#the repentant thief

[rwby-encrusted-blog]

Fuck it. Let's get CRAZY with the alternative Rusted Knights!

Blake: It's the Repentant Thief!

Yang: Hey, thanks for the save back there. It's crazy to see you in the flesh.

The Repetant Thief: Well, I owe you, at least one. *She removes her helmet*

Emerald: I uh ... I've been waiting a LONG Time. I ... You saved me from Salem, so ... I owed it to you, and Oscar, and Ren.

Emerald: It's ... It's almost Funny. Everytime I do something good I get punished.

Emerald: You are real, yeah? I'm- I'm not being punished again? My semblance isn't acting up?

*Group Hug*

Ruby: Yeah we're real!

Weiss: Wait, what did you mean is your semblance acting up again?

Emerald: Well ... Hold still.

Emerald focuses on the middle ground, the figures of RWBY appear in front of them.

Blake: Hello! I'm Blake! How're you holding up Emerald?

Emerald: Not Great!

Yang: Well keep your chin up, and things'll work out in the end!

Ruby: Yep! And if there's anything you need us to do, we'll do out best to help!

Weiss: Indeed! You are our friend and we care very much for you!

Emerald: Thank you! You can go away now!

The False RWBY dissipates.

RWBY: *Shock and unnerved disgust*

Emerald: I'd appreciate it if you didn't judge me, because I've been alone for a very, VERY long time.

[aeshnalacrymosa]

Dismas, the Penitent Thief

I wanted to copy the style of Byzantine icons. I also wanted to draw him nude, but I messed up, so I covered him up.

[superxstarzz]

Heyy uuhh i really like your homestuck aspect combination thing!! And i have some requests!!

I think it would be interesting a:

Mage of doom/ maid of blood

Knight of hope/ seer of time

Page of void/ thief of time

aaa thank u sm!!! here ya go!!! :3

[i-dreamed-i-had-a-son]

“because he never accepts that it's never been about righteousness--it's about repentance.” except javert killing himself IS repentance.

well, it’s like 12 different things, because bro had gone days without sleeping and very little food and water and he already had low self-worth and kept asking the amis to kill him and just assumed he was going to die AND THEN valjean upended his understanding of the world and morality. he was really going through it & there are a lot of overlapping reasons for why he jumps into the seine.

but javert is like Number One Most Responsible guy in the whole story. taking responsibility is his Thing (forever bitter the musical doesn’t include the punish me monsieur le maire scene). how else, in his derailment, could he atone for his conceived misdeeds other than by handing in his resignation to god? in the brick he had already left a note urging his superiors to treat convicts at toulon better, which is another step in his repentance (and another crime the musical commits by not including it). jumping into the seine was another step.

honestly a lot of ppl who like the book think the musical was dead wrong to exclude him from the big heaven group sing, because it COMPLETELY undermines the themes of forgiveness and compassion threaded throughout les mis. like the musical was simply wrong lol.

This is helpful context! I am still finishing the brick, although I have fully read the abridged version, and that detail about the letter wasn't included, so I didn't know that occurred! (And thank you for the message--this is a long response but I'd love to hear more of your thoughts!)

I agree that Javert is certainly deeply distraught and remorseful; like you mentioned, his worldview is literally falling apart, and his actions reflect his mental state. But his death isn't really repentance--in the sense that it's not what God would have wanted. To me it reads like a Judas situation: a desperate realization of a huge mistake, and doing the only thing you think can make it right, namely, ending it all. That's the just punishment for someone so wrong, isn't it?

But true repentance, meaning the repentance that the Lord desires, is about changing your ways, not "paying a price." Had Javert really understood the beauty of Valjean's mercy (an image of Christ's, just as the bishop's undeserved mercy was to Valjean himself), rather than killing himself, he would have lived to also become "an honest man"--in heart. One who could forgive and understand forgiveness, for himself as well as others. One who could recognize that he is not The Law, that he can fall, but that he can also be "brought to the light." One who could accept that men like Valjean, and men like himself, CAN change, and be changed.

It's tragic to me because so much of "Stars," and his character in the book as well as the musical, is about wanting to be righteous, to rise above his birth and the sinfulness he associates it with. It's about wanting to please the Lord by his actions. But in his end, he shows he never understood what God really wanted from him, and that's where my original phrase comes in: not righteousness, but repentance. To live, and face the man you were, knowing it's no longer the man you are. That it's never been about what you've done or can do, but about what's been done for you. That's the Gospel that he could never fully accept.

To use another example you mentioned, that misunderstanding drives why he asks the Mayor (Valjean) to punish him--in his worldview, mercy is unjust, or at the very least, unfair. Evil must be punished; "those who fall like Lucifer fell" receive "the sword." But "as it is written," God "desires mercy, not sacrifice" (Matthew 9:13). God would have wanted Javert to live, and Javert couldn't see that, and that's why it's devastating to me. In his misunderstanding of the heart of God, he misses what would have set him free from the chains of sin he's always been trying to escape.

That's why he's contrasted with Valjean, who (though he carries guilt about his past till the end of his life) is eventually able to face it and confess what he had done to those he loves. He knew there was mercy to be found, if only it was asked for. Javert was too blinded by pride and shame to realize it, and so, while broken, he never was able to truly repent.

