𝐀 𝐬𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐥 𝐭𝐨 𝐈𝐒 𝐈𝐓 𝐂𝐀𝐒𝐔𝐀𝐋 𝐍𝐎𝐖? ❝ It was too much, and still not enough. And underneath it all, I could feel the edge of something. Like we were tipping just slightly off-balance, chasing each other into something we couldn't quite control. ❞ ╰*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧╮ | oscar piastri x lando norris | | there's some lestappen too | | follows the 2024 f1 season | | CW: themes of mental health |

𝚰𝐒 𝚰𝐓 𝐂𝐀𝐒𝐔𝐀𝐋 𝐍𝐎𝐖? ❝ I don't have the right to cry... ❞ ❝ Of course you do. ❞ ❝ ...After what I did to you? ❞ ╰*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧╮ | oscar piastri x lando norris | | storm chaser x the storm | | hurt/comfort but they're both the ones doing the hurting | | follows the 2023 f1 season |

𝘖𝘯𝘦 𝘵𝘦𝘢𝘮. 𝘛𝘸𝘰 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘮𝘶𝘭𝘢 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘥𝘳𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘴. 𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘨𝘰𝘢𝘭 : 𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘥 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘤𝘵𝘰𝘳'𝘴 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘮𝘱𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘱. 𝘞𝘦𝘭𝘭, 𝘪𝘧 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘪𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘺. 𝘔𝘢𝘹 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘊𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘭𝘦𝘴 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘩 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭𝘴 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳. 𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘱 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘴𝘦. 𝘍𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘶𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘺, 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘢𝘨𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘪𝘵 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘬 𝘰𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘣𝘰𝘵𝘩 𝘫𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘮𝘶𝘭𝘢 1 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘥. 𝘈𝘷𝘰𝘪𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘳 𝘴𝘪𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘰𝘭𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳'𝘴 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘺𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴. 𝘛𝘩𝘢𝘵'𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘢𝘵 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘵...𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘶𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘦𝘢𝘮𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘴. 𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘴.

One night. That's all it was supposed to be. But Lando is not okay - and Oscar sees too much. Now they're tangled in something. Something unexpected. Or short: another landoscar story

They hate eachother. "From deep hatred to fierce desire, their rivalry transformed into a love that burned brighter than their conflicts." Describtion generated by ai becouse theres no way describing this story. Its chaos. An enemies ENEMIES to lovers fanfic. Including every single tag, trope whatever you think of. Literally.

Some memories disappear. Others wait. What's left between them is silence, careful distance and memories that hurt too much to touch. Can love be rebuilt when only one heart remembers? - amnesia trope - slow burn

𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐂𝐋𝐀𝐈𝐌𝐄𝐑 : This story is inspired by the rivals-to-lovers dynamic of 'Heated Rivalry' by Rachel Reid and adapted into an original story set in the f1 world. - "𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘰 𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵. 𝘓𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘢 𝘨𝘪𝘳𝘭" "𝘖𝘩 𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬 𝘺𝘰𝘶" "𝘏𝘰𝘱𝘦𝘧𝘶𝘭𝘭𝘺", 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘶𝘵𝘤𝘩 𝘢𝘯𝘴𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥, 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘮𝘪𝘳𝘬 𝘸𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨. ⏾⋆˚⟡₊⊹⭒

Max Verstappen isn't a hero. At least, that's what he keeps telling himself. He's just-trying. Too trying. The kind of trying that makes your palms sweat when you lift a grocery box, that makes your chest tighten as the world moves too fast around you. When he steps outside, the streets should've just been another blur, another student hustling, another afternoon slipping by. But then he sees him-someone balancing paper bags with careful hands, oversized hoodie sleeves dragging past his wrists, eyes darting nervously at the crowd. George doesn't mean to stand out. But he does. They collide in the simplest of ways, a spilled bag, a shared glance, a wordless chaos that somehow feels like it could settle into something steady. Max doesn't know why he keeps reaching for the fallen groceries, why he can't look away. George tilts a small smile in his direction, awkward, hesitant, but entirely his own. And for the first time that day, Max pauses-not because he has to, but because he wants to. He shouldn't feel anything. Not this flutter of surprise when George hands him a neatly folded note. Not this quiet curiosity that tugs him toward someone who barely says a word but says everything anyway. "Thank you," the note says one day. And somehow, Max reads it, and it echoes louder than any noise around them. George fidgets with a small board, scribbles something, spins it toward Max. The words are careful, deliberate, tiny moments of trust wrapped in marker ink. Max grins. And George grins back. Between hurried errands, scattered groceries, and moments that teeter on awkwardly sweet, Max begins to see patterns-of care, of thoughtfulness, of someone who notices him just as much as he notices them. And maybe-just maybe-he's learning how to pay attention, how to stay present, how to see someone fully for the first time. Because this time, when George stretches out a hand, Max doesn't hesitate.

