A character with an ambiguous skin tone and/ or racial identity is not good representation, even if you headcanon them as a POC. The likelihood is that the writer also perceives this character as white. Stating white skin tone/ race is often unknowingly perceived as unnecessary, due to our (society’s) gross, internalised bias that the ‘default’ is white.
Do not give credit to an author for allowing their characters to be headcanoned as POC. A headcanon is something you or a group of people believe, but not necessarily the author. If the author wanted true representation, they would have downright and concretely stated their character’s skin colour/ race in the texts of their work. By all means, headcanon race, but just be wary about giving credit where credit is not due. No one deserves brownie points for doing a sloppy job.
Stating a character is “tanned” or “olive-toned” is also not good representation. These are often considered ambiguous terms because, first and foremost, white people can be tanned. Olive can work, but there is dispute over whether it is similar to using tan, so it’s generally not recommended to use it.
Please just plainly state your characters’ races every time, even if they’re white. If your character has brown skin, or is black, or Caucasian, just say it. When you do this for POC characters, their race becomes visible, which is good for representation. When you do this for a white character, it helps to remove the awful implication that “white is the default” for both yourself and the reader.
This post contains the intention of pointing out basic physical traits according to ascendant/rising sign. Planets conjunct the ascendant can modify the overall physical body feature and appearance.
With Aries rising with physical body becomes ruled by planet Mars. Distinctive facial feature are often present that really stand. The face itself can be of a triangular shape; often long and thick while possessing high cheek bones. The forehead is often of a broad stature with hair that is rough or wiry. The hair line, especially in men, is prone to a receding nature at the temple and prone to early hair loss.
Prominent eye brows are usually present, sometimes being bushy. The neck line is often thick and muscular; especially if it’s worked on. Often the face, temple or forehead region have scars or marks on them that are distinguishable.
The physical body itself often contains a strong up rite bone structure to support a muscular and athletic body tone. Despite a more muscular build the body height can be a bit shorter towards average in most cases. The skin can be golden or have a bronze type tint to it. The walking is confident with an upright posture about it. There is much purpose in the steps often ripe with determination. A healthy looking complexion is a strong way to sum up the overall physical physique.
The throne room was a massacre. The throne room was where Prythian ended and a new force began. Feyre stood, her sword barely gripped in her right hand, blood slowly rolling down her skin.
Her eyes fluttered closed as she looked around the carnage that surrounded her. The High Lord of the Dawn Court was pinned to the wall, his mouth still open, his skin still glimmering. Feyre watched that light fade.
His wife and chosen soldiers decorated the floor with their golden blood, which carefully slithered across the floor. The Lady of the Dawn Court’s eyes were open, the golden orbs staring into space.
Feyre had never learned their names.
Kallias was lying down motionless, the blade in his back frozen over. His bright blue eyes seemed dull in comparison to a color Feyre once knew. His fingers were digging into the ice that painted the ground. In the process of crawling away from a force you can not out run: Death.
On top of him, as if in the last moments of her life she was determined to guard him, a female rested. Her back was arched, her own jagged blade sinking into her sternum. White blood stained her lips, her fingers curled helplessly around the metal.
Their own warriors were discarded and ruined around them, white and gold blood slowly swimming together, mixing like they were made to. It created a marble design, and slowly it swam to Helion.
Hellion’s golden tunic was stained with a vibrant red, brighter than any red Feyre had ever seen. She would have loved to paint with such a bright color. His beaded head piece was tossed from his head, laying on the ground, far away from the High Lord. If Feyre didn’t know any better, the High Lord could have just been sleeping. He still looked magnificent.
His wife lay beside him, those deep brown eyes forever unseeing. Her mouth opened in a scream the world would never hear again. The fiercest battle cry she had ever witnessed. Her crown still rested on her head, as if it knew it belonged there, even in death. Blood ran down her deep brown skin, and Feyre thought it was the most beautiful horror she had ever seen.
Warriors of the Day were thrown and destroyed around their High Lord and Lady, their bright red blood crawling across the throne room floor, until it met with the white and gold. Their deaths were brutal, yet undeniably stunning.
The blade fell from Feyre’s fingers, clattering against the ground, when her eyes saw Tarquin. Young, brave, fearless Tarquin. She should have let him alone after she had betrayed him in his own Court. She should have never involved him in this.
