#tasha canon

[wendingeverwicked]

Name: Tasha

'True' name: Canibores

Age and Birthday: Ageless, time passes differently where he's from, but looks and mostly acts, like someone in their early 20s.

Height: 5ft10

Pronouns and gender:  Human gender has no hold here. So even saying nonbinary of any flavor wouldn't be accurate. Tasha just is. You can use any pronouns, mix and match, or stick to specific ones. There's no wrong answer here, and Tasha wouldn't care or correct anything. You won't be misgendering them, whatever you decide.

What they are: Demon

Style and Appearance: Shoulder length, fluffy, dark brown hair with a natural wave to it. Sinewy build, tall, not scrawny but lean, wiry. Outfits made of stolen things that caught his attention. Lot of open button-ups tucked into skin tight pants. Mesh tops, chains and shiny stuff for days. Only constant is a big, heavy, pair of steel toe capped work boots.

Piercings and tattoos: Can change as frequently as anything else. Depends on what he wants to do, but almost always has at least ears pierced.

Scars and distinguishing marks: None. 

Sexuality: Undefined. Much like gender, human labels don't apply. Tasha likes sex. Tasha likes all people.

FC: X

Abilities: Infernal fast travel - the ability to 'step' through a veil of infernal energy and arrive somewhere he's been before, or can see clearly. Can gift visions, as well as feelings of passion, euphoria, inspiration, etc. to people who summon him. If staying topside, and therefore needing to sleep, Tasha themself will experience hard to decipher prophetic dreams. Outside of hell, they heal quicker than a human, a few days is enough to recover from most, but in hell, it's instant.

Weaknesses: Their true name makes them controllable in the right hands. Magic can stop them healing. Will take physical damage from anything, it just takes a lot to actually matter or be felt. They have negative focus and a such a shit memory it belongs here.

Links:  Canon - Media  -  Fun Stuff  -  Aesthetic  -  Music  -  Threads

Other bits and pieces:

Feel free to summon. Write starters where he's been called up, respond to opens where they are. Anything like that. Their true name is known enough that it doesn't need restriction.

Is, essentially, a demonic jester. Allowed to be a little shit to his king because the king finds it funny. They carry that energy everywhere and have an equal lack of respect for all authority. So don't take it personally when they refuse to be reverent or respectful to your all mighty characters. You can try to scare it out of him, it probably wont work.

His realm of hell is one of change, passion, love and pleasure. Passion and pleasure are also not just the horny kind. It’s art. An element of spiritual fulfillment found through creation. The domain is full of music, poetry, performance of all kinds, as well as intricate frescos and beautifully painted canvas. The passion he can inspire in others can be this kind. It’s why he’s obsessed with all expressions of human creativity.

It also means the horny kind. BUT. Whilst Tasha has that element to them, that's not all there is, and he can be written without that being the forefront, so please don't worry about writing with him if you aren't comfortable with nsfw themes or threads.

Slut for poetry. Prose of all kinds really, but real poetry of all kinds fan. Reads everything out loud. Poetry feels best to say.

Not a creative bone in this demon. Not a one. Can't make shit. Loves what other people can make though.

Doesn't tend to lie or hide his feelings or thoughts. An open book. They wont always have the language to describe what they're feeling though, and that's one of the rare times he can be quiet.

Loud. Obnoxious. Playful. Doesn't sit still. Has a rhythm to how he walks and talks, and a constant need to move and act.

They don't need to eat, sleep, drink, do anything to sustain a form whilst in hell. They are made of infernal energy, it naturally exists and recovers. It's different if they spend an extended period of time on earth.

Long form backstory and bio:

The most recent demon in his realm. Even if that means he's still a few hundred years old as far as humans would be concerned. Time doesn't move in hell. Doesn't pass or feel like anything. The day and night cycle in his realm isn't natural, it's decided by the king on a whim. Tasha will sit down to read for a bit, get through a few books, and not even realize it's been weeks topside.

With no job, and no real expectations, Tasha is largely left to their own devices. Other demons have work, they have tasks and schedules and jobs and contribute to the running and maintenance around the domain. Not Tasha. Their job is to be a little rascal. Government sponsored troll bitch. He rolls up to his king, talks shit, gets some laughs, some attention, and then gets told to go have fun and skips away like a little princess.

So yeah. Some kind of demonic amalgam of a jester, princess, and youngest son of a mafia don who will eventually have to face the grim reality of the expectations awaiting them. Also the little mermaid. He wants to be where the people are.

Pre to RP, Tasha doesn't spend long periods of time on earth, going up frequently but only briefly. Doing whatever entertains them at that time, then returning. Still seeing hell as home because it's familiar and feels safe.

AUs and other shit:

Feel free to put this guy in some situations. He will always be a demon, but he can be thrown into fantasy worlds, historic fiction, arranged marriages, scifi settings, fucking film noir detective stories. Whatever. He's adaptable.

He's literally been a mafia kid more than once.

This is literally Tasha's vibe. It works in all worlds.

[cuterefaction]

#Trektober Day 22, "Character Lives AU". There were strong contenders I'm going to be using elsewhere, but I'm sticking with the posterwoman of missed opportunities: Tasha Yar surviving long enough to participate in the Dominion war and awkwardly interact with Sela (available both in standard lady and tiny pudding versions)

[marigraphia]

Mrs. and Mr. Emma Frost!

(Reference under the cut)

[weepingwitchkingdom]

I'm gonna laugh if the first kiss in TNC is some completely unexpected ship.

[bigmouthlass]

Title:  Slow and Sultry Beats

Series: Supernatural B-Sides

Author:  BJ

Fandom:  Supernatural

Rating:  Explicit

Pairing:  Dean Winchester/You, Dean Winchester/Reader

Synopsis: Dean loses a bet. The things we do for our calling.

Tags:  Dean Winchester, Female Reader Character, Female You, Sam Winchester, Tasha Banes, Witch Reader, Goth Dean Winchester, Canon Divergence, Songfic, Surprise Character, If I Told You It Wouldn't Be A Surprise Would It?

AN:  Song is Nine Inch Nails, "Get Down Make Love" (with a seasoning of Combichrist, Poe, Michael Jackson, and anything else you might've heard at the Lizard Lounge on a Church night). Oh come on, tell me Dean wouldn’t look fucking delicious in Goth. Blame @thoughtslikeaminefield for digging it out of my head, for better or worse. All recognizable intellectual properties are owned by their respective creators and holders of any copyrights or trademarks. This is a not-for-profit work of fan art and protected by Fair Use.

---

“I hate you.”

“Heard you the first time,” you say absently as you work the pestle.  “And the second time.  And the third time.  And all of the times after that.  Give it a rest, why don’t’cha?"

Dean scowls at you.  “This isn’t fair.”

“Heard you the first time on that subject too.”  You sigh at Dean’s scowl.  “Look, I need backup and you’re it.  So suck it up Winchester.  This damn thing needs to get locked down and pronto otherwise we might lose something important.  Like Dallas.”  You turn your attention to Sam as Dean upends the plastic shopping bag and dumps the contents on the motel room bed.  “In my bag there’s a brown glass bottle--"

“Oh hell no.”  Dean’s holding up the shirt and pants you’d bought.  The shirt’s just a racerback tank top and not in the least bit risqué.  The pants-- “Leather pants?!?  Really?”

“What?” you ask.  “You’ll be decent.  It’s not like tonight’s the Fetish Ball or anything.”

“Excuse me?” Dean demands as Sam tries and fails to keep from laughing.

You sigh.  “Just . . . go in and take a quick shower.  I gotta finish putting the puzzle box together.  Sam would you do me a favor and do a perimeter of the place?  Make sure this damn thing doesn’t have minions or acolytes hanging around?”

Pouting a little because what baby brother wouldn’t want a front seat to his older brother’s embarrassment, Sam grabs the car keys and leaves.  The shower starts up.  The ground mixture in the grinding bowl goes in a small vial, along with a measure of lavender oil.  Muttering the first of the incantations, you start assembling the box.  The binding magic completes just as the shower cuts off and Dean walks out to see you hunched over and gasping, braced on the table by your elbows.  “Hey-- you okay?”

