#5) (gestures to the religious symbolism)

[beesbeesbees42]

I just remembered I was gonna type out all my deltarune theories, so here goes!

-The secret boss for Chapter 3 will be related to Kris's past

-Ice-e is real, and spread his glitches to Spamton. Ice-e is connected to the voice on the phone that says nothing but garbage noise

-Ice-e, due to the glitches, is always in pain

-Dess going missing is related to her burning out the eyes of the Ice-e pizza box

-Something in Chapter 3 will absolutely be based off of the book of hymns Toriel owns

[nvuy]

hands on — sunday

summary. sunday feels eyes on him from everywhere, yet he still seeks your gaze despite how much he loses himself in your eyes.

notes. wrowwww confit part 2 is here i DID post it on ao3 like 5 mins ago but i think ao3 died in my country for the 74th time this year soooorrrrr hello tumblr!!!!!!

i'd strongly suggest you read confiteor here (or on ao3) before reading this one, otherwise this entire fic just sounds like an acid trip.

warnings. mdni, 18+, gn reader but you have fem anatomy, long ass 12k post, mild degradation, little bit of horror themes if you squint?, alternative summary: sunday receives head and has an existential crisis, sunday literally loses his mind (in a sexy way), religious guilt, religious themes & symbolism, sunday needs therapy, you're a weirdo (in a sexy way), y'all get it on in a church.

The church had always been beautiful. A place of worship, fairness, mutual happiness. It’s partly the reason Sunday was always so enamoured with its pieces on the walls; Robin used to trace her hands over the paintings, and he was sure he could spot her fingerprints from when the paint was still drying.

Sunday had never felt so disgusted with himself.

The murals watched him, one thousand unblinking eyes following him as he walked down the aisle, with muted clicks from his shoes against the red carpet with gold trimming. 

He was so angry. 

He’d trudged home the night prior seething, and Robin had rested a hand on his shoulder and whispered to him until he gathered himself. He hated to present himself in such a way to her, and although she begged for him to shed a light on his problems, she was met with silence. 

He was so angry at his traitorous hands when they wandered below the waistband of his pants. He’d been trying to sleep, tossing and turning for hours, desperate for some sort of distraction. He’d retrieved a glass of water, he’d stayed up to read, and nothing was helping. Nothing soothed the ache between his thighs; the thought in the back of his mind that you were in that same rut. 

He felt awful feeling himself up again, this time alone, and he was so ashamed when he muffled his cries and came into his hand. 

Vile. 

There’s a statue in the church. One erected from only the most exquisite sculptors of the era, crafted meticulously over gruelling hours to perfect the shape of THEM. Xipe stands behind the pulpit, larger than anything in the church, and silent. THEIR arms remain still, outstretched and gestured towards the empty pews. THEIR eyes are not open, but there is a gentle smile carved onto a perfectly whimsical face. 

It is a beautiful statue, sure, but Sunday would have preferred another God to watch over instead.

Perhaps it was for the best. 

In the preparation of the morning service, Sunday was unusually quiet. Staff piled in silently, bidding their greetings, and even Robin—and, bless her gentle heart—was reticent, her lips pulled together into a thin line. The choir practised, and it was the only sounds he heard that morning. 

The wine the church offered was of pure grapes. The chalice the sacramental wine rested in was golden with a thin stem and a wide base. A single golden spoon laid within the red. 

It’s supposed to be blood. It feels dastardly eerie to offer a piece of THEM to those undeserving of such. 

Instinctively, when his gaze met the statue’s, his gloved hand raised and clasped the golden charm at his chest tightly. 

Sunday felt a tap on his shoulder. 

“The congregation is prepared,” Robin said to him. She tucked a piece of her hair behind her ear. “As per usual.” 

He hadn’t taken his eyes off of the statue. “Good.” 

“And there are people coming in now,” she continued, nodding towards the door that led out to the lectern. “It’s almost eight.” 

“Thank you.”

She stopped, eyeing him warily. 

“There’s something bothering you,” she commented quietly. “You’ve been on edge since last night. Did something happen?” 

Sunday finally turned to look her in the eye. His face remained expressionless, though his tone held a hint of warning. “I’m fine, Robin. Please. Don’t worry about me.”  

“Brother–” 

“Robin.” He placed a gentle hand on her shoulder, though that smile he always pulled onto his lips when he was trying to deter her mind from him. His heart was pounding in his chest. “Please. Enough.” 

Defeatedly, her shoulders sagged. She wanted to tell him, as she had so many times before—so many times—that she was there for him. She’s always been there for him. 

Robin’s lips twitched into a soft, but crushed smile. “Okay.” She stared down at her shoes. They were slightly scuffed at the sides. “Okay, I… I’ll get the choir started.” 

Sunday had turned back towards the statue with an approving, idle hum. His shoulders had stiffened as he watched THEM closely, fingers interlocked in front of his stomach. It was a nervous habit Robin recognised all too well.

His hand was bleeding around the golden charm now. 

She said nothing. 

ೃ༄

When Sunday sang prayers into the microphone with a bandaged hand beneath his gloves, he wondered if he was ever truly a good person. Was he… ever fit to see the Heavens once he passed? It was all down to the judgement of one final being; unbiased, unjudged, honest. 

He always valued honesty. 

“Grace be to thee, and to your kinship.” The sunlight was burning into the back of his halo. “And, weary sinners, hold your heads, as THEY will shine light down upon you, and forgive all of your transgressions.” 

The chalice filled with wine sat idly on the table. There was an embroidered white table runner draped over the top to cover the chipped and old wood. 

The pattern was eerily similar to the stockings you wore that night. 

He dreamed of you. 

How could he? To betray himself, The Family, his own flesh and blood. He felt repulsive, like swallowing strong liquor. His saliva was thick in his throat as he spoke, hands pulled tight around the edge of the pulpit, mere inches away from shedding the program that rested in the centre. The wood creaked beneath the pressure. 

He remembered your voice as if you were truly whispering in your ear at that moment. 

You’re haunting him. He hears your heels in the hallway at home; he can smell your perfume when he passes down the aisle every morning. The script in his hands has tears from how firm he’s been gripping the paper. 

He had to remind himself he is good. He is good, and loved, and obedient, and his God is so benevolent and thoughtful to watch over someone as pathetically weak as he is. THEY will forgive him. 

He knows, he told himself. He knows what he did all those nights ago. 

Sunday felt unworthy to hold the golden chalice in his hands. The other staff had positioned themselves ready for the wine service. One had stopped to look strangely at the man. Sunday’s hands were trembling around the handles. 

“Reverend Sunday?” one of the priests asked gently. “Are you alright?” 

Briskly, he nodded his head once and pulled as much of a reassuring smile on his lips as he could. Then, he turned, careful not to spill the wine in the chalice and moved forward. 

There was already a line forming down the aisle. 

He is loved. 

“Go…” He hoped his voice was steady. It should be, for he’s said these exact words everyday for almost a year now. “Eat your food with gladness.” 

He is good.

The spoon shook in his hands as he offered it to one of the churchgoers. 

The next person stepped up. The priest on the right grasped their chin gently with the red cloth. Sunday offered another spoonful of wine. 

They were replaced with the next person. 

He is loyal.

“…And drink your wine with a joyful heart.” 

The next. And the next. And the next. 

Routine. Stagnant, maddening, routine. 

He glanced down to dip the spoon back into the wine again. The chalice was half full now, and the line was beginning to dwindle. He could see the end of it now. 

He is faithful. 

“…For THEY have already–” 

His heart faltered when he looked up again. 

The wine spilled from the spoon. He almost dropped the gold onto the floor. 

The breath that escaped his lips was shaky. 

It seemed that everyone in the church was transfixed with the smile you directed at the Head Reverend. Even the priests to his left and right had stopped. 

The choir had paused. A quick glance to the right would reveal Robin with her lips slightly parted. The organ player had pressed the wrong key and had halted the singing. 

When you shifted, he was reminded that you were not a perfect statue carved from the Gods hands. Not like the statue of Xipe that stood behind him. Your eyes flitted downwards, and he noticed your fists clenched at your sides. Discomfort pulled across your face like ink bleeding onto a canvas. 

Perhaps it was the distasteful attire you’d chosen for the ceremony that had garnered the staring. 

Maybe it was the unearthly beauty that sculpted your face, as if you were a being that had been picked from an inch of the Gods skin and blood, and brought to life on land, so full of love and saccharine bittersweetness. 

He could taste it on his tongue. 

Sunday quickly dipped the spoon back in the wine when one of the priests moved to hold the red cloth beneath your chin. 

He swallowed. “–Have already approved of what you do.” 

The spoon slipped between your parted lips. 

The other priest wiped your mouth with the cloth. It was like velvet on your lips. 

Hesitantly, out of time with the conductor, the church organ continued where the player had paused.

You pulled away from the cloth before the priest could remove his hand himself, and you offered one more warm smile—and sharp canines poked over your bottom lip—before you moved to let the next person replace you.

As you left, Sunday promptly ignored your hand that traced the leather of his belt beneath his coat. 

His heart was racing beneath his chest, like a bird hitting its wings against the confines of its cage. 

Heat clammered and sweltered up his neck. He ignored that, too. 

ೃ༄

He can’t. 

When Sunday stepped out of the confessional booth and locked the door with the key, he leaned against the door and shut his eyes tight. 

He felt too big for his clothes. His skin doesn’t feel like it’s his. It’s hot. It’s just so hot and his skin felt as though it had been rubbed raw with sandpaper. His breathing was shaky and uneven. 

He cannot bear to look at the images and murals plastered over the walls. If they had a choice, the unstaring eyes would, too, look away in shame. The statue is still. 

Sometimes, he was convinced it moved when no one was looking. 

Maybe that’s just paranoia. It all is, isn’t it? He’s always been scared of little things. Things with eyes, like dolls, and portraits, and people, and Gods. Not THEM. Never THEM—deep down, he did fear THEM. But he knows he is loved. Otherwise, he would have been abandoned. 

The murals are watching him. 

The walls are warping the longer he stares. The halos behind the figures’ heads are fading. He feels his own doing the same. He is unworthy of it. It is more like a weight of lead, than a ring of light. 

He’s still thinking of you. 

It’s horrible. It’s wrong. His eyes sting, though he’s not sure if it is exhaustion, or if he will cry again. But he can’t cry. He had wept silently in his bed the night prior because he couldn’t sleep. And it’s hard to sleep when the house is silent, but there’s a distant clicking of your heels down the hallway outside of his room.

It does not stop, nor does it draw closer or further away. It is a rhythmic click click click, and it is suffocating. It’s even worse when he feels you breathe into his ear and urge his hand between his legs. He feels your hands trace over his shoulders to his chest from behind—and of course you’re behind, because if he were to turn around, he’d see something ugly. 

He’d see nothing. 

It’s all in his head. 

But it feels real. How hot your breath is against his neck, how your lips follow the throbbing veins in his throat, how your fingers wrap around his wrist and guide his hand between his legs. 

The feeling weighs on his chest like gold. 

He draws close to pulling off his clothes when he is in bed. He fights his will, because it is you in his ear whispering that he is most beautiful in his rawest form. And he believes you, but the idea of ruining himself any further makes him feel sick. 

And one night, with what he feels are your teeth buried in his throat, he sings that he loves you, and he grows cold. 

He cannot sleep, and when he can sleep he dreams of you. And even as he lays wide awake in his bed, his hands wander, and he can feel your skin on his. 

He can’t love you. 

It’s not love. Love is warm, unfamiliar, and new, and he hears tales of how comfortable it is. 

It’s wrong to feel this way. 

He removed himself from the confessional. His legs felt weak when a hesitant breath left his lips.

“It’s like a weight… isn’t it?” 

Sunday froze. He’d never felt so cold before. His spine snapped straight like it’s was crafted of metal, and something horrible hooked within his stomach, hard and aching, like he’d swallowed lead. 

He heard you swallow. 

He didn’t dare turn around, fingers trapped on the pages of printed hymns he was about to put away. 

“It’s persistent.” He heard the telltale sign of your clothes moving. “You feel it, too.” 

He was afraid of what he would see when he turned around. 

He does. “I don’t know what you speak of.” He then turned, eyes glaring and face alight with anger. “If you know well, you will turn and leave. Don’t come back here.” 

His shaky inhale gives himself away. 

He isn’t sure if you’re real. For his sake, he hoped you weren’t. 

Sunday held the key tight in his bandaged hand. 

“You should feel guilty.” 

His heart stopped. The teeth of the key were digging into the hole in his palm. The bandages strain against his flesh, and he bites his tongue before he can let out a bark of disdain at you. 

Ungrateful. 

He won’t voice it. He will say nothing. This is not his fault; it can’t be his fault. 

And he still feels it is his fault. But this all happened because of you. And he’s been trapped inside his head for all these nights because of you. It’s all you. 

“Should I?” he asked quietly. He watched your face twist. “Or should you?” 

“Is it not your job to help people like me?” you tried. You felt blood rise up your neck and settle in your face. You weren’t sure whether it was because he was still the most beautiful man you’d ever seen, or if your frustration was climbing further and further towards your heart. “I thought you could help me.”

You had promised to fix him as well.

If anything, he felt even more broken than he had ever been. 

Sunday breathed out shakily. 

The bandages around his hand were beginning to dye a dark red like the wine he had fed you. 

He swallowed hard. You saw his throat move. 

“Fix this, Reverend. Fix me.” 

His voice faltered when he whispered, “I cannot fix what is beyond repair. I cannot give you anything more than I already have.” 

“Then take me.” 

There was silence.

He felt his heart drop into his stomach. 

Sunday glanced towards the door of the church and tried to control his breathing. “I can’t.” He shook his head slowly. He can’t bring himself to look into your eyes. “We can’t do this again. It will fix nothing. It will make everything worse.” 

Your legs trembled. You felt your heart stop in your chest, and it hurt. 

And you were so angry. 

So, so angry. You wanted to spit in his face, or maybe you wanted to fall to your knees and kiss his shoes and beg for forgiveness. 

Whatever you felt for this man, love, attachment, some sort of long winded delusion that he could be yours if you tried hard enough, surged inside of your head. 

You wanted to touch him. You wanted to feel his skin on your hands, and you wanted to hear him again. 

You swallowed your pride, and then you uttered, “please, sir.” 

Sunday exhaled sharply through gritted teeth. 

“Not only are your hands sullied with filth, but you are also disobedient.” He still cannot bring himself to look at you. He didn’t want to. He was afraid he’d succumb to your whims if he did. His hands were trembling, fingers weak and almost as if they would snap off from the knuckles. “I told you to never come back here.” 

You almost looked offended. 

“I don’t come here willingly–” 

“I know what you are.” 

Sunday’s fists clenched by his sides. The wings beneath his ears had stiffened, feathers bristling like cacti. 

“I know what you do.” 

You said nothing. If anything, your eyes were transfixed on the statue behind him. 

“You find reverent men, and you ruin them.” He turned, then, but his eyes didn't meet yours. “Tell me: are you proud of yourself?” 

“Never proud, sire,” you admitted. Then, you bowed your head. “Though I will say, I do hope you enjoyed yourself last night.” 

