#my old job when ice cream got stuck at the bottom of a trash can an stayed there for two weeks in 100 degree weather

[the-pea-and-the-sun]

at this point im not even mad or irritated at my roomates anymore im just fascinated by them. everyday they do something insane and i start thinking abt what the fuck must b going on in their lives that they live like this. im studying them

[sinfullystanning]

I Should Go

Steve Rogers x Reader

Genre: Fluff/Angst

Inspired by the song: “I Should Go” by Levi Kreis

A/N: Sorry this is so late! I got caught up with some social engagements.

You weren’t having the best week. You’d graduated college over six months ago and you were still woefully unemployed. Today had been the tipping point, your hundredth rejection call. Understandably, you’d snapped. Now you were lying on your couch, your hair greasy and a wreck, your makeup hastily smeared across your face from angry tears and frustrated hands that had been too angry to take it off properly, you were wearing a huge t-shirt that you were pretty sure wasn’t yours, but you didn’t know where it came from and quite frankly didn’t care, and your pants were non-existent as the shirt went down past your knees. Between your knees was a huge tub of ice cream and your hand was tightly clutching the largest spoon you’d been able to find. The TV was blaring some multi-season drama that you’d found tucked away at the bottom of your Netflix list that you’d been saving for the day you’d finally have enough time to binge it. Your mind felt blank, empty, and you couldn’t feel anything.

That’s why the scrape of a key in the lock of your apartment door made you jump, brandishing your spoon warily as the door swung in to reveal your best friend, Steve standing on the other side, a handful of grocery bags in one hand and a steaming bag of takeout in the other. He frowned slightly as he made his way over to the TV area and took in your predicament. His cheeks dusted slightly pink at the realization that you weren’t wearing pants and also at something else. “Is that my shirt?” He asked and you glanced down at the giant gray tee, with the somewhat faded US Army logo on it.

“I guess it is.” You stated before setting your ice cream tub beside you and making a grab for the takeout bag that Steve was holding. “Did you get the noodles? You better have gotten the noodles.” You muttered as you wrestled the bag from his grip, digging through it until you came up with one particular white box with the slightest drip of a brown sauce leaking from the top. Popping the container open you sighed with relief and pleasure as you took a deep whiff of the steamy scent that burst forth from the box. You fished a pair of chopsticks out of the bag and settled down to eat, closing your eyes and moaning at the first bite. “Now that’s the shit.” You murmured before you went into hyper-eating mode, shoving bite after bite into your mouth.

Steve shook his head in disbelief as he went to the kitchen to put away the groceries. As he unloaded the three tubs of ice cream and five containers of chocolate sauce that you’d requested, he wondered if he was doing the right thing. You deserved a break, that was for sure. He knew how frustrated you were with the job search and the constant rejections, and that was why he’d given in to your self-destructive behavior, but for one night and one night only. The voice in the back of his head reminded him that the more he let you slide today, the more he’d have to put together tomorrow. He pushed these worries away as he returned to the living room and sat down in the armchair next to the couch, taking his takeout box off of the table, watching you as he ate.

Finally, you broke the silence, slurping up the last of your noodles, tossing the empty box into the trash can across the room. Steve winced as he noticed a few stray drops of sauce fly out of the box as it sailed to its destination. You snuggled back into the couch cushions, sighing, content with a full stomach of warm noodles. “Thanks for bringing the food, Stevie.” Then you sat up suddenly. “Are you thirsty? I’m thirsty.”

“Yeah, sure, thanks I’ll take some water-” Steve started before you cut him off.

“Water, please, Stevie you need to stop being such a prude.” You hopped off of the couch, darting off into the kitchen as Steve did his best not to stare too hard at your bare legs. When you came back, you were holding a bottle of wine and two glasses. Flopping back onto the couch, you waggled the bottle in Steve’s direction. “Come on Stevie, use those guns for good.” Steve rolled his eyes before taking the bottle from you and popping the cork.

“Are you sure we should be opening this? There’s only two of us, there’s no way we’ll finish it all.” Steve said as he handed the bottle back. You smirked, batting away a stray wisp of hair that tickled your nose.

