Chapter Text
It may not be Santa Pongsapak’s greatest idea, but honestly? He’s not exactly in the business of making good ideas tonight. He’s drunk, restless, and dangerously low on entertainment.
It’s Tuesday night and he really should be sleeping right now. But poor decision after poor decision has him slouched on his sagging couch at three in the morning, wrapped in a blanket that’s doing a terrible job at being warm.
He has a quiz in seven hours, but sleep refuses to come anywhere near him. He’s tried studying. He’s tried warm milk. He’s tried pacing in circles and doom scrolling through Twitter. Now he’s exhausted, slightly queasy, still tipsy and aggressively over life.
It's making him irritated too. Normally, the two-bedroom apartment he shares with his best friend is… fine. Pretty decent, even. The place manages to look clean yet feel lived-in while also being within walking distance to university. It had good plumbing. Nice decor.
But tonight? Everything is deeply, personally offending Santa.
Like how he can hear the heater rattle as if it’s threatening to resign. Or how the small lamp in the corner of the room flickers like it’s haunted. And he's sure he feels the whole place vibrating faintly through the couch cushions… or maybe that’s just the contents of his stomach sloshing. He wonders which will kill him first: the acid reflux or the boredom.
He exhales sharply, annoyed at absolutely everything, including his own existence. So when a gloomy looking pop-up window appears on his laptop screen and promises to solve all his problems for the low, low cost of his soul, he doesn't roll his eyes and move on like he usually would. Instead, his tipsy mind has him sitting up straighter, trying to figure out who designed the dreary looking window.
Tell me what you desire and it shall be yours. All for the price of just a sliver of soul.
Santa snorts. A sliver. How considerate.
He stares at the screen longer with a kind of amused intrigue and wonders, absurdly, genuinely, whether clicking “I agree” will magically generate the answers to tomorrow’s Data Structures quiz. Wouldn’t that be something? Has anyone in history ever given up a soul for less?
Probably, he decides.
What could even happen really? Most likely it results in a million more pop-ups. Or porn with a lore-heavy opening scene. Or malware that bricks his laptop… which would honestly count as a win. He could use that excuse for the Networks assignment he hasn’t touched yet.
He doesn't see much use for his soul even if it did work. But it might save him from boredom.
Santa mixed with restlessness and leftover bar chaos usually results in decisions Phuwin would absolutely tear into him for. But lucky for him, Phuwin is currently passed out in his own room with the door shut, snoring aggressively into a pillow. So, at least until morning, he couldn't scold Santa for shooting his laptop to hell.
“Screw it,” Santa mutters under his breath.
And clicks.
He adjusts the blanket wrapped around his shoulders, sinking deeper into the couch and waits. The only light in the room apart from the haunted stand lamp is the cold glow of his laptop, balanced precariously on a knee.
A loading bar pulses on screen and Santa stares at it with a blend of skepticism and… morbid curiosity. He tries to chew his lower lip and instantly flinches; the cut from earlier crackles with pain and the memory attached to it rolls in like a migraine.
Right. That.
At that stupidly loud bar with the overpriced cocktails. The first bad decision of the night really. One that he'd convinced Phuwin and Gemini it would be fine as long as they stuck to dancing instead of drinking. They hadn't. And then he showed up.
Dao Nattapong. Santa's boundary-impaired ex-boyfriend. Fourth year Film and Media student. Filthy rich. Good looking in that now greasy way. A typical walking red flag in designer shoes.
Dao had smiled at him like Santa should’ve been thrilled to see him, like they were still a thing, like he hadn’t blown it all to hell himself. He talked to Santa with that same old easy familiarity, stepped right into his space, felt him up when he longer had the right. The audacity was almost impressive.
And Santa; half-drunk and fully fed up, had promptly tried to swing at the loser.
He missed. Spectacularly.
His fist cut through empty air, his balance yeeted itself off a cliff, and he pitched sideways into a doorframe so hard his lip split open on impact. Then gravity finished the job, dropping him flat on his ass like a sack of very sad, very pathetic potatoes.
The entire establishment, literally everyone, turned to witness the tragedy. A collective symphony of “oohs” rippled through the crowd before murmurs followed. The kind of public humiliation that warranted a one-way ticket to deletion from planet earth really.
