#kayla writes ★ !

[kayla-and-the-moon]

baby, it's cold outside-! ᥫ᭡.

❄️plot: it's christmas eve and peter just really wants you stay, is that a crime?

❄️pairing: gn! reader x tasm!peter parker <3

❄️tw! : nothing just peter being a sweetpea/ best bf ever / darling dork. (dunno if minimal smooching counts as a tw-)

"god it's storming out there."

in your defense when you'd walked over here, the snow had been light, but now it seemed like the entirety of the world behind the window was a turbulent flurry of white. you'd come here to drop off some Christmas cookies your mom had baked, the problem was what was supposed to be a quick visit had turned into a couple hours.

of course you had one person to blame for that.

peter was practically engulfing you, his arms winding around your midriff and his face burying in your shoulder. you can feel the bastard's evil little grin against your sweater before he gives a hum of faux innocence.

"geez, that's really unfortunate", he tuts, his chin propping up to look at your unimpressed roll of the eyes in the window reflection, "I guess that means you'll have to stay huh?"

"pete, my dad would murder you."

"i think he'd murder me if I let you go out in this weather. so eitherway it's a death-death outcome, sweetheart."

it's honestly unfair how the nerd could turn you to all disarmed and smiley with a simple, dopey wisecrack of his. you have to stifle a snort of laughter before you turn to him with a brow raise. peter isn't deterred, but maybe even more motivated, and only just continues to look at you like you hung the moon itself.

"what? i'm just looking out for my girlfriend" he shrugs, but the stupid grin on his face belies those innocuous brown eyes of his.

you're almost persuaded to stay, but there's that niggling pinch of responsibility at the back of your mind, and you're once again looking outside as if your stared hard enough the sky would clear. no such luck, god, you wished the universe loved you enough to put its snowy tantrum on pause.

"it's not that bad, and my mom might get worried," you try reasoning, already picturing your mother's hysteria wondering if the multiple thugs lurking in new york's alleyways had taken you prisoner ,"really I should go-"

"you'll get pneumonia," he simply states with a pointed quirk of his brows, "plus we can always call."

"you know as well as I do that the cell service is unequivocally wrecked right now."

"then we'll call in the morning, your mom probably knows you're here," he counters, his fingertips drawing a path over your arms, "plus, I think she's caught on you're Spiderman's personal favorite civilian"

this brings a chuckle to slip from you, shaking your head at him.

"you're very pushy, peter parker" you roll your eyes, your arms crossing stubbornly over your chest.

peter can see right behind your facade though, and in all truth, he's feeling giddy as ever. he thinks he's the luckiest guy on earth when you grace him with that sweet smile rivaling sunshine.

"i'd just like to call it opportunistic," peter beams, the satisfaction evident in the glimmers of golden lamplight in his gaze.

"c'mon baby, don't make me beg here" he implores. lord, it should be forbidden for peter parker to call you that, since you have very little faith that your knees wouldn't buckle right that moment.

his hands find the curve of your waist and before you can even whisper the hint of another weak protest, he's dragged you to his bed, letting you fall on his chest with an unceremonious thump. you can't really bring yourself to tell him off, because peter has a way of making you all soft, and sticky with lovesickness. instead you just lean in to press a kiss of cinnamon sugar to his lips, and it's your turn to grin as he chases you after you pull away slightly.

your fingers toy with strands of his mousey brown hair at his nape as you give a theatrically defeated sigh, "okay fine, if you insist."

it's then you wish you could steal peter's camera just to capture the glow in his eyes, at your words, because truly you wanted to save that view forever. his palms rest on the apples of your cheeks, as he gives a low breathy laugh, his nose bumping to yours.

"that took a lot of convincing."

a/n: so this may be kinda rushed, so mind the quality, BUT i miss my tasm ! peter parker ,and i rlly rlly wanted to put out a christmas eve fic, and miss idina menzel and michael buble started this war (frank sinatra too, so blame them). eitherway, hope you liked this tiny lil fic, happy holidays ❄️🎅💕 !!

