Christmas Thread

[slowtoanger]

They're due to leave tomorrow for a long carriage ride to the Washington's. Two carriages between them, with a nanny in the second and most, if not all of the children. It is snowing lightly, and Hamilton has not stopped nagging the footman to keep the hearths well stocked. A chill wind buttressing stone and creeping in under window panes.

Burr should be helping them pack, getting the children ready, but he is still in bed, though it is well into the afternoon, beneath a pile of quilts. He can hear the pattering of the children overhead, shouting as they quibble over toys or clothes, and certainly though they are doing their best to pack, Burr or the nanny will have to see to refolding all the luggage for the journey. Hamilton must be in his study, at the torturous task of deciding which writings to take and which books he can afford to leave behind. No doubt there is a mountain of papers scattered about, him in the middle of a hurricane.

And Burr should be helping, but he is wracked at length by odd pains, difficulty drawing breath. He is larger than he should be for how far along he is, though that is not to say he is not a good deal along.

"I should think to prevent you from traveling," Ned says, as he sits back from his examination. "The strain on your body is great, and you would be too far along to go, I should think, were this a normal pregnancy."

"What do you mean?" Burr asks, a little annoyed. Ned knows Burr does not care for him to mince words. And Burr has been in this situation far too often, that he receives the words with less attention than he should. He is thinking of his own letter and correspondence he must see to, before they leave tomorrow morning. But Burr also knows his own body. He knows this current pregnancy has been one particularly grieved by pains and difficulties, ones his small body cannot contain. He should not be due for a month yet at the very least (which is not so much as guess, given Hamilton's travels had him away for a long while. The pregnancy simply could not be farther along) despite whatever size he may be.

"I think it unlikely that you are carrying only one child," Ned says, simply, "both from what I can feel and from what you have told me."

Comments

[non_stop]

The sudden nip of Burr's teeth is actually painful, startling, and Hamilton breathes in a shocked gasp, his fingers locking in Burr's hair. Warm liquid then cool air spills on his throat. He's bleeding. His own truly vital essence, the most important of the humors -- and his own dominant humor, isn't it? Is he not sanguine, touched by blood, passionate, impulsive, a speaker, a writer, a thinker? And when Burr draws this from him, it seems both an act of need and love and sacrifice, and some sort of witchcraft, weakening him to better strengthen his husband and his children.

If it is witchcraft, so be it. Burr can have him.

He presses forward and down with his palm, stretching his fingertips until they've reached to Burr's folds, damp from the night, but not from arousal. He drags his fingertips between, seeking down to where Burr is hot, where his pulse is palpable, right at the tender entrance to his body. Places where he is sensitive even when he isn't swollen with arousal, and where he might also be a bit bruised from yesterday. So as Hamilton's palm grinds against his balls, Hamilton's fingertips stroke at the entrance to his body, and Hamilton's thigh shifts so Burr can thrust against it.

[slowtoanger]

Burr can't detach, he can't. He needs this, he needs it so desperately. And there's never been anything so satisfying, so good. And his Husband lets him. Tightens a hand on Burr's hair but doesn't pull away, pours into him, feeds him.

He continues to make those sounds--those filthy ones, and when Hamilton touches him he feels his body wet in response, his whole body shuddering as he opens his legs, begs more.

Hamilton presses up, squeezes Burr's balls in a way that is desperately painful, and Burr bites again in response, not breaking new skin but fitting teeth to what has already parted. He writhes, and his hands come up to brace Hamilton's head, his neck, so Burr can twist without dislodging them.

But he has to dislodge. He has to, if he wants--

"Please," he says, lips still pressed there, connected. Opens his legs again, further. "Please," before he seals his mouth again.

[non_stop]

Blood slithers and pools in the hollow of his collarbone, a shock of hot fading to cold as the liquid is exposed to the air. What a strange little bloodthirsty creature his husband is, a fey thing of strange and arcane hungers. And Hamilton will have him satisfied. Oh, Hamilton will have him satisfied.

