pumpk1n-h34d
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I may in fact be hyperfixating
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Perfection is a construct. Everything, regardless of how perfect, has flaws. The most skillful jewelry smith will always find that their craft is insufficient in the eyes of progress, technology, change. Something perfect a day ago becomes obvious and standard in hindsight. The bar only becomes raised and surpassed, and raised again.
George Russell was nothing if not heavily acquainted with the miserable mistress of perfection. She was a silver beast, made of armor that shone bright and polished, wielding her relentless bow of divine precision. Her arrows were not just the precious sturdy metal she carried in her quiver, (amongst the countless priceless weapons any dealer would kill to get their hands on) but the soldiers who championed her values. Her arrows. Orderly, strategic, composed. He embodied every facet, he’d like to think.
And he gladly gave his mind and soul to the place. As if destined for it. Every single little task that was presented to him, every trial, every bitter lecture, it all led to this. Breaking himself over and over to rebuild to perfection. To fit the mold of his mistress. The Idol Mercedes. Iron Empress. Who he decided would be his idol from a young age, as sure as a prophecy. He didn’t need a soothsayer to dictate his future. He knew where he was going, oracles be damned, he would craft it from an iron will, in spite of the place this world had put him in.
Or else– what else? What was it all for? He had done the work. He had done it all.
Russell the idol demands proof of your faith, go to the highlands and bring back a silver beast.
Russell the idol demands a test of bravery, give yourself to the people of Silverstone. Protect them from the shadows of the black stallion.
Russell the house demands a test of your loyalty, you will spend three cycles with the house of Williams until the time comes to–
“Russell!”
“Russell!!”
His eyes snapped open as hands tugged at his sleeve. The cool mist of the morning air greeted him, as did the small one. Antonelli smiled up at him. George had been resting on a stone pillar, center of a crop circle, and Antonelli was rather– short, so he had to look up quite a lot. Even when Russell wasn’t settled at least five feet up in the air.
George couldn’t help but feel a small sense of endearment as he returned the smile. Brows knit with a small bit of confusion. “Nelli, when did you get here?” he asked gently. It unnerved him that he had been caught off guard, but Antonelli was a light stepper. Which likely would imply he’d be a great hunter once he was a little older- gosh, he was a young kid, wasn't he?
Well- technically old enough to enlist in a war if he wanted but, far younger than George when he first became a champion of any house. Much less the house of Mercedes.
He did his best to do right by the boy.
“I wanted to find you! There’s a herd of beasts by the farms up north of here. The workers said that they’re concerned about the machinas grazing in fields of the cattle. They’d like if we help! So I told them I’d come get you.”
Machinas, the metal beasts that roamed the land. Once spirits, fae, demons, disembodied things which possessed or were otherwise forcibly captured by metal containers imbued with magic.
The idea was that these spirits would work in harmony with the components which needed magic as fuel, and in return, hand the spirits a body to manipulate. Powering them essentially.
It was used as a weapon in the ancient house wars, but then turned into forms of transportation, entertainment even. But as the novelty wore off, they turned feral with abandonment and resentment.
Now they were a nuisance when left unchecked. But for the most part they've grown about as harmless as any wild animal, minus the body of metal and magical properties of course.
George chuckled a bit, ruffling the kids' hair. “You likely could have dealt with them yourself, you know,” he remarked.
Antonelli glanced away with a sheepish grin. “Hm, well, I’d like more instruction. If you’re not busy!” He waved his hands nervously.
“No, no, not at all, big brother to the rescue.” George dismissed his worries, or tried to. “Let's find these old gals, shall we?” The wind hummed to life as he picked up a draft, a luminescent glow not unlike an aurora borealis of aquamarine light which gently lent to his descent next to Kimi. Who perked up, elated at the demonstration of casual power.
“What were you doing anyway?” Kimi asked as they began to venture off.
“See these gaps in the wheat? They’re clean aren't they? Circular. And the pillars,” he pointed to the crumbling stone. Peaks of others like it just appear over the top of the wheat field. “This place was once something sacred. I reckon from above, the wheat grows in a natural rune formation.”
Kimi nodded attentively.
“So it’s best for meditation, sharpens the mind.” He elaborated.
Kimi, predictably, giggled. “You were napping,” the boy returned skeptically with a grin.
“I was not! I was communing with the idol.” He feigned indignity, cracking the smallest of smiles.
“I think you were snoring.” Kimi lied. Eyes to the sky as he prodded his chin.
“Shame on you Kimi, white lies will weigh heavy on your soul if you continue.” George somberly predicted. "The abbots themselves could not cleanse you."
Kimi furrowed his brow, “I do not lie.” He lied. It was an innocent thing really, and frankly meaningless when the House of Mercedes prided itself on bearing truth. Any well experienced soldier with enough practical training could see right through deciet. But George did not need to read Kimi's soul when the boy wore his heart on his sleeve.
