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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"You are both mine," Burr whispers. "I would keep you both, and fight all of New York to do so." Little comforting purrs, nuzzling at him, scenting him, waiting for a little contentment to sweep his frame, a little less fear, before disentangling himself to find more blankets, and arrange them in some way around the bed. They have rope, and he ties one end to the far side of the canopy, the other end to the other, and drapes the blankets through, so that they hang low over the bed, and the inside is dark and warm and cave-like.

Little, breathless feelings, that Hamilton wishes to do this here, now. A think he has so often refused to. He feels safe. Must feel safe, with Burr. He wants Burr to keep the child. Doesn't want Burr to go away.

If Hamilton lets him Burr slides under the blankets, slithers down to Hamilton's feet, warms them on his stomach and begins to rub, massaging. The soles, and up his ankles and calves. Pressing small kisses as he works upward, and all the while purring.

Alexander shivers in confused pleasure at the sound of that. He shouldn't like it as much as he does.

"I didn't have anyone else for the week after my heat," he tells Burr, lowly. "He is not anyone else's."

He had resolved over and over not to tell this to Burr, to keep what little power he had by denying him a father's right. And here he is.

He burrows into the blankets left on the bed, submerging himself entirely for several long minutes, before nudging them to one side and another, pushing it out into a little bowl the way he saw his mother do. The mattress already dips in the middle, because of the way it is supported on ropes below the bed that need a bit of tightening.

Of course Burr belongs here. It all smells of him, and now smells of Alexander, too. He halfway wants to pin Burr down and lick him all over, but it is nice, too, to spread himself like a feast for his lover.

He feels good. Sighs with it, releasing some of the anxious cares that have dogged him since he realized what was happening to him.

"I don't know why you're in love with me," he says, to Burr, and it isn't plaintive. Maybe even a little playful. "I'm unfaithful, loudmouthed, obnoxious... afraid." Burr has come up far enough that Alexander can reach down and stroke fingers through his hair. "Surely, with a tongue like yours, you could have any number of pretty whores who are much more accommodating."

"But not the prettiest," Burr purrs, licking a long strip up his thigh, nuzzling there between his legs. "Not the smartest whore, with the quickest mind." Swept away in Hamilton, drunk off him. The sweet, beautiful things he says. Had no one else, that the child in Hamilton is from his own seed, that they laid together once and Burr had gotten him with child. That Burr loves.

"The whore who tastes the sweetest," he says, and extends his tongue, licking up both sides of his cunt, lapping at the trail of his own, earlier spend. "not Alexander Hamilton." And when did his name begin to sound pornographic in Burr's mind?

"Who would be so eager, to spread their legs for someone old enough to be their grandfather?" Burr asks, before he sets to lapping, employing all those tricks he knows to bring him off as quickly as possible. Sucking hear the top of his slit, teasing his tongue along the entrance as his hands seek out Alexander's cock, stroking over the head.

"You deserve endless pleasure," Burr says as he pulls away, mouth wet. Panting. "Let me give it to you. Let me worship you."

"I'm old enough to be my own grandfath--nn," and his head tosses to the side. Burr knows exactly the right spots. The most clumsy of men will just hammer at him until they come; then there is another sort, who know to feel for the spot deep inside, know to vary and angle their thrusts. Still another, who know and understand the importance of the little nub near the front of a woman's slit, and who are willing to give Alexander's cock the attention it needs. Any of those might enjoy burying their head between a woman's thighs.

Alexander himself had been a very attentive lover, and by (what he now realizes was) the end of his life, he knew Eliza extraordinarily well. She often experienced female paroxysms. And yet, Alexander had still started to suspect that she'd been faking it, especially early in his time as a whore, because sex wasn't nearly as enjoyable as it seemed to her.

Burr gets him there. Love obviously makes a difference too, but Burr hadn't even found that necessary. He had Alexander coming on his tongue in moments, and he still can do just the same, without even heat to ease the way. He's the only one who has ever cultivated and attuned the exquisitely sensitive places just barely within him, not just trying to get past them as fast as possible. He is the only one who has found Alexander too tight for penetration, when he is nervous or too in his own mind or preoccupied, and who, instead of using his tightness for pleasure, took the time to loosen and distract him until he could be penetrated with glorious ease.

