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The thing about Oscar Piastri was that he always did what he was told.
It wasn't something he advertised. It wasn't written on his face in bold letters or announced in press conferences. But if you paid attention, really paid attention, you'd see it in the small moments. The way his posture shifted when a team principal walked into the room, straightening almost imperceptibly like a soldier called to attention. The way he said "yes" before he even processed the request, the word automatic, programmed into his muscle memory from years of being the good boy, the obedient one, the driver who never made waves.
His race engineer would tell him to push harder on the out lap, and he'd push harder. His physio would tell him to hold the plank for another thirty seconds when his abs were already screaming, and he'd hold it. His manager would text him about a sponsor dinner that interfered with his rest, and he'd be there in a tailored suit, smiling for cameras, shaking hands until his palm ached. The word "no" didn't seem to exist in his vocabulary, not when it came to people who held any authority over him, any expectation.
Lando Norris noticed it during Oscar's rookie season, back when they were still feeling each other out as teammates. It was Barcelona, a routine Friday practice, and Andrea had asked Oscar to stay late for an extra debrief on tire degradation data. Oscar had already been running for six hours, simulator work, gym session, media obligations and the circles under his eyes were dark enough to bruise. But he'd simply nodded, that soft "yeah, of course" falling from his lips like water, and Lando had watched him follow Andrea back into the engineering room without a word of protest.
Later, when Lando was packing up his own things, he found Oscar still there, hunched over a laptop in the back of the garage, reviewing footage while the cleaners mopped around him. He'd looked up when Lando approached, and there was something in his eyes not quite exhaustion, not quite resignation, but something softer. Something that looked like need. The need to be useful. The need to be good.
"You know you can say no sometimes, right?" Lando had said, leaning against the desk.
Oscar had blinked at him, genuinely confused. "It's my job."
"Yeah, but it's also your job to not burn out."
Oscar had just smiled, that small, polite smile he gave to journalists and sponsors and turned back to his screen. "I'm fine. Thanks, though."
Lando had walked away that night with a strange feeling curling in his stomach. He couldn't name it then. He didn't try.
The testing started small. Lando told himself it was just observation at first, just curiosity. He wanted to see where the line was, if there even was one.
"Oi, Oscar—pass me that water bottle, would you?"
They were in the engineering office at the factory, surrounded by monitors and the hum of servers. Oscar was across the room, reviewing setup sheets for the upcoming race. Lando's bottle was on the table three feet from where he sat, easily within reach. He asked anyway.
Oscar looked up, didn't hesitate, crossed the room and handed it over. "Here."
"Cheers."
No complaint. No raised eyebrow. Just obedience, smooth as silk.
"Oscar, my phone's in the motorhome. Can you grab it?"
They were at Silverstone, Lando's home race, the paddock buzzing with energy and Union Jacks. Oscar had just finished his own media pen, his hair still wet from the shower, his energy already depleted from answering the same questions about British weather and home advantage. Lando had left his phone on the coffee table after his own interviews, could have walked the fifty meters himself in thirty seconds.
Oscar had looked at him for a moment, just a moment, something flickering in those brown eyes and then he'd nodded. "Yeah, sure."
He'd returned three minutes later, phone in hand, and Lando had taken it with a casual "legend" that didn't quite match the rapid beating of his own heart. He'd watched Oscar settle back into his chair, pulling out his own phone to check messages, and Lando had thought: he really will do anything.
The realization sat heavy and hot in his chest.
The requests escalated. Lando couldn't stop himself.
"Make me a coffee, would you? The way I like it."
"Hold this for a sec." And then Lando would walk away for ten minutes, leaving Oscar standing there with a helmet or a notebook or a water bottle, waiting, always waiting, never setting it down without permission.
"Grab my bag from the truck. I need my laptop."
It was Monaco when Lando first pushed further than he probably should have. They were in the McLaren hospitality suite, the Thursday evening before practice, and Lando had spent the afternoon watching Oscar charm sponsors and execute perfect lap after perfect lap in the simulator. He was wearing a pale shirt that matched his eyes, sleeves rolled up to show forearms still corded with muscle from his earlier gym session.
"I'm starving," Lando announced, sprawled across the leather couch. "FP2 ran long and I missed lunch."
Oscar was at the counter, reviewing data on his tablet. "Room service?"
"Nah, takes too long." Lando didn't look at him, kept his eyes on his own phone, casual, careless. "Make me a sandwich? There's bread and stuff in the kitchenette."
The silence stretched for three full seconds. Lando counted them in his heartbeat, suddenly terrified he'd gone too far, that this was where Oscar would draw the line, would tell him to fuck off, would finally show some backbone.
