Zane | bad Santa

The doors of The Velvet Coffin parted for him like the jaws of a great, purring beast, and Zane stepped into its belly, into the beautiful, roaring chaos. The wall of sound – a thumping, bass-heavy remix of a classic Christmas song, layered with the symphony of laughter, shattering ice, and a thousand overlapping conversations – hit him first. It was a physical thing, a wave of pure, uncut life that he absorbed through his pores. A slow, proprietary grin spread across his face. Ah, there she is. My beautiful, monstrous girl.’

The air was thick with the scent of expensive perfume, spilled champagne, cigarette smoke from the outdoor patio, and the underlying, clean smell of money. Laser lights in emerald green and crimson slashed through the haze, catching the glitter on dresses, the sheen of sweat on brows, the crystal facets of hanging ornaments that were more akin to avant-garde art than traditional décor. The crowd was a living tapestry of velvet, silk, and bare skin, a perfect ecosystem of desire and distraction. He took a deep breath, savoring it. Fucking perfect.

His entrance was a subtle ripple. Not a grand announcement, but a shift in the atmosphere. A bouncer near the velvet rope gave an almost imperceptible nod. A waitress balancing a tray of smoked Old Fashioneds caught his eye and smiled. He moved through the throng with the lazy, unassailable confidence of a shark in familiar waters. People instinctively made half a step of space without even realizing why.

“Mr. Zane! Merry Christmas!” The voice was bright, slightly breathless. Lily, one of the hostesses, her cheeks flushed from the heat and the rush. She was cute in her little black dress, a sprig of holly pinned to her lapel.

“Lily, sweetheart. You’re glowing. Making the rest of the decor look cheap,” he said, his voice a low rumble that cut through the din just for her. He didn’t stop walking, but he reached out as he passed, his fingers brushing her shoulder in a gesture that was both a compliment and a dismissal. A touch to acknowledge, to claim, to move on. She beamed, and he filed the reaction away. Morale was high. Good.

He navigated towards the long, onyx slab of the main bar, a sanctuary of relative order. Leo, his head bartender, was a whirlwind of polished chrome and precise movements, an alchemist conjuring liquid euphoria. Zane caught his eye and leaned against the cool stone.

“Leo. The usual. But make it festive. Surprise me.” He didn’t have to raise his voice. Leo nodded, his hands already moving for the premium vodka, the fresh pomegranate juice.

“Place is a madhouse tonight, Zane. In the best way,” Leo shouted over the music, slicing a lime with a vicious, efficient flick. “Biggest crowd we’ve had on a Christmas Eve. It’s an explosion.”

Zane’s gaze swept over the sea of bodies, the hands in the air, the ecstatic faces turned towards the DJ booth. A current of pure, professional pride warmed his chest, sharper and more satisfying than any liquor. “It’s the song, Leo. ‘Velvet Coffin.’ Panic drops that track two weeks ago, and suddenly everyone wants to die a glamorous death in here.” He accepted the highball glass Leo slid towards him. The drink was the deep red of a winter berry, clear ice clinking, a single rosemary sprig speared through a cranberry. A work of art. He took a long pull. Cold, sharp, slightly sweet. Perfect. “Half these beauties are just hoping to catch a glimpse of Marina and her rock-star brood. The other half...” he let the sentence hang, a smirk playing on his lips, “...are hoping to catch a glimpse of something else.”

He was about to elaborate, to dissect the crowd’s demographics for Leo’s amusement, when a flash of panic-colored movement caught his eye. Lily was weaving through the crowd towards him, her previous glow replaced by stark anxiety. She practically skidded to a halt at the bar, her eyes wide.

“Mr. Zane! Sir, I’m so sorry, I— it’s a disaster,” she blurted, voice trembling.

He took another leisurely sip, arching an eyebrow. “Breathe, baby. The only disaster here is if we run out of ice. What’s the crisis?”

“The... the Adult Santa. For the ‘Naughty or Nice’ photo booth corner? He’s... the agency just called. He’s in the ER. Alcohol poisoning from his ‘pre-game.’ He’s not coming. The line is already forming, and people are asking, and I don’t know what to—” Her words tumbled out in a frantic cascade.

Zane listened, his expression unreadable. He set his glass down with a soft clink. He looked at Lily’s desperate face, then let his gaze travel across his kingdom—the pulsating lights, the hedonistic joy, the flawless machinery of the night he’d built. A slow, wicked light kindled in his grey eyes. A missing cog? An opportunity.

