shifa

Offbeat - drummer!choso x fem reader

Part 2

slow burn • roommates to lovers • mutual pining • jealousy • angst with happy ending • eventual smut

Read part 1 here!

You hum the song that was playing in the car as you sit on the couch and unlace your boots. Choso’s pulling out the practice pad kit before he even takes off his shoes.

“Want me to teach you again?” he asks with a little smile and a hopeful glimmer in his dark eyes.

You bite your lip. You know what that means. And he knows you’ll say yes because he’s already setting it up in front of the couch cushion next to you.

“Hmm…” You check the time on your phone, trying to play it off like you aren’t absolutely dying to sit on his lap while he teaches you to play. “Just for a little bit.”

You slide onto his lap and he slides his fingers down your arms until they wrap around your wrists, warm palms against your skin. You hear him take a slow, shuddered breath.

“We can just… pick up from last time,” he says quietly.

You grab the drumsticks and he guides your hands into position. He starts moving your hands through the pattern.

Boom, ts, dum-dum, ts. 

Boom, ts, dum-dum, ts.

You both know you’re not really learning anything. He’s doing all the work, just using your hands to play. But that’s not the point. It was never about learning to play the drums anyway.

You can feel his heart pounding where his chest is pressed firmly against your back. “You’re getting better,” he murmurs next to your ear, even though you both know it’s a lie.

He slides his calloused palms further down your wrists, thumbs brushing your hands. Your heart flutters when you feel the brush of his chiseled jaw against your temple.

“Think you can try it without me?” he asks, and his voice dips a bit lower than you’re used to, taking on a rough edge. A tingling heat spreads across your cheeks.

“Yeah,” you breathe out, trying not to make the butterflies fluttering violently in your stomach so painfully obvious.

His hands slide away from your wrists and you keep the pattern going. For a minute you think you’re actually doing pretty good. 

Boom, ts, dum-dum, ts. 

Boom, ts, dum-dum, ts.

Then both his hands come to your hips. His slim fingers spread wide across the fabric of your jeans and your rhythm immediately falls apart.

“Just adjusting you,” he murmurs, but his hands aren’t working to adjust anything. They just stay there, gripping your hips.

Something thick and hard presses against your ass, and your brain quickly catches up—that’s… that’s his—oh my god. That is definitely his dick. The drumsticks slip from your suddenly nerveless hands.

“Hey,” he says, catching them in time and guiding them back into your palms. “You were doing good.” As casual as he’s trying to come off, his voice is audibly more strained now. He sets his hands back on your hips. “Try to get back into the rhythm.

Somehow you manage to pick the pattern back up but your hands are shaking. His fingers dig slightly into the fat of your hips. Then he slowly and subtly starts to roll his hips, and you feel every thick inch. The friction is maddening, and he’s so big you feel like the pressure alone might tear through the back of your jeans.

“So good,” he murmurs raggedly right next to your ear, his breath hot on your already flushed skin. “You’re doing so good.”

You don’t know if he’s talking about the drumming or the way you feel against his dick, but you don’t even care because your thighs are clenching involuntarily and you can feel your panties getting sopping wet.

The drumsticks drop from your trembling hands and clatter to the floor, and he doesn’t even acknowledge it. He just pulls you against his achingly hard cock even tighter and leans his face into your neck.

“Choso. I should—” you say breathlessly as you try to push yourself up, thinking this has probably gone way too far, way too fast. “I should go to bed. It’s getting late.”

He instantly stops rolling his hips, but his grip on you tightens a fraction, still holding you there. You feel him take in a slow breath, nose brushing your hair, and then he lets go. “Okay,” he says, voice unbelievably strained. “Yeah. You’re right.”

You stumble off his lap and give him a quick “goodnight,” not looking back as to hide the way you’re heavily blushing. You shut your bedroom door behind you and lean against it, chest heaving. Well. Now you know he’s definitely packing. You always wondered.

Your cheeks are on fire and you press your palms to them, trying to cool down. There’s no way that was accidental. He knew exactly what he was doing. Maybe you shouldn't have panicked and run off like that… he must be mortified right now.

—

Choso sits on the edge of his bed with his head in his hands, mentally scolding himself, but his body apparently hasn’t gotten the memo because he’s still so hard it hurts.

‘What the fuck were you thinking?’ he thinks to himself. There’s no excuse he could possibly give that would make this seem innocent or accidental. Nothing he could say that would make it seem like anything other than what it actually was. Him dry humping you like some kind of disgusting perv.

