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holiday hijinks
aka a perfect christmas where love is the only tradition that matters
tw: none! all fluff<3
2.9k+ words
author's note: surprise! an extra special christmas gift thanks to this anon for their request which really inspired me in the moment<3
The tree lot smelled like pine and winter and the faint singe of the barrel fire the owner kept stoked near the entrance. Frost turned every needle into a glittering line of light. Riley, five and very serious about it, had her hands jammed into the pockets of her little red parka while she marched between rows like a commander surveying troops. Ellie, almost two, was a wool-bundled bumblebee in a yellow snowsuit, toddling around on booted feet and making delighted “oh!” noises at every tree as if they were individual miracles.
“Remember our criteria,” you said solemnly, crouched to meet Riley’s eyes and then glancing at Ellie just in case Ellie wanted to be included in the gravity of the moment. Your hat sat crooked over your hair, your cheeks were pink, freckles somehow brighter in the cold. The leather jacket was traded for a quilted coat today, but you still had your chain peeking out, and the black gloves looked suspiciously like they had holes because you couldn’t resist a certain aesthetic even when you were freezing. “Not too wide, not too tall, perfect for our living room. Report to Daddy if any tree meets the optimal parameters.”
“Op-timal what?” Riley asked.
“Optimal parameters,” you repeated, deadpan. “Which is adult for ‘best tree.’”
Riley nodded like she’d always known that. “Got it.”
Cate pulled the mitten on Ellie’s hand snugger and smiled, the kind of proud soft smile that made Ellie beam right back. Cate’s breath ghosted in the cold as she tucked a loose blonde curl back under her beanie. “What do you think, El? Can you show Mama your favorite?”
“Fav’it!” Ellie announced, then took three determined steps toward a tree and hugged it, which was, admittedly, a compelling argument.
You laughed, the sound bright and fogging in the air. “Strong opening statement.”
Riley circled the tree Ellie hugged, evaluating. “This one’s too short,” she decreed. “And it’s… bushy.”
“Bushy is sometimes nice,” Cate said. “But we do have to get it through the door.”
“Right,” Riley sighed, as if the burden of leadership aged her another year. “Come on, El. We need tall but not too tall. And not scratchy. And Daddy said no trees that smell like a car wash.”
“I did say that,” you agreed gravely, falling into step. You were good at this—giving Riley the wheel, letting Ellie take detours. Good at warming the world around your family without trying. Cate watched you for a second too long and felt the familiar tug in her chest—gratitude, ache, the quiet astonishment that this was their life. Snow crackled under boots. Wind fussed with her scarf. Somewhere, a radio by the little sales shack played a tinny “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.”
They found the tree by accident. Ellie tagged it first—another hug, a muffled “oof!” as the branches tried to hug back—and Riley tapped the trunk with purpose like a knight knighting a very green squire. You arrived last, hands on your thighs as you bent to consider the angles.
Cate stood a little back and looked at the whole picture. It was tall but not exaggerated, full without being unmanageable, and it wore the snow like jewelry. The sort of tree you’d draw if someone asked you to draw Christmas.
“This is it,” Cate said, and Riley’s grin made it official.
You patted the trunk. “Congratulations, you’ve been recruited to the team. Benefits include a cozy living room and two highly opinionated decorators who will put seventeen handmade ornaments on the same branch.”
Riley gasped. “Daddy, rude.”
“I’m just saying. It’ll be a heavy branch.”
“Strong branch,” Riley corrected.
“Strong branch,” you agreed, winking.
The lot owner hauled the tree to the netter while Ellie provided loud, sincere commentary—“tree go shhhooop!”—and then you shouldered it, a bit showy because you knew your audience. Riley clapped. Ellie clapped because Riley clapped. Cate shook her head and felt the hot, fizzy kind of happiness that starts beneath the sternum. She fished in her pocket and handed you the car keys.
On the drive home, the car filled with cold pine and kid chatter. Riley listed a detailed ornament placement plan involving the glass ballerina, the macaroni star from last year (“it’s art, Mama”), and the shield you had made from painted bottle caps when Riley declared your superhero name was Captain Daddy. Ellie kept repeating “ball!” which either meant ornaments or meant she was thinking of balls generally, which, given the past week’s obsession with throwing things into the laundry basket, seemed plausible.
Back home, the living room turned into a project zone. You set the tree into the stand and took a knee to tighten the bolts, tongue touching your lip in concentration. Cate steadied the trunk and admired the view without comment—okay maybe one comment: “Hot when you do home improvement.”
“Baby, you think it’s hot when I eat peanut butter out of the jar,” you said, not looking up.
“Also true.”
Riley scampered toward the ornament boxes. “Can we start? Can we start can we start can we—”
“Hooks first,” Cate said, catching her with a gentle hand on a small shoulder. “And lights.” She kissed the top of Riley’s knitted hat before plucking it off. Hat-head hair sprang free in static glory. “We’ll put the lights on later outside with Daddy, but we need the ones for the tree first.”
