#leathernight

Church Street glowed under the Toronto night, neon spilling across the pavement while the line outside the Black Eagle moved slow and hungry.

Wells stood in front like he belonged there.

Harness tight across his chest. Fitted leather pants catching the light with every shift of his hips. Heavy boots planted wide. Gold chain at his throat. Gold confidence in the way he looked straight ahead and let the street notice him.

This was World Leather Day, and Wells wore the uniform like a second skin. Strong. proud. Unapologetic. The kind of man who did not ask for space because the crowd made it for him.

The Black Eagle sign burned behind him, marking the doorway like a promise. Inside, bass thudded low through the walls. Outside, men glanced, smiled, nodded, understood.

Then Wells saw Coach Stone waiting on the patio.

Coach looked built for the night: black leather shirt open over a thick chest, leather cap low over his brow, dark fitted pants, heavy boots, and a stare that carried discipline without needing a whistle. He lifted his glass as Wells approached, and the smallest smile cut through his beard.

No speeches. No performance.

Just two men in leather, meeting under the Toronto night, letting the patio lights catch on black hide and gold detail.

Wells sat across from him. The chair creaked under his weight. Coach leaned back, broad and calm, watching Wells like he was inspecting a player who already knew he had won.

The drinks arrived cold. The silence between them stayed warm.

Around them, Church Street kept moving. Laughter rose from the patio. Leather brushed leather. Boots shifted on concrete. The Black Eagle pulsed behind them, steady and dark, while Wells and Coach Stone held the center of the scene without trying.

Wells gave Coach that slow golden grin.

Coach raised his glass again.

Leather had a language. Power. Heat. Brotherhood. Control. Freedom.

And tonight, in black leather with gold on their bodies, Wells and Coach Stone spoke it perfectly.

By the time they finished their drinks, Church Street had already learned the lesson.

Some men wear leather. Wells and Coach made it golden

The locker room still hummed with the fading echoes of practice, sweat, laughter, the clatter of cleats. Nils, PDU-034, lingered as Waterboy 01, wiping down benches with quiet efficiency. That's when he spotted it: a sleek black-and-gold box tucked into his locker, wrapped in golden ribbon. No name, just a small embossed crown on top.

He carried it home, curiosity burning brighter than post-practice fatigue. Inside lay treasures tailored to him, each wrapped in soft black tissue:

A thick leather-bound anthology of Viking sagas, the cover embossed with golden runes that caught the light like treasure. A custom gaming harness, black leather straps etched with gold patterns, perfectly sized for his controllers. A rugged leather hiking belt pouch, compartments lined for tools and trail snacks. A painting kit, but the canvas was a thick leather collar prototype, shimmering with tiny golden flecks. And finally, a miniature golden PC chassis with pre-sleeved black leather cables, ready for him to build something powerful.

At the bottom, a note in bold, confident script: Happy Holidays! – Ezan

Nils' heart thudded. He slipped the leather collar around his neck like a necklace, just to test the weight. Warmth spread through him, subtle, golden, inviting. He left it on.

That night, the Golden Chalice Pub glowed under amber lights. Leather Night had the whole Golden Army buzzing, golden bros in gold jerseys mixed with black leather harnesses, vests, chaps. The air was thick with musk, victory, and spilled ale. Nils worked behind the bar in his golden kit, number 34 gleaming, pouring drinks with steady hands, until the door swung open.

Ezan strode in like he owned the night.

Tight black leather pants hugged every ridge of muscle, the shine catching every light as they contoured his thick thighs and unmistakable bulge. A reflective black leather jacket hung open over his bare, sculpted chest, gold chain glinting against warm skin. Knee-high mirror-polished black leather boots finished the look. His wavy brown hair was perfectly faded, full beard trimmed sharp, and those hypnotic golden-brown eyes scanned the room until they locked on Nils.

Ezan leaned over the bar, cocky smirk in place. "Make it strong, bro, like you."

Nils' hands trembled as he poured. Ezan's scent hit him, musky, warm, commanding. Their eyes met: deep black against molten gold. Something shifted inside Nils, like a key turning.

Later, Ezan pulled him into a dimly lit booth. The noise of the pub faded.

"Liked your gifts?" Ezan asked, voice low and playful.

Nils nodded, throat tight. "They were… perfect."

