Redesigned this guy after a while, looking back his design kinda sucked??? It sucked a lot actually especially when his lore didn’t match at all. So, here’s Jim, but better! He’s a heavily employed addict.
Old design below the break! Be warned.
Ignore how bad my artstyle is. I think I’ll scrap the idea of him being poobs uncle, since I want to do something else with him on his own.
We should all write more historical RPF so in 100 years when human beings are illiterate and AI has collected the data of AO3 someone will interpret them as lost facts and adapt them for spectacle. Secure your legacy now.
What's wrong, love? You haven't touch your hurt/no comfort, implied John Laurens/Alexander Hamilton, internalized homophobia, religious guilt, historical ao3 fanfic.
My part to an art trade I started with @jhoca awhile back! This has been in the works for so long and I'm incredibly happy to finally share :)) This is part one of a two, which I will (hopefully) have done by the end of the week. I say hopefully because if I've learned anything from making this fic, it's that I should never give myself a deadline because that's as good as jinxing myself.
Oh, and a huge inspiration for one of the scenes was from the lovely @korewritingandstuff. You'll know it when you see it wink wink (rouge shenanigans). It comes from this wonderful fic (linked here) highly recommend 10/10. Anyways, hope you all enjoy!
Description: Hamilton hates receiving gifts. Surprisingly, he doesn't hate the ones he gets from Laurens.
Word Count: 4.1k
Pairings: Alexander Hamilton/John Laurens
Warnings: mildly possessive behavior (more for part two than one)
HAMILTON hated receiving gifts.
It was a hatred he seldom spoke of—being on the receiving end of a gift. Partly for the reaction his dislike would spark. Partly because it only resulted in what he was trying to avoid in the first place. More gifts, more hatred towards the giver. A loop.
His friends would hear of his dislike for gift-giving and always, always, there would be someone taking it as a challenge to turn his opinion right. And always, they would fail. They all mistook his hatred of gifts as hatred for the gifts themselves, thinking arrogantly that he only needed the right gift for his opinion to turn. This was not the case, for the object was never of any importance to him. For what Hamilton hated was the practice of giving in the first place.
He hated the performance of it, most of all. The grand anticipation in their eyes when they present the offending object, and the way their brows would rise, insistent, as if to demand his immediate adoration no matter what the object may be. Because it is an act of objective kindness. I have given you something. I do not expect to receive anything back. All I ask is that you are grateful. You owe me. Not with money, but with your favor. When he could not deliver, when he gave a small smile and a thank you and no more, they would crunch their nose; their face would twist as if they'd eaten something sour. He’d never receive a gift after that. Not until the next person tries their hand at swinging his opinion.
He offends simply in refusing to be happier than he is. It is something he will not apologize for. If they choose to see that as a sign of a bitter character then so be it.
So yes, Hamilton had always hated gifts.
But he never hated receiving ones from Laurens.
It started small, imperceptible even to his own suspicious eyes. The silent claim made on his person. The switch.
He hadn’t noticed it at first, and how could he? It was meant to be a small thing. A favor from a friend. Not owning, but borrowing. ‘It’ was the beginning of a language only he could only understand until years later.
And ‘it’ began with a silk ribbon.
Summer had begun bleeding into autumn. A chill could be felt on the worst of days, but on the best, they were blessed with warm air. Like a soft embrace; a kiss from mother nature. John and Gilbert had insisted on bathing in the river. They were taking advantage while the water was still blessedly warm.
However warm it was, the actual act of bathing was the last thing on their minds. One playful splash from Gilbert, and soon the thought of hygiene had been traded for a more playful use of the river. Hamilton suspected that is where it happened.
He hadn’t noticed until the very next morning, not until he patted his bedside groggily and noticed a very key piece of his belongings missing. His hair ribbon.
Hamilton had not felt panic, but a slow creeping annoyance that promised a headache throbbing in his temples. He inwardly prepared for a scolding from Washington. The rest of his routine went fast, but he felt woefully unprofessional with his hair thrown over his shoulder, untied.
This was something that did not escape the attention of John Laurens.
“Hamilton, I believe you’ve forgotten to tie your hair this morning.” His own hands were securing the ends of his braid, voice carrying a tender sarcasm. Hamilton gave him a peeved look, to which Laurens chuckled.
“It is not that I’ve forgotten, only that I’m unable.” He said, a deep sigh deflating his shoulders. “Our play by the river, it seems, has resulted in the loss of my hair ribbon.”