“Where ‘ights?” Ellie asked, peering solemnly into a box like she was inspecting crown jewels.
“In that bin,” you said, pointing. “We’ll do them in a spiral. Strategic approach.”
“Strat’gic ’proach,” Riley echoed, pleased with the taste of the words. She looked at the ornament bins again, then at Cate. “Can we do cookies first? So the tree can…think about its look?”
Cate stifled a laugh. “So the tree can reflect on its personal style? Yes, chef. Kitchen, team.”
They migrated. Cate tied little aprons around the girls—Riley’s with candy canes, Ellie’s with a snowman whose smile sat a bit off-center like it had been drawn during a giggle fit. You swept behind them, setting a speaker on the counter and scrolling to a playlist you swore was “scientifically calibrated to produce perfect cookies.” Cate bumped your hip. “Everything with you is scientific.”
“Evidence-based, baby.”
“Evidence shows you always burn one batch.”
“Control group.”
The kitchen warmed with oven heat and the reliable clatter of family. Cate measured flour while Riley counted cups out loud with the grave weight of a courtroom stenographer. Ellie’s contribution was mostly banging a wooden spoon against the mixing bowl and narrating, “Tap. Tap. Tap,” then trying to taste every ingredient.
“No, not the flour,” Cate said, gently intercepting the little hand. “Not yet.”
“Lick?” Ellie asked, scandalized by the injustice.
“When we get to frosting,” Cate promised. “You’ll be the official taste tester.”
Riley stood on her stepstool, brow furrowed, and cracked an egg with meticulous care. A little shell fell in. She fished it out, triumphant. “See?”
“Perfect,” Cate said, and meant it. She watched the way Riley’s concentration softened into pride, felt the tickle of emotion press behind her ribs. Ellie clapped again because clapping had become the day’s punctuation. You leaned on the island with your chin in your hand, smiling so deep it got a little sappy.
“You’re staring,” Cate said without looking up.
“Collecting data,” you murmured. “Conclusion: my girls are the cutest lifeforms on earth.”
“Peer-reviewed?” Cate asked, sprinkling cinnamon.
“I peer at you daily.”
“God, you’re unbearable,” Cate said, but her ears went hot.
Cookie chaos blossomed: flour over the counter like fresh snow, a small mittened handprint (Ellie refused to remove her mittens for the first ten minutes until she saw Riley’s bare fingers grabbing cutters), star and bell shapes a little lopsided but ambitious. Riley insisted on making one cookie “that looks like Daddy’s guitar,” which resulted in a blob with heroic intentions. Ellie preferred circles, enthusiastic and multiplicative. By the time the first tray slid into the oven, the floor looked like a baking supply crime scene and Ellie had a glitter of sugar on her nose.
“Okay,” Cate said, propping a hand on her hip, “baker’s intermission. Daddy?”
“Yeah?”
“You still planning to put up the outside lights now?”
You straightened, eyes lighting with the exact same mischief that lived in Cate’s. “Oh, I am.”
“Good.” Cate crouched to eye-level with the girls. “Because we are going on a spy mission.”
Riley gasped. Ellie gasped because Riley did. Cate tugged them closer like a conspirator. “Daddy’s going to be outside on a ladder, and we are going to bundle up and go on a secret mission to…attack.”
“Attack Daddy?” Riley whispered, thrilled and reverent.
“Only with snowballs,” Cate said. “No superpowers—just good old-fashioned winter warfare.”
Ellie slapped her palms together. “Ack!”
Cate kissed her nose. “Exactly.”
They suited up to the soundtrack of “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree” and Riley’s editorial comments about optimal snowball size (“Not too big or it explodes in your hand, Mama”). You, oblivious by design, shouldered the light reel and headed outside with a whistle.
Cate cracked the door open an inch and saw you at the base of the ladder, gloved hands testing the first string of lights. Snow powder rose off the porch rail when the wind nudged it. The sky had pulled the early winter trick of going dim before dinner—blue-gray, breath visible as their own tiny clouds.
“Okay, soldiers,” Cate whispered from the doorway, “mission parameters: we circle left around the porch, crawl behind the hedge, and on my signal—snow!”
Riley nodded hard enough her hat pompom trembled. Ellie nodded too, eyes huge, mittened fists already full of powder.
They tiptoed into the cold, which for Ellie meant straight-legged stomps and a loud “shhh” at inopportune times. Cate scooped up the first handful of snow, gentle and fast, packing it firm. Riley copied, weirdly deft for five. Ellie tried to copy and produced a handful of powder, which she loved so much she squealed and opened her fingers to watch it fall. Cate handed her a pre-made tiny snowball. “Save this for Daddy,” she murmured.
