#he poses them like a renaissance painting (he’s just got more class than them) they both end the day with paintings they can put up no where | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

mira-sigar · 4 years

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Museum Trip || a 2020 AU self-para

“Smile!” Mira grinned, holding up her phone and taking a picture. Her friend and group partner standing in front of one of the paintings. He just laughed, putting his hand to her phone.

“Mira, c’mon, we’re supposed to be focused on the art,” he joked. Mira shrugged, looking down at the picture she’d gotten with him looking only a little caught off guard. She smiled to herself before looking back to him.

“We’ve got all day, can’t we just enjoy this trip a little, too?” She asked, nudging him as they walked over to the next piece. “Besides, there’s still a few weeks until the project is due.”

“Yeah, and knowing you, you’re already almost done,” he teased with another smile. Mira returned it, knowing he was right. He knew her too well at this point.

Art history was a class she had enjoyed. A combination of looking at old paintings and learning about history, two of her favorite things. She felt a little worried when she was signing up for it that it would end up being far more boring than she had hoped for, but thankfully it was everything she could hope for. She had even made a few friends in the class, which was nice. University was so much easier than secondary school. It was so much easier to find people who had the same passions she did.

When people found out who her father was, and how much work he’d done in the robotics field with helping to develop software for the likes of Alexa and going so far as to lend assistance to bigger and better AI projects, people were surprised Mira wasn’t following in his footsteps. And for as much as she loved science and helping her father with what he did, that wasn’t where her passions lied. Mira adored history. She loved learning of the past. Something that she believed stemmed from her father teaching her about how technology had changed and advanced when she was young. She now wanted to know all she could about how civilizations rose and fell, about wars and the weapons they constructed. But most of all, she loved learning about the arts. About the sculptures made in Ancient Greece, the paintings from the renaissance, the plays and poets of the 20th century. She loved to see the humanity of it all, to see how people functioned and felt during all these times of change.

Which led her to her first art history class. She enjoyed it more than she thought she would, and when Mira found there was a second level she could take the next semester, it was the first class she signed up for. The first day of the next semester, when Mira walked into the classroom, she was actually pleased to find some familiar faces. One of which was a young man named Amir. He had been one of the few people she’d gotten close to the previous semester. He always sat near her. When they did a silly little ‘introduction game’ on the first day of class, when Mira has turned to talk to him, he laughed and made a joke about their names being so similar. It got a smile from Mira. The two of them worked together a lot in that class, so when Mira had seen him on the first day of this new class, she was more than a little happy.

Which brought them here, walking around the art museum as part of their project. Well, part of Amir’s project. Mira was focusing on more contemporary art for her project. But Amir had asked her if she wanted to come to the art museum with him to help him take notes and photos. She of course agreed, wanting to be there to help him out. She liked being helpful, especially to her friends. Besides, it was the first time they were hanging out off campus, so it felt less like school, even if they were here for a project.

Mira was in charge of taking the pictures, and whenever she could, Mira made sure to get him in frame. Of course, then she’d take a serious one for his project.

“Oh, look at this one,” Amir exclaimed, ushering Mira over time a piece she recognized but didn’t know the name of. She thought it was a Monet, but she could be wrong. As much as she loved all this art, she could still be wrong. “This is one of my favorites.”

“It’s really nice,” Mira grinned. “Here, let me take your picture.”

Amir laughed, nodding and moving to pose next to the piece. As Mira started to take the picture a woman walked over.

“Would you like me to take both of your picture?” She asked sweetly. Before Mira could tell her that they were alright, Amir nodded, waving Mira over to stand next to him. Almost hesitantly, Mira handed her phone to the woman before shuffling over to her friend. Amir put his arm across Mira’s shoulders, pulling her close. Mira laughed a bit in surprise, then smiled for the picture. The woman snapped a few and then handed Mira back her phone

“Thank you,” Mira said, looking at the pictures she had taken.

“Oh, it’s no trouble,’ she said. Then the woman added as she walked away, “You’re a cute couple.” The last line didn’t register to Mira at first, she was just looking at the photos. And by the time that she did realize what was said, the woman had walked away. Mira did look up after her, her cheeks feeling a little warm. She wasn’t necessarily embarrassed by the thought of that, just that the woman had said it. Because maybe she had thought about it, maybe it was something she had considered once or twice, but she doubted he felt the same. they were just friends. Right?

The duo went through the museum, gathering as much information as Amir needed for his project, him taking notes, Mira taking photos. Her favorites were still the ones of the two of them. When the end of the day approached, and the two of them started to leave the museum, Amir took a moment to wander the gift shop while Mira went to the little stand out front to get herself a tea. She took a small sip from the paper mug as Amir walked back over to her. Looking over the rim of her cup, she gave him a smile.

“So, I was thinking,” he said, jumping down over the last few steps. “What if that lady had a point?”

“What?” Mira looked at him, puzzled.

“About us being a cute couple. I dunno, I think there was something to that,” he shrugged, handing her a bag from the gift shop. Mira looked down at it, then back up to Amir, feeling her face heat a bit more. She couldn’t tell if he was kidding. She never could. He always talked like he was joking or with a serious voice even when he was joking. “You can look in the bag, it’s for you.”

“Wait, are you being serious?” Mira opened the little paper bag and pulled out a magnet with the same painting they had taken a picture in front of on it. She smiled and looked up to him.

“Dead serious, yeah. Also, just so you know, this wasn’t really part of my project,” he said with a grin. Mira’s head tilted to the side a bit as she kept smiling. “I didn’t ask you to come here for schoolwork, Mira.”

“What? I...” she was blushing, then she laughed. “This was a secret date?”

“Yeah,” he nodded, rubbing the back of his head. “I... if I felt like things weren’t going well, I wasn’t going to tell you, and I know that’s shady, but... Y’know I felt like things were going good.”

Mira couldn’t hide her smile. She had never been on a date before. Honestly, she was glad this one was secret. If she had known about it, she probably would’ve over thought everything and it would’ve been a disaster. She was always quiet and shy. She wore what one girl called ‘old lady clothes’. She didn’t think anyone ever noticed her. Mira had been more than happy to find a friend out of Amir, but for him to want to be more than friends was something she could barely believe. Because not only did he want to date her, but he was shy about asking her out too. Because he worried that she would say no. Mira had never felt like she was feeling, some sort of mix between happiness and excitement and a little bit of embarrassment for not catching on sooner. He kept saying he was taking notes, but she never once saw him actually pull out a notepad or his phone. He’d mostly just talked to Mira and looked at all the art and let her take pictures of him and the art. She should’ve seen this coming, but why would she have?

“Yeah,” Mira smiled, taking a step closer to him, hesitantly reaching for his hand so her fingers just barely brush over his. “I feel like things are pretty good, too.”

#col22bingo #self para #au #2020 au #//so #//i've got a lot of feelings #and i know this isn't quite anything #but!#2020 au gave me a chance to just write normal mira having a normal life with a normal friend #and it's random and all over the place but my baby needs to be normal sometimes #and idk #this was hard bc i was trying to keep her 'voice' but its weird bc she kind of has two?#idk #im just rambling in the tags o well #also yes im garbage and anything i write may just turn into non canon shipping messes we don't know its fine

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ultinath · 5 years

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Still Life in the Red Room

This is another one of our collaborative writings. @Minddiver and I enoyed writing this one a lot.

Jeff rushed into the gallery. The day had flown past with classes and studying and hastily getting some food. He had almost ran past the front desk, just barely remembering to stop and flash his student ID to the receptionist. Then he started running down the main hallway, glasses almost flung from his face, as his head had whipped back and forth, trying to decide where to start. After turning in a circle a few times, he had trotted towards the wing where the Renaissance works were kept, past the sculptures that guarded the doorway.

He was oblivious to the woman who had noticed him come in. Her long blonde hair almost obscured her face and she wore a shapeless, oversized sweater dress. She grinned and licked her lips as she got up from her couch in the modern art section and stalked after him into the Renaissance section, where he stood before one of those Dutch masters with dark skies and a ship at sea. Though his feet were shuffling ever so slightly, his eyes were locked in place as he drank in the composition in front of him. He didn't notice how the woman drew up next to him, as if the painting would interest her, but she was watching him the whole time, from the corner of her eyes.

Unaware of the presence beside him, he brushed hair that was almost as dark as the sky in the painting back and away from his glasses. Behind them, brown eyes were now gradually working their way up and down every inch of the canvas. A hand reached out, and for a moment, it seemed as if he might touch the painting. Instead, his hand began moving in midair, following the brushwork. He seemed to be trying to copy the waves of the ocean in his imagination.

"You're an artist." Her voice was breathy as she made the observation, little louder than a whisper, but there was no one else in this section at this time of night. There was only an hour left before closing time. Her eyes searched the room, and the hall beyond. The rest of her was as still as he was energetic.

“...if only…” he murmured, and then straightened suddenly. He looked over and almost did a double-take as he realized someone was beside him. “Oh! Pardon me… do you need me to move over…?”

She smiled and made eye-contact for the first time. Her eyes were cold and grey and they seemed to look all the way into his soul. She smiled, white teeth and burgundy lipstick. "No no, I don't want you to move away…" She nodded at the painting. "You like this brushwork? The colours are so depressing. That and the colonialism…"

His brow furrowed as she trailed off. “I mean, yeah, it’s a bit dark, but it makes the waves stick out that much better...it’s like you can see just where they’re going to go. Every time I try to do them, they look flat and still, like I crumpled up some plastic wrap, or something.”

The woman chuckled and turned to face him, with her back to the painting. "Do you think the painter was satisfied with these waves? With these clouds? Do you think he didn't feel inadequate about his inability to paint portraits? The painter is the worst critic…" As she grinned at him, she put her arm around his shoulders. "We are always too hard on ourselves."

“...yeah...I guess we are…” His cheeks grew red, and warmth radiated from him. He made a nervous sound that wasn’t quite a laugh as he glanced at the title card near the painting. “I guess that’s why this guy spent six months on this one…” His eyes widened a bit and met hers for a second. “Oh! Do you paint?”

Modestly, she cast her eyes to the floor. "Some of mine are over in the modern section, new arrivals. But I could never do any of this shit…" She wandered away from him past another seascape towards portraits and medical scenes. "People and landscapes…"

“Not your thing?” He took one more glance at the ship at sea, then tore himself away to follow her.

She stopped to stare at a painting with men in dark clothes surrounding a corpse for an anatomy lesson. "Look at those limbs, at those ribs… When I paint people, they look like rag dolls with empty eyes and empty heads." She turned to give him a piercing look. "What's your name?"

He shrunk at her sudden gaze and managed to stammer out: “Jeff. I’m majoring in art here.” He vaguely gestured around him, the gallery being part of the college campus.

"Would you like to model for me, Jeff?" She blinked slowly at him and smiled.

“Sure.” Again, there was that pause as if the question only registered after he had answered. He brightened and began to bounce on his heels. “Wait, really? You would want to paint me?”

