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novaursa · 3 months ago

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The Last Dance

- Summary: The Dance of the Dragons is over. You and Aegon finally find peace.

- Paring: twin!sister reader/Aegon II Targaryen

- Note: reader is referred to as Y/N, is twin sister and wife to Aegon II, and is bonded with dragon called Starfyre. These events happen right after The Searing Flame. To read all of the chapters in chronological order, or more of my works, visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top.

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Word count: 5 119

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff

- A/N: This is the chapter that finalizes this series. That being said, there will be more twin!reader/Aegon II stories to fill the gaps.

The air is filled with the scent of salt and smoke as you stand on the balcony of Dragonstone, the sea churning below in restless waves. The horizon is cast in hues of deep purple and amber as dusk sets in, but your attention is wholly on the sky, where two golden streaks dart through the twilight. You feel Aegon’s presence beside you, a warmth against the cool stone at your back. His scarred arm is under your hand, his skin rough and uneven beneath your touch, a harsh reminder of Rook’s Rest and the countless betrayals that led you here.

Yet there’s still strength in him, a burning defiance that never faded even after all the wounds. You rest your head on his shoulder, feeling the tension in his muscles, the way he seems to hold his breath as he watches Sunfyre and Starfyre circle above. It’s not just the raw power of your dragons that grips him—no, this is something more primal. It's the joy of seeing them together again, as they were always meant to be: siblings, mates, war-dragons forged in the heat of fire and vengeance.

“There,” Aegon murmurs, his voice low, strained. He points to a shadow in the clouds—Grey Ghost. The wild dragon had stayed hidden for so long, slipping through the cracks of Dragonstone’s defenses, but not tonight. Sunfyre and Starfyre had scented him out, and now there would be no escape.

You tighten your grip on Aegon’s arm, feeling the thrill of it, a dark satisfaction blooming in your chest. The shadow resolves into a shape—a dirty, scarred creature with wings tattered from battles long lost. Grey Ghost is no match for your dragons, but he’s quick, darting between clouds, trying to outmaneuver the gleaming pair that pursue him.

Starfyre leads the chase, her silvery form a flash of brilliance in the twilight, her scales glimmering like starlight against the darkening sky. The alabaster undershine of her wings catches the last of the sun’s rays as she twists and turns, a deadly dance that lures Grey Ghost into false confidence. Her movements are elegant, fluid—every beat of her wings purposeful, calculated. The Star Dame, as you’ve come to call her in the intimacy of your thoughts, is a creature born of night and light, her presence both ethereal and deadly.

Sunfyre is close behind her, a shimmering blaze of gold that seems almost unnatural in its brilliance. The awkward bend in his healed wing does nothing to diminish his ferocity—if anything, it makes him all the more terrifying, a creature that defies the laws of nature, a king among dragons that should have been crippled but refused to be. His roar echoes across the sky, a sound of pure fury that reverberates through your chest, making your heart race.

“They hunt as one,” you whisper, awe lacing your words. You lift your head from Aegon’s shoulder to look up at him, catching the gleam of pride in his eyes. “It’s beautiful.”

Aegon’s mouth curves into a small, crooked smile, a hint of the man he was before the war marred him. “Beautiful, yes. But more than that—vengeance.” He says the last word with a bitterness that lingers in the air. Sunfyre and Starfyre had been denied their chance to fight side by side for too long, much like the two of you. But now, the skies belong to them again, as they should.

You don’t respond, letting the sight before you speak for itself. Starfyre suddenly plummets, diving at a steep angle that seems reckless until Grey Ghost veers, startled by her speed. It’s then that Sunfyre strikes, a burst of flame searing the air as he barrels into Grey Ghost from above, jaws snapping at the smaller dragon’s neck. Grey Ghost shrieks, a sound full of desperation as he tries to shake free, but Sunfyre holds on, his talons digging deep into flesh.

Starfyre swoops in, her silvery wings flaring as she joins the fray, her jaws clamping down on one of Grey Ghost’s wings. You watch as she tears through it with merciless precision, ripping membrane and bone with a single twist of her head. Blood sprays across the sky, dark and ominous, and Grey Ghost’s struggles grow frantic, but they’re futile. Starfyre and Sunfyre tear into him together, a dance of coordinated destruction that speaks of deep, intrinsic connection.

“Together, they’re unstoppable,” you breathe, unable to tear your gaze away. You feel Aegon’s fingers intertwine with yours, his grip tight and possessive. He’s watching them too, but you know he’s seeing more than just dragons tearing apart a weaker foe—he’s seeing the future, the strength you still hold, the power you’ll wield together to take back what was stolen from you.

When Grey Ghost finally falls, his body torn and mangled, he drops like a stone into the sea below. You both watch in silence as the waves claim him, dragging him under until he’s nothing more than a memory.

Starfyre and Sunfyre wheel in the air, circling each other before flying back towards the keep. The bond between them is palpable, a mirror of your own with Aegon. Sunfyre’s awkward wingbeat matches Aegon’s own struggles, while Starfyre’s radiant strength reflects the resilience you’ve both clung to, even in the face of loss. The dragons’ victory is your victory, and as they draw closer, you feel a sense of unity, of destiny.

Aegon turns to you then, his scarred face shadowed but his eyes burning with resolve. “We will reclaim what is ours, Y/N,” he says, his voice a quiet promise. “With our dragons, with our strength—we will not be broken.”

You meet his gaze, and there’s a fierce pride in your chest as you nod. “We are not broken, Aegon,” you reply softly, but with steel in your tone. “We are fire and blood.”

As the night closes in, the sky dark and filled with stars, you stand together in silence, hand in hand. Sunfyre and Starfyre land on the courtyard below, their golden and silver scales gleaming even in the dim light. They are kings and queens among dragons, just as you and Aegon are meant to be.

And as long as they soar, so will you.

The dread in the throne room is thick enough to choke on as you stand beside Aegon, your hand resting lightly on Daena’s shoulder while Baelon clutches the edge of your gown. The echo of footsteps and clinking chains resound through the stone chamber as Alfred Broome and his men drag the remnants of Rhaenyra’s forces into the hall. They are bruised, bloodied, and defeated—a pale reflection of the power Rhaenyra once held. Among them, her young son Aegon clings to her, his eyes wide with fear as he takes in the fearsome sight of the dragons looming in the distance outside, their golden and silver forms visible through the open arches.

Sunfyre and Starfyre wait like harbingers of death, gleaming in the twilight.

You feel Aegon’s arm tense beside you, a flicker of pain passing through him from his old wounds. But there’s more than just physical pain here—there’s a deep, simmering rage that’s been brewing since the moment Blood and Cheese ripped your family apart. You and Aegon have been waiting for this moment, dreaming of it in your darkest hours. And now, it’s finally here.

Rhaenyra is forced to her knees before you, her once-proud visage a mask of defiance even in chains. She looks older than you remember, her face gaunt and hollow, but her eyes still blaze with the stubborn arrogance that led her here. Her remaining Queensguard lie dead, slain by your forces as they tried to resist one last time. There is no one left to protect her.

You meet her gaze with cold satisfaction, leaning forward slightly as you speak, your voice sharp as a blade. “We have long awaited this moment, Rhaenyra. Ever since you sent those assassins to kill our sons—two innocent boys, slaughtered because of your ambition.”

Rhaenyra’s lips tremble, but she doesn’t back down. “My sons died as well, Y/N,” she retorts, her voice shaking with fury. “Jace, Luke, Viserys… you cannot know that pain.”

“You dare to compare?” Aegon’s voice cuts through the air like the crack of a whip, silencing her. He steps forward, the limp from his injury barely noticeable as his anger gives him strength. “This war began because you could never let go of our father’s lies. He promised you the throne, and you clung to that entitlement like a drowning woman clutches driftwood.”

Rhaenyra opens her mouth to speak, but Aegon doesn’t let her. “You speak of your lost sons as if their deaths were a justification for your madness, but it was your own hubris that led them to the grave. If you had shown even a hint of reason, none of this would have happened. Y/N and I never wanted the crown. We only wanted to love each other and grow old with our children. But the crown was pushed onto us—pushed by your ambition and vanity.”

Your heart twists as you think of the peaceful life you and Aegon could have had, far from the bloodshed, if only Rhaenyra had accepted the reality of your father’s death that relinquished her claims. But that was never an option for her, was it? Pride, ambition, and greed had consumed her until there was nothing left but this hollow shell of a queen.

Rhaenyra’s defiance cracks then, her eyes filling with desperation. “Please, Aegon—Y/N—my son—”

But Aegon’s gaze hardens. “It’s too late for pleas, Rhaenyra. Your choices have brought us to this point, and now they will swallow us all. Even your precious children.”

You see the flicker of fear in her eyes, the realization that there will be no mercy here. This is no place for mercy. This is retribution.

With a nod from Aegon, the great doors are opened, and Sunfyre’s golden form stalks into the throne room, his scales gleaming like molten gold in the torchlight. His eyes are locked on Rhaenyra, filled with a burning hunger that reflects the rage in Aegon’s heart. Starfyre follows him, her silvery wings brushing the stone walls as she moves with lethal grace, her pale blue undershine glowing like moonlight on water.

Rhaenyra tries to scramble back, pulling her son behind her, but she is chained, her movements futile. “No… please… not like this…”

The lords and ladies captured alongside her begin to cry out in terror as they realize what’s about to happen, but their voices are drowned out by the low, rumbling growl from Sunfyre. Aegon takes a step forward, his voice cold and resolute as he gives the command that seals his half-sister’s fate. “Dracarys.”

Sunfyre’s roar is deafening as flames erupt from his maw, engulfing Rhaenyra in a searing blaze. Her screams are short-lived, drowned in a cacophony of dragonfire and crackling flesh. Starfyre joins in, her breath cold and silver, mixing with Sunfyre’s golden flames in a mesmerizing yet horrifying display of raw power.

The smell of burning flesh and melting metal fills the air as the dragons tear into what remains of Rhaenyra, their jaws snapping and rending flesh. The lords and ladies bound beside her wail in despair, some of them collapsing to the floor as they are forced to watch the gruesome feast. Elinda Massey’s shrieks are especially piercing as she claws at her own eyes, unable to bear the sight.

But it isn’t over. Not yet.

Young Aegon, Rhaenyra’s last remaining son, stands paralyzed with terror, his small body trembling as he stares up at the dragons. You feel a pang of pity—he’s just a child, after all—but that pity is fleeting. This is the price of war, of ambition that knows no bounds. There can be no loose ends, no heirs to continue the cycle of bloodshed.

You turn your gaze away as Aegon gestures for the guards to push the boy toward the dragons. Sunfyre sniffs him, his nostrils flaring, but it’s Starfyre who moves first. She lowers her great head, her eyes glinting as she opens her jaws wide and snaps them shut around the child in one swift motion. There is no scream this time—just silence as she swallows him whole.

A hush falls over the throne room, broken only by the crackling of fire and the quiet sobbing of those left alive. Aegon turns to you, his expression unreadable, but you see the weariness in his eyes, the weight of everything that’s passed. “It’s done,” he says softly, and you feel the words settle like stones in your chest.

“Yes,” you whisper, your voice distant, “it’s done.”

The war may not be over, but this chapter has ended in blood and flame. You can only hope that, when the ashes settle, there will be something left to rebuild. Something more than this endless cycle of death.

But for now, all you can do is hold your children close and hope that the fire will fade, that peace will come in its wake—even if that peace is a fragile dream, trembling on the edge of a knife.

The sun is low in the sky as your carriage finally creaks to a halt outside the Red Keep. The city is cloaked in uneasy silence—no cheers greet your return, no banners wave in celebration. King’s Landing feels hollow, as if the ghosts of those lost in the war still linger in its streets. You step out first, the weight of the crown heavy on your brow. Aegon follows, his limp more pronounced after the long journey, yet he holds his head high, his expression a mask of stoic resolve. Your children, Daena and Baelon, cling close to you, their wide eyes taking in the somber scene as they disembark from the carriage.

Ahead of you, standing at the base of the steps leading up to the Red Keep, is your mother, Queen Alicent, her face drawn with lines of sorrow and weariness. Beside her is Helaena, her once-luminous eyes now dulled by grief and loss. They are the last remnants of your family, the survivors of a war that has cost you all more than you could have imagined.

Alicent's breath hitches when she sees you, her eyes scanning you and Aegon as if needing to assure herself that you are truly there, alive and whole. Tears glisten in her eyes, and she covers her mouth with trembling fingers as her composure shatters. “My children,” she whispers, and it is as though the weight of years collapses in those words—years of fear, of war, of loss. She hurries forward, her regal bearing breaking into a desperate, motherly rush as she throws her arms around you both, clutching you as if afraid you might vanish like so many others.

“Oh, my children,” she sobs, her voice cracking with emotion. “You’ve returned to me.”

Aegon wraps his arm around her, his scarred hand shaking as he holds his mother close. “We have, Mother,” he says softly, though there’s a hollowness to his tone. The joy that might have been there is tainted by the ghosts of those who aren’t here to share this moment. “But we return to ashes.”

Alicent pulls back slightly, looking at the both of you with tear-streaked cheeks. “I prayed for this day—prayed every night that you would survive, that you would come back to us.” Her eyes flit to the children—her grandchildren—and fresh tears spill over. “But at what cost? Daeron, Aemond—” Her voice breaks entirely, and she covers her face, unable to continue.

Aegon’s jaw tightens. You see the storm of guilt and grief flash across his features as he looks away, unable to meet her gaze. You reach out and grasp Alicent’s hand, squeezing it tightly as you fight to hold back your own tears. “We all bear the weight of those losses,” you say quietly. “But we are here now, and we are together. We must hold on to that, for their sake.” You glance down at Daena and Baelon, who watch their grandmother with wide eyes, not fully understanding the depth of the grief surrounding them.

Helaena, who has been standing silently, finally steps forward. Her movements are slow, almost ghostly, as if she is a shadow of the woman she once was. Her gaze lingers on Aegon for a long moment, searching his eyes, before drifting to you. “The dreams never lie,” she murmurs, her voice distant and laced with sorrow. “They all fade, in fire and blood.” Her words are eerie, a chilling echo of all that has transpired, but they carry a truth that cuts deep. Helaena’s prophecies have always carried an edge of tragedy, and now, you see the weight of them fully realized in her vacant stare.

Aegon steps toward her, gently taking her hands in his. “We’re still here, Helaena,” he says softly, though there is a break in his voice. “You, Y/N, me, Mother—we’re still here. We will rebuild, for their memory.”

She nods slowly, but you see no hope in her eyes, only resignation. “They dance no more,” she whispers, looking past you as if seeing something far beyond the physical realm.

Alicent wipes at her tears, her hands shaking as she does so. “Come inside, all of you,” she says, her voice thick with emotion. “You need rest, and there’s much to discuss. But first, let us be together as a family.”

You nod, though the word “family” feels strange on your tongue now. So much of it has been torn away—brothers, sisters, sons. Yet, you follow Alicent and Helaena up the steps, Aegon at your side, your children between you. Inside the Red Keep, the warmth of the hearth contrasts sharply with the chill that clings to your soul. The familiar halls seem both comforting and haunted, each shadow hiding memories of the past.

Alicent leads you to the council chamber, where a small, intimate table has been set, not for matters of state, but for a quiet meal. Servants flit about with anxious glances, aware of the tragedy that hangs in the air like a storm cloud. You all sit, and for a long moment, no one speaks. The silence is heavy, broken only by the crackle of the fire.

Aegon is the one who finally breaks it, lifting his cup. “To those we’ve lost,” he says, his voice hoarse, barely more than a whisper. “And to those who still remain.”

You lift your own cup, feeling the burn of unshed tears behind your eyes. “To those who remain,” you echo, and the words are a fragile hope, a thread of unity in a world torn apart by fire and blood.

As you drink, you feel a sense of finality settling over the room. The war is over. The Dance has ended. But you know, deep down, that the scars it has left—on your family, on your kingdom, on your very soul—will never truly heal.

The chamber is dimly lit by the soft glow of a few scattered candles, their flickering light casting something akin to ghots long forgotten on the walls. The room is familiar, yet it feels almost foreign after all the horrors you’ve endured—so much time lost to war and death, to bitterness and grief. But now, for the first time in what feels like ages, you’re alone with Aegon, away from the eyes of lords and courtiers, away from the weight of the crown and the ghosts of the past.

The door clicks shut behind you, sealing you both within the warmth of the chamber. Aegon pauses by the threshold, his hand still resting on the handle as he takes a deep breath, as if he’s trying to steady himself, to remember that he’s home. You watch him in the flickering candlelight, the lines of his face etched deeper from the burdens he’s carried, but he’s still the man you fell in love with, still the boy who smiled at you with mischief in his eyes.

He looks at you then, and the tension that’s been holding him rigid melts away. His gaze softens, filled with a longing that nearly breaks you. Without a word, he crosses the room and pulls you into his arms, burying his face in your hair as if he needs to feel you, to know you’re truly there. You wrap your arms around him, holding him tight, and for a moment, neither of you speak—there are no words for the relief, the overwhelming need to be close after so much time apart.

“I’ve missed this,” he murmurs into your hair, his voice rough and choked with emotion. “I’ve missed you. So much.”

You tilt your head back, meeting his gaze. His eyes are shadowed with pain and fatigue, but there’s a warmth there too, a flicker of the love that has always burned between you. “I never let myself forget,” you whisper, reaching up to trace the scar on his cheek, a mark from Rook’s Rest that he wears like a badge of survival. “Even in the darkest moments, I held onto us. I held onto you.”

Aegon’s hand comes up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing away a tear that slips free. “I don’t know how we did it,” he admits, his voice cracking. “But we’re here. We’ve made it through everything they threw at us, every nightmare. You were the light that kept me going, Y/N. You always have been.”

His words are like a balm to the ache in your heart, the wounds left by loss and betrayal. You lean into his touch, savoring the warmth of his palm against your skin, the familiarity of it. “We’ve lost so much,” you say softly, your voice trembling as memories of those you loved flash through your mind. “But we still have each other. As long as we have that, we can rebuild.”

Aegon’s lips quirk into a faint smile, though it’s tinged with sorrow. “You’re right. We still have each other. And I swear to you, Y/N, I’ll never let you go again. Never. We’ve been torn apart too many times, but that ends now. No more battles, no more wars. Just us.”

He bends down then, his forehead resting against yours as his hands cradle your face. “Promise me, Y/N,” he whispers, his breath warm against your lips. “Promise me we won’t let anything—or anyone—come between us ever again.”

