"The moon is very beautiful tonight."

The man is obviously a dom. If his height and his broad shoulders weren't enough to confirm it, his bearing would be. Every aspect of the way he holds himself speaks of being accustomed to command, of the quiet expectation of obedience. 

Lindsay glances over him, then adjusts the way he's standing, tilts his head to bare his throat — he's small and soft and narrow-shouldered and very obviously a sub, from the way he stands and the set of his shoulders to how he keeps his hands. 

"It is," he agrees. 

He sits next to Lindsay, just close enough to be proper. 

"What do you say, the worst ball of the year?"

"I don't know if I'd say that, the year isn't over yet." 

"What brings you here? I'm dodging overbearing mothers with submissive children they assure me are as accomplished as they are beautiful. "

"Oh, the usual. Dance partners as skilled as they are handsome, that is, not at all. Dominants who would rather address my chaperone than me. 

And the moon is beautiful." 

"Not as beautiful as you." Restrained but authoritative.

His smile goes softer; he lets his eyelashes flutter, tilts his head a little more to show off the line of his neck. 

"Thank you. 

May I have the pleasure of knowing your name?" 

"Captain Ashley Burton." Ashley captures Lindsay's wrist in his hand, turns it up, presses a kiss to the place where his blood pulses. "And you?"

Captain Burton is as notorious as a rake as he is for his heroism in battle. If Lindsay were minding his reputation, he'd make his excuses and find his chaperone. 

He could make his excuses and find his chaperone, mind his reputation, go back inside to the party he'd worked so hard to escape from. Perhaps he should. 

Or he could stay here, with a handsome, charming, interested, interesting man. 

"Lindsay Michaels," he says. "It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance." 

"The pleasure is all mine."

He makes the rote words sound so sincere.

The words are exactly the same as he's heard from everyone he's been introduced to that night, but the tone is — different. He feels warmer, when Burton looks at him like that. He doesn't take his wrist back. 

Burton presses his lips to Lindsay's wrist again. It's subtle-- he's good at this, it's nothing that would startle anyone even in a crowded ballroom-- but this time he bites. 

— oh. 

Lindsay's posture goes even more submissive, somehow, and softer, more natural. 

"I — should go back inside," he says, reluctantly. 

"Perhaps you should. I am, after all, a dangerous man."

Ashley lets go of Lindsay's hand and scoots away from him and shifts a bit and it is suddenly very obvious that Ashley is much taller than him and much stronger and could pick him up easily and do whatever he wanted to him.

Oh, that's — attractive. 

"So you are," he says, a little bit breathless. He doesn't move, doesn't take his eyes off of Burton's shoulders. 

"I'm sure a chaperone is looking for you."

He smiles. His smile has quite a lot of teeth.

His smile — or, the one he's using right now — is soft and sweet and a little nervous with no teeth at all. "I'm sure," he agrees. 

"Are you going to run along now, boy?"

He doesn't suppress the soft high-pitched sound he makes at boy. It's a touch forward, but it isn't like Burton hasn't been. 

"Stay with me." It's an order. 

He could go. He should go. 

"Yes sir," he says, very softly, and stays. 

"Good boy. You're very pretty, you know."

There are bounds of propriety even here. They never know who might be watching, even if they can't hear precisely what they're saying. But Ashley is sitting a little bit closer than he should be.

"Thank you, sir." He actually can't bare his throat any more than he already is, but he looks up at Burton through his eyelashes. 

"I know a place here we can talk privately, if you want to."

"That sounds lovely." 

"Right this way!"

There's a little alcove in the back of the house, with a door that shuts and locks. It fits two, if you don't mind accidentally brushing knees now and then.

He follows. He does not at all mind brushing knees now and then. 

(This is a bad decision, he thinks as the door closes, but he doesn't want to stop —) 

When the door closes, Ashley is kissing him. 

He's firm, he leads the kiss; it would be so easy to just go with it and not think about anything at all.

It is. It's so easy, to put everything he's worried about aside.

He melts into Ashley, lets him lead and lets himself be led, lets his hands fall where they will. 

Ashley has a hand in Lindsay's hair and he's pulling. He bites Lindsay's ear and then whispers in it, "Am I going to ruin you?"

His breath is hot. 

Ohhhhh — he's, he's been dommed before but never like — 

"I don't know," breathy and between gasps, "are you?" 

"Not unless you've already been ruined." He nibbles down Lindsay's neck. 

He isn't a virgin but that was with other subs, that doesn't count, there's — 

"Please," he whispers, and doesn't know what he's pleading for. 

"Don't beg for something unless you tell me what you're begging for," he says, and his hand is so gentle when it wraps around Lindsay's throat.

Oh. Oh, that's what it was. 

"Please choke me." 

Ashley kisses Lindsay, his hand around his throat, cutting off his air only the slightest bit.

He kisses Ashley back, presses forward into Ashley's hand — he's good at kissing, maybe Ashley will —

"Eager," Ashley chides into his mouth, and tightens his hand around Lindsay's neck.

He moans and goes still under Ashley's hand. 

"Quiet, unless you want them to hear you. Course, you might like that."

Asher's other hand is sneaking down the front of Lindsay's dress.

A tiny whimper, he does like that but he can't —

Ashley pinches his nipple.

"You'd like that, you'd like it if I dressed you up and paraded you around in front of everyone--"

He bites off the sound he wants to make — nods, then nods again, quicker —

"If they all looked at you and wanted you and knew that you were mine..."

Ashley keeps an eye on how much he's choking Lindsay-- enough to make his head swim, not enough that there's any risk of him passing out.

Skirts really give you very easy access. It's a design flaw. 

"Please," just the barest whisper. His eyes fall closed and his back arches and he wants to moan and swallows down the noise —

Ashley pinches his thigh hard. "What did I say?"

"—not to beg unless I told you what I was begging for," very quickly. "Sir." He keeps pressing forward into Ashley. 

"Good boy. I'm good but I can't read minds."

Lindsay's skirts are up around his hips and one of Ashley's hands is rubbing his dick teasingly. 

