Heyy it’s been a while! I hope you doing my well 🩵
I was wondering if you could do a memokeeper reader with Dan heng when sleeping and reader is protecting him from bad dreams like bad memories from past and reader uses their powers to make sure he has good dreams 🩵🩵🩵
- Starry Anon✨( can I be called that btw 😅)
“In the Garden of Your Dreams”
Summary: As a Memokeeper of the Garden of Recollection, you have the power to sense, shape, and protect memories. Dan Heng, burdened by the weight of his past and the nightmares that follow him, rarely allows anyone close—yet he lets you rest at his side. When one of his old memories turns into a nightmare, you slip into his dream and gently rewrite the fear into peace. Wrapped in a starlit dreamscape made from fragments of his forgotten childhood, you guard him from the shadows of his past, ensuring he sleeps safely for once. Through the quiet intimacy of shared memories, Dan Heng begins to realize how deeply he trusts you… and how much he wants you to stay.
Tags: Dan Heng x Reader, Memokeeper!Reader, Hurt/Comfort, Soft Romance, Dream Protection, Gentle Intimacy, Emotional Vulnerability, Angst with a Happy Ending, Protective Reader, Dan Heng being soft.
Warnings: Mentions of Trauma, Nightmares/Anxiety, Implied Past Violence (Non-graphic), Emotional Angst, Soft Physical Affection (hand-holding, leaning, etc.).
A/N: Sure, you can be called that! :DD
For someone who no longer had a physical heart, you learned long ago that the universe still found ways to make you feel something inside your chest.
Tonight, that feeling steadied itself to another rhythm.
Dan Heng lay beside you in the dim cabin of the Astral Express. The faint glow of passing stars slipped through the window and brushed over his peaceful, though tense, features. His spear leaned against the wall, his coat folded neatly on the chair. Everything was arranged with the careful precision he applied to all things. Yet despite the quiet room, his body remained rigid, his breath shallow, and his brow slightly furrowed.
A dream was pulling at him. A memory was clawing its way up from the depths he buried them in.
You sensed it before he even stirred.
You always did.
Being a Memokeeper meant feeling the shape of memory like others felt temperature or touch. Dan Heng's memories were sharp-edged things, shaped by guilt and loneliness, softened only in the rare moments he allowed others close. He never asked you to intervene. He never even asked for comfort. He merely tolerated it—quiet, grateful, but hesitant.
But he allowed you to be beside him.
And to a being like you, who had no flesh yet shaped one only to be near him, that meant more than any spoken confession.
A faint tremor moved through his breathing. His fingers curled against the sheets.
You reached out and placed your hand lightly over his.
Immediately, the dream shifted. You saw a flicker—not as an illusion or imagination, but as the raw imprint of memory trying to become something more permanent. A shadowy figure chased him across a fractured sky. The echo of hatred rang in a voice he knew all too well. The sting of failure and guilt hollowed him from the inside out. Old blood. Old pain.
Dan Heng's breath hitched.
You whispered softly, your voice a breeze between worlds.
“Easy, Dan Heng. I'm here.”
His fingers tightened around yours unconsciously.
That alone was enough permission.
Closing your eyes, you let your consciousness slip—not away from your form, but through it. Memokeepers were not tied to flesh, and though you wore this mortal shape for his sake, your true nature shimmered beneath it like water under moonlight. With a thought, with a breath, you followed the thread of his memory inward.
And the world around you changed.
The cabin dissolved into a storm of broken recollection: a desert sky in one direction, a collapsing palace in another, the roar of an unknown beast, the taste of regret hanging in the air. Memories never presented themselves cleanly; they were mosaics, fragments drifting like dust in the cosmic wind.
And in the middle of it all—Dan Heng, alone.
He stood there unaware of your presence, shoulders stiff as if bracing against a blow. The figure before him—blurry and faceless—lunged.
You stepped between them.
Your presence, shaped from Remembrance itself, shimmered like luminous thread.
