Summary… When the Drive to Survive crew shows up to film a behind-the-scenes look at Max Verstappen’s life off track, Y/N is less than thrilled to be in the spotlight. But between sarcastic interviews, soft domestic moments, and a now-viral deleted scene involving a jar of pesto, the world gets a glimpse of a Max they’ve never seen before. Boyfriend-coded. Cat-dad certified. And very, very soft for her.
A/N: I hope you guys enjoy! I’ve been kinda M.I.A. & irregular on my posting but I have been out of town for the last two week so I’ve been writing on my phone and it has been a little difficult.
I hope you guys enjoy this story and feel free to donate on my Ko-Fi, maybe that way I can buy a better computer and write more consistently for you guys.
like, comment, reblog, enjoy (:
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Y/N was halfway through brushing her teeth when Max knocked on the bathroom door.
“They’re here,” he said, muffled through the wood. “The Drive to Survive guys.”
She spat into the sink. “Tell them to come back never.”
Max laughed, leaning against the doorframe in joggers and a Red Bull hoodie, his hair still wet from the shower. “You said yes last night.”
“I was half-asleep and you bribed me with stroopwafels.”
He pushed the door open and gave her the most annoyingly charming grin. “And yet, here we are.”
⸻
The Netflix crew had set up in their living room, pretending the chaos of wires and camera angles was “low-key.” Max greeted them like old friends, casual and cool, while Y/N hovered awkwardly behind a kitchen stool, holding her coffee like a shield.
“Just pretend we’re not here,” the producer said, adjusting his headset.
“Impossible,” she muttered.
Max, ever the calm in the storm, slipped a hand around her waist. “You’ll be fine. Just be yourself.”
“That is the problem.”
⸻
They followed the couple through a normal day: breakfast on the balcony, Max fiddling with a simulator, Y/N curled up reading a book while their cats tried to chew on a mic cord.
But then they asked for a sit-down interview.
“Can you two just talk about what it’s like being in a relationship during the season?” the director asked, arranging pillows behind Y/N like this was a cozy podcast and not her personal nightmare.
Max shrugged. “It’s good. We don’t really fight.”
Y/N snorted. “You say that because you don’t consider ignoring my texts for six hours a fight.”
“I was driving,” he said, deadpan.
“You were on the simulator.”
“Same thing.”
The crew laughed. Max smiled sideways at her.
Then the director leaned in. “Y/N, how do you handle the pressure of being with someone constantly in the spotlight?”
She hesitated. Not because she didn’t know, but because she hadn’t expected the question to feel so… real.
“I don’t try to handle it,” she said slowly. “I just try to remind him that there’s a world outside of racing. That he’s more than just Max Verstappen the driver.”
Max’s expression softened—one of those rare looks he saved just for her, all warm gaze and relaxed jawline.
“And she’s the only one who gets away with calling me out when I start acting like a robot,” he added, voice lower now.
There was a pause.
“Wow,” the sound guy whispered.
“Keep rolling,” the director whispered back.
⸻
Later, when they were reviewing footage in the trailer, someone asked if they could get a shot of Max hugging Y/N.
“We have the paddock stuff, the Monaco stuff—but we need something soft to end on.”
Max found her sitting on the edge of the Red Bull hospitality couch, phone in hand.
He didn’t say anything. Just walked up, pulled her into his chest, and kissed the top of her head. Cameras or not.
“You’re doing great,” he said.
“You owe me ten stroopwafels and a massage.”
“I’ll give you twelve.”
The camera rolled as she smiled against his hoodie, arms tightening around his waist.
And later, when the season aired, fans clipped that moment. Over and over.
“Who knew Max Verstappen could be soft?”
“Protect this woman at all costs.”
“Relationship goals.”
But to Max, it was just Tuesday.
_______
Deleted Scene
Y/N stood barefoot in the kitchen, struggling with a stubborn jar of pesto. The label peeled at the edge, and the lid refused to budge despite two dish towels and her full body weight.
“Max!” she called, mildly annoyed. “Can you come here?”
Off-camera, you hear footsteps. Then Max appears in the kitchen doorway, looking suspicious. “What did I do?”
“Nothing. Just open this before I yeet it into the sea.”
He walks over, takes the jar, and opens it effortlessly with one twist.
She stares. “Are you serious?”
He grins, proud. “You loosened it.”
“Uh-huh.”
Without missing a beat, he dips a finger into the pesto and sticks it in his mouth.
“Max!” she gasps, swatting him with a tea towel. “That’s for dinner!”
He shrugs. “Taste test.”
A Netflix producer can be heard laughing behind the camera.
“Can we actually keep rolling?” another asks. “This is gold.”
Y/N turns, catching the crew still filming, and mock-glares at the camera.
