How the Grinch Stole the Christmas Queen
By: 1000th Ghost
"Hello, Martha."
The words rang in her head throughout the rest of the Whobilation festivities.
The entire instance had been very quick. He had gotten off of her to assess the crowd immediately after the muffled words. But she stayed on the ground for a while because all she could fathom doing was staring up at him in mind-blowing wonder thinking, "Grinch...!"
She had never stopped loving him, not for an instant. She would deny it to everyone, of course, she had to, but she never denied it to herself.
What an amusing thought though. If she simply stood up, addressed the throng, and screamed, "I AM MADLY IN LOVE WITH THE GRINCH!"
They would be shocked, yes, but everyone knew better than to question Martha May Whovier. And the way he was behaving destroyed any fear she might have had of his rejection. Did they not see the way he looked at her? Was the tension as palpable as she made it out to be?
Maybe that was her problem. The tension was not an abstract feeling, it was a living, breathing, tangible entity that invaded every crevice and surrounded her so that when she moved it was like swimming through Who Pudding.
She had not felt this way since she was eight. Eight-year-old her was proud of it, excited by it, and more than willing to do something about it. If he hadn't left...
But he had left. But he was back!
He was back. He was right there, that boy, grown into a man, close enough to touch. Although he was the one who kept touching her.
Their roles seemed a bit reversed. She was not the seductive girl who caressed his cheek, he was not the shy boy with mouth agape. Now she was bewildered and akin to a cat in heat, and he was crass, taking the crowd by storm, and so alluring that she could barely stand it.
But she had to stand it, off hidden on the sidelines, torturing herself with the image of him, hoping no one saw her reactions to his achievements, until-
Until he was bringing the Christmas conga line with direct deliberateness towards her.
If a car was blaring towards her, she would not have looked more petrified.
His mouth was a smirk, his expression positively sinful. He knew what she wanted, darn it, she broadcasted her emotions on her sleeve. Or perhaps he did not know how she felt and did not care how she felt because he knew how he felt, and that was enough of a reason to put his right hand around her waist, his left hand in hers, and spin so that they broke off from the line. She clutched his shoulder with her free hand for support, which was apparently exactly what he hoped she would do.
She made a sound that was supposed to be "What?" but came out as just strangled surprise, and he replied, "We're dancing, Martha."
Somewhere in her peripheral vision, the rest of the line found partners and started to dance as well, but somehow she doubted that that dancing was quite like his dancing.
His was fast and jolted and she imagined looked almost professional to an observer. Men were always supposed to lead, of course, but this was the most forceful dance she had ever experienced. He was not leading, he was controlling. And his eyes, his cold, yellow eyes, had a fire behind them that he did not even attempt to shield from her. His features was stony and serious, and the eyes bore into her own, which she feared were just as unveiled as his were.
The frantic conga beat accounted for the frantic dancing, but nothing accounted for how close he had positioned them. There was not a part of her that was not paired with his equivalent, save for her feet, which could not begin to keep up with his, and her face, which stayed a heart-stopping inch away from his. She was grateful for her thick corset top and his sweater for (at least, she hoped) preventing his chest from noticing that her hardened nipples had nothing to do with the cold. But his lederhosen was laughably inadequate for hiding his obvious desire.
Which - she realized with a start - was his intent. He was not pretending to be modest as she was; he was fairly trying to bore a hole through her skirt so intensely was he rubbing himself into her. And her skirt, her flimsy, tulle skirt that existed more for the impression of clothing than to be sturdy material, might as well have not been there.
He ground against her right - right there! - and she wanted to tell him to not move and just to stand there and repeat the motion a thousand more times, but before she had thought it, it was lost again.
Then she got an idea. An awful idea. Martha May got a wonderful, awful idea.
She wondered if he discerned the change in her expression, for his eyes widened, and she almost laughed thinking that he looked like she must have at the beginning of the dance and she him.
They were on the outskirts of the crowd, in the shadows, and besides, everyone was having too much fun of their own to pay any mind to them.
