Ary @sthnearlyheadless - Tumblr Blog

Jun 4

POTENTIAL | ft. T. DUNCAN

summary You’re Tashi’s prodigy – her golden player, her project, her obsession – and every serve, bruise, and whispered command in the humid courts brings you closer to the greatness she demands and the dangerous devotion you crave.

wc 4.3k words

warnings MDNI explicit, light dom/sub, light dubcon, power imbalance (coach/student), manipulation, mild violence (grabbing, bruising), fingering (r. recieving) in shower, toxic, degradation/some praise

pairing mentor!tashi duncan x fem!reader

“You’re useless like this.”

Her words sliced through the thick, humid air of the court, sharper than any backhand you’d returned tonight. You clenched your jaw, fighting back the sting rising in your chest as you adjusted your grip, wrists trembling from fatigue. The fluorescent court lights above flickered once, buzzing low like an insect trapped against glass.

Tashi stood across from you, arms folded over her chest, racket hanging loose in one hand. Her eyes tracked your every movement with cold precision, dark irises gleaming under the harsh lights. Not a single hair had slipped from her braid. Not a single breath came ragged. She didn’t even look like she’d broken a sweat.

“You think anyone cares that you’re tired?” she asked, tilting her head. “You think your opponent’s going to let you catch your breath just because your legs ache?”

You said nothing, swallowing around the dryness in your throat. The air reeked of sweat and ozone from the storm rolling in beyond the courts.

She walked forward slowly, each step echoing on the concrete, until she stopped in front of you. Close enough to smell the faint citrus-clean scent of her perfume. Close enough for her gaze to pin you in place like an insect under glass.

“Show me your grip.”

You held out your racket obediently. She tutted under her breath and grasped your wrist, her fingers firm, nails biting just enough to make you flinch. She twisted your wrist into position, ignoring the small sound of pain that escaped your throat.

“There,” she murmured, voice low and dangerously calm. “Better. You waste so much energy flailing like a child. Be intentional.” Her thumb pressed hard against your pulse point, feeling it flutter quick beneath her touch. Her eyes flicked up to meet yours, and the faintest smirk ghosted across her lips. “Scared?”

You tried to shake your head. You really did. But her smile widened, dark and knowing.

“Good,” she said softly, releasing you with a little shove. “You should be.”

She turned away, braid flicking against her shoulders as she reset the ball machine. The soft whir of it starting up again filled the silence between you.

“Ready position,” she called without looking back. Her voice carried over the court, even and indifferent.

You fell into position. You had no choice.

She was Tashi fucking Duncan.

You remember the first time you saw her with perfect clarity. It was just before summer, at the Women’s Doubles Championship at Stanford. You walked onto the court with your partner of barely a month, racket slung casually over your shoulder, still laughing about something inconsequential.

The stands were mostly empty, early morning sun pooling across the faded seats, but she was there.

She sat near the back, hair braided tight down her spine, skin gleaming under the harsh court lights. Beside her, some guy with dark hair talked animatedly, gesturing with annoyance, but she didn’t even turn his way. Her gaze was locked onto the players warming up across from you, then shifted – scanning you and your partner with cold precision.

For the briefest moment, her eyes met yours. Then she looked away, disinterested. Or pretending to be. Even then, you knew she was weighing you up like an opponent across the net.

You played like a monster that day.

They already called you a prodigy, but you felt it then more than ever – the smooth snap of your wrist on returns, the controlled aggression in each volley, the way you forced your opponents to the very edge before you broke them. You didn’t win by overwhelming force.

You won by erosion. You liked the slow kill. The long game. Watching your opponent realise, point by point, that they could not outlast you.

You saw her watching you as you kissed the trophy for the cameras, your partner practically hanging off your arm, beaming with triumph you felt only in your chest’s hollow ache. Her boy toy was gone by then, bored before the final set even started, but she stayed. Eyes sharp, unreadable. Calculating.

You felt exposed under her gaze, as though she already knew your weaknesses before you’d ever played against her.

After the match, she approached. No introduction. She didn’t need one. Everyone knew Tashi Duncan. Tennis prodigy. Discipline incarnate. Her presence felt like stepping onto Centre Court – blinding, suffocating, electric.

