It's a Tuesday night. They really shouldn't have even gone out drinking, because they both have work in the morning.

Quinn was actually the one who wanted to get out of the house and do something, which wasn't entirely out of the ordinary, but Santana's always been the one who's usually the first to suggest trouble. Not that they were looking for trouble. And not that they found any.

What they did find was the bottom of several tequila shots at the hole in the wall salsa bar two blocks from their apartment. Quinn had taken professional lessons for their wedding (God, had it been two years ago, already?) and Santana had to admit that her wife was in possession of some serious rhythm, which was one of the reasons this was their favorite dive bar.

Right now, though, Quinn's attention is more on Santana's lips than her hips and it's quickly decided that their night out is over, otherwise they'll end up fucking in the bathroom, again, and Santana isn't really that keen on the bruises the tile floor tends to leave on her knees.

"C'mon." Santana pulls Quinn off the dance floor and flags the bartender down so they can settle their tab.

"Mmm kay, but you better be planning to get naked in about twelve minutes."

It's not a coincidence that it takes exactly that long to get out of the bar, down the street, and into their apartment.

This isn't their first time.

There's something about Quinn when she has her knees on either side of Santana's hips, panting with her eyes shut and her head hanging slightly back while her body rocks against the one below her. On a more sober night when there's time and coordination to spare, they might be working with the strap on. But tonight it's all fingers and manual dexterity and Quinn's head falls forward as her hands grip even more tightly on Santana's shoulders.

"Fuck, don't stop," is the breathy command.

Santana initially has no intention of doing so, but she also know that means Quinn's close, so she changes her current tactic and slows her pace. "Oh, you think you can tell me what to do?"

"Santana Lopez, I swear to god-" Quinn tries to sound tough, but her voice is bordering on a whine.

"What? I didn't stop." She makes a very deliberate thrust with her fingers, then takes her time drawing them back.

Quinn's reaction is to grind herself down harder against Santana's hand. She starts to say something, but the words are cut short, almost like Quinn doesn't want to use them.

"What was that?" Santana knows full well what's on the tip of her wife's tongue. She doesn't get an answer, right away. Instead, Quinn kisses her roughly, then bites at her bottom lip.

Finally, she pulls back so they're looking at each other. "Please, babe." Quinn rocks against her, again, and it's obvious how desperately she needs this.

But Santana's drunk, so she's extra obnoxious. "Please what?"

Now Quinn's glaring at her, but that just makes Santana wetter than she already is. There's no verbal follow up. Instead, Quinn drops her hand between them and tightly grips the wrist that's currently flexing at its own leisurely pace. She pushes herself up on her knees, then drops back down against the fingers that are already inside her. The action forces a sharp breath out of Quinn's lungs that's accompanied by a low groan.

Leave it to Quinn Fabray to find a solution that suits her needs.

It's really fucking hot and Santana actually thinks she gets off a little on it.

"Jesus, Q."

"You gonna make me do this myself?" Quinn's body flexes as she moves back up, but Santana tightens her arm around her back.

"Got you covered, babe." She resumes her previous pace, but then it suddenly becomes a challenge because as soon as Quinn lets go of her wrist, her wife's fingers dip lower. "That's... distracting."

"Deal with it."

Even when they're stupidly in love with each other, married for two years, in love for longer, they're still competing. Sometimes it's a battle for the highest score on Ms. Pac Man, other times it's who can make the other come harder or faster or both.

Santana's not sure who's winning, because while she's not really a quick trigger, that little stunt Quinn pulled a minute ago definitely escalated things. It's okay, though. She knows how to turn things back around.

"So, today at work I realized you'd probably fit right under my desk. On your knees. And if I happened to wear that pinstripe skirt you like so much while going commando, it'd be really easy for you to just..." Quinn gasps against her shoulder and Santana knows she's in the home stretch. "Yeah, you'd like that, wouldn't you? Your prefect little mouth on me, my hands in your hair." Her arm slides up to tug a little at the back of the blonde's head.

"Fuck."

"Mmm hmm." There is one flaw in this plan, if she can really consider her own climax to be flawed. All the dirty talk is getting to her, too. "Q..."

"Just..."

They don't exactly come together. Quinn still goes first, but Santana's a very close second.

"I love you."

"You'd better." Quinn twitches against her, then follows up with, "I love you, too. Especially for doing that."

Exhausted, Santana falls back against the bed and pulls Quinn with her. The ceiling fan hums above them, one of their neighbors is watching Craig Ferguson, and they're both breathing audibly, but it makes for a peaceful collection of sounds. Like quiet, but not.

Santana hears her own voice before she really registers that she's talking out loud. "You want to have a kid with me?"

"Do I what?" Quinn's voice sounds tired, but intrigued.

She knows there are probably better ways to approach this subject, given everything. But since when has Santana ever done anything the way it's expected. "Kids. Or kid, at least. Not right now, but..."

They're married, so they've obviously discussed this in the abstract sense. She knows Quinn's willing to have another kid, eventually. Maybe eventually could just be sooner rather than later.

Quinn props herself up on one arm to get a better look at Santana. "But what?"

Santana's a little worried that maybe she did this all wrong, but then she realizes one side of Quinn's mouth is turned up in a half smile. "But maybe we could think about it."

"Yeah. Okay," Quinn says, draping herself over Santana's chest. "We can definitely think about it. But not until tomorrow."

Santana laughs. "Okay, why tomorrow?"

"Because I'd be much more comfortable if you weren't thinking about our future children while I'm doing what I'm about to do to you." She presses her mouth to Santana's ear. "Not that you'll be able to think about anything but my mouth while I'm down there, anyway."

To Quinn's credit, she's totally right.