How many of Sal’s men will be there?”

“I believe just his right-hand, Alessio Fidanza and his fiancée and probably only a handful of his associates,” Primo relayed. 

Copia’s eyebrows shot up at the mention of the fiancée. “Isn’t that Sal’s daughter? The prim and proper Mafia princess?”

“Sì.”

“For what it’s worth, my advice as your consigliere would be to attend this gala for recon purposes only. Yes, our time is running out, but we still have time to sway Osorio.” For the first time an older woman, who everyone called Sister Imperator, spoke up. She had been keenly observing Copia’s every move, just as any mother would her son, carefully watching knowing he was especially volatile right now. 

“And Sal, what about him? He’ll be there too?” Copia asked, ignoring the woman beside him.

“As far as we know, yes.”

A wicked, devilish smile spread across Copia’s face, exaggerating the black paint reminiscent of a rat’s skull around his mouth. 

“No… Copia, what are you thinking?” Sister Imperator asked hesitantly. She knew that look. They all did.

“Oh we’ll get some information. We will find out Osorio’s price and we will get Diodati’s attention.”

“Elaborate, brother,” Secondo said wearily. They knew Copia had just hatched a plan and from the look on his face, it was going to be far from easy.

“Diodati thinks he has the upper hand, sì? We can kill two birds with one stone. Show him who has the power here and get the money from him to pay off Osorio so those Catholic fucks can’t use God as a basis for politics.”

“And how exactly… would we do that? Are we intercepting one of their shipments or–” Sister Imperator began to ask hesitantly until she was cut off.

“It’s simple,” Copia stated. He leaned back in his chair casually this time, his elbows perched on the chair’s arm rests. He waved his hands in front him as if he was presenting a physical idea. “We kidnap la Principessa di Dio.”

Chapter Two -- You Should Be Scared

The last thing Arianna Diodati wanted to do was attend some pompous charity event chained to her fiancé wearing a designer dress she hated and a fake smile. She thanked God that she didn’t have to endure the after parties; she could retreat to solitude and her husband-to-be could do whatever (and most likely whomever) he wanted there. Not knowing what happened at those parties used to ruminate in her mind like a catchy pop song… until she actually found out. 

The infidelity bothered her at first, caused her to lose sleep at night, and question her worth. She used to be confrontational. She used to stick up for herself. She used to care. Arianna learned the hard way that Alessio Fidanza never actually wanted her or truly loved her. Maybe at first he did, but as time marched on, she came to realize the only thing he cared about was having an in with the most illustrious mafia family in New York City. The closer he got to her, the closer he got to Arianna’s father aka the boss of the Diodati family, and the higher up in the ranks he rose, the less he paid her any attention – or respect. In less than a handful of years Alessio was promoted as Salvatore Diodati’s right hand man. He learned the ropes, got enough blood on his hands, and eventually helped call the shots. She was used to her father dictating her life, but now, finding herself under the thumb of another man? There were only two things she could do: watch her life pass her by from behind barred windows and pray to God someone would eventually notice (and care enough about) her imprisonment to save her.

Nevertheless, she admired herself in the mirror; for once, she wore a dress that made her feel confident. Her black cherry red curls cascaded around her face. For a moment, she could see a sparkle, or a glimmer of hope, returning in her hazel eyes as she noted how the asymmetrical dress framed her body perfectly. Satin jersey panels on the two thirds of the dress accentuated her curves as it snaked down the length of it. It draped up, slightly off one shoulder while the other was a simple strap clad with the subtle (yet signature) Versace Medusa emblem. That side of the dress was a simple satin. A slit allowed one of her toned legs to peek through adding an air of sexy sophistication to the look. She was almost smiling until she heard her fiancé behind her.

“You’re wearing that tonight?” And with that snide question, the sparkle in her eye dimmed once more, returning to their usual lackluster shine.

“Um, yes? I showed it to you, remember? You said it would be fine…” she said hesitantly, her voice dancing on eggshells, and her small smile fading.

Alessio scoffed and rolled his eyes. “Do you think I pay attention to half the stuff you show me? If I saw something like that, I would have remembered. Wear the other Versace dress. The one I had Roberta pick up for you.” He narrowed his eyes at her. “Specifically for tonight,” he added, his tone proving he had little patience for her tonight.

“But what’s wrong with this one? It’s not like it’s–”

He sprung at her, his nostrils flaring as he gripped her arms tighter than a blood pressure cuff. She fought back the tears that pricked in her eyes. “You look like one of Satan’s whores. Now,” he spoke through gritted teeth, “put on the other dress.” He shoved her back, her arms flew out to find purchase on the dresser beside her so she wouldn’t fall. The few perfume bottles that toppled over made an almost deafening sound amongst the tension. Her breathing was ragged as she glared at him. His look back at her served as a warning. 

She never understood how someone who claimed to be so devoted to God could be so evil, but she had to trust God’s plan for her. This all had to serve a purpose, didn’t it?

Her eyes closed as she composed herself, doing her best to stuff down the ever-raging storm of anger that lately seemed to be constantly brewing inside her. “Yes, Alessio. It’s the one still in the garment bag?”

Slowly he rolled his head up to look at the ceiling, before bringing it back to glare at her. “Obviously, you dumb bitch. Hurry up and get fucking changed. I can’t afford to be late tonight because of you,” he spat as he walked out of their room. 

Once more, she took a deep shuddering breath, her whole body trembling on the exhale. Stepping out of her preferred dress, she left the almost four thousand dollar garment lying crumpled on the floor. 

Now as she looked at herself in the mirror again, she saw a stranger she didn’t even recognize despite the only thing that physically had changed was her dress. She noted how her eyes seemed more hollow. The color in her face had paled. There was nothing but a stranger who once had dreams and ambition staring back at her. None of this felt real. 

The worst part of it all was that under any other circumstances, she would have loved wearing this. It was a black viscose material. A slim-fitting, hooded crêpe dress with a plunging V-neckline that was much more revealing than her own choice, but this one had long sleeves and went down to her mid-calf. There was a criss-cross belt also adorned with Versace’s Medusa logo, only this one was more prominent than the one on her choice of dress. 

She let out a humorless laugh as she adjusted the long sleeves. All she wanted tonight was to feel confident, to show off some skin, because things had been relatively quiet as of late. Alessio was kept busy, his attention divided elsewhere. For the first time in a while, her arms didn’t look like an abstract painting. 

If she had been the one to pick out this dress, her sentiments towards it would have been different. She didn’t want to hide, but this was what Alessio wanted her to wear. There was no way around that unless she wanted to pay the price. Letting out a heavy sigh, she put the hood up. This dress felt like the most high end and lavish prison jumpsuit. No one would know how much it felt like she was wearing shackles, a stark reminder that her choices were never own. But at least tonight she wouldn’t have to come up with a lie to explain the fresh bruises on her arms.

A single tear slid down her face, which she quickly wiped away. With a shake of her head, she put her emotions under lock and key, tucking it away into a dark corner of her mind. She practiced her million dollar smile and nodded to herself, putting her shoulders back and her chest out –a mirage of confidence and happiness– and made her way to the Bentley that was waiting for her. 

No matter the formal event, the routine was almost always the same. Arianna would find her father, talk to and dance with who he (or Alessio) told her to, have two strong drinks (but no more than that or else she’d have to deal with a very irate Alessio), fake pleasantries with the other ladies who were just as much a prisoner to this life as she was, then once the crowd began thin, could she retreat. Tonight would be no different. At least, that's what she had assumed.

She greeted her father with a kiss on the cheek. “Arianna, there’s someone I’d like you to meet,” he father said, ushering over to a man that was just about six or seven years older than her. He looked just like everyone else here like he came from money and would stop at nothing to get more. “Greg, this is my daughter, Arianna. Arianna, this is Gregory Osorio, our soon to be Mayor.”

This Greg guy let out a low whistle as he looked Arianna up and down. “Sal, you weren’t kidding. She is absolutely stunning. It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’ve heard so many things about you.”

“All good things, I hope,” she said with a smile that would never quite reach her eyes. 

“Oh, absolutely! Your dress looks like it was made for you. Ah, how do you say it… You look… bellissima!” 

“You’re too kind. Alessio convinced me to wear this tonight. I have to give all the credit to him,” she laughed, keeping up the ruse of niceties as Alessio dug his fingers into her side. It was his retaliation for the subtle jab she just made at him, even though these people would never ever know that it was. 

