Chapter Text
The morning sun sliced through the gap in the hotel room’s blackout curtains, painting a sharp, golden line across the bed. Santa woke slowly, his consciousness returning in fuzzy, warm layers. The first thing he registered was a profound sense of comfort and warmth. The second was the source. He was curled on his side, his back pressed firmly against a solid, warm wall. An arm was draped heavily over his waist, a hand splayed possessively against his stomach. Soft, even puffs of breath stirred the hair at the nape of his neck.
His eyes flew open.
He was the little spoon. And Perth was the big spoon.
Panic, sharp and cold, lanced through him, immediately followed by a wave of heat so intense it was dizzying. He didn’t move a muscle, terrified of waking Perth, of shattering this impossible, breathtaking moment. This was a violation of every rule, a nuclear bomb dropped on the carefully constructed border between their pretend world and their real one. And yet, it felt more natural than breathing. His body fit against Perth’s as if the space between them had been designed for this exact purpose.
He could feel the steady, strong beat of Perth’s heart against his back, a rhythm that seemed to sync with his own frantic pulse, slowly calming it. The weight of Perth’s arm was an anchor, holding him securely in place. He’d never felt so… safe. So cherished. Even if it was an accident, a trick of sleep deprived instinct, the feeling was devastatingly real.
He lay there for what felt like an eternity, memorizing the feeling, committing the warmth and the weight and the scent of Perth’s skin so close to his to permanent memory. Then, he felt it. The slightest change in Perth’s breathing. A tiny hitch, a subtle stiffening of the body behind him. Perth was waking up.
Santa squeezed his eyes shut, feigning sleep. He felt Perth go utterly still. The arm around his waist froze, as if its owner was trying to process the sensory data through a fog of sleep. Santa could practically hear the silent, internal scream of panic happening behind him.
Then, with a painstaking slowness that was almost more intimate than the cuddle itself, Perth’s arm retreated. The warmth at his back vanished as Perth carefully, silently, shifted away, putting a respectful foot of space between them. The cold air that rushed in to replace his warmth felt like a loss.
Santa waited a full minute, listening to Perth’s now carefully regulated breathing, before he stretched and gave a theatrical yawn, rolling over as if he’d just woken up.
“Morning,” he mumbled, rubbing his eyes, hoping his face wasn’t as flushed as it felt.
Perth was sitting on the very edge of the bed, his back to Santa, pulling on his socks. His shoulders were tense. “Morning,” he replied, his voice a gravelly rumble that did things to Santa’s insides.
“Sleep okay?” Santa asked, unable to help himself.
“Fine,” Perth said, too quickly. He stood up and headed for the bathroom without looking back. “You sprawl. And you steal the covers.”
The bathroom door closed, and Santa let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. The lie was so transparent it was almost funny. The covers were perfectly neat on his side of the bed. He hadn’t sprawled at all. He’d stayed perfectly, wonderfully still.
The incident in the bed cast a long, unspoken shadow over the morning. There was a new layer of awareness, a fragile, delicate thing that hung between them as they got ready. They moved around each other with a cautious politeness, avoiding eye contact. The easy rhythm of their fake relationship from the wedding day had been replaced by a palpable, buzzing tension.
The wedding ceremony was over, but the family festivities were far from done. Today was the traditional morning after merit making ceremony at a nearby temple, followed by an elaborate brunch.
The performance had to continue.
As they walked into the hotel lobby to meet the family, Santa instinctively reached for Perth’s hand. It was part of the act, a habit formed over the last twenty fours hours. But this time, when their fingers laced together, it felt different. It wasn’t just for show. Santa’s palm was slightly sweaty, his grip a little too tight. He was nervous, and he was seeking comfort. Grounding.
Perth’s fingers tightened around his in response. Not a performative squeeze for the benefit of watching aunties, but a real, firm, reassuring pressure. I’m here. The simple gesture sent a wave of calm through Santa’s jangling nerves. He glanced at Perth, who was looking straight ahead, his profile stoic, but his thumb was making a tiny, unconscious sweeping motion across the back of Santa’s hand.
