(no subject)
Dear Big Poppa,
Aswell is spelled as well.
With love and respect,
All of us
*
The day I joined fueledbygossip was a banner day, kids.
Also, I am not getting my comments, so I'm not ignoring you this time, honest.
Will the hilarity of Lana Jade EVER END? This is making me reconsider my stand on myspace. If everyone on myspace was this entertaining, I would get one. I could have a whole network of people's pets and groupies who screwed FBR talent.
*
This is my spn_holidays fic. Um. It's really late. It is for Amber who asked for this. I hope it's what she wanted.
Goetia
Sam/Ruby (pornography)
Sam's never really liked nice girls. He's so introspective that he misses the big things, the huge, monumental things, in the sweep of minutia and nit-picking. He didn't see the pattern until Jess. Girl after smoking behind the school, bitten black polished fingernails and demonology-obsessed girl, Sam missed the pattern. He never really thought about his bad girl fixation until the first time Jess slapped his face and dumped his books out her third story bedroom window and the anger over the busted spine on his pristine Latin textbook (bought new as a treat to himself, god fucking damn it) made him want her more, that he sort of put two and two together.
Sam likes a girl who doesn't need him. A girl who doesn't need much of anything besides her own self-conviction or self-hatred. Both do it for him. The ball-busting, emasculating bitch on wheels and the cutter, goth, fucking to find love, kind of destroyer of worlds. He's had both kinds in spades since he figured out the sorts of girls he wants want him back. Sam knows he looks like security and is damaged enough that women want to piece him back together. They look at him and see who Dean really is--a guy they can bandage up and stick in the garage on weekends fiddling with a ham radio project or sorting through boxes of Christmas ornaments. Sam's never actually been that guy, but he learned from the best how to project it.
He's wondered for years if his actual damage is a thwarted oedipal complex he's never had a way to express. Who was Mary? He sure as hell doesn't know, and the image of the embodiment of saintly perfection his dad and brother constructed probably didn't help Sam develop healthy attitudes towards women. Not that Sam blames this particular set of issues on dad and Dean. Fuck no, he's pretty sure Heather Simpson and her button-crotched skort in eighth grade probably set his default pattern for life. He can still taste her watermelon lip gloss that came out of a tin with a grooved, sliding lid. He can't hear REO Speedwagon without remembering the feel of her fingers pressing against the denim of his fly, hear her little-girl voice saying "it's not a big deal, what's your problem?" Dad and Dean fucked him up pretty bad, sure, but he did a lot of the heavy lifting himself, too.
Sam's got a long string of bad news behind him, but Ruby's something else. Ruby isn't breath-play and bruises or sneaking around with a married woman, Ruby's the absolute no, the moral line, anathema.
“What's your type, Sammie?” She says with her head cocked and her left hand playing over invisible piano keys against the chipped top of the hotel desk.
“Humans,” he says before any thought gets attached to his speech.
“Oh, come on. That's a total whopper.” She's amused, every line of her slinking into a laugh that doesn't quite get voiced.
And of course, she's right. He's got a little bit of a history with girls who weren't quite human--witches, vampires, werewolves. His type is dangerous, not strictly Other, but sometimes those intersect.
“What do you want anyway?” He leans forward to rest his arms against his thighs, the spizzle-sprung mattress dipping under his weight. He can't keep the petulance out of his voice. Sam's having a fucking bullshit day. Dean wired on Red Bull and pushing every single one of his buttons and Ruby popping 'round for a little taunting about how shitty their current case is going.
“I just want to help you Sam.” The smirk doesn't sell the line, but he doesn't think she cares if he trusts her or not.
I can help you save your brother.
“What's your angle?” He's given that some thought--rebellion in hell, fallen angels seeking redemption and the returned beatific radiance, some mechanizations that are beyond human comprehension--he's spent hours and hours confabulating elaborate scenarios wound around wild speculation.
“Do you want me to be a penitent malakh who's just trying to work her way back out of hell oh-so-sorry she was lead astray all those millennia ago?” She leans forward and opens her eyes wide with slow slow blinks, her mouth a round O of confused innocence. She looks like a manga character or a Hummel figurine.
“Not particularly.” No, that's not his best guess, and Sam's got some serious doubt about the existence of angels or the balancing power of a Good Side.
Her face blanks back into semi-smug. “No, you don't go for that, do you?” She looks down at her nails and back up at him through her bangs. “You don't go for church girls, pretty little girls who love the Lord and want to fix up all the broken things about you.”
Sam narrows his eyes and flicks his hair out of his eyes with a flip of his head. “Are you coming on to me?”
“That's what demons do, Sam. It's in our nature to tempt your kind from the narrow path.”
The laugh bursts out of Sam before he even knows he's amused. He leans back and rubs both hands over his face. His life just keeps bringing the fucked up. Dad’s dead, Dean's sold his soul, and a pretty blonde demon’s been sent to, what, tempt him out of his soul, too?
