#loving machine

Breakups are never easy. Especially when it comes to breaking up with Lando Norris. He's a sweetheart all around and maybe one of the kindest people you've ever met, but when he gets angry he can become one of the meanest and cruelest people out there.

You both didn't love each other like you expected. It should have been a mutual understanding, things simply fizzled out and didn't work, but Lando firmly believed you were the gift that kept on giving.

And that made a wound bloom between you two. Lando demanded to know why you didn't love him anymore when he wasn't giving you a reason to continue. When free, he'd come home late, sometimes alone, sometimes with Max in tow, usually tipsy. His best friend would give you a blank stare and what you thought was a sorry smile.

Lando doesn't speak to you anymore. And you're finally relieved. There isn't much more that you could have done to keep that relationship alive.

You're at the doctor's office today, a dreary Tuesday morning in London. You've had sporadic headaches that felt more like migraines than anything. You've waited almost a week for your appointment. Doesn't matter, you're here now.

The artificial light in the waiting room makes your eyes water and your temple ache, feeling just as terrible. You'll get the pills and it will go away. It always does. You decide to close your eyes and rest for a bit.

Time feels like molasses behind your eyes, the darkness comforting but shaky. You feel a bit nauseous. And then someone calls out your name.

You open your eyes, expecting to see an assistant with their name list and beckoning you inside. But instead, you're met with soft brown eyes and a familiar face. You blink once, then twice. "Oscar?" You croak out, not expecting your voice to be as rough as it sounds.

The Aussie gives you a shy smile, familiar with how you and Lando left things. It feels a bit illegal to Oscar to see you and not Lando by your side. "Hi," He says softly, his tone hesitant, as if approaching a wild, scared animal. "Didn't, um, expect to see you here."

"At the doctor's office?" You ask him, a bit annoyed at his question. Oscar blinks a few times, quickly, and shakes his head. "No! No, uh, in London. You know," But you don't really know. It's just a filler. "Isn't Silverstone an hour's drive from here?"

Oscar looks down at you, still standing still in front of your feet, less than a foot away from you. He looks you over, really looks, and shifts his weight from foot to foot. "Well, yeah. I've been having some aches in my knee, my trainer told me to go here."

It sounds strange, but you shouldn't care which doctor Oscar goes to. You shouldn't care if Lando goes to this doctor, too, when he's in London. "Oh, sorry to hear that." He shakes his head in a silent, "Don't worry."

You look up at him and the seat, a small offer. And Oscar complies. He sits next to you and fidgets a bit. You don't look at him, nor do either of you speak much. Time drags on a bit and you each wait for your appointments to end, two prescription bottles in each of your hands.

"Are you doing anything now?" Oscar asks you before you reach for the door handle of the waiting room. You're stunned at his question. What would Oscar Piastri want to do with you? And yet, you entertain the idea, a small flutter in your stomach.

A nagging feeling tells you no, but your pettiness and need are screaming yes!

Blonde and blue flash before your eyes and you remember the times you'd spent scrolling through Instagram handles, looking at Lando's posts, F1 gossip blogs, the pretty smile that haunted your dreams every other night.

Jealousy is a disgusting feeling.

Oscar watches the cogs turn in your head, the offer open until you speak. His eyes travel to your hands, gripping the door handle tightly. Regard her with interest. Let her know she's being heard. Always be polite. Those are all tricks his uncle had once told him at some old Christmas party, giving a 15-year-old Oscar a 101 on flirting.

And when you slightly move, his eyes are back on you. Oscar smiles when you shake your head. A shy smile, somewhat pink in the cheeks. Flames lick in the inside of his stomach. "Can I interest you in some tea then?"

You look up at him and nod. "Yes."

Oscar realizes that he'd much rather have you sink on his cock than win any Grand Prix. It's a crazy thought, the hunger for winning dissipating when you moan in his ear, gripping onto his shoulders with intense need.

He selfishly thinks that he can fuck you better than Lando.

Tea is on the table, the steam gone from the two mugs on the small coffee table in Oscar's hotel room. Instead, he's kissing you on the couch, gentle and giddy.

