Disclaimer: I don't own 'em, wish I did, just enjoy writing about 'em
for free etc
Pairings: None -- just Zechs
Category: Xmas fluff
Warnings: Yaoi, lime
Notes: Be careful what you wish for... you may receive it!
Happy (early) Christmas, wings!
Feedback: If you liked it, PLEASE let me know!
Another one of my 'Pocky Christmas' arc... lol
The tall, bronzed guy rolled
to a spectacularly well-controlled halt at the doorway of the apartment.
He flipped his board up, catching it neatly under his arm, and gave a
high five to no-one in particular. He was bare-chested -- he wore a brightly
coloured pair of shorts, a baseball cap twisted so the brim hung over
the back of his neck, and nothing else. He tugged at the backpack he carried,
re-settled his wrap-around shades, and brushed back a stray white dreadlock.
His head was lavishly covered with them. Then he snapped his fingers and
was immediately -- inexplicably -- transported inside the apartment, into
the middle of the living room.
"Gotta say the lack of soot-filled chimneys in these buildings is a hell
of a lot easier on the old sinuses," he chortled. He moved half a dozen
discarded Pocky packets and instant ramen wrappers to one side, and hauled
the backpack off, down on to the floor. He puffed a little with the effort,
despite his impressive pectoral muscles. It was very heavy. "Damned guy
should think about leaving some of that weaponry at home," he complained.
"Plays havoc with the soft toys... "
He shook open the backpack, and out of it sprang -- miraculously, like
one of those collapsible camping tents -- an extremely large, well-polished
silver platter. The guy frowned at it, tapped it gently to check its authenticity,
then slipped it discreetly down beside the couch. He rummaged back inside
the backpack and pulled out a few more items. Grinning, he flipped off
his hat, and dropped the items in. The hat also went down beside the couch.
He stretched his tanned, muscled arms above his head and popped some joints.
Then he snapped his fingers again, and a man appeared out of the pack.
A tall, slender, well-built man with a military bearing and strikingly
good looks. The uniform coat was loosened at the throat; the sensual swing
of his long, white-blond hair teased threads at his smooth, imperial throat.
He landed gracefully on the couch, shaking his head gently as if to clear
away some cobwebs, and tugging fastidiously at his white-gloved hands.
The man in shorts took his eyes off the man's throat and stared up at
his piercing glare, questioningly. "Problems with the transport arrangements,
my dear Count?"
"Some minor disagreement with the children's toys," murmured the blond
man. "An issue of discipline with My Little Pony. It has now received
the appropriate handling -- you'll not have such disobedience again."
He gazed appraisingly around the apartment. He pressed gingerly at the
couch cushions, testing their comfort, then he carefully moved an expensive
laptop to one side, and swung one of his long, lean legs over the other,
settling back in his seat. His gaze turned back to his companion, looking
him up and down; and obviously finding him lacking. His nose wrinkled
with some distaste; an eyebrow raised with cynicism.
"Do you really think that the world is ready for an Alternative Santa
The man scowled back. "I'm a similar size to you, Zechs; I reckon I can
carry off the physique -"
The blond man inclined his head slightly. "Admittedly, that's true --"
"And you've got long hair!" protested the other, his dreadlocks
shaking with some agitation. "They all love that, don't they?"
"They do indeed," smirked Zechs. "But then the world reverts to an almost
unwholesome nursery attitude at this time of year -- and they do expect
you, at the very least, to be the traditional figure."
The other man's face fell. "You mean - fat," he said gloomily,
looking down at his washboard stomach. He waved a hand over his body,
resignedly. His skin began to stretch -- it paled, and padded out, and
a paunch bounced out over his waistband.
"And old." The dreadlocks spun apart, leaving tufts of white, wispy
hair all over his head. A beard began crawling inexorably from his lantern
jaw. The skin around his mouth and eyes began to sink into small, but
deep laughter lines.
"And dressed in red, for Rudolf's sake -!" he wailed. The Hawaiian print
shorts seemed suddenly seeped in a rich scarlet dye, swamping the cheery
little palm tree fabric. They grew down to his ankles as pants, and then
up and over his arms as a jacket, clothing him in thick, warm, fleece.
Red fleece, with a wide black belt to clinch the jacket round his portly
belly, and hold up his pants. A pair of black boots pounced greedily on
to his bare browned feet.
"That's much better!" smiled Zechs, in a rather patronising way.
"The perfect picture of a Christmas Santa Claus. Think of the happy smiling
faces on those charming little children... "
Santa glared at him with something like hatred. It sat ill with the ruddy
cheeks. "You just don't like the competition, man," he grumbled. "The
fucking summer's too short already -- just a few more days in beach wear,
boarding with a couple of the other dudes, and I could have faced the
winter refreshed -
Zechs waved a hand, impatiently. "You even sound more like him now. I
think we all like the familiar, don't we?" He brushed some stray blond
hairs from his gold epaulette. "So anyway, back to work. What's the set-up
here? It's a pleasant enough apartment I must say -- it has a very satisfactory
masculine touch. Now, I can lounge about in dress uniform for a day or
so -- maybe put the mask back on. I'm good at posing for artwork. I can
converse with all visitors most charmingly. And I won't disappoint in
my bedroom duties. I might even be persuaded into a threesome if properly
Santa scrabbled in his pocket for some scraps of paper. "No, it's a different
kind of request. An alternative presentation -- I welcomed the
challenge, to tell you the truth."