The figure split apart, dissolving into dust.
Dan Heng froze, confused. His dream state didn’t register you as you truly were; he only saw you as he always saw you—grounding, gentle, quietly luminous in a way you never explained.
“…[Name]?” he breathed, his voice echoing as if he stood in a cave.
“It’s only a dream,” you murmured, letting the false ground soften beneath your feet until it became something gentler—an endless meadow, quiet and pale with starlight. “Not a memory. Not tonight.”
He looked around, tension slowly leaving his posture as the chaos dissipated. “You… changed it.”
“Only a little.” You smiled faintly. “You were hurting.”
“I’m fine.”
“You don’t have to be.”
He paused—not rejecting, not accepting, only trying to understand. That was Dan Heng, always thoughtful to a fault. Always trying to bear his storms alone.
You stepped closer, the dream adjusting automatically to make space for you as if even the realm of memory knew your place beside him.
“This place…” he murmured, looking around. “It feels peaceful.”
“I made it from one of your childhood memories,” you said softly. “One you don’t look at anymore.”
His eyes widened slightly. “You saw that?”
“I only borrowed it.” You brushed your fingers lightly against his sleeve. “I’m not here to take. Only to protect.”
He looked down at your hand, then at you. His expression softened—just barely, but enough to reveal the vulnerable earnestness beneath his cool exterior.
“…Thank you.”
The words were quiet but real and heavy with sincerity.
“I’ll make sure you stay here,” you said, lifting your hand to cup his cheek, your thumb brushing gently along his jaw. “At least until morning.”
His eyes fluttered shut as he leaned into your touch—a rare surrender, one he would never allow while awake.
“You don’t need to use your power for my sake,” he murmured.
“But I want to.” You smiled. “Memories define existence, Dan Heng. It’s the one truth my people believe above all else. I just… want yours to hold more than fear.”
He opened his eyes again. They were clearer now, starlight reflecting in them as if your presence calmed the storm inside him.
“You already do,” he said quietly.
Your nonhuman heart swelled.
“Then rest,” you whispered. “Let me guard you tonight.”
The dreamscape shimmered gently around the two of you. You guided him to sit in the grass. The soft wind, created from a half-forgotten moment of peace, combed through his hair. When you settled beside him, he leaned against your shoulder without hesitation.
“[Name],” he said after a moment, his voice low. “Do Memokeepers ever get tired?”
“Tired of what?”
“Carrying the memories of others.”
You considered it. “We don’t experience them the same way you do,” you said. “They don’t become burdens. They become stories.”
“Even painful ones?”
“Especially the painful ones.”
He was quiet for a long moment.
“…I don’t want you to see mine.”
You smiled gently. “And yet I already have.”
“That doesn’t bother you?”
“No.” You took his hand. “Because they mean you existed. And that you survived.”
His fingers curled around yours once more—but deliberately this time, not from fear.
“You speak like someone who’s seen lifetimes,” he said.
“I have,” you admitted. “But even after all of them, you’re still…” You hesitated. Still what?
Still someone I choose. Still someone I want to protect. Still someone whose memories I want to keep safe.
“…someone worth remembering,” you finished softly.
His breath hitched—a soft, almost imperceptible sound, but you caught it easily.
“You shouldn’t say things like that,” he murmured.
“Why not?”
“Because I’ll believe them.”
You laughed quietly. “Good.”
The dream around you grew even calmer, the meadow extending endlessly beneath a gentle star-filled sky. The shadows that once lurked at the edges were gone, dissolved by your presence. He rested his forehead lightly against your shoulder, his breath evening out.
“Stay,” he whispered, the word barely audible.
“I'm not going anywhere.”
You wrapped your arm around him, guiding the dream into a serene blur—soft light, warm breeze, the faint scent of flowers he once liked as a child. You shaped the dream into safety and warmth, into something he deserved but never allowed himself.