Your panties are discarded in a pile of clothes along with his boxers. Oscar bounces you steadily on his dick, quickly becoming addicted to the feeling of you. Your hands slide up from his shoulders, settling on his neck, squeezing a bit. Oscar's eyes gloss over and he chuckles breathlessly.

"You're so pretty," He groans, his hands gripping your waist as he moves you a bit faster. Your eyes flutter closed as you moan, gasping when he hits deeply in you. "Oh, Oscar!" You cry out, pleasure wracking over your entire being.

You hope Lando hears you through the hotel walls.

I don't want anything serious.

The words suddenly echo in Oscar's mind as he's holding the Hungary trophy. He remembers the text you had sent him after Silverstone. Still high off his first win, as shitty as it had been.

He gulps and looks at his teammate. Lando was stormy-faced for various reasons. Still, his eyes blur when he stares for too long.

Oscar knows that Lando knows. He'd seen you leave Oscar's hotel room back when they were in the UK. He remembers how Lando's lips parted, ocean-green eyes widening a bit as if he'd seen a ghost.

And Oscar had also seen the satisfaction in your eyes, he knew you weren't good for him, not in the long run. You were just fun. Oscar could use a bit of fun in his life.

And yet, when he sees you again, this time standing in front of your London apartment, he feels that fluttering feeling all over again. He’s never going to be the first choice and that’s alright. He’s fine with just sex and jokes, helping you around the apartment if needed. Oscar was taught to always give back, and you gave him so much. Even if sometimes he wished you’d give him a little more. But it’s okay, he’ll settle by whispering please, love me into your back when you fall asleep in his arms.

Abu Dhabi is huge for McLaren. Huge for Oscar, huge for Lando. It makes you sick in the stomach when you see rumors of a new girl on Lando's arm. You should hate him, but the thought that he's moved on so quickly makes you itch.

Oscar scratches that itch.

He's sweet and he's funny with his particular dry sense of humor. You like Oscar. He's nice company. He fucks good too.

He thrusts deeper, more methodically, deft fingers always leaving you with fried nerves and buzzed. He was almost perfect.

Sure, he didn't pull your hair like you liked. And maybe he didn't spank your ass as hard as you'd like, but you chalked it up to him being gentle. It's fine.

You hate to compare Oscar to Lando. He doesn't deserve that.

And yet you do. You compare the tan skin to his pale one, the ocean green to the woody brown, the curls that seemed to flatten out in softer waves.

Sometimes, and even then, you kiss the two moles that rest on Oscar's neck, the ones that look like a misplaced vampire bite. You kiss them and imagine you're kissing the moles on Lando's face. The one closer to his eye and the other resting over his smile line.

It fills you with a bit of guilt but that's alright, opting to simply run your hands down Oscar's chest and give him a pretty smile. A silent conversation that ends in sex. Just an exchange.

Oscar comes over for a while, wanting to spend time with you before he returns home for Christmas. You offered him a small pre-Christmas dinner and who was he to decline?

He even arrives with a little gift in his hand, looking a bit silly with his Santa hat. "Hi," He smiles, cheeks pink from the cold and from you.

"Hi," You smile, too, and blink a few times. "Take that off, you look stupid," You reach for the hat and take it off his head, messing his hair up a bit. Oscar just chuckles. "Sorry."

Things seem to run in a routine. The door closes behind him and he's pulling you in for a kiss. "Missed you," He admits against your lips. You're not listening, simply kissing him back.

You make pasta and you eat quietly with Oscar. It feels weirdly domestic and that makes your chest tighten uncomfortably. These are just two people who fuck eating together, normal stuff.

After dinner, you're both lying on the floor next to your Christmas tree, all the lights mixing together and casting a slight red glow over the Aussie. Oscar looks contemplative, as usual.

You, you're simply looking at him. You boldly reach out and trace a finger down the slope of his nose, a faint smile on your lips. Oscar turns to look at you, eyes glimmering under the Christmas lights.

It's poetic in a tragic way. You know you're going to hurt him, but you can't bring yourself to put an end to this now.

