O Hi, could you write a story where Yn is Sebastian Vettel's 2 or 3 year old daughter and she's in love with Raikkonen (obviously a childhood crush)?And it would be like her following him (Raikkonen) everywhere, asking to be picked up by him.
DSorry if it's not written correctly, English is not my first language.
🏁 “The Iceman and the Tiny Shadow”
Pairing: Platonic!F1 Grid x Toddler!Vettel!Reader x Father!Sebastian Vettel
Genre: Wholesome fluff, paddock humor, childhood crush, found family
A/N: Set during the years when Sebastian Vettel and Kimi Räikkönen were both racing on the grid together. Imagine the paddock discovering that a tiny Vettel has decided the quietest man in Formula 1 is her favorite person in the world.
The Tiny Vettel
Everyone in the paddock knows two things about Sebastian Vettel’s daughter.
She is two years old and fearless.
She has decided that Kimi Räikkönen is the greatest human being alive.
No one understands why.
Not the drivers.
Not the engineers.
Not even Seb.
But the moment she waddles into the paddock in her tiny Ferrari jacket, there is only one name on her lips.
“Kimi?”
The Beginning
It starts innocently.
One afternoon in the Ferrari garage, you’re sitting on a toolbox swinging your little legs while your dad talks with engineers.
Across the garage stands Kimi.
Arms crossed.
Quiet.
Expression neutral.
You stare.
He stares back.
Your eyes widen like you’ve just discovered treasure.
You slide off the toolbox and toddle directly toward him.
“Up.”
No greeting.
No hesitation.
Just up.
Seb nearly drops a tablet.
“Kleine Maus— wait—”
Too late.
Kimi looks down at the tiny human tugging on his race suit.
“…Okay.”
He picks you up.
Just like that.
And apparently that decision seals his fate forever.
The Shadow Begins
From that day forward, the paddock notices something strange.
Wherever Kimi goes…
There is a very small Vettel following him.
He walks toward the motorhome.
Tiny footsteps behind him.
He heads to the drivers’ briefing.
Little voice calling:
“Kimi! Wait!”
He tries to grab a coffee.
A tiny hand grabs his sleeve.
“Up again.”
And Kimi—who barely talks to grown adults—just sighs and lifts you onto his hip like it’s completely normal.
The Grid Finds Out
The other drivers notice immediately.
Daniel nearly chokes laughing the first time he sees it.
“Mate,” he says to Seb, pointing.
“Your kid’s got a crush.”
Seb groans.
“She’s two.”
Daniel shrugs.
“Still counts.”
Lewis crouches beside you once.
“Hey, you wanna come say hi?”
You shake your head firmly.
“Kimi.”
Lewis laughs.
“Fair enough.”
Kimi’s New Job
Kimi pretends not to care.
But the paddock starts noticing things.
Like how he automatically slows his walking speed when you follow him.
Or how he lifts you up before you even ask now.
Or how he lets you sit in his lap during quiet garage moments while he drinks coffee.
You play with the zipper of his suit.
“Kimi car fast?”
“Yes.”
“Vroom?”
“Yes.”
Conversation over.
You are thrilled.
Sebastian’s Confusion
Sebastian watches this whole situation with increasing disbelief.
One afternoon he kneels beside you.
“You know Papa drives a race car too, right?”
You nod.
“Kimi faster.”
Seb sputters.
“Excuse me?”
Across the garage, Kimi smirks just slightly.
The Drivers Tease Him
The grid absolutely refuses to let this go.
Daniel: “She’s chosen her favorite uncle.”
Lewis: “You’ve been replaced, Seb.”
Even Fernando laughs.
“You cannot compete with the Iceman.”
Seb sighs dramatically.
“I carried her for nine months.”
Daniel corrects him.
“…Your wife did.”
Seb points accusingly at Kimi.
“You did nothing!”
Kimi shrugs.
“She likes me.”
