fmu: chapter twelve ;p (Patreon)

fill (me) up

synopsis: he's stubborn. he's cocky. and he's unfortunately stupidly in love with you. not that you've noticed. you went from being his biggest fan to being too busy chasing your own acting career to pay attention to him or his wins. that is, until your agent and his PR manager suggest an affair between everyone's least favorite actress and racer that lands you directly in his lap once again.

pairing: grumpy!f1 driver x actress f!reader

content: angst/fluff, PR relationships, past toxic/controlling relationships, complicated feelings, slower build, reluctant/avoidant reader, jealousy, HEAVY PINING, so much yearning its insane, grumpy but soft f1 driver, HEAVY ANGST IN THIS ONE, tw for harassment, ex is genuinely insane and evil, reader is having a horrible time

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“Can you kiss him harder?”

You’d prefer they call your stunt double in, but instead, you just nodded numbly, offering a thumbs up as they reset the scene. 

What else did you expect with him as a costar? 

Your ex-boyfriend hadn’t been the one to deliver a revised script last week with a new sex scene slipped in last week, but you still knew he was the one behind it. Probably had brought bagels and coffees to the director and slyly ‘suggested’ changes to make the plot flow better.

You could protest. Put up a fight and remind them that it literally added nothing to the story. 

But a few years in the business had previously proved how pointless causing problems would be.

Although lately, you were starting to wonder what the hell you were doing clinging to a career you were beginning to loathe. Protecting an image of being well-behaved when all you really wanted to do was claw the pretty blue eyes above you out until someone pulled him away from you. 

“I won’t bite,” your ex murmured, a familiar large hand cupping your cheek as you squirmed uncomfortably underneath his heavy weight. 

Of course, the intimacy coordinator had called out sick today too. 

And the only man you were actually interested in kissing was preoccupied with his own career, travelling or training or doing something far more useful than being paid to look seduced and starstruck by your least favorite person on the planet. 

“I might,” you mumbled under your breath back, resisting the urge to roll your eyes. 

But for all the irritation you packed in your voice, he never seemed to get it. To accept that you weren’t going to come crawling back, no matter how many sex scenes he tried to sneak into the script or flowers he left by your door. 

It had been almost three weeks since he showed up at that club after the race, but no matter how much you ignored him off-set or gave him the cold shoulder, he just kept trying. Like he hadn’t been the one to dump you to begin with, completely ignoring the fact you were very publicly dating someone he hated. 

Who, uh, wasn’t exactly happy about any of this. 

Even if you still weren’t supposed to be really dating. 

But it would be a lie to pretend your heart was starting to struggle finding the difference. Fluttering when you woke up to messages from him or when you fall asleep to his gravelly voice on the phone, no matter how far off his time zone ended up being when he travelled. You’d barely gotten to see him at all, missing his last race thanks to filming and forced to watch the replay afterwards, nearly throwing your phone against the wall when he narrowly missed a podium thanks to a shitty pit stop. 

You wanted to be there. To let him bury his head in the crook of your neck and let him fuck his frustrations out on you in some fancy hotel room. Get some food delivered and sleep in late the next morning, showering together and listening to him grumble and groan about all the problems the car had while you stared at his side profile. 

Those were the sort of things someone in love did. 

And you weren’t in love. 

Definitely not. 

So you just told yourself that you should be satisfied with what you had. In your brief calls and the photos he’d send you. In the moments you both happened to have to spare. 

But being underneath another man still made you feel sick. 

“Move your hand a little lower,” the director instructed your ex, making sure the camera would get an up-close view of your face. Capturing every detail and line, so everyone who watched it would get to see you faking moans and dragging your nails down his bare shoulder blades. 

Deja vu didn’t escape you. 

Reliving a memory in how his head dipped down, his soft mouth ghosting over your collarbone and tracing a messy path up to your jaw, reciting lines in between kisses while you gasped and groaned his character’s name. 

Dissociating yourself just to get through it, your brain as blank as you could get it as you rattled off the parts you memorized, arching your back at the right time and controlling every tiny flicker of your expression. 

Everything inside you wanted to recoil. To retreat back in disgust when his mouth crashed into yours, his tongue forcing its way in deeper and leaving you nothing to do except return it, opening more to let him in as you ran your fingers through his hair. 

