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amrev_intrigues2022-04-22 04:14 am
slowtoanger) wrote in amrev_intrigues2022-04-22 04:14 am
Private Storyline 2
Things seem to stall for a month, or rather slip into a routine, a delicate balance that teters on the edge of a tension difficult to dissect.
Hamilton won't stop feeding Burr, stealing him bits of food, watching at mealtimes to ensure Burr eats some incomprehensible measure from the table.
Burr had tried to take advantage of the public nature of that tradition, to eat bare scraps while Hamilton glared, beneath Washington's gaze, but when they had been once again alone Hamilton had refused to leave until Burr embibed enough food to make his stomach ache.
His sickness eases, but does not vanish. Mornings bent low over a basin and heaving while Hamilton attempts to cover for him to an increasingly agitated Washington. Underperforming--that is what Washington says. Disgraceful. He thinks these morning spells of illness the results of intemperance with ale, no doubt.
But the nights--those are the worst. Because he cannot stop aching for them. For the moments when he can curl against Hamilton's skin, close his eyes and pretend it is another body, if only the scent were not so different.
Even if he is not Monty, Burr aches for those scraps of affection, clinging to him the way one might cling to a rock in a storming ocean. Grows terrified that Hamilton might leave as much as he tries to convince himself he does not need him. But the emotions, once allowed to be felt, cannot be easily stopped up again. It is too easy to find himself drifting towards Hamilton during the day. Wanting to touch him, be touched. Held. Perhaps even groomed, though the thought makes him blush with shame and embarrassment.
His bedroom becomes too comfortable, allows them to slip too close to intimacy. Burr had nearly cried, when Hamilton presented him that blanket. Not enough for a real nest, but enough to fuss with on the bed for long minutes, make something resembling a nest. Burr had lost everything, in the retreat from quebec--but at least now he had a blanket.
He can't look at Hamilton's face, each night he fusses with the bedding, every stereotype he every rallied against. Any inadequacy of that nest quickly erased by the warmth of Hamilton's body.
Too close to hide the swelling, the changes. Close as a lover. Burr doesn't think of what they are--can't. Takes these liberties as they are--stolen and shameful.
With all the food, the extra smuggled bits, Burr is starting to show. And his hunger isn't leaving, never sated, but he is growing ravenous, and each day the question of what to do is more and more urgent. Soon Hamilton won't let Burr put it off anymore, and what then?
For all of it, his worrying about propriety, he balks in the face of some lie. Burr's reputation matters, is vitally important, but at the same time, he cares not for manufactured conventions. Would have no problem being seen as a loose omega, if only he were established enough for such things to not ruin him.
Even so, he is nearly unable to fasten his breeches, and the skin around his stomach, stretched, begins to grow sores, from the too tight waistband, the chaffing. Built for soldiers losing weight, not gaining, and Burr has always been slight. He takes to binding his stomach, tight beneath bandages, but then he is wracked with cramps, which grow worse each day.
It doesn't occur to him that this might hurt the child, this last bit of Monty, which has grown so dear to him. Finds himself clutching his stomach unconsciously in stolen moments, on the verge of tears. Watches the rise and fall for long moments, in the morning and at night, as if at any moment the slight bump might disappear entirely.
Now he is dressing again, binding his stomach once more, to force himself into his breeches, another day of Washington's disappointment. Burr snorts--at least in this there is some bitter mercy--Washington probably thinks Burr is growing fat from drink, if he's noticed at all.
Hamilton won't stop feeding Burr, stealing him bits of food, watching at mealtimes to ensure Burr eats some incomprehensible measure from the table.
Burr had tried to take advantage of the public nature of that tradition, to eat bare scraps while Hamilton glared, beneath Washington's gaze, but when they had been once again alone Hamilton had refused to leave until Burr embibed enough food to make his stomach ache.
His sickness eases, but does not vanish. Mornings bent low over a basin and heaving while Hamilton attempts to cover for him to an increasingly agitated Washington. Underperforming--that is what Washington says. Disgraceful. He thinks these morning spells of illness the results of intemperance with ale, no doubt.
But the nights--those are the worst. Because he cannot stop aching for them. For the moments when he can curl against Hamilton's skin, close his eyes and pretend it is another body, if only the scent were not so different.
Even if he is not Monty, Burr aches for those scraps of affection, clinging to him the way one might cling to a rock in a storming ocean. Grows terrified that Hamilton might leave as much as he tries to convince himself he does not need him. But the emotions, once allowed to be felt, cannot be easily stopped up again. It is too easy to find himself drifting towards Hamilton during the day. Wanting to touch him, be touched. Held. Perhaps even groomed, though the thought makes him blush with shame and embarrassment.
His bedroom becomes too comfortable, allows them to slip too close to intimacy. Burr had nearly cried, when Hamilton presented him that blanket. Not enough for a real nest, but enough to fuss with on the bed for long minutes, make something resembling a nest. Burr had lost everything, in the retreat from quebec--but at least now he had a blanket.
He can't look at Hamilton's face, each night he fusses with the bedding, every stereotype he every rallied against. Any inadequacy of that nest quickly erased by the warmth of Hamilton's body.