She looked around the room again and then turned to stare out the window. She sighed. "I would love to paint you. My studio is just around the corner from here. I could show you some things, let you try some things…"

“...do...you think we could swing by the Carvaggio on the way out…?” He made a fist and pounded his leg. “What am I saying? Yes! Please, lead on.”

With quiet steps, the woman made her way to the main hall. She stopped and waited next to a sculpture, looking into the hall. When Jeff caught up with her, she touched his arm. "Are you sure it's wise to go home with a stranger like this? Are you sure this is even real? Meeting an artist in the gallery and getting an offer to pose? Pose as what, Jeff? If you stay here, will I disappear, as if this was all a dream?" She didn't wait for an answer. She made a beeline for the exit and slipped through the entrance doors onto the dark pavement outside.

Jeff paused for a moment. What if this was a dream? Since when did anyone notice him, let alone want him to come with? There was something about her eyes, the way they would be miles away and then immediately locked on him...

Thinking about her eyes made his pulse quicken and his breath catch. There was fear, and then wonder. He shook himself. She had moved so fast, if he stayed and thought any more, she might very well turn into a dream! As fast as he had skittered towards the Renaissance wing, now he rushed towards the exit. He saw the Modern wing out of the corner of his eye. He could see her work… Had she even told him her name? Never mind, he thought, if he took this chance, surely he’d see for himself…

When he arrived outside, he could hear a haunting melody. The woman was leaning against a lamppost, humming a song. The lamp cast a stark shadow around her feet, and her face was obscured by her hair. Jeff drifted towards the ring of light, as if led by her song.

"You chose the dream…" She took his hand and led him down the block. As she walked just a little in front of him, her face was turned up at the clouded sky. "I'm a fountain of blood, in the shape of a girl. You're the bird on the brim, hypnotised by the whirl." She continued singing as they walked.

Jeff trotted behind her, watching the clouds as she did, or at least trying to. He kept tripping over irregularities on the sidewalk. She seemed to be gliding over them as if they weren’t even there. “Is this a dream? I can feel a breeze…”

"I have certainly dreamed of this…" She stopped at the corner of a building and pulled him closer, holding onto his arm. She leaned in to smell him. Jeff felt and heard a faint rumbling. Did she just purr? Her oversized, black and white striped sweater felt warm, but he could swear her hand was cool to the touch.

The woman's eyes roamed the street for a second. Then she inclined her head to the stairs leading down to the souterrain studio around the corner. She let go of him to go down the stairs and disappeared into the shadows. Jeff stood, unsure of what to do. Everything still seemed unreal to him. The way she had pulled him in, the way she had come to him in the museum. He felt… wanted? The thought brought him down the stairs, into the darkness; eyes unready, it took a change in the air around him and the feel of carpet under his shoes to let him know he had come through a door.

"Stop. Don't move…" Her voice commanded from across the room. A few seconds passed and then a lamp was turned on, aimed at a canvas depicting a rough stone wall in crude brush strokes. The studio was a mess of unfinished paintings, sketches, pencils and paint. The wall to his right was lined with shelves, supplies tossed on them with little rhyme or reason, while the opposite had a few raised work surfaces. There were so many canvasses and pieces of plywood leaned against them that it was impossible to tell whether they were desks or tables. The floor was littered with sketches and lined paper covered in regular blocks of text that Jeff assumed must be songs or poetry. A deep carmine carpet was just visible through the layer of papers. She stood in a doorway and the carpet continued in that dark room. She shed her shoes, socks and leggings on the floor and said: "Close the door behind you, will you?"

It took a few seconds for Jeff to respond. Her tone when she had told him to stop had all but frozen him in place. But he managed to reach behind him and gently close the door. “Should I take my shoes off, too?” He tried not to stare, but he was stealing glances at her pale, bare feet.

She rummaged through the canvasses to find a fresh one. A stack of papers fell over as she tried to move an easel. She stood there, for a moment, canvass in one hand, and a sad look came over her. "Well, shit…"

Without thinking, Jeff moved forward to help her pick them up. Both of them were crouching down, picking up sketches and pages of poetry, until instead of grabbing the paper off the floor, she grabbed his hand. "You are so sweet…" She murmured, staring at him.

Jeff tried to stammer out a thank-you, but his voice caught in his throat as her eyes drew him in.

Without breaking eye-contact, she took his stack of papers, combined it with hers and placed them on the floor. Then, slow and silent, she leaned towards him and removed his glasses. She smiled and tilted her head at him. "Is the world all blurry now?" Jeff nodded meekly.

For a second, it seemed like she leaned in even closer, but she was rising to her feet. She chuckled softly as she took the glasses and the canvass into the other room. "Bring the easel." Silently, Jeff complied, carefully picking up the old, dark wood and bringing it into the next room.

The lighting was soft, from tiffany lamps on the nightstands on either side of the bed. The wallpaper depicted gigantic red roses against a dark background and the bedsheets where a tangle of black and burgundy at the foot of the bed. There were still pencils and brushes everywhere, but a lot less artwork. The floor was littered with lingerie and hosiery. She placed the glasses on a nightstand turned around to look at Jeff. "Have you ever done this before?"

Jeff looked at the bed and the lace garments next to it. “I almost did just after graduating high school, but her… oh…” She had meant modelling. His cheeks matched the roses on the walls for a moment.

She stepped up to him, took the easel and placed it near the foot of the bed, with the canvass on it. Then she stared at him once more, taking him in from head to toe, his hair, his checkered shirt, his old jeans, his sneakers. She stroked his cheek and grinned at him. "Is there anything you need?"

“Just… tell me where you’d like me?” His voice rasped a bit. “And maybe a glass of water?”

Her mouth opened and she slowly licked her lips and her teeth. "Where I'd like you…" Her fingers flexed in the air, grasping at nothing. Her eyes strayed to his throat. "What a tempting dream…" Jeff’s eyes flicked towards the soft bedspread, a slightly disappointed look crossing his face. Her hand stroked his cheek, coaxing him to look at her. "Yeah, I think I know where I'd like you…" Suddenly embracing him, she leaned in for a long kiss with a hint of teeth on the lower lip. A soft moan escaped him, and his hands began to come up to caress her back. His erection made his jeans feel too tight.

She sighed and stepped away, pointing at the bed. Her voice was strangely distant. "Sit. Look at the wall. I want to draw your jawline."

Dazed, Jeff slowly climbed onto the bed. He folded his legs into a cross-legged position, facing the wall. Though he kept his head pointed forward, his eyes strained to maintain contact with her.

She found a pencil somewhere on the floor, after carelessly flinging a pair of black panties away. She sketched for a few minutes and then her lips moved silently. She shook her head and gave Jeff an impatient look. "At the wall!" Jeff made a startled, chirping noise, and fixed his eyes on one of the large, dark roses in front of him.

"I'm sorry, pet. I'll help…" She spoke softly. "Just look at the rose petals. Look at how they form this concentric circle with a beautiful dark centre. Follow those lines with your eyes. You'll find it's easy to relax and just sit there, fascinated and still. It's easy. I'll tell you when to move, if I need you to. For now, just sit and stare."

Jeff’s shoulders began to relax and his face softened. He began to follow the curves of the roses as instructed, starting with the outlines. As he did, he began to notice little gradations in the color of each petal which hadn’t been immediately noticeable in the soft light. The shadowy outlines and the refracted light from the glass lampshades intersected each petal at intervals, and he found himself trying to notice each point of intersection, how the change in light affected the shade of each red brushstroke.

"Good…" Only her voice and the rose petals. "There is no need to move at all. Perhaps the chin inches up a little. Effortlessly, just like that. That body is so still now. Petrified. Statuesque. Very good. Transfixed. As if the rose's dark centre is drawing you in." Her words guided his eyes in swirls around each petal, and his entire consciousness seemed to move in swirls with his eyes. As his eyes and mind turned over and over, his body… no… the body… remained where it had been placed, unneeded.

Time passed, but it was impossible to measure. Until finally, she spoke again, her voice much closer now. "So good. Good, good boy. So deliciously still…" Her hands touched the shoulders, opened the top buttons of the shirt, and caressed the arms. Jeff felt cool hands somewhere, but they were far away, affecting somewhere else. The body was still, where it needed to be. He was in the roses, where he needed to be.

A soft growl. Her hands pulled the shirt open, urgently now, until the shoulders were naked. Claws dug into the skin. "Thank you, delicious boy… " And then a kiss on the neck, again with a hint of teeth, a long, wet, hungry kiss. From far away, the body felt a cold breath, a sharp pain, and then a cascade of heat that poured from the neck down through the body, past a cock which jumped and strained against a pair of jeans, leg muscles that would normally writhe and thrash, but instead stayed locked in place. Two sets of breathing could be heard, two deep moans, one masculine and one feminine. The heat then rushed into his mind, sending him tumbling faster through the roses, mind going end over end, consumed by heat and pleasure. The color of the roses’ petals flared an intense and vivid red, and then it was as if the lights dimmed and the room faded away.

The room where Jeff woke up was strangely bright. Spotlights shone on modern paintings against the white walls. Vivid colours and thick lines, cartoonish and grotesk. He was sprawled out on a couch against one of those white walls, and there was a mixed media display in the middle of the room. He took a deep breath and got up from the couch. He felt a little dizzy. Then, he saw the painting hanging above the couch.

A painting of a young man, sitting cross-legged on a bed, staring at the roses on the wallpaper. The man looked vaguely familiar… it was probably just the look in his eye, lost in the wall before him. The sign beside it said the painting was called Still Life in the Red Room by Audrey Stark.

A bell resounded through the halls of the gallery, indicating closing time. Jeff smiled, feeling so much more relaxed then when he'd ran into the gallery an hour or so ago. He had all the time in the world to study art. Maybe he'd just come back to the gallery again tomorrow.

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seokjinsonlyone-main · 6 years

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Renaissance

this is the photography!harry piece based off of this request:

hello! can you do where harry is a photographer and he needs a model for an upcoming project or something so he asks y/n since he couldn’t find anyone. and during that process, both developed feelings towards one another.

Y/N liked to sit alone in the dining room. She didn't like to watch people eat or have others watch her eat. And, she definitely wasn't a fan of small talk. Or talking at all. She didn't like it because she wasn't good at it. She wasn't good at it because she didn't do it. She didn't do it because she didn't like it. It was a vicious cycle, really.

This wasn't to say that she didn't have any friends because she did. Those who bothered to stick it out past her social awkwardness and the unnecessarily high walls she built around herself usually were there for life. Said friends, however, refused to wait for her to get out of class and went to eat somewhere else without her. Since she didn't have a car she was left to fend for herself in the dining room. Which she didn't mind as long as she was left alone.