She took your phone out of your hand without asking, typing in her number. Her thumbs moved fast, deft, like she was gripping a racket rather than a piece of plastic.

“I want to teach you how to clean up your game,” she said, eyes flicking over you with faint disdain. “You waste too much energy on theatrics.”

You scoffed, defensive heat prickling your skin. “Why? You trying to retire early or something?”

She tilted her head, braid slipping over her shoulder. A faint smile ghosted her lips. “I think you’re decent,” she said simply. “I like potential. If you don’t want my help, I’ll—”

“—No, no,” you blurted, grabbing her wrist before you could think. Her pulse was steady under your fingers, calm and unmoved. “I… I want it. I want to get better. You’re… incredible. A literal god at this. So… yeah. I’ll take it. Thank you.”

Her lips twitched into a smirk, eyes dropping to where your hand gripped her wrist like a lifeline. “You’re cute,” she said softly, pulling her arm back with clinical grace. “Don’t suck up like that again.”

You blinked, throat dry. “Okay,” you whispered.

It felt like losing a point on purpose – knowing it was part of the strategy to win the game.

You sat on the sideline, sweat drying uncomfortably against your skin as you sipped water. Your arms trembled from the last set of drills Tashi had put you through. She hadn’t spoken when she left to grab electrolytes – just gave you that look. The one that said don’t move.

Your phone buzzed against the bench. Then again. You sighed, thumb sliding across the cracked screen.

Riley K: U alive? Court 4. 10 mins.

Riley was older by a few years, once the academy’s golden child before Tashi showed up and claimed the title with ruthless ease.

Everyone knew Riley hated her for it. Everyone knew Tashi didn’t care.

You found Riley leaning against the chain-link fence by Court 4, idly bouncing a ball off their racket frame.

She always carried themselves with effortless arrogance – sun-bleached hair half-tied back, tank top gaping enough to show the sports bra beneath, tanned arms littered with old, half-faded tattoos that had scandalised the board when she won state. She never moved like an athlete. She moved like someone who already owned the court.

“Hey,” you croaked, voice scratchy from drills. You tucked stray hair back, trying to look composed. “What’s up?”

Riley didn’t bother with greetings. Her gaze dropped over your body, lingering on bruises blooming along your biceps and collarbone like dark flowers. Like proof.

“You look like shit,” She said, half-smiling. The words weren’t a joke.

“Good to see you too, Coach,” you deadpanned.

Riley pushed off the fence, stepping closer. “Been watching your sessions. She’s working you like a sled dog.”

You shrugged, shifting your weight. “It’s paying off.”

“Is it?” She cocked her head, tapping the ball against her strings with a rhythmic thunk. “I see a kid who’s gonna blow out a knee before you even sniff a Grand Slam.”

“I’m not a kid—”

“Don’t.” Riley cut you off softly, stepping in so close you could smell sweat and faint mint gum on her breath. “I know she’s good. Nobody’s saying she isn’t. But her head’s fucked. She pushes until you snap. Then she watches to see if you’ll crawl back together just to please her.”

Something twisted deep in your gut at that.

The worst part was that you couldn’t disagree.

Riley let silence stretch, heavy and humid, before leaning in. Her hand came up to brush sweat-damp hair off your forehead, their thumb lingering on your temple.

“Come train with me,” they murmured. “I know her type. I was her type once, remember?” Their voice dropped lower, almost conspiratorial. “You don’t have to bleed yourself dry for her. I can get you where you wanna go – without all this.”

Her fingers drifted down to your sports bra strap, tugging it lightly before smoothing over a purple bruise near your ribs. You sucked in a sharp breath. Riley’s eyes flicked up, reading your reaction like they were reading the scoreboard.

“She buy you this set?” She asked, voice tinged with something unreadable.

You nodded, heat flushing your neck. “Yeah.”

“That so?” Riley’s hand grazed your hip, knuckles brushing the exposed skin above your skirt waistband. “Tashi give you a lot of things?”

You swallowed hard, throat clicking. “I… I guess.”

“She’s turning you into her project,” She whispered, leaning close enough for her lips to brush your ear. “Her little toy. You’re too good for that. You’re too good for her to use up and toss aside.”

Her words prickled something defensive and guilty inside you all at once. Before you could speak, the air shifted.

You didn’t hear her approach. You just felt it. That oppressive gravity she carried everywhere.

