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Ciri feels…a little insane, if she’s honest with herself. She fiddles nervously with her water bottle as she waits in the locker room, glad that it's early enough in the day and the season that almost no one else is here, at least at this time. The few people who are around aren’t any of the ones that know her – they might know Geralt, but he’s been working as a Santa for years. Most of her life, at least.
Just thinking about that – the difference in their age, how long she’s known him – makes her shiver and squeeze her thighs together.
Maybe she’s a little fucked up.
Not like Geralt’s any better.
She checks the time on her phone and fiddles with her water bottle some more, and then finally, the locker room door opens and it’s Geralt walking through it, looking distracted by his own phone.
“No, Eskel, I’m not – ”
He catches sight of Ciri leaning against his usual locker and seems to lose his words. She smiles and waves, pretending she’s not nervous, and he waves back, seemingly on automatic.
“ – look, I have to go,” Geralt finally says. “I’ll text you later.” He shoves his phone in his pocket.
“Playing an elf again this year?” he asks. She nods and steps to the side, letting him get into the locker, swallowing her rabbiting heartbeat. She stuffs her hand into her pocket to feel the remotes hidden there.
He tips his head and looks at her for a moment. “Sixteen years, seven months, and – ”
She doesn’t wait for him to count the days – she doesn’t know the correct number off the top of her head right now, anyway. “Old enough,” she interrupts. “You remember what you promised?”
Geralt sucks in a breath. “Not Christmas yet, Ciri,” he says, slowly, and there’s a tone in his voice that she recognizes from last year – it was the one he used when he told her to tell him no, that he’d drop it if she wanted him to.
She bites back a whine and nods. “Not yet, but,” she pulls the remotes out of her pocket and presses them into his hand. “If you wanna keep it, here’s an early present for you.”
He squints at her, then looks down at the remotes in his palm. The one, he clearly recognizes, because he grits out a curse, but then he’s shifting the other between his thumb and forefinger and holding it up with a questioning hum.
She flushes, but after looking to check that no one else is around or watching them, she turns her back to him and drags her jeans and panties over the curve of her ass, bending just enough that when she pulls one asscheek to the side, she knows it’ll show off the base of the plug she’s wearing.
“Fuck,” Geralt mutters, and she quickly rights her clothes and turns back around. “You – both? Right now?”
She nods, and then decides to push, just a bit. “I – I like being full,” she says, softly, and she gets to watch as Geralt’s pupils blow wide, his breathing going ragged for a beat before he leans back and clearly gets an intentional handle on his composure.
“Fucking hell, Ciri,” he murmurs. “And you – while we…the whole season?”
She nods again, feeling her flush darken. “If you wanna,” she whispers, “til Christmas. Then you can give me my real present.”
Geralt gives her a look she can’t name, something almost calculating. He stuffs the remotes in his pocket and then hooks his hand around the back of her neck, dragging her in close so he can lean down and press his lips right to her ear. She shudders and clenches around the toys.
“Yeah?” he asks, voice gone dark. “Still want me to stuff you full of cock for being such a naughty teenage slut?”
The combination of his proximity and the nasty words hit like some kind of drug; Ciri sways into him, choking on a breathless little whine. “Please,” she mumbles, cunt throbbing as her knees go wobbly; the way he chuckles only makes everything worse.
“Yeah,” he says, not a question this time, the hand he doesn’t have on her neck sliding between her thighs to push against the toys. She muffles her whimper against his chest. “I can do that, sweetheart.”
– – – – –
Geralt knows it’s still wrong. He’d spent the entire time preparing for Christmas season having a fucking crisis about it, as usual, in fact, but something about the way Ciri had just – offered herself up, handed over those remotes, eyes all wide and clearly hoping he hadn’t changed his mind when he’d been trying to convince himself for months that she would have changed hers?
It was like a switch had flipped, and he just…hadn’t been able to resist.
The way Ciri had reacted, too, god.
She’d practically melted under him with barely any pressure, and he wants to do it again, wants to see what she’d let him do, what she’d get off on, how far she’d go.
