Ice Queen: Ice Princess
Kimi Räikkönen x daughter!Reader
(Future) Max Verstappen x Räikkönen!Reader
Summary: before taking F1 by storm as the Ice Queen, you rose up the ranks of single-seater racing (a prologue of sorts)
Series Masterlist
How It All Began: Age 5
The air smells of rubber and petrol as you approach the karting track, your small hand wrapped securely in your father’s. His face is a mask of nonchalance but the slight tug of his lips gives away his excitement.
You look up at him, mirroring his stoic expression. “Papa, is this like your big car?”
Kimi glances down, raising an eyebrow. “Sort of but smaller. And no fancy buttons.”
You stare at the kart, then back at him, your tiny face serious. “Will it go brrr?”
He laughs, a sound seldom heard by the media but common enough for you. “Yes, it will go brrr.”
Placing you into the seat, he starts explaining the basics. “This is the steering wheel. It’s what you use to turn the kart.”
You grab it, imitating every race start you’ve seen. “Like this?” You make a vroom sound.
He chuckles. “Exactly. And remember, it’s not just about going fast. It’s about control.”
You squint at the track then back at him. “Will there be red flags?”
“No, no red flags today. Just us,” he says, fighting back a grin.
You nod sagely, taking in the information. “Okay, Papa. But what if someone wants to overtake?”
He leans in, whispering conspiratorially, “Then you do what I do.”
You pause in a replica of Kimi’s thoughtful pose. “Don’t let them?”
He winks, “Exactly.”
After strapping you in securely, he shows you how to start the kart and you begin to drive. The wind rustles your hair and excitement bubbles as you make your way around the track for the first time.
He shouts after you, “Hold the wheel tight!”
“I know what I’m doing!�� You yell back.
As you circle back to him, he crouches down, ready to help you stop the kart. “So, how was it?”
You smirk, “Okay, I guess.”
He pulls you into a hug. “You really are just like me, aren’t you?”
You beam up at him, pride evident in your young eyes. “Yep, Papa. We’re a team.”
He ruffles your hair, a soft smile on his lips. “The best team.”
Signing with Prema Racing: Age 16
“Sixteen and in Formula 3, huh?” Kimi muses, sipping his coffee as he leans against the kitchen counter. “When I was sixteen, I think I was—”
“Chasing snowmobiles in Finland?” You interrupt, smirking as you take a bite of your toast.
Your father rolls his eyes playfully. “Very funny. So, Prema?”
You nod, trying to play it cool but your excitement still shines through. “Yeah, they want me for next season.”
He raises an eyebrow, “Moving up from F4 to F3 is a big transition. It’s faster, more competitive.”
You lean against the counter opposite him, mimicking his casual stance. “I know, Papa. More buttons.”
Your father chuckles, “A lot more buttons. And more media.”
You groan, “Oh, not the media. Can’t I just drive?”
“Trust me, I’ve tried that approach,” Kimi smirks. “But they’re like mosquitoes. Persistent and out for blood.”
You consider this for a moment. “Maybe I can give one-word answers like you do?”
He grins, “It’s an art form. But sure, give it a try.”
A notification pings on your phone. It’s an email from Prema, detailing your training sessions and media days. “Speaking of which,” you show the screen to Kimi, “Media training next week.”
Kimi makes a face, “A room full of people teaching you how to not be yourself.”
You laugh, “Should I tell them I already have all the training I need from the master himself?”
He winks, “They won’t know what hit them.”
You put your dishes in the sink, your thoughts racing ahead to the upcoming season. “You think I’ll do well, Papa?”
Your father walks over, placing a hand on your shoulder. His face is serious but his eyes are warm. “I know you will. Remember to enjoy the journey, not just the destination.”
You smile, pulling him into a hug, “Thanks, Papa. I promise to make you proud.”
He hugs you back, his voice a soft murmur in your ear, “You already have.”
Formula 3: Age 16
The roar of engines, the buzzing of the crowd, the palpable tension in the air — this is it. Your first Formula 3 race.
“So,” your father begins, leaning against your garage, “Nervous?”
You shoot him a look, trying to channel his signature coolness. “Do I look nervous?”
He tilts his head, a playful smirk growing. “You’re fidgeting with your gloves. You never do that.”
You glance down at your hands and laugh, “Okay, maybe a little. But can you blame me?”
Kimi shrugs, “It’s your first F3 race. If you weren’t at least a bit nervous, I would think you’re a robot.”
