byun euijoo and the power of his cheeks

Would anything else ever be on anybody's mind when they had a girlfriend like yours?

When a woman like Taki was yours to call beloved, baby, honeypie, pretty girl and a myriad other nicknames, wouldn't it be justified to keep yapping about her till kingdom come?

Your Taki with her wolfcut that always fell into her eyes no matter how many times she'd huff and shove it back. The same hair you'd absentmindedly twirled around your fingers while she lay with her head in your lap, pretending she wasn't enjoying the attention.

The piercings on her lip glinted when she laughed, which sounded like the melodic notes of a wind chime dancing in the breeze, beautiful and sharp. You'd gotten far too distracted by them on far too many occasions. The lipstick she'd carefully put on never survived the day intact, always ending up smudged at the corners. You did that. You loved doing that.

The singular helix piercing in her ear—that always caught the light whenever she turned her head—was where you’d tuck wildflowers sometimes, daisies or weeds you picked from the sidewalk, and she’d leave them there until they wilted.

You remembered sitting beside her on the train once, watching sunlight flash against the little piece of metal while she rambled about some niche band you'd never heard of. You hadn't retained a word she'd said. You'd just been staring.

Her nails were always chipped, the prettiest chipped nails in the world. The black polish was always peeling at the edges, little fragments missing from where she'd picked at them absentmindedly.

Most weekends found the two of you cross-legged on her bedroom floor, surrounded by bottles of polish and stained cotton pads, painting each other's nails with the concentration of surgeons and the skill of toddlers. Your fingers would get tangled, hers warmer than yours, and you’d mess up every time on her thumb because she’d be looking at you instead of the brush. More paint ended up on your fingers than your nails, and she'd laughed every single time, the melodic sound mixing with vinyl records spinning scratchy sounds and playing city pop from the 70s.

That was Taki. A collection of sharp edges and soft rituals, all yours to memorize until your voice ran out. And maybe that was the worst part.

Because once somebody had known a girl like Taki—really known her, in all her smudged lipstick, chipped nail polish, tangled wolfcut glory—how were they ever supposed to shut up about her afterward?

And how were you ever supposed to survive while she sat on her gaming chair, eyes fixed on her monitor as she read through her chords and strummed her electric blue guitar?

Seriously, how was a woman supposed to survive?

The day hadn't even been particularly remarkable.

You'd woken up that morning tucked into Taki's arms, half-buried beneath blankets and entirely buried beneath her. She'd been sprawled across the mattress at some impossible angle, one arm slung around your waist like she'd been worried you'd disappear overnight. The morning smelled like her shampoo and last night’s incense.

You'd stared at the ceiling for a while, listening to the slow rhythm of her breathing and trying to convince yourself to get up. It hadn't worked, not until the second alarm. You’d left for work feeling like you were leaving a part of your own skeleton behind.

The hours had crawled.

Every email felt longer than the last. Every meeting felt personally designed to test your patience. Somewhere around lunch you'd caught yourself smiling at a picture of Taki on your phone like an idiot and immediately hidden the screen when a coworker walked by.

By the time you got home, you were exhausted. You opened the apartment door expecting silence.

Instead, you found music.

Well not exactly, but it was the raw, unplugged scrape of fingers on steel strings, a rhythmic, thinking sound along with the soft hum of an amplifier and the familiar sound of fingers brushing against strings.

Taki was folded into her black gaming chair, her electric blue guitar resting in her lap.

Her monitor glowed in front of her, displaying lines of chords she'd apparently decided to tackle today. Her hands moved, slow and sure, over the fretboard, silver rings catching the dim light from the monitor.

She had on that oversized shirt, the one with the faded print, and it had slipped down one shoulder, baring the sharp, elegant line of her collarbone—a geography you’d mapped with your lips a hundred times.

Taki glanced up when you walked in. "Hi baby." Then she immediately looked back at the screen. And those two words managed to improve your entire day.

You showered off the day’s grime, emerging wearing a tank top, a pair of shorts and the determination to spend the rest of the evening doing absolutely nothing. You collapsed onto the bed, phone in hand, blanket over your legs, perfect.

For approximately thirty seconds.

Taki was sitting across the room, reading through chords with a little crease between her eyebrows whenever she concentrated.