You close the distance between you, capturing his lips in a kiss that’s tender but laced with a desperation that speaks of all the pain, the longing, the fear of losing one another. His hands slide to your waist, pulling you flush against him as he deepens the kiss, pouring everything he feels into it—his love, his regret, his need.

When you finally pull away, you’re both breathless, your heart pounding in your chest. “I promise,” you whisper against his lips. “No matter what comes, we face it as one. I won’t let you go either, Aegon. Not ever.”

The shadows in his eyes soften, replaced by a rare glimmer of peace as he rests his forehead against yours again. “Together, then. Always.”

The warmth between you grows as he slowly guides you toward the bed, the softness of the mattress beneath you a welcome comfort after all the cold, hard battles you’ve faced. He lays beside you, pulling you into his arms so that your bodies are entwined, your head resting against his chest as you listen to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. His fingers trail lazily through your hair, a touch that’s both soothing and intimate, grounding you in this moment.

You turn slightly in his embrace, pressing a kiss to the scarred skin of his chest, a reminder of how close you came to losing him. “You’re mine,” you murmur softly, your voice thick with emotion. “And I’m yours. No one will ever tear us apart again.”

His grip tightens around you, as if the very thought of losing you is unbearable. “I’ll spend the rest of my days proving that, Y/N,” he vows, his voice low and filled with a fierce protectiveness. “I’ll give you the peace we’ve been denied. We’ll raise our children, grow old together, just as we always dreamed.”

In the quiet of your shared chambers, there’s no need for crowns or titles, no need for anything but each other. The world outside is a distant memory as you close your eyes, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek, the warmth of his embrace wrapping around you like a protective shield. You let yourself drift in that moment, in the certainty that, no matter what comes, you and Aegon are what remains.

For now, there’s only peace, the kind you’ve fought so hard to find. And in the comfort of each other’s arms, you know that no matter how many battles you’ve fought, the war for your love is one you’ve already won.

From this moment, the histories diverge depending on which account one prefers to trust: the sober record of Grand Maester Orwyle, the poetic tales of Septon Eustace, or the salacious rumors spread by the fool Mushroom. Yet all agree on the most important details: the years following the Dance of the Dragons were marked not by further bloodshed, but by an unexpected peace.

The Golden Restoration

The reign of King Aegon II and Queen Y/N saw a return to stability in the realm, albeit built on a foundation of ash and charred bones. The devastation left by the war was undeniable, yet it was under their rule that the rebuilding of King's Landing began. With Dowager Queen Alicent and Princess Helaena ever at their sides, the royal family focused on mending what was broken, both in the capital and within their own hearts.

Many lords whispered that it was Y/N, the Silver Queen, who held the true power in those years. Aegon, scarred both inside and out by the horrors of the Dance, found solace and strength in his wife, who had proven herself his equal in fire and resolve. Together, they were inseparable. It was said that not a single important decision was made without their mutual consent, and that in private moments, they ruled as one, much like Sunfyre and Starfyre—mates in both life and flame.

Their children, Princess Daena and Prince Baelon, grew strong and healthy under the care of their parents and grandmother, Alicent. The two were doted upon, not merely as heirs but as symbols of the future—unbroken despite the tragedy that had marked their early years. As time passed, the bond between Daena and Baelon deepened, mirroring that of their parents. It was said that they were closer than most siblings, so close that when they were of age, they wed in the tradition of House Targaryen, cementing their bloodline and continuing the ancient customs of their house.

The Brood of Sunfyre and Starfyre

In the year 137 AC, three eggs were laid in the royal dragonpit—eggs said to be the offspring of Sunfyre and Starfyre, the twin flames that had seared Rhaenyra Targaryen from the earth. Two of these eggs hatched, producing dragons of extraordinary beauty: one with scales of pale gold streaked with silver, and the other shimmering with blue-tinged starlight. These dragons were gifted to Daena and Baelon on their wedding day, marking the start of a new generation of dragonlords, free from the taint of the Dance.

Yet even in this time of renewal, darkness lingered in the shadows. Helaena never recovered fully from the loss of her own children and her brother-husband, Aemond. She remained a distant figure, often lost in her dreams and visions. Some say she foresaw her own death, whispering of “faded light” and “withered roses” in her last days. When she passed away in her sleep in 139 AC, it was whispered by Mushroom that she had seen a final vision: a land where the dragons had turned to dust, and no kings ruled but the winds.

Dowager Queen Alicent outlived her daughter by a scant two years. Her grief had aged her beyond her years, and she spent her final days in prayer, seeking forgiveness for the bloodshed her ambitions had caused. In her final hours, she clutched the hands of Aegon and Y/N, begging them to remember the lesson learned in blood: that the pursuit of power, when unchecked, only breeds ruin. It was said that Y/N, ever compassionate, was the one who comforted Alicent in her last breath, whispering that peace had been found at last.

The Passing of the Dragon-King and Queen

The final years of Aegon and Y/N’s reign were marked by a quiet contentment. They ruled justly, often seen together in council or riding their dragons above the skies of King's Landing. The scars of war never fully faded, but together they created a realm that prospered. Yet even the most enduring fires must one day burn out.

In the year 151 AC, King Aegon II and Queen Y/N were found dead in their shared chambers, lying in each other's arms as if asleep. Some claim they had simply grown weary, their bodies giving out after years of bearing the weight of the crown. Others, more fanciful in their tales, whisper that they passed together in a moment of shared peace, their hearts giving out at the exact same instant. Mushroom claims that a vial of poison was found beside their bed, suggesting they chose to leave the world together, unwilling to face a life without the other.

When their bodies were discovered, Sunfyre and Starfyre howled in mourning, their roars shaking the very walls of the Red Keep. The dragons, who had never been separated, circled the skies together before landing side by side in the dragonpit, refusing to be parted. In a rare display of affection between beasts, they nuzzled one another and remained in that position until the end of their days.

The bodies of Aegon and Y/N were burned together on a single pyre, their ashes mingling in a final union. Their reign was remembered as the “Golden Twilight,” a time when, for a brief, shining moment, the Targaryens had found peace. But even in this, the seeds of future strife were sown—two children, two dragons, and the legacy of fire and blood that would never truly be quenched.

Thus ended the tale of King Aegon II and Queen Y/N, the last Targaryens to die in each other's arms, bound in life and in death by the fires they had endured and the love they refused to surrender.

#house of the dragon #hotd #hotd aegon #hotd x y/n #hotd x reader #hotd x you #hotd reader insert #aegon x reader #aegon ii x you #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon x you #aegon the second #aegon ii targaryen

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sniktya · 3 months ago

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Highs and Lows pt. 1

a/n : Logan was my first love, I'm so excited he's getting the appreciation he deserves <3 There are not nearly enough slow burns for this man so ... here we go?

w/c : 2146

warnings: war, descriptions of gore, angry Logan

Tennessee , 1862

Bodies lay broken on the battlefield, a bleak expanse where life had been stamped out by the merciless weight of war. The sky, once vibrant with the colors of dusk, was now a dull gray, smothered by smoke and the stench of death.

Just a few miles north, a field hospital was a scene of chaos and suffering. Blood-stained tents and rows of cots filled with maimed soldiers. She stood alone, her once white apron ruined by gore, her eyes hollow with exhaustion. Torn banners fluttered weakly in the wind—the last gasps of the dying echoing from the trees. It was a chorus of agony that clawed at her mind, driving her to the brink of madness.

She longed for silence, a moment of peace. But there was no peace to be found here, no quiet moment to ease the turmoil within her.

Her hand trembled as she reached out to the nearest soldier, his face twisted in anguish. She could feel the life slipping from him, could sense the darkness closing in around his soul. She held his hand and, with a murmured word, his breathing slowed, the scowl on his face melting into tranquility. His hand went limp under hers.

She could feel the dark toll of magic creeping up her arms, the black veins spreading further toward her heart. For every life she spared, there were dozens more she could not save. The weight of their suffering bore down on her like a curse, a reminder of her powerlessness in the face of such overwhelming destruction.

Her magic, once a source of pride and purpose, now felt like a burden she could hardly bear. Every spell she cast drained her, every life she touched took a piece of her with it. And still, the cries continued, an unending dirge that filled the air, drowning out all thoughts of peace.

*Enough,* she thought bitterly, her eyes closing against the horror before her. *Let it end. Let there be silence, if only for a moment.*

She sat on the side of the cot right behind her, the soldier covered by a white sheet. A big red circle marked where his chest used to be, torn to pieces by a cannonball.

He was a lost cause from the beginning, gone in an instant.

“Lucky,” she mumbled to herself. Gathering a breath to prepare herself for the next patient, she felt something twitch beside her.

A horrified gasp escaped her. She scrambled to get away, knocking over various bottles and buckets that littered the floor.

A pulse, faint but insistent, thrummed through the air, drawing her attention. She hesitated, her eyes narrowing as she focused on the strange energy radiating from his prone form. It was unlike anything she had felt before—raw, wild, untamed.

Against her better judgment, she approached him again, her heart pounding in her chest. She reached for the sheet covering his body and slowly pulled it back.

The sight that greeted her was both horrifying and impossible.

His chest was torn open, a gaping wound that should have claimed his life long ago. The flesh was shredded, bone exposed, blood soaking into the ground beneath him. But as she watched, the torn muscles began to knit themselves back together, the ragged edges of his flesh crawling across the wound in a grotesque dance of regeneration. The gash closed before her eyes, healing with a speed that defied all logic, all laws of nature.

She recoiled, her breath catching in her throat. This was no ordinary soldier. No human should have been able to survive such a grievous injury, let alone heal from it. Her mind raced, trying to make sense of what she was seeing, but there was no explanation that fit.

The witch’s heart pounded as she stared at him, a mixture of fear and fascination swirling within her. The darkness creeping up her arms seemed to throb in response, as if the magic within her recognized the anomaly lying before her.

She should have left him, moved on to the next patient. But she couldn’t tear her eyes away from the sight of his body piecing itself back together, from the strange, primal energy that clung to him like a second skin.

Slowly, she reached out with her magic, probing the edges of that energy, trying to understand it. But the moment her power touched his, it recoiled, like oil meeting water.

Whatever force was keeping him alive was fierce and utterly foreign to her. She could sense it now, beneath the surface—an indomitable will to survive, something that went far beyond human instinct.

Her gaze lingered on the man’s now-closed wound, her thoughts churning with dread and temptation. The dark veins on her arms had already spread to her elbows, an ever-present reminder of the toll her magic demanded.

She was running out of time—her strength was fading fast, and the war was far from over. But the power coursing through this man, this strange and impossible being, was terrifyingly alive.

She knew she shouldn’t. Tampering with such forces could have dire consequences—her magic was already dangerous enough. But desperation gnawed at her, the weight of all those lives pressing down on her conscience.

If she could harness even a fraction of his power, she could continue her work, could heal those who were beyond her reach.

Maybe she could be saved, too.

She knelt beside him, her hand shaking as she placed it over his chest. The energy pulsed beneath her palm, ferocious and unyielding, a force of nature that seemed to resist her touch.

She hesitated for only a moment before drawing her magic forward, coaxing it toward the slumbering force within him.

It responded instantly, lashing out like a cornered beast. Pain seared through her, ripping a cry from her throat, but she didn’t pull back.

She couldn’t.

As she channeled the energy into herself, a jolt of power surged through her body, mingling with her magic in a chaotic dance.

She gasped, the force of it nearly overwhelming her, but she pushed forward, driven by the need to survive. She could feel her arms tingle, the corruption retreating under the flood of new strength, but something was wrong—terribly wrong.

The power didn’t stop.

It crashed into her like a tidal wave, sweeping her away in its torrent, tearing at her very essence. She tried to pull back, to sever the connection, but it was too late. Her magic twisted and writhed, entwining with his in a violent embrace that she couldn’t control.

Panic surged within her, but before she could react, his eyes snapped open.

Logan awoke with a roar, his instincts kicking in before his mind could catch up. The agony of his wound was gone, replaced by a strange, disorienting haze.

He didn’t know where he was, didn’t know who was crouched over him, but he could feel something pulling at him—something invasive and terrifying.

With a snarl, he lashed out, his claws unsheathing with a sickening SNIKT.

The witch barely had time to react before the sharp bone claws pierced her side, slicing through flesh and bone with terrifying ease.

She cried out, collapsing onto the ground as pain laced through her, hot and blinding. For a moment, she thought she was done for, but then she felt it.

An intoxicating heat, a hum of cells regenerating. The wound began to close almost as quickly as it had been made.

The pain receded, replaced by a flood of energy, stronger than anything she had ever felt before. She glanced down at her side, nauseated to see the flesh tie itself back together, the blood on her gown the only sign of what had happened.

She looked up at Logan, her eyes wide with a mix of fear and awe. His confusion was palpable, his anger seething beneath the surface, but she couldn’t afford to be paralyzed by fear.

Drawing on the newfound strength coursing through her veins, she pushed herself up, her magic flaring to life.

With a flick of her wrist, she sent a green pulse of energy crashing into him, forcing his body to seize up. He fell to the ground, his muscles locked in place, unable to move.

Breathing hard, she stumbled back, her heart racing. She had to get away—had to put as much distance between them as possible before he recovered.

Without a second thought, she turned and ran, the sounds of his growls echoing in her ears as she fled into the night.

Her feet carried her deeper into the forest, the lights and sounds of the field hospital fading fast. Soon, there was nothing but the crunch of leaves under her shoes and the rushing of blood in her ears.

The moon was high, casting silver light through the dense canopy of trees. She could hear him behind her, closing in fast. Ragged gasps escaped her as she stumbled through the underbrush, her heart racing. The forest was thick, dark, and eerily quiet, the air heavy with the scent of earth and pine.

Her arms were trembling from the lingering effects of the energy she had channeled, leaving her unsteady. She didn’t know where she was going, where she could find refuge from the creature on her heels.

With gritted teeth, she threw a hand back, muttering an incantation. Trees bent and twisted, their branches reaching out like skeletal fingers, but Logan barreled through them, tearing them aside as if they were paper.

A branch embedded itself in her dress and sent her flying face-first into the cold, damp ground.

It knocked the breath out of her.

Gasping, she turned to lay on her back. Her eyes had finally adjusted to the darkness and she could see the stars peaking through the crown of trees.

She tries another spell, but the words falter on her lips. In an instant he was above her, his eyes glowing with animalistic intensity, claws extended and ready.

It’s the first time she takes them in, the moonlight making them look almost translucent. For a moment they simply stare at each other.

“What the hell did you do to me?”

She lays frozen under his gaze, unsure of what to say. What did she do to him ?

“I don’t know “ she muttered.

He advanced towards her and she held her breath, waiting for him to strike. Instead, she could hear his claws redact with a sickening grinding sound.

He bent down and hauled her up by the collar of her dress. She swallowed hard, her throat dry. She knew he could end her life in an instant, and the wild look in his eyes told her he was barely holding himself back.

"That won’t do", he snarled.

He pushed her backward till she felt the roughness of bark dig into her back. He held her there, his closed fist pressed against her stomach. Beneath the rage, she could feel a deep sense of unease radiating from him.

"You’re not runnin’ from this.” His eyes, fierce and wild, bore into hers.

“Whatever you did, you’re gonna fix it.”

“I... I tried to draw from your strength to heal myself,” she admits, her voice barely a whisper. “But our powers… they clashed. I don’t know if there is a fixing it.”

“You expect me to believe that?” Logan’s scowl deepens, his jaw clenching as he leans in closer.

He presses his fist harder against her stomach, making her wince. But she doesn’t look away, meeting his gaze with a mix of defiance and desperation.

“Whatever happened, it wasn’t intentional. Your power… it did something to mine. I’ve never felt anything like it before.”

Logan’s eyes narrow, searching her face for any sign of deception. His breath hitched slightly, betraying a moment of uncertainty, but it was quickly swallowed by his anger.

Their noses were mere inches apart, his eyes seemed pitch black. His voice drops to a low, menacing whisper, each word laced with venom.

“Stay the hell away from me.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and final. For a moment, time seemed to stop. She felt the weight of his threat, the danger in every syllable.

Then, without warning, Logan pushed away from her. He turned on his heel and stormed off into the darkness, his heavy footsteps fading into the night.

She remained frozen in place, her breath coming in short, shaky gasps as she watched him disappear into the shadows.

Her knees buckled, and she slid down the trunk of the tree, clutching her chest where his fist had been.

As she sat there, trembling in the cold night air, a single thought echoed in her mind: What have I done?

A/N: Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed it! I won't go into detail on the female OC's appearance, I just don't enjoy writing from the reader's perspective.

#logan howlett x reader #deadpool and wolverine #wolverine x reader #logan x f!reader #logan howlett x oc #slow burn #james logan howlett #logan howlett x you #wolverine x you #wolverine x oc #xmen oc #enemies to lovers #logan howlett x fem!reader #wolverine x fem oc

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pxnsneverland · 7 months ago

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Something Immortal | Biker!Austin Butler x OC (part 2)

plot summary: In the gritty underbelly of a city ruled by werewolf biker gangs, Austin Butler reigned supreme as the ruthless leader of his pack. A man of unwavering ferocity, he lied, killed, and stole without remorse, living by a code of violence that defined his kind. Yet, even Austin harbored a secret weakness – his childhood friend Bonnie Barlow, the one woman he had loved in silence for years. Bonnie's father had once been part of Austin's gang, but after his death, she fled the treacherous world of the werewolves, unable to stomach the endless cycle of crime and brutality. For five years, she remained a fugitive from her own nature, until a fateful night when her life took an irreversible turn. Freshly released from a two-year prison stint, Austin returned to his pack, reveling in the debauchery of their den. But his revelry was cut short by a frantic call from Bonnie, pleading for his aid. Rushing to her side, he uncovered a grim truth – in a desperate act of self-defense against her abusive boyfriend, Bonnie had taken a life, awakening the dormant werewolf within her. As the next full moon loomed, she would undergo her first agonizing transformation, a fate she had always dreaded. Defying the pack's ruthless code, Austin sheltered Bonnie, guiding her through the excruciating metamorphosis that tore through her body each lunar cycle. In the depths of her torment, their bond rekindled, blossoming into a love they had long suppressed. Nights of shared laughter and reminiscence gave way to stolen moments of tenderness, their connection deepening with every passing moon. Yet, their newfound bliss was a fragile thing, forever threatened by the harsh realities that governed their world. For Bonnie was branded a deserter, her very existence a betrayal in the eyes of the pack. If Austin's treachery was uncovered, retribution would be swift and merciless.

pairings: biker!austin butler x oc

word count: 2961

warnings/notes: violence, murder, blood, death, mentions of abuse

Chapter 2: A Desperate Call

Bonnie Barlow. His Bonnie. After what felt like an eternity, she was finally on the other end of the call. Her voice, like a gentle melody, washed over him and brought back memories of happier times. But underlying that beauty was an unmistakable panic. Something was wrong. Very wrong. His heart hammered against his chest, threatening to burst out as he stumbled across the room, frantically reaching for his jacket once more. Through the phone, he could hear her soft sobs, tears evident in every quiver of her voice. He had to get to her, no matter what obstacles lay in his path.

