#step close

Chuck: I don't believe it more than shit

Larson: really

A body in front of Chuck's house

Larson: We need to investigat-

Chuck: Why then my HOME. There's so much in the NEIGHBORHOOD!

Larson:.

Chuck:

Chuck: oh, that too...

@rmkhb

people on the whole, regardless of geographical location or subsequent cultural slang, had long been quite fond of the saying “the calm before the storm.” metaphorically, it made a hackneyed kind of sense, in the way that all sayings with easily chewable syllables become palatable for the masses. if it wasn’t said in the exact same way - perhaps substituting the ubiquitous “storm” for a more specific disaster — a hurricane, maybe, or the gagging feeling one attainted when unable to remove a piece of hair from your mouth halfway through a bite of something dry — the sentiment remained the same. and unanimously, regardless of the affliction in question, there lay serious flaws within the logic of the statement; namely, the implication that all catastrophes (both of the fleshy nature and natural kind) were delivered with a forewarning of eerie silence and peace. marceline has always found that to be melodramatic bullshit, to be quite honest. life was rarely so dull as to be so predictable. her life never had been. gumi certainly wasn’t, and nor was the alpha house & co.

the house was, in affect, the motel the aforementioned storm checked into for a quick fuck and a smoke break between disasters. some would have protested it was more a chalet than a motel when the occupants weren’t present, but the sex was quick and sloppy and would probably walk around naked far too long after the alcohol and warn off and the spliff was ashes. lacquered calamity. 

there was another double tequila in front of her, looking like liquid gold in the cheap red plastic glass one or another boy had brought back from the kitchen in efforts to do their best to bring her to the dance floor. the way the liquor shone caught her attention for a moment, and then the boys and girls and monsters cried out at once, and instead of adding her howl to the pack she drops her head and her sense back and swallows viscous mistakes, still sitting. there’s no place to dispense the cup, and marceline holds it vacantly in the air a moment, facial contortion hovering in the distasteful. it was warm. she stands, high heels clicking against the sticky wood, and looks for a garbage or flat surface to dispense the cup - she instead finds the open ceiling-faced palm of a red-faced alpha boy, gesturing to remove the offending object from her. 

“thank-you.”

she turns and offers no other attention to the dispensary, returning to the ottoman. but this is a house full of dogs, and there’s not a single one that doesn’t love to howl. as marceline pivots, a high-pitched, low-aimed whistle takes its place on her shoulder.

“ow! pull those tits all the way out.”

her ponytail swings as she flips back, lipstick still fixed properly along the lines of her mouth despite the numerous bottles that have tried to mottle it.