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Two posts in one day? Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus.
TITLE: Thirty-Six Inch Waist
FANDOM: The Pretender
RATING:Lame MA, for sexual situations and profanities
NOTES: Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
bantha_fodder after a conversation before my trip away. I don't know if Michael T. Weiss has a 36" waist or not, but gee, I wouldn't mind outfitting him at my work and showing him to our change rooms. Perve. Spot the cameo from yours truly!
Thirty-Six Inch Waist
by PoA
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For Pen-doline.
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Christmas Eve.
Miss Parker cursed red-and-white-fat-men, Bing Crosby and dead poultry on overly decorated tables.
She stood at the counter of another faceless men's counter, looking at half a dozen ties that all looked the same, listening to the same droll sales pitch from a brunette bobbed retail bitch who's makeup was too heavy and who's mind could be read like it was on speaker.
Just pick a tie, lady. You're eating into my lunch hour. Outward, fake smile, as Cricket (her name tag read) pointed out the merits of Italian silk versus homespun with the veracity of a drama major reciting Lady Macbeth for the first time.
To be honest, Parker never worried about Christmas. But under Brigitte's regime, all family were required on the 25th come hell or high water; with good cheer and good tidings for all (even estranged fathers and psychotic twins). There was to be Secret Santa, turkey and bon bons, all mixed with the same toxic conversation as always, but dressed in paper hats and mistletoe to disguise it as family banter.
That's why she was here, trying to pick a tie that would go with her brother's crazy. Blue/Green, with a slight sheen; the brand prominent and the price tag even more so. "Wrap it," she sneered, and Cricket the Sales Girl couldn't even hide her relief.
"Say," said a voice from behind her as she handed over the company plastic, "Could you be so kind and measure me for a suit?"
The words "fuck you, buddy" formed on her mouth, but didn't turn over. Instead, she found herself yanked into a wooden-doored change room, Jarod's breath against her cheek and his eyes bright with espionage. Squirming, fighting, reacting - Parker tried to move away but his grip was vice-like and his hard-on extremely evident.
"Fuck you."
She did feel better after saying it.
"Fine."
Before she could react, his hand covered her mouth and his knee was up her skirt. "No fighting. It's Christmas." He took his hand away and dipped, kissing her, touching her, cupping her, stroking her.
She broke away, fumbled for her gun. "Who the fuck do you thin-"
When one's undergarments are removed and subsequent carnal actions are performed, one's brain unfortunately stops forming coherent sentences. Instead, Miss Parker's body responded in like, her hands gripping Jarod's waist as he continued his gift, the tips of her fingers turning red with pressure and her cheeks following suit.
Good tidings for all.
Outside in the department store, Cricket and her supervisor had their ears against the changing room wall, Parker's credit card and slip in hand.
"I didn't realise Jarod fitted female suits," quipped the supervisor.
"Merry fucking Christmas," replied Cricket, and on they went with their jobs - not wanting to intrude on their newest employee's own brand of customer service on the most magical night of the year.
-------------
Fin.
-------------
Where, oh where, has my writing skill gone?
TITLE: Thirty-Six Inch Waist
FANDOM: The Pretender
RATING:
NOTES: Written for
bantha_fodder after a conversation before my trip away. I don't know if Michael T. Weiss has a 36" waist or not, but gee, I wouldn't mind outfitting him at my work and showing him to our change rooms. Perve. Spot the cameo from yours truly!Thirty-Six Inch Waist
by PoA
-------------
For Pen-doline.
-------------
Christmas Eve.
Miss Parker cursed red-and-white-fat-men, Bing Crosby and dead poultry on overly decorated tables.
She stood at the counter of another faceless men's counter, looking at half a dozen ties that all looked the same, listening to the same droll sales pitch from a brunette bobbed retail bitch who's makeup was too heavy and who's mind could be read like it was on speaker.
Just pick a tie, lady. You're eating into my lunch hour. Outward, fake smile, as Cricket (her name tag read) pointed out the merits of Italian silk versus homespun with the veracity of a drama major reciting Lady Macbeth for the first time.
To be honest, Parker never worried about Christmas. But under Brigitte's regime, all family were required on the 25th come hell or high water; with good cheer and good tidings for all (even estranged fathers and psychotic twins). There was to be Secret Santa, turkey and bon bons, all mixed with the same toxic conversation as always, but dressed in paper hats and mistletoe to disguise it as family banter.
That's why she was here, trying to pick a tie that would go with her brother's crazy. Blue/Green, with a slight sheen; the brand prominent and the price tag even more so. "Wrap it," she sneered, and Cricket the Sales Girl couldn't even hide her relief.
"Say," said a voice from behind her as she handed over the company plastic, "Could you be so kind and measure me for a suit?"
The words "fuck you, buddy" formed on her mouth, but didn't turn over. Instead, she found herself yanked into a wooden-doored change room, Jarod's breath against her cheek and his eyes bright with espionage. Squirming, fighting, reacting - Parker tried to move away but his grip was vice-like and his hard-on extremely evident.
"Fuck you."
She did feel better after saying it.
"Fine."
Before she could react, his hand covered her mouth and his knee was up her skirt. "No fighting. It's Christmas." He took his hand away and dipped, kissing her, touching her, cupping her, stroking her.
She broke away, fumbled for her gun. "Who the fuck do you thin-"
When one's undergarments are removed and subsequent carnal actions are performed, one's brain unfortunately stops forming coherent sentences. Instead, Miss Parker's body responded in like, her hands gripping Jarod's waist as he continued his gift, the tips of her fingers turning red with pressure and her cheeks following suit.
Good tidings for all.
Outside in the department store, Cricket and her supervisor had their ears against the changing room wall, Parker's credit card and slip in hand.
"I didn't realise Jarod fitted female suits," quipped the supervisor.
"Merry fucking Christmas," replied Cricket, and on they went with their jobs - not wanting to intrude on their newest employee's own brand of customer service on the most magical night of the year.
-------------
Fin.
-------------
Where, oh where, has my writing skill gone?
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