Too close to hide the swelling, the changes. Close as a lover. Burr doesn't think of what they are--can't. Takes these liberties as they are--stolen and shameful.
With all the food, the extra smuggled bits, Burr is starting to show. And his hunger isn't leaving, never sated, but he is growing ravenous, and each day the question of what to do is more and more urgent. Soon Hamilton won't let Burr put it off anymore, and what then?
For all of it, his worrying about propriety, he balks in the face of some lie. Burr's reputation matters, is vitally important, but at the same time, he cares not for manufactured conventions. Would have no problem being seen as a loose omega, if only he were established enough for such things to not ruin him.
Even so, he is nearly unable to fasten his breeches, and the skin around his stomach, stretched, begins to grow sores, from the too tight waistband, the chaffing. Built for soldiers losing weight, not gaining, and Burr has always been slight. He takes to binding his stomach, tight beneath bandages, but then he is wracked with cramps, which grow worse each day.
It doesn't occur to him that this might hurt the child, this last bit of Monty, which has grown so dear to him. Finds himself clutching his stomach unconsciously in stolen moments, on the verge of tears. Watches the rise and fall for long moments, in the morning and at night, as if at any moment the slight bump might disappear entirely.
Now he is dressing again, binding his stomach once more, to force himself into his breeches, another day of Washington's disappointment. Burr snorts--at least in this there is some bitter mercy--Washington probably thinks Burr is growing fat from drink, if he's noticed at all.
cw: passive suicidal ideation
He knows it. He is absolutely unable to stop. The concerns of liberating America from the British have been shoved violently out of the foremost place in his mind, replaced by the constantly-whirling thoughts that he can't properly organize or hold down. He spends hours writing them down, always careful to cast the finished product into the fire afterwards, furtive, but it doesn't help.
To Hamilton, death is not just a specter, a distant but inexorable reality. He has met death so many times, and he dreams often of his own, whether it's in some way that didn't happen (breathing his last with his mother's arms wrapped around him, drowning in the fierce hurricane wind-and-flood, sinking on the ship to America) or in ways that could happen tomorrow (taking a shot, a bayonet, in a frantic and suicidal charge, running out of luck under the relentless shelling of a British ship). These are comfortable fantasies, for him. They are ordinary. What isn't ordinary are the fantasies that Burr's child inspires. Because, for once, these fantasies are of a living future.
Burr's child is not Hamilton's. Obviously. It just makes him think -- about children. About the endless potential of fragile, new life. About how futures don't just have to include loss after loss after loss, but can be about gaining: new heart's connections that don't replace the old but that fill the space left behind.
There has been a quiet and cold place at the center of Hamilton's heart since he was ten, and it has only grown. Once a little box just large enough to encompass bastard and the gaping absence of a father, now it holds greater emptiness: a brother gone, a past left behind, a mother dead. This is emptiness that he strives to fill by joining it.
Burr makes him not want to join it.
Burr makes him think about what it would be like not to die.
Hamilton is constantly pushing these thoughts to the side when he is with Burr, but it wakes him up, the nights when he holds close to Burr's not-warm-enough body. It wakes him up, and he finds himself placing a tentative hand on the subtle swell at Burr's abdomen, his heart beating quick and throbbing with a sort of pain he's never felt before.
And then there's the desire.
Hamilton ruthlessly suppresses it during the day, but it wakes him up, too: dreams of Burr yielding beneath him, soft and wet under Hamilton's fingers and tongue, the arch of his body, how he would feel inside. Burr's close presence is maddening and satisfying at the same time, the only thing that can keep the desire at bay and also the one thing that stokes that desire to unbearable levels.
So Hamilton's sleep has been more and more broken by the disturbances in his thoughts.
He then uses that restless time to handle Washington's correspondence before he slips out early to drill with the gunnery squad, then back again to Washington, dispatching orders, writing writing writing, and slipping out in the evening to find extra food and take it into the city. There are many widows, some omega and female both, left without anyone to care for them. Some are Loyalist. Hamilton brings them food when he can, because it provides a perfect cover for what he takes for Burr. The quartermaster and cook are both aware that he's doing this, though Washington seems to turn a careful blind eye. Perhaps Washington thinks that Hamilton has impregnated someone in the city, caring for an illegitimate child. That assumption is fine.
The longest they spend apart is when Hamilton's squadron is part of an attack on the British battery on the southern tip of Manhattan. This is several days of brutal shelling, culminating in Hamilton, along with Mulligan and several others, dragging out twenty-four British cannon and making it safely back to American lines. Hamilton is reckless and brave, and the stories of his heroics spread back to Washington's camp before Hamilton himself actually makes it back.
The night after Hamilton returns, he flatters himself in thinking that Burr holds onto him tighter than usual, noses into his scent gland with possessive greed. He wants it to be true; he wants Burr to have missed him. What is certainly true is that Hamilton starts to make that soft, rumbling purring noise that alphas sometimes make with a mate. It's as he drops off to sleep, and he doesn't even realize he's doing it.
