fmu: chapter fifteen :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, kissing, crazy ex pov too

｡ ˚ ︶︶✩︶︶‌ ₊ ˚ ︶︶✩︶︶‌ ｡˚

Six weeks where he wouldn’t be allowed behind the wheel of a car. 

And that was just the minimum amount of rest required for his broken ribs and sprained ankle. They said he had a concussion too, but he supposed that was really the least of his current laundry list of problems. 

“At least summer break-” You tried to be optimistic, but you weren’t really built for that. Your mouth locked in a rigid frown as you continued to offer your best attempt at condolences. 

“I’m probably going to miss two races,” he grimaced, already picturing what politics were going on behind the scenes with the rest of his team. They’d have someone from their sister team driving to replace him for those. But the rest of the drivers would be snapping at the opportunity to snatch as many points as possible while he was out. 

With that DNF and two more missed races, it would open the door for the championship lead to be contested. 

Logically, he should be upset right now. Stare at the ceiling and contemplate his future far more seriously than he was right now. 

“They might replace me next year,” he heard himself say, but you scoffed, shaking your head as if it was absurd.

“You literally won-” 

“It won’t matter if I don’t win this year,” he shrugged. It would be different if he wasn’t dating you. If he wasn’t quickly becoming a liability when it came to sponsors. If he wasn’t starting arguments with the team principal. 

Problems were quickly pruned in this field. 

And he was clearly a problem. 

The media had labelled him one years ago. 

And now he was proving their point. 

“That’s absurd,” you muttered, lips pressed together as he shrugged his shoulders. Just the little movement made his ribs ache, lungs hurting when he sucked in a short breath. 

“I don’t care,” he grunted. “It is what it is.” 

He had made enough money to last a lifetime. 

Besides, if he really wanted to, he could start driving for some other team – maybe in another part of motorsports entirely. GT3 might be fun, endurance was in his blood after all. 

How long had he waited for you? 

“You’re easily the most talented driver on the grid,” you grumbled, crossing your arms as you shuffled in your chair. 

He liked to think he was the best, but it was better to hear it from you.

“Would you want me if I wasn’t an F1 driver?” He asked, and even though you were taken aback for a split second, you still nodded. Brows knitting together as you snagged his hand to offer a small squeeze. 

“Yeah,” you admitted, swallowing hard. “I would.” 

He didn’t say anything for a second, but it was obvious his question rattled you a little. 

“Would you want me if I wasn’t an actress?” You returned his question, and he wasn’t sure how he felt about it. He knew he wanted you. Whether you were an actress or an assistant, no matter what your job was or whether you had one at all. 

But he knew you enough to suspect you wouldn’t be satisfied with that. You fought to get where you were. Scratched and clawed to prove that you were worthy of the fame and the attention. 

This wasn’t where it was supposed to end for you. 

The WAG of a former F1 driver. 

You were supposed to be winning awards and receiving all the applause and accolades. Your face on billboards and advertisements and movie posters. 

“You know I would,” he murmured, his grumble coming out not quite as gentle as he planned. “Would you be alright with that though?” 

“Why wouldn’t I?” You only posed the question so you didn’t have to lie to him. 

He couldn’t fucking stand how small it made him feel. How useless he was when it came to you. How could he help? How could he do anything when all he had done so far was make both your situations worse? 

Sure, that fucking asshole was always going to do whatever he could to take advantage of you, but this was retaliation. Panicking at the thought of being unable to pull your strings, that you had cut yourself free to no longer be puppeteered as he pleased. 

If he hadn’t shoved his way back into your life, would that prick have left you alone? Stayed away and stuck to fucking the discount double of you? 

“There’s other directors in Europe, you know,” he offered, feeling like an idiot even as he cleared his throat. “You could-”

“Shouldn’t I be the one trying to make you feel better?” You cut him off before he could start bringing up prospects in the indie film industry, leaning in and scooting the chair closer. You didn’t want pity. You didn’t want to do projects you didn’t care about simply to stay relevant. 

He could see the headlines it would bring. 

The way people would put you down while parading your ex-boyfriend on a shiny pedestal, oblivious or simply uncaring that he’d put you in this position. 

“If you’re happy, I can be,” he bluntly said. 

He didn’t know if it was true, but being with you had brought him far more contentment than his championship actually did.

“That’s not fair,” you complained, brows pinching together as another intense throb of pain pulsed through his chest. 

“You think I’m fair?” He grumbled, dark eyes narrowing while yours rolled at him. Nothing about the two of you had ever been fair. 

