note, y'all i've loved this man since 2019. i'm so glad everyone is hopping on this train fr. ALSO, i know women are capable of saving themselves, but i'm desperately single, and want a knight of shining armor of my own. so what better than to write about a 6'5 knight in shining armor.
pair, clark kent / superman (2025) x reader
summary, clark thinks his love language is to keep you safe. he likes to check in on you every once in a while during the day. one afternoon, his daily check-in's prove to be necessary.
warnings, grocery store robbery, guns
word count, 1479 words
(gif not mine)
Clark Kent liked to make sure you were okay.
It's just the type of person he was. He cared deeply for the people around him. You, he cared more deeply than anyone he'd ever met. So, throughout the day, he wanted to make sure you were okay.
Every so often, he would zero in on your voice overtop the overlapping voices of Metropolis. The second he heard your voice, even if you were reprimanding a student, a wave of calm would wash over him.
This wasn't something you were aware of. You knew of his alter ego, and would always dread when he would fly into the night, donning a cape and a large 'S' on his chest, but you knew it was who Clark was.
Saving and helping the people of Metropolis was in his blood. But there was always that little pit of worry that settled in the bottom of your stomach when you would kiss him goodbye and hope he came back in one piece.
You knew he worried about you, especially with the rising crime rates. It wasn't something he voiced, but he never liked to bother you with his heroic duties. So, instead, you learned to read him. Read his responses, read his reactions, read how actions.
Sometimes, Clark would find it hard to sleep, having awful nightmares of you getting injured or worse, ending up in a position because of him.
So, he made it his duty to take care of you, even if you insisted you didn't need him to look over your shoulder for you.
Today was no different.
He sat at his desk, frantically typing away at his computer as he tried to figure out a good hook for his newest article. He checked the clock, and his heart began racing.
2:25.
2:30 was the exact time he would check on you, right on the dot (He was punctual like that). His co-worker picked up on his brief breaks and knew that Clark Kent would go outside at exactly 2:30 every day. What he did, they never knew, and although they were curious, they wouldn't pry it out of him.
He pushed his chair out, stretching his legs, then reaching for his water bottle that was sitting on his desk. It was a gag gift you had gotten him for Christmas one year. A Superman-themed water bottle that he proudly brought to work every day.
It was so obviously a children's water bottle, but he proudly brought it in every day because it was a gift you had gotten him, even if it was a joke.
"Heading down for your break, Clark?" Jimmy Olsen teased, looking up from his own desk.
"You know it." Clark chuckled, straightening his tie before pushing his chair in and heading for the elevator.
He pressed the 'G' button, bouncing on the heels of his feet as he waited to reach the bottom floor. Once the door opened, he took his time heading for the back entrance where he would go for his daily breaks.
He first made sure the alley was empty before closing his eyes. He cracked his neck, taking a breath and focusing. His brows furrowed together as he tried to find your voice.
This morning, you decided to call in sick to work, needing a break from the needy voices of children you taught every day. It was just one of those days when you needed a break and not walk into a room where 20 kids were clamoring for your attention.
As he zeroed in on your voice, it was like every voice around him, every voice in the city, was being sucked up by a vacuum, disappearing the moment he put any effort into shutting them off.
"Sir!" That caught his attention. The desperation was clear in your voice, and it made his heart pick up. He also didn't miss the loud and erratic beating of your heart.
"Shut up!" The man in question snarled back. Your heart sped up, and that was enough for him.
In the blink of an eye, gone was his work attire, and he was launching into the sky, red cape billowing below him. He flew through the sky, trying to locate where you were.
You weren't at home, he knew that. Definitely not at work. Not visiting any friends.
Where were you?
Finally, the voices started clearing up, and he knew he was getting closer. He tilted his head to the side as he landed.
A grocery store?
"Empty the registers, or I'll light this place up!" The man demanded, waving his gun around like it was going to protect him.
Superman busted through the doors, "You know, there's a help wanted sign on the front door. You could've just applied." The superhero raised a brow at the robber.
You would recognize that voice anywhere, and you knew, sooner than later, Clark would've heard. Your head shot up, and you looked over at him. There he stood, in all of his glory, cape blowing in the wind behind him as he stood up tall.
"Superman?" The robber looked confused to see the man standing in front of him. He was only a flimsy supermarket robber, not a scientist trying to blow up a building.
"But, I guess when you're holding a gun in everyone's face, that gets you what you want." Superman shrugged, a nonchalant look on his face.
The robber, stupidly, held up his gun and took his aim. He shot off once, watching in horror as the bullet simply bounced off Superman's chest.
"Uh-oh." Superman took one step, smacking the gun out of the robber's hand.
Minutes went by, and sirens could be heard heading in the direction of Metropolis Grocers. The cops walked in and didn't hide their surprise when they found Superman looming over the attempted robber.
"Superman." The officers looked confused.
"Officers." The man greeted with a nod, "I'm sure you're capable of dealing with this..." He trialed off, simply shaking his head.
"Yes, sir." The officer nodded, pulling out a pair of handcuffs and handcuffing the man in front of them.
More officers began arriving, taking statements from witnesses and offering medical attention to the one person who ended up getting injured in the crossfire.
You leaned against your car by yourself, your arms wrapped around yourself as you waited for your turn to talk to an officer. You heard someone approaching, whose footsteps told you they were worried but were trying not to hide it.
You looked up and couldn't help but smile in relief when you saw Clark standing in front of you, wearing what he had gone to work in that morning.
"Boy, it's good to see you." You joked, wrapping your arms around him and leaning into his warmth.
"You're telling me." He sounded just as relieved, "How are you feeling? Did he hurt you?" He pulled away, cupping your face so he could look you over for injuries.
"I'm fine, I'm fine." You reassured him, brushing his hands off, "A little shaken up, but he didn't hurt me. I'm okay." You shook your head.
"Are you sure?"
"I just really want to go home." You admitted shakily. He wordlessly wrapped his arms around you again, kissing your head and hugging you.
You melted into his arms, engulfed in his warmth and his scent. After a traumatic ordeal, the only thing you wanted was Clark.
"I'm gonna go talk to an officer, then we'll go home, okay?" You nodded apprehensively, "I promise." He reassured you again.
"I'll be here." You tried to joke, and he managed to give you a small smile.
You wrapped your arms around yourself again as you watched Clark approach an officer. They talked, Clark explaining what had happened to you, then he walked back over to you.
"Give me your keys." He demanded, holding his hand out. You handed him your keys, and he walked you over to the passenger side. He opened the door for you and waited for you to get in.
He climbed into the driver's side, wincing when he got in, and his knees were up to his chest. He cranked the seat back, sitting slightly more comfortably, then glancing over at you.
"What were you even doing here?" He asked the question that had been on his mind.
"Wanted to make you something special for dinner. "You shrugged, "Guess the universe didn't want me cooking today." You joked.
"Yeah, it was the universe doing us all a favor." He smiled when you let out a small laugh, "We'll go home and I'll make you some grilled cheese."
"And..."
"A side of tomato soup." He finished your sentence with a smile, "I'm gonna take care of you. Don't worry." He reassured, reaching over for your hand and placing a soft kiss on your palm.
-
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(Or that time Dean tried to make a Winchester Thanksgiving)
Summary: This takes place in the later seasons of Supernatural when Sam and Dean are in the Men of Letters bunker. Dean wakes up and realizes "We can have Thanksgiving now." Hilarity ensues. This is a one-shot.
Word Count: 5,264
Tags/Warnings: Violence, some mention of giblets, cooking fiasco.
Author's Note: I couldn't resist. I had to do a short story to celebrate Thanksgiving. I decided I wanted to try my hand in writing Sam and Dean (with a hint of Castiel!). I think this was a funny story!
If you enjoyed it, please consider donating to my ko-fi! (Not required, I promise!)