“I’m going to need hazard pay.”
Max wraps an arm around her waist and plants a pesto-flavored kiss on her cheek.
“No one would believe how domestic you are,” Y/N mutters, smirking.
“Good. Let them think I’m scary.”
⸻
But don’t worry. The pesto jar ended up on eBay “signed by Max,” with a sticky note that read:
“She loosened it.” – M.V.
All proceeds went to cat shelters. Because Max demanded it.
⸻
FAN REACTIONS TO DELETED SCENE
Twitter/X:
@paddockbabie:
MAX OPENED A JAR AND A NATION FELL IN LOVE
#driveToSurvive #maxverstappen #domesticking
@softf1updates:
the way he dipped his finger into the pesto and then kissed her with zero shame?? I’m on the floor.
literally who gave him permission to be this boyfriend-coded
@f1spicypage:
“you loosened it.”
OH OKAY MAX VERSTAPPEN KING OF HUMBLE DOMESTICITY
⸻
Tumblr:
f1blurbs:
It’s not about the pesto.
It’s about her calling him like a husband.
It’s about him walking in like “what did I do?” like he knows he exists to be summoned.
It’s about the quiet love.
It’s about the damn jar.
I’m crying.
netflix-please:
Reblog if you too would risk it all to have Max Verstappen open a jar for you and call it “loosened by you.”
⸻
TikTok Comments (under the leaked scene with 4.8M views):
@formulalover44:
the way she’s like “MAX” and he just comes?? we love an obedient man
@jamgirlie:
petition to release ALL deleted scenes or i riot
@pestoprincess:
me @ my boyfriend: “why can’t you be more like max verstappen opening pesto jars and donating to cat shelters?”
⸻
Instagram Stories:
@f1gossipgrid:
MAX & Y/N: PESTO-GATE
This leaked deleted scene is the best PR Netflix never meant to drop.
Rumors say Red Bull marketing is already printing “You loosened it” merch.
We’ll take 5.
⸻
And yes—someone already made pesto-themed merch on Etsy with:
“You loosened it – M.V.” in sleek Helvetica on tote bags, mugs, and aprons.
Nine years later, Lambiase now feels that his job every Grand Prix weekend is to be Verstappen’s “dad, a sports psychologist, best friend, worst enemy, everything. You’re his complete circle of friends in one.”
“You’re on a boat down a river, and you’re surrounded by a whole load of crocodiles. So you’re dealing with the closest crocodile to the boat. That’s all we’re doing." - Gianpiero Lambiase
from The One Person in F1 Max Verstappen Actually Listens To by Joshua Robinson for The Wall Street Journal
can we talk about max putting down the tray table for his drink bottle and then looking at gp all proud that he figured it out and gp giving a lil nod of approval? because i'm not over that. i may never be over that.
GP really shouldn't notice Max's hands as much as he does.
Really, he shouldn't notice a lot of things about Max as much as he does. The way he sinks down into the car, thighs flexing under his dark race suit. His breathy voice in GP's ear as he asks about the gap; curses out the strategy; celebrates over the line, whooping, thanking the team, lilting accent rough with gravel. The way he looks on the top step, hands clasped behind his back, jaw set, proud, staring down at the crowd. At GP staring back up at him.
But Max's hands... When all is said and done, and GP is alone in a hotel room under pristine white sheets, it's Max's pale fingers he sees in imprints behind his eyelids, mapping curves through the air, pressed delicate to his lips as he leans in close to GP on the grid, breath hot on his neck. His fingers, wrapped around a Red Bull can, wrapped around a wheel, wrapped around a trophy, fingertips dripping sticky with champagne.
GP's hand is a sorry substitute, wrapped around his cock in the dark. Palm too broad, fingers too thick.
GP comes, and it feels hollow, mechanical. Biological process complete—check. Victory behind the safety car, only on a technicality. Comm line dead—only the muffled sounds of the street outside the window in his ear.
In his dream, GP tastes Max's champagne-sticky fingers on his tongue.
--
Max's hands on GP feel like fire, points of contact roaming across his sides and shoulders and back; scrabbling desperately for the hem of GP's shirt and forcing it up and over his head.
On his bare skin, Max's fingers feel even better than he imagined. His thumbs print light indents into GP's waist as Max presses him into the wall and leans in to kiss him, open-mouthed and sloppy, panting.
GP groans. Max's fingers spasm, gripping momentarily tighter.
GP snakes his own hands under Max's shirt, pushing it higher, and that's all the invitation Max needs to move his perfect fingers away from GP's skin and start shucking his clothes off.
The moment their pants are untangled from around their ankles, GP is grabbing Max, pushing him against the wall, and dropping to his knees. Max stares down at him, lips parted, hair wild. Just like on the top step.