For that, you must go on.

[stuckasmain]

Symbolism in Hoodlum priest (1961)

[plaintalkchristianministries]

The Thief On The Cross: The 1st Person Saved.

What We Need to Understand about The Salvation of The Thief on the Cross: The Thief on the Cross was Saved Exactly the Same way as Everyone Else has Ever Been Saved. Adam and Eve, Abraham, Jacob, Issac, Joseph, Moses, The Disciples, The Apostle Paul, The Thief on the Cross they were All Saved the Same way in the Bible. The Thief on the Cross was a Sinner. He Knew that he was a Sinner. He was a…

[notthemayor]

he's such a GANGSTER thenn he Retired

those last THREE were such GREAT fianceés thenn he Widowed

a million jobs TRY Terminating him but he won't stop Resurrecting

[i-just-like-crk]

Let us scream into the void for our batshit insane jester into the void together-

What do you think about Shadow Milk Cookie who once had a lover during his days as a cookie free from corruption, and when that day comes where he wreaks havoc onto Earthbread, his lover stood against him and lives freely during his imprisonment.

To see their fragments in the present, whether it's their name or their achievement as one of the cookies who went against a beast... Or to know how they're known as a cookie who loves a beast until their end.

(can I be 🍡 anon?)

Shadow Milk Cookie does not take your betrayal well.

Not agreeing with his philosophies is one thing, but acting out against him— helping those wretched witches seal him away— he won’t forget it. He stews in his rage, replays the moments of your treachery over and over again. He doesn’t blame you, he blames the witches. Those cowardly, despicable, rotten farces of gods. You are incredibly misguided by them, that’s all it is. You just need a little shove in the right direction, and once he escapes, he’ll happily provide that.

While Shadow Milk Cookie does not think you are at fault, he does believe that your actions warrant some sort of punishment. He pours himself over this during his imprisonment; ways to get back at you, make you suffer a little before he feels you’ve earned his forgiveness. Nothing he thinks of ever feels severe enough, there is nothing you could possibly do to mend his broken heart. (Perhaps if you stay by his side; spend the rest of eternity repenting and groveling, proving your loyalty and remorse, never estranging yourself from him again… maybe then, he’ll consider taking pity on you.)

After he breaks free from imprisonment, he’s all smiles and theatrics. Naturally, it’s a deceptive cover. Beneath his conniving grin is a deep-seated resentment. He tears the silver tree asunder with a manic smile and a burning desire for revenge. There are many things he intends to reclaim:

First of all, the other half of his soul jam.

He’ll run circles around that false little hero— as he finds that Pure Vanilla is surprisingly susceptible to corruption. It’s an excellent warm-up after laying dormant for so long, and Shadow Milk Cookie intends on enjoying every second of that thief’s descent into madness.

Then, once that’s out of the way, he’ll come for his silly, misguided, deceitful little lover next.

[irenadel]

And if the devil... 1/10

Making a banner for this finally for the grand finale coming soon. Excuse to rb. Credit for the Aemond screencap goes to the wonderful Liv @barbieaemond Eventual smut, Aemond Targaryen x Maid!Reader

Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10

“And if the devil was to ever see you, he’d kiss your eyes and repent.”

- Farouk Gouida

He’d had nothing but contempt for you the first time he’d seen you: a too tall, mannish girl mopping up baby vomit for Helaena with less tact and grace than a stable boy. He had seen the blotchy red and white of your hands and face and had thought you one of Aegon’s cruel jests for a sister-wife he did not deserve: a freakish chambermaid for a mad princess.

And far too familiar with a lady who was in every way your better.

He told himself it was not jealousy that burnt in the pit of his stomach, brighter and wilder than Vhagar’s fire. No. It was distaste and a healthy amount of distrust, he’d felt when he’d come to visit Helaena and found you rocking her gently in your arms. You’d been in drab servant red, hair escaping your work bonnet, so strangely pale that it had made Aemond squint in immediate suspicion. Whatever it was, you were no noble companion or even one of the prettier handmaidens, just a scullery girl, dress still stained from floor scrubbing, holding a Targaryen princess and gently brushing her hair out of the way.

He’d had to control the urge to snatch her from your arms and snarl at you to leave if you wanted to keep your head… It would not have been becoming. Helaena would no doubt have found it distressing. But most of all, he feared what he would do to you the moment he’d had your pale, sickly hand in his grip. Because you had robbed him of a thing which he had not known belonged to him. His right to his sister’s pain, always so far and yet so close, because he feared the things he could say if his affection were ever to escape him. And here you were, like a thief in the night, snatching his chance before he’d even known it existed.

You’d had the common sense to leave quickly with your bucket of slops, and your eyes fixed determinedly on the floor. As if you’d known your transgression.

Helaena was not half as wise as you. Her tears had been all but gone, not there for a brother to wipe away or avenge. No forthcoming confession about Aegon that he could use as an excuse to stalk his brother’s steps and pick a fight. Just her tongue loosened by the joy of Aemond’s sudden gentleness, brought on by unwarranted competition.

