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Sunny radio is playing: our summer by txt !
Sweet Seals For You, Always
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PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
Not today Justin
2025 on Tumblr: Trends That Defined the Year

izzy's playlists!
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Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her

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@sunnysidepages
under the sun 𖤓°⋆.ೃ࿔*:・ watch the golden hour with me𓇢𓆸
Sunny radio is playing: our summer by txt !
getting into tennis (new hyper fixation coming 💀) and I’m scared… why is everyone tweaking 😟 is the French open not the best time to get into tennis? Gang help a girl out and explain how all these tournaments work like who’s the goat and who’s the underdog? 🙏
how exam season’s got me feeling ugh
Everything on repeat 🔁🤍
no because why do I actually say half the things I do?
Childhood best friend!Lando headcanons - ln1
𖤓 childhood best friend!lando x childhood best friend!reader
𖤓 note: the Oscar version did very well, so I thought in good papaya rules manner it's only fair that I do a Lando version too ( ͡ ° ͜ʖ ͡ °)
𖤓 Listen to 18 by One Direction (yes yes time to pull up the ancient texts) when reading this!
Childhood best friend!Lando who has been your primary rival in literally everything since you were kids. Whether it was Mario Kart, racing bikes, or seeing who could eat the most sweets, he’s always had this competitive streak with you, but it’s really just his way of making sure your eyes are always on him.
Childhood best friend!Lando who is the king of "aggressive affection." He’s not the type to sit quietly; he’s the one who will shove your shoulder, ruffle your hair until it’s a mess, or playfully trip you in the paddock just to hear you laugh (or yell at him). It’s his way of saying "I'm here, and you're mine," without having to deal with the actual vulnerability of words.
Childhood best friend!Lando who uses his "annoying best friend" persona as a shield. Whenever he feels a moment getting too serious or too emotional, he’ll immediately crack a joke or make a silly face to deflect the tension, because he’s terrified that if he stops joking, he’ll accidentally reveal how much he actually loves you.
Childhood best friend!Lando who is your biggest cheerleader in the most chaotic way possible. When you achieve something, he isn't just "proud" he’s the one screaming the loudest, making a scene, and probably trying to convince you to celebrate by doing something slightly reckless.
Childhood best friend!Lando who is incredibly sensitive to your presence in a crowd. Even when he’s surrounded by McLaren engineers, fans, or other drivers, he has this "radar" for you. He’ll catch your eye from across the garage and give you a quick, goofy wink just to check in, making your heart do a literal somersault.
Childhood best friend!Lando who remembers the "unimportant" stuff. He might act like a brat, but he remembers the exact song that made you cry when you were fourteen, or the specific brand of chocolate you crave when you're stressed, and he'll "randomly" have it ready for you.
Childhood best friend!Lando who gets incredibly pouty when you start talking about other guys. He won't say it directly, but he’ll suddenly become very quiet, or he'll start talking about himself more, or he'll find a way to "interrupt" the conversation with some nonsense just to pull your attention back to him.
Childhood best friend!Lando who is a terrible liar when it comes to you. If someone asks him if he has a crush on you, he’ll go through a frantic, hilarious process of denial stuttering, laughing too loudly, and making up the most ridiculous excuses only for his eyes to betray him by darting straight to you to see if you're listening.
Childhood best friend!Lando who is the absolute master of the "accidental" touch. He’ll lean his weight against you while you’re both looking at a screen, or "accidentally" brush his hand against yours while reaching for a snack, just to see if he can get a reaction out of you. He plays it off with a grin, but his heart is actually doing laps.
Childhood best friend!Lando who crumbles when you use your childhood nicknames for him as a weapon. Whenever he’s being particularly smug or cocky after a good qualifying session, you’ll drop one of those embarrassing, cutesy nicknames from when you were ten, and you’ll watch his cool, "F1 driver" persona crumble into a blushing, stuttering mess in seconds.
Childhood best friend!Lando who is a total menace on social media. He’ll post a "cute" photo of the two of you, but it’s actually a video of you mid sneeze or making a weird face, captioned with something like "My favorite person (unfortunately)." He loves teasing you, but he also loves the fact that everyone knows you're his "person."
Childhood best friend!Lando who is secretly a huge softie when it comes to your comfort. If you're having a rough day, he won't give you a deep, philosophical speech; instead, he'll show up at your door with a ridiculous amount of junk food, a terrible movie recommendation, and a promise to let you win at whatever game you play together.
Childhood best friend!Lando who gets incredibly competitive about the most mundane things. He will treat a simple game of Uno or a round of mini golf like it’s the Monaco Grand Prix, trash talking you the entire time, but the second he sees you actually get frustrated, he immediately softens and tries to "help" you win (while still pretending he isn't).
Childhood best friend!Lando whose confession is not a quiet, soft moment. It’s a heated, messy argument after you've both been teasing each other for too long. You're bickering about something stupid, and you finally snap, telling him to "Just shut up and stop acting like you don't care!" The sudden silence that follows is deafening. Lando stops mid laugh, his expression shifting from playful to intense in a heartbeat. He steps into your personal space, his eyes burning with a frustration that isn't about the argument, but about the years of pretending. "Acting like I don't care?" he repeats, his voice dropping an octave, sounding uncharacteristically serious. "I spend every single day trying to act like I'm not completely obsessed with you so we don't ruin everything!" Before you can process the confession, he’s grabbing the front of your shirt and pulling you into a kiss that is messy, frantic, and full of all the energy he’s been bottling up for years.
When you close the door - mv3
𖤓 He left you waiting. For three years. For birthdays and promises and "I'll call you"s that never came. Then he missed your birthday for a sponsor dinner and you stopped waiting. A year later, he shows up at your door. He says he loves you. He says he's sorry. He says he'll wait. You have to decide if some doors are worth opening again.
𖤓 max verstappen x fem!reader, angst, ambiguous ending, emotional unavailability
𖤓 warnings: being someone's second choice, a year of silence, one door, no happy ending (but also no sad ending? it's just… an ending)
𖤓 wc: 8,000
𖤓 note: my first time writing for max so pls be nice to me!! idk what to call this genre either. it's not fluff, it's not really sad, it's just… that feeling when someone finally shows up and you don't know if it's too late or if you're just too tired to find out.
𖤓 listen to: "the night we met" by lord huron while reading this or "exile" by taylor swift ft. bon iver. or just sit in silence and feel things. i'm not your mum.
Abu Dhabi at the end of the season smells like champagne and regret.
You've been here before. Too many times. Standing in the shadow of the podium, watching him celebrate, watching him forget you exist until the cameras turn off and the crowd thins and he remembers that you're still here. Still waiting. Still stupid enough to believe that this time might be different.
The paddock is emptying out. Trucks are being loaded. Engineers are saying goodbye, slapping each other on the back, promising to see each other in a few weeks for winter testing. Everyone is tired. Everyone is ready to go home.
You don't know where home is anymore.
Max finds you in the back hallway of the paddock, his driver's room already packed up, his flight already scheduled, his eyes already somewhere else. He's still in his race suit, unzipped to the waist, his fireproofs clinging to his chest. There's champagne in his hair. There's a medal around his neck.
He looks like everything you've ever wanted and everything you've learned not to need.
"You're leaving," you say. It's not a question.
"Early flight." He rubs the back of his neck. "You know how it is."
You know how it is. You've always known how it is. There's always a flight, a race, a simulator session, a sponsor dinner, a thousand things that matter more than you. And you've always understood. You've always been the easy one. The one who doesn't make a fuss. The one who smiles and says "it's fine" and means it less every time.
"Okay," you say. "Safe flight."
He hesitates. For half a second, something flickers across his face — guilt, maybe. Or recognition. Or just exhaustion.
"I'll call you," he says.
You nod.
You've heard that before too.
The thing about Max is that he's not cruel.
That's what makes it so hard.
If he were cruel, you could hate him. If he forgot your birthday, if he snapped at you, if he made you feel small on purpose — you could walk away and never look back. But he doesn't do any of that. He remembers your birthday. He sends flowers. He texts you after every race — good race, sorry I was busy, thinking of you.
He's not cruel.
He's just not there.
And there's a difference, you're learning. A person can be kind and still leave you hollow. A person can mean well and still make you feel like you're disappearing. A person can love you — or something like it — and still never choose you first.
You met Max three years ago, at a sponsor dinner in Monaco.
You were working for a hospitality company, the kind of job that put you in rooms with important people and expected you to smile and pour champagne and not exist too loudly. He was already a world champion. Already a name. Already the kind of person who walked into a room and sucked all the air out of it.
You didn't expect him to notice you.
But he did.
He asked for your number. Called you the next day. Showed up at your apartment with takeaway and a story about a simulator session that had gone wrong. He was awkward in the way that very famous people sometimes are — unsure how to be normal, unsure how to exist in a space where no one wanted anything from him.
You liked that about him. The awkwardness. The way he looked at you like you were the first person who'd treated him like a person in months.
"You're different," he said, that first night. "You don't want anything from me."
You laughed. "I don't know what I'd even want."
He smiled. It was small and private and it made your chest hurt.
"Exactly," he said.
The first year was easy.
Or maybe it wasn't easy — maybe you just didn't notice the cracks because you were too busy falling. He was attentive. He made time. He flew you to races, introduced you to his family, let you wear his jacket in the garage when the air conditioning was too cold.
You thought you were building something.
You didn't realize you were just… fitting into his life. Not building together. Just existing in the spaces he left empty.
The first time he canceled on you, it was for a sponsor dinner. You understood. Of course you understood. He was a world champion. He had obligations. You weren't going to be the girlfriend who complained about that.
"Next time," he said. "I promise."
You believed him.
The second time was a simulator session. Urgent, last-minute, something about setup changes. He sounded stressed on the phone, distracted, already halfway out the door.
"It's fine," you said. "Go."
"You're the best," he said. "I'll make it up to you."
He never did.
Not because he forgot — Max doesn't forget things. But because there was always something else. Another race. Another obligation. Another person who needed him more than you did.
And you let it happen. You let yourself become small. You stopped asking for things because asking felt like begging, and you refused to beg anyone to love you.
The second year was harder.
You started noticing things. The way he'd check his phone during dinner. The way he'd say "I love you" like it was punctuation, not poetry. The way he'd hold you at night but his mind was already somewhere else — already in the next race, the next season, the next thing he had to win.
You tried to talk to him about it.
"Are we okay?" you asked, one night in Monaco, after a race you'd watched from the garage, standing in the corner where no one would ask you to move.
He looked up from his phone. "What do you mean?"
"Us. I feel like… I don't know. Like I'm not a priority."
He put his phone down. His face was open, confused, genuinely trying to understand.
"Of course you're a priority," he said.
"Then why do I feel like I'm always waiting for you?"
He didn't have an answer.
Neither did you.
The almosts started to pile up.
Almost stayed for dinner. Almost called when he said he would. Almost chose you over a sponsor dinner, a media day, a flight he could have taken later.
You started keeping track without meaning to. A mental list. Evidence, maybe, for a case you didn't want to win.
Abu Dhabi, Year 2: He left the afterparty early to walk you back to your hotel. You thought maybe — but then his phone rang, and he took the call, and you walked the rest of the way alone.
Monaco, Year 2: You were crying in his driver's room after a bad race — not his, yours. Something at work, something stupid, something you should have been able to handle. He held you for exactly three minutes. Then he had to go to a meeting.
Spa, Year 2: He said "I love you" first. For the first time. You were standing in the rain, umbrella broken, both of you soaked. He kissed your forehead and said it like it was easy. You said it back. You meant it. You're still not sure if he did.