"You said I could have a guest room, if I did not wish to be your lover," says Alexander -- "but there is no world where your lips and your tongue and your fingers and your -- your cock, Aaron," a breathy sound, "are here, and I don't try to have them all the time. You could find anyone, young or old. They would but have to grace your bed to crave their return..." Bites his lip. "It won't take much, I'm so sensitive now. Even a brush of air will make my nipples go tight. I think you could have me grinding on your thigh, and if you caressed them even with the most delicacy I would climax for you. I would grovel for it. But you just give it to me--"

A slow breath in. The pleasure rolls over him, drawn from where Burr tongues just inside him out to where he caresses the tip of Alexander's cock. It seems as though Burr is some magician, subtly channeling the energies of Alexander's body. His hips lift, and he comes in a slow, warm wave, so long that he can breathe through it, hook his leg over Burr's shoulder and sigh as the delicious sensation ripples down his body.

Burr laps up what issues from him greedily--from his cunt to his cock to his stomach, where ribbons of his semen have landed. Burr laps at him even when he is clean, and then moves up to his nipples, lathes his tongue around them, latches on and hums, so the delicious vibrations will be transferred there to sensitive flesh.

"But I don't want anyone else," Burr says, between sucks. "How could I want anyone else, when you make such delicious sounds. Unfold yourself for me so prettily, grow wet so rapidly. When your body is so in tune with mine. You have such control over my cock, Alexander. One look from you and it grows hard, responds to your command. You could have it whenever you wanted. Ride it whenever you wanted, in whatever manner suited you."

Nips once, lightly, to draw blood to the surface. Is it true, what he had said? That he could come just from this, the stimulation to his nipples? Already Burr wants to drive in to him, to bury his cock in that welcoming warm passage, yet the appeal of this other thing is too great.

"How about a third?" Burr asks.

Touching his nipples prompts immediate reaction. Alexander goes still, quivering, and his flesh prickles with visible goosebumps. As promised, the tender little numbs pebble up, tighten under Burr's tongue, and Alexander melts completely, his legs falling open, his hand loosely burying itself in Burr's hair. Humming makes him twitch, full-body, arching up.

"They are so swollen," Alexander pleads, "they ache for you, be gentle, please." it is as though he can feel every bit of the texture of Burr's tongue, each whorl of his fingertip. The sensations are so keen that he whimpers, head falling back back.

"Oh it's much worse for you," he manages. "It's much more sensitive, I -- it's swollen because of you," because of this child inside him.

"Yes," Burr says hotly, "swollen because I have gotten you with child. Because my seed took root in your fertile body--" things he can not get enough of. That should not be said in midst of sex, yet make him mad with desire all the same.

Dipping his head again, miming fucking with his tongue, thrusting against the nub before sucking it once more--small, rhythmic little movements.

"I've ruined you," he says, pulling back again. "Stolen your virtue like a young innocent maiden. Pregnant out of wedlock because I could not help myself." And his hand goes lower, back between Hamilton's legs, feeling the run of his slick, wet already since he licked it clean. Gathers some up on his fingers and goes back, works around his ass more gently this time, pushing and stretching and massaging before he slips in a finger inside, gasping as those muscles spasm around him, pull him deeper.

Wants to keep talking, but Hamilton is pulling his head back down, until he is latched once more on his nipple, and making those wonderful sounds, and Burr cannot help himself then, he can't--his body laid out before him every sweet torture. Shifts his hips, fucking his fingers in and out, until Hamilton's thigh is between his legs, and then he is grinding, rubbing, rutting like an animal in heat.

If those words awaken a terrible desire in Burr, they do the same in Alexander. He can't explain why the idea of Burr having such control over his body is so intensely erotic. Little changes, within him, permanent alterations, his chest swelling with milk and his womb swelling with life.

"Because you wanted the sweetest and freshest omega whore you could find," and he tries to grind himself against Burr's hand, but it steals further down, to his ass.

"Aaron," his voice gone high, and he turns his head to bite down on his own wrist. Burr quests into him, with long and seeking fingers, stimulates and manipulates him, and he isn't sure if he should be embarrassed or proud that his body already strains for release. He is intimately aware, again, that his ass and thighs sting terribly, soothed only a bit by the balm rubbed in, and that the finger deep inside him, gripped by the muscles of his body, makes little trickles of pleasure flow through him, like he is a dry streambed awakened by the rain.

