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"Festive Fare"Written By: Fancy Figures Disclaimer: I don't own 'em, wish I did, just
enjoy writing about 'em for free etc Rating: R Warnings: Xmas fluff, Yaoi, lime Pairings: None – just Zechs Summary: Be careful what you wish for… you
may receive it! Feedback: If you liked it, PLEASE let me know! "Festive Fare "
“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 this year?” 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 motivated –“ 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 stimulating. “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 *over* -! 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 rather arousing. “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 Nebraska. Maybe.” “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…” End
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