The small bitten-off almost-moans are nearly constant now — his cheeks and shoulders are flushed, the blush deepens when Ashley calls him good boy —

"If we went back to my place you could get loud. My servants are very discreet."

He wants that so badly — Ashley could tie him up properly, it would be so good — 

"I shouldn't," he says, and it sounds mostly like he's trying to convince himself. 

Ashley jerks him off once, twice, three times, and says, "you don't have to if you don't want to."

"I," gasp, "want to, I just, shouldn't —" 

Ashley's hand eases up on Lindsay's throat so that it's only a calm presence, a reminder of what he can do. His other hand is teasing between Lindsay's legs.

"We can stop right now," Asher says into his ear. "You can smooth down your dress and we can go back to that boring, boring ball and you can touch yourself tonight thinking about what I'd feel like inside you--"

"Or," gasp, "or we could not —"

"That's what I like to hear," Ashley says. "My house is not far. I walked."

He pauses to catch his breath, smoothes down his dress and follows. 

When they get far enough away from the party that no gossipy matrons will see, Ashley scoops up Lindsay in his arms and carries him.

Oh gods — lots of people can pick Lindsay up if they try, but Ashley's hold is — good. Very good. 

Then in two blocks they can be at Ashley's house and Lindsay can be thrown on the bed and very thoroughly kissed.

Oh good. 

He presses his hips up into Ashley's body, arches his back and lets his eyes close. 

"Take off your dress for me. Prettily, please."

He takes off his shoes and dress and stays, very slowly, very pretty about it; leaves his stockings and nothing else. 

Ashley is watching him intently and possessively, like Lindsay is a thing he's bought and he wants to see whether he's got his money worth.

"You're lovely. Good boy. Lie down on the bed."

He moans, just a little, at the praise, and lays himself out on Ashley's bed. 

Ashley looks at Lindsay for a moment like he's thinking about something. Then he gets out some rope and ties Lindsay spreadeagle to the bed. The rope is very, very soft.

He goes so, so relaxed, with a tiny little blissed-out smile. His eyes are closed. 

Ashley slaps him. "Pretty boy," he says, "I'm going to take my time with you."

The smile spreads across his face. 

"Thank you, sir." 

Then Ashley will slap him again and put his fingers to Lindsay's lips.

"Suck."

He does. 

Lindsay is good at this, Ashley might notice — he looks up at Ashley through his eyelashes, moans prettily around Ashley's fingers. 

Ashley does! It does not surprise him, because he expects Lindsay to be experienced.

Lindsay might notice that, unlike the subs he's slept with, Ashley doesn't slip into submissive body language when his fingers are sucked. Ashley's moaning and biting his lip, but his muscles are tense with coiled power and his fingers explore Lindsay's mouth like it unquestionably belongs to him. 

The Society has plenty of people who could go either way, but this is — Ashley is — he moans again and sucks on Ashley's fingers more enthusiastically. 

Ashley pulls Lindsay's hair hard while he sucks on his fingers.

That's good, that's good, Ashley should definitely keep doing that — Lindsay feels soft, safe, like he's floating —

Ashley keeps doing that for a while!

Then he gets between Lindsay's legs and starts to mouth his prick, while the fingers Lindsay was sucking start to probe his ass.

He can't really arch his back when he's tied like this, but he's — trying —

Ashley pulls off, rests his head on Lindsay's thigh, replaces his mouth with his hand. His fingers are still moving in Lindsay's ass. "I could do whatever I want with you, you know, now that you're tied up like this. I could hurt you, I could cut you, I could mark you up so everyone knows how desperate you are, how I ruined you..."

"Please hurt me," he says, still soft, "please mark me up — somewhere no one will see —"

The bruises on his thighs from a week ago aren't visible anymore, but they still ache when Lindsay presses a thumb into them. Having Ashley's marks on top of them feels, right now, like the best thing in the world. 

"I could mark you up where someone could see. It's a bit reckless, being tied up by a dom you haven't known for even an hour." Ashley swallows Lindsay down his throat, then pulls off and says, "I like reckless."

A quiet whimper. Lindsay — can't think about things like should, not when Ashley is looking at him like this, talking to him like this, using that voice with those words. The world is soft around the edges and Ashley's voice feels like the only important thing in it, Ashley's voice and Ashley's hands and Ashley's mouth. 

Ashley bites Lindsay's thigh hard, one hand fucking him, the other stroking his prick.

Lindsay cries out, loud and sharp, and pulls against the rope and presses his hips forward into Ashley's hands. 

Asher bites the same spot again and again. 

Lindsay's cries turn into moans turn into whimpers turn into harsh, ragged gasps. 

Ashley bites up Lindsay's leg and starts to suck him again. 

He's quieter now, gasping and whimpering rather than moaning — the only thing in the world is this bed, and the rope on his wrists and Ashley's mouth around him —

The fingers of one of Ashley's hands is digging into Lindsay's thigh where the bruises are; the other hand is fucking him roughly; he's taking Lindsay deep into his throat.

Lindsay goes quiet when he gets close, shakes under Ashley's hands. 

Ashley stops completely, takes his fingers out of Lindsay's ass and his mouth off Lindsay's dick, and smiles. 

He sobs and rocks forward against air —

"Shh, good boy," Ashley says, "you can be good for me, can't you?"

He nods, then nods again, quicker. Falls silent. 

When he's calmer Ashley starts sucking him again. 

He's quieter this time — occasionally a whimper makes it through but shh, good boy keeps echoing in his head — 

Ashley can get him to the edge much quicker, this time. 

And when he does Ashley sits up and lightly traces lines on Lindsey's chest and says, "you look lovely when you're desperate."

A small gasp at the praise. 

"Thank you," with no voice behind it, only air, "thank you —" 

Slap. "Thank you, what?"

He relaxes into the impact. "Thank you sir." 

"Good boy."

Ashley very deliberately bites where Lindsay's jawline meets his throat. If it bruises, anyone would be able to see.

