c1phra

[c1phra]

i haven't written anything platonic in a while. i miss it :(

[c1phra]

there's a situation i remember hearing about a few months ago(?) where an ao3 reader (not writer. reader.) was called out for leaving 'reviews' in their bookmarks. things like "2 stars, terrible pacing, ooc, etc." things that wouldn't be out of place in a goodreads book review, but instead added to their, and i cannot stress this enough, publicly visible bookmarks.

do you know who sees bookmarks? it isn't other readers. bookmarks are for you, yes, that's why you can make them private, but they are for the author too. the author can see what you put there. the author can see your insults and poorly constructed criticisms. do you know how discouraging it is to put something out there for free and have someone tear it to shreds right in front of your eyes? people were rightfully upset by this person, but this isn't the only time something like this has happened.

see, there's this pervasive entitlement within fandoms, where readers feel like they are owed something from authors, simply because they put their work out there. they must cater to their tastes, take their critique, bend to the will of them because they are the readers and fanfiction is made to be read, so the reader is who matters.

that is bullshit.

fanfiction is free. fanfiction writers write because they want to do so, because they want to share their creativity with other fans. you are not buying a product when you read fanfiction, you are reading something someone posted for themself. for fun. would you go to a family gathering and tell your grandmother her apple pie tastes like dog shit, and she needs to learn to make it the way you like? oh, because by your logic, obviously if she laid it out on the table, she's asking for the criticism.

i'm not saying fanfiction is unworthy of critique, or that you shouldn't critique it at all. but save your shit-talking for where the author can't see it. keep that to dms. grow tf up

i reallyyy dislike fanfic snobs. i don't mean being specific with your tastes and what you read (and i'm not asking you to self-report), but in the "giving unwanted criticism to writers who post because they love doing it" way and the "making fun of people newer to fandom and writing in general" way. you can't have everything top tier and catered to what YOU want without other stuff you don't like existing. please for the love of god keep it respectful and keep it to yourself

[c1phra]

u know I really think a tumblr rule of thumb should be 'don't say anything in a reblog you wouldn't say directly to the OP of the post' bcos like. by and large whatever you say in your reblog you are, in fact, saying directly to the OP.

[c1phra]

come join us !

THE STELLARON HUNTERS MEMBER APPLICATIONS ARE OPEN NOW! we graciously ask that you read our rules to determine your eligibility to sign up for our network, along with the requirements of reblogging our debut post & following this blog! results are out on AUGUST 14TH ( 8pm gmt+8 ).

click this form <- to apply for our network! applications close on AUGUST 13TH.

[c1phra]

do you guys ever follow a writer and go: man I wish they'd write for [insert character name here]?

writers are you ever curious what kind of writing your readers would want to see more of from you?

Readers: Go on anonymous (or don't) and let writers know what characters / genres

"Hey! I thought it would be really cool if you wrote for [insert character / genre name here]"

Writers: reblog if you've ever been curious!

[c1phra]

new taglist -> here!

[c1phra]

new taglist -> here!

[c1phra]

do we have any aeon kissers here....?

[c1phra]

new taglist -> here!

[c1phra]

ok i'm sorry that i'm a bit late!!! but it's good to know you like feedback on your work because i have been TOUCHED by making waves from your mermay series ugggghhh. little mermaid au i was sold despite its brevity. because she's such a good candidate... the tide and seek art... imagining her and reader inorganically by organically falling in love in this seaside town in just a week...

her faux pas too. and since she erred on the side of being a predator of the sea, she actually delights in eating seafood with you. I LOVE ROBIN I LOVE ROBIN!!!

— 🏵️

HI NONNIE!! don't mind me answering this so late ehe... IM SO HAPPY YOU ENJOYED THAT ONE :DD robin the loml.... YOU'RE SO REALLLL I LOVE ROBIN!! I LOVE ROBIN!!!

i had to cut that one off kind abruptly because i had so much i wanted to write but drabbles.... i told myself i'd stick to drabbles.... i love the idea of robin trying to win over reader though. inorganically by organically is an amazing way to describe it, because like. you can't fall in love in a week. but oh, robin is going to try.

if i was going to continue that one, it would have been so fun. chill seaside town vibes, summer romance, robin trying every human mating ritual she knows (the art of the 'ice cream date'; eye contact, smiles...) but with the stakes of she only gets a week. she IS such a perfect candidate, because she's so loving, and yet so determined when she puts her mind to something. AAHHH i love her.