You’d been recently assigned to her quarters, she’d told him and you were very good at putting the children to sleep. You weren’t squeamish like the ladies of the court, would look at Helaena’s insects without problem and think nothing of her muttering under her breath, however strange her words might be. When the children were quiet, when Helaena herself hadn’t known what else to say, you had talked to her about the great locusts of the plains of Essos, told her stories of swarms of them, climbing atop the little babes, eating the grass so thoroughly no horse or cattle could survive on what was left.

But more so, you were kind and strong and willing to put the princess to bed when her head hurt so bad she could barely think. You stayed up with her when her dreams were more a punishment than reprieve from her reality, asleep in her bed besides her or waking up for her to tend to the babies. Not a wet nurse, but you had a good head on your shoulders for fussing and crying. She had come to depend on you really. 

He had not liked it at all.

He’d blamed himself for being too engrossed in weapons training and Vhagar to have noticed your creeping, insidious influence on his sister. He’d questioned his mother and had found only her relief that at least Aegon left you alone, probably less out of kindness than out of distaste. You may have been coarse and rude and perhaps unfit to deal with anything but the lower floors of a castle, but the queen had had enough problems to deal with and at least you had a strong back and a mean glare that kept even princes away.

Not Aemond though.

He’d kept his good eye on you, and a new man-at-arms he trusted always at his sister’s side. Had even thought to corner you and put the fear of the gods in you lest you had thought Helaena alone and vulnerable. Had not even considered replacing your presence with his own, uneasy with how much the prospect thrilled him. 

You’d looked up only once: a lightning quick glare for the One-Eyed Prince before the subservient mask was firmly back in place. And Aemond had been struck strangely silent by your odd red eyes and let you scurry away. Your coarse yellow hair had been escaping its thin bonnet and he’d known immediately.

Not Valyrian blood, not a misplaced bastard, not some political trick as he had suspected…

Albino.

Oh but Helaena did have quite a fondness for broken, repellent things.

He’d been less wary then, but no less watchful. He’d stopped to stare when he saw you carrying the princess’s tray or even one of her children up and down a corridor, infallible technique for getting them to sleep at last. He’d haunted his sister’s rooms, lurking in doorways, listening in to your accent (not Flea Bottom, but not court either, no one had taught you how to speak to your betters or even how to speak well at all, it seemed…) as you told Princess Helaena about having eleven cousins and wrestling them all into bed, about taking in laundry because you couldn’t take in sewing, about a crotchety old uncle who had broken his hip out at sea and needed minding now. An uncle who resented the minding and the niece and wife that kept him and his children fed. An uncle who sounded to Aemond’s hungry, savage loneliness a lot like a father and a king.

He does not hear the other talk, even if allowed to be present for it he would not consider it. He would have dismissed it as women talk, gossip, having seldom let himself dwell on kindness instead of grievance, succor instead of retaliation. He does not hear a beloved sister tell you to stay one step ahead of the dragon, as far away as you can manage, because dragons bring nothing but fire even if they love you, warm enough until it becomes death. She should know.

It does nothing to keep Aemond from following behind you. When you took the children and their mother down to the kitchens for hot milk with honey. When any of them were achy or colicky or cranky and you would put a shawl over them, babies or mother. When you insisted the princess and her children could do with a stroll and some sun, and Aemond found his heart aching with hideous envy because he could hear his sister laughing at your snappish kitchen talk, speaking softly and intimately to you, as hungry to give the attention as to receive it. (Even as his sorry, wicked heart screams out, it was mine, all this was meant for me, how dare you, how dare you take what I didn’t know I needed!) When you sang Helaena’s babies or Helaena herself to sleep and Aemond found he had to cover his  ears against your strange, foreign crooning, that didn’t sound like King’s Landing but sounded treacherously like home. He’d had to flee to the training grounds and take out this all-consuming anger on something, drown out your husky, kind voice with the din of his sword against a shield. Hitting the wood over and over again until he tore it to splinters and Ser Criston had to hold him into stillness, knowing there was no comforting a dragon without getting burned.

“My prince.”

You would say when you fled a staircase he cornered you into.

“My prince.”

When you’d courtesy, clumsily, still too sour-faced and suspicious to do it gracefully, when he managed to catch you on your way out of Helaena’s room.

“My prince.”

The day he had decided that yes, your prince, was exactly what he’d be to you, what you’d say to him, in whatever way he’d manage to tear it from your throat, in spite of Aegon’s taunting and the visceral fear at his own woeful lack of knowledge in matters of the flesh.

Because he had decided if you had no problem taking from him, he would have no problem taking from you.

Because you’d said it to him on your way out of the washing court, bonnet gone and coarse yellow hair sticking out of your pinned braid like a frightful halo, a bright purple bruise already forming on your cheekbone, as you’d glared directly at him, challenge in your head held high, and the water splashed all across your linen apron, sticking to your skin so closely that Aemond should have had you right then and there.

Because you’d said it with a curt nod, like Ser Criston when he approved of a particularly good move Aemond had just learned in the training yard, like a general to a soldier, “My prince.”