“I’m all right.  Just gotta catch my breath.”  You glance over and do a double-take.  Dean’s got a towel wrapped around his waist, and your eye level is right where it needs to be to see that’s all he’s wearing.

Maybe he didn’t notice--

Dean snickers.

He noticed.

“Just get dressed, asshole,” you say.

“’Dressed,’ she says,” Dean snorts, picking up the pants.  “Don’t you mean poured?  Seriously, how am I even supposed to get these on?”

You’re a little worried about that yourself.  You’d had to guess on the size.  “Just do the best you can,” you say as you walk to the bathroom, grabbing your bag.

You walk out a few minutes later with your hair braided into twin plaits trailing down your back, dressed in a black cotton underliner and black leggings.  Dean’s got the pants on and he’s stretching to try and get the material moving with him.  They fit, just, sheathing his thigh muscles and cupping his ass with a lover’s touch.  Close enough for you to see he’s either wearing an athletic supporter or going commando.  Either thought makes you warm all through.

Enough already, you tell yourself, stepping into your stomping boots and zipping.  When you look up, Dean’s pulling on the tank top.  The racerback showcases about two yards worth of shoulders.  You lick your lips.  Dean’s a lot more toned than you’d expected.  It’s doing things to you.  Easy to see why he hardly has to work to get people to stare at him.  Including you, you think as you snap yourself out of it and stand.  Your top goes over the cotton underliner and you fasten the busk.

Dean tucks in, zips, and buckles the built-in belt.  “Shit,” he says as he paws at his back, “how the hell am I supposed to carry my pistol in this?”

“You’re not.  The bouncer won’t let us in if you're packing, and a gun won’t do shit against this thing anyway."  You turn around.  “Can you tie me?”

“Uh,” there's a mirror hung over the sink, lined with bright white light bulbs.  You chuckle at Dean's mirror image, staring at your back with a gawp of utter confusion.  "Sure.”

“Just like you tie shoelaces.”  You grab onto the bathroom door frame and brace yourself.  “Not too tight."

Dean’s tugs are surprisingly gentle.  The corset strings must look like thread between his fingers.  “This okay?”

Taking a deep breath, you tell him it’s good.  “Just tie them in a bow.”  A grope at your back confirms you can pull the laces.  You reach down your front to put your tits where they’re supposed to be and shimmy everything into place.  This one’s your favorite, deepest blue satin brocade hugging your waist and holding your tits just so.  You look good in it and you know it.

Dean’s studying you as you turn around.  “What?”

“How can you move in that thing?” he demands.

Not the first time you’ve heard that question.  “Dean people were wearing these for centuries until some schmuck invented bras.  It just takes a little practice."  You buckle on your belt of stuff, pouches full of the things you'll need for the spell.  "Now come on, have a seat.  Makeup time.”

“What-- what-- excuse me,” Dean stammers, “what?!?”

You put your hands on your hips and glare.  Sometimes perfect eloquence is mute.

“Okay,” Dean gets all up in your face, “I agreed to be your backup on this because I lost fair and square but I will not turn myself into some . . . knockoff Twilight twinkly freak show--"

“Are you finished?” you cut him off.  “Nobody is going to buy you as part of the usual crowd if you go in dressed like Roger The Redneck with that I Hate Everything look on your face.”

“I’m out of here,” Dean declares, storming for the door.

“For fuck’s sake is the thought of putting a little goop on your face really that scary?” you demand.  “Your balls are not going to drop off just because you’re wearing eyeliner!”

Dean puts his toe on the ground and does a point-perfect about face.  “I am not scared of wearing makeup,” he says.  “I am not scared of a few hours of mingling with the freaks and weirdos.  I am worried about what might happen if this deal blows up in our faces.”

Dean’s a Hunter and his mistrust is nothing to take personally.  Most Hunters have had bad experiences with magic practitioners.  Witches especially.  “I asked you and your brother -- several times -- if either of you had any better ideas.”  This thing’s not a ghost, it’s not a demon, and it’s not anything else that can be banished by a ritual or a spell.  Containing it is the best solution available.

And you’re going to be at ground zero, bait and trap all in one.  Backup is not optional.

Backup is in a snit over a little face paint and snug pants.

You park it and continue.  “Did I hear any better ideas on how to get this fucker gone before it follows anyone else home?  No I did not.  So sit down and shut up.”

“Do I really--"

“Yes,” you say.  “And hold still.”

“This never happened,” Dean says as he pulls up a chair and you fetch the bag with your makeup.

“Shut your eyes.”

Twenty minutes later, the two of you study your handiwork in the mirror.

Gulp.

Eyeliner and a touch of color turns his eyes into big green gemstones.  Gloss makes his lips into something you want to spend a night nibbling.  He’s one of the most purely attractive men you’ve ever seen, and with these little accentuations he turns into something sublime, something to turn heads and make hearts pound.

In other words, perfect.

“God I look stupid,” Dean says, examining himself in the mirror and blinking at the unfamiliar feel of pigment around his eyes.

“Knock it off, the liner’s not quite dry yet.  You’re lucky you got those thick eyelashes, you don’t need mascara.  Now move, I gotta do mine.  And put on those cuffs.”

“Yes ma’am,” Dean says.

"Salute me when you say that."

As he buckles the leather arm bracers onto his wrists, Dean gives you The Finger.

You let that slide.  You asked for it.

You’re putting on the finishing touches when Sam gets back.  You can see him blinking at the two of you in the mirror as you finish putting on your lipstick.  Black liner shading to deep purple within.  Your dog tags go around your neck with a jingle.

“Laugh and I will break your arm,” Dean says as Sam opens his mouth.

---

Tomorrow’s not a work day so the place is overflowing with a waiting line outside.  Big John's on door duty and Courtney’s at the register, both greeting you cordially.  “What’re you having?” you ask Dean once you’re inside and headed for the bar.

“Whiskey.  All of the whiskey,” Dean says, looking like he’s chewing on a lemon.

“Shawn?”  The bartender cocks an eyebrow at you.  “Vodka sour and a straight Scotch.  And two cups of ice water.”  He gives you a thumbs up and moments later you hand him some cash.

Dean bolts the whiskey and frowns at the ice water.  “What am I a fish?”

“Drink it,” you tell him.  “I need you relatively sober.”

“This’d be easier drunk.  I can’t hear myself think.”

What a wimp.

As you’re thinking that, though, Dean’s head perks up.  A reluctant smile curves his mouth.  “Oh my God, are you kidding--" you almost fall out of your boots as he takes your wrist and pulls you to the main dance floor.

Laughing, Dean hops down two feet into the lowest part of the dance floor.  The club’s had a lot of purposes since it was built; the main dance floor is a stage with a shallow orchestra pit flanked by two gogo dancer platforms.  An upper floor balcony overlooks the whole thing.  The sound system is whining, gearing up for something.  The whole thing is packed with people flying their freak flags at full staff, leather and vinyl and chrome and neon and steel and bare skin.

You’re opening your mouth to cuss Dean out for forgetting himself until you recognize the song.

“It’s close to midnight,” he stalks around you as much as he can without bumping into anyone, “something evil’s lurking in the dark.”

Thriller zombie dancing in a crowd of drunk Goths isn’t how you expected to get Dean on board but you’ll take it.  The surly bastard you’ve been dragging around is gone.  Now Dean looks like he’s having the time of his life, menace-marching, wiggling his hips, howling the chorus at the top of his lungs.

It ends with Dean miming Vincent Price’s evil laugh as you wheeze with giggles.  "Always wanted to do that," he says, grinning big and bright.

---

"Hey pretty," you see a girl with her hair dressed in bright florescent ponyfalls with furry boot cozies to match touches Dean's arm as he finishes his whiskey, "don't'cha wanna take a ride with me, through my world?"  A bolt of raw red jealousy makes you grind your teeth as she turns her back and arches up against his chest.  Black-nailed fingers trace up the column of Dean's neck.

Dean's hand touches her waist.  And pushes her gently away.  The girl takes the hint and leaves, throwing a pout over her shoulder as she heads for the video bar.

Feeling stupidly happy, you climb out of the dance pit to where Dean's been standing and watching.  "Dance with me," you tell him.

