Always Take the Sweater

December 22nd. Three days before the dreaded Yule Cat would get Chase North. What a load of crap, he chuckled to himself. When he'd decided to move to Iceland for work, everyone told him it was a magical place. He thought they'd meant figuratively, but it turned out the natives took it very literally.

Half the people believed in trolls and elves. Nordic spirits and Viking nonsense. A giant monster cat that would eat you if you didn't get clothes by Christmas.

"Seriously," he said to Colin, swiveling in his chair as he twirled a loose headphone wire around his finger, "who comes up with this shit? Giant cat, my ass."

Colin snorted on the other end of the line. "Narnia bullshit, bro. Long-ass nights drive people nuts. Bet'cha miss SoCal right about now."

Chase shrugged and stared out the window. Snow drifted softly onto the icy black street, the creep of dusk settling over the world. Sunset had been about ten minutes before. The clock read 15:45, which was still baffling even after two months. It always took him a moment to translate that. Minus 12, add a PM. 3:45pm. Yep. Good job.

"I mean, I'm getting, like, four hours of sun. But how do you say no to a 50% pay increase and a $30,000 signing bonus? Lemme tell you, Loki Materials wanted me bad, man. And it's not like it's awful or anything. The women are fuckin' gorgeous. Everyone's super polite. It's like Canada, but with volcanoes."

"And no God-damn Canadians," Colin snickered.

"Damn straight!" Chase put his feet up on the desk, then frowned out the window. "The fuck?"

"What?"

He leaned forward and squinted into the ever-darkening night. A black cat sat on the sidewalk, a light dusting of snow on its head and back. Its eyes glittered, reflecting the porch light. Staring straight at him. He hadn't seen a stray cat or dog since he'd moved to Vesturbær, a little outside of Reykjavik, and now, a few days after finding out about the big bad Yule Cat, one not only showed its face, but was staring straight at him?

Freaky deaky.

"One of the neighbors thought it'd be funny to have their cat sit outside my window." He laughed, but it was hollow. His neighbors were quiet, friendly, not passive aggressive in the slightest--even concerned for his well-being when they asked if he would be getting clothes for Christmas and he'd blown them off. Weird Icelandic humor, probably.

"Raz the American. Europeans, man, what can you do?" Colin shouted something indistinct. "Hey, man, I gotta go... Laura! Why aren't the kids packed up?! I gotta go. Shift it, woman!... Love you, bro!"

The line went dead. Chase tossed his phone onto his desk. Thank God he didn't have to deal with that nonsense. No kids, no wife, no weight. Someone asked him to pack up and move to Iceland, he was free as a bird. He put his feet up on his desk and wiggled his toes in his socks. They were looking a little ratty, maybe he should buy a pair.

No, but then the Icelanders would think he believed their magic cat nonsense. After Christmas, he could treat himself. Wasn't like he was hurting for cash. Between investments, 401k, sweet new job, he was sitting pretty. And Iceland was definitely more affordable than Los Angeles. Plus, free healthcare. What a world.

Chase eyed the cat, which seemed to eye him back. No way it could see him through the glass, the light would reflect off of it. But when he stood and took a few steps away, he could've sworn its gaze followed him.

Maybe Colin was right.

Maybe these long nights did drive people nuts.






When Chase awoke, the first thought he had was, Two days before the kitty cat of doom gets me. The second was how lucky he was to work for a company that gave him the whole week of Christmas off. Last job, they'd only reluctantly given them Christmas Eve off. And the day after Christmas it was back to work.

He slipped out of bed, the house cold despite the heater supposedly running all night. It was still pitch black outside at, damn, 9:00? He hadn't realized how late he'd slept in. He checked his phone to see why his alarm hadn't gone off. Back in Los Angeles, he'd never woken up later than 6:30, usually closer to 5:45 so he could get some gym time before sitting in traffic for an hour to get to work. Weird, his alarm definitely should've gone off, but for some reason it hadn't.

He shrugged and went to the closet to pull on a turtleneck and sweats, rubbing his shrunken cock to warm it up. He hated seeing his dick pulled in so much, made it look like all he had was balls. When he went to check the heater, he found it was off. No wonder it was so goddamn cold.

He frowned at it. It should've been on all night. He distinctly remembered setting it to 65ºF. Hopefully it wasn't broken. He turned it on and sighed happily as the heat drifted from the vent and wrapped him up like an ethereal blanket. How anyone could live in near-freezing conditions before electricity was as baffling a mystery as how anyone could live in Arizona before AC.

Or just live in Arizona at all.

Chase went to the bathroom and checked himself out in the mirror. He'd definitely gotten a bit paler since he moved here. L.A. had been all beach and sun. Maybe in the summer, when it was day most of the time, he could get his tan back. He raked his fingers through his long auburn hair. Probably could stand to get a haircut, he was looking a bit shaggy. He debated shaving, but given how late it was, decided a light stubble was fine.

Having such a free schedule felt weird to him, especially on a weekday. A career man in his mid-thirties shouldn't have a full day of nothing--he wasn't some loser who spent his days jerking off, playing video games, then jerking off again. Well, not playing video games.

Somehow, all the women here had rebuffed his advances. In L.A., he wasn't swimming in chicks the way he had been in college, but he could still get some action more or less when he felt like it. It'd been nearly five months since he last had sex. He couldn't remember the last time he'd gone that long without it. Definitely hurt his self-esteem some. Once he figured out how to talk to these Icelandic girls, get past the too-nice façade, he'd be back in business. Until then, well, his hand was never a terrible option.

He decided to go for a run once it got decently bright, but realized that wouldn't be until about 10:30, and the sun wouldn't even actually rise until almost 11:30. What would he do for an hour and a half?

Jerk off.

POV stuff mostly, imagining the perky blonde teen was taking his cock up her ass, trying to ignore the whole stepsister plotline. Why did all these POV videos have to go with that or stepmom? It was weird.

That bought him about ten minutes, really edging himself to draw it out. After that, he doomscrolled, shuddering at all the crazy shit going on in the world.

"Thank God I'm here. Least it's not on fire unless a volcano goes off." He chuckled to himself. "Good one, Chase."

When the dawn began and brightened enough, he laced up his sneakers and changed into his old Stanford sweatshirt--no sense running in a Luca Faloni turtleneck--and stepped outside.

The frost in the air bit into his exposed skin. He tried to frame it as invigorating. After all, he'd read all the studies and articles about how cold exposure helped people live longer. Still didn't mean it wasn't fucking freezing. The temperature was literally 29ºF. Or negative...whatever. He still hadn't figured out the conversion, though he did appreciate that 0ºC meant freezing. The 32ºF-is-freezing thing hadn't really made sense to him once he learned about Celsius.