“What’s wrong, Bon?” His voice quivered with emotion as he made his way back out the door.

“I need you, Austin…” Her words were muffled by her sobs, but each one pierced through him like a dagger. He knew he had to get to her quickly.

The sound of her heart-wrenching sobs cut through him like a knife. “Please, baby…tell me where you are.” He pleaded, his heart pounding in his chest. The thought of her being in danger made it difficult for him to catch his breath. Bonnie remained silent, and for a brief moment, he feared she had ended the call. With trembling hands, he pulled the phone away from his cheek and let out a sigh of relief when he saw that the call was still connected. Bonnie leaned in close, her voice a low whisper as she recited the unfamiliar address. Austin's fingers flew over the keys of his GPS, determined to reach this mysterious destination. He didn't dare hang up the phone, afraid that he might lose contact with Bonnie forever.

Like a bullet fired from a gun, Austin tore down the road on his sleek motorcycle. He weaved between cars and disregarded any semblance of traffic laws. The roar of the engine echoed off the buildings. If a police car had spotted him, they hadn't bothered to give chase. And even if they had tried, he wouldn't have stopped anyway for them tonight.

As Austin rode, the cool breeze whipped past him, carrying with it the faint scent of pine and damp earth. The dark expanse of night enveloped him like a shroud, making the world seem surreal and hazy. But his mind was focused on one thing - Bonnie. Her soft voice still echoed in his ear and the sound of her heartrending sobs reverberated through his mind. He gripped his bike's handlebars tightly, feeling the worn leather of his riding gloves beneath his fingers. As he picked up speed, the engine's growl grew louder and more urgent, matching the racing beat of his heart. His gut twisted with unease as he drew closer to the unfamiliar address, a nagging feeling gnawing at him that something was dreadfully wrong. Finally, the building came into view as he rounded a corner - an old house nestled in the middle of the dense woods. Its decrepit walls and windows gave off an eerie aura, adding to Austin's growing sense of unease.

With a quick twist of his wrist, he brought the bike to a stop and hopped off, feeling the weight of his body shift as he landed on the ground. Without hesitation, he flipped up the kickstand and grabbed his phone, grateful once again that the call was still connected. “I think I’m here.” As he jogged towards the front steps, his breath quickened with anticipation.

With a creak of protest, the old door to the house slowly opened, revealing Bonnie's haggard appearance. Her clothes were torn and blood stained, while her face was marred with deep bruises and dried blood. Her usually radiant features were now twisted in pain and fear as she stood in the doorway.

Austin's breath caught in his throat as he took in the sight of her. His heart felt like it was going to burst out of his chest, pounding with such force that he could feel it reverberating through every inch of his body. The blood in his veins turned to ice and a shiver ran down his spine as he saw the pure terror in Bonnie's once bright eyes.

His legs moved forward on their own accord, driven by an overwhelming need to protect her. But as he reached out for her, his hands trembled with fear and hesitation, afraid that she would break apart at his touch. The pain etched on her face tore at his soul, threatening to consume him with its intensity like a raging fire.

Bonnie managed a weak smile, her lips trembling with agony. "Austin," she whispered hoarsely, her voice strained from holding back tears. She looked up at him, determination shining through the fear in her eyes. With all her strength, she threw herself into his arms, clinging onto him as if her life depended on it. "I'm so glad you're here," she cried out.

Austin's powerful arms envelop Bonnie's broken body, cradling her with a fierce protectiveness. She is his everything, and the sight of her battered and bruised fills him with a boiling rage. The sweet scent of wildflowers and fresh rain that clings to her skin only intensifies his desperation to make things right for her.

"What the hell happened to you, Bonnie?" His voice trembles with emotion as he presses his lips against her hair, trying to absorb all of her pain and suffering. She shudders in response, seeking solace in his embrace as she buries her face against his chest, unable to put into words the horror she has endured.

"In...inside," Bonnie muttered, her voice barely audible. She pulls away, wincing at the pain that follows, and starts to lead him inside the decaying house.

His blue eyes scan the room, taking in the dimly lit interior. Every corner seemed steeped in shadows, shrouding the room in an ominous veil. An uncomfortable chill fills the air. He steps inside cautiously, his boots making soft thuds against the wooden floorboards.

And then, he sees it. In the middle of the room laid a body, cold and lifeless. The man’s face is stuck in a permanent grimace, eyes wide open in terror as if he were still trapped in the moment of his death. A knife protrudes from his chest, glinting menacingly under the faint light from the overhead lamp.

Bonnie's voice caught in her throat as she whispered, "His name is Liam. We started dating a year ago."

Austin's gaze remained cool and unmoved, despite the lifeless body lying on the floor between them. "Did he do that to you?" he asked, his tone flat and devoid of emotion.

Bonnie nodded, tears streaming down her face as she recounted the horror of her recent encounter with Liam. "He was so angry...I could see it in his eyes. He was going to kill me this time, I just know it. I didn't have a choice," she sobbed, her body shaking with fear and regret. The room felt suffocating, like the walls were closing in on them, carrying the weight of Bonnie's pain and trauma. She couldn't bear to look at the body on the floor any longer, but she knew she would carry its image with her for a long time to come.

“This time?” Austin growled, his anger bubbling up like a volcano ready to erupt. He longed for the satisfaction of killing the jackass all over again, cursing the fact that he was already dead. How dare he lay a hand on her, let alone think about hurting her? Every muscle in Austin's body tensed as he fought to contain his rage, but his grip on self-control was slipping fast. The mere thought of someone harming her sent a wave of fury through him.

Bonnie nodded, her gaze dropping to the floor as she began to recount the numerous times Liam's outbursts had gotten out of hand. He had always been quick to anger, but in that moment, he was a different person - a monster. And in her fight for survival, Bonnie too had become a monster.

Austin's grip on Bonnie tightened as he processed her words. The image of this petite woman having to defend herself against a man like Liam infuriated him beyond measure. "You did what you had to do," he said, attempting to offer some comfort, but his voice was lined with an undercurrent of beastly rage. Not only had this despicable individual caused her physical pain, but he had also manipulated her to do the one thing she had always feared: take a life. As a blood born werewolf, taking a life meant triggering the dreaded werewolf curse itself. No longer could she hide behind human form - on the next full moon, she would transform into her true beastly self for the first time.

The thought sent shivers of dread down her spine as she remembered the stories her father had told her about the uncontrollable rage and carnage that accompanied the first transformation. "Austin," she whispered, her voice shaky. "I'm scared." Her eyes were pleading, filled with terror at the thought of her impending transformation. Her heart pounded in her chest like a wild drum, echoing the dreadful rhythm of her fate.

His heart clenched at the raw vulnerability in Bonnie's eyes. He was a leader, a protector, and seeing her in such torment was more than he could bear. "Listen to me," Austin said firmly, cupping her chin to make her look at him. His gaze bore into hers, the intensity making her breath hitch. "You're not going through this alone. I'm here. I'll help you."

The promise in his voice was a lifeline, a beacon of hope in the storm that raged within Bonnie’s soul. But despite his reassurance, she couldn't shake off the fear that clenched around her heart like a cold fist.

Austin kept her gaze on him purposely using his body to shield her from the sight of

Liam’s dead body lying on the floor behind him. “Go pack your stuff.”

“But what about…?” She trailed off, trying to see Liam's lifeless body on the floor.

He firmly refused, determined to protect Bonnie from any further pain. “I’ll take care of it. Go, now.”

With no energy left to argue, Bonnie nodded and swiftly disappeared behind a nearby door to begin packing her belongings. Left alone with Liam and his blood-stained body on the floor, Austin looked down. He didn’t even feel sorry for him. With a deadly calm, Austin approached the body. His nostrils flared at the scent of fresh blood and death filling the room. His instincts were pulling him in two directions. The werewolf inside him was poised to revel in such carnage, yet the man in him recoiled at the sight of what Bonnie had been driven to do. The room was silent save for the faint rustling from the other room where Bonnie was packing. A shiver of disgust went down Austin's spine as he stood over Liam's lifeless body, his cold eyes staring blankly up at the ceiling. The blood under his chest had already begun to coagulate, darkening the pale wooden floor beneath him. Austin's jaw clenched with fury, his eyes narrowing at the sight of the man who laid a hand on Bonnie.

Kneeling down, Austin pulled the knife free from Liam’s chest with an efficient tug. The metal looked cold and unforgiving in the dim light, a stark contrast against the spreading crimson stain on Liam’s shirt. He wrapped the knife carefully in a rag he found lying haphazardly on one of the chairs. Austin stepped away and made his way to the back room where they kept the cleaning supplies. He returned with a bucket of water, bleach and a brush. The sight of Liam's lifeless body greeted him again, but with grim determination he set to work, methodically scrubbing away the blood. When he was done, he made quick work of dragging the body outside and rolling it into a nearby river. It would be so destroyed by the elements that the police would never figure out what had actually killed him. The silent night held its breath as the lifeless body of Liam disappeared beneath the dark, churning waters. Bonnie’s haunting cries of despair seemed to echo in his ears as Austin stood there, watching the river claim its gruesome prize. A sudden rage roared through him, a savage desire to tear everything apart with his bare hands for what had been done to Bonnie. But he reined it in, focusing on the task ahead. He returned to the cabin, ignoring the lingering smell of fear and death, and grabbed a bag of lime from their utility shed. The sharp stench of bleach still hung heavy in the air while he went about covering the patch of the floor where Liam had lain with lime. It would speed up the decomposition process and help eliminate remaining traces of blood or odor that might lead anyone to them.

As he finished, a soft sound from behind made him stiffen. He turned around slowly, finding Bonnie standing at the entrance of the small living room, her wavy hair cascading over her shoulders like a protective curtain, dark eyes wide and shining in the pale light. Her small frame was covered in a loose cardigan despite the muggy summer heat outside, as if she was trying to shield herself from her own actions.

“It’s done,” Austin announced quietly.

Bonnie nodded, her gaze averted from the spot where moments before Liam's lifeless body had laid. She clung to the straps of her bag like a lifeline, her knuckles white from the strain. The comforting presence of Austin was the only thing that stopped her from collapsing under the weight of her guilt and fear.

Austin moved towards her, moving slowly as if not to startle a skittish deer. He reached out and took her bag from her trembling hands then wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her into his side. For a moment, Bonnie stiffened under his touch but slowly relaxed, allowing herself to lean into his warmth.

"We need to leave," Austin said quietly, his voice soothing in the otherwise silent cabin. “You can hide out at my place.”

“What about the gang?” Bonnie's mind was overwhelmed with all that was going on, but she couldn't push aside the thought of her pack. As the alpha, Austin was responsible for punishing deserters and loyalty meant everything to their kind. If they found out about Bonnie, they would expect Austin to execute her as punishment. She knew he would never harm her, let alone kill her. His position as alpha would be threatened, and his loyalty to the pack would be questioned.

His voice was firm, allowing no room for argument. “They don’t have to know that you’re staying there. For now, we just need to focus on getting you through the next few days. We’ll figure the rest out later.”

Bonnie found solace in his resolve. His confidence was contagious, and despite her trembling heart, he made her feel safe. Austin had always been a rock in her life; looking at him now, she felt hope bloom within her."Alright," she whispered, nodding. Her trust in him was implicit, thought not without fear. But if there was anyone she could rely on in this treacherous journey, it was Austin. A tear slipped down her cheek as the reality of her situation began to sink in further. She felt Austin's grip tighten around her, as if he could sense her internal struggle.

Bonnie looked up at Austin, suddenly consumed by an inexplicable urge to memorize his face. The sharp contours of his jawline that made women weak, his intense blue eyes that reflected loyalty and a steadfastness she could always count on. His blonde hair that fell onto his forehead, stubbornly refusing to be tamed. Despite the harsh exterior, there was a kindness that lurked beneath the surface. A kindness that compelled him to risk everything for her.

Austin looked down at Bonnie's tear-streaked face and felt a familiar ache in his chest. Over the years, he had watched her grow into a beautiful woman who deserved so much more than the hand life had dealt her. He couldn't help but feel responsible for bringing this darkness into her life. It was the curse they both carried within them - their shared lineage as werewolves. But it was this same curse that drew them to each other. Bonnie, the girl who was afraid of her own strength, and Austin, the man who was too strong for his own good. Both were anomalies in their own world. He was a hardened gang leader with a heart that bled for Bonnie; she was a runaway who ran straight into Austin’s arms. It seemed like fate had a cruel sense of humor.

Austin led her towards his motorcycle, parked just beyond the cabin’s porch. The roar of its engine echoed through the silent woods as it rumbled to life. The sound seemed to pierce the eerily calm night and Bonnie wondered if it was a precursor to the storm that was about to break in her life.

“Austin,” Bonnie started as she hopped onto the seat behind him, wrapping her arms around his lean waist for support as he began to pull away from the cabin. Her voice couldn’t hide the tremble in it, yet she continued on bravely, “Thank you.”

Austin didn’t respond immediately - he didn’t need to. His hand came to rest over hers where it held onto him tightly from behind and gave it a reassuring squeeze. The message was clear: he would protect her, no matter what cost he had to pay.

Stay tuned for part 3!! Click HERE to view!

#austin butler #austin butler fanfiction #austin butler fic #austin butler fandom #austin butler feyd rautha #austin butler fluff #austinbutleredit #feyd #feyd rautha harkonnen #austin butler imagine #austin butler elvis #austin butler major gale buck cleven #austin butler x reader #austin butler x you #austin butler smut #fanfiction #fanfic #fan fiction #fan fic

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pinkcloudssparklingwater · 3 months ago

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(non)local bee watches krishna & radha draw rangoli outside their house | pt. 1

krishna & radha draw rangoli outside their house. seen from the pov of a disgruntled bee that is new to the place & doesn’t understand why everyone’s so charmed by this god (till it does)

[part 2]

Yamuna gushed brightly. Having risen just a few minutes ago, the sun bathed the world below in a buttery golden light. Blades of grass swayed despite not a single breeze blowing. It was as if their eyes, blinking awake, had fallen upon a sight that immediately jolted them out of their slumber. Filled their lean bodies with bliss uncontainable.

A bee that had journeyed from a faraway land throughout the night—and that had been resting on top of a bud nearby—was also shaken awake by the movements of the grass.

Annoyed by their incessant rustling, it hissed. ‘What’s the hurry now? So early in the morning, and you make such a ruckus! Fools. Stay still!’

‘How can we!’ the grass cried in unison, their trembling only growing more sweet. ‘How can we stop, how can we stay still, when our god is right there?’

‘God?’ the bee snapped. ‘What god!’

‘Oh, we can’t be still. He makes us this way. How can we be still when the mere sight of him fills us with so much pleasure we don’t know what to do with ourselves?’

‘You’ll are fucking crazy,’ the bee muttered, following the direction in which the grass seemed to be leaning. Who was this god? There’s no way he’s making every single blade of grass on this land lose its mind. ‘I don’t believe it—’

The bee couldn’t finish that thought, though. Not before its gaze met a pair of lotus-eyes, staring back at him.

The owner of the eyes was a tall man at a distance, holding a broomstick, bent slightly at the curve of his waist. His skin was the colour of clouds heavy with rain. He seemed to have been in the middle of cleaning the area outside what looked like a house. And as if he’d heard the bee’s doubts, one of his eyebrows lifted in amusement.

You really don’t believe it?

The bee’s mouth burst open in a gasp, its heart pounding.

Before it could dwell on its own embarrassing reaction, however, the solid weight beneath it seemed to give away.

With a shriek, the bee found itself plunging down.

But it hadn’t hit the ground.

Mildly dizzy, it shook its head and looked around.

It seemed to have fallen into…a flower?

‘What the fuck,’ the bee whispered, straightening itself.

As it found its footing once more, it noticed, confusion streaking its eyes, that the petals of the flower were a soft violet. The same colour as the bud that it had chosen to camp on…

‘The bud!’ the bee realized with a start. ‘Is that you?’

‘Of course, who else would I be?’ the flower snorted from below, a haughty attitude dripping from its voice. The bee grunted in return.

‘Why would you just become a flower so suddenly!’

‘Shut up,’ the flower snarled.

But the very next moment, in a complete change of character—a transformation that left the bee gaping in shock—the flower’s voice lost all of the mean edge. It morphed into an unrecognisably soft, honeyed melody, as the flower turned towards the distant house, towards the god who had resumed sweeping. It cooed shyly, petals pinkening.

‘My god looked this way. He looked my way. Of course I opened up and bared myself completely for his eyes then. Of course I bloomed for him. How else am I supposed to beg him to walk over, take me in his mouth, and suck every last drop of nectar out of me till I forget who I am?’

‘Excuse me?’

As a bee, it was hard not to feel personally offended at that.

The audacity of this god. First he makes the grass—every single one of them—kick up a completely unnecessary storm so early in the morning because they are supposedly mad with happiness at the mere sight of him. Then he charms the flowers so completely, without so much as a glance, till they defy the laws of nature—blossoming for him at the most untimely moments and blushing and calling for him to eat them up (as if they can’t see the bee hovering right in front of their eyes). Really, the audacity of this god!

Displeasure thrumming through its body, the bee whipped its head towards the house with a glare.

The god was still hard at work, the muscles of his arm shifting with each sweep of the broomstick, and the bee almost turned away, thinking he hadn’t noticed it—but right then, as if he knew exactly what it had been thinking, as if he’d heard all of its complaints, the god let out a chuckle. Deep and low and a secret shared just between them.

Warmth scorched the bee’s face, and it leapt off the flower—rushing to hide behind a tree.

