#penitentials

[upennmanuscripts]

Today we present this exquisite copy of the Penitential Psalms in French, written in 1681. It's full of illuminated initials, and is bound in 18th century embroidered silk. Delightful! (Ms. Codex 1564)

🔗:

[rowanisawriter]

all this for a blonde man

[ithalpherix]

The chart reminded me so now I want to talk about medieval sex again. So much sex leads to sin because in the [Catholic] medieval imagination sex is sin, even married, procreative, fully-permissible sex: the ideal sort of person (monks, nuns, hermits, saints) avoided it entirely, and married couples staying celibate was considered like,, impracticable, but admirable and probably a good idea spiritually. Moreover because men were considered the only people to be full people, and men are tempted by women (both sexually and in the sense of Eve), women are inherently both sexual sinful in their nature. Except the Virgin Mary. But also women owed their husbands a marital debt, which the husbands weren’t supposed to desire, but did anyway, so men are all sinful too. The point is that the ideal is impossible and mixed up with all sorts of nasty neuroses; like Karma Lochrie says, there was a lot of straight sex happening in the Middle Ages, but not a lot of heterosexuality, because the idea of men and women desiring each other was abhorrent and aberrant. Except of course that it wasn’t. Except that it was. Except that it wasn’t. Except that —

[time-was-over]

i’m gonna disembowel myself i’m so embarrassed. they should invent an orion that doesn’t say the stupidest shit ever

[dutchjan]

Oktober 04, 2024

[margindoodles2407]

hmmmmmmmmmmmmmm lent is in. dos weeks

[ecclesiachristi]

[stoportotouch]

facebook has of late been advertising to me an event called Secret Byrd. which is already a very evocative (and quite funny) name but it is also a staged performance of byrd's mass for four voices (one of my favourites for its vaguely passive-aggressive sounding gloria) set in the time of The Actual Byrd.

also, it comes with soup. soup and william byrd. the perfect combination of things, and by perfect i mean ?

[daisies-on-a-cup]

i kind of want to give will catholic guilt/make him grow up catholic but poor people catholic

[mad-ad]

I don’t WANT to be defending obviously invalid marriages right now I WANT to be cozy and playing games on my new computer

[maimoncat]

Sorting ancient documents can be fun

[oidheadh-con-culainn]

wow you missed the point of this post so hard didn't you

if the behaviours i described in this post don't match what you or people you follow are doing on social media then may i kindly suggest that this post is not about you and that possibly i am describing a very specific phenomenon from very specific people (NOT palestinian journalists or indeed anyone directly connected to/affected by current events)

i do think there is a degree to which certain kinds of Instagram activists have convinced themselves that traumatising themselves in solidarity is a useful form of activism. "I'm having nightmares and crying so much I want to be sick because of all these videos of dying children but I can't look away while people are getting hurt" I mean don't you think you'd be able to help more if you weren't having nightmares and crying all the time?? don't you think this is a one-way trip to burnout? don't you think maybe increasing the amount of trauma going around is counterproductive? I dunno bro there's something to be said for bearing witness but there comes a point where you gotta look hard at yourself and go "am I helping, or am I just making myself suffer so I don't feel guilty for not suffering while somebody else is experiencing bad shit"

[plateauofmemories]

Sign in the cafeteria said something like "Have a joyous Lent!" And I was just looking at it like. Well I'm not Catholic but I think that's the wrong sentiment for Lent.

[seeking-wisdom]

Well everyone go forth and have a fruitful Lent! Its my first Lent, and my central goal is to treat my body better than I have been lately. I cannot yet muster up the desire to do it for my own health and well-being, but I'll do it because of love for Him.

[nikovraskol]

crack baby ; six

wc ; 3539 masterlist after dying, you expected to be greeted with the open arms of the void swallowing your body, mind and soul. what you didn't anticipate is waking up sixteen once more with a chance to change your fate -- but something strange is happening, why are the locks changing and why are all eyes suddenly on you ?

tw ; mentions of death and suicide, abuse, cursing, neglect, mentions of violence

prologue, one, two, three, four, five, six, tbc..