Riley’s eyes flicked over your shoulder, their hand dropping from your skin like they’d been burned.

“Tashi,” you breathed, turning before you could stop yourself.

She stood just inside the court gate, arms folded across her chest. Her braid was still perfectly tight, her expression carved from stone. Her eyes locked onto you first – sharp and dissecting – before sliding to Riley like they were barely worth noticing.

“Didn’t realise we were holding career counselling sessions tonight,” she drawled softly. Her lips curved, but there was no humour there. “Still trying to poach my players, Riley? Thought you’d grown out of that.”

Riley opened their mouth, but no words came. Tashi barely glanced at Riley again. Her gaze pinned you where you stood. You knew that look. You’d seen it across the net before you’d ever felt her touch – the look of a player calculating where to place the kill shot.

“You done here?” she asked, voice calm and flat, but it cracked like a serve against your chest.

You nodded before your brain even caught up. Riley let out a helpless scoff, muttering under their breath, “Puppy on a leash.”

But you didn’t turn back. You didn’t dare.

You followed Tashi off the court, your stomach coiling with something hot and shameful and thrilling all at once. The silence between you thrummed like taut strings.

“I’m sorry, Tashi, I didn’t even—”

“I don’t care.” Her voice was dead quiet, dead calm. The most dangerous tone of all. “Have a shower. You smell like shit.”

You swallowed, words dying in your throat. “But, Tashi, I didn’t—”

She spun so fast you almost crashed into her chest. Her eyes burned into yours, flicking between your pupils like she was reading your thoughts, your guilt, your arousal, your fear.

She didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to. Her silence pressed down heavier than any insult.

You dropped your gaze, shame prickling your skin like sweat. “...Okay,” you whispered.

You turned away, walking toward the locker rooms on shaking legs. You felt her eyes on your back with every step – like the promise of a match point she’d already decided she would win.

You sit in the locker room, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead like a faulty line judge’s call. Six months. Six months of drills until your lungs burned, serves until your shoulder threatened to tear, footwork until your arches felt like cracked glass. Six months of her.

Her words echo through your skull like a rally you can’t end.

“I like potential.” “You’re useless.” “Like a puppy on a leash.”

Your palms drag up and down your thighs, sweat and anxiety slicking under your touch as you try to steady your breathing.

You remind yourself: inhale on toss, exhale on contact. But there’s no racket in your hand right now, only the phantom ache of her grip around your wrist, twisting your form into perfection whether it hurt or not.

You could fire her.

You could walk away from her borderline verbal abuse, her impossible demands, her mind games that danced the thin line between flirtation and degradation. You could find another coach. One who called you “champ” or “kiddo.” One who didn’t look at you like an opponent to break down point by point.

But they wouldn’t make you great.

She made you great.

Before Tashi, you were a 70% chance. A strong player. A promising junior. Since Tashi?

You’d become a 90% guarantee. A name whispered with envy and fear across academy courts.

And when you lost – if you lost – she made sure you felt it was her loss too. Her rage simmered colder than disappointment, like a serve slicing the line with millimetre-perfect accuracy.

But God, she got off on your failures. On your ragged breathing, your trembling knees, your whispered pleas for a break that never came. Her taunts cut sharper than any forehand.

“You’re kidding, right? You’re paying me to watch you play like a fucking loser?”

“Come on, sweetheart. Don’t you wanna win? Don’t you wanna tell your parents you’re worth something for once in your life? Or is that too much for you to handle?”

You squeeze your eyes shut, focusing on your breath. Ball toss. Contact. Follow through.

You stopped going out. Friends messaged less and less until silence became your pre-match routine. You didn’t care. Tennis was all that mattered. Winning was all that mattered.

No – she was all that mattered.

Tashi dictated your entire game.

What you ate, how you slept, who you spoke to, where your eyes went in the locker room, when you were allowed to take water. Every hour spent with her off-court felt like another drill. Another conditioning set. Another test of obedience.

And God help you – you loved tennis. But you wanted to be great not just for yourself. Not just for the trophies lined up like headstones in your future.

You wanted to be great for Tashi.

Because with her, every rally was power. Every serve was submission. Every match was another chance to prove that you deserved her control.

Between winning and losing lies everything that matters.

