(SPN, Dean/Bela) the last descent of their last end
Title: the last descent of their last end
Author: vnilla
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Dean/Bela
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 1220
Summary: Bela is determined to get the upper hand, but isn't quite sure what that entails.
Author's Notes: Apparently the cure for months-long writer's block is write porn. Who knew? Title comes from The Dead by James Joyce.
It's only the urge to feel herself still alive that has Bela knocking on the motel door, armed with a pistol in her purse and the serene knowledge that little Sammy just set off for the library. She's just rolled into town, drove all night to celebrate her latest job success. She takes care not to brush with death too often, will have enough of that in a not-so-short amount of time, but it is dazzling to cheat death. It's better than cheating any person.
"What the hell are you doing here?" Dean demands, and she stops him with a finger against his lips when he starts to go for a weapon.
"Definitely not here on business," she purrs, and she hears money in her voice, the fresh slap of green she got only last night. Exquisite. Powerful. She drags Dean down to her level and kisses him messy, the way she intuits he likes it. Or at least the way he likes it from bad girls, girls he knows he shouldn't want but does anyway. He doesn't break away. He pulls her in and shuts the door.
He smells like the kind of dive she imagines he frequents: cheap beer and cigarette smoke, desperation and despair. Bela grips his shoulders too hard and pulls herself further into the kiss, engulfing herself in her own life thrown back to her in all five senses. They're the dead, the two of them. She fills her mouth with her mortality.
Maybe he senses it, because his fingers trail up her thighs, rough but certain, counterpart to the glide of satin as her dress slides to one side. He traces the outline of her panties as he bites her lower lip, and she moans into his mouth, low and aching. This won't do. They may be in the same predicament, but she's going to win. Bela Talbot is going to walk away with the upper hand.
She breaks the kiss to confide, "I'm going to make you beg."
His answering flash of teeth is almost disconcerting. "Sweetheart, I'd like to see you try."
There is only one response for that sort of statement, and so she gives him a shove, tipping him onto the bed with suspicious ease. She's prepared for when he reaches out to pull her down with him, avoids his hands to grab the front of his jeans and squeeze. Dean gasps aloud, and she takes advantage of his distraction to kneel on the bed and unzip him. Bela is clever with her hands, too, and she's always liked the velvety heat of a cock in her hand, one thumb gliding out of sync with the rest, applying just the right amount of pressure. A lost art, truly.
Dean's eyelashes flutter and Bela can feel her lips curving into a grin, can feel herself becoming nothing but a wicked Cheshire cat smile. She wants to fuck Dean hard and delicious, but she wants to hear him ask for it first, wants that little thrill of victory before she gives herself over to something more mutual. She allows herself a moment to close her eyes as she works over Dean, conscious of her breasts pressing against fabric, of the dull throb between her legs growing ever more sharp. The palm of one hand. This is all it takes.
"Bela," he groans, and this is the moment: this is when Bela wins. "I want--" He makes a vague gesture towards her and she leans forward.
"Yes, Dean?"
And then one of his hands closes around her wrists and he's leaning up to meet her in the middle, all debauched grace. "I want," he starts again, and pauses for a fraction of a moment, but long enough that she can tell he needs to catch his breath. She kisses him for being so easy, tongue sliding smug against his. She wants, too, and she doesn't mind when he flips her over, hands up her dress again; he's begged her enough, and she's not going to kick herself tomorrow for failing to prolong his suffering. She wants him and she's going to have him.
"I want," he says for the third time, and damn if it doesn't make her bite her own lip, teeth scraping over kiss-swollen flesh. "I want to taste you. You're so fucking--" And apparently Dean has used up his quota of completed sentences, because he's peeling off her panties in one quick motion, bending down between her knees.