Laurens blinked, hands lowering from his hair as he gave Hamilton a confused look. “Borrow one of mine, then?”
He’d said it so plainly. Like it was the most normal thing in the world. Maybe it was; maybe he was the strange one for being of such a skeptical character. It is only a hair ribbon, one part of his mind supplied helpfully. Yes, another whispered, less helpful, but it is Laurens’ ribbon.
For some reason, the thought of having John’s ribbon in his hair was equal parts titillating and off-putting. The deepest part of him—the one that quietly thought John was too handsome for his own good—relished in the idea of wearing that small part of him throughout the day. He thought of forgetting to give it back and keeping it with him always.
The other part of him hissed at the perceived slight to his pride. It felt like pity; another reason for why he so hated gifts. He thought of himself—of so little means that he’d only had one ribbon to begin with—having to borrow from John. He who was quite the opposite. It was nothing to John, this extension of kindness, but it was everything to him.
Even still, he did need to finish his hair…
Hamilton weighed his options. He couldn’t tell what was more mortifying. A lesson in professionalism from Washington or asking Laurens for one of his ribbons. He viewed being spoken down to and owing someone a favor with equally dislike.
Trapped in his own thoughts, he hadn’t noticed Laurens’ presence behind him until he gripped the edge of his shoulder. Hamilton flinched imperceptibly, shocked both by John’s stealth and his own thoughtlessness. John appeared to have retrieved one of his ribbons, an easy smile on his face.
“May I?” He held the ribbon out for him to see, and spoke softly— just the slightest hint of nervousness creeping in. “I tend to braid mine, but I can attempt your style if you prefer.”
Every part of him wished to say no. It was now both a physical gift and a service. Both unasked for, and both heavy with implication. A task meant for servants, not for someone like John.
He wondered at John’s motive, at why he wanted to not only lend him a ribbon but also labor through the act of tying his queue. He wanted to ask why desperately. But they were going to be late, and so he asked no questions. He hummed and said, attempting a casual shrug, “A braid would be acceptable, thank you.”
The happy sound from John only deepened his confusion. That confusion quickly turned into a reluctant calm as John braided his hair with the gentleness of a man handling a defensive cat,
Much to his chagrin, he found himself enjoying the experience more than he ought to have.
It was all John’s fault really; the way he carried himself through the task was most charming. He’d hum at the places where hair stuck out, apologize quietly if he pulled more than intended, and laughed fondly at the curls which petulant refused to be tamed. He never tugged, only patiently worked his way through. It reminded Hamilton of simpler times. He could almost imagine a salty breeze wafting through the door.
At some point, he’d begun combing through his hair idly, fingers gliding without resistance; hair now free from tangles thanks to his care. John’s blunt nails scratched at his scalp in a way that was unfairly pleasant. Alexander shivered; John chuckled. “With hair like this, it’s no wonder you wake earlier than most.”
He wasn't sure whether to be insulted by that. Hamilton huffed, eyes closed as he willed himself not to fall asleep under John’s rhythmic combing. “Is that a complaint I hear?”
“Hardly.” John said, smoothing over his work in a vain attempt to calm the frizzy strands already escaping their confines. “Despite the reluctance to be tamed, your hair is soft and quite pleasant to the touch.”
Alexander swallowed. He wasn’t sure what to make of that. “Well, then.”
“I like it. I wouldn’t mind braiding it again.” John continued quietly, just loud enough to be heard, but lacking in the confidence he’d otherwise exude. His own mind was left reeling. Alexander resisted the urge to tell John how he wouldn’t mind having him braid his hair every day.
Instead, he said back. “If you like, I could braid your hair in return for your help.”
John paused at that, hands falling from the completed queue. “You would like to?”
“I am returning the favor, you could say.”
John hums at that, though less happy.
“You need not return this favor.” He tucks a stray curl behind his ear. The tips of Alexander's ears suddenly felt hot in the exact spot where John had touched. “Only do so when you want to. That is what would make me happiest.”
Hamilton does not reply to that, but he feels something stir in his chest. Warmth. The release of the smallest weight off his chest. It isn’t the first time John has made him feel so, but it is the first time it leaves him unable to think properly.
He was grateful to have his back facing John; he wouldn’t know what to do or where to look if they were face to face.
“As you wish.” He said quietly.