Your thumb hovered over your screen. You were supposed to be scrolling. Instead, your eyes drifted toward her.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Every time you forced yourself to look back at your phone, you'd last maybe twenty seconds before glancing over.

There she was, adjusting one of her rings. There she was, pushing her hair away from her eyes. There she was, muttering to herself after missing a note. There she was, starting the same progression over because she refused to leave it unfinished.

You couldn't focus on a single thing.

Because unfortunately for your productivity, your girlfriend happened to be the most distracting person on the planet. And she wasn't even trying.

That was the worst part. She was just existing, sitting in a chair, playing guitar, living her life.

Meanwhile, you were lying on the bed watching her like she'd personally invented music.

How could you look at a screen when she was right there? The focused furrow of her brow, the way she’d bite her already-bruised lower lip in concentration. The quiet thrum of a note struck clean. Her fingers, with their chipped black polish, dancing over the strings. She was composing a world in that room, a world of minor keys and resonant vibrations, and you were its only very enamoured witness.

Maybe she felt your stare or maybe she simply knew you too well. Either way, after several minutes, Taki finally looked over the top of her monitor. One eyebrow lifted.

"You gonna keep staring at me," she asked, "or are you actually gonna do something on that phone?"

That tiny smile—a quick, knowing flash of teeth against the smudge of her lipstick—managed to completely ruin whatever chance you had of paying attention to your phone for the rest of the night. It was a weapon, that smile of hers—it could have rivaled the rays of the sun itself.

Your own voice came out softer than you intended, a little breathless. "You look really good." It was a stupid thing to say, obvious and insufficient, but it was all you had. "Teach me?"

She tilted her head, her hair shifting like a shadow.

"Teach you?" A slow strum of a chord. "Last time I tried to teach you, you got distracted, sweetheart."

Her eyes held yours, a challenge and a memory. The last lesson had ended with the guitar abandoned on the floor, your hands tangled in her hair instead of the strings, her mouth on yours until you both forgot what an E minor even sounded like.

"I won't," you promised, the words feeling both earnest and a little foolish. "I promise, Taki." You morphed your lips into a pout, your secret weapon that always managed to get her defenses down, "I just want to learn, please?"

Your girlfriend studied you for a moment, the rings on her fingers glinting as she moved. Then, without another word, she tapped her thigh twice with her palm—a clear, simple command.

You obeyed, the air between you thick with something sweet like raspberry jam. Rising from the bed, you took the two steps to her chair, the world narrowing to the space she occupied.

Settling onto Taki's lap was an act of coming home. Her body was a furnace of heat, seeping through your thin shorts and into your skin. She was deceptively strong; her thighs were solid and steady beneath you, a foundation you could lean into completely. As you sank back, you felt the broad plane of her chest against your spine, a wall of warm, breathing muscle.

Taki's chin came to rest on your shoulder, and her breath ghosted across the side of your neck—a slow, even tide that raised goosebumps in its wake. It tickled, a sensation so intimate it felt louder than any word ever could.

You could feel the subtle, unconscious flex of her thigh against yours as she adjusted her grip on the guitar, a shift of power and presence that made your breath catch. One of her arms came around you to steady the instrument, her forearm a warm band across your stomach, her rings cool points of contact, like little icicles.

You were enveloped. The scent of her—clean cotton, faint guitar-wood and that indefinable, essential Taki scent—wrapped around you tighter than any embrace.

In this space, with her heat at your back and her breath on your neck, the concept of learning guitar felt secondary.

"Okay, my beloved disaster." Taki murmured, her voice a satisfying vibration through your body. "Pay attention this time." Her free hand came up, fingers hovering over yours. "Give me your hand, pretty girl."

You gave her your hand, feeling clumsy and oversized next to her practiced grace. Her fingers were cool from the rings, but her touch was as warm as lavender tea as she guided yours to the fretboard.

"E minor first," she said, her voice a low instruction against your ear. "Index finger here, middle finger here."

She pressed your fingertips against the strings, positioning them with utmost gentleness.

The pressure of her thigh beneath you was a firm line of heat that seemed to amplify every sensation. You tried to focus on the chord shape, on the names of the strings but your attention kept fracturing—splintering into the silver glint of her rings, the flex of her wrist, the way her thumb braced against the neck of the guitar.

