amrev_intrigues | Private Storyline B2

Private Storyline B2

Burr goes back. Of course he goes back. How can he not go back? They spend nights together, opening each other's flesh, wrapped, circled, ensnared. And each time he comes he brings something; little gifts, trinkets, books, blankets, quills, parchment. Things he knows Alex will like, thirsts for, an attempt to plug a hole that is always widening, desperate, grasping.

He wants to tighten them. Draw them together. To draw Hamilton to him the way he has drawn other young men. To wrap him close, the way one holds a dangerous thing, slick and pointed and sharp. Oh, but this Hamilton is not the same. Perhaps if given power he will dissolve the same, into paranoia and delusion, yet this Hamilton is desperate, fragile, breakable, for as much as he covers himself in sharp edges. Not unlike the Hamilton he once knew, and yet--

Burr will not be in the position, to fall victim to him. Too old, already ruined. Perhaps they never could have been anything more than two sharp objects, poised always to cut, before. But now, maybe--. He doesn't know. He wants Hamilton to come home with him. Better than a brothel, for all he respects Benedicta. Hamilton deserves more than only bodily pleasures, as much as his need for independence burns. No less independent there, in the brothel, than he would be with Burr, but then, the brothel is an easier dependence, to no one person. Something like independence, if one could only close their eyes and wish hard enough.

Burr takes to hiring him for the day, the night, not at the brothel but at his own home. Pays extra for it--pulling in a steadier income than he ever has before. Sits with him at dinners, puts him to bed in his own room, even, on some nights, for as much as Hamilton is perturbed by such arrangments. Burr wont admit it. Would never say it. But. He is lonely. Frustratingly lonely, painfully lonely. Everyone he knows is dead, outside a few, and here is Hamilton.

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He wants things he doesn't want to want. God. It was one thing to imagine this as sex, explosively incredible sex, and it's another to wake himself pining for things he shouldn't have. He misses his family, but he can't have them back: twenty years without him, and why would they have him now? Younger than his youngest son, a burden, an omega, and then he'd have the privilege of living long enough to lose them all again.

If he's been brought back for a reason, it must be this, he thinks. It feels like Fate moves the two of them. Like it matters, the way the gentle, small things at the end of stories matter.

This isn't the end for Alexander, though. He has to live on after Burr, now. His turn.

He meets Burr's eyes one morning, and knows that his refuge in denial is done. He flinches back from Burr's touch, like he is burned, and curls his legs up in front of him. Curling protectively around the so-soft, so-small swell at his belly.

The nausea and the nosebleeds are less, but his emotions are stronger. He shouldn't have let them get the better of him, at the party three days ago. He'd just wanted to punish Burr, for all of it, for the failure of the cotton root, for the inadequacy of even his small, new-life plans, for everything.

He buries his face in his arms, curled up tight. What is he going to do?

Edited 2022-05-18 19:38 (UTC)

Burr curls around him, if Alexander will let him--drapes arms, and presses his face to the back of his neck.

"You don't have to leave," he whispers. Arm creeping around, resting on Alexander's arm. "You don't have to go."

He has a guest bed, even. Two guest beds. Alexander would not even need to stay as Burr's mate, and yet--

He likes children. Likes them very much. Aches, a part of them, for every child that died in infancy, for his grandchild, his son-in-law. Perhaps it is only right that this child die too. The wild certainly that if Alex does stay, they will both perish. His curse.

"Would you have told me? Did you want me to know?" But he did nothing to hide it. A burrian-move, if ever there was one. Inaction, making the decision for him.

Burr surrounds him. Another shell of protection, another layer. Alexander makes himself smaller, and he isn't sure if it's defensive or because he wants to be more enveloped.

"I don't know that it's yours," he lies, probably transparently, muffled. It avoids the question, because Alexander doesn't know the answer.

Benedicta thinks so. Looks at him more satisfied every day, probably counting down until she can sell it more explicitly, the omega rounded with child. Heavy breasts, swollen nipples, looking up at you, alpha, with round blue eyes. Pregnant whores that smell young and healthy and not miserable are in such demand.