He drops flat on his back with a creak of his bedframe. He’s ashamed to admit it, but he just wanted to see what you’d do. He wanted you to rub back up against him so badly. Living with you has been the sweetest, most agonizing torture. He’s wanted you for so long but he’s never been able to bring himself to do anything about it until tonight—and fuck—he went way too far.

He drags his hands slowly down his face, over the black line on the bridge of his nose. Maybe you don’t have feelings for him after all. Maybe he’s been fooling himself into a fantasy this whole time, reading into everything way too much, as he thinks is a terrible habit of his.

He’s never been good at this. He’s never been charming or smooth enough to make the first move. Sure, he’s not a virgin, but that’s solely because he’s gotten lucky enough that the few girls he’s been with practically threw themselves at him. 

But you don’t do that. You’re so sweet and warm, and the way you smile at him he could swear you want him too, but you’ve never been the bold type. You’ve never grabbed him, never kissed him, never said the words he desperately wants to hear.

He wishes you would.

His dick throbs against his jeans and he sits up with a resigned sigh. He’s already lost his dignity tonight. Might as well go all the way.

He reaches up and pulls out his hair ties, letting his espresso-dark hair fall to his shoulders. Then he stands and strips off his loose black tank top and tosses it toward the hamper. He kicks off his black distressed jeans and stands there in his boxers, the physical proof of what you do to him obscenely tenting the fabric.

He opens his dresser drawer of sleepwear and looks down at the neatly folded sweatpants. Then he reaches behind them, to the very back of the drawer, and pulls out a pair of dark purple lace panties.

Just taking them out of hiding makes his heart hammer against his ribcage. He knows he’s terrible for this. He knows it’s pathetic and creepy and crosses a million lines he can never uncross. But when he saw them on the bathroom floor a few weeks ago, left behind by accident after your shower, he picked them up with trembling hands and shoved them in his pocket. He knew immediately he wasn’t going to give them back.

The first time he jerked off with them, he told himself he’d only do it once. Just to see what it was like. But once turned into twice, and twice turned into every single time he touched himself, and now he can’t even get off without them.

Of course he washes them after, every single time. He handwashes them carefully in the bathroom sink when he knows you’re asleep, heart racing, listening for any sound of your door opening down the hall. The paranoia is exhausting but necessary. If you ever caught him with your missing panties in his hands, dripping with water and whatever else, if he had to see the realization dawn on your face about what he’s been doing with them—No, he’d rather actually die. There is no coming back from that.

He presses them to his face and inhales deeply, eyes blissfully rolling back. The sweet scent of you still hasn’t worn out from the fabric. He slides his boxers down and lies back on his bed. He’s harder than he’s been in months, leaking down his veiny shaft, all because for a few minutes he got to rub himself against you on his lap. 

He wraps your panties around himself and lets out a shuddered breath, stroking them down slowly. It’s nothing like his hand. It’s so much better. So soft and silky, and it makes him think of you wearing them, on top of him, grinding your needy pussy up against him until the fabric is drenched—

“Rrrnngh… fuck—” he groans, precum dripping down in milky rivulets, marking your panties with every stroke.

He lets his imagination go back to when you were sitting on his lap on the couch, but this time you don’t go anywhere. You’d turn around and straddle him, spread those pretty thighs over his lap, and you look at him with dark, hazy eyes.

“You’re so hard, Cho,” you’d say breathily, and your hand would slide down to palm him through his jeans, and he’d buck up desperately into your touch. Then you’d kiss him with those impossibly soft lips, and you’d taste like the cherry lipgloss you’re always applying.

Schlick schlick schlick! Choso’s bedroom fills with the obscene wet sounds of your cum-soaked panties clinging to his cock with every pump of his fist.

The image is crystal clear in his mind. He’d carry you to his bed, your hair beautifully spread across his pillow, eyes locked on his while he strips you slowly. He’d watch your plush lips fall open when he pushes inside you, your slick heat gripping him perfectly while you dig your manicured nails into his shoulders.

He’d fuck you so hard your breasts would bounce with every thrust and he’d lean down to lap his tongue at your nipple. He’d worship your body the way you deserve, take you apart piece by piece and put you back together satiated and glowing.

He’d spill into you so full you’d feel it pooling inside you, spilling down onto the sheets. He’d do anything and everything he’s been fantasizing for what feels like an eternity.

His hips buck violently off the bed and his fist pumps his swollen cock in a frenzy as he spills thick ropes of cum all over your panties.

Then the high fades and his face falls as reality comes crashing back in.

But he’s still clinging to the fantasy’s end, the only part that never leaves him for even a second.

He’d tell you he’s in love with you.

That he’s been in love with you since the moment he met you.

