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live-love-be-unique · 9 days ago

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001 - Never let a client release their own photos

Chapter one of P.R Nightmare

Series summary: A public relations job typically involves managing an individual or organisation’s reputation and building relationships with the public and media. It generally does not include superheros, terrorist organisations, middle-aged Russian super soldiers who breach media regulations and crushing on a client/ coworker.

This is a Robert (Bob) Reynolds x fem!reader series

Warnings: fem!reader, afab!reader, no specific details about reader appearance are given. Super soldiers with access to social media, unauthorised Instagram post and half naked models. No Bob in this chapter (he is coming).

Note: big shoutout to @translatemunson for helping me sort out the jumble of ideas in my head and making it legible.

Clients were clients.

That was your rule. It didn’t matter how much money they had or who they were, they still had to be managed or guided as your mentor had said when you landed your first job. Guide them through maintaining their image, he’d said.

Clients were clients to him, no matter what.

Well, he’d never had to manage a group of genetically modified heroes!

“You’re not going to like this,” Ava announced, appearing out of thin air. You would never get used to her phasing through walls.

“I have Val breathing down my neck about your last mission and a report she wants on her desk by 5pm today, I already don’t like this,” you pause to take a breath, flipping the pages of the latest after action review. “Did you really need to dangle the target over the side of a building?”

“Yes,” she smirked, lounging against the wall nearest her, “and it’s not that.”

“Is anyone dead, dying or injured?” You recited, your voice monotonous, as you checked an email on your computer. It had almost become a joke how many times you had asked that.

“No.” Again, you’re met with a smirk.

“Then what will I not like?”

“Just look”, she thrust her phone in front of your face, the Instagram app already open.

Your face hardened as you took in the image on the screen “…I’ll kill him”

Staring back at you was the image of Alexei taken in the 80’s, in full Red Guardian suit, with what you could only describe as the Russian equivalent of two Victorian Secret models draped over him as he drank from a bottle of vodka, and he had captioned it: “The Good Old Days”.

You grabbed the phone from her hand and stalked out of your office towards the training room two floors down where Bucky, Alexei and John had taken it upon themselves to train Bob to start joining the smaller missions.

“ALEXI!”

Alexei looked up at you from his position on the ground where he’d been grappling with John and was currently holding him in a headlock. “Ah, you have finally left your office to join the training!” he bellowed.

“The good old days?!” You held the phone in front of his face. “What happened to critical thinking?”

“We are allowed to post pictures, yes?”

“Yes, showing the personal side of the team, not posing with barely legal – please tell me they were legal – models.” Your voice growing in pitch as you pinched the bridge of your nose. Half naked models were one thing, but if they were underage…

“Ah yes, Masha and Irina.” He smiled wistfully as John grabbed the phone from your hand, letting out an appreciative whistle.

“Valentina is not going to like this,” Yelena noted as the comments on the photo rolled in at a rapid pace.

@brittany.x: if they did this type of Socialism propaganda back in the day, it would work on me!

@K-Dawg: Way to go, grandpa!

@My.Name.Is.Karen: Now it makes sense why all the New Avengers ladies can’t stand this guy

The Imperial March theme from Star Wars played through the training room “Oh that’s not good,” you mumble before answering “Valentina, hi, I…”

The words barely left your mouth before she launched into her plans to control the situation “I don’t care what you do, just fix it! Blanket every newspaper, run a press conference. We need to get on top of this! He needs to go on national television and apologise."

“Do you really want to unleash him on the world in a press conference?” You interrupted. There was a need to control the situation, not set him loose on reports asking questions.

“And how do you suggest we deal with this?” You were pretty sure there was no way Valentina could disguise her contempt, she hadn’t been too keen on Bucky hiring you before her approval.

“An Instagram live,” you suggest, “we give him a simple script, ‘I apologise, this was inappropriate, I never intended to offend…’ the usual spiel, we make sure he does not stray from the script and we post it, nothing too fancy”

"Fine, just write something and make him read it." She had hung up before you had the chance to ask any more questions. You took a breath and steadied yourself before turning back to the team.

