This just kind of materialized one late night while I was putting off my Finance homework and wishing that Glee would get here sooner. I'm stretching the canon considering we've only had one line of dialogue tying our two cheerleaders romantically at all, but it's all in good fun. Rating is for sexual situations and adult language. Enjoy, and please review.

Disclaimer: I don't own, the fabulous Ryan Murphy does.

Three Things

by Sarah

For Santana Lopez, there were three things in high school really mattered.

One was popularity, because getting a slushie to the face daily was one of the most humiliating things a 16 year old could bear.

Second was the desire to get out of Lima. The dream that you were going to eventually do something interesting and worthwhile outside of your Podunk-ass little town. While she would never admit it, you actually studied diligently, and make good grades by most people's standards. Keeping that under wraps was an art in itself, though. Brains weren't cool, after all.

Third was sex. A teenager's hormones were constantly in overdrive, and the halls of William McKinley were a hot tub of sexual energy and built up tensions. You'd certainly come a long way in this department, from a painful, awkward first time with Mark Lowry in the 8th grade. Not a pleasant experience. It got better with practice, and the guys certainly improved with age. Some of them actually were decent lays. Her ex-boyfriend Puck certainly knew the female body and had the skills to take care of it, so she had no complaints. And others in the school would certainly suffice in a pinch.

But love was not one of these things. Just as sex did not equal dating, sex did not equal love. It was basic math, after all. Love was a thing that made all other aspects of life complicated, and complications meant distractions. She didn't want to sound unromantic, but love made people weak. Quinn and Rachel were the two prime examples of this, one was pregnant and the other a loser. But the uncertain part of love was that you couldn't pick the person you fell in love with. And that made it scary. So you steer clear of love. Just stick with sex.

You tell yourself this every time you sleep with your best friend.

They were the perfect odd pairing. Cold, calculating, pessimistic Santana and her warm, ditzy, optimistic best friend Brittany. You'd been attached at the hip ever since you were kids, and trusted one another with your lives. Brittany was the only one you cried in the presence of, probably the highest honor you could think of for a best friend. You laughed with Brittany more easily, understood her nuances. You were best friends, pure and simple.

And that one night after winning nationals freshman year with the Cheerios, you crossed a line. Lying in Brittany's bed, nestled between pink sheets, something changed between you. It was intangible, but noticeable, and when Brittany placed her soft lips against yours, you didn't pull away. As you took off your pajamas, and she followed suit, as she touched you and you touched her, and neither of you said no, something changed. You'd never been attracted to a girl before Brittany, but the attraction was so electric it couldn't be ignored. And so, you began having sex with your best friend.

Then sophomore year rolls around, and there are new complications in your life. Glee begins (which you oddly enjoy, but you'll never admit it), and baby gate with Quinn, and you suddenly find your ambitious self at the top of the popularity pyramid, and it's pretty damn good. And you still have Brittany, who sticks beside you despite the bitchiness, and the power plays, because she understands who you really are and after hours she can reduce you to a happy pile of goo.

You think about all of this as you stare at her from across the room at a party, hosted by one of the football players. There's a lot of people here, loud hip-hop music, cheap beer, strong liquor, the usual high school party accoutrement. You pretend to watch some ridiculous slasher-flick with some football players on the couch and slap their hands away when they occasionally try to cop a feel. You've only had a little bit yourself and aren't in a giving mood for some drunk horny teenage boys. So you watch her.

Brittany is talking to another Cheerio. She's wearing tight jeans and a white cami, and her hair is swept into an untidy ponytail. The other Cheerio says something funny and Brittany laughs. Your need for her is unpredictable and insistent, and it doesn't help when she wears outfits like this one. You're still staring when a drunk Puck gracelessly barrels into the two girls.

"Whoops!"

Puck steadies Brittany with one hand, blinks a few times, as if trying to clear the drunken haze from his sight. "Hey blondie," he smiles, and you doubt he even remembers who he is at the moment, much less his Glee teammate. "Looking hot."

Brittany smiles uneasily and takes a step back, but Puck loops one arm around her waist and pulls her close. Brittany laughs awkwardly and meets your eyes. You see what's going to happen next in slow motion, but you're too far away to do anything right now.

Puck kisses her, full on the mouth.

Something breaks inside you. You manage to find the back door without showing any emotion on your face, which is a combination of disgust, anger, and disappointment.

You're not really surprised when it's Brittany and not Puck that follows you out of the house. She calls out weakly for you to stop, but you don't. You fumble with the lock on the back gate and stalk into the dark night before the tears manage to leak past your angry façade. You rarely cry, but you let yourself shed a few tears before you wipe them away and turn to face your waiting friend.