"Ah —" and he can't cling, not with the ropes, but he does the best he can, presses his entire body up into Ashley. 

Ashley takes it as encouragement, bites harder in the same place. There's going to be a mark.

He starts to lazily jerk Lindsay off.

He — Lindsay's taken he's claimed he's Ashley's boy and everyone will be able to see and right now that's the best thing he can think of — he'd say thank you but the words aren't, really, forming — 

"Good boy," he says, "you're so good for me, you really want to finish, don't you?"

He punctuates his words with bites all over Lindsay's neck.

"Yes — please, Ashley, please let me finish —" 

"No," he says, biting Lindsay's neck hard and taking away his hand.

He sobs — his hips jerk involuntarily and he's so so beautiful, his cheeks and chest and shoulders flushed and bruises starting to form on his neck — 

Ashley gets back between his legs, digs his fingers into the bruises on his thighs, and sucks him again.

Lindsay is — not quiet. He's trembling; he shakes when he approaches the edge — 

Ashley keeps sucking until Lindsay reaches the point of no return and then pulls away to watch him finish untouched.

He finishes, shaking — he's still hard — he's crying, very quietly. 

Ashley wraps his arms around Lindsay. "Good boy," he says, "you were very good."

He curls into Ashley as best he can. "Thank you. Sir." 

Ashley strokes his hair and kisses his forehead and holds him until he stops shaking.

That might take a while. 

Eventually, though, he goes soft and still in Ashley's arms. 

Ashley kisses him. "You should go home," he says. His voice is gentle. "You may borrow my carriage."

He shakes his head, pulls at the ropes. "Easier to sneak in without one." Then, quieter: "Thank you. Sir." 

Ashley unties him. "It would be nicer to keep you overnight," he says, "but needs must."

"I'd love to stay," a little wistful. "But needs must." He kisses Ashley's cheek and then stands to get himself dressed, puts his hair back up.

Ashley watches him dress, smiling. "Shall I see you again?"

"I hope so." One last kiss, and then he has to leave no really. 

Maybe two or three last kisses and a last bite on his shoulder.

Maybe three or four last kisses, and then he has to leave, no, really. 

Lindsay keeps his window open for exactly this eventuality; he's good at getting into the house unseen. He could finish properly, now; he doesn't. 

He has the sweetest dreams that night. 

In the morning his parents want to know where he went off to without his chaperone for the entire evening and why there was a rumor that he was spotted with Captain Burton and why he's wearing a scarf around his neck. 

Ahahaha this is fine. 

He smiles pleasantly and makes up some nonsense about how beautiful the moon was that evening, plays the silly thing who reads too much poetry, and.... can't explain the scarf. Fuck. 

"Take off the scarf," his mother says, firmly. 

...He takes off the scarf. 

There is a truly impressive array of bruises across his neck and shoulders. 

His mother doesn't look angry. She doesn't even look disappointed. She just looks sad. 

She opens her mouth, starts to say something, closes it, shakes her head. "Go to your room. I'll speak to your father."

He nods. He goes to his room. 

He tries to read and mostly fails. Writes a letter to Leo and puts it in an envelope and doesn't send it.

A letter comes from Leo anyway. 

My dearest, Lindsay,

What in the name of the twelve immortals were you thinking? Half the ton is talking about you and Burton. I've heard the rumors and I'm not exactly what you'd call well-connected. If even a tenth of what people are saying is true, [scribbled out writing] I don't know what we're going to do. 

A salary as a governess can perhaps be stretched to cover two, although most parents would prefer their children's governness room with someone respectable. Maybe we'll go to the Continent, where they won't have heard the gossip? We will figure out some means of support. Please don't worry, I will take care of you. 

As always, I love you and I will be by your side through everything. Please remember to eat.

The Poetry Society sends their fondest wishes to you. I'm sure you can imagine what Stephen said when he found out. 

Your darling,

Leo

He scraps the previous letter and starts over. 

My dearest, Leo, 

I wasn't thinking, that was the problem

Pray do not worry about me; my every meal is dedicated to you. 

This is, strictly speaking, true; Leo already knows how much Lindsay is (or, more accurately, how much Lindsay isn't) likely to be eating now, but Lindsay avoids the topic anyway. 

I miss you. I miss the rest of the Society — please thank Stephen for me; the image of his face when he heard was a gift even if I never saw it in truth — but you know, that the first claim on my heart has always been yours. 

Your darling, 

Lindsay

It will be a few hours before he can get Leo's response. 

His parents are arguing with raised voices. 

He is aware of how monumentally stupid every decision he made last night was, and doesn't need to listen in. Not listening, however, is — difficult. 

The suggestion is floated that perhaps Lindsay should be turned out of the house immediately to preserve the marriage prospects of his siblings and to prevent him from being a bad influence.

Leo. Leo. He has Leo — he has the Society but mostly he has Leo. 

He stops listening to his parents and practices pianoforte so he won't find himself focusing on them. 

Then he won't hear the person making a call on their household until his mother comes up to fetch him. 

"Captain Burton wishes to speak to you," she says, her mouth a tight line. "Alone."

…he has Leo. No matter what he always has Leo. 

He nods and comes out to meet Captain Burton. 

Ashley smiles at him when he enters the drawing room, the smile with too many teeth.

He smiles back, small and polite. 

When Lindsay's mother leaves, Ashley says, "I hope you will do me the honor of accepting my hand in marriage."

Oh thank the gods. 

"Yes," he says, audibly relieved. 

"I-- wouldn't have. If I had known."

Lindsay is aware of the sheer number of ways in which he was an idiot last night. "I'm sorry," he says, "I should have told you." Should have stopped him before they ever kissed. Shouldn't have agreed to speak privately — shouldn't have left his chaperone at all —

— it's not important. He can't change it now, he can only live with it. 

"You have to marry a person you met last night and with whom you have exchanged more moans than words, I don't think you should feel the need to apologize."

So do you, now, he doesn't say. 

"Thank you, sir," he says instead. 

