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hebuiltfive · 5 months ago

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Once Bitten Chapter 1: The Beginning of the End

AO3 link here!

Scott, one of the most excelled vampire hunters for the last century, has one last battle with the vampire who’s claimed him as her arch-enemy.

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!!

I hadn't been sure if I'd be able to get anything out in time (October has been a wild month) but here we are! The morning of the 31st with a story I'm quite proud of for once!

There is a potential for this to be expanded upon, and I do really want to write more for this AU... I just have many fics on the go at the moment and no real time to get them written, so we'll see!

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Scott hated a cliché. “Time heals all wounds”just wasn’t true, “thinking outside the box”was just dumb, and Gordon’s favourite phrase of “there’s plenty of fish in the sea” was so infuriating it often had Scott biting back sarcastic remarks in reply. Clichés were old and tiring. They were unoriginal and uninspiring. If he ever became president, an outcome that was unlikely despite his brothers constantly not-so-jokingly insisting that he “should run sometime”, he’d sincerely consider banning the usage of them.

Therefore, walking into that disused mine and being greeted by sleeping bats had him understandably almost turning tail.

It was beyond ironic that he, a famed and skilled vampiric hunter, happened across such a scene. He didn’t dare count, cautious of losing time or becoming too distracted, but Scott estimated hundreds of pipistrelles, all handing upside down from the rafters. If he hadn't known better, he’d have called it a coincidence, but the tip-off they’d received earlier that morning suggested this was anything but.

Suppressing a shiver, he carefully passed the sleeping bats, ducking low to avoid disturbing them and being weary of where he was stepping. The floor was littered with old bolts and broken shards of glass. Every step he took delivered a crunch or a snap, and Scott winced each time, praying to an unknown deity that he wouldn’t awake the winged creatures. Night had already fallen and Scott was aware they’d be waking up themselves fairly shortly.

He had long since passed through the adit and had entered the mine proper. Tunnels had led him further and further, deeper and deeper, and the darkness was beginning to press in on him. When he had arrived, the sun had already long since set below the horizon. Cloud cover had meant there was no moonlight to help guide him, so Scott had made his way over to the entrance of the mine with the help of his torch.

There was something about the mine that had him on edge, and it wasn’t purely because he was alone in the middle of nowhere. His crossbow that hung over his shoulder was tugged closer, fingers biting into the leather strap that connected the weapon to the holster it was attached to. It was his most trusted trade tool and he never left for a mission without it. Scott trusted it so much, in fact, that he rarely brought another weapon out into the field with him, besides his basic hunting knife. Perhaps it was a foolish move during solo missions, but most of the time, on those specific occasions, Scott saw enough sense to carry extra weaponry.

It wasn’t needed tonight as this wasn’t a solo mission. Virgil was on his way to provide necessary back-up, only Scott, as usual, had simply raced ahead. It was the arrogance of being certain he could handle whatever was about to be thrown into his face that had fuelled that decision, no matter how much Virgil had pleaded with him to just wait for once. If the tip-off was correct, Scott wouldn’t need back-up from his baby brother. It would be a simple retrieval mission. In and out, home in time for dinner…

Oh, he despised clichés! That was almost as good as nothing could possibly go wrong, and Scott knew how dangerous it was to say that line.

The further he went into the mine, however, the more Scott’s confidence waned. There was a niggling doubt in the back of his mind that had him questioning how wise it had been to bolt ahead. He tried to ignore the sceptic thoughts. There was currently no reason to have any worries about the mission, besides the bats perhaps, but even then, it wasn’t so uncommon to find the winged creatures in old mine buildings.

Before he’d left, John had run a full and detailed analysis of the message — once bitten, twice shy and all that. (Then again, in John’s case, thrice shy might have been more appropriate, though the less said about that, the better.) Nevertheless his brother was always thorough with his investigations, so when he returned to him with the licit figure of ninety per cent, assuring him that this tip-off was trustworthy and not a trap, Scott had no reason to doubt him.

He hadn’t doubted him at all… not until he’d entered the godforsaken place.

Scott ducked into a dug out side room. Inches of dust layered almost every surface, and chains and broken bits of wood strewn across the floor. A desk stood on one side of the room. Scott crossed over, examining the mountains of paperwork that had been abandoned when the mine had closed down decades ago. The sheets were tainted, soiled from time and grime. He began to leaf through them slowly, careful not to disturb too much of the dust. His torch shone beams of light onto the various pieces of parchment, highlighting scrawny handwriting and typed up messages. He didn’t read them, merely scanning the words and numbers for anything that might provide a clue as to why they’d been given the tip-off for here exactly.

As far as the data International Rescue had, the area was not known to be a vampire hot-spot. Being in the middle of nowhere, and thus without a steady flow of hot blood, it was not an ideal place for a nest. Experience, however, had Scott batting away the assumptions. It was never wise to lay any claim when it came to the Night Walkers.

It wouldn’t have been too much to assume that this could be an elaborate trap of some kind. The thought had first crossed Scott’s mind the moment he’d set eyes on the hundreds of pipistrelles hanging from the ceiling. Nevertheless, he kept up his search. The clue had to be around somewhere, he just needed to find it.

The unbound sheets offered him no help and he dropped them to the floor one by one, dust particles rising as he did so. The specks irritated his throat and Scott found himself wishing he’d brought along a small bottle of water with him. He cleared his throat a few times as quietly as possible, still not convinced he wasn’t alone in the mine, but after inhaling a rather petulant granule, he succumbed to a violent coughing fit. His eyes watered and his breathing became erratic, but he soon managed to regain his composure. Scott wiped the tear trails from his cheeks with the back of his hand and continued on his search.

The dirtiest item on the desk was a large ledger. Scott opened it in a more methodic manner than he had dropped the parchment, fearful of breathing in another round of irritant dust. Yellowed paper greeted him, blank ink scrawling out lists of names. There must have been hundreds. Scott scanned them, the tip of his finger brushing against the sheets, collecting black dust. Some names had been crossed out with a simple line, while others had been violently scribbled. On occasion, the pen had clearly gone through the paper.

“You won’t find the answers you’re looking for in there.”

Scott slammed the registry book shut and whirled around to face the newcomer. The shadowed figure stood in the doorway to the alcoved room, just out of sight, but he recognised the voice; cold, calculating and bitter. The words had been spoken in his head. She never did miss an opportunity to show off her telepathy skills.

