Work Text:
The bar in Monaco was tucked away in a quiet corner of the principality, the sort of place that felt like a well kept secret among the elite. Dim, amber lighting cast a warm glow over polished wooden tables and deep leather armchairs, with floor to ceiling windows offering a serene view of the yacht harbour below. It wasn't the flashy, overcrowded spots that drew the tourists; this was for locals and those in the know, like the Formula 1 drivers who needed a breather during the high stakes race week. The air hummed with low conversations, the clink of glasses, and the faint scent of expensive cologne mingled with sea salt.
Lando slouched comfortably in a corner booth, surrounded by his mates Max,George, and Alex. They were all nursing drinks, Lando with his usual beer, Max on a gin tonic, George sipping something posh like a martini, and Alex opting for a whisky soda. The conversation had started light, but as the night wore on and the alcohol loosened tongues, it veered into more mischievous territory.
Max, ever the instigator with his sharp Dutch, leaned forward across the table, a sly grin splitting his face. "Alright, Lando, mate. I've got a bet for you. Bet you can't pull someone tonight. Proper pull, yeah? Not just a chat up line that fizzles out."
Lando snorted, setting his glass down with a clink. "You're having a laugh. It's race week, Max. Monaco, of all places. I need to be sharp for the weekend, can't be caught shagging someone and turning up knackered."
Max's eyes sparkled with challenge. "Come on, live a little. Loser buys dinner for the lot of us for the rest of the season. Easy money for me, I reckon."
George, always the polished one with his impeccable British accent, chuckled softly, adjusting his cufflinks. "I'm in on this. But to make it fair, or rather, more entertaining, we get to choose who you go for."
Lando groaned, rubbing a hand over his face, his curly hair flopping forward. "You lot are absolute wankers. Why do I even hang out with you? Fine, but if it's some dodgy old geezer or someone who looks like they'd rather slap me than snog me, I'm calling it off."
Alex, scanned the room methodically, his eyes narrowing as he assessed the patrons. The bar wasn't heaving, mostly well dressed locals chatting in hushed tones, a few tourists nursing overpriced cocktails. His gaze settled on a figure leaning casually against the far wall, partially obscured by shadows. The man was tall and lean, with neatly styled blond hair that caught the light, sharp features, and an air of effortless sophistication in his crisp shirt and tailored trousers. He sipped what appeared to be a neat whisky, looking both aloof and intriguing. American.
"Him," Alex said, nodding discreetly in the blond's direction. "The one against the wall."
Lando followed Alex's line of sight, his interest piqued despite himself. The bloke was undeniably attractive, pale skin that glowed under the lights, full lips curved in a faint smile, and sharp eyes that seemed to scan the room with quiet intensity. A flutter of nerves hit Lando's stomach, but he masked it with bravado. "Alright, you bastards. Watch and learn."
He downed the rest of his beer in one swift gulp, the cool burn steadying him. Straightening his shirt, he pushed back from the table and strode across the bar with feigned confidence. His friends smirks burned into his back, but he ignored them, focusing on the blonde ahead.
Halfway there, though, chaos ensued. A hurried figure, perhaps a waiter or another patron, bumped into him from the side, hard enough to jolt Lando off balance. His freshly refilled drink sloshed wildly, most of it ending up splashed across the front of his own shirt in a cold, sticky mess.
"Shit!" Lando yelped, jumping back as the liquid soaked through the fabric, chilling his skin.
"Oh god, I'm so sorry!" The voice was warm, with an Australian lilt, and laced with genuine panic. Lando looked up, startled, into a pair of wide, brown eyes framed by long lashes. The culprit was a brunett about his own age or less, with tousled chestnut hair that fell softly over his forehead, a smattering of freckles and moles across his nose and cheeks, and a face that was boyishly handsome, sharp jawline softened by a worried expression. He was dressed simply but elegantly: a light button up shirt tucked into dark trousers, sleeves rolled up to reveal toned forearms.
The stranger was already fumbling for napkins from a nearby table, his cheeks flushing pink with embarrassment. "I wasn't watching where I was going total idiot move. Are you alright? Did I get any on you besides the shirt?"
Lando blinked, momentarily thrown off by how disarmingly attractive this bloke was. The original target, the blonde, faded from his mind entirely. "Yeah, nah, it's fine. Mostly on me, innit? No harm done."
But the brunet looked mortified, dabbing ineffectually at Lando's chest with the napkins. "Still, that's my fault. Let me help properly, come to the loo? I can at least get some water on it before it stains for good."
