"You've got to be shitting me," I grunt, raising my gaze from the elegantly-penned letter to the girl in front of me, the tips of her ears just barely poking above the paper when I lower it.

"We're, uh..." Her eyes, a cheery green, flick nervously to the floor, and to my bed, never quite meeting my own. "We're not allowed to say those kinds of words, but... no. I'm not... not that," she finished lamely, fingertips quietly curling around to tug on the ends of her red-and-white-striped sleeves. "It's true."

Dear Mr. Lockwood.

I check the letter again.

It is our great pleasure to inform you that, after the passing the late holder of the office, you have been selected to take on his duties, including the fashioning and delivery of some 8,673,242 gifts on an annual basis...

As I watch, the last 2 rearranges itself, ink twining round to form an equally well-scripted 3.

"This is bullshit."

Tossing the letter aside and standing with a groan, I look at my unexpected visitor, a gust of snow from the open window behind her ruffling at her snow-white hair.

"You're telling me that I have to be fucking Santa Claus now?" I ask, brows knitting together. I can already see her nodding timidly, a faint tinkle of bells accompanying the motion.

"You're not going to be f-er, fudging Santa Claus," the - oh, hell, I decide - I guess that makes her an elf - "you're just going to be him."

I blink. Once, twice, and it hits me.

"That's a figure of speech," I observe mildly. "Are you telling me you're not allowed to swear? To that level?"

Another nod.

"The last Mr. Claus was very strict about that," the girl offers quietly. "It's been about a thousand years since any of us got to do more than give a little wave at someone else, or say anything less wholesome than fudge."

"Fuck," I sigh, looking out to where a haphazardly-parked sleigh sits on the street, onlookers poking their heads out of doors in ones and twos, phones in hand. "And I suppose I don't get a choice, do I?"

I don't even need to know the answer to that, from the way she's looking out the window nervously now, doing her utmost to avoid my stare. She looks... afraid, my mind helpfully supplies, a far cry from the jolly charmers I'd imagined elves to be, growing up.

A sudden rush sweeps through me as I look around my place - boxes half-packed, the faded spots on the wall where photographs once hung - and I nod, once.

"Fuck it."

A grin spreads across my face, and I do my best to tamp down the mad sense of possibility tingling at the back of my mind.

"I'll do it. But there're going to be some changes."

A little pre-Christmas oddity that might, perhaps, spark a little something!

Kinks: Adorable elves, charming banter, candy-cane-striped toys, cute butt stuff, and hand-holding.

Limits: Anything that ought to go in a toilet. Reindeer.

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