[c1phra]

(zzz spoilers) BRO imagine being Hugo’s gf and being there for him when he’s in the warehouse 🥺

IMAGINE THOUGH .... to be honest. i don't think he would let you come too close. if anything, i can see him wanting to keep you far away from the warehouse, nowhere near him while it's happening. because come on, he knows what he's getting himself into... to an extent. and the last thing he wants is for you to see him in that state--delirious and wild, a far cry from the charming, put-together man you love.

and honestly? if he had his way at all, you wouldn't even know. he can beg for your forgiveness later, but the least he can give you is that blissful ignorance of not knowing while it is happening. still... he's always been weak for you. and once you sense that something has changed in his demeanour, it doesn't take long for you to press him about it, and for him to relent. to tell you what he's actually planning, even if it isn't the full-truth, and a sanitized version at that.

it's a compromise, having you wait for him. you don't see him during it, and that's an unconcious comfort for him, but it is torture knowing it's happening. you're right by lycaon's side when it's time to retrieve him, and you're right there as he spaces back into lucidity. you're there, and your hands are ghosting across his skin, featherlight touch brushing each bruise and drop of blood with a reverence that feels like love. and even if the effects had already begun to wear off by that point, it's not until your hands are brushing back his sweat-soaked hair, lips are pressed to his forehead, that he finally feels free. it's over.

you're there, you're there. you're there, and you're not going anywhere else.

[c1phra]

finally gonna be cleaning out my inbox... i'm so bad at answering asks HELP

[c1phra]

track 17 + low volume + kaveh

... ❝ BROKEN WALTZ. ❞ ft. kaveh x gn!reader

𝒾. ⠀NOW PLAYING TRACK 17 : 'love', as they called it, is not something the universe deigned to give you. the 'love' that you two shared was nothing but fool's gold, a perfect replication of a relationship with none of the affection attached.

[ advisory ] implied relationship of convenience / arranged relationship.

[ song notes ] angst. dubiously set in canon. kinda complicated feelings from both sides. gn!reader. songfic; based on broken waltz by holden laurence. wc : 896

Kaveh can hear you crying in the next room over. 

The sound is muffled, as if you’d pressed your face into a pillow to conceal the noise, but the walls are thin and his mind is quiet. From the moment you’d arrived home—slipping the ring off your finger to place on the counter, even before you had a chance to take off your shoes—you’d been crying. Silently at first, before breaking out into choking sobs as soon as the bedroom door was closed behind you.

You couldn’t seem to face him, at that moment. Perhaps you wanted to spare his own feelings, or spare what little shred of dignity you had left. He didn’t know. He didn’t know a lot of things about you.

Behind you, Kaveh had shedded his jacket, tie, and shoes, all haphazardly discarded by the entryway, but his own ring was stuck to his finger. Practicality, he thought to himself. In case he forgot to put it back on before he left the house. It would be unbecoming to forget such an important item, especially now. 

The sound of your cries was reaching a crescendo, making him wince. A better man would be turning the handle by now, voice slow and soft. He would be extending a hand of comfort, soothing the multitudes of emotions rolling off you in waves. Once, Kaveh might have thought himself such a man. He’d be the one knocking at your door, platitudes waiting on his lips. In an ideal world, it would be easy. Natural, even. He wouldn’t be pacing the length of his living room, hoping the disgust clouding his mind would drown out the sound of your tears.

Heartless, he must be. Even as you’re languishing in your own misery, he can barely bring himself to stay in the same house as you.

Would it be easier in a few months, when that gaudy engagement ring is traded for an even gaudier wedding ring? He can’t imagine you’d be thrilled to wear it. The way you had looked at him when the first ring was slid onto your finger was nothing short of somber—replaced with a tight smile when you noticed a camera flashing.

It was a convenience; nothing more, nothing less. You had agreed with him on that, but he knew it weighed on you heavily; in ways both visible, and unseen. The strain became more obvious the longer your relationship was drawn out, quietly stalling before the inevitable. In the months leading up to the question, you only grew more withdrawn. 

Hands clenched tightly in his own gentle grip. Chaste kisses pressed to his cheek, only to satisfy lingering eyes. You were a good actor when it came to obscuring your own feelings, but he could see through it. Your words were hollow, and you both knew.