He inhaled sharply, and the corners of his lips twitched upwards. 

There, you dared to reach forward and trace your thumb along the bandages of his wounded hand. 

And he let you. 

He did not flinch away, nor did he tell you to leave again. 

He simply stared down at your fingers as they smoothed along the expanse of the scratchy material along his palm. Your fingers slotted between his. 

Sunday sighed, defeated. 

Your hand was so warm. And despite the disgust and the swamp he felt bubbling in his guts, he felt as if he’d known you his entire life. 

There was something so foreign in your skin, and yet he wanted nothing more than to melt into you like a burning flame upon a candlestick. 

Sunday, at that moment, felt no shame in what he had done to himself that same night. 

If anything, it pleased you, and that lit his skin on fire. A nice warmth buried itself in his stomach. 

“How dare you come back here.” The whisper was without malice, though he wished it did hold some sort of bite. Instead, he sounded pathetic, and lost, and he felt only you could help him. 

You don’t seem the slightest bit apologetic. 

Instead, your lips stretch into a small smile. 

“I blame you,” you said to him. Your lashes fluttered against his cheek. You didn't dare let your hand wander. Cautiously, you squeezed his fingers around yours, and silently prayed that he could let you indulge one last time. 

He blamed himself, too. 

His heart raced in his chest when your lips pressed to his. The poor muscle bashed helplessly against his ribs, like a small defenceless bird trying to free itself of its enclosure. Perhaps his heart knew better and attempted to leap from his throat.

You were gentle. So gentle he was convinced you were a different person; a different being to what he initially presumed you were. And it hurt. His chest hurt, like one thousand feathers weighed down upon his bones. Your lips were soft, and his own trembled against yours. 

Sunday’s other hand was still curled by his side, shaking with the urge to touch the expanse of your skin, and to also remain glued to his thighs at the same time. 

One of the wings beneath his ear tickled your jaw. The feathers trembled against your skin. You pressed deeper into hus mouth, so much so he almost startled back when your chest pressed against his. 

Sunday could feel your heart clammer against his own, and he felt as though you couldn’t have been any closer to him. 

A tick in time, a short moment of weakness, and one he’ll regret when he goes home and struggles to sleep again, but his hand abandons your grip. He tries his hardest to resist. He shouldn’t have ever let this happen again.  

Your arms daringly swung around his neck, one hand holding his cheek gently to keep his lips on yours. You could feel his hesitation, but something wrong urged you forward; urged you to ruin him even further. 

His hands rested on your hips. They did not move. They did not wander. They were frozen on your skin like ice. 

You tasted of the wine he’d given you.

It was strange, sweet, and it made his face flush the same colour as the blood on his hand. 

“Blessed Reverend,” you whispered against his lips. “How will you sleep tonight?” 

Your nose brushed against his. His feathers rustled when your breath and the scent of wine curled around his cheek. 

“I won’t,” he admitted. It’s quiet. You barely heard it. “I will toss and turn.” 

You fluttered your lashes at his answer. He felt your lips stretch into a smile. 

His heart frantically raced in his chest when your lips touched his again, and he stiffened when he stepped backwards with you and his back pressed against the pulpit. 

The hand on his cheek traced down the throbbing veins of his neck, and he had half a mind to pull away from you. His own hands held firmer against your hips.

He was growing dizzy. 

When he fluttered his eyes open, sick from the taste of wine on his lips, he saw one thousand eyes staring down at him. 

On the walls, on the ceiling, from the stained glass windows. His heart hurt in his chest, the thudding so loud he could barely hear anything else as it echoed in his ears. The swarm of guilt, still, was not enough to tear him off of you. 

The statue behind him, however, burned holes in the back of his head. He knew the sculpture was carved with its eyes shut, but he felt it he turned around, he’d notice the crack of a pupil beneath the stone eyelids. 

Your hand was on his stomach now, thumb following the central curve of his belly down beneath his navel. 

When your thumb hooked beneath his belt, his fingers wrapped around your wrist before you could dip any lower towards his thighs. 

“Not here,” he pleaded softly against your lips. 

He swallowed hard. 

“Where do you suggest we go?” you asked. He almost didn’t hear you. There was implication in your voice. 

He hated how warm he grew in his chest, but he knew it was wrong. So wrong, and it’s horrible. 

“You will not clamber into my bed tonight,” he whispered to you. That he knew for sure. 

You shook your head slowly. “I want you to take me here.” 

His stomach churned. It was as if he’d swallowed unjust liquor in one giant gulp. It hurt to breathe. It hurt to think as he did. His mouth tried to form words, some type of rejection, or some form of a nicely worded insult, but nothing came out. 

Instead, he stupidly gaped at you. 

His eyes flitted up to the statue of Xipe. THEIR eyes remained closed, all six of them, and the expressions held still. 

Sometimes, he was convinced the statue was alive. 

Perhaps that was just paranoia. 

He found it fitting to pull you towards the hall and down a flight of steps. He held onto you tight by your arms, afraid you’d disappear, as he once again, grew uncomfortable in his own skin and clothes.

Fitting to be furthest away from the sunlight. 

As his fingers fumbled with the keys to the cellar, your hands wandered around his waist. and your warm lips pressed to the back of his wings. The feathers twitched and flinched. 

Sunday’s breathing grew heavy as the door unlocked and creaked open. 

The cellar was… just that. A cellar. There were an abundance of barrels laid down beneath the benches on either side of the room. They were most likely full of wine for the services. There wasn’t much out on display. 

Fittingly so, it was dark, and there were no windows. 

Your shoes clicked against the tiled floor. 

It’s dark. So dark you can barely see him, but he keeps a firm grasp on your wrist as you step into the room. It’s not too cold, surprisingly. It does not smell of mould or abandonment; perhaps they take good care of this place. 

You almost knocked into a table in the centre of the room. The glass sitting on top clattered and shook as you startled back into him. 

“It is safer here,” Sunday whispered in your ear. You knew he locked the door. His hands squeezed your shoulders. 

“I believe you,” you told him. 

Sunday hummed at your words, and his lips brushed against the side of your neck. His breathing remained unsteady. 

You turned around to feel blindly for his waist. It was probably best that it was dark down here. It was appropriate for the both of you, and so far away from the sky, and the leering eyes of the murals painted onto the walls. 

His body is warm against yours. 

He finds it in himself, wherever he hides himself away, to kiss you then. Maybe because it’s dark. You can just make out the outline of him, and whatever light creeps through the bottom of the door is enough. 

“I came for you, sire,” you said. “Use me as you wish.” 

Sunday’s lips bumped against your neck. “You cannot whisper depravity into my ears.” 

“You brought me down here for a reason,” you answered him. Your fingers slid down his throat and you thumbed over the top button of his shirt. “I say what I want.” 

“You are filthy.” And he kissed you again. Fury flared in his stomach like fire. 

You freed the first two buttons of his shirt, and while you were busied following the smooth skin of his neck, he pushed off your coat. 

You managed to pull the white blazer off of his shoulders, and though he couldn’t see it, he heard the heavy fabric crumple to the floor by his feet. He internally cringed; the wrinkles he would have to iron out would be too telling. 

You hummed pleasantly as you drew him back against your lips. 

The wings around his waist were a nice surprise. You hadn’t expected them to be any larger than your arm with the way he tucked them beneath his coat, but although the feathers were flattened from the material, they stretched out wide in relief. 

He knew the blackened feathers were ugly and uneven and clipped to the very edge, but you didn’t seem to mind. In fact, your fingers flitted over the base gently, a soft caress of your hand that made the feathers bristle. 

Your lips were so soft. Despite wandering hands, you were so gentle. It made his stomach churn, but his heart stammered in his chest. 

The feathers rustled. You heard them. They reminded you of a pigeon shaking out its wings. 

The table was just next to your hip. 

You moved away from his lips for just a moment. 

And then, you reached forward blindly and swiped the glass off of the table. Jars and glasses and bottles of wine smashed onto the tiles, and Sunday’s grip tightens on your hips. 

“What are you doing?!” He asked with horror strewn about his face, though you couldn’t directly see it. It was very well and obvious in his voice. “Why would you–”

You silenced him with your fingers pressed to the cupid’s bow of his lips. “Lay on the table, Reverend.” 

“Are you–” 

“Lay down.” You guided his hips softly, cautious of the poor and frantically beating heart in his chest, until the bones bumped into the edge of the wood. 

Sunday’s breathing shook with disdain. The table pressed against his back, and he could feel your hands sliding up his chest to push him backwards. The exposed skin of his chest met the slight chill of the air. Your thumb moved along the line of buttons before it raised again to push at his jugular until he was forced back onto the table. 

Sunday trembled for a moment. 

It almost hurt how quickly the guilt in his stomach vanished when you crawled up on the table next to him. His vision, although useless in the lowlights of the cellar, fogged over with heat and the thick air that filled his lungs. 

His skin prickled when your lips grazed his neck.

This is wrong. So wrong, and–

His fists clenched by his sides when your lips drag down his chest, following the buttons on his shirt. The plastic was cool, and it collided with your teeth as you travelled lower and lower. 

All the while, anxiety stirred in his stomach like some roaring beast. This was wrong, to be beneath you like this, where he’s not taking what he wants, where he’s not in control. This is wrong, wrong, wrong– 

Where his shirt pulled untucked from his pants exposed a lining of skin and his stomach, and he felt teeth set into his flesh. The skin below his navel stirred a bright red, and his veins were set ablaze. 

He stiffened, and his hand instinctively came forward to pull his skin free from your teeth. 

He felt his eyes were slowly adjusting to the darkness. So, so slowly. 

Sunday inhaled, and his voice trembled, so he kept his lips shut. 

You spoke, “don’t resist. Enjoy it.” 

He felt the telltale tug of his belt, and the jingle of the buckle as it finally loosened. He sighed in relief from the feeling. Still, his hands curled even tighter by his sides. “How can I–” 

Your fingers ventured beneath his unbuckled belt. You then firmly rubbed your thumb up and down and up down his side of his cock twitching in his pants and Sunday had half a mind to squirm on the table. 

“Do I make you anxious?” He heard you giggle close to his ear, and your lips smoothed over the base of one of his wings. 

He wanted to say you did, and you made him shake, and you made him dream about you, and you made him touch himself when he couldn’t sleep, and– 

Nothing but a moan pulled from his lips when your hand finally freed his cock from his pants. 

His chest heaved in disgust and pleasure and everything for that was your sullied and dirtied skin touching him. That was you, and those terrible shameful words that spilled from your tongue that made him shudder and caused his heart to quicken. 

His face grew impossibly hotter than before. 

You hooked your legs around his thigh, pressing your knee between his legs firm enough to still him. The dryness of your hand tugging the warmish pulled skin of his cock sent his mind into a haze. 

The horrible rhythm of your hand against his was so good, and he wished he could just disappear right then and there. 

Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he was so relieved there were no eyes watching him here. He was so relieved the cellar only had one door locked now. He made sure of it. 

If you commanded him to take, then he would ensure you wouldn’t leave this very room until you’d given him everything you had to offer. 

Heat sweltered between his legs, surging like flames licking up his skin. 

He wanted to speak. He wanted to order; he wanted to bend you over the table and take what was his. 

His ankles weakened when your fingers slipped over the head of his cock. Just at the thought of ruining you, a drop of cum squeezed from his slit, and your thumb smeared it all over him as best it could. 

His stomach heaved, basically convulsed, as you stroked him firmer and firmer until his limbs grew weak and burned from squirming and wriggling beneath you. He gave up barely minutes after you’d started, and now he only found it in himself to moan and moan over and over again beneath your hand like some dog. 

Wrong. 

He felt your lips trail down his neck. 

Oh. His hand rested behind your head and he tilted his head so your lips could drag against his flesh. It was awful. So, so awful his jaw clenched and his fingers twisted into your hair. 

Your teeth pulled at the taught skin below his jaw. 

“Don’t leave marks,” he breathed. He swallowed, and you followed the shape of his jugular with a graze of your teeth. 

This is awful,

His stomach churned. He feared he’d throw up with shame. 

Sunday was panting now, nails digging into your scalp. His teeth gritted and grinded behind his lips. He can’t do this. He can’t, he can’t, he can’t– 

Sunday managed to sit up shakily. 

“Put–” Another moan escaped his lips, followed by a trail of laughter at how ridiculous this was. “Put your mouth on me.” 

“Is that what the High Priest wishes?” Your lips followed along the soft skin above his collarbone. “He wants his dick sucked by a ‘whore’ on the streets? Will that satisfy you, Reverend?” 

Anger flared in his chest. His hand moved from behind your scalp to grasp your chin firmly. “You will do well to remember you are here to please me.”

And you would.

A dreamy sigh escaped your lips as he gripped your face hard enough to almost hurt. His nails dug into your cheek. “Of course, Reverend. Thank you.” 

 He let go of you. 

As obscene as it was, his hand twisted into your hair again and pushed your face towards his lap. 

This was only slightly better. How he could pull and tug you where he wanted. He was here to take; isn’t that what you said? 

Still, it was obscene. Grotesque. Disgusting and muddied and it’s so, so hot down here. For a moment, he feared Hell, for maybe the world below the soil had risen to take him and you into the earth. 

It would be what you both deserved. 

He felt your tongue first. Awful thing, your tongue. If he’d had it his way, it would have been torn from your mouth the second you stepped into his church this morning. 

It didn’t feel as awful as he knew it was when the wet muscle dragged along the head of his cock. The tip of your tongue nestled upon his slit, and it was so hot, and he almost lost his mind trying to remove what was left of his clothes on his person. 

He did not. 

Though it was dark, and he could see the outline of you clearly, he refused to let him feel more of your skin on his. 

Your lips pressed a dainty kiss to the tip of his cock before they then wrapped around the head. 

Hot. That’s what it was. Sweltering, sweaty, sickening humidity crawling up his neck, like one thousand bugs twitching and writhing upon his skin. 

His stomach stuttered, and he felt your palms rest on his hips as you positioned yourself more comfortably to the side of him. You draped your stomach over his soft thigh to splay your hands over his torso. 

Sunday raised his fingers to bite down on the side of his hand to silence himself. There was no coming back from this. Exiting the confessional yesterday with filthy hands already destroyed him, and now something sour was pooling at the back of his throat at the idea of unlocking the cellar door and leaving. 

He couldn’t imagine how dishevelled and improper he looked. 

His wings fluttered when your mouth lowered further on him, and one of your hands abandoned his stuttering hips to thumb along the sensitive skin beneath his cock. 

You were consistent, licking up and down with your tongue in wet passes. It drove him mad. He preferred it that way, floating out of his mind, as your warm tongue covered the skin of his cock in your saliva. 

You tasted salt as his slit dripped pathetically, but you kept your lips zipped at teasing him any further. You could hear him above you, a panting mess, breathing all slow and heavy, of whatever he was an hour ago with a tight and twitch grip in your hair, so much so his nails had embedded themselves into your scalp. 

His hips stuttered forward when you pushed your mouth further down his cock.

You drooled around the skin, slicking his thighs with spit and his own cum, as you willed your breathing through your nose. Surprisingly, instead of what any vile man would do and move his hips forward and fuck the back of your throat without a care in the world of your ability to breathe, Sunday waited. 