“Honey I don’t dance,” Dean snorts.

“You will now,” you tell him.  “I’m bait, remember?”

Scowling, Dean follows you back down into the dance pit.  His arm goes around your back and he pulls you close.  A thigh goes in between your legs.  You bite your lip at the pressure right where you’re tender.  Your knees go weak and Dean’s arm flexes to keep you upright, grinding your bodies together.

"I feel like a moron," Dean says against your ear.

"You're doing fine," you reassure him, settling more firmly against his body.  He balances you with ease, a solid block of warm skin and muscle.  The big fans aren’t quite equal to the sheer mass of bodies in motion; it's meltingly warm in here and dark.  A place of power, the mundane and very real magic of people coming together, uniting--

"Dean," you say, realization breaking your warm daze.  "It's here."

He blinks, like he's been dazed too.  "Yeah.  Next move?"

You peel yourself out of his arms and climb out of the pit, Dean on your heels.  But as you pass the huge nest of speakers on the way to the ladies' room he grabs your arm.  "What?" you yell.

"I can't go in there!" he yells back.

"Yes you can!"  You grab his hand and pull him through the door.  Full light dazzles your eyes a moment, then you're inside.  You glance back and see Dean with his free hand out and his eyes closed.  "Oh grow up," you snort, taking him to the other side of the wall through a gathering of half a dozen people primping in the mirror or relaxing on the couch, chattering and socializing.

The ladies' room is split in two, and the lack of places to sit makes the offside quieter.  Fishing in your belt pouches you produce a bottle full of inky dark fluid and a brush.  Out of another pouch you pull a piece of paper.  You've sketched a rough outline of your upper back, with the incantation written across your shoulders.  "Copy that."

"Hold still."

You brace your hands on the counter and try not to flinch at the tickle of the brush.  You have to bite your lips to keep from telling him to hurry it up already; precision is important.  Looking up through your eyelashes you catch sight of Dean's face as he works, eyes focused on your back and his lower lip clenched in his teeth in concentration.  He's breathtaking, you think, a perfect balance of delicacy and strength.  The Gods were taking pride in their duties the day they made him.

Dean finishes, and you recite the incantation.  A brief flare of heat traces the lettering, making you hiss.  "Is it supposed to disappear?" he asks after a moment.

"Yeah."  Your inner eyes open, and witch sight overlays your vision.  Power surrounds you.  You can feel it, see it.  Energy laces the air with a faint gleaming mist, threads and rivers flowing, twisting together, splitting apart.  "The Force is with me, young Winchester."

And then some.  This building's been a gathering place for people to meet, revel, drink, dance, fuck, live for decades.  It's soaked into the bricks.  You're open to it in a way you haven't been before.  It's dazzling, disorienting.

And Dean . . . to your witch sight, he blazes.  You're a little scared to touch him.  He's been touched by power, used as an instrument of destiny.  He's marked by it, like someone exposed to radiation.

You blink, try and focus.  Dean's asking you something.  You try and shake the giddiness out of your head.  "What?"

"Now what?" Dean repeats.

Good, a question you can answer.  "Now we wait.  And we dance."

"First," Dean says, "we drink."

---

Dancing to Combichrist is a fairly zero skill activity, just moving as the music takes you.  One enormously fat dancer's doing nothing but whipping her long hair in a furious headbang, pausing to shriek with everyone else, THIS SHIT WILL FUCK YOU UP!!!  You're weaving through fine, nacreous mist.  The motion of life and fate and magic is mesmerizing.  Your hands itch to reach out and take it in hand, knit and tie it all together into something beautiful.  You keep your hands to yourself and your Craft still.  Apart from the drain on one’s strength, a true witch knows better than to try and manipulate these forces by the power of their own will.  The balance of reality is delicate, and the counteractions needed to maintain it are extremely dangerous.

Mindful of your instructions from earlier, Dean sticks close.  You're close enough to kiss when a wicked urge seizes you.  The fabric of Dean's tank is hot and sweat drenched as you take two handfuls and pull upwards.  With a surprised little yipe Dean raises his arms and the shirt leaves your lives forever as you toss it towards a corner out of the way.

Shower fresh he was beautiful.  Here, in the dim light and wreathed with the stuff of magic, he . . . . shines.  Incandescent.  Terrifying.  Light gleams over and within.  All on its own your hand moves to a bright smudge on one shoulder, a shape almost like a scar.

Dean snatches your wrist.  "What are you doing?"

"Something's had ahold of you here," is the best you can explain it.  "Something powerful."

"Long story," Dean deflects.  He doesn't give your hand back, guiding up and around his neck instead.  You comb your fingers into his hair, fine and soft.  The music's changed to something sultry, with a rhythm like a slow hard fuck and shot through with little electric zaps.  A voice is questioning and you mouth the questions along with it -- how old you when you first let a man make love to you? next who was he? next how did you feel at the time? -- the voice rises as the clinical distance fades and it breaks with the sound of pleasured moans punctuated by yes!

You stretch to match Dean's height as best you can, press into him full-length.�� Trent Reznor growls at ear-shredding volume, about heat and hunger and what people charged with longing can do for one another.  Dean doesn't need instruction, you think as his body picks up the beat.  He was made for many things, and pleasure is not the least of them.

You throw a leg over his hip.  Dean's strong, he balances the two of you easily.  A big hand slips down from your back to clutch your ass, pulling your centers flush.  God, your blood feels molten.  All of you burns.  You need fire to match, and here's Dean, strong arms and big hands and jeweled eyes looking down at you with heat and hunger--

Your reasoning self shouts loud enough to make itself heard, and you blink.  A small knot of substance is hopping around the magical threads and currents, a frog one moment and a spider the next.  It's not sentient, you can see that.  It's just an awareness.  It's hungry, and it's hunting.

And here you are.  Bait.

It pauses in its stalking, and you can feel it when it sizes you up.  Open and hot and charged with power.  It pauses, like a cat wiggling into a pounce.  "Dean--" you try and warn him.

Whatever he says back gets lost.  The thing strikes.  Brilliant hot energy stabs through you.  You gasp, your muscles clamping you hard against Dean's body.  Simple desire surges into something more primal.  You turn Dean's head and take his mouth in a hard kiss.  He opens to you, hot and wet.  His mouth tastes like whiskey, with a faint suggestion of spice.  Your heart flutters in your chest, so hard you can see sparkles across your vision.

Cussing, Dean pulls you up off your feet, wrapping both your legs around his waist.  You curl yourself around him, holding on tight as he carries you out of the pit like you weigh nothing.  The power of his body, muscles working under hot skin.  You want it, you want him.  The thing that's got you in its grip, you know it now and it wants sex.  Not just sex, it wants everything physical and spiritual that goes with it.  It will drive you, feed of you, and leave you dead on the floor like it's done with four other people so far.  Bodies on slabs with blood weeping from their eyes.

"Take it easy!" Dean grunts into your ear. The leather pants aren't doing a damn thing to hide his body's interest.  You hope like hell you were right about the thing being trapped.  If it's not it'll jump into Dean and it'll be his body on a slab, blood weeping out of his beautiful eyes.

No sooner do you complete the thought than the warm feeling of lust goes hot and wrathful.  The thing pulls on you and can't get away.  The special ink Dean had painted on you has written itself into your being.  Now it's holding the thing trapped, like the wires in a snare.

It hurts.  You bite into Dean’s shoulder to keep from screaming.

"OW!  Hey," Dean says, stopping just outside the club’s front door.  "Just hang on, we're gonna go find Sam."

"Hey!"  It's Jojo, chief of security.  "What's going on?"

"Little too much to drink," Dean says.  "I'm taking her home."

"Don't think so pal, she needs a hospital."  Oh shit.  You've got maybe twenty minutes before the spell keeping the thing snared to you fails and it rips you to pieces as it fights free.  You can already feel it happening and you clench your teeth on a cry.

"Look, she just needs to get somewhere with a shower and a puke pail and have her hangover in peace," Dean wheedles.  "If she starts having trouble breathing, I promise I'll call 911."

"I don't think so," Jojo says, and you blink at him.  There's something in the aura around his head, something about the spark in his eyes--

It's the thing.  Somehow he's in its thrall.  It's using him to get you.

