#reca

˗ˏˋ ★ Aventurine

The quiet shuffling of cards scraping against each other is the only thing that can be heard in the room you and Aventurine share. It’s a deliberate thing on his end: Though you’re lying on the hotel bed with your back turned to him, the mere sound is enough for you to understand the message without him having to even say anything. 

It’s clear as day; he’s trying to lure you into playing with him again for whatever bet he’s feeling like setting on the game today. It’s always a tempting offer to accept: He promises you all kinds of things if you manage to win against him. The only issue is that, without fail, you have lost every single time, no matter how much thought and strategy you have put into it. It’s not even about skill anymore — though admittedly, he’s much better-versed in that field as well — but his luck is simply unbeatable. 

”Hey, I know you’re not sleeping”, Aventurine sings from where he’s sitting at the table, elongating the last syllable of his words with an annoying lilt. 

”I’m not gonna play with you”, you turn him down before he can even propose the activity itself. 

”Come on, not even for a little bit?” he coos at you. ”I know you want to.”

”I don’t”, you shake your head against the pillow you’re resting on. 

”What’s all this, now?” you hear the chair creak as he stands up from his seat. ”You’ve been so gloomy lately. Is something wrong?”

You are wrong, you want to respond to him, but speaking it out loud would serve no purpose. His ego is practically untouchable: Nothing you say could wound him deeper than a mere graze on the surface. 

Your bed shifts as Aventurine plops beside you on the mattress. You don’t offer him any reaction; not even as much as glancing at him over your shoulder. Instead, you pull further into yourself, bringing your knees to your chest and curling up in a fetal position. 

Unsatisfied with your lack of enthusiasm, Aventurine brings his hand to your hip. There, he moves two of his fingers along your curves, pretending as if his hand was walking down the dip of your waist, the bend of your elbow, the back of your neck. It tickles a bit, and after a few moments, you have to reach your arm over your side to swat his touch away.

”There you are”, his striking eyes lock with yours as you raise your head from the pillow, scowling at him. ”What’s with the sulking?”

”...”

”Come on, now”, he intones, reaching for your face and gently moving a stray piece of your hair behind your ear. ”I have a really nice stake for this one.”

”... Like what?” 

You hate how easy it is for him to pique your curiosity. With how capricious he is, one would think that you would try your absolute best to stay away from his antics, but the reality is usually quite the opposite.

”Well”, he says. You can hear the smirk in the ring of his voice. ”I was thinking we could take a trip to the Golden Hour again. How does that sound?”

It sounds nice. It has been a while since he has last taken you anywhere — for leisure, anyway: He has been drowning in work lately, and in consequence, there haven’t been many opportunities for the two of you to go out on “dates”, as he calls them. 

”... What do you even want to play? Strip poker?” you ask him in a dry tone.

”Oho, are you offering?” 

”I’m not.”

”Bummer”, Aventurine shrugs with a smug look on his face. ”I was thinking Blackjack. Just like back at the casino that one time, remember?”

”...”

”Heh”, he lets out a chuckle. ”Do you want to deal or does the job land on me yet again?” 

”Hold on, what do you get if you win?” 

You prop yourself up on your elbows, looking at him with your brows furrowed. There’s a dangerous glint in Aventurine’s eyes.

”Hmm, let’s say...”, he muses, tapping the tip of his chin in a thoughtful manner, ”fifteen minutes of cuddling for every hand you lose. You’ve got ten rounds to beat me.”

You purse your lips together.

”Deal”, you say. 

Without delay, Aventurine briefly shuffles the deck in his hands before dealing the cards in between the two of you on the bed. Abiding by the rules, he sets one of his upside down while giving you a couple with their face up. 

You count the total. It’s 15. 

”Hit”, you utter. 

”Very well”, Aventurine responds.

He picks up another card for you from the pile. With a theatrical curve of his hand, he lands it beside the other two. 

You stare at the symbols on the thing, then count the tiny, askew squares once, twice, thrice — there’s no mistaking it. With uncontrollable excitement, you point at the six of diamonds with your mouth hanging open. 

”That’s 21!” you exclaim with more joy than you were planning on. ”I win!”

”Oop, would you look at that”, Aventurine leans down lower to inspect the card, squinting his eyes. ”Fair and square. The Dreamscape is calling.”

”Do we leave right now?” you ask, already swinging your legs off the bed. 

There’s an odd, complacent look on his features. 

”Take it easy, now”, he says, wagging his finger back and forth at you. ”We’ve still got nine more rounds left.”

”Huh?” your smile falls. ”But I won? It’s 21?”

”I didn’t say we wouldn’t play the rest, now, did I?” Aventurine grins at you, evidently holding back his laughter. ”Come on, settle down.”

”But you...!”

You glare at him with your mouth ajar, but as you play back the conversation in your head, his ploy becomes painfully clear to you. You’re about to raise your finger at him, to curse him to the deepest pit of the planet as the chagrin burns on your cheeks, but the man has already started dealing the next round of cards. 

Your total goes over the limit with your first hit. 

”That’s 15 minutes to the counter”, Aventurine swipes his tongue over his teeth. 

Similarly, you lose the next round, the third, the fourth, the one after that, and every single one until the very last hand. It’s like every loss is another stab at your pride: He even scores five perfect blackjacks back-to-back without as much as batting an eye. Twisting the knife in the wound, he makes sure to keep an exact count of how long the agreed-upon cuddle session is going to last, speaking the time stamps out loud. 

