#Bertie's on the loose

[vastwinterskies]

POV you got a file with blorbo screenshot references from me

[hattersarts]

okay im doing cringe (yes i am free but this is still category cringe even if i don't feel it) and putting the most homoerotic images of jeeves and bertie in a read more cut bc i cannot STAND to be looking at these pictures alone anymore.

also the wink wink potential of pg wodehouse being either gay or sympathetic and bertie never marrying and fry being part of this production of J&W sends me into tail spins bc like everyone knew right. anyway.

first is this insane moment???? hello???????? handing drink and then sitting down to play with a man (also lilies?????????? like it didnt mean anything for the set designer but NOW?)

this cap in particular makes me loose my mind bc it implies jeeves putting flowers in bertie's button holes in public is just a normal thing that he does (like i know its his job but....this is like, out in the open? your fixing your y.m.'s flower? okaaayyyyyy)

bertie in full grooms fit standing in the church next to jeeves being like the last scene of the series????? HUH???????????

okay this one is obvious but ALSO the plot of "we much pretend to be TWO PALS, TO FRIENDS, COMRADE WHO LIVE TOGETHER" was prime fic territory and delightful.

idk something about this.

and now follows the promo pictures that will haunt me to my grave of images you'd find going through an old family album with the explanation of "this is an image of my great uncle and the man he lives with and spent the rest of his life, they were good friends" meanwhile your queer ass sat there like. yeah they were in love and fucking, good for them.

anyway thanks for reading

[johannestevans]

Deep Breath

Romance short. A painter is obsessed with the butcher across the road. 

Also on Patreon / / Also on Medium.

7k, M/M, rated M. A painter is utterly obsessed with the butcher across the road, and the butcher is a little obsessed back. 

Lots of mental illness in this one, lots of reference — implicit and explicit — to suicidality, drug use, alcoholism, sexual assault and rape, ableism, consent issues, including past child sexual abuse, all in the context of a victim in recovery whilst also being in active addiction. 

---

Bertie knows a few things about Michael pretty much as soon as he moves in across the way. He’s the sort of man, it becomes clear, to wear his heart on his sleeve, and on his face, and sometimes, stained down his front.

Bertie initially met him in the corner shop – it was only ten in the morning on a Saturday, but Michael had already been drunk. Bertie had been arrested at the sight of him, hadn’t known exactly what to say or what to do, but had felt he should perhaps do something – Michael had been bent to the side with his torso at a sixty degree angle from his waist, a half-drunk bottle of vodka hanging from his right hand’s loose grip, peering at the magazines.

“’Scuse me,” Bertie had said quietly, reaching past him for a copy of the i, and Michael had turned to look at him and his jaw had dropped. He was a painfully thin man, so skinny as to seem almost skeletal under his grey hoodie that was a few sizes too big for him, and his tracksuit bottoms where there was nearly half a foot of string hanging down his crotch, because he’d pulled the cord so tight about his waist. The whole tracksuit is spattered with multicoloured dribbles of paint, and a lot of those paint stains are on his skin, too – around his wrists, his neck, all over the backs of his hands and underneath his fingernails.

“Who are you?” he’d asked, his eyes as wide as dinnerplates, so much so that Bertie almost couldn’t see the grey bags underneath them.

“Me?” Bertie had asked, glancing from Michael to Javed behind the shop counter, who shrugged at him. “Uh, I’m Bertie, mate. The butcher shop is mine.”

Michael’s eyes had blinked a few times, and he’d smiled sort of dreamily, high as fuck and out of it but at least happy in the moment. His gaze had roved from Bertie’s face down to his throat, then to his shoulders, his chest, further down. “A butcher,” he’d said breathlessly, and then trailed after Bertie as he’d bought his newspaper and his pint of milk, followed him into the street.

In short order, Bertie had learned the basic facts about the man – that he’d moved into the flat across the road, above the old laundrette, that he was a passionate alcoholic, that he had a great affection for various drugs and hallucinogens, that he was an artist.

That frequently, he wanted to kill himself.

He seems a nice lad, though – he’s cheerful, when not on the verge of committing, and he’s complimentary, friendly. He wouldn’t harm a fly, except that he might harm himself. He likes to stand on the pavement outside of the shop and watch Bertie work.

“You’re literally the only reason I’m still alive, Bertie,” he says softly after two months or so after moving in, a month and a half after they meet in the shop. “I think about not seeing your shirt ride up while you lift a pig carcass over your shoulder ever again and I put the gun down.

“Oh, you have a gun now?” Bertie asks as he shifted his coat on his shoulders. “Well, I’ll need to take that off you, I think. But otherwise, Michael, that’s really nice.”

* * *

Bertie is a straight man, mostly. Michael isn’t, obviously.

Bertie discovers the first time they kiss outside the Goose and Gander that he’s actually quite a good kisser. Michael stands between his legs where he’s sitting down and moans when Bertie drags him in closer, and they kiss for a while – kiss until Michael’s hair’s all mussed up and there’s a thin sheen of sweat on his skin.

That happens a few times, every few weeks – each time, Michael’s on top of the world for a few times; each time, Bertie thinks, “Am I gay, maybe?”

He has very good wanks about it, although Michael’s not much like the girls he’s fucked or dated before. Bertie feels a bit hot and funny in the stomach when he thinks about just how narrow the man is about the waist, about how Bertie can get his hands all the way around him, about how his thumbs fucking touch over his navel. Michael’s got light bones like a fucking bird, and it takes nothing to lift him up and move him around, fragile and easy to manipulate.

Gay or not, Michael’s a good inspiration for a bit of horniness, and it’s—

They’re good wanks.

Michael’s unstable, sure. Sometimes, on the nights where he gets drunk without much else – the same nights Bertie crosses paths with him in the pub – he’ll sing and sing, sing love songs and hymns in French or German or Latin, and he’s honestly got a lovely voice until it breaks in the middle and he starts to sob.

He’s often high – he’s almost always drunk.

Bertie gets used to seeing him around, to making pleasant conversation with him, to singing with him, to seeing Michael watching him through the window, or lingering behind the counter, or catching him in a kiss in the smoking area of the Goose and Gander.

It’s not unheard of, in the four or five months that Michael’s been around, for him to disappear for a day or two, but on the second day, Bertie always goes across the road and knocks on his door, makes sure that Michael answers him.

On day three, with no answer even though Bertie’s nearly shouting through the door, Bertie just forces the lock (he wasn’t always a butcher), and finds Michael passed out on his living room floor. He’s vomited a bit, and after easing his stained hoodie off his shoulders, Bertie lays him down on the sofa in the recovery position.

He’s snoring softly, breathing evenly, and when Bertie pats his face, he grunts and moves a little bit, which is good.

Bertie’s never been in Michael’s flat before, never… Michael’s said, of course, that he looks at Bertie – he hasn’t needed to say, of course, because Bertie’s got eyes. He notices. Michael doesn’t just look at him – he stares at him, studies him, looks at him near-well worshipfully.

It had never occurred to Bertie that he was committing details about his body to memory to fucking paint him.

Michael’s apartment is a mess – the cheap beige carpets are stained with paint and beer and burnt in places with cigarette ends; the room smells most strongly of paint, but also of different alcohols, smoking. After Bertie opens up the window to bring in some more air and ventilation – God knows that the fumes can’t be great for Michael’s consciousness.

He paints with canvases. Bertie’s seen the paint on him, of course, has seen the canvases being delivered, and sometimes Michael walks around with paint brushes in his pockets.

Bertie stands there with his hands on his waist, looking around the room – there’s a singular sofa and a coffee table which have both been shoved up into the corner, and you can’t sit on one or use the other because they both have canvases on them. Against every wall are stacked canvases leaning at an angle; there are twelve or fifteen easels with more canvases mounted on them, and there’s more canvases in the corridor.

There’s more in the bedroom too, Bertie supposes – the only place with only a few canvases is the kitchen, and that’s because it’s a tiny space that’s filled with empty cans and bottles and stacked up dishes that haven’t been done and a few open bin bags filled up with takeaway wrappers.

Bertie moves slowly through the space, absently picking up rubbish to throw away since he’s already here, and he looks at each and every canvas. Some of them – maybe one in eight or ten – are still lifes. They’re gorgeous, lots of them. There’s the classic bowls of fruit – although it doesn’t escape Bertie’s notice that they’re studies of the bowls of fruit he has on top of his counter – and there’s studies of the meat arrays, of his tables, his knives.

There’s studies of shelves in Javed’s shop, of the magazines or the drinks bottles, one of the ice cream freezer; there’s one really nice one of the Goose and Gander after closing, with only two lights left on inside and no one around anymore, glasses and pitchers left mostly drunk on the picnic tables outside. One of the glasses in the foreground is tipped on its side, and Bertie can almost smell the cider in his nostrils, looking at the golden frothing drip of it over the edge of the table to puddle on the floor.

The rest—

The rest aren’t still lifes. There’s a few sketchy ones of Javed in the shop; there’s one slightly larger one of Tina in the Goose and Gander, laughing at someone’s joke as she pushes a full pint across the bar.

The rest of them, the bulk of them? Another, what, a hundred-and-twenty, a hundred-and-fifty canvases?

They’re of Bertie.

Bertie at work – Bertie slicing meat, parcelling apart a chicken or a pig, Bertie making mince, Bertie twisting new sausages into being, Bertie ringing up customers, Bertie smiling, Bertie washing his hands in the sink. There’s detail bits – details of Bertie’s hands and his fingers, the scars and the hair and his fingernails and the bend in his once-broken ring finger rendered in loving detail, looking slick and shiny and almost three-dimensional where it’s been painted and layered on the canvas.

There’s zoomed-in depictions of Bertie’s face, of the side of his mouth, of his upper teeth where you can see the glint of gold on the back one, where Michael’s used real gold paint so it shines, there’s study after study of Bertie’s eyes, of all the little flecks of colour in his irises that Bertie’s never considered before, there’s ones of his eyelashes, of where his hairline is rising and thinning, of his earlobes with the scar visible from where it used to be pierced until someone ripped the ring clear out and he had to get it stitched back up.

There’s studies of his apron strings, and you can see the bulge of his backfat over the tightly-drawn white ribbon, see the fabric puckering where it’s been pulled in flush to his body and it wants to get itself free, of the little sliver of his belly and its underside and the creases of flesh there when he lifts something heavy or reaches for things and his shirt rides up, and studies of the bulge of his cock in his tracksuit bottoms or his shorts when he gets an early delivery and comes down without yet getting dressed.

There’s details of beads of his sweat or saliva, or the slickness on his lip after he and Michael have kissed, of the whiteness of his knuckles as he grips tight at a delivery box.

And those aren’t even the full portraits of him – the one lugging a pig on his shoulder, or laughing with a pint in his hand, or just him standing there in conversation, just him walking down the street.

Bertie’s dismissed a lot of things he’s said before. When Michael’s said things like, “I could stare at your ear lobes forever,” or “Sometimes, Bertie, my heart stops beating because I look for too long at the dip of your belly against your thighs and I think about how warm my hand would be if I slid it in between them,” or “I really like that grey t-shirt you have, the worn one that gets sweaty and goes dark at the small of your back.”

He says nice things – he says Bertie looks good, or handsome, and he’s even said, “I’m obsessed with you,” or similar things, and more than that, he smiles at Bertie. He beams at him, he walks up to him in the shop or in the street and just lingers at his side, or—

But painting like this? It’s real.

Sure, they’ve kissed, but Michael never remembers to charge his phone, and often forgets the whole thing entirely, so it’s not like he uses the hook-up apps, and he can’t reliably go further into the city, is by his nature a homebody, even gets all his drugs delivered. Bertie had shook it off as convenience, as Michael reaching for Bertie because he’s there and he’s convenient and he’s safe and he’s not terrible-looking, although not good-looking either, just average and reliable.

