shifa

degree in chosology ⭑.ᐟ https://linktr.ee/shi.fahh

[bakachoso]

welcome to my blog ^ྀི

⤷ 28 ⋆ she her ⋆ infj ⋆ pisces

⤷ jujutsu kaisen ⋆ naruto ⋆ haikyu ⋆ bleach ⋆ dandadan ⋆ chainsaw man ⋆ demon slayer ⋆ sakamoto days ⋆ devil may cry ⋆ soul eater ⋆ gachiakuta ⋆ fruits basket ⋆ death note

⤷ choso brainrot

[sukunasbopit]

Offbeat - drummer!choso x fem reader

Part 3

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

Sorry it took me forever to get this part finished! This fic is just so important to me and I wanted to put everything into it. I hope you enjoy it! ~ also I don't have time do add the taglist atm, sorry o-o

The band venue is a converted warehouse with dark brick walls and a stage barely raised off the floor. You get there a few minutes after 8pm and it’s basically empty right now. Other than the four-person band on stage, the only people here are the sound guy and the bartender.

The stage is bathed in blue and purple lights that make everything look dreamlike. But the real dream is sitting behind the drum kit with his head down as he adjusts the height of a cymbal. His hair is back up in the two spiky buns and he’s wearing a loose black tank top that says the name of his band ‘Death Painting.’ 

Eso is tuning his base by the amps while Kechizu is taping down cables, green hair falling over his eyes. Then Choso looks up. He bites the nail of his pinky finger, molten chocolate eyes locked on you. He loves you to death, hell, he’d bend a knee right now and ask you to marry him if he thought you’d say yes, but he can’t help the filthy things he’s doing to you in his mind right now. He blinks hard and shakes his head to clear his vision.

“Woah.”

Choso’s eyes narrow and snap to the source of the word, who idiotically said it loud and right into the mic. Every head in the room turns to look at Satoru. And unlike Choso’s silent awe, he takes action immediately and hops off the stage with a huge smile. 

His white hair and silver snake bites glint in the colorful lights as he walks up to wrap his lanky arms around you. “Hey, Y/N! You’re really early this time. And damn, you look amazing.”

“Hey, Toru,” you say with a laugh, patting his back. “Choso invited me to come early.”

Choso can literally feel his chest twist at the sight of Satoru hugging you. He wants to run across the room right now and pull you apart. But he doesn’t, he stays put.

“Oh, did he now?” Satoru asks, looking back over his shoulder and wiggling his pierced brow at Choso. “Interesting.”

But Choso’s back is already turned away as his boots nearly stomp down the short stairs at stage left. Then he makes his way toward you. “Glad you could make it,” he says low.

His strong tattooed arms wrap tightly around your waist and pull you against his chest. You’re so close that your nose is buried against his skin just above the neckline of his tank top. Despite the boldness of it, his palms are jittery where they press into your skin.

He doesn’t let go. Five seconds. Ten.

“Hey, Cho…” you breathe against his flushed chest, laughing a little. “You’ve never hugged me this long.”

“Mm.” His chin drops lightly to the top of your head. “Then I’ve been slacking.”

When he finally lets go of you and steps back, his eyes do one more slow glance over your outfit, and a flush creeps up his neck. “You look…” He rubs the back of his neck. “That sweater’s a good color on you.”

That sweater’s a good color on you. He wants to bury himself alive. What he meant was: you look like every daydream I’ve ever had. You look like my girl. My future wife. The reason I’m probably going to miss every cue tonight.

“Thanks,” you say with a lip-biting smile. “I dressed up a little.”

“A little,” his voice cracks faintly.

“Sorry to steal your man!” Satoru hollers from the stage, back at his mic. “But we’ve got a sound check to do.”

Choso sighs and walks back to his drums.

You sit on the edge of the stage during the sound check, legs crossed at the knee. You go between watching Choso and scrolling through your phone. The band runs through some half-songs.

At some point between the songs, you feel someone crouch down behind you. You don’t even have to look to know who it is, because you hear Eso say “Satoru,” dryly, then the sound of Choso’s boots.

THWACK.

“Ow!!”

You turn around quickly and see Satoru rubbing the back of his shoulder and Choso standing over him with his drumstick still raised.

“What?” Satoru whines. “I dropped a pick.”

“You play no instruments,” Choso snaps at him. “Go back to your mic.”