It was warm, unnaturally – almost grotesquely – warm for a city such as Gotham, a city whose soul had long since fossilized into soot and shadow, yet, on that particular day, the sun, like a hesitant, long-suffering god, peered between the clouds and cast its light upon the grizzled streets. The city, always brooding and penitential, seemed briefly baptized in grace; mothers pushing prams, the laughter of teenagers gossiping and gasping echoed like a hymn, and in the corners—the unavoidable corners—those same familiar shadows where figures, too skittish to be innocent, were tailed by officers who had seen too much and believed too little.

Your heart, a disobedient thing, beat not with trepidation, but something much more innocent as you stared at the woman before you, “It’s been a while, (Name).” Your mother smiled, her face had changed – that’s the first thing you noticed as you took her in. Your dear mother, you never thought you’d see her again. Her face has lost it's sickly pallor and her eyes seemed more alive – the whole air around her was more vibrant, warm, it filled you with a familiar joy, a joy you thought you’d outgrown. “You’ve grown.”

“I guess have.. I– I missed you, I missed you, mama.” You say, your voice much more childlike than usual – you’re not sure you’ve sounded this joyful since, well, since you left her to live with Bruce, “so, have you been released.. permanently?”

“I have.. I realised something important while in that hospital,” Your mother begins, her eyes drifted from your form to the park where residents of this forsaken city roamed, each person was living their own life with their own thoughts and their own experiences, “I’ve come to enjoy life as it is, I lived my life in resentment, hating those who hurt me.. By living with that anger, I forgot those who were important.”

Silence stretched between the two of you, her eyes softened as she lowered her head, “My dear (Name), I’ve caused you a lot of pain, haven’t I? I’m sorry.” Her words struck you, an apology. But truthfully, you’d never craved an apology from her. You’d lived with a heart that beat with the desire for acknowledgement every day, with the idea that one day, one of those disgusting bastards will reach out and apologise, that they’ll admit their faults and see their errors. 

But an apology from your mother? Why? You understood that – fundamentally – she’d hurt you the most, physically – but she had spent her twenties working to provide for you, you don’t know half of what she did to keep you fed and warm, but you knew it wasn’t easy, because you were the one to care for her when she’d pass out, when her mood would switch. She hurt you, but she hurt herself more in exchange.

“Mama..” You begin, your hand reached out to comfort her – perhaps? But she beat you to it, looking up with an expression you couldn’t describe, because you’d never seen it on anyone. Not her, not Bruce, not even on yourself. It looked content, perhaps thats the only word to describe it, though even that wasn't accurate.

“(Name), I won’t see you again, I’m going to go live on your Grandpa’s farm, I’m going to be happy. I’m truly sorry, (Name).” She sighed, her hands gently snaked around you as she embraced you tightly, your head instinctively fell onto her shoulders, her touch was a benediction to your sorrowful existence, “Mama’s proud of you, (Name). I know you suffered, it was scary, huh?”

Her voice starts to feel distant, muffled, like you’re talking through a glass wall even though she was holding you, cradling you, just as you had wished all this time. Your hands immediately went to clutch onto her, clinging to the last memory of her that you’ll ever experience.

“(Name), don’t give up, don’t give in.” Her voice suddenly took on a strange edge, suddenly warping into something that sounded nothing like her – something had alienated this precious memory. This wasn’t how the memory goes – no, she’s supposed to say goodbye, leave you with a kiss on your forehead– “Don’t forget who you are, and what they did to you. (Name), be strong.”

Then – she disappeared, not metaphorically, literally turning into nothing – your body instinctively falls, you reach out with a gasp, but nothing comes out because your voice is gone, the ground turns to nothing before you can hit it, plunging you into an abyss of darkness, a darkness so looming it feels like judgement. It’s scary, you can’t feel anything but the pressure against your ear as you try to scream, the words clawing in your larynx like a stubborn cat, refusing to come out.

Then you wake up, your eyes blurring until your surroundings turn into a mix of colours and visible sounds. Blinking rapidly, you realise you’ve been crying. When did you fall asleep? You tucked yourself in?

With a glance down you realise you’d been crying straight into the teddy bear your mother gave you, clutching it so tightly that you’d accidentally reopened a hole in the tattered fabric.

“Oh,” your voice is hoarse, rough against your throat, cracking across the edges of each syllable, “I’ll have to stitch it back up...”