“How many times do I have to tell you, never underestimate me Rogers.” You grinned devilishly as your poured two glasses, handing one to him. As Steve brought the glass to his lips to sip it, you put the other glass down, bringing the bottle to your lips and gulping down the red liquid.

“Y/N!” Steve shouted, surprised. He put down his glass as quickly as he could before diving across the coffee table to grab the bottle you were currently chugging. You grabbed the bottle with both hands, struggling to wrestle it away from his iron grasp while still drinking from it. Finally, with a firm tug, Steve managed to get the bottle away from your lips, then wrestling the now mostly empty container from your grip. As the bottle jerked away from your mouth, a splash of the dark red liquid escaped, landing on your shirt. You swore angrily, jumping off the couch to avoid any running onto it. You glared at Steve as you gripped the stained material, frowning down at what most likely become a permanent resident on the shirt.

“Steve, what the hell!” You shouted angrily.

“What do you mean, ‘Steve, what the hell’ Y/N, get a grip!” Steve shouted back and your eyes widened, surprised. Steve never yelled at you.

“Get a grip? You want me to get a grip?” Your voice was bitter and you felt the angry tears you’d been holding back all day pricking against the backs of your eyes. “You don’t get it? Do you? You’re lucky! You finished high school and got into the army with flying colors! You have a job for the rest of your life! Well, guess what, Stevie Wonder, not everyone has it that easy! I worked my ass off for four years so I could get a job and now I’ve been out of school for six damn months, still stuck living off my parents’ damn money getting calls from them every day asking if I have a job yet! Do you have any idea what that’s like?! Having to not only face rejection from job after job every day and then having to tell my parents! I have to tell them that their daughter that they always thought was so freaking special is a complete and utter failure! So don’t you dare tell me to get a grip, Steve Rogers, because you know what, I think I’ve earned the right to fall apart!” As the last angry word spewed from your lips, you felt the tears that had been blurring your vision begin to run down your cheeks. You sat back down on the couch, putting your head in your hands, ashamed of yourself. Steve didn’t deserve all the things you were throwing at him. It wasn’t his fault that you were struggling.

Your head suddenly began to feel heavy and you leaned over, letting your head rest on a couch cushion. Then a gentle voice came from somewhere next to you. “Y/N. Hey, Y/N, you need to change, and we need to get you to bed, you can’t sleep quite yet.

Steve sighed. He knew you were going through a rough time and he knew he had no right to be angry at you but he wished you’d just lean on him sometimes instead of trying to do everything yourself. On top of that, he couldn't help his natural instinct to keep you safe and seeing you break down was the hardest thing for him to watch, especially when every impulse in his body was screaming at him to pull the brakes on your train that was hurtling towards the end of the line. And most of all, he knew you were the biggest lightweight in history. He shoved a tired hand through his hair as he gently shook your shoulder. “Y/N, come on, you can sleep as soon as we get you changed.” You moaned in your inebriated half sleep, making no move to get off of the couch.

Steve pursed his lips together as he weighed his options. Finally, he decided to go with his instincts, gently scooping up your small body, gently carrying you to your bedroom, gently laying you on your bed before heading to your closet. After some searching, he found an old sleepshirt of yours, bringing it back to where you were lying. He gently shook your shoulder again as he helped you sit up. “Come on, Y/N, you need to change.” Barely coherent, you stretched your arms up and Steve felt his cheeks flush at what you were asking.

Suddenly, he remembered something he’d seen a few times during training missions with coed squads. Biting his lip as he tried to imagine what he’d done his best not to look at back then, he carefully put the clean sleep shirt over your head, making sure it covered you enough before carefully slipping his trembling fingers underneath, carefully guiding the stained shirt underneath off of your arms and then through the neck of the clean shirt, removing it. He noticed a flashing of something he shouldn’t have seen out of the corner of his eyes, but averted them quickly, cheeks flaming. Lastly, he guided your arms through the sleeves and you were changed.

