Work Text:
Siete can’t help thinking, as he does a slow one-eighty in the full length mirror, that he’s really outdone himself this time. His custom-made Santa suit turned out perfectly last year, but he’s added some flair—flashier trim, additional bells. Only the best for the kids of the Grandcypher.
He sets his hat on a slightly jauntier lean, hoists his bag over his shoulder, and jingles out the door. It’s well past midnight now; even the stragglers determined to wait up for Santa have been whisked off to their beds.
Siete crosses the threshold into the common area and gives the room a quick sweep. A lamp is still lit near the stockings, and there’s someone curled up on the couch. He pauses a moment, but the figure doesn’t stir, so he creeps to the mantle and sets down his bag. He smiles at the row of handmade stockings, each embroidered with their owners’ names and lovingly garnished with marker drawings and glued-on sequins. They’re all such good kids—Yaia, Caim, Funf, Ardora, Yae, Lobelia—
Siete chokes.
Yes, a double-take confirms—that’s Lobelia, all right, stitched in flowery script on a cherry red stocking—which can only mean one thing. Siete doesn’t want to look, but his morbid need to be one hundred percent sure has him peering over his shoulder anyway.
Lobelia looks oddly small the way he’s curled up against the arm of the couch in his bathrobe, but now that Siete’s actually paying attention it hardly takes a second to pin down every little feature he’s come to know so well. The good news is Lobelia actually does seem to have fallen asleep waiting for him to arrive, so if Siete is quick and quiet enough, he’ll be able to carry out his mission without incident.
But then Lobelia groans, and Siete’s plan is shot in more ways than one.
Lobelia moaning in his sleep is not an unusual thing, if the nights they’ve ended up actually sleeping together after, well, sleeping together, have been any indication. There are certain things Siete doesn’t ask about, and where Lobelia goes when he closes his eyes is at the top of that list. The nights he’s been too fucked out to leave Lobelia’s suspiciously soundproofed room he’s taken to throwing a pillow over the other man’s face and pulling the sheets up over his head. Not that it’s been that many nights. He just hasn’t been counting.
The noise is more distracting than ever tonight, but Siete does his best to set his scattered thoughts back in order. He has stockings to stuff and he’s not about to let the good children of the Grandcypher wake up to see their dreams in shreds just because this idiot decided to—
“Mmm, très bien!”
“What are you doing? ” Siete hisses, because this time he’s more than a little curious, because Lobelia looks as though he’s caught between death’s door and a violent orgasm, and especially because the last thing Siete wants is for someone to come running now.
Lobelia gasps like he’s on his last breath and opens his eyes. He looks feverish, disoriented, and for a moment Siete’s stomach drops with genuine concern. He hurries over and tugs off a glove, resting his hand against Lobelia’s sweaty forehead as his breathing slows and his eyes start to focus.
“Est-ce...Santa Claus?”
“No—well, for the time being, yes, but—” He smooths back the curls crowding Lobelia’s brow, grateful for the low light and the beard obscuring half his face. “Are you all right?”
“Oh, oui, I’m wonderful.” Lobelia’s eyes flutter shut for a moment and he shivers despite the color in his cheeks. “I was just away, you know—on the other side, swimming in the happy sound of my destruction... Ah, but I don’t mind popping back over for you. Our mélodie is quite satisfying in its own way.”
Naturally, an explanation from Lobelia is no explanation at all. He certainly seems pleased with himself, though, lighting up with a grin far too charming for his own good. He uncurls himself, stretching out along the whole length of the couch and extending a hand in lazy invitation. Siete takes it out of...reflex, he supposes, and Lobelia guides him into his lap. There’s just enough room for Siete’s knees to frame Lobelia’s hips—snug, but not uncomfortable—although Lobelia’s very obvious erection digging into Siete’s thigh is bound to become a problem sooner rather than later.
Siete sighs, equal parts exasperation and relief. “Yeah, you seem to be doing just fine.”
“Hmm? You weren’t worried about me, were you, mon cher? ” Siete hates those words and all they imply, he hates how Lobelia’s voice is thick and heavy with sleep, how his nimble fingers wind into Siete’s hair with more familiarity than they deserve.
“Finding a body under the tree would be pretty disappointing for the kids, don’t you think?” Siete says with a straight enough face.
“I don’t know,” Lobelia croons, scratching at Siete’s scalp affectionately. “I think it sounds kind of exciting.”
