HO HO HOE? HOE!!

The world spun in a blur of tinsel and darkness before you landed with a heavy thump on a plush carpet, Yuralis’s sturdy frame half-tangling with yours as you both tumbled free of the fireplace. Mika’s “chimney-slip” bangle flickered and died on your wrist with a sad fizzle.

You groaned, pushing yourself up on your elbows. “Remind me never to trust Mika’s inventions again.”

Yuralis let out a low, grumbling chuckle, already untangling her legs from yours with a surprising gentleness. “Told you she’s better at making things go boom than go smooth,” she whispered, her amber eyes scanning the shadow-draped living room. A towering Christmas tree sparkled nearby, casting soft, colorful lights over wrapped presents.

As you reached into the magical Santa bag for a gift labeled Tiffany, the floorboard behind you creaked. A small girl in reindeer pajamas stood rubbing her eyes, her gaze wide and unblinking.

Yuralis instantly shifted, her expression melting into something painfully earnest. She leaned down, her voice a hushed, sugary coo. “Oh, honey! You must be Tiffany. I see you’re on the nice list this year!”

The little girl’s eyes darted from the mountainous, furry yeti to your own heavily-muscled, red-suited form. Her lower lip trembled.

“STRANGER DANGER!” she shrieked, then spun on her heel and bolted down the hall toward her parents’ bedroom.

You let out a heavy sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Oh, great. You scared her, Yuralis.”

She straightened up, placing her hands on her wide hips. Her whisper was now a sharp, indignant hiss. “Me? I’m not the one who looks like a Barbarian Santa! You’re built like you chop down trees for fun, not deliver toys!”

From down the hall, you could already hear the panicked murmur of waking parents and the quickening patter of adult footsteps. Yuralis shot you a look that was both exasperated and deeply amused. The night was not going according to plan.

The walkie-talkie on your belt crackled to life, and Mika urged both of you to get back to the sleigh on the roof before the cops were called.

Mika’s bangle hummed against your wrist, an unstable buzz of magic that compressed your form into a stream of holiday intent. You shot down the penthouse chimney in a blur of soot and sparkles, rematerializing with a soft thud in the center of a sprawling, minimalist living room.

The air smelled of pine needles and expensive perfume. Floor-to-ceiling windows displayed a glittering city skyline, and a sleek, designer Christmas tree stood in the corner, adorned with silver and white ornaments. For a moment, all was silent.

Then you heard the gentle clink of glass.

Near the balcony, lounging on a cream-colored chaise, was a woman. She held a half-full glass of red wine, which she paused mid-sip, her eyes—sharp, calculating, and suddenly very interested—locking onto you.

This was Melissa DeVere, CEO of a fashion empire, a woman whose name was synonymous with luxury and cutthroat business. At forty, her love life was a tabloid staple of failed engagements and bitter interviews about the lack of “suitable men.” Tonight, she was playing aunt, babysitting her two sleeping nephews in the guestroom while her sister and brother-in-law attempted to make a third.

She didn’t scream. She didn’t panic. Her initial startle melted away as her gaze traveled from the ridiculous red fur-trimmed suit to the very real, very defined musculature straining against the velvet fabric. A slow, intrigued smile touched her lips.

She took a deliberate sip of her wine, her eyes never leaving yours. Setting the glass down, she rose with a fluid grace that spoke of confidence and poise. A silk robe the color of champagne draped over a voluptuous figure—generous hips, a pronounced, rounded behind, and full breasts that moved with her slow approach. The robe parted slightly with each step, hinting at the skin beneath.

“Well,” she purred, her voice a low, smoky contralto that filled the quiet room. “This is a delivery service I could get used to.” She stopped a few feet away, looking you up and down with an appraiser’s eye. “Let me guess... Santa Claus, checking his list twice?”

She tilted her head, a playful, knowing glint in her eyes as she closed the distance slightly, the scent of wine and jasmine drifting toward you.

“Funny you should find me here, all alone,” she murmured, her tone dripping with deliberate suggestion. “Because, Santa... I’ve been a very, very naughty girl this year...”

The frosty London air bit at your cheeks as you slipped through an open upstairs window—the chimney had looked far too narrow, even with magic. You landed with a soft creak on the polished hardwood floor of a classic British townhouse. The room was cozy, decorated with tasteful garlands and a modest tree glowing with white lights.

You shrugged the massive toy sack off your shoulder, reached inside, and pulled out a neatly wrapped gift labeled For Timmy. As you bent to place it under the tree, a door down the hall flew open.

“I say! What in the bloody hell is this?” a man’s voice demanded.

You straightened up to see a man in a tartan dressing gown, his hair mussed from sleep, brandishing a cricket bat. He held it like he’d seen it done in films but never actually practiced.

“Sir, please put the cricket bat down,” you said, holding up a placating hand. “As you can see, I’m Santa.”

His eyes narrowed, darting from your face to the red suit and then lingering on your arms, which were visibly straining the white fur trim. “Santa? Don’t be ridiculous. Santa has a belly. A proper, jolly belly. You look like you... you lift reindeer for fun.”

You felt a familiar spike of irritation. “What? No big jiggly belly? Are you seriously muscle-shaming me, bro?!”

Before he could retort, you snatched the gift back from under the tree. With one slow, deliberate squeeze of your hand, the carefully wrapped box crumpled in your grip like tissue paper, the contents inside giving a plastic crack.

You pointed a finger at him, dropping into your best gravelly Hulk Hogan impression. “Tell Little Timmy he’s on the naughty list this year! And you know why? Because his dad is a British Nancy who’s never pumped iron in the gym in his entire life! What’cha gonna do, brother, when the Claus-mania runs wild on you?!”

The man’s face paled. He took a stumbling step back, then another, before fumbling for his bedroom door handle. “Right. Quite. Merry Christmas, then!” he squeaked, before scrambling inside and locking the door with a sharp click.

A static crackle broke the silence from the walkie-talkie clipped to your belt, followed by Mika’s tinny, exasperated sigh. “User? We’re getting reports of... aggressive festive delivery. Can you try to be a little less ‘angsty WWE Santa’ and a little more ‘jolly gift-giver’? Over.”