Log: Complete -- Part I
When; October 10th, 2006 --flashback backlog, continuation of this log, see asterisk (*)
Rating; It's R -- language. This is John Constantine and The Corinthian. They should be sailors.
Characters; John Constantine [silkcutremix], The Corinthian [bitingnightmare]
Summary; "The way we was. Sort of started something like bloody Kafka..."
* Because of recent events, this is a flashback reflection. Did you know RPing a character how they were in the past is a bit challenging? D%
Log;
Waking up was the hardest thing to do. Constantine was sucking breath through his nostrils, thunderously deep in his ears, the air taking a little longer in his face than he was normally accustomed to. The fact that his brain ached did not help matters at all: his senses were firing information from a very alien perspective, too vivid and acute for his mind to comprehend. Trying to pinch the bridge of his nose was a futile effort marked by a pathetic gyration of his arm. Soon all his legs uselessly wheeled in his attempt to get up. His mouth was hot and odd. His limbs did not bend right. His whole body ached with newness. Briefly he caught a glimpse of his arm, disturbingly thin, the flesh hidden away under coarse, white hair. His fingers were swollen and stubby and useless, nails thick and black.
Fuck! Bloody fucking!
He screamed when he tumbled to the floor, dragging the covers with him, noting that he sounded more like a truck's air brake than a man. The events of last night surfaced slowly, mingling with the chemical rape of odors of the blanket squeezed up against his nose. His head ached all over again. His useless hand caught itself on the fabric when he tried to pull it, push it, get it away. He couldn't get his fucking hand out of the fucking blanket because his nails were fucking stuck.
Oh Christ help me. What the fuck is wrong with me?
Overwhelmed, he could hear himself whimper like an animal in pathetic little squeals, catching himself and forcing the horrible noises back into his belly. He squeezed his eyes shut, realizing that yes, he was no longer ill but something much fucking worse. He was trapped in his own fucking body and he could not make sense of it.
----
Hours passed since he'd laid the wolf... the man onto the bed. Like hell could the Corinthian sleep over it, whether he dreamt or not. He watched the moon fade under the changing sky, watched the sun rise as slowly as his cigarettes burned. Funny, he'd thought to himself, how the damn City was like its own solar system, a microcosm within the bleed. This apartment was a microcosm and the nightmare was unsure who controlled it.
Fuck, how had it happened? How could he have let it happen?
The foreign sound jolted Cori from his thoughts. He stood up from the couch immediately, discarding his Mild Seven in the ashtray mid-smoke. It wasn't John... It was. He adjusted his shades, not one to take a chance on scaring the magician-turned-wolf shitless. Constantine was still human after all, he still dreamed.
"Don't move," said the Corinthian as he approached the other, unsure if John could even reply, but he was not cautious of the wolf.
----
Panic gripped Constantine's mind, the nightmare's steps loud against the hard floor, louder than it ever should have been. Hearing the Corinthian's voice, that also much louder, was a partial relief, although he wasn't aware of the fact that his brand new altered arse was poking out of the mess of covers he had taken with himself to the floor. Against the nightmare's command, suggestion, whatever it was, he rolled himself to his belly, twisting the covers that indicated his caught foreleg, and fought to get up. He was too groggy but in true stubborn form to his nature insistent on doing so anyway.
----
He'd insisted Constantine not move because he needed to be detangled from those covers. Regardless of the man's defiant nature the Corinthian reached out to assist removing the sheets from those skinny legs. Fuck if this was real... He'd witnessed the sickness, the purge of his stomach, heard the crack of his rearranging bones, and it still felt surreal. Although he personally knew John Constantine for only a month (had it been that long...?) Cori didn't think the cocksure magician could handle it alone.
"There," he said as he pulled the edge of the sheets away. His expression twisted when he had the chance to look at John fully. "Christ what happened to you...."
----
Constantine could not see the nightmare's face quite right, barely making out the two black dark shapes and a suggestion of a grimace in a sea of distorted color. Feeling that gaze on him made his innards sink; ol' Cori, that arsehole, couldn't see him like this. No one would see him like this if he could help it.
