Tashi Duncan - Blog Posts
born to be tashi duncan’s controversially young girlfriend, forced to thirst over her on tumblr 😔
I do not know what fic you are talking about but now i NEED to find it
sighhh 😓 so do i!!! i must find it again
does anyone know about a blurb or one-shot about art sleeping with patrick’s wife since he knew of patrick and tashi’s affair? and then art ends up doing the same gesture as patrick??? DOES ANYONE KNOW WHAT I’M TALKING ABOUT OR AM I CRAZY????? 😭😭😭
manifesting this type of relationship 🙏🏽
⋆°࿔ flower’s blog𝜗𝜚°⋆
Hii everyone! You can call me Flowerꨄ I don’t post much other then reblogs or things that I like that gets no attention ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
But… nonetheless here are some interests I have that you can find on my blog☆彡
Teen wolf
Supernatural
The chronicles of Narnia
Deadpool and wolverine
The sturniolo triplets
Dylan O’Brien
Louis Partridge
Stranger things
Smallville
X-Men
Marvel
The Sandman
Criminal Minds
Star Wars
The umbrella academy
Challengers
꡴And as always more will be added꡴
I’m always here to talk just let me pause my show first☏ - Flowerఌ
happy #throupletuesday
Arcane tennis AU but it immediately descends into Challengers brainrot
He's soooooo bbg🎀🍒😍🌹😫😫😫 I be drinkin his cum like... ANYWAYS. If u feel lonely hmu.
Sooooo????? This is not a drill!!!!!!!!! My bsf asked me something like "What music are you listening to except that depressed girl ???" And the thing is she KNOWS that I listen to my babygirl Elizabeth Grant with my ears& soul more than anyone ever could do I was like "Oh...Nirvana's great (greatest of all time)" And she sent me a voicemail sayin "Why TF didn't u tell bout em earlier. I loveeee thiss" WITH "That's what makes u beautiful or how tf it's called".......................................
........................,............................................................................................................. I'm done y'all 🎀
Unironiclly if someone made this 4 me I think I would actually fudging crumble. 🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀🖤💋💋💋
Ur sparkle jump rope queen 👑
Challengers (2024) dir. Luca Guadagnino
1 year anniversary!!
hii can u please do a NSFW M for tashi?
of course i can !!!!
m is for motivation | tashi duncan
You are her favorite opponent. Or maybe her favorite toy. Maybe both. Tashi Duncan doesn’t really separate the two.
You learn that quickly.
She plays sex like she plays tennis—aggressive baseline, unpredictable serves, sudden volleys that make your breath catch in your chest. She doesn’t do tender unless she’s weaponizing it. She doesn’t do romantic unless she’s mocking it. And when she fucks? It’s not about intimacy. It’s about advantage. About rhythm. About control. Her control, specifically. But she wants your pleasure. She just wants to make you earn it.
She’s the kind of girl who doesn’t moan—she grunts, she giggles, she talks. “C’mon,” she’ll whisper, sweat-slick and glowing, straddling you after a win, her thighs still quivering from the match. “Don’t make me do all the work,” she teases, even as her hips are already grinding into you, deliberate and cruel and so damn good. Her giggle isn’t soft. It’s vicious. It curls around your spine like a hand closing tight around your throat. “You gonna make me cum first? Or just sit there and let me milk you like a fucking loser?”
She says shit like that all the time. It gets her off. Trash talk, dominance, the mental edge of it. The way your face shifts when she says something filthy, knowing you’re desperate to keep up with her but barely hanging on. She gets wet when she sees your knees start to shake. When your voice breaks. When you forget your own name and only know hers, again and again.
Because she wants to be worshipped. And yeah, she loves when someone serves her—mouth first, cock or strap or fingers later. She wants your face between her thighs, your hands behind your back if she feels like making you beg for it. “Open wider,” she purrs, pinning your wrist to the sheets as she grinds her cunt against your mouth. “Yeah, there—fuck, there—just like that. You like how I taste?” Her thighs shake when you do it right. She won’t tell you. But she’ll ride your face until she’s breathless, until her giggles dissolve into broken little nnnh, uhnnh, hhuhh—fuck, her back arching as her thighs clamp around your ears.
And she won’t stop. Not until you really work for it. Not until your jaw aches, and her slick’s smeared all over your chin, and you’re drunk on it—on her.
But she gives back, too. Oh, does she give back.
She’s not selfish—she’s competitive. And if you get her off, she has to outdo you. It becomes a game, a challenge, a dare. She’ll have your legs shaking, your toes curling, your eyes rolling back in your head while her fingers curl just right, her palm grinding in circles against your clit with the kind of athletic precision that makes you wonder if she trains for this. Her mouth’s filthier than her strokes. “You’re close, huh? Yeah? Your thighs are twitching. Look at you.” She licks her lips, then lowers her voice like she’s calling a play: “You wanna cum on my fingers, baby? Or should I sit on your face while you try not to scream?”
She’s loud during sex—not with moans, but with presence. She laughs. She talks shit. She eggs you on. And she masturbates like it’s part of her fucking warm-up routine.
