living dead girl (Sam/Ruby, nc-17, 895 words)
Apparently my response to the deluge of Dean/Castiel fic is a dysfunctional Sam/Ruby ficlet. It's very porny! It's not beta'd! And oh God, I'm writing to Rob Zombie, and even nicking lines of dialogue from his little song of the same title! Sorry sorry sorry!
living dead girl
(Sam/Ruby, nc-17, 895 words)
All his life, Sam's been careful, decent. Thinks before he acts. Pulls his punches. First time he fucked Jess and left bruises on her - black fingerprints on her hips and her thighs - was the last time.
If he holds on too tight, things break.
So he's been gentle. Smart. Considerate. Careful.
And Dean's in Hell anyway.
Ruby's small and finely boned now. More delicate than the blonde flesh-dress Lilith stole and wrecked. She's angles and softness. She's sleek, dark hair pulled up into a ponytail; she's the vulnerable patch of pale skin at the nape of her neck. She's the wine-red shape of her mouth when she smiles and she's the tiny v of her pretty pink cunt barely hidden by the scrap of her panties.
She sits on the bed, pizza box resting on her crossed legs, and licks her greasy fingertips. Her eyes are shadows. She smiles at Sam and then sucks her thumb into her mouth. He looks away.
Dean's amulet on his chest is a physical pain.
:::
She's awake when he is. She's stretched out on the bed beside him, neat and straight, like she's there merely to serve as a scale for the size of Sam.
The end of the bed faces the window and the moonlight slides like water over their entwined fingers as Ruby lifts Sam's hand in hers. They both gaze at their joined hands for a long, silent moment.
Then Ruby settles Sam's hand on her small belly, his palm flat on the warm, taut skin. Still warm, still taut, considering there's nothing but black smoke going through her veins. He rolls the heel of his hand into her flesh, kneads her slowly. She turns her head to look at him.
"What are you thinking about?" Sam says.
"Same thing you are."
She guides his hand between the tightness of her thighs.
:::
Sam gets hard under her hand. Her fingers work over the shape of his cock while she grips his gaze and he gets so hard he's aching. Her expression is both smug and defiant, but not enough of either to hide her fear. There's a smudge of blood under her eye, another on her collarbone. The same blood is on Sam, streaks of it over his face where he wiped his hand in mindless desperation before he could think what he was doing.
Sam lets out a breath and it's a sound that's not even human. He takes hold of her and jerks her hand off of him.
The sound of her wrist snapping is like stepping on a twig. Sharp, brittle. Insignificant even in the silence of their shared motel room. Their eyes snap back to each other. The words are on Sam's lips - sorry, oh God, I'm sorry - but he catches them before he can speak them.
He's not so far gone he'd apologise to a demon. That's hope right there, maybe. Maybe it's a condemnation all of its own.
"You're not gonna break me, Sam," she says. "I'm way too broken already for you to do any damage."
It's as much a challenge as it is reassurance. Sam takes it either way.
:::
Her body's too small to take him all the way but he tips her hips up and presses in deeper regardless. She's lost in the bed under him, all sticky-wet and writhing. Sam's got one hand knotted in her hair, the other on her hips, and that's all it takes to hold her open for him. Her inner thighs are sleek and hot around him and the play of muscles in them as she clenches and shivers is a constant electric hum under his skin.
It’s hard to know how long they've been fucking. Sam's skin is still stretched too tight over his bones but Ruby's a boneless mess. Her wetness drips down his balls every time he slides back into her. Her ribcage - hollow as a bird's - threatens to snap open every time she sucks in breath. The small, pert curves of her breasts shiver with every gasp.
The hand of her snapped wrist hangs rag-doll limp over the edge of their filthy bed, and she's got the other between her spread-apart legs, her fingertips glistening as she circles her clit helplessly, coaxing yet another orgasm out of her borrowed body.
Sam pulls free, drags the sticky head of his cock up and down her slit, through her swollen wetness, before he slams back in, and the sound of it is thick and meaty. They're loud together - the steady rocking of the headboard against the wall, Sam's ugly cursing and Ruby's keening wails. They're so loud together Dean must be able to hear them in Hell.
:::
The door to the bathroom stands half-open and as Sam turns in the middle of throwing his shirt down, he sees her standing there.
She's in front of the mirror, wearing a lacy green bra and a pair of jeans, and she's pinning her hair up. A single dark strand of it curls down the back of her neck and Sam watches, mesmerised, as she catches it up. Her hands are small, childlike, neither giving any sign of ever having a broken wrist.
