The Honey Badger’s Guide to Dutch Etiquette - DR
pairing: daniel ricciardo x verstappen!fem!reader summary: Y/N was always just "Max’s little sister"—the girl Daniel knew by sight but never by heart. What follows is a chaotic descent into stolen hoodies, "missing" hotel keys, and a ghosting phase that lasted approximately three days before Daniel realized he was functionally useless without her. wc: 3.8k 💭 this one will stay as a standalone :)
note: daniel is still in VCARB! i love the idea, tysm @fraaaaankiiiiieee
The paddock is a small world, but it felt much smaller once you started your internship at VCARB. Back when you were just "Max’s little sister" visiting the Red Bull garage, Daniel was a whirlwind of energy you only saw from a distance. You’d shared maybe two words—a "hello" and a "congrats"—before he moved on to other teams.
But now, you’re part of the machinery. Whether you're analyzing PR metrics or checking aero data, you’re there. And Daniel? He’s impossible to ignore.
It didn’t happen all at once. It started with professional proximity and drifted into something that felt dangerously like a friendship.
"Everything okay with the media brief?" turned into "Did you see that ridiculous aero update on the Haas?"
He’d stop by your desk, leaning against the frame with that signature grin. "I'm headed to hospitality. You look like you need a triple-shot espresso or a nap. Which is it?"
It moved to WhatsApp. First, it was just weekend schedules. Then, it was 2 AM memes of capybaras and blurry photos of his dinner.
The voice notes were the point of no return. Daniel didn’t just text; he sent three-minute voice notes of him singing badly to the radio or narrating his walks through the airport.
Daniel swore to himself he was just being "the cool veteran teammate figure." He told himself it was fine because you were Y/N, Max’s sister. You were off-limits by default. "I'm just being friendly, mate," he told his reflection. "Totally chill."
It was a minor clip. Daniel took a corner too tight, the rear stepped out, and he tapped the wall. It wasn't a heavy hit, but it was enough to end his session.
In the garage, the engineers were looking at the telemetry. Max was probably rolling his eyes in the Red Bull garage next door. But as Daniel climbed out of the car and stripped off his balaclava, his eyes didn't go to the screens or his race engineer.
They went straight to you. He needed to see if you looked worried. He needed to see you smile so he could feel like he hadn't just messed up.
Later that night, in the motorhome, Lando watched Daniel staring at his phone, hovering over a "thinking of you" text he was about to send you.
"Dude," Lando said, popping a piece of gum. "Stop. If the first thing you do after hitting a wall is look for a girl who isn't your trainer or your mom, you’re screwed. You like her."
Daniel’s head snapped up. "I don't. She’s... she’s Max’s sister, Lando. It’s professional. I'm a mentor."
"You don't send memes of screaming goats to someone you're 'mentoring' at three in the morning," Lando countered. "You’re in deep. And Max is going to kill you."
The word "wrong" started looping in Daniel’s head.
You were younger. You were an intern. You were the sister of his former teammate and friend. Every "functioning adult" bone in his body told him this was a PR nightmare and a personal disaster waiting to happen.
So, Daniel did the only thing he knew how to do when his emotions got too fast for him to outrun: He hit the brakes.
Monday: You sent him a funny clip of a driver interview. Read 14:02. No reply.
Tuesday: You asked if he wanted his usual coffee before the briefing. Delivered. No reply.
Wednesday: Silence.
He didn't look at you in the garage. He kept his sunglasses on. He stayed buried in his data sheets. He wasn't just being professional; he was a ghost. He didn't know how to tell you he was terrified of how much he liked you, so he decided to act like you didn't exist at all.
And as you sat in the VCARB office, staring at a one-sided conversation on your phone, the "universe" of the paddock suddenly felt very, very cold.
The ghosting phase didn't last long—mostly because Daniel realized that avoiding you was harder than actually driving a car at 300 km/h. By the time the after-party in Austin rolled around, his resolve was paper-thin.