He mumbled an "I don't know," translated into a drawn, articulated whine. Oh sweet Christ. He turned his heavy, unbalanced head away from the nightmare, those long, uncomfortable limbs scratching against the floor as he squeezed himself shamefully under the bed. He needed to brood and he needed to brood badly. Anger seethed beneath flesh he could not call his own and no string of vulgarity could cover the extent of how he felt about his situation at the moment. He begged reality that he was only caught in a wild hallucination from his illness, but the dusty depths of the bed reminded him that he was what he was: a stupid beast. Some kind of dog.
----
That answered his other question. The sound alone caused the nightmare's brow to furrow. This was John Constantine, asshole extraordinaire with a pedigree for being a top notch bastard. The stretched whine sounded like keening to him, the kind of sound a boy made before having a knife put to his socket. It sounded like a plea.
"Hey," the Corinthian protested as the 'beast' quickly shuffled himself under the bed, "you need to come out if we're going to figure out how to reverse this." He crouched beside the dark opening, trying to see John within. Fuck that little bitch was going to pay for this one. The blonde was just a mate, but he didn't care for having others drawn into his battles. Fuck he'd kill her.
----
I can think of a solution, meself.
The Corinthian did not see any glowing eyes under there, only a dark shape that was tightly pressed to the floor by the limited space, but what other options did the magus have? He faced the wall, willing to withstand musty scents and spots devoid of the sour oils that coated the floor from their feet. John did not even want to start on the surreal sensation that was scenting his original human self. How he figured that one out was beyond him; making sense of his nose threatened to drown him, suffocate him in an overbearing world of olfactory color that he wanted none of.
----
"You can understand me, that's good," said the nightmare, seemingly calm over the matter. It called to mind an incident years earlier with the raven... but John wasn't Matthew. John was something different, and that extended beyond the fur and feathers. "What are you going to get done under there," asked the Corinthian as he settled on the floor.
Maybe the magician needed his time to brood, his time to mourn the loss of his shape, but Cori didn't think any amount of sulking was going to fix it any sooner.
----
Plenty. John knew how he functioned better than anyone (best over a beer and an ashtray) but the dustbunnies would have to do for company for now. The magus did not reply, as he had no means to, seemingly paying no mind to the Corinthian outside. The nightmare was still presented with a dirty white arse, complete with a limp brush of a tail extending from its base. He could piss off or rot there for all he cared. John was broken and angry.
----
"What are you, a magician or a pussy," he asked the Englishman.... dog, under the bed, brow quirked. His tone was lacking compassion, perhaps because he felt John wouldn't appreciate it. "This can't be the worst scrap you've gotten into before," as if the Corinthian would know.
----
"The fuck do you know?" John tried to snap back that the nightmare, forgetting about the canine growling bark that rolled off instead. The sensation of large teeth extending past his lips was something he had yet to adjust to. Made him feel all the more fucking primitive. Fallen. He remembered something from somewhere, saying how he could not be turned into anything lower than the bastard in the trenchcoat he was. Fuck, he might as well take that decades old remark back.
Oh Jesus, oh Jesus...
There was a difference between now and all those scraps: He had thumbs.
----
Although he knew not what the magus was spitting back at him the nightmare did know his words got some sort of reaction out of Constantine. That was progress, for better or worse. He narrowed his teeth at the man who did not evacuate the space. Fine if he wanted to have to get physical. The Corinthian slept on the bed, that was his bed, territory was good justification as any. He crouched even lower to reach under the bed, towards John if he wasn't too far.
"I'm not letting you stay there," he said coldly. He didn't want to risk something else happening to the blonde in that tight space.
----
Oh, the worst could happen would be the third demon in Constantine's (now furry) right nut coming along to take his keep or some stupid bollocks like that. The conman was truly crippled, without his golden tongue or his sure fingers that mastered sleight of hand, and he'd rather deal with Ravenscar or some loony fuck demon of the day provided that involved him in his own human skin. He felt invalid, useless. Feeling the nightmare grow closer, handicapped Constantine squeezed himself closer towards the wall, but being such a large animal, quite a lot of him was in easy reach.
Don't touch me. His neck was prickling, a rising sensation different from the familiar bristle of fear.
----
Being unable to hear John and instead only noticing the way his body squeezed closer to the wall Cori continued to pursue. His fingertips dared to brush against his brand new white fur, to grab his leg, his scruff, whatever he could access.
"This isn't the time to be a stubborn jackass," the nightmare muttered.