He has tried to bring up the topic of future plans with Burr. Has pestered him to go and see a midwife or a doctor in the city, though Burr has denied this every time. Has even tentatively brought up the subject of marriage to an obliging alpha, someone who wants the legitimacy of Burr's family name. Wartime is a wonderful time to find obliging alphas -- they're practically coming out of the walls. Can't throw a rock without hitting at least one or two obliging alphas. But Burr doesn't want to hear it.
He slips inside Burr's room one morning, after the pre-dawn drills, and sees the bindings, and his eyes widen.
"Aaron!" It bursts out of him; he doesn't call Burr Aaron, except in the privacy of his own mind. "What are you -- are you binding --" And he rushes forward to take Burr's hands in his, to still him, if only for the moment.
Re: cw: passive suicidal ideation
He doesn't want to think about midwifes. When Hamilton suggests he get married he is angry enough to lock his bedroom door at night and not allow Hamilton access until the next day. It's none of Hamilton business who he pairs himself with. It's none of anyone's business.
Burr isn't property, or cattle. His uncle had taught him those things, the old things, about Omegas, but Burr always thought-- well. But look at him now. Pregnant and abandoned. Not abandoned--a stab of guilt. Burr's fault. If he had been a better aide, Monty should never have been the first through that wall, around the corner of that street.
Either of them would have died, that day. Already he can feel that panic mounting, at the thought of attaching himself to anyone one. He had never thought to attach himself to anyone, before Monty.
What had happened to Burr and Sally, when they had been children? A series of homes that didn't want them, an uncle that didn't want them. How they had paid for that, in tears and blood.
Fiercely protective, that is what he is. Sometimes when he is simply going about his duties he must grapple with the sudden urge to bare his teeth at a passing alpha, to hide himself away far back in the safety of his room.
What would happen to him if-- what would happen to Monty's child, if Burr should--
God, he can't think about these things. Much easier to tuck them away somewhere. And each day that list of thing Burr should not think about seems to grow; that night when Hamilton, half asleep had purred at Burr, the way Burr had shuddered, felt himself grow half hard as he pressed himself against that body. Never one to deny himself, he had been known to visit other alphas, but now he is thick with tension, and not since Monty--god, but not with Hamilton.
Still though, he had been tense, that week Hamilton was gone. Told himself time and time again it was no matter, yet found himself pacing, mind filled with images of a snow bound city and broken bodies. Unable to sleep, jumping at every noise, flinching when another alpha addressed him too aggressively. A mess. What would happen to Hamilton, if something went wrong? What would happen to Burr? He burns at the lack of independence, at the need that has formed despite himself, the easy sleep he has, when Hamilton is at his side, how easy it is to rise from bed, to dress, to eat.
And when Hamilton had returned--Burr had wanted to do awful things to him. Had wanted to bite at his scent gland, lap at it, to rub himself over Hamilton skin, listen to the sounds he made, until there wasn't any way to distinguish one scent from a other.
Awful thoughts, that leave him guilt ridden and depressed.
He is finishing the bindings when the door opens, no knock, typical.
Hamilton bursts out his protest, eye widening, face still reddened and lovely from his drills, grabs Burr's hands. He does not understand, of course, that the pain of the bindings is much preferable to the scour of his skin against his breeches.
"stop it," Burr says, attempting to shake Hamilton hands off, rolling his eyes, "let go, yes I know it's bad for me but I need to--really just let go of the damn bandages, Hamilton!"
But Burr doesn't have the energy to fight back against every single one of Hamilton's incessantly annoying worries. If he's going to remove the bandages, let him. Let him get the whole damn thing out of his system. Nothing will stop Burr from reapplying them once Hamilton leaves. And he really is rather good at drifting off while Hamilton whines.
no subject
He means, he makes Burr eat but otherwise doesn't fuss around.
"In this, I do not change my established policy on the matter. You'll be fine. But what about her?"
The damn pronoun slips out before he can think to change it to a more innocuous it or even an appropriate noun, like the child. Instead, he betrays that he has thought on it, that he imagined a girl, and that he resolved to keep imagining a girl because if it ever came up, he thinks Burr's resolve would crumble before a female child the way it might not before male. Burr is adamant about the rationality and respectability of women in a way he is adamant about so few things, and that adamance attracts Hamilton intensely.
He notices he has placed rested his hand on Burr's belly, and he flinches away as he remembers himself.
"Do you want to hurt h-- it?" Hamilton persists. "Violence may have gotten you with child, Burr, but I cannot believe you want to transfer the same violence to a fetus that you have, reluctantly or not, nurtured within you."
no subject
He has not thought of the child as a her, as a he. As an it more than anything, as a piece of Monty. But it is a life, growing inside him, and that thing must eventually come out, and the thought makes him half ill with anxiety, with worry.
Shock at Hamilton's words must naturally morph to anger, but any anger quickly fizzles out in the face of what he says next.
"Violence?" He asks, and then it clicks, and the idea is so absurd that he begins to laugh, because really if Hamilton had any kind of complex regarding saving fallen women it becomes more evident now. "Ah yes, of course if I am with child it is through no action of my own. I didn't drop my pants and fuck the first person willing, no. Taken against my will, a damsel in distress. Not some slutty omega, with a will of my own."
no subject
He can smell the ever-present stress and worry from Burr -- boldly, because there are no clothes in the way, and also because he has become better and better at dissecting the finer points of Burr's scent.
