FILL: Jeff/Britta, It's Supposed To Be Casual (1/2)
anonymous
August 27 2012, 07:53:39 UTC
Jeff's fingers fumble at the lock, and she snatches the keys from his hand, giving the knob the hard yank needed to unstick the door from the frame as she turns the key. Jeff laughs a little to himself as he stumbles into his apartment, his hand drifting over the curve of her back before they go in opposite directions.
She throws his keys on the counter and goes for the bottle of vodka in the freezer. She frowns at a jar from the fridge with nothing but salty olive juice floating in it, and pours two straight shots instead, an icy condensation forming as the alcohol hit the room temperature glass.
"Night cap," she says as she brings the shots back to the living room where Jeff is pitched back on the couch, his eyes closed and his shoes half-untied. She nudges him over on the cushion and he makes room for her automatically, his body curving around her own.
"To Greendale," she says, holding the shot glass and feeling weirdly formal suddenly, perched on the edge of Jeff's couch. Jeff cracks an eye open in her direction and a smile chases itself across his expression. He brings his glass up to tap the rims together with a clink.
"To us," he says, and she does the shot solemnly, the alcohol burning pleasantly as it goes down her throat.
~~
She met Jeff in a haze of bad Spanish, dubiously wacky community college antics, and earnestly learned lessons on the value of love and friendship. It's enough to turn anybody's head. Somewhere between the bonding and the reconstruction of her personal boundaries she started to wonder if the glimmers she saw of a good person in Jeff might eventually morph into something substantial, something real, and she let herself get turned around, get sucked into the cliche. Look what that got her: transfer queen, an undeserved reputation for embarrassing public declarations of love, and a little bit of a broken heart. (It wasn't actually broken. But the sting of it was real.)
What they have now is casual. It's understandable. Controllable.
It's good.
~~
They're fucking in an empty classroom in the east wing of campus when Jeff starts to say her name, low and under his breath. His fingers are digging painfully into her hips, and he's pressed into her desperately close, smothering her with his weight. His eyes are closed and his breath is hot in the shell of her ear, and the intensity of it starts to unnerve her, the litany he's whispering. It's not that they don't say each other's names when having sex, but there's something different here, like he isn't even aware of what he's doing.
She wraps her legs around his narrow hips and brings him in closer to her. "Jeff," she says back finally, muffled in his neck. "Jeff, Jeff, Jeffrey."
He bites hard on her shoulder when he comes, and afterwards he pants into the side of her neck, boneless, as she silently runs her hand up and down the muscles of his back and wonders.
FILL: Jeff/Britta, It's Supposed To Be Casual (2/2)
anonymous
August 27 2012, 08:01:05 UTC
They challenge each other to each come up with the next place they have sex, and between Abed's dorm room (Jeff's idea) and the back alley behind the Red Door (Britta's contribution) they're back in the swing of things, and it's dirty and such an obvious secret that most days Britta doesn't understand how the rest of the study group doesn't look them straight in the face and just know. She isn't sure if that would be better, if bringing this thing they have now into the light of day would change it in some fundamental way, or maybe destroy it. She just knows it would be different.
~~
He shows up at her apartment with a movie and a promise to make some sort of dinner, which turns out to be microwaveable and something that Britta does not understand to be edible food. But the movie is good and the blanket on the couch is cozy and warm tucked around the both of them, so she lets the fake food thing slide. For now.
"Hey. Rub my feet." She pokes him encouragingly with her toe under the blanket.
He glances at her from the corner of his eye. "Uh, demand much, Demanderella?"
"Hey-rub-my-feet please?" she tries again, and smiles at him winningly.
He cups the ball of her right foot in the palm of his hand and starts to work his thumbs into the arch, and it feels so good her toes start to curl in on themselves involuntarily. Jeff smirks in her directions. "I've got the magic hands," he says. "It's my second greatest skill in life, second only to being a lawyer."
"Ex-lawyer."
"You're about to have an ex-foot rub, if you keep up with that sort of unnecessary social accuracy."
"Shhh," she scolds, dramatically squinting at the television screen. "You're missing the movie."
He rolls his eyes and does something to her foot that feels so good it's probably illegal, and she melts into the couch next to him, already trying to get her left foot into the action as well.
~~
Basically: what they have is good. Controllable. Understandable.
She throws his keys on the counter and goes for the bottle of vodka in the freezer. She frowns at a jar from the fridge with nothing but salty olive juice floating in it, and pours two straight shots instead, an icy condensation forming as the alcohol hit the room temperature glass.
"Night cap," she says as she brings the shots back to the living room where Jeff is pitched back on the couch, his eyes closed and his shoes half-untied. She nudges him over on the cushion and he makes room for her automatically, his body curving around her own.
"To Greendale," she says, holding the shot glass and feeling weirdly formal suddenly, perched on the edge of Jeff's couch. Jeff cracks an eye open in her direction and a smile chases itself across his expression. He brings his glass up to tap the rims together with a clink.
"To us," he says, and she does the shot solemnly, the alcohol burning pleasantly as it goes down her throat.
~~
She met Jeff in a haze of bad Spanish, dubiously wacky community college antics, and earnestly learned lessons on the value of love and friendship. It's enough to turn anybody's head. Somewhere between the bonding and the reconstruction of her personal boundaries she started to wonder if the glimmers she saw of a good person in Jeff might eventually morph into something substantial, something real, and she let herself get turned around, get sucked into the cliche. Look what that got her: transfer queen, an undeserved reputation for embarrassing public declarations of love, and a little bit of a broken heart. (It wasn't actually broken. But the sting of it was real.)
What they have now is casual. It's understandable. Controllable.
It's good.
~~
They're fucking in an empty classroom in the east wing of campus when Jeff starts to say her name, low and under his breath. His fingers are digging painfully into her hips, and he's pressed into her desperately close, smothering her with his weight. His eyes are closed and his breath is hot in the shell of her ear, and the intensity of it starts to unnerve her, the litany he's whispering. It's not that they don't say each other's names when having sex, but there's something different here, like he isn't even aware of what he's doing.
She wraps her legs around his narrow hips and brings him in closer to her. "Jeff," she says back finally, muffled in his neck. "Jeff, Jeff, Jeffrey."
He bites hard on her shoulder when he comes, and afterwards he pants into the side of her neck, boneless, as she silently runs her hand up and down the muscles of his back and wonders.
~~
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~~
He shows up at her apartment with a movie and a promise to make some sort of dinner, which turns out to be microwaveable and something that Britta does not understand to be edible food. But the movie is good and the blanket on the couch is cozy and warm tucked around the both of them, so she lets the fake food thing slide. For now.
"Hey. Rub my feet." She pokes him encouragingly with her toe under the blanket.
He glances at her from the corner of his eye. "Uh, demand much, Demanderella?"
"Hey-rub-my-feet please?" she tries again, and smiles at him winningly.
He cups the ball of her right foot in the palm of his hand and starts to work his thumbs into the arch, and it feels so good her toes start to curl in on themselves involuntarily. Jeff smirks in her directions. "I've got the magic hands," he says. "It's my second greatest skill in life, second only to being a lawyer."
"Ex-lawyer."
"You're about to have an ex-foot rub, if you keep up with that sort of unnecessary social accuracy."
"Shhh," she scolds, dramatically squinting at the television screen. "You're missing the movie."
He rolls his eyes and does something to her foot that feels so good it's probably illegal, and she melts into the couch next to him, already trying to get her left foot into the action as well.
~~
Basically: what they have is good. Controllable. Understandable.
Casual.
~~
(which is exactly how it should be, right?)
(right)
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