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amrev_intrigues2022-05-18 12:51 am
slowtoanger) wrote in amrev_intrigues2022-05-18 12:51 am
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.
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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"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.
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"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.
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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.
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"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.
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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."
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"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..."
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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?"
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"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."
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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."
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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?"
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"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."
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"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?"
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.