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Sep. 10th, 2016 05:26 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
iniquiticity demon ironflint blood sacrifice:
“Normally Washington has to trick people into this - the boys he pays Richards for who’ll bat their eyelashes even in the middle of a rune circle and barely care that they’re bleeding, interns who agree to do anything at all for textbook money before they read the fine print - but Hamilton agrees eagerly. Another upside to having a black mage for an EA.
Hamilton, shirtless on his knees with his eyes closed and the bruises that pepper his skin exposed, is beautiful. He’s even more beautiful when he bleeds.”
(this fic is nowhere near finished but i really do like this excerpt)
related fic: link here
He lets Hamilton know very slowly, that he knows. At first it’s only a suggestion, but Hamilton is evidently whip-smart and blade-sharp, and after the second guess, Hamilton said what a man aware of such things is supposed to say. Washington accidentally lets slip something about the dark moon; Hamilton discusses that he prefers to think of it as a hole in the stars. It’s how a number of his associates refer to the best spell-days. They look at each other. Washington hears [ ] chuckling in the back of his mind.
They’re sitting in Washington’s heavily-warded penthouse. Hamilton pours himself a rye, neat. He pours Washington a scotch, neat. He brings both of them to the table, where report pages are spread out. Hamilton takes a sip of his drink and walks slowly around the penthouse, like he’s looking for something. He stops near the dining room table and stares at nothing.
“Here you are,” Hamilton says, and he draws a sharp sigil in the air and punctuates it with a flourish. There’s a twitch of pain against Washington’s thigh.
He hit me! [ ] declares, furious. Washington almost laughs.
“Rudimentary,” Washington says, but he tilts his head in approval. “But excellent improvisation and technique.”
“Were you ever going to tell me about your friend?” Hamilton asks, with a smirk. He reaches into the space between them, and there’s a ripple where his hand twists through magic.
He touched me! [ ] snarls. He felt me, sir! I felt his mortal flesh!
“It isn’t a toy, Hamilton,” Washington says, “Don’t play with it. If you’re interested, I’m sure we can arrange something.”
“Interested,” Hamilton repeats, deadpan. Washington touches his shoulder.
*****
With perfect care, Washington draws the diamond-sharp tip of the knife over Hamilton’s skin. The wounds don’t bleed immediately, Hamilton’s body spellbound, but Hamilton hisses anyway, his eyes fluttering shut. He doesn’t have to worry about time, isn’t limited by damaging the goods or them breaking out of his enthrallment. So the patterns are ornate and complex, lengthy in their spirals and circles, tracing around Hamilton’s forearms like embroidery. Hamilton’s rapt with attention, his eyes inhumanely bright. The dark magic pours off him like fog, like a drop-shadow, like an aura. Jesus, with the way Hamilton’s whole body response to being a spell component, maybe the complicated spellcircle isn’t even necessary. Maybe he could draw the spellcircle on Hamilton’s chest and save himself renting out storage spaces. Washington draws up Hamilton’s biceps, and he does not complain. Washington draws across his shoulders and down his chest, until Hamilton’s flesh is almost pulsing with the magic, the muscles and sinews straining against the uncomplete spell. Hamilton’s mouth hangs open as he pants, his eyes rolling into his head, and then flashing back into consciousness out of sheer determination. He reaches out, digs his fingers into Washington’s jacket and presses a forceful kiss to Washington’s mouth. Washington lets himself be kissed, as a reward to his newest spell reagent.
“Lay down,” Washington says, and presses a hand to Hamilton’s shoulder. Hamilton’s flesh is boiling hot under his touch, but he’s limp and goes with the push. Hamilton lays on the floor, his pleasure evident in the bulge of his boxers. Distantly, [ ] laughs.
Washington puts the knife down and picks up the candle and lights it. He holds it above Hamilton’s bare skin, and Hamilton’s body reacts, the sigils in his flesh turning fire-red and then charring black. Hamilton moans, back arching off the ground. His fist clench. The colored rings of his irises make pinpricks of his pupils, before they relax and there’s only a thin ring of brown in an ocean of black. Washington chants, the sounds unnatural, produced with effort from forces other than his throat. Hamilton makes an incoherent noise, light flickering under his skin, flashing through the drawn patterns. His hips twitch spastically, in wild thrusts up. A drip of wax drops onto his stomach, that he appears to take no notice of.
Washington sets the candle on Hamilton’s heaving stomach. It stays, because the spell holds it there. He raises his arms, twisting his fingers in set pattern. The room becomes very dark. It is not only the absence of light, but the presence of something terrible, thick and disastrous and oppressive. A smog of dark magic, suffocating out the room. Washington takes a deep breath of it, feels it solid in his longs and tracing along his airways. [ ] is almost visible now, backlit by the haze of magic. He completes the spell with a flourish, slamming his fist into his opposite open palm with a crack of lightning. Hamilton cries out and shakes, his body no longer under his control, limbs flailing, his breath in hyperventilating gasps as the magic rushes through every line, dot and form in the sigils etched into his skin. His hips jerk. He makes incoherent babbles, shuddering, eyes flickering wildly under closed eyelids.
The spell rips itself from Hamilton’s flesh, lights the candle like a flamethrower, and activates, disappearing into the air. Hamilton’s eyes fly open, and he gasps in a breath as if he hasn’t breathed in hours. He settles, slowly, his breathing becoming even. The candle, the blood, and the marks on his flesh are all gone. What remains is a tiny drip of dried wax on his stomach, and a wet spot in his slacks instead of the bulge. Washington forces his exhausted breathing even. he looks down at Hamilton who’s grinning an bone-tired grin at him.
“Fuck,” Hamilton breathes, and he reaches, slowed with exhaustion, to peel the wax off his stomach, wincing as it catches a hair, “Who else can we curse?”