The thing you never told anyone — not your friends, not your family, not even yourself on the nights you couldn't sleep — was that you were scared of being easy to leave.
Because Max had left people before. Not cruelly. Not dramatically. He just… moved on. Outgrew them. Forgot to call. And you saw yourself in their faces sometimes — the old friends who didn't come to races anymore, the exes no one mentioned, the people who had loved him and been loved back, briefly, before becoming someone he used to know.
You didn't want to be someone he used to know.
So you stayed small. You stayed quiet. You stayed.
And he kept not noticing.
The betrayal wasn't dramatic.
That's what made it hurt.
It was your birthday. You'd been together for two years. You'd spent both birthdays with him — the first in Monaco, takeaway and a cake he'd clearly bought that morning, the second in the paddock, quick and rushed and forgotten the second the race started.
This year, you'd made plans. Nothing big. Just dinner. Just the two of you. He'd promised.
"I'll be there," he said, three days before. "I cleared my schedule."
You believed him. Because you always believed him. Because hope was a disease and you'd stopped trying to cure it.
The day came. You put on a dress. You lit candles. You waited.
He texted at 7:42 PM.
So sorry. Something came up. Rain check?
You stared at the message for a long time. Your phone screen glowed in the dark of your apartment. The candles flickered. The food got cold.
Something came up.
You didn't ask what. You didn't want to know. You didn't want to hear about a meeting, a call, a crisis that mattered more than you. You didn't want to be understanding anymore.
You texted back: Okay.
Just that. Okay.
He didn't respond.
The next morning, you scrolled through Instagram and saw a story. Max, at a restaurant, with some people you didn't recognize. Laughing. Drinking. Looking like he didn't have a care in the world.
Something came up.
You turned off your phone. You went back to bed. You didn't cry — you were too tired for crying. You just lay there, staring at the ceiling, feeling something inside you shift.
Not break. Not snap. Just… shift.
Like a door closing. Quietly. Without drama.
You didn't confront him.
That's what surprised you. A year ago, you would have called. Would have asked for an explanation, a justification, a reason to keep believing. You would have fought for him.
But you were tired. So tired. And somewhere along the way, you'd stopped believing that fighting meant anything to someone who never had to fight for you.
He called three days later. You let it ring.
He texted: You okay? Haven't heard from you.
You typed: I'm fine. Just busy.
You didn't send it.
You deleted it and put your phone in a drawer and went for a walk. The city was cold. Your breath fogged in front of you. You walked until your feet hurt and then you walked some more.
You thought about the last three years. The almosts. The cancellations. The way you'd made yourself small so he wouldn't have to make room.
You thought about the girl you used to be — the one who laughed too loud, who asked for what she wanted, who didn't know how to make herself smaller because she'd never had to.
You wondered if you could find her again.
You didn't break up with him.
That's the other thing you never told anyone. There was no conversation, no tearful goodbye, no moment of closure. You just… stopped reaching. And he didn't notice.
Or maybe he did notice. Maybe he felt the distance and chose not to close it. Maybe he was relieved — relieved that you'd finally stopped expecting things from him, finally stopped being someone who needed to be chosen.
You'll never know.
Because you stopped asking.
The messages slowed. The calls stopped. His name appeared on your phone less and less. And then, one day, you realized you hadn't spoken in three weeks.
You didn't call.
Neither did he.
The year without him was strange.
Not bad. Not good. Just… different. You had to relearn how to exist without waiting. Without checking your phone. Without planning your schedule around someone who never showed up.
Your friends noticed the change.
"You seem lighter," one of them said, six months in. "Like you're not holding your breath anymore."
You hadn't realized you'd been holding your breath.
But you had. For years. Waiting for him to choose you, to show up, to prove that you mattered as much as the races and the trophies and the endless parade of obligations. Waiting for him to look at you and see something worth staying for.
You stopped waiting.
You started living. Small things at first — coffee with friends, a new hobby, a trip you'd been putting off. Then bigger things. A new job. A new apartment. A new understanding of what you deserved.
You thought about him less.
Not never. Just… less. He'd appear in your mind sometimes — at night, when you couldn't sleep, or in moments that reminded you of him. A song. A scent. A sunset that looked like the one in Monaco.
But the ache was duller now. An old wound, not a fresh one.
You started to think you might be okay.
He texted you eleven months after your birthday.
Out of nowhere. No context. Just your name.
Hey.
You stared at the message for a long time. Your phone felt heavy in your hand. Your heart did something stupid — something that felt like hope, even after everything.
You didn't respond.
Not because you were angry. Not because you didn't want to. Because you didn't know what to say. Hey felt like too much and not enough. Hey felt like the beginning of something you weren't sure you wanted to start.
Hey felt like him, after all this time, still not knowing how to show up properly.
You put your phone down. You went back to your life.
He didn't text again.
He showed up at your door on a Tuesday.
No warning. No text. Just a knock, steady and insistent, the kind of knock that said I'm not leaving until you answer.
You looked through the peephole and felt your stomach drop.
Max.
He looked different. Thinner, maybe. More tired. His hair was longer, curling at the edges. He was wearing a hoodie you didn't recognize and jeans that looked like he'd slept in them.
You opened the door.
"Hey," he said.
His voice was hoarse. Like he'd been rehearsing what to say and still hadn't figured it out.
"Hey," you said back.
The silence stretched. He shifted his weight. Stuffed his hands in his pockets. Pulled them out again.
"Can I come in?"
You should have said no. Every logical part of your brain was screaming at you to say no. He left. He didn't call. He missed your birthday and didn't even remember to apologize. He let you disappear from his life and didn't come looking until now, a year later, when it was convenient for him.
But there was something in his face — something small and scared and unfamiliar — that made you step aside.
"Okay," you said.
He walked in. Looked around. Your new apartment, your new life, the spaces you'd filled without him.
"It's different," he said.
"Yeah."
"Good different."
"Yeah."
He stopped in the middle of your living room. Turned to face you. His hands were shaking. You'd never seen Max's hands shake before. They were always steady — on the wheel, on the podium, on the rare occasions he'd touched you.
"I fucked up," he said.
You waited.
"I know I fucked up. I know I —" He stopped. Rubbed his face. "I don't have an excuse. I don't have a reason. I just… I didn't know how to —"
He stopped again.
You didn't help him. You just stood there, arms crossed, watching him struggle.
"I thought about you every day," he said finally. "Every single day. And I still didn't call. I don't know why. I don't — I'm not good at this."
"Good at what?"
"Being… there. Being present. Being someone who stays."
The words hung in the air.
You thought about the last three years. The cancellations. The almosts. The way you'd made yourself small so he wouldn't have to make room. The way he'd let you.
"Why now?" you asked.
He looked at you. Really looked. Like he was trying to memorize your face.
"Because I can't —" He exhaled. "I can't keep pretending I don't care. I can't keep pretending you don't matter. You matter. You've always mattered. I'm just —"
He stopped.
"You're just what?"
He didn't answer.
You waited.
He sat on your couch.
You stayed standing.
He looked up at you, and for a moment, he looked young. Not like a world champion. Not like someone who'd won everything there was to win. Just someone who didn't know how to say what he meant.
"I was scared," he said.
"Of what?"
"Of you. Of this. Of how much I —" He stopped. Swallowed. "I've never been good at letting people in. You know that. You've always known that."
"That's not an excuse."
"I know."
"It's been a year, Max."
"I know."
"You didn't call. You didn't text. You didn't show up to my birthday and you didn't even —"
"I know."
You stopped. Took a breath.
"Why are you here?"
He looked at his hands. Then at you. Then back at his hands.
"I miss you," he said.
The words were quiet. Barely audible. Like he was confessing something he'd never said out loud.
"I miss you," he said again. "I miss the way you laugh. I miss the way you'd roll your eyes at me when I talked too much about racing. I miss falling asleep next to you. I miss waking up and knowing you were there."
You didn't say anything.
"I miss you," he said. "And I don't know how to — I don't know if I deserve to ask for another chance. I probably don't. But I can't — I can't keep living like this. Pretending I'm fine when I'm not. Pretending I don't think about you every single day."
You thought about the year you'd spent learning to live without him. The nights you'd cried. The mornings you'd woken up reaching for someone who wasn't there. The moment you'd finally stopped checking your phone for his name.
You thought about the girl you used to be — the one who waited, who hoped, who believed that if she just loved him enough, he'd learn to stay.
She was still in there somewhere. Fainter now. But still there.
"What do you want from me?" you asked.
He looked at you. His eyes were wet.
"Everything," he said. "I want everything. I want — I should have said it before. I should have said it a hundred times. I love you. I love you and I'm sorry and I don't — I don't expect you to forgive me. I just needed you to know."
The silence was heavy.
You could feel yourself at a crossroads. One path led back to him — to the familiar ache, the waiting, the hoping. The other led forward — alone, but whole. Not healed, maybe. But not bleeding anymore.
You thought about the door you'd closed in your chest a year ago. The one you'd locked and bolted and told yourself you'd never open again.
He was asking you to open it.
"I love you," he said again. "I've always loved you. I just didn't know how to show it."
You looked at him. Really looked.
And you made your choice.
"Okay," you said.
He blinked. "Okay?"
"Okay. You said what you needed to say."
He waited. Hoping, maybe, for more.
You didn't give it to him.
"I'm not going to tell you it's fine," you said. "Because it's not. You hurt me. You left. You didn't call. And I spent a year learning how to live without you."
"I know."
"I don't know if I can go back to the way things were."
"I'm not asking you to."
"Then what are you asking?"
He stood up. Walked toward you. Stopped a few feet away — close enough to touch, far enough to give you space.
"I'm asking for a chance," he said. "Not to fix things. Not to pretend the last year didn't happen. Just… a chance. To show up. To try."
You thought about it.
You thought about the almosts. The cancellations. The birthday you spent alone. The way he'd let you disappear without a fight.
You thought about the girl you used to be — the one who would have said yes without thinking. The one who would have opened her arms and let him back in and pretended the last year didn't hurt.
She wasn't gone. But she wasn't in charge anymore.
"I need to think," you said.
He nodded. "Okay."
"That's not a yes."
"I know."
"That's not a no either."
He nodded again. "I know."
You walked to the door. Held it open.
He walked toward you. Paused in the doorway. Looked at you with an expression you couldn't name — hope, maybe. Or fear. Or both.
"I'll wait," he said. "However long it takes. I'll wait."
You didn't answer.
He stepped through the door.
You closed it behind him.
You didn't lock it.
You didn't open it either.
You stood there, hand on the wood, listening to his footsteps fade. They stopped halfway down the hall. He was waiting. Giving you time. Giving you space.
You could open the door. You could call him back. You could let him in and see what happened.
Or you could walk away. Go to bed. Wake up tomorrow and keep living the life you'd built without him.
You didn't know which choice was right.
Maybe both. Maybe neither.
Maybe that was the point.
You took your hand off the door. Walked to your bedroom. Sat on the edge of your bed and stared at the wall.
In the hallway, you heard him exhale.
Then footsteps. Fading. Fainter. Gone.
You didn't know if he'd come back.
You didn't know if you wanted him to.
You lay down. Pulled the covers up to your chin. Stared at the ceiling.
The apartment was quiet.
The door was closed.
And somewhere, in the space between what you'd lost and what you might still find, you let yourself breathe.
SIX MONTHS LATER
You're at a coffee shop when you see him.
