Author's Notes: This piece takes place after "Duets." It also contains some sexual situations between Santana and Brittany. If that's not your thing, please don't read.

Disclaimer: I don't own it.

Nothing Compares
By Duckie Nicks

"You ruined my relationship with Artie."

She looks up and past her own reflection in the mirror to see Brittany standing in the doorway.

But Santana only rolls her eyes and continues with her night routine that Coach Sylvester has crafted for and forced upon her (purge dinner, drink a laxative-and-muscle-builder-laced smoothie, and follow all of it up with a soothing peppermint facial). At the moment, she's on the facial part. Given the way Brittany seems to think she had a relationship with Artie though, Santana almost wishes she'd been around for the purging part. Cause this is totally triggering her gag reflex.

"You picked a song to sing for glee and had sex. Britney Spears' marriage to that guy who looks like he has sex with pigs lasted longer."

Brittany sits down on her bed, her eyes filled with confusion. "'PopoZão' is about a pig?"

"Not K-Fed," Santana explains as she rubs in the last of her pore minimizing cream. "The other guy, the one who was on Seinfeld or whatever."

It's at that moment that she notices Brittany's pleated skirt has risen up her thighs. Bright red fabric has parted to reveal pale flesh and toned muscle. And though Santana has tried to convince herself that she doesn't need or want a relationship (or whatever) with Brittany, right now, it's a little hard to believe that.

"My point is, you were using Artie to get back at me," she says quickly, her voice more hoarse than usual. "Now, I might have informed him." She spins around in her swivel chair to look Brittany in the eyes. "But if he'd ever looked in the mirror, he would have figured it out on his own anyway."

Santana realizes that she's essentially just said that Brittany is too hot for Artie, that there's been a compliment made somewhere in there. But then again, Brittany is dumb – like seriously stupid – and the chances of her realizing that are basically non-existent, so Santana doesn't feel bad.

"I liked him," Brittany admits softly, her gaze on her hands in her lap. "We planned on going to Breadsticks and sharing a spaghetti strand like Lady and the Tramp do. I had to push the meatball all by myself instead."

It's information that's clearly supposed to make Santana feel bad.

But it doesn't.

If anything it just makes her feel even more relieved that she sabotaged Brittany and Artie. Had Coach Sylvester learned Brittany had been planning on eating carbs and meat and, well, just about any sort of solid food, the whole team would have been punished for it.

"That's, like, the most pathetic thing I've ever heard. And that is saying something, considering we saw Mr. Schu's post-divorce breakdown."

Brittany remains uncharacteristically dour. "You didn't have to do that."

"But it was fun," Santana replies with a smile.

"I don't get it." Santana wants to say that that's probably not a first for Brittany but doesn't. "You didn't want to sing with me."

"Hell yeah. Breadsticks was on the line."

"And you're dating Puck."

Santana's eyes narrow on her. "So? You think I was gonna lez out with you?"

It's obvious Brittany wants to say yes, but what she says is, "Then why do you care if I'm dating Artie?"

It's an unusually perspective question coming from someone who confuses ducks with songs. But Santana supposes that even someone as dumb as Brittany gets to be right every once in a while.

"Why not be okay with me dating him?"

Santana stands up. Like an animal assessing its prey, she slowly prowls toward Brittany. "Here's how this works," she says in a voice that's almost like a purr. "Every high school needs a power couple. Since Finn and Quinn broke up, I've been working my hardest to make sure Puck and I take their place." She puts a hand on her hip. "I'm not going to ruin all of that so you and I can live our very own Melissa Etheridge musical."

"But –"

"He's public. You're private," she says with a shrug.

Brittany blinks slowly, her small mind working hard to process what Santana is telling her. "Then why can't I have someone in –"

"Because."

Santana hovers over Brittany before leaning down to kiss her. Their lips pressed tightly together, Brittany tastes of bubblegum and Twizzlers. And it's in that moment, as she grips Santana by the hips and lets her tongue slide against her own, that Santana wishes things could be different.

She doesn't love Brittany or anything like that, but there's a fondness there, a friendship that she wishes she could… enjoy more.

But she knows she's not wrong when she says she can't be Brittany's girlfriend. Sex every once in a while is fine – great even – but it's not like they can date. The crap the whole school would give them aside, Santana knows how dating ends: feelings hurt, hearts broken, and friends turning into enemies. She's seen her father go through too many relationships not to know how these things go.

Relationships always equal pain in some way. And as much as part of her would like to take things with Brittany to the next level…

She can't.

She won't.

But that doesn't mean she'll deny herself what she wants right now.

Santana presses the palms of her hands into Brittany's shoulders. Roughly, she pushes her back onto the bed. "I want you available to me at all times."

Brittany looks both mildly confused and vaguely offended. But she says nothing, which Santana likes. If only because it lets her get on with things, she likes her silence.