Tarquin’s white hair was matted with blood, his eyes peacefully closed. He was crumpled on his side, his body broken in several ways. Of all of them, he had fought the hardest. Feyre wished his eyes were open, so she could see that blue one last time.
A male warrior had fallen on top of Tarquin, his body resting over the High Lord’s long legs. His left arm was reaching out, only a few inches from Tarquin’s unmoving fingertips.
In their last seconds, the lovers had reached for one another. Feyre saw Varian and Cresseida amongst the Summer Court Fae who had fought bravely. Blood swam down Cresseida’s arms, her eyes glazed over. Varian’s own sword had betrayed him in the end, lodged in the Fae’s chest.
She nearly staggered to the side when she saw Lucien’s bright red hair.
His good eye was closed, his scarred eye staring at the far wall. Feyre had a sick feeling that Lucien could still see with that eye, even as he lay there, stone still. He was horrible to look at. Her friend, dead, gone, brave, but gone.
Unnamed Autumn Court warriors had died by their High Lord’s side. Had accepted him as their rightful High Lord, had given her friend love, compassion, strength, everything she could not. And Feyre couldn’t even bother to learn their names. Faes with dark skin, natural tans, or olive undertones had died for Lucien, for a ray of hope. Their red hair, brown hair, golden hair, all soaked in blood; their blood. And all of their veins, empty of that raging fire. They had given that power up the moment they fell to the ground.
The ends of Tamlin’s golden air was soaked in his own blood. Feyre stared at him, blood slowly trailing down her face, sliding down her cheeks, dripping off her nose. She knew she was covered in it. White, blue, red, and other colors alike.
He looked peaceful.
Like he was waiting for someone.
Feyre’s knees began to tremble as she looked closer to her. The bodies created a path, a path to her. She swallowed a lump in her throat when she saw Elain and Nesta. Nesta with her burned hands, Elain with her tranquil face.
Feyre wanted to collapse when she saw Azriel. His wings were bent against his back, a siphon cracked and broken, scattered across the floor, never to hum and glow again.
Feyre looked at her friend, someone she would have called a brother, someone who would never breathe again. Cladded in Illyrian leathers, Azriel had gone down with a fight, Feyre knew that much.
And so had his brother. Cassian, collapsed by Azriel’s side, motionless. His wings were gone from his back, once again. Feyre knew one thing. In death, Cassian deserved his wings more than anyone else. Fate was a cruel, wicked thing. His siphons were also cracked, broken, and gone.
Another male she would never be able to call brother.
Female Illyrians surrounded the two warriors. Wings. A sea of wings, all broken, tattered, torn, or simply gone. It was a sea of destruction, a sea of pain. Feyre blinked, and she saw another blonde head.
Blood still seeped from Mor’s stomach and Feyre pressed a shaky hand against her mouth. Her blonde hair was pressed against her face, her brown eyes open, positioned on Azriel. He was the last thing she saw.
Amren, her firedrake friend, their last hope in the seemingly impossible war, was just as dead as the rest of them. Silver blood still poured from her neck, her silver eyes on the ceiling. Silver painted her and Feyre thought it was fitting. She sparkled like one of her beloved gems.
She hoped her friend was back home, back with those who she loved and loved her.
Feyre’s eyes drooped closed, then she forced them to open. She forced herself to look at the body at her feet. Her heart laid bare before her, crushed and broken, never to beat again.
Her mate, her husband, her High Lord. His violet eyes so dark, not nearly as light and glowing as she remembered them. Her everything, her salvation; the one she saved, the one who had saved her. Broken and dead.
The realization hit her hard. Rhysand was dead. Feyre finally fell, her head hitting the smooth floor. She moved one last time, determined to hold Rhysand’s hand. Determined never to die alone again.
Her fingers clasped around his and Feyre looked up, letting loose a shuddering breath as she saw the King, skewered on his throne. His head thrown back, his body lifeless, all that power, gone.
Unmade and Made; Made and Unmade - that is the cycle. Like calls to like. The Book of Breathings had warned her. The Book had warned her of the price. The Book had told her she was the princess of carrion. If only she had listened, truly listened.
For something to be Unmade then Made, something had to be Made then Unmade. For Feyre to hold the power of all the High Lords, it was fitting they should all be destroyed. Her eyes fluttered and the King wavered in her vision, as the Cauldron toppled over.
The water raced across the floor, washing away blood in its wake, drowning the Fae in its cold grasp. It swam closer and closer to her, seemingly hissing and cackling. Soon, it soaked her, head to toe, along with her mate and her friends.