And then it occurs to him that Burr is half-dressed and as beautiful as ever, and that he can't back down physically without backing down in the argument.
"If I am wrong, tell me," he dares.
no subject
"So my need or want of privacy must speak to some trauma in this way? Not everyone is as open as you, Hamilton. About these things. You, the powerful alpha, who has never worried for shame should he sleep with every omega in the vicinity," another inhale, shakey, as Hamilton's scent--anger, worry, fear, overwhelmes him. "You never asked, and I would not have volunteered the information." Blushing now, looking down.
No, he never wished to speak of Monty. Would have refused to, had Hamilton come out and asked, but Hamilton does not know that. That Burr had sent every indication that he did not want to discuss it and would not. Subtle, unspoken warfare. His specialty.
He holds out a hand, presses it to Hamilton's chest, to attempt to maintain some last modicum of distance. Oh, but that contact serves only to overwhelm him more, and he closes his eyes, angling his head away.
"You--" he stops, stutters. "You are wrong," he says, though the words are difficult, stickied in his throat, though a lump that has suddenly appeared.
no subject
"Powerful," and Hamilton's voice is choked and bitter. "Not even powerful enough to save myself."
He rallies, breathing shakily in. "And I would be shamed," he says. "To use another for my own pleasure and discard him without care -- that would be shameful. To indulge," and he shifts a bit closer, enough that he can feel the soft puff of Burr's breath on his own lips, "in passion, thoughtlessly, with no respect for an equal partner: that would be shameful." He lifts Burr's hand and presses his lips to the cool and chapped knuckles. "If you took pleasure where it was offered, on a battlefield, knowing death can take anyone without warning or mercy, you have no cause for shame."
no subject
"No," Burr says, barely audible. "No cause for shame." His eyes drawn there to Hamilton's lips, pinked flesh, damp, unable to pull away. He says the words, but they have no meaning as rational thought floods his mind. No chance for focus, but for those watery eyes focusing on him, those lips which meet his skin, as if Burr is some precious thing, some thing to be worshipped.
No, it would be shameful to indulge, that is what Hamilton says, but with each moment his body seems to be communicating the opposite. That rush of blood to one area, and Burr cannot help but opening himself, angling his head back, throat bared.
Bodies, entwined on the battlefield, their bodies. And Burr wants this, this physical release, after so long without. Wants to feel need, poured into his own body, to feel his own power, his own power to soothe.
no subject
Need and passion and desire and omega, all over the subtle spice that is Burr, the slow, rich roll that was new in Burr's smell since Quebec. Hamilton breathes it in, greedy for it, eyes closed, and brings his hand up to cup the other side of Burr's jaw. Then he kisses over the gland, kisses at Burr's pulse, and kisses the line of his jaw and then, finally, kisses Burr properly, on the lips, pouring out all the desperate want that's built in him astonishingly over these paltry few weeks.
no subject
When Hamilton's lips meet Burr's his legs tremble, threaten to give out at the same moment he reaches out and yanks Hamilton's body against his own, flattening them against one another. Then, with that pleasant contact established, he reaches out and frames Hamilton's face with his hands, pressing lips and mouths together hard, hard enough to hurt. Wet, warm, obscene, lips moving together, pressing harder and harder, trying to fulfill some hunger that will not be fulfilled merely by contact such as this.
Good, it is so good, his body, their lips, the knowledge that it is Hamilton who is kissing him, Hamilton, who seemed always so difficult, impossible to reel in, even as Burr leaned on his charms that night in the tavern. He opens his mouth, his legs, welcomes, urges, begins to grind his body against Hamilton's, up and down, wanton and needy and desperate. Small, animal noises escaping him.
no subject
His hands drop to Burr's hips, his ass, his thighs, and Hamilton hauls Burr upwards. For a small frame, Hamilton is deceptively strong; he single-handedly dragged cannon weighing close to half a ton back to American lines where even Hercules was having trouble getting it moving. He drills every damn morning for a reason, after all, and he's more than strong enough to pull Burr off the ground, making it necessary for Burr to wrap his legs around Hamilton's waist, thus leaving him in the perfect position for Hamilton to thrust against him. And Burr's smallclothes are doing absolutely nothing to hide the growing state of his arousal.
"Keep making sounds like that," Hamilton promises, roughly, "and we're gonna have a lot more not to be ashamed about." And he rolls his hips against Burr's, sinking his teeth in under Burr's jaw -- because Burr is now hoisted up a little higher than he is. He only just barely remembers to hold himself back from worrying the skin hard enough to bruise.
And he can't deny he likes it, Burr's chest bare, trousers low and undone, while Hamilton is still in his coat, still fully dressed from the morning's drills. Burr is a mess. Hamilton wants to make it worse.