Apparently Harry Styles didn't get the memo. He was this real sweet kid she saw around in the arts department a lot. They were both fine arts majors, but she specialised in painting and sketching while he specialised in photography. In their first couple years they had a few general ed classes together, so she was friendly whenever they came into contact with each other but they weren't friends. That was why his sudden presence at her table was so perplexing. They were wave from across the hall close not sit with each other at lunch close. She looked up from her plate, slowly finishing a mouthful of carbonara, eyeing him suspiciously. "How... may I help you?"

He flashed a big, bright smile at her which was honestly a bit off-putting. "How are you doing, beautiful?"

"I'm fine... just, ya know, trying to get some ATP." He looked at her with a blank expression. "Adenosine triphosphate... Like, cellular energy... that comes from– ya know what? Never mind. I'm a nerd. Why are you trying to butter me up?"

He sighed. "I know we don't talk often." She raised an eyebrow at him. "...Or, at all, but I need to ask you for a favour."

She patted around her mouth with a napkin in an attempt to stall time. She wondered why he couldn't ask one of the other million people he knew. Why did it have to be her? Why couldn't her friends have waited for her to get out of class? She figured hearing him out wouldn't be the worst thing ever, though. "Well, I can't guarantee I'll do it, but what is it?"

"I'm working on a project, and I need a model. My last one flaked out on me."

Her eyebrows drew together. "Why?"

"She found out I wasn't paying," he pouted.

She puckered her lips. "Oh. Sorry."

"It's fine. Anyway, I'm doing, like, a modern recreation of renaissance art. And, I really really really need your help."

She squinted her eyes at him. There had to be something he wasn't telling her. She was more than certain that he could convince any other girl to model for him. She knew at least three girls who had a legitimate crush on him, five girls who wanted to get in his pants, and really any living creature could be charmed into doing it once he batted his eyes in their direction. The dude was beautiful. "What aren't you telling me, Styles?"

He winced at the question before blowing raspberries into the air. "Are you... familiar with... The Birth of Venus and Venus of Urbino?"

"Of course I am," she responded immediately. When he didn't say anything, she thought back over what he just asked her until the gears in her brain were fully turning. Her eyes widened. "You want me to pose nude?" she whisper shouted.

"You wouldn't actually be showing anything!"

"People would be able to see my face! And, I'd be showing everything else. It ain't that hard to connect the dots. No, absolutely not," she said, shaking her head.

"I could crop the picture at your neck!" he bargained.

"Venus of Urbino is lying down!"

"I can figure something out! Please."

"Harry..." she sighed thoroughly exasperated. She wished he would let it go and move onto another person. "I know a bunch of girls who would willingly throw their clothes at you. Why me?"

"For that exact reason. I don't want someone who wants to get in my pants. I want someone who's as serious about art as I am, and honestly you're just about the most passionate person I know. I always see you in the studio hours after everyone else has gone back to their dorms. Plus, you have a 4.0, and I think that's, like, the coolest thing ever. I'd really like to collaborate with you."

His confession stunned her. She always thought she slipped under everyone's radar. Not that she was trying to, she just got so into her work that she didn't really make time for anyone else. And, in her classes that didn't require studio work she usually preferred keeping to herself. It wasn't that she straight up ignored people, she just didn't go out of her way to make friends. It was better that way. People came and people went. It minimised the damage. She figured that people saw her the same way she saw herself. "Well, alright," she shrugged.

"Really? I asked your friends and they said you probably wouldn't do it. I had four other bullet points to try to convince you and a backup plan that I was fully prepared to use," he said, ending with his jaw slightly dropped in a state of disbelief.

"First of all, don't talk to Niall and Louis about me. They're knobs. I would know. They're my friends. Second, I agreed because you seem to have some sort of vision. A lot of people ask me for my help and want me to do all their work for them." She smiled tightly at him wanting this whole exchange to be over with, so she could come to terms with what she agreed to.

"You don't have to worry about that with me," he replied, smiling brightly, suddenly getting super excited. "Oh my god, I can't believe you said yes!" He rounded the table and pulled her into a hug.

She immediately seized up in his arms. She didn't mind hugs, but she usually saw the moment coming and was therefore prepared to lean in. He quite literally picked her up out of the chair. She could feel eyes burning holes into the back of her neck. "Okay, okay. You're welcome. Please put me down," she mumbled into his neck.

"Let me get your number!" he chirped, handing her his phone.

She input her number, then called her phone so she would have his number in return. "Just... text me whenever you're ready to…do this whole thing."

"I will, and thank you so much again." He kissed her on the cheek before making his way out of the dining room, enormous grin still plastered on his face.

Her heart skipped a beat and her entire face flushed at the action, as she brought her hand to the area his lips had been pressed to. She immediately fled the room, not wanting anyone who she was friendly with to question her about what just happened,leaving her wondering what she just got herself into. --- She clutched her bag tightly as she checked the time on her phone for the fifth time in the past minute. He was five minutes late, and she was considering going back into her dorm. That was, until she saw him running toward her, gasping.

She let out a sigh of relief and irritation. "You're late."

"I know. I know. I'm sorry, just–" He held out his finger, asking for a minute, bent over gasping for air. "I was setting everything up and lost track of time."

She decided to forgive him this time. "It's okay, I suppose. Just... don't let it happen again, please." She stared at him finally regaining his posture. The building wasn't that far away. He looked fit, but she guessed he wasn't as in shape as he appeared.

"Why exactly do you need an escort to a building that's like a ten minute walk away? You can literally see it from here, and there are street lamps."

"Yes, because street lamps deter crime,"she said, rolling her eyes and nodded her head toward the path so they could start moving. After they had been walking for a minute or so, she answered his question. "I may be feisty, but I'm still a princess, Harold. I have a general distrust for the human population, and I refuse to be another statistic. That is why I'm on a first name basis with at least eight security guards and the escort service has my schedule posted and my number on speed dial. It's a service I've used liberally ever since I've been a student here. That's actually how I met Niall."

"Then why didn't you call him?"

"Because you're a nice, tall, fairly built guy who I'm practically posing nude for. Figured it's the least you could do. Also, I didn't tell them I agreed to do it. They're absolute pests with big mouths."

He shrugged his shoulders, releasing a chuckle. "Fair enough. By the way, my name isn't Harold."

"Hmmm..." she murmured mindlessly, "Guess you have a new nickname then." They spent the rest of the walk in relative silence which she was grateful for. She knew she agreed to do this and she wasn't going to back out on him, but she was nervous. She'd never done anything like this before and she hadn't planned on doing it ever... in her life. She hoped to god that he actually did come up with something. She let her thoughts consume her so much so that she didn't realise they arrived at the building until Harry gently touched the small of her back causing her to jump back like she'd been shocked.

"Sorry." He motioned for her to follow him, holding open the door to the studio art building. "I understand why you need escorts. You zone way out."

She shrugged in return. "So, have you found out a way to– ugh..." she cut herself off when she noticed the sign saying that the elevator was out of order. She was going to have to walk up six flights of stairs. She guessed that's why he was so out of breath when he came to get her. "Anyway, I was wondering if you found a way to shoot me less... naked?"

"I actually have."

"Yeah?"

"Mhm. I'll show you when we get upstairs."

She nodded as relief flooded her veins. She spent the next few minutes focusing on pacing herself as they climbed up the stairs. She didn't want him to see how winded she could get when she reached the top. Her asthma didn't help the situation. Once they reached the top (with minimal wheezing), she thought about how un-awkward she felt standing next to him, walking down the hall. Whenever she was around people she didn't know that well or at all, she always found it extremely awkward and didn't know how to carry herself. Don't get her wrong she felt awkward, but nowhere near as much as she usually did.

It may have been because of the few text messages they exchanged during the week or the fact that he specifically sought her out and begged for her to work with him, but she didn't feel her usual level of discontent around him. It was weird. She didn't notice she almost walked past the room until she stumbled backwards, caused by Harry's sudden grip on her hand.

"Seriously, you pay dangerously little attention to your surroundings." She shrugged as he held the door open for her. He had some finished photos hanging on a clothes line, but before she could check them out he cleared his throat. "So, we have two options for the shoot." He was holding up a skin toned body suit in one hand and a skin toned bra and panty set in the other. She slowly walked toward him. "Whichever one you prefer is fine with me."

She eyed them cautiously then took the body suit. She was about to go get changed before a thought struck her. "Wait, which one do you prefer?"

He shook his head. "I just want you to be comfortable."

"I'm never comfortable. I live in a constant state of awkwardness, but I know you have a vision for this thing. What do you want me to wear?"

He rolled his lips together. "I think the more skin showing the better. Like, they celebrated the body back then, and if you had the, um," he coughed, "the bra and, um, panties... it would be easier to catch the more feminine lines of your body." He gently skated his hand up her side in demonstration and admiration and she nearly melted inside.

She nodded her head furiously, sending him a tight smile and going to change into the two piece. "Then that's what I'll do, innit?" She exhaled heavily once she was behind the partition he had set up. Generally speaking, she strayed from physical contact. It made her uncomfortable because people made her uncomfortable. She didn't trust many, so touches were few and far between. Never would she have imagined something to send shivers down her spine in the glorious way Harry's touch did.

When Y/N stepped out from behind the partition, she looked around the room in search for him. She found him fiddling with his camera and tripod, so she cleared her throat to make her presence known. He didn't know how to react when his gaze landed upon her. The most he could manage was opening and closing his mouth like a fish out of water. "I know I don't have, like, the best–"

"You're beautiful," he blurted.

She could feel the heat racing to her cheeks. She was at a loss for how to respond, but she knew continuing to stand there in way less clothes than she was used to wasn't working for her. "So... The Birth of Venus, yeah?" --- After she changed back into her clothes, she wasn't sure what to do. One of the little voices in her head was telling her to bolt due to some leftover embarrassment from being half naked with him. Another voice was telling her to at least see if he needed anything else before leaving. She decided to listen to the latter. After all, it hadn't been that bad. She had to give Harry credit. He was extremely professional and made her comfort his top priority. She made her way out from behind the changing screen and shuffled over to him. "Ummm... I was just gonna..." she pointed to the door, "unless you needed anything else?"

He directed his attention away from the monitor which she assumed held the shots he'd just taken. He pulled his bottom lip in between his teeth. "I know I said I just wanted you to model for me, but, uh, could you take a look at some of the other photos for this?"

"Sure..." she agreed. He pulled up a chair next to his in front of the computer screen. "I can just... click through?" He nodded and she began carefully studying each photograph, happy to be in her comfort zone once again.

Photography might not have been her forte, but she took a semester of art history and was an artist herself. It was sort of a happy medium for her. She couldn't help noticing Harry in her periphery, toying with his lip, taking turns looking between her and his pictures. She took pride in the sense of humility she drowned herself in, but the pictures he took of her were her favourite. One was of her grabbing a robe. He scanned it into another picture he took of a bathroom so it looked like she was getting out of the shower. The window in the bathroom was open and he had a fan blowing during the shoot, so it looked like the wig she had on was being blown in the wind. She knew it wasn't finished, and it was quite simple but also very intriguing considering the painting it was based on. The other was of her laying down on a couch messing about on her phone. It wasn't as symbolic as the first, but she loved the way he played with the lighting. It looked good. She snuck a glance at him when she was sure he wasn't looking directly at her and couldn't help thinking that he looked better than all of his work. She got lost in her thoughts, as per usual, and accidentally locked eyes with him, then coughed to cover it up. "These are great, Harold."

