#Mr. San Francisco Leather

[oldguardleatherdog]

I would like to know more about pup history!

Well, hello, and thanks for asking! Sorry it took a while to respond.

Pup Play as we know it today got its start in 1986 at the International Mr. Leather gathering in Chicago when the partner of a leather artist at the Vendor Market, who showed up in a full-body leather pup suit and a mask crafted by a saddlemaker, started bouncing around the place barking and howling and humping the leather guys as they browsed the whips and chains on display-

-as a protest against the hardcore stoic impenetrable macho attitude that was prevalent among leathermen in those days - the standing joke was that "S&M" stood for "Stand & Model" - breaking through their poser facade, forcing them to interact and engage in a way that was just too cute and endearing to ignore or resist.

Pup Play began as an act of protest at the biggest leather gathering of the year against a cultural and institutional barrier to communication and connection. One guy - one dog - broke through that barrier, and nearly four decades later there are thousands of people around the world who pull on a pup hood and hit the ground or the mats or the dance floor barking up a storm, expressing ourselves in ways that are free and full, in a spirit of joy that at its best can transcend roleplay and allow us to experience, however briefly, "the time when the divorce between human and animal was not yet complete." (Mircea Eliade, Shamanism: Archaic Techniques of Ecstasy, Princeton University Press, 1972)

That guy, "Ranger", who's a good friend and a real sweetheart, is still active in the scene here in San Francisco and is our "First Pup", the original (and best!). A year later, almost to the day, I came out as a gay man - and when I came out, I came out barking. The man who put me on all fours for the first time was the man who brought me out, my first and only Leather Daddy who set me on this wild path that became a life's work.

I'm Pup Number Two, 37 years on all fours. I taught the first Pup Play workshop on record (San Francisco, August 1997), where I presented the first Trainer/Handler curriculum to a leather audience for use and adaptation, conducted numerous clinics, demos, and performances for groups and clubs across the United States, and showed hundreds of kinksters of all ages and genders how they could find, embrace, and express their "inner canine." Over the past year, I've been giving my presentation/lecture on Pup History online and IRL for pup-and-handler groups; it's been well received and is being expanded with new research from the field for 2025.

For several years Ranger and I were the only ones doing this radical fringe weird thing that was viewed as disgusting and sick and immoral by the leather and kink community, vilified so strongly that for the first decade those of us who practiced this kink did so mostly underground, communicating through word-of-mouth and personal ads in magazines, because if it got around that we liked to bark in the sack we'd have been thrown out of the community as sickos who were barely a step above actual bestialists (a slur that has never been true of our practice or those who practice it).

In the US and Canada from 1986 to 1997, there were only about a dozen known pup players - researchers including myself are actively searching for others from that long-ago time if they even existed - and we had to fight like hell for years to be open about the kink that we loved and to be able to express ourselves openly in this way. That's surprising to many given the popularity of Pup Play today, but it took a lot of hardcore commitment in the face of opposition to get us out from the shadows and into the light of day.

I hope this is a good introduction to our history and that I've expressed it well enough to satisfy your initial curiosity! There's much more, of course, so if there are any particular areas you're curious about, let me know, awoo!

Thank you for asking. "Beast wishes" to you for a happy and humpy New Year!

Woofs + wags, Alpha Pup Bruzr

[not-another-leon-blog]

Aftermath

DI! Leon Kennedy x Fem!Reader

Summary– How your son (doesn’t) deal with the aftermath of Alcatraz. Word count: 2345 S/n– Son’s name D/n– Daughter’s name A/N: has a slightly heavier focus on Leon and his son, a sequel to Family Matters / Aftermath / Out Together

You were right about one thing following the incident in San Francisco: You and Leon wouldn’t be sleeping alone for a long time. For almost the past month, D/n had practically moved into your bedroom, too scared to sleep alone even with her nightlight. Neither of you minded, though. You’d be more concerned if she never came to you at all.

Which was the case with S/n. Not once had he come crawling into bed between you. He hadn’t even sprawled himself across the foot of the bed like he sometimes did during thunderstorms. 

Had it been any other situation, you probably would have commended him for braving through his fears. But you knew all too well how difficult it was to have to deal with the consequences of the viruses and the mutations they brought with them. And with S/n being only eight years old, it had to be harder for him.

“I’m worried about him,” you said to Leon one day. The kids were at school and for once Leon’s vacation days had gone uninterrupted. 

He’d been thinking the same thing for a while now. S/n had changed since they came home. He was quiet, reserved. His grades had fallen and he hadn’t shown interest in doing much of anything. He knew they wouldn’t be able to keep the viruses a secret forever, he just never imagined the twins finding out so soon. And in such an intense way.

“I know.” He leaned against the dining table. “He pretends to sleep at night.” It had become almost routine for him to get up at some point in the night to check on S/n. “I’ve tried talking to him, but he won’t listen.”

You saw the droop in his shoulders, the defeated look in his eyes. The both of you were stumped when it came to getting through to your son. Unlike him, D/n was easier to read. She wore her heart on her sleeve and sought out support and help more often than her brother. 

Your phone began to ring. As you went to answer, Leon continued to think of ways to get through to his son. Maybe they were trying too hard. Maybe he just needed to wait for S/n to come to them to talk. But S/n was stubborn and Leon knew that despite his youth, he felt like he needed to be the more responsible twin (though he’d been born only a minute before his sister) and that drove him to keep most of his negative thoughts to himself.

“We need to go pick up the twins,” you told him as you hung up the phone. 

“Why? What happened?” That surprised him. They’d never been called to pick up either of the twins early from school before. It wasn’t even noon yet.

You sighed. “I don’t know. Something about a fight with a couple other kids.”

Leon slipped on one of his leather jackets and grabbed his keys, gesturing for you to follow him. Together, the two of you drove to the school in silence. There was no use in being upset with them (unless, of course, it was justified). Mostly, you were upset with yourselves.

The day you had told Leon you were pregnant, he was beyond terrified. If Raccoon City had never happened, if these viruses and monsters never existed, maybe he would have been excited. Make no mistake, he adored his children and would go to the ends of the earth for them, but back then the thought of bringing new life into a world like this felt like the scariest thing in the world. And now, in his eyes, he had failed his kids. They’d been thrown right into the face of danger and now had to deal with the trauma of it. 

You reached the school and made your way to the front office. D/n and S/n were sitting just outside of the principal’s office. Their hair was a mess and S/n had ripped holes in his jeans. Dirt was smeared on D/n’s cheek and the braid you’d done for her had come loose. They both avoided your eyes.

The principal’s door opened. “Mr. and Mrs. Kennedy?”

~~

“I’m sure both of you are aware that we don’t condone fighting in this school. We have a very strict anti-bullying policy,” the principal started. 

“Of course,” you replied. “Though, we would like to know exactly what happened.”

“They were involved in a fight during their lunch hour,” the principal said simply. “The other kids are currently in the nurse's office with busted lips and bloody noses.” The explanation seemed simple enough. But surely there had to be more to it.

“Mind if we get the kids in here?” Leon asked pointedly. He wasn’t satisfied with this version of events. The principal nodded and Leon went back to the door, opening it just enough to usher the twins inside.

“They have no prior behavioral issues,” the principal said, “but given the circumstances, at the very least they will be on a three-day suspension.”

“Let’s hear their side first,” Leon said firmly, folding his arms across his chest. 

They were quiet. D/n began picking at her fingers and chewing the inside of her cheek. S/n’s eyes were narrowed and his jaw locked. You knew that look despite how rare it was to see. He was usually such a happy boy but right now, he was angry. Downright furious even.

“They wouldn’t leave D/n alone,” he spat.

“What were they doing to D/n?” Leon asked.

“Pulling her hair. They called her a crybaby.”

You turned back to the principal. “I thought you didn’t tolerate bullying?”

The principal stumbled over his words and went red in the face, trying to find a way out of the corner he’d found himself backed into. “With all due respect, Mrs. Kennedy, if that is indeed what happened, instigating a fight is inexcusable.”

“Is that what happened, D/n?” you asked her. She nodded.

Leon’s own frustration was starting to show. He was done with this conversation. “Let’s go.”

“Mr. Kennedy,” the principal started, “This situation must be addressed.”

“Look, I don’t encourage my kids to fight–” the principal shrunk into his chair, “ – but as I see it, my son was protecting his sister. Had your lunch monitors done their job, maybe we wouldn’t be here.”

The principal was speechless. Leon put a hand on each of the twins’ shoulders and gently nudged them back to the door. You stood and began to follow them. “Thank you for your time, sir.”

~~

The ride home was as silent as the ride to the school. Every now and then Leon glanced at the rearview mirror only to see S/n staring intently out the window. He could only guess at what his son was thinking. Above all, he hoped S/n wasn’t replaying San Francisco over and over in his head. Yet, he knew that was the reason they were here.

S/n was too young to process something like that and Leon will spend the rest of his life regretting the whole thing. But for now, he needed to find a way to help his son cope. He couldn’t have him going around busting lips and breaking noses (even if it was deserved).

As for D/n, Leon had decided to leave her to you for now. Even though she was a daddy’s girl through and through, his attention needed to be on S/n.

“Y/n,” he said as he pulled into the driveway, “go ahead and take D/n inside. I’m gonna have a talk with him.”

You nodded and climbed out of the car, D/n following close behind you.

There was a beat of silence.

“If you’re gonna yell, just do it,” S/n mumbled.

“I’m not gonna yell at you.” Leon turned in his seat. “I understand why you did what you did. But why didn’t you go get a teacher?”

S/n frowned and turned his gaze to his shoes. “I was…”

“But?”

He scoffed and shook his head, his hair falling in front of his eyes. Leon sighed and got out of the car, only to round it and get into the back seat with him. He put a comforting hand on top of his head.

S/n bottom lip began to quiver. His breathing became heavy and he wrapped his arms tight around himself. Leon swore he felt his heart snap in two at the sound of his son’s cry. Tears streamed down his face and his body shook with sobs. Leon unbuckled his seat belt and pulled him into his side, his shirt quickly becoming soaked with tears.

“I can still hear it!” Dylan Blake may be dead, but the damage he left behind would take a long time to heal, if ever. “I see it when I try to sleep!” S/n pressed himself as close to Leon as he could, as if he were trying to sink into him.

“It’s okay, bud,” he said quietly, slowly rocking back and forth. He desperately wanted to take the pain away. To erase the memories, rewrite the past or avoid it altogether. S/n cried harder, holding onto Leon like he was a lifeline.

It felt like hours had passed before S/n began to calm down. His sobs turned to sniffles and the tears slowly came to a stop. His grip on Leon’s shirt never loosened.

“W-why do you do it?” S/n whimpered.

Leon wiped his thumb over S/n’s cheek. “To keep you safe.” He held him just a bit tighter. “I do it so you’ll never have to.”

“B-but what i-if you… never come back?” Finally, S/n looked up at Leon. For that, he wasn’t sure he had an answer. He knew it was a very real possibility that one day he might leave and not come home. 

“Don’t you worry about that.” He kissed the top of his head. 

“Can’t you q-quit?”

“I wish I could.” It’s what he wants more than anything. He wanted to be home with his family. He wanted to watch them grow up and not have to worry about anything more than them coming home before curfew. If only it was that simple. 

