alexander hamilton (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
non_stop) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
amrev_intrigues2022-05-13 11:01 am
non_stop) wrote in amrev_intrigues2022-05-13 11:01 am
(no subject)
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.
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.
no subject
He closes his eyes, bites down on Hamilton's palm hard, as he starts to come. Painful little stabs of pleasure as he clenches, tightening and spasming and giving out. A long one, for all there is no mercy for his body, no moment when those places aren't stimulated to the point of pain, and he is crying with it, so wonderful and painful and too much.
Tries to speak, cant.
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Hamilton does up his trousers, fastens his coat over the wet stain to conceal it, and, with quick fingers, begins to cover Burr as well, closing his shirt, settling the cloak over his front because the trousers truly can’t be helped yet. It takes him longer than it should because he has to pause and kiss Burr senseless, hold his face in Hamilton’s hands and almost cry again because Burr is so wonderful and because he’s so lucky to have this man, this man who is complex and loving in such bewildering ways, this man who is, admittedly, also a complete slut. And what man of Hamilton’s age wouldn’t like that?
Laurens cradles Burr close, purring. It seems actually instinctive, and Hamilton pauses, just to watch them. His stomach twists in sentiment too complicated to easily name.
no subject
Hamilton's kisses are wonderful--a gentle balm to the places he feels carved out, pitted. Vulnerable, half-naked here in the middle of camp, where the men will soon be wandering by, after dinner. Hamilton pulls back to straighten Burr's clothes, little attentions that make him warm, but then no one is kissing him, and Laurens is purring, and warm and wonderful, so Burr twists, hisses at the pull, and kisses him. Lazy and slow and wet.
"Do you feel better now?" Burr asks as he pulls away, panting. Grabs Hamilton by the hand and holds it--just holds it. He will do more for his husband, to soothe those hurts. Gladly.
"You will go back to work, won't you" Laurens asks, and Burr whines, slumps over once more, sore and spent and tired.
no subject
"I still worry," he says, to Burr. Why it reassures him to have Laurens here is difficult to say, but it does. "I feel every failure so keenly." He cups Burr's jaw, in both his hands. Strokes Burr's cheekbones, with his thumbs. "I want to take care of Theo -- and you, even though you don't need it."