By the time the last hand of cards has been dealt, you have rested back down on the bed, barely even paying attention to the game anymore. You watch with very little interest as he lands two Jacks on the bed, beating your measly total of 18. 

”And that one’s a win for me as well”, Aventurine states, tapping the tip of his finger against the ornate illustration of a knight on the card he just flipped over. ”Game over.”

You don’t delight him with a response. Instead, you roll over on the bed, once again turning your back to him with a deep pout on your face. It doesn’t deter him from enjoying the moment to his heart’s content, though:

”That makes, let me think... A little over two hours, does it not?” he leans over your form to catch a glance at your expression. ”We might have to cut it down to only an hour and a half, though. We won’t have much time to spend in the Dreamscape, otherwise.”

You bury your face in the pillow. 

”Hey, don’t be like that”, Aventurine pets your arm, lying down behind you on the bed. ”It’s what you agreed to. You can take a nap if you’d like, I don’t mind.”

As he snakes his arms around your waist and pulls your back flush against his chest, you promise to yourself that you’re never, ever going to entertain his whims again. 

˗ˏˋ ★ Boothill

You’re pretty sure you weren’t far from the verge of passing out a second or two ago. The stars that adorn your field of vision flicker in and out like sparklers, making it difficult to focus on the sight ahead of you — which happens to be Boothill’s chest. 

After having pulled away from yet another one of his crushing hugs, he took matters into his own hands. You’re aware he doesn’t like it when you refuse his affections, but you didn’t exactly expect him to jerk you back to him with enough force to mash a boulder. Consequentially, as a result of more than one unfortunate factor, you ended up banging your head right against his chestplate. 

You fall on your knees in front of him, sinking to the floor while clutching the middle of your forehead with both of your hands. Not only does the spot throb terribly, but as you draw your fingers back to check the extent of the damage, there’s a distinct, red smear on them. 

”Fudge!” Boothill swears, to the best of his ability, kneeling down to your level. ”Why’d you do that?”

”I didn’t-!” you speak through a clenched jaw, but it’s difficult to concentrate on anything else but the pounding ache. ”You-, ow-ow-ow-”

You bring your hand back over the wound as you see Boothill reach for your face. 

”Lemme see that, Sugar”, he takes hold of one of your wrists and attempts to yank it away from the injury, but you don’t allow him to: Instead, you pull further into yourself to shake off his touch. 

”Don’t touch me!” you yelp at him, although the words come out as more of a plea rather than a demand.

Letting out a frustrated huff, Boothill resorts to trying to peek at your wound through the gaps between your fingers. Catching sight of the blood, he hisses through his razor-sharp teeth, scrunching his face up a little. He doesn’t seem to quite know where he should put his hands because they’re hovering all around you, unsure where to touch or if to even touch at all. 

A thin trail of blood crawls down the bridge of your nose. Boothill’s expression only grows more concerned, and as he tries to reach for you yet again, you land a slap on his hand. 

”Sugar, you’re blee-”

”I know, I know!” you whine with your eyes squeezed shut. ”Just give me something to... I need something to put on it...”

”I’m not sure we’ve got anything for that in here”, Boothill scratches the side of his head in a fretful manner. ”Didn’t prepare for situations like this, bein’ a cyborg and all.”

More blood dribbles out of the wound. A droplet slides past your brow and nearly makes its way into your eye. You try to wipe it away but only manage to smear both your face and the end of your sleeve in the deep red. Boothill watches the sight with his face screwed as if he was the one in pain. He lets out a vexed sigh.

Before you can shield yourself, he reaches for your hand and forces it off your face. You let out a startled squawk and attempt to fight him off, but instead of allowing you to, he lands a strong arm on the back of your waist and locks you in place. Using his free hand, he pushes your hair back. Sparing little thought to how your eyes have widened up in alarm, he leans in uncomfortably close to inspect the injury. He softly grazes his fingers against the border of the contusion, tutting his tongue.

”Fudge”, he curses yet again. 

Without delay, Boothill slides his hand under your thighs and hoists you up from the ground. There’s so much momentum in the movement that you nearly hit your head on the low ceiling of the room. He mutters out a half-hearted apology before adjusting his grip on you, balancing you on the crook of his elbow with you holding onto his head for dear life. With inhuman strength, he carries you towards the bathroom. 

Kicking the door open so hard it slams against the wall and almost falls off its hinges, he sits you down on the edge of the bathtub. He grabs one of the bright-coloured towels off the side of the sink, brings the thing under the tap and soaks it in cold water.

”Alright, hold still for a bit”, Boothill tells you as he kneels down in front of you with the piece of fabric in hand. 

Gently, or rather, as gently as he’s able to, he dabs the towel around the gash on your forehead, wiping the blood off to the best of his ability. Despite how each of his touches stings, you let your defensive hands slowly fall to your lap.

He isn’t exactly careful with his actions. With each pat against the wound, his metallic fingers knock against your skull in a careless manner. He doesn’t seem to grasp the extent of his strength, to a certain degree: While he visibly takes a little caution to tone it down in your company, occasionally, you end up with unintentional bruises and marks on various parts of your body — much like now. 

After a while, Boothill pulls the towel out of your face before examining the outcome of his efforts. 

”Don’t know what I’m gonna close that up with”, he speaks his thoughts out loud, drumming the pads of his fingers against the tub’s ceramic. 

