Information

Reck
Legacy Name: Reck

The Spectrum Sheeta
Owner: Warlord

Age: 14 years, 2 months, 1 week

Born: January 11th, 2012

Adopted: 14 years, 2 months, 1 week ago

Adopted: January 11th, 2012

Statistics

• Level: 1
   
• Strength: 10
   
• Defense: 10
   
• Speed: 10
   
• Health: 10
   
• HP: 0/10
   
• Intelligence: 0
   
• Books Read: 0
• Food Eaten: 0
• Job: Unemployed

Overlay by Silverfox



He couldn't remember her name, Reck realized.

He took a guilty peek over his shoulder at the woman who had—in the course of the night—stolen all of his blankets.

She was attractive. And short—thank god, considering his own lack of height. She had natural rust-colored hair and freckles on every inch of her milky skin. It was kind of cute, at least he thought so.

However, he crossed a line here. He knew he shouldn't have paid her any mind—she only liked him for his money and new-found fame, but god damn she was cute.

Yes, she was only after notoriety. But... just how could he say no to sex? He leaned over his balcony, French doors open to let the dry hot air wash over the room. A stale wind toyed with a few strands of his mocha hair.

Last night was more than pleasant. It was fucking amazing. God that girl knew how to do everything from flirting, to undressing. Just God. The way she touched! A slight shudder worked it's way down his spine as he recalled the experience. It left him unpleasantly aroused.

However, something about last night had gotten to him. If he was honest, it was the reason he hadn't woke her...

At least not yet.

Truth was, he was naturally a brunette. Maintaining perfectly blonde locks was difficult when his roots came in brown. He dyed his hair to the approximate shade his hair was supposed to be in order to lower the maintenance it required. Of course once he got a more practical method, he would go back to his characteristic blonde.

I think you're sexier as a brunette. She had said it so thoughtlessly to him. He knew she was only trying to flirt, but it bothered him.

His entire childhood, he remembered glimpses of blonde hair. Not a face, he couldn't remember a face. But he could remember her gold wavy hair. And her slender hands, the same ones he himself possessed. A mother he was never old enough to know, and a father who treated her like the only thing that mattered. Beauty had become his life. His father's stories of his mother's beauty and warmth often seemed like the only contact he really had with the businessman, and that became their way of relating.

“You're almost as beautiful as your mother.”

...almost beautiful...

The phrase haunted his childhood and became his obsession.

Sure, his maids showered him with compliments and affection, and most people recognized that he had a natural beauty to him, but what he truly wanted was to hear those words from his father. Just two words: you're beautiful.

He'd gone to extremes, dying his hair, wearing his mom's clothes, using her makeup. It didn't take long for him to develop a connection to fashion. His face became a canvas for every type of makeup, his body a mannequin.

And he would ask his dad “am I pretty?”

“You're almost as beautiful as your mother.”

Tragedy struck when he realized, no matter what he did, he'd never be as beautiful as his mother.

It wasn't because he was a boy, he knew. And it wasn't that he didn't have her luxurious golden waves. It was just that... he wasn't her.

But he wanted to at least be beautiful. Not... almost. Just beautiful.

He tried. Oh he had tried so hard. Even after all of these years, he still dyed his hair and eyebrows. He washed his face with all sorts of cleansers, spent thousands on a surgery to remove his Adam's apple, and make the wide-bridge of his nose a little more narrow. He had his teeth professionally whitened on a monthly basis.

He made friends easily. He was charming and attractive. He socialized well with almost everyone, had billions of dollars in inheritance.

But despite his friends, despite his beauty... he was just a lonely boy in his father's mansion wishing his father had told him: yes Fenton, you're the most beautiful man in this world.

You're beautiful.

He ran his fingers down his sleek locks, watching the color in the sunlight.

It was the color of his father's hair.

His father. The man obsessed with beauty.

He couldn't stand to keep it. He didn't want his father's hair. He didn't want his father's name. He became Reckale for a reason. Not “Fenton Reckale Bennett.”

Just. Reckale, with only an initial as a first name.

“Mmm... Reck?” a sleepy voice murmured reminding him that he had a one-person audience in the room.

He stashed away the emotions of loneliness and sadness.

And put a smile on his face like makeup.

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