#magnet factory

[sinceileftyoublog]

Pylon Reenactment Society Interview: Different, But Related Beast

Photo by Christy Bush

BY JORDAN MAINZER

Up until now, it still feels like we've been slowly closing the book on Pylon. Since initially disbanding in 1983, the Athens, GA post-punk band reunited and broke up many times, coming out of retirement for the final time in 2004 for a show. A few years later, in 2007, lead singer Vanessa Briscoe Hay and guitarist Randy Bewley, along with other staples of the Athens music scene, joined supergroup Supercluster. Pylon technically ended with Bewley's tragic death of a heart attack in 2009, but for the next decade-plus, they kept getting their critical flowers as post-punk influences increasingly infiltrated independent music. 2020 saw the release of the excellent Pylon Box (New West), which consisted of remasters of the Athens, GA post-punk band's first two albums, a collection of singles and alternate mixes, a previously unreleased recording of a band practice, and an accompanying essay and book telling the band's story. So that's it, right?

Sort of. Maybe on Friday.

It might have been, if not for Pylon Reenactment Society. Initially formed in 2014 as a one-off entity for Art Rock Athens, PRS--featuring Casper & the Cookies guitarist and Hay's fellow Supercluster member Jason NeSmith--continued to play shows, release Pylon covers, and even share a few original songs over the years. Now, Hay, NeSmith, bassist Kay Stanton, and drummer Gregory Sanders are set to drop the first PRS album, Magnet Factory, Friday via Strolling Bones. Almost as a way to bridge the gap between Pylon and Pylon Reenactment Society, the album features two songs that Pylon wrote and played live many times, but never recorded. Even better, its nine original songs combine the best aspects of Pylon--sharp guitars, slinky bass, steady, yet forceful four-on-the-floor drums, Hay's oft-dadaist poetry--with a newfound appetite for more varied song structures and moods. The first song PRS released for Magnet Factory was one of those aforementioned Pylon-penned tunes (credited to all four original members--Hay, Bewley, bassist Michael Lachowski, and drummer Curtis Crowe--as the band was famously democratic in process). "3x3" builds up with a thudding kick drum and arpeggiated lead guitar line, as Hay yelps a party-like to-do list of buying beer and playing music, breathlessly honoring the most ordinary of activities. But if you put the needle down or press play on Magnet Factory, the first song you'll hear, "Spiral", gradually arises, flickering with wiry guitars, a much more subdued sound from a band that never really was so. The diversity differentiates PRS from Pylon.

Yes, there are plenty of throwbacks on Magnet Factory. "Heaven (In Your Eyes)" is another Pylon-penned original, pre-dating their first album Gyrate, featuring a screamed chorus, courtesy of Hay's mighty gravel chucker of a voice. "Fix It" is, amazingly, Hay's first recorded collaboration with Kate Pierson of The B-52s, a band to which Pylon has forever been linked in the cultural consciousness of Athens. And "Flowers Everywhere" juxtaposes speedy disco drum fills with tremolo guitars, Hay mixing singing and spoken word about the innate self-worth of people, showcasing her longstanding ability to write anthems out of simple lyrics as much as exude pearls of stream-of-consciousness wisdom. But the standouts on Magnet Factory would have been outliers on Pylon albums, from "Spiral" to the album's equally deliberate closer "I'll Let You Know". Best, in an act of affection-as-resistance, Hay's first gutturally screamed words don't come until 1/3 of the way through the album, and they come with a declaration of devotion. On the militaristic march "Messenger", she sings, "No one wants to fight," before belting, "Sending love to you!" It's a look to the listener, her bandmates, the world, and one of the most exhilarating recorded moments of her career.

Around the new year, I spoke with Hay and NeSmith over Zoom, calling from their respective homes in Athens. At the time, the band was practicing for a few shows later in January in California, though they didn't have any actual tours planned, and still haven't revealed any tour dates. "It's difficult to tour financially for independent artists like us," Hay said. Thankfully, fans can get a taste of at least PRS' live presence with the videos for "3x3" and "Flowers Everywhere", which films the four band members on stage. "A video is a way to share art with the world," Hay continued. Still, PRS is playing an album release show at Hendershot's in Athens with Organically Programmed Orchestra, and they're slated to play SXSW in Austin in March. "I'm excited to get this band in front of people who have or have not seen that we're a different, but related beast from Pylon," said NeSmith.

Below, read my conversation with Hay and NeSmith, edited for length and clarity. We spoke about many of the songs on Magnet Factory, the history of the Athens scene, and playing live.

Since I Left You: You've taken the time to contextualize Pylon Reenactment Society: It's not Pylon, though it has Pylon in the name. The band has been around now for 10 years. Is it hard for fans to differentiate between the two? Are there people who have come to see Pylon Reenactment Society who don't know about Pylon?

Vanessa Briscoe Hay: It's a bit of both. Every new generation that comes up discovers music. To the younger folks, we're a new band. They may have heard of us or seen us in [Tony Gayton's 1986 documentary] Athens, GA: Inside/Out, or saw the [Athens, GA Inside/Out 2: Red Turns Blue] movie we were in, or saw the Pylon box set Jason and I worked on along with Henry Owings and Michael Lachowski that came out in 2020. When we go play shows in other areas of the country, our audience may have a group of [20-]year- olds, and there will be another group that are older, in their 30's, 40's, 50's, 60's, and even a few 70-year-olds who were around when Pylon first got together back in 1979. I think we're a multi-generational band with a multi-generational audience.

SILY: There's a lot of contemporary music that, to my years, is very influenced by Pylon, the Athens scene, or post punk in general. So when people hear a Pylon record or hear Pylon Reenactment Society live, it seems fresh and relevant.

Jason NeSmith: I agree with you there. The Pylon records from the 80's still sound pretty fresh and relevant. If they remained unreleased until this year, they'd sound current to me. I guess that's partially a blessing of them not getting overexposed back in 1980-1983 the way they might have. They weren't overplayed the way you might think of U2, another one of those bands tagged early on as post-punk but who are now part of the landscape. They had a Joy Division influence, too, but they're an arena band. The way that Pylon seemed to put their material together was so sui generis, a genre of one. You might hear reverberations of the time period, but nothing that sounds so much like something you already know too well. People are still influenced by that era and that sound, and these particular sounds are still relevant. It's great, and we're happy to add to that feeling with the new material.

SILY: Pylon Reenactment Society has released some recorded material, but Magnet Factory is your debut album. "3x3" definitely seems like the perfect segue from one chapter to the next because it was a Pylon song not recorded until now. How does "3x3" fit as a Pylon Reenactment Society song?

JN: I love performing Pylon's released material in a live context. It's so much fun. We did do a covers EP, which was kind of by accident. We clearly don't want to be known as a strict covers band. We already planned a long time ago on writing new material and have done it a lot already. The pandemic interrupted things, as it tended to do. We weren't going to cover existing Pylon material for our debut record--that would just be ridiculous. But it absolutely made sense for us to pick up on where Pylon had not completed something. They played "3x3" for years at dozens of shows. It was one of Randy's favorite songs, and Vanessa brought it up a lot to us. When we were thinking about what could possibly go on the debut record, a lot of things were floated, and it was one we all thought was appropriate. It's so elemental. It's such an indestructible song. There was no chance we were gonna mess it up, so we went for it. [laughs]

SILY: When I was listening to "it"3x3" for the first time, it immediately had that classic creation of tension from he words Vanessa is singing, sort of mundane things like buying beer and playing music at a party. When I watched the video, the vibe was so much more celebratory and cathartic. Do you think the song straddles those two lines or exists as both tense and celebratory at the same time?

