A/N: for a GKM prompt: Santana is a mma fighter(boxer,kickboxer anything really) and Brittany is a ballerina and for some reason (maybe budget cuts) they now have to use the same studio. I know it sounds difficult to have them both together but maybe the dancers can have there own off to the side glass studio in the same room. To say the least the dancers are not happy to see a bunch of raging muscle heads now in their studio. There is a lot of tension between first person to really get Brittany's attention is Santana not because she is the only girl (and totally hot) but because Brittany can tell Santana uses ballerina technique is her fighting. They start to talk and easily being to date.. contains violence, swearing, and a lot of sex. as to be expected.

You didn't know much about the fire.

Maybe there was an article about it, buried fifteen pages deep in the newspaper, but you always lose track at the comics. The news is too depressing these days; grieving faces not afforded the luxury of privacy. You never let yourself look.

The first thing you learn about it comes from your instructor's apologetic face as you cluster together, muscles lax and loose from stretching until you feel the familiar groan in your limber joints. It's just for a little while, she says, and you wonder if a little while is the same thing for someone who's already lived out most of their life.

They come on a Sunday.

Light shines in through the skylight, reminiscent of shards of glass on the floor. They're harsh colours where you are pastels, the lines of their bodies harder and thicker, not long like a dancer's. Very loud.

Fighters are a different breed entirely, and you fight yourself to keep your eyes from straying as you warm up on the floor. They jostle each other and laugh, firm fists nudging at shoulders, grins wide and unbroken. The light that bathes you in contour shadows them. Except her.

You notice her first, winding black wraps around her hands. She's much smaller than them but the light bows to her call, bending and breaking over the strong spread of her back, yielding. Her skin is dark like the sands travelled in your youth, and her eyes glimmer in ways you can't put words to. You're often speechless, but you feel this time you were intended to be.

I can't wait until they leave, Kitty complains to your left, lips twisting into a rough sickle. They're assholes.

You bite your tongue and rise, ready to begin.

It's hard to keep time when you're distracted.

You keep glancing over, every spin twisting your head in a way to catch a glimpse. Your instructor admonishes you for nearly tripping over your own feet, but you're too far away to feel sheepish. It's almost like you're drawn; moth to flame, addict to drug. The girl with the eyes like twin voids is more interesting than today's lesson.

She ducks and weaves with a pattern of simple footwork that looks effortless. Her gloves obscure her face, thumbs nearly pressing against her forehead, chin ducked to her chest. When her hands pop out they blur, bleeding speed. You can hear the solid thump as she makes contact every time. Her partner holds pads for her and every so often her leg cuts through the air like a knife, angled like she intends to slice straight through him. Her thighs are powerful despite their size, the blow a whip that would leave an unprotected foe reeling.

It's with reluctance that you turn away to complete the choreography – it's something engrained in you, hardly thought about. Your body arches with the music, long and lean, wrought from years of night cramping and broken tights, but the hiss of breath from between clenched teeth across the room threatens to make your steps uncertain. You block it out, flowing.

Another flawless performance.

You don't watch the others, drawn again to her. They've changed. She hits someone who can fight back, though her fists catch his ears too often to be a fluke. She reminds you a little of your company, just... sturdier. She doesn't let the tide of the bout sweep her away, but lets it flow around her feet, always on solid ground.

Her leg lashes out and her partner catches it with the meat of his arm. She recoils, but not fast enough. With a scowl they reset, the dance beginning again.

It reoccurs.

You see the frustration in her long before she does herself; the slight twitch of her off-hand always betrays her strike, pulling back a moment before her planted foot swivels and she delivers the blow. Her muscular calves tense and relax with each movement, travelling up her hamstrings and into her glutes.

As a dancer, you're very familiar with those.

(She has damn nice ones.)

Class ends and you waste little time in approaching her. Stepping across the threshold like the invisible line in the sand, the tension in the room that burns your skin. A million eyes on you, searing through your tights. If you weren't used to being stared at, you might be uncomfortable.

