Sheldon at Solstice

1.

Voiddate: f6TXL6inZE5x9UuggBl3FQ

December 10, 2022, Earth-reconciled time

Yub-Shnagshoroth perched on a frosty ledge beneath a vast, dark sky filled with glowing green curtains. But not really.

The Astronomer had finished taking notes on his regular scrying, and now saw fit to pass some time in the Halfway Room. Here, he could visualize anything and everything his instruments and personal logs had recorded; but just as importantly, he could go anywhere he wished in the mortal dimension, with the caveat that he was out of phase. His surrounding environment would not be entirely solid to him, nor he to it. Still, it was the closest he could usually come to being back on planet Earth. And he cherished it.

Out there, on the frigid island of Spitsbergen, Svalbard, it was deep into the polar night, a season of darkness lasting nearly four months. Overhead, the soft carpet of a billion stars felt almost as vast as it truly was. Off to the north where he was presently looking, the aurora borealis danced slowly. He'd seen it only once during his captivity on the island of Hokkaido, but since returning to the Yokai ergosphere it had become one of his favorite things to spy upon. And there was scarcely a better place from which to spy than Svalbard.

On this particular evening, however, the near dead emptiness of his favored hilltop vantage was broken by a familiar presence. He'd felt it once before, in 1922, at this same time of year. It was... frankly, a soiled kind of presence.

He wasn't entirely sure until he felt the half-solid ground quiver beneath his leather bench. Then he knew.

HALLO AGAIN, MY LADY. I SUPPOSE I KNOW WHAT IT IS YOU WANT.

...

2:00 pm, December 21, 2022

For Ithaca, NY, the night of the 20th had been a disgusting mess of lake effect snow, amplified by a polar vortex. By early afternoon of the 21st, the 3 or so feet of snow had finished falling. The sun was out, and the day was just about warm enough to start to melt the snow before sundown. Which, of course, only made shoveling that much more essential, and that much more arduous.

Josefina Torres, my long distance girlfriend, was pooped, and was seated on the porch bench having a nice daydream about elves, when a shudder in the boards beneath her feet snapped her out of her reverie.

At first, she could identify no cause. Then she saw it in her peripheral vision. Something moving, far down the driveway, though when she turned to look in that direction it was too obscured by snowfall to make out.

Gradually the something drew closer, until it had a clear outline. Bipedal, roughly human-shaped, and enormous. Then she could make out that they had hair, albeit grossly unkempt, and clothes, however atrocious and ragged. And as tall as they seemed to be, they'd have been taller still were it not for an extreme case of hunchback. This was a monster alright.

Somehow unsurprisingly, they were moving with a purpose toward Steinmetz Farm.

"Shit," Jo said under her breath. She cupped her mouth in the general direction of the door and hollered: "Sheldon?!" I didn't hear her over the hum of the kitchen hood; when I came running soon after, it was because by then, the whole house was shuddering.

Turning back to the driveway, she saw that the hulking, troll-like creature was now coming up on my pickup truck. She gasped. They were over 8 feet, probably closer to 9.

And a woman, unless Josefina missed her guess.

She folded her arms and made her best resting bitch-face. "What business do you have here, monster?"

The giantess's eyes went wide; they were far more expressive than one might expect from such a creature. She looked vaguely affronted. In answer, she reached into a leather satchel hanging from one massive wrist, and produced a sealed Pyrex dish full of baked goods. She smiled, evidently pleased with herself. And then, in a voice that was at once cheerful, and like a chorus of snarling hounds, she said,

"Is this not the huset of Herr Sheldon? I bring julekake and skolebrød, fur studen."

It all looked and sounded delicious. But Josefina didn't let up.

"That's kind of you, I'm sure, whatever it is you're trying to teach. But listen up Frau Farbissina. As Herr Steinmetz's girlfriend, I'd know if we were expecting company. This farm is a sanctuary for troubled monsters, not a Shell station for every swamp thing with blue balls. We have a Google Calendar for chrissakes! I'll ask if he can make some space on Monday, but Hanukkah is my time to get demon dick..."

She stopped talking when she saw the giantess's expression change. Suddenly, she didn't look so deferential. She looked like Kali, contemplating some smiting.

"No one defies Grýla," she growled softly.

Just then, the screen door flew open and I stuck my head out into that shitstorm. The apron strapped to my chest declared, "Shtup the Cook."

