Private storyline 5!

[slowtoanger]

They stay at the inn for two days after the wedding, celebrating their union and waiting for the snow to pass. For once, Burr and Hamilton both eat their fill--of fat fish and fresh bread. Gifts trickle in, from the nearby town, overwhelmed with patriotic sentiment even if they are not overwhelmed with joy at being paid in continental currency when the time comes to refresh their rations. They receive gifts for the baby--clothing and blankets and other odds and ends, a few bottles of cheap liquor. For Hamilton and Burr's part, they spend much of their time in bed.

It is October, when they leave. Burr is nine months pregnant, likely should not be moving, but there is nothing for it. They continue to be pursued by Cornwallis, and soon they are urging wagons through thick snow, over shallow, fast-moving rivers. Burr once more is relegated to the wagon, laying down amid crates and bags of supplies, rocked with each bump and dip of the road. Hamilton is somewhere ahead, riding through the snow, though he could even have been sent to meet with nearby scouts, towns, and Burr would not know. Days of travel, with no information or update, until they stop moving and he can make his way to the head of the column.

It is snowing once more--no longer light and fluffy but thick and wet. The wind is blowing--a wretched howl, that cuts through clothing to freeze men's bones. Like the wind on a mountain pass, working its way towards Quebec. Burr is bundled beneath every spare blanket they own--Hamilton's and Lauren's and even Washington's, but still he shivers as they rock along, damp creeping through layers that will not be dry before the next day. A miserable, wretched journey.

They do not stop for anything--at noon, men eat their rations as they march, and jovial banter has given way to eerie silence, a kind Burr knows too well, a feral focus on putting one foot in front of the other. One wagon loses a wheel, but the army does not stop, taking only enough time to shuffle what supplies can be salvaged to other wagons before abandoning the damaged wagon to the snow. Cannot burn it, to keep it from falling into British hands, for the wind.

Burr manages to doze, for some time of this, but wakes again rocked with pain, a sharp stabbing in his abdomen. Each time the wagon rocks it grows worse, till he is rising to heave his paltry lunch over the side. Burning cramps, so much worse then, as he collapses back into the wagon. He can feel something--liquid, thick and warm. Not melt, he thinks, though he is numb enough to not be sure. Too cold to remove his cover, he reaches a hand into his breeches blind. He cannot be going into labor--not here, not now. The baby will freeze, and if they stop they could be captured by the British.

He feels sticky on numb fingers, pulls his hand out. Blood. They cannot stop the wagon. He can handle pain, until they reach some safe haven. Telling someone will change nothing, will only make their march that much worse. Another jolt, and he gasps, clutching at the swell, falling back against the blankets.

Comments

[non_stop]

Cradling Burr's fragile body, trying to tuck him back into the nest, but there is so much blood and Burr is crying, crying with agony. There is naught Hamilton can do to help. He seems so small and so wounded, and there is so much blood.

The surgeon seems to appear from nowhere, having left most of this endeavor to the women of this little village. He is doing something between Burr's legs, and then pressing down on his stomach, pushing hard. Hamilton is pulled back, away, and the first thing that tears his eyes away from Burr is a higher, piercing wail.

"There she is," he hears Mrs. Smith say, and he turns to see a tiny, bloodied, wrinkled, impossible thing, little eyes screwed closed and little hands making little fists.

Hamilton's heart breaks, instantly. In a single breath, he has become someone else. He has transformed.

"A girl," he whispers, and then she is settled into his arms, so small that he has to wrap himself carefully around her.

"Go on, she needs to give suck," and Mrs. Smith steers him back towards Burr. "It'll help him with the afterbirth."

Hamilton has literally no idea what that is, but he follows her instructions, trying to wake Burr, get his attention even through the continued pain. Trying to position the baby so she can seek out his swollen breasts.

[slowtoanger]

Burr is drifting, whimpering through waves of pain when he feels that warm weight against him, someone moving his shirt aside, latching on. His arms come up on their own, and when he opens his eyes he sees her, and he feels something inside him splinter.

