#Sunday HSR

[linvaniin]

pray

[danijaci]

You see a pattern 🥀🥀

[sviteer]

cutie patootie

[yuuefa]

˚ ⊹ ✫ * ˚ 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒍𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒓 𝒘𝒉𝒐 𝒔𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒗𝒆𝒏𝒔 ˚ ⊹ ✫ *

✫ * · ˚ ⊹　　 ✫　　 　 · ˚ ⊹ ✫ * · ˚ ⊹　　 · ˚ ⊹ 　 ✫　　 　 · ˚ ⊹ ˚ ⊹ ✫ * ·

~~The lone star who sought the heavens~~

A fanart of Sunday because I loved his character and I'm excited for his release <3

[b1adie]

stupid idiot i hope he makes minimum wage and gets robbed on the way home

[blueberrisdove-sideblog]

HELLO HANDSOME MEN 😽

[eliseliedl]

Sunday 🤍 (x)

[qiinamii]

one braincell transfer (divided by four)

[aventurinesweetheart]

MESSY EATERS

characters: SUNDAY, Aventurine, jing yuan, CAELUS, STELLE (more in pt2??) genre: SMUUUTTTTTTTTTTT summary: r they a munch? come find out! warnings: afab reader (no prns used), mentions of squirting, spit!, oral (reader receiving!) (also aventurine in his part bc yall 69), overstimulation, light dacryphilia, praise, playful teasing, generally messy oral sex, mentions of hickies?, jing yuan puts his thumb in your ass while he eats it from the back, mentions of cum eating in caelus’, face sitting (stelle), idk proceed at your own risk this is one of my more tame works so 🤷 a/n: this was not originally going to be my comeback fic but i was hit with a bolt of inspiration comparable to lightning

SUNDAY

     → now. just. hear me the fuck out. sunday is THE munch. do not fuckin play w me rn. he LIVVEEESSSSS to eat pussy — he gets off on pleasing his partner (he’s a bit of a service switch, willing to take up any role to make you happy) and making you cum all over his face. he loves making a mess out of you—sweaty with cum soaked thighs.. mmh, he gets hard at the sight and ends up digging back in to your puffy cunt, tongue fucking you with no remorse and keeping your thighs spread apart with a surprising amount of strength

         → if you let him, he’ll stay between your thighs for hours, until he gets lockjaw, so for your sake and his, please remind him that you both need breaks so you don’t pass out.

     → always praising you too, talkin ab how youre so pretty and well behaved for him (as he will eat the brat right out of you), and how he just can’t get enough of you

         → “mmnhg, fuck, you taste so good, dove, i could eat you whole.” and he Does.

     → sucks on your clit and curls his fingers so good inside you until you eventually squirt n make such a mess on his face — something that initially shocks him, but he quickly grows obsessed by it and wants you to do it again, even if you protest that you can’t!

         → “did you just..?” he asks in awe and disbelief, looking up at you with big, gold eyes. he couldn’t quite believe what he’d gotten you to do—all from a little stimulation? (buddy, you’ve been eating them out for the last half hour, AT LEAST) 

     → it’s safe to say he becomes obsessed with you making an absolute mess on his fuckin face, and encourages you to make one everytime !! for a former priest or sum, he sure is unholy in the bedroom in your humble opinion! 

     “aa–ah! sunday!” you wail as he scissors your drooling, overstimulated pussy. your cheeks were flushed and eyes full of tears as he ignores your cries in favor of lapping and sucking away at your throbbing clit. 

     he had made you cum thrice now, and he was well on his way to working you to your fourth orgasm. perhaps sunday was a bit of a sadomasochist, as he focuses on overstimulating you and ignoring his own achey cock, straining horribly against his slacks, sure to leave a wet stain against his boxers. 

     sunday can’t help but moan into your cunt when you tug at his hair, forcing him closer to your core despite your protests that you couldn’t handle anymore. so, you squeeze your thighs around his head and throw your head back, uttering a silent prayer to whatever god may have been listening for any kind of mercy from this overwhelming pleasure.

     and, finally, just as you’re pushed over the edge for the nth time, you actually fucking squeal! when you feel teeth come into contact with the almost hypersensitive skin of your inner thigh—and sure enough, there was your silver-haired boyfriend nibbling on your skin as gently as he can, not wanting to overwhelm you, but still wanting to play with you a bit..!

