We all know the story of the Grinch. This is part 1 of 2 of this Christmas story.
Chapter 1: The Grinch Who Craved Filth
High above Whoville, where the snow fell soft and the air was crisp and clean, there stood a crooked cave on the very tip-top of Mount Crumpit.
Inside lived the Grinch.
He was forty winters old, tall and lean and green as envy, with a jaw sharp enough to cut glass and eyes that glowed like coals when he was angry (which was always).
Down in Whoville they called him “mean,” “wicked,” “a monster.”
Every Christmas Eve the Grinch pressed his long body to the mouth of his cave and looked down at the twinkling village three thousand feet below.
He watched the little Who boys and Who girls laughing as they skated on the frozen pond. He watched the young couples sneaking behind the evergreens, kissing under mistletoe, whispering sweet little lies about forever. He watched the married ones slow-dancing in windows lit gold, hands polite on waists, smiles soft and gentle.
It was sickening. And the more the Grinch thought of how the Who’s showed their love, the more the Grinch grumped and seethed from up above.
At first he wasn’t mean, he was just a little different. He would do all the things that he thought was just right, romancing and dining and dance all through the night. But he didn’t give soft kisses or try to hold hands. There were no “I love yous” or lies about how he felt, it just didn’t feel real and didn’t feel right.
But the Who-girls weren’t built that way.
He’d tried, years ago. Tried to flirt in his own raw, honest way.
He told one girl that he liked “you’d look better with my cock down your throat than that ribbon in your hair” and was slapped. To a woman that flirted with him, he pinned against the post office wall and growled, “I am going to wreck your tight little cunt until you forgot your own name,” then she kneed him in the balls and told the whole town he was a beast. In bed with a girl, he grabbed her by the throat and snarl, “You’re my filthy little cunt tonight,” and she ran out of his home.
So they shunned him. Called him crude, vulgar, and dangerous. And he moved to the mountain where no one could hear him roar.
Up there he was alone but at least he was free to live life as he pleased. He had amassed crates of the filthiest porn Whoville had never dreamed. Sure he had hobbies and walked his old dog Max. But when he got bored he would beat off to relax. He jerked off four, five, six times a day, snarling at the screen. painting the cave walls with thick ropes of his cream.
But even that wasn’t enough anymore.
Because every Christmas the noise drifted up the mountain: the singing, the laughter, the bells, the pure fucking joy of it all.
And every Christmas he stood at the edge, cock in his fist, staring down at all that happiness he wasn’t allowed to ruin the way he wanted.
They were so sweet.
So clean.
So utterly, infuriatingly not his.
He hated the Whos.
He hated their tiny hearts full of tiny, useless love.
He hated that none of them would ever spread their legs and scream, “Harder, you sick green fuck, break me!”
So every year his heart shrank a little more, until it was two sizes too small and hard as coal.
And every year the hate grew hotter and darker.
Tonight the lights of Whoville burned brighter than ever, a thousand tiny windows glowing with the sickening warmth of families hugging, lovers kissing, children squealing over wrapped boxes full of useless, perfect love.
The Grinch stood at the mouth of his cave, cock still in hand, cum cooling on his knuckles, staring down with pure black hatred.
This year he wasn’t content to watch and jerk and seethe.
This year he was going to rip it all away.
Every ribbon, every gift, every squeal of delight, every soft “I love you” whispered under twinkling trees; he would steal the whole fucking lot. He would strip their stockings bare, empty their houses, leave nothing but silence and tear-stained faces on Christmas morning.
They had taken his happiness years ago, shamed him, shunned him, left him rotting up here with nothing but his hand and his rage.
If he couldn’t be happy, couldn’t have a single warm, wet, screaming hole that wanted him exactly as filthy as he was, then no one in Whoville deserved their precious little Christmas.
He wiped his hand on his fur, zipped up with a snarl, and turned to his empty sleigh.
A smile spread across his face, slow, vicious, and more unpleasant than anything Whoville had ever seen.
“They took mine,” he rasped, voice thick with decades of denied release.
“Tomorrow I take theirs.”
And somewhere far below, in a small bed under a small roof, Cindy Lou Who smiled in her sleep, tasting something wicked on the air.
Chapter 2: The Wickedest Plan Ever Hatched on Mount Crumpit
The moon hung low and fat over Whoville, bathing the snow in cold silver light.
Inside the cave, the Grinch moved with the frantic energy of a man whose cock had been hard for three straight hours and refused to go soft until it ruined something.