You sighed and turned back to the team, “No more issues tonight please, I don’t need to hear from Valentina anymore. And you,” you pointed at Alexei, “I need you here showered, dressed up and ready to apologise to the world at 9am tomorrow.”

Turning on your heels, you headed back to your desk running over the mental checklist forming in your head. It was going to be a long night. You'd have to quickly take down the post and copyright claim it so that any posts of the image are taken down.

The next few hours were spent talking to social media's support teams and filling in the copyright claims – once you were through, you’d be alerted any time someone somewhere reposted that picture.

—————

The living room had quickly been turned into ground zero for Alexei’s apology video. You'd spent the morning tidying and arranging the space to look presentable, you made sure to get the lighting just right, a blanket draped artfully over the back of the couch and you had even borrowed a couple of Bob’s plants to make the space feel ‘real’. You re-read over the script you’d written a couple of dozen times, it was short enough to get the point across and – you’d hoped – left no room for improvisation.

You’d wanted to shoot this quickly without the rest of the team, but by 9am everyone had shown up, including Valentina who had attempted to take control of the production.

Two minutes before shooting, Alexei had finally arrived, dressed in a button up shirt and pants that looked as though they had been ironed. He at least had the good sense to look repentant as Yelena trailed behind him mumbling in Russian — something that your Duolingo lessons had not taught you yet but you could gather that it wasn’t complementary.

There was no time to waste as you sat him in front of the camera, giving a brief “Just read the script, don’t make any changes and this will be over before you know it.”

Ducking behind the cellphone, you hit play.

“Hello my internet friends,” Alexei began smiling broadly – you grit your teeth, you had told him not to improvise, you could only hope that was as creative as he was going to get.

“I am live today to apologise to you.” He paused, glancing down over the speech in front of him. “Yesterday, I posted an old photo to my Instagram page of myself from my days in Russia, this was a photo of myself with two women, above legal age. I did not intend to cause any offence to anyone, but I recognize part of the audience thought I was sexualizing those beautiful women or painting the Soviet regime in good light. I posted this to merely share my history of being the Red Guardian. I sincerely apologise if I have offended anyone,” you smiled as Alexei finished his speech. It had gone as planned and the comments on the video had been mostly positive.

“I did not wish to offend women, I love women! And I’m not picky with them, I actually—” You scrambled to stop the video as Alexei continued gregariously.

“Alexei!” You snapped, running a hand over your face

“Well, that went well” Valentina chirped up, appearing beside you like an overdressed specter. “He nearly offended the female population again.”

“At least it was positive,” Walker snickered from his position on a chair that had been stacked in the corner of the room, out of sight of the camera.

“That’s it!” You gritted out “After this, I’m revoking everyone’s social media privileges. If any of you want to post anything you will need to have it approved by me”

—————

You’d retreated to your office after cutting off everyone’s social media access, already sick of the constant “can I post this?” questions.

Your phone dinged with a new message.

Yelena had sent an attachment with the question “is this ok to post?”

You hesitantly opened the attachment before bursting out in laughter.

She’d sent a meme of Walker in his old Captain America uniform, complete with the helmet, next to a picture of Carl from Up with his little walker, and someone had pasted the same Captain America helmet on his head.

“Hilarious but no,” you typed, after saving the meme to your phone. “Save it for the group chat.”

#P.R Nightmare #bob reynolds #bob reynolds x reader #thunderbolts series #thunderbolts*#robert reynolds x reader #alexei shostakov #john walker #bucky barnes #yelena belova #ava starr #valentina de fontaine

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live-love-be-unique · 11 days ago

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hi besties in my phone. i hope today is so so good to you. i hope something special happens to remind you that it’s not always bad. ily.

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live-love-be-unique · 13 days ago

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hating is fun but sometimes you see someone only ever be a hater and never a lover and it's like. ok well do you like anything at all or do you only see the world in shades of bad to worse

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live-love-be-unique · 15 days ago

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the horrors persist but my friends write beautiful fanfic

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live-love-be-unique · 21 days ago

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Do I have a full time job? Yes

Do I spend my lunch break making playlists for the stories I write? Also yes

It’s helping keep me motivated to finish the first chapter and giving me ideas 💡

#casey speaks #P.R Nightmare

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live-love-be-unique · 21 days ago

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no, i dont lose hyperfixations. theyre just moved to a different, slightly less used, shelf in my brain.

