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Alexander Hamilton is a man of complicated pleasures and needs.

Fortunately, he's never had any trouble finding men who share his proclivities. Such arrangements are dangerous, certainly; but the danger is mutual. Any man who takes him shares the risk of ruin, and thus the same desperate need for secrecy.

Hamilton sees no reason not to indulge himself. Even in the throes of revolution, there is no shortage of men—mostly strangers—happy to debase him, hurt him, use him in exactly he way he craves.

Hamilton isn't picky. He rarely fucks the same man twice. Even when he does, he makes no demands of his own. That's the whole point, really. He doesn't want to call the shots. He does not want to ask for anything. He wants to be taken. To be held down by unyielding hands, to be grabbed and bruised and forced to his knees. Used for someone else's pleasure, with little regard to his own.

He has become an expert at spotting the look in a man's eye. The particular glint of possessiveness and heat that tells him everything he needs to know. And he knows how to present the opportunity, to put himself alone in their company, to appear vulnerable and enticing and receptive. He has learned to make it clear without words just how eagerly he welcomes a show of unrestrained strength, and he is rarely disappointed.

Hamilton has lost track of just how many have known him so intimately. None of them matter. They don't truly know him. They don't know that, no matter how forcefully they hold him down—no matter how brutally they use him—no matter how total their domination of his person, they are not truly in control. They don't know about the knife Hamilton keeps always within reach; because he wants this, but he is not stupid.

He gets what he wants, revels in being slapped and shoved and spread open without care for his comfort, and then he walks away.

This is different. For the first time in his life, Hamilton wants something—someone—specific, and he doesn't know what to do.

He is certain Washington covets him. He's seen the glint. Late into the night, month after month, working in close proximity, just the two of them drafting letters and battle plans over the general's desk. There's no mistaking the way Washington's eyes devour him in the candlelight when they are both grown too tired for discretion, when he thinks Hamilton is not looking. Hamilton can imagine all too clearly the thoughts in his general's head, and he knows Washington wants nothing more than to bend him over on top of this mountain of correspondence and bring him to heel.

Yet Washington never touches him. Never says a word. Never makes even the subtlest approach, even as the months of warfare drag on around them.

And Hamilton is going slowly mad.

He employs every tactic in his arsenal, every subtle demonstration of interest. Techniques that have never failed him before. He stands too near. Maintains eye contact too long and too warmly. Puts himself in close quarters with his general at every opportunity. He indulges a hundred careless touches, too brief to draw outside attention, too frequent for Washington to ignore. He is brazen and insubordinate, begging without words for Washington to put him in his place.

Short of drafting a letter begging for his general's cock, Hamilton could not possibly make his point more clearly. His efforts deserve a seduction at the very least, even if he has misgauged the particular way in which Washington desires him. Not that Hamilton has misgauged. No, he is certain Washington's interest lies not just in bedding him, but taking him, rough and forceful. That is not the problem.

The problem lies in the general's strength of character.

Washington is not a perfect man. He is, perhaps, not even a good man. But he is stubborn, and he is a hero, and—most importantly—he is a man of infinite caution. The stern public image he maintains is not a front. No, George Washington is a man who knows just how much power he wields, knows how devotedly his soldiers look up to him. Even Hamilton. Especially Hamilton. And despite Hamilton's initial hopes of cracking his iron control, Washington continues to hold back.

He does not take Hamilton. Does not order Hamilton to his bed no matter how many eloquent glances they exchange. Does not give in, does not reach for him, even when Hamilton can see the volcano of wild heat on the verge of erupting.

And Hamilton is at a loss. For all the times he has maneuvered himself to excite the interests of men, he's never had to engage in active pursuit. He's never needed to seduce someone who looks at him the way Washington does.

He does not know how.

No, that's not entirely true. He could find a way. He could find the words, if nothing else. Hamilton can do anything with the right words at his disposal; surely he could convince Washington to use him the way they both so desperately need.

But the truth is, he is terrified.

His feelings for his general are complicated. Washington is no stranger for Hamilton to enjoy and discard.

He is a man Alexander holds in the highest esteem, despite his ample imperfections. Despite his unpredictable temper and his refusal to assign Hamilton a command of his own. Despite the ferocious disagreements that occasionally rise between them. Despite the impossible things Washington demands and Hamilton delivers in the line of duty.

It is not only esteem, Hamilton can admit, if only to himself. His devotion has grown far past the hero worship of an ambitious soldier. Washington is beautiful. And he is brilliant, in his own methodical way. There is no one else whose attention and regard Hamilton desires more.

It is possible—probable—perhaps inevitable: he is in love with his general.

And that is the most terrifying truth Hamilton has ever known.

"Are you all right?" Washington asks.

Belatedly, Hamilton recalls himself from the spiral of his thoughts. The quill is frozen in his hand, stilled in its progress across the page. He is meant to be taking dictation.

It's unlike him to become distracted in the middle of a task. Perhaps this stalemate is taking an even greater toll than he realized.

"Fine, Your Excellency." He dips his quill once more in the pot of ink and poises it above the foolscap where he left off. "Please continue."

The hour is late and they are alone. The other aides have long since disappeared, for a late supper and insufficient sleep. Hamilton's eyes strain against the gloom, and the frames of his glasses pinch uncomfortably behind his ears. He doesn't complain about either of these things. There is work to do.

If he cannot please Washington in any of the carnal ways they both crave, he will give this instead.

It is even later when they finish. Hamilton stands with the finished letter and hands it across the desk. Washington accepts it, barely glances at the words. There is no need for Washington to sign his name. Hamilton has already forged the general's signature at the bottom of the page as a matter of course.

"Acceptable." Washington folds and seals the letter before handing it back. "Thank you, my boy. See it sent out with our first rider at dawn."