He waited patiently. Perhaps he was searching for signs of discomfort, or maybe he was adjusting to the heat of your mouth and your tongue stretching past your lips to run along the swollen veins of his cock, but either way he waited. 

He was more or less hesitating. 

He felt so disgusting and hot, but your mouth was so warm and his breathing shook more and more and the air felt trapped inside of his lungs. 

It’s so hot. 

Your tongue dragged up a swollen vein alongside his cock again and Sunday hissed, holding your hair tight as a warning. Watch yourself. He was afraid of how difficult it was to allow your mouth to do its own thing; how desperately he wanted to feel the back of your throat. 

You would let him. You had promised him you’d let him take and take and take until there was nothing left of you. 

The hand in your hair served more as a gentle encouragement than a forcing manoeuvre. He was swollen. He could feel himself bursting at the seams. 

Instead, he searched for a distraction. “Come–” His breathing stuttered. “Come here.” 

You pulled off of his cock. 

You hummed curiously. 

One of his hands was following the gentle curve of your spine, dipping lower and lower towards the back of your thighs. Instinctively, you moved closer towards him. 

But still, you managed, “you don’t have to touch me, sire.” 

“I want to hear you,” he whispered. 

His hand snaked around your front and steadily undid the button at your waistband. The zipper followed next before his gloved fingers disappeared beneath your underwear and delved between your thighs. 

He wouldn’t take the gloves off. He couldn’t. 

The feeling of the scratchy cotton against your clit sends you into overdrive. 

You part your thighs to allow his fingers to tease up and down your slit as you trace the underside of his cock with your tongue. 

His hips remained still. 

You felt he wanted to. How he desperately wanted to grab your face through how his hips tremored and twitched around your mouth. How he wanted so badly to bury his cock in your throat and feel you choke and splutter around him. 

You moaned around him, and Sunday hissed again, this time lower, and it almost served as a warning. Your pleasure, for this moment, would come after his. 

Still, you grinded down on his fingers as he rubbed your clit in quick and light circles. Your breathing stuttered, and he dared to guide your head just an inch lower around his cock. 

His thighs began twitching. 

“Oh…” It’s breathy and light and warm, what spilled from his mouth. His fingers pushed back what strands of hair had fallen in your face. “You–” Words didn’t escape his lips properly, and all that tore from his throat was a dreary and miserable whine. 

You keened over his fingers. The cotton was good, though now his palm was soaked. 

You whined stupidly when his hand abandoned your clit, before your muffled disappointment was replaced by a pleased hum when he pushed a finger inside of you. The glove slid in with embarrassing ease, and Sunday flushed at the feeling. 

You squeezed around his finger, drawing him in further. 

Your lips were growing desperate around his cock, tongue flitting out again and again to taste the cum that streamed from his slit. 

“I–” Oh, God. The room was spinning. “I can’t–” His stomach heaved when your tongue grazed along the swollen vein before you drew backwards and licked harshly along his dripping slit. “I can’t–” 

He dragged his cock forward into your mouth again and again. Not enough to touch the back of your throat with the tip, but enough to knock the air from your lungs with every push. 

You learned quickly that Sunday preferred your mouth and tongue remain relatively still and open for him. 

He preferred to control how he fucked into your throat, holding onto the back of your head as gently as he could—you dutifully ignored how his nails stabbed into your scalp. 

It was easier for him now to take what he wanted. 

You’re so wet. He could hear it, even if he hadn’t even bothered to strip you of your pants. It’s obscene, and his cock hardened even more at the sound. 

His rhythm remained the same. He’s quick, much unused to the wet heat soaking around his cock, and more so worried about how the head rubs along your tongue. 

But you’re so obedient like this. So pliant and warm with his hand between your legs teasing that gaping and soaking hole. And it’s so warm and hot and yes, yes, yes, come on–

“This is–” 

Your eyes fluttered open to acknowledge him. 

His thighs twitched around your head. 

He let out a shaky gasp. 

His hand loosened around your skull. You drew back only just and mused a simple, “take what you need.” 

He needed you. 

He smelt wine from how you’d smashed the bottles onto the floor. Sacred, important wine that you’d tossed aside like you’d thrown his blazer to the floor and the golden medallion on his breast. 

It filled his senses, blurred what little he could see, and he slid his cock on the curved line of your tongue again and again and again and again and again. 

Two fingers, soaked in your slick, abandoned in teasing your hole to ghost over your clit again. 

You’re so good. So good to him. So hot and heavy. So pretty. And you sound beautiful. Your muffled groans were like music. Like the music he’d listen to in the privacy of his home. 

He felt bliss. Heavenly bliss. 

His stomach lurched at the debauchery. How awful you were, how you made him feel alive in his own skin. 

And nobody had ever made him feel this way. And he loved it. Every second, even if his flesh warped and his organs twisted in loathing. For himself, for you, and those pretty lips wrapped around his cock. 

His hand carded over your hair with care. 

His fingers teased at your clit in horrible horrible circles that made your hips twitch towards his hand. You were grinding over his palm now in steady back and forth lines. 

So good. 

He couldn’t even think. Nothing but stupid moans pushed past his lips, and he was almost deep enough to reach the back of your throat. So, so close now. 

Your tongue was so hot it almost hurt. The noises, and the dripping of your saliva down to his thighs, made his hips squirm beneath your hands. Filthy. It’s all dirty here. 

He felt after this he’d have to scrub himself until his skin withered and only bone was left. 

You hummed. You pulled off of him again. When he mumbled a string of disappointed gibberish with his eyes squeezed shut in frustration, you whispered, “are you close, Reverend?” 

Heat crept up his thighs and down from his stomach. 

You thumbed the swollen veins and cooed at his slicking cock. “Are you?” 

“Finish this,” he whispered harshly. “Finish me.” He tugged on your hair gently, guiding you down toward his cock once more. 

Excitement bubbled in your stomach. 

Your tongue flattened against the head of his cock. Your spit slid down his skin as you buried him deep in your mouth. Maybe you pushed too far, because you gagged around the skin close to the base. 

Your nose just barely grazed the supple flesh of his lower belly. Your hand wrapped firmly around what skin you couldn’t reach. 

He’s delicious. He was so heavy in your mouth and warm and his cum smeared thickly over your throat. 

Sunday’s hips rocked forward as deep as he could possibly bury himself. You take him in and suck. The wet slurps of your tongue make his skin burn hotter. He feared he’d faint, or melt, soon. Like a candle. Like the votive candles upstairs in the–

His mind kept trapping himself of the main hall upstairs, and the thousands of eyes peering down at him. 

Drool and cum dyed your lips with a shimmer. You were growing more and more desperate and there was a concerning and lonely ache between your legs somewhere deep inside of you. Your lips sucked a tighter seal around his cock while you kept your tongue flat for him to slide his cock over it. 

Sunday’s fingers tightened in your hair. 

“You–!” He tried to tell you you were awful. This was wrong. This was disgusting, and vile, and you were just a wretched streetwalker tempting him for a thrill. 

He said nothing. He couldn’t. 

He stiffened up again, and his thighs locked around your head. 

And then, his cock jerked in your throat, and he came. 

A long and broken sob echoed in your ears. 

You held his hips still as he squirmed and wriggled beneath you, salt coating your throat in streams as his chest and stomach heaved with his heavy quickened breaths. 

His head was swamped with a haze, like a thick foggy mist clouding over his senses. 

His skin almost melted off of the muscle in his body. He felt like the countless votive candles still burning on the floor above, with the statue of Xipe, and the hundreds of eyes painted on the walls– again. His mind reeled back again. 

 Sweat dripped from his flesh like wax. 

Sunday held a vice grip on your hair. His other hand between your legs had stilled for the moment, though he could feel you still grinding onto the soaked material of his glove. 

“Good,” he mumbled. He was petting your hair. He swallowed hard to ignore the ache between his legs. “So good.” His words were slurred, and amidst the darkness, what he could see swirled into a muddied watercolour piece. 

He was drawing in sharp inhales that whistled through his teeth while you cleaned him up. Your tongue traced the angry red flushes and patches along the sensitive skin, following every drop of cum that had fallen past your lips. 

Sunday let go of your hair in favour of feeling his racing heart beneath his chest. It ached and thumped with need. 

He was sensitive. He’d been wriggling the entire time, but now his hips couldn’t keep still, and he couldn’t stop himself from following your tongue with his cock. 

His breathing stuttered loudly as he dragged the skin over your tongue. He wasn’t sure if he wanted you to open your mouth again, but at the same time, he was afraid he’d grow tremendously addicted, and you’d both remain there a lot longer than he would’ve wished. 

So, he pulled away, as difficult as it was. 

Guilt steamed in his stomach like a hot iron sliding over his belly and scorching his flesh. 

He felt you swing over between his thighs as your mouth, sticky with cum and spit, abandoned his cock and trailed kisses up his torso. 

Sunday’s free hand grabbed your chin when your lips bumped up against his jugular, pulling your mouth towards his. 

He tasted himself on your tongue, but he avoided it as best he could. His hand between your legs pressed firmly against your clit, and your body twisted and grinded and squirmed on his gloved palm. 

He almost felt bad. 

Almost.

A string of bubbled gasps and whispers of worship escaped your lips, but they fell on his deaf ears. The smell of wine was stronger here with your heart pressed to his. His thumb teased your clit as best it could with how you moved against him, and his glove was soaked in your slick. 

He was furious with himself, and yet he also found himself not caring as he did. Maybe it was you; maybe you were muddying his senses. Maybe he’d go home tonight and stab a blade through his chest and ruin the awful guilt-stricken beating muscle beneath his ribs. 

For now, as you had wished him to, he’d indulge. 

He’d take. 

Your fingers tightened their grip when they flew to his shoulders. The linen of his loosened shirt crumpled and wrinkled beneath your hands. There was a strain behind his arms as you pulled harder on him, pleading beneath your breath. 

“Was that enough for you, Reverend?” you whispered to him. Your lips were pressed against his. That same squelching sound between your legs, and Sunday could feel his cock hardening as it did the night prior. 

He said nothing. The air was thick with the scent of his skin, and yours. 

You felt the flutter of feathers brush along your cheek. 

“I’m–” 

Sunday swallowed when he felt your stomach jolt against him. “I know.” 

“I want your devotion, Reverend,” you admitted. How debauched to whisper things like that against his lips. He knew you wrong, and yet his heart raced at the thought. At the idea of disobedience. “I need you.” 

It was very well possible down here. No prying eyes, no other members of the church. 

Just you, and him, in the mellow darkness, rocking against each other. 

His fingers quickened and you almost cried. 

He feared then, and now, that you did receive devotion. 

Instead, to hide the burning shame in his stomach, which only grew between his legs, he rested his forehead against yours and sighed shakily. For a moment, there was the faint glow of his halo, and the distant sound of a bell toll. You just saw the outline of his hair. 

Your fingers brushed past his wings blindly.

They passed through the ring of light behind his head. You felt nothing but warmth on the pads of your fingers. 

“Go on,” he breathed. “Let go.” 

And you did. 

Your stomach pressed to his in a harsh arch and your nails raked upon and wrinkled the back of his dark shirt even further as you came. 

Bliss and sugar clouded your head like fog. 

His wings fluttered behind him in a panic when one of your hands hooked around the base of the clipped wing of the pair. You whispered his name like a prayer, and it hurt when he kissed you. It burned on his lips like flames, and he loved it. 

Too much. 

And yet not enough. 

Sunday felt you weakly try to crawl on top of him, but he pushed on your shoulders gently until you rocked backwards. He held you up as best he could on shaky legs as you both rose from the table. 

The wood was covered in sweat and condensation and heat, and Sunday couldn’t bring himself to tear his mouth off of you. Wine. Wine on your tongue like blood, and he couldn’t stop himself. 

Heat burned in his chest, and his stomach, and it steamed to his head and rushed up his neck in bubbled waves. 

He grabbed you by the collar of your crumpled shirt and pushed you against the table. He felt weak, his bones rattling beneath his skin and his blood boiling, and there was anger there, but also something else and it scared him. 

Perhaps you picked up on it. 

He heard you laugh, even as he forced your stomach further into the edge of the table. 

“Blessed Reverend, did you fall in love?” 

His blood ran cold. 

He couldn’t possibly call it that. He knew it wasn’t true for you, either. The way you looked at him threatened more than love. 

It can’t be love. He’s not allowed to love. 

His heart frantically raced in his chest. His fingers trailed from the back of your collar to the small of your back, and he pushed and pushed until he had easily bent you over the expanse of the table. 

He was panting. You could hear him somewhat close to your ear. 

“No,” he answered, but he sounded unsure. “But you did, didn’t you?” 

Another breathless laugh. You heard the jingle of his belt, and his gloved hands slid up the back of your thighs. He’d managed to wedge one of his legs between yours, but it didn’t nothing to quell your squirming. 

His touch was soft. Too soft to the point it tickled your skin with feather-light strokes against your legs. 

One of his hands wrapped around your front to feel blindly along your cheek. He grabbed your face tight, and he felt your heart thrum in your throat. 

You felt him roughly tug off your pants and they fell to a pathetic heap on the floor. You kicked them away, and they fell into the pile close to his discard clothes.  

“Spread your legs.” 

You were panting, laughing, as he squeezed your spit covered chin in his gloved hand. The soft and soaked cotton was rough, pinching against your flesh. His breath was so hot down your neck.

You let out a droning whine. 

He clicked his tongue, and the firm hand pushing you into the table pinched the back of your thigh. You cried out, and your leg twitched instinctively. 

“I will not ask twice,” he whispered into your ear, lips hot on your skin. 

Weak in the knees, and your stomach pressed hard and flat into the edge of the table, you shakily did as he said, hesitant with the warm hand that remained on the back of your thigh less he reel back and bruise it. 

He did not. 

He seemed pleased, though he did not voice it.

A gloved thumb exposed the sensitive skin between your legs, and you outwardly flinched forward on the table when his finger grazed over your sensitive hole. 

Cold. It’s so cold, and he’s slowly drawing circles around your entrance. 

You could feel yourself clenching, trying to entice him inside again. 

His thumb pushed into your cunt, and you let out a hum. You almost squealed when the tip of his finger brushed against your walls. 

“Is this not what you came here for?” Sunday asked. “To ruin yourself?” 

“I’ve already ruined myself,” you said meekly. His thumb pushed deeper to his knuckle, and you mewled. “Thank you, Reverend.” 

Ever the gracious Bronze Melodia, and despite your willingness to be pliant for him, he still asked for your wellbeing. To seek in your pleasure, because he knew no better. 

“And have you found the relief you’ve sought?” 

You didn’t want him to care, but there was a burning in your heart, because he did. 

You let out a throaty hum. “Almost.” 

You heard his teeth grind behind his lips, and his thumb abandoned your hole, smearing slick along your cunt. The soaked cotton caught on your clit and you moaned. “Filthy.” 

He’s so angry. Heat flared in his chest. 

You felt him burning, his thighs slick and trembling on the back of your legs. 

Impatiently, you canted your hips back into him, and he gasped out of shock and a shameful delight when your slickened cunt dragged against his cock. 