"Did I hear my na--oh holy sh--hello there! I'm Sheldon! Did, uh, did The Astronomer possibly send you?"

I felt immediately sheepish. Josefina, as expected, was rolling her eyes. But at least the visitor's scowl vanished.

"Ja! Yub-Shnagshoroth told me that this year, I might spend the first night of Yule with Herr Sheldon. You know, in lieu of murdering a score of innocent families in some remote village to replenish myself for the next century?"

Damn that assfaced manipulator, I did not give my informed consent for this.

But aloud, I said: "First of all, we certainly do appreciate that generous reprieve for humanity, and I'm, uh, I'll certainly try to help. That said... Yub-Shnagshoroth really didn't explain the situation properly. I thought I might have just dreamed the whole thing. Like a regular dream, not a 'visitation from the 10th dimension' kind of dream."

I shot Josefina a helpless look; she glowered, shrugged, and finally nodded slightly.

"Alright," I continued, "why don't we... I'm sorry, what was your name?"

"Grýla. Grýla Juletrollet."

"Well, Grýla, why don't you come inside and have a seat, and we can sort this out over some hot tea?" I gestured towards the door, then added, "And do watch your head, the ceilings are quite low."

I was turning to duck back inside when the ground began to shake again, even more violently than before. And I could clearly see the cause: following its master up the driveway was, impossibly but unmistakably, a cat. A housecat the size of a house.

This was certainly fine and dandy and normal.

"Don't worry," the monster said with a wry smile. "Jolakotturinn can stay out here, he is outdoor pussycat."

As if in response, Stilgar appeared momentarily beside me, flattened his ears back, hissed loudly, and turned and sprinted back down the hall. A bemused Grýla ducked through the doorway after him. Josefina and I just gazed blankly at each other for a moment.

"What did I get myself into this time," I said softly.

"That's my line, Squiddy."

2.

Half an hour, a tea and a whisky later, we were all warming ourselves by the fire. Out of an abundance of caution, Grýla was seated on the floor rather than the couch, leaned up against the wall, a short stack of pillows compressing itself into diamond crystal beneath her mighty ass. I was licking my finger approvingly after tasting some julekake.

While it was absolutely true that she had the smell of a troglodyte, what Jo and I had initially taken for a near-dead ensemble of ratty clothes was in fact a heavy coat, and snow-pants with an abundance of patches. Unbound from these, Grýla seemed... maybe not more aesthetic, but certainly more comfortable and friendly, maybe even a bit flirty.

"A Yule monster?" I repeated. "Kind of like Krampus?"

"No," she said testily. "I mean yes, but no. He works with the Christians, though they have a testy relationship. I don't. Also, I hate him. He's a drunken ass, and when he's not terrorizing kids, he's the most useless creature on this Earth... save perhaps my husband, Leppaludi."

As she said this, Josefina emerged from the kitchen with a plate of homemade petit fours--and yes, I am aware how lucky I am to have found a mate who not only tolerates my absurd life, not only treats me like a prince, not only sucks my soul out in the bedroom, she can fucking bake!--and took her place on the couch beside me, after handing a tiny lemon cake to Grýla, who stared at it in bemusement.

It had officially become one of those holiday parties where all the guests bring baked goods and no one brings a main. Fortunately, I always planned to feed an army on Chanukah. If only because it meant leftovers for a week.

"Ah, delicious. Your Josefina is a keeper, you do know that, right?"

I grinned from ear to ear. "Definitely."

The troll smiled absently. "I can see it in your eyes, you truly love each other. Much like my Leppaludi when we first met. Alas, things change... and if all you have is love, it isn't much."

She then turned to my sweetheart and asked, absolutely deadpan, "Tell me, dear, is Herr Sheldon as good to you as you are to him? Does he make himself useful in the kitchen? Does he steke your kotelettene properly in bed?"

Josefina is a hell of a woman, and we'd been through a lot in the 10 months or so we'd been a couple. But damn if her cheeks didn't flush nearly to the color of a shoggoth's skin, being put on the spot like that. Hell, I blushed a bit myself.

"First of all," I cut in, "if you want to know how well I cook, you can judge for yourself. Just as soon as dinner"--and just then, I heard the beep--"ah, perfect timing."