But he can’t let himself get lost in that. She’s sixteen, for fucks’ sake. He’s…already goddamned doomed, he knows that, the remotes in his pocket feel like they’re going to burn him, but.
He’s only got as much power as she’s given him, with the remotes. He knows he has to be careful with those, because if he isn’t, both of them could get fired, or worse. And, well, the worse – she is sixteen, she can consent, legally, that’s the whole goddamn point, but how did she get those toys, and her parents would surely have opinions, and and and –
He’s got to get a grip on himself.
He’ll have some fun, with the remotes, because fuck, Ciri’s too goddamned delicious not to take her up on that, and he’ll give her a fucking to remember for Christmas like she wants, and then….
Well. And then he’ll…figure it out from there.
– – – – –
The beginning of the season is always slow – too early for a lot of people to bring their kids to see Santa, really. He and the elves are kind of just set decoration for the mall, for the first week and a half, maybe two weeks; the elves help with some of the charity things, wrapping and distributing presents, things like that, but he mostly just sits around, waving at people who look his way.
It does give him the chance to experiment with the remotes, though.
He’s still careful, obviously – he doesn’t want to get either of them caught – but he learns the settings of both toys thoroughly, figuring out what they do by how Ciri reacts, or how long she’s gone when she has to excuse herself. Sometimes, when she’s standing close, he can hear them. By the time the season really picks up, he’s pretty sure he’s figured out exactly what combinations he can use to keep her on the edge, and which ones to make her come near-instantly.
Doesn’t hurt to confirm, though, and so he plays a little dirty – sometimes, Ciri works later, now that she’s old enough to work full shifts, so he takes advantage of the dead locker room when he can. Still keeping his distance, still just the remotes, still waiting – because her Christmas present should be special – but….
She looks so pretty, down to nothing but the barely-there elf leggings and no top, eyes all wide as she leans against her locker and trembles. He leans against the bank of lockers across the way, already changed, and turns the remotes over in his palms.
“Geralt,” she mumbles. “Geralt, oh my god, please.”
“Oh?” he asks, and turns the plug on, watching the way she tenses and jerks, hips rolling. After a moment, he turns on the wearable too, and she whimpers, palms banging against the lockers at her back. He only keeps that up for a moment, though, because she’s so sensitive – as soon as her breath shortens, he turns both of them off, and she makes a sound that’s almost a sob, low and breathless and desperate.
His cock throbs and he has to adjust himself in his jeans.
“Gotta use your words, Ciri,” he says, and she whines, slitting her eyes back open to glare at him. It might be more effective if she wasn’t panting and flushed pink all the way to her perky little nipples.
“Wanna come,” she hisses. “God, Geralt, please?”
He hums thoughtfully. He likes her like this, is the thing – all messy and desperate. And he doesn’t know for sure, but he thinks she hasn’t been getting herself off, when he doesn’t do it for her at the end of nights. It certainly seems like she hasn’t been, not when she comes in for her next shift so needy he can practically smell her. So he considers sending her home unsatisfied, seeing how desperate she’ll look about it.
But on the other hand, he also likes watching her come. Likes imagining what it’ll look like and feel like when she’s coming around his cock for Christmas.
“Alright,” he says, finally, and thumbs both toys back on. She slaps a hand over her mouth before she can wail, but only just, and her knees nearly give out; she catches herself by tipping forward and planting one hand on the bench between them.
“Geralt,” she moans through her fingers, half-rasping, visibly shaking everywhere. “Geralt, oh my god, fuck, fuck, fuck – ”
The words spill out of him before he can stop himself. “Go on, sweetheart, be a good little slut and come for me.” It’s an order, nothing like how he’s spoken to her before, firmer and much more direct, and for a split second he’s worried he’s overstepped, that it’ll shake her out of the moment somehow.
Instead, she just shouts, entirely breathless, and hits her knees, coming so hard he can hear it, a wet spot spreading dark and obvious in her leggings as she shakes. She’s clinging to the bench and whimpering, and for a long moment Geralt just watches, unable to do anything else as she trembles and whines, hips jerking as the wet spot gets bigger and bigger.
