A/N based off a prompt at the anon kink meme. Evil!Britta and Britta where Evil!Britta reveals the good things about Britta. I half went with that and half went with the dark story that's been on my mind for a while about Britta being molested at 11. Dark themes and quite NSFW.
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters or the original idea.
Trigger warning: Dubious consent, rough sex, blood, mentions of molestation.
She slams you back into the wall. There's hair in your mouth, in front of your eyes and her face is obscured. Her hair is darker than yours, danker, like she's given up on caring for it. Her eyes are cloudy blue and you wonder if yours look the same, or if they're black with this betraying desire. You had been scared at first; of course you were, you were seeing yourself, except not. You were seeing your face and you and everything you knew but you were also seeing empty eyes, a darkness, a sneer that had grown as she backed you up, feralness you had always managed to walk the line of. This woman did scare you, she scared you beyond belief but this was you let go, this was you with the darkness taken over and the sight was addicting. When she kisses you it tastes like smoke and you run your tongue over her lips.
You're used to using your hands during sex. You run your fingers through guys' hair when you kiss them; you grip lapels and sink your nails into skin. You're used to it so much that when this woman pins your arms against the wall, digging her nails into your wrists until there's marks left there, you completely give your body over. She's got your shirt removed in an instant and in the brief moment between the fabric covering your eyes and her lips on yours you look closer. She has faded blue in her hair and her lips are swollen in a way you've seen so often in the mirror. You want to stop because this is you, this woman isn't some random guy that you can fuck into submission but a woman as independent and strong as you. You think 'as strong' and not 'stronger' because you're barely maintaining any control over this situation, her hips jutting forward into yours in a familiar motion. You've done it hundreds of times but never had it returned. Her belt pushes against the denim of your jeans and you moan into her mouth. She bites your lip in return, nails digging into harder for a second and you can't even lie and say you don't like this because she's you, she knows how much you truly hate yourself.
Her mouth is travelling down your neck; her teeth hard and then lips soft, leaving marks she knows you'll look at in the morning as another reason to be ashamed. She knows everyone of your buttons and your hands are still keeping off her hair, away from her body, her face despite the fact that she's finally let go of your wrists. You don't feel any less captive anyway. There's blood running from your lip onto your chin and you let your tongue dart out to catch the copper warmness. You hate that you like it.
You don't why she's doing this; pushing your sweater higher and higher up your stomach. You don't understand why she's leaving bites against your hipbones, the marks red and angry in the dull light of your apartment. You can feel the bruises that will be dark tomorrow against the bone as you press forwards, unable to stop your hips from searching for any kind pressure. You don't why she's doing this, except you do, because you saw the darkness in her eyes when you first saw her. You saw the way she ached for control, the deep flash of fear in her dull eyes. You've felt that hunger for control inside you often, a desire that always had you pulling Jeff into the closest room to assert yourself.
You wonder if this version of you thinks about that day more often. You wonder if it runs through her dreams at night. You try and picture the way her eyes looked when she was so close to you, the way her lips felt desperate against yours but you can't focus because her lips are still on your hipbones and her fingers are running higher up your thigh, red welts following their path.
You're going to tell her to stop no matter how much you want it, how much her dark eyes and harsh grip make you wet. You've learnt that at least from the study group, that it's not worth it if you feel this much pain. You thread your fingers through her hair, pull her up ready to say enough, ready to stop this properly but you pause. As your fingers thread through her hair her breath hitches. It's barely noticeable and another person would probably miss it but you don't. You don't because this is you and that hitch is what happened when Jeff was too gentle, when Vaughn caressed your cheek as you sucked him off, when someone took a second to be gentle. You know that means she's trying to pass it off, to throw away old emotions and old images of things that aren't right and aren't good and shouldn't be remembered. You know that means remembering gentle fingers sneaking into elastic waistband jeans in a way that, even then, you knew was wrong.
You feel her hesitance again as you pull her up, feel the way she needs this more than you. She needs that power over you, that control that you're slowly peeling yourself away from. You wonder if this Britta has the study group to teach her she's worth something, if she has them to distract her from memories. This is helping her somehow, whether it's that day or another darker thing in her closer past. You know it's going to mean hours of looking at the marks in a mirror and hating yourself, you know it means ignoring the study group until they've somewhat faded but you let her sneak her hand into your jeans, let her slide two fingers into you harshly. You hiss because it feels so good yet so bad and her mouth is on your neck again, whispering things you can't quite hear over your panting.
"You can lie to your little friends," you finally hear, trying to control your heaving chest as she fucks you torturously slow. "But you can never lie to me. I can feel how much you want this, how much you want me to fuck you like you're worthless."
You try and let her words wash over you. It's for her, it's for her, you repeat until you believe it again.
"You thought you could fix yourself by fixing everyone else but you're still fucked up and fucking up everyone around you."
She knows how to get you off so well, fingers moving so slowly that you can feel every nerve in your body straining for more. She drops to her knees quickly and you're repeating that it's for her over and over in your head until you think you're saying it loud. You might be, you're not sure. It could be words or it could be curses falling off your tongue so easily. Your jeans and panties are around your knees now and you hate that she's still clothes while you feel naked but it's for her. It's for her.
"Britta," you finally groan and her eyes snap up to yours. It's acknowledging that you know she's real, that this dark woman is someone you could become. You look into her eyes which aren't darker at all, bite your lip until it splits again and grip your hands in her hair.
"You try so hard. Just let go," she whispers against your skin and then finally, her tongue touches you.
You've been worked up so much that you come with a cry, trying as hard as you can to not let it turn into a sob. One hand is pushing her head against you and the other is in your own hair, pulling hard enough so that it aches, so that you will be able to feel the pain afterwards. The strands of her hair and your hair feel the same against your fingers and she soon slides up your body until you're eye to eye. She's wearing heels and is taller than you. It makes you feel claustrophobic somehow and you try to catch your breath. She doesn't seem to want you to though because her hand is rubbing against you gently, bringing the aftershocks out for as long as possible.
When it gets too painful, her hand stills and she leans in, breath hitting your lips and making them part. She kisses you softly, blue-grey eyes held eerily open and you can't help but do the same. You notice them finally darken as she withdraws her hands from you, pulls up your panties and jeans and wipes her fingers down the side of your neck. She's going to leave; you know because she's you and you've done this a thousand times. Before she walks out though, her kiss lingers, lips soft and warm against yours before biting down hard. The split in your lip opens again and she's out the door as you bring a hand up to catch the blood. You think you might be crazy; for seeing her here, for letting her do those things to you, for being happy about it, happy that you might have helped this other you just a little bit.
You smile and notice how much your body hurts.
You grimace and stumble to your full length mirror.
You don't cry until you're scrubbed clean by the shower's burning spray and tucked into bed.
You close your eyes and dream of dinosaurs.