[cherrynflowergarden]

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[kekaki-cupcakes]

Heyyy can you please write something for Nico x male reader where Nico has seen reader around camp and reader is friendly and always laughing and talking with everyone. And Nico develops a crush on reader and eventually he decides to confess to reader when he sees them in the woods. Fluffy mainly but like a little spicey at the end if u do that stuff? :)

hey there bestie, let's pretend it hasn't been two months. this fic is also for @golden-boy-muda 's request for nico x transmasc reader <3

I couldn't find an idea in my empty ol head for this request but then I was looking for old oil painting wallpapers for my phone and now you have this incredibly sappy 3.2k of art references [I advise you keep another tab open for cross-referencing if you want the fUlL eXpErIeNcE]

Oil on Canvas--- Nico di Angelo x transmasc reader [3.2k] »»————-　★　————-««

Nico definitely isn’t a stalker, he understands boundaries [once Jason explains them to him, of course], but he might have a bit of a staring problem. 

Sometimes he’s just eating gluten free waffles with Hazel in the dining pavilion and ends up watching you shove your siblings around and plait your little sister's hair so it doesn’t get in her face when she goes Pegasus riding.

He spooned some blueberries onto his plate. 

It’s not his fault.

It’s yours, if anything. What is he supposed to do apart from feel like there’s moths beneath his ribcage when you pose, your nose scrunched, up for photos with Drew’s polaroid camera that’s covered with inappropriate stickers? 

Hazel elbowed him meaningfully in the side when he couldn’t help but grin because Holy Hades, a single person shouldn’t be able to look that much like the painting Ophelia [by friedrich heyser, to be specific], just because they wore a green camp shirt and a pearl necklace. 

Maybe it was his fault that he was comparing you to beautiful paintings. 

He scooped the blueberries onto his half eaten waffle and reached for the maple syrup Hazel had finished drowning her breakfast in. 

The Stoll brother’s mortal mum had sent a stack of paintings from art galleries all over the world last Christmas, and they’d let him pick out a few of the older more poetic ones that didn’t have enough blood and guts for their taste. 

Now the oil paintings of lakes and birds and crying angels and… mainly cats, actually, hung around the dark walled Cabin he slept in. 

Your laugh when you threw strawberries at Kayla and Austin while they worked in the infirmary reminded him of Angel [carl von marr, of course] and he felt like Chat a difficult catch [charles van den eycken] when you walked right past him without even glancing back.

So he’d made peace with watching from afar how you would forget daily to put sunscreen on but somehow always remembered to wear this pair of white crocheted gloves that looked like cat paws. 

On a completely irrelevant note, Nico was learning to crochet. 

Hazel made eye contact with him again when he looked from you to her, and he plugged his ears and glared before she started kicking him in the shins and begging him to pluck up the courage to walk over and even just make eye contact. 

Not that he didn’t want to. 

He may have lined up in his catalog of daydreams, this scenario where you both went down to the beach. Any beach, really. You’d collect shells and eat popcorn and grapes and lemonade and squish sand between your toes and pick up crabs with him. 

PROMENADE ON THE BEACH [Charles Atamian, obviously].

There was another scenario where he’d take you to the farmers market. It had the biggest bouquets of flowers, and rows upon rows of fruits and vegetables and incense and beaded jewelry. 

When he was laying in bed underneath the fluffy zebra patterned duvets that Piper forced him to use, mainly because they matched the dark reds of the cushions and browns of the bookshelves and antique lamps in the cabin so well, you were walking down the rows of little stores with him.

You were holding his hand with those soft cat paw gloves and you liked the feel of his rings [he’d read that people liked rings in a book, somewhere] and you’d filled the Studio Ghibli tote bag you had with berries. 

He’d watched most of the movies after he saw your bag. He liked Arriety the best. 

Clarisse stomped past the Hades table, leaving bloody footprints no one asked about, and smacked him in the back of his head. Nico went back to eating his waffles and daydreaming about your smile. 

In the farmers market you would sniff candles and never buy them because Hazel had far too many for all of her spells and the such that he would never run out. And what was Hazel’s was his and what was his was hers, meaning that what was Hazel’s was yours. 

Because Nico would give everything he owned, even his favorite jacket, for you to look his way. 

And he would buy you flowers, whichever were your favorite. 

Maybe the ones from the painting Hazel forced him to take because ‘you can’t just not hang a painting that literally is you, Neeks’. 

Italian Girl with Flowers. Joaquin Sorolla. 1886. 

He didn’t see the resemblance.

But it didn’t really matter, because he’d get to watch you looking at all the cool things for sale and then he’d take you to the best gelato he’d found so far [he was making a list] or just use the shadows, and take you to a proper gelato shop. Whatever you wanted to do, really.