“I can’t say I’m surprised that 47 sent you.” He replied, calm and casual. He’d be damned if he let the trepidation get the better of him, and he certainly wasn’t going to let her notice it.

“47 doesn’t know either of us are here. If I’m being honest, I’m hurt you won’t give me credit where it’s due.”

As the realisation clicked, Scott’s lips curved into a lazy smile. He shone the flashlight straight into her face, and Marion Van Arkel hissed and recoiled, momentarily blinded.

But Scott did not move to attack.

“He won’t be happy to know you’ve been planning your own missions.”

“He doesn’t need to know.”

“Still,” Scott continued, gesturing to the rotten rafters and girders, “you picked a nice place for an ambush. A mine? Nice touch, Van Arkel.”

Marion, her sight having returned to near perfect vision, advanced towards him. Her heeled boots clicked across the debris-littered floor and her lips twisted into a smug smirk. Whether they were red from paint or from blood, Scott couldn’t tell.

“I thought it would a fitting location to finally end this game of cat and mouse, no? Full circle, or whatever it is they say.”

God, how he hated clichés.

“Still hurt about your family going out of business?” To his credit, Scott attempted to sound as sincere as possible as he delivered the derision.

Marion, however, sensed his mockery and glowered. She stopped in her tracks, her arms folding across her chest in an overly exaggerated manner. “No thanks to you, I might add.”

He let out a low whistle, clearly amused by her discontent. “An heiress to a dead company. I'd offer you my condolences but I’m afraid I have no pity left to give.”

“You had plenty to give the humans—”

“They were innocent people!”

“They had no idea what was happening to them!” Marion retorted sharply. “Being enthralled means they know nothing.”

“That doesn’t make it right.” He frowned, scowling in disgust at her attempts to defend her family’s actions. “It’s a fate worse than death in some cases. They don’t call it Eternal Nightmares for nothing, you know!”

She caught sight of his altered demeanour, heard how his tone changed from taunting to revulsion, and Marion Van Arkel did what she did best; she pounced on it. “Does that make you angry? To think about all those humans you’d failed to save from these Eternal Nightmares, as you put it?” She approached him slowly, her eyes glazed over with humour, laughing at his loathing. Some things never changed.

“You lured me here.” Scott changed topic, unwilling to allow her to jump onto his discomfort and use it to her advantage. “You lured me without the go ahead from your boss. Why?”

“I told you.” Marion lowered her voice to a whisper. “To end our game!”

“All you’ve done since you’ve got here is talk.”

“Do you not like talking?”

“Well, I fail to see how it will ‘end our game’.”

“All in good time, hunter. Patience is a virtue.”

Scott bit his tongue. If he heard one more damned cliché—!

His smile returned, easy and warm, without a trace of irritation. Marion’s words had left him feeling uneasy but all he had to do was wait, as she so instructed. Perhaps talking was good. It gave Virgil time to reach them… Not that he needed the back-up! Marion Van Arkel was a slippery vampire, one who Scott had been at odds with on a number of occasions over the last few years, but she was nothing he couldn’t handle.

Still, he’d have been lying if he said he wouldn’t have felt more at ease knowing there was someone else fighting in his corner.

“I’ve never been good at patience, Van Arkel.”

“So I’ve surmised. It’ll be your downfall, you know? You’ll rush ahead, just as you did tonight, so desperate to get the job over and done with, only one day you won’t get out of it. One day, you’ll lose.”

His cocky grin returned, full and flourishing. “And you believe today is that day?”

“I can hope.” Her finger, cold and slender, ran down the length of his jaw line,

Something twinkled in her eyes, something that made Scott feel uncomfortable, like he was left out of a joke and the punchline was soon to come and hit him unawares.

“I can handle one vampire, Marion, especially if its you.”

He couldn’t let her think his guard was down for a second. Scott tilted his head, observing her curiously. If she hadn’t been a Night Walker, he might have thought her rather pretty. Indeed, he had tried to charm her the first night they’d met, before she’d attempted to eat him. The memory only made his smirk grow wider.

“Remind me again, Van Arkel, how many of our fights have you won?”

Scott paused for her to answer. Of course, she didn’t. He hadn’t expected her too. He watched as her twinkling eyes narrowed into a glare and refrained from chuckling, answering his own question for her. “Zero, wasn’t it?”

“That changes tonight!”

Marion threw the first punch. It was feral and angry, and it carried her forwards as Scott ducked out of the line of impact. She was quick to recover however, and before Scott had the chance to gain an upper-hand, Marion was lunged towards him again. Scott deflected every blow, attempting to land a few himself, but Marion was just as talented a fighter as he was. 47 trained his minions well, and Marion was no exception. She wasn’t as fast as some vampires, but she was still learning.

Legs kicked and bodies leapt, punches struck their marks and blood was left in their wake. Breathless but neither willing to back down, Scott and Marion continued their fight for minutes before she slipped up again, only this time Scott had been prepared.

As Marion stumbled, losing some of her balance after a particularly nasty hit, Scott circled around her. He caught her one of her arms and pulled it backwards, up her spine and into an arm lock. Then, with all his weight, he pushed them both forwards. Within seconds, Scott had her pressed against the rock-face, her second arm pinned at an awkward angle between her body and the wall.

“I don’t think it does.” Scott couldn’t help but smile arrogantly.

Though she was a vampire, and thus possessing vampiric strength, Marion was still classed as, what the hunters called, a Baby Vamp. Less than fifty years old and still learning and developing the traits that often gave vampires the advantages in a fight, Marion couldn’t struggle out of his hold, no matter how much she tried to.

“The night is not over yet, Tracy!”

“You don’t have to be like this. I know you know this is wrong. Marion, please.”

Despite his winning position, and at the risk of sounding like he wasn’t confident in his abilities, Scott had never been above begging. No matter who he was fighting, no matter what harm they had already done, he always gave them the option of redemption. He had seen vampires redeem themselves, albeit very few, and knew it was possible. Being so young, Marion was a prime contender for International rescue’s rehabilitation scheme. All she had to do was say yes.

She never did, however. Tonight was no different.

“You know nothing, Scott Tracy. Let me go!”

Marion struggled against his hold again, desperate to be free of him, but Scott held firm.

