Alexander takes pains to maintain that thin veneer of independence, and who is Burr to try to take it from him? When Alexander shows up at his home well and truly fucked, when Burr's questing fingers discover another man's spend, when Alexander comes to him hoarse, with that awful smile, daring, daring, Burr cannot help but give him what he wants, write in his body the ways Burr is better, the way Burr can satisfy him like no one else can, the way Burr does not shy away from these things, licking him out even as he drips salty and bitter.
Hamilton does not have to be selling himself now, really, with what Burr is paying him. And yet--Hamilton will not throw his lot in with Burr's. He wakes sometimes, to an empty bed, an acute, aching pain. The same empty bed he has faced when not whoring since Theodosia died, and yet now he feels it jolt him, rock him, that small illusion stripped away a little more each time, that Burr is doing nothing but waiting to die, to be again with those he loves. That Hamilton will not have him, and Burr will not lower himself to grovel.
Burr leaves legal texts around--open casework, notes. Always about young mothers or omegas, people who cannot pay well. Burr acquires his money in other ways, from exorbitant fees from those looking to be defended by the former vice president, who got off a conviction even in the face of Thomas Jefferson.
After the party--the one where Alexander hands a young lawyer's balls to him on a silver platter, Burr cannot wait till they get home. Finds some small gap between two brick houses, sinks to his knees and opens his mouth. Lets Alexander fuck him, hard and fast, until he comes down Burr's throat. The night when Alexander leaves with Burr's enemy, makes Burr an embarrassment, the bunt of jokes for the rest of the party, Burr laughs them off. Says something about the loyalty of whores. Yet at home he burns, a strange kind of feral anger, a familiar kind. This is how they would hurt one another, all those years ago, was it not? He has been telling himself all the time that it was different, or that if it was not different it would not matter, and yet...
He doesn't call on Alexander the next day, or the one after. Sits at home, not brooding, because what is the good of dwelling on it? Alexander is not his, will not be his, and all of it is preposterous and much too confusing to dwell on. But when Hamilton does come after three days, knocking angrily and demanding entry, Burr cannot keep himself from yanking Hamilton inside, forcing him down to the floor, and fucking him, just there in the entryway. Reminding him, perhaps, of who will have him the way others will not.
Sharing a bed that night, a small balm. Waking him from nightmares, caring for him, as if they were lovers, or partners. His hand creeping to the swell, the softness of Alex's body while he sleeps, and in the morning, waking him with a mouth latched over his nipples, sucking and pressing, and when Alex arches, wakes up gasping, Burr meets his eyes. He knows--there had been no heat. But will Alex tell him? Does Alex want to tell him, or will this be one trip to the doctor, quietly, discreet.
no subject
Hamilton does not have to be selling himself now, really, with what Burr is paying him. And yet--Hamilton will not throw his lot in with Burr's. He wakes sometimes, to an empty bed, an acute, aching pain. The same empty bed he has faced when not whoring since Theodosia died, and yet now he feels it jolt him, rock him, that small illusion stripped away a little more each time, that Burr is doing nothing but waiting to die, to be again with those he loves. That Hamilton will not have him, and Burr will not lower himself to grovel.
Burr leaves legal texts around--open casework, notes. Always about young mothers or omegas, people who cannot pay well. Burr acquires his money in other ways, from exorbitant fees from those looking to be defended by the former vice president, who got off a conviction even in the face of Thomas Jefferson.
After the party--the one where Alexander hands a young lawyer's balls to him on a silver platter, Burr cannot wait till they get home. Finds some small gap between two brick houses, sinks to his knees and opens his mouth. Lets Alexander fuck him, hard and fast, until he comes down Burr's throat. The night when Alexander leaves with Burr's enemy, makes Burr an embarrassment, the bunt of jokes for the rest of the party, Burr laughs them off. Says something about the loyalty of whores. Yet at home he burns, a strange kind of feral anger, a familiar kind. This is how they would hurt one another, all those years ago, was it not? He has been telling himself all the time that it was different, or that if it was not different it would not matter, and yet...
He doesn't call on Alexander the next day, or the one after. Sits at home, not brooding, because what is the good of dwelling on it? Alexander is not his, will not be his, and all of it is preposterous and much too confusing to dwell on. But when Hamilton does come after three days, knocking angrily and demanding entry, Burr cannot keep himself from yanking Hamilton inside, forcing him down to the floor, and fucking him, just there in the entryway. Reminding him, perhaps, of who will have him the way others will not.
Sharing a bed that night, a small balm. Waking him from nightmares, caring for him, as if they were lovers, or partners. His hand creeping to the swell, the softness of Alex's body while he sleeps, and in the morning, waking him with a mouth latched over his nipples, sucking and pressing, and when Alex arches, wakes up gasping, Burr meets his eyes. He knows--there had been no heat. But will Alex tell him? Does Alex want to tell him, or will this be one trip to the doctor, quietly, discreet.