#Cork gun

[secretcherimaybe]

Patty & Jimmy Debut 1974

[patrickm156]

A Princesses Duel

The Toads were all dressed up in brown cowboy hats, bandanas, brown leather vests and holsters around their wrist with a cork gun secured inside. They were all playing around as some rode on toy horses while others were having shootouts with each other. All of a sudden the sound of heels were in the distance coming towards them as they turned around to see who was coming. A mysterious figure walked out the shadows and into the room staring each of the different Toads down. She was wearing a tan cowboy hat with a red band and two horns on the side of the hat, she wore a red bandana tied around her neck along with a symbol on the side, she wore a brown leather vest along with a buttoned up blue denim shirt, she wore denim jeans along with chaps that covers them, she wore brown leather boots and wore tan leather gloves that covered her hands and finally she had a brown leather holster around her wrist with a cork gun secured tightly. This woman’s name was Peach and she was the ruler of the Mushroom Kingdom but this time around she wanted to have a bit of fun.

Peach: I don’t take too kindly to varmints in my kingdom…I reckon it’s time I send ya back to where you came from..

Peach spread her legs to the side as they were in a perfect V-shape while her legs framed the Toads within them. The Toads slightly spread their feet to the side as they each hovered a hand over their holsters while Peach slowly hovered her hand over the holster on her hip ready to send these no good varmints packing.

Peach squinted her eyes at the little “bandits” in front of her as she wiggled her fingers over her leather holster ready to draw and show these Toads who truly were the fastest in the Mushroom Kingdom. The Toads made an angry pout as they each wiggled their fingers over their respective holsters ready to draw and to win against this “sheriff”. The woman continued to squint her eyes further as she slowly wiggled her gloved fingers over her holster slowly and teasingly waiting for the perfect moment to draw and surprised these little varmints. Each and every Toad wore determined expressions on their faces as their fingers wiggled over their holsters itching and ready to win.

Peach moved her leather glove close towards her holster as her fingers continued to wiggle slowly but would then pick up the pace a little as she felt the itch to draw coming. Her hand was just mere inches away from the cork gun as her gloved fingers brushed the handle while a smirk graced her pink lips. The Toads each brought their hands down as they rested them on the handles of their respective cork guns with each of their thumbs rubbing the handle or their fingers drumming against the handle each seconds away from drawing. Peach on the other hand wrapped her fingers on the handle as her hand gently gripped the fake gun ready to fire.

Everything was silent and tense as both “sheriff” and the Toads each stared one another down as they each had a goal in mind. For Peach it was to send these little rascals out of her “town” in order to preserve the peace and law while for the Toads it was to defeat this “sheriff” and to be on their way to cause some mischief. All of a sudden the silence was broken thanks to Peach.

Peach: DRAW!!

Both parties drew their respected weapons and fired at one another but Peach was just a bit quicker to the draw. All the Toads fell down and pretended to be in pain while Peach twirled the cork gun around her finger and holstered it on her hip. Peach kneeled down as all the Toads got up and hugged their princess while Peach giggled and hugged back having enjoyed this afternoon.

Here's another fic that features Cowgirl Peach. I hope you all enjoyed it.

[isjasz]

[Day 225]

Target shooting with your ex while holding hands bc otherwise you fail your Trial of Hearts amirite

----

HASHDASF something a bit different tdy!! I colored this lineart drawn by @bad12amcomic WHO ALSO MADE A COMIC OF THIS PLEASE GO READ IT IM INSANE about the fic "closer to another shore" by remrose WHICH IS ALSO JUST BONKERS PLEASE I BINGED IT SO LONG AGO BUT ITS SO GOOD SO YEAH ENJOY. Ty choco for letting me color this and for the nepotism :33333

[taco-bee]

Luigi!

thats not an animal

Luigi

...

Luigiii

ignore this

THIS IS A JOKE DONT KILL ME

[vtatters]

[disabled-battlekukku]

Sonic-themed Oscar dream of the day:

METAL FANG!!!!!!??????

[oldmanpusspuss]

ok im banning myself from looking at song lyrics for the rest of the night im gonna have a stroke soon

[deadgodjess]

Idk, Christopher Robin has a gun.

HOBBES vs. TIGGER cage match TO THE DEATH say goodbye to your childhood because ONE! WILL!! DIE!!!!

[bluepoodle7]

#Illbleed#Level6CorkIndaGoesToHell#CorkIndaWalkingAndGunPosing#GifAndGifVideos

I wanted a gif of Cork Inda walking past the camera then posing with his gun.

https://gifmaker.me/video-to-gif/viewimage/20240916-05-T3f3OsyW7tg99hAM-cWfBvg-hnet

#Characters That Remind Me Of Other Characters – @bluepoodle7 on Tumblr

[reachartwork]

re: "outlawing AI"

the thing i think a lot of people have trouble understanding is that "ai" as we know it isn't a circuitboard or a computer part or an invention - it's a discovery, like calculus or chemistry. the genie *can't* be re-corked because it'd be like trying to "cork" the concept of, say, trigonometry. you can't "un-invent" it.

even if you managed to somehow completely outlaw the performance of the kinds of linear algebra required for ML, and outlawed the data collection necessary, and sure, managed to get style copyrighted, you can't un-discover the underlying mathematical facts. people will just do it in mexico instead. it'd be like trying to outlaw guns by trying to get people to forget that you can ignite a mixture of powders in a small metal barrel to propel things very fast. or trying to outlaw fire by threatening to take away everyone's sticks.

the battleground is already here. technofascists and bad actors without your ethical constraints are drawing the lines and flooding the zone with propaganda & slop, and you’re wasting time insisting to your enemies that it’s unfair you’re being asked to fight with guns when you’d rather use sticks.

[corkinavoid]

"Dude, you can't just keep doing that."

Tim stops at the top of the stairs, watching the slightly surreal scene unfold at the front door of the Manor. Specifically, Alfred trying to close the door in someone's face while that someone — a disheveled, frantic looking guy in a red hoodie — is shoving his foot in in order to keep it open.

"I fail to see a problem," Alfred responds, prim and proper.

"It's gonna be quick, just in and out, I swear!" The guy nearly pleads, "Just half an hour, and you're done and good to go!"

Alfred probably does something with his face; Tim suspects it's that thing he does with one eyebrow that makes all of them, including Bruce — especially Bruce — spill their secrets right on the spot. Because the guy pauses, scrunches his face, and jerks his shoulder defensively.

"Okay, maybe an hour. Or two hours, but that's tops," he admits reluctantly. "Just, please, Alfred. I'm not above begging at this point."

The butler seems to hesitate, but only for a moment. Then, he actually shoves the guy's foot out with the tip of his own shoe.

"Unfortunately, my schedule does not allow any free time," he says, clearly feeling absolutely zero remorse about the fact.

The guy swiftly puts another foot in the doorstep.

"Alfred, please," he sounds like he might start crying, "It's been four years. I get it, I really do, trust me, it's not like I'm doing this because I want to. If it was up to me, I'd rather have spent my time elsewhere, but the Council is quite literally about to have my head for this."

He sounds... tired. Now that Tim looks closer at him, the guy seems barely older than Tim himself, but the bags under his eyes could certainly rival those he sees every day in the mirror. And come out victorious at that.

So, in a split second, rush decision, Tim speaks up, getting the attention of both the guy and the butler.

"What's going on?"

Alfred's back freezes, his posture becoming almost rigid, but the guy at the door looks actually relieved.

"Hey, hi, I'm Danny, really glad to meet you, your butler has been ignoring his court hearing for four years, can you pretty please give him a day off so he can deal with it?" He says it all in one breath, and Tim is a little impressed.

Approaching the front door, he looks Alfred in the face. It's not like him to just plain refuse to do something, especially something like attending a court hearing.

But then, what kind of dispute could bring a guy that looks like he's sleeping in a dumpster as a messenger?

"We haven't received any notices," he threads carefully, and Danny's face turns sour as he throws a side glance at the butler.

"Er, well, it's not that kind of hearing," he starts, visibly uncomfortable, "It's, um. About his... postmortem arrangements?"

His what now?

The question must be showing a bit too clearly on Tim's face, because Danny suddenly takes a deep breath, looks up into the sky like trying to negotiate with God for a better outcome, and mutters something that sounds a lot like Latin under his breath.

Then, he looks back at Tim, and his shoulders slump.

