#john walker sucks

[navybrat817]

Idk why but listen up: Stud walks in the shop and see Smartie with her scooter (shes seems like scooter girl sorry not sorry) talking with the grumming and 🤮 Jon Walker. When shr leaves, Jon start saying shit about banging Smartie and... just get me popcorn bcs is about to go down

Listen, nonnie. I won't knock on scooters. I think they're awesome. ❤️

Is this before or after you two are together?

Also love how many of you want Stud to beat the shit out of John. 😂

Love and thanks! ❤️

#navybrat answers #anon ask #bucky barnes #roommate!bucky barnes #stud and smartie #john walker sucks #not sorry #sending love ❤️ #asks are always appreciated

[bucky-bucky-bucky-bucky]

Love seeing a John Walker stan in Seb’s tag that I now get to block 🥰

HELL YEAH! BLOCK EM BBY!

Me @ John Walker Stans:

#John Walker sucks

[daniel-bruehl]

#but i like it

THE FALCON AND THE WINTER SOLDIER | 1x04

#marveledit #tfatws #zemo #daniel brühl #john walker #wyatt russell #anyone wanna tell me why some scenes suck even with 4k quality lol #zemoedit #danielbrühledit #johnwalkeredit #wyattrusselledit #tfatwsedit #userlindir #userangel #userpng #tusershay #tusermerc #usersvenja #usersavana #creationtag

[petvengers]

so yeah, I'm kinda excited for thunderbolts :D

#petvengers #thunderbolts #bucky barnes #winter soldier #ava starr #ghost #antonia dreykov #taskmaster #contessa valentina allegra de fontaine #yelena belova #black widow #john walker #us agent #alexei shostakov #red guardian #seriously this movie has potential to be either really great or suck sooooo hard #but i miss my team movies so yeah #keeping my fingers crossed #what gives me hope is that this movie can't really be cgi heavy #which im tired of and frankly disgusted by how disney treats the artists #instead the make it or break it will have to be actual choreography #which they can do #shang chi had wonderfull choreography but then they just had to fuck up the finale with damn cgi dragon #and it took away from confrontation with wenwu which should be the emotional core of the finale #but noooooo #damn im still salty about that

[dollarbin]

Dollar Bin #18:

Bob Dylan's Dream / Lord Franklin

At some point in 1988 I discovered that there was music in my childhood home.

We'd grew up largely without it. I had an ancient, AM-only, dial radio at the head of my child sized bed, but that was strictly for listening to Vin Scully call Dodger games. At some point around 83 I spun the corroded dial experimentally and heard Borderline followed by Thriller. It was terrifying, and I did not repeat the experiment.

Therefore, as a child, the only song I remember singing along to was this ditty, which always immediately preceded Vinny declaring that it was "time for Dodger Baseball!"

Of course, I heard snatches of music outside our home. When Dolly, Emmylou and Linda put out Trio in 87 my mom bought the tape, shoved it into our red and white Vanagon's deck and kept that thing on repeat for years. And on the fourth of July I'd watch the annual Beach Boys Special at friends' houses while we lay about, sunburnt from head to toe and waiting for rock hard burgers off the grill. And yes, I'd sit in the park every summer and try to figure out how to eat KFC while the US Navy Brass band played. But all that music was around me, not in me.

Then, in 88, my buddy Matt's parents got cable, so MTV happened and we learned all about girls, I guess, from Straight Up Now Tell Me. By that point Buffalo Soldier, Shout, Brass Monkey and Take My Breath Away where spinning at elementary school dances and all the cool kids were bravely listening to Guns and Roses.

But I wasn't cool. I recognize this fact must be a surprise to all of you given the incomparably cool nature of this august blog and the meteoric rise of my Gordon Lightfoot musings among the cognoscenti (I have no doubt that among my legion of 14 followers cheesebot47 is Obama and dannhann is Bruuuuce while bloggin - I see you gentlemen! Thanks for my grand total of two heart emojis!), but I feel that my uninterrupted lifelong run of uncoolness needs to be acknowledged nonetheless. As proof I offer up the following evidence: my initial attempt at getting into music in 88 was buying the cassette single for Chicago's Look Away:

Yeah, definitely not cool. Even my father thought the song spewd chunks and the only song he ever sang to us as kids was Home on the Range. Baby! Look away!

So I did hear music at age 12. But my home had none to offer, and I'd yet to hear anything that really spoke to me, that shouted its way into my soul.

Then, somehow, furniture got rearranged or I opened my eyes a little wider and found a hitherto unknown cabinet in our living room. There weren't fur coats inside, or mothballs; nor did it take me straight to Mr. Tumnus. No, it was better than that. Instead, when I looked inside, I found The Freewheelin' Bob Dylan.

That's right: there was a record player in my home that I'd never noticed before, and records sat underneath it. No one had touched anything in there for a decade or more. But I knelt down and figured out what to do with it somehow and the next thing I knew I was listening to Blowin' in the Wind.

Picture me on my 12 year old knees, all 80 pounds of me watching the record spin, holding my breath. What was this noise? Why did it sound so glorious? And why, oh why, wouldn't it play smoothly?

You see, from the first moment Dylan began slapping at his 6 string and asking how many roads a man must walk down, the filthy, bruised record and the turntable's utterly battered needle refused to meld. I could hear only snatches of Blowing in the Wind before the whole thing popped and bolted and before you knew it there was a broken harmonica blast and Dylan was already telling me that he'd learned the next song somewhere down in the U-nited States. Then everything erupted again and it wasn't long before the needle leapt and dragged into full skid before thudding to a stop.

And yet somehow, one song on my parents' long forgotten and utterly ravaged copy of the Dylan's first masterpiece was largely intact and skip-free: at age 12 I joined Dylan on a train going west; I too dreamed a dream and weathered many a first storm. But Bob Dylan's Dream did not make me sad. Rather, it took my breath away.

And it still does.

I suspect each of us has a specific, elemental melody that insistently tugs at us; like an invisible tether, there's a combination of notes and pacing out there that's ineffably linked with our individual soul. Somehow, wonderfully, the borrowed melody Dylan used for his Dream is that tether for me.

Of course at that point I couldn't put any words together to describe what was happening to me when I listened. I was just fired up. What's more, I found that each time I replayed the record a bit more of it would emerge intact: the tortured needle harvested bits of dirt and debris from the grooves each time it passed through. Sure, I had to bully the record through several skips, but eventually I could track most of the record.

Next, somehow, probably at my friend Eric's, I found a blank tape and a turntable connected to a tape deck and was able to transfer my chopped up record into something I could carry around in my pocket like a talisman. There was a world of music out there, just for me. I had not found it yet, but I had a map.

And so I did what came naturally: I took the world's worst version of the The Freewheelin' Bob Dylan to my next Dungeons and Dragons game. Doing so made total sense to me. I was clearly 12 years old.

I emailed my personal dungeon lord, Jon, this week and asked him to recall what happened next. But Jon remembers nothing, which is surprising, because something definitely happened. The moment I pressed play on my brutalized copy of Freewheelin' in the middle of Jon's personally scripted orcfest he freaked the hell out, unplugged the stereo and carried my character sheet out to his dad's Weber, ranting all the while about how if I ever brought such crazed and unbearable sounds to one of his games again my character (I think he was named Illure...) would get doused in lighter fluid and would serve as a fitting holocaust to every god one could name. And Jon was true to his precociously literate 12 year old word: a few months later, when I brought not Bob Dylan but instead swiped cans of beer to D&D, Illure did indeed taste Jon's threatened flames and I was altogether banned from D&D henceforth. My buddy Jon: always totally awesome.

It's too bad about Illure. But I wouldn't change a thing.

So let's talk about Lord Franklin. Dylan openly acknowledged that he borrowed the tune for his Dream from Martin Carthy's version of the original. Let's drop the needle on the song's gold standard: Pentangle's version from their wrongly maligned Dollar Bin treasure, Cruel Sister.

Listen to John Renbourn, just above a whisper, recall his sighing dream. Bert Jansch's weary concertina trembles and pulses and Jacqui McShee's accompanying voice arches above and beyond until Renbourn finally produces the world's smallest and gnarliest electric guitar. Wow. What a song; what a version. That's my personal pulse friends; that's my tether.

Who knows how far back this melody actually goes; its primary known source, the Irish song Cailín Óg a Stór, is least 400 years old, but surely people were humming this thing under their breath long before any peer of Shakespeare thought about claiming ownership of it in print. Maybe my ever so great grandmother had some hand in its creation; or maybe yours did. I'll bet people all over the world have been warbling this melody in their own tongues for time out of mind.

Take a listen to the Carthy version that first inspired Dylan:

You can hear the song's racing pulse in Carthy's fleet picking beneath the swaying, stately melody. Maybe that tension of paces is part of the song's allure for me. I love slowly sung songs that still contain lurching threats of violence, terror or despair. Think Danger Bird or This Monkey's Gone to Heaven; think Mr. Bojangles.

Sure, Jerry's telling us his story with a smile. But he's not okay. He's grieving deeply as he sings, channeling his old prison mates' terrible loss for his dog.

Cailín Óg a Stór is a root stock that's been grafted beyond Franklin's tale and Dylan's dream. Happily, Stephen Stills' own take, a reworking entitled I Suck, remains unreleased. But check out Fairport Convention's A Sailor's Life. Hear the incomparable Sandy Denny spin that glorious melody in a new direction.

It takes some real guts to completely reconsider a song this elemental, but people are forever doing just that. Check out Renbourn's own masterful and hilarious version from the 90's. Just look at the guy sweat as he giggles then dives deeply in.

All of these examples help make Dylan's Dream particularly audacious. Forget telling timeless tails of terror on the deep; Dylan instead takes us to a scene from his own childhood: there they are, gathered about an old wooden stove, the first few friends he had. They never much thought they could get very old; but they have, they are all aged now, just like me and Jon, and all our long ago friends from 88.

Only art is timeless, Lord Franklin reminds us. Only art can never die.

Rest in Peace Sinead.

#Youtube #lord franklin #bob dylan #pentangle #jerry jeff walker #john renbourn #stephen stills still sucks #sinead o'connor

[stupid-dumb-bitch]

#johnwalkerhate #like that bitch just sucks #john walker hate #john walker slander #james bucky buchanan barnes #james buchanan barnes #james bucky barnes #james barnes #baron helmut zemo #helmut zemo #zemo #baron zemo #sam wilson #samuel wilson #samuel thomas wilson #marvel #funny memes #lol get rekt

[ambear9]

When your fic gets on the wrong side of the fandom

#Chuck Bartowski #John Casey #chuck/casey #sarah walker #If you don't ship them don't read it #hate comments on fics are bullshit #we do this shit cuz we love it #and for free #really sucks when you love something and someone comes along and tears you apart #especially when you're the only one actively writing it #dont like something move on

[jbarneswilson]

last line meme

thank you for the tag @spinachgarden!

Her own eyes go round with shock and she nearly chokes on her wine when the owner of the blue eyes narrows them at her, mouths, I’m gonna beat him up, and points to John’s back.

“Oh my God.”

“Is everything all right?” John asks, concerned.

“Yeah, I—yeah. I just, um, spilled some wine on myself. Would you excuse me for a moment?”

i tag @gpearls @eusuntgratie @jemgirl86 and anyone who wants to join!

#sarah wilson #bucky barnes #john walker #yeah i know #he sucks #and that’s why he’s perfect for this #tag games #writing games

[chaossmagic]

it’s kind of bizarre to me that one of the most common criticisms of marvel movies is that they’re all just military propaganda when like. most of the characters who are military or ex-military in those movies are basically walking examples of how corrupt and fucked up and incompetent and awful the whole american military-industrial complex is and shows the different ways it can have really shitty effects on people. like apart from carol and rhodey maybe all the other military personnel have had really shitty times and very bad experiences in lots of different ways. their experiences show how the us military in particular treats its veterans and active soldiers - i.e. terribly. idk just food for thought.

#personal #sam bucky isaiah john walker steve marc - all show the different ways the us military can chew you up and spit you out #so it's never really made sense to me the whole 'marvel is military propaganda' thing #because it makes a good job of showing the different ways the military fucking sucks

[kissing-during-armageddom]

I will not say shit about the news on cap 4(I refuse to say that nightmare of a title) and thunderbolts

Because I hate the marvel fandom

I despise the tone deaf bucky stans

And the softcore racists with their constant bullshit

So yeah happy for the news about projects proud of Anthony and Sebastian and angry because the fucking circus it's back to town and all of you clowns started acting stupid a-fucking-gain

#captain america #sam wilson #marvel #bucky barnes #i hate all of you #marvel fandom sucks #cap 4 #thunderbolts #the only thing i can say for sure its the bastards yt fujoshis will ship poor bucky with that mess john walker #because they will never be able to watch two yt man interacting even if they actually hate each other guts #i hate here

[navybrat817]

Sam and Stud maybe argue with eachother BUT, when Stud was this close of killinh Jon (other mecanic on the shop bcs he is a DICK) he was the one who holded him back; Nat wad just watching, thinking how to help to hide the body and give a solid alibe.