Santa brushes his fingertips over the tender spot now, wincing when it throbs sharply even under the slightest pressure. Perfect. A battle wound from fighting absolutely no one. An ugly reminder of his ugly ex.
If he’d had even a scrap of coordination, just one functioning brain cell willing to help him aim and actually connect with the correct target, he’d probably be sleeping like a baby right now. Instead, he's haunting his own living room.
And it's all that bastard's fault.
Dao just never quits. Flowers. Surprise ambushes after lectures. Burner account DMs like a stalker who’s bad at digital privacy. Once he even hired a skywriter, a freaking skywriter, like Santa was starring in some billionaire rom-com and not actively avoiding him.
It used to be flattering. Now it’s radioactive-level annoying.
Santa sighs and burrows deeper into the mismatched cushions, letting the blanket swallow him whole. The loading wheel is still spinning on the laptop. He hopes whatever genie or cursed digital assistant he just summoned will keep Dao far, far away. Maybe even smite him a little. Preferably in a dramatic, Instagrammable way.
He smirks and winces when his lip twinges again.
“Great,” he says aloud for an audience of one. “Can’t even smile properly anymore. Thanks a lot, Phi Dao.”
And as if on cue, the laptop screen abruptly goes black.
Santa's shoulders slump. Of course. What was he expecting? Even his laptop’s fed up with its life. He leans forward, reaching for the charger cable he's sure is sticking out somewhere from under the couch, but pauses.
Something… smells.
A sharp, unfamiliar scent slides into the air. Like a match struck too close to his face. It makes his nose wrinkle. He straightens slowly, blanket slipping down his arms as he turns toward the hallway. Phuwin’s door is still shut.
It feels like the room's too small all of a sudden. The air has a strange weight to it, settling into his joints, crawling across his skin. The smell thickens; smoke and sulphur, warm and metallic, curling through the room unseen. It makes Santa's breath hitch, his eyes water.
A spark snaps across the far corner of the living room. A thin streak of blue light flickers near the shoe rack. Another spark. Then another. Then a whole cascade, like someone dropped a miniature lightning storm inside the apartment. And all without making a single sound.
Santa freezes, eyes wide, brain too stunned, and too tipsy, to produce concern. He's mostly… fascinated. His heart punches against his ribs but fear lags behind drunken curiosity. Dumbly he wonders if maybe this is all some sort of extremely elaborate virus pop-up animation.
The sparks crawl up the wall, silent but violent, casting flashy lights and jagged shadows that make the whole room look wrong in ways Santa can’t articulate. The air vibrates with it. His pulse quickens and throat tightens as his eyes try to keep up with the movements.
What the actual hell…?
The blue lights erupt; electricity ripping outward, swallowing the corner whole, and Santa’s survival instincts finally sputter to life. He scrambles, finally trying to stand, but the sparks vanish just as fast as they appeared. The room is dark again. The smell evaporates. His laptop slips off his knees and hits the floor with a dull thud.
Then he feels it. A presence.
Heavy. Dense. Electric. Pressing against the walls, the floor, the air. Coiling around him from the direction of the flickering lamp. The hairs on Santa’s neck shoot upright as he sees them. Two red eyes glow in the corner. Watching.
Santa stops breathing all together.
The eyes approach him; slowly, steadily. Like a predator cornering its prey. The creature takes shape once it nears the light of the lamp. Human-like but not really. A sharp jaw, hard lines, dark eyebrows and glaring eyes. Heat rolls off it in waves, hot enough to warm Santa’s cheek and seep beneath his skin.
And Santa; tipsy, shallow and operating at the speed of a buffering video, has a sudden, deeply inappropriate thought.
Wow… he's cute.
Of course his brain chooses the worst possible moment to notice that the monster is kind of hot in a terrifying, ruin-your-life way.
And it is a monster, Santa is pretty sure of that, because above those sharply defined brows sit horns. Long, dark and arched; jutting from raw-looking ridges in the creature’s forehead. Something also whip-like flicks behind it, barely visible in Santa’s periphery.
Santa can’t tell what overwhelms him more; the heat, the presence, the impossible sight… but he’s already slipping sideways, consciousness draining out like someone pulled a plug.
Santa passes out before he can even think of saying hi.