"Ancients know I didn't want to do this, but your butler has been very much dead for the last four years. He's refused to pass on, which is completely understandable, got no problems with him staying, but it's gotta be official. With all the records and paperwork filed and signed off. Which he is absolutely refusing to do for reasons he won't explain, and he keeps shooting at crows, and no messenger will agree to come to your Manor anymore, so here I am, at my last thread, willing to literally beg on my knees."

Tim blinks once. Then twice, as the entirety of that speech slowly registers in his mind.

There's a long moment when he's kind of expecting Alfred to dismiss the whole thing as a load of nonsense, but the butler stays quiet and still, and... okay. Just o-kay.

In that case, Tim's got a few questions.

First of, "Why?"

He addresses it to Alfred, and the man presses his lips into a thin line, not looking at Tim.

"I might not be able to come back," he explains after a pause, and Tim turns to Danny, raising his eyebrows. The guy scrunches his nose and makes a so-so gesture.

"Technically true, but in this case, the chance of it is really low. I'm talking, like, 3.2% kind of low."

Alright, to the next question then, "You said no messenger would come here anymore-"

"I'm still not certain it's not a far-reaching plan of his to create a reputation for the Manor in case another one of you dies," Danny cuts in, "Like, you know, annoy the Death so much that she just gives up on trying to claim anyone from here."

Tim shelves that idea for later and continues, "-then who does that make you?"

That makes the guy pause. He blinks, staring at Tim, and then rubs the back of his neck sheepishly.

"I'm- well." He licks his bottom lip and looks somewhere to the side, scratching his nose. He's got a very expressive face; it's almost too easy to read his discomfort and just a touch of anxiety through his gestures.

"He is the ruling monarch of the afterlife," Alfred offers, and if Tim didn't know better, he'd say the man looks smug as he says it.

Danny gives a half-shug, not looking at Tim and scuffing his foot on the ground.

"Not exactly."

"Ah, of course," Alfred drawls, "Because his reign does not extend through one afterlife only. He is the King of all of them, and then a few dimensions more on top of that."

Danny grimaces and says something under his breath, still not looking up.

"Language, Young King," Alfred reprimands and, alright, he is smug. Very much so.

Tim takes a deep breath and rubs his temple. This is way too much for him to handle without at least one cup of coffee.

Writing Prompt

Alfred Pennyworth passed peacefully in his sleep one evening after a life well-lived. Not having any time for such nonsense, he rose the next morning and quietly put himself to rest in a discreet corner of the manor grounds.

He had a job to do for young Master Bruce (he would always be young in Alfred's eyes) and his ever-growing brood. The Good Lord knew they'd be helpless without him and there were perks to being the poltergeist of Wayne manor.

If anyone noticed he was eating fewer meals, appearing from dark corners a little more often, and never seemed to actually sleep? They kept it to themselves. Insomnia was the family motto, after all.

Yes, things were going rather well for one Alfred J. Pennyworth, deceased. That is until certain parties from the Other Side came calling.

[a-dauntless-daffodil]

everyone settling into the hotel and figuring out the unsaid rules of cohabitation like

1 - it’s okay for Angel Dust to leave work stuff lying around IF ITS WASHED

2 - if you want a drink you ASK Husk. If you want to die you mess with his drink display

3 - TV is timeshared and if Alastor wants to use his timeslot to turn the tv OFF then no you can’t watch it just because he’s not using it

4 - Niffty can pin up the cockroach kill of the week in the lobby for everyone to wince at but it has to be on the cork board Charlie bought for her and she has to take the old ones down first each time

5 - if you break it you rebuild / replace it. You do NOT upgrade it with weapons while doing so (Sir Pentious THIS MEANS YOU) 5b - as long as it gets rebuilt / replaced no one gets to make a huge deal over something being broken or blown up again (or at Sir Pentious for doing it)

6 - don’t move around the fucking lobby furniture without moving it back afterwards 6b - if it’s in your room then you can do what you want but in all shared spaces the furniture NEEDS to be kept tidy and in proper place unless you want to hear swearing and sounds of violence as Vaggie trips over and throws her spear into a wall in frustration again, ruining the paper 6c - every third time this happens everyone has to sit through another presentation by Charlie explaining how having one eye is different when it’s not huge and in the middle of your head and you’re not basically at ground level

7 - Charlie can sing but only between 10am and 10pm unless it’s an emergency. If she tries singing outside of that whoever’s nearest is allowed to GENTLY hush her 7b - if you hush Charlie at any other time Vaggie will chase you. 7c - the above is NOT a recommended source of healthy exercise (you will have trauma)

8 - and above all have fun and FUCK yourself!

- Whoever changed “be” to “fuck”- it’s okay and you are loved <3

- Platonically. You are loved platonically, by me Charlie, who is writing this while standing next to my beautiful girlfriend.

- hey Charlie puff you alright? Sounds like she had a gun to your head while you were writin’ this XD

- It was more like her lips on my neck but yeah pretty close!

9 - Charlie and Vaggie are not allowed to be gross and cute in common areas they have a room for that sappy shit and need to keep it there thanks

- Homophobia.

- this is hell, toots

- You are literally a gay man Angel Dust

- I contain multitudes. Multitudes of d

- Bonding between friends is WONDERFUL but this is a list of rules not a chat room so let’s end things here ha ha ha ! Great job everyone!!!!

- KILL

- niffty what the fuck did you write that in it wont wash off

- BLOOD~

[tinylilacbun]

how do you think daddy! rafe would respond if he found little! reader with his gun or a weapon of sorts?

Warnings: kinda dark!rafe turning soft at the end, cussing, mentions of guns, angst/comfort

You didn't mean to snoop around, really, but you're bored out of your mind and have been waiting for Rafe to be finally done with whoever he's talking on his phone for what feels like hours.

Somehow you end up in his office that he keeps locked most of the time, especially when you're little, today he seems to have forgotten it, giving you the chance to look around.

You smile when you see a few of your colored pictures pinned on the cork board that's hanging on the wall together with notes and documents you don't even bother reading as you wouldn't understand a single thing that's written on them.

As you move to sit on his leather chair you swivel around in it a few times, some giggles slipping past your mouth before turning to sit properly at his desk, eyeing how organized everything is.

Moving your gaze lower, your curiosity gets the best of you as you start to open the drawers, seeing different files, papers, and pens, until you reach the last drawer your breath hitches at what you discover.

A gun. Rafe's gun. Something you only get glimpses of when you are big and even then those times are extremely rare, not even thinking as you reach inside the drawer to pick it up carefully.

It's so heavy, a lot heavier than you expected it to be, turning it from left to right and admiring it with big eyes.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Rafe's voice cuts through the silence, making you jump in the seat and almost drop the gun.

Your heartbeat picks up as he strides towards you quickly, snatching the gun from your trembling hands and grabbing your jaw with his free one, his breathing ragged.

"You know better than going in here without my freaking permission." He sneers at you, his grip on your face getting firmer as he lifts the gun for you to see. "This. This right here, is not a fucking a toy, do you hear me?"

You try to nod as best as you can, your eyes brimming with tears at his tone and the way he holds your face. "M-M'sorry daddy..."

He leans down so your noses are almost touching. "Never do that again." He mutters, letting you go a bit too harsh, making your back hit the leather seat as you shrink under his gaze.

You watch him walk over to the painting that has a safe hidden behind it and unlock it, laying the gun inside it before shutting it again quickly.

The tears finally start to pour down your cheeks as you can't keep them at bay anymore, sobbing quietly to yourself and tense up when you see him coming back over to you, expecting another scolding of which you're not sure if you're able to take any more today.

"C'mere..." He sighs, gently picking you from the chair and sits down himself with you on his lap, your face nestled in his neck as you sniffle. "Shh, shh, it's all good. I'm not mad, I was just- you could have hurt yourself real bad, and I wouldn't be able to forgive myself if something ever happened to you, baby."

You relax against him as he explains his sudden outburst towards you, understanding that he was just worried about your safety more than anything else and that he's still working on his temper, still learning how to approach you gently whenever you're in that sensitive headspace.

"M'sowwy, daddy...d-didn' mean to-" You whimper against his skin, reaching up to fumble with one button of his shirt as he rubs his hand up and down your arm, rocking you both slightly.

"I know, I know you didn't. Daddy's office is off limits for a reason, kid." He reminds you, letting you curl yourself more against him to be comfortable.

He keeps holding you until your sniffles and hiccups completely stop, only standing up with you still in his arms when he's sure that you've fallen asleep.