"I know this is not what you would have chosen, but I hope I can make you happy. I have no family background, but I am a pious man, I have a good income, and I am often at sea. I will not make too many demands of you."

No matter what, he has Leo. And — if Ashley is at sea — 

"Thank you, sir," he says again, more sincere this time. 

Ashley chastely kisses his forehead. "We should tell your parents."

He ducks his head. "Yes. —thank you again." 

"You've thanked me enough," he says firmly. 

He opens his mouth to apologize and then closes it and nods. 

Ashley kisses his forehead again. "Marrying a beautiful submissive is not such a terrible fate."

"I could do much worse than a handsome dominant who knows exactly how to kiss me to make me stop thinking," he agrees. "Shall we tell my parents?" 

"Let's."

Lindsay's mother is so relieved. She thanks Ashley and welcomes him to the family in a polite formulaic way and her face is so relieved and so, so grateful.

The engagement ceremony is set for that evening and the wedding for a week from today.

A week is enough time to tell the Society why he might not be coming back. (Some of their members were married. It isn't impossible. It's just.) A day is enough time to tell Leo. It feels a little bit unreal. He stands at Ashley's side and lets none of this show on his face. 

He has a little time to write to Leo and the members of the society while Ashley and his parents negotiate the marriage contract. 

(If he eavesdrops, he'll discover it's not a very complicated set of negotiations. Ashley's honor demands that he marry Lindsay no matter what, and Lindsay's parents are glad to get rid of him.)

He ignores the negotiations in favor of 

My dearest, Leo, 

I am to be married next Sunday; you are the first to be told, though by the time this letter reaches you, you may not be the first to hear. 

In spite of this there remains a part of me for the world and a part for you; I am 

Forever yours, 

Lindsay 

It isn't long enough. He doesn't know what else to say. 

Downstairs, his parents are very politely inquiring about whether Captain Burton is going to want a larger dowry to account for the... situation. Captain Burton thinks that, since the... situation... was entirely his fault, a token dowry would be fine. 

He's not listening. He isn't. (He is.) 

He sends the letter and goes back to trying to read. 

Leo's mail comes with the last round of mail of the day. 

My dearest, Lindsay,

This is the sort of message that fills me with worry. Who are you marrying? Will they be kind to you? Do you know if they will allow you to go to meetings of the Society, or to see me? Do they gamble or drink to excess? Will you have children? (As you can imagine, I have a particular interest in the last question!)

Please eat. I will tell your new spouse to make sure you eat. I have heard Publicus is working on a very interesting monograph about the necessity of food to sustain human life. 

Stephen wishes you to know that if he is not invited to the wedding then he shall storm the wedding in a mask and transform it into a veritable Bacchanalian revel. I do not wish to presume on the graciousness of your new spouse, but I too wish for an invite.  

Remember the poem I read at the society three weeks ago, and the one I read the second time you came to the Society, and my own poor attempts at writing. I love you. I am, as always,

Forever yours,

Your Leo

There are tear spots on it.

He'll have to wait to send it, but he writes anyway. 

My dearest, Leo, 

I am marrying Captain Burton. 

I don't know him, except that his honour demands he marry me. He tells me he will often be at sea; I can see you and the Society then, even if at no other time. He says he will try not to make demands. I do not anticipate children, although to have you in the house I am tempted to arrange for some. 

I promise you I will eat. 

Tell Stephen that, while I have no objection to Bacchanalian revels, he need not storm my wedding, and nor do you. Remember the last three poems I read, and the last five that I translated, and know that I love you, as I ever have and ever will. 

Forever yours, 

Lindsay 

He's always careful with Leo's letters, but he takes special care with this one. 

The engagement requires three adult dominant witnesses unrelated to and unemployed by the bride and the groom. Captain Burton could engage those on short notice. It does not require a priest.

Incense and wine are offered to Janus and Juno, Vesta and Venus, Minerva and the two families' household gods. (Minerva is not a normal deity to invoke in a marriage ceremony, but it appears that Captain Burton has a special devotion.) Prayers are made to the gods to bless their union. 

Ashley signs the contract.

Lindsay signs the contract. He'll make his own offering later. 

Ashley places a ring on Lindsay's finger, and Lindsay's mother joins their hands. 

"Nubo," he says. I veil myself. 

And the ceremony is over. 

Normally there would be a celebratory dinner, with speeches in praise of Eros and Matrimonium and Hymen, but, well. 

Yes. Well. 

He sends the letter to Leo. 

And not long after Leo appears at his front door. 

When they're alone, he says, "I'm glad I didn't have to sneak in through the window."

"I am too," Lindsay says, and hugs him tight. 

"I've been your closest friend for years, Lindsay, I know 'I will eat' means 'I will have an apple for breakfast and nothing else all day.' Please eat an ordinary amount of food for a submissive of your age and size. For me?"

He holds Leo tighter. "I promise I'll try. For you. 

Five days shouldn't be long enough to miss you this much." 

"I leave you alone for five days and when I come back you're a fallen submissive and getting married to a complete stranger!"

"Maybe you'll just have to keep a closer eye on me." 

Leo glances at the parlor door, then kisses him on the lips. "I will."

"I love you." Another kiss, quick and chaste. "I love you, Leo, I'm still your Lindsay," and they're so close and he wants to be closer still. 

"You're always going to be my Lindsay and nothing is ever going to change that."

They can keep kissing, as long as they're careful.

"No. No, nothing ever is." 

They can sit down and then they can be even closer; Lindsay shouldn't move into Leo's lap, but they can curl up together like cats and be dismissed as old friends. 

Leo wraps an arm around his shoulder and plays with his hair. If anyone comes in, he can make it look like he was accidentally touching it.

"What's he like? The stuff you can't put in letters."

"He's beautiful. Beautiful face, beautiful voice, beautiful hands, beautiful mouth. Good at kissing, good at tying me up, good at teasing. And I've known him for two days and — how did he put it — have exchanged more moans than words with him." 

"I guess it's better than getting married to someone who isn't beautiful and isn't good at sex. And him wanting to marry you at all is a good sign."

