#still not over the block wall

[deadite-central]

Final post on my Code Lyoko thoughts, as I finally managed to get everything I think about evolution sorted out in my head, no meme redraw this time cause I ran out of ideas lolz

Like I mentioned in my season 4 post, Evolution is its own can of worms that I went into with an open mind, so let’s start with what I liked: you can tell a lot of the budget went into the animation on lyoko, and as an artist myself, I will always appreciate others’ art. There’s some movements and expressions I really liked that simply couldn’t have been achieved in the 2000’s when the original show was running, even if I prefer the original artstyle. I also like some of the ideas put into Lyoko, personal favorite being the block wall. 10/10 best creation in all of fiction for real

I have mixed feelings on a lot of things, as while the show isn’t the worst, it definitely falls short compared to the original series. Making the real world scenes live action limits the ability for interesting XANA attacks, so we’re just stuck with spectres running after someone for the bajillionth time. I’m also not the biggest fan of the Tyrone plot point. The real world just kinda feels abandoned, almost nothing happens in it that doesn’t involve Lyoko, and part of why I liked the original show so much is the balance between saving the world and teen drama

Evolution doesn’t help itself by not only not answering questions left by the original series, but leaving new plot holes or just straight up forgetting things that happened in the first four seasons

If you enjoy evolution a lot that’s totally cool, and I’m happy you can enjoy something I’m not the biggest fan of, but personally while it has good parts, I get the most enjoyment out of it by treating it as an AU if that makes sense, not the worst show or anything, but definitely the weakest part of Code Lyoko to me

In other news I am still enticed by this series and now that I know the tumblr fandom for it is still alive I will be engaging with it more, I still adore this whole series so so much

[swiftfootedachilles]

im just gonna be honest gang obviously its gonna be easy for you to say youre in love with a character and theyre an angel when anytime they do something you don't like you brush it off as out of character

[novelconcepts]

It’s always so funny to me when someone can’t tell the difference between an actor who’s over the top and an actor who is doing an intentionally over the top performance. The former can be super aggravating, I get it—but the latter can be so goddamn effective. Especially when you know the actor already, know they’re fully capable of giving normal human facial expressions and chill line deliveries. And they’re out here doing The Absolute Most all of a sudden? It’s for a reason, dude. It’s almost always for a reason. And once you can see past the camp on the surface, it’s so much fun digging in to what emotions the character is actually hiding.

[puthyflapps]

Swifties prove everyday that they’re the dumbest people on the internet and that’s really saying something cuz I’ve dealt directly with blarkes

[innanzituttoticalmi]

i'm sorry if you genuinely think bozzi and leclerc "copied the other driver/engineer's strategy" i canttttttt take you seriously

[opens-up-4-nobody]

...

[deepwoundsandfadedscars]

Whelp, it's finally happened. Had a nightmare that I woke up screaming from 🫠

[earlgraytay]

i would like to hunt whatever dark magic runs tumblr's post content filter for sport

[charmac]

X

[alltimefail-sims]

Sooooo round walls are buggy as heck?! There's no way the the Sims team isn't aware of this.

Worst part is that their asses are going to try and sell the medieval kit people voted on even though round walls are quintessential to those builds and they do. not. work!!!!

[malwarechips]

the children yearn for the mines (the tunnels?) /ref

[eternally6pm]

I think I am going a little mad 

from thinking too long about how Takumi is quite possibly depressed, 

and Mikoto’s death has triggered a very severe exacerbation of it. 

His family love him, but his older sister and brother aren’t the greatest at handling someone quite so sensitive (they were never shown how, and likely subconsciously recognise it from a distance as lack of discipline, impatience, weakness)

and Sakura is his best bet at finding emotional support, but he’s her older brother - he cannot bring himself to burden her with anything. 

Contrary to what some of his dialogue would have you believe, Takumi is profoundly thoughtful - in fact, he may suffer a little from overthinking, and tends to drive himself into mental corners, self-defeating cycles of hope, denial, regret.

Meanwhile Camilla is also more than just some ridiculous armour, a sister complex and a yandere tendency. 

There is a melancholy to her that feels like a deeply embedded sort of mourning for the childhood that she was denied, 

alongside an unhealthy helping of Venting with Violence. 

I find her violent in many ways: violently affectionate, violently sensual, violently physical. 

To an extent, I think this to be a sort of mirror of Takumi’s behaviour. Both of them are brash, but while 

Takumi is deliberately alienating, Camilla is determinedly possessive. 