The club was loud, smelling of expensive cologne and spilled champagne. You were standing near the bar, cornered by some guy who worked in marketing for a major sponsor. He was leaning a bit too close, his hand resting on the wall behind your head.
Daniel was across the room, nursing a drink he hadn't touched in twenty minutes.
His jaw was so tight it looked like it might snap. "I'm not annoyed," he muttered to himself. "He’s just... taking up her space. It’s a safety concern. As a friend."
Lando appeared out of nowhere, leaning into Daniel’s field of vision. "Daniel. Your eye is literally twitching. She clearly wants to escape. Go be the hero or I'm telling Max you're staring."
Daniel didn't wait for another word. He marched over, sliding in between you and the marketing guy with the grace of a man who had nothing planned.
"Hey! Y/N! There you are," Daniel exclaimed, way too loudly for the distance. "Max is looking for you. He’s... uh... somewhere. Maybe by the DJ? Or the bathroom? Who knows, really, but he looked very 'big brother-y' and urgent. We should go."
The guy took the hint and vanished. You let out a long, shaky breath. "Max isn't even here yet, is he, Daniel?"
"Probably not," he grinned, though his heart was hammering. "But you looked like you were about to fake a fainting spell to get away."
An hour later, you were both outside the venue waiting for a car. The desert air had turned biting, and you were shivering in your thin dress. Before you could even ask, Daniel was pulling a heavy, oversized black hoodie over his head.
"Here. Take it. I don't need you catching a cold and blaming my 'mentorship,'" he joked, though his eyes were soft.
You slipped it on. It was massive—the sleeves hung past your fingertips, and the hem reached your mid-thighs. You looked like you were swimming in it. Daniel took one look at you—small, bundled up in his clothes, smelling like his laundry—and felt his soul leave his body.
"I'm doomed," he whispered under his breath.
The night took a turn when you realized your hotel key was missing. Your phone was dead, and Max was—ironically—actually unreachable at another party.
"I don't want you waking Max up," Daniel said quickly, his 'protective mode' kicking in. "He’ll ask questions. Just come to my suite. I’ve got spare clothes, we’ll order a pizza, and you can crash on the couch. Everything chill. Total 'bro' move."
Inside the suite, the "chill" vibes were non-existent (at least for Daniel): He gave you a pair of his gym shorts that you had to tie three times just to keep them up. You sat on his bed (it was the only place with a good view of the TV), sharing a pepperoni pizza and watching a random 90s rom-com. Daniel promised he’d move to the couch once the movie was over. But halfway through, he felt a weight on his shoulder.
You had drifted off, your head sliding down until it rested firmly against his chest. Your hand, still lost in the giant sleeve of his hoodie, was curled into his shirt.
Daniel froze. He was a world-class athlete with lightning-fast reflexes, but he couldn't move a muscle. He looked down at you, the way your breathing had evened out, the way you looked so safe.
"If I wake her up, I'm a monster," he whispered to the empty room. "And if I stay here... I'm definitely in love with Max Verstappen's sister."
He stayed. Obviously.
The peace of the morning was shattered by a sound that could only be described as a police raid.
The banging on the door was rhythmic, violent, and very, very Dutch.
Daniel had barely slept. He had spent the entire night paralyzed by the weight of Y/N resting against him, his mind racing through every possible scenario where Max Verstappen found out and proceeded to exile him from the sport. He had finally drifted off around 5:00 AM on the very edge of the mattress.
He stumbled to the door, eyes crusty, wearing nothing but his boxers and a look of pure confusion. He swung the door open, squinting against the harsh hallway lights.
"Mate, it's seven in the mor—"
"WHERE IS SHE?" Max didn't wait. He stormed into the room like a man on a mission to reclaim stolen property. "She didn't answer her door. She didn't answer her phone. If you've—"
Max stopped dead. His gaze fell on the bed. There you were, Y/N, completely swallowed by Daniel’s oversized black hoodie, wrapped in a duvet like a human burrito, looking soft and deeply asleep.
Max’s face went through three colors in four seconds: pale, red, and then a terrifying shade of purple.