‘S-Shit.’

end of pt. 1

#krishnablr #gopiblr #krishna #radha krishna #radha #kanha

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zorosdimples · 10 months ago

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fae ajax tartaglia childe

your longtime lover broke your heart right before valentine’s day, and you’re devastated when the once-joyous holiday rolls around; you have nothing left but bittersweet memories and pointless daydreams. wandering the streets of your town aimlessly, ignoring the sweethearts you spot at every corner, you happen upon a beautiful man.

his auburn hair gleams like the sun, his eyes the color of the cloudless sky. his teeth are a bit sharp, ears unusually pointy, but he’s kind: he offers you a single fresh bloom, your favorite flower. there’s no catch, he insists; it’s free of charge. you thank him with a sad smile, though it’s the first time you’ve smiled in weeks. the man asks for your name—a harmless question that you indulge with an honest answer.

you leave the stranger with a lighter step and place the stem in a cup of water when you return home. after several days, none of the petals have wilted, and the leaves are as verdant as ever. days turn into weeks, and the beautiful flower haunts you. why won’t it decay? it defies the laws of nature. in a fit of suspicion, you throw the flower out, and banish it from your mind.

the next day you awake to the man who gifted you the flower lounging in your room. but the man—you realize entirely too late—is no man at all, but a fae. the name he gives you is fake, you assume, but it’s a name that you will come to know intimately: childe.

childe intends to collect your debt forthright.

#spreading fae childe propaganda #i almost made it trickster god childe but that is for another day #childe x reader #childe <3

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lunatic-pudge · 3 months ago

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General Engie Headcanons (Requested by XCT)

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Just gonna do some SFW headcanons for now. Got a request for sub Engie so that's where the NSFW stuff will be talked about! :D

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-Bro, Engie is such a freaking sweetheart. Always knows how to give a warm welcome and make great first impressions. But don't let that kindness fool you, he can be snarky, petty, and egotistical. It's quite clear he has a slight god-complex (he literally calls himself a god in the game), due to being such an intelligent man and coming from a line of engineers. He's a prodigy and he knows it

-Secretly lives for hearing gossip. He and Pyro like to sit together with some snacks and gossip the night away. Since most people tend to pay no mind to Pyro, they're able to find out some of the juiciest drama around. They are quick to tell Engie.

-Continuing on with Pyro, they and Engie are very close. Basically like a father-son relationship. Engie understands that Pyro is an adult (a very mentally unwell one) and that they're on the team for a reason. He essentially took Py under his wing and taught him quite a bit about engineering. Showing them things like how to build and disassemble a sentry and how to make flame-based weapons. He helped make sure all of Py's weapons were fully functional and able to inflict as much damage as they can. Oh! And they both have friendship bracelets cause I said so. They made them together so they have special meaning behind them

-While being the designated chef of the team, he's actually not the best cook on the team. (That goes to Spy and Heavy. Spy has the culinary training, but refuses to cook for the team, and Heavy learned from his Mother and only cooks every so often) Engie is able to keep the ruse up cause most of the team is blind taste wise and will eat almost anything. His cooking isn't bad or anything, just very average. Only Spy knows the truth.

-Has the voice on an angel and is very talented with instruments. If he didn't become an engineer, he would've became a musician. Will sit down with Demo and Sniper and play some tunes with them. He even taught Sniper how to play the guitar. The three have thought about starting their own little band and playing at bars and such but never got around to it due to constantly being busy. Maybe someday they finally go through with their plans

-While Pyro may be the merc he's the closest with, Medic is a definite runner up. These two nerd out together all the time, it's adorable. They're constantly in the workshop or lab, experimenting and trying to defy the laws of nature. They are the biggest breakers of the Geneva Convention and how they haven't gotten in trouble yet is beyond me. They can be pretty scary together. Why are we letting two mercs with god-complexes hang out together? Someone come separate these nerds now!

#team fortress 2 #tf2 engineer #tf2 engineer x reader #tf2 headcanons #tf2 x reader

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sancrevm · 2 years ago

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seventeen: what the two of you would do during late nights

song recommendation: gilded lily by cults

seungcheol: the two of you would be the epitome of an old couple. lying in bed snuggled up to each other would be the ideal type of night, the only reason for the late hour would be the busy schedules you both have. despite having to get up early the next day, you would rather do nothing more than have late night conversations of what the future holds for you and cheol and tiny updates on minuscule parts of your life that he cherishes.

jeonghan: convenience store trips would be the ideal late night for you two. securing ramen and your favourite snacks, the sweet promise of nothing more than you and your beloved defying the laws of sleep by spending more time with other was a lullaby to your ears. driving home with one arm dangling out the open window, the other burying itself in jeonghan’s hair as he drives and nothing more than the low radio and silent night, your life could not get anymore perfect.

joshua: an isolated getaway would probably be the most suitable night for you and joshua. albeit a bit ambitious, he would do thorough research on quiet fields near your apartment where the two of you would be surrounded by nothing more than nature and the others company. overall, he would just appreciate the time he spends with you, no matter the location.

jun: you and jun would probably be hold up in one of the dance practice rooms, you wanting to keep him company when he was adamant he wanted to practice and practice the dance to his upcoming solo. you would throw him shouted praises left and right which would leave him a stumbling, blushing mess yelling at you stop despite the massive grin now encasing his face. long story short, he barely got any practice done.

hoshi: you and hoshi would most likely be caught up in a non ending circle of games he had bought randomly one weekend that he wanted to try with you. twister was the one that caught your attention the most because even if it was impossible playing with only two people, hearing the joyful laughs that you expressed was the best late night experience hoshi could ever have.

wonwoo: you and wonwoo would be the embodiment of enjoying each others presence while divulging in your own hobbies. staying up late some days allowed the two of you to enjoy time you couldn’t easily access in the day due to your respective careers. wonwoo usually had a book within his hands or playing mobile games and he would every so often look towards you, his heart peacefully loving the serene look that glazed your face at the late hour.

woozi: with woozi, it’s especially hard to drag him from the studio at such late hours. he’s usually on point with dates and spending time with you when the sun is up, but work is something he cannot easily walk away from and thus his presence past midnight is usually a lost one. if woozi is set on working on tracks into the early hours of the morning, then you’re stubbornly right there next to him, keeping him company with a listening ear to his music and quiet praises.

dokyeom: the two of you got the sporadic idea just after midnight to create the largest fort known to man in your living room. by the time you were finished it was just a heap of blankets and pillows but your body wasn’t complaining at how comfortable it was. you had just wanted to snuggle up with dokyeom and put on a movie until you fell asleep but your boyfriend clearly had other plans when he smashed one of the pillows in your face, thus creating a pillow fight that ended with the two of you sprawled out on the floor, wheezing laughs filling the silence of your apartment.

mingyu: since mingyu and his camera were attached to the hip, he thought the late hour was the most opportune time to take some contrasting photos to those he usually took within the day and who better to be his model than you? he would compliment you after every photo, the blush on your cheeks apparent through the flash of light he clicked. mingyu would most definitely print one with you near a flock of dandelions out and keep it in his wallet.

minghao: you and minghao would probably partake in something beneficial, probably all thanks to him. if you even breathed a sentence that pointed to any discomfort in your body, minghao would have you up and stretching, practicing yoga positions with music running in the background. it would probably end with the two of you attempting the top 10 most difficult yoga couple positions on the internet and failing miserably with him lying on top of you, your laughs echoing throughout the room.

seungkwan: a simple movie night was the best gift you could offer seungkwan late at night. you would’ve wanted nothing more than for your boyfriend to get as much sleep as he could knowing how stressed he was lately, but when he wanted to spend some time with you, you insisted on having the most relaxed night as possible. despite him falling asleep 30 minutes into the movie, you were just glad he was by your side.

vernon: the two of you would go for a simple walk, basking in how peaceful life around you was. you would probably be sharing earbuds, listening to the playlist vernon specifically curated for this moment. hand in hand, you and vernon would fall in and out of speaking and basking in the silence, often laying your head on his shoulder.

chan: yours and chan’s late night initially started out as a walk, with you buried in his hoodie and his arm slung around your shoulders, but both of your eyes snagged on an empty park, the small place basically calling your names. one glance at each other had you running for the swings, laughs falling from your lips and the night soon turned into who could swing the highest during the dark hours.

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stuckysbike · 2 years ago

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The Queen Who Married Two Kings

Pairing: Bucky x Reader x Steve (pre-established Stucky)

Arranged Marriage AU, Fantasy AU, Royalty AU

Rating/Warnings: Over 18's only, there will be dark themes and explicit sexual situations. Reader is Stark born, and they're shitty to her.

Summary: Betrothed to two Kings, you travel with them to their home where you learn more than you ever thought you would. But how are you to cope with two husbands who want to start a family and secure their place in the world?

Chapter 1

“Your father demands an audience with you,” a droll voice said from the doorway of your dayroom. You lifted your eyes from the book in your lap and fixed the man with a scowl. He looked ridiculous in red velvet pants with gold piping. You hated the livery your father had his staff wear. It was neither practical nor attractive but it served well to display his wealth and, god forbid, taste. If one could call that taste.

“And I would like to slay a dragon but that won’t happen anytime soon,” you muttered under your breath levelling him with a sweet smile to make up for your earlier scowl. It wasn’t this man’s fault that you hated your father. It was your father’s fault.

“He’s rather insistent milady,” the voice said. He sounded weary, and you suspected he was rather bored. You were bored yourself but you didn’t want them to know that.

“I’m busy myself,” you lied smoothly. The man, slim and in his fifties with deep set eyes, let a flicker of annoyance pass his face. You didn’t recognise him, but he continued to stare stubbornly. Sighing you stood up and fixed your hair in the looking glass, brushed creases out of your dress and picked up the novel you had been reading. You darnt leave it lying around. Your father encouraged you to read this muck, yes, but you made sure there was proper reading within its covers. A pamphlet outlining changes to a tax law on tobacco would be frowned upon.

He had this ridiculous notion that women who read romance novels knew how to take care of a husband. The last thing you wanted was a husband like those described in the novels, or a man like your father or brothers.

“Milady, if you please,” the man said again, his voice thinning on patience.

“Alright!” You snapped as you turned and headed out the doorway, not bothering to wait for him. You knew the trail to your father’s study well, knew all the shortcuts and quick escapes, so naturally, you took the long way.

Around you portraits of your ancestors peered down their noses as you and you resisted the childish urge to stick your tongue out at them. You slowed a few times to peer out the windows but you could delay no longer.

Your father, King Howard, a greying man in his sixties, was waiting for you behind a large oak desk that had suffered garish carvings before being placed here, another symbol of his wealth and power. Beside him stood your brother Tony, his heir. It was no secret that Tony was your father’s favourite child. Everyone had assumed that, as the only daughter, you would also be favoured, but this wasn’t so. You weren’t the sweet child he dreamed of; instead you were strong willed and wild, defying him at his every turn. Your education was still a sore point for you both; he felt you had received too much, you felt you didn’t receive enough.

“Father,” you dipped your chin slightly, knowing he preferred when women curtsied to him, but today it seemed as he had more pressing matters than dredging up old fights. You stood in the centre of the plush rug that lay before the desk letting your heels sink in deep, hoping to damage the carpet.

Tony scowled at you, he’d always had some sort of resentment towards you, and you often wondered if it was because you were a girl and perhaps he was worried that he would no longer be your fathers favourite. That resentment turned to distaste at the way you acted with your father.

“Daughter,” your father said, his voice weary, and you knew he was expecting a fight. “You’re to be married.”

You pursed your lips; it was rare that your father got straight to the point. You filed this away to examine later.

“Married. I’m barely nineteen,” you said. Marriage was not what you wanted from life. To have children to a man who wouldn’t love you, to a man like your father who’d had three wives, who’d driven your own poor mother to despair with his appetite for other women.

“And if I’d had my way you would have been married three years ago but your mother pleaded with me…” He sighed deeply, no doubt looking for sympathy for having another dead wife. You had none to give; he had driven your mother to the grave.

“Does my husband have a name or shall he remain anonymous until I meet him at the alter?” You asked.

“Husbands,” your father moved something on his desk then shuffled some papers. He was nervous, you thought, very unlike him.

“Husbands? Plural?” You raised an eyebrow.

“Indeed. You know of the alliance between King James and King Steven,” Howard said.

Everyone knew of their alliance; it had caused quite the scandal three years ago when they wed and decided to unite their countries. They had once been one land and very few people residing there resisted, but kingdoms such as your fathers and that of your neighbours such as the Odinsons had been most wary.

It seemed your father had found a way to protect himself yet again.

You knew all about the neighbouring kingdom of Farotaide, it was part of your education to be up to date on this. The kings lived in a large castle at the edge of the woods on a cliff overlooking the sea. It was said to be beautiful.

Farotaide was a cold place, with sharp winds even in the summertime, and prone to snow half the year round. The people ruled under the kings were hardened, warriors, blacksmiths and butchers, crops were grown, winter crops consisting mostly of root vegetables and potatoes, all the year round. They were a harsh people and the women fought as quickly as the men did. Their ale was bitter and their wine sour, but they were clever engineers, and they had a lot of land and forest under their control. This would be a strategic union.

But you would be wife to two husbands. How would that even work? They would be twice as demanding of you, but then, knowing what you did about their culture and society, it was worth the gamble. Perhaps you wouldn’t fight, and instead agree to this union.

“I agree,” you said after a moment’s pause. Tony scowled, expecting a fight he didn’t receive, and even her father looked shocked for half a second.

“Oh, that’s good then, I’m sure you have a lot to prepare, you will be married soon no doubt, there’s little point in dallying with these things,” he said clearly dismissing you.

You did not go back to your rooms, instead you went to the library, and headed into the map room from there. You found Farotaide easily, they controlled about a third more land than your father. There were notes on climate, terrain, population, and agriculture and battle tactics on the margins. You studied until you needed to change for dinner.

Your father sat at the head with his sons around him, Tony to his right with his new wife Pepper clutching his hand like a sheep. You hated her, hated them all as they discussed your upcoming nuptials. “The Kings will be here next week, and all being well, you’ll be married within the month,” your father said clasping his hands together.

“I’ll be going to live with them I assume.” You said as you pushed the food around your plate. You had lost interest in your food.

“Of course.” Your father said.

“Then I’ll need a new wardrobe,” you said.

Tony snorted and Pepper covered her mouth to hide a laugh. “Another excuse to spend father’s money,” he said.

“No, but Brooklyn where the keep their kingdom seat is located is a much colder climate than ours, I don’t think delicate silken dresses will do me much good in the winter do you father?” You said smiling at him. The pale blue dress you wore now was a favourite, but it wasn’t practical for where you were going.

“Our father is already putting up a dowry just to get rid of you, and paying for your wedding nuptials. I doubt he’ll be dressing you after next week. Let your husbands take care of it,” Tony said tossing his napkin onto his plate and leaning back in his chair.

“Someday, my dear Tony, father will be dead, and this will be your land, your home, your very table. And someday, dear brother, I’ll sit here at this very table, and I’ll embarrass you in front of your peers as you wish to embarrass me in front of my new family. It would be insulting to send me there without appropriate attire, I will not start my marriage on an insult,” you said sweetly.

“Oh, do shut up sister.” Tony said standing up.

“I’m bored of this anyway,” you said standing too. “I’m afraid I feel one of my headaches coming on, father, I shan’t be good company this evening. I’ll head back to my bedroom and take a long rest.”

“Off you go out of my sight,” Your father snapped. Tony spoke loudly.

“I hope the kings at least gets one good son out of her before she turns into a simpering mess,” he said. Everybody laughed and you clenched her fists. You paused, took a deep breath, and smiled sweetly as you walked to your room, already plotting your revenge.

Your father, you believed, informed his friends and allies before he informed the Two Kings that their proposal, and thus their alliance, had been accepted.

There was to be a Royal Wedding and it would be a glorious affair. Afterall it is not often that a princess marries two kings at once!

The Wakandans were first to arrive, followed by the Odinsons two days later. You watched the pomp and ceremony from your room, your father and brothers were keen to greet their neighbours, to use this social event to network. It made you sick to your stomach to see them act so, but you lifted your chin, hardened your eyes, and gave your guests that tight, slight smile that your mother taught you so many years ago.

More prestigious guests arrived, each trying to outdo the last with their opulence, but the worst was King Howard insisting that everyone wear their best, that his whores were well hidden and that you stayed as the meek and dutiful daughter before everyone.

Noticeably absent was your intended husbands, and your father was insistently vocal about this. You couldn’t recall ever meeting any nobles from Farotaide, but you were eagerly curious to see how they arrived. You wondered what sort of spectacle they would bring; clearly, they wanted to make an arrival and cause a scene. You were beginning to regret agreeing so easily. Eventually you decided them arrogant and rude, they clearly had little interest in getting to know you prior to the nuptials.

You were preparing for bed when you heard it, a deep rumble like thunder in the distance.

Wrapping your favourite wool cloak around your shoulders you made her way down the servants’ staircases and headed through the kitchens and outside to the battlements. Beside you one of your fathers’ watchers shifted nervously as he peered into the darkness. A mass of black was streaming towards you in a line, loud thunderous thuds carrying through the dark night. For a moment you feared you were under attack until a cloud shifted, and moonlight drenched across meadows around your father’s palace.

Two hundred men and women galloped towards you on horseback.

They stopped, preparing to make camp and a small party moved forward while the rest effortlessly blended into the trees that lined the meadows. You made your way to the courtyard, your soft soles quiet on the dry cobblestones, trying to keep a smile off your face. You liked the entrance the Northerners had made in contrast to the grandeur and finery everyone else made. They weren’t showing off, and you had the feeling they didn’t need to, this was just how they operated. Suddenly your anger at them turned to amusement.

“And you are?” A guard was saying, his tone tight. His knuckles were white as he gripped the spear in his hand, and you could help but think the foolish weapon looked useless to these warriors.

“James Barnes, my husband, Steve Rogers.” A gruff voice said. You quickened her step towards the gates to get a better look at the two men.

“We weren’t expecting you now,” the guards voice said.

“When did you expect us?” Steve asked, his voice louder than James.

“Daylight hours, I’d imagine,” you spoke up taking pity on the guard. You stepped forward and pulled your cloak around your throat. Both men met your eyes, and the shiver that ran down your spine was not entirely due to the cold.

“Well, we’re here now,” James said with a sly curl of the lips.

“Indeed, you are. Have someone announce to King Howard that his wayward guests have arrived,” the gatekeeper commanded giving you the stink eye. You couldn’t resist sticking your tongue out at him, but Steve’s voice distracted you. You didn’t miss the short smile the two men shared at your behaviour.

“We are at a disadvantage. You know who we are, but we have no idea who you are,” Steve spoke up. You stepped back as the small band of men and their horses made their way inside the castle walls.

You toyed with the idea of stringing them along and telling the men you were someone else, but you decided on straight up honesty. It wouldn’t do to start their relationship on that sort of note.

“I’m to be your wife, or so I’m told,” you said. James glanced down at you. He was tall, broad shouldered and terribly handsome with a few days’ worth of dark stubble on his chin. His eyes looked blue in the dim torchlight but you liked what she saw. Steve on the other hand sat taller on his horse. He didn’t seem as thick as James but he had a full head of thick blond hair and a well grown beard.