Your circumstances, his, the way the world always frustratingly seemed to work against both of you every time things were going well. 

He was greedy at heart. 

Desperate for your affection when he’d been starved of emotional acceptance for so fucking long. He wasn’t going to let you go. But he wasn’t just going to let you be miserable simply because you chose him too. 

You stared at him, chewing the inside of your cheek like you were thinking about something serious, but didn’t know how to say it. 

So he patted the spot on the bed next to him instead, scooting over as much as he could despite the pain it sent from his ribs down to his leg. 

“Get up here with me,” he muttered.

“There’s not enough room,” you tried to dissuade him, readjusting in your plastic chair. 

“Are you going to make me say please?” He persisted, his throat constricting at the hoarse words. 

“You should rest,” you murmured, attempting to be the mature one here. He couldn’t get the years away from you back. Couldn’t reclaim the months you were his or undo the damage he’d done to you. 

But he was here now. 

In a constant state of convincing himself that just holding your hand was good enough, craving your company and clawing at the scraps of you that were left behind every time you walked away. Got on a plane or pressed an awkward kiss goodbye on his cheek, his hand reaching just to brush against your fingers slipping out of reach. 

“I don’t want to when you’re here,” he argued, nose scrunching up as you tilted your head to the side, faint disapproval shining despite the smile tugging up on your lips, secretly flattered. 

“How strong are the painkillers you’re on right now?” You asked, arching up a pretty brow. 

“Not strong enough,” he wryly commented. Not enough to fully numb the pain when he scooted further to the edge of the bed to make more room for you. 

“Visiting hours are going to be over soon,” you changed the subject, and he hated that you couldn’t just stay. 

“You’ll be back in the morning though?” He grunted, irritated that he wouldn’t be able to get up out of bed to chase you. He guessed there was a lot of stuff he wouldn’t be able to do for a while. Imagined what sort of work meetings were going on without him. 

“Of course,” you nodded, but your eyes were flitting down to the floor. 

“Has anyone else visited?” He heard himself ask, watching the way you stiffened and bit your bottom lip before inhaling. 

“Not today.” 

Of course. 

They were busy planning everything around his absence. One of the doctors that had spoken to him earlier had been theirs, a member of their private medical staff here to see how screwed he was. 

“They’ll come tomorrow,” you reassured, but you weren’t good at it either. Not accustomed to being supportive like this. 

This whole relationship thing, or well, the healthy relationship thing was new to both of you. 

“They might just be uncomfortable with me here,” you dismissed. 

You said it like you were used to it. 

As if it was just a normal facet of your life to be unwanted. 

“I’d take you over them any day,” he grumbled, glaring at the door as if anyone else was going to walk through it. 

Your lips pressed together in an annoyingly adorable pout, and it took everything in him not to sit up and kiss you. 

“Go to sleep,” you half-whispered, your voice coming out all quiet. Subdued. It was a lullaby in itself. Tempting him to fall into dreams you’d occupy anyway. 

“Do I get a goodnight kiss?” He asked, but it came out in a groan, the force of the words hurting his ribs as you begrudgingly got up out of your chair and leaned over. 

You didn’t make him beg for more than one at least. 

Your soft lips grazing over his temple, pressing a handful of tender ones across his forehead and over his dark brows, pausing at the bridge of his nose as you scanned his face up close. 

“At least the crash didn’t mess your face up,” you muttered, and it hurt to laugh. 

A low chuckle reverberating through him as you left one more kiss on the corner of his lips.

“Would you want me if my face was messed up?” He asked, and you feigned consideration, humming softly as you slid back into your seat. 

“Maybe,” you teased, and it was nice to see that you could at least mock him while the rest of the world seemed to be falling apart around you. 

“You should try to sleep too,” he muttered, this throat parched but his mouth unwilling to ask for help getting water. If you dozed off, he could just do the embarrassing part of cringing and wincing while struggling to grab it. 

You nodded, readjusting in the chair and stretching out your leg as your lashes fluttered hut.

He made himself close his eyes too, controlling his breathing as best as he could so that you would fall asleep next to him too. He could tell by the dark circles beneath your concerned stare you had probably been staying up all day in case he woke up and wanted something. 

Had you been watching when he crashed? 

Sat by the TV even when you thought he dumped you? 

You came for him though. Got on the first plane to be by his side. 

After aching for you for so long, he was having a hard time believing that you actually agreed to be his-

Wait. 

Had you agreed to being his girlfriend? 

His head felt all fuzzy, the thoughts struggling to connect as he tried to recall every word that left your lips. But, he was fairly certain girlfriend hadn’t been one of them. 