Her breath hitches at the first brush of his tongue, sweet against her clit, too sweet and too light to be honest, but lovely just the same, slow. She hooks a leg around his neck and draws him closer, insistent, digging her nails into the bedsheets at the brief rasp of stubble against one thigh and his sigh of appreciation. Dean Winchester, cunt connoisseur. Who'd have thought? She almost laughs at the phrase, so elegantly crass. It's him. And he's doing more than licking her, he's fucking her with his mouth, alternating quick strokes with long swathes of his tongue, then there's a light scraping of teeth, and fuck--
"I won't," she moans, from some contrary urge deep inside of her, but the sweetness is back, delicate press of Dean's tongue against her clit after all his efforts, and it is this that sends her over the edge, the barest touch making her shudder and tremble against his face, the lights winking in and out as her eyes fall shut almost as soon as she opens them once more, overcome. But it's only for a few moments, and when she opens her eyes again it's Dean staring at her, not in triumph but in naked desire, no matter how minimally she undressed him. His lips are wet.
She grips the front of his shirt and lays him out flat on the bed, sense of deja vu dissipating when he rolls on a condom with almost steady hands. She feels overblown, decadent, as she fucks him into the mattress, his hands gripping her hips, hard enough that she can feel another orgasm following after the first, another shuddering burst of intensity inside her. He's already sprawled out, done in, and she steadies herself on his chest as she comes down, feeling his heartbeat through the light cotton of the shirt he still has on. She can hear her own in her ears, steady thudding. Alive.
Several breaths pass, inhalations and exhalations audible in the still heat of the room. Bela swings herself off of Dean and off of the bed, tongue pressed against the back of her teeth, subtly off-balance as she picks her panties off the floor. She knows she's won, but does it count if she doesn't know how?
Or did Dean win by losing?
Will any of it matter after they're both dead?
She tucks the panties in her purse and grabs her jacket, heading towards the door. She throws a glance back over her shoulder like a punch or a kiss or some combination of both. "See you around."
Bela can't really see his face well from her position, but she hears the reply: "You're a piece of work." Hears also the chuckle that softens the expression. It's a graveyard noise, lost skeleton jester humor. Dean knows they're both on borrowed time. It's a wonder he doesn't know anything else. Time to leave.
Nonetheless, she laughs herself as she goes.
Author: vnilla
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Dean/Bela
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 1220
Summary: Bela is determined to get the upper hand, but isn't quite sure what that entails.
Author's Notes: Apparently the cure for months-long writer's block is write porn. Who knew? Title comes from The Dead by James Joyce.
It's only the urge to feel herself still alive that has Bela knocking on the motel door, armed with a pistol in her purse and the serene knowledge that little Sammy just set off for the library. She's just rolled into town, drove all night to celebrate her latest job success. She takes care not to brush with death too often, will have enough of that in a not-so-short amount of time, but it is dazzling to cheat death. It's better than cheating any person.
"What the hell are you doing here?" Dean demands, and she stops him with a finger against his lips when he starts to go for a weapon.
"Definitely not here on business," she purrs, and she hears money in her voice, the fresh slap of green she got only last night. Exquisite. Powerful. She drags Dean down to her level and kisses him messy, the way she intuits he likes it. Or at least the way he likes it from bad girls, girls he knows he shouldn't want but does anyway. He doesn't break away. He pulls her in and shuts the door.
He smells like the kind of dive she imagines he frequents: cheap beer and cigarette smoke, desperation and despair. Bela grips his shoulders too hard and pulls herself further into the kiss, engulfing herself in her own life thrown back to her in all five senses. They're the dead, the two of them. She fills her mouth with her mortality.
Maybe he senses it, because his fingers trail up her thighs, rough but certain, counterpart to the glide of satin as her dress slides to one side. He traces the outline of her panties as he bites her lower lip, and she moans into his mouth, low and aching. This won't do. They may be in the same predicament, but she's going to win. Bela Talbot is going to walk away with the upper hand.
She breaks the kiss to confide, "I'm going to make you beg."
His answering flash of teeth is almost disconcerting. "Sweetheart, I'd like to see you try."