“You’re so violent, drummer boy.”

“Did you really have to hit him?” you ask, looking up at Choso.

“Yes,” he mutters, sitting back down behind his drums.

“He just likes abusing me,” Satoru mumbles from the mic, trying to be cute. “Don’t mind him.”

“Huh??” You raise your brows.

Kechizu from across the stage: “Satoru was trying to look up your skirt!”

“HEY, WHY YOU GOTTA OUT ME LIKE THAT?!”

You uncross and recross your legs the other way, giving Satoru an intimidating look that has a hint of amusement in it, mostly because you’ve always known this is how he is. He gives you an unrepentant dimpled grin, then looks forward.

By 9pm the place is hot and packed with people. The band’s been backstage since twenty minutes ago, waiting for the showtime to come. You’ve claimed your spot at stage left and are leaning against the barrier, right where you said you’d be. Right where Choso can see you.

All the lights drop to darkness and the crowd’s chatter dies out. Then the stage lights come up and the band walks out to claps and cheers. Choso sits behind his drums and does a little showoff. Trr-trr-dm-dm-duh-dm-CRASH! The cheers get louder. He looks out at the crowd and finds you instantly, keeping his eyes on yours as Satoru steps up to the mic.

“Hey everyone,” Satoru says with that effortless charm and a flip of his white hair. “We’re Death Painting, and this one’s called Chokehold.”

This set is the best you’ve ever heard them play. You’d say that even if you weren’t madly in love with the drummer, but you are, so it only heightens the lovestruck experience of watching him come apart and come alive in front of your eyes.

His hair coming loose from its ties, sticking to his temples. His tank top clinging to his chest, tattooed arms swinging the drumsticks like a pro. Though his eyes are dark, they burn feverishly bright with energy, half-lidded but focused like he’s in some kind of trance. 

But they fall out of the trance every once in a while, just to find you. Just to see the way you look up at him.

Satoru is feasting on the attention of the crowd. He tilts his head down and his hair flops over one eye. He’s got one hand wrapped loose around the mic like he’s whispering a secret to it, and his other hand is reaching out toward the screaming girls in the front row.

“There’s a fire in my chest, rising up my throat, love. And it’s burning, burning, burning at the fingers of your glove.”

He sinks to his knees on the last word and tips his head back, and the crowd absolutely loses it. You’d probably cheer louder too if you could tear your eyes off the drummer. Choso gives you a little half smile when he notices you’re not looking at Satoru at all.

Choso mouths along to the lyrics, eyes locked on yours. Him and Eso wrote this song years ago. He never thought he’d have a face in his head when he played it. But he’s got one now.

You’re the face to every one of these songs now.

When the set ends, he stands from behind the kit, chest heaving, drenched, and points one drumstick directly at you before the lights drop.

The girl next to you grabs your arm and screams, “OH MY GOD, IS THAT YOUR BOYFRIEND??” You blush and smile from ear to ear, and you don’t correct her.

—

After the show, the band waits backstage for the crowd to slowly clear out. Choso sits at a desk in a room that smells like sweat and energy drinks. He’s got his notebook open and a towel around his neck, jotting down some lyrics. His hands are still buzzing. His whole body is buzzing, and honestly only about 60% of it is because of the show.

The door swings open and Satoru walks in. He hops up to sit on the counter, heels of his sneakers bouncing off the cabinet. “Hey. Question. Are you and Y/N dating?”

Choso’s pen stops hard on the page. 

“No.” He hates how easily the word comes out of his mouth. It tastes disgusting. But unfortunately it’s true.

“Huh.” Satoru tips his head back against the mirror, deep in thought. “I gotta be honest, man. She is so hot. Especially tonight.” He whistles low. “You’d tell me if there was something between you two, right? So… you care if I shoot my shot?”

And here it is. The moment. All Choso has to do is say it. Yes. Back off. I’m in love with her. 

It’s the confession he’s never let past his teeth in front of you, even. And now he’s supposed to spill it to Satoru fucking Gojo? Not a chance in hell.

He’s not putting his poor, tattered heart on the counter next to the energy drinks for him of all people to poke at. And if you found out from Satoru before he ever worked up the nerve—

“Do what you want,” Choso says harshly.

“Siiick,” Satoru says, not picking up his tone at all somehow. He hops off the counter and ruffles Choso’s damp hair on his way out the door. “Great show, by the way, you animal.”