The Famous Lap Walk
One Sunday before a race, the drivers walk the track.
Kimi is halfway down the straight when he hears the familiar tiny voice behind him.
“Kimi wait!”
You’re waddling across the asphalt in your little sneakers.
Seb is jogging behind you, completely defeated.
Kimi stops.
Turns around.
And automatically crouches so you can climb into his arms.
You point down the track.
“Walk!”
So now Kimi Räikkönen—world champion, professional racing driver—is carrying a toddler around the circuit while the rest of the grid laughs behind him.
The Purest Moment
After one race, Kimi climbs out of his car and heads toward the garage.
You’re already there.
Waiting.
The second you see him you sprint (as much as a toddler can sprint).
“KIMI!”
He kneels just in time to catch you.
You wrap your tiny arms around his neck.
“I watched!”
He nods.
“Good.”
Then you whisper proudly:
“Kimi best.”
Behind you, Sebastian clutches his chest dramatically.
“I’m right here!”
You wave at him.
“Hi Papa.”
Then go back to hugging Kimi.
The entire Ferrari garage erupts in laughter.
The Unspoken Truth
Kimi will never admit it.
But everyone sees it.
The quiet patience.
The tiny smiles when you ramble.
The way he always makes sure you’re safe before handing you back to Seb.
And whenever someone jokes about your little crush…
Kimi just shrugs.
“She’s good company.”
Which, coming from Kimi Räikkönen, is basically the highest compliment in the world.
The Legend of the Tiny Shadow
For the rest of those seasons on the grid, the paddock gets used to the sight.
A legendary Formula 1 driver.
And the tiny Vettel who decided he was her favorite person.
No one questions it anymore.
Because honestly?
The Iceman having a tiny, giggling shadow everywhere he goes might be the cutest thing the paddock has ever seen. 🏁
can i request a kimi räikkönen fic? basically him and the reader have been together for years but kept it quiet, not necessarily a secret. anyway, the world finds out and criticises them. kimi is his icy self to the world but is really protective of her and is soft with her. maybe she is a driver who hasn’t retired yet. i love your work and i hope you are having a good week ❤️❤️
The Only Noise That Matters - KR
served with: kimi räikkönen x fem!driver!reader
chef's note: for seven years, Y/N and Kimi mastered the art of "hiding in plain sight." They were competitors on the track and partners in the dark—sharing a life that the cameras never saw. But when a leaked photo from a private grocery store shatters their carefully constructed silence. Because to the public, he’s a wall of ice. But to Y/N, he’s the only warmth in a very loud world.
portion size: 3.4k
Spa-Francorchamps, 2019
The rain in the Ardennes Forest didn't just fall; it conquered. You were standing under the awning of the FIA hospitality building, shivering in your team kit. It was your rookie season, and the weight of a difficult qualifying session was sitting heavy in your chest. You’d missed Q3 by a tenth of a second, and the media was already sharpening their knives, wondering if you were "too soft" for the grid.
"It’s just water," a low, gravelly voice said behind you.
You didn't need to turn around to know it was Kimi. He was leaning against the brick wall, a cap pulled low over his eyes, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else on Earth.
"It’s not the water, Kimi," you sighed, hugging your arms. "It’s the timing. I messed up."
Kimi pushed off the wall and stood beside you, staring out at the grey mist covering the track. "Everyone messes up. Most of them are just too stupid to admit it. You're fast. Stop overthinking. It’s a car, not a space shuttle."
You looked at him, surprised. Kimi Räikkönen didn’t usually give pep talks. He barely gave interviews. "Thanks. I think."
"Bwoah, don't thank me. It's annoying," he muttered, but he didn't walk away. Instead, he reached into his pocket, pulled out a small, wrapped chocolate from the hospitality tray, and handed it to you. "Eat. You look like you’re going to faint, and I don’t want to carry you."