Sighing again, Steve carefully pulled back the comforter and sheets before scooping you up again and laying you down on the soft sheets, gently pulling the blankets back over you. You stirred, snuggling into the bed and Steve couldn’t help but smile. He reached a hand up to carefully wrestle the tie out of your hair, letting it fan out across your pillow before picking up the stained t-shirt and heading back to the living room. He put the shirt in a plastic bag so he could take it home and try getting the stain out. After that, he cleaned up the living room and kitchen, picking up and taking out the trash. Finally, he headed back to the kitchen, filling a glass with water for when you woke up. He crept back into your bedroom as quietly as possible, setting the glass on your bedside table, placing a manila folder next to it. He smiled absently as he thought of your reaction when you saw the folder the next morning. Inside was an offer for a position in your field at his army base that he’s managed to ask his superiors to for. He knew it wasn’t the corporate skyscraper job you dreamed of but it still paid well and came with all kinds of perks that accompanied all military jobs. He’d hoped to give it to you in person today, to see your reaction but this would have to do.

Steve smiled at your sleeping form, wishing he could stay with you until you woke up, but he knew that if he did, he’d be tempted to tell you something that he’d been hiding for years. Instead, he settled on saying them quietly to you now, glad to get them off of his chest even if you weren’t ready to hear them yet.

“I should go before my will gets any weaker, and my eyes begin to linger longer than they should. I should go before I lose my sense of reason, and this hour holds more meaning than it ever could. I should go, I should go, baby, I should go.”

[notsugarandspice]

OKAY PROMPT: CUTE FLUFFY THING OF REDDIE BASED OFF OF “kiss the boy” by keiynan lonsdale PLEAASE

Kiss The Boy

WARNING: PURE FLUFF, TEENAGE BOY STUPIDITY

Read it on AO3.

“I can do it myself, I’m not an idiot.”

“Never said you were, Richard. But you know absolutely nothing about it.”

“Mom, I can go to the shop a town over. But come on! You’re going to call a guy my age to paint me a car? What if he goes to my school. I won’t live through that humiliation!”

Richie shoves a ham and cheese sandwich Maggie made him with aggression that leaves some mayo on the lens of his glasses.

“I’m sure you’ll be just fine. Might help relieve you from the burden of that ego a little bit.”

Maggie lifts her eyes from a cutting board, eyeing her son with amusement. Richie just rolls his eyes and tries to stick some Pringles in the crevices of the mouth that aren’t occupied by the sandwich.

“Alright, I think I’m done here. Why don’t you bring this down to him? He should be here any minute.”

Maggie puts a plate with a large club sandwich and strawberry lemonade in front of Richie and has to slap her son’s hand away when he reaches for a layered triangle.

“Be nice, Richie. Don’t make me regret my decision.” She points the finger at him and lets it linger in the air as an eerie warning.

Richie eventually grunts and grabs the plate and the cup, and walks to the garage to greet the guy who’s going to do his job for him. As if painting a car is that fucking difficult. Yeah, right.

The door leading to the garage slams behind him as he enters the room, feeling the stifling heat from the opening. His mother’s old, beat-up circa 1970 Volkswagen Beetle is still in the middle, the silver paint worn and peeled in random places. Richie can see a red-cap covered head of someone bending towards the car on the other side, probably wondering whether he can salvage some paint. He can’t.

Richie is very grateful that Maggie decided to gift him one of the very first cars she owned, but he had a growth spurt Sophomore year of high school, and it didn’t help him fit into the tiny vehicle one bit. He doesn’t even care that the car is feminine; he simply can’t even sit down without bending his neck. Maybe he can ask the guy to do something about the seat.

Richie rounds the vehicle and steps in front of the boy who’s allegedly a car master of some sort. Maggie said his stepdad owns a shop on the edge of Derry, and apparently, the guy works there a lot. More like works out. The boy is bouncing on the tiptoes of white sneakers, peeling off some silver paint on the door of the car, the left tricep prominent and shifting as he moves the arm around. Richie can see that the shoulders are fit too because the guy is wearing a red tank top, and even the thigh muscles are bulging, revealed by the relatively short jean shorts. And Richie would say that they’re too short for a guy, but he likes the view a bit more than he’s willing to admit.