Your hips rocked against his again, skin sticking with sweat to his hip bones and he throbbed. His teeth gritted hard enough to almost crack his teeth. 

His hand moved from your chin to press flat on your stomach. 

It’s so hot. He could feel your skin radiating off of him. And it was overwhelming, like he’d been thrown into a sauna with no water for relief.

He wanted to fill you with cum. 

It hurt to think. He shouldn’t think. All he should do is fuck you until there’s no other man out there for you but him. 

And you can never have him. 

So he can keep you here and watch you pine and chase after him, and he’ll deny you every time. And make you ache and suffer for what you’ve done to him. 

But for now, the aching and twitching in his cock made his head spin every time he slid himself upon your slit. Back and forth and back and forth and–

It’s so hot. 

He felt his mind twisting and melting beneath his skull. 

Desperately, Sunday gripped the base of his cock and shakily guided the tip to your aching hole. His other hand abandoned the warmth of your stomach trapped against the table. 

You mewled when he stretched your hole as wide as he could with splayed fingers. A dribble of slick escaped you, and he could feel you clenching already. 

Your toes curled in your heels. One of your shoes comes off, and he feels the slide of the embroidered stockings against his leg. 

Those same stockings with that pattern he saw in every single embroidered table runner in the church, and at home, and it made his skin crawl. 

“You’ll let me enjoy myself, Reverend?” you whispered behind you. 

Sunday pressed you further into the table and rocked his hips against yours. “You’ll lay here and take me.” His tip kissed the entrance of cunt. And then, with one hard exhale, he slowly canted his hips forward towards your thighs. “That’s what you wanted.” 

You hummed and slackened against the table. 

Hot. He’s so hot inside of you as his twitching, creaming cock splits your hole wider. The veins run along the stretchy walls and slip further inside of you. 

He throbbed when you felt his hips press against your ass. 

Sunday was already panting, holding your hips in a tight grip that loosened as he bottomed out. You felt him bend over you, his stomach jolting against your back as he tried to hold you still. 

He was squirming, wriggling like a fish caught on a hook. You were so warm, and you dripped and squeezed around him, and he couldn’t possibly pull himself any closer to you. He wanted your skin to fuse with his in a tangled mess of grotesquery. He wanted you to assimilate and merge beneath his skin. 

This cannot be love. 

Possession flared inside of his stomach. 

He was trembling. His cock twitched with need inside of you, and you let out a moan.

“I’m–” He shakily exhaled against the nape of your neck. His face was burning with shame. 

You could feel it on your skin. “I’m right here.” 

He pressed inside of you deeper. Deeper, deeper, deeper. He wanted to press all the way to your womb and leave a permanent imprint of his cock that left you with an empty ache for as long as you lived. “This is wrong.” 

You hummed in acknowledgement. “But you love it.” 

And he does. 

Sunday slowly pulled his hips away from your ass. So slowly, and he felt one of his traitorous awful hands reach blindly for yours to hold it. You squeezed his hand in response. He held on tight. 

Then, he slammed back into you. 

He grew breathless almost immediately, and the air was knocked from your lungs. Your hips smashed into the edge of the table. 

The ache was good. 

You murmured praise, and his cock grew impossibly harder as he reeled his hips back and filled you again. 

He’ll take good care of you here. He knows as much. Your skin is so, so hot, and his cock is so warm and snug inside of you, and he felt his mind growing muddy all over again. 

Sunday rocked his hips quicker, his knee almost knocking against the table by your hips. 

So good. 

His bottom lip quivered. One of his hands dragged up from your hip and slid up beneath your ruined shirt. He pressed you down against the table as flat as he could. 

So wrong. 

He’s wrong. You’re wrong. You’re both sick, and ungodly, and corrupt. And you both belong to each other. He belongs to you. As depraved as you are, he feels he is worse. He wants to drag you to his bed and satisfy himself again and again, but he knows he can’t. 

So he takes you here, again and again and again. 

His cock buried itself impossibly deeper with every imprint he left inside of you. His tip kissed as far against your walls as it could, and his hips tremored with every grind of his hips against your ass.

He felt like a dog. Like some pathetic mutt mounting its mate. 

But that’s what he felt he was in that moment: pathetic, weak, and some mindless man with his brain in his cock. 

The bones of your hips were aching, snapping back and forth into the edge of the table, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care for the fire surging in your veins. 

Your body felt numb, like you’d been burned one thousand times over, and then had ice poured over you. 

It’s awful, and yet you felt so alive. 

Your hand was shaking in his when you murmured, “let go. Let me touch myself, sir.” 

His cock squeezed against a particular spot inside of you, and you couldn’t see straight. 

Your ears were ringing a tune you couldn’t place your finger on, and your clit throbbed with every brush of his cock against your walls.

In response, he held that hand he held still against your back. He silently allowed you the reprieve of his touch when your fingers curled around his thumb, and he did not pull away. 

The scratch of his shirt against what parts of your spine peaked through your pulled shirt. 

You shivered, even more so when his lips delicately lingered beneath your ear, and his hot breath fanned over your cheek. 

This is wrong. It’s wrong how good he feels. 

It’s wrong how you clenched around him, sucking him in impossibly deeper to the curl of your warmth around his cock. 

He fucked into you again. 

His tip was burning with need, and his stomach twisted and turned at the thought of it. Wrong, and filthy, and–

You let out another plea. “Le’ me touch myself, Reverend.” To hammer the nail in the coffin, you then murmured, “oh God.” 

It’s the need that made him crack. It’s the idea of just how tight you could be if you were to cum all over him. How he could watch that gorgeous spine unfurl in front of him, how a melody would spill from your lips only for him to hear. 

The sounds are disgusting, but somehow so invigorating. Wet and loud and so grotesque. 

Sunday breathed out, and he sounded excited. 

“You sought relief in me, you wretch.” he breathed into the nape of your neck. Sweat dyed his lips with salt. “Do it, then.” 

When he removed his hand from your wrist, he felt your knees buckle. He pushed your hips further upwards into the table, for if you both fell any closer to the floor, away from the sky, he was sure he’d never wake from this horrible dream ever again. 

Your hand slipped down your front towards your swollen clit. 

His cock fucked into you harder, chasing the feeling of your cunt squeezing around the sensitive flesh, struggling to pull tighter. So filling. It’s so good. It’s so good it’s shameful, and he understood in that moment why sinners confess to him in the booth, go home and use their wives, and then repeat this endless cycle of debauchery. 

As guilty as he felt, he sank his teeth into the exposed skin of your shoulder where your shirt fell. 

You’re so beautiful like this. 

Moaning and begging for more of him and covered in sweat. 

His halo was glowing. 

He swallowed the saliva building in his mouth when he pulled his teeth away from your skin. “You’re disgusting.” It’s weak, it’s pathetic, it doesn’t even sound like he believes it. 

Because you’re not. You’re like an angel, laid flat on the table, offering your very being to him. 

All you were missing was a halo—distantly, he knows you’d never receive one. 

You let out a squeak of laughter, breathless. Your hand stirs between your legs. You manage to crane your neck and make eye contact with him. His halo lit up his pretty, flushed face in a shimmer of gold. “Are you close?” 

His feathers fluttered at the question. His face grew brighter. 

Your cunt squeezed around him again, and he let out a gasp at the tightness. “Very.” He was embarrassingly close, and all you’d done was squish him tight inside of you. 

Your cunt squelched around his skin, and Sunday whimpered. 

You squelched against his cock as he drove in further, desperately chasing that heat the coiled tighter and tighter in his guts. 

He was afraid he would grow addicted to this. He was already growing addicted. He squeezed his eyes shut, and he gripped your hips tighter. 

Sweat stained his neck, and heat trapped beneath his ruined shirt. He’d have to burn his clothes. Plead for a new uniform entirely, and perhaps for salvation. 

If anyone found out about this. 

His stomach turned. 

His cock slipped out of you and he grunted. Sunday fumbled with himself trying to slot back into your twitching hole. “Stop wriggling.” 

Your cunt trembled as he stretched past your walls again. Your fingers tremored over your sensitive clit. “Haha. Of course, sir.” Breathless, slurred, beautiful. 

He could listen to you moan in his ear all day. 

His skin stuck to yours like glue, sweat and slick soaking his thighs as he pushed into your guts as deep as he could. 

As dangerous as the thought was, he wanted to fill your womb with his cum. His cock throbbed and throbbed and as he drew closer and closer to the edge, he fucked you harder and harder. 

He felt the heel of your shoe slide up against his thigh soaked in sweat. It was exciting how you treated him like a prince, and also like the dirt you stepped in with these expensive shoes. 

Sunday shivered behind you, his hands trailing over the curve of your ass up to the base of your spine. Pretty, pretty skin. So soft and dainty, and so warm and supple beneath his fingers. 

He didn’t deserve to feel like this.

He buried his lips into the nape of your neck again, gently brushing kisses along your sweaty skin. His tongue pushed past his lips, and he tasted salt and the lingering scent of your perfume. 

Sunday slammed his hips against your skin again. And again– and he felt he was losing his mind. His hands gripped your hips so tight you were excited to see the bruises he left on you in the morning. 

You were moaning and moaning against the table. 

One of your hands had balled into a fist and viciously smashed against the table. “Harder, priest. Make me yours.” 

“You are mine,” he reminded you coldly in your ear. Still, his hips made a resounding smack against your ass. 

Sunday moaned when he felt your walls twitch around him, so tight he felt as though his blood circulation was being cut. It made his head swim. He pawed at your back desperately. 

So close. 

You purred praises again as his cock head kissed that sweet spot inside of you, and your fingers drew sloppily around your clit. “Just like that, Reverend.” 

Sunday’s halo almost blinded you with how bright it was glowing. 

He wanted to mumble that he loved you. He wasn’t sure if it was the true, or if he was stumbling over his tongue with these disgusting falsities and delusions.

Like the delusions that played in his head of waking up next to you, crawling between your legs and tonguing at your cunt, pleading for relief while his cock stirred in his pants. 

“Let me fill you,” he pleaded quietly. “Please.” His tongue was watering, and he wiped drool off of his lips with his shoulder. 

He heard you sigh dreamily, cut off suddenly with another harsh thrust of his cock inside of you. 

He was twitching. 

So fucking close. 

Come on. 

Shame. Shame poured from every pore in his skin like pus. 

“Of course, sire. I’m yours.” 

In your final confession, Sunday’s chest heaved. His gloved fingers gripped your hips enough to still them entirely, staining the unmarred skin with dark bruises and blood. 

His cock twitched deep inside you, his mind twisted, and he came. 

He filled your womb, just like he wanted to, and he moaned so pathetically against your neck you cried out for him. His breath fanned over your sweaty skin as he trembled above you, hips smacking weakly against your ass as he emptied himself. 

“God.” It spilled from his lips. 

Blasphemous. Awful. He’ll never see the light of day the same again, 

He clawed at your hips, pressing you down into the table. 

His heart lurched when you squeezed around his sensitive, aching cock still buried deep into your cunt, drooling around the skin as you came again. 

He felt slick dribble past the rim of your hole, sticking to the soft supple skin of his thighs as he kept himself snug inside of you. 

Warm. 

He exhaled shakily. 

The praise you had whispered had gotten to his head. Heat swelled in his face, and Sunday swallowed thickly. 

After a moment, you sighed, just as wobbly as he was, and raised a hand to pull his chin down just enough for you to crane your neck to the side and kiss his cheek. 

You could feel his heart bashing against your back as his chest rested on your spine. Truthfully, you could’ve stayed this way with his slowly softening cock deep inside of you. 

He pulled out slowly, almost unwillingly, and he heard you hiss lowly. His cock slipped from your cunt, and his slit was still aching as the remaining cum bubbled and dribbled down the side. 

Sunday did nothing. 

He removed his hands from your hips and you finally pushed yourself up from the table. He heard the creaking of your bones and a sigh of relief as you stretched your skin. 

His heart was still racing. He felt nauseous. 

His gloves were sticky and tacky, but he still refused to touch your properly. 

He heard you shift, sitting up on the table and gliding a gentle, but firm hand up and down the stretch of his spine. His wings fluttered at the attention. 

His halo was still glowing, just enough for you to see that he was masking his guilt and staring far too long at the wall of the cellar. After what seemed like hours, he fumbled to pull his pants back on at the very least and attempted to straighten his rumpled shirt. 

In that time, he’d heard the clicking of your heels as you’d fussed to dress yourself as best you could without moving from the table. 

Devotion. 

Your hand was now soothingly rubbing his shoulder. 

His knees buckled. 

As he slowly lowered himself to the floor, he turned to face you and slotted himself in between your legs. This was devotion, right? His gloved hands slid up your thighs as you watched him curiously. His knees hit the floor first, and his lips trembled when he leaned forward, pried your thighs further apart, and kissed your clothed cunt until your hips twitched and you giggled. 

You playfully shoved his head away with a push to his forehead. 

Sunday rested his head against one of your thighs and continued to tremble. His face was still

coated in sweat. 

When your hand gently reached down to pet his hair, he shakily smiled. 

He’d find later after he finally pulled himself from the cellar and locked it, and trekked back up the stairs to the main hall, that the murals were not looking at him. The statue was still, just as silent as it had always been, with six eyes shut to the world with their unhearing ears and unspeaking mouths. 

All that would watch silently was a bird. A small, deep purple nightingale that watched from afar. 

For now he walked down the aisle after you silently, holding onto his coat and his white overthrow. The golden badge that usually rested on his breast weighed heavy in his hands like led. 

He did not dare to gaze at the walls. He held onto the key for the front door as if it would disappear from his grasp. 

It was cold outside, and the wind blew steadily as he shut the door behind him before securely locking it tight. 

He heard your heels stop. 

“Reverend?”

Sunday wanted to bark at you. What more could you possibly want from him? You’d taken everything, and now he knew he would go home like a ghost trekking a lonely path, fall into bed, and tremble all night as his fingers felt blindly for the waistband of his pants. 

Instead, he only hummed. He kept his hand firm around the giant brass knobs of the church. 

“Don’t fear Hell.” 

The words did not assure him, but for that moment amidst the wind, Sunday listened. 

He felt a hand rest on his shoulder, squeezing the sore muscles tight. 

He stiffened at how warm your skin was. How he desperately, desperately wanted to feel your lips on his again. 

He refrained. 

Sunday barely turned his head to look at you. 

“I will be there with you.” And that, you could promise. 

Daringly, you pressed a chaste kiss to his hair before you let go of his shoulder, and left. 

He only glanced away for a moment, but when he peered back down the street, you had disappeared, along with the faint clicking of your heels. 

Sunday’s shoulder remained warm long after you had let go. 

And that warmth remained present for every day that you did not return to him. 

But, distantly, with every service that he swears he sees your face, or the pattern of your stockings in the embroidery, he knows the fleeting feeling of your warmth is enough.

[sparkbeast20]

I just noticed something really weird.

If Luci were inviting MC in this pic, why doesn’t he open his whole palm but only 3 fingers?

