synopsis: after meeting a cute guy at a party but not getting any contact information from him, you set out to find him again online. there's only one thing for it: intense fbi level stalking, unless of course, he finds you first.
genre: university au, both smau & written, mostly crack & fluff.
warnings: mentions of alcohol, not very proofread
word count: ~2.7k
note: there's a lot of build up but i promise it's worth it for lando 😌 also could easily make a part 2 to this
"You have to come!" Your friend, Lily, was on her fourth round of begging and pleading you to come to this party a few streets away. You sighed, "It's a Thursday night, I'm trying to go to bed at a reasonable hour tonight." She furrowed her brow, pulling out her phone to click onto her timetable, knowing that yours would be the same. "See!" She grinned, waving the screen under your nose, brightness on maximum, "We don't have anything tomorrow. You can sleep then!" You couldn't help but smile at her enthusiasm, you loved that she was always up for anything but sometimes it could be exhausting.
"Fine." You roll your eyes, "But only if you let me borrow your cute blue top," This time you grinned wickedly while she protested, "That was going to part of my outfit, you're evil." She paused, "But because I love you and I want you to be there, I'll sacrifice the amazing vision I had for myself."
"Thank youuu," You sing, smiling. At least you would look good even if you were only partially enjoying yourself.
-
You rubbed the sleep out of your eyes, yawning. It was dawning on you that your neck was starting to ache after a few hours in the classic shrimp posture you always assumed when staring at your laptop. The words on the screen were getting a bit fuzzy, and any daylight that once cascaded through your window had vanished. You slammed your laptop closed in frustration, you couldn't bear to spend any more time rereading the same five lines of the research paper you had been trying to comprehend for what seemed like years.
A soft knock at your bedroom door pulled you out of your misery. "Come in!" You mustered up as much energy as possible to feign a joyful tone, knowing it would be Lily coming to bother you again. "That wasn't convincing," she popped her head into the room, raising an eyebrow, "You sound done with life."
"Yeah, it sounded better in my head," you shrug, bringing your knees up to your chest, "Just fighting for my life reading this paper." At this, Lily huffed, "See, this is why we go to parties," She smiled widely, "Speaking of parties-"
Your eyes widened, was it really time to get ready already? It was beginning to set in just how long you had stared motionlessly at your screen. "I need to change." You groaned, walking over to your wardrobe, wishing you had prepared an outfit in advance. "Yes, I came to give you my top!" Lily giggled at your panic and confusion, "That's half the battle, do you need help picking jeans or a skirt or something?" You smiled back, "I've got it, thanks. I'll meet you in the bathroom for makeup in like ten minutes."
Adding the final coat of mascara to your lashes, you gazed into the large bathroom mirror, replacing the wand in the tube. "We look good." Lily nodded slightly, gathering the various products strewn across the sink to put back into her makeup bag. You had to agree, you almost didn't believe the person staring back at you was the same person from an hour ago, who had been sitting like a hobbit, crunched up on her desk chair, stressed unimaginably. "I think I needed this," you smiled, turning to face a beaming Lily. "See, I told you! Let's get going." Both of you exited the bathroom into your respective rooms to pick up the final few things necessary before heading to the kitchen. "Let's just have a few shots to boost morale," Lily leant down to open a cupboard, and rifled through various bottles until she found some vodka. "Unbelievable," you giggle, but run to your room to grab some shot glasses. After more than a few shots each, you were glad to get outside into the fresh air to make your way to the party.
For a Thursday night, the city was surprisingly alive, students around every corner, dressed for every occasion imaginable. "Are Thursday nights really this popular?" You raised an eyebrow, sure, you knew that students would take up any opportunity to go out but you hardly believed that every single person on the street or in the club wasn't busy tomorrow. "I'll tell you who's popular," Lily started, "The guy whose party we're going to." She finished her sentence by saying his name with a flourish, in a matter-of-fact tone that told you that you should really know who he was. "I'll trust you..." You shrugged, kicking some loose stones underfoot on the pavement. "No way!" Lily gasped far too dramatically, you thought. "Everyone knows him." You waved your hand at her, "I'll know him when I see him." She shook her head, laughing slightly - you both knew you wouldn't know him at all.
The house was a standard terrace house, nestled between what you assumed were other student properties. Narrow stone steps ran adjacent to a small gravelled 'garden', one that had absolutely not been taken care of and the inhabitants of the house probably weren't going to start either. At the top of the three steps, a door, a greying white with some chipped paint and a tarnished brass knocker sitting squarely between the two panes of glass. This is pretty normal, you thought, you weren't sure why you were expecting something different, maybe it was because Lily had spent the whole walk hyping up the event.
Standing on the doorstep, it became apparent that the party had in fact started. Low thumps of music could be felt through the door, you could occasionally make out the lyrics from the music that was leaking out from under the door and various open windows on the front of the house. "They're taking ages." Lily shuffled her feet on the worn welcome mat and rubbed her arms in a bid to fight against the biting cold of the wind that had since picked up. "I'll try." You rap your knuckles against the door, much more loudly than Lily's first attempt. You get why she hadn't knocked so hard, your knuckles were red from the cold and hitting them off the door just made the sensation painful.
A gust of thick heat hit you as soon as the front door opened, revealing a girl with bouncy blonde curls. "Come in! I love your top," she smiled kindly, with slightly clouded eyes, probably due to alcohol. You smiled back and thanked her but your smile faltered the second you stepped over the threshold. The smell of bodies and alcohol was a little overwhelming considering you'd been outside in the evening air for about twenty minutes. "Sheesh," Lily muttered, fanning herself with her hand a bit. "It's so stuffy in here!" You exclaim, your voice fighting to be heard over some rap song. The next words Lily said were too difficult to make out but you were grateful that she instead decided to just take you by the arm and move to a less crowded area away from any speakers.
"Okay I knew this was going to be popular but I didn't think we would be suffocating," Lily raised her voice above the people chatting nearby. "We need to find a quieter room," you furrow your brow, it didn't seem like any of the rooms would be quiet. You both shimmied away from the porch and skirted along the edge of the crowd that spilled out of the kitchen, towards a closed door. You noticed a line of people passing by to get into the front living room so you figured going into what you assumed was another living room at the back, behind this door, was the best bet. You pushed the door open easily and entered, with Lily tailing you.
As you had suspected, it was a small, dimly lit living room with only a few people littered on the couches and armchairs. It seemed to be the quiet escape both of you had been looking for, with only low music playing in the background on the television. Really the atmosphere was quite nice, you thought, everyone was either sitting having a conversation with drinks or just on their phones. "I like this," Lily whispered in your ear, her breath sending a small shiver down your neck, "But I think a drink would make this even better." You might as well take advantage of whatever free drinks were in the kitchen. "I'll have what you're having," you grin, hoping she would oblige and leave the sanctuary of peace you'd found, "But make it weak, we did too many shots." She rolled her eyes and shoved you playfully, "Party pooper. Save me a seat then." You smiled and watched her walk out, before scanning the room for somewhere to sit. Weirdly, the largest couch in the room was vacant, apart from a curly haired boy sitting on the far left side who was scrolling on his phone and nursing a beer.
You shuffled past a few people huddled on the smaller couches and sat down next to him, leaving space for Lily on your other side. The movement of the couch cushion from you plopping down startled the boy, who looked up from his phone quickly. "Sorry," you laugh nervously, "Didn't mean to throw myself down that hard." The boy grinned, putting his phone on the oak coffee table in front of you both, "No worries. That was the most exciting thing that's happened to me all evening." You try to stifle your giggle but couldn't, it was such a ridiculous thing to say given how busy the party was, "Not your thing then I take it?" The boy shakes his head and takes a sip of his beer, "I've never been a house party kind of guy, I prefer the club."
You raise your eyebrow, "What brings you here then?" He laughs at this, causing you to pull a confused face and wonder if it was a strange question. "I live here, the guy who is hosting the party is my friend and flatmate." You mentally facepalm, of course. "Why didn't I think of that?" You laugh to yourself, "I'm only here because my friend, Lily, practically forced me." The boy nodded sympathetically, he was in a similar situation himself, and leant over the arm of the couch to pick up another beer. "Want one?" He held a can out to you but you shook your head. "Oh, no thanks! My friend is supposed to be getting me a drink."
"Good luck with that," The boy snorted, chuckling into his can, "Once you go in the kitchen, you don't come back." You sigh in defeat, throwing your arms up dramatically "Brilliant, now I have to get to know you."
"Hey! I'm your only companion now. Lando, by the way," He grins, sticking his hand out for a handshake. "Y/n." You smile brightly, "I suppose you should pass me a beer then, Lando."
-
You weren't even sure how much time had passed, all you knew was that you were having fun getting to know Lando. "I think I need to go and find Lily, it's been ages," You hoped some people had cleared out by now so it would be easier for you to get to the kitchen where you presume Lily was. "Where's my phone?" You look puzzled, glancing at Lando for help. "Where you put it last, like two minutes ago?" He half smiled, maybe you had drank a bit too much before coming to the party. This plus the beers he had shared with you was evidently affecting you. "Right..." you trail off, "And that would be.. where exactly?" Without saying another word, Lando pulls your phone out from between the couch cushions next to you. "I had a good reason for doing that." You deadpan, the screen illuminating your face while he chuckled at you. Lily had texted you four minutes ago to say she got caught up in conversation with some people she knew but would be ready to leave shortly. You typed out a reply as best you could using Lando as a spell checker.
"I had a really good time tonight, maybe I should come to more parties if you're there." You give him a small smile, eyes searching his face, taking in his features. You swear he looks flustered for a second but the dim lighting made it difficult to see if he was actually blushing. "I had a great time too Y/n." Before you could reply, a voice cut you off, "Bed time for us!" Lily had come to collect you, which you were grateful for. Your eyes and head were feeling heavy and really all you wanted to do was have a lie down, you didn't even care if you managed your night routine or not before doing so.
The second you stepped out into the night, Lily had a million questions for you. Who was that boy? Did you like him? I think he's cute. Does he live there? And then one that stopped you in your tracks: Did you get his instagram? Or number?
Your face dropped, you'd completely forgotten to add him on anything. Lily coming into the room had distracted you fully, you had barely even said goodbye to Lando properly. "I completely forgot!" You groan, "And I really liked him too, he was so handsome as well." Lily patted you on the arm, "Not to worry, you know his name, you can always search him up!" You groan again, "I only know his first name! There's probably like a million accounts to go through."
"Right, we will have a good look for him tomorrow, don't worry. You know I have a skill for finding people online." As weird as it might be, Lily really was a pro stalker online, so that did comfort you. "You're right, thanks Lily. I'm just tired," You reply through a yawn.
The rest of the night was taken up by a simple ritual: remove makeup, drink water, change clothes, drink water, get to sleep. You could only hope that it was enough water for your body to basically pretend that it hadn't seen alcohol recently. But that was optimistic.
-
7:06am. You cursed yourself for being awake, knowing that the five or six hours of sleep you'd gotten wasn't going to be enough. No new notifications. You supposed everyone else was still dead to the world, just as you should've been. You rubbed some sleep out of your eyes and pulled your duvet up higher, trying to recall the events of last night. All you really knew was that you'd met a cute boy, failed to get his instagram and that his name was something beginning with L. You huffed, "Unbelievable." You had only one job - to remember the man's name so you could search for him. You spent a while thinking of some 'L' names, until you drifted back off to sleep, no closer to reaching the answer.
10:38am. Light cascaded through your curtains, throwing itself towards your bed. The more you began to wake up properly, the more your frustration manifested. You snatched your phone off the bedside table angrily to check your notifications but the anger you felt disappeared almost instantly, turning to shock.
landonorris wants to send you a message.
He had found you. And messaged you. You blinked a few times before clicking on the notification. It was unmistakable, user landonorris had messaged you. The L was for Lando. Not Lewis, not Logan but Lando. A giant smile spread onto your features as your fingers moved at a lightening fast pace to text Lily the news, this was exactly what you had hoped for, especially because his name still hadn't come back to you when you awoke the second time.
summary: Attending your older evil sister's wedding seemed like a nightmare, until you meet a certain F1 driver who's more than willing to do a french exit with you.
word count: 10k
warnings: smut, p in v, some praise, soft dom!oscar, reader's sister is a bitch (if your name's skylar i am so sorry). nothing too wild here.
(i love this one, it's one of my favorite descriptions of oscar i just love him in this so much!)
this was a bit inspired by cowboy like me, so if you want to get in the mood, listen to it 🩷
The venue looked like it had been plucked from a Pinterest board titled Aussie Dream Wedding, all white and baby blue, manicured hedges, and an overwhelming scent of imported peonies that hit you like a perfumed slap the second you stepped out of the car. The Australian sun beat down bringing with it the impossible feeling of a heatwave, bouncing off every crystal-draped surface and pastel-painted façade like even the weather was in on the joke. Which was a shame, considering the location itself wasn’t so bad.
You adjusted the hem of your dress – if you could even call it that. It was more a tulle-and-chiffon floral crime scene than a garment, a high-necked, puff-sleeved blush pink monstrosity your sister had insisted you wore during the rehearsal. "Vintage whimsy" she called it. Personally, those weren’t the words you’d use to describe it.
The venue buzzed with that touch of ridiculousness only expensive weddings can afford. People flitted around with champagne flutes, all cheekbones and teeth, all painfully beige and without an ounce of personality. Everything was themed: the linens, the napkin rings, even the signature cocktails, which bore names like “Bloody Marry Me” and “Mint to Be Mojito.” You were fairly certain one of the flower arrangements cost more than your rent. It was the kind of wedding where everything had to look effortless, but you could practically hear the money bleeding out of every petal and polished surface.
You hovered just outside the central madness, pretending to check your phone while internally debating if it was too early to fake food poisoning. Your mother had already shot you two disapproving glances, one for your posture, the other for your facial expression. Your father didn’t say much at all, which was worse somehow. You flew halfway across the world for this – this parade of performative happiness – and not once had anyone asked how you were doing.
A little bit later she appeared. Your sister. The bride. Dressed in what could only be described as the most disgraceful attempt of a rehearsal dress: layers of ivory silk and designer lace, too much glitter for the daylight. She glowed in the way only someone deeply committed to aesthetics could. The crowd around her erupted in applause like she just cured cancer with the curls in her hair. You could already predict the captions that would appear later in Instagram Posts: “#BrideGoals,” “#MyBestFriendIsGettingMarried,” “#SoBlessed”; and you had to suppress the urge to gag.
She saw you, of course. Locked eyes across the rose garden, a smile already spreading on her glossed lips. She didn’t wave, didn’t run to you. No, she walked over slowly, the way villains do when they’re about to deliver a line they’ve been rehearsing in the mirror for days.
“Well…” she drawled, her voice just loud enough for the surrounding guests to hear, “look who finally made it. Still allergic to a hairbrush, I see.”
You gave her a smile that didn’t touch your eyes.
“Nice to see you, Sky.” You eyed her up and down. “Love the dress.”
Thank God for her naiveness, or else she would have slapped you for the amount of sarcasm and fakeness used on that compliment.
“Of course you do.”
You felt the eyes around you shift like spotlights, but you didn’t flinch. You were used to this dance, had been since the two of you were old enough to share clothes and lies in equal measure. Skylar always needed to be the center of attention, and you had long ago learned that the easiest way to survive was to orbit quietly on the edge, unnoticed. Except now she had an audience, a ring, and a pastel nightmare of a wedding to keep feeding her ego. While you were the sacrificial lamb, bitter to the bone and profoundly uninterested in playing along.
You let her walk away first. It was strategic, something about not showing your back to the enemy. You stayed rooted to the gravel path, heat rising from the ground in waves, mascara already threatening melting under the sun. Around you, guests continued their airbrushed charade, chattering about centerpieces and seating charts, oblivious to the way your nails dug into your palm just to feel something other than rage.
You weren’t sure what you hated more: the wedding, your dress, your family, or yourself for agreeing to come. But you were sure of one thing: you didn’t belong here.
The rehearsal dinner was held in a glass-walled pavilion overlooking the vineyard, the kind of structure designed more for drone footage than comfort. Long tables were draped in gauzy linens, florals exploded from every available surface, and the light filtering through the windows was suspiciously perfect. You stood awkwardly at the entrance, scanning the laminated seating chart while the violin quartet attempted a classical rendition of Taylor Swift. Your name was there, of course. Far from your parents, far from your so-called friends, far from anyone who might make the evening remotely tolerable.
Table Nine was a tragic collection of people united only by their shared irrelevance. To your left, a pair of lifestyle influencers who kept adjusting their hair and whispering about brand deals. Across the table sat an older couple who knew your parents vaguely and seemed determined to overshare stories about a failed beach house investment. You offered a tight smile and nodded at all the right moments while mentally constructing an exit plan that involved a conveniently timed kitchen fire.
Then the seat next to you pulled out and someone slid in with the sort of calm confidence that made you glance up on instinct. He wasn’t overdressed, just comfortably elegant in a way that didn’t scream look at me, but still managed to draw attention. Tousled light brown hair, sharp jaw, blushed skin, and eyes that looked like they judged most of it silently. There was something familiar in the cut of his features, and it clicked a second later.
Oscar Piastri. Formula One driver. Australia’s own rising star. And apparently, your sister’s fiancé’s childhood friend.
Oscar’s arrival at the table didn’t go unnoticed. The influencers glanced up with the reflexive recognition of people who lived online, and the couple across from you squinted as if trying to place him from some vague morning show segment. But he didn’t seem to notice or care. He offered a polite nod to the table and then turned fully to you. You met his eyes briefly and offered a half-smile.
“Mind if I sit?” he asked.
“Suit yourself.” you deadpanned, nodding at the chair he was already settling into.
He gave a soft, amused exhale and held out a hand.
“Oscar.”
You shook it, palm meeting his in a surprisingly steady grip.
“I know. I’m Yn.”
Oscar gave you a curious look.
“F1 fan?”
“Not exactly. But I’ve had enough dinners with my sister and heard all about how her fiancé’s Oscar Piastri’s best friend.”
“You’re the bride’s sister?” His brow lifted.
“Unfortunately.”
Oscar let out a soft whistle, his gaze flicking over the long dinner table lined with pastel florals and glittering crystal.
“Shouldn’t you be at the family table then?”
You took a long sip of your watered-down rosé, eyes following a server who walked by with an actual miniature garden on a tray.
“Nah, I’m better here. With the influencers, distant relatives, and the reluctant childhood best friend of the groom.”
Oscar laughed under his breath, low and knowing.
“Reluctant is right. I almost didn’t come.”
“Let me guess. Guilt trip from the groom?”
“More like his mother.” he said, smiling into his glass. “She still sends me Christmas cards like it’s 2005.”
You glanced at him again, slower this time.
“You grew up with him?”
“Same street. Same school. Played cricket in his backyard, got in trouble together, all that nostalgic crap.”
“And now you drive race cars for a living while he... what, organizes luxury weddings and eats $200 canapés?”
“Investment banking.” Oscar corrected with a faint grimace. “But close enough.”
“Oh no. It’s worse than I thought.”
He smiled again, a little wider this time, and leaned back in his chair.
“And what do you do, other than survive terrible dresses and awkward dinner parties?”
“I work in publishing..”
His eyes lit up in genuine interest.
“Books?”
“Books.” you confirmed. “Real ones. The kind no one in this tent has probably read.”
“Hey.” he said, hand over his heart, mock-wounded. “I read.”
“Do you really?” You raised a skeptical brow.
“Of course.” he said with a slight grin. “Especially the back of cereal boxes.”
You laughed again, warmer this time, something uncoiling in your stomach. He was surprisingly easy to talk to, dry without being cruel, relaxed without being smug. It felt... unusual. Like a breath of unscripted air in the middle of a perfectly rehearsed production.
Oscar glanced sideways at you, that same smirk playing on his lips.
“You’re… Cool.”
“Thank you?”
He nudged his shoulder lightly against yours, subtle, not a flirtation exactly, more like a quiet invitation.
“Why are you even here if you hate it so much?”
You sighed, eyes skimming the room, the white drapes, the crystal chandeliers, the pastel-painted cage you willingly walked into.
“Blood ties. Guilt. A sense of morbid curiosity. Take your pick.”
His gaze lingered on you for a beat too long.
“Well... I’m glad you came either way.” He shrugged. “Dinner would’ve been a hell of a lot worse without someone real to talk to.”
Just like that, the noise of the room, the curated laughter, the endless clinking glasses, the distant shriek of your sister’s wedding planner, seemed to fade to the edges. You weren’t sure what to call the thing settling between you two. It wasn’t quite chemistry, but it was definitely something. Something very promising.
The next morning arrived with the cruel inevitability of a hangover, not from alcohol – you wish – but from people. From too many smiles stretched too wide, from words spoken through gritted teeth, from pastel everything clawing at your retinas. You woke in the too-white guest suite of the vineyard estate with stiff limbs and a buzzing headache that had nothing to do with the wine and everything to do with what the day held: the wedding. Skylar’s wedding.
You laid in bed for a few minutes, staring at the ceiling as if it might cave in and rescue you from the spectacle ahead. Outside your window, the vineyard shimmered in the early sun, all golden light and soft breeze, like a perfect dream and you hated it. Hated how beautiful everything looked, how curated it all was. It felt like a lie.
The rehearsal dinner blurred in your mind, save for the one clear thread you kept replaying: Oscar. His voice, low and dry. His smirk when he called you real. The way he looked at you. You caught yourself thinking about him far more than you cared to admit, trying to remember every exact thing he said, the cadence of his sentences, the way he rested his arm on the back of your chair without even seeming to think about it.
But now it was wedding day, and he would return to his role: childhood friend of the groom, minor celebrity footnote, politely engaged and perfectly styled. And you… well, you were back to being the bitter sister in the ugly dress.
The one she picked for you hung on the wardrobe door like a joke waiting for a punchline. Pale lilac. Floor-length. Flutter sleeves. It looked like something a Victorian ghost would wear to prom. You dragged yourself through the motions, makeup, hair, clothes, letting the machine of the wedding churn around you without resistance. The stylists swarmed. The wedding planner barked instructions into a headset. Your mother handed you a mimosa with a comment about how tired you looked. And Skylar? She was already glowing in her custom gown, surrounded by bridesmaids who resembled a curated influencer lineup, all flawless skin and practiced poses.
She spotted you briefly while you were adjusting your dress in the mirror. No greeting, no affection, just a once-over and a smirk that curled like a hook.
“Try not to look so tragic.” she said, voice sugar-coated poison. “It’s my day, not yours.”
You looked at her reflection in the mirror and smiled.
“Believe me, no one’s confused.”
Then you turned away, clutching your bouquet too tightly, knuckles aching. You told yourself to breathe. To get through it. To disappear into the wallpaper if necessary. No one expected anything else.
As you stepped outside into the vineyard where the ceremony would take place, guests already taking their seats, strings swelling in the background, your eyes scanned the crowd instinctively and landed on him. Oscar. Standing near the front, laughing at something the groom said, his hands in his pockets, tie slightly askew like he’d given up on perfection halfway through. He didn’t see you, but the sight of him there knocked something loose inside your chest.
Maybe today won’t be completely unbearable, afterall
The ceremony passed in a blur of vows, rose petals, and hollow smiles. You stood stiffly on the outskirts of the bridal party, your too-long dress pooling around your feet like regret, clutching a bouquet of wilting ranunculus while your sister floated down the aisle in a designer cloud. It was all so perfectly rehearsed, so filtered, it felt unreal. The kind of wedding meant to be seen, not felt.
Skylar looked radiant, of course. That particular kind of manufactured glow that came from teeth whitening, spray tans, and getting everything you’ve ever wanted. The groom beamed like he won a prize. And you… you stood there, a prop in her perfect picture.
You were supposed to say a few words at the reception, just a simple toast. Something benign. But as you sat at your assigned seat (again, far from your family), a folded card was slipped into your hand by one of the wedding planners. Your sister’s handwriting. Elegant, looping.
“Read this instead. Trust me. It’s better.”
You should’ve known. Should’ve said no. But you were already swallowed by the machinery of the day, and there were eyes on you. So you stood up, cleared your throat, and opened the card.
“Good evening, everyone. I’m Yn. The bride’s little sister… I was asked to say a few words about the bride.”
You looked over at Skylar on the table, arms entrelaced with her - now - husband. She had that sparkle in her eyes that could send Satan running away. Your parents were just beside her right side, both proud, amazed, tears in the corner of their eyes.
“Now, I wanna preface this by saying that sibling love is complicated. My sister and I were… let’s say, competitive by nature. While Skylar was the one who wore pink dresses and tiaras, I was the one who cut my own bangs and had a pixie cut.” You took a few breaths, hearing some polite laughs coming from the audience. “She won spelling bees and I won detention slips. She memorized ballet choreography and I memorized which teachers were most likely to let me eat lunch in their classrooms. We’re different. She makes plans. I make… messes.”
You had to take a longer pause after reading the last part, the words got stuck in your throat.
“And somehow, despite all that, or maybe because of it, she’s always been the shining star. She was born knowing how to move through the world. So standing here today, watching her be this… impossibly beautiful, glowing version of herself, I guess it all makes sense. She’s always known exactly where she was going.”
You paused, the words suddenly too sharp. Too exposed. You could feel your sister watching from the head table, smile a little too smug. You looked down at the next line, the kicker. Something about being her finding love first while you watered house plants. A clever burn, meant to end in applause. A clean finish.
Instead, you folded the card. Slowly and then you looked up, voice quieter. Yours now.
“But here’s the thing about love. Not just sibling love. Love.” A hush fell through the room. “It doesn’t really care about who you are, or if you have the perfect haircut, or who wins the spelling bee. Love is, if anything, as messy as the dynamic between me and Sky.”
You glanced briefly at Oscar, just a flicker.
“I work with books, so I see love in sentences. In silences. In the lines people read twice and don’t know why. I see it in the way characters sit quietly beside one another when there’s nothing left to say. In the dog-eared corners of a page someone couldn’t bear to leave behind. And today, despite everything, I do see love here. It’s in the way Skylar looks at Justin when she walked down the aisle. It’s in the vows they wrote. It’s in the awkward dancing and the terrible floral centerpieces and the champagne that’s already gone flat. It’s in the choosing.”
You glanced over at Skylar, who was biting down her lips, and if you didn’t know her, you could even say she had a tiny dot of guilt in her eyes.
“So... to my sister. We’ve never made sense together, but maybe that’s the point. Maybe love isn’t about finding someone who makes you look good, but finding someone who stays when the light changes. And if you’ve found that... then maybe this is the real thing after all.” You raised your glass, hand steady now. “To the bride and groom.”
There was a stillness afterward, then clinking glasses. You heard a soft sigh from someone near the front. Even your mother, stone-faced just moments ago, blinked a little faster than usual. Skylar didn’t look quite so smug, mainly because you managed to fake such a beautiful speech, that outdid every word he could ever come up with.
By the time you sat down, your face felt numb. Your fingers ached from holding the champagne glass too tightly. It was a mixed feeling of being proud for being the bigger person, but, at the same time, you never felt more exposed.
An hour later, the reception was in full swing. Music swelling, guests twirling on the dance floor, plates being cleared by servers in white gloves. You slipped out the side exit unnoticed, walking fast down the sloped gravel path that curved behind the venue toward the edge of the vineyard. Rows of grapevines stretched under the fading light, the golden hour slanting shadows across the earth.
You kicked off your heels and sat on a low stone wall, toes pressing into warm dirt, hands still shaking slightly.
Oscar approached quietly, so much that you didn’t even hear him.
“Was that your idea of a mic drop?”
You exhaled a laugh through your nose, bitter and breathless.
“You should’ve seen the real speech Skylar wanted me to read.”
He moved closer, slow, deliberate. Dressed in a crisp white shirt now unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up. The kind of undone elegance that felt honest. He stood beside you in silence for a moment, letting it settle.
“She wrote a speech about herself?” he asked.
You nodded.
“Slipped it to me right before. Said it was ‘punchier.’”
Oscar let out a low sigh.
“She’s... something else.”
You stared out across the vines, trying to swallow the lump in your throat.
“She’s always been this way. But today she’s the bride, and I am not cruel enough to ruin her big day.”
Oscar sat next to you, close enough that your elbows almost brushed.
“That’s… Really admirable. Most people wouldn’t even show up.”
“Sucks to be a good person, right?” You picked at the edge of the stone wall with your nail, eyes fixed somewhere out in the vines. “I guess part of me still wants her to like me.”
“You think she doesn’t?” He glanced over.
You shrugged.
“I think she only likes the version of me that doesn’t talk back. The one who laughs at her jokes, wears the ugly dress, and makes her look good by comparison.”
“That’s a pretty shitty version to live in.”
“Yeah, well…” you said, lips twisting. “Sometimes you do things for people even when they don’t deserve it. Especially when they’re family.”
Your eyes locked with his, and you saw it there, something soft beneath his usual calm, a lot similar to recognition, and maybe even pity.
“Why are you even here?” you asked.
He glanced toward the distant venue, then back to you.
“Old loyalty. But...” His gaze dropped to your hand resting on the wall between you. “You’re making it tolerable.”
Oscar touched your arm slightly. It was barely anything. A brush of fingers on your forearm, but it burned, like a current running under your skin, waking something up that had been sleeping far too long.
“Wanna leave?” he asked, voice low, like he wasn’t sure if he was serious until the words came out.
You turned your head to look at him, eyebrow raised.
“Like… leave the wedding?”
He shrugged, casually, but there was something behind his eyes that wasn’t casual at all.
“We’ve already done the hard part. Now it’s all about the dancing and the cake.”
You gave a small huff of laughter.
“And you want to ditch it all to… what? Go joyriding through rural Australia in a rental car?”
He leaned against the wall beside you, arms crossed, eyes on yours.
“No. I want to eat something that doesn’t come in bite-sized portions. Maybe just… talk to the one person here who didn’t make me feel like I was the one out of place.”
You looked back toward the glowing venue, the golden lights, the forced laughter, your sister posing with a group of guests like it was her final round on The Bachelor. You thought about the three-hour dinner that was still ahead. The bouquet toss. The endless, exhausting show.
Then you looked at Oscar again.
“Okay.” you said, quiet but certain. “Let’s get out of here.”
His mouth curved into something real before he offered his hand, and you didn’t hesitate to take it.
Neither of you bothered to say goodbye.
You walked quietly down the gravel path beside the vineyard, heels in one hand, inhaling the smell of nature around you. The music thumped behind you like a distant heartbeat, growing fainter with every step. It felt surreal, like stepping out of a movie in the middle of the third act. Wrong in a way that felt right.
Oscar’s car wasn’t flashy. No tinted windows or red stitching or anything that screamed driver. It was a rented SUV, still smelled faintly like plastic and lemon wipes. But the windows rolled all the way down, and the air rushing in as you sped down the winding back roads of South Australia felt like the first real breath you took all day.
He didn’t put on music. You didn’t ask for it. There was only the sound of the wind, and the two of you, occasionally laughing about your dress flapping out the passenger side like it was trying to escape too.
By the time he pulled up to the rental house, the sky was navy and deep, stars scattered wide. The place was quiet, set back against the hills, one of those minimalist, glass-walled homes with warm lights glowing low from inside. You hesitated for a second before stepping out of the car, heels still in hand, feet dusty, hair half undone, but he looked back at you and said, simply, “Come on,” like it wasn’t even a question.
Inside, the space was open, calm. Wood and concrete and linen. Unbothered by the world. It looked nothing like a wedding venue. Which meant you liked it instantly.
Oscar offered you a glass of water without asking, which you took it. Your throat was dry from all the talking, or maybe from the way he kept looking at you.
“Balcony?” he asked.
You followed him out. The night was cool but not cold, and the view stretched into the darkness like something private.
Oscar sat down in one of the chairs, slouched like he didn’t have anything to prove. You sank into the one beside him and curled your feet up underneath you, your dress a soft pile around your legs.
“This feels... weird.” you admitted, finally. “I don’t usually do things like this.”
“Things like what?” he asked, glancing over.
You gestured vaguely at the balcony, the sky and him.
“Sneak out of weddings with charming men who recognize I have a very toxic, unhealthy, co-dependent relationship with my sister.”
“Is that what I am? Charming?” Oscar grinned.
“That’s what you took from that sentence?”
“Well… If it’s worth something, you did so well that your sister looked like a decent person.” he said, stretching his legs out in front of him.
You laughed, leaning your head back against the chair.
“God. I must be a really good actress.”
You noticed Oscar standing up slowly, suddenly disappearing inside the house, for barely two seconds, before he returned holding a pizza box, slightly crooked from how it had been jammed into a too-small shelf.
He set it on the table between you, flipped the lid.
“Last night’s dinner. Margherita. Still good, if you’re brave.”
You raised an eyebrow.
“Considering my hunger level, I’d eat anything right now.”
He handed you a slice.
“Fair enough.”
You bit into it. It was cold, chewy, too much crust. It was perfect.
“This is the best thing I’ve eaten in 24 hours.” you mumbled.
Oscar leaned back, watching you with something like quiet amusement.
“You know, you looked completely done with the world back at the venue. Like you might stab someone with a dessert fork.”
“I was close.”
“And now?”
You took another bite.
“Now I feel like I just broke out of jail and got handed a shitty slice of freedom.”
“That’s very specific.” He laughed.
“I’m a reader. I like metaphors.”
“You are good with words.” He nodded slowly.
You looked at him then, something flickering in the air.
“You don’t talk like people expect you to.” you said.
“What do they expect?”
“I don’t know. More arrogance. Less... awareness.”
He raised his brows.
“You expected me to be a dick.”
You smiled, lazy and unbothered.
“A little.”
“And?”
“You’re not.” You tilted your head.
He leaned back in his chair, arm draped over the side, casual on the surface, but you noticed the way his eyes lingered on you.
“That sounds like a compliment.”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself.” you said, reaching for your glass of water again, lips twitching. “It’s a mild observation at best.”
“Mm.” He took a slow bite of pizza, chewed like he was stalling. “So what changed your mind?”
You pretended to think about it, eyes narrowed in mock concentration.
“Maybe the part you offered me water.”
“Low bar.” he murmured, smirking. “What else?”
You looked at the little sun-creased line near his mouth, the collarbone peeking through his shirt, the way he watched you like he already knew what you were going to say but wanted to hear it anyway.
“The pizza helped.” you said finally.
He laughed softly.
“Cold and chewy pizza. That’s what won you over?”
“It’s not the worst metaphor for you, actually.”
He leaned forward then, elbow on his knee, hand loosely holding his glass.
“You’re not as bad as you pretend to be.”
You raised an eyebrow, lips parted slightly.
“And you’re not as laid-back as you pretend to be.”
You noticed how the silence that followed felt electric. A breath held between two people who knew exactly what they were about to do and were drawing it out just to see who’d surrender first.
Oscar’s gaze flicked to your lips and that was all it took for you to lean in. His hand came to your cheek and his mouth met yours in one clean, certain motion. The kiss was warm, almost familiar. You reached for him without thinking, fingers curling in the soft fabric of his shirt as you pressed yourself closer. He exhaled hard through his nose, one hand slipping to your waist, dragging you in the rest of the way until your hips bumped into his legs.
Your dress got in the way immediately.
The skirt bunched between you as you moved, too voluminous, too stiff in the wrong places. You tried to step in again, but it swished forward, puffing between your thighs and his knees, making the contact awkward and distant. You let out a frustrated breath against his mouth, fisting the fabric and yanking it up higher on your legs.
“Fucking dress.” you muttered, laughing into the kiss.
He smiled against your mouth, hands sliding around to your back, helping you gather the mess of tulle and satin at your hips.
“Let it go.” he murmured, breath ghosting across your skin. “I’ve got you.”