-x-
When Santa comes to, sunlight is already pouring in through the window. Sharp, golden, and aggressively cheerful. The first attempt at opening his eyes lasts approximately half a second before he winces and slaps his forearm over his face.
His very first thought is that he's fucked. Because there is absolutely no universe in which he still has time to shower, dress, and sprint to campus for his Algorithms quiz. He doesn’t need to check the clock.
What he needs is an ibuprofen. And electrolytes. And maybe divine intervention. His skull throbs with every heartbeat, and he lets out a groan and then a curse before trying to open his eyes again.
This time he’s better prepared.
The living room slowly sharpens into view. The annoyingly tasteful striped wallpaper Phuwin insisted they “would grow to appreciate,” the very nice coffee table Santa currently hates because it’s cluttered, the shoe rack by the door that is too small for all the sneakers they own, the black horned monster sitting calmly in their single armchair, the-
Santa does a double take. Then he chokes on his own spit.
“What the fuck?!”
He bolts upright. Or tries to. His blanket tangles around his legs, and one of the decorative throw pillows hits the carpet with a soft thud. His neck hurts. His split lip protests. His heart tries to escape his ribcage via brute force.
Right. The nightmare.
Except the nightmare is not a nightmare. It is sitting crossed-legged in his living room. In broad daylight. Looking almost slightly annoyed. The monster’s red eyes track him with accusatory precision, like Santa somehow inconvenienced it.
And Santa? His vision sways. He’s genuinely considering passing out again. Instead, he sits upright and some moderately functional words fall out of him. “W-what the hell?”
“Precisely,” the monster says, voice low and deep. So deep Santa feels it vibrate down his spine. It sends an involuntary shudder through him.
With a dry throat, he stares. At the coal colored horns. The smooth, whip-like tail hovering in the air behind the creature. The red eyes... and yeah. Not a costume. Not a hallucination. Not the world’s most committed cosplayer either.
Even hungover, Santa can tell this… thing, whatever it is, is real. Its presence is overwhelming. It's the middle of winter but the air is warm and thick because of it. Too warm. The kind of heat that clings to skin.
“Who are you?” Santa demands, though it definitely comes out more panicked than he intends. His eyes flick to the front door, his escape plan unclear but very necessary. “How did you get in here?”
“You called me,” the monster says, sounding bored. “Don’t you remember what you did?”
Santa blanches. “I didn’t do anything.”
The monster’s eyes drift from Santa to the coffee table. To where his laptop, the one he remembers dropping to the floor last night, is now perched.
“You summoned me,” it tells him as their gazes lock again.
“I… summoned you?”
The dreary pop up window. The payment of a soul. The smell of sulphur and the bright blue sparks. It all drifts back to Santa's mind and he can't believe it actually did… something. Conjured up something. He's not really sure what.
The monster stands. Santa genuinely thinks he might throw up.
“You agreed to forfeit a sliver of soul,” it explains, stepping closer while Santa backs up to the opposite end of the couch, knees pulled up to his chest. “So now we have a contract to sign.”
Contract? Santa’s brain scrambles for purchase. The temperature rises with each step the monster takes. Santa’s living room suddenly feels like the inside of a sauna at a questionable gym.
“P-please don’t hurt me!” The words burst out of him before he can stop them. Under any other, normal circumstance, he would be embarrassed by his tone.
The monster pauses. Looks at him flatly. “Unfortunately, I can’t.”
“U-unfortunately…?”
Its lips quirk into an almost smile. “Unless you want me to.”
Santa gapes. “Why the hell would I want that?!”
A small human-like shrug. “Peculiar taste?”
Santa gawks. He cannot believe he is arguing with a monster about hypothetical kink preferences. He takes a shaky breath and tries to calm down. He can't.
“What are you?” His voice cracks. “You have a- a freaking tail!”
And now that he’s said it, he cannot stop staring at it. Black, sleek, flicking behind the monster like it’s alive, pointed at the tip like something straight out of the movies.
“What I am, is at your service,” the monster says with a reluctant sounding sigh. “As soon as you sign the contract.”
“I’m not signing anything.” Somehow he manages to sound almost convincing, Phuwin would be proud. “Get out of my house!”
Where the hell is Phuwin, anyway? Why is he not here witnessing this actual fever dream with him?