Richie clears his throat, and the boy looks up, but half of the face is still shielded by the cap. He leans on the knees to stand up, and Richie’s eyes get stuck on the movement of the bicep muscles as the boy turns the hat around, so the cap isn’t covering his face anymore. Richie lifts his eyes to meet the other’s, and his heart jumps somewhere behind his tongue. He’s met with a slightly tan, flushed face, covered in tiny dots of freckles stretching from one cheek to the other, several bigger ones perched on the small nose.    

“Is that for me?”

“W-what?”

The boy releases a soft chuckle and points the finger at the strawberry lemonade in Richie’s hand, and he is suddenly aware of the burning coldness in his skin, sweating droplets of the glass sliding down bony knuckles.

“Oh. Y-yeah.” Jesus Christ, did you switch bodies with Stuttering Buh-buh-buh-bill?

Richie reaches out the cup and blinks rapidly, an uninvited nervousness washing through him. The boy takes it, inadvertently scratching one of Richie’s knuckles, and he feels a shiver reach the bottom of his spine. They guy sips on the drink, the condensation running down his hand to the elbow, droplets falling on the uneven garage floor.

“You have something on your glasses.”

“What?”

“Is that your favorite word?”

Richie blinks and places the plate on the table next to the wall, taking the glasses off to see what the guy is talking about. And since he can’t actually put the frames into focus even if they’re straight in front of the eyes, he simply wipes them on the shirt. Which, apparently, only smudges the residue.

“Please tell me it’s not what I think it is.”

Richie is confused for several seconds, but then he laughs and points a finger gun at the guy. “It’s jizz, my darling.”

“Wow. Creative. You’re a real show stealer.”

“You bet.”

“Do you know what sarcasm is?” Richie wants to reply something witty, but he gets too mesmerized by the movement of dark curly eyelashes, only visible through the left lens.

It’s not until the guy grabs the glasses straight from his face, brushing a finger on each temple, that he recovers a bit. He watches the blob of red wipe at his frames furiously and hears the forced breathing, probably intended to help with the cleaning. Richie finally feels the glasses touch the tops of his ears, and he watches the concentrated expression on the guy’s face, brows furrowed and bottom lip trapped behind small teeth. He’s fucking adorable.

“Is it better?” asks the boy, still standing dangerously close to Richie. He smells like fresh baked cookies.

“Think so.”

They stand in the present position for several seconds, blissfully unaware of the passing time. Richie is looking all over the guy’s face, his eyes finally landing on puckered rosy lips, and he feels his neck tug down towards the boy involuntarily. But before he gets to even realize the implications of that, the boy coughs and steps back a bit, and the sweet scent of vanilla extract is gone.

“I’m Eddie,” says the guy, extending his hand for Richie to shake. The protruding vein on Eddie’s wrist distracts the tall boy for several seconds.

“Dick,” says Richie, grabbing the boy’s hand and shaking it with more enthusiasm than is probably socially acceptable. But Richie doesn’t give a damn about societal expectations anyway.

“Your name is Dick?” Eddie doesn’t seem to mind that his hand is still trapped between Richie’s pale fingers.

“Richard is my name, nicknames are my game.” Richie winks, and it inevitably leads to a quiet giggle and a barely-there blush. Jesus.

“You got one for me?”

Richie loosens the grip on Eddie’s hand a bit, making it go slack but still holding onto it, maybe a bit more gentle than he intended. He steps closer, leaning down to whisper. “Sure thing, Eds.”

Eddie squeals and pushes at the flat bony chest, effectively sending Richie tumbling into the table, the plate shattering on the dirty floor. Both boys bring hands to their mouth in anticipation of parental rage, but nothing comes, and terrified expressions are soon replaced with soft laughter. Richie leans down to pick up the small pieces of the sandwich that are scattered along with large ceramic pieces, placing it all in a small tower that he figures he’ll throw out by the pharmacy, so Maggie doesn’t know what he did. He shivers noticeably when Eddie’s arm brushes his own, adding the pieces that fell under the car. And when their eyes connect, Richie can feel his own face color resemble that of the boy’s, and he hasn’t felt that since… well, ever.