That was the first thing she ever told you that wasn’t instruction. Not feedback. Not critique. Philosophy.

“Winning is transient,” she’d said one quiet evening after drills, both of you sitting cross-legged on the court, backs pressed to the chain-link fence as the sodium lights flickered overhead. “It’s a peak. A single breath. But potential…” She glanced at you, sweat-damp hair sticking to her temples, eyes sharp and dark and impossibly tired. “Potential is infinite.”

You frowned, chest heaving with spent adrenaline. “But isn’t potential worthless if you never cash it in?”

A ghost of a smile. “Only if you think the match ends at match point.”

You didn’t understand then. You do now.

Winning felt good. Briefly. Like coming up for air after too long underwater – sweet and burning and dizzying all at once.

But what she gave you… what she drilled into your bones every night under buzzing court lights… was a taste of that liminal space. The place between victory and defeat. Where possibility stretched out forever, as long as you kept moving forward.

“You’re not losing because you’re tired,” she said once, voice carrying over the mechanical rhythm of balls ejecting from the machine. “You’re losing because you don’t want it enough to kill for it.”

A ball whistled past your ear, missing by millimetres. You barely reacted in time to return the next.

“Footwork!” she barked, her voice slicing through your scattered focus. “I don’t care if your lungs are on fire – move. Again!”

You panted hard, sweat dripping into your eyes, the court blurring under the glare of harsh lights.

“You think your opponent cares if you die on this court?” Her voice dropped low, almost tender, almost cruel. “Do you think the trophy will cry for you?”

Another ball slammed into the net.

“Pathetic,” she spat, racket slamming down against the ball machine shut-off. The sudden silence roared in your ears.

She strode forward, gaze pinned to yours, her sweat-slicked polo clinging to toned shoulders, chest heaving only slightly from exertion. She stopped inches from you.

“I don’t train winners,” she said quietly. “I train champions.”

Your throat clicked as you swallowed, muscles trembling so hard you could barely stand. “What’s the difference?”

Her smirk was small and cruel and unbearably beautiful. “Winners want to beat the person across the net. Champions want to beat God.”

Your knees almost gave out at that, something burning deep in your chest. Fear. Shame. Awe. Love.

She reached up, fingers tangling into your damp hair, nails scraping lightly against your scalp in a touch too intimate to be discipline and too cold to be affection.

“You want it, don’t you?” she murmured, leaning forward so her breath ghosted across your lips. “You want to be more than good. More than great. You want to be inevitable.”

“Yes,” you whispered, voice breaking. “Yes, I want it. I want it so bad.”

Her lips brushed yours, almost not a kiss at all. “Then stop crying.”

She shoved you back toward the baseline, picking up her own racket with infuriating grace.

“Again,” she ordered. “Until you become what I see in you.”

You stood under the hot water, letting it scald your back as your forehead pressed against the cool tile. Heat rolled down your spine, easing the ache in your calves and arms, but it couldn’t touch the deeper ache gnawing at your chest.

All you could think about was her. Tashi. Her bruising corrections. Her gaze that pinned you to the court as easily as a racket pins a ball to its strings. Her voice, low and venomous, curling around your throat tighter than any chokehold.

You dreamt of it too often—her touch rough, her touch gentle, her hands moving over your body with the same ruthless precision she used to guide your footwork drills.

You dreamt of touching her back. Of slipping your fingers through that perfect braid, tugging just to hear her gasp. Of seeing her come undone beneath you, just once, so you could know she was human.

You swore under your breath, trying to shake it off like sweat from your brow.

The door creaked open behind you. You didn’t need to turn. You felt her before you heard her.

Tashi stepped inside, the quiet click of the lock echoing in the empty locker room like the snap of a racket string breaking mid-serve. She moved around without a word, her presence cutting through the steamy air, a force as heavy as gravity itself. Only the thin vinyl curtain separated you, and even that felt like a lie.

“Why was she touching you?” Her voice came sharp and sudden, slicing through the hush like a perfect crosscourt backhand. Dripping with disdain.

You swallowed hard, letting water run over your face to buy a moment. “What are you talking about?”

She scoffed softly. The sound sent a shiver down your spine. “Don’t play dumb. She was feeling your clothes and your arm like a fucking leech.”

