![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
Christmas Thread
Dec. 10th, 2022 03:35 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
slowtoangerThey're due to leave tomorrow for a long carriage ride to the Washington's. Two carriages between them, with a nanny in the second and most, if not all of the children. It is snowing lightly, and Hamilton has not stopped nagging the footman to keep the hearths well stocked. A chill wind buttressing stone and creeping in under window panes.
Burr should be helping them pack, getting the children ready, but he is still in bed, though it is well into the afternoon, beneath a pile of quilts. He can hear the pattering of the children overhead, shouting as they quibble over toys or clothes, and certainly though they are doing their best to pack, Burr or the nanny will have to see to refolding all the luggage for the journey. Hamilton must be in his study, at the torturous task of deciding which writings to take and which books he can afford to leave behind. No doubt there is a mountain of papers scattered about, him in the middle of a hurricane.
And Burr should be helping, but he is wracked at length by odd pains, difficulty drawing breath. He is larger than he should be for how far along he is, though that is not to say he is not a good deal along.
"I should think to prevent you from traveling," Ned says, as he sits back from his examination. "The strain on your body is great, and you would be too far along to go, I should think, were this a normal pregnancy."
"What do you mean?" Burr asks, a little annoyed. Ned knows Burr does not care for him to mince words. And Burr has been in this situation far too often, that he receives the words with less attention than he should. He is thinking of his own letter and correspondence he must see to, before they leave tomorrow morning. But Burr also knows his own body. He knows this current pregnancy has been one particularly grieved by pains and difficulties, ones his small body cannot contain. He should not be due for a month yet at the very least (which is not so much as guess, given Hamilton's travels had him away for a long while. The pregnancy simply could not be farther along) despite whatever size he may be.
"I think it unlikely that you are carrying only one child," Ned says, simply, "both from what I can feel and from what you have told me."
Burr should be helping them pack, getting the children ready, but he is still in bed, though it is well into the afternoon, beneath a pile of quilts. He can hear the pattering of the children overhead, shouting as they quibble over toys or clothes, and certainly though they are doing their best to pack, Burr or the nanny will have to see to refolding all the luggage for the journey. Hamilton must be in his study, at the torturous task of deciding which writings to take and which books he can afford to leave behind. No doubt there is a mountain of papers scattered about, him in the middle of a hurricane.
And Burr should be helping, but he is wracked at length by odd pains, difficulty drawing breath. He is larger than he should be for how far along he is, though that is not to say he is not a good deal along.
"I should think to prevent you from traveling," Ned says, as he sits back from his examination. "The strain on your body is great, and you would be too far along to go, I should think, were this a normal pregnancy."
"What do you mean?" Burr asks, a little annoyed. Ned knows Burr does not care for him to mince words. And Burr has been in this situation far too often, that he receives the words with less attention than he should. He is thinking of his own letter and correspondence he must see to, before they leave tomorrow morning. But Burr also knows his own body. He knows this current pregnancy has been one particularly grieved by pains and difficulties, ones his small body cannot contain. He should not be due for a month yet at the very least (which is not so much as guess, given Hamilton's travels had him away for a long while. The pregnancy simply could not be farther along) despite whatever size he may be.
"I think it unlikely that you are carrying only one child," Ned says, simply, "both from what I can feel and from what you have told me."
Future PSL 5
Nov. 1st, 2022 12:00 amslowtoangerIt takes a few days to get everything sorted away, so that it isn't until the next week that they are finally packed and ready to leave. The children have gone on ahead with Theodosia--too many for one carriage and their luggage, and Theodosia truthfully deserves a break from caring for Burr. Not that minding the children is much of a break, but once they arrive at Montgomery place their housekeeper can take over, in many regards.
Burr stays in his room for much of it. The night with the Madison's has left him changed. There is new life in him, and something more acute and delicate. Someone that feels as it could break at any moment, something which must be sheltered. He has never stopped loving his husband, but--loving him has not always been easy. Not because of Hamilton, but--
He came back. He came back, when he should not have. Or rather, he knows Hamilton will love Burr and keep on loving Burr at complete detriment to himself. That everything Hamilton does must be desperate and wild and burn hot enough to scorch. He came back, even when he thought Burr had gone of his own free will to humiliate him. Hamilton needs him, in the same way Burr needs Hamilton. And maybe that isn't healthy, to love some one enough you know you will die without them. But. That's how they are. Never a firm enough grasp on the fabric of life to do anything but cling to each other, no respite from horrors expect in each other's bodies.
When he looks at Hamilton his heart quickens. Hamilton, who works tirelessly, who has worked tirelessly to the exclusion even of his own ambitions, for Burr. For their family. Burr watches him so often now. Creeps from bed in his dressing gown to recline on the settee in Hamilton's study. Only to watch him. To see that he is still here.
He's no less beautiful than he was then, twenty years ago. But changed now. Less youthful, more regal. The face of foreign nobility, in the frame of one not unused to starving and hardships. Angular where Burr's body has gone soft, after seven pregnancies. Sometimes when Burr looks at him his eyes water, and he must look away. Like one staring too long at the oceans horizon turned glass in the rising sun.
He sets himself to work, as Hamilton goes to his own. He sends letters, and enlists even Van Ness, who must visit a ridiculous number of craftsmen to find one both discreet and of quality enough to satisfy those with refined tastes.
The whole thing should take longer than a week, but money talks. It is the morning they are set to leave, that Burr presents Hamilton with that box: wrapped in delicate gold leafed paper.
He has been nervous all morning, for the long carriage ride. About, finally, after so long. There is always a stir created, when a family such as the Hamilton's lets one residence for another. And the anxiety hangs over him. But this--this will help. This token. If Hamilton likes it. If he approves.
"I had something made for you--for us," Burr says, looking away, to examine the floor of the kitchen as if there is something to see there besides swept wood. "If you don't like it, it is fine. I haven't even opened it myself, I simply wrote with the specifications. But I have been assured the quality is more than adequate. If you don't like it--we don't have to use it. We could have another made, or we could simply forget about it altogether. I don't mean this for me, though if may seem like that. I mean it for--us."
Inside, the object he has agonized over: the most delicate gold chain he has ever seen. Not small chains like that on a lady's necklace, but more akin to something delicate one might lay on the neck of a small dog. Small, golden chains, made to lay perfectly, ornamental. But also twisted through with black silk ribbon, which can be unwound, if desired. A small space at the front to attach a lead, if wanted. And at the back, engraved in the most delicate of hand, in mimicry of Alexander's own hand: A.H.
It is not the only thing, though. Because there is a second, matching. Secreted away, for if Hamilton ever acts on those inclinations Madison revealed. More inconspicuous, but no less telling: the engraving: A.B.
Burr stays in his room for much of it. The night with the Madison's has left him changed. There is new life in him, and something more acute and delicate. Someone that feels as it could break at any moment, something which must be sheltered. He has never stopped loving his husband, but--loving him has not always been easy. Not because of Hamilton, but--
He came back. He came back, when he should not have. Or rather, he knows Hamilton will love Burr and keep on loving Burr at complete detriment to himself. That everything Hamilton does must be desperate and wild and burn hot enough to scorch. He came back, even when he thought Burr had gone of his own free will to humiliate him. Hamilton needs him, in the same way Burr needs Hamilton. And maybe that isn't healthy, to love some one enough you know you will die without them. But. That's how they are. Never a firm enough grasp on the fabric of life to do anything but cling to each other, no respite from horrors expect in each other's bodies.
When he looks at Hamilton his heart quickens. Hamilton, who works tirelessly, who has worked tirelessly to the exclusion even of his own ambitions, for Burr. For their family. Burr watches him so often now. Creeps from bed in his dressing gown to recline on the settee in Hamilton's study. Only to watch him. To see that he is still here.
He's no less beautiful than he was then, twenty years ago. But changed now. Less youthful, more regal. The face of foreign nobility, in the frame of one not unused to starving and hardships. Angular where Burr's body has gone soft, after seven pregnancies. Sometimes when Burr looks at him his eyes water, and he must look away. Like one staring too long at the oceans horizon turned glass in the rising sun.
He sets himself to work, as Hamilton goes to his own. He sends letters, and enlists even Van Ness, who must visit a ridiculous number of craftsmen to find one both discreet and of quality enough to satisfy those with refined tastes.
The whole thing should take longer than a week, but money talks. It is the morning they are set to leave, that Burr presents Hamilton with that box: wrapped in delicate gold leafed paper.
He has been nervous all morning, for the long carriage ride. About, finally, after so long. There is always a stir created, when a family such as the Hamilton's lets one residence for another. And the anxiety hangs over him. But this--this will help. This token. If Hamilton likes it. If he approves.
"I had something made for you--for us," Burr says, looking away, to examine the floor of the kitchen as if there is something to see there besides swept wood. "If you don't like it, it is fine. I haven't even opened it myself, I simply wrote with the specifications. But I have been assured the quality is more than adequate. If you don't like it--we don't have to use it. We could have another made, or we could simply forget about it altogether. I don't mean this for me, though if may seem like that. I mean it for--us."