[pressureplus]

Yandere Sebastian Solace Headcannons

Warning: Blood, Light gore, Murder, Stalking, Obsession, Marking/Biting, Actually Delusional, Like he’s actually crazy, It’s a Yandere…they’re not Sunshine and Rainbows

◞꒷◟ ͜ ͜ ◞ྀི◟୨୧◞ྀི◟ ͜ ͜ ◞꒷◟◞꒷◟ ͜ ͜ ◞ྀི◟୨୧◞ྀི◟ ͜ ͜ ◞꒷◟

The moment he saw you, he knew he just had to have you. As if some kind of switch had flipped on in his brain that he didn’t know existed

Suddenly you were the center of his entire world. Every inch of it.

Everything you did became the reason he lived and breathed, following you became the only thing that kept him sane. Attempting to stop was detrimental to his mental health

So he settled for a healthy medium when he could, sneaking pictures of you while your back is turned

Finding that old camera has led to some very…interesting pictures of you being pinned onto a cork board in his room. Sometimes just standing, sometimes your face, sometimes your body.

Not that you know these pictures exist, of course

Sometimes he just stares at them, almost entirely unblinking, and runs his hands over the pictures like he can feel your skin

Sometimes he can’t help but to kiss the pictures of your face like you’re really there. Silly little thing, isn’t he?

In person? He doesn’t treat you any different at first. Though he gets noticeably more aggressive with people that get close to you

One day, trying to avoid Eyefestations gaze, you bumped into a desk really hard and your pants got caught on it. It left a sizable bruise and a tear in your pants

A jar of familiar eyeballs is left with your name on it outside the room you’ve been staying in down here

You never see Eyefestation again.

He insists on helping whenever you’re applying new bandages or using a medkit, the smell of your blood practically getting him drunk

He wants to bite you. He wants to eat you. He wants to kill you. He just wants to be a part of you, or inside you? As close as he can get to being you.

He loves you so much he wants to tear you apart limb by limb, wearing your bones like a crown and your beating heart like a necklace

He wants to be so entirely soaked in the smell of you, your blood, your clothes, that he cannot tell where he ends and you begin

But he could never dream of hurting you, not really, not like that. No, he’s better than the monsters down here, no matter how sweet your blood smells.

The odd version of cuteness aggression he has tells him to do all sorts of terrible things, it’s a good thing he has self-control

Keeps your used bandages. Dont ask what he does with them, you don’t want to know.

Probably steals clothes you’ve worn recently too if they smell like you…

He’s always watching you, and while you didn’t know about his little habits before, you probably catch on the first time he shoots one of your new friends

They hadn’t hurt you, yelled, they’d only tried to touch you. It was so quick too. The loud bang and a ringing in your ears as his gun produced a bit of smoke. He blows on it for a moment before holstering it. A mess of splattered remains on the ground as he smiled at you.

“My apologies, what were we talking about? Oh yes the batteries you wanted. That’s going to be about 50 data.”

“Y-You just killed someone right next to me. What was that even for?”

“Oh that? You’re right. You shouldn’t have had to see that. How about 30 instead?”

He’s started to pick off the people you talk with, the people you hang around. Leaving you in complete isolation from anything that isn’t him.

Don’t flash beacon him. He’ll say that it’s alright. That you’re just confused! He’ll crush it in his hand. The second time, however, he’ll leave the bruise of his hand wrapped around your arm when he tugs you forward and bites you

Some kind of punishment, you suppose, but it does leave a scar

One he’s going to obsess over

If you love him back that’s great! You’ll be treated a little nicer so long as you follow the rules. Nobody can touch you, nobody can be close to you, you’re not to make eye contact with anyone but him- oh and you must always sleep in his bed!

Despite what you may believe, it’s not for sexual purposes, he just wants his bed to smell like you

Still unstable and still an asshole, but on the plus side? You get babied and given gifts and kissed and protected!

You are his little treasure after all! Which means you get special perks

But if you don’t love him back, well…he doesn’t really care. It’ll just take time, soon you’ll see things his way, that’s all.

At least that’s what his delusional ass believes.

If he has to leave you chained up somewhere to keep you from getting hurt then he will. He’d hate to watch the light leave those beautiful eyes of yours.

And when he finally manages to escape he will drag you along whether you like it or not. Alone together out at sea, probably on some remote island.

Never letting you die. Never letting you leave. Never letting you be seen by the world.

His little treasure, forever, until the day you both die

Isn’t that romantic? He sure thinks so.

[zepskies]

The Honorable Choice - Part 1

Pairing: Dean Winchester x OFC 

Summary: June 1872. Captain Dean Winchester of the U.S. Cavalry is tasked with one job: break a wild mustang. He just didn’t expect the woman who infiltrates his camp, intent on freeing her tribe’s horse.

AN: I got inspired after a recent rewatch of Spirit: The Stallion of the Cimarron (literally a perfect movie), as well as having Yellowstone in the back of my brain. I thought this idea might be a good fit for this @jacklesversebingo prompt.

Disclaimer: I’ve done extensive research for this one, both on the American Indian Lakota tribe, and on American history during this time in the late 1800s (AKA: the Old West, during the American Indian Wars and the Sioux Wars). Of course, one of my main goals is to avoid inaccuracies, both historical and cultural.

Jacklesverse Bingo24 Prompt: Western AU

Song Inspo: The Spirit Soundtrack

Word Count: 4.6K

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only to be safe. Racism/racial slurs, attempted sexual assault (not successful), protective Dean, angst, some violence and some action.

🐎 Series Masterlist || Bingo Masterlist

🎙️ Listen to the podfic version here!

Part 1: Pride & Prejudice

June 1872

Dean hears some of his men shouting, along with the telltale cracking of bone that would make a less seasoned soldier wince. He spares a look to Benny, his Lieutenant, and sets down his glass of whiskey.

Dean’s path takes him brusquely out of his office and toward the stables. He grabs his gun and his hat on the way there, setting the latter on his head.

Is it too much to ask for one night where he can drink in peace?

Dean comes to find a young woman being detained by two of his men, Kline and Novak. Roman sports a bloody nose and his eye is already beginning to swell. The woman fights against their hold.

Even under the pale moonlight, Dean notes the way she’s dressed: a deer skin dress cinched at the waist, over thin pants and shoes. He surveys her tan skin, her black hair that blends into the night, twisted into a long braid, and the anger in her dark eyes.

“What have we got here?” Dean says. He stows his gun in its holster as he approaches her, resting his hands at his belt.

“I caught her breaking into the stables, Captain,” Roman says. He prods with a hiss at his busted nose while trying to stem the bleeding. That’s going to be a bad break.

She remains tight lipped, stubborn. 

“Probably doesn’t even understand English. Savage bitch,” he says. Dean shoots him an impassive look to cover up his annoyance.

“Put a cork in it, Roman,” he orders. Then, he focuses back on her. “You’re a Lakota, aren’t you?”

Aside from their main mission here in the Dakota Territory, the Colonel has been fixed on fighting back against the Lakota Indians, especially after they sabotaged the supply line last month.

The proud tilt of the woman’s chin is her only answer to Dean’s question. Her gaze drags down his form with disdain, like he’s the savage. His mouth twitches mirthlessly. 

“The Lakota rear up their own horses pretty damn well. Why would you want to steal one of ours?” he asks.

She glances away from him, first at her feet, then over at the camp’s latest “guest.” Dean, Benny, and a few of his men wrangled up a horse a few days ago. He’s a beautiful Kiger mustang with a nasty mean streak. He barely got through a trim this afternoon, and almost took a chunk out of Rufus when he tried to brand the horse.

The Colonel ordered them to tie the horse up to a post just outside the corral—no food or water for three days. He’d turned to Dean with a firm set to his face and issued a single order.

“Break him.”

Now, Dean catches the furtive look the Lakota woman gives the horse, who flicks his tail. The animal stares right at her, as if into her eyes.

“Oh, don’t tell me you here for him,” Dean says with a chuckle. “That thing’s a little too much for you, sweetheart.”

That earns her attention, steely and unimpressed.

“He is too much for you,” she says. Her voice is smooth, and would even be pleasant, if not for the circumstances. “He is one of ours. You will never break him.”

Dean's eyes widen a fraction. He glances back at the mustang.

So that's why she's here, he thinks. She's trying to mount a rescue. Dean feels a twinge deep inside, but he can't allow himself to care about that. They've collected a strong horse that will be a good support for their objectives here, once he's broken.