“You have a bag we can put all this in?” asks Eddie, standing up and walking around the garage to locate the needed item.

“No, but I have newspapers.”

“That’ll do.”

They wrap it in a large ball of Wentworth’s Washington Post, dated several months ago. Richie discards it into the trash bin standing next to the garage door, thinking that he’d remove it later to make sure Maggie doesn’t notice it. Not that his mother walks around peering into trash bins, but he really doesn’t want to disappoint.

“Sorry about your sandwich, Eds.”

Eddie smiles earnestly, and the warm feeling in the middle of Richie’s abdomen is almost overwhelming in the summer heat of Maine.

“Don’t worry about it. I didn’t come here for food.”

“Right, you’re here for the cold hard cash. I can’t believe you’d do this to me! I thought this was something special!” Richie drops down to his knees in front of the boy, animatedly sobbing, somehow pulling actual tears, and the guy laughs so hard that he doubles over.

“You’re terrible,” says Eddie, grinning wide and honest, and Richie is irritated that he’s too busy pushing his glasses to observe every movement of muscle on the boy’s face.

“You laughed though, Eds.”

Eddie suddenly rolls his eyes and throws his arms up in annoyance. “Don’t fucking call me that, dumbass.”

Richie stands up and moves to stand unnecessarily close to the boy, making the other crane his neck to blink up at him with twinkly brown eyes that make the corners of Richie’s mouth jump. But instead of sporting an irritated expression, Eddie simply smirks, lifting one of his eyebrows and crossing the arms, inadvertently touching Richie’s stomach, making him jump back with a whine he never even heard from a girl. Nice job, Tozier.

Of course, the boy just laughs at him and moves closer to the car. And Richie’s head is a jumbled mess of things he doesn’t yet understand. So instead of confronting the buzzing feeling in abdomen, he moves back towards the street and plops onto the bike.

“Where are you going?” asks Eddie, a note of disappointment laced through curiosity.

“I owe you some food, Eds!” screams Richie in response, pedaling away quickly towards the center of the town, his head a little light from the sudden rush of air he didn’t have in the small space.

He comes back forty minutes later, barely maneuvering the bike with one hand, holding a large vanilla cone in the other. The stifling heat makes the ice cream run down his hand, onto the handles, leaving a white trail from Smith’s to Tozier residence. He throws the bike onto the front lawn, unable to position it by the house. By the time he walks up to the garage, there are newspapers under and around the car, and Eddie is holding an electric sander, a mask hanging around his neck. Richie comes closer, the ice cream still dripping, and reaches it out for the boy to take. Eddie jumps when he turns around, his eyes going wide and breathtakingly pretty. Richie can’t get enough air again.

“What’s this? Oh my God, it’s dripping everywhere!”

Eddie grabs Richie’s wrist with the vanilla cone after he puts the sander down, and leads him out into the sun. Richie notices that the boy is no longer wearing the baseball hat, and the brown hair glistens with stripes of maroon and gold, smooth and wavy. Richie’s hand is shaking from nervousness, and he’s not even sure he can hold the ice cream much longer.

“It’s for you.” He reaches out again, a couple of vanilla drops falling on his toes, sliding down on the flip-flops.

“You brought me ice cream all the way from Smith’s?”

Richie realizes that he might’ve gone overboard, but when does he not? He can’t make a sandwich to save a life.

“Um. Yeah?” He smiles nervously, and he can feel his entire body flush with an intensity that reminds him of the time he saw Cillian Murphy on TV.

Eddie searches his face for several seconds, and Richie can see a cherry blush spread behind the tiny freckles. The boy fights a smile but eventually wraps his hand around Richie’s, gently taking the cone from his hand. He licks around the rim, taking care of the melted part of the small vanilla mound. He looks up at Richie who realizes that he’s staring at the boy with a mouth half-open, his whole body on fire. Eddie extends the arm, putting the ice cream right in front of Richie’s face.

“Want some?”