The merit making ceremony was a serene, beautiful affair, a contrast to the previous day's exuberance. As they sat on the temple floor, offering alms to the monks, Santa found his focus continually drifting to where his shoulder was pressed against Perth’s. The quiet reverence of the place made the connection feel even more profound, more intimate.
The brunch afterward was a more relaxed affair than the wedding reception, but the questions kept coming, albeit softer, more curious than interrogative.
“So, Perth, what are Santa’s bad habits?” an uncle asked with a chuckle. “He must leave his clothes all over your apartment, yes?”
Santa opened his mouth to make a self deprecating joke, but Perth spoke first.
“He does,” Perth said, a small, genuine smile playing on his lips. “But he also makes the best pancakes I’ve ever had. He puts chocolate chips in them, even though he knows I prefer blueberries. He says it’s to ‘keep me on my toes.’”
Santa stared at him, his heart doing a funny little flip. It was such a specific, domestic detail. They’d never made pancakes together. Perth hated mess in the kitchen. But the way he said it, with such fond exasperation, made it sound utterly true.
Later, Santa’s grandmother asked, “And what does our Santa do that makes you happiest?”
Santa, flustered, jumped in. “He probably likes that I’m quiet and let him read in peace--”
At the exact same time, Perth said, “He makes me laugh.”
They stopped, looked at each other, and burst out laughing. It was unscripted, unrehearsed, and perfectly in sync. The table of relatives erupted in affectionate coos.
“You even finish each other’s sentences!” Santa’s mother sighed, dabbing her eyes with a napkin. “It’s so beautiful.”
Santa’s laughter died in his throat, replaced by a sudden, overwhelming surge of emotion. It was beautiful. And it was fake. The dissonance was starting to ache.
After brunch, the family began to disperse for a few hours of rest before the dinner. Santa found himself cornered by his Great Aunt Mali, a sweet but notoriously long winded woman who loved nothing more than dissecting relationships.
“You know, Santa,” she said, patting his hand, “I was so worried about you. Always the joker, never serious. I thought you’d never settle down. It’s so good to see you with someone who truly sees you.”
Santa smiled weakly. “Thanks, Auntie.”
“No, I mean it,” she insisted. “That young man, Perth. The way he looks at you. It’s not just with love, it’s with… understanding. Like he sees all the parts of you, even the ones you try to hide with all your jokes.”
Santa’s smile felt frozen on his face. He tried to make a light hearted comment, but the words wouldn’t come. Auntie Mali was seeing what she wanted to see. It was just good acting.
He extricated himself a few minutes later, needing a moment alone. He didn’t see Perth on the patio, so he wandered back inside the hotel lobby, thinking he might have gone up to the room. As he passed a quiet alcove near the elevators, he heard his name.
It was his Auntie Prang, the family’s head gossip, talking to another relative. Santa paused, hidden by a large potted fern.
“…so happy for him,” Auntie Prang was saying. “Santa always uses those jokes of his as a shield, you know? He thinks if he’s the one making the joke, no one else can laugh at him. It’s a defense mechanism. I just always hoped he’d find someone who would see past all that. Someone who would look at him and not just see the class clown, but the sweet, clever boy underneath who just wants to be taken seriously.”
Santa’s breath caught in his throat. He felt exposed, as if she’d reached into his chest and pulled out his deepest insecurity. He was about to slip away when another voice answered. It was Perth.
He must have been standing just on the other side of the alcove.
“He’s not a joke,” Perth said, and his voice was low, firm, and carried a conviction that made Santa’s knees feel weak. It wasn’t the polite, placating tone he used with the family. This was real. “He’s the funniest person I know, but that’s the smallest part of him. He’s kind. And he’s smarter than he lets anyone see. He feels things deeply, he just… he shows it differently. He cares so much about making people happy that he sometimes forgets to let them see him. The real him. And he’s… he’s everything.”