He pulled away slightly. “I know you were protecting your sister, but you can’t be fighting in school. Even if they deserve it.” S/n nodded. He hugged him again. “I love you, bud. You don’t have to keep all this to yourself.”

“I love you, too,” S/n replied.

Leon shrugged out of his leather jacket and wrapped it around his son. “Take care of this for me, will ya?”

He slipped his arms into the sleeves. The jacket nearly swallowed him whole. “It’s too big.”

Leon chuckled and ruffled his hair. “You’ll grow into it. Let’s get inside.”

~~

You were starting to get worried by the time Leon and S/n came inside. You’d already managed to get the full story out of D/n and had her washing dishes in the kitchen. Not only had S/n started the fight, she had chosen to take part and help him instead of standing off to the side. At least you could take comfort in the fact that they’d stand by each other no matter what.

S/n waddled in wearing Leon’s jacket and went straight to the dining room table with his backpack, getting right to work on whatever homework needed to be done.

Leon came to stand beside you, wrapping an arm around your waist. “Let’s take them out tomorrow,” he suggested. With the kids out of school for the next few days, it would be a good opportunity for him to bond with them.

“What did you have in mind?”

“Sports park?” It would be a healthy way for them to get out the stress they’d been carrying. “Get them to wack a few out in a batting cage?”

You considered it for a moment. Since coming home from San Francisco the twins had only ever gone from the house to school and back again. They needed a change in scenery. “Sounds like a good idea to me.”

“It’s settled then.” He pressed a kiss to your forehead and went to check on S/n while you went to start dinner.

For the first time in a while, there was a sense of peace that almost resembled normalcy. Alcatraz wasn’t at the forefront of your mind as the four of you ate and prepared for bed. Soon you found yourself tucked against Leon’s side in bed. D/n had chosen to sleep in her room tonight, though you were prepared to wake up with her between you in the morning.

The television droned on with some old comedy while you traced random shapes on Leon’s chest. “It looks like you got through to him today,” you said. S/n was noticeably less tense at dinner than he had been these past few days.

“Yeah. Little guy’s got a lot going on in there.” Progress was made and it brought him some relief. S/n had opened up to him just a little bit, and he wouldn’t ask for anything more right now. The door creaked open and S/n peeked inside nervously. 

He hesitated before asking, “Can I sleep here tonight?”

The two of you offered him soft smiles. “Sure, sweetie.” You scooted away from Leon to offer him the space in between. S/n nearly jumped into bed with you, almost as if he’d change his mind if he didn’t. Leon switched the television off and reached across to wrap his arm around the both of you.

“Will I ever stop thinking about it?” S/n held your hand tight as he nuzzled against Leon.

Leon kissed the top of his head. Deep down, he knew Alcatraz was something S/n would never truly forget. “One day, it’ll just be a bad dream.”

[enmstorytime]

The ENM Convention

(This is a work of fiction. Unless... )

Dear ENM Fans,

You are cordially invited to the first ever Embarrassed Naked Male Convention. The convention will take place at the Hilton San Francisco on June 4-8.

What to expect: Come join a group of men who love ENM just as much as you do. We'll have an extended weekend for you to get even more in touch with your sexuality and to meet men like you, who are just as hesitant and just as willing as you to get completely naked for your enjoyment.

Each morning will be full of break out sessions on topics that matter in our community, including: How to convince your friends to bet you for your clothes, How to trick your straight boss out of his underwear, and How to plan a party where you're the only naked one, among other topics. In addition to topics you care about, none of the presenters know that they're required to present naked to get their paychecks, so you'll get to see some flustered presenters, talking about topics guaranteed to make them hard.

Lunch will be provided, and there is an optional circle jerk at each lunch to relieve tension. Although, if you reserve a room at the hotel, you can sneak away to have some intimate time with any consenting attendee (or presenter).

After lunch, we've chartered clothing optional buses to take our attendees to Marshall's Beach, San Francisco's very own gay-friendly, clothing-optional beach. We recommend you bring footwear and sunscreen, but leave everything else at the hotel. It's a steep hike from the Golden Gate Bridge down to Marshall's Beach, but the views of the Golden Gate Bridge (and of the beautiful men around the beach) are worth the hike.

After an afternoon of soaking in the sun and skinny-dipping, our clothing optional buses will drive our group to the Castro. While San Francisco has strengthened their public indecency laws, it's common knowledge that there are still plenty of nudists who walk up and down Castro street. Feel free to join them. Each night our group has a reservation with a different restaurant and bar on the Castro, and we've arranged for them to expect a party of potentially naked men.

Our clothing-optional charter buses will leave the Castro at 11:00 sharp each night. If you leave your clothes on the bus, it will not return for you, and it is up to you to find your own way back across the city to our hotel. And remember, even Waymo (the driverless cars) have cameras all around inside, so you won't be getting back to the hotel unseen.

Dress Code: Attendees are allowed to wear whatever they want. Except for you. You aren't allowed clothes for the entire conference.

Travel Arrangements: Our clothing-optional buses will be at the San Francisco airport at 9:00 to transport any conference attendees who land in San Francisco at that time. From that point onward, you can disrobe and adjust to the idea of having all of those eyes looking at every inch of your body.

And for three of you unlucky (or very lucky) attendees, we have bribed TSA to strip search you and confiscate your clothes and lose your luggage.

Additional Excursions: In place of going to Marshall's beach, you could spend your afternoons at Mr. S Leather, EROS sex club, or Kabuki Springs (a non-sexual, nude bathhouse). To get to those, we have a few male Uber drivers on our staff who would be delighted to drive any of our attendees for the low price of a pair of your underwear (preferably underwear they get to take right off your body).

You've spent so long discussing your ENM desires. Isn't it time to come live them out with men who get it?

[doubledeadstudio]

Deal with the Devil: Signed, Florentin Blanchett

(Note: Do not read this if you don’t want to be spoiled for Pygmalion’s Folly and my potential Deal with the Devil series. Also, this is largely unedited.)

GOMORRAH.

One of many night clubs in the city of San Francisco. Its red, neon letters are spelled in jagged Gothic font, with an illustration of flames behind it, rhythmically blinking from one flame to the next.

Florentin holds up the glossy, pitch black calling card to its sign. Its hellish glow lights up the back, and shows the outline of a peculiar symbol — a circular sigil with intricate lines.

To a bystander, it’s nothing but a drawing of no import, its intricacy inviting their attention to slide off from memory. To an occultist, it’s a calling card of the granter of wishes and Solomon’s fabled lost son.

He’s here. He’s finally here. How long he’s waited to meet him!

He holds his invitation to the bouncer with an expression of bored entitlement. He thinks lowly of the line behind him, waiting to get into the club, with their glazed eyes and empty heads.

If they only knew the sanctity of this temple.

But, much like him, Gabriel protected himself with a reputation of frivolity.

Florentin walks past the bar and the dance floor, steady in his march, weaving to a crowd of partygoers with careful, determined ease. The loud, thumping bass and the cacophony of voices in the crowd threaten him with a splitting migraine.

He couldn’t let this place deal the first blow against him.

He has to remain resolute.

The double doors inscribed with symbols of dragons open up for him, a pulsating, hypnotizing wash of red lights seduce him inside, swallowing him into the madness within.

This was supposed to be the VIP room. A hidden strip club for premium members. Really, it isn’t titillating so much as intimidating.

The music is slowed and distant, giving the impression that it’s playing underwater, muffled by the water. The dancers are propped up in high, dangling cages with draconic architecture.

He finally ends up at Gabriel’s table. It’s sunken in the ground, circular, with black leather padding. Gabriel is seated behind the stage of a beautiful dancer, each of her practiced sways decorated with elaborate tassles and glistening jewelry.

Florentin can’t see his face in this lighting. He can only make out his golden, cat-like eyes, and black, fitted suit. He’s with two companions, but judging by the state of them, they’re more decorative than anything.

Gabriel raises a finger, and beckons him to sit.

His aura is incredible.

He does as instructed, carefully descending down the steps to sit with him. It seems like Gabriel wants him next to him. He keeps his eyes on him with a pleasant expression. He doesn’t want him to suspect he’s sizing him up.

He needs to think of an angle here. He can’t be dominated so carelessly like this. Solomon dominated the Goetia with an iron will centuries ago, but Florentin doesn’t have his name or his experience to do the same.

He’ll have to do it the old-fashioned way — as sloppy mortals, blindly grasping at the dark with awkward social cues.

Think.

Gabriel seems to like the company of beautiful women. What about men? Could he butter him up the same?

Gabriel takes a sip of his scotch, and raises the glass to him.

“Blanchett. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you in person.” His voice is nice, a firm baritone.

He’s good-looking, too. He has a hedonistic, womanizing aura about him, but he knows well-enough that these pleasures are a way to sedate a great, untameable beast.

“Thank you for inviting me, Mr Baltimore.”

“Would you like a drink?”

“Red wine, please,” he answers, almost mechanically. It’s always what he answers in places like this. People expect you to drink, and get caught off-guard if you don’t. He doesn’t want to fail his first hurdle, but he intends to only take careful sips, so Gabriel can’t dominate him without protest. “And some snacks, if you’re already being so generous!”

Gabriel’s lip quirks in amusement. I got him.

“What snacks?”

“Well, do you have a menu? Some chocolates would pair perfectly, but I’ll take nachos with cheese. I’m not high maintenance.”

Gabriel snaps his fingers, and relays Florentin’s order to a waiter.

With the awkwardness of the initial meeting dispelled, Florentin takes out his gift from his messenger bag, and presents it to him casually. An offering would put him the same as his other, simpering fans, but a gift, given carelessly, can elevate his image without the same impression.

The gift’s wrapped in gold paper adorned with silky black ribbons. It’s a carefully constructed gift box, with post cards, soaps, perfume, lotions, and jewelry with a pretty enough sum total that a person of higher stature wouldn’t find it offensive.

“I made you this. I remember you mentioned enjoying France when you stayed. It’s a bit hard to find French artisinal products here in the States, no?”

Gabriel takes the box, and Florentin studies the reaction. He looks amused, like Florentin’s a cat or a bird that offered him a shiny token. Will he open it? No. He sets it aside, but he doesn’t seem affected by the gift in either direction.

“Yes, the US has fallen in love with mass manufacturing. You’re always only going to get a quarter of what you paid for.”

A waiter offers him the wine, and he smiles brilliantly at him, offering a thanks.

“Perhaps you should move to Europe, then!”

“Europe wouldn’t be my first choice.” He flicks his cigar’s ash into a tray. “And I suspect it isn’t yours either.”

Florentin pales, caught off-guard by the abrupt segue. He swallows a lump in his throat. Back to business.

(Gabriel wouldn’t let him sedate him during a business deal. Of course not.)

“No. It’s not.”

Fifty-five missing persons, mysterious deaths, strewn across Austria, Germany, and Poland. It got a little too close one night, during a snow storm, when the cops knocked at his door at midnight. He had to hide out under the floorboards. They found two, malformed ghouls, barely able to function, writhing in pain. They were clearly constructed from the parts of the other victims.

Florentin had to escape in his car and drive out into the dark, snowy woods with nothing but what he can carry.

“You’ve certainly taken a number of risks, Blanchett. How’s your relationship with your parents?”

“…Admittedly, estranged.”

They both know what that implied.