VBH: I think it is tense and celebratory, celebratory just from the sound. There's something about the sound of the instruments, and maybe what I'm singing. The overall sound is very joyous. It's something easily tapped into by people who like to dance and go to shows. It's a lot of fun to perform live. Before Randy passed away, I kept saying, "We need to go into the studio and record the song." Unfortunately, he passed away before that could happen. We even though about bringing in Michael and Curtis and getting Jason to play. But this is so much better. It's a bridge between then and now. Like Jason's saying, it's hard to mess up. [laughs] But it's a lot of fun! That's the most important thing.

JN: It's almost like a Stooges song. "I Wanna Be Your Dog" is two chords, though "3x3" is three chords. It's got that more...you know what, I'm done talking about that song. [laughs] That's how elemental it is. It describes itself.

VBH: Yeah, you don't wanna start picking things apart too much. You lose a little bit of the magical feeling of just listening to it. People should just listen to it and make up their own minds.

SILY: The record is bookended by two songs that, were you familiar with Pylon, have sounds, tempos, or moods you might not expect. "Spiral" is subdued, and "I'll Let You Know" ends the album a bit more gently. Was that an intentional decision?

VBH: I came up with an unspoken theme for the album, and Jason helped me decide how to put the songs in the order to get there, but I was thinking about a French movie about the seven ages of woman, [1960's Love and the Frenchwoman], and human beings and the process they go through, starting with before you're born and [ending with death]. But I'm not promoting the lifespan of a human as the frame for the album, and maybe I shouldn't be talking about it here because people might start reading too many things into it. But it's nice to have an idea to wrap something around.

JN: I saw it as an organizing principle as much as a theme. [This] way to organize the material necessitated bookending the record with sounds a little bit outside of the palette that Pylon used. That's where you might hear some things poking through from the individual players: the way Kay plays bass, the way Gregory plays drums or adds other sonic textures. The new elements that they introduce and that I introduce. It sounds more at peace with the past because Vanessa's voice is familiar and still strong, but it's a whole new mood.

VBH: Do you want people as they're making music to stay stagnant? [We don't want] people [to] say, "They sound exactly like they did in 1981. They really are just a cover band with no new ideas." People change and grow, and I've learned and changed and grown as I've worked with these particular musicians. I've worked with Kay and Jason for a long time now--we had a recording project called Supercluster that was basically a writing project. Randy was in there, too. We can't stay still or pretend to be something we're not. We've lived, we've learned, we bring part of that process to how we make our art.

SILY: One thing that seems to have stayed consistent, though, between Pylon and Pylon Reenactment Society is Vanessa's penchant for occasional moments for lyrical absurdism or mantras. When you write, do those come out of the blue? Like, "Haven't you heard about candy?" on "Boom Boom", or, "Seek facts without fear," on "No Worries"?

VBH: [laughs] It's really strange, but when I write--and this sounds kind of pretentious--I try to empty my mind and see what happens. I'll let the music suggest things and ideas to me, and these things sometimes very easily pop up and almost write themselves, on the spot, like our Christmas song "Christmas Daze", which isn't on the record. Sometimes, I'll have to work with it, and I'll write a lot of words and end up crossing them out. Sometimes, things are so awkward, we don't even record them. They don't even make it that far. A lot of the time, I feel like the blame would be on me because I was awkward and wasn't able to fully get in touch with what I wanted to do with that particular song. [On Magnet Factory,] we ended up with 9 songs that we wrote and 2 songs we arranged that were Pylon songs, and I'm really happy at this stage in my life to be able to record and put this out and to write. I never stopped writing. I write something almost every day. I'll fill pages and pages on my iPad, or a scratchpad with a lot of words, and I'll start paring them down, crossing them off, and get the words to something more universal.

SILY: None other than The B-52s' Kate Pierson features on "Fix It". With The B-52s on their farewell tour, does it feel like an end of an era in the Athens music scene?

JN: I got here in 2000, and the Athens scene had already died many deaths. [laughs] "You should have been here in '84," or, "You should have been here in '73," or, "You should have been here in '98." It's over and over again. People age out of it. There's always a new band coming that may or may not have been influenced by what came before them. It's a cliché to say there's something in the water, but the scene keeps reinventing itself. As for The B-52s, I think it's quite possible for somebody to come to town, fully take part in the scene, and not even know that "Rock Lobster" was written a mile away from where they're standing. In a way, that's really unfortunate, but in another way, it's a testament to the power of the island of misfit toys we have here that remains. In a way, that era is still here, but the players have changed.

VBH: Just like there are layers on time on top of each other here, you'll be moving down the street or past this corner that 45 years ago other kids were hanging out on, making their music. If you are sensitive, you can feel those vibrations. What's important is they existed here and created the music they created and will be part of Athens. It's the beginning of the modern music scene. We had other bands before that were very good. The B-52s changed it all.

Photo by Karen Allison

SILY: "Fix It", along with a few other songs on the record, builds up in volume and intensity and plays with tempo. "Heaven (In Your Eyes)" plays with dynamics. Vanessa, do you think this record is some of the most instrumentally dynamic music you've ever recorded?

VBH: Me personally, perhaps. Jason has a band called Casper & the Cookies that are quite well known for tempo changes and dynamics. [laughs]

JN: From my perspective, looking at Vanessa's catalog with Pylon, maybe that's true. Supercluster had some dynamics. Pylon was more in the habit of being a steady state band.

VBH: A four on the floor kind of beat.

JN: "Heaven" being an early Pylon song, the live recordings of it are also very dynamic. That's why we wanted to do it. It's tender and ferocious in turns, and we wanted to try that on. [Magnet Factory is] maybe the most dynamic Pylon-related music that's been released, but not performed.

VBH: I definitely used a lot of dynamics singing live.

JN: I wonder if Black Francis/Frank Black ever listened to Pylon, just because of the loud-quiet-loud thing. He could have gotten it from several places, but it could be because he was listening to Gyrate.

SILY: I'd be surprised if he hadn't! It seems like notable musicians from specific eras often devour the notable musicians from 10 years prior.

VBH: Perhaps he did. I know we were in the studio for our 3rd album [Chain], and Gary Smith from Fort Apache [Studios] had come down to work with us, and Black Francis called him while we were in the studio. I don't know what they were talking about. [laughs] Talkin' about somethin'.

SILY: Vanessa, it took you a few songs in on this album to scream. Vocally, you have a lot of interplay between speaking, singing, and your quintessential raspy sort-of scream. When you record or write, how often are you trying out different vocal deliveries? Or do you know how you're going to sing from the get-go?

VBH: I don't know from the get-go. Jason can tell you that. I'll try all different kinds of ways, and often, he'll be the first to suggest, "Why don't you do it like you did it last time when you were singing it higher?" They give me input about what might sound better. Playing with phrasing is a lot of the fun of being a vocalist.

SILY: Have you played all of these songs live at some point?

VBH: Not all of them. We have quite a few of them in our regular set, but we've been practicing them.

SILY: Are you planning a larger tour, and--fingers-crossed--coming to the Midwest?

VBH: I'd love to come back to the Midwest, to Chicago and maybe Ohio, Kentucky, go up through the middle of the country. We haven't set any dates yet. I know we're going to South By Southwest in March. We'll do a Northeast type of tour a little later in the year. I'm hoping we make it to the Midwest, because I really like it there.

JN: Me too. All we need is the right person to ask us. We'll be hoppin' in the van on the way up there.

VBH: We played the Barely Human Festival in Detroit in 2017 and added a Chicago date to it at the Beat Kitchen. It was February, so it was so cold. The Festival had Xeno & Oaklander and John Bender. I thought John Bender was the perfect name for what he was doing. He looked like a mad professor, like a circuit bender. He gave us business cards. There was a band called Black Marble that played after us. They were all electronic musicians except for us. [The festival] got this beautiful drum kit just for us. We went on at 2 A.M. It was great playing in Mexicantown in Detroit at El Club. It went on all night.

JN: ESG played, but we missed them.

VBH: When we played in Chicago, we played with Ovef Ow and The Baby Magic, two local punk bands.

