#the longing in that scene......... | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

theother-victoria · 12 days ago

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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.)

taglist 🔔 : @snobwhimsicality @mitsvriii @papiliotao @bladism @tragedy-of-commons @thestarswhisper @meirvelle @somatchajade @gladiolus-nyx @milk-violet

#YONA #IM SCREAMING #OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH MY GODDDDDDDDDDDDDDDD GOODNESS GRACIOUS SCRUM DILLY UMPTIOUS GRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRMNNNNNNNNNNGHRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRF #YOU DID HIM SOOOOOOOOOOOOO GOOD #YOU PUT SO MUCH LOVE AND DEDICATION TO THE CRAFT INTO THIS I CAN TELL #reca would be proud of u LMAO #still wont let you live down ur near crashout in bell's dms over writing reca #“i will break down this wall that is blocking your potential” IM LOBOTOMIZING YOU /j #THE WAY HE KEEPS DROPPING HINTS AND IT DOESNT WORK AND HE PROGRESSIVELY GETS MORE “:(”#I NEED TO SMOOCH THIS MAN UNDER A LIGHT SNOWFALL AT NIGHT WITH NO ONE AROUND #the way his obsession with perfection and going above and beyond is evened out with (name)'s content attitude toward the present THE DUALIT #oh he thought he was SO slick with his bouquets dumbass man we saw it ALL #i hear his voice in EVERY DAMN LINE yona u got him down PERFECTLY (said and heard in his damn voice)#the bystander in front of the billboard reminded me of that drawing challenge a while ago idk if anyone else knows what im talking abt but #iykyk #the longing in that scene.........#AND TO MAKE MATTERS WORSE #IT WAS FOR A FILM NOT UNDER HIS DIRECTION #(NAME) GOT FAMOUS UNDER ANOTHER DIRECTOR NOT HIM #reca stronger than me cause personally i wouldn't let that slide #lvl 100 crashout in the middle of penacony #“im glad you remembered” THEN GIVE ME SOMETHING TO REMEMBER YOU BY IN EVERY LIFETIME DUMBASS (lovingly)#i cant believe you were cooking this hard behind my back THIS WHOLE TIME IM IN SHAMBLES #heh............ sneaky yona #overall absolute cinema/10 read #will be going back to this as my nightly fic before bed without fail EVERY NIGHT #victoria.reblog #hsr x reader #mr reca x reader #reca x reader

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lynxgriffin · 1 month ago

Text

Mightier Than The Sword

Gerson had one regret, but now Alvin has many. A fancomic about my thoughts and theories and who -and what- the Knight is!

While not directly connected, I'd say this one is in the same vein as the Deal With The Devil series! Hope you enjoy!

Alt text for this comic under the read more:

Page 1

Panel 1 - Wide shot of the interior of the Boom household. Several monsters are gathered in a clean-looking hall, dressed in somber clothing and talking quietly in small groups. The monsters include QC, Cat Mom, Toriel, Asgore and Mayor Holiday. Father Alvin stands waiting at a door in the hall as his sister, a red-headed turtle monster in a pink dress, exits through the door and speaks to him. “Alvin…he’s ready for you.”

Panel 2 - Mid shot as Alvin prepares to enter the room. Ms. Boom steps out of the way, and puts a reassuring hand on his shoulder. Both of them look somber.

Panel 3 - Alvin enters the room, mostly dark and lit by a few candles on a nearby desk. Gerson Boom is lying on a bed ahead of him, watching him enter. Alvin closes the door behind him and says, “Father, I’m here.”

Panel 4 - Alvin approaches his father, lying in bed. The bedroom has a few amenities, including a footstool set off to the side, a large rug bearing the delta rune, and a massive bookcase filling the entire back wall. A few books and papers litter the ground. Alvin bows his head, and says, “The hammer is ready for…for afterwards.”

Gerson just smiles, and responds, “Wa ha, is it? Well, it’ll do fine, I suppose.”

Panel 5 - Closer shot of Gerson extending his right hand towards Alvin. He’s smiling still, content with where he is. “Come here, son.”

Page 2

Panel 1 - Closeup as Alvin takes his father’s hand in his own, and clasps it tight. “Whatever you need…I’m here,” he says from offscreen.

Panel 2 - Alvin kneels by his father’s bedside, still clasping his hands. Gerson says, “Of course you are. Wa ha…you’re such a good and kind man, Alvin.”

Panel 3 - Closeup on Alvin as he just holds on to his father’s hand. Tears prick at the corners of his eyes.

Panel 4 - Focus on Gerson as he holds up a hand to conspiratorially whisper to Alvin. “And I know I can trust you with a secret, right?”

Panel 5 - Closeup on Alvin as he looks back up, face earnest. “...Of course.”