Takumi lashes out, while Camilla attempts to nurture, 

and both do this in response to the traumas they carry with them, but also as an attempt at absolution, and if you’re still with me somehow I have another 45 minutes of straight up stream of consciousness about how this makes them perfect for one another in their similarities and complementary ways, but also sometimes horribly toxic in their inability to cope with the extreme emotions they are saddled with but have never been given the security to properly

[screampied]

✧ ⁺˳ cw. fem! reader, unprotected, size difference, ab riding, dirty talk, squírting, praise, petnames, mdni.

gym rat bf! toji who’s just so fucking big.

you can’t help but openly gawk at him whenever he’s doing his hourly reps and sets. he’s fit, and you’d just do nothing but watch the veins prod within his beefy toned arms all day if you could. “y’er daydreamin’ again,” he’d gruff, watching as you writhe around his heavy length that’s currently nestled between and inside your sapping folds. you were moaning under your breath, desperately trying to get over your most recent orgasm that left your toes curl in. “wonder what’s goin’ on in that pretty mind,” toji murmurs, lying flat back against his weight bench. he’s got nothing on but a sweat drenched tank and black loose shorts—shorts that would always show off the outline of his his raging boner—shorts that were lazily tugged way down the hem of his waist all thanks you. “fuuuckk,” he hisses, feeling you abruptly sit up with his cock loudly exiting out of you. with a squelching ‘pop’, the noise of your cunt rings throughout the thin walls of his gym and he phews. “what’s . . with that look, baby?”

“i wanna try riding these,” you’d breathe through soft breaths, creating a slow trail down his chest with your finger. a bit of sable-dark chest hair sticks against his skin, his pecs specifically. god, he was just mesmerizing to look at. he’s laid underneath you, manspread as your eyes continue to rove further down his perfectly carvened body. streams of perspiring sweat race down his hewed sculptured v-line before you stop at his curly happy trail. “wanna ride your abs, toji.”

with a sly grin, he swipes a thumb over his scarred glossed lips. “do ya now?” and you could almost see the smugness swell up in his chest. toji’s shaggy bangs fully block his vision as he gets a good look at you, making two bandaged hands glued to your waist. “weird girl,” he snickers, and you moan once his emerald eyes flicker towards your drooling wet cunt. “hn. but go ‘head then. knock y’erself out,” he tilts his head back, crossing his arms cockily. “make me proud.”

slowly, you move yourself closer toward the middle part of his body and you moan almost right away. it’s a pretty sound that he’d never get tired of hearing. toji’s perfectly muscle-bound, such swole arms and even more swole calves—so thick, your skin practically sticks against his the longer you spent on his chest.

the second your bare cunt leisurely slides against his abs, you feel a cold shudder creep down your spine.

“f- fuck,” you whimper through gritted teeth, glancing at his face to see him combing a few cramped fingers through his hair. toji’s broad frame underneath you grew idle and still—and he can’t help but snake a big callused hand around your waist, stroking a few weak pumps at his now soft cock that was inside you just milliseconds ago. “toji, your abs feel so good.”

“they better be,” he rasps as one of his forearms pulls away, stretching outward to grab onto the handle bar that’s directly above the two of you.

multiple veins of his bulge through every part of his arms and you felt yourself throbbing just at the sight. he’s so big, and you only craved more by the second. toji grunts, feeling the coolly air waft against his reddened neglected tip as you continue to thrust forward - sloppily, but forward.

your hips were pathetically slow, barely even making haste as you dragged against each flat sleek ab. you were rickety, cutely making a feeble swivel with your waist despite how your knees were on the verge of bucking. toji continues to watch you, studying your lewd facial expressions and all. he noticed how your breathing continued to change, your eyelids would grow heavy, drooping lower and lower as and your mouth hangs itself open—gasp after gasp leaving your spot-slicked lips. tossing his head back, you glance how his adam apple bob’s, and he’s giving your ass a tight squeeze. “yeah, that’s it. ride ‘em good, princess,” and his voice pitches a deep husky low once your cunt squelches right up against tightening midsection. “mhm, use those hips. fuck me good, baby.”

as shallow breaths continue to ruthlessly snatch away from your full lungs, you resume to rock back and forth against him—his sharpened pectorals now being lewdly slathered from top to bottom with your syrupy juices. “hngh, ‘s ripped,” you’d moan out, feeling your tummy heave and curl inward within every few jerk of your deranged hips. you bit the bottom of your lip, pulling skin back whilst his abs continue tighten even more right underneath you. his six pack’s now entirely wet, shining with nothing but your own candied slick and he grunts. toji hears the greedy squelches of your pussy but he only imagined what it looked like down there. as your lips form into a gasping ‘o’, your brows contort into a furrow as you start to whimper out pathetic babbles. “toji, ‘m not gonna last. fuck, fuck.”