"Of course, sir," Hamilton says. He tucks the letter safely away inside his uniform jacket. Washington's eyes follow his hands for a moment, tired enough to linger. His gaze wanders. It is several seconds before his attention snaps guiltily back to Hamilton's face. Hamilton smiles, quiet flirtation, and asks, "Is there anything else you need of me?"

Washington gives a barely visible start and sits straighter in his chair. "No. You can go."

"Are you sure?" Hamilton presses. The closest he has come to offering himself outright. "It's already late, Your Excellency. Everyone else has retired to their beds. Surely there is some other service you require."

Washington's expression blanks, but there's unmistakable heat touching his skin. "You are dismissed, Colonel." The words are stiff and stern. They leave no space for rebuttal.

The smile falls from Hamilton's face and he drops his head forward in a deferential nod. "Sir."

Then, knowing there is no point in remaining, he turns on his heel and exits Washington's office.

Hamilton is there when a trio of spies try to assassinate the general; it's not the first time an attempt has been made on Washington's life.

It is the closest anyone has yet come to succeeding.

The moments after are a chaos of shouting and violence as the would-be assassins are apprehended. Hamilton is senseless to all of it, on his knees at Washington's side, hands pressed hard to Washington's left shoulder. He can't see the wound properly, but there is blood everywhere—pooling on the floor, saturating blue fabric. Hamilton's sleeves and wrists are slick, his hands sticky as he tries to staunch the bleeding.

It isn't working. There's too much. Hamilton doesn't know if the bullet is still lodged in Washington's shoulder—doesn't dare try and move him to check. Washington's eyes are open, are on him, but he looks lost and confused. Drunk, though of course he hasn't been drinking. He is losing too much blood, and Hamilton's efforts are useless.

"Don't do this." He presses harder, knowing it will do no good. "Don't you fucking dare."

Washington blinks slowly. Blinks a second time. The third time his eyes close and stay shut, and Hamilton breathes a frantic string of curses. Lafayette went for a medic ages ago. He should be back by now. Washington is dying beneath Hamilton's hands, and where is the goddamn doctor?

"Hurry." He hears Lafayette from across the house that has been serving as their headquarters, and then there are people shoving Hamilton aside, surrounding the general. Hamilton's first instinct is to fight. Stay close. But a firm hand closes on his shoulder.

Alone it's not enough to keep him at bay, but a moment later Lafayette says, "Let them work, Alexander." The words are soft but taut with feeling, and Hamilton subsides. He is still on his knees, and he feels more than sees Lafayette standing beside him, because Hamilton's eyes are still fixed firmly on his fallen general.

"Come." Lafayette gives his shoulder a squeeze, but Hamilton doesn't move. "Come, my friend. There is nothing more we can do here. We will only be in the way."

If it were anyone else admonishing him to retreat, Hamilton would continue to fight. But he can hear the unspoken pain in Lafayette's voice. His friend cares deeply for the general in his own right, and Hamilton is not the only one in agony. So he allows himself to be dragged to his feet and guided away. He allows Lafayette to escort him across camp, into the grim shadows of oncoming night.

He doesn't realize their destination until they stop at the edge of the river that runs outside camp.

"What are we doing here?" Hamilton blinks at Lafayette in the moonlight.

The look Lafayette gives him is equal parts exasperation and worry. "My friend, you are a mess. I think there is not enough water in camp to get you properly clean."

Hamilton blinks. His brain is sluggish, and it takes him a moment to process what Lafayette is saying. When the words finally sink in, he looks down, holding his hands out before him. His sleeves are soaked all the way to the elbow—the uniform will be impossible to clean—and even with only moonlight, he can see that his breeches have been stained dark.

"Oh," he says. He sounds numb. He feels numb. He should not have let Lafayette bring him away. What if Washington dies and Hamilton is not there?

"Here." Lafayette steps behind Hamilton and grips the collar of his jacket. "Let me help."

By the time they return to camp Hamilton still does not feel clean. But the river has carried away the worst of the blood. His skin is no longer sticky with it.

He needs to change; he does not want to take the time to do so.

Tench is hovering outside headquarters when they draw close. He looks pale and frantic, but his posture eases when he catches sight of his two fellows approaching. "The general lives," he says without prompting. "Doctor Mann is with him upstairs. He will allow no one in the general's bedchamber while he is working."

It is well past midnight before the doctor emerges and ushers Hamilton into the room. Hamilton is wearing a clean uniform—a restless concession to the hours of waiting—and he is alone.

No one wanted to leave. No one wanted to sleep. But Hamilton is Washington's chief of staff, and he knows the work will not wait. They still have a war to fight. And if Washington wakes—when Washington wakes—he will be cross with anyone who has neglected their duty.

So in the absence of their commander in chief, Hamilton has ordered everyone else to their beds. Even Lafayette, whom Hamilton does not outrank, conceded eventually. Leaving Hamilton to pace the workroom in solitude, desperate and grateful when Doctor Mann finally appears at the base of the narrow stairs.

"You will need to stay with him," the doctor says as he leads the way to Washington's chambers above. "Summon a replacement if you need to sleep, but do not leave him alone. Alert me immediately if his temperature rises or he seems to be having trouble breathing. I'll leave a boy downstairs who will know where to find me."

"What's the general's condition?" Hamilton asks. Across the threshold he finds Washington's room dim, lit by a single candle on the tall wooden chest beside the bed. His eyes land immediately on Washington, unconscious and ashen, on his back beneath heavy quilts despite the warmth of the room. He would look to be merely sleeping if it weren't for the gray tinge to his skin, the dark shadows beneath his eyes.