He notices small things that day. The way the aides comment on the ribbon, on the color and how it suits the uniform. The darkened blue color is reminiscent of deep ocean water.
He watches the way Laurens smiles with pride, preening vicariously at these comments. He notices John’s eyes flick to him more often throughout the day. He notices how he seems to be in very deep thought.
Hamilton does not notice the wheels turning in John’s head. He does not notice how his eyes land on the ribbon, endlessly pleased.
What he does notice is that Laurens does not ask for his ribbon back.
A WEEK LATER he caught Laurens with a mirror in his right hand. On his left, the tip of his pointer was darkened a shade of deep brown.
It was quite the ridiculous picture. John stared at him owlishly, as though having been caught with his trousers around his ankles. One brow was noticeably darker, the other an untouched blond. Hamilton huffed a laugh.
“Going somewhere?” He said, making his way over to the desk in long strides. A part of him hoped to see what he was applying, and if he planned to embellish himself in other fashionable ways he was clueless to.
The possibility of finding a clue as to where Laurens was planning to go, or better yet, to who, was also partly a reason.
Laurens was partially undressed, waistcoat abandoned and only in his stockings. Either he’d only just begun to ready himself, or he was going nowhere at all. Good, he thought, not bother to think about why that conclusion pleased him so.
With the possibility of a late night rendezvous eliminated, he simply looked to Laurens expectantly. He raised a brow, “Well?”
Laurens seemed to shake himself out of his thoughts, and he shook his head fondly. “I won’t be going anywhere tonight.”
“Then why do you paint yourself so? Hoping to impress one of the kitchen staff?” He teased, trying to get a reaction from him. Laurens wrinkled his nose at that. Hamilton smiled. “I thought not. So why?”
Laurens thought for a moment, and eventually shrugged.
“I only wanted to see how it would look.” He chuckled, turning the mirror just so. Hamilton could now see the way he tapped his blackened pointer to the other brow. “I used to do this when I studied in Geneva— a habit I’ve lost now that I lack the time.”
He gently packs the product into the light hairs, just enough to darken them to a pleasant chestnut shade. Hamilton had never done such a thing before, but watching Laurens’ careful application tempted him the slightest bit. He also couldn’t help but think it suited Laurens most wonderfully. He loved the contrast it provided, the way it made his eyes seem brighter.
Laurens turned his head in all directions, checking himself in the mirror before nodding. He then turned to Hamilon, a shy smile on his face, “Well?”
Hamilton swallowed lightly, having a harder time forming his words now that Laurens was looking at him face to face. He gave what he hoped was an appraising but casual look. “It suits you.”
“Truly?”
Oh John, more than you know. “I would not lie to you. I only think it is a shame that you do not have the time to gain the habit once more.”
Hamilton was proud of the way he maintained eye contact, though he felt his cheeks grow warmer with every second that passed. Laurens, in contrast, seemed unable to decide where to look and he let out a shaky breath before turning back to put his cosmetics away. He felt victorious, though of what game, he could not say.
It did not stay that way for very long however, and Laurens licked his lips before turning back to him. “Have you ever darkened your brows?”
Hamilton looked to the side, embarrassed. The source of his embarrassment? He wasn’t sure. Maybe it was the way Laurens was looking up at him so hopefully. Maybe it was his eyes. Maybe his brows. Maybe it was just Laurens. He blinked, and shook his head. “I’d never attempted such if I’m honest.”
Laurens stood abruptly, patting the chair. “Would you like to try?”
And here Hamilton was speechless once more. He’d never felt more aware of himself and he suddenly ached for a drink. Alcohol always seemed to stave away his nervousness, leaving only the confidence he tried so hard to project. How could Laurens stand there without even a hint of embarrassment?
Hamiltons closed his mouth, which he hadn’t realized was open to begin with. He coughed and tried to look anywhere but at John’s hopeful expression; there wasn’t a chance he could handle a look like that any time soon. “I’d look ridiculous.”
Laurens took his hands into his own.
“Nonsense!” Laurens gasped, as if personally offended on Hamilton's behalf. His hands were very warm. “I will not force you, but I’d love to see how you’d look.”
His earnestness, as always, overwhelmed him, and he could do nothing but look upon John's face with wide eyes. He really did look wonderful with darkened brows and being this close only made him look more dashing. The palms of his hands fit so nicely in his.
Hamilton did not trust his own voice. He hummed and sat in the chair wordlessly, much to the delight of Laurens.
