When Uncle Ace By Blood Orange Starts Playing

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.”

girl your killing it

no YOU 🥹🥹 thank u so much anon this is so sweet!

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STAKING HIS CLAIM ( FRAT!AU ), you knew what you were doing—fingertips brushing someone else, laughter a little too loud, eyes flicking to him like bait. he didn’t say anything until your second drink, then dragged you down the hallway like a line he refused to let you cross. the door slams, the fight starts, and somewhere between the spit of anger and the kiss he swore he wouldn’t give you again, you both forget why you were mad in the first place. it’s not an apology—but it’s the only kind he knows how to give.

wait… what do you mean 200 followers… (⊙_⊙;)

i literally just hit 100 on may 8th… it’s may 15th… you guys are unwell (affectionate) and i love you so much for it. i truly don’t have the words to explain how much this little blog has meant to me lately. i’ve been going through kind of a rough patch irl and being able to come home, open my phone, and just giggle, kick my feet, and scream about challengers and other nonsense with you all has been the brightest part of my days.

you’re all so funny and sweet and completely unhinged in the most delightful ways and i feel so lucky to have found this weird little corner of the internet where we can be so unserious together. (｡•́‿•̀｡)♡

i don’t have anything special planned for 200 because. well. i literally just did for 100 like a week ago LMAO but!! my sfw/nsfw alphabet challenge is still running until the end of may so if you haven’t sent in a letter yet… consider this your official invitation (๑˃ᴗ˂)ﻭ

thank you, seriously, from the bottom of my sleep-deprived, fic-addled heart. you’ve made such a weird, hard time in my life feel a little softer. ily. mwah.

welcome to fwaist !

ABOUT ME

elowyn. 18. gemini. neurodivergent. bisexual. white + latina. she/her. writer & bot maker

FANDOMS

challengers. the bear. bones and all. bottoms. gilmore girls. slushy noobz. bridgerton. red dead redemption 2. the last of us. outer banks. you. gossip girl. resident evil. stranger things. yellowjackets.

READ BEFORE REQUESTING

i will not write rpf, noncon, scat play / watersports, knotting / heats / alpha-beta-omega, blood-related incest, pedophilia, male!reader, self-harm, degradation involving slurs / bigotry, feederism / vore. these are my firm boundaries and will not be written under any circumstance.

BREADCRUMBS TO FOLLOW

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guys i started watching yellowjackets and let’s just say natalie, lottie, and jackie bots WILL be made

when reading smut and y/n says “daddy”

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BREAKFAST FOR THE BROKEN, the morning after mikey’s funeral, carmen wakes up on the couch to the smell of butter and thyme. his apartment is quiet in that hollow way grief makes everything sound quieter, and you’re standing in his kitchen cooking eggs in the pan he never put away. he doesn’t say anything when he first sees you. just stands there, watching, like he doesn’t know if he’s still dreaming.

sometimes i think god put mike faist on this earth just to taunt me. LIKE WHAT DO YOU GENUINELY MEAN I CAN NEVER HAVE HIM. THERE’S A BOMB STRAPPED TO MY CHEST

OMG???????????

also it's crazy the way everyone tries to act like patrick is solely a dom!top! when this is lit patrick

like yeah he's switchy but this is a brat. to me.

retweet. do i think he can dom and rail the shit out of you?? yes. is he the biggest brat to ever walk the earth?? ALSO YES

like the way he literally drags her fingers into his mouth... fuck !!!

slapping spitting choking. all of it. wants you to yank his hair and force him to make eye contact as you sink down onto him. hands obediently curled into fists by his sides bc you said he couldn't touch you until you got off first. "c'mon, harder. you're slapping like a girl. can barely even feel it" when you hit him. 'accidentally loses count' of how many just to prolong the entire thing. completely shameless about wearing the red brand on his cheek afterwards

or him acting up just to get a rise out of you. like you're in the middle of studying n just letting him toy with your fingers to shut him up for once. except he just ends up sliding them into his warm mouth, coating them in saliva and biting down on your knuckles. gives an innocent smile as he starts to pump them in and out, tongue circling keenly around your digits. he takes them all the way down to the second knuckle without so much as a gag. he's bored and just wants to get fucked!! n he knows the sight of drool spilling down his chin and your fingers curled in his mouth will get him what he wants.

definitely antagonises the shit out of you while he's getting pegged. "that all you got?" "i can feel you getting tired. y'giving up that easily?" his idea of a good time is you smothering his face in your pillows to shut him up, ass in the air and legs trembling under your spitefully rough thrusts. or the way he hooks his legs around art to pull him closer in the gif?? like ugh strong thighs urging him deeper, heels pressed into his ass to force him to bottom out. trying to sound smug but he's whining like a little bitch. he might be bottoming but he certainly doesn't act like it !!!

idk i think he just likes the game of "fighting for power." he knows it'll end w you riding him until he's begging to cum but he wouldn't be patrick if he wasn't difficult first. it's hotter to watch you get all pissed at him. put that little slut in his place

also he was Not joking ab the racket fucking thing. he'd let her do it. in fact he'd beg her to