“Dada,” Ellie said, awed, as if the snowball contained the concept of you.
They crouched behind the hedge. On the porch, you had climbed a few rungs and were feeding lights along the eaves, humming something that sounded suspiciously like “Bad Reputation” because you could not help yourself. Cate could hear the satisfying click-click of plastic clips attaching to the gutter. She raised three fingers. Riley put her tongue between her teeth and got very still. Ellie copied the hand sign but with all five fingers splayed.
Cate dropped a finger. Two. Then one.
“Go!”
They sprang. Riley launched her snowball first with a small warrior yell that made Cate’s heart sprint. Ellie toddled after, both hands high, tiny snowball clutched like a ritual offering. Cate let hers fly last—clean arc, perfect hit—just as you turned on the ladder.
The snowballs thumped into your coat and shoulder. You yelped theatrically, flailing a little for effect and gripping the ladder with your other hand. “Ambushed! Betrayal by my own unit!”
Riley shrieked laughter. Ellie shrieked because shrieking was contagious. Cate had a second snowball already forming.
“You chose this ladder over us,” Cate called, trying not to giggle into her scarf. “Suffer.”
“Have mercy on a working dad!” You declared, already half-climbing down with speed that made Cate’s eyebrows jump.
“Negative!” Riley cried, military crisp.
You hit the ground and dove behind the porch bench for cover, scooping snow in quick, efficient movements. “Hostilities escalate,” you announced, popping up to lob a soft one that burst into glitter at Riley’s boots. Riley gasped in joy. Ellie walked straight toward you with her little snowball held out like a peace treaty.
“Uh-oh,” Cate said, throwing and missing on purpose to watch the thing happen.
Ellie stopped at your knees. “Dada,” she said solemnly, and held up the snowball. “For you.”
You softened so fast it was almost audible. You squatted, took the snowball with reverence, and pressed a kiss to the mitten offering it. “Thank you, baby. Should I put it…right here?” You tucked the snowball gently into the crook of your elbow like it was a keepsake. “Oh no,” you gasped then, overacting again, “it’s melting! If only someone could save me!”
Riley threw another one at point-blank range. “I save you!”
You toppled backwards into the snow like you’d been felled by a trebuchet, arms flung wide. Cate’s laugh came out helpless. She bent to grab another handful just as you rolled and, with villainous precision, scooped Riley into a gentle snow hug. Riley kicked and squealed, enthralled. Ellie clapped and bounced.
Cate advanced, snowball raised. “Release the hostage and maybe I’ll go easy on you.”
You looked up from a snow-dusted Riley, eyes wicked, hair stuffed back under your beanie with that familiar stubborn curl already escaping. “Never,” you said, then lowered your voice. “Come get me, pretty girl.”
The world telescoped down to family and frosted breath and the ridiculous string of lights tangled around your boot. Cate threw, you dodged, Riley switched sides mid-battle when she decided alliances were fluid, and Ellie committed to re-supplying everyone by smushing powder into hands. Snow slid under Cate’s collar and she yelped, you crowed, Riley howled with laughter so hard she had to sit down.
By the time you called a truce, the sky had finished dimming to night and the porch lights had come on, catching the snow still falling in a golden haze. You climbed the ladder again, finishing the last run with brisk competence while Cate and the girls supervised from the steps, sipping cocoa Cate had microwaved during a quick retreat and re-advance. When you plugged in the final strand and the eaves came alive—warm white zigzags outlining their little house—Riley put a hand over her heart.
“It’s perfect,” she said, soft.
“Optimal,” you said, landing on the porch and kissing the top of her hat. “Ready to finish the inside?”
“Orn’mints,” Ellie declared, drunk on cocoa and victory.
Inside, you arranged the world again. Cate tied ribbon to hooks and Riley placed treasures with great ceremony. You lifted Ellie for the high branches, all patience and ridiculous sound effects. The glass ballerina found her place. The macaroni star, art indeed, received prime real estate. Captain Daddy’s shield hung low, where little eyes could find it first.
At the end, when the room smelled like pine and sugar and damp mittens left to dry near the vent, they stood shoulder-to-shoulder to watch you flip the tree lights on. Warm gold climbed the branches. Ornaments winked. Ellie breathed, “Ooooh,” in a way that made Cate’s heart feel full.
“Last piece,” you murmured, and looked at Riley.
Riley nodded solemnly, accepting the linen-wrapped bundle from Cate. The star. Not store-bought—this one you had cut from thin wood and covered in gold leaf with too much glue so the edges looked frayed, and Cate loved it more because of that. You hoisted Riley steady, strong hands around narrow ribs, and Riley set the star on the top and patted it like an animal that needed calming.
When you climbed down, the star sat a little crooked.
“It’s perfect,” Cate said, already anticipating the tradition of it being a little crooked every year.