She removed her hand from his grip and used it to take off one of her long, red gloves. Then, with a confidence that eight-year-old her would have been proud of, she grabbed one end of the glove in each hand and whipped the glove around the back of his neck. She tugged on the two ends and jerked him towards her - close but only close enough to tilt her head and leave an open-mouth smile a centimeter farther from his lips than he wanted. Then the glove descended over his shoulders, down his back, and, after flashing him a smile that give his wicked Grinch smile competition, she descended with it.
He was still, all semblance of dancing gone. Apparently frozen as he watched the top of her head move lower, lower, until she was kneeling in the snow and was eyelevel with his prominent bulge.
She shouldn't! She couldn't! She mustn't! She wouldn't!
She DID.
Martha's first thought was that he was going to have a very awkward red lipstick stain, but then, clothes always were her first priority. His first thought contained several expletives.
There was only so much she could do through the fabric, but the deep, almost purring sound he was making - and the one curse that escaped his lips and made her blush - were more than enough indication that she was doing something right.
Then suddenly, it appeared she was doing something too right because she was not on the ground anymore. She was over his shoulder as if she were a sack of potatoes, his hand on her behind, and he was carrying her with an almost alarming lack-of-effort towards-
She gasped.
"W-wait, wait, what?! What do you think you're doing? Just who do you think you are?"
It was the voice of Augustus, and it sounded rather fuming.
"I'm the Grinch who stole the Christmas Queen!" he shouted to the mayor or maybe to the crowd in general, and the Dumpit to Crumpit garbage chute opened, and they were gone.
She screamed the entire way. At first from shock and surprise and pure terror but somewhere along the way from the thrill of the rushing air and the drop of her stomach. He held her incredibly tight and was in fact so wrapped around her that she was not sure she ever felt the actual chute. And right when she began to think how kind he was to protect her, they came shooting out the other end, and she was in his arms bridal style, and the terror was back.
He did not look at her as he trudged out of the trash heap, through the snow, and to what she assumed was the entrance to his home. Here he put her down so that he could open the door, but he kept a firm hold of her wrist as if he was afraid she would suddenly bolt and slide down the mountain, back to Whoville with its safe, commercialized holiday and its safe, available mayor.
In all sensibility, she probably should have. But she willingly remained in place and then allowed herself to be pulled into his lair.
"Lair" was the best way to describe it. She was not sure what she had been expecting, but it was definitely not this expanse of machines, gadgets, inventions, things she could only guess the function of. The angel he had given her so many Christmases ago had apparently been the mere beginning of a lifetime of creating.
She was craning her neck up to try to see where it ended - how many stories could a cave have?! - when the door clicked shut. She let out a yelp.
"Scared?"
It was not a comforting statement. Its tone gave every sign that she should be scared, and he wanted her to know it.
"Should I be?" She knew the answer already, but it seemed like the appropriate reaction.
He appeared pleased with this reply. Then he took her wrist again and began walking deeper into the cave.
"Where are we goi-" she dared to ask before catching sight of exactly where they were going. His bed, dilapidated with tattered sheets, loomed ahead like a neglected tomb. She was silent.
He was silent as well, but when they reached the edge of the bed, he turned towards her, held both of her hands in his own, and for the first time that night looked at her as though he was asking her permission.
She just stared at him. He had wiped her mind into a blank, white nothingness. Forming words was futile.
He seemed increasingly more uneasy with every second she did not respond. He couldn't make it any more obvious than this, could he? His eyes darted to the bed and back to her eyes, the bed, her eyes. Maybe he should just say, "Get in the bed. Now."
"If I haven't made my intentions perfectly clear, Martha, I'm trying to get you in the sack."
Well, that was one way to put it.
"I know," she said.
"Are you..." He raised an eyebrow. "...okay with that?"
"Have you done this before?"
He dropped her hands, and she realized it was a stupid and potentially hurtful question. Of course, he hadn't, he had been shut up in this cave for forty-five years. It was not exactly the opportune place for attracting a mate. Also, part of her brain that she hoped was more truthful than it was vain said that he would have only done it with her.
"I haven't either."