“oh, c’mon, don’t say that, princess,” the dark haired man coos, and you then star to feel the fat round tips of his thumbs massage against your active hips. he’s steadying your waist, helping you grind faster and faster despite how your legs were close—so so close to succumbing to defeat. “y’er a big girl, keep goin’ baby, ride ‘em like you ride my cock, mhm.”

your cunt twitches at his words, at his praise and oh it’s so embarrassing. as you continue to move, toji can feel the faint spasming throbs that vibrate on his flat stomach and he snickers. “shit,” you gasp, and your hands continue to feel up inside the thin linen of his tank top. he’s so buff, you couldn’t help but salivate—imagining toji with his big bulky arms slowly wrapping around your throat. your hips start to accelerate at a much briskly pace. as you were trapped in your erotic seven second fantasm, you sob out a whimper once he spanks your ass, bringing you straight back to reality. he’s telling you to keep going, you could tell from the brief priggish look in his eyes. “toji—ngh, ‘m gonna—”

and as your sopping folds continue to move quicker against his chiseled ripped pecs—you let off a soft dramatic gasp as fluttering ripples of waves surge through your core. out of nowhere, you gush right onto his abdomen while you’re still sloppily thrusting your hips onto his tight flexing stomach. “fuck, ohmygooodd,” you’d whimper out in cute elongated mewls, dragging every poor syllable. your squelches were loud—and your eyes widen at the sheer realization that you’re squirting—trickling out lustrous spurts of your own juices. you were holding in a breath you didn’t even know you were holding, and your eyes squeeze shut completely once you fully release.

with weak bucking hips, you let off a shaky sigh and toji’s still got that annoying smug grin plastered across his face. “aw, poor baby,” a hand of his snakes around your waist, dark aroused eyes glancing at your pulsating weeping pussy. you weren’t moving anymore, and yet you were still plopped on his pecs. seconds later, you feel him flex each core muscle against your achy clit and you whimper, geysers of slick dampening his swole abs. “tch. made such a mess, ‘m all soaked,” and you moan, feeling him grab ahold of both of your wobbly unstable hips. you were dumb, dumber than you’ve ever been and all you felt was his tightened abs tensing right underneath your slobbering slick heat.

toji’s entire chiseled midsection of his chest was now sheeny, perfectly coated with your slick that makes his skin glimmer like a jewel and he hums. “my messy girl,” and a thumb of his playfully smears down your cunt, feeling it’s pulse prod against his fingertip. with an amused quirk of his thin black brow, he tastes you by licking his finger slyly. with needy eyes, you’re just blankly staring at him—panting heavily, pawing at his puffed chest for more. “oh, you’re not done?”

“n- no,” you whine, feeling a plethora of electric shockwaves erupt through the undersides of your thighs as you start to pathetically rock against his abs again, rubbing yourself against your own slippery wetness. “fuck, want more. hold still, toji.”

“ ‘m all yours,” he replied in a low mumble, giving your ass one more teasing squeeze. as he grabs a nice chunk of it, he groans throatily before laying his feet flat down against the carpet beside the bench. “good girl, keep ridin’ me,” and his hand tightens against your ass, throwing his head back with his hands covering his face. “fuck, gotta train this sloppy cunt some more anyway, heh.”

[kikikillerr-blog]

hate when you're reminded of something stressful right before bed and it's stuck on ur mind. like i can't do anything about that right now please let me sleep

[ashtonisvibing]

anyways on a different note cuz i feel like i've been kinda sour in my recent posts

planting virtual grass is fun :}

[theother-victoria]

actual footage of me after reading this

bound beyond time (i’m forever yours) ft. mr. reca ☼ honkai: star rail

selected fandom : 崩坏：星穹铁道

xoxo, ieva ✶ @theother-victoria hiii, vic! i got you for secret santa; i hope i did him justice for you 💗

syn. in the center of every stage was you, yours was a face he couldn’t and never wanted to forget. the contrary applied to you in every life you’ve lived, all except this one. to his surprise—this time, his was the face you remembered from the times he extended his hand out to you after every performance.

In the center of every stage, there was you. From the cadence of your voice delivering every line to the precise movements of your hands emphasizing every emotion, you embodied perfection in his eyes. To him, you weren’t just a performer—you were the performance. The curtains couldn’t conceal your brilliance; instead, they framed it, accentuating the glow of your stardom with every rise and fall. It was every actor’s peak, one that he believed you were destined for.

Mr. Reca was an eccentric man, his reputation preceding him as one of the most celebrated filmmakers in the cosmos. His days were consumed by plotting intricate narratives, brainstorming ideas that pushed the boundaries of imagination, and nitpicking the finest details, all in pursuit of the masterpiece he dreamed of creating. Among the countless memories he had meticulously archived—keeping the vivid and discarding the uninspired—the moment he first saw you shone brightly in the former category. That meeting, etched into his mind, marked the beginning of something extraordinary. You weren’t just another actor; you had become the axis around which his creative world turned.

It amazed you how someone could devote themselves so entirely to their craft. Your perception of Mr. Reca had shifted over time, from initial awe to something more layered. If you could choose one word to describe him now, it would be finicky.

On set, Mr. Reca’s presence was undeniable. When he stepped into the center, a magnetic energy followed—commands spilled effortlessly from his lips, drawing immediate action from the actors and crew around him. His brilliance was as much a curse as it was a blessing. Inspiration often clouded his judgment, and you could see it in the furrow of his brow or the glint in his eyes, revealing whether he was boisterously elated or utterly dissatisfied with the unfolding scene. A lack of passion is discardable, while a hunger for new heights always reached the surface— it was the pinnacle for success.