You strike the back of your head against the cold wall behind you —once, twice — the dull thud echoing through your skull like the toll of some distant bell, and with that sound, you break loose from your daze —memories, spectral and uninvited, poured in, each one gnawing at your ribs with merciless familiarity, reminding you of your twisted situation. What a sweet dream, oh, how you miss your mother, but you’re not granted the grace to mourn her, not when your world is collapsing around you – you’re sure that if you break down now, you won’t be able to pick yourself back up in time.

But – that dream poses the immediate question you’ve been trying to avoid, she shouldn’t have died, no, she should’ve gotten better, moved to Grandpa’s farm and lived happily, lived so peaceful it’s almost comical. So what happened? You’ve known that something fundamental changed the moment you came here because you’ve never in your life experienced such attention. Every five minutes somebody is materialising around you with that smug air of arrogance and a mocking “are you okay?” You had barely begun to live in this new reality, you’d just started dreaming dreams of a less shameful future, and already the seams are coming apart.

It’s sickening, so disgusting it makes you want to puke, you really hate them.

“Oh. The letter.” You suddenly remember, you were going to read it, what happened? Fuck, your limbs feel heavy – you feel as if they were filled with molten lead; each movement a betrayal of will. Rolling over your bed like some wounded animal, you reached for the crumpled letter. After flailing your hand around you gather all your energy to slump over the edge of the bed, reaching for the discarded letter.

A wave of shame swept through you at the sight of its abused form. Was there nothing in your life you could preserve? You’re unable to keep anything she gives you clean. Even after death, you continue to defile her memories. What a terrible child you are

You’re about to finally read it, when you notice something is off, something’s moved, and then—like the blade of a guillotine—it strikes you.

Where is the money your mother gave you?!

You tumble off the bed as you lurch forward, your head hitting the hardwood floor, though the dull ache that follows immediately seeps into background noise as you practically crawl under your bed. You rifle through the flotsam of the life you once lived: discarded sketchbooks, old boxes, empty bottles—all there. All untouched. Except the one thing that mattered.

But the money you got from your mother? The parting gift she gave you – it’s gone! You try to cry out—but your voice fails you. A stammer weakly slips off your throat. A series of sounds that were neither words nor screams, but something closer to spiritual gagging.

How could this have happened? Who the hell in the Manor would steal from you?

Dick was the last one here, but you saw him leave, or you’re sure you did. Jason hasn’t been in the Manor for months.. during the day at least, you can’t fathom the idea of Damian stooping down to stealing money from you, and you can’t begin to reason why Tim, Cass or Duke would do anything like this. And Bruce.. Well, why the hell would a billionaire steal money from his underage child. You’d hope Batman would have more pride.

You shoot up, your breath ragged, your legs trembling like some emaciated fawn just learning to stand. You reach for the door, hand trembling. Locked. Locked!? The knob jostled in vain, once, twice—then with the ferocity of despair, you threw yourself at it. The wood groaned, but did not yield, you fell backward, spine hitting the floor with a thud that feels biblical and a pathetic yelp that echoes in the room.

You feel an itch form underneath your skin.

“What the–” You feel your breath pick up at an unhealthy pace, “it’s fine, we’re fine, I’m fine… I'm sure I have a key in here, somewhere.”

Except you don’t.

You tore through the room like a madman, dismantling your life drawer by drawer, box by box. Nothing. The walls themselves seemed to leer at you with amusement as you forage for the damned key, pushing past everything that resembles the pathetic child you once were.

Something feels strange in the way your room is laid out, perhaps it’s paranoia or the lingering effects of going back in time but you’re sure something in your room’s changed. Something feels off. Though, you’re too shaken up to analyse any further.

A miserable sound of panic escapes you as you frantically try the door again, locked. Biting your lip your eyes zero in on your window – except that’s fucking locked too. Why would anybody do this? Which clown has decided to take amusement through messing with you? Why can’t you have one good thing happen to you without a catastrophe following? 

Not one good thing has come since you’ve turned back time.

Mockery. That’s what this is, you’re sure. You can picture them  – all sat together in the Batcave as they mock your helplessness. Well screw them! You’ve spent one lifetime too many chasing after idols you’d cultivated in your mind because your mind is all you had, people you’d glorified because you can’t become one of them, family who see no value in you. You won’t let yourself be mocked anymore!