Despite Florentin keeping up the image of a rich heir, he doesn’t have anything to his name.

“How are you funding your research now, then?”

Florentin sighs, and scratches his head. “I… used to work at local clinics and vets. It was usually enough to pay for rent. But switching residences all the time is costly. It’s difficult to do this myself.”

“Then what do you want?”

“A great number of things. I was hoping for a sponsor.”

“Why not ask for the magic to be revealed to you?”

He takes a moment to consider that.

“Because you and I both know you life and death are outside the domain of mere devils. I’m not going to let you sell me a half-baked spell.”

Life was strictly the domain of God and his angels. Death, the domain of death gods like Thanatos, Hel, and Yama, and all their little reapers.

Gabriel laughs in surprise. “You did your research. I shouldn’t be surprised.”

“Of course.”

“Death is outside the jurisdiction of mere humans, too.”

Florentin couldn’t hold back a flinch.

“Well, humans don’t follow their own rules, as you already know. You’ll be surprised what we can do. God said we shouldn’t fly, so we built airplanes. He said we shouldn’t speak to each other in one language, so we made translation apps.” He holds his steepled fingers in his lap. “Humans are born nothing, so we’re allowed to be everything.”

He leans in, inspecting Gabriel’s face.

“You know this too, don’t you, devil? That’s why you feed off us. For a creature ever eternal and boundless, you don’t generate your own energy. You need… a power source.”

And human life is the ultimate battery.

Gabriel thoughtfully swirls his scotch in his hand, letting the conversation dip into a tense lull. He takes a sip of his drink, again, and finishes his glass, leaving it on the table in front of him.

“So, you intend to defeat death.”

“I fully believe it’s just another handicap we have yet to triumph over, so yes. I do,” Florentin says, leaning back. Even with his casual posture, he’s all in with his approach. “I believe we will eventually. We’re too stubborn. The average human lifespan creeps up every year. I just… intend to expedite the process.”

A head with beautiful, glistening blonde hair, severed at the base.

Gabriel raises his chin, appraising him. “Tell me, if you got all the resources in the world, what would you do?”

Florentin grins. “All the resources? You have to be more specific. I’ll be running a whole research lab with a thousand of earth’s most brilliant biologists, chemists, and physicians, and endlessly feeding them the human population until we can say definitively that we’ve conquered death for good.”

“That’s a lot of bodies that’ll be fed into your machine.”

Florentin tilts his head. “But imagine how grateful the remaining population would be, free from death and disease, eternally and forever. They would be like gods.”

“And what happens after that?”

He giggles. “Who knows? Maybe we’ll board space ships, and conquer our solar system.”

Florentin crosses his legs, and peers into Gabriel’s face. Gabriel’s face isn’t without interest. “I know it sounds like science fiction, but think about it. We’ll be able to live alongside the masters, and build all our knowledge and technology alongside each other. Imagine how much Nikola Tesla could have expanded our information lines and electricity. Imagine if we never lost Marie Curie to radioactivity. Isn’t it a shame death takes all our legends away from us?”

“Death creates the legends, you know. Van Gogh would never have been discovered, if he lived a long life, healthy and happy.” Gabriel smirks, and takes Florentin’s glass from him, putting it on the table so he can lean in closer. “You know everyone could get sick of him, too, if they knew more about him. Never meet your heroes, doll. They’ll always disappoint you.”

Florentin quiets down. He can’t win with this rhetoric.

It’s dishonest.

He cups Florentin’s despairing face in his hand, and makes him look at him.

In a seductive whisper, like the serpent to eve in the book of Genesis, “How much do you want this?”

Florentin’s eyes snap open. “Bad.”

“How bad?”

“Anything. Anything! I’ll do anything to accomplish this.”

“A lot of people will do anything for their goals. Be more specific.”

Florentin reaches up, and grips Gabriel’s shoulders, fingers digging into his skin. His pupils are blown, his skin is trembling.

“This is my life’s work. I don’t intend to get fucking consumed by a force of nature like the rest of them. I know there’s endless potential with this kind of research, and I can prove it!”

He pulls out a stack of photos from his suit’s breast pocket, and presents it to Gabriel. Each one are snapshots of his research, with progress written in sharpie on each one.

This, Gabriel actually picks up, and inspects one by one.

Day 45: The magic can trigger physical motor functions. The subject has opened his eyes.

Day 129: The subjects respond to programming. They can obey orders if they had been taught.

…

Gabriel finishes flipping through them. He taps them against his lips, appraising Florentin.

“You know the price of my sponsorship.”

“I do.”

“So you’re willing to give that up?”

“…Not so fast. My magic is tied to my being.” He shakes his head. “I was hoping for a different sort of deal. This is why I came in the first place.” He swallows. “My proposal is this… You give me every resource to succeed. Money, power, health bills, lawsuits, passports, whatever I need. And if I succeed, if I defeat death, you can use my powers for whatever you wish.”

Gabriel looks interested.

“That must be of interest to you, huh? I bet there’s a huge number of people going through your revolving doors, asking you to bring back their dead loved ones every single day. But you know you can’t.” He tilts his head. “Now, you can profit off them in the very same way, without compromising the price of your services.”

“Hm… And what happens if you don’t succeed?”

Florentin takes a deep breath, and stares at his feet. “…I’m going to hell either way. It might as well be yours.”

Gabriel chuckles.

“I’ll draft up a contract.”

He offers a handshake.

Florentin takes it.

As soon as he gives him a firm shake, he snatches his hand back as unimaginable pain spikes up his hand. Florentin’s vision blacks out for a moment, and he cries out in pain, sweat beading around his forehead as his nerves burn in agony.

It leaves almost all at once.

He tries to catch his breath, chest heaving as he watches molten gold burn on his palm, before disappearing.

(He could still feel him there, lingering in his veins, dormant but watching.)

He peeks at Gabriel’s face, who seems nonplussed as he finishes his cigar.

So, the deed is done.

He’s made a pact with his soul on the line.

The devil wins either way.

He just has to make sure that he wins, too.

He stands up, and gathers his belongings.

“I’ll draft up a list of Universities I want to study at,” Florentin says, decisively.

“Don’t bother. Give me your top pick.”

“And for my residence…?”

“Whatever, wherever you want.”

Florentin nods shakily. He’s never felt this much power and mobility before.

This will make everything so much easier.

He straightens up his suit jacket, and smiles.

“I’ll see you soon, Gabriel.”

“Mm.” Gabriel takes out a platinum credit card from his suit pocket, with Florentin’s name already on it. “Try not to spend it all in one place.”

End

[steinwayandhissons]

arctic monkeys and every time the word ‘love’ is mentioned

whatever people say I am that’s what I’m not

tonight there’ll be some love, tonight there’ll be a ruckus yeah regardless of what’s gone before

~ view from the afternoon

oh there ain’t no love, no montagues or capulets

~ i bet you look good on the dancefloor

all that’s left is the proof that love’s not only blind but deaf… yeah I’d love to tell you all my problem

~ fake tales of san francisco

she makes a subtle proposition, I’m sorry love I’ll have to turn you down

~ when the sun goes down

lady, where has your love gone, i was looking but can’t find it anywhere, they always offer when there’s loads of love around but when you’re short of some it’s nowhere to be found

~ no buses

well how can you wake up with someone you don’t love and not feel slightly phased by it

~ leave before the lights come on

favourite worst nightmare

it’s wrong wrong wrong but we’ll do it anyway cause we love a bit of trouble

~ balaclava

and those dreams weren’t as daft as they seem, aren’t as daft as they seem my love

~ fluorescent adolescent

there’s room for the trouble and there’s lovers to be had

~ this house is a circus

it’d be a big mistake for you to wait and let me waste your time, really love it’s fine, I said really love it’s fine

~ the bad thing

old yellow bricks, love’s a risk… houdini love you don’t know what you’re running away from

~ old yellow bricks

another roll around and another push and shove, further away from the idea of love

~ da frame 2r

the more you keep on looking the more it’s hard to take, love we’re in stalemate… you’re slacking love where have you been

~ the bakery

am I too quick to assume that the love is no longer in bloom

~ too much to ask

humbug

i had a hole in the pocket of my favourite coat and my love dropped into the lining

~ i haven’t got my strange

suck it and see

i wanna feel your love brick by brick

~ brick by brick

do you still feel love is a laserquest or do you take it all more seriously… when I’m not being honest I pretend that you were just some lover

~ love is a laserquest

your love is like a studded leather headlock

~ suck it and see

jealousy in technicolour, fear by name, love by numbers… crushing up a bundle of love

~ that’s where you’re wrong

before she showed you how to shake love’s steady hand

~ the blonde o sonic shimmer trap

your love’s not what I need, so don’t give it to me

~ evil twin

am

it’s not like I’m falling in love I just want you to do me no good… the look of love, the rush of blood

~ no.1 party anthem

love buckles under the strain of those wild nights

~ mad sounds

I heard that you fell in love, or near enough

~ snap out of it

love like locked horns, love like dominoes… love like thunder, love like falling snow

~ electricity

I know you’re nothing like mine cause she’s walking on sunshine and your love would tear us apart

~ you’re so dark

tranquility base hotel and casino

love came in a bottle with a twist off cap, let’s all have a swig and do a hot lap… but it’s alright, cause you love me

~ star treatment

when true love takes a grip it leaves you without a choice

~ golden trunks

pattern language in the mood for love

~ the world’s first ever monster truck front flip

I wanna stay with you my love, the way some science fiction does

~ science fiction

the dawn won’t stop weighing a tonne, I’ve done some things that I shouldn’t have done, but I haven’t stopped loving you once

~ the ultracheese

the car

lights out on the wonder park, your saw toothed lover boy was quick off the mark

~ jet skis on the moat

put your heavy metal to the test, there might be half a love song in it all for you

~ mr schwartz

[achillean-archives]

*Note: This post isn't about if this Ken in the Barbie movie is going to be queer but that he is inspired by a Ken doll that "accidently" became a queer icon. Ryan Gosling's Ken in Barbie(2023) is based on the famous best selling Ken doll, Earring Magic Ken, also know as Fey Ken or Gay Ken.

"Mattel had conducted a survey of girls asking if Ken should be retained as Barbie's boyfriend or whether a new doll should be introduced in that role. Survey results indicated that girls wanted Ken kept but wanted him to look "cooler". USA Today noted after the American International Toy Fair that the doll Soul Train Jamal was also wearing an earring that year. According to manager of marketing communications for Mattel, Lisa McKendall, "We tried to keep [Ken] as cool as possible." This generation of the Ken doll had blond highlights in his traditionally brown hair and was dressed in a lavender mesh shirt, purple pleather vest, a necklace with a circular charm and, as the name indicates, an earring in his left ear.

These clothing choices led to gay commentator Dan Savage joking that Mattel toy designers had "spent a weekend in LA or New York dashing from rave to rave, taking notes and Polaroids." He also suggested that little girls' idea of coolness was shaped by homoerotic MTV music videos, Madonna's dancers, and what ACT UP/Queer Nation members were wearing to demonstrations and parties. Donna Gibbs told the San Francisco Examiner in November 1993 that the team of (presumably straight) women who made the doll were surprised that gay men wanted him.

[...]