He'd thought he was just—

Just flirting. Laying it on fucking thick, sure, but at the end of the day, just trying to get Bertie’s attention and keep it.

He’d never even mentioned fucking painting him.

Bertie feels his eyes burning a little as they water, and he wipes at them, breathlessly laughing.

“Oh, God,” Michael wails as he sees Bertie standing there – luckily, he’s moving pretty fucking slowly with the weight of the hangover, and it’s not really any work to wrestle the Stanley knife out of his hand before he can slit his wrists open. He squeezes on Michael’s wrist to make his fingers go weak, the knife clattering onto the floor, and then he keeps him held by his skinny little wrists as he sobs drunkenly into Bertie’s thigh, mashing his face into the flesh.

“Do I need to call an ambulance?” Bertie asks over the noise after a few minutes, and Michael mumbles, “I’m so sorry I’m so embarrassed I’m so—”

Bertie lets him keep going until he tires himself out, and then melts over Bertie’s lap.

“I need to replace your lock,” Bertie says after a while, rubbing circles into Michael’s back. “I can pick one up around the corner and put it back.”

“Bertie,” Michael says quietly, the words muffled by Bertie’s thigh, “Do you ever want to run away together?”

“Well, Michael, we’re both forty, and I haven’t run anywhere in twenty years,” Bertie says. “Plus there’s the mortgage to consider.”

“I’m thirty-two.”

“You look terrible for it. I hope you don’t mind me saying.”

Michael turns in Bertie’s lap, looking miserably up at him. His hair is greasy – Bertie isn’t sure when he last had a shower, and he’s vaguely aware that Michael might not know when asked, either. He’s the sort of man that always looks a bit physically wet whether he’s recently showered or not.

“Didn’t think I’d live this long,” he says.

“Oh dear,” Bertie murmurs. “Shall we get you in the bath?”

“There are paintings in the bath.”

“Right,” Bertie mutters. “Well. I’ll move them, first.”

* * *

An hour later, Bertie’s fixed the lock on the door, and he’s sitting on Michael’s toilet, which is made of an astonishingly green ceramic to match the bath, looking at him stewing in the bubbles.

“So,” Bertie starts, watching as Michael scrubs over his knees with a flannel. “Are you… rich?”

“God, I wish,” Michael mumbles.

“Where did you learn to paint like this?”

Bertie gestures to the largest painting that’s now leaning up against the wall – it’s one of Bertie leaning down to scratch one of the neighbourhood cats behind the ear. Part of the reason he’s painted it, Bertie supposes, is because crouched down Bertie’s jeans have come down to show his arse crack and the lower part of his back, but it’s still lovingly depicted. Every thread of his jeans is visible, it seems to him, and it’s fucking incredible – let alone the hairs on his back.

“My parents sort of let me alone with a local painter, and he trained me up,” Michael says, gesturing vaguely with one hand before continuing to scrub, sloshing the water a bit.

The silence lingers between them for a few moments, and Bertie listens to the slosh and splash of the water, watches Michael’s pensive expression. “Did he do anything else to you?” Bertie asks cautiously, and Michael looks up at him, smiling faintly.

“Oh, yes,” he says. “All sorts.”

“Christ,” Bertie mutters, and Michael laughs, like he sometimes does when he obliquely references some horrible fucking thing that’s happened to him.

“Well, it was worth getting fiddled,” Michael says. “That’s how I learned to paint – I didn’t go to university or anything.”

“I don’t think it was worth getting fiddled, but I suppose I’m not an expert,” Bertie says. “How do you pay for groceries?”

“Oh, my sister comes in and picks out the saleable things every month or so and she sells them – she pays my rent and food and gear out of the money.”

Bertie blinks, taking that in. “She’s selling them?”

“Mm. Or, she takes them, anyway, and she pays my rent – my groceries get delivered, and she gets paints and canvases delivered. It might be that she just takes a few to make space.”

“So people might be buying pictures of me?” Bertie asks, feeling slightly faint at the idea of anyone taking home any of these extremely horny oil paintings of his body and hanging them up on their walls.

Michael sighs softly and says, “I’d buy pictures of you.”

“Yeah. Okay. Well, I need to talk to your sister, because I need to know who is buying this stuff of me. And also, she needs to put more vegetables in your grocery order.”

“Ugh,” Michael groans, and falls back in the bath.

* * *

Michael’s older sister is a genuinely pleasant and surprisingly well-adjusted woman – she’s eight years older than he is, and she comes around on the last Sunday of each month to check on her brother, take canvases, clean up a bit around the flat. She looks flustered, at a glance, not necessarily because she is, but just because she looks like that.

Where Michael’s hair is limp and prematurely greying from its mousy blond colour to an anemic white-grey, Cath’s is a brighter blond, sticks up at all angles from its messy top-heavy ponytail, and where Michael’s eyes are a pale green, hers are darker, more intense.

“I’m Bertie,” he says.

“Oh,” Cath says as she stacks some more small canvases in a crate. “I know.”

Bertie looks at the painting in her hand, one that Michael’s done of his armpit. Bertie owns the green vest in the painting, but he doesn’t remember when Michael might have seen him. The hair painted there is curling, sweat clinging to some of the hairs. “Right,” Bertie says. “Of course.”

“I know quite a lot about you,” Cath admits, looking awkwardly down at the canvas and then looking away, seeming almost abashed. “Not just physically. He doesn’t really talk about anything else since he first laid eyes on you. You’re actually why he moved in.”

“Aww.”

Cath blinks at him. “… Aww?”

“Well,” Bertie says. “That’s sweet, isn’t it?”

“People don’t normally find it sweet,” Cath says.

“Well, it’s not as if he means any harm – and the art is beautiful. It’s obviously a bit much, it’s… It took me by surprise. But Michael, he’s lovely – we get on. I suppose I’m glad I make him so happy.”

Cath bursts into tears with a wail to rival her brother’s, and Bertie stares at her. Cath sobbing in front of him was not exactly what he’d wanted out of this meeting. He leans back in his seat to make sure that Michael still isn’t back.

“Everyone’s so awful to him, they’ve always been awful to him,” she sobs into her hands, tears streaking down her cheeks and dripping down her chin. “I always think I’ll come around to wherever he is to find him dead, we’re always having to find him somewhere new to live because he starts getting obsessed with someone or starting fights or kids throw rocks at him or call him awful names, and it used to be we’d always have to keep in contact with the council and half his social workers have been awful – lots of them hate him, you know, because he’s so, so… And one of them raped him, and it was so awful, that was in Chichester, and when we tried to take it to court Michael refused to testify against him even though he was bleeding after and so I started selling his paintings and we moved him closer so I could come regularly and sometimes Stephen comes except he gets in awful fights with Stephen and I just want to make sure he’s got shelter and food and that he’s drinking water and not getting hurt or assaulted and this is what Van Gogh’s family did, basically, they just sort of tried to look after him and he died and I don’t want him to die but I just don’t have time to be here all week when I’ve got the kids to look after and Auntie Eva and you’re just so patient with him and you’re so kind to him and you just let him sort of, sort of be with you and it’s just so good of you, I can’t get over it!”

Bertie doesn’t know how to interrupt her, or if he even should. He just sort of sits there and lets her sob at him, listens to the torrent that falls out of her mouth.

“It’s not really patience,” he says. “We’re friends.”

And yeah, Michael is psychosexually obsessed with him, it turns out – probably wanks himself over Bertie until he’s raw, if only he could get his cock hard enough to do that – but it’s not as if Bertie doesn’t wank a bit over Michael too.

They’re bros. They hang out, they talk, they chat.

They talk about sports, a bit – Bertie explains what’s happening on the television, explains the rules or why the ref has made one call over another, what exactly is happening. Sometimes, what the game is. They talk about politics, which Michael knows a lot more about – about different politicians, about different fuck-ups and shit on the news, all that sort of thing. Michael knows about all that, actually listens to the news sometimes when he paints – Bertie avoids it all like the plague.

Michael’s had, what, a hundred or so psychiatrists? They’ve talked about those, and Bertie has a job keeping them all straight, which ones were good – a disappointing number of them. They’ve talked about Bertie’s past as a burglar, too, and his two years in the nick, what it was like. Michael’s been in every kind of institution except an actual prison, it seems.

Cath is still crying, and Bertie doesn’t exactly know how to explain to this sobbing and obviously loving woman that his relationship with her brother is not exactly the sexual-romantic or maybe just kind of divinely ordained thing Michael has been envisioning (or imagining), but it’s not as if it’s charity.

Bertie’s a bit of a freak himself, isn’t he?

“Well,” Bertie says, patting her knee, “you know that you were worried about finding him dead? About him— Well, killing himself, or anything else?”

Still teary-eyed, she draws in a hitching gasp and asks, “What? Oh. He said you took the gun off him.”

“It was a starting pistol, and it was unloaded,” Bertie says. “Chaz, his ket dealer, gave it to him.”

“Chaz?” Cath repeats faintly.

“I just think he’s probably anaemic,” says Bertie. “He’s been feeling more faint more often, and he’s paler, bruising easier. He needs to eat more iron.” Cath starts off like she’s going to do another round of wailing, and before she can fill her lungs up, Bertie says, “Listen, listen, Cath, I’m just saying— Why don’t I just do it? Do his groceries? Like, I can do that – we eat a lot of meals together anyway, takeaways and that. Is that okay? Would that help you?”

It occurs to him that maybe the woman should be a little more fucking streetwise than she is, at least where her brother is concerned, that she should show a bit more distrust of him, that she should at least ask some questions—

She just hugs him and sobs thanks into his shoulder.

He feels bad that she’s so upset about it, just that it feels a bit shit, he supposes, that she’s crying so much without asking Michael, without talking to him. Obviously Michael threatens to kill himself every other week, but this really is his shit to get upset about more than hers.

Bertie is distracted by it, anyway – he forgets to ask if she’s been selling the paintings or not.

* * *

It puts a fire under him to eat at least one meal a day with Michael, which is normally dinner, because Bertie is awake from five or six in the morning until about ten, and Michael’s typical sleep schedule is from about three in the afternoon until eight, in the periods where he’s sleeping more than usual.

Sometimes he cooks at home and brings things around, or Michael brings things over to him – sometimes, Bertie brings the ingredients and cooks in Michael’s kitchen, which he has to attack vigorously with cleaning supplies to make it habitable and usable before he starts being able to do that.

Not so much because of dirt – although it’s dirty, most of it is just piled up dishes and empty cans and bottles – but more because of paint and turps and all sorts of stuff, none of which is advisable for human consumption.

Bertie’s eating more, too, eating more healthily. After long, hard fucking days of physical work on his own, being on his feet all day, keeping track of everything, doing his accounts, doing everything— It’s not like his hours are unbearable. He’s lucky to be in the position he’s in, he knows that.

But it’s hard to make himself go through the effort of a proper homecooked meal when he’s been handling meat all day and has no brain left for it, easier to just toss an oven pizza in or get a pie from the pub. It’s easier, when he’s got someone else to cook for – it’s easier, when someone else justifies the effort, someone he cares about.

“Oh, it’s like we’re married,” Michael says one evening as he comes in from the living room, watching Bertie spatchcock a chicken in his kitchen. Michael’s flat is much smaller than his, but it holds the warmth a lot better, and it’s cosier, now the sofa isn’t filled all over with paintings. “Would you be my housewife, Bertie?”

“I think you’d be mine, if you were a woman.”

“I’ll be a woman for you,” Michael says breathlessly, and Bertie turned his head to look at him, gave him a half-smile.

“I like you like this.”