Finally, the sounds she’s making start to resemble words again and he remembers himself. “C-can’t, c…can’t, p-please, p… G’ralt, fuck – ”
He turns the toys off, and she collapses forward like her strings have been cut, still trembling and panting. He leans closer, not wanting to startle her, hand hovering well clear of touching.
“Ciri,” he murmurs. “Are you alright?”
He isn’t quite expecting her to giggle.
“Holy fuck,” she gasps, turning her head so she can squint one pretty green eye up at him. “I – you – hhhholy fuck.”
He blinks. “...I assume that’s a good thing.”
She giggles again. “Yeah.” She picks up her head and nudges it into his hovering hand like a cat looking for affection. He automatically pets her hair, and she hums happily at the attention, so he keeps doing it despite his original intention to keep his hands to himself until Christmas. “I don’t think I’ve ever come that hard.”
All he can think to say to that is, “You’re welcome,” which makes her giggle some more.
– – – – –
By the time the real countdown to Christmas has begun, and the mall is busy, Ciri is so goddamned desperate for Geralt she feels like she’s going to explode.
Or, well – more desperate. She started out pretty fucking desperate, if she’s honest, but the last month of Geralt’s teasing has made her worse than she ever imagined she could be. And now – now that it’s busy, now that there’s so many people around and no time, he’s somehow gotten even worse.
Because he hasn’t stopped using the remotes. Oh, no – that would make some kind of sense, she thinks, him starting to be cautious because of the rush. No, instead, he’s just made the teasing worse. He still turns the toys on, but now he waits and sees how long it takes before her composure starts to go (embarrassingly little, depending on the settings), or he just keeps them on the lowest settings for stretches of time to drive her lowkey insane for a whole day.
And. And. Worst of all, and she can’t fucking believe she…let him? Went with it? She doesn’t quite know what to call it, but. He’d pulled her aside in the locker room, the week before Christmas, and in that same tone she can’t quite pin, the one he’d used about the no and about not Christmas yet and when he’d told her to come, but that last one had been even more different than the others –
“No more orgasms. Not til Christmas. Will you?”
And she’d wanted to say no, at first – it had been right there, at the tip of her tongue, and somehow she knew he’d let her, take the no and back off, but. But. He’d given her this look, something in his eyes she couldn’t pin any better than the tone in his voice, and instead she’d said, “Why?”
He’d grinned like a wolf, some kind of predator – and he was that, wasn’t he? but she’d been encouraging him the whole time, and fuck, just thinking about all of it made her hot and shivery – and answered, “Because I like you needy and desperate.”
Which she was, and is, but something about him, his expression and his tone and just – just him, in his entirety, had made her swallow her slight trepidation and nod. “O-okay. ‘S long as you make it up to me.”
“Oh, I will,” had been the promise he’d made, and god, she didn’t disbelieve him, but now it was two days until Christmas and she hadn’t gotten off for days and he’d been testing her composure all day and she was struggling.
“Santa,” she murmurs in a small lull, feeling twitchy from the low-level buzz between her thighs that’s been going for at least half an hour. “I – please.”
He hums, not looking at her. “What is it?”
“Need – ”
She pauses for a moment, because she’s not actually sure what she needs. She wants to come, but she’s pretty sure if she does she’ll be out of commission for a few hours, at this point, with how much everything is. But she also can’t deal with the…everything right now, either.
“ – a break,” she finally finishes.
Geralt hums again. “You have a break in an hour,” he says. “But Becca has one in ten minutes – you can see if she’s willing to swap, if you really need one?”
Ciri experiences a brief and intense urge to whack him. For a moment, she considers indulging it, heedless of the gaggle of families approaching with their children.
“Geralt,” she hisses, and now he finally turns to her. There’s a mischievous sparkle in his eyes, and this time she gives in to the urge, just a little, reaching behind where the patrons won’t see and pinching his side.
He doesn’t even flinch.