Like maybe this is my religious sense kicking in but in Catholic symbolism, three fingers (thumb, index, middle) represent the Trinity when a priest gives the blessing. Hence, a priest can give a blessing with open palm (5 fingers), or just 3 mentioned fingers.

In some religious arts, you can see Jesus and some saints that are priests, bishops, etc…raise their three fingers up in blessing. Some institutions and offices also require raising these 3 fingers up for taking an oath.

Christians who belong to a denomination named Eastern Orthodox (majority of them are in Eastern Europe) also make the sacred sign ✝️ with 3 forementioned fingers on their right hand.

Maybe it’s just a coincidence. But-

What do you think?

Yeah! often you get these type of hand gestures

But he specially has thumb, index, and middle stretch out. That's a interesting detail!

[bu1410]

Good afternoon TUMBLR - June 4th - 2024

“Mr. Plant has owed me a shoe since July 5, 1971.”

IRAQ – RUMAILAH - Sept 2014 – Mar 2016.

Part 2

The worst period was the month of Muharram - Ashura which marks the culmination of the Remembrance of Muharram, the annual commemoration of the death of Profet Husayn and his family and supporters in the Battle of Karbala on the 10th Muharram of the year 61 AH (in the Gregorian calendar the 10 October 680 AD). Popular elegies were written by poets to commemorate the Battle of Karbala during the Umayyad and Abbasid eras, and the first public mourning rituals occurred in 963 AD. during the Buyid dynasty. In Afghanistan, Algeria, Iran, Iraq, Lebanon, Bahrain, Pakistan, India, Ashoora has become a national holiday and many ethnic and religious communities participate in it. Ashoora also known as Yawm Ashura is the tenth day of Muharram, the first month of the Islamic calendar. For most Muslims - except Shia Muslims - Ashura marks the day when Moses and the Israelites were saved from Pharaoh by God creating a path in the sea. The World Sunni Movement celebrates this day as National Martyrs' Day of the Muslim nation. For Shiite and Sufi Muslims it marks the day when Husayn ibn Ali, grandson of the first Islamic Prophet Muhammad, was martyred in the Battle of Karbala. Ashura is an important holy day and occasion of pilgrimage in Shia Islam, as well as a recommended but not obligatory day of fasting in Sunni Islam.

Well, we Westerners were warned by our Security Service about the particular behaviors to adopt in this particular month. During this period, numerous temporary tents are set up by various communities along the roads leading to the Holy Places, to allow pilgrims to refresh themselves during their journeys towards the two holy cities of Kerbala and Najaf. We were instructed never to stop at the exhortations of individuals along the streets. And above all, accept and thank any offer of symbols, portraits, flags, stickers that the Iraqis ask to be placed on our vehicles, cars, offices. The Shiites, unlike the Sunnis who are forbidden to do so, have developed a series of symbolic images of the Profet Husain ibn Ali, and sometimes depict him astride a white steed, looking towards the future, in an iconography that sometimes recalls images of Jesus Christ. Failure to accept these manifestations of faith sometimes gives rise to retaliation that can take on the character of violence. As we learned with the episode that happened to an English ''Security Officer'' who worked in the Schlumberger compound, not far from ours. One Muharram morning, some Shiite flags installed on the Land Cruiser owned by this British guy for several days showed signs of tearing under the action of the wind and sun. The Officer thought it was time to change them, so he removed them from the roof and sides of the SUV. From afar a local guard watched him, and immediately shouted to draw the attention of other Iraqis to the fact that ''the infidel was removing the sacred Shiite signs from the vehicle'' without first asking permission. The British guy was soon surrounded, first pushed to the ground, insulted, a hail of kicks and punches hit him, without giving him time to explain his gesture. Someone brought sticks, and the poor Officer was beaten until all that remained of him were bloody remains. As we were told, everything happened in the early hours of dawn, so quickly in the parking lot of the vehicles, and there was no way for Security to intervene to prevent this massacre.

THE PROJECT. M091 Gathering Lines was a project aimed at connecting 4 oil production areas to the oil/gas separation units. Once completed, it guaranteed an increase in production by as much as 100,000 barrels/day. In essence, new 24-inch lines were installed, for a total of 90 km. In another context, outside of Iraq, a fairly simple job. In Iraq everything was much more complicated. Objective reasons caused wasted time and delays that affected daily progress. Furthermore, the advance of ISIS towards the South in that period made everything more difficult from a security point of view.

Colleagues As had been anticipated to me by Mrs. Pizzolitto (who at the time was in charge of the management of the On Shore SAIPEM shipyards) in Rumailah, from a human point of view, I found the best thing I have ever had the opportunity to experience in many years of SAIPEM. I don't know to what extent the place in which we found ourselves operating (with its great limitations in terms of individual freedom) influenced people's behavior in a positive way. This undoubtedly combined with the human and professional qualities of all the staff present on the base and on the various ongoing projects.

Zacchei Marco

He held the position of Iraq Country Manager, resided in Dubai but spent at least 3 days a week at the Rumailah base. Young and of great elegance and professionalism, he left SAIPEM following the example of many other talented managers in recent years.

Michele Petracca Projects Director, Apulian transplanted to Milan for years. He is also young but already has great international experience. Hired in SNAMPROGETTI after he had presented his thesis at the Polytechnic of Milan, he then moved to SAIPEM at the time of the merger by incorporation of the two companies. Great professionalism and great human energy, the best Project Director I have met. He didn't just give orders and advice, but he liked to ''get his hands dirty'' in the field, alongside those who worked. Tireless, Michele also left SAIPEM at a certain point in his career to join another competing Oil & Gas company.

Gianni Garbati Base Leader and great friend. A person with great communication skills. Organizer of ''big dinners'' in the kitchen container that we used for food gatherings at least once a week.

It was a real shame that, despite his efforts, we were unable to get together to work together again, both on the project in Thailand and on the one in Oman.

Mariotti Andrea. My predecessor on the M092 project. Young and capable, he perhaps paid for the wrong approach of the Iraqi Sub Contractor and his relative lack of experience as a Project Manager. The fact is that when I arrived, almost a year after the start of the project, the progress was only 17%. Andrea behaved in a truly professional manner (with SAIPEM elements this is never a given…) introducing me to the project in an impeccable manner during the 3 months we spent together. One day he risked a lot at an Iraqi military checkpoint. He arrived at the checkpoint while the soldiers were eating lunch, lying on the ground as usual. In this case we had to be patient and wait until some of them had finished eating. Andrea, impatient, placed his phone against the tinted glass of the Toyota Land Cruiser, thinking that from the outside they wouldn't see him taking photos. Unfortunately this wasn't the case: one of the soldiers saw that Andrea was using his mobile phone! All hell happened: at first they wanted to arrest him, then after an endless discussion they settled for confiscating the cell phone.

Victor Gomez. Deputy Construction Manager, Venezuelan. The need to have two Construction Managers (the other was Nicola Di Genova known as ''Il Muto'') arose from the fact that the rotation in Iraq was 45/15. So one of the two had to always be present on the construction site. I confess that at the beginning I was cautious with Victor: he had given me - mistakenly - the impression of a ''shrewd'' South American to watch over my shoulder. And instead Victor turned out to be, in addition to being technically valid, a great and reliable engineer. And also very polite, which doesn't hurt.

TCO staff. For TCO we intend all expatriate personnel working with us, except Italian. There were several of them, mostly from India and Pakistan. Some valid Egyptian too, and few good Algerians engineers. All of the demonstrate their capability during the project, giving all their effort to make the success of the project possible.

EXXON Staff.

Concerning EXXON people I need to make a preamble. EXXON has in place an agreement with FLUOR, the Houston based Company, to employ their staff on temporary basis. Some - but not all - of this staff is represented by retired service men (it seems US Government facilitate their reintegration in the society). Therefore those guys, most of the time, are not familiar with Oil&Gas project and Spec's. That's made sometime ''difficult'' for us to say ''understand eachother''. Luckily there were few permanent EXXON engineers with whoum we used to address the major problems. One of them, a young engineer from Houston but of Lebanon origin (he was speaking fluenty Arab) was the Project Director from Client side. I had a strong profitable relation with this guy.

Temporary absence of the Americans.

There have been a time in which ISIS threat was even closer than usual. Therefore EXXON Top Management decided to evacuate all their personnel to Dubai. It has been a difficult period for the project, since everything had to be discussed/assessed via daily video conference.

Final Departure I left Iraq in April 2016, after successfully completing the project. Particular satisfaction for me was given by the fact that the Project Manager of the EXXON Client - wanted to spend the entire last day in Iraq with me. A great sign of esteem, also considering that in Iraq the movement of all personnel, but especially of Americans, was subject to severe restrictions.

Of course there was the farewell cake, as per the unwritten rule for all colleagues who left Iraq permanently, prepared by the Italian chef Alessandro Loi: It was one of the most disgustingly sweet things I have ever tasted.

[thegreenwallrabbit-blog]

Explaining one of VTMB paintings (pt 5)

Pierre Séguier, Chancelier de France (translated Pierre Séguier, Chancellor of France) oil on canvas  2nd quarter of the 17th century (1660 - 1661) by Charles Le Brun

Charles Le Brun (baptised 24 February 1619 – 12 February 1690) was a French painter, physiognomist, art theorist, and a director of several art schools of his time. As court painter to Louis XIV, who declared him "the greatest French artist of all time", he was a dominant figure in 17th-century French art and much influenced by Nicolas Poussin Le Brun primarily worked for King Louis XIV, for whom he executed large altarpieces and battle pieces. His most important paintings are at Versailles. Besides his gigantic labours at Versailles and the Louvre, the number of his works for religious corporations and private patrons is enormous. Le Brun was also a fine portraitist and an excellent draughtsman, but he was not fond of portrait or landscape painting, which he felt to be a mere exercise in developing technical prowess. What mattered was scholarly composition, whose ultimate goal was to nourish the spirit. The fundamental basis on which the director of the Academy-based his art was unquestionably to make his paintings speak, through a series of symbols, costumes and gestures that allowed him to select for his composition the narrative elements that gave his works a particular depth. For Le Brun, a painting represented a story one could read.[1]

Pierre Séguier (May 28, 1588,- Jan. 28, 1672) was the chancellor of France under kings Louis XIII and Louis XIV, in the critical period during which monarchical power was consolidated. In 1635 Séguier became chancellor of France, the supreme legal officer, with tenure of that dignity for life. His adherence to the powerful cardinals Richelieu and Mazarin kept him in uninterrupted exercise of his functions until 1650. He was sent in 1637 to Val-de-Grâce to examine the papers of the queen of France, Anne of Austria, who was suspected of secretly corresponding with Spain. Some historians say he saved her by warning her of the investigation. In 1639 he was sent to supervise the repression of a revolt in Normandy. He presided in 1642 over the trial of the Marquis de Cinq-Mars, who was condemned to death for conspiring against Richelieu.During the revolt of the Fronde, Séguier, like many others, vacillated, and in the last phase of the Fronde in Paris he was aligned with the rebel princes until August 1652. During those troubles, he was twice relieved of his functions (1650–51 and 1651–56). Early in the personal reign of Louis XIV, in December 1662, he was put in charge of the trial of the finance minister, Nicolas Fouquet, who had been accused of embezzlement, and he conducted it brutally enough to secure a verdict against Fouquet. From 1665 he presided over the new Council of Justice for the reform of the legal system.[2]

This painting hangs in LaCroix's office next to his entrance way meaning it is one of the painting he looks directly at, and hangs next to the painting of Louis XIV en Empereur Romain [Louis XIV depicted as Alexander the Great] (second half of 17th century)  by Unknown artist. First off for someone who “was an officer in Napoleons army” he sure has a lot of  Royalists paintings. It is also of note as the only other large paintings of this scale that he has in his office are three different painting of Cain slaying his brother Able by different artist yet it is the paintings of  King Louis XIV (whose reign of 72 years and 110 days is the longest of any sovereign in history whose date is verifiable.) and his chancellor of France, Pierre Séguier that he looks directly at from his desk in his Versailles style office. Indicating that these mere HUMAN men*[as far as I know nether were embraced in VTM canon but don’t quote me] are more significant role models to Lacroix then Cane father of all vampires. Though this is not so surprising after you see how he reacts to the Ankaran Sarcophagus. It also gives us a brief glimpse into how LaCroix sees himself in his role as the Camarilla Prince of Los Angles calling back to his quote of being the “judge, jury and executioner”. 

[1] “Charles Le Brun .” Wikipedia, Wikimedia Foundation, 11 Mar. 2023, https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Charles_Le_Brun. 

[2] Britannica, The Editors of Encyclopaedia. "Pierre Séguier". Encyclopedia Britannica, 24 Jan. 2023, https://www.britannica.com/biography/Pierre-Seguier

[kacperabolik]

Excited to invite you to my first solo exhibition in Philadelphia ‘Ritual and Dance’ at PII Gallery. Opening reception on June 7th 5-9pm. Thank you to my team and Margaret Berczynski.

•••

Moving through daily rituals we stretch and clasp hands together in religious manners, assemble in halls, sing, dance, prepare and eat food. Calculated and free movements of the body are explored each day. Even as we sleep, we persist in unconscious motion, traversing through the landscapes of our dreams. The paintings’ origins find their source through the subtle gestures, synchronized movements, sacred objects, and symbols present in occult and earthly rites alike. The subjects appear entranced in the act of ritual, immersed in ceremony or adrift amongst the chaos.

•••

June 7 - 29

Gallery Hours: Thursday-Saturday 12-6pm

PII Gallery 242 Race St. Philadelphia, PA 19106

[infjtarot]

Hierophant. Tarot of the old Path

Tradition, conformity, spiritual blessings The original name for this card is the Pope, and that remains the image—a crowned pope on his throne with two monks kneeling before him. The title “Hierophant” comes from the ancient Mystery schools dedicated to secret teachings and spiritual initiations. Hierophant means the one who shows, or reveals, the sacred objects and their hidden meanings. Thus, the monks do not simply bow to authority, they give themselves to blessings and wisdom. Like the Magician, but also the Devil (the Devil’s number, 15, consists of 1, the Magician, and 5, the Hierophant), he raises his right arm. Instead of raising a wand, like the Magician, he makes a gesture—two fingers up, two down—which is an actual priestly blessing. It also symbolizes the great dictum “as above, so below,” that our own small lives belong to a larger pattern, and our individual actions carry meaning. The Hierophant acts as a bridge (the pope’s title, pontiff, means “bridge”) between higher and lower worlds. Churches and priests of all religions do not just transmit blessings, they also teach rules and morality and traditional ideas of how to act and even think. They often expect the rest of us to obey them. Thus, the monks bow before the Hierophant’s authority. Many people dislike this card, especially those who have rebelled against some strict religious upbringing, with threats of Hell if they did not do as they were told. Along with the previous card, the Emperor, the Hierophant can signify authority or a path laid out for you that everyone expects you to follow. Examples might be going to the right school (instead of taking off to see the world, like the Fool), working in the family business, marrying a “good match,” and having babies; we can all supply our own examples, whether we followed them or rebelled against them. Because priests marry people, the card can signify marriage. Without such cards as the Empress, the Lovers, or the Four of Wands, the Hierophant may indicate a marriage less about love than about all the laws and rules and expectations of being married. If the card shows up in a reading about a new and exciting relationship, it may hint that the person is married, especially if the Seven of Swords also appears. The Hierophant is the first in a large group of cards with a three-part image—that is, one figure above two others. Here we see the Hierophant and his two monks. Next comes the angel blessing the man and woman in the Lovers, then the Charioteer standing above the two sphinxes. Not every card follows this, but we find it in many, including such Minor Arcana cards as the Six of Pentacles, with the merchant above the two beggars. For each of these we might see the dominant figure in the middle as holding together the different aspects of life. Here it’s tradition and spiritual teachings, but also conformity to religious laws and other people’s expectations. divinatory meanings: Spiritual teachings and laws. Education in general. Conformity, following a path laid out for you by social roles or family expectations. Blessings, possibly marriage. Rachel Pollack

[about-jewelry-1897]

5 Timeless Jewellery Pieces Every Woman Should Own

Jewellery has always been an important part of Indian culture. From wedding ceremonies to religious occasions and casual outings, the right piece of jewellery can add charm and elegance to any outfit. While trends may come and go, certain jewellery pieces remain classic and timeless, making them essential for every woman’s collection. In this blog, we’ll take a look at five such jewellery pieces every Indian woman should own.