"Daniel," Max said, his voice dropping to a dangerous, low octave. "What. Is. This."
"Max, wait, it’s not—"
Daniel didn't get to finish. Max’s protective instinct bypassed his brain and went straight to his fist. He swung—a chaotic, brotherly rage punch—that Daniel narrowly dodged, the air of the swing whistling past his ear.
"ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!" you shrieked, bolting upright in bed. The sudden movement made you tangle in the sheets, nearly falling off the side. "Max! Stop! Are you God?! Why are you even in here?!"
The room went silent, save for Daniel’s heavy breathing and Max’s clenched teeth.
After ten minutes of frantic explaining—the lost key, the cold air, the very platonic pizza, and the fact that Daniel had spent the night contemplating his own mortality rather than anything "inappropriate"—Max finally stopped pacing.
He looked at you, still wearing Daniel’s hoodie, and then at Daniel, who was looking pathetic in his underwear.
"Okay," Max breathed out, the 'World Champion' focus returning to his eyes. "I am not killing you today. But Y/N, you are getting a new key. And Daniel... put some damn pants on."
Max left, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the minibar. He didn't say it was okay, but he didn't call their father, which was a win in Daniel's book.
Max might have "allowed" it, but he had inadvertently opened a door he couldn't close. The tension had been broken, and the "rules" had shifted.
Suddenly, your hotel key became the most unreliable piece of technology in the world. It "demagnetized" at least once every race weekend.
It wasn't about the key anymore. It was about the routine. You’d show up at Daniel’s door with a bag of snacks, and he’d already have your favorite hoodie waiting on the edge of the bed.
You started sitting in the back of his garage during debriefs. He started checking his phone every five minutes during PR events just to see if you’d sent a voice note.
Everyone in the paddock saw it. The engineers, the mechanics, even the team principals. It was the most obvious "secret" in Formula 1. It wasn't an accident anymore; it was a choice. And every time you fell asleep on his chest, Daniel felt a little less like he was "screwed" and a little more like he was exactly where he was supposed to be.
The state of denial Daniel was living in wasn’t just a river in Egypt; it was a full-scale psychological fortress. To Daniel, you were his "best friend who happened to be his ex-teammate’s sister." To the rest of the world, you were the couple that wouldn't stop being adorable in public.
It happened after the Mexican GP. Max had finished on the podium, and Daniel had managed a solid points finish. In the cooling-down area, Max leaned against a stack of tires and gestured for Daniel to come over.
"Look," Max started, his voice uncharacteristically soft. "I know I was... aggressive that morning in the hotel. But I've watched you two. You’re good for Y/N. I would have liked you to tell me officially, but I’m happy for you guys. Just don't break her heart, or I'll have to find a way to make your DRS fail permanently."
Daniel stared at him, his mouth falling open. He let out a nervous, high-pitched laugh. "?????? Bro, what? What are you talking about? We’re not dating!"
Max paused. He looked Daniel up and down, then looked over at you, who was currently holding Daniel’s helmet and laughing with his performance coach.
"...No?" Max asked, genuinely baffled. "Then why is she wearing your lucky hat? Why did you spend forty minutes explaining the tire strategy to her while holding her hand last night?"
"I wasn't holding her hand, I was... stabilizing her! For science!" Daniel stammered.
Max just shook his head, looking disappointed. "You’re an idiot, Daniel. A fast idiot, but an idiot nonetheless."
Within twenty minutes, Daniel realized the "delusion" went deeper than Max.
He asked his race engineer: "You knew we weren't dating, right?" The engineer didn't even look up from his laptop. "Daniel, I’ve already budgeted for your wedding gift. Don't make me redo the spreadsheet."
The PR team at VCARB had already stopped asking you for "intern tasks" and started asking you "where Daniel was," assuming you were his human GPS.
Lando, upon hearing that Daniel had "denied the allegations," decided that enough was enough. If Daniel couldn't handle his emotions like an adult, Lando would handle them like a chaotic teenager.
He gathered a small "strike team" (mostly himself and a very amused Oscar Piastri) to launch the operation.