She is so tiny, and fragile, and small. Anything could crush her, and Burr cradles her so gently, his eyes blurring once more.

"Hamilton," he rasps, but he is too tired to even prop his head up, and soon he is falling back down into his nest, trembling and shaking and sweating.

"She's--" but he doesn't know what to say, as he starts to choke on his emotions, but broken cooing noises bubble up in him, something instinctual, as he bends low and licks her, scents her.

"Theodosia," he says. She looks like him. "Theodosia Montgomery."

[non_stop]

"Theodosia," Hamilton echoes, softly. Theodosia opens those little screwed-shut eyes, a soft and pale grey, unfocused. She has found his breast, and there is a comical look of happy shock as she tastes for the first time. "Aaron, look at her, look what you've done. You have a daughter," so incredulous and proud and weeping with it. Presses his face against Burr's hair, his body curled over them as though to shield them both from the world, from everything.

He glances up, and he sees a terrible flood of more blood and tissue from between Burr's legs, along with the rest of the umbilicus. His heart stops. The surgeon examines the mass, and Hamilton turns back to Burr, begins to purr again, tucking Burr's head under his chin.

[slowtoanger]

Hamilton puring at him, his daughter suckling, those contractions slowly easing as his body works to knit itself back together.

"Our daughter," Burr slurs, as he sinks more against Hamilton, Theo cradled between them. He's tired, but he doesn't want to crush her. But his eyes are closing, and he grasps at Hamilton's hand, desperate.

"Watch her," he says, "don't let her out of your sight," and then he is loosening, into Hamilton's scent, her scent, which is nothing more but damp and Burr himself. And sweetness, something sweet.

"Theodosia," he says, closes his eyes.

[non_stop]

"Our daughter," Hamilton affirms, softly, feeling a little squeeze in his heart. "Not a chance. I'm not going anywhere."

Burr falls into utter exhaustion, and Hamilton is a little surprised to find the activity of the birth isn't over. Theodosia needs to be cleaned off, which is done with a damp cloth, though she frets while it's going. Then, Mrs. Smith demonstrates how to swaddle her, and also how to pin the little wool clout in place.

The surgeon winds cotton bandage and presses it inside Burr to help with the bleeding that still doesn't seem to be done. Helps them wipe Burr down, cleaning up the worst of it, where his body has soiled itself in the strain. Dabs off a trail where his nipple has leaked white.

Hamilton lifts Burr to put him on the bed, while the linens that were on the ground are taken to clean. The women are uncomplaining, though this is an incredible amount of work. When Hamilton tries to help, he is firmly redirected towards the bed with the baby and his mate.

"Could you ask Laurens," he says, to Mrs. Smith, "to bring a spare shirt?" Hamilton had one, in the saddlebags. His current one is filthy, and so is he. The bruise where Burr bit him is going to be pretty spectacular, looks like.

Laurens is at the door, then, and Hamilton meets him. "A girl," Hamilton says, weakly. "Theodosia. She's healthy; Burr is resting." Burr is not so healthy.

Laurens breaks into a broad grin and hugs Hamilton tight. "You're a father," he whispers, so as not to disturb Burr.

"And you, a god-father," says Hamilton, "if -- I mean -- if you wish it." And if Burr doesn't get mad at him for that when he wakes up. He thinks Burr would approve, though.

"Oh, Alex," and Laurens is embracing him, again. "I would like nothing more."

He returns to the bed, holds the little wrapped-up Theo in his arms. Tucks himself in next to Burr. Burr seems fretful, almost-conscious when Hamilton comes back, but once they're together again, Burr steadies out and falls into a deeper slumber.

Eventually, with the distant sounds of cheering and a bit of revelry among the men -- Washington must have told them, and let them celebrate -- Hamilton falls asleep too.