With your dress hiked up and twisted in your grip, you pushed forward again, closer now, better. You sighed into his mouth as he kissed you harder this time, tongue brushing yours, firmer now, less polite. His grip tightened, grounding you, keeping you pressed to him like he wanted to do that all night.
One of his hands slid to your lower back, pressing you flush against him, and suddenly it was dizzying, his mouth, his hands, the cool night air around your shoulders and the burn of heat between you. You forgot where you were.
Oscar pulled back first, but just to take your hand and lead you inside.
You stepped through the open sliding door together, still tangled in the hem of your dress, the faint chill of the night giving way to the warm hush of the house. The place smelled like cedarwood and clean laundry. The lights were soft, golden, a contrast to the weight thrumming between your ribs.
You made it five steps into the living room before he stopped. Right in the center of the floor, where the ceiling stretched high and the windows framed the ink-black vineyard beyond. He turned to you and without a word, his hands reached for your waist, fingers slipping over the seams of your dress.
Oscar dragged the fabric higher, watching you the whole time. It pooled in his hands, slippery and excessive, bunching as he gathered it with more care than you expected from someone whose mouth had just been wrecking yours on a balcony.
“I hate this thing.” you whispered, barely audible.
“I know.” he murmured, lips ghosting the corner of your jaw. “Let me take it off.”
You nodded, allowing his fingers to find the zipper. The sound it made somehow made your knees weaker than the kiss had. The dress loosened over your ribs, the tight bodice slackening, your whole body softening beneath it. You didn’t look away from him. He slipped it down gently, inch by inch.
It fell around your feet like a sigh.
You stood there in nothing but your underwear and the thin sheen of his attention, feeling somehow bare in a way that had nothing to do with nudity. Oscar stared at you, silent, like he didn’t know where to touch first.
“Feels wrong to have someone so pretty hiding under all that fabric.”
You could’ve laughed it off. You almost did. But the way he said it? Like it wasn’t a compliment. Like it was a fact.
You stepped forward, into his space again, and kissed him, with a bit more hunger, dripping over intimacy.
One moment you were kissing him, standing in the center of the room with your dress pooled at your ankles like you’d shed a skin and the next, he was backing you toward the rug with his mouth still on yours, palms hot on your bare hips, thumbs pressing into your skin like he couldn’t get enough.
You barely made it to the couch. Your knees hit the soft edge of it, and then you were lowering yourself with him, tangled together, mouths open, breathing each other in like oxygen.
He came down with you, heavy and warm and everywhere. Your back hit the rug. Oscar hovered over you for a second, staring down at you like he couldn’t believe this was real. His hands slid up your stomach, over your bra, under your arms. You arched into his touch without thinking, grinding up against the hardness in his jeans, your thighs spreading to let him fall between them.
He groaned, quiet but rough, as he grinded into you like he was already too far gone to pretend this wasn’t happening. His hips rocked down, slow and precise. You gasped, fingers digging into his shoulders, legs wrapping around his waist to hold him there, to keep him pressed. The friction was sharp and perfect, all that heat between your bodies finally allowed to do something. You rolled your hips up to meet his and felt him twitch through his jeans, hips bucking against your clothed core.
“Fuck.” he muttered, teeth grazing your jaw. “Jesus…”
You kissed him hard to shut him up, your tongue sliding against his, needy now, hungry in a way that was bigger than just want. It was release. It was payback for every moment you swallowed something down this week. It was rebellion in its purest, messiest form.
You were grinding up against him like you needed it. And you did.
Every time your hips met, it sent a pulse through your whole body. You could feel how hard he was, straining against the tailored pants, rutting into you with low, desperate sounds caught in his throat. You were still in your bra and underwear, barely there, lace damp from how long this had been building and every movement sent shockwaves of friction through you.
His hand slid down, grabbing at your ass, pulling you harder against him.
“I’ve wanted to do this since I sat down next to you.” he whispered against your ear.
No part of you was holding back anymore. You were chasing the friction like it might undo you, rutting against him like your body had forgotten how to stop.
Oscar pulled back, just far enough to look down at you, flushed and ruined beneath him, legs still wrapped around his waist.
“You’re not gonna come just like this, are you?” he breathed, voice hoarse with disbelief.
You stared at him, panting.
“If you keep grinding like that, I will.”
“If we don’t get off this floor, I’m going to fuck you right here.”
You blinked up at him, dazed, wrecked, aching.
“So?” you breathed.
But Oscar was already standing, hauling you up with him, barely giving you time to get your balance. His hands gripped your thighs, your waist, your face, everywhere, like he needed every inch of you under his skin. Your body was buzzing, electric, slick with sweat.
The house blurred around you. You barely made it three steps before your hands were at his belt, undoing it with shaking fingers, too impatient to be graceful. He watched you, pupils blown wide, lips parted. You yanked the buckle free and shoved it open, dragging the waistband of his trousers down with rough hands, knuckles brushing the sharp lines of his hips.
“You’re killing me.” he groaned, stepping out of the pants as it hit the floor, stumbling backward toward the bedroom.
“Good.” you said, chasing his mouth with yours again, catching it in a wet, dizzy kiss. You pushed his shirt up his torso and he helped you, ripping it over his head in one sharp motion and tossing it blindly behind him. It hit the hallway wall with a soft thud.
His skin was hot and flushed under your palms, stomach tight, chest rising fast. You kissed along his collarbone as you walked, letting your teeth scrape the edge of it, hands dragging down his bare back as he bumped into a wall, cursing under his breath.
You laughed into his throat.
“This is so—”
“Messy?” he said, gripping the backs of your thighs and lifting you again.
You wrapped your legs around his waist without thinking, clinging to him as he stumbled the last few steps into the bedroom. His mouth was on your neck, jaw, shoulder – open and hungry, no precision, just heat. Your back hit the doorframe and you gasped, arms tight around his neck, your body grinding down against the thin fabric still separating you.
“Fucking hell.” he growled. “First the dress, now this lace, everything’s in the goddamn way.”
“Then take it off.” you gasped.
The second you were set down, his fingers were already behind your back, unclasping your bra with infuriating ease. It slipped from your shoulders and was tossed to the floor without a sound. Oscar’s hands came up to cup you, thumbs brushing over your nipples until you moaned again, knees buckling.
You kicked the door shut with your heel. Clothes scattered behind you, his boxers, your underwear. Your back hit the bed, breath caught somewhere between a laugh and a gasp, the mattress cool beneath your overheated skin.
You didn’t give him the chance to get on top. Instead, you crawled into his lap, slow and deliberate, knees bracketing his hips, bare skin sliding over bare skin. His eyes darkened the second your hands ran down his chest, fingers tracing each dip and line, mapping him like you planned to memorize it.
“You’re staring.” you murmured.
He grinned, unabashed.
“Wouldn’t you, if I were on your lap?”
You leaned down, hair falling between your faces, and whispered against his mouth,
“Maybe I’d be a little more subtle.”
Oscar laughed, soft and gravelly, one hand settling low on your waist.
“That’s not what I remember from the way you were grinding on me two seconds ago.”
You kissed him hard in reply, open-mouthed and messy, letting your hips rock forward once, slow enough to make a point. He groaned into your mouth, fingers digging into your thigh.
And then, without warning, his hand slipped between your thighs. His fingers dragged through you, slow and unhurried, spreading you open with obscene ease. You were soaked and the sound it made was downright filthy. You should’ve been embarrassed. Instead, you moaned, low and uncontrollable, hips twitching against his hand like your body was begging without permission.
Oscar’s lips brushed your ear.
“Fuck, are you always this wet?”
You tilted your head, feigning innocence through your panting.
“Only when it’s good.”
“Is that a compliment?”
“Oh yeah.” you murmured, kissing his jaw. “You feel like a fucking dream.”
Your forehead dropped to his shoulder, your body adjusting, clenching around that first finger. He didn’t rush it, he dragged it out, every knuckle deliberate, like he wanted you aware of every inch.
“You’re gonna tease me now?” you breathed, lifting your head just enough to shoot him a look. “After you begged to get me here?”
Oscar smiled, mischief painted across his flushed face.
“I didn’t beg.”
You rocked your hips down, slow and firm, grinding your clit against the heel of his hand.
“You kind of did.”
Oscar muttered a slow “fuck” before pushing another finger inside. The stretch made your mouth fall open. You keened, hands gripping his biceps, hips moving on instinct again, seeking, sliding, greedy for the pressure you’d been aching for all damn night. His fingers curled inside you, just right, brushing that devastating spot with casual precision.
“Holy shit.” you gasped, hips stuttering.
“That’s it, go on. Fuck yourself on my fingers.” Oscar’s voice was rough now, wrecked.
You didn’t need the invitation.
You moved in a messy rhythm, grinding down into his hand like your life depended on it. You were moaning openly now, chasing the edge, breathless and shameless. His other hand found your waist, steadying you as you rode his hand harder, every slick sound beneath you only pushing you further.
“Can’t wait to be inside you.”
You rocked harder, biting your lip so you wouldn’t cry out his name too loud.
“You keep talking like that and I’m gonna come all over your hand.”
“Good.” He leaned up to kiss you, filthy and hot, tongue sliding against yours as his thumb pressed into your clit, drawing tight, perfect circles. “I want you to.”
You were right on the edge, so close it hurt, every muscle strung tight, hips rolling fast and frantic now.
“Don’t stop.” you gasped. “Don’t… fuck, Oscar, don’t stop—”
“I won’t.” he whispered, lips brushing your neck. “Come for me. Right here, just like this.”
Your whole body snapped tight, thighs clamping around his wrist as you came, loud, raw, shaking through it with your face buried in his neck. Oscar didn’t stop, working you through every second of it, kissing your shoulder, his fingers slowing just enough to draw it out, to keep you floating.
You collapsed on top of him, boneless and breathless. Oscar cradled you there, one hand sliding up your back, the other still wet between your legs.
“Well…” he said softly, “so much for subtle.”
There was no way you’d answer him. Half-sprawled across his chest, face tucked into the curve of his neck, breath uneven, thighs twitching… You couldn’t even form a coherent sentence to respond.
His hands, still slick from you, traced a lazy line up your spine, as if he needed to feel the aftermath of your orgasm in the way your body relaxed over him. Eventually, you lifted your head, barely, just enough to look at him. He was hard against your thigh, desperate, barely holding back.
“You’ve been very patient.” you said, voice ragged.
Oscar exhaled a laugh, completely flushed beneath you.
“I’m hanging on by a fucking thread.”
You pushed yourself up, hair falling around your face, thighs sticky and burning, one each side of his hips. You watched the way his mouth parted when he felt the wet heat of your core slide across the line of his stomach.
Oscar sucked in a sharp breath the moment your hand wrapped around his cock.
“Jesus.” he muttered, throwing his head back against the pillow, knuckles digging into the sheets.
You leaned forward, slow and smug.
“You gonna lie there all night, or…?”
Oscar’s hands found your hips in an instant, fingers curling tight.
“You have such a smart mouth.”
“Mhmm.” You kissed the corner of his mouth. “Maybe just a little.”
His hands flexed. His cock pressed against your inner thigh, insistent, thick and flushed and impossible to ignore. You shifted your hips, dragging yourself along the length of him, and he let out a low, broken sound that shot straight through your core.
“Okay. That’s not fair.” he rasped.
“I’m not trying to be fair.”
He reached for the nightstand again without breaking eye contact, pulled a condom from the drawer, and held it up like a truce. You took it from his hand, ripped it open with your teeth.
“Fuck.” he said under his breath. “You’re really gonna do me like this.”
You sat back on your heels, taking him in your hand, slow and deliberate. He twitched in your grip, already so hard it made your mouth water, and you couldn’t help the tiny smirk that tugged at your lips as you rolled the condom on with practiced ease.
Once he was covered, he slowly pushed you off him, switching the position in a smooth, careful movement. He held your hips, eyes locked on yours like he didn’t want to miss a single second.
“I don’t know how slow you want this…” he said, voice low and sincere. “But just… tell me, yeah? Talk to me.”
You nodded, throat tightening around something unnamed.
“I will.”
Oscar leaned forward and kissed you again, and then, with a steady hand on your waist, he guided himself to your entrance, tip teasing your folds before he sank down slowly, inch by devastating inch, until he was buried inside.
“Oh my God.” you whispered, head tipping back.
“Okay?” he asked, voice barely audible.
“Yeah. All good.”
You paused once he was fully in, adjusting, breathing, savoring the unbearable fullness. His grip on your waist tightened like he was holding himself back.
He pushed in slower this time, inch by inch, giving your body time to adjust. You could feel every part of it, how careful he was being, how he kept checking your face, how the weight of him settled deep in your core.
“You feel… Jesus, you feel so fucking good.”
“So do you.” Your breath shuddered out.
Oscar kissed you again, longer this time, as if the rhythm of your mouths would steady everything below. Then he pulled back, just slightly, and rocked into you again, gentle, controlled.
You moaned softly.
He adjusted his hips just slightly, then snapped forward again, deeper, more deliberate this time and the sound you made sent something dark and wild through him. He shifted your leg higher with one hand, keeping your thigh open as he rocked into that exact spot again, again, until your nails sank into his back.
“You feel that?” he whispered, almost in awe. “I’m so deep inside you, I can feel your body pulling me in.” He kissed your jaw, slow and open-mouthed.
Oscar didn’t take his eyes off you, not even for a second. You were coming undone beneath him, chest heaving, lips parted and glossy, your moans climbing in pitch every time he hit just right. His hand slid down your ribs, grounding you as he leaned closer, lips brushing the edge of your mouth.
“You okay?” His lips hovered by your jaw.
You nodded, breathless.
“Yeah. You can go a little faster.”
He did. Not rough, just deeper. His hands gripped your hips, and your thighs opened further, welcoming him in with every slow thrust. Your body started to meet his halfway, the rhythm growing natural. You gasped when he angled just right and hit a spot that made your toes curl.
“There?” he asked, voice hot against your ear. “That where you want me?”
“Right there.” you breathed. “Don’t stop.”
He didn’t. As your body arched up, your breath turned choppy and your nails dug into his shoulder, he started to get more comfortable setting into a faster pace.
“Talk to me. Tell me what you need.”
“I need you to keep going.” you choked out. “Don’t pull out. Just, fuck, Oscar… just like that.”
He settled into a rhythm that made your whole body writhe beneath him, steady, hard, deep enough to knock the breath from your lungs every time he thrust back in. Oscar’s hand slipped down between you, fingers finding your clit, starting slow, teasing circles.
“Is that too much?” he asked, faltering just enough to make you realize how tuned into you he was.
“No. It’s perfect. You’re perfect.” You shook your head.
“Look at you.” he said through clenched teeth. “So desperate for it. Doing so fucking well.”
He kissed your temple, his hips stuttering slightly as he pressed deeper again. Your body started to tremble again. You were close. So fucking close.
“Gonna come again, aren’t you?” he whispered.
You nodded, biting your lip, your whole body tightening around him with every snap of his hips.
“I’m right there. Don’t stop talking.”
He thrusted harder. Faster. Your hands gripped his back, nails digging in.
“You’re so fucking good for me. Taking me so well. You’re perfect, baby. So fucking tight, so beautiful when you moan for me like that.”
When his thumb found your clit again, you came apart instantly, crying out, body locking around him, the orgasm hitting like a tidal wave. You clenched down so tight that he swore, his rhythm breaking as he followed you over the edge.
“Fuck—fuck—yes—” he groaned, slamming into you one last time, spilling into the condom with his whole body shaking beneath yours.
Oscar dropped his forehead to your shoulder, holding you still, soaked in sweat. He stayed inside you for a beat longer, breathing hard against your collarbone, chest rising and falling against yours like the last waves of something that had almost knocked him out. You felt the weight of him, still anchoring you to the mattress, still connecting you in the most vulnerable way possible.
Then Oscar exhaled slowly, brushing his nose along your cheek.
“Okay.” he murmured, barely above a whisper. “I’m gonna move, yeah?”
You nodded, a small hum leaving your throat.
“Yeah. I’m good.”
He kissed your temple once, soft, grounding, before gently pulling out. You winced at the sudden emptiness, the tenderness, but he caught it, his hand immediately skimming your thigh.
“Sorry.” he said, voice full of concern.
“It’s okay,” you breathed. “Just… sensitive.”
Oscar carefully stood, tying off the condom with practiced ease and disappearing briefly into the bathroom. You heard the soft sound of the faucet running, a drawer opening, the quick rustle of movement, then he came back, shirtless, flushed, with a small towel and a fresh glass of water.
“I wasn’t sure what you’d want first.” he said, kneeling beside the bed, offering the glass with an almost sheepish half-smile. “So… hydration felt safe.”
You smiled at that, chest aching in the best way.
“Oh, wow… Look at you..”
“Yeah, well, you let me inside you. The least I can do is not be a complete animal afterward.” he said, eyes glinting as he sat on the edge of the bed.
You drank the water in slow sips, watching him watch you. His fingers brushed your knee absentmindedly, and when you were done, he took the glass, setting it aside before turning back to you with the towel.
“Here…” he said softly, crouching beside the bed. “Let me.”
You nodded, too quiet to speak.
Oscar took the towel, damp and warm from the bathroom, and knelt between your legs like it was nothing. He cleaned you up with a tenderness that caught you off guard, like he knew the edges of your skin were still buzzing and didn’t want to disturb the silence. His touch was slow, unhurried. He was careful not to press too hard, pausing when your hips twitched from sensitivity. His fingers brushed the inside of your thigh, your waist, and each place he touched felt almost more intimate than what came before.
“You okay?” he asked quietly, still kneeling, his voice like a worn-in sweater.
You nodded, throat thick.
“Yeah. Just… kind of overwhelmed.”
“Good overwhelmed or bad overwhelmed?”
You let out a breath of a laugh.
“Definitely the good kind.”
Oscar offered a crooked smile and rose, tossing the towel into the laundry bin as he turned off the bathroom light. When he came back, he pulled the sheets down and climbed into bed, his movements slow, thoughtful, like he didn’t want to shatter whatever softness lingered between you.
He laid on his back, one hand resting lightly on the edge of the mattress between you. You rolled toward him, sliding your leg over his hip, pressing your cheek against his chest, his skin still warm and faintly damp. His arms came around you instantly, like he was holding the shape of you in his mind already. You tangled your fingers in the line of hair below his navel and closed your eyes.
“You didn’t have to do that,” you murmured, after a while.
“What?”
“Take care of me. Be… like that.”
Oscar tilted his head slightly to rest against yours.
“What, decent?”
You smiled against his chest.
“No. Gentle.”
“You deserve gentle,” he said simply.
“You don’t even know me.”
“I think that I know you pretty decently…”
You started to trace lazy patterns on his chest with your fingertips, paying close attention to the way his breathing was uneven with the lightness of your touch.
“So… what’s it really like? Being an F1 driver?” You hesitated, searching for the words that sound less like an interview and more like a genuine question.
Oscar let out a quiet chuckle that rumbles softly through his chest, warm against your fingers.
You nodded slowly, lips curving into a small smile.
“Sounds glamorous.”
“It’s exhausting, yeah. But… Nothing comes close to the rush of a perfect lap. That feeling when everything just clicks, and you’re flying. Totally alive, completely focused.”
Curious, you shifted slightly, turning your face up toward him with an expectant tilt.
“And when you’re not racing? What do you do with your time then? Do you get to just… be?”
Oscar’s lips twitched into a lazy grin, his eyes half-lidded with sleep and something gentler.
“Sleep, mostly. Eat terrible food. Hang out with the people who keep me grounded.”
“So, underneath all that fame and speed, you’re just a regular guy.”
“Exactly.”
You laughed quietly, feeling the ease settling between you. After a pause, the question that’s been weighing on your mind slipped out, tentative and honest.
“Does fame… ever get to you?”
Oscar sighed deeply, running a hand through his damp hair before brushing a stray lock from your forehead.
“Sometimes. It’s a lot to carry. You lose a little bit of freedom, a bit of yourself.” His thumb traced a slow circle against your temple. “But then you meet someone like you…” He looked down at you, a slow, soft smile spreading across his face. “And it’s all okay.”
You smiled back, warmth blooming in your chest.
“You’re not always this calm, are you?”
He laughed, the sound light and unguarded.
“I’m afraid I am.” You laughed with him, the sound easy and natural, a balm after the tension of the day. “What about you? You mentioned books earlier. What’s that world like?”
You shifted, a little shy but honest.
“A bit boring. Definitely nothing like racing cars. Quite the opposite, actually.”
He pressed a tender kiss to your temple, fingers lightly tracing your jawline.
“Do you like it?”
You nuzzled closer, a mischievous grin tugging at your lips.
“Thankfully.” A comfortable pause hung between you before your voice softened, threading through the quiet. “What scares you?”
Oscar’s eyes darkened with something vulnerable, something rarely shown.
“Not living through my full potential.”
You nodded, heart tightening with recognition.
“I get that more than you know.”
His arms tighten around you, drawing you closer, and you both drift back into the peaceful silence, tangled, warm, safe in the quiet after everything. The house was still. Your skin, finally cooling, began to settle into something safe.
You weren’t sure what the morning would bring. But here, in this hour between night and sleep, you didn’t have to be anything. Just held. And held, you drifted off.
The sunlight came in gentle, golden streaks through the floor-to-ceiling windows, washing the bedroom in a warm, hazy glow. You blinked against it, body deliciously sore, heart heavier than expected in your chest. The sheets still held his scent – sun-dried cotton, salt, something faintly citrusy – and for a moment, you just lay there, listening.
There were soft sounds coming from the kitchen: cupboards opening, something sizzling, a drawer closing. You rolled out of bed slowly, stretching, the ache between your legs unmistakable and oddly satisfying. When your eyes caught your reflection in the mirror – tangled hair, flushed cheeks, the faintest bite marks down your shoulder – you bit back a smirk. You slipped on the first thing in reach: his button-down shirt from the night before. It hung loose over your frame, falling mid-thigh, the collar crooked and sleeves too long.
Padding barefoot across the wood floors, you followed the smell of toast and eggs and something buttery. When you stepped into the kitchen, you paused in the doorway.
Oscar stood at the stove in nothing but his boxers, hair still a little messy from sleep, one hand stirring something in a pan, the other holding a piece of toast he'd clearly already bitten into. The sun caught the edge of his shoulder blades, casting long golden lines down his back. His skin was marked – a few faint scratches down his side, the kind of bruises that made you feel a little too proud.
“What a breathtaking sight.” you said, voice scratchy from sleep but amused.
Oscar turned, saw you in his shirt, and smiled so wide it dimpled.
“Morning.”
You walked into the kitchen, feet silent on the tile, and gave him a once-over.
“Am I standing in front of a Calvin Klein model?”
He didn’t answer, settling into a soft chuckle, but you noticed how his cheeks got a little pink, as if he wasn’t used to someone flirting with him so openly.
You moved to stand beside him, reaching over to poke at the eggs in the pan. He swatted your hand away gently, but then his gaze dipped lower.
You know…” he said, gesturing with a tilt of his chin to your legs. “You’ve got a couple bruises there.”
You glanced down, like you hadn’t already noticed. Purple shadows bloomed along the inside of your legs, right where his fingers had been. You could still feel it.
“Hmm.” you said, playing innocent. “No idea how those got there.”
He stepped closer, crowding into your space, voice barely a murmur as he leaned in.
“I do.”
You rolled your eyes but didn’t stop the grin that spread across your face.
“You gonna make me breakfast or keep reliving your greatest hits?”
“Multitasking.” he said. “I’m highly skilled.”
You sat down at the counter, curling your legs up onto the stool, and he slid a mug of coffee toward you like it was some kind of peace offering.
“I lowkey wish I had the cake.” you murmured, sipping it slowly.
Oscar raised an eyebrow.
“Cake?”
“Wedding cake. I think Skylar mentioned it was strawberry flavored.”
He leaned on the counter opposite you, coffee in hand, eyes soft.
“This was better than cake.”
You exhaled a soft laugh, eyes flicking toward the window, the sun rising behind the vineyard hills. For a second, the air shifted from playful to something softer.
“I don’t want to go back to my normal life.”
It came out quieter than you meant. You stared down at the dark swirl in your mug, pulse flickering a little too fast under your skin.
Oscar watched you for a moment, his smile fading into something more thoughtful.
“Then don’t.” He replied, casually, but sincere. “I’ve got a few more days here. You don’t have to rush off to something you hate. You can stay.”
You searched his face, unsure if he meant it, if this wasn’t just a sweet offer made in the golden blur of the morning after. But there was nothing flippant in his eyes.
“Stay.” he said again, softer this time. “We’ll eat leftovers and lie in the sun and maybe I’ll let you steal more of my clothes.”
You smiled, just a little. Then you reached forward, plucked a piece of toast off the plate between you, and took a slow bite.
Oscar watched you eat the toast like it was the most important thing he had ever seen. Like your smile meant something. Like this moment – his messy kitchen, your bare legs swinging beneath his shirt, the smell of butter and eggs and leftover sex still hanging in the air – wasn’t just a passing indulgence.
“You know, if I stay… I’ll probably take over your Spotify, drink all your coffee, and finish your leftover pizza without asking.”
Oscar gave a dramatic shrug.
“Small price to pay.”
“And I’ll leave hair in your drain.”
“Sexy.”
You narrowed your eyes.
“And I’ll probably steal this shirt and never give it back.”
“I’m counting on it.”
You bit your bottom lip, eyes skimming his face, the sleepy softness around his eyes, the little crease in his cheek when he smiled like that, like he meant it. Like you weren’t just a one-night story he'd file away under “complicated girl from a wedding.”
You looked down at the half-empty mug in your hands.
“It’s weird.” you murmured, almost to yourself. “I’ve never felt this okay doing something I didn’t plan.”
Oscar’s smile faded to something quieter. He came around the counter and wrapped his arms around you, lips pressing against your shoulder.
“Live life a little.” he whispered. “Not Skylar’s life. Yours.”
You didn’t answer. You just closed your eyes and leaned into him, letting the moment stretch. Letting yourself believe it might be okay to stay a little longer. To want something soft. To want someone, even temporarily.
“Will you help me set that dress on fire?”
Oscar laughed –- a low, warm sound that sank straight into your spine.
“Absolutely.”
And you stayed there, wrapped in a quiet domestic moment that shouldn’t have meant so much. But it did.
Summary : After leaving Australia to chase his Formula One dream, Oscar returns not as the boy that used to be you older brother's best friend, but as a man who you can't stop staring at, and who can't stop staring at you. What's supposed to be a normal weekend in Singapore leaves you both tired of pretending you don't want each other
WC : 7.9k
Warnings : SMUT! p in v, unprotected sex, fingering, dom!oscar, oral sex (fem receiving) +18 [minors dni]
A/N: Hiiii everyone! I’ve been a bit busy this past few weeks and I’m gonna need some more bcs I have midterms in no time, but I’m posting this one in the meantime! I still have one more Patreon post to upload here and then I’ll get some more stuff done, I promise!
When did you get hot?
All the sudden I could look you up and down all day
You didn't want to be mean, you really didn't, but c'mon...
You had known Oscar Piastri your whole life, ever since your brother Theo became best friends with him when you were four. They were two years older, and incredibly fucking annoying.
They never called you by your name, no, that was long gone. It was always Bird.
When you were very little, you had rescued a little sparrow that had unluckily hit one of the windows of the Piastri's house. You took care of it for a whole month until you were sure it was healthy enough to go back outside, and you cried for days when it left. Which they never failed to remind you.
Because God, they were always in your business.
You got used very early to check the chairs you sat on for fart cushions, the food you ate for fake bugs, and to pour a bit of sugar in one of your fingers before using it in your cookies, in case they had exchanged it with salt.
Even though the adults were an easy target for them, you were their favourite one. Because you had learned to read their mischievous smiles whenever they were planning something. You had learned to suspect whenever they paid attention to you. At the ripe age of 10, you were un-trickeable.
You had also learned to ignore the rest of the kids at school when they mocked Oscar for sitting next to you in the bus station. Chanting annoying melodies about you two being boyfriend and girlfriend.
"Don't listen to them, Bird." He used to say. "They're jealous that you're friends with someone older."
You just nodded.
Because when you were a little girl, he was the oldest kid in the friend group, and that used to mean something. In your eyes, he was insufferable at times, yeah, but he also knew things that you didn't.
When you were ten, those things were the capitals of the world. When you turned thirteen, it was how mean guys your age could be.
During your whole life, he was always two steps ahead. Whatever happened to you, had already happened to him. And he was always there to help you out.
At least until he left Australia for good.
He had been travelling around for a few years already, following his motorsport dream. But your gift for your fourteenth birthday from him was a goodbye hug at the airport.
He promised he would call, that he would come back a lot. He promised many things, and at first you didn't get why your brother was so upset about him leaving.
But then he stopped calling, and you understood.
"No mail for you." Theo said, one of those Saturdays that didn't feel quite right anymore.
You frowned, looking at the envelopes on the table. "Are you sure?"
"Yeah. Were you waiting for something?"
Yes, you were waiting. You had been waiting for far too long.
"I wrote a letter to Osc two months ago." The words came out embarrassingly gentle at the mention of his name.
"Ah." He replied, his jaw tensing in a way you hadn't seen before. "Well, he still hasn't replied to my text messages from last week, so don't get your hopes up for a letter."
Then, he stood up and left what he was reading on the table, not even bothering to put it back in the envelope. You had gotten used to that, to him leaving whenever someone said Oscar's name.
He opened the living room's door, but before he entered, he looked back at you.
"He's not coming back, Y/N. He's just not."
You still remember that moment perfectly. Not the words per se, but the tone. You had never heard him so defeated before.
At that time, you thought he was just being an annoying teenager, playing the rude older brother. Then you realised he was just really missing his best friend.
Four years went by before he came back to Australia.
You didn't even know about it until you heard a very distinctive yell from Eddie across the street. You immediately stood up and got on your tiptoes to take a look over the garden wall, curious.
And that's when you saw him.
You didn't even know it was Oscar at first. Because the Oscar you knew... well, he didn't have that back. Or those arms.
It didn't help when he turned around, because holy shit he also didn't have that face.
You really didn't want to be mean, but he didn't use to be... cute. At all. And now he was suddenly built like some sort of Greek God? How was that fucking fair?
It took him weeks to win your brother's friendship back. You started seeing him around the house, doing Theo's chores for him because every time he didn't feel like moving, he dramatically reminded him of how he left.
It was all jokingly. You knew they had have a serious conversation once in the garden though. You hadn't caught all of it, but enough to know how alone Oscar said he had been, and how much of a tourist he felt like in his own hometown.
You remember feeling sick at the thought.
He wasn't back for long, just the winter. He had recently made it to Formula 2, and wanted to come back to tell his family and spend some time here before he had to leave again. If everything went right, for good this time.
You talked about it with him once, when you accompanied him for a run at sunrise, one of those days that you couldn't sleep and heard him going out of his house.
He apologised for the thousandth time that morning.
"It's fine, Osc." You said, sitting down on the sand next to him. "Theo already forgave you, and he's the one you were friends with."
He winced slightly at your words. "We were friends too."
You didn't look at him when you hummed. your eyes fixed on the sunrise in front of you, the light starting to come out from the horizon.
"I didn't mean it like that. We were friends, because of Theo. You were closer to him than to me, so if he forgave you so did I."
He seemed satisfied with that answer. "Yeah, 'mkay."
You sat there in silence for a few more seconds, the only thing that caught your eyes being a woman walking a very furry border collie. At least until he spoke again.
"I did miss you, y’know." The admission was quiet, softer than anything he had ever told you before. "I missed your brother like crazy, yeah, but I also missed you. Not as Theo's sister, but as yourself. As Y/N. If that even makes sense."
You looked back at him, the border collie long forgotten now, the only thing in your mind the way he had said your name. Not Bird, or Birdie. Your actual name.
The sunrise light casted the softest orange on his features, the shadows sharpening his jaw and nose as he stared at you.
He looked incredibly different now. So mature, so stoic. But his eyes were still the same, the familiar shiny brown that you used to see every morning going to school, and every night when you shared popcorn on the couch.
He was still the same Oscar.
And God, you had missed him too.
...
Singapore is very different from Australia, but you're getting used to it. It's the third consecutive year that you've ended up here since Oscar made it to Formula One.
Now the only times you can hang out with him are during races or in the breaks, and since he only has two of those, you and your brother have taken twice as many flights during this time that in the rest of your life.
You had never even been in Europe before he invited you to Barcelona last year, how could you say no to this life?
You're aware that a part of him keeps trying to overcompensate for the years he spent away, too focused on making it into this world to keep yours and Theo's friendships, which is why you keep double checking if he really wants you there before you accept him getting you the tickets.
Because that's another update, you don't think you've paid for one single thing in the last three years. Not booked flights, not dinners, not anything during race weekends. It's all on him.
You do feel bad about it sometimes, but he genuinely seems happy with that arrangement, so even though you insist on complaining about it, he always shuts you down.
Which is why, when Friday comes and you step into the paddock, he already has an iced coffee in hand for you.
"Figured you'd need it." He winks, handing you the drink.
You immediately take it, feeling the condensation in your fingers. "You and your insistence on still treating me like a kid."
" 'M not treating you like a kid." The complain comes with a light frown.
But he does, sometimes. Giving you his jacket, reminding you to drink water and walking you home. Just like when you were little.
"Ah, no?" You smile, taking a sip of the coffee. "Then how do you treat me like?"
Oscar just stares at you, a smirk tugging at his lips.
And for a second, you think you can read his mind.
However, before either of you say anything, your brother slaps his shoulder, getting to you two.
"So." Theo says. "How bad are you gonna suck this weekend?"
He rolls his eyes, arms crossed as his friend mocks him. As per usual. "Remind me again why I even keep you around."
"Because the fame got to you without us." You reply, after taking another sip of your iced coffee. "We keep you in shape."
Your brother agrees, pointing at you. "Yeah, mate, we balance your world."
"Sure." Oscar says, looking at you one last time before the three of you keep walking into the paddock.
You're used to it at this point. The cameras, the attention, the constant eyes on you.
That doesn't mean it never weirds you out though. Because it does. Whenever someone talks to you like they know you, and when a photographer kneels a bit too much to take your picture when you're wearing a skirt.
Like right now.
You don't even notice it at first, until a slight breeze makes you put your skirt down and you look around to see if someone noticed it. Not like the piece of fabric was short enough to let them see anything, but just in case.
And indeed, someone notices. And he's already taking pictures of you.
"C'mon sweets, give me a smile." The man says. You had never seen him before, but he's wearing a pass around his neck, so you assume he's a usual photographer. "Move a bit, let that skirt flow."
You fucking freeze. It’s pathetic, but you genuinely can’t move.
Is he actually asking what you think or are you being dramatic? Do you have a right to call him out, or is he just doing his job? You're uncomfortable, but he hasn't done anything, has he? He's just... kneeling. A lot. Almost enough to take a picture underneath your skirt if you move.
But you're not supposed to make a scene.
"Give me a turn, c'mon, make me happy." He insists. And his smile gives you goosebumps.
You don't say anything, don't move.
At least, until someone stands in front of you, and after a confusing instant you realise it's Oscar.
"That's enough, mate, she doesn't want pictures." He says, and you can swear you've never seen his jaw so tense.
The photographer shrugs. "I'm just doing my job."
"Yeah, I bet y'are." Oscar nods. "But your job's taking pictures of me, not harassing her, alright? So don't push it."
The other man raises his hands in surrender, taking one last look at you before walking back into the crowd.
And only then, Oscar looks back at you, his eyebrows slightly arched in worry as he touches your upper arm. "Bird, are you okay?"