”I can-”

”Nope, you’re gonna stay right where you are, Sugar”, he interrupts you before you can even voice whatever suggestion you had. ”We used to have some tape or somethin’ layin’ ’round here, right?”

He spins on his heels before making his way back to the sink with the wet cloth in hand. He carelessly lays it over the sink’s edge before flinging open the doors of the cabinet above it. He rummages around for a bit before pulling out a roll of wound tape from inside. 

”Alright, hold your hair back for me, yeah?” he instructs you, snapping off a small piece of the material. 

You do as you’re told, brushing your fingers past your hairline and pulling the strands back. Not waiting around, Boothill goes for the finishing touch and glues the tape over the lesion. For good measure, he rips another slice of the tape off the roll and crosses it over the first in an X-shape. 

He leans back from you to inspect the result of his work. An amused snort slips past his teeth. 

”Ha, you look like one of them forkin’ shooting targets with that on your forehead”, he chuckles, poking his index finger on the bridge of your nose, right below the wound. 

You front at him in response. He closes his eyes for a moment, and his smirk simmers down a tiny bit. 

”You better not give me any more attitude in the future, you hear?” he says.

Though the words are spoken as a bit of a joke, you don’t miss the implication behind them. Boothill sets his hand on your knee, giving it a few, comforting pats. You let your hair fall back over your face. 

˗ˏˋ ★ Gallagher

You’re not sure if you could get a single sound out of your mouth, even if you were to try your absolute hardest. It feels like a bunch of flaming matches have been tossed into your windpipe. You didn’t even know it was possible to get sick while in the Dreamscape, yet that’s how you’ve ended up; with your throat burning and your voice gone. 

You’ve spent the past few hours simply lying down on one of the benches in the bar’s back room. Due to your ailment, you haven’t had much energy for moving around, and besides, you don’t feel like roaming about the public area: There isn’t that much to see, and more importantly, Gallagher is there. The bar already closed a fifteen minutes or so ago, and he’s most likely busy setting everything up for when it opens again. 

You know that he’s most likely aware of your current state — you’ve been hacking your lungs out for the better part of an hour, and the man isn’t deaf nor is he stupid — but even so, he hasn’t taken the time to come check up on you. 

It’s not that you want him to, necessarily, but for how much he pesters you in general, it’s a wonder that he hasn’t slid in the back room yet to inquire about your condition. You can already hear his condescending tone mocking you for your trouble, telling you ”how adorable for little old you to catch a cold”, and even the mere thought has you rolling your eyes. Given his nature, the entire thing would be funny to him, more than anything: You don’t think you could stomach all the remarks he has in store for you right now.

You prop yourself up in your elbows with a sigh. The shiny, leather surface of the bench is starting to feel a bit uncomfortable against your side. Moreover, it’s getting a little chilly. Coincidentally, all of the blankets have been left in the public area for the customers — perhaps a purposeful deed on Gallagher’s end. 

Your mouth is dry as a desert, to the point that it hurts. Looking around the room you’re holed up in, you come to find that he hasn’t left you with anything drinkable, either; the only liquid in your general vicinity is a bottle of hard liquor, and although technically being a beverage, you doubt it would serve the purpose of quenching your thirst. You wish Siobhan would drop around for a bit again: She’s much nicer to spend time with than your captor, being a woman and all, and with her, you don’t have to fistfight your own ego when asking for basic necessities. 

Carefully, you get on your feet and make your way to the door with dragging steps. For a moment, you ponder if you could manage for a little bit longer, but with how your throat aches, you decide that ultimately, confronting the man is a better option than suffering with your malady. 

As quietly as you can, you slip into the public area. Judging from the clinking sound coming from the other side of the bar desk, your guess is that Gallagher must be behind the middle wall that divides the spacious room, still occupied with something. He doesn’t seem to have noticed your presence just yet, and you take advantage of that.

Tiptoeing closer to the counter, you spot an unopened can of lemonade next to a few empty bottles of wine. The sight is awfully tempting, to the point that your mouth musters up the last bits of saliva you have left in favour of allowing you to drool. 

You try to catch a glimpse of your captor past the middle wall, but alas, you’re unable to. Deciding to go for the steal nonetheless, with your eyes set on the can, you sneak closer to it, grab it off the desk, and-

”It’s good to see you up”, Gallagher’s voice rings in the silent room. ”Doing well?”

As you raise your gaze, you come to see him peeking out from the other side of the rounded counter. He wears the same, smug smirk as always, looking down at you with a hint of curiosity in his expression. 

Your eyes widen. You’re about to greet him with a flavourless ”hi”, but even as your tongue forms the syllable, no voice comes out. Immediately after, you cough out, planting your hand over your chest in an effort to stabilize yourself. 

”Something wrong?” Gallagher quirks a brow at you, making his way over to where you’re standing. 

You try to mouth out an answer to him, saying ”my voice is gone”, but as you’re unable to produce a sound, you resort to moving your hand along your throat horizontally, attempting to convey the message via gesturing. Looking at his expression, you come to find that he has understood the problem, but true to his style, he isn’t going to let you live your trouble down just yet. 

”Hm, what’s that?” he leans down with his hand cupped around his ear. 

Biting on the bait embarrassingly fast, you put your best effort into trying to yell out at him, but the only thing that comes out is a tiny, pitiful wheeze. Desperately, you point at the can on the counter. 