Three months later, the "talks" between you had shifted from racing lines to late-night dinners in obscure towns near the circuits. You were sitting in a tiny, family-run trattoria outside of Maranello, the kind of place where the owner didn't know a front wing from a pizza peel.
"They're going to find out eventually," you said, watching him methodically dismantle a plate of pasta. "The photographers, the PR teams... it’s a small world, Kimi."
Kimi looked up, his blue eyes piercingly direct. "Why? We aren't doing a show. I drive, you drive. What happens when the engines are off is our business."
"You really think we can keep this quiet?"
"I've been ignoring the media for twenty years," Kimi said simply, reaching across the table to take your hand. His thumb traced a slow, soothing circle over your knuckles. "It’s easy. We don't talk about it. We don't post the pictures. We just... exist. If they don't see it, they can't ruin it."
You looked at his hand on yours—the first time he’d initiated physical contact in public, even in this empty restaurant. It felt like a vow.
"Okay," you whispered. "A secret, then."
"Not a secret," Kimi corrected, his voice softening into that rare, tender register he only used when it was just the two of you. "Just ours."
The next day at the track, you passed him in the paddock. A swarm of cameras was following him, and a journalist was shouting questions about his retirement plans.
You walked by, your heart hammering in your chest, bracing for... something.
Kimi didn't even blink. He walked past you as if you were a stranger, his face a mask of bored indifference. He didn't look back. He didn't smile. To the world, you were just another driver on the grid.
But as you passed, his hand swung naturally by his side, and for a split second, his knuckles brushed against yours—a deliberate, hidden ghost of a touch that sent a spark up your arm.
You kept walking, a small, private smile tugging at your lips. He was right. As long as it was just yours, they couldn't touch it.
Monaco, 2022
Monaco was always a nightmare for privacy. The paddock was so cramped that you could practically hear the heartbeat of the driver in the garage next to yours. You were in your fourth season now, no longer a rookie, but a consistent points-finisher.
During the Saturday qualifying session, the unthinkable happened. Coming out of the Swimming Pool chicane, your rear tire clipped the barrier, sending your car spinning into a violent impact with the wall at Tabac.
The world went silent for a second. Then, the radio crackled.
"Y/N, are you okay? Confirm you are okay."
You gasped, the air knocked out of your lungs. "I'm... I'm fine. Just... shaken."
Kimi was three cars behind you on his flying lap when the red flag came out. Usually, when there was a crash, Kimi would simply drive back to the pits, hop out of the car, and go find a gelato.
But this time, as he drove past the wreckage of your car, his hands tightened on the steering wheel until his knuckles went white. He saw the safety marshals hovering around your cockpit. He didn't see you move yet.
Back in the pits, the cameras were everywhere. Kimi climbed out of his Alfa Romeo, his face a mask of iron. A young, rising star on the grid—Zhou Guanyu—was standing nearby, watching the replay on the big screens.
"That was a nasty hit for Y/N," Zhou remarked, looking over at Kimi. "She’s lucky she walked away from that. Do you think her suspension failed?"
Kimi didn't answer. He didn't even look at Zhou. He was walking straight toward the medical center, his pace faster than anyone had ever seen him move outside of a car.
"Hey, Kimi! Media pen is the other way!" a PR officer called out.
"Leave me alone," Kimi growled, not slowing down.
Inside the medical center, you were sitting on the edge of the exam table, an ice pack pressed to your bruised shoulder. The door burst open, and Kimi walked in. He didn't care that there were two medics in the room.
He stopped in front of you, his chest heaving slightly. For a long moment, he just looked at you, his blue eyes searching yours for any sign of a concussion or hidden pain.
"I'm okay, Kimi," you whispered, reaching out with your good arm.
The medics, sensing a shift in the atmosphere that they didn't quite understand, stepped into the hallway to "check paperwork."
The moment the door clicked shut, the Iceman melted. Kimi stepped between your knees, leaning down to press his forehead against yours. His hands came up to frame your face, his touch so light it was as if he were afraid you’d break.