Santana straddles Brittany, trapping the blonde's warm thighs with her own. Leaning down, she whispers into Brittany's ear, "Why would you want a boyfriend anyway?"

It's a rhetorical question (not that Brittany knows what is).

She nips the earlobe brushing against her lips. "No one can do what I do." She kisses along Brittany's jawbone, her tongue darting out to taste the girl beneath her. "Artie doesn't know how to do this."

One of her hands slides along the sides of Brittany's body and along the curve of her chest to squeeze one of her breasts. And even through the thick fabric of her Cheerios uniform, her arousal – in the form of tightening nipples – is obvious.

Santana smiles at this, at the way Brittany pants and tries to part her legs.

But Santana is in no hurry. Sure, her clit is beginning to pulse at the sight of Brittany, compliant and wonton, beneath her. Part of her wishes she didn't get so turned on by her best friend, but there's no denying it. Her pussy becoming slick with the need to feel Brittany tongue deep inside of her is proof enough.

Yet Santana's not doing this to get off.

She's making a point.

Slowly she shifts down along Brittany's body. Her fingertips curl around the edges of Brittany's top and carefully begin to peel it back.

Brittany moans her approval, her hands cupping Santana's ass in desperation.

But Santana maintains a slow pace, gingerly planting kisses along Brittany's hipbone and stomach. "A guy doesn't know what you like," she whispers, her breath warm against Brittany's already heated flesh.

The point, however, goes right over Brittany's air-filled head. Seriously, she looks completely clueless. Apparently, like most of the people Santana has slept with, Brittany is even more brain damaged when there's the prospect of having sex.

Santana can use that to her advantage though. The dumbest are, after all, the easiest to manipulate.

One of her hands slips under Brittany's skirt. Pressing the heel of her hand up against Brittany's hot cunt, Santana can feel, even through those Cheerios-issues bloomers how wet Brittany is. She's so wet, she'll have to hide her uniform at the bottom of the team laundry from Coach Sylvester's prying eyes.

But none of this surprises Santana.

As much as Brittany has claimed to like Artie, as much as she probably does like Artie… and pretty much anyone with a dick, no one can do what Santana is capable of.

Not when it comes to sex anyway.

Her long fingers hook into the crotch of Brittany's bloomers and thong and pull the slick material away from her heated body. It's impossible to miss how much she wants this. But what Santana cruelly says is, "You want a boyfriend now?"

Brittany shakes her head, blonde hair whipping back and forth and fanning out onto the dark red bedspread.

Just as frenzied, Santana shoves two fingers into her body. Brittany gasps loudly, her entire body clenching tightly around Santana. Her muscles squeeze rhythmically, pulses wet and hot. She spreads her legs, a silent invitation for Santana to do more.

And she doesn't refuse.

Setting a pace that's both quick and unforgiving, she pumps in and out of Brittany's sweet little pussy. There's absolutely no thinking of her own arousal; she'll take care of that later. She just focuses on the body beneath her and what it's craving.

"You like that?" she asks in a sultry voice. When she adds a thumb on Brittany's clit to the mix, she repeats the question, "You like that? Huh?"

"Yes!" The word comes out in one long cry that seems to last for several seconds. Brittany's close, her tone laden with the desire to come.

"Really?" Santana pretends to be doubtful of a truth she can feel.

"Totally." Her voice has the same dreamy quality to it that it always does. But right now, it's even more listless than usual, despite being filled with a need that Santana doesn't hear every day at school.

There's no time for Santana to respond before Brittany cries out loudly. Her fingers dig into the bedspread, her knuckles white with effort. At any second, she could come.

And that's when Santana does it.

She pulls her fingers out completely.

There's a fraction of a second where Brittany obviously has no idea what's going on. Not realizing that Santana has no intention of continuing, she simply spreads her legs further, thrusts her hips to capture what she'd taken for granted only seconds ago.

But then she realizes that it's hopeless. Her eyes are suddenly wide with confusion, and she looks even more lost than normal. And considering how lost she usually looks, that's really saying something.

Her gaze falling onto Santana, she tries to find an answer, searches Santana's face for one. Or if not an answer, Santana thinks, then she's definitely looking for the orgasm that has eluded her.

But Santana has no intention of giving her that. Instead, she says snottily, "I think we're done here."

Brittany's long lashes brush against her cheeks in slow motion. "What?"

"Think about that the next time you want a boyfriend."

Santana gets up and returns to her vanity. As she wipes Brittany's juices off on a towel, she says in a cold, cruel voice, "You can go now."

At first, she expects Brittany to protest. But that doesn't happen at all. In fact, Brittany doesn't say anything as she leaves. She just stomps out of the room in frustration, her eyes suspiciously bright and ponytail bouncing behind her.

To be completely honest, Santana feels bad (a little bit anyway), watching her go. But she doesn't actually regret her behavior until she goes to bed that night and smells Brittany on her hands.

The End