Lando hesitated, glancing back at his table where Max, George, and Alex were now openly grinning like Cheshire cats. The bet was still on, technically, but this felt like a detour worth taking. "Uh, sure. Why not? Lead on."
They weaved through the bar to the quiet, marble-tiled loo at the back, the door swinging shut behind them with a soft click, muffling the outside noise. It was spacious and clean, with soft lighting and a faint scent of citrus soap. The stranger, headed straight for the sink, wetting a handful of paper towels under the tap.
"Here, let me," he said, turning back to Lando with a tentative smile. He stepped close, gently pressing the damp towels to the stain on Lando's shirt. Their proximity was immediate and electric, Lando could smell his cologne, something fresh and woody, and feel the warmth radiating from his body.
Lando's heart picked up pace. "Really, it's no biggie. Accidents happen all the time in places like this."
The brunet glanced up, their eyes meeting properly for the first time. Up close, he was even more striking, those moles like constellations, lips full and inviting, and an earnestness that made Lando's stomach twist pleasantly. "Still, I feel like a right prat. Least I can do is make it right. What's your name, anyway?"
"Lando," he replied, his voice coming out huskier than intended. He leaned against the sink counter, letting the other man work, their hands brushing occasionally. "And you?"
The stranger swallowed visibly, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face before he smiled shyly. "Jack. Just... Jack."
"Jack," Lando repeated, tasting the name. It suited him, simple, yet there was something more beneath it. "Australian, yeah? What brings you to Monaco? Holiday? Work?"
Jack's blush deepened as he continued dabbing, his fingers lingering a fraction longer than necessary on Lando's chest. "Bit of both, I suppose. Family stuff, mostly. And you? You sound British, London?"
"Close enough, Bristol, originally. Here for... work." Lando kept it vague; no need to drop the bomb yet. He tilted his head, smirking. "You know, Jack, if you wanted to get your hands on me, you could've just asked. No need for the drink spilling charade."
Jack laughed, a soft, melodic sound that sent a shiver down Lando's spine. He met Lando's gaze boldly now, eyes sparkling with amusement. "Is that so? And here I thought I was being subtle. You're not exactly hard on the eyes yourself those curls are criminal."
Lando's smirk widened into a grin. "Criminal, eh? Careful, I might have to report you for flattery."
"Oh, please," Jack retorted, his voice dropping lower, more playful. He set the towels aside, but didn't step back, their bodies inches apart. "If anyone's in trouble, it's me. You've got this whole charming, cheeky vibe going on. Makes a bloke forget his manners."
They bantered like that for what felt like ages, Lando teasing about Jack's accent, Jack firing back about Lando's smile. Hands brushed arms, eyes lingered on lips, the air in the loo growing thick with tension. Jack's fingers traced the edge of Lando's collar absentmindedly, and Lando caught his wrist gently, thumb stroking the pulse point.
"You know," Lando murmured, voice gravelly, "my flat's just a short walk from here. If you fancy continuing this... conversation." Jack's breath hitched, his pupils dilating. "Yeah," he whispered, leaning in closer. "I'd like that a lot."
The taxi ride to Lando's flat was a blur of heated glances and tentative touches Jack's hand on Lando's thigh, Lando's fingers threading through Jack's hair. They barely made it through the door before crashing together, lips meeting in a fierce, desperate kiss. Lando backed Jack against the wall, hands roaming over his shirt, unbuttoning it slowly to reveal smooth, toned skin dusted with those freckles.
"You're bloody gorgeous," Lando breathed against Jack's neck, nipping lightly and eliciting a gasp. He trailed kisses down to his collarbone, hands sliding lower to grip his hips.
Jack arched into him, fingers clutching Lando's curls. "Lando, god, yes. Bedroom?"
They stumbled there, shedding clothes along the way shirts tossed aside, trousers kicked off. The bedroom overlooked the twinkling lights of the circuit, but neither noticed. Lando pushed Jack onto the bed, crawling over him, their bodies aligning perfectly. What followed was intense, passionate. Lando took his time, exploring every inch kissing freckles, teasing nipples until Jack was writhing. "So responsive," Lando murmured, hand sliding between them to stroke Jack slowly, drawing out moans. He prepped him carefully, fingers curling expertly, watching Jack's face contort in pleasure.
When Lando finally entered him, it was slow at first, building to a rhythm that had them both gasping. Jack's legs wrapped around Lando's waist, nails digging into his back.