Inside, the object he has agonized over: the most delicate gold chain he has ever seen. Not small chains like that on a lady's necklace, but more akin to something delicate one might lay on the neck of a small dog. Small, golden chains, made to lay perfectly, ornamental. But also twisted through with black silk ribbon, which can be unwound, if desired. A small space at the front to attach a lead, if wanted. And at the back, engraved in the most delicate of hand, in mimicry of Alexander's own hand: A.H.
It is not the only thing, though. Because there is a second, matching. Secreted away, for if Hamilton ever acts on those inclinations Madison revealed. More inconspicuous, but no less telling: the engraving: A.B.
This is Fine Alternative Denouement
Oct. 31st, 2022 01:56 pmslowtoangerHamilton is there, when Burr comes home. He's not supposed to be there. Burr learns later: he finished his business early, returned to Philadelphia to surprise Burr. Because he loves Burr. Because he feels pained, when they are apart. But Hamilton arrives and Burr is not there. At dinner, the housekeeper tells him. But then hours pass and Burr still does not come home. Maybe that is not out of the ordinary, for them. Working late, wandering the streets.
But Burr doesn't expect Hamilton to be there, when the door comes open, and Burr stumbles in wrecked and weeping, abortifacient clutched in one hand. His heart stops, when he looks up and sees him. Freezes in the doorway, legs shaking. The smell is wafting off him. Heat, and Jefferson. Burr whimpers.
But Burr doesn't expect Hamilton to be there, when the door comes open, and Burr stumbles in wrecked and weeping, abortifacient clutched in one hand. His heart stops, when he looks up and sees him. Freezes in the doorway, legs shaking. The smell is wafting off him. Heat, and Jefferson. Burr whimpers.
non_stopThe pregnancy seems to have entered a new phase, after bail is posted, after Burr's claim of him on a hard and wooden bench in a filthy cell. Alexander can't stop thinking about it. His mind catches on the glide of Burr's cock-head, spreading his slit; he replays, again and again, the sensation of Burr's cock digging at the entrance to his womb, just this side of painful, and how his body welled with welcoming, wet slick at every slow thrust. Burr's body against his. Needy, broken pieces of himself, spasming around the cherished intrusion. How he was pressed back down into the bench and used, fucked on Burr's knot while claiming-marking urine leaked out of him --
He became a different creature, just then. Burr claimed him, and Alexander doesn't know what it means. He is frightened of how close Burr is to him, and frightened even more of losing that closeness. He shares Burr's bed, every night. He has vivid nightmares that he doesn't remember on waking. And if they awaken him in the middle of the night, he burrows under the covers and licks at Burr's soft cock, suckles it into his mouth, until Burr is awake and willing to pleasure him back to sleep. He is guilty for it, for interrupting Burr's sleep, but he always forgets his guilt when Burr's fingers are inside him or Burr's mouth is on him or even just Burr's sleepy voice telling him he's beautiful while he pulls himself off.
But there is a change. He is ravenous, and he longs for strange things, one day repulsed and the next day drawn to a particular food. The nausea isn't just in the mornings, now, but can strike at any time during the day. His back hurts, and he isn't even carrying much extra weight, though he's starting to think that maybe the swell at his stomach is large, unusually so. And his nipples ache, in a way that seems periodically echoed through the flesh beneath.
He asks Burr, hesitating, to bring a midwife to the home. Burr suggests a doctor, as well, and Alexander blanches, knowing the judgment that a gentleman might bring to their situation.
"Should we," and he swallows, dreading and wanting. "Should we marry first?"
He became a different creature, just then. Burr claimed him, and Alexander doesn't know what it means. He is frightened of how close Burr is to him, and frightened even more of losing that closeness. He shares Burr's bed, every night. He has vivid nightmares that he doesn't remember on waking. And if they awaken him in the middle of the night, he burrows under the covers and licks at Burr's soft cock, suckles it into his mouth, until Burr is awake and willing to pleasure him back to sleep. He is guilty for it, for interrupting Burr's sleep, but he always forgets his guilt when Burr's fingers are inside him or Burr's mouth is on him or even just Burr's sleepy voice telling him he's beautiful while he pulls himself off.
But there is a change. He is ravenous, and he longs for strange things, one day repulsed and the next day drawn to a particular food. The nausea isn't just in the mornings, now, but can strike at any time during the day. His back hurts, and he isn't even carrying much extra weight, though he's starting to think that maybe the swell at his stomach is large, unusually so. And his nipples ache, in a way that seems periodically echoed through the flesh beneath.
He asks Burr, hesitating, to bring a midwife to the home. Burr suggests a doctor, as well, and Alexander blanches, knowing the judgment that a gentleman might bring to their situation.
"Should we," and he swallows, dreading and wanting. "Should we marry first?"
Private Storyline 10
Jul. 7th, 2022 10:02 pmslowtoangerBurr isn’t sure what comes over him. What drives him to wake up in their little cabin, which is much too muggy for it being still winter, feeling warm and ill but also needy, half-hard. Like the nights when he had been pregnant, and waking to pee meant also waking Alexander to offer him some relief in other ways.
He doesn't think it's a heat--isn't familiar enough with himself, yet, to recognize it this early. But--God, he needs. And he pains. He twists in bed, and Hamilton beside him stirs, but does not wake. His stomach is twisting, and he kicks the blankets off, nearly wakes Laurens, sleeping beside them--too cold, still, to separate most nights.
He can smell Hamilton, well, despite the bath he had taken before bed. He can smell the sweat, and the salt, and the pheromones that are always present, that mean Hamilton. He whines--a little, noiseless thing, that vibrates his chest. He wants him, god, he wants him, and he doesn't want to wait. They haven't talked about this--Burr using Hamilton while he sleeps, in the same way Burr wishes Hamilton to use him.
But. Well. It would be like a surprise, wouldn't it? And Burr would not begrudge Hamilton similar things, if he woke needy. So Burr's breath stutters out of him, as the grabs the edge of the blanket and peels it slowly down Hamilton's body, revealing pale legs that glisten in the dying fire light. God, he is beautiful, here in nothing but a nightshirt, and Burr feels like he can't breathe, when he lays a hand so gently on the back of Hamilton's calves, waits to make sure he does not stir, and slides those hands carefully upward, pushing up the nightshirt, revealing bare thighs, ass.
He reaches out, strokes up and down, drinking in the sound of his skin against Hamilton's. Up, further, until his hands come to the swell of his assk, and he squeezes the flesh, works it in his hands, until he parts him, and feels himself stiffening to the point of pain, at the sight of Hamilton's entrance contracting against cold air. He can't help himself. He can't help it. He wants to taste, needs to, and so he bends down, mouth hovering over, breath puffing hot against his hole. Extends his tongue and laps, and when it meets Hamilton's flesh he shivers, bites back a little moan as he pushes his face closer--licking and lapping and sucking.
They've never done this before. Never, and it feels so filthy, is so filthy, to be tasting an alpha in this manner, and he shivers, whimpers, thrusting against the bed at the same time he takes, ravenous, from Hamilton's sleeping form.
He doesn't think it's a heat--isn't familiar enough with himself, yet, to recognize it this early. But--God, he needs. And he pains. He twists in bed, and Hamilton beside him stirs, but does not wake. His stomach is twisting, and he kicks the blankets off, nearly wakes Laurens, sleeping beside them--too cold, still, to separate most nights.
He can smell Hamilton, well, despite the bath he had taken before bed. He can smell the sweat, and the salt, and the pheromones that are always present, that mean Hamilton. He whines--a little, noiseless thing, that vibrates his chest. He wants him, god, he wants him, and he doesn't want to wait. They haven't talked about this--Burr using Hamilton while he sleeps, in the same way Burr wishes Hamilton to use him.
But. Well. It would be like a surprise, wouldn't it? And Burr would not begrudge Hamilton similar things, if he woke needy. So Burr's breath stutters out of him, as the grabs the edge of the blanket and peels it slowly down Hamilton's body, revealing pale legs that glisten in the dying fire light. God, he is beautiful, here in nothing but a nightshirt, and Burr feels like he can't breathe, when he lays a hand so gently on the back of Hamilton's calves, waits to make sure he does not stir, and slides those hands carefully upward, pushing up the nightshirt, revealing bare thighs, ass.
He reaches out, strokes up and down, drinking in the sound of his skin against Hamilton's. Up, further, until his hands come to the swell of his assk, and he squeezes the flesh, works it in his hands, until he parts him, and feels himself stiffening to the point of pain, at the sight of Hamilton's entrance contracting against cold air. He can't help himself. He can't help it. He wants to taste, needs to, and so he bends down, mouth hovering over, breath puffing hot against his hole. Extends his tongue and laps, and when it meets Hamilton's flesh he shivers, bites back a little moan as he pushes his face closer--licking and lapping and sucking.