Nico blinked. He huffed, mainly at himself, and stabbed his waffle. It fell apart on the fork.

“Why’re you angry?”

He looked up from his plate, to Hazel. She was sitting opposite him with a mustache made of orange juice. “...I’m not.”

“You’re not supposed to be pushing down your emotions, remember?” she said sternly, and started picking the green bits off a strawberry. She was eating as many berries as she could, since she wasn’t allowed lollies anymore. The perks of braces. 

Nico looked away. “I’m fine.”

“You’re thinking about the cat glove girl, aren’t you?” she asked with a smirk.

“Cat glove boy, remember?” he muttered, and took a bite of his waffle, wiping squished blueberries off his chin.

Hazel’s golden eyes widened, “Oh yeah. Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize to me,” he said, and was grateful for the excuse to peek your way. You were eating toast. Very pretty-ily. He felt his face heat up.

Hazel perked up, a mischievous grin he didn’t appreciate on her face. “Okay! I’ll go apologize to your boyfriend then-”

Nico stared at her. Why was she like this? She actually went to stand up, and then he yanked her sleeve, pulling her back down to the table. “No! Don’t just… you can’t… stop!”

“You didn’t deny that he’s your boyfriend,” Jason chuckled, sitting down next to Hazel. 

“I hate you all,” Nico said. 

It was torture. 

He felt like Sleepy time potion [Vanessa Stockhard], stuck in the middle of your loveliness, unable to do anything except stare and hope that his face wasn’t too as red as the mushroom he was sitting on. 

In the painting. 

Not in real life. 

Obviously. 

»»————-　★　————-««

Nico stared down at the hat in his lap.

He’d done it. He’d actually finished one of the hundreds of projects he’d started in Piper’s efforts to find him a hobby that wasn’t sitting on the fences of cemeteries or standing in line at Mcdonalds. 

He had lots of other hobbies, he just… couldn’t come up with them when she was arguing with him. 

So they’d gone through writing, painting, records, sleeping, which he excelled in, and then crocheting. None had lasted very long, but he may have had an idea half way through trying to stab Piper with the crocheting stick.

And now he had a white bucket hat with cat ears.

He threw it to the end of his bed, and hid underneath his duvet. Fuck. 

Repose. Malcolm Liepke. 1953. 

What on Olympus was he supposed to do about the way he wanted to hold you so badly he felt like throwing up and tearing his hair out?

He lay underneath in the pocket of stuffy darkness for a moment, before sitting up, untangling his blankets and teddies from him, and then standing. He may have just had the greatest idea anyone had ever thought of before.

Hazel was still in the shower, singing, most likely, so he grabbed his jacket from the coat rack that was actually just a skeleton, and then stomped out of his cabin, the stupid hat in his fist.

His heart was beating wildly. Stupid heart. 

The Wedding Dress. Fred Ellwell. 1911.

He rubbed his face and groaned at the sky. The stars were just peeking out, but it was still pink and yellow, and the sun hadn’t dipped yet. It was hidden by the trees he was trudging through, though. 

Fuck.

His chest was hurting. 

Nico scrunched up the stupid perfect crocheted hat that just had to stupidly perfectly match your stupid perfect cat gloves because Nico was stupidly perfectly obsessed with you. 

You, who was stupidly perfect.

Fuck. 

Psyche Weeping. Kinuko Y Craft. 1995.

He trod on twigs that broke underneath his boots and weaved through the tree’s that slowly became more and more laden with hanging pendants and wind chimes and ruins carved into the bark.

He stepped over a thin stream. A frog croaked at him like it was dying. As if it could ever feel like it was dying. As if it could ever fall in love.

Nico groaned at the sky again. 

“Just let it all out.”

He turned, and glared. “Do you mind?”

“Yes, actually,” Lou Ellen said, raising a purple eyebrow. It matched the undersides of her curly hair. She pointed to the cabin concealed in shadows and moss and stones behind her. “This is my house. And you are yelling very loudly.”

“I’m not yelling,” Nico argued. “I’m groaning.”

She stared at him for a second. She rolled her eyes. “Just come in, what do you need?”

“I need a spell. Or a charm. Or hex,” Nico said, following her through the wooden double doors. A wind chime tinkled even though the air was still. There were a few bunks lined up against the wall to one side. “Or a magic thing. I don’t care which one.” 

The rest of the cabin was filled with small coffin shaped pet beds and empty pink soda cans and voodoo dolls hanging from the roof and rugs with cats wearing strawberry hats on the fluffy material and misty crystal balls. 