“I’m only here because you called me,” the fever dream looks tired of repeating itself. It brushes invisible dust from the shoulder of its suit jacket, which Santa just now registers. The monster is severely overdressed, wearing a perfectly tailored and expensive looking three-piece suit.
“Let’s not make this more complicated than it has to be,” the monster says.
Santa grimaces. “Make what complicated?”
“The contract, obviously.”
“Obviously?” Santa’s eye twitches. He wonders if the monster might retaliate by eating him if he punches it. “You’re not making any sense!”
“It's simple. Since you've summoned me, a demon from hell, it means you've agreed to the terms. Once the blood contract’s sealed, I shall fulfill your desire.”
Demon. Hell. Blood. Desire.
Surely, this is exactly the moment his “friends” should burst in with their phones out, informing him through their laughter that he’s the unwilling star of some unhinged TikTok trend. Santa’s ready to scream, cry, or maybe both in harmony, but his brain short-circuits before he can pick one.
Because, without any warning whatsoever, the monster-, no, the demon, begins to strip.
Right there in his living room.
It unbuttons and shrugs out of the jacket, letting it fall carelessly to the floor. Santa’s neurons misfire when he catches sight of claws, actual claws, instead of human nails as its fingers drift to its shirt cuffs. It’s already tugging the button-down free from its slacks by the time Santa’s mouth finally reconnects to his thoughts.
He jerks his gaze away, heat rushing up his neck. “Why are you taking off your clothes?!”
Because the demon doesn’t answer, and because Santa really, really doesn’t want to be alone with a creature from hell with his head turned away, he risks a glance.
And totally, pointedly ignores the stretch of dark, smooth skin over a broad chest. Doesn't look at the carved muscle and veins protruding from arms either. His eyes only drag a little on the way down because he’s hungover, obviously. And definitely not because the demon looks like someone sculpted “danger” and “bad decisions” into a creature.
His gaze finally lands on what the demon is holding.
A pen… probably.
It's thin. Long. Sharp-pointed at one end. Faint black smoke, curling upward like incense, at the other end.
His voice comes out small before he can stop it. “What’s that for?”
“To complete the contract,” the demon answers, using the pen to tap at its own chest just under the left collarbone, “you sign here.”
Contract.
Santa's starting to believe that this is actually happening. So he swallows down his fear and tries to assemble whatever’s left of his 3.85 GPA brain. By the time he realizes he’s standing, he’s already upright, thankfully without his knees buckling beneath him. Good start. Next, he decides to say something smart. Or at least not completely stupid.
“You mentioned fulfilling my desire,” he murmurs slowly. “So… what? You grant me wishes?”
“I’m not a genie.” The demon’s eyes narrow, clearly deeply offended. “What you desire is a clause in the blood contract.”
Right. Blood contract. Really great.
“What’s up with the- uh, blood part?” Santa asks, eyes wide.
“Not nearly as dramatic as it sounds,” the demon replies, sounding disappointed. It gestures to the the tip of pen in its hand. “Just enough to ink the stylus.”
Stylus. Of course hell has its own fashionable name for its stationary. Why wouldn’t it?
“And in exchange you get my soul…” Santa mutters, jaw tightening as his teeth catch his injured lip.
“Just a fragment.” The demon smiles for the first time. It’s… mocking. Or smug. Probably both. “You won’t even know it’s missing.”
Yeah. That’s extremely comforting.
“So,” the demon steps closer, “let’s not waste any more time. Sign your name.”
“Shouldn’t you ask what my- what my desire is first?”
The demon studies him, now close enough that Santa realizes it isn’t actually that much taller than him. If you don’t count the ten-inch horns sweeping back like a crown that is. But its presence feels bigger than Santa'a. Intense and commanding.
“Your desire was already decided when you summoned me last night,” the demon supplies.
Santa blinks. “It was?”
“It’s already written in the contract.”
Wait.
So Santa doesn't get to even think about what his wish is? And he gives up his soul, well a piece of it, for something already decided? He’s no lawyer but that sounded like horrible contract stipulations. What had he even wanted when he pressed the button last night? He doesn't even remember-
“Wait…” Santa mutters in mild horror. “Are you gonna help me pass my quiz? For my soul?”
No way.
The demon stares at him like he's dumb. “Dao Nattapong,” it says slowly, like it's speaking to a child. “You wanted to be rid of him.”