Siete goes through the motion of rolling his eyes, but the way Lobelia’s hand slips down along his jawline takes his heart right out of it.
And suddenly Lobelia is laughing, giddy and boyish, like he’s just been told an excellent joke.
“Désolé,” he wheezes, tugging on the strap securing Siete’s fake beard, “but this—I can’t—”
“I thought it looked good on me,” Siete grumbles as he pulls it off and tosses it on the floor. “You’re awful.”
“You like it.”
Siete dips in for a kiss to shut him up, and Lobelia reciprocates with fervor. His hands find Siete’s hair again, tangling up in great tufts of it and knocking his hat clean off. He gulps down Siete’s protest and arches up against him, moaning shamelessly just as they break apart.
“Shh,” Siete scolds. “We’re in public. Sort of.”
Lobelia takes a moment’s pause to look him over, licking his lips and concluding in an obedient hush, “You look good in red.”
“This was a setup,” Siete grumbles as the flattery goes straight to his head.
“Non! ” Lobelia protests and laughs, “Non, I truly didn’t know you would be playing the part. But since you’re here...”
He runs his fingers down Siete’s sides. “Is there anything in that bag for me?”
“Ha,” Siete snaps back with his most magnificent smirk. “If you know enough about Santa to hang a stocking, you should also know he only brings presents to good boys and girls.”
“I have been a good boy,” Lobelia says in a sultry low voice that absolutely should not be allowed while Siete is sitting on him.
Siete raises a brow and shifts as subtly as he can without making his half-hard dick any more noticeable than it already is.
“I have!” Lobelia smiles. “I helped the captain wrap gifts, I played a lovely hymne for the townspeople, I made conques for all the children—”
“The children?” Oh, what a chore it’ll be to round up and destroy every last one of those horrible things, to apologize to the parents, to check up on the poor kids—but that’s tomorrow’s problem. All he can do now is nurse this new headache and mete out punishment.
“Coal it is, then. One lump of coal for every child you’ve traumatized; that should do you for the next several years, I’d imagine.”
“Attendez! It’s not what you think!” Lobelia’s laughing even as he protests, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “I tested my first batch on Gran and received quite the scolding about how bones and viscera are not suitable instruments for Christmas songs—so I made some adjustments.”
Lobelia snaps his fingers and offers up a tiny shell.
Siete takes it, of course, despite all his good sense. The first step is admitting you have a problem, he tells himself at times like these. The second step is...
Well, that can be tomorrow’s problem, too.
He holds the shell to his ear, still braced for the worst, and a charming French rendition of “Jingle Bells'' begins to play. Lobelia’s voice is so lovely and gentle it might border on heartwarming, if not for his smug face handily killing the mood. Siete remembers too late that he’s lost the cover of his fake beard and closes his mouth abruptly.
“Do you like it? I made a special one just for you, but...” Lobelia pats the pockets of his robe and heaves a heavy sigh. “Regrettably, I seem to have left it in my room.”
Siete rolls his eyes for the second time that night, though he makes no motion to leave his perch.
“You see?” Lobelia concludes with a lazy little roll of his hips, “I have been good.”
“Well, I suppose...” Siete swallows the last of his pitiful resolve, as though he hadn't already lost the moment Lobelia opened his eyes. “Good behavior must be rewarded.”
Lobelia beams, flushed and radiant, some combination of the soft lamplight and the afterglow of his fever dream. He’s never been so pretty. Siete kisses him again, if only as an excuse to stop looking.
Lobelia is responsive as ever, tonguing and mewling at every inch Siete gives him until he’s practically down his throat. He grinds their hips together with a delighted whine as he finds Siete’s cock just as hard as his, and Siete can’t help pushing back, equally starved for friction. He pulls away for a minute to think and breathe, to puzzle out how the hell they’re going to do this here. It’s beyond a bad idea, his fading voice of reason cuts in, but Lobelia makes him stupid and reckless. It wouldn’t be the first time. It certainly won’t be the last.
“I don’t have—” Siete pants, but Lobelia produces a small bottle from his pocket as easily as he summons his conques.
“And you just happened to have that on you?” Siete snorts. “You’re unbelievable.”
“Merci.”