"Why go back?" Burr asks, because he does not want Alexander to leave. "The work will be hard on you, the further along it goes. Why not stay here? I could give you work. And it would not be contingent on our relations. I have a guest bedroom. Clerk work--work that requires thought. You have always had a keen mind." Flattering, always a useful tactic, with one such as him.

"You would do well with the clients. Many of them would be more soothed, with an omega than with an alpha. Many have been mistreated, by alphas."

Alexander makes a soft, despairing sound.

Oh, he knows he's brilliant. He knows the work would suit him better. "Don't flatter me. Damn you," he mutters, lifting his head to wipe away the tears that have been all too common lately. A gift from Burr? Tears. A nightmare? Tears. A torn shirt? Tears. Sometimes, it's unbelievably stupid, what draws it out of him. A dead fly, once, when he idly thought to himself I wonder how much larger than that my son is, and ended up weeping for ten minutes. Another time, he wrote an extremely handsome capital A, and then accidentally dripped ink on it, and cried at ruining it.

It's maddening. Burr almost caught him after that one, as he'd been writing in the diary Burr sent him, in the ink Burr bought him, in the library Burr left conspicuously open to his use, in the home that Burr owned.

"I should have tried harder to get rid of it." Him. Her. But he hadn't. He had accepted it, even welcomed it, though he'd been too afraid to look or think too directly about that welcome.

He tried to get rid of it. Of course he did. What kind of whore would he be, if he allowed himself to get knocked up by any client that came along? Still, Burr cannot help the little sound that escapes him, and he wraps his arms around Hamilton, rocks him--soothing sounds.

"Why?" he asks, because he does not know what else to say. Traces little patterns over the back of Hamilton's hand. "You always wanted children, before." A stupid question--he had not been a whore, before.

"What do you want, Alexander?"

Alexander's heart breaks at that one little sound. He twists around, squirms into Burr's arms and tucks himself where he fits too well, shielded in Burr's embrace.

"I can't want anything," he whispers, against Burr's shoulder. "It's not allowed."

Not a rule of Benedicta's, not anything imposed on him from the outside. Unless it is just by experience. Everything passes, everything fails, everyone dies. Alphas are allowed to want. Omegas are just there to be wanted. That's the world they live in.

Edited 2022-05-18 21:05 (UTC)

"Why not?" Burr asks, and his thumbs smooth over eyelids, wiping away tears. "Whose rule is it, and since when have you lived by them? An orphan immigrant, with no familial connections, born on an island in the middle of nowhere, and twice you have fought your way to New York. You are no different from who you were before, for being an Omega. The only difference may be in experience gained, in wisdom. You still have the power to sweep the world off its feet, as you've swept me off mine."

A small little kiss, to the top of his head. Tender, slow. Closing his eyes. Not sentiment. Not, and yet--it is. Burr should like to hold on, until the bitter end. As they have always done.

Alexander cannot help but be susceptible to sentiment, in matters of the heart. He is weak to it.

"Mine," he says. "It's mine. And why climb, when the fall is so hard? Why should I rise, only to be slapped down? I could eviscerate every mediocre lawyer in my path, but in the end his prospects are greater than mine, as I can't even be admitted to the federal bar."

And why is he talking about this, when Burr, in his own, sideways way, told Alexander I love you?

"My heart died with Phillip," he says. "My body took some time to follow suit. And yet, here I am, body and heart, the one animated, the other beating." He admits, painfully: "I want the child."

A shake of his head.

"But there is such heartache in welcoming it -- what happens to me, Burr? What happens when you're gone?" His voice breaks, on the last word, and he takes Burr's hand in both of his, turns his face towards the palm, kisses it, eyes closing.

"Why should you need to eviscerate them? What do you care, what they think? What they say about you?" But something else. Something more pressing--they could get him admitted to the bar, couldn't they? A career-making case, waiting to happen. And Burr would represent him. Something the old Hamilton would salivate for--the chance to fight.

Ah, but. Hamilton sounds so heartbroken, at the prospect of being separated from Burr, Burr, the man who was responsible for his death in the first place. Pain had never been a reason to avoid connection, and yet--isn't that what he had done, most of his life? Casual connections, casual sex.