You nod, still a bit confused. "Yeah, it's fine."
"It's not fine." He frowns. "You don't owe anything to those people, specially nothing that makes you uncomfortable."
"It wasn't that bad, m'okay." You shrug, not wanting to make a big deal out of this.
They have happened before, scenes like that. People see someone walking into the paddock with a VIP pass and think they can treat them as some sort of circus animals. But you're not a driver, not even a celebrity, and it makes you feel weirdly exposed.
"You're not okay, Y/N."
"Yes, I am." You insist, taking an awkward sip of your iced coffee, looking away.
"Hey, stop that." His hand moves to your shoulder first, and then two of his fingers lightly touch your neck.
You feel the warmth of his skin against yours, trying incredibly hard not to swallow or appear nervous.
God, why did he have to change so much? Why couldn't he have stayed like he was as a kid? When he had pimples, and dry lips, and his touch didn't make you feel anything.
"I've known you since you were four, I know when something's bothering you."
You try to play it off, forcing a smile. "I didn't think you paid that much attention to me."
His words come out fast, unfiltered. "I've never paid more attention to anyone else."
The second he says that, his mouth twitches, and his fingers move away from your jaw, like he's said something wrong. Something that's too much.
He looks around, clearing his throat, making sure no one's filming you together. And only then, he dares to meet your eyes again. But his expression is different; more guarded, more careful. More... Oscar.
"I-uh... I don't know, Bird, you're a bit off lately, that's what I meant." He composes himself, wiping one of his hands against his t-shirt. " 'M worried."
"Well, you don't have to worry because I'm cool." You reply. "Super cool."
"You're being weird." Oscar insists. Of course he does. "Weirder than you always are anyway."
"Gee, thanks mate."
He rolls his eyes. Not in annoyance, but he doesn't seem perfectly comfortable in this conversation either.
"Y'know what I mean." He says, and his voice gets a bit quieter with his next words. "Y'also know you can talk to me, right?"
You nod, taking a sip of your coffee. "Yeah, I know. You can get going, I'll be at the garage in a bit."
He imitates your gesture, looking away for a second. "Alright."
And after another small instant, he puts his hands in his pockets and walks away, towards the busiest part of the paddock.
Is it terrible that you wish he'd stayed?
...
This just can't be your life.
It all has to be a cosmic joke, some sort of price you have to pay for something terrible you did on your past life.
You don't even know where to go, because every single inch of this godforsaken place is packed with cameras. And you're blushing. A lot.
You run your hands through your head, letting out a sigh and trying not to think about the fact that you're probably gonna be trending topic on Twitter in a moment.
Trying not to replay that moment in your head.
"Y/N, right?" A reporter had walked to you, microphone in hand. "Oscar's girlfriend."
You're pretty sure the noise that came out of your mouth, something between a surprised whine and a nervous scoff, has never before been heard in the history of humanity.
You denied it like you could, but your cheeks are so red they can probably be seen from all the way to Australia.
When your back hits a wall you're trying to hide yourself behind, your phone buzzes.
Of fucking course.
"I can see you blushing from here."
When you raise your head, you find Oscar looking at you from the entrance of the Mclaren hospitality.
He's smirking like he used to when you were ten and had stepped on a puddle on the way home, waiting for your parents to notice. Like he knew something the rest of the world didn't yet.
"I am NOT blushing" You quickly type back.
He holds your gaze for an instant before checking his phone. And when he does, his smile only grows bigger. More annoying.
"Don't tell me that the thought of us together is so shameful that you need to go hide"
You feel your cheeks getting even redder.
Jesus Christ, get a grip.
"The interviewer just caught me by surprise, okay?" You reply. "Quit mocking me. I can see YOU laughing from here"
He laughs at the messages, even though you can't hear him.
"Sorry, sorry" He texts you back. "You just look cute"
Your fingers, that had been quick to start writing a reply to his first comment, immediately freeze.
Cute.
He had never called you cute before. Ever.
Always annoying, bratty, dramatic. Sometimes, when he was in a good mood, funny. But cute? Hell no, he had never commented on your physical appearance in general, didn't matter how much effort you put into it.
You look cute.
"What did you just say to me" Is the only thing you can come up with under his gaze.
His answer to that does nothing to ease the fucking feeling in your stomach.
"Blushing suits you"
Oh God, oh God, oh God.
This is not flirting, is it? He's not flirting with you. He can't, it's Oscar. Your Oscar.
Well, uh... your brother's Oscar.
This is Theo's best friend we're talking about. The guy that used to make fun of you when your face was covered in flour during that time that you got into baking. The same guy that taught you how to ride a bike. He could never see you as anything other than a little sister.
Could he?
You try to be funny, as normal Y/N would do.
"Why are you talking to me like that😰😰😰😰"
Good. Chill, effortless. A nice familiar joke.
You don't see his face when he writes the last message, as he turns around and walks back into the Mclaren hospitality. Away from you.
"I have no idea"
You don't reply to that.
You have no idea either, but you were expecting some sarcastic remark, not an honest response. However, playing innocent has always been classic Oscar.
You've always thought his way of going one step forward and three steps back with women was some personality trait, but maybe the truth is more complex.
More dangerous.
...
You're getting your third water bottle of the day. God, the sun really doesn't play around in Singapore.
It's Quali day, and the paddock is as busy as ever; mechanics running around, drivers sweating, reporters and photographers trying to catch a glimpse of anyone...
You navigate it however you can. It's been at least half an hour since you've last seen Oscar, and thankfully he doesn't seem to be anywhere near you for now.
After what happened yesterday, you're still trying to recover your image for both the public and him.
The words "you look cute" and "blushing suits you" are still running around your mind, and you'd definitely be lying if you said you haven't read that chat a few times already.
Because God, you have. Again and again. Imagining how his voice would sound like if he had dared to say it out loud.
But he won't. Because he's a Formula One driver, he's an actual full-on celebrity, and most importantly he's your brother's best friend. He would never cross that line with Theo's little sister.
He will always see you like a little kid.
"Oi, Bird!"
You look to your right when you hear your brother's voice. And in two seconds, he's next to you.
"Have you seen Oscar?"
"Uh, no." You quickly reply, shrugging.
He rolls his eyes, one of his hands running through his face to wipe away a bit of sweat.
"I don't know what's up with him lately, doesn't he seem weird to you?"
You have to look down at your water bottle to avoid his gaze. "Weird how?"
"Distant, I guess."
"I think he's fine." Your fingers nervously rub around the bottle, playing with the condensation as if it was the most fascinating thing in the world.
Luckily, Theo doesn't pay the matter more attention when his eyes fall on one of the food trucks.
"Listen, I'm gonna go get something to eat." He playfully slaps your shoulder. "Can you look for him? Tell him I need his help for something?"
You nod. Because, I mean, what else could you have done?
"Sure."
You do look for him, going to the usual places. He's not in the garage and the mechanic that you asked hasn't seen him around either. Fortunately, when you walk into the hospitality one of the media team girls tells you that he's probably in his driver's room, so you walk there.
And this one is fully on you, because you should've just said who you were.
But your closeness to the Piastri family plays a trick on you, and after he replies to your weak knock telling you to come in, when you put one foot inside the room, you see him. You see a lot of him.
"Holy shit, I'm sorry!" You quickly apologise, frozen in place.
And there is Oscar, obviously fresh from a shower, a towel wrapped low around his waist. Very low.
"Y/N?"
"Sorry!" You mutter, closing the door again and rushing out of the room and away from the hospitality.
But unfortunately for you, because the universe has a great sense of humour, Oscar's apparently very quick to throw on some sweatpants and a random white t-shirt, and two seconds after you leave he's already getting to you.
"I can hear you walking behind me, don't even try." You say, in a weak attempt to save face. You just want to forget about this, not make it a big deal.
And he fucking laughs, taking a few fast steps to catch up with you. "I'm sorry, okay? I thought you were someone from Mclaren."
You're frowning in mock disgust when he holds your wrist, forcing you to turn around to face him. "You let Mclaren staff walk in on you naked?"
Oscar chuckles again, his boyish grin doing little to help calm you down.
"I was not naked." He states. "And it's not like you haven't seen any shirtless men before either."
"Not you though?" You complain, getting away from his grip on your wrist.
Truth was, you had seen him shirtless before, but it surely didn't count. Beach days when both of you were kids were hardly comparable to seeing him fresh out of a shower at twenty one.
"I can't believe I've seen your six pack." Your hands quickly cover your eyes, as if trying to prevent you from repeating the image in your head. "I can't believe you have a six pack."
He chuckles again, and you swear you're gonna need to be put down after this conversation.
"C'mon Bird, I wasn't that big of a loser in your eyes, was I?"
You don't reply, but your face does it for you. Tilting your head, he can clearly read your mind.
Because yeah, he was a bit of a loser. Years ago. You're not sure what he is now.
"Well, so what did you think of it?"
"Ew!" You hit his shoulder, pushing him away. "Don't talk to me again, ever!"
You can hear him laughing behind you when you walk away covering your ears.
"It was just a question!"
But you don't stop, and you definitely don't look back at him.
You need to get a grip urgently.
…
Race day comes with the usual heavy Singaporean heat and the same amount of cameras in your face as always.
Luckily, you've already gotten yourself an iced coffee, so you don't depend on Oscar this time.
Not like you've seen him since yesterday anyway.
After Qualifying, Theo told you he had to stay longer so you two headed to the hotel before him. And when you went down for breakfast this morning, he wasn't there either, which to be honestly help calm you down a bit.
Not like you should be nervous, should you? Yeah, he had called you cute, asked you what you thought of his abs and looked at you in a way he never had before. But that wasn't a big deal, he was just messing with you.
Right?
When you finally see him again, it's in the hospitality. You're scrolling mindlessly on your phone, not really doing anything, and then some voices make you look up. Actually, it was a certain voice.
And there he is, walking next to some guy from his PR team you've seen before. When he sees you, his usual resting face changes to the slightest smile, as one of his hands waves once at you.
You imitate his gesture, your lips pressing together in an awkward manner before you force yourself to look away.
Fucking hell, this is so weird.
Thankfully, the terribly embarrassing moment ends when his the guy he's with keeps walking, expecting him to follow, and he does. But when you look up one last time, you see him glancing at you too.
You spend the race next to your brother, watching it in one of the huge TVs of the hospitality, leaning over the balcony every now and then to see the actual cars. They always make you dizzy, and you never really understood how Oscar can drive at those speeds and not faint or throw up.
But to be honest, that's not even one of the five things that intrigue you the most about him.
When the race ends and you see his car crossing the finish line, you can't help but smile. Theo has one arm around your shoulders as he celebrates with a random man that you haven't seen before.
P2. After starting 8th. Not bad at all.
You're already used to the fuss, to the insane crowds of people, but it always catches you by surprise how quickly the ground in front of the podium fills with hundreds and hundreds of people. When you get out of the balcony it's almost empty, and when you get down there you can hardly walk.
Theo guides you through it, until he gets to a spot where you can at least breathe. And that's when you see him.
Looking up, Oscar is just walking to his very deserved second place, his sweaty hair peaking underneath the Mclaren cap.
He stands up there, and his eyes immediately scan the crowd. Until they get to you.
His attentive frown changes into a soft smile, head tilting just slightly. And even though at first you try to convince yourself he's looking at both you and your brother, his best friend, you know his eyes are just on you. Lately, they always are.
And you would be lying if you said yours didn't navigate towards him too.
Like right now, as he sprays the champagne and chuckles when Charles sprays him back, you can't look at anything else other than him.
The way he squeezes his eyes shut to not let the liquid get in, how he runs a hand through his wet hair to try to accommodate it decently, how he completely fails at making it look clean and yet it still looks good. You're hyper aware of every little detail.
When the podium celebration ends, and the drivers go to their post race interviews, you take advantage of the time to make a stupid excuse to get rid of your brother, who doesn't really complain. He's used to you walking around the paddock and disappearing every now and then.
So you do it again today, wanting to see Oscar. And wanting to see him without Theo stuck by your side. You're hoping to talk to him, and your older brother catching up to the awkwardness between you two isn't exactly what you need.
You wait for him in his drivers room, sitting on the edge of the couch until you hear the door. You immediately stand up at the sound, and when Oscar walks in and sees you, he closes it behind him with a little smile.
"So this is new." He jokes, taking his cap off, his still wet hair stuck to his forehead before one of his hands messes it up a bit.
You shrug. "I wanted to congratulate you."
"Y'always do." He replies. "With your brother."
Your eyes move to the wall next to you as you press your lips together. True, that was a pathetic excuse.
"What do you want, Bird?"
He isn't even looking at you now. His hand unzips the upper part of his race suit, letting it fall to his waist, the fireproofs tight on his torso.
"Is it that weird that I want to see you?"
"Considering you've been avoiding me, yeah." His retort makes your jaw clench slightly.
Because it's true, you've been kinda avoiding him the whole weekend. Not really ignoring him, but you're always cutting conversations short and looking away whenever he attempts to make eye contact with you.
However, you don't want to admit that. "I wasn't avoiding you."
He scoffs. "Sure you weren't."
"Maybe you don't know me as good as you think you do, Oscar, have you ever thought about that?" You ask, and you aren't even sure why you sound so snappy.
Maybe because he looks like he doesn't care for the first time ever. Maybe because it feels like he's been playing with you the whole weekend.
That's when he turns around, looking back at you. And his expression isn't playful anymore.
"I know you more than you think, Y/N."
Now you're the one that scoffs. He's bluffing.
"Y'think I'm joking?" He talks again, frowning slightly. Not angry, but confused. Almost desperate.
"Are you?"
"No." His answer is quick. Real. "I know you change your favourite colour every year, but you always come back to a pinkish orange because it reminds you of the sunsets in Australia. I know you hate flying, but you do it anyway because you love seeing new places, and you always bring a sleep mask with you not to sleep, but so you can put it on and think you're on a train instead of a plane."
He takes a step closer to you, and this time you don't take a step back, you don't back away.
"I know you pretend not to like One Direction anymore because your brother used to tease you about it when we were younger, but you still listen to them when you think no one's listening. You try to act colder and more distant because you think that makes you look like an adult, even though every single person I've always met has immediately loved your personality. I know you try to distance yourself from guys because you're terrified of ending up in a loveless marriage like your mom, and you think never letting yourself fall for anyone is better than risking it."
You look away, your eyebrows pinched together slightly. "Okay, you made your point."
"I don't think I did." He replies, taking another few steps towards you. "I'm not even close to making my point. I've been trying to make you understand, Bird, but I don't know if you're genuinely oblivious or if you're trying to turn me down gently."
Now you freeze.
You immediately look back at him, your eyes widening slightly for a second before your expression softens.
"What are you talking about...?"
Oscar glances away for an instant, running one of his hands through his hair before looking back at you. "Y/N, c'mon..."
"Oh" Comes out of your lips, your voice barely above a whisper. "Oh..."
His eyes are on you as he takes a step closer, as if he was expecting you to move away. When you don't, he raises one of his hands, his fingers touching a lock of your hair with a gentleness you've only seen him use on you.
His hold goes from the hair to your neck, and then cheek, with enough slowness to let you pull away at any second. But you don't even consider moving.
He seems to catch up on that, because in a second he's leaning closer. Tentatively, not wanting to scare you.
And before you can even fully process what's happening, his lips are on yours.
His free hand moves to your waist, pulling you even closer to him, and yours rest against his chest. The kiss is slow and gentle, he doesn't risk being rough in case you suddenly regret it, not wanting to overwhelm you.
And he definitely knows you too well, because a few seconds later you're pulling away, taking a step back.
Oscar looks down at you, trying to read your expression. "Y/N?"
You raise both hands, moving them away from his chest, your eyebrows pinching together in worry. "I-uh, I gotta go."
"Okay, hold on."
But you don't listen to him, walking towards the door.
God, this is so bad. You can't believe you've kissed him, he has kissed you. Oscar, your brother's Oscar, the guy that completely abandoned you two for years.
"Wait, Y/N."
But you shake your head, leaving the driver's room as one of your hands run through your hair.
He doesn't give up, quickly catching up to you. "Can you please stop freaking out and talk to me?"
"I have to go, I need to-"
Oscar's hand catches your wrist, and he doesn't let you finish the sentence. "Y/N, c'mon. I kissed you, you kissed me back, we're gonna have to talk about this."
You finally look back at him, nervously. "I'd really rather not."
He doesn't get mad, he doesn't even look annoyed. Instead, he smiles. It's warm and familiar, the same smile he used whenever you won to everyone in board game nights.
"Well too bad. Because I have many things to tell you, and I need you to listen."
Your hands quickly cover your face, your cheeks still blushed from both the kiss and this embarrassing attempt of running away.
"Oscar I will kill you if you keep talking, I swear to God."
He chuckles, his hands moving to your waist again before he kisses your cheek. "I'd crawl out of my grave in time to make you breakfast, Bird."
"Stop." You complain, but it has no real bite. "Quit mocking me."
His lips find your neck, and then your jaw. "I'd say y'like it."
"You'd be wrong." You lie. "I hate you."
You can fucking feel his smile against your skin.
"Yeah? Show me how much y'hate me then."
He's still smirking when you playfully push him away. "Oscar Piastri, are you trying to talk dirty to me?"
"Absolutely." He nods, kissing you again, before whispering against your lips. "Is it working?"
"Yeah."
He laughs between kisses, as he makes you walk backward into his drivers room.
And you just let him.
His other hand wraps around your waist to pull you flush against him, the door clicking shut behind you when he closes it with a gentle kick of his heel.
His hands keep roaming over your curves, exploring every inch of your body as he lifts you up effortlessly, wrapping your legs around his waist.
He carries you to the couch, laying you down gently before covering your body with his, trailing kisses down your neck.
You tilt your head to give him better access, and he groans softly at your involuntary action. His hands slide under your t-shirt, pushing it up slowly. He breaks the kiss momentarily to pull your shirt off completely, and then captures your lips again.
He's getting harder and harder, pressing against you through his race suit. But he doesn't want to rush this, he wants to explore every inch of you slowly. After the amount of time he's spent waiting for this, there's no way he's gonna let it be too fast.
His lips trail down your body as his hands reach behind you to unhook your bra, and you just let him take it off.
He throws your bra to the side, his eyes darkening as he takes in the sight of your bare breasts. "Holy shit, you're so fucking perfect..." He cups them gently, his thumbs brushing over your nipples before he leans down to capture one in his mouth, sucking gently while his other hand kneads your other breast.
You let your head fall back against the couch's pillow, moaning softly. He takes his time worshipping your tits, switching between licking, sucking and biting gently. Only when they're both hard peaks does he move down further, pressing kisses along your stomach.
He unbuttons your jeans slowly, looking up at you from under his lashes with his stupid puppy eyes.
"Can I?"
You quickly nod, and he smiles before pulling your jeans off completely, leaving you in just your panties. He spreads your legs gently, settling between them. His fingers hook into the sides of your panties, asking silently for permission.
When you bite your lip and nod again, he pulls them off slowly.
He throws your panties aside and takes in the sight of you, completely bare before him. He groans at how wet you already are for him, his cock throbbing painfully. Without hesitation, he leans down and captures your clit with his mouth, sucking hard.
Oscar eats your pussy like a starving man, his tongue and lips working your sensitive flesh. One hand kneads your breast while the other plays with your clit. He looks up at you between your legs, seeing your head thrown back in pleasure.
"Fuck... Osc..."
He smiles against your pussy at the curse, knowing he's already getting to you. He focuses on your clit, flicking it rapidly with his tongue before sucking it hard into his mouth again. His fingers tease your entrance slowly before sliding one inside you gently.
One of your hands move down to his hair, tangling on it and pulling tightly.
He moans at the gesture, loving how passionate you're getting. He adds another digit inside you, curling them to hit that spot that makes your toes curl. His mouth latches onto your clit, sucking hard while his fingers pump in and out.
Your legs start shaking around his head, and he doubles his efforts after you moan again, his fingers moving faster and curling deeper inside you. His tongue circles your clit rapidly before sucking it into his mouth again.
Your moans and the way your hips are moving against his face tell him you're right on the edge, and he wants to taste you so badly.
But he also wants to make this last.
So he slows his efforts, pulling back just enough to tease you. His fingers stay curled inside you, his mouth hovering over your clit. He's breathing heavily, holding himself back from pushing you over the edge immediately. "Shh..." He whispers against you. "Not yet..."
You whine at the loss, and he looks up at you with a wicked smirk, his fingers gently moving inside you but not enough to send you over. He blows softly on your clit, teasing you with his breath. "M'gonna make this last..." He whispers before sucking your clit gently again. "You gotta be patient, Bird..."
You roll your eyes. "God, I hate you."
He laughs softly against your pussy, the vibrations making you moan. "I know y'do right now..." He presses a gentle kiss right above your clit before sucking it back into his mouth slowly. "But you'll be thanking me in just a minute..."
He moves his face suddenly, leaving it bare. He can see the frustration written all over your expression, and that makes him smile mischievously, knowing he's driving you wild. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, leaving your juices smeared on his face.
"Hmm?" He watches you squirm, your legs still spread open for him. He slowly pushes down his race suit, along with his boxers. His hard cock springs free, and he strokes it slowly once before looking back up at you. "Y'want it?"
You immediately nod, and he moves between your legs, positioning himself at your entrance. He rubs the head of his dick against your clit teasingly before sliding it down to your entrance. He doesn't push inside yet, just holds himself there, torturing you with anticipation.
"Don't tease me..."
He chuckles darkly, his eyes burning with desire. "But I love teasing you..." He circles your entrance with the tip of his cock again before slowly pushing just the head inside you. He watches your face carefully, seeing the frustration and need in your eyes.
You moan, and he does so as well when he feels your tight pussy wrapped around just the tip of him. He leans down to capture your mouth in a searing kiss, swallowing your moans, and starts to slowly push deeper inside you, giving you just an inch at a time.
He breaks the kiss, his face contorted with pleasure as he feels you squeezing around him inch by inch. He's being so gentle, trying to stretch you out slowly instead of slamming inside like he wants to.
He pulls back slightly before pushing in deeper again. "Fuck... you feel even more perfect than I thought."
You look at him. "Y'thought about this?"
He pulls in and out of you, his eyes glassy with desire. "Every fucking night since I came back." He admits softly, pushing deeper inside you. He pulls back slightly before sliding back in, setting a faster rhythm.
He watches your face closely, noticing how your eyes flutter closed when he hits a particularly sensitive spot inside you. He focuses on that spot, his hips snapping forward with each thrust. He leans down to capture your mouth again, his tongue mimicking the movements of his hips.
His hand tangles in your hair, deepening the kiss as he continues to slide smoothly in and out of you. He's being gentle but firm, his thrusts controlled as he tries to draw out your pleasure. His other hand reaches down to grab your thigh, moving it to wrap around his waist.
You obey, opening yourself up even more for him, making him groan against your mouth. He can feel your nails digging into his shoulders, your legs tightening around him.
You moan at the new depth, and he quickly moves his hand from your thigh to cover your mouth, muffling your loud sounds. He starts pounding into you harder, the couch shaking beneath you. His other hand grips your hip tightly, holding you in place as he fucks you roughly.
"Shh..." He hisses in your ear. "Y’gotta be quiet, Bird."
He doesn't slow down his movements at all after saying that, if anything he starts thrusting even harder.
His other hand grabs your hip tightly, pulling you onto his cock with each thrust. "Y'don't want anyone to hear us, do you?"
You shake your head, whining against his hand.
He nods, his hand still covering your mouth as he continues to fuck you hard and fast, leaning down to whisper in your ear. "Then you gotta be quiet f'me, yeah? Be good f'me." He emphasizes his point by slamming into you particularly deep.
"I know you wanna moan... you wanna be loud f'me... but not right now, Bird. Not unless you wanna give half the paddock a fucking show." He snaps his hips against you again, watching your face closely.
You roll your eyes, your back arching towards him. "Osc..."
He swallows hard at the way you whisper his name. His hand tightens over your mouth as he fucks you harder, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room. He leans down to capture your lips in a rough kiss, swallowing any more sounds you might make. "That’s it… Good girl..."
He moves his other hand down to your clit, starting to rub it in time with his thrusts, wanting to push you over the edge quickly and quietly. His hips move even faster, slamming into you repeatedly. "C'mon Y/N... come for me..."
Those words and that movement are exactly what you need.
He feels your legs tighten around his waist again as you start to come. He keeps rubbing your clit, prolonging your orgasm as he continues to fuck you through it. His own release is building quickly, but he wants to make sure you're satisfied first.
Only then, he groans loudly as he comes inside you, his hips jerking forward as he fills you up with his hot, sticky cum. "Fuck... fuck, fuck..." He buries his face in your neck, his breathing ragged as he tries to catch his breath.
You whine at the feeling and he looks up at you, his brown eyes dark with desire and satisfaction.
He sees the slight pout on your face and the whimper you make, knowing you're sensitive and overwhelmed. "Shh... shh... I know, Bird."
You close your eyes, letting out a breath now that his hand isn’t covering your mouth anymore.
Oscar pulls out of you gently, making you whine again. "Sorry." He quickly apologises. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah." You say, looking back at him for an instant before adding; "You?"
"Are you joking?" He smiles, laying down next to you on the couch and pulling your body closer to him, making you rest against him. "Y/N, this is the best day of my fucking life."
That makes you breathlessly chuckle. "You’re so obsessed with me it’s embarrassing."
"I am." He kisses your cheek, not complaining. "I’m the founding father of the Bird fan club. I’ve been here long before those people on Twitter that call you pretty."
"Whoa, you’re jealous already?"
"You have no idea." He replies, his lips finding yours this time.
When he pulls away, his pupils still dilated, you can’t help but mock him. "You’re moving fast, pretty boy."
"That’s my job, pretty girl."
One of your hands moves to his hair, playing with the messy locks. "Y’know what I mean."
"Mhm." Oscar nods. "I know what y’mean. I also know I’ve been stupid enough to miss out on this for way too long."
You keep your eyes on him, so he adds; "Before you freak out again, I’m not asking you to marry me, Bird. Just to give this a chance, see how it goes. Maybe not tell your brother yet, so I can finish the season before he murders me."
"Yeah, you’re so dead." You jokingly nod. "Fucking your best friend’s sister, how low can you go?"
"I think I’ve shown you how low I can go already."
He chuckles when you playfully hit his shoulder, hiding his face against your neck.
"You’re terrible, I hate you."
"No you don’t." Oscar replies. "You just hate that you can’t resist me."
And you roll your eyes, because maybe that was true before, but now?
You don’t really have a reason to force yourself to resist him anymore.
ᯓ★
tag list: @sainz0fthetimes @idgasb @peraltiagokid @anifffff @supercalifragilisticexpliadociou @elenabozzato @vnvngel
𖤓 when their bassist breaks his hand two weeks before the biggest uni band competition of the year, they need a replacement. fast. You weren’t planning on joining a band, especially not one that’s competing against your ex. But when their post shows up on your feed, it suddenly feels like the perfect idea. Revenge first. Everything else later.
𖤓 kimi antonelli x fem!reader, band au, uni au, rivals, strangers to bandmates to lovers, smau + written (multi-part), drummer!Kimi, quiet!Kimi x chaotic!reader, fc:bea
𖤓 note: My goofy ass has never touched a guitar, let alone been in a band so um if all the music stuff also doesn't make any sense, just ignore it pls!
𖤓 Sunny radio! I can't believe this series has already come to an end. Honestly, writing this has been so fun, and part of it is because of the support you guys have given me, and I couldn't have appreciated it more. Love every single one of you pookies!
𖤓 Listen to "Teenage Dirtbag" when reading this!
Profiles | Part one | Part two | Part three | Part four | Part five | Part six | Part seven | Part eight | Part nine | Part ten
The day of the competition arrived like a freight train — loud, fast, and impossible to stop.
You woke up at 5 AM, your stomach coiled into a knot so tight you could barely breathe. The flat was still dark, still quiet, but your mind was already racing through chord progressions, setlists, the transition in the third song that Arvid had made you run seventeen times. You lay in bed for a full ten minutes, staring at the ceiling, replaying every practice, every mistake, every moment that had led to this.
Then you thought about Mark. About the way he'd kissed that girl on stage. About the way he'd grabbed your arm at the party. About the way he'd looked at you like you were something he owned, something he could discard, something he could pick back up whenever he wanted.
Today, you were going to remind him exactly what he'd lost.
Your phone buzzed.
You stared at the message. Your heart did something complicated — a flip, a stumble, a warm spreading feeling that you were still learning to name.
You smiled. For the first time all morning, you smiled.
Then you got out of bed and started getting ready.
Your phone didn't stop buzzing after that.
The venue was the university's main concert hall — a sprawling space with high ceilings, tiered seating, and a stage that had hosted everyone from visiting lecturers to actual touring bands. Today, it was packed. Students filled the rows, waving banners and shouting over each other. Parents perched in the back, clutching programs and looking confused. Professors who usually spent their weekends grading papers had somehow been coaxed into the audience, and a few of them — you spotted your econometrics lecturer in the third row — were actually smiling.
The atmosphere was electric. It felt less like a competition and more like a concert, the kind where you forgot to be nervous because the crowd's energy was too loud, too bright, too alive.
Your friends had claimed seats in the front row — you could see them from the wings, a cluster of familiar faces and homemade banners. Devon was holding one that said "STATIC HEARTS SUPREMACY" in glittering gold letters. Gabriel had somehow acquired a foam finger. Isack was sitting with his arms crossed, pretending to be unimpressed, but you could see him bouncing his knee. Ella was filming everything on her phone, already crying.
And Franco — Franco was holding a banner that said "Y/N — ECONOMICS DEPARTMENT'S FINEST" with what looked like signatures from half your lecture class underneath.
Your throat tightened.
You spotted other faces in the crowd too. George was in the third row, sitting next to Oscar, both of them looking like they'd been dragged there against their will but were secretly enjoying themselves. Lando was with them, craning his neck to see backstage, probably looking for Devon. A group of third years from the charity committee — the ones you'd worked with, the ones who'd seen you play at that showcase last spring — were waving at you from the left side of the hall.
Even some of your lecturers had shown up. Your econometrics professor caught your eye and gave you a thumbs up. Your microeconomics tutor was holding a sign that said "PLAY LIKE YOUR GPA DEPENDS ON IT" which was both supportive and stressful.
You were not going to cry. You were not going to cry.
Then you saw Ollie's parents in the back row, waving at you excitedly, and you almost lost it.
Backstage, the green room was chaos.
Five bands milled about, each one a cluster of instruments and nerves and last-minute tuning. The Velvet Strings were huddled in the corner, doing vocal warm-ups that sounded like dying cats. Midnight Echo was near the stage entrance, Mark at the center of them, his guitar slung over his shoulder, his expression a careful mask of confidence.
He hadn't seen you yet.
Good.
You wanted him to see you on stage.
"Y/N." Arvid appeared at your elbow, his face pale, his hands shaking slightly. "I can't feel my fingers."
"You're fine," you said.
"I can't feel my fingers, Y/N."
"You're fine. You've played this set a hundred times."
"Not in front of five hundred people."
"Then pretend it's just us. Pretend it's practice. Pretend —" You grabbed his hands. They were cold. "Breathe, Arvid. Just breathe."
He took a breath. Then another. His shoulders loosened slightly.
"Thanks," he said.
"That's what I'm here for."
"To stop me from spiraling?"
"To stop everyone from spiralling." You glanced around the room — at Liam, who was charming a group of sound techs; at Ollie, who was flexing his newly healed hand like he'd forgotten how to use it; at Kimi, who was sitting in the corner, eyes closed, drumsticks resting on his thighs, his breathing slow and steady
You wanted to go to him. But you also wanted to give him space. The tension between wanting to be near him and not wanting to overwhelm him had become a familiar ache over the past few weeks.
He opened his eyes.
Found yours.
Smiled.
That was enough.
"Someone has to keep this ship afloat." You finally respond to Arvid.
Arvid almost smiled. "You're different than I thought."
"How did you think I'd be?"
"Dramatic. Difficult. A liability."
"And now?"
He was quiet for a moment. "Now I think you're the best thing that's happened to this band."
Before you could respond, the green room door swung open. A stage manager with a clipboard and a headset poked her head in.
"Midnight Echo. You're up in five."
Mark stood. His bandmates followed. They filed toward the stage entrance, instruments in hand, and that was when Mark saw you.
He stopped.
His eyes widened. His mouth opened. His face cycled through a series of expressions — surprise, confusion, dawning horror — before settling on something that looked like rage.
"What are you doing here?" he demanded.
You kept your voice calm. "Same as you. Competing."
"You're not in a band."
"I am now."
"What band?"
Liam stepped forward, all easy charm and sharp edges. "She's with us. Static Hearts. Our new bassist."
Mark's gaze snapped to Liam, then back to you, then to the bass case at your feet. His jaw tightened. His hands curled into fists at his sides.
"You're kidding."
"Nope."
"I'm playing for my band." You picked up your bass, slung it over your shoulder. "Whatever happens after that is up to the judges."
"You're doing this because of what happened. Because of —"
"I'm doing this because I love music." You stepped closer, close enough that only he could hear. "But yes. Part of me is doing this because I want to watch you lose."
His face went red. His mouth opened to say something else — something vicious, probably, something designed to hurt, but before he could, the stage manager called his name again.
"Midnight Echo. Now."
Mark's eyes burned into yours for one more second. Then he turned and walked toward the stage, his bandmates trailing behind him.
You watched him go.
Your hands were shaking.
Kimi appeared at your side. His hand found yours — warm, steady, grounding.
"He's good," Kimi said quietly. "Their band. They're good."
"I know."
"But we're better."
You looked at him. His face was calm, certain. He wasn't trying to reassure you — he was just stating a fact.
"Yeah," you said. "We are."
Midnight Echo's set was good.
You hated to admit it, but it was good. Mark was a talented guitarist — you'd never denied that — and his band played with a tightness that came from years of practice together. The crowd loved them. They cheered, they clapped, they shouted for an encore that wasn't coming.
When Mark walked off stage, he was smiling.
Then he saw you waiting in the wings.
His smile faltered.
"Not a shit set," you said.
He didn't answer. He just stood there, breathing hard, his guitar still strapped to his body, his eyes fixed on your face.
"Why are you really here?" he asked.
"I told you already. Competing."
"With him?" He nodded toward Kimi, who was standing a few feet away, pretending not to listen.
"With my band."
"This is about revenge."
"Like I said before, this is about music." You picked up your bass. "But if revenge is a side effect, I'm not going to complain."
Mark's face twisted. Before he could respond, the stage manager's voice cut through the green room.
"Static Hearts. You're on."
You turned.
Walked toward the stage.
Didn't look back.
The crowd was a wall of sound.
You couldn't see individual faces from the stage — just a sea of bodies, waving hands, glowing phone screens. The lights were bright, too bright, washing everything in gold and blue. The monitors hummed at your feet. Your bass felt heavy against your hip, familiar, grounding.
Arvid was at the front of the stage, guitar in hand, his earlier nerves replaced by something that looked like focus. Liam stood at the microphone, his eyes scanning the crowd, a smile playing at his lips. Ollie was in the wings, his cast finally gone, his hands clasped together like he was praying.
And Kimi — Kimi was behind you.
You could feel him there. His presence was a warm weight at your back, steady and solid and somehow more reassuring than any words could be.
"Ready?" Liam asked.
You nodded.
"Ready," Arvid said.
From behind you, two drumsticks clicked together. Kimi's signal.
Liam turned to the microphone.
"Hello, everyone. We're Static Hearts. Thanks for coming out tonight."