The second the door clicks shut, Choso spins around in his chair and grits his teeth so hard his jaw creaks. He is seething. But after a few seconds he sighs hard, rolls his tired eyes at the ceiling, and mutters “...Idiot.”

He turns back to his notebook and goes back to writing lyrics, his handwriting slightly more angry and jagged-looking than usual.

It’s fine, he tells himself. You know exactly what kind of guy Satoru is. You’ve watched him flirt with half the girls in the city. You’re not going to give someone that dense a chance.

…Right?

—

It accidentally becomes a sort of after-party after that. Someone mentions food and someone else mentions how your place is the closest, and by midnight the five of you are at yours and Choso’s little two bedroom apartment. Three boxes of pizza are open on the counter and Satoru is sprawled across the couch like he pays the rent.

You’re wedged into the far corner of that same couch. The couch. The drum lesson couch. Satoru’s eyes turn a full wattage of bright blue when he turns to look at you. 

“Y/N. Sweetheart. Light of my life,” he says with a flirty grin. You raise a brow in response. “I gave the greatest performance of my life tonight, and I didn’t see you look at me even once.” He clicks his tongue with disappointment. “I was looking at you a whole lot. Kinda hurt my feelings you weren’t looking back.”

You tsk and take a sip of your drink. “Poor baby popstar.”

Satoru sits all the way up. He tips his head back against the couch cushion right next to you and laughs, landing his hand on your knee. “See, this is what I’m talking about. Funny AND gorgeous. Y/N. Baby. Why are we not—”

Across the room, Choso (who’s been rinsing the same bowl in the sink for five minutes) sets it down with a loud clack. You lift Satoru’s hand off your knee by the wrist, like removing a bug, and deposit back on his own leg. But Choso doesn’t see that, because he won’t even let himself look anymore. “Because you flirt with everyone, Toru. We both know it doesn’t mean anything.”

“Wow. Wow.” He plays offended and clutches at his heart. “She sees right through me. That’s so hot too, actually—”

“Satoru, come eat your pizza,” Eso says from the kitchen. “No one else is touching the pineapple, hot honey, pickle one you insisted on ordering.”

“Y’all wouldn’t know good pizza if it slapped you—”

Kechizu flops onto the cushion and squeezes between you like a golden retriever, effectively ending the conversation. He starts showing you videos that fans took from the crowd tonight. You laugh at one where you can see Choso with his tongue stuck out between his teeth in concentration.

Then Kechizu, the angel that he is, holds his phone out toward the kitchen. “Choso! Come look, someone got your whole solo—”

“Later.”

It comes out harsher than he means it to. Kechizu blinks and wilts a little, and turns back to you. And now Choso feels like a jerk on top of everything else. He knows he should feel good about this. His band. His brothers. You. Almost everyone he cares about is in this one small room. But he feels like he’s watching everything through glass.

He’s already mentally rehearsing the text he’ll send Satoru later. 

Hey. Great show, you animal. By the way, if you touch her again I’ll run you over with my car.

He deletes it obviously. In his head. Where it lives with the other five hundred things he’s never said.

—

Everyone clears out around 2am. Satoru tries for a hug but only gets a formal handshake from you, like a Victorian gentleman, and he shakes your hand with a slightly bruised ego. You and Choso clean up the littered paper plates and cups. 

“I’m gonna shower,” you say as you toss the last few into the trash.

“Kay,” he says, just one syllable. He’s acting so different tonight…

You strip out of your clothes in the bathroom and step into the hot shower. Your winged eyeliner runs black down your face and you grab some face wash to clean all the makeup off. You tip your head back under the water and start wiping your face.

That’s when the drums start.

Not his usual late-night playing. Not the loose rhythms you’ve managed to fall asleep to a hundred times through the wall. This is violent. It rattles the shelf of shampoo bottles above your head. You go still and just listen.

You know his moods by now. You know them by ear. You’ve heard grief in his playing, and joy, and boredom, and the fizzy restlessness he gets before shows. But you’ve never heard this. This is fury. This is a man trying to beat something out of his chest before it kills him.

You rush to clean yourself off and wash your hair, then you shut the shower off. The drums don’t stop. They get louder without the shower to muffle them, so loud you can feel them in the tile under your feet. You quickly dry off and your hands fumble to put your black bathrobe on. Your hair is still dripping like crazy but you don’t bother with it.