"If you asked Elizabeth, would she say you loss had been reason to avoid connection with you? We all die eventually, Hamilton. I will die, no matter your connection to me."

Perhaps they could -- perhaps they couldn't. Something Hamilton has noticed, since he came back: things are more set than they used to be. The young, wild country has started to tame itself into a particular order. The order allows for possibility that Europe doesn't have, sure, but Alexander feels constrained.

"Eliza is a respectable woman with family connections," Alexander points out. "I'm a pregnant whore. No name. Very little money." More than he's portrayed to Burr, but -- "All I have is a mind. And no one but you will believe what my mind contains, or claim what my womb does."

For some reason, that sentence sends a sort of shiver of arousal through Alexander. It's always been a bit erotic for him, to think of Burr laying claim to such an intimate, hidden space. This isn't the only appeal, of course, but it appeals regardless.

"Ah, but didn't you say to me earlier--extol the powers a whore can have? Legs spread, for the most powerful men in the country. Hearing things, learning things? Yet you need not be a whore. I will do what you ask me to do, Alexander," hand creeping lower when the feels that shiver, the other poised over his stomach, the small swell, easily mistaken for a small, barely-there deposit of fat.

Will give Alexander anything he asks for, that is in his power to give. They could prepare, now, for when he is gone.

"Do you not like the idea, that there is something growing in you? That I put it there?"

He's had offers, since he took the old man home. Some individuals who want him to seduce the same man again, and get into his desk. Alexander could.

He shivers, at the words. Oh, he does. He liked it when Burr was knotted to him, liked it when he realized what had happened, likes it now. The thought of his own fragile body being a host for another, nourishing and growing, that it is a piece of Burr, makes him wet.

"Benedicta was right," says Alexander. "You are a horny old goat." Yet here he is, naked, in that horny old goat's lap. "It still may not be yours. No telling how many men I fucked around my heat -- I could have had a line of them, you'd never know."

But sex is more familiar territory than the delicate places they're navigating.

"But, if you're so sure you've fathered one on me," says Alexander, "does that mean I should call you Daddy? I know you're still angry from a few nights ago. You could take me over your knee, you know. A punishment." His thumb traces Burr's lower lip. "Or you could make sweet love to me, like I'm your young bride, yours to fill with child." A raised eyebrow -- "Maybe just your naughty whore, impregnated while your back was turned."

He's fishing, to see which one Burr likes, latches on to.

"Why not all three?" Burr asks, and he flips them then, so Alexander is beneath him, and he can grind against him. "We have time, don't we? Oh, but if you are my bride, you've been very naughty." His hand, moving to Alexander's stomach once again, resting his hand over it, as if there is anything to feel. "You are meant to be sweet and virginal, and yet here you are, impregnated by what could be any man's child. What am I to do with you, my young slut of a bride?"

And he grips them between Alexander's legs painfully--digs his fingers in around his cunt, the lips, and presses. "Why, you're already wet," drags a finger through his slick, brings it to his lips, tastes. "Did the others not satisfy you enough? I should kick you out, for being a whore. And yet...no, I think you should beg. Go on, I know what it is you want. Why don't you ask for it?" Presses down harder then, his arm over Hamilton's chest, pressing him into the bed.

His own game; what is it Alexander wants.

"Oh, sir," says Alexander, breathlessly, his thighs open, his cunt exposed -- "Please don't turn me out. I couldn't help it -- I was ravished by an older man. He touched me, and kissed my cunt, and -- he awakened something in me, a terrible hunger. Now I can't help it." This is a little playful, a little bit of a joke, though there is some truth to it. Burr did make him want to be pleasured, all the time. Burr can fuck him like no one else can.

He draws in a shaky breath. "Please, I need to be satisfied. One man could never do it -- if there were a crowd, perhaps -- a party, and you could spread me out on the table like a feast, my sweet cunt soaking wet under everyone's eyes. And you could let them indulge in me, as they please, and how could I be more defiled, since I'm already impregnated? They could spill anywhere they like. My face, my cunt, my--" and he does actually hesitate, here, because there isn't much to speak of, though he imagines so often what it will be like, "my breasts. A party favor, a gift to your distinguished guests. Maybe then, this hunger will be satisfied..."