His posture finally relaxed completely.
His heartbeat steadied.
And for the rest of the night, you kept watch over his memories—not altering the truths of his past, not erasing the weight he carried, but simply guarding him from the nightmares that tried to take root.
You were a Memokeeper.
And for him, you would be a keeper of peace.
When morning arrived, Dan Heng woke slowly, his hand still loosely tangled with yours. He blinked once, twice—the softness in his eyes matched the calm you had woven for him.
“…I slept well,” he murmured, almost surprised.
“I’m glad.”
He hesitated before adding softly:
“Stay with me again tonight?”
And you smiled, feeling that phantom heartbeat pulse warmly once more.
*barges in your room and slams a suitcase full of money* quiiick!! I need a mydeimos x memokeeper!reader!! I need to get my funsized friend weak in the knees for his favorite fictional men again!!! I dont care that that simp is planning his revenge, i need to mercilessly tease him!
-Smooch Anon 💋
The Last Flame of Remembrance
Tags: Mydei x Reader, Memokeeper!Reader, Romance, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Domestic Life, Fluff, Slow Burn, Light Spice, Emotional Depth.
Warnings: Mild Violence, Blood, Death (Mentioned), Emotional Trauma, Hurt/Comfort Themes, Minor Injury, Implied Sexual Content (Nothing Explicit), War Themes.
A/N: I'll take that money bag. 🫳💼 And hope your friend enjoys this! ;)
You first met Mydei not on a battlefield, but in the quiet ruins of an old Kremnoan outpost, where you were sifting through the remnants of carved stone tablets and forgotten letters.
He mistook you for a scavenger until you recited—word-perfect—the names of the twelve warriors who had fallen under his banner. His gaze softened instantly, as if you’d spoken a prayer.
Despite his battle-worn image, Mydei keeps his armor polished and his golden necklace meticulously clean—partly out of habit, partly because you once said “Memories cling to beautiful things longer.”
You’ll find his cape draped over your shoulders more often than his own. He says it’s because “it’s warmer on you”, but you’ve caught him watching you in it like he’s committing the sight to memory.
Mydei’s idea of “quiet evenings” involves sitting on the balcony of your home in Okhema, him mending a strap on his gauntlet while you tell him the stories you’ve gathered from other worlds.
Mydei has no fear of death, but he fears being forgotten. You are the only person who can promise him, truthfully, that he never will be. Sometimes, in the dead of night, he wakes you to whisper the names of his comrades—just to hear you repeat them back.
In return, he demands to know your memories. Not just the grand adventures, but the small things: the taste of the first fruit you ever ate, the exact sound of rain in the Garden of Recollection, the first time you realized you were not entirely mortal anymore.
When the two of you are intimate, it’s as much about sensation as it is about recording the moment—he murmurs descriptions into your ear, as if ensuring the memory is etched perfectly in both your minds.
Mydei’s undying nature means he often walks away from battles drenched in blood—sometimes his own, often not. You’ve seen him arrive at the door without a word, collapsing against you. You hold him until his breathing steadies, then let him speak if he chooses.
Once, during a fevered recovery, he thought you were one of his fallen warriors. You didn’t correct him until he was lucid again, because you knew the comfort that recognition gave him.
In moments of grief, he’ll ask you to “keep this one safe” when a comrade falls—trusting you to preserve even the smallest details of their lives.
He teases you for “stealing” his memories when you bring up something he forgot—though you know he rarely forgets anything, he just enjoys hearing you recount it.
You have a shared tradition: after a victory, you mix his favorite drink—pomegranate juice with goat’s milk and cheese—while he tells you the most absurd, exaggerated version of the battle. You never write those versions down, but you remember them perfectly.
Sometimes you catch him smiling faintly when you’re working. When you ask why, he says, “I like seeing the one who carries my life in their hands.”