Because he’d just seen you swing a chamber pot directly into a stable boy’s face after hearing him call Princess Helaena “daft,” bringing it swinging back to the other side of his face, contents and all, just to take a step back to bring a fist into the stable boy’s friend. Aemond had been too transfixed by the sight of your heaving chest and the splotchy red of your cheeks to intervene after you’d taken a half-hearted punch to the face, returned it in kind and thrown the now empty chamber pot at the whimpering serving boys at your feet.

“And clean up your bloody mess!” You’d said before washing your hands in the fountain and strolling out of the courtyard, about as triumphant and vicious as Prince Aemond himself had ever felt when defeating knight after knight, telling himself he was better, stronger, a more fit ruler than any of them would ever be.

“My prince,” you’d said with your curt, martial nod, with your ruby-red eyes and the split knuckles of your hand, wounds taken in the defense of Aemond’s sister, wounds that should have by right belonged to him.

He’d taken your wrist in his hand, grip monstrously strong, and watched you realize the mistake you had made in the proud tilt of your head. You had forgotten for a second that pride wasn’t for your class of people, less so when confronted by a prince of the realm. He’d watched you realize your danger and how you didn’t care, that if there was a price to pay for pride you might as well pay it… and had realized himself that he didn’t care much either. Because Aemond had decided in that moment that he liked the defiance and stubborn anger in your ruby-red gaze, just as much as he had liked the ringing din of the chamber pot breaking something in that stable boy’s face. The prince had smiled at you then, his hunting cat smile, the one men all over the Seven Kingdoms would learn to fear, as he let you pass. Your prince, you would call him again, he decided as he let you go. Your prince, he would hear you call him, on your knees, on your back and beneath him, anyway he could get you. Because he wanted it. Because he had known himself to be spoiling for a fight and would be spoiling for a fight his whole life, the moment he had gone looking for Vhagar, the largest living dragon in the world, and won her. As he would win you. On your knees, your back or beneath him, as you called him your prince, because you wanted to, not ripped out of you by fear and hope for profit but because you wanted him. He would teach you that. That there were none like him, Targaryen or otherwise. That he was your prince and more than. He would teach you this, just as he had begun to teach the world.

[lionofthegoldsun]

False prophets and false apostles need to step off the stage, shut their mouths and repent. They’re doing more harm than good.

.

.

They must be silenced, because they are turning whole families away from the truth by their false teaching. And they do it only for money.

-Titus 1:11

These people always cause trouble. Their minds are corrupt, and they have turned their backs on the truth. To them, a show of godliness is just a way to become wealthy.

1 Timothy 6:5

Having the appearance of godliness, but denying its power. Avoid such people.

-2 Timothy 3:5

“Beware of false prophets who come disguised as harmless sheep but are really vicious wolves.

-Matthew 7:15

The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy; I have come that they may have life, and have it to the full.

-John 10:10

[portraitsofsaints]

St. Dismas

Feast day: March 25

Patronage: repentant thieves, prisoners, undertakers

Saint Dismas was the good thief crucified with Jesus on Calvary. This is what St. Luke writes about him: 39 And one of those robbers who was hanged blasphemed him, saying: If thou be Christ, save thyself and us. 40 But the other answering, rebuked him, saying: Neither dost thou fear God, seeing; thou art under the same condemnation? 41 And we indeed justly: for we receive the due reward of our deeds. But this man hath done no evil. 42 And he said to Jesus: Lord, remember me when thou shalt come into thy kingdom. 43 And Jesus said to him: Amen I say to thee: This day thou shalt be with me in paradise. Luke 23:39-43

Prints, plaques & holy cards available for purchase here: (website)

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

Rollo-shi?! Since when did you get here? N-No, I’m not reading any suspicious material!! Leave my manga alone, nooo don’t take it!

This interaction made me think about how MAD Rollo would be if he learned about how many doujins there are of him (many of which ship him with Malleus) 😂 Man would have an aneurysm…

Like Fire, Hellfire.

An otaku’s distressed wails carried down the hallways, but ultimately fell upon deaf ears. Hear no evil, see no evil. Grimacing, Rollo calmly held Idia’s manga out of reach.

“Idia-kun,” he said sternly, the name like poison on his thin lips, “you’ve at last decided to show your face in the classroom, and you bring in unsolicited materials on your person? It was already highly inappropriate enough for any student, let alone a dorm leader, to be absent from their professor's lectures—”

“It’s an exam day,” Idia lamented. “It's in-person only, I had no choice to opt out…”

“—but this crosses a line. Only notebooks and textbooks are permitted in a school environment,” Rollo continued. He waved around the volume in his grasp. “I’ll be confiscating this. You may collect it once you’ve properly reflected on your actions and repented for them.”

Idia’s jaw dropped. “I-I bought that with my own money. You can't just take what's not yours!! What are you, a Thief using his Steal skill on a helpless background NPC?!"

Rollo shuddered at the single word: thief.

Him? A villain, simply for enforcing what was right? What was just?

The stone walls Rollo had built up around his heart trembled, threatening to give way to a great inferno of rage.

Have patience, Rollo instructed himself. He took a slow cooling, calming breath. Do not let a single miscreant rile you up. You are stronger than that.

Still, he frowned at Idia. “You have some nerve accusing me of common thievery. Is it not common sense to punish those who violate the laws of the land?”