“You're too late if you're trying to corrupt me.” He's more amused than anything else, too full of the deep ironies of his life.
“Self-esteem issues really aren't what I expected.” She slides to her feet and the act of standing brings her into his personal bubble. “Demons have needs, too, Sam.” Her amused voice raises the hair on the back of his neck.
Standing, she's slightly taller than him sitting. He blinks up at her through his bangs. “Are you serious?”
His personal demon sidekick shrugs and flips her hair over her shoulder. “I could be.” Her voice pitches deeper and her eyes meet his.
Oh, yeah, she's totally serious. Heat hits his face, and his first thought isn't this is wrong or this is dangerous or this is a trick, it's I hope Dean goes to her place, not his. His hand strikes out and twists in her hair pulling her head down so her face is pressed in the crease of his neck.
“Don't fuck with me.”
The laugh he expected from her doesn't come. Her body goes lax against him and she shivers as he gives a sharp yank at her hair. She sighs deep and long against his neck and twists so one leg is across his lap, one arm around his side against his back. She runs sharp nails down his spine, deliberate, painful through his t-shirt as she bites the side of his neck.
Sam pulls her off his neck by her hair and flings her away from him onto her back on the bed. “Don't leave marks my brother'll see.”
Her eyes go black between one blink and another as she raises herself up on her elbows to watch him tug on the button of his fly. She doesn't move as he crawls up over her and drops his weight down, but her legs come up around his ribs as he bites at her bottom lip. She doesn't touch him but her mouth opens under his.
It's too slow, too real. His mind keeps humming, thought jumbling on thought. Sex thoughts refuse to flood in and mask the overwhelming self-loathing he feels at having his tongue in a demon's mouth. He lifts his head, and Ruby's eyes open half-lidded.
“You can't do it, can you?” For the first time since they met, her voice carries a note of honesty. She's disappointed. He closes his eyes and feels her under him, small like a sparrow under his weight, smells the sharp citrus tang of her hair under nicotine and tar and tobacco, tastes mint and the spicy bite of cigarettes on his tongue. She's real, and Sam realizes maybe he's the one who isn't anymore.
He leverages himself up on his palms to push away and her hand flies against his cheek with a loud POP!--open-handed slap but with enough force to twist his head to the side.
“OW!”
She slaps him again, harder and slithers out from under him as he slumps on his side to rub his face and glare. The third time she draws back to smack him, he catches her wrist shouting “HEY” as she lunges to bite his collarbone. Sam doesn't bother trying to not hurt her as he rolls on his back and she follows him to dig fingers under his ribs with her free hand, biting wherever she can land her mouth. Her whole body rubs against him and jeans come loose to slide over his hips. She tugs them over his thighs with her toes, her bare feet more shocking than the welts puffing up on his bicep or the deep teeth marks on his chest.
Sam slips into sex-thoughts. Tiny fingers wrap around his cock, and he rushes in to get his fingers wet beneath denim and thin cotton, the familiar oily, slick slide of heat in the V-between spread thighs. He kisses open-mouthed and tastes bad girl cigarette-tongue, again nothing but familiar, and this feels right, just like the sharp sting of broken fingernails against the back of his neck and the dry skin of a heel pressing into the small of his back.
His thumb rubs in tight circles, and Ruby comes before he slides inside, clenching around him and forcing a deep string of vowels out of his throat into her hair. She's tiny and he bottoms out, causing her to bite him hard enough to draw blood before he pulls back to thrust shallowly, fast, angled up to get the high, bright spark of a sigh each time he thrusts in, rubbing that mythical, secret place inside her that makes her fold up around him and hold on with a slack mouth and eyes shut tight. Sam watches but barely sees, mind whirling down to a tight tunnel of concentration on the muscles closing around him in spasms, and with what is always shocking rapidity, he is nothing but twitches and clenched fingers with a razor-sharp halo of regret.
He rolls off of her and whips an arm up to cover his eyes. The bed shifts and Sam hears the soft ruffling of clothes being rearranged and shoes toed on. The shouldn't have is right there hovering all over him, but there's no shame with it. Yeah, he did something he shouldn't have, but he's got a long list of those somethings. This is just one more and a betrayal to no one but himself, to nothing more than the moral code Dad had cobbled together with nothing but his Marine Corps sense of honor and half-assed “we just don'ts.” Sam doesn't have much honor, and he needs a reason for drawing a line in the sand. Just because doesn't work for him anymore. It really never had.
One of Sam's biggest problems is that he knows when he's rationalizing and self-deluding. It makes it harder to let himself get away with anything.
Ruby lets herself out. Sam's pretty surprised she doesn't have a final one-liner salvo. The click of the latch sounds a lot like the chamber of a revolver locking into place.