Michael gasps, spreading one paint-spattered and grimy hand over his extremely-oversized (it’s Bertie’s, and Bertie has no idea when he pilfered it) t-shirt, which reads 100% PRIME ENGLISH BEEF. “Homo,” he accuses.

“Internalised homophobia much?”

“Darling, I’ve internalised things you couldn’t even imagine.”

“I bet,” Bertie says, tossing his potatoes in the colander before he gets the pan of hot oil out of the oven, exchanging it for the chicken.

“Would you pose for me?” Michael asks.

“Seems like I don’t have to – you paint me from memory well enough. You got a photographic one?”

“Eidetic. Remember every crease and hair and dimple on every man who’s ever touched me. Consensual or otherwise.”

Bertie must crumple somehow, or show his horror in his expression, because Michael giggles, his arms crossed over his chest, huddled in the overlarge t-shirt and swimming in the fabric. “But it would still be nice.”

“Do I have to?”

“No. But would you?”

“What do I have to do?”

“Take all your clothes off.”

Bertie huffs out a laugh, tossing the potatoes in the sizzling oil before he slides it into the next shelf in the oven before reaching for an egg-timer. “Is that all?”

“Would you? It would make me so happy.”

“For how long?”

“Forever.”

“Liar.”

“It would be forever if I killed myself right after,” Michael says.

“If I take all my clothes off for you and you kill yourself, Michael, that will hurt my feelings.”

“Does that mean you’ll do it?” Michael asks, and Bertie sets the egg timer down before wiping off his hands.

“The timer’s set for an hour and ten. I need to give those potatoes a shake at forty-five.”

Bertie strips off his clothes and sits back to pose on a stool. To begin with, Michael doesn’t actually start painting – he sets up one of his primed canvases and just stands there and gazes at him, looks his body over. Bertie’s never felt threatened or insecure about male attraction, even though the man that catches his eye is pretty rare compared to a woman. He let a few guys suck him off when he was inside, and there’s something nice, even, about how open and and hungry men are about his body when they’re horny for him. They don’t just see him as cuddly or cosy or as some kind of protector for them as a big, beefy fat man.

The way Michael looks at him is not just horny. He has a feverish, twitchy manner about him at all times – he’s almost always sweating, hair streaked back, smeared with paint, his eyes wide, his breathing a little fast. He tics in conversation, especially once he’s excited, and especially once he’s high.

When he stops to look at Bertie it’s like he comes over almost meditative for a little bit – he comes over a little calmer, breathes slower, relaxes, sighs. It’s the way some people relax when they go into a church or when they get into a quiet room after being in a crowd, when they finally make it to an appointment when they were scared they were going to be late.

And that? That’s not just flattering – it’s beautiful. It’s beautiful and baffling, the idea that a man should look at him – him! Bertie Strand! – and experience such peace, even fleetingly.

“Your cock is gorgeous,” says Michael.

“Thank you,” Bertie says, feeling his lips twitch.

“Can I suck it?”

“You’re meant to be painting.”

Michael shifts on his feet, pouting out his lips and looking at Bertie with his eyes widened. “But I—”

“After dinner,” Bertie says. “Maybe.”

Michael paints like a demon most days, paints fast – he doesn’t really go out much, rarely goes further afield from this street. He gets nervous and paranoid around crowds of people, and his definition of a crowd is frequently more than two people. He doesn’t smoke cigarettes, but they always meet up in the Goose and Gander’s beer garden anyway, because he can’t bear the people in there when there’s walls on all sides.

Now and the Bertie insists Michael come with him for a walk and they look at the roses in the community garden – Michael always brings his sketchbook and some charcoals, complains about having to go out and walk anywhere, but once they make it, he draws and he draws. He draws flowers in bloom, draws leaves and stems, draws people’s dogs or passing cats, draws people here and there. It’s easier for him when the two of them go places together, when he knows he can just lose himself in what he’s doing. He’ll fill page upon page with flowers or bees or animals or people, gets down on the floor and lies there so he can see the grass from a particular angle and draw it just right from the close-up, from below.

Bertie likes to watch him sketch or paint – he really loses himself in it, moves so quickly with his pencils or charcoals or crayons or paint brushes, and as Michael starts to paint now, his hand becomes a blur. He spins the palette around and around in his hand, a nervous movement like a fucking pizza tosser – he says it helps him mix the paints.

“I’m sure people think you’re my carer,” he says after a few minutes of painting, and Bertie thinks about when they’re out in the park together. Michael won’t go without him – pigs’ll come fucking harass him otherwise, want to arrest him or have him committed or otherwise want him to be inside where no one can see him. Kids will have a go; “concerned parents” and neighbourhood watch sort of cunts and all those kinds of people. “Did Cath say?”

“Yeah,” Bertie says. “Tried to explain that we were friends, that it wasn’t just, you know. Fucking sympathy or some bullshit.”

“She can’t really imagine that anyone would be friends with me,” Michael says, shrugging his shoulders. “The only reason she doesn’t have me put in some institute is because I’m such catnip for sex offenders. Did she ask if you were raping me?”

“She didn’t,” Bertie says. “I thought that she should have, to be honest.”

“Maybe,” Michael says. “She’s never really understood it. When I was a teenager, after Mum cut me off, she thought I was asking for it all the time and kept thinking that, and then after what happened with Paul Sears, she felt really guilty for everything. Went extreme in the other direction. She’d do anything for me, I think. But she doesn’t really think of me as a person, I don’t think. She doesn’t even like to be here when I am – she always sends me out when she brings things over or starts cleaning up.”

Michael’s voice is quiet, his tone distant and a little dreamy, although not particularly happy or contented. He’s not smiling or laughing like he does with some of the rape jokes, where he enjoys saying things just to make Bertie flinch or groan, enjoys making the subtext and the assumptions explicit and blatant.

This conversation is more honest, in a way – and more painful, too.

“People think all sorts,” says Bertie. “It doesn’t make them right.”

Bertie’s arms aren’t crossed, his hands resting on his thighs. Michael’s enthused about his “magnificent rack” before, so he doesn’t want to cross his arms.

“A lot of people think it’d be better if I just bit the bullet and killed myself,” Michael says casually. Bertie can see he’s not thinking that much about it, because he’s focused on the work, looking between Bertie and the canvas.

“Well, I don’t,” murmurs Bertie. “None of those people know you – I do.”

Michael looks over the canvas and meets Bertie’s gaze now instead of looking down at his chest, and he smiles at him.

“You went to school in Birmingham, right?” he asks as his eyes flit back to his work. “Were you always big?”

“Always,” Bertie says. “Used to get in fights at school – I was softer when I was a younger, started to put on bulk and muscle when I was a little older. Used to get in fights a lot.”

“You got bullied?”

“I was a bit of a bully, probably,” Bertie says. “I got impatient with people. All my teachers thought I was thick as well as ugly – other kids picked up on it. Couldn’t read, couldn’t do a lot of maths. Dropped out early.”

“You couldn’t read?”

“I can,” Bertie says. “Takes me ages, though – all the letters swim. My parole officer when I got out, he put some stuff on my phone and my computer. Changed the fonts so they’re easier.”

“Dyslexia?”

“Probably.”

“I’m no great reader either,” Michael says. “Can’t concentrate on the page – I prefer pictures.”

“I see that.”

Michael watches a lot of TV, although he doesn’t like the noise – he always has the TV on in the background, the sound muted with the subtitles on. Bertie’s never sure how much of it he takes in, how much he engages with it.

“What about you?”

“Dyslexia? No, not that one. I tick a few other boxes, depending on which expert you ask.”

“I meant school.”

“Oh.” Michael pauses a moment, resting the corner of his paint palette against his chest and letting the arm holding his paintbrush go loose. He’s only smoked a bit of weed today and he’s moderately drunk – they’ve been sharing beers, and he’s only had enough vodka to steady his hands. He’s squinting into the middle distance, thoughtful, when he says, “I don’t remember much of it. I got in fights at school too – with teachers, with students. I wasn’t nearly as mad back then, but I wasn’t normal. The term “wasted potential” was bandied about.”

“Mm, I know that one.”

Michael tilts his head slightly to the side, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. “I think my PE teacher hit me once,” he says. “I might be remembering it wrong, but I think so – he said I shouldn’t run like a faggot, and when I pointed out that maybe I should, because I am one, he smacked me. It made such a loud sound, Bertie. Like a thunder clap.”

Bertie looks at him seriously. “You don’t remember?”

“It’s all very hazy, and I’m sure half of it’s imagined and made-up anyway. That’s the problem with very mad people, Bertie. It all gets a bit Alice in Wonderland and the truth gets muddled up – and then when we do tell the truth, nobody believes us.”

“I believe you,” says Bertie. “About your painting tutor, about the social worker, about all of it. They shouldn’t have done all they did to you.”

“Probably not,” says Michael affably. “Do you think I’d be normal if they hadn’t?”

“Maybe closer to it, but it’s too late for that now, and I do like you like this.”

“Oh, that’s nice,” says Michael in a softer voice, warmer, sweeter. His eyes crinkle when he smiles, and they’re slightly wet. “I almost like myself when I’m with you, Bertie.”

“Will you remember that the next time you’re on the verge?”

“Probably not, I don’t remember much of anything when I’m in that state,” says Michael. “But I’ll do my best.”

“That’s all I ask for,” says Bertie, spreading his hands. It makes his chest wobble, how he moves in the seat, and Michael lets out a low, quietly wanting noise.

When they finally stop to eat, Michael keeps making twitching movements back toward the canvas, but each time Bertie says he won’t go back to posing again until they’re both finished their plates. He’s gained a little weight in the past few months, which is good. He still swims in Bertie’s t-shirt, but he doesn’t swim in his own quite so much.

He'll never be a big man, no, but he’s no longer emaciated in the way he was – his eyes aren’t quite so sunken in, his bones not showing as obviously. He doesn’t look healthy, but he doesn’t look starved, either.

“I love you, Bertie,” says Michael.

“Love you too,” says Bertie, and Michael looks at him so stunned for a second that Bertie actually feels an aching pang in his chest.

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Does this mean you’re gay now?”

“I wouldn’t say so, but who knows what other people think?”

* * *

Michael kisses him after dinner, straddles his thighs and kisses him while cupping Bertie’s cheek, cradling him like Bertie’s face is the most precious, delicate thing in the world, and he has to be careful not to break him.

“Can I suck you off now?”

“You don’t want to keep painting?”

“I’ll keep painting you after.”

“Michael, if you suck me off, I will fall asleep right after.”

“I’ll paint you sleeping.”

“Fine,” says Bertie, but before he pulls away he catches him in another kiss, and Michael whimpers. Bertie pulls hurriedly back, not sure if that’s a bad noise, but Michael scrabbles at his arms to pull them to wrap around him, grinds down against his lap and begs silently for Bertie to continue, so Bertie does. They make out for a while before Michael sucks him off, and it’s been a few years since Bertie’s felt anything but his own hand, so he doesn’t last long.

Michael kisses him slowly after until Bertie, dozy and exhausted, relaxes back and falls asleep.

* * *

Bertie wakes in the morning to Michael crammed into the gaps between him and the sofa, his face pressed into Bertie’s chest and shoulder, one of his arms banded around Bertie’s belly. He’s stuck into the gap between him and the back of the sofa, dead asleep.

Bertie smiles at him, gently touches the side of his cheek, pushes a curl of hair back from Michael’s sweaty temple.

“You’re warm,” mumbles Michael. He doesn’t move.

Scattered on the floor are pages of sketches of Bertie sleeping, close shots of his hands, his thighs, his arse, his closed eyes, of the shapes he falls into as he sprawls on the sofa cushions.

“Did you ever find out if she sells the paintings of you?” Michael asks.

