DISCLAIMER: Hogfather, Discworld, and all related characters and events belong to Sir Terry Pratchett. This is a not-for-profit work. I am not making any money, nor am I attempting to negatively affect the market for any of the materials shown, or take proceeds from their creators, but rather to expand the fanbase and keep the pre-existing fanbase strong.

RATING: T (for suggestive adult themes)

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Utter crackfic. I think I'm funny.


Dear Hogfather,

I have been [crossed out: very] [crossed out: somewhat] almost good this year. For Hogswatch I would like Mr. Jonathan Teatime. Wearing a bow on his head, please, and nothing else. I would like him to [something explicit]. Then I'd like him to pin me down and [something even more explicit]. Or maybe [something positively unnerving]. I never really thought I liked that kind of thing, but…

A deep, rattling sigh, like dead leaves skittering across a tomb. The bony hand slowly lowered the letter.

He was filling in for the Hogfather again this year, albeit under much more pleasant circumstances than the last time. The old fellow had simply wanted a vacation, and since he had experience…

He raised the letter again, reluctantly, and quickly skimmed the rest. It went on for five whole pages, the writing getting progressively messier as the fantasies became wilder and more improbable, so that by the end it was almost entirely illegible. This was probably a blessing. He thought he saw something on page four about a dagger being used in a very inventive way, which daggers were almost certainly not intended for. (Though the late Assassin in question might well have argued that daggers had a number of novel uses, and the only true limit was the user's imagination.) He suddenly thought he understood why the Hogfather had wanted a vacation.

Death sighed again as he laid the letter down, resisting the urge to throw it into the fireplace. He very much wanted to wash his skeletal hands. This was the sixth letter of this kind he'd come across tonight.

He spoke a single word aloud to the silent, sleeping house. Even in the hollow, unearthly tones of the Reaper, the word was weary and exasperated.

FANGIRLS…