“Fidanza, you are a lucky man!” 

“I thank God everyday for her,” Alessio said, giving one more bruise-worthy squeeze on Arianna’s waist. He dropped his hand when everyone’s attention snapped towards the door. The group that had just arrived turned heads as they sauntered in. 

“Who invited those Emeritus fucks?” Sal snapped. 

“Copia put a call in himself to my office about a sizable donation for tonight. I figured if he's willing to be a top donor–perhaps even the top donor tonight–they might as well enjoy some of the festivities, no?” Osorio responded cautiously. “If you’ll excuse me, Sal…”

They exchanged nods as Gregory meandered through the crowd. Sal snapped his fingers. “I want eyes on them. They’re fucking up to something. Never once have they given a shit about things like this.”

“On it, boss,” one of his men said before he disappeared amongst the throng of people.  

Arianna never liked the Emeritus family. In fact, she borderline hated them with their menacingly painted faces and blasphemous way of life. She never quite understood how they rose to rival that of her family. Perhaps they really did make a deal with the devil.

“I’m going to grab a drink,” she said quietly. Alessio just waved her off, her father already in a passionate discussion regarding something she couldn’t care less about.

She made her way to the bar, getting the attention of one of the bartenders. “Your usual, Ms. Diodati?”

“Yes, please,” she smiled. 

It wasn’t long until she felt a pair of eyes on her from the other end of the bar. She looked up to see Copia, the ringleader of the Satanic circus, staring her down like a hunter watching its prey. It sent a shiver down her spine, but all he saw was the scowl that encapsulated her face. That only made him smirk at her.

She rolled her eyes in disgust, looking away from him. Out of the corner of her eye, though, when she knew his attention was back on someone that wasn’t her, she couldn’t help herself from taking in his appearance. She hated to admit, he looked… elegant. His burgundy pants were impossibly tight in all the right ways. It pained her to acknowledge the way they perfectly hugged his thighs. He had foregone his suit jacket, leaving just his matching burgundy vest and black dress shirt and tie. His sleeves were rolled up and she could see his muscles flex as he grabbed his drink.

Her eyes lingered for a few seconds too long. This time, he caught her watching him. His mouth curled up again into a sly half-smile as he took a drink. His dichromatic eyes never left her. The instant her drink hit the counter, she brought it to her lips and weaved her way through everyone back to Alessio in hopes of putting distance between her and whatever exchange had just taken place.

Shortly after she resumed her role as the token arm candy she was, did her father tense up when a leather clad hand slapped his shoulder. “Salvatore! Come stai (how are you)?”  

“Copia,” he greeted stiffly. “To what do we owe this… surprise?” The words rolled off his tongue as if they made his skin crawl. 

“Can’t a man just be willing to support a good cause such as this?”

Sal’s only response was to purse his lips. Copia was reveling in the fact that just his presence alone was getting under his enemy’s skin. “Say, Copia, did you hear about the girls that were rescued from trafficking by the docks the other day?” A condescending smirk now replaced the sour look on his face.

Copia’s eyes darkening was the only acknowledgement of Sal’s jab he let slip. “Ah, yes, thank the Gods below they’ve been transferred from one prison to another, being treated as criminals instead of victims.”

“Well, a whore contained is better than a whore on the street.”

Copia laughed sneeringly. “Ah, and I’m sure by whore, you mean a two-bit one. Tell me, though, what are the plans after this? Anyone escorting you to the after party?” he smirked as it was Sal’s turn for his expression to darken. 

Arianna didn’t realize she was watching this with bated breath, or that she was clinging to Alessio until he shook her off him. Copia's eyes immediately darted to Arianna’s fiancé breaking free of her almost death grip to take a step towards him. “You know, since you’re here, a thanks is in order,” Alessio said cunningly. “Those girls couldn’t have been saved without the helpful information one of your soldiers let slide right off his tongue. I’ve gotta say, that was a lucky group of girls.”

“Life’s just a game of luck, isn’t it?” Sal chimed in with a shrewd smile directed at Copia. 

“And I thank you as well, gentlemen, for helping me shed some dead weight.” The tenison grew thick as the flames of their rivalry were fanned with each remark. “But, a real man makes his own luck.” He casted a quick astute glance with an accompanying nod to Sal before he turned to directly face Arianna. “Perdonami,” he murmured gently, taking her hand and bringing it to his lips. “Arianna, e come stai stasera, principessa (and how are you tonight, princess)?” 

Her heart thumped wildly against her sternum and her eyes flashed nervously over to Alessio. She knew somehow this man’s unprompted actions would be her fault. Both men noted immediately how her body stiffened. One was amused by her fear while the other felt a pang of pity. “Bene, grazie (good, thank you),” she piped up meekly. 

“Would it be alright if I stole la bella donna (the beautiful woman) for just one dance?” he asked the two men beside him, only taking his eyes off Arianna for a mere second.

Giving Alessio a slap on the back, “She’s practically yours now, son. That’s your call to make,” her father laughed as he walked off towards the bar.

Arianna widened her eyes, begging Alessio to say no. Rolling his lips between his teeth as he pondered his decision quickly. He nodded, another sly smile curling the edges of his mouth. “One song wouldn’t hurt, eh? Careful though, she’s a pistol. Hope you can handle her. Lord knows some days I barely can.”

Copia laughed dryly. “I think someone of my stature knows how to handle one of those quite well,” he challenged, ushering Arianna away quickly.

Alessio reached out and grabbed her by the arm, just like he had earlier, turning her towards him. She inhaled sharply through gritted teeth at the pain as he had constricted her already tender bruises. “I’ll be waiting by the bar for you,” he hummed as his eyes flicked back and forth between Arianna and her new dance partner, before they lingered on her. She knew that look on his face. It was another warning. Without a sound, he let go of her, and followed the path of her father.

Copia’s arm snaked around her waist. He made it a point to do it gingerly, but that did nothing to calm her rattling nerves. “You’re trembling, cara,” he noted quietly, turning to face her, placing a hand on her hip on the same spot Alessio’s fingers left painful imprints. Her eyes fluttered shut when she involuntarily shied away from him. He eyed her curiously as he switched hands, placing one on her opposite hip and taking her hand in his other. She never quite understood the random ballroom dancing that happened at some of these parties.

“I’m not afraid of you.”

A sinister laugh quietly bubbled from him as he leaned to whisper in her ear, “You really should be.”

“And why’s that?” she challenged as they stepped in time together. Unsure of how, or why, but she could feel some of her old fire ignite inside her. 

“Now, now, if I answered that it would ruin the surprise.”

She spoke in a way so her lips didn’t move, but Copia could understand her muffled words perfectly: “My father has eyes on you, you know.” This came off as more of a warning of caution than a threat. 

“I’d expect nothing less from him. The real question is, does he have eyes on you?”

“I highly doubt it. I’ve proven to him I’ve learned from my rebellious ways,” she scoffed.

“Oh?”

“The consequences aren’t worth the… It serves no purpose anymore.”

After a few beats of silence, Copia asked, “Why do you let them treat you like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like they own you.”

For the first time since their dance began, she looked directly into his two-toned irises. Her breath hitched. She couldn’t remember the last time anyone, never mind a practical stranger, had even acknowledged her feelings or that she might have any at all. Her life wasn’t her own; it was already planned out. She could picture her life with Alessio as if she already lived. It’s mostly the reason she had become a shell, a carbon copy of herself. She felt like she was standing on the edge of a tall cliffside with no one to pull her back and no one who noticed, or even cared… So why was her father’s sworn enemy acting as if he did? And why in God’s name did it make her stomach flip and her heart flutter? “Because they do,” she finally managed to say through barely parted lips.

As the song ended, Copia regarded her with a smug, yet sympathetic look. He stepped towards her, pressing his body against hers, bringing his forehead down to hers. Standing there frozen, there was nothing she was able to do except stare into the most intriguing pair of eyes she’d ever seen. “Il mio agnellino (my little lamb)…” he purred. A devilish smile creeped onto his face. “I’ll see you soon.” 

He abruptly left her standing there like a deer in headlights with her heart hammering in chest, and disappeared into the crowd. She sucked in a deep, ragged breath as she looked around checking to see if there were any witnesses to what just happened. 

That man was evil. She knew this. He was ruthless. He worshiped the devil. He was the enemy.

And yet, what terrified her the most wasn’t his veiled threats, but her reaction to them. There was an allure to him, an air of mystique. Someone heard her faint cries for freedom… She shook it off and went to find Alessio, fearing what he would do if she waited any longer.

