#jolliest fat man

[toomanyrobins2]

Christmas in Gotham

Summary: An orphan all her life, Y/N is simply too old to remain at The Bowery Home any longer. That is where an anonymous patron has swooped in to send her off to college and all he requires…a monthly letter of her academic progress.

Based off the book and musical “Daddy Long Legs”

Pairing: Bruce Wayne x Reader

last part // series masterlist // next part

Notes: I'm finally getting around to updating this fic! If you would like to catch up and get more consistent updates to this story and others I would go to by AO3!

From the Home of the Gordon Family

31st December

Dear Batman,

I meant to write to you before and thank you for your Christmas cheque, but life in the Gordon household is very absorbing, and I don't seem able to find two consecutive minutes to spend at a desk.

I bought a new gown—one that I didn't need, but just wanted. My Christmas present this year is from Batman; my family just sent love.

I've been having the most beautiful vacation visiting Barbara. She lives in a big old-fashioned brick house with white trimmings set back from the street—exactly the kind of house that I used to look at so curiously when I was in the Bowery Home, and wonder what it could be like inside. I never expected to see with my own eyes—but here I am! Everything is so comfortable and restful and homelike; I walk from room to room and drink in the furnishings.

It is the most perfect house for children to be brought up in; with shadowy nooks for hide and seek, and open fireplaces for pop-corn, and an attic to romp in on rainy days and slippery banisters with a comfortable flat knob at the bottom, and a great big sunny kitchen, and a nice, fat, sunny cook who has lived in the family thirteen years and always saves out a piece of dough for the children to bake. Just the sight of such a house makes you want to be a child all over again.

And as for families! I never dreamed they could be so nice. Barbara has a father and mother and grandmother, and the sweetest three-year-old baby sister all over curls, and a medium-sized brother who always forgets to wipe his feet, and a big, good-looking brother named Jimmie, who is a junior at Princeton. 

Bruce's eyes scanned the words on the paper, his usually stoic expression revealing a flicker of surprise and something akin to dismay. He couldn't deny the unease that settled in his chest at the mention of this mysterious young man. The thought of Y/N, someone he had mentored and grown fond of, showing interest in someone else triggered an unexpected pang of discomfort.

A low groan escaped him as he set the letter down on the desk. The idea of Y/N having an interest in a man didn't sit well with him, stirring emotions he hadn't anticipated. He couldn't quite put his finger on why it bothered him so, but the realization that she might be drawn to someone outside their mentor-mentee relationship brought a sense of unrest.

Leaning back in his chair, Bruce ran a hand through his hair, contemplating how to react to Y/N's letter. He couldn't deny the connection they shared, and the notion of someone else vying for her attention created a subtle tension in the air. 

We have the jolliest times at the table— everybody laughs and jokes and talks at once, and we don't have to say grace beforehand. It's a relief not having to thank Somebody for every mouthful you eat. (I dare say I'm blasphemous; but you'd be, too, if you'd offered as much obligatory thanks as I have.)

Such a lot of “things we've done—I can't begin to tell you about them. Mr. Gordon is the Commissioner of Gotham and Christmas Eve he had a tree for the officers’ children. It was in the long packing room which was decorated with evergreens and holly. Jimmie Gordon was dressed as Santa Claus and Barbara and I helped him distribute the presents.

Dear me, Batman, but it was a funny sensation! I felt as benevolent as a Trustee of the John Grier home. I kissed one sweet, sticky little boy—but I don't think I patted any of them on the head!

And two days after Christmas, they gave a dance at their own house for ME. It was the first really true ball I ever attended—college doesn't count where we dance with girls. I had a new white evening gown (your Christmas present—many thanks) and long white gloves and white satin slippers. The only drawback to my perfect, utter, absolute happiness was the fact that Mrs. Lippett couldn't see me leading the cotillion with Jimmie Gordon. Tell her about it, please, the next time you visit the B. H.

Also, who should have been invited to this event but Mr. Bruce Wayne himself! Apparently he is friends with the Gordons and I had the opportunity to thank him again in person for the lovely chocolates. He introduced me to his friends and inquired about my education and recommended a book to me. In the most gentlemanly of actions, he sent the book to the Gordon home the next day with a note that I should keep the book and add it to my personal collection. He says that every respectable writer should have a collection of books and I find that I agree with him completely. I find myself dreaming of a day where i can live in a grand home and collect books to my heart’s content.

Yours ever,

Y/N Abbott

PS. Have you ever read Gulliver’s Travel? I wonder what you would think of such a fantastical novel!

PPS. Would you be terribly displeased, Bats, if I didn't turn out to be a Great Author after all, but just a Plain Girl?

[doyourememberrocknrollradio]

Christmas in the Poorhouse (Lenny and the Squigtones) (aka The Jolliest Fat Man / Silent Ho Ho)

[thanksitsatraumaresponse]

I hate the holidays. And I’m pretty sure they hate me back.

Growing up in the house I did, the holidays were a time for “family”. We had Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Years, and Easter as our big 4 we would have people over for.

Do not get me wrong, as far as presents go, I was always well cared for. Always fed. Had clothes on my back.

But there was never peace. I was either the pun of a joke or a target for being lashed out at. And the words were never pretty.

C-PTSD does not allow me to ignore the fact that those things happened during the holidays. I feel like a deer in fucking headlights at the thought of attending an actual family function. Because family functions were the equivalent of having splinters shoved under my nails as a teenager.

My brain won’t let my body forget these things because it needs to protect me at all costs. It associates holidays with torture. In conclusion- my brain feels “happiness” from the holidays and signals my body to feel like I’m being hunted for sport because it’s the holidays… this happiness and joy won’t last long. Fear lives where happiness does in my brain.

I have no contact with my father & stepmother. I recently saw a picture of my father and he looked so much older than when I saw him last. I have been crying everyday since.

I see my boyfriend with his family, his dad, and I so desperately wish I knew this feeling. I wish my dad would hug me and get to know me as the person I’m becoming.

And as I wish for these things, I’m hit with the memories of the verbal beatings I took from my stepmother. How I was called fat and lazy and ugly and worthless. Told I was a mistake. And how he sat in his recliner, and never lifted a finger or made a peep to defend me because he didn’t want the beating turned on him. And then I’m angry and sad and confused and ashamed. Now I’m overstimulated. When my bf says something that’s too similar to a memory I flip my switch, making a big deal of nothing and starting a fight because I can’t control the fact that I am terrified.

And although my rational brain knows there is NO DANGER my CNS don’t give 2 fucks. It says we are NOT doing this again. There’s no explaining anything to me. In that moment, there is danger and I refuse to let anyone tell me otherwise because I know how the story ends… or at least that’s what my CNS says.

Now I’m in the car apologizing and crying because I’m scared my boyfriend hates me. He’s going to find someone who isn’t broken and want them and not me— please note, my boyfriend is a great man and would never do those things and has never had any transgressions against him— but my CNS doesn’t want to hear it. *Cue in daddy issues with a steaming pile of relationship trauma on the side*

If you have C-PTSD, please please PLEASE give yourself some grace to feel your emotions, but also be aware of when you do something unkind because of your triggers. We are not perfect nor do we strive to be, but always hold yourself accountable.

For those who love someone with C-PTSD please be patient with us. The holiday season has been a source of trauma for most of us, so we are not necessarily going to be the jolliest. Please make every effort to include us. Please make every effort to listen to us and let us let it out. Make us feel safe because we are only doing this because we feel scared that the happiness we are experiencing will be snatched out from under us.

For me happiness is the soft hands I feel right before fear starts to choke me.

[realmackross]

PARTIES: @mortemoppetere, sir richard iii TIMING: Sometime during the winter months SUMMARY: Emilio meets Sir Richard III. WARNINGS: Alcoholism tw

Life as a reindeer wasn’t too hard. Most days were spent eating all the good things that the fat jolly human and his wife offered up, and when Sir Richard III was really good, he got his favorite thing, carrots. Nothing could beat a carrot, except maybe glazed carrots with a hint of butter and brown sugar, but those only came on Christmas itself after a hard earned day of taking presents to all the good little humans that walked the Earth. Of course, Sir Richard III only enjoyed the good little humans when they spoiled him, and though he didn’t mind hanging out in the North Pole (it’s where he was born after all), sometimes he and his copious amounts of reindeer siblings liked to go exploring other parts of the vast land they lived on. This time, it just happened to be in a small coastal town called Wicked’s Rest, where not only were there humans, but also other things that had fascinated Sir Richard III and his brothers and sisters. And as long as he was back before the fat jolly human needed his assistance, he was free to do whatever he pleased.