In July 1993, Dan Savage wrote an article on Earring Magic Ken titled, "Ken Comes Out." He noted in his article that, in addition to his outfit's perceived flamboyance, his necklace resembled chrome sex toys that queer people were wearing as charms at the time. Savage expressed feelings of ambivalence about Ken's new style, writing, "Queer Ken is the high water mark of, depending on your point of view, either queer infiltration of popular culture or the thoughtless appropriation of queer culture by heterosexuals [. . .] Queer imagery has so permeated our culture that from rock stars (Axl Rose and his leather chaps) to toy designers, mainstream America isn’t even aware when it’s adopting queer fashions and mores."

[...]

Kitsch-minded gay men responded to this press by buying the doll in record numbers, making Earring Magic Ken the best-selling Ken model in Mattel's history. The doll debuted in stores for around $11 (equivalent to $20.63 in 2021) and had completely sold out by the Christmas season, largely due to gay men buying the doll in droves. Due to high demand, Chicago's FAO Schwartz created a wait list, and, allegedly, some shops in San Francisco began to sell Earring Magic Ken for prices ranging between $17 (equivalent to $31.89 in 2021) to $24 (equivalent to $45.02 in 2021). (The latter claim was disputed in the Bay Area Reporter in October 1993 by the general manager of San Francisco FAO Schwartz. According to him, only a few gay men were coming into his store, and Earring Magic Ken was selling better in New York and Chicago than San Francisco.) Earring Magic Ken was also popular with gay men in the United Kingdom, and sold well at the toy shop Hamleys in 1993. Toy scalper Mr. Barger told the Wall Street Journal in 1996 that Earring Magic Ken was so popular that he was able to re-sell him to specialty shops at premium prices. Richard Roeper, writing for the Chicago Sun Times, referred to him as "The Cabbage Patch Doll of the summer of '93."

A major appeal of the doll for many gay men was that Mattel did not market it to them on purpose. Rick Garcia, director of Chicago's Catholic Advocates for Lesbian and Gay Rights, told People magazine in 1993 that the stereotypical dress was funny to him because he believed it was an accident, and that it would have offended him if it was purposeful. In 1993, many newspapers interviewed individual gay men in California to understand the phenomenon. San Francisco resident described Earring Magic Ken as, "a pariah setting foot in one of America's sanctuaries." Another California resident, Bill Harley, described Earring Magic Ken as, "A campy, funny thing to have." Laguna Beach resident Keith Clark-Epley had more reservations about the toy, saying that, "It's an uptight heterosexual male doll following gay fashion and who is still behind the times," and believed that calling the doll gay could potentially reinforce negative stereotypes about gay people." Source:

[saturdaynightghostclub]

The Many Lives of Arthur Llewellyn

You know how sometimes you can look at a person and just know, instinctively, that they came from some cosmic elsewhere? Their face, their clothes, their speech—it all belongs somewhere specific, somewhere other than where they are. Every now and then you come across a time-traveler, an astronaut, a lovelorn Victorian in the body of a twentysomething city-dweller. Your Arthur is one such curiosity, you think. A cursory glance would place him on a street-corner in Greenwich Village, or smoking a cigarette beneath a gas lamp in San Francisco. He’s got that foggy beatnik thing going for him. That he exists among the long-haired, strong-armed Seattleites of 1995 must mean that someone out there in the galactic mist is looking out for you; by all accounts, you should never have met this walking anachronism.

But you did, and against all odds he’s currently sitting at your dining room table and using a set of nail clippers to mend the clasp of a necklace his mother insisted was too broken to continue wearing. He suggested she take it to a jeweler, and her subsequent “Why bother” had riled him up to the point that he insisted on fixing the damned thing himself because, in his words, “Why bother? Why bother buying anything if you’re not going to take care of it? You just throw your clothes away when they get holes?”

“I can feel you staring,” he says now, without looking up. Guilty as charged, you hide your smile behind the copy of Howards End that you’re pretending to read. Maybe he’s a weary ship’s captain, taking meticulous care of what few possessions he has that remind him of his faraway home. Maybe somewhere he’s stowed a pair of red boots, made from fine Spanish leather, for safekeeping until he returns to his aching sweetheart on the shore. Maybe you have an overactive imagination.

Aunt Juley is sick, and Helen won’t come home to the grieving Schlegel family, and won’t she reconsider ending her engagement to Paul? Who cares, when Arthur Llewellyn is carefully slinking toward triumph in the battle against his mother’s gold chain? You turn a page without reading it, your eyes still trained on your boyfriend’s long fingers until, with a soft and disbelieving gasp, he holds the chain up for you to see. The clasp looks brand-new, and even if he did only fix it to spite his mother, your heart flutters with pride—he’s a sensitive one, whether he likes it or not. You happen to know that the necklace was given to Mrs. Llewellyn by Arthur’s father: an emerald pendant, her birthstone. The Llewellyns are not sentimental people (with the exception of their son, that is); according to Arthur, he’s had to practically beg them not to donate his great grandmother’s china sets on more than one occasion. As a consequence, his own apartment is full of antiques and souvenirs he couldn’t bear to see thrown away.

You move closer to him under the pretense of inspecting his work, rising from your chair to stand beside him.

“Very nice,” you say, “are you sure you want to keep going with this teaching thing? I think you’ve got a real future in jewelry repair.”

Arthur tilts his head back to look at you, placing the necklace down on the table. You run a hand through his hair, letting your palm come down to cup his face. He leans into you like a man deprived. You sometimes wonder if his immediate family’s stoicism did a little damage to the part of him that now seems to need your touch like oxygen. “Funny,” he says, “I was thinking the same thing. You think they’ve got good benefits?”

You smile, running your thumb across his sharp cheekbone. He’s been frustrated, you know, in the days leading up to the start of the school year. The school’s curriculum, which he says is “unbearably boring,” leaves little room for creativity, but he’s trying his best. He’s starting his students with The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy this year.

Arthur is flexing his hand repeatedly, probably working out a cramp from his delicate operation with the nail clippers. You perch on the edge of the table, sliding back to a full sit, before taking that hand in both of your own. Slowly, gently, you massage the tension out of his fingers while he looks on in awe. “You want to get out of here?” You ask, “It’s a gorgeous day. Take a walk with me?” He nods, allowing you to lead him out of your apartment and into the midday air, perfumed with lilac and salt.

Your building is on one of those dreadful Seattle hills, the ones you don’t realize are as steep as they are until one day you put on your favorite sundress and realize your calves look absolutely stunning. You lead Arthur up the block, ignoring his halfhearted protests until you’ve made it to the top of the hill. There, he lets his hand go to the small of your back, keeping it there as you continue to walk. After a moment’s silence, he leans over to kiss your temple. “I love you,” he says. Casually, like he has so many times. Like it’s a way to fill the silence instead of a world-bending declaration, like he couldn’t bring you to your knees at any moment with it.

“I love you too,” you say, knowing it carries the same weight for him.

“Can I be so corny for a minute?” He asks, his hand moving gently up and down your back as you walk.

“You can be as corny as you want,” you reply. Never in your life have you seen this kind of earnestness in a man. Never in your life have you even wanted it—never, until you had it.

Arthur takes a deep breath. “I’m really happy,” he says, his voice hoarse, “I’m so fucking happy.”

“Sounds like it,” you tease, nudging him.

“I am,” he finally smiles, “I am. It’s scary though, you know? I’d kind of reached a point where I thought happy was a myth. Or, no—not a myth, I just thought it was something for other people, right? Like, when they’d talk about how happy they were, I thought either that they were exaggerating or that there was something wrong with me, because I didn’t know what they were talking about—does that make sense?”

You stop walking for a moment, turning to Arthur. “You’ve thought about this a lot, huh?”

“Yeah,” he says. You respect his lack of sheepishness. “I’ve had to, you know? It’s like I’m experiencing this whole new facet of human life I didn’t know existed. Like maybe I thought I knew, and you’ve just turned everything upside down.”

You’ve got no choice but to kiss him. There, on the street corner, where it’s nothing short of edenic, you wrap your arms around his shoulders and press your lips to his, hard and sweet. He gasps against you in that way that you love, that way that lets you know you’ve taken him by surprise once again. His shock is only momentary, however, and within seconds you’re wrapped so tightly in his arms that he’s all you can feel, all around you.

“Arthur,” you say, coming down off your toes and letting your hands drag down his chest, “if this is all it takes to make you happy, then neither of us has anything to worry about.”

The boy is grinning in earnest now, eyes fixed on your face. “Oh, fuck,” he says, shattering the illusion that he is anything but a west coast twentysomething, “Jesus, honey…”

He’s running a hand over his face now, like he’s trying in vain to wipe the smile from his features. “What?” You ask, grinning something awful yourself.

“I just saw the future, that’s what,” he says, sweeping you once again into his arms, “I saw my entire life in your face, it’s all you. All you, forever.”

You can’t help but to laugh, a stunned expulsion of joy you weren’t expecting to feel. “Oh god, you’re stuck with me then?”

“There was never anything else in the cards for me, to be fair,” he says, “and just to be clear, I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Arthur’s a bit of a mystic about things like that—souls and stardust and past lives—it took you by surprise at first, but you’ve grown to realize it’s maybe the thing that makes the most sense about him. Of course your out-of-place, out-of-time alien creature of a boyfriend thinks—knows, if you ask him—that the two of you are cosmically entwined. And you, for your part, know that you would rather die than deny him these little fantasies. After all, it’s you who sees a thousand lives in his face, each more complex and profound than the last. Between Seattle and England and outer space and the Pacific ocean, you find yourself hoping against your own iron-clad logic that the two of you will find each other again after this life (and after, and after, and after).

[slashdementia7734]

San Francisco DESTROYED you, Discharge (but you brought that on yourself)...

"By the time Discharge’s van rolled into San Francisco, the band had been on the road for weeks. The first show, in New York City, set the tone for the whole tour. As Jim MacNaughton, a 46-year-old New York scene veteran, remembers it, angry punks bought cans of Budweiser from the bar and hurled them, unopened, at the band. Another indignity followed: the singer of another legendary hardcore band, the Bad Brains, allegedly climbed into the balcony lugging a garbage can full of water then dumped it onto Discharge’s heads.

In San Francisco, the band was slated to play the Farm, a cavernous warehouse wedged between looping freeways in a rundown, industrial part of the city. It was a punk club, a chaotic place where punks and skinheads and metalheads regularly fought each other, along with the Latino gangs that held sway over the neighborhood. 

That night a crowd of a thousand, most of them punks, had packed into the club. There’s no video of the show, but thanks to Nate Wilson, the proprietor of a blog named True Punk & Metal, we have a complete audio record. The then twenty-year-old metalhead taped it on a Walkman, perched on a bench near the soundboard.

Word traveled slowly back then, mostly via ‘zines, so many people didn’t know about the band’s transformation. It was obvious, though, as soon as Discharge took the stage: tight leather, spandex shirts, pouffed-up hair. According to Wilson, a surge of disgust ran through the crowd. “We all just went, ‘Ugh—they look like posers.’”

Discharge kicked things off with a new song. With the benefit of perspective, it’s not that terrible of a song. Cal’s caterwauling voice remains a tough sell, but the band sounds vital, and the rhythm section swings with an appealing looseness. It’s sinuous and a bit sleazy, more like Guns N’ Roses’ sidewinding “Mr. Brownstone,” which would be released the following year, than the plodding hair-metal epics of the day.