Arianna caught his eye as she walked up to him leaning against the bar, alone. He knocked back the remainder of his drink and forcefully grabbed her wrist, dragging her out to a deserted hallway. Not a single person batted an eyelash as they rushed past. 

Once he assumed they were completely by themselves, he forced her up against the wall. Her back stinging in protest as the coolness of the concrete seeped into her skin. Unbeknownst to the nowhere-near-happy couple, Copia and his ghouls were waiting in a nearby room. Every part of his plan was falling in place like dominos. 

“Alessio wh–” Arianna started to question, but was cut off by Alessio slamming his fist on the wall right next to her head.

While he now had her caged in, he pointed a finger in her face. “What the fuck was that about? You fucking wanted to dance with that vermin?”

She stared at him in horror. Even though she knew he would pull this card, it never made it easier any time it happened. “What are you talking about?! Did you miss the look I gave you? I wanted nothing to do with him! I wanted you to say the ‘no’ that I couldn’t!”

“You wanted–” he scoffed. “You wanted me to say no? Since when do I make your decisions for you?”

“Only every fucking day of my life!” she spat back at him, seething. Though he embodies sin and everything unholy, when Copia switched the hands on her hips, when he noted her fear… Those actions, so subtle, spoke volumes. She was reminded of what it means when a person has compassion, empathy, and even a trace of humanity inside them. If she ever experienced that with Alessio it had long be wiped from her memory, overridden by every terrible thing he had done to her and put her through.

The rage that erupted from him, the hatred that bled from his eyes, haunted her nightmares. Instantly after the words left her mouth, her whole body tensed. When the blow from his hand landed across her face, she didn’t even have time to react before he gripped her arms again, somehow even harder than the two previous times.

“You think you can just go dance with another man without looking like one of the devil’s whores? Maybe I should have let you wear that dress, since here you are, being one instead of just looking like one.” He shook her as he berated her. 

“Alessio, please, you’re hurting me,” she whimpered, tears streaming down her face as her fiancé screamed at her. His voice drowned out from the thumping music and the raucous party-goers in the other room.

“You little fucking cunt, if it wasn’t for your father I would have left your pathetic ass years ago,” he snarled through his teeth just before he tossed her to the ground like a rag doll. “Get the fuck home. I don’t want to deal with this right now. And you better think of a good way to make this up to me…” he warned before he cracked his neck, fixed his shirt cuffs, and sauntered back into the party. 

Quietly, she sobbed into the tile floor. Her body was alight in a flame of pain. “Please, God. Please help me. I can’t… I just can’t…”

A hand gently touched her shoulder. She recoiled, flinching, and pressed herself into the wall behind her.

“Oh, Principessa,” Copia tutted. He crouched down in front of her and used his thumb to wipe away her tears. She watched as he brought his hand closer to inspect how they glistened on his leather glove. His eyes bored into hers as he brought his thumb to his mouth, nearly sensually cleaning off her agonized tears with his tongue. Fear coursed through her harder than the adrenaline did when she spoke back to Alessio. “I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this, but it seems that God called in sick today,” he leaned in closer, hovering over her forebodingly, “and he sent me to handle your prayers,” he cooed disparagingly. 

He stepped back from her, offering to help her up. She stared at his hand, her eyes wide with panic. When he waved it to snap her out of her trance, she scrambled to her feet. Automatically fearing supposed repercussions. 

“How much… how much of that did you hear?” she whispered.

“All of it.” With a snap of his fingers two ghouls appeared, seemingly out of nowhere from Arianna’s perspective, and grabbed her arms. Their grip firm, but it wasn’t lost on her how they somehow managed to avoid touching where Alessio had hurt her. 

“Wh-what are you doing? Let me go. Let go of me!” she cried out, feebly attempting to wriggle from the ghouls’ grasps. 

Copia stepped forward, taking her face in his hands. His thumbs stroked her cheeks. With his face inches from hers, that diabolical smile reappeared. “I’m sorry about that too, but I can’t allow that. You see, il mio agnellino, you won’t be going home tonight.” He snaked his hands down from her face and along her neck before he leaned in so close to her, his breath tickled her ear. The way his lips moved against her skin sent shivers down her spine. “I told you. You should be scared of me.”

As he backed away from her, a third ghoul put a cloth over her mouth. Her screams were muffled as she tried to thrash and escape from her captors. Soon, her movements slowed and her vision blurred. The last thing she remembered seeing was that haunting pair of eyes, one green and one white, watching her with a smirk that rivaled that of the devil’s, before something covered her head and plunged her into darkness as her body went limp.

Next Chapter || taglist: @gorie-talks-a-lot @haelithra @love-is-all-you-need-13 @lydzlore @megachaoticstupid @onlyhereforghost  @state-of-longing @werich @whenparadiseislost 

[thecooler]

Interstellar Molecular Cloud

It ends with Bonnie and Marceline clinging to each other as they fall towards their deaths. It begins with two lost girls, alone in the wasteland, finding hope in each other. An exploration of Bonnie and Marcy's early relationship in the Alternate Universe presented in "The Star".

Relationship: Princess Bubblegum / Marceline

Tags: Vampworld!Au, Vampire Hunter PB, Angst, Friends to Enemies, Post-Apocalypse

Word Count: 5,930

A03 Mirror

Bonnibel Bubblegum is thirteen years old when she meets her for the first time. She is thirteen years old, and she has blood on her hands. This isn’t something that bothers her, really. Vampire blood isn’t like regular person blood. It’s a mark of honor, if anything, a badge she wears with great pride. She’s snuffed out more vamps than anyone she knows.

Not that she knows many people.

She’s picking her way through what used to be a convenience store. For the most part, it’s long since been picked clean, but Bonnie is resourceful— has to be, to make it out here. She sets a sensor at the main entrance, then two more near the broken windows, and then she gets to work. She breaks tables apart and whittles their legs into stakes. She takes apart broken down cash registers and pockets parts that have even the slight possibility of being useful.

One of her sensors goes off, and her blaster is out of her pocket before she even turns around, gripped confidently as her other hand falls to one of the stakes lining her belt. She falters when she registers what’s in front of her.

She’s a girl. Around Bonnie’s age, by the look of it. She has short cropped black hair, pointed ears, and slate-gray skin. She’s wearing a deep, dark purple dress with black lacy bits around the skirts, and if Bonnie were to allow herself to stop and really look for a second, she might note that it’s pretty on her. But what really stands out about her is the long, exposed length of her neck. Bonnie lets her blaster fall to her side and uses her free hand to tug her scarf up over her nose.

“Uh. Hey,” the other girl says, taking a step closer when Bonnie begins to rifle through her bag. She pulls out a spare scarf— a tattered old thing with more than a couple mysterious stains marring the ruddy surface. She shoves it towards the stranger.

“You should really cover up,” she says curtly.

The girl looks down at the offering, and for a moment, the only sound is the distant, familiar sound of oozers groaning a few blocks away. And then the girl’s lips quirk up into a smile, and to Bonnie’s outrage and horror, she laughs. Not just a little chuckle, either. This girl is full-on guffawing. She’s loud about it too, like she doesn’t know how dangerous it is to be heard. Bonnie moves faster than she can think, smacking her hand over the other girl’s mouth.

And she licks it.

“Uhg!” Bonnie pulls back, nose wrinkling in disgust, and the girl laughs even louder.

Bonnie’s hand clamps down on the handle of her blaster until it hurts. She takes a step back, glaring daggers in the girl’s direction. Once she manages to stop laughing for two seconds, pausing to wipe tears from her eyes, she has the gall to extend a hand towards Bonnie. Her smile is crooked and it’s not even a little bit charming. “Name’s Marceline,” she says, like Bonnie cares.

“Well, Marceline,” Bonnie forces as much contempt as she can muster into the name. She hates how it feels on her tongue, “a vamp’s gonna use you like a ding—danged juicebox if you don’t cover up your neck.”

“Uh, yeah,” Marceline rolls her eyes, which makes the fire in Bonnie’s chest burn and lap up her throat, “I wouldn’t worry about that, princess. Vamps won’t even think about touching me.” She says it with this maddening unearned confidence, and Bonnie thinks she’s never been so angry in her entire life. She shoves her blaster roughly back into its holster. She should just leave, let Marceline get what’s coming to her. She’s never paused for anyone else before.