The Missions Included:
Every time you and Daniel entered the VCARB garage at the same time, the team’s Spotify suddenly switched from heavy metal to Careless Whisper or All My Life.
Lando would literally shove you both into the hospitality lift and then jam a folded piece of cardboard in the sensor so the doors wouldn't close, yelling, "Oh no! It’s stuck! Guess you’ll have to talk about your feelings for ten minutes!"
During interviews, Lando would walk behind Daniel and whisper loud enough for the mics to catch: "Wow, look at that chemistry. It’s like a rom-com, but with more engine oil."
Lando invited you both to a "group dinner" in Brazil. When you arrived, the table was set for two, there were rose petals (made of torn-up napkins), and a note from Lando that said: “I have diarrhea. Oscar has a cat emergency. Enjoy your date, you cowards.”
By the time the triple-header was ending, the pressure was at an all-time high. Every "casual" touch felt like an electric shock. Every time you "lost" your hotel key, Daniel’s heart did a burnout in his chest.
You were sitting on his bed in Brazil, wearing his hoodie (obviously), watching Lando’s latest Instagram story which was just a zoomed-in photo of the two of you with the caption: #GETTHEMTOCHURCH.
"He’s so annoying," you muttered, though your face was bright red.
Daniel looked at you—really looked at you. He saw the way you were swimming in his clothes, the way you didn't even hesitate to make yourself at home in his space.
"Y/N," Daniel said, his voice dropping the 'chill' act for the first time. "I think... I think the entire paddock might be right. And I think I’m a massive idiot for trying to pretend they weren't."
The air in the paddock was electric. Against all odds, the strategy had held, the car had stayed together, and Daniel Ricciardo was a race winner once again.
The VCARB garage was a sea of blue and white tears. As Daniel parked the car in the #1 slot and leaped into the arms of his mechanics, his eyes were searching. He didn't care about the trophies or the champagne yet. He was looking for the girl in the oversized team shirt who had been his "intern" and his "not-girlfriend" for the last six months.
You didn't even wait for him to take off his HANS device. As soon as he cleared the barrier, you were there.
Daniel didn't just hug you; he swept you off your feet. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his chest heaving with adrenaline and sheer joy. It wasn't a "congrats, mate" hug. It was a "the-world-could-end-right-now-and-I-wouldn't-notice" hug. He spun you around, holding you so tight that the breath left your lungs, his hands gripping your waist like he never intended to let go.
The cameras were flashing. The commentators were losing their minds. And then, the shadow of a Red Bull suit loomed over you.
Max stood there, arms crossed, looking remarkably calm for a man who had just watched his sister being twirled around like a rom-com protagonist.
"Look," Max said, raising his voice over the roar of the crowd. "I already talked to Kelly about my overprotectiveness. I’ve processed my issues. I’ve done the emotional work."
Daniel let you slide down his body until your feet touched the ground, but he didn't move his hands from your waist. Max gestured impatiently between the two of you.
"Bro, you can kiss her in front of me. I’m good. Just... get it over with. The tension is making my telemetry look weird."
The words hit you and Daniel like a double-DRS boost. Both of your faces turned a shade of Ferrari Red that shouldn't be physically possible. You both started talking at the exact same time, overlapping in a chaotic mess of denial and unintentional honesty.
"WE’RE NOT—I mean, Max, it’s a victory hug! It’s physiological! I've just had a lot of sugar! It’s not that I don’t want to, it’s just that I never—"
"IT’S NOT LIKE THAT! I’m just an intern! Although the idea doesn't exactly bother me, it’s just that we haven't officially—"
"Wait, it doesn't bother you? Because I’ve been thinking about it since Singapore, but I didn't want you to think I was weird—"
"Singapore?! I thought you were ghosting me because you hated my coffee choice!"
Max stared at the two of you, his expression shifting from boredom to genuine pity. He looked at Lando, who was standing nearby with a camera phone out, filming the whole disaster.
"You guys are such idiots," Max groaned. He reached out, grabbed the back of Daniel’s racing suit and the shoulder of your shirt, and physically shoved you toward each other. "Kiss each other. Now. That’s a team order."