Not Max. Someone who looks like him. Same build, same jaw, same way of moving through a room like he owned it.
Your heart does something stupid.
Then you realize it's not him, and your heart settles.
You order your coffee. You sit by the window. You watch people walk by.
Your phone buzzes.
A text. From a number you haven't saved but still recognize.
I'm in town. Can we talk?
You stare at the screen.
The coffee grows cold.
You think about the door. The hallway. The way he'd said "I'll wait" like he meant it.
You think about the girl you used to be. The girl who waited. The girl who hoped.
You think about the person you are now.
You type: Maybe.
You don't send it.
You delete it.
You type: When?
You stare at the word.
Then you delete that too.
You put your phone in your pocket. Drink your cold coffee. Watch the rain start to fall.
He doesn't text again.
Neither do you.
The door is still closed.
You're the one who decides if it opens.
I'd rather kiss the drummer! - ka12
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.
"Yeah," you said. "Okay."
taglist: @sunlightsunset @recklessyears @butwhocaresstillthelouvre @straykidsobsessionandenha @honeyedshark @hannahbananababybanana @lauray1x @thatcrazybooklovergirl @beabadoobee81 @f1obsessor4life @avkizi @imakeartandwatchf1 @lliicsa @zhqvie @acethedinosaur @thegirlinblackgreensilver @fuckingsimp4azriel@sarahlizbeth070 @hrtsaeko @sanguineassassinblizzard @sandrasteahouse @babydollmari3 @thequeenofdramaqueens @imsleepingwhataboutu @thisisthesoundofthend @archival-aphrodite @aceofspades190 @josephinel83 @cherryniyaah @hwyfar-gwen
can we bring him back as a wag or engineer or something
Childhood best friend!Oscar headcanons - op81
𖤓 childhood best friend!oscar x childhood best friend!reader
𖤓 note: the Canadian gp wasn’t so nice for the Oscar girlies so here is something little to forget about it.
𖤓 listen to 'Best Part' by my goat Daniel Caesar when reading this!
Childhood best friend!Oscar who still remembers exactly how you liked your sandwiches cut in primary school, and without even thinking, he’ll do the same for you now, even though you’re adults, just because it’s a habit he never wanted to break.
Childhood best friend!Oscar who has a curated collection of "inside jokes" that have lasted over a decade, half of which are so obscure that when the two of you start laughing in the middle of a crowded F1 paddock, people just stare because they have no idea what’s so funny.
Childhood best friend!Oscar who was your protector long before he was a professional driver, and while he’s a calm and composed person on the outside, he becomes an absolute menace if he sees someone making you uncomfortable or causing you stress.
Childhood best friend!Oscar who has a secret folder on his phone of photos of you from when you were kids messy hair, missing teeth, and grass stains and he’ll pull them out during his downtime to remind himself of where he came from and who has always been by his side.
Childhood best friend!Oscar who is terrible at admitting he’s in love with you, so instead, he shows it through "acts of service," like driving hours out of his way to bring you your favourite snacks or making sure your car is serviced and safe so you don't have any accidents on the road.
Childhood best friend!Oscar who gets this specific, soft look in his eyes whenever you talk about your dreams and goals; he believes in you more than you believe in yourself, and he’ll never let you forget that you’re capable of anything.
Childhood best friend!Oscar who hates it when other people flirt with you, and while he won't make a scene, he’ll suddenly appear at your side with his arm draped casually over your shoulder, marking his territory in the most "best friend" way possible while his heart is actually hammering against his ribs.
Childhood best friend!Oscar who has a "safe place" with you where he can drop the driver persona, forget about the pressure of the grid, and just be the boy you grew up with the one who likes to read, joke around, and lean his head on your shoulder when he’s too tired to speak.
Childhood best friend!Oscar who has a "language" of his own with you; a specific way he taps his fingers against your hand or a certain look he gives you across a room that means "Are you okay?" or "Let's get out of here, this is boring." It’s a silent communication built on years of being inseparable.
Childhood best friend!Oscar who is secretly the most observant person in the world when it comes to you. He notices the tiniest shifts in your mood, the way your voice goes a pitch higher when you're nervous or how you bite your lip when you're thinking, and he’ll quietly intervene with a distraction or a comforting hand on your back before you even have to ask for help.
Childhood best friend!Oscar who loves the quiet moments just as much as the big ones. He’ll spend hours just sitting in the same room as you, both of you on your phones or reading, not saying a word, but the mere presence of you is what truly recharges his batteries after a high stress race weekend.
Childhood best friend!Oscar who still carries a small token from your childhood, maybe a friendship bracelet that’s long since frayed or a lucky charm you gave him tucked away in his racing suit or his wallet, a silent reminder of the person who knew him before the fame.
Childhood best friend!Oscar who gets incredibly flustered when you do something "accidentally" affectionate, like leaning your head on his shoulder or grabbing his arm to pull him through a crowd. He’ll keep his face deadpan for the cameras, but his ears turn a bright, telltale red.
Childhood best friend!Oscar who makes sure he always has your favourite drink in the cooler during long travels, and he knows exactly how much ice you like, because he’s been taking care of you since you were both ten years old.
Childhood best friend!Oscar who confesses after a particularly gruelling race weekend where the adrenaline is high and the exhaustion is deep. You’re both back in a quiet hotel room or a shared apartment, the world finally feeling still. You’re sitting close, and you let a comment slip, something teasing about how you’ve basically been his "unofficial girlfriend" for years and that he should "make it official", expecting him to just roll his eyes or give you a deadpan retort like usual. But he doesn't. He goes completely still, his gaze dropping to your lips before snapping back to your eyes, a look of pure, raw vulnerability that breaks your heart a little. It hits him like a crash at turn one, the way you always look at him, the way you've stayed by his side, the way he's been subconsciously gravitating toward you since you were kids. He’s been so focused on the track and the pressure of the grid that he was completely blind to the fact that the person he was pining for was standing right in front of him the whole time. His voice is low, almost a whisper, thick with a mix of relief and disbelief as he says, "Wait... you... you've felt it too? All this time?" Before you can even answer, he’s closing the gap, his hand sliding into your hair to pull you into a kiss that is desperate, hungry, and tastes like years of unspoken longing finally being set free.
Please let me know if I should do HC like this for other drivers as well!
I'd rather kiss the drummer! - ka12
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 from the economics building to the student union was usually ten minutes.
Today, it was taking forever.
Not because you were walking slowly. Because you could feel someone behind you. Following. Matching your pace. Waiting.
You didn't turn around. You already knew who it was.
"Y/N. Y/N, please. Just give me five minutes."
You kept walking.
"Y/N —"
"Go away, Mark."
"I'm not going away. We need to talk."
"There's nothing to talk about."
You walked faster. The quad opened up ahead — students milling about, bags slung over shoulders, the usual afternoon chaos. Your friends were waiting near the fountain, a cluster of familiar shapes you couldn't quite make out yet. You just had to get to them. That was all. Just get to them and —
Mark's hand closed around your wrist.
"You're going to listen to me," he said, voice low, "even if I have to —"
"Let go of me."
"Not until you —"
"LET GO."
You yanked your arm back. People were turning now — not many, but some. A girl with a coffee cup froze mid-sip. Two guys playing guitar on the grass stopped strumming.
Mark's face twisted. "Why are you being so dramatic? I'm just trying to —"
"You kissed someone else. In front of everyone. What part of that is unclear?"
"That didn't mean anything —"
"It meant everything."
"You're overreacting —"
"I'm not doing this." You turned to walk away.
Mark grabbed you again. Harder this time. His fingers dug into your arm, and you felt the bruise forming before you saw it.
"Y/N —"
"I said let her go."
The voice came from nowhere and everywhere. Quiet. Steady. Absolute.
Kimi stepped between you and Mark like he'd been standing there the whole time. His body blocked yours completely — shoulders squared, jaw tight, eyes fixed on Mark's face with an expression you'd never seen before. He wasn't angry. He was something colder. Something more dangerous.
Mark's hand dropped.
"Who the fuck are you?" Mark demanded.
Kimi didn't answer. Didn't move. Just stood there, a wall of silence and stillness, and somehow that was more terrifying than any threat.
"I said —"
"I heard what you said." Kimi's voice was low. Calm. "Let her go. Walk away. Don't come back."
"This is none of your business —"
"You made it my business when you put your hands on her."
People were stopping now. A crowd was forming. You could see your friends in the distance — Franco's worried face, Devon already moving toward you, Gabriel pulling out his phone —
"Kimi," you said, touching his back. "Kimi, it's fine. I can handle this myself."
He didn't move.
"Kimi."
"She's my girlfriend," Mark spat. "I can talk to her however I want."
"You don't have a girlfriend anymore."
"Stay out of this, you —" Mark's eyes narrowed. Recognition flickered across his face. "Wait. I know you. You're that drummer. From Static Hearts." His lip curled. "Are you dating him? My fucking competition?"
"Mark —"
"You are, aren't you? Unbelievable." Mark's voice rose. "You're really going to spread your legs for my rival, you bitc—"
The punch happened so fast you barely saw it.
One second Mark was talking. The next, Kimi's fist connected with his face — a clean, brutal hit that sent Mark stumbling backward, hands flying to his nose, blood already streaming down his chin.
The quad went silent.
Then Gabriel started cheering.
"LETS GO KIMI!"
Somewhere behind you, Liam's voice echoed across the grass: "THAT'S MY DRUMMER!"
Ollie was running toward the scene, Arvid right behind him, both of them grabbing Kimi's arms as he stepped forward for another hit. "Okay — okay, that's enough — Kimi, stop —"
Mark was on the ground now, holding his face, blood dripping onto his white t-shirt. He looked up at Kimi with a mixture of fury and disbelief.
"You're crazy," Mark said, voice muffled. "You're actually insane."
"Don't touch her again," Kimi said. "Don't talk to her. Don't look at her. Don't even breathe in her direction."
Ollie pulled Kimi back. Arvid positioned himself between them.
And you — you stood there, frozen, heart pounding, watching the boy who barely spoke defend you like you were something worth fighting for.
"Y/N," Franco said, appearing at your side. "Are you okay?"
You didn't answer.
You walked to Kimi, took his hand — his knuckles were already swelling, split open and bloody — and pulled him toward the science building.
"Where are we going?" Ollie called after you.
"Medic room," you said. "Don't follow."
The medic room was empty.
White walls. Fluorescent lights. The faint smell of antiseptic. You pushed Kimi onto the exam table and started opening cabinets — gauze, antiseptic wipes, tape, everything you needed.
"Sit still," you said.
"I wasn't planning on —"
"SHUT UP."
Kimi shut up.
You pulled a stool in front of him, took his hand in yours, and started cleaning the blood off his knuckles. His hand was warm. Rough. The skin was split across three knuckles, and you could see the damage spreading — purple already blooming under the surface.
"Why did you do that?" you asked.
"I didn't like what he said."
"That's not a reason to punch someone."
"It was a reason."
"Kimi —"
"He grabbed you." Kimi's voice was quiet. "He grabbed your arm. He wasn't going to let go. And then he —" He stopped. Swallowed. "I wasn't going to stand there and listen to him talk to you like that."
You dabbed antiseptic onto a cut. Kimi didn't flinch.
"I can defend myself," you said. "I've been defending myself for eight months. I didn't need —" Your voice cracked. "I didn't need you to —"
"I know."
"Then why —"
"Because I wanted to." He said it simply. Like it was obvious. "I wanted to. And I don't regret it."
You looked up at him. His face was calm, but his eyes — his eyes were burning. Dark and steady and fixed on you like you were the only thing in the room.