"Go the fuck away," you practically growl at her.

"Santana, he kissed me. And he was so drunk I don't think he even knew it was me he was kissing. Probably thought I was Quinn or something." She pulls the ponytail from the length of her blonde mane and points to it. "Blonde hair, yeah?"

You're standing so close to her that you can smell the clean cotton fresh aroma of her shampoo as her hair cascades down her back. There is that sudden twinge of desire in your belly. You try to ignore it.

"Can we at least talk?" Her voice is bordering on pleading now, which only intensifies the longing, and suddenly your anger disintegrates.

"Yeah, we can talk. Want to go for a ride?"

Her face breaks into a radiant smile and she nods emphatically.

"Have you had anything?" You ask as you hold your car keys in your hand. You're not stupid, you've only had one cup of some wine cooler but you'd rather not risk it with all there is to lose.

"Just a diet coke," she's telling the truth, because Brittany's a terrible liar and you can smell lies a mile away. You drop your keys in her hand.

The pure look of joy and relief on her face is worth the momentary rage of just a few moments ago. You grab her hand, savoring its warmth and how neatly it fits into your own before you make the walk back to the house. "Ill meet you at my car," you tell her at the back gate, and she nods before bounding around the side of the house towards the street. You watch the way her ass moves like a letch before making your way back into the house. The music throbs and drunken couples grind against each other sloppily, you weave through them with a task on your mind.

You find Puck on the couch alone, watching some soft-core Canadian porn on the TV, noticeably smashed. "Heyyyy San," he drawls drunkenly. "Wanna sit and watch?"

There are times when his antics are worthy of a smirk or a smile, but this is not one of those times. "Don't take this too personally," she tells him, "but you won't remember this tomorrow anyway." You reach back and with all your strength slap Noah Puckerman across his smug face. He shakes his head like a wet dog and looks up at you, confused.

"What the fuck was that for, Lopez?!"

"No reason," you say coolly, "just in a bad mood. Sleep it off." And with that you turn on your heel, collect yours and Brittany's purses and strut out the front door, duly satisfied.

Brittany already sits in your car, a mega-watt smile adorning her delicate features. You can't help but mirror her jubilance.

"Wanna get out of here?" she asks brightly.

"To the park," you say, and she starts the engine.

There's a small park that you and Brittany played at when you were kids. There are swings and a basic jungle gym, and you'd spend hours running around together. Now that they were older it was a good nostalgia point and a favorite wind-down spot after long nights of partying. Quinn would have joined on occasion, but since baby-gate blew up Quinn was a ghost. Not that you mind, you'd much rather have Brittany's company. You swing on the swings for a while, giggling and laughing like you're both 8 again, and you'd never admit it out loud, but this is one of your favorite places to be.

You talk about silly things, meaningless things, just to talk. You make fun of Rachel's outfit from last Wednesday; discuss the latest number in Glee, the routine for the Cheerios. You often wonder if you didn't have things in common like this, if you could talk this much, this easily. Somehow you think that it would always be this way, no matter how much time passed.

Eventually your butt gets tired and she gets chilly so you retreat into the car. The parking lot is dark and empty, this part of town doesn't get a whole lot of traffic this time of night.

"Ready to go home?" you ask, but make no effort to move the keys towards the ignition. All you're doing is watching those perfect pink lips, and she's looking down at yours. You lean forward, slowly, agonizingly, until she lunges at you.

You sear your mouth to hers in an instant, lips fitting perfectly with hers. The kiss quickly turns kinetic, and you move your mouth against hers frantically. Kissing her is so soft, but here there is a sense of urgency, a coil of energy within you that needs to be released. You bury one hand in her loose blonde hair and lean over the center console in attempt to feel her body against yours. She opens her mouth just slightly as an invitation, and you eagerly let your tongue dart out to explore the wet warm crevasse of her mouth.

This is better than being drunk. You've only smoked pot once, but this surpasses it by leaps and bounds. Brittany makes a noise – a moan – that is low and throaty and you swallow it up eagerly, earnestly. Neither of you will last long if she keeps making noises like that. Already you feel the ache deep down in your torso, slowly and surely working its way south.

Her hands move to your stomach, and you feel warm fingertips dance across the skin. You can't hold in the shudder, and feel her grin against your mouth at your reaction to her touch. It's hot in the car now. You pull away from her mouth (she whimpers in protest) and practically rip your shirt off, feel the kiss off cooler air on the bare skin. Brittany's eyes rake down your torso before you rid her of her cami with the same vigor.

