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: My goofy ass has never touched a guitar, let alone been in a band so um if all the music stuff also doesn't make any sense, just ignore it pls!
𖤓 Sunny radio! I can't believe this series has already come to an end. Honestly, writing this has been so fun, and part of it is because of the support you guys have given me, and I couldn't have appreciated it more. Love every single one of you pookies!
𖤓 Listen to "Teenage Dirtbag" when reading this!
Profiles | Part one | Part two | Part three | Part four | Part five | Part six | Part seven | Part eight | Part nine | Part ten
The day of the competition arrived like a freight train — loud, fast, and impossible to stop.
You woke up at 5 AM, your stomach coiled into a knot so tight you could barely breathe. The flat was still dark, still quiet, but your mind was already racing through chord progressions, setlists, the transition in the third song that Arvid had made you run seventeen times. You lay in bed for a full ten minutes, staring at the ceiling, replaying every practice, every mistake, every moment that had led to this.
Then you thought about Mark. About the way he'd kissed that girl on stage. About the way he'd grabbed your arm at the party. About the way he'd looked at you like you were something he owned, something he could discard, something he could pick back up whenever he wanted.
Today, you were going to remind him exactly what he'd lost.
You stared at the message. Your heart did something complicated — a flip, a stumble, a warm spreading feeling that you were still learning to name.
You smiled. For the first time all morning, you smiled.
Then you got out of bed and started getting ready.
Your phone didn't stop buzzing after that.
The venue was the university's main concert hall — a sprawling space with high ceilings, tiered seating, and a stage that had hosted everyone from visiting lecturers to actual touring bands. Today, it was packed. Students filled the rows, waving banners and shouting over each other. Parents perched in the back, clutching programs and looking confused. Professors who usually spent their weekends grading papers had somehow been coaxed into the audience, and a few of them — you spotted your econometrics lecturer in the third row — were actually smiling.
The atmosphere was electric. It felt less like a competition and more like a concert, the kind where you forgot to be nervous because the crowd's energy was too loud, too bright, too alive.
Your friends had claimed seats in the front row — you could see them from the wings, a cluster of familiar faces and homemade banners. Devon was holding one that said "STATIC HEARTS SUPREMACY" in glittering gold letters. Gabriel had somehow acquired a foam finger. Isack was sitting with his arms crossed, pretending to be unimpressed, but you could see him bouncing his knee. Ella was filming everything on her phone, already crying.
And Franco — Franco was holding a banner that said "Y/N — ECONOMICS DEPARTMENT'S FINEST" with what looked like signatures from half your lecture class underneath.
You spotted other faces in the crowd too. George was in the third row, sitting next to Oscar, both of them looking like they'd been dragged there against their will but were secretly enjoying themselves. Lando was with them, craning his neck to see backstage, probably looking for Devon. A group of third years from the charity committee — the ones you'd worked with, the ones who'd seen you play at that showcase last spring — were waving at you from the left side of the hall.
Even some of your lecturers had shown up. Your econometrics professor caught your eye and gave you a thumbs up. Your microeconomics tutor was holding a sign that said "PLAY LIKE YOUR GPA DEPENDS ON IT" which was both supportive and stressful.
You were not going to cry. You were not going to cry.
Then you saw Ollie's parents in the back row, waving at you excitedly, and you almost lost it.
Backstage, the green room was chaos.
Five bands milled about, each one a cluster of instruments and nerves and last-minute tuning. The Velvet Strings were huddled in the corner, doing vocal warm-ups that sounded like dying cats. Midnight Echo was near the stage entrance, Mark at the center of them, his guitar slung over his shoulder, his expression a careful mask of confidence.
You wanted him to see you on stage.
"Y/N." Arvid appeared at your elbow, his face pale, his hands shaking slightly. "I can't feel my fingers."
"I can't feel my fingers, Y/N."
"You're fine. You've played this set a hundred times."
"Not in front of five hundred people."
"Then pretend it's just us. Pretend it's practice. Pretend —" You grabbed his hands. They were cold. "Breathe, Arvid. Just breathe."
He took a breath. Then another. His shoulders loosened slightly.
"That's what I'm here for."
"To stop me from spiraling?"