He dragged the ancient red Santa suit out of a trunk (stolen from a department-store window twenty years ago, still smelling faintly of mothballs and broken dreams).
The pants barely fit over his swollen dick, he was getting hard just thinking of his revenge; the zipper strained like it might explode. He left it half-down anyway, letting the head of his green cock poke above the white fur trim like a middle finger to the entire holiday season.
“Perfect,” he muttered, stroking himself once, twice, just to feel the throb.
Next came the reindeer problem. Real reindeer were extinct in these parts, and even if they weren’t, none of them deserved what he had in mind.
So he turned to Max. Poor, loyal, scruffy Max sat wagging his tail, completely unaware he was about to become the most humiliated creature on the mountain.
The Grinch rummaged through his mountain of sex toys (dildos the length of forearms, plugs shaped like Christmas trees, a ten-foot dragon cock he’d never managed to fit anywhere), and ***********ed the pièce de résistance: a thick, veiny, jet-black silicone monstrosity with a suction-cup base and a single curved horn spiraling from the tip. He slathered it with lube until it gleamed, then jammed the suction cup onto the top of Max’s shaggy head. The horn stood proud and obscene, bobbing with every confused tilt of the dog’s ears.
“There,” the Grinch said, stepping back to admire his work. “My very own one-horned fuck-deer.”
Max whined and tried to shake it off. The dildo wagged like a drunken unicorn.
The Grinch laughed so hard his cock leaked a fat drop of precome onto the cave floor.
He hitched the make-shift sleigh made from just a rusted Radio Flyer wagon he spray-painted green to Max’s collar with a length of Christmas lights.
Then he stood at the mouth of the cave and surveyed his kingdom of depravity. Piles of stolen porn DVDs. Crates of lube in peppermint and cinnamon flavors.
A life-size inflatable Who-girl he’d punctured years ago in a fit of rage.
Soon, very soon, he’d triple it all.
The Grinch looked at his kingdom of smut then thought of all the crap he would be taking tonight. Every Who-toy, every Who-doll, every sparkling piece of sentimental garbage.
Then he had a wicked idea, an awful idea, he would just sell it for cold hard cash. As he prepared for the night, he whistled with glee, picturing a new custom sex doll molded from a real girl’s body, with three usable holes and a voice box that only screamed “Yes, Master Grinch!” A fucking swing bolted to the cave ceiling so he could pound his future whore mid-air while Max watched. A mail-order bride from some country that didn’t ask questions (big tits, bigger appetite, leash already around her throat). A mail-order bitch in heat for Max, so the dog would finally shut up and stop humping his leg.
He pictured her (whoever she ended up being) naked except for bells on her nipples, crawling across the cave floor, begging him to wreck every hole while Max mounted her from behind and the reindeer horn bobbed above them like a perverse North Star.
His cock jerked so violently he had to grip the cave wall.
“Midnight,” he snarled, voice hoarse with lust and hate. “At the stroke of fucking midnight, old Max and I ride.”
He climbed into the sleigh, cracked an imaginary whip, and gave Max a sharp kick in the ribs.
The dog yelped, the dildo horn wobbling obscenely, and the overloaded wagon lurched toward the edge of the cliff.
The Grinch threw back his head and laughed (a low, filthy, glorious sound that echoed all the way down to Whoville).
If he pulled this off (if he actually stole every last shred of their Christmas while sporting a raging hard-on and a reindeer with a veiny black cock on its head), it wouldn’t just be the crime of the century.
It would be the dirtiest, most perfect revenge in history.
And somewhere deep inside his two-sizes-too-small heart, a tiny, wicked voice whispered:
Maybe, just maybe, one of those prim little Whos is dying to be stolen too.
The sleigh teetered on the brink.
Max whimpered.
The Grinch’s cock throbbed like a war drum.
“On, you horny bastard!” he roared. “It’s time to fuck Christmas raw!”
Chapter 3: The Night the Grinch Fucked Christmas Silent
It was a cold, cold winter’s night, the kind that wrapped Whoville like a thick quilt of snow.
Every chimney puffed gentle curls of smoke, every window glowed butter-yellow, and every Who lay snug in their beds while sugar-plum fantasies danced in their heads.
They dreamed of ribbons, of tags, of packages, boxes, and bags. They had no idea that something wicked this way slithered.
The Grinch moved like black oil through the shadows, sack slung over one shoulder, cock still half-hard from the sheer joy of the crime.
Max waited outside each house, dildo-horn bobbing, eyes wide with canine shame.
House by house he struck.