Aswell is spelled as well.
With love and respect,
All of us
*
The day I joined fueledbygossip was a banner day, kids.
Also, I am not getting my comments, so I'm not ignoring you this time, honest.
Will the hilarity of Lana Jade EVER END? This is making me reconsider my stand on myspace. If everyone on myspace was this entertaining, I would get one. I could have a whole network of people's pets and groupies who screwed FBR talent.
*
This is my spn_holidays fic. Um. It's really late. It is for Amber who asked for this. I hope it's what she wanted.
Goetia
Sam/Ruby (pornography)
Sam's never really liked nice girls. He's so introspective that he misses the big things, the huge, monumental things, in the sweep of minutia and nit-picking. He didn't see the pattern until Jess. Girl after smoking behind the school, bitten black polished fingernails and demonology-obsessed girl, Sam missed the pattern. He never really thought about his bad girl fixation until the first time Jess slapped his face and dumped his books out her third story bedroom window and the anger over the busted spine on his pristine Latin textbook (bought new as a treat to himself, god fucking damn it) made him want her more, that he sort of put two and two together.
Sam likes a girl who doesn't need him. A girl who doesn't need much of anything besides her own self-conviction or self-hatred. Both do it for him. The ball-busting, emasculating bitch on wheels and the cutter, goth, fucking to find love, kind of destroyer of worlds. He's had both kinds in spades since he figured out the sorts of girls he wants want him back. Sam knows he looks like security and is damaged enough that women want to piece him back together. They look at him and see who Dean really is--a guy they can bandage up and stick in the garage on weekends fiddling with a ham radio project or sorting through boxes of Christmas ornaments. Sam's never actually been that guy, but he learned from the best how to project it.
He's wondered for years if his actual damage is a thwarted oedipal complex he's never had a way to express. Who was Mary? He sure as hell doesn't know, and the image of the embodiment of saintly perfection his dad and brother constructed probably didn't help Sam develop healthy attitudes towards women. Not that Sam blames this particular set of issues on dad and Dean. Fuck no, he's pretty sure Heather Simpson and her button-crotched skort in eighth grade probably set his default pattern for life. He can still taste her watermelon lip gloss that came out of a tin with a grooved, sliding lid. He can't hear REO Speedwagon without remembering the feel of her fingers pressing against the denim of his fly, hear her little-girl voice saying "it's not a big deal, what's your problem?" Dad and Dean fucked him up pretty bad, sure, but he did a lot of the heavy lifting himself, too.
Sam's got a long string of bad news behind him, but Ruby's something else. Ruby isn't breath-play and bruises or sneaking around with a married woman, Ruby's the absolute no, the moral line, anathema.
“What's your type, Sammie?” She says with her head cocked and her left hand playing over invisible piano keys against the chipped top of the hotel desk.
“Humans,” he says before any thought gets attached to his speech.
“Oh, come on. That's a total whopper.” She's amused, every line of her slinking into a laugh that doesn't quite get voiced.
And of course, she's right. He's got a little bit of a history with girls who weren't quite human--witches, vampires, werewolves. His type is dangerous, not strictly Other, but sometimes those intersect.
“What do you want anyway?” He leans forward to rest his arms against his thighs, the spizzle-sprung mattress dipping under his weight. He can't keep the petulance out of his voice. Sam's having a fucking bullshit day. Dean wired on Red Bull and pushing every single one of his buttons and Ruby popping 'round for a little taunting about how shitty their current case is going.
“I just want to help you Sam.” The smirk doesn't sell the line, but he doesn't think she cares if he trusts her or not.
I can help you save your brother.
“What's your angle?” He's given that some thought--rebellion in hell, fallen angels seeking redemption and the returned beatific radiance, some mechanizations that are beyond human comprehension--he's spent hours and hours confabulating elaborate scenarios wound around wild speculation.
“Do you want me to be a penitent malakh who's just trying to work her way back out of hell oh-so-sorry she was lead astray all those millennia ago?” She leans forward and opens her eyes wide with slow slow blinks, her mouth a round O of confused innocence. She looks like a manga character or a Hummel figurine.
“Not particularly.” No, that's not his best guess, and Sam's got some serious doubt about the existence of angels or the balancing power of a Good Side.
Her face blanks back into semi-smug. “No, you don't go for that, do you?” She looks down at her nails and back up at him through her bangs. “You don't go for church girls, pretty little girls who love the Lord and want to fix up all the broken things about you.”
Sam narrows his eyes and flicks his hair out of his eyes with a flip of his head. “Are you coming on to me?”
“That's what demons do, Sam. It's in our nature to tempt your kind from the narrow path.”
The laugh bursts out of Sam before he even knows he's amused. He leans back and rubs both hands over his face. His life just keeps bringing the fucked up. Dad’s dead, Dean's sold his soul, and a pretty blonde demon’s been sent to, what, tempt him out of his soul, too?