As devoted as you were to your own craft, you knew you could never match his obsession. It wasn’t just passion for him—it was compulsion, a relentless pursuit of perfection that left no detail untouched. To stand in his world, under his scrutiny, was as overwhelming as it was inspiring.

Mr. Reca’s gaze lingered on you, sharp and unrelenting, as though he were dissecting every fragment of your soul. His eyes, dark and gleaming like polished obsidian, held a peculiar mix of scrutiny and reverence. It wasn’t a passing glance—it was the kind of look that peeled back layers, that saw beyond the surface, straight into the essence of who you were. It was the kind of gaze you’ve never grown accustomed to, yet were eagerly anticipating. Being valuable, being of use, it added a sense of belonging—as if you were born to be a performer.

(Deep down, you wanted that to be true too.)

Finally, he spoke, his voice low but resounding, filling the room with the weight of his words. “Do you know what you’ve done here?” He stepped closer, the intensity in his eyes burning brighter. “This... this isn’t mere performance. This is art, raw and untamed. Brilliant, utterly brilliant!”

The silence stretched as if the galaxy itself held its breath. Then, his voice dropped to an almost reverent whisper. “You don’t just act—you become. It’s a skill not many possess, your ability is what I’ve been searching the cosmos for! And yet... even perfection is not enough. I need more from you. Do you understand?”

“But director—”

He raised his hand, signaling for you to wait for him to finish.

He paused, his gaze softening just a fraction. “But mark my words—you are unlike any I’ve ever seen. You are the center of this world I’m building. It is your time to shine!”

You barely managed a nod, his words heavy with both expectation and strange admiration. Mr. Reca’s intensity was like a force of nature, sweeping everyone in his orbit along with it. He stepped back, his hands already sketching shapes in the air, as though he could see the entire film projected before him.

“More,” he muttered, half to himself. “More than this. This is a star’s performance, yes—but it must be a supernova. I need to see every raw nerve, every flicker of despair, every shred of hope clawing to survive. Anything less is mediocrity.”

His gaze snapped back to you. “And you are not mediocre.”

The words struck you, not for their praise but for their precision. They felt less like a compliment and more like a decree, as though failure wasn’t just unacceptable—it was unthinkable. It came off as a form of pressure, weights beginning to tower on your back as you took a deep breath.

“You ask for so much,” you replied quietly, your voice steady but tinged with frustration. “But what if I can’t give you more? What if I’m already giving you everything I have?”

He paused, visibly caught off-guard by your honesty. His hand, mid-gesture, stilled in the air. Then he laughed, a sound both unexpected and startling, sharp as glass but somehow rich with amusement.

“My star,” he said, his voice dripping with theatrical flair, “you misunderstand. It’s not that you lack—it’s that you don’t yet know how much you possess. My job is to pull it out of you, to strip away every inhibition, every doubt, until only brilliance remains.”

(I will break down the wall that is blocking your potential.)

His steps carried him closer, his figure looming as he peered at you with a ferocity that gave you goosebumps. “It’s not perfection I demand from you,” he murmured, his voice dropping lower, almost conspiratorial. “It’s truth. And truth is messy, painful, glorious. Do you understand now?”

You held his gaze, unwilling to let him intimidate you, and yet there was a flicker of something unfamiliar in your chest. Admiration, yes—but also a strange yearning, a desire to rise to his impossible standards. Not just to meet them but to exceed them, to see that glimmer of satisfaction in his eyes again. It was almost tugging at your heart, desire overcoming your senses. Even if the slightest hint of doubt remained, you’d lift your chin to stare him in the eyes—for it was the only way you’d ever be content with yourself.

“I understand,” you said, your voice firmer now.

“Good.” He straightened, his expression shifting back to his usual manic determination. “Because the next scene must be unforgettable. The audience must feel the weight of your love, your grief, your longing. As if you’ve lived it yourself.”

Your breath hitched. He wasn’t asking for a performance anymore; he was asking for something deeply personal, something real.

Incorporate your feelings into your voice; let it be apparent what you’re trying to convey.

Don’t let the audience “guess”, let them “know”.

It was the mantra you played in your head, several minutes before the soles of your shoes collided with the wood on the stage. The straightening of your shoulders, balanced posture, and a prayer that you wouldn’t forget any of your lines. You controlled the pitch of your voice, and the rhythm of the story you were demonstrating to the crowd. It almost seemed as if you weren’t doing a good enough job at that from his critique.

“And how would you suggest I do that?” you asked, folding your arms in apparent offense. “Pluck longing and grief out of thin air? Or perhaps you think I should have lived a dozen lifetimes to understand such emotions.”

His lips curved into a smirk, sharp and knowing. “Perhaps you have.”

The comment caught you off-guard, and for a moment, you weren’t sure if he was teasing or if there was some deeper meaning hidden beneath his words. He turned abruptly, his coat swirling around him as he strode toward the edge of the stage with haste.