As the scale of our celebrations had increased over the years, I'd given up some years back on frying latkes fresh on demand for multiple nights. Instead I'd make one giant batch of slightly undercooked pancakes a couple nights before Hanukkah, using as much as 10 pounds of potatoes and half a dozen eggs, and stash them on the hastily emptied bottom shelf of the refrigerator. Thus I was freed from my station in front of the stove. So long as we didn't unexpectedly run out, which we never did, I could take out latkes a dozen at a time, finish them in the convection oven, and throw them on a platter with a big mound of labneh or tofutti.

I continued talking from the kitchen, hoping to keep the giantess occupied: "Not to brag, but you're in for a treat. This is the old Steinmetz family recipe. Do you want some salmon roe, Grýla?"

"Ja."

"Alright, that'll be just another moment here... done."

I returned bearing two plates of six pancakes each, one topped with mounds of red caviar for her, one with just the labneh and scallions for us. As is my custom, I stood by eagerly and watched her bite into one like a complete geek. The satisfying crunch resonated loudly in her big mouth; I winced a bit as her lips smacked and her tongue audibly worked within.

She grunted approvingly, and I felt it vibrating in my chest.

"Deilige! I can only compare it to the raggmunk the Swedes make, but this is a hundred times better."

Josefina and I exchanged relieved glances. We certainly hadn't planned on a houseguest of the monstrous type, but it was going about as swimmingly as anyone could hope.

"Takk," I said, literally the only word of Norwegian I knew. "You should know, two things we Jewish men take very seriously are food... and pleasing our women. And speaking of that, I have a few questions."

It was a messy situation anyway you looked at it, and Grýla's answers weren't exactly to our liking. But we reached a compromise. She and I would spend the night down in the living room, where we piled up two spare mattresses. My pal Misha Betzalel, who was also queerplatonic cuddle buddies with Jo and one of the handful of people who knew our secrets, was fortuitously available. Or he was once he dropped everything. In his words, "This is far too fucked up, I can't in good conscience not come over and involve myself."

As to the program of activities, Grýla claimed no particular interest in cuddling or anything else extraneous. But she was insistent that I be available to her all through this, the year's longest night, from sundown (~4:15pm, less than two hours from now) to sunrise (~7:15am). And she couldn't make any promises I would be unharmed, yet another thing I could reluctantly accept as a demi-demon.

I accepted a lot because of my particular duties as the primary human representative of Morai-sa, the enclave of extra-dimensional demons who had turned me into what I am. It was an important role that I was glad to be able to serve. But it often felt like an unpaid second job; specifically, prostitution. I say this not to convey lack of honor or dignity or validity. Sex work is real work. I say it because, like actual sex work, being a fuckdemon is difficult and often thankless. It takes focus, skill, compassion, and a certain set of people skills that I've honestly been making up as I go.

At about 3:10pm, I ushered our guest to the barn out back, which had a veterinary room where she could safely and privately wash herself off. Josefina got a fire going. At 3:50, Misha arrived. We three humans went up to the master bedroom. I made sure they'd have everything they needed for the night, and also a way to get through to me if they needed a clear path to the kitchen or exit. At 4:10, I hugged and kissed my girlfriend.

"So, um. Good night, my love. I'm sorry we have to be apart. It isn't fair to you, but..." I just shrugged.

"Don't worry about that now, sweetie," she replied, her eyes scrunched up in a sunny grin. "We have the white noise machine. Just remember: look smart, be kind, and be careful. That witch weighs like four times what I weigh, she could fucking crush you."

Past times, I'd have argued this, and reminded her of how much sketchy shit I'd already survived by the time I ascended to half-demon, or how much abuse a demon body could take and still heal in moments. But I knew that would be specious and unhelpful. So instead, as I dug quickly through the closet for a shirt, I simply said this:

"I promise I'll be very careful, love. And in the morning, I'm going to take a very thorough shower, so that I can get right back to snuggling you."

I took a deep breath, cleared my thoughts, and slowly descended to the living room. Grýla was there, lying on her side, with the oversized yet too-small bathrobe still on. It had fallen away from one side to expose most of her right breast, along with her right leg and a bit of her hip. It all honestly looked not bad for her stocky build and inestimable age.

Seeing her in such a humanizing light, I had to re-evaluate a bit. She was still a wrinkled old woman with a hunchback and a misshapen nose, sure. But also: her lips were ample. Her pose, slightly vulnerable. Those big expressive eyes betrayed a gnawing absence, like the Hunger I knew all too well. And behind them, I sensed a mind that was utterly trained on my person, and on the rare treat of a night spent sober, awake, giving and receiving pleasure. In short, a giantess cougar.