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live-love-be-unique · 26 days ago

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I’m just saying, Bob + taking off his wife’s shoes for her after a long day 🌻💛

This man makes me so lovesick, it's ridiculous. Here's something that I hope you can indulge in, sweet @spidervee

"Darlin'?" Bob's sweet voice called out from the kitchen.

"It's just me, love!" You responded as you put your keys on the key rack. The soft fur of your cats, Pastrami and Lox, brushed against your ankles as they greeted you.

Normally you would kneel down to pet them, but that was pretty hard with your stomach now a days.

It felt like all you did was look over at the nearby chair and Bob was suddenly in the living room.

"Hey Darlin'," he whispered before pressing a kiss to your cheek. His long fingers traced over your face, his cobalt eyes taking you in.

"Long day?" Bob asked, taking your work bag off your shoulder.

"I'm thirty-two weeks along with twins. Everyday is a long day," you chuckled, though it didn't make the look of concern on your husband's face disappear.

"C'mon, let's get you to the couch." One of his hands was now on the small of your back, the other grasping your hand as he guided you to the living room.

"Robby, I need to-"

"Dinner's in the oven. You can tell me all about your day while we sit on the couch, 'kay?" You knew better than to argue with your husband. Bob wasn't necessarily stubborn, but he had his way of guiding you to what was the better choice. He never made you feel small or childlike, and always kept in mind what you were comfortable with.

He quickly fluffed the pillows on your couch before you laid down, Bob pulling your feet into his lap.

"What are you- Robby!" You tried to sound irritated, but how could you when your husband was taking off your shoes and looking at you with those baby blue eyes (that you desperately hoped your children would inherit)?

It was impossible, especially when he flashed you that sweet, albeit slightly crooked smile of his.

Bob shrugged, "What? You said it was a long day! I'm just trying to help my beautiful wife and mother of my children."

Normally you'd scold your husband. You were pregnant, and yes, carrying twins was more difficult than carrying just one baby. But that didn't mean Bob had to do everything for you, like taking off your shoes.

But then your husband's magical fingers began massaging your swollen feet, and how could you complain about that when it was the first time you felt relief all day?

You couldn't. So instead, you sunk into the couch as the tension left your body. It made it easier to recount today's events at work and how your "morning except not really because it can happen anytime of the day" sickness lead you to almost throwing up in the middle of a meeting.

Bob leaned forward, his head hovering over your growing stomach.

"Are you two givin' your mama a hard time? Thought we talked about that." Bob shook his head in mock disappointment. A smile adored his handsome features at the sound of your laughter.

He looked up, eyes bright, beaming, and just so full of love for you. It took your breath away.

Bob's smile quickly disappeared, worry taking its place upon seeing your eyes begin to well up with tears.

"Darlin', what's wrong? You okay?" His low and gentle voice made it worse.

"I want," you sniffled, "I want to kiss you but I can't get up."

Bob did everything he could not to chuckle at your adorable pout. Instead, he got up from the couch, moving to where your head laid against one of your many pillows.

He flashed a sweet smile before leaning his head down to press his lips against yours. A content hum left your lips as your arms wrapped themselves around your husband's neck, keeping him in place.

"Better?" Bob asked softly, his lips grazing over yours.

You nodded before capturing his lips again, his large hands gently cupping your face.

"Can we stay here for a little bit?" You asked softly.

Bob chuckled, "We can do whatever you want Mama Bear."

#bob floyd x reader #excuse me while i swoon

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live-love-be-unique · 30 days ago

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I already love this! The signs Effie banter is strong 😂 I love the interactions in the team!