“No chance. All I have to do is keep you here until my brother arrives, and then—”

He was unable to finish his sentence. The sound of distant rocks falling echoed through to the alcove. The rumbling became closer and closer.

Marion, still struggling to free herself, began to laugh.

Capitalising on his momentary distractedness, she easily kicked his feet out from under him. To save himself from falling, Scott had no choice but to loosen his hold, but by doing so, Marion was able to finally slip out from his grasp. She delivered a swift kick to his exposed stomach, causing him to stumble to his knees and winding him in the process. As he tried to catch his breath, she sauntered over.

“You make my final win too easy.” Marion lowered herself to his level and pressed her rouged lips to his own. “I’d say let’s try again, go another round, but I’m afraid we’re out of time.”

Scott instinctively licked his lips. He stood to his full height once again, Marion backtracking a few steps. Her grin was wide and wild, not unlike it had been when she’d first entered. It was the smile of a smug winner, although Scott hadn’t bowed out of the fight just yet.

“Who said I let you win?” He slid his crossbow into position. Loaded with a single wooden dart he aimed it directly at Marion’s chest, above her defunct heart.

To his surprise, she did not attempt to evade his shot.

But she didn’t need to.

In an instant, Scott’s vision blurred, his legs weakening. The crossbow was lowered before he even had the chance to fire it. He blinked, long and hard in hope that it would cure his bleary sight, but when his eyes opened again, Marion had become two fuzzy outlines.

His fingers reached up to his lips.

His heart sank with dread.

“What did you do?”

“Alright, maybe you didn’t let me win, but don’t think I didn’t notice how easy you let me get the best of you this time. It’s a shame, you know? I had been hoping you’d best me just one more time, that our game of cat and mouse didn’t have to end tonight.”

The crossbow fell from Scott’s grip and dangled at his side. He crashed to his knees as they finally gave out and Marion, assessing it was safe for her to approach him again, did so. She unhooked the crossbow from his baldric and examined it curiously.

“This is such a funny contraption, so outdated. I would have thought you’re genius scientist would have created something more modern for you.” She threw it to the side, wood splintering as it hit the ground. “Still, it’s not like you’ll need it again.”

“What… did you… do?” Scott tried to ask her again but his words seemed to fade before he had the chance to fully realise them.

He started to sag to the side but Marion caught him before he fell. Helping to lower him to the floor, she brushed a strand of hair from his forehead. “It’s just a mild tranquilliser, don’t be so dramatic! You’ll be back to your normal self again in around half an hour… not that you’ll live that long.”

Scott could feel his heart quicken. Her cold, slender fingers stretched out across his chest; of course she could sense his fear.

“What… does that… mean? What… have you…?”

“Shush, now. You know, I am sorry it had to end like this…”

“Marion!” Another voice yelled from the tunnels beyond. Scott barely heard them call out, his senses slowly fading. It was another female by the sounds of it, though one he hadn’t heard before… Or maybe he had? Thinking was becoming a problem.

“Hurry up before you get trapped in there!”

“I’m coming!” Marion yelled in reply.

Scott winced.

“Like I said, it is a shame it has to end this way, Scott Tracy.” Marion brushed her fingers gently across his forehead, causing him to shiver. “We could have had so much fun, you and me, but alas, it was not meant to be.”

She stood, blowing him one last kiss, before she sprinted for the exit.

Scott laid in the silence. His eyes slipped shut and he could feel himself slowly fading away to the darkness. Half an hour Marion had said… but why had she dragged him all this way just to send him to sleep? What did she mean he wouldn’t live that long?

By the time the realisation would have hit, as the mine collapsed in on itself, Scott was mercifully unconscious. He didn’t feel the rubble crash down on him, he didn’t notice the pain from the various injuries the accident had dealt him, and he didn’t hear Virgil calling out for him as he painfully dug through the rubble in search of his brother.

There was nothing, and that, he would suppose, was a blessing.

… Damned clichés!

#thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds fanfiction #thunderbirds are go fanfiction #vampire hunter au #halloween au #scott tracy #marion van arkle #five fics #fic: once bitten #fic series: stakes and daggers

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briefkittenearthquake · 8 months ago

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I like my men smart

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tsunodaradio · 11 days ago

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cold coffee ⛐ 𝐎𝐏𝟖𝟏

“best thing about your hometown?” “apparently it’s the coffee. i don’t drink coffee so i don’t know. for me, it’s just that it’s home.”

ꔮ starring: oscar piastri x café owner!reader. ꔮ word count: 4.8k. ꔮ includes: romance, friendship, fluff. mentions of food. set in melbourne, spans a couple of years (alleged slowburn), oscar pines!!! so much!!!, cameos from oscar's sisters. ꔮ commentary box: lots of love all around i.e. contract renewal + home race. had to do it to 'em. inspired by this video, where two of my friends immediately demanded to see a barista!reader. did a bit of a spin on it, but the concept is intact! ☕ 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

♫ cold coffee, ed sheeran. something, somehow, someday, role model. i'd have to think about it, leith ross. time, angelo de augustine. keep the rain, searows. the view between villages, noah kahan.

It starts with Hattie.

Oscar’s younger sister had spent the morning badgering him, pleading in the way only a sibling with endless energy and zero regard for his sanity could. She’d tugged on his sleeve, whining about the new café down the street, her eyes wide with manufactured innocence.

“We’ve been home for two weeks, and you haven’t done anything fun,” she’d accused, arms crossed as she blocked his way to the fridge. “Come with me. Pleeease?”

Which is why, against his better judgment, Oscar is now standing in line at a café that smells overwhelmingly like roasted coffee beans and vanilla. He eyes the display of pastries, hands stuffed in the pockets of his hoodie, and tries to ignore the way his hair sticks to his forehead from the walk over.

“You should get something,” Hattie says, nudging his side.

“I don’t drink coffee.”

She rolls her eyes, as if this is a personal insult. “They have other stuff. You could try tea. Or a hot chocolate. Or—”

“Next!”

Oscar looks up, and that’s when he sees you.

You’re behind the counter, all smiles and easy confidence, a pencil tucked behind your ear. The apron you wear is a little big on you, the straps tied in a messy bow at the back. There’s a small streak of flour on your cheek and you lean onto the counter like you’re genuinely excited to take their order.

“What can I get for you guys?”