"Dean!  Run!"

Holding you tight to him as best he can Dean pivots and dashes.  The early spring night air is cool on your skin, making you shudder.  It's like all-over pins'n'needles plus the worst muscle cramps ever.  You can feel Dean stumble as Jojo catches him and almost yanks him off his feet.  But Sam -- wonderful, heroic, glorious Sam, wreathed in an corona of brilliance all his own -- pulls Jojo back and puts him down with a fist driven into the solar plexus.

"Come on!" Dean says, jerking his head around the side of the building.  There's a sliver of shadow where the parking lot lights don't reach; Dean carries you there.  Sinking carefully to his knees, he lays you on the ground.  You convulse, not so much breathing as gulping air.  "The box.  Gimme the box."

Sam digs it out of his knapsack and hands it to Dean.  Dean puts it on your chest and cusses when it rolls right off the front of your corset.  "Knife," he says to Sam as he turns you over.  The pressure around your ribs disappears as the corset strings pop apart.  Dean flips you over again and, swearing, yanks down your underliner to bare your chest.   Ignoring the way your bare tits flop unsupported away from your breastbone, he places the box over your heart.  Sam reads the final part of the incantation from a crumpled piece of paper.

The thing uses your throat to shriek as the box activates.  The snare holding the thing trapped breaks, and the box sucks its essence free of your body and into itself like a tiny black hole.  The mechanism whirls and the locks engage with a clack, sealing it away.

You lie there for a long moment, split down the middle between pain and relief that your body's your own again.  The witch sight fades as you stare at the sky, the beautiful madness of the moon slipping away from your vision.  The box on your chest goes cool, just a funky looking knickknack.

Sam plucks a hankie out of his pocket and uses it to pick up the box and stuff it into his knapsack.  Sensible.  He's also trying very hard not to look at your undressed self.

So is Dean.  His eyes keep darting between you and the parking lot.  "Fuck," he says, coming to a decision.  Picking you up into his arms, he tells Sam, "Grab that thing and let's get the hell out of here before that asshole bouncer calls the cops."

---

Everything hurts.

Bones, muscles, skin.  Even your hair and your nails hurt.  Not just in your body.  The thing in your blood and your soul that makes you witch hurts, overloaded with spellworks and violated by the thing you'd snared.  "Oh leave it," you snarl as Sam lays your dirty corset out flat on the motel room's table.  "It just needs cleaned and new strings."

"Y-you said to put the box over your heart," Sam stammers.

"Shut up Sammy," Dean growls as he sits you in the room's single armchair.  Very aware that you're locking the barn after the livestock's been stolen, you pull your underliner back into place and tuck your tits out of sight.  "Get me the first aid kit."

"Don't bother," you wave him off impatiently.  "Nothing's broken and drugs won't help.  I'll be all right."  Overextending your magic creates a pain that drugs won't touch.

Giving you a dirty look, Dean taps the bite mark in his shoulder.  You cringe.  That’s gotta hurt like shit.

You ache with more than just pain, you realize as you watch Dean examine your bite mark in the vanity mirror.  Magic aside, it'd been nice to live in Dean's arms for a while.  A dangerous man, a deadly Hunter, a notorious witch-killer-- you've never felt safer in a man's arms.

"Take that box,” you tell Sam, “put it in a cursebox or a warded vault, and leave it there."

"Got it," Sam says.  "What was it?  The monster?"

"I didn't get a species," you say.  "I know what it was after though."

"Sex," Dean says, patting his neck to check for blood.

"Yeah.  It lived off erotic energy.  Track down someone about to leave for a little alone time, jump her, ride her home, and," you don't blush normally but the profoundly awkward look Sam's giving you is making you cringe with reflected mortification, "feed on the energy that comes off some really good sex and don't you dare make a come and go joke Winchester," you growl at Dean.

"Wasn't gonna," he says absently, hissing as he uses a piece of gauze soaked in rubbing alcohol to clean out the teeth marks.

 "Are you okay?" you ask.  "The thing didn't touch you did it?"

"I don't think so," he says.  He blinks and shakes his head, like he's clearing cobwebs.  "Just a headache."  Dean spies the box, sitting on the motel room table.  He shudders.  "Get that thing outta here Sam.  Dad's drop stash in--"

"Wait!" you snap your hand up.  "Do not tell me.  Ever.  In fact, don't put it there.  Put it somewhere else I've never heard of."  You take a deep breath.  Even that hurts.  "Whatever this thing is, it had the bouncer in thrall.  It might have others."  You look Dean square in the eye as you say, "I can't spill what I don't know."

He nods.  "Yeah, ten-four.  Sam, do we got a backup place?"

Sam thinks a second and nods.  "Yeah.  Keys?"  Dean grabs the keys off the nightstand and tosses; Sam plucks them out of the air and stuffs them in his pocket.  He mutters to himself, looking around the room, then lets out a little ah-HA and shucks the pillowcase off one of the pillows.

Now why didn't you think of that?

Never mind, you're just relieved the damn thing's going away.

You're shivering.

Just a little tremble in your middle, so slight you hope it'll go away.  Instead it deepens, intensifies, spreads.  Your whole body clenches and convulses, making you curl over yourself in your chair.  Dean consults with his brother by the door and Sam leaves with the box swinging inside the bleached white pillowcase.  The door closes and Dean locks it and sets the chain.  He turns to look at you, shirtless and beautiful with the touches of color around his eyes.  "Hey, you okay?"

"Shock," you manage between chattering teeth.

Dean's worried frown deepens.  "Do I need to call an ambulance?"

You shake your head.  "It'll pass."  And it will, you tell yourself.  The only things that fix spell shock are time, warmth, and rest.  All a hospital would do is pump you full of drugs and insist on putting you in an ICU.  And it's not like you could explain what happened anyway.  'I turned my body into a trap for an incorporeal concentration of erotic energy,' will get you tossed into a locked ward.

"Here," Dean takes one of your hands and starts chafing it between his.  "Shit, your fingers are freezing."

"It'll pass," you repeat.  The shock will.  The feeling of filth won't, not for a while.  Something evil's been inside you, touched you where your soul is.  That will take longer to go away.  It might never, not completely.  You'd known that when you'd suggested the plan.  You'd volunteered, you remind yourself as you shiver.  That should make it bearable.  It will, given time.  It will.

You hope.

"Easy," he says after a particularly fierce quake.  "Easy.  It's okay.  It's over.  It's over," he repeats as you shake your head.  "It's gone."

With a shaking hand, you touch Dean's shoulder.  That bright blot of energy there, like a scar on his spirit.  "Did whatever do that go away?"

You don't expect an answer, but Dean speaks after a long pause.  "Yes.  And no.  It's complicated."

Moving's not going to be easy.  "Help me up."

"I got you," Dean says.  He grips you behind each elbow and helps you to your feet.  "What a night," he groans.

"Tell me about it," you groan back.  You try and take a step and Dean catches you as your legs buckle.  "Just help me to the bathroom.  I can manage from there."  You'd better.  You gotta piss like nobody's business.

"Yeah yeah, I gotcha," Dean grunts, giving you an arm to brace yourself and helping you walk the ten feet to the bathroom.  "Uh . . . do you need--"

You chuckle.  "I can piss unassisted, promise."  You reach for your belt buckle.  Dean brushes your shaking fingers aside and undoes the fastening, taking the heavy pouches away.  "Thank you."

With the wall to lean on, you make it to the toity and take care of that.  Shower's out until your legs are steadier.  Washing your hands in the vanity sink, you get a look at yourself in the mirror.  My God you’re a fright, loose hairs sticking out of your braids, makeup smeared everywhere . . . and just over your shoulder there's Mister Sunshine sitting on the bed, untying his boots and green eyes bright with suppressed hilarity.  "Shut up."

"Didn't say a word," he defends himself, holding up his empty hands.

You'd retort but you're too busy trying to get your face wash out of your makeup bag.  A violent tremble loosens your fingers.  The bottle drops from your hand and bounces off the edge of the counter, hitting the floor with a clatter.  "God dammit!"

"Here."  Standing in his sock feet, Dean picks the bottle up off the floor.  "Seriously, are you okay?"