He stretched his legs, waved as a car drove past. As soon as it passed, he noticed a black cat on the other side of the road, sitting there. Watching. He tried to ignore it, but his gaze kept slipping back to it. The way it just stared at it, never moving, never looking elsewhere, was starting to get to him.

"Whaddya want, pus?" he snapped. Great, barking at a cat. Maybe he could find out whose it was, tell them to keep it inside so the furball didn't freeze to death.

He took a step forward into the street, then jumped back as a blue-gray Dacia Duster turned the corner and drove toward him. One of the neighbors, Björn something. Him and his wife--who was super hot, the lucky son of a bitch. He waved to Mrs. Björn, what was her name...? Birta! He waved to Birta, who waved back with a cheerful smile. The car slowed, and Björn rolled down the window.

"Hæ, góðan daginn, Chase," he said, his Icelandic accent thick--rhythmic, but slightly monotonous, yet with a little lilt that made most statements sound like questions. He smiled, high cheekbones accentuating the frosty blue of his eyes. "You are going to do a running?"

"Yep. Hey, Birta."

"Góðan daginn," she said brightly.

"I mean to ask, are you sure you do not want us to buy you the clothing?" Björn said. His demeanor shifted, still warm, but tinged with slight anxiety. "Only a couple days before Jólakötturinn prowls the streets, já?"

Chase laughed. "I'm sure I'll be fine. 'Preciate it, though."

Birta shifted uncomfortably. "Really, it is no trouble."

"Honestly, I'd love to see some kitty cat try to take me on." He flexed his muscles, though the bulky sweatshirt did little to accentuate his biceps.

The couple whispered to each other for a moment, then Björn sighed and turned back to him. "Well, at the very least can we invite you for a Christmas dinner?"

That did sound better than eating alone. He hadn't planned anything for Christmas, other than giving his mom and brother a call. It'd sucked that the company hadn't let him travel for the holidays, but given he had just started, they wanted him close. Next year, his manager had promised, no problem.

"Let me see what my plans are, then I'll call you, m'kay?" He was certainly going to say yes, but he knew better than to jump at an opportunity at the first bite. Didn't want to seem like some sad, desperate loser with nothing better to do on Christmas. Too Hallmark-y.

Though, in a Hallmark movie that was also the prime time for the hot neighbor to get with the hot, unsatisfied wife. Björn was a decently attractive dude, but nowhere near Chase's level. Guy also seemed like he'd be pretty vanilla. Given the chance, Birta might...

Nah, Björn was a cool guy. Much as he enjoyed indulging in the cheating housewife fantasy, he'd never been someone to break up someone's relationship. The one time he'd helped a woman cheat on her husband he felt terrible about it, even though the guy presumably never found out. No, he liked his women single, devoted to him or okay with just a casual fling.

"Allt í lagi, let me know. Have a good running." Björn cast one more nervous glance Chase's way, then rolled up the window and started driving off.

"Oh!" Chase started as they drove away, shouting after the SUV. "Hey, do you know whose cat...that..."

The cat was gone.

"Guess it ran home." Shrugging, he started his jog.

Movement in the corner of his eye. He turned.

Nothing there.

"Yule Cat," he chuckled nervously. "Watch out, Chase."

He went for a longer run than usual. Between the whole Yule Cat thing and the mysterious black cat now hanging around his house, he wanted to get some of that nervous energy out.

No, that wasn't it at all--he just needed a bit extra to keep his blood flowing. Deal with waking up so late. Yeah, that. Totally not wigged out by the cat thing.

He waved at a few neighbors whose names he couldn't remember even if someone put a gun to his head, people he'd maybe said two words to in passing. It was a nice suburb just outside of Reykjavik, very pretty--snow-capped trees, crisp air, quiet, unassuming. The sort of place that would be great for raising a family. Most of the houses belonged to families with pre-teens. Several of the kids were sweeping the driveway, clearing off the light snow from the night before. They always waved to him, but he felt strange waving back. In LA, waving to a kid like that while on a run was super weird. But here, perfectly normal. It was nice.

It reminded him of when he was growing up in Ventura, when his mom and his friends' parents would let them all play at a park or go skateboarding until sundown without any supervision. None of the helicoptering bullshit, no strict playtime structure sucking all the fun out of life--just free-range kids living it up. He felt bad for his brother's kids. Jake and Karolyn had panic attacks if their daughters were out of their sight for an eyeblink. Every day regimented to the minute.

That's why he was the cool uncle. When he watched Eden and Navy, he let them eat whatever they wanted--none of that gluten-free, seaweed snack nonsense Kari was so into and had browbeaten Jake into accepting--go to bed whenever, watch whatever. He didn't treat them like kids, more like little adults. Eight and six were perfectly normal ages to allow kids agency and be straight with them about things.

As he finished up his run, he fished his keys from his pockets and went to unlock the front door.

"Meow."

He spun on his heels. Sitting directly behind him, gazing up at him with all the interested disinterest of any other feline, was the black cat from earlier. It was weird, he could've sworn it said meow instead of actually meowing.

"Get outta here, ya fuckin' fuzzbutt." He tried to shoo it away, but it didn't budge.

Its eyes scanned him scalp to toe, almost seeming to appraise his outfit. Then it let out a disapproving huff, turned, and sauntered off.

The way it had looked at him, as if judging his outfit, and then the huff, sounding unimpressed, it was uncanny. Almost sentient. No, he was projecting. He was still tired from waking up so late, the scene something that seemed almost familiar--like he'd dreamt about it last night.

"Get a grip, man," he muttered to himself as he stepped inside.






Chase awoke, shivering. His expansive bedroom was so cold he could see his breath in the air as his teeth chattered. He fumbled for his phone, eyes bugging from his head.

"Fucking noon?!" Maybe he was getting sick, he never slept this late. And why was it so goddamn cold?

Wrapping himself in his comforter, he went to the thermostat. 35ºF--inside. He'd definitely need to call someone in, this was getting ridiculous. He cranked the heater up to 70ºF, retreated to his bedroom to throw on long johns, two pairs of sweats, one of his many Luca Faloni turtlenecks, then decided to put on a second one. When he went to take a piss, he could barely find his cock, the cold having so frightened it that it had turned into an innie. It took a moment to extract the head, and he let out a contented sigh as he released.

Chase made himself a banana protein shake, guzzled it, and went for a run after throwing on some of his rattier clothing. No sign of the cat this time, thank God. He guessed its owner had figured out the fuzzbucket was getting out and managed to keep it inside.

The rest of the day he treated himself. A couple beers in the early afternoon, binge-watching Vikings--more for the irony than enjoyment, though it wasn't bad--did a few rounds of diamond push-ups, burpees, and sit-ups during one of the episodes to break up the monotony, and scrounged up some chicken for dinner. He'd never been big on the whole Christmas Eve dinner thing. Plus, that would have meant he'd have had to cook something, and that defeated the point of treating himself. Minimal effort--the whole point of days off work.