"From what I can tell, he seems sweet, although I can't tell much. I didn't have to ask him to hold me, after." 

"It's not a lot to judge a husband on."

"It's not," he agrees. "But — when he first came here he said he wouldn't have done it if he'd known I wasn't already ruined, and when I apologized for not stopping him he said I had to marry a man I barely knew and I didn't need to apologize, and that I didn't need to thank him so much. 

I don't know very much but — outside of the rumors, of course, nothing I know is bad." 

"Are you just trying to stop me from wearing a hole in the floorboards worrying about you?"

"Don't be silly, Leo, I already know nothing I say will stop you from wearing a hole in the floorboards worrying." A gentle, careful kiss. 

"We can rule out most of the most scandalous rumors, because he's marrying you, so he can't have seduced any other virgins, or he would already be married. And some of the other scandalous rumors aren't so bad."

"I doubt I disagree with you, but which ones do you mean?" 

"There's a rumor he's a molly."

"That'd be lovely." He's only a little wistful. "It is the kind of thing they say about a rake in the Navy whether it's true or not, though." 

"Wonder if he'd be a molly like you or a molly like me or a molly like Gabriel."

"Not like Gabriel, he clearly liked me well enough and it isn't as if I showed him." 

Leo's hand starts playing with Lindsay's scarf. "Why are you wearing this?"

Lindsay takes it off. 

The bruises are starting to heal. None of them have vanished yet, though. 

Leo is blushing.

"You are so beautiful."

He brushes a lock of hair away from Leo's face, lets his fingers brush the shell of Leo's ear maybe a touch more than necessary. "You're beautiful." 

"I'm not the one with bruises."

Is it risky to press his fingers into Lindsay's shoulders? Yes. Does he do it anyway? Also yes.

He hisses and —

— takes Leo's hands and moves them away from his shoulders. "Not here." 

"I know. You're just hard to resist."

A soft sigh. "You're very sweet. I love you." 

"In six months, when you're married and your husband is off at sea, and your old friend Leo is staying at your house to keep you company, I'll be able to touch you as much as I like."

"And by then I'll have had plenty of time to acquire more bruises." 

"I'll give you some."

He puts his head on Leo's shoulder and keeps it there for a moment. "And will I get a chance to leave bruises on you? —we'll need to be more careful in the Society, there'll be someone to see the bruises under my clothes now." 

"Only when your husband's at home and you can't pass them off as bruises he made, but yes. And of course you can always leave bruises on me."

"You have no idea how tempted I am to take you up on that now, but —" a kiss on Leo's cheek, even if someone saw it it could be easily passed off as friendly — "not the place. And not the time." 

"No. But someday, once you're married." He plays idly with a bit of Lindsay's hair. "The Society has instructed me to ask you how you're planning to get Bacchus's blessing on your marriage."

"I was planning to make the offerings alone tonight, I didn't think I could manage to arrange for them to be there. 

You could join me, if you wanted to." 

"The gods still don't exist."

"The rituals are important whether the gods exist or not." 

"Rituals to honor imaginary people are not important!"

"Even if it isn't important to Bacchus, it's important to me that I do it. You don't have to come if you don't want to." 

"Of course I'm going to come. Even if the rituals aren't important, you are."

"I love you." Kiss. "I love you." 

"Further, I have been to enough Society meetings to guess that your offering to Bacchus might in some way involve my prick."

"It might!" 

That night can't come fast enough. 

They can talk about poetry and the new monograph by a pseudonymous author who is definitely not Leo until the evening!

And in the evening Lindsay brings Leo into his room with a bottle of wine and locks the door and kneels on the ground and kisses him, long and slow. 

Leo is kneeling, small and graceful and obedient, his hands behind his back and a look of peace on his face. Most of the time Leo seems almost nondynamic: eccentric, unworldly, concerned with books far more than with social games.

But when Lindsay kisses him he arranges himself as if to say: "I am yours, do as you want with me."

He loves his Leo so very much. 

He's still on his knees, but the way he's holding his shoulders, where he puts his hands, the line of his back, all of them say dominant. 

He kisses Leo over and over and over, hums into Leo's mouth. 

Leo hisses. 

He shouldn't say I love you, Lindsay, because it's a ritual and only the proper words should be said, but he is thinking it very hard.

He doesn't say good boy, for the same reaction, but it's clear in his face. 

One kiss, two, three, and then he stands and takes a bundle of paper — letters exchanged when he was a child, the sheet music from his first pianoforte exercises — and a lit candle, and kneels again, and kisses Leo and holds the papers up to the flame, one by one. 

Leo watches. The flames are dancing on his face. 

"Hail Bacchus."

"Hail Bacchus," soft and reverent.

(Lindsay's childhood, his dominance, Leo's submission, both of their love, and, of course —) 

He takes a long drink from the bottle of wine, hands it to Leo. 

Leo drinks and kisses Lindsay, long and sweet.

Good boy. Good boy. He doesn't say it, but he puts his hands in Leo's hair and kisses him again once, twice, three times, and then blows the candle out and leaves them both in darkness. 

Leo touches Lindsay's face in the darkness with his fingertips, as if he's trying to memorize it.

And Lindsay holds Leo close, presses his body into Leo's and touches his hair and whispers "Hail Bacchus" again. 

"Thank you," he says after a moment. 

"Ivy-covered Bacchus, the deliverer, the molly, he of the large balls, you have no reason to listen to me, because I'm only part of your cult because I like poetry and alcohol and Lindsay and I don't actually think you exist. Maybe 'I'm just here for the wine and sex' is the kind of spirit you want in your worshippers, I don't know. But Lindsay has been devoted to you, and he got in trouble because he drank too much and got too aroused and made bad decisions, which I think is basically getting in trouble because of how devoted he is to your service. So I think you should do your best to make sure Lindsay's new husband is kind, and treats him the way he deserves, and doesn't gamble or drink too much or make unwise investments, and thinks Lindsay should go to every Poetry Society meeting, and is at sea for years at a stretch so Lindsay and I can live together and have sex in every room of his house."