You’ve caught her doing it before matches. Not in the locker room, but in the bathroom, door cracked open, her leg up on the counter, her fingers working herself fast and ruthless, her phone propped up with a picture of herself mid-serve, muscles taut, hair wild, mouth open. She gets off to herself. To her own power. To the image of her body in motion. “Fuck yes,” she pants, breath hot against the mirror. “Look at you. Look at that swing. That ass. Mmmmgh—fuck—yes—yes—” Her orgasms alone are fast, harsh, almost annoyed, like she’s irritated with how badly she needs it. But when she cums? She hums low in her throat, mouth open, eyes glassy, tongue curling against her teeth like she’s tasting it.
And after? She steps onto the court like she’s already fucked someone and won. Her energy’s electric. Her body loose. Her smile like a dare.
She gets turned on watching you watch her win. That’s another thing. She loves audience. When you’re sitting in the bleachers and she knows it. When she bends low for a return and your eyes go straight to her ass. She’s got eyes on the back of her neck. She feels you staring. And she feeds off it. Her game gets sharper, crueler, tighter. She starts muttering shit under her breath between points: “Bet you’re hard right now. Bet you’re wet. Watch this.” Then she hits an ace and turns to wink at you like it was foreplay.
She doesn’t cry out when she cums. Not with tears, anyway. Not with sweet little noises. She chokes on it. She grunts, like she’s finishing a point. Like she’s driving a winner down the line. “Hhhfuck,” she bites out, spasming around your fingers or your cock or your tongue. “You—you fucker—nghh—don’t stop—”
She finishes strong, always. And she doesn’t collapse after. She stretches. Climbs off you like a fucking panther, then rolls her shoulders, flexes her arms, reaches for her water bottle like it was just another drill.
“You good?” she smirks, sweat dripping between her breasts, lips slick and shining. “You look wrecked.”
You are wrecked.
She kisses you like a reward, palm cradling your jaw, tongue slow and filthy in your mouth.
But you can tell. Behind her eyes, there’s something. Something aching. Something just under the surface, breaking open only when your breath hitches and your nails dig into her back and you whisper her name like it’s a plea. She kisses you harder then. Like she’s trying not to feel. Like she needs to prove it’s all a game.
But when you hold her after? She doesn’t pull away.
Not yet.
And the next time she rides you? She doesn’t say anything at all. Just grinds against you, chases it, grunts into your neck, then buries her face in your shoulder while her body trembles with every aftershock.
She doesn’t talk about that part.
But she always cums harder when she’s losing.
LITTLE LAMB — vampire!tashi x sacrificialvirgin!reader
they dressed you in white silk and lilies and left you for her. the throne room of the vampire queen is no place for tender hearts, but you don’t turn away when she descends from her crimson seat. tashi duncan has made a thousand sacrifices bleed, but she kneels for you. and it’s not death you find in her mouth — it’s something worse.
warnings: vampire content, blood drinking, erotic tension, ritualistic undertones, explicit sensual content, oral (f receiving), ritualistic sex, power imbalance, minor religious imagery, blood kink, possessive behavior, obsession, fem!reader, dark romance, mild dubcon overtones via hypnotic vampiric influence
tags: @destinedtobegigi, @pittsick, @bambiangels, @itachisank, @talsorchard, @angeldoll1e, @tennisprincess, @lexiiscorect, @esotericgirlwannabe, @lovefaist, @won-every-lottery, @zionna
notes: hey loves — dipping my toes into something a little darker, a little sharper-edged than my usual. i’ve been wanting to explore more gothic, eerie, sensual horror for a while now, and this felt like the perfect place to start. if you’re into this kind of slow, decadent menace and want to see more, please let me know!
They dress you in white. Silk, soft as breath, clings to your skin like prayer. You don’t remember who they are—only the hands, faceless and careful, that smoothed the fabric over your limbs, that combed through your hair with perfumed oil until it lay sleek against your back. The lilies come after. Cold, damp stems tucked behind your ears, down your spine, cradled in the crooks of your arms. You sit on your knees at the center of the marble floor, head bowed low. No one tells you to, but you know better than to look up.
The air is thick with old candle wax, something sharper beneath it—sweet, metallic. Blood, maybe. You don’t want to name it, but your mouth waters. Above you, the silence breathes. The hall isn’t empty; you feel her. That strange heat that isn’t heat, that slow, bone-deep awareness of being watched. Your thighs tense. You’re not afraid, not exactly. You are something smaller, more raw. You are waiting to be devoured.
You steal a glance before you can stop yourself. Just a flicker upward. Just your eyes. Her throne isn’t gilded or crowned in skulls, like you imagined. It’s just stone—damp with condensation, worn down at the edges like a thing that’s been used. She sits there like the world ends beneath her. Legs parted, one arm draped along the armrest, chin tilted just slightly down. Watching you. No expression. Just the kind of quiet that drips down the back of your neck and makes your skin burn.