Hattie launches into her order with the determination of a girl on a mission, listing out her exact specifications for an iced mocha with extra whipped cream. You write everything down with a nod, your fingers deftly clicking buttons on the register.

“And for you?” you ask, turning to Oscar with the kind of warmth that makes his skin prickle.

“I, uh—” he clears his throat, resisting the urge to look away. “I don’t drink coffee.”

“That’s okay,” you say, like it actually is. “We’ve got some pretty good non-coffee options. Do you like chocolate? Or maybe something fruity?”

Your kindness is standard Melbourne hospitality, he tells himself. It’s not personal.

But there’s a lightness to the way you speak to him, patient and unbothered, that makes something unfamiliar stir in his chest. “Fruit tea’s fine,” he says, trying not to sound as awkward as he feels.

You smile, really smile, like he’s made the best choice in the world. “One fruit tea, coming up.”

And just like that, it’s done.

Hattie drags him to a table by the window, her enthusiasm buzzing loud enough to fill the entire space. Oscar watches as you move behind the counter, steaming milk and melting chocolate, and thinks that maybe, just maybe, he’ll let Hattie convince him to come back tomorrow.

You carry their drinks to the table with practiced ease, setting them down carefully to avoid any spills. Hattie beams as you place her elaborate drink in front of her. Oscar watches quietly as you slide his drink toward him— a peach iced tea, condensation already gathering on the glass.

“Enjoy,” you say with that same warm smile.

Oscar mutters a thanks, wrapping his hands around the cold glass. He takes a sip, the sweetness clinging to his tongue, and casts a glance at the door.

He could leave. They’ve got their drinks, Hattie’s satisfied, and his obligation is technically fulfilled.

But he doesn’t move.

Instead, he sits back in his chair, sipping at his tea like he’s got all the time in the world. Hattie chatters about her netball games and how she’s trying to convince their parents to get a puppy, but Oscar only half-listens, eyes flicking up every now and then to watch you.

Maybe he should buy something else.

A snack, maybe.

For Hattie, obviously.

Or he could offer to take Hattie’s cup back to the counter when she’s done. (Except the café has self-service return trays, and he’d already clocked that the second they sat down.)

He hates how obvious he’s being. And he hates even more how he doesn’t seem to care.

Eventually, you circle back to their table, wiping your hands on a dish towel.

“Hey,” you say, leaning slightly against the chair next to Hattie’s. “Everything alright? Drinks okay?”

Oscar nods wordlessly, swallowing his drink. It tastes a bit too sugary now.

“It’s so good,” Hattie gushes, kicking her legs under the table. “I’m gonna make mum bring me back next weekend!”

Your eyes brighten. “That’s great. We’ve only been open a few weeks, so we’re still figuring stuff out. The owner’s a nice guy, but he’s old school. Doesn’t know how to use the cash register half the time.”

Oscar finally speaks, his voice scratchy as if he’s forgotten how to use it. “You work here by yourself?”

“Most days,” you admit, shrugging. “He’s got grandkids, so sometimes he dips out early to see them. But I don’t mind. It’s just part-time, and I live nearby.”

Oscar processes this slowly, like if he takes long enough, the conversation won’t end.

“How old are you?” Hattie asks, her bluntness making Oscar cringe.

You don’t seem to mind, though. You laugh, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “Fifteen. I’m starting Year 10 next term.”

Oscar blinks. The fact that you’re the same age as him shouldn’t feel as significant as it does, but it lands like a surprise punch to the gut.

“I’m fourteen,” Hattie announces proudly.

"That’s a fun age," you tell her kindly; she looks at you like you’re the coolest person in the world, and Oscar is half-inclined to agree.

Then you glance at Oscar, head tilting. “What about you? You go to school around here?”

He shifts in his seat, rubbing at the condensation ring his glass left on the table. “Boarding school,” he says curtly. “Just home for the summer.”

“Ah,” you say, like that explains something.

Hattie pipes up again, because of course she does. “He races cars,” she declares. “He’s, like, really good.”

Oscar feels his face heat. He glares at Hattie, who just grins, already licking melted whipped cream off her finger.

Your eyebrows shoot up. “Seriously? That’s awesome,” you say, and you don’t sound condescending or anything. You sound genuinely awed, and Oscar fears he’s going to replay it in his head the entire night.

“We should go,” he says abruptly, pushing back from the table.

“What?” Hattie pouts. “But I want a pastry!”

“We can get one,” Oscar promises through gritted teeth, standing and grabbing her empty cup so fast the ceramic clinks loudly against the saucer. He forces himself to slow down, his fingers a little shaky. “Next time.”

Hattie hops out of her seat, already skipping toward the door. Oscar follows, grateful for the escape, but you call out before he makes it too far.

“I hope you do come back,” you say, smiling again. This time, it feels like it’s just for him. The words, the smile, the look.

Oscar nods stiffly, tugging at the sleeves of his hoodie.

He doesn’t know if he will. But, as he lingers on the way out, he wonders how many summers he has left— and how many excuses he can make before you start to notice.

Inevitably, his appearances at the café become almost routine.

It starts small: once a week, maybe twice, a stop by for a drink he doesn’t actually want. But Hattie catches on fast, and soon she’s dragging Edie and Mae along too, the three of them whispering and snickering at a volume they absolutely think is subtle.

“I like the pastries,” he claims when Edie wiggles her eyebrows at him.

“Sure,” Mae chirps, swinging her feet as she dangles them off her chair. “Totally the pastries. Not the barista who always makes your drink herself even when there’s someone else on shift.”

Oscar gives her a withering look, but she remains undeterred, biting into her muffin with the smugness of someone who knows she’s right.

He denies it. Again and again. Because he doesn’t know what to do with the idea of having a crush, let alone on you. He’s already awkward enough on his own, and he refuses to fuel his sisters’ relentless teasing.

But then he comes in one day— alone, this time— and you’re not there.

Oscar knows he shouldn’t care. It’s not like you promised to be here. And yet, disappointment settles heavy in his chest.

The barista on shift is nice enough, but Oscar barely listens as he orders. He can’t even remember what he picked when he sits down, staring at the drink like it personally offended him.

The café feels quieter without you buzzing around, chatting with regulars and teasing old Mr. Callahan about his crossword puzzles. The emptiness gnaws at him, and he knows he looks so obvious, sulking into his untouched drink.