Aventurine

     → okay so. he can suck dick AND eat some pussy. my Bisexual Versatile Switch Icon. while he’s a bit of a whore, that just simply means he has more experience to please you with <3

    → REEAALLLLYYYYYYY into spit (im projecting) and i mean spitting in your mouth, you spitting in his mouth, spitting on your face, etc. but, and i say this with a devious grin on my face, spitting directly onto your pretty pussy of course ! <3 and diving in immediately after!

         → do not let him eat you out anywhere but the bedroom, bc he will make such a fucking mess out of the sheets, the couch cushions, fucking. anything wherever you are. 

     → big on sucking your clit raw while he scissors your cunt apart and curls his fingers ever so nicely inside you. he just likes the feeling of it twitching and pulsing in his mouth, but he’s not afraid to tongue fuck you either

     → LOVES when you sit on his face oh my god PLEASE sit on his face—and if you’re fat? please keep in mind he’s a gambler and does not gaf if he dies from suffocation, that is a risk he is more than willing to take! if the pussy kills him, he can die happy.

     → but. wait. oh my god. 69ing with him. he LOVVVEEESSSSSSSSSSS to 69 oh my GOD holy shit. The 69er. always prefers you to be on top so you can still sit on his face tho.

     “mmh,” aventurine moans into your cunt from beneath you, the vibrations only serving to enhance your pleasure. as a chronic yapper, he wants to tell you how good you taste, how sweet you are, how he can’t get enough, but thankfully, for your sake, your pussy was smothering and silencing him. all you could hear was the moans and grunts he couldn’t seem to stop making — but to be fair, neither could you, as he rolls his hips up, stuffing his throbbing cock further down your throat. his hands grip your thighs tighter, and you think you may have bruises in the shapes of his fingertips later, but you don’t really mind. 

     “nngh,” you echo his moan, and you feel his dick twitch in your mouth, and you know he’s close. you two had been like this for about ten or so minutes now, and he’d already managed to make you cum once—you’re just honestly surprised he’s lasted this long (or maybe it’s because you had to pull off of him a handful of times to selfishly catch your breath while he ruthlessly ate you out, even as his jaw began to get sore, he really didn’t care).

     hollowing your cheeks out, you bob your head lower down his shaft, as one hand blindly moves to fondle his heavy balls as you focus on both getting him to cum and also the feeling of cum about to squirt down your throat. humming around him to assist you in your work, aventurine doubles down in his efforts of eating you out once he realizes what you were doing. 

     lifting you off his face ever so slightly, he takes a deep breath before locking the fuck back in and pulling you back down against his soaked face. his tongue eagerly dives into your slick hole and a chill runs down your spine as goosebumps cover your skin, your hair standing on end. 

     the blonde can’t help but moan again as he tastes you for the nth time tonight, as he sticks his tongue out as far out as it’ll go and he licks your velvety inner walls, uncaring of the way his drool and your cum coat his lower face. 

     “hmngh,” he hums pleasantly, as if he were enjoying a meal (and believe me, he was), and he pulls his tongue out of you to lick a hot line from your puffy clit to your twitching hole, where he reinserts himself and you moan around his dick again. this time, when aventurine bucks his hips up, he finds himself cumming with a groan, having to pause in his endeavors due to how intense his orgasm was. 

     thankfully, you were prepared to swallow around him as he cums down your throat, and you can feel yourself right on the edge as well. 

     “a–aven—” you whine, trying to lift your hips up—something he does not allow. in fact, he pulls your pussy flush against his messy face and easily finishes you off, until you’re creaming on his tongue and a few tears roll down your cheeks from the stimulation.

jing yuan

     → yall alr fuckin KNOW mr general will eat the FUCK out of some pussy !!!! he will make you cream yourself 3 times over before he even gets the chance to get his pants off i’m ngl. 

     → and he’s always. Always. !!! so smooth with his words, you don’t understand how !! it’s not fair, really, the way he coos at you with that stupid lazy grin on his face. goddamn him.. and speaking of that lazy grin…… the general always likes to take his time with you—like he has all the time in the world!! and to be fair, he kinda does.

         → “shh, just stay calm and i promise you’ll get what you need,” he’d tell you sweetly, just to tease you for another seven minutes!! and it wasn’t even mean teasing! he was just genuinely enjoying his time and stretching out the foreplay, which made you feel a leetol bit bad.. because you knew he just wanted to appreciate you, but.. not bad enough to sit still for him!