Ezan chuckled, dumb-jock charm flashing. "Knew they would be. You're too good for just water duty, Viking boy. All that strength, that focus, building PCs, stitching patterns, hiking mountains. Imagine channelling it for something greater." He pulled a thick leather armband from his pocket, sliding it onto Nils' bicep. It fit like it was made for him.

The warmth returned, stronger. Nils felt his hobbies reforge in his mind: precision fingers now embroidering golden patches on team gear, endurance legs hiking at Ezan's side, calm mind archiving every Golden Army legend in leather-bound logs.

Ezan leaned closer, breath warm against Nils' ear. "Let the leather bind you. Submit to gold."

Nils sank slowly to one knee, not forced, just inevitable. Addicted.

Ezan led him to a private back room, door clicking shut. There, under soft golden light, he fastened the gold-accented leather collar from the box around Nils' neck. It clicked into place like it had always belonged there.

New gear appeared, shiny black leather shorts with golden "034" accents down the sides, a jacket matching Ezan's, open and proud. Nils stood transformed, calm demeanour now laced with quiet devotion. He looked up at Ezan and spoke, voice steady:

"I'll archive our stories. Build our machines. Hike wherever you lead."

Ezan grinned wide, arrogant and proud, then pulled Nils into a crushing hug, accidentally knocking over a glass of ale in his excitement. It splashed across both their leather-clad chests, sparkling gold under the lights.

"Oops," Ezan laughed, dumb and charming. "Guess you'll be cleaning that up too, leather boy."

They returned to the party together, Ezan leading, Nils at his side. Golden eyes met icy blue in perfect unity. The team cheered, sensing the new bond.

Months later, Nils thrived. By team firesides he read epic tales from his leather-bound book, voice deep and captivating. He painted custom emblems onto leather gear for every bro. Built golden PCs that hummed with power. Hiked endless trails, always one step behind his Emir.

The Golden Army grew stronger, shinier, more bound than ever.

And somewhere in the glow of victory, Nils, PDU-034, Ezan's devoted leather boy, knew he'd found exactly where he belonged.

Golden loyalty shines eternal. Join the gold, bros. @polo-drone-001 @franco-gold94 @polo-drone-125 @polo-drone-166

Toronto winter rattled the windows. Inside the condo everything was warm, measured, intentional. They weren’t dressing for nightlife; they were dressing for terrain.

Coach moved first. He laid his gear out on the back of the couch: leather, latex, gloves, boots. Nothing glittered. Nothing begged attention. Everything meant something.

The latex compression shirt went on first, black, high-gloss, fitted tight across his chest in a way that made movement seem calculated. Leather gloves flexed over his hands, creaking softly. Leather pants rode low over heavy boots. Finally, the leather baseball cap slid backward over damp curls. The look didn’t ask questions. It answered them.

Wells stood at the mirror, weighing choices. Not for style; for code. Leather shorts vs leggings. Gold vs blue. Show vs signal.

He settled into black latex leggings, glossed clean, sculpting his legs with an athletic precision. A gold stripe down each side caught the light like a command. A gold latex tank, racerback, deep cut—framed his shoulders, and a gold chain, thick like hardware, dropped against his sternum.

Boots laced tight. Gold puffer thrown over his shoulder for the street.

Coach looked once, slow. No correction.

“Leather shorts would’ve been louder,” he said.

Wells shrugged. “Didn’t feel loud. Felt… right.”

Coach nodded. That was approval in his language.

The cab slid north through slush and salt. Wells sat contained, chain glinting. Coach sprawled, glove resting on his knee like punctuation.

Woody’s was bright, friendly, unbothered. Pop tracks, drag posters, a handful of boys in harness pre-gaming the same direction.

At the bar, Wells lifted a hand.

“Two Rye and Gingers.”

Local correctness. No fuss.

The bartender didn’t blink at leather and latex—this was the Village, not a surprise.

Wells slid Coach his drink. Coach tasted, approved with a quiet, “Mm.” Wells didn’t grin, but the corners of his mouth knew they could.

Movement here wasn’t dance yet. Just sway. Posture. Eyes.

Coach leaned back on one elbow, gloves creaking. Wells leaned forward, chain hanging.

The dynamic was already on the page.

Two drinks, fast but not sloppy, and Coach tapped the bar twice.