Divider: by @talesmaniac89
Dean woke before his alarm, which was already unusual. The bunker was quiet—too quiet for a pair of Winchesters, which meant Sam was probably already awake somewhere, reading some obscure text on ancient Mesopotamian rituals or sipping tea like a Victorian librarian. Dean lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling, feeling the faint hum of the bunker around him. A home. Or something dangerously close to it.
Thanksgiving.
The thought hit him like a flash, warm and stupid and unexpected. Last time he’d had anything close to a normal one, Lisa had handled most of it—he’d deep-fried a turkey once, but Lisa had hovered like he was trying to detonate the house. This time… this one was on him. A Winchester Thanksgiving, in their bunker, their place.
He got up before the thought could evaporate, scrubbed a hand over his face, and headed toward the kitchen barefoot, rubbing sleep from his eyes but determined. If he didn’t tell Sam immediately, the nerve might slip away, and he’d be back to takeout and grilled cheese by noon.
The bunker’s halls were cold, but the kitchen lights were already on. Sam was at the table, spooning cereal into his mouth while reading three different printouts spread across the table like a crime scene. Dean paused in the doorway for dramatic effect, cleared his throat, squared his shoulders like he was about to announce the apocalypse—or salvation.
“Sammy…!” he declared, pointing at his brother with the same gravitas he used to call out monsters. “Brace yourself, I’m gonna cook Thanksgiving!”
Sam froze, spoon halfway to his mouth. Blinked. Blinked again. Slowly lowered the spoon. “…You’re gonna what?”
Dean strode in like a man on a mission, grabbing the fridge door and peering inside as if Lisa had magically stocked it years ago.
“You heard me,” he said, already rummaging. “Turkey, stuffing, potatoes, the whole nine. Pie. Real pie, not that sad excuse you bought that one time from—whatever that gas station was. Today, Sammy, we’re doing a real Thanksgiving.”
Sam placed his spoon down carefully, as if sudden movements might spook the creature that had possessed his brother. “Dean,” he began cautiously, “do you… know how to cook Thanksgiving?”
Dean straightened indignantly. “Uh, yeah? Lisa let me help.”
Sam raised one eyebrow. “Help. Dean, peeling potatoes doesn’t count as—”
“Hey! I did more than potatoes! I basted the turkey. I can baste.”
Sam’s mouth twitched. “You baste things, sure.”
Dean shut the fridge. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing,” Sam said, way too quickly. “Just… uh… when, exactly, were you planning on starting this little experiment? We don’t—” He gestured vaguely at the empty counter. “We don’t have anything. We didn’t shop.”
“Which is why,” Dean said with the dramatic flourish of someone unveiling a prophecy, “you’re coming shopping with me.”
Sam stared at him.
Dean stared back.
“…Dean,” Sam tried again, tone gentle as if explaining gravity to a toddler, “it’s Thanksgiving Day.”
“Yeah?” Dean shrugged. “So what?”
“So the stores are closed.”
Dean blinked. “No. No way. Not all of them.”
Sam pressed his lips together. “All of them.”
There was a beat of silence as Dean processed this. The denial, the bargaining, the irritation. Then: “Well,” he huffed, “I guess we’re gonna do this the old-fashioned way.”
Sam frowned. “Which means…?”
Dean grabbed his jacket off the back of the chair. “We’re hunting a turkey.”
Sam choked. “Dean—”
“Nope. Don’t try to stop me.” Dean pointed at him again. “Winchester Thanksgiving, baby.”
Sam slid a hand down his face. “Dean, we are not killing some poor wild turkey—”
“Relax. We’re not gonna shoot it. We’ll… trap it. Humanely. And then roast it. Very humanely.”
Sam just stared, jaw slack. “Dean—”
“Trust me,” Dean said, already walking out, “this is gonna be the best damn Thanksgiving we’ve ever had.”
Sam looked at the cereal. Looked at the ceiling. Considered calling Castiel for backup.
But he got up anyway.
Because this was Dean. And if Dean was determined to make a Thanksgiving, Sam was going to end up in it whether he wanted to or not.
Besides… a tiny, stupid, secretly fond part of him realized he wanted to see how far Dean would take this.
He grabbed his jacket.
“Fine,” Sam muttered, following after him. “But if we get arrested, I’m telling the officer it was all your idea.”
Dean’s voice echoed down the hall: “SAMMY, GET THE NET!”
And Sam sighed—long and resigned—but he was smiling.
Sam caught up to Dean halfway down the hallway, because of course Dean was already rummaging in the weapons room—not for guns, thankfully, but for something he seemed to believe constituted reasonable hunting gear for a Thanksgiving turkey.
Dean emerged triumphantly holding… a net. A literal, oversized fishing net.
“Dean,” Sam said, folding his arms. “Where did you even get that?”
Dean shrugged. “Leftover from that lake monster gig in Wisconsin.”
Sam stared at it. “That net was for a twenty-foot eel creature.”
“Yeah,” Dean said, gripping it like Excalibur, “so it should work great on a bird.”
Sam pinched the bridge of his nose. “Dean, we are not hunting a turkey.”
Dean slung the net over his shoulder anyway. “Sam, either we hunt one or we starve, because there is no way I’m eating that canned chili you bought last week. That stuff tastes like regret in a can.”
“It’s protein,” Sam muttered.
“It’s sadness.”
Sam sighed. “Look, we don’t have to do any of this. We can just—”
“Nope,” Dean cut in. “Thanksgiving. Real Thanksgiving. With a real turkey. And stuffing. And mashed potatoes. And pie.” He stopped walking long enough to jab a finger at Sam with conviction. “Pie, Sam.”
Sam’s resolve crumbled a fraction. Dean saw it. He pounced.
“Look, man,” Dean said, softer, “we haven’t had something normal in… I don’t even know how long. Just one day. One normal day. Real food. Like people.”
The words hit Sam somewhere tender. He swallowed. “…Okay,” he murmured. “Fine. But we’re not hunting a turkey.”
Dean lifted the net again. “We’re absolutely hunting a turkey.”
“No—Dean—listen—there aren’t wild turkeys in Kansas this time of year. They migrate.”
Dean blinked. “What?”
Sam blinked. “What.”
Dean narrowed his eyes. “Do you actually know that, or are you just trying to stop me?”
Sam hesitated. “…Both,” he admitted.
Dean huffed out a frustrated breath. “You nerd.”
“You’re welcome.”
Dean groaned and let the net sag. “Okay, then what the hell are we supposed to do? Order in a turkey? Ask Cas to miracle us one? I’m not praying for poultry, Sam. I draw the line.”
Sam paused. “Actually…” he began slowly, “I might have an idea.”
Dean perked up. “Does it involve a turkey?”
Sam gave him a sly look. “Possibly. Maybe.”
Dean narrowed his eyes, suspicious. “If this ends with tofu, I swear—”
“No! No tofu.” Sam put both hands up. “But we can salvage this.”
Dean watched as Sam walked back toward the kitchen, opened one of the giant lower freezers—one Dean had always assumed held nothing but crusty ice and maybe a demon head—and rummaged through until he pulled something out, wrapped in thick, old-fashioned butcher paper.
Dean’s eyes went wide. “No way.”
Sam grinned. “Way.”
He held up the package. Written on it in faded marker: Turkey—1957 storage reserve.
Dean stepped forward reverently. “Is that…?”
“Yep,” Sam said, setting it on the counter. “Apparently the Men of Letters stocked up decades ago. This place is a fallout shelter with bookshelves. Of course they kept frozen turkeys.”
Dean stared at the freezer like it was holy. “Sam,” he said, voice hushed, “we have a turkey vault.”
Sam chuckled. “Not exactly, but—yeah. Basically.”
Dean looked torn between pride and disbelief. “Why didn’t anyone tell me this?!”
Sam gave him a look. “Dean. You never asked.”
Dean pointed wildly. “How would I have known to ask if we had a secret seventy-year-old turkey stash?!”
Sam smirked. “It’s not seventy. More like sixty. And we don’t know if it’s… uh… edible.”
