Fandom: Ginger Snaps
Characters: Brigitte Fitzgerald/Sam
Word Count: 2649
Warnings: Underage sex, self harm mention, suicide mention. Bad writing.
Summary: Suddenly Sam wants to fill the room with chemical smoke, let it fill their lungs and their eyes, embalming them from the inside out and the outside in.
Notes: Old as fuck dude. Old as fuck and I am so ashamed lmao. Yet again I just tacked on a weird ending. Also the title is lifted from Type O Negative's Wolf Moon because i think I'm funny.
There isn't any sunlight streaming through the curtains when Sam opens his eyes. The inn was a little hoodunk one, in an equally hoodunk town, and the tiny room they got for the time being has a scenic view of the gray concrete building next door.
The room has garish, worn wallpaper that's probably been there since the late sixties. And the bed, Sam thinks, is possibly older. He sits up, and there's an ache bone deep settling in joints of his limbs.
He feels sore, satiated in a way, heavy and empty. Weighed down with something that isn't sleep, almost electric. When Sam leans against the headboard he feels the phantom twinge of the deep scratches (her blunt nails dig into his back, desperate and clinging, and the painpleasurepainpleasure clang around in his head and its so fucking good) down his shoulder blades. There's a bite mark (their bodies are sweat slick, breath gone ragged when he pushes into Brigitte for the fifth time. She's in his lap, naked and quivering against his chest, overly sensitive from her last orgasm. She sinks down around him, and its too much, she cries out through clenched teeth on his skin) , small with near perfect impressions, on the curve where shoulder meets arm. Sam is half surprised they haven't healed yet, but the recent dose of Monkshod has pushed back the transformation further than he had thought.
He's glad for it. More than just making him normal (human) once more (for a little while), it meant he had proof last night had happened.
Next to a old analog clock on the bedside table there's a cigarette dish filled with ashes and a half smoked cigarette. The numbers flip to five am, parts of the digits dimmed a grainy black. He's only slept for three, maybe four, hours. The wire jitter creeps back into his fingers, so Sam reaches for the cigarette, groping for the mini bic he's sure is nearby. It's not his usual thing, but Sam isn't sure the half pack survived the heated stumble home (mouths coming together, hungry and reckless, like the world is coming to unending. Maybe it is, the kiss is lava hot, scorching everything in its wake. There's nothing but need and want and 'can I, can I, Brigitte please, need you so fucking bad'. Then that becomes an insatiable, overwhelming thing when her slick swollen lips wrap around his name 'Sam, Sam, Sam,' and words like 'Yes' and 'Please' and 'Fuck' and 'Want')
It takes a few tries to catch the blackened tip, but then the cherry ("Trina Sinclair called you a cherry hound." Brigitte told him once, several towns and almost another lifetime back. Her hair had been in her face when she said it, neither accusatory nor curious. Sam had blinked then, surprised, before he laughed and laughed for what felt like the first time) burns a dimpled orange, smoke curling on the tip of his tongue.
He holds it like he would a joint, pinched between forefinger and thumb, inhaling deep, watches the tip burn away. It tastes dirty, the smoke, but when he blows it all out in a sigh, he feels cleaner, somehow. The wire jitter settles back into place and the bone ache numbs. Smoke unfurls from his mouth in a curly cloud, wispy gray arms reaching for the sky only to disperse into the water stained ceiling. Suddenly Sam wants to fill the room with chemical smoke, let it fill their lungs and their eyes, embalming them from the inside out and the outside in. Freeze this moment in a hazy gray, leave them suspended in the spaceless hours before the sun touches the empty sky and the outside world becomes a tangible thing.
The cigarette is almost out. He takes one last drag, holds it in, and leans over the sleeping figure next to him. There's a shared virus between them, merging with their DNA, warping them. There's a shared poison between them, singing through their blood, saving them. One more thing can't hurt, he thinks. Her lips are red and bruised, slack with with sleep.
Sam kisses Brigitte like he's breathing life into her instead of ash and nicotine. The kiss is a chaste press of lips; lingering and open mouthed. Brigitte's eyes flutter open like a reverse Snow White; the cursed apple is what wakes her. ("Everything about this is fucked," he had told her, gripping the wheel of the truck too tight, his knuckles turning a bloodless white. "Fairy tales only have things like 'cures' and happy endings to hide the fact its a fucking death sentence." Brigitte only nodded, gripping an aged photo between bandaged fingers) He feels her swallow around the smoke, and the kiss tastes too much like ashes, like the onset of fall where all the summer warmth mutes under overcast skies.