His lips quirked up in a timid smile. "Thank you."

"There is one, though, that needs a bit of editing."

His smile turned into a pout. "Which one?"

"The knock off Raphael."

"Hey," he whined.

"You know what I mean." She clicked through the profile until she got to his interpretation of The School of Athens. "Just, like, the perspective is kinda wrong."

"What do you mean?" he asked, inspecting the photo, obviously not seeing what she was.

"Well, like, that's kind of the main point of this picture. Like, that's why it was so famous. Your detail and everything is impeccable, but the thing that made the original so great was the fact that it has a single focal point ranging from the arch and that's where everything's placement stems from."

He cursed under his breath, slightly panicking. "I don't know what I'm going to do. The assignment is due at the end of the week."

She kinda wanted to leave. She felt bad that she essentially ruined one of his shots. The tension was making her sweat. "Can't you just... fix it?"

He ran his hands through his hair. "I usually prefer not to edit my photos. I have no idea how to photoshop on the level it would take to fix this entire shot."

She stayed silent, yet another war waging in her head. She could help him with it, but that meant she'd have to spend even more time with him and she had these sudden feelings swirling about in her stomach that were making her feel. It was weird. Still, she blurted out, "I can," without the consent of her brain.

"You can?"

She shrugged, trying to play it cool, "I minor in digital art. I've taken quite a few photoshop classes."

He pulled her out of the chair and into his arms, hugging her tightly. "You are a lifesaver. Oh my god. Thank you so much." She wrapped her arms around him. "I'm so... I could kiss you right now."

It scared her how much she wanted him to. --- Y/N was alone in the studio department for the first time in over a week. She'd given up quite a few of her extended hours in favour of helping Harry complete his project. She spent the past couple of days working with him to edit his photos and showing him how to photoshop for future reference. After spending so much time with him, she was finding it even more difficult to focus than it usually was. Her mind was riddled with thoughts of him. Every time she got in a groove, she would think about how he nuzzled his face in her neck when they hugged, or how he smelled lightly of mangoes from the body wash he used or how he could only stand the silence she needed to work efficiently in for so long and would start humming, or how he walked her back to her dorm each time they met up and would make sure to have her on call, making dumb jokes, talking about any and everything, the entire time he walked back to his dorm, as per her request so she could know he was safe. It was a little disconcerting.

She didn't get this way. It was rare for her to get crushes. She didn't even need a whole hand to count the number of people she had feelings for in her entire life. She was okay with that. More than okay. It allowed her to throw herself into her work, yet she had been mixing the same two colours together in her palette for the last ten minutes. An unexpected knock on the door made her drop her paintbrush on the floor. She whipped her head around, finding the curly headed boy she'd been assisting to be the culprit. "You scared me," she breathed out.

"That's nothing new," he chuckled. "Why are you here so late and so jumpy?"

"Uh, I have extended hours because of my ADD. They let me use it after everyone's gone to get work done."

"Ahhh..." he said walking towards her with his hands stuffed in his pockets. "I didn't know you had ADD. Is that why you're really jumpy, too?"

She shook her head. "That would be the anxiety induced paranoia."

"How come you don't just come in earlier, so you won't have to be here so late?"

"I mean... to be honest, I'd rather die," she deadpanned.

He burst into this loud, squawky cackle that made her heart skip a beat simply because she was the one who caused it. He sucked his lip in between his teeth once he regained his composure. "I'm not, like, disturbing you am I?"

She shook her head again. "Nah. I haven't been very productive today."

"Because of the ADD?"

It wasn't, but she couldn't tell him it was because she couldn't get him off her mind. "No, actually, I've just been... having a problem with the colour scheme." It wasn't a lie either. She thought she was going to do this particular piece in a black and white monochromatic style, but she found herself trying to recreate the exact colour of his eyes.

"Ahhh... well, I saw the light on and figured it was you. I wanted to let you know that I submitted the pictures."

"Yeah?" she smiled and he nodded. "You'll have to let me know how you do, although I'm sure you're going to ace it."

"Fingers crossed," he replied and the two were left in an awkward silence. Neither one of them knew what to say or do next. "Well, I'm just gonna..." he nodded his head toward the door, but didn't exactly make a move.

She didn't want him to leave, but couldn't bring herself to let him know that. Instead, she waved timidly at him, mentally face palming herself.

"Alright then, I'll... see you. Have a good night."

He started walking away, and disappointment flooded her system. She turned back to her work space, wanting to begin painting once more, but it was like her brain could not process anything other than the fact that Harry was walking away. "Actually, can you..." she blurted, whole face scrunching up, then turned to face him to see he was seconds away from being out the door but stopped once she called out to him. "Umm... if you don't mind, could you– maybe– help me with this? Just, I've been looking at these for so long I think I need a second opinion.

"Sure." He smiled brightly, agreeing immediately.

It made her wonder if he was looking for a reason to stay, as well. She sighed before fetching the other pieces of her collection. She was completing the last one. "I was going to do this one in black and white, but now I'm not so sure. Like, I want it to have colour, but I don't want it to be in full colour." She launched into the entire concept of the collection she had created probably giving way too many details, but she couldn't help it. Once she got talking on something she liked, there was no stopping her. She noticed how intently he listened to her even though she was rambling. It was beyond endearing.

When she shut up, he slid behind her pressing his front flush against her back. "Is this okay?"

"Yeah," she croaked, twisting her neck to look directly at him.

He skated his hand down her arm pointing out possible spots that she could add pops of colour to, but in all honesty she didn't hear a word he said. She was too focused on how she could feel each breath he took against her back and how pinpricks of electricity shot through her whenever his hand grazed hers. Not to mention the fact that she never actually stopped looking at him. The shape of his mouth as he talked art to her was overwhelming and she catalogued the colour of his lips into her mind because she wanted to add that to her painting too. "Y/N?"

"Hmmm...?" She was still caught up in memorising the planes of his face, so she didn't actually process what he was saying.

He looked down at her with a slight smirk on his face. "You didn't hear a word I said, did you?"

"Uh uh," she mumbled.

He turned her around in his arms so she was facing him and slid his hands down to her hips, pulling her flush against him once more. "Is this okay?"

"Mhm." Her breathing was getting tight as they stared at one another. She slid her hands up his chest, resting one on his shoulder and using the other to cup his jaw.

He leaned into her touch, nearly purring at the gentle way she handled him. He rested his forehead against hers. "Can I kiss you?"

Her throat dried up. She tried to say something but ended up just nodding, not being able to form words. He bumped her nose with his, stalling, savouring the moment, feeling their breath intermingling. Her heart was beating out of her chest and just as she was about to lean in sealing their lips together Louis burst into the room.

"Oi! Oi! It's 11:30, loser!" he yelled. They jumped back from each other immediately. "Why'd you tell me to come get you if he was going to be here?" he said, a couple seconds later when he spotted Harry. Both of them were too shaken up to respond. Louis looked between the two of them suspiciously. "Did I... interrupt something?"

Y/N snapped out of the haze she'd been trapped in ever since Harry walked in the room, hustling to place her paintings back on the rack. "No, no. He was just giving me a second opinion. I'm ready."

He raised his eyebrows at her, still eyeing them. "You sure?"

She nodded, scrambling to get the rest of her stuff in her bag. She began following him out the room before she remembered that Harry actually was still there, rubbing his thumb over his lips, trying to come to terms with what almost happened. "Just give me a second, yeah?"

He rolled her eyes at her, but made his way outside the room nonetheless. She rushed over to Harry, rolled up on her tip toes, and pecked him on the lips before she lost her nerve. "Text me when you get home, so I know you're safe, okay?"

"Okay," he replied dumbfounded.

She shot him a smile and walked out of the room. She breathed out a sigh of relief when she made it into the hallway. "Harry Styles, huh?" Louis prodded, waggling his eyebrows at her.

"Shut up," she chided.

"I can't wait to tell Niall." --- Exhausted wasn't the word to describe Y/N. She had to pull a couple all nighters, so her collection could be submitted on time. It was worth it, though. She was more than satisfied with how everything turned out. She was even more satisfied with the fact that she could take a nap guilt free, which was exactly what she planned to do until she heard knocking on her door. She contemplated ignoring it, but the knocks wouldn't stop so she reluctantly peeled herself away from her bed. She gained a little more energy when she saw that it was Harry on the other side of the door, smiling from ear to ear.

She coerced herself into hyperfocus to finish her work, so she hadn't really seen him except in passing since the night he submitted his photos. Admittedly it had only been two days, but they kind of left things on something like a cliffhanger. "Harry,what are you doing here?"

"I got an A on my project."

"Get out!"

"And my professor liked them so much that she submitted them to the art show and I'm up for an award now."

She launched herself at him. "Oh my god. I'm so happy for you!"

He giggled. "I couldn't have done it without you." He nuzzled his face in her neck and they became entranced into the same reality that overtook them the other night. The reality where they were the only two people that existed, that mattered. It was only her and him. He pulled back just enough so that he was able to hold her face in both his hands, brushing his thumbs acrossthe apples of her cheeks. "Can I kiss you?"

"Please," she whimpered.

He leaned back in and enveloped her lips with his, suckling lightly on her top lip before running his tongue across its crease silently asking for entrance. She followed suit immediately, letting him lick into her mouth at a tender pace, leaving her breathless, wanting more when he pulled away. "Let me take you out," he implored, voice barely above a whisper.

"You wanna take me out?" she inquired, catching her breath.

He nodded. "You're just about the coolest person I know. I've been crushing on you for forever. Let me take you out."

The butterflies in her stomach fluttered wildly. "Okay."

919 notes · View notes

zigsexual · 6 years

Text

Theoreticals; part 1 (maxwell x mc)

lol remember when i started this in july and am just now posting it? also remember when i said that i would post it yesterday ha ha ha lol anyway it’s too long for one post so imma break this shit down into PARTS!!!

this is the final companion piece to hypotheticals and empiricals, and honestly if you haven’t read those then u probably should because this one has a lot of plot throwback and also tbh its like very divergent from the main storyline seeing as i started writing it in JULY

summary: the coronation is actually happening feat. private planes, maxwell as a baby????? an unfortunate run in with some potpourri, dancing, drake, and an uber driver

word count: 3700+

Riley paces across her room yet again, halfheartedly feigning an attempt to pack for the upcoming trip to the palace. Her suitcase, empty but for a single black camisole and jeans, is splayed out across her bed next to Maxwell, who is also splayed out across her bed.

