Cas is unloading the groceries from the cart onto the conveyor belt when he notices it. He double checks then holds up the quart. “This is eggnog, not the coffee creamer you wanted.”
Dean leans in for a closer look. “Huh. Guess so. They look the same.” He jerks a thumb in the direction of the dairy department. “I’ll go get some.”
Cas holds out the eggnog for him to return.
“Nah, keep it.”
Cas squints at it. With Cas in graduate school, Dean’s bringing home the only income. That means there’s not a lot of wiggle room in the grocery budget, and eggnog isn’t exactly cheap. Plus, it’s an odd choice for Dean who had declared himself a “Grinch” this season, a role he seems committed to if the way he’s been bitching about the non-stop Christmas music for weeks is any indication. In the off-chance Cas forgot, he saw Dean thoroughly roll his eyes at the holiday scene painted on the store window when they walked in.
Dean’s disgust with all things Christmas this year is due to the fact that Sam is unable to come home from Stanford for the holiday. At Dean’s insistence, they’ve decided to put off celebrating until all three of them can be together.
Nevertheless, back in their apartment, Dean puts the two cartons in the fridge, side by side.
The next morning, when Cas staggers to the kitchen still in pajamas, Dean pours them both mugs of coffee. He presses one into Cas’s hands and kisses the top of his head. “Morning, sunshine.”
Cas makes a noise somewhere between a hum and grunt as he lifts the mug to his mouth. The first swallow is hot and good and…surprisingly sweet. He takes another sip and looks questioningly at Dean. “What’s in here?”
“What do you mean?” Dean peers into his own mug in confusion before tasting his. “Oh, I mixed them up again. I put the eggnog in instead of the cream.” He reaches for Cas’s cup. “I can fix it.”
Cas shakes his head, reluctant to relinquish the coffee. “No, it’s fine. I just wasn’t expecting it.”
Dean takes another drink of his. “Yeah, it’s actually not bad this way.”
When Cas texts Dean asking him to stop at the store and get triple A batteries for his calculator, Dean comes home with a bigger bag than necessary. “I picked up some of those dumb gingersnaps you like. They had them displayed by the register,” he adds in case Cas got the false idea that he went out of his way to find them.
“Thank you, Dean.” Cas reaches for the bag. He pulls out the batteries and then the box of cookies. “Um.”
Dean looks up to see the problem.
“These aren’t cookies. This is a gingerbread house kit.”
If Cas isn’t mistaken, Dean doesn’t look completely surprised. “Huh. Guess that’s why it was on special display.”
Cas turns the empty brown bag over, but no receipt falls out.
Dean runs a hand through his hair. “I only got two things so I didn’t keep it.” He picks up the box and looks at the instructions on the back. “This doesn’t look too difficult to put together. Maybe we can work on it tonight.”
After literally using the phrase ‘Christmas is dead to me’ earlier this month, Dean Winchester is now voluntarily offering to put together a gingerbread house. Cas should say something here, he’s just not sure what. “Ok?” he ventures.
“I mean, since we already have it. No use letting it go to waste.”
Every house chore is an opportunity to horribly harmonize to a randomly selected song from a Broadway musical. It pisses off Ron and Hermione, who live in the flat below them and have to deal with the noise. The worst is Monday, because Monday is also Laundry Day, and everyone in the building can tell when folding laundry progresses to bickering over the correct way to fold a shirt which progresses to throwing random articles of clothing at each other and yelling which progresses to… Well, Ron and Hermione just ignore that last part. It happens every single day.
Every grocery shopping trip is an opportunity to bring home two more stray cats with the occasional dog, and also a random couple they befriended in the dairy aisle. Tuesday is grocery shopping day, and they are always wine-drunk with their newfound friends by 6PM.
Which means that Wednesday is hangover day, because despite what Draco says, he’s a total lightweight. They go to the greasy little diner across the street and order corned beef hash. Every single week.
Thursday is Draco’s day to cook, which means burnt toast and top ramen in fancy bowls (”Harry, love, it doesn’t matter what we eat. It’s how we eat it that matters.”), and Harry does the dishes while Draco stares at him from the bar stool by the counter. Harry hums along to a muggle CD, and he is up to his forearms with suds, and his hair still, after all the years of knowing him, holds that “just shagged” look that is both atrocious and completely intoxicating. Draco still gets butterflies when he looks at him like that.
Friday nights mean Ron and Hermione join them in their living room to watch classic films and get completely hammered. Harry always falls asleep with his head on Draco’s lap halfway through the first film, and always wakes up the next morning to find his hair completely full of teeny tiny braids. He keeps them in all day, because god. He loves him so much.
Saturday mornings are lazy and slow and always spent cuddling under as many blankets as humanly possible until Draco chases Harry out of the bed by touching him with his feet, which are colder than the inside of their fridge. But then they make out and everything is fine again, and they ultimately collapse on top of each other in a heap of laughter, and Harry has to stop and admire the way the rays of sunshine coming in from their window reflect off of Draco’s eyes and make them look irridescent.
Cue lots of lazy Saturday morning shagging topped off with forehead kisses and bickering about who let the dog out last and who forgot to get the mail, again.