JN: The Baby Magic were crazy! They were really good.

SILY: When you practice performing, are you adapting the songs to the stage or getting a feel for how you might like to jam them out?

VBH: There are some added sounds on the album, but when we wrote the songs, and when we recorded them, we made the decision to use these four particular people in the band, other than Kate Pierson. We wrote them in a way they could be performed live. Not to say there isn't some studio witchery going on sometimes, but you will definitely recognize the song live from the album. You're not going to be saying, "Oh, what is that?" [laughs]

JN: That is one of the things we're carrying over from Pylon: the self-contained nature of the arrangements. If the guitar part I came up with in the practice space, that I thought was going to make it all the way through the song, is now two guitars, I have to rewrite it so I can play it again live. The intention is sleek, simplified arrangements that four people can play.

SILY: Is there anything either of you have been listening to, reading, or watching that's caught your attention?

VBH: That's a good question. My mind always goes blank when I have to come up with anything. [My husband] Bob [Hay] and I watch a TV show during dinnertime. We started that during the pandemic. We made it through all the seasons of The Sopranos. Then all 20 seasons of NCIS. Both seasons of NCIS: New Orleans. Now we've moved over to Fargo. We have murder with our dinner.

I like to read a lot of different things. I'm just interested in the world. I like to know what's going on. I read a lot of articles. The last book I read I truly loved all the way through was [Jessica Handler's] The Magnetic Girl.

JN: I've been reading a bunch of music books. I'd recommend The Story of the B-52s: The Neon Side of Town by Brigette A. Herron and Scott Creney. It convincingly reframes The B-52s as a band that actually matters a great deal, which might come as a surprise to people who only know them from their hits.

Musically, my job as a mastering engineer means I listen to music as work, and I enjoy my job, but when it's time for elective music, I need things that are going to turn my brain off, so I'll listen to things like Jon Hassell, especially his record with Brian Eno, Fourth World, Vol.1: Possible Musics. I just bought Pere Ubu's Dub Housing, which I've known for a long time but just own now on vinyl. It's tremendous. And Thinking Fellers Union Local 2082. Those are kind of my favorite sounds right now. That and Earth, Wind, & Fire in the car, because it makes you feel really good.

SILY: It probably makes you a better driver.

JN: Oh yeah. It keeps you alert. You're blood pressure's going. Defensive driving!

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The Fifth Seat

Charles Leclerc x Wife!Reader

Summary... Four lucky fans win the contest of a lifetime: a chance to join the F1 grid for media week, shadowing drivers and getting the ultimate behind-the-scenes access. But what no one knows is that there's a fifth seat—a secret winner whose name never appeared on the announcement list. She’s not a fan. She’s his wife. And their entire relationship is a secret. But not for much longer. Hidden glances. Stolen moments. A marriage no one suspects—until media week turns into a pressure cooker, and secrets start to crack under the spotlight.

A/N: I don't know what I wrote. I wrote it at 2am and feeling a little delirious lol. request are open (:

I hope you guys enjoy it. Let me know what you guys think in the comments. I write for free but you can donate to support my writing over on my Ko-Fi!

Like, comment, reblog, enjoy (:

✩ ⋆ ✩ ⋆ ✩ ⋆ ✩

They called it the opportunity of a lifetime.

The Fifth Seat Experience—sponsored by Formula 1, endorsed by every team, plastered all over social media like the golden ticket to Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory. Four lucky fans, hand-picked from thousands of entries, flown in for Media Week to shadow the drivers, get exclusive access, live like insiders.

Except there were five of us.

And I wasn’t a fan.

Well. Technically, I was. Just not in the way everyone else thought.

The other four winners were bouncing in place as we waited for our credentials outside the paddock gates—talking over each other, gasping at every car that drove past, snapping selfies like they might blink and miss someone famous.

I kept my sunglasses on and my mouth mostly shut.

It wasn’t that I wasn’t excited. I was. But it’s hard to squeal over a driver when you sleep next to one every night.

"Y/N L.," the coordinator called, her lanyard outstretched. “Guest Winner #5.”

Winner. Right. Sure.

The plastic badge felt heavier than it looked as she clipped it around my neck. I could feel the name tug at my skin.

Y/N L. Like I’d never taken another last name.

I tucked the badge into my jacket, heart thudding harder than I liked. I didn’t have a plan beyond blend in and survive. No one—not the fans, not the other winners, not even the media team buzzing around us—knew the truth.

No one knew I was married to Charles Leclerc.

And if everything went smoothly this week, no one ever would.

-

They assigned each of us a driver pairing. Luck of the draw.

Callie, the girl with the Mercedes hat and long acrylics, screamed when she got Lewis. Tom practically wept when he got Max. The other two, Serena and Rachel, were with McLaren and Red Bull.

I got Alpine.

Safe. Distant. Harmless.

Not Ferrari.

Not Charles.

“Bit of a bummer, huh?” Serena said sympathetically, glancing at my badge. “Alpine’s been quiet lately.”

I shrugged. “Quiet’s kind of my thing.”

She laughed and wandered off, which suited me just fine. My heart was already crawling up my throat because I could feel him before I even saw him.

It always happened like that. Some sixth sense. Some magnetic pull.

He appeared at the edge of the garage bay—white polo, sunglasses, hair slightly messier than usual like he’d been dragging his fingers through it. He was talking to someone from the team, nodding, focused.

Until he wasn’t.

Until his head tilted just slightly and his eyes landed on me.

And stayed there.

Two seconds too long.

Three.

Four.

Then, like he remembered himself, he turned back to his conversation.

I swallowed hard.

God, he was terrible at this.

-

The rest of the day passed in a blur of team tours, media station walkthroughs, and overexcited chitchat. I smiled politely, answered questions when asked, and avoided cameras like they were fire.

But Charles kept finding me.

Not overtly. Not dramatically.

A glance as he passed in the hallway. A half-smile in the corner of the hospitality tent. Once, I could swear he deliberately lingered behind me in the lunch line just so he could whisper, “You’re torturing me.”

I didn’t turn around.

“Don’t make it obvious,” I muttered under my breath, grabbing a croissant I didn’t want.

“I’m not,” he replied. “You look incredible, by the way.”

“Charles.”

“Y/N.”

I took my tray and walked away before my face could betray me.

This was not going to work.

-

Later, when the sun dipped low and the paddock began to clear out, the five of us were ushered into a small media lounge for a casual welcome session—iced teas, branded notebooks, a low-key icebreaker game.

It was fine.

Until he walked in.

The room actually shifted. Like gravity pulled everyone forward.

Charles Leclerc, fresh from interviews, sunglasses pushed into his hair, smiled politely as the coordinator announced, “And here to welcome our winners—your fan-favorite Ferrari driver!”

My breath locked in my throat.

“Oh my god,” Callie whispered.

“Charles is so much hotter in person,” Tom mumbled, not even trying to be subtle.

He waved at the group, then sat down right across from me on the low couch.

I didn’t look at him. I couldn’t.

“You all excited for Media Week?” he asked casually, accent curling around every word like sugar on the rim of a glass.

Everyone nodded. Gushed. Talked over each other.

I picked at the edge of my napkin.

Then came the icebreaker.

“Let’s go around and say one thing we’re most excited about this week,” the coordinator prompted. “I’ll start—I’m excited to see you all soak in the experience!”

Rachel: “The garage tours!”

Tom: “Meeting the drivers, obviously.”

Callie: “The paddock passes and maybe... a selfie with Charles.” She winked.

He laughed politely.

When it was my turn, I cleared my throat.

“I guess I’m just... excited to see the sport from the inside.”

Charles’s eyes met mine across the table. Just for a second.

I don’t know what I expected.

But I didn’t expect the corner of his mouth to twitch—barely—like he was holding back something.

A smile? A secret?

Something.