----
Constantine felt a firm grip seize his skinny ankle. Automatically, the magus lashed with an angry, defensive growl, new teeth clipping at the nightmare's arm in retaliation. The bed was cramped for a creature of his size.
----
"Jesus!" The nightmare retracted his hand quickly. Those brand new teeth left a mark on his skin, fortunately they didn't break it. He glared at Constantine, frustrated that he should bite him, but he was also alarmed that the magus was already picking up instincts. "John you can't fucking stay under there, you don't know what else is going on with your body," Christ what if he turned into a 300lb werewolf?
----
No, John didn't and his kneejerk reaction had surprised even him. He could barely walk but already his body had some preprogrammed aspects to it. For better or worse. Here he was lamenting about his lost humanity, all the while acting like the animal he was now resenting.
Fucking irony. A real kick in the fucking balls.
His breath whistled through his teeth as he thought this disturbing aspect over before finally squeezing himself out in all his matted, dirty glory.
-----
"Thanks," Cori said with a touch of sarcasm.
He rubbed the red mark on his hand, hardly painful from a physical perspective, but the surprise of it... Nevermind that he had risked his own neck to keep John's throat intact when that damn dog attacked him. Still, he was somewhat relieved to see the man come crawling out. It wasn't a grotesque picture to swallow, it wasn't even disturbing. Seeing Constantine forced out of his own body and into this one angered the nightmare.
"You should eat something, you practically pumped your own stomach last night," he suggested while averting his gaze.
----
Constantine wasn't a horrible twisted atrocity of a creature. Interestingly whatever the black dog had infected him with, the end result could have easily passed the magus for a normal animal. He carried his unfamiliar form with a slacking droop, his body heavy on those long legs, staring at the nightmare. He still had his facial structure, the Corinthian able to make out the magus' features underneath the fur if he studied hard enough. His eyes were very blue and solemn, very Constantine. Fallen.
He wasn't hungry, he wanted nothing to do with food. He wanted everything to do with getting this stuffy fucking pelt off him. Absentmindedly, desperately, he leaned over to nibble at his right "wrist," hoping his theory was true and that the hide would simply come off, but it was his only skin.
----
He could tell it was Constantine, even from the texture of his fur despite it being white and John himself not having any semblance of gray. It was the course unkempt nature of his pelt. His form also translated almost to a T, a little wiry and thick (in the head) but in need of some weight. Funny, Cori was now acquainted with John's naked body but this was still foreign despite his being unclothed. That wasn't why he had averted his gaze however.
"Stop," said the Corinthian, hand reaching out to cover that 'wrist'. He was quick on the uptake, a fast learner, but even that brief clip to his other hand wouldn't stop him from trying to prevent John from hurting himself. He just knew it would start with a nibble and eventually turn to gnawing his own skin raw.
----
Gnawing himself raw sounded as good an option as any if Constantine was to see his supposedly human skin again at this rate. He was throttled and frustrated; never had he expected the victim of unwanted transfiguration to be him. He might have been that cocksure of himself but he knew better than to take anything from strange women named Circe or gifts from mages that had a fetish for shapeshifting. That and the brimstone and hooks appeared to be a popular threat for him these days, turning him into a rat never crossing their minds in favor of seeing him torn open and stuffed with searing red rock where his innards should be.
John shuffled back from the Corinthian, nearly stumbling from his uncoordinated movements. He was pathetic, felt pathetic, nothing more than pathetic. Knocking his rump against the bed had startled him to which he jolted, body wanting to turn to face it but his mind deciding otherwise. The outcome had led Constantine to the floor on his belly, long, thin legs tangled. He looked like a puppy; his eyes were brimming with that frustration, humiliated, swearing revenge on that goddamn fucking bitch slag Colette.
No, he reminded himself. Think about how to reverse this, mate. You've done it before.
----
Nice threats, even the Corinthian knew that. His reputation exceeded the waking world, though it was a curiosity that Constantine had never undergone transfiguration before. It was his luck, their luck, that she should be the culprit behind it now. Those teeth eyes narrowed again when John backed into the bed frame. At least he didn't bite.
"........." Embarrassing, shameful, whatever words came to the Englishman's mind Cori's said pathetic, but he didn't speak outloud. For a brief moment he didn't know if that silent shout was for John or himself. Regardless, the nightmare rose to his feet and moved to the kitchen, only to return with fresh water. Unlike the previous night, this water was in a mug and not his hand. He placed it in front of Constantine silently.
