Scooby-doo Santa Claus Novels & Stories

Santa. Not the usual college guy in a fake beard they normally hired. This Santa was… different. Tall, broad-shouldered, filling out the red velvet suit in a way that made it strain across his chest. The white trim framed thick arms, and even sitting down he radiated quiet authority. His beard was real—full, silver-streaked, perfectly groomed,and the eyes above the half-moon spectacles were a sharp, piercing blue that locked onto me the second I stepped into view. I swear my stomach flipped.

Before I could respond, headlights swept across the front windows. Silence immediately filled the room. My father straightened. My mother smoothed her hair. And somehow my own pulse became deafening. A car door shut outside. Then another. The front gate clicked softly in the distance. For one insane second, I actually considered running. The knock came three beats later. My father practically rushed to open it. Cold winter air flooded the foyer first. “Merry Christmas,” he said warmly as he stepped inside, snow melting slowly from the shoulders of his dark coat.

At least I hope so. “I’m not Santa. Santa Claus doesn’t exist.” He says as if I didn’t already know that, making me forget about my worry, and I can’t help but chuckle. “I know that, but outside you said that you'd make my biggest wish come true, and you’re dressed as a Santa, so...” I explain, even though I’m sure that it’s useless.

The man yelped, tripping and dropping the bag, while Sebastian and Nyra charged. Sebastian grabbed him by the collar. “Explain yourself!” The man stammered, “I… I… thought… Christmas heist…” Nyra’s eyebrow arched. “You thought?” Noelle, meanwhile, began rearranging the ornaments from the bag. “You can’t steal from Snowtopia,” she scolded. “Santa’s watching!” Sebastian blinked. “…Santa is not watching.” “No!” Noelle said firmly. “I’m watching. And I say… freeze!”

Or if it would work at all. --- The holidays were approaching. Evie's second Christmas. She was excited. Trees. Lights. Presents. "Santa Claus!" Oblivious to the tension. The distance. The impending separation. I wanted to keep it that way. As long as possible. "Mama, when does Santa come?" "Christmas Eve. In a few weeks." "That's a long time." "I know, baby girl. But it will come." "I'm going to ask Santa for a puppy!" "A puppy is a big responsibility."

But tonight, exhaustion mixed with a restless heat low in her belly, making her shift uncomfortably. "Dory, still at it? The reindeer need their rest, and so do you." Santa's voice boomed from the doorway, warm and gravelly, like a hearth fire. At 50-something in appearance but timeless in spirit, Nicholas Claus filled the frame, broad-shouldered, belly rounded from centuries of cookies, his white beard trimmed neat, eyes twinkling with that knowing glint. He wasn't the jolly myth; he was real, weary from the endless rush, shoulders carrying the weight of a world's wishes.

Snow hissed against the windows. He was already inside. Leaning against the marble island like he owned the place. This Santa is leaner than the first, all wiry muscle and long limbs, black satin half-mask, crimson velvet coat hanging open over bare, sculpted chest. A thin line of dark hair ran from his navel straight into low-slung black pants. A single red ribbon was tied around the base of his very obvious, very hard cock, the bow resting against his hip like a gift tag. He crooked a finger. “Come here, Noelle.”

“What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?” I force myself to shake my head, heat creeping up my cheeks. “No, I just…” I stammer, suddenly forgetting how words work. “What do you mean, ask Santa? Who is Santa?” He chuckles, the sound deep “Santa,” he says, his grin widening, “is an Alpha who can get you anything you want. You know… just like this dress you’re wearing.”

Help. Hey everyone, I need help. Two days ago, my five-year-old sister said she saw Santa Claus in our house, but her description doesn't match the traditional image at all. She said this "Santa" had long, spider-like fingers, too many joints, crawled like a four-legged animal, and after climbing out of our chimney, it just stood silently in the corner of our living room, watching us for an hour. Most importantly, when I asked if this "Santa" had a gift sack, she said no. Just a lumpy, wrinkled, moving sack on its back.

Tiny Fae stretched her hands high, falling to reach the ledger she wanted, even standing on a stool. “Seems like you need help?” Santa asked, from the couch, his eyes lingering too long at her bubble size butt. He had Little Missy on his chest, sucking away on his titties and yet, he wanted Tiny Fae. Tiny Fae blushed hard as her pussy clenched. Santa’s deep voice was everything. He wasn’t the Santa with a big tummy and while his beard were as white as his hair, he was irrevocably handsome.