Snippet of Vampire AU bc i'm too lazy to post the full chapter 💔
Hamilton drinks like he hasn’t fed in a month (which, frankly, is not far from the truth.)
It’s not elegant. It’s not suave. He’s not doing the thing with the wrist and the controlled draw and the eyelids fluttering closed like some old aristocrat from a Gothic novel. He’s collapsed half on top of Burr, knees folded, head lolling sideways as he latches onto Burr’s wrist with barely enough motor control to swallow properly.
The suction is frantic. He makes a noise like a drowned cat and gulps again. Then again.
Looks down at him. “Did you just—?”
Another hiccup. Wet. Mewling. The third one comes with a thin string of blood-dribble running down his chin.
“You are joking,” Burr says flatly. “You’re actually—hiccupping?”
Hamilton doesn’t respond. He just groans against Burr’s arm and tries to keep sucking, breath hitching every time the hiccups interrupt. His eyelashes are clumped together with tears and sweat. His nose brushes Burr’s coat, smearing something—blood? tears?—on the fabric.
Then comes the real problem: he starts to spasm, the hiccupping mid-feed almost cause him to choke on it.
Burr yanks his wrist away instantly. Hamilton lets out a high, offended whine and tries to follow it.
“No. Absolutely not. You’ll aspirate and I’ll be written up for negligent vampiric manslaughter,” Burr mutters.
Hamilton hiccups again. And burps.
“Oh my God,” Burr says aloud.
It’s not a proper belch, not a grown-man belch. It’s a tiny milk-drunk baby burp, soft and gurgling and miserable. His stomach gurgles right after it, like it's complaining. And Burr—utterly horrified—realizes what he has to do.
“Alexander,” he says. “I cannot believe I’m about to—”
He shifts. Hoists Hamilton up into his arms more securely. Tilts him against his shoulder. One hand supports the back of Hamilton’s head, the other presses gently against his back.
Like an overfed Victorian infant.
He pats lightly—pat pat pat—and Hamilton lets out another weak hiccup, then a thicker, wet burp. His whole body seems to sigh. His arms go limp around Burr’s neck.
“…Better?” Burr mutters, like he wants to die.
Hamilton mumbles something. Burr thinks it might be “warm.”
“You drank too fast,” Burr says, scolding despite himself. “You didn’t pace. You—hic!—goddammit, don’t start again.”
But Hamilton only hums, semi-conscious and content, cheek mashed against Burr’s collarbone. He is covered in blood. He smells like burnt iron and desperation. He is utterly shameless. Burr is still holding him.
He does not move. He keeps patting. Just in case.
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