You don’t expect her to move. Not yet. You’ve heard how she lingers—makes them wait until they’re shaking, until their mouths are red with bitten silence. But tonight, she rises. No sound, not even the whisper of silk. She moves like fog, like something with no weight, only hunger. Her dress trails behind her, the color of dried garnet, heavy and wet-looking where it meets the floor. You stare at the hem, at the way it pulls like something being dragged. Something dead. You forget how to breathe.
When she stops before you, your whole body tenses. Every muscle pulled taut, every nerve lit up like you’re bracing for a blow. She doesn’t touch you, not yet. Just stands there, close enough that you can smell her. Sandalwood and old wine and something else—feral, like skin left too long in the dark. Her fingers lift. Two, then three, knuckles brushing your jaw. You flinch. She doesn’t stop. Just tilts your chin up like she’s reading you.
Her voice, when it comes, is a hush, shaped like smoke. “You looked at me.”
It isn’t a question.
You try to nod, but your body won’t obey. Her hand holds you still, thumb pressing soft but firm into your chin, keeping you open. Vulnerable. Her eyes—god, her eyes—they don’t look human. Not monstrous, either. Just old. Like they’ve seen too many things. Eaten too many people. “Tell me why,” she murmurs.
“I—I… wanted to,” you whisper. Your voice breaks. It sounds like a lie. But it isn’t.
Her mouth curves. Not a smile. Nothing that gentle. More like amusement dragged slow across a blade. “Good,” she says, and that one word lands in your stomach like prayer. Like punishment. “That makes you mine.”
She kneels. You weren’t expecting that. You thought she’d tower over you forever, that she’d hurt you from above like a god. But she lowers herself, slow, precise, until your knees are nearly touching. The candles stutter behind her. Her fingers trail down your throat, light as a threat. You shiver. “Do you know what happens next?” she asks.
You shake your head.
She leans in. Her lips hover above yours, not kissing—just close enough to taste your breath. “You don’t beg yet,” she murmurs. “You learn. You listen. And when I say you’re ready, you bleed.”
The kiss is slow. Too slow. Like she’s tasting you with every pass of her tongue, learning your shape, cataloging every place you tremble. Her hand doesn’t move. It stays at your throat, a constant reminder. You’re not allowed to move. You’re not allowed to speak. You are allowed to feel, and you do. Fuck, you do. Every part of you screams for more.
She pulls back, just an inch, and you chase her without meaning to. “Hungry,” she murmurs, more to herself than to you. “That’s adorable.”
Her hands move then—over your collarbones, down the line of your sternum, parting the silk like it’s nothing. You gasp. You’re bare beneath. Of course you are. You were dressed for offering. She parts the fabric until your chest is exposed, and her eyes drag across you like weight. Not heat. Not cold. Just pressure. Just intent.
She kisses your throat next. Lower. Then bites. Not with teeth—yet. Just lips and tongue and a mouth that knows what it’s doing. You arch for her. Pathetic. Willing. She laughs, breathless and cruel, right against your pulse. “Say thank you.”
You do. Quiet, cracked. It makes her eyes flash.
And then—finally—she bites.
It’s sharp. Immediate. Not like the stories say. Not some dull, thudding pull. Her teeth sink in like needles, like confession, and your whole body jerks. But she holds you. Arms locked around your shoulders, mouth sealed to your throat, drinking like you’re the only thing left alive. You feel your pulse stutter. You feel your hips rock forward, involuntary. Your body’s confused—pain or pleasure or both, and does it matter? Not to her. Not to you.
When she pulls back, your blood stains her mouth. She doesn’t wipe it. She wears it. “Good little thing,” she whispers, licking her lips. “You’re going to kneel for me forever.”
And the terrifying part?
You want to.
Your throat throbs where she’s marked you. Not a wound, not exactly—more like a brand. Deep and slow and wet, where your pulse used to sit quiet. Now it hammers. Everything feels… louder. The ache of your knees on the marble, the shiver where silk parts from skin, the hot, damp echo of her breath when she speaks again. “Do you feel it?” she murmurs, her hands splayed across your ribcage like she might crack you open. “The change?”
You nod. Barely. Your head is swimming, your body too full—of pain, of heat, of something ancient she’s poured into your veins. You feel dizzy. Hungry, but not for food. Tired, but not for sleep. It’s like she’s taken your name with your blood, and all that’s left is this. This trembling thing. This mouth that belongs to her now. You breathe her scent in like it’s air.
“Lie back,” she says, and her tone is lazy, indulgent. Like she’s giving you a gift.
The marble burns beneath you as you obey. The lilies crush beneath your shoulder blades, wet petals sticking to your skin. Your limbs don’t feel like yours anymore. She spreads them without asking, with the casual precision of someone arranging altar offerings. Your knees fall open. Your arms stretch wide. A crucifixion of posture, if not nails. She straddles your hips like a throne, her dress puddling around your thighs like liquid shadow.
“I want to see you undone,” she murmurs, brushing a thumb along your lower lip. “Piece by piece. Thought by thought. Until all that’s left is the worship.”