"To stop everyone from spiralling." You glanced around the room — at Liam, who was charming a group of sound techs; at Ollie, who was flexing his newly healed hand like he'd forgotten how to use it; at Kimi, who was sitting in the corner, eyes closed, drumsticks resting on his thighs, his breathing slow and steady
You wanted to go to him. But you also wanted to give him space. The tension between wanting to be near him and not wanting to overwhelm him had become a familiar ache over the past few weeks.
"Someone has to keep this ship afloat." You finally respond to Arvid.
Arvid almost smiled. "You're different than I thought."
"How did you think I'd be?"
"Dramatic. Difficult. A liability."
He was quiet for a moment. "Now I think you're the best thing that's happened to this band."
Before you could respond, the green room door swung open. A stage manager with a clipboard and a headset poked her head in.
"Midnight Echo. You're up in five."
Mark stood. His bandmates followed. They filed toward the stage entrance, instruments in hand, and that was when Mark saw you.
His eyes widened. His mouth opened. His face cycled through a series of expressions — surprise, confusion, dawning horror — before settling on something that looked like rage.
"What are you doing here?" he demanded.
You kept your voice calm. "Same as you. Competing."
Liam stepped forward, all easy charm and sharp edges. "She's with us. Static Hearts. Our new bassist."
Mark's gaze snapped to Liam, then back to you, then to the bass case at your feet. His jaw tightened. His hands curled into fists at his sides.
"I'm playing for my band." You picked up your bass, slung it over your shoulder. "Whatever happens after that is up to the judges."
"You're doing this because of what happened. Because of —"
"I'm doing this because I love music." You stepped closer, close enough that only he could hear. "But yes. Part of me is doing this because I want to watch you lose."
His face went red. His mouth opened to say something else — something vicious, probably, something designed to hurt, but before he could, the stage manager called his name again.
Mark's eyes burned into yours for one more second. Then he turned and walked toward the stage, his bandmates trailing behind him.
Kimi appeared at your side. His hand found yours — warm, steady, grounding.
"He's good," Kimi said quietly. "Their band. They're good."
You looked at him. His face was calm, certain. He wasn't trying to reassure you — he was just stating a fact.
"Yeah," you said. "We are."
Midnight Echo's set was good.
You hated to admit it, but it was good. Mark was a talented guitarist — you'd never denied that — and his band played with a tightness that came from years of practice together. The crowd loved them. They cheered, they clapped, they shouted for an encore that wasn't coming.
When Mark walked off stage, he was smiling.
Then he saw you waiting in the wings.
"Not a shit set," you said.
He didn't answer. He just stood there, breathing hard, his guitar still strapped to his body, his eyes fixed on your face.
"Why are you really here?" he asked.
"I told you already. Competing."
"With him?" He nodded toward Kimi, who was standing a few feet away, pretending not to listen.
"Like I said before, this is about music." You picked up your bass. "But if revenge is a side effect, I'm not going to complain."
Mark's face twisted. Before he could respond, the stage manager's voice cut through the green room.
"Static Hearts. You're on."
The crowd was a wall of sound.
You couldn't see individual faces from the stage — just a sea of bodies, waving hands, glowing phone screens. The lights were bright, too bright, washing everything in gold and blue. The monitors hummed at your feet. Your bass felt heavy against your hip, familiar, grounding.
Arvid was at the front of the stage, guitar in hand, his earlier nerves replaced by something that looked like focus. Liam stood at the microphone, his eyes scanning the crowd, a smile playing at his lips. Ollie was in the wings, his cast finally gone, his hands clasped together like he was praying.
And Kimi — Kimi was behind you.
You could feel him there. His presence was a warm weight at your back, steady and solid and somehow more reassuring than any words could be.
From behind you, two drumsticks clicked together. Kimi's signal.
Liam turned to the microphone.
"Hello, everyone. We're Static Hearts. Thanks for coming out tonight."
The crowd cheered. Someone wolf-whistled. Somewhere in the front row, you saw the banner from your economics department — large, glittering letters that read "GO Y/N! BRING IT HOME! — FROM ECON DEPARTMENT" — and your heart swelled so much you almost missed your cue.
"This first song," Liam continued, "is about starting over. About finding something you didn't know you were looking for. About —"
"Just play the song," Arvid muttered.
Liam grinned. "About playing the song. Here we go."
And then you were playing.
The first song was fast, aggressive, a statement of intent. Your fingers flew across the fretboard, finding notes you'd practiced a thousand times. The bass thrummed through your body, vibrations traveling up your arms, into your chest, down into your legs. The crowd moved with you — swaying, jumping, screaming lyrics you'd written together in Arvid's cramped dorm room.
