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This one goes out to my peep asininestars, who owns Warren. I had no idea what I was going to write for today till it dropped some smoking rotations in chat yesterday. This is for you. <3
Using Lauren the Corgi’s Promptober list.
CWs: Selfcest, noncon (violent rape), egregious levels of self-hatred, suicide attempt by way of homicide attempt, references to child abuse
***
Warren would never have thought of this by himself. What gave him the idea is hearing about what David did to Wheels.
But now, standing over the circles etched into the floor of Wheels’ ritual room clutching one of his own knives, he finds his hands are shaking.
Please please please, I can’t live like this anymore. He hates himself so much. It takes so much out of him not to take this knife and drive it into his own gut and rid himself and the world of the toxins that walk around in this skin of his. I need to cut it out of myself. Free myself of it.
He begins the ritual preparations, moving around the room to set things in place.
Wheels didn’t give him permission to be here. Warren didn’t even ask. It’s the middle of the night and no one else should be in the Crook, except maybe Ashe in the basement, but please, please don’t let him be found until he finishes. Please don’t let Wheels hate him for this.
What he’s doing isn’t the same as what David did. What Warren heard is that he only pretended to be another Wheels, a different self in the same body. But it gave him the idea to go to David, and beg for a ritual that would let him summon himself.
David provided, of course. Why wouldn’t he? He loves a good bit of theatre. Warren is under no illusions that he isn’t being watched, or that David will intercede in any helpful way. This is for his entertainment.
Warren raises the brass bowl to a random corner of the room. “Cheers.”
He doesn’t care, so long as it finally lets him purge himself of this self-hatred. Of this man who has deserved to die for his entire life.
It’s not even a particularly complicated ritual. He lights the incense, and chants the chants. He cuts his hand on his own knife and bleeds into the brass bowl, and then he jerks himself off and ejaculates into it.
That’s the hardest part. He’s never had trouble getting it up before, and his catalog of wank material is endless. Visions of Ira splayed out across their bed, visions of Wheels watching him debauch himself, benevolent and hungry. But visions of himself keep rising up to distract him, till he finds he’s chafing himself painfully with an angry, almost savage grip, as if he’s fucking his worst enemy and he wants them to hurt and bleed for it.
When he orgasms, cum splattering into the bowl, it’s a furious, spiteful sort of climax, teeth gritted and sadistic satisfaction surging.
The smoke of the incense whirls. Thicker and thicker, it begins to gather into a dense cloud in the center of the circle. As Warren rises to his feet and pulls his pants up, it spins the blood and semen up into itself until the bluish-grey is streaked with white and red, and the colors laced and spread through the whole concoction until it’s recognizably a man.
A man with Warren’s face.
No, but not quite, is it? The eyes are a natural golden-brown, not the pure 24 karat gleam of Warren’s. And they’re harder, coolly, arrogantly confident– No, they’re…softer, they’re looking at him with such pity–
Without thinking, Warren snarls and lunges, flipping the knife in his hand into a fighting grip. “How dare you?! How dare you look at me like that!”
The other Warren leans back, knocking the strike out of true. Sidesteps, dodges again, keeps moving as Warren pursues him, circling around each other in a vicious dance of killer and target.
“Come here,” Warren snarls. “Have the decency to die, you bastard!”
His other self catches his wrist. With a twist, he makes Warren drop the knife, and kicks it away out of the circle.
Warren balls up his other hand and punches himself across the chiseled cheekbone. “Fuck you,” he spits. “This is all your fault! Everything! If you had just died back when our father tried–”
His other self wraps arms around him and pulls him tight. Warren thinks for a second he’s finally gotten the message–fight back, kill him, give him what he deserves!–but no. It’s a hug. His other self’s hand on the back of his head presses his face comfortingly into his shoulder.
Warren starts shaking. No. No! He can’t–how dare he forgive him!
The flash of horror gives him the strength to knock them both down, his other self falling onto his back with Warren atop him. “How dare you,” he hisses right into his own face. “How dare you behave as if you were the one who was wronged.”
