community fic: i love the smell of self-loathing in the morning
i love the smell of self-loathing in the morning. community. jeff/britta. This feels like something she should be better than.
Britta wakes up with her face stuck to the sticky black leather of Jeff’s couch.
“Fuck,” she says. Her voice cracks, and then her neck.
She shifts off the couch, her elbows propping her up. The couch squeaks against the dry skin of her elbow.
“You farted,” Jeff says, smirking.
It’s barely eight in the morning and the sun is shining through his fake wood window treatments and Britta is too hungover for this shit. She’s too old for this shit. She’s too mature for this shit.
It’s a Tuesday, and she has class in an hour.
C’mon Britta, she thinks to herself, adjusting her twisted bra strap, get your shit together.
Jeff tries to kiss her mouth and misses. Britta scowls.
“Are you serious right now?” she asks.
Jeff’s hair is sticking up at a stupid, dumb angle and she takes a mental picture of it. His leg is rammed in between her knees, but when she tries to roll away from him he just presses her closer to the couch.
“Are you serious right now with your morning breath?”
Britta knees him a little too close to his balls and takes entirely too much satisfaction in the way he groans into her collarbone. The alarm on her cell phone goes off from all the way across the room.
“Maybe you wouldn’t be such a bitch if you got laid.”
He palms her ass and smoothly transitions from doubled over in pain to kissing his way down her stomach. It’d be amazing if it wasn’t such an inconvenience at the moment.
“Know anyone who could do the job properly then, Winger?”
It doesn’t sound so convincing when her voice breaks somewhere in the middle of his last name. Jeff has two fingers inside of her and she wants to scream, but not in the fun way. Instead, she splays her hand against the arm of the couch and pushes up for leverage.
“Stop ruining this by moving your mouth.”
“That’s not what you said last night.”
Jeff twists his fingers inside of her and curls up slowly. Britta’s not proud of the noise she makes. He twists them again and oh god now she’s coming on his stupid leather couch on a Tuesday morning. She’s got to be better than this.
Her phone alarm is still ringing.
Jeff wipes his fingers on the inside of her thigh.
“Time to recipricado,” he drawls, lacing his hands behind his head.
“I don’t think that’s a word, asshole,” she manages.
“Don’t really care,” he says.
“Well, I do,” she responds, scrabbling off the couch and storming out the door with her jeans unbuttoned and boots unlaced.
She texts him, later. She spent lunch huddled over her Spanish textbook.
to reciprocate - corresponder a
blow me, he texts back.
u wish, she types back.
Britta wakes up with her face stuck to the sticky black leather of Jeff’s couch.
“Fuck,” she says. Her voice cracks, and then her neck.
She shifts off the couch, her elbows propping her up. The couch squeaks against the dry skin of her elbow.
“You farted,” Jeff says, smirking.
It’s barely eight in the morning and the sun is shining through his fake wood window treatments and Britta is too hungover for this shit. She’s too old for this shit. She’s too mature for this shit.
It’s a Tuesday, and she has class in an hour.
C’mon Britta, she thinks to herself, adjusting her twisted bra strap, get your shit together.
Jeff tries to kiss her mouth and misses. Britta scowls.
“Are you serious right now?” she asks.
Jeff’s hair is sticking up at a stupid, dumb angle and she takes a mental picture of it. His leg is rammed in between her knees, but when she tries to roll away from him he just presses her closer to the couch.
“Are you serious right now with your morning breath?”
Britta knees him a little too close to his balls and takes entirely too much satisfaction in the way he groans into her collarbone. The alarm on her cell phone goes off from all the way across the room.
“Maybe you wouldn’t be such a bitch if you got laid.”
He palms her ass and smoothly transitions from doubled over in pain to kissing his way down her stomach. It’d be amazing if it wasn’t such an inconvenience at the moment.
“Know anyone who could do the job properly then, Winger?”
It doesn’t sound so convincing when her voice breaks somewhere in the middle of his last name. Jeff has two fingers inside of her and she wants to scream, but not in the fun way. Instead, she splays her hand against the arm of the couch and pushes up for leverage.
“Stop ruining this by moving your mouth.”
“That’s not what you said last night.”
Jeff twists his fingers inside of her and curls up slowly. Britta’s not proud of the noise she makes. He twists them again and oh god now she’s coming on his stupid leather couch on a Tuesday morning. She’s got to be better than this.
Her phone alarm is still ringing.
Jeff wipes his fingers on the inside of her thigh.
“Time to recipricado,” he drawls, lacing his hands behind his head.
“I don’t think that’s a word, asshole,” she manages.
“Don’t really care,” he says.
“Well, I do,” she responds, scrabbling off the couch and storming out the door with her jeans unbuttoned and boots unlaced.
She texts him, later. She spent lunch huddled over her Spanish textbook.
to reciprocate - corresponder a
blow me, he texts back.
u wish, she types back.