"Harder please," Jack begged, and Lando obliged, thrusting deep, hitting that spot repeatedly. Jack came first, untouched, spilling between them with a cry. Lando didn't stop, flipping him over for another round, then riding him through two more orgasms once with Jack on top, grinding desperately, and again with Lando's hand working him in time with thrusts.
The fourth came as Lando sucked marks into Jack's neck, pounding relentlessly until Jack shattered, trembling and spent. Lando followed, collapsing beside him, both slick with sweat and utterly satisfied. Panting, Lando pulled Jack close. Oddly, Jack hadn't mentioned recognising him. Lando chalked it up to luck, too blissed to care. Best night in years, he thought, drifting off.
Morning light filtered through the curtains. Lando stirred, reaching out, feeling an empty bed. No Jack. He sat up, rubbing his eyes, wondering if he'd dreamt it. But his neck was littered with hickeys, dark and telling. He laughed, touching them.
The days following that unforgettable night slipped by in a haze of routine and focus. Lando threw himself into the rhythm of race week, early mornings at the simulator, team briefings, media obligations that dragged on forever. Practice sessions went sharply: FP1 clean, FP2 with tweaks that made the car feel alive under him, FP3 pushing limits without overstepping. He was in the zone, the memory of Jack tucked away like a secret warmth he could revisit in quiet moments. The hickeys had faded to faint shadows by mid week, hidden under high collars, and he found himself smiling stupidly at random times, wondering if Jack was thinking about him too.
Qualifying on Saturday was flawless. The Monaco circuit demanded perfection, one mistake and you were in the wall, but Lando nailed every sector. Q1, Q2, Q3: each lap better than the last, the car hooked up perfectly. When he crossed the line on his final flyer, the timing screen flashed purple across the board. Pole position. P1.
The garage erupted, Zak and Andrea pulling him into bear hugs, the mechanics cheering like mad. Over the radio, his engineer’s voice cracked with excitement: “Pole position, Lando! Bloody brilliant!” Lando whooped back, pumping his fist as he pulled into parc fermé. Starting from the front in Monaco was half the battle won.
Race day arrived with that electric buzz only the Monaco Grand Prix could deliver. The streets were alive, sun glinting off the harbour, crowds packed against the barriers, helicopters thumping overhead. Lando sat in the car on the grid, visor down, heart steady but thrumming with adrenaline. The formation lap felt eternal, he just wanted to race. Then the lights began their sequence, red, red, red, red… gone.
Lights out. And away we go.
Lando got a perfect start, holding the inside line into Sainte Devote as the field bunched behind him. Charles lunged early, trying to squeeze alongside, but Lando shut the door firmly, emerging still in the lead. From there, it was a masterclass in defence and pace management. The McLaren felt planted through the tight twists of the Swimming Pool, flying down the tunnel, braking late into the Nouvelle Chicane. Lap after lap, he built a gap. two seconds, four, six, controlling the race from the front while the strategists called perfect stops.
Behind him, battles raged: Max clawing his way up from a middling start, Charles holding station, others falling away. Lando stayed calm, conserving tyres when needed, pushing when the threat loomed. With ten laps to go, the gap was comfortable. Five laps. Three.
The final lap felt surreal, crossing the line under the chequered flag, the roar of the crowd washing over him.
“MONACO BABY!” he screamed into the radio, voice raw with emotion, fists pounding the steering wheel. “Yes! Yes! We did it! Thank you, team, fucking unbelievable!”
The cooldown lap was a blur of waving to the fans, tears pricking his eyes behind the visor. He pulled into parc fermé, leapt from the cockpit, and sprinted straight into the arms of his mechanics. They mobbed him hugs, backslaps, shouts of joy. Zak lifted him off the ground; Andrea ruffled his sweat-soaked curls. Someone sprayed a bottle of water over him, and Lando laughed, soaked and euphoric, screaming with them until his throat hurt.
Eventually, he made his way to the cool down room beneath the podium, still buzzing. Max arrived first, grinning despite finishing third. “You absolute bastard,” Max laughed, pulling Lando into a hug. “Drove like a demon out there.”
Charles followed moments later, second place secured, clapping Lando on the back. “Well done, mate. You deserved that one.” They sat together watching replays on the screen, Lando’s pole lap, his defensive masterclass, the moment he crossed the line. Banter flowed easily, and Lando just soaking it all in, the weight of victory settling warm in his chest.
Then it was time for the podium. The ceremony unfolded under brilliant sunshine. The British national anthem played first, Lando standing tall on the top step, hand over heart, the notes ringing out over the harbour. Next came the McLaren anthem, and he couldn’t stop grinning.