“Ah, our wife you say?” James said with a coy smile. Your heart fluttered a little, people rarely looked at her like that, but James’ eyes were raking your body, and while Steve kept more reserved he was just as curious you could tell.

“Why did you arrive at dark?” You asked curiously. Steve stared at you for a second but a voice behind you interrupted them.

“Please ignore my silly little sister, she has no manners. My name is Tony, I’ll be inheriting, I’m to be your brother in law.” Tony said pushing past Lydia to shake James’s hand. James, who was still holding the reins of his massive horse, looked from Tony’s face to his hand and back again before turning to you.

“I like the dark,” James said ignoring the horse nosing at his arm. Behind him Steve made a noise you didn’t understand, and you didn’t miss the flicker of something in James’ eyes.

“The stables are this way. Our grooms can take care of your horses.” Tony said pushing past you to gain attention.

“We’ll take care of our own horses, he had the decency to carry me here without complaint, it’s the least I can do.” Steve corrected Tony but he was looking at you. “I always take care of what’s mine.”

“Good, I like a man who knows what he’s doing.” You smirked, and when both men smiled at you, you realised that your heart was racing.

“Stop being vulgar and go away,” Tony hissed in your ear, his eyes flashing dangerously in the moonlight.

“I think I prefer her company to yours,” James said bluntly. You almost laughed aloud at the rage building on Tony’s face.

“Oh, I know where I’m not wanted,” you said in a teasing voice, shooting a wink at James as you turned on your heel and headed back inside. Perhaps leaving the two Kings to your brother’s attentions was a poor strategic move but you were sure you they would understand. It didn’t do for a princess to stand outside in the night talking to her betrothed. As you slid into bed you smiled, wondering what the next days would bring.

#tqwmtk #stucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #steve rodgers x reader #bucky barnes smut #steve rogers smut #bucky barnes x reader x steve rogers #steve rogers x reader x bucky barnes #arranged marriage #royal au #fantasy

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mdzs-owns-my-ass-i-guess · 4 months ago

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The aftermath

Tw: spoilers for tgcf volume 6, gore, psychological horror, trauma, Bai Wuxiang

Summary: the aftermath of that incident in the temple that changed everything

There is always an end to everything, a conclusion, a stop. Fleeting, temporary, there is nothing that goes on forever, there are no eternities on Earth – death is the one certainty that never fails its due.

Almost.

If one were to ask Xie Lian how long he has been laying there, an open wound laid across an altar warmed with his own blood, he would not have been able to tell whether it has been an hour or a thousand years. He’s still somehow breathing, alive against any and all laws of life and nature, his body barely still held together by fragile pieces of tissue and the curse of his immortality. He’s spilling over the edges of the cold, carved stone, his hair flowing around him alongside thin rivulets of blood, tracing an unseen path down the ashen floor.

His eyes stare, empty and unblinking, at the door of the charred temple, as if attempting to peer beyond the limited field of vision, out into the good, kind world he had sacrificed so much for, into the world where this never happened to him. He cannot see anything, only a blur of faded colors and bleak sunlight, and he knows such a world does not exist.

It’s quiet.

Or maybe he has lost the ability to hear at some point during the torture, maybe a sword pierced through a nerve in his spinal cord and cut him off from hearing sound, locked inside the bits and pieces left of himself, imprisoned.

He used to love being alive, being nearly invincible, daring fate to stop him from helping the common people. Ascending, being a god, doing the best he could to save, to protect.

He resents it now – resents them all. Are these the people he has endured so much for? Are these the people he cast himself out of the heavens for?

This is who he has been protecting? This is who he has been defying every rule for?

Is this how the common people really are? Cruel, unfeeling, selfish?

The very people he loved so much were the same people that sacrificed him over an altar like an offering to a merciless god.

Are these people worth loving?

Is anyone?

He feels Bai Wuxiang before he sees him, his presence unmistakable even in Xie Lian’s miserable state. Somehow, he doesn’t feel startled or horrified by him anymore, placidly resigned to whatever the other may decide to subject him too. After all, he doubts there is enough of him left to even torment anymore.

“Have you learned your lesson yet?” Bai Wuxiang asks, his voice deceivingly kind and warm, like a parent talking to their troublesome child. “This is what the common people will do to you as soon as they have to choose between you and their own skins, Your Highness.”

Xie Lian does not have the energy to lift his eyes to look towards the order, his eyes still distantly tracing the contours of the forest. He feels so tired, too tired to even argue anymore, and all out of things to say in response. And he cannot even speak anymore either, his vocal cords torn somewhere into the remnants of his throat.

“But you shouldn’t think about them anymore, Your Highness.” Bai Wuxiang continues, a cold, soft hand against Xie Lian’s cheek. “Now, you should think about yourself.”

What is there to think of? Xie Lian would have asked if he could still speak. There is nothing left of me.

“All of this will heal.” Bai Wuxiang speaks again, the tenderness of his tone feeling every bit as condescending as it is warm, sickening, “Think about what comes after that, Your Highness. What will you do?”

Xie Lian doesn’t know, he doesn’t have the capacity to imagine the future right now. Is there any?

“I will take care of you. I will guide you.” Bai Wuxiang promises, caressing the side of Xie Lian’s face gently, soothingly, “All of this will not have been for naught. But you had to understand.”

Xie Lian finally wills himself to look at the man, meeting the sight of the half laughing, half crying mask. He feels so tired, drained of life, devoid of heart, a husk, a corpse rotting after its soul has dissipated.

The world has never felt so empty and cold.

He feels Bai Wuxiang scoop him up into his arms, his body protesting with every movement and every touch.

He’s afraid to look at himself, even though he knows what he must look like right now. Instead, he lets his eyes stare into the distance again, pain throbbing through him with every step the other takes, his cold hands burning like fire through the tatters of Xie Lian’s clothes.

Why can’t I die?

The white robes fit over his body with surprising ease, as if they had been made specifically for him. It is easy for him to recognize the cut and the material – funerary clothes.

Fitting, he thinks.

When he looks into the mirror, he thinks it again. He looks like little more than the living dead, pale and emotionless, features pulled into a blank expression.

“I told you that you will get better.” Bai Wuxiang’s voice rings through the room, almost happy. The sound grates Xie Lian’s ears. “It’s been two months. Are you ready to return?”

If Xie Lian still had it in himself to feel anything, he would have glared at the other, feeling his self-satisfied smile behind his mask even though he cannot see it.

“What will you do now?”

Xie Lian doesn’t reply, walking past Bai Wuxiang like he isn’t even there. The action elicits a laugh from the man.

“You will come back. I know you will.”

The kind, gentle voice from before takes on a darker edge, the sound of it making Xie Lian’s steps falter for a moment. “We are the same now. I’m all you’re left with.”

And for a moment, Xie Lian wants to disagree. He remembers, in the fragmented memory of that day, a little ghost fire, a screaming boy laid over the steps of the altar of his sacrifice.

But the image fades as soon as it appears.

#tgcf #tian guan ci fu #xie lian #hob #heaven official's blessing #hualian #but lowkey #writing attempts

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johnconway · 10 months ago

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I've decided to turn the tables on AI. It gives me the prompts, I paint the pictures. They are painted as quickly as I can. Sad to say, I'm still a little bit slower than most online generators. But perhaps if I get enough VC backing I can improve performance.

I used my local LLM, Zephyr 7b, which is a Mistral derivative (if you care about this stuff!). So, I asked it to give me prompts, and it gave me back these d33p artistic ideas:

"Amidst a field of wildflowers in full bloom stands a towering structure that seems to defy all laws of nature. Its angles are sharp and unforgiving, its surfaces gleaming and reflective like polished steel. Yet despite its futuristic appearance, this edifice is grounded by the very earth it stands upon; roots winding their way deep into the soil, inextricably linking man-made structure to natural landscape. This image represents the tension between progress and preservation, a call for us to find harmony where they meet, rather than let them stand as opposing forces."

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"As an artist envisioning a complex tableau, I seek to create a visual metaphor that speaks to the dual nature of human existence – our inner turmoil and external serenity. The scene is set at twilight, where the last rays of the sun meet the onset of night in a symphony of colors, blending the boundaries between day and night. At the center stands a colossal, ancient tree, its roots deeply entrenched in the earth, symbolizing our connection to nature and our foundational beliefs. The tree's branches stretch upwards and outwards, bifurcating into intricate patterns that mirror the complexity of human thoughts and emotions.

Half of the tree is lush and blooming, covered in verdant leaves and vibrant flowers, teeming with birds and wildlife, representing the vitality of life and the beauty of outward expressions. The other half, however, is starkly different, with gnarled branches, devoid of foliage, whispering of the silent struggles and the decay that lurks within. This dichotomy illustrates the contrasting aspects of our lives – the visible joy and the hidden sorrows.

Beneath the tree, a serene pond reflects this duality, not just as a mirror image, but with a surreal twist. The reflection shows the tree in full bloom on the barren side, and vice versa, suggesting that what we see on the surface is not always the reality.

The visual style for this image will be inspired by the Pointillism technique, where small, distinct dots of color are applied in patterns to form an image. This style will add an element of surprise and depth to the artwork, as the scene's full complexity and beauty will only be revealed upon closer inspection, symbolizing the idea that understanding and empathy require a closer look beyond the surface.

This artwork is an invitation to the viewer to contemplate the balance between our external persona and internal struggles, encouraging a deeper understanding of the human condition." -----

"In the center of a vast and barren desert landscape, there stands a lone figure cloaked in a long, flowing dress made entirely of shimmering gold fabric. This woman appears to be walking through the sandy expanse with ease, her every step leaving behind glittering footprints that twist and turn like winding rivers. Her hair is a cascade of purest silver, billowing gently in an unseen wind.

As she moves deeper into the desert, the woman begins to transform. Her skin takes on the same radiant quality as her dress, becoming infused with a brilliant golden glow that seems almost otherworldly. And atop her head, where once there was only silver hair, now rises a magnificent crown of swirling gold and silver filaments that shimmer and dance in the air like living fireworks.

This woman is a personification of hope and resilience, an embodiment of the human spirit that can weather even the most barren and desolate landscapes with grace and determination. Her dress is symbolic of her inner strength and her ability to transform adversity into something beautiful and valuable. The golden glow she emits represents the radiant light of hope that shines within us all, guiding our path through life's challenges no matter how harsh they may be. And as for the surprising visual style I mentioned earlier? Well...what if this woman isn't walking alone after all? As viewers follow her progress across the desert, we begin to notice tiny glimmers of light dancing just beneath the sand at her feet - and before long, it becomes clear that she is actually surrounded by a throng of shimmering golden fireflies that flit and flutter around her like living sparks. This unexpected twist adds an extra layer of meaning to the image, reminding us that even in our darkest moments, there is always hope and beauty to be found - if only we know where to look for it."

I also put the prompt back in to DALL-E 3, which is the final image.

#art #ai #dalle3 #tasteless #oh my god so tasteless

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tiramisuucakeee · 2 months ago

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0. GENIE IN A BOTTLE

( genie in a bottle, jay )

long ago, in a realm shrouded by time, there existed a prince whose heart was filled with greed. this prince, known as arion, was the only son of a wealthy king and queen who lavished him with treasures beyond imagination.

among these treasures was a magnificent lamp, crafted from pure gold and encrusted with fine jewels, yet it lay neglected in a corner of his chamber.

one fateful day, as he carelessly feasted on a banquet fit for kings, a morsel of food slipped from his hand, landing on the ornate lamp. intrigued, arion reached to clean it, and as he rubbed the lamp, a great whirlwind of light erupted before him.

from within emerged a woman, a powerful genie, her presence radiating with both grace and authority.

defying all laws of nature and gods, she could grant any wish the owner of the lamp wanted, but only if the master could truly understand the meaning of desire.

at first, the prince, blinded by ambition, dismissed her warnings. with a flourish, he made his first wish. “i wish to command the strongest troops in all the lands!”

kingdoms trembled at the sight of his might. with the help of the genie, the prince owned more land that he could think of.

emboldened by his newfound power, arion crafted his second wish. “i wish to be the most handsome and desirable man in existence!” the transformation was miraculous, he became a vision of beauty, and soon a throng of enchanting women from every corner of the realm gathered at his castle, yearning for his affection, offering themselves to him.

but as the days turned to weeks, weeks into months, and months into years. the prince’s insatiable thirst for power grew. he coveted not just admiration but absolute dominion over all. ignoring the lessons of humility, he prepared to make his final wish. “i wish to have the power of a god!” he declared, his voice echoing with unbridled ambition.

but in his fervor, arion failed to grasp the enormity of what he sought. the moment his wish was uttered, the air crackled with energy, swirling around him like a tempest. the power surged into his fragile mortal form, an overwhelming force that no mere human could withstand. in a blinding flash of light, arion was consumed, his body shattering into countless stars that scattered across the night sky.

in the aftermath, y/n stood alone, the echo of his ambition fading into the cosmos. with a heavy heart, she returned to her realm inside the lamp, a silent guardian of the wishes granted and a keeper of the lessons learned.

the tale of prince arion and his genie became a legend whispered through the ages, a cautionary story of desire’s peril and the fragile nature of ambition.

and so, the stars twinkled with a haunting beauty, a reminder that even the mightiest of wishes can lead to one’s downfall, echoing through the hearts of those who dare to dream too boldly.

centuries later, in an oasis deep in a dessert, a man had skilledfully snuck in a temple, the long lost temple were inside laid the tomb of prince arion, searched by thousands of thieves and raiders.

he had finally found it, bypassing though the security and fool-traps, being surrounded in a room full of riches, precious stones, luxurious clothes and precious royal crowns.

he took out a scroll from his deep linen pants pocket, laying it down ontop of the stone tomb cover, and holding his torch near, black eyes skimming over the worn out drawing.

“i can’t believe it…” he breathed out, the drawing matched the lamp before him perfectly. this small artifact held the promise of transforming his life, of elevating him beyond the identity of a mere thief scavenging for the unattainable. it could make him a king.

jay took the lamp in his hands once again. still struck by the legendary object, he stepped back, accidentally unlocking the last singular trap.

suddenly, the ancient temple began to tremble violently, debris raining down around him as the ancient structure started to collapse. panic surged through him as he realized he had only moments to escape the crumbling ruins, no chance to collect the new found treasures.

he glanced at the lamp, and shook his head, not wanting to waste a wish to get out of here, he would escape in his own way.

admist the chaos, jay’s eyes darted around the room, searching for a way out. his sharp gaze landed on a tattered carpet draped over a pile of treasures, thinking it would maybe uncover a wooden door on the floor.

desperate, he lunged for it, but found no door.

as he grasped it madly, the carpet shimmered beneath his hands, vibrant colors swirling to life. to his astonishment, it began to lift off the ground, hovering just above the stone floor.

“is this real?” he muttered, hardly daring to believe his luck.

with the temple shaking around him, jay jumped onto the carpet, gripping its sides tightly. “take me out of here!” he commanded, and to his shock, it surged forward, darting through the collapsing chamber and out into the open air.

as they soared into the sky, the temple crumbled into nothingness behind him, drowning in the sand, never to be seen again.

the night soon fell in the dessert lands, as jay camped inside a cold cave, his belongings scattered near the magic carpet, in the darkness of the stone.

he hissed as he burned himself, but finally lit up a fire, and leaned back, his back hitting the hard rock.

the scenes of the day played through his mind, as he observed the red carpet that seemed like any house object he had seen. making him wonder what other pieces of magic could have been hidden in the now destroyed temple.

as the fire crackled softly, he reached out for the lamp. with a firm grip, he held the lamp close, feeling the warmth of its metal against his palm.

his eyes absorbed every detail of the it. the surface was intricately engraved with swirling patterns, serpents, temples, and cryptic symbols, all hinting at ancient secrets and the long-forgotten masters who once wielded its power.

jay wondered how many people before him had found themselves in the exact same situation, longing for something that only magic would let come to life.

he began to trace circles along one side, his fingers gliding over the engravings, smoothing the dust that had settled over centuries. each stroke filled him with a feeling of curiosity.

the intoxicating thrill of the unknown pulsed through him, igniting a reckless urge to awaken the genie trapped. and so he did.

EXTRA:

masterlist.

next chapter.

all chapters.

#kpop x fem reader #kpop x you #kpop x reader #enhypen #enhypen x reader #jay park #park jongseong #park jongseong x reader #park jongseong x you #enha x reader #enha scenarios #enha imagines #enha #enha jay

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butterflyhiptattoo · 6 months ago

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Emerging From the Magazines: Bob Mizer's Athletic Models Guild

When twenty-four-year-old Bob Mizer began marketing photographs of men in posing straps in 1946, he was already on a crusade.

He was tired of police harassment in Pershing Square – a well-known meeting spot for gay men in downtown Los Angeles where he socialized with friends nearly every day during high school. They gossiped about their fellow Pershing Square regulars – the effeminate belles, the butch trade, and some in between. But in 1940 he wrote in his diary of a crackdown: "vice clean up is tightening Lillie is really serious about cleaning up the city," using a slang term common in gay circles for the police.

He also made weekly visits to the nearby Los Angeles Central Library and was tired of reading psychology books on the danger posed by "sexual variants" such as himself and his friends. "Anything you could read anywhere showed how pernicious a thing this was... [how] you would deteriorate into a mass of trembling flesh if you did these things," he later complained.

He was also tired of arguing with his Mormon mother, who vociferously objected to his transgender friend Rodney-later known as Daisy -who was bullied at school for wearing pink girls' slacks and having plucked eyebrows. Delia Mizer called Rodney a "pansy" and labeled his sexual proclivities "against all the laws of nature." Her son responded angrily, using a very different vocabulary, one that drew on notions of legal equality and civil rights: "Most people are just obeying their impulses," he retorted. "Should they be denied the right to fulfill their instincts?"

As a young man, Mizer had already identified the many ways society looked down on "temperamental people" like him and his circle of Pershing Square friends. More important, he was also clearly determined to do something about it to confront the legal, medical, and religious prejudices that so viscerally affected his life.

One Sunday night in March 1940 he was on the telephone listening to Rodney describe his sexual exploits from the night before. Someone else on his party line was also listening in a common occurrence at a time when only the rich had private telephone lines. Using vulgar lan-guage, the eavesdropper expressed his contempt for such people. Mizer had had enough. He channeled his anger into his diary that night: "My aim in life will be to create tolerance among mankind and especially to vindicate the decent, spiritual Urning," using a nineteenth-century term for men attracted to other men. He was beginning to articulate the sense of defiance that had been building up inside him. Soon his rudimentary efforts to create tolerance made it into print. "This week I made my column risqué," he noted of his writing in the Polytechnic High School newspaper. "All of my gay friends are included." Even as an eighteen-year-old high school student, Mizer demonstrated a willingness to defy convention and assert his desires. He had also developed the ability to publicly affirm his gay friends if in a coded way that perhaps only they would understand.