Her bra is white and she is beautiful and your breath catches, then speeds. You touch her soft skin, shoulders, stomach, the valley between her breasts. Her eyes close briefly, then snap open to catch yours.

"Backseat?" you ask, voice low and thick.

In a flash Brittany has slid between the seats and is pulling you with her. You're immensely glad that your dad had bought you a sedan instead of that convertible that you wanted so badly. Doing this in a convertible would be really uncomfortable. Shoes are the next to go, then jeans, tossed haphazardly in the direction of the front seat to get them out of the way. You position yourself on top of her; savor the contact between your stomachs, thighs touching thighs. Her legs quiver in anticipation, her breathing is loud and ragged. You do these things to each other, after all.

You smile and look down at your best friend reverently, before saying the one thing you do before you have sex.

"This doesn't mean anything, okay?"

Her bright lovely eyes, now half shut with arousal, look at you confused for a moment before her head nods. "Sure, San. Yeah. Whatever you say."

Her answer is not exactly reassuring, because she's aching for your touch and will appease you with the right answer for the time being as long as you keep moving south. And you so desperately want to make her scream your name so you too willingly accept it.

You lean down and lay your body across hers, reach around and unclip her bra with the eased practice of someone who has done this before. You pull it off slowly, then toss it away and eagerly provide each of her breasts with the attention they deserve. So soft, and warm. Brittany lets out several cries and gasps at the contact. You kiss up and down her torso; suckle her neck and shoulder, only leaving marks that can be covered by the Cheerio uniform. You feel her reach upon and unsnap your bra at some point, so you shrug it off and let your breasts touch hers.

This time you gasp. Your head swims. But you're on top right now, and that means that you're in charge. You move down the length of her body slowly, let her feel your hot breath on her flushed skin. She moans, deeply.

You tease until she begs, and when she begs you're only too happy to oblige her. You position yourself between those long lovely dancer's legs, the muscles twitch and jump as you kiss the insides of her thighs. You pull down the underwear and smell her arousal. It's like molten gold, it's intoxicating.

"Fuh---fuck," rips from her throat as you ease your fingers into the soft, wet warmth and fasten your lips around her sensitive bud. You make quick work of it, she's been so patient so far, and this is the best part anyways.

With one final lick, you bring your head up and keep moving, curling your fingers insistently inside her. He eyes snap open and meet yours, and then she's breaking, coming apart, thrusting wildly against your hand in total abandon and complete pleasure. You've seen other people come, but no one as beautifully or as tenderly as she does.

You lay on top of her as she comes down, feel her heaving chest as she breathes gratefully.

"God," is all she can say. "God."

"Santana will do just fine," you joke, wanting to keep the mood light, because in the afterglow you often fear one of you is going to do something stupid, like use the 'l' word. But you don't, and she just chuckles. After a few moments she flips the tables, straddling you, a feral look on her face.

She doesn't tease you when she removes your underwear, sees the moisture already accumulated there. "You're soaking," she says. So she is merciful. And you climax so magnificently under her touch, legs locked around her head and her warm mouth on the most intimate part of you.

Hours pass before you are both sated. The windows are completely fogged up except for the thin strip of night at the top that allows air into the car. You rest your full weight on top of her, lay your head on her chest as she lazily works her fingers through your hair.

"You need to wear your hair down more often," she murmurs.

"Only for you, babe," you reply.

There are things you won't say right now, like how you were just looking for a reason to have sex with her tonight without drawing any attention. The party had been her idea (and of course you were expected to show) but you didn't trust yourself around her when you had any amount of alcohol in your system, and losing self-control in the middle of a crowded party would not be a good thing. You also won't say how deeply you actually feel for your best friend. You never expected ever be attracted to a girl, but denying impulses was one thing that Santana Lopez was not good at.

There's no denying it at this point, you haven't had sex with anyone else in six months and you don't want to. That word, the one you don't feel? Yeah, you're feeling it for your best friend. Your female best friend. There are those complications you were worried about, but no matter how much you want to, you can't get rid of the feeling.

But for now these things go unsaid. One day the sex won't be enough, one day Brittany or she will want to push for something more, and then they'll have to deal with the fallout. But for now, you are together, happy, and no one knows. You both dress and drive back to Brittany's house and settle into her pink-sheeted bed. She wraps her arms around you from behind protectively and you don't want to be anywhere else.

You think that someday you're going to add a fourth thing to that list of things that matter.

Or narrow it down to one. Who knows?