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Like everything else in Alastor and Vox's relationship, Sinsmas is a competition, and Alastor hates to lose. It's especially galling because he does lose, every single year. For all his crass consumerism, Vox is an exceptional gift giver, which is perhaps unsurprising given that he's constantly watching everyone with those omnipresent cameras. It's an unfair advantage, really.
This year, Vox's present to Alastor is in a slim box, wrapped in shiny silver paper, a blue and red ribbon tied around it. It's heavier than it looks, and thuds when he shakes it. “Go on, then,” Vox grins, and he already has a victorious glint in his eyes. He already knows he's got a strong entry, the odious man.
Inside, there's just a knife. It's deadly sharp, but it looks old, the metal dulled with scratches and dings. “A used knife? How thoughtful,” he drawls, before he picks it up, and… oh. He recognises the perfect weight and balance of that blade in his hand at once. This was the knife he'd used on the mortal plane.
Vox laughs at the look of sudden shock his face must be displaying. “Surprise! Had it stolen from the collection of one of those murderabilia creeps,” he looks unbearably smug. “Dude was unhealthily obsessed with you, and yeah, that's me saying that.”
“You're still giving me my own possession back!” Alastor protests, to hide the fact that he is really rather touched to be reunited with an old friend like this. “That should disqualify you.”
“Yeah, I thought you'd say that. So there's a second part.” Vox spreads his hands wide. “I'm all yours, baby. Took the next week off so you can have all you want, nose to tail.”
“You have neither of those things,” Alastor swallows back the sudden surge of bloodlust. Vox just doesn't let him do this anymore. His punishing work schedule means he doesn't ever want to take the time off to regenerate, and so Alastor is lucky to get even a mouthful from time to time. And now he's being offered a Sinsmas feast? His mouth waters at the prospect.
“Oh shut up, you know what I meant,” Vox rolls his eyes. “You want it or not?” And in the blink of an eye, Alastor has Vox tied down in a second to their dining table, tentacles wrapping around his wrists and ankles to hold him in place. “I'll take that as a yes, then?”
Alastor isn't really listening. The knife in his hand weighs heavy with anticipation, and he slides it down the front of Vox's shirt, cutting off the buttons, laying aside the crisp white cotton so he can admire his chest. Fascinatingly inorganic, with those vents, the rectangular nipples. But he knows very well how deliciously alive he is on the inside.
He sets his knife at the hollow of Vox's throat, skates the tip down over his sternum. It parts flesh just as readily as it always did, and Vox lets out a faint hiss that becomes a groan when the knife reaches his belly, and there's no more bone to stop it sinking in. He's careful not to let it sink too deep - he doesn't want to nick anything too important just yet, and have him bleed out too quickly. He wants to enjoy his gift.
Carefully, Alastor opens that hole wider. Vox's skin gives way to layers of subcutaneous fat, dense muscle, lacy caul that he carefully separates to reveal the inner workings of his husband's body. It's as beautiful as he remembers, and with a sigh, he lays his head next to the open wound, watching it move in silent rhythm. “It's lovely,” he murmurs, running his finger along the tangle of his small intestine, watching the smooth muscle shiver.
“It's gross, but hey. Anything to make you happy, babe,” Vox smiles down fondly at him, before the expression flickers when Alastor's tongue slides against him, running across the smooth firm flesh of his belly to gather up the blood that has already spilled forth. His blood is always a rare treat, richly metallic, a delicious appetiser to the main course coming.
Alastor pushes a hand inside the hole he has opened. He knows the way, but he takes his time, caressing and exploring each organ in turn. He already knows exactly what he will do with each part of him - sweetbreads, grillades, bouille! - but first, he will help himself to his favourite cut, and curls his hand deeper to cradle Vox's liver. It's almost scalding hot, heavy and precious in his palm. The other hand trims away the connective tissue holding it in place so he can lift it up and out, laying it on his belly. Under the lights, it glistens darkly purple, tremors running through it like a frightened beast.
Alastor tightens Vox's restraints when he too starts to tremble, more out of sheer animal instinct than any genuine desire to get away. “Stop it. You'll make my cuts clumsy,” he warns, slicing away a piece of that beautiful organ, popping it between his lips. It's dense and heavy, and parts beneath his teeth like butter, letting the complex flavour of it fill his mouth. Greedily he helps himself to another bite, and another, until it's cut down to nothing. After all, at this time of year, gluttony is not only accepted but encouraged.
