private storyline 6

[non_stop]

"Aye, it'll be no trouble," says Mrs. Linden, when Hamilton asks her to watch the baby. She winks at him, noting his flush.

"He is too fragile," Hamilton hastens to explain, "we simply wish--"

"You're nestin' like lovebirds," she laughs. "Go on, one more little one is easy enough."

Thus empty-handed, Hamilton approaches Laurens, just off duty in charge of the sentries. He is unaccountably nervous; it has not been so long since the two of them were so absorbed in one another, but it had seemed to Hamilton that this closeness had dissipated in light of Burr. It may be a mistake to revive it.

A sweet mistake, though.

"Laurens," calls Hamilton, and then, lower, "John," softly, signaling that he means to speak about something private. A look of anxiety passes across Laurens' face, but he falls into step beside Hamilton.

"Is Burr all right?" asks Laurens, brow furrowed, as they move out of earshot of anyone else.

"He's..." Hamilton chews on the inside of his cheek. "He had a request I would like to fulfill, if I can."

He explains, as quickly as he can.

Laurens' cheeks go a bright, flaming red, as he looks away, into the forest. When he looks back to Hamilton, his eyes have a hunger in them that steals Hamilton's breath. "Is it truly his request?" Laurens asks, carefully. "Alex, I know you--"

"Truly," Hamilton assures him. "He had no knowledge of our connection beforehand, even. And before I said a word, I extracted a promise of secrecy -- not that it was necessary, knowing him." He pauses, examining Laurens. "So?"

"When?" is all Laurens asks.

It is not long after, in the cabin, that Hamilton tells Burr: "He has agreed. He will be here in a few moments -- and I took care to wash, earlier. In case."

Comments

[slowtoanger]

Ah, but Hamilton looks nervous still, perched on the edge of the bed where Burr is reclined, and if Laurens is truly soon to be here, Burr ought to get Hamilton warmed up, and perhaps give Lauren a show in the meantime, so that the two are not so nervous about Burr here, watching.

"That is wonderful, darling," Burr says, and he leans up to wind his fingers into Hamilton's hair, pulls him down to kiss him, long and slow--drags his tongue over Hamilton's lips, sucks one between his own before nipping playfully.

Things Hamilton likes--though truly all his interests seemed to overlap wherever Burr's body was concerned. Burr takes care to trail his hands down while Hamilton is distracted, till he can slide one inside Hamilton's pants, laughing when he jolts in surprise, as Burr takes his flaccid cock in hand and works with the little room he has to stroke him to hardness.

He likes to feel it grow in his palm, the evidence of his excitement, and Burr knows it will only grow quicker is he sucks and licks at Hamilton's scent gland, a pleasant diversion from his lips to work there.

[non_stop]

It is quite obedient to Burr's touch, firming up and growing as Hamilton's thighs draw apart, his eyes flickering closed.

"I think he liked the idea," Hamilton murmurs. "Not just willing, but eager." He lifts his chin as Burr seeks at his throat, a wave of heat passing over him as Burr's wicked lips tease at the sensitive gland. "I only wish it was you..." His breath catches, as he draws it in. It has only been -- how long? A week, a bit longer, since they have indulged in one another? And yet, every part of him is sensitized.

He reaches up to direct Burr's mouth back to his, a long and heated kiss. Interrupted by a knock, earlier than Hamilton had expected -- perhaps he'd taken a little longer than he thought, making sure he was clean. It was a cold dip in the October water, but experience has taught him its worth in ensuring enjoyment.

He reluctantly pulls away, and has to stand out of the way of any outside viewers as he lets Laurens inside. It is immediately obvious that Hamilton has been the recipient of Burr's erotic attentions, and Laurens looks hungrily on at the swell in his breeches and the wet on his lips. Laurens is a few inches taller than Hamilton, broader, and when Hamilton looks up to him, the exchanged glance is electric.

The door closes.

Laurens turns to Burr. "I'm glad to see you well," he says, breaking into a broad smile. "Congratulations, Aaron, on your beautiful daughter."

[slowtoanger]

"Thank you, she is quite beautiful," Burr says, holding out his hand and beckoning Laurens across the room, "and smart too, I daresay. Though I am not as well as I would like, considerations for my health have allowed this most pleasing turn of circumstances. You do not need to be shy, Laurens," Burr says, as Laurens sits on the edge of the bed, kisses his hand. Burr turns his own around to clasp around Laurens', and though Burr cannot easily maneuver himself, he can tug Laurens down towards him, so that the larger man must catch himself on a palm, bracketing Burr but leaving a view for Hamilton.

Laurens eyes are hesitant meeting his own, But Burr's are a fathomless dark, pulling in, and he has always been good at that art, the magnetism of his body, even bed bound and frail. He darts his tongue out, wets them, knows they are swollen, and dips forward, ghosts his lips over Laurens jaw, drinking in the small hitched breath, the tightening of Laurens grip, as it wraps around his hip, fluttering eyelashes. How long has it been, since he was with an omega? Or perhaps he prefers alphas?

"What do you think, Alexander," Burr asks, breathless. "Do you like what you see?"

And he watches Hamilton watching, his hardness, as he leans forward to capture Laurens lips, makes sure to leave his own mouth slack and opened as he licks inward, sloppy, a show. Rubs his hands up Laurens chest, fiddling with buttons, down again, rubs over his thighs, before coming to the ties of his breeches. Fiddling.

"Well, Alexander? Should I open them?"

[non_stop]

Hamilton is going to die. Apoplexy will take him, right here. His throat has gone dry.

And Laurens, poor Laurens, so unaccustomed to Burr's confident handling of himself. Not expecting the way Burr draws him in, the animal magnetism of it.

Hamilton divests himself of his coat. And kneels on the bed, reaching then for Laurens', sliding it back off his shoulders, one arm and then another. "I told you," he mutters, to Laurens, as Laurens cradles Burr's head and delves between his lips, in return, as though he could invade and capture that wicked tongue. "Of course -- for you should know intimately the length, and girth, you are to command inside of me." He dips in to kiss Burr's temple. "Now, what would you ask of me?" As he undoes the ties at the cuffs, at his throat.

"And he well knows he can be rough with you, while you can only be gentle with him," Hamilton warns Laurens.

[slowtoanger]

"Take his length from his breeches," Burr says, diverting from Laurens to wrap a hand in Hamilton's hair.

He is transfixed, by the way Hamilton's eyes dart from Burr's flushed face to Laurens, by the way Laurens goes still at those hands on him, the hesitant loosening of the ties, and oh yes that is quite a pleasant length, that Hamilton draws out, and the way he seems unable to tear his eyes from it, how Laurens is already hard and beautiful.

Hamilton seems to be waiting for orders, so Burr tightens his hand in Hamilton's hair, pushes him down, until his lips brush over Laurens cocks, and his eyes fall closed and he breathes over the tip, pink tongue visible but not yet coming forward.

"Lick," Burr says, and Hamilton does. Laurens gives a jerk, as Hamilton laps at the head, and he seems not to know what to do with his hands, so Burr makes himself available, opens his own legs and releases Hamilton's head.