You try to speak, but your mouth won’t shape the words. She doesn’t mind. She hums under her breath—something tuneless, low, like a lullaby sung to corpses—and drags her nails down your chest. Light enough to tickle, just enough to sting. She pinches, scrapes, pauses at the pulse between your ribs. Watches the twitch. Watches your eyes.
“Look at you,” she whispers, amused. “Already trembling. They always do.”
You don’t know who they are. You don’t ask. You don’t want to know.
Her fingers drift lower. Not soft anymore. More clinical now, more practiced. She touches you like she’s learning you, but not gently. No tenderness. Just cold precision, like a priestess gutting the sacred lamb before the altar. Your breath stutters. You can’t stop the way your hips jerk, the way you writhe beneath her even as your thighs shake from the effort of staying open for her.
“Still,” she says sharply, and you still. The word presses into you like a command spoken directly to your marrow.
Then, her mouth again—on your breast this time, kissing, biting, sucking until she leaves bruises that bloom like violets across skin. Your fingers claw helplessly at the silk pooled around your sides, and she laughs against you. “Good little thing,” she croons. “So soft. So eager to be hollowed out.”
Her hand slips lower. You gasp. It’s too much—too close, too soon, too everything. She doesn’t care. She touches you like she owns you, like she’s not seeking pleasure but control. Every movement exact, every press of her fingers meant to unravel. You try not to fall apart. You try to last. But your body is already betraying you, rising into her touch like it’s answering a prayer.
And then—she stops. Just like that.
Your whimper is immediate. Shameful. You don’t even try to hide it.
“Not yet,” she says, cool and calm and cruel. “You don’t come until I say. If you do, I stop. If you beg too soon, I stop. If you bite your lip again without permission, I stop.”
You nod frantically, mouth dry, eyes wide.
She leans down, lips against your ear. “That’s right. Be good. Be mine.”
The pace changes. Slower now. More drawn-out, more decadent. She moves like she has centuries to waste, dragging her tongue along your neck again, licking the wound until it weeps fresh. She licks it clean. You feel every drop re-enter your skin, feel your blood inside her, returning. The room spins. You’re not sure if you moan or cry. It doesn’t matter. She takes all sound the same.
You’re so close you’re shaking. She hasn’t even fucked you yet. Not really. Just fingers, just mouth, just the weight of her body and the absolute knowing that she could end you and you’d thank her for it. She pinches your throat gently between thumb and forefinger, pressing in until your vision dances. Your hands fly up—instinct—but don’t push. Just hover. Seeking.
“Shh,” she soothes, her breath warm against your cheek. “Let me. You’ll come when I allow it. You’ll fall apart when I decide you’re ready to break.”
She presses harder. You choke.
Not pain. Not panic. Just silence. Stillness. Like prayer.
And then—release. Her fingers thrust deep, curling exactly right, finding the sweet, ruined space of you that makes your back arch and your voice snap loose. You don’t mean to cry out. You don’t mean to come. But you do. It floods you like heat, like guilt, like god.
She stops. Freezes.
Your breath catches.
“I said,” she hisses, “not yet.”
Terror. Ecstasy. Regret. You stammer something—apology, plea, you’re not sure. She leans over you, eyes black with something older than rage. “You disobeyed,” she says, almost sad.
And then—teeth. Her second bite is vicious. Not elegant. Not seductive. It’s punishment. It hurts. You scream, throat raw, and she holds you down while she drinks. Messy. Fast. Your blood spatters across your chest, across her mouth, across your thighs.
She drinks until you’re dizzy. Until your fingers go numb. Until you are barely a body.
Only then does she rise.
“You’ll do better tomorrow,” she says simply, and turns her back.
You remain on the floor, ruined and silent and slick with blood and shame.
And beneath it all, something deeper blooms.
Devotion.
ֹ ⑅᜔ ׄ ݊ ݂ CHALLENGERS BOT RELEASE ۪ ֹ ᮫
tags: @pittsick, @bambiangels, @talsorchard, @angeldoll1e, @itachisank, @tennisprincess, @lexiiscorect, @esotericgirlwannabe, @lovefaist, @won-every-lottery, @zionna
⤹ ART DONALDSON
✦ ⌇ lemonade lips
✦ ⌇ breaking point
✦ ⌇ two for $25
⤹ TASHI DUNCAN
✦ ⌇ stolen trophy
✦ ⌇ hotel blues
✦ ⌇ doubles trouble
⤹ PATRICK ZWEIG
✦ ⌇ choreplay
✦ ⌇ post-match picnic
✦ ⌇ drunk dial devotion
when uncle ace by blood orange starts playing
this still is fucking insane. art is literally RIGHT THERE. THEY CANT COEXIST WITHOUT ALL 3 CORNERS OF THE TRIANGLE AND ITS SO FUCKED UP AND SO BEAUTIFUL
i loved your 2000s tashi is it possible you could to an 80s tashi?
of course i can!!!