Mizer's ambition was to be an author. He was not just a columnist but an editor of his high school's award-winning newspaper – considered one of the top ten in the country by the Columbia University School of Journalism. He had begun creative writing in grammar school and published several short stories. He was also a voracious reader, checking out popular psychology and sexology books like Out-witting Our Nerves and Sexual Power on his weekly runs to the Los Angeles Public Library. He so identified with Boris Barisol's biography of writer Oscar Wilde, subtitled The Man, the Artist, the Martyr, that he labeled his own 1940 diary "Bob Mizer: The Man, the Thinker, the ?" One of his teachers suggested that his skills at writing, shorthand, and typing would easily land him a steady job as a court reporter. But Mizer wanted to write his own book. He would call it "How You Can Help the Homosexualists" and would target younger gay men whose worldview had not yet formed.

Although he never published such a book, writing would occupy much of his life, as he penned hundreds of feisty editorials denouncing censorship, puritanism, and prejudice for his magazine Physique Pictorial, which he published for over twenty years. Not unlike the book he hoped to write, Physique Pictorial offered help and comfort to tens of thousands of gay men in Cold War America. As the editor of the first large-circulation American magazine targeting gay men, Mizer found a way to help the community he had found at Pershing Square. In the pages of his path-breaking magazine, Mizer honed the skills he first tried out in his high school newspaper-thumbing his nose at the authorities while speaking up for his friends.

In postwar America, a commercial network of gay physique photographers and magazine publishers emerged from the contests and magazines surrounding the physical culture movement. Bob Mizer was neither the first nor the only gay man to capitalize on his community's interest in physique photography. But he became the center of a network that served to connect, inspire, and politicize that subculture. He drew on an older tradition of gay photographers marketing their products through an underground market or in the back pages of mainstream fitness magazines. But with the founding of Physique Pictorial in 1951, he opened this tradition to public scrutiny and a new level of visual and discursive engagement. He was joined by Irv Johnson, the owner of a gym in Chicago, who began publishing Tomorrow's Man in 1952, and by Randolph Benson and John Bullock, a gay couple who met at the University of Virginia, who began publishing Grecian Guild Pictorial in 1955. Together they created a new genre of small magazines that would help serve and unite gay men throughout the country.

The social world Mizer constructed with his gay high school friends at Pershing Square was central to his budding role as a pioneering gay entrepreneur. "The number of faggots cruising around here is legion," remembered the writer Hart Crane. But the number of available sexual partners was only part of the appeal. "Here are little fairies who can quote Rimbaud before they are eighteen," he observed, suggesting how the space also offered an education in gay cultural codes. It was through connections made there that Mizer not only discovered a sense of community and a sense of oppression but also learned about a central feature of gay male culture: photography of the nude male.

While still in high school, Mizer went to a party at his friend Sydney Phillip's place, where three gay friends posed in the nude for "artistic studies" that the host photographed. "It was terribly cute to see them rush to hide in the bathroom whenever a knock was heard at the door," Mizer noted of the models' skittishness. Featured in one of the first entries in his 1940 diary, the night clearly made an impression. A few months later Mizer himself posed for another gay photographer and became "enthused about barbell exercising."3

Weightlifting led Mizer to another formative influence: Strength & Health, the preeminent physical culture magazine published by Bob Hoffman in York, Pennsylvania. Mizer began reading the magazine in high school when he started lifting weights – he purchased his barbells through its back pages. He enjoyed the bodybuilding photos and articles but was particularly intrigued by the monthly "S & H Leaguers' Page," a pen-pal service for those who wanted to exchange letters and photographs. Members often described their hobbies and interests, which included not only bodybuilding and physique photographs but often music, ballet, and theater. In April 1945 Mizer placed the following notice, hoping to connect with other leaguers; he included his home address, which would become the legendary home of his physique studio: "Bob Mizer, 1834 West 11th St., Los Angeles, Cal. is interested in photography and creative writing, and promises an immediate answer and exchange of photos to all who write. He uses a York barbell and other training appliances and hopes that we will allot more space to the league notes, as he enjoys reading this department and writing to other leaguers. "

The response was overwhelming – Mizer received over three hundred letters from fellow S & H Leaguers, some of whom remained life-long friends. Other leaguers reported similar responses from their no- tices. One received such a flood of mail-but to the wrong address – that the Post Office requested he issue a correction immediately. Mizer later praised this service for allowing "lonely bodybuilders and others" not only to correspond but also to form "long-lasting and fruitful" friendships. His positive experience with the S & H Leaguers' Page offered a pivotal lesson, demonstrating to Mizer the desire of men who enjoyed physique photography to connect with each other.

After high school graduation he worked as an office clerk and typist for the Texas & Fort Worth Railroad, but in his spare time he also began to help out at various Los Angeles photography studios, learning how to pose models, position lighting, and develop film. In the summer of 1945, during the final days of World War II, Mizer was full of excitement as he made plans over the establishment of what he was already calling "my business." He was honing his craft by apprenticing at Fred- erick Kovert's Hollywood studio. "I am helping him in my spare time in order to decide whether or not to come into the studio to work." Kovert was a former silent movie actor who had become one of the more daring and well-known photographers of nude men. Mizer was one of numerous young men working for Kovert, doing much of the photography that bore his name. Mizer often brought models there, used his darkroom, and even posed himself. He could do none of this at home, since his mother, who ran a rooming house, did not approve of his interest in photographing nearly naked men. Still, he found Kovert to be controlling and difficult to work with.

Soon he bought his own camera and started to frequent Muscle Beach and bodybuilding competitions to find models. Muscle Beach in Santa Monica-not far from the home he shared with his mother near downtown Los Angeles was the center of the postwar interest in bodybuilding and beefcake. It was the perfect place to meet bodybuilders who were anxious to be photographed. "I modeled for Bob Mizer in 1947, '48," Ben Sorensen remembered. "Bob came down to Muscle Beach and just talked to people, you know? He invites us up. Of course everybody's interested, when they're bodybuilding, in getting some free pictures." It was Bob McCune, another bodybuilding champion Mizer photographed, who convinced Mizer to submit his photos to Strength & Health. Editor John Grimek, himself a well-known bodybuilding champion, encouraged Mizer to submit more work. "Yours are as good as others," Grimek told the budding photographer when they met at one of the bodybuilding competitions in Los Angeles.

Mizer called his business the Athletic Model Guild (AMG) and offered his first advertisements in Strength & Health in 1946, where they competed for attention with similar advertisements from other gay photographers, such as Alfonso Hanagan, known as "Lon of New York." Hanagan had first become interested in physique photography when he became enthralled with images of bodybuilder Tony Sansone, who marketed his own photographs. After moving to New York in 1936 to pursue a career in music, he met Sansone and began to socialize with and photograph him and his friends. By the 1940s his physique photographs were being featured on the cover of Strength & Health and bodybuilders began seeking him out, hoping to appear on magazine cover. As payment, the magazine gave him free ad space in the back of the magazine. It was this mutually profitable world of photographers, bodybuilders, and magazine publishers that Mizer would enter, then help to transform.

When Mizer began marketing physique photography to a gay audience, he joined a field with deep roots in gay culture. The taking, sharing, and selling of such images had been central to gay culture for well over a half century by the time Mizer discovered it. Wilhelm von Gloeden began selling photographs of nude young men he posed in classical staging in Taormina, Sicily, in the 1890s. He developed a large following in cosmopolitan circles, especially among cultivated gay men. Some of his more restrained images appeared in European journals that were popular within the Aesthetic movement, while his nudes circulated through an underground market. Oscar Wilde and other gay notables made pilgrimages to his studio.

In addition to such high art, images of nearly nude men circulated in the context of the physical culture movement, starting with images of Eugene Sandow in the 1890s. By the 1920s nude photos were widely marketed in the back of both art and physical culture magazines. Physical culturist John Hernic offered nude photos in the back of Art Magazine in the 1920s and Strength & Health in the 1930s. "These photos will be a source of inspiration to you in your training for a well developed body," Hernic's ad promised, providing a small image of a muscled and oiled young man with a prominent posing strap a pouch hanging off a string that covered only the genitals, the most revealing item of clothing a model could wear.

Collector Robert Mainardi identifies Hernic as a "mail-order pioneer," but his Apollo Art Studios was soon joined by others. To earn a living during the Depression, brothers Fred and William Ritter photographed themselves and their fellow physical culturists who trained at a New York City YMCA. They developed their own photos and sold high-quality images for $1 apiece. Film historian Thomas Waugh labels them "the first gay generation of physique photographers. "10

Nude figure studies were only one of the many items available for sale in the back pages of these magazines. There were advertisements for barbells, food supplements, clothing, figure studies, and more. Indeed, most magazines were simply vehicles to sell products. Bob Hoffman founded the York Barbell Company a year before he founded his magazine Strength & Health and admitted the periodical was really a means to sell equipment. Both Hoffman and his main competitor Joe Weider distributed their fitness magazines at a loss, seeing them as a way to sell more barbells. Some of the first famous bodybuilders were similarly engaged in marketing products. Eugene Sandow – considered the world's most perfect man – performed on the vaudeville circuit, published books on physical culture techniques, and marketed postcards of his own image. As much a brand name as a bodybuilder, Sandow opened a chain of vegetarian restaurants, sanatoriums, and hotels that by the 1920s made him a millionaire. Bodybuilding promoter Bernarr Macfadden also constructed a commercial empire around the sport that included health retreats, restaurants, beauty contests, book sales, lectures, and mail-order fitness courses. Right from the start, bodybuilding was a lucrative business, the centerpiece of a network of consumer items.

A legend has developed that Mizer's first business plan was to serve as a referral service between models and the studios that required their services. According to this legend, the talent agency model failed, but Mizer díscovered, as if by accident, that the photographs were more lucrative than the modeling connections. This unsubstantiated story implies that his idea of marketing photos to gay men was sui generis. It cuts Mizer off from the long tradition of gay men taking, exchanging, and purchasing such photographs, beginning in the late nineteenth century. One of the sources of the legend was Wayne Stanley, a Mizer protégé who inherited Mizer's business and who self-servingly asserted that AMG was "the first photographic studio of the young male physique, ignoring Von Gloeden, Hernic, the Ritter Brothers, Lon of New York, Kovert, and many others. Mizer's diaries suggest that photography was key from the beginning and that he considered himself to be part of a field of physique photographers from at least 1946. While a pioneer in many ways, Mizer did not create the genre.

Although the selling of physique-type photographs was not new, in the post-World War II era such imagery was becoming a much more visible component of American culture. Men had only recently started appearing shirtless in public. While European men had begun going topless on beaches soon after World War I, one-piece men's bathing suits emerged in the United States only in the 1930s. Some called them "Depression suits," suggesting that the shirt disappeared owing to lack of funds. As more and more proud male bathers defied convention by exposing their chests, the media began to talk of a "no shirt movement." Some beach communities such as Atlantic City, New Jersey, pushed back and banned topless male bathing. Responding to the changing beach regulations, clothing manufacturers offered detachable tops for their swimsuits. Representing the shifting cultural sands, their advertisements often featured one shirtless male and another with trunks and a tank top. According to David Chapman, by 1937 the controversy was settled, as most of the nation's beaches allowed men to appear shirtless.

World War II brought images of shirtless sailors and soldiers into American homes and theaters. In covering the war, New York magazines and Hollywood films soon reflected the trend toward displays of the male chest. A cover of Look magazine in 1942 featured a shirtless image of Muscle Beach denizen John Kornoff, the U.S. Army's first physical trainer. Cannon Towel advertisements in Life featured soldiers bathing in the South Pacific wearing nothing but one of its products. Within a year of the war's end, as Mizer started marketing his photo albums, Sidney Skolsky, sitting across town in Swab's drugstore writing his nationally syndicated gossip column, coined "beefcake" to refer to Hollywood's liberal use of Guy Madison's physique. Madison had been discovered by gay Hollywood agent Henry Willson, who also named and popularized gay actors Tab Hunter and Rock Hudson. Skolsky dubbed the bevy of male actors posing in bathing suits a "beefcake brigade," and this new term for displays of young, pulchritudinous male flesh took hold. Willson was a frequent client of physique photographer Lon of New York but was now bringing that same look to Hollywood. So the popularization of "beefcake" imagery and terminology, from their very origins, had a gay inflection.

But if male torsos could increasingly be seen on American beaches and in popular periodicals after World War II, they were still considered taboo in town. Men would continue to be subject to arrest for appearing shirtless on many city streets and in parks into the early 1960s. They were particularly vulnerable to such arrest if they did so in a known gay cruising area, reflecting the tensions in American culture over male nudity and its homoerotic implications. A seventeen year-old Harvey Milk remembered being charged with indecent exposure in the summer of 1947 for baring his chest in a secluded gay cruising area of Central Park, even as men with families did exactly the same on the more public grassy lawns. Being grouped among "the men without their shirts" was one of Milk's first visceral experiences of antigay oppression.

As interest in the male physique increased during the postwar period, Mizer's Physique Pictorial would catch the beginnings of a cultural wave. Yet he would also feel the wrath of law enforcement that tried to shut his business down, even before it was formally on its feet. He and his magazine would be caught up in legal disputes over the sexual meaning of such displays of male flesh. For the next two decades, Mizer would place himself at the center of this battle.

POSTAL INSPECTOR VISIT

On July 23, 1945, Mizer had his first of many encounters with federal law enforcement authorities. After leaving work as usual at the Texas & Fort Worth Railroad and bicycling by the library on Pershing Square to exchange some books, Mizer arrived home to find postal inspectors waiting for him. They searched his room, found "dirty pictures," and took him to their offices for questioning. Mizer somehow escaped arrest, but a few months later Kovert's studio was also raided, resulting in headlines in the Los Angeles Examiner. Intimately involved in the resulting legal drama, Mizer attended court with Kovert, who pleaded guilty to possession of obscene materials, and drafted a letter for Kovert's customers seeking their support. Not even the intimidating tactics of the Post Office and the court system seem to have deterred the twenty-three-year-old Mizer. "Spent evening on [Athletic Model] Guild calls and letters," he wrote in his diary, just two days after being what he described as "probed" by postal inspectors. Rather than serve as a deterrent, Mizer's encounter with federal postal authorities seemed to increase his resolve and suggests how his struggle with the forces of censorship formed a central component of his business. Mizer would face arrest again in 1947 and 1954 in connection with his business, each encounter with the authorities sharpening his sense of outrage.

Mizer began his business in 1946 by producing and distributing mimeographed "albums" to sell his beefcake photographs, copying the standard operating procedure followed by Kovert of Hollywood, Lon of New York, and many other such photographers.17 He would send customers who responded to his advertisements in Strength & Health a one-page sample of photo albums, from which they could select the models and images they wanted to purchase. However, Mizer's early albums went beyond providing the necessary marketing information. Mizer peppered his albums with news and commentary on the physique world-biographies of models, bodybuilding contest results, and warnings about Post Office crackdowns. As with his earlier writings in high school and his later editorials in Physique Pictorial, Mizer constructed a narrative that drew customers and models into the same enlightened circle of upstanding physique enthusiasts and supporters of free speech, while casting public censors and moralists into the darkness.

Starting with Forrester Millard in 1946 -- the first featured model in his premier "Album A" – Mizer constructed a fantasy narrative about his models that encouraged a sense of identification between them and his target audience of middle-class gay men. At the same time, he cleaned up the description of his interactions to avoid any hint of illegality. Although Mizer would print on almost every mailing and magazine he produced that he neither took nor sold nude photographs, he took nudes of Millard and of most every subsequent model. A native of New Mexico, Millard was only sixteen at the time Mizer photographed him, though Mizer fudged his date of birth to make him seventeen.

Publicly, Mizer lauded Millard as the ideal model who had control of every muscle due to hours posing before a circle of mirrors. Privately, Mizer complained that Millard was narcissistic to the point of being "completely entranced with his own physical beauty." Vanity had led Millard to quit school and be supported by his mother and a girlfriend. "In the album bulletins I try to be truthful – but naturally I must show jurisprudence in what truth I tell," Mizer wrote a correspondent at the time. "I would doom a model's popularity if I announced he was married with two kids.... Most of my models over 23 are married or are permanently shacking up with their common-law wives."

So the biography Mizer constructed for Millard centered on discipline, Horatio Alger upward mobility, and a hint of homosexual camaraderie. "Laughed at because he was skinny, Forrester rapidly developed a magnificently defined body which became the envy of his former tormentors," Mizer wrote. Mizer replaced mention of his real-life girlfriend with "training companion" John Miller, who had won top honors at a recent AAU contest. They posed for Mizer's first duos, a homoerotic format that set Mizer and other gay physique photographers apart from their mainstream colleagues. Dark-featured Millard and blonde Miller looked like the perfect gay couple. They hoped to open a gym together, Mizer told his clients suggestively. The image of Millard and Miller on a settee with overlapping arms, hands touching, appeared in Strength & Health and became a signature AMG photo. Millard was later called "almost the touchtone for AMG's fame".

To counter the perception of both gay men and bodybuilders as degenerates, Mizer's biographical notes gave his models middle-class respectability, highlighting not only their physical attributes but also their alleged intellectual and professional ambitions. Not only was model Johnny Murphy tops in the "muscle game," but his business courses at Woodbury College were preparing him to become a business executive. "In anything he does, he will not content himself with being just average, he must be the best," Mizer gushed.

From the feedback he received to his many customer questionnaires, Mizer had a keen sense of what his audience liked and the "psychological effect" of his photos. As he told a colleague, "A picture is rarely unpopular if the model looks directly into the lens (and hence seems to be looking at the person observing the picture) as naturally they feel identification with him." Not only in his lighting and posing but also in his editorial content, Mizer made sure that his largely middle-class audience could identify with the models he was offering them, assuring them that they were "from upper-level homes." While seeking to bond models and customers in a circle of mutual camaraderie and respectability – what he called "the few... who demand freedom of expression" – Mizer also used his albums to make a detailed and careful analysis of censorship efforts by people he derided as "philistines," "moralists," and "unaesthetic law enforcement officers. " Mizer had gotten nowhere in his attempts to reason with censorship authorities. He and his fellow Los Angeles area physique photographers petitioned the Post Office to allow the use of the mail for nude photography. Postal authorities responded that they were forced to forbid such mail by local civic organizations and church groups that feared such products would fall into the hands of children. Mizer offered a clever countersuggestion: photographers could send nude photographs care of the local postmaster in every city, where they could then be claimed by the recipient with proper proof of age. His proposal went unheeded.