Quitting seemed like a better idea every day. 

You knew what they would call you if you did. How you’d probably have to sell everything you had and move as far from this shitty city if you wanted to make it without needing a 9-5. 

“My beautiful girl,” he murmured, his mouth hovering just over yours as you pretended to melt underneath him. “I missed you.” 

And despite how good of an actor everyone loved to swear he was, you knew that those words were from him. 

Kissing you the same way he used to, like he could claim you with his lips and rewind the clock to a time where you were still his girl.

But neither of you could go back. 

It was all over. 

How long would it take him to get on the same page? To stop rewriting the story to where you would end up underneath him? 

Despite the cup they made him wear, you could still feel him grinding against you, rubbing down hard to give off the illusion he was actually fucking you beneath the thin blanket draped just above his ass. 

You were tempted to spit on his face, but you suspected he might actually be into that. 

“Tell me you love me,” he murmured, and you almost faltered, nearly fucked it up by pointing out that he was going off-script. 

Trapping you in this awful scenario, forcing you to role play his domestic fantasy of him getting you again as you breathily moaned, “I love you.” 

It was the last time he’d ever hear it from you. 

Or well, it would’ve if they didn’t make you reshoot the damn thing four more times. Sweat sticking to your forehead, caged underneath him as he fake thrusted into you again and again, the bright lights shining and the distant voices chattering in between cuts making you even more self-conscious, not sure if you looked stupid or if you simply were stupid for letting yourself get stuck in this position. 

This was what it meant to work right under his thumb. Where he had all the control and could wield it against you until he got what he wanted.

It was great when you were together. Doors opening for you, every opportunity you could ever want offered before you could even think to ask for anything. Photoshoots, interviews, commercials, roles, it was all yours.

Up until you weren’t his, and he’d ripped every last one away. 

Dangling this in front of your face, knowing you couldn’t get any better without him extending a helping hand. 

But could you really just throw everything else you built away just for one last fuck you to him? Disappear from the public eye for a while and hope he’d forget about you? Maybe get another new girlfriend he could cheat on and discard when he was done?

“You did fantastic,” the director tried to congratulate you, clapping a hand on your bare shoulder when you were finally finished. Someone passed you a robe to put on, as if they hadn’t just spent half the day seeing your tits bouncing, although hopefully the camera work had kept them mostly hidden for the actual film. 

“Thanks,” you dryly replied, swallowing hard. 

“It felt so real,” he continued, and you knew you should be relieved that it meant that you kept it together, proud of yourself for not snapping and kneeing your coworker in the crotch like he deserved, but you were drained, disgust still curling and coiling around your heart as the director rambled about how the two of you sold it. 

Acting like your chemistry was magical, rambling about how good the scene would be as if it wasn’t just gratuitous. For the girls who only wanted to go to the movies to see your ex boyfriend’s abs and the boyfriends they’d bring who wanted to look at your tits. 

And of course, for your ex to get to grope you and get a fat paycheck for it. 

“Our girl is so talented,” he purred, trying to throw an arm around your shoulder you barely managed to sidestep to avoid. 

“I need to brush my teeth,” you dismissively muttered. 

Maybe drink bleach just to get the taste of him out of your mouth. 

Ignoring the water bottles and snacks trying to get passed to you, shutting out the chatter of the crew when you walked past, just nodding and mumbling blanket uh-huhs and yeahs back until you made it back to the relative serenity of your trailer. 

Locking the door behind you as you forced your tired limbs forward, half-falling into the stool at your vanity, staring at a reflection that looked more like a stranger as you rumbled through the drawers for where you’d left your phone this morning. 

You wanted to call your boyfriend. 

Even if you were well aware that your ex could be listening in sooner or later on that stupid fucking bug he planted. Refused even the tiniest privacy as you turned it back on to check your missed messages. 

There were a few, one from your manager begging you to please behave on set today, while the rest were from him. 

A photo of his breakfast. A voice message of his gruff voice grumbling to call him when you could. 

A few years ago, you never would’ve imagined him leaving that for you. Him speaking 

“Hey,” you murmured, tucking the phone between your ear and your shoulder. 

“I missed you,” he immediately exhaled, and your shoulders almost slumped with relief at the sincerity of it. 