There was a beat of stunned silence. Santa could imagine the look on Auntie Prang’s face. He certainly felt like he’d been hit by a truck.
“Oh, Perth,” Auntie Prang finally said, her voice soft and a little watery. “That’s… that’s exactly it. You really do see him, don’t you?”
“I do,” Perth said, the words simple, clear, and absolute.
Santa couldn’t breathe. The world tilted on its axis. He stumbled back from the fern, his heart hammering against his ribs like a wild bird. I do. The words echoed in his head, drowning out everything else. He’d heard the truth in Perth’s voice. It wasn’t part of the act. It couldn’t be.
He turned and fled, not towards the elevators, but out through the hotel’s front doors, into the bright, overwhelming sunlight. He needed air. He needed to be away from the sound of that devastating, beautiful truth.
I do.
The lie had started it all. But somewhere along the way, amidst the hand holding and the whispered stories and the shared pillow, it had stopped being a lie for Perth. And Santa, standing on the sidewalk with the sun beating down on him, realized with terrifying, exhilarating clarity that it had stopped being a lie for him, too.
***
Santa didn’t know how long he stood there on the curb, the traffic whizzing by, his mind a roaring static of Perth’s voice saying I do. He was so lost in his thoughts he didn’t hear the footsteps approach.
“Ta?”
He jumped, whirling around. Perth was there, his brow furrowed in concern. “Where did you go? I’ve been looking for you. We’re supposed to meet everyone for dinner soon.”
Santa just stared at him. He looked the same. Same perfectly styled hair, same calm, handsome face, but he was entirely different. He was the man who had just told his aunt that Santa was everything.
“I… needed air,” Santa managed to croak out.
Perth’s eyes searched his face, the concern deepening. “Are you okay? You look pale.”
“I’m fine,” Santa said, too quickly. He forced a smile, the same old shield coming up automatically. “Just too much sun. Let’s go get ready for the performance.”
He saw a flicker of something. Disappointment? In Perth’s eyes at the word ‘performance,’ but it was gone so fast Santa thought he might have imagined it.
They went back up to their room to change. The silence was heavier now, filled with the words Santa had overheard. They moved around each other like ghosts, the air thick with everything unsaid. Santa put on a fresh shirt, his fingers fumbling with the buttons. He caught Perth watching him in the mirror, his expression unreadable.
The dinner was in the hotel's rooftop bar, strung with fairy lights and offering a stunning view of the city at dusk. Santa’s mother found them first, her eyes a little teary from champagne and sentiment. “I’m just so happy,” she said, clutching both their hands. “To see my boy so loved. It’s all a mother wants.”
She pulled them both into a tight hug. Over her shoulder, Santa’s eyes met Perth’s. There was no one else watching them closely. The performance was, for this moment, unnecessary. But they didn’t look away. The air between them crackled with everything that had been said and everything that remained unsaid. Santa saw the same confusion, the same yearning, the same terrifying hope that was churning in his own gut reflected back at him in Perth’s dark eyes.
His cousin Nok, the bride, saw the look. She nudged her new husband and grinned. “Look at them. They’re so gone for each other. You two aren’t even faking it, are you? This is the real deal.”
It was meant as the highest compliment, a testament to their acting skills.
But it landed like a bucket of ice water.
Both Santa and Perth flinched, pulling apart from the hug as if electrocuted. The spell shattered.
“What? Of course not!” Santa laughed, the sound too high, too brittle. He slung an arm around Perth’s neck, falling back into the familiar, exaggerated persona. “We’re the best fakers in the business, right, babe? Practically professionals.”
Perth’s body was rigid under his arm. He offered a tight, strained smile. “The best,” he echoed, his voice hollow.
They managed to laugh it off, to steer the conversation away. But the seed had been planted. For Santa, the words echoed in the suddenly cavernous space between them.
You two aren’t even faking it, are you?
Santa felt like he was acting in a play where he’d forgotten his lines, his every gesture and smile feeling false and brittle. He could feel Perth pulling away, retreating behind his walls. The connection they’d shared all weekend was fraying, dissolving under the weight of the unacknowledged truth.