“Do you think I should bring my boots?” She asks. “My other shoes have like, no tread, and all of the roads by the palace are old-ass rocks so tread is probably important. And what if it rains?”

“I don’t think it’s supposed to rain,” Maxwell replies, but she’s already tossed the boots in his direction.

“Okay, so if I bring the boots, I need boot socks,” Riley tugs open a dresser drawer, rifling through it. “Except I’m pretty sure I only have red boot socks, and that’s going to clash with all my outfits, so maybe I should just stick with a bootie? Except then the tread is an issue again.”

Maxwell laughs. “Riley, it’s two days.”

She whirls around, brandishing a boot sock. “Yeah, two days in the goddamn palace!”

He breaks his gaze from the ceiling to watch her as she makes another futile pass towards her closet, sitting up and leaning back on his hands. “You really want to keep pretending you’re going to finish this tonight?”

She sighs, dropping her things onto the floor. “It’s already too late to give up.”

“Few more hours won’t hurt.” He reaches over and closes the lid, then holds out his hand. “Come on, let’s go on a walk. You’re all strung out.”

She takes his hand, in spite of herself yet again. Everything about him, about this, is in spite of herself and her better judgment. But it’s midnight on the eve of what may be their last chance at anything, and she doesn’t care that much anymore.

It’s dark in the house, the sconces dimmed, and they walk through the second floor hallways like they have the entire place to themselves. Maxwell is still holding her hand, his other shoved into his pocket, watching the portraits on the walls as they pass.

“Is that you?” Riley asks, pointing at one of the frames. It’s a painting of a boy who couldn’t be more than eight years old, posed like the subject of a renaissance art piece and clearly none too pleased about it. He’s got the same soft brown hair and mischievous eyes as Maxwell, his face dusted with freckles and mouth pulled into a barely concealed pout.

“Oh my god,” Maxwell laughs. “Yeah. That’s… yeah.”

“You were cute.” Riley bumps her hip against his, grinning. He reaches up and rubs the back of his neck, looking at the painting sheepishly.

“My parents, they were really into the ‘nobles’ thing,” he says, “You know, ridiculous estates and portrait painting and etiquette classes, all that. I mean, I guess you have to be when you are a noble. I mostly let Bertrand handle that stuff now.”

Riley holds out her free hand and traces the curve of his painted face, the rough brush strokes in sweeping lines under her fingertips. She smiles.

“Bertrand would kill me if he knew I was letting you touch the paintings,” Maxwell says.

“Bertrand would kill you if he knew you were letting me touch you.”

“Touché.”

She steps back from the portrait, squeezing Maxwell’s hand gently. “Your parents, what were they like?”

He doesn’t say anything at first, and she worries she’s treaded into inadmissible territory. She turns to him, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Sorry, you don’t have to—“

“No, Riley,” he smiles, but it’s sad. “It’s fine.”

He looks up at the painting for a long moment, and she wonders how much of that baby-faced boy is still a part of him. He still has those faded freckles across his cheeks, that air of something…. more, like he’s privy to a thousand secrets one could never hope to know. She suddenly wishes he were as much of an open book as he likes to say he is.

“My parents were… well, I guess they’re pretty self-explanatory.”

“What do you mean?”

He’s still got his eyes on the painting, but his jaw is set. “You’ve been in the study.”

“Duh.”

He breaks for a moment, to shoot her a smile, but then he pulls his bottom lip between his teeth. “So, that’s my dad.”

“The study?”

“Yeah.” He frowns. “We didn’t change anything in there after he died. It just… felt weird. And there’s already all these rooms in this place, it’s not like we needed another one. So now it’s just there, filled with polo trophies and fencing equipment and all that ‘nobles’ shit.”

“And Drake,” she adds, a tentative step towards levity. Maxwell pulls her closer, letting go of her hand so he can slip his arm around her waist. He doesn’t have to say it, but she knows he’s grateful for the reprieve.

“And Drake. Unfortunately.” He looks at her and smiles. “You would’ve liked my mom.”

“Yeah?” Riley smiles back.

“Yeah. Well, I know she would’ve liked you, anyway.”

They make their way down the rest of the hall, passing more portraits and art pieces and the occasional odd sculpture, everything in brocade like something out of her high school history books. She runs her fingers across gilded wallpaper and marble shelves, still marveling at the fact that this, somehow, has become her life.

“What’s New York like?” Maxwell asks her. “I mean, I know what the tourist parts are like, thanks to Liam, but what’s your part like?”

“My part?” She tilts her head. “Uh, not that great, honestly. My part is a shitty studio in Queens with an elevator that doesn’t work, a roach problem, and a toilet that only flushes half the time. I don’t even have a bedframe, I just sleep with my mattress on the floor, and sometimes if I’m lucky, there isn’t a drunk guy peeing on my stoop when I come home from the late shift.”

“Sounds like a dream,” Maxwell says, and the funny thing is that she can’t quite tell if he’s joking or not.

“Can I quote you on that? My landlord keeps asking me to leave him a Yelp review.”

Maxwell looks puzzled. “I thought… you didn’t have nobility in America?”

Riley shoots him a bemused look. “We don’t.”

“But then, why would you…?”

It takes her a moment, but then she shoves his shoulder and laughs. “Oh my god, wait, are you talking about my landlord? That’s the guy who owns the place I rent. It’s just like, a name for rental property owners. God, you’re such a one-percenter.”

“Shut up,” He rubs the back of his neck, embarrassed. “Things are different in Cordonia, okay?”

“I can’t believe you didn’t know what a landlord is. I can’t believe you thought landlords are literal lords of the land.”

Maxwell makes a face at her, and she doesn’t even remotely try to stifle her giggles. “Excuse you, the only ‘landlords’ I know are literal lords of the land, so it was a logical conclusion.”

Riley taps him on the nose before turning away dramatically, hand on her heart. “Deepest apologies, Lord Beaumont. I would never disrespect your status or your land.”

“Hilarious.” He crosses his arms, but he’s smiling.

“Please accept this token of my atonement,” she continues, lifting some imaginary skirts so as to further sashay down the hall, “Imported from the duchy of Newest York, one hundred — no — one thousand of our finest Manhattan pigeons.”

Riley dips down in a ridiculously low curtsey, stumbling forward a bit and catching herself with a laugh. “Perchance would you like to visit with one of our most prestigious landlords? He is so terribly fond of — Max!”

She shrieks as he comes up behind her, arms around her waist, pulling her close and spinning her. She can feel the breath of his laughter against her neck, his whispered, “Shhh, you’ll wake everyone up,” and the way his fingers linger on her when he sets her down.

Riley, flushed, brushes her hair out of her face and adjusts her shirt. “You’re the worst.”

“I accept your pigeons,” Maxwell says with mock formality. “And I would love to meet your landlord.”

“Oh, you really shouldn’t, the pigeons are fucking gross.”

“Okay, pass on the pigeons then.”

“My landlord is gross too.”

He sighs. “You’re not making a great case here.”

Riley smiles, and compelled with a sudden irresistible urge to touch him, reaches out and runs her fingers along his jawline. She almost expects to feel the brushstrokes there too, a perfect likeness of his childhood painting, all grown up and still off-limits.

“You could come visit, if you want,” she says softly. “The mattress is a twin, but we can make it work.”

He kisses her, and she closes her eyes and lets herself believe for a moment that they’re not here, not in this ridiculous world full of princes and balls and family portraits, but somewhere else, somewhere loud and brash and filled with the scent of street food and smoke and dreams yet to be realized.

But of course, they aren’t.

“Come on,” he says, his voice gentle against the sudden sharpness of the moment. “Let’s go finish packing.”

They walk back to the room hand-in-hand, and Maxwell helps her fold things and find things and then sits on the suitcase so she can shove everything in properly and zipper it away. The sky stops getting darker and starts getting lighter, and the laughter between them grows less practiced and more delirious as they finish up.

She smiles when she steps out of her bathroom, face washed and hair up, to find him tucked in against her pillow, finally stolen into sleep by his own exhaustion. It’s a rare occasion to find Maxwell so utterly still, and she stands there for a second watching him.

She’s known for quite some time that she’s fucked. This whole situation: the competition, the prince, the stupid stupid boys. She’s just fucked, no way around it.

But as she lingers in the doorway, memorizing the rise and fall of his chest, it occurs to her that she is now — for lack of a better term — royally fucked.

---

It’s as if she’s barely slept at all when she feels his hand on her shoulder. “Riley? Hey, time to get up.”

She burrows her face back towards her pillow, trying desperately to shut out the light filtering in through the curtains. Maxwell, however, refuses to be shut out.

“We’re leaving in an hour or so, if you want to get ready.” He sounds just as tired as she feels, and she realizes then that he’s most likely spent the entire night here, with her, probably shoved into the corner while she bundled herself in covers. The thought makes her sit up suddenly, blinking blearily into Maxwell’s face, only a few inches from hers.

“Oh,” he says. “Hey.”

“Hey,” she says back.

They look at each other for a moment, Riley squinting up at him as she adjusts to the rush of sunlight. Under the sudden scrutiny of his gaze, she pulls the blankets up around her, a flush spreading into her cheeks as she realizes what she must look like: hair a tangled mess, sleep marks across her face, oversized t-shirt hanging in a particularly unflattering way.

“What’s the ‘Knicks’?” Maxwell asks.

“Hmm?” She quirks an eyebrow in confusion, and he nods at her shirt. She looks down. “Oh. Basketball team. They’re the… uh, the professional team for New York.”

“Do you like them?”

“I like their shirts.”

He laughs, turning away from her to slip down onto the floor. “Sometime, will you teach me what basketball is?”

“You guys don’t have basketball in Cordonia?” Riley lets the blankets fall back around her and pushes herself out of the bed with the intent to follow him, but the hardwood is like ice against her feet. She lingers near the familiar warmth of the covers while she watches him go.

“We don’t have a lot of stuff in Cordonia,” he answers. “Basketball, Disneyland, those breakfast things you like.”

“Pop-tarts?” Riley grins, crossing her arms. “Yeah, real bummer on that one.”

“Prom, Costco, monster trucks,” Maxwell continues, “And we’ve barely even got you for much longer, so.”

The words hit her harder than expected, and the smile drops from her face just as her arms fall to her sides. The chill of the floor spreads up from her feet, twisting its way through her body and settling in her heart.

Maxwell heads towards her suitcase. He lifts it down off the table, yanks the handle up until it clicks. “Come on, you gotta get dressed. I’ll take your bag out to the car.”

She pulls her bottom lip between her teeth, hands fiddling with the hem of her shirt. “Will you come back?”

He turns his head, eyes ghosting over her face as she bites harder into her lip.

“Riley…” he says, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, totally.” She crosses her arms over her chest, pulling her shoulders up in what she hopes looks like a nonchalant shrug. “Just, big day, you know.”

“Understatement.” He smiles at her, and the sinking feeling subsides.

“What should I wear?” she asks, in a feeble attempt to keep him in the room a few moments longer.