The presenter’s voice carried over the speakers, calm and formal: “And now, to present the trophies, His Serene Highness, the Prince of Monaco.” A figure in impeccable formal attire stepped forward to award third place to Max, a polite handshake, smiles for the cameras. Then second to Charles, the hometown hero, met with thunderous applause.
Finally, the prince turned toward the top step.
Lando had been gazing out over the crowd, still riding the high, when he looked down properly. The man climbing the steps was tall, lean, with tousled chestnut hair neatly styled for the occasion, freckles faintly visible under the sunlight, and those unmistakable honey brown eyes.
Jack.
No, not Jack.
Lando’s stomach dropped like he’d missed a braking point at 300 km/h. His heart slammed against his ribs, the champagne bottle nearly slipping from the podium because he couldn’t stop shaking.
The announcer’s voice boomed clearly: “His Serene Highness, Prince Oscar Jack Piastri of Monaco.”
The name hit Lando like a tidal wave. Oscar. The bloke he’d taken home, kissed senseless, buried himself inside again and again until they were both shaking and spent. The one who’d moaned his name, clutched at his back, come apart four separate times under his hands and mouth. The one who’d vanished before dawn without a word.
And now he was standing right in front of him, the actual Prince of Monaco, holding the winner’s trophy.
Oscar’s composure faltered for the briefest second, eyes widening almost imperceptibly, a flicker of shock mirroring Lando’s own. But he recovered swiftly, royal training kicking in, stepping forward with the trophy extended.
Their fingers brushed as Lando took it, deliberate, lingering a fraction longer than protocol demanded. Electricity shot up Lando’s arm.
“Congratulations, Lando,” Oscar said quietly, voice low enough that only Lando could hear beneath the crowd’s roar. His expression was perfectly neutral for the cameras, but his eyes held something warmer, almost amused. “Truly remarkable drive.”
Lando’s mouth went dry. He managed a hoarse, “Thank you… Your Highness,” the title feeling absurd on his tongue when he could still remember whispering filthy praise into this man’s ear nights ago.
Oscar’s lips twitched, the tiniest hint of that secret, shy smile from the bar. Then he stepped back, descending the podium with graceful poise as the photographers snapped away.
Champagne sprayed in chaotic arcs, Max dousing him first, Charles joining in, Lando shaking his bottle and retaliating until they were all drenched and laughing.
The rest of the ceremony passed in a daze for Lando. He lifted the trophy high, sprayed more champagne, grinned for the cameras, but his mind was racing. Every touch, every gasp, every moment of that night replayed in vivid detail now that he knew the truth.
The Prince of Monaco had let Lando Norris wreck him in bed and never breathed a word about who he really was. As the podium celebrations wound down and the crowd began to disperse, Lando clutched his trophy tighter, pulse still hammering.
This was far from over. He was going to find Oscar Piastri again. And this time, he wouldn’t let him disappear at dawn. The celebrations dragged on into the evening, sponsor obligations, media scrums, the usual post win whirlwind. Lando smiled for cameras, answered the same questions a dozen times, sprayed yet more champagne at the McLaren party on a yacht in the harbour. But his mind was elsewhere. Every laugh felt a little forced, every congratulatory hug a little distracted. All he could think about was honey-brown eyes and a voice saying Congratulations, Lando. Truly remarkable drive in a tone that carried far more weight than royal protocol required.
By the time he slipped away from the team party, it was well past midnight. Monaco glittered below him as he took the lift up to his apartment, the trophy sitting proudly on the kitchen counter where he’d left it. He kicked off his shoes, poured himself a glass of water, and stood at the window overlooking the circuit, still buzzing with post-race energy.
A soft knock at the door made him freeze. It was tentative, Lando set the glass down, pulse suddenly racing again, and crossed the room. He opened the door without checking the peephole.
The prince stood there.
This guy, Oscar as it seems, wasn’t the pristine, perfectly composed Prince from the podium. This Oscar wore a simple navy hoodie pulled up over his head, dark jeans, trainers, dressed to blend into the night. The hood cast shadows over his face, but there was no mistaking the freckles, the cautious curve of his mouth, or the way he shifted his weight like he wasn’t entirely sure he should be here.
“Hi,” Oscar said quietly, Australian accent soft in the hallway silence.
Lando stared for a beat too long. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Oscar winced. “I can leave if–”
“No.” Lando reached out, fingers curling around Oscar’s wrist, tugging him inside before anyone in the building could spot him. He shut the door firmly and leaned back against it, folding his arms. “Oscar Jack Piastri. Prince of bloody Monaco. Care to explain why you ghosted me after the best shag of my life and then handed me a trophy like we’d never met?”