It's a lovely, lonely feeling when he pulls away, Brigitte's eyes still have lidded. The last of the smoke between them like a shroud of gossamer. In the half light of the street lamps that seeps through the heavy green diamond print curtains, she looks haloed, sinking behind a veil. But she pushes herself up, and the vision disrupts, shadows slanting over her naked chest, scratchy sheets puddling around her waist.
Her brows are furrowed, breath shallow like she's still asleep, and she looks at the dark space where the door is, equal parts hesitant and expectant. Sam knows what she's thinking, he knows because it's what he's been purposely trying not to think of. Right now, nothing exists outside the safe hollow of this room, where its just him and her, sheets still warm with the memory of a few hours ago. Sam just wants a bit longer here, where it's warm and just them.
So he reaches out to wrap his arm around her, his hand fitting the sharp curve of hip bone, and pulls her flush up against him, lining up their hearts back to front. His body hunches over her, blanketing and possessive, and he remembers being nine and trapped in a thunderstorm,the shivering damp warm body of a kitten curled under his shirt. It had been when Sam had gone to his grandfather's house out in the Canadian wilderness, where giant ancient trees sprawled out for miles and miles. The rain had caught him by surprise has he'd been making his way back home, the sun sinking low into the horizon, a half starved kitten bundled in his dirty clothes. Sam remembers getting soaked before long, ducking underneath a huge cave like hollow of a partly uprooted ponderosa.
He had been not quite scared, but full up of childish conviction that, should he dares venture out before its time, something awful would happen.
That time, more than a decade ago, feels a lot like this.
He feels her heart beat out from under skin and muscle and blood and bone; a strong rhythmic thump next to his. But Sam knows (the way he thinks Ginger had to find out the hard way) that it can't always be like this.
The silence builds up between them like the smell of ozone on that raining day. If they were to say anything, Sam thinks that the questions between the syllables would ring out like thunder.
Brigitte, for her part, breaks the silence by means of a simple, if not perfunctory, "Hi, Sam."
Where the time before she spoke felt weighty and drip dropping long and slow, it now felt as if some cosmic hand had pulled a stopper and time had rushed back in a flood. It's now, Sam realizes, that for all his thinking, its still only five am in the morning, and Brigitte is warm and pliant in his arms.
"Hey," he says, "baby girl, hey." Endearments feel strange in his mouth, but it sounds natural in his sleep deepened voice, and Brigitte doesn't seem to mind it whispered into the space under her ear.
And suddenly it gets, not easy exactly, but something close. Sam moves to press her back into the pillows, looming over her, caging the girl in the confines of his arms, his hands around her wrists above her head. It's a flashback to last night (running his lips hard and sloppy over her jaw, hints of teeth nipping at her collar bones. He feels her wrists creak under the pressure of his fingers, like manacles, leaving bruises, branded on her skin. 'Mine' he says with each thrust of his cock, marking her from the inside, 'Mine'. Her legs come up around his ribs, squeezing, giving as good as good as she gets and Sam knows its not 'Yours' she's answering with) but all Sam does is look.
Brigitte looks back, wide awake in that somnolent way that let's her lay there, open, vulnerable, naked. She's the kind of girl who always has something intense in her eyes, even for all that she hides and shies away. It's intimidating in the fact that Sam doesn't know how to always handle himself around her. His only solace is she's a thousand times worse, and its still fucking sad, because that's just how Brigitte is.
But damned it all, right now she's letting him look, so he'll look, ignoring the steady flip of the gritty black faded numbers.
There are marks upon marks on her body, each with a story in varying degrees of remarkability. Some of them he knows, personal like a childhood story and a lover's whisper. He starts at the top.
On her left arm there are scars. Straight and neat, uniform in length, lining up from elbow to wrist like little soldiers. Every time he sees a glimpse of them from underneath the too big sweaters Brigitte favors, he aches. They remind him a bit of the volume dial in his truck. The first few are an angry pink-white color, the skin raised where the scar tissue healed over. The ones after are lighter, less raised, until finally, the last scar is just a thin, smooth, white line. It's a time line, Sam knows, a catalogue of healing times; a way to see just how much they're changing.
He knows that.
But he fucking aches down to the very core of him. Because she dragged the razor too easy over the canvas of her arms; he'd seen Brigitte do it, professional, utterly unmoved save a small wince as she wrapped it up tight with gauze and tape.