“Definitely just that. The king and queen will be so impressed.”

“Shut up.” She sticks her tongue out, reaching back to pull the comforter up from the bed and around her shoulders before crossing toward the closet.

“No I’m serious, the press will not be able to stop talking about it. Bertrand will love that.”

She whacks him with the comforter as she passes. “You know what else Bertrand will love?”

“What?”

“You spending the night in my room.”

He laughs. “Okay, okay, point taken.” He turns to grab her suitcase, but not fast enough to keep her from noticing the blush rising in his cheeks. She laughs too, pulling open her closet door.

“Go get dressed,” he calls after her, “I’m actually taking your stuff out this time.”

“As you wish, Lord Beaumont.” She twirls around to drop in a curtsey, blowing him a kiss as he makes a face at her and heads out the door.

---

Riley wakes up to Maxwell once more, her face smashed in against his shoulder in the back of the car. She lifts her head, blinking the sleep out of her eyes, only to meet Bertrand’s disapproving ones.

“You have lines on your face,” he says disdainfully. “You look wretched.”

Riley sits up, rolling her neck and wincing. “Thanks, B. Are we at the airport?”

“Yeah,” Maxwell answers, seemingly unfazed by her using his arm for a pillow. She hopes she didn’t drool. “There’s coronation traffic, but that’s to be expected. We’ll be at the plane in five.”

Riley looks out the window, expecting to see the familiar bustle of brake lights and taxicabs that punctuate all her visits to JFK. However, all she finds is a great wide sea of black tarmac and planes.

She turns to Maxwell and Bertrand. “Wait, where are we?”

“The airport.”

“No, I — yeah, I know that. But where are the people?”

Maxwell looks confused. “…On the planes?”

“Don’t we, y’know, have to go through security and stuff? Or is that not a thing in Cordonia? Or like, don’t I need to show someone my passport and check my bag?” She nods her head in the direction of the trunk. “That thing is not gonna fit in an overhead compartment, I can already promise you that.”

The car slows to a stop and Maxwell laughs. “What? Riley, we’re broke, but we aren’t fly commercial broke.”

Riley says “Oh,” and then someone in a full suit and black sunglasses is opening her car door and saying, “Lady Riley, I’ll be taking your bags,” and she says “Oh,” and Maxwell says, “Thanks, they’re in the trunk.”

Riley whips her head around to face him, eyes wide. Maxwell shrugs. “Liam has a plane.”

Her eyes go even wider, and she pauses to make sure Bertrand is mostly out of earshot before whispering, “You didn’t think to tell me we’d be in an enclosed space with Liam for an extended period of time?”

He smiles sheepishly. “Well, the thought crossed my mind, but I was worried you’d try to cut your losses and run before we got here. And besides, he told me he wanted some time with you. To talk about something.”

Riley shoots him a pointed look before turning to slide out of the car. Talk to her about something! Great. What a mystery as to what it could possibly be.

The man in the suit, most likely a member of Liam’s security team, is already unloading their things from the trunk. She squints into the sunlight, eyes settling on the enormous white jet just a few hundred feet from their stop, its wings ringed with gold and an egregiously large Cordonian seal plastered along the side.

“Discreet,” Riley mutters, sighing as she heads off towards the staircase lowered down from the plane’s back entrance. She’s never boarded a plane like this before, not without hours of waiting and TSA screenings and watching as every other boarding group took their place ahead of her in line. The tiny staircase seems too easy, and the staff waiting at the bottom are too quick to offer her their arms as she climbs up into the ridiculous fixture of luxury.

As she makes her way inside, wandering slowly towards the aisle, she gawks at the interior: a scaled down recreation of the palace sitting areas, complete with ornate lamps and crystal stemware and what looks to be an entire grand piano off in the corner. Riley feels her stomach clench at the sight of it all, a reminder of how desperately she doesn’t belong in this world of opulence and glamour.

There’s a rustle of a curtain and footsteps behind her, and she turns, expecting to see Maxwell on his way in. She’s already whispering, “Max, I think I should—” before her eyes settle on the person who’s actually in front of her and she stops mid-sentence. “Oh, fuck.”

Drake looks her over and frowns.

“What are you doing here?!” she hisses, shoving him in the shoulder. “And why are you sneaking up on me?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” he answers, leveled. “Pretty sure your boyfriend is still back at the car.”

Riley shakes her head, letting out an agonized sigh. “I am truly not in the mood for this, Drake.”

“Aldridge, you going soft? Can’t handle the banter anymore?”

“On Liam’s goddamn plane? Yeah, maybe it’s not the ideal choice of venue.” She crosses her arms, but her defense wavers. “Drake… you didn’t… I mean, you didn’t say anything, did you?”

He rolls his eyes. “Relax, I’m not that much of an asshole. Liam’s on a conference call in the diplomat suite anyway.”

“Diplomat suite?”

“It’s a big fucking plane.”

Riley lets her hands fall back to her sides, glancing around the room once more, eyes following the rows of soft leather seats.

“Well, thanks, I guess.”

He shrugs, looking everywhere but at her. “I know you’ll talk to him. You don’t need me to do it for you.”

She lets out a sigh. “Maxwell said he invited me on the plane so we could talk, so if you’re awaiting my downfall, it might come sooner than you think.”

“I’m not —” Drake looks taken aback, “Riley, come on, you know that’s not how I feel.”

She starts to say something in reply, but the sounds of footsteps coming up the staircase echo loudly into the cabin. Drake turns, and Riley feels her nervous tension ease. Maxwell is finally here, he’ll know how to handle Drake and she can just —

“Riley,” an all too familiar voice calls, “Is that you harping on and on in there?”

Riley grabs Drake’s arm, face twisted in horror, and mouths, Olivia? He nods, looking slightly pained, and then there she is at the landing — mouth twisted in distaste, red hair spilling out of a white fur hat, sheathed in some sort of emerald green evening coat that could probably cover Riley’s apartment rent for the next ten years.

Her mouth curls up into a smile when she sees them. “Oh lovely, I was right.”

She steps into the room, her heels clicking against the hardwood, and drapes her arm across Drake’s shoulder, leaning against him as she surveys Riley. “You do know we’re going to a coronation ball, right?”

“Wonderful to see you too, Olivia,” Riley replies with a grimace.

Olivia smiles again, straightening up and patting Drake dismissively on the back. “Hey Drake, will you be a dear and roll out the bar cart? I have a feeling we’re going to need some drinks.”

Drake rolls his eyes so hard it almost looks painful. “Sure Olivia, I will happily roll out the bar cart. For myself.”

As he turns and pushes past her, she frowns, watching him walk away with a hand on her hip. When he disappears through the cabin door, she looks back at Riley. “Is he always so pleasant?”

“Pretty much, yeah. You’d think you two would get along.”

Olivia arches an eyebrow. “Cute.”

She hears someone else coming up the stairs and prays it’s Maxwell this time. When she sees him step inside, she releases an audible sigh.

“Hey Riley, did Bertrand already come up here? I think he — oh.” His eyes fall on Olivia, who flutters her fingers in a wave. “Olivia?”

“And Drake.” Riley smiles through gritted teeth. “Isn’t it wonderful? Gang’s all here.”

Maxwell blinks. “Uh. Cool?”

Drake emerges from the door then, glass in hand, and stops short when he sees Maxwell. “Hey Max! Long time no see. Great talking with you in the study last night.”

Riley glares with the ferocity of a thousand suns. Maxwell blinks again. Olivia looks between all three of them and rolls her eyes. “You guys are so fucking weird.”

She turns toward the closest seat and settles in, draping her legs across the length of it so the red bottoms of her high heels are on full display. She pulls an eye mask out of her purse, tugging it over her head. “I’m going to take a Xanax and listen to Ryan’s Roses. Do not even think about speaking to me.”

“Trust me,” Riley says under her breath, “It was the least of our concerns.”

part two.

#the royal romance #mc x maxwell #maxwell x mc #trr fanfic #trr #my fic #its probably gonna be three parts total #i will try to get part two out asap #there's not a lot of fluffy shit in this one whoops sorry?????#part two makes up for it i promise #wait or maybe part three #jk i dont know my own story

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heolyspxncer-deactivated129-blog · 7 years

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White Roses [Spencer Reid]

Summary // Out of nowhere, Spencer has been receiving white roses on his doorstep with no clue as to who sent them, out of nowhere the most recent case seemed to have a lot to do with white roses

A/N // Please reblog this, I know this isn’t the typical fic / x reader fic but I spend a lot of time on it and I loved writing it.

Spencer woke up early, he did every single day. He never got much sleep, whether it was due to his active brain or just because he drank too much coffee, he still didn’t know. It definitely was one of the two, most likely the second when he looked at it with objective eyes.

He dressed himself up, ready to head for work yet the second he stepped out to head for work, opening the door and that left him stunned. A single white rose, nothing else. A white rose, long with thorns, he carefully picked it up at the bottom, that was when he noticed a single petal was missing. Oddly, he scrunched his eyebrows and simply put the rose down inside of his table, leaving his apartment after.

As he went to work and did his work he was left confused, the rose kept bugging him in his mind. A white rose symbolised purity, innocence and things alike. Maybe it was delivered to the wrong house? He stuck with that through the day up until his mind immediately went to the petal that was missing, maybe it fell? He never looked at it to see if it fell out or was ripped, the rose looked fresh though, it must’ve been ripped off.

As he worked the Rose remained fresh in his mind.

-8-

Two days later Spencer woke up late compared to usual but he needed the sleep for once, after a harrowing case he had been running on the low amount of three hours of sleep when he arrived at his apartment. Despite his efforts, taking a cup of coffee, he was left falling asleep almost immediately. The sun glared through his windows, frustrated he got up. It was a Sunday, one of the odd free-days he had. If it was Sunday and he wasn’t working on a case there was no obligation to go to the FBI, only it seemed every single Sunday they tended to work a case.

Spencer took it slow, making a mug of coffee and picking up the book he had left yesterday night. Once he finished the book, the coffee and the meagre cereal, his eyes stared at the Rose, it still stood uptight in the vase. He had only one vase and never really used it before, so he simply but it down on his small coffee table next to the books, it looked odd in his house yet beautiful nonetheless.

Curiously, he opened his door and found another rose. This one looked just as fresh as the first one he received, as he picked it up he rotated it, noticing another petal missing. He ran his finger over the spot, there used to be a petal and it seemed to have ripped, with how fresh the rose was, it seemed bought today, it could’ve hardly fallen out.

The young profiler closed his door and put the white rose next to the other in the vase, staring at them as they both went opposite ways, the little water barely moving. He picked up another book, he didn’t have any plans for it today and enjoyed the thought of a silent day, listening to some music whilst going through some of the newest books he had bought recently, he had been needing a quiet day like this for quite some time and he finally got it.