So, maybe it was a mercy that you never kept up the act when it was the two of you alone. He could always count on clarity hitting at the end of the day, when you were done play-acting and let your smile drop. You were never outwardly hostile, just… colder. Less fond. None of the falsified affection coating your tongue when you whispered his name, only thinly veiled disgust. And he would swallow his dissatisfaction, meet you with the same tight-lipped smile, as if your distaste towards him was perfectly mutual. 

But you didn’t truly hate him. You couldn’t. At the end of the first night sharing a home, you had admitted it across the dinner table: “I don’t hate you. I just don’t want you to think that I love you.”

Kaveh had laughed at that, almost hoarsely. And agreed, as if he could ever mistake what you had for love.

Somewhere amidst his troubled thoughts, your tears had slowed to a stop. The air was quiet, but he could hear you shuffling in the bedroom. A drawer opened and closed. There was a click, and the sound of a vinyl record crackling. He paused, listening to the thrum of a familiar melody scratching to life. 

You’d collected yourself quickly then, if you were already turning your attention to the record player. He should count himself lucky that his comfort wasn’t needed in the end, but he knew you wouldn’t have accepted it anyway. Still, the thought was there; albeit locked in some hidden corner of his mind, buried behind walls of reservations. 

God, he really was heartless. 

And yet, he was still there. Waiting for the music to screech to a halt, for the door to quickly crack open, for your voice to call out his name. That had to count for something, didn’t it?

Kaveh let out a shaky sigh, running his hand through his hair. If only in another life, under another set of circumstances, the two of you might have fallen in love, and it might have been something real. Instead you were trapped in a never-ending dance, waltzing in each other’s arms until the curtains were drawn, and the floor fell beneath your feet. 

He stares down at his ring, turning over his hand to watch the gold glint in the light. It wasn’t long then, until your partnership was sealed for good.

“...’til the music stops.” He whispers. The words linger in the air for a beat. The record stalls.

Then, the whole house falls silent.

[ notes ] OKAY i wanted to keep this one a little ambiguous and open to interpretation, which is why some of the details about kaveh & reader’s relationship are murky. i hope this is ok though aaahhh

©c1phra 2025 : do not copy, translate, repost, redistribute, or use my work to train ai. reblogs are appreciated <33

[c1phra]

track 17 + low volume + kaveh

... ❝ BROKEN WALTZ. ❞ ft. kaveh x gn!reader

𝒾. ⠀NOW PLAYING TRACK 17 : 'love', as they called it, is not something the universe deigned to give you. the 'love' that you two shared was nothing but fool's gold, a perfect replication of a relationship with none of the affection attached.

[ advisory ] implied relationship of convenience / arranged relationship.

[ song notes ] angst. dubiously set in canon. kinda complicated feelings from both sides. gn!reader. songfic; based on broken waltz by holden laurence. wc : 896

Kaveh can hear you crying in the next room over. 

The sound is muffled, as if you’d pressed your face into a pillow to conceal the noise, but the walls are thin and his mind is quiet. From the moment you’d arrived home—slipping the ring off your finger to place on the counter, even before you had a chance to take off your shoes—you’d been crying. Silently at first, before breaking out into choking sobs as soon as the bedroom door was closed behind you.

You couldn’t seem to face him, at that moment. Perhaps you wanted to spare his own feelings, or spare what little shred of dignity you had left. He didn’t know. He didn’t know a lot of things about you.

Behind you, Kaveh had shedded his jacket, tie, and shoes, all haphazardly discarded by the entryway, but his own ring was stuck to his finger. Practicality, he thought to himself. In case he forgot to put it back on before he left the house. It would be unbecoming to forget such an important item, especially now. 

The sound of your cries was reaching a crescendo, making him wince. A better man would be turning the handle by now, voice slow and soft. He would be extending a hand of comfort, soothing the multitudes of emotions rolling off you in waves. Once, Kaveh might have thought himself such a man. He’d be the one knocking at your door, platitudes waiting on his lips. In an ideal world, it would be easy. Natural, even. He wouldn’t be pacing the length of his living room, hoping the disgust clouding his mind would drown out the sound of your tears.

Heartless, he must be. Even as you’re languishing in your own misery, he can barely bring himself to stay in the same house as you.

Would it be easier in a few months, when that gaudy engagement ring is traded for an even gaudier wedding ring? He can’t imagine you’d be thrilled to wear it. The way you had looked at him when the first ring was slid onto your finger was nothing short of somber—replaced with a tight smile when you noticed a camera flashing.