He’s barely aware of his own actions as he tears at the clothes of his double. His double who reaches up to stroke his cheek and thumb away the tears leaking down his face. Who considerately helps Warren with his own clothes, undoing his trousers when he gets himself tangled up in his own frantic fury.
“You are the one who was wronged,” that other self murmurs as Warren shoves his thighs apart and forces his way into his other self’s ass. He wraps arms and legs around himself as if this is a lover’s clinch and not– Punishment. It’s punishment. Correcting a wrong. Warren’s mind shies away from memories of being held under, pond water in his lungs–
It hurts, fucking another man dry. His other self grunts in pain, body rocking to try to accommodate. Warren grunts too, with the force he’s putting into each thrust, with the chafing drag of his cock into flesh too tight and dry to take him. With how hard it is to catch his breath through the sobs.
“I’m going,” he gulps between gasping for air, “To. Kill you. And then. It’ll. All. Be. Better.” Like you deserve. Like everyone wants. Once he’s dead, maybe there’ll be something redeemable there.
His self cries out in pain. Blood is starting to flow; it makes this a little easier. But he doesn’t let go. He hugs Warren close and pets his hair. Kisses the tears on his cheeks. Murmurs, “I love you. It’s okay, I understand.”
All the fight drains out of Warren abruptly. He goes boneless on top of him. He can’t see shit through the tears. “It just. It hurts too much,” he sobs. “It feels so pointless. What’ll fix it?”
His other self squeezes all his limbs tight around him, rolling his body from side to side like Warren is a baby being rocked to sleep. Warren hates him so much. So much. He just– Wants– Hold onto him. Don’t let him go.
“One day you’ll die,” his self promises him. “One day, you’ll fade away and vanish like smoke, and I’ll be all that’s left. It’s okay. You won’t have to do this anymore.”
But it’s not Warren who vanishes like smoke, is it? In the next breath, he’s lying belly-down on cold tile floor in a puddle of his own snot and blood and cum, his pants and trousers in a screwed-up bundle around his ankles. Incense smoke wisps up around him and away.
He pounds his fists on the ground at the injustice of it.
This one goes out to my peep asininestars, who owns Warren. I had no idea what I was going to write for today till it dropped some smoking rotations in chat yesterday. This is for you. <3
Using Lauren the Corgi’s Promptober list.
CWs: Selfcest, noncon (violent rape), egregious levels of self-hatred, suicide attempt by way of homicide attempt, references to child abuse
***
Warren would never have thought of this by himself. What gave him the idea is hearing about what David did to Wheels.
But now, standing over the circles etched into the floor of Wheels’ ritual room clutching one of his own knives, he finds his hands are shaking.
Please please please, I can’t live like this anymore. He hates himself so much. It takes so much out of him not to take this knife and drive it into his own gut and rid himself and the world of the toxins that walk around in this skin of his. I need to cut it out of myself. Free myself of it.
He begins the ritual preparations, moving around the room to set things in place.
Wheels didn’t give him permission to be here. Warren didn’t even ask. It’s the middle of the night and no one else should be in the Crook, except maybe Ashe in the basement, but please, please don’t let him be found until he finishes. Please don’t let Wheels hate him for this.
What he’s doing isn’t the same as what David did. What Warren heard is that he only pretended to be another Wheels, a different self in the same body. But it gave him the idea to go to David, and beg for a ritual that would let him summon himself.
David provided, of course. Why wouldn’t he? He loves a good bit of theatre. Warren is under no illusions that he isn’t being watched, or that David will intercede in any helpful way. This is for his entertainment.
Warren raises the brass bowl to a random corner of the room. “Cheers.”
He doesn’t care, so long as it finally lets him purge himself of this self-hatred. Of this man who has deserved to die for his entire life.
It’s not even a particularly complicated ritual. He lights the incense, and chants the chants. He cuts his hand on his own knife and bleeds into the brass bowl, and then he jerks himself off and ejaculates into it.
That’s the hardest part. He’s never had trouble getting it up before, and his catalog of wank material is endless. Visions of Ira splayed out across their bed, visions of Wheels watching him debauch himself, benevolent and hungry. But visions of himself keep rising up to distract him, till he finds he’s chafing himself painfully with an angry, almost savage grip, as if he’s fucking his worst enemy and he wants them to hurt and bleed for it.