Burr has tormented him for weeks now with white shirts worn thin enough to be almost translucent, and beneath, nipples growing bit by bit larger and darker with every day that passes. Now he devotes himself to finding out if their subtle swelling has created a similar increase in sensitivity, drawing one between his lips and pressing hard with the flat of his tongue.
no subject
"Hamilton--Alexander," he gasps, as he writhes back, clenching his legs around Hamilton's waist to rut against him, dragging his cock against Hamilton's belly. He wants more. He wants to be taken apart, fucked until he can't walk, until he is hoarse and used and ruined. Wants to taste Hamilton, to take him inside, held down and immobile and able to do nothing but beg for it.
Hamilton bites at him, and at his urging Burr doesn't hold back his sounds, whining desperate in Hamilton's ear, bitting at the lobe as he clings on, digging nails into Hamilton's back, trying to scrap marks through too-much clothes.
"Off," He pants, yanking the coat down Hamilton's shoulder, pulling it free from under his legs, where Hamilton still thrusts against him. His waistcoat is still in the way, but any thoughts are quickly lost to him as Hamilton brings his mouth to Burr's nipple, sucking hard.
"Oh--" he moans out, spasms, head falling back. He wraps his arms around Hamilton's head and holds it there, urging him to bite, to suck, to do anything. "Hamilton--yes, please," he begs. This never felt so good before, so sensitive and burning and good.
He wraps his fingers in Hamilton's hair and yanks, at the same time he grinds upward, shifting his hips so that their cocks brush, and he gasps again, electric sensations, as his length twitches against Hamilton's stomach.
"Use me," he pants, yanking again. "Fuck me, Hamilton--ruin me."
no subject
He shifts his mouth to the other side, scraping his teeth over this one, but pinches hard at the first little furled nub, just to find out what Burr will do, what sounds he might make.
Ruin me. Oh, god. This actually makes Hamilton growl, possessive and heated.
The use he wants to put Burr to is not quite what Burr means, Hamilton imagines. He wants to possess Burr, yes -- but not in an impersonal way, not fucking him from behind and leaving him gaping and sore like he could be anyone. No, he wants to use Burr, specifically, and so he will make this as much about Burr himself as he can.
He pulls away to claim Burr's mouth again, and, dropping his coat off the last arm, lifts Burr away from the wall and sprawls him out on the bed. Peels away stockings and trousers and smallclothes, batting away Burr's hands when he tries to do the same with Hamilton's waistcoat. "How much of a slut do you want to be, Burr?" and his voice is dark and low. "Warmed up enough for me already? I don't think so. I don't think anyone's touched you since you got to New York."
If Burr were in heat, probably he would be wet enough. But he isn't. When Hamilton goes to his knees by the bed, he yanks Burr a little forward so that his hips are off the bed and he won't be able to get his balance. Slides a thumb along where Burr is starting to be the sort of soft and wet that Hamilton has dreamed about, and closes a hand around Burr's length, not masturbating him, just manhandling him a bit. Burr is so warm here at the entrance to his body, and Hamilton guides Burr's thigh over his shoulder and cants his hips up and follows the path of his thumb with his tongue, nosing at the crease of Burr's thigh (the way he smells, drenched with need) and pressing sloppy kisses to the source of the slick.
no subject
Burr's cock aches, pained and throbbing, as he jerks with the words. A slut, yes, he is a slut, a hole to be used--
Oh god, Hamilton's tongue is in him, licking at a place that has seldom recieved such attentions before--with Monty he had been in heat, or suffering beneath days of anticipation.
He could come from that feeling alone--the tongue lapping against his wetness, pushing inside as Burr writhes and bucks and attempts to find any kind of friction that will not come.
Slow, Hamilton is taking this slow, but Burr is already wild with want, already aches with hardness, emptiness, his need to be filled by something, and if Hamilton will not hurry this along then Burr must do it himself. He reaches a hand down beside him, beneath the leg still propped high, drags fingers besides Hamilton's tongue, teasing into his mouth before retreating to trail through the slick, nudging at his entrance. Getting Hamilton's attention, shivering at those blown pupils, the hunger crawling over his face.
He makes a show of this: of slipping the fingers inside and fucking himself, the slow, audibly wet drag, the closed eyes and the breathy moans. Has done this before, before he had any alpha, alone in his tent on the march to Quebec, when tension still simmered between Montgomery and Himself, the want to sink down, open his mouth and allow himself to be fucked into--
He works the fingers, stretches himself, fucks himself down onto that hand and stares at Hamilton through pleasure-lidded eyes.
"Alexander," he breathes, tips his head back and allows his mouth to fall open, panting, as he works himself.
God, god it feels so good--not the fingers themselves but the knowledge that Hamilton is watching, head still propped there between his legs, and at the tentative lick that follows Burr's legs clench inward, his hips bucking into the air.
More licks, ravenous, devouring, dragging lips over Burr and sucking as those fingers continue to work in and out and Burr is coming for the first time that night, whining and shaking and fucking still downward, against Hamilton's mouth, clenching around his own fingers, release staining his belly, and if he was not wet before he will be now
But he's not satisfied. There is something building--some need. Not a heat, but something unsates. He wants Hamilton still, wants to feel him inside, reaching those deep parts of him.
God if this were hell they might continue like this, some precipice before penetration, before a good fucking, bruised and leaking and limp and used.