"Yet that would be a reward, would it not? You would love every moment of it, defiled by a whole room. Why reward you, for spreading your legs like a slut? No, why not give you to a whole room, yet put a ring around your cock, a cage around your cunt? Tie up your hands, leave them to defile you, take what they want from your mouth, your ass, without any pleasure, any say of your own. Ah, but I bet you are enough of a whore that even that would excite you."

And he lets his fingers dip them, into his slit--slow and torturous, circling that spot yet not touching it. Dips his head again, brings his nipple, swollen, into his mouth, bites cruely. "Perhaps I should spank you," he says, when he pulls his mouth away, maintaining eye contact as he brings his tongue forwards and licks.

"And so would you," returns Alexander. "See me straining for pleasure -- I can come with just a cock in my ass, maybe from just -- my nipples, they're so sensitive, they're so -- and you'd know that you'll be the one I come back to, no one fucks me like you," words that he didn't mean to spill out but that do anyway.

Astonishing: he's half-wild with it already. Straining at the hand holding him down. Presenting himself for penetration, legs wide.

"I let Mr. Sutton have me instead of you," says Alexander, referencing the elderly man that he went home with. "He wanted my ass -- he said the appeal was that a juicy cunt was waiting for him, and that he took the other passage instead. I let him do it. I let him knot me, and he fingered me, and it was good." Somewhere between confession, taunt, and titillation -- "Spank me for it, Daddy. How could I be so reckless, with what's growing inside of me? I deserve it. Spank me," and he's coming alive with desire, flushed and hot with it.

Burr growls, as Hamilton begs for it--his cock swelling between his legs, and he grabs Hamilton roughly by the hair, yanks him onto his stomach, and then forces his head down, hard, into the bedding.

A knee on the small of his back, and his other hand, the one not holding him down, grabs his legs and pulls them apart. "Spread," he orders, and even before Hamilton is done he is bringing his hand down, hard, over Hamilton's cunt. A jolt runs through him, from his stomach to his groin, at the sound of flesh against flesh, at the sound Hamilton makes, and he cannot stop himself from bringing his hand down again, again, again, his cock throbbing, aching, watching Hamilton grinding himself against the sheets.

"You really are a needy whore. Such a bad boy," Burr says, as he pushes one finger into his cunt. "Already wet, even as you're begging for forgiveness. You couldn't help bending over for the first cock you saw. I wonder how you go about your errands. Do you bend over shopkeepers' desks, spread your legs in alleyways?"

He's expecting Burr to hit his ass, so the sound he makes is a punched-out, shocked one. He twists his head to the side, squirms a little to feel the knee pushing him down, oh, yes, he likes it, the sharp shocks of impact, the rushing heat to the stinging flesh. When Burr's finger works inside him, Alexander lets out a sort of yowl, thready with need.

He is tight, as always. He can be used and used and used, and an hour later he is a vise. Wet as October (he is a little wet all the time, lately), but a vise.

"Oh, Daddy," and he grinds his cock against the bed, "my little cunt is so tight," as he gasps sharply for breath, "so good, how could I refuse? Anyone can use me, anyone, hit me, please hit me again," though he lets out a bereft sound if the finger pulls away.

Grabs his hair again, wrapping it around his fist and dragging his face up from the bed only to slap him hard, once, across the cheek before letting him fall back, limp.

"Such a whore," he taunts, "begging to be fucked and I've hardly touched you." Hands, yanking Alexander to the edge of the bed, and Burr sits, drags Alexander over his lap, so his legs hang down--kicks them apart with his own foot, so that his cunt is exposed.

"Is this what you want, Alexander?" He asks, as he brings his hand down hard over one ass cheek. Arranged in such a way that with each hit Alexander's cock bumps against Burr's leg, and he brings his hand down again, again, again. Wants to make him cry, beg, beyond play acting. Desperate, out of his mind. Slapping hard enough to shake his whole body, to make his own hand sting, Alexander's flesh a lovely, bright red color that he wants only to sink his teeth into, sooth with his tongue.