“Ah, well see,” Dean says, tipping his Stetson up to meet her gaze. “That’s kind of our specialty.”

“Sir, should we take her to the stockade?” Novak asks. He seems reluctant to do so to a woman, even an Indian, but he’s always been good at following orders.

Dean opens his mouth to reply, but another voice cuts him off. Colonel Asmodeus Sanderson steps out and takes a look at their captive.

“Not the stockade,” he says, with that Southern drawl that betrays his Kentucky roots. “Not yet.”

He approaches her with a slow, calculated gait. His hands gather behind his back. Dean gives her credit for looking Sanderson in the eye. She seems rightly wary, but not afraid.

“We won’t hurt you. I give you my word,” the Colonel says, “if you’ll lead us to your people’s camp.”

He takes a hold of her chin, turning her face this way and that, like he’s examining a dirty animal, and all that he’ll have to do to make it clean. She spits in his face.

Dean bites the inside of his lip against a smile. She’s got as much fight in her as the mustang. However, he has to school his face back into stoicism when Sanderson rears back in anger.

The harsh smack rings out in the clearing, along with the woman’s cry. Dean doesn’t allow himself to outwardly react, but inside, his spine tightens as he fights his instincts.

Only Kline and Novak’s hold on her arms keeps her upright. She pants for breath, but again, she meets the Colonel with a face that doesn’t give away anything, despite the reddening mark on her cheek.

“The post,” he barks. “Three days. No food or water.”

Dean is kept busy by his duties. He makes sure the camp is running in order, accepting shipments of supplies and ammunition, among other things. Cas Novak is in charge of the stables, caring for the horses and putting them through their training. Jack Kline is young and strong and a good assistant, along with others in his unit.

Right now, Dean and Benny are going over the plans with Colonel Sanderson for continuing construction on the railroad, from here to the Black Hills. It’s a path that cuts straight through Sioux territory—the bands of Dakota and Lakota Indians that occupy the land.

“The natives are fightin’ us tooth and nail,” Sanderson says. “But maybe our guest will be able to help us…negotiate.”

Dean remains quiet, ignoring yet another uneasy twinge in his gut. He didn’t join the army to fight the Indians. He doesn’t always understand their way of doing things, but he understands why they fight—to protect their land, and to protect their own. It’s the same reason Dean fights, when he has to.

He joined the army because…well, it felt like the right thing to do at the time. His father had been a Cavalry Major, and he’d died an honorable death, now about a decade past.

Has it really been ten years? Christ.

Dean wipes his brow. Even with the windows open, the office is humid and smells like ass. He glances outside, where both the mustang and the woman are tied to their posts under a sweltering sun at high noon.

Not for the first time, Dean wonders what his dad would think of him now. 

After the meeting, Dean and Benny fall into step together to inspect the camp. The summer sun shines hot on their blue uniforms, and occasionally they raise their hats to mop the sweat from their brows.

Things are running as usual, but many of the men’s eyes occasionally turn to the posts. Dean’s attention wanders there too without him realizing, catching on the woman’s dark hair. It shines even blacker in the sunlight, like a raven’s wing. He knows the shade because his dad used to have a feather kept in his journal, like a bookmark.

“You okay, brother?” Benny asks. Dean realizes what he’s doing, and his attention returns to the task at hand. Get it together.

Always forward, never backward.

“Just fine,” Dean replies. Benny gives him a knowing look.

“A bit unsavory, ain’t it?” he says. “Keeping her chained up without even a lick of water.”

“The Indians are getting smarter, bolder. They’re ambushing our men, going after our supply lines, and now, stealing our horses,” Dean says. “This is strategy.”

Benny shrugs slightly, making a sound of agreement. Dean hesitates, his gloved fingers flexing against his sides.

“If she was a man, you guys wouldn’t give a shit about putting a bullet through her head,” Dean says.

Benny’s gaze shifts downward. He doesn’t reply, but he concedes the point all the same.

They continue their route, and Dean keeps the rest of the conversation on the work at hand.

Mila has gone far longer without drink, but the sun is particularly unforgiving today. She’s prayed and prayed for even one cloud to glide overhead and shield her for a while. It’s not much better for her companion. He paces in place, occasionally tugging his head against the rope that binds him to his post.

She makes a clicking sound at the horse, getting his attention. She calls him by his name, and his ears flicker in her direction. He offers her a short whinny in response.

“I see you, Mato. I am with you,” she says in her native tongue. She hopes the sound of her voice will soothe him. He looks tired and hungry, but his eyes flick hard and untrusting on any man who comes near him. His spirit isn’t broken.

“Hey! Shut the hell up over there,” Roman shouts at her from where he and Cas are taking a short lunch break. Cas gives him a certain look, crossed mostly with annoyance.

Mila resists the urge to roll her eyes. Instead, she closes them and tilts her face back to the sun. In a way, it feels cleansing. Maybe it can wash away the stench of the White Men’s hands on her body, manhandling her, checking her for weapons.

She spends the rest of the day watching the camp. One of their leaders, the Green Eyed One, called this a fort. It does look fortified, with tall walls made of thick wood constructed to form a cage—whether to keep others out, or to keep the men and horses in.

She identifies the Colonel as their chief, of a kind. Green Eyes is second in command, followed by the Bearded One with a strange voice. Even the scruffy Blue Eyed One has some authority, mostly over the Child Faced One. There are too many others to rank them all, but she knows the Loud Mouthed One is arrogant, even after she broke his nose. The way he carries himself, he clearly thinks he has more power than he actually has.

In her mind, Mila conjures up different plans of escape. All of them fall short in some way. The men didn’t find all of her weapons; a small knife is hidden deep in her boot. She could saw at her binds within an hour, but even with Mato to carry her out and away, the problem is escaping this camp without alerting the men. Without getting shot.

She has three days to think.

That night, the moon refuses to give her clarity. Her stomach is too empty, her throat too dry, her tongue thick in her mouth. Her attention shifts in and out of consciousness, until the sound of boots crunching in the dirt trills unease down her spine. More alert, she sits up straighter.

The Loud Mouthed One. The one they call Roman comes to taunt her, offering her water, then drinking for himself instead. He comes closer to examine her. He has a small bind over his broken nose.

“You know, you’re a pretty one,” he says, taking another cold sip as his gaze drags over her form. “For a wild thing.”

His face nears hers, clean shaven, though his thin smile reminds her of a rattlesnake. Dread and repulsion churn at odds in her stomach as she realizes what he's really here for. It doesn't matter if he truly wants her, or just wants to pay her back for his face. Either way, he means to take her here in the dirt.

She looks away, not wanting to let him see her fear, or the dread tightening her stomach, rising into her throat. He winds long fingers into her hair. At first the hold is gentle, deceptive. Then it's tight against her scalp. She hisses in pain when he tugs her head back and forces her to look at him. Her breathing quickens as she tries to pull away.

He draws in close to try and claim her in a kiss, but she head-butts him, hard.

He cries out and stumbles back, his flask falling to the ground.

He angrily grabs her and hauls her up to her feet. He pushes her hard against the post and unbuckles his belt, just to stuff it in her mouth. With his free hand, he begins to undo his pants.

She refuses to cry out, even though she spits out his belt and fights him, trying to kick out his knees.

Suddenly, the man’s body is ripped away from her. Mila loses her footing and falls to the dusty ground, sliding against the wooden beam she’s tied to. The wind is knocked out of her, but when she raises her head, she watches with wide eyes as the Green Eyed One beats the other man into the dirt. It doesn’t take much, just a few well-placed fists.

Roman lies there catching his breath, and he spits a wad of phlegm and blood. His left eye will match his nose, that’s for sure.

Green Eyes looks angry and disgusted. He huffs and puffs while staring down at his subordinate. He pushes back his short brown hair and points an ungloved hand at Roman.

“Get back to the goddamn barracks. You’re gonna be mucking out stalls until shit’s coming out of your ears,” he growls.

Roman doesn’t argue, though it’s obvious that he wants to. He just picks himself up, makes a show of straightening up his open uniform jacket while catching his breath. He walks past Green Eyes with a resentful, angry look. Green Eyes watches him until he disappears inside.

Then, he turns to her. His gaze softens somewhat, but it’s still unreadable. He crouches down in front of her, resting his arms on his thighs. Mila’s gaze briefly falls to his hands. They’re calloused, the hands of a laboring man. He carries himself like a warrior.