“Strong branch,” Riley said again, leaning into your side.
“Strong branch,” you echoed, looping an arm around her and tugging Cate close with the other. Ellie claimed the center spot by stepping on everyone’s socks.
You stayed like that—four people pressed together, looking at a tree that felt like a promise—until the first tray of cookies pinged the oven timer. The rest of the night unfolded easily: frosting on faces, rainbow sprinkles in improbable places, a cookie that did in fact resemble a guitar if you tilted your head and loved the little girl who made it. You burned one tray, grinning like you’d meant to, and Riley declared the dark edges “caramelized.”
Eventually there were pajamas and storytime and the whir of the humidifier in the girls’ room, the kind of domestic symphony Cate had once thought she’d never hear. She tucked Ellie in and Ellie tucked her fingers around Cate’s sweater like a talisman. Riley whispered a request to keep the door cracked “so the tree light can peek.”
Cate peeked at the tree. “Done.”
In the living room, you sank onto the couch, leaning your head back, eyes closed. The lights haloed you. Cate stood there and memorized you for a second: the curve of your mouth, the tired posture, the way joy made you look younger and braver at the same time.
“You’re staring again,” you said without opening your eyes.
“Collecting data,” Cate murmured.
Your smile turned sideways, lazy. “Conclusion?”
Cate climbed into your lap, knees to either side of those ridiculous sweatpants with paint flecks from some ancient project. She pressed her cold nose to your warm cheek and felt you shiver. “Conclusion is we did good,” Cate said. She looked back toward the hallway where your daughters slept, then at the tree, then at the girl beneath her body. “We did so, so good.”
You wrapped her up, sturdy and unshowy and absolute. “Optimal,” you whispered into Cate’s hair. Outside, the lights traced your home against the night. Inside, the tree glowed. And in the pocket of quiet your day had earned, Cate let herself rest in it—the mess and the love, the laughter still echoing in the halls, the lingering sweetness of sugar on her tongue, the surety of being exactly where she wanted to be.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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I'd also like to clarify, since people get a little confused sometimes... the reason I listed Jasper as being good with kids while also being a groomer is because he doesn't groom children. He began to groom Cookie when she was a young adult. He knew her as a child and used that previously established trust to his advantage when he decided to opportunistically take advantage of her later in life. He had no ill intent before then, although his actions still hold the same weight, of course. It is a complicated situation. Keep in mind that adults taking advantage of children sexually (or just sexual grooming in general) is not the only form of grooming that exists; grooming is a convoluted, multifaceted, & complicated subject.
after working and thinking for a while about how i wanted to draw Kei and Kai for Purin-Purin, i finally found designs that i love!! here they are! the princess and prince of Purin-Purin! (yap session + extra Kei doodles below!)
Kei (she/her), switch — princess of Purin-Purin:
Kei is a homebody through and through, always finding comfort in familiar spaces and routines. But no matter what, she puts on a friendly face. There’s always a smile on her lips. It's a soft, pleasant one that she wears, even if it isn’t always genuine. The only time that smile feels real is when she’s talking to her brother or best friend, Virgil.
Behind that smile, though, is a princess weighed down by her own expectations and the pressure she puts on herself to succeed. She's always working, pushing herself harder than she needs to, even if it means exhausting herself in the process. But her friends—especially Virgil—are there to help her find moments of peace.
They know the secret to calming her down is often simple: tickling. Her stress melts away with each laugh.
Despite all her inner struggles, Kei is a sweetheart. She has a knack for connecting with those who feel lost or like they can't stand on their own. Whether they’re struggling with loneliness, self-doubt, or anything else, Kei’s the kind of person who’ll notice and offer a hand, all while hiding her own burdens behind that sweet smile. She’s more than just the kind smile—she’s a quiet, caring soul with a heart full of empathy for others.
Kai (he/they), switch — prince of Purin-Purin:
Kai is the opposite of his sister, Kei. While she finds peace in the comfort of her home, he thrives in the great outdoors, drawn to the freedom of nature. His connection to the world outside is deep, almost instinctual, almost like he was meant to be there.
He’s the kind of person who finds solace in solitude, yet also loves sharing those moments with the people he cares about—especially his sister and Jingles.
Despite their differences, Kai has a way of pulling Kei out of her bubble. He’s patient with her, gently coaxing her outside her comfort zone without pushing too hard. He doesn’t try to change her or force her into situations she’s not ready for, but instead, he quietly encourages her, always there to help her feel safe and supported, since he is aware that the world, to Kei, is intimidating.
However, despite his easy-going nature, Kai is fiercely protective of Kei. He doesn’t trust many people when it comes to her. He knows how kind-hearted she is and how easily she can be taken advantage of by people who don’t have her best interests at heart.
Even if their personalities are very different, their bond is one of unconditional love, the kind that doesn’t need words to be understood.