He tipped his head back and laughed, loud and cruel, and she folded her arms over her torso and felt very small.
"Martha May Whovier? A virgin?"
"And just who would I have given myself to, Grinch?"
It was the first time he had ever heard her say his name. He was a bit taken aback. "W-well, the, um, the mayor, for one thing, he's always seemed eager enough-"
"He has asked me several times if I had ever been kissed by a man who's had his tonsils removed twice. I think he thinks it's cute or something. The answer is always and will always be 'no'."
Now he just looked dumbfounded. "You mean, you're fifty-three, you're the most wanted woman in Whoville, and you've never."
"Grinch-" There was his name in her voice again. "-the only intimacy I have ever had is when you flew out of the garbage chute and landed on me."
He grinned. "Yeah, you liked that, didn't you?"
Her cheeks turned almost the same shade as her corset. "I liked that you could recognize me just from my breasts."
His eyes doubled in size.
Yes, she could play his crude, witty game too.
"Do you want me to do it again?" A lascivious smile. He was sure that he was in control again.
Maybe she would let him think he was in control. Maybe she wanted him to be in control. Maybe he was in control regardless of what she did or wanted.
Did she want him to do it again? Did she want his weight pinning her down, his mouth on her skin, her expression a mixture of shock and euphoria?
Yes, but there were more decent ways of saying it than "Yes".
Her eyes drifted in mock-shyness to the space between their feet then for the briefest moment to his piercing, yellow orbs then to his lips, lingering longer than they needed to, then to her hands, which she had folded demurely on her skirt. "I-I've never even been kissed before."
"You haven't?"
She wasn't sure what she had assumed his reply would sound like. If she was honest with herself, she probably would have wished for him to immediately remedy the problem and crash their lips together. But his "You haven't?" was not sardonic or unbelieving, it was...sympathetic! He pitied her!
She was tired of dodging the inevitable. The next words out of her mouth were going to be "You are the only man I have ever wanted to kiss me," and if he didn't take her in his arms then, she might have to push him on the bed herself.
"You are the only woman I have ever wanted to kiss."
She swallowed. He had taken her words, and he had put so much emotion behind them that she felt more like crying than like-
"And I'm going to finally kiss you whether you want it or not."
Except that her face darkened, her eyes narrowed, her lips parted, and she fairly leapt at him before he had made a move towards her.
She had heard of women not being able to stand during orgasm. She might have been the only woman who could not handle kissing. She was limp, entirely limp, and let his arm around her waist support her. She did not think her feet were even on the ground anymore.
He pulled back a bit. Her breathing was sporadic.
"Are you okay?" he whispered.
"No."
The last thing she saw before he descended again was his eyes, which really were nothing but evil, and his smile, which really was not a smile at all.
She had never been kissed, she did not know how to kiss, she did not care about how to kiss. Rendered useless by drowning in her inexplicable, detrimental, consuming love. She was content to just hang by his unfeasibly strong arm and let him invade her like the psychopath he might very well be.
It had taken two maids and a bedpost to secure the horridly sturdy corset. He ripped if off as if it was made of tissue paper. He removed his sweater and lederhosen in a similar manner, which did not do much good since his thick fur was almost the same as wearing clothing. Then she felt cold all over and saw her skirt discarded like a green tornado. Her necklace he took off rather delicately, and she only just heard him murmur, "Who gave this to you, huh? Mayor Dearest?"
She snatched it out of his hand and threw it to the floor, and little red and gold beads scattered. It was enough to break the moment, and he let her go. She stood firm and glared at him almost as fiercely as his trademark stare and spat, "Do you think I care about that necklace? That I've cared about presents or bows or wrappings or anything that isn't you?!"
It was a mighty, impassioned speech, but they were both naked save for her one long, red glove, and their eyes became much too preoccupied with scanning each other than with whatever she had just said.
He held his arms open to her. It was a simple, welcoming gesture. She stepped closer to the embrace of warmth and fur, and he put his large hands around her waist, and they fell onto the bed,
The fall ended with something of a cry from both of them, his deep and relieved, hers blissful and total.