But she’s watching Bonnie with these big brown eyes, and that stupid crooked grin hasn’t left her face. Her posture is relaxed, hands dug into pockets that look hastily patched onto her skirts. “Sooooo—” she says, tilting back on the balls of her feet, “where are y’off to now?”

None of your business, Bonnie thinks. “My tank,” she says out loud. She’s disarming her sensors and popping them back in her pockets. The sound of the oozers is closer now. She might need to move the tank for the night.

“Woah, back up— your tank?” Marceline echoes, suddenly right over Bonnie’s shoulder. “Nuh-uh. You can’t just say something like that and then not show me. C’mon, princess—”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Then tell me your name.”

She pauses, looking over Marceline. How has she survived like this? She seems so carefree, like she’s not even a little bit scared. She finds she can’t stay mad about it. There’s something entrancing there— something that Bonnie finds she can’t define. And she isn’t used to not knowing things. It makes her want to talk to Marceline more, to find out how she ticks. “Bonnie. Follow me, and keep up.”

Her tank— which is a bit of a misnomer, if she’s being honest— is parked nearby. It’s really more of a pick-up truck rigged with traps and reinforced windows. As she approaches she reaches into her left pocket and taps a code into a remote, deactivating her security system so that she and Marceline can clamber inside. Bonnie climbs into the passenger seat and watches through narrowed eyes as the other girl ooos and ahhs over her equipment.

“What’s this do?” she asks, picking up one of her more recent projects, which will hopefully sense vampiric presence within a three kilometer radius once finished.

“It’s a bomb,” Bonnie says flatly, then snorts when Marceline drops it in a hurry.

“Kidding. It’s a sensor I’ve been working on.”

Marceline blinks at her, then her face breaks into a smile again, and this time it makes Bonnie’s heart skip. Bizarre. “I didn’t know you joked.”

“You don’t know me at all.” No one does. She tries to keep it that way.

“Okay,” Marceline leans closer, propping herself up against the armrest, “then let’s get to know each other.”

Bonnie knows she should say no. Instead, she says, “Alright.”

☆

In one of the seats of her truck, under a section of peeled leather, Bonnie keeps a thin stack of papers and a collection of pencils. The paper is gray, thin, and worn from countless times being drawn on, then erased. When she’s alone in her truck at night— when Marceline goes home, or she finishes scavenging on her own, she’ll take out the paper and use moonlight to sketch little candy people. She imagines what they’d be like, what their hopes and aspirations would be.

She’s never breathed a word of it to anyone, much less shown them. To be fair, she hasn’t really had anyone to tell. But one day, when Marceline stays a little later than usual, Bonnie pulls out one of her drawings, and she tells her friend about a sentient Root Beer who’s an aspiring crime novelist, and Marceline listens.

☆

Bonnibel Bubblegum is fifteen years old when she figures out what a crush is. She’s fifteen years old, and she’s running for her stinkin’ life through a crumbling alleyway with Marceline’s hand clutched in hers. They’d been sitting in the back of her truck, like they did all the time, and clearly, Bonnie had let herself grow complicit, unobservant, because one minute she was listening to Marceline read out one of the kissy bits in an old romance novel they’d scavenged, and the next she was looking around and realizing there were about twenty vampires lurking around the corner.

She should’ve just gotten in the truck. If she’d given herself a moment to think, they’d both be safe in the vehicle and bookin’ it down the road, knocking vampire heads along the way.

But instead she’d panicked.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

And now Marceline’s in danger, too, and she’s giggling as Bonnie drags her along, like it’s some sort of game. Like there isn’t a gaggle of parasites looking to leech their fluids. Bonnie skids around a corner and throws both of them against a wall, arm slamming against Marceline’s chest. Her breaths come out heavy and ragged, and her free hand begins to pick at her belt.

Four stakes, a garlic bomb— she doesn’t even have her blaster.

“Bonnie?” Marceline looks worried— which is the response she should have been having from the start. For her part, Bonnie jerks her arm away from her chest and adjusts her scarf in hopes of covering the blush she knows is creeping up her neck. Marceline always teases her for how obvious it is when she gets flustered.

“They’re probably still on our tails. Dang nabit! I shoulda been paying more attention. You distracted me!” she points an accusing finger at Marceline, nearly poking her in the nose. But the other girl, unperturbed, bats her finger away.

“Look! We’re fine. I’m telling you, Bonbon, vamps never mess with me.”

She says that a lot. Whenever Bonnie brings up the subject of vampires, she hedges, changes the subject. She’s never pushed it, because she figures that she’s just putting on her little tough girl act or whatever, but right now Bonnie’s pumped on adrenaline and her body wants to feel a million intense emotions at once, so she settles on anger.

“Why?” she asks, crowding Marceline up against the crumbling brick. “Why don’t they mess with you, Marceline?”

Marceline blinks, her cheeks flushing dark, something that Bonnie doesn’t think she’s ever seen. “Uh— do you need to be so close for this conversation?”

“Answer me.” She is so done with this. She’s watched vampires drain hundreds of people. They don’t even hesitate, so what makes Marceline so damn special?

Marceline laughs nervously, eyes darting away, her blush deepening. She waves her hands in vague gestures and makes a couple aborted attempts to start a sentence— well, uh, you know— before eventually pushing out. “I mean, I haven’t died so far, right?”

She looks tense, and her voice wavers as she speaks. She seems almost scared. And that, at least, makes sense to Bonnie. That, at least, is familiar. She breathes out a long, heavy sigh and takes a step back, then another. Her back hits the opposite wall and she slides down until she hits the ground and her baggy cargo pants immediately soak through with what she’s going to assume, for her own sanity, is water. “I worry about you, you know.” She can’t meet Marceline’s eyes when she says it. Doesn’t need to. She can vividly imagine the wrinkle of her brow, the way her lips tug into a tiny frown and her deep brown eyes take on that almost pleading look. Bonnie crowds her knees to her chest and focuses on a random brick in the wall instead.

“Bon,” Marceline’s voice is soft, barely audible over the persistent noise of the dead city— the wind rattling dilapidated architecture, the skittering of mutated rats. Her hand falls on Bonnie’s shoulder, causing her to tense, “you don’t need to worry about me.”

Hot, fiery indignation rises in Bonnie— it burns through her chest and prickles uncomfortably up her spine. “Of course I worry about you, you- you nimrod!” she lets out a frustrated growl when Marceline has the nerve to snort at the insult, “you’re the only person I have in this place— you’re my only friend. If you die because you couldn’t be bothered to take care of yourself, then—” then she’d be back to the way she was before. The way she’d been for as long as she could remember. Alone. Surviving.

She doesn’t understand how she can be just fine on her own for thirteen years, and now, after knowing Marceline for two, she can’t even conceive of going back to that. She stands, and Marceline, for once, is stunned silent, mouth hanging slightly open. “If you’re not gonna take care of yourself, at least let me protect you.” She knows immediately that it’s a silly thing to say. Marceline is all she has, but she knows that she isn’t all Marceline has. She has a dad, somewhere. She’s never met him, because Marceline insists she wouldn’t get along with him. She doesn’t need protection from her, specifically.

It’s also silly because she knows good and well that Marceline can brawl with the best of them. She’s seen her smash a mutant rat skull under her steel-toed boots more than a few times.

The weight of just how much she doesn’t need Bonnibel sits like a rock in her stomach. Her shoulders sag, and the fire snuffs out in her. All at once, she feels exhausted.

And then Marceline’s arms are around her, and she’s being drawn into a hug, and an altogether different sort of flame lights up her chest. It makes it hard to breathe. Her hands hover awkwardly over Marceline’s back for a moment, before settling gently against the soft fabric of her tank top.

“You know, for a total braniac, you can be a real numbskull.”

Bonnie pulls back, intending to glare, but when she’s met with a signature Marceline grin, her heart skips a beat, and she knows the look she ends up shooting her is nowhere near intimidating. Marceline tilts her head and hums quietly. “Look, if it’ll make you feel better, I’ll let you play knight for me, alright?”

“That’s not—”

“And I’ll be more careful. If it pleases the lady.”

Bonnie's shoulders box up around her ears, and her fingernails dig into her palms, “It does.”

“Alright then,” Marceline reaches over and attempts to tousle her short-cropped hair, only to pull back. “I, uh, sometimes forget you’re like, actually made of candy.”

