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amrev_intrigues2022-06-11 10:52 pm
slowtoanger) wrote in amrev_intrigues2022-06-11 10:52 pm
Future PSL 4
He doesn't know when to expect his heat, after the last one. His cycle must restart, if it restarts at all. Ned still is not sure he will ever have another heat, that Burr has not caused himself irreparable damage to his biology with the concoctions. Burr isn't sure he wants another heat regardless. Not after the last one.
Things are better, in the days after their visit to the Madison's. It is easier for Burr to be around Hamilton, and his family. Spends less time shut up in his room, and his skin gets some color. And Hamilton smiles more. Seems younger, each time he spots Burr, years melting off his face, each time bringing Burr up short.
When had he begun looking so old? So worn, and stress marked? Had Burr done that? Bent his shoulders and marked his face and made him a touch too thin? They aren't that old, either of them, but--older than either of their parents lived to be, though it's possible Hamilton's father is kicking around somewhere, still. One can never be sure, with connections such as those.
They aren't whole yet. That will perhaps take time. And Burr is still so angry, sometimes. Wakes in the middle of the night wanting to cry or punch something. Sometimes he cannot look at Hamilton at all. Yet the episodes grow fewer and farther between. He is used to coping with emotions on his own, and this is something he can't burden Hamilton with. How much more would it add to Alexander's daily pains, his already unearned guilt, to know that some part of Burr feels broken and abandoned, for something that was not Hamilton's fault.
Hamilton had forgiven Burr so easily, but still--
Sometimes he cannot look in the mirror. Avoids raising his head, as he gets ready in the mornings. Things he doesn't dwell on.
As it is, the heat comes as suddenly and unexpectedly as the last. Another nightmare, the same. That something like this could happen again, that he would never be safe. He shouldn't have stopped taking those suppressants at all, regardless of what Ned said.
Yet. He isn't around anyone. Him and Theodosia are sitting in the little park across from their townhome--a small wild area, soon to be developed, when he realizes he has begun to drift. When time gets away from him, and Theodosia asks a question he has not the mental faculties to answer.
Always disoriented, at the start of his heats, before he even begins to give off those pheromones. Theodosia asks what is wrong, and he forces a smile. But his hands shake, when he pushes to his feet, and he stumbles and has to be caught my her.
"I'm afraid I don't feel well, darling. No need to worry. I think an evening nap might be in order--" but he sounds strained to his own ears, and his heart is hammering, as his eyes dart around. There could be anyone here, anyone passing, and if they happened to be an alpha--
Theodosia, dear and wonderful and everything to him, hurries him home, as his legs begin to shake more and more. The house is empty, but the panic continues to swell in his chest. Hamilton on business, the children out with their tutor. Burr excuses himself, bids her attend supper, and shuts himself in his room as he feels that awful heat start, bluming, between his legs. Locks the door. Shoves a chair beneath the handle, for good measure.
Turns towards his dresser, fumbling through his bottles for the scent reducers, but damn Hamilton, he has taken that too. And his legs are starting to give, buckle, as he stumbles towards the bed. He can feel the barest amount of slick starting to form. Lays back and closes his eyes, tries to breathe through the cramps that come next, and the headache, heart pounding. The need. The need, the need, the need.
He cries.
Things are better, in the days after their visit to the Madison's. It is easier for Burr to be around Hamilton, and his family. Spends less time shut up in his room, and his skin gets some color. And Hamilton smiles more. Seems younger, each time he spots Burr, years melting off his face, each time bringing Burr up short.
When had he begun looking so old? So worn, and stress marked? Had Burr done that? Bent his shoulders and marked his face and made him a touch too thin? They aren't that old, either of them, but--older than either of their parents lived to be, though it's possible Hamilton's father is kicking around somewhere, still. One can never be sure, with connections such as those.
They aren't whole yet. That will perhaps take time. And Burr is still so angry, sometimes. Wakes in the middle of the night wanting to cry or punch something. Sometimes he cannot look at Hamilton at all. Yet the episodes grow fewer and farther between. He is used to coping with emotions on his own, and this is something he can't burden Hamilton with. How much more would it add to Alexander's daily pains, his already unearned guilt, to know that some part of Burr feels broken and abandoned, for something that was not Hamilton's fault.