[slowtoanger]

Burr isn't sure how long he drifts, somewhere between consciousness and sleep. He knows sometimes he drifts deeper, and other times they press things upon him, water and bits of bread and meat, but he never opens his eyes during this. He still feels wrung-out, shakey, weak. How much blood has he lost, and has it stopped, since the birth?

He knows Hamilton is there, a warm weight against his body, a comforting smell, as well as something new, which makes his heart flutter in his chest. Warm, resting over his heartbeat. Maybe he hears high-pitched cries, but he does not stir enough to know.

Burr passes in and out of sleep for three days, before he finally regains himself enough to open his eyes. When he does, his vision dances with black spots, and the room tilts. His body aches, terrible throbbing, from tears and ripping, and his breasts feel over-full, stretched, his mouth dry, unable to swallow. The bed is empty and cold, and he is alone. A small burst of panic, yet he has a hazy, indistinct memory--Hamilton promising to not let Theodosia out of his sight.

He reaches for a mug on the table beside his bed, yet his limb moves slowly, uncoordinated, and the mug clatters to the floor. He goes to move after it--to swing his legs over the side of the bed, yet he shortly collapses with a bitten-off scream, at the pain that bursts between his legs. Lays in the mess of blankets that still smell faintly of birth, less faintly of Hamilton. He is invalid again. And Hamilton no doubt is off enjoying the fruit of Burr's ruin. Wonderful.

[non_stop]

Hamilton spends most of the time near Burr, only reluctantly allowing his duties to pull him away. Washington needs him; the state of their correspondence has fallen into shambles, though Laurens, the most able of the remaining aides, has done his utmost.

The congratulations some of the men give him make him flush, especially since he did so little to bring this child into the world.

A cradle is borrowed from the Lindens. Hamilton learns to rock it with a foot while writing at the desk. Any real fussiness and he returns to Burr, with whom the baby is most content. Burr doesn't get fully conscious, it seems, but he does stir enough every few hours to let the babe suckle, or at least he seems to relent to Hamilton's nudges in order to do so. Hamilton doesn't like doing it this way, because it seems to him that Theodosia continues to drain some vital essence that Aaron himself needs to recover. Mrs. Linden does assist once, when Burr will not stir even slightly and Theodosia continues to cry and cry. She has her latest that she is weaning, and willingly assists.

Hamilton leaves the letter he wrote for Burr nearby, so he doesn't forget to give it. He thinks Burr would savor at least the you were right.

Now, Theodosia begins to fuss. Laurens takes Hamilton's pen, and Hamilton scoops her up. There is no smell of her soiling herself, so it's likely feeding she wants. He wraps her up and makes his way back across the now-muddied yard.

[slowtoanger]

Burr turns on the bed, when the pain fades, and his hand brushes a sheet of parchment. damn Hamilton, leaving the stuff everywhere, even in Burr's sickbed after creating human life.

Ah, but the letter is addressed to him, and as he fold it open and begins to read he feels something unfurl, a small, breathless feeling, different from before, but no more foreign; the feeling when Hamilton had slipped that rings on his finger, had shown him the ring near that river, when he asked for Burr's hand in the courtroom, when he stopped Burr in the hallway that first night, even when the feeling had been buried beneath fear and resentment.

Small sentiments, no less precious for their size; 'My Dearest Little Captain,' 'You were right,' 'I dream of you,' 'Be well, love.'

Burr is crying again, because he's been crying enough these past few days, what's a little more? Hamilton is so sweet to him, so good, as much as he is annoying and overbearing and has no sense of scale or temperance. Burr is right, and for all he thought Hamilton might never understand, that this might the an unfortunate, insurmountable hurdle in their relationship that Burr would have to learn to deal with, he has displayed a capacity Burr did not know he had.

He feels the rings on his finger, a nervous habit he has never gotten over, twirls the metal and watches how it settles against his flesh. His body is ruined, but it will heal, eventually. And Hamilton makes him feel more whole than anything.