As he finished eating, there came a knock at the door. He sighed, stepped into the living room, and opened it.

Björn and Birta stood in front of him, bundled up in jackets. Björn had a few large boxes in his arms. "Gleðileg jól!"

Chase leaned against the doorframe, trying to avoid shivering in front of Birta. He saw her glance at his turtleneck and smiled inwardly. "Merry Christmas to you, too. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Well, I know you said not to, but..." She took one of the boxes from her husband and handed it to Chase. "We got you something anyway."

He started to take it, then paused. "Is it clothes?"

"Já..." She smiled and foisted it at him. "You cannot ever have too few of the clothes. It is a sweater. A nice one, já?"

Great, they were still doing this bit. "I'm fine. Really."

"Of course you are," Björn chimed in. "But we thought maybe it would not be too bad to give you something anyway. Who can say no to a sweater in winter?"

Chase politely nudged the box away from him. "Seriously, guys, I don't want a sweater. Or anything. This whole Yule Cat thing was funny a couple times. But..." He glanced down, froze.

Sitting behind them was a black cat, licking its paw and eyeing him with what he swore was a devilish grin. Which was absurd. It was a cat.

"Is that your cat?"

"What cat?" Neither looked behind them, nor broke into a smile and started laughing. They were really committed to the bit, apparently.

"What... That cat!" He jabbed a finger at it, feeling idiotic for the forcefulness of the motion and the climbing irritation in his voice. "It's been hanging around the last few days."

Both turned around, blocking his view of the feline for a second. When they shifted, it was gone--like it had never been there. Chase glanced around, took a few steps outside to check down the block. But the light was nearly gone, porchlights too few and far between to adequately light up the sidewalk.

No cat.

"You have been seeing the cat?" Birta asked slowly, giving her husband a worried glance. "Björn, fyrir alla muni--gefðu honum fötin!"

"Please, Chase, just take them," Björn said. "If they are not to the liking, you can give them back. Just for tonight, okay?"

He tried to offload the rest of the packages, but Chase refused them. "Honestly, guys, this is getting old."

Despite his annoyance, a tinge of dread began to suffuse him. An anxious tendril wending its way through his brain from the pit of his gut.

"Hann tekur ekki peysuna? Hvað gerum við?" Birta said, voice bordering on frantic.

"Hann hefur tekið sína ákvörðun, ástin mín," Björn sighed. "Við getum aðeins beðið þess að Jólakötturinn miskunni honum..."

"Dude, chill. Tell you what? I'll come over for Christmas tomorrow, all right?" Chase offered a polite smile. "We can laugh about it. I really gotta get back to it, though. I'll see you tomorrow?"

Birta swallowed hard, handed the box off to her husband, and hugged Chase tight. "I hope so." She kissed his cheek, putting on a brave smile. "Vertu blessaður. God bless you, Chase."

Chase enjoyed the warmth of her lips as they lingered a bit longer than he was expecting. Damn, maybe he had a shot after all. Once he proved his bravery by demonstrating he wouldn't be so easily cowed by this whole hazing thing they were doing, maybe she'd be impressed. Not that he would do anything about it, he wouldn't cuck ol' Björn. It was just a fun little fantasy to consider until he found his own smoking hot Icelandic babe.

"Förum heim, elskan. Kannski hlustar næsti maður á orð okkar," she said to her husband.

Björn gave Chase an imploring look. "Please. I know you Bandaríkjamenn do not believe in such things. But you are not in America this time. You are in Ísland. It is-"

"Nice try, dude," Chase laughed, hoping his bravado didn't sound as hollow to them as it did to his own ears. "Tomorrow, já?"

Birta sniffed and nodded, then turned and started down the driveway with her husband. Both turned at the edge of the light, looking sadly back at him. It sent an uncomfortable frisson through him, a shiver deeper than cold. He waved, shut the door, and plopped down in front of the couch. They certainly had given a convincing performance. The last American they did this to probably caved almost immediately. But he wasn't some dumb hick who'd let a couple well-acted Icelanders scare him off.

He tried to take his mind off of it with a couple jerk-off sessions. He found a pornstar who looked fairly Icelandic and watched as she bounced and screamed on the guy's dick. But when he looked at her face, he didn't see faux ecstasy--he saw Birta's concern and alarm. It killed the mood for him. So he went to a pair of Asian lesbians and watched them eat each other out for a bit before he gave up entirely. His dick just wasn't in it.

He decided to check his emails, see if anyone had sent anything. At his old job, people were emailing left and right, Slack messages, Teams messages, cramming in more work during the off-hours and vacations.

Nothing.

God, didn't these people have a life? Who didn't sneak in at least a little work on a full week off? Or at least send some inane nonsense that could've waited 'til Monday? Iceland, man...

So, he continued to watch Vikings, slowly noticing that it seemed to be getting colder. When he checked the thermostat, he slammed his fist against the wall and groaned.

Fucking 50ºF? Seriously? He knew he'd had it on. But it said off. Grumbling, he set it back to 70ºF. Tomorrow, he'd call around, see if anyone was open on Christmas so they could send a guy to fix it. Or a woman. Hell, maybe she'd be hot. Definitely should make that joke if it was a chick. "Hey, I was having issues with the heating, it's been so cold in the house. Luckily, you're here to make it hotter."

Hmm... He could workshop it. Answer the door with his shirt off? He could, but it would be cold as fuck, and he definitely wanted it warm enough that she'd be able to check out his package. So he'd need something...

This went on for almost half an hour, fantasizing about how to pick her up, impress her, smooth talk. Much as he'd love to get her to just suck his cock, he'd probably have to propose 69'ing to seem generous. He didn't mind, but he definitely enjoyed it more when he could just sit back while some smokin' hot babe gagged on his dick instead of having to also focus on her. He enjoyed being the center of attention for shit like that.

After he finished up the second season, Chase yawned and checked the time. A little past 10 PM. Definitely needed to check his phone, make sure the alarm was on. He added two other alarms a few minutes after the first 6 AM one, just to be safe.

As he headed to the bedroom, he checked the thermostat. 70ºF, on. Perfect.

He slid under the covers and cuddled with one of his pillows. He enjoyed holding it, soft, squishy, soothing to have that plush body and silky fabric against him. Not as good as a woman, but it was still comforting. It was something he'd done since he was a kid, and it always helped him fall asleep a bit faster.

When he was six, plagued by lucid nightmares, unable to escape from them, his mom had told him to hold onto the pillow. "When you're holding it, you're here. It's your anchor when the bad dreams try to make you float away."