“What are you doing?” You asked, twirling a loose strand of hair as you stared at your reflection in the vanity. Your lip gloss had smeared, your stomach churning as you grabbed some makeup remover wipes and tried to rub it all off. 

“Just finished in the gym,” he grunted, and the thought of him sweaty and shirtless embarrassingly had you pressing your thighs together before you reminded yourself that it wasn’t like you’d gone that long since you had sex with him. “How’s work?” 

“Bad,” you automatically replied, chewing the inside of your cheek as you waited for his reply in the thick pause that followed. 

“What did he do?” 

You almost didn’t want to tell him. 

All it would do was piss him off from the other side of the world. 

“Had to shoot a sex scene today,” you admitted, a still image of him on top of you flashing in your head before you shut your eyes and replaced it with the person you’d rather be there instead.  

His silence said enough. 

“Are you okay?” He asked instead, a razor sharp edge to his voice you wanted to soothe. Avoiding the questions he really wanted to ask when he wouldn’t be able to do anything about your answers. 

“I guess,” you shrugged. “I’m just tired.” 

Of being here. Of working with him. Surrounded by people who would step all over you just for some shitty idea of success. Stuck in the same shoes as all of them. 

“How much longer until filming wraps?” He asked, and you felt your blood pressure spike just at the thought of it, especially when it was beginning to feel more like a prison sentence than a job. 

“I don’t know,” you exhaled. “They keep adding stuff and asking for reshoots. Another couple months, probably.” 

It couldn’t fucking end soon enough. 

“Are you coming to the race this weekend?” He asked, and you already hated yourself for what you were about to say. 

“I don’t know if I can make it,” you murmured. 

They’d been keeping you booked with interviews and press and tight shooting times, coming up with last-minute fittings and changes to stay on track with deadlines they’d already pushed back. 

“Oh,” he breathed, his disappointment filling your core with dread you didn’t know how to dispel. 

“What about next weekend?” You hopefully asked, getting up to grab your change of clothes. 

“I’ll free it up for you,” he offered without hesitation. 

It was comforting. You were still relearning how to let yourself feel wanted. But he made it easier. 

“I just, um, wouldn’t mind seeing you,” you awkwardly said. 

“I wouldn’t mind seeing you either,” he muttered back, doing his best attempt at teasing you as you did your best attempt at receiving it. 

“I’ll tell them I can’t come in that Monday,” you offered, even though you knew that they would protest it. At least you’d be able to use today as leverage though. 

“I’ve got to go,” he abruptly grunted, and you hated yourself for reflexively wanting to ask him to wait. 

To beg him for five more minutes.

“Could, um, you call me later then?” You asked instead. “Only if you have the time-” 

“Yeah,” he interrupted, a hint of impatience in his tone. Was it directed towards your question? Or something else going on in his life that you weren’t privy to? “I will.” 

You loathed feeling like a loser needing something from a man when you weren’t supposed to even want him at all. 

Lately though, it had started to sting every time you reminded yourself of that. 

Told yourself that the last thing you needed was a real relationship when the one before left you so broken. 

“Bye,” you mumbled into the phone, wishing you had enough energy left to hide how sad you sounded. 

“Bye, baby,” he murmured, and you were already replaying those two short words after he hung up. 

Looping it around your head as you forced yourself to stand up and change clothes, grabbing your stuff and dropping your phone in your purse as you made sure you had all everything you needed to head home for the day. 

But then there was a knock on the door, loud and sharp, your mouth preemptively curling down as you held your breath. 

As much as you hoped it was your manager, or maybe a makeup artist coming to tell you what time they’d like you to show tomorrow, you knew who would be behind it. 

If the windows were a little bigger, you might try to crawl out one in the back and make a run for it, but all you could do was open the door for him and glare. 

“What do you want?” 

“Dinner?” Your ex grinned, and it took everything in you not to swing your purse at his face. 

“No,” you snapped. 

“Come on,” he goaded, grabbing your wrist when you walked down the stairs past him. God, did no one fucking teach him any manners as a child? You used to think his clinginess was cute. Liked how needed he made you feel at first. Adored. 

But now you knew how easily he could throw you away. 

What you couldn’t comprehend was why he kept digging back through the trash to get you back. 

“Please get dinner with me,” he pleaded, and you just shook your head.