She glances up from her sitting position, pausing. Her wristwrap dangles, half unwound, and you wonder how long it took her to master the pattern.

I saw you fighting, you say simply, and her brows raise.

I saw you dancing, she returns. Her eyes sparkle with curiosity.

If you stop moving your hand before you kick, they won't see it, you continue. Then you'll always hit them.

And if you stop looking over, you won't mess up your pirouette,she retorts, but you see the smirk on her lips. You smile.

I can do one just fine.

You spin on the spot, the world rushing by a few times, before stopping exactly facing her. Her head bobs, impressed.

Santana. Her hand is rough from wraps and calluses but they're much smaller than yours, a delicateness that makes you want to see if your fingers will fit in the spaces between hers.

Brittany.

It sounds like something else on her tongue, and you resist the urge to shiver.

Days turn into two months, and Santana is there.

You learn she's witty, brave, and when you go out for drinks one night her eyes keep drifting to the pale sliver of thigh between your high boots and short dress. You smirk, playing with the straw of your drink, crossing them tighter. Her throat clears and you feel powerful in a way that hasn't come in a long time.

(When you had kissed in the parking lot of the studio three weeks ago, it felt like an inevitability, two people pulled together by something stronger than themselves. Your jaw still tingles when you think about her hand cupping the hinge.)

So, she coughs, and her nervousness is endearing, have you lived here your whole life?

Not quite. I'm from Nashville.

She smiles, turning her body to face you more completely. You take a quick glance as her breasts, shrouded in red satin, strain momentarily against the dark fabric. There's a certain allure to her in her fighting clothes, but fuck does she wear this well.

A southern girl? Are you all as wholesome as the stereotypes say?

You foot brushes her calf as you take another sip, your eyes like ocean agate above the rim.

Maybe I'm an exception.

Her gaze darkens, the ripple through her flesh tantalizing. You throb.

Are you?

Her voice is rough like gravel, rumbling in her chest. Between the heat in your abdomen and the scent of her you're dizzy, spinning and spinning, but you still get up with all the grace you're known to possess. A bill is left on the table, a glimmer of teeth as you grin.

Why don't you come find out?

You don't look back but you know she's there, her presence heavy on your back. You're nearly out the bar when her hand grazes your hip and stars explode where she touches. You both wait for a cab and the silence is smothering, the heat of her hand burning away your thoughts. Her inhales are deep and unmeasured, and it prompts you to step back, press yourself against her front.

I haven't brought anyone back to my place in a while.

Santana looks at you in a way you can't describe, and you run your nose up the strong line of her neck.

She shudders.

Should I be honored?

Proud.

The cab ride is torturous. It's a physical hardship to remove her hand from your thigh, searing through your dress. You barely make it through the lobby of your apartment complex before she's on you. Your hand hopefully hits the right number, and the doors close.

Her heels put her a little more even but you're still taller, and she has to nod her head up to kiss you, clutching at the fabric of your dress. Your hands glide down her back, clutching her ass, and she falls naturally between your thighs. The weight of her there sends you spiralling away.

Who are you, again?

Her mouth makes patterns on your neck, biting at your collarbone, the skin bruising and flushing red. It's been a long time since your body reacted like this. You aren't sure what to feel.

When the elevator dings you both stumble out, a giggle caught in her mouth. She's fire and fury and her whirlwind rips through your chest – your hands shake a little when you unlock the door, her pressed against your back. Her breasts are warm against your spine and you feel the tension in her body vibrating, aching to get out.

You'll tease every last thread of it from her.

You turn her against the wall when you enter. She won't take the power from you, not this time. When you suck at her ear she shudders like her whole body feels it. Maybe it does. Your long fingers find the zipper of her dress and it quickly pools at her feet, forgotten. Her hands are quick and you feel your own fall away, smooth like silk. She squeals as you pick her up, and through her dark skin you see her blush at the sound.

You're stronger than you look, she mumbles against your lips, and you smirk as she bites at them.

