#neutral memory

[enchanted-book]

i want to say i was 6 or 7. i was at church on a thursday evening, for some sort of meeting my mom was involved in.

bafflingly, the door to the sunday school room was unlocked.

so, a short story shorter, i broke into the craft supplies and poured a bottle of glitter on my scalp.

[kirby-the-gorb]

[hima-matta04]

Can I request hcs about what the homicipher boys would be like if you had a significant other who didn't treat you well in the human world?

Why yes of course 😘💍

Comfort After a Bad Memory

(characters mentioned: Mr. Crawling, Mr. Scarletella, Mr. Silvair, Mr. Chopped, Mr. Gap, Mr. Hood)

𝕄𝕣. ℂ𝕣𝕒𝕨𝕝𝕚𝕟𝕘

He picked up on every little change in you. It started when he noticed how sometimes you would daze off. Lost in thought, you didnt even hear Mr. Crawling creeping his way towards you.

The gasp that left your throat as he suddenly placed his hand over yours, breaking your train of thought, confirmed his concern. “You sad.”

when you lowered your chin he tilted his head. “Why sad?” He lovingly placed his cheek on your knee.

He couldn’t quite understand what you were trying to say. The only words you knew to say were “they hurt me, make me sad. Been long time, still sad.”, he wrapped his arms around you, not knowing the concept of being mistreated in a relationship, but still supportive.

your eyes welled from tears of the past, but they were accompanied by a warm feeling. Mr. Crawling would never leave you alone and sad. “no sad anymore. Me make happy. Me like you. Me care you. No make sad.” He cheered innocent, not knowing even how someone could hurt such a beautiful creature like yourself.

𝕄𝕣. 𝕊𝕔𝕒𝕣𝕝𝕖𝕥𝕖𝕝𝕝𝕒

He can practically read your mind. He studied you for so long, not only your physical appearance, but also your manners and body language.

he would 100% already know whats wrong when he first see the look in your eyes. Depending on the mood he’s in, he’ll either comfort you first, sweeping you into his arms and letting you cry into him, then find the person that hurt you, or vice-versa.

let’s say got you to give a detailed description of the heartbreaker. He would find himself in the human world, searching, lerking, stalking. Scarletella would eventually return litarally with blood on his hands. he would waste not a single second to lift you up and hold you sweetly with your arms and legs wrapped around him. His words were sweet as he reassured you that tou are worth more to him than any diamond or treasure that could ever be discovered.

his hands softly stroke your hair as you cry, hushing you softly and doing what you deserved in the first place. Loving you unconditionally without question.

𝕄𝕣. 𝕊𝕚𝕝𝕧𝕒𝕚𝕣

You’re his darling. And i firmly believe that he would 1000% call you that if you taught him.

you came to him, with teary eyes and your lip quivering. He rushed towards you, crouching to your height to get a good look at you. “What wrong?” He would ask as he uses his finger to wipe your tears.

He understands a little better than most. No time gets wasted on him lifting you up and setting you gently on a couch while he scavenges for something to cheer you up. He returns with something to eat that doesn’t exactly look edible, but it didnt taste half bad.

he holds you in his lap while you rant and ramble. Fingers gently brushing through your hair as he listens. The lights in the room are just dim enough for you to get sleepy. As you rest your head on his chest, he gently rubs your arm and wispers love affirming words to you.

this was the most perfect way to fall asleep.

𝕄𝕣. ℂ𝕙𝕠𝕡𝕡𝕖𝕕

He’s a personal, portable therapist for all of your problems. He could listen to you all day if you coyld speak for that long. Naturally, when you rushed to him for the daily ramble, he caught how your normal ranting turned a little quiet.

your mood was off when you began to speak of the pain you went through in a past relationship. He conforted you, telling you that you are amazing and worth way better than that trash.

Once you were reassured, he felt himself being hoisted into the air like a teddy bear. He enjoyed being there for you. Especially when you cradled him liks a support animal.

𝕄𝕣. 𝔾𝕒𝕡

It all started when you sunk back against the wall behind you, not noticing the hole that your ear was now right right to. That was until you heard that eerie, grating voice.

“want heart…you give?” You looked over and saw that stupid shit eating grin. At that point you let him have it.

yoy rambled on and on about every issue and thought that lingered on your mind, pouring your heart out to him. He said he wanted your heart but not like this!

his smile quickly faded once you said a few words that he could just barely understand, making him feel bad for you. He reached his hand out to place it on your shoulder, now invested in the story.

maybe he wasnt so annoying after all. He still wanted your actual heart though.