Panel 6 - Gerson holds up one finger as he speaks to Alvin. “I told your sister I had no regrets, but that was a BIT of a fib! I’m afraid I have one regret…”

Panel 7 - Side view of Alvin as he learns closer, his face now worried. “Father?...”

Page 3

Panel 1 - Focus on Gerson as he leans back on his pillow, looking up at the ceiling. “I wish I had started earlier. Writing stories, I mean. Seein’ you an’ your sister’s eyes light up whenever I read you a new chapter…and then seeing all that joy from so many young folks after those stories were published!” he says, looking wistful.

Panel 2 - Alvin watches on sadly as Gerson continues, “It was the greatest feeling in the world, Alvin. It’s what life’s all about, y’know. Helping the young folks grow.”

Panel 3 - Gerson closes his eyes and looks back towards the ceiling again, still wistful. “So, I wish I’d started writing stories sooner.”

Panel 4 - Closeup on Alvin as he bows his head, still holding Gerson’s hand. “I truly do cherish those times you read to us, father…” he says.

Panel 5 - Closeup on Gerson as he closes his mind with happy memories. “Me too, Alvin. It’s a shame…I’ve still got so many tales to tell! But–”

Panel 6 - Gerson is interrupted by a round of hacking coughs. His time is fast approaching.

Panel 7 - Gerson settles back in to his bed and says, “The Angel’s given me SO many good, happy years. Doesn’t seem fair to ask for more.”

Panel 8 - Closeup on Alvin as he continues to hold his father’s hand tight. “This doesn’t seem fair, either…” he says, tears still pricking at his eyes.

Page 4

Panel 1 - Insert closeup of Gerson as he smiles at his son. “That’s life, Alvin!” He doesn’t seem bothered by his imminent passing.

Panel 2 - Side view as Gerson leans in closer to Alvin again, hand raised, back to sharing his secrets. “But, knowin’ my secret…there’s something I’d like to ask of you.”

Alvin faces his father with seriousness. “Anything,” he replies.

Panel 3 - Closeup on Gerson, as he looks hopefully at Alvin. “You have a good heart, Alvin. I want you to know this joy, too.”

Panel 4 - Gerson continues in the next panel: “Please try writin’ stories of your own, alright?” Closeup on Alvin as he looks shocked and a bit worried by the request.

Panel 5 - Mid shot as Alvin holds up a hand to Gerson in protest. He says, “Father, I…I have no talent for writing fiction. Not like YOU.”

Panel 6 - Closeup on Gerson as he refutes his son: “Hogwash! I know you can.”

Panel 7 - Wide shot as Alvin stands up, and looks around the room. “No, I…”

In the foreground, there’s Gerson’s desk, currently showing some lit candles, some paper, an inkwell, a notebook, and his favorite fountain pen.

Page 5

Panel 1 - Closeup as Alvin grabs two objects off of the desk: the small notebook and the fountain pen. Offscreen, he says, “If you just…”

Panel 2 - Back at Gerson’s bedside, Alvin pulls up the footstool and puts the pen and notebook in front of him, intending to use it. He faces his father, and says, “Tell me your ideas, I could write them down, and–”

Gerson interrupts him: “‘Fraid it doesn’t work that way, Alvin!”

Panel 3 - Gerson holds up both of his hands and smiles as he explains: “My tales are between my soul and the pen. You’ll need to make your own.”

Panel 4 - Gerson watches as Alvin, tears in his eyes, looks down at the notebook and pen in hand. “I–I cannot…” Alvin starts, looking despondent.

Panel 5 - Side view of Alvin as tears continue to stream from his eyes. He says, “Not without you!” In the background, in grayscale, there is a scene from Alvin’s memory: Gerson reading a book to his two children by the fire. Gerson looks happy, and both kids are enraptured, with Alvin clinging to a cat doll that looks like Seam.

Panel 6 - Closeup on Gerson, his face now more worried and pleading towards Alvin. Gerson says, “Y-you can… It’s all I ask…”

Panel 7 - Gerson turns away as he’s again interrupted by a round of terrible sounding coughs. Alvin stands holding the notebook and pen in the foreground.

Page 6

Panel 1 - Horror comes over Alvin’s face as his father continues to cough loudly, clutching his chest. He realizes that his father might be close to death now.

Panel 2 - Wider overhead shot as Alvin turns away from Gerson, looking frantically around the room. “No! Not yet!--” he says desperately. Gerson is still racked with coughs.

Panel 3 - Closeup as Alvin grabs the candles from the desk–

Panel 4 - And then pulls a book from the bookshelf, with the delta rune on the front –

Panel 5 - And then finally pulls out what appears to be a beaded rosary, with the delta rune made of beads at the end of it.

Panel 6 - Wider shot as Alvin places the objects in front of him, candles to the side, holy book in front of him. Gerson can only lay there as he does so, trying to catch his breath.

