Chapter Text
Your name is JAKE ENGLISH. You are also known as SANTA CLAUS, KRIS KRINGLE, or JOLLY OLD SAINT NICK, depending on who you ask. It is CHRISTMAS EVE and you are attending to your annual duty of DELIVERING PRESENTS to all of the world's children. You've just steered your REINDEER-GUIDED SLEIGH into landing on the roof of an apartment block, and in the process accidentally RUN SOMEONE OVER. Your victim, a rather HANDSOME STRANGER, is currently laying unconscious on the concrete.
What will you do?
No, seriously. What the fuck do you do?
You don't know if there's a protocol for this. Admittedly you haven't read THE SANTA CLAUSE all that thoroughly because its premise is frankly a bit upsetting, but now you very much wish you had. This is only your third year doing the Santa gig, and you like to think you do it well, but nothing has ever really gone wrong before and you're not sure how to handle it now that it has.
However, you're also finding yourself feeling somewhat miffed. Really, what did this fellow expect, faffing about on a roof with a sword in the dark?
Your strange Santa majyyks do their thing, giving you the usual rundown of information. The man's name is DIRK STRIDER, and he is twenty six years old–the same as you, you're surprised to learn.
His interests include–
Huh. Your Santa majyyks don't know what his interests are. That's never happened to you before.
You do know at least what his family situation is. Which is to say, he lives alone and doesn't seem to have much in the way of family at all, poor sod.
You step a bit closer. Even conked out, he's quite good-looking. It's almost as though he's practiced falling unconscious so he can still look cool when he does. His expertly styled platinum blonde hair shines in the dim night, and his pale skin is freckled, like the dusting of nutmeg over a cup of eggnog.
When this thought makes a funny tickle in your stomach, you dismiss it as the endless hunger for sweets you've developed since becoming Santa Claus. Now is not the time to be getting moony over pretty men; running someone over with a sleigh is probably the worst come-on you can imagine.
Dirk isn't bleeding, and he seems to be breathing fine, so you wonder if you shouldn't just…just make the rest of your deliveries here and move on…
In a flash of inspiration, you scurry back over to your sleigh and dig around in your sack. To your bafflement, no presents come to your hand. Maybe because you don't know what he likes? It's unsettling; you've never not been able to conjure a present for someone.
Well, shitknickers. You'd feel a bit better about hitting and running this fellow if you could at least leave him a nice gift. Now what? You've a schedule to keep, you can't sit around waiting for him to wake up. And what sort of apology would you make anyway? Terribly sorry my good man, these reindeer you know, awful turn radius and no brakes to speak of.
Dirk groans a little, and shifts on the concrete just as the moon breaks the clouds overhead. Its light graces the long, smooth column of his throat. A bit like a candy cane, you observe idly, just without the red striping, though of course you could leave some nice marks that would complete that pretty picture–
You jerk back, having unconsciously crept forward and bent over him. Guilt sings in your chest, ringing like a bell over the bass hum of desire in your gut. You really, really need to go.
But you can't just leave him here. Doesn't seem like anyone is going to come looking for him, knowing what you know. And you're so curious about him–what he was doing up on this roof, and how he can resist your Santa majyyks. He's chock full of mystery and intrigue, this man you almost killed.
And it's not kidnapping, is it, if you sincerely intend to get him medical attention?
With an ashamed glance around the moonlit rooftop, you scoop Dirk up and settle him into your sleigh.
He sleeps through the rest of your deliveries, not even stirring when the sleigh is buffered by turbulence or makes a tricky landing. At one point, passing between two high mountains, a gust of wind rocks the sleigh particularly hard, and Dirk slides sideways until his head is resting on your shoulder.
You should sit him back up, you think.
You don't move.
He's wearing sunglasses of a particularly standout shape, triangular and pointed. It amuses you. Really, what kind of man is Dirk Strider, this loner who wears sunglasses and sword fights himself on the roof in the dark? Your fingers twitch on the reins of the sleigh, tempted to slide the glasses off, eager to know the color of his eyes.
Later, you tell yourself, gripping the worn leather firmly. You still have a job to do.
Dirk moans lightly in his sleep, a delicate sound like a partridge's cry, and you studiously ignore the way it makes a certain part of you stir.
You land back at the North Pole just as dawn is beginning to break. As usual, it's a whole to-do. The elves make a fuss, applauding and cheering as you land, swarming in to untackle the reindeer. You nod and smile and thank them, and dismiss Xefros when he comes to help you unload the gift sack, telling him no it's fine, you've got it, you'll stash it in your office on your way to your room. You skedaddle before anyone can insist on a celebratory cup of hot chocolate.
In the quiet peace of your room, you open the sack and carefully, as though handling a crystal ornament, extract Dirk and lay him out on your bed.
Probably wasn't very gentlemanly of you, stuffing him into the sack, but you didn’t know how the elves would react to you bringing home a strange man. Your second in command, whom you thankfully managed to dodge in the chaos of your return, would probably have had a complete meltdown. You at least want Dirk to come to so you can have a conversation before you subject him to the tinsel and holly madness of the North Pole. It's pretty overwhelming the first time you see it, as you intimately know.