"Gag me," Burr babbles, still fucking down against his fingers but finding no pleasure, "hit me, bind me, do something--"
no subject
Burr begins to come on his tongue, so quickly that Hamilton is stunned, almost forgetting to take advantage of it. But he catches Burr's wrist with one hand and holds his hand there, ensures he's in the right place to feel what Hamilton's about to do, and with the other hand sinks in two of his own fingers angled upwards, dragging them mercilessly along the clenching and spasming internal walls. His touch is possessive and proprietary, dragging out the length of that orgasm, forcing every spasm out, and making sure Burr knows exactly what Hamilton is doing to him.
And, at Burr's words, he laughs. He presses a soft (wet, filthy) kiss against Burr's knuckles, right where his fingers sink too shallowly into his body, just the way kissed Burr's hand not five minutes ago, before Burr flung himself headlong into wantonness.
"Why would I?" Hamilton returns. "Aaron," breathed against Burr's thigh, "why would I gag you when you say things like that?"
He releases Burr's wrist, undoing buttons with that hand, nudging Burr further onto the bed. Echoing the motion he made between Burr's legs, he slides the same two slick-soaked fingers into Burr's mouth, pressing down on his palate, making Burr taste his own arousal.
"Why would I bind you," and Hamilton has to swallow, moisten his dry throat, because, god, he cannot remain unaffected, "when I can watch you fuck yourself right here?"
Waistcoat and shirt, impatiently yanked off, and trousers undone; he doesn't take the time to divest with boots and stockings. If he doesn't get inside Burr absolutely right now, he might actually die.
"And why would I hit you," folding Burr's legs up and apart, pushing, pushing until he's straining under Hamilton, "when you're being such a perfect slut for me?" He takes himself in hand, rubs the almost-dripping head of his cock all along Burr's entrance, mingling them together. He lowers himself so his lips are at Burr's ear.
"You could have told me, Aaron," he admonishes. "Showed me how much you need it." He breaches Burr then, pausing as he feels Burr's entrance go tight just under the head of his cock. Just to enjoy the feeling. "I wouldn't have left you unsatisfied."
No more pauses, no going slow to let Burr grow accustomed to the stretch. Hamilton penetrates him fully, unyieldingly, sinking forward into the incredible silky heat of Burr's body. How Burr grips him, opens to him, clutches at him. He needs to knot this man. Can't help but be aware of the seed that has already taken root in Burr's fertile soil, and the thought does not diminish his enjoyment in the least.
no subject
Hamilton seems as gone as Burr is, shedding layers with his other hand, eyes dark and cheeks red and seeming with every glance to drink Burr in. And his eyes, God his eyes, pupils blown wide, black eclipsing blue.
He talks, filthy, filthy things, that make Burr's muscles clench, attempting to clamp down on an intrusion that has not yet come. Hamilton has folded Burr open past the point of pain, but even still he weakly wiggles his hips, attempts to present himself more.
Hamilton rubs his cock along Burr's entrance, Burr shivering, thrusting his hips ineffectually, trying to spear himself.
"You could have told me, Aaron. Showed me how much you need it. I wouldn't have left you unsatisfied." Oh God, and he slips the head in then, leaves it there for Burr to clench around, trying desperately to fuck himself back but completely unable to move, and the fucking hasn't started yet in earnest but Burr feels on the verge of tears.
And then, without giving him time to adjust, Hamilton sinks down to the hilt. Burr jolts, shocked with pleasure, jerking beneath Hamilton as he is filled, digging nails into Hamilton's gloriously bare back, scraping.
Still clothed, pants opened just enough to free his cock, and Burr angles his head down, looks at where they joined, at where Hamilton is disappearing into him, and the sight is enough to send delightful spasms through his insides, clenching down around Hamilton's cock.
"I don't want to be able to walk," Burr whispers, desperate, demanding, in Hamilton's ear, biting hard between words. "I don't want to be anything more than a loose, dripping hole."
But Hamilton is not doing enough, and Burr is so needy. He reaches between them again, grips around where Hamilton is penetrating him, gathers up slick and trails backward, rubbing over his hole and moaning.
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God. If this is what Burr is like now, what would he be like, in heat? Maybe he truly doesn't know who the father is; maybe it took too many to satisfy him. Maybe he speaks like this because he is, in truth, bent to depraved desires. If he is, Hamilton wants to find them all. Lay them bare. Use them. And yet, what does it matter, if Burr is depraved? He has not sought out anyone since coming here, apparently even when he wanted so badly -- and he is under Hamilton's hands now, receiving his attentions with glorious enthusiasm.
His thrusts are rough; not as fast as they could be, but that means he can make them hard, fierce, making him feel as though he's fucking the air out of Burr's slim body.
"You are more already," he counters, deflecting Burr's searching hand and pinning it down, just to see if Burr thrashes for the extra stimulation, in need. "A hole can't beg for it. A hole can't cry from needing it so badly. A hole might have me as greedily as you -- like that, the way your cunt takes me, Aaron," and he says it like praise, while he fucks like violence, "but a hole couldn't debase itself the way you are." He crushes Burr's wrist to the bed. "Come on my cock or don't at all."
