amrev_intrigues

psl b4?

The pregnancy seems to have entered a new phase, after bail is posted, after Burr's claim of him on a hard and wooden bench in a filthy cell. Alexander can't stop thinking about it. His mind catches on the glide of Burr's cock-head, spreading his slit; he replays, again and again, the sensation of Burr's cock digging at the entrance to his womb, just this side of painful, and how his body welled with welcoming, wet slick at every slow thrust. Burr's body against his. Needy, broken pieces of himself, spasming around the cherished intrusion. How he was pressed back down into the bench and used, fucked on Burr's knot while claiming-marking urine leaked out of him --

He became a different creature, just then. Burr claimed him, and Alexander doesn't know what it means. He is frightened of how close Burr is to him, and frightened even more of losing that closeness. He shares Burr's bed, every night. He has vivid nightmares that he doesn't remember on waking. And if they awaken him in the middle of the night, he burrows under the covers and licks at Burr's soft cock, suckles it into his mouth, until Burr is awake and willing to pleasure him back to sleep. He is guilty for it, for interrupting Burr's sleep, but he always forgets his guilt when Burr's fingers are inside him or Burr's mouth is on him or even just Burr's sleepy voice telling him he's beautiful while he pulls himself off.

But there is a change. He is ravenous, and he longs for strange things, one day repulsed and the next day drawn to a particular food. The nausea isn't just in the mornings, now, but can strike at any time during the day. His back hurts, and he isn't even carrying much extra weight, though he's starting to think that maybe the swell at his stomach is large, unusually so. And his nipples ache, in a way that seems periodically echoed through the flesh beneath.

He asks Burr, hesitating, to bring a midwife to the home. Burr suggests a doctor, as well, and Alexander blanches, knowing the judgment that a gentleman might bring to their situation.

"Should we," and he swallows, dreading and wanting. "Should we marry first?"

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"He believes you rejected him, at any rate, if not ejected," Hosack returns, without rancor. He's well aware of the tendencies of both of them to exaggeration and to dramatics.

A shake of his head. "Yes, I've seen him." He laughs. "If I weren't a happily married man... And, of course, if he didn't put off the smell of a mated omega at fifteen paces."

Another sigh.

"Aaron," he says, "the man's nineteen years old -- if that! -- pregnant, and unmarried, and an omega. And the damned idiot won't even admit he's at a disadvantage, much less that you could hurt him. I had to press him for days before he even admitted you made promises."

Nineteen. Nineteen. Burr's impregnated a nineteen year old, held him accountable for the actions of a forty year old, years before. In what way did the reincarnated bear the maturity and age of the one who came before? Certainly Hamilton did not remember as a child what had happened. Was not a fifty year old at five. And he's not the same now as he was then, before. He's hardly an adult.

Burr feels ill, as he has since reading the letter. But he's so angry. If Hamilton is so different now, what right did he have to offer forgiveness for the other? How seperated are they? It's too much to work out, the tangle of guilt and responsibility and personhood. He would have been more than happy to ignore it.

"I intended to keep them," the promises, "but he wouldnt have me. It's been a damn mess, trying to convince him to give up his old profession and do something more befitting his intellect. You can imagine his feelings regarding marriage."

Ah, but something more pressing. Hosack is a doctor.

"Did you examine him?" Burr asks, suddenly finding his coffee very interesting.

"Certainly I did!" huffs Hosack. "A repeat with such detailed memories, and such a close physical resemblance, is a medical marvel, and I hope he allows me to publish the case study -- details altered, of course --"

And he stops, and laughs at himself. "Of course, that isn't what you meant," he says. "Forgive me. He is healthy, astonishingly so, given his profession, though his nerves are unacceptably stressed, and he is too thin."