He tells himself he’ll leave after finishing it. He lingers for an hour.

Oscar doesn’t look back at the café as he leaves, but he feels its absence like a dull ache. His hands are shoved deep into his pockets, chin tucked to his chest as he stalks down the street.

He tells himself it’t stupid to feel this way. He doesn’t even know you. He definitely shouldn’t care if you’re there or not.

And yet.

Fine.

It’s over. He’ll get over it.

He’ll spend the school term back at boarding school, surrounded by motorsport and homework and people who don’t know how to steam milk into a heart shape.

It’ll be better this way.

At least that’s the plan.

He’s halfway home when he nearly collides with you on the footpath.

“Oh! Oscar, right?” you say, blinking up at him like he’s an unexpected surprise.

He freezes. “Um.”

“You left in a hurry. Not a fan of the other barista?” You tilt your head, a teasing smile tugging at your mouth.

Oscar feels like he might short-circuit. “I— I just noticed you weren’t there,” he blurts out, horrified as the words tumble out without permission.

Your smile grows. “Noticed, huh?”

“I mean—” He’s desperate to backtrack, but it’s useless. The damage is done. You’re grinning, and he can already imagine the relentless teasing he’d get if his sisters caught wind of this.

“You’re heading home?” you ask, mercifully letting him off the hook.

“Yeah,” he mutters, already planning to walk faster. Maybe he’ll get away with half-jogging the entire way.

“Big plans for your last day of summer?”

He squints at you. “How’d you know it’s my last day?”

You tap your temple. “I’m observant.”

“Or you got it out of Hattie.”

“Maybe,” you say, shameless. Then, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world: “Wanna grab a bite at Albert Park?”

Oscar blinks. “What?”

“There’s a food truck that sells the best fish and chips,” you explain. “It’s not too far. C’mon, it’s your last day home.”

“I—” He should say no. He was just lecturing himself on the walk back.

But you’re looking at him like it’s not a big deal, like you’re not aware of the internal war waging in his head, and Oscar’s resolve crumples like paper.

“Okay,” he hears himself say, voice tight.

You beam. “Cool.”

Oscar follows you to Albert Park, his heart thudding with every step. He wonders if he’ll ever forgive himself for agreeing to this. Or if, maybe, it’ll turn out to be the best mistake he’s ever made.

The fish and chips are at least good. Better than good, actually, and Oscar begrudgingly tells you so between bites, like the admission costs him something.

He tries to be subtle about how much he likes it, chewing carefully, but you notice anyway, your grin bright and uncontainable.

“Told you,” you say smugly, elbow propped on the table as you pick at your fries. “You doubted me, didn’t you?”

“I don’t usually trust people who enjoy serving coffee for a living,” he deadpans.

You laugh, and the sound rattles through him like a loose bolt. “Fair,” you concede. “But I’m right about most things, so you should get used to it.”

Oscar snorts but doesn’t argue. He’s happy enough to let you fill the gaps in conversation, listening as you ramble about everything from the café’s horrible playlist to how the Albert Park sunset is always a little better in the summer.

He only nods and hums, content to let your words fill the space between bites.

But then you flip the script.

“So,” you start, resting your chin on your hand. “When do you start boarding school again?”

“Monday.”

You make a face. “Brutal.”

Oscar shrugs. “It’s not that bad.”

“Sure,” you say, dubious. “And racing? How’s that going?”

His fingers pause around a chip. “You remember I race?”

“I’m not some ditzy barista, you know.” You tilt your head, like you’re studying him. “I know you kart. Or, karted?”

“Yeah,” he says slowly. “I moved up to junior formulae this year.”

Your eyes widen. “That’s huge, right?”

“I guess.”

You nudge his foot under the table. “Don’t be modest. It’s cool.”

He looks away, that telltale heat prickling at his collar again. “It’s not, like, F1 or anything.”

“Yet,” you point out.

Oscar smiles, small and self-conscious. “That’s the goal, I guess.”

“You guess?” You feign offense, sitting up straighter. “You guess? Come on. Say it with your chest.”

He laughs, shaking his head. Then, a little louder, a little firmer, “I want to drive in F1.”

“See?” you say, satisfied. “Not so hard, was it?”

Oscar’s throat tightens around the next bite. It is hard— saying it out loud. It makes the dream sound ridiculous, even when he knows exactly how much he’s giving up to chase it.

It makes it sound real.

But you don’t tease him. You only smile, eyes crinkling at the corners.

“That’s awesome,” you say. “Can I have your number?”

Oscar nearly chokes. “What?”

“Your number,” you repeat, leaning back with an easy grin. “Would be cool to have a future F1 driver on speed dial.”

He huffs out a laugh, assuming you’re joking. You must be joking. People don’t ask for his number.

Oscar doesn’t give it to you, brushing it off like it’s nothing, and you don’t press. The two of you linger at Albert Park until the sky blushes purple, talking until Oscar’s curfew has him bidding you goodbye.

It’s only when he’s halfway home, kicking at loose gravel on the footpath, that it hits him like a freight train.

You might’ve actually been serious.

Oscar groans, dragging a hand down his face.

He never does figure out if you’d meant it.

He reconciles with the fact that he’ll only see you in the summers and during off-seasons. It becomes a rhythm he slips into with practiced ease, like shifting gears without thinking.

His sisters’ teasing remains relentless, but he endures it because they’re right— he can’t seem to stay away from the café.

It’s a quiet sort of comfort, walking in and hearing your voice floating through the space, catching snippets of your conversations with regulars before you inevitably drift his way.

He contemplates asking for your number or your socials more times than he can count, always catching himself at the last second. The thought lingers like an engine idling, never quite stalling out but never revving forward either.

He tells himself it’s fine. The café is your domain, a fixed point in the chaos of his ever-moving life.

It’s fine. It’s enough. It has to be.

In the break before he transitions into Formula Two, you place his usual non-coffee drink on the counter with a different sort of grin.

“You’re looking at the new owner of this place,” you announce, voice light with amusement. “The old man decided to go on a lifelong cruise. Said he wants to see the world while he still can.”

Oscar blinks. “He gave you the café?”

“Left it in my name. He figured I’d been running it anyway, might as well make it official.” You tilt your head. “What about you? I saw the news — Formula Two, huh? That’s huge.”

