Hello!! If it's not a problem could u write Kimi Antonelli with a reader who looks completly different from him, like reader has dyed hair, piercings and maybe tattoos?? Thank you in advance, Hope u have a lovely day!!
Pairing: Kimi Antonelli x Reader(y/n)
Warnings: hate from fans to yn, protective kimi, a little bit of angst
Summary: When heavily tattooed Y/N faces intense public backlash for dating F1's golden boy Kimi Antonelli, she hides away from the toxic paddock. Tired of seeing her hurt, Kimi bypasses team PR to post a fierce statement alongside intimate, candid photos of them together, demanding the world back off and respect his relationship.
Authorās note: I really hope this is what you imagined when you sent me this, if it is not you can always send me another ask and iāll make it better and closer to what you were expecting. Thanks for the request!! xx
The contrast between the two of you was something the media couldnāt have scripted better if they tried.
Andrea Kimi Antonelli was motorsportās golden boy. At nineteen, he carried the pristine, polished weight of the Silver Arrows on his young shoulders. He was all soft curls, polite Italian-accented English, iron-clad discipline, and a media-trained smile that made sponsors swoon. He wore tailored team kit, lived in gym clothes or crisp button-downs, and moved through the paddock with the effortless, protected grace of a prodigy who had been groomed for the pinnacle of racing since he was in diapers.
You were a walking, breathing disruption to the sterile, corporate aesthetic of the Formula 1 paddock. Your skin was a canvas of dark, intricate tattoos,sleeves that crawled up your arms, a delicate piece tracing your collarbone, and a collection on your legs that peeked out whenever you wore shorts. You had a septum piercing that caught the harsh garage lights, a silver hoop in your lip, and a wardrobe consisting almost entirely of oversized vintage band tees, distressed denim, heavy combat boots, and dark eyeliner. You didnāt do corporate. You didnāt do PR-friendly. You were loud in your visual existence, entirely unapologetic, and fiercely independent.
You had met a few months ago through a mutual friend at a low-key music venue in Milan, a place Kimi had sneaked into just to breathe a little bit of normal air away from the suffocating pressure of his looming rookie F1 season. You hadnāt treated him like a future world champion. In fact, youād jokingly told him his shoes were "painfully basic." He had fallen fast, hard, and completely out of view of the public eye.
For the first few months, your relationship existed in a beautiful, sacred bubble. It was found in late-night drives through Italy, listening to heavy basslines while he rested his hand on your knee. It was found in quiet hotel rooms where he would trace the lines of your tattoos with his fingers, completely fascinated by the art, while you ran your hands through his unruly curls. He loved your edge; you loved his softness. It worked because you balanced each other perfectly.
But bubbles in Formula 1 are built to burst.
With the European leg of the season in full swing, Kimi had gently asked if you would come to a race. He wanted you there. He wanted to look over at the engineering desk and see his favorite person. You had agreed, knowing it meant going public, but vastly underestimating what that actually meant.
The Imola paddock was a sensory overload. The roar of engines, the smell of burning rubber and high-octane fuel, and the sea of people dressed in identical, color-coded team gear.
You walked beside Kimi, your hand tucked firmly into his. You had tried to compromise slightly on your style, wearing a clean, vintage Mercedes jacket, but you hadn't hidden who you were. Your combat boots clattered against the asphalt, your septum ring glinted in the Italian sun, and your heavily tattooed arms were on full display.
The moment the two of you stepped past the turnstiles, the cameras found you. The clicks were deafening, a rapid-fire assault of shutters. Kimi tightened his grip on your hand, giving you a reassuring smile, pulling you close against his side.
"You okay?" he murmured, his voice barely audible over the din.
"Yeah. Just feels like being a zoo animal," you joked dryly, though your heart was hammering against your ribs.
He laughed, kissing the top of your head, a rare, spontaneous display of affection that the photographers caught from every conceivable angle. By the time FP1 had started and you were sitting in the back of the Mercedes garage with headphones over your ears, the internet had already exploded.
The initial wave of reactions was pure shock. The contrast was too jarring for the internet to process quietly.
@user1: KIMI ANTONELLI HAS A GIRLFRIEND?! And she looks like she listens to heavy metal and fights people in mosh pits?! We are losing our minds.
@user2: Wait... Kimi's girlfriend? She looks so... aggressive? Idk I expected him to be with a quiet Italian model, not a tattoo artist's billboard.
