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Blood was always something that comforted Vox. Specifically his own blood. It was nice… Having control. Blue claws draped over his stomach. It'd be so easy to just rip his guts out and bleed out. Vox didn't have that much control though. He wished he did. Wished he had more control over everything. But he doesn't. And he never will. Beads of red stained his claws.
Red was such a lovely color. Too bad it reminded Vox of Alastor. His grip tightened. Val and Velvette would probably call him pathetic if they knew. They wouldn't understand. Couldn't understand. Vox wasn't human. He was just an object. A doll to hurt. And if nobody was going to hurt him, he'd do it himself. He didn't deserve to be safe or happy. He was such a terrible person… And maybe once he would've loved it.
But now it felt wrong. Now it curled up in his stomach, growing, consuming him from the inside out. Like a particularly gross fungus that wont go. Vox hated this. He had so much hate… how could he possibly care for anything when he was just hate? Hate for those who have it better, for those who mocked him, for those who look at him with pity in their eyes...
Vox hated pity. It's why he'd tore up his new body that the other Vees supplied. It hurt. He deserved it. He wished Alastor would just appear in the doorway. Tear him apart. Maybe record it… if it was, Val would probably turn it into some sort of porno. Vox laughed. All of hell would laugh at it. Probably masturbate to the idea that Vox, the great television overlord, could be brought down by something as pathetic as emotions.
Because he let Alastor live. He let him win. He let Valentino grab his head.
He'd let them win.
And maybe that was the worst part. He only had himself to blame. His hands drifted down, brushing against his crotch. Fuck him for getting wet at the thought of being raped. Claws hesitated before pushing into those folds.
He didn't do this often. He has always just been an object. He liked to just be a sex toy. Still, he was hot and bothered now.
Despite how large his claws were, it was easy to pretend his fingers were Valentino's. Pretend he didn't want this. A shudder slipped out as his other hand wrapped around his neck. He didn't know if he was in pain or pleasure. He hated it. But fuck, it was the best thing hes felt for a while.
He wants to rip his guts out, eat them too. Just to know how it feels. He wants to be empty inside and rot in his room. He could gouge out his eyes and rip off his limbs until he can't move and die from dehydration or blood loss.
Maybe the hell bugs in pentagram would eat part of Vox's body. Maybe he wouldn't be found until it's too late, until his corpse is already gone.
Maybe Alastor would rip his teeth out one by one while Vox screams and struggles. He wants it to get recorded and laughed at. He'll claw at his skin. He could take a knife and torture himself, bang his head against the wall. He should stop eating and starve to death. Maybe just pass out and die.
Vox hates everything. He hates himself. He needs to hurt. It hurts less when he does. His body doesn't feel right. Vox's bones aren't his, his synthetic skin a prison. It hurts. He wants to sleep and wake up to being mutilated. He wants people to give up on him. They didn't care before. Why do they care now?
His claws itch. When was there so much blood…? Fuck, if the angels didn't kill him for trying to start a war, he'd sure as hell end up doing it himself…
The angelic pocket knife rests in his drawer. It was the one lethal thing Val and Velvette let him keep. For emergencies. For defense…
No other emergency like now.
The blade was hot against his skin. Not really. It was only the cuts that burned. The blade was cold. He wasn't going too deep yet. Why not? Didn't he want this?
Maybe not.
Still, he pressed harder. Fuck. It really stung. His pussy throbbed. He hadn't exactly brought himself to compleation… Blood dripped down his thighs. Velvette wouldn't notice his thighs. And if Valentino did see Vox naked, it'd be during sex. He probably would think Vox was just some masochist.
Vox's cutting became frenzied soon. A desperate need to bleed. Once his thighs were all marked up, his eyes glanced at his wrists. He really was going to kill himself doing this…
Maybe then they'd see him.