Finally, dinner came to a close. Exhausted, emotionally drained, and desperate to be alone, they gave their final goodbyes and escaped to the sanctuary of the elevator. The silence inside was a physical pressure. They stared at the numbers lighting up, refusing to look at each other.
They trudged down the plush hallway to their room. Perth unlocked the door and pushed it open.
The familiar sight of the king sized bed, now neatly made by housekeeping, felt like an accusation. The door clicked shut behind them, sealing them in. The silence was absolute. The performance was over for the night. There was no audience left to fool.
They stood in the room, not moving, not speaking. The space felt charged, as if the ghost of their pretend relationship was haunting it, reminding them of the morning’s intimacy and the afternoon’s confession.
Perth finally moved, taking off his suit jacket and hanging it neatly in the closet. He didn’t look at Santa. “Well,” he said, his voice flat. “One more event tomorrow morning, and then we’re done.”
“Yeah,” Santa whispered, his own voice rough. “Then we’re done.”
More silence. Perth ran a hand through his hair, a rare sign of agitation. “I should… take a shower.”
He made to move past Santa towards the bathroom, but Santa reached out, his fingers brushing against Perth’s wrist. It was the lightest of touches, but Perth froze as if he’d been branded.
“P'Perth,” Santa said, the name a plea.
Perth slowly turned to look at him. His eyes were guarded, shuttered. The open, vulnerable man from the hotel alcove was gone, locked away behind walls of self preservation.
“What is it, Ta?” he asked, his tone carefully neutral. “The job is almost done. The rules can be reinstated. We can go back to normal.”
The words were like a physical blow. Go back to normal. The thought was unbearable.
Santa’s courage, so often a loud, brash thing, failed him. The confession died on his lips. Instead, he deflected, as he always did. “I just… thanks. For doing this. For putting up with my crazy family. You were… amazing. You should win an Oscar.”
A shadow passed over Perth’s face. Disappointment. “Right. The performance.” He gave a short, humorless laugh. “It was convincing, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah,” Santa said, his heart breaking. “It was.”
He expected Perth to leave then, to retreat into the bathroom and end this agonizing limbo. But Perth didn’t move. He just stood there, looking at Santa, and something in his expression shifted. The walls cracked, just a little.
“It wasn’t all acting,” Perth said quietly, his gaze dropping to the floor.
Santa’s breath hitched. “What?”
Perth took a deep breath, as if steeling himself for a great fall. When he looked up, his eyes were raw, honest, and terrified. “You’re not hard to love, you know,” he said, the words so soft they were almost carried away on the still air of the hotel room. “In fact, you’re incredibly easy to love. That part… that part wasn’t hard to fake. Because it wasn’t fake.”
Time stopped. The world narrowed to the space between them in the quiet, lamplit room. Santa could hear the blood rushing in his ears. He felt dizzy, weightless.
All the fear, all the confusion, all the pretense melted away, burned up in the sheer, blazing honesty of Perth’s confession. The last of his defenses crumbled to dust.
“Sometimes I wish this wasn’t fake,” Santa whispered, the words torn from the deepest, most honest part of his soul.
Perth froze. His eyes widened, searching Santa’s face, looking for the joke, the deflection. He found none. He found only the same terrifying, hopeful truth that was reflected in his own.
A lifetime of silence stretched between them, thick and heavy with possibility.
Then, Perth spoke, his voice a broken, vulnerable thing. “Me too.” He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Because I’ve liked you since… forever. Since before any of this. Since the day we met at that university mixer and you accidentally spilled your drink on my shoes, and tried to make me "happy" by made a joke of it.”
A choked sob of a laugh escaped Santa. He remembered that day. He’d been trying to impress the quiet, serious, devastatingly handsome senior. He’d failed spectacularly.
He took a step closer, closing the distance that had felt so vast just moments ago. “You never said anything.”