There is a silver glint in large browns again, and a shy smile that makes Richie’s legs shake a little. He wraps his hand around Eddie’s small one, covering it completely and for whatever reason leans down quickly, pecking the boy’s smooth cold lips. Horrified at what he’s done, he tries to retreat back, blood pumping in his ears but Eddie doesn’t let him, putting a small hand behind his neck. Richie has to breathe in harshly from his nose because he feels like passing out from the hot breath that escapes the boy’s mouth when their lips part to meet again. Richie can feel Eddie smile into the kiss, all warm cookies, and cold vanilla, and Richie thinks he understands what the fuss with kissing boys is all about.

Perma Tag: @happytozier (thank you for helping me with the beginning, babe!!), @studpuffin @j0ys @qwertykevin @its-stranger-than-you-think   @trippy-alexissss @letmybabyystayy (let me know if you want to be perma tagged!

[mariequitecontrarie]

"My gingerbread house is prettier than yours."- SwanFireQueen holiday prompt.

Gingerbread Palace of the Century

A/N: SwanFireQueen set in the Gold Family ‘verse. I’ve been meaning to explore the Neal/Emma/Regina relationship dynamic more, and this was a fun way to do so. Can’t resist some implied Rumbelle, either.Rating: T

On AO3

“This looksridiculous.” Emma tossed the bag of icing on the counter, splattering whitedots of the sticky sugary glue all over the kitchen backsplash. She crossed herarms over her chest, huffing when the bottom edge of the wall she was holdingup slid off the cardboard base and onto the floor. She picked up the sheet ofgingerbread, now in three pieces, and tossed it into the sink. “These wallswon’t stay up! Look at my gumdrops! They’re all gooey and soft.”

“Hey now,” saidNeal, “don’t be so hard on yourself. I have great respect for your gumdrops,baby.”

“Thanks a lot,”she muttered.

“We have moregingerbread cooling in the dining room. I’ll be over there to help you out in asecond, soon as I finish putting the finishing touches on this masterpiece.” Hestuck his tongue between his teeth and Emma glared while he tipped a tray ofblue melted sugar, coaxing it to spread into a delicate sheet with gentleflicks of his wrists.

“Is that stainedglass?” she asked incredulously. “That’s just great.” She nodded towardRegina’s house. “Look at the two of yours. Regina has freakin’ reindeer frolickingin front of the sugared apple trees of her gingerbread mansion, and you’rebuilding, what, Saint Paul’s cathedral?”

“Nope, it’s areplica of the town hall…and our brilliant mayor’s office,” he replied,flashing his dimples at Regina.

Emma snorted indisgust. Suck up. “Between Mr. Artistand Ms. Fashion Magazine Cover, my house looks like the Golds’ cabin after lastyear’s blizzard. And I mean after theroof caved in.” She dusted dried bits of icing off her jeans, smearing themacross the denim and sending them to the floor.  The area around her unfortunate creationresembled the aftermath of an elf paintball war, while Neal and Regina’sworkspaces were both pristine.

“Don’t you thinkyou’re being a touch too sensitive, Emma?” Regina asked, piping scallopedicicles along the edges of the roof of her house. “It’s a family activity, nota competition.”

“Just statingfacts,” she said flatly. “I’m the least successful person in thisrelationship.”

“Except for thatwhole Savior of the entire fairytale race thing,” Neal pointed out.

“Ha! Aladdin’s aSavior, Gold’s a Savior. Everyone around here’s a friggin’ Savior these days.”Emma tucked her hands into her sweater and smoothed her flushed cheeks. “Anyway,my gingerbread disaster sucks the big one.”

Neal grinnedwolfishly. “I’ve got a big one you can—”

“Don’t.” Emma droppedher voice and nodded toward the stairwell. “Henry and Gideon are playingNintendo Switch in his room.”

Regina looked upfrom piping holly branches over her windows. “You kiss your stepmother withthat mouth?” she asked Neal.

He raised aneyebrow. “Are you kidding? I’ve heard Belle say worse to my father with Gideon in the room.”