----
Bloody repeat, John would have thought if he had not been in so much of a listless daze minutes before he had dozed off. Instead he leaned forward, facing down into its depths. He appeared to scrutinize the clear liquid when truly he had been studying himself in the limited reflection the dark material had provided.
Associating that long, miserable dogface with himself was a grotesque concept: Disgusting, stupid, filthly, useless animal...
He did not drink. An angry paw swiped the mug away; that was not him. He could not stand it, not now, that was what brooding time that the Corinthian had denied him was for. He longed to speak, to say something, and it was murder, one of the true personal hells no hooks could cut into him. It was pain through dehabilitation, suffering through silence, driving him back to his feet, his gait gangly, clumsy. An idea, the magus wobble-walked to the coffee table, spying a pencil. He took it in his jaws after several tries, learning where his teeth and snout were, practicing his walk as he stumbled to the terminal.
----
Shit the nightmare should have known better, being a mirror himself. He didn't have eyes though, the irony of being reflection by nature and not anticipating John seeing his own in the water. Ahh but the knock of the mug and the splash of the water across the hardwood floor didn't faze him. It disappointed him. He watched the cool clear liquid run farther till it could spread no more.
John had already reached the pencil by then, Cori having barely noticed his awkward walk. Only a moment later he hooked his finger through the handle and took the mug back to the kitchen, carelessly dumping it into the sink. As he turned to lean his back against the counter's edge he folded his arms across his chest and waited.
Whatever the hell Constantine was doing, no matter how much of a prick he could be, the Corinthian watched him for his own well-being.
----
Funny, Constantine listening to his nails click on the tile before he settled himself in front of the terminal, gazing at the screen for a moment, then down at the keys. It was only a stroke of luck that the terminal was on a screen with a text box. Adjusting his hold on the pencil, eraser side down, he poked at the keyboard:
"cori"
The blue gaze turned towards the Corinthian in the kitchen expectantly, pencil poking humorously out of his mouth.
----
"I'm listening," the nightmare replied casually with a tip up of those sunglasses. He didn't laugh at the pencil poking from that muzzle though he made note it was a rather accurate caricature of the infamous John Constantine.
----
A more accurate representation called for a cigarette, but Constantine was too occupied with the small silver lining he had found in his situation: he had a way of communicating.
"i cn spek again"
----
"Great. You're the expert here, what can I do," he asked Constantine, a genuine offer to assist.
----
The magus wanted to interpret this as sarcasm initially, but he studied Cori just a little bit longer.
"fid out wht hapend"
----
It may as well have been sarcasm considering his natural tone, but the Corinthian was concerned for Constantine.
"If this were a case of lycanthropy you'd be tearing about for fresh meat already," the nightmare suggested with another adjustment to his shades. Hell lycanthropy would have been far more creative than this, but perhaps the culprit's goal was cruelty. "I don't know anything about... this," he gestured to John then hissed, though not at him, "it smelled like a fucking set up."
----
“not fuking funnny”
There were better ways to humiliate someone through transfiguration but getting away with any sort of metamorphosis on John fucking Constantine was enough to brag about as it is. Could it have been a notion from whoever this Colette really was to toy with the magus? Give him some semblance of a chance even after shooting off his kneecaps? Where was the fun in turning someone into a useless slug? Putting someone out like that was too easy, too boring. Bit easier to see someone flail and struggle in a new, peculiar shape if they were still something mammalian. Give them a fighting chance; the game was only beginning.
John was thankful he still had his size but he could not hide. Nothing was more obvious than a 160-something pound canine. Not many dogs were over 100 as it was. 50 pounds was considered medium-sized. On a spot of curiosity, he craned his large head over his shoulder to look down at himself, finding a grizzled back, the darkest points running along the middle of his spine. He could not accurately make out the prominent yellow tones in his fur. Was he some kind of Alsatian? Never was one much for dogs but at least he wasn't a fucking Yorkie.
The apparent thickness of his fur reminded Constantine that he was uncomfortably hot, the temperature unnoticed in his hysterics, nevermind that he was sweating through and only through the bottoms of his feet. He had to put down his pencil and pant. The fact that it felt refreshingly good made it all the more fucking embarassing. His lack of hands prevented him from tearing his fucking skin off.