"You're a move-on, you know that?" he murmured, his voice thick with a rare, raw emotion. "I saw the car. I thought..."
"I'm tough, remember?" You managed a weak smile, sliding your hand into his.
"Don't do it again," he muttered, his thumb brushing over your temple. "I don't like it."
He stayed there for five minutes, just holding you in the silence of the medical room—a stark contrast to the roar of the engines outside.
When Kimi finally walked out, Zhou was still lingering near the entrance, leaning against a stack of tires. He looked at Kimi, then at the closed door of the medical center.
"You're very worried about her, Kimi," Zhou said, his voice laced with a knowing smirk. "I didn't know you two were such... close friends."
Kimi stopped. He turned his head slowly, giving the younger driver a look so cold it could have frozen the Mediterranean.
"She’s a colleague," Kimi said, his voice back to its flat, uninterested monotone. "And you’re a gossip. One of those things is useful on a race track. The other is a waste of my time."
He walked away without another word, leaving Zhou blinking in confusion. The secret was safe for now, but the ice was getting thinner.
Helsinki, Winter Break 2024
The leak didn't happen at a race. It didn't happen in the high-octane chaos of a paddock. It happened in the quiet, frozen silence of a Finnish grocery store.
You were wearing an oversized hoodie and a beanie, laughing as Kimi argued with a self-checkout machine over a bag of licorice. He had his arm draped naturally around your shoulders, and at one point, he leaned down to press a lingering kiss to the side of your head. It was a mundane, beautiful moment of domesticity.
But a tourist with a high-resolution smartphone had been standing three aisles over.
By the time you landed in Abu Dhabi for the season opener, the photos had gone viral. "The Iceman’s Secret Flame," the headlines screamed. But as the hours passed, the tone shifted from curiosity to cynicism.
Walking into the paddock on Thursday felt like walking into a firing squad. The cameras weren't just following you; they were stalking you.
"Y/N! How long has Kimi been 'consulting' on your career?" one reporter shouted, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
"Is it true he threatened to leave the sport if you didn't get a seat?" another yelled.
You kept your head down, your hands shaking slightly inside your team jacket. You had earned your place. You had the points. You had the podiums. But in the eyes of the world, you had suddenly shrunk into a "plus-one."
You reached the back of the hospitality unit, slipping inside the small, private room where Kimi was already sitting, staring at a monitor. He didn't look up when you entered, but his jaw was set tight—a telltale sign that he was furious.
"They're saying I'm a fraud, Kimi," you said, your voice small. "They're saying you bought my seat."
Kimi stood up slowly. He walked over to you, his boots heavy on the floor. He didn't say anything at first; he just wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into his chest so tightly you could hear his heartbeat. It was steady, slow, and utterly unbothered by the world outside.
"Let them talk," he murmured into your hair. "They're bored. They want a story because they aren't fast enough to make their own."
"But the team—"
"I’ve already talked to the team," Kimi said, pulling back to look at you. His eyes were like blue fire. "If anyone in that garage treats you differently, they deal with me. And they know I don’t like talking."
Later that day, Kimi was scheduled for the main FIA press conference. Usually, he gave one-word answers. Today, the room was packed to the rafters.
"Kimi," a journalist began, "the photos from Finland suggest a very long-term relationship with Y/N. Don't you think keeping this a secret for seven years was a bit... deceptive to the fans? Especially considering you both compete on the same track?"
Kimi leaned into the microphone. He didn't blink. The "Iceman" persona was at a level of absolute zero.
"It wasn't a secret," Kimi said, his voice flat and dangerous. "We just didn't tell you. There's a difference."
"But her career—"
"Her career is her career," Kimi interrupted, his voice rising just enough to silence the room. "She has more talent in her left thumb than most of you have in your entire bodies. If you want to talk about racing, talk about racing. If you want to talk about my private life... go buy a magazine and leave us alone. I'm here to drive, not to explain my life to people who don't matter."