Even Burr is overwhelmed by this. Even Burr seeks satisfaction. Hips bear down so he knows he's leaving slick on the heel of Burr's hand, his wrist. It feels to him that his breasts are coming in right now, swelling at the command of Burr's caressing tongue.

Alexander makes a high and desperate sound and comes, comes on nothing, comes on the finger buried within him, with an empty cunt, an untouched cock, so sensitive that he needs nothing more.

A little sigh of wonder, at Hamilton's body, so eager, so willing. Feeling the little shakes of pleasure, the way he swells beneath him--gasping for air, riding that sensation. Clenches down on his fingers, and Burr purrs, purrs purrs purrs, wants to communicate down to the lowest parts of him contentment, satisfaction. Feels the wetness grow against his palm, his fingers, continuing to rock as he chases his own release, caressing and whispering sweet things.

When Burr starts to come, it is a slow, lazy thing, from watching the flutter of Hamilton's eyes, the way his chest gradually slows, and the little flush on his cheekbones fades to pink. A stab of hot pleasure, and slower waves, that make his muscles relax, difficult to hold himself up. He takes his cock in hand and those tremors sieze his lower body, rubs the head over Hamilton's fold as he spills, massaging the come in, scooping it with his fingers and pushing it into Hamilton's entrance before collapsing down beside him. Reaching lazily for the washbasin on the bedside table, the rag, to wipe them clean.

"So good," he whispers. "You are so good. Oh, if only we had been amenable to each other all those years ago. I should have liked to marry you."

The mention of that causes a flicker in Alexander's scent, a moment of tension. It isn't distress, just -- like the concept catches at him oddly.

"What a strange thing to say." He yawns, and his stomach growls. "Why have a marriage if neither married can be got with child?" He can see the logical flaw in that as soon as he says it: Washington's marriage had no children, and Madison's. Marriages can be between those too old to have children, or those who are barren.

"It would be an odd world, where two men, alphas, could be together that way." Marriage, as defined, can be done one of many ways. An alpha and an omega; a man and a woman; these are the most acceptable. But a beta woman can marry an alpha woman, and a beta man can marry an omega man. Blackstone had some sort of complicated chart and there are books of legal theory on the matter, which essentially boil down to -- it's not seemly for those of the same gender to marry, and for there to be a marriage without one who can be gotten with child, and the other who can get them with child. Always seemed dubious, to Alexander, but he convinced himself it was for the best.

"But I always wanted a family. Children. Perhaps you should have been the omega..."

"Oh? You would have wanted Aaron Burr, your political enemy, to bear your children?" And he rolls again so he is on top, drapping over Alexander like something hot and warm. A cave, they are in a cave. "Would these be secret children, that left me to public shames, whispering about who possibly could have gotten me with child, while you played house with your lovely wife?"

Relaxing a little more, melting down onto him, his hand coming to his side and a bit beneath him, to rest of Alexander's belly. As if he could feel the child within. "Or would you have married me proudly? Tell me, do you like being with my child?"

His legs come up to wrap around Burr, not to invite penetration, just to hold him close.

"A late night, after a long case," he murmurs, "that look you would get in your eyes, that you could just as soon murder me as hear me say another word... maybe we could have done something else to dispel the tension. I think I could have found some words more pleasing to your ears."

He doesn't want to respond, about Eliza.

"No," he says, petulantly. "I have nosebleeds, and I never did before. I'm very hungry, all the time, for things I never liked. And I cried two days ago because I tore a shirt."

"Poor baby," Burr purrs, half-mocking, as he pulls Alexander closer. "At least I can rectify two of those things. You shall have one of my shirts, and now I shall get you some cold pork, left by the housekeeper. I can't have my omega going hungry, much less when they are carrying something so precious."

Small kisses down his neck before disentangling himself, if Alexander will let him, to retrieve the food. Hurrying back, to feed him small bits of that pork by hand.

"You must tell me when you are hungry, darling. I shall never have you wanting, if I can help it."

"I want bacon," and there's a sudden and sharp eagerness in him that has nothing to do with sexuality. "I want the pork."

The noises he makes when he's fed are positively pornographic. Nips at Burr's fingers, playfully.

