Several weeks ago I started a prompt challenge on my Tumblr. You drop me a prompt on my ask, I'll fill it if I'm seduced by it.

A few of those will be posted here. This is one of them.

INTERVIEW

She greets Brittany with a warm smile as she opens the door to her house.

She's in jeans shorts and a white tank top, and she's hotter than every New Mexico summer combined. Her hair is long and thick, black as midnight, held in a loose ponytail; her nails are short and well-polished and her hands are actually very soft when she shakes Brittany's hand.

Brittany wonders how those MMA women manage to look so good and so feral at the same time.

"Welcome to my home, Miss Pierce," she says, gesturing for Brittany to enter.

Brittany brushes her off. "I'm not a mom, so you'll have to call me by my first name."

"You'll have to call me Santana, then," she says, winking at Brittany as she walks them in.

Brittany adjusts the heavy bag on her shoulder and watches the way Santana walks.

The house is clean and bright, full of soft colors and earthly tones. Brittany likes the greens and the browns and how it smells sweet and quiet, very unlike Santana Lopez's Latina Hurricane stage persona.

They go to an outer area, very green and sunny, with a small pool and a barbecue area. Santana sits on a hardwood armchair, while Brittany chooses the two-seater bench with matching cushions.

She leaves her things on the wooden coffee table, noticing how expensive and well taken care of that set is, just like everything else around her. The grass is fresh and cut and the pool is clear as day. The furniture inside, even if a little old, has the comfortable, preserved warmth of family. "You've got a lovely house."

"Family inheritance," she says, reaching out to pour them both a glass of lemonade. "My family has lived here for generations."

"Really?" The glass sweats deliciously, and Brittany licks her lips in anticipation.

Brittany already knows this is going to be the type of unpretentious, cool interview that she loves.

Santana smiles at her again, irradiating warmth. "Yes. My great-great-great-grandfather won a bet somewhere in the 1800s and he used the money to buy the first piece of land he could get his hands on. "

"That's interesting," Brittany says before taking a big gulp of that surprisingly delicious lemonade. "And this is delicious."

"Family recipe," Santana answers, stretching back on her chair and relaxing. "Not telling the press, though."

Brittany smiles, making a mental note of how many times Santana mentions family. She grabs her things and places the recorder on the coffee table between them.

"Let's start."

—

Santana is very easy to talk to, and she doesn't seem the least bit impressed by her first big interview, the first exclusive piece on her by a national magazine.

She's the fastest-rising and most gorgeous woman in the MMA scene, well, ever, but Santana brushes Brittany off, shrugging. "I put in the work, that's all."

Brittany has seen the tapes of Santana's fights, how quick on her feet Santana is, how precise her blows look on camera. "Impressive work."

Santana gives her an endearing look.

Brittany peaks at her notes. "And what about Ranger Up, that for the first time is sponsoring a woman? That's more than putting the work, and it's your first big contract."

Santana nods, a satisfied look on her face. "I'm happy to see the results of my work. Life for an MMA fighter isn't always easy. It's hard to make ends meet when you're just getting into it."

"Is that why you also modelled occasionally?"

She leaves out Santana's underwear shoot out of elegance. For now.

There's a spark in Santana's eyes. "Yes."

Brittany decides not to press it. "Is it true that you just signed a contract to be Ranger Up's face for their redesign line of women's clothing?"

Santana looks very, very satisfied with herself. It's very sensual. "I can't comment on that."

Of course she can't, not until a public announcement has been made.

"Now, about your training—"

—

Their time is up.

"I guess we'll have to pick up where we left," Santana says, standing up and offering Brittany a hand.

Brittany takes it; she's not expecting the swift and firm way Santana pulls her up, muscles on her arm rippling and tensing as she pulls Brittany up.

"I'll call you to set up another appointment," Brittany says, clearing her throat. "Thank you for your time, Santana."

"Thank you for writing this," Santana says as she grabs Brittany's bag. She carries it to the door before giving it back like a gentleman.

"I thought—" Brittany hesitates, "maybe I could see you training."

"Of course," Santana says. "How about next week?"

She tries not to think of it as a date. Her head is just dizzy with Santana's spicy perfume, that's all.

"Friday?"