Appearing suddenly outside a bar in what appeared to be a dark and not so merry side of town, Sir Richard III took to exploring the land cautiously as he watched people stumble around in the shadows. This had definitely not been the jolliest part of this small, unknown town, but it did make for interesting humans to follow; one in particular that smelled of something both stout and sweet. Keeping to the shadows and lightly letting his hooves hit the payment, he continued to follow the human dressed in what smelled like cowhide waiting for his right moment to approach for the carrots that had to be lingering somewhere in his pockets.

—

Something was following him. He could feel it lurking in the shadows, tracking him as he stumbled home from the bar. It wasn’t undead — his senses would have told him as much — but he had no idea what it could be. Someone living who wanted him dead was just as likely as some vampire out for revenge, these days. Between his detective work and his general personality, Emilio had made plenty of enemies for himself in Wicked’s Rest.

But he had the upper hand so long as the person following him didn’t know that he knew they were there. In a situation like this one, control belonged to whoever had the most information. Right now, Emilio liked to think that was him. He knew he was being followed. He knew whoever it was was alive. He knew who he was and what he could do. That must have counted for something.

Cautiously, he turned a corner. It wasn’t a corner he needed to turn, but there was no way in hell he was leading someone back to the place where he was living. He put his back flat against the wall, dropping a knife into his hand, and he waited. And when his pursuer turned the corner to follow him, Emilio sprung into action.

—

Sir Richard III watched as the man continued forward. With his nose to the air, he continued to trot softly along leaving hoof prints in the snow behind him. But with his many years of experience around humans, he knew when to be cautious, when to be kind, and when to be curious. Right now, something was alerting him to the demeanor of this strange and broken human. And just as he was about to round the corner, his shadow cascading down into the white powder on the ground, Sir Richard III disappeared into the darkness, before reappearing behind the human man dressed like the people he often saw when he would be called down to Miami or Sturgis to help deliver presents to all the good little bikers. Except this man looked rough and like he needed to be on the naughty list.

Watching as the man jumped forward with a knife in his hand, Sir Richard III cocked his head to the side; the weight of his antlers pulling it down more than he would have liked, before he raised it back up. He could still smell what had attracted him to the stranger in the first place and wanted to step forward, but knew not to startle the man with the sharp pointy thing that could hurt him. Humans were some of the most erratic creatures he had learned and one had to be gentle with them – unless they didn’t give you carrots. Then that was a different story.

—

There was nothing there. There’d been a shadow, then nothing. Paranoia slipped its icy fingers around his chest, whispering about mares and reminding him that there was at least one out there who’d probably like to see him very dead, and probably get a kick out of fucking with him before making that happen. His grip tightened on his knife, and he wished he had something bigger, wished he’d thought to carry a damn broadsword along with him to the bar without stopping to consider the logistics of that particular situation. 

Then, there was the unmistakable feeling of something (something alive, he reminded himself; not the mare because it was alive, because his senses weren’t alerting him to anything undead, because he was fine, he was fine—) behind him. Emilio whirled to face it, fist gripping the knife so tightly that his knuckles had gone white around it and his fingers were numb. And he was facing… a fucking deer? What the fuck? 

The detective hesitated, glancing around briefly. A joke, maybe? But there was no one nearby. Emilio made a shooing motion with his hands, trying to get the deer to fuck off. “Get out of here,” he said. “Back to the woods, or whatever.”

—

Sir Richard III noticed the expression on his face, and if reindeer could laugh, he would have. Silly human. Pawing at the ground with his hoof, he started raising his head up and down. Maybe some slight interactions would calm this human’s nerves. However, before he could really take the time to get this man’s attention, he was already getting the dreaded shooing motion. Followed by the same jumbled mess of speech that this human assumed he could understand.

Sir Richard III snorted at the man’s reaction to him, showing his own frustration. He knew these humans were mostly all the same, especially the ones that looked like they needed to go visit a spot behind a tree. And this human just had that look. Poor thing. Maybe Santa would spare him and bring him some prunes. Sir Richard III hated prunes, but carrots. Carrots were his true passion in life, besides Lady Lilabelle; his love back home in the North Pole.

Stepping forward a few steps, he began to sniff the man, still occupied by his scent. Maybe these carrots were the glazed kind that he enjoyed so much. But he knew to keep his eyes low. This creature still had the sharp, pointy thing in his hand, and he didn’t want to be caught off guard.

—

The deer stepped forward, nose against his chest, and Emilio didn’t quite understand the quiet panic that rose up in him but he reacted all the same. He took a stumbling step backwards, pain radiating through his bad leg as it landed a little too hard on the concrete. He stayed on his feet through sheer stubborn will alone, grip tightening on that knife in his hand. Stupid. It was stupid. He’d been jumpy ever since the damn soap factory, and this wasn’t helping. (Nothing was helping; nothing ever did.)

“Get out of here,” he demanded, holding up the knife threateningly. He wouldn’t use it. Emilio wasn’t much for hurting animals unless they outright attacked him, and the deer hadn’t done that no matter how hard his heart was pounding. But it was an instinctive thing, the threat; the animal likely had no concept of what it meant, but Emilio couldn’t help but raise it, anyway. Some things were in your nature, a part of you. For Emilio, violence was one of them.

—

Sir Richard III watched as the man stumbled backwards and for a brief moment, the reindeer showed concern in his eyes; almost ready to step out and give the man something to fall against if need be. But when he noticed that he had stayed upright, the reindeer stayed back. It was the knife being pointed at him that he didn’t enjoy, and he knew he’d have to get around that. Maybe if he just…yep, there we go! With a gentle turn of his head and just the right amount of force, he managed to knock the knife out of the human’s hand with the end of his antlers. No more threat!

Snorting and sniffing, Sir Richard III raised his head back up and stepped somewhat closer. He remained cautious, because humans were sneaky creatures after all, but he started to get a better sniff; hoping to find those brown sugar glazed carrots he so loved. But instead, all he sniffed out in the pocket of the man’s coat had been a glass bottle full of something stout that, with closer inspection, had been the hint of glaze that he had thought he smelled. This, instead, smelled like corn – reminiscent of the reindeer feed that would get wet and make his hooves a little wobbly after he consumed it.

—

There were antlers too close to him, knocking the knife from his grip, and the pounding in Emilio’s chest only grew stronger. He’d been in a fucking state since the shit with Rhett, half present half not, paranoia amped up to a goddamn thousand as his mind flittered between past and present, and the fucking reindeer wasn’t helping. The absence of a weapon in his hand felt like a death sentence. In a heartbeat, he was digging in his jacket pocket for another knife, but he wasn’t the only one interested in what was in his coat. 

The deer’s nose found his pocket, and Emilio let out a curse as he tried to shove it backwards. “What the fuck is wrong with you? I don’t have shit for you here. Go.” Did he really want to stab a reindeer? Not particularly. But he would if he had to.

—

Sir Richard III continued to sniff, until he felt the human try to shove him backwards. Grunting in frustration and stomping his front right hoof, the reindeer charged forward, forcing the human man back into the wall, pinning him between his antlers. The animal had done this plenty of times and knew just how to maneuver to avoid impaling people, and to frighten them just enough. If this man wanted to get feisty with him, Sir Richard III could get feisty right back.

However, after holding the human in place for a few minutes, knowing that he wasn’t going to get anything out of this man, Sir Richard III released him from his grip and slowly stepped back snorting in disgust and giving the man a disgusted and judgy look before disappearing into thin air off to find the next unfortunate being that smelled sweet like brown sugar glazed carrots.