”I’m not sure what you’re getting at”, Gallagher sighs with a shit-eating smirk on his face, shrugging his shoulders to really sell the performance. ”You need to use your words, I’m afraid.”

”I need water!” you mouth at him with a pitiably wretched frown on your lips. 

Gallagher lets out an amused sigh in response. He then closes his eyes and places his hands on his hips.

Apparently, your little show is pathetic enough to get through to his heart, and he gives up the act with a low chuckle. You nearly wince away from him as his large hand lands on your shoulder. 

”Do you need a drink?” Gallagher then asks, cocking his head to the side. 

You nod fervently. 

”Alright”, he says. His touch pulls away from you as he proceeds to hop over the counter and back to the bartender’s side. ”What would you like? Sweet? Spicy?”

You frown at him with so much attitude that he has to let out yet another laugh at the sight. Though, instead of teasing you further, he picks up something from the shelves under the bar desk. A deep blue blanket is tossed at you. 

Without another word, Gallagher starts picking out bottles from the ledges on the wall, setting them on the counter in a neat row. You drape the soft fabric over your shoulders and sit on one of the bar stools. 

The scene looks like you were a customer being served, almost. You follow his movements as he pours different ingredients into a tin shaker before sealing it up tight. He then joggles the thing around in a theatrical manner, spinning it in his hand, pitching it into the air, giving it a good whirl. After he deems the results suitable, he takes out a tall glass from one of the cabinets and tips the liquid in it. For good measure, he finishes the drink up with a striped straw. 

”There you go”, Gallagher slides the glass over to you. 

Though, for some reason, he doesn’t let go of the base. You give him a questioning look, softly tilting your head to the side with your brows knitted. 

”Hm? Not even a ‘thank you’ for a job well done?” he sighs with a mocking lilt in his tone. 

You fold your arms over your chest, pouting. You reach for the drink despite his taunt, but he pulls it further away from you before you can even touch the thing. 

”Ah-ah-ah”, he shakes his head. ”Come on, Darling, show me a little gratitude, will you?” 

You resist rolling your eyes at him. For a moment, you debate whether or not you should just drop the entire thing and let him play his games alone, but then again, the drink smells so good you could melt through the ground. As much as you can’t stand the man, you need to admit that he understands his field to a T. 

So, with the last bits of your self-respect leaving you, you avert your gaze and mouth out a ”thanks” with a slight bow of your head. Accepting the gesture, he finally lets you have the glass. 

”You’re welcome”, Gallagher gives a soft pat to your head as you bring the straw to your lips. 

˗ˏˋ ★ Dr. Ratio

You’ve been stuck on the same page of the book you’re reading for the better part of ten minutes. The tome in your hands is not even a particularly intriguing piece of literature — it’s one of the few that Ratio allows you to spend your free time on: He has made it clear to you that you are not to waste your leisure on something as vain as fiction. 

The only issue is that you don’t exactly seem to be in the piece’s target group: It’s full of scientific jargon and bizarre words you have never stumbled upon in your life. It’s clearly meant for people well-versed in the topic, and unfortunately, you don’t happen to be a part of that group. To be exact, the book is a collection of various research papers and theses surrounding some mathematical formula relating to space travel — at least from what you’ve gathered. You would be lying if you said that you’re having fun with it, but then again, anything is better than having to stare at the wall while the man works on yet another treatise. 

For one reason or another, Ratio doesn’t permit you to leave the room while he writes despite not sparing the least bit of attention to you. You have a designated chair in the corner of his office that you are to sit on: Not that there’s anything much for you to do in the crammed space, anyway, but he made it known to you that he can’t stand how you ”rummage around like a brainless origami bird”. So, essentially, the only thing you are allowed to do is sit still, look pretty, and wait for him to finish whatever he’s doing, much like now. 

Ratio sighs out loud, tapping his pen against the tabletop in an agitated manner. He then abruptly stands up from his seat, scribbles yet another mathematical formula on the chalkboard behind him, and sits back down. No matter how many times he has already repeated the same routine today, you always jump at the sudden movement. 

Stifling a huff, you sink back into the book in your lap. Antiparticle, equidimensionality, multivariate... Nope, you can’t make any sense of the text, even as you read over the jawbreakers a dozen times. It’s as if you were trying to read an entirely different language. 

You wonder if Ratio would mind if you were to take a nap on the floor. His only requirement for you is to stay quiet and still, anyway, and sleeping would technically fit into aforementioned conditions. Besides, the book served as an excellent sedative: It’s safe to say that reading it managed to spend the entirety of your brain’s capacity in a mere half an hour. 

You smack the thing shut with a thud. As you do so, you happen to spot a pair of feet at the top of your field of vision.

Your heart nearly jumps out of your throat as you raise your head and come to find that Ratio is now standing right in front of you, staring down at you with his usual, blank expression. Barely managing to stifle the yelp that almost slips out of your mouth, you look back at him with wide eyes. 

”Doct-, Veritas”, you correct yourself before the wrong name makes it past your lips, subconsciously leaning away from his form. Unlike with everyone else, he doesn’t take kindly to you referring to him by his formal title.

The man doesn’t respond to you. Instead, his gaze flicks to the tome resting on your thighs.

”Do you have the faintest idea what you’re reading about?” he then asks. 

”Well, um... I do, sort of”, you gather the book in your arms and pull it to your chest in a protective manner.