The crowd cheered. Someone wolf-whistled. Somewhere in the front row, you saw the banner from your economics department — large, glittering letters that read "GO Y/N! BRING IT HOME! — FROM ECON DEPARTMENT" — and your heart swelled so much you almost missed your cue.
"This first song," Liam continued, "is about starting over. About finding something you didn't know you were looking for. About —"
"Just play the song," Arvid muttered.
Liam grinned. "About playing the song. Here we go."
And then you were playing.
The first song was fast, aggressive, a statement of intent. Your fingers flew across the fretboard, finding notes you'd practiced a thousand times. The bass thrummed through your body, vibrations traveling up your arms, into your chest, down into your legs. The crowd moved with you — swaying, jumping, screaming lyrics you'd written together in Arvid's cramped dorm room.
The second song was slower. More emotional. A ballad about loss and recovery, about the people who leave and the people who stay. You thought about your grandfather as you played — about his hands guiding yours across the strings, about his laugh, about the way he'd looked at you like you were capable of anything.
You played for him.
The third song was the one you'd been waiting for.
It was their original — the one Arvid had written before you joined, the one that had made you want to be part of this band in the first place. It started with a bass solo, just you, alone on the stage, the spotlight hot on your face.
You closed your eyes.
And you played.
The notes came easily now, flowing from your fingers like water. You'd practiced this solo a hundred times, a thousand times, but tonight it felt different. Tonight it felt like you had something to prove — not to the judges, not to the crowd, not even to Mark.
To yourself.
You opened your eyes.
The crowd was on its feet.
You couldn't hear individual voices anymore — just a roar, a wave of sound that crashed over you and lifted you up. Your name was in there somewhere, buried beneath the cheering, but you couldn't find it. All you could find was the music, and the stage, and the boy behind you who was playing like his life depended on it.
The song built toward its climax. The drums swelled. The guitars soared. And you — you turned.
Kimi was looking at you.
His eyes were dark, focused, but there was something else there too. Something soft. Something that looked like pride.
You crossed the stage.
Three steps. Two. One.
You leaned down, grabbed the back of his neck, and kissed him.
It wasn't gentle. It wasn't careful. It was a kiss born of adrenaline and relief and weeks of tension finally breaking. Kimi's hands came up to your waist, pulling you closer, and the crowd — the crowd lost its collective mind.
Someone screamed. Someone else started crying. Somewhere in the front row, you heard Gabriel's voice rise above the noise: "THAT'S MY BEST FRIEND."
You pulled back, breathless, laughing.
Kimi was smiling — really smiling, his whole face transformed.
"What was that for?" he asked.
"I don't know," you said. "It felt right."
He pulled you back in.
The song ended. The crowd kept cheering.
And when you turned to face the audience, you saw Mark.
He was standing in the wings, his face pale, his jaw slack. His band had already performed — they'd been good, technically proficient, the kind of performance that usually won competitions. But no one was talking about them anymore.
Everyone was talking about you.
You caught Mark's eye.
You smiled.
Then you turned back to your band, to your friends, to the boy who had somehow become something more, and you let the moment wash over you.
It was perfect.
The winners were announced an hour later.
The five bands stood on stage, arranged in a line, waiting. The tension was unbearable — you could feel it in the air, thick and electric. Arvid was gripping his guitar so hard his knuckles were white. Liam was holding his breath. Even Kimi looked nervous, his drumsticks tucked under his arm, his jaw tight.
The head judge stepped to the microphone.
"Third place," she said, "goes to Midnight Echo."
A smattering of applause. Mark's face was stone. His bandmates looked like they wanted to be anywhere else.
"Second place — The Velvet Strings."
More applause. A group of first years near the back of the stage looked like they might cry.
"And first place —"
The pause stretched. The crowd held its breath.
"Static Hearts."
The world exploded.
Arvid dropped his guitar. Liam fell to his knees. Ollie came sprinting onto the stage, his cast finally gone, his arms wide open. He tackled you in a hug so tight you couldn't breathe.
"WE WON," he shouted. "WE ACTUALLY WON."
"We won," you repeated, the words not quite real.
"We're going to nationals."
"We're going to nationals."
Kimi appeared at your side. His hand found yours — warm, steady, real.
"We did it," he said.
"We did it."
He squeezed your fingers. You squeezed back.
Across the stage, Mark was being escorted off by a stage manager, his face twisted with fury. He was saying something — shouting something — but you couldn't hear him over the noise of the crowd.
You didn't care.
You couldn't care.
Because your friends were hugging you. Because your professors were cheering. Because somewhere in the crowd, Franco and Ella were crying, Devon was screaming, Gabriel was filming everything, and Isack was already acting like your manager and selling your autographs.
And because Kimi was still holding your hand.
He didn't let go for the rest of the night.
An hour later, backstage, the adrenaline had started to fade.
You were sitting on an equipment case, your bass across your lap, staring at the trophy on the table. It was real. The win was real. Nationals were real.
But something else was nagging at you.
Your time with the band was supposed to be temporary. That had been the deal — fill in for Ollie until his hand healed, play the competition, then step aside. Ollie's cast was gone now. His hand was fine. He'd been waving it around all night like a trophy.
Which meant you were done.
The thought hit you harder than you expected.
"Hey." Ollie appeared at your side, dropping onto the equipment case next to you. "Why do you look like someone died?"
"I don't —"
"You're making your sad face. The one you make when you're pretending not to be sad."
"I don't have a sad face."
"You definitely have a sad face."
You were quiet for a moment. Then: "Your hand is healed."
Ollie looked down at his hand, flexing his fingers. "Yeah. It is."
"So I guess —" You swallowed. "I guess this is it. I'll pack up my bass. You'll take back your spot. And I'll —"
"Stop."
You looked at him.
Ollie's expression was serious — more serious than you'd ever seen him. "We've been talking. The band. Arvid and Liam and Kimi and me. We've been talking for weeks."
"About what?"
"About you." He shifted to face you. "About how different the band feels with you in it. About how much better we are when you're playing. About how none of us want you to leave."
"But your hand —"
"My hand is fine. But we don't need just one bassist. We can have two. It'll change our sound. Make it richer. Arvid's already been working on arrangements." Ollie paused. "If you're down. We're down."
You stared at him.
"I thought you'd be happy to have your spot back," you said.
"I thought I would be too." He grinned — that stupid, infectious grin that you'd pretended to hate for months. "But then you showed up. And you were annoying and rude and you told me my cupcakes looked like a toddler decorated them —"
"They did look like a toddler decorated them."
"They were delicious."
"They were average at best."
"But you stayed. You helped. You made the band better." Ollie's voice softened. "You made everything better."
Your throat tightened.
"So," he said, holding out his hand. "What do you say? Want to be a permanent member of Static Hearts?"
You looked at his hand. Then at his face. Then across the room, where Kimi was watching — not interfering, just watching, his expression soft and hopeful.
You thought about the past few weeks. About the practices and the parties and the dinner at Antonio's. About the way Kimi looked at you. About the way playing bass made you feel — like you were finally, fully, yourself.
You took Ollie's hand.
"Yeah," you said. "Okay."
Ollie whooped. Liam cheered from across the room. Arvid looked up from his phone and said, "Finally," like he'd known all along.
And Kimi — Kimi smiled.
That small, private smile that made your heart feel too big for your chest.
Later, after the chaos had died down, you found a quiet corner.
Ollie was talking to Arvid about setlists. Liam was doing an interview with the campus newspaper. The green room was half-empty, most of the other bands having already packed up and left.
You were sitting on the floor, your heart still racing.
Kimi sat down beside you.
"So," he said.
"So."
"About that kiss."
You felt your face warm. "What about it?"
"It was good."
"It was alright."
"Alright?"
"I've had better."
"Liar."
You laughed. He laughed. The sound was soft, private, meant only for the two of you.
"I didn't plan that," you admitted. "The kiss. It just — happened."
"I know."
"I don't want you to think —"
"I don't think anything." He shifted closer. "I just know that I've wanted to kiss you for weeks. And now that I have —"
"Now that you have?"
His hand found yours. His fingers intertwined with yours, warm and certain.
"Now that I have," he said, "I'd like to do it again."
You looked at him — at his dark curls, his brown eyes, the small smile playing at his lips.
"Okay," you said.
"Okay?"
"Yeah. Okay."
He leaned in.
This kiss was slower than the first. Softer. It wasn't for the crowd or the cameras or the competition. It was just for you. For him. For the thing that had been building between you for weeks, unspoken but undeniable.
When you pulled back, you were both smiling.
"So," you said. "Nationals."
"Nationals."
"We're going to have to practice."
"A lot."
"Together."
"Obviously."
You rested your head on his shoulder. His arm came around you, pulling you close.
Somewhere across the room, Ollie whooped.
"FINALLY," he shouted. "I'VE BEEN WAITING FOR THIS FOR WEEKS."
"Shut up, Ollie," you called back.
But you were laughing.
And so was Kimi.
And somehow, that made everything perfect.
statichearts has posted!
statichearts
📍F1 University Hall
statichearts turns out things worked out okay.
❤️ liked by yourusername, liamlawson, kimiantonelli and others
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liamlawson massive understatement
↳ isackhadjar aren't you the one who runs the band account??
olliebearman BEST THING THAT EVER HAPPENED TO US
francoluvr i remember when she said she wasn't joining 😭
↳ gabihere character development fr
↳ devondsdiary proud of her
user34 the girl in the second slide is in my econ class!!! go yn!!
↳ user56 I swear we have never been more united as a department than right now
↳ user21 what's the big deal? The drummer is literally in my engineering lectures, so why u all acting as if the econ department is the only one that can produce talent lmao
↳ user34 user21 chill??? yn is way cooler than that emo guy
↳ devondsdiary I'm crying why is there a whole war in the comment section
↳ gabihere wait till they learn that they are dating
ellamoore 🥹🩷
yourusername all thanks to me btw
↳ arvid.mp3 alr calm down
↳ olliebearman I'M CRYING
↳ arvid.mp3 please stop commenting
↳ olliebearman NEVER
yourusername has posted!
yourusername
yourusername always liked the drummers better anyway
❤️ liked by statichearts, ellamoore, kimiantonelli and others
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gabihere why am i blinking in every photo
↳ devondsdiary because god is fair
francoluvr so proud of you!! ❤️liked by yourusername
olliebearman DELETE PHOTO 6
↳ yourusername no
↳ arvid.mp3 Why the hell can I only see your legs? ollie for fuck's sake, your hand just recovered.
liamlawson not enough photos of me
↳ isackhadjar good
ellamoore prettiest bassist ever!! ❤️liked by yourusername
↳ yourusername love you!!
devondsdiary that's my girlfriend btw
↳ yourusername eating you out when I get home
↳ landonorris eyo what.
↳ landonorris devon, you're still coming to my place right? RIGHT?
↳ gabihere relax bro they always freaky like that
georgerussell glad to see the economics notes survived
↳ yourusername barely
landonorris slide 1 🤨
↳ oscarpiastri subtle
↳ olliebearman OSCAR DON'T ENCOURAGE HER
kimiantonelli cool bass
↳ yourusername thanks
↳ olliebearman OH BROTHER
Three Months Later
The nationals were two weeks away.
You were in the rehearsal room — the same cramped space, the same cracked leather sofas, the same posters of bands you'd never heard of. But everything else had changed.
Arvid was relaxed. Actually relaxed. He still took practice seriously, but he'd stopped muttering about chord progressions in his sleep. Liam had stopped setting things on fire. Ollie had stopped waving his healed hand around like a trophy, mostly because you'd threatened to break it again.
And you — you were happy.
It was a strange thing to admit. You'd spent so long convincing yourself that happiness was temporary, that feelings were dangerous, that caring about people only led to pain. But here, in this room, with these people, you couldn't pretend anymore.
You cared.
You cared about the band. About the music. About the boy who sat behind the drum kit and looked at you like you were the only person in the room.
Kimi caught your eye across the room. His mouth curved into that small, private smile — the one he saved just for you.
You smiled back.
"Okay," Arvid said, clapping his hands. "From the top. Nationals setlist. Let's make it perfect."
You picked up your bass.
Kimi picked up his sticks.
And together, you played.
kimiantonelli has posted!
kimiantonelli
life's been good lately
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liamlawson HE POSTED
↳ olliebearman EVERYONE STAY CALM
↳ arvid.mp3 you two are impossible
landonorris third month annual upload
↳ francoluvr slide 5 is literally y/n 😭
↳ gabihere subtle as a brick
↳ olliebearman SLIDE 2 TOO???
random86 since when does Antonelli have a girlfriend?
↳ user12 no because that's literally yn from the charity committee, why did he post her?
↳ devondsdiary take a guess sherlock
yourusername the girl in the green sweater looks super cool
↳ kimiantonelli she is
olliebearman THEY CAN'T KEEP GETTING AWAY WITH THIS
↳ oscarpiastri i think they're trying to keep it a secret
↳ georgerussell they're failing
↳ olliebearman THANK YOU GEORGE
Epilogue — Six Months Later
The nationals were over.
You hadn't won — not first place, anyway. But you'd placed second, which was more than anyone had expected, and the experience had been incredible. You'd played in front of thousands of people. You'd seen your face on a banner. You'd watched Mark's band crash and burn during their second song, which was its own kind of victory.
Now, you were back in the rehearsal room, working on new material. The band had decided to keep going — to write new songs, to play new shows, to see where the music took them.
And you — you were still here.
Still playing bass. Still annoying Arvid. Still pretending you didn't love it when Ollie called you his "favorite bassist."
Still falling for Kimi a little more every day.
He was behind you now, his hands on your waist, his chin resting on your shoulder. The others had left an hour ago, but you'd stayed behind, claiming you needed to practice.
"You don't need to practice," Kimi said.
"I need to practice."
"You're lying."
"I never lie."
"You're lying right now."
You turned in his arms, facing him. His face was inches from yours — close enough that you could see the freckles across his nose, the faint shadows under his eyes.
"Maybe I just wanted to be alone with you," you admitted.
"I know."
"Then why did you let me pretend?"
"Because it's cute when you pretend."
You shoved him. He didn't move.
"I hate you," you said.
"No you don't."
"I genuinely do."
"You kissed me on stage in front of five hundred people."
"That was for revenge."
"You kissed me again backstage."
"That was —" You paused. "Okay, that was for me."
Kimi smiled. That small, private smile that still made your heart race.
"I love you," he said.
The words hung in the air, soft and certain.
You'd heard them before — from him, in quiet moments, when it was just the two of you. They still felt new. Still felt fragile. Still felt like something you were learning to deserve.
"I love you too," you said.
He kissed you.
The rehearsal room was dark. The amps were off. The only light came from the single bulb above the door.
But you didn't need light.
You had him.
And somewhere in the distance, you heard Ollie's voice: "ARE YOU TWO DONE YET? I WANT TO LOCK UP."
"GO AWAY, OLLIE," you shouted.
"I'M TIMING YOU."
Kimi laughed against your lips.
You laughed too.
And for the first time in a long time, everything felt exactly right.
Secret message from Sunny!! okay lowkey thinking of branching this into a whole universe and making an ollie fic? like, since Kimi got his happy ending, I feel like I gotta do the rest of the band too. let me know if this is something you are interested in gang.
𖤓 when their bassist breaks his hand two weeks before the biggest uni band competition of the year, they need a replacement. fast. You weren’t planning on joining a band, especially not one that’s competing against your ex. But when their post shows up on your feed, it suddenly feels like the perfect idea. Revenge first. Everything else later.
𖤓 kimi antonelli x fem!reader, band au, uni au, rivals, strangers to bandmates to lovers, smau + written (multi-part), drummer!Kimi, quiet!Kimi x chaotic!reader, fc:bea
𖤓 note: All the uni stuff is UK based, so if some things seem odd, sorry gang idk how uni life or degrees work in other countries! Also my goofy ass has never touched a guitar, let alone been in a band so um if all the music stuff also doesn't make any sense, just ignore it pls! Episodes will be posted weekly!
𖤓 Listen to "Teenage Dirtbag" when reading this!
Profiles | Part one | Part two | Part three | Part four | Part five | Part six | Part seven | Part eight | Part nine | Part ten
The four days leading up to the competition were supposed to be about music.
Instead, they were about avoidance.
You perfected the art of not looking at Kimi. It was harder than you expected — harder because your eyes had developed a habit of finding him across rooms, across crowds, across the cramped space of the rehearsal room. You trained yourself to look at the ceiling instead. On the floor. At Arvid's perpetually furrowed brow. Anywhere but at the boy with the dark curls and the quiet hands who had, apparently, been leading you on this entire time.
The first practice after the party was unbearable.
You arrived early — deliberately early — and set up your bass on the far side of the room, as far from the drum kit as physically possible. The space wasn't large, maybe fifteen feet across, but you made those fifteen feet feel like a canyon.
Liam arrived next. He took one look at the arrangement, one look at your face, and wisely said nothing.
Arvid arrived after him, already muttering about chord progressions. He stopped in the doorway, scanned the room, and said: "Why are you sitting over there?"
"Better acoustics."
"The acoustics are the same everywhere."
"I like the wall."
"The wall is the same everywhere too."
You didn't answer. Arvid looked at Liam. Liam shrugged. Arvid sighed — the kind of sigh that suggested he was already exhausted and practice hadn't even started — and took his place by the amp.
Kimi arrived last.
He didn't look at you. You didn't look at him. You felt him enter — felt the shift in the room's temperature, the weight of his presence — but you kept your eyes fixed on your bass, on the strings, on anything other than his face.
He walked to the drum kit. Sat down. Picked up his sticks.
The silence between you was thick enough to choke on.
"Okay," Arvid said, clapping his hands together. "From the top. First song. Let's go."
You played.
Or rather, you went through the motions. Your fingers found the notes, your body remembered the rhythms, but something was off — something fundamental, something essential. The music felt hollow. The timing was wrong. You were rushing, or he was dragging, or maybe you were both so busy not looking at each other that you'd forgotten how to listen.
Arvid stopped the song halfway through.
"What was that?"
No one answered.
"The bridge was a disaster. The timing fell apart. Y/N, you came in early."
You opened your mouth to apologize — but the words that came out were not an apology.
"His drumming was off."
Kimi's head lifted. His eyes met yours for the first time all night — dark, unreadable, something flickering beneath the surface.
"I wasn't off," he said.
"You rushed the fill."
"I didn't rush anything."
"Your tempo was inconsistent."
"My tempo was fine. You weren't watching for the cue."
"Because I couldn't hear the cue —"
"Okay," Liam interrupted, stepping between you like a referee at a boxing match. "Okay. Let's take a breath."
Arvid pinched the bridge of his nose. "The competition is in four days. FOUR DAYS. And you two are —" He gestured vaguely at the space between you, at the tension crackling like static electricity. "Whatever this is. I don't care what happened. I don't care who did what. I need you to play. Together. In sync. Like you did last week."
Last week felt like a different lifetime.
"From the top," Arvid said. "Again."
You played.
It didn't get better.
By the end of practice, Arvid looked like he hadn't slept in a year. Liam was uncharacteristically quiet. Ollie, who had been watching from the sofa with his stupid blue cast, kept opening his mouth to say something and then thinking better of it.
You packed your bass without looking at Kimi. Without saying goodnight. Without acknowledging that he existed.
You were halfway to the door when Arvid's voice stopped you.
"Y/N."
You turned.
Arvid's expression was unreadable — but there was something underneath, something that might have been concern if Arvid was capable of concern.
"Whatever this is," he said quietly, "fix it. Not for me. Not for the band. For yourselves."
You didn't answer.
You walked out into the cold night and didn't look back.
The next three practices were worse.
Arvid stopped saying "from the top" and started saying "please, for the love of god, just listen to each other." Liam stopped trying to mediate and started hiding behind his guitar. Ollie stopped coming altogether, claiming his "moral support was no longer effective" — which was his way of saying he couldn't stand to watch.
You and Kimi didn't speak.
Not about the party. Not about the girl in the garden. Not about the dinner at Antonio's, or the kiss on the cheek, or any of the moments that had made you think — stupidly, naively — that maybe he felt the same way.
You told yourself it was better this way. Cleaner. You'd been wrong about him. You'd been wrong about everything. The best thing you could do was focus on the competition, play your best, and never think about Kimi Antonelli again.
The problem was that you couldn't stop thinking about him.
Every time his drumsticks hit the snare, your chest tightened. Every time his knee brushed the edge of your peripheral vision, your heart stumbled. Every time he opened his mouth — which was rare, because Kimi spoke about as often as it snowed in April — you found yourself leaning in before you could stop yourself.
You hated him.
You hated him for making you care.
You hated him for leading you on.
You hated him for making you believe that someone like you could be someone worth noticing.
And most of all — most of all — you hated yourself for still wanting him to look at you.
He didn't.
He wouldn't.
And that was the worst part of all.
By the third day, the tension had infected everyone.
Arvid was snapping at Liam. Liam was snapping at Arvid. Even Ollie, who had returned to practice in a last-ditch effort to restore peace, looked like he was about to cry.
"Okay," Arvid said, setting down his guitar with more force than necessary. "Stop. Everyone stop."
The music died.
Arvid turned to Ollie. "Fix this."
"Me?"
"You know her better than anyone. You brought her into this band. Fix it."
Ollie looked between you and Kimi — at you, with your arms crossed and your jaw set, and at Kimi, with his drumsticks frozen mid-air and his expression carved from stone.
"I'll try," Ollie said.
"Try harder."
Ollie stood up. Walked toward you. "Can we talk?"
"No."
"Just for a minute —"
"I have class."
"It's 7 PM."
"I have night class."
"Economics doesn't have night class."
"Since when are you an expert on my schedule?"
Ollie's shoulders sagged. "Y/N, please. Whatever happened — whatever you think happened — just tell me. Let me help."
You looked at him — at his stupid blue cast, at his earnest face, at the genuine worry in his eyes — and felt something crack inside you.
"You wouldn't understand," you said.
"Try me."
You shook your head. Grabbed your bag. Walked out.
Behind you, you heard Ollie sigh.
Behind him, you heard nothing at all.
Because Kimi never made a sound he didn't have to.
Ollie found your friends outside the student dormitory.
It had taken him three days to work up the courage. Three days of watching you and Kimi circle each other like wounded animals. Three days of Arvid's glares and Liam's sighs and the growing sense that something was about to break.
He didn't want to talk to your friends. Your friends intimidated him — not because they were scary, but because they were yours. They were the ones who knew you. The ones you trusted. The ones who would defend you against anyone, including him.
Especially him.
Franco was the first to spot him. Franco was always the first to spot everything — he had a way of sensing people, of feeling their presence before they appeared. He was sitting on the low wall outside the building, a textbook open in his lap, his face tilted toward the weak sun.
When he saw Ollie, his expression didn't change. But something in his posture shifted — a subtle straightening of the spine, a slight narrowing of the eyes.
"Ollie, right?" Franco said, though it sounded more like a statement than a question. They both knew Franco already knew his name—he just enjoyed watching Ollie try not to get annoyed.
"Yeah."
"From the band."
"Yeah..."
"Y/N's friend."
"I thought I was." Ollie swallowed. "I don't know anymore."
Franco closed his textbook. "What do you want?"
Before Ollie could answer, Devon appeared. She must have been inside the building, because she came through the doors with a coffee in one hand and a scowl on her face — a scowl that deepened when she saw who was standing on the pavement.
"Who the fuck are you?"
"Devon —" Franco started.
"No, no, I want to know. Who is this guy and why is he lurking outside our building?"
"I'm not lurking —"
"You're lurking adjacent."
"I'm standing."
"You're standing in a lurking manner."
Gabriel emerged from the building next, drawn by the commotion like a moth to flame. His eyes landed on Ollie, widened slightly, and then narrowed.
"Oh," Gabriel said. "You're the one from my class. The one who sits next to me during exams."
"That's me."
"The one who asks for answers."
"I don't ask —"
"You literally asked me for the answer to question seven last week."
"That was a special circumstance."
Gabriel crossed his arms. "What are you doing here, Ollie?"
Ollie looked at them — at Franco's careful neutrality, at Devon's open hostility, at Gabriel's suspicious curiosity — and realized he was outnumbered.
"I need to talk to you," he said. "About Y/N. About Kimi."
The energy shifted.
Devon's scowl hardened. "If you're here to defend your boy —"
"I'm not here to defend anyone. I'm here to figure out what happened." Ollie took a breath. "Y/N is mad at Kimi. Kimi is mad at Y/N. Neither of them will tell me why. And the competition is in two days, and the band is falling apart, and I just —" He stopped. Swallowed. "I just want to help."
Devon laughed. It was not a nice laugh. "Help? You want to help? Your boy led our girl on for weeks. Dinner dates. Walks home. Hand-holding. And then — what? He has a girlfriend this whole time? He's been hugging some other girl at parties?"
"It's not what you think —"
"Then what is it?" Gabriel demanded. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like your quiet little drummer friend played Y/N like a fiddle."
"He didn't —"
"He hugged someone else. She saw it. We all saw it."
Ella appeared in the doorway, still in her Hello Kitty pyjamas that have definitely seen better days. "What's going on?"
"The enemy is here," Devon said, jerking her thumb at Ollie.
"He's not the enemy —"
"He's friends with the enemy, which automatically makes him the enemy."
Ella looked at Ollie. Her expression was soft — softer than the others — but there was something in her eyes, something that said she was paying attention.
"You're Ollie," she said.
"Yes."
"The one who broke his hand."
"Yes."
"The one who begged Y/N to join the band."
"Yes."
"The one who's been trying to set her up with Kimi since day one."
Ollie blinked. "How do you —"
"I notice things." Ella tilted her head. "You're not the enemy. But you're not helping, either."
"I'm trying to —"
"You're trying to fix something you don't fully understand." Ella stepped forward, her voice gentle but firm. "So let me help you understand. Y/N thinks Kimi has a girlfriend. She saw him hugging someone in the garden at the party. She heard the girl call him Andrea. And she thinks — she thinks everything between them was a lie."
Ollie stared at her.
"That's why she's mad?"
"Yes."
"But —" Ollie's face shifted — confusion melting into disbelief melting into something that looked almost like laughter. "That's his cousin. Chiara. His older cousin. She was on a year abroad. She just got back."
The group went silent.
"His cousin?" Franco said slowly.
"His cousin. She's in the year above. She takes media studies. Lando's in some of her classes — I think they've worked together on projects." Ollie ran a hand through his hair, laughing now — a disbelieving, incredulous laugh. "You're telling me — you're telling me this whole time — Y/N thought Kimi was hugging his GIRLFRIEND?"
Devon's mouth opened in disbelief.
"Lando," she said.
"What?"
"Lando. Lando mentioned a girl. An Italian girl. In his media class. I thought — I thought he was talking about someone else — but if she's Kimi's cousin —"
"She is."
"And she was at the party —"
"She surprised him. She wasn't supposed to be back until next week."
Devon looked at Franco. Franco looked at Gabriel. Gabriel looked at Ella.
"We have to tell her," Franco said.
"I've been trying," Ollie said. "She won't talk to me. She won't talk to anyone. She just — she shuts down every time I bring it up."
"Because she's embarrassed," Ella said softly. "She thinks she fell for someone who was never available. She thinks she was stupid. And Y/N — Y/N doesn't do stupid."
"So what do we do?" Gabriel asked.
No one answered.
Then Franco stood up. "We find someone she will listen to."
"Who?"
Franco's eyes drifted across the quad, toward the economics building, toward the office on the second floor where a certain third-year student council member spent his afternoons grading papers and pretending he wasn't invested in campus drama.
"George," Franco said. "She'll listen to George."
George Russell did not want to be involved.
This was his first response when Franco explained the situation, and his second response, and his third. He was a third-year economics student, the department's unofficial golden boy, and he had spent the better part of his university career avoiding exactly this kind of interpersonal chaos.
"I'm not a couples counsellor," George said, leaning back in his desk chair. "I'm a student. I have essays. I have exams. I have —"
"You're the only person she respects enough to actually listen to," Franco interrupted. "She worked for you. She trusts you. And right now, she's not trusting anyone else."
George pinched the bridge of his nose. "Why me?"
"Because you're annoying and persistent and you don't take no for an answer," Gabriel offered.
"That's supposed to convince me?"
"It's the truth."
George looked at the group standing in his office — Franco's earnest expression, Devon's crossed arms, Gabriel's chaos energy, Ella's quiet determination, and Ollie, who looked like he hadn't slept in days.
"Fine," George said. "But I'm not happy about it."
"No one's happy," Devon said. "That's why we're here."
You were walking back from the library when George fell into step beside you.
You almost didn't notice him — your mind was elsewhere, tangled in chord progressions and the memory of dark eyes and the growing sense that you had made a terrible mistake. But then he spoke, and the voice was unmistakable.
"Y/N."
You stopped. "George?"
"Don't look so surprised. I do leave my office occasionally."
"You never leave your office."
"I'm branching out." He fell into step beside you, matching your pace. "Walk with me."
"I was going back to my dorm —"
"Walk with me anyway."
There was something in his voice — something that suggested this wasn't a coincidence. You looked at him, at his carefully neutral expression, at the way his hands were shoved in his pockets like he was trying to look casual and failing.
"What's this about?" you asked.
George was quiet for a moment. Then: "Kimi."
Your chest tightened. "I don't want to talk about Kimi."
"I know."
"Then why are you —"
"Because someone has to." George stopped walking. Turned to face you. "I don't know what happened between you two. I don't want to know. I have essays to grade and a thesis to write and approximately zero interest in being a messenger for a bunch of overgrown children."
"Then don't —"
"But." He held up a hand. "I've known Kimi since his first week on campus. He's quiet. He's private. He doesn't let people in. And in all the time I've known him, I've never seen him look at anyone the way he looks at you."
Your heart stopped.
"The girl at the party," George continued. "The one he was hugging. That's his cousin. Chiara. She's been abroad for a year. She wasn't supposed to be back until next week. He didn't know she was coming."
You stared at him.
"She takes media studies. She's in my year. You can ask anyone — Lando, Franco, whoever you trust. It's not a secret. It's just —" He sighed. "It's just a misunderstanding. A stupid, avoidable, completely predictable misunderstanding."
"I —"
"I'm not telling you what to do." George shoved his hands back in his pockets. "I'm just telling you the truth. What you do with it is up to you."
He turned and walked away.
You stood there, frozen, the wind cold against your face.
His cousin.
Not his girlfriend.
His cousin.
You thought about the way Kimi had looked at you across the table at Antonio's. The way his hand had covered yours. The way he'd said maybe I wanted to.
You thought about the way he'd walked away without looking back.
You thought about the way you'd walked away without explaining.
"Oh my god," you whispered.
You started running.
You found him in the rehearsal room.
It was late — nearly midnight — and the building was empty. The lights were off except for the single bulb above the drum kit, casting everything in soft yellow. Kimi was sitting behind the drums, not playing, just sitting, his head bowed, his sticks resting on his thighs.
He didn't look up when you entered.
You stood in the doorway, breathing hard, your heart pounding so loud you were sure he could hear it.
"Kimi."
He didn't move.
"Kimi, please —"
"What do you want, Y/N?"
His voice was quiet. Tired. Hollow in a way you'd never heard before.
"I want —" You stepped closer. "I want to explain."
"You don't have to explain anything."
"Yes, I do." You stopped a few feet away from the drum kit, close enough to see the shadows under his eyes, the tightness in his jaw. "The girl at the party. The one you were hugging. George told me — she's your cousin."
Kimi looked up.
"Chiara," you continued. "Your older cousin. The one who was abroad. I didn't — I didn't know. I thought —" You swallowed. "I thought she was someone else. I thought you had a girlfriend. I thought I'd been — I thought everything between us was —"
"A lie?" Kimi's voice was soft.
"Yeah."
He was quiet for a long moment. Then: "I thought you kissed Mark."
"What?"
"At the party. On the dance floor. I saw him — I saw him leaning in. I saw everyone cheering. I thought —" He looked away. "I thought you got back together. I thought I'd imagined everything."
"He kissed me. I didn't kiss him back. I slapped him. I told him to leave. Franco and Ella and Gabriel — they all saw. They made him leave." You stepped closer. "I would never — I wouldn't do that to you. To us. To whatever this is."
Kimi's eyes met yours.
"Whatever this is," he repeated.
"Yeah."
"What is this?"
You didn't have an answer. Not a good one. Not one that made sense outside the language of late nights and shared coffee and the way your heart raced every time he looked at you.
"I don't know," you admitted. "But I want to find out. If you still — if you're still —"
"I am." His voice was barely a whisper. "I never stopped."
The space between you dissolved.
You didn't kiss — not yet. You just stood there, close enough to feel the warmth radiating off him, close enough to see the relief flooding his features, close enough to know that whatever came next, you would face it together.
"The competition is in two days," you said.
"I know."
"We should probably practice."
"Yeah."
"Together."
"Yeah."
You smiled. For the first time in days, you smiled.
Kimi's mouth curved in response — that small, private smile that you'd thought you'd lost forever.
"From the top?" he asked.
"From the top."
The band noticed immediately.
Not because you and Kimi were obvious — you weren't. You were careful. Quiet. You sat near each other but not too near. You made eye contact but didn't stare.
But something had shifted. The music was different. The timing was right. The tension that had been strangling every practice for days had dissolved, replaced by something lighter, something easier, something that sounded like two people who had finally stopped fighting themselves.
Arvid stopped mid-song.
"What changed?"
No one answered.
Arvid looked at you. Looked at Kimi. Looked back at you.
"I don't care," he said. "Whatever it is — keep it. The competition is in two days. We're going to win."
Liam grinned. "That's the spirit."
"It's not spirit. It's strategy."
"Same thing."
"It's really not."
But Arvid was almost smiling.
And when you caught Kimi's eye across the room, he was almost smiling too.
𖤓 when their bassist breaks his hand two weeks before the biggest uni band competition of the year, they need a replacement. fast. You weren’t planning on joining a band, especially not one that’s competing against your ex. But when their post shows up on your feed, it suddenly feels like the perfect idea. Revenge first. Everything else later.
𖤓 kimi antonelli x fem!reader, band au, uni au, rivals, strangers to bandmates to lovers, smau + written (multi-part), drummer!Kimi, quiet!Kimi x chaotic!reader, fc:bea
𖤓 note: All the uni stuff is UK based, so if some things seem odd, sorry gang idk how uni life or degrees work in other countries! Also my goofy ass has never touched a guitar, let alone been in a band so um if all the music stuff also doesn't make any sense, just ignore it pls! Episodes will be posted weekly!
𖤓 Sunny radio! Before you read this, I gotta tell you there is a miscommunication trope because well I am a romcom lover before anything else so like apologies in advance for the most cliche thing you’re about to read (ᵕ—ᴗ—)
𖤓 Listen to "Teenage Dirtbag" when reading this!
Profiles | Part one | Part two | Part three | Part four | Part five | Part six | Part seven | Part eight | Part nine | Part tten
yourusername
📍Antonio’s
yourusername was kind of hungry I guess
♡ liked by francoluvr, devondsdiary, kimiantonelli and others
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devonsdiary I wonder who picked that gorgeous dress
↳ yourusername liked this comment
gabihere yn hard launching in THIS economy 😭
↳ yourusername nobody was hard launched?
randomgirl22 wait who is that 👀
↳ yourusername a man unfortunately
francoluvr aw
↳ yourusername liked this comment
ellamoore the bracelet being back on your wrist :( stop
↳ yourusername ella don’t start
isackhadjar this feels invasive somehow
randomguy17 slide 2 HELLO???
randomgirl34 wait is that kimi antonelli???