—

The animal charged at him, and for a moment Emilio reflected on how fucking stupid it would be to get killed by a goddamn deer after everything. To survive the massacre of his hometown, Zane’s vampire clan in the barn, the mare and the banshee in that factory, just to get impaled by a fucking reindeer? Someone would bring him back to life just to make sure he’d never live it down. But the antlers didn’t pierce flesh, didn’t go through. Instead, they only pinned him in place. To Emilio, it was almost worse. The very concept of being trapped made his chest ache and his stomach clench, and he immediately began thrashing. 

It didn’t last long. Whether it was the slayer’s uncooperative attitude or something else entirely, the reindeer seemed to lose interest in Emilio. It took a step back, freeing Emilio from his antlers. Immediately, he took a step forward just to prove to himself that he could, just to remind himself that he was okay, he was fine. The reindeer gave him a look he couldn’t comprehend before… vanishing into thin air.

A few wild glances around proved that the thing really was gone, and Emilio slumped back against the wall. “Fuck,” he muttered, pushing back his hair and letting out a long sigh. “Fuck.” He pulled the flask from his pocket, taking a long swig.

Yeah. He was going to need more whiskey.

[cobblepotindustries]

There's the second jolliest fat man in the park.

[whats-in-a-sentence]

And the man he was holding it for was the jolliest, fat, apple-cheeked, twinkling-eyed King you could imagine.

"The Chronicles of Narnia: The Horse and His Boy" - C. S. Lewis

[flashfuckingflesh]

The EVIL Fat Man Delivers a Sack Full of Slaughter in "Christmas Cruelty!" reviewed! (Unearthed Films / Blu-ray)

The EVIL Fat Man Delivers a Sack Full of Slaughter in “Christmas Cruelty!” reviewed! (Unearthed Films / Blu-ray)

Oh, Its Starting To Look a lot Like “Christmas Cruelty! on Blu-ray! Eline, Per-Ingvar, and Magne are three close and eccentric friends preparing for the jolliest time of year, Christmas. Concocting a unique Christmas spirit of their own with scarring passers dressed as Krampus and brewing an alcohol infused cocktail, the unconventional celebration reflects their individual perspectives on the…

[maturemenoftvandfilms]

Top 10 Actors Who I Love Playing Santa Claus

Whether he's called Santa Claus, St. Nick, Kris Kringle or Father Christmas, the man in the big red suit is a regular sight in holiday movies. Plenty of actors have tackled the role over the years, but a few stand out as the jolliest of the lot. From the big screen to the small, here are 10 actors who have played Santa (or characters pretending to be Santa) throughout the years.

HONORABLE MENTIONS: Paul Dooley - Hot in Cleveland, S3/E17 'Claus, Tails & High-Pitched Males: Birthdates 3' (2012) George Wendt - Santa Buddies (2009) Paul Sorvino - Santa Baby 2: Christmas Maybe (2009) Edmund Gwenn - Miracle on 34th Street (1947) - The only reason he's not in the top 10 is because I never saw the original which I'm planning to change.

#10. M. Emmet Walsh - Early Edition, S1/E11 ’Christmas’ (1996)

Here's one of my favorite actors (for his acting abilities & of course to fuck) as Santa. Sure he's not you traditional Santa here, looking like a drunk off the streets playing old Saint Nick. , but at the end you find out he really was Santa. He kinda gets me in the mood to find some drunken fake Santa for blow-job session behind a dumpster in a dark alley... Guess I'm kinda kinky like that. Not really, but kinda.

#9. Jim Broadbent - Get Santa (2014)

Even though I prefer my Santa short and on the fat side. Broadbent has a look that works as Santa Claus. At least somebody agrees with me as he played Santa again in a Aldi Christmas ad.

#8. Leslie Nielsen - All I Want for Christmas (1991)

Again, tall and thin and I'll usually say no, but Nielsen does it for me here. He did it for other too as he played Santa again in Santa Who?, a made-for-TV flick released in 2000.

#7. John Goodman - The Year Without a Santa Claus (2006)

Tall, but at the time, Goodman was big enough to play a decent Santa Claus. Fun fact, he also voiced Robot Santa in Futurama.

#6. James Cosmo - The Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe (2005)

Tall, thick and kindly with a hint I'll fuck you up if your on the naughty list. This is the Santa Claus I can see beating that ass up.

#5. Richard Attenborough - Miracle on 34th Street (1994)

If Santa Claus was real and he is, damn you. Attenborough’s version is the closest approximation every one would imagine and he does a remarkable job of channeling the magic of Santa. I almost feel bad about wanting to fuck him. Almost.

#4. Donovan Scott - Numerous projects

While I was making this list, I never realized how many times Donovan has played St. Nicholas. From Santa look alikes, mall Santas to the real deal. He's been in numerous TV movies, TV shows and holiday TV commercials as the big guy. And out of all of the guys on this list, I think Donovan is the cutest. The ONLY reason he's at #4 is because I wanted to fuck the next three guys longer than him.

#3. Ed Asner - Numerous projects

Now get to the meat and potatoes of my list and of course Asner is up at the top with the best of them. He has played or voiced Santa Claus in numerous projects, but his most remembered Santa was in Elf. I mean sure the movie was about Buddy the elf. But it's a Christmas movie. You got to have Santa Claus in it and Asner brought his mixture of grumpy teddy bear to role. And I do love a grumpy man.

#2. David Huddleston - Santa Claus: The Movie (1985)

Huddleston was my first "Movie Santa" and without question, one of my all-time favorite portrayal of Jolly Old St. Nicholas himself. He not only looked the part with his physique, he sounds like the part. His laugh was perfect. Though I'd prefer a white beard, he pulls it off and his suit was great. And love the alternate clothes he wore. He just seemed the way you always figured Santa should be like. As a kid I loved the film. As an adult, if it wasn't for looking so hot, I couldn't get though the whole film because of Dudley Moore.  

#1. Charles Durning - Numerous projects

Truth be told, there's only two people I envision to play Santa Claus... Huddleston and no other than Charles Durning. And if your a long time follower of mine, you should have guess he'd be #1. His family said he loved the Christmas season and to that end the portly, 5'8" Durning, who died Christmas Eve, played played the role of Santa Claus the third most on this list.

[itsinmyear]

THE JOLLIEST FAT MAN (Laverne & Shirley - 1976) Michael McKean (Lenny)   David L. Lander (Squiggy)

It was Christmas Eve night at the poorhouse, And all of the paupers were there, I stepped in because it was snowing, And snow always screws up my hair. 

By the pot-bellied stove sat a pot-bellied man, He spoke with some lumps in his throat, His story was sad & his diction was bad, And here is the song that he wrote, 

I once was the jolliest fatman, With roses in all of my cheeks, I'd load up my sled every Christmas, And go on a drunk for two weeks. 

My friends said they saw me on rooftops, And sliding down chimneys at dawn, With my reindeer in hand I would glide cross the land, And wake up on somebodies lawn. 

One morning my wife left this message, Each Christmas I've spent by myself, I'm sick o' your stupid tradition, So I've run off to Spain with a elf. 

Just then the old man started dying, His screams made a law take my soul, We went through his wallet to see who he was, His address read simply... 

'North Pole'. 

So the next time you go by the poorhouse, 

If by the poorhouse you go, Just take off your hat to a dead guy whose fat, 

And whisper a silent 'Ho, Ho'. 

[dxsole]

Anton could admit when he’s made a mistake. He’s man enough to do that. He’s also man enough to admit that, okay, maybe he had one hit too many and was impaired enough at the time to think that kidnapping a cop was a good idea.

It was...an okay idea at the best. He was a witness, after all. He would have called it in— and that would have been the end of the Coney Island Slasher...really? Getting caught red-handed? By a beat cop?

No. Fuck no. Not on your life.

Anton realizes killing a cop is another level of murder entirely but, he figures, it’ll only make him more notorious. So as he carts around Officer What’s Hi Name in a swivel chair, Anton is debating exactly how he’s going to do it.

“Officer, now, we’re gonna have ourselves a good holiday, right?” He’s awaiting an answer from a man who’s already had his mouth covered in duct tape. “When Santa squeezes his fat ass down that chimney tonight, he’s gonna find the jolliest bunch of assholes this side of the nut house. Am I right? Or am I right?”