Lou Ellen lent back on a desk stacked high with papers and paperweights that were actually jars filled with things. “Okay. I have three rules. I don’t kill people, and I don’t make people fall in love.”

“...And?”

“I’ll break both if it’ll be fun?”

Nico frowned. “No. Aren’t you supposed to say you won’t bring people back from the dead? That’s always the third rule.”

She squinted at him. “Uh…no. I send those people to you.” 

Nico squinted back at her, sticking his tongue out. He fiddled with the stupid perfect hat and looked around. There was just more creepy things and stuffed animals. “Whatever. I need your help.”

“With what?”

“I need you to… like,” Nico started. He sighed. He looked away. 

This was awful. 

He was not about to admit that he might be in love, even if it was to reverse the feelings in the first place with whatever heart ripping out brain altering magic was necessary. 

The Apollo cabin would find out through the witch in less than thirty seconds. He would never live it down. 

Nico groaned again. “Oh for fucks sake, do you need me to fic your voicebox or something?” Lou Ellen hissed. 

Nico glared at her. He groaned again, and then whirled around and stomped out of the weird mossy mushroom cabin. “Nevermind!”

“Fine! Have it your way!...weird little emo.”

Nico glared at the frog croaking at him, and kept walking through the forest. 

He followed the little stream through the woods until he could hear wind chimes or Taylor Swift’s latest album anymore. 

The little stream widened into a proper stream, filled with a lot more frogs. Why were there so many frogs? He nearly stood on a green one leaping across the path. Stupid frog.

Nico stuffed his hands into his pockets, along with the hat. He was tempted to just toss it into the river. Then he wouldn’t have to deal with all of the silly feelings that felt like the biggest things in the world to him and his silly head full of thoughts about your lips.

Maybe the frogs could use the hat as a home.

“Here froggie… Come here… I said, come here... No I am not taking a tone with you!” 

Nico froze. 

Fuck. He took a deep breath, probably too loudly. He glanced to the side. 

Of course you were catching frogs, knee deep in a river.

You looked over, making eye contact, and Nico realized the moths underneath his ribcage were turning into bats. You squinted at him, hands on your hips, while water swirled around and leaves drifted from the trees above. A bucket was wedged between two rocks next to you.

A frog jumped out of it and landed near your leg, on a lillypad. 

“Look Albert,” you said, turning to the frog. “It’s a little Victorian ghost.”

“...I’m Italian,” Nico said quietly. He stared at you. He couldn’t help it. Wow. Fuck. Leo was right. He really was pathetic. “And I’m not a ghost.”

“Okay, Victorian ghost.” 

Nico stared at you. Fuck.

After that exchange, he should be able to hate you. Right? Right. He now resented you, and the moths turned bats would stop clawing at his chest and he would go back to having a normal life. 

Right?

Wrong.

You squinted at Nico, and then slowly turned to Albert. “I think the cute Victorian ghost is having a stroke.”

Nico blinked once, gulped, and then marched forward through the cold water and frogs, his shoes squelching loudly. Gods. This was so embarrassing. But you thought he was cute, even if you also thought he was a dead english boy, so he would be content with dying from embarrassment. 

He shoved the stupid perfect hat into your stupid perfect hands.

And then left in about 0.3 seconds. 

»»————-　★　————-««

You stared down at your pancakes. Why were they so gray looking? Had someone poisoned them? You figured that it would be a pretty good way to die, and tipped extra maple syrup onto them before you dug in. 

To counterbalance the poison, of course.

You scratched at the mosquito bite underneath the strap of your binder. It had flowers embroidered into it. Your binder. Not the mosquito bite.

One of your siblings across from you kicked at your shin, probably on purpose, but you continued to eat your odd tasting pancakes and picked blueberry grit off your white cat paw gloves. They were your favorite gloves. 

They also matched your new hat. The new hat that the cute Victorian but actually Italian ghost boy had given you before he teleported away with whatever dark magic he had stored in all that goth-ness.

You tossed a blueberry at Clarisse when she walked past and tried to bash you over the head. 

She wasn’t allowed to ruin your new hat.

You turned to see her flicking the blueberry over at someone else, and your eyes flicked past that too. Now way. You stood up, but you’d lost sight of the mess of dark hair when the Hermes cabin barrelled past.