"You may touch me, if you want, Laurens" he whispers, and from the corner of his eye he sees the way Hamilton reaches for himself, so Burr kicks out his foot, brings it between Hamilton's hand and cock, presses lightly against his length.

"I did not say you could touch yourself."

[non_stop]

Hamilton's hair is tied behind his head with only a ribbon, and with a sly tug of Laurens' fingers, on the way to Burr, it falls loose. Laurens brushes that hair back from his temple, exposing Hamilton's face as he presses a warm and welcoming kiss to the head of Laurens' cock. He seeks to remind Laurens of other times he has been so accommodating, so welcoming, and he knows from how Laurens tangles fingers into his hair, alongside Burr's, that he has succeeded.

But, as Hamilton licks long stripes on his cock, Laurens does reach for Burr. Not for his cock, as Burr might have expected -- instead, the swell of his breast, and such a gentle, teasing touch on his nipple. "Are you sore?" Laurens asks, as he rubs it in a slow circle. "Or do you like this?"

Hamilton might have said, but he's busied himself: licks all the way down to the base, and drags a sort of long, open-mouthed kiss all the way back up, lingering and lapping under the swelled head. He abandons his task of disrobing, instead reacquainting himself with this lovely cock, using one hand to draw back the foreskin and then lavishing his tongue's attentions on the wet head beneath. It takes only a slight shift forward -- following the urging of Laurens' tug in his hair -- and Hamilton sinks down on that length, lips tight on the shaft, tongue working.

He's closed his eyes, focusing all his attentions on the rigid length. Burr's hand strokes up his back. A little tug in his hair has him looking up, and the wicked look on Laurens' face needs no explanation. Hamilton's hand flattens on Laurens' thigh, a sign of assent, and Laurens drags him down, deeper, deeper, Hamilton's throat working and spasming tight, eyes steaming, and then he is buried all the way, nosing against wiry hair. Laurens has ensured that Burr can see every bit of it, angling the both of them to be a display. Blissfully breathless, until Laurens loosens his grip and pulls him back, letting him take a swift breath into his lungs.

"He knew that trick before I ever met him," Laurens tells Burr. "I hope you've enjoyed it as much as me."

[slowtoanger]

The sight of them--Laurens with his cock buried in Hamilton's mouth, Hamilton, taking it so well, is enough to have Burr's own cock pulsing in time with his heart. Precious little blood he seems to have, yet enough now at least to maintain an erection, though his head swims.

"Oh yes," Burr breathes, "he made quite sure to show me such things, when I could hardly see his head around my own swell. I think some mornings while you slumbered beside us, in fact," and while Hamilton gasps for air Burr leans a bit forward, trails the tips of his finger up Laurens cock, through the slick of drool Hamilton has left behind.

He gathers up the precum that beads at the tip, watches it stretch between his fingers then leans back, eyes on both of them as he brings them to his mouth, swirls them on his tongue and sucks.

Hamilton's eyes are hungry, as he ever is, but Burr nudges him again with his foot, prods him towards Laurens cock, and then turns his eyes on Laurens, who is watching him with something in his eyes that makes Burr shiver. Lightheaded, he leans back, but Laurens leans with him, grabs the edge of his nightshirt and tugs it over Burr's head, so that he is at once bare and exposed.

"Beautiful," Laurens breathes, running a large, calloused hand up Burr's side, bringing it there again to Burr's nipple, his chest which heaves. Dips his head down, eyes still on Burr, dark, takes the nipple into his mouth and sucks.

Burr moans, head falling back against the pillows, and through lidded eyes he can see Hamilton, mouth stuffed still but looking particularly affronted as Laurens works at Burr. It had never felt pleasurable in such a way, nursing always on the edge of pain, but here, now--

[non_stop]

Burr, the smallest of them, the only omega, naked while each of them are still clothed -- and yet Hamilton is sure that Burr has all of their reins in his elegant hands.

Though perhaps he underestimates Laurens.

He almost protests, as Laurens affixes his mouth to the deliciously swollen breast -- it seems unjust, that Laurens would taste of Burr's milk before Hamilton. It is the look on Burr's face that stops him. Lids gone low, chest heaving erotically, and a little hint of astonishment that it feels so good.

He could forgive Laurens anything, if he but makes Burr look like that.

His attention cannot remain on Burr. Laurens grips unforgiving in Hamilton's hair, letting him go as deep as he wants but not retreat far enough to free his mouth -- and Hamilton wonders why he ever thought he could control an encounter like this. His cock throbs fiercely and he badly wants to indulge himself; he has come many times on his knees for Burr and Laurens both, working his own cock or rolling his hips against an arched foot, a calf. The denial is maddening, and he finds himself making little desperate noises through his nose. Then the sounds are cut off with his breath as he is dragged deep, used terribly. Laurens nudges Hamilton onto his back and straddles his shoulders, pinning his arms; this way, he sinks deep in Hamilton's willing mouth, and begins to fuck into him.

"You are both feasts," he hears Laurens say, raggedly. "Would that I had a half-dozen more hands, to touch you in all the ways I wish." Then: "You want me to fuck him, right? That was what you'd asked him for?"

"Yes--" That's Burr. "Knot him."

"How do you want it? Want me to get him ready?" Laurens is confident, evidently. Hamilton closes his eyes, works his tongue along the length teasing the back of his palate. "Have to be careful with him -- he can get a little loud."

Hamilton smacks at his thigh, annoyed -- Laurens laughs. He thrusts deep enough that he doesn't quite cut off Hamilton's air, and this drags an honest moan out of Hamilton.

"Well," says Burr, "there's a way to keep him quiet."

Hamilton hopes he means what Hamilton thinks he means.

Laurens doesn't keep him pinned long, though Hamilton savors every second of it, panting with breathless pleasure as Laurens finally withdraws, a long string of saliva and precum connecting to his lips. He wipes them with the back of his hand, soaked as he is to the chin, and looks up at Laurens. Props himself up on his elbows as he meets Laurens in their first kiss of the night -- in fact, of 1776.

He tastes sweetness, milk on Laurens' tongue, and there is salt in turn on his. A pulse of longing overcomes him, sweet and nostalgic.

He feels vulnerable, suddenly, and seeks out his mate, half-blindly. Buries his face in Burr's neck, drawing his scent in. This display of affection gets that lovely little smile out of Burr, and Hamilton feels better, calmer. "When I knotted him," Hamilton tells Burr, "he was far louder."

"A vicious lie," says Laurens, with a grin. "Slander, calumny--"

"You won't convince him," Hamilton returns. "He's been on my knot, and he knows how I use it."

"I think that's a challenge."

Hamilton sheds his shirt, then, and has to get back off the bed to remove stockings and trousers. He then lets himself be folded into Laurens' arms.

Laurens maneuvers them both so Laurens is sitting back against the headboard, and so that Hamilton is on his lap, straddling his thighs, his back to Laurens' chest. Laurens apparently means the position to be a bit of a display, and -- well, that, it certainly is.

"Prepare him fast or slow?" Laurens asks Burr.