[thank-you-for-the-vampire-money]

MR. GRINCH

Mr. Grinch by Thurl Ravenscroft

A/N: heeeeyy!  This one is actually on time!  But, this one won’t have lyrics, it really doesn’t need ‘em

Loki Laufeyson x reader

Word count: 1320

Summary: Loki isn’t a fan a Christmas, thus giving his the nickname Grinch.  But you are very determined to make his heart grow three times its size.

Warnings: Loki being a Jerk?

Christmas was your favorite time of year.  I mean, what’s not to love?  Caroling, cookies, ugly sweaters, decorations, snow, presents, family and friends, parties; it was AWESOME!  You were often called “the jolliest person alive,” by your friends.  Which was not a nickname you were ashamed of.

You were always the person Tony consulted when he was planning his huge Christmas party, you were always the one to start decorating first *cough* in November *cough*, and you always made the best holiday treats!

Speaking of which, today was baking day!  The day you make all the cookies, cakes, and candies for all of Stark Tower’s staff.  You had already made snowman donuts and mint fudge, now it was time for cinnamon cookies!

  “Hey, guys!  Come over here!  I need you to taste test these,” You called to the group of people sitting on the couches a few yards away.  Sam, Steve, Wanda, and Loki all came over to the kitchen.  “Here, so these taste cinnamon-y enough?” you asked, holding out a plate of cookies for them.  The group all took one cookie and had a bite, humming in appreciation for the sweet taste.  Except for Loki, who didn’t even take a cookie at all.  “Is something wrong, babe?” you asked.

You and Loki have been in a relationship for almost a year.  It was kinda weird, him being a former villain and all, but, his heart was a lot softer and kinder than he lead on.

“No, nothing is wrong, I’m just not one for… cookies,” he hummed, forcing an awkward smile.

“Well I’ve got other stuff you can try,” you shrugged, shuffling over to the other side of the kitchen, “I’ve got some fruit jello, coffee cake, chocolate turtles, what would you like?”

“No, really, I’m fine, I don’t like sweets,” he insisted, putting his hands up

“Aw c’mon, just one little bite?  For me?  I mean, it is Christmas…” you smiled cheekily, going up to him and nudging his side.

“I-I’m not exactly a fan of uh… Christmas, either…” he shrugged, “I mean, it’s just another day, but with presents, and the excuse to eat like a pig,”.

What did he just say?  He DOESN’T LIKE CHRISTMAS?!  H-how could that be?  Christmas was so much more than that!  Oh it hurt… it was like your heart had been broken in half.

“And, the music is pretty annoying, and I hate snow, so…” he cringed, shuttering at the thought.

No… nonononono!  You were going to fix this!  You were going to make this better!  You were going to make your boyfriend LOVE Christmas!

   Santa hat, cute nativity scarf, warm coat, and music sheets.  This was going to be the BEST caroling trip New York had EVER seen!  You skipped over to elevator, pressing the button to Loki’s room, and started humming to warm your voice up.

“Knock knock!” you beamed, far too chipper for Loki’s liking.  Loki was a simple, quiet man, he liked to read and watch nature and take walks.  But he especially, and had made this very clear on multiple occasions, that he wants silence, or at least quiet, in his room.  “How is my handsome prince?” you hummed, kissing his cheek.  You als knew he would forgive you and your noise when you called him that.

“I am doing well, just resting,” he smiled back, setting down his book.

“Would you like to go caroling with me?” you asked, putting on your best and pearliest smile you could muster.

“(Y/N)... I told you, I hate Christmas music, I find it annoying,” he sighed in aggravation, slumping his shoulder as he continued to read his book.

You just pouted and stomped away.  “Grinch…” you muttered, as you exited the room.  No way you were going to let him stay like this.  This Grinch was going to love Christmas if it was the last thing he did!

  “Loki!  Loki Loki Loki Loki!” you called, bounding down the hallway, nearly tripping over the lump in the carpet.

Loki promptly gripped your shoulders to slow you down as he looked at you with concern.  “What, what happened?  Are you hurt?” he explained, panting in panic.

“What?  No,” you hummed, shaking off his cold hands, “I was gonna go to an ugly sweater party and wanted to invite you,” you smiled, showing him the glittery invitation.  Even though you were the Jolliest person alive, you were not a fan of the huge mess glitter made, especially not when it stuck to your hands.

You could see Loki’s mood turn sour as he read.  It was almost like a gradient of expression; from fearful to mad.  “(Y/N), no!” he scolded, tearing the invitation, gold glitter sticking to his hands, “and that sweater is hideous!”.

“That’s… that’s the point… to be… to be silly and… fun…” you whimpered, almost in tears.

Loki just growled, pulling at his hair as he stormed away.

  You slowly zipped up your coat, still very sad and upset about Loki shouting at you the other day.  You slipped on your fuzzy, blue hat and scarf as you opened the closet door to pull out your sled.

In your peripheral vision, you saw Loki pass by, holding and book and a plate of… salad? Oh man, that was sad.  There wasn’t even dressing on the salad!  It was just lettuce on a plate!

“Hey uh… you-you wanna go sledding… with me?” you asked timidly, showing him your awesome sled made for two… that was rarely ever ridden by two.  “It’s snowing outside and I thought it would be fu-”

“No, (Y/N),” he sighed, very exasperated.  He pinched the bridge of his nose, screwing his eyes shut to try and control his temper.  “I told you, I don’t like snow.  I’m cold enough as is, literally, and I don’t need frozen ice droplets and soaking wet clothes to make it worse,” he scoffed, continuing to his room.

  It was Christmas eve, everyone was putting their wrapped presents under the tree and stuffers in the stocking.  Except Loki, of course.  You were still upset about Loki being a jerk to you as you sat on the couch in a warm blanket.  Guess not every Grinch can be shown what Christmas really is…

  Loki passed by, originally going to grab a snack.  Then he saw all those stupid gifts and cookies for the fat man.  He rolled his eyes and was about to go back to his room before you called him over.

“Wait!  Loki…” you called, running to catch up with him.  You swallowed the lump in your throat, trying not to cry as you gave him a little gift.  It was wrapped in a nice red wrapping paper with a non-glittery gold ribbon.  No one likes glitter everywhere.  Glitter: the herpes of craft supplies.

“I got this for you…” you sniffed, twiddling your fingers, your knees becoming wobbly.  “I-I know you *sniff* don’t like Christmas *sniff* I know you think it’s just *sob* a bunch of messes and annoying songs and overly sugary diets…” you rambled, barely holding back your emotions as your voice cracked, “I just knew no one else would get you a present *sob* and I didn’t want you to feel left out *sniff* it’s okay if you don’t want it, I understand *sob* I just wanted to give it to you so you’d know I love you and I was thinking about you…”.  Unable to keep back your tears, you ran back to the couches so you could cry with your fuzzy blanket over your head so no one could see you. Loki looked down at the expertly wrapped gift and almost smiled.  No one had ever gotten him a Christmas present before.  No one really bothered, since they knew he was a so called “Grinch”.

As he held your present, his smile grew just like his heart; three times its size.

