would absolutely LOVE a platonic daniel x driver!reader where he practically adopts her when she joins f1 and they unironically call eachother brother and sister! soft/funny would be sweet :)
Found in the Paddock - DR
served with: daniel ricciardo x platonic!fem!f1driver!reader
chef's note: Daniel and Y/N are unironically family in a paddock full of strangers.
portion size: 1.3k
The transition from Formula 2 to the pinnacle of motorsport was supposed to be professional, high-stakes, and intimidating. For you, it was mostly just Daniel Ricciardo following you around with a spare protein bar and a list of "pro-tips" that usually involved which hospitality suite had the best coffee.
The "adoption" happened during the pre-season photoshoot in Bahrain. You were standing awkwardly in your new race suit, feeling like an imposter, when a heavy arm draped across your shoulders.
"Don't look so worried, kid," Daniel had grinned, his teeth blindingly white in the desert sun. "I’ve decided you’re a Ricciardo now. It’s in the fine print of your contract. Welcome to the family."
It didn't take long for the paddock to realize that the two of you weren't just joking. The dynamic was instant and chaotic.
During a particularly grueling media session after a tough qualifying, a reporter asked a back-to-back series of questions that had you stumbling. Suddenly, Daniel appeared behind you, leaning into your microphone.
"Sorry, she can’t answer that. Her brain is currently fried from all the G-forces. Also, she’s grounded for forgetting to text me back yesterday."
"I'm twenty-one, Daniel. You can't ground a teammate from a different team."
"Watch me. Brotherly authority triumphs over FIA regulations, Y/N. Move it along, Pete!"
You were trying to take a pre-race nap in your driver room when the door flew open without a knock. You didn't even have to open your eyes to know who it was.
"Sister! I require snacks and your professional opinion on my helmet design," Daniel announced, flopping onto the small sofa and kicking his shoes off.
"Daniel, go away. I have a race in two hours," you groaned into your pillow.
"Exactly! Energy management! I’m managing your energy by making sure you aren't bored," he countered, already peeling an orange he’d definitely stolen from your team's catering. "Now, do we like the neon pink or the extra neon pink?"
Despite the constant teasing and the way he’d pull your cap down over your eyes every time he passed you in the paddock, Daniel was the first person at your garage after your first points finish.
He didn't care about the cameras or the "driver rivalry" narrative. He pushed through the mechanics, grabbed you in a massive bear hug, and lifted you off the ground.
"That’s my sister!" he shouted to anyone who would listen. "Did you see that overtake into Turn 4? Pure Ricciardo DNA right there!"
Later that night, when the adrenaline had faded and you were feeling the weight of the season's pressure, he sat with you on the steps of the motorhome. He wasn't the "Honey Badger" then—just Dan.
"You're doing great, Y/N," he said softly, bumping his shoulder against yours. "Seriously. If it ever gets too loud, or the pressure feels like it’s squashing you, you come find me. I don't care if I'm in a meeting or in the middle of a debrief. Big brothers don't let their sisters drown."
You leaned your head on his shoulder, finally feeling like you belonged in this world of 200mph cars. "Thanks, Dan. Even if you are the most annoying person on the grid."
"Hey!" he laughed, nudging you. "That's Honorary Most Annoying Person to you."
By the time the European leg of the season rolled around, it was official.
"Copy, Y/N. Daniel is behind you on the hards, he's your brother, so he says he's not going to dive-bomb you... but he's smiling, so be careful."
You’d be walking toward the garage and hear a distant, "EY! SIS!" and you’d instinctively raise a hand in a wave without even looking back.
It wasn't just a PR stunt; it was the support system you needed. He taught you how to handle the vultures, how to save your tires, and most importantly, how to never take the circus too seriously.
You were the rookie driver everyone was watching, but to Daniel, you were just the kid sister he had to look out for—mostly to make sure you didn't trip over your own feet while walking to the podium.
The "Ricciardo Adoption" didn't just stay within the paddock walls; it bled into the summer break and onto social media, where fans started referring to you as the "Ricciardo Duo" more often than your actual team names.
By the time the circus arrived in Spa, the sibling energy had reached critical levels.
It started when a video went viral of you laughing with another driver—let’s say, a certain charming Spaniard—near the hospitality units. That afternoon, Daniel was waiting for you in your garage, leaning against your spare front wing with a very serious expression.
"I saw the footage, Y/N. The hair-flip? The laughing at his jokes? Unacceptable behavior."
"Dan, he was telling me about his golf game. It was barely a conversation."
"As your self-appointed older brother, I have to vet all potential suitors. Currently, he’s at a 'No' because his neck is too thick. It’s intimidating. I need someone more... scrawny. Like a Lando. Or a pole."
"You’re literally insane. Get out of my garage before my engineers make you leave."
"I’m staying until you admit he’s a 'No'. I’m protecting the family brand!"
Humor was the baseline, but the "soft" side of the adoption came through when things went wrong. During a rainy practice session in Zandvoort, you lost the rear and went nose-first into the barriers. It wasn't a massive hit, but it was your first real crunch in an F1 car.
By the time you got back to the paddock, shaken and frustrated with yourself, Daniel was already standing outside your motorhome. He didn't say a word; he just held out a bag of your favorite gummy bears and waited.
"I'm fine, Dan," you muttered, looking at the ground. "I just feel like an idiot."
"Standard procedure for a rookie," he said, his voice unusually quiet and steady. He hooked an arm around your neck, pulling you into a half-hug. "If you don't bin it at least once, you aren't trying hard enough. Plus, look on the bright side—I’ve binned it in way more expensive ways than that. You’re still an amateur at crashing compared to me."
He stayed with you through your debrief, sitting in the corner of the room and making ridiculous faces at you every time you started to look too stressed, until you finally cracked a smile.
For the final race of the season, Daniel surprised you. Usually, drivers swap helmets with rivals they respect. Daniel marched into your room with his bright, chaotic helmet held out like a trophy.
"Alright, Sis. This is a big moment. The legend himself is offering you his lid."
You laughed, pulling your own helmet out of its bag. "I’m honored, truly. But you know this means you have to display mine in your house, right?"
"Front and center," he promised, his grin softening into something genuinely proud. He pulled a marker out and scribbled on the visor of the helmet he was giving you: "TO THE BEST LIL SIS IN F1. TRY NOT TO BE FASTER THAN ME NEXT YEAR."
You wrote on yours: "TO MY ANNOYING BIG BROTHER. THANKS FOR NOT LETTING ME QUIT."
Post-season, while other drivers headed to Ibiza or Dubai, you found yourself at a quiet dinner in Monaco with Daniel and a few of his closest friends. At one point, the waiter asked how you two were related, seeing the constant bickering and the similar way you both used your hands when you talked.
"She's my sister," Daniel said immediately, no hint of a joke in his voice. "Found her in a paddock, decided she didn't have enough chaos in her life, and kept her."
You rolled your eyes, reaching over to steal a fry off his plate. "He's the brother I never wanted, but I guess I'm stuck with him now for the tax benefits."
"Hey! Don't talk about your elders like that," he laughed, but he didn't pull the plate away. In fact, he pushed the whole basket of fries toward you. "Eat up, kid. You've got a long career ahead of you, and I’ve gotta make sure you’re fed for it."
In the high-pressure, lonely world of Formula 1, you hadn't just found a mentor—you’d found a home.
Don’t know if i’m going to bawl my eyes out at my 5sos concert or rip my clothes off and pound against my chest like a gorilla because of Luke Hemmings
I genuinely feel sick to my stomach every time I remember that she died. She died scared, she died believing that was her only way out, she died because she wanted everyone to have a future.
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