Dean waved that off. “Sammy, I have eaten things that would make FDA agents faint.”
“That’s not comforting.”
Dean clapped his hands together, rubbing them eagerly. “Okay! So all we gotta do is thaw this baby out!”
Sam winced. “Dean… it’s frozen solid. Like—solid. There’s no way it’ll thaw in time.”
Dean stared at him.
Sam stared back.
A charged moment passed.
“No,” Sam said firmly. “No, Dean.”
“Yes,” Dean said, grinning like he’d been waiting all morning for this.
“Dean, we are not using magic on a turkey.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s—Dean—it’s magical poultry. We don’t know what’ll happen!”
Dean shrugged. “At worst, we get a slightly radioactive turkey. At best, we get Thanksgiving.”
Sam glared. “There is no universe where using a magical artifact to thaw a turkey is a good idea.”
Dean put his hands on his hips. “Sam. We live in a bunker with a dungeon, six spell books, and enough cursed objects to start a yard sale for demons. If we can’t thaw a turkey with magic, then what the hell are we even doing?”
Sam hesitated.
Dean leaned in. “C’mon. Trust me.”
Sam closed his eyes, defeated. “…Fine. But I’m the one choosing the spell.”
Dean whooped. “YES! Winchester Thanksgiving is BACK ON!”
Sam muttered something about regretting every life decision, but he was already pulling out a tome that smelled faintly of ozone and mildew.
Dean clapped his hands once more, energized. “We’re making a turkey, Sammy!”
He paused.
“…And maybe stuffing.”
Sam didn’t look up from the book. “One miracle at a time, Dean.”
Dean grinned.
He was gonna make the best damn magically-thawed Thanksgiving dinner the bunker had ever seen.
The spell Sam settled on was supposedly simple—supposedly. A low-grade warming incantation meant for softening preserved materials without altering their structure. Dean didn’t understand half the Latin and none of the footnotes, but Sam insisted it was safe, minimal risk, and—most importantly—not the sort of thing that would accidentally summon a turkey demon or transform the bunker into a poultry-themed funhouse.
Dean stood across the counter from him, arms folded, watching with the intensity of a man witnessing open-heart surgery.
Sam rolled his shoulders, cracked his neck, and held his palms over the butcher-paper-wrapped block of prehistoric turkey.
“Alright,” Sam said, taking a calming breath, “just… stay back.”
Dean took half a step back, then edged forward again. “Back-ish.”
Sam glared.
Dean obediently scooted another inch.
Sam muttered an incantation, slow and careful—the kind of cadence he used when he really didn’t want anything blowing up. A faint orange glow began to pool in his palms.
Dean’s eyebrows shot up. “Hey, that’s—”
“Dean,” Sam snapped, “don’t talk during the spell.”
Dean shut his mouth.
The glow intensified like someone had dimmed the kitchen lights. A ripple of warmth spread across the counter, the butcher paper crinkling lightly as the huge block of icy turkey began—thank God—to sweat instead of explode.
Sam exhaled, easing the energy down. “Okay… okay, I think that actually—”
POP.
Both brothers jerked violently.
Something inside the turkey shifted. Groaned. Creaked.
Sam’s eyes widened. “Uh—”
Dean pointed. “Sam. Sam. Fix it.”
Sam raised his hands in a panic. “I am fixing it!”
The turkey shuddered again with a wet, ominous thud as the remaining ice cracked. Steam hissed from the seams of the butcher paper.
Then—quiet.
Absolute quiet.
Sam didn’t move. Dean didn’t breathe.
“…Okay,” Sam said carefully, “I think we’re good.”
Dean leaned in, eyeing the package like it might leap off the counter. “Is it… alive?”
“No. It’s… thawed.”
Dean frowned skeptically. “Are you sure that wasn’t it… like… moving? Reanimating? Because it sounded like it wanted to unionize.”
Sam gave him a withering look. “Dean, it’s a turkey. Not a revenant.”
Dean wasn’t convinced, but he poked the butcher paper with a spoon anyway. Nothing moved.
He grinned. “Hell yeah! Winchester One, Frozen Bird Zero!”
Sam sagged into a chair. “If this kills us, I want it on record that it was your idea.”
Dean waved him off. “Relax, Sammy. Now the real magic happens.”
Sam blinked. “…Dean, that was magic.”
“No, no.” Dean pulled open drawers with a flourish. “Cooking is magic.”
Sam pinched the bridge of his nose. “You realize cooking takes… time. Lots of time. Like—hours.”
“Yeah.” Dean straightened proudly. “Which is why we got up early.”
Sam looked at the clock.
It was 11:08 AM.
“…Dean,” Sam said slowly, “it’s almost noon.”
Dean froze.
Sam stared.
Dean stared back.
“…Okay,” Dean said, regrouping instantly, “so we’re making Thanksgiving dinner-ish. A late lunch. An early—uh—night meal.”
“Dean—”
“Sam. Let me have this.”
Sam sighed but relented. “Fine. But I’m helping. I’m not letting you poison us.”
Dean scoffed. “Dude, I make amazing burgers.”
“Not the same.”
“Close enough.”
“It’s not.”
Dean ignored him, grabbing knives, cutting boards, spices—half of which had been in the bunker since Eisenhower’s presidency. Sam found himself reluctantly clearing counter space, pulling out mixing bowls, and checking the date on the powdered seasonings with increasing dread.
He turned one jar toward Dean. “Dean… this oregano expired in 1961.”
Dean opened it, sniffed, recoiled. “That smells like dad’s sock drawer.”
“Dean, we can’t use that.”
“We improvise!”
Sam closed the cabinet. “We are not improvising with 60-year-old herbs.”
Dean hummed thoughtfully. “Fair. What about the paprika?”
Sam checked it. “Expired in 1964.”
Dean threw his hands up. “Did the Men of Letters even cook?!”
“Probably not,” Sam said dryly. “They summoned stuff. They enchanted stuff. They did not… cook stuff.”
Dean tapped his fingers, thinking hard. “Okay. Plan B.”
Sam braced. “Which is…?”
Dean held up a finger with dramatic flair. “Cas.”
Sam froze. “Dean, no.”
“Oh c’mon, he can miracle us fresh herbs.”
“Dean, we are not summoning Cas for garnish.”
Dean opened his mouth to argue—then stopped as heavy footsteps echoed down the hall. Familiar ones.
Both brothers went still.
Cas appeared in the doorway, trench coat slightly wrinkled, blue tie crooked, expression caught between mild concern and cosmic resignation.
“I heard… shouting,” Cas said. “And the bunker briefly glowed orange.”
Sam pointed at Dean.
Dean pointed at Sam.
Cas sighed. “What happened?”
Dean brightened instantly. “Cas! Buddy! You like Thanksgiving, right?”
Cas blinked. “I… don’t know. I’ve only experienced it twice. One was pleasant. The other involved a demon inside a pie.”
Dean winced. “Yeah, we’re skipping that tradition.”
Cas frowned. “Please do.”
Sam gestured helplessly. “Dean insisted on cooking Thanksgiving. We found a turkey from the fifties.”
Cas just stared. “…Why?”
Dean threw his hands up. “Because it’s THANKSGIVING.”
Cas processed that, tilting his head. “Ah. A cultural bonding ritual. You wish to share food as a family.”
Sam shifted awkwardly.
Dean froze.
Cas looked between them, softening slightly. “I see.”
Sam cleared his throat. “Yeah, well… we’re short on ingredients. And time. And probably common sense.”
Cas stepped farther in, examining the thawed turkey with obvious trepidation. “…This turkey is older than both of you,” Cas observed.
Dean puffed proudly. “Still cookable!”
Cas touched it with two fingers. The turkey glowed faint blue.
Dean and Sam both panicked.
“Cas—NO—!”
But the glow dissipated harmlessly.
Cas stepped back. “There. It’s now safe.”