"The bullet passed directly through his shoulder without breaking any bones." Mann begins gathering up the heavy case of his medical supplies. "The damage was significant, but it's the blood loss which most concerns me."

"Will he live?" Hamilton tries to sound strong and sure; he doesn't succeed.

"I am not an oracle."

Hamilton's stomach clenches at the refusal to answer. He bites his tongue to keep from protesting a truth the doctor cannot change. There is no point in arguing that they cannot lose the general—that they cannot win this war without him. Doctor Mann can give no other answer.

With one foot in the hallway, the doctor pauses just long enough to add, "I've given him a dose of laudanum to keep him through the night. He shouldn't wake before morning." Then he is gone, pulling the door shut behind him, and Hamilton is alone.

No. He is not alone. An instant is all he manages before he is crossing the room to Washington's bedside, his footsteps loud over creaking floorboards. Up close the general looks even worse, gaunt and drained, brow furrowed despite the dose of laudanum easing his sleep. Hamilton can barely discern the faint rise and fall of Washington's chest beneath the bedclothes, every breath steady but shallow. Hamilton's heart gives a painful clench behind his ribs. His hands are shaking—all of him is shaking—with fear and denial and a wild helplessness he hasn't felt in years.

He can't lose his general. He won't lose his general. Yet there is nothing he can do.

A single chair stands in the opposite corner of the room. It's barely more than a stool, wooden and sturdy. He should drag it over to sit beside the bed, use it to keep his exhausted vigil.

Instead Hamilton stands perfectly still for a long time. Stares down at the bed and wills the frantic panic of his heart to slow.

He shrugs out of his jacket eventually, hanging it over the bedpost. Then, barely hesitating now that his decision is made, he hoists himself onto the high mattress. He lies atop the quilt, curling onto his side, easing close but careful not to touch. The chilly numbness has returned in force, to overtake his mind and senses, and that's good. Better by far than the rattled terror with no outlet.

He does not sleep. Even when he closes his eyes he is on high alert. His senses stretching for the faintest hint of change, his pulse wild and disordered beneath a thin layer of ice.

He is hyperaware that he has no right to be here. He has no place in Washington's bed. But he remains, terrified and stubborn. He waits, and he breathes, and he prays to a God he does not believe in.

Let him live, Hamilton's desperate mind pleads. Let him live, we cannot do this without him.

I cannot do this without him.

At dawn Hamilton reluctantly removes himself from the bed. Considers, pulls the chair over from its place near the wall, and positions it close at hand. Precisely where he would have put it if he'd kept his vigil at a proper distance. He does not bother to sit; he can already hear stirring below, and it's only a matter of time before—

Yes. There. Hurried footsteps on the stair, and a moment later a quiet creak from the door as Lafayette eases into the bedchamber. Lafayette's uniform is in perfect order, his hair tightly arranged as always. Only his face gives away the force of his worry. His eyes are shadowed, his mouth set in a grim line. He looks every bit as exhausted as Hamilton feels.

"How is he?" Lafayette asks. Not is he alive. Surely Lafayette knows Hamilton would have summoned him if the worst happened during the night.

"I don't know," Hamilton confesses. He is still standing beside the bed. He can't seem to look away. "But he is alive." Surely that's a good sign. Washington is still breathing. The worst of the gray pallor has faded from his skin. He is still far too sallow for Hamilton's liking, but he no longer looks like a corpse barely warmed.

Lafayette stands at Hamilton's side for a long time, both of them ignoring the rumble and murmur of work beginning downstairs.

"I will fetch the doctor," Lafayette says at length. "And then you should sleep. I will take your place in keeping watch."

Hamilton wants to disagree. He wants to stay. But he is barely standing, and even he cannot function with no rest at all, no matter how hard he often pushes his body past such physical limitations.

Washington wakes only briefly that first day, long enough to demand a report and to summon Doctor Mann—long enough to ask after the fate of the would-be assassins—though all this Hamilton learns after the fact. The assassins are already dead: hung in the absence of orders after refusing to name their conspirators. Hamilton had no part in the interrogation, or in hanging the men at first light.

He hopes the traitors met a painful end.

Again that night Hamilton remains with his general. Again he crawls into the bed while Washington sleeps. Again he withdraws at dawn, leery of being discovered.

The third night he does the same.

The fourth night he falls asleep and wakes just before dawn, warm and confused, and curled tight against Washington's side. He is barely quick enough to withdraw before the hall door opens, two of Washington's top generals striding through.

He is being reckless. The danger has passed—Washington is not dying, is in fact wakeful through most of the day, sitting upright and commanding his army from the inconvenient post of his own bedroom—and Hamilton has no reason to stay. Yet he clings to the excuse, to Doctor Mann's instructions, and remains when the rest of the camp quiets and settles.

The fifth night he sleeps more deeply, and when he wakes Washington is staring at him in the first faint graying before dawn. There's bleary confusion in dark eyes, watching him, coming gradually more awake. Blinking as Washington realizes where they are and notices that Alexander is lying practically on top of his uninjured arm.

"Hamilton, what are you doing in my bed?"

Hamilton holds perfectly still beneath the confused scrutiny, and he knows his expression is wide open. Not hiding at all the flash of panic, the rush of warmth to his face.

The excuse sounds riled and thin when he admits, "I just needed to be sure."

Washington's mouth thins into a stern line. "Sure of what?"

"That you're really okay. That you're alive."

The sternness softens, and Washington's lips part on a quiet inhale. The look of censure shifts into one of surprise. For an irrational instant, Hamilton thinks—hopes—his general is going to reach for him. There is complicated heat warming the space between them. They have both spent a great deal of time wanting.

But Washington still does not touch him, and a moment later the general's expression shutters, closing Hamilton out. His voice is all familiar control when he says, "Of course I am alive."