I'm a lot more than I look, you remind her as you kick open the door to your bedroom, making a show of raking your nails across her ass. Her hips roll, pressing into your stomach, and she must find what she's looking for when her mouth drops open, soft and supple. You kiss away the shock.

You go to crawl onto the bed but one leg hooks around your waist, the other stretching down to your hamstring. She grins, dark and deep, before her hips twist and you lose your balance on the turn, falling instead onto your back. Santana perches upon you, knees on either side, her hands splayed wide on the spread of your ribs. You should have seen that coming, but the pillar of her body set upon yours dries any complaints.

You were always a tactile person, and your hands smooth up her thighs and the crease of her hips, thumbs dipping at the heavy underneath of her breast. She bites her lip, looking at you through her lashes, and your entire body throbs together. You tug at the strap of her bra and she nods.

It falls to the floor and your breath catches.

You're not one to be insecure of your own body, not when it can do amazing things, but you're drawn again to the flame of her skin. The subtle ripple of her muscles, hardened from years of fighting, shiver when your tongue touches the outside of her breast. Her fingers worm their way into your hair with a request.

You oblige.

Her skin tastes as good as her mouth. The way her throat catches on a gasp is just as pleasing, and when you use your teeth her hips jerk again, rolling against your abs. Her body flexes. You feel the tension everywhere.

Another hand reaches to warm the other breast as you encourage her to roll, a rhythm she has no issues following. Sometimes you wonder if Santana was a ballerina like you in another life; she seems to understand the constant music in your head, moving to it just as you do. Her hair spills over her shoulders like a crystallized oil slick. She leans back to grasp at your knees, panting.

You pinch, and she moans.

Again.

Your stomach is wet where she presses herself against you. Dragging, grinding, so much but never quite enough. You steady her, nails raking against her abs. Her jaw drops open.

Touch me.

She never has to ask Your fingers slide down, past her shaven skin. She's warm and sticky and when you circle her clit she trembles as she comes.

You stifle a groan as you struggle to rid yourself of your tights. Practice was hard today and you ache down to your toes; attempting to wrestle out of your skin-tight clothing seems an impossibility. A sigh leaves your lips as you rest your head against the wall, defeated for the moment. Your mind wanders.

The fighters haven't left. They remain a constant annoyance and a tension that has yet to seep itself out of the studio; your favourite place now smells like punching bags and old protective gear, blood sweat and tears that can't be washed away. It doesn't smell like home anymore.

Santana's presence makes it bearable.

She's always there when you are and these days you leave together. Sometimes to the bar, other times to your houses – your favourite moments are walking with her. Her steps are sure but her legs are much shorter and she struggles to match your stride. It makes your stomach do strange, flipping acrobatics when she huffs and jogs a little to catch up, nose red from the cold and hand firmly in yours. You're dating now. Or at least, you think you are. She had asked with three fingers inside of you and you were struggling to listen to anything but the sound of her between your legs.

You'd gasped out a yes just before you raked your nails down her back so hard it drew blood.

To her credit, she doesn't gloat. Watches you a bit more than appropriate in the mirrors, but she's not the only one. Santana's delivered more than one black eye over the past month when wandering eyes watch your legs stretch long to the ceiling.

It doesn't help. A few of the fighters are intent on being as obnoxious as possible. The ones Santana surrounds herself with are decent, goofy smiles and floppy hair (or no hair, in Puckerman's case), but the others make your chest rumble like there's an earthquake in your spine. It sets you off balance. Kitty hasn't stopped complaining, but then again, Kitty complains about everything.

Until you overheard what one of them actually said to her. Then you joined in a little.

(But only a little. Your girlfriend is one of them, after all.)

Eventually, you manage to roll your tights down your thighs. You shake your feet, unwilling to bend over and manually pull them from your ankles. They stay crumpled on the changeroom floor as you drag your tired body upright – your neck cracks into place as you stretch and crank the showers. A jet of high-powered water hits you, rivulets running down your skin. They burn.

You welcome it. You've been having too many cold showers recently.