Please check part II!
Rating; It's R -- language. This is John Constantine and The Corinthian. They should be sailors.
Characters; John Constantine [silkcutremix], The Corinthian [bitingnightmare]
Summary; "The way we was. Sort of started something like bloody Kafka..."
* Because of recent events, this is a flashback reflection. Did you know RPing a character how they were in the past is a bit challenging? D%
Log;
Waking up was the hardest thing to do. Constantine was sucking breath through his nostrils, thunderously deep in his ears, the air taking a little longer in his face than he was normally accustomed to. The fact that his brain ached did not help matters at all: his senses were firing information from a very alien perspective, too vivid and acute for his mind to comprehend. Trying to pinch the bridge of his nose was a futile effort marked by a pathetic gyration of his arm. Soon all his legs uselessly wheeled in his attempt to get up. His mouth was hot and odd. His limbs did not bend right. His whole body ached with newness. Briefly he caught a glimpse of his arm, disturbingly thin, the flesh hidden away under coarse, white hair. His fingers were swollen and stubby and useless, nails thick and black.
Fuck! Bloody fucking!
He screamed when he tumbled to the floor, dragging the covers with him, noting that he sounded more like a truck's air brake than a man. The events of last night surfaced slowly, mingling with the chemical rape of odors of the blanket squeezed up against his nose. His head ached all over again. His useless hand caught itself on the fabric when he tried to pull it, push it, get it away. He couldn't get his fucking hand out of the fucking blanket because his nails were fucking stuck.
Oh Christ help me. What the fuck is wrong with me?
Overwhelmed, he could hear himself whimper like an animal in pathetic little squeals, catching himself and forcing the horrible noises back into his belly. He squeezed his eyes shut, realizing that yes, he was no longer ill but something much fucking worse. He was trapped in his own fucking body and he could not make sense of it.
----
Hours passed since he'd laid the wolf... the man onto the bed. Like hell could the Corinthian sleep over it, whether he dreamt or not. He watched the moon fade under the changing sky, watched the sun rise as slowly as his cigarettes burned. Funny, he'd thought to himself, how the damn City was like its own solar system, a microcosm within the bleed. This apartment was a microcosm and the nightmare was unsure who controlled it.
Fuck, how had it happened? How could he have let it happen?
The foreign sound jolted Cori from his thoughts. He stood up from the couch immediately, discarding his Mild Seven in the ashtray mid-smoke. It wasn't John... It was. He adjusted his shades, not one to take a chance on scaring the magician-turned-wolf shitless. Constantine was still human after all, he still dreamed.
"Don't move," said the Corinthian as he approached the other, unsure if John could even reply, but he was not cautious of the wolf.
----
Panic gripped Constantine's mind, the nightmare's steps loud against the hard floor, louder than it ever should have been. Hearing the Corinthian's voice, that also much louder, was a partial relief, although he wasn't aware of the fact that his brand new altered arse was poking out of the mess of covers he had taken with himself to the floor. Against the nightmare's command, suggestion, whatever it was, he rolled himself to his belly, twisting the covers that indicated his caught foreleg, and fought to get up. He was too groggy but in true stubborn form to his nature insistent on doing so anyway.
----
He'd insisted Constantine not move because he needed to be detangled from those covers. Regardless of the man's defiant nature the Corinthian reached out to assist removing the sheets from those skinny legs. Fuck if this was real... He'd witnessed the sickness, the purge of his stomach, heard the crack of his rearranging bones, and it still felt surreal. Although he personally knew John Constantine for only a month (had it been that long...?) Cori didn't think the cocksure magician could handle it alone.
"There," he said as he pulled the edge of the sheets away. His expression twisted when he had the chance to look at John fully. "Christ what happened to you...."
----
Constantine could not see the nightmare's face quite right, barely making out the two black dark shapes and a suggestion of a grimace in a sea of distorted color. Feeling that gaze on him made his innards sink; ol' Cori, that arsehole, couldn't see him like this. No one would see him like this if he could help it.