But on this stage, in front of this crowd, it was heresy. Worse, Cal had adopted some new, suspiciously rock star-ish moves, high-stepping around the stage, wagging his finger like Mick Jagger. Wilson says, “He looked like a less athletic David Lee Roth.”

On the tape, you can hear the first boo a mere 33 seconds into the song. The “Fuck Yous” took over shortly thereafter. They rolled through the crowd, petering out for a minute then returning even louder the next.

The end of the second song, nearly eight minutes in, elicited a weak cheer, a few claps, and a robust chant of “D.R.I.”—a local thrash band on the rise, which had played earlier that night. 

That might be when people began throwing garbage, a steady rain of beer cans and anything else that wasn’t nailed down. Discharge stubbornly kept playing.

Five minutes later, following an audible “smack”—a beer can hit its mark, perhaps—the guitarist stopped playing. The rhythm section continued for ten more seconds, then the whole thing fell apart. The band walked off the stage, to the loudest crowd roar of the night.

For the next fifteen minutes, a succession of Farm staffers and scene guys harangued the crowd. “Man, you guys are a bunch of fucking closed-minded idiots!” one yelled.

But still the booing.

Finally, after two-thirds of the audience had left, Discharge reemerged. “Everyone settled down now?” Cal asked.

Alas, no. They made it through two more songs. The hail of garbage never ceased.

When Discharge left the stage for the second and final time, it had played a total of nineteen minutes.

Wilson says that Cal was crying.

[desertkinks]

Where do you buy your gear please?

Mostly from Mr. S Leather in San Francisco. You also might want to explore Etsy, but I've had hits and misses with them. I suggest buying from places in your own or nearby countries to keep shipping complications to a minimum. Things can get really tricky when getting stuff from China, though the prices can be enticing.

[edupunkn00b]

Decoherence, Ch. 9: True Faith and Allegiance

Creative Commons 1.0, Public Domain

Prev - True Faith and Allegiance - Next - Masterpost - [ AO3 ] - Playlist

“I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same…” -United States Congressional Oath of Office

WC: 2112 - Rated: T - CW: swearing -

2035, April 9 - The White House, Washington, D.C., US

“Lo!” Remus shot up in bed, hand scrabbling at the cold, empty expanse next to him. “Lo?” he called again, louder, but the ensuite was dark, empty. He rushed to his closet, the lights automatically flicking on with his movement. His suits and dress shirts lined one rack, more casual clothes tucked neatly into their little cubbies along the other wall. 

“Lo?” he said one more time, quieter. Was it all a dream?

There was a sharp knock on the hidden door just before it opened and a Secret Service agent—Craig? No, Keith—stepped inside. “Mr. President? Are you alright? We heard shouting.”

“I’m fine, Keith, thank you,” Remus nodded, swallowing hard against the growing lump in his throat. It had felt so real. “Just a dream,” he smiled. “Nothing to worry about.”

“Very good, sir. Sorry to intrude,” he said and stepped back into the hall, closing the door behind him.

Both hands tracing the chain around his neck, Remus gently pulled it from under his pajama top and kissed the rings. They were warm to the touch, clinking quietly together in his shaking hands, and they shone under the bright closet lights. 

These rings were real. 

Lo was real. He had to be.

Lo’s voice echoed in his mind. “Find me, Meus… Find me…” Gold had glinted on his hand as he’d poured the wine. Their matching rings had clacked together when they’d held hands. It was real… real-ish, at least. The rings were real. 

He stood in front of the mirror, curls frizzed and sticking out from every which way on his head, eyes wild and he clung to the rings from his dream. 

His vision layered and he saw himself tucking two gold rings under his shirt. Under a bright green tank top, a worn and patched blue denim button down layered with a heavy leather apron. An open nehru collar, golden flowers stitched on green silk. A shirt and tie underneath a white lab coat emblazoned with CERN on the breast pocket.

It was all real.

The computer screen next to the closet door dinged and droned out the day’s agenda. Moving by rote, he let his hands ready himself for his jog, mind wandering through possibilities as he dressed. He needed more information and startling the Secret Service with out of the ordinary behavior was not the way to get it.

~

“Gladys,” he buzzed the intercom. “Can you gather my appointment books for the last six months, please?”

“Of course, Mr. President,” she chirped back, hesitancy in her voice. “Your calendar on your computer should be up to date, sir, if you wish to query it.”

“I… I know.” He’d already scoured the calendar for any mention of Lo. There’d been nothing. ‘Dr. Sanders’ floated through his mind, but he couldn’t find any Sanders or Lo named in any of his appointments. “The sign-in book sometimes has extra details. Assistants’ names, that sort of thing.”

“Understood,” she replied, clearly not understanding. But that was alright. It certainly wasn’t the first odd request he’d ever had, and likely wouldn’t be the last.

While he waited for her to gather the books from Archives, he paced the office, reciting his speech for the new Climate Accord ratification ceremony. He was due to tour the new flood plain outside San Francisco this afternoon, with Airforce One due to take off in three hours. He’d review as much as he could before the flight and, with any luck, might begin to unravel whatever the hell was going on.

2036, September 15 - London, England

Saturday dawned muggy and quiet.

Remus woke early, a swirl of thoughts pulling him in different directions from the moment he opened his eyes. He had the distinct sense of jet lag, but he’d finally drifted off at a reasonable hour the night before.

Shaking his head, he pulled himself out of bed and straightened the quilt before padding across the room to shower. The familiar space gradually cleared his mind and he moved automatically, stripping off his sleep shorts and quickly washing and conditioning his hair. He reached without looking for his face soap, wishing he could just as easily scrub away errant thoughts.

He stepped out of the shower and brushed his teeth, staring at himself in the mirrored cabinet. There were two doors. The right side had held his toothbrush, aftershave, and mustache wax. His hand shook as he opened the other side of the cabinet.

His toothbrush clattered to the basin.

The shelves were lined with familiar products. Another toothbrush. That vanilla spice pomade. A bottle of aftershave. An eyeglass repair kit.

Remus rinsed his mouth then pulled out the aftershave and uncapped it, breathing in the scent of cinnamon and sandalwood and vanilla. It was him. It was Lo’s. He was real, he’d been here. Carefully, reverently, he replaced the cap and moved to the wardrobe. It wasn’t until he’d caught sight of himself in the mirror that he realized he’d lost his gold chain.

Hand slapping his chest, his own gold ring sparkled. Remus stared down at his hand and touched the smooth gold band. If he was wearing his ring, where had Lo’s gone? 

One hand reached up and clawed at his neck where the chain had once been—had he worn it last night? He must’ve… He could feel it under his flannel pajama top. Without really thinking, he checked the hamper. But he hadn’t worn pajamas, just shorts. Too hot for that in their little flat with only a ceiling fan to keep it cool. 

Remus hurried back to the bed. He ripped off the quilt, feeling along the seams of the mattress, the pillow cases, the joints along the bed frame. He checked the floor and under the bed, retracing his steps between the closet and the main room.

Lo’s ring was gone.

He’d had two rings, hadn’t he?

He stared down at his hand. It looked right. A vague recollection of making a ‘practice’ ring for his brother and his partners flitted across his mind and he shook his head. 

Coffee. Everything would make more sense with a little coffee. He started toward the bedroom door and realized he hadn’t dressed, so he took a moment to straighten the quilt and pillows on the bed, the mundane action meditative, then opened the wardrobe.

His own clothes were there, familiar and worn.

But, impossibly, so were Lo’s. They weren’t labeled, of course, but… These were Lo’s. A rotating tie rack held a rainbow of colors, hanger after hanger of neatly pressed button down shirts and soft sweater vests. He stepped into the closet and pressed one to his face. It smelled like him.

Lo was real. So where the fuck was he?

Remus dressed quickly and hit the streets. Shoving his keys in his jacket pocket, his fingers brushed his phone screen. He yanked it out. Two missed calls.

Stabbing at the screen, he sighed, disappointment and guilt mixing when he saw it was his brother, and he checked his voicemail. Just Ro announcing they’d made it to the train station for their trip, then again just before they hit the trail to the cabin and lost cell service. Remus scrolled through his call history and found Lo’s contact. 

He was real. He was in his phone. Remus’ thumb shook as he tapped call, but the number went right to a generic voicemail greeting announcing the mailbox was full.

Sighing, Remus pocketed the phone and let his feet guide him down the quiet pavement.

~

Remus walked for hours, finally looking up when his grumbling stomach reminded him he’d skipped breakfast. He turned on the spot, working out just where he’d ended up. He’d passed a café down the street and the rich scents of freshly baked bread and syrupy coffee drinks grew stronger as he approached, likely the trigger of his sudden hunger.

He got a table outside and, after drinking half his coffee in one gulp, nursed the rest as he waited for his order. Foot traffic had picked up during his walk, and the quiet street had transformed around him into its typically bustling state.

Families filled the pavement, likely taking in a bit of fresh air before the late afternoon sun left the streets too balmy to breathe. A doting couple stopped in front of the hat shop—a haberdashery, Lo’s voice filled in—across the street, one turning to the other to straighten a skewed collar.

It hurt to watch, and Remus looked away, fuzzily scanning the opposite side of the street. His eyes snagged on a man at the far end, distinctive blue and grey Aldi’s vest tucked under one arm, eyeglasses barely visible, head down as he maneuvered through the busy walkway. But his raven hair was unmistakable.

Heedless of traffic, Remus stood and ran across the street, only vaguely registering a blaring car horn. He waved it away and stopped a dozen paces from the man.

“Lo—” he began but the man wore no recognition in his eyes and the splash of grey at his temples and lines around his mouth and forehead weren’t Lo's. Remus started to turn away, but then remembered. “Wait—you’re the guy at the store.”

The man—his name badge said ‘Luke’—looked him up and down and shook his head. “Yeah, I don’t know you,” he said, side stepping him and continuing on his way.

“Please, wait!” Remus called after him, stopping short when a large group of young tweens poured out of the Daiso shop next to him, chattering about their purchases. “Wait, Luke, please, do you know—”

He wormed his way through the gaggle of laughing children but by the time he’d cleared the throng, Luke was nowhere to be seen. Moving more carefully this time, he crossed back to the café and reclaimed his seat. Dreams clashed with reality but Remus was now more certain than ever Lo really was out there.

He just had to find him.

1838, August 21 - Wyoming, United States

“Knock, knock, knock,” Ro called from the other side of the heavy bottom half of Remus’ barn-turned-workshop door. He unlatched the little hook and pushed it open, hinges creaking. With a peal of laughter, Virge dashed into the room ahead of him, a flash of denim and grasses clutched in his hand. 

“Uncka Re! Wook wha’ I made!” Virge announced proudly, tugging his sleeve and drawing him closer to the big workbench in the center of the barn.

Remus pulled off his smoke-lensed visor and lifted his newly four-year-old nephew up onto a stool. “Well, look at that,” he murmured, tilting his head at the hay-stuffed doll Virgil walked across the worn wooden surface. “May I?” he asked, hefting the toy in his palm.

“Poppy he’ped me put sand in his tummy and feet and hands so he’d sit,” he grinned, clapping briefly when Remus sat him up against a roll of spectrometry paper. The doll sported big eyes, dark blue dots with wide circles drawn around them in the shaky hand of a four-year-old still learning to write.