[slowtoanger]

"Slow," Burr says, at once, "he would prefer it too much, fast," and it is true; Hamilton would. Greedy, always greedy, unable to control himself, to wait. Oh, the torture would be very nice, for Burr to sit back and watch, as someone was able to take Hamilton apart as best he could; Burr wanted to see it all--everything Laurens had ever given Hamilton, so that later, when he was not so frail, he could prove to Hamilton that he had more, could wreck him more completely, more fully.

Laurens sits against the wall, Hamilton on his back, facing Burr, so that Burr can see every inch of him; the angry, red, neglected cock, bobbing against his stomach, frame wracked with months of hunger and wanting. The bruise which darkens his shoulder, bites Burr can only half recall. Red cheeks, wild, finger-mussed hair. Burr wants to drink him in. Wants to bend him over the bed and ravish him, until he is never the same. But Burr is still wounded, as Hamilton has said, unable to move without pain.

"Spread him," Burr says, "so that I can see him. His cock is leaking--you might use that to ease your fingers. He always was a needy slut. Make sure he knows it," and Burr takes himself in his hand then, but lightly, teasing, because he knows Hamilton is watching. Trails a hand around his nipple, which is beading milk, gathers that liquid on his finger and trails it up to his mouth, tastes. Sweet.

And then, just to tease a little more, he leans over, reaches behind Hamilton, drags Laurens into another kiss, wet and sloppy and right in Hamilton's ear. Makes sure he can hear every sound, moans low and obscene, gasps, before falling back to his place among the pillows.

[non_stop]

Hamilton strains after Burr as he pulls away, restrained by Laurens' arm around his waist, lets out a little whine as Burr lives him without any kiss.

"I have a little oil, too," Laurens admits, "and he'll probably need it. Especially if he plans on riding a horse tomorrow." But, obediently, he is working the head of Hamilton's cock, and the fluid wells forth. The hand around his waist goes to his stones, lifting them to expose him further, squeezing and working them to the point of slight strain. Hamilton is out of breath again, spreading himself open, and arching back against his former lover to show off for his husband. "Needy slut," Laurens echoes -- "Only happy when you have a cock in your mouth." He looks up, to Burr, as if it's just occurred to him -- "Or do you like going down on him just as much? Do you like cunt, too, Alexander?"

"Yess," a bit of a hiss. Laurens' fingers are toying around his hole, spreading what has leaked from his cock, but refusing to do any more than just slightly dip and tease at that ring of muscle. Laurens is essentially petting the entrance to his body, proprietary, like he's saying this part of Hamilton is his. Or theirs. "Yes -- more, I like it more. He's so wet -- John, he gets so wet. And I--"

Laurens' finger breaches him, and despite how Hamilton's body grips it, he sinks to the base of his finger in just one breathtaking instant. Then holds there, still, as Hamilton shifts, tries to bear down on him. Laurens' hand tightens on his sac, in warning, and Hamilton is brought back to reluctant stillness.

"You what?" John asks, lowly.

"I drown in him," Hamilton confesses, "I want it all the time. So I can't taste or smell or see or -- ah," as Laurens abuses his sensitive stones, works that finger inside him -- "so that there's nothing but him."

"What else do you do to him?" Laurens asks. There is an element of prurient curiosity here, as well as obvious enjoyment of how Hamilton writhes against him. "Tell us how much you like it."

"I love his cock," breathes Alexander. "It's just long -- long enough to choke, and I love to -- I worship it, John, but if I can I don't swallow him down, because seeing him mark himself with seed, seeing those white streaks, knowing he's a mess and it's all for me..."

A second finger is working its way in, this one more difficult than the first.

"It's in my pocket," Laurens says, "can you reach?"

Burr can, evidently, and a little jar is passed over. It's thick, oil made to help with cracking and bleeding skin in winter. He withdraws from Hamilton, then comes back, smearing it around the hole that's now stretched just a bit open, not quite closing. He spreads the oil in circles around and within the ring of muscle, showing it off.

"Do you clean him up, after?" Laurens asks. "Lick up every drop?"

"Every time," Hamilton affirms. "Every time -- John!" Because two fingers together, sinking deep, and pulling apart, stretching.

[slowtoanger]

Laurens shocks Burr, with how well he folds himself into their relationship, teasing Hamilton with thoughts of Burr's body, teasing Burr. He had thought more careful negotiation would be required, to spare delicate feelings, but Laurens seems to have no problem fanning the flames between them, acting as a kind of intermediary. And he is nice to look at--fingers working in Hamilton's ass--Hamilton who is begging for it, panting and writhing and lost.

What a sight Hamilton is, spread open and wanting. His hole gives little spasms, when Laurens does something he likes, say something he likes, and Burr wants nothing more than to lean forward on the bed and bury his face between Hamilton's thighs, lick at his hole and penetrate him with his tongue. But such movement is beyond him. So instead he must settle for using his own body, his words, to drive Hamilton into a state more delrious. Pornographic. That is how he looks. Wanting.

"You like Laurens' fingers, working inside of you," Burr says. "You like the way they feel, fucking down on them? Tell me how they feel," Burr says, demands. "You liked his cock, didn't you? Fucked yourself on an alpha's cock like a greedy omega in heat," and Hamilton's eyes are on him then, lidded and heavy in pleasure, so Burr allows his legs to fall open, his own display to mirror Hamilton's, knows he is wet, still stretched enough that the liquid runs freely to stain his thighs.

Hopes the sight is erotic, though he has not seen the extent of the damage, even once. But Hamilton always did have something, for Burr pregnant, filled. For his swollen breasts, growing nipples. Perhaps he would like this artifact, too. Stretch marks. Scars.

"How well did he take your cock? Was he good for you? A perfect little hole?" Burr asks Laurens, because there is power being traded here, and Burr will not have Laurens wrench it from his hands. "Bite him," Burr tells Laurens, "like you would bite an omega."

[non_stop]

Hamilton's eyes have become wide and dark, the ring of violet-blue thin around the pupil. At first, he'd tried to keep tense, hold his own legs apart -- but with each stroke of Laurens' fingers, the willpower to keep it up leaches out of him, and now he is melting back against Laurens, as strong fingers curl and drag against internal walls.

"How do they feel?" he echoes.

"Tell him," murmurs Laurens.

"He's --" Hamilton swallows. "He used to just pry me open, wanted his cock in me. Never had time, always had to be quick."

"You saying I didn't satisfy you?" And Laurens' fingers bury themselves all the way, to the last knuckle, and curve, pressing right up against where Hamilton wants them.

"You did -- you did!" Hamilton yelps, twitches, full-body, tries to pull his thighs closed if only so he could find enough leverage to fuck himself on those fingers, and Laurens resists him, doesn't let him. "Not like this," manages Hamilton, helplessly. "Not slow, not toying. It feels like you, Aaron, it feels like it's you. It feels like it's both of you." How can he explain it? Aaron penetrates him with that gaze as surely as Laurens does with his touch.

Laurens releases Hamilton's stones and takes his hand, guides it down between his legs, and next time, presses one of his fingers in between both of Laurens'.

"I did, I liked it," Hamilton affirms, on a soft gasp. "He made me feel it. Sometimes made me beg--"

"But he wasn't very good for me," says Laurens, "were you, Alex?"