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@paranoid-borderline-insane @buckyshattergirl @bitchy-tacos @httpmcrvel

[doyourememberrocknrollradio]

Lenny and Squiggy Christmas Song “The Jolliest Fat Man”

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[readbookywooks]

THE UNWELCOME FELLOW TRAVELLER

WHEN Shasta went through the gate he found a slope of grass and a little heather running up before him to some trees. He had nothing to think about now and no plans to make: he had only to run, and that was quite enough. His limbs were shaking, a terrible stitch was beginning in his side, and the sweat that kept dropping into his eyes blinded them and made them smart. He was unsteady on his feet too, and more than once he nearly turned his ankle on a loose stone. The trees were thicker now than they had yet been and in the more open spaces there was bracken. The sun had gone in without making it any cooler. It had become one of those hot, grey days when there seem to be twice as many flies as usual. Shasta's face was covered with them; he didn't even try to shake them off - he had too much else to do. Suddenly he heard a horn - not a great throbbing horn like the horns of Tashbaan but a merry call, Ti-ro-to-to-ho! Next moment he came out into a wide glade and found himself in a crowd of people. At least, it looked a crowd to him. In reality there were about fifteen or twenty of them, all gentlemen in green huntingdress, with their horses; some in the saddle and some standing by their horses' heads. In the centre someone was holding the stirrup for a man to mount. And the man he was holding it for was the jolliest, fat, applecheeked, twinkling eyed King you could imagine. As soon as Shasta came in sight this King forgot all about mounting his horse. He spread out his arms to Shasta, his face lit up, and he cried out in a great, deep voice that seemed to come from the bottom of his chest: "Corin! My son! And on foot, and in rags! What-" "No," panted Shasta, shaking his head. "Not Prince Corin. I - I - know I'm like him... saw his Highness in Tashbaan... sent his greetings." The King was staring at Shasta with an extraordinary expression on his face. "Are you K-King Lune?" gasped Shasta. And then, without waiting for an answer, "Lord King - fly - Anvard shut the gates - enemies upon you - Rabadash and two hundred horse." "Have you assurance of this, boy?" asked one of the other gentlemen. "My own eyes," said Shasta. "I've seen them. Raced them all the way from Tashbaan." "On foot?" said the gentleman, raising his eyebrows a little. Horses-with the Hermit," said Shasta. "Question him no more; Darrin," said King Lune. "I see truth in his face. We must ride for it, gentlemen. A spare horse there, for the boy. You can ride fast, friend?" For answer Shasta put his foot in the stirrup of the horse which had been led towards him and a moment later he was in the saddle. He had done it a hundred times with Bree in the last few weeks, and his mounting was very different now from what it had been on that first night when Bree had said that he climbed up a horse as if he were climbing a haystack. He was pleased to hear the Lord Darrin say to the King, "The boy has a true horseman's seat, Sire. I'll warrant there's noble blood in him." "His blood, aye, there's the point," said the King. And he stared hard at Shasta again with that curious expression, almost a hungry expression, in his steady, grey eyes. But by now - the whole party was moving off at a brisk canter. Shasta's seat was excellent but he was sadly puzzled what to do with his reins, for he had never touched the reins while he was on Bree's back. But he looked very carefully out of the corners of his eyes to see what the others were doing (as some of us have done at parties when we weren't quite sure which knife or fork we were meant to use) and tried to get his fingers right. But he didn't dare to try really directing the horse; he trusted it would follow the rest. The horse was of course an ordinary horse, not a Talking Horse; but it had quite wits enough to realize that the strange boy on its back had no whip and no spurs and was not really master of the situation. That was why Shasta soon found himself at the tail end of the procession. Even so, he was going pretty fast. There were no flies now and the air in his face was delicious. He had got his breath back too. And his errand had succeeded. For the first time since the arrival at Tashbaan (how long ago it seemed!) he was beginning to enjoy himself. He looked up to see how much nearer the mountain tops had come. To his disappointment he could not see them at all: only a vague greyness, rolling down towards them. He had never been in mountain country before and was surprised. "It's a cloud," he said to himself, "a cloud coming down. I see. Up here in the hills one is really in the sky. I shall see what the inside of a cloud is like. What fun! I've often wondered." Far away on his left and a little behind him, the sun was getting ready to set. They had come to a rough kind of road by now and were making very good speed. But Shasta's horse was still the last of the lot. Once or twice when the road made a bend (there was now continuous forest on each side of it) he lost sight of the others for a second or two. Then they plunged into the fog, or else the fog rolled over them. The world became grey. Shasta had not realized how cold and wet the inside of a cloud would be; nor how dark. The grey turned to black with alarming speed. Someone at the head of the column winded the horn every now and then, and each time the sound came from a little farther off. He couldn't see any of the others now, but of course he'd be able to as soon as he got round the next bend. But when he rounded it he still couldn't see them. In fact he could see nothing at all. His horse was walking now. "Get on, Horse, get on," said Shasta. Then came the horn, very faint. Bree had always told him that he must keep his heels well turned out, and Shasta had got the idea that something very terrible would happen if he dug his heels into a horse's sides. This seemed to him an occasion for trying it. "Look here, Horse," he said, "if you don't buck up, do you know what I'll do? I'll dig my heels into you. I really will." The horse, however, took no notice of this threat. So Shasta settled himself firmly in the saddle, gripped with his knees, clenched his teeth, and punched both the horse's sides with his heels as hard as he could. The only result was that the horse broke into a kind of pretence of a trot for five or six paces and then subsided into a walk again. And now it was quite dark and they seemed to have given up blowing that horn. The only sound was a steady drip-drip from the branches of the trees. "Well, I suppose even a walk will get us somewhere sometime," said Shasta to himself. "I only hope I shan't run into Rabadash and his people." He went on for what seemed a long time, always at a walking pace. He began to hate that horse, and he was also beginning to feel very hungry. Presently he came to a place where the road divided into two. He was just wondering which led to Anvard when he was startled by a noise from behind him. It was the noise of trotting horses. "Rabadash!" thought Shasta. He had no way of guessing which road Rabadash would take. "But if I take one," said Shasta to himself, "he may take the other: and if I stay at the cross-roads I'm sure to be caught." He dismounted and led his horse as quickly as he could along the right-hand road. The sound of the cavalry grew rapidly nearer and in a minute or two Shasta realized that they were at the crossroads. He held his breath, waiting to see which way they would take. There came a low word of command "Halt!" then a moment of horsey noises - nostrils blowing, hoofs pawing, bits being champed, necks being patted. Then a voice spoke. "Attend, all of you," it said. "We are now within a furlong of the castle. Remember your orders. Once we are in Narnia, as we should be by sunrise, you are to kill as little as possible. On this venture you are to regard every drop of Narnian blood as more precious than a gallon of your own. On this venture, I say. The gods will send us a happier hour and then you must leave nothing alive between Cair Paravel and the Western Waste. But we are not yet in Narnia. Here in Archenland it is another thing. In the assault on this castle of King Lune's, nothing matters but speed. Show your mettle. It must be mine within an hour. And if it is, I give it all to you. I reserve no booty for myself. Kill me every barbarian male within its walls, down to the child that was born yesterday, and everything else is yours to divide as you please - the women, the gold, the jewels, the weapons, and the wine. The man that I see hanging back when we come to the gates shall be burned alive. In the name of Tash the irresistible, the inexorable forward!" With a great cloppitty-clop the column began to move, and Shasta breathed again. They had taken the other road. Shasta thought they took a long time going past, for though he had been talking and thinking about "two hundred horse" all day, he had not realized how many they really were. But at last the sound died away and once more he was alone amid the drip-drip from the trees. He now knew the way to Anvard but of course he could not now go there: that would only mean running into the arms of Rabadash's troopers. "What on earth am I to do?" said Shasta to himself. But he remounted his horse and continued along the road he had chosen, in the faint hope of finding some cottage where he might ask for shelter and a meal. He had thought, of course, of going back to Aravis and Bree and Hwin at the hermitage, but he couldn't because by now he had not the least idea of the direction. "After all," said Shasta, "this road is bound to get to somewhere." But that all depends on what you mean by somewhere. The road kept on getting to somewhere in the sense that it got to more and more trees, all dark and dripping, and to colder and colder air. And strange, icy winds kept blowing the mist past him though they never blew it away. If he had been used to mountain country he would have realized that this meant he was now very high up - perhaps right at the top of the pass. But Shasta knew nothing about mountains. "I do think," said Shasta, "that I must be the most unfortunate boy that ever lived in the whole world. Everything goes right for everyone except me. Those Narnian lords and ladies got safe away from Tashbaan; I was left behind. Aravis and Bree and Hwin are all as snug as anything with that old Hermit: of course I was the one who was sent on. King Lune and his people must have got safely into the castle and shut the gates long before Rabadash arrived, but I get left out." And being very tired and having nothing inside him, he felt so sorry for himself that the tears rolled down his cheeks. What put a stop to all this was a sudden fright. Shasta discovered that someone or somebody was walking beside him. It was pitch dark and he could see nothing. And the Thing (or Person) was going so quietly that he could hardly hear any footfalls. What he could hear was breathing. His invisible companion seemed to breathe on a very large scale, and Shasta got the impression that it was a very large creature. And he had come to notice this breathing so gradually that he had really no idea how long it had been there. It was a horrible shock. It darted into his mind that he had heard long ago that there were giants in these Northern countries. He bit his lip in terror. But now that he really had something to cry about, he stopped crying. The Thing (unless it was a Person) went on beside him so very quietly that Shasta began to hope he had only imagined it. But just as he was becoming quite sure of it, there suddenly came a deep, rich sigh out of the darkness beside him. That couldn't be imagination! Anyway, he had felt the hot breath of that sigh on his chilly left hand. If the horse had been any good - or if he had known how to get any good out of the horse - he would have risked everything on a breakaway and a wild gallop. But he knew he couldn't make that horse gallop. So he went on at a walking pace and the unseen companion walked and breathed beside him. At last he could bear it no longer. "Who are you?" he said, scarcely above a whisper. "One who has waited long for you to speak," said the Thing. Its voice was not loud, but very large and deep. "Are you - are you a giant?" asked Shasta. "You might call me a giant," said the Large Voice. "But I am not like the creatures you call giants." "I can't see you at all," said Shasta, after staring very hard. Then (for an even more terrible idea had come into his head) he said, almost in a scream, "You're not - not something dead, are you? Oh please - please do go away. What harm have I ever done you? Oh, I am the unluckiest person in the whole world!" Once more he felt the warm breath of the Thing on his hand and face. "There," it said, "that is not the breath of a ghost. Tell me your sorrows." Shasta was a little reassured by the breath: so he told how he had never known his real father or mother and had been brought up sternly by the fisherman. And then he told the story of his escape and how they were chased by lions and forced to swim for their lives; and of all their dangers in Tashbaan and about his night among the tombs and how the beasts howled at him out of the desert. And he told about the heat and thirst of their desert journey and how they were almost at their goal when another lion chased them and wounded Aravis. And also, how very long it was since he had had anything to eat. "I do not call you unfortunate," said the Large Voice. "Don't you think it was bad luck to meet so many lions?" said Shasta. "There was only one lion," said the Voice. "What on earth do you mean? I've just told you there were at least two the first night, and-" "There was only one: but he was swift of foot." "How do you know?" "I was the lion." And as Shasta gaped with open mouth and said nothing, the Voice continued. "I was the lion who forced you to join with Aravis. I was the cat who comforted you among the houses of the dead. I was the lion who drove the jackals from you while you slept. I was the lion who gave the Horses the new strength of fear for the last mile so that you should reach King Lune in time. And I was the lion you do not remember who pushed the boat in which you lay, a child near death, so that it came to shore where a man sat, wakeful at midnight, to receive you." "Then it was you who wounded Aravis?" "It was I" "But what for?" "Child," said the Voice, "I am telling you your story, not hers. I tell no one any story but his own." "Who are you?" asked Shasta. "Myself," said the Voice, very deep and low so that the earth shook: and again "Myself", loud and clear and gay: and then the third time "Myself", whispered so softly you could hardly hear it, and yet it seemed to come from all round you as if the leaves rustled with it. Shasta was no longer afraid that the Voice belonged to something that would eat him, nor that it was the voice of a ghost. But a new and different sort of trembling came over him. Yet he felt glad too. The mist was turning from black to grey and from grey to white. This must have begun to happen some time ago, but while he had been talking to the Thing he had not been noticing anything else. Now, the whiteness around him became a shining whiteness; his eyes began to blink. Somewhere ahead he could hear birds singing. He knew the night was over at last. He could see the mane and ears and head of his horse quite easily now. A golden light fell on them from the left. He thought it was the sun. He turned and saw, pacing beside him, taller than the horse, a Lion. The horse did not seem to be afraid of it or else could not see it. It was from the Lion that the light came. No one ever saw anything more terrible or beautiful. Luckily Shasta had lived all his life too far south in Calormen to have heard the tales that were whispered in Tashbaan about a dreadful Narnian demon that appeared in the form of a lion. And of course he knew none of the true stories about Aslan, the great Lion, the son of the Emperor-over-the-sea, the King above all High Kings in Narnia. But after one glance at the Lion's face he slipped out of the saddle and fell at its feet. He couldn't say anything but then he didn't want to say anything, and he knew he needn't say anything. The High King above all kings stooped towards him. Its mane, and some strange and solemn perfume that hung about the mane, was all round him. It touched his forehead with its tongue. He lifted his face and their eyes met. Then instantly the pale brightness of the mist and the fiery brightness of the Lion rolled themselves together into a swirling glory and gathered themselves up and disappeared. He was alone with the horse on a grassy hillside under a blue sky. And there were birds singing.