There is only one response for that sort of statement, and so she gives him a shove, tipping him onto the bed with suspicious ease. She's prepared for when he reaches out to pull her down with him, avoids his hands to grab the front of his jeans and squeeze. Dean gasps aloud, and she takes advantage of his distraction to kneel on the bed and unzip him. Bela is clever with her hands, too, and she's always liked the velvety heat of a cock in her hand, one thumb gliding out of sync with the rest, applying just the right amount of pressure. A lost art, truly.
Dean's eyelashes flutter and Bela can feel her lips curving into a grin, can feel herself becoming nothing but a wicked Cheshire cat smile. She wants to fuck Dean hard and delicious, but she wants to hear him ask for it first, wants that little thrill of victory before she gives herself over to something more mutual. She allows herself a moment to close her eyes as she works over Dean, conscious of her breasts pressing against fabric, of the dull throb between her legs growing ever more sharp. The palm of one hand. This is all it takes.
"Bela," he groans, and this is the moment: this is when Bela wins. "I want--" He makes a vague gesture towards her and she leans forward.
"Yes, Dean?"
And then one of his hands closes around her wrists and he's leaning up to meet her in the middle, all debauched grace. "I want," he starts again, and pauses for a fraction of a moment, but long enough that she can tell he needs to catch his breath. She kisses him for being so easy, tongue sliding smug against his. She wants, too, and she doesn't mind when he flips her over, hands up her dress again; he's begged her enough, and she's not going to kick herself tomorrow for failing to prolong his suffering. She wants him and she's going to have him.
"I want," he says for the third time, and damn if it doesn't make her bite her own lip, teeth scraping over kiss-swollen flesh. "I want to taste you. You're so fucking--" And apparently Dean has used up his quota of completed sentences, because he's peeling off her panties in one quick motion, bending down between her knees.
Her breath hitches at the first brush of his tongue, sweet against her clit, too sweet and too light to be honest, but lovely just the same, slow. She hooks a leg around his neck and draws him closer, insistent, digging her nails into the bedsheets at the brief rasp of stubble against one thigh and his sigh of appreciation. Dean Winchester, cunt connoisseur. Who'd have thought? She almost laughs at the phrase, so elegantly crass. It's him. And he's doing more than licking her, he's fucking her with his mouth, alternating quick strokes with long swathes of his tongue, then there's a light scraping of teeth, and fuck--
"I won't," she moans, from some contrary urge deep inside of her, but the sweetness is back, delicate press of Dean's tongue against her clit after all his efforts, and it is this that sends her over the edge, the barest touch making her shudder and tremble against his face, the lights winking in and out as her eyes fall shut almost as soon as she opens them once more, overcome. But it's only for a few moments, and when she opens her eyes again it's Dean staring at her, not in triumph but in naked desire, no matter how minimally she undressed him. His lips are wet.
She grips the front of his shirt and lays him out flat on the bed, sense of deja vu dissipating when he rolls on a condom with almost steady hands. She feels overblown, decadent, as she fucks him into the mattress, his hands gripping her hips, hard enough that she can feel another orgasm following after the first, another shuddering burst of intensity inside her. He's already sprawled out, done in, and she steadies herself on his chest as she comes down, feeling his heartbeat through the light cotton of the shirt he still has on. She can hear her own in her ears, steady thudding. Alive.
Several breaths pass, inhalations and exhalations audible in the still heat of the room. Bela swings herself off of Dean and off of the bed, tongue pressed against the back of her teeth, subtly off-balance as she picks her panties off the floor. She knows she's won, but does it count if she doesn't know how?
Or did Dean win by losing?
Will any of it matter after they're both dead?
She tucks the panties in her purse and grabs her jacket, heading towards the door. She throws a glance back over her shoulder like a punch or a kiss or some combination of both. "See you around."
Bela can't really see his face well from her position, but she hears the reply: "You're a piece of work." Hears also the chuckle that softens the expression. It's a graveyard noise, lost skeleton jester humor. Dean knows they're both on borrowed time. It's a wonder he doesn't know anything else. Time to leave.
Nonetheless, she laughs herself as she goes.