Oh, nonnie. I don't think Bucky could stand working with John. I think he would try his best to keep his cool and his distance since he likes his job and it helps pay for his apartment and school.

The tipping point though would be if John made a derogatory remark about Smartie. Bucky wouldn't tolerate that.

Love and thanks! ❤️

#navybrat answers #anon ask #bucky barnes #roommate!bucky barnes #stud and smartie #john walker #he sucks #the character not the the actor #sending love ❤️ #asks are always appreciated

[holylulusworld]

Shy guy (3) - Past

Summary: You grew up together. Bucky is the one. He’s just too shy to make a move.

Pairing (future): Shy!Bucky Barnes x Fratgirl!Reader

Sidepairing (friendship): Steve Rogers x Reader

Warnings: sweet Steve, John Walker hate, John Walker being the worst, harassment, fluff, angst, a little time jump

Inspired by this ask: Shy guy ask and @dawn-petrichor-world​ made me do it…

<;< Shy guy (2) - Past

Shy guy masterlist

Age of 14, …

“Why is Jamie not here?” You sniffle and wipe your eyes. It’s your birthday and your friend Jamie didn’t come to your birthday party.

“His mom wants him to play with other kids too,” Steve softly says. He pats your back and awkwardly tries to soothe you. “I’m sorry. He’s busy with some other boy from his old neighborhood. He moved to town with his mom.”

“A boy?” You are crying now. “But he’s our friend. Jamie is my best friend, and he won’t come to my party for some boy?”

“Hey, we can have fun without him. I’m sure Bucky will apologize for not coming to your party on Monday. He’s…” Steve sighs. “Puberty sucks, okay. Bucky needs some alone time without a girl hanging on to his every word. That other guy told him he can’t be friends with a girl without being…”

“Being what, Stevie?” You whimper. "Tell me!"

“Her boyfriend,” Steve puckers his lips. “Don’t be sad. I will always be your friend. Steve Rogers is a friend for a lifetime.” He grins when you hide your face in his chest. 

You are the only girl whose heart he hasn’t broken yet. Steve doesn’t know why, but you are like a sister to him.

“I don’t like Jamie anymore. He’s so mean,” you cry and whimper. “Why did he do this? I invited him and his sister. Rebecca came, but he didn’t. I hate him!”

“Hey,” Steve jogs after you to walk you home from school. “Did he apologize? I haven’t seen Bucky around today.”

“He was talking to that boy John all the time,” you sniff. “I don���t like that boy. He’s mean. When Jamie wasn’t looking he grinned at me and cupped his…”

“He cupped what, Y/N?” Steve's eyes widen when you tell him that John cupped his crotch and made an obscene noise. “That bastard is dead! I’m going to break his nose!”

“Steve,” you grab Steve’s wrist. “He’s not worth it. If Jamie doesn’t see that guy is no good, I don’t want to be his friend anymore.”

You sniffle and runoff, dashing along the street only to stumble and fall.

“Y/N!” Steve chases after you to help you get up. “Did you get hurt? Wait, I’ll help you.”

“Awe, look at this James. The hero in shiny armor helps her up. LOSER!” John smirks at Steve. Your friend squares his jaw, ready to throw a few punches, but he decides against it. He needs to bring you home first. 

“You’re an asshole Walker!” Steve bites back. “And you, Bucky!” He sneers. “I can’t believe you let that bastard talk about your friend like this while he’s after Y/N. He only makes you do all this to get Y/N for himself.”

“What?” Bucky watches his friend grab your backpack and help you up. “Is that true John? Do you want her to be your girlfriend?”

“I wouldn’t poke that asshole with a stick,” you grunt as Steve wraps one arm around your waistline to help you walk. “You’re not my friend anymore, James Buchanan Barnes. I hate you!”

Steve slowly walks next to you, soothing you on your way home. You’re crying and he feels helpless. He’s only fourteen years old and has no clue how to help you.

“He’ll apologize. You’ll see…”

Three months later, …

Bucky tried anything to get you to talk to him. It took him three months to convince you that he’s no longer friends with John Walker.

Still, something broke inside of you. You don’t see Bucky like you saw him before all this happened. Your heart still hangs on him, but Steve proved that he’s a better friend than Bucky could ever be.

One wrong friend, a few words and he left you hanging and ignored you. 

“I got a belated birthday gift for you,” he shyly hands you a beautifully wrapped gift. “Rebecca helped me with the ribbon.”

“Oh, that’s…nice,” you can’t be happy. The gift only reminds you that Bucky didn’t come to your party because of John Walker. “I’ll unpack it later.”

Bucky sighs. He had hoped you’d like the gift and that you would be all over him like you used to do. “Uh-I hope you like it. I thought of you when I bought it.”

You roll your eyes. “I hope so because it’s a gift for me.” 

He flinches at your icy tone. Bucky knows something shifted in your friendship due to his mistake. You talked more to Steve and pulled away from Bucky over the last weeks.

He only hopes you didn’t change your mind about marrying him one day…

Another month later, ...

Bucky stuffs more popcorn into his mouth. He watches you giggle at something Steve said about the stupid movie he chose for movie night.

“Can we—?” Bucky grunts as you shush him. “Can we watch the movie now?” He murmurs, afraid to speak louder with Steve around. His friend is like an overprotective big brother to you since Bucky let you down and Bucky fears he will make his threat come true and rip him a new one.

“Aw, look at him Stevie,” you jump at Bucky to tickle his sides. “He’s jealous because I got the biggest slice of pizza.”

“No-stop!” Bucky laughs and squeals as you won’t stop tickling him. 

Steve watches you with his friend, humming as he hopes Bucky won’t mess things up with you again.

He’s already got his hands full with all the girls swooning all over him. He can’t always be around to protect you.

Even though, he loves you like a sister.

Part 4

Tags in reblog.

#bucky barnes #young!bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #Shy guy (3) - Past #angst #bucky barnes x female reader

[milknhonies]

The Negatives of Shooting People

Chapter 2 || MasterList || Chapter 4

Chapter Summary: A new job creates a new problem for August who decides he needs to remind you of his power. You let Lloyd inside, and he has an offer to make.

Chapter Warnings: 18+ Dead Dove Do Not Eat, Masturbation, Referenced Non-Con Events, Implied Illegal Weapon Arms Trading, Threats, Manipulation, Stalking Journalism.

Pairing: Kingpin!August Walker X F!reader

Word Count: 9.4k

Author Notes: in my mind and casting, Jude Driver is played by Adam Driver. Wesley Gibson is played by James McAvoy. Brandon Sullivan is played by Michael Fassbender. Katarina Vikander is played by Alicia Vikander.

Inspiring Song: "Woman." by Ke$ha.

10:23am Thursday 8th August 2024, Brisbane CBD.

“These photos Miss Y/L/N, they’re magnificent. I haven’t seen quality this good since…well…never really…When can you start?”

You grinned, sitting across from the head editor of one of the smaller local newpapers.

You knew you had to find a job quickly…you were sick of the employment agency and their unhelpful attitude. You knew if you were going to remain safe and take down the billionaire asshole, you needed to be the best version of yourself.

It had been a three days since you first met that monster... August Walker. And he had seemingly invaded your every thought. He was there in the back and front of your mind haunting and taunting you with his smirking lips and roguishly deep voice.

The gentleman who sat in front of you had no idea. That was something you were okay with, how could anyone know? No one knew. You hadn’t called or replied to any text messages Lloyd had sent.

You made a resume portfolio of your best photos you’d taken since your first camera your dad ever bought you. Both Polaroid and electronic. You still hadn’t forgotten that August had stolen one of your father’s cameras from the day he forced you to cum on the recliner chair.

You knew you were inexperienced in journalism…but your photography was a master skill unlike any other.

Your successful interview, you put it up to a great sense of confidence, as well.

“Right now if you’ll have me,” you winked. He was an older man of an older generation. Clearly he knew and was a deep fan of Australian banter that borderlines the aesthetics of flirtation. You were a young woman and he was an older man, the math was simple. Bat your lashes, pretend to be coy and then slide in with a sarcastic remark or sexual innuendo.

He laughed and leant over his desk. You shook your new bosses hand.

He liked that very much. ‘Of course he would, he’s practically old enough to be someone’s perverted uncle.’

“Oh most definitely…” he said biting his bottom lip, he was milking the banter.

He was a handsome even for a classic perverted elder fellow. John Luther was a grey fox so the ladies might say. You were sure that from now on never to truly trust a man…so when he winked back and looked down your shirt- at your chest, you smiled wider, ‘predictable men…he is going to be easy to manipulate…’

You had to thank August one day…if he hadn’t hurt and humiliated you the way he did…you would never have felt the rage of all women and the desire to use your assets to get what you wanted in this Man’s World.

You sat back a lit and lifted your chest as you gave a big happy sigh while watching Mr Luther continuously ogle your chest.

It sent a shiver even down your spine thinking about it…entering a villainess era…a femme fatale story….a tale of revenge and justice.

“I admire a woman with confidence,” he said sucking his teeth, his right hand slide down beneath his desk out of view. You had half a mind to assume he was palming his dick in his trousers.

“So how about I assign you your first assignment? See how you go? I’ll even let you choose…”

“Choose?” you asked with a faux coyness, fluttering your lashes.

“Well, we have a very interesting story idea in regards to the Woolloongabba Doggy Day care that just moved to East Brisbane, rumour has it that the business is understaffed for the amount of dogs they keep in care. And they only use half of the required sanitization required. A spread of kennel cough and many dogs having their ears ripped off by other larger dogs belonging to rich clients the owner of the doggy day care refuses to lose business towards.”

Oh dear, you noted, that sounded tragic….it’s a good thing you never had a pet as a kid. It would hurt too much to be in that position. Hearing a pet dog had its ear ripped off by savage untrained dogs.

“...And the other case?” You sweetly chirped.

His smile fell, “There’s a certain gentleman that’s running around allegedly smuggling drugs and arm deals…” he repeated, “’Allegedly’…”

He rolled back in his chair to reach for a folder on his bookshelf, flicking through it.

Your craning neck had time to catch the outline of his prick beneath his pants. ‘Oh yes...this man is putty in my hands.’ When he swivelled back, you dashed your eyes back to his desk trinkets and smiled at him.

“A bloke named August Walker selling to or buying from an old money American philanthropist Brandon Sullivan…”

‘No fucking way’….just your luck…

You were going to fucking take it no matter what….

Luther grimaced, “It’s a big task so I won’t judge you for not taking it. I’m just hoping to catch the sons of bitches at it. It would be a huge story for media not even those wankers at seven, nine or ten news could think to report.”

You reached over his desk to steal his pen and stick note pad. You took down the name he mentioned on a sticky note- Brandon Sullivan...you made sure to memorise it well.

“How about we even make those conniving morons at sky news jealous, sir?” You smirked and watched as the rockets soared in his eyes with his white tooth grin.

He laughed hard.

He wiped his hand down his chin, “I love a girl with ambition Miss Y/L/N. I’m sure you won’t disappoint me! The dead line for photos is in a week, he’s having some soiree on next Friday or something so it’s got to be before then because you’re never gonna be able to enter those clubs, chicky. Respectfully.”

You smile and shake his hand again, “Mr Luther, I swear…I’ll give you the best goddamn shots you’ve ever seen of that criminal.”

Now your man hunt had truly commenced, you smiled to yourself. Who knew that revenge could come so easily and quickly…

Luther gave you your own cubicle to work in. A place to hang and edit your photos. A place to file your evidence. He may have mentioned that the work they did in his agency was on par with the police but by no means legally police work. So if the cops arrived, you stayed hidden and kept your fucking mouth shut....

You had a job and began researching the bastards name again on your laptop, compiling the sources from Google and the notes from Luther’s folder files.

You discovered the following about August J. Walker.

He was born in New Jersey. He was twice your age and almost as old as your father. He had a plethora of connections in businesses from alcohol distillery to Chinese restaurant vendings. Actually you were confident that a restaurant he help partnership over had a familiar logo. You tapped your lip and wondered briefly if your father ever delivered there as a truck driver.

August was a fan of European and Asian based foods and sold it at his clubs. He owned over fifteen around the world. One of his biggest in Australia was The Lions Lounge, it was on the edge of Fortitude Valley. It was for the richest social elites of the country. The price of food alone was almost your weeks rent.

On the website of his club you could see information regarding the tightship of his security. It seemed supreme so there wasn’t a chance of you going to his club without a fat purse and invitation.

