#extra extra

You were attempting to sneak up on your assassin husband while he was in his needle workshop. He was crafting new needles with his deft hands. And he was wearing sweatpants and a tee shirt while standing over his work. The casual clothes only made him look more enticing. You could see the outline of his round, firm ass through his sweatpants. You simply had to try and sneak up on him and give his butt a squeeze.

Despite the stealthiness of your approach, it was clear Illumi was aware of your presence moments before you reached him; whether it was the slight shift in air or just an assassin's intuition, he didn't startle at the sudden squeeze. Instead, Illumi stood still, allowing the intimacy of the moment without resistance.

"You're awake," he stated, a hint of amusement coloring his usually monotone voice. He turned around to face you, his hair cascading over his shoulders and his dark eyes scanning your features.

"You seem to have taken a liking to these... sweatpants," he commented, the slightest inflection in his voice making it sound like he was almost teasing you. His hand came up to rest atop yours, still on his firm buttocks, acknowledging your touch and perhaps inviting it.

"They do look good on you," you whisper teasingly as you lean against his back and let one of your hands squeeze his bulge.

Illumi didn't move as you pressed against him, your body's warmth contrasting with the cool ambiance of his workshop. His breathing remained steady and controlled, yet there was something in the way he tilted his head ever so slightly, giving you silent, unspoken permission to continue.

"Is that so?" His voice was a mere whisper, betraying no hint of the swirling undercurrents that your actions stirred within him. You could feel the muscles of his back tense against you as your hand ventured forward.

As your hand made contact with his growing bulge, Illumi's body stiffened for a moment—a rare reaction from someone who typically held unyielding control over his physical responses. "You're rather bold this morning," he observed, his voice still holding that same neutral tone, but his eyes, dark and fathomless, flickered with a spark of something more primal.

A soft yet calculating smile seemed to ghost across his lips, a subtle indication that your actions were having their desired effect. "It appears that today, my attention will be required here, with you," Illumi continued, turning his head slightly to lock eyes with you, a silent acknowledgement of the intimacy you've initiated. His hand, the one atop yours, pressed your palm deeper against his firmness, indicating not just his acceptance, but his desire for your continued exploration.

You knew he needed your touch. It was not something he would always outright say, because he was used to burying his own needs. But you felt it. You leaned against his back, using your free hand to caress one of his voluminous pecs, playing with his nipple. The other stroked his bulge through his sweatpants. You stood on your toes, your head on his shoulder. You spoke softly. "Let me take care of you, Lumi..."

The almost imperceptible tightening of Illumi's jaw was the only sign of his response to your caress, the sensation of your fingertips playing with his nipple sending a rare shiver through his usually impassive frame. You could sense a subdued current of anticipation coursing through him, a rare glimpse of vulnerability.

"Take care...?" he echoed, the words laced with a nuanced understanding. He was accustomed to taking care of everything and everyone else—completing contracts, fulfilling missions, ensuring his family's dominion, caring for his siblings. Yet, here in your tender grasp, Illumi found himself in the unusual position of being the one cared for, a sentiment that both confounded and intrigued him.

With a slow pivot of his body, he turned to face you, his eyes taking on a subtle glint as they roved over the sight of you in your silk nightgown. The garment accentuated your form, a vision that he found provocatively appealing.

Illumi's hand rose to gently cup the side of your face, his thumb stroking your cheek in a manner that could almost be considered affectionate. "You wish to look after me, then proceed," he said, his voice low and smooth like the slide of silk against skin. It was an invitation, a concession of his need for your touch, cloaked in the guise of granting permission.

Standing before you, Illumi's controlled exterior wavered, allowing you to witness the subtle signs of his desire: the faint rise and fall of his chest, the slight dilation of his pupils, the faintest tremor in the hand that now wandered from your cheek down to the dip of your waist. It was an admission without words, a silent plea for the care you offered.