”Hm”, Ratio lets out a bland huff. ”What is the purpose of the third formula?”

”Eh?” 

”The third formula. Explain it to me.”

”...”

You lift your legs on the chair, turning your body away from him with heat rising onto your cheeks. 

”Hand it to me”, Ratio then demands, holding his hand out with a beckoning gesture of his fingers. 

”But you said-, you said I could read it!” you argue against the request, but despite your demur, he simply reaches for the thing and yanks it out from your grasp. 

He flips the tome open on the page you were reading moments ago, quickly skimming over the contents with his eyes.

”The variable?” he questions, turning his attention back to you. 

”What?”

”What does the variable refer to?” 

”... I don’t know.”

”I thought so.”

”Can I have it back?” you plead, reaching your hand out towards him. ”I don’t care if I don’t understand it, I just want to-”

Your words are cut short as instead of handing the book back to you, Ratio grabs you by the wrist and pulls you off your seat. You let out a small, surprised sound in response, but it does nothing to dissuade him from his new-found objective. In long strides, he drags you over to his desk. 

”Sit down”, he instructs you in an indifferent tone. 

Not daring to disobey him any further, you promptly take a seat in his chair. The next second, he slams a clean sheet of paper in front of you on the table. In his eloquent handwriting, he scrawls a string of numbers and letters on it. 

”Find the derivative of this function”, he commands, insistently tapping his finger against the table, ordering you around like you were one of his poor subordinates. 

Ratio slides the pen in your hand. Expectantly, he plants his hand down next to the paper, urging you to get to work.

With a bewildered expression, you stare at the row of symbols in front of you. Even as you try your best to concentrate on what he has written, your focus strays immediately: You’re painfully aware of how his sharp gaze is piercing a hole through the back of your head. As an additional challenge, he places one of his hands on your shoulder, silently raising the pressure even higher as he looms behind you like a bad omen. 

Despite reading the line of symbols over, again and again, you’re unable to grasp even the first step of the solution. You don’t consider yourself to be from the daftest end of the population, yet he always manages to make you feel like an idiot, regardless of the matter at hand. 

”Nothing?” Ratio quirks his brow.

You look back at him with a lost expression on your face, timidly shaking your head. 

Letting out a disappointed sigh, Ratio motions you to get up from your seat. You obey the request without delay, allowing him to sit on the chair instead. Though, rather than having you stand beside him, he pats his thigh. 

”Huh-, oh-”

Your movements are a little too slow for his taste, and the man tugs you to him by your arm, urging you to take a seat on his lap. With how much Ratio breaches about patience, there are a certain few things that manage to get him quite tetchy, you have noticed. 

He slides one of his hands around your lower back, and with the other, he begins making notations on the paper. 

”Here is the formula”, he underlines a section of his writing, nearly crossing out another with how intensely he performs the action. ”Apply it.”

It’s a familiar one, you come to find; he has taught it to you before. Moreover, it’s one of the simple ones, too. You swallow.

With a faintly trembling hand, you get on with the task. Resting the pen against the paper, you begin writing out the steps for the solution. Though it takes you a minute or two and a few trials and errors, you manage to tackle the problem without too much difficulty — all the while tormented by his dissecting gaze, no less. 

You turn your head to the side to face Ratio with a shy smile tugging on the corners of your mouth, equally as terrified as you are triumphant. He sees your work over with a captious eye, carefully going over each letter you have written. It’s only as the crease between his brows smooths out that you dare to let out the breath you’ve been holding in. 

”Not bad”, he says. 

You flinch a tiny bit as the hand on your waist moves to the back of your head. There, he caresses your hair, silently praising you for your performance before letting his arm fall back into its original position. 

”Let us move on to the next one”, he then declares, writing yet another function below your answer. 

˗ˏˋ ★ Mr. Reca

You jolt awake. 

As your eyes shoot open, you come to notice that you’ve raised your hands in front of your face in your sleep, as if fighting something. Your skin is clammy with cold sweat, and for a moment, you’re unable to hear anything other than your own heartbeat hammering away in your ears. Feeling something sticky on your cheek, you swipe your fingers along the bottom of your eyelid. You find that, yet again, you’ve been crying in your slumber.

You can’t recall the last time you’ve slept without having a nightmare beyond imaginable horrors haunt your rest. Or, more specifically, the last time you’ve gotten proper sleep without being encased in Reca’s arms. 

Propping yourself up on your elbows, you squint your eyes and peek at the entrance of your shared bedroom. You can’t really see much in the darkness, but judging from the stripe of light pooling in from under the door and the faint sound of footsteps in the room behind, it’s safe to say that the man is still awake. 

For a moment, you concentrate on evening out the rhythm of your shallow breathing. You can’t even remember what the nightmare was about anymore: It has proven difficult to keep track of your dreams since the amount has been piling up for a good few days now. Each one has been more terrifying than the last, and out of respect for your own mental well-being, you haven’t exactly been inclined to write them down. Moreover, it’s the time frame that is of more interest to you, anyway: The nightly horrors appeared around the same time as you started refusing Reca’s affections. 

It has to have something to do with his supposed Memokeeper abilities, is your best guess. The matter of his side hustle has only come up once or twice in your conversations, and you’re not exactly sure what the title means in practice, but if your own experience is anything to go by, he possesses particular skin in a certain, taboo field — manipulating memories, that is. You don’t have anything to prove it with, but you’re quite certain that your nocturnal episodes are of his doing: They’re a tad bit too... cinematically rich to be the handiwork of your own subconscious. 