A party was coming up, a celebration for the ten year anniversary of its opening. A soiree with a “The roaring 1920s.” Theme. You scoffed at the cliché.

It was exclusively invite only, it was only on the website so that those who received a invitation could reply a rsvp. And with you fresh out of luck of an invite like Luther even said, there was little to no chance of clawing your way inside.

So...that’s when you had to resort to extra creativity. You held up the sticky note and smiled.

09:07am Wednesday 14th August 2024, Robertson Brisbane.

August Walker was a man with a craving to remain in power. He had fought tooth and nail to get where he was and for now he felt incredibly comfortable…he had enough money to buy the fucking country...he had the power to make politicians kneel and kiss his shoes if he demanded it. To the police, with his legal team, he was currently untouchable.

He could literally have any woman he wanted…but he wanted you. Since that night he first saw your photo, he starved. He had given you time to mourn. Now you were alone and he righteously believed you needed him.

Yet to his surprised pleasure, he liked the fight and push you tried to dish out on him. Your guts to go to the police sent blood to his cock. He hadn’t expected it. He believed you’d roll over and cry only. He never predicted you’d immediately leave the apartment before he could wish you a good morning or afternoon after leaving you drugged up. He snooped for hours in your father’s bedroom and yours. He’d flicked through your old school reports and photos. He tried tidying your mess and clutter, washing your vomit covered duvet and even had cigarette to pass the time.

So when he received that call from the police requesting his presence, instead of anger, he felt surprise. Not many could surprise him. But you did...

He pushed away from his desk and rubbed his eyes chuckling,  you were definitely a tasty little thing.

It made his dick hard when he remembered you crying beneath him. He loved to fantasise your pathetic excuses and spitfire words. He only wished you’d push the boundary more. The more you fought, the sweeter the submission.

He pulled out his ‘other’ phone. His ‘business’ phone. The phone no police would ever know or see. He swiped his thumb across the screen and groaned at the sweet nude thing he took photos of the night you’d both met. Oh how pitifully adorable you were with your desperate pleas and confusion as the pill quickly broke down into your blood stream.

He wished he had a video of it. How he teased your phone away from you. How he mocked you. Half of it he imagined you probably didn’t remember. After all it wasn’t long that you were totally out of it, limp and softly snoring.

He liked how much control he had over you. Laying the strips over your hairy body and tearing it away to be baby smooth as he liked it. How delicate you looked as he rubbed the baby oil into your skin to settle any potential irritation. Perhaps it was sick of him to prefer you like this. He sighed, licking his bottom lip, staring at the photo he took of your freshly waxed pussy.

He had done sicker things to other people. But you were someone who didn’t deserve this. That is where the guilt lied. You didn’t deserve this and August Walker fucking new it deep in his bones.

He wasn’t shy of hurting innocence but your situation was different. This was personal.

So really could he hold it against you for going to the police? No... And besides...his false alibi had been solid... especially after the rape kit evidence had been tampered with, concluding as inconclusive...

Something about the thought of making you submit but never fully breaking, constantly challenging him- turned him on so much, he found it impossible to work. He slapped his phone down and chewed the inside of his cheek while he considered calling up Natalie, one of his go to escorts. His payable whores. She was expensive but she knew how to suck him off to completion quickly and he wanted to focus on work and finalising the details of his party in two days, not on you.

As fate would have it….he wouldn’t have a choice…the phone rang on his desk.

He pressed the reviewer to his ear and turned to look out the window.

“Walker.”

“It’s Gibson.”

He smiled and leaned back in his rolling chair, “Ah Wesley, yes, how are you mate?”

“You’ve got a little problem, sir,” he heard his public relation specialist sigh, “A tail.”

“Oh?”

“I’m sending the email now,” the click clack typing of the keyboard echoed in the headset Wesley wore,” It seems the paper has started to find better journalists…”

The email notification came in quickly. The ping from his monitor forced August to spin around in his chair. He pursed his lips and scrolled to click the link.

He hovered the mouse arrow down and noticed the collection of photos taken of him in the high class restaurants talking with a old underworld buddy of his. Some of the images however were incredibly exposing. His hand was shaking Brandons in one when he made a export deal with him, another photo showed August’s fingers touching a contract, his eyes looking at a phone Brandon was holding with images of guns. This was not good at all…

“What the fuck…” his hand pressed to his lips, he mused, “The photographer was smart, he knows how to pick a decent angle, Jesus what camera took this?” He clicked another photo, “These details…you can practically see every pore on Brandon’s bloody face…”

His mouth felt dry. He knew he needed to hire Natalie’s services now, the stressed building up had him tense. His erection had vanished, now it was a matter of pain in his shoulders and back.

He scrolled further and stared at the headlines jumping out. “Playboy or Pathological Criminal.”, “Party King or King Pin.”, “Australia’s own insider terrorist.”

His eyes widened at seeing the publishing office. John Fucking Luther & Co. News.

His jaw cracked with the tightness he clenched. No. He didn’t have time for this shit.

“She, sir,” The lackey corrected, “Newest of Luther’s flock. His word usually isn’t credible but this? This is going to be hard, expensive press to erase or cover up. Other news outlets are fighting over the rites.”

She...

He picked up a pen and clicked the button. Why was it even that important.

She...

She? His eyes sharpened. He looked closer at the photos on his screen. Something about the photo style reminded him of something earlier he had seen the previous week. So many….on a wall…beside a bed…filled with a captivating woman he defiled…but surely not you? Surely not you...

“What did you say?”

“Sir the cost to-”

He shook his head and sighed into the phone, cutting of the agent, “No, no, I meant the photographer. You said ‘she’? Luther? Are you sure this is real? His lot are the worst, always blurry or grainy if they’re lucky…who the fuck is this new photographer or editor or whoever the fuck is getting these images.”

“We can only assume,” Wesley mumbled, “You’ve had this little thing on your tail for the passed few days, she tries to be sneaky we’ve noted. We didn’t expect her to release decent pictures…we followed her back to the Luther office. The angles fit the locations we have caught her in.”

His thumb pressed hard against the pen.

“Show me this bitch,” he growled under his breath.

Another email ping and a link later, your face filled the computer screen. Your eyes burned him right back…you were in a few photos. Some where you hid among a roof top, another you were hiding in a corner at the restaurant, and finally one where you were just in a park looking down at your camera probably going over the shots you’d taken.

“Want us to deal with her, sir?” he suddenly heard Wesley ask. Deal with her...Destroy her reputation...beat her up…sell her…or kill her....no…no...not his new puppy.

He blinked with bewilderment and hummed, “No...” He cleared his throat, “No, no thankyou, Wesley. I know this kid; don’t worry…” he smirked, “This is just a simple misunderstanding…bit of…play. Trust me.”

Oh how he could’ve whipped the skin from your back raw for this if you were anyone else...

“Sir, if you can’t get her to stop, if she’s going to keep doing this…” Gibson warned, “Anything more in depth- you’ll wind up in court or prison at the worst, the pigs aren’t taking the pay like they used to…”

August shook his head and sighed, “It wouldn’t be the first time Wesley. Ignore her. I’ll deal with it. She’s my responsibility.”

His public relations officer seemed to pause for a moment. As if he had something else to say but he knew better than to total talk back to August Walker.

“Alright sir, have a good evening,” August heard before he slapped the phone, hanging up.

He scooted closer to the screen and scrolled back at the photos you’d taken. He bit his lip and chuckled, shaking his head at your profiling photo, “You little-...you want to play this game? Fine, now it’s my turn.”

He began dialling up a new phone number. He held it back up to his ear and waited for the receiver to pick up.

“Jude mate, I’m gonna need you to develop some photos for me...oh yes,” he replied pinching the pen in his hand, “Red room style.”

06:19pm Wednesday 14th August 2024, Woolloongabba, Brisbane.

“Who needs a man? Huh!” You said to yourself testing out the new bolts and chain locks you installed on the front door. They rattled and locked. They didn’t budge when you jiggled the handle and pulled. You still had three more you planned to drill in.

You wiped the sweat off your forehead and grinned proudly. This is something your dad should have taught you how to do. Thankfully with the help of a YouTube tutorial and a bit of bravery you managed to take full control and ownership of your front door.

If your new landlord wanted to charge you for damages to his door, so be it, as long as this kept you protected from him while you slept at night that was all that mattered. He’d either have to pick every complicated lock, guess or, he’d have to hire the damn firefighting crew to use a battering ram.

When you opened the door again to test it a second time, a squeak of surprised popped from your lips. You clenched your dad’s power tool tightly.

A man in a black suit and black sunglasses stood outside the door with an large yellow envelope in his hand. He held it out to you silently. He looked ominous and familiar, he wore leather gloves…your eye widened, he was August’s driver.

You glanced between him and his hands. Every second was a risk you weren’t sure you could keep taking. You hesitantly pinched the bottom of his flat package and he let go. He pulled the edge of his sunglasses down his face, looking at the plethora of door locks.

‘What was his name again? Judea, Judas?’

He said quietly, “It might be better if you open it inside...” his eyes glanced at the door again before smirking, “Nice locks...pretty crappy if you think it’s going to stop him though.”

‘Him...August Walker...’

You stood still in shock. He gracefully spun on his heel and left. Your tongue caught in your throat…what the fuck was this?

The package was as thick as your hand.

You had to know it was from August…I mean who else could it be from? Especially since you speculated it was his driver that delivered it…especially since there was a massive cursive ‘A.J.W’ on the tab of the envelope.

You held your breath and walked hurriedly backwards inside.

Your teeth caught your upper lip. You slammed the door shut and locked all the locks before going to the couch, disposing the drill on the coffee table, and tearing open the envelope.

You pinched the top wide open and hovered your eyes inside. There was a white papery page ripped out from a note book. You pulled it out and unfolded it to read his handwritten warning.

“Careful Puppy, you’re lucky my men didn’t bite when they sniffed you out, sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong. I think you need a break from your little hobby. So I’m going to remind you...I have copies of these. Scratch me again and I’ll bite back. Stay down or I will put you down.”

Your mouth became dry as your eyes raced over that one last line again.

‘Stay down or I will put you down.’

When you ‘put down’ an animal, it usually means death…your insides grew cold. You were confident this was a strict warning, not a threat but a promise, August walker was telling you to stop investigating or he would kill you…

Your hands shook uncontrollably. You wanted them to stop. Your body felt the reeling anxiety. You dumped the rest of the envelope over the counter. All the content spilled across the entire floor. A camera came clattering out. Your father’s camera in fact.

Inside were photos of you. A photo of you working in the editor office. A photo of you walking in the deli section at the underground Woolworths grocery store and photos of you sitting at the Queen street bus station, even the bus numbers showed up. The bus 200 via Carindale. Then at the bottom of the spread out deck of photos were the shots from the night he forced you to cum on the recliner and the night he had drugged you, naked on his bed.

Your teeth clenched hard.

You felt your eyes grow hot quickly with tears. You didn’t like how pathetic and helpless you appeared, covered in tape, and totally lost in the bliss of his sexual torture. You didn’t realise how sweaty it had made you until noticing the intense wet shimmer over your body in the photo, the hot light of the camera shone reflectively from your skin.

You closed your eyes and choked on a sob. He made his point loud and clear but it wasn’t fair. Why could he get away with all of this? You wanted to tear all the photos up one by one until they were tiny papers the size of your pinky nail.

But they sat in a piled collection on your coffee table.

Your hand cupped your mouth as you fought your wails. You clenched your teeth and stomped your foot.

You kept rereading his note. Memorising his handwriting. His Y’s had a straight tail that didn’t curve upward. It made you hate him twice as much as irrational that detail was.

August hadn’t come back since then. He had not made any personal contact since he cornered you in your father’s bedroom. It wasn’t the last time you saw him though…you saw him almost daily, but you confidently were sure he never saw you until now. You were gathering all the evidence possible to put him in the doghouse...

You pressed yourself against the wall and slid down it on your back until your bottom hit the floor.

Now what would you do? Take photos and write about abused animals instead? Always worrying about August coming into your home to take his revenge for the humiliation and defamation you brought to his name?

You settled your hands into your lap. Your heart was pounding. You could hear every awful thud.

Your phone came to life. Lloyds number ran across your screen.

‘Oh god, Lloyd. Sweet, wonderful Lloyd. Maybe he could help me.’

Hitting the green button, you picked up the phone and cleared your throat, “Hey, how are you?”

His voice was a cool balm, “I’m getting on alright. I thought I’d call and check up on you. You haven’t been very chatty over text is all. I still think you should move Y/N.”

Lloyd kept you as updated as he could. He said he interviewed August a few days ago and the excuse was laughable. August had lied about being at his club during the time he had been with you. He had staff members who could vouch for him, Lloyd suggested they’d been paid off and supposedly security footage, all which Lloyd assured must’ve been edited. It was comforting knowing out of everyone, Lloyd stayed true in his belief that you were a victim.