They've never done this before. Never, and it feels so filthy, is so filthy, to be tasting an alpha in this manner, and he shivers, whimpers, thrusting against the bed at the same time he takes, ravenous, from Hamilton's sleeping form.
non_stopBy the time a lookout spots the dragon, she's already close. It was the blue of the wings that disguised her against the sky, and the fact that no one was looking to the south -- General Montgomery calls a rank of soldiers to order, but they haven't yet managed to raise their guns by the time a white and red striped flag flutters out under her.
She lands in the middle of the camp, causing a general exodus away, because of the general fear of dragons, and the superstition that they're willing to eat people.
She's smaller than her wingspan suggests -- the wingspan of a heavyweight, of which America only has a bare handful, all of them with the army around Philadelphia. But she's small, smaller than a middle-weight, and carries only four crew: one captain, on her back, two riflemen, and one more officer. Her wings are blue, shading to a subtle red where they meet her body, and her body is blue, with splotches of darker blue all down her spine.
The captain, a slight young man, jumps off of her. He is disheveled, from their passage through the air, his light-colored hair pulling out of its queue. He salutes to General Montgomery, and pulls out an envelope.
"From the Continental Congress, sir," says Alexander Hamilton. "Updated orders."
He is escorted into the command tent, leaving the dragon behind.
After Montgomery reads them, he frowns. "These are from the 12th?"
"Yes, sir," says Hamilton. "I'm sorry it took so long to get here. The maps have the lakes all wrong, and the mountains are nothing like how they're drawn -- we had to backtrack, and lost a few days. Besides which, we needed to forage along the way."
Montgomery stares at him. "Son," he says, "you made it up here in eleven days, and you're apologizing that it took too long?"
Hamilton shifts, uneasily.
"I've never seen a journey of five hundred miles take less than three weeks," continues Montgomery, "even on dragonback. What breed is your beast out there?"
He raises his chin. "She's Caribbean native," he says. "Island hopper, they call her, or a blue hopper."
"Leave the letters," says Montgomery; "When are you due back?"
"My orders say 'all due speed'."
Montgomery frowns, considering. "Well, my aide Burr can find you rations, and a better place to sleep. And -- you brought the mail?"
"Of course."
"He'll help you distribute it. Go on; I'll have a response for you by morning."
She lands in the middle of the camp, causing a general exodus away, because of the general fear of dragons, and the superstition that they're willing to eat people.
She's smaller than her wingspan suggests -- the wingspan of a heavyweight, of which America only has a bare handful, all of them with the army around Philadelphia. But she's small, smaller than a middle-weight, and carries only four crew: one captain, on her back, two riflemen, and one more officer. Her wings are blue, shading to a subtle red where they meet her body, and her body is blue, with splotches of darker blue all down her spine.
The captain, a slight young man, jumps off of her. He is disheveled, from their passage through the air, his light-colored hair pulling out of its queue. He salutes to General Montgomery, and pulls out an envelope.
"From the Continental Congress, sir," says Alexander Hamilton. "Updated orders."
He is escorted into the command tent, leaving the dragon behind.
After Montgomery reads them, he frowns. "These are from the 12th?"
"Yes, sir," says Hamilton. "I'm sorry it took so long to get here. The maps have the lakes all wrong, and the mountains are nothing like how they're drawn -- we had to backtrack, and lost a few days. Besides which, we needed to forage along the way."
Montgomery stares at him. "Son," he says, "you made it up here in eleven days, and you're apologizing that it took too long?"
Hamilton shifts, uneasily.
"I've never seen a journey of five hundred miles take less than three weeks," continues Montgomery, "even on dragonback. What breed is your beast out there?"
He raises his chin. "She's Caribbean native," he says. "Island hopper, they call her, or a blue hopper."
"Leave the letters," says Montgomery; "When are you due back?"
"My orders say 'all due speed'."
Montgomery frowns, considering. "Well, my aide Burr can find you rations, and a better place to sleep. And -- you brought the mail?"
"Of course."
"He'll help you distribute it. Go on; I'll have a response for you by morning."
modern au pt 2
Jun. 20th, 2022 10:42 pmdeclaresIt isn't a week after their first encounter when Thomas requests the contact information of his previous, ah, worker, and is provided with an email address.
The message he sends is quick, and to the point:
May I hire you for an evening event, and the night after?
He provides the information required: the date, the event (charity), and the dress code (black tie).
I will, of course, provide for purchase of proper attire.
He hesitates, before appending:
It would be a pleasure to see you again.
- Th.
The message he sends is quick, and to the point:
May I hire you for an evening event, and the night after?
He provides the information required: the date, the event (charity), and the dress code (black tie).
I will, of course, provide for purchase of proper attire.
He hesitates, before appending:
It would be a pleasure to see you again.
- Th.
Future PSL 4
Jun. 11th, 2022 10:52 pmslowtoangerHe doesn't know when to expect his heat, after the last one. His cycle must restart, if it restarts at all. Ned still is not sure he will ever have another heat, that Burr has not caused himself irreparable damage to his biology with the concoctions. Burr isn't sure he wants another heat regardless. Not after the last one.
Things are better, in the days after their visit to the Madison's. It is easier for Burr to be around Hamilton, and his family. Spends less time shut up in his room, and his skin gets some color. And Hamilton smiles more. Seems younger, each time he spots Burr, years melting off his face, each time bringing Burr up short.
When had he begun looking so old? So worn, and stress marked? Had Burr done that? Bent his shoulders and marked his face and made him a touch too thin? They aren't that old, either of them, but--older than either of their parents lived to be, though it's possible Hamilton's father is kicking around somewhere, still. One can never be sure, with connections such as those.
They aren't whole yet. That will perhaps take time. And Burr is still so angry, sometimes. Wakes in the middle of the night wanting to cry or punch something. Sometimes he cannot look at Hamilton at all. Yet the episodes grow fewer and farther between. He is used to coping with emotions on his own, and this is something he can't burden Hamilton with. How much more would it add to Alexander's daily pains, his already unearned guilt, to know that some part of Burr feels broken and abandoned, for something that was not Hamilton's fault.
Hamilton had forgiven Burr so easily, but still--
Sometimes he cannot look in the mirror. Avoids raising his head, as he gets ready in the mornings. Things he doesn't dwell on.
As it is, the heat comes as suddenly and unexpectedly as the last. Another nightmare, the same. That something like this could happen again, that he would never be safe. He shouldn't have stopped taking those suppressants at all, regardless of what Ned said.
Yet. He isn't around anyone. Him and Theodosia are sitting in the little park across from their townhome--a small wild area, soon to be developed, when he realizes he has begun to drift. When time gets away from him, and Theodosia asks a question he has not the mental faculties to answer.
Always disoriented, at the start of his heats, before he even begins to give off those pheromones. Theodosia asks what is wrong, and he forces a smile. But his hands shake, when he pushes to his feet, and he stumbles and has to be caught my her.
"I'm afraid I don't feel well, darling. No need to worry. I think an evening nap might be in order--" but he sounds strained to his own ears, and his heart is hammering, as his eyes dart around. There could be anyone here, anyone passing, and if they happened to be an alpha--
Theodosia, dear and wonderful and everything to him, hurries him home, as his legs begin to shake more and more. The house is empty, but the panic continues to swell in his chest. Hamilton on business, the children out with their tutor. Burr excuses himself, bids her attend supper, and shuts himself in his room as he feels that awful heat start, bluming, between his legs. Locks the door. Shoves a chair beneath the handle, for good measure.
Turns towards his dresser, fumbling through his bottles for the scent reducers, but damn Hamilton, he has taken that too. And his legs are starting to give, buckle, as he stumbles towards the bed. He can feel the barest amount of slick starting to form. Lays back and closes his eyes, tries to breathe through the cramps that come next, and the headache, heart pounding. The need. The need, the need, the need.
He cries.
Things are better, in the days after their visit to the Madison's. It is easier for Burr to be around Hamilton, and his family. Spends less time shut up in his room, and his skin gets some color. And Hamilton smiles more. Seems younger, each time he spots Burr, years melting off his face, each time bringing Burr up short.
When had he begun looking so old? So worn, and stress marked? Had Burr done that? Bent his shoulders and marked his face and made him a touch too thin? They aren't that old, either of them, but--older than either of their parents lived to be, though it's possible Hamilton's father is kicking around somewhere, still. One can never be sure, with connections such as those.
They aren't whole yet. That will perhaps take time. And Burr is still so angry, sometimes. Wakes in the middle of the night wanting to cry or punch something. Sometimes he cannot look at Hamilton at all. Yet the episodes grow fewer and farther between. He is used to coping with emotions on his own, and this is something he can't burden Hamilton with. How much more would it add to Alexander's daily pains, his already unearned guilt, to know that some part of Burr feels broken and abandoned, for something that was not Hamilton's fault.