Then he heard movement. The soft sound of Oscar setting down his tablet. Footsteps. The fridge opening.
"Ham and cheese?" Oscar asked quietly.
Lando's mouth went dry. "Yeah. Thanks."
He watched from the couch as Oscar assembled the sandwich with methodical precision, the way he did everything—spreading mustard evenly, layering ham just so, cutting it diagonal because that's how Lando liked it. He'd noticed. He'd remembered. He brought it over on a plate with a napkin and a bag of crisps he'd found somewhere, setting it on the coffee table within easy reach before returning to his data review like nothing had happened.
Lando ate the sandwich in a daze, watching Oscar's profile, watching the way he sat with perfect posture even when he was tired, the way he crossed his ankles under the chair, the way he bit his lip when he was concentrating.
He wanted to ruin him. The thought came sudden and vicious, shocking in its intensity. He wanted to see that obedience tested. He wanted to see how far it went, how deep it ran. He wanted to see Oscar Piastri perfect, polite, professional Oscar Piastri fall apart because Lando asked him to.
The hotel room in Budapest was where it finally happened.
They were there for the Hungarian Grand Prix, the summer heat pressing against the windows, the Danube glittering in the distance. Oscar had finished his engineering debrief early and had texted Lando that he was heading back to his room to rest. Lando had stared at that message for ten minutes, pulse hammering in his throat, before he made the decision.
He called. Oscar picked up on the second ring.
"Hey."
"Hey." Lando kept his voice light, playful, nothing in it to suggest what he was about to do. "What are you doing?"
"Just got to my room. Was gonna watch some TV, maybe nap."
"Come to my room instead."
Silence. Then: "Now?"
"Yeah. I'm bored." Lando paused, let the silence stretch, let the weight of the request settle between them. "Come over."
He didn't say please. He didn't make it a question, really. He made it an instruction, wrapped in casual friendliness, and he held his breath waiting for the response.
"Okay." Soft, immediate, automatic. "Which room are you in?"
Lando told him. Hung up. Stood in the center of his suite with his hands shaking and his cock already half hard in his jeans, wondering if he was about to destroy everything or discover something that had been inevitable from the start.
The knock came twelve minutes later.
Oscar stood in the hallway in jeans and a plain white tshirt, his hair still damp from the shower, smelling like hotel soap and something uniquely him. He looked young without his team gear on, young and tired and so beautifully open, his expression that same polite attentiveness he wore in the garage.
"Hey," he said.
"Come in."
Oscar stepped inside. Lando closed the door. Locked it.
The click of the lock seemed loud in the quiet room.
"What's up?" Oscar asked, settling onto the edge of the couch, his body language relaxed, trusting. He had no idea. He genuinely had no idea what was about to happen, and that blind, beautiful trust made Lando's chest ache with something dangerous.
Lando didn't sit. He stood by the window, backlit by the afternoon sun, and looked at Oscar properly for the first time in weeks. Really looked. The way his t-shirt clung to his shoulders. The way his hands rested on his knees, patient, waiting. The way his eyes tracked Lando's every movement with that same focus he gave to track limits and braking points.
"I've been thinking," Lando said slowly. "About you."
Oscar's eyebrows lifted slightly. "Me?"
"About how you always do what you're told."
Something shifted in Oscar's expression. A flicker of uncertainty, maybe. A hint of color rising in his cheeks. "I don't—"
"You do." Lando moved closer, just one step, testing. "Andrea asks you to stay late, you stay. Your physio asks for an extra session, you give it. I ask you to bring me my phone, make me food, hold my things, you do it. Every time. Without question."
Oscar's throat moved as he swallowed. "I'm just... I'm a team player. That's all."
"No." Lando took another step. He was close enough now to see the way Oscar's pupils dilated, the way his breathing had quickened almost imperceptibly. "It's more than that. You like it. Don't you?"
Oscar opened his mouth. Closed it. His hands gripped his knees tighter.
"You like being told what to do," Lando continued, his voice dropping lower, softer, intimate. "You like having someone give you instructions. It makes you feel useful. Needed. Good." He paused, let the word hang between them. "Isn't that right?"
Oscar's cheeks were flushed now, a deep pink spreading down his neck. He didn't deny it. He didn't confirm it. He just sat there, breathing fast, looking up at Lando with those wide blue eyes, and Lando could see it the want, the need, the desperate hunger for someone to take control, to give him purpose, to tell him he was doing well.
"You're like a dog," Lando said, and the words should have been cruel but they came out almost tender, almost reverent. "A good boy who just wants to please. Who'll do anything he's told as long as it makes his owner happy."