In the mayor’s mansion he yanked every gift from under the tree, then pissed a steaming yellow arc into the crystal punch bowl of holiday cheer. In the schoolteacher’s cottage he stuffed every doll and train into his sack, then jerked a thick, angry load across the nativity scene, glazing the tiny porcelain shepherds in ropes of green-tinted cum.
At the baker’s he found a row of perfect Who-puddings cooling on the windowsill.
He grinned that terrible grin, dropped his pants, and stirred every bowl with his rigid cock, slow and deliberate, letting the custard coat him like warm velvet.
When he came, he aimed straight into the biggest pudding, watching it overflow with pearly streaks.
Then he dipped his still-dripping dick into the mulled wine, swirled it clean, and left both dishes on the table with a hand-written card:
“Extra protein. Merry Christmas. –G”
He stole wreaths off doors and replaced them with used condoms knotted to the nails.
He swapped stockings for fishnet thigh-highs crusted with old loads.
He took every last candy cane and left a single vibrating plug in each child’s shoe (batteries removed, of course; he wasn’t a total monster).
He slunk from rooftop to rooftop, chimney to chimney, stuffing his sack until it bulged like his balls had been for the last forty years.
The town grew quieter with every theft. No more twinkling lights. No more scent of pine and cinnamon. Just the soft crunch of snow under his boots and the wet slap of his cock against his thigh whenever he paused to savor the ruin.
At last he reached the final house on the row: a modest little Who-cottage with a crooked chimney and a single candle still flickering in the window.
The name on the mailbox read WHO. Inside slept Cindy Lou Who, no more than twenty-two, her blonde hair fanned across the pillow like spilled starlight.
He slipped down the chimney (hot, tight, and filthy, just the way he liked it), landing cat-quiet in front of the glowing tree. The Grinch’s grin widened until it threatened to split his face.
One by one he stole the presents. He drank their eggnog straight from the carton and spat it back in. The last house on the row was stripped bare.
The tree lay sideways in his sack, ornaments rattling like broken teeth.
Stockings dangled empty, the wreaths were gone, the roast beast sat cooling in the overloaded sleigh outside. Only one thing remained untouched: a single crystal cup of eggnog on the kitchen table, still frothy, still innocent.
The Grinch’s lips peeled back in the widest, wickedest grin of the night.
He dropped his pants to his ankles, wrapped one green fist around his aching cock (thick as a Who’s forearm and veined like twisted garland), and plunged it straight into the creamy drink.
He stirred slow, deliberate, watching the eggnog coat every throbbing inch, dripping off the flared head in thick white ropes that looked almost… festive.
One last treat to ruin.
A soft gasp sliced the silence.
He froze, cock still submerged, balls resting against the cup’s rim.
From the shadows of the hallway stepped Cindy Lou Who, barefoot in a thin cotton nightgown, blonde hair tousled from sleep, eyes wide as saucers.
“Santa…?” she whispered, voice trembling. “Is that you?”
The Grinch’s mind raced faster than Max running from a rolled-up newspaper.
Lie. Lie now.
He yanked his pants halfway up, eggnog dripping down his shaft in sticky rivulets, and turned with the most saccharine smile he could vomit forth.
“Why, Cindy Lou Who, my dear,” he crooned, voice syrupy and vile, “Santa’s just… run into a little trouble tonight. Lost my steam, you see. Had to stop for a quick drink.”
He lifted the dripping cup in salute. “Taking all these broken toys back to the workshop. They’ll be good as new tomorrow, ho ho ho.”
Cindy Lou clutched her stuffed Who-seuss to her chest, lower lip wobbling.
“But Santa… I can’t get to sleep.”
“Oh little girl, come to Santa and have some nog,” he said offering the cup to her.
She smiled, stepping forward, took the cup with a smile. As she drank it, her eyes closed, the warm thick cream making her smile, reminding her of Christmas. Her eyes fluttered open and she saw Santa looking at her so intently, it made her blush.
He looked at her drink the cream he had just stirred with his cock. The dirtiest of thoughts bubbling in his mind. “You are a very pretty girl Cindy Lou,” he said.
“Thank you Santa.,” she said, her finger twirling her hair, her large breasts poking against her sight night shirt, “That was the most delicious egg nog I have ever had,” she said just as she looked into the cup curiously, pulling out a green hair, “what’s this?”
The grinch thought up a lie and thought it up quick, “Cindy Lou Who, that is Santa’s special recipe why of course. I make it myself,” she said with a smile.