The second song was slower. More emotional. A ballad about loss and recovery, about the people who leave and the people who stay. You thought about your grandfather as you played — about his hands guiding yours across the strings, about his laugh, about the way he'd looked at you like you were capable of anything.
The third song was the one you'd been waiting for.
It was their original — the one Arvid had written before you joined, the one that had made you want to be part of this band in the first place. It started with a bass solo, just you, alone on the stage, the spotlight hot on your face.
The notes came easily now, flowing from your fingers like water. You'd practiced this solo a hundred times, a thousand times, but tonight it felt different. Tonight it felt like you had something to prove — not to the judges, not to the crowd, not even to Mark.
The crowd was on its feet.
You couldn't hear individual voices anymore — just a roar, a wave of sound that crashed over you and lifted you up. Your name was in there somewhere, buried beneath the cheering, but you couldn't find it. All you could find was the music, and the stage, and the boy behind you who was playing like his life depended on it.
The song built toward its climax. The drums swelled. The guitars soared. And you — you turned.
His eyes were dark, focused, but there was something else there too. Something soft. Something that looked like pride.
You leaned down, grabbed the back of his neck, and kissed him.
It wasn't gentle. It wasn't careful. It was a kiss born of adrenaline and relief and weeks of tension finally breaking. Kimi's hands came up to your waist, pulling you closer, and the crowd — the crowd lost its collective mind.
Someone screamed. Someone else started crying. Somewhere in the front row, you heard Gabriel's voice rise above the noise: "THAT'S MY BEST FRIEND."
You pulled back, breathless, laughing.
Kimi was smiling — really smiling, his whole face transformed.
"What was that for?" he asked.
"I don't know," you said. "It felt right."
The song ended. The crowd kept cheering.
And when you turned to face the audience, you saw Mark.
He was standing in the wings, his face pale, his jaw slack. His band had already performed — they'd been good, technically proficient, the kind of performance that usually won competitions. But no one was talking about them anymore.
Everyone was talking about you.
Then you turned back to your band, to your friends, to the boy who had somehow become something more, and you let the moment wash over you.
The winners were announced an hour later.
The five bands stood on stage, arranged in a line, waiting. The tension was unbearable — you could feel it in the air, thick and electric. Arvid was gripping his guitar so hard his knuckles were white. Liam was holding his breath. Even Kimi looked nervous, his drumsticks tucked under his arm, his jaw tight.
The head judge stepped to the microphone.
"Third place," she said, "goes to Midnight Echo."
A smattering of applause. Mark's face was stone. His bandmates looked like they wanted to be anywhere else.
"Second place — The Velvet Strings."
More applause. A group of first years near the back of the stage looked like they might cry.
The pause stretched. The crowd held its breath.
Arvid dropped his guitar. Liam fell to his knees. Ollie came sprinting onto the stage, his cast finally gone, his arms wide open. He tackled you in a hug so tight you couldn't breathe.
"WE WON," he shouted. "WE ACTUALLY WON."
"We won," you repeated, the words not quite real.
"We're going to nationals."
"We're going to nationals."
Kimi appeared at your side. His hand found yours — warm, steady, real.
He squeezed your fingers. You squeezed back.
Across the stage, Mark was being escorted off by a stage manager, his face twisted with fury. He was saying something — shouting something — but you couldn't hear him over the noise of the crowd.
Because your friends were hugging you. Because your professors were cheering. Because somewhere in the crowd, Franco and Ella were crying, Devon was screaming, Gabriel was filming everything, and Isack was already acting like your manager and selling your autographs.
And because Kimi was still holding your hand.
He didn't let go for the rest of the night.
An hour later, backstage, the adrenaline had started to fade.
You were sitting on an equipment case, your bass across your lap, staring at the trophy on the table. It was real. The win was real. Nationals were real.
But something else was nagging at you.
Your time with the band was supposed to be temporary. That had been the deal — fill in for Ollie until his hand healed, play the competition, then step aside. Ollie's cast was gone now. His hand was fine. He'd been waving it around all night like a trophy.
Which meant you were done.
The thought hit you harder than you expected.
"Hey." Ollie appeared at your side, dropping onto the equipment case next to you. "Why do you look like someone died?"
"You're making your sad face. The one you make when you're pretending not to be sad."
"I don't have a sad face."
"You definitely have a sad face."