[non_stop]

Theodosia's cry heralds his approach more effectively than a dozen trumpet-wielding courtiers. She has a healthy voice, as everyone in camp has unfortunately found out. Perhaps, if Burr's dreams about women's education are fulfilled, they can find a future where she is a lawyer or orator -- if not that, surely she could sing the opera.

Hamilton shoulders the door open, not looking forward to another session of trying to wake Burr. But, to his incredulous pleasure -- which shows plainly on his face -- Burr is awake, and sitting a little up, though it seems the tin cup beside the bed has suffered for it.

"Aaron," and he kneels by the bed, sweeping Burr's hand into his and kissing it. "You're awake."

Theodosia complains, and Hamilton immediately lifts her, passing her to the wellspring of her craved material. Her little arms flail, fingers spreading out wide. It's like she doesn't understand how limbs work, and Hamilton finds it unutterably precious.

If Aaron takes Theo, then Hamilton will of course get a refill for that tin cup, right away. There is a pitcher nearby.

[slowtoanger]

"Is this what she looks like?" Burr whispers. He holds out his pinkie and she sucks on it, searching for milk, wiggling unhappily when she does not find it.

He opens his shirt, guides her to his breast, and she latches on easily, sucking while he winces. More than worth it, to see her face bleed into contentment, pressed against him.

"She likes it," he says. Then, wanting to glance at Hamilton yet unable to tear his eyes away, "She looks like Montgomery."

A strange, queer feeling then, to have this thing out of him that was so long inside. A person, with thoughts and emotions and one day a self, identity. A responsibility, whose father was dead before she was so much as a speck. How easy it had been for Monty to die, a strong and virile man, who seemed often to eclipse life itself, who was more than that, for Burr. And here she was, so small and delicate, breakable, looking so like him.

He finds suddenly that he cannot look at her, panic welling within him, and though she is nursing he pulls her away, thrusts her out towards Hamilton as she begins to wail.

"Do you want to--you should hold her, take her," he says. He will break her, or she will break, and Burr will break along with her.

[non_stop]

"She looks like you," Hamilton gently says -- not a correction, just an addition. That little dusting of dark hair, the eyes that Hamilton feels sure have Aaron's deepness to them already.

Theodosia does not like this interruption. For a moment or two she's just stunned, her little mouth open in surprise, and then she wails.

Hamilton is concerned by the abrupt reversal, but he takes Theodosia, who buries her face in his shirt and screams, trading her for the full cup of water. He perches down next to Aaron.

As hard as it is to retain any personal dignity with an extremely affronted baby in his arm, he asks, "Does it hurt? Can I help?"

[slowtoanger]

"No, I just--I don't know," Burr says, and he doesn't. He feels exposed, and stupid, and vulnerable. He doesn't want to look at Theo, or see her, or think about her. His eyes are watering, as he takes the cup and drains it, anything to buy him more time.

He knows he has to nurse her. That she is his child, that no one else can do it, but he does not want to.

"I'm sorry," he says, through tears. "You can give her back to me," though he does not hold his arms out, turns his body away from them both. Hamilton is good with her, she does well with Hamilton. He likes her, even as she is wailing and screaming, and here he is, having done nothing in bed for days while everyone else rushed to take care of him and he cannot even look at her.

[non_stop]

Hamilton scoots a little onto the bed, only realizing by the crumpling sound that he has crushed the little letter. He is pleased to see that Burr has read it, and worried that it is responsible for his reluctance.

"I believe you have made a sad error," says Hamilton, after a moment, and, strangely, his tone is light, and fond. "I think it is one of two possible -- no, three, so I will hazard a guess.

"First, I see her, not yet recovered from the flush of a newborn, ssh, Theo," stroking her little back, "so very small, and I see you, with your pallor... Perhaps you fear for her health, which must be so fragile. In this, you have made an understandable error in your calculations. For she is half your get -- more than, since your blood beats in her tiny heart -- and even if she had but an eighth part of your will and determination, she could shrug off British bullets without care. You, who forged your way to Quebec and back, who carried a child through hardship, deprivation, and snowstorm, through blood and pain. And, look," as Theo wails anew, "she is like to surpass her Mama in oratory. I think we do have the first lady lawyer of New York here, with us. I thought you seemed weak and small when we first met -- perhaps it was my fear of how others saw me, of course -- but you have proven me an idiot a thousand times over."