Ah, there, the slick comes so quick in response to the touch of his fingertips, Burr's body always so eager for any such attentions. He opens right up to the pads of Hamilton's fingers, trembling and sweet. He twitches and his thighs move a fraction back inward as his cunt clings to Hamilton's fingers, tightens deliciously, and Hamilton slowly sinks in, drags his touch until he finds the sensitive swell inside, then just undulates, pressing directly there. He knows Burr so well. He knows just how to find the right places inside him.

Burr clings to him. His lips have gone slack, and the blood drips forward and sideways, little sounds escaping him with every movement. Like Hamilton's hand could puppet him, could produce those sounds directly from him. He works Burr with three fingers, now, not even really fucking so much as they just work that little spot back and forth, back and forth.

"There, I know you like that." Hamilton knows how breathless he himself sounds. "I know you could come on my fingers all day like this, especially if someone plays with your cock -- maybe if you're good, and you wear a dress in the carriage, you can sit on my cock a mile or two. You'd have to be so quiet... could you be quiet?" His thumb gathers up drops of blood from his own skin and presses them between Burr's lips, presses down on his tongue. Smearing, a mess, dark stains, half-visible. "Maybe we wouldn't be able to, you're so heavy..." A sigh, something close to bliss, and Hamilton's other hand drops to toy with Burr's cock, work it in rhythm with the hand inside him. Slowing, slowing, as Burr gets closer and closer to coming, so the peak is drawn-out, a lit spark from within him and spasms drawn all out of him with Hamilton's skillful hands.

"There, there," murmurs Hamilton, "how is that? Do you need more?"

[slowtoanger]

Burr doesn't cry out--no, he goes quiet and still. Not stiffening but ceasing all movement except for the quiver in his hips, that tightening and releasing and tightening deep inside. His hands stay splayed on Hamilton's neck, his face. Holding even as he only breathes against that place he was so attached.

He allows his body to be delivered to his husband in the most complete way. There is no pretension, nothing put on. He doesn't need his muscles--his body--to do anything except what happens regardless. His face is slack. He makes no sound. He does not loosen but he does not move. Hamilton knows, even if he could not feel it in those wet tightenings around those still working fingers.

His body tingles, and his eyes fall shut, and his husband holds him, and there is nothing as wonderful as Alexander, looking to Burr as though he were divine. So completely satisfied not through his own pleasure but through Burr's.

"I want that," Burr says, in the sudden way water breaks. His fingers do tighten then, and his mouth turns, and he opens and closes his lips there, mouthing at the blood that is still so endlessly appealing. "I want to see--how you would look, if you were driven deeper, moved without your own power by the roughness of the road."

He wants also to help his husband as his husband has helped him. Looks there, to the swell between Hamilton's legs, if it is still there. Even as he would enjoy just as well curling up on Alexander to go back to sleep.

[non_stop]

Burr is ever-needy, grasping and clawing for pleasure -- so when he goes quiet and still in Hamilton's hands, it is a soft and sacred stillness. Hamilton knows instantly that this means Burr trusts him to bestow the pleasure that is so desperately desired. That he places himself in Hamilton's hands because it means he will be fulfilled.

Hamilton is quite hard, watching this, though he can ignore the needs of his body. How could he do anything but swell and strain, in response to a body so appealing, flushed to perfection?

"I can never decide if you are more perfect when you are fulfilled or when you're in desperate need," muses Hamilton, settling so Burr can curl back up against him. "Both states have undeniable appeal. Are you sure you want to give up your breeches? You do so insist on them -- The waistcoat will fit over the gown -- No, you don't need to attend to me. I'll be very ready for you in the carriage."

And indeed the thought of having Burr while they're in the carriage torments him at breakfast, as they get the children settled, and as they settle themselves for another day of travel. He does hope that Burr wears the gown.

[slowtoanger]

Burr falls back asleep readily, settled by Hamilton's attentions. Sated and fat and happy. His body effuses with warmth, from where Hamilton's life blood sits heavy within him. The children do not move.

When he wakes, he is cold, though there are blankets pilled over him. He shifts, eyes closed, calls out for his husband when he cannot find him. Sits up, displeased, when he does not come. Sun spills through the window, an orange glow turning towards yellow. Later than he should be rising, which means Hamilton is downstairs breakfasting with the children.