It was a convenience; nothing more, nothing less. You had agreed with him on that, but he knew it weighed on you heavily; in ways both visible, and unseen. The strain became more obvious the longer your relationship was drawn out, quietly stalling before the inevitable. In the months leading up to the question, you only grew more withdrawn. 

Hands clenched tightly in his own gentle grip. Chaste kisses pressed to his cheek, only to satisfy lingering eyes. You were a good actor when it came to obscuring your own feelings, but he could see through it. Your words were hollow, and you both knew.

So, maybe it was a mercy that you never kept up the act when it was the two of you alone. He could always count on clarity hitting at the end of the day, when you were done play-acting and let your smile drop. You were never outwardly hostile, just… colder. Less fond. None of the falsified affection coating your tongue when you whispered his name, only thinly veiled disgust. And he would swallow his dissatisfaction, meet you with the same tight-lipped smile, as if your distaste towards him was perfectly mutual. 

But you didn’t truly hate him. You couldn’t. At the end of the first night sharing a home, you had admitted it across the dinner table: “I don’t hate you. I just don’t want you to think that I love you.”

Kaveh had laughed at that, almost hoarsely. And agreed, as if he could ever mistake what you had for love.

Somewhere amidst his troubled thoughts, your tears had slowed to a stop. The air was quiet, but he could hear you shuffling in the bedroom. A drawer opened and closed. There was a click, and the sound of a vinyl record crackling. He paused, listening to the thrum of a familiar melody scratching to life. 

You’d collected yourself quickly then, if you were already turning your attention to the record player. He should count himself lucky that his comfort wasn’t needed in the end, but he knew you wouldn’t have accepted it anyway. Still, the thought was there; albeit locked in some hidden corner of his mind, buried behind walls of reservations. 

God, he really was heartless. 

And yet, he was still there. Waiting for the music to screech to a halt, for the door to quickly crack open, for your voice to call out his name. That had to count for something, didn’t it?

Kaveh let out a shaky sigh, running his hand through his hair. If only in another life, under another set of circumstances, the two of you might have fallen in love, and it might have been something real. Instead you were trapped in a never-ending dance, waltzing in each other’s arms until the curtains were drawn, and the floor fell beneath your feet. 

He stares down at his ring, turning over his hand to watch the gold glint in the light. It wasn’t long then, until your partnership was sealed for good.

“...’til the music stops.” He whispers. The words linger in the air for a beat. The record stalls.

Then, the whole house falls silent.

[ notes ] OKAY i wanted to keep this one a little ambiguous and open to interpretation, which is why some of the details about kaveh & reader’s relationship are murky. i hope this is ok though aaahhh

©c1phra 2025 : do not copy, translate, repost, redistribute, or use my work to train ai. reblogs are appreciated <33

[c1phra]

i forgot to say it earlier but ty for 100 followers guys :))

[c1phra]

hi mari!! may i request that you ask sunday to play work song on low volume? thank you in advance if you do!!

... ❝ WORK SONG. ❞ ft. sunday x gn!reader

𝒾. ⠀NOW PLAYING TRACK 05 : longing is too simple a word. it's an ache, buried deep between the bars of his rib-cage, a soothing pain that yearns for you. it's the only thing keeping him moving forward; he'll always come home to you.

[ advisory ] cw for food + mentions of skipping meals.

[ song notes ] established relationship. pre-canon. sunday is down bad. (the yearnerrr) gn!reader. songfic; based on work song by hozier. wc : ~2k

There’s a certain chill to the Dreamscape. Not a temperate one, not one that you can quite feel on your skin, but the air carried a sort of crispness that could be only found in the deepest stretches of winter, all without the coldness attached. It was puzzling, but few paid it mind; guests smiled, laughed, and celebrated, and the phantom echoes of a stray draft lingered throughout—even if no one could exactly point to the source. It was written off as an unexpected side-effect of the Soulglad, a sign that the buzz had already kicked in.

Sunday was well-used to the feeling. It had become second nature, an expected part of his routine. The peculiar quality to the atmosphere might ruffle the feathers of some newcomers, but not him. Not when the majority of his work led him to the Dreamscape anyway; he needn’t grow used to it when he grew with it.

“Take a break, won’t you Mr Sunday. We can finish this discussion at a later date, perhaps with the Head of the Bloodhound Family present, too?”