His knot is already starting to swell. He isn't gentle with it -- he persists in forcing it in and out of Burr long after he would ordinarily have seated himself secure within an omega's body. He has to manhandle Burr into place, keep him held down and force it brutally past his entrance the last time, and for a moment he doesn't think that Burr will accommodate it, but he does, he unwinds under Hamilton and Hamilton loses himself recklessly to the bliss of it, his seed joining the mess within Burr, the thick base of his cock swelling to lock them together, whether or not Burr can take it, now.
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Good, it feels so good, there are no thoughts, no words, just pleasure, waves of it, punctuated by each snap of Hamilton's hips, each punch of his cock against Burr's insides.
His legs are shaking, his mouth slack, drooling. He is babbling, but he doesn't know what he's saying, rubbing his ass against the sheets and trying to get more of something already bruising, already dangling on the edge of a beautiful pain.
"Come on my cock or don't at all."
And Burr's cock jerks, already hard past pain, the pleasure burning hot and tight inside him, building with every brutal punch.
Oh, but there is something else nudging against him, slamming against his entrance but not quite slipping inside.
Burr squirms against it, against the pain, but Hamilton holds him down, presses him hard into the mattress as the knot snaps forward, past the tight edges of his entrance and inside him, and then he is pulling it out as Burr sobs, no, no, another lost, pitiful whine as he thrusts is back in.
Hamilton is fucking Burr with his knot, fucking Burr with his knot and Burr didn't even know that was something a person could do, something his body could accommodate, but he is wild for it even still, for the wet, sucking sounds of that swell sliding in and out, for the sounds that fall from his own mouth, sobs and incomprehensible half words.
It hurts, a stinging, tearing pain, but it feels so good for that pain, and Burr never wants Hamilton to stop, wants to be nothing but an object for his use, kept here in bed, open and wanting for him to fuck into at intervals and leave like nothing.
"More," Burr cries, "more, more, more," but there is no more to give, and he is already tipping over, clenching down hard on everything Hamilton is giving him, his knot and the glorious length of his cock, spilling hot inside.
"Monty," Burr cries out, sobs out, lost and overwhelmed and face wet, riding out the waves of his orgasm, thrusting down weakly and squirming and spilling over him stomach.
His thoughts come back slowly, chest heaving, ruined. He is not with Monty, a devastation double-fold: Monty is dead. Monty is not buried in him, knotted in him.
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And, through all this, the wrong name filters into his conscious mind. His thoughts are sluggish, and narrowed to the intense need to care for the man that he's used so hard, but he understands.
"No," he murmurs, and he props himself up, unsteadily. He would have turned them over, let Burr go limp on top of him until this was over, but he can't, now that his protective instincts are flaring. The movement tugs on the knot, sends off another series of aftershocks within Burr, milking another surge in return out of Hamilton, bearing down like he could get, somehow, deeper.
"No." He cups Burr's face in his hand. "You're here, with me." Not with a dead general, as much as this explains Burr's behavior neatly and tidily. He doesn't mean to make the grief worse, but to draw Burr back into the present, extract him from a past that's reaching out with greedy fingers of pain to pull him under. "Say it, Aaron." He strokes Burr's flank, tips him up a little so he can reach far enough to kiss the tears off his cheeks, stroke fingers through his scalp. "I have you, you're safe. Say it."
He doesn't know what he's exhorting Burr to say. 'Yes, I'm here'? Hamilton's name? Agreement, confirmation?
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Hamilton is rubbing at Burr's scalp, and Burr can feel himself melting, hurt dripping out to be replaced with lingering pleasure, the buzz of their release not long ago.
He feels pleasantly used. Sore, ruined, as he had wanted to be. And something unfurls inside him, some desperate, needy, delicate thing, drinking in each small attention with a pain not unlike something verging on tears. Hamilton kissing his face, rubbing thumbs over his cheeks, like Burr is something precious. Like Burr is wanted.
His shoulders shake, his chest heaves. Burr shifts, pulling at the knot, stills and hisses. He's not sure he'll be able to walk after this, and even so his bindings are ruined, and he won't be able to fasten his pants. Maybe Hamilton planned all this for that reason, and he is still hollowed out enough for that to strike him with a jolt of fear, even as he knows it is ridiculous.
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He rallies his strength one more time, and, as he originally intended, he carefully lifts Burr up against his chest and then turns them over, so Burr doesn't have to hold his legs around Alexander's waist and Alexander doesn't have to prop himself up anymore. He also grabs at the blanket he acquired, most of a month ago, and sort of shoves it at Burr for Burr to decide what to do with it.
And then he's back to the relentless campaign of petting and praising, stopping only to breathe in Burr's smell at the crook of his neck.
"You took all of that, I can't believe you, everything I had for you and you just took it," in little murmurs with the occasional brushed kiss. "Beautiful, and you're so strong, so graceful, you bend but you don't break," and similar idiotic nonsense. He wants to ask did I hurt you and are you all right but he's afraid the answers are yes and no in the wrong ways, and so he doesn't ask.
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'I could take more,' Burr wants to insist, 'from you,' but if feels the wrong thing to say, and Burr has always been more prone to silence over words.