Looking up into his concerned face, you say, "Would it further damage your man-cred if you helped me take my makeup off?"

"I'm wearing leather pants and eyeliner," Dean reminds you with a snort.

"Those aren't damaging your man-cred, at all," you tell him quietly.

Dean blinks down at you, looking into your eyes like he's reading secret messages written across your irises.  "Here," he says, setting your face wash aside and clearing a space on the counter.  Putting his hands on your waist, he says, "Up," and boosts you to sit next to the sink.

A cotton pad soaked with a little olive oil and your eye makeup wipes away, and a gentle scrub takes care of the rest.  Warm water and Dean's gentle touch, you can feel your wounded spirit starting to pull itself back together.  Sitting up on the counter puts the two of you at eye level, and the harsh white lights lining the vanity mirror don't detract from Dean's comeliness at all, you think as he works.

"How does this work?" he asks, holding the eyedropper bottle of oil.  "I want to get this crap off my face."

"Here," you say, taking the bottle away from him and soaking another cotton pad.  "Shut your eyes."  When you get done wiping away the liner, you give his face a wash.  The barest whisper of whiskers make the washcloth rasp over his skin.  Dean keeps his eyes closed against the bright lights, his breath warm on your cheek through parted lips.  Softly, you brush the pad of your thumb across them, watch them move with the pressure.  They're lips that know a lot about kissing.  Your own lips burn with the memory.

Dean grabs your hand.  "What are you doing?" he asks.

"I'm sorry," you apologize, dropping your gaze to rest on the tattoo under his collarbone.  "I don't want to make you uncomfortable."

"It's not that, I just-- are you okay?  I mean, to be getting up to anything?"

You switch grip so you're holding his hand, and bring it to your lips.  Dean pulls in a quiet breath as you give his fingertips a soft suckling kiss, tasting a hint of soap under his nails.  "No demands," you tell him, quietly, not looking up from his fingers.  "I know you don't like witches.  I just--"

Dean takes his hand back and uses the crook of his finger to lift your face.  "Just what?"

Your lip wobbles.  "I feel dirty," you admit, feeling tears threaten.  There's no judgement in his face, no mockery.  If anything, he looks understanding.  "I just want to feel like a person again.  You know?"

"Yeah.  I do," Dean says, and he presses his lips to yours.

In the club, his kisses had been hot and hard, fiery with the heat of the moment.  This is different, slow and careful.  He stands between your spread knees and pulls you close, the thin material of your underliner the only barrier between you.  You put your arms around his neck, feeling the shaking under your skin ease a little as his heat seeps into you.

"You need me to make it better?" Dean asks, as his kiss becomes many small kisses, all over your face.

"Yes," you tell him quietly.  It's disgusting, how childish you feel . . .  but that's what you want, exactly.  "Please.  Please.  Make it better."

Nodding, Dean kisses you again, deep and warm.  It's like back in the club; Dean locks his arms around your back and pulls you off the counter, walking with you clamped to his body.  He sits on the edge of the bed.  For a long moment he just holds you, rubbing a hand down your back like he's soothing some trembling animal.  From anyone else it would feel condescending.  From him, it's caring.

You're laying back on the bed, braided together and making out nice and slow.  It feels wonderful, delicious tension coiling in your center and slow heat melting the ice in your blood.  Dean's not just a great kisser, you think as your brain dissolves into goo-- he's a fucking black belt in making out.

The heat in your core feels nice.  You want more.  Pushing Dean back a little, you take the bottom of your underliner and peel it up and off your body.  Dean stares down at your bare tits like they're a revelation, not something he's seen already.  His next kiss is hotter.  You tip your head back and he slides his mouth down your neck.  A gentle bite over the pulse point makes you whine.

"Relax," Dean whispers against your skin.  His hands slide down your body, petting your skin and making it warm.  He cups a breast in his big hand, the nipple clamped gently between two fingers.  The sensation goes straight to your pussy, making you throb.  Wet heat's gathering there, you can feel it soaking into your underwear.  "It's okay, I got you.  Lie back."

When you're stretched out, he unzips you out of your boots and peels off your leggings, baring all of you.  You shiver with more than shock at the heat in his eyes, as he takes you all in.

You part your knees to give him space, but instead of opening his pants and lowering himself over you, he pushes your thighs further apart.  Chuckling, he runs his fingers through the thick heart-shaped patch of curls above where your pussy lips split.  "This is cute.  I like it."  Cool air rushes over your sensitive parts as he uses his thumbs to open you up.  "Points me right where I need to go."

"Oh," you whine as he lowers his head.  Rough and wet strokes across the very tip of your clit, a faint promise of a touch.  "What are you doing?"

Sliding down to lay on his belly, your legs hooked over his arms and his hands crossed below your bellybutton, Dean says, "Making it better."  He licks and you gasp.  "Is this okay?"  Chuckling low and wicked at your shaky nod, Dean lowers his head.

How someone kisses doesn't necessarily mean they're any good applying their mouths anywhere else, you think to yourself in a haze.  In his case-- Dean's using those soft lips and that broad tongue in ways you're sure aren't legal in this area.  Using the first two fingers of one hand, he holds your cunt lips apart and uses his tongue on every little bit, inner petals and outer folds, bottom to top and back down, closed lips caressing and pointed tongue probing, the nubbly flat rubbing softly across your clit.  Shaking from the spell shock's giving way to an entirely different sort of trembling.  The heat building in your blood chasing away the cold chills.

"How do you want to come?" Dean asks in that low voice.  "Fingers?"  He dips two fingers inside, just to the first knuckle.  Your hips sway, seeking more, but Dean withdraws, making you clench on empty.  "Tongue?"  You cry out as he plunges his tongue into your pussy, so deep you can feel his nose and teeth snug against you.  "Or do you want to wait for my cock?"  He licks a quick puppy lap, making your hips jump.  God you're close.  You're all sex and heat and need.  "If I'm allowed a vote?" he says, spacing his words with more licks, little shocks of pleasure keeping you right on the edge.  "I want my cock in you."

"Yes," you whine.  "Cock, please.  Want it.  Want you inside me.  All the way."

Dean crawls up your body and kisses you, his lips wet with your nectar.  He gets to his feet, and you sit up with him, working open his belt.  You were right, he's buck beneath.  His dick's getting fat as you watch.  Dean grunts as you grace it with a soft lick, as you peel the leather pants slowly down his legs.  He stinks of sweat and leather and sex, alive and human.

Leaning down and giving you a kiss, Dean says, "Play with your titties for me."

Your nipples are hard and tight between your fingers.  Manipulating them feels delicious, delightful sparks snapping down between your legs.  You reach down between your legs, try and relieve a little of the ache.  "Ow!" you cry as Dean slaps the back of your hand.

"You said cock so that's what you're getting.  No cheating," he scolds.

You blow out an exasperated breath.  "Thought you wanted to make it better," you whine.

"I will, just cool your jets."  Dean's rooting in his bag.  "Ah-hah!  Knew I had spares," he says, holding up a little foil slip.  You pout.  Of course.  You hadn't given protection a thought.

Dean takes care of himself and kneels between your legs.  "You sure about this?" he asks, framing your face with a hand.  "I can get you off--" Dean's eyes roll back and his eyelids flutter as you reach down and cup his sac, run your hand up and gently squeeze.  He’s hot, hard, fits perfectly there in your hand.

You notch him in place and Dean lets his weight sink.  Oh wow, he's thicker than he looks.  You bite your lip against the stretch.  It's been a while, and he feels so good.  Warm and alive, pressing you into the bed.  You arch into him, feeling him reaching deeper.  Dean just holds still, living inside you for a long moment and looking you deep in the eyes.  The feeling of filth, of defilement, they're fading at the heat and concern there.  There's nothing dirty about this.

With a soft kiss, Dean asks, "You okay baby?"  You nod, reaching around his back and capping his shoulders with your palms.  Settling against you, Dean moves long and slow.  So slow and so good.  Tension knits his brow and pulls his body taught.  He's going at exactly the right pace to build you high and hot.

