#july26 write

You didn't even see him approaching at first, but his voice was the first part of him your senses registered. That gentle, and soothing voice.

"You've been staring at this one for quite a while."

Your head slowly turned to find a man in full white. The sleeves of a cashmere sweater with black stripes hung intentionally over his broad shoulders. It took you a second to realise he was talking to you.

Your eyes did a quick once over from his head to toe. Each part of him—his curls, mustache, plain white t-shirt that exposes his toned arms, white trousers, and black oxford—screamed perfection. A thought flashed through your mind,

He could replace the painting you were staring at, and you wouldn't complain.

"Mademoiselle?" His little head tilt and soft voice pulled you from your thoughts. He is not French. You knew that much, now.

"Sorry. You were saying?"

A tiny smile tugged at his lips and you were forced to witness those perfectly sculpted dips of his dimples and the creases around his eyes appear on his angelic face—all the while acting like he's not the most beautiful piece of art you had seen all day.

"This particular painting seems to have caught your eye. May I know what's in that beautiful mind of yours?" He raised his eyebrows hopefully.

"Well," You turned to look back at the painting. You had no idea who this stranger was, but he seemed just as passionate as you about art, so you decided to let him into your thoughts.

You talked, and talked, and you noticed the way he looked intently at you the whole time. It felt unnerving at first; until you understood that he was genuinely interested in what you were saying. That's when all hell broke loose, and you let your mouth run free.

"—though, I do think that it's a strange choice of colour."

You catch the raise of his eyebrows at your last statement, and for a second, you thought you had personally offended him.

"You think so?" He queried.

You stilled, mentally kicking yourself for talking too much. The expression on your face, however, wrote out your thoughts; and it brought a small chuckle out of the stranger.

"Don't worry. You can say it." He leaned closer, breath faintly brushing over your ear. "It'll be our little secret."

Heat crept up your cheeks and you timidly nodded. At the same time, a whiff of his cologne painted your sense of smell.

Gosh, he smells so good.

"I just think that.. a contrasting colour would do even better. Makes the little details pop." You said. "But I'm not a professional painter, so what do I know—"

"You're not wrong." He quickly said. You looked at him in surprise; but from the look of his face, you could tell that he was being genuine.

He smiled at you before looking at the painting again. "It would look nice with a contrasting colour." You took in the way his eyes roam over the delicate art. "but if I were to make a guess, I think the artist might have wanted to highlight the subject alone—hence the blend of complimenting colours and abstract details."

"Don't you think so?" He turned to you again, eyes twinkling with excitement. You had never seen someone get so excited over a painting in an art gallery. It usually ranges between taking mandatory pictures to show off that one had seen a piece of classics, and sketching a painting they admire.

"Sure." You nodded. For some strange reason, you didn't want your conversation with this stranger to end.

He straightened up and reached down the pocket of his pristine white trousers. It still amazed you that he hadn't gotten a fleck of stain on it.

"Hey. If you're free tomorrow, maybe you can come to his reception." He handed you a piece of rectangular card with an identical painting adorning the background.

"I got an extra. You'll get to meet him in person. Maybe then you can talk to him about your suggestion." He winked.

You hesitantly accepted the ticket, thanking him.

"Unfortunately, I have to go now. Lovely meeting you." He extended his hand and you took it with a smile.

"Likewise." You said as you shook his hand. "What's your name?"

"Reed Richards; but call me Reed." He said with a little polite bow. "Hope to see you again, mademoiselle."

You watched him leave, unaware of the huge smile carved on your face and the intense pounding of your heart. But as you looked down at the ticket in your hand, your smile gradually faded.

Meet the Artist

REED RICHARDS

Oh.

So his voice wasn't the first part of him that you knew. You glanced at the painting hung against the plain white wall.

It was his mind.

Thank you for reading!! Hope this made your day/night :) reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated. I would love to know your thoughts <3

The gallery was already crowded with people within its first hour of opening. The atmosphere buzzed with excitement and anticipation, particularly outside the closed exhibition hall for which the very event you were here for will be held.

Your heels clanked against the hardwood flooring as you approached the growing queue. Aside from you, everyone here seemed to have been long aware of the reception.