—

She writes some drafts that week and organizes her already abundant notes. She also tries to discover what people wear at an MMA Training Camp.

She doesn't get very far.

She calls Puck and have him come over to watch Santana's fights, instead.

Puck's good fun.

He shoves the remains of his hot dog in his mouth before he points at the TV screen. "See that?"

Brittany frowns. "The TV?"

He grunts, pauses the video and goes back 6 seconds. His mouth is still full. "Look at her. She's got amazing footwork. How she moves and avoids that jab!" He stops the video right the moment Santana takes a step to the side. "She's light on her feet like I've never seen."

Brittany nods, happy to let him talk and teach her about the sport.

"See how she holds that woman to the ground?"

—

Santana is closing major contracts, making real money and on the way to stardom.

It's funny, then, that her car is an old Toyota truck, white and dusty and a little cranky.

Santana sighs when she sees the look on Brittany's face, adjusting the Raybans on her nose. "I know."

Brittany raises her hands in the air. "I didn't say anything."

"No me lo dijiste pero lo pensaste, my grandma would say." She shakes Brittany's hands when they get close enough; Santana's knuckles are slightly swollen. "You didn't say it, but you thought it."

"Your Spanish is delicious," Brittany blurts, a little dumbstruck.

"Mama is Mexican, and Dad likes to preserve our heritage," Santana answers, taking Brittany's bag from her shoulder and placing it softly on the backseat.

She opens the door for Brittany, and Brittany wonders how this person exists. Who does those things these days?

Brittany takes the hand Santana offers before climbing in the truck, even though she's much taller than Santana and doesn't really need it. Santana's fingers brush her wrist before she pulls away and closes the door.

"Ready to go?"

—

It turns out the truck belonged to Santana's grandfather, who died a few years back.

Santana's got that ease that comes from being certain she's loved. Brittany wonders how it feels to be so close to your family, to be so cared about.

"Lung cancer," Santana adds, her eyes on the road. "Padre smoke like a bitch, that one."

Surprised, Brittany chokes on her own saliva and coughs.

Santana snickers, touching the side of Brittany's thigh with her hand for a moment. "Sorry I'm crass." Her hand goes back to the steering wheel. "I'm trying to hold back because you're a reporter and everything, but it's hard."

Still flushing red, Brittany tries to wave her off. "No, really," she clears her throat, "you can say whatever you want."

"Isn't it actually your job to say that?"

—

It takes some time for them to get to their destination. Brittany watches the neighborhood passing by, small houses and a lot of dust, kids riding a bike and a lonely ice cream truck passing by.

It's like she's left Albuquerque for a small town.

Once they're inside Santana undresses in front of Brittany quite shamelessly, revealing shorts and a tank bra under her clothes. Her impressive abdomen belongs to a Greek Goddess, firm and built and strong, like God's offering to mankind in all His generosity.

Brittany tries to stay back as she watches Santana stretch, warm up, run a few miles, jump some rope, before hitting a punch bag with powerful high kicks that makes her thighs ripple and tremble with the impact.

Santana's body glistens with sweat so quickly, shining with the natural light coming from big windows, droplets falling on Santana's neck, going down her shoulders to her back before disappearing on her shorts.

Santana's got a focused expression, like she's getting in touch with her stage persona, slowly getting in the game.

Brittany tries to focus on scribbling down what Santana had told her on the car. It's Brittany favorite part: placing together the information like pieces of a puzzle.

"She's something, isn't she?" A blonde woman in sweats walks up to Brittany and measures her with interest. "I'm Sue, best trainer in the country."

"Brittany, reporter," Brittany answers, trying to ignore the strange feeling of being absolutely terrified of this woman. "May I ask you a few questions?"

"Just don't write something too revealing," Sue answers, shooting her a crazy look.

"Let's start with the basics," she says, grabbing her notebook. "How long have you been Santana's trainer?"

—

Hours pass.

"I hope you're not too bored," Santana says, standing in front of Brittany, properly showered and looking brilliant.

"I like watching you," Brittany answers, and it comes out much more perverted than she had intended.

Santana raises an eyebrow, but thankfully says nothing about it. "I see you met Sue."

"She's scary," Brittany says, eyes wide.