1. Gold Stud Earrings

Gold stud earrings are a must-have in every woman’s jewellery box. Whether you’re dressing up for a special occasion or just want to add a little sparkle to your everyday look, gold studs are versatile and elegant. The beauty of gold studs lies in their simplicity. They can be worn with casual outfits like a t-shirt and jeans or paired with sarees and lehengas for formal events.

Gold is a precious metal that holds its value over time, making these earrings a great investment. You can opt for plain gold studs, or choose those with small diamonds or gemstones for a little extra flair. They are perfect for women of all ages and are suitable for both work and play.

2. Choker Necklace

The choker necklace has made a huge comeback in recent years and is now considered a timeless piece of jewellery. The Indian version of the choker is often made of gold, diamonds, or kundan and is typically worn close to the neck. It pairs beautifully with traditional Indian outfits like sarees, lehengas, or even contemporary dresses.

A choker can transform any outfit, making it look more elegant and royal. For weddings, celebrations, or festivals, a statement choker adds the perfect finishing touch to your attire. It is also a great choice for evening parties where you want to stand out. If you're looking for versatility, go for a simple gold choker that can be worn with both ethnic and western outfits.

3. Bangles or Kada

In India, bangles are more than just jewellery; they are a symbol of tradition, prosperity, and good fortune. Every woman should have a few sets of bangles or a kada (a single bangle) in her collection. Bangles are often worn during weddings, religious events, and festive occasions like Diwali, Navratri, and Karva Chauth.

Gold bangles are the most popular choice, but you can also find them in silver, diamond, or enamel designs. While traditional bangles are often heavy and ornate, modern designs come in sleek, minimalistic styles that are perfect for everyday wear. A kada is often considered more symbolic and is usually worn by married women, especially in Indian culture.

The beauty of bangles lies in their versatility. They can be stacked to create a more dramatic look or worn singly for a minimalist appearance. A classic set of bangles or a stylish kada is a must-have for every woman.

4. Diamond Ring

A diamond ring is not just for engagements or weddings – it is an essential piece of jewellery that can be worn on any occasion. A simple diamond solitaire ring or a ring with intricate diamond patterns can be worn as a statement piece or stacked with other rings for a more fashionable look.

Diamonds are known for their timeless beauty and are one of the most durable gemstones. The sparkle of a diamond ring adds a touch of glamour to any outfit. Whether you’re attending a wedding, a party, or a corporate event, a diamond ring will elevate your look effortlessly. In Indian culture, gifting a diamond ring on special occasions is also considered a gesture of love and commitment.

5. Pearl Necklace

A pearl necklace is a symbol of grace and elegance. Pearls have been cherished for centuries in Indian culture and remain a timeless jewellery choice. A simple strand of pearls can add sophistication to any outfit, whether it’s a traditional saree or a modern dress.

Pearls are known for their subtle shine, which complements almost every skin tone. A classic pearl necklace can be worn for formal events like weddings, but it also works beautifully for casual or semi-formal occasions. Many women opt for pearl earrings and bracelets to complete the set, making it a perfect addition to your jewellery collection.

Pearls are often considered a symbol of purity and are a great choice for both young and mature women. A pearl necklace can be passed down through generations, making it a family heirloom that holds sentimental value.

Conclusion

Incorporating these five timeless jewellery pieces into your collection ensures that you always have the right accessories for any occasion. These pieces are versatile, durable, and reflect the rich cultural heritage of India. Whether you’re attending a wedding, festival, or casual gathering, these jewellery items will make you feel confident and stylish.

If you’re looking for the finest gold jewellery in Haridwar, look no further than Gupta Ji Jewellers. Known as one of the best gold jewellery shops in Haridwar, Gupta Ji Jewellers offers a wide range of beautifully crafted jewellery that blends traditional designs with modern trends. Whether you’re in search of classic gold earrings, a stunning diamond ring, or a special gift for a loved one, Gupta Ji Jewellers is your go-to destination for quality and craftsmanship. Visit them today and discover the perfect piece that will add a touch of luxury to your collection.

Also read: 7 Beautiful Bugadi Designs Perfect for Every Occasion

[codesilver]

Last-Minute Diwali Gifting Ideas for the Busy Festive Shopper

Diwali, the festival of lights, is a time of joy, togetherness, and, of course, gifting. Whether it is for your circle of relatives, friends, or colleagues, deciding on the perfect gift can regularly be overwhelming, mainly in case you are a busy festive shopper pressed for time. The right information is that thoughtful and unique Diwali gifting options are only a click away. If you are on the hunt for last-minute ideas, look no in addition to Code Silver, in which you may discover a curated choice of notable silverware and ornamental objects to make your Diwali gift memorable.

1. Tea Light Holders – Illuminate Their Homes

A perfect Diwali gift must radiate the spirit of the festival, and what higher manner than with a stunning Tea Light Holder? They give a stylish series of intricately designed tea mild holders that mix tradition with current aesthetics. Crafted with fine detailing, those holders are best for including a heat glow in any home. Choose from floral designs, summary patterns, or classic motifs there may be something for each taste. These silver-plated holders aren't the simplest sensible but additionally double up as decorative pieces that complement the festive decor.

Ideal for: Home decor enthusiasts, hosts of Diwali parties, or someone moving into a brand new home.

2. Silver Idols and Figurines – Blessings Wrapped in Silver

Religious idols and figurines are a traditional Diwali gifting choice. It gives beautifully crafted silver idols of deities such as Lord Ganesha and Goddess Lakshmi, who are symbolic of prosperity and right fortune. Gifting silver idols throughout Diwali isn't only a gesture of goodwill but also a meaningful way to want a person's success and happiness in the year ahead.

Ideal for: Spiritual individuals, family members, or all of us who appreciate traditional gifts with a modern twist.

3. Silver-Plated Bowls and Trays – Add Elegance to Festive Feasts

Festivals and food go hand-in-hand, and what better way to raise the festive eating enjoyment than with silver-plated bowls and trays? This series features ornate designs that upload a hint of luxury to any table setting. These items are ideal for serving sweets, dry fruits, or snacks in the course of Diwali gatherings. Gifting a silver tray or bowl is a timeless choice, symbolizing prosperity and abundance.

Ideal for: Families who love hosting festive feasts or as a token of appreciation to a Diwali dinner host.

4. Silver Jewelry – Timeless Pieces for Loved Ones

When in doubt, go for jewelry! Code Silver boasts a choice of lovely silver jewelry that is ideal for Diwali gifting. From delicate silver earrings to statement necklaces, there may be something for each style and personality. Silver earrings aren't always only a style statement however also hold cultural significance during fairs like Diwali, as they represent wealth and well-being.

Ideal for:  Friends, family members, or a special deal for yourself this Diwali!

5. Customized Silver Gifts – Add a Personal Touch

For the ones looking to go the extra mile with their Diwali gifting, It gives them the choice to personalize gifts. Whether it is engraving initials on a silver pendant or creating a custom layout on a tea mild holder, a personalized gift is usually appreciated. Adding this personal touch can transform an easy silver object right into a loved keepsake.

Ideal for: Special occasions like family gatherings or Diwali celebrations with near friends.

Why Choose Code Silver for Diwali Gifting?

It each product is designed with complex craftsmanship and a keen eye for detail. The brand's services reflect a mix of culture and modernity, making it a go-to destination for unique Diwali gifts. From domestic decor to wearable art, every item is crafted to decorate the festive spirit and make your gifting revel effortless.

With a huge sort of options, They ensure you will locate something for all and sundry on your list. Plus, with rapid shipping alternatives, even last-minute shoppers can make certain their gifts arrive simply in time for the Diwali celebrations.

Wrapping Up

Diwali gifting doesn't need to be stressful, even in case you are shopping at the last minute. With Code Silver one-of-a-kind collection, you can easily locate gifts that might be thoughtful, elegant, and meaningful. Whether it is a lovely tea light holder or a lovely piece of silver jewelry, those options are sure to mild up the faces of your loved ones this festive season.

So, in case you are looking for something that captures the essence of Diwali, make sure to discover It exquisite variety of products that might be ideal for last-minute Diwali gifting.

[aladeanblogs]

Cherished Moments: The Beauty of Gifting Baptism Gifts

Baptisms are significant milestones in many families, symbolizing faith, new beginnings, and the joy of welcoming a child into the spiritual community. This special occasion calls for thoughtful gestures that honor the meaning of the day. One of the most heartfelt ways to express love and support is through baptism gifts. In this blog post, we will explore who can gift, to whom, and the perfect occasions for these gifts. We will also delve into the goodness of the products offered at Aladean, showcasing various baptism gift options and providing guidance on where and how to buy them.

Who Can Gift Baptism Gifts?

Baptism gifts can come from a variety of people, each holding a unique place in the child's life. Here are some common givers and their significance:

1. Godparents

Significance: The primary role of godparents is to support the child's spiritual upbringing. Their gifts often carry deep emotional meaning and are intended to nurture the child's faith.

Gift Ideas: Personalized prayer books, engraved jewelry, or religious figurines.

2. Family Members

Significance: Parents, grandparents, and extended family members often choose baptism gifts to celebrate the child’s entry into the faith community.

Gift Ideas: Custom-made quilts, baptismal gowns, or framed family trees.

3. Friends

Significance: Friends of the family, especially those who share in the child’s faith journey, often present gifts as a way of showing their support and joy.

Gift Ideas: Inspirational books, decorative cross wall art, or memory boxes.

4. Religious Leaders

Significance: Priests or ministers may also offer gifts to the baptized child, representing the community’s commitment to support the child’s spiritual journey.

Gift Ideas: Blessing certificates, religious texts, or sacred symbols.

5. Community Members

Significance: Members of the community who attend the baptism may also wish to express their congratulations and support.

Gift Ideas: Gift cards to local stores, homemade gifts, or contributions to a charity in the child's name.

Key Occasions for Gifting Baptism Gifts

While baptism is the primary occasion for these gifts, there are other moments when gifting can be appropriate:

1. Baby Showers

Details: If a baptism is anticipated shortly after a baby is born, gifts can be given during the baby shower. This shows early support for the child's spiritual journey.

Gift Ideas: Baptism outfits or keepsakes can make wonderful early gifts.

2. First Communions

Details: As a child continues their spiritual path, first communion can be another significant occasion to give meaningful baptism-related gifts.

Gift Ideas: Jewelry or religious books that relate to both baptism and first communion.

3. Anniversaries of Baptism

Details: Celebrating the anniversary of a child’s baptism can be a beautiful tradition. Family members can express their ongoing love and commitment to the child’s faith.

Gift Ideas: Customized items reflecting the day of baptism or engraved items that commemorate the occasion.

The Goodness of Aladean's Baptism Gifts

At Aladean, we believe that every gift should not only be beautiful but also carry a profound message of love and faith. Our baptism gifts are carefully selected to ensure that they reflect the significance of the occasion while providing lasting value.

Quality and Craftsmanship

Each product in our collection is crafted with attention to detail, ensuring high quality and durability. We understand that baptism gifts are often treasured for years, serving as reminders of this sacred day.

Thoughtful Selection

Our team at Aladean has curated a selection of gifts that cater to various preferences and budgets. From traditional to modern, you will find something that resonates with your taste.

Personalization Options

Personalized gifts add a unique touch, making them even more special. Many items in our collection can be customized with names, dates, or heartfelt messages. This added detail transforms an ordinary gift into a cherished keepsake. 💖

Explore Our Top Baptism Gifts

Here are some beautiful options from Aladean’s baptism gifts collection that you might consider:

1. Engraved Silver Cross Pendant

Description: A stunning silver cross pendant that can be personalized with the child’s name and baptism date.

Why It’s Special: This timeless piece serves as a constant reminder of the child’s faith journey.

Where to Buy: Engraved Silver Cross Pendant

2. Personalized Baptism Photo Frame

Description: A beautifully crafted photo frame designed to hold a cherished baptism photo, personalized with the child’s name.

Why It’s Special: It captures a moment in time, making it a perfect addition to any nursery or family home.

Where to Buy: Personalized Baptism Photo Frame

3. Custom Baby Blanket

Description: A soft, luxurious baby blanket embroidered with the child’s name and baptism date.

Why It’s Special: This gift combines comfort with sentiment, perfect for keeping the little one warm during their faith journey.

Where to Buy: Custom Baby Blanket

4. Baptism Keepsake Box

Description: A beautiful wooden keepsake box to store mementos from the baptism day, personalized with a meaningful inscription.

Why It’s Special: This box can hold letters, photos, and other treasures, preserving the memories of this special occasion.

Where to Buy: Baptism Keepsake Box

5. Religious Storybook

Description: An illustrated storybook that introduces children to faith-based tales and teachings.

Why It’s Special: This gift encourages a love for reading while nurturing the child's understanding of their faith.

Where to Buy: Religious Storybook

How to Buy the Perfect Baptism Gift

1. Explore Online

Aladean provides a user-friendly online platform to browse our extensive baptism gift collection. You can filter your search based on preferences, price range, and personalization options.

2. Consider the Recipient

Think about the child and their family. Personalizing gifts can add an emotional touch that reflects your relationship and shared values.

3. Budget Wisely

While it’s the thought that counts, it’s also important to consider your budget. Aladean offers gifts at various price points, ensuring you can find something meaningful without breaking the bank.

4. Read Reviews

Checking customer reviews can help gauge the quality and emotional resonance of gifts. At Aladean, we pride ourselves on providing excellent customer satisfaction.

5. Plan Ahead

If you wish to personalize a gift, allow extra time for customization. Ordering well in advance ensures that you receive your gift in time for the special day.

Final Thoughts

Baptism gifts serve as beautiful tokens of love, faith, and support. They remind us of the importance of community and the cherished bonds we form as we celebrate these special moments in life. At Aladean, our collection is designed to offer meaningful, high-quality gifts that resonate with both the giver and the recipient. 💖

As you consider the perfect baptism gift for your loved ones, remember that the thought and care behind the gift will always shine through. We invite you to explore our selection and find something that speaks to your heart.