“Yeah,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s... a step closer.”

You lean against the counter, eyes warm. “Congrats, Piastri. Guess we both got what we wanted.”

He smiles and mumbles a quiet “Congrats to you too,” but as he takes his drink and watches you serve other customers, he’s not sure how true that statement is.

Because he thinks about how your name is tied to this café now, how you belong to this little pocket of Melbourne while he chases circuits around the world.

And he wonders— for the first time, with startling clarity— if what he wants might not be as far from this place as he thought.

Oscar doesn’t have time to dwell on it.

That’s what he tells himself, anyway. He’s too busy. Too preoccupied with the whirlwind of signing with McLaren, of finally reaching the dream he’s been chasing since he first wrapped his fingers around a steering wheel.

He celebrates with his family, his sisters loudly teasing him, his parents beaming with pride. It should be enough.

But then he finds himself at the café, hovering by the entrance, fingers curled around the door handle.

The bell jingles when he steps inside, sharp against the hum of the espresso machine. You glance up from wiping down the counter, eyebrows raising in surprise.

“We’re closed in ten,” you call out, drying your hands on a dish towel.

Oscar nods, shutting the door behind him. The sleeves of his hoodie are shoved up to his elbows, hair mussed like he’s been running his fingers through it. His heart is pounding, and he tells himself it’s just leftover adrenaline from the day’s excitement.

“I know. I just—” He falters, mouth opening and closing before he finally blurts out, “I got signed. With McLaren.”

You blink, then toss the dish towel onto the counter.

“Wait, what?”

He barely gets a nod in before you’re circling out from behind the counter, barreling into him with enough force to make him stumble back a step. Oscar stiffens at first, arms hovering awkwardly around you— then he exhales, tension seeping from his shoulders as he wraps his arms around you in return.

“Holy crap,” you say, squeezing him tight. “You did it. Oscar Piastri, you’re a Formula One driver.”

“Yeah,” he breathes, like he’s still trying to believe it himself. His voice is quieter when he adds, “I wanted to tell you in person.”

You pull back, beaming up at him. “I’m so proud of you. Seriously. I can’t wait to see you race.”

His heart thuds against his ribs, too loud, too fast. He drops his arms when you do, shoving his hands into the pocket of his hoodie.

His face feels hot, but you don’t seem to notice, already launching into a ramble about how you’re going to make the café play the races on the TV in the corner.

Oscar watches you talk, nodding along, though he can’t really process your words. All he can think about is the way your smile had split your face, how easily you’d hugged him, how your arms had fit around him like you belonged there.

He leaves that night more certain than ever.

This crush isn’t going anywhere.

Oscar privately decides he’ll use the feelings to his advantage. A secret, unspoken fuel source. It becomes most obvious at his first-ever home race.

The roar of the crowd fades into static beneath the hum of his engine, but he knows they’re there. Knows the grandstands are packed with fans waving papaya flags, knows somewhere among them are his parents and sisters— and maybe you.

He pretends you are. Imagines you leaning forward in your seat, hands cupped around your mouth as you cheer. He thinks about how you’d probably tease him later if he botched his first home race, how you might promise him a pity pastry from the café if he placed last.

That thought alone keeps his foot steady on the throttle.

He crosses the finish line in eighth, his first points in Formula One. The team is ecstatic, patting his back and ruffling his hair until he can barely breathe through the congratulations.

Later, at the house, the celebration is in full swing. His family is buzzing with excitement, and the living room is littered with leftover food and streamers. Still, Oscar keeps glancing at the door, brow furrowed.

He tells himself the weight in his chest is only exhaustion, not the ridiculous, misplaced disappointment that you aren’t at the post-race party.

“What’s your problem?” Edie asks, plopping onto the couch next to him.

He shrugs, pretending to focus on the race replay flashing on the TV. “Nothing. Just tired.”

Edie snorts. “Yeah, sure. You’ve been looking at the door like a lost puppy. Thought you’d finally get your act together and invite your favorite barista?”

Oscar flushes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Uh-huh.” Edie smirks, then gestures toward the kitchen. “They sent stuff, by the way. Practically wiped out their stock.”

He blinks, heart thudding as he follows hsi sister into the kitchen. The counter is packed with pastries and drinks, each one carefully labeled. A small, folded note sits on top of the pile, your handwriting unmistakable.

For future world champion OP81. I’ll save a spot on the TV for your podium finish.

Oscar stares at the note for a beat too long, then flips it shut, like that’ll stop the embarrassing warmth spreading through him.

He’s suddenly, overwhelmingly glad you’re not there, because he might’ve done something incredibly stupid. Like kissed you.

Or worse— asked you to keep a spot open forever.

Oscar’s schedule is relentless, though. An endless cycle of races, travel, media obligations. He still makes it back home when he can, even if it’s just for a few days. The café becomes a pit stop as routine as visiting his parents.

He never stays long, though. He catches glimpses of you between customers, exchanges pleasantries, hears about you secondhand through his sisters’ chatter.

Edie mentions you started taking a business course. Hattie swears you went on a date (Oscar pretends he doesn't care). Mae tells him you got a new coffee machine.

But it’s never from you.

Until one evening, when he swings by the café, and you ask him to stay until closing.

His heart lodges itself in his throat.

The café empties out, and Oscar helps you stack chairs and wipe tables. His fingers jitter against the rag, adrenaline buzzing under his skin like he’s on the starting grid. He wonders how he’ll respond when you confess, how to let you down gently when he inevitably leaves for another race weekend.

(He also can’t stop imagining what it would be like to kiss you.)

When you finally sit him down, your words knock the air out of his lungs.

“The café might close,” you say, tone steadier than your hands wringing your apron in your lap. “Rent’s gone up, and I just... I don’t know if I can keep up."

Oscar stares, words dissolving before they can form. He thinks about the old man who first owned the place, about you proudly taking over. He thinks about all the hours he’s spent lingering here, all the drinks you’ve made him, all the moments he’s stolen just to see you.

The idea of it all disappearing feels like a punch to the chest.

“I just thought you should know,” you continue, voice quieter now. “You've been coming here for years, and— I don’t know, I guess I wanted to thank you for that. For being a loyal customer.”

Oscar frowns. “I’m not just— I mean, yeah, I like the café, but…”

You smile, but it’s small, tired. “I know. But still. It means a lot. And hey, we had a good run, right?”