     → he loves to slowly pepper your body in kisses, trailing down lower and lower until he’s nestled between your thighs and his head is dangerously close to your cunt — begging him for a kiss, or anything to soothe the ache between your legs

     → you can’t even dream of being a brat w this man icl, he will eat you right back into place. he’s big, he’s beefy, and he can absolutely manhandle you into whatever position he wants—speaking of, he’s quite fond of bending you over onto your hands n knees and burying his face right into your pussy from possibly the Most embarrassing angle

         → you can feel his nose brushing up against your asshole while he goes to town on your other hole, and the whole ordeal has you feeling more than shy.. but it’s okay bc jing yuan can be rather gentle with you — although.. he absolutely does Not pass up the opportunity to stick his thick thumb into your tight asshole, spitting directly onto the clenched ring to act as a lubricant of some kind

     it’s all you can do to whine as jing yuan slowly works his thumb into your ass as his swollen lips are pressed against your slick pussy, licking away at your drooly slit. he’d had you like this for about twenty minutes now, bent over on all fours as he lazily eats it from the back. he’d been relishing in your taste and pretty noises when suddenly he got got the bright idea to try and stick a finger into your neglected asshole.

     he had spit on it beforehand, to try and lubricate it, so it wouldn’t sting as much, but the sensation only served to make you yelp and turn your head back around to look at him.

     “j–jing yuan!” you cry out, gripping the sheets at the feeling. “wh–wha—?”

     “shh, it’s okay,” he says calmly, trying to soothe your qualms. “do you trust me?” he asks, moving his head away from your cunt so he can look you in the eyes, pausing in all his actions. when you nod your head after a brief moment of hesitation, the general slowly resumes the easing of his thumb into your slightly more relaxed hole as he goes back to eating you out.

     once his thumb is fully seated inside you, paired with him licking away at your drooly cunt, goosebumps cover your skin at the dual sensations, and you don’t know how to react, but your body sure does! your asshole clenches around his thick and calloused thumb while your cunt flutters around the tongue now inside it, and it’s less than a few seconds later that you’re squirting on his face with a loud cry of his name.

CAELUS

     → okay. just hear me out Again. i think, both trailblazers for this matter, but stelle will get her own part in a moment. caelus isn’t necessarily a slob..? or maybe he is i can’t particularly remember icl i’m running off less than 4? hours of sleep in the last 38hrs and four (pacific punch) monsters lol. but either way when it comes to getting to go down on you—he all but makes out with your cunt and takes his sweet, sweet time eating you out; alternating between sucking harshly on your throbbing clit to licking your gummy inner walls

     → he can 100% get off on your noises and from humping the mattress, the feeling of your thighs around his head and your hands in his thick hair… mmmh he’s big on sensations, feeling things, feeling you…. oh aeons he is pussy WHIPPED !!! if you don’t stop him, he WILL stay between your legs, happily slobbering on your pussy and sucking on your swollen clit until you physically cannot handle it anymore

     → literally will do so until he makes you squirt on his face or until you actually cannot orgasm anymore—when there’s tears streaming down your cheeks and you’re crying out his name, pulling at his hair and begging him to stop; he just can’t help himself!! how’s he meant to have any self control when you taste so fucking good? when your reactions get him so hard!! fuck’s sake! 

     → nasty disgusting boy.. a little too into spit and slobber and other bodily fluids (real big on fucking you first, then going down on you and eating his cum straight from you fluttering hole…… how sick he is.. because he really does take delight in these. simply put. fuckin sick nasty acts!) he’s obsessed with your cunt and he loves even more the person attached to it — perhaps what he’s getting off on isn’t the act itself, but the fact that you were, in fact, enjoying yourself, or that he was the one making you feel like this

     though somewhat quiet outside the bedroom, caelus certainly moans like a bitch as he rolls his hips into the mattress beneath him and your thighs clench around his head. currently, he was preoccupied with your—would it be fair to say drooling if he was the one physically unable to contain his own saliva? while he was the literally drooling one, your pussy was certainly soaked !! both with your own juices and a genuinely disgusting amount of his spit. 

     he had been busy eating you out for the better half of an hour now, after he had actually fucked you once. he kind of does reverse foreplay, really—and he’s always so gross about it that you can’t help but feel flustered about it everytime, even if you were just as into it as he was. 

     caelus loved to fuck you first, maybe after a little bit of fingering just to get you ready for him, and then take his sweet, sweet time going down on you, and eat his cum out of your used hole—filthy slurping style. the noises he makes are always so fucking nasty and loud that you can feel yourself blush as he shamelessly slurps away at your cunt.