Thank you for joining us on this journey through the world of baptism gifts. We hope you find the perfect expression of love and faith to celebrate this significant occasion. May your chosen gifts bring joy and warmth to your loved ones and foster a lasting connection to their faith. 🙏

Explore our baptism gifts collection today! Baptism Gifts Collection

With heartfelt wishes and gratitude,

The Aladean Team

[thetorres010]

Reasons Why Gold & Silver Jewelry Are Often Preferred For Gifting

Gold and silver jewelry holds significant importance as a gifting option for various reasons, deeply rooted in tradition, culture, and personal sentiment. The Gold Jewelry Showrooms In Mumbai is offering everyone with a wide range of jewelry to everyone from which a person can choose one. Here's why gold and silver jewelry is often preferred for gifting:

1. Symbol of Value and Wealth

Gold: Gold has long been associated with wealth, prosperity, and status. Gifting gold jewelry represents a gesture of generosity, respect, and acknowledgment of the recipient's importance.

Silver: Silver symbolizes purity, strength, and elegance. It is seen as a valuable metal, often used in gifts of appreciation and love.

2. Timeless and Lasting

Durability: Both gold and silver are long-lasting, making them perfect for keepsakes and heirlooms. A piece of jewelry gifted today can last a lifetime, often being passed down through generations.

Fashionable Across Ages: The classic appeal of gold and silver transcends time and trends, making them suitable for people of all ages.

3. Emotional and Sentimental Value

Personal Meaning: Gifting gold or silver jewelry, especially personalized or customized pieces, adds emotional value. Items like engraved pendants rings with birthstones, or custom bracelets often carry deep personal significance.

Memories: Jewelry can mark important life events, such as weddings, birthdays, anniversaries, or graduations, becoming a physical reminder of the moment.

4. Cultural and Religious Significance

Traditions: In many cultures, especially in India, the Middle East, and parts of Asia, gifting gold and silver jewelry is an integral part of important life events like weddings, religious ceremonies, and festive occasions.

Blessings and Good Fortune: Gold and silver are often associated with blessings, good luck, and protection in various cultures. Gifting these precious metals can symbolize bestowing these wishes upon the recipient.

5. Investment Value

Financial Security: Gold, in particular, is seen as a safe investment. By gifting gold, you're not only giving a beautiful item but also providing something that holds or even appreciates in value over time.

Silver's Rising Value: Silver, though less expensive than gold, is also a good investment, with its value often increasing over time.

If you or anyone you might know is searching for Silver Jewelry Showrooms In Mumbai, then you don’t have to worry about anything at all because The Torres is your destination.

About The Torres

The Torres is one of the reputed showrooms because it is offering everyone with a wide range of jewelry to everyone who wants to invest in silver and gold. To know more details about the showroom you can connect with us.

Source: https://penzu.com/p/d729a31d92cce41c

[tirupatitourpackages]

The Seven Hills of Tirumala: Exploring the Sacred Geography of Lord Venkateswara's Abode

Tirumala, the revered hill town in Andhra Pradesh, is synonymous with the ancient and powerful Sri Venkateswara Temple, where millions of devotees gather each year to seek the blessings of Lord Venkateswara. But beyond its spiritual significance, the very landscape of Tirumala is imbued with religious meaning. The temple sits atop a cluster of seven hills, collectively known as Saptagiri (meaning “Seven Hills”), which are believed to represent the seven heads of the mythical serpent, Adisesha. Each hill carries its own name, significance, and spiritual lore, making the journey to Tirumala a mystical and transformative experience for pilgrims.

In this blog, we will explore the seven sacred hills of Tirumala and their importance in the Tirupati pilgrimage.

1. Seshadri (The Hill of Adisesha)

Seshadri is the first and most important of the seven hills. Named after Adisesha, the cosmic serpent who serves as Lord Vishnu's couch, this hill is believed to represent the head of Adisesha. The association of Lord Vishnu with the serpent has a deep mythological connection, as Adisesha is said to carry the weight of the universe on his many heads. For devotees, this hill is a symbol of divine protection and spiritual energy, offering them peace as they begin their ascent to meet the deity.

Spiritual Significance: Represents the embodiment of cosmic stability and divine support.

Key Attraction: Starting point of the Alipiri Mettu footpath, often undertaken by devotees as an act of faith.

2. Neeladri (The Hill of Neela Devi)

Neeladri is named after Neela Devi, a beloved consort of Lord Vishnu. Legend has it that Neela Devi requested Lord Venkateswara to wear a portion of her hair when he was about to marry Goddess Padmavati. To honor her wish, the Lord accepted her offering, and in remembrance of this, the tradition of offering hair (tonsuring) became an important ritual in Tirumala.

Spiritual Significance: Symbolizes the devotion and selfless love of Neela Devi.

Key Ritual: Tonsuring ceremony, where devotees shave their heads as an offering to Lord Venkateswara in a gesture of humility and gratitude.

3. Garudadri (The Hill of Garuda)

This hill is named after Garuda, the mighty eagle and the vehicle (vahana) of Lord Vishnu. Garuda is revered as a protector and symbolizes speed, power, and the ability to transcend worldly difficulties. In many ways, Garudadri is seen as a representation of the swift path toward salvation that devotees seek when visiting Tirumala.

Spiritual Significance: Represents strength, devotion, and divine guidance.

Key Symbol: Garuda is always depicted in front of Vishnu, and a statue of Garuda stands proudly within the Tirumala temple premises, welcoming devotees.

4. Anjanadri (The Hill of Lord Hanuman)

Anjanadri is believed to be the birthplace of Lord Hanuman, the mighty monkey god who played a significant role in the Ramayana. This hill is a popular spot for devotees of Hanuman, who seek his blessings for strength, courage, and devotion. The connection between Hanuman and Lord Vishnu (as an avatar of Rama) makes this hill even more significant.

Spiritual Significance: A symbol of loyalty, devotion, and unparalleled strength.

Key Attraction: Hanuman devotees often visit Anjanadri Hill to offer prayers and seek blessings before proceeding to the temple of Lord Venkateswara.

5. Vrushabhadri (The Hill of Nandi)

Named after Nandi, the sacred bull of Lord Shiva, Vrushabhadri represents the deep connection between Lord Vishnu and Lord Shiva. Legend has it that Nandi once performed penance on this hill to atone for a curse. Lord Vishnu, impressed with his devotion, relieved Nandi of the curse and blessed the hill with his divine presence.

Spiritual Significance: Reflects the unity between different forms of divinity, particularly Vishnu and Shiva.

Key Legend: Pilgrims regard this hill as a place where forgiveness and divine blessings flow, especially for those seeking to atone for past sins.

6. Narayanadri (The Hill of Narayana)

Narayanadri is named after Narayana, another name for Lord Vishnu. This hill represents the complete divinity of Lord Venkateswara, emphasizing his role as the supreme protector and preserver of the universe. It is believed that Lord Vishnu himself manifested on this hill to bless the world with peace and prosperity.

Spiritual Significance: Represents Lord Vishnu’s eternal presence and his commitment to protecting his devotees.

Key Highlight: The sacredness of Narayanadri lies in the belief that Lord Narayana resides in every part of this hill, watching over those who make the pilgrimage.

7. Venkatadri (The Hill of Lord Venkateswara)

Venkatadri is the most revered and significant of the seven hills as it houses the Tirumala Temple at its peak. This hill is named after Lord Venkateswara, the incarnation of Lord Vishnu who descended to Earth to save mankind from the trials of Kali Yuga. It is believed that the Lord chose Venkatadri as his permanent abode, making this hill the pinnacle of spiritual pilgrimage.

Spiritual Significance: Represents the highest form of devotion, as Lord Venkateswara himself resides here.

Key Attraction: The Tirumala Venkateswara Temple, which draws millions of devotees from around the world every year. It is said that those who climb Venkatadri are blessed with spiritual liberation (moksha).

Conclusion The Seven Hills of Tirumala, or Saptagiri, are much more than a geographical formation—they embody the essence of spirituality and devotion. Each hill holds deep mythological and religious significance, symbolizing different aspects of the divine and serving as milestones for pilgrims making the arduous journey to the temple of Lord Venkateswara. As devotees climb these hills, they not only traverse physical heights but also ascend spiritually, culminating in the divine blessings of Lord Venkateswara at the summit of Venkatadri.

Whether you're a devout pilgrim or an explorer of spiritual landscapes, the Seven Hills of Tirumala offer a journey rich in culture, history, and divine presence.

[yemen-charity123]

What is the Spiritual and Social Impact of Qurbani Charity

Qurbani, also known as the act of animal sacrifice during Eid al-Adha, is a profound tradition in Islam. It commemorates the Prophet Ibrahim's (AS) willingness to sacrifice his son in obedience to Allah’s command. However, the importance of Qurbani charity extends beyond the ritual sacrifice. It represents a deep connection between spiritual growth, religious obligation, and social responsibility. For those who donate, it’s a means of purifying their wealth and soul, while for recipients, it provides critical relief in times of need.

The act of Qurbani donation plays a significant role in reducing hunger and fostering community solidarity, especially in regions like Yemen, where conflict has created severe food insecurity. This article will explore both the spiritual and social impacts of Qurbani, offering a deeper understanding of why this charitable act is so important in the modern world.

1. The Spiritual Significance of Qurbani

At the heart of Qurbani is the spiritual essence of sacrifice. The ritual mirrors the unwavering devotion of Prophet Ibrahim (AS) to Allah. By performing Qurbani, Muslims are not just engaging in an act of charity; they are expressing their submission to Allah’s will, reminding themselves that everything they have belongs to Him. The practice fosters humility and encourages believers to contemplate their blessings.

2. Fulfillment of a Religious Obligation

Performing Qurbani is an obligatory act for Muslims who are financially capable. The Quran instructs believers to offer Qurbani as part of their observance of Eid al-Adha. Donating Qurbani is more than a symbolic gesture; it is a way to fulfill one’s religious duties while helping those who are less fortunate. It reminds believers to practice compassion, as well as generosity.

3. Purification of Wealth

One of the spiritual benefits of Qurbani is the purification of wealth. By giving away a portion of one's wealth, Muslims are reminded that wealth is a test from Allah and that sharing it with others helps in purifying their earnings. This act of charity helps cleanse their soul from greed and selfishness, drawing them closer to Allah.

4. Social Impact: Addressing Food Insecurity

While the spiritual aspects of Qurbani are critical, the social benefits are equally profound. One of the main objectives of Qurbani charity is to distribute meat to those in need, ensuring that even the most vulnerable families can enjoy a nourishing meal during Eid al-Adha. In countries like Yemen, where war and famine have resulted in extreme poverty and hunger, Qurbani donations provide a lifeline.

The meat from the Qurbani sacrifice is divided into three portions: one for the family, one for relatives and friends, and one for the needy. This ensures that everyone, regardless of financial status, can share in the joy and blessings of Eid. For many families, the meat received from Qurbani charity may be the only source of protein they will have for months.

5. Providing Essential Nutrition

In areas like Yemen, where poverty and malnutrition are widespread, Qurbani charity delivers life-saving food. Fresh meat provides essential nutrients that are often missing in the diets of impoverished families. For many recipients, the Qurbani donation represents their only access to fresh, high-quality meat. This simple act of charity can significantly improve their physical health by providing much-needed protein and other nutrients.

6. Strengthening Community Ties

Qurbani charity plays a crucial role in fostering community bonds. The act of sharing meat with family, friends, and those in need is a tangible expression of unity and generosity. In times of hardship, communities come together through acts of charity, strengthening the social fabric that binds them.

For the donor, giving Qurbani is a reminder of the responsibility they hold towards their fellow humans. For the recipient, receiving Qurbani meat is a symbol of hope and solidarity. In societies torn apart by war, such as Yemen, these acts of kindness help rebuild trust and connection among community members.

7. Qurbani in Conflict Zones: The Case of Yemen

Yemen is a country that has been devastated by years of conflict. The humanitarian crisis there has left millions of people facing starvation, with food insecurity at unprecedented levels. For many families in Yemen, the meat from Qurbani donations provides critical nourishment during a time of dire need. Through organizations like Yemen Relief, Qurbani donations are directed to the most vulnerable, ensuring that they receive fresh meat to celebrate Eid and sustain themselves.

Yemen Relief works tirelessly to distribute Qurbani donations to families in conflict zones. By partnering with local charities and volunteers, they ensure that even in the most remote regions, families can benefit from the generosity of donors.

8. Qurbani as a Form of Global Humanitarian Aid

Qurbani charity extends beyond local communities. For Muslims around the world, donating Qurbani to global humanitarian efforts is an opportunity to make a difference in regions facing extreme hardship. The global impact of Qurbani donations is substantial, as they provide essential resources to impoverished communities across Africa, Asia, and the Middle East.

Through international organizations, donors can ensure their Qurbani reaches those most in need, whether in Yemen or other regions suffering from poverty and conflict. This global solidarity helps alleviate hunger and suffering on a broader scale.

9. Empowering Donors through Meaningful Charity

For those who donate Qurbani, the act itself is an empowering experience. It allows Muslims to take an active role in addressing poverty, hunger, and social inequality. Rather than being a passive observer, donors become active participants in the effort to bring about positive change. This empowerment is both spiritual and practical, as it gives individuals the means to make a direct impact on the lives of others.

10. How You Can Contribute: Donating Qurbani through Yemen Relief

Yemen Relief offers an easy and efficient way for Muslims around the world to donate their Qurbani and ensure that it reaches those who need it the most. With millions of people in Yemen facing starvation and malnutrition, your Qurbani donation can provide life-saving assistance to the most vulnerable.

When you choose to donate Qurbani through Yemen Relief, your sacrifice is distributed to families in need, bringing them comfort and sustenance during the holy time of Eid al-Adha. It’s a simple yet profoundly meaningful way to fulfill your religious obligations while making a significant impact in the lives of those who are suffering.

Conclusion: Qurbani Charity as a Bridge Between Spirituality and Humanity

In conclusion, the act of Qurbani charity transcends the simple act of sacrifice. It is a powerful expression of both spiritual devotion and social responsibility. Through Qurbani donations, Muslims not only fulfill a critical religious obligation but also bring relief to those who are struggling with hunger and poverty. The spiritual rewards of Qurbani are immense, offering a path to personal growth and a closer connection with Allah.

On a social level, Qurbani charity fosters community solidarity, providing nourishment and hope to those in dire circumstances. In places like Yemen, where the need is particularly acute, your Qurbani donation can be a lifeline, offering families the sustenance they need to survive.

This Eid al-Adha, consider donating your Qurbani through Yemen Relief. Together, we can make a profound impact on the lives of those who need it most, while also enriching our own spiritual journey.

[devoqdesign]

Cultural Sensitivity in Global Design: Adapting UI/UX for International Audiences

In today's interconnected world, businesses are increasingly expanding their reach across borders. As they do so, the need for culturally sensitive design in user interfaces (UI) and user experiences (UX) has become paramount. A one-size-fits-all approach to design simply doesn't cut it anymore. To truly engage global audiences, companies must adapt their digital products to resonate with diverse cultural contexts. This blog post explores the importance of cultural sensitivity in global design and provides strategies for adapting UI/UX for international audiences.

