Tashi Duncan Headcanons - Blog Posts

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.

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.”