Panel 7 - Front view of Alvin as he clasps his hands together in front of his face, the rosary threaded between his fingers. He closes his eyes and bows his head in prayer. “Angel…Angel above! Please, heed your servant’s prayer!”

Page 7

Panel 1 - Closeup on Alvin as he continues to pray, the candles glowing around him. He keeps his eyes shut even as tears well in them. “I know you call back my father’s soul, but please! Please refrain!”

Panel 2 - Gerson desperately reaches a hand out towards his son, shaking, but unable to reach him. In the foreground, the fountain pen sits on the footstool between them. “A-Alvin…” Gerson’s voice is shaky now.

Panel 3 - Aerial shot as Alvin prays over the book, and Gerson is still confined to the bed, only able to watch. “This world still NEEDS his gifts!” Alvin says. “I pray to you, don’t take them from us now!” The shadows around Alvin start to grow strange, not matching the candlelight.

Panel 4 - Gerson continues to hold out a hand, now not looking well. “No…”

Panel 5 - Closeup on the candles as they spark to life, now glowing stronger.

Panel 6 - A strange bright glow begins to emanate from Gerson. Behind him, the books in the bookcase all rattle and shift as if in a localized earthquake. The colors of the room grow brighter and stranger.

Panel 7 - Still reaching out a desperate hand, Gerson lets out a soft breath. His soul, an upside-down white heart, comes up from his body. On the footstool in the foreground, the fountain pen also begins to levitate, as if by magic.

Page 8

Panel 1 - Front shot of Alvin as he continues to pray desperately, his head bowed and hands together. “Grant us the love shown between his soul and the pen!” Behind him, the colors have grown stark and bright, and a shadow resembling the angel looms behind Alvin.

Panel 2 - Alvin looks up to discover something amazing and terrible: Gerson’s soul has been drawn to the fountain pen, and begins to flow down into it.

Panel 3 - Closeup as Gerson’s soul is completely absorbed into the pen, hovering high over the bed.

Panel 4 - The candles turn strange blue and pink colors, and the books in the bookcase shake and rattle relentlessly.

Panel 5 - Extreme closeup on Alvin’s eyes as he sees this miracle; the light of his father’s soul reflected in his eyes.

Panel 6 - Closeup as the pen suddenly drops, and clatters back on to the footstool.

Panel 7 - Wide aerial shot as the room very suddenly goes completely dark and silent, the bright colors and lights now gone. Alvin stands up and backs away from the bed, still clutching the rosary, his face filled with horror. Gerson now lies unmoving in his bed, having passed away.

Page 9

Panel 1 - The same shot as the first panel of the first page, with the other monsters waiting in the hallway. No one says anything as Alvin emerges from the bedroom, leaning on the door for support, his head bowed. Everyone in the room knows that Gerson has just passed, although they don’t know the rest.

Panel 2 - An establishing shot of the forest and mountains surrounding Hometown…the skies are a dark, gloomy gray.

Panel 3 - Above shot of Gerson’s newly dug grave. At the bottom of a small pit lies Gerson’s hammer, covered in his dust. Politics Bear stands over the grave, holding a shovel.

Panel 4 - Closeup as the shovel begins to dump dirt over the fresh grave.

Panel 5 - Another closeup of Gerson’s headstone, with bundles of fresh funerary flowers laid in front of it.

Panel 6 - Wide shot of Gerson’s funeral. Alvin stands over his father’s grave, reading last rites from one of his books. Lots of monsters are in attendance, including Alphys and Undyne, Napstablook, the Holiday and Dreemurr families, and more. A very young Kris, Noelle and Asriel are present, but Dess is not. Everyone is dressed in dark mourning attire.

Panel 7 - After the funeral, Toriel approaches Alvin and puts a hand on his shoulder. She says, “Beautifully said, Alvin. I know your father is watching proudly by the side of the Angel.” Alvin looks distant and mournful.

Panel 8 - A closeup of the fountain pen laying forgotten on the desk in Gerson’s room. Gerson is, perhaps, not actually with the Angel right now.

Panel 9 - Back at the funeral, Alvin bows his head, eyes closed. “You are too kind, Toriel,” he says.

Page 10

Panels 1-3 - We see the seasons pass through the changing of the trees…from the barren white trees of winter, to colorful pink blooms for spring, to the bright oranges and reds of fall.

Panel 4 - Sometime much later, Alvin again enters his father’s old room, alone.

Panel 5 - Much of Gerson’s room has remained untouched. The fountain pen still sits on his old writing desk in the foreground. Alvin steps inside, and carefully turns on the overhead light. “It’s been years,” he says.

Panel 6 - Alvin cautiously approaches the pen, which seems to loom large ahead of him. He hesitantly picks it up.

Panel 7 - Alvin places some blank pages on the writing desk. “Surely…”

Panel 8 - Alvin sits in front of the blank pages, still holding the pen cautiously. “Surely by now, I can do it.” He’s going to try writing.