“Fine. Do youkiss your queen with that mouth?” Regina slid off her stool and rounded theisland to Neal’s side, a delicate heat flaring in her eyes.

“No, ma’am,” hesaid, then pulled her close and brushed a kiss across her lips.

Emma groaned and grabbed ahandful of chocolate pebbles and popped them in her mouth. “I’m gonna go watchsome football. Come get me when you two are done competing for gingerbread palaceof the century or whatever.”

“You can’t eat the supplies and leaveme here with Cassidy.” Regina’s bright red lips pouted prettily, and sheswatted Emma on the buttocks. “I still have the nonpareils to add to the roof,why don’t you help me finish and get an edge on smarty pants over there? There’s only room for one of these gingerbread palacesin the dining room centerpiece, and it’s going to be mine.”

Emma appraised the two houses,both of which were spectacular. “I think you’ve got this covered. Southern Living called; they’ll be hereat six for your photo shoot.”

“If you stay, I’ll make myspecial homemade hot chocolate,” Regina offered. “Valrhona chocolate, cinnamon-spikedwhipped cream, a bruleed candy cane…”

Emma groaned; Regina knew how to cookand she knew how to bribe. “Fine. But I want the whole pot this time and I’m not sharing.”

“What’s wrong, Gina?” Nealtaunted. “You jealous ‘cause my gingerbread house is prettier than yours? Gottarope Emma into helping you finish the job?”

“I thought it wasn’t a competition,”Emma reminded them, but Regina and Neal weren’t listening. They locked eyes—brownon brown—a bull and a matador preparing to square off.

Regina moved her gaze over Neal’sthree-story masterpiece like it was sewage paperwork at a town council meeting.She tapped one of the twisted peppermint stick columns gracing the sides ofNeal’s front door, hard enough to make it wobble. “You think I’m threatened byyour little shack?”

He picked up a gummy tree andflung it at Regina’s house, knocking the top hat off her fondant snowman.“Oooops, sorry. I was aiming for the trash.”

Regina flickedher wrist, pelting hundreds of tiny multi-colored candy balls in the directionof Neal and his house.

“Ow!” Nealducked out of the way of the candy shrapnel, still trying to protect his housewith his arms. “No magic, remember? Magic is cheating!”

“You should havethought of that before you started throwing candy, Cassidy,” Regina said. She threwa protective force field up around her creation, then started hurling chunks ofgingerbread at his house.

Balls offondant, almonds, and cereal flew through the air, pinging against the countersand the cupboards and rolling all over the tile floor.

“Hey, you guys,wait!” Emma cried, sidestepping as a peppermint stick whizzed by her ear.

“Oh, it’s on!”Neal lunged at Regina, squirting apple red icing all over Regina’s favorite Chanelsuit. Regina wrapped licorice whips around his wrists, tying his hands behindhis back.

“I said no magic!” Neal yelled.

“This is a$4,000 suit!” Regina shouted back.

Emma dumped abag of shredded coconut over their heads and tackled them to the floor. Shestood over them, breathing hard, her handcuffs dangling from her fingertips.

“Moms! Dad! Whatthe heck are you guys doing down here?”

Henry. Cuffs in hand, Emma whirled around toface him. He was standing in the kitchen doorway, his hand clapped over Gideon’seyes. “Henry! Gideon! Hey!”

“It’s not whatit looks like!” Regina said, scrambling to her feet.

“Totally notwhat it looks like,” Neal agreed, sitting up to brush coconut out of his hair.

“What does it look like?” five-year-old Gideonpiped up. “Henry’s coverin’ my eyes and I can’t see nothin’.”

“Anything!” Emmaand Regina corrected in unison.

“Funny how theysay kids are the ones who need supervision.” Henry rolled his eyes. “And gross!Not the handcuffs in the kitchen again. Come on, Gideon. Let’s go play at yourhouse for a while.”

“Okay,” heagreed with a small frown. “But I hope you won’t be sad.”

“Why would I be?”

“’Cause Mommyand Daddy don’t have real handcuffs like those ones. Theirs are covered in redfur.”

 ###

Give me a prompt and a pairing from this list: Winter Holiday Prompts