His hands come and touch, grabbing your wrists and gently pinning you down on the wooden floor. Oscar kisses down your neck, mouthing, and nipping slowly, his fingers unbuttoning your comfy Christmas pajama top, the flannel being peeled off of you swiftly. He kisses over your chest, giving love to each nipple.

He dares to stare at you with those precise and loving eyes, the color of his iris burning into your mind. Chocolate brown, you smile at the thought. A soft moan escapes you then.

Oscar's cheeks are hot and flushed, pulling at the tiny matching pajama shorts, seeing that you're soaked to the touch. He runs a thumb down your clothed slit, your thighs twitching at the featherlight contact.

The Aussie kneels down, resting comfortably on his stomach as he pulls your legs over his shoulders, pressing little kisses to your pussy. It's all a haze as you let your head fall back at the sight. "Yes, yes," You chant, urging Oscar to continue.

Your panties are pulled off and he doesn't waste time diving in, making out with your pretty cunt, eyes half-lidded and concentrated. He whines into your core a bit, thumb pressing down onto your clit softly as he tongue-fucks you.

Hands pull at the roots of his hair, and breathy moans and cries of his name are heard throughout the apartment—a sight to behold.

Oscar knows what you like. He likes what you want because Oscar likes you.

And he doesn't stop eating you out like a man starved until he's pulled two orgasms out of you. By then, his aching cock is begging for attention. He pulls you up onto his lap, snapping you out of your little reverie. Oscar pushes his joggers down and sinks you onto his cock, keeping a steady rhythm to satiate the hunger he has for you.

You both gasped in unison at the smooth intrusion, his pace was desperate and rough, pounding into you like no tomorrow. "You feel so tight, sweetheart," He moans as his hands wrap around your waist. You're a babbling mess, a bit wrecked from the immense pleasure.

"Oh, fuck, cum for me again," Oscar pleads, eyes searching for yours before pulling you into a kiss. You nod frantically into the messy kiss, gasping as he angles his hips to hit deeper. "Yeah, yes! F-feels so good, Osc, fuck,"

It's all surprisingly soft with how high emotions were. "Come on, sweetheart," Oscar murmurs, hips stuttering, thumb coming down to rub tight circles on your clit.

Oscar aches all over as your eyes shut, feeling like this might be the moment he realizes he's in love. He just pushes those feelings down and fucks you harder. "Can I cum inside of you?" Oscar asks, eyes watchful and hips never stalling.

Your eyes snap wide open, and you stare at him. "What? No, Oscar." The rejection doesn't hurt him; it's the tone of your voice that makes him feel small and shameful. "Okay, sorry," he whispers and kisses your lips.

Oscar pulls out and cums over your thighs, his cheeks flushed pink in a cute way. He's biting his lip as you finish yourself off by fingering yourself. Oscar loves you a little more.

After you've both calmed down, Oscar's eyes feel hot and glassy. The words he'd been dying to say rise and fall like bile, his breath short and slightly shaky.

But you don't stare at Oscar at all.

Oscar isn't what you want. He was a pity fuck that fueled your jealousy and sick satisfaction.

And you knew you'd be hurting him, but you've blocked the guilt out.

He's not Lando and he never will be, whether that's a good or bad thing.

The call comes one night in Australia, morning in London. Oscar's voice is slightly frantic at first but he tries to calm down. You know what's coming, and you feel the pit in your stomach grow, hot flashes of guilt and nerves make your vision blur slightly.

"I-I'm- What I'm trying to say is that," Oscar takes a breath, shaky and hopeful. "I think I'm in love with you."

The silence that follows is deafening, and the longer you take to answer, the less hope Oscar has for whatever this is.

Then comes your cold reply. "Then do something about it."

The call ends and you block Oscar's number.

The last time you'd seen Oscar was two years ago, you've already disconnected yourself from the world of Formula 1. If Lando is still with that woman, you don't know nor care. Sometimes you think about Oscar, but it's very fleeting. You know that if you do, you'll never recover.

Oscar hasn't been able to go a day without thinking about you. Some days it's easier than others, but it's always you. Like clockwork, your smile or your laugh comes to his memory.

He could never hate you, even now.