Hamilton had forgiven Burr so easily, but still--
Sometimes he cannot look in the mirror. Avoids raising his head, as he gets ready in the mornings. Things he doesn't dwell on.
As it is, the heat comes as suddenly and unexpectedly as the last. Another nightmare, the same. That something like this could happen again, that he would never be safe. He shouldn't have stopped taking those suppressants at all, regardless of what Ned said.
Yet. He isn't around anyone. Him and Theodosia are sitting in the little park across from their townhome--a small wild area, soon to be developed, when he realizes he has begun to drift. When time gets away from him, and Theodosia asks a question he has not the mental faculties to answer.
Always disoriented, at the start of his heats, before he even begins to give off those pheromones. Theodosia asks what is wrong, and he forces a smile. But his hands shake, when he pushes to his feet, and he stumbles and has to be caught my her.
"I'm afraid I don't feel well, darling. No need to worry. I think an evening nap might be in order--" but he sounds strained to his own ears, and his heart is hammering, as his eyes dart around. There could be anyone here, anyone passing, and if they happened to be an alpha--
Theodosia, dear and wonderful and everything to him, hurries him home, as his legs begin to shake more and more. The house is empty, but the panic continues to swell in his chest. Hamilton on business, the children out with their tutor. Burr excuses himself, bids her attend supper, and shuts himself in his room as he feels that awful heat start, bluming, between his legs. Locks the door. Shoves a chair beneath the handle, for good measure.
Turns towards his dresser, fumbling through his bottles for the scent reducers, but damn Hamilton, he has taken that too. And his legs are starting to give, buckle, as he stumbles towards the bed. He can feel the barest amount of slick starting to form. Lays back and closes his eyes, tries to breathe through the cramps that come next, and the headache, heart pounding. The need. The need, the need, the need.
He cries.
declares"What are your specifications for the evening, Mr. Jefferson?"
Thomas transfers his phone from one hand to another, looking helplessly out at the rolling Blue Ridge Mountains. "I'm sorry?"
"Do you have any requirements?" the voice asks, more gently. "For your date."
"Do you mean... appearance related?" Jefferson tries to picture a particular sort of person, and comes up blank. "I don't care so much for that."
"Appearance is probably the most common thing that clients specify," the voice tells him, "but if there are any qualities, or interests, that you feel would be helpful, we can do our best to satisfy them."
"Oh." Jefferson paces. He supposes he should have thought this through. "Well... male, obviously." Which he has already specified, wanting something as unlike his wife as possible. He has not had any experiences with men, and would be timid to try, but if he is paying, he supposes he has no fear of rejection. "Someone intelligent. Educated. There will be a function with quite a few engineers, lawyers, that sort of thing. That's not tomorrow, but if I like him, and he were available, I would bring him to accompany me."
"Intelligent, potentially with education in engineering or law," says the voice, reasonably, as though it isn't absurd to ask such a thing of an escort. Perhaps it isn't?
"I'm quite tall, but I don't mind if he isn't. Not... feminine, please; there is great charm in the feminine, but it isn't what I'm asking for, now." He hesitates, again. "I would like if he were kind, and -- is it too much to ask for him to be a rider? Horses, not -- anything else," he clarifies, hastily.
"I'll have to see who we have available," the voice tells him, cheerfully, "but I think we may be able to accommodate your requests. Would you consider any of these necessary or optional?"
"Intelligence is necessary," says Jefferson. "I would like an insightful mind, above all else."
"Very well. You'll be meeting at the previously arranged hotel at six PM tomorrow; you will receive a text beforehand with the room number, and our specialist will meet you there."
"Thank you." Jefferson hangs up, and wonders what the hell he's gotten himself into.
Thomas transfers his phone from one hand to another, looking helplessly out at the rolling Blue Ridge Mountains. "I'm sorry?"
"Do you have any requirements?" the voice asks, more gently. "For your date."
"Do you mean... appearance related?" Jefferson tries to picture a particular sort of person, and comes up blank. "I don't care so much for that."
"Appearance is probably the most common thing that clients specify," the voice tells him, "but if there are any qualities, or interests, that you feel would be helpful, we can do our best to satisfy them."
"Oh." Jefferson paces. He supposes he should have thought this through. "Well... male, obviously." Which he has already specified, wanting something as unlike his wife as possible. He has not had any experiences with men, and would be timid to try, but if he is paying, he supposes he has no fear of rejection. "Someone intelligent. Educated. There will be a function with quite a few engineers, lawyers, that sort of thing. That's not tomorrow, but if I like him, and he were available, I would bring him to accompany me."
"Intelligent, potentially with education in engineering or law," says the voice, reasonably, as though it isn't absurd to ask such a thing of an escort. Perhaps it isn't?
"I'm quite tall, but I don't mind if he isn't. Not... feminine, please; there is great charm in the feminine, but it isn't what I'm asking for, now." He hesitates, again. "I would like if he were kind, and -- is it too much to ask for him to be a rider? Horses, not -- anything else," he clarifies, hastily.
"I'll have to see who we have available," the voice tells him, cheerfully, "but I think we may be able to accommodate your requests. Would you consider any of these necessary or optional?"
"Intelligence is necessary," says Jefferson. "I would like an insightful mind, above all else."
"Very well. You'll be meeting at the previously arranged hotel at six PM tomorrow; you will receive a text beforehand with the room number, and our specialist will meet you there."
"Thank you." Jefferson hangs up, and wonders what the hell he's gotten himself into.
(no subject)
May. 30th, 2022 01:25 amnon_stopThe first indication he has of trouble is the crash next door. No scream. No cry. Just the splintering of a ceramic vase that he knows very well is in Kitty's room. Not even raised voices. And that, in itself, makes him think that something is very wrong. He knows how much she adores that vase.
Alexander lunges for the knife in its sheath by the bed and flies to the door, down the hall, to her door. It isn't locked; he flings it open and sees her on the bed, sees the hands around her neck.
The soldier he once was takes over, and Hamilton strikes, strikes true. The knife sinks in at the armpit, and Kitty is coughing frantically for breath, and there is blood everywhere.
The bailiffs come for him not four hours later, after he has had a chance to change and wipe off some of the blood. Benedicta has given him a cup of tea and coached him and Kitty on their stories, until she is satisfied. The customer was a fourth or fifth son of one of the Livingston branches in the city, rich and well-connected. This will be trouble. The man isn't dead, but he is close.
Hamilton does not resist arrest. They treat him roughly, but not cruelly, as he is polite and cooperative. Their eyes rake over his slight and elegant form.
He is kept in a cell separate from beta and alpha men. One of the bailiffs asks: "Do you have someone who can post surety for you?"
"I have a lawyer," he says. "Aaron Burr."
And so a bailiff comes to Aaron Burr's home at two or three in the morning, informing him of the arrest of Alexander Faucette, and a hearing on the setting of bail set for the following morning.
Alexander lunges for the knife in its sheath by the bed and flies to the door, down the hall, to her door. It isn't locked; he flings it open and sees her on the bed, sees the hands around her neck.
The soldier he once was takes over, and Hamilton strikes, strikes true. The knife sinks in at the armpit, and Kitty is coughing frantically for breath, and there is blood everywhere.
The bailiffs come for him not four hours later, after he has had a chance to change and wipe off some of the blood. Benedicta has given him a cup of tea and coached him and Kitty on their stories, until she is satisfied. The customer was a fourth or fifth son of one of the Livingston branches in the city, rich and well-connected. This will be trouble. The man isn't dead, but he is close.
Hamilton does not resist arrest. They treat him roughly, but not cruelly, as he is polite and cooperative. Their eyes rake over his slight and elegant form.
He is kept in a cell separate from beta and alpha men. One of the bailiffs asks: "Do you have someone who can post surety for you?"
"I have a lawyer," he says. "Aaron Burr."
And so a bailiff comes to Aaron Burr's home at two or three in the morning, informing him of the arrest of Alexander Faucette, and a hearing on the setting of bail set for the following morning.
Private Storyline 9
May. 26th, 2022 12:18 amslowtoangerThree days after their liaison in the woods, Timothy Edwards visits camp. He comes with some excuse--ministering to the men, and as famous as he is, he is not turned away. Of course, he must be there to see Burr. To seek him out after months of letters not adequately returned. And the winter location of the army is no secret.
He is given quarter nearby, and he makes sure to rub elbows with the officers, inserting himself into affairs in a manner that must, to anyone else, seem unobtrusive. But Burr knows him too well to read it as anything else--elbowing in, showing Aaron that he isn't free, even here. Not much time to be alone with him, with all the work, and little Theo, but he finds the time.
When Hamilton must leave for a meeting just before breakfast, and Burr is rocking Theo to sleep, he slips into their chamber. Burr thinks at first he is Laurens, so does not rise, until the voice startles him.
"You would think I were a stranger," Edwards says, smiling. Burr jumps. Theo startles, crying. "For all my nephew greets me. Do I not have leave to meet my granddaughter, whom I have read so much about?"