Your eyes are closed when the world spins and Dean's under you.  "Get your knees-- there," he pants, balancing you as you put your knees on either side of his hips.  "Grab onto the headboard."  You lean forward and grab on, painted veneer smooth under your hands.  Lips and tongue wrap around your nipple and latch, sucking hard and making you cry out.  "Perfect," Dean pants with his mouth full of your tits.  "Get down," he murmurs around your nipple, adding a mild sting of teeth.  "Get down, get down make love."

The shakes are gone, the sense of violation gone.  Your whole being is alive and hot.  You look down into Dean's face, and see the same thing there-- life and heat.  You pull your pussy tight around him.  He sucks in a moan as you move your hips in quick, hard pulls.

Your orgasm hits like a cleansing fire, burning across your skin and lighting your nerves like fuses.  Dean grabs you tight and rolls you over, driving into you hard and making the fire spark again, burn hotter.  You shriek his name as Dean's body seizes up tight and he collapses on top of you.

---

Sam's waiting outside as you and Dean finish dressing. "You wanna hang onto these?" you tease, holding up the leather pants.

"Hell no," Dean says.  "Hay-ell no."

You grin.  "Just asking.  They made your ass look amazing."

He stands hipshot and looks over his shoulder at you.  "Don't think I need any help in that department," he says, waggling his eyebrows.

Laughing, you step around him and stretch up to give him a kiss.  You feel wonderful.  Whole and energized, glad to be alive.  "Thank you," you say.  "Watch yourselves.  Things are scary out there right now."

Dean hugs you close.  "You too."  Another soft kiss, and he's gone.

---

A long time later . . .

“Why didn’t you tell me?!?”

“I tried.  At first you were underground.  Then I heard you were dead.”  When you’d learned otherwise, the news you’d gotten of him had all been bad.  Falling off the radar over and over, only to resurface when something terrible was happening.  The vibe was clear; stay away from that one, he’s dangerous.

“How-- how did it happen?”

“I don’t know.  God’s honest, I don’t know.  I wasn’t trying to make anything happen.”

Not consciously.  But the basic fact of the matter is, you’d been open and vulnerable and Dean had been there with a healer’s touch on your wounded spirit.  A life-affirming act of caring, performed as the calendar changed to May Day.  Beltane-- the flowering of the earth, the promise of abundance . . . a night of fertility.

“So why now?”

“You’ve met the Banes twins?  At Asa Fox’s funeral?  Asa never knew.  Tasha never told him.”  Deep breath.  “Asa never got to choose whether or not to have a relationship with them.  I don’t think it was right for her to take that decision away from him.”

So here you are.  At the park, in an empty field like combatants facing off for a duel.  You even have seconds-- Sam standing by Dean’s big Chevy on one side, Tasha Banes leaned up against your Jeep on the other.

He’s aged since you saw him last.  More lines around the eyes, more shadows within them.  He’s still one of the most beautiful men you’ve ever seen, everything about him fashioned to draw the eye and break the heart.

Right now though, he’s ignoring you completely.  Every bit of his focus is down towards where your hands rest on his daughter's shoulders.

“Hi,” Diana breaks the ice.

“Hi,” Dean manages.

Diana shifts in your arms, craning her neck to look into Dean's face.  "Why are you crying?"

Dean chuckles, tears falling from his eyes and the biggest grin you've ever seen beaming from his face.  "I'm just happy, honey.  Big happy."

You let go and Diana steps forward, green eyes looking square and brave into her father’s green eyes.  “Is it okay if I give you a hug?”  She lifts her arms.  “Mommy said I should always ask first.”

“God yes,” Dean sighs and falls to his knees.  Diana throws her little arms around his neck.  Dean wraps his arms around her, tight, careful not to crush.  “I’ll always have hugs for you sweetheart,” he whispers.  He cups a hand around her head, kisses her cheek.  Diana says something you don't catch and a sob breaks through Dean's throat.  "You can call me anything you want to," he says, and tears fall from your eyes when you remember Diana asking can I call him Daddy?

"Hey," Dean says, pulling back a little.  "Hey, don't do that," he says softly, using his thumb to wipe tears from Diana's cheeks.  He shifts to the side and points to where his brother's watching.  "See that big guy by the awesome car?"

"Uh-huh," Diana says.

"That's your Uncle Sammy.  You wanna go meet him?"

"Yes please," your courteous baby girl says.  She makes a little surprised squeak when Dean locks an arm around her rear end and stands.

"Is this okay?" Dean asks.  She nods, a big up-down.

"I'll be right over here with Tasha," you say.  "Later we'll go and get some lunch."

Tasha's waiting with a handkerchief and a flask.  You take a knock of whiskey and blow your nose.  "Everything okay?"

You look over to where Dean and Sam are playing Pass The Baby, hear Diana laughing when Dean says something funny.  "Yeah."  Sam's grinning too.  He gently winds one of Diana's pigtails around his finger.  Dean says something snarky and Diana sticks her tongue out at him, making all three of them crack up.  "Yeah, I think so."

---

AN2: Don't ask me where that ending came from. I have no idea. The Lizard Lounge is a damn tragic casualty of the epidemic. These days, The Church howls from the It'll Do Club. Check this out if you're curious about the soundscape.

[40cleverways]

Mirror universe troisha.Mirror universe troisha.Mirror universe troisha.Mirror universe troisha.Mirror universe troisha.Mirror universe troisha.Mirror universe troisha.Mirror universe troisha.Mirror universe troisha.Mirror universe troisha.

[worstdeathstudent]

Have a little kissu at 2 am

Mellori: You have a cut!

Tasha: oh, I suppose I was hit pretty hard, heh.

Mellori: I probably should've asked, but I learned a new spell and I got too excited, and...

Tasha: *not their first kiss* *will continue to make this face all day*

[nachosncheeze]

💥👻

💥 What is one canon thing that you wish you could change?

I want Tasha to have watched Madeline die with unambiguous intent. I want her to walk onto that plane, look at the glass of champagne, listen to Madeline blab about how successful she feels, and for Tasha to go, "Drink it. You're not worthy of the air you breathe" or "At least your son will never have to relearn what a bitch his mum was" or SOME kind of snapback, and then stand by and let it happen.

I want Tasha to come full circle and go, "You know what? I was wrong. Life isn't as black and white as 'Terrible people do terrible things and good people stop them.'"

I want her to walk away in the end fully embracing the lone wolf she's been grappling with for the whole second half of the series. The one that was able to join Keaton, of all people, despite his very personal involvement in what was done to Jane. The one who was able to hide Thornton's survival from Patterson and even work with him; who was able to lie to Reade and the team, disappear and let her family believe she had turned. The one that walks in the grey spaces in between.

I want her at peace with and empowered by her ambiguity.

👻 What is your wildest headcanon?

Maybe Boston's finger is in Valhalla......... xD

In seriousness though, I don't know that any of my headcanons are particularly "wild", they mostly plug various little story holes to make them make sense, and most of those, I've been writing as fics.

I've got one that I've been sitting on for a while... I guess you could call it more of an "alternate headcanon", because I don't really adhere to it, but the wild part is, it's fully canon compliant based on what the screen gave us, so it could be a real headcanon. I have lil picture in mind that I want to put with it, but I haven't managed to draw it to my satisfaction yet D: I'll try to finish it and make a separate post for that early in the new year. Please look forward to it, I guess? 😅 (I would almost consider ficcing it too, but..... I have too many WIPs already, and it would have to be a multi-chapter to make it work. So maybe not lol)

Thank you for the ask!! :D I think that's the clearest I've ever written out the Tasha thing, and the headcanon one I think is gonna hopefully spur me to action on something creative. xD

I'm trying to find my mojo and inspiration to start creating again, and I find these memes are a really good exercise to think critically about my ideas and hopefully get the juices flowing. If anyone else is curious, please check here and consider sending me an ask!

I've also recently done a WIP ask meme, which you can find here if you'd like a peek at what I've been working on before the words left me..... :)

[tallysgreatestfan]

[kiss-dumbbunnies]

2024 / 3 / 30

[major-kira-nerys]

NEW URL

[wendingeverwicked]

Tasha's domain in hell is ruled over by a king who picked an aesthetic a few millenia back and hasn't felt the need to update it since. Sara - or as Tasha often calls them, 'demon daddy' - knows what he's about. And what he's about is a heavy warm air that smells woody and earthy and sometimes carries the hint of a sea that doesn't exist. A breeze that provides no cool bite like you'd feel on earth. Like the sun that doesn't feel warm on your skin. Sure, the air is warm, the domain is hot, but, it's not the same. The day and night don't even move unless Sara wants it to.