Hamilton had forgiven Burr so easily, but still--
Sometimes he cannot look in the mirror. Avoids raising his head, as he gets ready in the mornings. Things he doesn't dwell on.
As it is, the heat comes as suddenly and unexpectedly as the last. Another nightmare, the same. That something like this could happen again, that he would never be safe. He shouldn't have stopped taking those suppressants at all, regardless of what Ned said.
Yet. He isn't around anyone. Him and Theodosia are sitting in the little park across from their townhome--a small wild area, soon to be developed, when he realizes he has begun to drift. When time gets away from him, and Theodosia asks a question he has not the mental faculties to answer.
Always disoriented, at the start of his heats, before he even begins to give off those pheromones. Theodosia asks what is wrong, and he forces a smile. But his hands shake, when he pushes to his feet, and he stumbles and has to be caught my her.
"I'm afraid I don't feel well, darling. No need to worry. I think an evening nap might be in order--" but he sounds strained to his own ears, and his heart is hammering, as his eyes dart around. There could be anyone here, anyone passing, and if they happened to be an alpha--
Theodosia, dear and wonderful and everything to him, hurries him home, as his legs begin to shake more and more. The house is empty, but the panic continues to swell in his chest. Hamilton on business, the children out with their tutor. Burr excuses himself, bids her attend supper, and shuts himself in his room as he feels that awful heat start, bluming, between his legs. Locks the door. Shoves a chair beneath the handle, for good measure.
Turns towards his dresser, fumbling through his bottles for the scent reducers, but damn Hamilton, he has taken that too. And his legs are starting to give, buckle, as he stumbles towards the bed. He can feel the barest amount of slick starting to form. Lays back and closes his eyes, tries to breathe through the cramps that come next, and the headache, heart pounding. The need. The need, the need, the need.
He cries.
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The first time Hamilton smelled anything like this, he marked Burr in a different way. Now, he is not such a wild youth, controlled by his instincts. He considers it, slow, as he croons acceptance and reassurance at Burr.
No, he is not overwhelmed by Burr's heat, by his smell. When he releases hot, pheromone-ridden fluid into Burr, it is a conscious choice, a different kind of relief found deep within. Not embarrassed at this, not shocked at his lack of control, but confident, that this is what Burr wants to feel, that he wants to be so claimed and so marked and so possessed. He makes a satisfied sound, smells a hint of it as a few drops leak around his cock, palpable among all the smells in the filthy mess between Burr's legs. It satisfies him to imagine, somehow, that all the fluid from them both has washed any last remnant of any other alpha out of Burr. That, in being so soiled, he is in another sense clean.
"Now you have all of me," he murmurs, at Burr's ear. "You feel it? You're mine."
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Rubs, until his hand wraps around his own throat. Squeezing, turning his head to one side, feeling the bruises, the marks. He clenches again, a little jerk that he is unable to fight, that raises his back of the floor, and his legs slide against the floor, pushing, stretching, not unlike a cat. Satisfied, yes, he is satisfied.
"Yours," Burr breathes, and he pulls Hamilton down to him, licks lazy and hard into his mouth, bites down on his lip, before trailing tongue downward, lapping over that spot. Biting down, hard, without warning. Drawing blood, lapping and sucking iron from Hamilton's skin.
"Yours," he says, breathless, as he pulls away. Red smeared around his mouth, and he holds out his other hand, extends his ring finger. Waits, looking at Hamilton through his eye lashes.
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It is a sweet pain -- a place scarred, from being bitten so many times. So many heats, so many times he has made love to this precious man, and never enough.
He is, again, slow to comprehend, but when he does, he smiles something brilliant and thrilled and relieved. His heart leaps, and he fumbles for the rings on the chain around his neck. Has to pull away from Burr to do it, and they stick together, a bit, with the drying sweat, but he gets the chain free, catches the two tumbling rings in his palm, and takes Burr's hand to kiss it, to set those rings back where they belong, the strangely naked hand set back the way it should be.
"My love," and Hamilton shifts up to kiss him, over and over, delighted and fervdent, "my love, my love," murmuring it straight into Burr's mouth, tasting their blood -- oh, neither of them has ever been afraid to buy happiness in blood, to buy freedom in blood.