"Now look at your face," you said, softer now. "Your pretty face."
Kimi's mouth twitched. "You think my face is pretty?"
"That's not the point."
"What's the point?"
"The point is —" You pressed a piece of gauze to his knuckles, holding it there. "The point is you didn't have to do that. I'm not your responsibility. I'm not your girlfriend. I'm not anything to you. And now you're bleeding because of me."
"You're not nothing."
"Kimi —"
"You're not nothing to me." His voice was barely a whisper. "I don't know what you are yet. But you're not nothing."
Your chest ached. Something hot and sharp was building behind your eyes, and you blinked furiously, refusing to let it fall.
"You're crying," Kimi said.
"I'm not crying."
"Your face is wet."
"It's allergies."
Kimi was quiet for a moment. Then he reached up with his free hand — the one that wasn't bleeding — and wiped a tear from your cheek with his thumb. The gesture was so gentle, so careful, that something inside you cracked open.
"Don't," you said. "Don't be nice to me right now. I'm mad at you."
"Okay."
"I'm really mad at you."
"I know."
"I could have handled it. I was handling it."
"You were."
"So why —"
"Because you shouldn't have to handle it alone." Kimi's hand dropped back to his lap. "That's all. That's the whole thing. You shouldn't have to handle it alone."
You stared at him.
He stared back.
And despite everything — the blood, the tears, the disaster of the past twenty minutes — you laughed. A small, wet, incredulous laugh.
"You're insane," you said.
"Probably."
"You punched my ex-boyfriend in front of half the campus."
"He deserved it."
"Someone probably filmed it."
"Gabriel definitely filmed it."
"Gabriel is going to post it everywhere."
"Probably."
"I'm going to kill him."
"I'll help."
You laughed again. Real this time. Kimi's mouth curved into that almost-smile, the one that made his whole face softer, less like a statue and more like a person.
"Hold still," you said, reaching for the butterfly bandages. "I'm not done fixing you."
"Yes ma'am."
You taped his knuckles. Cleaned the dried blood from his fingers. Told yourself your hands weren't shaking. Told yourself your heart wasn't racing. Told yourself this didn't mean anything.
You were lying.
Twenty minutes later, you walked out of the science building together.
Kimi's hand was bandaged. Your face was dry. Neither of you mentioned the way your shoulders brushed as you walked.
"Which way?" Kimi asked.
"What?"
"Your room. Which way?"
"You don't have to walk me —"
"I'm walking you."
"It's fine —"
"I'm walking you anyway."
You sighed. Pointed left. Kimi fell into step beside you.
The walk was quiet. Not the uncomfortable kind — the easy kind. The kind where you didn't need to fill the silence with words. The October air was cool against your skin, and somewhere behind you, the sun was starting to set, painting everything gold.
"You should ice your hand when you get home," you said.
"I know."
"And take something for the swelling."
"I know."
"And maybe don't punch anyone else for at least a week."
Kimi glanced at you. "No promises."
You shook your head, but you were smiling. You couldn't seem to stop smiling around him.
"Kimi?"
"Yeah?"
"Thank you."
"For what?"
"For —" You gestured vaguely. "For showing up. For standing there. For not letting him —" You stopped. Swallowed. "For making me feel like I'm not alone."
Kimi was quiet for a long moment.
"You're not," he said finally. "You're not alone."
He said it like a fact. Like the sky was blue and the grass was green and you, Y/N, were not alone.
You didn't know what to do with that.
So you just walked.
Closer than before.
When you reached your building, you stopped at the door.
"This is me," you said.
"Yeah."
"Thanks for walking me."
"Yeah."
Neither of you moved.
Kimi shifted his weight. His bandaged hand hung at his side. His eyes were fixed on your face, like he was memorizing it.
"So" he said.
"So"
"Practice."
"I'll be there."
"I know."
You turned to go. Then stopped. Looked back.
"Kimi?"
"Yeah?"
"The thing you said. About me not being nothing."
His jaw tightened. "Yeah?"
"I'm glad you said it."
You didn't wait for his response. You pushed through the door and walked inside, heart hammering, face warm, a smile threatening to break across your face.
Behind you, Kimi stood on the pavement for a full minute.
Then he turned and walked home.
His hand hurt.
He didn't care.
taglist: @sunlightsunset @recklessyears @butwhocaresstillthelouvre @straykidsobsessionandenha @honeyedshark @hannahbananababybanana @lauray1x @thatcrazybooklovergirl @beabadoobee81 @f1obsessor4life @avkizi @imakeartandwatchf1 @lliicsa @zhqvie @acethedinosaur @thegirlinblackgreensilver @fuckingsimp4azriel @sarahlizbeth070 @hrtsaeko @sanguineassassinblizzard @sandrasteahouse @babydollmari3 @thequeenofdramaqueens @imsleepingwhataboutu @thisisthesoundofthend @archival-aphrodite @aceofspades190
I'd rather kiss the drummer! - ka12
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 thing about keeping a secret was that it required you to be careful.
You were not careful.
In your defense, you didn't think you needed to be. The band thing wasn't some dark conspiracy — you just didn't want your friends to know yet because Devon would want to come to a practice and Gabriel would make it weird and Ella would give you that look that meant she already knew everything you hadn't said. So you kept quiet. Told only Franco. Swore him to secrecy.
What you didn't account for was Kimi Antonelli.
Kimi, who apparently existed in the same spaces you did. Kimi, who kept showing up at the library when you were studying. Kimi, who walked the same route to the engineering building that cut past the economics wing. Kimi, who had somehow gone from the weird drummer from Ollie's band to a person you kept running into to someone you didn't mind running into.
It wasn't intentional. At least, you didn't think it was.
But by the end of the first week of practices, something had shifted. You'd learned his tells — the way his jaw tightened when he was concentrating, the way his knee bounced when he was waiting for something, the way he said your name like it was a complete sentence. He'd learned yours too. He knew you tapped your fingers when you were thinking. He knew you bit your lip when you were nervous about a chord change. He knew you laughed more than you let on, even when you were pretending not to.
Neither of you mentioned it.
Neither of you mentioned any of it.
But other people noticed.
Monday — Isack's Sighting
The library was supposed to be a sacred space.
That was Isack's rule, not the university's. Isack believed that the library was for studying, and studying only — no socializing, no phone scrolling, no existential crises in the philosophy section. He guarded his study corner like it was his personal office, and he guarded his study sessions with you like they were depositions.
Which was why, when he rounded the stack at 2 PM on Monday and found someone else in his seat, he nearly filed a formal complaint.
Then he realized the someone else was you.
And you weren't alone.
A boy was sitting across from you. Dark curls. Grey hoodie. Head bent over a textbook that looked suspiciously like engineering mechanics. He wasn't talking. You weren't talking either. You were both just… existing. In the same space. Quietly.
Isack stopped walking.
He watched as you reached over without looking up and stole a fry from the boy's plate. The boy didn't react. Didn't flinch. Just pushed the plate an inch closer to your side without missing a beat.
What the hell.
Isack's first instinct was to march over and demand an explanation. His second instinct — the lawyer instinct — told him to gather more evidence first.
He pulled out his phone.
Isack watched for another thirty seconds. You said something he couldn't hear. The boy — Kimi — looked up from his textbook and nodded. Just nodded. Like you'd said something important and he was filing it away.
Then you laughed.
Not a big laugh. A small one. Private.
Isack turned around and walked away.
He had enough evidence.
Tuesday — Devon's Sighting
Devon was not a morning person.
This was a known fact. She operated on a schedule that started no earlier than 10 AM, required at least one coffee before speaking, and absolutely forbade any form of emotional confrontation before noon. So when she stumbled out of her 9:30 lecture to find you standing outside the humanities building, talking to a boy, she almost kept walking.
Then she recognized the boy.
Dark hair. Quiet stance. The same one from the party — the one who'd been sitting by the pool when the group went looking for you. Devon had an excellent memory for faces, especially ones that looked like that.
She slowed down. Watched.
You were gesturing about something — hands moving, the way they did when you were explaining something complicated. Kimi was listening. Actually listening, not the fake listening that most people did while waiting for their turn to talk. His head was tilted slightly, his eyes fixed on your face like whatever you were saying mattered.
Then you stopped. Looked at your watch. Swore.
Devon couldn't hear the words, but she could read the panic on your face. You were late for something. You grabbed your bag, said something to Kimi, and started power-walking toward the science building.
Kimi watched you go.
He didn't move for a full five seconds.
Then he shook his head — a small, amused shake — and walked in the opposite direction.
Devon pulled out her phone.
No one noticed that Franco hadn't said a word the entire time.
Wednesday — Gabriel's Sighting
Gabriel was not a stalker.
He was simply… observant. And curious. And maybe a little bit invested in his friend's love life because his own love life was nonexistent and he needed entertainment.
So when he saw you crossing the quad at 3 PM, he almost didn't follow. Almost. But then he saw who you were with — the same dark-haired boy from Devon's story — and suddenly he had somewhere to be.
He kept his distance. Casual. Natural. Just a guy walking to class.
You and Kimi were walking close — not touching, but close. Your shoulders almost brushed. You were talking about something, your head tilted up toward him because he was taller, and Kimi was looking down at you with an expression Gabriel couldn't quite read.
Then you tripped.
Just a little — your foot caught on a crack in the pavement, and you stumbled. Kimi's hand shot out automatically, catching your elbow, steadying you. You laughed. Said something. Kimi's hand lingered for half a second longer than necessary before dropping back to his side.
Gabriel stopped walking.
That, he thought, was not a friend grab.
He pulled out his phone.
Thursday — Ella's Sighting
Ella didn't mean to spy.
She was walking back from her psychology seminar, a takeaway coffee in hand, when she saw you through the window of the campus café. You were sitting at a table near the back, books open, pen behind your ear. And across from you — the boy.
Kimi.
Ella stopped. Watched.
You were both studying — or pretending to study. Your textbook was open to a page you hadn't turned in at least ten minutes. Kimi's laptop screen had gone dark, the battery dead, but he hadn't bothered to plug it in. You were talking. Low voices, heads close together, like you were sharing secrets even though the café was almost empty.
Then you laughed — a real laugh, head thrown back, shoulders shaking — and Kimi smiled.
Not a small smile. A real one. His whole face transformed, younger and softer, and Ella felt something in her chest tighten.
Oh, she thought. Oh, this is not nothing.
She watched for another minute. Watched you reach across the table and steal a sip of his drink. Watched him not react, like you'd done it a hundred times before. Watched you both forget that other people existed.
Then she pulled out her phone.
Friday — The Intervention
You were in a good mood when you walked into the living room.
Practice had gone well. Arvid had only yelled twice. Liam had brought snacks. And Kimi had walked you home — not because you'd asked, but because he was going that way anyway, even though his flat was in the opposite direction. You didn't think about that part too hard.
You pushed open the door, still humming one of the setlist songs, and stopped.
Everyone was there.
Devon, cross-legged on the couch, arms folded. Ella, in the armchair, holding a mug of tea like a shield. Gabriel sprawled on the floor, looking far too casual. Isack, perched on the arm of the couch, laptop open but ignored. And Franco, in the corner, biting his lip like he was trying not to laugh.
"Hey," you said slowly. "Why does this feel like an intervention?"
"Because it is," Gabriel said.
"An intervention for what?"
"For the guy," Devon said.
"What guy?"
"The one you've been hanging out with," Ella said gently. "The one from the band. The quiet one."
You blinked. "Kimi?"
