I see you begging for Ringo >:) how about Ringo teaching us how to play the drums?
Of course, I hope you enjoy! 💛🥰
Bang a little louder: Ringo Starr X Y/N
“Alright, love. You asked for it.”
Ringo’s voice came from behind you, low and amused, dripping with that accent you swore made even the word ‘rubbish’ sound seductive. You turned slowly from where you stood near the drum kit, eyebrows raised, arms crossed in mock defiance.
“I never asked for anything.”
He chuckled, already strolling across the studio with that casual swagger only he could pull off and sunglasses still perched on the bridge of his nose despite the fact that you were indoors and it was pushing eight in the evening. “You practically begged the other day.”
You scoffed. “I said you looked cool playing the drums. That’s not begging.”
“Hmm,” he hummed thoughtfully, leaning against the wall like he had all the time in the world. “Well, you look cool when you blush. But I don’t see you complaining.”
Your cheeks burned, which only made his smirk widen.
“You’re insane.” you muttered.
“But you,” Ringo said, straightening up, “are going to sit your pretty self down behind that drum kit and let me teach you something.”
The words pretty self hit like a cymbal crash.
With a roll of your eyes and a quiet God, help me, you lowered yourself onto the stool. The kit felt massive and intimidating, every drum shining like a mirror, but you refused to let him see you flinch.
Ringo came up behind you and crouched low, his arms reaching around yours not touching, but close enough that your skin tingled.
“Right,” he murmured by your ear, his breath warm against your neck. “This is your kick. This little beauty here, that’s your snare. You hit it like you mean it. It’s got attitude, just like you.”
You glanced back at him with a grin. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Ringo gave a crooked smile, eyes sparkling. “Means you’re mouthy love and I like it.”
You smacked the snare a little too hard and jumped at the sharp sound.
“Easy, tiger,” he teased, laughter dancing in his voice. “You’re not trying to break the thing.”
“You said hit it like I mean it!”
“I didn’t say murder it.”
You were laughing now, shoulders relaxed despite yourself. He walked you through the basics, kick on one, snare on two, keep your foot steady, don’t rush it.
You messed up more than you got it right, but Ringo was patient in a way you didn’t expect.
Every time you fumbled, he’d lean in, correct your grip, or tap the beat on his thigh while looking at you like you were the only person in the room.
He leaned in closer. “You’ve got rhythm in there somewhere, I just know it.”
“Maybe it’s buried deep,” you said, concentrating on your timing.
“Maybe I’ll have to dig it out,” he replied, his voice softer now, velvet wrapped around a dare.
Your hands faltered on the hi-hat. “You’re distracting.”
“Am I?” Ringo asked innocently, knowing damn well what he was doing.
“Your voice is distracting.”
“That’s a new one,” he said, pleased. “Usually people say my nose.”
You turned to him, drumsticks still in hand. “For the record, I like your nose.”
He grinned, full-on now. “Do you?”
“Shut up,” you said, flushing, turning back to the kit.
He moved around to face you again, no longer keeping his distance. “Alright, alright. No more teasing. Just do the beat one more time. One… two… three…”
You tried it. Got it mostly right. A little off tempo, but passable. You looked up, triumphant.
Ringo didn’t clap. He didn’t cheer. He just leaned forward, placing his hands on either side of the kit, lips tugging into that slow, infuriating smirk of his.
“I think you’re a natural,” he said, eyes dropping briefly to your lips. “But I should probably keep giving you lessons. Just to be sure.”
“Same time tomorrow?” he added casually, but there was nothing casual about the way his voice dropped at the end.
You gave him a sly smile. “Only if you promise to behave.”
“Oh, darling,” he murmured, straightening up and backing away toward the door, “I never behave.”
And just like that, he turned on his heel, drumsticks casually twirling in his hand, leaving you in a whirlwind of snare beats, flushed cheeks, and a heart pounding louder than a drum.