"How," he asks, quiet, slow, "did you do it? Could you do it."
Brigitte is silent for a moment, and Sam is sure he's ruined it and she won't answer. But then, "It's not as hard as you think." She closes her eyes and sinks into the pillow. "Really, most times all you have to do is remember to push it a little harder."
"Oh, did you...back with Ginger...?" Sam trails off, unsure of what he's asking and if he's asking it right.
Her head lulls, and she blows a loose strand of hair from her face. "Ginger didn't want to die. I didn't want to die. To Ginger, death and suicide... It was a game. Like the one where we'd hold our breath when we were little. Suicide would be like getting the gold star at the end of the level; we would've finally beaten the game, delivered the ultimate fuck you."
Sam remembers their pact (pack, family, together, pact) 'Out by sixteen or dead at the scene, but together forever'.
There's another pause before, "Anyone can run a razor, or a knife, or a piece of glass over their wrists. But the trick is to press down hard. It doesn't matter if you mean it or not -the intent behind it- just that you press a little harder."
"Do you mean it?" He asks suddenly, without any thought.
"Sometimes I think I do." Brigitte frowns, the furrow in her brow coming back. "But I don't, not really."
There isn't anything Sam can say to that. 'Hey, sorry your sister was a nightmare fetishist who treated you like player two all your lives. You know, fucking you up, and then, kinda, infecting you with a blood virus that turns you into a man eating mutant wolf' doesn't quite seem to cut it.
His throat is suspiciously tight, choking, like air can't get to his lungs, because Brigitte must have stole it.
She moves her arms out of his grip, spindly fingers moving to leave burning stripes on his cheeks as she pulls him in for a kiss. Brigitte kisses the way she's learned how, still too new, too earnest, too open. She kisses open, drugging in its sincerity. Before him, Sam's sure she's never kissed anyone, so she doesn't know better. That this could hurt her, hurt someone else too. It's dangerous to put so much of herself into it.
But he kisses her back, feels air fill up his chest, tight.
His lips slide off hers, dragging and wet, charting the path he took last night. Plum colored bruises litter the length of her body, following the contour of muscle and bone like water. On her collarbones, at the base of her throat like a jewel. Her ribs, along her stomach, the jut of hips, the white secret place of her inner thighs, the bend of her knee.
The room is quiet again, the hush gone static filled, punctuated with shuddery breaths. Their skin touches and it hums between them, charged with heat.
There's a shock of fear, gnawing on the base of their spines, fluttery, electric, and Brigitte arches sweetly under Sam.
His mouth moves to brush the bite on the vertex of thigh and hip. Fingers slipping lower, and Brigitte gasps. She's still wet, here, slick and warm as he rubs softly at her walls, light over her slit.
Brigitte rolls her hips relentless, insistent without meaning. Red, red lips snagged between sharp white teeth.
She is beautiful like this. Legs curling upwards, her thighs spreading wider.
And Sam is completely, utterly hard.
It wasn't the messy, quick and dirty coupling Sam is used to. Sex is easier if you just give it to people and take what they're offering; wanting it for yourself, wanting to give yourself, is something frighteningly new. Even last night, eyes lust blown as they rutted fast and hard, is somehow different. It's still sex, it's still fucking, but Sam always finds himself snapping out doing things by rote.
Over the low gasps and tensed muscle, Sam can feel her eyes on him. It was strange to be at the focus on Brigitte's attention—like the entire world was imploding in on itself like a burnt out star, narrowing down to just this moment, just them, just him, just her.
She runs her fingers through his hair, gentle and cool at the base of his neck, and he goes willingly. His forehead against her cheek, he whispers into the curve of Brigitte's neck, presses words into her skin like a secret, only for them in this dark space. The tips of his ears burn dark with embarrassment, and she pulls him closer, her hands splaying over the sweep of his shoulder blades, over the place where his heart is. He moves to kiss her, hungry and slow and expansive, like Sam doesn't have plans to do anything else again ever.
Brigitte's so fucking wet around him, hot and still tight regardless of how easily Sam's slipped inside of her, and it feels so damned amazing that Sam's going to lose it before he even gets started.
But he doesn't. They fuck slow, time dragging out between breaths and curses and the squeaks of the bed springs. Yeah, yeah, he sighs into her mouth, swallows her cries.
And then it's over, an eternity far too soon.
The clock buzzes.