You’re tired, so very tired. As much as you don’t want it to, the accumulated fatigue is starting to affect you: It’s getting more and more difficult to focus on anything during the day, and you’ve been particularly irritable which isn’t a particularly favourable trait to have when having to deal with someone like Reca. His frog companion, especially, has been getting on your nerves lately: You were this close to smacking the stupid thing off his desk the other day. 

Rubbing the remaining doze out of your eyes, you decide that you’re not ready to revisit the nightmares just yet. Instead, push yourself up on the bed.

Careful not to make a sound, you swing your legs over the edge of the mattress and stand up, straightening the hem of your top. Taking care not to step over anything in the darkness, you tiptoe your way to the door. With a final look at the dim outline of the bed behind you, you wrap your fingers around the handle and twist the lock open. 

Reca is sitting on the couch in front of the living room table, legs crossed and a pen in hand. He twirls the thing between his fingers with a bit of a pensive look on his face, but as he notices you peeking at him through the ajar door, his expression lights up. 

”Oh my”, he utters, setting the pen down beside the piece of paper he has been working on. ”Isn’t it quite late for you to be up, Dear?”

You could say the same about him. The man stays up until the early hours of the morning, invested in his movie scripts and whatnot, you’re not really sure. His habits have proven to be a bit of a headache for you: You would prefer it if he were the one to go to sleep first — that way, you wouldn’t have to fight his arms off of you during the night — but for some reason, you haven’t had the willpower to stay awake past nine in the evening. You suspect that he, once again, has got a hand in the matter, but as is with the dreams, there’s not much you can do about it. 

Reca awaits for you to speak with a soft tilt of his head. As you refuse to delight him with the sound of your voice, he closes his eyes with the usual, faint smile on his features. 

”No matter”, he sighs, briefly correcting his posture before leaning back against the couch again. He pats the empty spot next to him. ”You’re more than welcome to join me.”

You stand in the doorway in your nightwear, still as a statue. Swallowing down the piece in your throat, your lips press into a thin line.

”... You’re doing it”, you speak in a quiet tone, as if unsure of your own words. 

Reca raises his brows. He pulls away from the table and turns his body towards you. 

”I’m not sure I follow, Dear”, he says, gazing at you with an unmistakable flicker of intrigue in his keen eyes. 

”The dreams”, you wrap your arms around yourself, shivering from the remnants of the nightly chill in your limbs. ”You’re the one making me have them.”

Reca lets out a sigh. Running his hand through his hair, his deep red eyes lock with yours.

”That’s quite the accusation”, he responds with a strange lilt in his tone of voice. 

”Make them stop”, you demand, straightening your back in an attempt to make yourself appear more resolute — though the effort fails to live up to its purpose.

Truth to be told, the man elicits a very particular kind of fear in you, and you’re not thrilled to be faced with the current scene. His gaze sharpens, and his smirk deepens. The subtle shift in his expression tells you that the conversation is about to take a less-than-savoury turn. 

”Now, now, Darling. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves”, Reca idly drums his fingertips against the tabletop as if plotting something. ”I’m sure you understand there’s a reason behind the horror shows in your dreams?”

”... What do you want from me?” 

You stare him down, clutching the sleeves of your top with a, no doubt, terribly pitiful expression on your fatigue-worn features. He looks back at you without much of a show of sympathy, instead observing your reactions with his usual, prying sort of curiosity. 

”I thought I made myself quite clear”, he then says. 

Gracefully, the hand he has rested on the table glides down to his side where he yet again pats the cushions; this time, with more insistence. 

You glare at him with as much hostility as you can possibly pack in a single look. Though, the strategy doesn’t seem to be working: Not even batting an eye, Reca stands his ground, unwavering. 

Bargaining, negotiating, threatening… Even appealing to his soft side never works with him. Nothing ever works with him. 

”... You promise to make them go away if I...”, your voice dies down into a whisper, and the sentence is left unfinished. 

”But of course”, Reca assures you, giving an answer to your question nonetheless.

He reaches to the other side of the couch for the pillows that line the armrest. Picking one up, he fluffs the thing a little before leaning it against his thigh. 

You hate how tightly he has you wrapped around his finger. It’s beyond humiliating, but at the same time, he offers you everything you need — at the price of your dignity. You frown.

Slowly, you take one step, then another. Hanging your head low to save yourself from the embarrassment of meeting his eyes, you make your way across the room, all the way to him. Without a word, you climb onto the couch and plant your head on the pillow he has set out for you. 

”There you are”, Reca exhales as you settle yourself on the cushions. ”Just a moment, just a moment.”

Your head shifts along with his movements as he straightens his back, ridding himself of his coat. He gently shakes the article of clothing out before laying it over your form. 

”Sweet dreams, Dear”, he bids you.

His hand lands on the crown of your head. Idly, he begins playing with a stray strand of your hair. His fingers glide along your scalp in soft, comforting motions, drawing unintelligible patterns and curves. With each caress, your eyelids grow heavier and heavier, and before long, you drift into slumber, accompanied by the quiet sound of a pen scraping against paper. 

˗ˏˋ ★ Sunday (Pre-AE)

”Give me my clothes back.”

”I don’t see a reason for that.”