But Idia paid no attention to his scolding. Instead, his eyes, fixated on his kidnapped manga, bulged grotesquely. Rollo's grip on it had tightened, his neatly trimmed nails biting into the volume.

"Y-You're going to ruin the cover art!!" Idia hissed through his teeth, features twisting in visible agony. "You're trampling all over the mangaka's blood, sweat, and tears!!"

Rollo's face remained neutral, but gaze held a sick sort of satisfaction. There was a thrill to witnessing a worm writhe on a hook. Well deserved, he added.

"If you take issue with it, you may plead your case to Mozus-sensei. and beg for his forgiveness."

"Wh-What?!" Idia's stomach dropped, and his chalky complexion somehow paled even more. His next words came out as a squeak. "Y-You're not... You're not going to hold onto my manga yourself?"

"Of course not!" Rollo scoffed. "I have no interest in maintaining your belongings. What's more, if I did keep your book in my possession, you would only approach me again in the future—and the fewer direct interactions we have, the better."

"Y-You can't hand it to Trein-sensei!!" Idia insisted. His voice, typically no louder than a meek murmur, had turned into a frantic, shaky shout.

Mob students were starting to stare. Embarrassed, Idia receded further into his hoodie.

"Oh?" Rollo quirked a brow. An evil smirk slowly spread onto his mouth, relishing in the delicious taste of triumph. “You seem to be rather distraught over the prospect. Could it be that you’ve recognized the true weight of your sin? Perhaps you’re more clever than I initially took you for.”

To this, Idia snorted. “Yeah, right. Like anyone’d listen to your delusional chuunibyou ravings and actually agree with them.”

“Hmph, unfortunate. Then you must be concerned for some other reason.”

Rollo’s eyes narrowed, considering Idia’s initial exaggerated reaction. The unprompted claim that he wasn’t reading any “suspicious material”…

A light went off in Rollo’s head. It was accompanied by a flood of nauseating revulsion. He fumbled for his handkerchief and pressed it to his nose, glaring accusatorially at Idia.

“… Could it be that this book contains salacious content you don’t wish for an instructor to witness?”

His flaming hair colored, pink fading into blue at the tips. It was all Rollo needed to see to ascertain Idia’s guilt.

He crushed his handkerchief and lowered it, revealing a jaw set firmly with disapproval. “I should have expected nothing less from someone of your dubious character! Have you no shame?!”

“Y-You’d never understand the ways of an otaku…!!” Idia snapped. He lurched toward Rollo, making a desperate grab for his manga. “N-Now give it back!”

“I think NOT!! This flagrant moral transgression needs to be reported to the highest authority possible!”

Rollo made to quickly step away. The shift caused Idia to stumble and miss the manga. His arms flailed, seeking something to latch onto—and caught around Rollo’s waist.

With Idia’s weight suddenly crashing into him, Rollo stumbled forward, the book liberated from his hands. Horror etched itself onto Idia’s face. Everything seemed to move in slow motion: the book launching in an arc, skidding across the floor… and flopping open to reveal a detailed spread.

“What in the world…?!”

Upon the pages were two unfamiliar characters, fingers carefully intertwined and palms pressed against one another. One character was dressed in humble priestly robes, a demure blush to their cheeks. The other sported a face studded with scales, a proud pair of horns protruding from their head. Large, leathery wings cradled the duo under the moon and the stars, a tail coiling protectively against the priest.

They gazed longingly at their partner through long, thick lashes and sparkling eyes. A text bubble between them proclaimed a declaration with all the power to move the celestial bodies above: "I love you."

Rollo had never wanted to retch more in his entire life than at that very moment. Clutching his handkerchief to his mouth, he gagged into the fabric. Heart pounding deliriously in his chest, his knees weak.

Idia scrambled on all fours to collect his manga. With a shifty glance at Rollo, he slammed the book shut and crammed it inside of his jacket.

"You absolute degenerate," Rollo roared. It was taking every ounce of his willpower to not whack Idia on the head with his staff.

"Th-This is why I didn't want anyone to see!! I-It's about a wholesome but forbidden romance between a dragon and a priest from a religious sect that's hellbent on hunting them to extinction... N-Not everyone can appreciate a good story like this!! Only cultured men like me can see its real value...!!"

“STOP!! I’ve heard enough,” Rollo spat venomously, “I won’t hear another word of this blasphemous material, nor your enthusiasm for it!! It's clear to see that you're the sort of depraved man who finds excitement in unprotected hand holding before marriage! Not only that, but to call for the union of mortal enemies...!"

"E-Eh?! Wh-What's wrong with hand holding and enemies to lovers dynamics?!" Idia jumped onto the defensive. "You’ve got a bone to pick with my OTP or something?"

"It's utterly repulsive!!"

His words loudly resounded in the lecture hall, drawing the attention of the other students. Mob students made faces, whispered amongst themselves.

“What’s with him? He’s losing his mind over something small.”

“New guy seems pretty high-strung.”

“Ehh, Idia-senpai has been too though.”

Rollo gasped, realizing his mistake. How his temper had slipped its leash and flared into a maelstrom. Shame seeped into him.