HUNGRY EYES
you’re her secretary. she never raises her voice. she doesn’t need to. all it takes is a look and your knees lock. she ruins you with silence and eye contact, and then she lets you clean yourself up in the reflection of her office window.
pairing: corporate yuppie!tashi x secretary!fem!reader
warnings: explicit sexual content (fingering, powerplay, orgasm control, breast play), dom!tashi, sub!fem!reader, emotionally distant dynamics, corporate eroticism, voyeurism (window), 1980s glamour/power aesthetic, intense gaze kink, objectification, degradation (implied), lack of aftercare, unbalanced power dynamic, slow burn smut pacing, no aftercare
The Wall Street Journal sits folded on her glass-topped desk, announcing Black Monday's aftermath in stark black type, the October 1987 market collapse still sending aftershocks through every financial district corridor. Your shoulder pads feel particularly heavy today beneath your silk blouse – Dynasty-inspired armor for the corporate battlefield where women like you are still fighting for footholds. The clock on the wall reads 7:43 PM, its quiet ticking a counterpoint to the Diana Ross cassette playing softly from Tashi’s private office where she’s been holed up since the markets closed.
You’re not supposed to be here this late, but the stack of reports she demanded for tomorrow’s board meeting required overtime, and your predecessor’s abrupt firing is warning enough about the consequences of disappointing Tashi Duncan.
"Come in here," her voice slices through your thoughts, not shouting but somehow filling every molecule of air between her office and your desk. You gather your notepad and pen, smooth your pencil skirt, and steady yourself with a deep breath before pushing open the heavy mahogany door. Tashi sits behind her expansive desk, backlit by the Manhattan skyline, her silhouette sharp against the city lights that sparkle like the diamonds at her ears. Her blazer has been discarded over a nearby chair, leaving her in a dark silk blouse with a dramatic cowl neck, her hair out of her usual, severe ponytail and brushing the tops of her shoulders.
"Close the door," she says without looking up from the financial statement she's annotating with a Mont Blanc pen, its gold nib catching the light as forcefully as her presence catches your attention. The room smells of Opium perfume and the lingering notes of expensive scotch, creating an atmosphere as intoxicating as it is intimidating. Your heels sink into the plush carpet as you approach her desk, the door clicking shut behind you with a finality that makes your pulse quicken inexplicably.
"I've been watching you," Tashi finally looks up, her eyes holding yours with an intensity that makes you forget the room's cool air conditioning. "Three weeks as my assistant, and you're still here at eight o'clock on a Friday night – either you're desperate for approval or terrible at managing your workload." She places her pen down with deliberate precision, the way she does everything – measured, controlled, purposeful. "Which is it?"
"I… I wanted to make sure the Davidson portfolio analysis was complete before Monday's presentation," you respond, proud that your voice betrays none of the nervous energy coursing through your veins. The corner of her mouth twitches, not quite a smile but something adjacent to approval, and something hot unfurls in your stomach. "The market volatility means their holdings need significant restructuring if we want to maintain their confidence."
"Sit," she gestures to the chair across from her desk, but when you move toward it, she shakes her head. "No, here," she pats the edge of her desk, the glass surface gleaming under the banker's lamp that casts her in amber light. You hesitate only for a moment before perching on the edge of her desk, your skirt riding up slightly above your knees as you cross your legs, the sheer fabric of your stockings catching against the smooth surface.
Tashi leans back in her chair, assessing you with the same calculated precision she applies to market trends and acquisition targets. "Do you know why I hired you over the Harvard MBA with three years' experience at Goldman?" Her voice drops lower, each word deliberate as she reaches for her crystal tumbler, ice clinking softly against the sides. The question hangs between you, rhetorical yet demanding an answer.
"Because I won't challenge you the way he would have," you answer honestly, watching her sip her scotch, leaving a perfect impression of her red lipstick on the rim. Something dark flashes in her eyes – not anger but appreciation for your candor, for understanding the unspoken rules of her domain. "Men like him want your job; I just want to learn from you."
"Mmmm," she hums, setting down her glass and leaning forward, the movement causing her gold bangles to slide down her wrist with a musical chime. "That's what you tell yourself, isn't it?" Her voice carries a note of amusement as she reaches out, her fingers stopping just short of your knee. "But I saw something else in that interview – something hungry behind those careful answers and that Saint Laurent suit you clearly couldn't afford but bought anyway."
Heat rises to your cheeks as her fingers finally make contact with your knee, her touch light but deliberate as she traces a small circle on your skin just above your stocking. "I saw someone who wants more than she admits, who calculates every move, who watches and waits and plans." Her eyes lock with yours, challenging, assessing, daring you to deny it. "Someone who reminds me of myself ten years ago."
You resist the urge to shift under her touch, under her gaze that seems to see right through the careful persona you've constructed. "There are worse people to be compared to," you reply, your pulse hammering against your throat as her hand slides an inch higher, her touch feather-light yet somehow burning through the thin fabric of your skirt. The faint sounds of New York traffic float up from thirty stories below, a distant soundtrack to this unexpected scene unfolding in the rarified air of her corner office.
"Stand up," Tashi commands suddenly, her hand retreating as she rises from her chair in one fluid motion. "Turn around." You comply without hesitation, something about her tone bypassing your usual tendency to question, to analyze. The reflection of you both appears in the window – you facing the glass, Tashi behind you, the city lights creating a glittering backdrop to this power play.