Dean blinked. “…Safe how?”
Cas shrugged. “It no longer has the potential for necromantic reanimation.”
Dean and Sam froze.
“…It had the potential for reanimation?” Sam asked, horrified.
Cas blinked innocently. “Yes. Most things in the bunker do.”
Dean clapped his hands loudly to keep himself from screaming. “Great! Fantastic! Let’s cook!”
Sam groaned. “This is going to be a disaster.”
Cas tilted his head. “Would you like help?”
Dean grinned. “Cas… buddy… you ever cook?”
Cas answered after a very long pause. “…In theory?”
Dean beamed. “Good enough!”
Sam put his face in his hands.
Between the three of them, they were either going to create the greatest Thanksgiving feast in bunker history…
…or burn the place down.
And somehow?
Sam wasn’t even sure which outcome was more likely.
Dean clapped once—loud, enthusiastic, painfully confident—and declared, “Alright, Team Free Will: Kitchen Edition. Let’s do this.”
Sam looked like he was calculating structural fire probabilities. Cas looked like he was preparing for ritual combat. Dean looked like a man about to conquer the Food Network by sheer force of will.
Dean grabbed the turkey with both hands. “Step one: bird prep.”
Sam groaned. “Dean, you have to clean it.”
Dean froze. “…Clean it how?”
Sam stared at him. “Dean. You’ve cooked a turkey before.”
“I helped with a turkey,” Dean corrected. “Lisa handled the… uh… internal stuff.”
Cas blinked. “Internal stuff?”
Sam blew out a breath. “Dean, just—put it in the sink. We’ll figure it out.”
Dean did, the giant thawed bird landing with a wet, undignified slap.
Cas leaned in slightly. “It looks… unhappy.”
“It’s dead, Cas,” Dean said.
Cas frowned. “Then why does it look unhappy?”
Sam rubbed his temples. “Because it’s a turkey.”
Dean started peeling the butcher paper away, and both he and Sam recoiled when a frozen bag of giblets flopped out and hit the sink with a wet splat.
Dean jumped back a foot. “WHAT THE—! Sam, what the hell is that?!”
Sam glared. “Dean, that’s supposed to be there.”
“It looks like a crime scene!”
Cas tilted his head. “Is that its heart?”
Dean blanched. “Dude.”
“No,” Sam said firmly, “it’s not. It’s… it’s just parts. Organ parts. Normal cooking parts.”
Dean pointed. “You hear yourself?”
Cas squinted closer. “I believe some of these pieces are misplaced anatomically.”
Sam made a strangled sound. “Cas, you’re not helping!”
Dean glared at the giblets. “I’m not touching that.”
Sam crossed his arms. “You wanted Thanksgiving. Touch that.”
Dean’s face contorted like Sam had asked him to recite Shakespeare naked. “Fine. But you’re helping.”
Sam held up both hands. “Nope. I did this last time.”
Dean whirled around. “Wait—you have cooked a turkey?”
“Yes.”
“When?!”
“Stanford.”
Dean’s voice rose. “You cooked a turkey at Stanford?!”
Sam shrugged. “Brady hosted a Friendsgiving and I—”
“Okay, you know what? We’ll unpack that betrayal later. Right now, help me gut this thing!”
“It’s already gutted!”
“THEN HELP ME DO WHATEVER WE’RE SUPPOSED TO DO NEXT!”
Cas slowly raised one hand. “Should I smite it—?”
“NO,” Sam and Dean shouted together.
Cas lowered his hand.
Eventually, through a combination of Sam giving calm instructions, Dean yelling dramatically, and Cas offering deeply unhelpful commentary about bird anatomy, they managed to rinse, pat dry, and vaguely season the turkey with what ingredients weren’t older than the Cold War.
Dean looked down at the finished product with a proud, fatherly glow. “Look at that, Sammy. That’s a turkey. A real turkey.”
Sam eyed it. “It’s pale.”
Dean glared. “It’s raw.”
Sam reconsidered. “…Fair.”
Cas leaned over the bird again like he was studying a curious artifact. “Is it supposed to look deceased?”
Sam blinked. “Cas… it is deceased.”
Cas nodded slowly. “Yes. That is perhaps why it looks that way.”
Dean shook his head. “Okay, chef talk later. Step two: stuffing.”
Sam hesitated. “Dean. We don’t… have ingredients for stuffing.”
Dean’s face fell. “What do you mean we don’t have stuffing ingredients? This place has everything.”
Sam held up a single loaf of bunker bread that looked… questionable. “Dean. This bread is so stale I could use it as a weapon.”
Cas leaned in. “You… have used stale bread as a weapon before.”
Dean blinked. “…He’s not wrong.”
Sam pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead. “And we don’t have celery, onions, herbs, broth—basic things, Dean.”
Dean opened a cabinet as if the missing ingredients might magically appear. They did not.
He wilted.
But only momentarily.
Then his expression brightened with the dangerous spark of a man about to commit culinary heresy.
“What if,” Dean said slowly, “we make our own recipe.”
Sam stared. “No.”
Dean lifted a finger. “Sammy.”
“No.”
“Sam.”
“Dean.”
Dean clasped his hands. “Trust me.”
“No.”
Dean crossed his arms. “Alright, then what’s our alternative? Unstuffed turkey?”
Sam hesitated—which Dean immediately took as victory.
“What do we have?” Dean asked, digging through cabinets with rising manic energy.
Sam sighed and began inventorying out loud.
“…Three cans of condensed mushroom soup. A box of stale breadcrumbs. One can of green beans. Half a jar of pickles. Five potatoes. And…” Sam paused. “One can of… peaches?”
Dean popped up. “Peaches could work.”
“Dean—NO.”
“Why not? Sweet and savory!”
“Dean, this isn’t Chopped.”
Cas, who had been quietly observing, suddenly held up one finger, very eager.
“I have an idea.”
Both Winchesters paused.
Dean narrowed his eyes. “Cas… last time you said that, we ended up in 1935.”
Cas lifted his chin, dignified. “This time, my idea concerns… flavor.”
Sam looked terrified.
Dean leaned in. “Alright, lay it on us.”
Cas reached into his trench coat and produced—a small jar.
Dean squinted. “Cas… is that…?”
Cas nodded proudly. “Heavenly Seasoning.”
Sam blinked. “What’s that?”
Cas unscrewed the jar. A warm, indescribably good aroma filled the kitchen—like sage and honey and campfires and childhood memories all at once.
Dean inhaled. His knees buckled. “Oh my God.”
Cas explained, tone professorial, “It is a celestial blend used by higher choir angels during feast rituals.”
Sam stared at him. “Angels have feasts?”
“Occasionally,” Cas said, as if discussing the weather. “This one is designed to evoke comfort, nostalgia, and mild euphoria.”
Dean was practically drooling. “Dude. Dude. Put that on everything.”
Sam hesitated. “Is it safe for humans?”
Cas considered. “Only in small quantities. Otherwise you may… experience visions.”
Dean grabbed the jar. “We will use a tiny bit.”
Sam sighed. “Fine. But if I start hallucinating Godzilla carving a turkey, I’m blaming you.”
Dean rubbed his hands together, energized again. “Okay, new plan! We’ll make a stuffing-like side dish with the breadcrumbs, mushroom soup, and a sprinkle—just a sprinkle—of the heavenly stuff.”
Sam actually looked thoughtful. “…That might work.”
Cas seemed pleased. “I will assist.”
And with that, the three of them descended into the chaotic, ridiculous, surprisingly cooperative act of cooking Thanksgiving dinner together:
• Sam sautéed the stale breadcrumbs in butter until they softened.
• Dean mixed the mushroom soup with salt, pepper, and the tiniest pinch of angelic seasoning, moaning, “Oh yeah, that’s the good stuff,” while Sam rolled his eyes.
• Cas stirred with unnatural precision and solemnity, as if performing a sacred rite.
For a moment—just a moment—they weren’t hunters.