"I was," Hamilton protests, "I took it, every time," and now Laurens presses in three fingers, alongside Hamilton's one. Drags those fingertips apart, ensuring that Hamilton's body can't fully close on them -- pries him open, like Hamilton said, though he does it without hurry, which is new.

"Perfect little hole, sure. But you never let me take care of you, though, did you?" And Laurens sounds a hint melancholy, here. "You never let me bring you down again."

A flicker of muscle, in Hamilton's jaw, as it tenses. He doesn't meet Burr's eyes, either. "I can take it." He can take anything. He doesn't need to be coddled afterwards, and Laurens never needed to know how bereft he felt when their encounters were over. And this puts something of a different spin on why he always insisted on caring for Burr, afterward, except for their first few encounters.

But his eyes go right to Burr again, widening in shock at the suggestion. "Aaron--"

Laurens, though, just brushes Hamilton's hair to the side, forward over his left shoulder. "Head down, Alexander," he says, low, "or aren't you going to do what your husband says?"

Spread apart, opened with relentless and questing fingers, pinned by Burr's dark eyes, and --

Hamilton lets out a whimper, dipping his head forward in the same sort of submission he showed to Washington, though his eyes never go from Burr, his gaze pleading, though he doesn't know for what. Hair soft on his throat, long red-blond waves, stretching below his collarbone. Laurens wraps one arm around him, holding him in place, and sinks his teeth right at the nape of Hamilton's neck.

Hamilton cries out, and thrashes -- the hand holding him in place is just right, because otherwise he would have risked Laurens' teeth drawing blood, as Hamilton squirms hard enough to hurt himself. He is right on the very edge of orgasm instantly, shaking and tightening up and arching back --

And Laurens' hand is there, again, catching him hard at the base of his cock, squeezing roughly. And Hamilton collapses back, every breath whimpering, as Laurens licks the skin made tender enough to bruise.

"Aaron," he manages, once he can breathe again, "Aaron." When no mercy is forthcoming: "John, please..." He needs it now.

[slowtoanger]

Oh, the sight of Hamilton's body clenching as Laurens bites down, the site of him reaching his peak and thrashing as it is denied him, the uncontrollable clench of muscles, the desperate noises that spill from him.

"Oh no," Burr says, shaking his head and reaching out to grab Hamilton's hair, yanking cruelly, so that his head snaps to the side, "you don't ask him. You ask me. I'm not sure you've been a good boy, that you deserve it," Burr hisses, gripping Hamilton's chin, angeling his head back, baring his throat.

"You'll have to beg for it, more than that. I know you can be very persuasive with your mouth. Why don't you show me?" and as he leans back he does not let go of Hamilton's hair, so that he is once again yanked forward with a shocked gasp. Speared still on Lauren's fingers, his upper half coming to fall between Burr's legs, mouth inches from the damp that runs down.

He looks so pretty there, between Burr's legs, fingers in his ass, sprawled face down. Burr loosens his grip, begins petting through Hamilton's hair, leans down to lap over the bite, teases at it with his own teeth. Hamilton makes such pretty sounds, pulled so far apart despite Burr doing so little.

Like this, Alexander is on full display for Laurens--ass up, stretched, pressing back against his cock. And Laurens, he must want it, feeling the way Hamilton clenches around him.

"Do you want it, Laurens?" Burr whispers. "Do you want to fuck him? knot him? Oh Alexander, are you going to let the alpha mate you?

[non_stop]

This, this is where he wants to be. Stretched between them: Laurens playing with his stretched rim -- settles his hands on Hamilton's ass and presses inside -- is that two thumbs? Yes, because then Laurens is relentlessly pulling them apart, stretching Hamilton open, he must be able to see inside, stretching and stretching until Hamilton whines in protest.

He crawls forward, buries his face in the crease of Burr's thigh, careful not to touch where he must still be in such pain. But, where the slick has left trails on Burr's thigh, he licks it up, until the soft, wiry hairs are clean. "Please, please," he begs, "oh, Aaron, please let him, please let him have me, I want to feel it -- I want him to knot me, for you, I want you to see --" His breath goes hitched as Aaron's teeth worry at the bite. Hands fist in the sheets, and he feels a surge of being owned, not sure if it's some effect of the bite itself or just how it feels to know he's been bitten.

He doesn't know what noise he's made but he can feel Laurens' fingers digging into his hip, suddenly, and knows he's having an effect on Laurens, at least. Spreads his thighs and arches himself, like he's presenting, and also like he's prostrating himself before Burr, abject submission.

"God," says Laurens, "God, yes. Look at him." Rim loose enough to provide no resistance to the three fingers fucking him, body begging for it.

Hamilton shifts closer to Burr and nuzzles at his cock, laps at the liquid trailing down the shaft. Looks up at Burr, through his eyelashes. "I want his cock," he pleads. "Let him mate me. Use him to mate me." Because this is about Burr, in the end. Hamilton never would have invited this, if not for Burr, and, on some level, in his mind, it's not Laurens mating him. It's the man calling the shots.

[slowtoanger]

Hamilton is gone, that is the only word for the wanton, needy display he makes, rubbing himself against the sheets and wiggling his ass and lapping at Burr's thighs, begging and needy and gone.

Hamilton presents himself, the way an omega in heat presents themselves, begging for cock, to be knotted, bred. let him mate me, he says, and Burr feels his own breath hitch, his cock twitch, wet.

It doesn't help matters when Hamilton turns his attention to Burr's cock. Burr's hands fisted tighter, twitching and forcing his breathing slow. How hard to remain in control, with that talented mouth, even only teasing at him, begging permission.

He can see, from here, Hamilton's hole, Laurens' cock behind it, and it is a large cock, long, if not as thick as Burr's. He imagines it slipping inside, the sounds Hamilton would make, and yes, he needs to see that cock inside Hamilton, needs to see it right now.

"Laurens," Burr says, "I think he has begged enough. Make it rough."

[non_stop]

Laurens slides his length against Hamilton's entrance, using the motion to gather up a bit of extra slick. And lingering, making Hamilton feel the length of him, the weight, though Hamilton, God knows, doesn't need to be driven any more out of his mind.

He hesitates, though. He looks up at Burr. "He was never like this with me," Laurens says. "Always demanding -- you have him eating out of your hand." A sharp breath -- "I think he'd do anything for you."

Hamilton doesn't want to face those words, doesn't want to think about them. His heart feels raw, some subtle veneer scraped off, leaving behind only that which is tender and vulnerable. He feels seen, and this is the first time he realizes that being seen is different from being admired. It frightens him, on a level he didn't expect.

They've been sparing on the oil, and so when Laurens fits the head of his cock against Hamilton's hole, and grasps Hamilton's hips, and fucks into him with one hard thrust, it burns, a stretch that plunges into him too fast for him to adjust. Laurens feels huge inside him, endless, an invading force that Hamilton cannot resist, does not resist.

He realizes he's cried out only because he has to breathe in again, and even breathing feels different, the play of muscles in his entire torso changed by the length inside him.

He does not have time to catch his breath before Laurens is fucking him.