@user3: The contrast is insane. Kimi looks like heās being escorted to class by his cool alt older sister (even though theyāre the same age). Not sure how Toto feels about this look in the garage.
Initially, it was just memes and lighthearted shock. You and Kimi actually laughed about it in his driver room on Friday night, sitting on his physio table while he ate a bowl of plain pasta.
"Look at this one," you had laughed, showing him a TikTok edit of him looking polite next to a picture of you looking like you were about to rob a bank. "They think I'm corrupting you."
Kimi had chuckled, leaning forward to press his forehead against yours, his hands resting on your waist. "Let them think it. Maybe they will be more afraid of me on the track if they think my girlfriend is dangerous."
But the internet is an unstable beast, and the lighthearted jokes didn't stay lighthearted for long.
By the next race weekend in Monaco, the narrative had shifted from amusement to downright hostility.
Formula 1 fandom can harbor a toxic underbelly of traditionalism and obsessive parasocial relationships. To a certain segment of the fanbase, Kimi was their untainted, innocent golden boy. And in their eyes, you were a stain on his carefully curated image.
The comments under every single picture of you escalated into a torrent of vitriol.
"She looks so dirty. Look at all those ugly tattoos. Sheās ruining his brand."
"Why is she wearing that trashy jewelry? She doesn't belong in a prestigious paddock."
āSheās definitely using him for clout and money. Look at her, she probably does drugs. Get her away from Kimi before she ruins his career."
āShe looks like a demon next to him. Disgusting. Mercedes needs to ban her from the garage."
You tried to ignore it. You really did. You told yourself that these were faceless accounts, keyboard warriors with nothing better to do. But words, when repeated thousands of times a day, begin to seep into your subconscious like slow-acting poison. You found yourself looking in the mirror, wondering if your piercings really did make you look "trashy," or if your tattoos made you look "unapproachable."
The worst part, however, wasn't the digital hate. It was when it leaped off the screens and into the physical world.
It happened during the Spanish Grand Prix weekend in Barcelona. Kimi was tied up in a lengthy engineering debrief following a frustrating FP3 session where the balance of the car was completely off. You didn't want to sit in the cramped driver room anymore, feeling restless, so you decided to walk over to the hospitality building to grab an iced coffee.
You told Kimiās assistant youād be right back, opting to walk alone. It was a mistake.
The paddock was crowded with VIP guests, sponsors, and media personnel. As you walked down the concrete pathway, your boots clicking rhythmically, you became acutely aware of the eyes on you. It wasn't the usual curious glances anymore. It was cold. Judgmental.
A group of content creators and influencers standing near the Ferrari hospitality turned as you passed. One of them, a girl dressed in a pristine white sundress, didnāt even bother to lower her voice.
"God, she looks so out of place," she whispered loudly to her friend, gesturing vaguely toward your tattooed legs. "I don't know what Kimi is thinking. Itās kind of embarrassing for the team."
Her friend snickered. You swallowed hard, keeping your eyes fixed straight ahead, your jaw clenched so tight it ached.
As you neared the Mercedes hospitality, a small crowd of fans with paddock passes were gathered near the barriers, hoping for autographs. As you walked past them, a middle-aged woman with a camera around her neck sneered openly at you.
"Hey! Stay away from Kimi!" a voice shouted from the crowd. It was a young girl, probably no older than eighteen, looking at you with pure disgust. "Youāre going to ruin his focus! He doesn't need a freak like you distracting him!"
A few people laughed. Someone else chimed in, "Go get another tattoo and leave him alone!"
A hot wave of humiliation washed over you. Your skin felt like it was on fire. You didn't look at them. You didn't snap back, though every instinct in your body screamed at you to flip them off or yell. You knew that if you reacted, there would be a video of "Kimi Antonelli's aggressive girlfriend attacking fans" on Twitter within three minutes. It would hurt him. It would hurt his career.
So, you absorbed it. You walked into the Mercedes hospitality, grabbed a coffee you no longer wanted, and practically fled back to Kimiās driver room.
When you shut the door behind you, the silence of the small room felt heavy. Your hands were shaking. You set the coffee down, sat on the edge of the couch, and pulled your knees to your chest. For the first time since the public debut, tears spilled over your eyelashes, hot and angry, tracking down your cheeks.