𝕄𝕣. ℍ𝕠𝕠𝕕

(idk why the ‘H’ looks like that wtf)

He finds you crying in a room all by yourself. When he rushes over towards you, his heart practically melts at your pitiful expression, quickly scooping you up in his arms and cradling you.

“you hurt? What wrong? Tell me.” He’s very worried about you, gently checking for injuries. A soft, relieved sigh leaves his mouth as you confirm no physical damage.

He’s very patient and caring while you try to explain what happened in his language, occasionally slipping up which he catches and gently corrects earning a displeased stare from your teary eyes each time.

He places sweet kisses on your face after drying your tears. At this point you’re all cried out and tired. He totes you around with him as you sleep gebtly in his protective arms before he places one last kiss on your forehead.

[give-grce]

manifest 2025 🤞🏽

[angelfragil]

Mi dulce y preciada ❀ᮬ galería

♬ ♫ llena de amor

[aventurineswife]

Hi, can I request headcanons for a memorykeeper!reader x boothill, sunday and any of the boys you want? It's okay if not :D

To Be Remembered

Tags: Boothill x Reader, Sunday x Reader, Memokeeper!Reader, Slow Burn, Angst with Hopeful Undertones, Themes of Loss, Revenge, and Redemption, Found Family Themes, Mutual Understanding & Comfort, Subtle Romantic Undertones, Exploration of Memory & Identity.

Warnings: Mentions of Death & Loss, Survivor’s Guilt & Trauma Themes, Violence & Gunfights, Existential Themes (Questioning mortality, identity, and the nature of memories), Emotional Vulnerability, Mild Religious & Philosophical Themes.

Boothill is a man consumed by revenge, but when he meets you—a wandering Memokeeper—he can’t help but be intrigued. Someone who treasures memories above all else? In a way, you remind him of himself. After all, his vengeance is fueled by memories of a home and family that no longer exist.

He’s wary at first, suspecting you might be another IPC informant. But when you speak of the transient nature of existence and your quest to preserve the memories of those who might otherwise be forgotten, something in him softens. You understand loss in a way few do.

You offer to record his story, to make sure it isn’t lost to time. Boothill scoffs—he ain’t lookin’ for no legend, just blood on his hands. But later, when he’s sitting by a fire, staring at the stars, he wonders if maybe… maybe having someone remember him for something more than destruction wouldn’t be so bad.

He tests you in his own way, asking about the most thrilling, sorrowful, and ridiculous memories you’ve collected. He listens with an unreadable expression, then grins, sharp-toothed and dangerous. “Damn, darlin’, I hope you got room for a few more.”

Despite his rough nature, Boothill is surprisingly protective of you. “Ain’t no point collectin’ memories if you ain’t alive to tell ‘em,” he mutters, pulling you behind cover when a shootout erupts. He’s reckless with himself but careful with you—perhaps because he knows memories are fragile things, and he doesn’t want to see yours end too soon.

Sometimes, when he’s feeling particularly bold, he asks what memories of him you’ve collected so far. You tease him, listing every gunfight, every smirk, every reckless stunt. But when you add, “The way your voice softens when you talk about home,” he goes quiet, staring into the distance.

One night, as he leans against his hoverbike, he asks, “If I die, will you remember me?” It’s the first time he’s ever sounded uncertain. You promise you will. And for the first time in a long while, Boothill smiles—not his usual cocky grin, but something softer, almost peaceful.

Sunday is accustomed to navigating between dreams and reality, so the concept of you—a being who exists through memory—intrigues him deeply. He sees you as something ephemeral, neither fully of the material world nor entirely beyond it.

When you first meet, he studies you carefully, eyes unreadable. “A being who preserves memories, yet does not live bound to them. How fascinating…” He’s hesitant to trust at first, unsure if your presence is a blessing or a test of his convictions.

He often muses on your existence, speaking in poetic riddles. “Do you find comfort in your immortality, or does it feel like grasping at echoes in the wind?” He asks, his halo casting a faint glow in the dim light.

You offer to record his memories, but Sunday hesitates. His past is tangled, filled with choices he isn’t proud of. He fears being remembered for his failures more than being forgotten. Yet, late at night, when the weight of his past settles upon him, he finds himself whispering stories to you. Not grand tales of leadership, but quiet moments—watching the Charmony doves, the way the festival lights flickered, the laughter of children he swore to protect.