"Now strum," she instructed, assuming you were listening.

Taki took your other hand in hers, demonstrating the motion—a loose, relaxed sweep across the strings. Her palm against yours, her fingers laced through yours, it felt more like a caress than a lesson. The guitar emitted a muted, messy sound, half the notes deadened by your awkward pressure.

You were supposed to try again. You were supposed to focus.

Instead, you leaned back, turning your head just enough to press a soft, lingering kiss to her cheek. Then you shifted, finding the corner of her lips—that familiar place where her smirk usually lived. You kissed her there, tasting the faint residue of her lipstick.

"Not paying attention, hmm?" Taki chuckled, a low, rich sound that vibrated through her chest into yours. "What am I supposed to do with you, pretty girl?"

Taki jut her leg up—a flex of her thigh right beneath you. The sudden, firm pressure against your most sensitive part sent a sharp, electric jolt through your system. A soft, involuntary moan escaped your lips, swallowed almost immediately by the small space between you.

"Taki.." you breathed out, half-protest, half-pleasure.

"That's the sound I was waiting for," she murmured, her grin audible. "Much better than your E minor." She let her leg relax, but the tension hung in the air, thicker than any chord. "Now. Do you want to learn the guitar, or do you want to learn something else?"

The guitar was discarded with a muted thud, the instrument forgotten as Taki’s focus shifted entirely to you. The sudden absence of the wood between you only amplified the heat radiating from her. Her hands clamped firmly onto your hips, guiding you to shift your weight.

"I think we're done with the music for today," Taki murmured, her voice dropping an octave, becoming a velvety command that made your core ache. "Since you're so distracted, baby, let's give you something actually worth focusing on."

She adjusted her position, bracing herself against the chair and lifting one of her thighs, creating a firm, elevated ridge for you to straddle. You obeyed instantly, sliding your heat over the muscle of her leg. The friction of your thin shorts against her was an agonizing tease, a rough texture that sent sparks dancing across your clit.

Taki’s hands remained locked on your waist, her grip possessive and steady. "Slowly sweetheart," she whispered against your ear, her lips grazing the lobe. "Show your girlfriend how much you want this."

You began to move, grinding down onto her thigh in slow, rhythmic circles. The pressure was perfect—firm, unrelenting and precisely where you needed it. You gasped, your head falling back against her shoulder as you chased the friction. Every downward press felt like a lightning strike, the solid mass of her leg rubbing you raw in the best possible way.

Taki didn't just watch, oh no she participated in your undoing. What kind of a girlfriend would she be if she just voyeur-ed?

She began to pepper your neck and jawline with hot, wet kisses, her breath hitching in time with your movements.

"That's it, pretty girl, juuust like that. Look at you, so needy for me," she praised, her voice a low vibration that echoed in your chest.

As you picked up the pace, your breaths turning into jagged sobs of pleasure, the tension in your lower belly coiled tighter and tighter. You were climbing, the peak of your orgasm shimmering just out of reach, your hips snapping down harder and harder against her thigh. You were seconds away, your muscles trembling, your vision blurring as you prepared to shatter.

Then, abruptly (though nothing was ever sudden with her, just unexpected), Taki froze you.

Her grip on your waist tightened, her fingers digging into your skin as she held you perfectly still, locking your hips in place just as the first wave of the climax began to crest.

"No," she breathed, a playful but firm edge to her tone. "Not yet. I didn't tell you that you could finish, did I, my baby?"

A broken whine escaped your throat, your body shaking with the effort of the sudden halt. You tried to squirm, to find that friction again, but she was a wall of muscle, holding you captive in a state of agonizing suspension.

"Please, Taki.…please," you whimpered, your forehead resting against hers, "I'll be a good girl I swear—just.." You tried to shift again, but her hands were solid pillars of marble, "Please Taki?"

"Shh," she cooed, her expression softening into that affectionate gaze you loved. "I've got you, baby. I'm going to take care of you properly."

One of her hands slid down from your waist, moving beneath the fabric of your shorts. When her fingers first brushed against your soaking wet folds, you jumped, a sharp cry echoing in the room. She didn't hesitate, sliding two fingers deep inside you with a slow push that filled you completely.