He mumbled an "I don't know," translated into a drawn, articulated whine. Oh sweet Christ. He turned his heavy, unbalanced head away from the nightmare, those long, uncomfortable limbs scratching against the floor as he squeezed himself shamefully under the bed. He needed to brood and he needed to brood badly. Anger seethed beneath flesh he could not call his own and no string of vulgarity could cover the extent of how he felt about his situation at the moment. He begged reality that he was only caught in a wild hallucination from his illness, but the dusty depths of the bed reminded him that he was what he was: a stupid beast. Some kind of dog.
----
That answered his other question. The sound alone caused the nightmare's brow to furrow. This was John Constantine, asshole extraordinaire with a pedigree for being a top notch bastard. The stretched whine sounded like keening to him, the kind of sound a boy made before having a knife put to his socket. It sounded like a plea.
"Hey," the Corinthian protested as the 'beast' quickly shuffled himself under the bed, "you need to come out if we're going to figure out how to reverse this." He crouched beside the dark opening, trying to see John within. Fuck that little bitch was going to pay for this one. The blonde was just a mate, but he didn't care for having others drawn into his battles. Fuck he'd kill her.
----
I can think of a solution, meself.
The Corinthian did not see any glowing eyes under there, only a dark shape that was tightly pressed to the floor by the limited space, but what other options did the magus have? He faced the wall, willing to withstand musty scents and spots devoid of the sour oils that coated the floor from their feet. John did not even want to start on the surreal sensation that was scenting his original human self. How he figured that one out was beyond him; making sense of his nose threatened to drown him, suffocate him in an overbearing world of olfactory color that he wanted none of.
----
"You can understand me, that's good," said the nightmare, seemingly calm over the matter. It called to mind an incident years earlier with the raven... but John wasn't Matthew. John was something different, and that extended beyond the fur and feathers. "What are you going to get done under there," asked the Corinthian as he settled on the floor.
Maybe the magician needed his time to brood, his time to mourn the loss of his shape, but Cori didn't think any amount of sulking was going to fix it any sooner.
----
Plenty. John knew how he functioned better than anyone (best over a beer and an ashtray) but the dustbunnies would have to do for company for now. The magus did not reply, as he had no means to, seemingly paying no mind to the Corinthian outside. The nightmare was still presented with a dirty white arse, complete with a limp brush of a tail extending from its base. He could piss off or rot there for all he cared. John was broken and angry.
----
"What are you, a magician or a pussy," he asked the Englishman.... dog, under the bed, brow quirked. His tone was lacking compassion, perhaps because he felt John wouldn't appreciate it. "This can't be the worst scrap you've gotten into before," as if the Corinthian would know.
----
"The fuck do you know?" John tried to snap back that the nightmare, forgetting about the canine growling bark that rolled off instead. The sensation of large teeth extending past his lips was something he had yet to adjust to. Made him feel all the more fucking primitive. Fallen. He remembered something from somewhere, saying how he could not be turned into anything lower than the bastard in the trenchcoat he was. Fuck, he might as well take that decades old remark back.
Oh Jesus, oh Jesus...
There was a difference between now and all those scraps: He had thumbs.
----
Although he knew not what the magus was spitting back at him the nightmare did know his words got some sort of reaction out of Constantine. That was progress, for better or worse. He narrowed his teeth at the man who did not evacuate the space. Fine if he wanted to have to get physical. The Corinthian slept on the bed, that was his bed, territory was good justification as any. He crouched even lower to reach under the bed, towards John if he wasn't too far.
"I'm not letting you stay there," he said coldly. He didn't want to risk something else happening to the blonde in that tight space.
----
Oh, the worst could happen would be the third demon in Constantine's (now furry) right nut coming along to take his keep or some stupid bollocks like that. The conman was truly crippled, without his golden tongue or his sure fingers that mastered sleight of hand, and he'd rather deal with Ravenscar or some loony fuck demon of the day provided that involved him in his own human skin. He felt invalid, useless. Feeling the nightmare grow closer, handicapped Constantine squeezed himself closer towards the wall, but being such a large animal, quite a lot of him was in easy reach.
Don't touch me. His neck was prickling, a rising sensation different from the familiar bristle of fear.
----
Being unable to hear John and instead only noticing the way his body squeezed closer to the wall Cori continued to pursue. His fingertips dared to brush against his brand new white fur, to grab his leg, his scruff, whatever he could access.
"This isn't the time to be a stubborn jackass," the nightmare muttered.
----
Constantine felt a firm grip seize his skinny ankle. Automatically, the magus lashed with an angry, defensive growl, new teeth clipping at the nightmare's arm in retaliation. The bed was cramped for a creature of his size.