You were quiet for a moment. Then: "Your hand is healed."
Ollie looked down at his hand, flexing his fingers. "Yeah. It is."
"So I guess —" You swallowed. "I guess this is it. I'll pack up my bass. You'll take back your spot. And I'll —"
Ollie's expression was serious — more serious than you'd ever seen him. "We've been talking. The band. Arvid and Liam and Kimi and me. We've been talking for weeks."
"About you." He shifted to face you. "About how different the band feels with you in it. About how much better we are when you're playing. About how none of us want you to leave."
"My hand is fine. But we don't need just one bassist. We can have two. It'll change our sound. Make it richer. Arvid's already been working on arrangements." Ollie paused. "If you're down. We're down."
"I thought you'd be happy to have your spot back," you said.
"I thought I would be too." He grinned — that stupid, infectious grin that you'd pretended to hate for months. "But then you showed up. And you were annoying and rude and you told me my cupcakes looked like a toddler decorated them —"
"They did look like a toddler decorated them."
"They were average at best."
"But you stayed. You helped. You made the band better." Ollie's voice softened. "You made everything better."
"So," he said, holding out his hand. "What do you say? Want to be a permanent member of Static Hearts?"
You looked at his hand. Then at his face. Then across the room, where Kimi was watching — not interfering, just watching, his expression soft and hopeful.
You thought about the past few weeks. About the practices and the parties and the dinner at Antonio's. About the way Kimi looked at you. About the way playing bass made you feel — like you were finally, fully, yourself.
"Yeah," you said. "Okay."
Ollie whooped. Liam cheered from across the room. Arvid looked up from his phone and said, "Finally," like he'd known all along.
That small, private smile that made your heart feel too big for your chest.
Later, after the chaos had died down, you found a quiet corner.
Ollie was talking to Arvid about setlists. Liam was doing an interview with the campus newspaper. The green room was half-empty, most of the other bands having already packed up and left.
You were sitting on the floor, your heart still racing.
Kimi sat down beside you.
You felt your face warm. "What about it?"
You laughed. He laughed. The sound was soft, private, meant only for the two of you.
"I didn't plan that," you admitted. "The kiss. It just — happened."
"I don't want you to think —"
"I don't think anything." He shifted closer. "I just know that I've wanted to kiss you for weeks. And now that I have —"
His hand found yours. His fingers intertwined with yours, warm and certain.
"Now that I have," he said, "I'd like to do it again."
You looked at him — at his dark curls, his brown eyes, the small smile playing at his lips.
This kiss was slower than the first. Softer. It wasn't for the crowd or the cameras or the competition. It was just for you. For him. For the thing that had been building between you for weeks, unspoken but undeniable.
When you pulled back, you were both smiling.
"So," you said. "Nationals."
"We're going to have to practice."
You rested your head on his shoulder. His arm came around you, pulling you close.
Somewhere across the room, Ollie whooped.
"FINALLY," he shouted. "I'VE BEEN WAITING FOR THIS FOR WEEKS."
"Shut up, Ollie," you called back.
And somehow, that made everything perfect.
statichearts turns out things worked out okay.
❤️ liked by yourusername, liamlawson, kimiantonelli and others
liamlawson massive understatement
↳ isackhadjar aren't you the one who runs the band account??
olliebearman BEST THING THAT EVER HAPPENED TO US
francoluvr i remember when she said she wasn't joining 😭
↳ gabihere character development fr
↳ devondsdiary proud of her
user34 the girl in the second slide is in my econ class!!! go yn!!
↳ user56 I swear we have never been more united as a department than right now
↳ user21 what's the big deal? The drummer is literally in my engineering lectures, so why u all acting as if the econ department is the only one that can produce talent lmao
↳ user34 user21 chill??? yn is way cooler than that emo guy
↳ devondsdiary I'm crying why is there a whole war in the comment section
↳ gabihere wait till they learn that they are dating
yourusername all thanks to me btw
↳ arvid.mp3 alr calm down
↳ olliebearman I'M CRYING
↳ arvid.mp3 please stop commenting
yourusername always liked the drummers better anyway
❤️ liked by statichearts, ellamoore, kimiantonelli and others
gabihere why am i blinking in every photo
↳ devondsdiary because god is fair
francoluvr so proud of you!! ❤️liked by yourusername
olliebearman DELETE PHOTO 6
↳ arvid.mp3 Why the hell can I only see your legs? ollie for fuck's sake, your hand just recovered.
liamlawson not enough photos of me
ellamoore prettiest bassist ever!! ❤️liked by yourusername
↳ yourusername love you!!
devondsdiary that's my girlfriend btw
↳ yourusername eating you out when I get home
↳ landonorris devon, you're still coming to my place right? RIGHT?
