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Maybe this happens because he's lonely. Or maybe he's lonely precisely because he chooses to be here, doing this, instead of downstairs with actual people, people who are most likely not as filthy and depraved as he is.
It starts, oddly, with boredom – with something like sadness, anguish, but not really that, because those are not things he feels. Then comes the thought, shy and formless, more like an impulse, that he should be using his free time for something good, for something wicked. Sometimes his penis has already started twitching, becoming half hard at the mere thought of his attention, and sometimes, whether that is for better or for worse, it has not reacted at all; whichever the case, he sits back and spreads his legs and puts his hand over his crotch, finding the form of his dick.
He never looks, especially not if he finds the need to undress. He doesn't need to, and if he ends up doing it, he will turn to another type of self-pleasure slash self-harm entirely, one much bloodier. Instead he hides his face somewhere – the bedsheets, a pillow, the palm of his other hand – as he starts to lightly stroke himself, pressing his fingertips enough to make the foreskin accompany his movements.
By this time the thoughts have started to come. He hates them, doesn't want them at all, but these sensations are now forever intertwined with memories of Vox. What shame he felt before starts to give way (not fully, it is never fully gone) to the penetrating memories, to his cursedly vivid and inspired imagination.
Vox had first tried to stimulate him like this, before anything else. Alastor's softness and lack of reaction annoyed him, then quickly became a challenge. He started to squeeze him more forcefully, to stroke harder and slower, and the pain – maybe the disgust, and maybe the fear too – finally started to cross paths with pleasure, against Alastor's every wish. Vox pulled his pants down and found that he was leaking, just like he is now, that his underwear had become damp where it was pressed against his tip.
The image of Vox's horrible bright smile tore open Alastor's chest. He tried to focus on the feeling of his claws grazing his shaft, but it was no use; the feeling of his tongue forcing itself inside Alastor's mouth came with it. Suddenly his own tongue felt too big in his mouth, the sensation of his own stale saliva became too much, and he became able to smell – whether that was imagined or real he could never tell – and taste his own spit. It was horrible, and he hated it, and still it made him rut against his own hand in near desperation.
Vox's tongue, his tongue, his tongue. Alastor felt it lap at his lips, his teeth, felt it go deeper and deeper inside his mouth until it met the entrance to his throat and made him gag. It was too large, too slimy, it could enter him too far. His tongue. Vox's tongue. Vox's tongue against the rim of his ass– against his cock– no, no, no–
He had hated the way Vox sucked and spread him open with his tongue the most. The feeling of having it wet his cock came in close second, along with being taken into his mouth, impossibly because Vox should not have an oral cavity inside that flat head of his but he still did and it was still horribly wet and disgusting and Alastor hated it but it made him feel so good. Didn't it? No, no, it didn't– it only felt good now, in his head, as he remembered it against his best wishes.
Now Alastor was hard enough that his slacks were no longer a pleasurable friction but a confining one, and he undid his buttons to free himself. Still not looking, never looking, he let his hands touch his naked dick, and hissed. He closed his thumb and another two fingers around it in a circle, pressing the foreskin lightly as he brought it up and down the head. The precome came down with it, spread and wet himself, and it was nice but not enough; the dampness that had built up in his underwear before was preferable.
He brought his hand up mindlessly and licked his palm to wet it. It was not enough, so he let the saliva build up in his mouth – panting pathetically as he did, using the rutting friction against his other wrist to not let his arousal die down – and spit on it, licking again for good measure. Vox had done all this to his hand when he forced Alastor to stroke his cock, and again to his own hand when he wanted to stroke Alastor's; though he had been much more invasive about it, sucking on each of Alastor's fingers and licking between them, perhaps because he knew how much Alastor hated it. Again Alastor's hand met his own dick and coated it. The stroking felt slicker, nicer physically if not anything else.
Alastor wanted to die. He wanted to die, he wanted to die, he wanted to kill himself for doing this. He could still feel Vox's tongue against his rim. The wetness was so disgusting, the act itself was so disgusting – what could one get from kissing and licking another's asshole? From circling his sphincter with his tongue, from forcing the tip of his tongue inside just a little bit– too much, too much– it was so bad and so dirty but it felt–
Vox had trailed down before continuing – Alastor didn't know he would continue then, but with hindsight he could see how obvious the purpose of this was, other than to humiliate him – and let the buildup of saliva in his tongue drip and trail down to his perineum. He held Alastor's hip up in the air in a way that had his dick hanging down loosely, brushing against Vox's chest, but now he pressed him upwards a little more so he could trace his mouth down to Alastor’s balls. His balls in Vox mouth felt just as filthy as being rimmed had, yet it also somehow felt better. And then Vox's sharp fingers started to press against his hole and he panicked and thrashed and had earned a cock down his throat for it, made to swallow it down repeatedly and keep it there, breathless and salivating so much he started to choke on his own spit, as Vox went back to licking him.