You clambered onto your seat and stood up there. “Oi! Victorian ghost hat boy!”

The dining pavilion went quiet pretty quickly, and everyone turned to the cute guy with a skeleton hoodie and wide eyes. He pointed at himself when you pointed at him, and then went pink. 

Clarisse stuck her arm out so you didn’t faceplant when you jumped down from your seat, and you held onto your new hat as you traipsed across the cracked floor. 

You’d never figured out how that crack had got there. But there were bigger mysteries. 

Like this cute goth. 

His face just pinker when you grabbed his sleeve and tried to tug him out of the entire camp’s curious eyes. A dark skinned girl with a lot of butterfly clips and a Steven Universe t-shirt sent a thumbs up in your direction. 

It was only when you were standing by the low burning fire pit in a patch of daisies did you realize you hadn’t really planned far enough ahead. 

You took off the cat-ear hat and looked down at it. “...Uhm…”

“Sorry,” the goth said quickly, and when you made eye contact he looked away even quicker. “It’s creepy. Boundaries and stuff, I just… saw your gloves.” 

“It’s not creepy,” you argued, putting the hat back on with a grin. He was really cute when he blushed. “I mean, I don’t even know your name, and I have no idea who you are but your eyeliner is really really great and… Holy Hades if you smile like that again can I… please kiss you?”

The goth with no name stared at you, and then nodded about ten times too many. “Yes please. But, uh.. If you’re gonna kiss me, please, maybe don’t get my dad involved.”

“...Wut?”

»»————-　★　————-««

Nico could feel his cheeks growing hotter.

Not because of the sun, specifically, but it was hot and bright in the woods. He’d worn sunscreen though. And forced you to put it on too, once he’d found watermelon scented sunscreen, because you refused to smell gross no matter how sunburnt you would get anyways. 

His face was hot and red because of you. 

You, who was stupidly perfect and also possibly kind of Nico’s stupidly perfect boyfriend. 

“Psst, Victorian ghost boy,” you said with a sing-song voice, quietly, and waved your hand in front of his eyes with your pink, blue, and white painted nails. He blinked. You smiled. “You zoned out again.”

“Sorry,” Nico said, and pulled a daisy out of the ground. He handed it over. “I was thinking about you.”

He hadn’t realized the effect that saying that would have on you, but it was worth it when you opened and closed your mouth like one of the frogs you kept as pets. 

“I.. well, what were you thinking about?”

Nico had played his cards right. He smirked, and you shuffled forwards on the checked picnic blanket Piper had stolen from Drew, who’d probably nicked it from poor unsuspecting Demeter or Iris kid. You knocked over the basket of strawberries too, and then took your bucket hat off and stuffed it in your lap with a grin.

He tilted his head down. You were both following a very well rehearsed script. “...Kissing you?”

You launched yourself forwards then with a laugh, your cat-paw gloved hands landing on either side of his waist and probably squishing some of those strawberries at the same time. 

The sun reflected in your eyes and Nico held the sides of your face as he pressed his lips to yours. 

You kissed back, and once you both stopped smiling widely, you could kiss back. 

Properly. 

He scratched his fingernails, the ones you’d painted rainbow that afternoon after catching more frogs and complaining about sunscreen, along your jaw when you bit down on his bottom lip.

Not as a complaint, certainly not, and you knew that too because you just sat back on your knees between Nico’s lap and tilted your head to fit deeper against Nico’s bruised lips. 

The ones that hadn’t had a single day off since you jumped up in the middle of breakfast with your gluten free waffles you hadn’t realized were gluten free until he had explained it to you later. 

It was intensely crazily unbearably romantic but it also meant whatever cold one of you managed to catch, the other would come down with only minutes later. 

And Nico felt like that smug little cat from Julie Manet’s Auguste Renoir.  

»»————-　★　————-««

[kaylaz-world-00]

#─WELCOME.

The name’s Kayla

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My main account @kaylas-world-0

-MDNI- I might write some nsfw-ish/suggestive themes so you know. I’m leaving a warning here 👀

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Shout out to Anons! I don't know if you'll like it, but it would be great if you could choose an emoji while sending your requests and stay with it so I can tell you apart. For example, it would be great if one of you could use this emoji to indicate who you are 🍪! Thanks!