He was used to the air, as much as he was used to the voices that filled it. They were tinged with something distinct as well—a feature only one who has spent a considerable amount of time on Penacony would notice. The guests, they were always slightly too uncertain. Even the seasoned ones. They spoke like they were aware of the sound of their voice, and how it warped between realities, the kind of thing that locals would be too accustomed to notice. 

The members of the Family carried the most confidence in their tone, knowing their place in Penacony more than anyone else. Their voices flowed—not against, and not despite, but  with the irregularities, adjusting and accommodating as needed to speak smoothly. Sunday knew the method; to treat each syllable as its own, to not let any waver spill through your words. It gave the illusion of control, a grasp over the hollow conditions of the Dreamscape.

“Why don’t you go get some lunch? It’s almost twelve system hours, and this meeting has been going all day.”

The sound of their voices was familiar, but none so much as yours. Even now, when your face was out of sight, he could picture your intonation in his mind with the precision of a perfectly attuned ear; down to each syllable. If you were present, you would be the first to coax him towards a break. He wouldn’t need the reminder, not with your hands enclosing around his to drag him away from his work yourself.

Sunday shook his head slightly, a small smile playing across his lips. The thought of you was so sweet it could have filled his stomach then and there. He would be lying to claim he hadn’t been thinking of you all day, but it never seemed to tire. The love that blossomed—crystallizing and growing from each chamber of his heart, all the way down to the pit of his stomach—it was more than enough sustenance for him. An intangible meal to sate his hunger, a distraction so filling it turned away any need for proper food.

You’d scold him for his carelessness, but he would simply be content to hear the lull of your voice.

“It’s almost time, then? The Charmony Festival is approaching… preparations are in order, we need to be ready. You will be ready, Mr Sunday?”

It was all the same sort of monotony, day to day. Only as the day of reckoning drew near, so heightened the pressure. Sunday’s stresses were beginning to pile up, stacked and layered on his shoulders. He longed—ached for the time when he could return home to you; to indulge in the daydreams he’s been exhausting to make the days more bearable.

“Everything is prepared.” Sunday smiled, his hands clasped behind his back. “May the Harmony bless us, and this festival. This dream will soon be realized.”

Soon, soon. He will be with you soon.

…

The nights provided some respite, as scant as it was. More than that, it provided you, which was enough solace for him. Your shared room, tucked away in the most private wing of the Reverie, was rich with the smell of food; a hint of spices, and the scent of broth in the air. A stack of papers—memos from the Oak Family’s delegates—rested in front of Sunday in lieu of a plate, as you finished serving two portions of penne at the counter.

“Do you ever stop working?” He looked up from the note he was reading, watching your hand brush aside the papers to place a plate in front of him. Your brow was quirked, a teasing smile on your lips. “Can’t we have one romantic night in, without—” You swiped the paper in his hands, scanning the bottom with a groan. “Gopher Wood. Too much to ask?”

“I’m sorry, my love.” Sunday plucked the note from your grasp, gathering the rest and setting it to the side. “The Charmony Festival is important. I’ve been reviewing any instructions he left, in case there is something I’m missing.”

“Later,” You sighed, pulling out a chair to face him. “You can do that later. Have you even eaten today? I bet you skipped lunch for that meeting, didn’t you?”

He chuckled slightly, all the while you jabbed your finger at him accusingly. “I was… preoccupied.”

“Hopeless. What would you do without me?” You shook your head, defeat written across your face. Sunday smiled lightly, not saying a word. ‘Without you’, he’d be nothing, no one. There wouldn’t be a ‘without you’ if he had any say in it, he'd always find his way back to your side, no matter what.

“Come on then, eat up.” You push the plate closer to him, stabbing a piece of pasta with his fork and hovering it in front of his face, like you were offering a treat to a dog.

“I assure you I can feed myself.” Sunday remarked.

He was met with a disbelieving scoff, and the food was pulled away from his lips. “Well clearly not, if this is your first meal of the day!”

“Second, techni—mmf!” His words were quickly cut off, as you took advantage of his open mouth to swoop in with the fork, shoving the mouthful of pasta inside. It almost made him choke, but the taste more than made up for the abruptness. Rich and smooth, with just the right amount of spices to enhance the flavour without overpowering it. “It’s… delicious.”