Mizer had been in business less than a year when he was first arrested, but it was not for sending nudes through the mail. Mindful of postal inspectors, he had sold nudes only to walk-in customers at his studio near downtown Los Angeles-what amounted to just 10 percent of his business. But when one of those customers, thirty six-year-old Mexican-born Texan Pasquel Barron, became embroiled in a Post Office obscenity investigation, he admitted to obtaining nudes from Mizer, and the Post Office quickly forwarded the information to the local district attorney. Mizer was arrested in 1947 for contributing to the delinquency of a minor, James Maynor, one of his first models, a seventeen-year-old. The district attorney uncovered a network of teenage bodybuilders centered on Muscle Beach, many of whom had been brought to Mizer's studio by William Petty, a physical education instructor employed by the city of Santa Monica to organize athletic activities and performances. Petty and another photographer were also arrested.

Unable to afford an attorney, Mizer was convinced by a public defender to plead guilty to the misdemeanor charge he admitted to photographing Maynor in the nude. But in his plea to avoid prison and receive probation, Mizer insisted that he operated a legitimate business. He stipulated that he had consulted with attorneys and obtained signed release statements from his models or their parents. To distinguish his from previous such enterprises that operated underground, Mizer granted the court access to his meticulous records concerning both customers and models. He freely admitted to being a homosexual and to "attend[ing] several meetings of other types of such individuals in Lafayette Park" a possible reference to gay social or fraternal organizations. Friends and neighbors testified to his good conduct and character – they described him as a photographer and artist who never smoked, drank, or got entangled in the law. The district attorney countered that Mizer's business was "pandering only to the tastes of lustful homosexuals." Several of his models, including John Miller, featured in AMG's early advertisements, confessed to engaging in oral sex with Mizer.

In denying his request, the probation officer emphasized that Mizer showed no remorse for his activities and was an admitted homosexual. He labeled his business of photographing teenage boys in the nude "a vicious and deliberate crime." Mizer was sentenced to six months at a work farm in Saugus, California. As with his interrogation by postal inspectors in 1945, the time he spent in Saugus seemed to steel his will. He felt abused by a legal system that was persecuting him for his lack of shame in being gay and operating a business that catered to his fellow homosexuals. He would later caution his readers to remain silent if arrested and never admit to any guilt, lest they find themselves "rail-roaded to prison" like he felt he was. As he wrote to his mother from Saugus, "I feel more strength now than ever before, but this strength, this driving energy, shall be carefully bridled and directed with wisdom.... ambition is everything." Mizer's tone and focus on the forces of censorship turned darker after his 1947 arrest. By 1950 he reported on a "witch hunt" at Muscle Beach, where one Sunday all the photographers were arrested and further photography forbidden. "Los Angeles and California is in a stage of sex hysteria," he warned, with the state legislature passing sex laws "which only stop short of outlawing the double bed." He chastised "those too stupid and prurient-minded" to understand and appreciate the need for nude art. "These same philistines are mischievously at work to undermine other basic rights of the individual," he wrote. He recommended that readers join the American Civil Liberties Union (ACLU) or the American Sunbathing and Health Association, a nudist organization. "The only successful way to fight these frustrated reactionaries is through national organization." Fighting the forces of censorship through collective action was clearly on Mizer's mind.

Mizer closely followed and reported on the legal struggles of other physique photographers, even though raising such issues threaten to scare away more timid customers. Whenever possible, he noted what he saw as rays of hope, such as a "progressive Federal Judge" in Chicago who ruled in 1947 that photographs of nude males by Al Urban were not obscene. He noted that most magazines and photographers "in the field" had almost always beaten their prosecutions, but "only at damaging expense." These small victories failed to establish a clear national legal precedent, nor did they silence the local churches, parent teacher organizations, and other "moralist groups" behind censorship efforts. Mizer quickly identified the pattern of obscenity prosecution that would continue for the next twenty years: censors won at the local or lower-level courts but then lost on appeal. Physique photographers would have to work together to establish a large war chest to fight the censors and establish a national precedent.

PHYSIQUE PICTORIAL

So when Mizer began publishing Physique Pictorial in 1951, he envisioned it as a collective effort – a catalog of merchandise from a variety of gay photographers and other vendors facing exclusion from mainstream fitness magazines. The first few issues were "advertising booklets," offered to subscribers for free – a "gift" underwritten by participating businesses. Like the mainstream fitness magazines, Mizer figured that photograph sales would more than pay for the magazine, as barbell sales financed mainstream fitness magazines. He wanted to bring gay physique photographers into closer alliance and thereby more effectively fight the forces of censorship. First called Physique Photo News, it would take advertisements from the back of Strength & Health and give them a new, safer, and more prominent home of their own.

Under pressure from postal authorities, mainstream fitness magazines were beginning to refuse ads for undraped nudes. Warning that "queers" had "obtained a particularly vicious hold on our bodybuilding game," Iron Man instituted a policy refusing ads with models wearing anything less than swim trunks and threatened even stricter rules in the future. Strength & Health had faced censorship efforts over a cover image that had been taken in the nude and later retouched with a posing strap. The managing editor of Strength & Health warned Mizer that his advertisement photos were becoming "less athletic and more risqué" and threatened to bar him from the magazine. While Mizer pledged to cooperate, he saw the writing on the wall. "We are anxious to get our own magazine strong enough that in a few years time we can thumb our noses at the physique magazines," he wrote to a trusted adviser.

The first issue represented the combined effort of six physique photography studios, but most of the others soon opted out. "Bruce [Bellas] was so frightened that he decided not to be represented in the next issue," Mizer recalled. To avoid postal inspectors, Bellas preferred to travel from city to city selling his images in person to select clients. Russ Warner also demurred, having already been summoned to Washington for an arduous hearing before postal inspectors over his nude photos with inked-in pouches. "The only people who would want photos of men were gay people," the postal inspectors confided to him, and their threat to "get every one of them" left him skittish. Even Mizer feared repercussions since "it will look dangerously like an organization which might effectively resist the postal distaste for physique work." Postal authorities may not have viewed it as a threat, but such organizational power was clearly at the forefront of Mizer's thinking.

Mizer's efforts at consolidation drew inspiration from the most prominent scholar and writer on the subject of sex in America. Like other early activists for gay rights, Mizer had read Alfred Kinsey's Sexual Behavior in the Human Male and considered it pivotal for his understanding of homosexuality as a naturally and frequently occurring variation of human activity. "Dr. Kinsey's first book was the most important one in my whole life," Mizer wrote to a colleague, "and for it I owe him a debt I could probably never repay. "

As an avid collector of materials to document American sexual culture, Kinsey became a regular Mizer customer, and the two quickly established an active correspondence that lasted nearly until Kinsey's death in 1956. On his many visits to Los Angeles, Kinsey met with Mizer and conducted sexual histories of his fellow physique photographers and models. Mizer even forwarded his frequent customer questionnaires to Kinsey for tabulation, thereby offering him indirect access to his customer base. In return, Kinsey offered strategic advice about how best to combat postal authorities.

Because of his own struggles with postal and customs authorities over shipments of erotic materials to his institute at Indiana University, Kinsey had developed relationships with prestigious law firms specializing in the First Amendment. It was he who suggested that physique publishers could win at the appellate level if they could find a way to sustain and finance their legal cases. "I have suggested before that all of you photographers should band together and employ the very best attorney that you can in the L.A. area to advise you and to handle individual cases," Kinsey wrote to Mizer in 1951, just as Mizer was establishing Physique Pictorial. Kinsey suggested that photographers of female nudes had tried to do this but never succeeded at forming a united group. While Mizer never formally organized his fellow physique photographers, he and his magazine served as a de facto central bureau of information, connecting customers, photographers, and publishers.

Tapping into an underserved gay market, Mizer's business flourished. As Mizer later remembered, "there was not such a thing at the time as a magazine that showed a variety of young, youthful models – not supermen – which is what most people wanted." Through his customer questionnaires, Mizer knew what his clients wanted: less information on weightlifting and exercise and more models. One twenty- two-year-old customer from Winchester, Massachusetts, remarked how Mizer's models were becoming "more youthful, slimmer and more suggestively posed" and encouraged him to be upfront about it – not to "hide all this under the general category of art photography," a common claim of photographers offering undraped nudes. As he wrote to Mizer, "It appears to me that by the constant polls you all seem to be taking so that you may satisfy your customers, you are catering more and more to the homosexual trade." Models, too, knew what Mizer was up to. "I think Bob was, um, interested more in the gay magazines than the bodybuilding ones," remembered model Ben Sorensen. "I'm straight, but that didn't bother me at all. Everybody at the gym knew what they were doing with the photos."

Within a year of establishing AMG, Mizer reported a gross monthly income of $700-annualized, this amounted to nearly three times the average family income of 1947. Mizer had hired his brother as a full-time employee and had nearly $2,000 in savings. His mailing list already contained customers from "practically every country in the world," according to the district attorney who prosecuted his case. "It grew like Topsy – a little bit each time," Mizer remembered.33 He soon began offering a "Nickle Plan," similar to a monthly book club, where customers would regularly receive photographs from each new AMG album. Wishing to respond to the particular desires of his customers, he allowed them to specify what types of models and photographs they preferred not to receive: "models over or under ages, races, slender or very heavy weights, poses with girls, models in clothing or part clothing such as Levis, models in trunks, portraits." Mizer was already engaging in specialization, acknowledging the particular sexual desires, fetishes, and prejudices of his customers.

Although Physique Pictorial could increasingly be found on select newsstands, Mizer's initial sense of it as a catalog of merchandise for subscribers endured. He recalled that although magazine wholesaler Lou Elson began to distribute it in New York after a year or two on the market, newsstand sales did not substantially increase total circulation. "Its circulation was horrible. It was very hard to get. Most newsstands didn't carry it," remembered Chuck Renslow, then a fellow physique photographer in Chicago. Mizer himself called his newsstand circulation "quiet select." Continually struggling to find a newsstand distribution network, he mostly sold Physique Pictorial by subscription. But he was proud of his independence – unwilling to bow and scrape to distributors or advertisers. In addition to working with a few wholesalers, Mizer sent copies himself to select newsstands. "Tell your dealer about this and give him our address," he suggested to readers, trying to get them actively involved in increasing circulation. When Physique Pictorial did manage to appear on newsstands, it sold out almost immediately.

In 1963 AMG tried to diversify and modernize by offering a large format, color magazine called Young Adonis to supplement the black-and-white Physique Pictorial. It was a sell-out wherever it was sold, but again Mizer had trouble getting it on newsstands. The distributor wrote Mizer a two-page letter describing the magazine's "sins." Although Mizer promised future issues would feature new offerings, including a fashion section handled by model Mark Nixon, it was the only issue Mizer offered.

FROM GUILD TO NETWORK

Mizer's choice of the term "guild" to refer to his business started a trend among physique photography studios. Don Whitman founded the Western Photography Guild in Colorado in 1947 and soon had advertisements next to AMG's in the back of Strength & Health. In Metairie, Louisiana, a group of physique photographers and artists launched the Southern Guild. And in Portsmouth, Virginia, George U. Lyon and Charles E. Smith started Underwood Photographic Guild. The word "guild" could refer to any association of people with a common goal but historically referred to a group of craftsmen or merchants who exerted some control over their trade. As an avid reader, Mizer was probably well aware that medieval guilds were famous for regulating entry into a profession and often exerted considerable power in city government. His choice of words suggests his aspirations to unite, protect, and empower those involved in the physique field. It was the same term Harry Hay would use as he began organizing the Mattachine Society as a gay political group across town a few years later.

In keeping with the spirit of a guild, Mizer cooperated with and promoted the work of other photographers. He would share or sell mailing lists to competitors and alert readers when new physique magazines were launched or studios opened. "Physique Pictorial is not a closed enterprise and any legitimate studio can be represented in it," he promised. By 1954 he regularly included a directory of photographers, artists, and models selling merchandise, a custom followed by many later physique magazines. He was happy to note when individual models offered their own photos directly to readers. When he had a disagreement with a physique artist, he let readers know that the artist's work could now be found in a competing magazine.

As the number of physique studios catering to gay men proliferated, Mizer's magazine functioned like a Better Business Bureau. Mizer barred advertisements from studios who were known to be unreliable, gave bad service, or sold illegal material (although he included photos with "inked" pouches, indicating the original photograph was in the nude.) He threatened to publicly denounce photographers who were territorial and unwelcoming to new talent in their area, and he was quick to publicly reprimand photographers who did not reciprocate his courtesies. Mizer also warned readers of offers from the "get-rich- quick boys" promising special pictures available only to a few "intimate friends." Given the Post Office's vigilance, he knew that studios selling nudes would not last long. "Every mailing list is peppered with postal inspectors and their collaborators," he cautioned. After sending in an exorbitant fee, the customer might receive nothing. He encouraged readers to confess their stories of being victimized by such schemes.40 Envisioning a constantly widening network of producers and consumers, Mizer sought to place himself at its fulcrum. Soon he was offering a host of consumer items – artwork, slides, viewers, and "garments for athletes" including jeans, T-shirts, bathing suits, and the ubiquitous posing straps. Physique Pictorial functioned as a nexus for finding, producing, selling, and admiring male photos. Other studios described AMG as a one-stop shopping experience: "one of the largest photo guilds in the country and supplies about everything a photo collector or bodybuilder wants: movies, garments, thousands of all sizes of photos, color slides, and many other works of art."

The network grew increasingly international as Mizer featured photographs by Arax of Paris and models wearing trunks from Vince of London. He soon had agents in Belgium, France, Denmark, the United Kingdom, and Japan. By 1962 Mizer sponsored European tours for physique enthusiasts, "to photograph local athletes, and to visit famous clubs of special interest."

Mizer encouraged not only other physique photographers but a new and growing group of physique artists in his magazine. AMG became a generative center that showcased the work of talented young painters and sketch artists who then developed their own followings that often eclipsed Mizer's own popularity. In 1957 he introduced an unknown artist who "depicts the healthy robust youth of the forests of Finland," who would later reach international renown as "Tom of Finland." But it was an artist from Virginia, George Quaintance, who created what Mizer called a "vogue" that was widely imitated.

Quaintance had begun taking photographs and drawing sketches of male nudes under the tutelage of Lon of New York. He had worked drawing bodybuilding champions for the cover of Joe Weider's Your Physique, but it was when he started painting for Bob Mizer's new magazine that his career took off. Set either at a dude ranch in Arizona, where he lived, or at a bath in ancient Greece, Quaintance's paintings created the kind of playful environment of easy male camaraderie that Mizer sought to foster through his magazine. And like Mizer, Quaintance considered his homoerotic artwork to be "a crusade for the rights of the feelings" of his customers. "I too feel that I crusade in my attempt to supply, or satisfy, a deep emotional hunger in the inner lives of my customers," he explained to a homophile leader. Soon his mailing list of ten thousand active buyers around the world surpassed that of Mizer. He offered not only physique paintings but prints, photographs, and sculptures, expanding his business to a four-man operation. "It grew too fast.... I'm trying to adjust myself to all the confusion," he wrote at the time. Those who met him as he toured the country selling his artwork describe a flamboyant artist who loved wearing western gear, turquoise jewelry, and showing off his young Mexican American lover and frequent model, Eduardo.

What distinguished Quaintance's artwork was not just the invitation to view nearly naked men but the excitement of seeing them looking at each other, as Michael Bronski has argued. One of Quaintance's first cover images for Physique Pictorial demonstrates how groundbreaking those gazes were. "Morning in the Desert" featured four ranch hands around an outdoor bath dressing and preparing for work. One naked bather is standing, his genitals covered only by soapsuds. Another naked man lies below him in a tub of water, looking directly up at the other's body. But for the cover of the magazine, to pass postal censors, Quaintance shifted the man's head to the left, so his gaze no longer fell longingly on his fellow naked male bather. Like his better-known successor, Tom of Finland, Quaintance constructed a "network of looks" that included and invited those of the viewer, furthering the sense of homoerotic identification.

Mizer's growing network of photographers, artists, and other physique-related businesses used a language of friendship and camaraderie that further encouraged a sense of community. Seattle physique artist William MacLean set up a studio and invited new and emerging physique artists to market their work through him. This offer featured a photograph of the very handsome artist hanging images in his exhibit space, noting suggestively that he was "a very eligible bachelor" and therefore "his studio is a gathering place for the young social set and many a party is hosted there." London model Clive Jones sold his images directly and promised to handle orders personally. "Clive would like to hear from his many friends in America" and promised to send a catalog of images of himself and his "buddies" in London.

Mizer offered slides of physique models intended to be projected on a wall or screen for group viewing. One of MacLean's more reproduced drawings showed a group of men admiring AMG slides and imitating the poses of the models. When Mizer began making physique film shorts, he called for readers to submit script ideas, giving members yet another way to participate. He offered suggestions on where to buy a good, inexpensive projector and soon began renting the films at a quarter of the price of purchasing one. In words and images, he encouraged readers to share the experience of watching physique films. "Imagine what a hit these films would be at your next party or gathering of friends who are physical culture enthusiasts!" Indeed, much of the allure of participating in this network, whether as a producer or as a consumer, was the sense of community it offered.

Mizer's own rhetoric helped to solidify that sense of community. Boasting that his magazine lacked "mass appeal," he explicitly signaled his targeting of a minority population, what he called "the limited aesthetic group" who appreciated the male body. Mizer was borrowing a gay discourse developed in the late nineteenth century, a period he knew well from his reading of Boris Brasol's biography of Oscar Wilde. As art historian Christopher Reed argues, "The Wilde trials seemed to reveal homosexuality as the secret behind the enigmatic passions of the Aesthetes, tainting the entire movement, all of its products, and even the idea of aesthetic sensitivity."

Indeed, the modern identities of "the homosexual" and "the artist" – both considered manifestations of innate predispositions – developed nearly simultaneously in the nineteenth century, as both creating art and committing sodomy moved from activities to ways of being. "Artistic" quickly became euphemistic slang for "queer." Painter Paul Cadmus remembered how the association had transferred to the American scene by the 1930s. "The word homosexual was never used," he remembered. "They just said, 'He's an artist." American psychiatrists, too, described men suspected of homosexuality as "aesthetic in temperament." Thus when Mizer adopted this language, praising Quaintance for his "neo-aestheticism" and imagining his audience as "the limited aesthetic group," he was signaling to and helping to construct a distinct gay identity among his readers.