Then, the coordinator clapped her hands. “Perfect! You all are going to have the time of your lives.”

Everyone cheered.

And as we stood up to head back to the hotel, Charles brushed past me, just close enough to murmur—

“Careful, amour. They’re starting to notice.”

And then he was gone.

Leaving my skin buzzing, my throat tight, and my heart whispering: This week is going to ruin us.

-

I didn’t sleep much.

The hotel bed was comfortable enough, the room quiet except for the hum of the air conditioner and the occasional shout of someone stumbling back from the bar. But my brain was loud. Too loud.

I stared at the ceiling for what felt like hours, still hearing his voice in my ear.

Careful, amour. They’re starting to notice.

He couldn’t help himself. That was the problem. Charles Leclerc was many things—charming, reckless, maddeningly romantic—but discreet wasn’t one of them.

My phone buzzed from the nightstand.

Charles: Are you awake? Charles: Room 314.

Goddamn him.

I stared at the message. I could say no. I should say no.

Instead, I was out of bed and tiptoeing down the hallway before I could convince myself otherwise.

-

He opened the door like he’d been standing on the other side, waiting.

His hair was damp from a shower, curls pushed back, shirtless in nothing but black sweatpants. A gold chain rested against his collarbone, and his smile tugged slow and crooked when he saw me.

“You came.”

“You texted.”

“That’s not a no.”

I rolled my eyes and stepped inside. “We said no sneaking around.”

“We also said no falling in love, and look how that turned out.”

He said it like it didn’t still knock the air out of me every time.

Charles closed the door softly behind me, then leaned his forehead against it, sighing.

“This is torture,” he muttered.

“Media week or marriage?”

“Being married and not being able to act like it.”

I turned to him, arms crossed. “You’re the one who wanted to keep it secret.”

“Because I wanted to protect you.” He looked over his shoulder, voice quieter now. “You know what they’d do with this. With you. The articles, the headlines, the dissecting every outfit and every expression. I just wanted a little more time.”

“And this is your idea of time?” I gestured vaguely. “Throwing me into the paddock with a badge and pretending we’ve never kissed?”

He pushed off the door and crossed the room in three steps.

“Pretending we’ve never kissed is impossible.”

He kissed me then—soft and sweet, the kind of kiss that said I missed you instead of I want you.

Though, with Charles, it was usually both.

I let myself melt for a moment, my fingers curling into the hem of his shirt before I caught myself.

I pulled back. “We can’t keep doing this.”

He rested his forehead against mine. “One more night.”

“You said that in Monaco.”

-

Flashback – Six Months Earlier Monaco. 10:41 a.m. Tuesday.

The Civil Registry Office smelled like lemon-scented floor cleaner and legal ink. The ceiling fans whirred overhead.

I wore a cream linen dress and held a bouquet of flowers I picked up from a corner stand on the way there. Charles wore a navy button-up and the softest expression I’d ever seen on a man.

We signed the papers in under ten minutes.

“Wait,” I said, just before he handed over the final page. “Are we really doing this?”

He smiled. Not wide. Not cocky. Sure.

“Yes,” he said simply. “And if you’re not sure, we can wait.”

I looked down at the page. Then at him. And suddenly, it didn’t feel scary. It felt like choosing the safest person in the world.

“I'm sure.”

He kissed the back of my hand as we handed it in.

We walked out married. No ring, no guests, no Instagram post.

Just... us.

-

I left Charles’s room just before sunrise. No one saw me. I checked. Twice.

By the time we got to the paddock, the PR team had split us up into pairs for the morning rounds. My assigned driver, Esteban, was nice enough—friendly, funny, not overly chatty. It was an easy match.

But every time we passed a certain garage, my lungs forgot how to work.

Charles was everywhere.

In the Ferrari garage. On the track walk. On the screen playing highlight reels in the lounge. I couldn’t turn around without seeing his face or hearing his laugh.

It didn’t help that he kept glancing my way. Subtle, but not subtle enough.

And it really didn’t help when Carlos came up to him after a media hit and clapped him on the back.

“So who’s the girl?” he asked with a smirk.

My blood turned to ice.

“What girl?” Charles replied, too quickly.

Carlos nodded toward me across the hospitality tent. “The quiet one. She’s pretty.”

Charles’s mouth twitched.

“Yeah,” he said. “She is.”

I looked away before I could throw something.

-

By late afternoon, the paddock had cooled, shadows stretching long. Most of the group had wandered off to post content or explore the garages. I stayed behind, sipping an iced drink I didn’t want, brain spinning.

That’s when the PR girl found me.

“Oh, hey! Just a heads up, a few people were asking who you are.”

My chest tightened.

“Is that a problem?”

“No, no—just curiosity. You weren’t tagged in the winner announcement, so some of the fans are like, ‘Who’s Guest #5?’” She laughed, like it was nothing. “Probably just internet sleuths doing their thing.”

I forced a smile. “Right. Totally.”

But I could feel it happening—cracks forming in the glass, light leaking through.

And the worst part?

I didn’t know if I wanted to stop it anymore.

-

Later that night, just before I climbed into bed, my phone buzzed again.

Charles: They think I’m flirting with a fan. Charles: I’m going to lose it. Charles: I miss you.

I stared at the screen, fingers hovering. Then I typed:

Me: Then stop pretending.

I watched the message sit. Delivered. Read.

And then nothing.

No reply.

Not that night.

Not the next morning.

Not until it was already too late.

----

Group Chat – “Fan Five 💖🏁”

Callie: anyone else notice how weird y/n was yesterday?? 👀

Tom: like, quiet weird or secret-agent weird

Rachel: she def knows someone. you saw her talking to a ferrari guy right??

Serena: nah that was charles leclerc 🫢🫢🫢

Tom: YOU'RE LYING

Serena: not joking. i went back through my stories—she was with him near the media tent. paused the vid. they were talking close-close

Callie: hold up i’m checking tumblr

-

Tumblr Post 📸: [image attached] 👤: f1-unfiltered “who tf is this girl Charles is chatting with in the media lounge?? she wasn’t on the winner list 👀 anyone know her @?? #charlesleclerc #fifthseat #mediaweek”

🗨️ top comment: “he’s totally checking her out. look at his face omg”

🗨️ second comment: “are we getting a Charles soft launch????”

🗨️ third comment: “her lanyard says Guest #5… we missed one 😭”

-

Twitter (X) @f1teaofficial 👀 something’s brewing. who is mystery “Guest Winner #5”? we’ve confirmed she wasn’t in the original contest posts… #fifthseat #f1drama #charlesleclerc

⬇️ Photo Attachment: blurry screenshot of Y/N and Charles mid-conversation

-

Private Messages – Charles → Y/N 9:47 AM I’m sorry. I saw it. The post. They think I’m flirting with you.

10:02 AM I hate this. I hate not being able to tell them you're mine.

10:17 AM Please say something.

-

Voicemail – Left at 11:26 AM "It’s me. I know you’re mad. I don’t blame you. I should’ve protected us better. I let the cameras turn you into a stranger. And I hate that. I love you. I love you, and I don’t care who knows it anymore. If you want to end this, I’ll respect it. But if there’s even a small part of you that still wants me to fight for us—please, just... call me back.”

-

Text – Y/N → Charles (unsent) You said you’d protect me. But I’ve never felt more alone.

-

Drafted Notes App Entry – Y/N Title: If They Find Out

They’ll say I used him.

They’ll say I didn’t deserve him.

They’ll say it was a stunt.

They’ll tear me apart.

But I love him. And I’m tired of pretending I don’t.

-

Instagram Story – @scuderiaferrari 🎥 “Behind-the-scenes at Media Week Day 2!” Pausing at 0:41 reveals Charles, standing off to the side, watching something—or someone—just off camera. Blink and you miss it: a small gold band on his left ring finger.

---

There’s a kind of silence that only happens in chaos.