He hates the way you talk like it's already over.

Without thinking, he reaches across the table and covers your hand with his own. You flinch, just barely, before curling your fingers around his.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, like it’s something you should apologize for.

“Don’t be,” he says back.

He doesn’t know what else to offer. And so he holds your hand, and the two of you sit in relative silence.

Oscar tries not to think of this being the last time he’ll get to do this. He resists the urge to study the weight of your hand, because then that would be admitting to a certain kind of preemptive loss.

You close up shop, the two of you lingering outside the café under the glow of the streetlights, hands still linked. The night air is cool, the streets quiet, and it feels like you’re waiting for something.

Oscar doesn’t know what.

He racks his brain for words, for solutions, for something that might make you stay, but all he comes up with is static. The same helplessness he feels when a car failure knocks him out of a race.

You give his hand a gentle squeeze. “Good night, Oscar.”

“Good night,” he says, his fingers tightening around yours for a fraction of a second before he’s letting you go.

He watches you walk away, the distance stretching between you like a rubber band about to snap. And— as usual— he doesn’t realize what to do or say until much, much later.

But he knows you’ll forgive him for this one.

It takes some convincing, some pulling of strings. In the end, he doesn’t know if he even manages it. Not until he’s back in Melbourne for the prix, and Lando is bringing him closer to the spot he’s tried to avoid all morning.

“New caterer this year,” Lando says, peering at his phone. “Some local place. Looks sick.”

Oscar feigns interest, even as dread pools in his stomach.

He lasts all of twenty minutes before Lando physically drags him to the hospitality area. Oscar immediately clocks the familiar pastries, the neat line of carefully curated drinks— but it’s the sight of you, grinning behind the counter, that sends his pulse into overdrive.

“Oh, this is dangerous,” Lando jokes. “I might never leave.”

Oscar, meanwhile, contemplates leaving immediately.

You spot him mid-pour, your smile faltering. And Oscar knows he’s screwed.

The confrontation comes after Lando flits away, croissant in hand, leaving Oscar cornered by the espresso machine.

“You.” You jab a finger at his chest. “You did this.”

Oscar glances around him. The Netflix boom microphone is gracefully not around. No one from his team is, either.

He allows himself this small joy of bickering with you. “Technically, McLaren did this,” he says dryly.

“Bullshit.” Your eyes narrow, but there’s no real venom. “You got me this gig so I could afford to keep the café, didn’t you?”

A corner of his lip twitches upward. “You’ve got no proof.”

You stare at him for a beat, then you let out an exasperated sigh. That smile of yours— the one that has ruined Oscar for everyone else— threatens to break on your face. “I could kiss you, you know,” you say, and he privately wishes you’d run him over with a car instead.

You’re kidding. You sound like you’re kidding. But Oscar isn’t fifteen and stupid anymore. The only thing that hasn’t changed from back then is the way he feels for you, and it’s what has him finally giving in.

“How about I give you my number first?” he says.

It takes you a moment. A full thirty seconds to realize what he’s getting at.

When it does hit you, though, you laugh. “A couple years late, Piastri,” you jab.

Oscar dares to meet your eyes. He hopes it doesn’t show on his face— the way his heart is clenching in his chest.

His voice is quieter when he says, “Please tell me you still want it.”

Your smile softens.

He braces himself for a gentle denial, a spiel about friendship. Instead, he holds his breath as you fish for your phone.

“Put it in before I change my mind,” you say, sliding it across the counter. Your coolness is betrayed by just the hint of giddiness in your tone, because you’ve wanted this for as long as he has, haven’t you? You hadn’t been kidding back then, and you still want this.

Still want him.

Oscar fumbles to type his number, adrenaline roaring louder than any engine. When he hands the phone back, your fingers brush his, lingering just a second too long.

“Good luck out there,” you tell him.

Oscar doesn’t feel like he needs any luck.

Not when he finally, finally got the win that mattered most. ⛐

#oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri x you #oscar piastri fluff #oscar piastri fic #oscar piastri imagine #f1 x reader #formula 1 x reader #formula 1 imagine #formula 1 fic #f1 imagine #f1 fic #⛐ op81 #⛐ kae prix #this was supposed to be a fun little 1k fic but i GUESS we have 4k.... (nearly FIVE...)#one long fic [experimenting w/no dividers] which i think i will never do again tbh LOL #oscar the man that u are.

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peachylynnie · 12 days ago

Text

what jewelry they like on you

word count: ~300-400 per lead contains: lads men x non!mc reader, established relationship, they all adore you, jewelry descriptions, fluff, suggestive themes (sylus, rafayel, and caleb), and did i mention fluff? make it toothrotting. a/n: it's midterm season so headcanons it is. again, these are headcanons so i'm not saying i'm right. just my silly little interpretations. inspired by my impulsive buy of a bracelet the other day. no, my wallet hasn't recovered. reblogs and comments are always appreciated! tagged: @vvintqz (a little headcanon for xavier, lmk if u want me to stop tagging) lads masterlist

sylus

necklaces all the way

has a preference for silver chains with red or black charms

it's his signature colors on your pretty neck

loves it even more when the charm rests between your collarbones

if you want his nose to bleed, wear a long necklace

yes, the one that goes all the way down to your chest

but if you really want to get him going

wear a choker

doesn't even have to be a chain type or have charms

if it's a choker, he'll fold, like dogs to a bone

you can't blame him

it enticingly accentuates the rest of your neck and collarbones, the two places he likes to leave marks on

don't worry if you're hypoallergenic (like me)

he only ever gets you the finest of materials, even if you point out the cost

not that you mind or anything

"sylus," you whine.

you're going to be late. again. all because of this silver-haired man who's refusing to leave your neck alone.

"sylus!" you gasp when he tugs down the choker, his dewy lips taking advantage of the newly exposed spot.

you're starting to regret wearing a choker (not really). you thought it went well with your outfit. and it did! it added a little pop to your look, and you were excited to wear it for the first time in a while.

"hey!" you squirm in his embrace when you feel the poke of his teeth. "no marks!"