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He feels good now, better. Warm. And he likes still the weight of Hamilton's body on his. Pulls Hamilton down against him, angles his head beside Burr's, on a little lump of blanket, so he can latch on again to Hamilton's throat and stay there. Just another part, held, as his arm wind around his husband's body.
He is fucking forward, grinding himself on Hamilton's knot, just to feel it in his body. They will have to seperate soon. To eat and drink, but Burr doesn't want to. Beginning to doze, pressed this way against Hamilton, so safe and soft and warm.
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It cannot last forever, as much as he wills himself to stay hard and swollen in the soft heat of Burr's body. Eventually, he must release, and the fluid that flows from Burr must be uncomfortable.
"Darling," he murmurs, "I'm going to call for a sponge bath. I'll be just back. I'm not going far." He kisses Burr's temple and slips away, ringing the bell for the housekeeper, and asking through the door for a basin and a few fresh towels. Back in the closet, he finds a linen sheet that survived unscathed by virtue of not being pulled down off the shelf, and he spreads it in front of the fire, which he pokes into fresh life.
Finally, he goes back and scoops Burr up, under shoulders and knees, and carries him to the hearth, lays him out, murmuring let me take care of you, and you're safe, you're safe, and crooning in approval and satisfaction as he shifts Burr's legs apart to show his spend, his urine leaking free.
It isn't long before he retrieves the basin, and the towels, and begins to sponge Burr off. He focuses first on the fever-sweat from the heat: at Burr's forehead, his throat, in his hair. Under his arms, where Hamilton pauses, briefly, to breathe in the concentrated pheromones. His arms, aglow from the fireplace.
"You are so beautiful," he breathes. "How could I be so lucky, as to have you? You grow more stunning every instant. You take my breath; you make my heart leap when you spare me but a moment's affection." His smell is warm, safe, love, love.
He saves the ruin he's made of Burr's cunt for last, avoiding it, for now.
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Hamilton spreads his legs, and Burr hums, opens them further. He isn't desperate, but his cock is still half hard, and he expects for all he feels satisfied and lazy to still be fucked. Hormones, or habit, making him present himself a little, and preens when Hamilton croons, when Burr flexes his muscles and more cum leaks out.
He is still wearing his stockings, and stretches lazily, showing himself off. Let's Hamilton maneuver his body as he wishes. He doesn't think he has ever felt so content, or so loved. Small.
When Hamilton speaks, Burr cries. He soaks in each word like a wound, curling his fingers into Hamilton's skin, breathing him, and allowing himself to be washed, infantile.
And he wants, in that same lazy way. He wants to give what Hamilton gives. Caresses his cheek with shaking fingers, transfixed, at the way the fire catches his eyes. He wants to bath him, and tugs hard enough to make Hamilton roll, to catch himself over Burr.
Another rag in the basin, and Burr lift it with clumsy fingers, shaking fingers, presses it to Hamilton's forehead, watches the water run down. Little, small, ineffective strokes. Over torso, and arms, neck and face. Washing Hamilton as Hamilton washes him. Watching Hamilton. Looking, looking. Drowning in him.
He wants to help, to give, but he is so tired, and it is hard, to keep his arms raised. Whines, when he drops the rags. Heavy. So heavy. The way he sometimes gets, after heats.
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He finally washes between Burr's legs, and he is so gentle here. First his thighs, the track-marks of liquid dripping down, the tacky places where long strings of slick have smeared. Where the soft, short hair has wetted into clumps, gently teasing it apart and clean. Not surprised to find that some has leaked down past his other hole, even some at the small of his back. And then, so softly, between his folds, swollen and reddened, even dipping just slightly into his body. Stroke after stroke, slow, long, gentle, and when Burr's body works and a fresh rush of come spills from him, Hamilton wipes that up too. Until he starts to see the glisten of fresh arousal.
"Oh, are you not clean yet?" he murmurs. "Perhaps I'll need a different tool, for such a difficult task." He steals a pillow to go under Burr's hips, and then bends down to kiss him on the entrance to his body, hot and sore. He licks, even more gently than he used the towel, if such a thing is possible. Not pushing Burr towards any real climax, but lingering as long as Burr seems to find pleasure in his attentions.