He stood up before the moderator could even call for the next question. He walked out of the room, leaving a stunned silence behind him.
That night, back at the hotel, you found him out on the balcony, looking out over the Yas Marina circuit. He had two drinks waiting on the table.
You walked up behind him, sliding your arms around his waist. "You were scary today."
Kimi turned in your arms, a ghost of a smirk playing on his lips. He reached out, tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear with a hand that was incredibly soft for someone who had just dismantled the world’s media.
"I don't like people touching what's mine," he said simply. "You're the only part of this sport that isn't fake, Y/N. I won't let them turn you into a headline."
He kissed you then—not the quick, hidden peck of the last seven years, but a deep, certain kiss that claimed everything.
"Tomorrow," he whispered against your lips, "we go out there. You beat me in Sector 1, I beat you in Sector 3. And then we go home and forget they exist."
Interlagos, Brazil
The humidity was thick enough to choke on, and the tension in the paddock had reached a boiling point. It had been three weeks since the world found out, and the "distraction" narrative hadn't died down. If anything, it had gotten louder.
As you were pulling on your fireproof undershirt in the back of the garage, Zhou—the driver who had been whispering since Monaco—walked by with a smirk.
"Big day, Y/N," he drawled, leaning against the doorframe. "Better make sure Kimi doesn't let you pass him today. It would look bad for the 'integrity' of the sport, wouldn't it?"
Before you could even think of a retort, a shadow loomed over Zhou’s shoulder. Kimi didn't say a word; he just stood there, his arms crossed over his chest, his blue eyes fixed on the back of Zhou’s head with a cold, predatory stillness.
Zhou turned, saw Kimi, and the smirk vanished instantly. He mumbled something about a briefing and scurried away.
Kimi didn't look at him as he left. He walked over to you, reaching out to straighten the collar of your racing suit. His fingers lingered there for a second, a gentle contrast to the intensity of his gaze.
"He’s slow," Kimi said simply. "Ignore the slow ones. They’re only behind you so they can see your rear wing."
You laughed, the nerves finally dissipating. "I'm going to beat you today, Kimi."
"Bwoah," he shrugged, a tiny, private smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. "Try it. If you win, I don't have to do the press conference. That’s a good deal for me."
The race was a blur of rain, spray, and adrenaline. You were in a flow state, carving through the field, your car feeling like an extension of your own body. By lap 60, the order was clear: the championship leader in P1, Kimi in P2, and you in P3.
For ten laps, the two of you were a synchronized unit. You knew his braking points; he knew your lines. You weren't helping each other—you were pushing each other. The gap to P4 was growing by seconds every lap. The critics who said you were a distraction were silenced by the sheer, undeniable speed of the two cars running nose-to-tail.
When the checkered flag waved, you had secured your first podium of the season. Kimi had secured his fifty-thousandth (or so it felt).
Inside the cool-down room, away from the cameras for just a few seconds, the adrenaline was still humming. You took off your helmet, your hair damp with sweat, and leaned against the wall, gasping for air.
Kimi walked straight to you. He didn't care about the water bottles or the towels. He grabbed the front of your suit and pulled you into a fierce, sweaty hug.
"You did it," he whispered into your ear, his voice rough with pride. "Top three. No excuses now."
"We did it," you corrected, pulling back to look at him.
He reached up, using the sleeve of his own suit to wipe a smudge of sweat off your forehead. His touch was so tender, so incredibly soft, that it felt like a secret even though you were standing in a room that would be broadcast to millions in thirty seconds.
"Let’s go give them something to talk about," he murmured.
As you stepped out onto the podium, the crowd erupted. The boos from earlier in the weekend were drowned out by the sheer spectacle of what had just happened.
When the trophies were handed out and the champagne started flying, Kimi didn't follow the usual protocol. He walked over to your step on the podium, drenched in sparkling wine, and draped his arm around your shoulders.
