Her breath falters outwards from the caverns of her body in gentle hums; never before in a particular moment of time did Marceline wish to climb in between each tender release, to synchronize the thunder-thumps of my own heart to the rabbit-flutters of Bubblegum's.
There was, always will be, a certain greatness in each step she took, one of which completely unrelated to her designated majesty. From each rosy root twirling from an even rosier scalp, there's a distinct matter of being. It's not as though there was no cloudy water heaving present between the distance of their souls- the obvious disdain displayed allotted amid their quick glances is a measure of that- but there's a certain mark of wanting to understand between the ridges of their mind's borderlands. They simply got caught, spiraling into misconceptions.
Bubblegum's body, the fantastic ruling thing it is, is perched over BMO, her fingers flying and twitching amongst its aqua surface. Marceline's own hands remain fumbling, pressing down numbly on the nimble strings of her Axe Bass, attempting to forcibly shush her frenzying mind to a dull roar as opposed to anarchist riot uprooting her cells and synapses. With each more hesitant peek Marceline took to Bubblegum, the increasingly difficult the diversion became.
The inopportune rush of mortification had drained from Marceline's face; in its place, a great look of disdain drug down at her empty features, pulling any formation of smile away and gone. She could feel the bags under her eyes looming larger, taste the melancholy sprinkle onto the buds of her tongue. She finds herself wordless.