On the outside, it looks like there's little organization, little restriction on where people can go and what they can do. Compared to some other domains, that's true, but there's always more going on. Chaos is a front that suits Sara just fine.

There's always something happening, people gathered, music, food, shows, poetry, dancing, anything. It's part of why Tasha is so good at ignoring even the loudest of noises. If you want to find somewhere to sit and read, when your private quarters are right in the central temple to the king and there's always a crowd in the courtyard, you have to be able to tune out the throng.

[staticbluue]

I was captivated by the idea that Spot was originally Tasha's cat (because we know she had an orange cat in the past, and we don't know where Spot came from so it's a logical conclusion), so I drew this. But I put Tasha in the newer uniform to imply that she doesn't die because canon is what I make of it and in MY mind Data, Tasha, and Spot get to live long lives full of joy and whimsy.

[stellarred]

😂😂😂

so i saw a bunch of these slideshows going around and decided to make one for my fav series 

[marigoldenblooms]

That's a Wrap - One Shot

Pairing: Director!Natasha x Fem!Actor!Reader x Actor!Wanda (MINORS DNI - 18+)

Summary: You and Wanda can’t seem to get this scene right. With your director’s help, you manage.

MINORS DNI - 18+

Tags: Is Y/N in the room with us right now (They aren’t), Dom!Natasha, Switch!Wanda, Bottom!Reader. Dub-con, power dynamic (Director/Actor), voyeurism, degradation, praise, semi-public sex, semi-orgasm denial, light edging, objectification, oral (W receiving), fingering (R receiving), strap-on use(R receiving), some pet names (baby, sweetheart, darling, ma’am, Tasha(For N), Wan/Wands(For W), Mommy(For W, used loosely)), Nat calls her strap her dick, semi-previous established relationship? Porn with plot, clothed sex, sextape, light aftercare, fluff at the end. 

A/N: Welcome to the first issue of Smut Saturdays! Want to really create some good shit in this genre, so I'm posting at least one spicy fic every Saturday (if I can help it)! This came to me in a vision (called the five minutes before my math class)- After my last smut fic did well (An Important Lesson, Prof!Wanda x Reader, which you can read here), I thought I’d do some WandaNat practice! Not proofread, written in the span of an evening. This is a crime against intimacy coordinators, I’m so sorry. Asides over. Natasha wears a strap to her films and she can dick me down with it, please and thank you!

