Work Text:
"Vlad, darling, look!" says Jonathan, knotting his robe about his waist as he toes his way down the stairs into the perfect pitch blackness of their parlour. "Santa's been."
Three sooty sackfuls filled to brimming await them on the hearth—and nothing else.
Vlad hums, inspecting the gift tags. "And why've you got two bags of coal this year, while I've only the one?"
Jonathan smiles wolfishly. "I suppose I've just been a bit naughtier than you." But when he kisses his lover—maker—master, there's little tooth. He offers, gently, "Now come: let's light ourselves a nice roaring fire..."