You pad down the hall barefoot, leaving wet footprints on the wood, and into the living room. He’s at his kit in the corner with his back half to you, still in his show clothes, hair fully loose now and whipping from the movements. 

He’s hitting so hard the crash stand is walking across the floor. His teeth are bared, bright canines glistening under the low light of the lamp, with a sharp scowl carved into his features that are usually so gentle. It makes your stomach drop.

“Choso.”

Nothing. He can’t hear you.

“Choso!”

You step into his line of sight.

The sound cuts off so abruptly the silence rings your ears. He’s heaving for breath, drumsticks white-knuckled in his fists. Eyes on you.

On all of you. On the bathrobe. On the water beading at your collarbones. On your wet hair clinging to your neck in wet ribbons. On your flushed bare thighs peeking out beneath the hem of your bathrobe.

His mouth falls open slightly and his drumsticks go slack in his hands. Whatever fury was driving him a second ago slips away so completely you can see it happen.

That really is all it takes, isn’t it?

His eyes raise to your face and find you watching him watch you. His cheeks flood pink. His eyes are burning and glassy in a way that scares you a little. “Sorry,” he rasps. “Too loud. I’ll stop.”

“I don’t care that it’s loud.” You take a step closer and his eyes flick down your body again helplessly to where the sash cinches at your waist. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Cho. Please.”

“Nothing, it’s—” He drags his eyes away and up to the ceiling with what looks like serious effort. “Did you have fun tonight?”

His tone sounds uncharacteristically bitter. “...Yes? You were so good, Cho—”

“Not the show.” A muscle twitches in his cheek. “After. On the couch. With Satoru.”

You stare at him. Do you seriously need to answer that question? You thought he knew you better than that.

“Choso… are you jealous?”

“No.” His nose crinkles, making the dark line jagged. “...Yes. Fuck.” The drumsticks clatter into the snare and he drags his hands down his face, the way he does when he’s coming apart. “He asked me tonight if he could—shoot his shot—with you. And I said do what you want. And then he touched you on our couch. And I just—” His breath shudders out of him. “I can’t lose you to him. I can’t lose you to anyone. Not you too.”

Not you too. The words detonate in your aching heart like a bomb. You slowly step over a fallen drumstick and take his face into both hands, tilting it up to yours.

“Hey. Look at me.” His wrecked eyes drag up to meet yours. “You’re not losing me. I turned him down. I thought you knew that. And even if it was someone else, I would’ve done the same thing, because—” Your thumbs trace down his cheekbones and your voice goes soft. “Choso, I’ve always been yours.”

You feel his breath stop under your hands. “...What?”

“I don’t wear a skirt like that in October for Satoru,” you say with a smile. “Cho, sweetheart. C’mon. You had to know it was all for you.”

Choso surges up from the drum throne and then his mouth is on yours fast, like he was only waiting for the smallest sliver of a sign from you before letting himself steal a kiss.

It’s nothing like you imagined (and you’ve imagined it exhaustively) because in your head his first kiss with you was hesitant and careful. But just as he’s proved you wrong before, he proves you wrong again.

This is the realest kiss you ever had. A year of starving, finally fed. His hand fists passionately in your wet hair, the other splayed across your back, walking you backward until your legs hit the arm of the couch and you tumble over it together with him on top of you.

You grip the front of his tank top with both hands. When he pulls back from the kiss to let you pull it over his head, you suck on his tongue so pretty his heart stutters in his chest. He lets out a strangled groan.

“You have no idea,” he pants against your lips, “how bad I’ve needed you.” He kisses you hard again, tugging at your bottom lip with his teeth. “No idea what you do to me.” His words are muffled from his lips pressed against yours.

“I have some idea.” You glide your hands down the ridges of his washboard abs, and palm him through his jeans. He’s so hard and needy, he bucks into your hand with an uncontrollable whimper as his head drops to your shoulder.

“Y/N,” he huffs hot against your neck. “When we had that drum lesson… did you… did you know what I was doing…”

“Of course I knew, Cho. I felt it.” You give his throbbing hard cock a gentle squeeze and watch a flush climb all the way up from his neck to his cheeks. “Been thinking about it a lot. Been wanting it.”

“Oh f-f-fuuuck.” He sounds equally blissed-out and frustrated. “B-but—but you said you were tired.”