You let out a shaky exhale. “Oh. Right. She… she just liked the set, that’s all. Said the colour suits me. And she was…” You clear your throat. “Curious about the bruise.”

Silence. Then the faintest nod behind the curtain.

“I told her you got it for me,” you added quickly, desperate to fill the space between you with something—anything—other than her anger.

Another beat of silence. Your stomach twisted in its emptiness.

“Look, Tashi, I swear, she just… she offered to coach me, said you were a bit intense, but I’m not even considering it. Okay? I’m not.”

Silence again. Then:

“She’s pretty,” Tashi said suddenly, voice flat and unreadable. “Do you think she’s pretty?”

Your brows knitted, confusion cutting through the heat. “Wh—I don’t… I’ve never thought about it.” You scoffed softly, nervously. “No. I don’t.”

“Well.” Her voice turned mild, almost amused. “If you’ve never thought about it, how do you know?”

“Because—Tashi, who cares?” You snapped, tired, aching, humiliated. “We were just talking. It means nothing. And even if it did—it’s not your business, is it?”

Silence. Then a quiet chuckle, dark and low. “Good girl. I didn’t know if you’d ever grow a spine.” A pause. “It’s cute.”

Cute. She always called you cute. Like a pet she was training to heel. Like a player she knew she could dominate across the net, every rally ending exactly where she intended.

“She’s got a decent backhand,” Tashi continued, her tone turning analytical, as if dissecting an opponent’s tape, “but sloppy footwork. She wouldn’t teach you anything you don’t already know. Or know better. She’ll be retired by twenty-five at this rate.”

You heard the curtain rustle. Then the sudden draft of cooler air kissed your burning skin as she pulled it back. Her body blocked the stream of water, the scent of her sweat and faint citrus perfume wrapping around you like an invisible grip.

She was still fully dressed—black leggings hugging strong thighs, academy polo tucked tight at her waist, braid perfect despite the damp heat curling in the air. She tilted her head, eyes raking down your exposed back with infuriating leisure.

You refused to turn around. Your forehead pressed hard against the tile, your arms braced on either side of the faucet. You felt small. Cornered. Vulnerable in a way that went far deeper than nudity.

“But you,” she murmured softly, so close now you felt her breath against your ear, warm and possessive, “you could last so much longer. If you keep listening. If you keep being good for me.”

She said nothing for a moment after that. Just let the silence stretch, thick and suffocating, her presence folding over you like a weighted blanket you could never throw off.

“Tashi,” you whispered, her name falling from your lips like a prayer. Like a surrender. You didn’t even turn to see her.

She hummed softly in response, a low, satisfied sound that sent heat coiling down to your belly. You heard the scrape of curtain rings as she pulled it open fully, exposing you to her gaze.

Her eyes burned over every inch of your wet skin before you even opened your own.

“Turn around,” she murmured.

You obeyed.

The water beat down over your shoulders, dripping from your nipples, streaming down your stomach. Her eyes flickered over every inch of you, slow and deliberate, until you felt like your skin was set alight under her scrutiny.

“You’ve been distracted lately,” she said quietly, stepping into the narrow shower space with you. Her shoes squeaked slightly against the wet tiles. She didn’t care.

You swallowed, chest heaving under her gaze. “I’m not. I promise.”

Her fingers reached out, brushing a wet strand of hair from your cheek and tucking it behind your ear. The touch was gentle. Almost tender. But her eyes… her eyes stayed hard.

“Riley’s not worth your attention,” she continued, her thumb trailing down to your jaw, pressing just enough to tilt your head up to meet her gaze. “You know that.”

You nodded, water dripping from your chin. “I know.”

Her eyes searched yours for a long moment. You weren’t sure what she was looking for, but whatever it was, she seemed to find it. Her hand slipped to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your wet hair, gripping tight enough to make you gasp softly.

“You’re mine,” she said, barely above a whisper. “You know that too.”

“Yes,” you breathed.

And then her mouth was on yours.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t rough either.

It was deep, consuming, claiming – her lips slotting against yours perfectly as the water beat down around you. You moaned into her mouth, pressing closer, your naked body flush against her clothed form, the slick slide of your wet skin over her cotton polo making her hiss quietly against your lips.