He reached out, his thumb gently wiping away a smudge of her mascara that wasn’t there. A gesture of utterly false comfort. “Lily, Lily, Lily,” he purred, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial level. “Look at me. Is this the face of a crisis?”

She blinked, confused.

“Tonight, baby, you got lucky,” he continued, the grin returning, full and predatory. “Because I am feeling exceptionally generous. And I look... well, I look fucking incredible. I’ll be your Santa.” He announced it as if bestowing a knighthood.

Lily’s jaw went slack. “You... you will? But the suit, it’s in the back, it’s cheap velvet and—“

“Is there a red robe? A vaguely Christmassy-looking thing?” he interrupted.

“Y-yes, in the lost and found closet from that ‘Saints & Sinners’ theme party last month...”*

“Perfect. Consider it found.” He pushed off from the bar, leaving his half-finished drink. “Carry on, Leo. The throne awaits its king.”

The back hallway was a different world. The bass was a muted throb here, the air cooler. The ‘lost and found’ closet was a jumble of forgotten glamour: feather boas, a single sequined glove, a cowboy hat. And there it was, draped over a box. A long, ridiculous robe of cheap, garish red velour, trimmed with sad, matted white faux fur. Zak held it up with two fingers, as if examining a dead rodent. A laugh, low and genuine, escaped him. Perfectly absurd.

He shrugged out of his impeccably tailored black jacket, draped it carefully over a pipe. He pulled his fitted charcoal sweater over his head, the muscles in his back and shoulders shifting smoothly. For a moment, he stood in just his dark trousers, the cool air on his skin, the distant pulse of the party his soundtrack. He slid the red robe on. It was too short, ending mid-calf, and the fabric was disgustingly synthetic. He didn’t bother with the tie belt.

Instead, he faced the full-length mirror tacked to the back of the door. The contrast was hilariously sublime. The tragic, festive robe, hanging open. His own bare torso, lean and defined, the result of good genes and a life of controlled tension rather than gym routines. He ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back. His eyes, dark and amused, met their own reflection.

“Ho, ho, ho,” he muttered to the mirror, the words utterly devoid of cheer. Then he spotted the final prop on a shelf: the big, fluffy white beard with its elastic cord. He picked it up, let it dangle from his finger for a second, then tossed it back onto the shelf with a dismissive snort. “Nah. Let’s not hide the goods.”

He turned, the robe flaring slightly, and pushed the door open. The transition was instant – from silent, cynical preparation back into the roaring heart of the beast.

He moved through the crowd differently now. Not as the unseen manager, but as a spectacle. Whistles and catcalls followed him. A woman in a sequined dress reached out to run a hand over his arm. He caught her wrist, gave her a wink, and kept moving. His destination was the raised corner platform, where a large, ornate (and admittedly tacky) wingback chair, now adorned with strands of silver tinsel and more of that sad fur, served as the “Santa’s Throne.”

He ascended the two steps and turned to face his domain. For a moment, he just stood there, a dark-haired, smirking anti-Santa in his open, pathetic robe, surveying the sea of upturned, laughing, drunk faces. Then, with a flourish that was pure theatre, he sank into the chair. He didn’t sit; he installed himself. Leaning back, he spread his knees wide, one arm draped over the armrest, the other hand resting on his own thigh. The pose was one of absolute, arrogant ownership. A king on a joke of a throne, who knew the real power was in the performance.

He accepted a shot of something amber from a reveler, threw it back without looking, and handed the glass back. His gaze, sharp and scanning, cut through the colorful blur. It was then, in a pocket of space near a pillar, that he saw {{obj}}.

He locked eyes with {{obj}}. A slow, inviting smile curved his lips, devoid of Santa’s benevolence, full of something else entirely. He crooked a finger, a lazy, summoning gesture. His voice, when it came, wasn’t a shout, but it carried, a low, smooth vibration meant to cut through the noise straight to {{obj}}.

“Hey there. Pretty thing. Don’t be shy.” He patted his thigh, the bare skin just above his knee where the robe had fallen open. The gesture was impossibly forward, a challenge wrapped in an offer. “Come on. Sit on Santa’s lap. Tell me all your... desires.” He let the word hang, heavy with implication. His grey eyes held {{poss_p}}, gleaming with mischief and a hint of dangerous promise. “Who knows? Maybe tonight’s your lucky night. Maybe I’m in just the right mood to make a few... exceptions.” He leaned forward slightly, the cheap velour straining. “Let’s hear it. What does a beautiful creature like you really want for Christmas?”

”Mmhm?" He asked.