“He’s wonderful, Virge,” Remus ruffled his hair with a smile. “What’s his name?”

Virgil laughed up at him, his tiny face scrunched adorably. “Unka Woe!” He pointed at the circles around the doll’s eyes. “See? Those are his g’asses!”

“What?” Remus’ wrench hit the floor, narrowly missing his toe and taking a big bite out of the packed dirt floor. “What’d y’say?” 

“Hey, Vee,” Ro crouched down and met Virgil’s eyes. “What’s this little guy’s name?”

The little boy’s smile wavered as he looked between his uncle and his dad. “He’s my friend,” he finally said, plucking up the doll and hugging it close before curling into Ro’s arms. He tucked his chin over Ro’s shoulder and watched Remus’ expression.

“Oh, you’re all tuckered out from running your foals, aren’t you?” Ro cooed. “How about we get a little supper into you and then call it a night, yeah?”

He nodded against his dad’s shoulder, nervous eyes following Remus’. “Y’can ho’d him,” he whispered and pushed the doll into Remus’ hands. Virge smiled and wiggled the doll in his hands. “He says ‘It’s supper time.’” 

“Come, now, Meus…” Lo’s laughter fills my mind. “The dynamo needs to charge. You worked through the midday… It's supper time.”

“Oh, really?” I pull off the smoked visor and tiptoe closer, swooping in at the last moment to scoop Lo up into my arms. He’s warm and solid and melts into my hold like he was meant to be there. “Only if you come along with me!”

“I reckon he does,” Remus nodded, ruffling Virge’s hair. “Lead the way!”

[theintelligenceoflove]

how do you know that about queen

Freddie as Leatherman is one of my favorite topics thank you. i love talking about leather history, and he's the most famous leatherman in the world.

But also this is just a lot of speculation and reaching so don't take it too seriously.

so this is his "don't stop me now" outfit here's the shirt he's wearing

The Mineshaft was one of two very popular new york leather bars. The Mineshaft was like THE leather bar (though the Eagle's nest still exists and leather bars across the world named themselves The Eagle after the Eagle's nest) when you think of like sleezy sex leather bars the image in your head was probably based on the Mineshaft.^

So now that we have established that Freddie is a Leatherman (this is no other reason for a man to wear a leatherbar t-shirt in 1979) we need to talk about this

So here Freddie is dressed like a leatherman on a casual crusing night. He's got his button fly jeans, they're tight as shit, his leather belt, tight white shirt that shows off his hairy chest and of course the leather band around his arm (the only issue is despite being dressed like this he would not be allowed in the mineshaft because of his shoes, alas he was not going to a bar and had to dress so he could jump around at a concert) The armband is the most important; it's on his right arm. but first some queer flagging history.

So you've probably heard that the right ear is the gay ear to get pierced, right? I think that in America, that might have been kind of true in some places but in the leather community (and cruising culture) left/right have a lot of significance. if you were flagging left that meant you wanted to be the do-er and if you flagged right that meant you wanted things done to you. (please note I'm not saying top/bottom because when you get into it flagging for specific sex acts exists outside of the top/bottom dynamic) This is the basis of the hanky code, where each color represents a sex act and you choose your back pocket depending on whether you want to be the do-er or have it done to you. But it was also used for things like keys on belt loops (Lesbians take this one and turn it into an iconic piece of lesbian fashion) handcuffs on belt loops also, this was particularly useful for men who were up to negotiating, they would put their handcuffs in the center belt loop at their back. Of course arm bands. Or if you're really sure of being the do-er or having stuff done to you ear piercings.

Taking this knowledge, what we can then say is Freddie in this picture is flagging as "have stuff done to me." this next picture combines everything we've just learned and one other important piece of information.

Remember how briefly mentioned hanky code? The story goes in San Francisco a man named Alan Selby, founder of the iconic Mr. S Leather, and a friend had ordered some handkerchiefs but received FAR too many in too many colors. SO they decided to sell this stock they would make up a code to help gay men in the 70s find sex easier and sell the hankys. Black meant you were into heavy SM, Grey was Bondage, dark blue was greek passive/active, light blue was oral sex and red was fisting.

Now I don't know how true this was in the 70s/80s but now a day's if you see someone with for example a leather harness with red trim, or yellow trim the assumption is they're flagging.

If we take all of this information and put it together and look at Freddie who is wearing a red cuff on his right wrist (and a red bandana to boot) we can say he was looking for a fist up the ass.

NOW this all falls apart when you realize that, aside from like maybe San Francisco's Castro District gay men weren't flagging so outwardly outside of bars and cruising areas. They weren't wearing yellow hankies in their back pocket to the grocery store.

So is this picture Freddie telling the world he's into handballing? Is he letting a select few members of his audience know? or is he just wearing a red sweatband on his right wrist and a matching bandana around his neck? I don't know, we'll neve know.

At any rate it's funny to watch men get their shit twisted about Josh when Freddie was broadcasting all this.

^ the costume for the biker from The Village People (yes the ones that did YMCA) was taken from the outfits men wore to the Mineshaft, Glenn Hughes who was the original biker was a leatherman, and in fact all the characters from The Village People are based on gay masculine archetypes

[qnewsau]

Sydney Mr Leather comes 4th in world titles

New Post has been published on https://qnews.com.au/sydney-mr-leather-comes-4th-in-world-titles/

Sydney Mr Leather comes 4th in world titles

The winners of the 2024 International Mr Leather competition have been announced in Chicago and Sydney’s own Mr Leather 2023 Coach Jura has placed just short of winning a place on the winner’s podium.

San Francisco’s Jamal Herrera-O’Malley has been named International Mr Leather 2024, while Wilton Manors, Florida’s Steven Crespo was named First Runner Up.

The competition’s Second Runner Up is Los Angeles’ El Bandido.

However coming in fourth place was Sydney Mr Leather Coach Jura, having made it through to the final 20 round and as the highest placing non-American in the competition.

“To everyone back home in Sydney. I just wanted to say a huge thank you,” Coach Jura said following the winners announcement on May 27.

“Thank you for all of your love, all of your support, all of your trust and faith in me to represent us.

“Without all of you I would not be where I am right now and it fills up my heart and it brings me many tears of joy.

-For the full story check out the June edition of QNews NSW Magazine.

For the latest LGBTIQA+ Sister Girl and Brother Boy news, entertainment, community stories in Australia, visit qnews.com.au. Check out our latest magazines or find us on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram and YouTube.

[likehephaestionwhodied]

Some Kinda Love San Francisco

Marcus Joseph 1945-2016

Marcus is a photographer who hitch hiked across the country to see woodstock in 1969. He took photos of the Queer Liberation movement in SF and continued to document queer life as he got older from Polk street to Folsom. He fell in love with Callum the moment he saw the younger man. He nearly wins International Mr Leather in 1986 where he met Jack. He and Callum's home is a queer hotspot, and Marcus finds himself with a reputation of taking in strays becuase of it

Callum "Cal" Nelson 1955-2016

Callum moves to the united states from England to pursue a graduate degree in English. He eventually teaches poetry at Berkley, a stance advocate for Student's right to free speech. When his mother dies he is ready to move back to England to keep his brother from having to live with their father. Instead David comes to San Francisco. Callum wins International Mr. Leather in 1990, the same year Mikey wins International Mr. Bootblack. Despite being HIV+ Callum lives until 2016. Friends say he died of a broken heart dying just months after Marcus

Javier "Javi" Morales 1957-1981

Javi grew up a Marxist, hearing about the Cuban revolution. When he moves to San Francisco on his own he hears about a gay man running for city supervisor. Though Harvey Milk is no socialist its a cause Javi can throw himself behind. By Harvey's second campaign he finds himself canvassing with two older men Marcus and Callum, finds himself eating dinner with them, talking politics, and in bed with them doing very little talking at all. He lives to see Harvey elected, and falls away from Marcus and Callum into the political underground. Meeting them for the last time at the vigil for Harvey Milk.

Daniel "Danny" Nelson 1961-1991

Daniel moves to San Francisco at the age of 16, right after his mother dies, leaving Charlie, his highschool sweetheart, behind. He plays football and baseball to have the whole American experience, constantly complaining about the lack of rugby. He eventually moves to Los Angles, to put space between him and Callum. They haven't talked about it, but Daniel doesn't like the idea of sleeping with someone his brother might have picked up before.

Oliver Finch 1963-1991

Callum's first graduate advise. Moved to SF from Los Angles Leaving his queer family behind, but sending them a cute British boy he met. When he goes back to Los Angles to visit he's glad to find that Daniel is getting along with Scout and David. He never puts together that the cute British Daniel he sometimes finds himself in bed with is the younger brother of his advisor. It is not until his funeral that Callum and Daniel find out they both new Oliver.

Charlie Winters 1963-1987

Charlie is an honorary member of the SF crew. He never moves to the states, instead dying in London after only visiting Daniel twice in San Francisco. Charlie's family does not tell Daniel of his passing. It is not until many unanswered letters and a visit back home that Daniel learns, with a door slammed in his face, what has happened to his lover.

William Riley Perry 1968-2020

William grew up hearing that he looks just like his uncle who died in Vietnam. When he mentions this in passing to a man named Jack he met at a bar he can't understand why the man all but runs. As chance happens he meets the man again, and is pulled into a cross-continental queer family. Despite never joining the leather scene Marcus and Callum take him in, take care of him. He finds love and friendship with his uncle's lover. He survived one pandemic, but is the last of the Some Kinda Love crew to die. Killed by a second pandemic.

[mctyndall-blog]

Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: Mr. S Womens Leather Vest San Francisco MOTO Small Motorcycle.

[clarklovescarole]

September 1938: Carole's Taxes

September 1, 1938 – Morning Post

Carole Lombard is selecting hip boots, leather coat and other knick knacks for a weekend hunting trip. She leaves with Andy Devines, Clark Gable and Norris Goff for the opening of duck season. 

September 2, 1938 – Lancaster New Era

“I Think That’s Fine”

Miss Carole Lombard, of the movies, recently delivered some remarkable observations on taxes. The government took something over 85 percent of her $465,000 income and she announced that it was perfectly lovely. “I’m pretty happy with the whole thing,” she averred. “I have no kicks at all – I think it’s fine.” 

The government, she continued, spent most of it “for me, on generational improvements on the country, and I really think I got my money’s worth.”

Very idealistic, though there are those who believe that as Miss Lombard recently took a two-week flyer working as a press agent, this may have had something to do with it all, but they are just horrid cynics.

September 3, 1938 – Stockton Daily Evening Record

It’s true what they say about Carole Lombard: that she’s a riot to work with. We saw that when on the David O. Selznick set, where Carole and thin Jimmy Stewart are making “Made For Each Other.” The story, by Rose Francken, appeared in Red Book as “Of Great Riches.” 

Carole’s stand-in was doing her stuff when we heard a lot of giggling and a slim, blonde girl in a good-looking brown sport felt hat and a lighter-toned sport coat appeared.

“That’s Carole,” someone said as the blonde burst into a peal of laughter.

Still hatted, coated and giggling, she climbed on the bed minus its headboard, footboard and posts, and Jimmie Stewart, also hatted and coated, followed her. More giggling as Carole burst out with: “Isn’t this silly?” By that time everybody was smiling or giggling, the slim little script girl in slacks and the sound mixer who wears a headphone as he sits at what looks to be a switchboard.