----
"Jesus!" The nightmare retracted his hand quickly. Those brand new teeth left a mark on his skin, fortunately they didn't break it. He glared at Constantine, frustrated that he should bite him, but he was also alarmed that the magus was already picking up instincts. "John you can't fucking stay under there, you don't know what else is going on with your body," Christ what if he turned into a 300lb werewolf?
----
No, John didn't and his kneejerk reaction had surprised even him. He could barely walk but already his body had some preprogrammed aspects to it. For better or worse. Here he was lamenting about his lost humanity, all the while acting like the animal he was now resenting.
Fucking irony. A real kick in the fucking balls.
His breath whistled through his teeth as he thought this disturbing aspect over before finally squeezing himself out in all his matted, dirty glory.
-----
"Thanks," Cori said with a touch of sarcasm.
He rubbed the red mark on his hand, hardly painful from a physical perspective, but the surprise of it... Nevermind that he had risked his own neck to keep John's throat intact when that damn dog attacked him. Still, he was somewhat relieved to see the man come crawling out. It wasn't a grotesque picture to swallow, it wasn't even disturbing. Seeing Constantine forced out of his own body and into this one angered the nightmare.
"You should eat something, you practically pumped your own stomach last night," he suggested while averting his gaze.
----
Constantine wasn't a horrible twisted atrocity of a creature. Interestingly whatever the black dog had infected him with, the end result could have easily passed the magus for a normal animal. He carried his unfamiliar form with a slacking droop, his body heavy on those long legs, staring at the nightmare. He still had his facial structure, the Corinthian able to make out the magus' features underneath the fur if he studied hard enough. His eyes were very blue and solemn, very Constantine. Fallen.
He wasn't hungry, he wanted nothing to do with food. He wanted everything to do with getting this stuffy fucking pelt off him. Absentmindedly, desperately, he leaned over to nibble at his right "wrist," hoping his theory was true and that the hide would simply come off, but it was his only skin.
----
He could tell it was Constantine, even from the texture of his fur despite it being white and John himself not having any semblance of gray. It was the course unkempt nature of his pelt. His form also translated almost to a T, a little wiry and thick (in the head) but in need of some weight. Funny, Cori was now acquainted with John's naked body but this was still foreign despite his being unclothed. That wasn't why he had averted his gaze however.
"Stop," said the Corinthian, hand reaching out to cover that 'wrist'. He was quick on the uptake, a fast learner, but even that brief clip to his other hand wouldn't stop him from trying to prevent John from hurting himself. He just knew it would start with a nibble and eventually turn to gnawing his own skin raw.
----
Gnawing himself raw sounded as good an option as any if Constantine was to see his supposedly human skin again at this rate. He was throttled and frustrated; never had he expected the victim of unwanted transfiguration to be him. He might have been that cocksure of himself but he knew better than to take anything from strange women named Circe or gifts from mages that had a fetish for shapeshifting. That and the brimstone and hooks appeared to be a popular threat for him these days, turning him into a rat never crossing their minds in favor of seeing him torn open and stuffed with searing red rock where his innards should be.
John shuffled back from the Corinthian, nearly stumbling from his uncoordinated movements. He was pathetic, felt pathetic, nothing more than pathetic. Knocking his rump against the bed had startled him to which he jolted, body wanting to turn to face it but his mind deciding otherwise. The outcome had led Constantine to the floor on his belly, long, thin legs tangled. He looked like a puppy; his eyes were brimming with that frustration, humiliated, swearing revenge on that goddamn fucking bitch slag Colette.
No, he reminded himself. Think about how to reverse this, mate. You've done it before.
----
Nice threats, even the Corinthian knew that. His reputation exceeded the waking world, though it was a curiosity that Constantine had never undergone transfiguration before. It was his luck, their luck, that she should be the culprit behind it now. Those teeth eyes narrowed again when John backed into the bed frame. At least he didn't bite.
"........." Embarrassing, shameful, whatever words came to the Englishman's mind Cori's said pathetic, but he didn't speak outloud. For a brief moment he didn't know if that silent shout was for John or himself. Regardless, the nightmare rose to his feet and moved to the kitchen, only to return with fresh water. Unlike the previous night, this water was in a mug and not his hand. He placed it in front of Constantine silently.