The Importance of Cultural Sensitivity in Design

Cultural sensitivity in design goes beyond mere translation. It involves a deep understanding of cultural nuances, preferences, and behaviors that influence how users interact with digital products. Here's why it matters:

Enhanced User Experience: When users encounter a product that feels familiar and aligned with their cultural expectations, they're more likely to have a positive experience.

Increased Engagement: Culturally relevant designs can significantly boost user engagement and retention rates.

Brand Trust and Loyalty: Demonstrating respect for local cultures helps build trust and fosters brand loyalty among international users.

Competitive Advantage: In a global marketplace, culturally sensitive design can set a product apart from competitors who take a more generic approach.

Avoiding Offense: Cultural insensitivity can lead to misunderstandings or even offense, potentially damaging a brand's reputation.

Key Aspects of Cultural Adaptation in UI/UX Design

1. Language and Text

Language is the most obvious aspect of cultural adaptation, but it goes beyond simple translation:

Right-to-Left (RTL) Languages: Languages like Arabic and Hebrew require a complete flip of the UI layout.

Text Expansion: Some languages require more space than others. Designs should accommodate text that may be 20-30% longer in some languages.

Date and Time Formats: Different cultures use various date and time formats. Adapt these to local conventions.

Numerals and Currency: Use local number systems (e.g., Arabic vs. Western numerals) and appropriate currency symbols.

2. Color and Symbolism

Colors and symbols can have vastly different meanings across cultures:

Color Associations: For example, while white symbolizes purity in Western cultures, it's associated with mourning in some Eastern cultures.

Cultural Symbols: Be cautious with symbols that may have different connotations in various cultures. A thumbs-up gesture, for instance, is offensive in some Middle Eastern countries.

Religious Sensitivities: Avoid using religious symbols or imagery unless it's specifically relevant to the content.

3. Imagery and Icons

Visual elements should be culturally appropriate and relatable:

Diverse Representation: Ensure that images represent the diversity of the target audience.

Localized Iconography: Adapt icons to reflect local objects and concepts. For example, a mailbox icon might look different in various countries.

Cultural Taboos: Be aware of imagery that might be considered offensive or taboo in certain cultures.

4. Content Organization and Information Architecture

The way information is structured and presented can vary significantly between cultures:

Reading Patterns: Consider cultural differences in reading patterns. For instance, the F-shaped pattern common in Western cultures may not apply universally.

Information Density: Some cultures prefer more detailed, text-heavy designs, while others favor minimalism.

Navigation Preferences: Menu structures and navigation patterns may need to be adapted to match local user expectations.

5. Functionality and Features

Certain features or functionalities may be more or less relevant in different cultural contexts:

Social Media Integration: Popular social platforms vary by region. Ensure you're integrating the most relevant ones for each market.

Payment Methods: Offer locally preferred payment options, which can vary significantly between countries.

Privacy and Data Collection: Be mindful of different attitudes towards privacy and data sharing across cultures.

Strategies for Implementing Culturally Sensitive Design

Conduct Thorough Research: Before entering a new market, invest time in understanding the local culture, user behaviors, and design preferences.

Employ Local Experts: Work with designers, researchers, and content creators who are native to the target culture.

Use Localization Tools: Utilize software and platforms that support internationalization and localization efforts.

Implement Flexible Design Systems: Create design systems that can easily adapt to different cultural contexts without requiring a complete overhaul.

Test with Local Users: Conduct usability testing with users from the target culture to identify any issues or areas for improvement.

Continuous Learning and Iteration: Cultural adaptation is an ongoing process. Continuously gather feedback and be prepared to iterate on your designs.

Challenges and Considerations

While adapting UI/UX for international audiences is crucial, it comes with challenges:

Balancing Global Brand Consistency with Local Adaptation: Finding the right balance between maintaining a consistent global brand and adapting to local preferences can be tricky.

Resource Intensiveness: Proper cultural adaptation requires significant time, effort, and financial investment.

Keeping Up with Cultural Changes: Cultures are not static. Staying updated with evolving cultural norms and preferences is an ongoing challenge.

Conclusion

In an increasingly global digital landscape, cultural sensitivity in UI/UX design is not just a nice-to-have—it's a necessity. By adapting designs to resonate with diverse international audiences, companies can create more engaging, effective, and successful digital products. The key lies in thorough research, local collaboration, flexible design systems, and a commitment to continuous learning and improvement.

As we move forward in this interconnected world, let's embrace the richness of cultural diversity in our designs, creating digital experiences that truly speak to users across the globe. By doing so, we not only improve our products but also foster greater understanding and connection across cultures.

Devoq Design is a premier UI/UX design agency with a strong presence in both Maryland and Massachusetts. As a leading UI/UX design agency in Maryland, Devoq Design specializes in crafting visually engaging and user-friendly digital experiences tailored to the specific needs of local businesses. Similarly, as a top UI/UX design agency in Massachusetts, Devoq Design excels in delivering innovative design solutions that enhance user interaction and satisfaction. With a dedicated team of expert designers, Devoq Design ensures that each project is customized to meet the unique requirements of their diverse clientele, driving growth and success in both states.

[taelyn-ds]

INFORMATION & STATISTICS FOR TAELYN DAMARIS-SARWYNN

“The only way to deal with an unfree world is to become so absolutely free that your very existence is an act of rebellion.” ― Albert Camus

ORIGINS & FAMILY:

Full Name: Taelyn Zia Damaris-Sarwynn

Nickname(s)/Alias(es): Tae, Lyn

Date of Birth: October 24th, 1876

Age: 148 (appears in mid 20s)

Gender + Pronouns: Female, She/Her

Place of birth: Northknot, CA

Parents: Tadhg & Tallulah

Siblings: Thalia, older sister

Relationship with family (close? estranged?): She is very close with her family

Pets: Dog, Harry

PHYSICAL:

Height: 5′ 4″ (163 cm)

Build: Slim and athletic build, with a toned physique that is both graceful and strong

Species: Forest/Valley Elf

Distinguishing Facial Features: Has a delicate, well-defined face with high cheekbones, a warm, approachable appearance, often described as both elegant and natural

Hair Color: Dark Brown

Usual Hair Style: Long and Wavy with Bangs

Eye Color: Deep Brown

Complexion (freckles, acne, skin tone, birthmarks, scars): Light with warm undertones

Disabilities (physical or mental, including mental illnesses): Social anxiety, Depression

What do they consider their best feature?: Her eyes

Worst they’ve ever been injured (what, how did it happen)?: The worst injury Taelyn's experienced is from accidentally spilling hot paint on herself while working. It resulted in painful burns and a significant scar

APPEARANCE:

Favorite outfit: A pair of overalls covered in paint splatters, paired with a comfy graphic tee or a hoodie

Glasses? Contacts?: No

Personal Hygiene: Practical, neat but artistically chaotic

Tattoos? Piercings?: Has delicate, artistic tattoos, like small paintbrushes, abstract patterns, and meaningful symbols. She has subtle piercings, like small studs or hoops in her ears, reflecting her edgy yet understated style

What does their voice sound like?: Her voice is soft and a bit shy, with a gentle tone

Accent?: None

Unique mannerisms/physical habits: She might fidget with her hair or clothing when nervous and has a tendency to make quick, nervous gestures, such as tapping her fingers or avoiding eye contact

Left handed or right?: Left

Do they work out/exercise?: Not in the typical sense; more like sports and the occasional run

BELIEFS & INTELLECT:

Known Languages: English, Spanish

Zodiac: Scorpio

Gifts/talents: Art, Gardening, Creative Writing

Religious stance: Spiritual but not religious

Pet peeves: Gets frustrated with disorganized spaces and people who don’t appreciate or respect artistic work

Optimist or pessimist: Somewhere in between; tends to be optimistic about her art and personal growth but can be pessimistic or anxious about social situations and self-doubt

Extrovert or introvert: Introvert

INTIMACY & RELATIONSHIPS:

Relationship status: Complicated

Sexual orientation: Bisexual

Ideal mate/qualities they look for in a mate: Someone who is patient with her shyness, supportive of her creative passions, and understanding of her unique background and experiences

Ever been in love?: Yes; is very much so right now

What’s their love language?: Acts of Service

Most important person in their life?: Besides her family, Kieran, the guy she is very much in love with

VOCATION:

Level of education: High School Diploma

Profession: Artist/Cashier at Circle of Light, a metaphysical store

Past occupations: Barista, Worked in a library, Secretarial Work, Dog walker, Cashier at various businesses

Passions: Art, DIY Crafting, Music

Which is more important – money or doing something they love?: Doing something she loves

SECRETS:

Phobias: Has a fear of rejection

Life goals: Aims to gain recognition for her artwork while continuing to grow personally and professionally, eventually feeling more confident and fulfilled in her personal life

Greatest fears: Failing to achieve her artistic dreams and experiencing isolation due to her shyness or relationship issues

Most embarrassing thing ever to happen to him/her: Once she accidentally knocked over a large paint container in art class, causing a mess and drawing unwanted attention

Something they’ve never told anyone: Taelyn has a hidden sketchbook filled with personal, emotional artwork that she’s never shown to anyone, revealing her innermost thoughts and feelings

PREFERENCES:

Hobbies: Art, Gardening, Writing, Jewelry Making, Book Binding, Nature Walks

Favorite color: Vivid blues and purples

Favorite smell: Freshly opened paint tubes and old books

Favorite food: Macaroni and Cheese

Favorite book: The Little Prince by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

Favorite movie: Amélie

Favorite song: Both Sides Now by Joni Mitchell

Coffee or tea?: Tea

Favorite type of weather: Overcast with a light drizzle

Most used word or phrase?: “In the moment"

EXTRAS:

MBTI: INFP (The Mediator) - INFPs are known for their creativity, introspection, and sensitivity. Taelyn’s love for art, her shyness, and her deep emotional connections align well with this personality type. Her awkwardness and introspective nature fit the INFP’s tendency to be introspective and driven by personal values

Alignment: Neutral Good - Neutral Good characters are driven by a desire to do good and help others but do not strictly adhere to laws or traditions. Taelyn’s desire to support her family, her creative pursuits, and her open-minded approach to love reflect a strong sense of doing what she feels is right, regardless of societal expectations

Enneagram: Type 4 (The Individualist) - Type 4s are often creative, sensitive, and self-aware. They value individuality and uniqueness, which aligns with Taelyn’s passion for art and her struggle with feeling different due to her background. They also tend to have a deep sense of longing and introspection, fitting Taelyn’s character

Celtic Tree: Rowan - The Rowan tree is associated with creativity, protection, and a strong connection to the mystical. This aligns with Taelyn’s artistic nature and her need for protection due to her past bullying and her unique personal experiences

Temperament: Melancholic - Melancholic temperaments are often reflective, sensitive, and artistic. They may also struggle with shyness and awkwardness, which fits Taelyn’s personality and her focus on artistic expression

Hogwarts House: Ravenclaw - Ravenclaw values creativity, intelligence, and individuality. Taelyn’s academic success, artistic talents, and introspective nature fit well with the qualities of Ravenclaw House

Element: Water - Water represents emotion, creativity, and fluidity. Taelyn’s artistic nature, her sensitivity, and her emotional depth align well with the qualities of the Water element

[heather123fan-blog]

Day 5: Thursday, 11th July — Favorite woman writer: Christine de Pizan (b. 1364, Venice, Italy; d. 1430, Poissy, France)

Christine de Pisan (Christine de Pizan) was a medieval writer and historiographer who advocated for women’s equality. Her works, considered to be some of the earliest feminist writings, include poetry, novels, biography, and autobiography, as well as literary, political, and religious commentary. De Pisan became the first woman in France, and possibly Europe, to earn a living solely by writing.

De Pisan was raised at court in Paris with her father, Thomas de Pisan, the astrologer and secretary to King Charles V of France. Although her educational upbringing is unclear, through her father’s court appointment, she did have access to a variety of exceptional libraries. In 1380, de Pisan married Etienne du Castel, a nobleman from Picardy. He was an unusual husband for the time in that he supported her educational and writing endeavors. When he died in 1390, de Pisan was only in her early twenties. After receiving attention from patrons in the court for her poetry and love ballads dedicated to her husband, she decided that rather than remarry she would support her three children and newly widowed mother through her writing. While she was still establishing herself as a writer, de Pisan also transcribed and illustrated other authors’ works.

Her own writing, in its various forms, discusses many feminist topics, including the source of women’s oppression, the lack of education for women, different societal behaviors, combating a misogynistic society, women’s rights and accomplishments, and visions of a more equal world. De Pisan’s work, though critical of the prevailing patriarchy, was well received, as it was also based in Christian virtue and morality. Her writing was especially strong in rhetorical strategies that have since been extensively studied by scholars.

Her two most famous works are the books Le Dit de la Rose (The Tale of the Rose), 1402, and Le Tresor de la Cité des Dames (The Book of the City of Ladies), 1405. Le Dit de la Rose was a direct attack on Jean de Meun’s extremely popular Romance of the Rose, a work about courtly love that characterized women as seducers, which de Pisan claimed was misogynistic, vulgar, immoral, and slanderous to women. She later published Letters on the Debate of the Rose as a follow-up to the controversial debate.

In Le Tresor de la Cité des Dames, de Pisan has a discussion with three “ladies,” introduced as Reason, Rectitude, and Justice, about the oppression of women and the misogynistic subject matter and language that contemporary male writers used. Under the author’s guidance, the women form their own city, where only women of virtue reside. In the book, she writes, “Moreover, it is just as applicable to ladies, maidens, and other women to have worldly prudence in regulating their lives well, each according to her estate, and to love honour and the blessings of a good reputation” (Lawson, trans., The Treasure of the City of Ladies, 110).

Although de Pisan’s work was primarily written for and about the upper classes (the majority of lower class women were illiterate), her writing was instrumental in introducing the concept of equality and justice for women in medieval France. De Pisan lived the majority of her life in relative comfort, and in 1418, she entered a convent in Poissy (northwest of Paris), where she continued to produce work, including her last poem Le Ditie de Jeanne d’Arc (Song in Honor of Joan of Arc), 1429.

Christine de Pisan at The Dinner Party

Christine de Pisan is represented in her plate as an abstracted butterfly form painted in swirling, vibrant hues of red and green. Chicago describes the form as having “one wing raised in a gesture of defense, to symbolize her efforts to protect women” (Chicago, The Dinner Party, 86).

The runner is done in tones from the same color palette, and jagged flame-like forms adorn the edges. The wavy, colorful pattern is characteristic of Bargello needlepoint, also called “flame stitch” or “Florentine stitch,” thought to have originated in medieval Italy. According to Chicago, this design, which appears to be encroaching on the plate, represents the suffocating Renaissance-era constraints on women (Chicago, The Dinner Party, 86).

On the front of the runner, embroidered on the illuminated capital “C” in her name, is a scene based on an illuminated manuscript in which de Pisan presents a volume of her work to the queen of France. This book represents her writing as a gift of knowledge and feminism that was offered to the medieval world.