Like when your ears ring after a crash, or when the world tilts just a little too far to the left. That’s what it felt like in the paddock the morning the photo dropped.

Not an explosion. Not a scream. Just a silence so loud I couldn’t hear anything else.

Everywhere I went, I felt it. The glances. The hush when I passed. The way even the media team looked at my lanyard a beat too long before waving me through.

Guest Winner #5 was no longer anonymous.

And Charles— Charles was furious.

I didn’t see him until the mid-morning break. I was on my way out of the Alpine garage when someone caught my wrist and gently pulled me around the corner.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just stared at me like he hadn’t slept.

“Hi,” I said, softly. Too softly.

“You didn’t answer me,” he said. His voice was rough. Tight.

“I didn’t know what to say.”

He let go of my wrist. Stepped back like I’d burned him.

“I should’ve said something from the start,” he muttered. “We should’ve owned it.”

“No, Charles,” I snapped. “You said we should keep it quiet. You said—‘just one season, let me keep you safe.’”

“And I was wrong.”

That shut me up.

He raked a hand through his hair. “I saw the post. The edits. They’re tearing you apart already and they don’t even knowyou.”

My throat tightened. “They never were going to be kind.”

“I don’t care if they’re kind.” He stepped closer. “I care if they hurt you.”

God, he looked wrecked.

And I wanted—more than anything—to kiss him. To close the distance and forget the rest of the world existed.

But I couldn’t.

So I whispered, “Then let me go.”

His face broke open like glass.

“No.”

“Charles.”

“No.” His voice cracked. “You can’t ask me to pretend you don’t belong to me. Not after everything.”

“I’m asking you to protect me. And if the only way to do that is by stepping away—”

He kissed me.

Fast. Desperate. The kind of kiss that didn’t ask permission because it was already falling apart.

I melted. Fought it. Melted again.

But we were still in the paddock. Still surrounded by cameras, journalists, fans.

And I pulled away just before it became a headline.

“We can’t do this here,” I breathed.

“Then come with me.”

“What?”

“Now. Just—just come with me. Five minutes. No one will notice.”

I hesitated. The badge around my neck felt like a noose.

But I followed him anyway.

-

He led me through the back of the hospitality tent, past the fake plants and behind a row of stacked crates, where no cameras pointed and no PR eyes roamed.

A supply closet. Of course.

It was dark. Cramped. Smelled like rubber gloves and microfiber.

He shut the door behind us and leaned against it like he was trying to breathe.

“I feel like I’m going to lose you.”

I looked at him. Really looked at him.

“Why now?” I whispered. “Why is this the moment you suddenly want to tell the world?”

He was quiet for a long time.

Then—

“Because I watched you lie in that welcome lounge. I watched you say you were excited to see the sport from the inside like you weren’t already part of my world. Like you didn’t wake up next to me three days ago.”

He stepped forward, eyes burning.

“And I hated it.”

“Charles…”

“I hated pretending we didn’t mean something to each other. I hated hearing them talk about you like you were just some fan. I hated the way Carlos looked at you. I hated how beautiful you looked and how I couldn’t even touch you.”

I swallowed hard.

“I hated that too.”

“So then let’s stop.”

“Stop hiding?”

“Stop lying.”

My heart was beating like a drum in my ears.

“You really want to do this?” I asked. “You’re sure?”

He didn’t hesitate. Not even for a second.

“Yes.”

And that’s when we heard it.

The voice outside the door. Someone calling his name.

“Charles? You back here?”

We froze.

He looked at me, eyes wide.

I looked at the floor. The walls. The door.

My fingers found the lock. Clicked it open.

And just before I stepped out, I looked back and whispered:

“Then do it. Say something. Or this is the last time I follow you.”

I left him standing there—speechless, shirt rumpled, heart in his throat.

And I didn’t look back.

-

By evening, the internet had moved on.

Sort of.

They’d stopped asking who I was.

Now they were asking something else.

“Why is Ferrari so quiet today?” “Where is Charles Leclerc?” “Is Guest #5 even a real fan?” “This week is feeling scripted.”

And just when I thought maybe things were calming down...

I saw the photo.

It was blurry. Candid. Taken from a distance.

Charles. Standing alone near the pit wall.

Holding something in his hand.

A ring.

My ring.

--

Flashback — Six months earlier Monaco, the night after the wedding

The courthouse was already closed. The florist stand where I bought my bouquet had packed up and gone home. The streets were glowing, just barely damp from a midday rain, and the city felt like it had exhaled.

And I was married.

To him.

To Charles.

We didn’t throw a party. No cake. No fireworks. Just a hotel suite high above the harbor and a bottle of champagne neither of us had planned on but somehow ended up with anyway.

“I can’t believe we actually did it,” I whispered, toeing off my sandals as he unlocked the room.

“I can.” His smile was lazy, wide. “I’d do it again right now if we hadn’t just paid the filing fee.”

The room was warm. Gold lamplight, cream linens, a view of the marina that looked like something out of a painting. I walked to the window and pressed my fingers to the glass.

Down below, life was buzzing. Music. Laughter. Everything too far away to touch.

“You okay?” he asked.

I nodded. “Yeah. I think I just... didn’t expect to feel this calm.”

“Marrying me is calming? That’s a new one.”

“Shut up,” I said, but I was smiling.

I heard the soft pop of the champagne cork and turned around just in time to see the foam spill over his fingers.

“Smooth,” I said.

“I’m rusty. I haven’t had a reason to celebrate in a while.”

He poured two glasses and crossed the room, handing me one with a small clink.

“To what?” I asked.

He looked at me, then at the tiny band of gold now resting on my finger.

“To the quiet kind of forever.”

I blinked once. Twice. Then I clinked my glass to his.

“To us.”

We didn’t drink right away. He leaned down and kissed me first—slow, warm, like he was trying to memorize the exact way I felt under his hands tonight.

“Mon amour,” he murmured. “Ma femme.”

His wife.

I kissed him back like that name had always been mine.

-

Later, I was wrapped in sheets, tucked against his bare chest, legs tangled and lips swollen, both of us laughing over something dumb we couldn’t even remember anymore.

The window was open, letting in the soft hum of the city and the faint smell of ocean salt.

Charles traced lazy shapes on my back.

“Do you think they’ll find out?” I asked.

He didn’t pretend to misunderstand.

“They’ll guess,” he said. “Eventually.”

“But not yet?”

“Not yet.”

“Why?”

He kissed the crown of my head. “Because I want to keep this—you—to myself for a little longer.”

“Selfish.”

“Absolutely.”

I turned to face him, cheek pressed to the pillow.

“I don’t want to hide forever.”

“You won’t have to.”

“But when it starts—when they know—”

“I’ll handle it.” He brushed his knuckles along my jaw. “I’ll take every hit if it means you don’t have to.”

My throat tightened. “You can’t protect me from all of it.”

“Maybe not. But I can try.”

And then he pulled me close again, tucked under his chin, his voice barely audible.

“I want a life with you. Not just a ring and a secret. A life.”

My eyes stung.

“I want that too.”

He held me tighter.

“Then we’ll build it. Slowly. Quietly. Until one day... no one’s surprised to see you in my garage. Or on my arm. Or wearing my name.”

“Not even the media?”

He smiled against my temple. “Especially them.”

We didn’t fall asleep until after 3 a.m.

And just before I closed my eyes, I looked at the clock glowing faintly on the nightstand.

11:11.

Make a wish, I thought.

I didn’t need to.

He was already mine.

--

There were three microphones on the table.

Three cameras aimed straight at my face.

Four other fan winners.

Twelve journalists.

And one Charles Leclerc.

Seated exactly two chairs away from me.

I could feel him more than I could see him—his presence like a magnet I was desperately trying not to lean toward. His voice when he answered a question was low and measured, but there was tension behind it. Like he was holding his breath every time someone said my name.

Because yes—this press conference?