“Sorry about that,” he says.

It’s not what she expected. Mila eyes him warily when he moves closer. She presses her back against the post until it hurts her spine. He raises up his hands placatingly.

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” he says.

“That is what your Colonel said,” she says. Her voice cracks with dryness. “I didn’t believe him either.”

His lips flicker at a rueful smile. It wrinkles crow’s feet around his eyes, breaking his stony face.

“Fair enough.”

He reaches for his belt and retrieves a flask, similar to the one his subordinate carried. He extends it out to her.

“It’s water, unless you prefer whiskey. I know I do,” he says.

She raises a brow at him, but hearing the sloshing inside the flask, her thirst takes over her wariness, and even her pride. She tentatively leans forward. He brings it closer so she can press her lips to the opening. Despite his Colonel’s orders, he lets her drink as much water as she’s able. When she’s done, he pockets the flask and sighs, running a hand through his hair.

“What’s your name?” he asks.

That, she will not give him. Names are sacred to her people, and this man, while seeming to have a shred of honor, isn’t worthy.

“Don’t wanna even tell me your name?” he says. He nods slightly. “Okay, well, I’m Dean. Captain Winchester, to this band of delinquents.”

He gestures around the camp with a dismissive hand. Mila only watches him. She’s never seen a White act like this, breaking his leader’s rules, being…kind.

What a strange man.

But if he had any real convictions, he would untie her and let her go, along with Mato. She won’t hold her breath.

Dean’s brows raise up toward his hairline, and his full lips form a pout. Realizing he’s not going to get anything more from her, he lets out a tired huff and straightens up.

“Well, goodnight,” he says.

He finally leaves her alone, but she can’t help but follow the swaggering path of his bowed legs and heavy boots. They carry him away and back indoors.  

A strange man.

By the morning of the third day, Dean is ready to do what he does best. Or at least, one thing he does best.

He’s no stranger to horses. He grew up on a farm in Lawrence, Kansas, where he and his brother would help take care of the animals. Dean was older, so he helped his father till the land and train the horses. Sometimes he and Sam would sneak off and race their favorite ones, until their mom called them back for dinner.

In fact, part of what earned Dean his rank in the U.S. Cavalry was how well he could command a horse. His own is resting in the stables.

Today, he’s getting in the ring with the mustang.

…Well, not right away. He lets a few of his guys go first to tire him out. Even after three days of no food or water, the horse is living up to his bad attitude. He bucks each of them off after just a few seconds in the corral. Dean can tell it’s becoming a kind of game for the horse. His dun-colored coat shines in the sun, his brown socked legs kicking up dust and manure as he brays angrily at whoever tries to mount him.

Dean notices the Lakota woman watching with an amused smile on her face while she sits with her hands tied to her post. She’s enjoying the show, like she knew this would happen. It seems to give her energy every time another man is thrown off the horse and limps out of the ring.

Dean shakes his head. Pitiful.

He puts two gloved fingers to his mouth and whistles the entire clearing to attention. He saves Kline the chance to bruise his spine and pats him on the shoulder. Dean steps into the corral and positions himself into the stirrups, wrapping the reins around his hand. The horse is breathing hard, but he’s not done. He’s still got fight in him. Dean sees it in his brown eyes.

“All right, mustang. You’re big and bad. I get it,” Dean says lowly. “But I don’t scare easy. Gimme your best damn shot.”

Cas and Benny give him wary looks from where they stand outside the gate.

“Hold onto your hat, Cap,” Benny mutters.

Dean adjusts his hat and rests his gun on the post for safe keeping. He wants to feel as natural as possible, like it’s just him and this horse, out back in his family farm. He holds on tight to the reins. He’s fully prepared for how the mustang takes off at a galloping clip around the ring. He twists and bucks, but Dean claps his thighs tight and holds on for the ride.

The horse gets smarter.

He runs for the water trough just outside the ring. He slams Dean against the side of it once, twice—and manages to throw him off, with Dean landing right in the water trough.

He bursts out from the dirty water, sopping wet and spluttering in anger. He looks over at the horse trotting around, whinnying and tossing his head like he’s laughing. Dean can’t help it. His anger fades, and he smiles.

This guy’s got some brass balls, I’ll give him that.

The Lakota woman laughs. Dean hears it and his head swivels toward her. She bites her lip, but she knows she’s been caught. Despite his injured pride, Dean’s lips curve with a smirk. Just gonna laugh at me, huh?

“I see things are going well,” comes a familiar drawl.

Dean’s face falls as he looks up and finds Colonel Sanderson. Dean pulls himself out of the trough and tries to squeeze some water out of his uniform. He clears his throat.

“Well, uh, it’s going, sir. Just gonna take a little more time than I thought,” Dean says. He quickly reclaims his hat from the ring, giving the mustang a smart berth. After he climbs back out, he goes over to the post where he left his pistol.

“Hold him steady,” Sanderson barks out the order, but not at Dean. The other men wrangle the horse back into the pen, where Sanderson climbs up and mounts the horse himself.

To his credit, he stays on longer than even Dean thought he would. The mustang gallops and circles. He tries slamming Sanderson on the sides of the corral, tries bucking him and bucking him, but the man clings on, even when his hat falls into the dirt.

The horse is exhausted. He eventually stops in the middle of the ring, panting for breath, his legs shaking slightly. Dean straightens at attention.

So does the Lakota woman, he notices. She looks worried, her brows furrowing.

Sanderson swipes a hand over his graying hair and moustache to collect himself. He raises his head with an arrogant smile.

“You see, gentlemen. Any horse can be broken,” he says. He kicks the horse with his spur. “Move along, mustang.”

To everyone’s amazement, the horse obeys him. He moves forward at a slow clip. All the men applaud, even Dean, belatedly.

“There are those in Washington who believe the West will never be settled,” Sanderson continues. “The Northern Pacific Railroad will never breach Nebraska.”

His gaze draws over to the woman. Her eyes are filled with tears as she watches the Colonel makes his rounds.

“A hostile Lakota,” he says in derision, “will never submit to providence.”

She stares back at him with steel in her watery eyes.

Dean doesn’t realize his jaw is clenched tight until he feels the strain in his jaw. He forces himself to relax, with his hand on his dampened belt.

“And it’s that kind of small thinking that would say this horse would never be broken,” Sanderson says. “Discipline, time, and patience. That’s all you need to level a wild thing.”

Just then, the horse stops abruptly.

“Mustang?” Sanderson asks in warning.

Dean tenses. He knows what’s about to happen.

“Sir!” he calls out.

But it’s too late.

The stallion revs and charges, bucking even wilder than before. He swings his head and rears back high on his hind legs with a powerful bray. Sanderson yells in fear and strain, but he stays on the creature’s back.

The horse’s angry eyes take on a darker shade of conviction. When all four of his hooves hit the ground, he finally bucks hard enough to get the Colonel off his back, though he still clings to the reins near the animal’s head. He comes face to face with the horse’s crazed eyes. His own are wide and full of terror.

Hot breath heats Sanderson’s face. Then the horse swings his head and tosses the man out of the ring. In the process, the horse falls on his side and shatters a section of the wooden beams that fenced him in.

While he shakes his head and gets his hooves under him, Dean and Benny help the Colonel up to his feet. His uniform is a wreck, and now, with a bruised body and likely a couple of broken ribs, the man is fuming.

Kline and Roman wrangle the horse’s reins and keep him more or less in place. The Colonel shoves Dean and Benny off of him. He reaches for his gun at his belt and aims it at the mustang. Dean goes rigid in shock, but he knows he can’t interfere. If he does, it could warrant some major discipline.

The Colonel pulls the hammer back on the revolver, but before he can pull the trigger, the sound of cutting rope and a feminine yell breaks the silence in the clearing. The Lakota woman pulls the Colonel’s arms down, and the gun goes off into the ground. Her elbow comes up quick to strike the man between the eyes. He careens back into Benny, who catches him.

Meanwhile, the woman swings up onto the mustang. She grabs a stronghold by the neck and barks something in her native language. It spurs the horse onward, and he breaks through the crowd of men at a gallop.

Dean watches with widening eyes and furrowing brows. “Shit!”

He runs to the stables where he finds Baby waiting for him. Her black coat ripples as she stamps impatiently.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he beckons. He leads the mare out of the stable, and after grabbing a coil of rope from the supply bench, he mounts her smoothly. With a subtle kick of his heel, she picks up speed to follow the mustang and his rider.