He tentatively shifts, to see if Aaron will let him settle his arm around those narrow shoulders, bring the both of them into his embrace.

"Second," he says, "you may think that she prefers me. In this, you could not be more wrong. She adores you boundlessly. When she sleeps between us, she always turns towards you. Your scent is enough to soothe her. I am but an interloper, though a beloved one -- it seemed, when I read aloud a letter to General Washington yesterday, that she turned her face towards me as though she knew the tones of my voice, and I'm afraid my heartbeat has been aflutter since, and has not yet recovered."

A breath. "And third," he says, "you have not counted on my willingness to employ base and corrupt bribery to gain your goodwill." He produces, from his pocket, a bit of that maple candy, and tentatively offers it. Despite the almost silly tones he is employing, he is tentative, and worried, for he knows Aaron must already adore this child, and what good is he as a mate if he cannot fix what difficulty Aaron is having?

[slowtoanger]

While Hamilton says all these things he shifts so that they are shoulder to shoulder, reclined on the bed, and inches Theo towards him. A little lawyer, or an orator, a stateswoman. Yes, these are all thoughts that fill him with a delightful flush. And then Hamilton produces the maple candy and presses it to his lips, and he is so sweet and doting that he cannot help but open his lips, and he does not suck only the candy inside but Hamilton's fingers as well, sealing his lips around them.

At the same time Theo is brought near enough to his chest that it takes only a little nudging for her to latch on again, and then it is blessedly silent as he suckles, and Burr's hands come up to cradle her, carefully. Hamilton is beside him, and nothing terrible will happen, and she seems so content there against him that he feels as though his heart might break.

"If such bribery is to form the basis of our relationship I fear I will grow fat on candy or be kept naked in bed--" Hamilton has employed that trick, before, "or both."

Hamilton is so devoted to him, to making sure Burr is well, to saying and writing wonderful things about them. He will be a good father, no doubt. Had stayed caring for both him and Theo, where other fathers might have used duty as a convenient excuse. Burr has no doubt he will devote all his attention to making sure she has the education she needs, to fighting all of new york, of America, should they try to bar her from her chosen path due simply to her gender.

She is not of Hamilton's flesh--she does not look like him, she likely will always be remembered and noted as Montgomery's ilk, more than either of theirs. But he will care for her regardless, seems already to be head over heels for her. He will be a good father, Burr thinks, as he leans over to press a maple-sweet kiss to Hamilton's lips. To more than just this child.

[non_stop]

"Ah, see? I am greeted with tears, and you with utter contentment." She is so small, and so perfect, there with Burr. So precious. It makes Hamilton's eyes hot with unshed tears. "And I think I would like you fat and content just as much as I like you thin and fierce." Tips his head against Burr's. "And I do certainly like you naked, in my bed."

The kiss is a lovely and delicate thing, flavored sweet.

"Ah, there are those lips that have so occupied my mind," he murmurs. He draws his thumb along Burr's lovely, full lower lip. "They begin to blush again with health -- you longed for strawberries, before, and I saw none but your lips, today sweeter than spring's best harvest."

He drops his hand. "But I didn't mean to just flirt," he says. "I have so much to tell you, and I have been so worried for you -- when you fell from that horse, my heart fell with you. I growled -- at Washington." A self-deprecating look -- "He scruffed me like a naughty kitten.

"And I want to tell you the Army's plans, and know what you think. And I -- oh, I nearly forgot. I see you've read the letter, but I believe you deserve the words from my own lips as well. You were right, Aaron, and I, in the wrong. I am very fortunate to have you to open my eyes."