Another tear rolled down your face, your voice became shaky, “Yea...I think you’re right. Lloyd...things have been happening...and...can you- can you just come over please?”

You were breaking down hard and couldn’t stop the wave of anguish coming over you. The detective was compassionate and said softly, “Of course. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

When the phone disconnected you rubbed your face and flared your nostrils. Seeing the photos made you feel dirty, unclean. You decided a quick shower before Lloyd arrived might help you relax and calm down from the absolute panic attack creeping under your skin. You stood under the hot spray and tried to control your breathing.

And under the water your thoughts persisted to race. A particular question shot through you.

‘Why would he even send those to me?’ Your eyes shut. ‘Why’? If you were just some women, he liked to fuck and humiliate... ‘Then why didn’t he just come in and do it in person?’

It was like a pin had dropped. Your eyes flashed wide open, and you turned off the water. You scrubbed your face and got out of the shower, rushing to put your pyjamas on. You almost slipped on the tiles and hard wood.

You crashed to your knees at the coffee table and spread the photos around trying to find that one.

The one where you were sitting inside the editor building at your cubicle. It had been taken from a low angle on the street. A small laugh escaped you. If he sent you an image of you at the office he knew where you worked, and who you worked for…he had read your articles...a light laugh escaped your parting lips. Tears dripped from your eyes, not from grief or fear, oh no, it was relief. Now it made sense.

'Of course!' August had read your articles...and they- you chuckled; they frightened him!!! Yes, maybe not to the extent of full fear, but enough that he felt it fit and necessary to send these too you. He felt threatened. The articles were piling up on speculation against him now in the paper. You were walking a thin line between defamation and creative liberties in alleged speculations, but Mr Luther assured it was legal in the laws of journalism and gossip.

If August had copies of your lewd rape photos, if he published them…you didn’t care...what was the point in caring about that?

You knew humans could be animals. It didn’t matter what was seen. Anyone can masturbate to anything, even just a selfie – so an image of you cumming on the recliner chair was really nothing at the end of the day…sure you might lose your job but the confidence to get you there would be used in the future again. And it would be all worth it just to watch the cuffs slap over August’s wrist. Because even if he’d never go away, locked up for your abuse, you could at least drag him further down with as many criminal activity charges as possible.

You glanced at the note he wrote…maybe he didn’t even write this. If he really wanted you dead, you were sure you would be. This wasn’t a threat, this was a game. He was toying with you, clearly trying to scare you into stopping any investigations of his hidden underground work.

Little did he know, he had no idea that your rage and hunger for revenge was greater than your fear of him.

You pinched a photo to the light and smirked. If only a week ago, this poor defenceless girl knew how her life would change for good...her eyes the mirror of yours. You slapped it flat in the table and pinched your eyes. August was definitely no talent in taking photos.

You smiled recalling how Luther reacted to the first photo you brought him the third day of working...

02:36pm Thursday 8th August 2024, Brisbane CBD.

On the sticky note you’d written down a name Mr Luther had shared. You looked up that name, Brandon Sullivan, with deep dive searches and found very little of him…however he did have a single photo up on his Facebook, he was holding a gorgeous woman.

Once you had reversed search the woman’s face, Katarina Vikander, you could have peed with excitement. She was some Swedish ballet dancer and super model. She was Brandons girlfriend. And she was happy to share a dozen photos over all her social media platforms…and yes, Brandon clearly wasn’t a fan of his personal paparazzi, but there were hiccups in his cover ups.

Katarina had taken a selfie on a balcony; her sunglasses reflected her phone and Brandon coming out of their hotel bathroom.

Behind Katarina was a marina in the background. That area was very rich and popular and easy to find. You recognised the area only by chance. The were staying at the JW Marriot Gold Coast Resort and Spa. You could see the JW Marriot logo on a bath robe in a previous photo while she wore a creamy face mask with cucumber slices over her eyes.

Katarina seemed to have this obsession with a Americana aesthetic, her favourite artist was in her saved Instagram stories, Lana del Rey.

The caption of her post with Brandon hidden in the background under a broad brim hat said, “Sunny and happy with my love, he doesn’t like the seafood here, he wants ‘real truffles.’ **eyeroll emoji**”

You remembered how you sat back after seeing that and searched every restaurant in the area of the Gold Coast region and only one sold authentic truffle dishes…men are fickle and usually won’t try new things…he was clearly a man set in his ways if he wouldn’t let her post photos of him. or at least that was your theory and assumption about the almost non-existent Brandon Sullivan.

You went back and searched August. He had a decent amount of information, he was very private however, no named girlfriends or family. He was very business oriented….and what did you know? Two years ago on his LinkedIn profile you could see August had been at the opening of the same little truffle restaurant nearby where Katrina and Brandon were staying. You scrolled.

‘Looks like he was or still is an investor.’

It wasn’t solid evidence, and you didn’t know if August would be there to meet with them…so all it took, was a simple phone call…and the great skill of confidence with a stride of lying.

As the phone dialed, you selected a fake name. Your co-worker had a F.R.I.E.N.D.S coffee mug, and you stared at the dark drink stain…it’s dark colour making a perfect name.

When a staff member of the restaurant answered you hurriedly got through your plotted lie, “Hello? Yes, my name is…Jennifer Brown, I’m Mr August Walkers new assistant…listen his last employee was quite begrudged and threw out all the known appointments Mr Walker was to attend in the next three months. I’m pretty sure he has a table booked for your restaurant?”

The administrator paused. You hoped he wouldn’t ask you to repeat yourself or question you further, so you sarcastically joked, “He will murder me if I can’t find out, it’s very important.”

You prayed he’d bite the banter.

The administration clerk had a boyish tone, “Of course! Would you like me to look up the time and date of his reservation?”

You smirked and held back a cackle, you feigned a sweet joyful cry, “I would be grateful if you could be a dear, thank you so much!”

And that was how you found out the schedule and exact location of August Walker and his criminal associate.

09:45am Friday 9th August 2024, Coomera, Gold Coast.

Getting inside the restaurant wasn’t too hard. It had an open-door area with French doors. You made sure to wear a large sun hat and a plain dress. Your dad owned a small camera, about the size of an apple. You put it on a timer and leant to the floor, aiming the view finder at their table.

The entire time you swore you were sweating bullets. If August had seen you and confronted you, you probably would be chained to a pipe laying naked on a dirty mattress…maybe with those missing women you heard about on the news, Rachel, Stephanie, and Alison.

‘Why didn’t he keep me then? We did he return me back home? Did he kill those other girls?’ the more you thought too deeply on the topic, it made your skin crawl.

You clenched one of the forks, staring at the kingpin in the reflection. He looked to smug for a man that got off on harming women. You wished you could stab out his eyes with the prongs. And when the waiter came around to ask what you wanted to order, you held up the fork and requested a new one, apologising for “dropping it”.

You determined the camera had taken enough footage. You knew you’d need to make your escape when the waiter left to find you a new fork. Afterall- who can afford to pay for a cut of salmon with rocket leaves and white sauce for a hundred and thirteen fucking dollars?

You went straight home on the train and bus. You developed the photos in the bathroom sink. Hanging it up on the shower rails to set.

Those were the first photos you gave Mr. Luther.

The other times you took photos of Brandon and August were harder, a little more risky.

06:23am Saturday 10th August 2024, Coomera, Gold Coast.

You had staked outside of the hotel where Brandon stayed. Waiting across the street in a side street. It was cold and miserable. But you knew August would be down here. Darling Katarina had posted a photo of her shoes in an elevator, beside her feet were Brandons shoes, but his had a shine. You could see the blur of Augusts moustached face. Maybe it was a reach, except when the caption said, “Lions Lounge anyone? Don’t my heels look incredible! **love heart eyes emoji**”

You were dressed in rags, you clenched a juul stick you bought that morning, gagging on the watermelon flavour while you practiced your “Eshay” accent. You stared up at the windows trying to guess which room the three were in with the help of the ex-ballerinas photos.

A month ago, you would’ve thought doing something like this was insane and frankly unhealthy. But you a month ago had not been humiliated and manipulated, God knows what a woman will do once you’ve pissed her off…was it obsession? Most definitely, for revenge, for justice, for all the girls who fell for August and harmed by his reputation.

You waited…and you were right. Brandon and August walking out together. The sweet young woman was clinging to Brandon’s side with a wide girlish smile and love heart shaped sunglasses. Funnily enough, the car that picked them up just so happened to be driven by the same dark headed driver in the same black car that August took you in. You took a snapshot of the license plate and watched it drive through the somewhat slow traffic down the street. You walked and walked, keeping your eyes set on the license plate. While traffic rolled, you turned and noted there were a few empty taxis.

You took off the jumper that you cut a bunch of holes in and dumped it in a garbage bin before bending down and tapping on one of the taxi windows.

“Hey! Are you available to drive me?” You called to one of the taxi drivers that hadn’t noticed you until that second...his eyes widened with surprise before nodding, “quickly, traffic is slow, hop in!”

You slid directly into the passenger side, which on a normal day you’d never dare.

But today wasn’t a normal day. You sat up in your seat and scrolled the area with your eyes.

“So where are we headed today, ma’am?” The driver asked.

You pointed ahead with a cheeky smile, “See that black car? The fancy one.”

“The tesla?” He asked.

“My friends are in that car, so please follow it. They know the way.”

He peered at you curiously, you knew it was stupid. If you had friends rich enough for a tesla, they’d never leave you to find a taxi. But hey…money is money, the driver wouldn’t argue. He started the timer and to your satisfaction traffic picked up. When they zoomed through the street the taxi tried to keep up. They were driving to a quieter street with Western Europeanised cafe’s.

As they stopped and hoped out you quickly requested to the driver, “Do you mind going around the corner? I’m a little embarrassed.”

God, you hated to say it but you had to play the suddenly snobby cunt.

He didn’t care either way to your relief and parked around the corner, metres away from the two men.

You paid the driver handsomely with cash you managed to find in your old piggy bank back home and slid out of the cab. Your face carefully looked around the corner and you skirted back. August, Brandon and Katarina had decided to sit outside in the warm morning sunlight. It was just your luck! Quickly, you crossed the street away from the cafe. The more distance the better.

To your luck it was a block of units across from the cafe. You walked around the building and kept your head down. You came up behind in an alley and smiled at the long spiral stairs that went up to the roof top. The adrenaline extinguished all fear of heights and pushed you up until you stood out on a flat roof. You crossed the way and looked over the side.

‘Fuck’, you thought to yourself. ‘Would a police officer ever do this? Would Lloyd ever have the guts to do this?’

Probably not, there was lots of red tape involved in police investigations...but you were just a reporter...You were a photographic investigator and you amazed yourself at the lengths you were taking. You were eager to get these shots. This evidence.

You saw the pair of businessmen receiving a cup of tea and breakfast meals from the waitress. Getting down onto your tummy, you grabbed your camera and leant over the ledge to zoom in on the two.

The pumping blood roaring in your vein filled you with a mixture of fear, excitement and surprisingly…arousal.

Those were the photos that made it to the papers first.

06:35pm Wednesday 14th August 2024, Woolloongabba Brisbane.

As you reminisced on the evidential demise of August Walker, a knock at the door designed a bigger grin across your face. Lloyd had arrived. And no longer standing in a fit of sobs you welcome him cheerfully at the door.

He was wearing a black turtleneck and black slacks, totally out of uniform. Below his eye was a reddish spot. It was shining against his pale face. It wouldn’t surprise you if it was a bruise.

‘Many police are brutal and cruel but there’s no way Lloyd is one. He isn’t one of those cops...he must’ve been attacked by some bogan eshay or crackhead.’

His smile turned your knees to warm jelly. You felt shy like some first year highschooler being noticed by the seniors. He just had this glow around him.

“Hi Lloyd.”

“Hello there,” he said softly, his head cocked to the side, “Do you mind letting me in?” He asked.

‘Oh right.’

“Come- come in.”

You felt your face grow warm. You opened the door wider and looked out and down the hall. You held your breath and stood aside. The tall man slid passed you inside to your lounge room.

You took a massive breath in and exhaled. No one was waiting behind a corner or ready to catch you with the officer. You knew there were no security cameras and you doubted August would ever add any with his reputation.

Lloyd removed his leather shoes and placed them beside the door. His black socks glided over the hardwood.

You bit your lip…you looked back at the coffee table and quickly shut the door, bolting the locks after the detective entered your flat.

If August knew you were letting a detective inside, continuing to talk to one he could-…’Well, hold on...how would he know? He wouldn’t.’

“Woah, locked me in, what are you doing?” Lloyd gasped as he glanced over the metal mechanisms of your door. His eyes widened when you twisted the locks and shifted the small chains.