Burr rises with difficulty, frowns when he sees the gown folded on top of his trunk, but shrugs it on regardless. There are no clasps on this one, for it is large enough to billow over him if he pulls it over his head. He looks ugly ang ridiculous when he buttons his vest and coat overtop. He looks swollen and undignified.

He descends the stairs slowly, for he is never not some kind of discomforted, these days. Sarah and James nearly bowl him over when they run by, pounding up the stairs, and of course they do not slow to offer an explanation. Theodosia trails more slowly, stops to help Burr down the stairs. Though she is a bit small to be of much use, she is determined to do it, and she is much taller for her age than either Burr or Hamilton was, at the time. Parts from him with a kiss on the cheek.

Burr settles next to Hamilton at the table, gazing at his neck. He is wearing his cravat very high this morning, though there is still some creeping purple shown over the top, and a small speckled brown stain. Is he bleeding still? Burr should like to assist him, if he is, though he would never admit it.

"What happened to you?" He asks innocently, with affected concern.

[non_stop]

He has to clean himself up carefully, mop up the dried blood and then curtail the fresh bleeding. Wrap a clean cloth around his throat and then set the cravat over it. The result looks terribly obvious to him but no one seems to catch it until Burr says something, which has Hamilton blushing furiously.

"I'm afraid I fell quite strangely and injured myself last night," he says. "Glad I didn't wake you. Are you having more of that strange hunger this morning?" And, to the innkeeper's wife, he suggests a blood pudding, for Burr, or some sausage, perhaps?

[slowtoanger]

Burr pouts a little, when Hamilton asks for meat. He's had no stomach for it, the whole of this pregnancy, which has driven Hamilton to worry. He even forbad the maid from cooking it, for the space of a month or so, before good sense prevailed over the delicate nature of his constitution. Well, the larger motivator was care for his children.

Hamilton blushes prettily, though he is always pretty, and Burr leans over to kiss him, a bit slower than is generally acceptable in public. But an inn in Winter is not overcrowded.

He accepts the plate of sausages from the innkeepers wife because of that same care which persuaded him to allow the cooking of meats once more. Because Hamilton is the ox that presently bears their family forward, and he can little afford to lend that vitality to Burr simply because he is discerning in what he imbibes.

Burr prods at the sausage with his fork, an awful gelatenous thing, warmed over the fire. Pungent and fragrant. He cuts free a small morsel with his fork, and when he bites down he must clamp his mouth shut to keep from ejecting it. Chews and chews and chews and swallows. Can feel the complete slid down his throat, the way it settles, twisting, in his stomach. He waits a moment before hazarding a second bite, and a third.

His stomach flops on the fourth, and his tongue goes leaden, and he is suddenly hot and pale. He staggers from his chair with as much grace as can be expected from a man as pregnant as he is, falls to his knees (which will hurt later), and retches again and again into a spitoon near the fire. Violent enough that he sweats and gasps for air between heaving.

[non_stop]

Hamilton sighs; he'd hoped Burr's hunger for his blood had overcome his clear disgust for heartier foods. "I'm sorry, dear."

"--you could see the chunks of it--" says James Alexander, a little awed despite himself. Boys will be boys, Alexander supposes. Sally looks appalled at the suggestion, and Alexander chides him-- "James."

But he gets Burr settled back into the chair, fusses over him and rubs his back, brushes off his knees. Doesn't stop fussing until Burr eats a little bit of something, bread, fruit.

"Lavender tea, that's what you need," says the innkeeper's wife, and she continues to insist on its efficacy as a remedy for nausea and disturbances of bile until a servant brings a cup of it.

Overall, it is chaos until they depart, later than Alexander would like, but at least it's still early morning. He helps Burr into the carriage, and lingers close to him while he does, guiding Burr's hand back to touch where Hamilton is getting hard for him. "I know you detest gowns like this," he murmurs, "but I'll do my best to make this memorable -- so long as you are still amenable." Nausea like that could put anyone off of more intimate marital relations.

[slowtoanger]

Burr is disgruntled, after the display at breakfast. He hadn't wanted to eat, and he hadn't wanted to wear a gown, either. But he likes the tea--likes it better when Hamilton puts a large glob of honey in it. Likes it even better when he sits back, savoring the warmth and sweetness, with a most appealing view when Hamilton bends to right Sally's stockings.