A rival driver, Dan, walks by, giving you a condescending wink. “Ready to eat my dust?”
You roll your eyes, matching his bravado with ease. “Only dust I’ll be seeing is from the podium.”
Your father snorts, “Well played.”
After a few minutes, it’s time to suit up. As you’re putting on your helmet, Kimi leans in close, his voice firm yet comforting. “Remember, it’s not just about speed. Strategy matters. Don’t be rash. You know what to do and how to race smart.”
You smirk, “Who do you think you’re talking to?”
He grins, patting your helmet, “Just checking.”
As you settle into your car, the weight of the moment hits you. All the years, the training, the early mornings, and late nights — it lead to this.
The race is a blur of adrenaline. Overtakes, near misses, and strategy calls. Every now and then, you hear your father’s voice in your earpiece, offering advice or just the occasional sarcastic remark. You’re not sure how legal that is but Kimi has never been one to care much for authority.
You pass the checkered flag, a respectable fourth place finish in your first race.
Pulling back in, you climb out of your car both exhausted and exhilarated in equal measure. Your father approaches, a proud smile on his face. “Fourth place! That’s solid.”
You lean against your car, catching your breath. “Could’ve been better.”
Kimi raises an eyebrow, “Could’ve been worse.”
You laugh, “Always the optimist?”
He smirks, “Always realistic.”
A reporter approaches, mic in hand. “Quick word about your first race in F3?”
You channel your inner Kimi, giving the shortest answer possible. “It was fine.”
The reporter blinks, taken aback by your brevity. “Oh, um, any challenges?”
You shrug, “It’s racing. There are always challenges.”
Your father, watching from the side, can’t contain his laughter. As the reporter leaves, slightly flustered, he walks over, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. “You really are my daughter.”
You grin, “Was there ever any doubt?”
Moving Up to Formula 2: Age 18
“Papa,” you begin as you both lounge in the living room, “I have news.”
Your father looks up from his magazine, one eyebrow raised in expectation. “You finally cleaned your room?”
You roll your eyes. “No. And thanks for the vote of confidence. I got the call. I’m moving up to Formula 2!”
He sets the magazine down, his eyes scanning your face. “That’s big. Ready for it?”
You shrug nonchalantly, a gesture you picked up from him. “It’s just another race car, right?”
Kimi chuckles, “In a faster race car. With even more buttons.”
You groan dramatically, “Great. Just what I needed. More buttons.”
He smirks, “You’ll manage. You always do.”
Training days for F2 are intense. New circuits, new challenges, and, of course, more media attention. As you take a break between testing sessions, your father walks over with a bottle of water.
“Thanks,” you take a long sip of it.
He leans against a nearby wall, watching the other drivers on the track. “How does the car feel?”
You pause to think about it. “A bit more aggressive than the F3. But I’ll adapt.”
Kimi nods, “I know you will.”
A few days later, it is time for your first F2 race. The pit lane is a frenzy of activity with teams making last-minute checks and media personnel swarming about. As you are getting ready to climb into your car, a reporter thrusts a microphone in your face.
“Your first race in F2! Nervous about the competition?”
You don’t miss a beat, “No. They should be nervous about me.”
Your father tries to suppress a laugh but fails miserably. The reporter seems slightly taken aback, “Any personal strategies for today’s race?”
You look straight into the camera, “Drive fast. Don’t crash.”
The reporter, slightly flustered, thanks you and moves on. Kimi has never looked prouder.
The race is a whirlwind of excitement. The faster cars, the tighter competition, it’s all exhilarating. You don’t finish first but you hold your own, making some impressive overtakes and defending your position fiercely.
Your father glares at a cameraman until he turns the lens away from the two of you and then pulls you into a tight hug. “Not bad, rookie.”
You smirk, “Rookie? I’ve been racing since I was five, remember?”
He chuckles, ruffling your sweaty hair, “Yeah but this is F2. Welcome to the big leagues.”
You melt further into him, soaking the moment up. “Thanks, Papa. Here’s to many more races.”
He nods, wrapping an arm around your shoulder, “And many more one-liners.”
Formula 2 Champion: Age 19
“So,” your father starts, watching as you prepare for the final race of the F2 season, “are you ready to make history today?”
You smirk, pulling on your gloves. “History is just another record waiting to be broken.”
Kimi chuckles, “You really have a line for everything.”
