"Let me at him!" Quinn squirms, red solo-cup sloshing about in her hands. It's half-way down with vodka, and the fact she's downing vodka in plastic cups rather than shot glasses (why waste the calories? Besides, beer is ew), speaks enough for itself. She had a baby in her tummy for nine months, she's allowed to let loose. Especially on the sorry, Iimp-dicked sack of a boy who got her pregnant in the first place—

"Look what you did to me," Quinn snarls, and Puck staggers back with an exaggerated woah, hands up in the air, trying for a cocky, calm down little lady kind of smirk, which totally doesn't work considering he's trying to back away as swiftly and subtly as he can, giving the blonde a wide berth. It doesn't work, considering Quinn is lunging forward, nose crinkled and eyes blazing. "I used to have abs!"

it'd almost be funny, hearing the typically cool, breezy, painstakingly controlled lilt of her voice be unleashed with absolutely, unbridled fury— if the glare she was angling at Puck wasn't downright paralysing. She's seething, and when she spins with a growled "And you—" charged with vitriol, Finn does a comical glance around the room. His eyes are like saucers, like Who, me? looking positively like his bladder is about to give out the longer Quinn's gaze pins him to the living-room couch. "I'm just gonna.." He flees. Quinn seriously seems a millisecond away from pouncing after him, if it weren't for your firm grasp around her waist.

"Let go of me!" She protests, wriggling about in your arms, though she's so hammered that she can't do much but pound against your hold. Not weakly, mind. "I gotta— Santana." She spits the name like how one would say a sIur.

Ugh. Why won't you let her go hound on them? And ugh, why the hell is the room going all wobbly. She's still trying to wrestle out of your grasp, the ugly thing inside of her that she's been suppressing for God knows how long trying to claw it's way out of her chest.