(no subject)

[iniquiticity]

hamilton oversteps his boundaries, so he is punished. punishing hamilton is an exercise in futility. he’s too valuable to be fired; he has no real attachments to anyone that washington can punish thoroughly (dealing with phillip schuyler or henry laurens not worth it); he doesn’t care about money, or at least cares about it in his damaged, detached way. and sex punishments seem to have mix results. it’s so cliche to think you’re not supposed to like this, but it’s true. hamilton begs to be hit harder and fucked faster and bled.

he looks good with his hands tied to the bedposts, eyes half-lidded, cock half-hard. he’s spread with bruises and crusting candle wax. he’s past the point where he fights like a brat, and into that space where he does whatever washington wants, and he only ask to ask once. it’s a process, getting up that mountain where hamilton fights him every step of the way, but the other side is blissful, hamilton demeaning himself and worshipping washington with no complaints. hamilton is still and silent and so unlike himself. washington likes watching him like this.

he sits on a chair next to the bed and whittles ginger. he knows what hamilton can take, knows what he’s capable of. hamilton doesn’t even watch, just stares at his come-slick stomach, at his neglected cock.

“spread your legs,” washington says, and hamilton does, burned-out gaze following the root in washington’s hand. washington flicks the dried wax off his thighs and watches hamilton wince, distantly amused. then he presses the root inside him until it’s nicely settled, and sits back in his chair.

to watch hamilton’s face twist is magnificent. first discomfort, and the vague appearance of trying to squirm away but being unable. he clenches around it and gasps, his mistake evident, trying to relax his body. washington can track the intensity of it by watching the man’s expression - the discomfort growing, and hamilton squeezes his eyes shut and gasps, his breath coming in desperate pants. sweat breaks out on his forehead as he groans, and he bites his lips as if that will solve anything; he tugs at his well-tied wrists to no avail; he meets eyes with washington and for a second looks like he might beg.

wouldn’t it be sweet to have hamilton beg for it to stop?

“fuck,” hamilton says, some of his sense coming back into his eyes. “fuck, fuck fuck fuck fuck.”

“learn your boundaries,” washington says, and opens his newspaper.