GP, like always, meets his gaze.
He takes him into the back of his throat.
Max groans, head thrown backward, knocking into the wall. His hands scrabble at nothing, and GP wants desperately to tell Max to put them on him—anywhere, everywhere, fingers like fire wherever he touches—but he's too busy dragging his tongue along the underside of Max's cock, savoring the taste.
It isn't long before Max is babbling. "GP, GP, fuck, wait, I do not want to come yet, I want you to fuck me, please, GP, god, fuck, please fuck me."
GP moans, and Max, still in his mouth, twitches as he lets out a high-pitched keen. "Fuck, GP, oh, fuck. I— please."
When GP pulls away, a line of spit connects him to Max's dick, and it's all he can do to stop himself from following it, going back in for more.
Max is still pressed flush with the wall, palms flat against it, pushing hard, eyes scrunched shut. His chest is heaving.
"Fuck," they say at the same time.
GP stands up and plasters his body against Max's. Feels his heaving chest under his own, hot. Feels the press of his slick cock between their stomachs. Murmurs into his ear, "You want to come on my dick, Max?"
Max's breath catches. He nods quick, back of his head rubbing against the wall, eyes suddenly blown wide, nearly black in the harsh hotel light.
"Hmm," GP hums. He grabs Max's hips—pries him away from the wall; walks them backwards towards the bed. Pushes Max onto the pristine white sheets, and he goes easily, eyes wide, spreading his legs to leave room for GP to slot himself between them.
GP doesn't.
"Open yourself up for me, then."
The thing about Max is, he's not afraid to argue—if there's something to argue against. If there's a flaw or a hiccup or an unknown. If he truly thinks he's right.
But when GP is right, when he's sure, when he tells Max, "we're pitting this lap, Max—box," voice steady on the comm, Max listens, no hesitation.
Unblinking, black eyes still locked on GP's, Max brings his slender fingers up and rests them on his tongue. Closes his plush lips around them; hollows his cheeks as he sucks.
GP's hand finds its way to his cock, and it feels anything but mechanical.
Max's fingers glisten with his spit when he pulls them free from his mouth, and he swipes his tongue across his lips to cut the string of saliva.
The sight of Max's index finger slipping inside of him makes GP feel light-headed. Max shifts his hips just slightly, hotel sheets dragging, before he starts to slowly pump his perfect finger in and out, the rest curled inward towards his palm, delicate.
GP wants to put his entire hand into his mouth. Lathe his tongue around each finger one by one. Taste Max on himself—never taste anything else.
Max adds another finger.
His next inhale is sharp; exhale long. GP manages to tear his eyes away from Max's hand for long enough to see the small crease formed between his brows, eyes shut.
Always trying to go so fast, this boy.
"Max. It's only the warm-up lap."
The crease vanishes as Max's lips quirk and he chuckles. "You are such an engineer."
"And you," GP says, eyes flitting back down to where Max's fingers haven't ceased their movement, curling in and out of his puckered hole, "are such a racer."
GP watches as Max's fingers crook before his whole body shudders. His fingers start pumping faster. "Oh. Oh, GP. Please, fuck, let me use the lube so I can finish this faster, I want you in me, I need you, I—" His other hand grips tight at the bedsheets, paling whiter.
It takes GP a second to tear his thoughts away from the way Max looks strung with tension on the bed in front of him; from the way he himself is tipping towards pleasure, his own hand speeding up on his cock. "Lube— lube? Max, I didn't plan this, I don't have—"
Max releases his hold on the sheets to flail a hand towards the wall they were pressed up against before. "Pocket of my jeans. I, of course, was planning for this."
GP doesn't have the time to think about the implications of that, not when his head is spinning with the new possibilities that lube presents, no longer imagining slowly pressing in and out of Max, close and gentle, but instead of Max's thighs flexing as he lowers himself into the cockpit.
"Yes. Copy." He hears Max snicker as he goes to their pile of clothes, rummages around in Max's jeans until he finds a small tube of travel lube tucked into the front pocket.
He doesn't hand it to Max; instead, he just uncaps it and squeezes it directly onto Max's long fingers as they continue to stretch him wider.
Max inhales at the sudden cold, but he adapts quickly, and it's not long until he's pushing his slick ring finger into himself with a groan. "Please, GP, I'm ready, fuck me, fuck me."
"Just a bit longer," GP murmurs, entranced by the way Max's pinky finger is shaking, bent back just a bit farther than normal, in the way that Max's fingers do when he illustrates the curves of the circuit. "Fuck, Max. You're incredible. So fucking beautiful."
His pinky curls. GP has to grab the base of his cock with a groan. "Yes. Yes. Yes."