I’ll put your name on the headlines

Chapter 1 of the YOU WILL SEE ME IN THE NEWS for The Miramar News CW: female!reader (no mentions of appearance besides being Natasha half-sister), mentions of foods, some asshole behavior (let me know if I forgot anything)

au masterlist | next chapter

Sometimes you wished you could open the panoramic glass windows on the twentieth floor enough to throw a grown man out. Head first into one of the busiest streets in Downtown Boston.

Unfortunately whoever designed it was smart enough to add some limitations. And throwing a chair against the glass would leave a bigger mess behind. And you were tired of hearing your half-sister Natasha saying over and over again violence would never be a solution to any conflict. But sometimes all you wanted was to bang someone’s head against the keyboard and call it a day.

You stared at the checklist you produced after a fifteen minute meeting with Hondo, the caffeine still being processed by your organism, and took in a deep breath, “Why can’t Jeremiah keep assisting Bradshaw?”

“He’ll step in Local Coverage while Diana is on maternity leave,” Bernie Coleman, also known as Hondo, explained to you once again. “He’s not much of a hustle in terms of researching, but sometimes will get into his own head and will require a second pair of eyes to produce something publishable.”

“Got it.” The back of your pen hit your notebook. “Anything else?”

“No, you can go back to your job, Trace.” And before you could leave his corner office on the editorial floor, he said, “Nice job last week.”

“Thank you, boss.”

Ever since you were hired by The Miramar News as assistant editor, you were known for your intuition and instinct. Last week, when the Economics team needed an extra pair of hands to cover all the domino effects of the new Tariffs, you were quick to jump in and help the ongoing coverage — reaching the almost 30 hours without sleep to keep the live feed updated and consistent while the journalists were calling, sending emails and reporting back with all the consequences to the US economy.

At eight thirty in the morning, the journalists were already taking the floor, reading articles and headlines, deciding which story would hit The Miramar News — TMN for short — website and social media first thing. You walked by Javy’s desk and gave him a friendly tap on the shoulder.

“Hey, I didn’t forget!” He pushed the brown bag into your direction.

“I hope the market doesn’t crash this week as well,” you laughed it off, opening the bag and finding your reward. A slice of strawberry cheesecake from the bakery next to Javy’s place.

“Can’t make any promises.”

“Lose my number, Machado!”

He laughed, and you kept your steady steps to your desk, on the corner next to the south windows. Your desk buddy was probably a little late, which would give you enough time to savor your dessert in peace before all the clicking and typing resumed. It was just a Tuesday, but you still felt the effects of pulling an all nighter for the sake of the team.

Your phone screen lit up, a message from Natasha.

Nat: Rain check on lunch today? They’re saying there’s gonna be a protest at Harvard I’m omw there You: No worries Please stay out of trouble. I can’t afford to bail you out of jail this month Nat: Not gonna make any promises You: Hate you! Nat: Love you too!

You sighed. Sometimes you wished she was back in whatever foreign location she was based — at least she was careful back then. But talking some sense into Nat’s head was just as useless as telling the interns to avoid using ChatGPT when doing quick research. What was up with kids these days? You missed the good old days of losing yourself among your browser tabs.

When you were done with the last bite, you allowed yourself to go through the second round of emails for the morning. Anthony was working from home because of a flu, and you kinda missed his loud energy on the seat right in front of you. He was good at keeping the new interns busy and on the line.

And the last missing desk buddie you had walked in as you were ready to ask around if someone saw the 6 feet tall, nerdy glasses, quiet copy editor.

Bob Floyd threw his bag on his desk and turned on the monitor.

“Train broke down. Don’t ask me much,” he was already logging into the server and opening the articles that needed to be uploaded before nine o’clock.

“Boston issues, am I right?” You spied his screen, the name under the title making your stomach turn. “I’m babysitting Bradshaw until Diana comes back.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard. Good luck with him.”

You decided it was better to leave him to work. Bob was an excellent copy editor — and would make an even better editor, but he refused to give the role a trial — and performed his peak when left alone with the articles. And an awful morning commute, you knew better than to do small talk. Picking up your tablet, you checked the pings on the flow chart app as you made your way to the kitchen.

Another coffee wouldn’t hurt.