He snorted, placing a hand on the young one's back and lightly pushed him forward.
“You’d make an awful spy Kimi. I pray they never send you on political endeavors.” He assessed, crossing his arms as the boy laughed once more, glancing again at George with a light-hearted expression that only seemed to prove the point. There was something in Kimi that George may have thought of as a brother, a gentle but energetic nature that still seemed to love the world. It was shadowed by the disturbing knowledge that one day, Antonelli would be sent to rupture empires.
The birds sang and the wind rustled as Antonelli ran ahead, carving their way towards a clearing with silvery streaks of light. At the very end, the polished antlers of elk swung up, startled, but then relaxed at the sight of the two soldiers.
Though maybe they had once really been the spirit of elk, or deer, or some other majestic woodland creature, they were now machine, metal beasts tamed long ago. They were actually quite sweet. George had a fondness for the graceful beasts.
Kimi ran to his first, reaching from his coat pocket for berries to feed the elk-like thing. It tilted its head, peaking antlers swaying as Kimi nudged his face back to avoid the sharpened points. He cooed over the creature as it nibbled from the berries at his palms.
George looked to his beast. It glanced back inquisitively as if to ask "What have you brought me?" Its large antlers weighed heavy with an assortment of foliage caught in them. Signs that it had been wandering long before it ventured to meet them. With an apprehensive sigh, George cleared away the moss that tangled the elk machina’s thorns. No berries for it. None from George, at least. But he would wipe the metal clean with a sway of his hands, and a gentle sweep of wind that resonated with a subtle hum. The Elk reciprocated the song, bowing its head ever so slightly as if to allow the air to cleanse it.
Not a speck of dust remained.
Antonelli had fallen silent behind him, and George could sense what the other was thinking.
“Appearance is important to maintain. It is how we show the world we are healthy, how we are strong. Perfection is an illusion, but one we must keep up to hold the trust of the people we are meant to protect. Understand?” He spared the slightest of glances back to the boy as he saddled up on the bowed creature.
Kimi dropped the rest of the berries, about to wipe his hand on his house issued coat before thinking better, he reached for a handkerchief in his pocket and wiped the reddish violet color away before performing the same ritual over the machina. Which brayed in slight protest.
When they both mounted, ready to set off, there was a moment of quiet. The way there usually was when Russell was serious, and Antonelli was looking at him to lead. But then, Kimi posed a question. “Did the Idol… did she reply?”
A beat.
“Of course.” He smiled as he lied and Kimi could not see through him. Not yet. Instead he stared with awe, as if Mercedes did not smile on his soul, as if the spirit of the idol did not light Antonelli aflame with the halo of a saint every time George glanced back. As if the boy was not destined to be a weapon by soothsayers and oracles, prophesied on par with that monster from the east.
Perfection. It was always a lie.
“Lead the way this time, Kimi,” Russell appointed. The boy grinned, saluting as he tugged the reins of the younger elk with a hand to charge forth. Russell gave the boy a few seconds' start, eyes wandering back to the fields.
For a moment, he thought he caught the flicker of silver amongst the golden grain. When he was sure it was a trick of the light, (for his eyes were not used to deception), he lifted the reins of his beast and ventured after the boy.
#formula 1#f1 drivers#f1 fanfic#formula 1 fic#f1 au#george russell#gr63 fic#ka12 fic#the brothers to ever brother#formula 1 au#fantasy au#Spotify
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Hello, just a small writing spell for fun. I've been obsessed with the idea of F1 in a Song of Achilles type world- not quite Greek mythology, but in some sort of alternate universe of gods and heroes. Not organized at all but I hope you enjoy a little lighthearted scenario with the McLaren boys.
Oscar hung about the fountains quite a lot. He didn't enjoy the stuffiness of the temples. The heat of summer and jungle always meant he was looking for some small relief. White marble and quartz had led him to the pools surrounding the temple grounds.
Technically, you couldn't swim in them, too ornate or whatever, despite their pond-like appearance.
He stared longingly at cool aquamarine, the stones polished and arranged in intricate patterns of celestial bodies. He gingerly drew a finger across the top of the fountain.
“Being moody again are we?”
Oscar could see the impish smile in his minds eye before he even turned around.
“I'm not-” He huffed in half-hearted defence. “Shouldn't you be training?” he furrowed a brow. Eyes meeting with the man who found him.
McLaren's golden boy. Full of talent, full of spirit, but easily distracted —and distracting in nature.
Oscar found his eyes wandering over to Lando far more than he'd preferred.
“Shouldn't you be joining me?” Lando shot back. He crossed his arms, analyzing Oscar as he approached to his side. He glanced at the pool.