Siete pops it open and slicks his fingers as Lobelia watches through his lashes. He’s quiet for once, and the silence makes every little sound somehow more obscene—the shuffle of fabric as Siete parts Lobelia’s robe and tugs down his underwear, the rub of skin on skin, the wet tease of his fingers at Lobelia’s hole. If they weren’t in a common area, Siete might take his time; Lobelia is fun to play with and reactive enough to dangerously inflate Siete’s ego, but with circumstances being as they are—
Siete plunges his first finger in, and Lobelia howls. He should have known the quick and dirty approach would make matters worse; Lobelia is positively blissed out on the pain, gasping into Siete’s hand as it shoots up to cover his mouth.
“If you can’t be quiet,” Siete whispers, leaning in to be heard but eyeing the doorway all the while, “we’re not doing this.”
Lobelia squeezes his eyes shut and shudders a heavy breath into Siete’s hand. Then he swallows and nods.
Siete pushes a second finger in alongside the first, taking a bit more care this time, though it hardly matters at this point. Tears gather in Lobelia’s eyes as he blinks up at Siete, thanking him, pleading with him. It’s a look that turns Siete’s stomach—not that he doesn’t like it.
The problem is that he likes it far too much.
Lobelia’s already worked up enough that this won’t take long if Siete does it right. He presses in to his knuckles, Lobelia twitching around him all the while but remaining obediently silent. His cock is leaking all over his undershirt, so Siete does them both a favor and hikes the fabric up to Lobelia’s mouth.
Lobelia practically unhinges his jaw before Siete can finish saying “open,” biting down on the shirt without any instruction at all. He really can be good when he wants to be.
Siete rewards him by crooking his fingers, slipping just a little deeper, curling just a bit more until Lobelia’s hips jerk violently and the tears finally roll down his cheeks. He’s breathing heavy through his nose but stifling his voice so well, Siete can’t help praising him a little. In lieu of words he uses his fingers, stroking again and again until Lobelia is arching and shaking and practically choking on all the words he’s not allowed to say. He’s pulled so taut he looks like he might snap—and then he does, coming untouched in violent jerks all over his stomach and chest.
Siete gives him a gentle double tap on the cheek and Lobelia lets his mouth fall open, gasping for air as quietly as he can. It takes him the better part of a minute to come down, but when his eyes finally focus and his brain kicks back to life he’s scrambling for Siete’s pants like his life depends on it. He fumbles a little—his hands are shaking and Siete’s outfit is, admittedly, a bit overly complicated—but he manages in the end.
Siete’s not exactly dry at this point but Lobelia, ever resourceful, scoops up a bit of the mess on his chest and takes Siete’s cock in his hand. He’s pink all the way up to his ears, still fighting for breath, but he works Siete with such unmatched enthusiasm that his lacking technique hardly matters. Each flick of his wrist is wet and vulgar, magnified by the silence in the room, but Siete’s long stopped casting glances at the door. Lobelia—flushed and debauched, with tears still caught in his lashes—is a much lovelier sight, and Siete’s far too close to care anymore, focused on nothing more than chasing down that familiar building heat.
He comes undone moments later, biting his lip as Lobelia strokes him through each shuddering wave until he’s boneless and spent. Siete manages to stay upright through sheer force of will as he catches his breath, not about to plant himself in that unholy mess when there are still stockings to be stuffed. Lobelia studies his hand, considering the sticky mess for a moment before wiping it off on his stomach, leaving Siete to wonder how exactly they’re going to clean it all up.
He starts by getting to his feet and is busy looking around the room for—what, a towel?—when he notices a faint tug at his shoulder. He turns just in time to see Lobelia wiping himself dry with the edge of Siete’s handcrafted cashmere cloak and has to bite his tongue to stop himself from screaming.
Lobelia shoots him an innocent look and lets the filthy garment fall once he’s finished. He grabs Siete’s hat from its resting place on the floor, pointedly avoiding the discarded beard, and stands to set it back on Siete’s head.
“Joyeux Noël,” Lobelia says, pecking him on the cheek.
“You’re getting coal,” Siete reminds him. “And you’re going to wash this. And...”
He trails off, trying to think of something—anything he can do to punish Lobelia in a way that matters.
“I’ll be in my room if you’d like to stop by for your gift, Monsieur Claus,” Lobelia says with a cheery wave.
Siete wipes his hand on his cloak with bitter resignation and puts his glove back on. They both know he will—of course he will.
He always does.