He looks levelly at Burr. "Have you heard of the stethoscope?" Holds up a hand, to indicate that this is going somewhere, Burr should bear with him. "It's a new invention, a marvelous idea. A way to hear the heartbeat, the functioning of the lungs and the organs. It has very promising application in the treatment of those with child, because the heartbeat of the child can distinguished..." He pauses. "Fetal heartbeats are soft, and so I cannot say for certain until it is confirmed by another physician."

A beat.

"I believe I found two fetal heartbeats," he says, softer. "Twins, Aaron."

Burr stands, suddenly. Nearly dumps his coffee onto the floor, paces behind the couch, one fist pressed over his mouth. His face betrays nothing, but inside his heart is pounding.

"What does that mean for him?" Burr asks. "For his health? He is so--he is so small. And young. It must be harder, mustn't it? To carry two?"

He tries to keep his voice level, but he thinks there is a little waiver, which makes him blush. But there is something else, too. A little pleased feeling, in his guts. That he was so effective as to impregnate Hamilton twice over. To make him swollen and fat with Burr's seed, Burr's children, in a way no one else was able. A little stirring in his cock, as well, that he forces down.

"It is more difficult," he allows, gentle. "Most obviously, he'll need to carry a greater weight, and eat for three -- but the stain on his body will be significant." He smiles, a little. "Ah, Alexander, though -- he's strong."

He studies Burr, for a long moment.

"He looks up every time the door opens," the doctor tells him. "Every time a carriage passes. He goes quiet, whenever I speak of you -- otherwise, he interrupts every other word. Aaron, I can't fathom how you've done it, but you've gotten him tied in knots over you."

Tied in knots. Looking towards the door. Burr should go to him. He should go to him right now and apologize. And yet--its hard. Why is it so hard.

"I can't," Burr says, the words tripping out of him. "I'm not--I'm so angry. For something that wasn't even--was it him?" Burr asks, and he's not sure what he's asking. If madness or reiteration made them too different to account.

"I thought we could ignore it, but--he needs so much. And I'm--afraid." Chokes a little, when he says. Doesn't want to admit.

"Questions I can't answer," Hosack admits. "To be frank, I hope studying him can lead us closer to the answers -- but, my friend, don't you think he struggles with the same questions? Do you think him any less afraid than you?"

He heaves himself to his feet.

"They do need, sometimes, don't they?" he asks. "I consider it little enough a price, for my part. My late wife and my current wife both forged forth with the strength of soldiers, risking live and health to bring our children into the world. But Alexander is something else, of course. He would never be content in the home. He'll be a handful." It is strange, to decide how to talk about him: like he would talk about a young, headstrong omega, or how he would talk about his departed friend.

A small price, Hosack thinks, for what is given. And Hamilton won't be satisfied, will he? With such a small part of Burr? He wants all of it. Those parts carved and pitted from years before.

And he's scared too. Must be, the same way Burr is of him. The words don't seem so much like haughtiness and pride. Perhaps they were desperate little offerings. Something someone nineteen with memories they didn't want could hardly understand.

"I'll go to him," Burr says suddenly. "If he'll see me. Though I can't promise it won't end in yelling. I--allow me to bathe and dress."

"To borrow a phrase from your esteemed profession," says Hosack, dryly, "I believe I've already assumed the risk of that."

At least he can ensure there will be no pistols this time, no dawn-meeting with death. And he knows truly that Alexander's life is entirely safe in Burr's hands. He thinks that Alexander knows it too.

"I would recommend both," he says, "bathing, particularly, and a bit of the stew left on the stove."

--

At first, Alexander thinks: he only didn't cry at the news because he was out of tears. Because surely the fact that there are twins, two little fused creatures made of him and Burr growing within him, is enough reason to cry -- from the risk and pain, or from happiness, either way. Instead, he finds himself curling up in a small guest bedroom on a small guest bed, hugging his middle with a soft and secret joy. Not one that brings him to tears but one that suffuses and calms. His hopes are dashed and his plans are in ruins and he is grieving, grieving, and all he can do is whisper I love you, my darlings, my darlings.