The sensation was overwhelming, but it was her rings that turned your world upside down. As she curled her fingers, the cool, hard metal of her rings pressed against the sensitive walls of your heat and grazed your clit. The contrast of the cold silver against your burning heat was as electric as the music she'd hand you the other earphone to listen to.

Taki began to work you with a practiced, rhythmic grace, her fingers mimicking the strumming of a guitar, but the music was the sound of your own undone moans.

She used her rings to tease and torture, swirling the metal against your G-spot and flicking the edges of her jewelry across your swollen nub.

"You're so wet for me, sweetheart," she whispered, leaning in to kiss you deeply, her tongue dancing with yours while her hand worked tirelessly below. "So tight—I can feel you shaking around my fingers."

The combination of the deep penetration and the metallic friction of the rings pushed you over the edge. You were falling like an angel from torturous heaven to an earth without rules. Taki felt the shift, the way your internal muscles began to clamp down on her fingers in rhythmic spasms.

"Go on, baby. Give it all to me," she commanded, increasing the speed, her fingers driving deep and fast, the rings scraping deliciously against you.

You screamed her name as your orgasm finally broke, a crashing wave that ripped through your entire body. You came hard, your walls pulsing frantically around her fingers, soaking her hand and the rings in your heat. You collapsed against her, your breath coming in ragged gasps, your body still twitching from the intensity of the release.

Taki didn't pull away immediately. She kept her fingers inside you for a few more moments, feeling the aftershocks of your climax, before slowly withdrawing. She leaned forward, kissing your forehead, your eyelids, and finally your lips with a tenderness that balanced the intensity of the last few minutes.

"Good girl." She murmured, pulling you tight against her chest, the scent of cotton and guitar-wood enveloping you once more. "Now maybe we can try that E minor one more time?"

"You really expect me to pay attention after all that?" You laughed, the sound muffled against her shoulder. "You're ridiculous."

"Only for you." She reached for the guitar, which had been leaning safely against the chair. "Come on. Show me you were paying at least a little bit of attention."

You shifted on her lap, your body feeling loose and warm, and placed your hands back on the fretboard where she'd shown you. This time, the shape felt a little more familiar under your fingertips. You strummed, and a clear, if slightly hesitant, chord rang out.

"See?" she said, pride warming her voice. "A little distraction never hurt anyone. In fact..." She leaned in, her lips brushing your earlobe. "I think it helps you focus."

"You're impossible," you sighed, leaning your head back against her. "And you've completely ruined me for actual guitar lessons."

"That was the plan." Taki plucked a single, clean note. "Besides, I like being your only teacher."

You sat there for a while longer, her arms around you, the guitar resting against your legs. The room was quiet except for the occasional soft strum or whispered correction. The earlier urgency had melted into a deep, comfortable contentment.

After a while, you felt her yawn against your neck. "Getting tired, sensei?" you teased.

"Maybe." Her voice was sleepy, rough at the edges. "Or maybe I'm thinking of a plan that involves more lying down."

You grinned, turning your head to look at her. Her lipstick was even more ruined now, thanks to you. Her eyes were heavy-lidded and soft. "Bed?"

"Bed," she confirmed, her hand sliding from the guitar to your hip. "I think the world's greatest guitarist needs a better place to sleep than my lap."

"Hmm.." You turned fully in her lap, cupping her face in your hands, your thumbs brushing the high points of her cheekbones, "I think she'd prefer your lap actually."

Taki smiled softly, leaning in for a chaste kisses that tasted like strawberries and whatever her sweet love tasted of.

The day had started with Taki wrapped around you in bed. It had continued with you thinking about her through every boring hour of work. And now it was ending exactly the same way it had begun.

With your attention hopelessly, irreparably fixed on her.

Really, how was a woman supposed to survive?

Then again—when somebody had a girl like Taki, maybe surviving was never the point.

Maybe it was surviving through her lessons with nothing but a thousand kisses.

fin.

A/N: UGH FEM TAKI MY BABY this entire fic was just me giggling and typing away like some squirrel eating blueberries no i dont have a better analogy than this. Should I do more fem teamie fics? Lemme know!!

divider by @viviansturns

@eu1joo @7yataki @frenchkisstheabyss @yumangel @nichozzystuffs @blueuijoo @pglpblm @ikigaijo @antonh0lic @dearvampyr @riri4andy @tokunodoll @sunsoomi @makizdoll @solairemelo @cece0710 + Shoot me an ask or comment to be added!