They weren’t soldiers or weapons or survivors.
They were just… family.
Dean slid the stuffing mixture into a casserole dish and nodded with satisfaction. “This is gonna be awesome.”
Sam actually smiled. “Yeah. It might be.”
Cas placed a hand on Dean’s shoulder. “I believe this is… what you wanted.”
Dean swallowed, the warmth in his chest almost embarrassing.
“…Yeah,” he said softly. “It is.”
Then he clapped loudly, breaking the moment.
“Alright! Turkey in the oven! Let’s go, boys!”
And as Dean lifted the giant bird toward the oven—
A loud knock echoed through the bunker.
All three froze.
Dean lowered the turkey.
Sam frowned. “Who the hell—?”
Cas’s eyes narrowed. “That was not a human knock.”
Dean set the turkey down slowly. “Are you freakin’ kidding me?”
Sam sighed, already reaching for a weapon. “Of course. OF COURSE the monsters show up on Thanksgiving.”
Dean glared toward the hallway. “If that thing ruins my turkey, I swear—”
Cas spread his wings with a whisper of air.
The knock came again—louder.
Dean grabbed a shotgun.
Sam grabbed an angel blade.
Cas glowed faintly.
Dean muttered darkly, “This turkey better still be here when we get back.”
And Team Free Will left the kitchen as one—ready to fight off whatever supernatural idiot had the audacity to interrupt Thanksgiving dinner.
They moved as a unit down the bunker hallway—Dean first, shotgun primed; Sam close behind, blade ready; Cas a silent force of celestial warning.
The knock came again. Hard. Measured. Like whoever—or whatever—was out there had time, confidence, and absolutely no respect for holiday boundaries.
Dean hissed under his breath, “If this is some pagan god looking for a snack, I swear—”
Sam murmured, “Dean, don’t jinx it.”
Dean ignored him. “Thanksgiving, Sammy. I get one normal day and they gotta—”
Cas raised a hand. “Shh. Something is… unusual.”
They reached the war room. The knock sounded again, echoing through the metal.
Sam nodded toward the entrance. “Weapons ready?”
Dean pumped the shotgun. “Always.”
Cas drew himself up, angel blade appearing in his hand with a shimmer of light. “I’ll smite if necessary.”
Dean pointed at him. “No smiting until we identify the target. Last time you smote first we had to hire a plumber.”
Cas didn’t look remotely apologetic.
Sam approached the door panel, listening. His brow furrowed.
“Dean,” he whispered, “does… that sound like claws to you?”
Dean froze. “Sam…”
Sam looked at him.
Dean looked back.
They both mouthed: Werewolf?
Cas leaned in. “That is not a werewolf.”
Dean frowned. “How do you know?”
Cas blinked. “Werewolves do not knock.”
Dean paused. “…Fair enough.”
The knock came again—followed by a weird, low grumble-snort that made all three of them exchange looks.
Dean muttered, “What in the—”
Another snort. Followed by… pawing?
Sam lifted his eyebrows in disbelief.
Dean whispered, “Is that… hooves?”
Cas tilted his head. “It sounds ungulate.”
Dean turned to him. “Ungulate?! Cas, what kind of angel school do you—”
The noise intensified.
A huff.
A scrape.
A startled, muffled gobble.
All three froze.
Dean mouthed, wide-eyed: Gobble?
Sam mouthed back: No. No. Dean—NO—
Dean, heart pounding, flicked the locks and cracked the bunker door open.
A massive, puffed-up wild turkey stood on the threshold.
A giant turkey.
Huge. Feathers flared. Bright red wattle flapping aggressively as it GLARED up at Dean like it had been personally offended by the Winchesters’ existence.
The turkey gobbled at Dean with the fury of a thousand tiny dinosaurs.
Dean slammed the door shut immediately.
Silence.
Sam whispered, “Was that—”
Dean whispered back, voice trembling with restrained chaos, “It was a damn turkey, Sam.”
Cas blinked. “A large one.”
Dean’s eyes went wide. “It tracked us.”
Sam frowned. “Tracked you how?”
Dean gestured frantically. “Sam, we used a spell. Magic. Birds are freaky. You ever read those hunter reports on enchanted wildlife?!”
Cas added helpfully, “Also, this region is known for aggressive wild turkeys.”
Dean’s jaw dropped. “You’re telling me we have territorial poultry outside our bunker?!”
Another thunderous GOBBLE rattled the metal door.
Sam could not help it—he laughed. Hard. Shoulders shaking.
Dean turned slowly toward him, betrayal palpable. “Sam.”
Sam wheezed, “Dean… this—this is karma. You tried to hunt a turkey and it showed up to hunt you.”
Cas looked thoughtful. “Should I smite it?”
Dean shot him a horrified glare. “NO! That’s our backup turkey!”
Cas blinked. “I thought you already had one.”
Dean lowered his voice. “Plan B turkey.”
Sam wiped tears from his eyes. “Dean, you can’t be serious.”
Dean jabbed a finger toward the door. “Sam, that bird is the size of a small horse and it KNOWS where we live.”
The turkey rammed the door.
All three jumped.
Dean whispered, “We’re under avian siege.”
Sam took a steadying breath. “Okay. Okay. We can handle a turkey.”
Dean stared at him. “A normal turkey? Yes. That? That thing lifts weights. That thing does CrossFit. That thing looked at me like it wanted to collect my soul.”
Cas offered, “Turkeys are descended from dinosaurs.”
Dean pointed dramatically. “SEE?!”
The turkey gobbled again, angrier this time.
Sam finally sighed and pushed up his sleeves. “Fine. I’ll deal with it.”
Dean pulled him back by the collar. “Whoa, whoa, whoa, have you SEEN its wingspan? That thing is a beast! We need strategy.”
Cas nodded. “A diversion. Then entrapment.”
Dean brightened. “We could use the net!”
Sam groaned. “The net is for monsters, not—”
Dean pointed at the door. “That IS a monster.”
Sam exhaled slowly. “Okay. Fine. What’s your plan?”
Dean’s face grew serious.
War serious.
“Sam,” he said quietly, “open the door on three.”
Sam blinked. “Dean—no—”
Dean shook his head with a grim fatalism. “Sammy… we’re doing this.”
Cas squared his shoulders. “I will blind it.”
Sam stared at them, both ridiculous and terrifying in their determination.
“…You guys,” Sam muttered, “this is the stupidest hunt we’ve ever done.”
Dean slapped his shoulder. “Thanksgiving, baby.”
Sam pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering, “I miss normal people.”
Dean took his place, net in hand like a gladiator.
Sam positioned himself at the door panel.
Cas readied his grace, eyes glowing faint blue.
Dean whispered, “On three.”
Sam whispered, “You’re insane.”
Dean whispered, “One…”
The turkey snorted on the other side.
“Two…”
Feathers rustled, huge and furious.
“THREE!”
Sam flung the bunker door open—
—and all hell broke loose.
The turkey charged in like a feathery battering ram, wings flapping, gobbling with primal rage.
Dean swung the net.
Cas flashed blinding light.
Sam yelped and jumped backward.
Feathers flew.
Dean shouted, “GET IT! GET IT!”
Sam yelled, “DEAN, WHY IS IT SO FAST?!”
Cas called out, “IT IS RESISTING THE LIGHT!”
The turkey leapt—leapt—over a table.
Dean dove after it.
Sam tried to corner it.
Cas teleported to cut off its escape.
There was shrieking. Gobbling. Cursing.
A lamp fell.
A chair toppled.
And finally—
Dean threw his full weight into the net, crashing to the ground and rolling like he was wrestling a dragon. The turkey screeched one last time, then went still in the mesh.
Dean lay panting on the floor, triumphant. “SAMMY—" gasp "—we got the turkey.”
Sam stared, hands on his knees. “Oh my God.”
Cas carefully approached, tilting his head. “It fought with honor.”