You stretch your arms over your head, leaning against the wall and letting the muscles of your back lengthen to the sky, your ribs spreading and expanding with the level whistle of your breath. In, out, in again. Grounding like your feet buried in the earth.

It's a bit cramped for yoga.

Her voice finds you soon before her hands, snaking around the seashell curl of your hips. You suck your lip into your mouth when her fingers tap in the spaces between your ribs. You've known her three months and she already knows you like a musician knows their instrument. It would be unnerving if it didn't leave you speechless.

I don't think they've invented yoga in the shower yet.

She chuckles, the vibrations making your spine hum like a tuning fork.

They should. It would be hot.

No pun intended.

You make to turn around but she stills you, finally pressing herself completely against your back. You swallow your tongue as you realize just how naked she is. Her arms are a cage, sliding across your own to palm at your wrists. Shackling.

Pun completely intended.

A mouth at the base of your neck. Santana has a thing for the texture of your skin – you are marked in patterns of stars, each red halo a galaxy burst into bloom. She creates universes with her teeth and tongue and you are the fabric of space, helpless to resist. Her lips mouth at the gaps between your vertebrae and every part of you comes alive.

Her hands, strong and sure, travel from wrist to elbow to shoulder. Her palms smooth down your ribs once again and find purchase at the shallow dip of your hips. She traces the bones of your hips with her thumb, razor-sharp. They bruise where she left imprints two nights before.

Sorry, say her fingers as they flutter out over the imprints. Your forearms press against the tile when they creep lower. Her nails rake reverently at your upper thighs. Underneath her touch, your muscles flex like another heartbeat.

Your forehead falls to damp tiles when she first runs her fingers through you.

Santana lazily rolls her hips against your ass. The lines of her body follows yours, and you feel her belly press against the serpentine curl of your lower back. Her other hand ghosts to cup your right breast, keeping you upright. You can't get the scent of her skin out of your nose.

You don't want to.

Her fingers lightly circle your clit, her tongue identical against your neck. Your breath fogs the glass tiles as you struggle against the fire burning in your abdomen. Every lungful feeds it, burning away your veins, starving you. A life spent sure of your steps and just a touch can make you stand absolutely still.

I saw the way Hudson looks at you, she breathes. Her longest finger teases at your entrance, never breaching. Water runs into your open mouth but you're only drowning on the inside. When you stretch. Imagining what's under your tights.

Her hand that cups your breast squeezes and you muffle your cry in your arm. Your hips roll back and she takes pity, sinking the first finger into you. It's never enough.

Sometimes I wonder if I should tell him... Fingers at your nipple, rolling and tugging, the answering pattern inside you. The mouth that has seen the death of greater people than you suckles at your earlobe. You whimper, and that mouth smirks.

Tell him about the sounds you make when we fuck.

Your body is burning away with the water that pelts down on you. Your collar flushes red as she presses the second inside. Her chin rests on your shoulder and you feel her breath like a wildfire on your neck. Noise rumbles distantly from outside but all of your senses have been kidnapped, held hostage by the cadence of her voice and her crooked fingers in the deepest depths of you.

I wonder how jealous he'd get?

She presses until her palm nudges your clit and you cry out, back arching into her. Her knee nudges your thighs apart, feet slipping on the tiles. You get up on your hands so you don't lose her against you.

A door sounds. People are laughing and feet shuffle but she hardly slows pace. Nothing but a curtain separates you from the changeroom. The thrill it sends through you makes it difficult to think.

She feels it. She always does. Her lips curve into a smirk against the base of your neck; a slice of sin. You remember where those lips have been before.

The languid seduction turns purposeful. Every thread of her is focused on you. The sheer weight of her intensity makes it hard to stay upright. She feels your legs struggling and presses her free hand to the center of your chest, levering your torso upright. Your head falls back against her shoulder as she fills you in earnest.

She whispers Spanish secrets into your ear. You wonder if the others can hear it over the monotone drum of water hitting flesh. One of your hands reach back to knead the flesh of her ass, the other knotting in her damp hair. It curls over your fingers like a living being as wild as her.