Except, what the hell are you supposed to do?

With gritted teeth you change tactics, springing up and running to your desk, you push through piles of revision from the school you're supposed to be attending at sixteen to the side as you reach for an inconspicuous container full of things you don’t need but shouldn’t waste either, you pull out two bobby pins as though they are a gift from the divine, salvation via desperation. You learnt to pick locks through social media, you saw a video three years ago.. You’ll probably do fine, it’s not like the technique’s changed.

You fiddle with one of the bobby pin until one side of the pin is a straight metal piece, you take off the rubber tip, curve the other end of it into a handle, before taking the other pin and bending it in a right angle – you then place the pin acting as the key on the bottom of the lock, you turn it gently, as the other pin – the pick – slides in to press against the top of the lock to lift each little pin inside, your tongue protrudes slightly, absurdly, as if your entire soul had become focused on this single act of resistance.

Then—a click. A deafening click that makes your shoulders relax.

Triumph surged in your chest like fire, the pride that fills you is so heavy you’re sure it’s been added to your ever growing list of sins.

You brush your hands proudly, open the door and –..

Your father is on the other side, looking grim, like an executioner carrying the final verdict.

“(Name).” That voice—deep, grave, steeped in something you cannot name—slithers down your spine and sinks its teeth in, you suddenly feel like that pathetic child you just condemned moments before. He doesn’t look pleased as he peers down on you. What is this? He’s unhappy with you. Is he going to hit you? “I think we need to sit down.”

You feel numb, it’s almost a routine at this point, the world narrows like the throat of a noose as his words passing through you like wind through a corpse

It’s a routine you’re slowly getting sick of, you take a single, minuscule step toward something resembling a future where you’re free, and like clockwork, the unseen machinery of this place pulls you back — snapping its teeth around your ankle and dragging you into the same suffocating loop. Was this fate? Providence? Or merely cruelty with a well-pressed suit?

Seeing Bruce Wayne sat at your desk, his large frame hunched forward like some weary confessor  – elbows on his knees, hands clasped together – in your room, surrounded by band posters and notes of upcoming exams, it’s surreal, this whole experience is surreal. It’s an almost entertaining juxtaposition, Bruce Wayne, the monolith of Gotham, sat amongst the joy of silly teenage knick-knacks.

“So, (Name), I–” He begins, his voice solemn, almost mournful, the way one speaks of some distant misfortune one cannot be bothered to change, “I thought I told you that if you want to leave the Manor to go out, you need to inform me first, you’re still a child–.”

That’s what this is about? A sudden nausea you're becoming increasingly familiar with climbs your throat as you recount the feeling you felt in that hospital. The memory of that institution's air curls in your mouth — the sterile scent of resignation, the nurse’s pained expression, the way her words had coiled around your heart like barbed wire. 

Had she died before you’d returned in time? Or had your very presence shifted the trajectory of time? But how? What force had you disturbed? Because as it stands, you’ve done nothing out of the ordinary – they’re the ones acting weird... Have you killed her?

“..-- Are you listening to me?” His voice interrupts your thoughts before they can further unravel your mind. “Oh, right. Sorry.” You say halfheartedly, you’ve got deeper problems than whatever crisis this bastard’s going through, his concerns felt small, like gnats buzzing around a carcass.

He sighs deeply through his nose like you’re some burden he bores out of nobility, his fingers massage his temples as he steadies you with a gaze, “(Name), I understand that you’re growing up, but I think you’re getting ahead of yourself. You’re much too young to be going out without informing anyone, and you’re also much too young to be moving out – ..living alone.” The last words are pronounced with a bitterness you don't miss.

You blink, oh, right. That was the original plan, you’d forgotten about it through all the madness that had transpired, that hopeful thought seemed so far away, dimmed by – whatever this mess was.

“Are you deciding this now?” You ask bitterly, the dull ache from when you had hit your head intensifying, simply solidifying the impotence you feel, “You’re a bit too late, Bruce.” You make sure to enunciate her syllable of his name. Screw this guy, acting like a father!

He winces, if only slightly. But he recovers quickly, the way all practiced liars do, “Listen, (Name), I understand we may have had some.. misunderstandings in the past, but I do care for you, I don’t think you’re ready for the responsibility that comes with living alone, I want the best for you.”