A sleepy smile broke through. His mom was the best. Way better than his dad--drunken asshole who would beat them both. When he'd gone to prison, Chase had been so happy he cried every night, so grateful. It was right around Christmas when it happened, and for the longest time he thought Santa had granted his wish to make his dad disappear. Obviously nonsense, but it had been ten-year-old Chase's favorite present that year, and for many, many years after.

At least, not until his ex, Jenny, said she'd have a threeway with him and her best friend, Krystal. Although that one hadn't wound up being as good as he'd expected. The sex was amazing, his ex's friend a freak in all the right ways, but maybe he shouldn't have continued to hook up with her after.

Oh well.

As he drifted off, memories of that night returned to him, half-dreaming as he slipped from reality to slumberland. About how Krystal's lustrous black hair had shone in the light as the two of them sucked him off. Running his fingers through said lustrous hair, shoving her down on him until she gagged, grinning like a maniac as she struggled to breathe, winking at him through her tears.

He could almost feel the softness against his palm, cock stirring against the pillow as he clutched it. Good times. He chuckled softly as he slipped into unconsciousness. He couldn't believe Björn and Birta had almost convinced him he had anything to worry about. And as he finally passed out, his last thought was wondering what Birta would be wearing tomorrow.



Rustling woke Chase. He groaned, cracked open an eye. It was nearly pitch black out, the room freezing again. He fumbled for his phone to check the time. 12:01 AM. Christmas. He'd barely been asleep for an hour--he hated when that happened.

His annoyance quickly turned to disquiet as he realized the rustling wasn't coming from outside--it was in the room with him. Had someone broken in? He thought Iceland barely had crime. Quietly as he could, he tried to turn on the phone light, but it wouldn't cooperate.

"Ótrúlegt... Þetta er svo sorglegt." An annoyed, disapproving voice tutted near his closet. "Og hann heldur að hann sé of góður til að fá sér föt?"

Chase leapt out of bed. Or tried to. His feet tangled in the sheets, and he fell more than leapt, hitting the floor with a pained grunt.

"Oh. You're awake. Good, good."

He fumbled for his phone. "Siri, flashlight on."

His phone light blazed in his face. He cursed, swung it the other way, green afterimages slowly replaced by dark fur and grinning fangs.

He scrambled back, hit his head against the nightstand, phone dropping to the floor. "Ow! Fuck! That's not funny, Björn. How did you even get in here?"

"Oh lítill fífl, if only you were awoken to him..."

Chase froze. The voice was decidedly not Björn. Nor Britta. Nor any he recognized. It was heavily Icelandic, lyrical, but frostier than most he'd heard. Deeply bemused, annoyed, dismissive, breathy, and incredibly feminine--with a razor edge of danger and delight thrown in for good measure.

"Who...?" He snatched up the phone and pointed it at the voice.

He dropped it again almost immediately.

Gleaming molten amber eyes with dark, slitted pupils set in fur black as midwinter's night appraised him. Silver whiskers twitched and brushed his face, dark nose shining, huffing with amusement, brilliant white fangs gleaming in a broad, predatory smile.

"You know who I am, hrokafullur Bandaríkjamaður..." came her reply.

He shook his head. "No. That's dumb. This is a dream. A weird, freaky-deaky dream."

A whisker caressed his cheek, feline eyes narrowing in bemusement. "You dare to call Jólakötturinn 'dumb'?"

A whimper escaped him, and he cursed himself. Why was he afraid of a dream? Sure, it felt very, very real. But he'd had lucid dreams before. This didn't feel that far off. And if it was a lucid dream, he could control it.

So, he shut his eyes and envisioned Krystal in the Yule Cat's place, face down, ass up, screaming his name.

When he opened them, the room was lighter. Reds, greens, and purples shimmered on the ceiling, casting neon shadows throughout the space.

"Oh..." he whispered.

Jólakötturinn sat on the edge of the bed, one shapely leg crossed over the other. Her sleek, dark form all curves and lithe grace--plush bosom, wide hips, sharp, angular face, tail flicking lazily behind her. It was a middle ground he was okay with. Sexy cat woman wasn't quite what he'd been going for, but-

She stood and pressed a pawed foot to his chest, pinning him to the floor. Claws flicked out, pricking his flesh, rough pads rubbing his skin, forcing the air slowly from his lungs as she applied more and more weight. He tried to worm out from under her as he struggled to breathe, to no avail.

The cat leaned down, nearly folding in half, until her short muzzle was inches from his face. "Is this still a dream, hmm?"

Chase tried once more to shift it. Nothing happened. No control. It felt real. Way too real. And it hurt. Like a knifepoint threatening to break skin.

Oh shit. This wasn't a dream.

Her grin widened, white fangs juxtaposed over black fur. Both ears swiveled toward him as a low whine issued from his throat. "Very good. You will not insult Jólakötturinn again, will you?"

"No," he managed, head pounding as his lungs screamed for air.

Then she released him. He rolled onto his side, coughing and gasping, trying to crawl away. But she grabbed his legs and yanked him closer. He found himself flying through the air, landing with a grunt back on his bed. She was strong--supernaturally so. Obviously...

Something came flying at him from the direction of his closet. He held up his hands and yelped. Soft fabric landed on him, covering his head. He pulled it off, squinting at it in the kaleidoscopic lights. His beige Dolce & Gabbana cashmere sweater.

"Dreadful," Jólakötturinn tutted. "So expensive, but so boring. You only bought it because it cost a great amount, did you not?"

A static hiss in his brain as he struggled to comprehend. "What?"

Something else flew through the air, hitting him square in the face. He yanked it off, inspected it. He gasped and immediately started to smooth it on the bed next to him. "Watch it! That's a Todd Snyder! You don't throw Italian wool-cashmere topcoats!"

"But, darling, it's navy. So uninspired." The cat sighed and hummed to herself. "Oh goodness. What unholy color is this?"

She held up his Ralph Lauren Lisle Crewneck t-shirt.

"Stop going through my things!"

"I asked what color."

"Coral orange mélange," he said sulkily.

Jólakötturinn laughed. "Sounds like you just threw three words together and hoped no one would notice they don't make sense."

Chase carefully set his Todd Snyder topcoat to the side and was about to stand to confront the menace savaging his wardrobe when she tossed his Peter Miller Crosby trousers at him. He tried to catch it, but it fluttered in an unexpected direction and he flopped over.

"And what color is that?" she asked.

"It's rye!"

"Rye is a grain, not a color."

"It damned well is a color!"

She glanced back at him, smirking. "Not a good one."

His mind was spinning. Too much happening at once. First--Yule Cat, real. Second, she was mocking him. Third... She was kinda hot. Fourth-

"Hey! Not the Maharishi!" he cried as she balled up his sweatpants. "It's organic!"

Jólakötturinn snorted and tossed the crumbled pants from one paw to the other before tossing them at him. "And more brown."