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Hamilton isn't harsh, or fast. Doesn't push, or take. He lavishes--gentle, soft strokes. Soothing abused flesh, massaging, working free small rolls of pleasure, that make Burr work his hips lazily. Not really moving, but rocking a bit against him. Eyes closed.
He likes this, when Hamilton uses Burr's body, when Burr is limp and unresisting. It makes him feel good, like a good onega, when Hamilton is such a lovely alpha. Never quite gotten over him--how wonderful and accomodating and firey. How in love he is. How much he loves Burr. What devotion, that Burr had thought he would never deserve. The kind of love Hamilton deserves, ten times over. Burr can offer him only himself, and the deepest affections one man can offer.
"I want--" a sharp inhale, "--I want another child. Alexander," looking down at him, for all he can barely raise his head. For all his words are slurred and slow and clumsy. He wants to give Hamilton everything. He joked, once, about a dozen children. Burr could at least give them seven.
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If it were only up to him, if he weren't driven half-crazed with lust still, he would hesitate. Once, decades ago, they built a bridge over the endlessly deep chasm between them, built it solid, laid every brick and board and did it for themselves but also for Theodosia. As with all things, it rusted, over time. It was damaged. This, recently, nearly demolished it entirely, and what they have constructed since Jefferson groans under any real weight. He isn't sure he trusts it with a child. He isn't sure that Burr doesn't just want it because he wants to give something to Hamilton, though he doesn't owe Hamilton anything.
On top of that, his health is fragile, and Hamilton frets over that most of all. What if Burr is hurt, during this? What if he --
But Burr's words, his clear expressions of sentiment, are few, and Hamilton has learned to trust them when they are said.
He shifts up and takes Burr in his arms again, bringing him now to the bed, where he pulls back the blanket and settles Burr in, crawling over him and kissing him again, again, again. He would greet a child with such joy.
"You must be sore," he breathes, "do you want it again? Do you want me to seed you again?" He will be gentle.
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He is a need--an open wound. Always, that tension between them, of two who have always needed too much, and yet denied that need, loudly or in quiet, desperate starts, for all that desire formatted them.
He has nothing to give Hamilton. Nothing Hamilton has not already had. He has opened himself, yet feels stopped up, in quiet, isolated moments, not by himself, but by the blinding wall of Hamilton's devotion. By the things Hamilton won't tell him, for want of hurting him.
Hamilton, who would do anything for him, even as it hurt, and who would carry on hurting, content to mask his own pains in the service of others.
No, they aren't like they were before. They could crumple, with a sharp breeze. And perhaps they could always fit the pieces back together, but yet--
It wouldn't be the same. It wasn't the same, already. But he wants.
Hamilton took him once, when they were desperate in the same way. And Burr laid before him, twisting in lust on that little bed in a small, musty room. Nothing had felt enough then, to balm the wanting that seemed endless. Hamilton's body in his--a brief respite that seemed like salvation yet fled again just as quickly.
He can't offer anything more, or take anything more. They've had each other in every way, any way. They can only repeat those same motions, again and again, and gather the diffuse scraps of something built in remembrance of the past or hope for the future. Something that can only be fulfilled once it has gone.
Still, he wants, and he opens himself, and he lets Hamilton balm him. And hopes.
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He pulls back enough to settle a pillow under Burr's hips, to put his body perfectly and fully at ease.
"You can go to sleep, love," he murmurs, and kisses Burr's collarbone, his throat, his cheek. "I'll have you. You can let go." His free hand, petting down Burr's ribs, the delicate curve inward from his hip. A body he has come to know better than his own. Burr's hands have molded Hamilton, and Hamilton's have molded Burr. They aren't the same, without each other. They built each other like they built a country. Like they built their bridge. "I love you, I love you," whispered against Burr's shoulder.
A knife of need, in Hamilton's belly. He needs Burr, always. Wants to be in him forever, the whole depth of him. "How are you like this?" A soft, wondering query. "How are you so soft and so yielding and so strong?" The narrow passage that hugs him in welcome as he slowly presses inward, but that stretched to birth every one of their children. The languid liquid of Burr's form, prone, that can erect itself into fierce bravery, that fought the British and carried a child all at once.
He bends down to kiss the silver stretch-scars left by the past. Relics of the pain that was necessary to make their family. Kisses the soft and quiescent cock resting against Burr's belly.