Sunday is the awkward family dinner at the Manor. Lots of food far too fancy for Harry’s taste. Narcissa asks alarmingly invasive questions about their love life, and they always leave early because it’s never fun to be there after Lucius has had his third beer. It’s been getting slightly better, though, according to Harry.
Each and every day is filled with more “I love you’s” than anyone could ever care to count (Though there are a lot of “I hate you’s” as well).
For the Boy Who Lived and the Boy Who Didn’t Have a Choice, there is no better way to live out the rest of their lives together than to take joy in life’s most mundane things. So that’s exactly what they do.
Based on this text post. It just seemed something that the sheltered Adrien would do. Established Adrienette drabble!
Adrien lay the carton of eggs as carefully as he could on his mound of groceries. Biting his lip, he quickly counted them all again.
Twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four…
Just as he was about to wheel his cart away from the dairy aisle, his phone went off. As he struggled to get it out of his pocket, he saw Marinette’s face flash across the screen. A small smile crept across his features and he answered with a sugary, “Hello?”
“Hi hon! Are you having any trouble at the store?”
Adrien’s smile slid off his face. “No,” he said a little indignantly. “I am not. I can figure out how to go grocery shopping.”
“I know that,” Marinette remarked patiently through the phone. “I’m not doubting you. You’ve just been gone a long time, and we didn’t need that much.”
“Not that much!” Adrien looked around in disbelief, but the only person around was a small, hunched woman in a shawl doing her shopping. He shook his head knowingly at her as she stared stoically back, face obscured by her overlarge sunglasses. “Marinette, you had me get twenty-four eggs!”
“Yeah… wait, what? Yeah I did, is there a problem?”
“Do you know how hard it is to balance all that into one cart?”
“I already dropped a box, so now we have to pay for twenty-five.”
“Twenty– Adrien, are you trying to buy twenty-four cartons?”
“Uh.” He glanced back at the cart overflowing with precariously balanced eggs. “Yes?”
Marinette laughed, but it was a sweet, tinkling laugh, not malicious at all, but that still didn’t prevent the tops of his ears from turning pink. “Adrien, I meant twenty-four eggs total, not twenty-four cartons!”
“Oh.” He cleared his throat. “Okay, that… that makes more sense. I guess I just assumed you, like your parents, stocked up on eggs…”
“My parents own a bakery! They need that many eggs! We live in a one bedroom apartment with a cat.”
“So I’m guessing we also don’t need four boxes of butter, either,” he said, carefully unturfing some of the other groceries. “Or that we need more than two green beans.”
She laughed again. “Are you gonna tell me that you measured out only 200 grains of rice, not grams!”
Adrien shoved the bag under the rest of the groceries. “No,” he said.
Marinette sighed happily in his ear. “You’re lucky I love you so much,” she said.
oh my god i’m in hysterics in the dairy aisle at publix. this elderly woman stopped me to ask about the political candidates i’m voting for… i’m wearing the scully/mulder ‘16 election shirt… and this blessed woman is like “are they an independent party? what is the truth they’re saying is out there?” and i just went with it and told her “they disagree as to what the actual truth is but agree we need to find it. vice president elect mulder wants to increase nasa spending because he believes the country’s answers can be found in space but his running partner and president elect scully believes we should be using science to explore terrestrial problems such as global warming. though they disagree on the source of the truth, they fiercly support one another in the search and make excellent running partners. they’ve had my vote for years.” and i don’t know how i did this without laughing, but this woman smiles a huge smile, pats my arm, compliments my passion and says they have her vote. i’m crying. what have i done?
*Fed my Boss a Hot Dog *My Girlfriend Uses Lots of Moisturizer *Gay for my Prison Guard *This Radish Made my Salad Too Spicy Bitch *Anaphylactic Shock in the Dairy Aisle *My ISIS Girlfriend is on Fleek - ft. The Dalai Lama *Crying on My Death Bed *My Own Father is Old Enough to Watch Me Die *It Was All a Waste of Time *Jizz Gun in the Amazon
it gives me life that blake lively now has to remind ryan reynolds that he’s not actually wade wilson like they’ll be in the dairy aisle and she’s all ‘we need milk’ and out of fuckin nowhere he just hip thrusts and goes ‘eeehhehehhehee I got your milk riiiight here’ and then she just turns to him like ‘I don’t want to talk to deadpool. put him back.’ and then he’s like ‘sorry honey’ and just puts the fucking milk in the basket
I Hope This Song Will Guide You Home (Marines AU) Vignette 3
A/N: So I just had a really annoying, shitty, and embarrassing experience and my catharsis is now, as it has always been, writing. I felt like my emotion could be channeled into something, and I figured why not into something here in valdayaland since it’s been so damn long since I’ve given you guys anything. And it’s much easier to procrastinate this way. Anyway, here we go…remember this is the third in a series, so if you haven’t read the first two, you should go do that ;) HERE
Zendaya is in the dairy aisle, sifting through cheeses to see which is most on sale, and what yoghurt dates look like this week for the 10/10 deal. She’s in sweats and a V-neck, her hair in a messy bun, and she knows the bags underneath her eyes are visible as fuck because she made absolutely no effort to hide them this morning.