You felt completely isolated. You couldn't even walk twenty yards to get a drink without being degraded. You felt like an alien in a world made of glass and corporate perfection, and your presence was shattering it.
When Kimi walked into the room twenty minutes later, his face was tight with the stress of the bad practice session. But the moment his eyes landed on you, curled into a ball, tear stains on your cheeks, the engineering data completely vanished from his brain.
"Amore?" he said, his voice dropping into a tone of immediate concern. He dropped his driver helmet onto the table and crossed the room in two strides, dropping to his knees in front of you. "What happened? What is wrong?"
You tried to wipe your face quickly, shaking your head. "Nothing, Kimi. Just... a headache. And stressful day."
"No, do not lie to me," he said softly, taking your shaking hands in his warm, calloused ones. He looked up at you, his brown eyes filled with an intensity that belied his gentle nature. "Did someone say something to you? Outside?"
You bit your lip, trying to hold back a fresh sob, but the dam had broken. "It's just... everyone hates me, Kimi. They hate how I look. They think I'm trashy, they think I'm going to ruin your career. People out there... they were yelling at me. Telling me to stay away from you. Calling me a freak."
Kimiās expression hardened in a way you had never seen before. The boyish, polite teenager vanished, replaced by a cold, protective fury. The muscles in his jaw rippled.
"Who said this?" he demanded, his voice dangerously quiet. "Tell me who it was."
"It doesn't matter, Kimi! It's everyone! It's the whole internet, it's people in the paddock, it's fans. I don't fit here. Look at me!" You gestured vaguely to your clothes, your tattoos, the metal in your face, the colour of your hair. "I'm the exact opposite of everything this world wants you to be with. I'm hurting your image."
Kimi let out a sharp, frustrated breath. He grabbed your face gently with both hands, forcing you to look directly into his eyes.
"Listen to me," he said, his voice fierce with conviction. "Look at me, Y/N. I do not care about 'the image.' I do not care about what some stupid people on the internet say, or some idiots in the paddock who have nothing to do but talk about others. I love your tattoos. I love your piercings. I love you. You are beautiful, and you are the only thing that makes me feel normal in this crazy place. You are not hurting me. They are hurting us, and I am not going to let them."
He pulled you down into his chest, burying his face in your neck, holding you so tightly it almost hurt. You cried into his shoulder, the heavy weight of the past few weeks finally lifting slightly, anchored by the absolute certainty of his grip.
But while his words comforted you in the privacy of the room, the hate didn't stop.
Over the next two weeks, it grew worse. The media started picking up on the fan narrative. Clickbait articles began appearing with headlines like: "Is Antonelliās New Relationship a Distraction for the Rookie Prodigy?" and āPaddock Insiders Question Style Choices of Kimi Antonelli's Girlfriend."
You started staying inside the driver room exclusively during race weekends. You stopped going to the garage. You didn't want to be seen on the pit wall. You became a ghost, slipping into the track early in the morning before the gates opened and leaving late at night. You were miserable, hiding away like a secret he was ashamed of, even though you knew he wasn't.
Kimi noticed. He noticed the way you shrunk into yourself when you walked past mirrors. He noticed how you had started wearing long sleeves even in the sweltering heat of the summer races to hide your ink. He saw the light fading from your eyes, replaced by a guarded, defensive exhaustion.
He tried talking to the team's PR officer, asking if they could issue a statement or block certain accounts. But the advice he got was standard corporate protocol: āIgnore it, Kimi. If you feed the trolls, it makes it worse. Let it blow over. The news cycle moves fast.ā
But it wasn't blowing over. It was eroding you.
The breaking point arrived after the British Grand Prix at Silverstone. Kimi had secured a brilliant podium finish, a hard-fought P3 that should have been a night of pure celebration. But as you were leaving the track late Sunday night, walking a few steps behind Kimi and his security guard toward the car, a group of drunk fans near the exit gates spotted you.
"Hey, look, it's the goth chick!" one yelled. "Hey, Kimi, find a girl who actually looks like she washes her hair! She looks like a mistake!"
Another threw a crumpled plastic beer cup. It didn't hit you, landing a few feet away, but the disrespect, the open hostility in the dark of the parking lot, was the final straw.
You flinched, pulling your hood further over your head. Kimi stopped dead in his tracks. He spun around, his face white with rage, and actually took a step toward the barrier before his security guard firmly caught his arm, whispering harshly in his ear to keep moving.