He didn't look at the cameras. He didn't look at the dignitaries. He looked at you, a clear, defiant statement to every critic, every journalist, and every doubter.
"Is this the 'distracted' driver?" his posture seemed to ask the world.
Later, as you walked back toward the motorhomes, Kimi stopped you in the dark space between the trucks. He pulled you into a quiet corner, his hands finding your waist.
"The world knows now," you said, looking up at him in the moonlight.
"Let them know," Kimi said, leaning down to press a slow, deep kiss to your lips—one that finally told the whole story. "I’m retired from hiding. But I’m never retiring from you."
He pulled his cap down low, his "Iceman" mask clicking back into place as a photographer turned the corner, but he didn't let go of your hand. He led you through the crowd, silent and immovable, protecting his world within a world.
Porkkala, Finland – Three Months Later
The silence in Finland was different from the silence in a cockpit. In the car, silence meant the engine had failed. Here, at the edge of the frozen Baltic Sea, silence meant peace.
The house was a masterpiece of glass and dark wood, tucked so deeply into the pine trees that even the most dedicated paparazzi couldn't find it without a snowmobile and a death wish. Inside, the only sound was the crackle of birch logs in the massive stone fireplace.
You were curled up on the oversized linen sofa, wrapped in one of Kimi’s thick wool sweaters that came down to your mid-thigh. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, the world was a blur of blue-grey twilight and falling snow.
A heavy pair of wool socks padded across the floor. Kimi appeared, holding two steaming mugs of coffee. He wasn’t wearing a team kit, a watch, or a hat. His hair was messy, and he looked younger—relaxed in a way the world never got to see.
He set the mugs down and practically fell onto the sofa next to you, pulling your legs over his lap without a word.
"Coffee," he grunted, nodding toward the table.
"Thank you, Kimi." You reached out, taking a sip. It was exactly how you liked it. "It’s so quiet. I think my ears are still ringing from Abu Dhabi."
Kimi leaned his head back against the cushion, his eyes closing. "No more planes for a while. No more people asking stupid questions. Just the trees. The trees don't want an interview."
You smiled, leaning over to rest your head on his chest. You could hear the slow, steady rhythm of his heart. To everyone else, Kimi was a statue—unmoved, unbothered, and cold. But beneath the wool sweater, his skin was warm, and his hand moved instinctively to stroke your hair, his fingers tangling in the strands with a gentleness that still made your breath hitch.
"The media is finally moving on to someone else," you murmured. "I saw an article today about the new rookie. They’ve stopped calling me a distraction."
Kimi’s hand stilled for a second. "I told you. They have the memory of a goldfish. They find something shiny and forget everything else." He opened one eye, looking down at you. "Are you happy?"
It was a simple question, but from Kimi, it was everything. He didn't care about the trophies in the hall or the millions in the bank. He cared about the answer to that one question.
"I am," you said softly. "I’m very happy."
Kimi shifted, shifting you so you were tucked firmly under his arm. He pulled a heavy wool blanket over both of you, creating a small, private fortress against the winter outside.
"Good," he said, his voice dropping to that low, private rumble. "Because I’m not going back to the way it was. If we go to a gala, we go together. If we go to the podium, we go together. No more separate cars. No more 'just colleagues.'"
He tilted your chin up, his blue eyes searching yours. There was no ice in them now—only a fierce, protective devotion.
"You’re my person, Y/N," he whispered. "The world can watch if they want. But they don't get to come inside."
He kissed you then, a slow, lingering kiss that tasted like coffee and home. Outside, the wind howled through the pines, and the snow piled up against the glass, burying the tracks of anyone who might try to follow you.
But inside, by the fire, the Iceman was finally warm. And for the first time in seven years, you didn't have to hide the fire, either.
#project hail mary
#cats of tumblr
#lana del rey