“You never saw me as anything other than your friend,” Perth said, a world of pain in the simple statement. “You dated other people. You joked about everything. I didn’t think I stood a chance. I thought I’d just… love you from afar. It was easier that way.”
The word ‘love’ hung in the air, huge and undeniable.
Santa reached up, his hand trembling slightly as he cupped Perth’s jaw. Perth’s eyes fluttered shut at the touch, a shudder running through his body. His skin was warm, the stubble along his jaw rough under Santa’s fingertips.
“I see you now,” Santa breathed, his voice thick with emotion. “P'Perth, I see you.”
That was all it took.
Perth’s eyes opened, and they were blazing with an intensity that stole the air from Santa’s lungs. All the carefully constructed rules, the walls, the years of silent longing, evaporated into nothing.
Perth’s hand came up to cradle the back of Santa’s neck, his fingers tangling in his hair. He pulled him in, slowly, giving him every chance to pull away.
Santa didn’t pull away. He met him halfway.
The kiss was not like any kiss Santa had ever experienced. It wasn’t the chaste, performative peck Rule #1 had forbidden. It was a confession. It was an answer. It was a release.
It started soft, a tentative, questioning brush of lips. A silent is this okay? Santa’s answer was a soft sigh against Perth’s mouth, his free hand coming up to clutch at Perth’s shirt, pulling him closer. The tentative brush ignited into a blaze.
Perth kissed him with a desperation that spoke of years of pent up longing, his lips moving against Santa’s with a fierce, tender possession that made Santa’s knees buckle. It was everything. The frustration of the weekend, the joy of the pillow fight, the warmth of the morning cuddle, the heartache of the near goodbye, all poured into this one, perfect, world altering kiss.
Santa kissed him back with equal fervor, pouring every bit of his own realization, his own fear, his own overwhelming love into the connection. It was messy, and desperate, and absolutely perfect.
When they finally broke apart, gasping for air, their foreheads rested together. Their breaths mingled in the small space between them. Perth’s eyes were still closed, as if he was afraid to open them and find it was a dream.
“The rules…” Santa whispered, a delirious, giddy laugh bubbling up in his chest.
“To hell with the rules,” Perth murmured, his voice rough with emotion. He leaned in and captured Santa’s lips again, this kiss slower, sweeter, a promise of everything that was to come. The kiss deepened, a slow, insistent pressure that erased the lingering traces of doubt. Perth’s lips moved over Santa’s, seeking, tasting, exploring every curve and crevice. Santa’s fingers, still tangled in the soft hair at the nape of Perth’s neck, tightened, pulling him closer until their chests pressed flush, warmth radiating between their bodies through the thin fabric of their clothes. The scent of Perth’s cologne, a subtle mix of cedar and something faintly metallic, filled Santa’s head, intoxicating him, grounding him in the sudden, overwhelming reality of this moment.
A soft moan escaped Santa’s throat, a low, guttural sound that vibrated against Perth’s mouth. Perth responded with an answering hum, a deep rumble that seemed to shake Santa to his core. His tongue, emboldened, traced the seam of Santa’s lips, a silent question. Santa’s mouth parted, an invitation, and Perth’s tongue slipped inside, hot and wet, meeting Santa’s with a hungry dance. It wasn’t a gentle exploration. It was a claiming, a devouring. Their tongues swirled together, tasting, tangling, an urgent conversation without words. Saliva mixed, slick and warm, coating their mouths, the soft schlick of their combined efforts the only sound in the charged silence of the room.
Perth’s free hand, which had been resting lightly on Santa’s waist, slid lower, pressing against the small of Santa’s back, urging him even closer. Santa’s hips instinctively tilted forward, a primal response to the pressure, and a jolt of pure electricity shot through him as he felt Perth’s cock, already thick and rigid, press against his own. They were both still fully clothed, the denim of their jeans and the cotton of their underwear a frustrating barrier, yet the friction was undeniable, exquisitely painful in its promise.
“Phi,” Santa breathed, pulling back just enough for a moment, his eyes half lidded, dark with desire. His voice was a ragged whisper, barely audible above the frantic thumping of his own heart.