"It's taupe..." he grumbled.

"Darling, is there anything you own that wasn't purchased for its price tag? Margur verður af aurum api..." She rifled through his drawers, pulled out his CDLP boxer briefs. "Be honest, these cost enough to feed a large family for a week."

"Well... But it's renewable wood sources. I'm not some big wasteful asshole. I care about the planet."

"At least these have color," she said, giving him begrudging approval. "Lovely shade of green."

"Sage. Not green. Sage."

She rolled her eyes, tossed his underwear onto the bed with the rest of the items she'd judged. "Why must you humans insist on finding such categories for things? Are you not content with the colors as they are? Neeeei, it must be 'sage'!" She glanced down at his shoes, tutting. "Did you not think to bring anything sensible with you? What if you need to traverse the flats? Or deal with a bylur? A, uh, blizzard, já?"

"But I'm not gonna be running through volcano territory." Chase was growing irritated now, the novelty and shock turning to annoyance. "And what do you know, anyway? You're a cat! You're not wearing any clothes."

The look she shot him nearly sent him scrambling under his covers. "I have been judging clothes for centuries, lítill fífl. And it has been quite some time since I've seen anything so distasteful."

"I'll have you know, these are top designer products."

"Exactly! You dress like you're expecting a runway to show up at any moment. And you have the audacity to refuse clothes? It is one thing for no one to get you anything, but your neighbors tried so helvítis hard to keep me from you. And you say no to a sweater?" She hissed under her breath and picked up his Suede Common Projects Chelsea boots. "More brown. Let me guess, you call this color... Hmmm... Sand?"

He said nothing. She chuckled and started to pull the lace from first one, then the other, twirling them around an outstretched finger. She stalked toward him, and he scooted back until his back hit the headboard as she crawled up onto the bed, paws pinning his legs in place.

"Tell me, American, do you mean to be rude, or do you just believe your country superior? 'It is not rude if it is true! These stupid Íslendingar are so silly to believe in trolls and faeries. And Jólakötturinn. I'll show them.' How am I doing so far, skúrkur? Close?" Her claws dug through his long johns, pricking his skin.

He remained silent, frantically looking for a way out. At least, until she picked up his Tood Snyder coat and ran a claw along its length. "Hey! Be careful with that!"

Her clawtip hooked into the wool-cashmere blend and began to pull, loosening the thread before him, fangs grinning in masochistic pleasure. "Úps... Was that me?"

Chase lunged forward to save his precious topcoat, but found himself slammed to the bed as Jólakötturinn surged down and pinned him by the chest with a single paw, the other holding his Todd Snyder above him. He hadn't realized before how much bigger she was. Probably almost nine feet tall, clearly incredibly powerful. It was about the time he realized how much shit he was in.

"Let... Go..." he gasped.

"Nei, I think not. I think it is time you learned what happens when you cross Jólakötturinn..."

She grinned, maw slowly opening. Wider, wider, almost unhinging. Lower. Lower. Until her jaws snapped shut so close her teeth scraped his nose. A pathetic whimper crawled out of his throat, earning him dancing bemusement in her eyes.

Then, she straightened, holding his coat in front of him. "Ready?" she whispered.

"No..."

"Too bad." With one motion, she opened her mouth and stuffed the coat inside, chewing loudly before swallowing it down. She pulled a single strand from her mouth, long, wet, and set it aside.

"Hey!"

"It is this, or you, darling. Personally, I find humans these days to be quite...disgusting. Too many chemicals. But if you prefer I gobble you up instead..." She cocked his head at him, tail thrashing behind her as her eyes raked down his body. "Goodness me. What are you wearing?"

He glanced down at his cashmere-and-cotton blend long johns. "Zemerlli of Switzerland?"

The cat sighed and hooked a claw against his throat. He went perfectly still, feeling his pulse pounding in his ears. With one swift motion, she sliced down the front of his $500 long johns, clawtip marking him with a stinging red line as the fabric gave way and exposed his bare chest to the cold room.

Chase wanted to protest, but he found himself suddenly unable to work his voice box. Mostly, the noises he made were small squeaks and whines of fear, pure terror.

Jólakötturinn chuckled and picked up his Loro Piana turtleneck. "You know what they say. 'One day you're in. The next day you're out.'" She gulped it down, pink tongue flicking out to bathe her nose as she swallowed with a contented sigh.

"Is that... Did you just quote Project Runway?"

Her eyes lit up. "Oh, you know Project Runway? Ég dýrka Heidi Klum! Funny, you do not dress like someone who knows it"

"The fuck is going on?" Chase whispered to himself.

The cat sat back on his lap, soft ass settled against his crotch. Despite his terror, his cock stirred as her furred backside warmed him through the lower half of his luxury long johns.

"What is going on, Mr. Bigshot American, is that you have invoked Ísland magic. It is the most potent. Much more than Julbocken, that andskotans goat." She hissed, spat to the side. "She and Santa would have you believe Christmas is a time of joy and cheer and togetherness. Nei! That is the new Christmas. Old Christmas...this is truth. Not silly prancing and giving of the gifts to humans."

"O-old Christmas?"

Her eyes flared, glowing with the fire of aurora, the lights of the ceilings burning bright for a second before settling back to the slow, sinuous dance. "Midwinter was a time of fear. The dark times. The mortals would pray to us, beg us for safety. They would sacrifice, make their offerings, plead to gods and spirits--whomever would hear them--just so they could survive the night. And at least back then, they wore sensible clothing. None of..." She gestured toward the pile of clothes she'd thrown onto the bed, hissing with derision. "...this nonsense."

"S-sure, man. Whatever. Just... Don't eat my clothes. Or me!" he added quickly when her gaze swiveled hungrily to him.

"There must be sacrifice for so egregious a violation. What offerings do you bring Jólakötturinn?" She wriggled her hips, swaying like a snake as she inspected him.

The friction further stoked the fire in his gut. How pathetic was he? Getting turned on by some fucking freaky cat spirit? This was what happened when he didn't get laid for almost half a year. His dick just wanted to be in whatever warm hole it could find. Unless that warm hole was her mouth as she ate him.

"I..." He swallowed hard, trying not to think about all that. "What do you want?"

She tapped a claw against her lips for a moment. "What are you offering, litli maður? Your clothes? Your body?"

"Leave my clothes alone," he said before he could stop himself. He'd paid a lot for those, and he dreaded to think what would happen if she went through the rest of his closet. Tens of thousands of dollars down her gullet. "And me."

The Yule Cat planted her paws on his bare chest, leaning down until her mouth brushed his ear, whiskers tickling his face. Her breasts hung near his chin, firm, furred globes. He could make out the tip of a stiff pink nipple rising through the sea of her fur like a delectable island.