"So what are you going to do?" he asks, finally, after that's done, once he's draped himself onto Burr's chest. "You asked if I would have married you if I got you pregnant -- and the answer is yes, if you came before Eliza. Even if you infuriated me." He props his head up on his hand, and frowns at Burr. "So what are you going to do now?"

Good feelings, stirring in Burr's chest at providing in this way. Good alpha, feeding his mate, and good omega, so accommodating, eating so readily.

"I am going to keep feeding you," Burr says, "and taking care of you." Reaches up to stroke Alexander's face. So pretty, and so much less infuriating now, as an omega, than he had been before, half in Washington's pocket, accusing everyone of every sinful thing at every moment.

He is asking if Burr would marry him, yet the question feels so much like a trap. Alexander, who prizes his independence so readily. Would he flee, if Burr wanted that? Burr wants what he wants. Wants him to be happy.

"I will do whatever you want, Alexander. In whatever capacity you would have me."

Alexander reaches, and his fingers dig tight into Burr's arm. He presses himself against Burr, like he could make himself heavier by sheer force of will, like he could hold Burr down. Nothing about this is simple. Even what should be the easiest of instincts -- nesting -- is fraught, for Alexander, because he remembers a time when he didn't have those instincts at all, when he was something else. The second-greatest shock of this is finding out how much of what he knew was from his body and not embedded in his soul. The greatest shock was finding out how much was his soul, all along.

"You showed me things I was afraid to want." Many of Alexander's words to Burr are confessions, lately. Confessions of desire. Confessions of the past. These are confessions of sentiment, which are much, much worse. It's easier to say this into Burr's throat, tucked in on top of him, than it is to say it to his beautiful dark eyes.

"You've seduced me with -- with books. Respected my mind, or at least pretended to well enough, as you desire my body. Please, don't avoid the question. Please don't lie. Is it really this simple, Burr?" His voice has that soft, yearning quality that it used to get with Eliza. He is a sentimental fool, no matter what his body is, and Burr has brought it out in him. "Don't you still want to bring me low?"

Edited 2022-05-26 12:57 (UTC)

"It is," Burr whispers, and clutches back at him. "From the moment my bullet left my pistol I regretted it. From the moment you feel onto the ground, I wished only to turn back time. I didn't want you hurt, for all you had ruined me."

Spent the next years of his life until now unable to forget, for all he was unapologetic in public. Rallied against his vilification and the erasure of all of Hamilton's wrongdoings at the same moment he lost himself and drink and tinctures and whores. While this new Hamilton was suffering somewhere on an isolated island.

I'm old, Alexander. I've lost everyone. I don't want to hurt you." Leans in and presses a long kiss to his forehead. Holds him there. Prays.

"You know that was my first memory?" Alexander asks. "The duel. Before I could walk, I was dreaming about the gunshot. Gunshots." There were two, weren't there?

He'd been too young to understand, for a long time. He doesn't know if this is the reason, but the moments of the duel are all scattered, now. He doesn't know what really happened because he dreamed it so many ways.

"There's always more to lose," Alexander whispers. "Aren't you afraid?" Of me. Of opening up again.

"Yes," Burr whispers, and he had dreamed of the duel as well, from that first night, as the streets called for his blood. Laudanum had helped. A few drops before bed, then a few more. "Life is a game of losing."

And he is terrified, yet--

Lonely. He is so lonely.

"But losing while having had you sounds better than losing you through fear." Yet even now there is some part of him held back, numbed. He cannot love the same way ever again. Not since the Theodosias. Some part of him, laying at the bottom of an ocean. Is it the same with Hamilton, after Philip? It must be.

Alexander doesn't respond. His eyes are closed, and he is starting to drift. Still burrowed on top of Burr, in the cozy warmth of the nest, the cave. A skinny little bastard islander and an old man, a whore and a has-been. The comfort is unspeakable, in a literal sense: Alexander could never say it out loud, because then it would be shattered.

He turns his face in towards Burr's throat.

His body is probably the most relaxed that Burr has ever felt it. There is no pure, unadulterated, pleasured-omega contentment here. Alexander's smell is complicated, as his emotions are complicated.

And yet, despite all that churns and rages in his heart, he is quiet.

He is quiet, and he is still.

And -- soft, just barely audible, just barely palpable -- he is purring, again, as he falls asleep on Burr's chest.

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Private Storyline B2

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