Together, the deaths of the High Lords, they had Unmade Prythian. Feyre saw a figure in the doorway, their bare feet slick with the Cauldron’s water. The water began to shimmer, carrying the seven High Lord’s magic as well as the King’s through the liquid.
Feyre heard a faint thumping, as if the figure had fled. Her eyes finally closed, she finally slipped away. She could only hope the Cauldron had chosen correctly; chosen someone to end this cycle.
She would be the last to be Made.
And with her, Prythian would be the last to be Unmade.
Before the sirens even reach otherworldly ears, there’s a different woman than the city’s Blonde Bombshell taking down strangely a plethora of well-armed men in black before even the DEO can fire off a shot.
Dark-hair and olive-tanned skin is mostly a blur, with highlights of gold and muted blue and red as she moves effortlessly through the group. A golden shield and sword rest on her back, and a rope of some kind is hung from her hip. The impression is almost of Artemis come to life, for anyone who follows Grecian art or Greek mythology.
When the last bad guy is left panting and dazed on the ground, she stands up, whipping long dark hair from her face. Her jaw is set, brow furrowed, as she looks at the NCPD and/or DEO forces that have arrived.
Barely out of breath, she says, “I am Diana of Themyscira. Your world calls me Wonder Woman. I am looking for the one they call Supergirl.”
FYI whenever you read something like “Southern Italians are dark and not white and that’s why Northern Italians discriminate them” just know that this is something completely untrue.
I myself I’m Neapolitan and yes I’ve been often mistaken for a Mexican/Moroccan/(Egyptian when I was super tanned) abroad but nope, Southern Italians are just Mediterraneans with olive skin that get tanned in the summer. We have a complex genetic history and YES sometimes we do share physical appearance with people from South American countries or Turkey, Morocco, Tunisia, Lebanon, Syria, Algeria, Israel and even Iran.
now IDGAF whether in your tiny sjw brain we’re white or not but the North/South Italy feud has literally NOTHING and I repeat NOTHING to do with skin colour or any other physical trait.
Ooh can you do a fic, au, HC or something where Will meets Maria di Angelo in a dream of something. And she tells him, "Take care of my boy." Or something please and thanks xx
Will had the tingling sensation that came from distant
feeling. He didn’t know where he was, a thick mist hung over the horizon and
cast everything in a hazy glow. Will could see no light, but the space around
him was illuminated in a soft blue light, giving everything an eerie look. Not that
there was anything to see. As far as Will could tell, there was nothing around
but the fog and himself, wandering through the dense overcast. Will didn’t know
where he was going, but his legs tingled and movement seemed like the best
option to quell the buzzing sensation that shot up his legs.
Will had no idea how long he had been wandering, everything looked
the same in the foggy landscape. He had no idea how far he’d gone, only that
the feeling in his legs had subsided. For all he knew, he could have been walking
in a circle and he was simply retracing his steps for the amusement of a god. How
did he get here anyway? He didn’t remember walking into a forest or anything
that would look like the area laid out before him. The last thing he remembered
was falling asleep in Nico’s bed, his arms wrapped around his boyfriend.
Oh. He was dreaming. That made a lot more sense. Still, why
would he be dreaming about mist? It wasn’t something Will spent a particularly
long time thinking about. It wasn’t like Will loved fog or anything, and there
was no impending danger that a god needed to warm him about. At least, he hoped
there wasn’t. The last thing Camp Half-Blood needed was another quest. After the
war with Gaia, everyone deserved a rest.
Will was caught up in his own thoughts long enough for a
woman to appear in front of Will unnoticed. If Will had been paying more attention,
he would have noticed her step out of the fog. As it was, Will only had seconds
to realize she was there before his instincts kicked in and he was scurrying
The more rational part of Will’s brain studied the woman,
with her inky black hair and her tanned olive skin. She was average height and
wore a plain black dress, and though Will was farther away from her now, he
could see that she was older, her skin weathered by age in the form of wrinkles
on her face and veins in her arms.
There was something eerily familiar about the coffee brown
eyes that seemed to bore straight into Will’s soul.
Somehow, Will knew this woman.
He walked closer to her, watching her as she regarded him
calmly. Will had to fight back the shudder that ran up his spine. He couldn’t pinpoint
where he had seen this woman before, but something about the way she held
herself, the pride in her straight spine whispered in the back of Will’s mind.