Daniel didn't need a second order.
The stuttering stopped. The excuses evaporated. He reached out, cupping your face with his damp, fireproof gloves, and pulled you in. It wasn't a "PR-friendly" peck. It was the culmination of months of late-night memes, stolen hoodies, and "missing" hotel keys.
The paddock erupted. Lando was screaming in the background. Max just nodded, satisfied, and started walking toward the podium.
"Finally," Max muttered to himself. "Now maybe I can get some sleep on the plane tonight without hearing them 'not-date' in the lounge."
Daniel pulled back just an inch, his forehead resting against yours, that massive, toothy grin finally reaching his eyes.
"So," he whispered, breathless. "Does this mean I get my hoodie back?"
"Never," you laughed, pulling him back in for more.
The transition from "secretly dating" to "the paddock’s favorite couple" was surprisingly smooth. The only downside? Spending so much time with the Verstappen siblings meant Daniel was being exposed to a language he never intended to learn.
Life with you, Y/N, involved a lot of Dutch. You’d call your mom, you’d argue with Max over which race track had the best catering, or you’d just mutter to yourself when you couldn't find your shoes—all in your native tongue.
Daniel, being the human sponge that he is, started picking it up. He didn't study it. He didn't have Duolingo. It just... seeped into his brain through sheer proximity and love.
It was a Tuesday morning at Max’s apartment in Monaco. You were curled up on the sofa with your laptop, working on some VCARB designs, while Daniel was rummaging through the pantry for breakfast. Max was sitting at the kitchen island, scrolling through race data, looking typically intense.
Daniel was in his own world, checking the fridge and ticking off a mental checklist. Without realizing it, he started muttering his thoughts out loud.
"Okay... ik moet brood kopen," he whispered to himself, grabbing a piece of paper to write a grocery list. "De was doen..."
He paused, tapping his pen against his chin. "Oh, and Max's psycholoog bellen because that guy is definitely going to have a breakdown after the next triple-header."
The room went deathly silent.
Max’s head snapped up from his tablet, his eyes wide. You froze on the sofa, your fingers hovering over the keyboard.
Max stared at Daniel for a long ten seconds. "Since when do you understand that?" Max asked, his voice flat with genuine shock. "And since when do you have my psychologist's number?"
Daniel froze, a carton of oat milk in one hand and a pen in the other. He blinked, replaying the last thirty seconds in his head.
"Wait," Daniel said, his voice climbing an octave. "What did I just say?"
"You said you needed to buy bread, do the laundry, and call my therapist," Max deadpanned. "In perfect Dutch. With a slight Hasselt accent, which is even weirder."
Daniel’s face went through a kaleidoscope of emotions before settling on pure horror. He looked at you, his eyes pleading for help. "Y/N... did I just speak Dutch? Am I... am I becoming one of you?"
You burst into laughter, burying your face in a cushion. "Daniel, you’ve been calling me 'Liefje' for three weeks! I thought you knew!"
"I thought that was just a cute word for a type of pastry!" Daniel cried out, throwing his hands up. "...Holy shit. I’m fluent. I’ve been compromised. My Australian passport is going to burst into flames."
Max didn't even look annoyed anymore; he looked impressed. He leaned back, a small, mischievous smirk playing on his lips.
"Well," Max said, "If you're going to be part of the family, you might as well sound like it. Now, Liefje," he teased, looking at Daniel, "can you also ask Y/N where she put my spare sim racing wheel? In Dutch, please."
Daniel groaned, leaning his forehead against the fridge door. "This is a nightmare. I’m going to start craving stroopwafels and complaining about the weather. Y/N, look what you’ve done to me."
You walked over, wrapping your arms around his waist and leaning your head against his back. "Don't worry, Daniel. You're still a Honey Badger. Just a Dutch-speaking one."
He turned around in your arms, his signature grin finally returning, though he still looked a little dazed. "Fine. But if I start wearing orange clogs to the grid, someone has to stage an intervention."
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