You shoot him a mock glare, "Look who’s talking.”
The race is a high-stakes event. You lead the championship but need a win today to cement your position and make you the first woman to claim the F2 title.
The cars roar to life and you can almost taste the tension in the pit lane. Your father leans in, his voice steady despite the chaos all around you. “Drive like you always do. Focused and fearless.”
You nod in determination. “Got it, Papa.”
The race is an intense battle of strategy, speed, and skill. Every overtake, every defensive maneuver, every millisecond counts. When you see the checkered flag waving and cross the finish line in first place, the weight of your achievement truly begins to sink in.
Emerging from your car, you swiftly climb onto the nose and raise your arms triumphantly, soaking in the jubilation around you. The barriers surrounding parc fermé are immediately swarmed by your team and reporters, but through the crowd, you spot your father. The pride in his eyes is unmistakable and he even smiles publicly despite all the cameras undoubtably capturing the moment. He pushes through, pulling you into a tight hug as the team erupts in cheers around you.
“You did it,” his voice is uncharacteristically choked with emotion.
You grin, pulling back to look at him. “We did it.”
The post-race interview is a blur of questions about your historic win but one question stands out. “How does it feel to be the first woman to win the F2 championship?”
With a sly glance towards your father, you reply, “I didn’t set out to be the first woman to win it. I set out to win it.”
Your father lets out a loud laugh, drawing the attention of the reporters much to his chagrin. They turn their mics to him, “Kimi, thoughts on your daughter's achievement?”
He looks at you, his signature deadpan expression in place, “She’s okay, I guess.”
You roll your eyes, nudging him playfully, but the hint of a smile remaining on his face despite the media surrounding both of you reveals his pride.
The celebration that night is a mix of laughter, vodka, and memories. As you both sit, watching the team revel in the moment, Kimi turns to you. “I always knew you had it in you. But seeing it ... seeing you out there today … I’m beyond proud.”
You smile, resting your head on his shoulder as the liquor begins to take its toll. “Couldn’t have done it without you, Papa.”
When You Really Made It: Age 19
“You’re looking at that paper like it’s written in another language,” your father comments while sipping his morning coffee.
You glance up, the dual contracts from Red Bull Racing and Scuderia AlphaTauri spread out on the desk in front of you. “Sure feels like it. Formula 1! Can you believe it?”
He smirks, “Considering you’re my daughter and I taught you everything you know? Absolutely.”
You roll your eyes but can’t suppress a smile. “How modest of you, Papa.”
A knock on the door interrupts the moment. It’s Christian Horner and Franz Tost. "Ready to discuss the details?"
You look to Kimi, who gives a nod. “Let’s do it.”
As the team principals explains the nuances, clauses, and expectations, you occasionally exchange amused glances with your father, particularly when terms get overly convoluted.
After they leave, you sink into a chair, decidedly overwhelmed. “This is big.”
Kimi sits across from you. “It’s a step up. But it’s where you belong.”
You look at the contract again and then at your father. “Think I can handle the pressure?”
He raises an eyebrow, “Are you asking me or telling me?”
You smirk, “Maybe a bit of both.”
“That’s the spirit.”
The next few days are a whirlwind of race suit fittings, team briefings, and media obligations. The latter being your least favorite part.
During one press conference, a reporter asks, “How does it feel to be following in your father’s footsteps?”
You press your lips together, “I’m not. I’m making my own.”
Another inquires, “Any fears about competing at this level?”
You shoot him a deadpan look, “Fear is for the drivers who see me coming in their mirrors.”
Kimi, watching from a shadowed corner, struggles to keep a straight face and walks up to you with the tiniest of smiles that anyone else would miss after the presser, “You really have a knack for this.”
You smile back, “I learned from the best.”
Taglist: @ironmaiden1313 @ilovedreming @jamie2305 @reidsworld @notyouraveragemochii @faithm120601
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Eisteddfod Chairs: Pick Your Winner!
It's almost June! Nearly time to reveal the 2023 Chair! So come, gather round Tumblrs, let me tell you of the furniture-based customs of my people
So Wales has been celebrating Eisteddfodau (festivals of poetry, music, and disco dancing), in some form or another, since at least the 1100s, when Lord Rhys of Dinefwr had one all formal-like and made it into a big fun party and that. The word basically means 'sitting place', and probably refers to the way people in summer would gather round the twmpath in the village to listen to bards that passed through and drink mead and shout 'hurrah!' a lot. Amazingly, this is not where the Chair Thing comes from.