"does it really matter, sweetie?" he asks nonchalantly before continuing his assault on your neck. he loves how his tongue occasionally meets with the smooth fabric of your choker. "this," he tugs on it some more, eliciting a soft whimper from you. "will cover them."

sighing, you make a mental note to apologize to your friends for being late when you meet them.

xavier

earrings

especially studs or the mini drop ones that come in cute graphic designs.

there's just something about the way the adorable little charms hang from your ears

really, he thinks they complement your face shape

and he loves to cup your face whenever

but when you wear the ones that are star-themed

he's looking at you as if you're the one who hung them up in the night sky

seriously, he's never seen anything more beautiful

it also strokes his jealousy (?) in a way (cuz yk he's all abt the stars)

but that's worth like...less than 1% of the experience

he just really loves seeing you wear them

don't worry if your ears aren't pierced

clip-ons are a thing, and he'll make sure to get that ones that are both high quality and comfortable

he also loves watching you put them on

his cheeks hurt from smiling too much. he tries to cover his rosy face when you lean towards the mirror.

you're adjusting the backing of your new star stud. furrowing your brows, you tilt your head to the side for a better look.

xavier swears he's never seen anything more beautiful in his life. here you are, making something so simple as adjusting an earring look so skillful and charming.

"done!" you secure the backing and spin around to show your boyfriend. "what do you think?"

"yeah," he nods softly. "i think you're glowing."

you giggle and embrace him tightly.

"thanks for surprising me with them," you chirp, peering up at him.

the stars on your ears shine. no different from your eyes.

"anything for you, starlight," he whispers, stroking your cheek with a thumb. "anything for you."

rafayel

bracelets

listen

we all know this man is a FIEND for our hands

i may not have all of his five-star cards

but tell me why it is that in all the ones i have, he's YEARNING for our hands at some point

jumps at every chance to help you put one on

has a thing for cuff bracelets

like the metal swirly ones that hold a jewel in the middle

they exude the sense of royalty in a way (he's a god so)

most definitely has designed some for you too

and by some, i mean numerous

what's really heartwarming about that though is that he collects the materials himself

the amount of seashells he has preserved for you

but back to him being down bad for our hands

there's something about the way cuff accompanies the bare skin of your wrist and gently presses against your pulse

he's in heaven whenever he nuzzles against your wrist and feels the cool metal graze his heated skin.

"wait," you squint at the bracelet rafayel just secured around your wrist. "did you design this?"

"yup," he answers with a puffed chest. "good eye, cutie. how'd you know?"

you roll your eyes lovingly.

"first of all, i'm your partner, raf." turning your wrist, you admire the intricate swirls of the cuff. "second of all, your works normally have a trademark."

"oh?" he grabs your wrist and pulls you to him, his lips already tracing your wrist. "and what would that be?"

you try not to shudder when his siren eyes meet yours.

"isn't this from one of your lemuria collections?" you shakily gesture towards the sapphire seashell crested on top. "you always reference lemuria in your works, right?"

"wrong," his tongue darts out, savoring your quickened pulse as punishment for your incorrect answer. "it's not just lemuria i always reference in my works."

he tightens the cuff.

"it's you, cutie."

zayne

rings

he loves the subtlety of them

especially the ones made out of thinner bands

they bring out the beauty of your fingers

he loves the way they shine whenever you move your hands too

let's say the two of you are at a cafe

sitting across from each other and reading novels

except he gets distracted (in a good way) whenever your flip a page

your ring glimmers in the sunlight that's peeking through the window

oh wow, not only is there a halo over your head, there's a halo around your finger too

he can't help but reach out at some point

and trace your left ring finger

imagining what it would be like to gift you one

a simple one that conveys an impactful message

one he hopes you'll say yes to

and bound not only both his and your left ring fingers

but also your souls to each other

"zayne? are you alright?"

he snaps out of his thoughts, lifting his chin from his palm.

"sorry," he apologizes as smoothly as he can. "could you repeat that?"

you smile endearingly. his heart beats rapidly.

"i asked if you were alright."

"yes," he answers before clearing his throat. "yes, of course. why?"

"oh, it's just," you giggle. "you're still tracing my finger."

zayne immediately retracts his hand.

"sorry," he apologizes again. this time profusely. "did i make you uncomfortable?"

"no, no," you immediately reassure. "i liked it. it's just you were doing it for a while..." you pause before continuing. "i thought you were checking for dead skin or something."

zayne blinks.

"you thought i was checking for dead skin?" he repeats incredulously.

you nod slowly. now it's your turn to be flustered.

at that, he chuckles with a shake of his head and returns to tracing your left finger, ignoring your amusing assurances about how you always wash your hands thoroughly.

yes, he's most definitely going to marry you.

caleb

anklets

this totally wasn't inspired by that one scene in the main story where he pins our leg down with his evol

nope not at all

i don't know what you're talking about

he likes the ones that come with dangly charms

this is because he can hear you whenever you move

interpret that however you want

but really, he loves how the sound gets louder and louder

because that means you're moving TOWARDS him

he wants to gift you a whole bunch of charms

specifically apple and sky themed

it's over for him if you wear it while your legs are exposed

that man is on the floor, his hands haphazardly roaming up and down your bare skin

and when he notices the anklet with the charms that he gifted?

it's over for you

his fingers are slipping underneath the anklet, wrapping around your ankle, and pulling you to him

where's his face at?

uhhhhh

you're trying to control your breathing. you really are. but it's hard to when there's a man, an incredibly gorgeous one with lavender eyes deep enough to engulf you whole, settled in front of you, specifically in between your legs.

thankfully (not really), he hasn't done anything yet. he's just kneeling there with his metal fingers snaked around your ankle and his eyes transfixed on the anklet you decided to wear.

"uhm," you start, nervously shifting on the couch. "is there something wrong with my ankle, caleb?"

he finally looks at you. you can't tell if he's angry. definitely not with your foot resting against his broad shoulder.

"nothing's wrong, pips." he speaks after an eternity.

you sigh in relief. eager to get out of this compromising position, you try to put your foot down. keyword: try.

"caleb, what-"

"when did you put the charm on?"

"oh, uh," you notice him looking at the anklet again, but more at the apple charm. it has a snake coiled around it. "a while ago? i think as soon as you gave it to me."

he breathes in sharply.

you think it's over when he releases you. you're proven wrong when he grabs both of your ankles and drags you to the end of the couch, his chin dangerously close to your core.

"you really don't make it easy for me, pips."

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