You admired the slight blush that tinted his pale cheeks. Gently placing your hands on his hips, you made him sit on the empty space of his workbench. The shift from standing to sitting didn't affect Illumi's composure; he observed every movement, allowing your hands to guide him. He sat on the edge of the workbench with an assassin's grace, every action performed with lethal precision now used to silently acquiesce to your ministrations.

When your lips met his, he was still for just a fraction of a second before he reciprocated, his mouth moving against yours with a slow, almost careful exploration. The stark contrast between his usually detached demeanor and this display of subtle passion could not have been more profound.

You deftly freed his length, and the touch of your hand elicited a faint, almost imperceptible hitch in his breathing. Illumi's eyelids fluttered closed at the sensation, a sign of his surrender to the pleasure you provided. His cock, already firm and leaking, throbbed against your grasp, demanding attention that he himself would never vocally request.

The room was filled with the sound of your joined breathing and the soft, slick rhythmic sounds as you stroked him. Illumi's head tilted back ever so slightly, exposing the column of his pale throat, a silent testament to the effect you had on him. For once, his perfect control wavered under the weight of his body's raw, honest response to your touch.

You moved to kiss and suck his neck while your hand stroked his cock. Using your free hand, you squeezed his thigh. You whispered against his neck. "That's it... Let me take care of you, my pretty boy..."

The term of endearment, spoken so tenderly against the sensitive skin of his neck, seemed to reach Illumi on a level far deeper than the physical contact. His throat vibrated with a restrained sound that was neither a groan nor a sigh but something in between—an audible release of the tension he often kept tightly wound within him.

As you lavished affection on his neck, his muscles tensed in response to the dual sensations of your whisper and your hand's movements on his aroused flesh. The hand on his thigh felt both grounding and provocative, a combination that only you could elicit from him. A rare, discernible shudder traveled through Illumi's body—a visceral reaction to the intensity of your care.

You kept kissing his neck and stroking his cock. It was wet with his precum, allowing you to stroke faster, applying just the right amount of pressure you knew he needed. You spoke softly against his neck. "Let go... Make your cute noises for me... Don't hold back."

The coaxing whisper against his skin, paired with the rhythmic strokes of your hand, finally started to unravel Illumi's armored restraint. His breathing, once measured and controlled, quickened. He allowed the smallest of sounds to escape his lips—a soft, almost inaudible moan that acknowledged the intensity of his pleasure.

As your strokes grew more fervent, Illumi's hand found its way to your hair, his fingers threading through the strands without pulling or guiding, merely seeking a physical connection. The intimacy of your actions and words coaxed more of those rare sounds from him, each one a small victory against his usual silence.

Illumi's usually impassive face was now adorned with a faint flush, and his dark eyes, half-lidded, focused intently on you as if you were both the architect of his undoing and the anchor keeping him moored in the storm of sensation you were expertly eliciting from him.

"Louder. Let me hear that pretty voice," you command softly before giving his neck a soft bite.

Under the insistence of your dominant tone, Illumi's self-imposed silence cracked further. The bite, a delicate sting against his pale skin, elicited a sharper moan from his lips—louder, as per your command, and laden with a vulnerability he rarely showed.

Your hand moved over him with a swiftness that drew out the sultry sounds you so desired. The pleasure was clear not only in the noises he made but in the tension of his muscles, the grip in your hair tightening just a fraction—not enough to hurt, but enough to convey the overwhelming sensations coursing through him. His cock was getting slippery from his own precum. It was hard and twitching desperately into your hand.

You heard him make an especially cute loud moan, and knew he was close. You kept stroking him and kissed him on the lips, letting your tongue fuck his mouth until you made him breathless. When you pulled away from the kiss you used your free hand to pull at his hair, so you could kiss and suck on his neck. Then you commanded him. "Cum for me, my darling..."