Dean sat up, flushed and victorious. “Boys… we have a fresh turkey.”
Sam straightened, brushing feathers off his shirt. “Dean… I hate to tell you this…”
Dean froze. “What?”
Sam pointed at the kitchen.
And Dean’s heart plummeted.
Smoke.
Smoke was coming from the oven.
Dean bolted. “NO NO NO NO—NOT LIKE THIS—”
He flung himself into the kitchen, yanked open the oven door—
—and sighed in relief.
The turkey was fine.
A little crispy on the edges.
But fine.
Dean slumped against the counter, hand over his heart. “Sam, I almost lost ten years of my life.”
Sam snorted. “You’ve done that on hunts.”
“This was worse.”
Cas nodded gravely. “Thanksgiving is important.”
Dean pointed at him. “THANK you.”
Sam shook his head, but there was fondness in it. “Alright. Let’s finish dinner.”
Dean grinned.
“Hell yeah.”
And so:
Team Free Will washed feathers out of their hair, wrestled the fresh turkey into the sink, finished cooking the bunker feast, and—finally—sat down at the war room table surrounded by mismatched plates and bowls.
Cas folded his hands, serene.
Sam looked tired but amused.
Dean looked proud enough to glow.
The bunker hummed softly around them.
Dean raised his fork. “To us.”
Sam nodded. “Family.”
Cas tilted his head. “And… turkey.”
Dean smirked. “Damn straight.”
And for one rare, ridiculous, chaotic night... the Winchesters had Thanksgiving.
—
Tag List: @deans-baby-momma, @kickingitwithkirk, @ozwriterchick, @mandee7
I saw Beetlejuice Beetlejuice (2024) back on Monday but I realized this last night and I don't know if it even means anything, but Beetlejuice's flashback with Delores is meant to be a homage to Bava's Black Sunday (1960). Well, Lydia mentioned to Astrid that she went into labor with her during a Bava marathon, during Kill, Baby, Kill (1966). So they both have that Bava connection.
But then I also realized that their shared "strange dream" has the theme music from Carrie (1977) playing and Baby Beetlejuice appeared again, but as a homage to It's Alive (1974). Two other horror films.
I don't know what exactly I'm getting at but maybe someone else will figure it out? That there's maybe more to the fact that they share the love of classic horror films?
I don't know, I just thought it was an interesting connection.
|Hello everyone that comes across this. This will be another au. Much like on my genshin blog I will probably be doing several knight and prince scenarios because I'm a sucker for fantasy. It will be a more modern like fantasy world. In this one you will be a prince and heir to the throne. Feel free to change the pronouns to fit your own. Please enjoy and have a lovely day or night.
Scenario: You were quite the troublesome prince always sneaking out and trying to run away. What you were running from was a number of different things. From your duties, arranged marriages, all of your suitors. Despite your attempts to get away you're always brought back by your long time friend and knight. He just had to know where to always find you somehow. You're Bronya's older brother and next in line for the thrown.
Gepard x A Male Reader
Warnings: long, mentioned running away and talks about running away, minor injuries, and minor spoilers|
Gepard:
Gepard was doing his usual patrol route around the castle to prevent anyone that has malicious intentions. He ran into his older sister which was surprising but not unwelcomed. "Serval what are you doing here?" He questioned. He loved his sister but she had a tendency to get into a bit of trouble at times.
"Princess Bronya had some issues with some of her heaters so she asked me to come check it out. I stopped by Pela's office as well to catch up with her. How's our dear prince been doing?" She answered with a hand on her hip. She was her brother frown at the mention of the prince.
Gepard gave a sigh. They've been friends forever yet he's still constantly running away. "He likes to still try and run away. When I saw you I thought he'd convince you to help him try and run off again." He said with a hand to his forehead. His sister gave him a laugh. "What would he do without our diligent Geppie?" Which of course caused him to blush.
Gepard put both of his arms out. "Please don't call me that....." He started speaking but was cut off by Prince (Name) coming from the balcony above. He acted quickly and went to catch the prince in a princess carry. Serval looking surprised and confused at what just occurred. She also noticed a small blush appear on her brother's face. Though she could tell he was a bit irritated as well.
Serval didn't want to get into the middle of what's about to occur between the two. She also wasn't fond of hearing any scoldings. Her eyes met with the prince's and she gave him a look of good luck before sneaking off to where she wasn't going to be involved. She was scolded for awhile after she let him hide away at her workshop for a bit.
"You're highness what are you doing?" Gepard asked keeping the other in his arms. (Name) tried pushing away from the knight to no avail. He frowned and gave a sigh. "Would you believe me if I said I was running away from danger?" He asked. Gepard gave him stern look before he saw princess Bronya rush to the railing of the balcony the prince just jumped from.
"Thank goodness he didn't get away. Sir Gepard I must thank you for preventing my Brother from running away." She said with a sigh. "Mother had arranged for him to meet one of his suitors and he ended up running off again. I'll be right down please don't let him get away." Gepard gave him a look.
"There goes my excuse." The prince mumbled with a pout. He stopped trying to get out of Gepard's arms and resigned that he no choice in the matter. "Hey Geppie you could just let me go. I'm not cut out to be the leader. Everyone knows Bronya would be so much better at it. Plus any marriage I have will be pointless as it'd be loveless." The prince knew the attempt was futile with his Knight. After all Gepard never swayed on his duties.
"My Prince you needs to have more confidence in yourself. The queen and your sister want the best for you. Maybe if you'd give your duties a try then you may find your not as bad as you think." He stated looking down at the Prince in his arms. He noticed that (Name)'s arms were crossed and he was refusing to look at the blondes face. He was so childish sometimes.
Eventually Bronya made her way to them. "Brother this suitor is at least someone you've met before. Give it a chance please." She asked. Gepard knew the prince was going to cave so he finally put the other down. He knew his long time friend always had trouble saying no to his younger sister no matter what she asked of him.
"Yeah someone I dislike but let's get this over with." He muttered crossing his arms. He was trying to get out of the castle and into the woods before his mother sent Bronya to grab him. "Hey Geppie come to my room later I want to ask your opinion on some stuff." The prince said before leaving with his sister. Gepard couldn't even tell him not use that nickname.
It was so embarrassing to be called Geppie. His face had become red because of the nickname. He had always liked the other but some of his embarrassing actions can be done without a reaction from the prince. Gepard wondering if the prince was alright.
After all the other rarely asked for advice. He was usually very independent and doing his own thing. Gepard quickly shook his head. He still had matters to deal with he can worry about what the prince wanted later in the day. He had to remain focused and vigilant.
The rest of the day went by smoothly until the end. Where he found the prince in the library. He was on the ladder reaching for a book that out of his reach. He clearly didn't care. "Prince (Name) would you like help?" Gepard called out worried for the prince's safety. He wasn't expecting to startle his friend. The prince started losing his balance as he wasn't paying attention to his surroundings.
In the next few seconds he somehow ended up above his blue eyed knight who took the impact of his fall. His eyes widened. "Gepard I'm so sorry are you alright?" He frantically asked quickly sitting up and checking the other for any wounds. He failed to notice the dark blush on the other's face as his hands checked the knight's head for any signs of blood or damage.
Gepard was frozen in shock with his heart racing in his chest. The impact of the fall wasn't bad he had just caught the prince from falling and took the force. He maybe a bit bruised and sore but he was ok. What wasn't ok was how close the prince's face was to his own. They were centimeters away from their lips meeting.
He snapped out of his small trance when he heard several I'm sorrys said frantically. He slowly sat himself up. He turned to the prince and saw him looking teary eyed from worry. Gepard looked surprised. Out of the two he used to be the crybaby. Always being protected by the young prince and his older sister.
Thinking back on things he'd never even seen the prince cry. "(Name) I'm alright. You're not the biggest thing that's knocked me down. Please don't cry." He said reaching to grab the other's shoulder. The prince sat there with small tears still falling down his cheeks. Gepard really hated this sight.
