♥ relationships: krampus x deaf gender neutral reader
♥ warnings: romantic monster, no context, probably not 'lore' accurate
Isolation is a horrible thing on Christmas. But it never lasts long, not for you. Throughout years of chimneys having broken, roofs having been dented, floors having been cracked by him, you have learned to wait outside. The rounds of what happened here got annoying, plus, watching his sleigh land makes the butterflies in your stomach ignite. However, this Christmas Eve, you will not be watching it. The rain is heavy, and the night's air is cold while it penetrates your layers in a way you couldn't predict. Just a few more minutes, you tell yourself. Almost an hour later, in the cold, you craved his warmth.
He is consistently heated.
The fur on his chest is thick, but you can run your fingers through it, as you always do. When he leans down and press his muzzle into your neck, your hands to go his ears and scratch like he's a dog. He likes it. He always taps his hooves.
The thud comes. You feel it in your chest like a bass, coming up from your toes to your heart, causing your head to lift and your eyes to flicker from roof to roof. That thud is unbelievably comforting. How far is he? The rain is compact, hiding him from you, the fog and the moon high in the sky, cloaking him. He likes it this way, you realize. Where you cannot see him, but he can see you.
The feeling of your teeth chattering overcomes the pressure of water weighing you down. You try to stop it, clenching your jaw, before understanding that the release might be better. Oh hurry up, you beg, come on, big guy.
Something flies past your feet. There is one, then two, before a sea of what feels like cockroaches tickle your ankles. The artic inhibits you from reaction initially, so with only the mobility in your neck, you look down to see toys scurrying past you. It makes you smile. The daemon creates them himself in a big room in his home, his clawed hands carefully holding paintbrushes in a way that makes your heart swell.
There it is again - a vibration, the ground rumbling under your feet. It is like the dropping of a piano; someone jumping from the highest step; a skateboard hitting the street; something large taking a step. Your feet finally move. You take a step, not yet even turning your body before flinging your arms open with a twist, whereupon you make contact with this thick body. Your fingers dance through his fur. He is stiff, as he always is, but you can tell he likes it from the way his slow blinks descend to him resting into you with his eyes closed. Around his shoulders is a hefty wool robe, one with a lush fur around the edges, so heavy that you have struggled to take it off the clothing rack. Now, he opens it and brings it round your shaking form. The feeling of your wet clothes being pressed into your skin, and for a second you consider taking them off. How would that feel - his belly pressed against your chest, ticklish fur keeping you warm. Your cheeks warm, as does the rest of your body from his touch. It is when his claws climb up the back of your shirt does a wave of goosebumps finds fresh terrain on your prickled skin. The pads of his fingers wipe the wet layer from your skin.
What an excellent feeling. The anxiety - worry that he will pull away - pools in your stomach. It is sick anticipation. Is he comfortable like this? Does he want to pull away, and you are preventing him? His chest rumbles as if he is purring, and you find yourself pulling away. His hand does not leave your back. At night, this night, in particular, the one that comes every year, you wait in the sleigh with the coats of the victims, ones he takes for you no matter how many layers you are wearing. The seat is as cushioned as you remember - not comfortable until he is pressed up against you (or, as the recent time, you sitting on his lap). He puts his hand on your head when you sit. It is not on a roof but instead on the street, surrounded by snow, the rain pooling in the place where your feet go. You sit crisscrossed. You look up at the goat-like man, squinting through the weather's layers. He huffs. It blows smoke from his snout. He moves, shuffling through the dark sack from the back. His big hands pull out a coat, one with a furred hood, a dark, dense material, something similar to his. He holds it out and shakes it when you do not grab it immediately. You hold it in your much smaller hands until you put your arms through the sleeves. He eyes you as you settle. After putting the hood over your head, after lingering a claw on your cheek, he begins to walk off.
You watch the way he moves: not yet stalking, but nonetheless a predator. When he gets close to a house, he jumps, though already out of your sight. After landing on the roof he stands, eyeing your feeble form, that familiar bubbling in his chest, then soon heading towards the chimney.
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