May. 13th, 2022

non_stop: all icons by me & stealable (Default)
[personal profile] non_stop
Winter's cold; he hasn't been warm in days, not properly, even under blankets with Burr and Laurens both.

Oh, Laurens, Laurens; what would they have done without him? When Alexander is too exhausted from his duties to help with nursing the child, Laurens sometimes takes a turn helping soothe Burr back to sleep -- he's awakened to find Burr's hips swaying, his head twisted back against Laurens, mouth fallen open, whimpering in that particular, perfect way he does when he's being fingered in just the right way, rolled over and palmed at Burr's cock, sleepily, tucking his face against his mate's throat and feeling down to where Laurens' hand is between Burr's legs. (Once, memorably, he even ducked under the blanket, parted his lips, and took Burr into his mouth, loosened his jaw, closed his eyes, and let Burr takes his pleasure from his throat, while he was still only half-awake.)

Alexander is constantly exhausted, in the cold. He still hasn't grown fully accustomed to the cold American winters, and they drain him, make him feel pallid and frozen and small. So he has not been as attentive a mate and father as he was before, and he feels his failure in it keenly. He should be able to force himself through this. Burr is, as always, suffering worse and working harder, though thank goodness Theodosia doesn't need feeding every few hours anymore. So why can't Alexander help him? Why can't he be good enough?

His nightmares have become feverish and incoherent. A handful of times, they've even been so severe that they manifest, making him toss and turn, awaken with terrifying and mournful whines on his tongue, a sense of overwhelming loss all he can remember from the illusion.

They aren't starving, but food is thin.

He's doing well enough, he thinks, at hiding how terrible and stretched thin he feels, until Washington responds to his, "It's impossible," with a snarled, "then make it possible."

Alexander rounds on Washington, a growl rising in response, and snarls back: "Everyone else here can say it's impossible, and then I get it done. When I say it, it means no."

The alpha pheromones slam into the room like cannon-fire, and in under five seconds, both of the beta members of Washington's staff have vacated the room. Laurens watches in outright horror -- because Washington doesn't back down, and Alexander doesn't back down. "Alex," says Laurens, and Alexander just turns the growl on him, alpha-hostility.

Then, to everyone's shock, including Alexander's, Washington extends a sort of olive branch: "Go talk a walk, son."

"I'm not your son," Alexander spits, and there, right there, could have been the moment that Washington killed him. No one has any doubt -- a full head taller, broader, stronger, older.

"Talk a walk."

Alexander turns on his heel and goes.
non_stop: all icons by me & stealable (Default)
[personal profile] non_stop
It turns out you can't write your way out of hell when you're an omega.

So Alexander Hamilton -- not his birth name, not this time -- decides to take a different route. Born into abject poverty, again in the Caribbean, he earns his way out.

And, in New York, he leverages what he's learned, his cleverness and his quickness and his persistence, into a position at a bawdy house that's clean, safe, and run by an alpha woman who is fiercely protective over her whores.

He does not hope for more than this. He saves, obsessively, and invests. He cannot be a statesman like this. He cannot write financial systems to into existence. (And he sometimes doubts whether he ever did those things -- sure, he remembers philosophy, he can quote in a Latin that he never learned, but it all seems so unlikely. So bizarre.)

He is a prized commodity quickly, in this brothel. He likes it that way. When his next heat approaches, the alpha madam raises his price.

To his surprise, someone new meets that price.

He is in only the early stages right now, pre-heat, warm skin and a welcoming scent rising. He's horny, but he's not even close to out of his mind. He's never gone out of his mind, even in heat.

He waits, in his rooms, with the broad mirror, the wide bed, the luxurious sheets. Waits for his client.

Profile

American Revolution Musebox

June 2023

S M T W T F S
    123
45678910
11121314151617
1819 2021222324
252627282930 

Style Credit

Expand Cut Tags

No cut tags
Page generated Jul. 5th, 2025 10:14 pm
Powered by Dreamwidth Studios