“You know I always wondered what the deal with these was,” he frowned. “Why do we have this?"
“It's meant to cool the surrounding palace- since the forest was cut down, there's no natural way of keeping the temples cold so they had to invent means. In the past, it used to contain an ecosystem of fish and aquatic plants to filter it out- and it connected to a canal that drew from-”
He paused when he realized Lando's eyes had glazed over. Oscar sighed. “It's for the heat,” he simplified.
Lando's face scrunched, “there used to be fish?” He muttered with such animosity, Oscar had to huff out a small chuckle at the ridiculous nature of it all. “Yes, they got rid of them all for you- you didn't know?” He probed gently.
"Nah, had no clue. That's nice of them." Lando absently thought, more interested in the marble statues erected a couple meters out towards the center of the pools.
Really it was rather incredible that the house of McLaren was so attuned to Lando's needs like this. But he supposed Lando was meant to be their prodigy, their savior, their golden vessel.
But Oscar couldn't help but see a small strand of fragility- a sensitivity that required certain work to keep him focused.
Oscar wasn't a stranger to the whispers, the wind sung rumors from common folk about Lando and his particular needs. Oscar wasn't too fond of the rumors, it wasn't that Lando was weak. He needed fine tuning, and all the care that went with it. An instrument of chaos and performance that could only be drawn out with proper, careful, pressure.
When properly aligned, Lando was a hurricane. Wild and raw power. Reminiscent of the old legends, a shadow of Mclaren's favorite victor.
Oscar was smart enough to be weary of the man. He did not have what others might call, ‘raw potential’, rather a careful nature that drew from precision. From cleverness. From exploiting weakness. Snatching opportunity from under unsteady feet.
‘I've told you my history. My place. I hope you'll understand why I tell you to be careful in how much you trust your partner. How much you trust your idols.’
Lando could be unsteady.
But, the sharp and angular features that might have defined Oscar somehow softened as he sat on this fountain ledge he called his. As Lando joined him, with inquisitive eyes that held the entirety of a turbulent sky.
“What is it?”
He registered Lando ask- and took pause. Glancing back at the distant tree line. “What do you mean?” he mumbled.
Lando was sensitive yes- but what most didn't realize was how easy it was for him to perceive others. Perceive him. Sensitive to emotions, thoughts, and he had a way of digging into your personal life. Drawing out a smile best he could. Thank the idols that was all he did with such a skill.
“You've got that look, moody- I told you. What's on your mind? Tell me.” he prodded, voice gentle. Warm. Prying.
Oscar felt a small ache.
He had learned from a young age to stay reserved. He had been an outsider everywhere he went and it had never been worth the shedding of his emotions. But Lando was insistent. And Oscar- for all his rational competitiveness- really just wanted a friend.
“Ah well I was debating taking a swim,” he tried to crack a smile. It felt forced, it always felt forced when he tried to crack jokes. He wasn't as fluent in humor the way Lando could be. He wasn't made to be pleasing.
Lando studied him, quiet for a moment. He almost appeared disappointed, but he glanced at the fountain. The glittering diamond water and carefully placed ceramic tiles. He then looked back at Oscar with a faint raise of a smirk, brows knitting into a subtle look of mischief. “Well,”
“No, Lando n-”
It was far too late, amber light manifested like a gust of wind, pushing him off his feet and into the fountain. Which thankfully was relatively deep enough to not hurt. Still it didn’t stop Oscar from taking a swallow full of water. He bursted up to the surface with a hacking cough. “You are just a bloody delight, fucking hell” Oscar cursed out. But before he could shoot Lando a glare, the other leapt into the fountain with a splash that threatened to drown Oscar again.
He sputtered up more water, shoving a petty wave Lando’s ways as the other swam up to meet him, laughing all the while. “What!? You said you wanted a swim, here you go! GAH!” He kept laughing through it as Oscar continued his vengeful water assault. Water aglow with a reddish orange chroma as vibrant as sunset.
“Hey hey, what’s this? What happened to using gifts responsibly?” Lando egged on as he raised his arms to block. “I’ll use my gifts responsibly when you start acting responsibly,” He shouted back through the fits of laughter and splashes of water. “You look like a wet cat right now- WAIT HEY” Oscar had flitted a thin burst of water like a spear at Lando. It disrupted harmlessly on impact. He grinned. Lando blinked and broke into a smile. “There you are. Come on, let's spar.”
Oscar huffed despite knowing well he was willing.
And for a moment, from afar, they might have looked like twin flames. Friends even. The weight of Idols and faith did not reach them here, where they danced with the crystal water and flashes of sunlight.
#formula one#landoscar#f1 fanfic#op81 fic#ln4 fic#mclaren f1#oscar piastri fanfic#lando norris fanfic#Spotify
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