You notice how he carries guilt like an old wound, how his wings tremble slightly when he speaks of the Sweetdream Paradise. One evening, you tell him: “Memories do not judge, they simply exist. Let them be, Sunday.” He falls silent, staring at you for a long moment before nodding, as if accepting a truth he had long denied himself.

He’s deeply curious about the memories you collect, often asking about the happiest, most sorrowful, and most peculiar moments you’ve recorded. His fascination is both intellectual and deeply personal—perhaps, in understanding how others live, he hopes to reconcile the contradictions within himself. He listens with quiet intensity, golden eyes flickering with emotions he rarely allows himself to express.

You notice the way he reacts to certain stories—the warmth in his voice when you describe a small town’s festival, the quiet longing when you recount a tale of lovers who found peace beyond tragedy. “You are drawn to stories of redemption,” you observe one evening. He offers a soft smile, one tinged with melancholy. “Perhaps because I have yet to find my own.”

Though Sunday maintains an air of detachment, you catch the moments where his guard falters. The way his wings twitch slightly when you stand too close. The brief, fleeting touches—his gloved hand grazing yours when you pass him a book, his shoulder leaning into yours when watching the stars.

One day, he turns to you and asks, “If I were to fade, would you keep my memory?” The weight in his voice is heavy, as if he is afraid of the answer. You meet his gaze and tell him, “I would not let you be forgotten.” His breath hitches, and for once, Sunday allows himself to believe in something beyond dreams.

You share a quiet companionship, a mutual understanding that goes beyond words. He speaks in riddles and philosophy, you answer with the weight of history and remembrance. It is a dance between past and present, between ephemeral existence and eternal memory.

And perhaps, in the echoes of the stories you collect, Sunday begins to believe that he, too, can move forward—not just as a ghost of his past, but as someone who still has a future worth remembering.

[saetiate]

if you really pissed sae off, and i mean really pissed off and you have a longstanding relationship with him, he pulls you by your hair at the nape of your neck and forces you to look at him. he doesn't raise his voice but there's an underlying snarl to the way he speaks to you. that's as close as you get to seeing him angry

[clownowo]

i can't help but think Ralsei's crush on Kris is just deeply uncomfortable for them

[i-cast-zone-of-truth]

Miles' view of Ivan is so cousinbrother warped it's not always easy to spot, but Ivan is like. Actually great! Does he whine? Does he often present as, let's say, a dumbass? Absolutely. Does he not also ALWAYS buckle down loyally when there's real trouble? Have the indignities of being Miles' cousin not rolled right off of his ego, leaving it neatly intact? I ask you: has he not perfected the art of minding his own goddamn business?

[dollsome-does-tumblr]

do you think it's weird or unfounded to not want to use chat gpt due to the environmental cost? i feel really strongly that i want to completely avoid it (and, like, recreational/work related ai in general) for that reason, but people seem to think this is really weird when i express that as a reason. but i feel like i should be able to make this call if i want to and that's a good reason to not use it. i don't know?!?!?! i don't get anything anymore?!?!?!

[enchanted-book]

the production of my church’s christmas play for one year was a BIIIG one. there’s lots of stuff i could write about, but i’ll save those for the add-ons because im tired right now. the main one on my mind is the making of the angel costumes.

i have no idea how old i was, older than a toddler but not yet a 3rd grader schooler, so you do the math. but, everybody that was my age was cast to play the role of an angel. which is a nicer way of casting a bunch of kids with stage fright as bushes.

because of this, we had so, so many angels to make costumes for. and we weren’t really overflowing with cash at the time, it was a bit after 2008 (probably.) and this was a free church production. so, the solution my mom came up with… was cardboard and plastic bags.

cardboard, to make the general shape of the wings, and then gluing a bunch of white strips of plastic to them to make them into feathers. ah, as for the robes of the angels? those were also, plastic… bags…

for one of the ‘play preparation’ nights, a bunch of people of varying ages were all gathered in the big cafeteria, with tables set up and people frantically making a bunch of these costumes. using. plastic. bags.

being in the cafe was so noisy that night i couldnt STAND it, but i was really excited to have wings i could wear, so i grinned and beared it.

[randomly--accessed--memories]

I’m curious as to why this wasn’t discovered before now, but it feels like it belongs here

[lionbearfox]

girls when they walk into grim and excruciating fates with their heads held high...

[witheredgardenparty]

Yanderes as wife guys. That's it. That's the entire thought.

[zylphiacrowley]

Through the Gates of Gold

<previous - next>

[aventurineswife]

"A Symptom Of Something" - Anaxagorus x Astrologist! Reader

(This one definitely takes a darker shift, the music alone speaks volumes. You mentioned not being the best with writing from music alone as a prompt, so I'm here to train you. Can also use the titles as ref!)