↳ devonsdiary congratulations you have eyes
olliebearman guys be respectful that’s basically my sister
↳ yourusername I have no idea who you are
↳ olliebearman WHY DO YOU ALWAYS DO THIS
kimiantonelli
:)
♡ liked by yourusername, olliebearman, liamlawson and others
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liamlawson HE POSTED????? AND HIS FIRST POST IS ABOUT YN?!
↳ olliebearman bro is down bad
↳ kimiantonelli relax
randomuser12 I'm dying of the colour contrast between yn's post and his
landonorris who stole kimi’s phone
↳ carlossainz55 genuinely concerned
↳ olliebearman you know it's serious when the seniors comment
george_russel kimi ??? 😭
↳ olliebearman heyy george, the goat, the man of the hour, the guy who got full marks in his freshman year, can you please send me the test answers?
↳ george_russel no
devonsdiary men really post one smiley face and call it vulnerability
↳ yourusername liked this comment
gabihere bro thinks he’s mysterious
↳ kimiantonelli i am
charles.leclerc antonelli outside of a practice room???? impossible
↳ kimiantonelli liked this comment
user67 kimi posting a girl before competition week is insane
↳ liamlawson LOVE CHANGED HIM
↳ arvid.mp3 unfortunately
francoluvr aw :(
↳ yourusername are you going to cry under every post
↳ francoluvr yes
randomgirl38 WAIT THAT'S YN FROM MY ECON WTF
yourusername nice caption
↳ kimiantonelli liked this comment
↳ kimiantonelli thanks
↳ devonsdiary OH THEYRE SICKENING
The morning after Antonio's, you woke up smiling.
Not a small smile. Not a private smile. A stupid, uncontrollable, face-aching smile that had been plastered across your features since the moment Kimi's car had disappeared around the corner last night. You lay in bed for a full five minutes, staring at the ceiling, replaying every moment — the candlelight, the way he'd said maybe I wanted to, the brush of his thumb across your knuckles, the kiss on his cheek that had felt like stepping off a cliff.
Your phone was already buzzing.
You hesitated. Your thumbs hovered over the keyboard. This was the part you'd been avoiding — the part where you admitted something had shifted, something had cracked open, something that looked a lot like the walls you'd spent years building.
The Gabriel party was legendary.
Not in the way Lance Stroll's parties were legendary — those were about excess, about money, about the kind of extravagance that made you feel like you were trespassing in someone else's life. The Gabriel party was different. It was chaos distilled into liquid form, poured over a weekend, set on fire. Every term, without fail, Gabriel transformed the shared floor of their building into something that defied description — a labyrinth of fairy lights and makeshift bars and dance floors that appeared in places dance floors had no business being.
The tradition had started two years ago, when Gabriel had been a fresher with too much energy and not enough outlet. He'd thrown a small gathering — maybe twenty people, maybe thirty — and it had spiraled. Someone had brought a speaker. Someone else had brought fairy lights. By 2 AM, the entire floor had been dancing in the hallway while Gabriel stood on a table, screaming the lyrics to a song no one recognized.
Now, it was an institution.
Third years talked about it. Fourth years reminisced about it. Even the lecturers had stopped pretending not to know about it, though officially they were required to disapprove.
And you — you were Gabriel's co-conspirator.
It had started last year, when you'd wandered into his flat at 10 PM the night before the party and found him surrounded by streamers, panicking. "I don't know what I'm doing," he'd said, which was the first time you'd ever heard him admit to not knowing something. You'd sat down on the floor next to him and started untangling the fairy lights. You'd worked until 3 AM, talking about nothing and everything, and by the time the sun came up, you'd become a team.
This year was no different.
Gabriel's living room was a disaster zone — streamers everywhere, empty cups on every surface, a whiteboard covered in scribbled notes about drink stations and playlist transitions. Gabriel himself was standing in the middle of it all, wearing a t-shirt that said "PARTY PLANNING IS MY CARDIO" and holding a clipboard like he was directing a military operation.
"You're late," he said when you walked in.
"I'm exactly on time."
"You're late in my heart."
You grabbed a roll of streamers and started hanging them across the window. This was your role — the practical one, the one who actually knew how to tie a knot and where to put the snack table so it wouldn't block the bathroom. Gabriel provided the vision. You provided the follow-through.
"The theme this year," Gabriel announced, "is chaos."
"The theme is always chaos."
"Chaos with a capital C. Chaos with intention. Chaos with —"
"A budget?"
Gabriel waved a hand. "Devon's handling the budget."
"Devon's handling the budget?"
"Devon's parents are handling the budget. Same thing."
You laughed, despite yourself. This was the thing about Gabriel — he was exhausting, yes, and loud, and sometimes you wanted to throw him out a window. But he was also the kind of person who made you forget to be careful. The kind of person who pulled confessions out of you without even trying.
"So," Gabriel said, not looking up from his clipboard. "The drummer."
"What about him?"
"You like him."
"Well, I didn't say it like—"
"You didn't have to. You've been smiling at that confetti for three minutes. It's confetti, Y/N. It's not that interesting."
You looked down. You were, in fact, holding a length of gold tinsel and smiling at it like it had just told you a secret.
"I hate you," you said.
"No you don't." Gabriel set down his clipboard. His voice was softer now, less performance, more real. "Look. I'm not going to make fun of you. Well — I am. But not right now. Right now, I'm going to ask you something serious."
You waited.
"The party," Gabriel said. "Are you going to tell him?"
"Tell him what?"
"That you like him. That you want to —" He gestured vaguely. "Whatever it is you want to do. Date him. Hold his hand. Write his name in a notebook with little hearts around it."
"I don't write his name in —"
"Y/N."
You stopped. Took a breath.
"I don't know," you said. "Maybe. Probably. I don't — I've never done this before."
"Done what?"
"Been the one to —" You gestured. "To care. To actually care. With Mark, it was easy because I didn't really —" You paused, searching for the words. "I didn't really feel it. Not the way I'm supposed to. Not the way I feel when I'm around Kimi."
Gabriel was quiet. Gabriel was never quiet.
"He makes me feel like I'm not too much," you continued, the words spilling out now, unstoppable. "Like I don't have to be smaller. Like I can just — exist. And he'll still be there. In the corner. Watching. Not saying much but — but noticing. Always noticing."
Gabriel set down his clipboard. Walked over. Put his hands on your shoulders.
"You're going to tell him," he said. "At the party. You're going to find him, and you're going to tell him, and if he says anything other than 'I like you too,' we're going to jump him."
"Gabriel —"
"I'm serious. The whole friend group. We'll take him down. Franco will cry. Devon will throw the first punch. Ella will look sweet while she's holding him down. Isack will recite his Miranda rights. It'll be beautiful."
"You're insane."
"I'm a good friend. Same thing."
You laughed. Real this time. And for a moment — just a moment — you let yourself believe it might actually work out.
Across Campus, Kimi was not having a good morning.
Not because anything bad had happened — quite the opposite. The date had been perfect. You had been perfect. The way you'd looked in that black dress, the way you'd laughed at his stupid stories, the way you'd kissed his cheek and run inside like you were the one who was nervous —
That was the problem.
He couldn't stop thinking about it.
He'd barely slept. He'd spent the night replaying every moment, analyzing every glance, wondering if he'd imagined the way you'd leaned toward him in the car, the way your hand had lingered on the door handle, the way you'd said goodnight, Kimi like it meant something more.
He needed advice.
Which was how he found himself standing outside Ollie's door at 10 AM, seriously reconsidering every life choice that had led to this moment.
"You're here," Ollie said, opening the door in pajamas covered in cartoon dinosaurs. "You never come here."
"I need help."
Ollie's expression shifted from confused to delighted. "Come in. Sit down. Tell me everything."
Kimi sat on the edge of Ollie's desk chair, because the bed was covered in laundry and the floor was covered in everything else. Ollie perched on the bed, cross-legged, looking like a therapist who had absolutely no qualifications but infinite enthusiasm.
"The date," Kimi said. "It was good."
"Good good or good bad?"
"Good good."
Ollie nodded slowly. "Progress. What's the problem?"
Kimi stared at the wall. The wall had a poster of a cat hanging from a branch with the caption "HANG IN THERE." He hated that cat.
"The problem is," Kimi said, "I don't know what happens next. I don't know how to do this. I've never —" He stopped. Started again. "I've never wanted someone to stay this much."
Ollie's expression softened. "Then tell her."
"At the party?"
"The party is perfect. Everyone will be there. The lighting is bad. The music is loud. If it goes wrong, you can blame the alcohol."
"I don't drink."
"Then blame the atmosphere." Ollie leaned forward. "Look. I know Y/N. She's — she's complicated. She doesn't let people in. She acts like she doesn't care about anything because caring is scary. But she cares about you. I've seen it. The whole band has seen it."
Kimi was quiet.
"So at the party," Ollie continued, "you find her. You tell her how you feel. And if she says anything other than 'I like you too' —"
"You'll fight her?"
Ollie grinned. "It's funny that you'd think I'd win a fight against Y/N. I was actually going to say I'll buy you a drink."
Kimi almost smiled. Almost.
"Thanks," he said.
"Don't thank me yet. Thank me after she says yes."
The party was, as always, absolute chaos.
Gabriel had outdone himself. The fairy lights were strung across every ceiling, casting everything in warm gold. The playlist was perfect — loud enough to feel in your chest, good enough that no one had complained yet. The drink stations were overflowing. The snack table was a work of art. People spilled out of every room — students you knew, students you didn't, faces from lectures and faces from the years above you.
Older students had started showing up to Gabriel's parties sometime last year. Third years, fourth years — people who had reputations, people who had names you recognized. George, who was doing something with the student union and acted like he owned the place. Charles, who was impossibly charming and knew it. Max, who stood in corners and watched everyone with quiet intensity. Lando, who was currently attached to Devon's hip, which was not surprising because Devon had a new boytoy every week and Lando had apparently drawn the lucky straw.
And Oscar — Oscar, who was standing by the drink table with a cup of water, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else. You liked Oscar.
"Y/N!" Gabriel appeared at your elbow, already three drinks in, his energy somehow higher than the fairy lights. "The party is a success!"
"The party is always a success."
"Tonight feels different. Tonight feels —" He paused, searching for the word. "— electric."
"That's because Lando just showed up and Devon is about to drag him into a closet."
Gabriel squinted toward the corner, where Devon was indeed pulling Lando by the hand toward the hallway. "Huh. Good for her."
"Gabriel."
"What?"
"You're drunk."
"I'm celebratory. There's a difference."
You shook your head, but you were smiling. The music thumped through the floor. The room was hot, crowded, full of bodies and laughter and the particular energy of a night that was going to end in stories.
You scanned the crowd.
No Kimi. Not yet.
But you had time.
An hour later, the party had reached critical mass.
The living room had become a dance floor. Bodies pressed together, arms in the air, the bass vibrating through the walls. Gabriel was standing on the coffee table — because of course he was — screaming along to a song you didn't recognise. Isack was arguing with someone about politics near the bathroom. Ella was in the corner, looking sweet, holding a red cup and watching everything with quiet amusement.
You were weaving through the crowd, looking for Franco, when someone grabbed your arm.
"Y/N."
Your blood went cold.
Mark was standing in front of you.
He looked different — older, somehow, though it had only been weeks. His hair was longer. His jaw was shadowed with stubble. His eyes were bloodshot, and his breath smelled like whiskey, and he was smiling at you like nothing had happened.
"How did you get in here?" you asked.
"I know people."
"Get out."
"Y/N —"
"I said get out."
He didn't move. Instead, he stepped closer — close enough that you could smell his cologne, the same one he'd always worn, the one that used to make your stomach flutter and now just made you nauseous.
"I've been thinking about you," he said. "About us. I made a mistake. I know I did. But I can fix it. I can fix us."
"There is no us."
"There could be. Just — just give me a chance. One chance. That's all I'm asking."
"No."
"Y/N —"
"Let go of my arm."
He didn't. His fingers tightened. His face twisted — not angry, not yet, but close.
"You're being dramatic," he said. "Just let me explain —"
"Did you not learn your lesson from last time?"
Mark's jaw clenched. People were starting to look — not many, but some. A girl with a red cup froze mid-drink. Two guys near the window stopped talking.
"You don't get to say no," Mark said, voice low. "Not after everything I did for you. Not after —"
He leaned in.
His lips were almost on yours.
You didn't kiss him back.
You didn't move.
But from the doorway, someone saw.
Kimi had just arrived.
He'd been looking for you — scanning the crowd, pushing through bodies, his heart pounding in his chest. He'd rehearsed what he was going to say. He'd practiced in the mirror. He was ready.
And then he saw Mark.
Mark with his hands on you. Mark leaning in. Mark kissing you — or appearing to kiss you, his face too close to yours, your body too still.
Kimi stopped breathing.
The room faded. The music faded. Everything faded except the image of you and Mark, pressed together, and the crowd cheering — because the crowd was cheering, they thought it was romantic, they didn't know what had happened at the other party, they didn't know anything.
Kimi turned.
Walked away.
He didn't see you shove Mark backward.
He didn't see the slap.
He didn't see the way your palm connected with Mark's cheek, sharp and final, the sound cutting through the music like a gunshot.
"WHAT THE FUCK." Your voice cut through the music. "If you do this shit again, you're gonna get worse than a slap in the face. "
Mark stumbled back, hand on his face, eyes wide. "Y/N —"
"You had your chance. You had eight months. You ruined it. Now get out of my sight before I make you regret ever walking into this room."
The crowd was staring now. Someone had turned down the music. Gabriel was pushing through, his expression shifting from party-mode to protective-mode in the span of a second.
"What the hell is going on?" Gabriel demanded.
"Mark happened," you said.
"What? I didn't invite him. Someone must have brought him. A plus one. A guest." Gabriel's jaw tightened. "I'll get rid of him —"
"He tried to kiss me."
Gabriel's face went dark. He turned to Mark — but before he could move, Franco was there.
Sweet, gentle Franco, who never raised his voice, who never threw a punch, who was currently looking at Mark like he wanted to tear him apart with his bare hands.
"You need to leave," Franco said. His voice was calm. That was what made it terrifying.
"I wasn't —" Mark laughed, but it was shaky. Nervous. Because Franco wasn't laughing, and if Mark had learned ONE thing about your friends from the time you had dated, it's that someone has fucked up big time if Franco wasn't smiling or laughing.
"Now."
Ella appeared at Franco's shoulder. Gentle, soft Ella, who baked cookies and spoke in light tones and was currently holding an empty bottle like she was about to use it.
"You heard him," Ella said. "Leave."
Mark looked around the room — at Franco's cold fury, at Ella's unexpected steel, at Gabriel's clenched fists, at Devon pushing through the crowd with Lando behind her.
"This isn't over," he said.
"Yes, it is." Devon's voice cut through. She was standing with Lando — who looked deeply unimpressed — and Oscar, who was already rolling up his sleeves. "Get him out of here."
"Party's over for you," Lando said cheerfully. "Let's go." He and Oscar grabbed Mark by the arm and escorted him toward the door. The crowd parted. Someone booed. Someone else cheered.
You stood in the middle of it all, breathing hard, your hand still stinging from the slap.
"Are you okay?" Franco asked.
"I'm fine."
"You're not fine."
"I will be." You took a breath.
Franco didn't argue. He just put his arm around your shoulders and led you away from the crowd, toward the hallway, toward somewhere quieter.
"He didn't kiss me," you said. "I didn't — I would never —"
"I know."
"I shoved him. I slapped him. I told him to leave."
"I know."
"But if anyone saw — if Kimi saw —"
Franco stopped walking. "Where is Kimi?"
You looked around. The party was still going — the music had come back up, the crowd had refocused, the chaos had resumed. But Kimi was nowhere.
"I saw his friends," you said. "Liam and Arvid. They were near the drink table."
"Go find him. I'll clear the room."
You nodded. Pushed through the crowd. Found Liam. Found Arvid.
"Where's Kimi?" you asked.
Liam's expression flickered. "He was here. He left."
"Left? Why?"
Arvid and Liam exchanged a glance. Something unspoken passed between them.
"I guess he saw something," Arvid said carefully. "Something on the dance floor? I'm not sure, honestly."
Your heart stopped. "Where did he go?"
"Outside. Back garden. I think" Liam said.
You didn't wait for the rest. You pushed through the crowd, through the kitchen, through the back door that opened onto the garden.
The air was cold. The sky was dark. The garden was half-empty — a few people smoking by the hedge, a couple making out by the fence, and there, near the back wall, standing under a string of fairy lights —
Kimi.
He wasn't alone.
A girl was with him. Tall, dark hair, her arms wrapped around his neck. He was holding her tightly — tightly like he'd missed her, like she mattered, like she was someone.
You stopped walking.
The girl pulled back. She was laughing. She said something you couldn't hear — but you caught the name.
"Andrea. Oh, Andrea, I missed you so much."
Andrea.
Not Kimi. Andrea. His first name. The one he never used. The one that was reserved for people that knew him — really knew him — in a way you didn't.
Your chest cracked open.
Of course, you thought. Of course he has someone. Of course I was wrong. The dinners, the walks, the way he looked at me — none of it meant anything.
You turned.
Walked back inside.
Didn't look back.
Kimi didn't see you. He was too busy hugging his cousin Chiara, who had surprised him by showing up early, who had thrown her arms around him the moment he'd stumbled outside, who was currently rambling about her year abroad and how much she'd missed everyone.
"Andrea," she said, pulling back. "You look terrible. What's wrong?"
"Nothing."
"You're lying."
Kimi was quiet for a moment. Then: "There's this girl."
Chiara's expression softened. "The bassist?"
"How do you know about the bassist?"
"Ollie told me. He messages me sometimes. He's very invested."
Kimi sighed. "I like her. I really like her. But I just saw her —" He stopped. Swallowed. "I saw her kissing her ex. On the dance floor. Everyone was cheering."
Chiara's face fell. "Oh, Andrea."
"I'm an idiot. I thought — I thought she felt the same way. But she's known him for eight months. They have history. I'm just — I'm just the drummer. I'm just someone she plays music with."
"That's not true."
"It doesn't matter if it's true. It's what I saw." Kimi pulled away, shoving his hands in his pockets. "I'm going home."
"Kimi —"
"Tell Ollie I left."
He walked toward the gate. Chiara watched him go, her heart breaking for him.
You found your friends in the kitchen.
Devon was there, and Ella, and Franco, and Gabriel, and Isack. They were huddled together, talking in low voices, and when they saw your face, they stopped.
"He has a girlfriend," you said.
"What?"
"The girl. In the garden. He was hugging her. She called him Andrea."
"Y/N —"
"I saw it. I saw them." Your voice was flat. Empty. "All this time. All those walks. The dinner. The —" You stopped. Took a breath. "It all meant nothing. He was just being nice. That's all. Just nice."
"Y/N, listen to me —" Franco started.
"No. I don't want to talk about it. I don't want to think about it. I just want —" You grabbed a cup off the counter. Poured something into it. Drank it. "I want to forget tonight happened."
"Y/N —"
"Please. Just — let me have this."
Your friends exchanged glances. Franco opened his mouth to argue, but closed it in defeat and nodded.
"Okay," he said. "Okay."
You drank.
The party continued around you.
But your heart was somewhere else.
Shattered on the floor of a garden you'd never set foot in again.
Kimi sat in his dark room, staring at his phone.
Your contact was open.
He wanted to text you. Wanted to ask if you were okay. Wanted to demand an explanation.
But he didn't.
Because he'd seen what he'd seen.
And it had broken something he wasn't sure could be fixed.
Summary: Finding stability in the strange country would turn her life around. It could probably be the cure she has been searching for a long time.
The transition to Melbourne hadn’t just been smooth, it had felt like dropping anchor in a storm with a frayed rope. Moving across the world as a transfer student sounded incredibly romantic when reading the university’s glossy brochures back home, but the harsh reality was a relentless blur of Australian bureaucracy, steep currency conversions, and the persistent, low-humming anxiety of a rapidly dwindling savings account.
By the time December rolled around, bringing with it the heavy, sticky heat of a Melbourne summer, your budget was completely maxed out. While other students were planning road trips down for the summer break, you were staring at a laptop screen in the campus library, watching a spreadsheet of your expenses slowly slip into the red. You didn’t even have enough to cover January’s rent, let alone the student visa fees looming in the new year. That was the exact moment Hattie Piastri walked into your life.
Hattie was a senior, a year ahead of you in the international relations program, and she possessed the kind of effortless, sun-drenched confidence that seemed native to the coast. You had shared a few lectures but you had always assumed someone as vibrant and popular as Hattie wouldn't notice a quiet transfer student. You were wrong.
That afternoon, as you stared at your screen with tears of pure frustration threatening to spill over, a shadow fell across your desk. Hattie dropped her heavy canvas tote bag onto the chair next to you, popping her gum as she took a long look at your tear-stained face and the alarming red numbers on your spreadsheet. Without asking, she simply reached out and closed your laptop.
"Right," Hattie had said, her tone leaving absolutely no room for argument. "You're drowning, and I'm not sitting here watching it happen. Let's get coffee."
Over two iced lattes at the campus café, you spilled everything, the fear of being deported, the empty bank account, the exhausting search for a casual job that wouldn't conflict with your visa restrictions. Hattie had listened intently, resting her chin in her hands, her expression shifting from evaluation to absolute determination.
"Here's the deal," Hattie said, tapping her painted nails against her cup. "My parents' place out in Brighton is massive and with everyone running in different directions this summer, it’s absolute chaos. My mum is a collector and she has boxes of historical family archives, correspondence, and old estate records just sitting in the study.”
You sit in there quietly listening to her every word. Hoping that after weeks of being in slump, you'll finally receive a good news.
“She’s been desperate to hire an archivist to organize it all, but she hasn't found anyone trustworthy. I told her about you... well, I'm going to tell her about you right now, and we’re hiring you.”
When you're about to speak she hushes you down.
“It pays double what the campus bookstore does, it's cash-positive and you start Saturday."
You tried to protest, your cheeks burning with a mix of gratitude and embarrassment. You are thankful with her help, but you know deep inside, you aren't familiar with the job.
“Hattie, I am glad for your help but I can't just take charity from your family. You barely even know me, plus... I don't even have proper archiving experience—”
Hattie stared at you then she smile lightly. "It's not charity, it's a mutual rescue mission," Hattie interrupted, waving her hand dismissively. "You're smart, you're organized, and frankly, you'll be a calming presence in that madhouse. Consider it a favor to us.” she paused a little and nudge you with her shoulder, “Besides, I like you even though we barely speak with eachother outside class. We foreign-policy nerds have to stick together."
That was how you found yourself standing in the grand, high-ceilinged foyer of the Piastri estate on a sweltering Saturday morning. The house was a stunning blend of modern architecture and historic charm, kept icy cold by central air conditioning, filled with soft light and the unmistakable, vibrant energy of a big family.
Hattie was the second oldest of four children. Her older brother, Oscar, was 25 and currently navigating the high-pressure, hyper-visible world of professional racing. Below Hattie were the two youngest sisters, Edie and Mae, who usually kept the house loud with their summer-break arguments and teenage energy. But lately, a heavy, uncharacteristic quiet had settled over the household. The younger girls were staying closer to their rooms, and Hattie’s usual loud laugh was dialed down.
The reason became clear on your second week. You were in the conservatory, dusting the glass panes of a display cabinet, when you heard the front door click. It wasn’t the chaotic, doors-slamming entrance of Edie and Mae returning from the beach. These footsteps were heavy, slow, and hesitant.
Curiosity pulling you from your task, you stepped out into the main hallway. Standing by the marble console table was Oscar. You knew who he was, of course. Hattie had mentioned her older brother frequently, but the man standing in the hallway didn't look like an elite athlete. The very opposite of the news, instead of looking polite, he looked entirely hollowed out and cold.
Oscar was nursing a fresh, devastating heartbreak, a very public, painful split that had flooded the media just as the racing off-season began. It was the kind of deeply personal blow that leaves a person feeling entirely stripped bare and exhausted.
"Oh, hey," Hattie called out, appearing from the kitchen with a tray of iced tea. She looked between you and her older brother, her expression softening into something fiercely protective. "Oscar, you're back early. This is the student I told you about, the one helping Mum out around the house during the break."
Oscar blinked, his gaze slowly lifting to meet yours. For a fraction of a second, you saw the sheer exhaustion in his dark eyes, a quiet plea not to be asked how he was doing, or if he was okay. But beneath the exhaustion, there was a flash of cold irritation.
Great, Oscar thought, his chest tightening with defensive annoyance. Another stranger. Another person Hattie brought in to babysit me or nose around my life while he's trying to bleed out in peace. He didn't want a college student looking at him with pity, or worse, asking for an autograph while his personal life was being picked apart by global tabloids.
"Hi," Oscar muttered. His voice was rough, quiet, and completely devoid of emotions. He offered a faint, polite smile that didn't reach his eyes, his knuckles whitening around the cold glass he was holding. "Nice to meet you. Sorry, I... I'm just going to head upstairs."
"Take it easy, Osc," Hattie said softly, watching him go.
He didn't look back as he climbed the stairs, his shadow stretching long against the white walls.
"The media won't leave him alone, and she... well, she really broke his heart right before the break," Hattie sighed, setting the tray down with a heavy thud. "Edie and Mae have been trying to give him space. He just needs room to breathe. Don't take it personally if he acts like a ghost."
"I won't," you murmured, looking up at the empty staircase. You knew what it felt like to be overwhelmed by a world that felt too big and too loud. You had no intention of crowding him.
Oscar didn't just act like a ghost, he actively iced you out, resulting in a series of tense, sharp clashes that left you feeling entirely unwelcome.
The first real clash happened in the kitchen just three days after his arrival. You had stayed late to finish cataloging a box of letters from late 2000s and had gone to the kitchen to pour yourself a glass of water before heading home. Nicole offered you the vacant guest room for you to stay but you politely declined it especially that you don't want them to think you're taking advantage of their kindness.
The room was dark, illuminated only by the light from the open refrigerator. Oscar was standing there in a gray t-shirt, staring blankly into the shelves.
When you stepped into the room, your sneakers squeaked softly against the tile. Oscar flinched, snapping his head around. His eyes flared with a sudden, harsh hostility when he recognized you.
"Do you mind?" his voice sharp and biting. Oscar slammed the refrigerator door shut, the loud bang echoing in the quiet house.
"I thought you were hired to work during the day. Do you always hang around in the dark after hours?"
You immediately froze, the water glass cold in your hand, your blood rushing to your ears. "I was finishing a project for your mother, Oscar. I didn't mean to startle you. I was just getting water."
You remain glued in your place as Oscar gaze you with disappointment. "Next time be more careful," he then scoffed, crossing his arms tightly over his broad chest. He stepped closer, using his height to intimidate you, his dark eyes narrowing.
"Just let me know when you're done playing the dedicated employee so I can actually use my own kitchen without running into a spectator."
"I am not a spectator," you said, your voice trembling with a mix of shock and rising anger. "I am doing my job."
"Then do it and go home," he muttered coldly, brushing past your shoulder so hard it forced you to step back, his heavy footsteps retreating down the hall.
The second clash was even worse, occurring a week later in the main living room. You had spread out several old family photo albums on the large coffee table, carefully documenting the dates written on the backs of the faded pictures. Oscar had wandered downstairs, looking for a book, and stopped dead when he saw the table covered in family history.
"What the hell are you doing?" he demanded, his voice dropping into a dangerous, gravelly register.
You looked up, your heart instantly dropping into your stomach. "I'm sorting the family photos, Oscar. Your mother specifically asked me to organize them chronologically."
Oscar marched over to the table, his face tight with fury. He reached down and snatched a photo right out from under your hands, it was an old picture of him and his sisters as kids at the beach.
"This is private," he hissed, his fingers bending the edges of the photo. "My family's life isn't an exhibition for you to categorize. You don't belong here and you have no right to touch these."
The sheer unfairness of his attack broke something inside you. The internal turmoil that had been brewing for days boiled over into pure defiance. You stood up, confronting him across the table, refusing to let him bully you just because he was hurting.
"I am touching them because your mother is paying me to!" you fired back, your voice cracking with emotion but remaining fiercely steady. "I don't care about your private life, Oscar! I don't look at these photos to nose into your business! I look at them because I am trying to earn enough money to buy groceries and keep a roof over my head! You don't get to treat me like a criminal just because you're miserable!"
Oscar froze, the photo still clutched in his hand. He stared at you, his chest heaving, his dark eyes wide with shock. No one in his family spoke to him like this, everyone walked on eggshells around his broken heart.
Fuck, Oscar thought, a sudden, sharp pang of guilt twisting violently in his gut as he looked at the fierce determination in your eyes, mixed with a deep vulnerability you were trying so hard to hide. He saw the slight tremble in your hands and the shadow of exhaustion under your eyes.
She’s not a vulture. She’s not trying to expose me or pity me. She’s just a kid trying to survive, and I’m taking my pathetic anger out on her.
The silence stretched between you, heavy and thick. Oscar swallowed hard, his posture slowly deflating, his arms dropping to his sides. He looked down at the bent photo in his hand, then carefully laid it back down on the table, smoothing out the crease with a gentle touch of his thumb.
"I'm sorry," he muttered, his voice dropping all of its defensive armor, leaving it raw and deeply tired. He looked back up at you, his eyes full of a quiet remorse. "I've been an absolute asshole to you. You're just doing your job. I... I didn't mean what I said."
"Thank you," you whispered, the anger draining out of you, leaving you feeling entirely exposed and trembling. “And you were being an asshole,”
Oscar turned and walked away, heading straight back up to his bedroom. The second the heavy wooden door shut behind him, the quiet of the room offered no comfort. He paced the floorboards, his thoughts completely eaten alive by guilt.
He kept replaying the look on your face, the way your voice had cracked, the raw desperation when you mentioned just trying to afford groceries. He felt physically sick realizing how deeply he had misjudged you, projecting his anger at the media and his ex onto someone completely innocent. His parents didn't raise him to be like that.
You completely tried so hard not to cry as you continue doing your job. You just think that you can finally rest when you go home. Far from this house and Oscar’s judgemental eyes.
Two hours passed. Downstairs, you were silently packing your things into your backpack, your eyes stinging. You were ready to walk out the front door.
But in his room, Oscar couldn't rest. Driven by an urgent need to make things right, he went downstairs to the kitchen. He knew Hattie and the girls were out, and he wanted to make a peace offering. He pulled ingredients from the fridge, his mind hyper-focused as he quickly tossed together a fresh, comforting plate of pasta, the aroma filling the ground floor.
Just as you threw your backpack over your shoulder and walked toward the front foyer, his voice cut through the silence.
"Hey. Wait. Please."
You turned around.
Oscar was standing at the entrance of the kitchen, holding a warm plate of food, a clean fork resting on the rim. He looked completely stripped of his usual aloofness, his posture hesitant.
"I know you're ready to leave," Oscar said, taking a slow step toward you. His dark eyes were entirely sincere, fixed on yours with a quiet pleading. "But I really need to apologize properly. I was a massive prick today. And last week.”
You are stunned. The thought never crossing in your mind that you'll see a day where Oscar will reflect from his actions and seeing you staring at him, Oscar felt awkward.
Oscar let out an awkward chuckle, scratching the back of his neck. “You're working hard and you didn't deserve any of the bitter garbage I threw at you. I made this for you.” HE extend his hand and when you didn't respond, he sighs.
“Please stay and eat? You shouldn't have to go home on an empty stomach after dealing with me."
While staring at him, your grip from your backpack strap is loosening. The sheer sincerity in his voice, paired with the sight of a world-class athlete awkwardly holding out a home-cooked plate of pasta as a peace offering, melted the last of your anger.
Maybe, he really is nice just like what most people says...
Hesitant you still respond. "Okay," then stepping back into the light of the kitchen. "I'll stay."
A genuine, relieved smile broke across Oscar's face after hearing your answe, the first real smile you had ever seen from him. He pulled out a stool at the kitchen island, placing the plate in front of you.
"It's just a basic garlic and tomato pasta," he said, rubbing the back of his neck again, probably a habit he does when he's in an awkward situation, looking a bit self-conscious. "But it's hot."
You smile at him before taking a small bite, the rich, savory flavor immediately warming you up.
Oscar can almost feel his heart throb like crazy. He is not a good cook, he personally aware of it. That’s why he's too nervous of your reaction. If it's gonna fuel your anger or you'll totally forgive him.
Placing the fork on the plate, "It's actually really good, Oscar. Thank you."
Oscar finally released the breath he has been holding, he then leaned against the counter opposite you, watching you eat with a quiet intensity. "Hattie told me a bit about your situation. After I... well, after I stormed off. She told me you transferred from overseas and things have been rough with the budget."
He bit his tounge, avoiding to say the truth that Hattie didn't tell him but instead, he’s the one that texted his sister to asked about you and your situation. Which is quite funny knowing he hates it when others do it to him.
Oscar looked down at his hands, his knuckles flexing. "I felt like an idiot. I've been so caught up in my own head, defensive about the press and everything, that I just assumed anyone new in the house was here to pry. I shouldn't have taken it out on you."
"It's fine," you said quietly after a second, taking a bite from the fork. "I get it. Your life is under a microscope in the moment and you just wanted a safe space. But I really am just here to work. I don't care about the racing world or the gossip. I'm just trying to make it to next semester."
Oscar nodded understandingly. He feels so pathetic right now, the world doesn't revolve at him, he should never thought that people only cares about his life. There are more problems than heartbreak.
“But,”
Oscar immediately looked up at you when he heard your voice.
“I am sorry to know that people treats you like that. You deserve your privacy,”
Oscar’s dark eyes locking onto yours with a new layer of respect. "Thankyou,” he mutters softly before continuing, “And hey... if my mum's archiving project gets too tedious or if you need anything else around here, you tell me. Consider me your ally now. Least I can do to make up for being a nightmare."
You couldn't help but laugh softly. "A nightmare is a bit dramatic but I'll hold you to the ally thing."
That evening, sitting across from each other at the kitchen island, was the very first time you actually got along. The conversation began to flow easily. He asked about your home country, wanting to know what made you choose Melbourne and you found yourself actually laughing at his dry, quiet wit as he explained the sheer chaos of growing up with three sisters.
—
As the summer weeks bled into late January, there was an obvious, undeniable change in Oscar. The defensive walls he had built around himself didn't just crack, they crumbled whenever you were in the room. He stopped hiding upstairs or lurking like a ghost. Instead, he actively sought you out.
He still carried himself with that fierce, internal discipline, but his interactions with you became frequent and deliberate. He would filter into whichever room you were working in, carrying his laptop or a book, claiming he just needed a change of scenery.
"Need a hand with those?" Oscar asked one afternoon, walking into the study where you were struggling to move a heavy crate of old leather-bound ledgers.
"I've almost got it," you breathed out, straining against the weight.
Before you could protest, Oscar was there. He reached down, his large, veiny hands gripping the wood right next to yours. His arm brushed yours, a sudden spark of heat jolting through your skin. He lifted the crate effortlessly, placing it on the desk.
"You're stubborn," he noted, a small, amused smile playing on his lips as he looked down at you. "You know you can just ask me. I am supposed to be your ally, remember?"
You chuckled lightly shaking your head. "I don't want to disrupt your day," you said, looking up at him, your heart doing a strange little flutter at his proximity.
Oscar is handsome, you know that for a long time but seeing him up close is a different thing but instead of bringing it up. You immediately think of something else.
"Don't you have training or something?" You asked, placing hands on your waist.
"I can spare five minutes to keep my mum's favorite archivist from breaking their back," Oscar retorted softly, his tone laced with a playful warmth that was a far cry from the bitter man he had been weeks ago.
He then leaned his hip against the desk, crossing his arms. "So, what are we cataloging today?"
You spent the next hour talking, Oscar actually helping you sort through old documents, asking questions about the dates and showing a genuine interest in the history you were uncovering. The conversation felt natural, easy, and terrifyingly intimate.