"YES," everyone said at once.
"What about him?"
"Are you dating him?" Isack asked, direct as always.
"WHAT? No." You dropped onto the couch next to Devon. "We're not dating. We're barely friends. He's just — he's in the band. We practice together. That's it."
"That's not what it looked like," Gabriel said.
"What did it look like?"
"Like you were sharing fries," Isack said.
"Like he caught you when you tripped," Gabriel said.
"Like you stole his drink," Ella said.
"Like he walked you home," Devon said.
You stared at them. "You've been watching me?"
"We've been observing," Devon corrected. "There's a difference."
"That's literally the same thing."
"It's really not."
You looked at Franco. He was definitely laughing now, silently, his shoulders shaking.
"You told them," you said.
"I didn't tell them anything," Franco said. "They figured it out themselves. I just —"
"Did nothing to stop it?"
"Strategically observed."
"FRANCO."
"I'm sorry," he said, not sorry at all. "But in my defense, their theories were very funny."
"Theories?"
"Isack thought you were being blackmailed," Ella offered.
"TEMPORARILY," Isack said. "I retracted it."
"You absolutely did not."
"Can we focus?" Gabriel cut in. "Y/N. Are you sure you're not dating him?"
"I'm sure."
"Then why are you spending so much time with him?"
You opened your mouth. Closed it. Thought about it.
Because the truth was — you didn't have a good answer. Kimi was just… there. In the library. On the quad. At the café. And you didn't mind. You didn't mind at all.
"We're friends," you said finally. "Or — I don't know. We're becoming friends. Is that allowed?"
"Since when do you make friends with men voluntarily?" Devon asked.
"Since always?"
"Name one male friend you've made on your own."
"Franco."
"Franco doesn't count."
"Ugh, I don't know then. You kind of introduced me to everyone."
"Exactly." Devon crossed her arms. "You don't make friends with men. Men happen to you. You tolerate them at best. So the fact that you're willingly spending time with this guy — sharing food with him — letting him walk you home —"
"It means something," Ella finished.
"It doesn't mean anything," you said. "He's just — he's easy to be around. He doesn't talk much. He doesn't expect anything. He just… listens."
The room went quiet.
Then Gabriel said, very slowly, "You're describing a dog."
"I'm not describing a dog."
"You're describing a golden retriever."
"Kimi is not a golden retriever."
"What breed is he then?"
"There are no breeds. He's a person."
"Border collie," Isack said. "Smart. Quiet. Intense eye contact."
"Australian shepherd," Devon offered. "Pretty. Slightly intimidating. Needs a job."
"Stop categorizing him like a dog."
"You're right," Ella said. "He's a cat."
"ELLA."
"He is though. Independent. Comes to you on his own terms. Doesn't need constant attention." She tilted her head. "You've never liked cats."
"I like cats."
"You say cats are 'emotionally manipulative.'"
"They are. But I respect the hustle."
The doorbell rang.
Everyone looked at the door. No one moved.
"I'll get it," Franco said, already standing. He was still smiling. He was always smiling lately, and you were starting to realize why.
He opened the door.
Kimi was standing there.
Dark hoodie. Hands in pockets. That same quiet stillness, like he'd been carved out of something solid.
"Hey," he said. "You left your notebook at practice."
He held it out. Your notebook — the black one with the ripped corner, the one you used for setlist notes and chord progressions and the occasional doodle when Arvid was talking too long.
You stood up. Walked to the door. Took it from him.
"Thanks," you said.
"Yeah."
A beat. Behind you, the room was dead silent. You could feel your friends staring. You could feel Franco trying not to combust.
"Are you okay?" Kimi asked. His eyes flicked past you, to the couch, to the group of people all definitely not pretending to do something else. "Are they —"
"They're being weird," you said. "Ignore them."
"Okay."
Another beat.
"See you at practice?" you said.
"Tuesday."
"Tuesday."
Kimi nodded. Turned. Walked away.
You closed the door and leaned your forehead against the wood.
Behind you, someone — probably Gabriel — whispered, "Border collie."
"I hate all of you," you said.
"No you don't," Devon said.
"I genuinely do."
"You smiled when he said your name."
"I did not."
"Your left eye is twitching."
"IT DOES NOT TWITCH."
But you were smiling.
And you couldn't stop.
Later that night, after everyone had gone home and the flat was quiet, Franco found you in the kitchen. You were making tea. Your notebook was open on the counter, and you were staring at a page of chord progressions like they held the secrets to the universe.
"You like him," Franco said. Not a question.
"I don't know him."
"You like him anyway."
You didn't answer.
Franco leaned against the counter, bumping your shoulder with his. "It's okay, you know. To like someone. Even when you're not ready for it."
"I'm not —" You stopped. Sighed. "He's just —"
"I know."
"He listens."
"I know."
"He doesn't look at me like I'm too much."
Franco was quiet for a moment. Then he said, very softly, "That's because you're not too much. You've never been too much. You've just been with people who made you feel that way."
Your throat tightened.
"I'm not dating him," you said.
"Okay."
"I'm not dating anyone."
"Okay."
"I'm just — I'm just existing. And he's just —"
"Existing nearby?"
"Yeah."
Franco smiled. "That's how it starts."
You shoved him. He laughed. The tea kettle whistled.
And somewhere across campus, in a dark rehearsal room, Kimi was sitting behind his drum kit, thinking about the way you'd smiled when he showed up at your door.
Tuesday, he thought.
Too far away.
taglist: @sunlightsunset @recklessyears @butwhocaresstillthelouvre @straykidsobsessionandenha @honeyedshark @hannahbananababybanana @lauray1x @thatcrazybooklovergirl @beabadoobee81 @f1obsessor4life @avkizi @imakeartandwatchf1 @lliicsa @zhqvie @acethedinosaur @thegirlinblackgreensilver @fuckingsimp4azriel @sarahlizbeth070 @hrtsaeko @sanguineassassinblizzard @sandrasteahouse @babydollmari3 @thequeenofdramaqueens @le-le-lea @imsleepingwhataboutu @archival-aphrodite @aceofspades190
I'd rather kiss the drummer! - ka12
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 rehearsal space smelled like stale coffee, old carpet, and the particular kind of desperation that came with having two weeks to save a band's competition hopes. It was tucked in the basement of the student union, a windowless box of a room with cracked leather sofas, posters of bands you'd never heard of, and a drum kit that had definitely seen better days.
You stood outside the door, hand on the handle, and asked yourself for the fifth time what the hell you were doing here.
Revenge, you told yourself. Focus. Revenge.
You pushed the door open.
The room fell silent.
Four heads turned toward you. Ollie was the first to react — jumping up from the sofa with the kind of enthusiasm usually reserved for puppies and people who had never been told no.
"Y/N! You came!"
"I said I would," you said, stepping inside. "Don't make it weird."
"Too late. I'm already weird. It's my brand."
Behind him, three other boys were arranged in various states of surprise. The one on the left — tall, sharp features, holding a guitar like it was an extension of his body — was staring at you with an expression that fell somewhere between suspicion and disdain. Arvid, you guessed. The band founder. The one who probably had strong opinions about everything.
The one in the middle — sitting on an amp, legs sprawled out, coffee in hand — was watching you with open curiosity. He had the energy of someone who found everything at least a little bit entertaining. Liam. The frontman. The one Ollie had described as "dramatic."
And the one in the corner —
You recognized him immediately.
Dark curls. Brown eyes. The same black hoodie from the party, sleeves pushed up to his elbows. He was sitting behind the drum kit, sticks resting loosely in his fingers, watching you with that same quiet stillness from the poolside. Like he was observing. Filing away details.
Kimi.
He didn't wave. Didn't smile. Just tilted his head slightly, like he was acknowledging your existence without making a thing of it.
You looked away first.
"So," you said, dropping your bag on the floor. "Where do you want me?"
Arvid stood up. He was shorter than you expected, but what he lacked in height he made up for in intensity. "You're Y/N."
"Last time I checked."
"Ollie says you play bass."
"Ollie says a lot of things. Some of them are even true."
Arvid's jaw tightened. "This isn't a joke. We have two weeks. The competition is the biggest of the year. We can't afford to waste time on someone who's going to bring —" he paused, choosing his words carefully, "— drama."
You raised an eyebrow. "Drama."
"Your ex is Mark. From Midnight Echo. Our direct competition."
"And?"
"And that seems like a conflict of interest."
"It's not a conflict of interest. It's motivation." You held his gaze. "I didn't come here to cause problems. I came here to play bass. That's it. You need a bassist. I need something to do with my evenings. We help each other, and in two weeks when Ollie's hand is healed, I leave. No drama. No baggage. Just music."
Arvid stared at you.
You stared back.
From the corner, you heard Ollie whisper loudly to Liam: "I told you she was cool."
"I didn't say she wasn't cool," Liam whispered back. "I said she was intimidating. There's a difference."
"I can hear you both," you said, not looking away from Arvid.
"Good," Arvid said. "Then you can hear this. We have three songs to learn before the competition. You'll need to know them inside and out. We practice every Tuesday and Thursday, plus weekends if needed. Ollie will send you the setlist and the recordings. If you miss a practice without notice, you're out. If you show up unprepared, you're out. If you cause any issues with Midnight Echo —"
"You'll kick me out. Got it." You picked up one of the spare basses leaning against the wall — a decent Fender, not your old one but close enough — and slung it over your shoulder. "Can we play now, or are we done with the background check?"
Arvid's mouth twitched. It wasn't quite a smile, but it was close.
"Setlist," he said. "First track. From the top."
The next hour was a blur of chord progressions and tempo changes and the particular joy of falling back into something you'd forgotten you loved.
Your fingers remembered faster than your brain did. They found the frets without asking permission, plucked the strings like they'd been waiting for this moment for months. The bass hummed against your hip, warm and familiar, and somewhere around the third run-through of their original song — something moody and driving that you immediately liked — you stopped thinking altogether.
You just played.
When the last note faded, the room was quiet.
Then Liam whistled. "Okay. Yeah. That was —"
"Good," Arvid finished. He was watching you differently now. Less suspicion. More assessment. "That was good."
"Thanks," you said, flexing your fingers. They were sore already. You'd forgotten that too — the ache of it, the proof that you'd done something real.
Ollie was practically vibrating. "I TOLD you. I TOLD all of you. She's literally the best bassist I know and I know like, at least five."
"You know three," Liam said.
"It feels like five."
Arvid exchanged a glance with Liam. Something unspoken passed between them. Then Arvid nodded.
"We need to talk," he said, jerking his head toward the corner of the room. "Give us a minute."
He, Liam, and Ollie huddled by the amp stack, voices low, gestures sharp. You could feel them arguing about you — Ollie's enthusiastic hand-waving, Arvid's skeptical frown, Liam's mediator shrug.
You didn't care.
Because someone else was still watching you.
Kimi hadn't moved from behind the drum kit. He wasn't part of the huddle. He was just sitting there, drumsticks resting on his thighs, head tilted slightly like you were a puzzle he was trying to solve.
You walked over.
"Not joining the group discussion?" you asked, leaning against the wall near his kit.
"They don't need me." His voice was quiet. Calm. "They already know what they're going to decide."
"Oh yeah? What's that?"
"You're in. Arvid just doesn't want to admit it yet."
"You sound sure."
"I'm observant."
You snorted. "That's one word for it."
Kimi's mouth twitched. Not quite a smile, but close. "What word would you use?"
"Weird," you said. "I'd use weird."
"Weird," he repeated, like he was testing the word out.