“Fuck’s sake,” Bertie mutters, and swipes his hand over his face. “I’ll ask the next time I see her.”

If he remembers, he thinks. He doesn’t know that he minds so much now either way when it makes Michael so fucking happy to draw him, to paint him. When it’s so nice to sit with him in the quiet and pose for him, or just spend time with him like this.  

Michael doesn’t sleep enough, so Bertie lets himself enjoy the cosiness of it, of his warm body and his slower heartbeat, until Michael gets up to piss and take a huff of white spirit and then ask, eyes as big as dinnerplates (partly from the inhalant, partly because he’s just good at the puppy dog look) if Bertie can make him some eggs before he goes to work.

Bertie, laughing, makes him an omelette, and Michael sketches him at the hob. Bertie can’t keep the smile down, and he sees the same expression reflected in Michael’s face.

FIN.

---

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[thecrownnetflixuk]

Fond Farewells Mark the End of an Era for The Crown.

Pt 2 of Season 6 Accedes to the Next Generation – But Reigns Most Triumphant Saluting Its Sovereign.

Review & gifs by L.L @The Crown TV

I wasn't sure what to expect from the final 6 preview episodes of The Crown. Part 1 gifted us with a season-defining performance from Elizabeth Debicki, but such intense focus on the tragedy of Diana and Dodi's deaths was heavy-going. How to move forward?

Not many TV shows stick the landing, but I believe The Crown does, mostly by putting Queen Elizabeth front and centre. In four different ways! But Part 2 takes a while to forge ahead and reign triumphant.

Ed McVey and Meg Bellamy make shy William and swotty Kate believable as a young couple who meet at university – or earlier, as per a flashback with (not Ghost!) Diana. I still found it hard to invest in their will-they-won't-they relationship (we already know they do.) 

Instead, it’s sisters Elizabeth and Margaret who have long been the emotional heart of this show; at every stage of their lives.

Former Oscar-nominee Lesley Manville (alongside Queen Imelda Staunton) is truly magnificent in Ep 8 as Princess Margaret, though it's painful watching this vibrant lady struggle as her health worsens.

Memories of the 1940's are a delight. However, I wish we'd seen more of wide-eyed teen Lilibet let loose (Viola Prettejohn) and carefree Marg (Beau Gadsdon) before older Margaret says her final goodbye.

Staunton saves her best for last, bringing dry humour, vulnerability as well as leadership to Ep 10. The 70+ min epic finale 'Sleep, Dearie Sleep' has its shaky moments, but beautifully completes Queen Elizabeth's story when it counts, bringing near-perfect closure. That alone elevates Season 6 beyond Season 5.

Warning - MAJOR SPOILERS AHEAD. This is my final *EVER* review (might be extra long!)

S6 is NOW ON NETFLIX - WATCH THE EPISODES before reading.

Images: courtesy of Netflix

Starting with less good news; the first couple of episodes of Part 2 were my least favourite. Ep 5, 'Willsmania', feels transitional, and a little stuck in the past. Following his mother's death, Prince William (Ed McVey; taking over from younger actor Rufus Kampa) turns inward as he struggles to cope with public attention and grief.

It's an understandable reaction to losing a parent, but Part 1 already spent nearly half a season on Dodi and Diana. It felt like we grieved in real time. As a result, whenever the subject of Diana crops up again in Part 2, it tends to weigh down both pace and narrative.

Ep 6 brings a welcome change of topic. This being The Crown, I'm sure there are critics poised to be offended by Queen Elizabeth's nightmare about Prime Minister Tony Blair being crowned king, but to me, his 'coronation' was hilarious, as was the choir boy singing Blair's cheesy Labour pop anthem.

It felt like deliberate tongue-in-cheek humour, an absurd reminder why monarchy might still be better than populist elected leaders.

I really wanted this episode to work, but it didn't go anywhere, and themes like tradition-vs-modernity were covered more effectively in episodes such as 'Marionettes.' Bertie Carvel has Tony Blair's voice down but suffers from comparisons with Michael Sheen, who was uncanny as the Prime Minister in 3 earlier Peter Morgan projects.

^ PM Tony Blair. The Women's Institute weren't fans of his grandstanding.

The Crown: The Next Generation fully arrives during Ep's 7, 9 & 10. Some will love it. Those who prefer more historical episodes with broader scope may be disappointed, as the show follows William and Kate through University life in the early 2000's.

The newcomers do bring fresh energy to the show. It helps that they cast Ed McVey and Meg Bellamy, who make a sweet couple as Will and Kate, even if William sometimes comes across as petulant.

Unlike Ed McVey as William, Luther Ford doesn't bear much physical resemblance to Prince Harry, other than red hair. Ford does however put in a good performance as Harry becomes increasingly reckless.

The Crown doesn't hide either Harry or William's bad behaviour. The brothers seem to get on well at the start, but it later seems like they're more at odds. Underneath a lot – a LOT – of boozing, both boys appear quietly screwed-up over their mother's death. Neither of them seem to enjoy playing happy families with Charles, either.

The show mostly concentrates on William and Kate, but there aren't many episodes left to develop a genuine romance. They have potential, but it feels fairly surface level. Suddenly, they rush to move into a house share together when we've barely seen them kiss. They (and we) needed more screen time to really get to know each other.

There's a bigger issue here with Kate's mother, Carole Middleton (Eve Best.) Pushy parent Carole is keen to play matchmaker between her 'commoner' daughter and the young eligible Prince, keeping tabs on William. Carole isn't as conniving, but ... didn't we just watch a similar storyline with Mohamed Al-Fayed/Dodi/Diana in Part 1?

^ Kate 'n' Will. Her Mum would frame this picture.

Ep 8 'Ritz' plays like a standalone film. Margaret's final story is touching, but upsetting, at times; I was a fan of Diana, yet sobbed as much for Margaret as the credits rolled, even though her eventual death isn't shown. In fact, her final goodbye is sensitively done and stands as a fitting tribute to the princess, as well as to the Queen.

Lesley Manville makes Margaret's predicament so real as her health slowly breaks down. She bounces back from one stroke, then another hits. How awful too for Elizabeth to watch a much-loved sister deteriorate, though it was wonderful to see Lilibet read Margaret a bedtime story. It brought out the warmer side of Staunton's Queen.

The scene where Margaret scalds her feet in the bath is genuinely horrifying. I've suffered from ill health and loss of control myself and this was so much worse. I could feel her pain. That poor woman.

Human moments are where The Crown excels; through this episode, this working-class lass from a council house could somehow relate to a Princess in a palace. Peter Morgan has surely done more to humanise the royal family than any P.R team ever could.

^ Fans of Margaret (and Lesley Manville) prepare yourselves for her sad final journey.

Onto the big reveal: when I mentioned at the start there are FOUR ways Queen Elizabeth appears – this is what I meant:-

^ Newcomer Viola Prettejohn plays teenage Princess Elizabeth.

^ & there's Olivia Colman & Claire Foy alongside older Queen Imelda Staunton.

Satisfyingly, all 3 of The Crown's leading ladies return to close the show. Olivia Colman and Claire Foy each have an additional scene, too (I won't spoil the entire finale, as it covers a lot of ground in over 70 mins, but Olivia and Claire aren't back as 'ghosts.')

As we get older, the ghosts who speak loudest are our own; the former versions of us we berate ourselves with. Not everyone may warm to the Queen (sort of) talking to herself, but personally, I was thrilled to see these talented actors on screen together.

Foy's scene with Staunton is particularly effective, as the younger Queen gives her older self an old-fashioned dutiful talking to. It's somehow also credible that they're aspects of the same person.

It reminded me of Peter Morgan’s 2013 (extraordinary) play, ‘The Audience', which inspired this series, and included scenes where Helen Mirren shared the stage with young Elizabeth. That play is also why this theatre-fan started watching The Crown to begin with, and later went on to create this website.

When Ep 10 finished playing, my Netflix returned itself to Season 1. 60 episodes over 7 years! I will miss the grand scale of The Crown, but appreciate the legacy which remains. Now feels like the right time for this story to end. A full-circle moment in more ways than one.

**Majestic thanks for reading, and to every person who has liked, reblogged, messaged, supported The Crown TV for all these years.

💎♕You each deserve a Crown of your own!♕💎**

N.B: These are my humble opinions at this point in time. No offence is intended. Agreement = lovely; not compulsory. Disagreement = happens; kindly coexist. Ta!

[rainbowstargazerlilies]

SHIPPING TOURNAMENT RUNOFF

These two were within four votes of each other. At this point in the tournament, it seemed smart to me to do a quick runoff to see who continues. If this ties again, or gets that close, they'll both continue to the next round, facing off against the HNOC trio. Round 4 will come out tomorrow.

Propaganda:

Tim/Bertie:

The entire “Tim Goes Mad” section of GTVTMK. Tim looses it because his best friend dies and goes on a murderous rampage. Also that one art that Reegis made of the younger version of the two of them. 

gay moon bitches fr

Gptvstmk

*blows up the moon for you*

#TimBertie are literally so stuckycoded ngl#ITS ABOUT THE DEVOTION ABOUT CHILDHOOD FRIENDS GONE TO WAR ITS ABOUT THE VIOLENCE OF TRAGIC LOSS#ITS ABOUT GRIEF AND THE WAY IT HURTS YOU SO YOU EXTERNALIZE THAT HURT TO THE ONES WHO TOOK YOUR LOVED ONE#HOW DO YOU LIKE THAT MOON KAISER IM PISSING ON THE MOON YOU IDIOT!!!#im normal about timbertie (tags via @watermelonselfship)

Prison Mechs And Lyf:

One, LOOK AT THEM!!! THEY FIT TOGETHER SO WELL AND GIRBIFJRJE AHHHHHH. Like, prison mechs is good, wonderful we love it, Violinspector is wonderful, idiots in love. Put the two TOGETEHR!! perfect ship, 20/10 it's canon to me. They love Lyf so much and Lyf loves them too but they are so annoyed at them all the time in that "gods damnit. I love you three but please for the love of the gods stop." Also the idea of Marius, Raph, n Ivy trying to woo Lyf while they are still an Inspector is so silly cause I can see it working everytime but they CANT DO SHIT ABOUT IT and girbgijrjr. And if you give me a moment to indulge in my own brand of insanity that is creature mechs, them calling Lyf "pretty bird" cause it flutters them every time. It used to work on Raph but doesn't anymore cause she's used to it and tiehfjrhjfjrj. I'm not normal about them lol

violinspecter: the stars claim them fanfictoon. more people added for more cool relationships and stuff, also i love the prison mechs

if you don’t ship it have you even listened to expert testimony????

Think about them. Just think about them. Words are not wording but oh my god think about them. You want fic recs? I can give you fic recs. Please they are so special to me.

prison mechs!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! lyf!!!!!! what more is there to say

#AHHHHHH GC I C B DGHTHH#THEM THEM THEM THEM THEM-#SAVE ME PRISON MECHS AND LYF#PRISON MECHS AND LYF#PRISON MECHS AND LYF SAVE ME (tags via @analog-cottage-gore)

Pulling out the big guns (my own writing): https://archiveofourown.org/works/51576148 (via @moons-br)

[hacash]

Two men who - I'll be honest - probably shouldn't have been allowed to go outside without someone holding their hand.

Propaganda

George Hodgson: I read a post recently that said Hodgson is probably the tallest of the Terror lieutenants and I still can’t believe it. That’s how much Hodgson gives off ‘five foot tall haunted Victorian doll’ vibes to me by the end of the show. In the course of ten episodes he somehow manages to channel both Bertie Wooster and a deranged little goblin who you have to stop eating thumbtacks; surely on Tumblr there is no greater blorbo.