"Ivy-covered Bacchus, the deliverer, the molly, he of the large balls, thank you for everything you have given me — for friends, for self-knowledge, and," he holds Leo tighter for a brief moment, "for my Leo. 

Please keep me safe. Please allow me to be devoted to you. Please let me keep my Leo at my side." 

A pause. And then, very soft: "Hail Bacchus." 

"Keep Lindsay safe. That's the most important thing. Hail Bacchus."

He kisses Lindsay lightly, almost chastely.

At the last 'hail Bacchus' the tension seems to drain out of Lindsay; he holds onto Leo like a lifeline now. 

"Thank you," he says into Leo's shoulder. "For being here with me." He doesn't just mean at the ritual. 

"Always." His fingers intertwine with Lindsay's. "If you need to run I'll run with you."

He's maybe clinging, a little bit. "I love you." 

"We can run off to the Continent and, I don't know, I can teach, or you can pretend to be a dom and I'll be your husband, or something. I've written to people on the Continent, you could say you're Publicus."

"Everything I know about him so far is — not bad." He's mostly trying to reassure himself. 

"Yes. And no matter what happens, I'm going to keep you safe. I promise." He kisses the back of Lindsay's hand.

"I still sometimes can't believe that I had the good fortune to meet you." He kisses Leo's knuckles. 

"We should get drunk and have sex. For Bacchus."

"You're so predictable." He takes another drink of the wine and leads Leo to the bed, though. 

"I'm very pious."

"Of course you are." Once they're on the bed he puts the wine down and starts getting Leo's clothes off. 

Leo helps. "I will do anything to honor my family and the gods and my country, as long as the thing I'm doing involves your mouth and my body."

"You're lovely." He kisses down Leo's jawline and neck and chest. 

"Good plan." Leo kisses Lindsay. He tastes like wine.

So does Lindsay. 

"I think — mmm — I have too many clothes on. You should help with that." 

"I should!" 

He pulls off Lindsay's dress and kisses down his chest.

"Lovely," he murmurs, and puts a hand on the back of Leo's head. "My lovely loving Leo." 

Leo kisses Lindsay's hipbone. "Yours, always yours."

His other hand falls to the back of Leo's neck, presses down. "My good boy." 

Leo hisses and puts his mouth on Lindsay's prick.

Sex with Leo is — good. Sweet even when they're rough with each other. 

Lindsay, for his part, has an excellent night. 

Leo too.

It's not that unusual for two old friends to want to spend the night together, especially after what just happened. 

No, it isn't. 

Lindsay falls asleep with his Leo in his arms, soft and safe and satisfied. 

Ashley calls on Lindsay the next morning. 

"You look well."

"As do you." 

"I brought you a necklace I thought you might like."

The necklace is silver, with an emerald pendant in the center. It is pretty; it is also the sort of gift you would bring a submissive you do not know at all.

"It's beautiful," he says, because it is. The reminder that he and Ashley don't know one another doesn't sting, exactly, but it isn't a good feeling. 

He turns and lifts up his hair so Ashley can put the necklace on him. 

Ashley brushes his fingers along Lindsay's neck as he puts the necklace on, then presses a finger into one of the bruises. "I'm afraid," he says, "you're too beautiful, you utterly outshine it."

He hisses at the pressure and ducks his head. Ashley's charming, he knows this, but his cheeks are still warm. "Thank you, sir." His voice is warm and maybe a little bit breathless. 

Ashley kisses his cheek. 

"Your parents have told me you don't have anyone you want to invite to the wedding. I am very suspicious that this is not, in fact, true."

"It is not," he agrees. "At the very least, Stephen Galbraith has informed me that if he is not invited he will, and I quote, 'storm the wedding in a mask and transform it into a veritable Bacchanalian revel,' which I assume we'd prefer to avoid." Lindsay actually quite likes the idea, but he's reasonably sure that the sentiment won't be shared. "And Leo Maturin has made no such threats, but," and his voice goes softer, "he is my closest friend of many years and I would like to have him there, if it's possible." 

"I would quite enjoy a Bacchanalian revel, but I am afraid it would scandalize various people I prefer not to scandalize, such as your parents, my parents, and my friend Emmett. So best to invite him, I think."

"Yes, I thought so too." He tries to think if there's anyone else from the Society it makes obvious sense to invite. 

"You may invite as many people as you like." He considers. "You may invite as many people as you like, but only a hundred or so people can fit in my house, and the rest will have to stand in the garden."

"I can think of five, not including my family." 

"All your friends are welcome." He kisses Lindsay's forehead. "I think your parents were trying to keep it small because they're ashamed. I'm not ashamed of marrying you. If I were, I wouldn't do it."

He's... very sincere. 

Lindsay isn't entirely sure what to do with that. He nods instead of trying to respond in words. 

He tucks a lock of Lindsay's hair behind his ear. "I'm happy to be marrying you."

He isn't sure what he meant to say, but "You don't know me," wasn't it. 

"I don't," he says, "but I want to, because you say things like that."

He doesn't know how to answer.

Ashley kisses his forehead a second time, smiles and says, "I've stopped trusting your parents about what you want for your wedding! Is there anything you particularly want?"

"If I can have my friends there, I'm happy." 

"All right. I should have pushed harder for the wedding to be farther in the future, many of my friends live overseas."

He makes a sympathetic sound and moves closer to Ashley. 

"On the other hand, maybe it's a good thing that my wedding guests don't include the prince of Thule."

"...should I ask how you know the prince of Thule?" 

"It is a hilarious story which you can hear on my deathbed. Or after we're married if you ask very nicely."

"I'll make sure to ask nicely, then." He has to stand on tiptoe to kiss Ashley's cheek. 

"--I'd like to get to know you before we get married but I don't know what sort of questions to ask. Your mother mentioned something about a poetry society?"

Lindsay debates for a moment how much about the Society to tell him, then says, "Yes. That's where I met nearly all of my friends." 