----
Bloody repeat, John would have thought if he had not been in so much of a listless daze minutes before he had dozed off. Instead he leaned forward, facing down into its depths. He appeared to scrutinize the clear liquid when truly he had been studying himself in the limited reflection the dark material had provided.
Associating that long, miserable dogface with himself was a grotesque concept: Disgusting, stupid, filthly, useless animal...
He did not drink. An angry paw swiped the mug away; that was not him. He could not stand it, not now, that was what brooding time that the Corinthian had denied him was for. He longed to speak, to say something, and it was murder, one of the true personal hells no hooks could cut into him. It was pain through dehabilitation, suffering through silence, driving him back to his feet, his gait gangly, clumsy. An idea, the magus wobble-walked to the coffee table, spying a pencil. He took it in his jaws after several tries, learning where his teeth and snout were, practicing his walk as he stumbled to the terminal.
----
Shit the nightmare should have known better, being a mirror himself. He didn't have eyes though, the irony of being reflection by nature and not anticipating John seeing his own in the water. Ahh but the knock of the mug and the splash of the water across the hardwood floor didn't faze him. It disappointed him. He watched the cool clear liquid run farther till it could spread no more.
John had already reached the pencil by then, Cori having barely noticed his awkward walk. Only a moment later he hooked his finger through the handle and took the mug back to the kitchen, carelessly dumping it into the sink. As he turned to lean his back against the counter's edge he folded his arms across his chest and waited.
Whatever the hell Constantine was doing, no matter how much of a prick he could be, the Corinthian watched him for his own well-being.
----
Funny, Constantine listening to his nails click on the tile before he settled himself in front of the terminal, gazing at the screen for a moment, then down at the keys. It was only a stroke of luck that the terminal was on a screen with a text box. Adjusting his hold on the pencil, eraser side down, he poked at the keyboard:
"cori"
The blue gaze turned towards the Corinthian in the kitchen expectantly, pencil poking humorously out of his mouth.
----
"I'm listening," the nightmare replied casually with a tip up of those sunglasses. He didn't laugh at the pencil poking from that muzzle though he made note it was a rather accurate caricature of the infamous John Constantine.
----
A more accurate representation called for a cigarette, but Constantine was too occupied with the small silver lining he had found in his situation: he had a way of communicating.
"i cn spek again"
----
"Great. You're the expert here, what can I do," he asked Constantine, a genuine offer to assist.
----
The magus wanted to interpret this as sarcasm initially, but he studied Cori just a little bit longer.
"fid out wht hapend"
----
It may as well have been sarcasm considering his natural tone, but the Corinthian was concerned for Constantine.
"If this were a case of lycanthropy you'd be tearing about for fresh meat already," the nightmare suggested with another adjustment to his shades. Hell lycanthropy would have been far more creative than this, but perhaps the culprit's goal was cruelty. "I don't know anything about... this," he gestured to John then hissed, though not at him, "it smelled like a fucking set up."
----
“not fuking funnny”
There were better ways to humiliate someone through transfiguration but getting away with any sort of metamorphosis on John fucking Constantine was enough to brag about as it is. Could it have been a notion from whoever this Colette really was to toy with the magus? Give him some semblance of a chance even after shooting off his kneecaps? Where was the fun in turning someone into a useless slug? Putting someone out like that was too easy, too boring. Bit easier to see someone flail and struggle in a new, peculiar shape if they were still something mammalian. Give them a fighting chance; the game was only beginning.
John was thankful he still had his size but he could not hide. Nothing was more obvious than a 160-something pound canine. Not many dogs were over 100 as it was. 50 pounds was considered medium-sized. On a spot of curiosity, he craned his large head over his shoulder to look down at himself, finding a grizzled back, the darkest points running along the middle of his spine. He could not accurately make out the prominent yellow tones in his fur. Was he some kind of Alsatian? Never was one much for dogs but at least he wasn't a fucking Yorkie.
The apparent thickness of his fur reminded Constantine that he was uncomfortably hot, the temperature unnoticed in his hysterics, nevermind that he was sweating through and only through the bottoms of his feet. He had to put down his pencil and pant. The fact that it felt refreshingly good made it all the more fucking embarassing. His lack of hands prevented him from tearing his fucking skin off.
Please check part II!