“I just...um. August Walker.... he’s kinda now...my new landlord and he probably will be getting keys soon and I....” your breath wavered. You paused and took a deep breath, “I needed to talk to you privately in person I think....”

His eyes didn’t grow any wider, but his pupils shrank. He pinched his dark pink lips. Sucking his teeth loudly he nodded slowly.

“That’s definitely a pickle you’ve been put into then, huh?”

You nodded back, pressing yourself against the door, sighing softly, “That’s not even the half of it Lloyd...”

His eyes raked up and down your body in surprise. You weren’t wearing your bra and your nipples were rock hard. Your pyjama bottoms were very short and little did you realise how much they were riding up your thighs.

You walked around him timidly to the coffee table.

“I got a new job, as a photographer journalist, no real experience required just my luck honestly,” you awkwardly laughed, “August um, he’s supposedly up to no good and I thought I could have a jab at him from a professional angle…”

You sat yourself in the recliner, while you invited him to sit opposite of you on the couch where he’d be able to properly look at all the photos.

He looked frightfully tired. His hair was dishevelled, and his shirt was stain with sweat. He had a nasty purple bruise on his knuckles that also matched the one under his eye.

You lifted your knees to your chest and worried about how much trouble this man was getting into as well as you. You wondered if it was like television shows where detectives mostly focus on the darkside of the force.

You gestured to the photos. You weren’t sure how he would react. He sat on the couch and peered across the coffee table, glancing over the images. It took him a few seconds before a gasp of shock ripped from his throat.

You tapped on the photos where you’d been stalked and seen taking photos of August, “Well, it shows he’s not one to have his photos taken...”

He was shaking his head. He couldn’t stop staring at the nude photos. And for a few seconds you relived that feeling of embarrassed humiliation.

You could see how his throat bobbed and his eyes flutter.

He leant forward on his knees and licked his lips.

“I...and here I had called you to check up on you and I was going to ask you for help Y/N, but god I don’t know if that’s gonna work now,” he sighed.

The detective ran a finger across your face in the lewd photos.

Your eyes narrowed, “Wh-what do you mean?”

There was a lengthy pause.

He chewed the inside of his cheek before asking, “How much do you hate what August did to you?”

You didn’t hesitate, “I’d kill him for what he’s done if I knew I wouldn’t go to prison…” you briefly looked down, “He…he came back like you said...”

Lloyd eyes glanced down too and he sighed, “Thought as much…let me guess…he threatened you?”

Your eyes fluttered closed, August had done more than just threaten you.

You nodded slowly, “He…he did…but he…is possessive, he kept saying I was his and I belong to him.” You pointed to the photo of you taped up on the recliner.

His brows pressed together, his eyes saddened. He clear his throat, “How long ago was that?”

Your mouth grew dry. You felt embarrassed telling Lloyd.

“The day of the report, after you brought me home.”

His eyes widened, his hand rubbed his parted lips, “So he ugh…he was here already?”

You nodded again, “The call you made… he was standing right here with a knife in his hand.”

“That’s why you have those deadbolts huh?” The officer rubbed his eyes and groaned, “Fuck. I’m so sorry. Why didn’t you call me after he left? I could’ve moved you, you could’ve stayed with me at least until I could put you into witness protection. Fuck!”

His swearing sent a shiver down your spine.

Your looked at your feet, you knew he wasn’t victim blaming, he just didn’t understand. You told Lloyd everything…confessed like he was your priest. You told him what August did with the vibrator despite it bringing you to tears again. You told him he was the new landlord and that’s why you installed the extra locks. You told him about your new job and you told him about the photos and how you were going to help however you could to put the bastard away.

You sat off the recliner and slid the photos back into the envelope.

“You’re very brave Y/N,” Lloyd whispered, he reached out and laid his warm hand on top of yours.

Your belly felt warm at the praise. You let him hold your fingers in his and rubbed his thumb over your skin. You stared at his blonde moustache and those bright clue eyes of his. You imagined his mouth scratching your lip if you only leant in closer...he was still as handsome as the day he patiently listened to you in the report.

Lloyd smiled softly.

God if you were a cat you would’ve been feral and in heat with how creative your imagination was getting.

Your eyes fluttered as your entire body warmed up.

“Y-You said you needed help with something?”

He smirked, letting go of your hand.

He claimed, “After what you’ve told me I’m confident you can do it...but you might not like it…”

“Try me,” you huffed, falling victim to his contagious grin.

“I have two tickets to August’s little Soiree at his club The Lions Lounge,” He started off, “My other sources have confirmed there is going to be some form of arms deal with some unsavoury company, illegal, unregistered weapons. August Walker is very good at knowing the law and requesting a warrant… but the sources I have are not substantial to the board to guarantee a warrant by that night and by that time Walker would’ve moved the weapons and sold them in a different location.”

You pieced it bit by bit.

“So you need to get inside the party, find the deal going down and bust them?”

“Exactly, that’s right! However the moment a single man waltzes to the front door it looks suspicious. I need a lady on the arm…and better yet…I need a distraction for Walker, if he sees me head on, I could be as good a shark chow.”

Your eyes lit up, it didn’t take a genius to realise he meant you. You would be the distraction. And you’d be damned before you put yourself in real danger again especially after the threat August had given you...your photos were taken in public, this would be in private. Anything could happen to you.

“No… that is too dangerous, Lloyd,” You stood up and paced the floor in front of Lloyd who was now also rising to follow you in your pacing. You walked around your kitchen and Lloyd put his hands on the bench beside you.

“Y/N…” he bent close in a whisper. You wouldn’t look at the detective. Fear was buzzing inside of you. You felt stupid about saying you’d do anything to take August Walker down now. You really wanted to just humiliate the man and call him up in prison one day and rub it in his face. But this? This was a game of cat and mouse and you didn’t want to be backed up into a corner again.

“I wouldn’t be asking you if this unless I had to...”

You bit back the whimper in your throat as Lloyd touched your shoulder gently.

“He let you live…he has a soft spot for you.”

‘He threatened to put me down.’

He turned you around and squeezed your arms while he pitched the plan, “What’ll happen is we enter the club, I find the dealers and you find Walker because he will be hosting the party, he will want to know why you’re there and you are going to tell him that…you wanted to see him.”

You rubbed your eyes angrily, “Why the fuck would I want to see him?!” your fingers felt moist, you’d been compelled to tears.

The kind eyed detective sucked his teeth, “I don’t know, make it up. Kiss him. Men don’t care about a thing once a pretty thing is kissing them.”

You rolled your eyes and shook your head. No, this wasn’t the Lloyd you had imagined.

“Oh,” you chuckled sourly, “So you’re pimping me out then?”

He gave you a dumbfounded look, “Call it whatever you want…you’ll be paid good money for your service and he’ll be arrested, in prison, unable to touch you. You can run away and move to wherever you want then.”

Your breath was shaky as you dared to ask, “How much?”

His left brow rose.

“How much would I be paid by the Queensland police or Australian defence department or whoever this is through?”

He sighed and gently laid a hand on your shoulder, “Around fifteen grand.”

Your breath escaped you. From near negatives to fifteen grand overnight? That much? For this job?! You were stunned…not sure if it was worth your life…but if it meant he only humiliate you one more time and you walked away with that much money…you’d do it.

You shook your head, “Fine, it’s this Friday night yea? His club is high-class and I don’t have clothes for that type of event.”

The tall man stood back and chuckled as he tug into his back pocket and retrieved his wallet. He pinched a wad of cash and slapped it in the benchtop. Your eyes widened, holy fuck it was a month or two in rent alone…

“Go buy some. But you have got to be ready. At Seven o’clock I’ll pick you up an hour before the event and we can refresh what we know before we line up.”

You glanced between him and the money and nodded….”Alright, let’s…let’s do this.”

He laughed and clapped his hand excitedly, he leant in and gave you a fat kiss on the cheek. Nothing romantic, just pure joy.

“Thankyou so much Y/N you are going to be hailed a hero, a legend in my books!” He marched back to the couch and grabbed his blazer.

“You are a special person and I’m honoured to have met you! Really honoured!” He said as he unlocked all your bolts. He swung the door open and slammed it behind him.

You sighed and fell back against your cold fridge.

You weren’t sure you could pull this off….but as your eyes looked over the cash, the corner of your lips lifted.

You shut your eyes and sighed…all that money, it made your blood pulse. You returned to the lounge room and sat in the recliner. You laid back, staring at the ceiling. Your hands crawled down, passed the waist band of your pyjama shorts and underwear. You touched yourself and sighed.

Your fingers rubbed delicately against your clit while you leant against the kitchen bench.

You tried to imagine someone...Lloyd…the detective. He had a warmth his face. Lloyd would never rape you though, he was good, he was honest…

You moaned softly, imagining his warm hands groping your skin and his lips kissing your skin.

Fingering yourself, in and out, in and out.

You were imagining Lloyd speaking to you. He was currently the most attractive man you’d made contact with in weeks...other than August who essentially raped you.

What kind words would Lloyd say? “I washed our clothes, finished the dishes, now come here and let me fuck you.” ‘Oh yea that’s fucking hot.’

You imagined he would be gentle and soft before using more strength in his hips. His lips would be soft and hot. He would protect you and play sexy policeman. You might not have been a fan of the justice system but you were confident Lloyd would fill in a police uniform very well.

So why did your body start to dry up?

You didn’t know what you were doing wrong. You were riding your fingers and teasing your clit…why couldn’t you cum? You felt weird doing this now. It was strange to think before you met August you could cum very easily, after your dad- well you hadn’t touched yourself because you weren’t thinking about sex for a while until the millionaire stepped into your life.

After the third time of unsuccessful release, you punched the arm of the chair and started searching sex toys on your phone.

You weren’t totally sure if the prices were worth it for a piece of painted pink silicone. And there were strange shapes you were amazed were even designed to fit into a human….‘a whole fist? Surely that’s satire,’ you thought, ‘it shouldn’t be possible. It would be like reverse birth?’

You settled on buying a “rabbit dildo with thrusting pleasure.” You rolled your eyes at the name. You slapped your phone down and sighed, rubbing your eyes.

The hour was late.

Your first paycheck would be coming in soon. It was the smell of a small victory.

10:33am Friday 16th August 2024, Queen Street Westfield Shopping centre, Brisbane.

“What should I wear…” you hummed as you flipped through the dresses. Some of these dresses cost the amount of a new iPhone. You bit your lip. ‘Maybe I can return them tomorrow and give Lloyd his money back?’

A sales clerk came up, “Need some help?” She was blonde, curvy and tall. A supermodel compared to your body. You blushed.

“I’m looking to wear something to one of the high end clubs like The Lion Lounge, he’s having a nineteen twenties theme soiree this evening?”

Her lips widened, “Well, we do have many suitable gowns and even pantsuits for that social class, what designer were you thinking?”

You balked and worried that she would see you sweat, “Oh…I um…I’ll be super frank…I have not a clue what I’m doing…it is my first time to something so spectacular.”

The clerk’s eyes softened, her lips pursed, “Well! Let me help you then! These gowns you’re looking at are definitely not old twenties glam worthy! Right this way!”

Your cheeks buzzed as you were led into a dressing room and made to try on multiple styles, designers and colours of dresses.

She asked if you were getting your nails done and gasped when you said you hadn’t thought about it.

She was like a fairy godmother. She went the extra mile to call up the other stores in the mall to book appointments. You hadn’t felt so pretty ever in your life until then

She appeared stunned by the cash you laid on her counter.

Your nails were french tips with a holographic clear coat. You received a quick arm and leg wax and eyebrow shaping. The makeup matched the entire outfit. Your dress clung to your best assets and shaped your body with a clutch purse and low heels to match. Your hair was gelled and hairsprayed down into finger waves. And a lather of pearls circled around your throat and wrists.

The long finger of your dress tickled your calfs down to your small kitten heels.

You looked incredible, it took your breath away to see the glow up….

Lloyd thought so too.

HELPLINES:

If you are a victim of sexual abuse, assault or domestic violence or know someone who is please reach out to these links that share helpline services, phone numbers or emails. Consent and respect is important in every relationship whether between friends, family or even strangers. .

Australian Helpline Services

UK Helpline Services

American Helpline Services

India Helpline Services.

#Kingpin!August Walker X F!reader #august walker x black!reader #august walker x ofc #august walker x you #august walker x reader #August Walker x f!reader #august walker fic #tnosp #dead dove fic #dead dove do not eat #milky fics #henry cavill x female reader #henry cavill x y/n #henry cavill x ofc #henry cavill x you #henry cavill x reader #henry cavill fic #dark!august walker #dark!henry cavill #Spotify

[billthedrake]

BIRD IN THE HAND (PART TWO)

John pulled Cole's body closer. The evening had been perfect. John had made sure it was perfect. He'd figured out the jocky dude didn't seem as impressed by the big-money steak houses John had taken him to on their first dates, even though Cole pretended he did. So he booked an Italian bistro place. More buzzy but also romantic. They'd split a bottle of wine, the conversation flowed, they got dessert.

