off the record ⌢ ⟡﹒ interviewer!daniela x f1driver!reader
✦ syn. daniela got a chance to interview y/n Vettel, the daughter of a 4-time world champion, now following in her father’s footsteps. ✦ cw. suggestive, reader is sebastian vettel’s daughter and a carbon copy of Sebastian Vettel, use of y/n, based on that one seb interview that I vaguely remember. not proofread
✦ wc. 3.5k
requests open!! :))
Ever since Daniela heard about Formula One through TikTok, she had been completely sucked into the sport. While scrolling late one night, she came across a clip of Sebastian Vettel— the retired four-time World Drivers’ Champion— talking proudly about his daughter, Y/N, who was busy taking over the world of Formula 1.
Having such a famous name was never easy. When Y/N joined the grid as a teenager, the media pressure was intense. People often said she was only there because of her last name. Y/N tried to act unbothered, but sometimes, when the criticism got harsh or she saw her reflection before a race, doubt crept in. She wondered if people would ever recognize her own talent. Her father had faced the same tough media, hostile crowds, and critics who doubted his titles. He taught her how to block out the noise, even when it was hard.
In fact, when the official announcement dropped that Y/N had signed a massive multi-year contract extension as Ferrari’s driver, Sebastian had sent her a simple text.
Dad Remember what we practiced. Eyes forward.
Fascinated by the story, Daniela pitched an exclusive, season-long profile on Sebastian Vettel’s daughter. Daniela was intrigued not only by Y/N’s legacy and the associated drama, but also by the striking parallels between her subject’s experience and her own. Y/N embodied both ambition and effortless confidence yet remained undaunted by immense expectations— a quality Daniela deeply admired.
Y/n’s defiance against the pressures of her famous surname became, for Daniela, a mirror reflecting her own struggle to assert her individuality and credibility as a journalist in a media landscape that often dismissed her voice.
Daniela had pitched her idea to he magazine editors loved the idea and approved it immediately.
A few weeks later, Daniela was walking through the productive paddock of her very first race weekend. She was completely awestruck by the hospitality homes, the roaring sounds of impact wrenches, and the massive scale of the event. Because she was looking around instead of watching her step, she walked straight into a solid shoulder.
oof
“Sorry, miss, are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” Daniela said. She looked up to see who she had collided with, only to find herself staring into a pair of striking hazel eyes filled with genuine concern.
“Whoa,” a voice cut through the brief silence. Daniela realized she had been staring just a second too long.
“Y/N?” Daniela blurted out. She immediately felt stupid.
Of course it was Y/N.
They were standing right outside the Scuderia Ferrari hospitality building.
Y/N straightened up at the mention of her name, a sudden, familiar smirk playing on her lips. “You know my name? Didn’t take you for a Formula One fan.”
Y/N extended a hand, tilting her head confidently. “Y/N Vettel. And you are?”
Daniela quickly smoothed down her shirt, trying to regain her professional composure. She hadn’t expected to meet the driver this early, let alone crash into her. “Daniela Avanzini. I’m a writer for Blabla Magazine.”
“Ah. So… not a fan, then.” Y/N’s smirk faltered slightly. She slowly brought her hand down, scratching the back of her neck and internally cursing herself for assuming Daniela knew her from a race broadcast.
“A bit of a fan, actually, I just—”
“Y/N! Garage, now!” her manager’s voice boomed from down the path, cutting Daniela off.
Y/N sighed playfully and glanced back at Daniela, trying to mask her mild disappointment at having to leave so abruptly. "Sorry, duty calls. It was really nice meeting you, though… Daniela."
Leaving Daniela standing there completely stunned, Y/N jogged away to catch up with her team.
“A magazine writer is here; did you know that?” Y/N asked her manager as they walked.
“Ah, yes. Apparently, management cleared an all-access pass for them to interview you throughout the season.”
“Is that so?” Y/N glanced over her shoulder, but Daniela had already disappeared into the crowd.
Interesting.
From then on, the paddock felt a lot smaller. Over the next twenty-four hours, Daniela kept catching Y/N stealing glances at her from across the pit lane, a silent, playful game developing between them.
Right before Qualifying on Friday, a sharp knock echoed through Y/N’s private driver room. She opened it to find her manager standing there with a serious look on his face, gesturing for her to follow.
Stepping out into the corridor, clad in her full, vibrant red Ferrari race suit, Y/N spotted a familiar face sitting on the bench near her helmet shelf.
“Y/N, this is Miss Daniela,” her manager introduced, gesturing toward her. “She writes for the magazine and will be shadowing your media blocks for the rest of the season.”
Y/N offered a polite smile and walked over to greet her properly. “Nice to meet you, Daniela. Again.”
“Nice to meet you again as well, Y/N,” Daniela replied, her tone professional but light.