He remembers times like this, dirty inns, stuffing his mouth with a spare shirt so that he didn't cry out too loudly, so that they wouldn't be discovered. Laurens, fierce, fucking him hard and quick, always quick. He remembers the first time, when it hurt more than either of them thought, and he couldn't get away, and Laurens soothed and soothed him. And he remembers other times, when the sweat dried on their skin and Laurens pressed his face between Hamilton's shoulderblades, and Hamilton just felt Laurens' seed, filling him, staining him from the inside.

He wants it from Laurens. He wants it from Burr. He just wants it, confused and caught up in every sensation: the brutal thrusts, punching rough sounds out of him, the comparatively gentle way Laurens' stones jostle against him, the sway of his own weeping erection, unstimulated except by the sheets when a particularly hard thrust shoves him against the bed. The smell of Burr's slick, of his sweat. He's making the most noise, and they're both listening to him, they're both watching him, and he is sweating now, beads of it at his hairline.

His cries get higher, and then there is Burr's hand, again, holding him back, tight around the base of his cock. "No!" -- a desperate word, ripped from him, "I need it, let me--"

"Not yet." Laurens angles down on his next thrust, slower but no less rough. Hamilton can feel himself go electric-tight, as this stimulates every desperately wanting place inside him. "You beg so pretty, Alexander -- but not yet, you wait for him to tell you. You wait for his permission."

Hamilton lets out another cry as Laurens thrusts the same way again, again. He shoves himself back, he opens himself to it.

"Please, John," and he's not begging to come, he's begging for something else.

"What do you want, Alex?" taunts Laurens. "What are you begging for?"

Hamilton lifts his head and meets Burr's eyes. Not sure who he's addressing, but in his face is naked desperation. "Knot me," he whispers, to Burr.

Laurens thrusts in hard, and Hamilton arches, so close, just on the edge-- Hitches of Laurens' hips, like he could get even further inside, like he can't get deep enough. The knot starts to swell, at first easy to take, then, as it grows, Hamilton's body fights it, tightening down. He drops his forehead onto the mattress, trying to relax, and Laurens pets him, strokes his flanks and his spine and says, "Come on, Alex, just breathe, you can take it, you know you can," as Hamilton's jaw drops open. Is it bigger than it once was? It must be, because Hamilton's body is stretched so far he might break, and still it grows. He is helpless, he is tied, has let Laurens into his body and now he can do nothing but submit.

Burr's fingers sweep through his hair, and Hamilton feels Laurens nudge just a little deeper. Feels the cock inside him twitch, as Laurens starts to come inside him. Imagines he can feel the semen spill inside him. Imagines, for a moment, that it could seep further into him, that, like within Burr, it could take root, make of him a vessel...

"Aaron," he breathes.

Laurens wraps his arm around Hamilton, the same way he did before he sunk his teeth into Hamilton's neck.

"Yes," says Burr. "Go on."

And Hamilton shatters. Makes a sound like a wail, convulsing tight on the impossibly large knot inside him. His body wasn't meant for this, and yet he takes it. Laurens is holding him, and Burr is surrounding him, and he comes and comes, shocks starting at the center of him and ricocheting outward.

And then he is panting, slow-drying sweat, weak and trembling, the knot a heaviness, a pleasurable discomfort, overstimulation enough to blur his eyes with tears. He doesn't know that he can hold himself up. Thank god he doesn't have to.

[slowtoanger]

Beautiful, Hamilton is beautiful when he comes, spills over Burr's hand, overwrought and undone. His body clenches down against Laurens' knot, visible--the strain on Laurens' face, the full-body jerks Hamilton makes back against him. Flushed skin.

Hamilton collapses down against Burr, and in doing so his mouth bumps Burr's cock, still hard and leaking. Collapsed against the sheets, breathing hard, and still his wicked tongue darts out to administer small licks to Burr's shaft, trying desperately to please him.

Burr holds out his hand, the one stained by Hamilton's come. Watches, transfixed, as Hamilton lifts his head to lap at the white, the lines that form between lips and fingers. Laurens is watching, himself leaned back against the wall, panting, and the display causes a shiver, which in turn must cause something to be transferred over to Hamilton--a jerk of Laurens' cock still buried inside him, a rush of more release, for Hamilton himself jerks too, onto those fingers, sucks them into his mouth and licks them clean.

A bit of an oral fixation, perhaps, as he licks even as he cries, overwhelmed, and he deserves some kind of reward, does he not? For playing so well? Burr draws his hand back, Hamilton whines, yet the sound quickly stops when Burr takes his cock in hand, draws it over Hamilton's face, his cheeks, his lips.

"Open," Burr says, and Hamilton complies immediately, jaw-dropping open, come still staining his lips. Another bead of precum, running down the tip. Hamilton is limp on the bed, but for his open mouth, waiting for Burr to use him, to thrust into him. He doesn't know why it makes him so hard, past the point of pain, when he slots his cock into Hamilton's slack mouth, when he moves his hips forward and Hamilton does nothing but rock with him. Strokes his cock against the inside of Hamilton's mouth more than fucks into him, slow and languid and gentle.

"Good boy," Burr whispers, petting Hamilton's head, and he mimics that purr then, the one Hamilton so often gives him. "You take it so well. Do you like it, feeling it from both ends? Taking my cock while he sits inside you, holds in his come?"

He doesn't move his hips--can't, but he does use Hamilton's hair to fuck his limp mouth downward, to push further inside, stretching his lips and watching the glistening saliva, the pink flush, the watering eyes. So well used, fucked, ruined, as Burr had said.

It doesn't take long to feel his balls tighten, with the way Hamilton doesn't resist as Burr tries to force his head down further than it can go, Burr's cock bumping against his throat, muscles squeezing him in the best way. The way he doesn't push back as he gags, even as his eyes run over, and Burr spills hot down his throat. Swallows it all, even as some runs past his lips, down his chest.

"Come here," Burr whispers, guides Hamilton's head down to his chest, to his breast, gasps when Hamilton readily latches on. Himself, now, over-sensitive. "You did so well," he says, "such a perfect slut. Look at you, dripping cum," from both ends, Burr's brain helpfully supplies, though he cannot get hard again so quickly.

[non_stop]

Burr's cock is a reward and a strange humiliation, both. The tip strokes along the inside of his cheek, and he feels that this is what he is worth, that he is made to be used this way. And yet he also feels cherished, rewarded, like Burr's pleasure is another gift. He is used, he is ruined, he belongs to them. The conflicting feelings tangle up, and in the meantime the knot hurts, hurts in a way that can't be alleviated with any shift in position, can't be ignored. Feels good, too, the same way it hurts.

He doesn't respond to the words, though they light a fresh flame in the pit of his belly. He just worships his husband's cock, that he's come to know so well. A strange and blissful thing, to take Burr's cock while he's spitted on Laurens'. Especially when Laurens rocks his hips, prompting another full-body twitch, as he swallows and swallows, licking his lips, not able to get it all. Burr's come on him, dripping. It feels filthy, and perfect.

Laurens moves with him, arranges them both on their sides, facing Burr. Laurens' hand on Hamilton's belly, fingers spreading wide, possessive, and for a moment Hamilton does feel one of the jets of come, inside, catching him at a sensitive angle.

Oh, it is so much... He is stretched so tight. And Burr is drawing him close, guiding him.