Unless a grumpy journalist was hogging the machine like it was the last functional coffee machine in the whole world.

You sat on one of the free chairs and went over the messages until they were done. Editorial meetings were usually hosted on Mondays, but since Maverick had his flight cancelled and half of the team was still exhausted from the market crash, they moved it to Wednesday. You found it even more stressful, and thought Maverick was kinda stupid for not letting Hondo deal with it, but whatever.

Life as an assistant editor was boring and steady, most days. Making sure people met the deadlines, articles were sharp and within the characters limit, agendas were fairly distributed amongst teams, and advertisers were happy and reaching the loyal The Miramar News readers. You’d occasionally step in to help with articles and coverage, but most of the time you were the invisible helping hand on everyone’s files.

With two cups of coffee, a new version of Mickey’s infographics for the football draft season, 30+ new emails in your inbox and a text from your parents to ask when you and your sister would be free to catch dinner, you went back to your table.

“Here,” you slipped one cup for Bob. His shoulders were less tense now, but it didn’t mean his fingers were slower on the keyboard.

“Thanks. Hey, can you take a look at Jake’s copies for me?”

“Sure thing.” You took a peek at his monitor, watching him send a piece straight to Hondo’s inbox before forwarding you Jake’s request. “Anything else I should know?”

“He wants them by eleven.”

It was just 15 minutes shy of the deadline.

“Jeez, what’s his problem?”

“Don’t know, and I’m afraid to suggest he has one, in the first place,” his reply sounded monotone. Whoever stood on Bob’s feet that morning was one son of a bastard.

You got yourself to work on those captions and, beside a few typing errors, things were done and sent to the Social Media Manager inbox one minute past eleven. You got a message from him not much later.

Seresin: Thanks for the copy, boss You: Next time, make sure to give us a few more minutes :) We work for the entire floor, not just for you Seresin: I’ll consider it

You took a look into the Social Media department and caught Jake’s smirk in your direction. You raised your hand, but left your message in the underlines — you’d love to show him your middle finger, but you weren’t in the mood to get another talk from Maverick about keeping things civil.

The chill sound of keyboards clicking and light chatting was destroyed when you heard a loud “Floyd!” from a few feet down the tables.

Bob stopped doing whatever he was working on and took a sip of his cup of coffee. He locked eyes with a very pissed Bradley Bradshaw. “What’s up, man?”

“Why did you publish this?” He threw the printed newspaper his way and stopped in front of your colleague.

“Because it was meant to be published on today’s front page,” his nonchalant tone didn’t surprise you.

“But I was meant to approve the changes before sending it to Maverick!” Bradshaw only got redder on the cheeks. What was he mad about? It was just an article.

“You’ve lost that right when I was breaking down the same long period for the third time in less than 24 hours.”

“This is my article!” Gosh, he sounded like a cry baby if they allowed them to work on newspapers.

“Next time, try to read it out loud without running out of breath, Bradshaw. The one time I proofread your text, I couldn’t remember what you were discussing at the beginning because the periods and paragraphs were way too long, and way too boring,” you interjected, making yourself known.

He finally noticed you sitting down there. Bob had many years of pissed off writers, and was unbothered and back to his work in no time. He didn’t need you to defend his job, but you, as a future Editor-In-Chief, saw an opportunity to put a spoiled journalist back in his place.

“Are you done?”

“Not your job, Trace.”

“Actually,” you took your cup to your lips, taking a sip while facing him, “I’ll be overseeing your publications for the next six months. So now it is my job.”

He turned around and ignored you, like he has been doing since you started working there.

“And the next time you decide to throw a tantrum, I’ll make sure to put your name on the headlines. Front page! As a dead man!”

Being Pete Mitchell’s godson gave him a few privileges, such as flipping the bird at people and not getting dragged into HR the following second. Well, you’ve had way worse thrown your way.

You laughed at yourself.

Maybe you should add “Learn how to crack those damn windows open” to your checklist.

a/n: hi! hope y'all liked the first chapter of this exciting au and idea! i'll see you sooner than you expect! also huge shoutout to @se7entyrell and @live-love-be-unique for the support!