Oh. Well. That… tracks. And is much better.
“So I shall get rid of him for you.”
“When you say ‘get rid of him,’” Santa asks carefully, “you-”
“However you desire,” the demon replies, head tilting. Entirely serious as he adds, “though killing him would be simplest.”
Santa’s whole being launches out of his body.
“No!” he blurts. “I don’t- I don’t want Phi Dao dead!”
The demon looks disappointed again. “Is that so?”
“Yes, that is so,” Santa fires back, mimicking the demon’s weirdly ancient way of talking. “He’s a grabby asshole and a serial cheater with too much money and too much time and-” His volume dwindles as he loses his vigor. “But still. Death seems… painfully excessive.”
“I can arrange it to be done in his sleep.”
“Please don’t kill him!”
The demon looks unconvinced. But nods. Once. “Then how do you wish to be rid of him?”
Santa runs a hand through his hair, exasperated. “I just want him to give up. Leave me alone. Move on with his life.”
The demon’s mouth flattens. “That is more complicated. And time-consuming.”
“Well, that’s what I want.” Santa shrugs, his gaze dropping to the stylus. “I’m not signing otherwise.”
The demon from hell stares at him again. That unnerving, clinical scrutiny that makes Santa feel like he’s being held up to a light. He wonders, suddenly, if it can read his mind maybe. If it’s rifling through everything he’s trying desperately not to think about.
Finally, the demon extends the stylus out to him. “I understand. Shall we then?”
Santa wants to scream no, but his hand moves to take it instead. The stylus is heavier than it looks, solid in a way that feels… binding. Eerily final. There’s an inscription carved into the length of its body, in a script he doesn’t recognize.
“Prick your finger with the tip,” the demon instructs, stepping into his personal space until Santa is engulfed by the heat of its body, the smell of smoke. “Clear your mind. Speak your desire aloud. Then sign.”
“Why do I need to say it if it's already decided?” Santa asks, maybe just to be difficult.
“Technicality.”
It's not like he was expecting a real answer anyway. Santa steadies himself, lifting the stylus experimentally to practice his signature in the air.
“Your name will suffice,” the demon says.
Okay. Sure. Yeah, totally. Santa could do that. He lifts his left hand and presses the tip of the stylus to his fingertip. The puncture happens instantly; quick and painless as red blooms. His blood touches the stylus, and the carved letters along its body flare in brilliant blue, light spilling across his palm.
Santa looks up, straight into glowing red red eyes watching him, not the pen. He lifts the stylus slowly toward the demon’s chest. His knuckles brush warm skin as he steadies his hand. The muscle beneath tenses; heat radiates outward. And there's… a heartbeat.
Santa freezes.
The demon has a heart. A beating heart. And it’s fast. Racing like his own. And, somehow, Santa isn't sure how, but he knows it's beating in sync with his. The realization settles over him like a strange, quiet tide, unnerving and inexplicably calming, all at once.
As calm as you can feel when you're about to make the most questionable decision of your life that is.
“I want Phi Dao to give up on me,” Santa whispers, and wow, his voice comes out embarrassingly soft, as he presses the tip of the stylus directly over the demon’s heart.
The room is immediately thrust into darkness. Like someone unplugged the sun. Santa realizes he may have just struck a deal with the devil. And that Phuwin’s going to murder him first and ask questions later.
But Santa will explain. He absolutely will. This was for everyone’s good. For Dao, so he can stop throwing his money, time, and delusion at something that died ages ago. For Phuwin, so he can stop worrying and hovering over Santa like an exhausted mother. And for Santa, so he can… what? What is Santa even aiming for?
The obvious answer is peace. But that isn't it. Not really. He wants something different. Someone different. Someone who doesn’t treat him like a hobby to pick up between side chicks. Someone who wants him, tantrums and all. Cherishes him. Makes him feel loved.
He doesn’t realize he’s drifted off mid-thought, or that his hand is moving on its own, writing his name in a neat, controlled curve he’s definitely not controlling. His vision feels syrup-thick, his mind static-clouded.
He's not sure when they appeared but blue sparks flicker around the two of them, wrapping them up in something sharp and electric. They're crawling out from the stylus, then from the demon, then from Santa himself. The air grows heavy. Charged. Suffocating.