September 4, 1938 – The Knoxville Journal

The week in Hollywood – Carole Lombard scoots around the Selznick lot on a motor scooter, gift of Clark Gable.

September 6, 1938 – The Spokesman Review

Clark Gable accompanied Carole Lombard to her first day’s shooting on “Made For Each Other,” and then had to watch her make love to Jimmy Stewart…

September 6, 1938 – San Francisco Examiner

When Carole Lombard and Clark Gable play tennis together, she usually wins…

September 7, 1938 – Wilkes Barre Times Leader

Clark Gable finally sold his flashy $3,000 roadster because every time he took Carole Lombard out driving people recognized them…

September 9, 1938 – Buffalo Evening News

A newsreel photographer wanted to take pictures of Carole Lombard on a scooter she received from Clark Gable, but Carole quipped, “Only way I’m going to be photographed is from the front – never in a retreating position.” Which reminds me of a story told by Donald Crisp about the handsome Mr. Gable. “It was when I was a director in the old De Mille studios. Gable came to see me and was so nervous that I offered him a drink. ‘I don’t want a drink,’ he stammered. ‘I want a job.’” Those days must not seem very distant to Clark.

September 10, 1938 – Los Angeles Times

On blue days Carole Lombard invites her friends to tea and tells them the story of her life. 

September 16, 1938 – Star Tribune

Carole Lombard prefers the set cleared when she does those love scenes with Jimmie Stewart in “Made For Each Other.” 

September 17, 1938 – San Francisco Examiner

If any of the movie stars are AWOL in the next two weeks, you might try paging them at the Pomona County Fair. … Last year Clark Gable and Carole Lombard went with us and we never had so much fun in our lives.

September 18, 1938 – St Louis Globe Democrat

Cupid’s Arrows Fill Hollywood

Perhaps the news that attorneys for the Clark Gables are busy working out a financial settlement of their affairs is the most interesting romance item. Carole Lombard is house hunting in Brentwood, and the tip is that it has a direct relation to Clark’s impending freedom by way of Reno.

September 18, 1938 – St Louis Globe Democrat

Carole Lombard may earn $400,000 a year but she still lives in a rented house, drives a 2-year-old Ford and has never had a chauffeur.

September 20, 1938 – The Evening News

Clark Gable Signs For Role

Louis B. Mayer is shown signing contract permitting Clark Gable to play the role of Rhett Butler in “Gone with the Wind.” David O. Selznick, standing, will produce it and Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer will release it.

September 20, 1938 – The Record

September 22, 1938 – The Province

Carole Lombard’s newest publicity pictures are all very dignified – no more harum-scarum poses – for a little while anyway. Incidentally, Mr. Gable has added another accomplishment to his ever-growing list – he has initiated Carole into the mysteries of skeet shooting.

September 23, 1938 – Los Angeles Times

Jimmie Fidler – Passing By

All the Hollywood news I know at this time is that Carole Lombard complained bitterly to Clark Gable about the smell of the stuff he uses on his hair.

September 24, 1938 – Buffalo Evening News

Sheilah Graham

Carole Lombard-William Powell, Clark Gable-Rhea Gable – how do the members of this quartet regard and treat each other in the narrow confines of Hollywood? 

Lombard and Powell are perhaps greater friends now than when they were husband and wife. When they first started making “My Man Godfrey,” their dressing rooms were at the opposite ends of the set. Halfway through the picture they were halfway nearer each other. By the time “My Man Godfrey” was in a “canned” condition, their two rooms were side by side! And the ex-Mr. and Mrs. dined together at least five times a week, and it looked as though Bill had nosed out Mr. Gable for first place in Carole’s heart.

Chilling – These Gables

Clark has never resented this reappearance of Powell in Carole’s life and recently listed Bill among the ten men he likes best in Hollywood.

Gable’s relationship with estranged wife rhea is something else again. Shortly after their separation, I remember seeing them at a New Year’s Eve party in Sam Goldwyn’s house. But Clark was careful to remain in one room and Rhea was just as anxious to stay in another. I saw them pass each other once. Their faces wore a strained smile. Nowadays, hostesses take good care to invite them separately, as Clark is very embittered anent the huge settlement he is paying his second wife. 

September 25, 1938 – Detroit Free Press

Carole Lombard may be a glamour girl on the screen, but off it she is becoming more of a hillbilly with each passing day. Of course, Clark Gable has had a lot to do with Carole’s back-to-earth trek. No girl who just pretended to like the great outdoors and limped through meadows in high heels would ever pass with Clark. Also there’s nothing halfway about Carole. On a recent dove hunting expedition with Clark, Andy Devine and several others, she was the first to shoot the limit.

“Carole will go anywhere a man will,” Andy told me. “We started out from a lodge beyond Bakersfield at 5 o’clock in the morning. She was up even earlier, cooking ham and eggs for the whole crowd. She tucked her trousers into her hip boots and waded through slush so deep she had to carry her gun over her shoulder to keep it dry. She cleaned her own doves, digging the shot out of them as efficiently as any of us guys.” 

So it looks as though the modern girl is dispelling the billing-and-cooling technic of the last century with a blast of bird shot through the heart of the dove.

September 26, 1938 – Chicago Tribune

There is a tremendous national interest in Hollywood and its performers, absolutely no interest in Hollywood executives. To my surprise, there is no resentment toward picture performers because of the high salaries they receive. “They pay most of it back in taxes,” the fans tell you philosophically. The pair about whom you are asked the most questions are Clark Gable and Carole Lombard. To the people these two seem to be the most typical of movie stars, exciting and glamorous.

September 30, 1938 – Wilkes Barre Times Leader

Clark Gable almost fell off the observation platform kissing Carole Lombard good-by when his train left for the East…

September 30, 1938 – Minneapolis Star

(Cedric Adams on Clark’s visit to Canada for a hunting expedition)

He made a daily call to Carole Lombard and frequently they talked for 10 minutes. They wired each other daily and exchanged a daily letter. Carole’s a crack shot and much of the telephone conversation concerned Clark’s hunting. Last year Lombard and Gable hunted together for three days and the two of them shot one teal. She killed it. Carole’s going to join him into the Canadian spot next year.

… Over the telephone and in telegrams, Gable calls Lombard Ma and she refers to him as Pa.

[youvebeenlivingfictional]

To Have Loved and Lost Part Five

Previous Part | Masterlist | Next Part

Pairing: George Russell x Reader

Rating: M

Notes: Hiiiii welcome baaaaaack thank you for reaaaaadiiiiiiiing lol ignore my hella grainy gif thaaaaaanks

Also also the tanning process mentioned herein is an actual process used in the 1800s. Highly recommend Dark Genius of Wall Street: The Misunderstood Life of Jay Gould by Edward J. Renehan Jr. Jay Gould is one of the people that George Russell is based on.

Warnings: Angst; Gilded Age Manners™; pining; The One That Got Away; not a traditional happy ending

Summary: You understood how important it was that Franklin made good contacts in the city, and for all his infamy, you knew that Mr. Russell would be a very good contact for him. If he were ever to invest in Franklin’s business, it could mean a permanent base in New York—a third city the Hughes Leather Company’s operations. 

This wasn’t just about you. It was about your entire family, and their legacy. 

The smell was a touch off-putting, but that was no wonder—it was, after all, called the Swamp. George pushed his way through it until the smell was no longer his focus. Rather, he honed in on Frank Hughes’ spiel:

“The hemlock and alder are shipped in from the Poconos.”

“You own the land?” 

“I pay two cents for each acre I clear.” 

“How many acres have you cleared?” 

“So far, nearly 300.” 

George nodded, running the figures through his mind as he and Franklin continued to trek through the facility. 

“How does the plant work? Is it here?” 

“I’m aiming to model the tannery here after the one currently that I’m operating in the Poconos. We use a newer technique, a little used technique—it’s called wet tanning. The additional bark discarded from production is burned as fuel. By doing this, we use steam power, rather than the waterpower that so many of my competitors rely on.” 

“Which allows for fluctuations in seasonality?” 

“Precisely!” Franklin smiled. “In the winter, the other companies’ production slows greatly. We push on as if nothing’s changed.”

George nodded, unable to deny his interest. 

“How many units did you process last year?” 

“75,000. It’ll take some time for these facilities to reach the output of my other plants in San Francisco and Chicago.” 

The two of them stopped walking, eyeing a parcel as it was unloaded from a crate.

“Do you expect to maintain your pace from this year?” 

“No. I expect to exceed it,” Franklin said firmly. George smiled a touch, and couldn’t help but wonder if stubbornness ran in the family. 

“What you’ve put together here is quite impressive. I’d like to hear more,” George said, turning to face Franklin fully. 

“We could move this to my office, of course.” 

“Nothing so formal. I’d like to invite you over for dinner.” The following words were out of George’s mouth before he could stop them: “And bring your cousin, of course.” 

His expression was frozen in a smile as Franklin’s shifted to utter surprise. 

“We would be honored to dine with you and your family.” 

“Excellent. My wife will issue the necessary invitations.” 

“And I’m sure my cousin will manage the reply—the trivial end of these things.” 

George gave a short nod and turned to watch the workers in action. His fingers swiped over his sweating palm a touch, unsettled by his own actions, and his foolish snap-decision. It was unlike him—but there were few that could spur him into such impulsivity. She had always been one. 

— 

“This just arrived for you, ma’am.” 

“Thank you,” You murmured, the envelope from the preferred tray. You eyed the crisp script, brow furrowing as you turned the envelope over. The return address made your gut churn with nerves. You forced your hands steady as you lifted your letter opener, slicing at the top to draw out the cardstock. 

You could feel Eleanor shifting on the couch across from you, her embroidery forgotten. 

“...Who is it from, auntie?” 

“...Mrs. Bertha Russell. We’ve been invited to dine with them in a week.” 

“All of us?” 

“Just myself and Franklin.” You gave Eleanor an apologetic look as she sank back in her place, a pout twisting her lips.

“Darling, you’re not out yet, and we’re strangers in this city," You reminded her. "I wouldn’t be surprised if Mrs. Russell was uninformed of your arrival. You know that I hardly trust matters like that to Franklin.” 

Eleanor gave a small nod of concession, raising her needle to moodily stab at her work. You lowered your eyes back to the cardstock, sweeping the words over and over. You had to accept, of course. Considering your rather cool reception on the street, you were certain that this invitation was not unprompted. Surely Mr. Russell had either heavily implied that he was willing to invest in Franklin’s tannery, or had already made a deal….But no, surely not. You couldn’t imagine Mr. Russell diving headfirst into a deal such as that without getting a better idea of who he was investing with. 

An entire evening with the Russells—eating their food, discussing their days, gaining a proper gaze into the life that you could’ve had. What hell this would be. You drew in a deep breath, rising from your seat. 

“I must send a reply. Excuse me.” 

You turned, leaving the room with even, measured steps. You made yourself walk as calmly as you could your room. You knew that if you allowed your legs to move with the speed of your mind, you’d seem a frantic, faltering mess. 

You shut your bedroom door and drew in a deep breath, fingers tightening around the letter. You straightened after a moment, cursing the crinkling envelope beneath your fingertips. You strode across the room, taking another deep, steadying breath as you neared your desk. You would write this reply quickly—not only for the sake of your dealing with it, but for Franklin. You understood how important it was that he made good contacts in the city, and for all his infamy, you knew that Mr. Russell would be a very good contact for him. If he were ever to invest in Franklin’s business, it could mean a permanent base in New York—a third city the Hughes Leather Company’s operations. 

