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@eventing_alice· 1h
Not to be that person, but the King’s Trust ambassador programme is genuinely significant work with disadvantaged young people. Can we please talk about the actual initiative and not just whether two athletes are shagging.
@dariusmartinezz· 58m
respectfully alice no we cannot
@eventing_alice· 54m
Fair enough.
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@paborsky· 45m
my favourite detail from the King’s Trust press release is that barnaby’s ambassador focus is “equestrian access for state school students, outdoor leadership programmes, and therapeutic riding for disabled young people” and lex’s is “youth boxing and mentorship in underserved communities.” So one of them is trying to put working-class kids on horses and the other is teaching them to throw a punch.
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@marquess_cashworth· 30m
new BLEX evidence just dropped. in the official King’s Trust promo video, there’s a three-second clip of lex trying to get on a horse at barnaby’s family estate. he’s holding the reins wrong. he’s on the wrong side. barnaby is standing behind him with his arms folded and an expression that can only be described as “i have made a catastrophic error in agreeing to this.” the horse looks equally unimpressed. i have watched it forty-seven times.
@marquess_cashworth· 28m
ALSO in the same video barnaby visits lex’s gym inbarking and you can see him holding boxing pads for a nine-year-old girl who is absolutely battering him. his sleeves are rolled up. his hair is a mess. lex is in the background beaming like a proud parent at a nativity play. i am being fed and the meal is exquisite.
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@theroyalwatcher· 12m
Worth noting that joint King’s Trust ambassadorships are personally approved by the King. James doesn’t delegate these. He selects them himself. For those keeping score: the King of England has looked at Lex Murphy and Barnaby Fitznorman-Bicester and decided, with the full weight of the Crown, that they work best as a pair. The Crown has spoken. BLEX is constitutionally endorsed. God save the King, and God save these two idiots.
Chapter Seventeen
Barnaby’schildhood bedroom was on the second floor of the east wing of Chatham House, at the end of a corridor lined with hunting prints. It was large, and high-ceilinged, with tall sash windows that looked out over the parkland. The wallpaper was pale blue with a faded stripe. There was a double bed that the room’s proportions made look tiny, and a mahogany bookcase held rows of hardbacks arranged by height. The desk was bare except for a lamp and a framed photograph of a younger Barnaby on a horse, his face solemn, his posture already perfect.
It was the tidiest room Lex had ever seen. It looked like a museum exhibit:The Aristocratic Boy, circa 2010. Note the absence of personality.
They’d been inseparable since the Palace reception. Lex had planned to play it cool, give Barnaby space, not be the bloke who got clingy after they’d come to an agreement about their situationship. But Barnaby kept texting him, so Lex kept texting back. And then they inevitably ended up fucking.
Three weeks in, Barnaby had said, “I’m going down to Kent this weekend. You should come along if you’re not doing anything,” in a tone so deliberately offhand that he might as well have been offering Lex a crisp. As though inviting someone to your ancestral family seat was a casual afterthought and not, as Lex understood it, an occasion when he would literally have to meet Barnaby’s parents in their little manor house.
Barnaby’s parents turned out to be all right. Lex had been installed in a guest room across the hall from Barnaby’s. Now Barns was in his bathroom. Lex could hear water running. He’d been in there for twelve minutes, which Lex had learned was standard Barnaby preparation time and included, in order: hand washing, face washing, teeth brushing, and what Lex privately thought of as the aristocratic composure reset, during which Barnaby stood in front of the mirror and arranged his face into an expression of calm readiness.
Lex was sitting on the bed, fully clothed, holding a glass dildo.
He’d found it ten minutes ago, in the bottom drawer of the bedside table, wrapped in a silk drawstring bag that was the colour of Cardonan emerald. Inside the bag was the dildo and a note card, cream-coloured, heavy stock, embossed with a crest. The handwriting was flamboyant and slanted hard to the right.
Dearest Bash,
As promised. Murano’s finest. I had them size it to be, as you English say, “manageable.” Think of it as a stepping stone between celibacy and that magnificent brute of yours.
Use generously. Think of me never.
V.