Max pulls his fingers out; wipes them on the bedsheets, absentmided. Opens his legs wider, once again beckoning GP.
GP goes. Slots into the space between, like he belongs there. He leans over Max—captures his lube-sticky hand in his, threads their fingers together, pushes them down into the bed. Breath hot by Max's ear, his voice comes out as a growl as he murmurs, "I want you to ride me."
Max's head tips back onto the bedsheets. He nods, desperate. His fingers twitch in GP's hold. "Please, GP. Anything."
GP groans. Anything.
He climbs onto the bed. Straddles Max for just a moment—feels his head spin as he looks down at him, flushed pink and quivering beneath him, lips opening up to beg, "please," again.
GP settles against the headboard and drips lube over his fingers, working himself slick. Max crawls towards him, eyes roaming. Climbs over his legs, knees tucked up by GP's ribcage, feet tucked in by his thighs, radiating warmth.
GP hums in disapproval—reaches out, wraps his fingers around Max's calves, tugs him forward. "No. Like this." Max goes easy, lets GP pull him into position until his feet are planted by GP's sides. "Hands on the headboard. Attaboy."
Somewhat belatedly, GP remembers the concept of condoms. But when he asks Max if he brought one, Max shakes his head.
"You, of course, would not give me any diseases."
The thing about GP and Max—what makes them such a good pair, beyond the simple fact that they're both the best goddamn driver and engineer out there—is that they trust each other, truly and wholeheartedly.
"Never," GP agrees.
He grabs his cock; Max lifts himself, hands gripping tight at the headboard above GP. His thighs shake as he lowers himself, lips pursed in concentration as he works out the angle.
He slides all the way down in one movement, and they moan in tandem. "Fuck, Max. Yeah. Just like that." Just like sliding into the cockpit.
Max makes a noise high in the back of his throat. His chest is flushed bright pink. His parted lips are shiny with spit.
He shifts just slightly, his ass grinding against GP's thighs, before slowly lifting himself back up and sliding down, sheathing himself back onto GP's cock.
Max starts up a steady pace, making microadjustments on every thrust and whimpering high-pitched every time GP bottoms out. GP himself is uttering an unending litany of blissful nonsense—"fuck, Max, oh my god, oh my god, you're so fucking incredible, my Max, my Maxy, so fucking good, fuck."
When Max finally gets the angle perfect, it's immediately obvious. His whole body goes taut, and he throws his head back with a breathy gasp. "Godverdomme. GP." His legs are shaking. His rhythm doesn't falter.
GP brings up his hands, which had been tangled uselessly in the bedsheets, and grips Max's hips, tight. Pulls him down as GP thrusts up, fucking into him. Max gasps like all the air has been punched out of him. "Oh, fuck. GP. GP, please, please please please."
Their pace increases. Max slides up on shaking legs; GP pulls him back down, fucking up to meet him, hard and fast. Max is keening is high and constant, whimpers every time GP's hips meet his ass. One hand, he's taken off the headboard and brought to his mouth, perfect pale fingers pressing against his plush lips, doing nothing to muffle the sounds.
GP watches, mesmerized, as his fingers slide downward—catch on his bottom lip and stay there as Max opens his mouth and says with a moan, "GP, fuck, I—"
And then he's coming. Untouched by those perfect fingers on his lips; by GP's hands pressing bruises into his hips.
GP doesn't let go of him, but he gentles his touch. Guides Max downwards instead of pulls him; stills his thrusts.
Max pants for a moment, head hanging, long eyelashes fluttering. And then, with a long groan, he slides off of GP's cock, swings a leg over until he's no longer straddling him, and presses himself close to his side.
The hand he'd been pressing to his bottom lip is still slightly slick with spit when he wraps it around GP.
All it takes is one stroke, base to tip, the pads of Max's long fingers soft against delicate skin, and GP is coming, back arching off the bed.
Max's hand keeps working, stroking GP through the orgasm, coaxing out every bit of performance, like always. He presses his face into the crook of GP's neck, and his voice is gravelly in his ear, accent heavy, as he says, "Fuck. GP."
"Max."
GP's hips fall back to the mattress, dick fully spent. Max's hand is still wrapped around him, and GP gasps, overstimulated, as his fingers trail back up, brush against his tip.
Max's fingers are dripping sticky with GP's come when he brings it up to his mouth, eyes locked onto GP's, still blown wide and dark. He laves his tongue through the gaps in his fingers, smearing come around his mouth. GP groans, feeling heat pool in his belly.
Max smirks, the corner of his mouth twitching up just slightly, eyebrow quirking. Like he knows exactly what he's doing.
"Max. Please." GP keeps his lips parted after he begs, desperate.
Unblinking, without hesitation, Max slides his fingers into GP's mouth.