“I panicked!” you laugh breathlessly. “You’ve never done anything like that with me, I didn’t know what to do with my hands—”

“I’ll show you what to do with them,” he says before his brain can stop his mouth, and his eyes go wide himself, and yours go wider. You both laugh into another kiss that becomes slower and hungrier, until the laughter runs out of it.

He sits back against the couch and pulls you onto his lap, this is the position from that night reversed and corrected, you straddling his lap, thighs spread over him, face to face this time. His calloused palms slide up your robe and grip your hips with his fingers spread wide.

There’s no thought left in his head outside of the realization that your slick, bare heat is soaking through his jeans as you grind your hips against his clothed cock. He raggedly gasps like it’s his first breath after coming up from water. 

And since you’ve realized you love to drive him crazy, you untie the sash of your robe. Then keeping your eyes on his, you rise up on your knees and shrug it off your shoulders, and let the whole thing slide down your arms and drop to the floor behind you.

Choso’s chest heaves as his eyes slowly travel down your body and land on the slope of your breasts. His eyes are teary and awestruck like he’s staring right at heaven’s gates. “Please… please…” His forehead thuds against yours, still staring down at your bare body with hazy, unfocused eyes. “Need to… d-do you want to… rnngh…” He inhales hard against your neck, taking in your scent, then grips your waist with both hands. “W-want to fuck you… so bad…”

“Choso, baby.” You tilt his chin up and brush his hair back from his face to kiss him softly. Then you do another slow grind against the aching bulge in his jeans, making honeyed slick sounds against him. “Do I feel like a girl who wants to stop?”

His heart is thudding in his chest as he slides his hands down from your waist to your ass to grip hard, tugging you down onto him as he ruts himself against your needy pussy. 

“No,” he rasps, using your dripping slit to gain the friction he desperately needs. “No, you feel—hnngh—so soaked—so pretty—f-fuck, I can’t—” His hands leave your body and fly to his belt buckle, clumsy and shaking, fumbling to get it loose. “Hnnh—sorry, my love, I just—I need—c-can’t wait ‘nymore, m’sorry, I can’t—”

He shoves them down his hips with his boxers and his heavy cock springs up against his abdomen with a wet slap. He lets out a high-pitched whine through gritted teeth. “F-fuck, sorry, th-that’s embarassing,” he heaves, ears burning red. A thick pearl of precum wells up at the flushed tip and slides down his veiny shaft. “It–it’s just been a while—and you’re so pretty.”

When you glance up at his face, his eyes are half-lidded and dazed. “P-please just touch it, bounce on it, anything—anything, baby.”

You wrap your hand around him and stroke down once from tip to base with a wet shlick, spreading the mess down to his balls and the dark patch of hair, and he actually wails. His head tips back, hips bucking into your fist, and he makes such a beautiful broken sound, one that you want tattooed on the inside of your skull.

“S’pretty Cho,” you breathe, looking up at him through your lashes as you stroke him slowly, watching him shudder and moan. “You have such a pretty cock. Can’t wait to—”

“Now,” he whines raggedly, dragging you forward by your waist and pulling flush against his heaving chest. His cock is trapped between your bare stomachs and smearing slick precum everywhere. “Now, now, now, please, baby, please—put it in, sit on it, I can’t—need to put it inside you, please—”

You lean back and grind your aching, needy slit along his throbbing shaft. The fat, dripping head nudges at your entrance with every slow grind. “You can wait just a little longer, Cho,” you tease, gripping his shoulders as you move.

His cock twitches hard and he sobs, then fists the tears away from his dark eyes, cheeks flushed with embarrassment for even beginning to cry about this. “P-please. Please, baby. I’m not playing,” he chokes out. “I’m not—hnngh—I’ll do anything. Anything you want. Any—any way you want, any night, any—I’ll cook, I’ll do dishes for a year, I’ll—”

“Shhh…” You grab his wrists and press them back against the couch cushion on both sides of his head, and whisper against his open mouth, “I’ve got you, Cho. Watch me take it.”

You line yourself up over the dripping head and sink down, watching his eyes roll back and his mouth fall open around senseless little ah, ah, ah sounds. He forces his eyes back forward and pulls his wrists out of your grip to wrap his tattooed arms crushingly tight around your back, face buried in your throat. He holds you close against him, trembling all over.