They’re already approaching the gate where the men are quickly trying to close it. There’s still a window of opportunity for escape, but not only is Dean on their heels, Roman also stands on a pile of crates filled with iron parts that are due to be shipped out in the morning for continued construction on the railroad. Roman holds a rifle. He trains his weapon on the woman, taking deadly aim.

Dean’s jaw clenches and his brows furrow. He knows then, in the breadth of a few seconds, that he has to make a choice. If he does nothing, both she and the horse are as good as dead.

Sam used to call him reckless, stubborn as the horses he spent long hours taming.

Right about now, his brother is probably right.

Dean reaches for his gun, aims, and shoots within the span of those seconds. Roman goes down before he even knows what hits him. His chest plumes with blood after he slides down the crates and flops heavy to the ground. His eyes stare unseeing at the crisp blue sky.

The mustang tears through the narrow opening in the gate, and Dean isn’t far behind. The woman is an excellent rider, far better than he expected her to be. She clings to the horse’s neck and mane, and she doesn’t even use the stirrups. She clings on when the horse leaps over rocks, and when she notices Dean tailing her, she urges the horse at an even faster gallop.

Dean’s face furrows with determination. Baby is built for speed too.

He gives her a little kick with his heel. “Come on, Baby. Go!”

He’s able to keep up with the mustang just a few yards behind, even when they reach rougher terrain, going further up and into a canyon. He follows them through every curve and dip, guiding his horse just as much as she's guiding him.

Dean takes his rope in hand and turns it above his head, but his attempt to lasso the mustang's neck fails; the woman saws straight through the rope with her knife.

"Damn it!" Dean mutters.

He's forced to let go of his frayed rope when he and Baby nearly careen off the edge of a cliff. His heart settles high in his throat as he grits his teeth, but he pulls back on the reins hard and leans in the opposite direction. Baby's able to bank left, saving them from a long way down to certain death.

They continue up the narrow path the mustang has trod ahead. It carves around and through the mountain.

Dean mentally grasps for a plan, aside from just keeping up. Without even a bit of rope, he doesn’t know how he’s going to slow the woman down without hurting her or the horse. He doesn’t want to have to use his gun.

Eventually, the canyon breaks into a patch of desert, and then, grassy plains and tall forest trees. The mustang begins to tire and slow to a stop. His rider murmurs soothing things to him, stroking his neck. She turns back to look at Dean over her shoulder in dismay. She knows she’s caught.

“All right, sweetheart. That’s enough,” Dean says.

He sidles up next to her and intends to grab the mustang’s reins.

That’s when her swift kick comes, dead in his forehead.

AN: And here we go! 😅 Feels right that November is Native American Indian Heritage Month. 🫶🏽 For that reason especially I've done my best to do the Lakota people justice, even in this little series and complete work of fiction.

There's a lot packed in this first chapter, and yep, I did borrow a bit of scene from one of the best scenes in Spirit as an homage. From here on out, we're literally going off road...

Next Time:

Dean falls out of his saddle with a yell, landing hard in the grass. The impact knocks the air out of his chest and his hat off his head, not to mention the pain that rattles down his back.

“Son of a bitch,” he wheezes, while trying to get back up.

The woman jumps down from the mustang’s back and all but leaps on Dean. Straddling his waist and grabbing a fistful of his collar, she lets out a battle cry and raises a small knife at him. It’s probably no more than two inches long.

Dean may be on the ground with a smarting forehead, but he’s still got the upper hand. He grabs her knife-wielding arm and whips out his pistol from his belt. Her eyes widen, and she stills above him. The gun lies between them, aimed for her chest. They’re both breathing hard.

Dean has a problem.

Looking into her eyes, soulful and brown, the slope of her nose and her full lips, parted with shock… 

▶️ Keep Reading: PART 2

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[imthebadguyyy]

Apple Pie

pairing : bradley bradshaw x reader

fandom : top gun

synopsis : bradley helps you make your renowned apple pie and experiences and enthralling sense of domestic bliss.

a/n : merry christmas to all who celebrate! love and best wishes ❤️🎁

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

The scent of smoky cinnamon hung thick in the air, weaving itself with the tartness of fresh apples and the buttery promise of a homemade crust. Sunlight spilled through the kitchen window in golden pools, catching the specks of flour dusting the countertops like freshly fallen snow. A warm breeze, heavy with the aroma of a San Diego Christmas, whispered through the open window, carrying the faint scent of the salty sea air. It was a day meant for baking—a day where the world outside could wait while warmth and sweetness unfurled inside your home, one shared with Bradley.

The marble countertop, a luxurious expanse of creamy white, veined with subtle streaks of silver and gray flowed like frozen rivers beneath its polished surface. Cool to the touch and impeccably smooth, it provided the perfect canvas for the symphony of ingredients scattered across it.

A woven basket brimmed with crimson and honey-gold apples, their skins catching the sunlight and gleaming like polished jewels. Nearby, a small glass bowl overflowed with granulated sugar, sparkling like powdered stardust. A ceramic dish held a mound of cinnamon and nutmeg, their earthy hues promising warmth with a whisper of spice. A stick of butter, softened to perfection, rested on a wooden board, its edges slightly melty, waiting to be folded into the dough. Flour spilled artfully from a linen pouch, creating soft white dunes across the counter, while a jar of amber-colored honey glowed invitingly in the light. Nestled among the ingredients, a rustic jug of heavy cream stood tall, its promise of richness tucked beneath its simple cork top. Everything was arranged with an almost reverent care, a silent anticipation lingering in the air, as if the ingredients themselves knew they were destined for something magical.

Bradley stepped through the front door, the familiar creak of the hinges blending with the faint hum of music wafting from the kitchen. The aroma hit him first—sweet apples, warm cinnamon, and the unmistakable scent of butter melting into perfection. It wrapped around him like a welcome, soft and inviting.

Rounding the corner, his gaze landed on you. You stood at the counter, your apron tied snugly around your waist, its cheerful pattern a perfect match to the one hanging on the hook by the door. The sight made his heart stumble, just for a moment. There was something about the ease in your movements, the gentle sway of your hips as you worked, that filled him with a quiet, overwhelming contentment.

The apron—a gift he’d jokingly insisted on getting a matching pair of "kiss the chef" ones looked far better on you, though he’d never admit it out loud. For a fleeting second, he could imagine this moment stretched into a lifetime: mornings like this, evenings too, the two of you wrapped up in the ordinary magic of just being together.

“You’re making me look bad,” he teased, his voice warm as he leaned against the doorway. “What happened to waiting for the sous chef?”

You turned, a smudge of flour dusting your cheek and a playful smile lighting your face. “Sous chef? I thought you’d promoted yourself to taste tester.”

Bradley grinned, crossing the room to grab his own apron. “Domestic bliss never looked so good,” he murmured, the words half to himself as he tied the strings and stepped up beside you.

Side by side at the marble countertop, you and Bradley worked in quiet harmony, the kind of rhythm that didn’t need words. His hands, large but surprisingly gentle, moved clumsily at first, pressing into the cool, pliable dough while your smaller ones guided him with a soft touch. The room was filled with the quiet, comforting sounds of baking—the scrape of the rolling pin, the faint rustle of flour against the marble, and the occasional low hum of contentment from one or both of you.

“Like this,” you murmured, placing your hands over his. Together, you smoothed the dough into an even circle, the action unhurried, almost meditative. The soft press of your palms and the steady roll of the pin seemed to draw the tension from the air, leaving behind a soothing calm that wrapped around you both.

Bradley’s brow furrowed in concentration as he followed your lead, his lips quirking into a smile whenever you corrected his grip or teased his uneven edges. “Not bad for a rookie, huh?” he said, glancing over at you with an easy grin.

You tilted your head, pretending to inspect his work. “Hmm. I’d say you’ve got potential, Bradshaw,” you replied, your tone light but your smile warm.

The moment felt timeless, as if the world outside had paused to give you these small, perfect moments. The soft sunlight filtering through the window, the mingling scents of butter and spice, and the steady rhythm of your hands moving together—it was all a quiet symphony of togetherness. By the time the crust was ready, your fingers dusted in flour and your laughter mingling in the warm air, it felt less like a task and more like a memory you’d treasure forever.