After so many months, he's well-acquainted with those dark, flushed, swollen nipples. (He entertains a fantasy, lately, of wrapping Burr's slim frame in a corset, so his breasts are pressed together and upward, so his waist is made small, his hips wide; wants to see Burr stretch himself out, see his chest heave with breath from a rib cage bound tight.) But now, when he kisses Burr's breast, seals his lips around that nipple, and sucks, a flood of sweet coats his tongue.

It is base, and animal, to feed off of another person. But it tastes like ambrosia, angelic and celestial, and how beautiful is it, how intensely erotic, that Burr's very body has made itself a source of sustenance? That it has changed and swelled in ways that invite these attentions, that make Burr seek relief for the pressure built within him? It seems as though this felt good when Laurens did it, and Hamilton does so very much want Burr to feel good.

"Still hungry for it," and Laurens sounds like he's marveling at Hamilton. "An absolutely perfect slut," agreeing with Burr.

Hamilton lets out a little purr, softer than usual, flushing, burying his face against Burr's chest.

[slowtoanger]

He is warm, and comfortable, and sated. Hamilton dozing against his chest, purring at intervals, Laurens reclined beside him. Hamilton in a similar position to the one Burr had been in, many nights that fall and winter, when their rooms or tent had been too cold and they could not spare the body heat.

Running his hand down Hamilton's back his palm collides with Laurens' hand, but instead of pulling back he grasps Laurens' wrist, gazes at him over the swell of Hamilton.

"Thank you," he says, "for tonight, and for..." for giving Hamilton up? Allowing Burr to have him? The implication is not one Burr likes, because it was not a matter of Hamilton being Laurens', of Burr now being Hamilton's husband only because Laurens did not want him. Burr is not a consolation prize, in this sense, the same way Hamilton is not. They love each other, truly. In a way that terrifies him.

Burr has waited too long to speak, but Laurens has worked his arm free and is grasping Burr's own back in his palm, squeezing.

"You are perfect for him," Laurens says. "You love him. He loves you."

--

They cannot rest long, despite their wishes. Burr wants only to stay in bed with Hamilton all day, to lavish him with the same care and affection that Hamilton has so often bestowed upon him, but he begins to ache with the seperation--from Theodosia.

So he stirs Hamilton from his doze with a flurry of kisses, pressed over his mouth and nose and chin and face and cheeks, whispers little sweet words in his ear, scents him.

"Alexander, darling, as much as I wish to stay here with you, if I go another minitue without seeing Theodosia I might fling myself from this bed."

[non_stop]

Before Laurens goes, he touches Hamilton's cheek, and leans down to kiss him -- a soft, sweet kiss, lingering, like he hadn't just spent more than a quarter-hour buried as deep in Hamilton's body as he can go. It seems, to Hamilton, that it is a kiss good-bye, a gentle farewell.

Another brush of his lips to Hamilton's temple, and Laurens goes. Hamilton misses him immediately. Sometimes it seems to him that Laurens was the one who awakened an ache, an emptiness, within him, and that Laurens then was the only one who could fill it.

Besides, the contentment of being held, by Burr, is too vast and lovely to be too disturbed, and he drifts off again.

--

"Of course," and he yawns, shifts up -- and winces, as abused muscles indicate their complaints. He also feels a trickling wet, where Laurens' seed leaks out of him.

He bites back any complaint, as his soreness is petty and small next to Burr's injuries, and slips out of bed. He wasn't too careless when he disrobed, and it's the work of but a moment to reassemble his uniform. More difficult is finding the ribbon used to tie his hair, but that is finally located in a fold of blanket, and he runs his fingers through it, taming it and binding it back.

It seems as though outside there has been a palpable increase in warmth since they three took to that cabin, though perhaps it's just Hamilton's own sentiments that have thawed.

He scoops up Theodosia from Mrs. Linden, with his thanks, and returns with her, awake from her little nap, though not fussing. Her eyes are big and newborn-grey, fixed on Hamilton until Hamilton sets her back into Burr's arms, at which time she homes in on Burr, with a comical look of stunned wonder, like Burr is the most beautiful thing she's ever seen.

Hamilton knows the feeling.

"I was right," Hamilton says, after a moment, perched on the bed and watching them with pride. "That she was a girl."

[slowtoanger]

"you were right," Burr snorts, "you had a fifty fifty chance no matter what you picked." He rocks Theo, who gurgles as he makes small cooing sounds, hands fisted in the air towards his face.

"Did you enjoy yourself with Laurens? I hope we didn't take things too far, or make you more uncomfortable than you wanted to be. You're very cute with a knot in your ass," Burr grins wickedly, "trying to control yourself."

He lifts his free hand, curls it around the nape of Hamilton's neck, fingers resting over the bite. "Though you're very attractive no matter what you do."

[non_stop]

"Mm, sounds like I could easily have been wrong," says Hamilton. "Which I wasn't. Because I was right."

It's so clear that Theo wants to look at nothing else, cares for nothing else but her mother. The tenderness in it... Hamilton is absolutely certain he wants more children. As many as they can manage, and next time, all of the doctors and midwives and well-appointed birthing chambers that can be obtained in all of New York.

A little sigh, his eyes closing, as Burr strokes over the bite. "If I'd been trying to control myself," protests Hamilton, a little affronted, "I'd have done better than that." No, he'd plunged himself into it willingly, and even eagerly. Though that, in itself, is a bit difficult to admit. "But it was..." He looks troubled, for a moment. "Perhaps it's my precious ego talking, but do you think he...?" He doesn't really want to say Laurens is in love with me.

[slowtoanger]

It's not difficult, to figure out what Hamilton is asking.

"Would it matter if he was?" Burr asks, his own flash of anxiety, as though he has opened the door on something that can never be closed, some space for Hamilton to drip out of his life, and into Laurens. Burr would look no better than a prostitute then, two failed marriages/engagements to revolutionary heros. But Hamilton has never been anything but accommodating, loyal.

"Whatever feelings Laurens has, he has clearly settled them in his mind, made his decision not to act on them, for whatever reason, to deeper your aquaintance, long before I returned from Quebec."

A pause, shifting Theo, taking some strain off the sore parts of him. "He certainly is attracted to you, feels tenderly towards you, for who could not?" And he passes Theo over then, because for all she loves her mother she also has some fixation with Hamilton, the one who would not shut up when she was in the womb, reading her dry legal texts and histories, and now she has a fixation with his hair.

"But I do not think he is holding out hope or want that you could be his."

[non_stop]

She is not yet coordinated enough to grab at his hair, but when he tickles it in her face she wiggles a bit, making burbling sounds. It takes some time before she'll learn to laugh, Hamilton thinks, doesn't it? He can't wait to find out.

He nudges onto the bed next to Burr, cradling Theo against his chest.

"It leaves what we had in a different light, only," says Hamilton. "He cannot be what I need, though -- and you are, already." He leans his head against Burr's. "You make me want a future. You make me want to live to see it." A laugh enters his voice: "And I'd like to surround us with children -- what do you say, a dozen of ours, at least? Theo counted among them, of course." He's joking; a dozen times the fear of a few days ago would be quite a bit. But there is a wistful tone in there -- he imagines a large family, and it seems impossible, impossibly wonderful. "And all the doctors and midwives I can round up, next time, though they must of course submit themselves to Mrs. Smith's knowing authority."