#top gun maverick #top gun maveric fanfiction #top gun maverick au #top gun: maverick

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live-love-be-unique · 30 days ago

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✨Having someone who is invested in your story and discusses it with you is like a solid half of the fun of writing. I'm not even kidding.✨

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live-love-be-unique · 1 month ago

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Flyboys 😂 still awesome

Mari and Rhett are adorable!

Gold

Chapter Five

Marigold Winslow. An F1 driver flying through her first season. Rhett Abbott. An ex cowboy turned actor on a media circuit after his biggest role yet.

They weren't supposed to have any extended interaction. They weren't supposed to fall in love. They weren't supposed to make a mess of each others careers.

Rhett Abbott x OC

Series Masterlist

The journey was seemingly cut in half when Mari fell asleep. Curled up on the plus seats of the jet, with her hoodie pulled up over her head, she slept.

“She normally sleeps on the flight home,” Carlos had explained to him.

Still, Rhett watched her. He watched as she muttered something and rolled over in her sleep. And then the car noises began. Her little neooooowm, left turn as her head turned to the left.

“What’s she doing?” Rhett asked as her feet moved, as if she was pressing the pedals in the car.

“Dreaming,” Alex answered as if it was the most normal thing in the world. “She’s fine. She does this all the time.”

As fascinating as it was to watch, Rhett drowned it out in favour of reviewing his scripts. Every so often, when Mari made a particularly silly noise, he looked up at her, watched her foot pedals go, and returned to his script.

It filled the long flight back to England.

After landing, they went their separate ways. Carlos and Alex rushed back to Grove, and Mari and Rhett made their way to the front of the airport.

“Thought the studio would’ve had some mode of transport waiting for you,” she mumbled as she tried to flag down a taxi.

“They probably did,” Rhett answered. “Yesterday.”

At least he thought it was yesterday, the change in timezone had been confusing enough to leave him unsure of what day it was. Well, it was either the timezone change, or Marigold Winslow. He wasn’t entirely sure.

“Thought your team would’ve sent someone to pick you up.”

Her shoulders raised in a shrug. “That would involve going back to MTC and I really don’t want to do that,” Mari mumbled and began picking at the skin around her nails.

“Gotta get home to help your mom with her greenhouse, right?”

She narrowed her eyes at him and, for a moment, Rhett was terrified. But then she smiled at him, curling her fingers around the handle of her suitcase. “That’s exactly it,” she said. “Mama Winslow needs her greenhouse set up.”

“Mama Winslow, huh?” Rhett asked just as a taxi pulled up.

Holding back a giggle, Mari pulled open the taxi door. But she didn’t climb in, didn’t throw her bags into the back. Instead, she offered it to him. “You got somewhere you gotta be,” she explained. “Already late because of me.”

As much as he didn’t want to, Rhett climbed into the black taxi. It was the most ungentlemanly thing he could have done; he knew his mother would have been disappointed in him.

Shutting the door, Mari leaned against the open window. “It was lovely to meet you, Rhett Abbott,” she said, holding her hand through the window. “Ex bull rider turned actor.”

“You too, Marigold Winslow, incredible Formula One driver.” But Rhett needed her to know this wasn’t goodbye. “I’ll text you.”

“You better,” she said and stepped away.

***

The 3 balloons outside of the front door were too much. P3 wasn't something to celebrate, Mari thought as she pushed open the front door.

“Mum?” She called, dragging her suitcase inside. Nothing, the house was eerily quiet for how well decorated it was.

She continued on through the house, steps slow and steady. As if her mother was going to jump out at any second and shout surprise! For Mari’s mother, it wasn’t too far outside of the realm of possibilities (well, except for the jumping part).

But the sounds of her wheels against the wooden floor of the kitchen gave her away. “P three!” She shouted as Mari stepped through the kitchen door. “P three, Mari! I’m so proud of you!”