     “cae-lus!” you cry out his name, all but yanking at his grey locks. “pl–please— i can’t!” you try pleading with him, vision starting to grow fuzzy around the edges. 

     “just— just one more..?” he asks, glancing up at you from between your legs. he’s already creamed himself twice and his jaw was genuinely sore, but god fucking damn he just could never get enough of you!!! 

     unfortunately for you, this was his third time asking for just one more. and you didn’t know how much more you had left in you considering you were having dry orgasms at this point. it was bordering on painful, even with your hypersensitive clit in his hot mouth, there were just too many sensations going on and you were too overstimulated. you really hope he meant just one more this time…… (and thankfully, he did.)

STELLE

     → okay. now. these will be a little similar to caelus’ since they’re technically the same person, but i’ll try n add some variety

     → i think stelle is messier than caelus tbh and idek how thats possible bc he’s so…... 💀 but anyway. stelle is Sick Nasty™ and a slob and a lesbian ik i said sunday is The munch but i may have lied. that title actually belongs to stelle. because holy shit

     → if caelus is pussy whipped then she’s fucking ADDICTED. stelle will take literally Any Chance you give her to eat you out, and she won’t stop until she’s satisfied. so. make sure you have time, because she takes an upwards of 45 minutes to feast on you everytime without fail

     → though quiet by nature, stelle does get a little more vocal in the bedroom—not as loud as caelus, but enough to take notice of. especially when she was in her happy place!! (between your legs) 

     → she is a stone top in search of a pillow princess what else can i say?

     → i really dont have much to say hc wise that i hadn’t alr mentioned in caelus’ so instead here’s a drabble of you sitting on her face 

     “st–stelle!” you gasp out, one hand gripping the headboard while the other covers your mouth in an attempt to contain your pathetic noises. you’d been sitting on her face for the past twenty minutes, and you’ve already came three times, about to be a fourth. 

     “mmngh,” she grunts from beneath you, grip on your thighs tightening. she couldn’t be bothered right now, not when she was busy enjoying her fucking meal!! 

     sucking on your clit, it doesn’t take long for the grey haired woman to force another orgasm out of you, something she’s quite pleased with. sure, her lower face was covered in your slick, but that wasn’t actually her problem—quite the opposite, really. it would become your problem whenever she decided she was done and that she wanted to make out with you so you could taste yourself in full. 

     “sens–sensitive!” you manage to squeak, head falling back as you openly pant, overstimulated from nothing but her mouth… just wait until she got the strap (8” btw)!

     stelle hears what you say, and understands you’re trying to tell her to stop, but….. how was she meant to stop when you tasted this good? simple: she wouldn’t! because she hasn’t had her fill yet and she knows you have a few more left in you—she’s spent this long building up your tolerance and stamina, after all.

     she doesn’t even bother to slow down while you cum, either! she just sucks away at your engorged clit while both her hands come up to grope your chest and play with your stiffened nipples. sucking on your tits was her second favorite thing to do to you, right behind eating you out, obviously. 

     her calloused fingers pinch and twist your nipples, making you moan softly as she presses her tongue flat against your cunt before inserting it into your slit, moaning into you at the taste. deciding she hadn’t had enough yet, she sets her mind on pushing you to a fifth, and maybe even sixth orgasm..! yes, that would be enough to satiate her for now.

     she truly was addicted to you (it needs to be studied, actually..).

HSR m.list

[illukah]

joe p - fighting in the car

[bt79207]

Welcome to the Astral Express💫

[dilsonddestroyer]

Some sketches Sunturine/Avenday!