They shook hands, and Y/N immediately settled into a classic driver stance—hands resting firmly on her hips. It was a total NPC posture that the drivers always did, but after a few years in the sport, Y/N had unconsciously adopted it too.
“I’ll be conducting a few one-on-one interviews and recording them for our digital features, if that’s alright with you?” Daniela asked, holding up a sleek digital voice recorder.
“So… just me?” Y/N teased.
“I’m sorry?”
“You’re just interviewing me? Singular?”
Daniela rolled her eyes subtly, a small grin tugging at her lips. “Yes, Y/N. The public is highly interested in your trajectory. You debuted with Ferrari at just eighteen, you’ve already broken records as one of the youngest world champions in history, and the list goes on.”
Y/N leaned back slightly, her smirk returning full force. “If I didn’t know you were a journalist, Miss Daniela, I would’ve mistaken you for a fan.”
Her manager’s eyes widened. He quickly nudged Y/N’s elbow as a silent warning to stay professional. Y/N’s smirk dropped for a fraction of a second as she glanced at her, clearly amused.
“And if I didn’t know you were a Formula One driver,” Daniela countered smoothly, keeping her voice completely calm, “I would’ve mistaken you for an asshole.” Daniela let out a quick laugh, her eyes sparkling to show she was teasing.
There was no real bite to the insult, and Y/N couldn’t help but let out a genuine chuckle. “Ah… good one.”
Her manager looked between the two of them, completely bewildered by the sudden banter. Realizing he was entirely third-wheeling his own driver’s media meeting, he gave a quick nod and pulled an Irish goodbye, slipping out of the room without another word.
“Just like her father,” the manager mutters under his breath while shaking his head.
The atmosphere on Sunday afternoon was electric, charged by the thunderous roar of engines and the persistent hum of anticipation that saturated the pre-race grid walk.
The air was dense with layered sounds: the screech of impact wrenches, hurried shouts from mechanics, bursts of laughter and conversation from celebrities, and the pointed questions of media personnel weaving between the chaos. Vibrant team colors and the flash of camera bulbs filled Daniela’s peripheral vision.
She navigated the narrow pathways as if she had committed every turn and marking to memory the night before; she probably had, her camera crew closely trailing as they sought the unmistakable flash of red that marked Ferrari’s presence, the car standing out vividly in the shifting sea of people and machinery.
She spotted Y/N standing by the nose of her car, casually sipping from her driver’s bottle while her engineers conducted final vehicle status checks. Y/n noticed Daniela approaching through the crowd, and that unmistakable, cheeky Vettel grin spread across her face.
Daniela stepped up, raising her microphone as she fought to be heard over the hum of the tire warmers. “Live from the grid with Ferrari’s star driver, Y/N. You’re starting P2 today right behind your championship rival. What’s your strategy going into Turn 1?”
Y/N dropped her drink tube. Instead of looking through the camera lens, she shifted her gaze entirely to Daniela, ignoring the millions of viewers watching at home.
“Well, Daniela, the strategy was to get a clean start,” Y/N said smoothly into the microphone. “But honestly? I’ve been completely distracted for the last five minutes.”
Daniela blinked, trying to maintain her professional composure despite the sudden warmth in her cheeks. “Distracted? By the track conditions? The car’s adjustments?”
Y/N stepped slightly closer to the microphone, tilting her head toward Daniela. “No, by a very stunning journalist walking down the grid in a red media lanyard. It’s a massive hazard for my concentration, really. I might have to lodge a complaint with the FIA.”
A small, surprised chuckle escaped Daniela’s lips before she quickly caught herself, bringing the mic back to her mouth. “I’m sure the stewards will tell you to keep your eyes on the track, Vettel. But seriously— your father won on this track three times. Are we going to see the famous Vettel index finger pose on the top step of the podium today?”
Y/N raised her right hand, playfully holding up her index finger right in front of the camera, perfectly mimicking her dad’s iconic post-race celebration.
“If I win,” Y/n murmured, her hazel eyes locking onto Daniela’s, “you have to agree to an exclusive post-race interview. No manager, no PR team, no cameras. Just you, me, and a quiet dinner. Deal?”
Daniela managed a knowing, amused smile and gracefully turned the microphone back to herself to wrap up the segment. “A bold strategy, Vettel. Let’s see if you can execute it on the track.”
As Daniela stepped back to let the mechanics wheel away the tire blankets, Y/N gave her a quick, confident wink before pulling her fireproof balaclava over her face.
“Wish me luck, Miss Daniela!” she called out as she pulled down the balaclava.
Daniela shook her head, a smile lingering on her lips. The unbothered, relentless charm of a Vettel— she really shouldn’t have expected anything less.