Would anything else ever be on anybody's mind when they had a girlfriend like yours?

When a woman like Taki was yours to call beloved, baby, honeypie, pretty girl and a myriad other nicknames, wouldn't it be justified to keep yapping about her till kingdom come?

Your Taki with her wolfcut that always fell into her eyes no matter how many times she'd huff and shove it back. The same hair you'd absentmindedly twirled around your fingers while she lay with her head in your lap, pretending she wasn't enjoying the attention.

The piercings on her lip glinted when she laughed, which sounded like the melodic notes of a wind chime dancing in the breeze, beautiful and sharp. You'd gotten far too distracted by them on far too many occasions. The lipstick she'd carefully put on never survived the day intact, always ending up smudged at the corners. You did that. You loved doing that.

The singular helix piercing in her ear—that always caught the light whenever she turned her head—was where you’d tuck wildflowers sometimes, daisies or weeds you picked from the sidewalk, and she’d leave them there until they wilted.

You remembered sitting beside her on the train once, watching sunlight flash against the little piece of metal while she rambled about some niche band you'd never heard of. You hadn't retained a word she'd said. You'd just been staring.

Her nails were always chipped, the prettiest chipped nails in the world. The black polish was always peeling at the edges, little fragments missing from where she'd picked at them absentmindedly.

Most weekends found the two of you cross-legged on her bedroom floor, surrounded by bottles of polish and stained cotton pads, painting each other's nails with the concentration of surgeons and the skill of toddlers. Your fingers would get tangled, hers warmer than yours, and you’d mess up every time on her thumb because she’d be looking at you instead of the brush. More paint ended up on your fingers than your nails, and she'd laughed every single time, the melodic sound mixing with vinyl records spinning scratchy sounds and playing city pop from the 70s.

That was Taki. A collection of sharp edges and soft rituals, all yours to memorize until your voice ran out. And maybe that was the worst part.

Because once somebody had known a girl like Taki—really known her, in all her smudged lipstick, chipped nail polish, tangled wolfcut glory—how were they ever supposed to shut up about her afterward?

And how were you ever supposed to survive while she sat on her gaming chair, eyes fixed on her monitor as she read through her chords and strummed her electric blue guitar?

Seriously, how was a woman supposed to survive?

The day hadn't even been particularly remarkable.

You'd woken up that morning tucked into Taki's arms, half-buried beneath blankets and entirely buried beneath her. She'd been sprawled across the mattress at some impossible angle, one arm slung around your waist like she'd been worried you'd disappear overnight. The morning smelled like her shampoo and last night’s incense.

You'd stared at the ceiling for a while, listening to the slow rhythm of her breathing and trying to convince yourself to get up. It hadn't worked, not until the second alarm. You’d left for work feeling like you were leaving a part of your own skeleton behind.

The hours had crawled.

Every email felt longer than the last. Every meeting felt personally designed to test your patience. Somewhere around lunch you'd caught yourself smiling at a picture of Taki on your phone like an idiot and immediately hidden the screen when a coworker walked by.

By the time you got home, you were exhausted. You opened the apartment door expecting silence.

Instead, you found music.

Well not exactly, but it was the raw, unplugged scrape of fingers on steel strings, a rhythmic, thinking sound along with the soft hum of an amplifier and the familiar sound of fingers brushing against strings.

Taki was folded into her black gaming chair, her electric blue guitar resting in her lap.

Her monitor glowed in front of her, displaying lines of chords she'd apparently decided to tackle today. Her hands moved, slow and sure, over the fretboard, silver rings catching the dim light from the monitor.

She had on that oversized shirt, the one with the faded print, and it had slipped down one shoulder, baring the sharp, elegant line of her collarbone—a geography you’d mapped with your lips a hundred times.

Taki glanced up when you walked in. "Hi baby." Then she immediately looked back at the screen. And those two words managed to improve your entire day.

You showered off the day’s grime, emerging wearing a tank top, a pair of shorts and the determination to spend the rest of the evening doing absolutely nothing. You collapsed onto the bed, phone in hand, blanket over your legs, perfect.