And then they both snort, and the tension evaporates. There’s a moment of silence, before Marceline pats her on the back and gestures with a wave of her hand. “C’mon, all that running around made me hungry. I think there’s an old soda machine nearby. Bet we could smash it up and get you some parts while we’re there, huh?”

She punctuates the sentence with another lopsided smile, and doesn’t wait for Bonnie to respond before sauntering off. Bonnie watches her go for a moment, her heart still thumping loud enough that she’s surprised Marceline doesn’t hear it. Or she would be, if she was less aware of how her own cardiovascular system worked.

She thinks back to the romance novel they’d been reading together. She has a stack of them in the glove compartment of her truck. A lot of them are missing parts, or are partially rotted. But she cherishes them anyway— she cherishes the flowery prose, and the silly, saccharine protagonists. But she doesn’t think she’s ever fully understood them until now.

The revelation takes all of ten seconds. And then, Bonnie straightens her back, adjusts her scarf, and follows behind Marceline.

☆

Marceline never brings her back to her house. She says that her dad likes to keep it a secret, that he’s real paranoid. Bonnie asks where she gets her attitude from, and Marceline tells her she’s a wild child. And the next day, she brings a red bass guitar in the shape of a labrys.

She tells Bonnie that she can’t bring her home, but she can bring Bonnie something of hers.

And then she sings, and it’s awkward, and fumbling. She keeps stopping to laugh and apologize, adjusting her instrument or clearing her throat before continuing on, or starting a new song altogether.

She sings about making it on your own, and busting up oozers, and day-old fries. She sings about sweet candy, and she looks into Bonnie’s eyes while she does it.

☆

Bonnibel Bubblegum is seventeen years old when everything changes. She’s seventeen years old, and she’s pretty sure she’s gonna die for real this time.

She’s in an old storm drain, up to her ankles in stagnant, tepid water. Marceline’s breathing heavily next to her, and for once in her life she actually looks properly scared. She doesn’t have time to be vindicated now, though, because at their back is a wall of rubble, and in front of them is an army of huge, mutated, six-legged squirrels. Their teeth are long and gnarled, their eyes bulging and blind. They can barely keep themselves upright as they lumber towards them, and if there weren’t so dang many of them, maybe there’d be a chance of fighting them off.

Bonnie feels cold, but she feels calm, too. She’s read, before, about people getting all calm before they die. Like— there’s nothing more you can do, so you might as well close your eyes and accept it. Like your brain is giving you one last moment of peace before you bite the big one.

She looks over at Marceline, awash in pale gray light filtering through tiny holes in the ceiling, and she doesn’t completely think through her words before she says, “Marceline,” she reaches up and presses her palm to Marceline’s cheek. Deep brown eyes, wild with fear, soften minutely when they meet hers. “Before we get all mashed up into squirrel chow—” uh “— can I kiss you?”

Marceline stares at her, slack-jawed, and it lasts for maybe five seconds, which is more than enough time for Bonnie’s mind to start panicking. She flips through apologies, she contemplates going out in a blaze of glory smashing squirrel skulls just to have something to distract her in her final seconds. Her hand jolts away from Marceline’s cheek, but the other girl grabs her wrist and holds it in place.

And then she says, “My dad’s the Vampire King.”

The squirrels are going to be on them in less than thirty seconds. There’s a huge pile of rocks behind them. Bonnie has never been more fucking angry in her entire life. A loud, guttural, “WHAT?” rips from her throat, and it doesn’t even sound like her. In that moment, Bonnie realizes that she has to get out of here alive, because there’s no way she’s going willingly to any dead world with this as her last memory. She whips her blaster out of its holster, tugs Marceline roughly behind her by the arm, and begins to blast the top of the rubble pile.

Bits of stone shoot like bullets, scraping against their skin, “Ow! Bonnie—” Marceline starts, but she’s interrupted by Bonnie hooking an arm under her legs and hoisting her up and through the narrow hole her blasts have managed to create. “Climb, you dink!” And, to her benefit, Marceline climbs, Bonnie hot on her heels.

The two of them fall in a heap on the other side, and Bonnie is ready to tear Marceline a new one right then and there, but one of those freaky squirrels is shoving its grubby mitts through the hole, dislodging more rocks. “Book it, Marceline— this conversation isn’t over,” Bonnie says, shoving Marceline along, which evokes a hiss from the other girl, but she doesn’t argue.

Water soaks into Bonnie’s cargo pants— it seeps into her boots and drenches her socks as they slosh through the tunnel, fighting towards the light at the end. Sunlight breaks upon them, and they don’t stop running. The grass is slippery under their feet, but they climb their way to the top of a hill, so they’re at a vantage point, in the shade of a solitary oak tree, alive against all odds. Kind of like them.

Bonnie’s hands are gripping her knees as she catches her breath, and her jaw is tensed so hard it’s starting to hurt. When she glares up at Marceline, the vampire hugger at least has the self-awareness to look ashamed, for a moment, before she looks away. 

“Don’t—” Bonnie huffs, “—don’t look away from me. You have a whole world of explaining to do, like, yesterday.”

“Orrrrr we could go back to that bit about kissing?” Marceline hedges, but Bonnie is having absolutely none of that. The part of her who’d asked for that, minutes ago, is as good as staked through the heart. The look she’s giving Marceline must convey at least some of that, because she swallows, presses her back against the gnarled oak tree, and slides down. Once she hits the ground, she starts bonking her head gently against the tree. “Well, what do you want me to tell you?”

“Uh, how about you start by telling me how long you’ve been rubbin’ shoulders with bloodsuckers?” Bonnie snaps, sitting cross-legged and straight-backed across from Marceline. All business. Marceline looks at her with her biggest puppy-dog eyes, and Bonnie does a valiant job at pretending to be unaffected. “Talk.” She says through gritted teeth.

“I mean—” Marceline clenches her fists, looks at the ground, “I knew you were gonna be weird about this.”

“Uh, no doi? I’ve been staking those suckers since I was old enough to walk— they’re crashing the mammalian population of this continent into nothing, Marceline. It’s not sustainable, and it’s not right.”

Marceline’s shoulders tense, “Oh yeah, because it’s always Bonnibel Bubblegum who gets to decide what’s right.”

“Oh, can it, Marceline! It doesn’t take a masters’ in ethics to figure out that slurpin’ people’s juices up nasty style isn’t a cool thing to do.”

“And so what are we supposed to do—”

“Oh, so it’s we now?” Bonnie is aware that her voice is higher than she’d usually allow it to go. At this volume, they’re bound to draw attention, but she’s past caring about that.

“Yeah— we— because my dad is the Vampire King,” Marceline is standing now, forcing herself into Bonnie’s space. She responds by standing straight and tilting her chin up. She forces herself to look into Marceline’s eyes as she tears their relationship up from the inside. “We don’t have any other choice. We have to feed somehow.”

“Have you tried anything else?” Bonnie’s voice is ice cold. She knows the answer to the question, but she feels no vindication when Marceline averts her gaze. “Of course not.”

Silence hangs between them for a moment, and Bonnie hugs her arms around herself, busies herself by checking the perimeter. The squirrels must’ve found something else to focus on, or they couldn’t manage to get through the opening she made.

“What do you want me to do, Bonnie?” Marceline’s voice is defeated, and sadder than she’s ever heard it.

Bonnie’s grip tightens around herself. She bites down on her tongue and does not let her frustration bubble up into tears. She won’t give Marceline the satisfaction. “I want you to be better than them,” she says, “vampires can’t keep feeding like they have, or you’ll run out of food before the end of the decade, and then,” she shrugs. And then, it didn’t matter. The vampires would turn on themselves, or they’d starve. Either way, it ends in desolation, unless something changes.

She manages to look at Marceline again, and she knows immediately that it’s a mistake. She’s never been able to keep up her walls when those big brown eyes get watery. “You’re not a vampire yet,” she says, reaching out tentatively. Her hand hovers over Marceline’s shoulder, hesitant but inviting— practically begging for her to move into her space. To give her something, anything. Bonnibel Bubblegum has never been one to beg, but the words crowd now at the back of her throat. Please, she wants to say, I don’t have anyone else. Don’t turn your back on me.

Marceline stares at her hovering hand, then meets her gaze. She steps back, and Bonnie’s hand falls back to her side. “Not yet. He isn’t gonna turn me until my eighteenth birthday.”

