writers: nah - how about we give you a momson kiss with alicent giving aemond the same smile she used to give viserys when he raped her?

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 , probably more idk

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.

can we see duke?

of course! no duke erasure here ☼