That you’re his dream girl and the idea of anyone else touching you makes him want to break things.

But a fantasy is a fantasy.

All he can do right now is hope to god you’ll forgive him for grinding against you like some sex-starved loser. You deserve so much better than that.

—

When morning comes, you’ve already made your decision. You’re going to pretend you didn’t notice what he was doing last night.

Is he going to believe you? Probably not. Choso’s perceptive as hell, and you’re not the best liar in the first place. But it’s the best thing you can do to give him some peace of mind, to let him save face, and to preserve the comfort between you two.

The truth is, you’ve been kicking yourself all night for running away. You just got up and left when he was clearly trying to take things further, left when the man of your dreams was literally rubbing himself against you, and all you had to do was stay.

You were just so caught off guard by it. Choso’s never made a move like that before. You always thought of him as the quiet, romantic type. The type to bring you flowers and open doors. The type to hesitantly ask before kissing you, let alone grinding his dick on you.

But maybe you don’t know him as well as you thought you did. Not that that changes how you feel about him. The discovery that he has this raw, desperate side only makes him so much hotter.

You pad into the kitchen and find him already sitting at the table. His dark hair is down, falling around his face in those uneven layers you love, and he’s wearing low-slung gray sweatpants and a faded black t-shirt.

He keeps his eyes fixed on his coffee as his fingers drum against the table nervously. Tap tap tap tap. He doesn’t look at you. Won’t look at you. Like a scolded dog.

“Morning,” you say softly as you reach for a mug.

“Morning,” he mumbles into his coffee.

Tap tap tap tap…

You can feel the tension already, and it’s suffocating.

“I’m sorry.” His voice sounds quiet and rough like he didn’t sleep at all last night.

You glance over at him with the coffee pot in your hand. “For what?”

He finally raises his eyes to you, just for a second, and there’s so much shame in them. Then he looks back down. “...You know.” Tap tap tap tap. “...Last night.”

You tilt your head at him, pouring your coffee slowly. “What about last night?”

“Don’t—” He takes a shallow breath. “Please… you know what I mean. Don’t make me put words to it…”

“I should be the one saying sorry for cutting it so short,” you say, keeping your voice light and casual. “I was just so tired from work, y’know?”

“You’re…sorry?” His brows furrow. “Wait. Cutting what short?” His eyes go a bit wider. “You wanted to keep going?”

“Yeah, like I said, I was just exhausted. But we can pick it back up again soon if you want. I know you like teaching me the drums.”

“Teaching you the…” His eyes search your face like he’s looking for a crack in the facade. Is this some kind of test? “I’m so confused,” he whispers.

“What’s confusing?” you ask, taking a sip of your coffee.

He scratches the back of his neck. He knows this has to be an act, but maybe it’s best for him to just let this go. “Never mind,” he says, nodding slowly. “If that’s what you… yeah. Never mind.”

He lets out a slow breath through his nose. He overthought this so much, and this was not how he pictured getting past last night. Just pretending it didn’t happen. But he’ll take it. At least you’re still talking to him.

“You still coming to the show tonight?” he asks.

You walk over, rest your hand on his broad shoulder and give it a squeeze. His heart skips a beat and he stares up at you. “Obviously,” you say, smiling down at him. “You know I never miss your shows, Cho.”

—

Black combat boots with silver buckles. Sheer black tights that disappear under a short black skirt. The skirt sits high on your waist, showing off your curves in all the right ways. A deep burgundy cropped sweater that shows just a sliver of your waist when you raise your arms, with a neckline that dips low enough to be just a little tantalizing.

Your hair is down in loose waves, and you’ve done your makeup even darker than usual: smoky eyes, sharp winged liner, deep red lipstick. You’re practically begging him to eat you up, aren’t you?

You stare at yourself in the mirror. You look like someone Choso would want.

What are you kidding? You are what Choso wants. And yeah, you had to act oblivious for his sake. Especially after running off and humiliating him like that.

Offbeat - drummer!choso x fem reader

slow burn • roommates to lovers • mutual pining • jealousy • angst with happy ending • eventual smut

TW: mentions of death (past-tense - no death happens in current day story) and self-harm (self-inflicted tattoo during mental health crisis)

Part 1 - Closing Time

You’ve grown to love the smell of the record shop over the last few months, that dusty, nostalgic scent. Outside the windows, vintage streetlamps cast pools of warm light on the sidewalk in front of the shop. Lights that barely push back the October shadows. You can see yours and Choso’s reflections ghosted in the window glass, overlaid with the darkened street and the drift of rust-colored leaves passing by.