"She's the best." Santana voice is firm. "Since she took over the Jackson Academy it became the best place in the country for MMA fighters."

"I bet she scares them all into winning," Brittany insists, more out of teasing than anything else.

Santana shoots her a pointed look, but it's easy to see she's amused. "You're not wrong," she gives with a shrug.

"So, where are you taking me now?"

—

Santana parks the truck in front of a restaurant.

She opens the door to Brittany and gestures for her to come in.

Brittany doesn't need to go through the door, though, to realize it's the family business.

"Santana!" A small Asian boy runs to them. Santana picks him up easily, settling him on her hip. "Vamos volar!"

Santana mouths Brittany a "just a sec" before holding the boy over her head and walking into the restaurant making airplane sounds. He giggles and giggles and moves his legs in the air.

Brittany watches by the door, a soft smile on her face.

"Don't be shy," an old woman tells her, grabbing her arm and sitting her on a table. Her thin arms somehow look strong, and she walks with the determination of someone used to command. "Just because Santana forgot her manners doesn't mean you should just stand there."

Santana puts the boy on the ground and comes back to Brittany with a slow walk, as if expecting to be scolded.

Brittany laughs.

"Hi, Abuela." Santana says, kissing the old woman's forehead. "This is Brittany, the reporter I told you about. Brittany, this is Abuela."

"Nice to meet you properly, Brittany." Abuela says, seeming satisfied with the interaction, and leaves them with the menus.

Santana sits in front of Brittany. "Sorry about that."

Brittany bites back a smile. "It's okay." She looks over at the menu.

It can't get any more Mexican.

The boy draws on the counter, scratching his head in deep thought.

"Who is he?" Brittany asks.

"My younger nephew," Santana says right as a tall and strong Asian man approaches their table.

His biceps are very appealing underneath his plain white shirt. "What can I get you, ladies?"

"This is Mike, my older brother." Santana settles her menu down. "We found him in a dumpster."

Mike rolls his eyes. "Still not over the fact I beat you at poker?"

Santana promptly ignores him. "This is Brittany, the reporter."

Brittany shoots a nervous smile. Had Santana talked about Brittany to her entire family?

"What can I get you, Brittany the reporter?"

"A Coke and a hotdog."

Santana smiles.

Wait, is she being judged by her food choice?

This feels too much like a date. Oh God.

"I'll have that powerful green juice and an omelet. Gotta have my protein," Santana says, flexing her muscles and practically making Brittany stare at them.

Mike shoots Brittany a funny look.

"Anything else?"

—

A teenage boy comes from the back and immediately frowns at Brittany.

Santana takes their empty plates to the counter. "That's Jake, my cousin. Ignore him."

Santana whispers in Brittany's ear, hot breath against Brittany's neck. "He thinks I don't know he has a huge crush on me."

Brittany smiles, not missing the delighted look on Santana's face. "Is he thinking—?" She gestures between them.

Santana nods and places her hand over Brittany's. Brittany knows it's just teasing, but it feels nice and she intertwines their fingers.

Jake shoots them another look before going back inside.

Santana breaks the contact and laughs like a child.

It's very lovely.

She decides it's time to ask. "So, I have to know—"

"The underwear photo shoot." Santana raises an eyebrow. "I knew it was coming."

Brittany bites her lip. "Yes."

"Mike lost his college scholarship. Abuela needed surgery. I have two brothers in high school that could use a college fund."

Brittany remains in silence for a moment, the implications sinking in.

Santana really is all about family.

"That's nice."

Santana winks, making the conversation lighter. "It's part of the job. You tell me the dream and I help you build it, right? That's family."

Brittany begins to fall in love with Santana right there.

—

She's covering a baseball game and live tweeting.

She thinks about Santana.

She's talked to her more than enough for her piece; she needs to write, but she wants to talk to Santana again and again.

It makes her a little sad that it's the only connection she has with Santana, and it'll be over soon.

Her phone rings.

"So, what are you doing this weekend?"

—

It's sunny.

Santana looks at ease on the road, her arm hanging lazily from the driver's window.

Brittany likes it.

She's not so sure about mountain biking, though.

"Don't make that face," Santana says with an amused smile.