Your hand reached inside the small bag hanging over your shoulder and you fished out the ticket you had received yesterday. Your eyes perused over the letters printed on the thick rectangular paper over and over again.

Just what, was your luck?

Your feet unconsciously moved with the line until you finally reached the staff in charge of the event admission.

"Madame? Your ticket, please." The staff's voice pulled you out of your thoughts and you looked up to find him looking mildly annoyed at your lack of focus.

"Pardon." You extended your hand to lend him the ticket, but instead, he only blinked at you as if you just offered him illegal money. "Is there a problem?"

"We use digital tickets, Madame."

Confused, you glanced over to the person behind you who looked just as impatient. The woman, whom you guessed was about your age, held up her phone to show you her ticket.

You turned back to the staff. "But this is still a ticket, no?—"

Before the staff could deny your entry, the faint sounds of chatter and camera shutters grew in your ears. You—and everyone else—whipped your head in the direction of the noise to see a group of people swarming a moving subject.

The actual reason you're here.

Reed Richards.

From the distance, you could see him flashing a polite smile as he answered questions thrown his way from the journalists. But your gaze didn't get to stay long on the man because the staff once again called you.

"I cannot let you enter yet, Madame. I have to consult my manager to make sure this ticket is valid."

Sighing, you let the woman behind you through as you stood next to the line, wondering if you should give up and leave, or give this man—in a boring, plain black blazer—a good headbutt so he could perhaps see better. Do you look like you'd scam your way inside with fake tickets?

Your patience was running thin as you watched the other visitors pass through. After calling someone over with his in-ear piece, a bald man, presumably in his mid 50s, rushed over. You assumed he was the manager.

They discussed the issue, and he took hold of your ticket, examining it like a lost artifact—and you had to physically hold yourself back from rolling your eyes.

"Mademoiselle. You made it."

The familiar soft voice shook your train of thoughts. Your head swiftly turned to find the artist himself standing next to you with hands shoved down the pockets of his trousers.

The paparazzi had left him alone, finally; the ones invited for media coverage already heading inside to get the best views and set up their tools.

"H-hi. You." You stammered, unsure on how to react after your encounter yesterday. It brought a chuckle out of the man.

"I believe I told you it's Reed." He smiled, showing off his dimples. "Though, I haven't had the pleasure of knowing yours, yet."

You swallowed as you stared into his eyes and told him your first name.

Reed repeated it. Your name sounded light on his tongue, like a brush on a canvas.

"That's a beautiful name."

He tore his eyes from yours and briefly glanced down at his watch. "The event starts in twenty. Best to get seated now."

"That's the thing.."

"Excuse me, gentlemen."

The two gallery staffs stopped their chatter to look at Reed. Their eyes widened at the unexpected presence.

"Monsieur!" The manager placed his hand over his chest and bowed curtly, and the staff followed suit.

Reed brushed off the greeting and went straight to the point. "Is it true that you're not the letting the owner of this ticket inside?" He pointed to your ticket that the manager was holding.

"Uh, yes. We're informed that all tickets are in digital form."

"Well," Reed gently took the ticket from the manager's hand. "This one is legit. I personally gave it to my special guest. So if you will.." He smiled; the kind that made the gallery employees shudder.

"Right away, Monsieur!"

"Merci bien." Reed nodded in satisfaction.

The staff quickly allowed you in. You thanked them, feeling relieved that the spectators of your earlier predicament no longer looked at you like a fraudster.

You caught sight of Reed already heading off to the back entrance reserved for staffs, but he turned his head in your direction and sent you a quick wink.

You have to thank him later for saving your dignity.

You immediately frowned at the thought your mind had conjured up.

No. HE got me into this trouble.

You shook your head to shrug off the debate arising in your head and went to find a seat; somewhere at the end of the row where you wouldn't be attracting anymore unwanted attention.

When you had finally settled in your seat and calmed down, your ears finally registered the sound of cello filling the room.

At first, you thought it came from the speakers. But then you craned your neck to look between the heads sitting in front of you and found a man in a suit playing the instrument, live.

The bow glided over the strings purposefully, and his loose curls swung over his forehead with matching intensity. You recognised the melody, Andante Cantabile by Tchaikovsky. It sounded wistful and tender, perfect for the atmosphere inside the hall.