"Sir," Hamilton starts, but for once words fail him. Of all the sentiments and appeals crowding his mind and heart, there is not a single one he can bear to say.

But perhaps Washington understands him anyway. The look that passes between them is terrifying in its intensity. It makes Hamilton want to hurl himself across the narrow gulf separating them and bury himself in his general's arms. Makes him want to run and hide, because his soul is naked, and this particular vulnerability is not one he knows how to guard.

"You cannot stay," Washington says at length, and Hamilton closes his eyes, bites his own lower lip to stifle a noise of protest.

Of course he cannot stay.

"I'm sorry," he says. Blinks and finds Washington watching him closely.

"Go back to your own bed," Washington says just as quietly. "There is no more need to keep this ridiculous vigil. I will be back about my normal routine within two days, and you have responsibilities of your own."

"Yes, Your Excellency," Hamilton grudgingly agrees.

He removes himself from the bed and collects his uniform jacket—the only article of clothing he has removed. Even his boots are still on his feet. There would have been no way to explain their absence if someone had burst in too quickly. He dons the jacket but hesitates at the door.

When he glances back over his shoulder, he finds that Washington is still watching him. There is a hungry inferno in that look, quickly hidden. Hamilton's chest tightens painfully

"Good night, sir."

"Good night," Washington echoes, and lets him go.

Hamilton is almost surprised at how accurate Washington's prediction turns out to be. Within two days, he is indeed up and about his duties. There is a measured caution to his movements—it's obvious to anyone who knows him that Washington's healing shoulder is still troubling him—but he resumes as much as he can of his usual routine.

Headquarters returns to normal with unsurprising speed now that the general is up and about. Days pass in the same frenzied productivity as always. Hamilton has fallen behind in his work, thanks to his distraction over Washington's wellbeing, and for a while there is no space in his thoughts for anything but the tasks before him. He is tireless and efficient, conquering the mountain of neglected duties with focused determination.

By the time Hamilton finds his equilibrium and resurfaces, Washington seems a man completely recovered from his wound. He continues to favor his left shoulder for a time, but even that habit fades with improbable swiftness. Days into weeks and onwards. The general is fine. He is alive. He seems to be carrying no lasting harm from the assassination attempt.

Hamilton's heart is another matter.

He has never been fond of sleep, but a new restlessness haunts him in the wake of almost losing his general. His dreams are disjointed things, grim flashes he never quite remembers in the mornings, but they leave his insides coated with a mingled sensation of loss and fear. Worse, he can feel Washington's eyes on him nearly all the time, and yet the man continues to keep an appropriate distance. Never mind the fact that Washington woke once to find Hamilton in his bed—they are still neither of them acknowledging the shimmer of unrealized potential that burns like a bonfire between them.

Hamilton is more certain than ever that Washington desires him, and he is fast running out of patience.

He still does not know how to enact a smooth seduction. But perhaps he does not need to be smooth. Perhaps his obvious desperation will suffice.

There is no specific impetus that pushes him over the edge. There is simply a moment of decision. An instant in which Hamilton knows he can no longer wait for Washington to act. He must do something blunt and decisive himself.

He has never been one to ruminate on a choice once made, and so he vows to himself he will make his move that very night. It will be the eighth night running that Washington has kept him late to draft confidential correspondence—a marathon that speaks more to Washington's desire to keep Hamilton close than to any true need for secrecy. Every one of Washington's aides has been highly vetted. They are trusted to exercise the soundest discretion.

The late hour wouldn't bother Hamilton under any circumstances—but tonight he is especially grateful for the way midnight has settled quiet and heavy around them. The house is empty but for himself and Washington; the workroom across the hall is entirely silent. Hamilton has seen to the front door himself; he locked it before crossing the main hall to Washington's private office, even though he normally would not set the latch until retiring for the night himself.

It won't do for them to be disturbed.

Hamilton sits in his usual spot, in a rickety chair before Washington's wide desk. The plume of his quill passes dangerously near the candle flame as he works, but he is as close as possible to the light. His perfect penmanship has barely flagged despite the fatigue slowing his wrist and fingers.

Behind the desk, Washington has pushed his chair back. With only Hamilton in the room there is no reason for rigid posture or formality, and so Washington is slouched comfortably in the sturdy wooden chair. His legs are thoughtlessly spread—a habitual pose that has always driven Hamilton to distraction—and he's turned his chair sideways in order to glare at the wall as he dictates a missive to General Gates.

Hamilton waits until a lengthy pause, then sets aside his quill. He knows the letter is not yet done—Washington is only pausing to gather his thoughts—but he does not care.

Washington notices. He turns his head without moving the rest of him, gaze catching on Hamilton with a perplexed expression. "I wasn't finished."

"I know." Hamilton rises from his chair. "All due respect, your Excellency, but I truly do not care." He rounds the desk to reach Washington, vividly aware of dark eyes following his every step as he draws far too close.

Then, with no further warning, Hamilton drops to his knees.

His blood sings as he shifts into the space between Washington's legs, a position that feels both natural and exhilarating at once. Washington's eyes have gone wide, his mouth agape, and he draws a shocky breath when Hamilton sets his palms flat atop his general's muscular thighs.

Hamilton stares upward, straight into Washington's disbelieving face.

He can't pretend, even to himself, that he is not terrified.

His fear has nothing to do with what he is physically proposing, of course. It's hard to fathom anything Washington could do to him that Hamilton would not thrill at. But he has no delusions that physical satisfaction is all he's offering. If it were, he would not be here on his knees making the first move.