She says it like an inevitability, like she’s already made her choice. In six months, unless something changes, Marceline is going to build a wall between them that can never be surmounted. Bonnie feels her airways tighten. She should have seen this coming, really, so maybe it’s her fault. It all seems so obvious in retrospect— the secrecy about her dad, the nonchalance about vampires. How did she never see it?

“I think being around you makes me stupid.”

Marceline flinches back, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Bonnie doesn’t respond. She turns away from the girl she thought she knew, and begins her walk home.

“Goodnight, Marceline,” she whispers, and she doesn’t look back.

☆

Bonnie spends the next six months dedicated to her work. Marceline comes by a few times, tries to start up a conversation, like nothing’s changed. She doesn’t bring up her dad, or anything they talked about. Bonnie ignores her until she leaves, and ignores the way doing so makes her chest ache and burn. She finishes building her tank, and she shows it off to no one.

☆

Bonnibel Bubblegum is eighteen years old the first time she tries to kill Marceline.

She’s been avoiding her. They’ve talked very briefly a couple of times since that day on the hill, but Bonnie isn’t willing to let her guard down again. She keeps thinking about all the sides of herself she’s shown Marceline over the years— about all her silly little passion projects she’s shown off. She let her read her corny romance novels— she wanted to kiss her. She doesn’t understand how she’d miscalculated so severely, but she knows she can’t let it happen again.

Marceline’s birthday grows closer. Usually, on the night of, after Marceline was done spending the day with her family (she thinks, now, about how she was never invited and why, and she bites down so hard on the inside of her cheek that she tastes thick, syrupy blood), the two of them would sit up on a rooftop and watch the sun dip behind the hazy horizon. Bonnie didn’t know when her birthday was when they met, had never thought it mattered. So back on the first birthday they spent together, Marceline declared they could share one.

They would sit, year after year, and exchange gifts, and talk until their eyelids were droopy and they were one good yawn away from passing out in the open.

It was all so miserably soft.

Tonight, she doesn’t bring a gift. She has eight stakes in her belts, and some flash bombs and a pocket knife in the deep pockets of her best cargo pants. In her back pocket— the one that zips up— is the keys to her tank. She’d come here to answer one question, and she’s prepared for whichever answer Marceline has to give her. At least, her mind is ready. Her heart will just have to tough it out.

She doesn’t even make it to the roof before she bumps into Marceline, in the dingy bottom floor of the abandoned house. Half the floorboards are missing, and the ceiling is partially collapsed onto what used to be a couch. Marceline is in a form-fitting knee-length red dress with long sleeves. She looks good. “You came,” she says, sounding breathless. She holds out a tiny box wrapped in newspaper. Bonnie doesn’t take it.

“You said that your dad would turn you when you were eighteen,” she glances at Marceline’s neck, exposed as always, and finds no marks.

Marceline swallows, and Bonnie has to look away again, “I asked him to wait,” she says, “I wanted to talk to you first.”

She knows that she shouldn’t let hope take root in her, but she can’t quite hide her yearning flinch at the words. They hang above her, ripe with possibility. But she won’t be reckless, like she had been before. “Talk to me about what, exactly?” and she makes herself meet Marceline’s eyes as she says it, even if doing so makes it feel like she’s being torn apart and left out in the sun for the vultures.

“Bonnie,” Marceline says carefully, like she thinks Bonnie might break. She steps forward, and Bonnie steps back. Marceline’s eyes are big and brown and beautiful, and so, so sad. “I want to be your friend. I miss you.”

I miss you too, she doesn’t say, because what she really misses is ignorance. But damn if her heart doesn’t twist and burn with desire. Damn if she doesn’t want to push herself into Marceline’s arms and take whatever she’ll give her. But it isn’t just about the two of them. It never has been.

“Marceline, I have one question,” she doesn’t move to grab a weapon yet, but she does adjust her feet for better motion, “do you still plan on becoming a vampire?”

Marceline’s breath hitches, and her eyes dart to the side. Her brows furrow, and again, that pesky little seed of hope threatens to take root. But then, she speaks, and she says, “Yes, Bonnie. I do.” 

Bonnie stares at the person she once called friend, and it looks like she’s pleading, though for what, she can’t be sure. Their friendship, maybe. Or maybe just mercy. In either case, Bonnie can’t offer her what she wants.

“Okay, then,” Bonnie says, and she rips a stake out of her belt and bursts into motion.

Her body collides with Marceline’s, and surprise offers her an advantage. Marceline lets out a sharp yelp and crashes against the rotten wood underfoot. She bites out the first part of Bonnie’s name, but is cut short when Bonnie’s palm collides with her forehead and slams her head back.

Tears blur Bonnie’s vision. She wants to get this over with quickly. She’s spent days thinking about how it’ll play out, and days weeping pathetically in her tank when she considered the thought of Marceline’s blood under her fingernails. A necessary evil, she told herself over and over, hoping that in doing so she would solidify it as a truth.

I’m hurting you because I love you, bounces loudly in her skull, but all that erupts from her throat is a formless, pained caterwaul as she slips her pocket knife out and flips it open. She sounds like a trapped animal in its death throes.

“Fuck you, Bonnie!” Marceline cries, and then she jerks up and bites hard where Bonnie’s thumb joint meets her palm. Bonnie’s body reacts before her mind can catch up, and she stumbles backwards, giving Marceline the opportunity to clamber on top of her, legs bracketing her hips. She has a stake in a white-knuckle grip, and Bonnie isn’t sure how she got it, but she’s holding it over her head and shaking, and tears are running down her cheeks and falling onto Bonnie’s scarf.

Something she learned early on, before Marceline was a name in her head, is that hesitation is what gets you killed. Vampires can move lightning quick, and if you pause for even a second, that’s ample time for them to get their fangs in you. Marceline won’t ever be a vampire if she can help it, and right now she’s trembling and clenching her teeth, and her cheeks are flushed with frustration. Bonnie refuses to look in her eyes. She slams a fist against the other girl’s temple and doesn’t waste time watching her roll.

Her legs shake despite her best efforts as she hauls herself up. “I’m doing you a favor, you know,” she says, and she hates that she can hear a waver in her voice. She hates that tears are stinging at the backs of her eyes and her throat is tightening painfully.

“You tried to stab me.”

She isn’t going to get it, and there’s really no point in explaining herself. Marceline has proven she’s too far gone. Years under the Vampire King’s influence has poisoned her mind, and the only antidote is a swift and merciful death. Bonnie clenches tighter around the handle of her knife. “Vampires don’t make it past the first dead world,” is all she can manage to say, and then she has to move again.

Hesitation is what gets you killed. If she pauses, she might change her mind, and she can’t afford that.

She lunges again, but surprise isn’t on her side this time, and Marceline may not be a Vampire, but she was raised in the wasteland, same as her, and for all the worries of her youth, she’s always been a good fighter. She won’t go down without a fight. Good— Bonnie wouldn’t have it any other way.

She’s fast, always has been, and even if she’s rattled from being tossed around, she doesn’t show it. Bright blood trickles down a cut on her forearm as she walks a slow circle around Bonnie, eyes still wide and pleading. “Just let me go, Bon. I don’t wanna hurt you.”

Does she think that Bonnie wanted this? “I’ve been killing vampires my whole life,” she grits out. Marceline knows this. It’s never been a secret. How must it have felt, sneaking around with a vampire hunter, then going back to her den at night. Did she tell the others about her? Did they laugh together at her naivete? Has everything about them always been one big joke?

She’s been killing vampires her whole life, and it’s never hurt like this.

A familiar burn rages through her chest, laps up her throat, and emerges as a deafening roar as she charges, slamming her forearm against Marceline’s chest. Her teeth clack together painfully as the two of them crash into the wall, which creaks under their combined weight.

She presses the blade of her knife to Marceline’s throat, watches as bright red droplets run down steel. She’s stalling. She knows she’s stalling. She could slit her throat in one fluid motion and have it be done with.

The next part happens too quickly, and it’s over in an instant. The hand with the stake— she’d forgotten the stupid stake— flicks up, and then the sharpened end is piercing her eye with an awful pop, and Bonnie is collapsing on the floor, ears ringing and vision swimming. Her hands scramble desperately at her face, and distantly, she hears footsteps against the floor, the clattering of wood on wood. Her breath is coming quick and painful. It burns in her throat.

All at once, half her world is gone.

She looks down at her own trembling hands and finds them coated in her blood— a deep, dark purple. She gasps and flips onto her rear, wildly swinging her head to and fro to find where Marceline might be now.

But she’s nowhere.