It was nice and peaceful.
Him helping you with things continue to happen like it's part of his daily routine but one rainy morning, the dynamic shifted entirely, catching Oscar completely off guard.
You were sitting on the floor of the conservatory, bathed in the soft, gray light filtering through the glass ceiling. The heavy rain was drumming a steady rhythm above. You had your hair pinned up with a clip to keep it out of your face, a few loose strands framing your neck.
You were deeply focused on translating a faded diary entry, a small, concentrated frown puckering your brow, your lips slightly parted as you muttered the words to yourself.
Oscar was sitting on a low wicker chair a few feet away, supposedly reading a racing manual but his eyes hadn't moved down the page in ten minutes. He was staring at you and he
always done it but something is different today, he knew it.
Oscar is not blind, he's aware that you're beautiful and single but those thoughts never explicitly crossed his mind until now and that jarring realization hit him like a physical blow.
His chest tightening as he tracked the elegant curve of your jaw, the soft slope of your shoulder, and the gentle, focused light in your eyes. It wasn't just physical, either. He thought about how incredibly kind you were, how you had forgiven him so easily, and how your quiet, grounded presence had done more to heal his bruised soul over the past few weeks than any amount of isolation ever could. You were pretty, you were kind, and you were completely captivating.
Oscar doesn't know if it's because of the confusing weather or is it because he hasn't been laid for almost two months. As his eyes dropped down to your collarbone, watching the steady rise and fall of your chest, a sudden, familiar heat flared violently in his lower belly.
His jeans suddenly felt suffocatingly tight, his length hardening rapidly beneath the denim just from the sheer intensity of his secret admiration.
Fuck, Oscar cursed himself internally, he felt like a pervert, his jaw clenching hard as a muscle ticked in his cheek. He quickly shifted his posture, crossing one leg over the other to hide the sudden, blatant hard-on, his pulse instantly roaring in his ears.
What the hell am I doing? She’s a student. She’s working. I’m sitting here getting hard just looking at her like a teenager.
He continued to scold himself in his mind.
Panics ate him as he tore his eyes away, staring blankly at the glass wall of the conservatory, trying to force his breathing to slow down. But beneath the panic and the self-reproach, a deeper, profound realization settled into his bones.
For months, since the brutal heartbreak and the public split, he had felt completely dead inside. He had convinced himself that he was broken, hollowed out, and incapable of ever wanting anyone again. But feeling the heavy, throbbing ache between his legs, feeling his heart hammer against his ribs just from watching you breathe... it was an undeniable wake-up call.
I'm still a man, Oscar realized, a strange, heavy warmth settling over him despite his internal panic. Despite the heartbreak, despite how ruined I thought I was... I’m still alive. And God help me, I want her.
The inner panic only intensified when you suddenly closed the diary with a soft thud and looked right at him, entirely unaware of the storm brewing in his chest.
"Oscar? Look at this signature," you said, holding the yellowed page out toward him. "I can't quite make out the middle initial. Do you think it's an 'E' or an 'L'?"
Oscar froze. His body was entirely rigid, his crossed leg pressed tightly against his groin in a desperate, physical attempt to flatten the prominent ridge straining against his jeans. If he stood up right now, it would be completely obvious and the last thing he wants is for you to know, he's having a raging boner.
"Uh, let me see," his voice dropping into a register that was noticeably thicker and rougher than usual. He didn't dare move his lower half. Instead, he leaned forward as far as his torso would allow, his hand reaching out to take the book from you.
You noticed the slight hesitation and tilted your head, entirely innocent. "Are you okay? You look a bit flushed. Is the humidity getting to you?"
"Yeah," Oscar choked out, his throat tight as he stared at the page, though his eyes weren't even focusing on the ink. He was hyper-aware of how close you were, the faint scent of your vanilla perfume hitting his senses and making his erection throb painfully against the restriction of his underwear.
He gripped the edges of the heavy diary, strategically placing it right over his lap, using the leather-bound cover as a shield as he finally uncrossed his legs to relieve the pressure. "Just... the storm making it a bit stuffy in here."
"Oh, definitely," you agreed, shifting on the floorboards, your knee accidentally brushing against the foot of his chair.
Oscar virtually stopped breathing, his knuckles whitening around the book. The friction of his own jeans felt like a dangerous flame. He forced a tight, controlled breath out through his nose, desperately trying to channel his racing driver discipline to suppress his own body.
"It looks like an 'E'," he muttered quickly, handing the book back to you with an awkward, stiff movement, making sure to keep his forearm low across his waist as a secondary barrier.
"Definitely an 'E'."
"Great, thank you," you smiled, taking it back and immediately immersing yourself in your notes again.
Oscar slumped back into his chair, a quiet, ragged breath escaping his lips. He adjusted his shirt slightly, pulling the fabric down, his mind completely frantic as he watched you work.
The silence returned but it had changed completely. It was no longer a wall, it was a tight wire, pulling tighter with every passing second as Oscar sat there, hiding his desperate arousal, completely ensnared by your quiet grace.
The second Oscar handed the book back, you turned your attention to your notepad but your pen remained completely still against the paper. Your mind was racing far faster than you were letting on.
What is going on with him today? you wondered, a heavy sense of curiosity pulling your attention away from the papers.
Ever since his sincere apology in the kitchen, Oscar had been a completely different person, warmer, softer, and incredibly attentive. But right now, the vibe in the conservatory felt entirely off. He was acting tense, his voice was unusually deep and strained, and he was gripping that antique diary like his life depended on it. You wondered if a piece of bad news about his ex had flashed on his phone before you looked up, or if the suffocating summer humidity was genuinely making him miserable.
You felt a quiet pang of worry, hating the thought that he might be slipping back into that dark, hollow place he had been in when he first arrived.
Wanting to check on him, you cleared your throat and began to turn your head. "Hey, Oscar, if you want to head upstairs to the AC, you don't have to stay down—"
The words died instantly in your throat. As you turned, your gaze naturally traveled upward from the floorboards, intending to meet his eyes. But because you were sitting flat on your knees and he was on the low wicker chair, your line of sight inadvertently cut straight across his lap just as he shifted his weight.
He had dropped his forearm to ease his posture, which pulled his shirt tight, and the heavy leather diary had slid slightly to the side.
There, straining fiercely against the dark denim of his jeans, was a massive, unmistakable boner.
Your breath hitched, a sharp, audible gasp catching in your chest. Your eyes widened in absolute shock before you frantically yanked your gaze upward, your heart violently slamming against your ribs like a trapped bird.
Oh my god, your brain screamed, the realization hitting you like a tidal wave. He's... he's hard. Right now. Sitting right next to me.
A furious, blinding heat rushed up your neck, instantly flooding your cheeks with a crimson blush so intense it made your skin prickle. You stared blindly at the wall opposite you, your fingers tightening around your pen so hard your knuckles turned white. Your mind completely dissolved into pure, chaotic panic.
You weren't stupid. You knew what that meant but the sheer shock of seeing it on Oscar is making your head spin.
You felt entirely exposed, your own breathing turning shallow and rapid as the space between you suddenly felt charged with a heavy, suffocating magnetism. You didn't dare move a muscle, terrified that even the slightest shift would reveal that you had seen exactly what he was trying so desperately to hide.
Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Oscar shift again. The leather cover of the diary creaked softly as he adjusted it back over his lap with an agonizingly rigid movement. He let out a breath. Low, steady, and rough, clearly trying to force his own pulse down.
The shared denial was dizzying. He was pretending his body hadn't betrayed him and you were pretending you hadn't just witnessed it. A dangerous, intoxicating tension hung in the air between you. The difference, you are aware of both situations and he's not.
Suddenly, the heavy click of the front door echoing from the main foyer shattered the spell.
"Oscar? Sweetheart? Are you home?"
The bright, melodic voice of Nicole Piastri carried down the hallway, instantly cutting through the thick atmosphere of the conservatory. The sound of rustling plastic bags and the heavy thud of a grocery being set on the marble console table followed.
"I bought way too much and the traffic was an absolute nightmare with this rain!" She called out, her footsteps heading toward the kitchen.
The sudden intrusion of reality acted like a bucket of ice water. You let out a shaky, breathless gasp, finally shifting your posture on the floorboards as if you had just woken up from a trance.
Across from you, Oscar reacted instantly. The rigid tension in his shoulders snapped, and he let out a sharp, ragged exhale. The sheer timing of his mother's arrival was both a curse and a saving grace. Keeping the heavy diary firmly clutched against his waist to mask his front, he leaned back into the wicker chair, his dark eyes finally darting over to you.
They were wide, intense, and dark with a lingering, unresolved heat, but the sudden arrival of his mother had injected a sharp dose of reality into his face.
"I... I should go help her," Oscar muttered, his voice still incredibly thick and gravelly. He didn't stand up immediately, waiting a tactical second for the restriction of his jeans to become manageable, his knuckles white around the book.
"Yeah," you whispered, your face still burning as you quickly gathered your loose papers into a messy stack, refusing to look anywhere below his chin. "Yeah, definitely. Go help her."
Following that suffocating afternoon in the conservatory, the atmosphere in the Piastri estate transformed completely.
Every time you walked into a room, you couldn't unsee the raw, masculine reality of him. That's why you started avoiding him for your own sake.
One afternoon, the tension reached a breaking point in the high-ceilinged library. You were standing on your tiptoes, reaching for a heavy box of ledger books on the top mahogany shelf.
Your linen shorts rode up slightly on your thighs, your shirt straining against your back as you stretched. Before you could look around for a footstool, a shadow fell over you.
Oscar stepped up behind you, his broad chest terrifyingly close to your back. His warm, tanned arm reached up past your shoulder, his bicep brushing against your hair as he effortlessly lifted the box down.
Your breath hitched. You turned around quickly, your back pressing hard into the bookshelf, only to find Oscar standing much closer than he ever had before.
You wanted to scream, to run but your body is nailed in that position. He was wearing a simple gray tank top, his shoulders cut and glistening slightly from the blistering summer heat. The intoxicating scent of expensive cedarwood, rain, and clean skin completely enveloped you.
"Here," he said softly, holding the box between you. He didn't drop his hands to his sides. He didn't step back.
Because you were trapped between his large frame and the shelves, your eyes were forced to level with his chest. You could see the heavy, rapid rise and fall of his sternum. But your traitorous mind instantly flashed back to the conservatory and your gaze involuntarily flickered downward.
Oscar noticed. A dark, dangerous spark lit up in his eyes, his jaw clenching so hard a muscle ticked in his cheek. He consciously shifted his weight, his thigh brushing against your linen shorts. He was immediately thick, heavy, and straining against his shorts again just from being this close to you.
"Thank you, Oscar," you whispered, your voice trembling so much it was barely audible.
"You look tired," he murmured, his eyes searching yours, his breath fanning across your forehead. "Is the heat keeping you up?"
"A bit," you lied, your heart hammering against your ribs. It wasn't the heat;l it was the vivid, intrusive thoughts of him that haunted your midnight hours. "And... just thinking too much, I guess."
Oscar let out a short, quiet breath through his nose, his gaze dropping to your lips, then back to your eyes with a sudden, burning intensity. If I lean down right now, he thought, his pulse roaring in his ears, if I take what I want, I’ll ruin everything. She trusts me now. I can't be a monster.
"Yeah," he whispered, his deep voice rough and entirely undone. "Me too."
He pulled back, giving you a tight, controlled nod. He held the box in front of his waist with a rigid, calculated motion, using it to shield himself as he turned on his heel and left the room.
That night, the summer air was suffocatingly hot, a thick mugginess settling over Brighton that even the central air conditioning couldn't entirely beat. Oscar lay on his back in his isolated bedroom at the far end of the hall, a single cotton sheet tangled around his waist. His skin was slick with sweat, his chest rising and falling in heavy, uneven breaths.
He was losing his mind.
For weeks, he had prided himself on his control. He had told himself he was too damaged, too guarded, to think about anyone else. But you had completely dismantled him without even trying. You weren't a vulture from the media, you were pretty, you were kind, and you looked at him like he was just a man.
Every time you looked at him with those soft, understanding eyes, every time your summer clothes shifted to reveal a flash of smooth skin, it felt like a physical burn. He wanted you. He wanted to crawl out of his own skin and bury himself in you until he forgot the sound of his own name.
With a low, frustrated groan, Oscar brought his hand down, his long, veiny fingers gripping himself through his gray boxers. He pulled them down, his skin hot to the touch as he freed his aching length.
He closed his eyes, and instantly, you were there.
He pictured the way you looked in the library this afternoon, backed against the mahogany shelves, your chest rising and falling softly, your lips parted as you whispered his name. He imagined what it would feel like to actually push his weight into you, to pin your wrists above your head and bite into the soft skin of your neck until you cried out.
He imagined the look on your face when you had accidentally caught him exposed in the conservatory, the flush on your cheeks, the sudden, breathless gasp that told him you weren't entirely indifferent to him.
Oscar began to stroke himself, his movements heavy, fast, and deliberate, a harsh contrast to his usual calculated control. A low, ragged curse escaped his lips into the empty room.
"Fuck," he muttered, his jaw clenching as his pace quickened, his hips lifting off the mattress. He imagined your small hands on his chest, your fingers tangling in his hair, your legs wrapping around his waist to pull him deeper.
The image of your mouth, soft, yielding, and completely yours, pushed him over the edge. Oscar arched his back, a heavy, choked groan ripping from his throat as he came hard, his chest heaving as he collapsed back into the pillows, his heart hammering like a piston.
He lay there in the dark, his breath slowly evening out, the sticky summer heat pressing down on him. The release did nothing to cure the ache. If anything, it only made the craving worse. He needed the real thing. He needed you.
-
You had arrived at the house early, expecting the usual low-humming activity of the Piastri household. Instead, you walked into the foyer to find absolute, unadulterated pandemonium. Luggage was stacked three-high by the door. Hattie was frantically throwing extra bikinis into a canvas tote, while Edie and Mae were arguing loudly over who got to use the universal phone adapter.
You stood frozen by the marble console table, entirely bewildered. "Um... is everything okay?"
"Oh, darling! Thank goodness you're here!" Nicole cried, rushing down the stairs with a stack of passports in her hand. The moment she saw you, her stressed expression completely melted, replaced by the warm, maternal affection she had grown to hold for you over the last few weeks.
Nicole had made it no secret how much she adored you. To her, you weren't just a casual employee. You were the sweet, incredibly smart student who had brought a much-needed sense of calm to her chaotic house. She was always leaving extra pastries for you in the kitchen, complimenting your meticulous handling of her precious family history, and telling Hattie that hiring you was the best decision the family had made all summer.
Nicole rushed over, wrapping you in a warm, floral-scented hug. "I am so, so incredibly sorry, my dear. We have been in such a whirlwind with the packing that it completely slipped my mind to tell you. We're leaving for Italy! Right now, actually. The airport car is outside."
You blinked, utterly thrown. "Italy? Like... today?"
"It was booked a year ago," Hattie chimed in, jogging over and giving you a quick, sheepish squeeze on the shoulder. "We are so sorry we forgot to mention it, it’s just been such a madhouse around here lately.”
"Wait. What do you mean we?"
A sharp, demanding voice cut through the chaos. You and Hattie both looked up to see Oscar standing on the first landing of the stairs. He was wearing gray sweatpants and a tight black t-shirt, his hair messy from sleep, looking entirely blindsided. His dark eyes flicked from the mountain of suitcases to his mother.
"What do you mean you're leaving for Italy?"
Nicole paused, looking up at her son with a wave of sudden sympathy. "Oh, Osc... sweetheart. It's the family trip. We told you about this months ago."
"Yeah, months ago when I was supposed to be spending my summer break in Europe with Lily," Oscar said, his voice dropping into a flat, strained register.
The name of his ex felt heavy in the room, a reminder of the sudden, painful breakup that had rewritten his entire off-season. "I told you guys I was staying here to train. I thought you were all going to be here."
"We thought you knew we were still going, Osc," Hattie said softly, her chaotic energy instantly dampening as she looked at her brother. "We didn't think we should cancel the whole trip. Mum and Dad have been planning this forever.”
Oscar swallowed hard, a muscle ticking in his jaw as he realized he had completely tuned out the family logistics while drowning in his own heartbreak weeks prior. He looked entirely cornered, trapped between his desire for isolation and the sudden reality that his entire support system was about to board a flight across the world.
"It’s fine," Oscar muttered, his defensive walls slamming right back up. He crossed his arms tightly over his chest. "Go. Have fun. I'll just train here."
"Are you sure, love?" Nicole asked, walking over to press a tender kiss to his cheek, lingering for a moment. She looked back over at you, and a knowing, immensely relieved smile spread across her face. She reached out, taking your hand and squeezing it warmly.
"Well, thank goodness you'll be here," Nicole said to you, her voice full of genuine affection and trust.
"Honestly, darling, knowing you're going to be in the house makes me feel a million times better about leaving him behind. You are such a grounding, wonderful presence here. You'll keep an eye on my boy for me, won't you? Make sure he actually eats something other than protein shakes?"
Your breath instantly caught in your throat. Your face flushed a deep crimson at her praise, the underlying guilt of your secret attraction to her son roaring to life. "I... of course, Nicole. I'll be here finishing the archives anyway."
"I knew I could count on you. You really are a part of the family now," Nicole beamed, giving your hand one last affectionate pat.
Your eyes flew to Oscar, and at the exact same moment, his dark, heavy gaze snapped straight to you.
The thought of being in this massive, empty estate completely alone with him for fourteen days straight, while his mother blissfully sang your praises as a "grounding presence," sent a violent spike of heat directly to your core.
"Right," Oscar choked out, his voice noticeably thicker as his eyes locked onto yours, refusing to let you look away.
Within ten minutes, the final goodbyes were shouted. Nicole gave you one last tight hug, whispering how grateful she was for your hard work, before the front door was slammed shut. The distant roar of the airport shuttle fading down the driveway left the estate in a sudden, deafening silence.
The house felt massive now, the quiet pressing in from every corner. You and Oscar stood side by side in the grand foyer, staring at the empty double doors.
Neither of you moved. Neither of you spoke. The air conditioning hummed softly above, a cool draft cutting through the summer heat but the space between your bodies felt thick enough to burn.
Slowly, Oscar turned his head to look down at you. Without his family there to act as a buffer, his presence felt completely overwhelming. Pure, unadulterated masculine energy filling the empty hall. His dark eyes scanned your face, dropping for a fraction of a second to your lips before snapping back to your eyes, entirely ravenous and heavily undisciplined.
"So," Oscar murmured, his deep, gravelly voice echoing slightly in the empty foyer, sending a delicious, terrifying shiver straight down your spine. "It's just you and me for two weeks."
For a long moment, neither of you moved. You stood there in the grand foyer, staring at the closed double doors as the realization of what just happened settled into the quiet air. Two weeks. No parents, no sisters, no chaotic background noise to break up the suffocating gravity that had been pulling you two together for a month.
"I should..." you started, your voice cracking slightly on the first syllable. You cleared your throat, desperately trying to summon the professional, grounded demeanor Nicole had just praised you for. "I should get to the study. There’s a lot of sorting left to do."
"Right. Of course," Oscar said.
But he didn't move away to let you pass. Instead, he took a slow, deliberate step closer, his towering frame casting a shadow over you.
Down here in the foyer, without the protective shield of a desk or a leather diary, he was a massive, intimidating presence. He was still wearing those soft gray sweatpants and the tight black t-shirt, and you couldn't help but notice how his broad shoulders seemed to swallow up the space around you.
His dark eyes dipped down, deliberately tracking the sharp inhale of your breath, before rising back up to lock onto yours. "Mum's right, you know. You've been working yourself ragged in that room. You don't have to hide away in there all day just because they're gone."
"I'm not hiding," you lied softly, your heart doing a violent flip against your ribs.
"Good," Oscar murmured, a faint, dangerous ghost of a smile touching the corner of his lips. His voice was incredibly low, vibrating in his chest. "Because with the house this empty, it'd be pretty hard to pull off anyway."
You managed a tight, nervous nod and practically bolted toward the safety of the library, your face burning.
For the next three hours, you tried to drown yourself in work. You meticulously organized letters, scanned old photographs, and logged entries into your laptop, but your concentration was completely shot.
Every creak of the house, every whistle of the summer wind against the glass windows made your shoulders tense. You were hyper-aware of him. You knew his schedule, you knew he usually spent his afternoons in the home gym on the lower level, training with an intensity that left him completely spent.
By 3:00 PM, the stifling January heat was pushing through the glass of the library windows, making the air feel thick and drowsy. Thirsty and needing a break from the endless columns of cursive, you finally stood up and padded quietly down the hall toward the kitchen.
You walked through the archway, completely unprepared for what was waiting for you.
Oscar was there. He had clearly just finished a grueling workout. He was leaning against the marble kitchen island, panting slightly, his skin glistening with a fine sheen of sweat.
He had thrown a white towel over his broad shoulders, but he hadn't put a shirt back on. He was completely bare-chested, his sculpted abs and chest muscles shifting beautifully as he reached for a cold bottle of water.
You froze in the doorway, the breath evaporating from your lungs.
Oscar froze, too. He paused with the water bottle halfway to his mouth, his dark eyes instantly snapping to yours. The casual ease he usually tried to project vanished, replaced by that raw, intense focus that always made your knees go weak.
"Sorry," you stammered, immediately taking a step backward, your face exploding into a bright crimson flush. "I didn't mean to interrupt... I just wanted a glass of water—"
"Stop. Don't go," Oscar commanded, his voice thick, rough, and entirely devoid of his usual polite restraint.
He set the water bottle down on the counter with a soft clink and turned fully toward you. As he did, your treacherous eyes involuntarily darted down. And because he was hot, flushed, and his adrenaline was pumping from his workout, his body had reacted with terrifying speed the moment you walked into the room.
There, pushing fiercely against the soft fabric of his sweatpants, was the thick, prominent ridge of a heavy erection. It was completely undisguised, straining toward his waistband, shifting slightly as he took a step forward.
Your eyes widened, a quiet, choked gasp escaping your lips. You tried to look away, but the sheer, raw masculinity of the sight held you captive for one agonizing second.
Oscar caught your gaze. He looked down at himself, then right back up at you. This time, there was no diary to hide behind. There was no family about to walk through the door. His secret was completely out in the open, throbbing between you in the quiet kitchen.
Instead of panic, a dark, heavy look of acceptance washed over his features. A muscle ticked violently in his jaw as he slowly walked around the island, closing the distance between you until he was standing a mere foot away. The heat radiating off his bare, sweaty skin was intoxicating.
"I've been trying to be good," Oscar whispered, his voice dangerously low, his chest heaving as he looked down at your flushed, trembling face. "I've been trying so hard to be the disciplined guy my mum thinks I am. But you're looking at me like that... and we're entirely alone."
Oscar didn’t move an inch closer, giving you space even as the air between you turned completely electric. He saw the way your eyes darted from his waist back up to his face, your chest heaving in shallow, panicked breaths.
"You're doing it again," he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that seemed to vibrate straight through the marble floorboards.
"Doing what?" you whispered, your throat so dry it felt like sandpaper.
"Staring," Oscar said, a slow, teasing smile finally tugging at the corner of his lips. It wasn't mean, it was a gentle, almost playful nudge, though the heat in his dark eyes remained intensely serious.
He leaned back against the edge of the kitchen island, crossing his massive arms over his bare chest. The movement did absolutely nothing to hide the prominent ridge straining against his gray sweatpants, but his posture was completely relaxed, giving you a sense of safety despite the thick tension.
"You look like you've seen a ghost."
Your face burned a deeper shade of crimson. You wanted the floor to open up and swallow you whole. "I wasn't... I didn't mean to—"
"Hey," he interrupted softly, his tone instantly dropping its taunting edge, replacing it with a quiet, grounded sincerity. He tilted his head, locking his gaze completely onto yours.
"Look at me. I'm not mad. And you don't have to look like you just committed a crime. Talk to me. What's going on in that head of yours?"
You swallowed hard, your fingers tangling nervously in the hem of your shirt. The sheer honesty in his voice caught you off guard, and suddenly, the floodgates opened. The sheer weight of the secrets you'd been keeping, combined with the visual proof of his desire right in front of you, made your brain completely short-circuit.
"I don't—I don't know, Oscar, it's just a lot," you started, the words tumbling out of you in a breathless, frantic rush. "Nicole just told me how much she trusts me, how I'm a 'grounding presence' for you, and I feel like an absolute fraud because my mind is not doing anything grounded right now. I'm completely confused! One second I think I should just stay in the library and do my job, and the next second I'm... I'm looking at you, and things are complicated. You're my boss's son. You're Hattie's brother. And on top of all of that, I don't—I don't even know what I'm doing!"
You took a sharp, ragged breath, your face so hot you were certain it was glowing. You couldn't stop the rambling now, it was like a runaway train.
"I've never done this, Oscar. Any of it. I've never been with anyone, I've never experienced... this kind of tension, or a guy looking at me like that, or... or seeing a guy like... like how you are right now! I'm completely out of my depth, and I don't know what I want because I'm terrified that if I say the wrong thing, I'll ruin everything, or make it weird with your family, or—"
"Hey. Hey, breathe," Oscar cut in gently.
Throughout your entire frantic speech, he hadn't moved. He stood completely still, his arms remaining crossed, resisting the powerful urge to step forward and wrap his arms around you to quiet your anxiety.
Despite how badly his own body was aching, despite the throb of his erection against his jeans demanding relief, his respect for you won out completely. He let you ramble, letting you vent every single messy, panicked thought in your head without interruption.
He let out a slow, careful breath, his dark eyes softening into something incredibly tender.
"I get it," Oscar said, his voice dropping into an deeply reassuring, quiet register. "And I respect that more than you know. I respect my family, and I respect the hell out of the fact that this is all new to you. I'm not here to rush you, and I'm definitely not here to take advantage of you being confused."
He paused, letting the silence settle for a moment to let your racing heart slow down. Then, his eyes scanned your face, a trace of that respectful, confident warmth returning to his features.
"If you tell me right now that this is too much, that you want to go back to the library and forget any of this happened, I will walk upstairs, change my clothes, and we will never speak of it again. We can keep things exactly as they were. I mean that."
He lowered his arms, resting his large hands against the edge of the counter, completely exposing his bare torso to you. His gaze dropped an octave, holding yours with total honesty.
"But we'd both be lying. Because I know you're not indifferent to me. I can see how much you're thinking about it. And God knows you can see what you do to me just by walking into a room. I'm still a man, despite how broken everyone thinks I've been. And the truth is, you've done more to bring me back to life over the last few weeks than anyone else. But this is your call. Entirely. You don't have to know exactly what you're doing. You just have to tell me what you want."
You stared at him, your frantic breathing slowly evening out. He had taken all of your panic, all of your messy inexperience and confusion, and he had met it with total, unwavering safety.
“No pressure at all...” He was putting all his cards on the table, giving you total control over what happened next.
The internal turmoil that had been eating you alive for weeks suddenly dissolved, leaving behind a clear, undeniable truth. You didn't want him to walk away. You didn't want to go back to the library alone.
"I don't want you to go upstairs," you whispered, the confession leaving your lips soft but entirely certain.
Oscar’s breath hitched, the relaxed posture instantly vanishing as his muscles coiled with a sudden, sharp spike of intensity. "Are you sure?" he asked, his dark eyes burning into yours, demanding absolute certainty. "Because if I step across this kitchen right now, I'm not stopping."
"I'm sure," you said, taking a small, brave step toward him.
A low, guttural growl escaped Oscar's throat, a sound of pure submission and undone control. The discipline he had maintained for months finally snapped, and he closed the remaining distance between you in a single, heavy stride.
The single stride he took closed the distance so completely that the radiating heat from his bare chest washed over you like a physical wave. You looked up, your heart hammering a frantic, erratic rhythm against your ribs, watching the shadow of his large frame eclipse the kitchen light.
But even as his discipline snapped, his respect didn't. He stopped just an inch away, his broad chest rising and falling heavily, the dark hair of his sternum a mere hair's breadth from brushing against your shirt.
"Can I?" Oscar breathed, his voice nothing more than a rough, gravelly whisper that rattled deep in his chest. His dark eyes searched yours, heavy and completely dilated, waiting and demanding that final, explicit green light before he crossed the boundary.
You couldn't form words anymore, the air trapped in your throat, so you simply nodded, a soft, breathless sound escaping your lips.
That was all he needed. Oscar leaned down, his head dipping into the crook of your neck. He didn't press his lips to your skin just yet; instead, he simply hovered there, his hot, ragged breaths fanning across your sensitive skin and sending a violent, tingling shiver straight down your spine.
Slowly, deliberately, his large, veiny hands traveled down to your waist. His long fingers hooked into the elastic waistband of your cotton shorts. He didn't rush. With agonizing slowness, his dark eyes locking onto yours, he slid the fabric down the curve of your hips, his warm palms caressing the bare skin of your outer thighs as he stripped them away.
He kicked them to the side, then reached for the hem of your shirt, pooling the fabric up over your ribcage. You lifted your arms blindly, letting him pull the garment over your head and toss it onto the counter, leaving you exposed to his hungry gaze.
Before the cool kitchen air could fully hit your skin, Oscar lifted you effortlessly, carrying you out of the kitchen and into the dim, cool environment of the adjacent guest room, gently lowering you onto the deep, plush fabric of the oversized bed.
The contrast of the cool air made you shiver slightly but Oscar was immediate in keeping your body warm. He climbed over you like a shield, mapping his heat to yours.
He began a slow, deliberate foreplay, determined to stretch the torment and ensure your body was completely undone. His lips returned to your jaw, leaving a trail of warm, lingering, open-mouthed kisses that made you whimper. His large hand slid up your torso, his palm warm and calloused, until it found your breast.
He cupped the soft weight gently, squeezing the supple flesh before his thumb began rubbing over the apex until it hardened, making a quiet gasp catch in your throat.
He leaned down further, his mouth replacing his fingers. Oscar began to suck each breast, his tongue swirling lazily around the peaks, pulling them into the deep heat of his mouth one by one. He swirled his tongue around the sensitive, puckered nubs, drawing them deep between his teeth and suckling greedily.
The sharp, electric pull of sensation shot straight down to your core, and you arched your back against the sofa cushions, your hands tangling frantically in his thick hair, a high-pitched moan escaping your throat.
As he continued to suckle greedily at your breasts, swapping from one aching peak to the other, his long fingers slipped down between your thighs. He parted your underwear, discovering just how slick and drenched you were for him. He slid a finger inside you, and the sudden, overwhelming sensation made your thighs instinctively clamp shut, your knees trying to close against the intense wave of pleasure.
"No, sweetheart. Keep them open for me," Oscar groaned against your skin, his deep voice thick with friction. His large, heavy hand pressed firmly against the inside of your knee, gently but unyieldingly forcing your legs wide apart again, pinning you open so he could look at what he was doing to you.
He began to finger you in earnest, sliding one, then two fingers deep inside your tight, slick channel, mimicking the motion he craved. At the same time, his thumb worked in relentless, circular motions against your hyper-sensitive, swollen clitoris.
The dual assault was dizzying. Your body was aching, a deep, hollow throbbing building in your lower belly that screamed for fulfillment, but the pleasure was so acute, so piercingly good, that you didn't want him to stop. You wanted to drown in the foreplay, your hips bucking up against his hand as you let out a series of fractured, breathless cries.
"Oscar... oh my god, Oscar," you sobbed, your head tossing back against the sheets. You were completely at his mercy, trembling from head to toe as he stretched you, his mouth leaving your breasts to trail wet, biting kisses back up your neck.
The friction and the agonizingly perfect touch of his hand below became too much to bear. The inexperience and hesitation completely melted away under the onslaught of pure desire. You couldn't take the empty ache a second longer.
"Please," you whimpered, your fingers digging into his muscular shoulders, dragging him closer. "Oscar, please... I can't take it. Take me. I want you inside me."
Oscar lifted his head, his dark eyes blown out with a heavy, primal fever as he looked down at your flushed, pleading face. He hooked his fingers into your underwear, stripping them down your legs in one clean tug, leaving nothing between you.
But instead of immediately pressing his weight over you, Oscar slid off the couch to stand right between your parted legs.
Your eyes widened as you watched him reach for the waistband of his boxers. With a fluid, unhurried movement, he pushed the dark fabric down his hips, stepping out of them and tossing them aside. He stood completely naked before you, bathed in the dim light of the living room, a towering specimen of pure athletic perfection.
Your breath completely trapped itself in your throat as your gaze locked onto him. Oscar reached down, his large, veiny hand wrapping firmly around the base of his shaft. Right there in front of you, his gaze locked intensely on your face, he began to jack himself.
You watched, utterly spellbound and helpless, as his erection grew even further under his own rhythmic, heavy strokes. The thick veins along his length pulsed violently, a bead of moisture appearing at the tip as he hardened to his absolute limit. He was massive, thick, heavy, and undeniably long, the dark skin of his shaft glistening in the shadows.
A wave of intense, dizzying heat rushed through your body, making you even wetter between your legs, but the sheer visual reality of his size sent a sudden, sharp spike of panic straight through your chest. Your heart hammered against your ribs, a new kind of nervousness taking over. You swallowed hard, staring at him, your mind instantly spiraling into doubt.
It's too big, you thought frantically, your hands tightening against the sofa cushions. There's no way. He's too big, it's not going to fit.
Oscar caught the sudden flash of fear in your eyes. He stopped stroking himself, his hand remaining wrapped around his length as his dark eyes softened with an immense, reassuring warmth. He sank back down onto the edge of the bed, leaning over you, his broad chest close enough for you to feel his racing heart.
"Look at me," he murmured, his breathing completely ragged as he brushed a stray lock of hair away from your damp forehead. "Hey. Breathe. I see you doubting it, sweetheart. I know you're scared."
"Oscar, I don't... I don't think it'll fit," you whispered, your voice trembling as you looked from his face down to the heavy length pressing against your inner thigh.
"It will but if you don't want to anymore," he promised softly, his voice a deeply grounding, gravelly rumble that instantly wrapped you in a sense of safety.
“No... please don't stop,” you begged, almost crying.
Oscar leaned down, pressing a tender, lingering kiss to your lips, then to your jawline. "Your body is perfectly ready for me. I'm going to go so slow, I promise. The second it hurts, the second you want me to stop, you just tell me. I am entirely in your hands."
The unwavering respect and gentleness in his tone coaxed the tension right out of your muscles. You locked your eyes onto his, trusting him completely as you slowly let your thighs part a fraction wider.
Oscar guided himself against you, the hot, blunt head of his erection nudging your slick, hyper-prepared center. He waited for you to take a deep, steadying breath, and then, with an agonizingly slow, controlled push of his hips, he began to sink into you.
The steady, agonizingly slow rhythm of his hips was driving you insane. Every deep, deliberate slide of his length against your hyper-sensitive walls was pure heaven, the heat and friction building a fire inside you that made your entire body tremble. He was being so incredibly careful with you, but the pleasure was so acute, so overwhelming, that your restraint completely shattered.
You clung to his broad, slick shoulders, your fingernails digging deep into his skin as your hips instinctively rolled up to meet his, desperately chasing the heavy ache between your legs.
"Oscar," you gasped out, your voice breaking as he hit that perfect, sensitive spot deep inside you. You opened your eyes, looking up at him through a haze of pure, dizzying desire.
He was hovering directly over you, his arms locked straight to support his weight on either side of your head. His jaw was clenched so tightly a muscle jumped violently in his cheek, his veins standing out along his biceps as he fought his own body to keep the pace gentle for your first time.