The Congressional Bro was cute as fuck. Cuter than cute. And funny. It had taken the FBI agent a couple of months to get into Cole's offbeat humor, but now he couldn't get enough. John knew he was a very attractive man, but he felt lucky to be out with this guy.

Cole's hand felt up John's chest as they reclined on his sofa, shoes off but otherwise still in their date-night clothes. Cole Walker almost regretted the way the federal agent's quarter-zip sweater and checked button-down hid that magnificent body. And John had one hell of a body.

"Mmmm... you feel nice, buddy," the 47-year-old agent said was he pulled back and took in the cute face of his date. His hands ran up and down Cole's back. He'd only known the guy for a year now but in that time Cole had packed on some more muscle. Nothing too big, but the dude felt heavier lying on top of him now.

"Yeah," Cole muttered. He had almost a frat-bro way of talking when he wasn't in professional mode. He kept it some in check around older men, too, for some reason, but it was coming out now. A contrast to his deep resonant voice. "I missed this, man."

John had been rehearsing what he'd say in his head. He wanted the timing to be right, and this felt as right a time as any. "I know I've not always been there for you, Cole," he said.

That got a surprise quiet from the younger dude. "I've never put any expectations on you," he said softly.

That made John Ricciardi feel guilty. "Maybe you should have," he blurted. "I mean... you deserve a guy who's a lot less standoffish. You're always there when I want you, whenever I call... I know it's gotta go the other way too."

"Okay," Cole muttered. His heard was pounding heavy now. After his time seeing Paul on Wednesday, he's been mulling over a lot before deciding to kick the can down the road. Turns out John wasn't gonna let him.

"So... my last name is Ricciardi," John said. "But you knew that already."

"He told you," Cole replied in a deep blush. He felt mortified to know that both John and Paul knew that Cole had slept with both brothers, repeatedly. But after a dinner date like just now, clearly John wasn't going through the motions. He decided to hear the man out.

John nodded, his eyes a little impish in their gaze. Even if Paul had a certain authoritative sexiness as an advantage of his younger brother, John had insanely smoldering looks, with green-gray eyes that seemed to suck Cole in. And a better, fitter body, even.

"He told me. I won't lie, I've always had this competitive thing with my older brother. I guess my ego was bruised a little."

"Oh John," Cole started in, but the man interrupted him.

"It's OK, buddy. Lesson learned on my end. I didn't tell you what you mean to me, because I couldn't admit it myself. That's on me."

Cole gulped.

John forced a smile and patted the ex-jock's rump. "I know I spoiled the mood, but I was hoping we'd make it back to the bedroom. The offer still stands for you to stay over if you want."

"For real?" Cole had gone into this date expecting a consolation prize, but now that he was face to face with John Ricciardi, in his arms, he couldn't imagine not see this as his boyfriend.

"I won't blame you if you wanna split." John's eyes were vulnerable and a little moist.

Cole's heart raced as he leaned in, and their lips met. There was that brief, taboo thrill that he'd been with two Ricciardi brothers. He'd spent a day or two processing that knowledge, but now, it turned him on. The way he could recognize the men were similar in a lot of ways, similar in personality even if their approach to sex was very different.

John was the better kisser and the way the law man's tongue danced just inside of Cole's mouth gave the younger man a crazy hardon. As they got deeper into the kiss the ex-jock gripped John's arms through the sweater, feeling the meaty biceps and tris. OF the two Ricciardi brothers, John was even more muscular and had incredibly pumped guns.

The older man could read the hunger in Cole's eyes when they parted. "I wanna be inside you, buddy.... now," he growled.

"Right here?" Cole asked with a naughty grin.

"I was thinking..." John started to clarify things but stopped himself. "Hell, we've never done that." The more he thought it over the more fun the idea seemed. Fucking this hottie in every room of his condo. His face got a playful leer on it. "Why don't you go fetch the lube?"

John pawed his crotch as he watched the young stud bound up excitedly. Cole was technically in his mid-20s now but still had that aura of a Georgetown soccer player. The kind of jock type John would jerk off to regularly. Before the apps, before Cole. He'd still masturbate to relieve the pent up need sometimes, but he enjoyed saving his nut for this young man. It just made the sex more powerful and enabled John to go more than one round if Cole was up for it. He usually was.

The kid practically strutted back into the room. Gone were his jeans and he wore only his button-up shirt, the tails of which opened with each step to show that long jock bone. In his hand was the bottle of lube, which he tossed to John.

"I went ahead and applied some back there," Cole admitted. "I didn't think that you might want to rim first..."

John smirked. He would have been OK with it he guessed, but mostly he was turned on by the idea that Cole wanted his cock badly. "No foreplay this time," he chuckled as he undid his own jeans and shucked them down far enough to let his fat boner pop out free.

Cole gasped at the sight. It was a beautiful dick already, but he realized he'd anticipated a look at it to compare it mentally to Paul Ricciardi's cock. Of course before there had been no reason to put two and two together. But now, the family ressemblance was undeniable. Paul and John looked similar enough, he guessed, but their cocks were almost identical.

"No foreplay," Cole repeated back to John, watching the hunky daddy type apply a thin drizzle of lube to his boner and then hold it up.

"If you need to take it slow, sexy..." John hissed.

Cole shook his head. "No way... I've fucking missed your dick."

John winced a little at that. It had been a solid two weeks since his and Cole's last time together. But even if Paul hadn't shared the details, he had a pretty good idea his brother had been buried inside this hottie just a few days ago. There was that jealous side in him, but he kept his ego in check and told himself the best way to win over a perfect guy like Cole was to be the man Cole wanted. He'd just have to figure his way to do that. And if it didn't work, it didn't work.

Cole, meanwhile, wasn't feeling any emotional complications at that moment. He was in heat. The whole week, after his fateful hook up with Paul Ricciardi, he'd been nervous things would be over with John. Or that the sexual chemistry would be ruined. But fuck, this FBI hunk was if anything hornier than ever. That fat cock felt rock hard as Cole sat down on it.

"Oh fuck, buddy," John muttered.

The entry stung a little, but Cole was determined to show off for John, to show the man he didn't always need the slow and gentle approach. He sank down onto that boner, all the way onto John's crotch.

"Jesus," the man said excitedly.

Cole was breathing heavy, almost hyperventilating as a way to deal with the shock to his insides. But fuck, the action had made John Ricciardi's dick feel big and powerful, and Cole fed off that. He'd been embarrassed sometimes by how much he loved to bottom, and he always worried about the way a man like John might think he was slutty or something.

But John's look up at Cole was one of pure lust and appreciation. Normally, he'd be checking in with the stud to make sure he was OK, but he had an intuitive sense this time, the way Cole's breathing quickly got back to normal and the way that jock dick pulsed excitedly. John gripped the soccer stud's thighs tightly and thrust up into the kid.

"Fuck yes," Cole hissed.

"You need that, buddy?" John asked excitedly.

"I do, man. Fuck."

John's thrusts were getting steady and firm. Fucking into this hot young man. As much as he normally preferred a long session with lots of making out, some teasing BJs and a real deep rim job, this was pretty incredible too. The way both men were keyed up for a quick fuck. Cole riding John's lap and bracing his hands on the man's burly chest. But mostly John fucking now, unable to get enough of the sweet slick sensation of Cole Walker's insides.

His brother had felt that too, had fucked the Walker kid, just like he was doing now. Before that would have brought the jealous flashes on, but now it just fed his excitement and the quivering pleasure in his cock. He pushed up into Cole's perfect, young body harder and faster.

"Unbutton your shirt, sexy," he hissed. His fingers now like talon's in Cole's quad muscle. As fun as it was to mate still mostly clothed, John wanted to see the dude he was nailing.

Cole had to steady his balance as his bracing hand left to undo the shirt and open it up. That had the effect of making the ex-jock core contract into a tight washboard ripple.

John fucked faster now, and guided Cole's hips up and down to exaggerate the penetration. This was intense.

"God yeah... fuck me, sir." Cole pleaded.

It was the first time Cole had dropped the s-word and John was surprised how much it turned him on. His eyes took in all of this young man's naked beauty as he felt his orgasm come on.

"Oh shit... cum in me... breed me..." Cole was losing any self consciousness about his bottomy need.

John's hips were a blur. Did Paul fuck the kid like this?

"FUCK!" he cried, loudly.

Cole's face broke into a big excited smile as he watched the lawman get his nut. John Ricciardi was so crazy handsome, but his face became something primal in orgasm.

The man's hips had frozen, locked in place to load Cole up, but Cole's hips undulated gentle against that pulsing hardon, milking out every drop he could.

As that big O began to crest, Cole gripped his own hardon.

It was John's turn to help out, he thrust up into Cole's body, not as hard now, but with enough force to press against that butt nut.

"Harder," Cole asked. More than he anticipate the angle was making his prostate sing.

John got an excited grin as he started going at it again. He had maybe a minute tops before his dick got too sensitive for this. But hopefully it wouldn't take this jock stud a minute.

Cole felt it, he really felt it. That thick Ricciardi prick now a battering ram against his sensitive inner gland. And the sloppy feeling of John's heavy load coating the way. He jerked and felt it coming.

On the spur of the moment he decided he'd try it. Right on the cusp, he let go. John's pounding prick did the rest. Cole was cumming like crazy, the sperm being pushed out of him in heavy jets. There was that intense light headed orgasm again. Maybe not exactly a Paul Ricciardi orgasm, but close.

Only when he came down from the high and regained full consciousness, did he feel mortified by what he'd down.

"Oh fuck, your sweater," Cole said. "Sorry... "

Indeed that preppy-dad style quarter-zip sweater was splotched all over with Cole's seed. Some was on John's handsome face too, which smiled in amusement.

"Ha, it'll wash out, buddy. Anyway, it was worth it. That was totally fucking hot."

Cole leaned back, displaying his body for John. He was with one of the hottest guys in DC and that was some heavy competition. But the 23-year-old knew he had the goods too, knew Ricciardi was crazy about him. "It was hot," he said. "Glad we could mix it up some."

John nodded. His prick was softening now, and he loved the wet sensation of its retreat. "Damn Cole... tell me what I gotta do to keep you. In the bedroom, out of the bedroom... if there's something I can do, I'll fucking do it, OK?"

With another guy John's approach, his emotional neediness would come across as too much. Even with Cole, from another guy it might not have worked. But he climbed off this hunk and felt his heart pound. Maybe it was the sex that hard worn his defenses down. "You know, John, I just want a fucking boyfriend. I don't know how to make that happen even, but fuck, I've been telling myself I don't want one, but I do."

John gave an empathic nod and got up off the couch, too. He was taller than Cole, by several inches and the younger man felt comforted to feel John's strong arms wrap around him and pull him close.

"We'll make it happen, buddy. In a way that works for you. But I'd be honored to be your boyfriend."

Their lips met and they made out, John leaning his head down to claim dominance in the kiss.

"Damn, bud... you hard again?" he finally asked with a chuckle.

"Maybe, yeah," Cole laughed.

John patted the young stud's rump. "All right, let me clean up some of the mess we made and we can take our time for round two."

It would take him a bit to recover and recharge. Maybe even an hour. John Ricciardi was feeling every bit his middle age and maybe had no business being with a 23-year old. But he'd decided he was gonna be every bit of the powerhouse sex stud this young man wanted him to be.

#drakestories

[darklydeliciousdesires]

Immortal Beloved - Chapter Two.

Well, here we go with the next instalment, guys. I won't lie, I'm a bit disheartened that chapter one did not do as well as the prologue. I just hope that's because people are busy and haven't gotten around to it yet, rather than 'oh, this sucks, not reading it any longer.' Sadly because of events not too long ago, that's exactly where my worried little mind always goes :( Huge thanks to all of you who have interacted, though. Maybe I can encourage some of you who don't already to leave a comment, or reblog it? It would mean the world to your hardworking author.

Previous chapters - Prologue One

Tag list - In the comments

Words - 3,700

Warnings - Adult themes + vampire content throughout. Minors DNI!

“Holy shit.” Patting his pocket quickly, he was mildly dismayed to find himself without the silver letter opener he had stashed in there, the only thing made of the metal he could find that would work as a weapon against the shadow walker stood before him.  

“Do you search for this?” There within her handkerchief covered grasp was the very tool he’d been told to arm himself with, the vampire tilting her head back. “You know what I am now, for you to be carrying the very item that could destroy me within your pockets.”  

Looking at her unflinchingly, the blue of his eyes burned cold through the amber of his eyelashes, taking a drag on his cigarette. “I do.”  

Puzzlement tugged at her grin. “But why? I pose no threat to you, John. I told you this.”  