Mari looked at the arrangement on the kitchen table. Flowers picked from their own garden, arranged neatly in the fancy vase, the cupcakes in the shape of a three. Her mothers scrapbook was open at the end of the table, displaying the Miami page. Pictures of Mari in the garage, pictures of her driving, and then on the podium, trying not to scowl. Her disappointment had been immortalised forever.

And there was her mother, grinning up at her like she couldn’t be prouder of her.

“You didn’t have to do all this,” Mari mumbled as she picked up the scrapbook. She looked at the picture of her in the garage, gesturing to her car. Rhett was in the picture, too, his face obscured by a monitor. But it was definitely him, she would know that red flannel anywhere. “Actually, I kind of wish you didn’t.”

The grin dropped from Helen Winslow's face. She folded her arms over her chest and stared up at her daughter. Piercing green and a little bit frightening.

“You came in third, Marigold. That’s something to celebrate,” she said and pushed the wheels of her wheelchair, bringing herself around the table to Mari. “Your father would want to celebrate it.”

“Would he?” Mari mumbled and put the scrapbook back on the table. She grabbed a cupcake and licked the colourful icing before peeling away the wrapper.

There wasn’t much Mari couldn’t remember about her father. There was a picture on top of the fireplace of Mari in a tiny kart with her dad beside her. On his shirt, he wore a patch that said Goldie’s pit crew. He was a big deal back then, a hero to nearly all of her competitors. A moment alone with him on a race weekend (one he could actually attend) was a rarity. Mari couldn’t remember much about him, but he remembered weekends in Monaco, the flights with fellow drivers to far away races, the cramped hotel rooms.

“Do you think he would have been happy with P three?” Mari began, her hands braced against the chair in front of her. The cupcake, now missing any icing, was discarded, upside down on the kitchen table. “If he had been on that track yesterday, would he have been happy with P three?”

Mari knew the answer. She’d seen enough clips of her dad scowling on the podium to know that answer. But she didn’t stick around to find out her mother’s answer. She stormed back through the house, grabbing her bags on her way up the stairs.

The stairs. It was kind of an unfair escape, going up the stairs when her mother couldn’t, but it gave her privacy she so desperately needed. It was the deal of their living arrangement, that the upstairs was her space. Her mother had the annex to herself, and Mari had the upstairs.

Money her dad had left her paid for the house, paid for it to be accessible for her mother. But it had also paid for her career. It kept her going through Formula Two, until she made it to Formula One.

Mari threw open her door and marched into her bedroom. She left her bags outside of her door, a problem for later, and strode into her room. It was once covered in posters of Formula One legends, her favourite tracks, of her favourite team (Ferrari, Michael Schumacher on the podium, the Monza crowd).

She sat on the bed, on her novelty race car sheets. They had been a joke at first, but Mari fell in love with them, the most comfortable sheets she owned. Far better than the hotel beds she had become accustomed to.

On her bed, Mari opened her phone. Several new messages flashed up on the screen as she made herself comfortable. Messages from her management team, from the McLaren team chat. From Rhett.

Made it home?

A simple text, but one that showed so much care.

Biting back a grin, Mari typed out her response to him.

Yes indeed - made it to wherever you're supposed to be?

Standing, she took off her jeans and crawled beneath her race car bed sheets. All of the little, 50's style F1 cars were red, just like the Ferraris of old. It would have perfectly matched her posters, if she still had them up.

Rhett replied, but Mari was already messaging him back. Wanna see my helmet shelf?

Helmet shelf?

Pressing the little camera button at the top of her phone, Mari waited for Rhett to pick up. She crossed her feet at her ankles and waited for him to answer his phone. “Oh c’mon,” she mumbled, growing impatient.

Finally, Rhett picked up his phone. “Helmet shelf?” He asked, striding across his hotel room.

Mari pushed herself up from her bed. “Yeah, so my parents kept all of my helmets from when I was karting, and then my mum and I continued the tradition when I graduated to single seaters.”

She flipped the camera and revealed to Rhett her helmet shelf. He released a whistle as he took the grainy images of them. In a weird way, Rhett understood. He had his collection of hats from when he was a kid back home, a collection he had the desire to continue.