The slap is a stinging shock, and it has Alexander fully hard in an instant. He has similar reactions often, to a client's violence -- he had thought he was wrong, broken in some way, until he found that some of the other whores felt the same way. He has come to conclude that it represents a wild and reckless side of his nature that never diminished, not with the conclusion of the war, not with his tenure as a family man, and certainly not after being remade into a young man, with a young man's body and a young man's passions. He likes to be hurt. Not badly -- though he has pushed himself until he was badly hurt, before, without realizing it until later. He likes to be demeaned, too. Reduced. He is too proud to let a client do this easily, but when it is one that has visited him before, that he has learned to trust, he has been known to allow it.

And Burr... Burr is already an exception to the rules. Alexander needs what Burr gives him. I don't need you -- what a bald-faced lie, and it has only grown a greater lie with time's passage. He was changed on a base and chemical level the first time Burr brought him to a feminine climax after hardly having time to touch him.

What he has adopted, with Burr as well -- and Burr was already familiar with the practice -- was to have a signal that causes such play to stop. Alexander loves to beg someone to stop, loves to fight (wishes Burr were younger, so that he could fight as hard as he could, and be bested), loves to play at being coerced. If his mouth is occupied, his signal is three hard knocks or thumps. If it is unoccupied, it is lighthouse, because he has always loved them, and because it doesn't sound like no or stop or please.

Burr takes such breathtaking control of him. Alexander falls -- lets himself fall, legs kicked apart, so that he can't rely on that for any kind of balance, has to lean where he is exposed across Burr's lap, has to grab at the bed. He whines, desperately, fingers digging in to hold on.

He submits at first, to the first few hits, but when they keep landing in the same place, he starts to squirm, making little sounds of protest and pain. "No," he answers, to Burr's question, though he means yes, yes, please. "No, Daddy, please -- it hurts," and he lets his voice go breathless and shocked. "You must -- you must stop, I'll allow you -- oh -- such liberties, I'll let you do anything to me," and he trembles trying to hold himself in place. A vicious hit makes him buck, and he slips partway off of Burr's lap.

Perhaps he lets himself slip -- because he thinks that if Burr can't adequately hold him here, he'll tie Alexander's hands, maybe bind him down. If he was immobilized, he would really be able to fight, and cry, and go out of his mind.

Oh god, the sounds of him begging, testing Burr's self control. His desire to push him down and fuck him hard and fast, leave him leaking and used and wanting. Burr slaps him again hard across the face, when Alexander complains. Pushes him off his lap, when he starts to slip, so that he lands hard on the floor.

"I didn't say you could speak. Good boys take their punishment silently," Burr says. "Bring me the ropes from the nightstand, and the cravat." Pushes Hamilton back down with a foot on his back if he tries to stand, makes him crawl. Oh, the sight of him whimpering, on his knees--

When Hamilton crawls back, forces his mouth open, fits the cloth inside, rough enough to make him gag. Pulls him back across his lap, drags him those few inches across the floor, and then when he is once more in position Burr tugs his arms back, ties them together with the length of silk rope, but leaves his legs free.

"You aren't to move," Burr says, orders. "You are to keep your legs--spread--" kicks them apart, "and take your punishment like a good little whore--"

Oh, and yet here, in this positon, each of Hamilton's squirms, his jerks as Burr spanks him, will only rub across Burr's painfully hard cock. He hopes he squirms. Hopes he fights.

And Alexander is a master at looking up, large-eyed, those beautiful hazel-blue irises that came intact into his new incarnation. He can make himself look younger, sweeter, more innocent, and more alluring, at the same time. -- He is naked, on his knees, in front of Burr, still in his nightclothes. Burr does seem to enjoy that, Alexander finds -- takes Alexander while part-clothed, constantly, while taking great pleasure in stripping Alexander or ordering him to strip himself completely bare. One day, when no servants or clients are expected, perhaps he'll just have to stay naked, and see how Burr likes it.

These thoughts are driven from his mind as Burr drags him up again -- Alexander's weight is still slight, still less than Burr's, though that will change soon, he imagines -- and stuffs his mouth. He waits, breathing rough through his nose, while he is tied, and then begins to struggle more in earnest. Sounds that would be cries of distress, if he were not biting down on the wadded fabric.