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[blurrypetals]

Icarus by K. Ancrum - blurrypetals review

originally posted jun 13, 2024 - ★★★☆☆

I'm starting to lose hope Kayla can ever write anything nearly as good as The Wicker King ever again. This is her third book in a row I've rated 3 stars of 5 and I'm worried her debut was a beautiful, achingly perfect fluke. I will at least say, between this, The Weight of the Stars, and Darling, I liked this the best. It has Ancrum's signature lovely, dreamy prose and I felt like I was stepping into another world each time I chipped away at the audiobook. I did enjoy Icarus as a character and thought his relationship with his father was the most interesting and rewarding to read, but it wasn't the main focus, and I almost wish it had been. But truly, this book did not draw me in. When I read The Wicker King, I could not stop myself from devouring it whole. I took it on family vacation, snuck it into the bathroom to read at work, couldn't get enough of it...but here, I didn't feel that same urgency or desire whatsoever. I also wasn't invested in Icarus and Helios as a couple. It felt like a whole lot of destiny and fate malarkey making them like one another rather than the two of them actually forging a bond. This is a weird thing to complain about, since it's not bad representation, but I'm not sure how I felt about the disability rep here either. It sort of felt shoehorned in last minute, and it didn't seem to affect Icarus's life very much, either, before or after finding out he mind have it. I don't know, it just felt like weak representation and, even as someone who has fibromyalgia, I almost felt like it was unnecessary, since it felt so throwaway by the end. Anyway, I'll probably still read whatever Ancrum puts out next, forever chasing the high that was her debut, but I'm pretty disappointed this one didn't even begin to fly too closely to the sun, but at least it didn't come down crashing and burning.

[kayla-and-the-moon]

secrets baked in gingerbread !

🎄plot: nothing, just baking gingerbread cookies with neil. lrl the plot. a sprinkle of sneaking around welton (suck it nolan)

🎄tw: none !! pure fluff (i didn't proofread yet sigh)

🎄pairing: gn! reader x neil perry ! established relationship !

In hindsight, maybe sneaking in through the window wasn't your brightest idea.

you clambered through, falling onto the ground in a pile of limbs and winter coat in the dark.

you shrug it off as you stand upright now, a bit shivery, but nonetheless with all your wits intact.

your eyes roam the empty room, darkness doing little to ease your apprehension over the shapeless shadows that could very well be pots, but to a mind with four hours of sleep due to an algebra test, they could be the stuff of the middle school ghost stories the boys conjured up in the cave.

so, what were you doing exactly?

well, one fateful evening, with your head in Neil's lap as he read against one of the ancient willow trees in Welton's lawn, you began pondering. Pondering hard.

Christmas was coming up, the holiday had meant much to you, however Neil's opinion of it wasn't exactly measured up.

his Christmases were nothing memorable, except starchy family dinners, scarce gifts, and tightlipped thank yous when he unwrapped yet another book about pharmaceuticals, neurosurgery, cardiology- .

"what do you mean you've never baked gingerbread before ?" your aghast disbelief and fuelled hatred for his father had launched the current strategy a few days before the holiday.

with some convincing pleas, promises to help him rehearse lines for his next play, and eyes alight with the shimmery sparkles of pure imploring, 'If you say no, you clearly have no regard for my feelings' - he'd agreed.

you'd hatched up a scheme, Neil had assured you the kitchen windows of Welton were always kept open, and the latches were rusty and broken. seriously, for a prep school, your parents kept gushing over and wishing you'd been able to go to, the security could use some work.

you'd tucked the necessary ingredients stolen from your parents' pantry under your coat in a tiny paper bag. the next step was Neil sneaking down from his dorm room.

It was the dead of night, so the chances of patrolling teachers were minimal, but for all you knew from Hellton horror stories, Nolan was the lightest of sleepers and would rise like some mummified supervillain to grab at Neil's ankles and-

you shrieked in a whisper, as the lights of the kitchen came on, whirling around, expecting to be met with a grim-faced Hager and to be dragged to the principal's office (even though you didn't even go here the thought was still terrifying).

instead, you're met with a grin you know all too well that immediately stops your knees from knocking together and your wide-as-saucer eyes to return to a normal diameter.

"Did I scare you, Rudolph?" Neil teases, nodding to your florid nose, as he pads in, all blue plaid pajamas, mussed brown hair, and grey slippers as he stands by the light switch with a smug grin slapped on his face, something that Charlie would've been proud of.

your eyes roll as you finally get ahold of your pulse, which apparently thought it was racing against a bullet train, "scared? understatement of the century, Perry, I very nearly went into cardiac arrest." you hiss, hand over your heart, maybe a little dramatically.