"At the party. You just sat there. Didn't ask any questions. Didn't try to comfort me. Just… handed me a drink and let me talk."
"You needed to talk."
"How did you know that?"
"Because you were sitting by a pool at a party full of people. Alone. After your boyfriend kissed someone else on stage." He shrugged. "Didn't take a genius."
You crossed your arms. "You're very blunt."
"I'm honest. There's a difference."
"That's what I said."
"I know." His eyes met yours. "I was listening."
Something about the way he said it — I was listening — made your stomach flip. Not in a romantic way. Not yet. Just in a huh, this person actually pays attention way. It was disarming. You weren't used to people paying attention.
"So," you said, changing the subject. "The band. How long have you been playing with them?"
"Since the beginning."
"Ollie said you're the quiet one."
"Ollie talks too much." Another almost-smile. "He's also right. I don't talk much. There's not a lot to say."
"That's a weird thing to say from someone who just had a whole conversation with me."
Kimi tilted his head. "You started it."
"I did, didn't I?"
"You did."
You looked at him. Really looked. He wasn't handsome in the obvious way — not like Mark, with his perfect jaw and practiced smiles. Kimi was something else. Something quieter. The kind of face that grew on you the longer you looked at it.
Not that you were looking.
"We should probably talk about the setlist," you said, because you didn't know what else to say.
"Probably."
"Arvid seems like he'll bite my head off if I miss a chord."
"Arvid bites everyone's head off. It's not personal."
"Good to know."
From across the room, Ollie's voice cut through: "OKAY. We have a decision."
You pushed off the wall. Kimi picked up his drumsticks.
But before you walked away, you glanced back at him. "Hey."
"Yeah?"
"Thanks. For listening. At the party. And now."
Kimi nodded once. "Anytime."
It wasn't flirting. It wasn't anything. Just two people being civil to each other. But something about it stuck with you.
"You're in," Arvid said, arms crossed. "But we start at 7 PM sharp on Tuesday. Don't be late."
"I'm never late."
"You were almost late today."
"I was exactly on time. There's a difference."
Arvid's mouth did that almost-smile thing again. "Tuesday. 7 PM."
"Wouldn't miss it."
Ollie grabbed your arm before you could escape, dragging you toward the door with the enthusiasm of a golden retriever who'd just spotted a squirrel. "I'll walk you out —"
"You don't need to walk me out. I'm not a child."
"You're a guest. Guests get walked out. It's called hospitality."
"It's called being annoying."
"Same thing."
You let him pull you into the hallway, already pulling out your phone to check the time. You had forty minutes until dinner with Franco. Enough time to change, maybe, if you hurried.
"You were good," Ollie said, quieter now. "Like, really good. Arvid doesn't say that to just anyone."
"He seemed like he barely tolerated me."
"That's how he shows affection. You should see him at parties. He just stands in the corner and judges people's drink choices."
"Sounds charming."
"He's grown on me. Like fungus." Ollie grinned. "But seriously. Thank you. For doing this. I know it's —" He gestured vaguely. "— complicated."
You thought about Mark. About the party. About the way Kimi had handed you a drink without saying a word.
"It's not complicated," you said. "It's just music."
"Right."
"It's just bass."
"Right."
"And I'm doing this for me. Not for you. Not for revenge. For me."
Ollie's grin softened into something more genuine. "Whatever you need to tell yourself."
"Fuck off, Ollie."
"See you Tuesday, Y/N."
You flipped him off over your shoulder as you walked away.
He was still laughing when you turned the corner.
Inside the rehearsal room, the door clicked shut.
Liam stretched out on the sofa, scrolling through his phone. "I like her. She's got good energy."
"She's talented," Arvid admitted, already making notes on his tablet. "But she's also a wildcard. We don't know anything about her."
"We know she can play."
"We know she's Mark's ex."
"We know Mark's an idiot," Liam said. "Which means she has good taste in enemies. That's basically the same thing as good taste in friends."
Arvid sighed. He was outnumbered and he knew it.
From behind the drum kit, Kimi hadn't moved. He was still holding his sticks, still thinking about the conversation you'd just had.
Weird, you'd called him.
He didn't mind.
"Kimi," Arvid said. "You're the tiebreaker. What do you think?"
Kimi looked up. "She's in."
"Just like that?"
"She can play. She's not here to cause problems. And she's interesting."
Arvid raised an eyebrow. "Interesting?"
Kimi shrugged. "She talked to me. Most people don't."
No one knew what to say to that. Because it was true — Kimi had a way of being invisible even when he was in the room. People didn't approach him. Didn't ask questions. Didn't try.
But you had.
You'd walked over. Leaned against the wall. Asked him something real.
Interesting, he thought again.
"Yeah," Liam said slowly. "She's in."
Arvid nodded. "Tuesday. Let's see if she actually shows up."
"She will," Kimi said.
Everyone looked at him.
"She's not the type to quit," he added. "Or to be late."
No one asked what he meant by that. No one ever asked Kimi what he meant by anything. He had a way of saying things that felt finished — like there was nothing left to add, even when there probably was.
But Liam and Arvid exchanged a glance.
The restaurant was small and warm and smelled like garlic and rosemary.
It was their place — yours and Franco's — tucked away on a side street that tourists never found. You'd discovered it together during your first month of uni, stumbling in after a disastrous night out, desperate for food that wasn't cold chips. The owner, a round woman named Rosa, had taken one look at your matching expressions of misery and brought you bread and olive oil without asking.
You'd been coming back every month since.
Franco was already there when you arrived, seated at the corner table, two glasses of water already poured. He stood up when he saw you — he always stood up — and his eyes did that quick scan thing he did, checking for damage.
"You're late," he said.
"I know. I'm sorry."
"You texted. It's fine." He sat back down. "Tell me everything."
You slid into the seat across from him, suddenly aware of how tired you were. Your fingers still ached from playing. Your head was full of chord progressions and tempo changes and the way Kimi had said I was listening.
"It went well," you said. "The band thing. They said yes."
Franco's eyebrows went up. "Just like that?"
"Not just like that. There was a whole interrogation. The guitarist — Arvid — he's very intense. He basically threatened to kick me out if I brought any drama."
"Did you tell him you're literally the least dramatic person I know?"
"I told him I was there to play bass. Nothing else."
Franco studied your face. Rosa appeared with menus, but neither of you looked at them.
"And?" Franco said. "Was that true?"
"What do you mean?"
"When you were playing. Was it just about bass?" He tilted his head. "Or was it about something else?"
You looked down at the table. Ran your finger along the grain of the wood.
"It felt good," you admitted. "Really good. I forgot how much I missed it."
Franco didn't say anything. He just waited.
"I've been so focused on Mark," you continued. "On being what he wanted. On making myself smaller so he could feel bigger. And I just — I got tired of it. I got tired of him." You looked up. "I'm not doing it anymore. I'm not shrinking for anyone."
Franco's expression softened. "There's the Y/N I know."
"Don't."
"I mean it. I've been waiting for you to say that for eight months."
"I know."
"I hated him."
"I know."
"I hated the way he looked at you. Like you were an accessory. Like you were lucky to have him." Franco's voice was calm, but there was steel underneath. "You were never lucky to have him. He was lucky to have you. And he was too stupid to know it."
Your throat tightened. You blinked hard.
"Don't make me cry," you said. "I didn't cry at the party. I'm not going to cry at dinner."
"Who said anything about crying?" Franco reached across the table and took your hand. "I'm just telling you the truth. You're brilliant. You're talented. You're too good for a boy who can't even spell 'faithful,' let alone practice it."
You laughed. It came out watery. "You're ridiculous."
"I'm right."
"You're also ridiculous."
"Both can be true."
Rosa appeared with bread and olive oil. She looked at your hand in Franco's, at your face, at Franco's face, and said something in rapid Spanish that you didn't understand. Franco replied in the same language, and Rosa laughed — a warm, rolling sound — before disappearing back into the kitchen.
"What did she say?" you asked.
Franco's ears went slightly pink. "She asked if you were okay. I said you were. She said you looked like you needed more bread."
"That's not what she said."
"It's the gist."
"You're lying."
"I'm protecting Rosa's privacy."
You shook your head, but you were smiling. Real this time. The kind that reached your eyes.
"I'm glad I have you," you said.
Franco squeezed your hand. "You'll always have me. Even when you're being stupid."
"Especially when I'm being stupid?"
"Especially then."
You ate bread. You ordered pasta. You told him everything — the rehearsal, the setlist, the way Arvid had looked at you like you were a problem to be solved. You told him about Liam's easy grin and Ollie's relentless enthusiasm. You told him about the bass, about the ache in your fingers, about the way it felt to play again after months of silence.
You told him about Kimi.
Not because it mattered. It didn't. Kimi was just the drummer. He'd barely said two words to you. But something about the conversation stuck with you — the way he'd listened, really listened, without trying to fix anything.
"He sounds weird," Franco said.
"He is weird."
"Good weird or bad weird?"
"I don't know yet." You twirled pasta around your fork. "Interesting weird."
Franco raised an eyebrow. "Interesting."
"Not like that."
"I didn't say anything."
"Your face said something."
"My face is neutral."
"Your face has never been neutral a day in your life."
Franco laughed, and the tension broke. You talked about nothing — about his lab, about his roommate's terrible taste in music, about the stray cat he'd been feeding outside his window. Normal things. Easy things.
And for a little while, you forgot about Mark entirely.
Later, walking home through the cool October night, Franco bumped his shoulder against yours.
"You're going to be okay," he said.
"I know."
"You're going to play that competition and you're going to be incredible."
"I know."
"And Mark is going to watch you and realise what he lost."
"That's not why I'm doing it."
"I know." Franco grinned. "But it's a nice bonus."
You shoved him. He stumbled dramatically, clutching his chest like you'd wounded him.
"You're a menace," you said.
"You love me."
"Unfortunately."
You walked in comfortable silence for another block. The streetlights cast everything in soft orange. Somewhere, a dog barked.
"Franco?"
"Yeah?"
"Thank you. For being my person."
Franco's steps slowed. He looked at you — really looked at you — and something warm passed between you. Not romantic. Never romantic. Just… solid. The kind of knowing that came from choosing each other, again and again, without needing a reason.
"Always," he said.
And that was that.
Back in the rehearsal room, long after everyone had left, Kimi sat alone behind the drum kit.
He wasn't playing.
He was thinking.
About the way you'd walked over to him when everyone else was in the huddle. About the way you'd called him weird like it wasn't an insult. About the way you'd said thanks for listening like you meant it. About the way you'd held the bass. About the way your fingers had moved across the frets like you'd been born doing it. About the way you'd looked at Arvid — steady, unafraid, unwilling to be intimidated.
She's not the type, he'd said.
He meant it.
You weren't the type to cause drama. You weren't the type to use people. You weren't the type to show up to a band audition just to spite your ex, even though that was clearly part of it.
There was something else. Something underneath.
He didn't know what it meant yet.
But he wanted to find out.
