private storyline ..... b1?

[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.

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[non_stop]

As soon as he's bitten, the restlessness diminishes. It is, to Hamilton, as though an itch buried deep in muscular tissue has been scratched. Burr may even catch the hint of a purr or two, as Alexander closes his eyes.

He isn't drowsy. Just lazy, again.

"I don't need you." A statement perhaps belied by his body: his face is buried in Burr's throat, his hips still occasionally working themselves on Butt's knot. "Just your coin." A sigh, finally, like some burden has lifted from Alexander. Pressing his palm to the bed next to Burr's arm, he lifts himself so he is seated astride, Burr's cock and knot still embedded secure inside him.

He reaches to the table by the bed, and retrieves a little flask from the drawer, taking a long swallow of the wine within. Offers it to Burr.

Hair mussed, falling loose. Semen drying on his belly, his cock. He would clean himself up if the materials weren't thoroughly out of reach, and he's grown accustomed to waiting while a knot goes down. Slim body, spare, without much softness, not even where an omega should have a bit, in the chest and at the belly. The birthmark where the bullet wound entered him is above his right hip, under the ribs. The birthmark is larger than the wound itself was, trailing a bit to the right like it was smeared to the side. He rubs at it with the heel of his hand, a subconscious habit from when it still used to ache.

And now he has a chance to examine Burr, the way he hadn't before. He has more hair than Hamilton would have thought. He was half-bald before he was thirty; seems like it could have finished the job by now. Fleshier than he used to be, and the redness of a man too prone to alcohol, in the nose and the cheekbones.

Alexander drinks again, and sets the flask aside.

"Why did Jefferson think you'd invade New Orleans?" is the next thing he wants to know. "It doesn't sound like you." A snort. "It sounds like a joke."

[slowtoanger]

"No one knows you better than I do," Burr says, when Hamilton tries to scorn him. Always difficult, and sensitive, lying even to himself. "Not even Betsy--you would never reveal to her those things you've revealed to me, in the throes of your pleasure. I always knew them from the moment I Saw You. You couldn't hide."

Watching the movement of those throat muscles as he swallows, shifting on his cock. How long till it goes down, and he is horny again? Or how long until he wants rest, or to nest?

"I don't wish to rehash old tales," and when Hamilton is done with his drink he reaches out, snags him back down, so there bodies are pressed together. Massaging him, as he did before--soothing what he is sure is a sore ass. "Anything Jefferson purports to believe publicly is usually quite different than what he actually believes, and the duplicity of Wilkinson's character proved useful to him, in a time when he wished to ensure I was ruined irreparably."

But he doesn't want to talk about this. Not now, here where everything has been so wonderful. "How are you feeling," he asks, hands skating low. "Are you sore? Was it too much?"

[non_stop]

"Do you not want to rest your eyes upon my supple, young flesh?" laughs Alexander, as Burr pulls him down again. "I've been told it's quite nice." Maybe Burr just likes to feel him, like this. Maybe a more comfortable angle for his knot. Alexander can accommodate it. He snuggles in, refreshed.

"Don't change the subject," he says, though it's hard to remember what he wants to talk about, with hands that wander the way Burr's currently do. No, not wander: the motions are purposeful, though they may be disguised as wanderings. Alexander isn't blind, he knows he's being distracted and plied. "I know Jefferson, and he convinces himself to believe exactly what he says -- it's the most mind-boggling thing about him. And he'll never admit it's different from yesterday, or that it might chance tomorrow. He should have known a filibuster was the only likely plan -- I dreamed of one myself, in '98. Though I didn't plan it would stop at Mexico," tracing his fingertip down Burr's unfortunately covered chest. "Mine, I thought, would go much further... south."

Ah, he never thought he'd be making that into a flirtation. It's a bit funny, really.

"Lots of opinions about you made their way to St. Nevis," he says, "each rivaling the other in ignorance and stupidity. I followed it as soon as I could remember how to read. I wanted them to lock you away, I remember, because I feared that you would creep out of the darkness to come and finish me while I slept." He'd been a child, full of memories he couldn't understand and ignorant of the reality of the world.

[slowtoanger]

"Perhaps you were right to fear," he says, his eyes caught on the movement of Hamilton's fingers, the small goosebumps that follow. Such a command over his flesh, even now, as tired as he is. "I have no problem finishing you, over and over and over. What would you have done, I wonder, if I had come for you in Nevis? Barely mature and already selling yourself, I'm sure. When did it start, I wonder, and would you have taken me, as you do now?"

Was he nineteen? Eighteen? Would Burr have cared, been able to stop himself? Perhaps it would have been better, for Burr to take him from that place, for all he would have been unable to keep his hands off him, once he knew he was a whore, and was amenable to sharing his body in those ways.

A wretched boat ride made better by a small, tight body. Willing, and pretty, for all he was the Hamilton he knew all those years ago.

[non_stop]

A flicker of a smile, sad. "I don't think I would have appealed to you, this way," he says. "Too young for your taste." He hesitates, not sure if he wants to say. Strange, he can confess to a filibuster, to military pretensions that he once took such pains to keep quiet -- he can confess to using his mouth on Laurens, the two of them euphoric on the thrill of one another's presence. But this is still difficult.