Oscar made a small sound, something wounded and wanting, and his hands were trembling now where they gripped his knees.
"Isn't that right?" Lando pressed.
Oscar closed his eyes. Nodded. Just once, small and desperate, and Londo felt the last of his restraint crumble.
"Take off your pants," he said.
Oscar's eyes snapped open. "What?"
"You heard me." Lando held his gaze, unwavering, commanding. "Take off your pants. Now."
The hesitation lasted only a moment. Just a heartbeat of internal war, of habit fighting against desire, of professional boundaries screaming warnings that his body refused to hear. Then Oscar stood. His fingers went to the button of his jeans. He undid it. Lowered the zipper. Pushed the denim down his legs, stepping out of them with the same mechanical precision he applied to everything, until he stood in just his white t-shirt and dark blue boxer briefs, his thighs pale and muscular, his hands hanging loose at his sides.
He didn't cover himself. He didn't ask why. He just stood there, waiting, his chest rising and falling with quick, shallow breaths, and Lando felt dizzy with the power of it, with the reality of Oscar Piastri standing nearly naked in his hotel room because he'd been told to.
"Look at you," Lando murmured, stepping closer, close enough to touch. He didn't touch. Not yet. He circled instead, slow and appraising, letting Oscar feel his gaze like a physical weight. "So good at following instructions. So eager to be useful. Is that what you want, Oscar? To be useful to me?"
"Yes," Oscar whispered, the word breaking on a breath.
"Yes what?"
"Yes... I want to be useful." Oscar's voice was shaking now, his composure cracking. "I want to make you happy. I want to do what you tell me."
Lando stopped in front of him, close enough that their chests almost touched. He reached out, finally, and cupped Oscar's jaw, thumb brushing over his cheekbone, feeling the heat of his blush. Oscar leaned into the touch instantly, his eyes fluttering shut, his lips parting.
"You're doing so well," Lando praised, and he felt Oscar shudder against his hand, felt the way his whole body responded to the validation like a flower turning toward sun. "Such a good boy. My good boy."
Oscar made a noise, high, broken, desperate, and Lando couldn't wait anymore. He closed the distance between them and kissed him, hard and claiming, and Oscar opened for him immediately, yielding, submitting, his hands coming up to grip Lando's shirt as if he needed it to stay standing.
They stumbled backward toward the bed, Lando guiding, Oscar following, until the backs of Oscar's knees hit the mattress and he went down, pulling Lando with him. Lando broke the kiss only to arrange them properly, pushing Oscar back against the pillows, crawling over him, settling his weight between Oscar's spread thighs and watching his face—the dazed, overwhelmed expression, the way his lips were already swollen and red, the way he looked up at Lando like he was the only thing in the world that mattered.
"Tell me to stop," Lando said, one last chance, one final offering of escape. "Tell me to stop and I will."
Oscar's hands found Lando's hips, gripping tight, pulling him closer. "Don't stop," he breathed. "Please. Tell me what to do. I'll do anything. I promise. I'll be good."
The words went straight to Lando's cock, and he ground down against Oscar's hip, feeling the answering hardness there, the evidence that Oscar wanted this, needed this, had probably been dreaming of someone taking control for years.
"Open your mouth," Lando commanded.
Oscar obeyed instantly, his lips parting, his tongue visible, his eyes heavy-lidded and trusting. Lando brought his hand to Oscar's face, tracing his lower lip with his thumb, feeling the wet heat of his breath.
"Suck," he ordered, and pushed his thumb inside.
Oscar closed his lips around the digit and sucked, his tongue swirling, his cheeks hollowing, his eyes never leaving Lando's. It was obscene, the way he committed to it, the way he treated the simple instruction like a sacred task, moaning softly around Lando's thumb as if it gave him pleasure just to obey.
Lando watched him, transfixed, his other hand stroking through Oscar's hair, petting him, praising him. "That's it. Good boy. Such a good boy for me. You like that, don't you? Having something in your mouth?"
Oscar moaned again, nodding slightly, his hips shifting restlessly against the bed. He was hard now, clearly visible through his boxers, straining against the fabric, and Lando wanted to touch him everywhere, wanted to unravel him completely and put him back together again.
Lando pulled his thumb free with a wet sound, and Oscar chased it with his tongue, whimpering at the loss. "Shh," Lando soothed, bringing his hand down to trace the waistband of Oscar's boxers. "I'm going to take care of you. But you have to keep being good. Can you do that?"
"Yes," Oscar gasped. "Yes, I'll be good. I'll do whatever you want."