Kimi was practically forced into the car. The ride back to the hotel was dead silent. Kimi was vibrating with an anger so intense it felt tectonic. His fists were clenched in his lap, his knuckles white.
When you got back to the hotel room, you walked straight to the bathroom, closed the door, and looked at yourself. You looked tired. The dark eyeliner looked messy, your skin pale. You felt like you were dragging him down into the mud with you.
Outside the door, you could hear Kimi pacing.
He was done listening to PR. He was done "letting it blow over." They were destroying the person he loved, and he was going to put an end to it himself.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, Kimi opened his phone. He didn't call his manager. He didn't ask Mercedes for permission. He went straight into his camera rollāa private, sacred vault of the last few months of his life.
He selected photos that the world had never seen. Photos that captured the absolute truth of your relationship, far away from the sterile, judgmental eyes of the F1 paddock.
The first photo: A blurry, candid selfie taken in his kitchen in Italy at 2:00 AM. You were wearing his oversized team hoodie, your hair messy, laughing hysterically while trying to flip a pancake that had landed half off the pan. He was looking at you with pure, unfiltered adoration.
The second photo: A quiet moment on a beach in Mallorca during a rare three-day break. You were sitting on a blanket, your heavily tattooed legs stretched out in the sand. Kimi was lying down, his head resting comfortably in your lap, his eyes closed, while your handārings glinting in the sunsetāwas buried in his curls. He looked completely at peace, a stark contrast to the intense, stressed driver the public saw.
The third photo: A mirror selfie you had taken in a hotel room. Kimi had his arms wrapped tightly around your waist from behind, his chin resting on your shoulder. He was wearing his racing undershirt, and you were in a black crop top, your septum ring catching the light. The contrast between his athletic, clean look and your edgy, inked aesthetic didn't look conflicting; it looked like two puzzle pieces locking together perfectly.
The fourth photo: A close-up of your hands intertwined on the console of his car during a late-night drive. Your tattooed fingers, painted black nails, contrasted against his clean skin, holding on for dear life.
He uploaded the carousel to his Instagram account, where millions of fans followed his every move. Then, he sat down and wrote a statement. He didn't use PR language. He didn't use polite euphemisms. He wrote it straight from his heart, in clear, unyielding words.
Inside the bathroom, you were splashing cold water on your face, trying to calm your racing heart. When you finally opened the door and walked back into the bedroom, Kimi was sitting on the edge of the bed, his phone resting on the mattress next to him.
The storm in his eyes had cleared, replaced by a calm, resolute stillness.
"Kimi?" you murmured, walking over to him. "What are you doing?"
He looked up, reaching out to take your hand, pulling you down to sit next to him. He picked up his phone and handed it to you. "I fixed it."
You looked down at the screen. Your breath caught in your throat. It was an Instagram post, uploaded just two minutes ago. The notification bar at the top of his phone was already scrolling so fast it was a blur of likes and comments.
You swiped through the photos first. The pancake mishap. The beach in Mallorca. The mirror selfie where he looked so incredibly safe in your arms. Tears welled up in your eyes again, but this time, they weren't born of humiliation. They were born of overwhelming warmth.
Then, you read the caption.
āFor the past few weeks, I have watched the person I love be subjected to constant judgment, insults, and hate from people who know nothing about her, nothing about me, and nothing about our life.
I chose to share my racing career with the world, but I did not invite people to attack my personal life. The comments about Y/Nās appearance, her tattoos, her piercings, her dyed hair and her character are disgusting and unacceptable. To see this behavior follow her into the paddock, a place where she comes only to support me, is deeply shameful.
You see a contrast. You see 'opposites.' I see the person who grounds me. I see the person who holds me when the pressure is too high, who makes me laugh when I am stressed, and who loves me for who I am, not for the car I drive. Her tattoos are beautiful. Her style is hers, and I love every single part of it. She does not need to change to fit into this world; this world needs to learn respect.
If you support me, you respect the people I love. If you cannot do that, you do not support me. Mind your own business and leave her alone.
Ti amo, amore mio. Always.ā
Your hands shook as you finished reading. You looked up at Kimi, completely speechless. In the highly political, corporate world of Formula 1, a driver, especially a rookie, releasing a statement like this without team approval was virtually unheard of. It was a massive risk. It was an act of absolute defiance against the PR machine.