The caution in him continued to amp, but swirling around it came a feeling of great juxtapose. His first encounter with her had been truly terrifying, appearing before him more beast than woman. As she stood mere inches from him now, there was a gentleness to her quite palpable, the feeling of a storm stilled, the raging rain and howling winds broken by glittering beams of sunshine. He kept the words of Polly and Tommy firmly in mind, though. 

“How’d you know my name?” 

“Your walls are thin, and vampire hearing is quite the thing.” Smiling, she watched as he mirrored it for a flicker of a second, his face swiftly altering, blankness stilling his features. She read him like a book, though. “Your aunt, she is incorrect.”  

“Yeah? What about?”  

“When she spoke of us being evil incarnate. I for one am not.”  

His soft snort was muffled by the blast furnace once again roaring, but she still heard it. He could have snorted in disbelief three streets away from her and the sound would still reach her ancient ears. “You tore four men to pieces last night. That counts as evil in my book.” 

“Then you are evil too, John Shelby. For the weapons you wield, the intent behind the bullets you direct at your enemies, or the razorblades within your cap intended to blind and maim. I could say we are the same.” She had him there, he had to concede. “I saved your life, there was a purpose to my slaying of the Rasmussen men. That, and I happened to be quite famished.”  

He sighed, flicking his cigarette away, returning the toothpick to his mouth. “Look, love. What the fuck do you want, eh?”  

She cocked her head, smiling, reaching for his cheek. “For you to be calm, John. All this coolness towards me is unneeded, I swear to you. I would also like for you to be a gentleman, escort me down to the public house and buy me a glass of wine. I am partial to a nice, dry red.” She held the letter opener forth, gesturing to it with a nod. “A show of faith. Take it. I trust you; I would like for you to trust me as well.” 

They shared a weighted silence, pulled in by one another’s gaze, the vampire speaking once again as her eyes toured him. “Gods, you are so strikingly handsome.” 

She watched as the confidence he carried himself within seemed to slip a little, his cheeks colouring a tad as he looked away for a moment, a tiny slither of shy disbelief fluttering through him.  

He looked back at her with a sniff, his shoulders bobbing lightly. “I ain’t bad.” There within the sharply dressed gangster, the man with the feared surname that preceded him, was the tiniest smidgen of boyish bashfulness. Oh, how she adored it.  

“So,” she began, eyes glittering at him through the gloom of the evening, “that drink?” 

The stroke of her fingernails against his cheek soothed him in a way he couldn’t explain, feeling himself pulled into the glacial vortex that was her eyes as he returned the letter opener to his pocket. “Alright.” He suddenly remembered Arthur’s reaction, coupled with the warnings of Tommy and Polly. “We can’t go in The Garrison, though.” 

“This is of little matter to me,” the vampire began, adjusting the black fur of her collar. “I much prefer The Brasshouse.” 

“You mean the place on Broad Street? Bit far, ain’t it?” 

She smiled, taking his arm. “Not too far at all. Now, hang on tight. We shall arrive in a jiffy.” Suddenly, he felt as if he’d been shot out of a canon, the air whirling past him at great acceleration, his feet finding the floor below after a few seconds. Looking up, he saw the doors of The Brasshouse to his left.  

“How... the fuck did you do that?”  

Her smile flashed a set of pearly white teeth. “You bared witness to the stealth that I move with. The Bentley Motor Company has nothing on me.” She took his arm again, his warmth delicious against her perpetually cool body. “Let us head inside, and perhaps I shall tell you more about myself. I sense you have many questions.” 

She absolutely wasn’t wrong.  

As he entered the cosy surroundings of the pub, with its long, polished oak bar, bare brick walls and tiled floor, he wondered whether he’d completely taken leave of his senses. There he was, escorting a vampire towards the bar, intent on purchasing her the dry red she had made it known she was partial to, against the grave warnings of his family. He was nothing if not a risk taker, though, a man who lived life in the moment, caution thrown to the wind.  

Imagine the stories he could tell his grandchildren; about the time he’d courted a vampire.  

Was it even courting, though? Perhaps such a notion was getting ahead of himself, John realising that for all the thrill seeking within his nature, he should still perhaps not throw his caution to the aforementioned wind entirely. After all, he still had no idea over her intentions towards him. 

“Large whiskey, Irish, and a dry red for the lady.” John instructed the barman, who nodded before bustling away to prepare their drinks.  

All around him, the eyes of the patrons were drawn to his companion, how much she stood out compared to the other female persons there present. Short hair styled in finger waves was all the rage, but the vampire couldn’t have been further from that, with her dark curls tumbling almost to her waist. The stares did not abate once they’d taken their seat in a booth, John noticing one man at the bar practically salivating over her. 

“Oi, mush. This ain’t a museum and she's not on display,” he barked, his frown deepening. “Put your fucking eyes back in your head.” 

The man scoffed, leaning back against the bar in a casual, unbothered manner. “And who are you to tell me what to do, eh lad?” 

“John Shelby.” 

At the mere mention of his famed surname, the man’s face dropped, picking up his drink and moving with his cohorts across the pub, John muttering beneath his breath. 

“That was very gallant of you, but I do not mind being stared at so much. I know that I am somewhat of a curious sight to behold,” she began, running her fingernail around the rim of her glass. “I do not look like other women.” 

His eyes roamed over her, pupils inking into the blue. “No, you don’t.”  

“And you enjoy that,” she asserted, her pretty lips curling, looking at him through the flirtatious flutter of her long eyelashes as she sipped her wine.  

On impulse, he reached forward, wiping the drip of Cabernet from her lip, bringing his thumb to his own mouth and sucking it momentarily. It made her shiver within. “I do,” he finally confirmed, his eyes not leaving hers for a second. Oh, how she loved a man who had the confidence to stare so unblinkingly at her. “Do I get to know your name?”  

“Brynhild.” 

He was taken aback a little. “That’s a strange name,” he began, eyes still fixed firmly on hers, so much so that she shuffled slightly in her seat. He was much too handsome for his own good. “No surname?”  

“It is a very old name. As for surname, I do, but it is not like a surname that is known today. My people used patronymics, and what that means is to combine the father’s name as the prefix, and then either son or dottir as the suffix. I am the daughter of Leif, so therefore my name is Brynhild Leifsdottir.” 

He was fascinated, if not a little confused, closing the gap between them as he leaned across the table. “I think I’m just going to call you Bryn.” 

Her laugh at his dryly delivered assertion tinkled through the air. “That is fine with me. I like that. Nobody has ever shortened it before.” 

“Who were your people? You sound foreign but I can’t place your accent. I’m a fucking clod with nationalities, geography an’ all that.”  

“No, no,” she assured, her hand pressing to his forearm for a moment. “You are correct, for even though my accent has softened, I am not English. I am Norse, or Norwegian. My people were Vikings.”  

His eyes all but fell out of his head. “What, as in the fellas who came over and terrorised a load of monks up north all them years ago?” 

“You say that you are, to use your term, a fucking clod with nationalities and geography, yet you know this correctly, John. Not as much of a clod as you think, hmm? You know your history, also.” 

He shrugged. “Me sister is a right bookworm, she rattled something off about it once and I remembered.” He paused, momentarily wetting his lips with a flick of his tongue. Again, she shivered internally. “I know it’s bloody rude, to ask a lady her age, but...” 

“One thousand and seventy-two. If I am to count my human years, then I am one thousand, one hundred and two years old.” She reached for his mouth, placing two fingers beneath his chin to close it after it had dropped open.  

“Fucking... hell.”  

“And you are?” 

He suddenly felt a little inferior to his companion, that tiny little show of bashfulness making an appearance once more. “Um, twenty-eight.”  

“Ahh, then if you are to discount my vampire years, we would not be so different. I had just turned thirty years of age when I was made what I now am.” His face remained a picture of wide-eyed incredulity. “Does my ancientness bother you?” 

“No, not at all. I’m just... bloody hell. The things you must have seen and learned in your time. Fuck.” He laughed softly, shaking his head in wonder. “You're fascinating, Bryn.” Their chemistry already mingled in the air like magical alchemy. 

She beamed, and he felt his pulse quicken. “You are very complimentary. What else do you wish to learn about me?” 

He sipped his whiskey, returning the tumbler to the table with a soft clunk. “Whatever you want to tell me, love.” He winked, taking her hand and laying a soft kiss to her cool fingers. It took all she had not to reach across the small space and plant her lips to his.  

Everything. She wanted to tell him everything as the blue of his eyes pulled her further to him, her usual aloofness banished to a place she could not reach to pull it back. Not that she wanted to. Bryn scarcely encountered humans who were quite a confident in themselves as John, especially in the face of all that she was. She knew he’d been afraid of her the night before, but that no longer seemed to linger within the body of the well-groomed, handsome young man. 

He was unfazed, he did not cower to her. She was the most powerful apex predator on earth, yet he treated her like a lady. It had been many years since she had experienced that. He’d watched her decapitate a man with her bare hands, he knew of her savagery, yet it dented neither his chivalry nor his flirtation as they fell into long conversation together.  

“To answer your question, yes, I can eat and drink, but they have no nourishing effect upon me. I could drink every last drop of alcohol within this public house also, and it would not affect my equilibrium. I do so merely for the pleasure when it takes me, and to blend in. A woman at a dinner party pushing her meal around with a glass that never empties draws attention, the type I do not always wish to receive. All the food in the world could vanish and I would not be concerned, for truly I only need the blood of humans to survive. Animal blood works too, but not as well. We weaken without our life’s source.”  

John listened keenly as she talked, remaining mostly silent as the evening passed by, his eyes darting to the large clock in the corner every so often, willing it to tick backwards. He’d been there with her for four hours, and he wished for nothing more than another four to follow. “What else about being a vampire make you different from humans?” 

She was only too happy to share that, but there were some secrets she would keep back. Even when in the company of a man who she viewed with as keen interest as she did John, she never gave everything up at once. “My speed, which you have witnessed. My strength is boundless, too. I could – and have – uproot a tree by pushing it, for example. I could also hold a car up one handed and throw a grown man across the room with a mere shove of my hand into his chest.”  

His eyes sparkled. “You’ve done that, ain’t ya?” 

Leaning close, she licked her top lip momentarily, her grin broadening. “Too many times to count.” She paused, cocking her head slightly. “You know exactly what I am and yet, you do not fear me.” 

His shrug was light, finishing his drink. “There’s no point. If you wanted me dead, I’d be gone within a blink, I suppose. It was like being scared when I went to France. If I thought about it too much, then I wouldn’t have been able to do what I was there for and defend me country.” His eyes seemed to dull a little, John clearing his throat before offering a candidness he seldom ever uttered. “It did scare me, though. If I let it.”  

The war hadn’t affected him quite like it had Tommy, John’s perpetual cheer and effervescence shining through the shadows left behind by the harrowing darkness of war. Only very, very occasionally did the Flanders blues bother him. 

She placed her hand atop his, John moving his thumb out from under hers, stroking the soft skin just below her first knuckle. “Anybody who claims not to have felt fear in battle is a liar. I remember it well, thought it was so very long ago.” 

“Some kind of vampire war?” he asked curiously, Bryn shaking her head. 

“No, John. When I was human. I was what is known as a shieldmaiden. I fought side by side upon the battlefield with my Viking brethren. I became extremely adept in burying my axe in the heads of many an Englishman.” 

He looked very impressed at that revelation. “So, what you’re telling me is that you’ve spent your entire existence basically being a fucking killing machine?” 

Her lips pinched as she tried not to find his words as entertaining as she did. Oh, he was such a lovable rouge. Not many would brush off that kind of information, let alone turn it into a joke. “I suppose I have, yes. I tend to be a little more sedate in my penchant for slaughter at my age, though. With age comes a gentleness not seen in younger of my kind. We ah, find a little of our humanity again, you could say.” He fixed her with a comic look of disbelief, raising his eyebrows aloft. “Except for last night, that is.” 

“Decapitation ain’t really sedate or gentle, love.” he hummed, laughing when she finally began to, dropping her gaze for a few moments, beginning to swirl a curl around her finger. “Got ya there, ain’t I?” 

This man, oh, this charming, playful man. He made her feel like a girl again, not an ancient creature of the night, not a barbaric shieldmaiden. Just Brynhild. Just Bryn. “Yes, John. Yes, you do.”  

On they continued to chatter, until last orders were called, John in no hurry to leave as he bought another round of drinks.  

“How much, gaffer, to keep this place open just for the lovely lady and I?”  

The landlord looked a little apprehensive, until he saw the size of the roll of banknotes produced, John beginning to peel them off. He raised his eyebrows questioningly, thumbing away a couple more.  

“That’ll be sufficient, sir. Got to keep it quiet, though, lights off. I’ll fetch some candles.” When it was just John, Bryn and the man who facilitated their elongated stay within the cosy surroundings of The Brasshouse, he finally broached the question that had been at the back of his mind the entire night. 