Word Count: 2.4k - Read Length: 8 minutes, 49 seconds.

~~~

It was never fun when the producers came by. 

They’d always arrive in droves of two or three, never the top dog- as if Natasha’s ‘avant-garde chick flick’, as they called it, wasn’t worth their time. They certainly treated it as much. Today was the worst day for them to arrive, in pressed jackets and always on a phone call, because today you were filming the sex scene. It was more of a ‘romance’ scene, with alluring cinematography and enough passion to make your eyes fall out, yet you hadn’t even gotten to remove any clothes from your beautiful costar- Wanda. You knew she was incredible, her previous films as a fem fatale showing her dominant streak, however the spark couldn’t burn when interruptions from the suits kept happening. You weren’t on a porn set, and yet sometimes you wish you were. Might’ve been faster, or at least more fun. 

“From the top,” A groveled voice muttered, Natasha’s steely gaze breaking into your skull-  though a part of you wished she’d break your back. The redhead had always been an inspiration, one of the leading reasons for your participation in her project, besides her being so fine. But now, she looked pissed, worn down by hours of appeasing the producer’s half-baked suggestions and guarding you and Wanda from their prying eyes. “Yes Ma’am,” you replied, earning a slight chuckle from your director, the twinkle in her eye not lost on you- she was on her last legs, but it was yours and Wanda’s compliance that kept her going.

You’d return to your blocking, centered in the middle of your ‘apartment bedroom’, with Wanda’s hand placed gently on your waist. Your roles were lovers, reuniting after a long day of hardship, slowing down after it all. You’d stare up at her, the mild exasperation in your expression making her smile. She’d send a wink down to you, muttering something about being ‘bored too’, but ‘not hating kissing you again’, or the like. She’d invited you out to coffee tonight, and especially after a day like this, you’d take it. Perhaps you’d even forget the paparazzi and really kiss her as you’d been wanting to do this whole shoot. Throw a bone to the fanfiction writers and make their canon comply with reality. Maybe. It was Natasha’s words which startled you from your thoughts, a look of tenderness overcoming your face as you’d sink into your character, “Action!” 

Within an instant, Wanda hiked her hands under the hem of your shirt, eyes darting down to your face. Her palms were warm against you, smooth against your soft skin, as your head rested gently on her shoulder. She’d tug at the fabric- and you’d send her a quick nod, smiling as you’d lean up to capture her lips in yours-

 “Well that’s not very marketable!” A producer would crow, scoffing with both his hands outstretched towards the two of you. You’d freeze, feeling all of the passion drain out from the scene, no more than a shell of itself. His bald head wasn’t very marketable, looking like a morally dubious Mr. Clean- and yet you didn’t comment on it. He’d look at Natasha, the woman pinching the bridge of her nose with a stern sigh, and you gulped. Oh, shit. She was going to lose it. “Can’t you get their clothes off faster? Our focus groups won’t wait around for-”

“Fucking Christ, get- out!” Natasha shouted, a growl in her tone bringing heat to your face. She scowled, roaring to the surrounding suits, “Leave, get off my set- it’s my fucking turn to direct them.” Her hands would fan away their deer-in-headlights looks, ushering them out before locking the door. Her fiery gaze would bore into you then, jaw locked as her heels would click towards you and Wanda, many feet apart. 

The two shared a knowing nod- And before you could speak, your director grabbed Wanda by her shirt collar and pulled her into a bruising kiss. Your jaw would drop as the brunette’s eyes widened, fluttering shut as Wanda moaned into the embrace- Natasha’s hands planted firmly on her tits. She’d squeeze them, earning a gasp from Wanda, your costar’s head swung back as Natasha swiped her thumbs across her nipples. Your director’s gaze would strike yours, and you understood why Wanda’s submission was so quick. You shuddered at the redhead’s gleaming smirk, her voice a husked whisper, “Get those clothes off and get on the bed for me, baby. Now.” 

“Yes, Ma’am.” Your reply was instant, Natasha’s grin only widening as you’d shed your layers, kneeling on the mattress’s soft sheets. They were cold, goosebumps settling up your spine yet you wouldn’t move, eyes trained obediently on Natasha. You were so perfect for her. 

Natasha’s mouth would return to Wanda’s, pressing her into the faux wall that had outlined the bedroom. Her hand would splay against Wanda’s stomach, and you saw how she hiked up the shirt there, continuing to palm her tits while unclasping Wanda’s bra with the other. She’d pepper kisses across the brunette’s neck, sucking hickeys the lower she’d go. 

They’d part only so Wanda’s top could come completely off, your director keeping a claiming touch on Wanda’s hip as she’d look back at you over her shoulder. Her hair was wild, mused from Wanda’s hands slung loosely around her shoulders while her expression remained flushed, dark eyes darting down to the slick that pooled between your legs. Wanda’s voice would ring to you, almost reverent as her hips would stutter against Natasha’s, “She’s fucking drooling for us, Tasha..” 

The redhead would bite back a smirk as she’d watch you twitch. You ached to touch them, yourself, anything- your hands already balled into fists on your thighs, legs rubbing together, desperate for friction. But neither had given the command, and you had an inkling from their hungry looks that they wanted you needy, right where they had you. Natasha’s rasp came second, “Then show her what I taught you.”

Wanda would reach you first, discarding the rest of her clothes in the process. Her hands trailed warm touches up your legs and to your chest, digging into your soft flesh as her lips would meet yours. It was explosive, sweet and tender yet with a ferocity that claimed you quickly, heating up your skin as her knee would slot between your thighs. You’d feel Natasha’s calloused fingers on the small of your back, the sinking of her weight in the mattress behind you, and her tone husked in your ear, “Stretch her out for me, Wan- like we practiced.” Your director’s words sent a buzz to your core, cunt grinding mercilessly into the sheets below as Wanda’s hand would trail there, dragging two fingers along your folds before arcing dazzling circles around your clit. 

You’d eagerly press your hips into her touch, moaning lowly as she’d chuckle, “So wet for me, sweetheart…bet I can just slip right in.” She’d coax her fingers inside, your pussy walls taking her gladly as Wanda curled her digits against that spongy spot. Your back would arch, head growing fuzzy as you’d feel your slick drip down her hand. Her thumb would press into your clit as you’d buck your hips against her, cursing a quick “Fuck-” which was quickly swallowed up by Wanda’s mouth. She’d bite your lip, dragging it with her teeth as she’d settle into her rhythm, spare hand palming your tits with a rougher grasp, “Been waiting for this, haven’t you sweetheart- pretty whore, just for us.”

 “Mhm, good girl just wants to be fucked, don’t you?” Natasha would grit, and you could see her stroking something behind your back. She’d unzipped her slacks- her strap heavy in her hand, glistening with the spit she’d gathered in her palm. Natasha bucked her hips against her hold, cursing as the cock’s base would rub against her clit. She looked incredible, sweat across her brow as her hand would clench around the toy, like she could feel it. “Keep going, Wands- want her perfect for my dick.”

 Natasha would pant, breathing ragged as her hand moved in time with Wanda’s fingers- curling into you almost torturously, feeling your cunt clench around her. The brunette’s kiss would claim you again, moaning into her warmth as her thumb would circle your clit. She’d sigh almost lovingly, fondness overtaking her expression as your head found the crook of her neck, “She’s already perfect, Tasha-” She’d coo, although her hand wouldn’t stop, gasping at the squelching sound of her fingers up your cunt, “This pussy was made for us, darling.” 

Their words and touch brought you so close, yet Wanda’s hands slowed down when she felt your legs quiver or your breathing seize up, never giving you what you needed. You’d squirm against Wanda, begging for more, a lingering touch, anything-  “Please, Wan- I‘m so close,” You whined, earning a tut from your costar. She’d devour your pleas, lost to time as her mouth would reach yours, softer than before. You felt her sympathetic smile against you as she’d shake her head, locking eyes with Natasha’s heavy stare, “Not yet, sweetheart..It’s not my turn anymore.”

The redhead groaned when Wanda slid her fingers out of you, her fingers shimmering with your arousal. Your walls fluttered around nothing, aching for anyone’s touch as you felt Natasha’s rugged grasp on your hips, pulling you up and back so your pelvis was against hers. The strap had warmed in her hand, dragging between your legs. You were dripping for her, soft sparks of pleasure seizing you as her tip would brush against your clit. Her voice would thunder through you, almost delirious with her own need, “Fucking finally..want this pussy all to myself…” 

Wanda would chuckle at that, your director kneading at your hips as Wanda’s thighs settled in front of your mouth, your arms propping yourself just above her soaked cunt. “We promised to share, Tasha..” She’d croon, face flushed and touch softer than Natasha’s as she’d cradle your face in her palms, “Such a pretty girl..are you ready for your reward, darling?” You nodded, a flurry of sensation hitting you all at once- Natasha’s strap sinking into you as the redhead would push your shoulder blades down, pressing your face between Wanda’s legs. 

The stretch was incredible, the woman behind you vicious as she’d drive her dick into you, bottoming out as your mouth would be smothered against Wanda’s cunt. Each thrust would drive Wanda crazy, your gasps and whimpers vibrating right into her core, especially as you’d flat your tongue against her clit, suckling on the sensitive nub. Her thighs would threaten to shut on you, her stretched words lost in your pussydrunk haze, “Yes, like that sweetheart- such a good girl..-” Natasha would rock her hips into yours, pace bruising as she’d pull your thighs flush to hers. You’d hear her muffled curses as she’d bottom out again, sighing as if she could feel you clench around her. “Baby..fuck, so perfect for us…” Wanda’s hands would thread into your hair, anchoring her hold on you as she’d press your face further into her cunt. 

The sight would echo a curse from Natasha’s mouth, her hips growing a little more erratic, “Fucking christ, she’s our perfect little whore, aren’t you baby-” You’d try to nod, moaning as Natasha’s hand would press further into your back, keeping you from moving an inch, “Don’t even think, baby- just fucking take it, fuck-” 

Time would seem to slow, your brain fuzzing into blissful static as you’d feel Wanda’s thighs tremor around your head, her grip tightening as she’d see your body tremble in Natasha’s touch. “Come with me, sweetheart- be a good girl and come for Mommy.” Her saccharine words spurred you into a blinding release, your tongue working Wanda through her orgasm as your body quaked with your own. You’d feel Natasha follow shortly thereafter, cursing aloud as she’d pull herself out of you, watching as you’d clench around nothing. Her hands would immediately find your waist, bringing you gently up to kneel with your back against her clothed front. 

Panting, your arms would shake as you’d catch your breath, leaning up to wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. You could feel both women’s eyes on you as you’d suckle on your fingers, cleaning up with an exaggerated moan, looking towards Wanda as you’d pop your hand out of your mouth, your words almost dreamy, “Mmm, so good, Wan..” You’d giggle as Wanda’s face would alight in blush, although the clink of metal and fabric drove you away from your teasing.

Natasha’s hands would be rushed as she’d pull her pants and harness down, eyes heavy with a lust that made you shudder, “Switch with me, Wands-” She’d grit, thrusting the strap in her general direction before settling calloused palms on your still quivering thighs, her gaze boring into yours, “It’s my turn for her mouth.” 

Wanda’s smirk was immediate, sending you another sly wink, “Gladly.” 

------------------------------------------

Unbeknownst to the three of you, the cameras had never stopped rolling. That film would never be seen by the public, kept hidden once you left the building. Not to say it couldn't be enjoyed by you three, though.

Natasha and Wanda took you out to coffee afterwards as the brunette had promised. They explained their prior agreement to ‘test the waters’ with you, Wanda working with Natasha on a plan to woo you both in and out of character. The date went well, although with much less lingering glances and more almost-fucking in the back of Wanda’s car afterwards. It was there that the public and paparazzi learned of your relationship, although their camera flash thankfully stopped any romance before it got good. You weren’t on a porn set, after all- and Wanda kept your half-nude form hidden while Natasha cursed out the press. All in a day’s work. 

Unfortunately, the day’s work began anew the next day. Filming the romance scene was no difficult measure now, but Natasha’s grin and Wanda’s wandering hands blurred the lines of professionalism. The film crew couldn’t care less, a few of them- such as Kate, a script supervisor- mentioned how they knew it would happen eventually (and won a bet with Peter, who said it’d take until the award show for you three to get together). 

However, once you three escaped into Natasha’s office for some ‘paperwork’ as she’d called it, it didn’t matter. They were yours, and that was enough.  ~~~

[cuterefaction]

Trektober Day 21 - Canon Event Fix-It. I have a lot of these (Dr Pulaski stays and has a rivalry with Crusher, Sulu is in all of season 2, Tasha survives the evil puddle, Ziyal lives and dates Jake, Julian goes to Cardassia at the end of DS9, etc etc etc) but this will always be my biggie.

Like, seriously. Miles. You are there. You literally saved a person that medical science could not save (albeit with Geordi and Data teaming up) only a few years ago. Did you not remember? Can you not tell Julian to put your buddy in stasis for a few hours while you reprogram a single computer?

This of course brings up a bit of a major problem with Trek. We've seen so many different issues be solved that when they crop up later we can look at them and go '... don't you know how to deal with this?' - especially when it involves the same characters.

I'm seeing Miles in my mind's eye being at dinner a decade later and suddenly just freezing up and slapping himself in the face.

Anyway. We could have double Dax. It would be EASY. Jadzia would be such a good and terrible influence on Ezri. People would be constantly so confused.

This was a bit of a bugger to do in one day for the challenge so I may draw it more coherently in the future.