Hamilton has tasted plenty of pricks in his life, but he has never before been the one asking to do it. He has never had to prostrate himself like this, has never admitted just how desperate he is to be used in this way. He prefers being told what to do, with or without words. Grabbed and pushed around. Forced to his knees. Shoved onto his back. Pinned against walls, tables, beds, floors. Taken, in as many clever and violent ways as his partners can conjure. Anonymous. Easy. He is never truly vulnerable when he is being forced to accommodate a stranger's cock.

He is vulnerable now. And the anticipation is utterly terrifying.

Washington stares down at him. His expression has not changed. And Hamilton knows he could simply reach forward and open his general's breeches.

Washington's cock is already growing hard, tenting pale fabric, straining against the seam. Surely if he hasn't ordered Hamilton away yet, he would not protest if Hamilton were to draw his naked cock free and duck low for a taste.

But that is not what Hamilton wants.

He does want to taste Washington's cock. He's salivating with the need for it. God, he hasn't even seen it yet, and his own prick is so hard it hurts.

But Hamilton doesn't want this on his terms. He does not want to be the one in control. He wants Washington to snap and claim him—put Hamilton in his place—and he is damn sure that's what Washington wants, too. Washington's cock is straining stiffly in his breeches, and Hamilton is panting for it. God, he wants this. He'll do it under his own power if he has to, but he's not ready to surrender to that path yet. He is still desperately hoping Washington will meet him halfway.

Eventually Washington asks in a tight, low voice, "Hamilton, what are you doing?"

Hamilton's pulse kicks faster. "I'm not doing anything, sir. But you're going to."

"Excuse me?" Washington gawps as though he genuinely can't believe his ears, but Hamilton meets his eyes with steady resolve.

His blood is a torrent of fire, his skin too tight all across his body, his lungs moving quick and shallow. This is the moment he puts everything on the line—gambles his heart, his rank, his entire future—and prays he has not misgauged.

"Sir," Hamilton says. "We've both waited long enough."

"Hamilton."

"Please," Hamilton whispers helplessly. "All I want is for you to take control. Use me. However you want, I'm yours."

For several seconds Washington cannot breathe. Hamilton's pronouncement rings in his ears, ricochets through his thoughts, blunt and filthy. There is open pleading in the boy's voice, and his palms are warm atop Washington's thighs.

Arousal spikes hot and hard through Washington's blood at the words. At the sight of Hamilton on his knees. At the very idea of using Hamilton this way. Claiming and taking him as firmly as all of Washington's guiltiest fantasies.

He has spent so long resisting these impulses. For all the boy's blatant flirtations, it never once occurred to Washington that Hamilton has known exactly what he is doing.

Even so, Washington hears himself protest, "How can you ask me for this?" It seems impossible. Hamilton is such a prideful young man. Stubborn. Unyielding. Wildly insubordinate. He harbors respect for nothing and no one. How can he kneel there so calmly and demand that Washington debase him?

Hamilton's expression clouds.

"Haven't you thought about it, sir?" There is a shadow of self-consciousness twining through the words now. A small burst of doubt. "Haven't you… Haven't you wanted… I was so sure that you wanted me the same way I want you. That… That you could handle me properly."

Washington's breath hitches sharply. "Handle you?" God, he is already picturing it. Hamilton's clever mouth spread wide around the base of his cock, that ceaseless tongue forced to other uses. Tears pricking the boy's expressive eyes. Bruises on delicate wrists.

The doubt burns away from Hamilton's expression as though he is reading Washington's mind. "I want you to hurt me. Force me to your will." A pause, followed by a rush of honesty so intense it leaves them both winded. "Sir, please, I want to be yours and no one else's. Whatever you want. Anything. Every part of me is yours to take."

Washington's head is spinning, and he has to remind his lungs to draw breath into his chest. He aches with what Hamilton is asking, the relentless honesty, the frantic confession. The very idea that anyone could want him to unleash the violent impulses he goes to such lengths to contain.

No one has ever wanted him in precisely this way.

The few times Washington has been intimate with men, he has been careful. Every bit as careful as he's been with the women who have shared his bed. He is accustomed to compensating for his strength and size—bringing extra tenderness to his affairs—controlling the parts of himself that yearn to stake more forceful claim.

He's never been with someone who desires all those things he keeps locked away.

He has certainly fantasized about taking Hamilton the way his boy is pleading to be taken. He's imagined dozens of possibilities for what it might be like. Hamilton docile and pliant beneath him, all sweetness and invitation. Hamilton a wild and unrelenting force of nature riding Washington's cock, as restless in bed as he is in every other aspect of his life.

But his favorite fantasies are of Hamilton fighting beneath him. Hamilton resisting every touch, helpless to get away, coming apart only when he succumbs to the inevitability of surrender. An unrealistic fantasy, and a cruel one.

And yet, isn't that exactly what Hamilton is offering? No wonder they have been circling each other so closely. Perhaps this collision was inevitable.

There is silence between them for a long time. Long enough that Washington can see the first hint of restlessness in Hamilton's eyes, and is impressed to see him hold his ground. There are a dozen protests Washington should make here. It's wrong. They can't. He does not want to hurt someone under his command.

But he does want to hurt Alexander. And they can. And he does not care if it's wrong.

Without taking his eyes off his boy, Washington unbuttons his waistcoat and opens his breeches. It's a relief to draw his cock free of the confining fabric, and his heart pounds louder at the way Hamilton's gaze drops to Washington's hands, to take in the sight of him.

His heart damn near stops at the glimpse of Hamilton's tongue darting out to lick his lips.

Despite everything Hamilton has said, Washington hesitates one final time. "Do you want to…?" He trails off, not entirely sure what he is offering. A chance for this to go a different way, perhaps. He will take what Hamilton is pleading for, but he will also be just as happy to allow Hamilton to set the pace.