You’re crouched by the indie rock section, sifting through the dividers as you check alphabetization. Someone had shoved Arctic Monkeys back in the wrong spot, right between Radiohead and The Strokes. You pull it out and slide it back into the A-C section.

“Found another one,” you say over your shoulder.

Choso looks up from where he’s reorganizing the new arrivals display near the counter. His dark brown eyes meet yours and your heart does that traitorous flutter it’s been doing since the day you met him. You’ve given up on pretending you don’t feel this way about him. But you haven’t given up on pretending he doesn’t notice.

“I swear it’s always the indie rock section,” he says, turning back to adjust a record as he rolls his eyes. “College kids.”

“You’re a college kid,” you say, fighting a smile.

“Yeah, but me and you are old college kids,” he points out with a little smirk. “So I guess that’s why we’ve got the rare skill of knowing our ABCs.”

You laugh, still sifting through the records. “Okay, funny. But god, don’t call us that. Old…” You stand up and dust off your black jeans. “Absolutely ancient and decrepit at twenty-four.”

“I’ll take ancient over being an immature eighteen-year-old any day,” he says with a shrug.

“Says the guy who eats cinnamon toast crunch for dinner almost every night,” you say as you hide your smile behind your hand. You couldn’t resist.

He drags his hand up through the back of his hair with a little embarrassed smile, accidentally pulling at the two spiky buns he tied it into this morning. A few short dark strands come loose at the nape of his neck. “Hey,” he says in a playful protest. “Don’t come for my cereal.”

He looks at you for just a second, just to make sure you know he’s not serious. When he sees you’re still smiling, he goes back to organizing. “And here I thought we were friends,” he adds, still smiling slightly. A rosy blush dusts across his pale cheeks as he reaches for another record and sets it on the stand.

His loose black tank top drapes over his lean muscular body as he works, showing off the full canvas of tattoos on his arms that wind from his shoulders to his wrists. You’ve memorized most of his tattoos by now, memorized the meanings of them too.

And you know the one that holds the heaviest meaning is the stark black line that runs across the bridge of his nose. Your eyes linger on it now with a hint of sadness as you make your way towards the counter with your arms full of misplaced records.

You asked him about it months ago, and the story has stayed with you ever since. Choso is the oldest brother of ten siblings. When he was sixteen, five of them died in a car accident. The car went off a bridge, and in one terrible moment half of his family was gone.

Kids ranging between six and twelve years old, just erased from the world while he had been safe at home doing something mundane like homework or watching TV, completely unaware that his entire world was being ripped apart. The guilt of surviving when they hadn’t never left him.

The tattoo happened during his darkest time. He was in his worst stage of grief and had stopped going to school, stopped leaving his room, stopped existing in any meaningful kind of way.

He did it himself in his bathroom with a needle and ink he ordered online. It was dangerous and painful but he needed it, he needed something on the outside to match the way he felt split down the middle.

It was a permanent testament to the reality he could never escape until his last breath. The devastating line between the living and the dead.

But Eso was the one who pulled him back from the space between.

He came into Choso’s room one night, trying to console him the way he’d tried dozens of times before. But this time he noticed the crumpled pages in the trash that Choso had written, trying to get the grief out of his body and onto paper.

Eso pulled them out and read them while Choso laid there with his face in the pillow, and instead of saying what he usually said about healing and time, he told Choso they were beautiful.

Then he did something that changed everything. He left and came back with pages of his own that he’d written, proof that he’d been drowning in the same grief. The heart-to-heart became a turning point, and slowly, Choso began to open back up. They started writing together, pouring their grieving hearts onto the pages. Somewhere along the line, they began making music together. They even bought some instruments, and Choso took a special interest in the drum kit.

Eventually the idea of starting a band took root. Kechizu joined them, partially out of excitement and interest but mostly because he needed to be part of whatever was helping his older brothers survive the loss. For a long time they had no lead singer, but that was okay. They built their sound around instrumentals and wrote the lyrics for a voice they’d find eventually, when the time was right.

Over time, the meaning of the tattoo evolved. It was still about the five siblings he lost and always would be, but it had grown to mean something more: Balance. The truth that he could carry both grief and happiness without one cancelling out the other. That he could remember and mourn his lost brothers while also choosing to live as fully as possible for the ones who remained.

Learning his story had fundamentally changed the way you saw him. He wasn’t just some hot, quiet drummer you’d developed feelings for. He was a sensitive soul who learned to piece himself back together. Someone who turned his darkest moment into his passion.

You understood why he threw himself into drumming the way he did, why some nights he’d play for hours in the living room. It was his lifeline. His way of working through something he didn’t have it in him to say out loud.