It is a veritable flood of words, and Hamilton realizes that he's starting to ramble on a bit. There is just so much he's wanted to share.

[slowtoanger]

"Scuffed you, you say?" Burr laughs, from deep in his belly, quickly dissolving into a wince. The whole of him is sore, as though he had been caught underfoot a team of horses. "I should think you deserved a scuff or two more than you have been given. I am surprised the omegas did you find cause to scuff you at least once during our ordeal, or me for that matter, given the great deal of complaining I did."

"Your letter was very sweet," Burr looks away, embarrassed, and perhaps there is more he should say, compliments or honied things, but those words have never flowed as easily for him as they did for Hamilton, at least, not in the instances when Bur truly meant them. "Perhaps if we are married another sixty years I might hear you admit to being wrong once or twice more, if I am lucky. As far as your bed, I don't feel as if I will ever be recovered enough to engage in those activities, I am sure there is not a bit of me that isn't torn or brusied in some way. The reports I have received from the surgeon do not seem so truthful."

More than teasing there are things he needs to know, and pressing concerns. "I am afraid I was too disoriented the last days to have much an idea of what was going on, especially considering no one would tell me anything. What do you plan, now that we have her to keep safe? We might ready another wagon, but she cannot handle the elements as you or I can, and I would be devastated if--"

Well, if much of anything happened. Had been devastated before, but the mind had a way of getting over even the most unimaginable losses, limping onward.

[non_stop]

Burr is laughing! Even just a bit, but that smile, that laugh...

"They had no need," says Hamilton, primly, and with sparkling eyes. "I was far too frightened to disobey Mrs. Smith in the least, smallest way. I know when I am defeated."

"The surgeon has said," Hamilton says, "that, in his phrasing, 'beneficial paroxysms' may assist in properly constricting the womb, and so, well." He flushes a little. It is easier to say these things when Burr is already half-mad with desire. "You are wounded, still, and I would not hurt you for the world and everything in it -- but when you wish it again, my willing mouth and your willing cock seem a lovely match." A pause, and he hesitates to suggest -- they've already done such filthy things together, but some do view what he has to say as something against the proper order of things. Then again, what does Burr care for the proper order of things? "And, if you would like, I am not unfamiliar with being myself penetrated." It is an unmanly, un-Alpha thing to volunteer. "And I do not rush you," he hurries to add. "I simply mean you to know what I am willing to give."

He presses on. "The Pennsylvania militia has come, and with them, supply wagons. After our next attack, we will go to winter quarters, so we must wrap you up carefully before then, and after, there will be time enough for you to heal from this strain."

[slowtoanger]

Burr's thoughts fizzle-out, when Hamilton makes that suggestion, ignoring all words that come after. Hamilton's mouth is lovely, when it forms around those filthy words. He can feel his pupils dilate at the suggestion, the sheer degeneracy of it, of Burr filling Hamilton, fucking into him and pumping him full of seed. The power, that Hamilton would allow Burr to enter him, to come inside him, despite their secondary genders, leaves him heady and needy.

He is careful not to dislodge Theo, but he grabs Hamilton by the cravat, yanks him firmly into the mattress and turns so that Burr is hovering over him, carefully throws a leg over his bulk so that he cannot move, knee pressing into his groin.

"I would like nothing more than to pin you to this mattress and fuck you," Burr growls, pressing into him, "until you were needy and begging and out of your mind," leaning down, licking beneath his ear, nibbling.

"but I am afraid we must control ourselves, in front of dear Theo." Oh, but how fun it is so toy with Hamilton, to leave him breathless and overwrought, so before he pulls away Burr wraps a hand into his hair and tugs harshly, connects their mouth in a filthy kiss, biting and sucking until Hamilton allows him access with his tongue, refusing to pull away even as Hamilton squirms, until he must disconnect to breathe.