She steps closer, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating from her body though she doesn't touch you. "I don't mix business with pleasure," she says, her breath warm against your ear, the contradiction between her words and actions hanging between you. Her hands come to rest lightly on your shoulders, thumbs pressing gently against the tension you carry there. "But I do believe in rewarding exceptional potential when I see it."
"Is that what this is?" you ask, watching her reflection in the window, her expression unreadable as her hands slide slowly down your arms. The city sprawls below, millions of lives in motion while time seems suspended in this office, the usual boundaries of professional conduct dissolving with each second that passes. "A reward?"
Tashi's laugh is low and rich, vibrating through the small space between your bodies. "No, this is a test," she murmurs, her lips ghosting over the sensitive skin below your ear as her hands find your waist, fingers spreading possessively over your silk blouse. "Everything with me is a test."
"And if I fail?" The words come out breathier than intended as her hands slide higher, stopping just below your breasts, her touch both a question and a demand. You can see both of your reflections clearly now – your eyes wide, lips slightly parted; her expression controlled but intent, watching your reactions with scientific precision.
"You won't," she states with absolute certainty, one hand moving to your throat, not squeezing but resting there with gentle pressure as her other hand finally cups your breast through your blouse. "Because you want this – want me – to validate that you belong here, in this world I've conquered." Her thumb brushes over your nipple, which immediately hardens at her touch, betraying your body's response to her calculated advances.
"Nnnnngh," the sound escapes your lips before you can stop it, a soft moan that seems to please her, judging by the slight curve of her lips in the reflection. Her grip on your throat tightens infinitesimally as she presses herself against your back, her lips tracing the curve of your neck while her fingers work the buttons of your blouse with practiced ease.
"Tell me to stop," Tashi challenges, her voice steady even as her actions grow bolder, your blouse now hanging open to reveal your lace bra, another extravagance you couldn't really afford but deemed necessary for your new position. "Tell me this isn't what you imagined when you stayed late tonight, knowing I'd be here alone."
The accusation stings because it carries a grain of truth – not that you planned this specifically, but that some part of you has been drawn to her power, her presence, since the first interview. "I didn't—" you begin, but she cuts you off by turning you around to face her, her hand cupping your chin firmly.
"Don't lie to me," she says, her thumb brushing your lower lip. "Not when we're like this." The intensity in her eyes makes you forget how to breathe, how to think, how to do anything but nod in acknowledgment. "Good girl," she murmurs, the praise sending an unexpected thrill through you as she leans in, her lips hovering just above yours.
When she finally kisses you, it's not gentle or tentative – it's consuming, authoritative, her tongue sliding against yours as her hands push your blouse from your shoulders. "Mmmm—!" you moan into her mouth as her fingers trace the edge of your bra before skillfully unhooking it, letting it fall to the floor alongside your blouse. The cool air of the office makes your nipples harden further, or perhaps it's the way Tashi's eyes darken as she takes in your exposed chest.
"Put your hands on the glass," she instructs, moving you back toward the window that spans the entire wall of her office. "Let the city see what I see." You comply without thinking, the glass cold against your palms as she steps back to admire you, half-naked and trembling slightly – from anticipation, from the chill, from the sheer audacity of what's happening.
Tashi circles you slowly, the click of her Manolos against the hardwood floor beyond the carpet a rhythmic reminder of her control of this situation. "Do you know how many assistants I've had in the last five years?" she asks conversationally, as though you're not standing topless in her office with your hands pressed against the window. "Seven." She stops behind you again, her fingers tracing your spine with deliberate slowness. "Not one of them had what it takes to last in this business."
"What… what makes you think I'm different?" you ask, trying to maintain some semblance of the professional confidence that secured you this position, even as her hands slide around to cup your breasts from behind, her thumbs circling your nipples with maddening lightness. Your head falls back against her shoulder as pleasure ripples through you, your reflection in the glass showing a version of yourself you barely recognize – wanton, needy, completely at her mercy.
"Because you're still talking back," Tashi chuckles, the sound rich with appreciation as one hand abandons your breast to slide down your stomach and under the waistband of your skirt. "Even now." Her fingers find the damp heat between your legs, separated from her touch only by the thin fabric of your underwear, and you gasp at the contact, your hips instinctively pressing forward seeking more pressure.
"Mmmmnngh," you groan as she traces circles over your most sensitive spot, her other hand still teasing your nipple while her teeth graze your earlobe. The juxtaposition of the cool glass under your palms and the heat of her body behind you is dizzying, creating a sensory overload that makes it impossible to think beyond the pleasure building with each deliberate stroke of her fingers.
"Tell me what you want," Tashi demands, her voice husky but still commanding as she presses herself against you, the silk of her blouse soft against your bare back. "I want to hear you say it." Her fingers pause their movement, hovering just where you need them most, the frustration making you whimper.