“Use your words, Ciri,” he says, quick and quiet. “Or go swap with Becca, but pick one.” He tips his head toward the line starting to form, directed by another one of the elves.
“Need a break from the toys,” she whispers, barely even more than a breath, and almost before she even finishes saying, it the buzzing stops. She doesn’t tip forward in relief, but it’s a near thing, and Geralt makes a low, soothing sound at her.
“Go swap with Becca anyway,” he says, and it’s – not quite that voice, not exactly, but it’s not not that either, and Ciri just turns and goes to do as she’s told.
– – – – –
She spends the entirety of the day before Christmas Eve practically counting the seconds. She specifically traded for the latest shift, and she made up a story about spending Christmas with a friend months ago so her parents wouldn’t expect her home.
Between anticipation and Geralt with those damn remotes – why did she think giving him those was a good idea, again? – she nearly breaks his rule about no orgasms several times. Once, it’s almost in front of patrons; she has to hide the way she’s gone all breathless and shaky by coughing and pretending to stumble, excusing herself for a moment to stand behind one of the decorative trees and trying to scrape together her composure as the toys turn off.
When she returns, Geralt is barely hiding a smirk. On her next break after that, she takes a picture of the wet mess he’s made her make in her costume and sends it to him. It’s worth it to see him come back from his lunch ten minutes late and looking a little more flushed than when he left.
Ciri’s shift ends earlier than Geralt’s, like all the other elves. She changes into her street clothes and wastes some time wandering some of the stores that are still open, but when it’s late enough that practically no one is left at the mall, and certainly no one is at the North Pole, she goes back.
Geralt quirks a brow at her, when she approaches. She stops just in front of him and puts her hands on her hips.
“Sixteen years, seven months – ” she starts, and he interrupts to finish, “and twenty two days old.”
She grins at him, and it’s a little hard to worm her way into his lap now, but he helps, and gets hands on her waist and leg to keep her steady.
“Hi, Santa,” she says, all simper, putting her arms around his shoulders.
Geralt hums a warning, but doesn’t let go of her or say anything except, “What do you want for Christmas, Ciri?”
She hums, too, and pretends to consider. “I think,” she says, thoughtfully, and leans close to whisper into his ear. “I want Santa to fuck me ‘til I cry.”
Geralt makes a low sound. “Do you now,” he says, and it’s not a question at all. “You might want to be careful what you wish for.”
She giggles. “Maybe,” she says, still whispering in his ear, “but I haven’t gotten off in eight days, Santa, and I want your cock.” She can feel how he goes rigid, for a split second, and she giggles again.
“Fuck, Ciri,” he breathes. “You really – fuck.”
“‘S what you wanted,” she shrugs one shoulder. It sounds and looks much more casual than she feels about it.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, and something about the way he says it makes her feel like she’s been filled with lightning and warm syrup simultaneously – she bites back on a whine and squeezes her arms around his shoulders, tucking her face briefly into his neck before pulling back. The way he’s looking at her, when she does, only intensifies the feeling.
He gently pushes her off of his lap, back to her feet. “Locker room,” he says, and it’s in that tone, the one that makes her want to do exactly what he says. “Go.”
She gives a little salute and a fake curtsy before she darts off.
– – – – –
Geralt makes the executive decision to close the North Pole ten minutes early. He leaves a note that it’s because of a small family emergency – he’ll make up something about his niece needing a ride home or something if anyone asks later – but it’s entirely because he needs to get changed and take Ciri somewhere private before either of them catch some kind of charge.
When he gets to the locker room, Ciri is waiting on the bench in front of his locker. She’s still dressed, as much as that’s worth when she still wears skin-tight nonsense, but she’s got one hand pressed between her thighs and the other on her chest over her shirt, and her face is flushed.
“Hi,” she murmurs, and he swears, tugging himself out of the bulk of his costume and tossing it to the floor.
She whines into the kiss he plants on her, and it’s such an eager sound he just can’t resist another immediately after. “You really didn’t come?” he asks. “The whole time?”