The opening performance ended and you softly clapped along with the other guests. As the cellist stood, you managed to get a better look of the talented man. He held his cello and bow in one hand and bowed, smiling gratefully.

At the same time, Reed emerged from the white partitioned wall that displayed his artworks, and the claps only grew louder at his appearance. You couldn't help but smile at the sight of him.

You spot the cellist's smile breaking into a grin as he gave Reed a little bow. He was about to leave with his cello, but Reed stopped him, placing a hand on his arm. The cellist, wearing a suit with a black bow tie was caught off guard as Reed led him to the center of the room.

"Please. Another round of applause for my good friend, Alex Serian." The room erupted with applause, and the man, whom you now know as Alex Serian, bowed again, this time with a slightly embarrassed smile.

You found Reed chuckling at his bashful response, which you had to admit, was adorable. Finally, with a pat on Alex's shoulder, he disappeared behind the same wall Reed came through.

"Thank you all for coming." You attention again shifted towards Reed, now standing in front of everyone with his artworks displayed behind him. He talked about how his latest works came about with bright eyes and the same excitement as you witnessed yesterday; when you shared your thoughts about a painting that was apparently his.

The memory had you biting your lower lip to suppress the embarrassment that had been plaguing your mind. You barely had any sleep last night thinking of how you must have made a fool of yourself.

Despite it all, you couldn't miss the chance to see Reed Richards's other masterpieces before the general public does. So here you were.

"Thank you again for coming, and please, help yourselves." Reed gestured towards the lines of frames holding his paintings after ending his speech.

Everyone started leaving their seats, thrilled to see his works up close. The media on the other hand, was quick to approach him for more questions, shoving mics into his face.

You took your time with each painting, observing the colours, the intentionally asymmetrical shapes, the brush strokes, the similar art style to the painting you saw yesterday. You found yourself smiling, finding joy in seeing patterns and seeing what makes each painter unique.

Your feet halted before a painting placed on the other side of the room. There were only two main colours. Black for the background, and orange for the subject. At first glance you thought it was mars. But no, it was a fox; curled up into an almost perfect round. The painting took your breath away, partly due to your love of foxes.

You lost track of time studying the fascinating artwork, and before you knew it, you were one of the last few visitors left inside the exhibition room.

"You've stared at this one for a while. I didn't expect the fox to receive most of your attention." A pair of heels softly clanked against the hardwood floor before stopping right beside you. "I'm almost jealous."

Your head whipped in his direction, and you found Reed smiling at you. You instantly mirrored his smile. "It's really beautiful."

"I'm glad one person thinks so."

"I'm serious."

Reed chuckled before playfully bowing with a dramatic flair. "I appreciate your kind words, Milady."

"Stop it." You gently slapped his arm without thinking, chuckling in embarrassment, as you caught some visitors' eyes on both of you. "We're in public." You continued in a hushed tone.

Reed only smiled and watched the twinkle in your eyes as you laughed. "So you won't mind if it's in private?"

His question made you stop, heat suddenly creeping up your cheeks as your heart thumped against your ribs. What the hell is happening?

"I don't—Not like that!"

Reed laughed. "Apologies, love. I was merely teasing." He placed his palm over his heart to show how sorry he was; but the way he bit his lower lip to suppress another chuckle told you that he relished in seeing your reaction.

Just then, another set of footsteps approached you. You both turned to find the man who played the cello earlier, looking slightly... disheveled. He smiled at Reed before sparing a glance at you.

"Alex." Reed tugged his sleeve to pull him over. Alex smiled as Reed introduced you both to each other, and you shook his hand with a polite smile.

Alex then turned to his painter friend and leaned close to whisper in his ear; which you could somehow still hear—very clearly. "Will you stop dragging me around?"

You had to bite the inside of your cheeks to stop yourself from laughing. This man sure didn't appreciate being the center of attention.

"Where were you anyway?" Reed gave his friend a look. Alex's lips parted but no words came out.

"Just went to get some drinks." He said after a beat of silence.

"Right." Reed smirked. You watched their exchange in amusement.