If he had been a "normal" Who and now her bare body collided with nothing but skin, she might have not been able to bear it. It would have been so stark and analogous and...cold.
He was warm. He moved on top of her, and his solidness and warmth was overwhelming. It was a haven of fur, the overpowering sensation of his thick, green hide covering her chest, stomach, mingling with her own patch of dark hair, and all the way down her legs. The inhuman broadness of his shoulders, the thrilling gentleness of his strength. She felt safe.
Then he brought his mouth to her cleavage, mumbled, "Hello, Martha," with a chuckle, and she realized that there was nothing safe about being in a bed with the Grinch.
But he didn't do anything. He just stayed nestled between her breasts and laughed at something that she apparently completely missed the humor of.
"W-what are you...aren't you going to...?"
"Oh?" Mock ignorance. "Is there something you would like me to do?"
Still teasing her!
"You know what I want you to do."
"Why, I've never done this before, Miss Martha May!" One eye opened and looked up at her. "I'm afraid you'll just have to tell me what you want."
He wanted her to - uh! What nerve he had!
"Hmm...?" he asked. His hand trailed down her right side, making her shiver. "What is it..." And one finger, one impossibly long finger, moved to her center and started slow, prudent circles around her nub. "...that you want?"
Her make-upped lashes suddenly felt incredibly heavy, and she watched him through half-lids, her breathing labored.
His finger was removed, his thumb took its place, faster than before. The unoccupied finger slid into her, and she gasped, then he added another, and she shouted something incoherent that might have been his name.
"I-I-I want - oh!"
He pumped with more urgency, encouraged by her sounds. "You want what?" he all but growled.
"I want you...to...kiss my breasts."
So he placed one chaste peck on each peak.
"No!" She was going to lose it if he continued being so...mean. "Lick!"
That evidently was the magic word, for he finally gave into what she had been yearning for since he had first appeared at the Whobilation. Oh, this was no time for decorum, she had been yearning for this since she was in grade school with him.
She practically screamed when his tongue started to keep time with his thumb and fingers. This was heaven, this was too much, this was not enough.
He entered her, and her shriek made even her wince.
"What" he said dumbly, too distracted by the issue between his legs.
"Hurts," she mumbled through tears that she did not want to fall.
"Well? What'd you expect? I'm the freakin' Grinch, Martha."
She sobbed for the first minute. Strange sobs though, more upset at herself for sobbing than at him for hurting her. Of course, he was being an insensitive heel, but that was his thing. That was the man she had always loved.
He had a point too. He wasn't a man, he was a Grinch, and if he was larger than other men in every area except for his heart, it was not as if he could help it.
What she was afraid of, what had scared her since the very beginning of this encounter, was what that Grinchy strength would do to her. He did know, didn't he, that she was delicate? That he could not completely give in to his dark indulgences? That his unbridled passion would kill her?
His brain, unfortunately, was not about to think of anything at all. Which she did not mind - there was something fascinating and virile and stimulating about a male reduced to his most primal state.
He was as much animal as he was man to begin with.
She allowed him to lose himself in her until she felt a shift in pace, and his thrusts became furious, increasingly more threatening. She urged him onto his back, careful to continue his tempo (albeit with her limited human frame) so that he would comply.
She looked beautiful, sitting tall above him, full breasts bouncing, lips parted in ecstasy, eyes closed, dark-blonde hair hanging half-free from its updo.
What he actually grunted was, "Yer pretty," but to her he might as well have said "gorgeous", "ravishing", "the most attractive woman to ever live".
His furry hands spread up her taught torso and cupped her, tweaking her nipples, and she drove him into her a final time and came around him, collapsing like a ragdoll on his chest. He manually moved her hips for her and finished seconds later.
No sooner had his last groan died away then he said, "Will you marry me?"
Under any other circumstance, she might have considered this a most ridiculous proposal.
As it was, she said, "Yes," and buried her face in his soaked chest.
Strange as it may seem, she could very much hear his heartbeat. Perhaps it had grown.
The End