The next morning, to his gratitude, Hosack's wife has procured for him a sort of half-corset, not for binding tight but for supporting the growing weight at his chest, while leaving room for his belly to grow. It immediately helps with the persistent and illogical pain at his lower back, though doesn't eliminate it entirely. He has uncomfortable visions of his organs being pressed and shifted to accommodate his new burden.

Hosack has already left on an errand, and Alexander sets to writing down some of his earliest memories. He doesn't want to relive them, but he can't deny that he owes them for their help, and the idea that his mind might be important to the world again is a heady one.

He looks up, as always, when the door opens: he imagines, as always, that it will be Burr with his dark and glittering eyes, that he will come and sweep Alexander into his arms like some absurd and romantic novel. He doesn't expect Burr to come after him. He wants it, though. Hosack and his wife have already implied, strongly, that Alexander's duty was to return -- to his children, to Burr. It's not an omega's place to do what he wants to do, and he sees Hosack struggling between Alexander-as-Alexander and Alexander-as-omega. -- Ah, but, are they wrong? Alexander has been selfish. He has taken and taken from Burr, and what has he given, in return? Just his body, and he has been demanding even in that.

So vivid is his fantasy that it takes him one blink, too, to see that Burr is truly there, at the guest room's door. Alexander is on his feet as he realizes. He is stunned silent, that Burr is here, and he is afraid, too, instantly, that Burr is here for some other, meaner reason.

Edited 2022-07-16 17:13 (UTC)

He lays eyes on him, for the first time in six days, and he's breathless. He looks--he looks bigger, but too thin, as Hosack said. Pale and wan, but still healthy. Still swollen, with those things growing in him.

"I'm--" Burr starts, stops. Alexander blinking at him. He wishes only that he could cross the room and take him into his arms and not worry any about words. But, well. He's Alexander. He'll need words. "I don't hate you," Burr says, cringes when he says it. "I can't forgive Alexander, the other one, for what he did. But that doesn't mean--I still--"

"He, you--he was mad at the end, you see. He wasn't himself." Burr is blushingly wildly. He feels like he's defending something, old and passed and tattered. He's talking like a lover. Defending the old Alexander like a lover. And he did want him then, in that way. Perhaps that's why it's been so bitter, stuck with him the longest.

"I don't hold you accountable for it," Burr says. "I don't hate you. I want you to come home. I'm--you know--I love you."

He fingers the ring in his pocket, pulls it out to settle heavy in his palm. "And I want to marry you."

Is this why everything is so different? He was mad at the end. Alexander is frowning, not at the sentiment, but because the idea makes his mind spin and spin. It doesn't feel as though he was mad, then. It feels as though the world around him was one thing and now it is another. It feels that what is real upended itself, with Burr at the center. He's pretended past it, imagined that things have just changed, or that he was wrong, but he'd been so certain then, even awash in his soul's agony, from his son's death. He even misses that certainty, sometimes.

Why don't you love me? Why don't you love me enough? -- is what he wanted to ask when he wrote that letter. Is that what he really wanted to know? Or was there a more devastating question lurking just out of reach?

He twitches forward, towards Burr. Come home. He wants to come home.

"But I remember it," protests Alexander, desperately. "I remember choosing it. It was so clear -- I wanted to damn you, and I wanted it so much." He tangles his fingers in his own hair, his grip a tight fist. "I was him, I was -- if I'm not him, who am I?"

"You're you," Burr says, and he's crying a bit, and he doesn't know why. "You're my Alexander," gentle hands reaching out to guide those away from Hamilton's hair. And if Alexander will let him, he'll hold him--collapse against Alexander's chest and breathe.

He's trembling. Aren't they both, now? And scared? But what way is there but forward, clinging?