Teeth find your throat and the pads of her fingers pull hard inside of you. The free hand dragging you upright clamps over your mouth as your body short-circuits, the fire in your belly bursting free. You see the galaxies she paints you in behind your closed eyelids. Your throat vibrates with the force of your moan but you don't care anymore.

The river of water brings you back. Your chest heaves, reddened and tender. Her lips press behind your ear, waiting. When you exhale, shaky and unsure, she smiles.

Your voice is hoarse, floating. Can we stay here for a minute?

Her fingers withdraw and cross over your hips. The belt her skin makes contrasts beautifully against your own.

As long as you want.

Forever would make the water run cold.

The sour slap of artificial sweetener stings your throat. You relish every drop. Santana chuckles from beside you as your eyes water, and only winces a little when your elbow finds her ribs. Puckerman snickers from behind his beer.

You'd introduced them to the bar a few weeks ago. It's a favourite of the dancers; long hours and cheap liquor. They don't even roll their eyes when Rachel asks for "non-genetically modified sugars" in her margarita. Santana's coach, Beiste, looks like she could scare the staff into making her a drink from the blood of kings.

(Only a few of the fighters know about this place, but you thought it was rude to not include Beiste. She's the one that makes sure Santana doesn't die.)

Thanks for the tip, Brittany, Beiste smiles after taking a drink. Good to know one of my boneheads found a decent woman.

Santana sputters a little and you pat her knee. She's so cute when she's flustered.

She can be very persuasive.

Puckerman wiggles his eyebrows and Santana kicks him in the shin.

I'm sure.

Beiste heads to the bathroom and Puckerman opens his mouth despite a warning glance. Sometimes you wonder what she sees in him, but you can't deny he's loyal. He's even turned his back on his friends for her after another spat. The floppy haired one soon followed, but you can never remember his name. Cam? Tom?

So-

Raucous laughter interrupts him. His jaw snaps closed with an irritated click, and the three of you turn in unison to the sound. A slight tremor runs through you – not enough to shake your drink, but Santana feels it against her. She frowns. You wish she wouldn't worry so much.

A few of the fighters from the club have found their way in. You see Rachel hanging off the tall, squinty one. She must have told them.

Traitor, you mutter, sipping at your drink.

What was that?

You swallow at the voice near your back. He's closer now; the way Santana's knuckles go white is the only indication you need. The table falls silent, anxious. A shark swims around in your heart, waiting to strike.

I didn't say anything.

I think you did, he denies, and he's so very tall.

Finn, leave her alone, Rachel huffs, tugging on his collar. His eyes run down your body and you feel greasy, dirty, but Santana leans forward until she's almost left the seat.

Don't start, Hudson.

I'm not-

What's going on here?

Beiste comes back and she lifts the heavy weight from your chest. Santana's jaw flickers but she leans back, tension stringing her up like a marionette. Stress isn't a good look on her.

Nothing, Coach, Hudson finally says, lumbering away. The table breathes collectively easier, but Santana is still tense.

The way her eyes darkened like burning pitch starts a similar fire in you, licking at the inside of your thighs. You bite your lip and take another drink but it's too late. She notices you frown, and her palm skates over your lower back. Concerned. It only makes the heat suffocating.

Excuse us, she murmurs, taking your hand. You're led willingly and she bypasses the bathroom, slinking into the staff restroom. The lock clicks and a thrill runs from your scalp to your toes.

Britt, are you-

You ambush her and the noise of surprise is adorable as you push her against the wall. Your hands easily find their way up her loose shirt. Her skin is soft from the sauna, supple against your palms. You feel the bite marks from last night.

You're so hot when you get protective, you mutter against her and suck hard at the hinge of her jaw. Her mouth drops open and she's not sure what's going on. That's fine. You've decided it for her. Her mind might not know, but her body does when your lick over her nipple.

The way her chest pushes into you might be your favourite reaction. Beneath it you feel the beat of her heart and the way it echoes through you. She shakes you apart just by existing.