His mood is improved a bit, when he is helped into the carriage. And though he had forgotten momentarily the offer Hamilton made the previous night, he is reminded as soon as he looks again at the creeping purple on his neck.

Maybe he smells different, today. Maybe it's Burr.

His hand tightens readily, massaging, lower than he needs to.

"You mean to imply all times are not memorable? No, perhaps it is often enough that we can remember it no better than one can recall each morning waking."

He leans, pushes his nose over Hamilton's cravat. Smells stale blood, scabbed over.

[non_stop]

"Memorable for pleasure, then," says Hamilton, with a soft laugh: "and hopefully, if the road complies, not memorable for a bruised cock and bruised pride. How do you feel? I am your servant; what can I bring you, before we go?" He strokes the hard, heavy swell of Burr's stomach, draped in fabric. Burr's power and charisma are undeniable, at any time, but when he is made so helpless by the weight of a child inside him it makes Hamilton feel quite tender. An entirely different feeling than that which is evoked when he is dressed in a man's garb.

"If nothing, then let us hide ourselves away and begin the journey."

[slowtoanger]

"Are bruises not sometimes preferable?" Burr asks, and his eyes are fixed only on Alexander. He doesn't want anything, couldn't want anything but his husband, when they are like this. The hand on his stomach is warm, soothes those small flutters which are near constant. And--its a strange, breathtaking feeling, every pregnancy, when he thinks how it is Alexander who has rendered him this way. Now even more than the previous.

He turns his head, leans in to connect their lips. They have so little time now to enjoy each other in such a leisurely fashion. To kiss slow and intent and wet. He wraps his hand around the back of Hamilton's skull, tilts his head and licks across his bottom lip, because he knows his husband will open his mouth and allow Burr inside.

[non_stop]

His eyes close; he is lost, in the soft, damp press of Aaron's lips. Of course he lets Burr inside; how could he refuse such a sweet request, from one so beloved? Tilt of his head, a rush of breath from his nose. He melts into it, and he knows Burr can probably feel his lips twitch with a smile he can't contain. Can he stop, for just a moment, stop grasping and grasping for a future that will always be a moment away, stop being unsatisfied, and see how far he has come?

Take a breath of satisfaction?

He arranges Burr's skirts for him, smoothing them beneath his legs, and taking that time to smooth his stockings, stroke up his fine calves. It would be obscene, if anyone were watching them. His touch, of course, but just the smolder in his eyes -- that is obscene, the sort of thing that should be hidden from the world. The kind of male, alpha desire that omegas are warned about, possessive and fierce. How is it possible that he can still want Burr so much, after so long?

He draws the blankets over them both, the pan of coals to keep warmth smoldering under the heavy wool, as if their bodies wouldn't make warmth enough.

He finds himself rubbing at the aching spot on his neck. "How is it that you craved me and you won't eat anything?" he laughs, a little chiding, a little rueful. "I'm afraid I won't have blood enough to satisfy you."

At long last, they start moving,

[slowtoanger]

Burr pushes even as Hamilton pulls away. He is always like this--drifting towards Hamilton even as he pulls away, in deference to their other needs and obligations.

He licks forward eagerly, pushes his body into Hamilton's, breathes harsh and heavy against Hamilton's throat, when he pulls back to settle them.

"I'll always crave you," Burr says, and he sounds away from himself. He wants Hamilton more than anything, always, in every way. His hand hooks over the edge of Hamilton's cravat, and he wants, wants, knows he cannot have for his poor husband's health.

He presses his face there, and when that is not enough he connect their lips again, takes his full there. Pushes back, back, presses his husband down into the cushion and crawls over him best he can, even as his back aches. Kisses hard and slow and long. Draws out sounds that make his cock ache.

If Hamilton's blood had sated anything, it made only another need burn harder.

[non_stop]

"And I, you." The carriage moves and jolts, and Hamilton spreads his fingers wide, feeling the fabric move, and under that, Burr's skin, his body. Layers separating them, a teasing denial.

Burr draws Hamilton's breath from his lungs, slides their tongues together slow and heated. God, dear God; he is fit to burst out of his trousers, he is so hard. He wants this man so much. There, there: the hard shape of him presses and grinds between Burr's legs.