"I'm so sorry Gepard. I really didn't mean to hurt you." He said in a small voice. Then there was a small look of surprise. "Wait you just called me by my name without any formality. You haven't done that since we were young did you hurt your head that much?!?!" The worry in his tone was very prominent as he leaned forward. Placing the blonde's head to his chest leaning over him to check the back of his heads. His legs trapping Gepard's as he basically sat on his lap.
The prince didn't realize he was pressing the knight to his chest where the other could probably feel the racing in his chest. The prince was gently moving the blonde's hair to check for a bump or anything. He seemed relieved when he found nothing. He pulled away and noticed how red Gepard's face was. He was a bit clueless to him being the cause if the blush.
"(Name) I'm fine I promise. However could you please get off of my lap?" Gepard asked. His face was on fire. He began wondering if it was possible to faint from being flustered. The prince had a look of realization. His tears seem to finally stopped and he gave a teasing smile. "Is Geppie embarrassed?" He asked seeming to have calmed down from his frantic worry.
"Please don't call me that. I'd prefer if you'd go back to being worried than this?" Gepard stated covering his face with one hand to hide his embarrassment. "But you give such a cute reaction when I call you it. Just like whenever i catch you trying to sing one of Serval's songs." The prince teased. Gepard looked away tempted to push the prince off of him and walk away.
The next thing that happened surprised him though. He was expecting more teasing that never came. Instead he felt a hand on his chin so he was looking at the prince and warm lips pressed against his own. "Sorry I couldn't resist after all I've liked you so such a long time and you looked so adorable." He stated leaving the knight in shock again. "So am I the reason you've refused all of your suitors?" He asked surprised. He was given a nod before the prince got off of him and stood up.
"It's what I wanted to talk to you about. I want to give the thrown to Bronya and become a knight so I can spend more time with you." He admitted. "Sorry for stealing your first kiss Geppie. I understand if you want nothing to do with me. After all you constantly had to chase after me everytime I ran away." All gepard could do was sit there in shock. Was this all real? He had dreams similar to it which his sister would tease him about before.
Then a small jolt of pain shot up his back from the fall it was definitely real. He stood up and wrapped his arms around the prince. "Why would I want nothing to do with you? You're one of the people I hold dearest. Though I believe you should still keep your role as a prince as it's much safer and give me a piece of mind." He stated holding his prince close.
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|Hello everyone who sees this. The reader will be older than Cyno by a few years. This is an au with some Canon references. This is a one-shot so expect it to be long. As always please feel free to change the pronouns to fit your own. Enjoy and have a lovely day or night.
Scenario: Cyno became the king at a young age. As he became an adult there was pressure to marry. Though his gaze only fell upon the one person who was always there for him, who was always by his side for as long as he remembered. The issue was the person was a servant.
King Cyno x Servant Male reader.
Warnings: Mentions of assassinations, minor injuries, spoliers of Cyno's stories, and super long. |
Cyno had been crowned King for several years now. The desert could be considered harsh and there was the constant feuds with the forest neighboring the boarders. There was constant pressure for him to wed and produce an heir incase his fate alligns with his parents. He detested the notion he had to marry a suitor. He didn't want any of them. His gaze only fell on one person. He was amazing in Cyno's eyes. They both had similar morals and stuck to their core principles. The older male had his full trust. He had also been by the young king for so long. Cyno knew he shouldn't have fallen for his attendant but he couldn't help it. His duties are something he can't compromise on. He needed to be hard to keep the throne from corruption and the people safe.
Cyno knew that the other cared about him. Even after he had offered his body as a vessel for a powerful spirit. The older male was there every second tending to the young kings needs. At first Cyno thought it may have been to gain favor from the new king. It was a very common thing among the palace after all. The servant had just been put into the position right before his parents death so he wanted to be safe than sorry. Though the older male did something that very few did after his ascension to the throne he comforted Cyno.
The young king would often wake up from nightmares as the spirt inhabiting his body and his parents death took a toll on him. The servant had become aware of this one night after a really bad dream. Cyno had woken up with a small yelp of fear and panic. The guards didn't hear but his attendant did. It surprised the young king but he later found out the other had a good sense of hearing. From that night on if cyno woken from a nightmare he'd find his loyal attendant by his side and ensuring the young king got back to sleep. Cyno is still certain there's some witch craft at play because his attendant was able to get him to sleep with ease every time a feat his parents couldn't even manage.
Cyno didn't prefer calling those who work for the palace that had been there for awhile servants. He had gained their respect and they gained his. An older one named Cyrus was like a father figure to him. The servants of the palace were good to him. They just had a different fate from the start. After all he was just lucky to be born into royalty. If push came to shove he'd be judged the same as everyone else if he committed a sin. The scales spare no one and that's what he loved about them. They were fair and just no matter position or bloodline. He devoted himself to that line of principles.
Cyno had trained a lot and became one of the strongest fighters to be known. He has to credit some of his strength to an ancient spirit he offered his body too. He was currently in a meeting to discuss and deal with matters. Though none of the information was new. The older advisors had been beating around the bush for a week. They were too stuck on minor issues and wouldn't let him get much of a word in other wise. He started thinking of a joke that may make his attendant laugh finally.
He tuned out most of it as the thought of his beloved filled his mind. Then his thoughts started to become consumed with thoughts of the other. The advisors switched topics to a matter he was already working on. He had consulted Cyrus about the matters earlier that day. He was still paying half attention to what was being said. Though he thought their motives were becoming self servant and he'd have to do an investigation on them soon to determine motives.
Cyno gave a sigh and started to reminisced about (Name). The older male had become his attendant so long ago. He seemed like a more trustworthy advisor than all those at the current meeting. He was also trained to be able to protect the king with both his mind and body. As were most attendants that served the throne before him. The training to become a royal attendant wasn't easy. The young king admired the other's dedication.
(Name) was ready to sacrifice his life for his king. Though Cyno would prefer though the older male would trust his life in the young king's hands. It left a bitter feeling in Cyno as he'd be upset for the other risking his life. His feelings may have clouded his judgement a bit on that thought process. However it was because the other had stolen his heart.
Cyno was constantly talking about the other. So much to the point his mentor who was from another nation as well as his closet friend enjoyed teasing him about it. She was like an older sister to him as Cyrus also treated her like his own child. Lisa would also mention how diligent (Name) was when he was sent to library by Cyno. He'd make sure to get the books and scrolls asked as well as asking her for additional materials that may prove useful.
The advisors had started another argument with each other. He quickly put an end to as they all seemed to be intimidated by him when raising his voice. They went back to talking in a civil manner. He thought a great joke and remember when (Name) first became his attendant he'd live to hear the other's wonderful laughter fill the room from his jokes. It made Cyno prideful to hear genuine laughter rather than the standard forced laughs. That was when he was younger so the laughs could've been amusement rather finding him funny but Cyno would take it. He hadn't heard the laugh for a bit. He'll have to pull out his best jokes to he it again.
If he ever had a problem he knew he could lean on the other. He fell hard when he was in his early teens. That was because the other stood up for the young king. He was lost with very little guidance as several older advisors wished to gain more power in their favor. (Name) made sure they remembered who was the king. There was also that assassination attempt on his life involving his food.
A cook was paid a hefty sum to get rid of the king so one of the advisors could take the throne. (Name) declared to the staff that to ensure their king's safety he'd prepare every meal. His mother had been a royal chef for years and so the attendant learned a lot. The young king greatly loved all of the meals prepared. That had made Cyno fall for the other even more. After all very few would manage to remain firm with that choice.
Cyno was still figuring out how he could wed the older male without any issues. He remembered when he first started falling for the other. He was constantly in the library for his studies. He had to learn a lot in a very short time. He was pushing himself hard after all he was the desert's king now. He had gotten very little sleep. (Name) found him late in the evening with a few light sources and a large stack of books by him.