"I don't know anything about poetry, unless you count sea shanties, which I don't think you should. Tell me about it?"

"I don't quite know how to talk about it? But —" 

Abruptly his bearing changes; he's still using submissive body language, but he looks — less unsure. 

"I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said:—Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand,
Half sunk, a shatter'd visage lies, whose frown
And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamp'd on these lifeless things,
The hand that mock'd them and the heart that fed.
And on the pedestal these words appear:
"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!"
Nothing beside remains: round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,
The lone and level sands stretch far away." 

He speaks like every word is precious. 

He's quiet for a bit afterward. Thoughtful.

"It's sad," he says finally, "but it's beautiful."

"It is." 

"Who wrote it?"

"Percy Shelley." 

"What do you think of the poem?"

"It's — my friend's favorite. He likes it because he generally likes large grandiose poetry; I like it because — there's a lot to be said about how Anglia is built on the bones of Rome, and this poem says it better than most others I've read." 

"It's wrong though. Anglia is not a colossal wreck. Anglia is its own country with its own genius, not-- a shade of Rome."

"Not that Anglia is the wreck. But our country is full of things that the Romans thought would last forever, and they didn't; it's a caution, not a criticism." 

"I'm not sure the analogy works though. I think it's more like-- the statue fell apart and then we used one of the legs to build a house and the other to build a temple and children play on the head. Maybe statues are grander and more noble than houses and temples and places for children to play, but those things are good too."

He nods seriously. "But 'Look upon my works, ye mighty, and despair!' is still a deeply arrogant thing to say; if nobody now made similar claims I'd read it completely differently, and with the bit about the sneer of cold command it's even more transparently about arrogance — that this person's arrogance is the only thing surviving of him. It's partially about Anglia but it's not just about Anglia." 

"I know it sounds like it's about an empire but it seems like you could also interpret it as being about-- a person? One of those people who is very proud of being an admiral but a decade after they retire no one remembers the names of any of the battles they've won."

He nods again. "I'm not quite as familiar with the phenomenon, I don't think, but yes, you could." 

— fuck, did that sound like he was implying Ashley was one of those people? He hopes it didn't. 

If it did, Ashley has no particular inclination to talk about it. 

He seems to want to keep talking to Lindsay about poetry. 

Lindsay's happy to keep talking to him about poetry. 

In fact, it might be a little bit difficult to get him to stop. 

Ashley seems absolutely fascinated by Lindsay's poetry opinions and will continue to listen to them long past the proper amount of time to spend with one's fiance, until Lindsay's mother is politely hinting about how Lindsay needs to practice his pianoforte. 

He's visibly reluctant to leave, but eventually he'll admit that he does need to practice. 

Ashley kisses him on the forehead when he's about to leave and says, "Good boy. I like hearing you talk."

He ducks his head and murmurs "Thank you, sir," and the smile stays on his face for what would be an embarrassingly long time, if anyone were there to see it. 

When he gets to his desk, there's a note from Leo that just says:

SEND ME A LETTER TELLING ME HOW IT WENT!

My dearest, Leo,

He argues with me about poetry! He likes arguing with me about poetry! He's beautiful and intelligent and he likes hearing my thoughts about poetry and he says I can invite as many friends as I want — don't feel obliged to tell the Society, I can tell them myself — and it went wonderfully. 

Ever yours, 

Your Lindsay

My dearest, Lindsay,

I am very happy for you and also terribly jealous. Do you think anyone would object if during your wedding I replaced one of the participants?

Stephen will be heartbroken. I caught him drawing sketches of mask designs. 

Forever yours, 

Your Leo

My dearest, Leo, 

I cannot advise it; while I certainly would not, I imagine that my family and yours and that of Captain Burton would have strenuous objections indeed! Tell Stephen he is welcome to wear a mask in any case should he choose, so long as there remains no storming. 

Yours forever,

Your Lindsay

Five days pass. 

Ashley calls on Lindsay every morning and stays past when he ought to leave. He's interested in Lindsay's thoughts on poetry and languages. He tells stories of his adventures at sea, mostly the light-hearted and funny ones; it's not too obvious that he's censoring them for a submissive audience. Ashley has been to a mind-boggling array of countries and he has interesting observations about all of them. 

If he's a molly, he doesn't give any sign of it.

Leo is very happy for Lindsay and also very very concerned that he's going to be replaced by Lindsay's new husband. 

Lindsay speaks to Ashley about poetry and literature and languages every morning and writes to Leo every afternoon and every evening; he includes Ashley's stories in his letters, but takes care not to make them the whole of the content, asks carefully-phrased questions about Leo's essays and Society members that Leo has more contact with than he does. 

He is very conscious of the fact that Ashley is charming, and Ashley is specifically being charming to him. He's still charmed. 

The day of the wedding is a relief when it arrives. 

Lindsay's childhood toys are sacrificed to the household gods and to Venus and to Fortune. 

A goat is slaughtered, and the auspices for the marriage are taken. They're favorable. 

Lindsay is dressed in his bridal gown.

He keeps his very earliest attempts at poetry to sacrifice to Bacchus that night. Leo can't be there then, but he'll manage. 

He lets himself be dressed. He knows, objectively, that the gown is beautiful, that he is beautiful. He smiles very prettily and does his very best to hide how nervous he is. 

Lindsay's siblings and his parents and Leo are there to hug him goodbye.

Leo whispers in his ear, "I love you, you're mine, good boy."

"Yours, always," he whispers, and his smile is more genuine than it was. 

The door opens. 

Ashley's there, smiling that too-many-teeth smile. The guests are behind him, watching. He grabs Lindsay's wrists hard enough to hurt and there's a movement that's too fast to follow and he's thrown Lindsay up against the wall.

He goes soft and sweet, lets his eyes close and his head fall forward. (Good boy, good boy, he's Leo's good boy —) 

Ashley can't read his mind and doesn't know whose good boy Lindsay thinks he is, but he can see Lindsay go soft and sweet. He pins Lindsay to the wall and kisses him.