He kept his tones hushed, moving to her side so that they could share conversation that would not reach earshot of the landlord, sat at the other end of the pub next to the gramophone. “So, why did you do it, then? Take out the Rasmussen fellas, that is.” 

She nodded knowingly, lacing her fingers together before her. “I knew that you would bring the conversation back to that eventually. I suppose it is only fair that I reveal my intentions, especially after the lovely evening you have treated me to.” She was not short of a bob or two, but John had not allowed her to put her hand into her purse once.  

Drawing herself up a little, Bryn began. “I will start by revealing that I initially sought out your family for the purposes of alliance only, but then I witnessed you and felt my cunt do whatever the cunt version of a backflip is, so I will be completely honest there. I have interest in an alliance, and in addition to that, I now have interest in you.” She paused a moment while John’s mirth displayed itself in a long snort before he laughed hard. When women were unexpectedly crass, it never ceased to entertain him. 

“There is an old saying, John. The enemy of my enemy is my friend, and gods, the Rasmussen’s are my enemies of the highest order. What they are, they are not merely a criminal enterprise. They are vampire hunters, their lineage spanning longer than mine. From one generation to the next, they have stalked me through the shadows for centuries, after what it is within me that fuels them. You must have noticed by now that they are much stronger than your average person, yes?” 

John nodded, allowing her to continue. “This is because they drink of our blood. In doing so, it will give a human some of the attributes of the vampire they have drank of. Sharper senses, speed, strength and stamina. You can imagine, can you not, the attributes they would gain if they managed to seize me. They would become unstoppable.” 

He looked thoughtful, absorbing her words. “S’cuse me if this sounds like I’m being a thick headed Brummie twat, but what advantage does an alliance with us give you? You’re ancient and powerful. We might be gangsters but still, we’re fucking feeble compared to you.”  

The admission of his lesser strength to her made something unpleasant prickle his insides, but John was no fool even in the face of such inner concession. He could not deny that while he himself sat very high upon the ladder of intimidation, Bryn was perched right upon the top rung. 

“Daylight, John. You have the daylight, whereas I do not. My home, all of my homes, in fact, have been well fortified against break in. This does not mean it cannot still happen, though.” She closed her eyes for a moment, remembering, her fangs snapping out within her closed mouth as the pain danced in her memories. Making them recede, she continued.  

“When residing at my home in London, I am guarded during the daytime by men under the employment of one Alfie Solomons. I believe you are acquainted with him. I offer an exchange basis. I pay most handsomely for such services.”  

He still looked a tad confused. “I think I’m missing something here. Why can’t you just go kill ‘em all? Ain’t like you’re not strong enough to do that.”  

“It matters not how strong I am. The Rasmussen family is great in number, as I am sure you have deduced by now. Their dwellings are well fortified against vampire attack especially, for they know the marks they have had upon their heads by others of my kind. This has not changed throughout history. They have always bred plentifully to remain in good numbers and thus further their cause. I cannot risk happening again what their ancestors put me through.”  

He almost didn’t want to ask, watching the pain swirl in her eyes, the way her nose crinkled slightly, the tightness in her jaw. “What did they do to you, Bryn?” 

Reaching for her wine, she gulped the rest back, wishing alcohol still had a soothing effect on her. “Took me prisoner for over a hundred years.” 

John might not have known about vampires for a long period of time at all, but what he did, he knew that perhaps it stung her pride greater than he could ever imagine to confess such weakness. As he covered her hand with his, he knew on an instinctual level that this rare and radiant woman was one he wanted to pledge his protection to.  

Whether his family would agree was a different matter altogether. 

#john shelby fanfiction #peaky blinders fanfiction #john shelby smut #john shelby x ofc #peaky blinders smut #peaky blinders imagine #john shelby imagine #john shelby fanfic #john shelby fic #peaky blinders fanfic #peaky blinders fic #peaky fucking blinders

[burningvelvet]

Every Instance of Lord Byron Hating On John Keats, Listed in Chronological Order.

“No more Keats I entreat — flay him alive. If some of you don’t I must skin him myself.”

To his publisher John Murray, 12 October 1820:

“‘I’m thankful for your books dear Murray / But why not send Scott’s Monastery?’ the only book in four living volumes I would give a baioccho to see, abating the rest of the same author, and an occasional Edinburgh & Quarterly – as brief Chroniclers of the times. — Instead of this – here are John Keats’s piss a bed poetry – and three novels by God knows whom [..] Pray send me no more poetry but what is rare and decidedly good. — There is such a trash of Keats and the like upon my tables – that I am ashamed to look at them. [..] – I am in a very fierce humour at not having Scott’s Monastery. – You are too liberal in quantity and somewhat careless of the quality of your missives. – [..] No more Keats I entreat – – – flay him alive – if some of you don’t I must skin him myself. There is no bearing the drivelling idiotism of the Mankin. – – – – – [editor’s note: ‘dashes degenerate into scrawl’]”

To his publisher John Murray, 4 November 1820:

“They Support Pope I see in the Quarterly. [Let them] Continue to do so – it is a Sin & a Shame and a damnation – to think that Pope!! should require it – but he does. – – – Those miserable mountebanks of the day – the poets – disgrace themselves – and deny God – in running down Pope – the most faultless of Poets, and almost of men – – the Edinburgh praises Jack Keats or Ketch or whatever his names are; – why his is the Onanism of Poetry — something like the Pleasure an Italian fiddler extracted out of being suspended daily by a Street Walker in Drury Lane – this went on for some weeks – at last the Girl – went to get a pint of Gin – met another, chatted too long – and Cornelli was hanged outright before she returned. Such like is the trash they praise – and such will be the end of the outstretched poesy of this miserable Self-polluter of the human Mind [editor’s note: ‘untranscribable scrawl’]. W. Scott’s Monastery just arrived — many thanks for that Grand Desideratun of the last Six Months.”

Note: “onanism” refers to masturbation.

To his publisher John Murray, 9 November 1820:

“Mr. Keats whose poetry you enquire after — appears to me what I have already said; such writing is a sort of mental masturbation — he is always frigging his Imagination. I don’t mean that he is indecent, but viciously soliciting his own ideas into a state which is neither poetry nor any thing else but a Bedlam vision produced by raw pork and opium.”

Note: “frigging” was slang for masturbation.

To his publisher John Murray, 18 November 1820:

“P.S. — Of the praises of that little dirty blackguard Keates in the Edinburgh — I shall observe as Johnson did when Sheridan the actor got a pension. ‘What has he got a pension? then it is time that I should give up mine!’ — Nobody could be prouder of the praises of the Edinburgh than I was — or more alive to their censure — as I showed in English Bards and Scotch Reviewers — at present all the men they have ever praised are degraded by that insane article. — Why don't they review & praise ‘Solomon's Guide to Health’ it is better sense — and as much poetry as Johnny Keates.”

To his publisher John Murray 26 April 1821:

“Is it true – what Shelley writes me that poor John Keats died at Rome of the Quarterly Review? I am very sorry for it – though I think he took the wrong line as a poet – and was spoilt by Cockneyfying and Surburbing – and versifying Tooke’s Pantheon and Lempriere’s Dictionary. I know by experience that a savage review is Hemlock to a sucking author – and the one on me – (which produced the English Bards &c.) knocked me down – but I got up again. Instead of bursting a blood-vessel – I drank three bottles of Claret – and began an answer – finding that there was nothing in the Article for which I could lawfully knock Jeffrey on the head in an honourable way. However I would not be the person who wrote the homicidal article – for all the honour & glory in the World, – though I by no means approve of that School of Scribbling – which it treats upon.”

To Percy Shelley, 26 April 1821:

“I am very sorry to hear what you say of Keats — is it actually true? I did not think criticism had been so killing. Though I differ from you essentially in your estimate of his performances, I so much abhor all unnecessary pain, that I would rather he had been seated on the highest peak of Parnassus than have perished in such a manner. Poor fellow! though with such inordinate self-love he would probably have not been very happy. I read the review of ‘Endymion’ in the Quarterly. It was severe, — but surely not so severe as many reviews in that and other journals upon others.

I recollect the effect on me of the Edinburgh on my first poem; it was rage, and resistance, and redress — but not despondency nor despair. I grant that those are not amiable feelings; but, in this world of bustle and broil, and especially in the career of writing, a man should calculate upon his powers of resistance before he goes into the arena. ‘Expect not life from pain nor danger free, Nor deem the doom of man reversed for thee.’

You know my opinion of that second-hand school of poetry. You also know my high opinion of your own poetry, — because it is of no school. [..] I have published a pamphlet on the Pope controversy, which you will not like. Had I known that Keats was dead — or that he was alive and so sensitive — I should have omitted some remarks upon his poetry, to which I was provoked by his attack upon Pope, and my disapprobation of his own style of writing.”

To Percy Shelley, 30 July 1821:

[First page missing] “The impression of Hyperion upon my mind was – that it was the best of his works. Who is to be his editor? It is strange that Southey who attacks the reviewers so sharply in his Kirk White – calling theirs ‘the ungentle craft’ – should be perhaps the killer of Keats. Kirke White was nearly extinguished in the same way – by a paragraph or two in ‘the Monthly’ – Such inordinate sense of censure is surely incompatible with great exertion – have not all known writers been the subject thereof?”

To his publisher John Murray 30 July 1821:

“Are you aware that Shelley has written an Elegy on Keats, and accuses the Quarterly of killing him?

‘Who killed John Keats? / ‘I,’ says the Quarterly, / So savage and Tartarly; / ‘Twas one of my feats.’ / Who shot the arrow? / ‘The poet-priest Milman / (So ready to kill man), / Or Southey or Barrow.’’

You know very well that I did not approve of Keats’s poetry, or principles of poetry, or of his abuse of Pope; but, as he is dead, omit all that is said about him in any M.S.S. of mine, or publication. His Hyperion is a fine monument, and will keep his name. I do not envy the man who wrote the article; — you Review people have no more right to kill than any other footpads. However, he who would die of an article in a Review would probably have died of something else equally trivial. The same thing nearly happened to Kirke White, who died afterwards of a consumption.”

4 August 1821, to his publisher John Murray:

“You must however omit the whole of the observations against the Suburban School – they are meant against Keats and I cannot war with the dead – particularly those already killed by Criticism. Recollect to omit all that portion in any case.”

To his publisher John Murray, 7 August 1821:

“All the part about the Suburb School must be omitted – as it referred to poor Keats now slain by the Quarterly Review — [..] I have just been turning over the homicide review of J. Keats. – It is harsh certainly and contemptuous but not more so than what I recollect of the Edinburgh R. of ‘the Hours of Idleness’ in 1808. The Reviewer allows him ‘a degree of talent which deserves to be put in the right way’ ‘rays of fancy’ ‘gleams of Genius’ and ‘powers of language’. – It is harder on L. Hunt than upon Keats & professes fairly to review only one book of his poem. – Altogether – though very provoking it was hardly so bitter as to kill unless there was a morbid feeling previously in his system.”

To Thomas Moore, August 27th 1822:

“It was not a Bible that was found in Shelley's pocket, but John Keats's poems.”

From his poem Don Juan Canto Eleventh written October 1822 and published August 1823. He was going off the popular gossip shared to him by Shelley (who believed it), which was that Keats health had sharply declined due to receiving bad reviews:

“John Keats, who was killed off by one critique, / Just as he really promised something great, / If not intelligible, without Greek / Contrived to talk about the Gods of late, / Much as they might have been supposed to speak. / Poor fellow! His was an untoward fate; / ‘Tis strange the mind, that very fiery particle, / Should let itself be snuffed out by an article.”

To his publisher John Murray, 25 December 1822:

“As to any community of feeling, thought, or opinion, between Leigh Hunt and me, there is little or none. We meet rarely, hardly ever; but I think him a good-principled and able man, and must do as I would be done by. I do not know what world he has lived in – but I have lived in three or four – and none of them like his Keats and Kangaroo terra incognita – Alas! poor Shelley! – how he would have laughed – had he lived, and how we used to laugh now & then – at various things – which are grave in the Suburbs. You are all mistaken about Shelley – – you do not know – how mild – how tolerant – how good he was in Society – and as perfect a Gentleman as ever crossed a drawing room; – when he liked – & where he liked. – – – – –“

The excerpts above are taken primarily from Peter Cochran’s transcriptions.

#contrary to stereotypes byron wasn’t always like this - he just rly hated keats’ poetry #literature #english literature #dark academia #lord byron #romanticism #poetry #history #writing #john keats #letters #journals #interesting #1800s #regency era #19th century #english #books #bookblr #authors #writers #gothic literature #romantic literature #romantic poets #keats #byron #feuds #literary history #quotes #excerpts