For approximately thirty seconds.

Taki was sitting across the room, reading through chords with a little crease between her eyebrows whenever she concentrated.

Your thumb hovered over your screen. You were supposed to be scrolling. Instead, your eyes drifted toward her.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Every time you forced yourself to look back at your phone, you'd last maybe twenty seconds before glancing over.

There she was, adjusting one of her rings. There she was, pushing her hair away from her eyes. There she was, muttering to herself after missing a note. There she was, starting the same progression over because she refused to leave it unfinished.

You couldn't focus on a single thing.

Because unfortunately for your productivity, your girlfriend happened to be the most distracting person on the planet. And she wasn't even trying.

That was the worst part. She was just existing, sitting in a chair, playing guitar, living her life.

Meanwhile, you were lying on the bed watching her like she'd personally invented music.

How could you look at a screen when she was right there? The focused furrow of her brow, the way she’d bite her already-bruised lower lip in concentration. The quiet thrum of a note struck clean. Her fingers, with their chipped black polish, dancing over the strings. She was composing a world in that room, a world of minor keys and resonant vibrations, and you were its only very enamoured witness.

Maybe she felt your stare or maybe she simply knew you too well. Either way, after several minutes, Taki finally looked over the top of her monitor. One eyebrow lifted.

"You gonna keep staring at me," she asked, "or are you actually gonna do something on that phone?"

That tiny smile—a quick, knowing flash of teeth against the smudge of her lipstick—managed to completely ruin whatever chance you had of paying attention to your phone for the rest of the night. It was a weapon, that smile of hers—it could have rivaled the rays of the sun itself.

Your own voice came out softer than you intended, a little breathless. "You look really good." It was a stupid thing to say, obvious and insufficient, but it was all you had. "Teach me?"

She tilted her head, her hair shifting like a shadow.

"Teach you?" A slow strum of a chord. "Last time I tried to teach you, you got distracted, sweetheart."

Her eyes held yours, a challenge and a memory. The last lesson had ended with the guitar abandoned on the floor, your hands tangled in her hair instead of the strings, her mouth on yours until you both forgot what an E minor even sounded like.

"I won't," you promised, the words feeling both earnest and a little foolish. "I promise, Taki." You morphed your lips into a pout, your secret weapon that always managed to get her defenses down, "I just want to learn, please?"

Your girlfriend studied you for a moment, the rings on her fingers glinting as she moved. Then, without another word, she tapped her thigh twice with her palm—a clear, simple command.

You obeyed, the air between you thick with something sweet like raspberry jam. Rising from the bed, you took the two steps to her chair, the world narrowing to the space she occupied.

Settling onto Taki's lap was an act of coming home. Her body was a furnace of heat, seeping through your thin shorts and into your skin. She was deceptively strong; her thighs were solid and steady beneath you, a foundation you could lean into completely. As you sank back, you felt the broad plane of her chest against your spine, a wall of warm, breathing muscle.

Taki's chin came to rest on your shoulder, and her breath ghosted across the side of your neck—a slow, even tide that raised goosebumps in its wake. It tickled, a sensation so intimate it felt louder than any word ever could.

You could feel the subtle, unconscious flex of her thigh against yours as she adjusted her grip on the guitar, a shift of power and presence that made your breath catch. One of her arms came around you to steady the instrument, her forearm a warm band across your stomach, her rings cool points of contact, like little icicles.

You were enveloped. The scent of her—clean cotton, faint guitar-wood and that indefinable, essential Taki scent—wrapped around you tighter than any embrace.

In this space, with her heat at your back and her breath on your neck, the concept of learning guitar felt secondary.

"Okay, my beloved disaster." Taki murmured, her voice a satisfying vibration through your body. "Pay attention this time." Her free hand came up, fingers hovering over yours. "Give me your hand, pretty girl."

You gave her your hand, feeling clumsy and oversized next to her practiced grace. Her fingers were cool from the rings, but her touch was as warm as lavender tea as she guided yours to the fretboard.

"E minor first," she said, her voice a low instruction against your ear. "Index finger here, middle finger here."

She pressed your fingertips against the strings, positioning them with utmost gentleness.