"I want you," you manage, your voice barely recognizable to your own ears, breathless and needy. "Please, Tashi, I want you to touch me." The use of her first name feels like crossing another boundary, but she rewards you by slipping her fingers beneath your underwear, finding you wet and ready for her.
"Fuck, yes," you moan as she slides one finger inside you, her thumb continuing its torturous circles. The reflection in the window shows her watching your face intently, cataloging every reaction, learning what makes you gasp and shudder. "More, please… Aaahnn—!”
"So polite," she murmurs against your neck, adding a second finger and curling them in a way that makes your knees buckle slightly. "Even when you're begging." Her free hand moves to your hip, steadying you as she establishes a rhythm that has you panting, forehead now pressed against the cool glass as pleasure builds with each thrust of her fingers.
The telephone on her desk rings suddenly, the harsh sound jarring in the quiet office, but Tashi doesn't even flinch. "Let it ring," she says, her pace unfaltering as her fingers drive you closer to the edge. "Nothing is more important than this moment right now." The possessiveness in her voice sends another wave of arousal through you, the idea that you've captured the full attention of a woman who juggles billion-dollar deals and commands boardrooms full of men twice her age.
"I'm close," you warn, your hips moving in counterpoint to her thrusts now, chasing the release that hovers just out of reach. "Tashi, I'm going to—nnnnngh!" Your words dissolve into a moan as she curls her fingers again, pressing against a spot inside you that sends lightning through your veins.
"Come for me," she commands against your ear, her voice the same one she uses to close deals and crush competitors, and somehow that's what tips you over the edge. Your climax crashes through you in waves, your inner walls clenching around her fingers as she continues to stroke you through it, drawing out your pleasure until you're trembling and gasping for breath.
When you finally come back to yourself, Tashi is slowly withdrawing her hand, turning you to face her with an expression of satisfaction that borders on smugness. "That's what I wanted to see," she says, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear with surprising tenderness. "You, completely undone."
You're still trying to catch your breath, aware of how you must look – half-naked, flushed, lips swollen from her kisses – when she steps back and straightens her blouse. "Get dressed," she says, her professional demeanor sliding back into place as she moves to her desk and picks up her Mont Blanc pen again. "The Davidson portfolio needs your attention, and I expect those reports on my desk by 8 AM, sharp."
The abrupt return to business leaves you momentarily stunned as you gather your discarded clothing, the lace of your bra scratchy against your sensitized skin as you redress under her occasional glances. "Yes, Ms. Duncan," you finally respond, falling back on formality to regain some equilibrium in this drastically altered dynamic.
Tashi looks up from her work, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "And schedule yourself for a late dinner with me tomorrow night," she adds, her tone making it clear this is not a request. "We have much to discuss about your... professional development." The double meaning hangs in the air between you, a promise and a threat wrapped in one perfectly delivered line.
As you leave her office on slightly unsteady legs, the weight of what just happened settles over you along with the realization that nothing about this job will be what you expected. The rules have changed, the stakes have risen, and somehow, standing in the empty reception area with the taste of Tashi Duncan still on your lips, you've never felt more alive in this cutthroat world of high finance and higher ambitions.
The digital clock on your desk blinks 8:17 PM in green fluorescent numbers, a reminder that time continues to march forward even when it seems to stand still. You gather your things, knowing sleep will elude you tonight as you work on the Davidson portfolio and replay every moment of what just transpired in that corner office thirty stories above Madison Avenue. One thing is certain as you press the elevator button and watch the numbers descend – your 1987 has just become infinitely more complicated and infinitely more thrilling.
PTA MOM!TASHI HEADCANONS
pairing: pta mom!tashi x ptamom!fem!reader
warnings: explicit f/f oral sex (giving + receiving), rough fingering, overstimulation, power play, mild mommy kink energy (not explicit but heavily present in her dynamic as a controlling maternal figure), possessiveness / marking (biting, bruising, claiming behavior), masturbation (fem) with voyeuristic + obsessive undertones
⟡ tashi is the kind of mom who dominates the pta not by yelling, but with a smile that tells everyone she’s already ten steps ahead. her clipboard is color-coded. she has spreadsheets. she bakes things with just the right balance of pinterest aesthetic and genuine homemade warmth. the other moms admire her. fear her. talk about her in group chats. but you? you get the real version. the one who peels off her cardigan in your kitchen, kicks off her heels, and mutters “if i have to smile at one more bitch who calls my scones ambitious, i’m gonna scream.”
⟡ she’s got that casual, icy authority that makes people listen, even when she’s just asking someone to pass the almond milk. you’ve seen her make a man shut up mid-sentence with just a raised brow. but then she turns to you, softens just a little, and says, “you wanna ditch this meeting and go get drinks?” and you’re already grabbing your keys.
⟡ she touches you like you’re her pressure valve. not always sexual—though that comes later—but possessive. anchoring. a hand at the small of your back. fingertips brushing the inside of your wrist. her palm hot against your thigh when you sit next to each other at the pta fundraiser planning committee, perfectly hidden under the tablecloth. she doesn’t say anything. she doesn’t need to.