[stealmyjoygivemeapen-blog]

Mistletoe Elevations

A man walked into the Raspberry Night Club looking as if he was on a mission. Buffed up and ready to take on the world, --or at least that's what his attitude said. In fact, he only came in for a few drinks and pussy he didn't have to chase. He could smell sex on the air and he found it arousing. He had silver hair and a white beard to match. Behind his hard facial expression he had bright blue eyes, which seemed to have stopped shinning a long time ago. You could see he was hurting inside. It was a pain that showed through the lines of his aged face --there was a lost soul walking this club, and it was him that it possessed.

"Come over here baby. Let me, Chris Kringle, put it on yo' fine ass", he said to the pole dancer in his low, baritone voice, at the Raspberry Night Club.

It was a dark, chilled Tuesday night, and he'd had a rough, loud day at work. Making toys and dealing with Elves was not quite the easiest job in the world, especially when the kids wanted specific colors, shapes and gadgets on them; then there were the different age groups that he had to consider and what might be appropriate for those boys and girls. It was rewarding at the end of the year, but a headache throughout the process --but, hell, someone had to do it, and who was more fit for the job than the infamous 'Santa Claus' --the jolliest man in the whole fucking world. For behaved little brats they sure did ask for a whole lot. He was not even sure they deserved them all, although they were on the 'Nice list'.

God, he wished maybe, just for one day he would get his break. He worked everyday, year round. As soon as Christmas came at the end of the year, he was already working on the next year's toys. Sometimes he thought it was the best job in the world. All jobs have ups and downs, but at least at the end of the day he had his wife. But lately, it had all gone to shit. His job was just that, a job. Somewhere he would go to get away from the miserable rants and nagging of his wife, and the disgusting lonely nights he'd spend alone if not here. --A thought: Zoloft?

Going home was not exactly the first thought that came to his overworked head. He had been fighting with his wife for months, and they had not talked civilized in weeks. Pussy at home was a no-no, like a dried up, dead river that gave off powdered dust as if it was a desert as the wind blew. So he went out and got it other ways. She probably knew he'd been getting pussy elsewhere, but he didn't care, he had his needs and it was affordable and there were never any hassles getting it. "Goddamned Mrs. Claus! She should know I need me some pussy!"

There were pole dancers all over the floor and at the bar. They wore stunning stilettos and most were topless. The woman were serving customers drinks and helping them to the beer hoses they held between their breasts. He could've had anyone in there, but there was something about her he liked. He thought she was the most sexy lookin' thang in the whole damn place. He did not want any other woman, and he wouldn't leave without her.

She had long, smooth, muscular legs. He knew they came with the job. She had a body like a fuckn' goddess --an hourglass figure. She wore a dark one piece that left her breasts completely bare exposing the nipple barbells. The strobe lights hit them just right making them reflect the light back into the eyes of gazers. His groin grew with a knot. He watched her, and he fantasized about her in his head. He thought about what he could do to her.

There he sat dreaming about her body and those dark, luscious lips. Loving the way they could possibly feel caressing his dick in her warmth.

"Put what on me exactly?" The dancer asked the old man sitting in front of her. He had been watching her for hours. He was dressed in a red suit, which looked untidy matching the hour of day it was --and with silver buckled boots. His cheeks looked rosy and somewhat like they were supposed to hold cheerfulness, but they did not. They held gravity and weight, and she saw it all --the hurt and the wanton in his eyes. He was damaged, but by what she did not know.

"Let me put 'this' on you", he said as he toggled at his pants, and pulled out his erect dick.