I’ve gone and allowed an evildoer to get the best of me.

He hastily turned away from Idia.

“… I will pray for you,” Rollo said quietly yet darkly.

With that, he stormed out of the classroom. Still fuming as he retreated, Rollo pushed past the students swarming in his path. He paid no mind to their ugly, confrontational calls, too caught up in his own racing thoughts.

The skin on skin contact. The fiery passion radiating off the pages. Love, understanding, acceptance. All of it, unpleasant and offensive.

Content happily consumed by that feckless fool.

“May God have mercy on him,” Rollo muttered scornfully. Because I certainly don’t.

[leahnardo-da-veggie]

Put Up a Sign

I crave. I want. I hunger. My days and nights are filled with the thought of consumption. My empty heart simply needs to take and take and take, like a greedy thief. It is not enough that I feed it affection and attention and accomplishment. It must have more. It must have adoration, idolisation, absolute dominion over all others.

Simply being better than most is worthless. Simply being one of the chosen few is worth mockery. I must crawl up to the top amidst a mountain of the corpses of my rivals. And with each time their bones crunch underfoot, the hunger only grows.

It is not enough to be known, liked, 'popular'. Nor is it sufficient to be infamous, beloved, renowned. I must have armies prostate themselves before me, statues erected in glorious worship, my name scattered across the 7 winds. But the gales merely chill me to the bone, the statues just crumble to dust with time, and the armies go into my maw to feed my empty heart.

And what of power? Can I be satisfied with my little band of merry women and men, my precious clan tucked away in the depths of the forest? Of course not. Would an empire sooth the gurgling cries of a bottomless hunger? Could the world itself fill me up, or would it be but a speck in the endless pit of want?

They say Alexander wept, for he had no more worlds to conquer. I fear I am Alexander incarnate, thirsting after eternal war and an endless reign. I just with to be satisfied, satiated, sated; why must I be born with an empty heart, meant to take and take and take?

Were I a better man, I would carve that offending organ out and let myself wither away. Were I a worse one, I would gorge myself on power, and learn once and for all just how much I can consume. But I am me, and I sit upon a throne of my enemies' corpses, reigning over a little empire, nursing my hunger with little tidbits all the while.

I do not feel repentant. It is not in my nature, after all. Nonetheless, as my people give their harvests, their gold, their lives for me, I cannot help but feel a twinge of guilt.

Perhaps I shall put up a sign: "Please do not feed my empty heart. It will only want more."

This was a silly little writing exercise I did for funsies, but I loved how it turned out so y'all get to see it too!

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[siriusleee]

rebehold the stars

a/n: i spent hours in the bathtub trying to picture this in my head. anyway, thank you to everyone who commented. you guys are great. pairing: ghost x medic!reader (hazy) tags: semi-romantic, religious symbolism and imagery, dying, gunshot wound, blood, lots of cursing, lots of switching between character pov, obvious ptsd

2.4k words part one Thence we came forth to rebehold the stars. - Dante Alighieri, Inferno

Rifle between your shoulder blades, you hit the deck; an alchemist sentenced to the tenth bolgia. A mystic who made false promises to keep a man alive when he's bleeding out before you. 

Men. Not man.

"Wha' the fuck are ya?"

Blood seeps in between the fabric of your shirt - Achilleus in the dirt descending to the second circle. It takes a few moments before you realize the guy screaming at you isn't speaking another language - he's just Scottish.

Scottish.

Not American.

His rifle digs into your shoulder painfully. 

"Soap!"

A second pair of boots enters your vision, you keep your eyes trained on the doorway. The ambulance scream grows fainter in the distance. They're arguing above you, but you're too busy thinking about the rifle cutting into your back to care. 

Zip ties around your wrist and you're hauled to your feet. The neighbors stare through the blinds, unwavering as they watch you get shoved into the back of a black SUV. The man who shoved the rifle in your back takes a shotgun. The youngest who listened to you about the towel takes the seat to your left. 

They don't put a bag over your face as you speed away. 

Fuck.

***

This must be his punishment for his sins - the screaming and blinding lights. Whatever is above him - they aren't angels. His mom used to say that those who repent go to paradise. I have not come to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance. The verse comes back so clearly to him now - Sundays in the pew, hours spent away from home. Baseless hope that things would change. Would get better. Will get better.

Hands tear him apart; his atoms smashing together. A nuclear reaction waiting to implode. A stifled scream around the torture in his throat. 

There are no halos above him now.

Hazy. Her name was Hazy.

***

They leave you in a cold room to let the blood set sticky on you. It takes hours, but a woman walks in - a crisp white shirt mocking you across the table. She slides a file across the table at you - you don't need to look at it to know it's yours. Your name rolls off her tongue, nearly foreign in her clipped speech.

"Call sign Hazy. You did two tours as an Air Force Combat Pararescue member. One of them with the SEALs in a classified mission in the Middle East. Then you quit."

"I did."

"What did you do after that?"

"ER nurse."

"Not anymore?"

No.

No. You couldn't keep doing the death and destruction. Breathing wounds on a Tuesday night. Bodies smashed against the asphalt. Grown men begging for their moms. God's divine punishment on his will-less puppets for a long-forgotten transgression.