He reaches for Burr's skirts. Bunches them up, and drapes them to the side, strokes his hands up Burr's thighs under them. "Sometimes I do like to unwrap you," he says. "To reveal you. And sometimes," as he slips his hand into Burr's underclothes, "I like having you clothed, and knowing that I can touch you beneath," and he strokes down Burr's cock and wriggles to where he can touch the soft wet beneath. "There, there -- you want to ride me, don't you? And let the carriage do the work, since you're so heavy, since you can't?"

[slowtoanger]

Burr is lucky he found someone as difficult to satisfy as himself. No, not difficult to satisfy, but to keep satisfied. Hamilton's hunger is different than Burr's own, but it burns just as hot.

He'd always thought he would need to take another lover. That, though Omegas has not that privilege, that unacknowledged understanding that alpha's had, to range outside the marriage bed, he would have to find some discreet way to make due. But Hamilton--he is more than a match for Burr, even when Burr asks things he should not. Even when Hamilton doesn't always give him those things.

Hamilton's fingers slide up his thigh and Burr shudders, sprawls his legs wide, grinds down on Hamilton's cock. They go over a bump, and their pelvises clash in a way that must be painful for his husband. Perhaps he doesn't feel it. Perhaps he wants it too badly.

Burr is wearing no drawers, and Hamilton's fingers, always greedy, find him readily. Burr shudders clutches on and draws Hamilton's lip between his teeth, bites down harder than he means, but is rewarded by fingers tightening on him, by warm copper in his mouth.

He's hot, even for the cold he knows he's flushed. His cunt aches, weeps, and his cock pulses with his heartbeat. He wants it so badly, just as Hamilton says. And his words, the way he describes it is almost as good, almost.

Burr reaches between them, tugs Hamilton's pants down clumsily, frees his cock. And he doesn't just sit on him. Not as he so often does, impatient and needy. It is no small matter to ease him in as the carriage shakes. But he does--teasingly slow. Circles the head through wet without really pushing, small moments of pressure against his entrance before pulling away again. Will progress only at intervals, because the stretch, the feeling of Hamilton's cock prying him open--it is divine.

[non_stop]

A sharp pain, and blood again. It makes Hamilton laugh into Burr's mouth.

Sometimes it is like the first time. Sometimes Burr grips him like they've never had each other before, like they are discovering each other anew -- no, he thinks, as he gasps in the cool air and strokes his thumb along where the head of his cock has stretched Burr's cunt open. Little needy sounds that he does not suppress. It isn't like new, not exactly, because there is no fear. He knows he is wanted. Burr knows he is wanted. There is no fumbling insecurity, just this pure, pulsing need.

Hamilton trembles as he is enveloped, grips and gasps. "You are so hot inside," he says. "You are always--" twitches up, a fraction, because he doesn't want to restrain himself. He has said that, has thought that before, but never has it been truer than now, with the blood-pounding heat fiery against the cold. He is sweating. Wet, so wet, and the muscles that grip him. The carriage jolts. He hisses in a breath, startled -- accidentally bites on the same place on his lip that Burr did.

"There, when you use me as the instrument for your pleasure -- it seems as though I could strive for no higher calling than that. To watch you take what you need..."

[slowtoanger]

Hamilton makes such sounds, poured out with the same fervor and passion as anything, yet--are these more dear? Not thrown out as freely as he gives his other opinions, but--Burr. For Burr.

He goes slower. Moves slower, draws back, out, and braces himself against the bumps, the jolts, so each is but a small movement, not even a full inch, shaking in and shaking out and leaving Hamilton's cock to cool, cold from the wet of Burr's cunt. He folds his legs, his ankles over Hamilton's legs, holds him down so he can't twitch up.

His own cunt it aching, pulsing, and it is so, so hard to stay still. When Hamilton looks like that, sounds like that. He burns for it, he needs it.

A bead of blood rolls down Hamilton's chin and Burr's eyes focus there on their own, uncontrolled, he is uncontrolled. He leans down, extends his tongue, licks. Groans into it, the wet drag from Hamilton's chin and back to the source, the cool copper salt on his tongue.