Perth’s gaze, usually so controlled, was molten, devouring. “Ta,” he echoed, his voice a low growl, rough with unspent need. His lips brushed Santa’s again, a feather light touch that promised more. “You have no idea.”
Santa’s hands slid from Perth’s neck, down his broad shoulders, tracing the hard lines of muscle beneath his shirt. He pulled again, a silent command, and Perth stepped into it, their hips grinding together, a slow, circular motion that built a searing heat between them. The denim chafed, a delicious torture, each rub intensifying the friction, the burgeoning ache in their already swollen cocks.
“This is… insane,” Santa gasped, his head falling back against Perth’s shoulder, giving Perth access to the sensitive skin of his neck.
Perth’s teeth nipped gently at the pulsing vein there, sending shivers down Santa’s spine. “Is it?” he murmured, his breath hot against Santa’s skin. His hips continued their relentless rhythm, pushing, pulling, a slow, sensual dance that mirrored the frantic pace of their hearts. The sound of their jeans rubbing was almost musical, filling the air.
Santa arched into the contact, a desperate need blooming in his core. “Yes. We’re… we’re still dressed.” He laughed, a short, breathless sound, but there was no humor in it, only a raw desperation. “This is ridiculous.”
“Then let’s fix it,” Perth countered, his voice a husky suggestion. His hands moved, not to undress Santa, but to cup Santa’s ass through the denim, lifting him slightly, settling him more firmly against his own straining erection. The pressure was exquisite, a blunt, aching throb that promised release, demanded it.
Santa gasped, a sharp intake of breath. The direct pressure was almost too much, a wave of sensation that threatened to overwhelm him. He could feel the hard ridge of Perth’s cock through the layers of fabric, a powerful, insistent presence. He leaned his forehead against Perth’s, his eyes squeezed shut. “God. I can’t… I can’t take this.”
“Can’t you?” Perth challenged softly, his voice laced with a dark amusement, though his body was trembling with the effort of restraint. He rotated his hips again, a slow, deliberate grind that made Santa whimper. “I think you can.”
Santa’s hands, still clutching Perth’s shirt, slid down to his waist, fumbling for the button of Perth’s trousers. His fingers were clumsy, trembling with urgency. “Help me,” he pleaded, his voice thick with desire.
Perth, reading the unspoken command, chuckled, a low, rumbling sound in his chest. He straightened, breaking their grinding contact for a moment, and Santa let out a soft groan of protest at the loss. But Perth’s hands were quick, deft. He unbuttoned his own jeans with one hand, the other still holding Santa's hips. The zipper descended with a soft zip sound, a sound that sent a fresh wave of heat through Santa.
Perth then reached for Santa’s jeans, his fingers brushing against Santa’s lower stomach, sending shivers through him. Santa stood still, breath held, as Perth’s fingers navigated the button and zipper, releasing the constraint. The fabric loosened, and Santa let out a shaky sigh of relief.
“Better?” Perth asked, his eyes dark, watching Santa’s face for every reaction.
“Much,” Santa whispered, his voice barely there. He pushed his own jeans down a few inches, just enough to free his cock from the constricting fabric. He felt the cool air against his skin for a moment, a brief respite before the inevitable.
Perth mirrored his actions, pushing his jeans and boxers down, revealing his thick cock, already slick with precum. It sprang free, pulsing with a life of its own. Santa’s eyes widened, a flicker of awe crossing his face at the sight. It was even more impressive than he had imagined, a powerful testament to Perth’s desire.
“Now,” Perth said, his voice a low, dangerous growl, “let’s try that again.”
He pulled Santa’s hips forward once more, and this time, the contact was direct, skin against skin. The shock of it, the raw, unadulterated sensation of their cocks pressing together, sent a jolt that went straight to Santa’s core. A guttural moan tore from his throat, loud and uninhibited. Perth’s own breath hitched, a sharp gasp escaping him as their sensitive tips met, brushing, sliding against each other.