For a moment, you’re transported through time once more, standing centre-stage at a school play, countless people in the audience, your classmates besides you, singing some absurd ballad about seasons, the weather, and vegetables. The hot, radiant lights of your school’s stage blinded your eyes as you bit back tears, nobody noticed the way your voice trembled, nor your sniffles that were drowned by the choir of innocent children  – because nobody was looking at (Name), everyone came for their own child – everybody but Bruce Wayne, who Alfred had promised would come.

Among a sea of cheap cameras, murmured coos and the song that spilled from your lips like a memory – only you were alone. That is what you remember, that is what you know.

“Is this what this is all about? I don’t have – I don’t have the time for this, Bruce.” You feel so.. numb. The words he spoke – they would have once filled you with joy, you would’ve fallen to the ground, crying and thanking him as if he’d given you some sort of grace by doing simply what was expected, but those are just the ordinary words a father should say, he shouldn't get praise for doing what he's morally obliged to do, he isn’t allowed to show up and play daddy whenever it benefits him.

“You don’t have time for this, huh?” His voice took on an edge of seriousness, his eyes bore into you in a way that made your hairs stick on end – it was a similar look to that of Dick’s, like you’d said something wrong by wanting freedom, like you’re wrong for stepping out of the mold of the child that yearned for attention. Bruce’s head tilted as though he is thinking deeply, eyes still trained on you, he speaks carefully, “Is there something bothering you? You know you can tell me anything, I am your father, after all.”

“.. Did you know that mama’s killed herself?” You truly didn’t mean to ask that, to be so blunt, you’re honestly scared of how well you’re taking this. Though you also know it’s only a matter of time before your subconscious can’t take anymore, avoidance will do you no good.

Bruce’s expression shifted, his eyes widening almost imperceptibly before he schools it into something akin to pity. Disgusting. “I’m sorry, (Name), I had no idea.. truly, that’s awful.” He reaches forward, perhaps to comfort you but you physically recoil, afraid of those rough hands that have mangled so many criminals, afraid of the memories of your mother getting angry at the mention of him, afraid of the fact that she was indeed correct in every assumption about the man before you.

His outstretched palm hovers in the air awkwardly for a moment before he drops it with a sigh, “..If there’s anything you need, I–”

“I want my money back.” You say firmly, hands clenching until your nails dig into your skin, until you feel a burn crawling up your veins, blood rushing like truth, “Mama left me money, and– I want you to let me leave. I don’t want to stay here anymore.”

The air shifts, and his worried expression hardens for a second, it’s so quick you’d have missed it, if not for the sudden heaviness in the air crushing you down like some invisible force, tightening around your neck until you couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t–

“I understand your grief, (Name), I really do,” Bruce sighs, standing up with a soft grunt before looking down at you like a judge would look at a perpetrator, his judgement final – his voice the gavel that will ensnare you. “But you’re clearly talking out of mourning, let’s not do anything rash yet.” 

He truly takes you in at that moment, his poor child, how sad you must feel. His eyes study each of your features like an artist taking in his greatest piece, the way your brows furrow, the miserable pout on your lips, the sheen in your eyes. As he examines the weight of your sadness, the shape of your anger, the line of your suffering he’s taken back to that rainy day, when you were broken, bloodied – staring at the world with your sad eyes – like you’d already given up on life. 

“We can discuss the matter of your money at a later date, (Name), take some time to rest – if you need anything else.. that isn’t leaving, you need only ask.”

You feel a heavy sense of justice overtake you at his wording, causing you to straighten up with a glare that you're sure doesn't affect him.

“You took the money?”

“I have the money.”

“So who took it?”

He looked away thoughtfully before ruffling your hair, causing a genuine sickness to crawl up your stomach, you swallow down the bile.

“Don’t worry about that, just focus on getting better.”

You watch his back as he walks away, you can’t hear his footsteps, you can’t feel his presence – the moment he leaves your line of sight you feel as though he was never there. And then you get up too – because you’re sure you’re about to throw up

yeah uh, dropping chapter six the very next day, ladies, ladies one at a time

i dropped some alnst references in here teeheehee :3.

