#( ft. bradley )

[gwyndolence]

for @bradleyxharper

It was just leaning towards midday when Gwyn stirred from his reverie in the gardens, stretched out beneath the shade of a well-kept hawthorn tree. A few slow blinks at the light confirmed how much time had passed since he'd laid out and a satisfied smile tugged at the sith's lips as he closed his eyes again. Gwyn had left his suites that morning with a mission: to keep his word. Quite frankly, it was easier than expected to slip into the council room unnoticed and it had taken no time at all to leave his mark on the portraits there. Raphael very frustratingly even wore the goatee and devil horns well, but Tiernan's dour face was much improved by jester's makeup, in Gwyn's opinion. Kell's complaints adequately addressed, he had sidled triumphant out into the castle halls again, the rest of the day at his fingertips.

Most masters seemed to scorn the growing light of this time for the comfort of their rooms, even with the sun rings, leaving mostly staff and the claimed to enjoy a relative bit of quiet. Perfect for Gwyn too, to enjoy the day's loveliness without any impositions. Peace was rare for the sith, a condition often self-inflicted, but alone in drowsing moments like these he nearly felt he could dream again. Except, he realized in a moment of sharpened focus, the gentle scratching of pencil against paper buzzing in his ear, the young master was not alone.

Gwyn cracked open one eye, found the shape of his companion in quietude in a warm-skinned youth bent with focus over his work, occasionally glancing up in the sith's direction -- an artist. How darling. The light was too bright for Gwyn to make out more of him without sliding the mercy of his dark-lensed glasses back over his eyes, but his smile spread as he tilted his head towards the other man, not even bothering to sit up from his sprawl as he called out in a lilting voice, "What has your eye, stranger?"

[persephoneacts]

DM: @SPIDEYBRAD

@sephyblake: hey quick question @sephyblake: did you know that your instagram handle is scribbled on the wall of a public toilet with the words 'DM for sex and feet pics' next to it?

[marcusmixes]

↳INSTAGRAM: @producermarcus uploaded a photo:

Thanks for the photos @bwprestwick.

[shatteredgossip]

@sephysblakes: NOT sephy's little twink changed his twitter display name to White Heathcliff sdfgf hashtag WHIPPED

[ghosthuntingwithmicah]

↳INSTAGRAM: @micahabiola uploaded a photo:

baby boy bradders

[anniebaxterthefuture]

TEXTING: BRADLEY Annabelle: Is there anyone Matty doesn't wanna fuck tbf tbf!!!!!!! Annabelle: So to conclude Annabelle: You don't wanna fuck me, Jax, Persephone, Matty OR Simon? Sad

TEXTING: ANNIE Bradley: This whole exchange has made me want to throw my phone in the Hudson Bradley: The river not Simon Bradley: Who I’m sure Matty also wants to be in Bradley: Whaaaaaaat

[mxrcusflint]

hit the gas

hangster ft. dagger squad crack chat fic because this is truly the pattern now I guess

Phoenix has unblocked Hangman Phoenix: Bradshaw is too old to be on his knees for that long Hangman: I don’t hear him complaining Hangman: but to be fair, his mouth was full 😗 Phoenix has blocked Hangman

read more on ao3

[noooodle-snek]

I'm so fucking grateful that the Maxley blow up happened in a time when people don't automatically make the canon female love interest the villain

[gwyndolence]

for @bradleyxharper

There was just one more person Gwyn had yet to entertain tonight that he refused to return to the castle without getting his hands on. And that the sith intended quite literally he'd decided, from the first moment he set eyes on the Seelie in that costume. The particulars of who and what, Gwyn knew not, but he didn't need to given the incentive of those blue garters against Bradley's pale thighs. For the greater part of the night though, his attention was firmly kept elsewhere, unable to do much more than flash Bradley a wink in passing. The rest, after that, was a blur.

But said night was nearly over much to Gwyn's chagrin, happy to greet the dawn in his blissful haze if given the opportunity. Krovstown was slowly emptying though, the party winding down, and he had nearly resigned himself to enjoying the rest of it alone when his eyes fell on the Seelie once more from a distance. Bradley wasn't totally alone; Gwyn wasn't too confident on who accompanied him, but their attention was divided enough. He watched him from afar a moment, a prickle of excitement stealing up his spine, until the other stepped away enough from the group that Gwyn could strike.