But Hamilton's eyes snap up, abandoning their perusal of Washington's cock, and his voice rings smooth and confident. "No, sir. I told you what I want." Hamilton's cheeks are flushed, his pupils dilated, his mouth open and eager. "Make me do it. Don't hold back."

The last of Washington's control snaps in half—he would defy anyone to resist such a plea—and he reaches for his boy. He doesn't bother untying Hamilton's queue. No, Washington simply grabs him by the hair and uses the leverage to drag his face down to Washington's lap.

Hamilton's doesn't fight him, but there's a wiry tension that suggests he's considering it. Washington wonders what that would be like—wonders what it will be like—when they do this again, just like this, but with Hamilton putting up a fight the way they both crave.

Washington groans as his cock slips past Hamilton's parted lips, his boy's hot mouth closing around him, wet and perfect and maddening.

Hamilton said to make him take it. To not hold back. So Washington keeps going, forcing Alexander even farther down, despite the intensity of sensation already threatening to overwhelm him. When the nudge of cock at the back of Hamilton's throat earns him a sharp gag, an instinctive jerk against his hold, Washington only pushes harder. Forcing Hamilton forward. Groaning at the sensation of Hamilton's throat spasming helplessly around him as Washington's cock shoves deep.

There is nothing gentle in using Hamilton this way. Washington's grip is cruel in dark hair, his strength unyielding as he forces Hamilton all the way down—all the way to the root of his cock—until Hamilton's face is flush with Washington's groin. He can feel the boy shuddering beneath his forceful touch, and he grabs the nape of Hamilton's neck with his other hand to wedge him more firmly in place.

He holds him there—holds him still—does not let him ease back so much as a centimeter, even as Hamilton chokes and shudders around the sizable cock wedged down his struggling throat.

Washington's senses are buzzing, his blood pounding noisy in his ears. His skin is hot. Hamilton is perfect. And God, the sounds Hamilton is making. They are delightful. Brutal. Wet and tortured and utterly helpless.

"You can't breathe, can you." Washington tries to make the observation sound idle and unconcerned, and gets closer than he honestly expects. There's no denying the whirlwind of heat barely concealed beneath, but at least the facade is there.

Hamilton jerks ineffectually against his hold, all the confirmation Washington needs.

Every instinct is screaming at Washington to make Hamilton move, to chase some real friction. But he's not ready to give in to such needs yet. He can be patient. He wants to see how much Hamilton can take, wants to see just how long he can hold the boy here exactly like this.

In any case, it's not as though Washington is getting no friction at all. Hamilton's throat is restless around him, fluttering and swallowing—or at least trying to swallow—choking around the lack of air. Alexander's hands are grasping hard at Washington's thighs as though trying to ground himself, but he is making no effort to push away. Despite how obvious his discomfort, despite how hard he's trembling beneath Washington's hands, he is holding impressively still.

"Open your eyes, my boy," Washington admonishes without relenting. "Look at me."

After a moment of struggle, Hamilton obeys. It's obviously difficult to follow Washington's order, to meet his eyes at this intimate angle. But he manages, raising his eyes and trying to look up from his position. There are tears gathering between dark lashes, and his mouth is utterly obscene, stretched wide and hot around Washington's cock.

The sight of him like this is everything Washington ever dreamed.

Seconds stretch slowly past between them, and it grows increasingly obvious that Hamilton needs to breathe. He is not holding nearly so still now. His eyes squeeze shut. There's an urgency in the way he has begun to twitch and jerk against Washington's hold, trying to pull away as physical instinct overtakes his desire to be used.

But Washington is stronger. It is no effort at all to hold him there, and so Washington does. Using untempered strength to keep Hamilton right where he is. Not letting him up. Not letting him breathe. Testing his boy's limits, calling his bluff, making him take this without the faintest hint of remorse.

Hamilton is still clinging to Washington's thighs like his life depends on it. The sounds he is making have taken a more desperate turn, choking more fiercely now. Hamilton's eyes are tightly shut, and there are tears streaming down his face. His expression is a mask of perfect agony, his forehead creased with strain, his wide-stretched lips pressed warm to Washington's skin.

Washington knows the exact moment he needs to let Hamilton go. There's a weakening of struggles, which means he has found his boy's limits. He has no interest in surpassing them—he wants to hurt his boy, but only as far as Hamilton wants to be hurt—and so he drags Hamilton up by the hair, rough and fast, off of Washington's cock. Savoring the choking, whimpering gasps of Hamilton's relief.

He does not let go his grip in dark hair. Hamilton is a coughing, shaking mess, and it should not be arousing. It should certainly not make Washington want to inflict ever-more depraved indignities on this beautiful boy. But God, it is the most alluring thing Washington has ever seen, the most beautiful litany of sounds he has ever heard.

Washington has never been so inflamed in his life. He has never wanted to utterly ruin someone the way he wants to ruin Alexander Hamilton.

He does not give his boy nearly enough time to recover before dragging him down once more.

Of all the virtues Washington has spent a lifetime struggling to attain, patience is the one that has served him best. It serves him now as he ignores his own body's frantic desire to move, and instead repeats exactly the same maneuver. He revels in the sensation of Hamilton's throat opening for him, taking him in, even as Hamilton gags on the rough thrust of Washington's entire cock sliding deep.

It is another eternity of stillness. It requires every ounce of Washington's self control. But he holds his boy still, drinking in the view between his own spread thighs, thrilling at the concerto of noises choking from Hamilton's abused throat. Almost too long. He drags Hamilton off again only at the last moment, and only long enough for a handful of heaving breaths before filling him once more.