(the boy was rubbing off on you, you swore it). Neil chuckles, a warm sound, something that sounds like sweetness, as he pads over to where you are, a gleam in his eye.

"Also, you weren't braving snowstorms to get here, so I'd watch the nicknames," you add with a narrow of your eyes, plopping the brown paper bag on the counter.

his fingertip pokes your cheek affectionately as he grins, "that's a shame, I had quite a few I needed to get out of my system," he comments casually, tapping your nose, leaving the ruddy tint on your nose spreading to your ears.

you give him an unimpressed swat at his hand, and a very annoying part of you wants to smile, but you bite it back.

Neil grins before his gaze finally trails to your mysterious bag, raising a curious brow as his hands move to it, beginning to fish through.

"Did you...did you bring ten shades of green frosting?" he scoffs in disbelieving laughter.

"Well, since we're using everything else we need from here, I think it was a good idea to indulge in the aesthetics."

"I didn't know cookie-baking was this serious," Neil gives a low whistle, crossing his arms as he examines the page. "all the more reason to get started," you chime, tugging at his sleeve, your chin tilting to the cupboards, "you grab the ingredients, I'll handle the pots and trays, sounds good?"

"Aye aye, chef," he returns, as he goes on his assigned quest, braving the dust and creaking cupboards of Welton's kitchen, and you attempt to make as little noise as you can, delving into pots and pans trying to pull out, a good cookie tray and mixing bowl.

finally, after a few minutes, you both emerge victorious. Soon, you're busy debating with Neil that the measurements don't have to be exact.

"Neil, honey, listen, it's literally not a catastrophe if it's a milligram less than 500" "bUt it says 500 >:( " .

and you're letting him mix. You would probably lie if he asked, but you found it both entertaining and anxiety-inducing as his stirs began to get increasingly more aggressive because -

"WHY ISN'T IT THICKENING?" "I think you have to add more flour-" "I KNEW IT."

you have to hold in a wheeze of laughter as somehow and miraculously while dusting it over the counter as a bed for the dough, the boy gets flour on his nose, so you opt for a tight, tight smile and clearly, that was your first mistake because your boyfriend notices after he's rolled out the dough.

now he's chasing you around the kitchen with a bag of flour while you hold in the war cries of a fallen soldier as he pelts you with handfuls of the powder as if it were goddamn snow.

by the end, you were backed against the fridge, panting as you called for a truce, sealing it with a floury kiss followed by bursts of stifled laughter.

"I think we should do more snowmen," Neil proposes as you place another Christmas tree cookie cutter into the thick dough with precision.

"while I do think that's a good idea, you took up most of the dough with the reindeer" you reply back simply, as you gesture to the five grand animal cut outs, and a few (amputated) gingerbread men alongside a tree or two.

"Aha, but you see, that's where you're wrong because where there's hope, there is a way," he announces poignantly.

he squishes the dough, making sure to pick up stragglers sticking stubbornly to the countertop and serendipitously finding just enough to bring one more snowman to sugary life.

Neil's merry little hop of victory, paired with the glee sparkling in his eyes, leaves you feeling the happiest you've ever been to be proven wrong.

soon, you're popping the almost ready treats in the oven, and Neil's preparing a strategy on taking them out a minute before the timer ends to avoid the obnoxious beeping that would ensue and result in both your 'hinds being flung into Nolan's office.

you spend the time seated on the counter after Neil steals some poor educator's eggnog from the fridge as you exchange giddy and hushed conversation, legs swinging over the edge.

"-and that's when his pantaloons fell down mid-line, and he had to stand behind one of the trees to deliver the ending monologue," Neil explains through peals of laughter, and you'd already lost it at the word pantaloons.

"-no, I'm serious, my brother really tricked me into thinking he was Santa Clause." "You've got to be kidding me," Neil gapes, a grin playing on his lips.

"Hey! Don't you make fun of me, Mister thought-the-easter-bunny-was-real-till-he-was-fifteen," you taunt back, in stitches as he lightly shoves at your shoulder. but then, the corner of your eyes catches something.

Neil notices it the same time you do.

"Oh shHHH-" you both lunge like Olympians towards the oven, literally seconds away from the timer going off and waking the entire bottom floor.