"Of course not uncle," Burr says, but he makes no move to hand her over, fussing at her as she cries. "It is just that I am terribly busy here, and I was not sure you would want to see her."
"Why ever wouldn't I? It is the Christian thing to do, is it not?" follows Burr about the room until he is cornered, and Burr can do nothing but hold Theo close and Edwards pulls at the blanket, gazes at her scrunched face. "I should say she looks like her father, but I understand there is some confusion regarding the matter."
"Uncle--" Burr protests, face hot. "There is no confusion, I--" swallows, stops. Feels like a child, so quickly. "You read about the affair from Paine's pen, did you not? It was all true, what he wrote."
"Mr. Paine has the habit of exaggerating, as we both know. Don't play dumb, boy. He would worship America sooner than god, and would hide sin in the interest of patriotism. I raised you better." A little hiss, leaning in close, and Burr turns, shielding Theo around the curve of his shoulder.
"What's done is done. I am married now--does that not please you?"
"No, I am not pleased by you parading this matter, our family's shame, in front of everyone to satisfy your petty pride. I shall not hold the girl accountable, as she is a victim in this, but you have shown yourself to lack any shred of common sense or decency."
"So what? Is that why you've come, to take me away?" A little mocking laugh, and Edwards' face darkens. He won't hit Burr here, with a child. But if he did it would be no large matter. He would be within his rights to.
"An Omega at war," he scoffs. "It was my fault really. To let you come here with no way to defend yourself against lust and greed."
"You have no say in the matter. I am my own man, and I have a family, and you would do your best to put us from your mind."
"We cannot all dismiss notions of duty. I took you on as my charge, raised you at great cost to myself, when I had already so many children to look after. Educated you, when others would not have, clothed you. Allowed you to range outside the home, when clearly I should not have. Why do you take pleasure in hurting our family? Have we not done enough for you?"
Theo lets out another wail, louder this time. Burr cannot slip around Edwards as he grows louder, and his heart is pounding, as he shrinks into the corner. Always so small, then and now. And if Edwards did decide to punish Aaron, one of the old beatings, that left him sore and blackened for days, he would not be able to protect Theo.
Edwards raises a hand, and Burr flinches back hard, knocks his head on the wall and nearly goes tumbling. Edwards grabs his arm, wrenches him back up, forward, enough that his muscles burn.
"Keep your feet, boy. They have no use for cowards in war."
He is given quarter nearby, and he makes sure to rub elbows with the officers, inserting himself into affairs in a manner that must, to anyone else, seem unobtrusive. But Burr knows him too well to read it as anything else--elbowing in, showing Aaron that he isn't free, even here. Not much time to be alone with him, with all the work, and little Theo, but he finds the time.
When Hamilton must leave for a meeting just before breakfast, and Burr is rocking Theo to sleep, he slips into their chamber. Burr thinks at first he is Laurens, so does not rise, until the voice startles him.
"You would think I were a stranger," Edwards says, smiling. Burr jumps. Theo startles, crying. "For all my nephew greets me. Do I not have leave to meet my granddaughter, whom I have read so much about?"
"Of course not uncle," Burr says, but he makes no move to hand her over, fussing at her as she cries. "It is just that I am terribly busy here, and I was not sure you would want to see her."
"Why ever wouldn't I? It is the Christian thing to do, is it not?" follows Burr about the room until he is cornered, and Burr can do nothing but hold Theo close and Edwards pulls at the blanket, gazes at her scrunched face. "I should say she looks like her father, but I understand there is some confusion regarding the matter."
"Uncle--" Burr protests, face hot. "There is no confusion, I--" swallows, stops. Feels like a child, so quickly. "You read about the affair from Paine's pen, did you not? It was all true, what he wrote."
"Mr. Paine has the habit of exaggerating, as we both know. Don't play dumb, boy. He would worship America sooner than god, and would hide sin in the interest of patriotism. I raised you better." A little hiss, leaning in close, and Burr turns, shielding Theo around the curve of his shoulder.
"What's done is done. I am married now--does that not please you?"
"No, I am not pleased by you parading this matter, our family's shame, in front of everyone to satisfy your petty pride. I shall not hold the girl accountable, as she is a victim in this, but you have shown yourself to lack any shred of common sense or decency."
"So what? Is that why you've come, to take me away?" A little mocking laugh, and Edwards' face darkens. He won't hit Burr here, with a child. But if he did it would be no large matter. He would be within his rights to.
"An Omega at war," he scoffs. "It was my fault really. To let you come here with no way to defend yourself against lust and greed."
"You have no say in the matter. I am my own man, and I have a family, and you would do your best to put us from your mind."
"We cannot all dismiss notions of duty. I took you on as my charge, raised you at great cost to myself, when I had already so many children to look after. Educated you, when others would not have, clothed you. Allowed you to range outside the home, when clearly I should not have. Why do you take pleasure in hurting our family? Have we not done enough for you?"
Theo lets out another wail, louder this time. Burr cannot slip around Edwards as he grows louder, and his heart is pounding, as he shrinks into the corner. Always so small, then and now. And if Edwards did decide to punish Aaron, one of the old beatings, that left him sore and blackened for days, he would not be able to protect Theo.
Edwards raises a hand, and Burr flinches back hard, knocks his head on the wall and nearly goes tumbling. Edwards grabs his arm, wrenches him back up, forward, enough that his muscles burn.
"Keep your feet, boy. They have no use for cowards in war."
Future PSL 3
May. 20th, 2022 04:58 pmslowtoangerBurr spends much of the week in bed, Hamilton hovering. He is nesting, as the doctor said, yet the practice seems so inadequate here, now, with his hormones raging, fighting to come back to their natural balance after so long repressed by poisons, as Hamilton calls them. He is attended by Theodosia, who is sweet and does not simper and worry as Hamilton sometimes does. She does not doubt the strength of her mother, though he can see how the tension that now sits in the house grates on her. She reads to him in french, latin, and he corrects her at length. Feels better, to be doing something.
The fever comes and passes quickly, as Ned said it would. Mild. But the symptoms that come after stay. He is moody, and alternates between wanting to be alone and demanding company. Hamilton tries to oblige, but Burr can tell there is still anger in him, simmering, that he does not know what to do with. Will not tell Burr anything, of the matter with Jefferson and Monroe, though a good deal of letters come and go. Burr doesn't want to think about the matter at all, for as much as he burns with anger at this being kept from him. Ah, and the second anger, unfair--that Hamilton left at all.
So he spends his time in his room, occasionally coming to spend time with the children. He does not want to go outside, terrified someone has seen, but rebels when Hamilton tries to get him to stay in. Leaves without notice one morning, on a walk with Theodosia, just to see Hamilton's panic, his anger, when he returns. A shaky newness to their dynamic, that rocks the household with tension. They have not had sex since long before Hamilton left.
Two weeks pass, before that letter comes from James Madison, inviting them to dinner. Burr hides it away in his room, reads it once, twice, three times. Doesn't know how to bring it up, feels sick, ill, at wanting to go. Hands it silently to Hamilton, when he next comes in the room.
The fever comes and passes quickly, as Ned said it would. Mild. But the symptoms that come after stay. He is moody, and alternates between wanting to be alone and demanding company. Hamilton tries to oblige, but Burr can tell there is still anger in him, simmering, that he does not know what to do with. Will not tell Burr anything, of the matter with Jefferson and Monroe, though a good deal of letters come and go. Burr doesn't want to think about the matter at all, for as much as he burns with anger at this being kept from him. Ah, and the second anger, unfair--that Hamilton left at all.
So he spends his time in his room, occasionally coming to spend time with the children. He does not want to go outside, terrified someone has seen, but rebels when Hamilton tries to get him to stay in. Leaves without notice one morning, on a walk with Theodosia, just to see Hamilton's panic, his anger, when he returns. A shaky newness to their dynamic, that rocks the household with tension. They have not had sex since long before Hamilton left.
Two weeks pass, before that letter comes from James Madison, inviting them to dinner. Burr hides it away in his room, reads it once, twice, three times. Doesn't know how to bring it up, feels sick, ill, at wanting to go. Hands it silently to Hamilton, when he next comes in the room.
Private Storyline B2
May. 18th, 2022 12:51 amslowtoangerBurr goes back. Of course he goes back. How can he not go back? They spend nights together, opening each other's flesh, wrapped, circled, ensnared. And each time he comes he brings something; little gifts, trinkets, books, blankets, quills, parchment. Things he knows Alex will like, thirsts for, an attempt to plug a hole that is always widening, desperate, grasping.