"It has been some time since someone worshiped me properly," she cooed. "These Íslendingar know better than to invoke Jólakötturinn these days. Nothing makes a spirit fuller than devotion..." Her rough tongue flicked the edge of his ear, and she chuckled as he shivered beneath her.

"Uh, sure? Whatever you want, man. Just don't kill me. And leave my clothes alone."

"Such a sorry thing that your clothes are so top of mind, American. You are like a páfugl--a peacock. Such pretty things to show off how special you are." She sat up, tracing a pattern on his chest with her claw. "But you are not special. You are a sad little man. Obsessed with looks. Shallow. I have watched you these last days. Arrogant. Dismissive. Your neighbors, they watch out for you, and you spurn them. Naughty, naughty boy."

"I'm sorry! I'll be nicer!" He winced as her claw dug in a little deeper. "I'm gonna see them tomorrow. I'll accept the presents. Whatever it is. I-I'm sure the clothes are...fine."

She shook her head. "It is too late for that. I am here. Now, you will worship, or your clothes are mine."

Chase swallowed hard. He tried to get out from under her, but her hips kept him pinned down. She shifted again, and his cock twitched from the friction.

Her eyes widened, and she glanced down. "Detti mér nú allar dauðar lýs úr höfði! Really, now? Your typpi? Hmm..." She wriggled her hips more, grinning as she drew a moan from him. "Tell me, human, do I make you excited?"

"No!" He bit back another groan as she ground against him, avoiding her pointed stare. "Shut up. It's been a while."

"Hmm, this gives me an idea. You wish to worship?" She leaned down, face inches from his. "I have something for you to worship."

Dread and libido clashed in Chase. His cock heard the innuendo and breathy excitement in her voice. His brain saw the eager grin, the sharp teeth, the slow pressing of crushing weight on his body. Still, if it saved him and his clothes...

"What do you want?" he asked, pulling back a bit to get away from the grinning maw.

"Well, your typpi is begging to play. My píka is, how you say, very hungry." She ran a furred finger against his lips, lush, silky soft, sending a frisson through his body as he shivered under her. "I could use some of the old, old worship. The oldest worship there is."

He could scarcely believe what he was hearing. Giant cat wanting him to...fuck her? His cock stiffened further at the thought, and he kicked himself for being so turned on by something that wasn't even human. Even if she had an objectively hot body, she was still an animal.

Yeah, but a goddamn sexy one. Plus, not being eaten, pretty good deal.

"Okay. Sure. And you won't fuck with my clothes?"

She laughed, loud, booming, rattling the windows and leaving a ringing in his ears. "Nei! I prefer to fuck without clothes."

He laughed, not meaning to, it just slipped out. He quickly covered his mouth, but the cat tittered and pinned his hand above his head. "So, are you willing to worship Jólakötturinn, litla músin mín?"

A disappointingly large part of his brain gave itself a high five for convincing an ancient cat spirit to get freaky with him. He chided that part, trying to reframe this purely as survival, but damn if he wasn't stiffening even more, his heart pounding in his chest, ears, and cock.

"I will worship you, Yal... Yalla-kutrain?"

"Helvítis hálfviti! You say it right! Yola-kutt-urin. Jólakötturinn. It is not difficult. How long have you been here?"

"It's not my fault! You have too many funny little marks on all the words. Like, for real..." He trailed off as her eyes narrowed, a soft growl rumbling in her throat. "I mean. Sorry. Jólakötturinn," he said it slowly, desperately trying to get the pronunciation right.

Her expression softened a smidge. "Better. Now, you will worship me, já?"

"Sure, dude."

Jólakötturinn nodded her approval, then snapped her fingers. The laces and threads from earlier rose into the air, writhing like serpents, then slithered to his ankles, tying him in place. Even though the fabric was soft, it still bit into his skin, offering no give as he struggled against them, held in place.

"The fuck?"

The cat crawled up his body, dragging herself against his torso. A damp smear running up the middle of his body as she scooted her damp pussy along him, a sensual sigh slipping from her lips. Her mound pressed against his chin, the scent of her wafting over him. Slightly sharp, musky, faint earthy undertones infused with a touch of fatty, waxy notes. Slightly mineral, almost like some of the hot springs he'd been in, mixed with warm, wet fur. Sitting beneath the surface was a sulfurous base note that tingled in his nose rather than stank, eliciting some primal urge, his breathing quickening, manhood aching.

"You like my pheromones, litli sleikjarinn minn?" she whispered, paw-pads caressing his cheek, the points of her claws dragging lightly over his face. "I can smell how excited you are. Perhaps if you do a good enough job, you earn a little treat for yourself, hmm?"

Chase groaned, hips straining upward. Her tail flicked against the tent in his underwear as she raised her hips, scooching forward so she was directly above him.

The area around her slit was bare, a charcoal color that darkened to her sleek outer lips, glistening and swollen. The button of her clit hid beneath its dark gray hood, a sliver of pink peeping out.

Slowly, hand shaking, he stroked the area around her pussy. Incredibly soft, downy fuzz whispered against his fingers. Her skin grew hotter as he traced the outline of her slit, grinning to himself as her hips bucked at his touch. Yeah, he had this. He'd always been good with his hands and mouth. She'd be one satisfied pussy when he was finished.

Her outer labia were shorter than he was expecting, sleeker. His finger slipped between them, and Jólakötturinn let out a deep groan, grabbing the headboard, tail flicking in a frenzy, slapping against the bed, snapping in the air, smacking his legs with an almost whip-like crack.

Her slick was thicker than a human woman's, almost gel-like, a bit mucousy. Much warmer too. He wriggled his finger into her, exposing the dusky pink of her inner lips and the tight, clenching hole that seemed to beckon him in.

As he reached her entrance, her patience seemed to run out, and she dropped her hips, smothering his face. His world turned black, full of humid heat, dampness, luxurious fur.

"Worship," she demanded, powerful legs clamping around his head.

So he did.

His tongue snaked out, licking her perineum, smooth, hot flesh against his tongue as he flicked upward through the valley of her outer lips, catching briefly on her entrance before meeting her shy clit. Her legs squeezed his head, a muffled gasp breaking into the world of her sex. The hood pulled back a bit, exposing more of her clit as she pressed down, forcing his face against her nethers.

Chase offered little kisses around her, head light and swimming as her scent overpowered him. His lips suckled at her clit, tongue swirling around it as his fingers spread her open, slick dripping down his digits in runny clumps. His tongue chased it, slipping down and prodding her entrance. Her flavor burst in his mouth--slightly salty, creamy, more of that mineral and sulfur from her scent, cloying and mind-numbing. His vision swam, thoughts blurring. He needed more.