The thick stretch of his cock has your insides squeezing and yielding around him inch by enormous inch. He’s never been so achingly hard in his life. His fingers dig hard into your flushed skin but never once push, letting you take him at your own pace.

When he bottoms out inside you, he huffs hard against the side of your neck, breath hot. “Nnngh… my love,” he groans. “I can feel your heartbeat. I can feel it all around me.”

You brace your hands flat against his heaving chest and start giving him rolling lifts of your hips, sinking back down onto him with soft breathy moans, letting each stroke pull a wet sound from where you’re joined. 

He whines and groans, then leans back against the couch again to watch you ride him. His hands slide up your thighs, gripping, ungripping, gripping again. “Higher—up, baby, up—please—hnnh—faster, need it faster please—”

But you can feel him twitching hard inside you with every slow drop of your hips. The way his stomach muscles tense up. You smile down at him, drag one nail lightly down the center of his chest, and shake your head. “Mm-mm. Don’t want you to cum too soon, baby.”

“I won’t—” his voice cracks desperately. “I won’t, I swear, I’ll make sure I won’t. Please, baby, please just—bounce on it a little faster.”

You tut softly at him and keep riding him maddeningly slow, letting him feel every inch on the way up, every inch on the way down. “I can feel you twitching so hard, Cho,” you say with a honey-sweet tone.

His face crumples. “Y/N—my love—please—”

Too slow. It’s too slow. He can’t take the tension anymore. He lets out a desperate groan and grips your hips roughly. Then before you can process the wild shift in his eyes, he flips you.

You let out a small startled yelp as your back hits the couch cushions, and suddenly he’s on top of you, caging you in, hair falling loose around his flushed face in dark layers. His heavy cock is dripping against your thigh where he slipped out of you in the flip.

“Sorry—sorry, baby—” he rasps. He’s already grabbing himself, one hand braced beside your head, dragging the tip back through your soaked slit to line himself up again. “I can’t do it that way. I need—I need to be on top, I need to fuck you, I need to fuck you—”

He slides in with a shlick so wet it makes you moan together. He drops his forehead to yours, breath scalding hot, and pushes forward with a strangled “nnngh—fuck—fuuuuck—” until his hips meet yours and there’s nothing left between you at all. Then he really starts fucking you, taking you deep, his heavy balls smacking wetly against your skin.

“Ah—ahh! Cho!” 

He’s making you his so messily, his dark hair curtaining both of your faces. His mouth is open. His eyes are burning and half-lidded with pleasure, watching every reaction on your face as he plays you like a drum kit.

“Told you—told you, baby,” he pants against your face, sweat dripping down his temples. “Told you I can—hhhn—hold back from cumming too soon.” Shlick-shlick-shlick! “Gonna make this—make this so—hnngh—so good m’pretty girl can’t even—think—”

You’re crying out his name in cracked pieces. His beautiful name, over and over between loud moans punched out of your lungs on every thrust. Every slap of his hips against yours drags the mess of you both further onto the couch cushions.

He dips his head and drags his tongue hot up your ear, making you whimper. You clench around him hard and he whines, but still tries to play dom. “Good—nnn… fuuuck—good girl. Squeezing me s-so good. Want—want to make you cum, gonna make you cum s-so hard—”

But then his face changes and his brows knit together like he’s about to lose it, and he pulls out of you with a shlck-pop and a broken “unnh—fuck—hng—hng—” 

His cock slaps up against his stomach, twitching hard, a thick string of your combined slick stretching from the tip to your pussy before it breaks. He clamps his hand around the base, teeth bared, chest heaving, forcing himself back down from the edge.

He drags in a shaky breath, waiting for the throb to pass. Then he grips your hips and flips you onto your stomach. “C’mere,” he huffs, trying so hard to sound like he’s in control and didn’t almost just finish before you did. He gently tugs your knees up by your hips. “C’mere baby. W-wanna take you like this now. Want you in every position I can have you.”

He smooths one hand over the curve of your ass and leans over your body to kiss the back of your shoulder, buying himself another few seconds. Then he eases back into your sticky insides. Squish. Deeper. Squishh. Until his hips meet the backs of your thighs and he groans low and long in his throat.

He reaches around your body with his free hand and slides two fingers between your thighs to rub gentle circles on your clit. Just feeling you in every way he can. He moves his fingers faster and faster, in a maddening rhythm that only a drummer’s hands know by heart.

