Work Text:
their room is naturally dismal; dark, thin walls with only a window and a night lantern to provide an inkling of light. it doesnt matter, not to andrew, not when he needs a light to brighten the room. no… victor is the brightest light. the warmth of the hearth. they are not made of good fortune, but like the sun to life on earth, just a bit of that light is what andrew needs to survive.
so when tanned arms stretch up, up, filigree hairs illuminated by weak morning rays, andrew is enthralled. theyre in the thick of winter now, frost frequent at the corners of their little hut, but all he feels is warmth pulsing home, and he feels giddy and guilty and possessive. andrew used to believe it was a sin to be able to wake up to such a sight with no repercussions. now, as he slides his arms around cotton wool and warmth, he revels in it. there is no redemption for a man who bears the mark of the beast, and so he embraces the fingers that wind through his hair, the gravelly grunt that grates his ears, the sleepy lips that land clumsily against his brow.
victor is many things all at once, but this has to be one of his favourite sides of him. lax and loving, weightless when he bathes in the scent of home. easy to tug about, trusting. welcoming as andrew closes in, trailing fire up his jugular with greedy lips. he feels it beneath his skin, victor's pulse steady and quiet. he feels it against his lips, victor's nigh unresponsive in turn. today is his birthday, goes a timely reminder in andrew's mind, but the lack of urgency in victor's sluggish movements is intoxicating. he knows he wants to take care of him today. but neither of them, andrew knows, are ready to break this morning haze, not when victor cranes and arches for his attention, eyes not yet open. not when he reacts so openly, andrew's will weak to his magnetic lull, slotting closer and filling the empty space between them.
he already looks so disheveled, andrew marvels breathlessly. hair up in angles and his loose sleeves all bunched up at the joints. his eyes are closed but the fatigued darkness in honey, he can already imagine with a watering mouth, could easily be imagined for something raw, carnal. it's another one of his favourite sides of victor, maybe even moreso than victor when he wakes. his husband soft and sated, sweat kissed off his brow and bliss scripted in purple and blue. andrew liked that look on him a lot. andrew wanted to see it more on him, more than the stress he shields behind false smiles. more than the exhaustion he comes home with.
and suddenly, andrew is glad they have the day to themselves. the world deemed it appropriate to pause for the holidays, and so he would take care of him today. a hand weighing on his stomach is all it takes, victor's eyes finally creeping open - just barely - and he blooms so similarly to their apple tree that andrew nearly finds himself stunned still. but then he leans down and is rewarded with this small smile and it's all andrew needs to hike up the hem of victor's shirt and feel sunlight from its source. this sort of connection, andrew appreciates. where he needn't even open his mouth to tell victor his thoughts. it grows uncanny, at times, but where victor is easy and pliant beneath his hand, he really can't bring himself to mind.
and he makes it so, so worth it, sucking on him the way he does when their lips meet, endlessly drawing him in. clothes are a distant thought, as well as the chill outside of the sheets; victor was more than enough to chase it away. it's a blur, mapping his body rough and rigid with the task of surviving, pressing love into it. softening it. he remembers keenly, the fingers gripping his head turning tight as he stills at the hilt, the noise victor ground out sending molten want down his spine, and perhaps he rushed.
as andrew breathes steadily above victor, a hand pressing firm on his stomach to ground his husband, yes… perhaps he rushed. but how could he not when even now, victor enticed him with a vice that fluttered with his pulse, warm and wet and entirely too tight when he asks for more with hurried hands. as if he needs to ask when andrew was so ready to provide. victor is a mostly silent lover, giving gasps and shuddering pants when he takes, and ever so rarely the breathless croon of his name when he peaks. he doesn't mind, not when he grips on him the way he does, ensnaring his attention so that he doesn't even mind the way his own noises escape him.
it's not fair, really, how victor moves. with his hands tight around andrews wrists or his arms, or his own arms slung over his shoulders, curling and bending like he was born for taking cock. bouncing with the force of his weight, eyes rolling up and keening quietly when he hits home. he's too graceful for someone who gets awkward with his limbs when he doesn't know what to do with them, and andrew would be jealous if it wasn't a sight only for him. just for him… his hips stutter to the thought, and it's the last one on his mind for a short while.
he comes to in time to watch victor shudder into completion, spilling into the pale hand he guides on himself and leaking onto his stomach when he doesn't immediately pry it away. andrew doesn't mind the mess, too enamoured by the way victor rides his high to then fall back into his sleepy slump. the chill starts to settle in, and later they would need to throw worn blankets onto their bed as a makeshift spread while their sheets dried but… that comes later, andrew decides when he wipes victor's spend on the duvet in favour of pulling it back over them.
he doesn't get much of a reaction when he settles, curling his arms around his lover, but it isn't long before he comes around to press a chaste kiss to his chin. a simple notion, but andrew is a simple man, and that's all it takes. "... happy birthday."
'merry christmas.'