Santa
As soon as he finishes the final curve of the final letter, the sparks vanish. Gravity lifts. Light slams back into the room. The stylus vanishes in his hand.
Santa blinks, dizzy, and slowly pulls his hand away, only to choke on his own breath, his eyes widening in horror.
He didn’t write on the demon. He carved into its skin.
Raw, jagged edges spelling out his name across its chest. Like someone dug the word into the skin with the delicate precision of a chainsaw. There's blood. A lot of it.
“Shit- are you okay?” Santa blurts, snapping his gaze up. He instinctively reaches toward it, because of course he does, and immediately regrets it.
The demon’s expression halts him in place, his hand hovering.
Fury. Cold, razor-cut fury.
“You stupid human,” it growls, voice edged in rage. It steps back and out of reach, breathing hard. “I told you to clear your mind. What did you ask for?”
Santa’s whole brain blue-screens. “Wha-? I-I just said what you told me to!”
“You didn’t,” the demon snaps as it snatches the discarded shirt from the couch and puts it on with jerky, irritated movements. Santa’s name disappears behind the fabric.
“The contract is void.”
Santa’s shoulders slump. He shouldn’t feel disappointed by that. He really shouldn’t. And yet… “It is?”
“Yes.” The demon glares as it buttons the shirt roughly, uncaring of the raw wound. “You’ve wasted my time.”
“I didn't mean-”
“Your wondering mind went against the contract,” it continues, talking right over him, “and your name faded the moment you wrote it.”
Santa frowns, staring directly at the place where he'd written it. “No, it hasn’t?”
“Of course it has,” the demon dismisses.
“It’s literally bleeding.”
“Nonsense. I do not bleed-” the demon starts, before abruptly cutting itself off. Its eyes flick downward. Widen just barely. The red is still spreading across the shirt, soaking into the fabric like undeniable proof.
“Impossible…” it murmurs, ripping the shirt back off and letting it fall onto the carpet.
And sure enough, Santa’s name is still there. Letters etched deep, gouged into the demon’s skin, blood trailing from each carved stroke. It drips down over lean, defined muscle of the demon's chest, sliding further onto its ribs below.
“Fuck, that looks bad,” Santa whispers before his brain can veto it. He steps closer, closer to the literal creature from hell bleeding on his rug. He quickly grabs the demon's shirt off the floor, bunches it up, and lifts it toward the wound like some sort of inexperienced first aid administrator.
The demon is deadly quiet as Santa gently presses the cloth to the cuts, dabbing at them as carefully as he can. The warmth beneath it all is startlingly human. He frowns at the strange sensation, silently questioning himself.
Maybe it’s because of the heartbeat he felt earlier. Or the human-like blood. Or the look in the demon’s eyes as its brows crease, confusion flickering in its expression. The kind look that makes the demon seem not so different from him.
“I thought I’d be writing on you,” Santa mutters, teeth catching his bottom lip. “Not- y’know… scraping off skin.” The shirt bleeds red against his fingers. “Does it hurt?”
“It… does not.”
The demon’s voice is low now. Awed, rather than angry.
Santa carefully pulls the ruined shirt away, inspecting closely. The wound has thankfully stopped bleeding, but the letters, the letters of his name, remain carved, perfectly intact.
Santa
“So what does it mean?” he finally asks, looking back up.
The demon exhales, sharp and slightly shaky. “It means the contract has been completed.” Its gaze rises deliberately to Santa, eyes swimming with intensity. “And I am now at your service.”
Santa’s heart trips over itself. Which is stupid because he's already heard those exact words before. He steps back, tries to regain his oxygen supply, and awkwardly extends a hand.
“Uh… let’s get along then, I guess?” he says, and immediately falters because it just now occurs to him that he never asked. “Um- what’s your name?”
The demon’s lips quirk.
Not a smirk. Not in mockery. It looks like disbelief and slight amusement. A smile. A real one. And… It's attractive. Extremely, unfairly hot. The demon looks handsome when it smiles.
It takes Santa’s offered hand; both their fingers stained in demon blood now, and instead of shaking, it pulls him closer. Bringing Santa right back into that suffocating, intoxicating heat.
“Perth,” it says after a beat, grin turning wicked. “My name is Perth.”
-x-