Burr unknots his fingers and, in a different way, pulls, delicately, at the strings that might, someday, unknot his mind. Alexander closes his eyes and noses against Burr, blindly. A rearing, furious thing in him wants to spurn Burr and claim his identity, bind himself to the fey version of himself who spiraled inexorably towards his own death. It's what Alexander Hamilton would have done, if he were transported here and now.

He can't blame the rest on biology. Not even if the smell (of his mate) hits his nose and breaks him out in pleasant shivers. He doesn't want to die, though. He doesn't feel the same hopeless, helpless rage at the absence his son left in his life. He wants to breathe, he wants to go on, he wants to look towards a future, and even though the future with Burr could be cut short, any time, any instant, he wants to live it.

His Alexander. Alexander's mate.

Burr loves him enough to come after him, and he doesn't look like he was dragged there by Hosack. Isn't that what Alexander wished for?

"I'm sorry," and once he says it, it falls from him, again, again: "I'm sorry for him, I'm so sorry," not for what he did to himself but for what he did to Eliza and Burr and the children and the country.

Burr hold him, and marks him. Rubs scent onto skin from his own. Something that might be done when mating, but might also be done to soothe. A display of devotion.

Hamilton apologizes, apologizes, so different from the Hamilton he one knew, and Burr silences him, takes each apology into his mouth, hold it there, slow and needy. Should Burr apologize too? He has, but the words, those simple small ones--

Burr had thrown one forgiveness back at him, yet now he yearns for it. He takes the ring and presses it into Alexander's hand. Writes his own apology in small displays of submission, now--bares his throat and goes to his knees, for all his arms still cling to Hamilton's pant leg.

His fingers curl around the back of Burr's head, and his wrist, another place where scent rises from the body, presses against Burr's throat -- before withdrawing, enough to place his hand in Burr's. Delicate, the way a bride would, to invite a ring placed.

"I don't promise obedience," and Alexander's voice is hushed. "Any vow of faithfulness could be rightfully doubted. But I promise, I vow, I will love and honor and keep you." His thumb brushes away the tears that have already worked themselves free from Burr's eyes. "We may register it for the --" A soft breath. "The twins." The twins. "But my promise is for you. You are the only witness who matters to me."

He is giddy with nerves, sick with the wrenching change from grief to incredulous joy. He is casting himself wildly into an unknown future. If Burr puts that ring on his finger, now, he will consider himself married, in all the ways that matter.

Burr does. God help him, he does. Slides the ring onto Hamilton's finger and then covers the hand with his own. It is too painful to look at, too beautiful, too wonderful, too much. He kisses Hamilton's hand--each finger, and then presses it to the side of his face. Holds.

"I can't promise either--" Burr says. "Faithfulness, or to be always kind. I think we shall snap at one another a good deal, and fight when we ought not to. But I promise to love you, and care for you, when it is needed. And to allow you also your freedom, to make awful personal and political decisions, so long as you come home to me after."

He waits for Hamilton--to tell Burr when to rise, to nudge him to his feet. Gives him these small things, that he needs so badly.

There is another thing--

"How old are you, really? Don't lie to me again. Hosack said you are not more than nineteen."

He is about to, when the question takes him by surprise. He half-laughs; his eyes are blurred with tears. "Oh," he says. "Oh. I didn't want you to pity me, was all. I thought I could bear anything but pity." A breath. The new presence on his ring finger astonishes him. It seems to make an electric connection all the way to his heart. "He is a doctor, and so I told him true. I was born in December, 1806." This would make him nineteen.

Though it does give rise to a new mystery: where was he, between July, 1804, and his conception? Was his soul in another child, one that never was old enough for him to remember? Was he in Heaven? Hell? Some aetheric medium between them? Did he choose to return?

It will be Hosack's disappointment, Alexander thinks, that he doesn't know.

Alexander pulls him up. "Come here," he says, "come here and kiss me." Though it's really Alexander who kisses first, who kisses like claiming, because he is giddy and happy and because he thinks it would make Burr happy to be claimed too.