[sviteer]

A letter for you 💌

[sodainto]

“my most grievous fault”

[slowd1ving]

INTERVIEW WITH A LAMP ✦ . 　⁺ SUNDAY

Testing... testing... is this thing picking up sound? On this fine day in the middle of Argonian summer, a rather unlikely interview subject has been selected by the author to provide impartial evidence of the existence, or rather, the impossibility, of an even more unlikely relationship. wanted to play about with a more unconventional way of writing and had the honour of interviewing several agreeable light fixtures thanks guys art creds: ahriii7 on x (sunday), kotteri (teacup/candle sconce) pairing: sunday + male reader warnings: none except they're not friendly to each other whatsoever and I mean this sincerely wc: 1.7k

HONKAI STAR RAIL MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

There exists a certain lamp that illuminates the way between the doorway to the left and the doorway to the right. A small thing: bronze, affixed to the wall (a sconce, really, yet it insists on being a lamp). If one were to ask it what leads in either direction, it would not know—and if it did, it would not be able to tell. “I cannot see where my light does not reach,” it might insist, eager to be helpful, but it is far too foolish to read between lines and form a cogent explanation. 

The lamp is better suited for sharing observations—shedding light on matters, so to speak. 

For example, who passes along this corridor each day?

The lamp thinks. 

A man with imposing footsteps. He has a cheerful voice—humming the tunes that occasionally slip out of the door to the left, announcing his presence to the one named after a bird. Sometimes, the light catches on the food he brings: sweet, small little cakes; a tray of tea and sandwiches; and maybe a few flaky pastries. More often, he brings out an empty plate. The lamp has no idea how he does it—it counts and counts, but it seems the food has simply appeared in that room at the end more often than he brings it in, and he’s merely taking the residue out. 

Who else?

There’s a shorter one, clad in the softest of greys that incandesce so gently when it’s evening and only the lamp shines dimly. His steps are softer, too: partly due to the difference in shoe choices between the two, partly due to the more regal way he carries himself. 

And what do you hear?

They’re definitely not friends. 

“Carry yourself with more decorum,” the soft-grey one says. His amber eyes should be warm—like the hushed blaze of the small lamp—but they’re staring at the other man with such coldness that the bronze cladding of its metallic body almost shivers. 

“Yes, Your Holiness,”  the other replies, sing-song. 

It wasn’t always like this. The lamp has been observing for a long time, and it recalls the man who holds the sweets used to be more reticent when following behind the grey one: hands folded behind his back, walking as neatly as a soldier. 

Now—now, it’s an easy dislike between the two.  The lamp cannot see the other man’s face, but he imagines it—a false smile shrouding an unhappy heart, and both of them know it. 

The lamp thinks it changed after the two got covered in (hastily patched-up) scrapes—and that quiet fear that clung to the man like smoke simply dissolved in the air, replaced with something the lamp cannot quite place. Arrogance? No, perhaps not. Contempt? Maybe. 

What else do you hear?

“I don’t appreciate you shirking your duties in favour of disturbing others fulfilling their own.”

“Oh, you heard about me helping the chefs?” His easy tone is meant to distract—like two hands placed firmly on somebody’s shoulders to turn them towards a predetermined conclusion. “Did you enjoy today’s lunch?”

The grey man presses his lips together. The lamp has seen enough of his expressions to gauge approximately the incredulous irritation that seeks to spill from his mouth—held back only by the tight seam that forms its distinct line on his face.

“It was far too acerbic.” 

“Odd,” the other murmurs. “Plate came back clean.”

“I don’t waste food,”  he snaps. “I wasn’t talking about that, regardless.”

“The knights? You always do seem to drag me away by the scruff of my neck whenever you see me rolling around with them—”

“Such vulgar language,” he clicks his tongue. “You instill bad habits into them.”

“What, survival? Your Holiness, the swordwork of the temple may be beautiful, but it is inflexible in…”

The words trail off suddenly, punctuated by the distant closing of the door. 

What do you notice?

He likes to argue. 

Which one?

The one who brings the food. He speaks informally, without an ounce of shame. 

The lamp thinks hard. 

There was once a voice, drifting in from the ajar door in the distance. Her words floated through the crevice—just about in reach of the rays of light after the lamp’s oil was topped up. It doesn’t remember much of the conversation, only that she mentioned friendship briefly. 

Maybe this is his idea of ‘friendship’. 

And if one were to ask its cousins—the Temple of Order, naturally, needs its light—then, what would they say?

Is this friendship?

The sconce by the offices would say yes. In the steady stream of people who walk by, the one with small wings aflutter and the one with a sword resting on his hip always act cordial with each other. 

“How far has the Entreaty been translated?” 

“Far.”

“Far? It was supposed to be finished by now.”

“I’m so—rry,” the one who looks like a guard drags his syllables out, clearly genuine. 