↳ gabihere relax bro they always freaky like that
georgerussell glad to see the economics notes survived
↳ olliebearman OSCAR DON'T ENCOURAGE HER
↳ olliebearman OH BROTHER
The nationals were two weeks away.
You were in the rehearsal room — the same cramped space, the same cracked leather sofas, the same posters of bands you'd never heard of. But everything else had changed.
Arvid was relaxed. Actually relaxed. He still took practice seriously, but he'd stopped muttering about chord progressions in his sleep. Liam had stopped setting things on fire. Ollie had stopped waving his healed hand around like a trophy, mostly because you'd threatened to break it again.
And you — you were happy.
It was a strange thing to admit. You'd spent so long convincing yourself that happiness was temporary, that feelings were dangerous, that caring about people only led to pain. But here, in this room, with these people, you couldn't pretend anymore.
You cared about the band. About the music. About the boy who sat behind the drum kit and looked at you like you were the only person in the room.
Kimi caught your eye across the room. His mouth curved into that small, private smile — the one he saved just for you.
"Okay," Arvid said, clapping his hands. "From the top. Nationals setlist. Let's make it perfect."
Kimi picked up his sticks.
And together, you played.
kimiantonelli has posted!
❤️ liked by liamlawson, yourusername, olliebearman and others
↳ olliebearman EVERYONE STAY CALM
↳ arvid.mp3 you two are impossible
landonorris third month annual upload
↳ francoluvr slide 5 is literally y/n 😭
↳ gabihere subtle as a brick
↳ olliebearman SLIDE 2 TOO???
random86 since when does Antonelli have a girlfriend?
↳ user12 no because that's literally yn from the charity committee, why did he post her?
↳ devondsdiary take a guess sherlock
yourusername the girl in the green sweater looks super cool
olliebearman THEY CAN'T KEEP GETTING AWAY WITH THIS
↳ oscarpiastri i think they're trying to keep it a secret
↳ georgerussell they're failing
↳ olliebearman THANK YOU GEORGE
Epilogue — Six Months Later
You hadn't won — not first place, anyway. But you'd placed second, which was more than anyone had expected, and the experience had been incredible. You'd played in front of thousands of people. You'd seen your face on a banner. You'd watched Mark's band crash and burn during their second song, which was its own kind of victory.
Now, you were back in the rehearsal room, working on new material. The band had decided to keep going — to write new songs, to play new shows, to see where the music took them.
And you — you were still here.
Still playing bass. Still annoying Arvid. Still pretending you didn't love it when Ollie called you his "favorite bassist."
Still falling for Kimi a little more every day.
He was behind you now, his hands on your waist, his chin resting on your shoulder. The others had left an hour ago, but you'd stayed behind, claiming you needed to practice.
"You don't need to practice," Kimi said.
"You're lying right now."
You turned in his arms, facing him. His face was inches from yours — close enough that you could see the freckles across his nose, the faint shadows under his eyes.
"Maybe I just wanted to be alone with you," you admitted.
"Then why did you let me pretend?"
"Because it's cute when you pretend."
You shoved him. He didn't move.
"You kissed me on stage in front of five hundred people."
"You kissed me again backstage."
"That was —" You paused. "Okay, that was for me."
Kimi smiled. That small, private smile that still made your heart race.
The words hung in the air, soft and certain.
You'd heard them before — from him, in quiet moments, when it was just the two of you. They still felt new. Still felt fragile. Still felt like something you were learning to deserve.
"I love you too," you said.
The rehearsal room was dark. The amps were off. The only light came from the single bulb above the door.
But you didn't need light.
And somewhere in the distance, you heard Ollie's voice: "ARE YOU TWO DONE YET? I WANT TO LOCK UP."
"GO AWAY, OLLIE," you shouted.
Kimi laughed against your lips.
And for the first time in a long time, everything felt exactly right.
Secret message from Sunny!! okay lowkey thinking of branching this into a whole universe and making an ollie fic? like, since Kimi got his happy ending, I feel like I gotta do the rest of the band too. let me know if this is something you are interested in gang.
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