Her gaze dropped. Right to the monstrous green cock jutting from his half-fastened pants, glistening with eggnog, a single bead of cream trembling at the slit.
Her mouth fell open. She had never seen anything so huge, so angry, so alive.
The Grinch saw the wonder in her eyes and something inside him snapped like an over-tightened sleigh chain.
“Go ahead Cindy… it tastes better from the source, little girl,” he rasped, voice dropping three octaves into pure filth, “Santa knows how to get you back to sleep.”
Cindy Lou didn’t run. Didn’t scream.
She dropped the stuffed animal, sank to her knees on the kitchen tile, and opened her pretty pink mouth like she’d been waiting her whole life for this exact moment.
Her wide blue eyes looked up—not with fear, not with innocence—but with pure, starving wonder.
This little Who-slut, this twenty-two-year-old miracle, had shattered every bitter expectation he’d carried for forty hateful years.
She leaned forward, lips parting, and wrapped them around the fat head of his cock.
The Grinch’s breath caught sharp in his throat.
Warm.
So impossibly warm.
Her mouth was velvet heat and eager tongue, swirling slow around the ridge, lapping up the eggnog like it was the sweetest treat she’d ever tasted.
She hummed—a small, happy sound that vibrated straight through his shaft and into his spine.
He stared down at her in open awe.
This wasn’t the prim, recoiling Who-girl he’d imagined would scream and run.
This was a sexy, shameless creature who broke every mold Whoville had forced on its daughters.
Blonde hair spilled over her shoulders, cheeks flushed crimson, lashes fluttering as she took him deeper, inch by slow inch.
His clawed hand slid into that golden hair, fingers tightening, guiding without force.
He fed her his cock steadily, watching her lips stretch wide, watching her throat work to take him.
“Good girl,” he rasped, voice gravel and smoke. “Suck your Santa like you were born for it.”
She moaned around him, the sound muffled and desperate, and obeyed beautifully.
Her cheeks hollowed, tongue pressing flat beneath him, sliding back and forth as she bobbed. Saliva mixed with eggnog ran down her chin in shiny rivulets, dripping onto her small, perfect breasts.
He smiled—slow, wicked, and genuinely happy for the first time in decades.
“Touch yourself,” he ordered, voice low and commanding. “Play with that pretty little cunt while you worship me.”
Outside, Max whimpered at the window, the black dildo horn fogging with his breath as he watched.
Cindy’s free hand slipped instantly between her thighs.
Her fingers found her swollen clit and began circling fast, hips rocking forward as she sucked him harder, deeper.
Wet sounds filled the room—her mouth on his cock, her fingers in her dripping slit, both working in frantic rhythm.
The Grinch groaned, head falling back for a moment before his eyes snapped down again to watch.
Nothing—nothing—in his mountain of toys had ever felt like this.
No custom doll, no vibrating sleeve, no dragon-cock sleeve could match the eager, living heat of her mouth, the way her throat fluttered around him, the way her eyes locked on his while she finger-fucked herself toward oblivion.
She took him deeper still, until her nose pressed against his fur and her throat bulged visibly.
Tears sparkled at the corners of her eyes, but her gaze never wavered—full of worship, full of need.
He held her there, buried to the root, feeling her swallow around him, feeling her fingers speed up between her legs.
“That’s it,” he growled, voice shaking with pleasure he hadn’t known existed. “Come for me while you choke on my cock, little Who-slut. Show me how much you love your Christmas gift.”
Her body answered before words could—thighs trembling, back arching, a muffled scream vibrating down his shaft as she came hard around her own fingers, juices running down her wrist.
The Grinch’s smile widened into something almost tender.
This moment—this perfect, filthy, impossible moment—was better than any revenge he’d ever planned.
The Grinch’s head fell back.
For the first time in forty years, the snarl on his face melted into something dangerously close to bliss.
She sucked him like she was born for it, cheeks hollow, tongue swirling, humming little happy noises that vibrated straight through his balls.
“Fuck… that’s it, little Who-slut,” he groaned, hips rocking gently now instead of punishing.
“Drink your fucking Santa.”
When he came it hit like a sleigh crash: thick, endless ropes that flooded her mouth and overflowed the corners of her lips.
He pulled back just enough to watch her swallow, throat working, eyes shining up at him with pure adoration.
She licked her lips, smiled the sweetest, dirtiest smile he’d ever seen, and whispered,
“I love eggnog when it’s thick and warm.”
Something in his chest cracked wide open.