It wasn’t just about the drivers anymore.

It was about us.

“Let’s talk about the now-viral Fifth Seat post,” the moderator said, glancing at the cards. “There’s been a lot of speculation about Guest Winner #5—Y/N, right?”

I smiled, as calmly as I could. “That’s me.”

The room chuckled, polite but interested. Someone’s pen scratched loudly against a notepad.

“You’ve been paired with Alpine, but fans noticed some interaction with the Ferrari garage. Care to share what that’s about?”

I didn’t look at Charles.

I looked directly at the moderator, and I lied.

“I was lost. Someone pointed me in the wrong direction. That’s all.”

He smiled like he bought it. Charles didn’t move. But I saw the way his hands curled into fists on the table.

Liar, liar, ring finger on fire.

-

The rest of the conference passed in a blur. Questions about team dynamics, fan engagement, media perception. I said what I needed to say. Charles said very little.

And then came the final question.

“For all five guests—if you could spend a full day with any driver, who would it be?”

Everyone turned toward us.

Callie answered first. “Lewis, obviously.”

Tom said Max. Serena picked Oscar. Rachel said Carlos and then blushed bright red when he grinned.

And then it was my turn.

My mouth opened. My heart thundered. I looked straight at the cameras and said:

“Esteban���s been amazing. I wouldn’t trade my assignment for anyone.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw it.

Charles flinch.

Barely. But it was there.

A fraction of a second. A wound split wide open on camera.

The moderator wrapped up. Everyone clapped.

The moment I stood to leave, a hand caught my wrist.

Charles.

We were behind the curtain, out of view but not out of range. His eyes were sharp, glassy with something that looked a lot like heartbreak.

“You don’t have to lie for me anymore,” he said. Quiet. Bitter.

I pulled my arm back. “You said you wanted to protect me.”

“Not like this.”

And then he kissed me.

In full view of the other fan winners.

In full view of the PR team.

In full view of the Ferrari social media intern, who audibly gasped behind her phone screen.

It was soft. Quick. But it was a statement.

When he pulled back, his voice didn’t shake.

“We’re done pretending.”

-

Ten minutes later, the Ferrari garage was in full-blown crisis mode.

“Are you insane?” the team manager asked.

Charles shrugged. “A little.”

I stood beside him, fingers linked tightly through his.

The PR rep was pacing. “Do you want to crash the website? Break the internet? Do you know what you just did?”

He looked at me. Then back at them.

“Yes.”

The intern finally spoke up from the corner. “Do you want us to, like... post something?”

Charles didn’t even blink. “Yes.”

I squeezed his hand. “Are you sure?”

He nodded.

Then looked straight into the camera.

“She’s not a fan. She’s my wife.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

---

Instagram Post – @charles_leclerc 📸: black and white photo Charles, in a suit. Me, barefoot in that cream linen dress. Holding hands on the courthouse steps.

Caption: Monaco. Six months ago. We didn’t do it for the press. We did it for us. ❤️

-

Twitter/X Explodes

🔥 trending: CHARLES LECLERC 🔥 trending: FIFTH SEAT 🔥 trending: “she’s his WHAT?” 🔥 trending: MA FEMME

-

Back in the paddock, later that night

I sat next to Charles on the pit wall. No cameras this time. No fans. Just the low rumble of tires being rolled back to the garage and the buzz of lights overhead.

He nudged me with his shoulder. “You okay?”

I let out a long breath. “I don’t know.”

“Too much?”

“Maybe.”

“Regrets?”

I turned to him. Let my hand find his.

“No. Not if it means I can hold your hand in public.”

He smiled—really smiled. The kind that started in his chest and bloomed onto his face like sunlight.

“You’re stuck with me now.”

“I’ve always been stuck with you.”

And this time, when he kissed me, no one interrupted.

No flashbulbs. No questions. No more hiding.

Just him. Just me. Just us.

---

Epilogue

The Best Seat in the House Six months later — Monza Grand Prix

The roar of the crowd was thunder in my chest.

Pit lane buzzed with its usual chaos—mechanics darting, tires rolling, cameras clicking like shutters could stop time. I adjusted my headset and tried not to look too giddy as the Ferrari engineers handed me a branded clipboard.

I wasn’t technically staff. But I wasn’t just a guest anymore, either.

“Looking official, Madame Leclerc,” someone teased as I passed.

I smiled. “Don’t I always?”

It had taken time, but people got used to me. The media storm passed. The internet’s curiosity dulled into mild fascination. I stopped being “Guest #5” and started being his.

His wife. His person. His home base between podiums and paddocks.

And now, every few races, I joined him on the road—not as a secret, but as a fixture. Quiet. Steady. Gold band glinting under fluorescent lights and camera flashes.

“Y/N.” His voice crackled through my headset.

I turned toward the monitors, where his car blinked red and white on the map.

“Oui, mon amour?”

“Look up.”

I tilted my head just in time to see his car glide past the pit wall during the formation lap. The Ferrari slowed for just a heartbeat—and in the split-second he passed my section, he lifted his hand off the wheel and held up—

Two fingers.

A peace sign?

No.

A V.

I laughed into the mic. “Victory?”

“No,” he said. “V for Valentine.”

God, he was ridiculous.

“Focus, Leclerc.”

“Always. Especially when you’re here.”

He sped off.

I turned to the monitors, heart racing, hands tight around the clipboard I wasn’t actually using.

Beside me, the Ferrari PR girl grinned. “You nervous?”

“No,” I said honestly. “Not about him.”

The lights dropped. The crowd screamed. The cars launched.

And I stayed right where I was.

Watching. Rooting. Loving.

Because I didn’t need the fifth seat anymore.

I already had the best one—

Right beside him.

-----

The end.

[formulafanfics13]

hey lovely! are you up for a somewhat crackfic?? Reader is new driver on the grid, super talented and confident all smirks n flirty knows how to play the media. everyone is falling head over heels shooting their shot but she knowingly smiles n says she wont date someone on grid. then a leaked photo reveals her with a man! entire grid media evn Tps r dying with curiosity. thennnn she brings her man to the paddock(spoiler alert: its a retired driver)

okay you gave me an idea and i ran with it...

The Fastest Girl Alive

Masterlist

Summary: You’re the 21-year-old Red Bull phenom taking Formula 1 by storm — a media magnet, a threat to the grid, and completely untouchable. Until a leaked photo shatters your image and reveals your secret two-year relationship with none other than 45-year-old Kimi Räikkönen. Cue absolute chaos. From panicked team principals to feral drivers and Christian Horner’s nervous breakdown, the paddock loses its mind as you and Kimi go fully public, smug and unbothered.

Warnings: Age-gap relationship (21/45), public scrutiny, suggestive language, chaotic paddock dynamics, emotionally mature themes, sexual innuendo, power imbalance commentary, light media satire.

From the moment you stepped onto the grid, you were a problem.

Twenty-one. Deadly. Irresistibly hot. Red Bull's first female driver. Max Verstappen's new teammate. A factory-suited menace with perfect winged liner and a habit of unzipping your race suit down to the waist just to piss off the sponsors.

The media called you a prodigy. The grid called you dangerous.

And you? You just smiled and kept winning.

From Bahrain to Baku, you'd rattled the entire sport. Fourth on debut. Podium in your second race. A pole in Monaco that had Christian Horner clapping like a trained seal in the garage while Max stared at the timing screen like it had personally betrayed him.

But it wasn't just the driving.

It was the interviews. The smirks. The catwalk walks through the paddock in miniskirts and sunglasses, licking an ice pop while pretending not to hear Logan calling your name. It was the way you sat in the media pen like a popstar, legs crossed, chewing gum, answering every question with a wink or a threat.

"You've been a real disruptor this season," said Karun in Canada.

You tilted your head. "You say that like it's a bad thing."

When they asked about your dating life, it got worse. You smiled. Every time.