His breath is a hot, wet rasp against the back of your neck. His forehead drops between your shoulder blades and stays there.

“Nnnn… Chosooo… that feels so—sosogood!” you moan breathlessly.

He lets out an involuntary “hnnh” at that. Then another. Then, like a dam breaking, he can’t stop.

“Hnnh—mmh—nghh—oh—my love—my love, my love—”

His hips speed up on their own. His words tumble out unbroken, not sentences, just sounds and pieces of your name and soft, wrecked “so good, s’good, s’good, s’good” against the nape of your neck.

PLAP-PLAP-PLAP-PLAP-PLAP-

His fingers move in pace with his hips. He’s making these devastating whimpers every time he slams into you now, the kinds of sounds he’d never let anyone else hear. “C-cum for me—please cum for me—I need it—I can’t—I can’t hold it much longer—please, baby, please, my love—”

You let out a broken cry into the cushion and cum around him hard, and he starts sobbing from the absolute bliss, just a wrecked, adoring sound like he’s the one falling apart right now.

“Y/NNNN…” His hips slam home and he spills into you thick and hot, and there’s so much of it, you feel it flooding into you. “I love you, I love you, I love you.” The words fall out of him uncontrollably, over and over, into your damp hair, muffled against your skin. He’s shaking hard, arms caging you in from behind with his forehead glued to the space between your shoulder blades.

“Loved you since the day I met you—the whole time,” his voice cracks. “Wanna—nngh—wanna make you mine in every way I can—every way, baby, every way—”

He drags in a shuddering breath and finally lifts his head and glances down, dazed and blissed out. But when he sees his cum sliding thick down your inner thigh, his eyes go wider. “Nnn—nn-no—baby, don’t let it—don’t let it go—not a drop—hnnh—”

His softening cock is throbbing weakly inside you and he’s so oversensitive he whimpers when he moves, but he tries to fuck it all back in anyway with small shaky thrusts. Filthy little rolls of his hips.

“Nngh, Cho!” you laugh breathlessly.

“Hnnn—sen–sensitive but—but I need—I need to—can’t have you lose it—”

His thumb gathers a hot pearl of cum off your thigh and pushes it back up toward your used-up pussy, smearing it into you around his cock. “There,” he breathes shakily. “There, baby, that’s it—stay in her—hnnh—that’s mine, sweetheart, that’s—that’s mine.”

—

Later that night, he holds you against his chest, and you’re half asleep when you hear him sigh through his nose. “Y/N… I have to tell you something…” he mumbles nervously. “And you’re going to think I’m disgusting…” he says with a wince.

“There’s nothing that could make me think that,” you say, kissing his chest.

“Okay… well…” He swallows hard. “You know the purple lace panties you thought you lost…?”

You lift your head slowly. He’s staring at the ceiling, ears going scarlet red. “They’re in my dresser,” he whispers. “I’ve had them for weeks… I’m sorry. I wash them though.” He slaps his hand over his face. “Fuck, that made it sound so much worse.”

You stare at him. Then you drop your face to his neck and start laughing hard. He groans, “D-don’t—don’t laugh—I’m confessing something terrible…” but his arms wrap tighter around you anyway.

“Keep them,” you say against his skin. “You earned them.”

[sukunasbopit]

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.

But tonight you’re going to make it all up to him~

[sukunasbopit]

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.

“Yeah, but… things change.” He glances at you from the corner of his eye. “I don’t really like playing alone anymore.”

[bakachoso]

gege really loved choso

[thatsallitchief]

After watching the movie, I now am obsessed with choso 😛 ugh loved drawing him here

[bakachoso]

i love choso sketches like this ᥫ᭡.

he looks so peaceful here ᥫ᭡.

he’s drawn with so much love and care ᥫ᭡.

[bakachoso]

HEARTBEAT

ac: einruji07

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

CONTENTS: mdni, 18+, smoking, sex, sexual tension, teasing, flirting, making out, fem!reader, fan!reader, and drummer!choso.

CHAPTER ONE: AFTER THE LAST BEAT

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

Backstage was quieter than you expected.

Muted laughter down the hall. The low hum of amps cooling. You stood near a stack of cases, heart still racing from the show, when the door shut behind you with a soft click.