[non_stop]

Hamilton rarely confesses his more degenerate experiences. He sometimes wonders what is wrong with him, that he can seek satisfaction in an alpha the same way he could in an omega or a woman. If he were all good, he would not have such a surfeit of sexual desire, he supposes, no matter how right it feels while he indulges. He is at a loss, too, to explain that he truly does enjoy penetrating his partner -- never as much as he's enjoyed penetrating Burr, but Burr is special. It seems, by what people say, that he should either prefer to take or to be taken.

He so rarely even allows himself to think about these things. Open acknowledgment would result in censure and condemnation; he cannot always be so lucky as to find people like Laurens.

He -- to put it mildly -- does not expect the surge of passion from his lover. For once, his endless flow of words fails him, and blood rushes to his length prodigiously quickly, leaving him dizzied. He is hard against Burr's leg in an instant, and an oh escapes him, his lips parting. He bares his throat to Burr's attentions, head tipping back, his fingers curling into the loose fabric of the soft gown. Oh, if it were not so soon after birth... Needy, yes, he would be needy, and out of his mind.

The soft, embarrassing whimper is silenced by Burr's mouth, a fierce tongue that unlocks him and sweeps across his palate, taking and taking until he turns his head only to gasp for breath.

"Oh, you--" he accuses, "you vixen." Breathless. There's so little snow left, but he wishes he could take a plunge in a snowbank, in the interest of calming the fire Burr has stoked.

[slowtoanger]

"I would take you in hand," Burr says, squeezing over the thickness that is pressing against the front of Hamilton's breeches, "stoke you, lick you to completion, but I am afraid we really must be adults about this," begins to work his hand up and down, drinking in those gasps, that quickened breathing, "and learn to control our base desires," he pulls away with a final squeeze, against where he can make out the tip, through those layers of fabric, sitting back on the bed, "for little Theo is not yet done feeding, and she really must take precedence before you in my heart."

Hamilton's face is red, his legs parted, laying there sprawled against the bed looking pitiful and confused and wanting. Burr laughs, sitting back and readjusting Theo, helping her to maintain her latch on his nipple, though she is not very gentle for a newborn. What was it Mrs. Smith said about easing that soreness? Some recipe for a cream, which of course they did not have the ingredients to, as far as Burr knew.

His body is indeed ravaged, following the pregnancy--his stomach still swollen a good deal, organs misplaced and uterus expanded. How long till he regains that slender form, bony and lean? Not that it seems to make a difference to Hamilton, whose interest in Burr's body has not waned at all from the early months to the later ones. Perhaps he has a bit of a fetish, for a swollen body, plump with life. A theory to consider exploring more in the future.

"A pity," Burr sighs, watching Hamilton out of the corner of his eye. "I would have let you fuck my throat."

[non_stop]

Alexander Hamilton is not known for his gifts at self-restraint, his ability to calm himself, or any inclination to deny himself what he wants.

So this is fucking torture.

A sweet torture; a torturer he would submit to with wholehearted joy. But: torture.

"If she were not here," growls Hamilton, "and you were not wounded still..." The look he shoots Burr is heated and full of promise.

But: He. Will. Control. Himself.

He closes his eyes, taking a slow breath, not moving yet, and attempting to will down the rigid length trapped in his breeches. It throbs with his heartbeat, a palpable longing to bury itself in Burr's hot and welcoming mouth, squeezed by that long, lovely throat.

"What you excite in me," he sighs, and he starts to sit up. "I would plunge myself wholly into a snowbank to ease this heat, but you conjure these images in my mind, where they cannot be contained or purged -- what keen torture."

How he aches for Burr.

"So, because I think it is torture that you will enjoy," and Hamilton murmurs this in Burr's ear, shifting up next to him, "I will deny myself any touch until you are well enough to grant me yours." He thinks Burr will like it, the idea that he is in control of when Hamilton's pleasure resumes. The idea of Hamilton's body in his thrall.

[slowtoanger]

Burr finds it quite hard to believe, that Hamilton will be able to contain himself until Burr is healed, though the thought is an interesting one.