“You're too late if you're trying to corrupt me.” He's more amused than anything else, too full of the deep ironies of his life.
“Self-esteem issues really aren't what I expected.” She slides to her feet and the act of standing brings her into his personal bubble. “Demons have needs, too, Sam.” Her amused voice raises the hair on the back of his neck.
Standing, she's slightly taller than him sitting. He blinks up at her through his bangs. “Are you serious?”
His personal demon sidekick shrugs and flips her hair over her shoulder. “I could be.” Her voice pitches deeper and her eyes meet his.
Oh, yeah, she's totally serious. Heat hits his face, and his first thought isn't this is wrong or this is dangerous or this is a trick, it's I hope Dean goes to her place, not his. His hand strikes out and twists in her hair pulling her head down so her face is pressed in the crease of his neck.
“Don't fuck with me.”
The laugh he expected from her doesn't come. Her body goes lax against him and she shivers as he gives a sharp yank at her hair. She sighs deep and long against his neck and twists so one leg is across his lap, one arm around his side against his back. She runs sharp nails down his spine, deliberate, painful through his t-shirt as she bites the side of his neck.
Sam pulls her off his neck by her hair and flings her away from him onto her back on the bed. “Don't leave marks my brother'll see.”
Her eyes go black between one blink and another as she raises herself up on her elbows to watch him tug on the button of his fly. She doesn't move as he crawls up over her and drops his weight down, but her legs come up around his ribs as he bites at her bottom lip. She doesn't touch him but her mouth opens under his.
It's too slow, too real. His mind keeps humming, thought jumbling on thought. Sex thoughts refuse to flood in and mask the overwhelming self-loathing he feels at having his tongue in a demon's mouth. He lifts his head, and Ruby's eyes open half-lidded.
“You can't do it, can you?” For the first time since they met, her voice carries a note of honesty. She's disappointed. He closes his eyes and feels her under him, small like a sparrow under his weight, smells the sharp citrus tang of her hair under nicotine and tar and tobacco, tastes mint and the spicy bite of cigarettes on his tongue. She's real, and Sam realizes maybe he's the one who isn't anymore.
He leverages himself up on his palms to push away and her hand flies against his cheek with a loud POP!--open-handed slap but with enough force to twist his head to the side.
“OW!”
She slaps him again, harder and slithers out from under him as he slumps on his side to rub his face and glare. The third time she draws back to smack him, he catches her wrist shouting “HEY” as she lunges to bite his collarbone. Sam doesn't bother trying to not hurt her as he rolls on his back and she follows him to dig fingers under his ribs with her free hand, biting wherever she can land her mouth. Her whole body rubs against him and jeans come loose to slide over his hips. She tugs them over his thighs with her toes, her bare feet more shocking than the welts puffing up on his bicep or the deep teeth marks on his chest.
Sam slips into sex-thoughts. Tiny fingers wrap around his cock, and he rushes in to get his fingers wet beneath denim and thin cotton, the familiar oily, slick slide of heat in the V-between spread thighs. He kisses open-mouthed and tastes bad girl cigarette-tongue, again nothing but familiar, and this feels right, just like the sharp sting of broken fingernails against the back of his neck and the dry skin of a heel pressing into the small of his back.
His thumb rubs in tight circles, and Ruby comes before he slides inside, clenching around him and forcing a deep string of vowels out of his throat into her hair. She's tiny and he bottoms out, causing her to bite him hard enough to draw blood before he pulls back to thrust shallowly, fast, angled up to get the high, bright spark of a sigh each time he thrusts in, rubbing that mythical, secret place inside her that makes her fold up around him and hold on with a slack mouth and eyes shut tight. Sam watches but barely sees, mind whirling down to a tight tunnel of concentration on the muscles closing around him in spasms, and with what is always shocking rapidity, he is nothing but twitches and clenched fingers with a razor-sharp halo of regret.
He rolls off of her and whips an arm up to cover his eyes. The bed shifts and Sam hears the soft ruffling of clothes being rearranged and shoes toed on. The shouldn't have is right there hovering all over him, but there's no shame with it. Yeah, he did something he shouldn't have, but he's got a long list of those somethings. This is just one more and a betrayal to no one but himself, to nothing more than the moral code Dad had cobbled together with nothing but his Marine Corps sense of honor and half-assed “we just don'ts.” Sam doesn't have much honor, and he needs a reason for drawing a line in the sand. Just because doesn't work for him anymore. It really never had.
One of Sam's biggest problems is that he knows when he's rationalizing and self-deluding. It makes it harder to let himself get away with anything.
Ruby lets herself out. Sam's pretty surprised she doesn't have a final one-liner salvo. The click of the latch sounds a lot like the chamber of a revolver locking into place.