Burr's eyes are closed, and Hamilton makes love to him slow enough to let his husband rest. Long pauses, where he is buried to the root, and he just stays, watches Burr breathe, feels the slow beat of Burr's heart hot within him. Smooths down the soft hair on his thighs, bends to kiss warm and soft skin.
He doesn't actually realize that he's knotted, because he is so entranced, until he goes to pull away and finds that Burr is tight around him, holding him inside. A swell of feeling, an unwinding of some tight emotion inside him, and he spills rapturous inside Burr's sweet, yielding form, comes thickly and copiously.
He turns them both onto their sides, facing one another, and wraps Burr close in his arms as his knot throbs and throbs. This, this is right. This is how they should be, always.
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He wakes with his head buried in Hamilton's neck, wrapped in his arms, Hamilton sleeping. Soft, liquid sunlight spilling through their bedroom window, landing on the mess that is always present on Hamilton's little desk. Not his study, but the place Hamilton works to be near Burr.
Burr has no such space in Hamilton's study. What does that say about them? His hand drifts lower, to his belly. Presses, as if he could feel some hint of what is happening inside. Could know if anything had taken root, or if--
His stomach growls. His mouth is dry, yet he leans forward to give Hamilton tentative little licks, over his neck and jaw. Grooms him, as his hands roam. Petting. Loving.
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"There's been a terrible mistake," he murmurs, nuzzling. Kisses Burr's nose and his brow. "I don't think anyone this beautiful could possibly be in love with me."
The stale heat-smells hover between pleasant and unpleasant, sweat and spend and spice.
"Are you thirsty? Hungry?" He doesn't remember unknotting, slipping out of Burr's body. He fell asleep still inside.
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He can't tear his eyes off Hamilton, the way he looks in the sunlight. Tan skin, and pretty little golden strands that catch the sun.
"I'd wondered once the same thing," Burr says. "How a pregnant little omega had the fortune to find one who could love them so dearly," and though Hamilton needs to leave Burr finds himself wrapped in him. Legs tangled together, limb clinging, for all his body is spoiled with stale, dried spend.
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"Didn't I tell you then?" he asks. "War is full of nice, obliging alphas. You could have had any of them." A ghost of the wicked little grin, which was so much more common when he was a youth. "Of course, I am the best of the lot."
He goes in to kiss Burr, and swerves: kisses his hand, and his ringed fingers, instead.
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"You are the best," Burr says, where he might have delivered a playful barb. He is feeling strangely sentimental, love-drunk. "Thank you for taking care of me."
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"Even if you never give me another child," he says, "I'll love you all the same. You know you don't need to prove anything to me, and you don't owe anything. Not to me, not to anyone."
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"I want to give you anything it's possible for a person to give. I love you." Simple, helpless. Not only because he wants to give, but because he wants the things Hamilton wants: he wants them to be happy, he wants to have children, he wants to approach some approximation of who they were before.
And, most selfishly, he wants to go home. To that isolated manor by the river. The place they have raised their children, the place they have shared so many pleasant days.
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A little sigh, closing his eyes. He doesn't want to think about such things. Himself, like that, and Hamilton hurting. His hands roam, rubbing up and down Hamilton's back, stroking up his spine.
"Alexander, please take me home. Do we not deserve some time for just ourselves, our family?"
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A slow smile spreads on Hamilton's face. Suddenly, that sounds perfect. An idyl, a heaven.
"Give me a week," he says, "to conclude my business here, and then -- do you want to go first? I can start preparations today."
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"I don't want to go without you," Burr says. "We're parted so often, now." Hamilton on business, Burr on business. How many days out of the year do they even sleep beside one another?
One of the reasons he likes being pregnant--Hamilton is more often near, and Burr cannot travel so far for work.
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Yes, he should have no problems packing up the household with the assistance of the servants. Some will accompany them back, but the other two--the married couple, will stay here, keeping house. They have children in the city--grown. And if they decide to sublet, the servants will need to be present.
He stretches on the bed, pushing his body down into the mattress, waiting for Hamilton to return. He isn't especially fond of eating, but does need it in times like these, and Hamilton is good about coaxing him.
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And then he tucks himself in next to his husband, kissing Burr's temple. "How do you feel?"
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