Panel 9 - Closeup as Alvin dips the pen in the inkwell, and it comes away full of ink.

Panel 10 - Closeup as Alvin holds the pen over the blank page. The pen trembles slightly in his grip.

Panel 11 - Alvin tries to put pen to paper, but he’s still trembling. He looks down with great anxiety. “I…I…”

Panel 12 - Closeup on Alvin’s face as he looks more panicked, shaking and sweating. In the background, his memory of his father’s soul being absorbed into the pen plays back at him. This is still his fault.

Panel 13 - Closeup again as Alvin’s hand shakes uncontrollably, and the pen with it. Ink spots begin to dapple the blank page–

Page 11

Panel 1 - Alvin’s shaking hand accidentally knocks over the inkwell, and it spills black ink all over the blank page.

Panel 2 - Alvin picks up the ruined paper and folds it in half to try and stem the ink spillage. He quietly curses to himself.

Panel 3 - Closeup as Alvin holds his head in his hand. It’s clear that this isn’t going to work. “I can’t…”

Panel 4 - Closeup as Alvin puts the ink-stained paper back on the desk, and quickly grabs up the pen and inkwell.

Panel 5 - Taking the pen and inkwell, Alvin exits his father’s room again, head bowed and expression sad.

Panel 6 - Left behind, the folded paper slowly peels apart and unfolds…

Panel 7 - To reveal that the spilled ink has created a rorschach ink blot image of a titan.

Page 12

Panel 1 - Wide shot as Alvin trudges down the streets of Hometown, alone. His head his bowed, and he’s still clutching the articles he took with him. It’s almost nighttime, and the sky is dark. “I cannot bear this kind of burden,” he says to himself.

Panel 2 - Shot from behind Alvin as he approaches the school building. It’s dark, and no students or teachers should be there. “Maybe you belong where you always have…”

Panel 3 - Now indoors, Alvin continues down the empty hallway towards a particular destination. “With the youth.”

Panel 4 - Alvin opens the door to the storage closet at the end of the hall. It opens with a soft creak. “Teaching. Telling stories,” Alvin continues to say to himself.

Panel 5 - Alvin places the fountain pen and inkwell on a small shelf in the storage closet. The closet is almost completely black.

Panel 6 - The inkwell and pen are left on the shelf as Alvin closes the door behind him. His expression is mournful as he locks these reminders of his father away. “Inspiring someone better suited,” he says, hoping this is a suitable escape of his responsibility.

Page 13

Panel 1 - But in the storage closet, the objects are subject to something else already there: the grand Dark Fountain. The pen, ink and papers all fall into the darkness of the fountain–

Panel 2 - And start to change, the pen seemingly turning into liquid itself–

Panel 3 - As the pen falls deeper and deeper into the dark, the liquid begins to reshape into something new, something resembling a person–

Panel 4 - Until it lands on empty ground, now a person in knight’s armor, knelt over and holding his head in his hands.

Panel 5 - The Knight comes to, and starts to become more aware. He’s dressed in armor resembling the dark metallic sheen of the fountain pen, his mask resembling the pen tip. A bright deep red cape flows from his shoulders, and a single red-orange feather tops the helmet. “Where…am I?”

Panel 6 - The Knight again touches his helmet with both hands, as if not sure exactly what he is.

Panel 7 - Interior shot of the helmet, which reveals a figure much like Gerson…but much younger, more idealized-looking, with colors not matching his actual self. A Dark World interpretation. “WHY am I…?”

Panel 8 - A closeup of the Knight’s hand, slightly trembling.

Panel 9 - The Knight stares down at his own hands as realization begins to flood him, or at least something that looks like realization. “Wait. I see why. I KNOW.” he says.

Page 14

Panel 1 - The Knight holds up his hand, and a sword appears in it in a flash of lights. The sword resembles the tip of a fountain pen, almost split neatly in two. “I serve the Lightners! That is my purpose!” Says the Knight.

Panel 2 - The Knight draws the sword back with great fervor and determination. His thoughts echo around him in strong letters: “A purpose so bright, so clear…”

Panel 3 - In the final panel, the Knight drives the sword into the ground, causing an eruption of black ink-like material to spew from the ground…the creation of a new Dark Fountain. In the fountain itself, words reflect his purpose: “I EXIST TO GIVE THEM STORIES FOREVER.”

#lynx art #deltarune #deltarune fancomic #gerson boom #father alvin #the knight #and a host of other very short cameos #cw: parental death #cw: character death #HOLY CRAP I CAN'T BELIEVE THIS IS DONE #this one took so dang long to do #I may have uh. Gone overboard on the colors there honestly #but yeah I've had this rattling around in my head in terms of Knight theories forever #and FINALLY got the actual Scene for it in my head enough to express that in art

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