When he orgasms, cum splattering into the bowl, it’s a furious, spiteful sort of climax, teeth gritted and sadistic satisfaction surging.
The smoke of the incense whirls. Thicker and thicker, it begins to gather into a dense cloud in the center of the circle. As Warren rises to his feet and pulls his pants up, it spins the blood and semen up into itself until the bluish-grey is streaked with white and red, and the colors laced and spread through the whole concoction until it’s recognizably a man.
A man with Warren’s face.
No, but not quite, is it? The eyes are a natural golden-brown, not the pure 24 karat gleam of Warren’s. And they’re harder, coolly, arrogantly confident– No, they’re…softer, they’re looking at him with such pity–
Without thinking, Warren snarls and lunges, flipping the knife in his hand into a fighting grip. “How dare you?! How dare you look at me like that!”
The other Warren leans back, knocking the strike out of true. Sidesteps, dodges again, keeps moving as Warren pursues him, circling around each other in a vicious dance of killer and target.
“Come here,” Warren snarls. “Have the decency to die, you bastard!”
His other self catches his wrist. With a twist, he makes Warren drop the knife, and kicks it away out of the circle.
Warren balls up his other hand and punches himself across the chiseled cheekbone. “Fuck you,” he spits. “This is all your fault! Everything! If you had just died back when our father tried–”
His other self wraps arms around him and pulls him tight. Warren thinks for a second he’s finally gotten the message–fight back, kill him, give him what he deserves!–but no. It’s a hug. His other self’s hand on the back of his head presses his face comfortingly into his shoulder.
Warren starts shaking. No. No! He can’t–how dare he forgive him!
The flash of horror gives him the strength to knock them both down, his other self falling onto his back with Warren atop him. “How dare you,” he hisses right into his own face. “How dare you behave as if you were the one who was wronged.”
He’s barely aware of his own actions as he tears at the clothes of his double. His double who reaches up to stroke his cheek and thumb away the tears leaking down his face. Who considerately helps Warren with his own clothes, undoing his trousers when he gets himself tangled up in his own frantic fury.
“You are the one who was wronged,” that other self murmurs as Warren shoves his thighs apart and forces his way into his other self’s ass. He wraps arms and legs around himself as if this is a lover’s clinch and not– Punishment. It’s punishment. Correcting a wrong. Warren’s mind shies away from memories of being held under, pond water in his lungs–
It hurts, fucking another man dry. His other self grunts in pain, body rocking to try to accommodate. Warren grunts too, with the force he’s putting into each thrust, with the chafing drag of his cock into flesh too tight and dry to take him. With how hard it is to catch his breath through the sobs.
“I’m going,” he gulps between gasping for air, “To. Kill you. And then. It’ll. All. Be. Better.” Like you deserve. Like everyone wants. Once he’s dead, maybe there’ll be something redeemable there.
His self cries out in pain. Blood is starting to flow; it makes this a little easier. But he doesn’t let go. He hugs Warren close and pets his hair. Kisses the tears on his cheeks. Murmurs, “I love you. It’s okay, I understand.”
All the fight drains out of Warren abruptly. He goes boneless on top of him. He can’t see shit through the tears. “It just. It hurts too much,” he sobs. “It feels so pointless. What’ll fix it?”
His other self squeezes all his limbs tight around him, rolling his body from side to side like Warren is a baby being rocked to sleep. Warren hates him so much. So much. He just– Wants– Hold onto him. Don’t let him go.
“One day you’ll die,” his self promises him. “One day, you’ll fade away and vanish like smoke, and I’ll be all that’s left. It’s okay. You won’t have to do this anymore.”
But it’s not Warren who vanishes like smoke, is it? In the next breath, he’s lying belly-down on cold tile floor in a puddle of his own snot and blood and cum, his pants and trousers in a screwed-up bundle around his ankles. Incense smoke wisps up around him and away.
He pounds his fists on the ground at the injustice of it.