Offbeat - drummer!choso x fem reader
slow burn • roommates to lovers • mutual pining • jealousy • angst with happy ending • eventual smut
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.
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.
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.
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.
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~