John Irving: Although so many of the characters have good arcs, I feel like no-one has such an interesting shift as Irving. Starting off as a religious legalist giving advice which sits poorly with a modern audience but for the time would have been incredibly lenient; clearly stiff and buttoned-up but cuts loose at the Carnivale; shows genuine joy at Jopson's promotion...and all this before he meets the Netsilik. There's so much repression and real heart to unpack with Irving, and I maintain his scene with the Netsilik people is one of the most emotional moments in the show - made worse by the fact that Irving shows so much potential to be such a good man, before seeing it all stolen away.

(You can vote on the rest of the blorbo bracket here - reblog for a better sample size!)

[astralbulldragon13]

Where Were You She Needed You

A scream rung through the air, along with the shriek or a horse. Farmer Woodrow Bailer ran from the corn field to see a chestnut stallion bucking wildly in wheat field. He knew that damned horse, it belonged to the next farm over. The damned thing had been breaking into their property. His thoughts about having words with his neighbor where, however, interrupted when he saw a small, crumpled figure on the ground while some of the hands were running around, trying to rope the wild horse and get him away from…

“Amber!” Woodrow dropped his sickle and ran to his daughter. The stud was bucking and kicking, too close to his child. He ran and scooped up his daughter into his arms and got out of the way of the horse.

“Amber, Amber?” His dirty, gloved hand cupped her cheek, and tilted her face to him, to see her face bleeding. “Divines above…”

"Pa...Papa?"

The voice, that whimper, Bailer's heart clenched as he held her close. “It’s alright, Amber-Lily. It’s going to be alright.”

He charged to the house, practically breaking down the door. “Heidi!”

The housekeeper, a neighbor’s sixteen year old daughter, veered around the corner, her eyes widening in shock! “Amber! Mr. Woodrow, what happened?!”

“Neighbor’s horse kicked her in the head,” he growled. “Go to the barn, saddle up Arrow and get the healer from town.”

Heidi ran out the door, leaving Woodrow alone as he pressed clean clothes against his daughter’s face as some of the farm hands came in to help him take care of her, cleaning the wound and bandaging it. Some started making some food, others tried to make Amber feel better, so she wouldn’t focus on the pain.

He felt… less frightened as he made sure the horse was tied to a post in the barn. Woodrow swore to himself, that he would beat this neighbor to a pulp for letting his stud get loose. And another thought crossed his mind… where was his wife? Amber had asked for her Mama as she fought back tears, and it felt like someone clenched a fist around his heart to hear his little girl ask for a woman who was never home.

It took an hour for Heidi to return with the healer, and thankfully Amber didn’t have to lose her eye. However, she would be partially blind in that eye, and he had to stitch the cuts on her face to heal. Heidi wept as she cradled Amber in her arms, stroking her tangled black hair, hair like his own.

“Amber, what were you doing by that stud?” Bertie, one of the hands asked. “You’re usually in the woods this time of day, why were you in the field?”

The ten-year-old sniffled as she played with her hands. “I… I saw him in the field when I was gonna go out looking for mushrooms.”

“Why didn’t you get one of us?” Arch, a seasonal work questioned softly as he sliced a loaf of bread to pair with the stew they made

Amber looked at her knees. “I… I wanted to get it myself. I’d caught Arrow before by myself, so I thought… I thought I could take him back to the neighbor’s house. I… I wanted to prove I could help.”

Woodrow felt a burn in the back of his throat. As he placed a hand on top of her head, gently rubbing her hair. “Amber, you don’t have to prove you can help us, you already do. If something like this happens again, come get us. Please?”

He made sure Amber was fed, and Heidi made sure she was bathed, and dressed in a comfortable night shirt. They brought her sleeping pallet out to the living room, making a little nest for her so she was comfortable. Later in the afternoon, while the healer prepared medicine, he and the hands took the horse back to the neighbor, blood in their eyes as they told him what happened to Little Amber, a girl all the boys were fond of, and that there would be more words in the morning.

The sun was nearly set, when Collie returned to the house. Heidi was asleep on the daybed instead of returning home to her family, a quarter mile down the road, and the hands returned to the bunkhouse. Woodrow was sitting on a chair, watching his daughter breathe, his fingers twitching as he whittled a piece of wood. He didn’t even lift his head as his wife entered the house.

“Amber got hurt,” he stated simply, his deep voice booming through the room, but not waking the sleeping girls.

“And you’re surprised by that?” Collie scoffed. “The wild little beast comes home with scrapes and scratches all the time, how is this any different?”

Woodrow’s fingers tightened around the handle of the blade, and he looked up at her, his hazel eyes blazing in the light of the fire. “It wasn’t just a scratch, or scrape this time, Collie. The neighbor’s stud got in the wheat field, and our daughter wanted to try and catch him herself so she could be helpful, and the damned thing kicked her in the face.”

Collie had the decency to look frightened at this news, glancing at the sleeping bundle in her nest by the fireplace.

“The healer said she was lucky, cracked some of the bones in her face, and she’s partially blinded in her left eye. And as Heidi was getting help, and the boys and I were trying to stop the bleeding, what was she doing? Asking for her Ma. She wanted her Mama, wanted her Mama to hold her and keep her safe. So, this will be the last time I will ever ask you this question in our life, Collie. Where were you when she needed you?”

[lex-hj0519]

The Reading Dog

A Sirius-raising-Harry snippet that goes along with my other snippets. This one follows Rebellious, where Harry’s teacher thought he was being “rebellious” when he wouldn’t read aloud in class:

After a quick trip to the Eye Healer, Harry’s “behavioral problems” during read-aloud time in class were resolved. But his up-to-date glasses only revealed more problems for his teacher to bring up — number one being that Harry was not at the same reading level as the rest of his classmates.

Sirius was subjected to a long lecture from Harry’s teacher about how important it is to ensure that Harry catch up now before it’s too late. Good reading habits start at home, she said, and children who are read to at home from an early age are much better off than those who aren’t. Sirius hates that this is just another thing that the Dursleys took from Harry.

Sirius tries to encourage Harry to practice reading with him at home. But no matter how much Sirius gently encourages him and tells him it’s all right, Harry goes silent and flushes with shame when he stumbles over the words. Sirius reading aloud to him before bed goes over better, but he knows that it’s important for Harry to practice, too.  

The teacher suggests letting Harry select some special books to read himself. If he gets to pick it out and is interested in what he’s reading, he’ll be more likely to go through with reading it, she says. Even if it’s a comic book, reading is reading and he has to start somewhere, she says. (Though by the way she wrinkles her nose as she says it, Sirius is sure she would much rather Harry read a chapter book than a comic book.)

So, Sirius puts his plan into motion the next weekend. Harry is fascinated by magic and magical creatures, so what better place to select a few special books than a wizarding bookstore? They bundle up in cloaks, Sirius tugs a beanie down over Harry’s forehead, and they floo together to Hogsmeade under the assumption that it will be less crowded than Diagon Alley.

Harry takes in the cobblestone street and rows of thatched cottages with wide-eyed wonder as they slowly wander down main street towards the bookstore. The villagers and shopkeepers have already started decorating for the holidays, with enchanted candles strung from the trees and holly wreaths on every door. When they finally reach the bookstore, Sirius sets Harry loose in the children’s section with instructions to choose at least three books. He stays within sight, but tries not hover as Harry tentatively approaches the shelves.

Soon enough, he’s pulled into a conversation with the shopkeeper. She has at least a dozen recommendations for him — both children’s books for Harry and parenting books for himself. By the time he manages to pull himself away from her, he’s holding a stack of books and she’s looking very pleased about the sale she’s about to get.

Sirius steps into the children’s section to check on Harry, and is momentarily panicked when the little boy is nowhere in sight. And then he hears a quiet voice reading aloud. Sirius leans against a shelf and listens. Harry voice is tentative at first, but it grows in confidence the longer Sirius listens. Sirius suspects that Harry’s chosen book is a children’s version of Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Him, because the boy is now enthusiastically reeling off facts about dragons. Sirius silently peeks around a book shelf, and his heart melts at the sight before him.  

Harry is curled up in a little child-sized armchair in the back corner of the children’s section, an illustrated edition of Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them open in his lap. A large, fluffy monstrosity of a kneazle is squished into the chair beside him, watching him read with keen eyes.

“Oooh, I see he’s found Bertie!” The shopkeeper whispers from behind Sirius. “Bertie just loves children. Did you know that reading to pets is a great way for young readers to build confidence? A pet might be just the ticket for your boy!”

Sirius hadn’t planned to get a pet for Harry yet, but he does have the next best thing: himself. That night, Sirius doesn’t say anything when their usual “reading practice” times comes around. Harry fetches one of his new books without prompting, and settles into his usual spot on the couch, his shoulders tight and a miserable expression on his face.

Without a word, Sirius transforms into Padfoot and climbs up onto the couch beside Harry, ignoring the perplexed look on his kid’s face as he spins in place a few times before settling down and placing his head in Harry’s lap. Harry tentatively reaches out and strokes his head, and then he begins to read.

Harry is slow and uncertain at first, but Sirius can feel the tension start to bleed out of him as he continues on. Harry’s voice becomes stronger and more confident with every line. He keeps reading even after his allotted reading time is up, when normally he puts down the book as soon as the clock hits the hour.

Finally, as bed time nears, Harry sets down the book. He leans down, wraps his arms around Sirius, and buries his face into his fur for a moment. “Thanks, Padfoot,” he whispers. “Can we do this again tomorrow night?”

[rand0mfangurlstuff]

Sing Yourself to Sleep - Bucky x Y/N - Part Seven - Adore You

Something about this chapter was so so hard to write. I wanted them to have a beautful day together where they could be free to act like a real couple, because shit is going to hit the fan soon. Loosely inspired by Adore You by Harry Styles

'We're going to London Major, together.'

Bucky was certain someone had given him too much pain meds and he was hallucinating. Seeming to notice his confusion and shock she continued; 'I told Bertie I wanted to go to London to buy some new ingreedients for baking. Said that I could use some time away from the base. He wasnt sure about me going on my own but then I subtly reminded him that there were a few servicemen travelling to London this weekend and I'm sure they would be happy to escort me.' 'And I certaintly will.' he said, eyes beaming. It took all his self control not to kiss her right there.

Two days later they were boarding the train. It was just Y/N, Bucky and a young Lieutenant. Colonel Clarke had escorted them to the station. 'Now Egan, you are on leave for the weekend, but I trust that you will still do your gentlemanly duty and make sure my wife makes it to and from London safely.' the Colonel spoke while fetching Y/N's bags from the car. 'Of course sir, wouldn't want anything happening to my dancing partner.' he shot her a wink, which she tried to ignore. 'Yes, perhaps you might find a dance hall to attend some evening, if you don't have any other plans Egan?' Before Bucky could speak Y/N cut in 'Oh Bertie I'm sure the Major has other things he would rather be doing during his time off. Besides, I'll be tired after frequenting the wholesalers I told you about.' 'Well don't you go too crazy, only so much room in that kitchen.' he said with a laugh. He pulled out some money from his wallet, 'Here, get yourself something nice. You deserve it.' He kissed her on the cheek, which she resiprocated. 'Thank you Bertie.' The Colonel took one last look at his wife and said 'Enjoy your trip. I love you.' 'I love you too dear.' she said it, struggling to meet his eyes.

Bucky watched the interaction with a mixture of guilt and disgust. They never said I love you to eachother. He wasn't even sure if she felt that way about him. They quickly bundled into the train and Bucky felt a sigh of relief. Finally alone. The lieutenant, Connors, Bucky thinks, is quite a quiet fellow and shouldn't pose much of a disturbance. He guided Y/N into one of the carriages, they sat opposite eachother, Bucky leaning across the table. 'Finally, I have you all to myself.' He grinned, his foot sliding up her leg under the table. 'Easy tiger, we're not in London yet.' she giggled.