He wants to tighten them. Draw them together. To draw Hamilton to him the way he has drawn other young men. To wrap him close, the way one holds a dangerous thing, slick and pointed and sharp. Oh, but this Hamilton is not the same. Perhaps if given power he will dissolve the same, into paranoia and delusion, yet this Hamilton is desperate, fragile, breakable, for as much as he covers himself in sharp edges. Not unlike the Hamilton he once knew, and yet--
Burr will not be in the position, to fall victim to him. Too old, already ruined. Perhaps they never could have been anything more than two sharp objects, poised always to cut, before. But now, maybe--. He doesn't know. He wants Hamilton to come home with him. Better than a brothel, for all he respects Benedicta. Hamilton deserves more than only bodily pleasures, as much as his need for independence burns. No less independent there, in the brothel, than he would be with Burr, but then, the brothel is an easier dependence, to no one person. Something like independence, if one could only close their eyes and wish hard enough.
Burr takes to hiring him for the day, the night, not at the brothel but at his own home. Pays extra for it--pulling in a steadier income than he ever has before. Sits with him at dinners, puts him to bed in his own room, even, on some nights, for as much as Hamilton is perturbed by such arrangments. Burr wont admit it. Would never say it. But. He is lonely. Frustratingly lonely, painfully lonely. Everyone he knows is dead, outside a few, and here is Hamilton.
He wants to tighten them. Draw them together. To draw Hamilton to him the way he has drawn other young men. To wrap him close, the way one holds a dangerous thing, slick and pointed and sharp. Oh, but this Hamilton is not the same. Perhaps if given power he will dissolve the same, into paranoia and delusion, yet this Hamilton is desperate, fragile, breakable, for as much as he covers himself in sharp edges. Not unlike the Hamilton he once knew, and yet--
Burr will not be in the position, to fall victim to him. Too old, already ruined. Perhaps they never could have been anything more than two sharp objects, poised always to cut, before. But now, maybe--. He doesn't know. He wants Hamilton to come home with him. Better than a brothel, for all he respects Benedicta. Hamilton deserves more than only bodily pleasures, as much as his need for independence burns. No less independent there, in the brothel, than he would be with Burr, but then, the brothel is an easier dependence, to no one person. Something like independence, if one could only close their eyes and wish hard enough.
Burr takes to hiring him for the day, the night, not at the brothel but at his own home. Pays extra for it--pulling in a steadier income than he ever has before. Sits with him at dinners, puts him to bed in his own room, even, on some nights, for as much as Hamilton is perturbed by such arrangments. Burr wont admit it. Would never say it. But. He is lonely. Frustratingly lonely, painfully lonely. Everyone he knows is dead, outside a few, and here is Hamilton.
private storyline ..... b1?
May. 13th, 2022 01:00 pmnon_stopIt turns out you can't write your way out of hell when you're an omega.
So Alexander Hamilton -- not his birth name, not this time -- decides to take a different route. Born into abject poverty, again in the Caribbean, he earns his way out.
And, in New York, he leverages what he's learned, his cleverness and his quickness and his persistence, into a position at a bawdy house that's clean, safe, and run by an alpha woman who is fiercely protective over her whores.
He does not hope for more than this. He saves, obsessively, and invests. He cannot be a statesman like this. He cannot write financial systems to into existence. (And he sometimes doubts whether he ever did those things -- sure, he remembers philosophy, he can quote in a Latin that he never learned, but it all seems so unlikely. So bizarre.)
He is a prized commodity quickly, in this brothel. He likes it that way. When his next heat approaches, the alpha madam raises his price.
To his surprise, someone new meets that price.
He is in only the early stages right now, pre-heat, warm skin and a welcoming scent rising. He's horny, but he's not even close to out of his mind. He's never gone out of his mind, even in heat.
He waits, in his rooms, with the broad mirror, the wide bed, the luxurious sheets. Waits for his client.
So Alexander Hamilton -- not his birth name, not this time -- decides to take a different route. Born into abject poverty, again in the Caribbean, he earns his way out.
And, in New York, he leverages what he's learned, his cleverness and his quickness and his persistence, into a position at a bawdy house that's clean, safe, and run by an alpha woman who is fiercely protective over her whores.
He does not hope for more than this. He saves, obsessively, and invests. He cannot be a statesman like this. He cannot write financial systems to into existence. (And he sometimes doubts whether he ever did those things -- sure, he remembers philosophy, he can quote in a Latin that he never learned, but it all seems so unlikely. So bizarre.)
He is a prized commodity quickly, in this brothel. He likes it that way. When his next heat approaches, the alpha madam raises his price.
To his surprise, someone new meets that price.
He is in only the early stages right now, pre-heat, warm skin and a welcoming scent rising. He's horny, but he's not even close to out of his mind. He's never gone out of his mind, even in heat.
He waits, in his rooms, with the broad mirror, the wide bed, the luxurious sheets. Waits for his client.
(no subject)
May. 13th, 2022 11:01 amnon_stopWinter's cold; he hasn't been warm in days, not properly, even under blankets with Burr and Laurens both.
Oh, Laurens, Laurens; what would they have done without him? When Alexander is too exhausted from his duties to help with nursing the child, Laurens sometimes takes a turn helping soothe Burr back to sleep -- he's awakened to find Burr's hips swaying, his head twisted back against Laurens, mouth fallen open, whimpering in that particular, perfect way he does when he's being fingered in just the right way, rolled over and palmed at Burr's cock, sleepily, tucking his face against his mate's throat and feeling down to where Laurens' hand is between Burr's legs. (Once, memorably, he even ducked under the blanket, parted his lips, and took Burr into his mouth, loosened his jaw, closed his eyes, and let Burr takes his pleasure from his throat, while he was still only half-awake.)
Alexander is constantly exhausted, in the cold. He still hasn't grown fully accustomed to the cold American winters, and they drain him, make him feel pallid and frozen and small. So he has not been as attentive a mate and father as he was before, and he feels his failure in it keenly. He should be able to force himself through this. Burr is, as always, suffering worse and working harder, though thank goodness Theodosia doesn't need feeding every few hours anymore. So why can't Alexander help him? Why can't he be good enough?
His nightmares have become feverish and incoherent. A handful of times, they've even been so severe that they manifest, making him toss and turn, awaken with terrifying and mournful whines on his tongue, a sense of overwhelming loss all he can remember from the illusion.
They aren't starving, but food is thin.
He's doing well enough, he thinks, at hiding how terrible and stretched thin he feels, until Washington responds to his, "It's impossible," with a snarled, "then make it possible."
Alexander rounds on Washington, a growl rising in response, and snarls back: "Everyone else here can say it's impossible, and then I get it done. When I say it, it means no."
The alpha pheromones slam into the room like cannon-fire, and in under five seconds, both of the beta members of Washington's staff have vacated the room. Laurens watches in outright horror -- because Washington doesn't back down, and Alexander doesn't back down. "Alex," says Laurens, and Alexander just turns the growl on him, alpha-hostility.
Then, to everyone's shock, including Alexander's, Washington extends a sort of olive branch: "Go talk a walk, son."
"I'm not your son," Alexander spits, and there, right there, could have been the moment that Washington killed him. No one has any doubt -- a full head taller, broader, stronger, older.
"Talk a walk."
Alexander turns on his heel and goes.
Oh, Laurens, Laurens; what would they have done without him? When Alexander is too exhausted from his duties to help with nursing the child, Laurens sometimes takes a turn helping soothe Burr back to sleep -- he's awakened to find Burr's hips swaying, his head twisted back against Laurens, mouth fallen open, whimpering in that particular, perfect way he does when he's being fingered in just the right way, rolled over and palmed at Burr's cock, sleepily, tucking his face against his mate's throat and feeling down to where Laurens' hand is between Burr's legs. (Once, memorably, he even ducked under the blanket, parted his lips, and took Burr into his mouth, loosened his jaw, closed his eyes, and let Burr takes his pleasure from his throat, while he was still only half-awake.)
Alexander is constantly exhausted, in the cold. He still hasn't grown fully accustomed to the cold American winters, and they drain him, make him feel pallid and frozen and small. So he has not been as attentive a mate and father as he was before, and he feels his failure in it keenly. He should be able to force himself through this. Burr is, as always, suffering worse and working harder, though thank goodness Theodosia doesn't need feeding every few hours anymore. So why can't Alexander help him? Why can't he be good enough?
His nightmares have become feverish and incoherent. A handful of times, they've even been so severe that they manifest, making him toss and turn, awaken with terrifying and mournful whines on his tongue, a sense of overwhelming loss all he can remember from the illusion.
They aren't starving, but food is thin.
He's doing well enough, he thinks, at hiding how terrible and stretched thin he feels, until Washington responds to his, "It's impossible," with a snarled, "then make it possible."
Alexander rounds on Washington, a growl rising in response, and snarls back: "Everyone else here can say it's impossible, and then I get it done. When I say it, it means no."
The alpha pheromones slam into the room like cannon-fire, and in under five seconds, both of the beta members of Washington's staff have vacated the room. Laurens watches in outright horror -- because Washington doesn't back down, and Alexander doesn't back down. "Alex," says Laurens, and Alexander just turns the growl on him, alpha-hostility.