Mydei’s touch is deliberate—almost reverent—like every brush of his fingers is an inscription. When you’re together in bed, he often traces the same patterns over your skin that mark his chest and arms, quietly naming each line as if binding you to his own story.
He has a habit of biting your shoulder—not out of aggression, but because he once told you “the body remembers pain just as well as pleasure.” You suspect it’s his way of leaving something he knows you’ll never erase.
After, he always asks what you’ll remember most about that night. Sometimes it’s his laugh, sometimes it’s the way his hair fell over your face, sometimes it’s simply him.
Mydei’s immortality means he’s learned patience beyond mortal reckoning—but when he’s with you, it’s like time shrinks and every moment stretches and deepens. His kisses are both fierce and tender, knowing he could hold you forever, yet desperate to capture the fleeting thrill of your living warmth.
After passionate encounters, he often pauses, forehead pressed to yours, eyes searching for traces of memories still shimmering between you. Sometimes, he’ll mark you with a slow, lingering bite or scratch—not to hurt, but as a physical imprint, a sign that you belong to his endless story.
Aventurine, Sunday and Ratio w/ a Memokeeper...? 👀
“Memory is the diary that we all carry about with us”
Tags: Ratio x Reader, Sunday x Reader, Aventurine x Reader, Memokeeper!Reader, Character Study, Existential Themes, Introspection, Emotional Growth, Intellectual Tension, Mysticism, Loss, Haunted Past, Unresolved Regret, Journey of Self-Discovery, Temporal Manipulation
Warnings: Existential Crisis, Trauma, Philosophical Discomfort, Emotional Weight Vulnerability in Characters, Mature Themes (regret, guilt, and self-worth).
Ratio, with his signature plaster sculpture concealing his face and his wavy hair cascading just past his shoulders, was a figure both revered and feared within the Intelligentsia Guild. His sharp eyes, the color of fading twilight with a ring of yellow at their core, saw everything and everyone, evaluating, analyzing, dissecting.
It was here that you, a Memokeeper from the Garden of Recollection, first encountered him.
You had come to this world, as you did with every other, to preserve memories, to seek out moments that spoke of the lives lived, the forgotten faces, and the stars that fell into oblivion. In the endless cycle of existence, you had learned that the only thing that truly mattered was memory. To think, to feel, to exist—those were not just ephemeral things, but imprints on the fabric of reality itself.
But when you met Ratio, it was as if all the weight of time had been condensed into a single moment. He, too, had an unyielding belief in the importance of knowledge, in the idea that ideas, too, were immortal. He understood the power of remembrance, but to him, it was intellect, not memory, that was the truest form of immortality. A fascinating paradox.
"You're a Memokeeper, aren't you?" His voice was smooth, like velvet over steel, his eyes locking onto yours, seeing straight through to your very essence.
You nodded, concealing your true form beneath your disguise, as was customary for those like you. In this world, you were just another scholar, another wanderer with a collection of knowledge to trade. But unlike the others, your knowledge wasn’t of facts or figures. It was of memories, of moments suspended in time, of people long gone and forgotten.
"You believe that memory is everything, don’t you?" Ratio's gaze never wavered, as if he was testing you. "You think that by preserving memory, you preserve the soul of a person. But memories are subjective, fleeting. They are not absolute. Ideas, facts, theories—these are what endure. These are what define existence."
His words were confident, dismissive even. But you knew there was more behind them, a deeper yearning to understand what lay beyond the limits of mortal comprehension. You could see it in the way his hands gestured as he spoke, the sharpness of his thoughts revealing a man who, despite all his brilliance, was searching for something more.
"You misunderstand," you said, your voice calm but full of a quiet intensity. "Memories are the only things that cannot be erased, not by time, not by entropy. They are the proof of existence. Without them, what are we but ghosts, vanishing without a trace?"
Ratio's eyes glinted with something unreadable—was it interest? Curiosity? You couldn’t tell, but it was enough to pique his attention. "And how do you preserve them? What makes your memories so… important?"