"Whatever I want," Lando repeated, letting the promise settle between them, heavy with implication. He hooked his fingers in Oscar's boxers and pulled them down, slow and deliberate, revealing him inch by inch. Oscar lifted his hips to help, his face burning with embarrassment and arousal, and then he was naked on the bed, spread out and vulnerable, his cock flushed and hard against his stomach.
Lando took a moment just to look at him, this perfect driver who followed instructions so beautifully, now following the most intimate instructions of all. He ran his hands up Oscar's thighs, feeling the muscle tremble under his touch, spreading him wider, opening him up.
"Hold your knees," Lando instructed. "Pull them up. Show me."
Oscar grabbed his knees without hesitation, pulling them toward his chest, exposing himself completely. He was shaking now, his breath coming in short pants, his eyes glazed with a mixture of shame and desperate need.
"Beautiful," Lando murmured, and he meant it. He reached for the oil on the nightstand, he'd put it there hours ago, hoping, planning and poured some onto his fingers, the same fingers Oscar had just sucked, now slick and ready. "I'm going to open you up now. You're going to take it, aren't you? You're going to be good and take whatever I give you."
"Yes," Oscar whined, the sound high and needy. "Please. I want it. I want you."
Lando pressed one finger against Oscar's entrance, feeling the tight resistance, watching Oscar's face for any sign of discomfort. But Oscar just pushed back against him, eager and desperate, and Lando pushed inside.
The sound Oscar made was inhuman, a broken, sobbing moan that seemed to come from somewhere deep in his chest. His head fell back against the pillows, his eyes squeezed shut, his whole body trembling with the effort of holding still, of being good.
"Shh," Lando soothed, working his finger deeper, feeling the heat and tightness of him. "You're doing so well. So tight for me. Can you take another?"
"Yes," Oscar gasped. "Yes, please, more."
Lando added a second finger, scissoring them, stretching him carefully but firmly. Oscar was moaning continuously now, small sounds that escaped with every breath, his hips trying to roll down onto Lando's hand even as he struggled to keep his position, to keep holding his knees like he'd been told.
"So eager," Lando observed, his own voice rough with arousal. "You need this, don't you? You need someone to tell you what to do, how to feel, how to take it."
"Yes," Oscar sobbed. "I need it. I need you. Please, Lando, please—"
"Please what?"
"Please fuck me. Please. I'll be so good. I'll do anything. Just please—"
The begging broke something in Lando, snapped the last thread of his control. He withdrew his fingers, ignoring Oscar's wounded cry of loss, and quickly stripped off his own clothes, his hands shaking with urgency. Oscar watched him with hungry eyes, still holding his knees, still obedient even as his arms trembled with the effort, his cock leaking against his stomach, his hole fluttering where Lando had opened him.
Lando settled between his thighs, guiding himself into position, and paused one last time. "Tell me again," he demanded. "Tell me you'll do whatever I want."
"Whatever you want," Oscar repeated, his voice breaking. "I promise. Whatever you want, I'll do it. Just please, please—"
Lando pushed inside.
The heat of him was overwhelming, the tightness almost painful, and Lando had to stop, had to breathe, had to ground himself in the reality of Oscar Piastri wrapped around him, taking him, submitting to him. Oscar's head was thrown back, his mouth open in a silent scream, his hands white knuckled where they gripped his knees.
"Look at me," Lando commanded, his voice strained. "Oscar. Look at me."
Oscar's eyes opened, glazed and unfocused, tears gathering in the corners. He looked at Lando, really looked, and Lando saw everything in that gaze, the trust, the surrender, the desperate need to be good, to be used, to be claimed.
"You're perfect," Lando told him, meaning it with every fiber of his being. "So perfect. Taking me so well. Can you move your hands now? Put them above your head. Keep them there."
Oscar obeyed, releasing his knees to reach above him, grasping the headboard, stretching his body out in a long line of submission. The shift changed the angle, and when Lando pulled back and thrust forward again, he hit something inside Oscar that made him scream.
"There?" Lando asked, doing it again, watching Oscar's face contort with pleasure.
"Yes," Oscar sobbed. "Yes, there, please, right there—"
Lando set a rhythm, hard and deep, angling for that spot every time, watching Oscar fall apart beneath him. Every thrust drew a sound from Oscar's throat, tiny, high-pitched moans that escaped with every impact, each one like music, like proof that he was doing this right, that he was giving Oscar exactly what he needed.
"Please," Oscar was chanting, his head tossing against the pillows, his hands gripping the headboard so tight his knuckles were white. "Please, Lando, please—"
"Please what?" Lando demanded, snapping his hips harder, driving deeper. "Tell me what you need."
"I need—" Oscar gasped, his eyes rolling back. "I need you to—please, can you—"
"Use your words," Lando ordered. "Ask properly."