“Feels so weird,” Vox pants, and oh yes, there it is. Even with his insides on the outside, he is an incorrigible creature, and Alastor can see that he is very much aroused.
“You don't care how I am inside you, just that I am?” he teases, licking blood off the blade, and Vox's eyes follow his tongue with single-minded intent. He can hardly blame him. The feast has barely begun, but his blood is up. How can it not be? Vox looks beautiful opened up like this, the taste of him lingering in his mouth. He wants more.
Alastor slits the waistband of Vox's pants, pulling them down and off. His own trousers he steps out of far more elegantly, folding them to one side before he swings one leg over Vox's hips, straddling him. His pussy is already so wet, the red curls almost black where they're soaked between his thighs, and Vox's hips rut up desperately towards him. “You desperate thing, I'm amazed you can even sustain one in this condition,” he playfully flicks Vox's little cock with one finger, chuckling softly. “Not that it takes much.”
“Shut up, just…” Vox trails off with a strangled whine as Alastor sits down on him. Not inside - he just wants to feel their bodies together, slick and wet. He rocks his hips back and forth, grinding his clit against Vox's dick, biting into his lip with a desperate sigh.
“You don't like it when I'm quiet,” he teases, his eyelashes fluttering closed in satisfaction. The air between them is hot, thick with the scent of sweat and iron, the sound of Vox's gasps becoming increasingly needy. “You like it when I moan, don't you? When I tell you how much my body yearns for you?”
Vox lets out a strangled groan at the vulgar words, hips rutting up weakly. "Babe, you're killing me,” he whimpers.
“Yes, that is rather the idea,” Alastor drawls. He's grinding his clit harder against Vox's dick, and honestly, he likes this better than penetration. Something about having Vox helpless beneath him, prey and toy all in one delightfully bleeding package… yes. This is a very satisfactory gift indeed.
Alastor hips move, increasingly frantic for more sensation. It makes his knees slip in the blood leaking out of Vox's side vents, and he sits down on his dick, hard and sudden. The pressure of it makes them both gasp, Alastor high and desperate, Vox with a wheezing wet undertone. There's blood in his lungs now, and Alastor sighs. All good things must come to an end, and he will make sure this ends spectacularly.
So Alastor takes up his knife once more, carefully opens Vox's diaphragm from the inside. His hips don't cease their careful, deliberate grinding, even as he eases his hands up into the cage of Vox's ribs, curling around his heart. The beat of it against his hands is getting gradually weaker, but he still delights in how it still speeds up every time he rocks his hips downwards. Vox is gone, Alastor can tell, although he's not sure if it's from blood loss or pleasure, and his increasingly faint gasps aren't indicative either way.
Grasping his heart firmly, Alastor pulls. The heart is a well-mounted organ, and it takes all his strength to tear it from its sanctuary. It finally comes loose with an obscene wet tearing noise, and Vox arches his back against his restraints, a last rattling groan echoing before his screen turns dark with a faint electronic plink. His muscles relax, hands uncurling, and the last breath wheezes out of him softly. Alastor admires it, watches his body settle while he takes a bite of the dark red heart, the muscle twitching against his lips like it hasn't quite realised it's dead yet.
Almost as an afterthought, he looks between his legs curiously, mouth twisting into a wry grin as he sees the white splash of cum smeared over his thighs and pussy. Idly, he wonders at what point Vox actually got off. He'll ask him about it when he gets back. Right now, he's got a carcass to process.
*
Alastor is cooking when he finally hears feet shuffling from their bedroom, a muffled curse as Vox apparently stubs his toe. He appears in his boxers, scratching his freshly regenerated belly tiredly as he comes over to see what he’s making. His expression wrinkles when he sees that the sausage crackling next to the eggs is suspiciously blue. “Ugh. Throw out that pan later in case I accidentally use it.”
“My best cast iron skillet? No indeed. You shouldn't be touching it anyway, you culinary disaster,” Alastor kisses his cheek. “Welcome back, cher.”
Vox kisses him in return, wrapping around him from behind to watch him cook. “You liked your present?”
“I did,” Alastor acknowledges magnanimously. “You won, of course, which is your gift from me. I know how much you sulk when you don't get to win. Which means, in fact, that I won.”
“Hey wait! You didn’t win, fucker! I won!”