“I’m sure you can find someone else to keep you company,” you sarcastically sighed, refusing to even look at him as you pulled your arm free. 

“I want your company,” he whined. 

“Maybe you should’ve thought about that before you broke up with me,” you deadpanned, refusing to entertain more of his bullshit, hurrying past him without looking over your shoulder to where he was keeping up. 

“If I could turn back time and take it back-” 

“You can’t,” you cut him off. 

“You forgave him,” he childishly pointed out. 

“He didn’t date and dump me,” you reminded him, stubbornly shaking your head. Didn’t blackball you or turn you into a fucking laughingstock. 

“I was an asshole and an idiot and-” 

You snorted, scowling back at him before you started walking faster, listening to him rattle off words that didn’t even begin to encapsulate how fucking awful you thought he was. 

Especially when he wasn’t even offering an apology – and still actively fucking with your life after he lost his place in it. 

He was still following you, jogging to keep up, ignoring you ignoring him up until you reached your car, your mouth twitching down in a frown as you finally spun around to tell him off. 

“Can you just fucking-” 

Before you could finish, his hands were on your face, cradling it the same way he had before, his lips firmly planting on yours and catching you completely off guard as your shoulders froze. Kissing you hard, everything inside you going still for a few painfully long seconds before you snapped out of it. 

You shoved him off, your palm coming up to deliver a harsh slap across his cheek that he only smiled at, looking at you with satisfaction that made your skin crawl. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” You hissed at him. 

But he was just glancing back over his shoulder to where you belatedly realized some photographer had managed to get on the set, camera hanging around his neck as he scurried off. 

He had gotten his front page shot already. 

And you’d been set up. 

For a girl in a PR relationship, you were already positive you had just landed yourself in a disaster as you stared at the paparazzi running off. 

“What’s that boyfriend of yours gonna think?” Your ex taunted, proud of his stupid scheme. 

“He’s going to beat your fucking ass,” you hissed, but your chest was already hurting, heart squeezing tight with every sharp breath you sucked in, ripping the keys out of your purse and getting into your car with trembling fingers, slamming the door shut behind you and locking it before he could do something stupid like try to get in. He was still speaking to you on the other side of the window, but you refused to look back, rushing to put the car into gear and peel out of the parking lot. 

You needed to call your publicist. 

And your manager. 

Then, call your fake boyfriend and try to explain what was probably about to come out if you couldn’t pull some strings and stop the story from being spun. People didn’t really give a shit if a guy cheated. 

The girl though? 

You’d be crucified. 

And now you’d have fans of your fake boyfriend and your ex both pissed at you, ready to cancel you for something that wasn’t even true. 

It was too late though. 

By the time you got back to your place and grabbed your phone from your purse, it was already up. 

Almost as if someone had already told them exactly what was going to happen beforehand and all they had to do was snap a photo to upload with it. Attached to a bold headline suggesting an off-screen romance – and a paragraph speculating that the relationship you’d been flaunting was simply PR. 

You were going to be sick. 

Stumbling to the bathroom, switching on the exhaust fan as you tried to splash water in your face with your free hand. You were already getting messages, mostly from your own team, asking you what the hell was going on as you tried to figure that out for yourself.

But the one person you wanted to speak to was silent. 

So you called him. 

Sucked up your pride and crumbled as the phone rang, the hard edge of the counter digging into your side as you waited for him to pick up. 

The problem was he didn’t. 

His voice mail box was full, not even letting you leave a message. The texts you did send were not even marked as delivered as panic started to surge and build in your chest, pacing the floor as you held it together. 

An hour passed. Two. Then three. 

And with each minute, you were more sure that somehow he’d seen it already. 

That he had come to the conclusion you were truly more trouble than you were worth, no matter what pretty promises he’d grumbled in your ear about liking you. 

You should’ve known better. 

You’d heard them all before, hadn’t you? And it just landed you here. 

Staring down at your phone when you finally got a notification with his name on it. 

Just not the one you wanted. 

A new article dropping, this one straight from his publicist, proclaiming precisely what you feared. 

Telling the entire world that you were no longer seeing other due to scheduling conflicts.

Some piece of you snapped. 

A not-so-small sliver of your heart scooped out to leave you hollow as you skimmed over the bullshit and opened your email to find what you were already expecting there. 

Your contract with him had been terminated. 

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