What Is Ur Typing Speed In Wpm Cos I Swear U Write So Fast 😭 Like Pls Take A Typing Test

what is ur typing speed in wpm cos I swear u write so fast 😭 like pls take a typing test

it’s not about the typing speed babyy 😭 it’s about how many unhinged plot lines are fighting for dominance in my brain at any given moment. i could type at 12 wpm and still drop 5k of feral bearnelli chaos in an hour because the voices won’t shut up (read: hyperbole). typing test???? no. braincell brawl arena??? si.

He Was There, So There He Was.

ok so this happened and i should probs apologise but I wont.

tags: bearnelli, crack. that's it. lowkey a parent trap outtake. highkey embarrassed by its existence. felt cute might delete later. this is basically what I imagine kimi's pov to be like. this is also the reason why I never write his pov.

Kimi Antonelli was exactly the kind of person one would describe as being Kimi Antonelli. He existed with the confidence of someone who had always been alive and had no plans to stop. His hair had the colour that hair has when it has colour, and his shoulders were precisely where shoulders go. He blinked sometimes, and when he didn’t, his eyes remained open. His presence was undeniable in the way that gravity is—subtle, inevitable, and occasionally inconvenient when you're trying to float emotionally.

Today, he was in a room. Not just any room, but a room that had walls, a floor, a ceiling, and enough air to breathe and say things into. Kimi had entered it on purpose, or perhaps by accident, but either way, he was there now, and that’s what mattered.

Opposite him stood Oliver Bearman.

Ollie Bearman was a human-shaped object with a history and a future, tragically sandwiched between a very chaotic present. His eyes were the kind of color that existed within the visible light spectrum, and his smile was the exact width you'd expect if you expected nothing. His laugh sounded like laughter, and when he spoke, he used words, sometimes in the correct order.

“There you are,” Kimi said, because that’s what one says when someone is where they are.

“I am,” Ollie replied, because it was true.

There was a pause that could only be described as a pause. It stretched exactly long enough to be noticeable and not a second longer. Kimi looked at Ollie with the intensity of someone trying to remember if he left the stove on. He hadn’t, but he liked the drama of the moment.

Kimi shifted slightly to the left, not because he needed to, but because that’s where his foot wanted to be. Ollie mirrored the movement, though unintentionally, creating the kind of synchronized awkwardness typically only found in synchronized awkwardness.

“So,” Kimi said.

“Yes,” Ollie said.

Silence again. Not the kind that meant something, but the kind that sat between words like a confused cat.

Kimi had a question, and it was this: “Did you put the duck in my helmet?”

Ollie blinked the way people blink. “What duck?”

“The rubber one,” Kimi clarified, as if that would help.

“There was a duck?” Ollie asked, already lying.

Kimi squinted. Not suspiciously, just optically. The light was doing things, and his eyes decided to react like eyes.

“Don’t worry,” Ollie added. “The duck had goggles.”

Kimi nodded slowly, which was the speed at which nodding usually happens.

In the corner of the room, a plant existed. It was not involved in the situation, but it was definitely watching. It had no thoughts, and yet it judged.

“You know,” Ollie began, stepping closer with the carefulness of someone who’s definitely up to something. “If you think about it, ducks are just water pigeons with better branding.”

Kimi inhaled. Not sharply, not deeply, just… with breath. “I’ve never thought about that.”

“Now you will,” Ollie said ominously, handing him a packet of gummy worms as if that explained everything.

Kimi accepted them because refusing gummy worms was illegal in at least three spiritual dimensions.

Somewhere in the background, a door opened, despite no one touching it. It might have been the wind, or fate, or Charles Leclerc’s aura passing by like a judgmental breeze.

“Anyway,” Ollie continued, leaning against the wall with the posture of someone who had lost a bet with gravity, “I think we need a plan.”

“For what?” Kimi asked, already planning.

“I don’t know,” Ollie admitted. “But we should have one in case someone asks.”

This was the kind of logic Kimi could get behind, mostly because it required no further elaboration.

“I’ll write it down,” Kimi said, pulling a notebook out of a pocket that didn’t exist moments ago.

“What’s the title?” Ollie asked.

Kimi thought deeply. Then less deeply. Then not at all.

“Operation Lestappen Apocalypse: Phase Kiss.”

Ollie nodded solemnly, as if that meant something. “Do we still pretend it’s about zombies?”

“Obviously,” Kimi replied. “Otherwise Max will know it’s about feelings.”

They both shuddered.

Feelings were like unlabelled jars in the fridge. Mysterious, often messy, and occasionally expired.

Suddenly, the fire alarm went off, even though there was no fire. Ollie looked innocent in the way criminals often do, and Kimi didn’t ask questions because plausible deniability was his love language.

They exited the building with the kind of urgency that only truly chaotic plans required. Outside, it was daytime in the way days are when the sun is doing its job. The sky was sky-colored, the air was air-flavored, and Max Verstappen was walking toward them with the expression of someone who had just smelled something suspicious and French.

“Did you two set off the alarm?” Max asked.

“No,” said Ollie.

“Yes,” said Kimi.

There was a beat.

Max blinked slowly, like a reptile contemplating murder. “Which is it?”

“It’s not not us,” Ollie offered.

“That’s not a real answer.”

“But it is a real sentence,” Kimi countered helpfully.

Max pinched the bridge of his nose, which had done nothing to deserve this. “Charles is going to kill you.”

“Only emotionally,” Kimi said cheerfully. “He’s nonviolent unless provoked.”

“We replaced his olive oil with orange juice,” Ollie whispered.

Max stared. “You did what?”

“It was for science,” Ollie insisted.

“And to see what his face would do,” Kimi added.

Max was silent. And then, like a single tear in a poorly written telenovela, he said, “I wish I didn’t care.”

“But you do,” Kimi said, patting his shoulder.

Max flinched. “Don’t touch me with your chaos hands.”

“We washed them,” Ollie said. “With… things.”

“You don’t even know what soap is, do you?”

Kimi looked up at the sky, then down at his shoes, then directly into Max’s soul. “Is it the thing that cries when you drop it in the shower?”

Max left.

He didn’t walk—he exited reality in a straight line.

Ollie turned to Kimi. “We are winning.”

“We haven’t lost yet,” Kimi agreed, scribbling a duck wearing Max’s crown in the notebook. “Let’s make pasta and tell everyone it’s part of the master plan.”

“It is now,” Ollie declared.

They high-fived, missed completely, and then pretended that was intentional.

It was a normal day, if you used the loosest possible definition of “normal.” And that was exactly how Kimi liked it.

What Is Ur Typing Speed In Wpm Cos I Swear U Write So Fast 😭 Like Pls Take A Typing Test

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He Was There, So There He Was.