When they arrived in London, they made quick work of getting into their hotel and checking in. They had obviously been booked into seperate rooms, but luckily they were just across the hall from eachother. Y/N took some time to freshen up, but it wasn't long before Bucky was knocking at her door. As soon as she opened it she was attached with kisses from Bucky. He pushed her into the room, kissing her as he backed her towards the bed. In between passionate kisses he spoke; 'Thank..god... I can finally...kiss you...properly.' She kissed him back, giggling between kisses. He pushed her onto the bed. She laughed as her body hit the mattress. He climbed on top of her. 'I've thought about this endlessly.' He started kissing her neck, working his way to her chest. Before he could get to work on her clothes, she pushed him away. 'Bucky, we cant right now.'

Bucky was confused, if there was ever a moment he could undress her it was right now. She noticed his confusion. 'I have to go shopping remember? Stores will be closed tomorrow.' 'Shopping? You want to spend our weekend away shopping?' She brought me here to kill me, surely. 'Bucky I told Bertie the reason I was coming here was because I had to buy stuff for the kitchen. I can't arrive back to base empty handed...I'll go shopping, and then we can go for a nice dinner.' she said. Bucky liked the sound of that, a real date out in the open. 'Sounds good to me doll. I'll come shopping with you. Help you carry your bags. I don't want to waste a single moment of this weekend by not being with you.'

A few hours of blissfully walking through the streets of London and purchasing baking supplies went by in a flash. When they were on the way back to the hotel, Y/N saw a beautiful red dress in the window of a boutique. Albert did say to treat myself.. She knew it was wrong, using his money to buy a dress to impress another man, but nothing about what she was doing was right. So why stop now.

They parted ways for a few moments when they arrived back at the hotel, both wanting the opportunity to rest and freshen up. Bucky didnt have much freshening up to do, he just splashed some water on his face, fixed his hair and put on some more colonge. Y/N meanwhile fixed her hair, put on some more makeup and changed into her new dress. She felt beautiful. She felt like she was being taken out on a real date, like this was actually her real life and not some play pretend weekend. She felt guilty too, Albert always in the back of her mind. Her thoughts were shaken from her head when there was a knock on the door.

Bucky was speechless. She was always beautiful, the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. But in that dress, she was magnificent. 'Wow' was all he managed to say. Y/N's cheeks turned the same colour as her dress. 'You like it?' she asked. 'Like it? Wow doll... You're breath taking.' 'You're not so bad yourself Major.' she winked. He kissed her on the cheek, 'Oh you smell good.' she said to Bucky. He laughed 'Not for long doll, I'm probably starting to sweat. Looking at you in that dress is getting me hot under the collar.' She smacked his chest playfully as they walked down the hall.

He had found a quiet little restaurant for them to go to. They sat at a small table tucked away in the corner, just as he had asked. They drank wine, ate lovely food, listened to the band playing in the corner, and talked. That's one thing they didnt get to do often, was really talk. They talked about their childhoods, their lives back home, even simple things like favourite colours and movies. They talked and talked, almost forgetting about their food. When the restaurant was closing, the found a little pub with a band in full swing. Bucky took her out on the floor to dance, but soon after they were tucked away in a corner, his arm around her and her head on his shoulder as they talked about their hopes and dreams.

When the end of the night came, they went into her room. Standing in the middle of the hotel room, there wasnt much talking, they had said everything they needed to. He kissed her, slow and passionate, tasting every inch of her mouth. Her hands went from his chest to his tie, slowly undoing it. His arms roamed her body, appreciating every inch of her. He broke the kiss, looking down at her, she was beautiful in every way. 'Let me make love to you.' He whispered. He undid the buttons on her dress, letting it fall at her feet. She undid his shirt while he worked on her undergarments. Before long, he was just in his trousers and she was bare before him. He gently pushed her to lay back on the bed, for a moment he just looked at her. 'I adore you.' he said, so quiet she barely heard him.

He undid his trousers, released himself from his boxers and crawled on top of the bed. He kissed his way up her legs, his mustache tickling her skin. He reached the apex of her thighs, placing kisses on her hip bones. He placed his thumb between her folds, finding that bundle of nerves that would send her wild. She moaned out his name, making him even harder than he already was. It didn't take much for Bucky to have her shaking through her orgasm. When she settled from her high, he crawled up he body, kissing her the whole way until he got to her lips. 'You okay doll?' he asked while kissing her cheeks. 'Yes, I want you.' she said breathlessly. 'You have me, always.' And it was true, she would always have him, but he knew thats not what she meant. She grabed his hard member in her small hand, bucking her hips up to meet his tip. He moaned at the friction. 'I want you.' she said. With that he kissed her, a messy, breathless kiss of two people in the throws of passion. He positioned himself at her entrance, looking her in the eye as he thrust into her.

Their moans mingled together into a symphony of pleasure. He wanted to go slowly, savour every moment, but it was difficult when it felt so good and her walls were clenching around him. He was close, but trying to hold back untill she reached her climax. She was close too, enjoying the feeling of him inside her. 'Oh yes,...oh..oh John.' John. Hearing her moan his name, his real name, sent him over the edge. It was the most beautiful sound from the most beautiful woman. They met their climaxes together, and as they fell Bucky looked into her eyes 'I love you Y/N' he said. It was the first time he had ever said it. She looked at him, eyes wide, suprise written on her face. Then she smiled, 'I love you too John.'

[drarryspecificrecs]

H/D Career Fair 2022 : (fics only)

@hd-fan-fair || official masterpost || AO3 || ∑ = 35 works (art, fic, podfic) The Mods : @phoenix-acid & @sassy-cissa Banner © :

@pygmy-puffy (official banner)

@chamomileteafuel's Qui Vivra Verra

@beanomatica's once more, with feeling

—

The Beau-tea Of It All by @poison-literature [T, 7k] (food) Loose leaf tea | (travel) Worldwide

The Best Cup Noodle by @deliciousblizzardshark [T, 4k] (food) Cup noodles | (travel) Attending an American university

Both Feet in the Grape by Enchanted_Jae [T, 1k] (food) Wine grape-stomping | (travel) Italian countryside vineyard

Chicken Parmi and a Lager by @captateur [T, 3k] (food) Chef/Pub Owner!Harry & Draco | (travel) Australia

Chocolate Cocks and How to Make Them by @drarryruinedme7 [E, 9k] (food) Edible sex toys, chocolate factory owner!Draco | (travel) Switzerland

Contentious Confections by tigersilver [M, 17k] (food) Bertie Bott’s every flavour beans | (travel) Worldwide

The Final Frontier by @themightyflynn08 [T, 3k] (food) Cooking in space | (travel) Space

Hope's Only Promise by @bluesyquill [E, 86k] (food) Oranges/mangoes/papaya | (travel) Cuba

Hunc Draco Dormiens Amat Titillari by @lalalaartje [M, 15k] (food) Chocolatier!Draco | (travel) Belgium

I Want Your Heart To Be For Me by @thebooktopus [E, 4k] (food) Picnic | (travel) Paris, France

it is not a house by @brightluminae [E, 43k] (food) People eating house | (travel) Arctic

The Least Expected by momatu [G, 17k] (food) Chef!Draco | (travel) Mallorca, Spain

on your heart by @maziktheli [T, 9k] (food) Palestinian | (travel) Palestinian restaurant

Peerless by dysonrules [T, 14k] (food) Catching food to survive | (travel) South Pacific desert island

Preserving Lemons by @saintgarbanzo [E, 17k] --- ART by @ihopeyoubothstaysafefromharm (food) Palestinian, chef!Harry | (travel) Italy & Palestine

Qui Vivra Verra by @chamomileteafuel [E, 22k] (food) Café waiter!Draco | (travel) Paris, tourist!Harry

That Time I Was Possessed By a Norse God by @drwhoisginnyholmes [E, 8k] (food) Hunger for the unknown | (travel) Nordic countries

The Thief and the Throne (Fallen Kingdom) by @gnarf [M, 26k] (food) Food thief!Harry | (travel) Fairytale AU, Nordic countries

This is not a love song by @enjale [G, 12k] (food) Food empath!Harry | (travel) Horchata

Through Worlds by @rainbees [M, 42k] (food) Restaurant meet cutes, discovering new dishes | (travel) Japan

True Love is Priceless, Finding True Love is Expensive by @meloflavor [T, 4k] (food) Japanese (uni don/mochi) | (travel) Blind date dining experience

---

✔ other fests in 2022 ✔ fests in other years ✔ H/D Fan Fair : Career Fair 2021 | Sex Fair 2020 | Fan Fair 2019 | Food Fair 2018 | Career Fair 2017 | Pet Fair 2016 | Pottermore Fair 2015 | Career Fair 2014 | Book Fair 2013 | Career Fair 2012 | Travel Fair 2010 | Career Fair 2009

[minthe-lover]

Rewatching tuca and Bertie really shows just how much lore Olympus is fucking failing in any part of the sexual assult plot line. Really if you want a good and realistic exploration into sexual trauma in a show that still has an unbeat sense of humor.. and a very loose sense of physics with still better anatomy then lore Olympus go and watch tuca and Bertie.

One if my big problems with the current lore Olympus sexual plot line is how Persephone "hypersexuality" is shown.. and not explored. It's really only shown in two ways, Persephone wearing more sexual outfits and being interested in sex.... With hades specifically.

It doesn't really explore any of the "bad" part of hypersexuality... Or the just deeply uncomfortable parts of it. One of my favorite episodes of tuca and Bertie was one that covered having "bad" sexual fantasies as a sexual assult surviver (ie bad not as in boring but in what's general considered negative)

It was an episode that made me feel extremely seen... And it really stuck me watching it just how.... Nothing persephone trauma is. Her trauma in the story exists and is constrained in what the story considers more important, which is her relationship with hades... All her trauma just draws her more towards hades.

She calls him specifically after her assult, it seems to disappear whenever she's around him.. he does thing like kissing her and staring at her when she's naked without consent with no consequence. When he learns about the assult his first reaction isn't to comfort persephone but it's to attack Apollo... And persephone has to comfort him but it's.. just fine in a few hours?? Also it's even more fucked up cause now we know that hades was basically drawing power from Persephone to get big.

Her hypersexuality is used as a reason by fans to exause this... But it sucks because as someone who has dealt with alot of "wrong" reactions to sexual trauma.. and despite lore Olympus getting a great opportunity to actually explore those with them tied to hypersexuality.. it just doesn't... Is barely does anything with it.

[bellabeth]

WEDDING Berizabeth-fanfic

A week and a half later, Elizabeth was stood in the back of a church, awaiting the moment she would be summoned to walk the long walk to the man who was to become her husband by the end of the next hour. She swayed slightly from side to side as she let her gown dance around her curves.

It was a classic white tulle, the waistline cut perfectly under her bust that accentuated her natural form in a way that the dresses her mother put her in never had. She felt really beautiful that day.

She felt like a woman. She felt like a bride, and one about to get her happy ending.

She hoped it would be a happy ending. today was hers and Bertie’s to enjoy without the worries. So, God damn it, she would enjoy it.

"Lizzie! You look beautiful!" Mary’s gushing gasp brought her from her thoughts as she spun around to face her maid of honour. Mary was dressed in a pale lilac, her hair tied back in a bun with a few loose strands framing her face. Elizabeth smiled. "Thank you, Mary," she replied, "You do too."

She stepped forward, taking her friend’s hands in her own.

"How are you feeling?"