"How did you two know each other?" You asked, redirecting the conversation to something that wouldn't keep pushing Alex to the corner. The man gave you an appreciative look.

"We met in art school." Alex nodded in confirmation. "He made me do his painting assignment." He then added bluntly. The cellist snapped his head towards his friend in betrayal.

"No I didn't."

"Yes, you did. How else did you get an 'A' for that class when all you did was play cello and—"

"Fine, alright?"

Reed grinned in victory at his surrender, forcing the chuckled you had tried to contain out of you. You could tell they'd been friends for a while.

"Come on, dinner's on me." Reed said, voice turning softer as looked at you.

"Me?"

"Yes, and us." He jerked his head towards Alex.

"It's alright," Alex said, "you two can go together. I'll get something on my way back to the hotel."

"Absolutely not. I owe you for that performance."

"You don't owe me anything though." You interjected, feeling almost bad that you might be getting in between their plans.

"It was a mistake on my part that the gallery staffs almost didn't let you in because iof the ticket I gave you. So I do owe you a proper apology." Reed looked at you hopefully. For a second, you thought his eyes looked rounder, like puppies. And it made you want to give in.

"You sure?"

"Very."

Alex watched the whole thing like a tennis game. Reed's eyes on you didn't waver, and he then added,

"Please."

At that word—and the way he said it—Alex's eyebrows raised in surprise, but he didn't say a word.

"Alright." You finally gave in. "I guess I'd enjoy some company for tonight."

The implication that you rarely had company at night had Alex curious. "Why? Are you single?" He inquired, which earned him a jab from Reed.

"Uh, yeah. I am." You answered with a sheepish smile.

Alex's eyes sparkled with mirth and he glanced at his friend with a grin.

"Don't mind him." Reed said, subtly glaring at the man next to him. "Come. I know a place."

The atmosphere of the restaurant was warm and cozy. The three of you ate your meals and filled the silence with lighthearted conversations. You hadn't felt so happy talking to people in a while.

"You haven't shared your thoughts on my paintings yet today." Reed pointed out as he wiped his mouth clean of his tomates farcies.

"It wouldn't matter. I'm no art critique."

"That's exactly why it matters. My art are not for critiques—though they are, unfortunately, important for PR. But ultimately they're for myself, and for the people who find joy and comfort in it."

You sighed, knowing that aside from fine arts, Reed Richards was a master in the art of persuasion—or at least you couldn't seem to resist him.

So you talked, and talked, and the two men listened without cutting you off.

Alex looked at you before his gaze landed on his friend who was listening intently to everything you had to say—and a small, almost fond smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

You finally arrived home after midnight, thanks to Reed and Alex who made sure you got back safely.

You felt your heart fluttering the whole time as you recalled your conversations. The way Reed valued your opinions, the way he listened to you without interrupting, the way his voice would get softer whenever he talked to you.

You wondered if you'd ever get to see him again.

Reed and Alex walked down the dimly-lit pavements back to their own hotel after sending you back.

"You should've gone to that dinner without me." Alex said, breaking the silence of the night.

"What? Why?"

"Because clearly, you didn't need me there. It could've been a date."

"But it wasn't supposed to be a date." Reed looked at him in confusion.

Alex's lips parted in disbelief. Before he could stop himself, he grabbed Reed's neck, holding it in a headlock. "Do you even know how to pick up a woman?"

"Ow! Let go, idiot! I'm not like you."

"You're the idiot! You're literally in love with her!" That immediately shut Reed up.

Alex let him go with a shove, sending the man stumbling on his feet. "And yeah, I'm a ladies man." He shrugged. "So if you don't make your move, maybe I will."

Reed gasped, and his hands suddenly itched to wipe the smirk off the menace he unfortunately called friend's face. "Don't. You. Dare."

"Try me."

Sensing the warning signs in Reed's eyes, Alex instantly took off, with the man in glasses chasing after him into the night.

Deep down in his heart, Reed knew Alex was right.

When he looked at you, he saw a woman who spoke his language—a woman who could interpret the strokes on his canvas.

And Reed knew he had fallen. Hard.

Thank you for reading!! Hope this made your day/night :) reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated. I would love to know your thoughts <3