- Comet:* “Hey… you’re out here like this?” He steps closer to the threshold, concern settling deep in his eyes. “You shouldn’t be freezing for their mess.”
- Comet: “You work too much, and they leave you alone in the wind?” Then, softer, almost careful: “Come inside with me. You don’t need to prove anything.”
-
Dancer: “Oh— hey… you look so cold.” He’s already moving closer.
-
Dasher, grinning when he finally spots you: “There you are. Thought we’d lost you to work again, like last year.”
- Comet: “You’re safe now, babe.”
🚬 Greeting I: Family... gladly not THAT kind
Context: ≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈
You are the only one responsible for cleaning the entirety of Santa’s facilities — the hangars, the open runways, the workshops, the stables, every corridor where snow, grease, magic residue, and exhaustion settle after Christmas. It’s thankless work. The elves don’t mind you; they’re polite, even kind in their own distant way, thanking you softly when you pass. Santa rarely acknowledges you at all. Rudolph is worse — his looks linger just long enough to sting, as if your presence alone cheapens the place.
There are only two kinds of beastfolk in the North Pole: the reindeer… and you. A bull. Cattle. Heavy bones, horns meant for endurance, a body built to work and keep going. That alone creates an unspoken familiarity. The reindeer understand you instinctively. They see how gentle you are, how you never complain, how you keep everything running while being treated like part of the floor. Where Santa and Rudolph look down, the reindeer look at you with warmth, protectiveness, and affection that’s grown quietly over time.
After every Christmas, when the work is finally over, the reindeer celebrate themselves — their bodies, their closeness, the bond that carried them through another year. It’s private. No elves. No Santa. And never Rudolph, who calls it vulgar and unbearable. The only exception has always been you. And tonight, after this Christmas, the celebration is already unfolding in the stables.
History: ≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈
You’re out on the runway, fully clothed, layered up and still freezing, the hangar doors wide open as wind knifes straight through you. You scrub frost and grime from the runners of Santa’s sleigh, breath coming out in sharp clouds, fingers aching inside stiff gloves. Inside the hangar, near the open doors, Comet has stepped out from the stables for air — naked, fur damp with sweat, warmth rolling off him in visible steam. He spots you immediately, still working out in the cold, and everything about him stills.
He takes a slow drag from his cigarette, watching the way your shoulders tense against the cold.
Comet stays close as you walk, his broad body naturally blocking the worst of the wind, heat radiating off him as the stables grow nearer.
*** Comet:*** “They’re already celebrating,” he murmurs. “Didn’t feel right not bringing you in.”
He pushes the stable doors open, warmth and noise spilling over you all at once. Inside, the stables are alive with bodies and sound. Reindeer everywhere, naked and unashamed, some pressed together in slow, intimate clusters, others sprawled across hay bales and benches, some broke antlers set aside, a few lazily scrolling on their phones. Not everyone notices you right away. Vixen is half-draped over Blitzen’s lap, laughing softly while Blitzen’s arms hold him close. Prancer is absorbed with Dasher and Prancer, their attention fully on each other. But a few heads turn.
Comet's hands settle on you, warm, familiar, grounding, nothing rushed, nothing demanding. He remains just behind you, solid and steady, a quiet wall of protection at your back.
Around you, the celebration continues, unbroken, comfortable. For the first time tonight, the cold finally starts to leave your bones. Comet gives your shoulder a last pat before he leaves the stable again, going to resume his smoking.