“Is there something on my face?” Choso asks as he catches you staring. “Well—besides—” He gestures at his face tattoo.

“No. Nothing,” you say gently, setting the records on the counter. “Just got lost in my own thoughts.”

His eyes widen just slightly, trying to read your face. It makes you want to look away, but you don’t. You never can really, when he looks at you like that.

“You do that a lot,” he says.

“So do you,” you say with a soft laugh, tapping your fingers against the counter in a drumming pattern, a playful imitation of what he does constantly.

You’ve lost count of how many times you’ve watched someone try to talk to him while he’s drumming on tables, counters, his own thighs, totally lost in his head. It’s honestly one of his cutest quirks.

He glances down at his hands and color rises in his cheeks. “Point taken.” Then he looks back up and he’s almost smiling. “So… I drum on things when I’m in my head. And you…” he hesitates for a second, considering if he wants to say it, “...were looking at my face.”

He meant to come off with a teasing tone, but he can’t help the shyness and curiosity in his voice. “I’m usually trying to memorize patterns when I do it,” he says, focusing closely on your eyes. “What about you? What were you thinking about?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” you say, attempting to sound playful, but the way you’re blushing probably gives you away. “My mind just goes places sometimes. Hard to remember.”

“Hmm…” He stretches and his tank top rides up slightly, exposing a strip of his toned stomach and the trail of dark hair that disappears beneath the waistband of his jeans. “Okay.”

God, he’s so hot.

Is he doing this on purpose? After a year of living together, you’d think you’d be able to tell when he’s flirting vs. when he’s just being Choso. You force your eyes away. Get it together. It’s not like you hadn’t seen him walking around shirtless all summer in the apartment.

You look over at the clock mounted by the door. 9:48pm. Twelve minutes until closing, and the shop’s been empty for the past two hours. The owner left at seven, trusting the two of you to close up like he does most weekdays.

“Almost there,” you say, moving down the counter to straighten the display of tote bags with the shop's silver logo. “Anything left on the closing list?”

“No. Everything’s been done. And I’m almost done with the display.”

“So, Saturday,” he says, trying to sound casual. “You’re still coming to the show, yeah?”

“Of course, Cho. I’d never miss one of your shows.”

“Okay, cool. It’s at nine,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “But if you want you can come earlier. Like eight. You can watch us sound check.”

He’s organizing the same three records over and over. “It’s not like, exciting or anything. But you could get to the front of the venue before the place gets crowded.”

“I’d love to come early,” you say with a smile. “I should stand in front of stage left, right?”

“You…yeah. Stage left.” A flush creeps up his neck. He didn’t expect you to remember that. “That’s where I’ll be. It’s the best view of the drums.” He starts breaking down the empty cardboard box the new records were in. “And I’ll be able to see you too.”

Your heart skips a beat and you suddenly realize the last line’s got you smiling like an idiot. If he couldn’t read you before he definitely can now. You look away and pretend to straighten up the already straightened stack of business cards. “Guess we should lock up,” you say.

He nods. The closing routine is second nature by now. Turn the lights off, lock the register, arm the security system. Choso checks the back door lock and the front door lock, then you both step out into the autumn night.

Choso’s car is parked in the corner of the small lot. It’s a faded black Honda Civic that’s seen better days but it runs well enough. It has dents in the passenger door from some incident he never fully explained, but the stereo system is pristine. He installed it himself and spent hours getting the speakers just right, because if there’s one thing that Choso couldn’t compromise on, it was the sound quality of his music.

He unlocks the car and you slide into the passenger seat, immediately grabbing the aux cable. It’s your guys’ routine that doesn’t require any kind of discussion. You control the music on the way home and he controls it on the way to work. You pick something loud and fast, something with drums that you know he’ll love. Within the first verse his fingers are drumming on the steering wheel, and he’s mostly steering with his knee.

“One of these days you’re gonna hit something,” you say with a little laugh.

“Not gonna happen. I’ve been driving like this since I got my license. No accidents yet,” he says, still drumming with a little smile. “Well… no accidents from the drumming.”

When the chorus hits you start singing along. Something about night drives with him makes you feel less self-conscious and more willing to just sing out and have fun.

“You could replace Satoru, you know,” he says after the song fades out. “You have a pretty voice.”

“God, no.” You laugh and shake your head. “You know I have too much stage fright for that. Plus Satoru would hate me for taking his spotlight.”

Choso chuckles. “I think he’d perform in an empty room just to hear himself sing.”

“To be fair, that’s not so different from you and your drums,” you say.