This wasn’t just about you. It was about your entire family, and their legacy. 

You forced your shoulders back into a staunch set as you took up a fresh piece of stationary. You take your pen up from the inkwell, dabbing away the excess before setting it to the paper. 

Mr. Franklin Hughes accepts with pleasure the polite invitation of Mrs. Russell for the evening of

You turned to the invitation, glancing over the date before filling it in accordingly. You signed your name with care before you took up a plain envelope, writing out the Russell’s address. You drew in a yet another deep breath to steady your shaking nerves before you lowered the pen back to the inkwell. You walked over to the door, tugging at the bell rope. You turned the invitation over in hand a few times, drawing in steadying breaths each time. When the door opened, you met Kate’s eye steadily and held it out. 

“Please have this delivered to the Russell’s household as soon as possible.” 

Kate took hold of the envelope and nodded, dipping a curtsy before turning away again, shutting the door behind herself. You let yourself sit on the edge of your bed, finally, and closed your eyes for a moment. The evening would be torture—but you had a week to brace, and to prepare yourself…And to get a new dress, lord above. You would have to get a few for Eleanor as well. 

You stood up again, nodding to yourself. That was what you would do. You would focus on getting clothing for the two of you, and continuing to inquire about architects in the city. Besides, you still needed to find a new cook, and a ladies’ maid for Eleanor—Yes. You could set your mind to these tasks, and distract yourself for the remainder of the week. 

--  

It felt wrong to call the Russell’s home a house. It looked like a palace. Your hand tightened absently around Franklin’s as he helped you down from the carriage. 

“You’re not getting nervous now,” Franklin tutted. 

“Of course not,” You answered stiffly, drawing your hand from his to lift your skirts up a touch, wary of tripping on the stairs. And it was true—you hadn’t just become nervous. You’d been almost cripplingly nervous since you’d woken up that morning. You’d hardly left your room, preparing. You’d read your papers, brushed up on the society pages, given another look to Franklin’s documents and process notes (though you were certain neither Franklin nor Mr. Russell would discuss the venture in front of you). 

Eleanor had poked her head in just once to check on you. Perhaps she’d sensed how panicked you’d been all week. You’d done your best to shield it from her, of course, but she’d always been far more attuned to you and your moods than the rest of the family had ever been. You hadn’t said a word to her about your nerves, or your past. You’d simply smiled, patted her cheek, and urged her to go practice the piano. 

You were determined to the pass the evening cleanly, without a hint of fear, a whisper of scandal, or more than a second’s glance at Mr. Russell. 

--

“Mr. Hughes, welcome.” 

Her voice was lower than you expected, and had a curl of warmth that one could be caught up in.

You’d seen her in the paper as often as you’d seen Mr. Russell. She was often at his side, arm hooked through his with a placid smile on her lips. The photos did her no justice. Bertha Russell was resplendent in her teal blue evening gown, a glimmering golden comb tucked artfully in her high, neatly coiffed hair. It deepened your desire to turn tail and run; it strengthened your resolve to survive the evening without insult or incident. 

“Mrs. Russell,” Franklin smiled graciously, taking a step closer. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

“Well, that doesn’t bode well,” Bertha teased, an intrigued curl to her lips as she clasped her hands in front of herself. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Hughes.” 

“And yours. Allow me to introduce my cousin.” 

Franklin saying your name passed blandly over your ears as you fought to keep yourself and your nerves steady. 

“I appreciate your extending the invitation to me this evening, Mrs. Russell.” 

“I’m delighted to. Won’t you follow me to the drawing room?” 

-- 

The drawing room hadn’t been so bad. You’d mostly left the chat to the others, offering only the most necessary of answers. Even the stilted greeting between yourself and Mr. Russell, curt nods and murmurs of, Good evening, could’ve gone worse. 

Dinner was lovely: beautifully prepared, and served with the flow and grace of a dance. You’d been quiet through most of the meal—answered the off question, smiled where you needed to, led rounds of chuckles through Franklin’s jokes (regardless of how dry they had been). You spent most of your time making sure that you were as perfect as could be—ensuring your posture was correct; taking your glass up by the stem rather than the bowl; using the correct knife or spoon or fork; taking socially acceptably sized bites and sips. These weren’t things that you were unfamiliar with, of course, but it was one thing to do it around your family or Franklin’s previous investors, and another entirely to do so with the Russells. 

So when Bertha asked you how you’d been finding New York, your knee-jerk reply had been ‘with a map’. Luckily for everyone involved, you were swallowing a sip of wine and had a moment to compose yourself. 

“I’m afraid I haven’t had a chance to see much of it,” You admitted, meeting Bertha’s eye. “I’ve been trying to find a suitable house to set Franklin up in—but now he seems determined to build one.” 

“Is that so?” Mr. Russell asked. You smiled a touch smugly, turning to Franklin as he chuckled, caught out. 

“Well—The homes that she chose all had potential, but none of them were quite to my liking." The answer was more diplomatic than you'd expected from him, but you were grateful for it.

“I’ve sent letters of inquiry to a number of architects’ firms—including McKim, Mead and White,” You tacked on. A buzz of relief shot through you as Bertha gave a slight smile and approving nod. 

“Yes, we’re quite familiar with Mr. White.” 

“His work is exquisite—as is yours.” 

You knew you’d struck another right chord when Bertha’s lips tipped up more acutely, the smile of the cat that had gotten the canary. 

“Have you given any thought to where you might build?” The question came from Mr. Russell. You forced yourself to turn your head, hardly allowing yourself to glance at him before redirecting your gaze to Franklin as he took the answer on. 

“A little, yes. I’d like something a little more north—Though this one,” Franklin nodded toward you, “Isn’t so sure.” 

“I don’t want you to choose an allotment so far uptown that you’re swimming to work.” 

Your slight bickering incited a wave of chuckles, and you hid your pleased smile as you reached for your wine glass. 

-- 

It was Bertha’s idea, but it was one that you didn’t sniff at. In fact, you’d leapt at the chance. Now, you walked at her side in stunned silence as her servants flanked you like candle-bearing ghosts. Neither the light from their candles nor the light from the hall could truly light the vast ballroom. 

“It’s magnificent,” You offered. In truth, you were fighting the urge to twirl childishly, as Eleanor had. 

“It certainly served its purpose for Gladys’ coming out.” 

“The first of many events, I hope.” 

“That seems very likely, yes.” 

You felt Bertha cast a curious eye toward you as she asked, “Is Mr. Hughes likely to hold any events of that sort?” 

A subtle prying regarding Franklin’s marital status, though not an unexpected one. 

“Perhaps—For his niece, Eleanor. She’ll be sixteen next fall.” 

“Next fall! That doesn’t leave much time to build a home here.” 

“It certainly doesn’t…But I am determined to expedite the process. So is Franklin.” The two of you came to a stop, and you found yourself chuckling quietly, raising your hand to sweep tiredly across your brow. “It’s been quite the surprise, this little jaunt to New York. I was only meant to be here about a month or so.” 

“And this is your first time here?” 

“It is.” 

“Where’s your family from?” 

You smiled, nerves beginning to flurry again. Surely you couldn’t say Stevensville—Surely she would know the place, ask Mr. Russell if he had any acquaintance— 

“Well, we've spent the last few years in Chicago, San Francisco before that. I helped Franklin keep his records together there before his business grew to what it is now.” 

The feeling of panic faded only a little as Bertha nodded and loosed a curious hum. 

“Do you think New York will be his final stop?” 

Another subtle ply. Mr. Russell had chosen a clever woman—a fellow strategist. 

“It very well may be. I think he’s looking to settle…And even if he isn’t, his mother is looking for him to settle.” 

Bertha arched a brow. You could see her winding up for another question, but the two of you were interrupted by the clacking of shoes coming down the hall. The gentleman appeared just a moment later. Franklin was trying (and failing) to hide childish glee; Mr. Russell had a calm, genial smile on his face. 

You and Bertha shared a glance, and you pursed your lips, dipping your head to hide a knowing smile. 

-- 

“She’s an interesting sort.” 

“...Hm?” 

“The cousin.” 

George was careful not to react outwardly. He merely finished pouring his drink and turned to face Bertha. She wasn’t watching him as he thought she may be; rather, she was straightening a stack of books that seemed to have been nudged askew at some point in the evening. George swirled the drink around in his glass a touch as he nodded. 

“I suppose.” 

“Not very talkative at dinner, but then of course, she may’ve been intimidated.” 

Intimidated. George could never imagine her as intimidated—at least, he couldn’t when he knew her before. Perhaps that boldness had shifted. Why, he couldn’t say, though he was quite curious to know. She had been incredibly quiet throughout the course of the evening; she’d hardly met his eye. Was that intimidation, or could it be fear? Shame?

“Perhaps,” He conceded.

“She wasn’t meant to stay long.” 

“Hm?” 

“In New York.” Bertha straightened, swanning around George to take the drink that he’d poured for her, and that she’d abandoned in favor of righting the books. “I imagine she’ll be here a year, at least.” 

George’s brow furrowed, and he turned to face her. 

“What gave you that impression?” 

“The building of the house, for one. And Hughes’ niece will be coming out, besides. If his tannery is as busy as you say, surely the cousin will be in charge of the home’s preparations, as well as the ball.” 

“Niece?” 

“Mm. Gladys’ age.” 

George nodded a touch, raising his glass to his lips. 

“How was your conversation with Hughes after dinner? Did it go as you expected?” Bertha plied.

George smiled sincerely then, giving a small nod. “He’s managed to keep other partners silent or bought them out entirely. He’ll speak things over with his people, of course, but I think the possibility of a partnership is within reach.” 

“I’m pleased to hear it.” 

“As am I. He’s an ambitious fellow—the markets that he’s broken into are difficult, but key for distribution. Clay should have notes for me on the financing and feasibility by the end of the week.” George went quiet then, walking over to an armchair and lowering himself into it. The question that bubbled up was against his better judgement, but he found himself asking it regardless: 

“Will you help her?” 

“Help who?” 

“The cousin. Into society.” 

Bertha’s brows drew together in confusion, but it wasn’t enough for George to discern whether or not he’d put a foot wrong. 

“You think she’ll need it?” Bertha asked. George tipped his head, giving his wife a knowing look. She sighed a little then, seeming to know that she was caught. 

“We’ve only just arrived,” She argued, “I can hardly jeopardize our position by bringing in an unknown spinster.” 

George considered that for a moment. Their social acceptance was hardly his domain; he’d have been happy to remain as they’d once been, further down the avenue. But this was important to Bertha. It had been her sole focus as they’d moved up in the world. Their children's futures hinged on it. 

“If I am to associate myself with them in business,” George pointed out, “Then their names will be tied with ours. People will ask questions. Surely it would look worse for us to associate with unknowns without trying to bring them in.” Bertha’s lips pursed in irritation, and George raised a hand to stop the incoming argument. “I only ask that you consider it.” 

“...I will make my own inquiries,” Bertha finally offered, “And I will make my decision.” 

George smiled, murmured his thanks, and sank back into his seat and his thoughts in silence. 

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