The pressure of her thigh beneath you was a firm line of heat that seemed to amplify every sensation. You tried to focus on the chord shape, on the names of the strings but your attention kept fracturing—splintering into the silver glint of her rings, the flex of her wrist, the way her thumb braced against the neck of the guitar.

"Now strum," she instructed, assuming you were listening.

Taki took your other hand in hers, demonstrating the motion—a loose, relaxed sweep across the strings. Her palm against yours, her fingers laced through yours, it felt more like a caress than a lesson. The guitar emitted a muted, messy sound, half the notes deadened by your awkward pressure.

You were supposed to try again. You were supposed to focus.

Instead, you leaned back, turning your head just enough to press a soft, lingering kiss to her cheek. Then you shifted, finding the corner of her lips—that familiar place where her smirk usually lived. You kissed her there, tasting the faint residue of her lipstick.

"Not paying attention, hmm?" Taki chuckled, a low, rich sound that vibrated through her chest into yours. "What am I supposed to do with you, pretty girl?"

Taki jut her leg up—a flex of her thigh right beneath you. The sudden, firm pressure against your most sensitive part sent a sharp, electric jolt through your system. A soft, involuntary moan escaped your lips, swallowed almost immediately by the small space between you.

"Taki.." you breathed out, half-protest, half-pleasure.

"That's the sound I was waiting for," she murmured, her grin audible. "Much better than your E minor." She let her leg relax, but the tension hung in the air, thicker than any chord. "Now. Do you want to learn the guitar, or do you want to learn something else?"

The guitar was discarded with a muted thud, the instrument forgotten as Taki’s focus shifted entirely to you. The sudden absence of the wood between you only amplified the heat radiating from her. Her hands clamped firmly onto your hips, guiding you to shift your weight.

"I think we're done with the music for today," Taki murmured, her voice dropping an octave, becoming a velvety command that made your core ache. "Since you're so distracted, baby, let's give you something actually worth focusing on."

She adjusted her position, bracing herself against the chair and lifting one of her thighs, creating a firm, elevated ridge for you to straddle. You obeyed instantly, sliding your heat over the muscle of her leg. The friction of your thin shorts against her was an agonizing tease, a rough texture that sent sparks dancing across your clit.

Taki’s hands remained locked on your waist, her grip possessive and steady. "Slowly sweetheart," she whispered against your ear, her lips grazing the lobe. "Show your girlfriend how much you want this."

You began to move, grinding down onto her thigh in slow, rhythmic circles. The pressure was perfect—firm, unrelenting and precisely where you needed it. You gasped, your head falling back against her shoulder as you chased the friction. Every downward press felt like a lightning strike, the solid mass of her leg rubbing you raw in the best possible way.

Taki didn't just watch, oh no she participated in your undoing. What kind of a girlfriend would she be if she just voyeur-ed?

She began to pepper your neck and jawline with hot, wet kisses, her breath hitching in time with your movements.

"That's it, pretty girl, juuust like that. Look at you, so needy for me," she praised, her voice a low vibration that echoed in your chest.

As you picked up the pace, your breaths turning into jagged sobs of pleasure, the tension in your lower belly coiled tighter and tighter. You were climbing, the peak of your orgasm shimmering just out of reach, your hips snapping down harder and harder against her thigh. You were seconds away, your muscles trembling, your vision blurring as you prepared to shatter.

Then, abruptly (though nothing was ever sudden with her, just unexpected), Taki froze you.

Her grip on your waist tightened, her fingers digging into your skin as she held you perfectly still, locking your hips in place just as the first wave of the climax began to crest.

"No," she breathed, a playful but firm edge to her tone. "Not yet. I didn't tell you that you could finish, did I, my baby?"

A broken whine escaped your throat, your body shaking with the effort of the sudden halt. You tried to squirm, to find that friction again, but she was a wall of muscle, holding you captive in a state of agonizing suspension.

"Please, Taki.…please," you whimpered, your forehead resting against hers, "I'll be a good girl I swear—just.." You tried to shift again, but her hands were solid pillars of marble, "Please Taki?"

"Shh," she cooed, her expression softening into that affectionate gaze you loved. "I've got you, baby. I'm going to take care of you properly."

One of her hands slid down from your waist, moving beneath the fabric of your shorts. When her fingers first brushed against your soaking wet folds, you jumped, a sharp cry echoing in the room. She didn't hesitate, sliding two fingers deep inside you with a slow push that filled you completely.