As the two of you worked, Bradley's thoughts drifted, momentarily pulling him away from the comforting rhythm of the kitchen. The past few weeks had been a blur of intensity. The rigorous training sessions, each one pushing his body to the limit, followed by the endless debriefs that stretched into the late hours of the night. His mind had been consumed with flight simulations, meticulous calculations, and the pressure of preparing for missions that came one after the other. Long, arduous flights had left him drained, but it wasn’t the exhaustion that weighed most heavily on him—it was the constant longing to be somewhere else.

Somewhere with you.

The thought of the kitchen, of this quiet domestic scene, had become his escape. There was something about the way you were always waiting for him, patient and unwavering, that had kept him going through those long stretches away. In the dead of night, when his muscles ached and his mind raced with the remnants of missions completed and ones yet to come, he’d close his eyes and think of you. The way your laughter filled the space between the two of you, the warmth of your touch, and the sense of peace that came simply by being near you.

Now, standing beside you, the stress of those weeks seemed to melt away. The world outside, with its endless demands and responsibilities, faded into the background as he watched you expertly roll out the pie crust, the soft flour drifting through the air. The connection between you both—so natural, so easy—was like a breath of fresh air, and in this small, quiet kitchen, Bradley found solace in the simplicity of the moment.

He hadn’t realized just how much he had longed for this. The mundane beauty of being with you—flour on his hands, apples scattered across the counter, and a pie coming together, was a contrast to the chaos he had been living. It was exactly where he wanted to be.

Bradley reached for the basket of apples, the crisp fruits cool under his hands. “You do the crust like a pro,” he said, flashing you a grin. “Let me see if I can redeem myself with the apples.”

“You sure about that?” you teased, handing him a knife and a cutting board. “This is precision work, Bradshaw. No room for error.”

“Challenge accepted,” he quipped, rolling up his sleeves again as he positioned himself beside you. He started slicing the apples, his cuts neat but slightly uneven. You leaned over to inspect, your hand brushing his wrist as you adjusted the angle of the blade.

“Thin, but not too thin,” you instructed, your voice soft but firm. “We want them to bake just right, not turn to mush.”

Bradley nodded, the corner of his mouth lifting in a small smile as he focused on the task. The rhythmic sound of the knife against the cutting board filled the kitchen, mixing with the faint hum of music still playing in the background. Each slice brought a sense of calm, as if the act of chopping apples could somehow unravel the knots left by weeks of tension.

While he worked, you measured out the sugar, pouring it into a small glass bowl with a practiced hand. You added a pinch of cinnamon and nutmeg, the warm, earthy spices swirling together in a fragrant mix. As you stirred them together, Bradley finished his pile of apple slices and slid them toward you with a triumphant flourish.

“Not bad, right?” he asked, his voice tinged with pride.

You glanced at the perfectly sliced apples, raising an eyebrow in approval. “Alright, I’ll admit it. You might have a future in baking after all.”

Bradley laughed, reaching for the measuring cup to help you portion out the rest of the ingredients. “Told you I’m a quick learner,” he said, his tone light but his gaze lingering on you a moment too long.

The two of you fell into an easy rhythm again, working side by side to combine the apples, sugar, and spices. The mixture shimmered in the soft light, a glossy cascade of sweetness and warmth that seemed to mirror the mood in the room. Every step felt unhurried, every action deliberate, as if time had slowed to let you savor this rare moment of togetherness.

As the two of you worked, Bradley’s mind wandered back to his childhood, to moments long passed but never forgotten. The kitchen had always been the heart of their home, his mother standing at the counter, apron tied high, her laughter filling the space as she taught him the small rituals of baking. It was there, in that warm, familiar room, that he’d first learned how to measure ingredients and roll out dough—lessons woven with love and patience, and the comforting scent of fresh-baked treats.

He remembered how she’d guide him through each step with a gentle hand, the way she’d smile when he made a mess, and the way her eyes would light up when the kitchen filled with the aroma of their creations. She always said baking was an act of love, a way to pour a piece of yourself into something tangible. It was one of those simple truths he’d carried with him, though it had taken him a while to understand how much those moments had shaped him.

As you stood beside him now, chopping apples with practiced ease, Bradley couldn’t help but notice the similarities—the way you moved with that quiet confidence, the way your presence brought a sense of peace to everything around you. It was like this kitchen, these shared moments, were a bridge between his past and present. The rhythm of your hands working together, the soft exchange of words, and the laughter that bubbled between you felt like a new chapter in a story he never wanted to end.

His thoughts drifted back to his mom again, to the way she’d often say, “Baking isn’t about perfection, it’s about enjoying the process.”

Bradley smiled to himself, a pang of nostalgia settling in his chest. Maybe he didn’t have the luxury of those moments with his mom anymore, but with you here, in this kitchen, it was as if she had passed that same warmth and care down to you, and through that, to him. He glanced over at you, the soft glow of the afternoon sun highlighting the determined curve of your cheek as you worked, and for a fleeting moment, everything felt like it had come full circle.

Bradley set down the measuring cup, the weight of the moment hitting him like a wave. His eyes softened as they drifted to you, the sight of you so focused, so at ease, reminded him of something he hadn’t thought about in years.

“You know,” he began, his voice quieter now, “the first time I baked cookies, it wasn’t just with my mom. You were there too.”

You looked up, surprise flickering across your face. “Really? I don’t remember that.”

Bradley chuckled, his gaze distant as he leaned back slightly against the counter, recalling the memory with fondness. “You were six. I was eight. Mom had decided we were going to bake chocolate chip cookies together—like a whole ‘family bonding’ thing. You were so excited, even if you had no idea what you were doing. I remember you kept sneaking chocolate chips and shoving them in your mouth when Mom wasn’t looking.”

A smile tugged at your lips as you tried to picture little you, mischievously eyeing the cookie jar. “That sounds about right.”

Bradley’s eyes twinkled as he continued. “I was determined to be the perfect little baker, you know? Measured everything precisely—like I was some kind of culinary prodigy. But you? You just dumped everything in, flour everywhere, a bit of sugar, chocolate chips scattered around… but somehow, it worked.”

You raised an eyebrow, the playful glint in your eyes matching his. “You mean it was my chaos that made it work.”

“Exactly,” Bradley said with a grin, shaking his head in disbelief. “Mom was trying so hard to keep us on track, but you and I just ended up making the biggest mess. It was like the kitchen exploded with flour and chocolate, but when those cookies came out of the oven, they were perfect. A little rough around the edges, sure, but they tasted like heaven.”

You laughed, imagining the chaos of it all. “I bet it was a disaster, but it was probably the best cookie I’ve ever eaten.”

Bradley nodded, the warmth of the memory spreading through him. “It was. And I think that’s when I realized something important—that sometimes, the mess, the imperfections, they’re what make the moments worth it. You and I, throwing chocolate chips everywhere, Mom laughing in the background—it was a mess, but it was our mess. And I’ll never forget that.”

There was a softness in his voice now, a quiet tenderness as he looked at you. “I guess I never told you this, but I always thought about that day when I came home, every time we’d bake together.”

You met his gaze, your smile softer now, the air between you warm and intimate. “It’s funny. I don’t remember the details, but I can almost feel it—the warmth of that kitchen, the smell of the cookies, and the laughter. It’s one of those memories that’s just… there. Like it was meant to be a part of me.”

Bradley’s heart swelled in his chest, and for a moment, he felt as though the years had collapsed into something simpler, something more timeless. The bond between you, so effortlessly shared in this small kitchen, felt like it had always been there, like it had been waiting to be rediscovered, one chocolate chip at a time.

With the apple filling nestled gently into the pie crust, you and Bradley stood side by side, both silently admiring the creation before you. The last few steps had been an easy flow of action, your movements guided by the comfort of routine and the shared sense of satisfaction that came from doing something together.

Bradley wiped his flour-dusted hands on his apron and looked over at you, his smile easy and warm. "You think it'll be as good as the one from last year?"

You laughed softly, a playful glint in your eyes. "Better, if we do it right."

Together, you carefully lifted the pie, the edges of the crust golden and slightly uneven, the filling bubbling just enough to promise sweetness and warmth. Bradley opened the oven door, the heat rushing out to meet you both, and you slid the pie onto the middle rack, feeling a little thrill at how perfectly it all came together.

The kitchen filled with the soft click of the oven closing, and you stood there for a moment, the two of you watching the pie as though you could will it to perfection just by looking at it. The anticipation hung in the air, the quiet hum of the oven providing the only sound.