Zechs glanced between the man's fleecy red coat and his paint-splashed
skateboard by the dresser, and he sighed. "That figures."
Santa raised an eyebrow at the handsome blond's arrogance; of course,
that's just what some of 'em liked. Even he had the occasional
daydream involving Zechs, the latest Element skateboard, and bathing trunks
full of chocolate chip ice cream...
With a stifled smirk, he snapped his fingers towards the couch. There
was a burst of rather amateur-looking white smoke, a rattle of something
metallic, and a flurry of bright green parsley sprigs.
Zechs looked down at himself with total, chilly horror. He was stark naked,
laid out on a large silver platter, on his hands and knees, crouching
back down on his calves with his ass rather provocatively in the air.
His legs and ankles were snagged together with long, slim threads of shining
tinsel -- flimsy, fragile strips in themselves, but surprisingly difficult
to break apart. He knew that, because he tried -- he tried very forcefully.
He suspected -- angrily - that magic was involved.
"That's Christmas for you!" smirked the man, watching him wriggle unsuccessfully.
"This is ludicrous! I'm like a trussed-up turkey --" he hissed. He could
feel the cool air of the apartment's air-conditioning on his bare ass.
He was a little unnerved to find the breeze between his cheeks was rather
"Just for fun, kid," grinned Santa. "You'll get used to it in a while."
"No I won't," said Zechs in the voice that had commanded armies. "Release
me at once!"
"It's what the customer wants," wheedled the man in red. He sounded like
he was stifling laughter. And not very discreetly.
"Fuck the customer --!"
"No, that's not usually until about page 3... " mused Santa, turning the
letter of request around in his hands. "Look, here! There's a comfortable
couch first -- there's bright, vivacious conversation -- there's the pleasure
of good food and fine friends. Oh, and did I mention there'll be photos?"
"Photos?!" groaned Zechs. He could feel one edge of the tinsel tickling
at his ankle. "Of me like this?"
"Very likely!" announced the rotund man, full of the familiar Christmas
bonhomie. At Zechs' expense. "Oh, and one thing I forgot --"
Zechs let out his breath with relief -- the man was going to see sense
at last, and let him off this damned platter! It was cold on his knees;
it was just that little bit too uke for his liking. Something inside
him laughed at his false modesty, knowing his proclivities just a little
better than he cared to admit, even to himself.
Nonsense, he grimaced privately, it was about time the damned joke was
But Santa wasn't cutting the tinsel -- he wasn't unfolding him from this
most humiliating, vulnerable position. He'd reached down to retrieve his
baseball cap from beside the couch. Zechs heard the soft squeak of a bottle
top being unscrewed; caught the slightest aroma of a strong, saucy fragrance.
He craned his head round to see, stretching his long, slim neck. The pulse
throbbed gently at his throat -- despite himself, the position was proving
"Are you there, damn you? Am I to be a gift for the Christmas Log, then,
or are you still moping over that Elvish princess with the lush lips -?"
Well, he mused, savouring the goosebumps on his buttocks like the
tentative fingers of a nervous lover, in the absence of some handsome
young buck to come admire him, and if Santa wanted to morph back to that
alternative persona -- despite the crass shorts, and the poorly executed
tattoo of a pirate across his back - he might be tempted to -
He yelped aloud, as soft, thick sauce dribbled a path down his back and
over his buttocks. Down over his hips; leaking into the creases of his
bent limbs. Words of protest failed him -- he was too shocked.
It smelled like A1 sauce. He laughed at the ridiculous notion!
Santa was also laughing now, rather too heartily. "Tex Mex Zechs," he
chortled. "A Piquante, Zesty Zechs --" and he slapped a too-familiar hand
on Zech's left cheek. Zechs' long, fine hair fell forward over his flushed
face; he felt the after shock of the generous belly rippling inside the
thick red coat. "Fine hips, kid -- not meaty, but lean. Good skin; the
promise of a tart sweetness. Yes, you're just what the customer ordered."
Zechs opened his mouth for one last complaint -- and Santa popped a gag
in. Almost as an afterthought.
"Mmphgphhh?" growled the captive man. Down between his cramped legs, things
were hotting up. And not just because of the trails of spicy sauce running
out of his navel.
"Apple shaped," replied Santa, cheerfully, having no idea what the question
may have been. "Just that finishing touch, you know? Parsley's off the
menu again; My Little Pony ate most of it on the way here." He stretched
out tired arms, and lifted the backpack up on to his shoulders again.
"You'll go well with some green tea -- I'll be back after <?xml:namespace
prefix = st1 ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags"
"Bhhmphhhhh!" moaned Zechs.
Santa shrugged. "Dunno when he'll be here. He keeps odd hours. Suck on
your apple and mind your manners. You're a guest here, remember?"
As he lifted a hand to snap his way out of the apartment again, the portly
figure looked up covertly at the ceiling -- and winked. In the background,
there was the faint whirr of a camera rewinding. Zechs' moaning drowned
most of it out. "Enjoy!" smirked Santa. And snapped.
More clumsy smoke, one last sprig of sorry-looking parsley, some sticky
ramen threads, and he'd gone.
The pouting voice came back through the walls like a steaming breath in
the middle of a frost. "Damn, I never got the chance to show him my new
piercing! Three little silver Christmas trees, all in a row... " There
was the sound of a belt rattling, like he'd readjusted his pants at the
thought. "Have to see what that Elven Princess thinks about it... "
to Fancy Figures' fic]