You smiled faintly, an ethereal expression. "I don’t just remember, Dr. Ratio. I preserve. Through the Garden of Recollection, I collect and store memories, not just from the world I come from, but from all worlds. I can live through them, feel what they felt, see what they saw. I can carry the memories of thousands, and in doing so, they live on."
For a moment, there was silence. Ratio’s gaze remained fixed on you, his expression unreadable. "And what of your own memories?" he asked, his voice softer now, though still brimming with intensity. "Do you ever remember yourself? Or are you too lost in the memories of others to even recall your own?"
It was a question that struck deeper than you had anticipated. You, who had shed your mortal form long ago to live as a memetic entity, could not remember the life you once lived. The body you had was but a vessel, an illusion of the past. Yet you held the memories of countless lives, each one a thread in the grand tapestry of existence.
"I remember," you said quietly, your voice distant, as if recalling a long-forgotten dream. "But only fragments. I carry the memories of all those I've encountered, of all the lives I've touched. And in that, I live."
Ratio stared at you, his expression unreadable, but there was a flicker in his eyes—a momentary crack in his armor. "Fascinating," he murmured, as if the concept of your existence challenged everything he had ever known. "You are a paradox, then. A being of memory, yet unable to fully grasp your own existence. How… tragic."
You tilted your head slightly. "Perhaps. But in some ways, it’s beautiful. Every life I encounter becomes a part of me, and in that, I become part of them. A perpetual exchange, a never-ending cycle of remembrance."
Ratio’s lips quirked upward slightly, a rare and almost imperceptible smile. "Perhaps," he echoed, his voice tinged with something akin to admiration. "You might be right, after all. Memory is the only true form of immortality. But don’t forget, my Memokeeper, that intellect and knowledge are what shape the universe. Without them, memory would be meaningless."
You met his gaze, a soft chuckle escaping your lips. "And without memory, even the greatest intellects would fade into obscurity, leaving nothing behind."
For a moment, you both stood there, two beings of immense knowledge and power, staring at one another in the midst of a universe that seemed both infinite and fleeting. In that fleeting moment, there was no need for words. You understood each other, in a way that few could.
As you turned to leave, your final words lingered in the air, like a soft melody, echoing across time itself.
"Remember me, Dr. Ratio. After all, that is the only way I can truly exist."
He watched you disappear into the endless flow of time, his mind racing with questions, with curiosity. The Memokeeper had left an impression, a memory etched into his mind. And though Ratio would continue his work, seeking to change the world through intellect and knowledge, something had shifted within him.
Perhaps, in the end, the preservation of memory and the pursuit of knowledge were not so different after all.
The Astral Express hummed with the faint rhythm of its journey through the stars, its steady pulse a stark contrast to the turbulent thoughts that swirled within Sunday’s mind. He stood by the window, watching the unending expanse of the cosmos pass by, his eyes reflecting distant stars. His thoughts were as fractured as ever—an unyielding dissonance between his ideals and the weight of his past. Yet, there was something different now, something new stirring in him, as if the winds of change were gently sweeping through his world.
You, the Memokeeper, stood just a few steps away from him, an enigmatic presence, yet somehow, your existence felt more real than anything else. Your presence was like an anchor in a sea of uncertainty, a testament to a truth he had not yet fully grasped.
To think is to exist.
He had never truly questioned his existence in this way before. For all his lofty ideals about dreams, suffering, and the balance between them, there was something about you—your quiet, eternal purpose—that made him reconsider his place in the universe.
You had explained, on occasion, the nature of your kind. A Memokeeper’s task was to collect memories, to preserve them as proof of existence in a world where everything, even stars, would eventually fade. Unlike most, who viewed reality and imagination as distinct, Memokeepers saw them as one. It was a perspective that intrigued Sunday deeply, yet he struggled to fully comprehend it. Perhaps because, in the end, he wasn’t sure what was real anymore.