He does this as long as he can bear to, which is a very long time indeed. Each time he has to let Hamilton go a little sooner, has to let him breathe a little longer before forcing his head back down. He is careful, though he makes sure no hint of that care shows through in the way he is touching his boy. He doesn't want to suffocate Hamilton; only wants to make him properly appreciate the air he is allowed to breathe.

Hamilton's self control is impressive. With each repetition, each time Washington's cock fills him, for a time Hamilton behaves. No matter how hard he was gasping an instant before, he settles into the position Washington has forced him to take, does his best to swallow around the hard length of cock. Holds nearly still for a time, despite the violent trembling he cannot hide.

But eventually he begins to struggle. Every time, when he is approaching his body's limit, Hamilton will jerk against Washington's hold to no avail. Every time he ultimately begins to fight, as survival instincts override whatever need has put him on his knees. And every time Washington revels in the increasingly frantic struggles, and the wounded noises Hamilton gasps on being released.

Every time he drags Hamilton off, Washington meets his boy's wet eyes and asks without words if this is really okay. He does not put the question aloud—he knows better—but he needs to be sure. And every time Hamilton meets his stare with familiar stubbornness, with determination and desire, and Washington continues without remorse.

Impossible. And yet here they are.

Even Washington's iron control can't last forever. He shifts his hold, gripping Hamilton's hair even more tightly—vicious and unnecessary, and it earns him a reflexive tightening of Hamilton's throat around him. He twists his other hand just as roughly in the strands that have fallen from his grasp. He does not hesitate now. No, he has gone too far to retreat now. He has taken Hamilton at his word, and he is going to finish this exactly the way he wants to.

He has all the leverage he needs to force Hamilton's head up and down the length of his cock. Hamilton chokes and sputters at the speed of it. He cannot possibly keep up with the unpredictable rhythm of the cock dragging across his tongue, shoving in and out of his throat without hesitation. Washington does not allow him to grow accustomed to the pace. When Hamilton adapts, seems to know when to relax his throat, Washington speeds up, gagging him early.

He is brutal. And he is relentless. And when this is not enough, he holds Hamilton speared on the full length of his cock as Washington stands from his chair. Hamilton has to scuffle on his knees to adopt this new position, but Washington doesn't allow any reprieve before he begins to thrust in earnest. Instead of forcing Hamilton to bob up and down his length, Washington holds his head perfectly still, driving his hips forward. Driving his cock greedily down that tight throat, forcing Hamilton's lips wide around the base, fucking his face with complete abandon.

Hamilton is clinging to the backs of Washington's thighs now, grasping tight as though weathering a storm. Allowing the rough use, welcoming it, gasping and panting when he can get a breath between the deepest thrusts.

Washington does not slow his pace. If anything he thrusts faster as his own orgasm closes inexorably in on him. He keeps his release at bay as long as he can, determined to make this last. Determined to use every ounce of his stamina to make sure Hamilton will never forget this encounter. He cannot think past the heat singing in his blood, past the sight of Hamilton's mouth stretched wide around him, past the guttural rhythmic sounds and the tears glistening on his boy's flushed cheeks.

When he can no longer fend off the inevitable, he drags Hamilton once more into place, forcing him all the way forward. Pressing that slick, reddened face to Washington's belly and the thick length of cock down Hamilton's throat.

He spends like that, buried deep, with Hamilton's tongue trapped beneath the root of his cock and the boy's throat working helplessly around him. It's all he can do to clench his jaw and keep his voice down—even in this moment aware that there is no such thing as privacy in a war camp—senses overrun by the desperate rush of orgasm.

There is nothing Hamilton can do but swallow, and Washington holds him there until he has nothing left. He does not withdraw until his cock begins to soften, and even then he moves with unnecessary roughness. Dragging Hamilton harshly off his length despite the fact that Washington is over-sensitized from the flood of sensation.

He is panting hard from his exertions, still holding tightly to Hamilton's hair, listening to Hamilton breathe in gasping, choking counterpoint. But even wildly exhausted, Washington is not yet through with his boy. He lets go his punishing grip in order to grab Hamilton beneath the arms and drag him to his feet. A second later Washington hoists him up, and Hamilton sits on the edge of the desk, blinking owlishly at him, shaking beneath his hands.

Hamilton's cock is hard beneath his breeches, and there is an unmistakable wet spot. Heat glints in dark eyes, and he licks swollen lips as he stares up into Washington's face.

Washington cannot resist such an offering. He slots his bulk forward between Hamilton's spread legs and kisses him. Holds him close, savoring the lithe body pressing frantic to his chest, the needy strength in Hamilton's thin arms as they wrap around his shoulders and hold on, the greedy eagerness of Hamilton's mouth opening beneath his own.

He can taste himself on Hamilton's tongue.

Hamilton's cock is a nudging reminder against his stomach, and Washington considers what happens now. He will not leave Hamilton unsatisfied. His first instinct, having achieved his own satisfaction, is to ask what Hamilton needs. What he wants Washington to do.

But Hamilton has already explained what he needs. He wants Washington to decide. Wants Washington to take and use him, to force Hamilton to his will. Asking what Hamilton wants now would be unforgivably selfish. So Washington decides for himself, and takes a single step back.

Before Hamilton can protest, Washington drags him down from the desk and turns him around. Exhausted as Hamilton is, Washington exerts himself barely at all in order to compel Hamilton forward, bending him roughly over the desk. He steps in close once he has Hamilton in position, reaching around to palm his boy's hard cock through fabric.

Hamilton ruts forward into the touch, moaning aloud. Moaning too loud. There is no one close by to overhear them, but it is still thoughtless and dangerous.