"THE TV SHOW THAT MADE AMERICA GASP!"

Physique Pictorial's increasing circulation came with its own risks. Its presence on Los Angeles newsstands soon caught the attention of Paul Coates, a conservative columnist for the afternoon tabloid the Los Ange- les Mirror, known for exposing what he considered to be the seamier side of life in Southern California – prostitutes, repo men, drug addicts, and shoplifters. In 1954 Coates used his local television program Confidential File on KTTV to alert his audience to the "unpleasant fact" of homosexuality in Los Angeles. It was the first prime-time television program to broach the topic and helped propel Coates's show into national syndication. Coates featured footage of a Mattachine Society meeting with well-dressed men and women drinking coffee and eating cookies. He also gave his audience a glimpse inside a gay bar. But he ended the show by holding up a copy of Physique Pictorial as a shocking example on city newsstands of the publications catering to homosexuals. According to one tabloid, it was "the TV show that made America gasp!" Working closely with the local Parent Teacher Association (PTA), Coates couched his programming as a crusade to warn families of the dangers homosexuals posed to children. He followed up with three newspaper columns devoted exclusively to the presence of gay maga-zines on the city's newsstands. Although concerned about the homophile magazine ONE, which billed itself as "The Homosexual Magazine," he noted that its editors at least made an effort to avoid the lurid. Physique Pictorial, however, was "thinly veiled pornography" that appealed to sex criminals and sadists. Coates claimed that this "Esquire for men who wish they weren't" featured images of men in chains being beaten and stabbed – a sensational reading of Mizer's photographs with swords and chains as props. He highlighted the case of one of Mizer's teenage models from Muscle Beach-an active church member engaged to be married, he noted-who complained of unwanted homosexual solicitations after his photo appeared in Physique Pictorial. There were dozens of such dangerous photographers, Coates warned. "It's big business in our town."

Leveraging his connections to the powerful Chandler media family, Coates orchestrated an all-out assault on Mizer's business. After Coates's columns appeared, a phalanx of local government officials descended on Mizer's business. Police began to intimidate newsstands where his magazine appeared. City regulators inspected his home, and health officials tested his pet monkeys for diseases. The former model featured in Coates's column sued Mizer for invasion of privacy.

Most ominously, the story brought a plainclothes Los Angeles Police Department vice officer to his door asking to buy nudes. Mizer demurred, offering him only his usual catalogs of men in posing straps. Undeterred, Detective Philip Barnes asked who of the many other photographers featured in his magazine might offer nudes. Mizer again demurred, but Barnes had already visited the studio of Lyle Frisby, a young, up-and-coming Mizer protégé whose images Mizer often included in his magazine. More accommodating, Frisby sold him "inked" nude photos, where the posing straps could be easily rubbed off.

Coates proudly covered the sting operation in a subsequent column. To again sensationalize the threat posed to children, he noted ominously that Frisby's Los Angeles studio was located just 250 yards from an elementary school. Both Frisby and Mizer were promptly arrested for possessing and distributing lewd photographs – a violation of the Los Angeles municipal code allowing Coates's newspaper series to end on a note of civic triumph.

Frisby was easily convicted and spent time in prison. The prosecution of Mizer, however, was more complicated, since the focus of the charge was "aiding and abetting" the sale of lewd pictures. Detective Barnes testified that Mizer told him he could obtain nudes from any of his advertisers, but he failed to note this in his initial report. Mizer denied the claim, testifying that he told detective Barnes that nudes were illegal and unavailable in Los Angeles and that he personally advised all photographers not to deal in nudes. Either way, there was little evidence to link Mizer directly with Frisby's nude photos. Seeing the weakness of the "aiding and abetting" argument, the prosecutor argued that Mizer's own photos were obscene because they displayed both "scenes of brutality and torture" and "the uncovered rump." Mizer's lawyer, Herbert Selwyn from the ACLU, argued that Mizer's posing-strap images were no more lewd than those in classical statuary or in movies such as Garden of Eden, a film set in a nudist colony then screening in area theaters. He called it "the first uncovered rump case" in memory.

But as in almost all trials of physique photographers, the real issue was less the explicitness of the photos than the sexual orientation of their audience. Displaying his real concern, the judge told Selwyn, "These are nothing but pin-up pictures for homosexuals." To feed the judge's suspicions, the prosecutor displayed a copy of Confidential mag- azine at trial with the blaring headline "America on Guard! Homosexuals, Inc." Trying to further associate Mizer with the homosexual cause, he concluded his cross-examination by asking, "Do you also publish the magazine known as ONE?" The judge sustained Selwyn's objection but enjoyed a "hearty chuckle." He found Mizer guilty and sentenced him to ninety days in prison.

Mizer appealed his conviction, telling Kinsey he was willing to put a substantial dent in his bank account and solicit help from nudist and other groups. He convinced a British magazine to publicize the case. "It is odd that when I am one of the few physique photographers who does not deal in nudes that I should be picked out as the one who must fight for their legality," he complained to Kinsey, who thought he was singled out because of the size of his business. Mizer was the aggressive entrepreneur who took the physique business from the back pages of fitness magazines to the cover of his own magazine, openly challenging postal inspectors. Predictably, Mizer's conviction was overturned on appeal. "You have done very well to stand up for your legal rights," Kinsey congratulated him. But Mizer, concerned about the effect such news might have on the field of physique photography, did not gloat. "I am keeping news of our victory quiet because I think some of the photographers in our field need a bit of a deterrent to keep them in line."

Mizer and Barnes squared off again a year later, this time in a televised congressional hearing. Mizer and Frisby became fodder for Senator Estes Kefauver's traveling hearings on the alleged problem of juvenile delinquency in America, part of his bid to enhance his presidential aspirations. Kefauver got Benjamin Karpman, the chief psychotherapist at St. Elizabeths Hospital in Washington, D.C., to testify that exposure to pornography at an early age could turn someone gay. Barnes described how he had confiscated pornographic materials from major national distributors Edward Mishkin and Irving Klaw. Some of the material was on display in posters lining the walls of the hearing room.

"Have you had any occasion to investigate cases wherein the use of male models might be used?" Kefauver asked, a delicate way to invoke homosexual erotica. Barnes outlined the case of Frisby and Mizer, pointing out that Mizer happened to be in the audience. Exaggerating the success of his efforts, he claimed he had confiscated $10,000 worth of materials from Frisby, that both men had been convicted of obscenity, and that Mizer's sentence had been overturned only because of a technicality. He highlighted the danger they posed to the public by noting the proximity of the school and the youth of the models.

Kefauver commended Barnes's efforts and noted what a difficult job he had, given how the courts and the legislatures continually failed to provide the tools he needed. Barnes impressed on the committee the need for a national agency to coordinate the efforts of local law enforcement to stamp out pornography. At the conclusion of the hearing, Senator Kefauver offered anyone who had been named the opportunity to correct inaccuracies. Detective Barnes looked squarely at Mizer, egging him on. Mizer contemplated speaking up but, aware of the presence of journalists and television cameras, decided instead to offer a written statement, his preferred form of communication.

In the pages of Physique Pictorial, Mizer denounced the hearings as "the grossest obscenity of public trust" he had ever witnessed. He accused Barnes of perjuring himself in his claims about Mizer's case. Within a year, however, Mizer enjoyed some schadenfreude when he revealed that Barnes was sent to prison for molesting his stepdaughter. He was also delighted to tell readers that Kefauver's chief counsel, James Bobo, was forced to resign after admitting to hosting private screenings of stag films for a Memphis fraternity. It all reinforced Mizer's conviction that the legal system was corrupt and that those who were most obsessed with fighting prurience were hypocrites.

Like many self-appointed guardians of American morality, Coates viewed both the Mattachine Society and the Athletic Model Guild as threats. But the reactions of the two organizations differed markedly. In 1953 Coates gave the Mattachine Society its first negative press coverage by suggesting that it had ties to communism. Coates's accusation caused a crisis in the organization, which led to the resignation of the original founders, many of whom had been members of the Communist Party USA. The organization was restructured and membership fell off. Historian John D'Emilio called it a "retreat to respectability," a turn away from political activism toward internal self-help tactics.

Coates's assault on Mizer was even more aggressive – involving the Los Angeles Police Department, a powerful U.S. senator, and backstage efforts to influence his obscenity trial – yet Mizer changed his operating procedures only slightly. He decided to tone down the "brutality" aspect of his images, eliminating props such as whips or chains. But on the issue of the "uncovered rump," Mizer stood his ground. "Bob has defied them," Kinsey noted of Mizer's refusal to succumb to a Post Office ultimatum barring nudes seen from behind. He also continued his feisty editorials, despite Kinsey's suggestion that he tone them down. "Certain principles I will not back down on," Mizer defiantly told Kinsey.

Each of Mizer's encounters with law enforcement politicized him, and he, in turn, sought to politicize his readers. To supplement his personal experience, he read widely in popular and scholarly texts on censorship and sought to convey that knowledge to his readers. He noted that those who were opposed to physique magazines were organized into groups such as the National Organization for Decent Literature and had the ear of local and national politicians. He pointed out how local newspapers pressured newsstands and magazine distributors to discontinue all physique magazines. He urged readers to organize. When one reader suggested ignoring the censors, Mizer compared him to the Jews in Germany who "ignored the menace of Hitler."

Putting the issue in the context of human rights, Mizer called for a collective and activist opposition. "The censor is a bully and will back down if we all stand up to him." It was a theme he returned to frequently, asserting that putting one's head in the sand would not make the problem go away. He repeatedly implored customers to join the ACLU. "It's Your America," he reminded readers, and politicians and police were "your servants." He implored readers to write their representatives and local newspapers to defend freedom of expression. Otherwise, he warned, a state-controlled media will emerge that would be the envy of Hitler. According to his alarmist rhetoric, the ACLU was the only thing standing between the status quo and totalitarianism.

Mizer's editorials on censorship even seeped into model descriptions. He described Sonny Star, a lean model lounging by the pool, as being from Fargo, North Dakota, where a federal censorship trial was taking place. He railed against police corruption and governmental injustice so often that readers tired of his many editorials – one counted eight in a thirty-two-page issue and complained of all this "doomsday talk." Many just wanted information on where to purchase forbidden materials.

IRON MAN BETRAYAL

As Physique Pictorial and other physique magazines that emphasized the "aesthetic approach" flourished, they increasingly came into conflict with what Mizer called " 'hard-core' muscle magazines" or "old-school muscle books" that had fallen on hard times. He knew that their harsh critique of new magazines like his had alienated "the great bulk" of their readership. But he still encouraged readers to support these magazines and their veteran writers. "We cannot afford to lose them from the field," he generously noted.60 Mizer had gotten his start through the support of these editors and was not prone to burn bridges.

Mizer had an especially close relationship with Iron Man, founded by weightlifter Peary Rader in Nebraska in 1933. Mizer had contributed enough photographs to be listed as one of Iron Man's "staff photographers" in 1949. Some of Mizer's first catalog advertisements appeared in its back pages, and Rader had even printed the first issue of Physique Pictorial. But under pressure from the Post Office, Rader refused to print subsequent issues. Fearing the loss of his second-class mailing privileges, he then stopped running physique photography advertisements. And in 1956 he published a scathing editorial denouncing the "homosexual element" that had infiltrated bodybuilding and ruined its reputation. He called for a comprehensive "crusade" to clean up the sport, including a ban on nude or G-string photographs, fewer body-building contests, and more manly poses. He attributed the immorality that had seeped into bodybuilding to increasing "commercialism," emphasizing that his concerns were not only moral but also financial. Mizer felt sorry for Iron Man. "I doubt if many copies would be sold to those solely interested in the weightlifting results."

This attack from his former supporter and printer caused Mizer to pen his first editorial on "Homosexuality and Bodybuilding." Claiming to have less familiarity with the subject than the editors of Iron Man and others who seemed so preoccupied with it, Mizer first resorted to a version of the schoolyard taunt, "It takes one to know one." He did so by quoting one of the most famous closeted homosexuals in 1950s America. A London reporter had recently asked Liberace in the midst of a legal struggle with a tabloid that had outed him "Is your sex life normal?" Fully composed, Liberace hastily replied, "Yes, is yours?"

In many ways, Liberace and Mizer were in parallel situations. Both offered the public fairly open representations of gay life, but without the label. But because of their popularity, they had caught the attention of the media and were being tarred with the sin of homosexuality. But Mizer went beyond Liberace's taunt to frame the question in terms of civil rights. "We wonder if really good people show prejudice against any minority group," he wrote, comparing such prejudice to that against a particular religion, race, or political party. This effectively made Peary Rader the one guilty of immorality and repositioned the debate on homosexuality within the realm of minority rights. Most important, he referred readers to the homophile groups Mattachine Society and ONE for more factual information.

Mizer's mailbox must have been full after this unusually frank editorial. He noted that readers clamored for him to reprint letters, demonstrating their desire to connect to each other, to see who else was out there reading Physique Pictorial. Mizer printed only four responses. One called Mizer "naïve" for not realizing that all bodybuilders are in some way homosexual, since they are so obsessed with the male body. Another expressed the opposite view, that such "he-men" could not possibly be sissies. But the most unusual letter came from the mother of four male bodybuilders-three of them married with children, the youngest openly gay. She described his difficult coming-out process, psychiatric consultations, and much anguish. But she then painted the picture of a happy, healthy gay domesticity. "John lives with another young man who shares his interests, both are highly successful in films, are 'accepted' everywhere." She thanked Mizer for his sympathetic attitude.

Mizer could not print any letters from openly gay readers for fear of confirming the concerns of censors. But he gave readers clues that he received many such letters. He noted that many had written in anonymously to "unburden [their] frustrations" and "project [their] own motives to us." Although such personal, confessional letters could not be shared, Mizer assured readers that he would send them to a "psychological research group for study," a probable reference to the Kinsey Institute. While Mizer had to be cautious about the content of his magazine to appease censors, his readers were often more explicit. Mizer considered many of the letters he received to be so salacious or incriminating that he did not want to keep them in his home in the event of a "purge" by authorities.

Art historians have documented the lasting impact that Bob Mizer's physique photography had on Western visual culture, influencing the work of such artists as Francis Bacon, Robert Mapplethorpe, and Andy Warhol. British painter David Hockney famously said, "I came to Los Angeles for two reasons: The first was a photo by Julius Shulman of Case Study House #21, and the other was AMG's Physique Pictorial." Dozens of high-end coffee table books attest to the lasting appeal of the artistic vision of Bob Mizer and his fellow gay physique photographers. But Mizer's business model was as generative as his photography. His business acted as a key catalyst for a gay consumer culture network, encouraging and popularizing many other gay mail-order businesses.

Although often portrayed as something of a bumbling loner, Mizer was at the center of an increasingly sophisticated gay network and came to be a leader of an effort to unite and defend the rights of gay men. It was a dream shared with early gay activist Manuel boy Frank, who, through his involvement in an early underground gay pen-pal club, had seen the potential power in gay men's interest in physique photography. Mizer, too, had an early sense of the depth of a gay market, through his work with Kovert's studio and his classified advertising in Strength & Health. He also had a great sense of the dangers involved. Each time Mizer had come under attack, he had come back more determined and open about his intentions. Neither the Post Office, nor the local vice police, nor vigilante journalists, nor mainstream muscle magazines deterred him. Over the course of his career he tried various tactics: reasoning with authorities, cautioning his fellow photographers, fanning the flames of outrage, and encouraging collective action. He had been on a crusade since high school to stand up and make the world a better place for his fellow homosexualists, and Physique Pictorial was his vehicle.

Mizer saw Alfred Kinsey as a hero and collaborator in this crusade because he saw Kinsey's scientific work as a vehicle for increasing tolerance. "One of the greatest values of your present work will be to allow at least the ones who read it to realize they are not uniquely perverse because of either their overt or desired behavior," he wrote to Kinsey. "Many a man will be able to hold his head a little higher and square back his shoulders and know he is not disgustingly 'abnormal' merely because he is gifted with more healthy, vital sex powers than his sanctimonious moral condemner." But what Mizer wrote so admiringly of Kinsey also applied to his own life's work. Mizer took inspiration from his academic friend and advisor, offering the same message of healthy normality in a more visually accessible format, reaching a much wider audience. He provided images to substantiate Kinsey's scientific treatise.

Like his mentor, Mizer was something of a workaholic, shooting still or moving film nearly every day of his life. But his ambitions were not monetary. Although by the end of his life he had expanded his home-studio property in Los Angeles to include several adjoining homes and a pool, it was never lavish. It became a sort of dormitory or homeless shelter for wayward models. Friends remember him in later years wearing glasses held together with tape and string. After his death in 1992, friends found hundreds of thousands of dollars in cash stuffed in film cans-proceeds never invested, or given much thought. Mizer's ambitions had not changed from the time he was in high school. He took pride in knowing his readers considered the arrival of his magazine like "a visit from an old friend." And since that old friend "always brings new friends with him," he hoped it offered his readers the sense that they were part of a large, welcoming community similar to the one he had discovered in Pershing Square. As he told his readers, he hoped all who read his magazine carefully – who "take the trouble to study" it – would take away a message of "hope and inspiration."

Hope was the message that Noel Gillespie found in Physique Pictorial when he discovered it as a teenager. He remembered it as "a gay-oriented oasis" in a Cold War desert of prudery and macho conformity. He considered Mizer less a salesman than "an old friend and confidante" because of all his "chatty remarks" among the model images. Gillespie praised Mizer's editorials on the "anti-nudity, anti-gay, anti-free speech attitudes" of the period. He recalls how he eagerly antici- pated each new issue for both Mizer's "latest fresh-faced discoveries and his candid and for the period, courageous commentaries." Beyond this special bond with Mizer, he also felt linked to his fellow subscribers through their occasional letters to the editor, which he thought made Physique Pictorial "more a friendly resource than a mere sales catalogue."

Hope was exactly the message that a young David Hurles understood when he encountered Physique Pictorial on newsstands in Cincinnati in 1957. "I came face to face with the awesome and wonderful knowledge of a place somewhere different from any place I yet knew," Hurles later wrote. He remembered following Mizer's exploits closely, noticing when he put in a swimming pool in 1956. "His pictures, magazines and films turned us on. But more than that, they gave us hope," Hurles eulogized at the time of Mizer's death in 1992. Hurles later became a Mizer protégé and went on to produce his own magazine. "Bob revealed the evidence which made us certain that what we desired and needed did, in fact, exist."

-- from David K. Johnson's Buying Gay.

#bob mizer #long post

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