“Normally Washington has to trick people into this - the boys he pays Richards for who’ll bat their eyelashes even in the middle of a rune circle and barely care that they’re bleeding, interns who agree to do anything at all for textbook money before they read the fine print - but Hamilton agrees eagerly. Another upside to having a black mage for an EA.
Hamilton, shirtless on his knees with his eyes closed and the bruises that pepper his skin exposed, is beautiful. He’s even more beautiful when he bleeds.”
(this fic is nowhere near finished but i really do like this excerpt)
related fic: link here
He lets Hamilton know very slowly, that he knows. At first it’s only a suggestion, but Hamilton is evidently whip-smart and blade-sharp, and after the second guess, Hamilton said what a man aware of such things is supposed to say. Washington accidentally lets slip something about the dark moon; Hamilton discusses that he prefers to think of it as a hole in the stars. It’s how a number of his associates refer to the best spell-days. They look at each other. Washington hears [ ] chuckling in the back of his mind.
They’re sitting in Washington’s heavily-warded penthouse. Hamilton pours himself a rye, neat. He pours Washington a scotch, neat. He brings both of them to the table, where report pages are spread out. Hamilton takes a sip of his drink and walks slowly around the penthouse, like he’s looking for something. He stops near the dining room table and stares at nothing.
“Here you are,” Hamilton says, and he draws a sharp sigil in the air and punctuates it with a flourish. There’s a twitch of pain against Washington’s thigh.
He hit me! [ ] declares, furious. Washington almost laughs.
“Rudimentary,” Washington says, but he tilts his head in approval. “But excellent improvisation and technique.”
“Were you ever going to tell me about your friend?” Hamilton asks, with a smirk. He reaches into the space between them, and there’s a ripple where his hand twists through magic.
He touched me! [ ] snarls. He felt me, sir! I felt his mortal flesh!
“It isn’t a toy, Hamilton,” Washington says, “Don’t play with it. If you’re interested, I’m sure we can arrange something.”
“Interested,” Hamilton repeats, deadpan. Washington touches his shoulder.
*****
With perfect care, Washington draws the diamond-sharp tip of the knife over Hamilton’s skin. The wounds don’t bleed immediately, Hamilton’s body spellbound, but Hamilton hisses anyway, his eyes fluttering shut. He doesn’t have to worry about time, isn’t limited by damaging the goods or them breaking out of his enthrallment. So the patterns are ornate and complex, lengthy in their spirals and circles, tracing around Hamilton’s forearms like embroidery. Hamilton’s rapt with attention, his eyes inhumanely bright. The dark magic pours off him like fog, like a drop-shadow, like an aura. Jesus, with the way Hamilton’s whole body response to being a spell component, maybe the complicated spellcircle isn’t even necessary. Maybe he could draw the spellcircle on Hamilton’s chest and save himself renting out storage spaces. Washington draws up Hamilton’s biceps, and he does not complain. Washington draws across his shoulders and down his chest, until Hamilton’s flesh is almost pulsing with the magic, the muscles and sinews straining against the uncomplete spell. Hamilton’s mouth hangs open as he pants, his eyes rolling into his head, and then flashing back into consciousness out of sheer determination. He reaches out, digs his fingers into Washington’s jacket and presses a forceful kiss to Washington’s mouth. Washington lets himself be kissed, as a reward to his newest spell reagent.
“Lay down,” Washington says, and presses a hand to Hamilton’s shoulder. Hamilton’s flesh is boiling hot under his touch, but he’s limp and goes with the push. Hamilton lays on the floor, his pleasure evident in the bulge of his boxers. Distantly, [ ] laughs.
Washington puts the knife down and picks up the candle and lights it. He holds it above Hamilton’s bare skin, and Hamilton’s body reacts, the sigils in his flesh turning fire-red and then charring black. Hamilton moans, back arching off the ground. His fist clench. The colored rings of his irises make pinpricks of his pupils, before they relax and there’s only a thin ring of brown in an ocean of black. Washington chants, the sounds unnatural, produced with effort from forces other than his throat. Hamilton makes an incoherent noise, light flickering under his skin, flashing through the drawn patterns. His hips twitch spastically, in wild thrusts up. A drip of wax drops onto his stomach, that he appears to take no notice of.
Washington sets the candle on Hamilton’s heaving stomach. It stays, because the spell holds it there. He raises his arms, twisting his fingers in set pattern. The room becomes very dark. It is not only the absence of light, but the presence of something terrible, thick and disastrous and oppressive. A smog of dark magic, suffocating out the room. Washington takes a deep breath of it, feels it solid in his longs and tracing along his airways. [ ] is almost visible now, backlit by the haze of magic. He completes the spell with a flourish, slamming his fist into his opposite open palm with a crack of lightning. Hamilton cries out and shakes, his body no longer under his control, limbs flailing, his breath in hyperventilating gasps as the magic rushes through every line, dot and form in the sigils etched into his skin. His hips jerk. He makes incoherent babbles, shuddering, eyes flickering wildly under closed eyelids.
The spell rips itself from Hamilton’s flesh, lights the candle like a flamethrower, and activates, disappearing into the air. Hamilton’s eyes fly open, and he gasps in a breath as if he hasn’t breathed in hours. He settles, slowly, his breathing becoming even. The candle, the blood, and the marks on his flesh are all gone. What remains is a tiny drip of dried wax on his stomach, and a wet spot in his slacks instead of the bulge. Washington forces his exhausted breathing even. he looks down at Hamilton who’s grinning an bone-tired grin at him.
“Fuck,” Hamilton breathes, and he reaches, slowed with exhaustion, to peel the wax off his stomach, wincing as it catches a hair, “Who else can we curse?”