The grid cleared, the engines roared to life, and twenty minutes later, Daniela was huddled in the media center, her eyes glued to the monitors. Y/n hadn’t just executed her strategy— she had dominated the grid.
Although she faced some complications at Turn 1, making Daniela hold her breath for the entire lap, she quickly made up for it.
The monitors flashed a radio message from Y/n,
Ferrari “Made you panic, did I?” Vettel
Daniela could hear the smirk in Y/n’s tone; she wasn’t sure if it was directed at her or her race engineer, but either way, she nodded in response.
Though she hadn’t officially agreed to Y/n’s deal, she found herself rooting for the Ferrari driver to win. Deep down, she knew not to worry about that.
By lap forty, the red Ferrari was leading by a staggering seven seconds. Y/n was driving smoothly. When the checkered flag finally waved, the broadcast immediately cut to Y/n climbing out of her car in parc fermé, holding up a single index finger. Her cheeky smile and wink directed right at the main camera tracking her.
She knew exactly who was watching.
Daniela smiled at that.
While making her way through the media pen for a quick debriefing, one of the reporters asked Y/N, “Y/N! You're looking extra happy today; is it because of the win?”
Y/N paused from sipping her drink, smirking as she turned to the reporter. “Yeah, let’s say that.”
“Ah,” the interviewer responded, puzzled by Y/N’s answer, but continued the interview anyway.
Back in the quiet of the media lounge, while the other journalists were frantically typing out their race recaps, Daniela’s phone buzzed on the desk. It was an unknown number, but the text message left no doubt about who it belonged to.
Unknown P1 There’s a quiet Italian place twenty minutes outside the circuit. Pick you up at 8?
Daniela looked down at the screen, a slow smile spreading across her face as she typed back,
Daniela Didn’t know I agreed on the deal? Y/n no? the look on ur face says otherwise, miss daniela
Daniela’s brows scrunched up at that, and she immediately looked up from her phone, only to see Y/n already looking at her, with a stupid smile on her face.
Daniela shook her head with a smile and immediately texted Yn.
Daniela What should I wear?
Twenty minutes past eight, Daniela stood just outside the paddock gates, the cool evening air a sharp contrast to the blistering heat of the afternoon track. A low hum broke the silence as a dark car pulled up to the curb, the passenger window rolling down to reveal hazel eyes and a familiar, crooked smirk.
"Get in, Miss Daniela," Y/N said, unlocking the door.
Daniela didn’t need to be told twice. She slipped into the passenger seat, the heavy thud of the car door instantly shutting out the ambient noise of the lingering circuit crowds. The interior smelled faintly of expensive leather and the crisp, clean scent of Y/N’s cologne.
Y/N didn't waste a second. She slotted the car into gear and pulled away from the curb with a smooth, effortless acceleration that reminded Daniela exactly what this woman did for a living.
"No Ferrari race kit?" Daniela teased, glancing over. Y/N had swapped the vibrant Ferrari red for a relaxed, simple white shirt and slacks, her hair still slightly damp from a post-race shower.
"As much as I love Ferrari, it doesn’t really scream 'private post race interview' attire," Y/N replied, keeping her eyes on the winding Italian road. The dashboard lights cast a soft, sharp glow over her profile, highlighting the lingering traces of adrenaline still buzzing in her veins. "Besides, I promised a quiet dinner. If I showed up in full Scuderia gear, we'd have a line of Tifosi blocking the restaurant entrance in five minutes."
"So, you can be sensible when you want to be," Daniela noted, shifting in her seat to face her. "I thought a Vettel's default setting was to incite chaos?"
Y/N let out a low chuckle, a rich sound that filled the quiet car. "Hey, that’s strategic genius you're talking about. My dad always said, "If you can't convince them, confuse them." Works like a charm in press conferences."
"And on journalists on the grid?"
Y/N briefly took her eyes off the road, flashing a quick, lethal wink. With playful emphasis, she added, "Especially on journalists with red lanyards."
The car navigated a sharp bend with effortless precision, the headlights cutting through the darkening countryside as they moved farther from the track and closer to the hidden place.
Daniela leaned her head back against the headrest, a slow smile pulling at her lips. For someone who had only known the sport through a phone screen a month ago, she was starting to realize that the view from the inside was infinitely better.
The car slowed to a halt in a gravel lot surrounded by overgrown olive trees, completely hidden from the main road. The place was tiny—just a warm glow spilling from a single window and the rich scent of garlic, rosemary, and slow-simmered tomatoes drifting through the cool night air.
Y/N killed the engine, but neither of them moved to get out immediately. The sudden silence inside the cabin made the space between them feel instantly smaller.
"The owner is an old friend of my dad's," Y/N explained, turning in her seat to look at Daniela, her arm resting casually over the steering wheel. "No cameras, no press, no autograph seekers. Just real food."
