lathori asked: I have no impulse control so I'm requesting more smut. Hamilton/Laurens, post-Monmouth smut, go forth and make me suffer.
*cackling* Yeah, okay. In actual history Laurens’ wound was much more serious (not that he didn’t earn it), so we’re going to fudge things a little in favor of…well. Also! In case you’re curious! Being dressed in just shirtsleeves and breeches was considered UNBELIEVEABLY improper, which I find hilarious because it covers pretty much the whole body. Also-also, I pictured historical appearances but tried to make it musical-appearance-friendly, with the difference that Ham is SMOL at 5′7″ in comparison to TOL Laurens at like 6′fucking2″.
When John crashes through the door, Alexander is already surging up from where he’s been sitting in nothing but his dirtied, in-places-torn shirtsleeves on the edge of the bed. There’s a heartbeat where the conversation could go either way, but they are who they are, so the tension snaps into white-hot rage on all parts.
“You absolute fuck,” John seethes as he kicks the door shut behind him with a click of the bar-lock. “What were you thinking?”
Alexander throws his hands into the air, feeling aching muscles snap taut over bone, and snarls, feral. “I was following my goddamn orders, John, don’t act like I was simply out on the field looking for a glorious death!” His voice is half a shout and he has a moment of gratitude that their room is at the far end of the second story hall housing the majority of the aides-de-camp. The others are used to Alexander and John getting into shouting matches—not often with each other, but they fight with whomever else they please, save the General himself. Even if their comrades had all elected to go to bed at once after departing the field, any hue and cry of argument from the last room would be dismissed.
I’m doing a thing I never do and reblogging this because I am very satisfied with it so if you’re interested you should read it and like it because I thrive on positive affirmation.