The dancer thought he looked like a nice, quiet man; here for the show. Obviously, she was wrong. He was a freak; and he was pretty hung, too.

"There's only one man in my life that can do it right for me 'baby', and he ain't you", leaning from the pole, her breasts were exposed and in Chris' face.

She could feel his breath on her chest hot and heavy. He wanted her. Yeah, it was a game to her, one that she knew how to play. Lure them in, and the cash would be in her stash. This job was all about the money. She didn't understand why anyone would choose the job, if there were no other reason.

"Oh, don't be like that, baby. I gotta big fella I'd like to introduce you to. His name is 'Blue'. 'Blue' for 'blue balls' if I can't have that pussy for a while, make you feel right till you cum with delight, baby! That's my motto", he let out a jolly giggle.

"Oh, really? Well, 'Blue'", she kneeled and spoke directly to his dick and said, "you know it's gonna cost you, right?"

"Sexy thang, I got all the money in the world for that sweet, sweet pussy of yours. Just tell me the time and the place, baby. I'll be there." He said this while pumping his dick so it'd jump as if it was the one speaking.

She thought about it for a few seconds, "3:00 A.M., meet me here, at the door. We'll rent a room and go from there. If you need the price chart, it's there on the wall in the back room. Are you still interested?"

"Hell, I'd be one stupid ass, motherfucker if I wasn't. And, uh, can I get a name?"

"They call me 'Butterfly'. I got it because I can spread my legs wide and swing up the pole, it looks like I have wings -wings flying high. But my real name is Samantha. " She took a deep breath, "and yours?"

"Don't you remember, baby? Chris. Chris Kringle."

"Well, I guess I'll be seeing you a little later then... at 3:00 A.M.", she said as she seductively danced to another pole, more customers were arriving. She wasn't gonna pass good money up, either.

He sat there for another hour or so and stared. He was obsessing about this woman, and he wanted her so bad. He was glad she had accepted him at his offer. He got up after a few more drinks had been sloshed down his throat, and walked out of the Club to kill some time. "What am I gonna do to kill four hours?"

Chris looked at his watch. It was ten minutes till 3:00 and still there was no sign of her. He had been waiting all night. He started pacing back and forth getting impatient. "This woman better not stand me up", he said, getting a little grouchy.

Heels were approaching on the pavement behind him. He saw Butterfly walking toward him while saying good-bye to another woman. She looked like a goddess to him.

"Hey, baby, you right on time. Where we off to now?" Chris grabbed her close enough to smell her hair and body perfume.

"Hey, let's head over to the Sundown Hotel, there we can see what you are working with. Let's see what 'Blue' can do. I haven't had a good fuck in a while."

In the back of her head she knew she was conning him. She needed the money, and if it wasn't for that she wouldn't waste her time with the likes of this fat slob. He was so raunchy, he had an attitude like he could get whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted it. And she was sure, being the man he was that he had no problem doing it anyway. 'This better be worth my time, he better have the money he says he has', she thought.

They walked several blocks down the city to a rundown hotel. From the outside it looked like it had not been used in ages. "Uh, Butterfly, you sure you want to use this hotel? It looks real broke down and nasty". Chris looked at the hotel with a look of disgust on his face. "I can afford a better one, come on, I'll call for a taxi."

Dialing for a taxi, he put it to his ear. "Yes, can I get a taxi for two, to the Sunny Grotom Hotel? Okay, and how much will that cost?" He stood listening to the speaker on the phone. "...okay. Will you get here in a rush? We are on a time schedule. Thanks."

He looked at butterfly, "the cab will be here in a minute."

"To tell you the truth, I'd rather just do this thing here. No offense. I just feel comfortable with going where I know, you feel me?" Butterfly started towards the door to the hotel. "You are welcome to leave, or follow me. It's your choice."

Chris stood outside the hotel for a few minutes, thinking. He wasn't entirely sure why this woman wanted to shack up in the filth of this cheap hotel. While his head was still spinning from the drinks he had earlier, he moved forward. He wasn't going to let his over-thinking mind let her get away and have to go home unfulfilled. Stepping into the hotel the man at the front desk said, "3A". At first Chris was confused but then came to realize he was telling him the room number she had walked into. "Yeah, heh, thanks." Watching the elevator doors close, and pressing the number three button, to go up to the third floor, something felt extremely wrong. "Maybe it's just my imagination, but I feel like something bad is going to happen". The elevator began to clink loud noises as it approached the third floor. He began to feel real uneasy as the doors slid slowly open. Stepping off the elevator his fears were put behind him as he saw the hallway and his surroundings were wrapped in luxury. A fine scent emerged from the scented candles and growing flowers. "I gotta stop drinking so much, or I'm going to lose it." Walking down the long hallway he began looking for his room number. It was pleasantly interesting how this floor looked completely refurbished from the under levels. Coming to his door he found it was slightly ajar. He heard a muffled noise as he took another step closer. Deciding he didn't like the vibe he was getting he turned to leave and then it happened. A hand reached out and grabbed his supposedly jolly self and pulled him into the room locking it closed behind him. He spun around awaiting the fight for his life, fists raised. Yet there stood Butterfly in all luxurious lingerie. He was speechless. Surely it couldn't have been her the one to grab him like he was a weightless feather? Instantly, that thought was kicked out of his mind and he stood there erect. He tried to make it less obvious by standing to the side in a darker shadowed corner. "I know you want me, Chris. So why not take me? And take me hard." In his mind he wanted to get out of there and fast. But his eyes and his body were stuck on her. He came all this way to back out? Nope, he didn't think so. He approached her and kissed her passionately. His mind believed in those moments that he loved her. Whispering to her so soft, "let me clean myself up, it'll only take a few minutes." Smiling she licked her lips and told him, "hey, whatever you want, you're on the clock, it's your money." For a moment he was thrown off, he had forgotten that he was paying for her time and pussy. Coming back to reality, he went into the bathroom and cleaned himself off from sweat and must. Came out into the room and was blown away by the view he was looking at. Butterfly was wings open laying in bed, heels and thong still on and inviting. She played with herself and he watched her in awe, wanting to see more. He told her to take it off. Her face turned blush as she realized he had been standing there watching. He came to realize in her that she had needs and hadn't been taken care of. She took it off without knowledge that she was about to have the night of her career. She asked him softly, "How do you want me?" "Right there, don't move." He pulled Butterfly's legs up into him as he began to lick her thighs and between her legs. She was caught off guard with this turn of event. He was pleasing her, and so incredibly well. She couldn't contain herself as she exploded in his mouth, shaking and moaning. Was this how it was always supposed to feel like when she had a customer? Why wasn't he fucking the shit out of her like the others? Is this how he got off? After she had relaxed he asked her quietly, "my turn?" She rose, pussy wet and comforted, and pushed him into the soft pillows with such force he actually lost his balance and went with the flow, landing with a blank mind for a second. Then looking down as he felt the warmest pleasure he had felt in days. She was on him and he was in her. He was her horse and she was the cowboy riding him. Huffing, he told her to take it slow, there was no rush. He grabbed her by the waist and flipped her on her knees. He would tear that fine pussy up. After about an hour of taking it slow and pausing in between moments where he thought he would explode he pulled out and ejaculated onto a napkin that was on the side table. Then laid down beside her in all her beauty. "Would you like cash or check? I carry both."