"I'm right here, sweetheart," he strained out, his voice a thick, guttural rattle. He paused for a fraction of a second, his breath hot against your face as he looked down at you with absolute reverence. "Tell me what you need. Is it too much?"
"No, it feels... it feels too good," you whimpered, a desperate, breathless sob escaping your lips. You wrapped your legs tighter around his waist, locking your ankles behind his back to pull him closer, completely undone by the intimacy of it. "Please... faster, Oscar. Move faster. I want it deep."
Oscar’s dark eyes blew out completely, the last remnants of his rigid discipline vaporizing at your words. Hearing your voice break, hearing you ask for more of him, turned something primal loose in his chest.
"You want it faster?" he rasped, his voice dropping into a low, filthy murmur as he leaned down, his lips brushing against your ear. "You want me to really fuck you, sweetheart? Look at how wet you are for me. You're stretching so perfectly around my cock."
A fierce blush rushed to your cheeks at his words, a spike of pure, electric heat shooting straight to your core. "Yes... please, Oscar, fuck me."
"God, you are so beautiful when you beg," he groaned, his voice completely undone. "Hold onto me. Take all of it."
He didn't hold back anymore. Oscar braced his weight and drove into you with a sudden, explosive burst of power, his hips slamming flush against yours with a heavy, wet smack.
A loud, high-pitched gasp tore from your throat as he buried himself to the absolute hilt, the overwhelming fullness making your head toss back against the sofa cushions.
He picked up the pace instantly, turning the slow rhythm into a relentless, driving pace. Every thrust was deep, heavy, and completely consuming. He leaned down, burying his face in your neck, leaving wet, biting kisses over your skin as his hips moved in a brutal, beautiful sync.
"You feel so fucking tight," Oscar choked out against your skin, his breathing completely ragged as he drove into you harder, his movements turning beautifully desperate. "Tell me how it feels. Tell me you're mine."
"I'm yours—oh my god, Oscar, yes!" you screamed softly, your fingers tangling frantically in his damp hair, your body completely synchronized with his heavy, driving movements. The white-hot tension inside you wound tighter and tighter, pulling you toward the absolute brink.
"That's it, take it all for me," he murmured darkly, his own breath hitching as your tight walls began to pulse frantically around him, signaling your climax. He stared straight into your eyes, locking your gazes together as a sudden, shattering wave of pleasure broke over you. You arched your back, crying out his name as your body convulsed around his length.
The intense clamping of your release finally pushed him over the edge. Oscar let out a loud, guttural shout against your neck, his body going completely rigid as he drove deep one last time, locking his hips against yours and completely releasing his warmth inside you as the quiet of the estate swallowed up your tangled, ruined sighs.
The heavy, frantic rhythm of your shared breathing slowly began to quiet, filling the dim living room with a soft, peaceful lull. The air conditioning hummed gently overhead, cooling the slick sheen of sweat that bound your skin to Oscar's.
He remained heavy and warm between your thighs, his forehead resting against your shoulder as his pulse gradually slowed down.
After a long, quiet moment, Oscar let out a deep exhale and shifted his weight, bracing his forearms on the sofa cushions to lift his chest off yours.
"I should... I should probably get up," he murmured, his voice incredibly rough and raspy from the aftereffects of the release. "Get us some water. Clean you up."
Before he could pull away, your hands moved instinctively. You slid your palms up his bare back, your fingers curling around the tight muscles of his shoulders to hold him in place. "No," you whispered, your voice soft and entirely spent. "Don't move yet. Stay."
Oscar paused, looking down at you through the shadows. A soft, incredibly tender look washed over his handsome features. He didn't argue. With a quiet sigh of compliance, he melted right back down against you, sliding his large arms around your waist to pull your hips flush against his. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his lips brushing against your warm skin.
"I love this," he breathed, the confession slipping out of him entirely unprompted, his voice thick with a raw, vulnerable emotion you hadn't heard from him before. "I love just being right here like this with you."
A sweet, tingling warmth bloomed in your chest, completely replacing any lingering nervousness or doubt. You tightened your hold on him, burying your face in his shoulder. "I love whatever this is, too," you whispered back, tracing the line of his spine with your fingertips.
Oscar didn't answer right away. He simply fell quiet, the room returning to that deep, heavy silence that used to feel terrifying, but now felt entirely safe. He shifted his hand slightly, his long, veiny fingers resting against the bare skin of your waist.
Slowly, rhythmically, his thumb began to draw lazy, soothing circles against your hip, his touch incredibly gentle compared to the fierce power from just moments before.
He remained silent for so long that you finally blinked your eyes open, tilting your head up to look at his sharp profile.
"Why are you so quiet?" you asked softly, your thumb brushing against his jawline. "What are you thinking?"
Oscar stopped the circling motion for a brief second, his dark eyes meeting yours in the dim light. He looked incredibly grounded, the tight, defensive walls he usually kept up completely dismantled.
"I don't know," he confessed quietly, a faint, honest smile touching his lips. "I don't actually know what this is yet. I don't know how to label it, or what it means for everything else. My brain usually needs a plan for everything, but right now... I don't have one." He paused, his thumb resuming its gentle circles on your waist. "But I'm happy to have it. I'm happy it's you."
The honesty in his voice made your heart swell. You smiled up at him, sliding your hand up to cup his cheek, thumbing the soft skin there.
"We'll figure it out," you promised softly, letting him know that he didn't have to have all the answers right now. "We have two weeks."
Oscar stared down at you, his eyes softening completely as the weight of your words settled over him. He leaned down, pressing a soft, lingering, and deeply affectionate kiss to your lips.
"Yeah," he murmured against your mouth, his grip around your waist tightening just a fraction more as he pulled you into his chest. "We will."
The soft, rhythmic circles his thumb was tracing on your waist kept you floating in a warm, dazed bubble of comfort.
"Oscar," you murmured, your voice laced with a sudden touch of anxiety.
He noticed the shift instantly. His thumb stopped moving, and he lifted his head from your shoulder, his dark eyes instantly focusing on your face. "What is it? Are you okay? Did I hurt you?"
"No, no, I'm okay," you assured him quickly, placing a hand against his chest to soothe him. "It’s just... we didn't use protection. And since it's my first time, I'm not on anything. I think... I think I need to buy the morning-after pill. Just to be safe."
A flash of genuine remorse crossed Oscar’s features, his protective instincts kicking in. "Fuck, I'm sorry, sweetheart. I completely lost my head. I shouldn't have just..." He cut himself off, shaking his head and pressing a reassuring kiss to your forehead. "Don't stress about it. I'll take care of it. I'll head out to the pharmacy first thing in the morning and buy it for you."
"Are you sure?" you asked softly. "You don't want anyone spotting you."
"I don't care," Oscar said without a second of hesitation, his voice firm and completely grounded. "Your safety is the only thing that matters. I'll go early before the shops get busy."
He paused, his gaze dropping to your lips, a sudden, dark ember of that familiar heat reigniting in his eyes. His hand on your waist tightened, pulling your hips a fraction closer against his.
"And besides... I should probably restock the nightstand with condoms while I'm out. That way, we can use them again next time."
A delicious, tingling sensation shot straight to your core at his casual, confident assumption. The sheer forwardness of it completely erased your anxiety, replaced by a sudden rush of playful confidence.
A small, knowing smile tugged at the corners of your lips. You tilted your head back against the sofa cushions, looking up at him through your eyelashes, your fingers lazily tracing the sharp line of his collarbone.
"Oh?" you teased, your voice dropping into a playful, breathless whisper. "Next time?"
Oscar’s breath hitched, his chest expanding heavily against yours. A low, dark chuckle vibrated deep in his throat, but the expression that settled over his handsome face was entirely ravenous. He leaned down, his lips brushing dangerously close against yours, his deep voice thick with an undeniable promise.
"Sweetheart," he murmured, his thumb deliberately digging into the soft skin of your hip. "We have the house to ourselves for two whole weeks. I'm going to want you every single day."
Summary: Lando loses the poker chips and you both lose the plot
Warnings: smut
Word count: 7.5k
AN: well, I caved… 😔 the idea was grand, but the execution was even poorer. Idk, I just don’t love this very much, but I still hope you enjoy 🤍
He lost the chips last spring, or maybe the spring before, when they’d played drunk blackjack with a spare Williams engineer and some kid from Red Bull who never came back. You only learned this by process of elimination, as Lando, in search of entertainment, tore through the drawers with the coarse enthusiasm of a man who refused to believe adulthood required inventory. The cards he found, but the chips were nowhere.
You slouched on the sofa, toes curling into the loose weave of his carpet, one leg tucked under, the other extended and uncaring. Lando’s apartment had a view of the city, but the blinds were always half-shut. The silvery sprawl of Monaco glimmered out the glass, cold and expensive.
“So we count toothpicks? Or do sums in our heads?” You let the vowels flatten, the way he pretended not to notice he liked.
He pried open a box where he stored cables/chargers/AA, then let it clatter closed. “We do not use toothpicks. That’s an insult to the game. And I’m not doing math, y/n, even for you.”
“You know what’s left?” You flicked a card onto the coffee table, the queen’s face a pixelated blur. “Strip poker, Norris. Old school.”
He stopped, hands spread in the air like a mime and the barest flicker of calculation passed behind his so-called baby blues. You’d learned: mischief was always a step ahead of sense for him. “You’d lose anyway,” he said. “Don’t act like it’s a punishment.”
You shrugged, letting your sweater slip off one shoulder. Oversized, peachy-pink, made to look like it had been dunked in cotton candy. “Afraid?” You said and meant it the way only people who had nothing on the line could.
“Dying to humiliate you,” he replied, grinning with an edge that put a splinter in the evening.
Lando took the deck from your lazy shuffle, squared it with a snap and let the cards bloom between his hands like he’d done it for a living. You sat across from him at his chipped dining table, the air sharp with the metallic tang of energy drinks and last night’s pasta. Overhead, a single bulb attuned the world to sepia, only cards crisp and clean as new money.
“Texas hold’em?” he suggested, voice mockingly formal, like he was dealing at a casino lounge and not in his own mess of a dining room, bone-tired, with mismatched socks and a faint stubble.
“Dealer’s choice,” you said, words coming out a challenge, a push into the place you both liked best—rules being set and promptly broken. “Prizes change per round?”
He considered. “Loser removes one item of choice. Hard mode: accessories count.”
His hands, broad-knuckled and always a bit scarred, fanned the deck with such soft precision you looked anywhere but his face. That off-season, he’d grown into them, the wrists less bony, the veins under the skin like a roadmap of every stupid thing he’d done for fun. Two cards to each. Your hands, smaller by a lot, used to faking expertise, riffled the corners and searched for tells in the way he leaned forward, elbows on table, chin tilted up.
You lost the first three hands in a row. You’d always known you were bad at this but pretended otherwise, because the failure amused you. You let your hair out of its spiral tie, then shed the tie-dye slippers you’d bought for two euros outside the Gare de Nice. Lando watched and did not gloat, which was worse, somehow.
“You’re weirdly calm for someone getting destroyed,” he said, collecting the cards with offensive amounts of confidence.
“Destroyed is a bit dramatic.”
“You’ve lost, like, three times.”
“You’re counting?” You arched a brow at him.
He looked up slowly. “Baby, it’s poker.”
You rolled your eyes like it meant nothing, but your fingers stalled against the edge of the table anyway. “Can you not do that?”
He blinked. “Do what?”
“The—” you gestured vaguely toward him, annoyed already that you sounded annoyed, “the pet name thing.”
A grin threatened at the corner of his mouth. “Baby?”
You hated how easily he said it, casual enough to pretend it meant nothing, specific enough that it never really did.
“See?” you said.
“What?” He leaned back in his chair, smug and all sharp edges. “You get weird every time.”
“I do not get weird.”
“Uh huh.” His gaze flicked over your face, too observant for someone pretending to joke. “You forget how to talk and everything.”
“You’re enjoying this too much,” you muttered.
“Oh, massively.” He pointed lazily at the pile beside your chair. “Those slippers were tragic, by the way.”
You gasped. “Those are vintage.”
“Those are ugly.”
“They cost two euros.”
“That explains a lot.”
On hand four, he finally misplayed a pair of jacks, limped in then got bluffed off the river by a bet he should never have folded to. As quietly as if it hadn’t mattered, Lando shrugged off the battered hoodie, peeling it over his head in one neat, balletic motion that made a show of his neck and the untidy border of sunburn at the base of his throat. He dumped it onto the back of his chair and, maybe out of habit, combed a palm back through his hair. Static turned it wild. You raised both brows, savoring the equalizing shift in atmosphere.
“What, no victory lap?” he said.
“I’m trying to be gracious,” you said with a satisfaction that suited your mouth.
“You?” He leaned back in the chair, disbelief all over his face. “Never met her.”
“I’m evolving.”
“Into what?”
You tilted your head. “Someone who enjoys watching you lose.”
He grinned slowly, dangerously.
“Careful,” he said. “You sound excited.”
You reached for the cards before he could see your face properly. “Shut up and deal.”
The next deal went fast, a miniature war of attrition, neither of you willing to fold early. Lando began to tap his fingers against the table when the board cards came up bad for him, and the rhythm sent a low, taut hum through the plastic laminate.
“You tap when you’re annoyed,” you said casually.
His eyes flicked up. “No, I don’t.”
“You do.” You pointed at his hand. “Like that.”
“That means nothing.”
“That means your cards suck.”
Lando squinted his eyes and sat back in his chair like he’d suddenly remembered he was being observed. “Okay,” he dragged out. “Didn’t realize we were calling out tells.”
“You have tells?”
“You blink weird when you bluff.”
You stared at him. “I absolutely do not.”
“Mm.” He looked unconvinced. “Also, you keep looking at your good cards twice.”
“That’s just strategy.”
“That’s just cheating adjacent.”
“You don’t even know what cheating adjacent means.”
“It means,” he said, pointing lazily across the table, “you’re suspicious.”
You stalled, feigned focus, but the turn and river were junk and your own bluff collapsed as soon as he raised. You blinked at the cards, at your half-finished hand, dumbly surprised by how fast losing added up.
“No way,” you muttered.
“Oh, babe.” Lando leaned forward with unbearable sympathy. “That was painful to watch.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“You’re bad at poker.”
One sock went next—the left, since it had a pink Sharpie stain across the toe from a night you’d never agree to talk about—and you peeled it off with a theatrical gasp, like a magician revealing the world’s most disappointing trick. You set it beside the slippers, almost proud. Lando grinned more with his eyes than anywhere else, a flicker of something that looked like encouragement, if one was feeling generous.
He swept up the cards and started shuffling again, easy, like dealing wasn’t its own kind of flex. His legs swung under the table, restless as hell, and every now and then he shot you a glance that was half challenge, half something else—maybe checking if you’d bail before the stakes got embarrassing, maybe just making sure you were still all-in.
Within two more hands, the game shifted from symbolic to literal. Lando dropped his final sock like a gauntlet, bare feet splayed pigeon-toed under the table. He’d started leaning after each showdown, reaching one arm across the laminate, making your half-folded hand close in on itself each time—like he was reminding you he could swallow the table, or you, any minute he wanted.
You bled losses and at a certain point, the game was just about what you could get away with calling “an accessory”. Somewhere between hands, you caught him staring and, for once, not pretending otherwise. Not your face—lower, briefly, at the line where the oversized sweater slipped when you leaned for the pot. He looked away too late.
“You know,” you said, stacking cards badly just to watch him squirm, “for someone winning, you seem weirdly distracted.”
“I’m multitasking.”
“At what?”
His jaw shifted like he almost said something honest. “Survival.”
Ultimately, your sweater went next, overhead in a single smooth movement. You wore a bralette top, thin-strapped and gray, the kind meant to be hidden beneath other things, not for display. Lando took in the exposed skin, but only let the corners of his mouth hitch.
“You can still quit,” he said, shuffling with fake generosity.
“You want me to?”
“No,” he said eventually. “Just checking if you scare easy.”
You leaned forward, elbows on the table. “You first.”
Something sharpened in his expression then, playful tipping into something hungrier. “Careful,” he said. “You keep looking at me like that and I’m gonna misunderstand.”
Before you could respond he returned to shuffling and murmured: “Huh.”
You narrowed your eyes instantly. “What does huh mean?”
“Nothing.”
“That sounded like something.”
He tapped the edge of his cards against the table, mouth twitching. “Just didn’t think you were gonna commit to the bit.”
“You thought I’d chicken out?”
“I thought,” he said carefully, eyes dipping and then coming back up, “you’d suddenly remember modesty.”
You snorted. “Please. You’ve seen me in swimsuits.”
“Different setting,” he said. He picked up his cards, looked at them, immediately put them back down.
“Bad hand?” you asked.
“Couldn’t tell you.”
“That bad?”
His eyes flicked over you once, helplessly. “Catastrophic.”
You held his stare for a second too long. The apartment felt strangely small all of a sudden—the bulb overhead buzzing faintly, Monaco glittering uselessly through half-shut blinds, his stupid gold-tipped deck clicking soft against the table.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” you asked, trying for teasing and landing somewhere closer to careful.
“Like what?”
“Like you’re thinking too hard.”
His thumb dragged once over the corner of his cards.
“I think,” he said slowly, “I’m realizing this might’ve been a bad idea.”
You snorted. “Because you’re losing?”
“No,” he said, eyes dipping briefly before coming back up. “Because you get competitive.”
“You scared?” you asked.
His mouth twitched. “Little bit.”
Something about the way he said it made your pulse stutter. You cleared your throat. “Play your hand, Norris.”
“I am,” he said.
“You literally haven’t looked at your cards.”
“Distracted.”
You narrowed your eyes again. “You’re being weird.”
“I’m literally sitting here.”
“No,” you said, pointing a card at him. “You’re doing that thing.”
“What thing?”
“The thing where you act all smug when actually you’re nervous.”
He barked a laugh. “Nervous? Of what?”
You opened your mouth, then stopped. Suddenly you weren’t sure.
The game, maybe. Or the fact that somewhere between making fun of him and accusing him of cheating, the air had changed.
“You tell me,” you said quietly.
For once, he didn’t answer straight away. Instead, he watched you—elbows on the table, mouth tipped like he wanted to say something reckless and was deciding whether the fallout would be worth it.
You hated the way your stomach dipped. “You’re trying to psych me out.”
“Working?”
“No.”
“Liar.” His eyes stayed on you a second too long before finally dropping to the table and somehow that felt worse. You dealt the turn too fast.
“There,” he said suddenly.
“What?”
“You do it again.”
“Do what?”
“That thing.” He gestured vaguely toward your face. “Inside of your cheek.”
You froze.
“Oh my god,” he grinned. “You’re bluffing.”
“I’m not!”
“You literally are.”
“Play the hand!”
“You’re stressed,” he said, delighted now. “Are you nervous?”
“No.”
“Then why are your hands shaking?”
You looked down instinctively.
“Rookie mistake,” Lando tsked, collecting the pot.
The next round, he lost again—let out a hiss between his teeth, accused you of stacking the deck, but did not protest as he peeled his shirt. He wore a gold chain, weirdly elegant, resting against the flat brown of his collarbone. The exposed line of his chest, darker where summer had burned in the edges of the sun, didn’t look real in the dining room’s old bulb, too cinematic, or stupidly lit.
Your hands shook a little as you shuffled, but he didn’t comment on it this time, just watched, waiting for the next opening.
“We’re terrible at normal hobbies,” you said, glancing around the apartment. “Other people bake. Or watch movies.”
“We tried Monopoly once.”
“You threatened to flip the table.”
“You were extorting me.”
“That’s capitalism, babe.”
His laugh came out softer than expected. “God, we’d be unbearable if anyone had to live with us.”
Lando kept losing, but only by enough that the game stayed alive, the slow scrape of cards on plastic a rhythm in itself. Your skirt was next by the rules, but you waited, dealt another hand, and when you lost, you decided to make it a small performance.
You stood, flashed a warning look in case it would embarrass him, but he just spread his hands like an invitation. The skirt undid at the waist with a pop, slid down your legs and you let it catch at mid-thigh, then drift down, a deliberate, silly, careful thing. You expected him to laugh, call you a dork, but Lando sat with his lips parted, eyes fixed, for once not ahead of the moment. The bralette and underwear you’d picked at random that morning were a soft set, one banded in elastic the other a faded gray; the colors clashed in the way only comfort could justify.
You sat back down and flicked a new hand his way. The room didn’t feel cold, but the air moved different without the drag of fabric. You pressed your knees together, then apart, unsure if the move was defense or emphasis. Lando’s gaze raked where it would, intent but not crude, and you caught yourself matching his energy, hungry but controlled.
Lando took his cards and didn’t even look at them.
“You alright?” you asked, because suddenly he was quiet in a way he usually wasn’t.
“Yeah.” he spat out too fast.
You tilted your head. “You look traumatized.”
A breath of laughter left him, thin around the edges. “You’re very committed to winning,” he said.
“That sounded accusatory.”
“It’s admiration.” His thumb dragged absentmindedly over the edge of a card. “Mostly.”
“Mostly?”
His eyes flicked up. “Still think you’re cheating.”
“I’m literally losing.”
“That’s exactly what someone trying to lower suspicion would say.”
When he lost, he palmed the waistband of his shorts like he might hesitate, then just pulled them off, no hesitation. He had, of course, boxers with tiny racing flags.
“I swear to god,” you snorted, but the sound came out wobbly, nerves and thrill braided through every word.
“Don’t pretend you didn’t want this exact aesthetic,” he shot back, and for a second you saw the posture slip, a flicker of something young and hopeful, still trying to impress.
“You have no idea how long I’ve waited to see you humiliated in those,” you said, unconvincing as possible, buying time, feigning dominance, but so aware all at once of your own body, the bright band of skin at your ribcage, the prickling heat pooling at the nape of your neck.
The next round was messy, hands dealt amid the static pulse of shared tension. You lost and there was no graceful way to do it: bralette off, shoulders raised a tick with the effort of pretending you didn’t care. Underneath, only your bra, an old, lacey thing with one loose strap, soft-edged but not particularly constructed for support or display. You pulled the top overhead, the fabric catching briefly in your hair, and flicked it at Lando’s chest. He caught it with two fingers, spun it like a lariat, and set it on his growing trophy pile.
“No commentary?” You asked, defiant, proud.
“Was just…unexpectedly decent, honestly.” He gave a lazy arch of brow, gaze flicking downward only for a nanosecond, but the effect was a punch in the belly, no matter how tiny the movement.
“This is the level of trash talk?” You said. “You’ll never make it in Vegas.”
“You wouldn’t make it past TSA.” He dealt the next hand, face stony, but his ears burned in high relief against his skin.
“Do you always get blushy when you’re losing?” You asked, prodding the gap that opened up between his words.
“Only when it’s you,” he shot back, but too quick to be calculated.
But it was you who lost again. This time, you didn’t try to stretch for an accessory. Instead, you reached behind, unhooking the bra with a twist and a practiced catch. For a flash you hesitated; then the straps slipped down, freeing your breasts, which lifted and settled with the inertia of action movie slow-mo.
Lando’s attention snapped to them, then up to your face, then—failing to adapt—lingered at the curve of your chest, as if the rest of you had dissolved into a glowing field of possibility.
“That’s just unsportsmanlike,” he said, but it sounded a lot like awe, mixed with a kind of stunned panic.
“Eyes up,” you said.
“They—” His jaw caught. “You’re just gonna sit there with them out?”
“Unless you’re forfeiting,” your voice came out playful but tight.
He blinked hard, swallowed, and grinned with a kind of desperate bravado. “You think I can’t handle some nudity? You’ve seen the paddock pranks. I’ve known guys who walked around with less than that.”
“You’re not facing them across a table, Norris.”
“You’re right,” he said, “Much harder to bluff against.” He flicked his cards, trying for casual, but fumbled the fourth one and had to scoop it up quick. It was like the air itself had thickened, charged and sticky, all eyes and adrenaline and the sick, sweet ache of being seen.
He played it off and squared the deck against the table with unnecessary concentration, shoulders pulling taut like composure could be manufactured through posture alone.
From where you sat, the fan of cards conveniently hid half his face. His eyes stayed lowered, expression carefully blank, thumb dragging over the corners like he was deep in strategy. Thinking. Calculating.
Except… The cards weren’t nearly high enough.
You tilted your head, watching the slow flick of his gaze over the rim of the hand he held—up, down, then stubbornly back again, like if he committed hard enough to the performance maybe reality would cooperate. The corners of your mouth twitched.
“You know,” you said lightly, resting your chin in your palm, “usually people look at their cards during poker.”
“I am looking at the cards,” he replied immediately. “Where else would I be looking?”
You raised a brow. “Sure you are.”
His grip tightened around the hand. “I literally am.”
“Mhm.”
He finally looked up, defensive in the way only guilty people ever were. “Why are you acting like I’m not?”
You leaned forward just enough to glance pointedly at the angle of the cards still hovering somewhere south of eye level.
“Because unless the ace of spades suddenly moved locations to my tits,” you said sweetly, “I don’t think that’s what you’re staring at.”
For one suspended second, he looked caught. He huffed a laugh through his nose, rubbing a hand over his mouth like he hated that you’d clocked him.
“In my defense,” he said, voice quieter now, helpless, “this is deeply distracting.”
“Oh, now who’s bad at poker?”
“You weaponized the situation,” he muttered. His eyes dropped again briefly, hopelessly, as if he’d been waiting for the reveal and now struggled to keep his eyes on your face, like the gravity of skin and shadow across your chest had tilted the entire room. You grinned slow and mean, all teeth.
“Keep gawking, Norris. See where it gets you,” you said, wiggling your fingers to prompt the next deal.
He snapped his eyes up, but it didn’t matter; the image of you, tits bare in the slanted light, was burned across his vision. He tried to play it off, making a show of shuffling, but this only highlighted his hands, jittery with, what, adrenaline? Nerves? You watched him and wondered—what did you look like to him right now? Were you even a person or more of a dare, a shape distilled down to the sum of everything forbidden and bright?
The cards fanned out slick between his palms, then splayed across the table, a challenge and a lifeline. You picked up your hand, leaned forward, aware now of every inch of bared skin and the way it caught the warm spill of overhead light. Lando’s gaze dipped again, caught, and you spread your arms over the table like a dealer in a backroom casino, letting your hair slip forward. His breathing got loud, shallow, almost a comic effect, but you didn’t laugh.
“Can’t handle the view?” You teased, bending further to rest your weight on your forearms, milking his hesitation for all it was worth.
He barked a short laugh, but the sound came out tight. “I can handle anything. Just didn’t expect you to go nuclear so fast.”
“Next time, maybe don’t bring a pea shooter to a gunfight.” You straightened, your hair falling down your back, then flung the best of your cards onto the table with practiced indifference. He lost the hand, spectacularly.
“You’re slipping,” you said.
He made a show of groaning. “You’re distracting. Deliberately so.”
“You know the rules, Norris.” You gestured.
Lando pushed his chair back with a scrape against the floor. He stood slowly, the dining room light catching every line of his bare chest and the gold chain that sat low on his collarbone. His racing flag boxers did nothing to hide the thick outline pressing against the fabric, the head of his cock clearly defined, the shaft straining sideways. A damp spot had already formed at the tip.
You leaned back in your seat, eyes dropping straight to it. “Well, well. Someone’s enjoying losing.”
He shifted his weight, one hand hovering near his waistband. The bulge twitched under your stare. “Fuck off,” he muttered, but there was no heat in it, just a shaky laugh.
You tilted your head. “You’re really gonna stand there pretending that’s not because of me?”
Lando swallowed. His fingers hooked the elastic but didn’t pull. “Are you really gonna make me do this?” His voice came out rough, almost pleading, eyes flicking between your face and the cards still scattered on the table. The tent in his boxers gave another visible throb, precum darkening the fabric further.
You let the moment lilt, let your own breath sputter a little with the effort of pretending not to care. The ache between your own legs built, a simmering distraction that made you want to taunt him or maybe just close the space and see how far you could push each other before the game broke.
You squared your chin, met his stare head-on. “Let’s see it, Norris.”
He still hesitated, hand still braced at his waist. You thought he might protest, stall for time, but instead he snapped the elastic down in one practiced jerk. The boxers dropped, revealing all of him—a lad-mag moment, but more honest: his cock sprung out, flushed high and lined rigid, the swells of his balls cinched tight. He was huge—hard enough to look painful—and he let the sight hang there between you, a challenge, almost a dare. You could see his chest lift with each shallow breath.
“Happy?” he said. It was sharp, but the way he said it—voice rough and just a shade tremorous—made it the opposite.
You let your eyes travel the length of him, open and unkind, but the stirring inside you made it harder to fake composure. “I’d give it a solid eight,” you said, and flashed teeth when he bristled. “Maybe nine with a better presentation.”
He blinked, like he hadn’t expected the reply to bite. “You’re relentless.”
“You wouldn’t want it any other way.” You tried for a poker face, but the muscles around your mouth had their own ideas. You cracked a knuckle, relishing his discomfort, then swept the deck into a fresh pile. “One more hand. Showdown.”
He was naked, you were nearly; the air between you buzzed like something electrical, dangerous enough that another person would have flinched away.
“Well, Norris,” you said, “what do you want to bet now?”
He laughed and the sound surprised him, bright and a little wild, a laugh that opened him to the room, to you, to what would happen next. “You in for double or nothing?”
You pushed the chair out and stood, so close now the shadows could barely fit between you. “Stakes?”
He tried not to look at your chest but did anyway—how the light caught at the curves, the color play of skin and shadow, the delicate network of lines below your collarbone. “Loser has to—” he started, but came up blank. He wanted to say, loser has to stop pretending, loser has to close the gap, loser has to admit what they’ve been angling at since the beginning, since the queen’s face on the coffee table, since the first time you ever called him afraid.
You grinned, reading his silence, filling it with your own offer. “Loser gives the winner whatever they want,” your voice was husky now, catching in the faintest way on each word.
The room held its breath. He could feel nothing but the orbit of your body, the heat off your skin, the want in the air. For the first time in his life, Lando Norris felt like he was about to crash, and instead of pulling off, he let it ride. He nodded, serious now. “You’re on,” he said, and dealt the cards onto the battered tabletop.
The hand-up was abysmal. No chance, nothing left, just three busted low cards and the knowledge that you were going down swinging. You let the dead hand drop, the cards spat out on the laminate. Lando’s face cracked into a wide, victorious grin, but you could taste the hunger in it, the sharp glint in his eyes that meant this had stopped being a joke somewhere in the last three hands.
“Show them,” he said.
“Hell no,” you said, cheeks hot and reached for the waistband of your underwear. They were nothing fancy, just the last in a string of cheap cotton, navy blue, with a faded logo on the hip—relic from a week you’d spent trying to convince yourself you were organized enough to buy matching sets. You hooked a thumb into the elastic—but before you could slide them down, Lando stood. The chair legs groaned back and he was beside you, close enough to feel the static shudder between your bodies. His hand caught yours lightly, but the grip had no give.
“What—” you looked up, ready for some smartass quip, but the words jammed against the back of your teeth.
His hand drew yours away from your own hip and pressed your palm flat to the rough table. You couldn’t tell if he was smirking or just absolutely focused, but either way he had your attention.
“I won,” he said, his voice rough. “Loser gives the winner whatever they want, remember?”
You rolled your eyes, still hot. “Don’t tell me you’re so predictable you want a striptease—”
“That’s not what I want.” He leaned in so close you could taste the sweet sting of his gum, the faint musk of his skin, sun and vinyl and something underneath. “I want you to let me do it. Unwrap you like a fucking present.”
You tried for a laugh and it cracked, nothing behind it. “You’re full of it.”
His hand was already on your thigh, thumb tracing circles low and slow, just above the line of the cotton. “Maybe. But you’re not stopping me.”
In fact you opened your knees a fraction, letting him slot between, the edge of the table digging a pleasant groove into the backs of your thighs. His other hand slipped behind, bracing at your lower back, and you felt a dizzy, childish urge to dare him to keep going.
The elastic band stretched under his fingers. He pulled it out and away, snapping it against your hip, a little flicker of shock sharp and brilliant. You jolted, laughing, but the shock gave way to a sizzle that ran straight up your spine. You could feel the heat in your face, your neck, all the way between your legs.
“You’re not gentle,” you whispered. You didn’t mean it as an insult.
He grinned, a flash of white. “Never.”
He crouched until he was eye-level with your navel, hands braced at your hips. The slow slide of your underwear was deliberate, like a performance, and for a second you felt on display, stripped to nothing not just of material but of defenses, jokes, everything. The reality of your bare skin—your breasts, your thighs, the prickle at the crest of your pubic bone—made your skin catch fire and ache somewhere you didn’t have words for. You expected nerves, but instead there was just a hungry, animal want: to see if his mouth would follow his hands, to see if he’d fuck with you or just fuck you.
He made it about halfway down before pausing, breath ghosting over every inch he revealed. His lips traced the soft swell of your belly, then a tiny, mocking kiss to the base of your navel. The panties bunched at your knees, caught, and you thought he’d stop, milk the moment, but instead he knelt in front of you.
He didn’t even bother with the old sports commentator routine or some cheesy victory whoop. Instead, he pushed your legs further apart, sliding you toward the edge until the flex of your inner thighs sang a warning. Then he just—stared. You could feel your cunt go hot and wet, obvious even to the air, and the urge to close your knees warred with the sick compulsion to see what he’d do next.
“Damn,” he said, voice gone hoarse. His hands drifted up, fingertips resting feather-light on your knees, denting down, as if he was weighing the muscle beneath the skin. He glanced up, holding you in his crosshairs, and grinned—feral, victorious. “Are you gonna pretend that’s not all because of me?”
You tried to laugh, to downplay, but the sound snagged somewhere behind your teeth. Lando dragged a slow exhale, then thumbed along the crease of your thigh, tracing circles that seemed to pulse with your heartbeat. The muscles of his jaw flexed as he drew himself closer and his breath hit damp and sweet against you, warping the air between you.
There was no warning, not even a smirk. He ducked, lips catching the inside of your knee, teeth a teasing scrape, and you went rigid—not because you were nervous, but because no one had ever made anything so simple feel so obscene. His tongue flicked, heat and salt and the tiny, electric pain of stubble, and you were so aware now, every nerve ending in your groin a live wire.
He worked his way up, slow and methodical, each press of his mouth hotter, hungrier, his hands shifting to keep your legs open, locked wide and helpless. The first brush of his tongue was barely a touch, but it sent a shock so sharp your whole body juddered like a misfiring engine. Lando clocked the reaction and made a private game of torturing you, lapping bold up the seam, then drawing back just when you squirmed against the surface.
“You want me to—?” he started, voice muffled and dark with laughter, but you cut him off with a groan, fisting your hand in his hair and shoving his head back between your legs.
He took the hint, this time going all in—tongue gliding flat, wide, an unhurried circuit that made your hips tip up. He hummed and the sound, vibrating straight through, nearly undid you. He licked and sucked, every trick as precise as when he feathered a car through a high-speed chicane, zero room for error. Each flick and lap built on the last, an incremental drag through madness, and your whole body started to shake, tremors rolling up your spine.
Somewhere in the middle of it, your cards—your pathetic, doomed hand—slid off of the table when you leaned back too hard, skittering across the laminate in a useless scatter.
You barely noticed. The edge of the dining table pressed into the small of your back as you tipped farther against it, chasing breath, chasing balance. Sweat gathered where skin met wood, tacky and warm, and one stupid card—queen of hearts, of course—ended up plastered crooked against your spine, clinging there like the universe was mocking you.
You reached blindly behind yourself, fingertips brushing cardboard stuck to damp skin, but the movement only made the mess worse—more cards dragged along with you, bending at the corners, sticking where sweat had turned the whole night sticky and ridiculous.