Dirk is wearing black slip on shoes, and keeping your hands firmly in check, you tease them off and set them by the bed. You slide off the shades too, resting them on your night stand, and muster every ounce of self control you possess to not peek under his eyelids. The rest of him is in a plain white tee and black jeans that fit snug around his long, almost equine legs. You don't need to be thinking about how those legs would feel wrapped around your waist, what his skin would feel like under your fingertips. You definitely don't need to be imagining the porcelain length of him stretched out across your bed, spine arched by the throes of pleasure as you–
Abruptly, you turn from the bed, cross the room, and plunk down in the big cozy armchair by your roaring fire.
You need something to do to keep your mind off this sleeping beauty that you definitely did not kidnap. Unfortunately, now that it's actually Christmas Day, you're officially in the slow season, meaning you've got fuckall to do for the better part of the year. The naughty and nice lists are all automated, had been for a while before you came along, all you've got to do is give them your biannual checks, once in June and again at the beginning of December. The elves have the toy manufacturing down to a science, and your second in command is so neurotic he won't let you touch anything, so at best you'll make a few cursory rounds about the workshop, handing out praise and the occasional pointless suggestion. The letters will start trickling in around July–Christmas in July, ha fucking ha, you'd like to give whoever came up with that idea a lifetime supply of coal right in the stockings–and you'll make yourself read every single one because, really, it's the least you can do.
In between all that though? Watch movies, stuff yourself with cookies, and not much else. At least you've kept your figure. Your second in command was insistent that you would eventually morph into the classic Santa shape and was consequently boggled that you didn't. Not that you would have minded the beard, or even ending up on the chubbier side, but before your home defense system accidentally murdered your predecessor you'd put a lot of work into toning your muscles–it was one of very few ways you had to pass the time on your island.
You hope Dirk likes them tall, dark, and beefy, and Jesus Christmas what are you saying. You need to calm the fuck down.
It's just difficult, though, with him laid out on the bed behind you, and not looking at him is hard, almost as hard as for fuck's sake.
You look down at the erect outline of your dick against your ridiculous red pants and sigh.
To hell with it. Maybe a bit of glad handing will snap you out of this.
You undo your belt, careful not to let it rattle, deliberately setting aside the image your brain wants to conjure of Dirk trussed up in it like your very own Christmas gift. When you shrug down your pants, your cock springs free so enthusiastically a drip of precum flicks from the tip, landing with a sizzle in the fire. You want to smack yourself. You're not a bloody teenager anymore. You're fucking Santa Claus, for god's sake, can't you wank with some dignity?
Only one way to find out.
You grip your cock at the head and smear the precum around, then slowly start to stroke. A knot of tension low in your back starts to unravel, and you sigh and lean your head back into your chair.
You won't turn and look at Dirk asleep on your bed, you absolutely will not, instead you let your eyes slip shut and your imagination loose.
You picture him kneeling before you naked, his lovely skin limned with gold by the fire. His hands are resting firmly on his thighs, far away from what you like to think is a pretty, slim cock standing well at attention. His eyes are shut, flickering slightly as he resists opening them without permission. He can hear you grunting and the slick sound of your hand dragging up and down your cock, and a shiver ripples across his shoulders as he struggles not to squirm. He's not allowed to move, to look, to touch himself, he can only wait and listen as you stroke yourself, wracked with anticipation over what gift awaits him under your tree.
Your hand moves faster and the pleasure ripples through you, tingling all the way down in your toes and burning across your face. Every time your hand strokes up you swipe your thumb across your slit. You moan his name, Dirk, Dirk, oh sugarplum, oh Dirk.
In your fantasy his hands clench tightly and he whines. Your free hand surges forward and buries itself in his soft hair. You pull him close, planting his face right at the base of your cock. Your pubic hair rubs against his cheek and lips but he's such a good boy, so good for you, he doesn't open his eyes or move his hands, just pants lightly as you stroke even faster, fingertips brushing his cheek, and finally, with a hard growl, you come. You press your cock against Dirk's lips and paint him with swirls of white, like cream on cocoa, and you sigh with contentment when his tongue peeks from between his lips to taste you.
Drowsily, you open your eyes and look down. Your hand is gripped around your cock like a vise, come dribbling over your fist. Thankfully you haven't gotten any on your pants, your second in command is too clever by half and wouldn't be fooled by whatever fib you concocted to excuse the stain. With your free hand you fish a handkerchief from your coat pocket and clean yourself up and then, with a brief glance over your shoulder to make sure Dirk is still asleep, you pitch the hankie into the fire.
When you're presentable again, bits all tucked away and belt done back up, you sigh, relaxing back into your chair. Weariness is settling into your bones, and you don't usually pass out after getting off, but you were up all night and it was a strange evening. It's probably safe to have yourself a brief snooze, right? Probably you should be worried that Dirk's still not awake, maybe he's injured worse than you can tell, but you won't survive that conversation with your second in command without a nap first. And your eyes are getting so heavy, really, just a kip is all you need and then you'll call the doctor…
Your head slumps onto your shoulder.
Later, you're slowly dragged from a deep sleep by some racket echoing up from the floors below. You grumble and resettle, but before you close your eyes again you glance back at your bed to make sure the noise hasn't awoken Dirk.
Only for an icicle of fear to stab directly through your heart.
Because Dirk is gone.