He retrieved the small tin, and bent to Hamilton’s height. His eyes darted across his face, as if not knowing where to start, though he really only needed to look at his brows. He seemed pensive, and he was very close. Alexander felt the fine hairs of his face stand at the proximity, he felt John’s every exhale, and could see every twitch in his expression. The air was thicker, and Alexander found himself having a harder time breathing.
John dabbed his fingers into the tin, glossy dark brown transferring to his finger. He looked at Hamilton carefully, and he tentatively held his chin with his other hand. “It will be easier if you do not move…your brows are already quite dark and I’d hate to overdo it.”
Oh god.
Alexander closed his eyes. If looking at John so close hadn’t sent him over the edge, then the way he was holding his face just might. Lord, help your humble servant.
Laurens let out a low breath, “Alright…”
He began carefully, and his application was as gentle as the way he braided his hair every morning. Without expectation and with the same gentleness that set his blood running pleasantly warm all over his body. He felt warmth radiate from Laurens’ body; he bloomed with anticipation when he came close and deflated when he felt him pull away. In his mind, he imagined himself the ocean, and Laurens, the moon, the perfect image of Artemis.
Alexander could not see Laurens, but he could feel him. Hear his every breath and hum, the hard shell of his nail knocking into the side of the small metal tin as he reapplied. He could even smell him, and he wondered if Laurens was the type to use perfume, because there had to be some secret to how he smelled like spring in the midst of fall. It made him want to dig his face in shoulder, throw all propriety aside— because truly how much of it was left at this point?
He was beginning to realize what a mistake it was to be sitting in this chair.
Laurens pulled away, and Hamilton, instinctively, opened his eyes. Laurens looked lost in thought, and his eyes would not leave him.
“Your verdict?” He murmured, hoping he looked even a quarter as radiant as John.
Laurens leaned in once more; he licked his thumb. Hamilton’s heart began racing. He brushed his thumb right beneath the arch of his brow, removing a stray brown streak from his skin. He held his face in his hands; his thumb brushed the underside of his jaw.
“You would have been the envy of every genevois.” He said, with awe. Hamilton did not have time to process, for John quickly raced to his chest and dug until he pulled out another, slightly smaller tin. “If you would allow me— I’d like to paint you with a rouge.”
As if he needed his face to be any redder. “Rogue?”
“Please? You may remove it right after! I…I only want to see how it would look.” John seemed to be pleading now, so desperate that it made his heart ache. Hamilton struggled to think of any reason why he shouldn’t just let him have his way. But the thought of Laurens painting his lips was…
John seemed to deflate with every second of silence. He grimaced and looked away, ashamed. “I understand if you’d be opposed—”
“No!” Alexander gasped, it was louder than he would have liked. John peeked at him. Alexander flushed and looked to the nearest wall. He said, quieter, “I’d never used such cosmetics…I trust you know what to do.”
He dared not look at Laurens. Not until he felt a sudden weight on his lap, “What—”
“Just for a moment…” Laurens whispered, so soft and so close. Every hair on his arm stood, and he could hear his blood thrumming in his ears. His middle finger—already stained a pleasant cherry red— found his lips, but he paused and his eyes flicked to his, a silent ask for permission. Hamilton swallowed dryly and John, finger retreating sadly, began to deflate once more.
Fuck, Alexander thought weakly, I may die tonight.
With a small prayer and going against his better judgement, he nodded and the look on John’s face warmed him to the marrow of his bones.
John patted lightly on his bottom lip, a move which unconsciously coaxed him into parting them further. He hummed at this, pleased, and devoted himself to the task with such fierce concentration as to stun him into silence.
In five minutes—during which Alexander prayed for divine restraint—Laurens had him moved from his lips to his cheeks, the smallest wrinkle between his forehead indicative of his intense focus. Alexander, unable to stare anywhere else without his stomach fluttering, set his focus on that wrinkle for those five minutes.
Once finished, Laurens did not move off his lap, only stared with more intensity. Hamilton stared back, the barest hint of bravery keeping him steady, though he felt the palms of his hands begin to sweat as he took in the sound of their breaths. They were so close now, no closer to exchanging air than to each other. Both could only watch the other for their next move.
Alexander, who hated silence even without this dizzying tension, spoke first. He attempted humor, and laughed dryly. “You can tell me if I look hideous.”