[slowtoanger]

"well, if you had your way it sounds like I would spend the whole of the war pampered and pregnant," he smiles, turns so he is pillowed next to Theo on Hamilton's chest, throws an arm and leg over him.

"Perhaps after the war," he says. "I would like some chance to distinguish myself yet, finish above a meer Captain. Then you may seal us away in some mansion somewhere, with lots of green." Another thought, one which has been niggling at him; "Monty left me a good deal of wealth, if the angry letters from his distant cousin are to be believed. We could be very rich after a short legal battle."

[non_stop]

"Of course, the more we both distinguish ourselves the greater the opportunity for advancement once we--"

And Burr's next words stop him short.

"What?" he asks, stunned. He'd had literally no idea, and not even any thought of it.

[slowtoanger]

"Oh," Burr says, drawing his head up and smiling at the look on Hamilton's face. Not often, he is rendered speechless. "Did I not tell you? He had a good deal of investments, and some property in New York. He planned to build a mansion there, after the war. I suppose before the invasion he sent some letters, or had his will altered, in case something happened. I am not sure how legally sound any of it is, but he doesn't have much family besides his cousin, and I am sure there would be a riot, should the widow of the general and mother of his child be left destitute."

And then Burr drops his head back down and laughs. "Oh, I am sure Timothy will be scandalized, if he will still talk to me. That I should be rewarded for my sins, or something similar. I think we should invite him as soon as possible. It would be very entertaining to me. And I could show you off. Mr. Hamilton, on the arm of the wealthy Mr. Burr."

[non_stop]

Hamilton's mind is struggling to catch up.

"I had not the slightest idea," he manages. But his mind is racing along in moments. "I had assumed he had died intestate, and that you would consider making a claim based on the parentage of the child at a later date, as intestate succession goes to a widow or, saving that, to an acknowledged child, or, saving that, to a proven child... or decide for yourself that you did not wish to -- of course, a letter could be a codicil or even a will in itself, if he had it witnessed and properly attested. Do you have the letters from his cousin? I would very much like to see. The wording is crucial -- whether it is yours, or held in trust for Theo, makes a very great difference indeed."

[slowtoanger]

"Monty didn't know about the child, Alexander. It was only the next day, after we'd mated that he--" He stops, swallows. A surge of emotion, that he had thought he conquered. Less now, with the lessening hormones, yet somehow more acute and painful for it.

"He always said he intended to marry me," Burr whispers. "That once we returned from the campaign, if we both lived, he would have a ring made, and we would break ground on the house together. But then, he went through the walls, and I was caught up in the rubble--small legs, and awful boots, and he rounded that corner and the grapeshot killed him instantly, and we tried to drag his body back but it was heavy, and there was musket shot and cannon fire everywhere, until it was just me and him, half sunk in the snow, and I couldn't get him back through the wall, and I knew it was only me, and I thought then, I was sure, though there was no logic behind it but a kind of desperate hope and despair, that he had gotten me with child, that he could have, and that here he was dead and no one would believe me if I said he intended to marry me, that a promise was no better than a lie, and I saw the ring on his hand and I thought--I took it and I ran. I left him there and I ran, blind into the snow, half-out of my mind and deaf until Benedict Arnold found me."

"I laid in bed so many nights just holding that ring in my hand. I had to wash his blood off of it. And I thought perhaps he had never really intended to marry me, that they were all false promises, as real as they seemed at the time. But then the letter came from his cousin, the talk of the letter he sent. You can find it there in my bag, near the bottom--" and Burr would get it for him if he could rise, but Hamilton is amenable always to these small favors.

"The letter, he says, was witnessed by a Colonel who was killed in the action, and sent to New York the night before we invaded, which he believes to be suspicious circumstances but cannot be readily proved. Moreover, he contends I could have written the letter myself after everyone was killed, which is ridiculous given the speed at which it reached New York, at a time when I was in Arnold's company, trying desperately to escape the massacre."

[non_stop]

It is vivid enough that Hamilton thinks he can see the reflections in Burr's eyes, of snow, and rubble, and blood; and he does not know if touching Burr would make this worse or better, but it is all he has, so he does, wrapping Burr in his embrace and stroking through his soft, dark hair. At least he can feel the weight of Burr on him, the solid presence, and know that he is not fading away, not being snatched away by some distant time and captured by the echoes of suffering not fully gone.

"I thought as much," murmurs Hamilton. Then: "Oh, not that you were lying, dearest -- of course, had someone like the General known of the child, he would have supported you. I have no doubt. But I thought perhaps it was best that I not ask so many questions about the ring."

After the direction to the bag, Hamilton briefly extracts himself, not setting Theo down, because her small and warm presence is a sweet, innocent talisman against such a story. He fishes out the letters one-handed -- beneath a pile of his own writing, tied with red ribbon, that he is not displeased to see so carefully preserved.

He returns, folds Burr onto him, again, and begins to read.

"And what does he expect," scoffs Hamilton, "that a man in wartime will miraculously find only the luckiest survivors to witness? That he should wait until after a risky battle is joined, when the battle, and the risk, is the very reason he must write? Absurd."

He skims, and Theodosia yawns, widely; in her tiny world, all is well, Hamilton supposes. Her mother and her adoptive father are both here, scents mingled, warm and safe.

"If nothing else, he is clearly worried," says Hamilton, "which must mean that your claim has merit. But, if I am to preoccupy myself with sentiment, for a moment -- Aaron, this means that he cared for you very deeply. A promise, especially one without a ring, can mean anything, but this means he thought very highly of you." He doesn't sound jealous, just very pleased, on Burr's behalf. He had entertained some uncharitable notions, given Montgomery's age, and Burr's, but this contradicts them entirely. "Even without knowing of the child! Though he may have suspected -- I have heard it said when an omega is very receptive, sometimes the alpha knows... Suspicion is not proof, however, and he did not write that he wanted any potential child provided for, just you."

[slowtoanger]

"He was a very good man," Burr says, and his hand has snaked down to grab Hamilton's, tight. "A very good man. I want you to know that. It is important that you know it," though he cannot say why it is so important. Why he should care one way or another, what Hamilton thinks of a general long dead. Nearly a year. Nearly a year since Burr last saw him.

"All of it is--I don't care much for any of it. The money--we could use it, but we do not need it. But the insult, against both of us--" who the both of them are, which pair he is referring to--Burr and Montgomery or Burr and Hamilton, he does not know. He never cared much for reputation, except when it mattered. And it matters now.

"I was studying law, before the war," Burr says. "At Princeton--I'm sure you know. I know family law. It would not be too much to defend myself, if I had to, but--" but it would be a public spectacle. A show. Dragging out any illegitimacies, a matter of defamation, of making Burr and his child and Hamilton seem as despicable as possible. And not there was the mess of colonial law, British law, and post-colony law, if it came to it.

"Of course, this cousin is being ridiculous. His claims have no merit, to anyone who knows even some distant version of the facts, yet so often facts seem not to matter, especially in cases of public opinion. Though we have won one court case, perhaps we can win another."