“Memento Mori, My Star”

Summary: In the ruined halls of the once-sacred Grove of Epiphany, an injured Astrologist stumbles upon forbidden truths—and Anaxagoras. As celestial alignments and soulbound experiments unravel around them, Anaxagoras must choose between shielding the Astrologist from divine retribution or allowing them to glimpse the truth no mortal was meant to see. Caught in a moment between blood, memory, and fate, they confront mortality, their bond, and the impossible weight of knowledge.

Tags: Anaxa x Reader, Astrologist!Reader, Angst with Comfort, Forbidden Knowledge, Protective Behavior, Slow Burn, Emotional Baggage, Soul Experiments, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Traumatic Affection, Experimental Magic, Academic Heresy, Vanitas Themes, Flawed Genius, Memory as Narrative.

Warnings: Blood and injury, Body horror (mild, related to magical experimentation), Existential themes (mortality, divine defiance), Psychological distress, Trauma mentions (implied past enslavement, loss, manipulation), Power imbalance (emotional vulnerability, not abusive), Heavy introspection and emotional intensity.

Tagslist: @sewoui, @tremendoustragedybard

The Grove was burning.

Soot choked the skies where once constellations shimmered. The sigils engraved on its marble archways flickered one last time before crumbling. Between the tremble of the stars and the shriek of alchemical steel being ripped asunder, you found him—bent over the shattered remains of a Coreflame crucible.

"Anaxa!"

He didn’t look back.

Your fingers, cracked from defending your ward only hours before, now trembled for a different reason. The man before you — one eye veiled behind a soul-warped eyepatch, the other a hollow ocean of light and torment — moved like a marionette without strings.

"You shouldn’t be here," he murmured.

You stepped forward. "Neither should you."

He laughed. Low. Unstable. The kind of sound that made your bones ache. "And yet, here we are. Two symptoms of something wrong."

You didn't have time to argue before the structure behind him groaned like a dying god. You lunged. Pulled him back. Rubble collapsed where he stood.

For a moment, his forehead leaned against yours. Eyes closed. Breath shallow.

"Did you see it?" he whispered.

"What?"

"The truth. Burning through the veil."

You stared at him. Ash clung to his lashes. Gold blood still oozed from his knuckles.

You wanted to say: I only saw you breaking.

But instead, you replied, "I saw the stars fall."

Days later, you sat in the hollowed remains of the observatory. The dome had shattered long ago, and yet the night sky still spilled overhead in fractured beauty.

He sat beside you. For once, silent.

In your lap, the child you protected slept, fevered from the lingering poison gas of the Titans' failed countermeasures.

"You once called me a liar of light," he said, finally.

You hummed. "And you called me an obedient machine of starlight."

He tilted his head. "You weren’t wrong."

"Neither were you."

You looked to him. His eyepatch shimmered, and you wondered if he could see through your silence, your guilt, your clenching heart.

"They said this world is a Vanitas," you whispered. "But I never imagined it would take everything I cared for and leave behind... this."

His gaze didn’t waver. "Then paint something new. You have the stars still."

You scoffed. "You don't get to say that. Not when you almost let yourself die back there."

He reached over. His gloved hand brushed your temple, then down to your jaw. A careful caress. You flinched at first. Then leaned.

"If I die, remember this," he said softly. "Even when the truth is a blasphemy, it's still worth dying for."

"And what if I think you are worth living for?"

He paused. That mask of arrogance slipped.

His voice cracked. "Then perhaps... I have one truth left worth defending."

The child now slept safely in a hidden sanctuary, your blade set aside.

You and Anaxa stood beneath a dying star, its light pulsing slow and broken. It was the same star you charted when you first met him. The one he called the "chained god."

"It’s beautiful," you murmured.

"It’s dying."

"So are we all."

His eyes met yours. "Would you still follow me, if I declared war on the divine?"

"Yes."

"Even if I turned into a god myself?"

You stepped closer. Pressed your palm to the mark (idk what it's called?) on his chest.

"Only if you let me be the one to remind you what it means to be human."

He laughed. This time, it was soft. Real.

He took your hand. And in a rare gesture of fragility, he pressed his lips to your knuckles.

"Then promise me," he whispered. "That if I become a monster, you'll be the one to kill me."

You shook your head.

"No, Anaxagorus. I'll do worse. I'll love you."

And in the silence that followed, the dying star pulsed one final time.

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