Part of Welsh history is the Bardic Age, and it was custom for bards to travel the country and visit the courts of assorted gentry types (also normal people's houses and taverns and twmpaths but let's stay on topic) and play for them. If the lord paid well, great; if not, the bard would write a Super Mean Song about them and sing it everywhere, so they were pretty well treated.
But if they were particularly good, rather than making them play for the WHOLE meal, the lord would offer them a chair at the table to join in the feast as a guest, rather than a worker, and THAT is where the Chair Thing comes from.
Anyway that's preamble to say that every year in the biggest Eisteddfod of all - the Eisteddfod Genedlaethol - the highest honour awarded goes to the Prifardd - the bard who writes the winning cywydd (super complex Welsh poetry WE DON'T HAVE TIME TO EXPLAIN ALL OF THIS). And the prize for writing the winning cywydd is that you are awarded, you guessed it, the Chair.
Now these Chairs (capital C, please, we like a bit of Fantasy Novel Capitalisation and for this cultural reason I will never understand people who complain about it) are unique. They are thrones. They are carved each year by one chosen carpenter, who crafts a one-of-a-kind Chair with symbolism and that, never to be replicated. They usually have the year carved on, but otherwise, they vary wildly in aesthetic and symbolism. In a No Award year (because Eisteddfod judges don't subscribe to the Western idea that there HAS to be a first, second and third place; if no one is good enough there is no award, and I have seen choir competitions for seven year olds where there was no first or third place but there were two choirs in joint second), the Chair is sent back to the carpenter who carved it, and they get to keep it. In a year where the bard died before the ceremony, it is draped in black, and given to next of kin.
(That has only happened once. RIP Hedd Wyn, 1887-1917. Also the only reproduced Chair; the original, known as the Gadair Ddu (the Black Chair) is on display in his family home, but a 3D printed replica has been made for display by Amgueddfa Cymru)
BUT THEREFORE a big part of Eisteddfod fun is seeing what the Chair will look like this year. Traditional ones, see, we tend to think look like variants of this:
(Apologies for the substandard attempts at alt-text; I have no clue how to describe these properly)
This one is from 1896. The phrase "Y gwir yn erbyn y byd" means "The truth against the world", and was included in a lot of old ones. Modern ones tend to incorporate the druidic symbol for awen ("poetic inspriation") instead. Some of these incidentally turn up in lil' chapels and that about the country.
But actually even the old ones were mad different, look; clockwise from top left, these are y Gadair Ddu (1917), 1876, 1926 (when the carpenter was Chinese and enjoyed the cultural fusion), and 1908.
Still the same theme, though, but in the modern day the carpenters are all off the shits! They're all over the place! Fuck the rules! And I have Opinions.
Category: I See What You Did There
SYMBOLISM!!! 2011 is a pit wheel from Wrexham's mining past! 2013 is the head of a harp, from Denbighshire's cultural harp-making past! 2017 is fish, from Anglesey's maritime present! Fantastic. Love it.
Best in category: 2017. Why does Anglesey's have so many eyes on the fish? We don't know. Wylfa B protestors reportedly furious.
Category: The Modern Throne
TALL!!! That silhouette! That height!! They have the range, darling! Christ knows 2016 doesn't have anything else going for it! Shout out to the Conwy river on 2019, the different woods from the forests of Maldwyn for 2015, and the red kite symbolism for Ceredigion in 2022 (the spiritual home of the bird, where the species was first saved).
Best in category: 2019, Conwy. I like the bridge and the river lines and the water effect on the front of the seat it's just so pretty.
Category: That's Just A Chair
(I am actually friends with the Prifardd who won 2018 at the bottom there :D )
WHAT ARE RULES WE JUST WANT FUNCTIONAL CHAIRS. Man even so 2014 was fucking ugly. You could have 2018 in your house. Around your table, like. Even 2012 has a sort of IKEA vibe that's boring but palatable. 2014 is only coming in the house under sufferance.
Best in Category: 2018, easy, and not just because it's the one I'm most likely to get to sit in one day. It's pretty.
Category: NO GODS NO CHAIRS NO MASTERS
WHAT
WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED IN 2010
BRO I DO NOT THINK YOU TRIED
Best in Category: OBVIOUSLY 2021 I COULD PHYSICALLY MAKE 2010 MYSELF
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