Something like a protest might be on her lips, but it dies when you pop the button of her jeans. You're both drunk and loud and maybe this is a bad idea, but you need it more than she does. You suck your thanks into the smooth insides of her thighs. Her fingers tighten in your hair.

She bites a whine out around her fist when you grin at her.

I'll be quick.

Eight minutes.

A new record.

When she stumbles out, dazed and dreamy, you tell Beiste you're going home. She nods, wishing you well. You catch Puckerman's eye and lick your lips. He chokes on his beer.

The two of you stand outside the bar. Santana's suddenly shy, running her thumb over your knuckles.

Do you... want to come home with me?

It feels different than the other nights. She's lost the glow of her orgasm and there's something running under the surface. You don't even have to think about agreeing. It's not even a choice.

The two of you walk home in careful silence. Her fingers, so small between yours, tap out a rhythm against the back of your hand. You could dance to it forever.

When she crawls into bed in pyjamas three sizes too big you wrap yourself around her. She settles into your curves almost immediately and your legs tangle together. You aren't sure where you end and she begins, but it makes you feel complete. A hole you didn't know was there fills up and seals away. You press a kiss to her hairline and wait.

Eventually she sighs – her body deflates like someone pulled the stopper. She feels so much smaller against you, a reminder of how delicate she's capable of being.

I'm sorry about Hudson. He shouldn't treat you like that.

Ah.

Why don't you tell Beiste?

I've tried really hard to fit in. It feels like I'm running to tell on them.

Your lips rest against the base of her neck and you feel the subtle power surging there. The fire in her slumbers, but it never goes out. Her passion is what drew you then and always has you coming back for more. (Though, you're beginning to realize, it's so much more than just that.)

They can't be mean forever, you offer. It'll be okay.

She stretches out against you. The hand that is grounded on her belly shifts, stirring.

Maybe. You tell me if it gets too much, okay?

Okay.

Six months have passed and enough is enough.

You lean against the barre, your leg reaching to sky. Your tights pulls taut against your powerful thighs. You're the only dancer here; some of the fighters wait for their class to begin. You've grown adept in ignoring them. In, out, in, the tension in you slowly dissipating. Your ankles that always ache crack as you point your toes.

This body is a battleground of worn sinew, and sometimes you wonder how long it'll be before something gives.

You're about to move to the other leg when someone whistles at you. You ignore it, folding your leg and touching ground. Light glints off the floor and paints your planted foot in fractured monochrome.

Don't be like that, Blondie, snickers one. The bridge of your nose flushes, your balance stuttering momentarily. Only you notice but it feels like a volcano brewing in your stomach.

She's too good for us.

Hudson this time. You clench your jaw and move onto the other leg. He's there, and you don't want to stretch so high. You've never felt your tights cling to you like they do now.

Are we too gross for you, huh? Too bulky? Chose Lopez so you could still feel at home with your little dancer friends?

He's in your space – he smells like old sweat and regret. The other fighters mill nervously. The one whose name you can never remember glances around. Puckerman isn't here today and Santana's late. Your heart quickens, thudding out a foxtrot in your chest.

I guess she's about Hummel's size. Too bad he eats the wrong meat.

You scowl and plant your other foot on the floor. Kurt's been a pillar of support for years and you were never one to let your friends fall unaided.

Don't talk about him like that.

Blood booms in your ears. It's so loud in your head, rushing, daring you to thoughts you'd never once entertained. Violence has never been your medium, but Santana is teaching you so many things.

Why not? Everyone knows only a fag does ballet.

You shove him. Hard. Hard enough that your wrist aches and he stumbles back. The fighters collectively suck air through their teeth and you're suddenly aware of how you've backed up against the wall. Hudson scowls, gathering his ground. He looks like a mountain uprooting from its foundation and you can almost hear the wrench of stone.

You slutty little-

Hey!

Santana storms onto the floor with wristwraps half finished. Her eyes are the abyss between stars, endless. Furious. You've never seen her so close to an animal before.

What the fuck did you just call her?