Before all this, he had never really felt the need for penetration during his rare masturbation sessions, perhaps because they were so infrequent that any sort of attention to his hard dick felt pleasurable enough to bring him to orgasm. But now, he found himself addicted to it.
Alastor brought his unused hand to his mouth and sucked on its two biggest fingers. Somehow the feeling of a tongue, such a flexible and meaty muscle, against them had started to feel good, beyond the filth and eroticness of the act itself. He fingered his mouth slowly with them, pressed down on his tongue a bit to get more spit. His digits went a little too far and he gagged, bringing them out instantly in reflex. It made his dick twitch too hard; he moaned as he fucked his other hand quicker for a moment, just a few seconds before his sucked fingers found his asshole and pressed.
It did not give way immediately; it never did, unless Vox had drugged him.
“You're too damn tight”, he would say. Alastor pressed his middle finger in harder, not forcefully but just enough to break the tension and enter, and took one deep breath. “I ought to fuck you harder, longer, plug you up all day so that hole will never close again. What do you say? Would you like that, walking around all day with a shiny toy up your ass?” Alastor had whimpered then, shaking his head, horrified at the thought, but now it too somehow aroused him. “Nobody would know. Just you and me. Our little secret.”
He motioned to pull his finger out, then pushed it in, again and again until he found a rhythm good enough to get his ass used to having something inside, something moving. It was not nearly enough, and this position wasn't helping. He pulled out and shifted his hips so that they were parallel to the ground, his dick facing up and his ass easier to access.
His other hand never stopped fully stroking until it was time to put the second finger in. This should be easy by now but it wasn't. There was always too much resistance. Vox was right. He was too tight. Maybe it was how tense and disgusted he always felt, though at this point he only had one thing on his mind and those feelings were either brushed aside or were absorbed by his arousal, intensifying it.
He put his middle finger tip in again, then with his other hand, spread himself, pressing down and tugging at his buttocks so his rim would widen. Another deep breath in; a press of his index finger inside; deep breath out.
Two fingers inside. His two fingers. Vox's fingers. In and out and in and out and–
Pressing against that stupid spot inside. He hadn't even known where it was before.
“Feels good, right?” Vox had chuckled. “That's your prostate. I'm gonna use it to make you beg,” he'd said.
“Vox,” Alastor moaned to his empty room. His lonesome quarters, where he was lonely, because he hated everyone and he would never let anyone ever touch him again because the memory of this was too much, even if he now deliriously wished someone – no, something – was thrusting into him.
The memory was too much for a lifetime. It was bad, it made him want to die, but it got him like this. It made him hard, it made him fuck himself with his fingers while he moaned Vox's – a man he despised – name into his empty room. Pathetic, so pathetic. He should die for this.
“Rape me,” he whispered to no one. His stroking hand picked up pace and he rutted into it, making his fingers inside move along, presing them upwards with force, rubbing his middle finger against that spot again, feeling how it shot straight through his dick and to his head. “Rape me,” he whimpered, feeling tears well up his eyes, and he came.
He was breathless now, so uncoordinated in his breathing had he started panting. Little sounds came out of him accidentally – not like the loud, dramatic ones Vox had made while he trusted inside, but quiet, punched out strained moans that he could not believe were coming from him.
There was cum all over his stomach, reaching his chest, and now the last of it started to pool down beneath the head of his dick. He pulled his fingers out, his hand away, and lay splayed for several seconds as he caught his breath.
How horrible he was. How disgusting. He should be killed, organize a public execution for himself. He is filth. He deserves the rot he eats.
As he cleans himself up mechanically, doing his best to not participate in what his body was doing, he thinks of being lonely again. In that regard, he has always known the truth. He has been lonely since youth, since birth, because of what is inside of him. He has been a monster from the start.
But never has he been so wicked. Never was he so disgusting, not when he was killing, not when he was eating corpses, not when he let his wounds go unchecked and infect and ooze. This is his lowest. He is the lowest.