Brittany's face suddenly feels very warm. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Santana raises her eyebrows. "You're a sports journalist; you're supposed to like sports."

"I like watching them," Brittany insists, stubborn, but Santana sees right through her.

She hasn't felt this comfortable in a long while.

A long moment passes, filled only by the alt-country radio station. "You said Mike lost his scholarship."

"Knee injury." Santana's mouth turns very serious. "He was on a dance scholarship."

Brittany feels suddenly very stupid for breaching the subject. "I'm sorry."

Damn her curiosity.

"It's okay," Santana says, her fingers brushing Brittany's thigh for a second, "he's happy now."

"What about you?"

"Me? Happy?" She seems to think about it for a moment. "I don't know. Right now I have my truck, my bike, and you. It's enough."

It makes Brittany blush furiously. Again.

Santana pulls the truck to a stop.

"Ready to go?"

—

She is not ready for this.

It's a breathtaking sight, she has to admit.

But it's also hard and exhausting going up mountains and hidden tracks, and it's especially hard to follow Santana's lead.

Does Santana really need to be so physical and active and good looking?

"C'mon!" Santana gestures, waiting for Brittany to catch up. "This will be fun."

Brittany swallows dry and sips her water bottle. She's not an adrenaline kind of girl.

It's all the way down, steep and unsteady. Brittany's fears of falling and dying decide to stir and wake.

"I don't think—"

Santana places both feet on the ground. Her chest is falling and rising faster than usual, and the sunscreen on her skin makes her shine, slick and smooth.

She touches the small of Brittany's back.

"You can do it," she says quietly. "You've got this far."

It's hard. "What if I fall?"

"I'll catch you," Santana says with a smile.

"And tell my dad you're responsible for my sudden death?"

—

Santana takes Brittany home.

"Thank you for today," Brittany says.

There's a glorious rush of adrenaline running through her veins.

"My pleasure," Santana answers, leaving the car to carry Brittany's things to the door.

Brittany follows, and she leans in to kiss Santana when they're at her doorstep. But it would be very inappropriate.

"See you around?"

—

She finishes the piece, and her editor says it's one of her best.

The magazine stares at her, shiny and straight from the press. It's her first cover, and she feels on top of the world.

She calls Santana first.

"What are you doing tonight?"

—

Santana has two spare tickets.

Puck hugs Brittany so hard when she tells him that she can't breathe. "I love you! VIP tickets?!"

He even endures Brittany's screaming and frowning and squeezing his arm whenever Santana takes a hit.

The way Santana moves is so fast and dangerous; she explores every single available inch, using new angles and combinations to take her opponent down.

It's actually very arousing, when you think about it.

"Do you also have a boner? 'Cos that's hot." Puck whispers in her ear when Santana's grinding on top of another woman.

She slaps his arm, holding back a smile. "Idiot."

He wiggles his stupid eyebrows. "See? Lady boner."

Brittany bites her lower lip.

"So you'll help me sneak in the exclusive access area?"

—

Puck does help.

And by helping, he means distracting two women at the same time with his seductive ways.

If everything goes wrong she's got her journalist card to play.

A big, black man stops her. "Credentials."

Damn.

"She's with me," Santana shows up right on time. She's sweaty and sore under her black robe; her voice is raspy and low.

She takes Brittany by the hand to her own quarters. Brittany caresses Santana's bruised knuckles on the way.

Brittany closes the door behind her. It's a simple place, generic in its couch and mirror and closet.

Santana drops Brittany's hand.

Brittany gives Santana the magazine. "You made your first cover."

"I look good," Santana says with a smirk, perusing the magazine until she finds her interview.

"You do," Brittany agrees, but she's not talking about the photo.

Santana's eyes have a certain sparkle Brittany doesn't understand. "Does that mean you have no professional ties to me anymore?"

Brittany licks her lips. "Yes."

She places the magazine on a small table nearby and comes closer. "No ethical obligation?"

"None," Brittany says, holding her breath a little bit.

Santana's lips are very inviting.

She notices Brittany's stare and wets her lips very slowly. "I'm going to kiss you, then."

She presses her body against Brittany's. "Hope you're okay with that."

Brittany nods a little too excited; Santana laughs before standing on her toes and joining their lips.