Fuck off, Satan. This is between me and your girlfriend.

It sounds dirty coming from his lips, like something sinful. Her body ripples in agitation.

(She's told you about her adolescence, the struggle to accept herself. She knows her life will be the unwelcome footnote to some but it always hurts to hear.)

You wanna mess with a girl, you fucking troll? Mess with me.

You put your hand on her arm.

San, no-

No, Britt. I'm done watching him harass you and your friends.

Hudson puts his fists up and Santana nudges you back. She mirrors him, and the noise leaves the room in a great exhale. She's so tiny compared to him, wraps hanging from her hands. A fear you haven't experienced since you felt your knee twist and snap floods you.

He swings first. Miss. She slides out the way with barely a twitch of her body.

He's awkward. His steps are too heavy and she has no problems avoiding him. Her weight flits over the mat like she was never there.

The first strike lands – a solid thump of her shin against his thigh. He doesn't wobble, but the entire studio winces. You notice she doesn't move her hands and he doesn't know to move out of the way. Despite yourself, pride makes your heart light.

It grows heavy again when his long arms reach her face.

There's years of bad blood welling in her mouth. It's bitter on the tongue, like the perfume of her grandmother from when she was young. Santana ducks out of his next strike and her knuckles find home in his ribs. He crumples, just a little, and it's enough to bring her fist to his cheekbone.

It bruises like fruit left too long in the sun. He retaliates and she flickers out of his line of sight.

She winces when she catches his hook in the crook of her folded elbow. He might be slow, but his reach stretches so much further than she thinks; his hand slides around and anchors her. She struggles against the death-grip but he takes her down. They sprawl in a tangle of limbs but no one wants to wrench them apart.

He's a good seventy pounds heavier and his weight is a flat vice. You see her face screwed in discomfort as she presses her knees into his gut. You remember a show you watched once, what happens to a human body when it's compressed too far.

(Soup. That's what happens.)

Sweat drips down her brow, mouth dropped open. She's tired. Trying to struggle out of his hold is sapping the energy from her tiny body. Not for the first time you realize how delicate she can be – the hands that can play you so well are clasped together, keeping his head close. Stalemate.

She glances to the ceiling; the light patterns over her face like a broken brushstroke. Her lips move – you wonder if she's praying or cursing. Either would be believable.

Eventually your eyes lock. She blinks sweat out of her own. You try to convey everything you want to, everything you've been too scared to say. It's been six months and you're falling in love with her. She's not going to die, but it feels like you're running out of time. Teetering on the edge of something, something big and bold and never felt before. It's terrifying. You know it, you see the fear in her face every time she lays next to you.

You used to be afraid, but now you're just ready to fall.

She takes a steadying breath. Her eyes break from yours. Her whole body shifts and lengthens, tightening. His face smashes into her collar and he can't pull away. Her feet find his hipbones and you can see every muscle in her thighs clench as she shoves him away.

Santana scrambles out from under him. One of her legs worms over his back. She hangs on him like a backpack, her arms flexed around his neck. Her hair hangs wild and you've never seen anything more fiercely beautiful.

He tries to shrug her off but only ends up falling backwards. All the fighters murmur as they struggle – he flails, caught, and tries to turn away. She does that thing she did when you took her home for the first time and the anger in her eyes when she sits on her chest soars past dangerous and borders on murderous.

He bucks his hips but she's low to the ground, legs pinning his shoulders. Her breath whistles as she drops the first elbow into his face. The angle is awkward and you're sure a lot of the strength is lost, but he can't protect himself. The second falls. His bruised cheekbone shatters like ill-made pottery.

She manages to land two more before Beiste storms in. If Santana is a whirlwind she's a hurricane – her massive arms lift her away from the bleeding boy, leaving her to roll away. You dart to her side before the dust settles.

Are you okay?

Her chest heaves, slick with sweat. Every one of her nerves explode into fireworks. It'll take a long time for the light to die out.

I'm fine. Her ribs are bruising, her knuckles split. Blood dribbles from inside her mouth. She's never looked more gorgeous.