“Oh, God,” Santa choked out, his hands flying to Perth’s shoulders, gripping them tightly, as if to anchor himself against the storm of sensation. His cock, already throbbing, swelled even further, a burning ache spreading through his groin.
Perth began to move, a slow, deliberate grind, their cocks rubbing together, slick with the precum that had already beaded on both. The friction was incredible, each upward stroke pushing the head of Santa’s cock against Perth’s, each downward slide allowing them to rub the sensitive undersides. A soft, wet squelch filled the air with each movement, a sound that was both obscene and utterly arousing.
Santa’s hips moved in an instinctive counter rhythm, meeting Perth’s thrusts, trying to deepen the contact, to find more of that exquisite pressure. He felt Perth’s balls, heavy and warm, slap against his inner thigh with each movement, a constant reminder of the raw masculinity pressing against him.
“This is… everything,” Santa panted, his chest heaving, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps. He leaned his head against Perth’s shoulder, burying his face in the warm skin there, inhaling the scent of him, a potent mix of arousal and his natural musk.
Perth's fingers, which had been cupping Santa’s ass, now slipped lower, finding the soft, sensitive skin of Santa’s perineum, pressing gently, then stroking. The unexpected touch sent a fresh wave of shivers through Santa, making his cock twitch and throb even harder. “You feel so good,” Perth whispered, his voice strained, his own body trembling with the effort of control. “So incredibly good.”
Their cocks continued their dance, a slow, agonizingly pleasurable grind. The heads brushed, slick and sensitive, then the shafts slid along each other, skin to skin, a perfect fit that felt both forbidden and utterly natural. Santa could feel the rhythmic pulse of Perth’s cock against his own, a shared heartbeat of desire. The friction built, a slow, inexorable climb towards an unknown peak.
“I’m going to come,” Santa gasped, the words torn from him, a desperate confession. His body was on fire, every nerve ending screaming. He felt the precum, thick and heavy, now dripping from the head of his cock, mixing with Perth’s, creating a slick, glistening mess between their bodies.
Perth gritted his teeth, his jaw tight. “Not yet,” he growled, his voice raw. He held Santa’s hips firmly, controlling the pace, slowing their movements just slightly, prolonging the exquisite torture. “I want to feel you. All of you.” He tilted his hips, pressing his cock more firmly against Santa’s, the blunt pressure sending a jolt straight to Santa’s prostate, making him cry out.
Santa wailed, a pleading sound, his body arching, desperate for release. He could feel the intense pressure building, a sweet, agonizing tension that was almost unbearable. His vision blurred at the edges, his entire world narrowing to the point of contact between their bodies.
Perth’s own breath was coming in ragged gasps, his body trembling visibly. He was fighting for control, for patience, but Santa could feel the frantic pulse of his own cock against his. He was close too, dangerously close.
“Look at me,” Perth commanded, his voice hoarse, thick with desire.
Santa opened his eyes, meeting Perth’s gaze. Perth’s eyes were dark, dilated, burning with an almost feral intensity. There was no pretense left, no guard, only raw, unadulterated lust and something deeper, something akin to reverence.
Perth began to move again, faster this time, a frantic, desperate rhythm. Their cocks slapped together with increasing force, the squelching sound now punctuated by sharp, wet shlicks. Santa’s hips responded instinctively, mirroring Perth’s thrusts, driving them harder against each other, chasing the elusive peak.
“Yes, God, yes,” Santa cried out, his voice cracking, his body convulsing with the sheer intensity of it. He felt the first wave of orgasm building, a delicious tremor that started deep in his belly and spread outwards, consuming him.
Perth let out a guttural roar, a primal sound of release. He thrust into Santa one last, powerful time, pushing their cocks together with every ounce of his remaining strength.
Santa’s body seized, his back arching, his cock spurting a hot, thick stream of cum onto Perth’s shirt, a glistening white river against his skin. His legs trembled, threatening to give out, but Perth held him fast, his arms wrapped tightly around Santa’s waist.