"Perhaps there will have to be some kind of punishment, if you fail to refrain from touching yourself," and though Burr has decided to stop teasing his husband he does tangle their legs together, recline his head on Hamilton chest.

How long until they are moving again, without the privacy that this cabin affords them? Not long, surely, and then Hamilton will have to wait till Burr is healed, which will not happen quickly.

"I should have liked to watch, even if I could not participate, while you fucked yourself on some implement, or someone fucked you," small fantasies, nonetheless entertaining to imagine. "I imagined too, that night at the inn when you knotted me, that your fingers were another cock, and I was being knotted by two alphas at once. I couldn't knot you," Burr says, "but I would quite like to see you take a knot."

[non_stop]

Burr's mere presence is a tease -- and those words are a worse one. He realizes he's holding his breath, while Burr speaks, the better to savor every filthy word.

"Oh." -- on a soft exhale. He finds each of those images undeniably appealing. "Do you think you could take both? Would you like it?" His voice is a little breathless. "It can be... uncomfortable, to take a knot anally, without careful preparation, but perhaps your body is more accommodating than mi--" He stops himself, a reflexive caution. Burr just said that he would like to see Hamilton knotted, and surely he would not disapprove if he knew Hamilton had done so in the past. "Than mine has been," he finishes, his heart going quicker for a slightly different, more nervous reason.

"Indeed, perhaps we could indulge you," he says, carefully, "as, before you returned to New York -- oh," and he cannot, not without some further reassurance. "You will not say anything, will you? If this were known, my career, and this man's, would be the least of what is on at risk."

[slowtoanger]

"I would love to be filled," Burr whispers, "until I could not but remember my own name--I can be very accommodating," looking at Hamilton through his eyelashes, a coy kind of smile.

Hamilton is red-faced, shy, and it is so adorable that Burr leans up to kiss him again, as slow and filthy as the first. "I would not ask anything of you that was painful or uncomfortable," he purrs, "but perhaps your last partner was not as accommodating or worshiping as I would like to be," and his hand drifts down to squeeze Hamilton's rear, to massage and palm over the flesh, "if I could knot you."

But Hamilton is also nervous, eyes which dart away, squirming, for a different reason than the hardness in his trousers. Very adorable, for all Burr does not wish to infantilize him, but oh, that is something he should say to Hamilton out loud, isn't it?

"You are very cute," Burr says, and then; "I trust you would never feel uncomfortable sharing these things with me, as I would never judge you for even the most perverse of inclinations, as you have not revealed mine, and indeed have been nothing but accommodating, even when confronted with the delicate nature of my condition in the past spring. Indeed," Burr says, as he angles his body to bring his own pelvis, the evidence of his arousal, against Hamilton's hip, lagging as it may be--perhaps a sad symptom of blood loss--"I find your perversions quite exciting."

Oh, but perhaps there is something else--"I would only ask to know that this other--" a swallow, his own embarrassment now, "would be no replacement for me in your heart or bed."

[non_stop]

And that, Hamilton can answer, with utter ease and utter honesty. "You have a place in my heart none have touched," Hamilton tells him, "and that, truly, I cannot imagine another ever touching. It is a place I did not even know existed before you nestled inside -- a tender place, though it seems Theodosia has found one that may be tenderer still."

He sighs. "Laurens and I found pleasure in one another," he confesses. "It began with taking one another in hand, and then more -- it seemed that we were like the ancient Spartans, accompanying a lover into battle, that we could be warriors, one another's shield and spear. It had naturally declined by the time you returned. I was never so swept away by him as I am by you, though I love him, as you well know."

It is difficult to explain these things. Hamilton would be lying if he said that family had nothing to do with it -- he wants so badly to form a family, and that would never be possible with Laurens. Perhaps that is why his feelings never deepened into the fascinated ardor that he feels for Burr.

"How could I be so lucky," sighs Hamilton, "to find someone like you -- beautiful, brave, and perverse all."