Then, to everyone's shock, including Alexander's, Washington extends a sort of olive branch: "Go talk a walk, son."
"I'm not your son," Alexander spits, and there, right there, could have been the moment that Washington killed him. No one has any doubt -- a full head taller, broader, stronger, older.
"Talk a walk."
Alexander turns on his heel and goes.
non_stop“Where is he?” Hamilton asks Theodosia, once he gets there. “Have you seen him?”
She shakes her head, her face pinched with worry. “I found things in his room.”
“What things?”
She shows him: bottles. Laudanum, which is the least of it; the others seem newer, not dusty. Burr was hiding this. Burr was drinking poison.
“He could have killed himself.” Hamilton’s terror —
“What if he did?” Theodosia asks, just a whisper, wide eyes.
Hamilton shakes his head. No; it can’t be too late. “I’m going to find him.” He hopes he knows, anyway. “In the meantime, search for anything like this, and destroy it.” He turns back, just out the door, and returns to his daughter, and kisses her on the cheek. “I’m bringing him home, love. Someone’s hurt him, but I’m going to bring him home.”
It takes him too long to hire a closed carriage, make his way to Jefferson’s home. The witching hour, the streets only populated by drunks and lowlifes.
He bangs on the door. Again. No sound of stirring within, but Hamilton will break his knuckles on this thing if he needs to. Kicks it, rattling it on its hinges, and finally it opens, to a butler.
“Go away,” says the man, dressed in a house-coat, hastily. “Mr. Jefferson is not available.”
“I’m here for my husband.”
“There isn’t—“
“Jefferson!” Hamilton yells. “Jefferson, get out here and face me.” Focuses on the butler. “Do you know what he was doing? Are you a part of this?”
The butler looks uncomfortable, which is all Hamilton needs. He shoves past the man, and comes face to face with Jefferson.
“Where is he.” Hamilton doesn’t even recognize this tone in his voice. He is an inch from violence, his anger is hot and cold at once.
“Are you sure you want him?” A smirk, on that effete, aristocratic face. And a lazy gesture, to the left.
Hamilton follows the gesture. The room is lit by candles; Monroe is here. Monroe? And there, Burr, curled up on a chaise lounge. With horror, Hamilton takes in the bruises at wrist and ankle, the red on his inner thighs, the criss-crossing welts innumerable on his back. Marks on his throat.
“He has consented to all of it,” says Jefferson, lazily, from behind him. “Begged for it, even.”
Hamilton’s very being is shredding within him. His soul in pieces, bruised and welted and marked.
He rallies, and turns to Jefferson. A wolf, he thinks, to Jefferson’s feline self-possession. “And so?” he challenges. “If he needs, he will have — from me. He belongs with me.” He sheds his coat, and goes to kneel by his husband, to wrap him up in it. “Aaron. We’re going home.”
She shakes her head, her face pinched with worry. “I found things in his room.”
“What things?”
She shows him: bottles. Laudanum, which is the least of it; the others seem newer, not dusty. Burr was hiding this. Burr was drinking poison.
“He could have killed himself.” Hamilton’s terror —
“What if he did?” Theodosia asks, just a whisper, wide eyes.
Hamilton shakes his head. No; it can’t be too late. “I’m going to find him.” He hopes he knows, anyway. “In the meantime, search for anything like this, and destroy it.” He turns back, just out the door, and returns to his daughter, and kisses her on the cheek. “I’m bringing him home, love. Someone’s hurt him, but I’m going to bring him home.”
It takes him too long to hire a closed carriage, make his way to Jefferson’s home. The witching hour, the streets only populated by drunks and lowlifes.
He bangs on the door. Again. No sound of stirring within, but Hamilton will break his knuckles on this thing if he needs to. Kicks it, rattling it on its hinges, and finally it opens, to a butler.
“Go away,” says the man, dressed in a house-coat, hastily. “Mr. Jefferson is not available.”
“I’m here for my husband.”
“There isn’t—“
“Jefferson!” Hamilton yells. “Jefferson, get out here and face me.” Focuses on the butler. “Do you know what he was doing? Are you a part of this?”
The butler looks uncomfortable, which is all Hamilton needs. He shoves past the man, and comes face to face with Jefferson.
“Where is he.” Hamilton doesn’t even recognize this tone in his voice. He is an inch from violence, his anger is hot and cold at once.
“Are you sure you want him?” A smirk, on that effete, aristocratic face. And a lazy gesture, to the left.
Hamilton follows the gesture. The room is lit by candles; Monroe is here. Monroe? And there, Burr, curled up on a chaise lounge. With horror, Hamilton takes in the bruises at wrist and ankle, the red on his inner thighs, the criss-crossing welts innumerable on his back. Marks on his throat.
“He has consented to all of it,” says Jefferson, lazily, from behind him. “Begged for it, even.”
Hamilton’s very being is shredding within him. His soul in pieces, bruised and welted and marked.
He rallies, and turns to Jefferson. A wolf, he thinks, to Jefferson’s feline self-possession. “And so?” he challenges. “If he needs, he will have — from me. He belongs with me.” He sheds his coat, and goes to kneel by his husband, to wrap him up in it. “Aaron. We’re going home.”
denouement (psl)
May. 9th, 2022 10:42 amnon_stopWhen he returns to their townhouse, it is in a frenzy. Monroe's sneering voice, vile words echoing in his ears. Burr is not there; Burr is with the Senate, or on an errand. He forces a smile at Theodosia, who knows that something is wrong -- she is bright beyond her years, and she is -- she is almost the age he and Burr were, when they began their romance.
He kisses her on the cheek. "I need to write, darling. You can play my confessor later." By which he hopes he means never.
Paces in his home office, his heart like to beat out of his chest. Burr has been so different, lately. Flinching from his touch. There should have been a heat, at least one, and he hasn't had it. Doesn't answer when Hamilton asks what is wrong -- denies it.
And so Hamilton knows, with awful certainty, that Monroe has told him the truth. That Burr has been the plaything of Jefferson. Has enjoyed it. Has abandoned Hamilton, and his family -- for what?
He wants to weep, but the tears do not come.
Not until a messenger at the door, Theo bringing him a letter from Jefferson, written in haste. Words that defend Burr, express sorrow, a horrific pretense that Jefferson and Burr are both innocents, drawn astray by desire.
He does weep, then.
He does not know when it is that there is a soft knock at the door, Burr's face --
"How could you?" bursts out Hamilton, moving to his feet. "How could you?"
He kisses her on the cheek. "I need to write, darling. You can play my confessor later." By which he hopes he means never.
Paces in his home office, his heart like to beat out of his chest. Burr has been so different, lately. Flinching from his touch. There should have been a heat, at least one, and he hasn't had it. Doesn't answer when Hamilton asks what is wrong -- denies it.
And so Hamilton knows, with awful certainty, that Monroe has told him the truth. That Burr has been the plaything of Jefferson. Has enjoyed it. Has abandoned Hamilton, and his family -- for what?
He wants to weep, but the tears do not come.
Not until a messenger at the door, Theo bringing him a letter from Jefferson, written in haste. Words that defend Burr, express sorrow, a horrific pretense that Jefferson and Burr are both innocents, drawn astray by desire.
He does weep, then.
He does not know when it is that there is a soft knock at the door, Burr's face --
"How could you?" bursts out Hamilton, moving to his feet. "How could you?"
This is Fine Two
May. 8th, 2022 11:30 pmslowtoangerThe reality of the situation doesn't hit Burr until he leaves, when the sun is still low in the sky, when no one will see him stumbling through the streets, half out of his mind.
Nothing is wrong. Everything is fine. Why would anything be wrong? He wanted everything that happened to happen--begged for it, even. He can feel his nipples, sensitive and chafing against the inside of his shirt, the bruise on his cheek blooming red and purple, throbbing in time with his heart. Chaffed skin around his neck, where the collar sat, and dull, aching pain, each time his stride is too long.
Evidence of a good fucking, if ever there was one. But Hamilton is not here. His husband is in New York, miles away, with no knowledge of what has transpired. A desperate, thick feeling building in his throat, threatening to overwhelm him. He needs to get home. Needs to get home and wash again or--god. What he needs is to go to the apothecary, to find some poison and drink it quickly, before it has a chance to take root.
There are places, open this time of night, for people like him. Those wishing to hide something shameful. A few turns in an alleyway, around a street corner, handing coin over with shaking hands. A potion, for times such as these, and on second thought--suppressants, scent reducer. All vile, unsafe things, that he had never thought he had need for. Not ashamed of his secondary gender, and yet.
He had never had a heat like that before--once which came from nowhere, no schedule, and took him suddenly, until--well.