I CANT WRITE DIALOGUEEEEE. also like i dont know if i maade it obvious but (name) is a very unreliable narrator. i do NOT CONDONE abuse yall dont hit yo children

taglist; @beyondblissxoxo @jjsmeowthie @vanessa-boo @delias-stuff @d3nnji @wizzerreblogs @lilyalone @strawbrysapphic @regulus-things @iimichie @meepmoopbadabeepboop @eloriis @froggy-voidd @shycreatorreview @wassupbroski55555 @eyeless-kun @anakilusmos @devotedlyshamelessdetective @peehall @bigeyedbambi @chaeugwi ii @lover-girl009 @lostsomewhereinthegarden @bunniotomia @d3ly-p4v @moonstonedust24 @girlithinkimgay @snailpebbles @fandomly-obsessed @kitkatkitmeow @the-holy-pigeon @depressed-bitchy-demon @staarflowerr @imhere2dosomething @prettiest-thing-in-the-morgue @glitchmshade @teabutnerdy @type-ink @goodsoup19 @asianfrustration13 @c4xcocoa @twismare @confusedparticle @nininehaaa @cssammyyarts @bronermalls @whaaaaaaaaat111 @icryat2 @bp-the-chilly @ratterpatter

[milfsloverblog]

Deliver Us From Evil

Part 1 : Gluttony

Lucifer Morningstar x nun!reader

A/N: this has been eating at my brain for weeeeeeks and I just had to write it. Oh to be a nun getting tempted to sin by the one and only Morningstar…This is how I heal from my religious trauma ig. I hope you’ll enjoy this series as much as I do! <3

You remembered the first time you’d seen them as if it had happened yesterday.

“Our Father, who art in Heaven,” You whispered, hands clasped together and head hung low. 

The church still smelled of incense, a reminiscence of the mass that had just been conducted. The prayer bench was uncomfortably hard under your knees and a strand of hair had escaped from your veil. But still, nothing could have taken your attention away from your prayer. 

Click.

Clack.

“Give us this day our daily bread.” You kept whispering to yourself. 

Click.

Clack. 

Heels, a part of your brain thought as you tried your best to focus on your prayer. Not unusual, they were part of many women’s church outfits. Not yours, though. Never yours. 

Click-clack

Click-clack

The sounds were getting closer and closer by the second. Perhaps a worshipper who wanted to speak with you. They would have to wait. Just another minute. 

“And lead us not into temptation,” You continued. 

Click-clack. 

“But deliver us from evil.” 

The noise had suddenly stopped then. 

You lifted your head and brought your hand to your forehead to perform the sign of the cross, opening your eyes to look at the tall crucifix that was hanging from the wall, when you were met by a sight that made you gasp. 

Someone was standing there, towering over your prayer bench. You could hardly see their face as they stood against the light, the same light that illuminated the top of the stranger’s blonde hair and made it look like a halo. 

“Sister,” You heard them call you, their voice low and velvety. You could have sworn their lips hadn’t moved, but then again they were standing against the light.

“Sister!” Another voice came from behind you, a shrilling one that felt like a nail was being pushed against your eardrums and immediately made you turn around. 

“Mother Superior,” You quickly got up from your knees and lowered your head to look at your feet. 

“The afternoon lecture is about to start, you better hurry up if you don’t want to be late again.” The older woman said sternly. 

“Yes, Mother Superior. I apologise, I simply wanted to pray-“ 

The woman cut you off, waving her hand in front of her in dismissal. 

“You weren’t invited to speak back, sister.” 

You took a deep breath and clenched your jaws before giving a nod, only lifting your head when you heard the woman walk away. 

You quickly turned back around to apologise to the stranger but, to your surprise, they were gone. They hadn’t just walked away though, you would surely have heard that, they had simply vanished. 

You saw them again a few days later, standing at the back of the church during the Penitential Act. You had somehow felt their presence, looking over your shoulder to confirm that someone had been looking at you. No one else seemed to notice them, everyone probably too focused on the priest’s speech. You shook your head and looked back down at your feet. When you looked over your shoulder again a minute later, the space where the stranger had been standing was empty. 

And again, days later as you were doing the dishes after dinner. You had been left alone in the kitchen when you noticed the figure standing behind you in the reflection of the saucepan you were cleaning. You gasped loudly and let go of the pan, letting it clatter on the ground as you spun around. 