Her tongue slipped into your mouth, tasting you with slow, thorough strokes that made your knees tremble. Her free hand came up to cup your jaw, thumb brushing along your cheekbone in a rare, fleeting moment of tenderness.

When she pulled back, you chased her lips, desperate, but she held you still with her grip on your hair.

“Turn around,” she said again, this time softer. You obeyed without hesitation, heart pounding as you pressed your palms to the wall, water cascading down your chest, your thighs squeezing together with anticipation.

You felt her hand ghost over the curve of your ass, down to your inner thigh, before sliding between your legs to cup your sex. Her fingers moved with deliberate slowness, parting your folds, feeling just how ready you were for her touch.

“Always so wet for me,” she murmured, leaning forward to press her lips to the side of your neck. You shivered as her tongue flicked out, tasting the droplets clinging to your skin. “Does practice make you this wet? Or is it me?”

“It’s… it’s you,” you gasped out, barely able to breathe as her middle finger slid inside you, slow and deep. Your walls fluttered around her, drawing her in, desperate for more.

“That’s right,” she whispered, lips brushing your ear. “Just me.”

She kissed down your neck, each press of her lips sending sparks through your chest as her finger curled inside you, finding that spot that made your hips jerk back against her. Her thumb circled your clit with perfect precision, not too rough, not too teasing – just enough to keep you trembling under her.

But she didn’t rush you. She didn’t drive you towards release. Not yet.

Instead, she kept her movements slow and steady, her finger thrusting into you with devastating precision, her thumb flicking up to your clit every few strokes before dragging away again, leaving you whining with need.

“Stay still,” she murmured against your shoulder, her teeth scraping lightly at your damp skin. “Let me feel you.”

You tried. God, you tried. But your hips rolled down into her touch, your chest arching forward, forehead pressing harder into the tile as quiet moans spilled from your lips.

“Greedy,” she chastised softly, her voice dark with amusement. Her free hand came up to flatten across your stomach, holding you firmly in place as her fingers thrust deeper, slower, dragging along your walls in a rhythm that made you tremble. “You’ll take what I give you. Nothing more.”

“Tashi… please…” you whimpered, eyes squeezing shut as heat coiled tighter and tighter in your belly.

“Please what?” she asked softly, her lips brushing your ear, her breath warm against your flushed skin.

“Please… I need… more… faster… please…”

She chuckled quietly at that, almost fond, before slowing her thrusts to an achingly deep, dragging pace. “Not yet.”

You sobbed softly, your legs trembling so hard you thought you might collapse. The pleasure burned bright and constant, but she kept you just shy of release – bringing you close with a swirl of her thumb before dragging it away, thrusting her fingers deeper to make you choke on a moan, only to pull back and start all over again.

“Tashi—please—” you begged, your voice breaking, tears mixing with the shower spray on your cheeks. “Please… I can’t… I can’t… it’s too much…”

“Yes you can,” she whispered, pressing a kiss to the shell of your ear. “You can take it. You’re stronger than this. Stronger than they think. Stronger than you think.”

Her words, quiet and assured, made your chest ache. You let out a choked sob, nodding desperately as her fingers quickened finally, her thumb circling your clit in tight, perfect strokes that made white flash behind your eyes.

“Good girl,” she murmured, her voice low and reverent. “Now come for me.”

Your orgasm tore through you like a breaking wave, your body clenching around her fingers so tight it almost hurt, your knees buckling as your vision blurred with heat and relief. You felt yourself sob her name, the sound breaking and echoing off the tile as her touch carried you through it, slow and grounding, until you sagged forward against the cool wall, gasping for air.

Finally, she pulled her hand away, and you heard the quiet rustle of her wiping her fingers clean on her polo. You felt empty and full all at once, the only thing keeping you upright was the press of her body against your back.

She leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss to your temple, almost tender. Almost loving.

“Clean up,” she whispered, her voice returning to that calm, cold edge. “Footwork drills in twenty.”

And just like that, she was gone.

You sank to your knees under the spray, chest heaving, your entire body shaking, your heart hammering with something that felt dangerously close to devotion.

In that moment – between defeat and defiance, between exhaustion and adrenaline – you understood. Winning is fleeting. Losing is fuel. But potential is everything.

It was what made her yours, in the only way she’d ever let herself be owned.

And that was worth every loss.

note: i love wuhluhwuh!!!!

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