-8-

Spencer set foot into the BAU, the eight rose had been delivered to his apartment today. The first one had been dying off by now, and the second was about to start quickly deteriorating. He still hadn’t really thought about it too much, the roses were meant for him, no one got it wrong eight times. It could mean a friendly gesture, a shy romantic move or something else but serial killers occupied his mind instead of someone he could’ve possibly attracted and so he had little time to think about what it might mean, up until now.

“Conference room.” Hotch said as he strode past the bullpen and everyone got up, one inside the screen was already set up and Spencer’s eyes immediately gravitated towards the white single rose petal, in all the eight crimes. Once his mind had stopped solely focusing on the rose it turned to the vicious scene before him, every single victim had been treated oddly, Spencer took quick note of a cut near the abdomen in all of them which had been stitched up, all of these crimes took some time to prepare. The victims had been posed, some worse than others. Some had body parts cut off, placed elsewhere whilst others were simply put in some form of pose, it was clear this unsub was trying to turn them into some form of art.

“Right, eight victims, four male and four female. All different race, class, ethnicity, religions and such, there’s seemingly no overlap. Two of them come from the same city but it seems to be a mere coincidence, all of the bodies had been found in different places which is why it took the police so long to contact us. In every place two bodies turn up and so the police department of the nearest big city asked us to come.” JJ started to explain.

“All of the victims were posed in different ways, the cuts have been examined, they were likely done with a scalpel, most of them likely were poisoned as no other weapon was found, none of them had a medical condition and most were perfectly healthy, they haven’t found anything specific yet, but they’ve only done broad searches. This Unsub took trophies, hence the cuts. Some miss their liver, other lungs, it varies but internal organs are taken from each of them. At each crime scene a white rose petal was left, that, so far, has been the only consistent thing with the trophies.”

“On the map there hasn’t been much of a pattern though they generally occur in big cities, three in each. The first was in Seattle, the next in Raleigh and the last two have been in Louisville, the police hopes to catch the unsub before the next victim which means we likely have a window of around 36 hours before this unsub moves on and stops for at least two months.”

Spencer listened closely and once JJ was finished with all the information they had been provided with did he speak up, not about the roses. “It’s likely this unsub uses white roses in relation because of Art. The way he poses them is something that you could call art, wouldn’t it be for some severed parts, white roses represent purity and innocence, them being naked could help the unsub with showing ‘pure art’.”

“That could be likely, Reid I want you to see if you can find any of these poses in paintings or alike, this unsub might be imitating art.” Hotch responded and Spencer nodded, he suddenly felt anxious about the meaning of the roses.

-8-

“In some parts of Asia white flowers symbolise death and misfortune.” Spencer read aloud for the team to hear, he felt like he had read it before and felt stupid he hadn’t realized it earlier. He was notified of these deaths yet simply assumed the more popular meaning in the west.

“We’re likely dealing with someone quite sophisticated, as we said earlier, this symbolism is very uncommon here as it generally means purity.” Morgan said and everyone nodded, there were so many people missing in Louisville it was hard to determine who the next victim might be, if there was to be a next victim.

“Still, we have almost nothing to go on.” Emily pointed out which sadly was true, beside the meaning of the roses figured out along with some poses taken from Renaissance art they had nothing, literally nothing. The next victim was likely male, two females had been killed so far and the unsub never went with three victims of the same sex.

“I finished checking and all of the victims do have criminal records!” Garcia said enthusiastic, this seemed to be the first pattern and with around 24 hours left they could use everything. “So we’re definitely looking for a criminal, now our first three victims all have very different records, Tara Meadow only had a single speeding ticket which isn’t really an offence, John Trevors did some shoplifting and our last victim Louise Danton killed someone, it was a car accident. Again with the next batch of victims, different offences but from minor to something like murder. So I checked out the last victim and you’re likely looking for someone who committed an offence of at least manslaughter or worse, who is out.”

That narrowed the field, whilst Spencer knew the statistics of how many people went to jail for at least manslaughter, it did narrow it down because before they only had the perimeter of it being a man, now they had a lot more.

“We need to start looking right now, we still might be able to save a life.” And so they did.

-8-

They were too late, Ian Patrick had been found, posed as David, his spleen missing and a white rose petal at the scene. Spencer had informed the team of the roses once they had landed, it showed remorse and it was easily explained once they learnt of the fact that criminal offenders were being punished, vigilante to some extent.

Spencer returned to his room, ever sine arriving he had received a rose every ten hours and now again, only now there were two. A single white rose and a single black one, the white one missed a petal as usual but the black one was still intact, complete and well. Once inside Spencer called Garcia, there hadn’t been thirteen victims yet.

“Boy wonder, what do you need?”

“Garcia, I was wondering if you can look up what a certain amount of roses symbolise.” He said straightforward.

“Of course… Right.. How many?”

“Thirteen.”

“Okay, thirteen roses indicate a secret admirer… That’s.. interesting.” She said, clearly unsure.

“Thank you.” He said before hanging up. Black roses symbolised death, you would never reach thirteen with a three cycle, not with finished cycles. That was when everything in his brain clicked, solemnly he went to the team.

“What’s wrong?” Morgan immediately asked.

“I got a rose for every victim, I have twelve white roses with missing petals which means there have been murders before the ones in Seattle,” Everyone seemed to feel worse at this comment, he understood why. It meant even more death that no one knew of and that could’ve even never been prevented, he still wondered how these specific murders could’ve happened without anyone properly reporting them. “I got two today, a black one. Which makes the total thirteen, twelve white with missing petals and one black. Now black roses typically symbolise death, they are only artificially grown which leads me to believe our unsub has committed suicide, a black impure rose, the one form of impure art.” Spencer finished.

“You’re sure about this?”

“As likely as I’ll ever be, either way we have no idea of where the unsub might go next anyway, it’s a tragic ending but the most logical. The white roses started wit me, the number thirteen with roses symbolise a secret admirer who tried to make are but could never make art of themselves, always seeing themselves as impure, artificial. A black rose in a sea of white.”

@dontshootmespence

#Spencer Reid #Criminal minds imagines #Criminal minds fic #Spencer reid x reader #x reader #fanfiction #imagines #self-insert #white roses #black roses #symbolism

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the-coffee-god · 7 years

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y’all ready for more on my shance art au??

oh man this got longer than I intended so I’m putting a cut my bad. for the dumb shance art au that is accidentally taking over my life

-shiro is absolutely obsessed with color. his favorite artist is mark rothko because of his color field paintings. when shiro gets stressed, he paints everything with just colors

-lance is partial to renaissance art, and how drastically it changed during the time. gets really excited over proper perspective as it becomes a thing. has cried over raphael on more than one occasion

-sometimes shiro wakes up in the middle of the night crying and screaming. the first thing he does is find a bright paint and and brush and begins to paint on his organic arm. sometimes its just scribbles, sometimes patterns, most often flowers. if its a really bad night, he doesn’t even use a brush; just his fingers

-when shiro gets stuck on a piece, he fixates on the smallest things [like the correct shade to use, one line is a millimeter too short, etc] and has to be forced away from the painting [either by matt or lance]

-speaking of matt, he and shiro met in middle school, and became friends when shiro punched someone making fun of matt’s star wars backpack

-lance’s best friend is hunk, an engineering major who is working with matt’s little sister pidge to help grad student matt with prosthetic designs hopefully to be made available to the military

-keith is shiro’s adopted brother, who decided lance is good enough for shiro only after lance got mad during a family dinner and challenged him to a duel. they had it in a laser maze. shiro interrupted and shot them both.

-lance is really great at drawing stick figures, but not much else. hes perfectly content with being a model, though, and has offered up his body as a canvas for shiro to paint

-lance has confused shiro’s water mug with his own coffee mug many times. he still has not learned to look in the cup first. he will never learn

-shiro loves covering lance with flowers, and invested in high quality body paints so they wouldn’t harm lance’s skin when he refuses to wash them off all day

-they’ve gone on multiple dates where lance has vines crawling up his legs, or a galaxy painted on his neck, or cherry blossoms dotting his arms

-lance invested in a good stain remover so he doesn’t ruin all his clothes

-lance has gotten away with modeling for the drawing class while covered in shiro’s flowers

-allura is the female model for the drawing and painting classes, and she and lance go out for lunch every other saturday to talk about their experiences

-lance is pansexual :)

-shiro is very gay

-shiro and lance have membership passes to the nearest art museum, where they had their first date and they go there at least once a month. shiro likes to sketch the works of art while lance tells him all about the piece hes drawing

-after four years of dating, they go on a trip to italy together. lance takes a million photos of shiro posing with the art. shiro takes photos of lance crying over art

-lance proposes to shiro in the middle of the uffizi in florence. it was an accident. shiro looked so happy staring at the elaborate ceiling of one room, and lance was just like “god I want to be with you for the rest of my life” and proposed on the spot

-shiro was slightly upset because he had plans to propose next week in rome in front of bernini’s fountain but said yes anyways

-they get married in the art museum they had their first date in. both wore suits, but had a ridiculous amount of paint under their clothes, peeking out at the collar and cuffs of their suits

#art au #oh man this got long #i am so sorry #shance #shance art au #honestly im not even embarrassed #let me have in love shance #ironically i wrote this instead of studying for my art history exam tomorrow lol #anyways i hope someone reads this #pls feel free to message me if u wanna talk about art/shance/art shance

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itsworn · 5 years

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Celebrating the Anniversary of the Ford Model A at 2019 Grand National Roadster Show

Most Deluxe readers are familiar with the Grand National Roadster Show and its iconic America’s Most Beautiful Roadster award. While the AMBR contenders usually get the most attention, for the last dozen years the GNRS has also devoted a hall to exhibits with a specific theme. This show-within-a-show started in 2007 with the Deuce’s 75th Anniversary, undoubtedly a highlight in the show’s nearly seven-decade history. Many others have followed since, such as Customs Then and Now, Tribute to the Bonneville Salt Flats, and last year’s muscle car display. For 2019, Building No. 9 was solely devoted to 1928-1931 Ford automobiles, aka the Model A.

The unjudged exhibition, sponsored by C.W. Moss Ford Parts, was the brainstorm of Brian Bauer and Karpo Murkijanian, two individuals well-known in our scene. Brian has owned his street-driven A roadster since the 1970s, a survivor that competed in the first NHRA Nationals at Great Bend, Kansas, in 1955, before setting numerous track records, including at Lions. Karpo has the same affinity for drag race history, having restored the Mondello & Matsubara AA/Fuel Altered Fiat Topolino with Pete Eastwood, as it looked 50 years ago.

Brian and Karpo worked up an extensive list of potential guests, which they combined to create the most impressive group of Model As ever assembled. The job wasn’t easy by any stretch, since they had to track down owners of some of their wish-list cars. Though they could not locate all of them, they didn’t have to worry about filling any empty spots considering their long waiting list. Ultimately, they had 107 spots available, and 107 cars showed up. The place oozed with hot rod history, from past AMBR winners to magazine cover cars. It was a sight to behold.

