teetheyes | (no subject)

I didn’t go to the ‘funeral’, no surprise there. I saw the body though. Hell I think I was the last thing he saw alive. That was over 96 hours ago. Constantine isn’t dead as a doornail, he’s dead as a fucking Smiths reunion.

I’d be lying if I said I’m sorry the rest of you paid for my grief. The former boss told me once, all I did was show there are bad people out there, something people have known all along. Same thing. Everyone knows it hurts. Everyone knows guilt. Everyone knows regret. But this little prick didn’t care, I was wondering if limbo’s changed since I last visited. Regardless, the nightmares are over now, go back to sleep.

Feel free to think I’ve lost my edge; it just hasn’t found the time to say hello to some of you cunts. Other people should be so damn lucky. In the meantime, please leave the room, find a machete, and masturbate with it.

My thanks to Spider and Zatanna for doing what I couldn’t.

[This is supposed to be therapeutic?]

… Baby, watching you made me want to fuck you too, you made me feel human. Still, “My fault.” was a really shitty way to say goodbye. I miss your stubble in the sink.

[ooc: that's an omake up ahead! firstly though, feel free to have the nightmares your characters are having stop now, or keep them persisting but know that Cori will no longer take full responsibility for them XD omake is rated R for language and violence]

The funny thing about bones was that no matter how fast the flesh quickly deteriorated, the bones could yield a cause of death, whether whole or shattered. More importantly, bones could yield identity. Stature was in the femur, gender in the pubis, age in the teeth. Meat was fleeting, skulls were eternal.

Even in fragments.

He wouldn’t say how he obtained them; he wouldn’t say anything at all as he tied a leather strip around the chipped edges of someone’s finger bone.

There was nothing to say, no one to say them to. Constantine was dead and the Corinthian was alone again.

He wasn’t concerned with how this came to be, he knew that. Why it came to be was a different story entirely, an outcome wrought from stupidity and impulse. They were both to blame, each a half of a whole. He trusted the magician, so much that it killed him. He knew that, and it was unforgivable.

Four walls caged him in an empty room with stale air that isolated each pore in a chill. His skin was breathing, that sand made to imitate flesh, but each grain was alone. He locked himself in here and swallowed the key to oblivion. The Corinthian wouldn’t stand to have company now, not after losing the one most important to him, but he was not the only one here. Once his fingers knotted the last chip to the last blade he detected the scent of cigarette smoke, saw the gray ripple like the moonlight trying to sneak between the blinds. It didn’t smell of Silk Cut.

“Let me do it for you,” said the voice, a husky purr that could seduce with its mere tone. The nightmare knew that voice; it was his.

“You want it,” the older one insisted as the tip of his tongue flicked the silver hoop in the Corinthian’s ear.

Cori did want it. Cori thought he deserved it. Cori believed in corporal punishment against the self, delivered from the self. Christ what was he doing?

“I want it,” he confirmed coolly, relinquishing the tightly wrapped handle to the pale palm indistinguishable from his own.

“Good boy,” the Corinthian gave a sharp satisfied smile, “on your knees.”

He followed the order, naked body contorting against the edge of the bed, knees on the hard floor. He stretched his arms in front of him and gripped his left wrist. It drew the flesh on his back taut. He wanted it badly.

“You’re unbelievably easy,” the nightmare laughed. He pressed his bare foot against the other’s shoulder and leaned his weight into it. A heavy weight. He smoked his cigarette almost to the filter then reached around Cori’s torso to ground out the burning end near his nipple.

“Ahhhuhh,” he sucked in a gasp of pain. He hated it. He needed it.

“Beautiful,” remarked the Corinthian. The cigarette butt dropped to the floor as he removed his foot from the younger one. Then he leaned over to place a feather light kiss to the back of Cori’s neck. “God I missed the Middle Ages,” he whispered.

The dark mirror, white horror, raised the cat o’nine tails then lashed it across the Corinthian’s flesh. No prayer, no retribution, no proclamation of sin. No religion, no faith. The ivory tips opened his skin on contact. Cori bit a scream between his teeth, swallowing the sting like his meat swallowed the bone. No salvation, no forgiveness.

By the third stroke his wounds began to well. By the fourth stroke they began to overflow. Dark red slid towards his pale rear, drops speckled his thighs. Cori’s feet curled. He wished he could have bled for John.

The fifth and sixth strokes brought muffled groans of pain. By the seventh he cried. Christ it hurt him. It was supposed to.

He squeezed his eyes shut as the bones dug into his body for the eighth, ninth, and tenth time, staving off his immortal healing. Keeping his lacerations open was excruciating (it was intoxicating). He’d lost count now and knew not how many strokes he wanted. Twenty? Forty? Too many. Cori felt sick. His knuckles were white.

A nauseating sensation swelled till he couldn’t keep his illness down any longer. His teeth eyes flashed open to the sight of their apartment ceiling, spinning haphazardly till he fully woke from his dream and faced the ground. His hand smacked against the coffee table, knocking an empty bottle of tequila over the edge. It hit the floor with a loud clink as a thick rivulet of bile and consumed alcohol spilled from Cori’s lips.

He sounded a wet cough, heaving another trickle of the depressing mixture with his saliva. “Fuck,” he spat, hoping that was the last of it. At least he’d missed both the couch and his hand. What of the coat?

The white blonde sat up quickly, bringing another bout of nausea. He kicked the beaten trench coat off his torso to avoid staining it, but this time acid did not sting his throat. Better. Cori wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, chest heaving from his deep breaths. His body ached. John’s coat remained piled on the other end of the couch. It still had its creases, its imperfect seams, his scent. He could smell Constantine on the fabric despite the abundance of alcohol, nicotine, and vomit in the apartment.

The nightmare covered his teeth eyes and shuddered. His wounds stretched open.