Picking one up, Mari placed it on her head and flipped the camera. Rhett was allowed a much clearer image of the helmet, too small for her to push over her face, just sitting on her head. “Most of them are designed after my dad’s old one,” she said and put it back.

She took Rhett through her helmets, showing him each one. Most of them had something to do with her dad, some of them were just designs she thought were cool.

After she’d taken him through her helmet collection, Mari sat back on her bed. “Okay, so say my mum and I were to watch one of your movies,” she began, her arm behind her bed. “Which one would you recommend?”

Rhett pointed to himself, blue eyes wide and mouth opened slightly.

“Yes, cowboy,” Mari said through a laugh. “Your movies.”

He took a moment to think. Of all of his movies, what wouldn’t make her look at him differently? Not Face Cream, not anything where he died. Not Flow of Water, not Directions.

“Try Flyboys,” he said, sitting on her bed and copying her pose. It was entirely unintentional. “I’m sure your mom will love it.”

Mari looked at him. This wasn’t what she did, she wasn’t sociable enough to make friends with special guests in the paddock. But she wasn’t regretting this. “I’ll speak to you later, yeah?” She said, standing from her bed once again. “How long are you in London for?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “Not long,” he answered. “Tell me what you think of the movie.”

“I will.”

Neither quite knew how to say goodbye.

Thank you to @live-love-be-unique and @auroralightsthesky for your help with the movie names!

#rhett abbott #rhett abbott imagine #rhett abbott x oc

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live-love-be-unique · 1 month ago

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Hi lovely! For your event can i request Bob Floyd for a hayride? With the title: Because The Night? (I had to choose a Patti Smith song 😻)

Of course! I think that I wrote a little more to the song than the title, but I think it still works 🧡💐 🍑Come join the Fernwell Creek Farms Event! 🍑Hayride — Choose your rider(s) and a title, and I'll write you a short drabble

Moonlight cascades through cracks in the clouds, milky white beams highlighting your skin with the dreamy glow of a daydream. Tiny golden suns flicker across the velvet night, a sea of fireflies, dancing and twisting through the air, putting on their best show.

One of them lands on the tip of Bob's nose, lighting up as if to audition for a part in the next Rudolph live-action blockbuster.

It feels as if it's been a millennium since you last had a silent moment with him. Between the chaos of preparing for a mission and pretending as if you don't know each other, you haven't had much time to breathe. The woes of dating your backseater and overheads, who will split you up the moment they catch wind of such a scandelous allegation.

But out here, in the blind spot of the courtyard surveillance, nobody can catch you.

The firefly darts away. With it, the invisible boundary shatters.

His hands find your face in an instant, cradling, feather light, bringing you to him with practiced ease. The thick wax of his chapstick smears across your lips, strawberry scented, and it might as well be glue, because you don't think you'll ever separate from him again.

Your senses are drowning, giving way to the gentle push and pull of his mouth, slowly losing the ability to comprehend anything that isn't Robert Floyd. Arms curl around you, gathering you closer, until your chest bumps against his.

All of a sudden, he pulls away, tugging the thin metal frames from his face. He's back before you can fully process what he's done, so starved of you that he doesn't have the patience to wait any longer than he has to.

You're gathering handfuls of his shirt, shamelessly wrinkling the freshly ironed material. But that's not enough. No, no, your hands are on the back of his neck and up in his hair, tangling and pulling, anything, anything to feel a little bit more of him.

Cool brick presses up against your back, such a contrast to the burning heat of his body that you might start sizzling.

"Will anyone notice if you don't come back tonight?" Bobby groans against into the kiss, and it's only when he ruts forward that you feel your thigh trapped between his.

"Why?" As if you don't know the answer to that.

"'cause I've got a room all to myself," his hands wander beneath the hem of your shirt, rough fingertips dragging over soft skin, "and I want you in it."

Somehow, somehow, you find the strength to pull away. Noses resting against each other, struggling not to pant into his mouth. "Well, what are you waiting for?"

#del's fernwell creek farms event #bob floyd x reader #robert bob floyd x reader #bob floyd

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