She nods, eyes wide and wet. “Didn’t,” she says, all sincerity. “Haven’t even really touched myself, since, didn’t think I could resist if I did, so – ”
His cock throbs so hard he’s worried for a moment he’s going to stumble. “Fucking hell,” he hisses, and he reaches into his pocket for the remotes before he’s kissing her again. She gasps sharply into his mouth when he turns them on, and then whines, almost panicked, when he turns them up.
“G-Ger…Geralt,” she slurs, “I – I’m – ”
“Go on,” he encourages her, reaching down and trapping her hand between her thighs with his own, pressing so she’s grinding the wearable deeper. “Pretty, needy, obedient little thing – go ahead and come for me, Ciri.”
Her lashes flutter as she tosses her head back, and he covers her mouth with his other hand just in time for her to tense and spasm, the scream muffled by the meat of his palm. He keeps the hand there to muffle her, but moves the other to turn the toys back off, and then slowly backs up so he can finish tearing his costume off and start getting changed. Ciri, for her part, just sits there, trembling finely and panting, looking dazed.
She seems to come back online, a little, when he’s pulling on a shirt.
“Th-thank you,” she mumbles, and this time he does stumble a little.
“Fuck, Ciri,” he mutters, and leaves his shirt half-on just so he can yank her to her feet and press her back against the lockers, kissing her again. “Sweet little slut, aren’t you?”
She just makes a pretty little noise and arches into him. “Want more,” she says. “Please?”
The sound he makes is almost a growl. “Yeah,” he murmurs, biting gently at her bottom lip. “Yeah, I will – just a little longer, mm? Be a good girl and let me get you somewhere private first.”
She whines, but nods, and he kisses her again before gently prodding her back to sitting on the bench. He finishes changing and grabbing his things, then makes sure she has all of her things – he doesn’t quite trust that she’s remembered everything with how horny she is – and leads her to his car.
Once they’re settled into the front, he realizes he ought to figure out how much time he’s got to give her the fucking she’s begging for. “When do I need to have you home?”
She blinks at him. “You – don’t? I mean. Day after Christmas, probably.”
Now it’s his turn to blink. “What?”
She squirms a little. “I, uh. My parents think I’m spending Christmas with my friend and her family. As far as they know, I’m already over at hers for the night, and will be for the holiday.”
He feels kind of like he’s missed a step down a flight of stairs. His cock is painfully hard in his pants. “You – Cirilla.”
Her face screws up, but she apparently decides not to mention the name. “I just – ”
Before she can finish that, he’s fishing the remotes back out and turning both toys on to settings he knows she has no hope of resisting. She goes rigid, eyes flying wide, and barely manages more than a squeak before her hips are jerking and she’s spasming, back arching sharply.
He leaves the toys on as he reaches over and nearly rips open her jeans, tugging them and her panties down over her ass but leaving them around her thighs, too impatient to do much else. She’s whining, high and a little frantic, eyes squeezed shut as she shakes and her hips jerk, and it’s easy to slip one and then two of his fingers inside her alongside the wearable, forcing the toy harder into her g-spot.
“Geralt!”
He can feel how she comes again, the way her pulse rockets as her cunt clenches, and he groans, leaning closer to mouth over her throat. He’s careful not to leave marks, but he can’t resist seeing how she reacts to his teeth; the answer is that she moans, loud and needy, and arches closer to the press of them.
He turns the toys down, and then off, but doesn’t move his fingers, keeps mouthing at her neck. Slowly, the tension drains out of her, but her cunt keeps clenching, sucking at his fingers and the toy.
“Really going to let me have you for two days?” he asks, feeling a dangerously dark thrill at the idea. “Really going to let a strange man take you home and fuck you like that?”
She whimpers and just – tries to spread her legs, getting caught by her jeans. “Y-yes, yes,” she mumbles. “God, please, Geralt, I want it.”
“Filthy,” he mutters, but it’s half praise, and he kisses his way from the corner of her jaw to her mouth. “‘M gonna ruin you, sweetheart.”
“Please.”