I smiled warmly, gently, almost stupidly.

"Hey," I asked, "do I have a few minutes? I'd like to brew some coffee, so it's there when I need it later. You asked for a full night. So unless we collapse first from exhaustion, that's what you're gonna get."

3.

Chanukah celebrates a Jewish military victory, but more importantly, our resistance to cultural obliteration. In modern times, it brings many of us joy to gather with goyishe friends and share in each other's wintertime festivities. That being said--it was surreal and vexing to be imposed upon by someone akin to Grandfather Frost or Santa. Josefina and I had had these eight days set aside for each other all year. The resentment was still bubbling up in quiet moments like this one. I acknowledged it. Then let it go.

I hazarded the small extravagance of using my demonic energy to boil water for coffee, and set to work grinding and measuring beans for the French press.

"I'm curious," I called back to the living room, "how much did ol' Assface tell you about me?"

"What's to tell?" she replied. "He said you were handsome, good in bed, and nearly indestructible. All good qualities in a man."

As much as I knew how Yub-Shnagshoroth knew things--that scrying bowl, the one he used to keep tabs on Earth's timeline--I still couldn't get over the casual confidence with which he asserted things, sight unseen. For example my being good in bed.

"Not untrue," I said as I filled the chamber with water heated to a precise 88°C, "but there's something else you should probably know. I'm a shapeshifter. And while I am a man, I wasn't born with the same parts your Leppaludi might have. Do you... understand what I mean?"

"Yes," said Grýla, rather flatly. "You're like that scoundrel Loki. You can choose to have a kuk or a fitte."

"Um. Basically, yes." I finished pressing and set aside the rig to rinse out later. When I came back in, the giantess had a raptor's smile and her tits fully out. I definitely felt something stirring in me.

"You have something else that's far more important to me than your face or your kuk. You have nerve. Most humans would see my body and run screaming. You're standing there looking right at me, with interest."

I chuckled to myself as I approached her and got down onto my knees at the edge of the mattress.

"Didn't he tell you? That was the very first qualification: I fuck monsters. In fact"--and here a quartet of rubbery brown octopus arms erupted from the white button-down, ripping it to pieces and sending a half dozen wooden buttons skittering across the room--"as a demi-shoggoth, fucking other monsters is a special treat."

It was a power move, one that Josefina had suggested I lead with when I wanted to make a dramatic impression. I'd set aside a little fund for new linen. Every so often, she and I would gather the salvaged buttons, bust out Bubbe's old Singer, and make some new shirts.

"You see--oh, can you sit up just a little?"

I reached out two of those long sucker-clad arms, and slid them under Grýla's rolls of flesh, simultaneously tipping up her chin slightly with my human left hand.

"--with humans, I'm usually holding back."

Our faces were rather mismatched in size, so I planted my kiss square in the middle of her lower lip. French was out of the question; I just let it linger, while my finger ran slowly down her neck and onto her shoulder.

Our faces only inches apart, she nearly whispered her reply: "No need for that."

I got a grip on her hair, and tipped her head the rest of the way back so I could neck her. Ah, yes, there you are. I felt her across the empathic skin-to-skin connection, albeit faintly. A curious presence. Hunger mingled with little drips of relief.

Her skin was tough, but her nerves, sensitive. Silently she mouthed the word, "ja," repeatedly as I trailed kisses and bites down to her collarbone, then her left breast.

As I crouched there straddling her torso, fondling her, I felt a sudden bulge in my boxer briefs. The space dick, as I called my demonmade cock, would sometimes appear on instinct. But this one was extra-large. I had to wrest it free before it needlessly destroyed another article of clothing.

Grýla, a bit startled, reached out with calloused fingers to get a better feel for what was poking her belly. She seemed not to believe her senses.

"Faen. You really are a monster." She reached out to gather her enormous tits, which were trying to slip under me or sag onto the mattress, and pressed them forward and together.

"Of course," she continued, "it's what you do with it. And Leppaludi does nothing, all day and all night. You ever stick your pikk in a pair of pupps?"

"Not on this scale." I smiled despite myself at the absurdity of it all as I produced a tentacle pod, and wrung out lubricating slime that splashed over her tits and ran down her cleavage.