(Name) frowned seeing his king. He knew the young king hadn't slept for a few nights now and was worried about his health. He walked over determined to coax the light haired male to rest. He grabbed the book from Cyno's hands and marked the page with his bookmark. It was a mourning flower pressed on a small sheet he made himself. "My bookmark will keep your page and I'll put the book on your nightstand so you'll be able to pick up where you left off tomorrow. Tell me what stack you've read and I'll put them away while you rest. Then set aside those that you haven't." He stated keeping the book away from the young king.
Cyno tried reaching for it but his height proved to be an obstacle. "(Name) give that back now this is an order. I have no time to rest. The forest and Akademiya are both becoming pressing matters. I still need to learn about our other political ties and....." He started to argue and was cut off with a finger to his mouth. His eyes widened after his brain caught up with the action. Since he'd become king everyone had just put his thoughts first.
"You're no use to anyone if you deprive yourself of sleep and press yourself until you can't anymore. Your health may not be your priority but it is mine. So we can do this the easy way or I am going to pick you up take you to your room and sort through your piles of books myself. I will help you get ready for bed and everything but I refuse to allow you to continue on this destructive path." (Name) stated with a sigh. He gave a stern look to his king showing there was no room for debate.
For some reason Cyno's heart began speeding up. He saw his attendant in a different light. The older male made his stomach feel like there was a swarm of butterflies in it. His cheeks dusted a light pink and he started wondering if there was something wrong with him. That was the day he learned of a different kind of love. He stood up from his seat and resigned to listening to his attendant.
Cyno quickly pointed to which stacks he had read and which ones he still needed to review. He got a nod and soft smile. He had no clue what feelings had begun forming at the time. He felt his exhaustion catching up to him and start swaying. His attendant was quick to pick up on it. Cyno put his hand on a nearby book self not thinking about the weight he'd put on it.
The case shook a bit and the next thing he knew was there was several books falling. His reaction time was significantly dulled from his lack of sleep and he froze in place. He didn't feel pain though. It took him a second to realize (Name) pulled him into his warm embrace and took the force of the books that fell. "Are you ok my King?" Cyno was shaken much like the book shelf originally. He didn't typically like being called "my king" but coming from the older male made his heart stutter.
The meeting was starting to drag on and on. The advisors talking themselves in circles. He wondered how his parents dealt with any of their round about ways of talking. He gave a small sigh to himself. He turned his full attention to the advisors wanting the meeting to be nearing its end.
"King Cyno we need you to pick a spouse soon." One of his advisors said finally addressing the King. "May I suggest my daughter? She is exceptional and would perhaps suit your tastes." Cyno had to refrain from rolling his eyes. "There is nothing to gain for anyone except for you if I marry your daughter." He stated matter of factly. He could tell that angered the advisor. While the others agreed with him.
"A political marriage between him and the princess of flowers Nilou would be a better choice." Another advisor piped up. Cyno crossed his arms this meeting had turned pointless. "If that's all you have left to discuss this meeting is over. I don't want to hear another word about it." He said firmly the conference room was silent after his statement. He stood up. "Alright then this meeting is over and I'll be going to attend to my other duties."
Cyno left the room without another word. He was a bit irritated to say the least. He went to some of the matra that worked under him to look into his current advisors. The power of the throne had all be transferred to him. He can finally start weeding out the corruption for the betterment of the people. He was also planning on meeting some diplomats from the forest to start working on peace with them. He felt a bit at peace knowing their God will be at the meeting.
He pinched the bridge of his nose for a second before walking to his room. He heard a confrontation going on in the hallway approaching his room. He sighed before making his way to the voices. "I am not trying to poison the king. Now move out of my way." Cyno started walking faster to confirm if the person talking was indeed his loyal attendant. When he turned the corner his suspicion was true. The older male didn't notice him. She had grabbed on to him very harshly. "Please let go you're going to make me drop the king's food and you're starting to hurt my wrist."
"King Cyno! Thank goodness you're here. This servant here put something in your food. It was a powdery substance that he mixed in at the end it looked nothing like seasonings. I'm positive he's trying to poison you." Cyno looked at the girl. She was the daughter of the advisor that spoke earlier. He looked between the two. "Considering he's the only one allowed to touch my food I highly doubt it. Also go to a guard next time don't be a fool. Your father probably told you to get on my good side however assaulting my most trusted attendant isn't the way to do it." Cyno's tone was definitely a bit irritated.
"Also dealing with an attempted assassination by yourself is foolish and a way to get yourself killed. Next time talk to a guard. Come on (Name)." Cyno stated watching her quickly let go of the other and back up. She looked like a fish out of water watching the two walk away as though one of them had just slapped her.
The two made it to Cyno's room and (Name) set down the tray on the table in the room. He grabbed the older Male's hand and inspected his wrist. "Good she didn't seem to have left a bruise or a mark. Now (Name) care to tell me what extra ingredient you put into my food?" He said. He absolutely surprised the other. Though cyno knows he puts seasonings in as he cooks to infuse the flavors. I've watched you enough times to know." Cyno said staring deeply into the other's eyes scanning for any hint of a lie.
(Name) sighed. He gave a small smile knowing he couldn't lie. "You said you were feeling under the weather so I contacted your doctor penpal from the forest. I've also noticed your nightmares have returned. So I had made what he recommended after consulting some of the palaces doctors. You're stubborn when it comes to your health my king so I was planning on sneaking it into your food. I made sure nothing would do you harm." He answered. He had a look of surprise when Cyno stepped closer invading his personal space a bit
"I see. Would you mind getting me the book I was reading earlier? I left it in my study. Its the same one I asked you for earlier. I want to sit down for a bit and enjoy the food you prepared." Cyno responded stepping away. He walked towards the couch. "Of course my king." He said once the words left his mouth the young king once again felt the butterflies. His cheeks dusted pink as the other left.
(Name) walked into the study and picked up the book. After he grabbed it he noticed a bookmark that looked familiar. He picked it up and inspected it. After picking it up he came to the realization that it was his bookmark. He always wondered what happened to it but then remembered that night in the library. It seemed Cyno had kept it after he placed it in his book.
He made his way back to his king's room. He knocked before getting permission to enter. "It seems I have to mark you as a thief my king." He said walking over and handing cyno and the book making. He made sure to put emphasis on the word mark. He saw the king's eyes lighten a bit. "That joke was bad. All these years and you have no sense of humor. You left it in my book after taking it away from me. Consider it compensation." Cyno responded.
He felt his heart racing when he heard (Name) give a small giggle. He looked over and saw the other with a smile. He felt now or never was the time to admit his feelings. "I should put you under arrest for stealing." He stated making the older male confused. "After all one's heart can be considered their greatest treasure." He said with a blank expression. They'd have a lot to navigate but the bookmark was his greatest treasure as it came from the one he loved. They'd have to work around stuff and he was planning on just adopting a child to raise as his heir. He wanted to be with (Name) and end the discussions him getting married. As to him there was only one person who could own his heart. His most valuable treasure belongs to (Name) alone.
Thank you for asking, Dujour! You were not alone in being curious about this one, so tysm to @amatres and @herequeerexitentialfear too! This takes place right before she quits New Stetven.
TW: Agria’s thorny relationship with her dad, highly questionable parenting
“You’re right,” Agria says sharply, “I’m squandering the rare opportunity to spend my life forever solving your problems.”
“You are rare!” Her father cries, gripping her by the shoulders. Viktor never raises his voice, never, and his tone still maintains its customary softness, but there is a fervor to his words that Agria hasn’t heard in years.
“You are. And you waste it! Do you imagine that I want you to be unhappy? When the Surtovas say you are difficult, when your aunt writes to ask ‘What has your girl done now,’ do you believe I do not defend you?”
His voice breaks off as he takes a breath. Tears prick at the corners of her eyes. In the silence, she sees him clearer than she ever has. He looks as tired as she feels. “You will never be this good at anything again. And you are wasting it.”