“Of course it is. Now open wide.” And you’re already scooping another mouthful of pasta onto the fork, with an expression that tells him you’re accepting no arguments, and Sunday can do nothing but wordlessly hold his mouth open to allow you to spoon-feed it in—gentler, this time. You feed him a few more bites, before he manages to pry the fork into his own hands. At that, you settle in the seat opposite to him, delving into your own meal in sync.

The two of you lapse into a comfortable quiet, and in between eating, Sunday’s gaze drifts to you. He’s committed each part of your face to memory; the curve of your eyebrows, the slope of your nose, each and every tiny detail. And yet, he still found himself in disbelief. 

In a world of dreams, you were real, here, and his. 

…

There is no selfishness in Harmony. There is no individuality in Order.

With the Sweet Dream realized, all would have been one. The vices that self-serving, dissonant beings indulged in would have been drowned out, every sound in Penacony falling quiet to listen to the Order’s sweet melody. And Sunday, at the centre of it all, was the face they were supposed to see—the conductor of the “Harmonious Choir”.

In that moment he had no place for thinking of his own wants; all of the trivial, inconsequential things that wouldn’t matter in the slightest once the dream was realized. They were cast aside, mortal desires shed in the wind. 

But it’s as the song reaches a stall that his mind slips, and falls to you. The symphony, at a crescendo, begins to fail him. For a brief moment it all begins to fracture under his hands, blind faith bleeding through the cracks to reveal the bitter truth; this was a battle he was doomed to fail. And all he can think of is you, asleep near the door, a plate of untouched food growing cold on the table, as you wait for a shared dinner that will never come. So caught up in the dream, reality slipped through his fingers. He longs for you; the Order calls for him, but he only wants you. 

Lord, let him be selfish this once.

Falling, flying—the feeling is the same. His eyes flutter shut, clicking closed with the rush of wind against his skin, arms cradling his weakened body. A voice whispers to him, almost inaudible. And before he can make a sound, the entire world shatters.

When Sunday drifts off, he thinks of you.

…

Sunrise is not a natural phenomena in Penacony. It exists in certain areas—a hint peeking through the Moment of Morning Dew, but it isn’t anything special. It’s artificial, manufactured. Something built for the momentary awe of visitors, before they move on to the next flashy thing. 

Before he left, a false light was all Sunday had ever known. There was no knowing what it felt like to glimpse the true beauty of the sun on his skin, breaking across the dawn in preparation for the new day, only the assumption that it was more or less the same to what he’d seen in the Dreamscape. Truthfully, he gave it little thought.

Yesterday though, the Astral Express had grazed a planet right before morning broke through. And as they touched down, a beautiful halo of gold had risen from the horizon, light colouring the sky in hues of orange. It was mesmerizing. For a few minutes he couldn’t look away; even as the rest of the crew chatted and moved around him, he was frozen in place, eyes fixed to the sky.

“It’s about time for breakfast,” Welt had told him, a steady hand on his shoulder gently steering him away from the window. “Come. Eat with us.”

Quietly, he let himself be pried away from the sight. 

In all his years with you, he’d never brought you to watch the sunrise together. Not even the beautiful, false sun in the sky of the Dreamscape. How he regretted that now, once he was gone. If had any chance to go back, god he would do it in a heartbeat, just to spend one more moment wrapped up in your arms.

You’d seen him for all he was, every flaw and every fault, and somehow you’d loved him anyway. Through all of his shortcomings, you were a steady presence at his side—with him, throughout it all. You never asked about all of his mistakes, never cared to ask. It was as though the thought to pry never even crossed your mind; as if you looked straight through his failings, to see him for who he was.

Even if no god would forgive him for all he’s done, he would still have you. He’d always have you.

It was an ending, of sorts. A chapter drawn to a close. And while you were left behind in Penacony, you still took up the same amount of space—in his mind, in his heart. A space that no one could ever fill, one that would remain waiting for you. And as the sky began to colour itself blue, an absent vow solidified in his mind: he’d find his way back to you, eventually.

The sun would rise, and Sunday would crawl his way back home to you.

[ notes ] i wanna kiss sunday on his stupid pretty face i hate sunday guys. please. I HATE SUNDAY I SWEAR. this is kinda mixing in elements of first light as well but you only have yourself to blame for that crow. also this was meant to be under 1k words. um. haha.

©c1phra 2025 : do not copy, translate, repost, redistribute, or use my work to train ai. reblogs are appreciated <33

[c1phra]

the fics i write for the melodies & memoria event will be under 1k btw. that sunday fic was a regrettable exception. ☝️