The sun wasn't up yet after all, the streetlamps and club lights only holding back the night so far. Gwyn flitted through the shadows and without a word, caught the Seelie in his arms and bore him away in the next rush of darkness. They reappeared together a few streets over, Bradley's back against the alley brick and Gwyn's arms bracketing him on either side. "I hope you don't mind my moving our appointment up." He grinned, eyes darting over the Seelie's face, feeling a surge of eagerness at finally having the faerie so close again. "Have you enjoyed your evening, darling?" He was even lovelier than the sith had remembered. One of Gwyn's claws hooked under a garter strap, plucking it away from Bradley's skin like a violin string, "It's a miracle you haven't caught your death of cold."

[juvinile]

xavier wished sometimes that he could see the world the same way she did. not out of a jealousy for her rough exterior - the wounds it kept tucked within - but so he could understand why she saw him the way she did. like something to keep at arm's length, like something unencumbered. it never occurred to him how unfathomable her background truly was to him. how counting hours on the wall in tally marks, blowing smoke into the bathroom air vent, meant so little in her wake. xavier wanted to shove the way she said our into his mouth, chew on it's single syllable until his jaw ached. let the sound of it reverberate through his head until it started to leave a bruise. "it's making me sick, b. like my stomach's churning and shit." and he leaned an arm on her shoulder. fuck it. before he could think twice about it. it took everything not to lean harder into her when she started mocking the stranger, not to grab her and throw her over his shoulder, laughing all the while. the weight distracted him from the twang and pang of piano chords filling his chest. how, if he was lucky, he might never know the tightness of a tendon, the sound of plucking muscle instead of ivory. instead, he knew the sound of bradley's voice when she was tired and the sun was starting to rise and he thought with sleepy, lovestruck delusion it could be her championing it in a carriage. snapping the reigns on her fiery horses, letting the flame lick her hands unscathed. even so, now he shifted his weight so he wasn't pressing too sharply into her shoulder. watching himself around her like she might break. he knew she hated it and he couldn't help himself. he turned to her, before the stranger had even stormed off, already wiping him from his mind like a salt scrub, "your accent's improved. you sound just like one of my shithead cousins when they used to come stay with us on .." and his nose crinkled with mock disgust, affected the accent himself, "holiday." bradley has been there one summer, when his cousins had bounded out of the airport taxi like labradors, throwing out soccer balls and tennis rackets and whatever other equipment his faraway aunt and uncle had sent them over with. he hated their clanging chatter, but more than anything he hated that they had each other to make the noise with. his house was always impossibly quieter when they left. his breath caught when she finally met his gaze, the one he'd had turned to her so long he'd stepped into the spit at their feet, only realizing it was there with a squelch. "fucking - god damn it, man. these are off-white jordan's. that asshole owes me a grand." throwing a hand out, sounding more angry than he felt, deflecting in his own way. the insult slid off his shoulders all the same and he finally stepped back from her enough to take a sip of his whiskey coke. the smell of her cigarette alone intoxicating. "i'm not taking the loss well, clearly. but we persevere. heard lego's got my number, so it's a matter of time before i'm out of here for good." he remembered the last time he left, wanting to burn everything that even remotely reminded him of irving to a crisp, let it ash on the ground like bradley's smoke. "you eye's are still creepy as hell. like a doll that's come back to life to fuck with me. nothing should be that blue." catching his lip between his teeth. "spare a cig? for an old friend? add it to my tab."