The winged one looks stern, but perhaps it’s all a joke between friends. 

The sconce in the office would disagree. 

Oh? What do you think about the situation?

There’s hatred between the two—vitriol, disguised as normal chatter, invades each conversation. Only when both are buried in a mountain of paperwork does the office of the one dressed in fancy robes quieten down: filling it with the sound of pens scratching against parchment, and the soft crinkle of pages turning. 

Just not today. 

“Why were you absent from the grounds?” 

The man cornered against a desk glances at the sword haplessly leant against the wall behind his chair, as if it could save him, as if it could offer him answers for the uncharacteristic way the other is acting. 

“I was told to stand down for what should’ve been my duty at the Synod,” he replies bitterly, but the sconce notices that he doesn’t quite answer the question. 

“And you went out gallivanting with the Northern Duke?”

“I’d like to remind Your Holiness of my ranking as a viscount. Should I needlessly irritate the sword of the King?”

The feathered man’s lips press together—a grim line, like the kind of flame when the oil is sputtering and the fire in the lamps can’t muster up the energy to flow warm and fat and lazy. 

“You have no problem irritating me,” he says, quietly, and his gloved hands creak as they dig into the wood of the desk either side of the aide: almost crushing the poor thing. Look, it’s practically shaking at the tense silence between the two—at the nerve steeling the aide’s spine as he boldly stares back at the other, at the warmth being leached out of the room, even with the blazing fireplace. They’re so close that the sconce can almost feel their atoms mingling—and briefly, the aide looks at the sconce as if he can hear it. “You don’t mind acting insolently when it comes to me.”

He swallows, and the sconce is sure that his superior feels his throat vibrate; despite his valiant efforts, the aide is human like the rest of them, cowed in the face of someone with more power. 

“You forgive the insolent,” he breathes. The sconce didn’t think it was possible, but he approaches—closer, yet not quite touching, as if a veil were separating the two of them, just barely tickling against their bodies and rippling in on itself. “Transcendental, omnibenevolent—everyone you interact with seems to be a misguided, pitiful lamb to your omniscient eyes, Your Holiness. You forgive them. Each sinner is allocated a special type of patience.”

The flames crackling in the fireplace shift, and the feathered man’s face is shrouded in shadow. In turn, the sconce glows more insistently, yet it still can’t make out his expression. Bitter anger? Incredulity?

“Where’s your patience for me? Go on, tell me to repent. My sin was leaving to aid the blade of the king in exterminating three wyverns near the Holy Grottos—tell me, Your Holiness, what should my penance be?”

He grins, but it is not a friendly thing. Snarled, caustic—the sconce can tell the enshadowed man is approaching the end of his wick. Trembling hands, so politely wrapped in dove-grey gloves, itch to move—to grab the man in front of him, shake him down, breaching the invisible boundaries between them. 

Are you curious about what’s happening?

Does his breath taste like the blood speckling his freshly ironed coat? When he leans towards the feathered one, is he radiating the heat of adrenaline, or does one feel a chill as he approaches? They’re almost nose-to-nose now, touching as one would with a priceless piece of art—which is to say, not at all, or with the faintest of touches disguised in the most delicate gloves. 

“Leave,” he replies, finally, and the sconce doesn’t know whether the word is in tangent to the other’s question, or if it’s completely disjointed from the conversation—a full stop to end the overstrung atmosphere (like a tightrope carrying far too many people, braced in limbo against the inevitable snap of overworked fibres).

Ironically, these are the only times where the dissident obeys, just barely grazing the other’s body—and the man who had the last word falters. He doesn't turn back, doesn't even stop to collect the sword behind his desk. His coat flutters behind him, and those gloved hands reach out: fingers not quite kissing the hem, receding back to his side as though he burnt them. 

The door slams shut. 

Have things changed?

Perhaps. The one left behind stares at the hand that betrayed him, unconsciously curling and uncurling them—the act of grasping at straws. Nothing but the thin air responds to his touch. He looks up, and the sconce can see his face now: a placid thing, cruelly beautiful. He’s not frowning, like the sconce half-expected. No. 

There’s a frightful pensiveness painting his features, and the sconce cannot help but feel something far more sinister lurks beneath the dermis making up this mask. 

Are all these observations credible, though?

Naturally. What reason does a lamp have to lie?

✦ . 　⁺