The fearsome Grinch, terror of Whoville, sank to his knees on the scattered wrapping paper like a man in worship. His clawed hands cupped Cindy Lou’s face, thumbs smearing the mess across her cheeks as he crushed his mouth to hers in a kiss that was all hunger and awe.
She tasted of eggnog and his own spend, and he groaned into her, tongue plunging deep, claiming every inch of that wicked, perfect mouth.
“Sexiest… dirtiest… little… slut… I’ve ever met,” he growled between bruising kisses, voice ragged with disbelief and lust. “You broke every fucking rule I knew about Whos.”
His long green fingers slid down her body, over the soaked nightgown clinging to her curves, until they found the scalding heat between her thighs. Two thick digits pushed inside her without warning, curling hard against that spot that made her back arch off the floor.
Cindy yelped into his mouth, hips jerking, walls clenching around the sudden invasion.
He sucked her lower lip between sharp teeth, then moved lower, ripping the nightgown open with one savage yank. Her small, perfect breasts spilled free, nipples already tight and begging. He latched onto the left one like a starving beast, sucking hard, tongue flicking the peak until it throbbed red and swollen.
“oh fuck—Santa!” she gasped, fingers clawing into his fur. Every pull of his mouth drew a desperate squirm, every scrape of his teeth a high, needy whimper that went straight to his still-hard cock.
He switched to the other nipple, biting just hard enough to make her cry out, while his fingers pumped faster inside her, thumb grinding circles over her swollen clit.
“You’re so fucking wet for me,” he snarled against her breast, voice shaking. “My perfect little Who-whore. These moans—you’re driving me insane.”
He shoved her thighs wider, spreading her open like a gift he couldn’t wait to unwrap. His mouth descended, hot and relentless, lips sealing around her clit. He sucked hard—once, twice—then flicked his tongue rapid-fire over the sensitive bundle of nerves.
Cindy Lou shattered.
Her hips bucked wildly, a sharp cry tearing from her throat as the first gush hit his tongue. He didn’t pull away; he drank her down, sucking harder, tongue lashing without mercy as wave after wave of hot squirt soaked his face, dripped from his chin, ran down his neck.
“More!” she begged, voice breaking, fingers yanking his fur to keep him pinned against her. “Please, Santa—more, more, don’t stop!”
The Grinch growled against her pulsing clit, the vibration sending another torrent across his lips. He added a third finger, stretching her wider, pumping deep and fast while his mouth never let up.
“You taste like fucking heaven,” he rasped, pulling back just long enough to watch her writhe, face shining with her release.
Cindy Lou screamed “Santa,” as she shook, her hips grinding shamelessly against his soaked face as he drove her over the edge again.
The Grinch pressed a clawed finger to Cindy Lou’s swollen lips, his green eyes blazing with dark promise.
“Shhh, little slut,” he whispered, voice low and rough. “I love your screams—fuck, they make me harder—but if anyone wakes and sees Santa ruining their precious girl, this ends. Do you understand? Nod for me.”
Cindy bit her bottom lip hard enough to leave marks, eyes wide and glassy with need, and nodded frantically. A muffled whimper escaped anyway, vibrating against his finger.
The Grinch looked down at her—sprawled on the kitchen floor amid shredded paper and pine needles, nightgown torn open, thighs trembling, cunt flushed and dripping—and his wicked grin widened until it threatened to split his face.
He dropped to his knees between her legs, claws hooking under her thighs and spreading them wide, opening her completely to his gaze. She was tiny compared to him, slick and pink and impossibly ready.
“Merry Christmas, baby,” he growled, voice thick with lust.
The fat head of his cock nudged her entrance. He pushed forward—slow, deliberate, merciless. Inch by thick inch, he opened her up, stretching her tight walls until they burned and fluttered around him.
Cindy’s mouth fell open in a silent scream, eyes locked on the place where he claimed her. Her back arched off the floor, fingers scrabbling at the tiles as he sank deeper, deeper, until she felt impossibly, beautifully full—split open on Santa’s monstrous green cock.
He paused only when he was buried to the hilt, balls pressed against her ass, watching her chest heave, watching tears of overwhelming pleasure spill from the corners of her eyes.
Then he began to move.
Slow at first—long, deep strokes that dragged over every sensitive spot inside her. Each withdrawal left her clenching desperately at the emptiness; each thrust forward punched the air from her lungs in a stifled cry.
Her whimpers started soft—high, needy little sounds she tried to swallow behind bitten lips. But as he picked up speed, hips snapping harder, deeper, the whimpers turned to moans she couldn’t contain—muffled against her own fist, then against his palm when he clamped it over her mouth.