“Be not afraid,” the figure spoke, extending one of their arms towards you. Their voice was smooth like silk, the kind of voice that would have anyone believe anything it says. 

“How did you get in here? This part of the church is for the convent only.” You didn’t sound as harsh as you wished you had, but again you never really did. 

“Well, I can certainly go if you wish me to but…” the stranger stayed quiet for a few seconds before resuming. “I doubt you will ever be in the presence of an Angel again.” 

You were glad you hadn’t picked up another pan or plate for it would have surely joined the other one on the floor. 

“An Angel,” you whispered and it all suddenly made sense. The appearing and disappearing, the aura they seemed to carry around themselves. 

“Forgive me,” you quickly said as you dropped to your knees and looked down at the tiled floor. 

“You are forgiven.” The Angel spoke, walking closer to you until the tip of their shoes entered your visual field. “You mustn’t tell anyone about this, do you understand?” They spoke again, bending over the pick up the saucepan you had dropped. 

You got back on your feet and took the pan from their hands, giving a nod to acknowledge what they had just told you. You wanted to ask them so many things, why they were here and why they had chosen you but the sound of footsteps quickly approaching stopped you from doing so. The Angel pressed a finger against their mouth as a reminder for you to keep this encounter a secret, disappearing right as the mother superior stepped into the kitchen to berate you about your slowness. 

You didn’t see the angel again for a few days until one peculiar night. You had already said your prayers and were lying in bed reading a book by the candlelight when you felt the change of energy in the room. Slowly, you lowered your book, taking in the tall figure that was standing in the corner at the foot of your bed. 

“Angel,” you whispered as if scared to wake up the whole church. 

They walked around your bed and sat down as you pulled your legs against your chest. 

“I brought you a present,” the Angel's lips spread in a smile as they handed you something wrapped in golden foil. 

“Chocolate?” You asked as your fingers mindlessly wrapped themselves around the treat. 

“Dark, with a subtle hint of sea salt.” They answered, making you salivate at the thought of it.

Slowly, carefully, you opened the foil and licked your lips at the sight of the chocolate bar. 

Watch and pray so that you will not fall into temptation.

“I shouldn’t,” you said. “I can’t. I should keep it and wait, so I can share it with my sisters.” 

“Don’t be foolish, little one.” The angel tutted, shaking their head a little and making their blonde curls bounce. “This is my gift to you, not the whole convent… You wouldn’t refuse an Angel’s gift, would you?” They said, standing up from your bed. 

“No! No, of course not!” You quickly answered, snapping the chocolate bar in two halves to prove your words. You snapped it again to detach a perfect square from the bar, bringing it to your lips and hesitating for a second before placing it inside your mouth. The chocolate tasted bitter and salty as it melted on your tongue, making you swirl it around to properly enjoy the taste. 

“What do you think?” The angel snapped you out of your thoughts, watching with hungry eyes as you swallowed their present. 

“It’s delicious,” you admitted in a whisper, silently thanking the dim light for hiding your blushing cheeks. 

“Have another piece,” the angel suggested, taking a step closer. 

“I really shouldn’t…” 

“Says who?” They smiled, gently taking the bar from your hands and snapping a piece off before holding it in front of your mouth. 

You knew what to do. You had gone through this dozens of times during the Eucharist. Holding the Angel’s gaze, you opened your lips, slightly sticking your tongue out to allow them to place the piece of chocolate on it. 

They watched your eyes fluttering shut as you savoured your first sin, making them smile proudly. With their thumb and index taking hold of your chin, the Angel made you look up at them once more. 

“Swallow.” They ordered, their eyes glistening with vice as you instantly did as you were told. 

“Thank you,” you said after a moment of silence. 

The Angel pushed a soft smile and let go of your chin. 

“I have to go now,” they said, their long fingers smoothing over their white robes. 

“Will you be back?” You couldn’t help yourself but ask. 

“Of course I will, there are so many things I have to teach you.” They smiled again, wider this time with their teeth on display. 

You wrapped the remaining chocolate pieces in the golden foil and hid them inside your bedside table before turning back to the angel, only to find them gone. But the knowledge that they’d be back helped you fall into a peaceful sleep. 

“Gluttony,” Lucifer whispered to themselves as their fingers danced over the open fire of the throne room. 

One down, they thought. Six to go. 

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