"I don't date anyone on the grid," you said, over and over again.

And they believed you. Because how could someone like you belong to anyone?

"She's fucking unreal."

That was Lando, whispering to George as you walked into the driver briefing room in Miami wearing a cropped fireproof top and low-slung trousers that made half the grid forget what they were arguing about.

"She's going to ruin my life," said Pierre.

"She already ruined mine," mumbled Oscar, clutching his water bottle like it was a holy relic.

Even Max was twitching by Spain. He'd stopped joking about your pace. Stopped smirking when you breezed past him in the cooldown room. Stopped looking at you like you were a rookie.

Started looking at you like a threat. But you didn't care. Because you weren't trying to win their approval.

You were trying to win the championship.

And nothing, nothing got in your way. Until the leak.

It dropped mid-season. Quiet Wednesday. No race. No reason.

Until that photo hit Twitter like a fucking bomb.

You. In Red Bull uniform. Arms wrapped around someone. Kissing him like you'd done it a thousand times. Like you meant it.

His hands were on your waist. His face was mostly hidden. But not entirely. There was enough. A jawline. A wristwatch. The faintest shadow of a tattoo.

And just like that, the illusion shattered.

You were taken. And the world lost its fucking mind.

Pierre was the first to text the grid group chat.

Pierre: who the FUCK is that

George: she said she doesn't date drivers???

Lando: is he a driver??

Charles: the watch looks vintage

Oscar: he's sitting down. she's on his lap. I feel nauseous

Max: shut up

Logan: guys. GUYS. what if it's a principal

Yuki: IT'S HORNER

Pierre: I hate this group chat

Red Bull PR blacked out. Christian Horner started throwing around the phrase "photoshop" like it was 2008. Helmut Marko refused to comment. Meanwhile, every media outlet on the planet began dissecting the image like it was the Zapruder film.

Your fire suit was unzipped. Your eyes were closed. You looked happy. And that was the problem.

Because for the first time, the paddock realised you weren't just an untouchable goddess with a perfect race line and an even better ass.

You were someone's.

And that someone? Still unknown.

The fans were feral. Conspiracies erupted. Reddit threads overflowed.

She's dating a billionaire. No, it's an actor. Wait, is that Daniel Ricciardo's hand? I think it's her trainer. That's Christian's Rolex. No way, that's not a recent photo. She's lying. She said she doesn't date the grid.

You didn't post. You didn't comment.

You just turned up to the next race, Silverstone, in a pair of low-rise jeans, a tiny white tank top, and a glazed lip combo that made the McLaren engineers drop their coffee.

Christian was pacing when you arrived at the garage. "Don't say a word about it," he hissed under his breath.

You put your sunglasses on. "Say a word about what?"

Max appeared five minutes later, twitching with irritation. He didn't speak. Just stared at the floor while you stretched your arms overhead and chatted with Yuki about the weather.

And still, no one knew. No name. No identity. Just a grainy photo. And your smile, smug and untouchable, as you walked through the paddock like nothing happened. Like your whole private world hadn't just been blown wide open.

Silverstone. Friday morning. Cloudy skies. Buzzing paddock. Sky Sports cameras tracking every movement like bloodhounds. Rumours still rabid from the leaked photo. And not a single person had figured it out.

Until now. You arrived late. As always. Fashionably, devastatingly late.

Black halter top with an open back. Low-rise cargo pants with a Red Bull logo stitched along your hip. Glossed lips. Cat-eye eyeliner sharp enough to puncture egos. That slow, confident strut that said I know exactly what I'm doing.

And beside you? Kimi motherfucking Räikkönen.

White t-shirt. Leather jacket. Dark jeans. The man had crow's feet and zero fucks left to give. He held your hand like he'd done it a hundred times before and didn't give a single shit who saw it.

You didn't look at the cameras. You didn't have to. Because in one step, the illusion of mystery died, and the chaos began.

The silence was so loud you could hear Christian Horner's soul exiting his body.

Your phone buzzed instantly.

Charles: you're joking. Lando: I THOUGHT THAT WAS HER DAD AT FIRST GLANCE Oscar: does this mean older men are back in?? Pierre: what the fuck what the fuck what the fuck Max: no. George: he's FORTY FIVE Carlos: I need to lie down Yuki: I'm calling my therapist

Toto saw you walking past Mercedes hospitality and physically stopped breathing.

He stared. Stared harder when he recognised the man beside you. Blinked once. Then again. Then raised a hand like he was about to intervene before realising he had absolutely no legal grounds and was just... flustered.

"Jesus Christ," he muttered under his breath, rubbing his temple.

"Isn't that Kimi?" one of the junior engineers whispered.

Toto didn't answer. Just muttered something in German that sounded a lot like oh god, she's a child.

Inside the Red Bull garage, Christian was pacing like a man possessed.

"She said she doesn't date drivers," he hissed.

"She doesn't," murmured a poor intern.

"HE'S RETIRED," Christian snapped. "AND MIDDLE AGED."

Helmut said nothing. Just stared at the screen like it had personally betrayed him.

You and Kimi stopped for an interview outside the Red Bull motorhome. 

"Can we just ask, how long has this been going on?" the reporter dared.

Kimi didn't answer. You took off your sunglasses. "Two years."

A beat.

"Wait. You were nineteen?"

Another pause. Then your lips curved into a sweet, weaponised smile. "Legal. Consensual. And very, very good."

The cameraman choked.

Meanwhile, behind the scenes, a few of the team principals slipped directly into father-mode panic.

Fred Vasseur pulled you aside after FP1.

"You know I like you," he began, tone gentle. "You're electric. You're young. But this thing with Kimi-"

"Is not your business," you cut in, still smiling.

"It is when he's old enough to be your father," he grumbled.

"Then you'd better tell half the internet to shut up," you said. "Because they think he's my daddy."

Fred short-circuited.

Zak Brown caught Christian muttering to himself in the paddock and offered a half-hearted joke.

"Well, at least she's not dating Lando."

Christian glared at him. "Lando is twenty-four. That would've been better."

The drivers were worse.

Oscar asked if this meant he had to start dressing like a divorced rockstar to have a shot with women.

Pierre kept saying "twenty-four years" under his breath like he was doing the fucking math over and over again.

George stared at Kimi every time they crossed paths and then looked away like a scolded schoolboy.

Charles just said, "She's so young," like a broken record. Then paused. "But also... I get it."

Max? Silent. Fuming. When you passed him in the garage, you smiled sweetly. "Everything okay, Maxie?"

"Why him?" he snapped. "Why Kimi fucking Räikkönen?"

You shrugged. "He doesn't wear skinny jeans and Red Bull merch every day."

The silence after that could've killed a man.

Kimi, for his part, was completely unbothered. He watched FP2 from the garage with his arms crossed. Didn't speak. Didn't flinch. Just nodded once when your lap times came up purple and muttered "good girl" under his breath.

The camera caught it.

The internet exploded.

Christian nearly fainted.

That night, you posted one final nail in the coffin.

An old photo. Blurry. Private. You and Kimi on a dock somewhere, shirtless and smiling, a glass of something in his hand. You on his lap. No makeup. No pretense. Just quiet intimacy.

Caption: "He taught me how to drive. I taught him how to feel."

The comments were carnage.

@f1obsessed: I'm going to scream @kimiswife: do we... ship this? @mclaren4ever: CAN SOMEONE CHECK ON MAX @totoapproved: Fred and Toto definitely had a panic call about this @raikkonensexual: I need to lie down

Christian staged an unofficial intervention Sunday morning. Sat you down. Closed the door. "You're 21."

You stared.

"He's 45."

You smiled.

"You understand why people are... concerned."

"Because I'm smart, hot, and completely in control of my own decisions?"

He paused. "Also because the age gap is nearly the same as if you dated Toto."

"Well now you're giving me ideas."