You didn't have to do that.

She smiles, a bit too feral to be void of malice.

I really did.

Beiste's voice is thunder when she calls them both away. You watch the lashing they both get. Santana has the decency to look sheepish. It must get her points, because her coach sighs and waves her away. The other fighters tell their sides of the story. Hudson comes away with a suspension. It's the best news you've heard in a while.

Her coach cancels training. They groan and file out of the gym, bags slung over drooping shoulders. Santana's stopped bleeding and her wraps lay abandoned on the floor. You watch each other for a moment.

She surges. That same feral instinct you saw in her smile you feel on her skin. The air bursts with it. Your lungs fill with it, drowning, drowning. Her bite is hard at the hinge of your jaw. Unforgiving. She backs you up against the wall.

He tried to hurt you, she rasps. Her lips skim down your neck. An animal chasing the scent. Your fingers fist in her tank top helplessly. Her hips crush your tutu to your waist. He tried to touch you.

Your words are glue in your throat. The only thing that comes out of your mouth is a moan as her fingers sink into the flesh of your rear. Her lips finds yours, the intensity bruising. You open your mouth to her and you can still taste the iron on her tongue. The reminder makes your body quake.

The two of you sink to the ground. Your legs spread open around her hips. She plucks at your practice tutu, her nails threatening to make runs in your tights. The coarse material of her fight shorts rub between your thighs and you already know how damp you are. No part of you cares.

Santana sucks down the length of your body – even your leotard can't hide the force behind her touch. She's almost desperate; you tug strands of hair to get her attention.

We're okay, you swallow, but it's shaky. She's on her knees, her chin brushing your tutu. Her nails make patterns on your quads. The cool wall against your back is the only thing that stops you from melting into the floor.

You will be.

Her head dips underneath your tutu and you wonder absently if you can feel your heart exploding inside your chest.

You feel her fingers pull aside the crotch of your leotard. She growls at the tights still in the way – her lips latch onto you through the material and you cry out into the empty studio. It's not enough. There's a tug and the hiss of tearing fabric as she rips out the bottom of your tights. Your heart flutters and drops straight to your groin. She's suddenly much too far away. Your hands pull, seeking, and she delivers.

This isn't tender. There's no care, no softness. It's worship in every raw sense of the word and she wields her tongue to cut into the deepest parts of you. Her mouth opens, pulling you in, but it's the cushion of her lips on your clit makes you forget everything except her name. The fingers that aren't pulling your leotard aside push your thighs further apart until you're spread completely open. It feels too good to be embarrassing.

She works her tongue inside of you. You feel the nod of her head, the whisper of her hair on your skin. Your left hand grips the barre until your knuckles pop. Everything is spinning.

Santana sucks and sucks. The wet noises coming from underneath your tutu make your cheeks burn. She's ravenous, a desire burning, and she winds you up until your belly tenses so hard it's made of stone. The universes she likes to bite into your skin burst in your bloodstream. Stars shine in your stomach, their heat scorching your insides.

Your hand tightens in her hair.

She understands,pressing deeper.. Her tongue laves broad strokes across you and her fingers find their way inside. Your thighs snap closed over her face.

When she bites, you arch your back so hard you lift yourself from the ground. She follows, never letting go. You hear her surprise as a gush of liquid leaves you and it takes away any breath you had. Your fingertips unravel as your vision fades out for a moment.

She cleans you when your bones turn to rubber, your feet still twitching. Her face swims into vision. It's hazy.

No one can take you like me, she whispers, pressing a kiss to your jaw.

You've lost your voice, but you agree completely.

Later, you're standing at her door. It's cold and her nose reddens, bitten with frost. She's drowning in her wool scarf.

I have a fight soon, she reveals, twisting on the balls of her converse'd feet. It's adorable.

I know.

Do you... do you want to be in my corner? Moral support?

You grin so brightly you threaten to split your cheeks. It sounds like something else, but you don't need to comment. She already knows.

You don't even have to ask.