Kimi picked up his sticks. Spun them once between his fingers. And started to play.
taglist: @sunlightsunset @recklessyears @butwhocaresstillthelouvre @straykidsobsessionandenha @honeyedshark @hannahbananababybanana @lauray1x @thatcrazybooklovergirl @beabadoobee81 @f1obsessor4life @avkizi @imakeartandwatchf1 @lliicsa @zhqvie @acethedinosaur @thegirlinblackgreensliver @fuckingsimp4azriel @sarahlizbeth070 @hrtsaeko @sanguineassassinblizzard @sandrasteahouse @babydollmari3 @thequeenofdramaqueens @archival-aphrodite
Hello !! i hope ur doing well, i wanna say that i LOVE ur writing and all ur works, and i wanted to request a small fic, if its not a problem <:
basically a kimi antonelli x reader fic where the reader is an olympic figure skater and pushes herself too hard which makes him worried as yk hes her bf right and basically fluff and comfort 🩷
it doesnt matter if its written or smau just that its written by u bc like i said im in love with ur writing.
love u queen 🩷
omg first of all thank you!! And second of all it’s like you read my mind because I literally have a whole Olympics series for a few drivers in my draft waiting to be posted 👀 but it will probably be out after the current drummer!kimi series if that’s okay 🙏 and I might not be consistent with my posting as I have my a-level exam currently but after my exams TRUST your girl will lock in!!! But once again thank you so much!!!
What’s his secret ! - ka12
𖤓 your boyfriend is… weird. like, disappearing-at-random, showing-up-late, always-has-an-excuse kind of weird. And you’re not stupid — something isn’t adding up. so you do what any sane person would do: you start investigating him. except the truth? is a lot more unbelievable than you expected.
𖤓 spiderman!kimi antonelli x fem!reader, spiderman au, marvel au, established relationship, dork!Kimi
𖤓 wc: 1,437
𖤓 listen to Spiderwebs when reading this!
𖤓 note: okayyy guys!!! so I saw this video of Kimi saying if he were a marvel hero, he would be spiderman and well, your girl just had to do it 😼 this for the f1 and Spidey fans (i love us!!) i couldn't resist combining the marvel magic with our favourite italian prodigy Kimi!! 🇮🇹✨ imagine kimi antonelli swinging through the streets of Queens?! yes please. sooo this is just a little drabble because i had the vision of him being a total dork in the relationship but secretly saving the city... and oh my god PLEASE let me know in the comments if you want me to turn this into a whole SERIES of dating spider man kimi!! i have so many ideas already hshshs help!! enjoy <3
It started with the laundry.
Specifically, the sheer amount of spandex and strange, red and blue synthetic fibers appearing in the wash alongside Kimi’s usual oversized hoodies. Then, there were the bruises. Not the kind you get from playing football or tripping on the subway these were perfectly symmetrical, almost circular marks on his ribs, or scrapes on his forearms that appeared overnight.
At first, you assumed it was some weird gym trend.
At second glance, you realised it absolutely was not.
“Why does this feel like it could survive a fire?” you muttered one evening, holding up a strip of fabric between your fingers. From the kitchen, Kimi nearly dropped his glass. “It’s—uh—Italian material,” he called back quickly. “Very… advanced. Very breathable.” You narrowed your eyes at the wall separating you. “Breathable doesn’t usually mean bulletproof, Kimi.”
Silence. Then the sound of a cupboard slamming.
Then came the bruises. Not the normal kind, not clumsy, accidental, everyday bruises. These were precise. Circular marks along his ribs. Thin, clean scrapes along his forearms. Once, a faint burn line across his shoulder that looked a little too… symmetrical to be random. They appeared overnight. Disappeared just as quickly.
And every time you asked—
“I tripped.”
“On what?”
“…gravity?”
And finally, there was the disappearing act, which was the worst part because it was predictable. Too predictable. Every single time a siren wailed in the distance, every time a commotion broke out near Queensboro Bridge, every time your phone buzzed with one of those “breaking: disturbance reported near—” alerts—
Kimi vanished.
Not dramatically.
Just casually enough to almost get away with it.
“I need water.”
“I forgot something downstairs.”
“I—uh—left the stove on.”
“You don’t cook,” you pointed out once.
“Exactly,” he said. “Very dangerous.”
So you started keeping track. Not intentionally, but once you noticed it, you couldn’t unnotice it. Dates. Times. Excuses. And slowly, a pattern formed.
“Kimi,” you said today, narrowing your eyes as he sat on your bed, frantically trying to pull a sweater over his head to hide a fresh scrape on his jawline. “Why does your backpack weigh forty pounds when you’ve only packed a notebook and a charger?”
Kimi froze, the wool of the sweater halfway up his nose. He let out a nervous, airy laugh that adorable, dorky chuckle that usually melted you, but currently only fueled your suspicion. “Oh, uh… gym gear! Heavy weights, you know? Building muscle. Very important for… Italian boys.”
“Italian boys don’t carry fifty pounds of ‘gym gear’ in a slim messenger bag, Kimi,” you deadpanned, crossing your arms. “And since when do you have the agility of a literal cat? Yesterday, you jumped from the kitchen counter to the fridge to grab a juice box.”
Kimi's expression shifted into that puppy dog gaze he used whenever he was trying to wiggle out of trouble. “Baby, seriously, it’s just… intensive callisthenics. Really niche. Don’t worry about it.”
You weren't buying it. Not for a second.
Later that night, the investigation reached its climax. You had stayed awake, ostensibly reading, but actually watching the window. When a faint thwip sounded from the alleyway below, followed by a rhythmic thudding on the brickwork. Your heart stuttered, you waited exactly three seconds, then you moved. The fire escape was cold under your hands as you pushed the window open and slipped outside, your breath catching slightly in the night air. Queens stretched out below you—dim streetlights, distant traffic, the occasional flicker of movement.
There he was. Hanging precariously from the ledge of the building opposite yours, clad in vibrant red and blue, mask pulled up just above his chin so he could catch his breath, revealing flushed cheeks and messy curls. He looked exhausted, slightly dishevelled, and utterly breathtaking.
“Caught you,” you whispered, leaning over the railing.
He flinched so hard you genuinely thought he might fall. “Dio mio! Y/N!” He scrambled upward, pulling himself onto your fire escape with a strength that definitely wasn't 'callisthenics.' He ripped the mask off entirely, his curly hair damp with sweat and sticking to his forehead, staring at you like you’d just rewritten his entire life.
Up close, it was worse. Better. More real. The suit wasn’t just red and blue—it was textured, detailed, built for movement. Tiny scuffs marked the surface. A tear near his shoulder. Dirt along the seams.
“How long have you been there?” he demanded.
You crossed your arms. “Long enough to know you’re a superhero,” you said, half laughing and half stunned. “Spider Man? My boyfriend is Spider Man?”
Kimi slumped against the metal railing, letting out a defeated groan. “Can we talk about the hero part later? Can we just focus on the fact that you saw me eating a bagel mid swing? It was very ungraceful.”
You let out a small, disbelieving laugh, shaking your head. “Kimi. You disappear every time there’s trouble. You come home with mystery injuries. You have superhuman reflexes—”
“I do not—”
“You caught a falling mug mid-air last week without looking.”
“…good instincts.”
“More like Spidey instincts.”
You looked at him properly then. At the exhaustion in his posture. The way his shoulders slumped slightly now that the secret was out. The faint tremor in his hands. All the things you hadn’t understood before. All the things that suddenly made sense.
“You’re an idiot,” you said finally.
His head snapped up.
“I—what?!”
“You swing around the city at night, fight who-knows-what, and then come home and pretend it’s ‘callisthenics’?”
“It is callisthenics,” he muttered weakly. “Just… elevated.”
You huffed out a laugh despite yourself, then you stepped closer, the moonlight catching the silver threads of his suit. Despite the absurdity of it all, the overwhelming feeling in your chest was just... love. You reached out, cupping his face, thumb brushing over the edge of a bruise you now understood completely and pulled him toward you. Because he was still perched awkwardly on the ledge, you had to tilt your head back significantly.
“You’re still an idiot,” you repeated once again softly.
“…but?” he asked, hopeful.
You rolled your eyes.
“But you’re my idiot.”
He smiled then. And before you could overthink it—before you could process the fact that your boyfriend was quite literally a superhero—
You leaned in.
He met you halfway.
Except—
Gravity took over. For a split second, he slipped, and you both tumbled backwards slightly, grabbing onto each other, momentum pulling you off-balance—
Until—
You stopped.
Suspended.
A thin strand of web attached to the roof anchored above you, holding him in place, holding you in place as he hovered just slightly above you, one hand braced against the wall beside your head.
In the quiet of the Queens night, hanging upside down amidst the distant hum of traffic, he captured your lips in a soft, dizzying kiss. It was sweet, tasting of salt and adrenaline, a perfect, cinematic moment that felt far too real to be a dream.
When you finally pulled back, your head was spinning. Not from the height but from everything else.
“You know,” you said slowly, “I had, like, five different theories.”
“Oh?” he murmured.
“Secret second family.”
“…what?”
“Underground fight club.”
“Okay, that one is kind of cool.”
“Tax fraud.”
“I’m not committing tax fraud!”
You paused.
“…so Spider-Man was not on your list?”
“Shockingly, no.”
He laughed then, and for the first time since this all started, everything clicked into place. The bruises, the disappearances, the lies. Not malicious, not careless, just… him trying to protect something. You exhaled, leaning your forehead lightly against his.
“So,” you said.
“So?” he echoed.
“Next time you go out to save the city,” you added, tilting your head slightly, “at least text me.”
He blinked.
“…you’re not mad?”
“Oh, I’m furious,” you said easily. “We’ll unpack that later.”
“…okay.”
“But right now?” You smiled, just a little.
“I’m mostly impressed.”
Somewhere in the distance, another siren wailed. Kimi hesitated. You felt it: the pull, the responsibility, the choice. You sighed, stepping back.
“Go,” you said.
“Are you sure—”
“Kimi.”
“…yeah?”
“If you let something happen because you’re worried about me, I will personally break up with you.”
He stared at you.
“…you’re terrifying.”
“I know.”
He pulled his mask back on.
Gave you one last look.
And then—
thwip.
Gone.
You stood there for a moment longer, staring out at the city. Then you glanced down at your phone, already unlocking it. Your notes app was still open, your investigation log. You hovered for a second. Then typed:
conclusion: boyfriend is spider-man. explanation pending. still annoying.
You paused.
Then added:
case closed.
I'd rather kiss the drummer! - ka12
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 house was ridiculous.
That was your first thought as Devon's car pulled up the long driveway, past hedges trimmed into perfect geometric shapes and a fountain that definitely cost more than your entire degree. Lance Stroll's family home sprawled across the hills like something from a magazine — all glass and warm light and the distant thrum of bass leaking through the walls.
"Rich people are insane," you muttered.
"Babe, I am rich people," Devon said, not looking up from her lip gloss mirror.
"You're different."
"I'm really not."
"At least you have personality."
Devon grinned and shoved your shoulder. "Get out of my car. We're late and I need alcohol."
The inside was worse. Better? Worse. The kind of open-plan living room that could fit your entire flat inside it, filled with bodies and noise and the hazy glow of string lights someone had draped across the ceiling. A DJ had been set up in the corner — because of course Lance Stroll had a DJ at his house party — but the main attraction was the makeshift stage near the back windows, where amps and microphones sat waiting.
Your eyes caught on the stage. Midnight Echo's banner was draped across the front. Your stomach did something complicated.
"You okay?" Franco appeared at your elbow, holding two red cups. His eyes were soft, scanning your face the way he always did when he was checking if you were lying about being fine.
"I'm fine," you said. "Just looking for Mark."
"He's not on yet. I checked." Franco handed you a cup. "Drink this. Relax. We're here to have fun."
"Since when do you tell me to drink?"
"Since you started dating someone who makes your face do that thing."
"What thing?"
"The thing where you look like you're trying to convince yourself of something."
You took a long sip of whatever was in the cup — sweet, fizzy, probably lethal — and didn't answer.