⚠️ Mature Completed Story 18+ ✓ | This fic is set in 2030 Max Verstappen never expected to spend retirement surrounded by glitter glue, pancake disasters, and a five-year-old who thinks "overtaking" applies to bedtime. But here he is, an eight-time world champion turned grumpy dad haunting the karting tracks of his youth, wearing a hoodie of nostalgia and a frown that says please don't ask for an autograph. He's not here for closure. He's here because his daughter likes speed and because standing on the trackside hurts a little less than staying home alone with his regrets. Charles Leclerc didn't dream of coaching kindergarteners with oversized helmets and sugar highs. But a crash stole his career, and this karting track the fumes, the flags, the occasional crying parent is all he's got left. He smiles like it doesn't ache and teaches like he doesn't miss the rush. It's not the future he imagined, but it's something. They weren't best friends. Rivals? Sure. Occasional podium eye contact? Absolutely. But nothing ever happened, at least, not when it mattered. Now they're thirty-three, washed in nostalgia and worn down by everything unsaid. But when Max's hoodie ends up on Charles, when Lilly calls him her "other dad," when burnt toast becomes breakfast and stolen glances linger too long, maybe it's not about racing anymore. Maybe it's about healing. About family. About bad coffee and slow mornings and one last shot at something they never let themselves want. Maybe love doesn't roar at 200mph. Maybe, this time, it tiptoes in through the kitchen door. ~~~ I grew up on F1 but don't expect realism. Expect mess. Bad decisions. Vibes over plot. I have no idea how this happened. One second, I'm vibing. Next, I'm writing a Max/Charles fic with sad dad energy, karting trauma, and chaotic Carlando lurking in the background like gremlins.

Lando Norris isn't dying. That's what he keeps telling himself. He's just-tired. Too tired. The kind of tired that makes your hands tremble when you paint, that makes your world fade to white under fluorescent light. When he collapses in the middle of the street, it should've just been another headline: Campus art boy passes out, again. But that day, someone caught him-literally. A photography major with shaking hands and a camera still strapped to his neck. Oscar Piastri didn't mean to care. But he did. They meet again, the sunlight from the tall panes framed him in soft gold-Lando slumped over a desk, heartbeat uneven, breath too shallow. Oscar's voice cuts through the silence. "Sleep well." And somehow, Lando listens. He shouldn't feel anything. Not this warmth blooming in his chest. Not this quiet safety whenever Oscar looks at him like he's not fragile. "Why do you keep helping me?" Lando asks one day, voice cracking between guilt and hope. Oscar shrugs, eyes soft. "Because you keep falling." Then there's George-best friend, chaos incarnate-who would fight the whole hospital if he could. Feeling Max's quiet stare on him, George yanks Lando up to use him as a shield. "What?! You wanna fight, huh?!" His little fists tremble inside his cardigan sleeves. Max doesn't even blink. "Try me," the doctor deadpans, flipping a chart. Between sleepless nights, half-drunk cups of coffee, and the hum of a heart that beats too fast for its own good, Lando begins to draw again. And maybe-just maybe-he's learning how to live again, too. Because this time, when Oscar offers his hand, Lando doesn't pull away. a slow heartbeat turning into melody. a story about falling, again and again, and choosing to stay.