“Come,” he called over his shoulder, extending a hand towards you. “We’ll rehearse until the stars themselves grow envious. I won’t rest until this is the greatest scene ever captured on film.”

You followed reluctantly, the weight of his expectations pressing down on you. But even as he barked commands and paced relentlessly, there was something in the way he watched you, his gaze softer than before, tinged with an emotion you couldn’t quite name. It caused you to allow him to take your hand, sharing the warmth and determination in his slender yet calloused fingers.

The rehearsal dragged into the late hours, the rest of the cast dismissed long ago, leaving only you and Mr. Reca under the harsh glow of the stage lights. He had become quieter as the hours passed, his energy focused entirely on you.

-

Practicing with Reca felt like an endless marathon.

“Again,” he said, leaning forward in his chair, the intensity in his eyes undiminished.

You delivered the line for what seemed like the millionth time, your voice cracking with exhaustion.

“Better,” he murmured. Then, after a pause, softer still, “You’re getting there.”

It was the closest thing to praise he’d given all night, and for reasons you couldn’t explain, it made your chest tighten.

“Do you ever stop?” you asked, half-joking but half-serious.

He looked at you sharply, as though the question had offended him, but then his expression shifted. “Stopping is for those who are satisfied,” he said, his voice unusually subdued. “And satisfaction... is for the ordinary.”

You tilted your head, studying him. “And what about happiness? Do you think that’s ordinary too?”

The question seemed to catch him by surprise. He leaned back in his chair, the shadow of a smile playing on his lips. “Happiness,” he echoed. “Perhaps. But happiness is fleeting. Creation—true creation—is eternal! Once this is ingrained into your soul, you will find what you truly desire.”

You stepped closer, emboldened by the rare moment of vulnerability. “And yet, for all your talk of eternity, you seem afraid of anything that lasts.”

His gaze snapped to yours, startled, and for a moment, the air between you felt charged with something unspoken. Then, slowly, he smiled—a small, sardonic thing. It annoyed you greatly, but your thoughts remained unspoken. After all, the director’s words were law in the field they were trapped in.

“You have a way of cutting to the case,” he said. “I’ll give you that.”

“You make it easy,” you replied, your voice tinged with amusement.

The silence that followed was different this time, less tense and more... intimate. His gaze softened, lingering on you as if trying to unravel a mystery he hadn’t yet solved. You could sense his delight through his eyes, that shined with a lovely brilliance as though the world had revealed its most precious secret.

“You are extraordinary,” he said finally, his tone low and almost reverent. “Even if you don’t realize it yet.”

For the first time, his words didn’t feel like a critique or an expectation. They felt like something else entirely.

-

Seeing you in another lifetime was something he’d never imagined was possible. Your position on set, the props, the lines you were rehearsing, he could view them in his mind as horizontal frames. The world seemed to momentarily glitch, as if the fabric of time itself had slipped, and he was stepping through a scene he was familiarized with. Is this what Deja Vu feels like?

He’s felt as though he’s done this before, standing in front of you like this—asking a question he never thought he’d ask. It was pure, unbridled curiosity—a rush of water that needed a blockage, your answer.

“Why have you decided to become an actor?”

“It wasn’t a choice, really,” you admitted. “It was... instinctual. Like breathing. I suppose it’s where I feel most alive, where I feel like myself. The stage.. feels like my home.”

He nodded slowly, as if turning your words over in his mind. “That’s how I feel about directing,” he said. His gaze drifted upward, past you, as though seeing something far beyond the theater walls. “Just as you were born to be a star, I was born to put your abilities to use—to create a revolutionary film with you as my main character!”

He is meant to control the narrative, yet often—he’d find himself oppressing your influence of turning this into something uniquely yours.

“I feel as though this is something I've told you before,” he spoke, his eyes snapping back to you, locking onto yours with a sudden intensity. “Do you remember anything?”

You swallowed hard, your pulse quickening. There was something about his words that struck a chord deep within you. A faint memory stirred—hazy and fleeting, like a dream you couldn’t quite grasp. You drew a blank, leading to your next words that carried a hint of uncertainty.

“No,” you admitted, “I’m pretty sure this is the first time you’ve said this, Director.”

“Then the lack of rehearsals is causing me to misremember, the universe is beckoning for us to get back on stage!”

“I won’t let this masterpiece stagnate while I still have time! Tomorrow, we rehearse Act Three until it sings—or until we all drop from exhaustion!”

You couldn’t help but giggle as he stormed off, already muttering notes to himself about lighting angles and blocking. Despite his eccentricities—or perhaps because of them—he had a way of drawing you in, of making you believe you were part of something monumental.

-

Under the dim glow of the stage lights, the set was transformed into a cavernous, otherworldly temple. The scene was surreal, layered with blues and silvers that shimmered like moonlight on water. Columns twisted upward into the darkness, vanishing into a false infinity. You and Mr. Reca stood at opposite ends of the stage, the energy between you crackling with tension.