Easy to fall asleep here, exhausted, aching. But the realities of their positions are too pressing to ignore. Washington will be wondering where they've been, likely had already been wondering. How long have they been here, how long have they been fucking?
"We need to report for duty," Burr slurs, even as he knows they will be trapped until the knot goes down. Does not want the knot to go down. Experimentally tightens those muscles to feel it still inside him, wiggling and shifting.
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"I was back a little early." This is true, but they've definitely blown through that time by now. Heh; blown.
The movement makes him give a little gasp, a little twitch. Not of pain. God, he wants this to last. "It won't be long." Already, he can feel the fierce throb starting to fade as the knot just starts to soften.
"I have string," he murmurs. "Can run it around your trousers, do up your jacket all the way. Go in to town. Hercules is at the shop where he apprentices." He has been thinking about that problem, too, in the last few minutes.
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He doesn't know what version of the truth he'll tell, because it won't be long before he must say something, the distribution of that swell not enough to be accounted by simple overindulgence. Well, overindulgence of food and drink, that is.
He shifts, feels Hamilton begin to slip free, and with it the rush of warm liquid between his legs, grimacing at the mess running down from him and dripping onto Hamilton.
What a mess. Both of them, a mess. He begins to pull off those bindings. Useless now for their original purpose, at least now they can be used to mop of the mix of liquids. The sheets will have to be washed, though. They smell too much of sex.
Oh, but he's rushing again, and Hamilton looks so beautiful, laying beneath him, hair tangled around his head and still flushed from exertion. Burr leans down and kisses him, slow--dragging lips against Hamilton's own and licking there at the seam.
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He does feel a bit bereft as Burr starts to pull away -- but then he's distracted just by watching Burr, the lean lines of his body as he starts to clean himself up. He can look now. If he was allowed to touch, he has to be allowed to look his fill.
It's a pleasant surprise when Burr ducks to kiss him, and Hamilton opens to him, meets his tongue.
"And if Hercules does find out?" Hamilton asks, returning to the previous topic. "You shouldn't be ashamed." He hesitates, and presses on: "General Montgomery was a hero, too. His reputation is honorable."
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But he says none of these things. Instead he rises from the bed, wincing once and stumbling at the burn between his legs, leaning against the dresser to find a new pair of smallclothes, a shirt, stockings.
Hamilton did fuck satisfactorily, but perhaps they should talk about gentleness in future engagements, and not listening to Burr when he was half out of his mind with want. Future engagements, there might not even be future engagements. Burr will be swollen large enough soon to be grotesque, that affliction no longer ignorable.
"And I suppose there will be no consequences when I tell Washington his most disappointing and dislike aide is nearly four months along with a wedlock, bastard child?" Burr stops, looks at himself in the mirror, looks at Hamilton behind him, looking at Burr. Something swells in him, thicker and more acute than shame, deeper. He doesn't know why he says what he says, but the words fall numbly. "oh, I suppose I forgot he quite likes bastards."
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"Honestly, I'm loathe to break it to you, Burr," says Hamilton, "but you literally hate working for him."
And why should Burr? Washington is a great leader, but he has a temper, and his mistakes have been severe.
"And if you played the game," Hamilton tells him, "you would be fine. But, as it is, he can tell you don't want to be there, and he's worried he'll have another Joseph Reed on his hands."
It is possible, of course, that Burr doesn't know the whole story with Joseph Reed, writing letters to Charles Lee behind Washington's back.
The remark stings, its purpose fulfilled. But Hamilton is accustomed to pushing its like out of his mind. He sits up, watching Burr. "Please," he dismisses, "he only has eyes for his very precious Lafayette, whom he truly wishes was his son instead of that useless stepson that's been kicked out of two boarding schools now for idling, whoring, and gambling."
Again, entirely possible that Burr doesn't know about the second boarding school yet.
He reaches for his shirt, and has to puzzle out how he managed to get one half inside out and twice twisted around the other.
"And," he emphasizes, "I've already said there are obliging alphas everywhere." He doesn't meet Burr's eyes when he says: "The child doesn't have to suffer for the circumstances of its birth."
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He buttons his shirt, sits on the edge of the bed to pull his pants up, struggling and wincing. God, he supposes he will have to see Mulligan, as embarrassing as that is. Will have to walk the whole of the way into town feeling the evidence of Hamilton's enthusiasm. But maybe he can buy another blanket as well, if there are any. Supplies have been disasterous the whole of the campaign, but the thought of a pile of blankets fills him with a kind of wild joy. Hormones, reducing him to a tottering idiot.
"Very well," he says, avoiding Hamilton's eyes. He doesn't know why the thought of finding an alpha has made him so depressed, but he doesn't want to be in the same room as Hamilton any longer. "I'll go into town, and you do whatever it is you do to gain me such leeway with the old fool."
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"I hope I didn't hurt you," says Hamilton, suddenly, as he tucks the trousers into the tops of the boots. Glances up to Burr. "Or, at least, that it did not displease you." He takes Burr's hand in both of his. "I meant what I said -- you have only to ask. I would not leave you unsatisfied." He holds Burr's gaze long enough to emphasize the words, and then, this time, kisses Burr's palm, and takes his leave.