"How did you manage to get one of my operates on your table?"

"Kismet."

Maybe God smiles down sometimes.

***

Simon floats between here and there. 

Angels in white veils, bloodstained hands lifting him from the ground to smash him back down moments later. His father stumbling into the kitchen, the ground yawning beneath him to swallow him. His mom shaking hands with the preacher, the same hands that refuse to defend themselves later. 

Johnny in Mexico, Gaz hanging from a helicopter. Price reaching out to pull Laswell up. Angels reaching down to sift through them - divine judgment.  

Our hands get dirty.

Words break through - voices he recognizes cutting through the veil.

-not a coma.

Johnny telling Simon's jokes to someone.

Always a fucking joke thief. 

Warm hands poking and prodding him. Cold air on the tip of his nose. 

The outline of an angel above him - golden halo shining when she reaches down to pull him close to her; away from the hell he's been swimming in.

Hazy.

***

"Why'd they call you Hazy?

"Maybe you should ask my former CO."

"We did. He gave a glowing recommendation. Said you never failed to give it your all to save a man."

Your all.

Tell that to the boys you left behind to rot. To the blood drying on the grout in your kitchen. You're sure they would have something else to say.

Her name's Laswell - CIA. The CIA never did you any favors before, but you ask for one now.

"Can I take a shower?"

She lets you. They're holding you in a hotel, no doubt blacked out on any internet searches, and really just a cover for the government to hide people whenever they want. But the water runs warm and red as you sit on the floor to wash your hair. You're escorted there by Gaz - the man who handed you a towel for Ghost. The only one who doesn't eye you in distrust. 

You know he's stationed outside the door in case you do anything stupid. They don't trust you - in their eyes, you're an enemy who lured Ghost into your house to torture him for information. 

A Judas Iscariot ready to be flung into the maw of Satan. 

You wonder what hospital they took Ghost to. 

***

Johnny's voice - a thousand Hail Marys. 

Ave maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum.

The words sound ridiculous in Johnny's accent. Simon tries to make a note to tell him so. 

Simon's angel doesn't leave his dreams. She holds his hand, skin so soft against his calloused ones he feels like he'll break her if he holds too hard. She brushes his hair away from his forehead, fingers lingering on the scars left behind. Simon tries to speak to her, but she doesn't speak back - just rests her hands at the base of his neck. A tenderness he hasn't felt in years. 

"Why are you here?" 

He begs for an answer that doesn't come.

Wake up.

He's dragged away from her.

***

His buddy, Soap, apologizes at the hospital.

"I didnae know you were a soldier."

Not a soldier. But you don't correct him.

He takes you to see Ghost. Locked ward, two guards outside the door. A quick pat down across the clothes that aren't yours - a pair of shoes that are slightly too big.

His skull mask has been switched out for a plain surgical mask. It makes him look smaller, somehow.

"He hasn't woken up for the past three days," Soap says, trying to hide the rosaries in his pocket. 

"His body is trying to heal - his brain is slowing down metabolic function to prioritize healing." The words roll so smoothly from your tongue - the same words you used to tell families when their babies and husbands and daughters wouldn't wake up. 

They were lies 90% of the time.

Maybe this is the 10%.

His hair is still crusted with blood. You have the nurse bring you rags and a basin. Under Soap's watchful eyes, you wash Ghost's hair, his hands, his feet free of the blood crusted there. 

They let you go home to scrub the blood off of the floors and table, staining your knees and fingers red. You pretend not to notice Ghost's captain following you at a distance - pretend not to notice him standing across the street when you empty the mop water beside your steps. You do your best to puzzle-piece your door back together until you can get a new one. 

Your phone lights up: a text from your old captain - asking why the CIA was blowing his phone up. You leave him on read. 

When you sleep that night, you dream of the way Ghost grabbed your wrist.

***

His angel brings him back from the nightmares. Above them the heavens yawn - a thousand constellations. They lay on the backs in the wet grass and Ghost describes each one of them to her - how to use them to get home when you're in trouble. 

He doesn't let go of her hand. 

"Are you here to save me?" He asks, but she doesn't answer.  "Do I deserve it?"

Fingers intertwined. A gentle squeeze. She glows brighter when he says her name. 

"Please speak."

She traces the scars on his face and leaves him in silence.

***

Ghost's hands are rough beneath yours. Your mother taught you a prayer to use when you were little, but you can't get the words out of your mouth.

"Why's he so important to you?" Soap asks from across the room, refusing to make eye contact with you. 

"I spent a long time stitching men back together; I want to see one make it through."

Soap fingers the beads on his rosary. 

Pater Noster, qui es in caelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum.

You trace the scars on Ghost's fingers - a prayer in flesh. You only speak to God when have something to ask.

He rarely answers. 

***

His angel waits for him - he sees her in the distance, golden-arrayed. She smiles at him - halo glowing brighter. She looks so happy to see him- there's a knife in his side. 

Wake up, Ghost.

She diminishes on the horizon. A phantom in the sunset. 

Come back.

Please Ghost.

A step away from him. A cracked link.

Come back.

Come back.