⟡ she masturbates to the thought of you while lily’s at art’s house. her legs tangled in the sheets. her back arched, whispering your name into her wrist. she fingers herself hard, mean, like she’s punishing herself for how badly she wants you. sometimes she lays your photo face down beside her, like that’ll help. it never does. she always flips it back over.
⟡ tashi knows how to fake warmth. she did it on tennis courts for years. she does it at every bake sale, every book fair, every damn halloween carnival. but you see the cracks. the nights when she comes over with a bottle of wine she won’t share and mascara smudged under her eyes. “i was supposed to be something,” she says once, almost under her breath. “i was supposed to be more.”
⟡ she eats pussy like it’s the only god left. slow at first, like she’s unwrapping a gift. reverent. her tongue is precise, clinical even—but then something breaks in her. she grabs your hips like she’s trying to hold on for dear life. hums into you. makes a mess. won’t stop until your legs are shaking and your fingers are tangled in her sweaty curls. “you’re gonna come again,” she pants, “don’t argue. i know you can, baby.”
⟡ she lets you touch her only when she’s desperate. not because she doesn’t want to. because she doesn’t know how to let go. when she does let you? she comes so hard she cries. her hands gripping the pillow. her thighs clamped around your head like she’s trying to shut the world out. after, she’s quiet. breathless. she never says thank you. just kisses you like she’s drowning.
⟡ she handles school politics like a pro. she knows who’s cheating on who, who’s laundering money through the auction fundraiser, and which mom has a wine habit that’s gone from “ha ha” to “someone should talk to her.” she doesn’t say anything out loud. just gives you the look during meetings. that look. the you-see-this-bullshit-too-right? look. and later, she vents it out in your passenger seat while you get drive-thru sodas and sit in silence like you’re both 16 again.
⟡ tashi doesn’t let people in. not really. but you’re in. whether she says it or not. she remembers how you take your coffee. picks you up little things from target—nothing flashy, but things that mean she’s been thinking about you even in the toothpaste aisle. if you get sick, she’s at your door in 30 minutes with soup and vicks vaporub like a military-grade wife. she doesn’t sit. she hovers. she glares at your thermometer like she can will the fever away.
⟡ she gives you orgasms like performance art. like they’re something she choreographed. one hand holding you open, the other pressing your chest flat to the bed. she doesn’t always talk, but when she does, it’s filth whispered like prayer. “so sweet like this. you know that? so good for me. bet you’d let me fuck you on the pta table if i asked real nice.”
⟡ she can be so gentle it makes your chest ache. she brushes your hair behind your ear while you talk. buys your favorite gum and keeps it in her purse. she’ll send you a picture of lily in a homemade costume and say “we did good.” when you call her impressive, she looks away. “i don’t know what i am anymore,” she says. “but i like you. that’s one thing i’m sure of.”
⟡ she bites when she wants to remember you. collarbone. hipbone. between your thighs. she won’t say she misses you, but she’ll leave a bruise the size of her mouth on the inside of your thigh and then text you a picture of it two days later: still mine.
⟡ she has a jealous streak she refuses to name. if another mom gets too close to you? she’ll step between you, hand on your lower back, and smile like a wolf in pearls. later, she’ll pin you to the bed and mutter, “she doesn’t know how to make you feel like this. only i do. tell me.” (you always do.)
⟡ aftercare is strange for her. she can’t say the sweet things. so she gets quiet. brings you water. tugs your shirt back over your head with gentle fingers. brushes your hair behind your ear. she doesn’t kiss you right away. just looks at you—long, searching—and says, “you okay?” in that too-casual voice that means please say yes. please need me back.
⟡ she hates not being useful. if she’s not planning, fixing, perfecting—she feels hollow. after she quit tennis, there was a period where she couldn’t get out of bed. not from sadness. from inertia. it scared her. so now she overbooks everything. overfunctions. overachieves. she only slows down around you. sometimes. when she feels safe enough.
⟡ she makes lily’s life feel curated and safe. she sews labels into her daughter’s jackets. she keeps the fridge stocked with exactly the kind of juice box lily likes and tracks the phases of the moon in case her daughter’s third-grade science class needs “enrichment.” and she’s not trying to win—except she always is. she wants lily to feel like everything in her world is managed and flawless, because tashi’s childhood was chaos, and she will not repeat it. “i’m not gonna give her an anxious mom. even if i have to fake peace every single day.”
ֹ ⑅᜔ ׄ ݊ ݂ BOT RELEASE ۪ ֹ ᮫
THREE’S A CROWD, art and tashi invite you to a hotel dinner that’s not really about dinner. the table’s set, lights dimmed, but their eyes stay on you. tashi’s sharp, in control; art’s quieter, unraveling. conversation slips from polite to personal fast—resentments, desires, everything unspoken laid bare. the meal stays cold. their fixation on you doesn’t. lines blur. therapist, obsession, maybe something worse. by the end, they’re not asking for help—they’re asking what you want.
Art Donaldson puts the “man” in “manipulation”.
she did nothing wrong!!!! She's just a cute tennis player who has never hurt anyone!! She's never cheated on anyone