He got within five feet of her when Will felt everything
around him start to slip. He knew the sensation well enough by now, he was
waking up. The fog around them became murkier and the woman’s face blurred.
Will tried to hold onto the dream, if only to find out why the woman seemed so
familiar to him.
Right before Will slipped away, the woman spoke five words
that embedded themselves into Will’s brain, stapling themselves in so that Will
would remember them when he woke.
“Take care of my son.”
Will’s eyes opened to the dark of the Hades cabin. Nico was
still next to him, Will could feel his body heat. Silence of early morning hung
heavy in the air, and it took Will a moment to realize that his boyfriend was
awake, staring at him with coffee brown eyes.
Okay so here is part 10 but because I am lazy, instead of me providing the links to the previous chapters individually, here is a link with all the chapters on the one page, just scroll down to the chapter you want :) xx
Rhys and Feyre sprang apart. Rhys shrugged his shirt back on while Feyre stared at the ground, red faced. By the time Feyre had the nerve to look up, Amren had already left the room.
“I should probably text Tamlin.” Feyre said, hurriedly leaving.
Rhys bawled up his fists, cursing how stupid he had been as he watched the back of Feyre disappear down the hallway. He left Mor’s, knowing Amren would look after Feyre and decided to give Feyre some space to sort out her feelings with Tamlin.
Back in Feyre’s room, Feyre had just finished sending Tamlin a message when Amren came in, sprawling onto Feyre’s bed face down.
“Tough day at work?” Feyre asked politely.
“Was alright. I’m more depressed over watching two people, who can’t admit their feelings for each other, make goo goo eyes all day behind the other’s back.”
Feyre nodded like she understood. “Mor and Az.”
Amren raised a surprised head. “Those two?” She asked incredulously.
“Of course. It’s obvious they’re pining after each other, who else could it be?”
“Talk about in denial. Azriel and Mor are definitely who I was referring to in this situation.” She smirked at Feyre. “Seeing as you seem to understand so much about this mutual pining after someone, what advice would you give Mor?”
Feyre’s face grew dark. “I’m not sure I’m the person to be giving advice on love at the moment.”
“Oh put aside that tool for one moment Feyre. If you were in a similar situation, how would you save yourself some time and move forward?”
“I guess if I was sure that they felt the same, I would be honest and tell them how I felt.”
“Exactly.” Amren said with a smile. She quickly changed the subject. “So have you texted The Tool yet?”
“Just then. I had to make sure he didn’t come looking for me again.”
“So, Rhys told you?”
“After he tried to hide it, but yes.” Feyre paused. “I never thought he would hurt anyone else.”
Amren reached out to touch Feyre’s arm. “He can’t hurt you again either, if you don’t let him.”
“Amren I have to go back.”
“No you absolutely do not.” She said matter of factly.
Feyre got up off the bed and began pacing. “He’ll only get worse the longer I’m away. He still loves me Amren, plus he’s helping my family. They’d be starving without his help.”
“Feyre, just because someone loves you, doesn’t give them the right to control you, to do whatever they damned well please with you. That’s not love. Besides you work now. You can support not only yourself, but your family too.”
Feyre didn’t respond, just increased her pacing.
“You have a lot of people around here who care about and love you Feyre. Don’t give that up for someone who wants to keep you locked away.”
Amren got up silently and left the room.
The next day Feyre woke up late again and made her way down to the living room. She found Rhys once again waiting for her.
“My god, don’t you have a home?” She said with a yawn.
“I’d have more of a home if your beloved hadn’t tried to burn it down.” Rhys muttered.
“He did what?”
“Oh, nothing a little bit of water and new paint won’t fix.”
“Rhys.” Feyre said sternly.
“It’s in the past Feyre, I’d much rather focus on today and the beautiful woman I am presented with.” Rhys said back to his cocky self. “Get dressed, we’re going out.”
“Does it matter? We’re getting you out of the house and getting some good food into you.” He grinned.
“I don’t know. What if we run into Tamlin?”
“I highly doubt Tamlin would stoop to coming to my part of town.” Rhys said with a curl to his lip.
Feyre took in Rhys’s fine clothing and the way elegance and richness seemed to drip off of him. She raised an eyebrow in disbelief as to how anyone could think that Rhys came from anywhere but a nice neighbourhood.
“You don’t look like someone who exactly lives in the slums.”
“Oh I don’t. I just live in a highly cultural place, which to some may seem less than ideal if you’re the snobby and elitist type.”