He fucked her relentlessly, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing in the quiet house, his claws digging into her thighs to keep her spread wide and pinned.
Cindy had only ever had one boyfriend—a polite, fumbling Who-boy who’d lasted thirty awkward seconds and left her wondering what all the fuss was about.
This was different.
This was ruin.
The first orgasm crashed through her without warning—her walls clamping down hard around his cock, a gush of slick heat soaking them both as her entire body seized. Her eyes rolled back, a strangled scream muffled against his hand.
He didn’t slow. If anything, he fucked her harder through it, grinding deep, forcing her to ride every aftershock.
The second orgasm followed almost immediately, sharper, more violent—her legs shaking uncontrollably, toes curling, another flood of wetness that dripped down his balls.
Then the third—her back bowing off the floor, silent sobs of pleasure tearing from her throat as she came again, harder than she’d ever thought possible.
And still he didn’t stop.
“Take it, my perfect little Who-whore,” he snarled against her ear, voice shaking with his own restraint. “Come on my cock as many times as you want. I’m nowhere near done ruining you.”
Cindy’s world narrowed to the thick, relentless cock splitting her open, to the pleasure that kept building and breaking and building again, to the green monster above her who had turned Christmas into the dirtiest, most perfect night of her life.
She came a fourth time with a broken, muffled cry, squirting hard around him, and finally—finally—he let himself follow, burying himself deep and flooding her with heat as her walls milked every drop.
When he finally stilled, both of them trembling, he leaned down and kissed her tear-streaked, bitten lips.
“Good girl,” he whispered. “Santa’s very favorite.”
And somewhere in the haze of aftershocks, Cindy Lou Who knew she would never, ever be the same.
Cindy Lou’s body finally gave out beneath him, wrung dry by the relentless chain of orgasms that had torn through her like holiday fireworks. Her eyes fluttered shut mid-gasp, a last soft whimper escaping her bitten lips as her limbs went limp, chest rising and falling in shallow, exhausted breaths. The little Who-slut—ruined so perfectly—had fallen fast asleep on the kitchen floor, surrounded by shredded wrapping paper and the faint scent of pine, eggnog, and sex.
The Grinch stilled inside her, savoring the final flutter of her walls around his spent cock. He pulled out slowly, a thick rush of their combined release following, painting her inner thighs in glossy evidence of what Santa had done.
He rose to his knees, looking down at her—hair tousled, lips swollen, body marked with his fingerprints and the sheen of sweat. She looked thoroughly claimed, thoroughly his, and something sharp and unexpected twisted in his chest.
With surprising gentleness, he scooped her up. Her small frame was feather-light in his arms, head lolling against his furred chest as he carried her upstairs, careful not to let her bare skin brush the cold banister. He laid her in her bed, pulling the rumpled blankets over her naked, trembling form.
She murmured something incoherent in her sleep, lips parting on a soft sigh.
The Grinch stood over her a long moment, cock still half-hard and glistening. He dragged one clawed thumb along the shaft, gathering the last hot bead of cum from the tip, and smeared it deliberately across her parted lips like forbidden gloss. Cindy instinctively licked it away, a tiny, sleepy smile curving her mouth as she tasted him one final time.
He watched her, green eyes softening in a way he didn’t recognize.
Part of him wanted to stay—wanted to wake her again, wanted to tell her who he really was, wanted to keep this perfect, filthy miracle forever. But dawn was creeping closer, and the rest of the house would stir soon.
One last look.
One last quiet breath of her scent—sweet, ruined, and utterly his.
A flicker of sadness crossed his face, gone almost as quickly as it came. She didn’t know it was the Grinch who had given her the best Christmas of her life. She thought it was Santa.
He turned away, adjusting the crooked red hat, and slipped back down the stairs. The overloaded sack waited by the chimney, the sleigh and Max outside in the snow.
He cast one final glance up the stairs toward her bedroom door, then vanished up the chimney with a soft, almost tender sigh.
Outside, the first pale light of Christmas morning touched the rooftops of Whoville.
Inside, Cindy Lou Who slept on, lips still glistening, dreaming of a green Santa who had changed everything.
And the Grinch, for the first time in forty years, flew away from a house feeling something dangerously close to longing. “Best fucking night of my life,” he whispered, voice raw.
The Grinch climbed into the sleigh, gave the reins a gentle tug, and for the first time in forty years laughed a laugh that wasn’t made of pure hate.
“On, Max,” he murmured, still tasting her on his tongue.
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