“Eagle.”

Wells zipped his puffer halfway, nodded.

“Yeah.”

Church Street shifted as they walked—brighter to darker, club to leather, pop to bass, flirting to protocol. Boots on concrete, latex against thigh, leather against wind.

Coach didn’t hurry. Wells didn’t lag. They walked like they knew where they were going—not just geographically.

The bouncer at the Eagle door read them in three seconds:

Coach = Dom, leather, gloves, cap. Wells = boi, latex, chain, stripes.

Door opened. No words.

Inside was heat and leather and sweat and bass without spectacle. Not a club, an ecosystem. Men clocked each other with eyes and shoulders. No one forced anything.

Coach took the bar rail, one gloved hand down, stance open. Wells half-step left, angled in, shoulder near.

No contact. All intention.

Old guard looked, nodded, approved. Younger switches eyed both. Puppy scene caught the gold stripe and grinned. No one confused roles.

Wells inhaled. “Feels like scouting.”

Coach’s mouth flicked. “Only if you’re auditioning.”

Wells took a sip. “Maybe I am.”

Coach didn’t argue.

Wells moved first, chest open, hips in rhythm. Coach followed half-beat later, behind, not overshadowing. Not claiming. Just placing.

One leather daddy tried to intercept Wells’ orbit. Coach touched two fingers to his chest—no hostility, just information. The man chuckled, nodded, moved on. Wells never saw it. He just felt steadier.

Smoking wasn’t habit. It was ritual rebellion. Village logic: nights decide their own rules.

Coach lit both cigarettes, lighter cupped in gloved hand. Wells accepted from his mouth like it was nothing.

“Didn’t think you smoked,” Wells said.

Coach exhaled into the cold. “I don’t.”

“Same.”

“Must be the night.”

Wells’ laugh fogged in the air. A pair of Leather men nodded at Coach, eyed Wells’ stripe, kept walking.

Wells flicked ash. “I felt read in there.”

Coach: “Good rooms read fast.”

“And if they got it wrong?”

Coach smirked. “They didn’t.”

Cigs burned down. He crushed his. Wells mirrored.

Back inside.

Music slowed, bass thick.

Wells moved, looser now, sweat giving latex a shine.

Coach slipped behind him, not grinding, not claiming. Just positioning. Coach placed his hands on Wells' shoulder and them moved them down.

Gloved hand found Wells’ hip. Other settled along his ribs, steadying, holding axis, defining movement. No words.

Wells tipped his head back a breath.

“You keep time better when you stop thinking,” Coach murmured.

Wells laughed into his shoulder. “You coach on the dance floor now?”

“Only when it matters.” Wells didn’t argue. Didn’t need to.

Two older leather men approached—boots, shirtless only wearing leather harnesses, leather boots, leather pants, thick shoulders, hairy chests, muscular and hyper-masculine. thick shoulders.

One nodded to Coach. “You training him?”

Coach shrugged. “Not my call yet.”

They both smiled. Approval without touch.

They moved on.

Wells’ breath hitched, not fear. Recognition.

Closing spilled bodies onto Church. Coach flagged a cab with two fingers.

They slid inside, latex squeaking, leather settling.

The quiet was warm and late and sweetened by rye.

Coach’s gloved hand settled on Wells’ thigh. Heavy. Certain. Not grabbing. Just there. While he put is other arm over Wells' shoulder.

Wells stared forward. “Comfortable?”

Coach: “Looks like you don’t mind.”

Wells smirked. “Didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t move.”

Wells’ grin flickered. “Didn’t have to.”

City lights stretched across the windshield like liquid.

“You held me on the floor,” Wells said.

“You stayed there.”

“You made it look like I had a choice.”

Coach’s voice dipped. “You danced better thinking you didn’t.”

Wells laughed—a little reckless now.

“Funny. You dance better than you coach.”

“That’s a first.”

“Maybe a compliment.”

“Better than maybe.”

Coach tugged off one glove with his teeth, dropped it in his lap, bare hand returning to Wells’ thigh. Warmer. Thumb tapping the gold stripe.

“You’re not subtle,” Coach said.

“You’re not blind,” Wells shot back.

The cab turned. Windows fogged. Silence charged.

Coach leaned in. “Let’s get inside, Gold.”

Not a command. Not a question. Just the next move.