"Sounds like heaven for someone who lives their life at three hundred kilometers an hour," Daniela said softly, turning to face her.
"It is," Y/N admitted. The cocky, media-trained smirk was entirely gone, replaced by something much more genuine. "Usually, after a win, my schedule is planned down to the minute. PR debriefs, sponsor dinners, media pens... It’s exhausting." She paused, the weight of it all flickering across her face.
"Honestly, sometimes I come home so late that I collapse on the couch, helmet still in hand, and realize I haven’t spoken to anyone outside of racing in days. There are moments when the silence feels deeper than winning ever did."
She hesitated, searching for words. "After Abu Dhabi last year, I sat alone in my hotel room, surrounded by trophies, and just stared at the walls, trying to remember the last time I’d shared a meal without the presence of cameras or PR people. In that room, I felt the weight of isolation more intensely than any pressure from a race. It’s not just physical fatigue—it’s that sense of disconnection that creeps in after the adrenaline fades."
A small, tired laugh escaped her. "It can get lonely, despite all the noise around me. But tonight, I just wanted a normal conversation. With someone who doesn’t want to talk about my plans for winning the championship— just to be seen for a moment as myself, and not as a driver."
Daniela smiled, the professional barrier she had been trying to maintain all weekend slipping away completely. "I think I can manage that. Though I might still have a few questions about your driving."
"Is that so?" Y/N leaned in just a fraction closer, a playful glint returning to her hazel eyes. "What do you want to know, Miss Daniela?"
"Just wondering if you're always this relentless when you want something," Daniela countered smoothly.
Y/N’s gaze dropped to Daniela's lips for a lingering second before rising back to meet her eyes. The atmosphere in the car shifted instantly, the casual warmth evaporating into a heavy, thick tension.
"Always," Y/N murmured, her voice dropping an octave, losing all its public facade. She reached out, her fingers trailing slowly over the console until her knuckles brushed against Daniela’s knee.
As they got closer to each other, someone knocked at the car's window, interrupting them,
“Y/n, is that you?”
“W-we should go, I'm sorry.”
Daniela straightened up and snapped out of it and chuckled at Y/n's embarrassed look.
“Yes, I'm sorry, I'm sorry,” Y/n says to the stranger.
Y/n steps out and opens Daniela's door for her.
As they made their way toward the small restaurant, the stranger accompanied them, her animated voice carrying a stream of rapid Italian that Daniela could not decipher. Despite the language barrier, the tone and cadence suggested a firm, but affectionate reprimand directed at Y/n, the lively exchange adding a distinctly authentic energy to their approach and situating Daniela within the vibrant, familial atmosphere that characterized the restaurant’s arrival.
As they sit at the small restaurant, Y/n apologizes again.
“Daniela, I'm so sorry about that.”
“It's fine, Y/n.” Daniela doesn't ask who that is right away, not wanting to intrude.
“That's Giulia, my dad's friend,” Y/N explained, the fondness returning to her tone as she spoke about her almost like family. “She recognized the car and came over to check on us.” From the way Giulia had fussed over them and gave Y/N a half-serious lecture, it was clear she had looked out for her since she was a kid.
The restaurant was empty save for the two of them, tucked away in a quiet corner booth that smelled of old wood and fresh basil. Giulia set down a bottle of house red and two plates of steaming, homemade pasta before disappearing back into the kitchen with a knowing wink, leaving them in absolute privacy.
For the next hour, the conversation flowed with a dangerous kind of ease. Away from the flashing cameras, Y/N was captivating. She shared ridiculous stories of her dad trying to teach her how to drive a manual road car as a kid, and in turn, listened intently as Daniela talked about the world of magazine publishing.
But as the plates were cleared and the wine bottle emptied, the easy banter began to stretch into heavy, lingering silences.
Daniela traced the rim of her wine glass, her eyes dropping to the way Y/N’s strong, veiny hands— hands that controlled an absolute rocket of a car at unbelievable speeds— were casually resting on the dark wood of the table. When she looked up, she found Y/n already watching her, her hazel eyes dark and intensely focused under the dim, warm amber lighting.
"You're not asking any more questions, Miss Daniela," Y/n murmured, her voice dropping to a low, quiet register that seemed to vibrate straight through the space between them.
"I'm off the clock," Daniela replied softly, her heart hammering against her ribs at the sudden shift in the air.
"Good." Y/N slid her hand across the table, her long fingers slowly wrapping around Daniela's wrist, her thumb pressing right over the racing pulse point there.
"Because I've spent the last hour trying to focus on dinner, when all I really wanted was to have you to myself. No more waiting?"
Daniela's heart hammered against her ribs, but there was no hesitation as she leaned forward, closing the remaining distance between them. "No more waiting."