Sometimes, in her sleep, Bradley took a kitchen knife to herself like a bruised peach, sliced off the dark, mushy parts in an attempt to present Xavier something to eat that wasn't so marred; every time, all that remained was a pit slicked in sweet juices, so deceptively sweet, in fact, that he'd promptly pop it into his mouth, swallow and choke. It wasn't feasible, the two of them. Not with the way she was raised. He was the type to be regimented into a strict rehearsal schedule for fucking, cello, or whatever else sounded best on his transcripts; Bradley had been made to examine the flinching fibroelastic of tendons in the flesh stripped arm of one of her father's squealing subjects of interrogation, sit through jokes about what kind of melody they might produce to play. She still saw human veins whenever the branches of trees shuddered stark and spindly against the white skies come winter. Sometimes imagined plucking her own strings in a bloody one man orchestra as her father smiled coolly from the front row. "Yeah, got a weeabo on our hands. Christ, can't believe what we're dealing with. Welcome to his twisted mind, I guess." It felt prickly, talking to Xavier like that, churning over a fistful of nettles, silently contemplating just how much it stung, the impossible urge to itch; one corner of her lips couldn't help but twitch, just slightly, before her eyes evaded elsewhere, reminded themselves to stick to the scheduled programming. "Pair of you are fuckin' twisted. Got somethin' fucked in both ye' noggin's." Bradley immediately pulled a face. "Oi, we got sumfin' fucked in both ah noggin's, 'av we? Fucking Oliver Twist in the building, all of a sudden, hello? Can't even hear him, smothered under Queen Elizabeth's big, sopping breasts, motorboating the shit out of her. She's dead, you sick fuck." An expert puff of a smoke ring. Bradley gestured up at it floating off with a jilt of her head. "Go on, I know what you are." Bit of a Twilight reference. "See a hole, have to try and fuck it. Scram, cock-eyed terrier. Minute of underwhelming fucking grunts awaits." Utterly gobsmacked by such a verbal backhanding, he spluttered momentarily as he gawped between the two. "I'd say good luck but you two -- fuckin'... deserve each other." He spat on the ground to bid his adieu. "Fuck, yum. Gonna slurp that up, later." Deserve each other. Deserve each other. Bradley steadied her molars. Scowling back at her, his retreating stomps meant that she had to confront their sudden lack of a distraction; shifting her gaze Xavier's way, blue-eyed as shark infested waters, invisible cogs whirred behind her irises like clockwork, dictating an appropriate strategy. It was unnerving, really; like her father, that way, an ill-fitting suit from childhood that she'd forced herself to grow into, seams that'd finally come to pinch. "Head's still square." Deflection. Another flick of ash from her depleting cigarette. "Your audition to star as one of the slabs at Stone Henge get rejected again? Rough. Showbiz is fucked."

[persephoneacts]

↳INSTAGRAM: @sephyblake uploaded a photo:

Movie day with @spideybrad and @ripleyluwho makes for a happy Seph. (Photo cred to Bradders who I can only apologise to for filling up his camera roll with my mug)

[shatteredgossip]

@maiaonbroadway: Mom has invited her new boyfriend to her birthday dinner and, predictably, Brad is not coping.

[nitefise-art]

pokemon scarlet/violet crossover with fma

[talesofthetardis]

@talesofthetardis: @.spideybrad Haha, my number one fan! :) You’re the best!

↳INSTAGRAM: @talesofthetardis uploaded a photo:

No new episodes of the pod this week, sorry gang! Took some time to see some friends and enjoy the last of the sun! It’s been a blast. :)

[compacflt]

do you think Ice & Maverick let anyone else up in the Mustang once they finish building it? Does maverick let Bradley fly it? Does Iceman let Slider fly at some point while Ice in the backseat (fun role reversal)? The Mustang is a big metaphor for working on their relationship/marriage -- now that they are finally letting people in, do you think that would translate to the plane too?

See the last five minutes of top gun: maverick only pretend ice is still alive & tooling around in the background somewhere in his dad jeans with a happy dad smile. yep

[fyrewalks]

"Shh, it's just me." // @entriprises

Nat startles at the hot puff of air against her neck, the heavy arm slung across her stomach. But then there's Bradley voice, gravely and soft. She relaxes in an instant, patting his hand on her stomach half-heartedly, before drifting back to sleep as if she hadn't awoken at all.

Her return to sleep doesn't last long; she pushes herself out of bed with a cursed groan. Relief just barely manages to poke through her aching head and grogginess; at least they had the wisdom last night to stumble into her hotel room rather than Bradley's. She washes her face after she relieves herself, grateful to be using her own products rather than his. For a night out in Vegas, the smeared mascara nor the tear tracks are out of place. She does wish she could recall how she's managed to keep her dress on, but not her panties. Oh well, she'll blame that on Bradley once he's awake.

And that's when she notices it, the simple solitaire diamond ring sparkling on her finger.

Nat stares at it, eyes wide but calm. It's the same practiced calm she exercises in the cockpit and she returns to her skincare unperturbed, still mostly thinking of her lost panties. There is a long list of explanations for the ring, none of them particularly concerning and thus, not worth her worry. Maybe Bradley simply pulled out a ring for laughs or free drinks, and if he had been serious, well, Nat can handle that conversation too.

A conversation she'd much prefer properly showered and dressed. She exists the bathroom, but instead of going for her suitcase open on the second bed, she detours to the desk. Nat pokes through her spilled purse, ensuring her wallet and keys are accounted for. Then, her eyes catch on the folder underneath the mess and she knows, she knows without opening it, what it means.

Fuck the shower.

She marches over to Bradley's still form, folder now open and it's contents confirmed, and pinches his ear. Hard.

"Bradley fucking Bradshaw," Nat hisses. "You better wake up this instant before my foot is up your ass. So far up your ass!"