"Can you come inside me?" The words tumbled out in a rush, broken and desperate. "Please, Lando, I want you to come in me. I want to feel it. Please, I'll be so good, I'll take it all, just please—"
Lando groaned, the image overwhelming him—filling Oscar, marking him, claiming him completely. "No condom," he managed, still thrusting, the thought making him dizzy. "I don't have—I wasn't planning—"
"I don't care," Oscar whimpered. "I want it. I want you. Whatever you want. Just please, please come in me, please—"
The words "whatever you want" echoed between them, and Lando realized with sudden clarity that Oscar meant it literally, completely, without reservation. He would take anything Lando gave him. He would accept any instruction, any demand, any desire. He existed in this moment solely to make Lando happy, to be useful, to be good.
It was too much. The combination of Oscar's tight heat, his desperate begging, his absolute submission it shattered Lando's control. He reached between them, wrapped his hand around Oscar's cock, and stroked him in time with his thrusts.
"Come for me first," Lando commanded. "Be a good boy and come for me, and then I'll fill you up like you asked. Can you do that? Can you come on command?"
Oscar's whole body went rigid, his back arching off the bed, his mouth open in a silent scream. "Yes," he gasped. "Yes, I'm—Lando, I'm gonna—"
"Now," Lando ordered, his hand tightening, his thrusts becoming erratic, losing rhythm. "Come now, Oscar. Come for me."
Oscar obeyed.
He came with a wail that sounded like surrender, like relief, like gratitude thick ropes of release painting his stomach and chest, his body convulsing around Lando, his muscles clamping down so tight Lando saw stars. Lando kept stroking him through it, kept thrusting, watching Oscar's face as he came apart, as he gave everything, as he let himself be completely undone.
And then Lando was following him over the edge, burying himself deep one final time, his forehead dropping to Oscar's shoulder as he spilled inside him, filling him, claiming him in the most primal way possible. Oscar moaned at the sensation, his arms finally falling from the headboard to wrap around Lando's back, holding him close, pulling him deeper.
They lay like that for long moments, breathing hard, trembling, Lando's weight pressing Oscar into the mattress. Lando could feel Oscar's heart hammering against his own chest, could feel the aftershocks rippling through him, could feel his own release slowly leaking out where they were still joined.
"You're incredible," Lando whispered against Oscar's sweat dampened neck. "You know that? Absolutely incredible."
Oscar made a soft, contented sound, his hands stroking lazily up and down Lando's spine. "Was I good?" he asked quietly, his voice small and vulnerable.
Lando pulled back enough to look at him, to see the genuine uncertainty in his eyes, the need for validation. He kissed him softly, tenderly, pouring every ounce of praise and adoration he could into the gesture.
"You were perfect," he said when they broke apart. "The best. My perfect, obedient boy. You did everything I asked. You made me so happy."
Oscar's smile was radiant, blinding, the smile of someone who had found their purpose. "I just want to make you happy," he repeated, the words like a prayer. "I just want to do what you tell me."
"You did," Lando assured him, shifting to pull out carefully, watching Oscar wince slightly at the sensation. He settled beside him, pulling Oscar into his arms, tangling their legs together. "You were perfect. And you know what?"
"What?"
Lando kissed his forehead, his eyelids, the tip of his nose. "This isn't a one time thing. If you want... if you want me to keep telling you what to do, I will. In bed, yeah, but other places too. I'll look out for you. I'll make sure you don't burn out trying to please everyone else. I'll be the one you answer to, so you don't have to think so hard about the rest. Would you like that?"
Oscar buried his face in Lando's neck, his whole body relaxing for what seemed like the first time since Lando had known him. "Yes," he whispered. "Please. I want that. I want you to tell me what to do. I trust you."
"I know," Lando said, holding him tighter. "And I'll take care of you. I promise. As long as you keep being good."
"I will," Oscar promised, his voice already drifting toward sleep, exhaustion finally claiming him. "I'll be so good for you, Lando. Whatever you want."
Lando smiled in the dimming light, stroking Oscar's hair, feeling the weight of responsibility settle over him like a blanket. He had a feeling that "whatever you want" was going to become his favorite phrase.
Outside, the Budapest evening settled into night, and in the quiet hotel room, two teammates found something neither of them had known they were missing. And in the morning, when the alarm rang, Lando would wake first and whisper instructions in Oscar's ear, and Oscar would obey, and they would begin again—an arrangement built on trust and need and the simple, powerful truth that some people were made to lead, and others were made to follow.
And Oscar Piastri, golden boy of Formula One, obedient to his core, had finally found someone worth following.