Christian's soul departed.

You won the race. Of course you did.

And when you stepped onto the podium, champagne still dripping down your chest, your eyes scanned the pit wall until they landed on Kimi.

Arms crossed. Sunglasses on. Smirk barely visible.

You raised your trophy to him.

And he nodded once. A king recognising his queen.

The next thing? It happened in Hungary.

Two races after Silverstone. One week after the photo of Kimi kissing your bare shoulder in a Monaco cafe hit every major outlet. Three days after your new campaign with Balenciaga went viral. Forty-eight hours since Kimi was caught on live TV mouthing something definitely-not-safe-for-broadcast to you on the pit wall.

Christian Horner had had enough.

He called Fred Vasseur and Toto Wolff into a private meeting at the Paddock Club, no cameras, no mics, just sheer panic and two full-grown men drinking espresso and looking like they'd rather be shot.

"This is delicate," Christian had said, pacing like a divorced man with a rage disorder. "She respects you both."

Fred squinted. "She flipped me off in Baku."

"Affectionately," Christian snapped. "She flipped you off affectionately."

Toto sighed. "What do you want us to do, Christian? Forbid her from dating someone twice her age?"

"No," Christian muttered. "Just... talk to her."

Fred groaned. "We are not her fathers."

"You're the closest thing she's got."

You got the text from your assistant mid-afternoon. "Hey babe. Fred and Toto want to talk. Said it's 'important.' Christian may have orchestrated it. They're waiting in the Merc motorhome. xoxo"

You smiled. Tossed your phone in your bag. Adjusted your sunglasses.

Oh, this was going to be good.

The hospitality suite was quiet. Air conditioned. Curtains drawn. Fred was sipping an espresso. Toto was leaning against the table like he was preparing to interrogate a Russian double agent.

You sauntered in, all long legs and smugness, wearing a Red Bull mini-dress and white sneakers, hair slicked back, lipgloss glinting under the lights.

"Gentlemen," you greeted, voice silk. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Fred cleared his throat. "We are here... on behalf of Christian."

"I figured."

Toto spoke next. "He's concerned."

You perched on the edge of the table. "About my driving?"

"No."

"My PR?"

Fred frowned. "No."

You smiled. "Then I don't care."

Toto ran a hand down his face. "It's about Kimi."

You fake-gasped. "What about my sweet, ageless, beautiful Finnish boyfriend?"

Fred sighed. "He's not ageless. He's forty-five."

You blinked. "Is he?"

Toto raised an eyebrow. "You're twenty-one."

You tilted your head. "Legal. Consensual. And very, very good at what he does. Want details?"

Fred choked. "God, no."

Toto tried again. "We just think, maybe, it's a bit... much."

You crossed your legs, slow and deliberate. "A bit much for who?"

Fred looked pained. "For you. For the sport. For our blood pressure."

"I'm not asking for your blessing," you said sweetly. "And I sure as fuck don't need your approval."

"You're one of the best drivers we've ever seen," Toto said, voice gentler now. "You're fast. Strategic. Focused."

"And?"

"And we're worried you'll lose control," Fred admitted.

You laughed. Genuinely. "Lose control? Because I'm dating a man who listens more than he talks? Who doesn't try to outshine me? Who's not intimidated by the fact that I'm younger, faster, and louder?"

Toto frowned. "You think he's not intimidated?"

"I know he's not. That's why he's the only one who can touch me."

Fred groaned again. "I'm begging you not to say things like that."

"Too late," you said brightly. "Also , he brings me water before quali, rubs my shoulders after sessions, and has a standing 'fuck everyone else' clause in our relationship. He's the only person who doesn't treat me like I'm going to combust."

Toto blinked. "He rubs your shoulders?"

"With his teeth sometimes."

Fred stood up. "Nope. I'm done. I'm tapping out."

Outside the motorhome, Christian was pacing again. The door opened. Fred and Toto emerged looking mildly traumatised.

"Well?" Christian demanded. "Did you talk some sense into her?"

Fred looked at Toto. Toto looked at Christian.

Then he said flatly, "She said Kimi uses his teeth on her shoulders."

Christian turned white.

Back inside, you stretched your arms overhead, smirking at the ceiling.

[windyremedy]

NOT JUST A FANGIRL

pairing: bakugou katsuki x reader

scenario: your roommates finding out the hero in your posters, the one you seemingly clearly idolized so much was actually your man.

life in college was pretty tame aside from the occasional meltdowns on assignments, late nights studies for tests, pressuring presentations, and more than strict professors. plus the existential dread in addition to whatever else it may be but really it all came down to just getting it done and coasting through the days just like everybody else.

though in your opinion everything would have been ten times harder without your surfeit amount of dynamight posters on the wall, hanging mini explosion keychains on your bag, and chibi magnets of your boyfriend wearing a rather evil grin stuck on the fridge.

you were glad your roomies didn’t mind your obsession being splattered all over the place but you just couldn’t help it. anytime you came across any kind of merch of his whether it be official or not anywhere online or in physical stores you just had to get your hands on them no matter what. one of your favorites was even a derpy looking grenade one that definitely did not come out right from the factory, yet you kept it because he was so cute. so so cute.

so, yeah to them it only looked like you were a fan, a massive one at that of the great explosion god murder dynamight and well it’s true so you didn’t bother correcting them. though you should’ve added that he was also your boyfriend.

just to y’know save them from the hospitalizating whiplash of seeing the six foot, top five hero, villain fearing, three time champion in a row bachelor of the year and probably even more to be listed, sitting at their sofa that definitely was too small for the hulking hero’s figure.

“who are you?” he gruffly asked barely glancing at the two as his arms layed lax behind the soft cushioned seats, feet kicked back as if he owned the place.

“we live here??” one of them hesitantly answered, both feeling kinda interrogated as if they were the one’s stepping out of line.

before anyone could get another word you graciously popped up from the unlocked door.

“oh you guys are here?” you asked in surprise since they don’t usually end at this time.

but neither had answered you, too busy staring at something or rather someone. a blonde ruby eyed man named—

“kats!” you called out excitedly after seeing him rise up from his seat, still in his hero uniform.

“THAT’S KATS??!!” the stilled girl asked in shock as your other roomie physically left the earth as their ghost spiritually ascends to the heavens.

because damn all this time the “sweet” guy you’ve been yapping about was the infamous dynamight. the pro hero known for having an explosive attitude towards the paparazzi and actually quite literally everyone. they never realized that the guy you were always in a call with at some point in the day without fail was him of all people.

“he’s you’re boyfriend?!!!!” she queries in absolute confusion as you greeted bakugou who returns with his own bear hug.

“yeah!”

“you said he was cute!????”

“mhm!! isn’t he adorable?” you nodded with a smile.

she turned to check what you might be seeing, only to find him already staring at her in agitation like they were interrupting something precious and they should therefore cease to exist. in contrast to your beaming grin of unawareness.

“w-well we actually have to go somewhere.” she mumbled trying to reason a way out.

“what— but you just got here right? c’mon it’s perfect! you two can finally meet him.”

“no! no, it’s— the…uhhh our teacher just sent a message and she’s actually here today so we gotta head back!” she hurried nervously, viciously shaking her head and then spilling a bunch of other half baked excuses before dragging your other friend with her out as well since she was still passed out on the floor, quickly shutting the door with a slam.

“wow, she wasn’t even holding her phone. maybe she has two quirks right?” you joked as he leaned into your neck in agreement, letting out a satisfied hum from getting what he wanted.

however you thought he might’ve felt insulted so you reassured him patting his hair gently as the soft spikes puffed out from his gear.

“they really wanted to meet you though, promise.”

“s’ fine. only wanted you anyway.” he voiced, pushing his face deeper in your neck as you shyly leaned away slightly.

“that’s a bit…”

“don’t act all shy, I’ve been inside of you.”

“okay—“

©windyremedy