“Ready?” he asked, his voice unusually soft, almost hesitant. Something was wrong. He seemed almost fidgety and it was beginning to bother you.

You nodded, unsure why this scene felt heavier than the others. The script was straightforward—a confrontation between a prophet and a wanderer, an exploration of fate and choice. Yet something about it felt... wrong, or perhaps too right, as though it didn’t belong to the film at all but was borrowed from somewhere else.

He stepped forward, his character—the prophet—looming with an unsettling grace. His robe billowed with each step, as if a phantom wind followed him. You remained still, the wanderer, your figure clad in tattered attire, a stark contrast to his grandeur. A contrast in energies paired with it.

When he spoke, it wasn’t Reca’s voice you heard, but something older, deeper, resonating in your very bones. “You’ve come far, traveler. But tell me, what is it you seek?”

You hesitated, your lines faltering on your lips. The stage around you blurred, its edges distorting like ripples in water. The script’s dialogue faded from your memory, and instead, words spilled from you unbidden, as though summoned from a place beyond thought. You could feel your words wavering, a habit Mr. Reca had forbid you several times, but you never remembered his exact words.

“I seek... clarity,” you said, your voice trembling. “A truth that eludes me. Something I feel I’ve lost.”

Reca tilted his head, his dark eyes glittering like twin stars. “Truth,” he echoed, a faint smile curling at the edges of his lips. “You ask for the impossible, for truth is fleeting. It is a reflection in shattered glass. And yet, you persist. Why?”

Your hands clenched at your sides, and without thinking, you took a step forward, emboldened by the unfolding scenario. “Because it’s all I have left! A memory I can’t place, a face I can’t name... but I know it’s there. Somewhere. I feel it.”

He froze, his gaze sharpening, and for a heartbeat, it wasn’t the prophet staring at you—it was Mr. Reca. His lips parted slightly, as though he recognized something in your words. But just as quickly, he slipped back into character, his voice cold and unyielding.

The way it should be.

(The way he needed it to be.)

“Memories are not absolutes,” he intoned. “They are fabrications of the mind, stitched together from fragments of dreams and shadows. What you seek is folly.”

“No,” you shot back, your voice rising with raw emotion. “What I seek is mine! And I will tear through the heavens if I must to reclaim it!”

For a moment, he looked at you as if seeing you for the first time. His hands, usually so precise in their gestures, wavered. He remembers you.

Then, breaking the tension, he closed the distance between you with sudden ferocity. He reached out and grabbed your wrist, his grip firm but not painful. His eyes bore into yours, his next words quiet but resonant.

“Do you remember me?”

(Do you remember this scene?)

The question wasn’t part of the script.

Your gaze was illusive, attempting to recall a line— even trying to conjure one from thin air. The temple around you seemed to ripple and fade, the illusion breaking apart. The stage, the lights, even the props—all felt like a thin veneer over something vast and incomprehensible. Like mesh fabric, it wasn’t difficult to see through—only if you paid close enough attention.

By now, he would’ve uttered your line to you if you’d forgotten—but that wasn’t the case. This was real.

“I...” Your voice cracked. “I don’t know.”

His grip tightened slightly, his gaze desperate now. “Think. Feel. There’s more to this than you understand. I’ve seen this before, lived it before—you’ve lived it before.”

The words struck like a bolt of lightning, leaving you breathless. A flicker of something surged through you—an image, a feeling, a name that hovered just out of reach. What was he talking about?

(Do I remember you?)

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you whispered, your voice trembling. It was like staring at a wolf who bared his fangs, where an incorrect answer could cost you your life.

He released you, stepping back, his expression unreadable. The prophet’s mask shattered completely, leaving only Mr. Reca—his vulnerability laid bare in a way you’d never seen before. “Then we’ve already lost time,” he murmured, almost to himself. “But perhaps this time, we’ll get it right.”

The moment lingered, heavy and tense. Then he shook his head, clapping his hands sharply. “Again!” he declared, his tone snapping back to its usual commanding presence. “From the top! And this time, don’t hold back.”

A scene fueled by pure, utter desperation.

But you couldn’t shake the feeling that the scene was more than a rehearsal. It was a fragment of something deeper—a connection that transcended lifetimes.

-

You didn’t remember him.

It was a devastating blow, one he couldn’t overlook no matter how much he tried. After so many lives together, only his memories remained intact—a cruel imbalance, as if the universe itself delighted in reminding him how fleeting your connection could be. It was like trying to hold water with your bare hands, watching it slip away no matter how tightly you clenched your fists. The offense he felt struck him like lightning, he could already imagine the dark clouds above his head—pouring heavy rains down his coat.

And yet, he clung to you, or rather, to the idea of you. To the fragments of the person you’d been in the countless lives you’d shared. Perhaps it was his curse, to be the only one who remembered, to carry the weight of your shared past while you looked at him with eyes that held no recognition. A cruel twist of fate, where you were always the star and the forgotten shadow trailing behind you.