Burr thinks Hamilton might be lying. That he is younger than he says. It's been easy for Hamilton to convince himself of lies in the past. To defend then like truths.

But then Hamilton is pulling him up, kissing him, and Burr lets himself be claimed. Makes a little pleased sound, and lets his hands wander down, cupping Hamilton's stomach, jutting between them.

"Twins," Burr says, against skin. "you're going to get so big," a little tease, but he loves the idea.

He gives a little bite to Burr’s gland, just a moment of teeth’s grip without bruising, without hurting. It seems to give him some confidence. He flushes, at Burr’s words, fusses with some imagined wrinkle in Burr’s cravat.

“It wasn’t recorded,” he says, in a rush, “my birth — my mother told me after but I don’t know if she remembered right. It’s my best guess. It’s the closest I have to truth, to give you.” He meets Burr’s eyes, firmly. “I don’t want pity. I thought to myself, if I did not know for sure, then it wasn’t really a lie, but that itself is a lie. I have already demanded from you that which I wasn’t willing to give,” and he means the affection that Burr showed him, and his aloof, withdrawn response. His fear. “I’m willing, now. I will try to be willing.” This is determined. Alexander demands a great deal of himself when he is at his best, and he has languished without employing his willpower for, it feels, a long time. Or at least his willpower was only employed in his survival, without ambition for more.

His hand rests on his belly. “I never go in half-measures,” he says, ruefully. “I said I’d give you a son — I suppose I omitted I’d try for a daughter, too.” Jesting, because of course he had no choice in it, except inasmuch as he felt his body open itself to Burr, to the lovely attentions in that lovely heat.

A little gasp, and shudder, when Hamilton bites down on his gland.

"So confident are you, that you shall not bear two boys, or two girls?" Burr asks, but of course, more likely--that they shall have neither. That one or both shall die, during birth or after. Things best not to think about.

"I think you shall get very demanding, soon. More than you've been. What will you do when you can't reach your own cock?" Burr asks, though he knows--Hamilton will have to rely on Burr. Won't be able to get any relief of animal needs without him. He doesn't want to keep Hamilton pregnant and naked in his home forever...but just for a little while, the end of this pregnancy, sounds very appealing. Burr had though, before, years ago, that it would be a good way to keep Hamilton out of politics, or to shut him up--shove a cock in him. And he'd absolutely not entertained those fantasies a number of times.

Edited 2022-07-18 18:47 (UTC)

"No," he whispers, "no, I'm not confident. But I hope -- and the odds are -- that there will be a boy." And he wants a son, again.

The reality of it scares him: they will grow, and then they will need to come out of him, and the violence of it will be awful, he thinks. But women and omegas survive it all the time. It can't be much more hazardous than the war he already waged.

"My cock, I think I'll reach. My cunt, another matter entirely -- will you ply me with your tongue, then?" His skin is hot. This isn't their home, and he should not rile Burr the way he wants to. "What if I want to fuck you? I do, now. I should punish you for what you said. I should have you rough -- and bite you -- and show you belong to me, not to whomever else you visited." The absurdity of someone so young staking a claim on someone so much their elder... Ah, but Alexander wants it anyway.

Burr's skin burns too, at Hamilton's words. Yes, he wants to take it. He wants Hamilton to punish him, to do the things he pays whores to do. Never quite satisfying, from them. But from Hamilton, for Hamilton--

"Yes," Burr breathes, pupils dilated. "Yes, you should punish me. What's to stop me from doing it again? From bending over some whore's bed, if you can't control your mate? I've been very bad, Alexander, and they've had me in all sorts of ways." And he's clutching on now, pulling them back towards the little guest bed. Oh, he hopes they're loud enough to disturb Hosack.

"I let them inside me, and I let them hit me, and I even fucked a few of them, came inside them. What are you going to do?"

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psl b4?

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