She’s gone— fled into the night. Lost to Bonnie forever.

And so Bonnie sits in that old house for a long time, breathing, trying not to cry, trying even harder not to throw up. A parcel wrapped in newspaper lay on the floor, and despite her better judgment, Bonnie unwraps it. Inside is a mostly-intact photo frame, and enshrined within that is a photo of the two of them that Marceline took with an old camera nearly a year ago. In it, Marceline’s arm is slung over Bonnie’s shoulder, and they’re both laughing. 

She’s never hated anything more.

She has to patch up her face, to get a good look at it and clean it out before infection sets in. But it’s hard to think logically when she feels like her entire life has been torn to shreds from the inside. She breathes, and she breathes, until the pattern of it is slow and regular and she’s only trembling slightly. And then she stands, wipes blood on her cargo pants, and begins her walk back home. She leaves the gift behind.

She’s eighteen years old, and she has to learn to be alone again.

[nerdy-prudes-must-age-regress]

We need more regressor kyle and cg jason in here so here i go!

- regresses to around 7-10

- when hanging out with jason kyle got very comfortable and regressed, jason easily figured it out because stacy regresses aswell

- kyle loves to pretend they’re princesses (i hc him as genderfluid aswell so)

- they have tea parties together at sleepovers

- jason will literally cuddled him into a tiny ball, also definetly gives him petnames like ‘your majesty’ and such

- jason loves doing the little things for him like opening a juicebox or sharpening pencils

THISS THIS!!!!

[jukeboxxx21]

Birthday gift for KawaiiKing64 on twitter! His character Princess Juicebox and Astro Kitty.

[vintagepresley]

Little Walter.. Part two

Here's the next little story based off my Walter Hale ai storyline. In this story Walter discovers that he wants to wear dresses after watching cinderella. Also for some reason I see this taking place in like the 70's or 80's, idk why. I know VHS was introduced in 76'. But also it makes even more controversial for him to be wearing dresses especially how further into our storyline he was being bullied.

It was a rainy Sunday afternoon and since Walter couldn’t go outside to play he wanted to at least do something fun. The both of you were still in your pajamas and he sat on the living floor playing with his toys as you sat on the couch flipped through some magazines. Walter stopped playing and he got up and peered his little face over your magazine and he smiled seeing the pretty dresses that the models in the magazine were wearing and then he looked up at you. 

“Mama? Can we watch a movie?” he says softly. 

You closed your magazine and set it on your lap and smiled at your sweet little boy, reaching over to run your fingers through his hair and you nodded. 

“Sure honey, what do you want to watch?” you hummed. 

Walter took a moment to think about that and he went over to where you kept the VHS tapes and his big blue eyes scanned them all curiously. He loved Disney movies and princesses and he smiled when he saw Cinderella, a movie the two of you have yet to watch since you got it. He picks up the VHS tape and shows it to you. “This one!” he says excitedly. You smile and walk over to him and take the tape, putting it into the VCR. 

“Before we start the movie I’ll make us some popcorn.” you said softly. That made Walter happy and he clapped his hands together excitedly as he jumped up and down and he grabbed his teddy bear and he climbed onto the couch as he watched you head into the kitchen to make the popcorn. He could soon smell the buttery popcorn as he heard the little pops. You dumped the popcorn into a bowl and grabbed a juicebox for him and a water for yourself and came back into the living room and you sat beside him, opening and handing him his juice and the moment you sat down he went and climbed into your lap, tilting his head back and smiling up at you. 

“Start the movie! Start the movie!” he says impatiently as he then takes a sip of his juice while his other hand is already in the bowl of popcorn. 

You let out a soft laugh. 

“Alright, alright..” you whispered, grabbing the remote and starting the movie and the moment that screen lit up so did his little face. He was so quiet as he sipped his juice and munched on his popcorn, his little legs swinging back and forth. You smiled down at him and wrapped your arms around him, kissing the top of his head as the two of you watched the movie. He started giggling and you smiled at the sweet sound and the further along you got into the movie his eyes were lighting up at the sight of Cinderella’s blue dress. He was completely in love with the dress and how pretty she looked in it. As he sat in your lap he started to wonder how he would look in a dress and if he’d be just as pretty, he was growing more and more curious. 

As the movie came to an end Walter turned himself around in your lap and he sat his empty juice box down and he was staring up at you with his big eyes and he wrapped his arms around you and clung to you. “Mama?” he said in a sweet little voice.

“Yes baby?” you hummed with a smile, holding him. 

“Are boys allowed to wear dresses?” he asked curiously. 

You smiled at him and reached up to lightly comb your fingertips through his dark hair and you nodded slowly. “Boys can wear whatever they want. Just like girls can wear whatever they want.” you said softly. He smiled at your words and nodded, he had so many questions now. 

“Mama? But what if a boy wears a dress and people make fun of him?” he asked. 

“No one’s opinion on what someone wears should matter. If they make fun of someone for something like that it’s because they're insecure about themselves and don’t understand.” you answered. Walter nodded once again. 

“Mama? Can I wear dresses? Is that okay?” he asked with a smile. 

You beamed because you had a feeling that's where this conversation was headed. 

“Course you can! Is that something you want to do? Something that will make you comfortable and happy?” you asked, smiling. Walter lifted his head a bit and he grinned and nodded happily. 

“Yes! Yes! I want to wear dresses! I want to look like a pretty princess like cinderella! Can I, mama?! Can I!?” he asked excitedly. 

You began to laugh and nodded at his words. “Yes! Yes! You can wear dresses, I don’t mind. I’ll have to buy you some. But if you want.. Mama can put you in one of her dresses so you can see how you look?” you smiled. 

His eyes widened with delight and he nodded and now he wiggled out of your lap and went running to your room. “Come on, mama!” he shouted. You laughed and got up to follow him to your bedroom where he was already standing by your closet and you went over and opened it. You reached down and picked him up so he could look through them. 

“See anything that you may like?” you hummed. 

Walter nodded and he reached for a pink dress that had little flowers on it. You helped grab it from the closet and smiled as you set him down. He started to undress and he was so excited to wear one of mama’s dresses until he could get his own. You kneeled down toward him, took the dress off the hanger and you helped him put it on, slipping it over him. It was obviously too big for him as it practically swallowed him up and draped onto the floor, but he loved it. You grabbed a few safety pins to take it in a little bit for him and then he went running to your mirror to get a look at himself and he smiled happily letting out a small gasp at the sight of himself in the dress. He thought he looked so pretty and he twirled around in the dress.

“Mama! Mama! I look so pretty, mama!” he giggled. 

Seeing him that happy about a dress made you smile and nearly tear up, you walked over to him and kneeled back down to his level. “You are so pretty, baby. You look like a pretty little princess.” you said warmly. Walter beamed and he turned around and threw his arms around you and gave you the biggest and tightest hug for letting him do this and for being okay with him wanting to wear dresses. 

“Thank you, mama. I love you so much!” he whispered. 

You squeezed him tight in your arms and your cheeks were hurting from how much you were smiling and you kissed the side of his head. “I love you more, my sweet boy.” you whispered back as the two of you continued to embrace in a loving and warm hug. 

@kiankiwi @flwrs4aust @kendralavon7 @ashtag6887 @presley72elvis @kaiistheguy @aliengoth3

[raystarkitty]

Alicorn Princess JuiceBox, for KawaiiKing64!

[oliviermiraarmstrongs]

10 Characters and 10 Fandoms

rules: name 10 of your favorite characters from 10 different fandoms, then tag 10 people to do the same

Thanks to @bloody-wonder for tagging me!