"How do you hold on to something so... fleeting?" he asked softly, his voice carrying a weight that betrayed the many layers of his thoughts.
You turned toward him, your expression serene, but there was a flicker of something deeper in your eyes, an understanding of the burden he carried. "We don't hold on to it. We let it flow through us, and in doing so, we become it."
Sunday looked at you, his gaze lingering on the delicate curve of your cheek, the ethereal quality of your being, and how it seemed as though you were made of light itself. "Do you ever feel... trapped by your memories?" His voice faltered at the question, as though he were reaching for something he couldn’t quite touch.
For a moment, there was silence, save for the distant hum of the train and the occasional flicker of stars outside. You took a step closer, your fingers brushing lightly against the air as you spoke, your voice gentle and calm.
"Trapped?" you mused. "No. We are the keepers, not the prisoners. Memories are not chains. They are bridges."
His brow furrowed slightly. "But what if the memories are of things you can never change? Things that haunt you?" His words were quieter now, as if he were speaking more to himself than to you. The weight of his past—of the choices he had made, of the lives he had shaped, for better or worse—pressed down on him once more.
You studied him with a knowing gaze, as though seeing through the veil of his facade. "Hauntings are but echoes of what was, Sunday. The question is not whether the memories are painful, but whether we let them define us." You paused, letting your words settle. "What you choose to do with them—that is what matters."
Sunday’s eyes flickered as if a distant thought had just emerged, one that had been buried beneath layers of rationality and philosophy. He had spent so long trying to change the world, trying to create a place free of suffering, that he had neglected the simplest truth: he could not change the past. He could only move forward.
"But how?" he asked, his voice filled with quiet desperation. "How can I move forward, when the past keeps whispering in my ears?"
You smiled softly, a knowing, almost maternal expression on your face. "You are already moving forward, Sunday. Your journey on the Astral Express is proof of that. The question is not if you will move forward, but how you will choose to remember."
There it was again: remember. It was a word he had often associated with pain, with the weight of regret and guilt, but somehow, in your presence, it felt lighter. It felt like a possibility, a way to reclaim something precious without being bound to it.
For the first time in a long while, Sunday allowed himself to truly look at you. Not just as a fellow traveler aboard the Express, but as someone who embodied a truth he had yet to accept.
"I... I think I understand," he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. "Memories are not the end of us. They can be... a part of something greater."
You nodded, your eyes fluttering slightly as you gazed at him with an expression of quiet encouragement. "Exactly. And sometimes, the greatest gift you can give to the past is to let it go, while still carrying it with you."
Sunday fell silent, his mind now processing your words, considering their implications. Perhaps this was the true path to redemption—not the erasure of pain, but the acceptance of it, and the ability to carry it without letting it define him.
As the train continued its journey through the stars, Sunday found himself standing a little taller. He wasn’t sure where this journey would take him, but for the first time in a long while, he felt like he might finally be on the right path.
In the labyrinthine corridors of the IPC, where deals and schemes wove through the very fabric of power, Aventurine stood as an enigma, a master of manipulation with a heart haunted by the ghosts of his past. His smile, enigmatic and ever-present, was a mask that concealed the fractured man beneath. The ‘Aventurine of Stratagems,’ a name he wore with pride, was a title earned through unrelenting gambles and sacrifices, yet it was the one thing that kept him from truly losing himself.
But on this particular day, something—or rather, someone—was pulling at the threads of his carefully constructed world. Someone who didn’t need to gamble to see through the veil.
You. The Memokeeper.
A fleeting figure, a whisper of another existence, you moved through worlds unrestrained by physical boundaries. Memokeepers were creatures of memories—preservers of the immortal, the eternal. You had no flesh, no true form. Only the shifting remnants of memories you carried with you, the fragments of countless lives you had touched and stolen.
When Aventurine first encountered you, he had been intrigued. Memokeepers were not common, and your mysterious nature had piqued his interest. But it was your ability to navigate through time and space, your unflinching grasp of memory as a permanent artifact, that truly captivated him.