Bradley leaned against the counter beside you, his arm brushing lightly against yours. “I’ve gotta admit, this whole baking thing—kind of growing on me.” His voice was relaxed, content, and you could tell that the weight of the past few weeks had momentarily lifted from him.

You smiled up at him, feeling a rush of affection for the man who, despite his usual focus on flying and mission prep, had found time to make something as simple—and yet, as meaningful—as this. "I’m glad you’re enjoying it. It’s nice, right? Just being here… together."

Bradley nodded, his eyes softening as he looked at you, then back at the oven. "Yeah. I don't think I've ever felt more at peace." His words were quiet, but they carried a depth that made you feel rooted in the moment.

For a few seconds, the room seemed to hold its breath, the scent of cinnamon and sugar beginning to rise, mingling with the warmth of the oven and the comfort of the space. In that stillness, you both knew what this was—this simple act of being together, of creating something from scratch and waiting patiently for it to turn into something beautiful.

As the pie baked away in the oven, the comforting scent of cinnamon and apples filling the air, you and Bradley exchanged a look. It was time for a well-deserved break, and after the cozy chaos of the kitchen, a few moments of relaxation felt like a gift.

"Think we deserve a little treat?" Bradley asked, pulling off his apron and tossing it onto the counter with a soft thud.

You grinned. "You mean besides the pie? Absolutely."

With a quick nod, you both headed off to your shared room, shedding the remnants of the afternoon in exchange for something far more comfortable. The soft rustle of fabric filled the air as you pulled on your favorite pajamas, an oversized t shirt that had once been Bradley's before you stole it, still soft despite the stretched out neckline from years of use, and a pair of comfortable flannel pyjama pants that were just soft enough to give you comfort, filled with memories of quiet nights just like this one. Bradley appeared moments later, also in his own set of pajamas—flannel pants and a simple black tee that made him look effortlessly at home.

"Much better," he said, tossing a pillow onto the couch before plopping down next to it.

You laughed and followed him, curling into him as the warmth of the oven continued to fill the room and the scent of cinnamon wafted from the kitchen to your beautiful living room. "Alright, what are we feeling? Chinese takeout? Or... pizza?"

"Chinese," Bradley answered almost instantly, his hands already reaching for his phone to dial the number. "Nothing beats Chinese on a night like this."

You smiled, nodding in agreement. “I’m with you. The crispy spring rolls, and fried rice, it’s all calling my name.” you sighed happily, a little drunk on how effortlessly perfect the moment was with him.

He grabbed you by the hips, pulling you into him so you were straddling him, legs on either side of his waist. His hands gently trailed down your back, squeezing your hips as he rocked you forward, meeting your lips in a passionate kiss. His lips were soft and warm, and the kiss was heady in the best way. As he gently stroked your tongue with his, he let his hand drop to the curve of your ass, squeezing and palming the flesh through your pyjamas, the thin material pressing against your core in a way that had you gasping. As his tongue explored your mouth, you let your hands run down the muscled planes of his chest, hard and toned even under his t shirt, gently raking patterns with your nails and grinding your hips against his hips. His hand settled on your ass, cupping the flesh softly as he ran his fingers softly between. He drew back to inhale deeply, sighing happily at the sight of your swollen lips. He placed a final indulgent kiss on your swollen lips, pulling your lip between his teeth to watch it snap back in place.

You couldn't help but smile, gently tickling his side as he scooped you up to lay you down properly, grabbing your favourite couch blanket as you opened netflix on the TV.

As Bradley placed the order, you grabbed the remote, flicking through the shows to find something easy and comforting. "How about we throw on a Friends marathon? It’s been forever since I’ve watched it."

Bradley looked over, his eyes lighting up with recognition. "Now you're speaking my language." He paused for a beat. "You know, I’ve always thought I’d be a Chandler in another life."

You raised an eyebrow at him, a teasing smirk tugging at your lips. “Oh really? I can see that. The sarcastic humor. The… awkwardness.”

“Hey!” he protested, nudging you with his elbow. “I’m not that awkward.”

“Right,” you said with a grin, leaning back into the couch cushions. “You’ve definitely got a little Ross in you too, but more… cool.”

Bradley laughed, shaking his head. “Alright, alright, but if I’m Ross, you’re definitely Monica. All that organization and competitiveness.”

You looked at him with a mock gasp, “How dare you? I’m not competitive.” But you both burst into laughter as the familiar opening credits of Friends played, the theme song a nostalgic reminder of countless nights spent laughing at the same jokes.

Bradley got up to fetch a bottle of red wine he had picked up a few weeks ago exactly for a night like this, along with two wine glasses with purple and red wine charms you had bought when you first moved in. He poured you a glass of the Sauvignon, watching with a content smile as you swirled it around your glass and took a happy sit, complimenting it with a sweet kiss to his lips.

The doorbell rang just as you settled in, and Bradley jumped up, a little too eager to grab the takeout. As he brought the steaming containers into the living room, you both made room on the coffee table, the food’s scent mingling with the still-warm aroma of the pie in the oven.

With takeout and your favorite show queued up, the evening stretched out in front of you like a peaceful, uninterrupted pause. There was no rush, no deadlines—just the quiet comfort of the moment, with laughter, familiar food, and a freshly baked pie in the oven.

Bradley fed you bites of food and the two of you chatted about mundane things that felt extraordinarily special when you spoke about them with Bradley. Growing up together, you had little to no secrets from each other, but the level of domesticity being in a relationship and living together had brought you had you dreaming of a life with him, a picket fence and kids, dogs and cats, a classic life you hadn't allowed yourself to dream of.

But now, as he fed you a bite of his spring roll and stole a sip of wine from your glass and placated you with a chaste kiss to your lips, your dream had turned to a reality.

The timer’s soft chime echoed through the kitchen, and with it, a rush of anticipation. The pie had finished its long journey in the oven, and as you opened the door, the golden crust greeted you like an old friend. The edges were perfectly crisp, the apples inside caramelized and bubbling with sweet warmth. The kitchen seemed to hum with the quiet satisfaction of a job well done.

Bradley was already standing by, his gaze soft as he watched you take the pie out, the aroma mingling with the last traces of cinnamon and sugar. “Looks perfect,” he murmured, his voice low with the kind of affection only shared in the quiet moments.

You turned to him with a grin. “I think you’re right. This might just be the best one yet.”

With care, you slid the pie onto a cooling rack, and together you waited those precious few minutes before slicing it. You cut into the soft, tender layers, the filling slightly bubbling over as you pulled the first piece onto a plate.

Bradley, ever the gentleman, grabbed the whipped cream from the fridge and dolloped a generous spoonful on top, the cold cream melting slightly against the warm pie. He handed it to you, his fingers brushing against yours in the exchange.

“You first,” he said, his smile warm, a little teasing, but filled with sweetness.

You took the fork, the bite of warm pie and cold cream almost too perfect, the sweetness settling on your tongue like a promise. Bradley’s eyes followed you, a quiet contentment settling over him as he waited for your reaction.

“Good?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

You nodded, savoring the moment. “Perfect.”

And then, without a word, you held the fork out to him, offering him a taste. His eyes softened as he took the bite, the simple act of sharing something so intimate almost more than either of you could put into words. You fed each other in silence, the only sound being the soft scrape of forks against plates, the occasional hum of contentment escaping both of you.

Between bites, the pauses were filled with quiet laughter, shared glances, and soft kisses—quick, sweet pecks that made the world outside the kitchen seem distant, as though this small moment was the only one that mattered. Your lips met between forkfuls of pie, the taste of apples and cinnamon mixing with the sweetness of each kiss, a quiet rhythm that only deepened the sense of domestic bliss.

Bradley’s hand found its way to the back of your neck, his fingers brushing the soft skin there as he pulled you in for another kiss. It was slow this time, lingering, the warmth of the pie forgotten as you melted into the softness of each other’s embrace. You let the moment stretch, taking it all in—the cozy kitchen, the warmth between you, the simple sweetness of pie, and the quiet joy of being together.

When the last bite of pie was finished, the plates were left behind, forgotten, as the two of you curled up together on the couch. The kitchen had long fallen quiet, save for the steady hum of the world outside. But inside, in the gentle glow of the evening, it was just you and him—a perfect little moment, wrapped in love, pie, and a thousand unspoken promises.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

a/n : merry christmas everyone! wishing you all love and peace! ❤️ would you like a series on how bradley and childhood best friend!reader got together? do let me know!! as always, likes , comments, reblogs etc are always appreciated!!

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