“And here I was, pegging you for being both snobby and elitist.”
Rhys let out a surprised laugh. Before making a motion that suggested to Feyre that she should start getting ready.
When Feyre found a warm enough outfit borrowed from Mor that would do, she met Rhys outside. She had left her face free of makeup because she simply couldn’t find within herself the energy to apply it, and under no circumstances did she want Rhys to think this outing was some sort of date.
When she made it outside, she realised that she had never seen Rhys’s car before. Perhaps because he did not have one, as Feyre took in the sleek black motorbike now parked in the driveway of the house.
“Absolutely not. Nope. No way. Come back with a proper car.” Feyre began to back up towards the house.
Rhys flashed her a grin so wide he reminded of her of Cassian when he was about to play an especially bad prank. “Oh Feyre Darling don’t be like that. Haven’t you ever wondered what it was like to fly?”
Rhys seemed visibly excited and happy to find that persuading Feyre to get on the motorbike hadn’t been as hard as he thought it would. She had climbed on the back behind him gingerly, before placing cautious hands around his middle to hold on. When Rhys took off, she let out a startled yelp and wrapped her arms fully around him for grip.
“Prick!” She yelled in his ear which he heard, even through his helmet and the sound of the rushing wind which drowned out his roaring laughter.
He drove them downtown to a place Feyre had never been before. It seemed separate from the rest of town. Like its own separate community. A sign informed her that they had passed into a neighbourhood called ‘Velaris’.
They stopped at a cluster of stores which led into more of a main street further down. Feyre tried patting down her helmet hair self consciously as people turned to stare at them.
To her surprise, Rhys barely ran a hand through his slightly mussy hair before striding over to a nearby man, who he shook hands with and greeted warmly. Soon, everyone around them began greeting Rhys.
It wasn’t long before Rhys caught the curious, but not rude, glances being thrown at Feyre. He waved her over and began making introductions. Feyre expected the people he was talking to, to be businessmen, people he worked with, but they turned out to be every day people from all sorts of professions. She met a baker, a plumber, a single mother, and a chef, before Feyre couldn’t keep track anymore so just resorted to smiling and nodding. Despite herself, Feyre found she enjoyed talking to these friendly strangers.
Rhys took her down the street through stores, exploring the area. They even had an artist’s studio where people could go to learn to paint. Rhys politely asked if she would like to go in but Feyre, maybe a little too quickly, refused. Shrugging, he had walked them on to a more residential area. The people around there, Feyre noticed, had darker hair and more tanned, olive skin. So similar to Rhys it was almost like a family resemblance.
“This is the Illyrian community. Where I grew up.” Rhys said almost shyly, and Feyre understood what Rhys was offering up to her.
They carried on in silence until they came across a group of older men angrily discussing something.
“Wait here.” Rhys told her quietly, before slipping on a mask of calmness and heading over to the men.
Feyre tried to wait patiently. She really did. But something about Rhys made her more reckless, not wanting to obey orders given to her this time. She heard the excited yelling of children nearby and went to investigate.
Six children played a game of hockey in the middle of an empty street. Feyre watched them quietly until one of the boys scored a goal and cheered so obnoxiously she laughed aloud. Six heads swivelled to appraise her in the unabashedly way children stare at strangers. The one who had just scored held out a spare stick to her.
“Would you like to play?” He asked.
“I don’t know how to.”
“That’s okay. Jesper doesn’t really know how to play either, but we let him anyway.” A different boy responded, as another, presumably Jesper, hit the other’s shin with his stick.
Feyre laughed. “Okay but I’m warning you now, I’m more of a liability than an asset.”
Feyre mostly played defence, allowing the children who could only be around ten years old, to score without making it look like she was going too easy on them.
Feyre was grinning ear to ear, enjoying playing a simple game so much she nearly didn’t notice the group of raven haired girls huddled nearby, watching the game with interest. She stopped to walk over to them.
“Do you play?” She asked them, holding out her stick.
One of the girls reached out for the stick shyly, fingers just about to grasp it, before it was ripped out of both her, and Feyre’s hand. One of the boys had snatched it away sulkily.
“Little girls don’t aren’t allowed to play hockey.” He said crossly.
“And what are they supposed to do instead?” Feyre asked.
“Girly chores. Boring stuff.”
“You let me play.” Feyre said crossing her arms over the injustice.
“That’s different!” The boy insisted.