Hamilton's other words--Yes, it was a deep compliment, to leave Burr what Montgomery had. A large enough compliment that Burr did not want to think of it, overlong. That perhaps the old general had bought into the old wives tale, had believed Burr to be with child, when he went through that wall, and before, even. When he left their bed to pen his letter, to confide in his colonel. He had always wanted children. Had a nephew, he had been fond of telling Burr of, nights when they could risk a fire. Stolen moments, kissing beneath snowy pines, mouths which steamed for warmth, whispered promises.

[non_stop]

"Think of Theo's future," urges Hamilton. "The money is important -- an estate can excuse many an ill that would ruin a poor man's reputation. Of course we can make our way without it, I have the utmost faith in us. But should disaster strike, or unexpected ruin... I have no family to turn to, and in poverty and disrepute, there is no relief, nor rest."

He does not want to imagine such things -- and yet he imagines them constantly. Spectres of pain, hollow cheeks and hollow ribs where there should be healthy flesh.

"Besides, all we need to do is have Mr. Paine take up his pen..."

No, that is diverting the subject away from this painful place, when it is one he should open to his husband. It is so difficult -- !

He sighs, and closes his eyes, breathing in the smell of Burr. "I should like to tell you of my mother. I fear all you have from me are hints, and all you have from anyone else is rumor and gossip."

[slowtoanger]

Burr snorts at the mention of Thomas Paine. Of course, another over-the-top pamphlet about the two of them would be just what the country at war needed. More family drama, spun as pure Americana.

But he stops when Hamilton brings up his mother. Something Hamilton only ever dropped hints about--that Burr would never ask about directly, no matter how curious about the depths of Hamilton's anxieties, regarding money, position, Burr's health, Theo's health. Normal enough, on their own, if not the feral look that seemed to underwrite those moments. If not for Hamilton's drive, as if at every moment decisions were leveraged against death and damnation.

"I would like to hear," Burr says softly, probing himself up beside Theo to gaze up into Hamilton's face. Never a time when he might feel more secure than now, with the entirety of his family propped on his chest. Theo wasn't even crying, drifting half asleep, drooling.

[non_stop]

"She was not as they say," is what bursts from him, first. "She was not a whore -- she married unhappily, and fled her husband. She could not obtain a divorce, even on grounds of mistreatment, as he was powerful on the island, with the judiciary populated by his friends. She removed herself to another island entirely, and when she met my father, she truly wished she could be Mrs. Hamilton, and, for a time, he and she tried to make that fiction real. That was the earliest I remember: my older brother, my parents both. And then something changed."

He pauses, a long moment, trying to gather his words. "Later, I learned it was that her former husband had sued for divorce, and accused her of adultery. They could no longer pretend, as her secrets were published." Publication was a court requirement, to give notice of the court hearings to a woman who could not be personally served with papers -- but, in this case, it was a deliberate cruelty, as well.

"My father did not remain for long after that," he recalls. "Perhaps it was for the best, as his debts burdened us, as well. After, though, it was very hard -- all of us worked. I went hungry, often. She was omega, and she wanted, more than anything, to have an alpha who would have taken care of her and her sons. It was before I understood the cage -- that she must have wanted that only because being without it was terribly worse."

Perhaps this explains some of his ignorance, some of his tendencies.

"It was not two years of this when she and I both took very, very ill, with the yellow fever." A soft breath. His eyes have grown hot, with angry and grief-stricken tears, and one falls, as he shuts them tight. "She died holding me, while I was too insensible with fever to know -- we were found a day after, perhaps two."

[slowtoanger]

Burr doesn't know what to say. Never had much skill, in matters of comfort and reassurance, when that person was dear to him. A terrible story. Two days, lying insensate next to a dead mother. Before that--years of hard labor, or starvation and suffering, not enough meat on the bone, not enough of anything.

Burr can't do anything, but hug Hamilton while he cries--uses his body like a balm, slides upward so that his head is next to Hamilton, and he can press their cheeks together, can bring his hands up to stroke over his face.

"I'm sorry," he says, because what else is there to say. "I didn't know, I don't know, what that is like, other than that it sounds miserable, and heart-breaking." Little kisses, pressed gently into skin, twining fingers.

"That could never happen to us, Alexander. We have friends here, and means. I would never leave you, and I know you would not abandon me, and even if the worst happened and we were separated, you could seek sanctuary with Washington or Laurens as well as I could seek support from Mr. Edwards, who would take me in as his Christian duty even if I were a whore and Theo an illegitimate orphan." But that is not good enough. Hamilton is shaped by it--the towering specter of poverty, the need to get away. And he will not rest until they attain something unattainable, beyond all reproff. But Montgomery's money would help. A small balm, if not perfect security.

"I would fight on this matter of the money regardless, but I would do it for you and Theo as well. So you do not have to feel those pains again."

[non_stop]

He leans hard into Burr, and even just this physical presence comforts him indescribably. He is anchored to this place and this man, this child, and the past cannot take him. Not entirely.

"Men are cruel," he whispers. "All the family connections in the world cannot protect against that cruelty, though they are bulwarks and fortifications in defense."

Each little kiss is a blessing. Each touch soothes the broken places in his heart.

"He took everything, Aaron," Hamilton says, like a confession. "He was her husband, and entitled to her full estate. And if he had not thought that selling it was the greater cruelty, I would have lost our library, too. Thirty-four little books, and they were everything to me, with Jack. James, my brother." He shivers, at the memory. "We were taken in by a cousin, but he committed suicide, and expressly left his possessions to his mistress and children. So I lost James, then -- he apprenticed to a carpenter, and he did not look back. I was taken in as a servant by my mother's landlord -- something between a servant and a foster. It owes to my determination, alone, that I became a clerk, as I was desperately set on having an income of my own." A breath. "I was fourteen."

He pulls back, enough to clasp Burr's face, hold it in both of his hands. "Love, do you see now? Do you see what you showed me? Do you know what you gave me? The courage to build, and grow, and not just burn until I am extinguished."

[slowtoanger]

What can Burr say to such sweet things? What can he do in the face of such desperate pain and hope, but lay a gentle kiss on his husband's lips?

An awful burden, that he is this thing for Hamilton, that in his death or disappearance all of him might crumble away to nothing, yet it is a burden Burr will bear gladly.

"We will grow something," Burr says. "You said you wanted children. We will have more, as many as you want, within reason. A large house, with land, and money put aside in trust for the children. A large library, if you wish it, and a garden, and frequent walks together. Something to turn your head towards happier times, and space your own, for the times when you need it."

Awful memories, of awful times, things that cannot be erased, but can be lived with. Burr cannot reach out and pull those things from his head, but he can comfort and soothe what he can.

[non_stop]

"And what is within reason?" A smile, soft, struggling through the grief. "Have you come around the idea of a dozen?" He is teasing, again, gently: Burr's words are an intoxicant like to rival the finest wines, taken in with pleasing sips, settling inside him with comforting warmth.

Just then, Theodosia lets out a petite snore, her mouth slack and most certainly drooling by now. He cannot help the smile that blooms in response, and in fact must work to contain his laughter.