Chris looked at his watch. It was ten minutes till 3:00 and still there was no sign of her. He had been dreaming of her all night. His Samantha. He started pacing back and forth getting impatient. "This woman better not stand me up", he said, getting a bit grouchy. He stood where they said they would meet. It was a 6 minute walk back a few blocks but even then she still was not in the flesh. “She led me on and stood me up”, he thought inwardly. Heels approached on the pavement behind him. He saw Samantha walking toward him while saying good-bye to another woman. She looked like a goddess to him. "Hey, baby, you had me in shambles, thought you was gonna stand me up. I booked us a room at the Sundown already." Chris grabbed her close enough to inhale her hair and body pheromones. "Okay, there we can see what you are working with. Let's see what 'Blue' can do. I haven't had a good fuck in a while." In the back of her head she knew she was conning him. She needed the money, and if it weren’t for that she wouldn't waste her time with the likes of this fat slob. He was so raunchy; he had an attitude like he could get whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted it. And she was sure, being the man he was that he had no problem doing it anyway. 'This better be worth my time, he better have the money he says he has', she thought. They walked several blocks down the city to the Sundown Hotel. From the outside it looked like it had not been used in ages. "Uh, Chris, you sure you want to use this hotel? It looks real broke down and nasty". Chris looked at the hotel with a look of disgust on his face. "I know what it looks like on the outside isn’t too inviting, but the inside is beautiful”. Samantha stood outside the hotel for a few minutes, thinking. She wasn't entirely sure why this man wanted to shack up in the filth of this cheap hotel. While her head was still spinning from the drinks she had earlier, then she moved forward. She wasn't going to let her over-thinking mind give up this opportunity to make a few hundred bucks tonight.. Stepping into the hotel the man at the front desk said, "3A". At first Samantha was confused but then came to realize he was telling her the room number she had walked into. "Yeah, heh, thanks." She realized the inside was quite beautiful, furnished and lavish with chandeliers and bright lights, glass ornaments and a carpet she just wanted to walk barefoot on. Watching the elevator doors close, she pressed the number three button, to go up to the third floor; something felt extremely wrong. "Maybe it's just my imagination, but I feel like something bad is going to happen. I feel like this is different than any other customer I’ve ever had. His appearance is a bit sloppy, but his voice and his gentleness is… unnerving? Confusing? Hmmm". The elevator began to clink loud noises as it approached the third floor. She began to feel real uneasy as the doors slid slowly open, butterflies in her stomach. “Why do I feel like this?” Stepping off the elevator her fears were put behind her as she saw the hallway and her surroundings were wrapped in luxury. A fine scent emerged from the room littered with scented candles and growing flowers. “Roses”. "I gotta stop drinking so much, or I'm going to lose it." She was amazed that a mere customer had gone this far for her. Didn’t he know this was her job? Walking down the long hallway she began looking for his room number. It was pleasantly interesting how this floor looked completely refurbished from the under levels. Coming to his door he found it was slightly ajar. She heard a muffled noise as she took another step closer. Deciding she didn't like the vibe she was getting she turned to leave and then it happened. A hand reached out, grabbed her and pulled her into the room locking it closed behind her. She spun around awaiting the fight for her life, fists raised. Yet there stood Chris in all luxurious lingerie. She was speechless. Anticipation roaming her belly. He stood there in front of her erect. He tried to make it less obvious by standing to the side in a darker shadowed corner. “Are you a bit embarrassed? She laughed, friendly. I know you want me, Chris. So why not stop this cat and mouse play and take me… take me hard." In his mind he wanted to get out of there and fast. But his eyes and his body were stuck on her. He came all this way to back out? Nope, he didn't think so. He approached her and kissed her passionately. His mind believed in those moments that he loved her. Whispering to her so soft, "let me clean myself up, it'll only take a few minutes." Smiling she licked her lips and told him, "hey, whatever you want, you're on the clock, it's your money." For a moment he was thrown off, he had forgotten that he was paying for her time and pussy. Coming back to reality, he went into the bathroom and cleaned himself off from sweat and mustiness. He came out into the room and was blown away by the view he was looking at. Butterfly was wings open laying in bed, heels and thong still on and inviting. She played with herself and he watched her in awe, wanting to see more. He told her to take it off. Her face turned blush as she realized he had been standing there watching. He came to realize in her that she had needs and hadn't been taken care of. She took it off without knowledge that she was about to have the night of her career. She asked him softly, "How do you want me?" "Right there, don't move." He pulled Butterfly's legs up into him as he began to lick her thighs and between her legs. She was caught off guard with this turn of event. He was pleasing her, and so incredibly well. She couldn't contain herself as she exploded in his mouth, shaking and moaning. Was this how it was always supposed to feel like when she had a customer? Why wasn't he fucking the shit out of her like the others? Is this how he got off? After she had relaxed he asked her quietly, "my turn?" She rose, pussy wet and comforted, and pushed him into the soft pillows with such force he actually lost his balance and went with the flow, landing with a blank mind for a second. Then looking down as he felt the warmest pleasure he had felt in months. She was on him and he was in her. He was her horse and she was the cowboy riding him. Huffing, he told her to take it slow, there was no rush. He grabbed her by the waist and flipped her on her knees. He would tear that fine pussy up. After about an hour of taking it slow and pausing in between moments where he thought he would explode he pulled out and ejaculated onto a napkin that was on the side table. Then lay down beside her in all her beauty. "Would you like cash or check? I carry both” and as he said it, he knew he’d be going back to reality, where Samantha or Butterfly would no longer be hers. He would have to plan something, because in his dream she was his, and his forever. She would be his here too, forever.

Stepping out of the hotel Chris had a new pep to his step. His mind felt refreshed and new. He somehow felt like his mischevious mannor was well past its limit.

Chris wanted to turn his life around. After seeing what he could do for Butterfly he seriously felt like he had been neglecting his own wife.

Always putting his needs before her own, he went after anything that had two legs, two breasts and four lips. Wondering what had happened to his marriage, he realized that it was him that had "happened." He passed her up for everything else, not even taking his health into consideration. He had stopped caring for his wife a long time ago. He thought for a long time, back to when they were lovers and newlyweds, as he walked to back to his car to head for home. He remembered how happy they had been.

He thought about how he would feel if he had pushed her away into another man's arms. She stood by him through all the years and even before Chris became Chris Kringle. He felt he needed a whole new makeover to his personality, or get his old one back. He did love his wife, and so Chris decided to do the one thing he hadn't done in a long time. He was going to show her that he did love her.

Entering his house he felt a sense of calm come over him. For once in a long time he wasn't angry to be home. He didn't feel trapped, breathless.

The digital clock was beeping in the distance; seven o'clock. He'd wasted too many hours away from his beautiful wife.

"Layla! Oh Layla! I'm home, Layla, I'm home!" He cried.

There was no answer, the house was completely empty.

"Perfect timing, Chris. Why didn't you change your ways yesterday around this time?" He stood there pacing back and forth in the hallway, waiting for a sign, speaking to himself. "You know you'd be crushed if she ever left you. Why didn't you see this earlier? God, you are a doofball."

Turning to the house phone Chris dialed his wife's cell number. "Jolly me, this is Layla, I'm sorry I can't come to the phone right now but leave me a sweet message and I'll get back to you. Have a great day."

Hearing his wifes' voice through her voicemail made him a little scared. He didn't want to lose her, and it wasn't like her not to pick up. He decided to call once more.

Ringing, and more ringing... then finally, "Hello."

"Layla, this is Chris, where are you?"

"My, you seem a litle disturbed, I went to the store to get a little more ginger. I ran out last night while making the cookies."

"Oh, my dear, can you please come home soon, I would really like to talk to you about something important."

"Well, now, where else would I go?" She said, her voice sounding a bit nervous. "I'll be there in about five minutes, just parking the car in the driveway. By the way when did you get in? I didn't hear you last night."

"Well, that's what I wanted to talk to you about." Sighing, he said, "I didn't come home last night, please..."

The phone went dead. Chris heard jingling at the front door. The lock clicked and the door handle was turning.

Layla stepped into the house, caring a few bags of groceries. "I am sorry,  didn't hear that last sentence, My phone caught bad reception and hung up. What is it you were saying, darling?"

Taking a deep breath he looked into his wifes' beautiful eyes and thought for a second about not telling her. Did he want to ruin what they had even more? Did he really want to break her heart and chance losing her forever?

"Well, let's talk over some breakfast. I'm taking today off to spend some quality time with my lovely wife."

"Okay." She said even more nervous then before. "So, what is it you wanted to talk about?" Sitting down at the table she wanted him to open up to her and be honest. She knew about the one night stands and the alcohol. She knew he had cheated on her so many times. She even knew about the woman he had spent the whole night with.

She didn't want the lies, she only wanted his heart to be hers again. If only he would tell her what she already knew. She wanted so much for him to tell her the truth because she had already forgiven him. To lie would be a coward's way out,  and that meant she'd have to leave.