His tongue dove into her, lapping hungrily as his fingers held her open. Her walls clamped around his muscle, squeezing. A rumble vibrated through her, into his mouth, his skull. Jólakötturinn purring. Loud, heavy, the vibrations echoing through skin, through bone, into something far deeper and more primal.

Her hips began to grind against his face, her moans louder, muffled whispering, the words of which he couldn't make out. Honestly, he couldn't care less. His fear, his dread, concern for his clothes, all melted away as he lavished her cunt.

His tongue slipped out, and he wriggled a finger in its stead. Her channel blazed around him, thick ridges and bumps like little ribs squeezing tight around him. He could barely move, the strength of her canal a starving mouth trying to devour his digit. Her walls rippled, careful, controlled, tugging him deeper in.

Jólakötturinn's growl rumbled down to him, "Já, worship my being."

Her claws dug lightly into his scalp, pushing his head deeper in. The only air he could breathe was hers, trapped in the temple of fur, heat, and pleasure between her legs. He managed to fit in a second finger, pumping slowly against the tight friction of her rugged walls. Thick slick eased their passage as she relaxed a touch, his nose nuzzling her clit as his tongue traced the warm skin at the edge of her slit.

His fingers fucked her depths as she smothered him. Her purring rattled around his fingers, vibrated against his face, filled his ears as her scent filled his nose. His mind clouded over as he gave himself to her, trapped in her black embrace.

"Such a good vetrarþræll," she moaned. "I can feel your devotion! Góður drengur..."

Her purring intensified, accompanied by a chorus of heavy panting, her hips undulating. He lapped at every part of her he could, starved for her taste, cleaning every drop that escaped her.

Her cries grew more keening, claws digging into his scalp, pain barely registering as he worshiped her core. "Haltu áfram! Drottningin þín er að koma núna!"

Jólakötturinn began to hump his face, riding it with frenetic need. His fingers pistoned into her, lips finding her clit, sucking, nibbling.

"This is the old worship!" she screamed. Her hips slammed down, choking him, and she let loose a cry that shook the room.

Her juices splashed onto his face, walls gripping his fingers so tight the pain pierced the haze of his thrall. Her thrashing drove his head into the pillow, suffocating him as she slicked his face, grinding, rubbing, howling, crushing his head between her legs. Her musk overpowered him, fumes scrambling his every thought as she drowned him with her release. He could hear his heartbeat screaming in his ears, a pounding pulse that began to slow, fade, as he choked and fought for air, getting only more slick and fur in his mouth for his efforts.

Finally, she collapsed back, bracing herself against his thighs as she shook and he gulped down every breath as if it were more precious than platinum. She purred loudly, face a picture of regal contentment.

Chase lay there, staring at her, her scent clinging to him like static electricity, his nerves aflame, skin tingling, spots dancing before his eyes. At some point, he must have been capable of thoughts, but not now. Now, he sucked on his fingers, moaning softly at the big cat's taste.

"Adequate," Jólakötturinn said finally, lazy smile evaporating into bemused contempt. "Your will is weak. This is why you struggle so hard for identity in shallow consumerism."

"Uh-huh," he said dreamily, her words slipping out of his ears almost the second they entered.

She chuckled, bringing a claw under his chin, tilting his head this way and that. "You are quite the mess, litla músin. But your mistress requires a bit more of you."

"Okay."

She huffed, patted his cheek. "Oh my darling American, whatever shall we do with you?"

"Whatever you want." Some small part of Chase's brain was trying to claw its way back, but most was still lost in the haze. It didn't help that what little of his conscious thought remained was focused on his throbbing cock and burning desire.

The cat scooted back, her ass settling against his stiff member. She sliced open his long johns. He didn't even care at that point, the relief of his trapped member flopping free much greater than his care for his outfit's well-being. Her clawtip teased his slit, his hips jumping as if he'd been shocked, pre spurting out.

"Do you know how potent the magic of seed is?" she asked, lapping up the droplet from her claw, eyes flaring at the taste.

He shook his head. Although, to be fair, she could've said anything and it would've gotten roughly the same response at this point. He was far gone.

She raised her hips, grinding her slit against his glans, deep mewl rumbling in her throat as her eyes slipped closed. "It is the deepest of worship. It is your self. Life. And you will give it freely. Not as some addled hálfviti."

She snapped her fingers, and the haze lifted from his mind. Chase jerked as if awakening from a dream, saw the giant cat hovering over his cock, keen gaze boring into him.

"The fuck did you do to me?" He started to struggle, but she pinned him down with her paws, easily holding him in place.

"Your mind is weak. You lavished me with your worship. But you cannot truly worship if your thoughts are elsewhere. Now, will you give me everything?"

"What? If I say yes, you won't eat me or destroy my clothes?"

She sighed, ears twitching. "Here is the deal. I will fuck you. I will take of your seed. And when it is done, I shall spare you."

His cock liked the sound of that. But now that his brain was more under his control, though still fighting the blood loss to his lower limb, he was a bit more wary. "Just like that?"

"On my word, you shall have a full wardrobe. As well as your life."

Chase considered this for a second, trying to figure out any potential downsides. Sex? Yep, he'd get it. Not dying? Excellent. Keep the rest of his clothes? Hell yeah. "I'd like to point out this is under duress," he said finally.

"I couldn't care less. I need a simple assent. The conditions of it are inconsequential."

"Kinda fucked up."

"Welcome to the world of magic," she chuckled. She rubbed his cock tip through her outer lips, his head flopping back as her warm slick coated him. "Will you give yourself to me?"

"I guess..."

Her grin widened. "Very good." And then, she slammed herself down.

They both cried out as he was forced completely into her. Brutal tightness clung to him, ridges digging into his cock, her heat scorching, soaked. A brilliant aura flickered around her for a second, nearly blinding him. Something coiled around one wrist, then the other, holding him fast. Both his hands and feet now bound to the bed, trapped.

"Hey! Nobody said anything about this BDSM shit!" He fought against the restraints to no avail.

"Ohh... Jááá! Þetta er nákvæmlega það sem ég þurfti..." The lights dimmed, and she ground herself down, slick fur rubbing against his hips, her tail coiling around his leg, anchoring herself to him.

She braced herself on his chest. Her claws slid out, digging into his flesh, just shy of drawing blood. She leaned in, licked his neck with her sandpaper tongue, purring so loud it hurt his ear. Her hips raised, cunt clinging tight as the friction drove him insane, until her entrance grasped his crown, wringing pre from him. Then she slammed back down. The bed shook, the air knocked from his lungs by the sheer force of her drop, hips aching from the impact.

Jólakötturinn's tits bounced as she began to ride him. Rough, feral--claws tracing sigils into his skin as she rode hard, fast. His eyes were glued to her chest, the jiggle and bounce hypnotizing, even as some part of him fought against the restraints and wanted to reverse things, to fuck her. But the handful of times he tried to fuck up into her, her hips crushed his on the downswing, driving him deep into the bed.