"Kimi..." you whispered, your voice cracking. "The team... Toto... they are going to be so angry. You didn't ask them."
Kimi shrugged, a small, arrogant smile playing on his lips, the look he got right before he made a high-stakes overtaking maneuver on the track.
"Let them be angry," he said simply. "What are they going to do? Fire me because I told people to be nice to my girlfriend? If they want me to drive their car, they accept my life. My life includes you. Completely."
He leaned in, pressing his lips to yours. It was a deep, fierce kiss, tasting of salt from your remaining tears, but filled with an undeniable certainty.
The reaction to Kimiās post was nothing short of a cultural shift within the motorsport community.
Within an hour, the post had garnered over a million likes. The sheer boldness of a nineteen-year-old rookie drawing a hard, unyielding line in the sand stunned everyone. The media, which had been fueling the fire, instantly pivoted.
Drivers from across the grid immediately flooded the comments with support.
@lewishamilton: Standard set, kid. Proud of you for standing up for your girl. Protect your peace. Welcome to the paddock, Y/N! šš¾š„
@charles_leclerc: Well said, mate. People need to learn respect. Hope to see you both happy in the paddock next week. š
@mercedesamgf1: (An official comment left two hours later, after Toto Wolff realized trying to control the narrative was useless and instead chose to back his driver) Family protects family. We stand with Kimi and Y/N. š¤
The fans who had been hateful suddenly found themselves on the defensive, heavily criticized by the broader community for their behavior. The narrative completely flipped. You weren't a "distraction" anymore; you were the edgy, cool girlfriend whom the future world champion was madly, fiercely protective of.
The real test, however, came the following weekend at the Hungarian Grand Prix.
You had told Kimi you wanted to stay home, still feeling a lingering anxiety about walking into the paddock. But he had refused, taking your hand and looking at you with those stubborn brown eyes. āIf you stay home, they win,āhe had said. āCome with me. Walk with your head up. Let them look.ā
On Thursday morning in Budapest, you arrived at the track. You hadn't changed a single thing about yourself. In fact, you leaned into it. You wore a vintage cropped leather jacket, black cargo pants, and your heavy boots. Your septum ring caught the bright Hungarian sun, and your tattoos were proudly visible.
As you and Kimi walked through the turnstiles, the crowd of photographers was even larger than before. But the energy had completely changed.
The shutters clicked furiously, but as you walked down the main paddock pathway, people weren't whispering or sneering. A group of young female fans near the Alpine hospitality cheered as you passed.
"Y/N! We love your style!" one shouted, holding up a sign.
You paused, looked over, and offered a genuine, small smile, waving at them. The crowd cheered louder.
Kimi kept his arm slung tightly over your shoulder, pulling you against his side as you walked. He looked down at you, a proud, triumphant smirk on his face.
As you nared the Mercedes garage, Toto Wolff was standing outside, talking to a sponsor. He looked up as the two of you approached. You braced yourself, wondering if the team boss was going to pull Kimi aside for a lecture about his social media conduct.
Instead, Toto looked at the two of you, his sharp eyes softening slightly. He walked over, extending a hand to you first.
"Y/N," Toto said, his deep voice carrying a tone of absolute respect. "Good to see you back. I like the jacket. Very classic."
"Thank you, Toto," you said, shaking his hand, feeling a massive weight finally disintegrating from your shoulders.
Toto turned to Kimi, clapping him hard on the shoulder. "Good pace on the simulator this week, Kimi. Now go focus on the track. We take care of everything else."
As you walked into the private driver room, Kimi shut the door behind you. The chaotic, roaring world of Formula 1 was locked outside once again.
Kimi dropped his kit bag onto the floor and immediately turned to you, wrapping his arms around your waist. He buried his face in your neck, inhaling deeply, letting out a long, contented sigh.
"See?" he murmured against your skin, his hands tracing the familiar patterns of the tattoos on your lower back. "I told you. You don't have to change for them."
You wrapped your arms around his neck, your fingers twisting into his soft, unruly curls, pulling him close. The contrast between you was still thereāthe clean-cut athlete and the tattooed alt girlābut it wasn't a source of friction anymore. It was your strength.
"Thank you for fighting for me, Kimi," you whispered softly.
He pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, his gaze fierce, steady, and full of a love that no PR machine could ever manufacture.
"Always, amore," he said softly, kissing your forehead right below your hairline. "Always."