This life, however, felt like the harshest punishment of them all.

He stood frozen on the street, staring up at the towering billboard where your face was plastered in bold, cinematic glory. You were radiant, even in stillness. The advertisement was for a new film—a blockbuster directed by someone else. Someone who wasn’t him.

The sight twisted the knife further. Out of every life you’d lived together, this one just so happened to be his least favorite. You didn’t know him. You didn’t work with him. And, worst of all, you didn’t belong to his world anymore.

A heavy sigh escaped his lips as he adjusted his grip on the bouquet of flowers in his hand. The bright, delicate petals felt absurd in contrast to the weight in his chest. What use were flowers when you wouldn’t pay any mind to him?

To you, in this life, he was nothing more than a stranger—a nameless admirer who might approach you after a performance with stammered praise for your acting. Not that such an assumption was false, but it was painfully incomplete. Admiration was a drop in the ocean compared to the depth of what he felt.

He wanted to be more than that.

He had been more than that.

He ran a hand through his already-disheveled hair, his fingers trembling as they brushed against his forehead. How many times had he vowed to stop chasing after you in lives like this? To let you go and trust that, somehow, fate would realign your paths? And how many times had he broken that vow the moment he saw your face again, his resolve crumbling to dust under the weight of his longing?

He couldn’t turn back now.

Not when his leather shoes had already trampled the floors of the grand theater, carrying him to the ticket booth just to be the first in line. Not when he had spent hours rehearsing how he might introduce himself to you. God, he was an utter mess—a man reduced to shambles by the memory of a love you couldn’t even recall.

The theater doors loomed before him, an entrance to a world where you shone brightest. He hesitated, clutching the bouquet tighter, the edges of the paper crinkling under his grip. What would he even say? What could he say? Should he even approach you?

For a fleeting moment, he wondered if he should leave. But his feet betrayed him, dragging him inside as though the gravity of your presence was impossible to resist even in this life.

He didn’t know what he was hoping for. A spark of recognition? A fragment of the soul-deep connection you used to share? Or perhaps just a moment, however brief, where he could bask in the warmth of your light again.

As he stepped into the theater lobby, the familiar hum of anticipation filled the air. Posters of you adorned the walls, each one a reminder of how far you’d come in this life—how far from him you now stood.

The flowers in his hand suddenly felt heavier. What use were they when he was chasing a ghost of who you’d been? When the version of you he loved existed only in his memory?

And yet, he stayed.

Because no matter how many lifetimes passed, no matter how often the story ended the same way, he couldn’t stop himself from hoping that this time, it might be different. That maybe, just maybe, you’d see him.

Not as a stranger, not as a fan.

But as someone you’d once loved too.

As he embraced the role of the spectator this once, he sat in one of the seats in the front row. Each seat is typically upholstered in rich and comfortable fabric, in a deep hue of crimson. The padding is firm yet inviting, crafted to cradle the audience through long performances.

It was almost as if he were dreaming.

He’s familiar with this scene, but his role was different in this life. He’s used to the praises from the audience for his directory work, glimmering eyes with the most reverent expressions—but this work was not his. You weren’t his.

The seats were filled to the brim, and the film was nothing short of astonishing—though he couldn’t give too much credit. There were too many plot holes that contradicted earlier events, some of the injuries looked feigned, the sounds were recycled one too many times for his liking— he could continue until sunrise if that was what it would take. The only thing that saved this film was you. In his professional opinion, of course.

It wasn’t simply films that laid buried in your inventory, but plays as well. It was an opportunity he wouldn’t miss for the world. The stage was yours, and everyone else belonged in the background—that was how it’s meant to be. As your tears kissed the tiles beneath your feet, the emotion in your voice had risen. What a wonderful sight it was.

The 25th of December, a holiday of caroling and the tearing of gift-wrappings. For him, it was only a day of solemnity.

The sight of you speaking to the other director made his heart ache, a sharp and visceral pang that tightened his chest. There you were, laughing softly at something the other man said, your hands gesturing animatedly as if you were sharing a private moment of camaraderie. He hated how natural it seemed, how effortlessly you connected with someone else in a way that used to belong to him. His fingers tightened around the stems of the bouquet he carried, the soft petals brushing against his wrist, as if mocking his hesitation to go through with this.

For a moment, he considered interrupting. He could stride over, extend the bouquet with a flourish, and perhaps even say something witty enough to draw your attention away from the other man. But what would be the point? To you, he was nothing more than a fan, a stranger whose presence was as fleeting as a gust of wind. The thought stung more than he cared to admit.

Ultimately, he decided against it. It wasn’t as if he could cut into your conversation, especially not with the radiant way you were smiling. The last thing he wanted was to tarnish that expression by making things awkward. Instead, he turned toward the hallway leading to your dressing room.