Beneath the bruises on the skin of the half-dead body that isn't her own, she's really kind of beautiful.
~end
living dead girl
(Sam/Ruby, nc-17, 895 words)
All his life, Sam's been careful, decent. Thinks before he acts. Pulls his punches. First time he fucked Jess and left bruises on her - black fingerprints on her hips and her thighs - was the last time.
If he holds on too tight, things break.
So he's been gentle. Smart. Considerate. Careful.
And Dean's in Hell anyway.
Ruby's small and finely boned now. More delicate than the blonde flesh-dress Lilith stole and wrecked. She's angles and softness. She's sleek, dark hair pulled up into a ponytail; she's the vulnerable patch of pale skin at the nape of her neck. She's the wine-red shape of her mouth when she smiles and she's the tiny v of her pretty pink cunt barely hidden by the scrap of her panties.
She sits on the bed, pizza box resting on her crossed legs, and licks her greasy fingertips. Her eyes are shadows. She smiles at Sam and then sucks her thumb into her mouth. He looks away.
Dean's amulet on his chest is a physical pain.
:::
She's awake when he is. She's stretched out on the bed beside him, neat and straight, like she's there merely to serve as a scale for the size of Sam.
The end of the bed faces the window and the moonlight slides like water over their entwined fingers as Ruby lifts Sam's hand in hers. They both gaze at their joined hands for a long, silent moment.
Then Ruby settles Sam's hand on her small belly, his palm flat on the warm, taut skin. Still warm, still taut, considering there's nothing but black smoke going through her veins. He rolls the heel of his hand into her flesh, kneads her slowly. She turns her head to look at him.
"What are you thinking about?" Sam says.
"Same thing you are."
She guides his hand between the tightness of her thighs.
:::
Sam gets hard under her hand. Her fingers work over the shape of his cock while she grips his gaze and he gets so hard he's aching. Her expression is both smug and defiant, but not enough of either to hide her fear. There's a smudge of blood under her eye, another on her collarbone. The same blood is on Sam, streaks of it over his face where he wiped his hand in mindless desperation before he could think what he was doing.
Sam lets out a breath and it's a sound that's not even human. He takes hold of her and jerks her hand off of him.
The sound of her wrist snapping is like stepping on a twig. Sharp, brittle. Insignificant even in the silence of their shared motel room. Their eyes snap back to each other. The words are on Sam's lips - sorry, oh God, I'm sorry - but he catches them before he can speak them.
He's not so far gone he'd apologise to a demon. That's hope right there, maybe. Maybe it's a condemnation all of its own.
"You're not gonna break me, Sam," she says. "I'm way too broken already for you to do any damage."
It's as much a challenge as it is reassurance. Sam takes it either way.
:::
Her body's too small to take him all the way but he tips her hips up and presses in deeper regardless. She's lost in the bed under him, all sticky-wet and writhing. Sam's got one hand knotted in her hair, the other on her hips, and that's all it takes to hold her open for him. Her inner thighs are sleek and hot around him and the play of muscles in them as she clenches and shivers is a constant electric hum under his skin.
It’s hard to know how long they've been fucking. Sam's skin is still stretched too tight over his bones but Ruby's a boneless mess. Her wetness drips down his balls every time he slides back into her. Her ribcage - hollow as a bird's - threatens to snap open every time she sucks in breath. The small, pert curves of her breasts shiver with every gasp.
The hand of her snapped wrist hangs rag-doll limp over the edge of their filthy bed, and she's got the other between her spread-apart legs, her fingertips glistening as she circles her clit helplessly, coaxing yet another orgasm out of her borrowed body.
Sam pulls free, drags the sticky head of his cock up and down her slit, through her swollen wetness, before he slams back in, and the sound of it is thick and meaty. They're loud together - the steady rocking of the headboard against the wall, Sam's ugly cursing and Ruby's keening wails. They're so loud together Dean must be able to hear them in Hell.
:::
The door to the bathroom stands half-open and as Sam turns in the middle of throwing his shirt down, he sees her standing there.
She's in front of the mirror, wearing a lacy green bra and a pair of jeans, and she's pinning her hair up. A single dark strand of it curls down the back of her neck and Sam watches, mesmerised, as she catches it up. Her hands are small, childlike, neither giving any sign of ever having a broken wrist.
Beneath the bruises on the skin of the half-dead body that isn't her own, she's really kind of beautiful.
~end