The words were the final catalyst, and Illumi's control shattered. A gasp caught in his throat, and the tension that had wound him so tight broke, sending waves of pleasure radiating through him. He came at your command, his seed spilling warmly over your hand in rhythmic pulses, each one accompanied by a breathy echo of your name, a mantra of his surrender to the intimate care you provided. You did not stop stroking him until he was completely drained. You knew when to stop because he trembled and whimpered "Ah~ s-stop, y/n... It is so sensitive..." That was when you stepped even closer between his legs where he was sitting on the bench and you gently hugged him.

As he sat on the edge of the workbench, his body still thrumming with the aftershocks of release, Illumi allowed himself to be enveloped in your embrace. He seemed to melt into you, a rare sight of surrender from the composed assassin. His long arms, so often instruments of death, wrapped around you with a careful tenderness.

You spoke softly. "I love you, Lumi..." The words resonated within him, stirring something profound and inexpressible.

"I... know," was all he managed, a brief utterance spoken against your hair. Though he might not say the words back, not yet versed in the language of love, the sentiment was there, raw and real, in the way he held you close.

“Aaron Burr,” Meade breathed, “what’s he doing here?” 

“Oh God… I don’t have the cash to pay off the owners this time,” Laurens murmured, “we avoid an escalation at all costs, understand?” 

“It won’t end up exactly like last time.” Meade had to hurry along beside him, taking four strides for every one of John’s. “That’s why there was someone on the door frisking for muskets."

As the two men approached their table, Hamilton and Burr lapsed into a tense silence. Laurens’ feet slowed, despite himself. He could not help but feel as if he and Meade were intruding upon a private conversation. 

“Here you go.” Meade set down Hamilton’s drink. Laurens remained holding his beer mugs stiffly. 

“Did you see where our friend went? The Marquis?” he addressed Burr. In return, Laurens received a lazy, feline blink from the other man. He did not move, even at the swell of raucous applause from two tables away. The violinist had struck up with a new tune; slower and more melancholic.

“Unless… you drink Sam Adams?” Laurens offered his spare tankard.

“You’re too clinical in your approach.” Hamilton’s voice drew Burr’s attention back to him effortlessly.  “You think everything comes down to technique.”

Meade, Laurens, his drink were mere apparitions to him now.

“If you’d ever partaken in a college-level competition, then you would know that it’s technique which counts!” Burr retorted.  

“Theory is only a part of it!” Hamilton slid his arm forward into a little split beer. If he noticed his blue coat darken at the elbow, he gave no indication. “It’s much more important that you be well-informed and passionate about the topic!”

“What are you two debating about?” Meade had taken the seat beside Hamilton, leaving Laurens to reluctantly join Burr.

“Debating,” the two men answered briefly. 

“Ah. Of course.”

Behind them, the pipe’s melody floated up and down. One voice was both out of time and tune. He was drawing out vowel sounds into meaningless shapes, clearly unfamiliar with the drinking song’s words. Meade looked round. Lafayette had his long arm slung around a middle aged woman, clinking their mugs together rhythmically and spilling foam all over her hand. 

“You do realise that what you just described is integral to the art of rhetoric,” Burr returned smoothly, “logos is knowledge and rationality. Ethos is the conviction with which one presents their argument - “

“- as usual, you’re all theory and no practice!” Hamilton snapped, “you can take a hundred college courses on rhetoric, read every book on the subject and still lack what it takes to win a debate!”

Meade and Laurens’ heads moved back and forth, following the volley of shots fired between the two men.

Burr rested his head in his hand. He laughed softly. “Please.” He lifted his face. “You have one technique, Hamilton. You’re a master of the filibuster. Waste enough time and your opponent gives in. Normally it’s because he can’t stand to hear your voice anymore.”

“Ham - “ 

Hamilton shrugged off Meade’s hand.

“See, that’s when you know you’ve lost the debate.” There was a steely glint in his eye. “When you resort to personal attacks.”

Burr laughed a little louder. Before he could interject, Hamilton closed in again.

“Or is that how they scored points at Princeton?”

Laurens rolled a sip of beer around his mouth. It felt flat and left a bitter taste on his tongue. 

