priest: i don't, ah, quite know what to say to you. if you are in such terrible danger, why are you taking it all so calmly? constantine: hmh! i dunno, father. i had a bloke beaten to a pulp earlier this evening. that sound calm to you? priest: you did what...? constantine: i must've been off me bleedin' rocker. i've never done anything like it before in me life, y'know?

constantine: but there's header gets his guts blown out, and george is stickin' his head in the noose, and helen gets ... jesus, then friggin' sarah bites me head off — ! everything's coming to bits in me hands and it's so easy to just see red and now, shit, they could've killed the tosser for all i know! and now i'm just like the bastards i've hated all me life! kill him! fire him! close them down! piss all over him! screw you, i can do whatever i want! i so much as blink and you're dead, pal! i'm in charge!! ...

constantine: 'scuse me, father. i'm always like this when i don't get me own way. — hellblazer #81, "rake at the gates of hell pt. 4"

babygirl you are just....so, sooooo offputting. (and grieving, and guilty, and terrified, but yeah: offputting.)

anyway, it's issues like this one that remind me why i kind of hesitate over some of the retcons in the recent spurrier runs, like the one with him now having opened dream's pouch of sand and stolen some before they even met. because like, it's easy enough to look at john constantine now — with 70 years of worst possible choices and unresolved trauma crystallizing underneath his skin to cover up all the soft, hopeful bits where he's used to getting hit — and assign him arbiter of ill intentions, magus of wasted potential, saint of shit choices, but man . . . he was new to this, once. he was still new to this 80 issues in.

80 issues in, and he's not used to losing friends yet; he even has time enough between catastrophes to grieve each individual one. still has enough left to live for at this stage to necessitate running and hiding, instead of bodily throwing himself at the problem like he learns to later, or sitting apathetically by to do nothing except smoke and watch the world fall apart when he finally gives up. fuck, he still apologizes.

and you're telling me this guy, this soppy wet cat motherfucker hiding from the devil in a church basement, so guilty over not knowing what happened to the guy that he paid people (paid chas, so chas could pay people) to attack that the bottle he's holding in this scene isn't even his second or third........this guy's past, more innocent self lied right to the face of DREAM OF THE ENDLESS and got away with it?

hm. i just don't know about all that.

Metkayina Na'vi San'tos (@badtrigger) & RDA Brianne (@prvtocol) stop at a Sacred Tree / art also belongs to @badtrigger

edits of jyn 8/?

                                   CURRENT PARTY:

Featuring: @diademreigned and @crystalmarred

spontaneously thrown together drg glam based on radz

a small clarification regarding the movie : as of right now, i'm treating it as a separate continuity to the games— what's MOST LIKELY to happen is that i'll end up taking inspiration where i see fit and applying it to my version of michael, as well as maybe having a separate verse for that continuity if i end up wanting to ( i am also aware that he could just end up being mike schmidt and separate from the aftons, in that case i'll probably still pull inspiration, we'll see idk! )

however, i'll still be reblogging gifs & posts from the movie and tagging them as visage/musings

tim hunter: are you sure you're one of the good guys? constantine: there aren't any good guys, and there aren't any bad guys. there's just us. people. doing our best to get by. can you drive? tim hunter: i'm only twelve, john. constantine: i suppose it'll have to be me, then. (the violent crunching death of multiple bumpers and fenders ensues)

i mean, it's a fair question to ask when you've just seen half this dude's "friends" aggressively shoo him out the door and then watched him nick a car.

Janice tag drop + starter call.

FASHION .001 : EFFIE TRINKET AT CAESAR'S AFTERPARTY .

the theme is : lovebirds . effie trinket wears a pink flowy dress ; hands adorned with golden jewelry, flower-themed ; golden head piece and heavy earrings, to make up for the lack of height in the wig, which is white-blond and straight down ; shoes adorned with various gems, butterfly-themed ; a dozen tiny diamond stars glued to fake lashes .

template listed in the source .

Because I’m bored, have the Sins as HUMANS--

MAMMON;

BEEZLEBUB;

LEVIATHAN;

SATAN;

BELPHEGOR;

ASMODEUS; 

Can I interest you in one ( 1 ) emotional support little meow meow ?

CREDIT: @ awayan

  PARASITES. A corruption of something grand, a desolation of the form while to turn it into the host for means of it’s survival. How those of mortal disposition are weak to such suffering...Yet unknowing to most, so few and far between does the angelic form grow weakened, grow greedy, grow self righteous. Losing sight of what made them worthy of those grand wings. So white upon the sky, like clouds passing by the grand sun so visually calling to the many named god. Mind so close to godhood might the soul of one’s holiness be so vulnerable to the drifting sands. To the bristling flames of those that aligned neither with heaven nor hell, only survival. 

  Lo so when dearest respected Visalaih, a throne of heaven’s court, fell ill to their own corruption...Their soul so eaten away, their body so unstable. Destruction briefly plagued the bounds of heavenly gates, for sickness so deep could not overtake without the plagues of pandemonium, certainly not for an angelic presence as they who hold god’s wrath so volatile. When issue sought to be solved, to calm or save the beastly form of one of most respected...Did it disappear. 

  From existence did one of heaven’s thrones become displaced. Unknowing of where they might have gone, or if their existence was unable to handle the instability that had begun to plague it’s very being...For blackened feathers may corrupt their purest hueless perfection.

  Unbeknownst to heavenly eyes, however, had parasite truly begun to take shape, taking hold of the lost soul of the throne. Instability was it’s charm while it’s form condensed and exploded, many phases to finally bind itself to every segment of the corrupted being. So many years did it take for the process to finally complete itself. For memory of respected Visalaih to fade into another wayward happenstance. 

  So then, so then...Away from watchful eyes of heavenly retribution did a girl appear. With eyes hidden against her back, covered by ragged clothes. How she seemed to wake in a world that she had always been in. Yet with so little memory of her early years, one has to wonder if they ever happened at all? Awake and alive, she stood and stared and wondered her own name. Scrambled lines and words that yet floated aimlessly in her empty head for a solution to her request. And one did she come across:

      Silva. 

  It seemed to fit, seemed to work. And through her sunshine eyes did she see the world. And from the eyes of mortals did they see only one eye upon her face, the other covered and scarred. To those of keen eyes, did they seem the many that clustered on one side of her face. Those that seemed only tattoos to mortals across her back, did pulsate and bloom, look and scan, all while trapped consciousness failed to recognize it’s new state and scream and yell for someone to hear. Yet the parasite who held it so tightly was as oblivious as any would be. Only survival mattered, and such survival was second nature to curiosity. For the parasite that had taken hold could not see what others might. For how would one see itself without a mirror? How would one see when they refused to even look?

  Lo, the girl held the power within her body of the grand throne it had taken hold of, yet unknowing how to control it or even aware of her own state as a parasite, what would she do with it? May it eat away till it was too far gone to go unnoticed. For wings have yet to sprout, nor eyes taken notice to the girl’s vision. Held within a yet stable vessel, bordering on instability if brought even a moment of revelation. 

  And so she wanders, without a home, without an identity beyond a name. Oblivious to her own creation, to her own intention.