The sensation was overwhelming, but it was her rings that turned your world upside down. As she curled her fingers, the cool, hard metal of her rings pressed against the sensitive walls of your heat and grazed your clit. The contrast of the cold silver against your burning heat was as electric as the music she'd hand you the other earphone to listen to.

Taki began to work you with a practiced, rhythmic grace, her fingers mimicking the strumming of a guitar, but the music was the sound of your own undone moans.

She used her rings to tease and torture, swirling the metal against your G-spot and flicking the edges of her jewelry across your swollen nub.

"You're so wet for me, sweetheart," she whispered, leaning in to kiss you deeply, her tongue dancing with yours while her hand worked tirelessly below. "So tight—I can feel you shaking around my fingers."

The combination of the deep penetration and the metallic friction of the rings pushed you over the edge. You were falling like an angel from torturous heaven to an earth without rules. Taki felt the shift, the way your internal muscles began to clamp down on her fingers in rhythmic spasms.

"Go on, baby. Give it all to me," she commanded, increasing the speed, her fingers driving deep and fast, the rings scraping deliciously against you.

You screamed her name as your orgasm finally broke, a crashing wave that ripped through your entire body. You came hard, your walls pulsing frantically around her fingers, soaking her hand and the rings in your heat. You collapsed against her, your breath coming in ragged gasps, your body still twitching from the intensity of the release.

Taki didn't pull away immediately. She kept her fingers inside you for a few more moments, feeling the aftershocks of your climax, before slowly withdrawing. She leaned forward, kissing your forehead, your eyelids, and finally your lips with a tenderness that balanced the intensity of the last few minutes.

"Good girl." She murmured, pulling you tight against her chest, the scent of cotton and guitar-wood enveloping you once more. "Now maybe we can try that E minor one more time?"

"You really expect me to pay attention after all that?" You laughed, the sound muffled against her shoulder. "You're ridiculous."

"Only for you." She reached for the guitar, which had been leaning safely against the chair. "Come on. Show me you were paying at least a little bit of attention."

You shifted on her lap, your body feeling loose and warm, and placed your hands back on the fretboard where she'd shown you. This time, the shape felt a little more familiar under your fingertips. You strummed, and a clear, if slightly hesitant, chord rang out.

"See?" she said, pride warming her voice. "A little distraction never hurt anyone. In fact..." She leaned in, her lips brushing your earlobe. "I think it helps you focus."

"You're impossible," you sighed, leaning your head back against her. "And you've completely ruined me for actual guitar lessons."

"That was the plan." Taki plucked a single, clean note. "Besides, I like being your only teacher."

You sat there for a while longer, her arms around you, the guitar resting against your legs. The room was quiet except for the occasional soft strum or whispered correction. The earlier urgency had melted into a deep, comfortable contentment.

After a while, you felt her yawn against your neck. "Getting tired, sensei?" you teased.

"Maybe." Her voice was sleepy, rough at the edges. "Or maybe I'm thinking of a plan that involves more lying down."

You grinned, turning your head to look at her. Her lipstick was even more ruined now, thanks to you. Her eyes were heavy-lidded and soft. "Bed?"

"Bed," she confirmed, her hand sliding from the guitar to your hip. "I think the world's greatest guitarist needs a better place to sleep than my lap."

"Hmm.." You turned fully in her lap, cupping her face in your hands, your thumbs brushing the high points of her cheekbones, "I think she'd prefer your lap actually."

Taki smiled softly, leaning in for a chaste kisses that tasted like strawberries and whatever her sweet love tasted of.

The day had started with Taki wrapped around you in bed. It had continued with you thinking about her through every boring hour of work. And now it was ending exactly the same way it had begun.

With your attention hopelessly, irreparably fixed on her.

Really, how was a woman supposed to survive?

Then again—when somebody had a girl like Taki, maybe surviving was never the point.

Maybe it was surviving through her lessons with nothing but a thousand kisses.

fin.

A/N: UGH FEM TAKI MY BABY this entire fic was just me giggling and typing away like some squirrel eating blueberries no i dont have a better analogy than this. Should I do more fem teamie fics? Lemme know!!

divider by @viviansturns

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