John said nothing, letting his statement rise and settle into the room like dust. Mildly horrified, Alexander turned away, embarrassed at his own apparently abhorrent appearance, and for letting John talk him into this whole ordeal. Laurens’ brows furrowed, as if he’d only then processed what he said. His face twisted with fury.
“Do not dare say such things about yourself!” He hissed, harsher than Alexander had ever heard him. There was an energy radiating off him—bright and alive— and Hamilton believed that if he reached out to touch it he’d subsequently burn himself to ashes. John’s passions had been ignited, and Hamilton could only watch with the utmost adoration. He hadn’t even heard what Laurens said, the words beautiful, ethereal, the most magnificent creature hadn’t registered; his attention was elsewhere. His lips were where his eyes followed, and soon a thought began to sprout. Thought turned to action, and soon the fragile thread of his own patience snapped and unceremoniously fell to the ground.
Hamilton pulled Laurens by the collar of his shirt, and pressed his red lips to his. Fast and deep. He wanted the rouge on his lips to mirror on John's; he wished for them to match. The kiss was not at all savored, and he regretted not doing so the very second after he pulled away. They both panted, although there was no logical reason for either to be out of breath. Laurens searched his face for answers, lips just as red as his and just as beautiful as Hamilton had imagined.
He resisted the urge to steal another kiss, and attempted to stand from the chair. Laurens rose with him, cheeks a deep shade of pink.
“Alex—”
“You as well.” Here, he finally looked at John, fiercely determined. He only murmured, with all the fierce devotion he’d held in his throat since he walked through the door. “John, you are magnificent.”
John swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbed. He nodded, and his voice croaked. “Thank you...”
Alexander left without another word. He felt his knees turn to jelly and he gripped the wall for support. Damn you John, he thought, thinking only of red lips and kisses.
They worked quietly that day, only speaking of work. No strong calf teasing up his leg, and no quiet banter tickling his ear. Nothing but the deafening sound of silence.
And when Meade pulled him aside, asked him why his lips and cheeks were painted the same color as Laurens’, he gave no response. He only grew redder, and that seemed to be a response enough. He noticed Laurens tense, and he gave Meade the strangest look. But, he too, said nothing.
He’d begun to think he ruined it all, polluted their friendship against John’s will, made him realize that a friendship between the two of them was more trouble than it was worth. He cursed himself for misinterpreting. And when he undid his hair for the night, he could only stare at the dark blue ribbon bitterly. Silently, he placed the ribbon on John’s nightstand.
They slept in different beds and again, said nothing. Hamilton noticed how Laurens had his back turned to him. He noticed that the ribbon was gone from his nightstand, presumably tucked away.
Hamilton stared at the ceiling and felt regret pounding in his skull. He fell asleep, though shame and longing stirred uncomfortably in his gut.
In his slumber, he failed to notice a few things.
What he does not notice is that the ribbon is wrapped around John’s wrist—right at the pulse—beneath his nightshirt. He does not notice when Laurens wakes that night; looking into his mirror and brushing his thumb on his bottom lip. John noticed the way his rouge had nearly rubbed off, an echo of their kiss.
John looked at Alexander’s sleeping form. He dared a glance at his lips, and found a similar predicament. The red had faded, leaving only his natural pinkish shade. His handiwork was almost completely gone from Alexander. John pursed his lips at the sight.
Hamilton does not notice Laurens drafting a note to his father.
He does not notice Laurens waking earlier than usual.
He does notice, come morning, the combination of two objects next to his cot.
The dark blue ribbon, wrapped beautifully around the tin of rouge.
Ignore the fact this is a repost, Jack and Roger got taken in the original post. Anyway, this was for Valentine’s Day but I forgot to post it here. Oops!
Ignore the fact this is a repost, Jack and Roger got taken in the original post. Anyway, this was for Valentine’s Day but I forgot to post it here. Oops!
IM SO SORRY NOT AN ASK BUT HOLY FUCK KID A MENTIONED IN YOUR BANNER MY SPECIAL INTEREST IS RADIOHEAD AND MY HYPERFIXATION IS DSAF IM LOOSING MY MIND RIGHT NOW
We have the same banner. Sobbing. Im so happy. That is all.
I TOO LOVE RADIOHEAD AND DSAF OH MY GOLLY GOSH SCREAMS AT U
gummygunk
romaincrisis
turnnoffyourmind
origamiaround
pixelskylines
stormborns