Burr does not hold back. He hits hard, and Alexander can do nothing but take it. He thrashes and bucks, fighting Burr's grip, fighting all of it: he is in an endless battle, not against the ties that close on his wrists but against the little presence inside him, against Burr, against the whorehouse, against his own body. Stinging pain seeping into his flesh -- he burns. His struggle brings him right against Burr's cock, hardened at Alexander's distress. He enjoys it. He enjoys it.

Somehow, this is the detail that breaks him. Burr's obvious desire. Alexander wants so badly to be wanted, and so badly to be attended to. He is ravenous for the acclaim that he achieved in his past life, and starving for the lack of it here, starving so long he'd forgotten what it was to be sated. Burr's obsession, though, frenzies him. He weeps, sobs and fights, and all it does is spur on his torment, bring his own cock (hard, so hard) against Burr's thigh. He has no balance, no leverage. Burr has him. Burr has him.

He fights, and, finally -- a tug to his bound arms, a nudging leg reminding him to keep his own apart -- finally, finally, he submits. He goes limp, breathing in trembling, quivering breaths, so wet that it has leaked onto Burr's thigh, so hard that he wants to whimper every time he is pressed against Burr's thigh. Face a mess of tears and snot.

Burr has him.

Oh, he likes it when Alexander squirms, when he fights. Burr could come only from that, if he were not savoring the experience, if he didn't know that what was to come would be sweeter still. For more alluring--heady pleasure, when Alexander gives in, collapses limp on Burr's lap. Lets himself be rocked with the slaps, the sharp stings against his thighs. And Burr has worked him over--both ass cheeks, thighs, cunts, the underside of his balls. Oh, but Alexander is weeping--his cunt dripping wet onto Burr's pants, waiting, trembling for something to push its way inside.

"There, was that so hard?" Burr coos, as he brings down the final smack, and he rubs his hands slowly over the abused flesh, drinking in each hitching breath, the ruin. God, it makes him so hard, to have Alexander like this, limp and tear-stained and past the edge.

He hums, like someone would hum to a fussy baby, as he drags a finger slow through the slick fluid that has gathered on his cunt before pushing it inside. Nothing so much to satisfy him, but to dehumanize him. A hole, an object, no will or rights. He should like to fuck him limp like this, unresisting and silent. Oh, but there's more here still to be gained.

"Would you like a reward?" Burr says. "Why don't you kneel for me?" and when Hamilton does he pulls out his cock, red and wet and hard, lets it bob before his face, bounces it against his skin and nose. Intoxicating, the sight of him--wide, teary eyes. Innocent, with a cock pressed in his face. Works the gag out gently.

There is something soaring in Alexander, a perpetual knot for the moment undone. A raging fight in him, quieted. The eye of the hurricane, a breath of stillness in an roaring tumult.

A quiet little half-sob, something hardly more than a hitch in his breath, as Burr stops, and caresses him, releasing another little knot of emotion. Burr's hands, Burr's smell, Burr, Burr. He hurts; he aches. The clinical way Burr's touch probes him meets no resistance, just eyes fluttering closed, a flicker of muscle squeezing around Burr's finger as it withdraws, like a little request for it to stay.

Trembling limbs as he lowers himself to the ground. Curling forward, pressing himself against Burr's legs, like he's drawn to warmth out of the cold. He can't keep himself up on his knees, instead folds down, heedless of how it hurts, hands still bound. There is no doubt who he belongs to -- as if he had any in the first place.

The gag out of his mouth, and no words follow it. Just Alexander, face averted shyly, hesitantly hitching forward and nuzzling Burr's cock, a gesture of worship, of welcoming. His eyes lift to Burr's face, looking up through lashes gone spiky with tears.

He does not make any more move to suck Burr's cock. Alexander is allowing himself to be subsumed in the idea of being Burr's vessel, his toy.

He shifts back onto his heels again, and his lips part, jaw relaxed. He is ready to be used, wants badly to be used. Will wait, sweetly, to be used.

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