The room spun, lit gold by the single bulb, the city a smear of silver across the window, the linoleum tacky beneath your toes. You grabbed the edge of the table to steady yourself, nails biting into wood, as Lando’s hands pinned you at the hips and dragged you closer, greedy, like he needed to taste all of you at once.
You were never quiet and he didn’t want you to be; every gasp, every curse, every threat to kill him if he didn’t keep going fed back into the loop. His tongue circled, then pressed; his hands tight at your thighs, bruising, holding you open wider. When you bucked your hips he laughed into you, the vibration electric.
“Jesus, Norris—” you ground the heel of your palm into your mouth, delirious with the pressure, the build building, cresting, unmanageable.
“You still wanna bluff?” he said, barely lifting his head.
“Fuck—fuck you—” you could barely catch your breath.
“Yeah?” Tongue flat, voice muffled, “Tell me you want it.”
You said, “I want it, shut up, keep going,” and he did, relentless, until the line inside you snapped. You came so hard you saw white. There was no time for embarrassment or composure; you jerked, spasmed, rode the aftershocks until your body felt wrung out and boneless.
You blinked, vision coming back, and realized your legs were trembling. Lando was still on his knees, mouth slick with you, watching you with the pride of someone who’d won the only game that mattered.
“Holy shit,” you said or tried to. It came out as a croak.
He stood up smoothly, stared a second, then wiped his mouth, smirk barely controlled. His cock, still hard and heavy, bobbed between you, nudging your thigh.
You stood next and caught his chain as you moved. He was smirking, sure, but you didn’t miss the flex at his jaw, the white-knuckle tension in his fingers where they clamped the tabletop. He’d just reduced you to shreds and expected, what? That he’d stay in control? No fucking chance.
“My turn.” You pressed him down into the chair; he went, not resistant but not relaxed either, muscles twitching under your hands. His cock curved upward, flushed so dark it looked bruised at the tip, so slick you half-wondered if he would’ve finished if you’d taunted him just a few seconds longer. It was unreasonably pretty, like the rest of him, and massive—impossible not to stare. You liked knowing you’d done that.
Lando watched you, half-lidded, head tilted with a look that should’ve been cocky but landed closer to desperate. There was a dare in his eyes, as close to begging as he’d ever let himself get outside of a car. You wrapped your hand around the base, thumb sweeping up with the drag of precum, and the hiss that escaped him was all reward.
Your grip was experimental, not careful—you didn’t want careful, you wanted to see how fast you could turn him inside out. You stroked once, twice, letting the head bump the heel of your palm, then bent at the knees, lined yourself up and took him in. He swore instantly, a noise somewhere between a whimper and a curse. It made you feel like a god.
His hands hovered at your temples, like he meant to guide you and then thought better of it. You bobbed your head, tongue swirling the way you’d always pretended to on fruit flavored popsicles, except now he was the one melting.
“Fuck, you’re—” he said, but no noun followed. You hummed around him, feeling the pulse through every inch, then slid deeper, letting your lips seal at the crown. His legs tensed, knees knocking the wood beneath. He tasted both sharp and faintly sweet, sweat and some chemical edge of energy drink and skin. You kept eye contact because you knew it would wreck him; when you gagged once, soft and unashamed, his jaw clicked shut so hard you heard his teeth grind.
You waited for the pride to come, but instead there was a rush of want, a need to see him undone in a way nothing else could. You went harder, faster. His hips came off the chair, not more than an inch but enough to make the chain at his neck slap against his collarbone. One hand fell to your shoulder, squeezing—testing if you’d slow, if you’d need him to back off.
You worked him until your jaw ached, spit slicking your chin, your tits brushing his knees as you bobbed. He cursed again, a string of vowels, hands buried in your hair. You pulled off just to catch your breath, flicked your tongue at the slit, and grinned at the way his thighs shuddered.
“Not so cocky now?” You said and let the edge cut deep.
He was panting. “You’re—oh, my god. Christ, y/n—”
You cut him off, took him back in, but this time slowed, teasing the head, letting him feel every stutter of your tongue. You felt like you were winning at something that was supposed to have no winners. You wanted to keep going until he lost his mind. He got louder, swearing, then begging—for you to slow, to keep going, then just noises that weren’t words at all.
The grip on your head was possessive now, anchoring you, and you let him, because giving up control was its own kind of power. You could feel it when he got close; the cock swelled impossibly hard, his stomach quivered, his breath caught in huge, stuttering gasps. You pulled off, hand stroking the length fast and filthy and he came with a full-body jerk, white slashing across your chest, then again, coating your knuckles and wrist.
Lando’s mouth fell open but no sound came out—just ragged exhale, disbelief. You licked your thumb, tasted him, made sure he noticed.
“Winner treatment,” you said and wiped your hand on his thigh, as much a trophy as the rest of his pile. He slumped, a wrecked heap, still looking at you like you were a miracle or a monster, maybe both.
You scraped a wrist over your mouth, the aftertaste of sweat and salt a dare you decided to answer. He watched, chest lifting and falling like a guy who’d just run the full length of the grid, and for a flash of a second you saw it: Lando Norris, fast and bewildered, naked in his apartment with his hands full of nothing and his world reduced to the electric inches between your skin.
You got greedy.
Dragged yourself into his lap, straddling him, heat blue-flame sharp at the seam where your thighs met the hollow of his, and felt the hard, slick head of his cock catch at your belly, then lower, cradling between the lips already soaked for him. His hands found your ass, urgent, fingers digging for gravity. You were both still sort of laughing, the way people did when the air got crowded, but the sound died as you lined him up, slow and on purpose, because this was yours now.
You sank down.
It should’ve hurt or at least been a challenge; he was thick, hot, unfamiliar, but the want in you slicked the path so smooth you took all of him, the head breaching, the shaft stretching you wide and sudden. For a second your own body betrayed you, a gasp you tried to swallow surfacing high and raw instead. He hissed, dug nails into your lower back, the noise mostly a plea. When you started to move, his head tipped back and he said your name like an oath, like a winner’s prayer.
Everything blurred. Table edge biting into your knee, chair creaking under the torque, the world spinning down to the grind and pulse and the chase of his cock as you rode him. You wanted to make him lose again, on your terms. He was so deep it made you dizzy; your nerves lit up from tailbone to scalp, every bounce a bolt through cartilage. You set the pace, rolling your hips, riding the friction until you felt yourself about to break again.
He tried to kiss you, but the angle was all wrong and what he actually managed was a drag of teeth at your collarbone, every breath steaming your skin as he muttered, “so fucking good,” and “you’re insane,” and “fuck, don’t stop, don’t ever—”
You weren’t going to.
He slid a hand between you, thumb circling your clit, and you almost slapped it away but instead clawed at his hair, the tug drawing another ragged moan out of his battered voicebox. The flicker of his chain, the way his body trembled under yours, the double rhythm of his fingers and cock—all of it knotted together, shoved you higher, until your pulse stuttered and you came again, so hard your vision pixelated at the edge, the room popping and going silent like you’d blacked out for a millisecond.
When you came back, he was biting your shoulder, one hand locked at your waist to keep you moving, the other digging imprints into the meat of your thigh. You could feel the final tension in him, every muscle clenched, every inch of him hungry for the finish line. You knew he’d wait if you wanted, but that was not what you needed. You wanted to see him lose, hard and all the way down, cock deep and snapped in half with it.
You collapsed forward, braced a hand at the back of his neck, and rode out the aftershocks in shaky, stuttered bounces, the slap of skin loud in the hush. Lando was babbling, nonsense endearments and your name and a random curse in Dutch that sounded like a hail Mary. He went at your clit again, determined, and it was too much, your whole lower half fizzing out.
He held you through it, arms wrapped, neither of you pretending anymore. When he finally came a second time—inside you, sudden and raw, noise wrung from somewhere buried—he shuddered so hard the chair nearly toppled backwards. You clung to his shoulders, laughing breathless, half crying, overwhelmed by the shake in your own limbs.
After, there was nothing, but heat and the burn of skin. Your chest pressed to his, sweat glued you together. His heartbeat thudded rabbit-quick against your sternum. You could smell yourself on his chin and chest, taste the copper bite of your own blood at your lip where you’d bit down a little too hard. It felt elemental, like an accident or a fever. He stroked your hair, heavy and slow, low on words, but pouring everything out in the easy drape of his arms and the simple fact that he didn’t let go.
“You’re a menace,” he managed, voice shredded and childlike.
You made a dismissive noise and nuzzled in, hiding your face against his neck, not sure if you were shielding yourself or just inhaling the ghost of his cologne.
“I mean it,” he said, more quietly now. “Like catastrophic levels. You could start a war.”
Your cheekbone fit the shelf of his shoulder perfectly. “Sorry,” you lied.
“You’re not.”
“Not even a bit.”
He exhaled and you felt the rumble through your whole torso. With his knees parted and you sprawled over him, your bodies lined up so precisely you wondered if chemistry was a joke or just an ugly word for something like this.
𖤓 when their bassist breaks his hand two weeks before the biggest uni band competition of the year, they need a replacement. fast. You weren’t planning on joining a band, especially not one that’s competing against your ex. But when their post shows up on your feed, it suddenly feels like the perfect idea. Revenge first. Everything else later.
𖤓 kimi antonelli x fem!reader, band au, uni au, rivals, strangers to bandmates to lovers, smau + written (multi-part), drummer!Kimi, quiet!Kimi x chaotic!reader, fc:bea
𖤓 note: All the uni stuff is UK based, so if some things seem odd, sorry gang idk how uni life or degrees work in other countries! Also my goofy ass has never touched a guitar, let alone been in a band so um if all the music stuff also doesn't make any sense, just ignore it pls! Episodes will be posted weekly!
𖤓 Listen to "Teenage Dirtbag" when reading this!
Profiles | Part one | Part two | Part three | Part four | Part five | Part six | Part seven | Part eight | Part nine | Part ten
You stared at your phone.
Kimi's last message glowed on the screen: see you at 7.
Your brain had stopped working approximately four texts ago, somewhere between dinner at Antonio's and dress nice. This wasn't happening. This couldn't be happening. You'd asked about a bracelet. A BRACELET. How had a bracelet turned into dinner at the most romantic restaurant in the city?
He's just being nice, you told yourself. Friends have dinner together. Friends dress up and go to nice restaurants and —
"EMERGENCY. EMERGENCY MEET UP AT MY DORM NOW."
You'd already typed the message before you could stop yourself. Your fingers moved faster than your brain, which was probably for the best because your brain was currently useless.
The first knock came thirty seconds later.
Franco leaned against your doorframe, not even out of breath, like he'd been teleported there. "You said emergency."
"How are you always this fast? like genouinly how??"
"Because you always desperately need my amazing guidance and help," He stepped inside, scanning the room. "What happened? Tell me everything."
Before you could answer, Gabriel appeared in the doorway, shirt inside out, hair somehow vertical. "I was in the middle of a nap. This better be good."
Next, Devon came running down the hall in heels — HEELS — because of course she did. "WHAT. WHAT HAPPENED. IS EVERYONE OKAY."
"I'm fine —"
"THEN WHY DID YOU SAY EMERGENCY."
"I panicked —"
"YOU NEVER PANIC. THIS IS SERIOUS."
Isack arrived next, laptop under his arm, looking like he'd been dragged away from something important. Ella stumbled in last, still wearing her supermarket uniform — a blue polo shirt with a grease stain on the collar, her name tag slightly crooked. "I RAN. I RAN THE WHOLE WAY. MY MANAGER IS GOING TO KILL ME."
"Your shift isn't over?" Isack questioned with a raised eyebrow.
"I told her it was a family emergency."
"It IS a family emergency," Devon said. "This is about LOVE."
Ella's eyes went wide. "I see we're using the scary L word Y/N hates, so it must be super serious then"
"YES." You held up your phone. "Look. Just — look."
They crowded around. Five heads bent over the screen, reading the messages in unison. The silence stretched. Then —
"HE ASKED YOU ON A DATE," Devon screamed.
"I don't know that —"
"ANTONIO'S," Gabriel yelled. "ANTONIO'S IS WHERE PEOPLE PROPOSE."
"It's just dinner —" you try to argue.
"DRESS NICE," Isack read aloud. "I'll PICK YOU UP at SEVEN."
"He's just being polite —"
"KIMI ANTONELLI," Ella said slowly, "just asked you to dinner at the most expensive restaurant in the city and told you to dress nice."
You opened your mouth. Closed it.
"That's a date," Franco said quietly.
"It's NOT —"
"Y/N." Franco's voice was gentle. "Friends don't go to Antonio's on a Tuesday night. Friends don't say dress nice. Friends don't —" he glanced at the phone, "— send smiley faces."
"That's not —"
"Let me get you dressed," Devon said, already pulling open your wardrobe. "Oh my god, let me get you DRESSED."
"You don't even know if I'm going —"
"You're going."
"I'm not —"
"You're going." Devon pulled out a dress — the black one, the one she'd been begging you to wear for months. "Wear this."
"That's too fancy."
"It's Antonio's. Nothing is too fancy."
Gabriel was already on his phone. "Okay so I just looked it up and the cheapest thing on the menu is like forty pounds."
"FORTY POUNDS FOR WHAT?" you shout from your bedroom as you put the dress on.
"Garlic bread."
"GARLIC BREAD IS NOT WORTH FORTY POUNDS."
Isack took the phone from Gabriel. "It says here they do a couples discount."
"A COUPLES DISCOUNT?!"
"It's a romantic restaurant, Y/N. What did you expect?"
"I expected —" You stopped. Swallowed. "I expected to get my bracelet back. That's it. That's all this was supposed to be."
Ella sat on the bed, still in her work uniform, still slightly out of breath. "But it's not, though. Is it?"
You looked at your friends. Franco's gentle smile. Devon's excited energy. Gabriel's chaos. Isack's raised eyebrow. Ella's knowing eyes.
"I don't do dates," you said. "You know I don't do dates. After Mark — I'm not — I don't —"
"You don't have to call it a date," Franco said. "Call it dinner. Call it a friendly meal. Call it whatever you need to call it. But you're going. Because you want to."
"I don't —"
"You walked twenty minutes to his building last week."
"That was —"
"You let him carry your bass."
"That's just —"
"You rested your head on his shoulder for thirty minutes and pretended to be asleep."
Your face went hot. "I WAS tired."
"You were pretending."
"I was —" You stopped. Sighed. "I hate all of you."
"No you don't," Devon said, already holding up the black dress. "Now put this on. We have three hours and your hair is a disaster."
The doorbell rang at exactly 7 PM.
You'd been pacing for ten minutes. Devon had done your makeup. Ella had fixed your hair. Franco had told you to breathe approximately forty-seven times. Gabriel had taken approximately eighty photos for "archival purposes."
"Go," Devon hissed. "GO."
"I'm going."
"You look hot."
"I look like I'm trying too hard."
"You look like you're about to make him forget his own name."
You opened the door.
Kimi was standing there.
He was wearing a dark button-down you'd never seen before. His hair was pushed back from his forehead. His jaw was —
Stop it, you told yourself. He's just a friend. This is just dinner.
But then he looked at you.
And stopped.
His eyes went wide. His mouth opened slightly. He stared — actually stared — like he'd forgotten how to speak, how to move, how to do anything except stand there and look at you.
"You look —" he started.
"You have my bracelet," you interrupted.
"I do." He held it up — the silver chain you'd left in the practice room, the one your grandmother had given you. "Figured I should return it in person."
"You could have given it to me tomorrow."
"I could have."
"You didn't have to —"
Kimi tilted his head. "Friends can have dinner."
"Friends can."
"At nice restaurants."
"They can."
"On Tuesday nights."
"If they want to."
Kimi's mouth twitched. That almost-smile. "Then it's settled. We're friends. Having dinner."
"Exactly."
"At a romantic restaurant."
"Okay." You stepped out, closing the door behind you. "Then let's go."
He didn't move.
"Kimi?"
"Yeah." He shook his head slightly, like he was waking up from a dream. "Yeah. Sorry. You just —" He stopped. Started again. "The dress."
"What about it?"
"Nothing." He looked away, hiding his face that was now turning light pink. "Nothing. Let's go."
You walked to his car.
He opened the door for you.
You pretended not to notice the way his hand lingered on the frame, or the way he looked at you one more time before walking around to the driver's side.
Friends, you told yourself. Just friends.
But friends didn't look at each other like that.
Antonio's was exactly as ridiculous as your friends had described.
Candles on every table. White tablecloths. A pianist in the corner playing something soft and romantic. The lighting was low, intimate, the kind of lighting that made everyone look like they were in a movie.
You felt wildly out of place.
Kimi pulled out your chair. You sat. He sat across from you, close enough that your knees almost touched under the table.
"So," you said.
"So."
"This is —"
"Nice."
"Yeah." You looked around. "Really nice."
"You sound surprised."
"I didn't think you were the type to know places like this."
Kimi shrugged. "My parents took me here once. For a graduation."
"Engineering graduation?"
"Drumming graduation."
"You had a drumming graduation?"
"I had a recital. They made a big deal out of it." His mouth curved. "My sister cried."
"That's adorable."
"It was embarrassing."
"What else?"
Kimi tilted his head. "What else what?"
"You know everything about me. My major. My friends. My coffee order. I know nothing about you." You leaned forward. "So. Tell me."
He was quiet for a moment. Then: "I have a sister. Maggie. She's eleven."
"Eleven?"
"She's annoying. She steals my hoodies. She sends me voice notes that are thirteen minutes long."
"That's adorable."
"It's exhausting."
"What else?"
Kimi shrugged. "My parents are both engineers. They wanted me to be an engineer too."
"And instead you became a drummer."
"And instead I became a drummer." His mouth curved. "They're still processing."
You laughed. It felt easy. Natural. Like you'd been doing this for years.
"What about you?" Kimi asked. "How did you start playing bass?"
You hesitated. You didn't talk about this. Not with Mark. Not with most people.
"My grandfather," you said finally. "He was a musician. He taught me when I was twelve. I wasn't very good at first —"
"You're good now."
"You haven't heard me play outside of band practice."
"I've heard enough."
Your chest tightened. "He died a few years ago. I stopped playing after that. It didn't feel right. Playing without him. And well, Mark was also not very keen on me playing bass."
Kimi didn't say anything. He just listened. The way he always did.
"But then Ollie asked me to join the band," you continued. "And I thought — maybe it's time. Maybe I don't have to stop just because he's gone."
"You don't," Kimi said softly. "He'd probably want you to play."
"Yeah," you said. "He probably would."
The food came. Pasta. Wine. Things you couldn't pronounce. You talked about nothing and everything — about Maggie's obsession with cats, about your grandfather's terrible taste in hats, about the time Kimi accidentally set off the fire alarm in his dorm and blamed it on burnt toast.
"You didn't burn toast," you said, mid-laugh.
"I burned something."
"What did you burn?"
"…Popcorn."
"Kimi."
"It was a mistake."
"You set off a fire alarm because of POPCORN."
"The bag said three minutes. I got distracted."
"By what?"
Kimi looked at you. His eyes were dark in the candlelight. "By something."
Your heart skipped.
Stop it, you told yourself. This is just dinner. Friends have dinner.
But friends didn't look at each other like that.
The waiter appeared with the bill.
You reached for it automatically. "I'll get half —"
Kimi's hand covered yours. "No."
"I can pay for myself —"
"I know." He didn't move his hand. "But you're not going to."
"Kimi —"
"Friends can treat friends."
"This isn't —" You stopped. His hand was warm. His fingers were wrapped around yours, not tight, just — there. "This is expensive."
"I know."
"Kimi."
"Y/N."
The waiter cleared his throat. "Couple's discount?"
You opened your mouth to correct him — we're not a couple, we're just friends, this isn't a date —
"Yes," Kimi said. "Thank you."
The waiter smiled. Walked away.
You stared at Kimi. "Why did you —"
"It's cheaper."
"You let him think —"
"It's significantly cheaper."
"That's not the point —"
"What's the point?"
The point was that your heart was racing. The point was that his hand was still on yours. The point was that you didn't pull away.
"Nothing," you said. "No point."
Kimi's thumb brushed across your knuckles. Once. Twice. Then he let go.
"Ready to go?" he asked.
"Yeah," you said. "Okay."
His car was warm. The heater hummed. The city lights blurred past the window, gold and orange against the dark.
You sat in the passenger seat, bracelet back on your wrist, your grandmother's silver cool against your skin. Kimi drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the gearshift. Close to your knee. Not touching.
"So," you said.
"So."
"That was —"
"Dinner."
"Yeah." You looked at him. His profile was sharp against the streetlights. "Good dinner."
"Yeah."
"You didn't have to pay."
"I know."
"You didn't have to let the waiter think we were a couple."
Kimi was quiet for a moment. Then: "Maybe I wanted to."
Your breath caught.
He didn't look at you. His eyes stayed on the road. But his hand — his hand shifted on the gearshift. Closer. Not touching. Almost.
This is not a date, you told yourself. This is not a date.
But it felt like one.
And you weren't sure you minded.
He walked you to your building. The street was quiet, the party long over, the only light from the lamp above the entrance.
You stopped at the door. Turned to face him.
"Thanks," you said. "For the bracelet."
"You're welcome."
"And the dinner."
"You're welcome."
"And —" You paused. "For not making it weird."
Kimi tilted his head. "Was it not weird?"
"No," you said. "It was — it was nice."
"Nice."
"Nice."
He smiled. That small, private smile that made your stomach flip.
"Goodnight, Y/N."
"Goodnight, Kimi."
You should have gone inside. You should have turned, walked through the door, ended the night like a normal person.
Instead, you leaned up.
Pressed a kiss to his cheek.
Quick. Soft. Barely there.
Then you turned, pushed open the door, and walked inside before you could see his face.
Your heart was pounding. Your hands were shaking. Your cheek was burning where his stubble had brushed against your skin.
You closed the door behind you and leaned against it.
Devon, Ella, and Franco were standing in the living room.
Franco was holding a mug of tea. Devon was holding her phone, clearly mid-text. Ella was still in her work uniform, because of course she hadn't changed.
"WE SAW THAT," Devon screamed.
"FROM THE WINDOW," Ella added.
"I'm not even going to ask why you're here," you said, looking at Franco.
"You kissed him on the cheek," Devon said. "ON THE CHEEK."
"It was a friend kiss."
"THERE'S NO SUCH THING AS A FRIEND KISS."
"There is in France."
"We're not in France."
"Cultural ignorance."
Devon threw a pillow at you. You caught it.
"WHAT DID HE SAY," Ella demanded. "After you kissed him. WHAT DID HE DO."
"I didn't look."
"YOU DIDN'T LOOK."
"I closed the door. I didn't want to — I didn't —" You pressed your hands to your cheeks. They were burning. "Oh god."
"Oh god good or oh god bad?"
"I don't know."
Franco set down his tea. Walked over. Put his hands on your shoulders.
"Breathe," he said.
"I'm breathing."
"You're hyperventilating."
"I'm fine."
"You're in love."
"I'm not —"
"You kissed him on the cheek and ran inside like a teenager."
"I was being polite."
"You were being romantic."
"I don't do romance."
Franco smiled. "You do now."
You wanted to argue. You wanted to tell him he was wrong. You wanted to list all the reasons this was just a friendly dinner between two people who happened to be in a band together.
But then you remembered the way Kimi had looked at you across the table. The way his hand had covered yours. The way he'd said maybe I wanted to.
And you couldn't.
Because Franco was right.
Kimi stood on the pavement for a full minute.
His cheek was still warm where your lips had been. His heart was still racing. His hands were still shaking.
She kissed me, he thought. She kissed me on the cheek and ran inside.
He touched his face. Right where you'd been.
Then he smiled.
A real smile. The kind he rarely showed anyone.
He walked back to his car. Got in. Sat there for another minute, replaying the night. The way you'd looked in that dress. The way you'd laughed at his stupid popcorn story. The way you'd said goodnight like you meant it.
Friends, he thought.
Then he laughed — a quiet, disbelieving laugh — and shook his head.
𖤓 when their bassist breaks his hand two weeks before the biggest uni band competition of the year, they need a replacement. fast. You weren’t planning on joining a band, especially not one that’s competing against your ex. But when their post shows up on your feed, it suddenly feels like the perfect idea. Revenge first. Everything else later.
𖤓 kimi antonelli x fem!reader, band au, uni au, rivals, strangers to bandmates to lovers, smau + written (multi-part), drummer!Kimi, quiet!Kimi x chaotic!reader, fc:bea
𖤓 note: All the uni stuff is UK based, so if some things seem odd, sorry gang idk how uni life or degrees work in other countries! Also my goofy ass has never touched a guitar, let alone been in a band so um if all the music stuff also doesn't make any sense, just ignore it pls! Episodes will be posted weekly!
𖤓 Listen to "Teenage Dirtbag" when reading this!
Profiles | Part one | Part two | Part three | Part four | Part five | Part six | Part seven | Part eight | Part nine | Part ten
The walk to band practice had never been complicated.
You walked. You arrived. You played bass. That was the routine.
But today, you had company.
Franco fell into step beside you outside the economics building, his lab coat still on, goggles pushed up into his hair. He looked like he'd just escaped from a science experiment, which — to be fair — he had.
"You didn't have to walk me," you said.
"My lab is on the way."
"Your lab is in the opposite direction."
"The scenic route."
You raised an eyebrow. Franco smiled — that sweet, disarming smile that made everyone fall in love with him immediately. You were immune. Mostly.
"Fine," you said. "But you're not allowed to laugh at me."
"I would never."
"You're going to laugh."
"I'm going to support you. Emotionally. From a distance."
"That's literally the same thing as laughing."
Before Franco could respond, a voice cut through the afternoon air.
"Y/N! Y/N, WAIT UP."
Ollie came jogging toward you, cast still bright blue, backpack bouncing with every step. His face was flushed, his hair somehow messier than usual, and he was wearing a t-shirt that said "I'M WITH STUPID" with an arrow pointing vaguely to the side.
You stopped walking. Franco stopped walking.
Ollie skidded to a halt in front of you, breathing hard. "I've been — calling your name — for like — three blocks —"
"I have headphones in," you said.
"You have nothing in your ears right now."
"I have mental headphones."
"That's not a thing."
"It's a thing. I invented it."
Ollie shook his head, then noticed Franco standing next to you. His eyes narrowed.
"Who's this?"
"Franco," you said. "My friend."
"Friend," Ollie repeated, like the word was foreign to him. "I thought I was your friend."
"You're an acquaintance."
"An ACQUAINTANCE?"
"You're barely even that. You're more of a… situation."
"I'm your favourite person."
"You're my least favourite person who I tolerate out of pity."
Ollie clutched his chest like you'd stabbed him. Franco watched the exchange with quiet amusement, his smile never wavering.
"I'm Franco," Franco said, extending a hand. "Y/N's actual best friend." Says Franco with emphasis on the ‘best’.
Ollie stared at the hand. Then at Franco's face. Then back at the hand.
"Best friend," Ollie said slowly.
"Since freshers' week." Franco responded smugly.
"I've known her since —"
"Freshers' week was 11 months ago” Franco cuts Ollie off.
"I've known her in my HEART for longer."
Franco's smile didn't waver, but something flickered in his eyes. Something that looked almost like competitiveness. You'd never seen Franco be competitive about anything except maybe the last slice of pizza.
"Y/N," Franco said, not looking away from Ollie, "who would you call in an emergency?"
"What?"
"Hypothetically. If something happened. Who would you call?"
"Probably you," you admitted.
Franco's smile widened. Ollie's face fell.
"I would also be available," Ollie said quickly. "I have a very flexible schedule."
"You have extra classes."
"Classes are flexible."
"You failed a module last semester."
"That was a CHOICE."
You started walking again, mostly to escape the weird energy crackling between them. They followed — flanking you on either side like two very odd, very argumentative bodyguards.
"So," Ollie said, recovering his composure. "You're walking her to practice?"
"I'm walking with her," Franco corrected. "There's a difference."
"Is there?"
"I'm being supportive. You're just… also here."
"I'm the reason she's in the band!"
"You're the reason she's stressed."
"I'm the reason she's MET people."
"You're the reason she has a blackmail folder."
Ollie opened his mouth with a sense of shock "She told YOU about the blackmail folder?"
"She tells me everything." Franco says as he tries to bite down the small smirk that’s forming.
You pinched the bridge of your nose. "Can you both please stop pretending I'm not standing right here?"
"No," they said in unison.
You sighed.
They kept bickering. Something about who knew you better. Something about who had seen you cry first (Franco, during a particularly bad breakup before Mark, which Ollie seemed personally wounded by). Something about who had your spare key (Franco, obviously, because Ollie would lose it within five minutes).
By the time you reached the rehearsal building, you'd developed a headache.
"This is me," you said, stopping at the door.
Franco stopped. Ollie stopped.
"I'll wait here," Franco said. "In case you need emotional support after."
"You don't have to —"
"I'll be here."
Ollie crossed his arms. "I'll be inside. With the band. Where I belong."
"You don't play anymore. You're injured."
"I'm morally present."
"You're morally annoying."
"Well at least I will be with MY best friend whilst your loser ass stays outside” Ollie stuck his tongue out at Franco. Franco, to his credit, did not react. But you saw the tiny muscle in his jaw twitch, and you filed that away for later.
"Okay," you said, pushing the door open. "I'm going inside now. Before I lose my will to live."
"Love you!" Franco called.
"I tolerate you!" Ollie called back.
You didn't turn around.
But you were smiling.
Inside the rehearsal room, the energy was different.
Liam was tuning his guitar, sprawled across the sofa like he owned it. Arvid was pacing by the amp, muttering something about chord progressions under his breath. And Kimi —
Kimi was behind the drum kit, as always.
His hand was bandaged. Just a small strip of white across his knuckles, barely noticeable unless you were looking. Which you weren't. You definitely weren't looking at his hands.
"Y/N!" Liam waved. "Our hero. Our savior. The woman who inspired violence."
"I didn't inspire anything —"
"Kimi never punches people. Kimi doesn't even raise his voice. And then you show up and suddenly he's throwing hands in the quad." Liam shook his head admiringly. "You're a bad influence."
"I'm not —"
"She's a great influence," Ollie said, dropping onto the sofa. "She's taught him to stand up for himself."
"She's taught him to commit assault."
"It was justified assault." Ollie argues back.
"There's no such thing."
"There is in my heart."
Arvid stopped pacing. "Can we please focus? We have less than two weeks until the competition. TWO WEEKS. And instead of practicing, we're discussing —" he gestured vaguely at everyone, "— whatever this is."
"This is camaraderie," Liam said.
"This is chaos."
Arvid pinched the bridge of his nose. You felt a sudden kinship with him.
"Let's just run the setlist," you said, picking up your bass. "From the top."
The first run was rough.
Not because anyone played badly — but because something was off. You could feel it in the way Liam kept glancing between you and Kimi. In the way Arvid's jaw tightened every time you caught Kimi's eye. In the way Ollie, who wasn't even playing, kept making little hmm sounds from the sofa.
"You're rushing," Arvid said, pointing at Kimi.
"I'm not rushing."
"You're rushing. The tempo is dragging because you're —" Arvid stopped. Looked between you and Kimi. "What is that?"
"What is what?"
"That. The thing you two keep doing. The —" He made a vague gesture with his hands. "The eye thing."
"We don't have an eye thing," you said.
"You just did it again."
"I blinked. People blink. It's a biological function."
"You blinked at the same time."
"Coincidence."
"You smiled."
"I didn't smile."
"You're smiling right now."
You weren't smiling. You were definitely not smiling. You were thinking about Kimi's hand on your face in the medic room, the way his thumb had wiped your tear away, the way he'd said you're not nothing like it was the easiest thing in the world.
Okay. Maybe you were smiling a little.
Arvid groaned. "This is a nightmare."
"It's fine," Liam said. "They're just —"
"Don't say it." Arvid shoots Liam a glare that could kill if needed.
"— flirting."
"LIAM."
"I'm just observing!"
"Observe less!"
Kimi, behind the drum kit, said nothing. But his ears were pink. You noticed because you weren't looking at him. Obviously.
"Can we please just play?" you said.
"Can you please just admit you have feelings for each other?" Ollie called from the sofa.
"We don't —" you and Kimi both say at the same time.
"The tension is unbearable. I'm emotionally exhausted and I'm not even involved." Ollie responded quickly.
"OLLIE." you shouted back.
"What? I'm being supportive."
"You're being insufferable."
You looked at Arvid. Arvid looked at you. In that moment, you understood each other completely.
"From the top," Arvid said. "No eye contact. No smiling. No secret jokes."
"We don't have secret jokes —"
"You just had one. With your eyebrows. I saw it."
You closed your eyes. Counted to ten. Opened them.
Kimi was looking at you. His mouth was doing that almost-smile thing. His bandaged hand rested loosely on the drumstick.
You looked away first.
But you were still smiling.
The second run was better.
Not perfect — but better. The music filled the room, loud and familiar, and for a few minutes you forgot about everything else. Forgot about Mark. Forgot about the punch. Forgot about the way Kimi's hand had felt in yours.
You just played.
When the last note faded, the room was quiet.
"Good," Arvid said. "Again."
"Can we take a break?" Liam asked. "I'm dying."
"You're always dying."
"I'm a vocalist. My instrument is delicate."
"Your instrument is fine."
"My instrument is parched."
Arvid sighed. "Five minutes."
Liam cheered. Ollie immediately started talking about something — you weren't listening — and Arvid retreated to the corner to mutter about chord progressions.
You set down your bass.
And then you felt it.
Kimi was beside you. Not touching — just close. Close enough that you could smell his laundry detergent, something clean and simple. Close enough that you could see the tiny scar on his jaw, the one you hadn't noticed before.
"Your hand okay?" you asked, nodding at his bandage.
"Fine."
"You should ice it when you get home."
"I know."
"You said that last time."
"I know."
You looked at him. He looked at you. The room faded — Liam's chatter, Ollie's commentary, Arvid's muttering — all of it fading into background noise.
"You were rushing," you said.
"I wasn't."
"You were. Arvid was right."
"Arvid is always right. It's exhausting."
"Someone has to be."
Kimi's mouth twitched. "I guess."
A beat.
"Hey," you said.
"Yeah?"
"Thanks. For walking me home the other day. For —" You gestured vaguely. "For everything."
Kimi nodded. "Yeah."
"That's all you're going to say?"
"What else is there to say?"
You didn't have an answer to that.
So you just stood there. Close. Not touching. Not saying anything.
And somehow, that was enough.
Across the room, Arvid watched them.
Liam watched them.
Ollie watched them.
"Five more minutes," Arvid said.
"Take ten," Liam said.
"Take an hour," Ollie said. "I'm emotionally invested now."
Arvid didn't argue.
He just sighed, turned back to his notes, and pretended he didn't see the way Kimi's hand brushed yours when you reached for your water bottle.
He was learning to ignore a lot of things lately.
Later, when practice ended and everyone was packing up, Ollie caught you at the door.
"So," he said, grinning. "Kimi, huh?"
"There's no 'Kimi huh.'"
"Your face is red."
"It's hot in here."
"It's October."
"Global warming."
Ollie laughed. "You're hopeless."
"I'm focused."
"You're in denial."
"I'm going to kill you."
"No you're not." He bumped your shoulder. "You love me."
"I tolerate you."
"I'm your favourite!"
He jogged off before you could respond, his stupid blue cast catching the light.
You shook your head.
But you were smiling.
And when you walked out of the rehearsal room, Kimi was waiting by the door.
"Walk you home?" he asked.
"It's three in the afternoon."
"Still."
You looked at him. His bandaged hand. His dark curls. His quiet eyes.
