꒰ ♡ notes ♡ ꒱ > To add on to the nervousness of posting my second Oscar fic, I just had to full send the dark!au version too. Well at least you can say that I don't half ass things. Also new banner format— not great, but okay.
꒰ ♡ warnings ♡ ꒱ > dark!au. dark!Oscar. I spellcheck nothing, ever. George jealousy. He an angry boy. Trying to manipulate the media. Oscar has a very intresting way of watching you in the form of stalking. No smut but he does want to be home inside of you.
Word count: 782
He’s never considered quitting more in his life, or at least swapping teams. Problems purely involving him don’t spark the match of anger, especially not enough yo encourage any drastic decisions. But now they’re involving you— he finds his restraint is torn to shreds when it comes to you.
A twisted spear of anger that strikes at him relentlessly, goading his reaction on. Striking and slashing with every moment, snowballing together.
A sharp slice against his side, each time George crosses the line first.
A beading of red against the line of his jaw with every electrical fault.
A stab again his thigh when he watches George openly having the time to indulge in his win and his love. A pain he multiples when he watches both of them, his teeth clenching at the shared affection.
It was his, with you. It’s always supposed to be his. Last season he was winning. He wasn't hounded by team meetings and this brand of frustration. He was free to watch over you, to protect you, to consume you.
Yet now it's all ruined. Through no fault of his own. His frustration bleeding out with every clipped radio message, with each violent thud of his fists against the steering wheel. His calm facade hanging on for dear life. Every acceptance of blame makes him want to explode, to lash out. They’re taking you away from him and he's powerless to do anything about it.
It’s not enough for them to demand that he spends more time working with them, more time in the sim, more time away from you. They take and they take from him. Planned weekends with you. Time he spends watching you sleep. Time he spends watching you, monitoring you. Time he spends protecting you from the lurking danger he feels every single second of the day, when he’s away from you.
There’s a perverse cruelty to it. One he can’t just take lying down. Blow after blow would make anyone snap.
There’s an attempt to cause problems, to twist the attention he receives from the media. To switch the angle of the trained daggers pointed at him. Comments dropped about the illegal nature of other cars. Errors made by drivers. Errors made by the team— ones he would usually gloss over in front of the microphones, deflecting the damage onto himself as usual. The shake of desperation in his hand, hidden by the media pen barrier. He needs this to work. To get back to you.
He held onto some form of optimism after the first race disaster. You’re his priority, not the car. Deluded into thinking that free time meant he could join you, stalking you— protecting you— through the paddock and hospitality. A warm, guiding hand on your lower back, nails sinking into your skin on the softest side of violent and claiming. Only to be met with a sharp tug on his wrist, dragging him to sit with the team.
It takes everything in him to not cause a scene, to settle for hitting the tip of his pen against the wooden table. Ignoring every glance sent his way, eyes flickering to the data on the tablet and the broadcast on the screen. The repetitive motion escalating with the rage in his chest. Constantly grabbing water to have the chance to pace himself, to calm himself with his heavy thuds against the floor. To get away from the act.
Fighting the urge to strike with the pen, physically lashing out at each tap of his shoulder. Each comment about him getting to relax and how it must be nice. Every smile that crosses anyone’s face— there’s no room for it. He needs the car fixed. He needs the situation fixed. He needs his time with you back. You’re vulnerable on your own.
You’re an animal he needs to protect from harm. Soft, precious, and so warm inside. If you’re here, there’s too many threats surrounding you. Men waiting to pounce, wolves circling your feet. If you’re at home, he’s away from you. Forced to trust that you aren’t lying to him about taking care of yourself over text. It's never to his own standards.
He needs his nails dug into the soft skin of your body. He needs his eyes fixated on every twitch of a muscle. He needs to be close enough to share his air with you, close enough to lap at you with his tongue, to taste your skin. He needs to feed you himself. He needs to be buried as deep as he can possibly reach inside you, with your limbs wrapped around him. That’s what he needs.
I also had some thoughts about a dark!Oscar who’s growing infuriated over the fact that he can’t watch you when he’s had his DNS’s. He keeps getting shepherded into hospitality to watch the races with his team instead of being able to find you.
He’d usually be distracted enough with the actual racing, but now he’s being forced to sit down and act normal. All while anything could be happening to you.
But that’s also even more nervetown.com for me because I’ve only ever done one Oscar fic.
Oscar had no way to know where he was or what was happening. All he knew was rage, all he felt was madness and Bloodlust the likes of which Mars would never have warned him. In the same ways that Mars would never allow himself to lose such a valuable asset in battle, such a useful pawn, because of course that’s how the gods saw their children Oscar thought. Of course there was no other thing, no other way. They weren’t even supposed to exist, they were proof of folly by the gods, by those all powerful, all knowing, ever present worthless dogs that he would call family. What was another person begging on his hunt for them all, to hurt them in the same ways they hurt everyone else. If this person kneeling before him, looking like she did, had no answers, then she would be cut down.
His hand held tight to the buckle of his belt and as he pulled, it whipped from around his waist, straightening, lengthening to reveal the greatsword it truly was; gold on half the blade, and black on the other. A gift from an old god that wanted what he did. He gripped the pommel with both hands and brings it down with impossible swiftness, cleaving the woman in front of him in half. That same Blessing of Mars that was given to him to protect was twisted now, and had been for some time.
The demigods eyes glint red as he looks around himself, at the empty streets, everything scattered all over, and he huffed.