"You never forget, do you?" Aventurine's voice was smooth, laced with his signature mix of challenge and curiosity as you stood across from him in a darkened room, a flicker of memory flashing in your eyes.
You tilted your head slightly, a soft, almost imperceptible smile gracing your lips. "For a moment, I thought you would say 'never forgive.'" You said it with an air of knowing, your voice gentle yet profound. "But no... you are too familiar with your own regrets to seek forgiveness."
Aventurine’s smile faltered for just a fraction of a second. The hint of vulnerability did not go unnoticed. The last surviving member of a lost clan, haunted by survivor's guilt—those wounds ran deep. His facade was usually flawless, but before you, it felt fragile, a thin layer barely holding back a flood of emotions he hadn’t let surface in years.
"You speak as though you understand me," he remarked, his voice regaining its usual confidence. "But I’ve played this game for too long to be an open book."
"Yet, here you are," you countered, stepping closer, the air thick with the power of your words. "A man who wagers lives as easily as others breathe. Do you think I can't see the stakes you're playing for? The past you can never escape?"
There was a moment of silence, one where Aventurine’s usual bravado seemed to crack slightly, revealing the ever-present tension in his posture, the subtle guarding of his left hand behind his back. He wasn't ready to expose his fragility, not yet.
"You play with the illusion of luck," you continued, your voice almost hypnotic. "But I know what you really seek. You gamble because you fear being forgotten, because you fear that if you stop playing, your existence will cease to matter."
Aventurine’s eyes narrowed, gleaming with a mixture of challenge and intrigue. He tilted his head slightly, as if contemplating your words, but his tone remained steady. "And what of you, Memokeeper? Are you truly immortal, or just a collector of lies?"
You didn’t flinch. "Memory is the only true immortality. Everything fades—worlds, stars, even gods. But memories... memories last longer than anything else. They are what make us real. What make us matter."
He chuckled softly, his lips curling into that all-too-familiar grin. "I suppose you would say that. After all, you're in the business of making things last forever."
Aventurine’s eyes lingered on you for a moment longer than he intended, and for a brief instant, he wondered what it would be like to have his memory preserved—not his reputation or his empire, but his very essence. Would someone like you, a Memokeeper, truly see him for who he was beneath the layers of strategy and artifice?
"I’ve seen countless memories," you said, your voice soft but heavy with meaning. "But there's something about you... You're not a mere gambler, not just someone who risks it all. There's something darker in you, a longing for connection, yet a fear of it."
He looked at you with raised eyebrows, a hint of amusement playing at the corners of his lips. "You really think you can see all that from just a glance?"
"You show more than you think," you said, your gaze steady, your words unshaken. "And it's those little things—the way you hide your left hand, the pauses in your speech, the smile that never reaches your eyes—that tell me you are more than the games you play."
The silence stretched, an unspoken challenge between you. He couldn’t deny it. He had always thought of himself as untouchable, an orchestrator of every move. But you? You had no need for power or control. You simply existed, transcendent and free.
And yet, despite all that, Aventurine felt something strange stirring within him—a desire to be remembered, not just for his gambles, but for the man he truly was.
"Perhaps you're right," he finally said, his voice quieter, more contemplative. "Perhaps there is more to me than even I realize."
You smiled, a soft, knowing expression, and for the first time, Aventurine’s smile seemed a little less rehearsed, a little more genuine. The idea of someone, a Memokeeper no less, understanding the depths of his soul was an uncomfortable yet fascinating thought.
"I don’t need to gamble to know your worth, Aventurine," you said, your eyes twinkling with an almost imperceptible warmth. "But perhaps, just once, you might stop playing and let someone else remember you. For who you really are."
For the first time in a long while, Aventurine didn’t immediately respond with a quip or a strategy. He simply watched you, his mind turning, calculating the possibilities. What would it mean to be remembered? To be seen beyond the mask of the gambler, the strategist, the survivor?