Before Elizabeth could respond, her soon-to-be mother-in-law, and the Lady Mabell Airlie appeared. "How are you feeling?" Queen Mary said

Elizabeth could not help but giggle. "A little nervous but mostly excited, your Majesty," she replied with a smile that most certainly met her eyes.

My dear, you must call me mama now!" He corrected her, stepping forward. She brought Elizabeth into an embrace, a very maternal one and Elizabeth found herself melting into it. Queen Mary stepped back a little, cupping her face in her hands. "You look a little peaky, though… are you sure you are well?" Concern danced across her face.

"Just nerves, I…" Elizabeth said, clearing her throat, "I am okay. Is Bertie well?"

"He is nervous but excited to see you," Mabel chimed in, "As for you, I should fetch you some water." Before Elizabeth could even begin to protest at the idea, Mabel had swum out of the room, returning mere moments later with a cup of water. "Nerves are quite normal, but we do not want you becoming indisposed on your wedding day," she told her, handing the bride the cup.

"Thank you," Elizabeth said, as she sipped at the cold liquid. She took a deep sigh as she turned back to the mirror to admire herself. She had to admit her complexion was rather pale, but besides her peakiness, she thought she really looked beautiful, and within the hour, she would be Bertie’s wife. She was excited, terrified, and all the emotions one would expect to feel while awaiting the inevitable aisle walk.

"We should take our seats," Mabel said, turning to Queen Mary. The latter moved forward towards Elizabeth, laying a hand on the younger woman’s shoulder before placing a gentle kiss on her cheek. "Your mother will be through in just a moment, and we shall see you shortly," she said, "Do not fret, this is a happy day."

Elizabeth nodded, giving Queen Mary a smile. "I am happy," she replied, her sentiment genuine, "Me and Bertie…" she broke off, letting her thoughts drift wistfully.

Mabel chuckled, then swam out of the room to take her seat in the church with her husband. Mary (His sister) came back in on cue, Cecilia clipping at her heels.

Elizabeth’s mother was grinning, the most proud she had ever seen Cecilia Cavendish-bentinck and Elizabeth could not help but smile as she stepped forward and into her mother’s embrace. "My darling girl, the day is here. You are beautiful, and marrying," Cecilia stroked carefully through Elizabeth’s soft curls that fell long down her back. "I am so pleased for you. I hope you know I am proud, and I love you."

"I do know, Mama. I love you too," she replied, her voice muffled slightly by the embrace.

Queen Mary looked at Lady Mabel for a moment and then spoke "I shall take my seat. I trust I can inform the Minister that you are ready?

Honey, are you ready? His father asked as he entered.

Elizabeth pulled out of her mother’s arms and he smiled at his father "Yes, I am ready." She placed her arm through the crook of her father’s elbow, standing in procession behind Mary who would enter first. Queen Mary dashed back through and a few moments later, the strong quarter began.

Bertie was making every mental effort not to fiddle with his cravat as he waited at the front of the church in front of their families and friends. George was stood to his side as his Best Man, "Stop fussing! You look fine! Better than fine, in fact! She will be here in a moment!" His brother admonished, which quickly made him stand up tall.

But, he was still grateful when his mother came back in, signalling to the string quartet, and the sight of his sister making her way down the aisle reassured him that Elizabeth would shortly be arriving.

If one described his reaction to seeing his bride as being jaw-dropping, that was rather an understatement. When Elizabeth parted the drapes and started the walk towards him, as she entered on her father’s arm, Bertie’s eyes widened, his lips parted, and his heart skipped several heartbeats that scientifically speaking, would ordinarily lead to his premature demise. But he kept living, at the sight of his Aphrodite herself.

He smiled at her, his heart in his eyes as she approached him.

When she finally reached his side, her father releasing her for him to take her hand, he knew he had speak, he could not very well stay silent without telling her how spectacular she looked. "You look beautiful," his words came out as a whisper that only she would hear.

"Thank you," she whispered back, returning his smile, "You look very handsome yourself." His smile turned cute and boyish, but before he could respond, the Minister signalled for the congregation to be seated once more.

"Ladies and Gentlemen of the Congregation, we are gathered here today to celebrate the union of this man and this woman, in holy matrimony."

He turned to Bertie first. "Albert Frederick Arthur George, do you take Elizabeth Bowes lyon to be your wedded wife, to live together in marriage? Do you promise to love her, comfort her, honour and keep her for better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and health, and forsaking all others, be faithful only to her, for as long as you both shall live?"

"I do," Bertie replied confidently.

The Minister nodded, then turned to Elizabeth. "Elizabeth Bowes lyon, do you take Albert Frederick Arthur George to be your wedded husband to live together in marriage? Do you promise to love him, comfort him, honour and keep him for better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and health and forsaking all others, be faithful only to him so long as you both shall live?"

Elizabeth smiled, then said, "I do."

The Minister glanced to George, who withdrew the ring from his jacket’s inside pocket and handed it to Bertie. The Minister nodded to him, prompting his next move.

Bertie lifted Elizabeth’s left hand, pinching at the fingers of her glove to carefully tease it from her. He hovered the ring near her fourth finger.

"Repeat after me," the Minister then said, "With this ring, I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow. In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen."

Bertie subtly cleared his throat, then responded, his gaze meeting Elizabeth’s, "With this ring, I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow. In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen." Then, he diligently pushed the wedding band onto her finger, taking relish in the brief moment where their hands touched unobstructed by gloves.

"Now, let us pray," the Minister said, prompting for Bertie to take hold of her other hand, guiding them both down onto the pew for prayer. The Minister issued them both with communion and then started the prayer.

"And stand," the Minister said afterwards. Addressing both the couple and the guests, he announced, "With the power vested in me, I now pronounce you, husband and wife."

Bertie smiled. And Elizabeth smiled.

"If the Bride and Groom could follow me to sign the Register," he said, his voice more hushed. Bertie took Elizabeth’s hand, refusing to let her go as they were escorted into a side room. Queen Mary and Cecilia were escorted behind, as witnesses.

First, Bertie signed, then so did Elizabeth. Then, they were legally married, both parties exceedingly happy as they were led back into the main church and down the aisle, to greet their guests. And sure enough, the guests were there, rice and seeds tossed over them in celebration as they were escorted to the carriage that would take them to Buckingham Palace for the celebrations.

It was about thirty seconds after they had waved to their families and friends and the carriage had begun to move when Elizabeth had reached for Bertie’s hand, and was reassured when he gave hers a gentle squeeze.

"Mrs Windsor," he mused, a smile on his face.

"Mr Windsor," she replied, chuckling slightly before being silenced as he leaned in to press his lips to hers.

The journey to Buckingham palace did not last long and sooner than either of the newlyweds would have liked, the carriage came to a halt outside of the house front.

Bertie alighted first, then turned and held a hand out for Elizabeth, who graciously took his hand as she climbed down, using her free hand to scoop her skirts a little to prevent tripping. They were greeted by both of their immediate families before being escorted indoors for the wedding breakfast.

When they entered the house, the mothers were naturally the first to approach them. Cecilia gave Elizabeth a sort of awkward embrace and pressed a kiss to her temple. "Congratulations, my dear," she said, a smile pulling at the matriarch’s lips, "I hope married life will treat you well."

"Thank you, Mama," Elizabeth replied with a smile. She felt Bertie brush a hand down her arm in reassurance. Queen Mary was the next to approach them, first embracing Bertie tightly, then doing the same with Elizabeth.

"Thank you, mommy," Bertie said, wrapping his arm around his mother’s form.

Swiftly escorted into the dining room, surrounded by their families, the wedding breakfast was wonderful. The ceremony was wonderful. And both Bertie and Elizabeth were treasuring every ounce of their day to their memory.

Eventually, it became time to cut the cake and celebrate their union in the way of sweet treats. For good measure, after releasing the knife onto the table, Bertie swept her into a passionate kiss, grateful that while it was not strictly proper, it was their special day and they no longer had to skirt the rules of propriety with one another.

Elizabeth deepened the kiss, her arms wrapping around his neck as she played with the hair at the nape of his neck. They only then pulled apart, remembering that their families were watching them. Well…there would be time for privacy later on.

It swiftly became apparent that the reception was reaching its end and Bertie and Elizabeth's departure was imminent.

As the carriage was brought round to take them to their new home that they would inhabit as husband and wife, Elizabeth (with the help of her maid and Mary) into one of her day dresses from her trousseau. This one was of a mint green and it was one of her favourites. She had always favoured the colour green

As she descended the stairwell, arm in arm with Mary and approaching the doorway where Bertie stood in wait for her, she could not help the girlish smile that crept up her face and reached her eyes at the sight of the man who she could now call her husband. He smiled back at her as she came towards him. "You look beautiful, Lizzie," he said quietly.

"glad you are happy, you're really lucky to make her accept you, brother," Mary quipped.

Bertie rolled his eyes and shot a playful glare towards his sister.

"Well, I do not wish to know any details from later on, but I sincerely hope it is enjoyable," Mart added before she swept away, skirts swishing around her as she ventured down the corridor to gather the families to wave them off.

Elizabeth blushed a deep crimson at her friend’s words as she looked back at Bertie, who simply laughed. He held out his arm as he witnessed the mothers start to appear before they all were herded out of the house and the couple into the carriage.

LATER THAT NIGHT

When they had reached their new home in Bloomsbury, Elizabeth was introduced to the staff - notably the butler, Mister Dunwoody, and Violet (her maid)

She had bathed quickly, and perused the nightgowns Madame Lissett had made for her. She tried to retain her blush to light pink spots on her cheeks only when she saw just how sheer many of the garments were. Her eyes went to the pastel yellow one, her fingers brushing against the thin material but she eventually decided that their wedding night was not the occasion for yellow, no matter how much she knew her new husband would like to peel it from her body…

She shook her head free from those thoughts and picked up a greenish gown and stepped into it, before tying her robe around herself - well, she would keep the little modesty she could have for as long as she could…even if it was not the first time they would…

"Shush…" she hissed to herself. She then turned to Violet and gave a smile, "You may finish now, thank you for your help," she said to the girl.

But Miss—Madam, rather, your hair," Violet began to protest, gesturing to her updo.

"Do not worry, I shall do it myself," she replied with a smile, "Good night"

She watched as Violet went to the door, gave a small bob of a curtsy (she had tried to insist such formality was unnecessary long ago but her maid simply insisted back.) "Good night," the girl replied.

Elizabeth was not left alone for long but it felt like hours as she fiddled with the tie of her robe, pacing the room. It may not have been her and Bertie’s first experience of the marital bed, but in a way it was…as husband and wife, at least. She eventually settled and perched on the edge of the bed, as she carefully pulled her hair free from her coiffure, letting it fall down her back with such abandonment that she would ordinarily tie into a braid for sleeping in.

Would you do that tonight?

Her train of thoughts were broken by a light knock on the door and the voice of her husband through the oak. "Elizabeth? May I come in?" He asked.

Her instinct was to nod though of course he would not see. Instead of calling out however, she went to the door and opened it. He was frozen in front of her, hand raised as if he had only just knocked, or prepared to knock lightly again. He had discarded of his formal clothing, leaving him in only his shirt, trousers and boots. His gaze drifted over her form and she gulped suddenly as his gaze then met hers.

"You…you look amazing," he said, his voice hoarse.

Elizabeth pulled at the sleeves of her robe, as she stepped aside to let him enter the room. Which he did - and closed the door behind him.

"Thank you…" she said quietly.

Bertie could tell she was nervous and he had to admit, so was he. But this was not the first time they would lie with one another. But even so, he wanted to make sure she was comfortable and that if she did not wish to, they did not have to do anything that night.

"If you do not wish to…" he started, noticing her nerves, "I would never force you to…what I am trying to say is, we do not need to do anything tonight—"

"Kiss me," she blurted out.