He supposed he would just have to fix that tomorrow morning. 

Put a pretty label on it and tie it up with a bow, no loose strings left to get caught in either of your messes. 

Would it be overkill to buy a ring? Would it terrify you if he got down on a knee and promised that nothing you could do would scare him away? 

Yeah, probably. 

But the idea had taken shape in his not-entirely-lucid mind, desperation itching and crawling underneath his skin to claim you in a way no one would be able to argue with. 

Your ex-boyfriend wouldn’t be able to compete. 

The last thing you needed was him lashing out again though. 

So he tried to shut down the thoughts, ignore the urge to see you with a shiny diamond on your fourth finger and the news plastered on every bad tabloid. 

He was tempted to peek at you. But the sounds you made were cute enough to keep him preoccupied. 

The rustle of your clothes, the shuffling of the chair, your soft exhales and quiet hums that made him sure you actually dozed off, too exhausted to keep sleep at bay. 

He cracked an eye open to watch you snoozing, your head propped up on your palm, your lips parted ever-so-sightly as your chest slowly rose. 

It was peaceful. 

Close to perfect. 

His pretty girl by his side. Ready to nurse him back to health and press kisses to his skin when he asked. 

And then your phone buzzed.

Another harbinger of bad things to come.

He knew it on the second vibration, his stomach twisting as he silently prayed you would just sleep through it. 

But you stirred, sitting up straighter and scowling as he belatedly shut his own eyes again to feign sleep. 

“What?” Your voice was cold when you answered. Curt.

He couldn’t hear what whoever on the other end was saying, just the vague sound of a female talking, the faint impression that it was serious. 

“I don’t want to,” you protested. “After what he-”

She interrupted you. 

He might not be able to see your face, but the silence didn’t bode well. Didn’t make him feel good as it stretched out, the dull pain growing a sharp edge the longer he was forced to wait for your reply. 

“I-” Your protest died within seconds. 

Deflating as all the lightness that had been present earlier disappeared, twisting into a dark energy that soured on his tongue, settled into his skin. 

“I understand,” you muttered. 

The hum on the other end was harsh. 

Fuck, he wanted to know what was going on. Rage ratting inside his broken ribcage, his heart hammering as a heavy headache started to throb behind his shut eyes. 

“A lawyer?” You asked, a low scoff escaping as he detected the injustice in your question. 

But righteousness didn’t change how unfair everything you faced was. 

“Okay, okay,” you relented, and his stare nearly opened instantly at the sudden switch in your tone, the way you sounded almost like you were on the verge of tears. “I’ll get on a plane tomorrow, okay?” 

No. 

No no no no no. 

You couldn’t leave. 

Not now. Not while he was going to be in a stupid hospital bed stuck being observed. Not when he couldn’t follow. 

“I want an intimacy coordinator on set every day from now on,” you tried to insist, sniffling a little as they chittered back. “And a guard to make sure I’m never alone-” 

The person on the other end, your manager he guessed, spoke up, and for the first time, he could actually understand what they were saying. 

“You don’t get to make demands.” 

♡

God, what was so fucking great about that idiot driver of yours? 

His job was to drive, and apparently, he couldn’t even do that without crashing. 

And yet, you ran off to be with him, all his plotting and planning going to shit. Fuck. 

He was so goddamn sure that it had to be PR. 

That you were doing this to piss him off. Pretend to be a happy couple with that prick, make a big deal out of it for the press. 

But ditching filming days? Going completely silent and screwing everything up just for his sake? 

He couldn’t fucking stand it. 

You were supposed to be his girlfriend. Glued to his arm and begging for his attention, waiting for him at home or batting your lashes at him on camera. Hanging onto his every word and nodding along, his perfect princess.

The perfect relationship. 

Was saying sorry not enough? What the hell did he have to do? 

All he could think about was separating the two of you. 

Getting the studio to threaten legal action for breach of contract wasn’t all that difficult. But the media was spinning their own stories about this little love triangle, posing theories and taking sides. 

But those stupid fucking sports sites were taking the wrong one. 

Influenced by that asshole, publishing stuff he never would have given permission for, speculating over whether or not he was the good guy Hollywood painted him out to be. 

Of course he was. 

He was the golden boy. 

You two were lucky to even exist in his light. Lifted up higher simply by being associated with him. 

Why couldn’t you see that? 

If it wasn’t for him, you wouldn’t be fucking famous. 

He made you. 

And when you returned this time, he was going to make sure you remembered that.