In that moment, Aventurine felt the first stirrings of a gamble he had never before considered: the gamble of letting someone in.
Oh damn, this was long af... 🫣😨
Also I couldn't come up with a better title so yeah...🧍♀️
Warnings: Emotional trauma (guilt, grief), Existential themes (memory, mortality, identity), Religious trauma (implied), Melancholy and soft angst, Abstract discussion of death and impermanence, Introspective and emotionally heavy subject matter.
First Meeting: A Memory Preserved in Silence
The first time Sunday meets you, you aren’t truly there. You're a disguised traveler in the Garden of Recollection’s web — a Memokeeper, cloaked as an archivist aboard the Astral Express. Your task: observe, collect, and preserve the ephemeral.
He notices you immediately—not for your presence, but for your stillness. There's a deliberateness to your every motion, a patience he's only seen in those who’ve given up the rush of living in favor of watching it unfold.
“You... listen like the past still breathes,” he says, eyes catching yours. You offer only a smile. He suspects you're more than you appear — and he finds that strangely comforting.
Your conversations begin sparsely but meaningfully. Sunday doesn’t pry. He recognizes the burden of carrying stories, perhaps too well. You talk about memory like it’s currency; he speaks of dreams like they’re prisons.
Yet, you both mourn the same thing: ephemeral beauty.
Crush: Memories That Were Never Theirs
Sunday starts noticing how you linger after someone laughs, like you're capturing the sound. You look at people as if committing them to eternity. When you speak, it's with reverence for moments others overlook.
“To remember is to love, isn't it?” you muse one evening, watching the stars with him from the Astral Express observation deck.
He doesn't answer at first. His halo tilts ever so slightly — as though listening rather than glowing. “Then I've spent my life trying to love a world that keeps forgetting itself.”
Sunday realizes he's falling for you not because you're kind — but because you're proof. You prove that even if the world forgets what he did, someone still holds it — the joy, the mistakes, the yearning.
He finds your presence unsettling. You're incorporeal in a way he once tried to become — a ghost living on through memories, just as he once dreamed Sweetdream Paradise could be.
You sense his distance and understand it. Memokeepers know the signs of someone grieving their former self. You do not push. You simply stay.
Dating: A Slow, Gentle Undoing
When Sunday finally confesses, it's less a declaration and more a surrender.
“You saw me when I had become my own myth… and you remembered the boy beneath it.”
You respond not with words, but by reaching out — your fingers brushing against the feathered wings behind his ear. It's the first time you touch him without an illusion. It’s also the first time he doesn’t flinch.
Dating Sunday is like watching the ocean under moonlight — quiet, reflective, immeasurably deep. He offers you fragmented truths about himself. Not all at once. Only in metaphors.
He finds himself drawn to the way you immortalize the small things: the way he hums in his sleep, how his scarf flutters when he walks, the trembling of his wings when his voice breaks.
For the first time, Sunday is seen in the after. Not for who he was as a leader or protector, but for who he is in stolen moments: a man who loves softly, with reverence and fear.
Sometimes you whisper lost memories into his halo — preserved fragments from those who once believed in him. At first, it breaks him. Later, he begins to smile.
You teach Sunday that Remembrance is not stagnation — it’s transformation. You do not ask him to forget his guilt, only to share it.
Together, you build something delicate and eternal — a sanctuary where dreams do not lie, and memories do not fade.
Bonus: Quiet Moments & Symbolism
He gives you one of his gold wing studs. You preserve it in a folded petal of memory-glass — a keepsake not just of him, but of the part of him that dared to love again.
Sunday once asks, quietly, “When I’m gone… will you remember me or the version you fell for?”
You answer, “Both. Because the act of remembering makes them the same.”
You two don’t say “I love you.” Instead, Sunday says:
“Even if time folds over itself — I want to be your memory.”