Oscar pulled the hood down, running a hand through his hair, the same nervous gesture Lando remembered from the bathroom mirror that night. He looked younger like this, less untouchable.
“I didn’t plan any of it,” he started, voice low. “I wasn’t supposed to be out that night. I just… needed a break. From the palace, the security detail, the constant watching. So I slipped out alone. Told them I had a headache.”
Lando arched a brow. “And you picked the one bar where half the F1 grid hangs out?”
Oscar huffed a small laugh. “Irony’s a bitch, isn’t it? I saw you across the room, laughing with your mates, and I thought… well, I thought you looked like someone who wouldn’t care who I was. Then you walked straight toward someone else, and I panicked and turned too fast and–” He gestured vaguely. “Spilled my drink all over you like an idiot.”
Lando couldn’t help the grin tugging at his lips. “Smooth, Your Highness.”
Oscar rolled his eyes, but there was fondness in it. “I gave you a fake name because if I’d said Oscar Piastri, you’d have known immediately. Everyone here does. I just wanted… one normal night. One night where I wasn’t the prince. Where someone looked at me like I was just a bloke they fancied.”
Lando pushed off the door, stepping closer. “And then you left before I woke up.”
Oscar’s gaze dropped to the floor. “I regretted that the second I walked out. But my security would’ve noticed I was gone too long. And I thought… maybe it was better if it stayed one night. No complications.”
“Complications,” Lando echoed, voice softening. He reached out, tipping Oscar’s chin up gently so their eyes met. “I made you come four times, begged me to stay inside you the last round, and then vanished. You said things that not even “casual relationships” said to each other. That’s not ‘no complications’, mate.”
A flush crept up Oscar’s neck, dark and delicious. “I know.” His voice was barely above a whisper. “I’ve thought about it every day since. About you.” he whispered. “And don't call me mate”
The air between them crackled again, just like in the bar, just like in this very flat days ago. Lando’s thumb brushed Oscar’s jaw. “You came here tonight to apologise?”
“Partly,” Oscar admitted. “Mostly… I wanted to see you again. Properly. Without running away at dawn.”
Lando’s heart did something complicated. He leaned in until their foreheads almost touched. “You’re wearing a hoodie like you’re sneaking out of your own country. Anyone see you come up?”
Oscar shook his head. “Max verstappen gave me your address, nice bloke by the way” Traitor. He hesitated, then added, softer, “I can leave if you want me to. If this is too weird now that you know–”
Lando silenced him with a kiss.
It wasn’t rushed like the first time. This one was slow, deliberate, Lando cradling Oscar’s face, tasting surprise and then relief as Oscar melted into it, hands fisting in Lando’s shirt. When they broke apart, both breathing harder, Lando rested his forehead against Oscar’s.
“Stay,” Lando said simply. “No disappearing this time.”
Oscar’s smile was small but radiant. “I’d like that.”
Lando took his hand, leading him toward the bedroom, the same one where everything had happened before. This time, though, they undressed each other slowly, reverently. No urgency, just exploration and quiet murmurs.
“You’re still gorgeous,” Lando whispered against Oscar’s collarbone, kissing each freckle like he was mapping them. “Even more now I know you’re secretly royalty.”
Oscar laughed breathlessly, arching as Lando’s mouth travelled lower. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re staying till morning,” Lando reminded him, voice firm but warm. “I want to wake up with you. Make you breakfast, make you mine with the morning sun. Properly.”
Oscar pulled him down into another kiss, legs wrapping around Lando’s waist. “Then you’d better make it worth my while, Norris.”
They took their time, slow, deep, intense in a different way. Lando mapped every sound Oscar made, every shiver, committing them to memory without the haze of anonymity. When Oscar came undone beneath him again, whispering Lando’s name like a prayer, Lando followed soon after, holding him close through the aftershocks.
Later, tangled in sheets with the city lights flickering through the curtains, Oscar traced idle patterns on Lando’s chest.
“So,” Lando murmured, pressing a kiss to Oscar’s temple, “does this mean I get to call you ‘Your Highness’ in bed now?”
Oscar groaned, burying his face in Lando’s neck. “Absolutely not.”
Lando chuckled, tightening his arms around him. “We’ll negotiate.”
Outside, Monaco slept. Inside, for the first time in days, both of them did too, wrapped around each other, no dawn escape planned.
Whatever came next, the complications, the secrecy, the world outside, could wait until morning.
For now, they had this.