He locks himself into his home, pulls the curtains, and takes his bottles to the bedroom, the small chamber with the washbasin and chamberpot. He feels panicked, outside himself, and each small noise, settling of the house causes him to jump. What had happened? What had happened, had it been real? It seems so strange now, so unlike him, and yet--
He did those things. Begged Jefferson to do them. Enjoyed them. God, how he'd enjoyed them. Thrown away nearly twenty years with Hamilton, twenty years of trust, six children. Hamilton had done everything for him--eased him through childbirth and grief, and asked only affection in return. This would destroy him, ruin him, and for all of it--
Burr feels carved out, hollowed. He had clung to Jefferson, thought--needed him, but--
He can't think. Can't conceptualize, the things he has done. A strange, suspended moment, in Jefferson's home, suddenly crashed back down to reality. A different person, desperate, shattered, willing to do anything, anything.
A wretched, dry sob, that turns into a heave, as he bends over the washbasin, yet this reminds him of similar pains, ones he has gone through time and time again, bearing Hamilton's children, and then he cannot breathe, cannot get any air, cannot get any oxygen, and his shaking hands drop the potion to the floor with a thunk and he is falling, scrabbling against the floor, pushing himself back until he hits the wall, pushing his head into his knees, breathing, breathing, breathing.
What had he done? What awful, horrible things had he done? He wishes, in some way, to become a stranger to himself--remote, cut off. Someone Hamilton deserved, and this old him perished on the battlefield beside Montgomery, before he had the chance to wreak unimaginable harm. Harm that could never be undone. A hurt so deep it would change them forever, that Burr would never be able to forget.
He scrabbles for the potion, uncaps it, and throws it back, gaging and swallowing, clamping a hand over his face and forcing it down. It needs to work, it has to work, even as he can feel the horrible cramps rocking him, the pain. He lays on the floor on his side, waiting, for what he knows will be hours.
He will take the suppressant after, when nausea fades. He cannot have another heat, cannot trust himself. He wants Hamilton. Cannot have him. Doesn't deserve him.
He deseves to be punished. Misused. Theres only one person who can be that--do that--for him
Nothing is wrong. Everything is fine. Why would anything be wrong? He wanted everything that happened to happen--begged for it, even. He can feel his nipples, sensitive and chafing against the inside of his shirt, the bruise on his cheek blooming red and purple, throbbing in time with his heart. Chaffed skin around his neck, where the collar sat, and dull, aching pain, each time his stride is too long.
Evidence of a good fucking, if ever there was one. But Hamilton is not here. His husband is in New York, miles away, with no knowledge of what has transpired. A desperate, thick feeling building in his throat, threatening to overwhelm him. He needs to get home. Needs to get home and wash again or--god. What he needs is to go to the apothecary, to find some poison and drink it quickly, before it has a chance to take root.
There are places, open this time of night, for people like him. Those wishing to hide something shameful. A few turns in an alleyway, around a street corner, handing coin over with shaking hands. A potion, for times such as these, and on second thought--suppressants, scent reducer. All vile, unsafe things, that he had never thought he had need for. Not ashamed of his secondary gender, and yet.
He had never had a heat like that before--once which came from nowhere, no schedule, and took him suddenly, until--well.
He locks himself into his home, pulls the curtains, and takes his bottles to the bedroom, the small chamber with the washbasin and chamberpot. He feels panicked, outside himself, and each small noise, settling of the house causes him to jump. What had happened? What had happened, had it been real? It seems so strange now, so unlike him, and yet--
He did those things. Begged Jefferson to do them. Enjoyed them. God, how he'd enjoyed them. Thrown away nearly twenty years with Hamilton, twenty years of trust, six children. Hamilton had done everything for him--eased him through childbirth and grief, and asked only affection in return. This would destroy him, ruin him, and for all of it--
Burr feels carved out, hollowed. He had clung to Jefferson, thought--needed him, but--
He can't think. Can't conceptualize, the things he has done. A strange, suspended moment, in Jefferson's home, suddenly crashed back down to reality. A different person, desperate, shattered, willing to do anything, anything.
A wretched, dry sob, that turns into a heave, as he bends over the washbasin, yet this reminds him of similar pains, ones he has gone through time and time again, bearing Hamilton's children, and then he cannot breathe, cannot get any air, cannot get any oxygen, and his shaking hands drop the potion to the floor with a thunk and he is falling, scrabbling against the floor, pushing himself back until he hits the wall, pushing his head into his knees, breathing, breathing, breathing.
What had he done? What awful, horrible things had he done? He wishes, in some way, to become a stranger to himself--remote, cut off. Someone Hamilton deserved, and this old him perished on the battlefield beside Montgomery, before he had the chance to wreak unimaginable harm. Harm that could never be undone. A hurt so deep it would change them forever, that Burr would never be able to forget.
He scrabbles for the potion, uncaps it, and throws it back, gaging and swallowing, clamping a hand over his face and forcing it down. It needs to work, it has to work, even as he can feel the horrible cramps rocking him, the pain. He lays on the floor on his side, waiting, for what he knows will be hours.
He will take the suppressant after, when nausea fades. He cannot have another heat, cannot trust himself. He wants Hamilton. Cannot have him. Doesn't deserve him.
He deseves to be punished. Misused. Theres only one person who can be that--do that--for him
This is fine (content warning for dub-con)
May. 6th, 2022 06:59 pmdeclaresAaron Hamilton cannot be trusted.
Fine -- Aaron Burr Hamilton, though perhaps in truth it should be Aaron Montgomery Hamilton. Besides the uncomfortable and sordid origin story of Mr. Hamilton and Mr. Burr-Hamilton (which is probably also rife with falsehood) it is simple and obvious to see that the two act as though they are in fresh nuptial bliss, even after a staggering five (six?) children (a testament to Mr. Hamilton's apparently boundless virility). In such circumstances, Jefferson cannot conceive of two people being in such basic disagreement over the foundation of proper governance. The marital disharmony would be constant and shrill, and yet there is no report of this from any acquaintance of theirs. That the two should take joy in ethical disagreement is... possible, for anyone but Alexander Hamilton. More likely, Burr-Hamilton plays at being an alternative to the monarchic designs of his husband but supports them in secret, Jefferson thinks, privately. No doubt this is why Hamilton permits his omega mate to range so far outside the home, to have an independent career, when he should be minding their veritable brood of young.
And how this plays out in New York is a subject of much consternation to Mr. Madison. The state's politics are poisonous and vile, in Jefferson's opinion. It is nothing but a handful of families in shifting alliances, and at the center of it, the Hamiltons. They two have contributed to coalitions, finding middle grounds between vastly different factions, but in this they themselves play the factional game. They are immersed in it.
Burr-Hamilton is willing to deliver New York to the hands of Mr. Madison. But Madison believes he cannot be trusted, and his easy charisma and widespread appeal is too dangerous to cultivate on a national stage.
As for Jefferson -- Jefferson would like Aaron to be trustworthy. He is at least pleasant company -- appealing in shape and face, as well as a wonderful teller of anecdote and narrative. Were Jefferson not on his guard, he would have assumed such harmony of attitude represented a harmony of spirit, someone as reasoned and good-natured as he appears to be. Witty, as well, and well-read. Jefferson has been enamored of ladies and omegas both, for far less.
Fine -- Aaron Burr Hamilton, though perhaps in truth it should be Aaron Montgomery Hamilton. Besides the uncomfortable and sordid origin story of Mr. Hamilton and Mr. Burr-Hamilton (which is probably also rife with falsehood) it is simple and obvious to see that the two act as though they are in fresh nuptial bliss, even after a staggering five (six?) children (a testament to Mr. Hamilton's apparently boundless virility). In such circumstances, Jefferson cannot conceive of two people being in such basic disagreement over the foundation of proper governance. The marital disharmony would be constant and shrill, and yet there is no report of this from any acquaintance of theirs. That the two should take joy in ethical disagreement is... possible, for anyone but Alexander Hamilton. More likely, Burr-Hamilton plays at being an alternative to the monarchic designs of his husband but supports them in secret, Jefferson thinks, privately. No doubt this is why Hamilton permits his omega mate to range so far outside the home, to have an independent career, when he should be minding their veritable brood of young.
And how this plays out in New York is a subject of much consternation to Mr. Madison. The state's politics are poisonous and vile, in Jefferson's opinion. It is nothing but a handful of families in shifting alliances, and at the center of it, the Hamiltons. They two have contributed to coalitions, finding middle grounds between vastly different factions, but in this they themselves play the factional game. They are immersed in it.
Burr-Hamilton is willing to deliver New York to the hands of Mr. Madison. But Madison believes he cannot be trusted, and his easy charisma and widespread appeal is too dangerous to cultivate on a national stage.
As for Jefferson -- Jefferson would like Aaron to be trustworthy. He is at least pleasant company -- appealing in shape and face, as well as a wonderful teller of anecdote and narrative. Were Jefferson not on his guard, he would have assumed such harmony of attitude represented a harmony of spirit, someone as reasoned and good-natured as he appears to be. Witty, as well, and well-read. Jefferson has been enamored of ladies and omegas both, for far less.