The next hour was almost normal. You danced with Devon, who had the spatial awareness of a tornado and the enthusiasm of someone who had never been told no in her life. You watched Gabriel and Isack argue about something stupid near the drinks table, both of them gesturing wildly while Ella stood between them like a very pretty referee. You sat with Franco on a couch that cost more than your rent and let him tell you about his biology lab, about the frog dissection that had gone wrong, about the way his lab partner had screamed and knocked over a beaker and somehow set off the fire alarm.
"You're laughing," Franco said, pleased.
"I'm laughing at your pain. It's different."
"You're still laughing."
You were. For a moment, you forgot about Mark. Forgot about the weird twist in your chest every time you thought about him. Forgot about the way your friends looked at each other when they thought you weren't watching — the silent conversations they had about you and him and whether you were okay.
Then the lights dimmed. Someone tapped a microphone. Feedback screeched. And Mark stepped onto the stage. He looked good. He always looked good — that was the problem. Dark jeans, black t-shirt, his guitar slung low on his hips like he'd been born with it there. His hair fell across his forehead the way it did when he'd been practising, a little messy, a lot intentional. The crowd cheered. Someone wolf-whistled. Mark grinned that easy, charming grin that had made you fall for him in the first place.
You stood up from the couch.
"I'm going to go say hi," you said.
Franco caught your wrist. "Wait. Let him finish the set first. Surprise him after."
"Good idea."
You stayed. Watched. Midnight Echo was good — annoyingly good. Mark's guitar work was tight, his stage presence natural, and the crowd ate it up. They played three songs. Four. The room pulsed with energy, bodies pressed together, hands in the air, the whole thing loud and hot and intoxicating.
You felt a smile tug at your lips.
He's good, you thought. My boyfriend is good.
You started making your way toward the stage as the final song ended, weaving through the crowd, already planning what you'd say. Surprise. I came anyway. Miss me? You imagined his face — the flash of surprise, then the grin, then his arms around you. It would be fine. Everything was fine.
You reached the front of the crowd just as Mark set down his guitar.
Just as a girl climbed onto the stage.
Just as he pulled her in by the waist and kissed her.
Not a peck. Not a friendly hug. A kiss — deep, deliberate, his hands on her hips like he'd done it a hundred times before. The crowd cheered louder. Someone whistled. Someone else laughed.
You stood there.
Frozen.
The world kept moving around you — people dancing, drinking, laughing — but you were a statue in the middle of it all, watching your boyfriend kiss another girl in front of everyone.
You didn't cry.
You didn't move.
You just watched.
The girl pulled back first, giggling. Mark turned to say something to his bandmate — and froze.
His eyes found yours.
His face went pale.
"Y/N —"
The crowd noise faded to static. You saw his bandmate elbow him. Saw the girl's expression shift from confused to uncomfortable. Saw Mark push past her, stumble off the stage, reach for you —
"Y/N, I can explain —"
"Don't," you said.
"Baby, it's not what it looked like —"
"Don't call me baby."
"Please, just let me —"
You slapped him.
The sound cut through the music like a gunshot. People turned. The room went quiet. Mark's hand flew to his cheek, eyes wide, and for one perfect second, he looked exactly like what he was: a coward caught in the act.
"Y/N —"
"Explain what, exactly?" Your voice was steady. Cold. You were proud of that. "Explain how I just watched you kiss another girl after you told me not to come tonight? Explain how you're here, playing a show, while I'm at home waiting for a text that never came?"
"You don't understand —"
"I understand perfectly." You stepped closer. He stepped back. "You didn't want me here because I would've seen this. That's it, isn't it? That's the whole thing."
"That's not — I love you —"
"No," you said. "You don't."
The room was silent now. Even the DJ had stopped. You could feel eyes on you — hundreds of them — and something inside you burned hot and bright and done.
"Y/N, please —" Mark reached for your arm.
You stepped back. "Don't touch me."
"Where are you going?"
"Away from you."
"I told you this place wasn't for you —"
You stopped. Turned back. The audacity of it — the sheer, unbelievable audacity — made something snap.
"You told me this place wasn't for me so I wouldn't find out you were cheating?" Your laugh was sharp, hollow. "That's your defense? That's what you're going with?"
Mark opened his mouth. Closed it.
"That's what I thought."
You turned and walked. Didn't run. Didn't cry. Walked through the crowd with your head high, your spine straight, your dignity intact even as your heart cracked down the middle. Behind you, someone called your name — Mark, probably, or one of his bandmates. You didn't look back.
The backyard was a different world.
Quieter. Colder. The pool glowed turquoise under the lights, steam rising off the surface into the October night. A few people milled around the edges — couples tangled on loungers, a group smoking near the hedges — but mostly it was empty. Peaceful. A place to breathe.
You found a chair near the pool's edge, sat down, and stared at the water.
Your hands were shaking.
You pressed them between your knees and watched the ripples shift across the pool's surface. The music from inside was muffled now, just a bass thrum through the walls. Someone laughed in the distance. A car drove by.
You were still not crying.
You were angry. So angry you could taste it, metallic and sharp on your tongue. Angry at Mark. Angry at yourself for not seeing it. Angry at the girl on the stage, even though it wasn't her fault. Angry at everyone who had watched and whispered and known before you did.
"Here."
You looked up.
A boy was standing beside you.
You hadn't heard him approach. He was holding out a drink — something dark in a plastic cup — and looking at you like he already knew exactly what had happened. Dark curls. Brown eyes. A jaw that could cut glass. He was wearing a hoodie, hands shoved in the pockets, standing with the kind of stillness that suggested he was used to watching more than talking.
You didn't recognize him.
"Thanks," you said, taking the cup. "Do I know you?"
"No."
"Then why are you giving me a drink?"
He shrugged. Sat down in the chair next to you. Didn't look at you — looked at the pool, the water, the steam rising off the surface.
"That was a dick move," he said. "From him."
You blinked. "You saw?"
"Everyone saw."
"Great." You took a sip. Whiskey. Good whiskey. "So I'm the entertainment."
"That's not what I meant."
"Then what did you mean?"
He was quiet for a moment. The pool filter hummed. Somewhere, a girl shrieked with laughter.
"I meant," he said finally, "that you didn't deserve that."
Something in your chest cracked open. Just a little. Just enough.
"I know," you said. "I know I didn't."
You expected him to say something else — to ask questions, to offer comfort, to do the thing everyone always did when something bad happened. Are you okay? Do you want to talk about it? He was an idiot anyway.
But he didn't.
He just sat there. Quiet. Solid. Present.
And for some reason — maybe the whiskey, maybe the exhaustion, maybe the way he wasn't looking at you like you were something to be pitied — you started talking.
"His name is Mark," you said. "Was. His name was Mark. We've been together for eight months. Eight months, and he couldn't even —" You stopped. Took a breath. "He told me not to come tonight. Said these parties weren't 'my scene.' And I believed him. I actually believed him."
The boy said nothing.
"I was going to surprise him. After his set. I was going to walk up to him and smile and be the supportive girlfriend and he was —" Your voice cracked. You swallowed hard. "He was kissing someone else. On stage. In front of everyone. Like I didn't exist. Like I never existed."
Still nothing. Just that quiet presence, his eyes on the water, his hands loose in his lap.
"I'm not going to cry," you said. "I'm not. He doesn't get that. He doesn't get anything from me ever again."
"Good."
The word was soft. Simple. Not approving or disapproving — just acknowledging. Like he was saying I hear you without actually saying it.
You looked at him. Really looked.
He was younger than you'd thought at first. Maybe your age. His face was still, unreadable, but his eyes — his eyes were warm. Watching. Like he was filing away every detail of this moment without judgment.
"You're weird," you said.
"I know."
"You're just going to sit here and let me rant at you?"
"Is that what you're doing?"
"…Yes."
"Then yes."
You laughed. It came out wrong — too sharp, too close to a sob — but it was something. A release. A crack in the wall you'd been holding up since you saw Mark's hands on that girl's waist.
"His name is Mark — oh god, I can't believe I got cheated on by a guy named Mark. This shit is embarrassing," you said again, quieter, sighing. "He's the lead guitarist for Midnight Echo. And I —" You stopped. Shook your head. "I gave up so much for him. I stopped playing because he said it wasn't serious. I stopped going out because he said I was too much. I made myself smaller so he could feel bigger, and he was — he was —"
"An idiot," the boy said.
"Yeah."
"With terrible taste."
You snorted. "You don't even know me."
"I know you didn't deserve that. That's enough."
The words landed somewhere soft, somewhere you'd been trying to protect. You looked away. Blinked hard. Still didn't cry.
"I'm Y/N," you said.
"I know."
"How do you know?"
"Ollie talks about you. Constantly." A pause. " Well, mainly about the fact that you bully him too much. He's very annoying about it."
"Ollie Bearman?"
"You know another Ollie?"
You stared at him. He stared back. The pool glowed between you, turquoise and warm, and somewhere inside the house, the music had started again.
"You're in his band," you said slowly. "You're the drummer."
"Kimi," he said. "Andrea Kimi Antonelli. But just Kimi is fine."
"Kimi," you repeated. "The one who just sits there and stares at people."
A muscle twitched in his jaw. "Ollie said that?"
"Ollie said a lot of things."
"He talks too much."
"He really does."
Another silence. But different this time — lighter. Like something had shifted between you without either of you trying.
"Thanks for the drink," you said.
"You're welcome."
"And for —" You gestured vaguely. "Listening. Or whatever this was."
"Or whatever," he agreed.
You almost smiled.
"Y/N!" Franco's voice cut through the quiet. He was standing at the back door, phone in hand, scanning the yard. When he spotted you, his whole body sagged with relief.
"Thank god — we've been looking everywhere — Devon is about to commit murder — Gabriel is actually not partying which is how I knew something was wrong —" He was crossing the patio now, fast, and then he was in front of you, hands on your shoulders, eyes searching your face. "Are you okay?"
"I'm fine."
"Don't lie to me."
"I'm not lying. I'm angry. There's a difference."
Franco studied you for a long moment. Then he pulled you into a hug — tight, warm, the kind of hug that said I'm here without needing words.
"Devon is throwing hands with Mark," he said into your hair.
"Franco —"
"She's not actually hitting him. Isack is holding her back. But the intent is there."
You laughed. Real this time. Watery, but real. "I should go stop her."
"You should stay here until you're ready." He pulled back, still holding your shoulders. "Do you want to join the others? They're worried. Even Ella isn't being overly positive, which is worrying. And Devon is… well. Devon."
You glanced back at the chair by the pool.
Kimi was gone.
You hadn't heard him leave. The chair was empty, the plastic cup abandoned on the armrest. Like he'd never been there at all.
"Y/N?"
You turned back to Franco. "Can we just stay here? Please? I'm so embarrassed. I don't want to face everyone yet."
Franco's expression softened. He understood. He always understood.
"Okay," he said. "We can stay."
He sat down in the chair Kimi had left, close enough that your shoulders touched. The pool hummed. The stars blinked overhead. Inside, the party continued without you.
"You're allowed to be upset, you know," Franco said quietly.
"I know."
"You're allowed to cry."
"I know."
"But you're not going to."
"No." You stared at the water. "He doesn't get that. He doesn't get anything from me ever again."
Franco was quiet for a moment. Then: "That's my girl."
You leaned your head on his shoulder. He didn't move.
And somewhere across the yard, half-hidden in the shadows near the hedge, Kimi Antonelli watched. Not staring. Just… observing.
The way he always did.
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