He takes a breath. "I first took coin for use of my hand, and a man finishing on my face. I was nearly fifteen, but not quite." A pause. He feels the need to defend himself, his choice. To show that he was not abused. "I wasn't pimped. I kept control -- no one forced me. In my first heat, someone tried, and he was shocked to find an omega, a slight little thing, could beat him silly." Beat him unconscious, more like, with a broken arm and a broken nose. Hamilton had a few bruises, nothing more.

He props himself up, because he needs to see Burr's face, Burr's reaction.

"Does it appall you?" Do I appall you, he means.

[slowtoanger]

"No," he says, immediately, though he cannot help the small stab of horror, that what had happened happened at all, and that it was his own fumbling attempts that brought them there. "If I am appalled, it is at men who would pay coin for one so young, though you did have need of it. Appalled, perhaps, that so little has changed since your first time around. Men, children, still relegated so much to chance and circumstance. I am not disgusted."

Should like to say; I would have liked to see you, beating up an unruly alpha, yet he knows he should not have. That the affair must have been desperate, and left its own scars, even if Hamilton had delivered a solid thrashing. Should like to have been there so Hamilton had not been alone. Always friends, they had been, with that underlying tension, when politics and power had not factored in. Burr should have liked to save him. Hamilton would not have had it.

There should have been no different for him, born on that island as an omega or as an alpha. He should have rose regardless, and yet. Both of them had caught the rise of fate's wave at the right time, and born with it until it crashed, a cataclysm, on progress' shore. No war, now, for Hamilton to rise. Perhaps it is worse now than it has ever been, each relegated to their place, with so little chance of advancement.

[non_stop]

Alexander's expression has gone strange and thoughtful. The sincerity moves him; he believes it. He often believes the things that Burr says, really. Not always -- no, not always.

He hitches himself up just a little more, and touches a light, sweet kiss to Burr's lips. It is an acceptance of Burr's words, at face value, without searching out any hidden barbs.

"My prayers for rescue have ever met with indifference," he says. "This time, I could not write my way off the island. But I was not helpless." He settles back down onto Burr. The knot pulls inside him, a pleasant weight. "And," though he turns his head down, burying it in Burr's shoulder, "this profession, I admit, is not without... compensations. It can be very pleasurable."

[slowtoanger]

"Yes, I have always thought the portrayal of prostitution as a business with only victims to be somewhat lacking," leaning into the kiss, wrapping his hands around him. He can feel the knot going down now, soon to slip free. Perhaps then he can help Hamilton gather his nesting material, and leave him, or stay, should he wish it.

"I certainly would not have encountered you, if I was not such a purveyor of such establishments." The other question, the one which has been niggling at him, stuck in the back of his mind. "Should you like to keep whoring, then? Some find other arrangments very appealing--" and he has been known to take on young men. Mentor them. Though perhaps this would be a mentorship of a different kind. Reluctant to bring it up, now, after Hamilton's earlier reluctance, dodging of questions. Yet he doesn't want to leave him here. Benedicta is a good madame, and yet the business can be rough, and not lend to a long and fulfilling life. Not for one like Hamilton.

[non_stop]

Alexander bristles, a little, in spite of himself. In spite of the way Burr's skilled fingers and wicked tongue coaxed such pleasure out of him, in spite of the slow-wandering strokes down his back.

"I told you," says Alexander. "I'm going west."

He relents, only a little:

"It will be some time until I have gathered enough to make the journey. Until then, I am willing enough to be bought." That's an understatement. He tries again: "This has been my first heat with an alpha, and, Burr -- I have truly enjoyed it. I'd -- I'd let you have first claim on my time." A slightly more exclusive arrangement, and Alexander is unwilling to offer more, just now. He does not need rescuing, and he feels himself too low to even think of mentorship, clerking.

[slowtoanger]

Time. Alexander will need time. Seduction does not take place in an evening, yet the idea of him going west twists something in him. What should he care, for where Hamilton ends up? Ah, but those are the thoughts of a younger Burr--lying to himself. He won't deny their connection, anymore, as much as he takes joy still in vexing Hamilton.

"First claim on your time, yes," Burr purrs. "I quite like the idea of such an arrangement. And perhaps I might call on you at other times as well--" always paying, of course, yet not the usual times of whores. Of course, in establishments such as these, there are always ones working, and yet--

Burr does want to bring him things. Books. Clothes. Jewels. Taken quite embarrassingly, not befitting his age. The fantasy of the old Burr, become reality.

His cock is softened enough to slip out now, and it accompanies a rush of fluids--uncomfortable, for all their meaning is appealing.

"Should I fetch you nesting materials then? Or do you wish to be alone?" Still rubbing at him, feeling where his seed is dripping out. He hopes that Alexander does not take anything, though he has no real power or right to stop him. But still--the idea of him swollen with Burr's child is very appealing.

[non_stop]

"I have, at times," drawls Alexander, "been hired for just my company."

He can't help the little noise of loss as Burr's cock slips out of him. He doesn't want it to be over. His hand joins Burr's, in the wet of it. His cunt seems stretched wide, hot and soft. He feels a pulse of desire, suddenly, perhaps the last vestiges of the heat. Perhaps just something about Burr.

"Oh," he sighs. "Could you -- could I have your mouth? One more time?" Tracing up and down the slit, gushing wet. But he feels appealing, under Burr's eyes. Feels good. And he thinks Burr wouldn't mind his own semen, along with Alexander's excessive wet.

"And then -- then we'll see." He means it in an immediate sense and a broader one. They'll see.