It quickly became clear he was just a toy. Some warm meat for her to get off on. But damn if she didn't feel fucking amazing. He hadn't experienced anyone this tight in a long-ass time. And her scent only grew stronger, wetter, threatening to send him back into the haze of oblivion.

The cat suddenly sheathed him inside her. Her hips gyrated into little circles, one hand strumming her clit, lips parted as she panted heavily, chest heaving, sides quaking. Her slippery walls massaged him, pulsing, clamping, rhythmic as she swung her hips, powerful flesh rippling along his length.

He wished he could move. Cup her tits. Yank her tail. Be allowed to do anything other than to just lie there and take it. It made him feel cheap, used, nothing more than some warm body to get off on.

And he weirdly loved it.

She drove him deeper and deeper with each bounce. Her ass squishing his balls on every drop, sending a confounding mix of pleasure and brain deep into the most base parts of his brain. The restraints dug into his wrists, his ankles. The bed creaked, headboard banging against the wall. The squish and squelch and lewd sloppy sounds of their fucking nearly as loud as her yowls, screams, moans. His own cries buried beneath the cacophony.

Her walls clenched tighter and tighter. Friction intense despite her soaked cunt. It felt like her tight lips were dragging the skin from the base of his dick all the way to the top, wringing him out until he popped.

Then she stopped. Panting heavily, paws kneading his chest. She clenched and relaxed around him, a soothing rhythm as pinpricks of pains fired off in his hips, grateful for a moment's reprieve, but quickly missing the stimulation.

His length throbbed inside her, each pulse eliciting a little squeeze from her, her eyes flickering closed for a moment as she rocked gently. The slow motion, the rippling, it drove him crazy. His hips arched off the bed, surging up to bury himself deeper in.

One yellow open opened, and she grinned at him. "Someone is eager."

"Please," he whined. He needed it, craved it. Both his head and cock pounding, desperate.

She cupped his cheek, laughing as he winced away from her clawtip. "Beg me for it, litla músin."

"Please, please, just let me cum!"

And then she raised up and began to fuck him in earnest. One moment, perfectly still, the next, his hips pummeled by her frantic riding. Heavy tits flopping, head thrown back, high yowling ripped from deep within her.

He could do little else besides metaphorically hold on for dear life, his hands and feet bound, leaving him entirely at her mercy, which she did not deign to grant him. Her motions were brutal, violent, feral.

It drove him crazy, the pistoning motion combined with the arhythmic clamping around his cock, no rhyme or reason, just chaotic motion grabbing and releasing him as she saw fit. The coil in his gut wound tighter even as his head flopped and teeth clacked together with the force of her fucking.

Her breathing became erratic. She planted her paws heavily against his chest, bracing as her hips moved in a blur, molten eyes boring into him. When he tried to look away, she grabbed his face and forced him back.

"You do not close your eyes!" she growled. "You watch when you give me everything, litli maður!"

"Oh God," he groaned, his hips jerking as his balls tightened.

She dropped onto him, burying him in her burning depths, and let out a growl that rattled the walls, shook knickknacks from shelves, vibrated through his skull, and pulled the object of her desires from his balls.

His cum surged up his length and erupted inside her. Jólakötturinn's screams became pure animal cries, terrifying and primal, liquid dark pooling around her until she exploded in a dazzling lightshow. He pumped his seed into her, unending, until it felt as if his balls turn inside out emptying every ounce of his being, a midwinter sacrifice worthy of the unholy spirits that lurked in the depths of the black night.

Then she collapsed onto him, her heavy body crushing him, driving what little breath he had left from his lungs. Her soft fur and happy purrs enveloped him, her head nuzzling against his cheek, lapping sweat from his skin. "That is gamli vetrargaldurinn. That is Ísland," she whispered. "Do not forget it."

Chase simply nodded, incapable of anything else. He possessed no more strength, no more words--she had taken everything, leaving him with the ability to nod and naught else. Instinctively, he tried to hold her, the restraints keeping his arms and legs bound. So, he gave up and just lay there as her fur kept him warm like a living, fairly terrifying blanket.

He wasn't sure how long they were like that. Time ceased to have meaning shortly after he came, his head still dizzy, her scent all over him in the best of ways.

Eventually, she pushed off him, lifting up as his cum gushed out of her like a torrent, soaking his lap and the bedding. "Sufficient," she said, waving a hand over her crotch, suddenly immaculately clean. "But I do not want to see you next year. You will accept clothing?"

Although part of him wanted to have a repeat the following year, the stern look in her eyes stopped him. Actually, he really did not want her to return--he suspected she would not let him off so easily. "Yes. Absolutely."

"Good. And maybe you will respect our little world a little, nei?"

"Of course."

Jólakötturinn smirked and snapped her fingers. The fabric holding him in place released, and he rubbed life back into his tingling limbs. "Good boy. I suggest you get some sleep."

"But I'm not-"

She waved a paw at him, and he collapsed back, snoring before his head hit the pillow.






Chase startled awake, flailing against his sheets. "No!"

Bright daylight burned his eyes. He shaded his face, groaning. What a weird fucking dream. Or...

His wrists tingled, as if phantom pressure still circled them, and a sour coil of fear twisted in his gut. Slowly, he peered at his sheets.

Clean.

His wrists, ankles?

Unmarked.

Long johns? Untouched.

He let out a shaky laugh. "Fuckin' Iceland... For a second..." He shook his head. Dumb.

Although, his thermostat was clearly still broken, because it was cold as shit. He hurried to his closet to put on something warm.

When he slid open the door, he let out a horrified cry.

His entire wardrobe was horrendous Christmas sweaters, plus a single pair of green-and-red fleece pants. When he tugged one sweater free, it crackled with static and shed a dusting of glitter onto his feet. The whole closet smelled faintly of cold wind and cat fur.

"You bitch!" he screamed. "We had a deal!"






Jólakötturinn wandered down the street, snow crunching lightly under her paws, unseen by those who cleaved to the old ways. She followed the bright leyline down the sidewalk, humming to herself, and smiled at all the good households. It was nice not to have to eat them anymore. Their fear and obedience to her ways had staved her off for another year, feeding her with their devotion--whether they truly believed or not. This was Íslenskur galdur, the magic that sustained her and the other fey of the island.

It had been many years since she'd had to teach someone a lesson--she'd forgotten how much fun it could be. But she suspected this American had learned his lesson, and she wouldn't have to darken his doorstep once more. Another fool put in his place.

Alas, there would always be some new foreigner who thought they knew better, who would dare to denigrate her people, who would doubt the winter magic of her home.

Luckily, Ísland had Jólakötturinn to straighten them out. And she already had such grand plans for the next one.