Model As far as the eye can see, representing the various versions offered by Ford between late 1927 and the end of 1931. With close to 5 million produced worldwide, no wonder the car has become a hot rod favorite to this day.

Entering the hall, visitors were greeted by a group of former AMBR champions. Many will recognize the Bill NieKamp blue roadster, which won the first competition in 1950. But who remembers its neighbor? Jerry Woodward built and still owns the Thunder Rod, which has not changed much since its AMBR victory in 1957, though he added the supercharger later.

Based on a ’29 roadster channeled 5 inches, Chuck Krikorian’s Emperor won the AMBR competition in 1960, with help from George Barris. Among the unique touches, note the nose piece by Barris Kustom and the 406ci ’57 Cadillac V8 with six carbs. The Gejeian family currently owns this piece of show-car history.

Drag racing enthusiasts associate Rich Guasco with the famous Pure Hell, a nasty roadster that he drove to many Fuel Altered victories during the 1960s. He also owns a piece of hot rodding history in the shape of this Model A, which he started driving it at age 13 in the 1950s. It won the AMBR competition in 1961 and graced the covers of Speed Mechanics, Mar. 1958, and HRD, May 2013.

Next to Guasco’s roadster is John Corno’s AMBR winner, which Russ Meeks built with a tilt body (lengthened 4 inches) that covered a ’68 Olds Toronado V8. More alterations came in 1986, such as the hand-built stainless steel chassis. Oregon residents Roman and Judy Baszniak currently own the famous roadster.

Bill Grant impressed the crowd with his ’28 roadster, aka the Muroc Roadster, when he and builders Terry and David Stoker entered the 2017 AMBR field. To the surprise of many, it retains stock (but mega-detailed) mechanical brakes, together with a seriously hopped-up ’32 Model B engine. It now comes equipped with a vintage Miller overhead conversion and Zephyr intake manifold. The car’s full story was in our July 2017 issue.

Galpin Speed Shop displayed the Bill Likes ’29 roadster, also known as the Edelbrock Special. Bill worked as Edelbrock’s shop manager during the postwar years. Back in 1951, the dry-lake-prepped Model A on a ’32 frame posted a speed of 153 mph in the B class.

Tom Lieb is the owner of Scat Enterprises, which has been specializing in aftermarket crankshafts for decades. He bought his well-known ’29 roadster in 1958. He had Pete Chapouris’ So-Cal Speed Shop redo the car in 2007, featuring a cab stretched 3 inches, and entered the AMBR battle with help from Jimmy Shine in 2016. Motivation comes from a ’49 59AB flathead.

Building 9 housed a bunch of recently built hot rods taking clues from our scene’s early days. Take Rudi Hillebrand’s red ’31 coupe for instance. It runs a 268ci ’50 Ford flathead V8 fitted with Navarro heads and an Eddie Meyer Hollywood intake manifold. Next to it sits the mildly chopped coupe owned by Mike Herman of H&H fame, which gained some oomph courtesy of a McCulloch supercharger.

Burbank Choppers Car Club member Verne Hammond unearthed quite a survivor during one of his numerous visits to the Pomona Swap Meet, in the shape of the Ken Blackwell Street Jewel built in 1958-1959. Based on a ’29 roadster, it appeared among a few other cars on the cover of HOT ROD, Nov. 1961. The Olds-powered roadster was a cover car again in our Nov. 2014 issue (“Street Jewel Shines Again”).

Note the unusual front fender treatment on Rob Dehoney’s ’29 roadster. Rob belonged to a group of young fellas who hill climbed in San Francisco in the 1930s, and the car has remained in the same family since. Other uncommon characteristics include late ’30s Plymouth bumpers and grille, plus an Auburn windshield and dash.

The Tom Morris ’29 roadster was built in 1948, then raced at the dry lakes and dragstrips, before being parked in 1955. This jalopy is the real deal, with its ’48 Ford flathead, ’40 Ford trans, Tom Morris-made cast quick-change rear, and Crestliner steering wheel. Incidentally, it ran 110 mph at Bonneville in 1953 in the C Roadster class. Our cover story on the car, “Renaissance Man,” ran in the Nov. 2018 issue.

Jay Dean of Nostalgia Ranch in California had two of his hot rods on exhibit at GNRS, a trophy-winning ’32 five-window coupe shown in the Suede Palace and this neat ’28 Model A painted ’32 Alfa Romeo Red. Sitting on a custom frame, the chopped and channeled roadster relies on a 365-horse 327ci GM engine.

Although it never appeared in the TV show, they call it the Dragnet Roadster because Jack Webb posed in the company of the vehicle, then owned by Tom Pollard, on a HOT ROD cover in 1955. Richard Loe is the current caretaker of the relic. It hasn’t changed much since its flamed 1968 repaint.

Longtime lake racer Jim Travis broke a couple of records at Bonneville with his ’29 roadster, specifically 124 mph in X/GR (1969) and 113 mph in X/STR (1970). And yes, the L.A. Roadsters club member still owns the car today, which he drove daily for years. The triple-carbed 297ci ’48 Merc engine received a Clay Smith cam. Behind it reside a ’39 Ford trans and a ’48 Ford rearend.

Billy Crewl became good friends with Jack Calori, who owned a distinctive Model A recognizable thanks to its two-piece windshield and upswept exhaust pipes. This relationship led Billy to create a tribute of the roadster in question, seen here. It uses a ’28 body bolted to a ’32 Ford chassis, a ’46 Merc motor, and a deep, owner-applied black paint job.

Many people had their eyes on James Bobowski’s ’29 roadster from New Jersey when he entered the 2018 AMBR competition. Originally built by the Ayala Brothers at Gil’s Auto Body in 1950, the now restored roadster did not win. Interestingly, it had already gained recognition in the 1950s, having raced at the Bonneville Nationals (1951) and having appeared in Hop Up magazine (1952) as well as the movie The Lively Set.

Clark Crump put his Model A coupe on exhibit in the Four Ever Four Cylinder Club booth. Bob Kehoe, a respected Bonneville 200 MPH Club member, owned the vehicle for years. He bought it as a stocker in 1998 before hopping up the four-banger with an overhead conversion.

John Mumford has amassed an amazing collection of hot rods and customs over the years, such as Sam Barris’ ’49 Merc and the Ala Kart, seen in these pages as well. Add to the list this ’29 pickup with ’49 Cad V8 power, which was featured in HOT ROD, Apr. 1962, when the car was owned by David Dias. Great stance can be attributed in part to the frame being kicked up 5 1/2 inches at the rear.

Jim Jacobs created quite a commotion when he brush-painted his ’28 phaeton with friends during a 1987 Goodguys event. The car then shared the cover of Rod & Custom (Dec. 1988) with Pete Chapouris’ ’32 roadster known as Limefire. That red paint is still on the unrestored body today, though it has since been plastered with old cut-up HRM articles.

East Bay Speed & Custom beautifully handled the restoration of Mickey Himsl’s ’29 truck, which he has owned since the early 1960s. Some might even argue it’s better now, with additional chrome and details. It goes down the road courtesy of a 265ci ’48 Ford 59AB flathead mated to a ’39 Ford gearbox.

To put the Ala Kart into perspective, let’s just mention that AMT sold more than a million scale-model kits of the ’29-based truck. Winning the AMBR contest in 1958 and 1959 certainly helped put the vehicle on the map. Richard Peters collaborated with George Barris on this build, remembered for its futuristic appearance at the time, with ’57 Chrysler quad headlights molded into a custom nose. John Mumford is now the proud owner.

Bill Kenz’s Odd Rod, based on a ’31 truck, ran 140 mph at Bonneville in 1949. The July 1949 HOT ROD cover star consisted of two Model A frames welded together, plus two engines with two clutches connected with a custom driveshaft. Fellow Coloradan Mike Nicholas recreated this cool tribute.

The Chrisman family had drag racing legend Jack Chrisman’s ’29 sedan on exhibit. He raced it in the 1950s, with a flathead V8 and a 331ci Chrysler Hemi, before selling it in 1956. In 1998, the family got it back after it was in storage for 32 years. Jim Travis, whose yellow roadster can be seen in this article, restored the Tudor beautifully.

In January 1963, HOT ROD put a neat red ’29 Tudor on its cover, with owner Don Grant pulling the 265ci Corvette engine out. Don still drives it regularly 56 years later, although he has replaced the steel wheels and chrome caps with American Racing rims. The silver and black paint has been dressing the shell since 1972.

Running 159 mph with a ’29 Model A at Bonneville was no easy feat in 1954, but that’s what the William Brothers did, thanks in part to a healthy 241ci Hemi V8. The roadster received plenty of attention from the media, too, including HOT ROD, which featured it in the Dec. 1954 issue. The car went into storage in 1956 and remained untouched for 50 years, until Tom McIntyre saw fit to add the well-preserved roadster to his collection. The roadster is yet another HRD cover car, its tale told in “Common Ground,” Mar. 2018.

The Lambrose/Iacono team drag raced the ’29-based 99 Jr. from 1954 until 1957, using a derelict ex–dry lake roadster. Yet, unlike most builders who remained faithful to V8s at the time, they used a GMC six-cylinder fed by a 50/50 mix of alcohol and nitro, good for sub-11-second e.t.’s at about 125-130 mph. Neil O’Kane now owns and restored the roadster, which had only lost one race in three years of competition.

Tony Nancy has been known to produce topnotch drag cars, and his 22 Jr. is no exception. Weighing under 1,600 pounds, the ’29 roadster features a Kent Fuller chassis, mag wheels, and a supercharged Buick nailhead V8, netting 144 mph over the quarter-mile. Pennsylvania’s Ross Meyers has the Apr. 1960 HOT ROD cover car in his custody now.

Some visitors likely wondered what this ’32 coupe was doing in a sea of Model As. Well, look closely: This isn’t a Deuce but a ’31 coupe featuring more than 100 body alterations. It was parked next to a bone-stock Model A to display the work performed. Greg Zulim bought the vehicle in 1964 at age 14 and modified it over the years, including the installation of a ’58 Buick V8 with a 6-71 GMC blower.

“From Parade Wagon to Hot Rod in 4 Weeks” claimed a sign next to Scott Williams’ 1930 woody wagon from Minnesota. The treatment included a selection of traditional hot rod components, including a dropped axle, juice brakes, and Halibrand quick-change. The four-banger received a selection of cleverly picked period goodies as well, from the Weiand head and Cragar side cover to the Zephyr intake manifold and dual Strombergs.

Tom Leonardo displayed his ’29 Model A, originally built by John Athan in 1937 using a $7 roadster body and a $5.50 Deuce chassis. The car also participated in one of the last El Mirage races before WWII, where it ran 108 mph. Years later it appeared in the movie Loving You, driven by a young Elvis Presley.

The post Celebrating the Anniversary of the Ford Model A at 2019 Grand National Roadster Show appeared first on Hot Rod Network.

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