Washington smacks Hamilton hard across the ass, the sound of the slap softened by tight fabric. But Hamilton only moans again, louder, and Washington considers other methods. It takes a moment's thought only, and then he reaches forward. Unknots Hamilton's cravat with steady efficiency, balls the fabric up, and stuffs the makeshift gag in Hamilton's mouth.

It takes a matter of quick seconds to open Hamilton's breeches and drag them down his thighs. Hamilton's bare ass is enough to make Washington wish he were decades younger, that he might recover in time to fuck his boy tonight. But he will not let human limitations slow him down. He has already given Hamilton his cock tonight; there are other ways to finish staking his claim.

Hamilton breathes a muffled groan when Washington drapes his weight forward, crushing him harder against the desk. With one hand he circles Hamilton's cock and gives a firm stroke, using his weight to hold Hamilton still, keeping every sliver of control for himself.

The other hand he brings to his own mouth to slick his fingers, then slips down between their bodies, questing between Hamilton's spread thighs, sneaking between the cheeks of his ass. And he could be gentle. But he has no interest in gentle, or in caution, and so he does not hesitate.

One instant is stillness, Hamilton shivering beneath him, the very air taut with expectation. The next instant Washington thrusts two fingers into Hamilton's body, forcing them past tight muscle, driving them deep.

Hamilton keens into the gag. His hips stutter forward, fucking his cock into the circle of Washington's hand, but Washington doesn't relent. He twists his fingers deeper, vicious and unrelenting. He does not stop until his hand is flush with Hamilton's ass.

Even then, he does not stop for long. He pauses only enough to stroke his other hand the length of Hamilton's cock—then slides his fingers out only to drive them back in. Washington savors the choked and muffled sounds, pain and pleasure mingled in equal parts. He relishes the tight clench of Hamilton's body around his fingers. God, Alexander is made for this.

He torments his boy mercilessly, watching and listening so closely, recognizing when Hamilton is close. It's delightful to stop short—to earn the choked cry that comes of being denied release—and Washington savors the opportunity. He keeps Hamilton on the edge for as long as he can, keeps him hungry and desperate. It is far too easy to turn Hamilton into a crying, thrashing mess, frantic to spend himself, helpless to do it until Washington allows.

When Hamilton is at last permitted over the edge, he is loud enough even through the gag that Washington is grateful for the empty house.

He should not be surprised his boy is noisy. Nothing about Alexander Hamilton has ever been quiet.

The moments that follow are strangely peaceful. Hamilton sprawls over the desk, so sated and wrung-out that he makes no move to take the spit-soaked cravat from his mouth. His breathing slows gradually. When Washington withdraws his fingers, Hamilton breathes a blissed out sigh.

Washington doesn't want to stop touching him, but he retreats unhurried across the office. There's fresh water in the pitcher near the door, fetched just after the dinner hour, and Washington uses it to wash his hands in the shallow basin. Wets a clean cloth when he is finished, and returns to the desk.

Hamilton has not moved except to let his head fall to the side. His eyes track Washington's movements, the only proof that he is not entirely dead to the world.

Washington works efficiently now, cleaning Hamilton up—cleaning them both up—and putting their clothing to rights. He tugs the ruined cravat from Hamilton's mouth and tosses it aside, relishing the low hum Hamilton breathes, the slow blink of tired eyes. He runs his hands through hair that has long since fallen loose from its habitual queue, and Hamilton absolutely preens beneath the touch. Nuzzles into Washington's hand like a pampered house cat and lets his eyes flutter closed.

Washington's heart threatens to burst from his ribcage at the sight, and his blood warms with a different flavor of possessiveness. Now that he has finished exploring Hamilton's limits—now that he has finished using him so thoroughly and ruthlessly—he is overwhelmed by a desire to guard his boy from all harm.

It is a hypocritical wish, perhaps. Washington does not care.

He wants to guide Hamilton to his bed, but even if Alexander would agree to stay the night, there is the question of logistics. A glance at his boy leaves him confident they would not make it halfway up the stairs before Hamilton passed out from exhaustion. He could carry the boy, but the stairs are narrow—and beyond that there is Hamilton's thorny pride to contend with. Even after everything they have shared tonight, the indignities Hamilton has welcomed, there is far too great a chance he would balk at being carried to bed.

Which leaves him with limited options. Ultimately Washington tugs Hamilton up from the desk and turns him around, then sits in his chair, guiding Hamilton down astride his lap. Hamilton curls tight against him without coaxing. Tucks his head against Washington's shoulder, the hot skin of his forehead pressing warmly to Washington's neck.

One arm drapes heavily across Washington's shoulders as Hamilton's breathing settles, slow and steady. Alexander's other hand rests between their bodies. His fingers wind thoughtless patterns over Washington's chest, fussing with the ruffles of his neckcloth, tracing the buttons of his waistcoat. There's something uncharacteristically leisurely in the touch. A steady tranquility turning every movement sluggish and easy.

Washington has never seen his boy anything but violently restless. The feel of this calm, sated Hamilton in his arms is impossibly endearing.

"Are you all right?" Washington asks at length, murmuring the words against Hamilton's temple. "Was I too rough?"

He doesn't think he was. He is almost certain he was right to take Hamilton's demands at face value—confident he has read him right. But he has to check. He can't simply shake off the fear that he might have hurt his boy in any of a hundred wrong ways.

Hamilton huffs a laugh that gusts warm beneath Washington's jaw. "Of course I'm all right. You were flawless." Then, so softly Washington might have missed it if Hamilton weren't pressed right against him, "Thank you, sir."

Hunger and gratitude surge in his chest, and Washington breathes a low groan. His reaction is possessive instinct as he reaches for Hamilton, clenching dark hair in his fist and tugging hard. Hamilton gasps but doesn't fight him, and Washington kisses his boy, rough and desperate and perfect.