”Sunday, give me my fucking clothes back.”

”Quit with the foul language, please.”

”Fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck.”

”This is your last warning. Is the current punishment not enough for you?”

”It doesn’t even say that in the rules.”

”It’s something to be added, then, perhaps.”

You sit in the farthest corner of your room, having put as much distance between you and Sunday as possible. The metal bars of the cage dig into the bare skin of your back, cold and unforgiving. Though you’re not inside the thing, at least for now, you almost wish that he had thrown you in there instead of leaving you out in the open. With your knees slotted against your chest and your arms wrapped around your legs, you’re just barely able to shield the private bits of your naked body from his prying eyes. 

He sits at the table a short distance away from you, absorbed in the book he’s reading. His gloved fingers turn the page without haste: He’s simply passing time while making sure that you get the most out of your punishment. 

You think it must be his favourite form of “disciplining” you. Yes, it’s true that you tried to take the clasps off one of your shirts for mischievous purposes, but even if you hadn’t, he probably would’ve found a way to get you in trouble regardless. It doesn’t really show in his demeanour, but he looks to be incredibly delighted with the turn of events: If the subtle, complacent smirk on his face is anything to go by, Sunday is enjoying the present situation way more than he would like to admit. 

Discreetly, you try to reach your hand in the cage to grab the blanket lying inside it. However, you don’t even get to touch the thing: As if knowing exactly what you’re up to, Sunday raises his gaze from his book, and a single look from him is enough to have you draw your fingers back. 

The stalemate must have lasted over an hour by now. You refuse to give up your little act of defiance, and alike, he hasn’t budged the slightest bit. You tried to go for the bedsheets at first, but he didn’t let you do that, either. It’s not that he’s actually physically restraining you from doing it, but there’s a certain, nasty trick he has available to him: As irritated as you are, having him use the Harmony on you isn’t worth the amount of amusement you would get from looking at the knit between his brows. 

Though, as much as your spite is keeping you from thinking about it too much, you can’t escape from the sheer humiliation of the situation. You despise how much power the man holds over you, and furthermore, he isn’t exactly skilled in concealing his sadistic hunger for forcing you under his boot. Moreover, even with the abundance of your wrath keeping you warm, the natural consequence of being bare is that it’s starting to feel a bit chilly in the room. 

”This is getting quite ridiculous, don’t you think?” Sunday then sighs as if having read your thoughts, closing his book with a dull thud. 

You don’t respond to him.

”How long do you plan on drawing this out for?” he asks, propping his chin up against the back of his hand.

”For as long as it takes for you to give my clothes back”, you mumble into the mound of your knee. 

”Well, you’re going to have to wait a while, then.”

”...”

You pull your thighs closer to your chest. Goosebumps are rising on your skin from the draft that occasionally breezes through the room. You could swear that the air conditioning is a tiny bit louder than usual — you wouldn’t put him above a trick like that — but then again, there’s a much more obvious reason for the chills that rake your body.

Sunday looks down at your huddled form in silence. There’s a certain tint of interest in his calculative gaze: Though you’ve never quite gotten used to the nerves that come with having his undivided attention on you, this time around, it’s even more daunting. You bring your legs closer together to make sure he isn’t seeing anything he’s not supposed to. 

He stands up from his seat. The chair creaks against the floor as he sets it back under the table in his wake, and then, he makes his way to you. He kneels down to your level, not paying mind to how you pull further into yourself as he approaches.

His hand grabs your jaw, causing a yelp to slip past your teeth. The grip isn’t exactly crushing, but it’s still tight enough not to leave anything unsaid. 

”You have two options”, Sunday informs you, brushing his gloved thumb over your lips. ”You may either apologize for your actions and regain your privileges, or you’re going to spend the night in the cage without the bedding. Have I made myself clear?”

You attempt to tear your face away from his hand, but he seizes you right back. Tilting your head back by your chin, he makes you look him right in the eye. Despite your initial conviction, you can’t help the way your gaze strives to stray away from his own. 

”I...”

You start the sentence out of unease, not really knowing what you’re going to say, and your voice dies out after the first word. Sunday awaits for your answer with his brows raised in an expectant expression. 

”Let’s hear it, then”, he encourages you.

Your gaze drifts to the corner of the metal cage that’s visible to you in the awkward position. Quickly going through your choices in your head, you contemplate whether or not you have enough willpower to sleep on the cold, hard ground for the entire night. 

Though you try to repel the feeling to the best of your ability, you can’t stop the embarrassment from creeping up your neck as Sunday observes you at your most vulnerable, silently flaunting his authority over you. There isn’t a single crack to be found on his features: In this realm of things, the man simply cannot be won against. 

”I’m... I’m sorry”, you whisper out an apology.

”For what?” he presses. 

You resist the urge to bury your face in your hands. Tears of abasement prick at the corners of your eyes, and your lips purse up to a thin line. The words lodge sideways in your throat.

However, before you can even begin the process of swallowing your pride, the hand on your chin moves higher. Sunday tenderly holds your face, stroking his fingers along the curve of your cheekbone. 

”I suppose that’s enough for now”, he then speaks, giving you a faint smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. ”You’re forgiven.”

Your mouth falls ajar as you’re about to question him, but at the last moment, you stop yourself. He seems to be pleased with your show of acquiescence, and he rewards you by tenderly petting the crown of your head. 