The narrow corridor felt suffocating, the plush carpet muffling his hurried steps as he made his way toward the door with your name displayed elegantly in bold, golden letters. A simple yet personal marker of the star you’d become. The star he assisted you in becoming in so many lives. He cherished those memories greatly.

He hesitated as he reached the door, staring at the handle for a long moment. The bouquet in his hand suddenly felt absurdly extravagant—delicate white lilies interspersed with soft pink roses, wrapped in a sheer ribbon. Would you even appreciate it? Would you know it was from him, or would it join the countless other gifts you received daily from fans and admirers?

Still, he couldn’t leave without doing something. With a sigh, he gently placed the bouquet on the small table outside your dressing room, arranging it just so. He adjusted the ribbon one final time before taking a step back to admire his handiwork. For a fleeting moment, he imagined your reaction upon finding it—your fingers brushing over the petals, your lips curving into a small, puzzled smile as you wondered who had left it.

But even that wasn’t enough to soothe the ache in his chest. He lingered a moment longer, his hand brushing against the edge of the table as though it might tether him there, might convince him to stay. But the sound of distant laughter echoing down the hall reminded him of reality.

With a deep breath, he turned and walked away, his steps brisk but heavy. The bouquet remained behind, a silent confession he couldn’t bring himself to voice.

Little did he know, you caught a glimpse of his face before he turned on his heel.

It was a cycle. He’d leave a beautiful bouquet in your dressing room, striding off with a snarky expression as if he’d just gotten away with a crime, completely undetected. He was aware of your gaze, and the slightest glimmer of hope filled his chest at the thought that maybe, just maybe, you’d seek him out.

The sky was beginning to darken, leaving him no choice but to exit the doors of his second home—letting the snowflakes drift onto his skin.

Footsteps.

And they were yours.

“Excuse me!” you called out, rapidly moving towards him before letting out a few pants—hinting at your rushed response to him leaving.

He froze mid-step, his breath catching in his throat as the sound of your voice cut through the cold evening air. The snowflakes fell in slow, lazy spirals, dusting his coat and hair, but he couldn’t bring himself to move or brush them off. His focus was on you. Come to think of it, when was it not? It almost caused him to chuckle.

His heart, however, betrayed him, hammering wildly in his chest.

You came to a halt a few steps away, clutching the bouquet of flowers he’d left in your dressing room. The sheer ribbon fluttered slightly in the winter breeze, and your cheeks were flushed—not just from the cold, he thought, but from the exertion of chasing after him.

“Are you the one who’s been leaving these?” you asked, holding the bouquet up slightly as if to emphasize your point. Your voice carried a mix of curiosity and something else—was it gratitude?

For a moment, he considered denying it. It would be so easy to shrug, to claim it wasn’t him, and slip away into the snowy night. But as his gaze met yours, he knew he couldn’t lie to you. Not when you’d gone out of your way to find him. Just as he hoped. Maybe this was the chance destiny had brought him to, would you remember him?

“Yes,” he admitted, his voice steady but quiet, the word lingering in the frosty air between you. “It was me.”

You blinked, clearly not expecting the direct confession. “But... why?”

He hesitated, the truth teetering on the edge of his tongue. How could he possibly explain it? That he remembered lives you didn’t, that he’d loved you in ways words could never encompass? Instead, he opted for something simpler, something you might actually understand.

“Do you know what you’ve done here?” He inquired, his voice filled with reverence and glee. “What you’ve conjured is no mere performance. This is art, raw and untamed.”

“These,” he pointed to the flowers that your hands clutched with the smallest amount of strength, enough to keep them from being blown away—yet not enough to dim their beauty. “Are gifts from an admirer of your craft, for you—my star, have cast your glance to even the dimmest areas in the theater!”

“Well,” you said after a beat, a kind smile tugging at the corners of your lips, “thank you. They’re beautiful.”

The silence between you was only filled with the sounds of children’s laughter as they gazed at toy trains through glass windows. This kind of atmosphere suited you, he believed.

“I never got your name,” you added, tilting your head slightly.

He hesitated, knowing that revealing too much could complicate everything. But then again, you’d sought him out—maybe, just maybe, this was a step forward.

“It’s Reca,” he said finally. “Just Reca.”

You gave him an amused look. “No last name?”

“Not one that matters,” he replied with a faint smirk, his usual snark slipping through despite himself.

You laughed softly, the sound like a melody he hadn’t realized he’d been longing to hear. “I think.. I remember you from somewhere, have we met before?”

Genuine surprise filled his features at your question, he almost felt his knees go weak at the realization that you remembered him.

“I believe we have.”

It was the only acceptable answer, every fiber of his being was begging for you to hold onto that recollection.

“I’m surprised I forgot in the first place.”

“Why, am I truly that forgettable? Let me make an impression so great to make sure that isn’t the case, hm?” He suggested, extending his hand—a gesture that you could reciprocate without hesitation.

“Coffee?”

“It’s eleven pm.”

“Please?”

(I’m glad you remembered, don’t ever forget me again.)

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