Neil gets to it first, a hand slapping over the knob, and with one second left, the oven shuts off with a dull, disappointed click. the sigh of relief emptying from both of you quickly sinks into suppressed laughter.

Neil reaches out a tentative hand, opening the oven door, about to grab the tray-

"Oh my god, are you trying to scorch your hand- !" you immediately smack his fingers, met with his bemused furrowing brow, until realization turns him sheepish.

"well that wasn't the exact plan-"

you force him to wear some tattered oven mitts with tiny cats wearing Christmas hats sewn on them that you'd found in the recesses of kitchen drawers.

decorating cookies is something Neil Perry had little to no experience in, but last year, you'd brought some over for everyone, and all he wanted to do was make you proud.

so he rolled up his sleeves, the piping bag held like a weapon, and his tongue stuck out in concentration as he attempted icing.

you'd honestly forgotten to ice your own, just there watching him with the biggest smile tugged on your lips, because yeah, Neil was maybe adorable, but you wouldn't tell him that to his face- well, not right now, right now.

what had come of this was some perfectly iced snowmen, smiley-faced gingerbread men, and perky Christmas trees, for the boy had talent.

But after a few painstakingly decorated cookies from both your perfectionist selves, you decide that it's time to make the hideous batch. so you wreak havoc with gumdrops and haphazardly thrown sprinkles.

there was even one with a middle finger and a poorly drawn caricature of Nolan, and yes, some would call you an artist.

there's almost a toothrottingly large amount of giggling as you stick a few extra gumdrops to Neil's nose, and sure, maybe if one of the poets caught this, he'd be teased mercilessly into finals, but when you smiled like that, he thinks it would be worth it.

"Okay, ready?" you say gravely as you hold a cookie up to his lips, him doing the same for you, both your eyes meeting with the seriousness of testing out a NASA rocket.

"Ready."

Neil's eyes nearly pop out his sockets as he releases a satisfied groan because the cookies taste heaven-sent.

suddenly, he doesn't mind that he possibly felt a spider in one of those oven mitts. clearly, you agree as your gaze widens, and the pure joy of devouring a good cookie settles on your face.

then there are footsteps on the staircase. heavy ones.

Neil's and your heads both whip to the stairwell, then to one another, as your blood runs cold.

oh fu-

next thing you know, you're busy stuffing down all your supplies in a bag, and Neil tossing the creations you'd both labored over into a tin you'd thankfully remembered to pack, and Neil's ushering you down a secret passageway as you stumble over another set of stairs, before finally-finally reaching his dorm.

Todd is less than amused when he wakes up to muffled laughter and out-of-breath gasps, but he doesn't mind since he gets a pretty good cookie out of it.

you're not sure if the rest of the boys have some telepathic connection or they'd just caught a whiff of the baked goods, but soon they've materialized in the room.

you fall asleep beside Neil after hours of guzzling down sodas Knox had gotten ahold of during one of his outings into town when he'd gone to see Chris, poets' snarfing down the treats like it were their last meal and everyone's attempting

- emphasis on attempting-

to keep their voices down, especially when Charlie's doing a wicked impersonation of Cameron, and almost trips over an innocently extended leg.

before you drift off, you catch the faint smile pressing to your forehead as your cheek lies against the pillow and a faintly whispered "thank you."

and that's probably the best Christmas gift you could ask for.

bonus !: neil's busy packing up his text, the boys going ahead of him to secure seats in the dining hall. "Slept well last night mister perry?" "Yes sir," neil's eyes barely look up to Mister Keating as he struggles to stuff a handful of pencils in his case, the question a bit odd, but maybe he looked more tired than usual, he guesses that was a given after last night-

"You know it's funny, I went downstairs last night and heard the strangest noise in the kitchens..." Keating drawls as he gathers his books in the crook of his elbow. And it's then Neil looks up to see the beam on his face, no malice in those eyes but the sparkle of good old-fashioned I know what you did. He stops by the doorframe as he gives Neil one last raise of his brows, leaving him with a statement that turns Neil's face scarlet. "I never would've pegged you as a baker, Mister Perry."

a/n: yes the lowercase is intended- sorta. this was written over a number of days, very late um- i was going to go for mr lupin, but it was neil perry week, so here we go. if you liked this, well maybe possibly reblog and/or comment :D !! i had fun with it, it's not perfect, but i needed to get out at least one christmassy dps fic :') the next one is definitely going to be remus, until then thank you for reading <3 happy holidays ho ho ho 🎅