The command came as a surprise but he did not need to be told twice. He came towards her in two long strides, cupping her face in his hands as he pressed his lips to hers. He felt her hands grab onto the collar of his shirt, fisting into the material as she pushed back into the kiss. He deepened it, teasing at the corners of her lips and she parted for him, allowing him to slip his tongue inside, to dance with her own.

He walked her backwards, kissing her still and his hands travelled down, feeling for the tie of her robe. He found it and parted their kiss only to pull on it, as if like opening her like a present. He kept her gaze as he slipped the outer garment from her shoulders, letting it fall to the floor.

His gaze grew heated and darkened as he looked over her form. "God…" he breathed, "You are breathtaking."

Elizabeth looked up at him, keeping her gaze fixed on his as she reached forward, unbuttoning his shirt and pushing over his head. Bertie instinctively started to fist into the sheer fabric of her nightgown but she shook her head. "You first," she whispered, her nerves not so present in the face of her lust. And her lust was most certainly present. Her eyes, usually a bright blue, were now dark and dilated as they looked back at him.

Her fingers moved lower, reaching blindly for the fastenings of his trousers. In her determination to keep her eyes on his, she palmed over where he was already hard, and he let out a most guttural groan.

Her nerves seemed to come back as she withdrew her hands quickly, but he reached out, taking her hands in his own. "That was not bad, but let me help you," he told her

"Okay," she said, her voice barely a whisper. She watched as he removed his boots quickly, then taking her hand in his own again, guided hers to the fastenings and she made fast work, pushing his trousers down so he could step out and be truly bared to her. She took hold of his shoulders then, turning them so that he was the one up against the bed and pushed him down onto the mattress.

He held himself up on his elbows as she climbed up to hover above him, her hair falling past her shoulders and tickling his torso slightly when she leaned down to kiss him again. One hand held her at her waist, keeping the kiss, while the other caressed her hair

He was painfully aroused but at the same time, possessed of a strange sense of calm. This dance had ceased to be about him, or her, it was about them, and god… the way she was taking command was enough to make any green boy spend early if he was not so calmed by the feel of her luscious curves in his arms.

In one swift motion, he bucked up against her hips and switched their positions so that she was the one on her back and he above her. His hands took fistfuls of her gown and slid upwards, tantalisingly slow as his fingers brushed against the skin of her thighs, then her hips and up the sides of her torso.

As each part of her body was exposed to him, he peppered her skin with kisses. Her legs, her hips, her abdomen, her breasts. He knew she was self conscious about her stomach in particular, so made sure to make her know how much he worshipped her. Body and soul. Every inch.

Eventually, he was able to pull the gown over her head and he pressed his lips to hers again. One hand ventured lower still, his lips still keeping her quiet amidst his kisses as his hand travelled down, down, down.

He parted from her, holding her gaze as he traced down the inside of her thighs, pushing her legs further apart so that he could kneel between them. His fingers pushed up further, until he was touching her there.

"Bertie!" She gasped, as she bucked off the bed and against where his fingers stroked her. He found her spot, rubbing gently in such a way that made her squirm and ache for more. He continued as he kissed her again and when his lips were against hers, he slid one finger inside.

She grasped onto his shoulders, her gasps muffled by his deepening kisses all the while he pleasured her.

He added another finger, pushing deeper inside of her and she could feel her core tightening all the while. Until it broke, and she let go against his touch. Her hands slipped around his neck, tickling the hair at his nape as she clung onto him, pulling him closer. "Bertie…" she whispered, as he withdrew his fingers, leaving her feeling rather hollow, "I need you."

He smirked at her as he positioned himself and he held her sweetly as he pushed himself in. She was no longer such an innocent, but still, he wanted to make sure she was ready. He looked at her, waiting - trying to keep his patience.

"Move," she moaned as she pulled his body somehow even closer to her own.

He did. He started off gentle, then his own desire combined with her impulsive meeting of each of his thrusts sped him up into a pace that she matched just as easily.

It was not long until he was able to watch her reach her climax, and he was able to hold back for just enough to see her scream his name and tremble beneath him. He smiled, and with a final thrust and a passionate kiss, he came, spilling his seed deep inside her. When he came back down, he collapsed against her, rolling to the side and bringing her into his arms as he pulled the sheets over them.

"My beloved and dear wife, I love you so much," he whispered as he pressed a kiss to her temple.

Elizabeth giggled, glancing up at him, meeting his gaze. "And I love you, my husband" she replied.

She then rested her head against his chest, one hand absently tracing the hair that lay there before they both succumbed to their slumber, tangled in one another’s arms.

.

.

.

.

I know, a lot of "Mary" kahsjsja bye

[patchworkmelody]

buuuuuugs. Doing some direction lighting practice! fun w colors and reeeeally loose blending.

Featuring: Forska, Rhu, Zuna, Bliss

Mulberry x2, Sky Ghost and the necromant, Bertie

Teff, Wolfie, Xanthe

[bluejayblueskies]

Do you have any recommendations for fantasy audiodramas? Preferably with full-cast, but no worries if not :)

hello anon! i've got a few, some of which i can provide first-hand reviews for and some of which have been recommended by friends and colleagues ✨ a quick note that while most of these are audio-dramas, a few are actual-play podcasts, so feel free to skip those if you're not into that

(recommendations below the cut!)

The Penumbra Podcast (in particular, the second citadel storyline)

While the Juno storyline for TPP is also excellent, if you're looking for fantasy vibes, the second citadel storyline is the way to go! It takes place in a high-fantasy-esque world with knights, castles, magic, non-human creatures, and some very fun characters who I thoroughly enjoyed! Full cast, audio drama, high fantasy

Rusty Quill Gaming Podcast

This is another high-fantasy-esque world, which takes place in London circa 18-something something. The two caveats with this one are that it's 1) an actual play podcast and 2) a touch difficult to get in to, so I would recommend starting on the season one recap (between episodes 53 and 54) and then going back and starting on Bertie's sidequest (between episodes 39 and 40) and then listening chronologically from there. The podcast loosely revolves around this robotic humanoid machine called the Simulacrum that the party thinks is wrapped up in something sinister happening. It's very well done, though the NPCs being named after Real Life Historical Figures means that my blorbo for a while was Oscar Wilde (RPG character) lmao. So it goes. Full cast, actual play, low fantasy

Hello from the Hallowoods

This one isn't strictly fantasy, but the vibes are similar enough that I feel confident including it on this list! The podcast is told from the perspective of a singular entity, so it's not quite full cast, but there's still a wide variety of characters who we hear from and have dialogue from. The story takes place in a post-apocalyptic world, where black rain has fallen and created a wide variety of creatures/affected humans in a wide variety of ways. There are also a lot of humans living in dreaming boxes, where they live solely in their own dreams. I'd describe the genre as soft horror, and the cast is comprised almost entirely of queer characters. Singular narrator who voices many characters, audio drama, soft horror

And then some recommendations from friends!

Audio Dramas

Unseen - Urban fantasy, stories about individual characters

Alba Salix - High fantasy about a royal physician, full cast

Magic Tavern - Comedy improv high fantasy about a modern day guy getting transported into a magical kingdom, full cast

Once and Future Nerd - A group of teenagers get transported to a fantasy setting, audio drama, full cast

Monstrous Agonies - Supernatural urban fantasy, supernatural styles help line

Care and Feeding of Werewolves - Supernatural urban fantasy, supernatural styled doctor

Silt Verses - Follows two people, Carpenter and Faulkner, who worship an outlawed god and are traveling along a river in a pilgrimage

The Bright Sessions - Dr. Bright provides therapy for the strange and unusual

Night Shift - Urban fantasy, features magical anomalies

Mistholme Museum of Mystery, Morbidity, and Mortality - singular narrator (the audio tour guide) walks you through the exhibits of a strange museum (and more!)

Actual Plays

Dice Shame - Fantasy RPG

The Adventure Zone, Balance and Amnesty arcs - Fantasy RPG

Dark Dice - Originally an actual play, now edited to be more similar to an audio drama, full cast

Transplanar - Dark fantasy RPG

[moonstoneandjoy]

@edxmunson continued from x

Bertie wasn't too surprised to see Eddie here, this was a very popular spot for his classmates. They rarely checked anyone's i.d, and didn't seem to care when they were given a fake one. Though that wasn't why Bertie was here, he had business to take care of.

"Oh you know, I'm tutoring someone in geometry... but if someone on the basketball team did that." He gestured loosely toward Eddie, "I could be persuaded to go home." He had at least some morals.

[rainbowstargazerlilies]

Mechs Ships Tournament: Resurrection Round Part 2!

Hi! The winner of this poll will proceed into the final poll to face off against the other Resurrection Round poll winner, Polymechs And Lyf, and the HNOC trio. This will only run for one day. Hope you all are ready!

Link to the other poll here

Propaganda under cut:

Tim/Bertie:

The entire “Tim Goes Mad” section of GTVTMK. Tim looses it because his best friend dies and goes on a murderous rampage. Also that one art that Reegis made of the younger version of the two of them. 

gay moon bitches fr

Gptvstmk

*blows up the moon for you*

#TimBertie are literally so stuckycoded ngl#ITS ABOUT THE DEVOTION ABOUT CHILDHOOD FRIENDS GONE TO WAR ITS ABOUT THE VIOLENCE OF TRAGIC LOSS#ITS ABOUT GRIEF AND THE WAY IT HURTS YOU SO YOU EXTERNALIZE THAT HURT TO THE ONES WHO TOOK YOUR LOVED ONE#HOW DO YOU LIKE THAT MOON KAISER IM PISSING ON THE MOON YOU IDIOT!!!#im normal about timbertie (tags via @watermelonselfship)

Carmilla/Odin:

Lesbiabs

Because. Unethical lesbians who should be in sickly sweet love is not appreciated enough.

FUCKED UP TOXIC MILF YURI!!!!!!!

kinda bonkers women

TOXIC MILF YURI!!!!

Violinspector:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/37936555/chapters/94742191

violinspector (the stars claim them)

The Stars Claim 'Em 

yoyr fanfic idk i thought this was funny [Poll runner's note: I'm the author of The Stars Claim Them.]

it slaps. that’s all

no thoughts. only them.

Ashes/Jonny:

bc like... the vibes. i also like ashes as hades and jonny as cerberus. ashes is so cool, and jonny is so... jonny. 

their backstories both end with them murdering their father figure and then literally burning all of their ties to their former homes. its narratively satisfying. of course theyd be together.

#ASHES/JONNY MY EVERYTHING#good lord okay#they're best firneds. they were there for eachother since the beginning#jonny's a freak and ahses has to deal with jonny's bullshit & is also really the only one who knows how to put up with her bullshit#they're so awful but they really truly care so much about eachother#they're smoking buddies#ashes & jonny taking a moment and sitting together for a few minutes without saying a word#smoke break#they just Understand eachother do you feel me. they just Get eachother please (tags via @dropitdoeeyes)

Ivy/Raphaella

them <333 science vibe lesbians. Pedantic archivist and sciency scientist. Must I say more??? 

science saphics + ivy infodumping while raph does science™ is awesome

https://archiveofourown.org/works/41629023/chapters/104419359 :3

they could be called research paper which is based so vote them

no heart of gold, just flesh and blood - quantumducky - The Mechanisms (Band) [Archive of Our Own](Fic contains gore and some sexual content. It's about a vivisection :3) (via @mothocean)

#ivy raphaella sweep!!!#do it for the nerds! do it for the girls! do it for the nerdy girls!!#aa (tags via @jewishdainix)

Brian/Galahad:

i think they would kissies

Galahad sat on a murder chair because Brian said to. (via @bookworm-girl2002)