Olivier Mira Armstrong - who else could it be? show some respect to the mf Northern Wall of Briggs! Not saying mother for a whole minute challenge! (failing) ⚔️❄️🎖️

Arya Stark - being a preteen girl is literally all about being full of righteous anger and she’s here to weaponize it 🐺🗡️💇🏻‍♀️

Stewy Hosseini - there are deeper and more complex Succ characters I could’ve picked, but consider: he is literally a silly little guy 👨🏻‍💼📈🐴

Princess Zelda - she’s a princess, a pirate, a ninja, an incarnation of a goddess, and even a researcher! She is everything! ✨ He’s just Link 🧍‍♂️

Rhaenyra Targaryen - I love tragic and maligned women ❤️❤️❤️ love to empathize and understand them 💖💖💖 and make excuses for them 🥰🥰🥰 🐉🔥🩸

Inej Ghafa - KNIFE WIFE 🔪🔪🔪 killing people in a saints-honoring way 😇🔪🥷

Lottie Matthews - “Who the fuck is Lottie Matthews?!” she’s a baby. she’s a baby girl who’s suffering sooooooo much as the Cassandra of her high school soccer team. And maybe also the Henry Winter. And she needs to be introduced to Ethel Cain. 🌊🕯️⚽️

Éponine Thénardier - reverting to my middle school self here, but I have to mention her bc she was the blueprint. Victor Hugo was so crazy for inserting a potential novel’s worth of trauma and vague mental illnesses into a basically tertiary character. 🇫🇷🧥💔

Catherine Earnshaw - having this anger that you can’t verbalize at the role you’ve been pressured into by societal forces that overwhelms you until you die of female hysteria! And even then you’re still haunting the narrative! 🪟👻❤️‍🔥

Azula - daddy’s little war criminal and hyper-competent scion of an imperial regime but also a teenage girl with nuclear-level daddy and mommy issues. nothing bad can result from this! ⚡️👑🔥

tagging @betweenironyandsilver @stolehisdog @danielarlingtongf @vampire-juicebox @aadmelioraa @mightyaubs @briggswatch @sctine @excuseforadrink and @antema if u wanna!

[theatricuddles]

[ID: The first image is Shermy sleeping on top of Princess Beth as she is laying down next to the river, letting her feet dangle in it. The second image is Finn, with his prosthetic, fist-bumping jake, and art of both Finn and Jake kneeling before Baby-Snaps respectfully. The last image is Finn, sipping from a juicebox, asking Jake "Why does Prismo call you babygirl" and Jake answering "You'll understand when you're older."]

its adventuring absolute time

[cantripwilltrip]

Official princess drink Mike's hard lemonade...

No no it's the juicebox full of souls come on people!!!

[birdiebeanz]

Princess Juicebox Plate Pal

3D Plate Pal for KawaiiKing64 on Twitter! --- Models like this are only $15! Order one of your own character here! Commission Form

Posted using PostyBirb

[lyssismagical]

For the prompt thing, I chose 3 and 5 form the random plots for Irondad. “Please stop being so cheesy.” “Stop pretending you don’t love me!” Please and thank you!!!

The first few visits to the Stark cabin was more uncomfortable and nervous than anything. Peter found himself sticking to himself, trying not to intrude on the family. He didn’t want to take Tony away from his time with Morgan and Pepper, not when they’d gotten so close to losing him.

Tony and Pepper tried to pull him out of his shell, convince him that he’s really wanted there, but it didn’t really help.

It was Morgan, in the end, who got him to feel most at home.

Peter had been trying to opt out of staying another night at the cabin, but Morgan had said, “It’s family game night! You’re family, you can’t miss it!”

And Peter had nearly cried, overcome by emotion. He hadn’t really had a family in a long time. He had May, and that was wonderfully, but they couldn’t have a family game night. Not when she worked such long hours and Peter went out Spider-Manning, not when it was always just the two of them, Monopoly wouldn’t feel the same with just a pair. It was always just a little too obvious the empty seats at the table.

“Okay, okay, alright,” Peter says, letting her take his hand and drag him back into the kitchen where Pepper’s pouring herself a glass of wine. “Mo really wants me to stay for family games, if that’s alright?”

“Of course, kiddo,” Tony says, already reaching for a juicebox for him too to match Morgan’s.

But Pepper steps in with logic before they can really get settled. “Are you planning on driving all the way home in the dark? I don’t know if that’s a good idea, especially with how little you’ve been sleeping lately. There’s always a spare bedroom for you.”

He hesitates, just barely, before nodding. “I only have to be back in the city for noon tomorrow to pick up Ned and MJ. If you don’t mind having me for the night and breakfast, I’d love to stay.”

And Tony grins, pressing a kiss to Peter’s forehead, because it’s never had to be a question.

“Sorry!” Morgan shouts, boardgame already in her hands as she hurries to the table.

They have a Disney version of the boardgame which absolutely melts Peter’s heart. The idea of Tony fucking Stark walking through Toys R Us, picking out boardgames for his baby and wife to play at home in their quaint little cabin, it almost seems like a dream.

Morgan picks to be the ‘Animals’ team which includes Dumbo, Bambi, Simba, and Pooh. Pepper picks the Villains team of Hades, Captain hook, Cruella De Ville, and Maleficent. Tony goes with the Boy Team of Buzz Lightning, Hercules, Peter Pan, and Tarzan. And that leaves Peter with the Princess Team of Snow White, Ariel, Cinderella, and Jessie.

Morgan plays with her animals, making them walk around the board like a real animal would, childish innocence pouring out through her little giggles.

“Sorry,” Pepper says, knocking one of Tony’s character’s off the board and back into his home. She doesn’t sound apologetic, grinning at her husband and elbowing him in the ribs.

“You’re cheating.” Tony pouts, losing miserably in comparison.

Peter’s in last place, never picking good cards and constantly getting knocked off the board by Morgan, who’s too good at the game. Though, she’s probably played it a few hundred times before. He’s never played it.

When he was little, he didn’t really have friends to play games with. Him and Ned played the nerdy games like DND or Magic the Gathering, but otherwise, they mostly stuck to watching movies or tv shows.

He never had siblings. He spent most of middle school through high school home alone, May and Ben always working.

He didn’t realize what he was missing until now.

“Eat up, kid, before all the popcorn’s gone,” Tony says, pushing the bowl in his direction. “Morguna, your turn. Pick a card.”

For a moment, Peter just watches. Feels like he’s on the outside of the conversation and the situation, watching Morgan play her turn, knocking another one of Peter’s characters off the board, leaving him with none until he can get them out of the home again. Watching Pepper laugh and throw a piece of popcorn at Tony, who catches it in his mouth with a triumphant grin.

It’s so homely, domestic, sweet.

“What’s got you thinking so hard?” Tony teases, throwing popcorn at him.

Peter can’t help it, warmth rushing through his body, as he says, “I just really love you guys.”

For a moment, Tony absolutely softens, smiling like Peter is the light of his life, expression so gentle and open and earnest. And then he fake gags. “Please stop being so cheesy.”

Peter rolls his eyes, throwing the popcorn back at Tony. “Stop pretending you don’t love me!”

“Never!”

“Admit it!” Peter shouts, throwing a game piece this time. “Admit that you love me!”

And Tony, grinning and expression so warm, lifts an eyebrow. “Alright, kiddo, you win. I really do love you.”

Taglist:   @littlemissagrafina  @spideyspeaches @romeoandjulietyouwish @c-artara @shadedrose01 @likeaphoenix13 @misskirkstark @you-get-killed-walk-it-off @kitkatwinchester  @emo-girl10 @hold-our-destiny @imalivebecauseirondad @spiderman-peterman @dykeragee @maryserrao @heeeyitskay @parknerandirondad @lilacsandlilies4 @loveliestdisappointment @joyful-soul-collector @genderfluid-and-confuzled @fallenstar07 @gyurolls @sdottkrames @you-did-it-sir @not-today-thx @fandomstuffff {Let me know if you wanna be added or removed}

[rjalker]

Free transphobe and other assholes blocklist. 90% of them are truscum

abla-soso americasfatcock anxresi bitchpunk-official c0m13-sl4y3r cat-med cheesecakeandlovesquares chill-course-criticism cimness damndaniil dark-romantic-mlm deianiradiscourse dirkmed djappleblush eboy-discourse egg-0n-toast electricdragons enbycourse enbykeef fattening-water gay-angry-transman gay-postings genderconfused gothic-discourse gr33k-god gucc1-slider herr-toyota hyacinths-on-my-grave kankri-is-a-transmed kissycore koromed lemon-soccs lesbianwormonastring life-and-death-system lousiee marcaato med-night-stims medquius moondinosaur muggle-born-princess non-discourse-stims nonbinaryrodrick nonexistentfornewreasons nookcourse nukacherries opinionatedsapphic positivityformeds ratboyincarnate sensitive-bimed shashankrajak27 skeptical-scorpio soul-optics sowhosyourdaddynow spaesthetic squealsmed stressedbandito ted-like-the-talk thisismytransblog thomascrafty timburtonisamazing tongue-eater trender-dead truetransgenderscum trusum tylerthegerm underwearfuriouslyobjected vampire-juicebox wheniknockat102 zombiqueen1967

For batch blocker:

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