Perth’s own orgasm hit him moments later, a powerful, shuddering release. He groaned, a deep, satisfied sound, his body shaking as he emptied himself against Santa’s shirt, the warm liquid mingling with Santa’s own, a shared testament to their explosive climax. His cock pulsed, emptying fully, then softened slightly, still pressed intimately against Santa’s.
They stood there for a long moment, clinging to each other, their bodies still trembling, their breaths coming in ragged gasps. The air in the room was thick with the scent of sex, of sweat, of their mingled release. Santa’s cock, still sensitive and throbbing, was slick with both their cum, a warm, messy reality.
Perth slowly loosened his grip, but didn’t let go completely. He leaned back slightly, his forehead still resting against Santa’s, their eyes closed. The silence that followed was profound, broken only by their ragged breathing and the distant hum of the hotel’s air conditioning.
Santa’s legs felt like jelly, and he would have collapsed if Perth hadn’t been holding him up. He could feel the sticky warmth of their cum on his shirt, a tangible reminder of what had just transpired. He didn’t want to move, didn’t want to break the spell.
“Wow,” Santa finally managed, the word a soft exhalation, barely a whisper. He opened his eyes, looking up at Perth, whose eyes were still closed, a faint smile playing on his lips.
Perth chuckled, a low, satisfied sound that vibrated through Santa’s chest. He opened his eyes, and they were still dark, but now softer, filled with a deep contentment. “Wow, indeed.” He gently kissed Santa’s forehead, then his nose, then finally, his lips, a soft, lingering touch that was a world away from the desperate hunger of moments before. This kiss was tender, possessive, a promise.
They stood there for another beat, their bodies still intertwined, before Perth slowly guided them towards the bed. Santa stumbled slightly, his legs still weak, but Perth supported him, lowering them gently onto the soft mattress. They lay side by side, still partially clothed, their jeans bunched around their ankles, their cocks still slick and sensitive from their shared climax.
Perth reached out, his fingers intertwining with Santa’s, squeezing gently. The silence stretched between them again, but this time it wasn’t heavy with unspoken tension. It was a comfortable, languid silence, filled with the aftermath of their raw, explosive connection.
Santa turned his head on the pillow, looking at Perth. His hair was slightly disheveled, his lips swollen, his eyes still dark with residual desire. He looked utterly, beautifully undone.
“So,” Santa began, his voice soft, almost hesitant, “that was… something.”
Perth squeezed his hand again. “It was.” He didn’t elaborate, didn’t try to define it, simply let the truth of the statement hang in the air. His thumb stroked the back of Santa’s hand, a gentle, rhythmic motion.
Santa felt a blush creep up his neck. He looked away for a moment, then back at Perth. “I… I didn’t expect that.”
“Didn’t you?” Perth’s voice was teasing, but gentle. He leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to Santa’s temple. “I think we both did. We just didn’t want to admit it.”
Santa laughed, a soft, breathy sound. “Maybe.” He traced the lines of Perth’s hand with his thumb, marveling at the intimacy of their entwined fingers. “It felt… real.”
Perth’s gaze intensified, meeting Santa’s. His eyes held a depth of emotion that made Santa’s heart ache. “It was real, Tata. Every single moment of it.” He paused, then added, his voice barely a whisper, “More real than anything I’ve ever felt.”
Santa’s breath hitched. The weight of Perth’s words settled over him, warm and heavy. He wanted to say something, to articulate the whirlwind of emotions swirling inside him, but the words wouldn’t come. What could he say? That he felt the same? That he was terrified and exhilarated all at once? That this fake relationship had just shattered every boundary he thought he had?
He simply squeezed Perth’s hand in return, a silent acknowledgment, a shared understanding that transcended words. They lay there, tangled in the sheets, in the aftermath of their shared release, their fingers intertwined, neither daring to call it “real” yet, but both knowing, deep in their bones, that something irreversible had just happened. The air still hummed with the lingering echoes of their passion, a silent promise hanging in the quiet hotel room.