“At King’s, did anyone stay in the room to add up your scores, Hamilton?’ Burr leaned back in his chair, smirking. “As much as you love an audience, I assume the auditorium emptied out as soon as you opened that abnormally large mouth of yours.”

Laurens watched Hamilton’s face; the subtle transformation from challenge to savage delight. As the rest of the tavern, its occupants and hearty singing faded to obscure background noise, he felt himself recede too. 

“I’d like to test the size of yours,” Hamilton seethed, “by putting my foot in it.”

He was transported. Laurens recognised the same hunger in Hamilton’s expression as when the pair were in battle. But John had never seen such a look directed at himself. He was too used to hearing Hamilton agree with him, whether the topic was politics, strategy… even which tavern they should visit. Hamilton’s responses were always agreeable - “this, here, is why we’re friends!” “Laurens, I’ve always had you as a clever fellow.” “That is precisely why I love you!”

Burr was smiling nastily, one leg draped over his knee. It was a calm invitation for Hamilton to advance again.

Laurens’ knuckles whitened against the handle of his beer mug.

“Careful where you put your foot, sir," Burr warned, “I bite.”

Laurens glowered into his tankard, avoiding Meade’s sympathetic eye. He didn’t need the man’s pity. He didn’t need to subject himself to the blatant flirtation occurring under his nose. He certainly didn't need the caterwauling from several tables over. 

Hamilton scoffed. “That’s not what I heard downtown, Burr. Allegedly, your customers report their appendages free from teeth marks.”

Meade choked into his flask.

Burr slid his chair out noisily. He slammed his palms against chipped wood, leaning his body aggressively over the bench. Hamilton stared at his prize, oblivious to the blur of sound and colour around him.

Laurens had vanished behind a veil of smoke. Hot, prickling humiliation crept up his neck.

“I would cordially invite you to suck it,” Burr spat, “but that wouldn’t be doing me any favours.”

Hamilton’s slow smile turned Laurens’ stomach. His nostrils flared, throat tightening as though he would retch into his mug.

 “Oh, I respectfully disagree.”

Laurens felt the sting of an unprovoked slap. He glared over at Lafayette, who was now slurring into the woman’s ear (“You and I… we ‘ave such a connection!”) John glanced back at Meade who was staring down at his pint in embarrassment. 

Burr uttered a humourless laugh. Then he leaned in closer, so that the men were almost nose to nose. Hamilton did not blink.

“Do you?” he asked slowly, “then you misunderstand me, man. I don’t want that insufferable mouth of yours anywhere near me.”

“And yet, you aren’t exactly tearing yourself away.”

Burr finally acknowledged Laurens. But not closely enough to see the trembling of his clenched hands.

“Your friend is such a delight. How have you managed to go for so many years without kicking him?”

There came the crash of wood as Laurens flung his chair backwards. The back hit the cobblestones so hard it splintered. A passerby yelped as he leapt out of its path, causing him to slop beer down his shirt.

“I reserve that for whoresons like you!” John roared. Burr’s eyes widened as the man towered over him. “Outside, Burr. My boot could use a polish.”

Hamilton and Meade sat open-mouthed.

“And if you don’t shut up with that infernal racket, I’ll make that pipe your lover!” Laurens roared at the musician. The man lowered his instrument, considering its length in horror. The violinist carried on for a few awkward strokes until he stopped and looked to the notorious corner of the room. Lafayette grimaced sadly.

“I…” As Laurens came back to himself, he took in the tables of staring eyes. He could feel the heat in his face abating. “I only…”

He gazed down at their table. Then taking up the other tankard he slammed it down in front of Burr. “The polite thing to do when you’re offered a beer is to take it. Here!”

And with that, he turned and marched out, up the stairs, and through the tavern door with a final, resounding crash.

The entire tavern was cowed into silence.

“I take that back,” Burr spoke as he calmly removed his handkerchief from inside his coat and began wiping the beer from the table. “Laurens is clearly the one who loves an audience.”

—