Choso turned the lock.

You swallowed.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come back here,” you said, trying to sound casual.

He stepped closer, eyes dark, steady. “You waited,” he replied. “And that tells me everything I need to know.”

Your breath caught when he stopped in front of you—close enough that the air between you felt tight. You could still smell the stage on him—sweat, metal, something unmistakably him.

“I…didn’t want to leave,” you said softly.

His hand came up, thumb brushing under your chin, tilting your face toward his. “You don’t act like anyone else does around me.”

Then, without warning, his lips claimed yours. The kiss was sharp, a spark that set your nerves on fire.

Slow at first—testing. Then deeper. His mouth warm and deliberate, like his playing. You melted into it instinctively, fingers curling into his shirt as he pressed you gently back against the wall.

Choso exhaled against your lips, low and shaky. “I’ve felt you watching me,” he murmured. “Every show.”

Your pulse jumped. “Then why wait?”

His hand slid to your waist, firm, grounding. “Because,” he said, kissing you again—harder this time—“I don’t rush things I want.”

The door rattled faintly with noise outside, but neither of you moved. His forehead rested against yours, breath uneven.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispered.

You shook your head.

He smiled—small, dangerous—and kissed you once more, slower now, like a promise.

When you finally pulled apart, your lips tingled, and your chest was still pounding.

Choso’s eyes held yours, unreadable, dark, and magnetic. He didn’t move, didn’t speak—just watched you, like he was memorizing every reaction, every shiver.

A quiet laugh escaped your lips, nervous and breathless. “So… what now?”

His hand hovered near yours for a heartbeat, then slowly brushed your fingers with his. “Now,” he said, voice low, “you learn what it’s like to keep up with me.”

You weren’t sure if your heart was racing from the kiss—or from the fact that whatever this was, it was just beginning.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

THANKS FOR READING ⭑.ᐟ

[albuterolheaven-deactivated2025]

i suppose before the summer’s *officially* over 😗 ..

[bakachoso]

drummer!choso who locks eyes with you mid-song when he’s so focused on playing the drums— everyone else disappears.

drummer!choso who can’t keep his hand off your thigh or waist— tugging you into his lap to keep you as close as possible to him.

drummer!choso shutting down anyone who flirts with you at the venue— with a single glare.

drummer!choso on a late night drive, drumming the beat on your thigh— fingertips tapping higher each time— teasing you until you’re squirming in your seat.

drummer!choso the second his set ends— finds you in the greenroom and presses you against the door— body still thrumming with adrenaline— his mouth crashing down on yours— his grip on your hips is almost bruising— his breath ragged as he says “i can still hear the beat in my chest”— “i want you to feel it too”.

drummer!choso who gets a subtle and small tattoo to represent his love for you— under his wristband or near his ribs.

drummer!choso still buzzing from the crowd— pacing the hotel room until you stop him— pins you to the mattress— hair sticking to his damp forehead— rings cool against your skin— hunger in his gaze— the stage not enough to burn out his energy— ready to lose himself in you instead.

drummer!choso making you playlists of songs he likes— asking for your favorite one so he can perform it for you.

drummer!choso wearing a matching band tee or letting you wear his leather jacket— smelling faintly of smoke.

drummer!choso leaning back in a chair— as you fix his smudged eyeliner— legs spread— as he watches you through the mirror— his gaze dark— lingering on the way you concentrate— grabbing your wrist and pulling you down into his lap when you finish— as he murmurs “you made me look even hotter”— “now i can’t keep my hands off you”.

[thatsallitchief]

Saw the new season trailer, and busted this out

[nekoniniart]

Doodle

[bakachoso]

choso in the new culling games arc trailer ᢉ𐭩

[bakachoso]

Are you okay with questions about headcanons, just for fun?

If so, what are some random Choso headcanons you love?

yes i’m okay with questions about head canons :)

my favorite one has to be anything related to a band au. i like thinking of choso as a rockstar. he loves music especially rock. he plays instruments like the drums or the electric guitar. he’s got piercings, tattoos, and loves to dress up in a leather jacket with boots and the whole rockstar look. he’s a heartthrob.

[bakachoso]

head empty no thoughts in that big ass forehead

[hunnismokah]

choso and this took so long cause i finally drew my husband so it had to be right and im really happy with it!!!

[chosothirstacct]

beaded choso using black white and grey beads