"Co-"

***

The hospital room explodes into bedlam. A doctor slams into you, pushing you out of the way. You let yourself fall into the wall; across the room, Soap stands bewildered, fingers running through his mohawk - hair standing on end. 

Ghost fights them, reaching across to yank the IVs out of his arm. You watch the blood pour from his hands - stigmata in reverse. Across the room, Soap tries to take a step towards the chaos - you stop him with a small shake of your head. 

Sancte Michael Archangele, defende nos in proelio.

***

He's lost - fighting against the hands that attempt to hold him down. It's hell around him, fingers wrapped around his arms and legs trying to force him down. He wraps his hands around the IV in his arm - barely aware that they're there to help him. His veins burn. 

He's forced to the bed - the voices above him a dissonance that means nothing to him. His heart is slamming into his chest, fingers digging into the mattress when he sees her. 

Hazy.

His angel in the corner of the room. 

Simon is pinned to the bed with the weight of her eyes. 

He must still be dead. 

In his moment of weakness, he's is slammed back into the bed.

***

You watch as the nurses pin Ghost down to the bed, the doctor trying to break through to him. Soap pushes through them and grabs Ghost by the shoulder; Ghost jerks, and then looks at Soap. His eyes soften just slightly and his whole body relaxes beneath Soap's hand. 

You duck out of the room - heart slamming against the inside of your chest. 

You can't breath; fuck, he's alright. 

Fuck. 

You press the heels of your palms into your eyes, trying to stem the pictures flashing through your mind: screaming and sand; Ghost's blood dripping from your fingertips; covering bodies with your own to block them from shrapnel; the sound of Black Hawks overhead; Ghost looking up at you, bleeding out on your kitchen table. 

Fuck. 

Fuck. 

***

Johnny is talking faster than Simon can understand. The pain in his side nearly pulls him back under - he doesn't struggle when they put the IV back in. 

He cuts off Johnny mid sentence. 

"Hazy -"

Johnny looks at him confused, eyes flashing to the door. 

"She's outside; L.T. what happened the other night?

Simon tries to push himself up - he needs to track her down. To feel that she's real; to hear her speak again. The sight of her standing over him, golden halo'd won't leave his mind. His hands ache for the feeling of hers. 

"Johnny move."

"L.T. - you're fucking delusional. What happened to you?"

Simon grips the blanket with white knuckles, and thinks about the way Hazy traced the scars. He was dead. 

He was dead. 

***

You hear Soap and Ghost speaking in the room; you're gripping your shirt and pressing it into your face - trying to pull yourself back to the present. 

You saved him.

You saved him.

You're shaking when Soap approaches you, sliding down to the floor beside you.

"He says," his voice cracks, "he says that you're his angel. Keeps asking if you're real."

An angel.

Fuck.

You laugh, small and derisive. 

"I think I might be the opposite of an angel."

Your voice is muffled by your shirt. You feel so fucking stupid for breaking down from the sight of Ghost - nobody but a stranger. 

"I think you need to go see him."

***

Johnny leads her in, hand on her elbow. A flash of anger. 

Take your fucking hands off of her. 

Like he can read his mind, Johnny drops her elbow and turns around - letting the door to the room shut behind him. She stands at the doorway, hands held behind her back. She doesn't look at him - doesn't speak.

His stomach flips - his angel won't look at him. 

"Are you real?"

The corner of her mouth lifts. 

"Are you?"

He wants to beg her to come closer, to touch him, to trace the scars on his face. He wants to rip his mask off so that she can see him. But he keeps his hands pressed to the mattress. 

"Why did you save me?"

She smooths an invisible wrinkle in her jeans. 

"Just my instinct I guess."

"I thought you were an angel."

She crosses the room - slowly at first, but faster until she sits down in the chair Johnny had been in. She keeps her hands folded in her lap and her gaze pointed down. 

"I probably made a shitty angel didn't I?"

"Hazy."

She looks up at the sound of her name. Ghost leans back; eyes screwed up against the fluorescent light. 

"That's not your real name is it?" Ghost asks. Tell me your real one. Please.

"Is Ghost yours?"

"Not even close."

***

You leave him in the hospital - a quick good-bye and a promise that you'll come back to see him. 

You don't go back. 

You dream about Ghost every night; waking up gripping the sheets with the taste of blood in your mouth. The second coming of grief when you find his blood on the underside of your kitchen table.

***

Simon thinks he's stupid - she didn't come see him for a reason. She doesn't want to see him. It's been a year - she's probably forgotten him by now.

Fuck.

His feet carry him up the steps and he knocks before he can stop himself. 

Simon Riley doesn't believe in angels. 

But his opens the door.

***

tag list: @random-thot-generator, @stillinracooncity,

[apenitentialprayer]

Okay, one of the things I find very fascinating about Fulton Sheen is his subversive, purposely scandalous rhetoric.

Christ is a tempter and seducer who lures us towards Him with the promise of unbelievable love.

The Repentant Thief Dismas died repentant, but not of his thievery; after all, "may we not say that the thief died a thief, for he stole Paradise?"

Christ is the Prodigal Son, having gone out into the World and spent His Inheritance on the things of the world (i.e., us)