Feyre leaned down to loudly whisper to the girls conspiratorially, “It’s only because they know you’ll beat them.”
“They won’t beat us!” Another boy chimed in.
“Prove it then. You have enough sticks.” Feyre said challengingly.
Not wanting to admit defeat, the boys rushed to arm the girls with sticks and set up the game for more people. Feyre watched happily as the girls were allowed to join in and cheered loudly when they scored a goal.
The loud clearing of a voice sounded from behind Feyre had her whipping around so fast she nearly fell over. Rhys was standing a few paces away with a mischievous glint to his eye and a knowing smile. Sheepishly, Feyre made her way over to him.
“I’ve been trying to get the girls more involved in sport for weeks, and you stroll in here like it’s nothing.” He laughed.
“Yeah, well I’m assuming you haven’t had to deal with as many bull headed boys as I have, or it never occurred to you to use how sensitive your male egos are.”
“Sensitive are we?”
“Yep. Sensitive Illyrian babies. The lot of you.”
“You’ve been spending too much time around my cousin for my liking.” He winked at her.
By the time they met up with the others in a nearby restaurant for dinner, Feyre was buzzing with an unexpected lightness. She laughed and ate so much at dinner she felt sick, surprising Mor and Amren who had not seen her eat since arriving at their home.
“Don’t worry Feyre, Mor’s cooking does taste better than it smells.” Amren joked.
But then the dinner turned more serious as Azriel asked about why the neighbourhood seemed more tense than usual. That was when Feyre realised she had never asked Rhys about what the group of men had been arguing over.
All laughter drained from Rhys’s face as he spoke. “Notices were dropped in everyone’s letter boxes. The building of the factory is going ahead, they managed to find enough investors.”
“Factory?” Feyre asked, aware that this was maybe well above her head and none of her business, so was pleasantly surprised when Rhys answered her honestly.
“A big company bought land nearby to start building a monstrosity of a factory.”
“I don’t understand, won’t it provide jobs?” Feyre asked confused.
“Once it’s built, it will pollute all the land and water around it. The company denies it of course but our own sources tell us it could be catastrophic.” Azriel added.
“Not to mention, houses immediately in the vicinity will need to be demolished to make room.” Said Cassian.
“Anyone left will become sick due to pollutants.” Mor said sadly.
Feyre was shocked. The whole community was about to be ruined. She thought of the children playing in the street, suddenly overcome with disease. “How could this happen?”
“We had hoped to scare off all investors trying to give the company the resources it needed to build. Clearly it didn’t work.” Said Rhys.
Feyre was beginning to develop a horrible feeling in her stomach. Suspicion gnawed at her insides. “What if they didn’t need a lot of different benefactors, just one single, but wealthy, investor?"
Rhys rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. "I suppose that could work. There are few folk around here that could afford that though.”
Steeling herself for the answer, Feyre asked, “What’s the company?” An old memory resurfaced of Feyre sitting with Lucien after Tamlin had stalked off, stressed over work, where Feyre had asked this very same question.
Feyre felt her stomach drop as Rhys growled a single word, “Hybern”.
I think the anon wanted to know if you are writing Yeshua as a POC or if you're whitewashing him in your novel.
I’m sorry, I misunderstood. Perhaps this will help the anon.
My name is Yeshua Jesus Christ JC and I have short hair and icy grey eyes like frozen holy water and a lot of people tell me I look like God (AN: if u don’t know who he is get da hell out of here!). I’m not related to John the Baptist but I wish I was because he’s a major fucking hottie. I’m the savior and my teeth are straight and white. I have tanned, olive skin and I come from Middle Eastern. I’m also a rebel, and I was born in Nazareth. I’m a Catholic (in case you couldn’t tell) and I always wear my rosary. I love H&M and I buy all my clothes from there. For example today I was wearing a simple white shirt, drenched from the blood of the oppressed. I was walking outside of Jerusalem. It was sunny, which I was very happy about. A lot of Romans stared at me. I put up my middle finger at them.
Written by SIMON OLIVER • Art by PHILIP TAN • Cover by RILEY ROSSMO • Variant cover by YASMINE PUTRI “THE SMOKELESS FIRE” part four! John Constantine has a lead on the missing journal, but has Misabel created a false trail? Mercury doesn’t trust the looks of the club where they end up, and only an old enemy can save them! On sale MAY 24 • 32 pg, FC, $3.99 US • RATED T+