”You’re quite lovely when you’re obedient, I must say”, he adds with a light, mannerly chuckle.

You don’t fall for the trap. Instead, you retreat from him, ridding yourself of his touch.

Seeing as you don’t offer him any further reaction, Sunday lets out an airy, somewhat content sigh. He proceeds to unclasp the golden brooch off his shoulder before sliding his coat down his back. He neatly folds the lavish piece of clothing over his arm before handing it to you. 

You accept the gesture in a heartbeat, ditching the last bits of your fury in favour of receiving the tiniest slice of warmth in exchange. Though you see the amusement in his gaze, Sunday refrains from commenting on your actions. Instead, he stands up, briefly dusty off his pants, and turns towards the door.

”I’ll be back in a bit”, he informs you as he watches you drape his coat over your shivering body. 

You don’t answer him. Relishing the residue of his warmth that lingers in the fabric, you finally allow your head to slump against your knees.

A/N

Here you go! I love you too anon, mwah (~˘▾˘)~

PLEASE excuse the fuckass title picture for Reca. I usually use the E4 pictures for the banner, but for certain reasons, that wasn't available for him, so I had to take a random quest pic of him and put a blueish filter over it. There was the same sort of a problem with Ratio as well: All of his art is nice and good, but his E4 is of him with the plastered head on and I was not gonna have that shit on the post (👁‿👁). I settled for the E3. Cheers.

Anyways, shoutout to all the darlings that know how to derive functions.

you rolled your eyes, glancing back at the clipboard you hugged in your chest before scribbling something down on it, not giving the dear director a single glimpse of humbleness and moreso while his stupidly adorable smile for you was written all over his face. hush giggles and chatter were heard, the pretty director’s talent and appealing appearance only had outstood the whole film itself—why didn’t he just cast himself the protagonist of every film he directed already? they’re not as popular as his sole image anyway.

“now, everyone! we have a short break of 15 minutes before moving on to the next set!”

the studio gradually became active once more, and you were sure that you didn’t mislook the dirty and cynical gaze that the female actor was throwing your way when you reached the main door to exit this place.

“what‘s that scriptwriter’s deal with mr. reca? they should’ve been honoured to have their story praised by a wonderful director like him, anyone would kill for it.”

another word was accidentally heard: “ungrateful”, then another: “arrogant”, you bit back a laugh threatened to escape your lips as you passed by, they sure know how to humour people, didn’t they?

screenwriting was your way of work, the desire to bring the imaginary scenes brewing in your head into reality—you had it better than anyone else. perhaps of your will and determination to put the effort into every masterpiece ever created was too overwhelming that the deity of luck had cast an eye upon you.

well, at least there was a sign.

you, walking out of a cinema in penacony with some pals, excluding yourself from the discussion and shower after shower of praises for such excellence in the directing and story plot of the one and only mr. reca’s newest film.

“that ending was bad,” you took a sip of your ice-melted drink, the cup was still half-filled, sparing a bored look over those widened eyes of disbelief. “it needs more context as well as the connection to the previous scenes, without that, the happy ending was nothing but a cliché sentimental scene i saw in every classic movies.”

“such keen eyes of a brilliant audience, i see. my apologies for the unpleasant experience the film has brought to you, dear friend.” the group of you was startled by the sudden applause and a familiar voice behind your back, mr. reca walked past you as those friends of yours cheered and spilt their admiration for the genius director. oh, he did look hotter in person, how interesting.

“and… you’re absolutely on the righteous that i shall not be offended by those words!! i wasn’t very happy with the ending either, i got the scriptwriter fired just the next day after the premiere, but considering that this movie of mine was categorised as classic contemporary… i shall let this mistake slide.” he smiled, a cunning and mischievous one, with those red piercing eyes of an astute human being—had anyone ever told him that they looked very mesmerizing?

okay, now that was the story of a long time ago.

mr. reca was a pain in the ass. you had been working with him long enough to have his perfect image in your head completely shattered; that deity gives you the opportunity to nurture your dreams of screenwriting by that man having you as his trusted and favourite scriptwriter.

“come on, my beautiful darling, are you still mad at this director?”

your unamused look expressed further in the situation that he blocked your way back to the studio and cornered you in this deserted corridor. that sly smile he wore turned into a whimsy one when you look at it close and long enough. reca held your hand gently as if he was appreciating a delicate object and pressed a soft kiss on it.

“i’m not mad.” you said curtly. he chuckled, of course you were still mad! it was his fault for showing up late at the secret date HE planned the day before!

“hmmph… come here, now.”

mr. reca playfully demanded, he pulled you by your waist and his lips met yours in a very affectionate demeanour, brushing against each other slowly and his other hand reached for your face.

“there. the explicit romantic scene you’ve always wanted on set. does that meet your standards, my dear screenwriter?” he hummed, a knowing smirk creeping up on the corner of his lips when he witnessed your stunned expression with a shade of crimson spread across your cheeks. “don’t tell me it doesn’t feel good when you experience it yourself.”

“tch… cut it,” you clicked your tongue, clearing your throat to remove the heat that stubbornly stuck inside of it. “you’re going to expose us.”

you wouldn’t admit that you liked this, would you? his giddy smile seemed to say. and dear fuli of all the aeons, secretly dating an extraordinary director such as mr. reca here was your biggest luck of the draw. now you couldn’t help but wonder, what would your movie-pals that day you first met him react when they found out you’ve ended up like this?

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