He's soft and pliant and (good boy Leo's good boy) willing under Ashley's mouth. 

Then Ashley will scoop him up, carry him outside, and put him down for the procession. 

He's still pliant but he's more deliberately so, now. His smile is entirely real. 

"Talassio! Talassio!" the assembled guests-- few of whom, other than the Poetry Society members, Lindsay recognizes-- cry. 

They proceed from Lindsay's house to Ashley's, amid cries of "Talassio!" A young boy carries the torch of Ceres in front; Leo, as Lindsay's closest friend, carries the distaff and spindle through the streets; Stephen, who is not wearing any sort of mask, carries the candles and Lindsay's childhood toys. 

The Poetry Society's ritual duty is to sing bawdy songs, a task which Stephen does with great enthusiasm and the rest with varying levels of piety:

Violate me, in the violet time,
In the vilest way that you know!
Desecrate, savage me
Utterly ravage me
On me no mercy bestow.
To the best things in life I am cold and oblivious
Give me a man who is lewd and lascivious, to
Violate me, in the violet time,
In the vilest way that you know!

I'd never go with a man for his money,
Just find me one who will [pause] like a bunny,
Desecrate, savage me
Utterly ravage me
On me no mercy bestow.
To the best things in life I am cold and oblivious
Give me a man who is lewd and lascivious
I'd never go with a man for his money,
Just find me one who will [pause] like a bunny...

He loves them, Lindsay loves them. 

He's glowing; he makes sure that from the outside it looks like he's glowing for Ashley. 

Aboard the good ship Venus,
You really should have seen us,
With a figurehead of a girl in bed,
And a mast of a phallic genus

The captain's wife was Charlotte,
Born and bred a harlot,
Her thighs at night were lily white,
By morning they were scarlet.

The first mate's name was Morgan,
By gosh, he was a gorgon,
From half past eight he played till late,
Upon the captain's organ

That last verse makes Ashley make a face!

It makes Lindsay laugh, though, and Ashley's face isn't helping. 

It makes Ashley smile that Lindsay is laughing!

He loves them, he loves them he loves them. (He could love Ashley, maybe, depending. But right now he loves Stephen and Gabriel and Paris and Isadore and Leo, his Leo, more than words could possibly say.) 

And with one thing and another they get to Ashley's house, its door decorated with garlands and flowers.

One of Ashley's friends hands Lindsay the wool and the mistletoe.

He's been taught the prayers to Forculus and Limentius and Cardea; he recites them in the same voice he uses for poetry, wraps wool around the doorposts with hands that want to shake but don't, anoints the hinges with wolf fat and mistletoe three times over. 

He turns to Ashley, smiling. 

Ashley lifts him up and carries him over the threshold.

He wraps his arms around Ashley's neck and smiles, radiant, and lets himself be carried. 

The vicar is already there in Ashley's parlor. There are not so many guests that, as threatened, some might have to stand in the garden. 

"Ubi tu Gaia, ego Gaius," Ashley says. Where you are Gaia, I am Gaius.

"Ubi tu Gaius, ego Gaia." Glowing. Happy. Visibly, audibly in love. 

Ashley's face is softer, more affectionate, when he offers Lindsay the fire and water.

Leo hands Lindsay the spindle and distaff to give to Ashley.

He makes eye contact with Leo for a brief precious moment before he turns to Ashley, gives him the spindle and distaff. 

It would be risky to mouth "I love you" but he doesn't have to.

Ashley gives Lindsay the keys to the house and it's all over except for the sacrifices. 

Lindsay's real sacrifices will come tonight. (He isn't sure how he'll slip away on his wedding night, but he'll manage somehow.) 

For now he follows the forms, says the words in a voice like the one he uses for poetry and only a little bit like the one he uses for prayer. 

There are a lot of sacrifices, and they're nice ones-- cows and oxen, not pigs and birds. 

Ashley is either very pious or he's making a point.

Or both, there's always both. Lindsay keeps his eyes where they belong no matter how much he wants to look to Leo, see what he thinks. 

After the sacrifices, there's a feast.

Those present include the vicar, Ashley's friends, Ashley's family, Leo, the other members of the Poetry Society, and some representatives of the virtuous and deserving poor.

Notably absent are Lindsay's family and his family's friends. 

…huh. 

He talks to Leo and Stephen and Gabriel about — poetry, on the surface. 

Leo has a lot of thoughts about-- poetry. 

Of course he does. 

He keeps his face from softening too obviously when he looks at Leo, but the warmth is there if Leo looks for it. 

Leo knows what to look for.

Eventually the party ends and Lindsay has to go up to bed with Ashley.

Sex with Ashley is not going to be difficult. He can do this. 

Lindsay beams up at him until they're definitely alone and then lets his face show — he's still smiling, but not quite so radiant as he was. 

"You're still very beautiful."

He lets his eyes rake over Ashley. "So are you." 

"I think-- I don't know you very well at all, but perhaps someday I could love you."

"I hope you can," he says honestly. "...I hope we can." 

"I do as well." He sits next to Lindsay on the bed, kisses his forehead, and tucks a lock of hair behind his ear. "I do not intend to be faithful to you, and I do intend to often be a long time at sea. I do not object if you take lovers, as long as you are as discreet with your lovers as you were with the lovers you had before me, and not as discreet as you were with me."

He looks down at his knees and nods. 

(Leo, Leo, he can see Leo, he won't even have to be more careful than usual with his bruises —) 

"I'm moderately impressed."

"What with?" 

"When I slept with you, you were clearly not a virgin, yet when I asked around there wasn't a hint of scandal attached to your name. As far as the gossips were aware you spend all your time writing poetry."

"— ah." 

One can get away with nearly anything if it's with another submissive, he doesn't say. 

Ashley kisses him sweetly. "Keep your secrets, then."

Kissing Ashley is still wonderful. Lindsay puts his hands on Ashley's sides, moves closer to him. 

Ashley takes off the scarf modestly wrapped around Lindsay's neck and presses his fingers into the bruises. 

"I like that they're still there."