Her eyes tore away from the wall, going wide as saucers. She was drunk. She wasn’t being attentive towards the signs he had been eliciting. But it was made very, very clear as to what he was just by his last sentence. And then something bubbled beneath Marceline’s aghast exterior. Fear, anger—mostly anger—had Marceline gazing at Reed with such palpable disgust. It was impossible to wipe it off of her face. “You’re…” she stammered, her teeth gnashing together.
She didn’t allow herself to finish her sentence. Not a moment later, her hand curled into a tight fist, and without even thinking of it, latched it fiercely against Reed’s jaw. Something cracked under her punch, but she didn’t care. She wanted him to hurt. She wanted him feel her hatred because she fucking resented him.