Chrono-Erotic Conflict Resolution (Or: How I Accidentally Nut-Yeeted Myself Into My Worst Semester)

by cailulmuprupcuaHamilton

Summary:

One moment, Thomas Jefferson is shirtless and smugly spooning his husband after delivering what he privately refers to as a "biblical-level dicking." The next, he’s been yeeted backwards through the space-time continuum mid-afterglow and deposited—violently, confusingly, and coconut-oil scented—into the cursed hallway of his undergrad political theory department.

Worse: he’s landed in the semester.
The one where he mistook academic dominance for affection, tried to win Hamilton instead of love him, and ended up losing everything.

Armed with a silk blindfold and a bottle of TSA-approved massage oil, Jefferson sets out to do the only thing he can do:

Fix it.
Fix Hamilton.
Fix them.

Even if that means abducting his furious past-husband mid-seminar and monologuing his way back into his own marriage.
(With flair. And a partially buttoned satin shirt. Obviously.)

Notes:

hi. so. um. this was supposed to be a lighthearted enemies-to-lovers fic about academic rivals having hate sex and instead it became a metaphysical character study about time travel, emotional self-immolation, and the horrifying vulnerability of mutual forgiveness. also there are restraints. and coconut oil. and a reusable zip pouch.
I did not plan this.
Enjoy the fic. I think.

Chapter 1: Let’s Get My Husband (Before I Debated Him Into a Divorce Again)

Thomas Jefferson is half-asleep, shirtless, and smugly spooning his husband in the aftermath of what can only be described as a biblical-level dicking. He’s not even trying to pretend he’s tired. No, he’s basking. Luxuriating. His smile is the slow, satisfied curve of a man who knows—on a spiritual level—that he just rearranged his husband’s vertebrae and probably shaved a decade off both their lifespans in the process.

Alexander Hamilton, for his part, is limp and wrecked in the most dignified way a man can be limp and wrecked. His body lies sprawled across the sheets like the glorious, semi-conscious aftermath of a war crime. His thighs are trembling. His curls are damp with sweat. There’s a faint, almost imperceptible tremor in his right calf that suggests his soul has briefly left the building.

One of his arms is pinned awkwardly beneath a pillow. The other is draped across his chest like he started to shield his dignity and then gave up halfway through. There’s a smear of coconut oil across the curve of his lower back, shining faintly in the moonlight. He hasn’t moved in at least twenty minutes.

He probably won’t for ten more.

He makes a sound—soft, involuntary, somewhere between a sigh and a whimper—and Jefferson, still drowsy and victorious, catalogs it immediately. Like a rare bird call. Like a soundbite from God.

That inhale? The sharp one, when he drags his fingers slowly through sweat-damp curls?

That’s new.

The exhale, low and shaky, when he presses a soft kiss to the back of Hamilton’s neck?

Familiar. Documented. Filed neatly in the growing internal archive titled My Husband’s Ruined Post-Orgasm Sounds: A Reference Compendium, Vol. 7 . Indexed, timestamped, cross-referenced.

Jefferson smiles into the curve of Hamilton’s shoulder. He nudges closer until their bodies are flush, letting bare skin glide against slick skin. The smell of sex and coconut oil lingers heavy in the air, clinging to the sheets like confession. One of the restraints is still lazily hanging from the headboard, a twisted red ribbon of sin and achievement.

Hamilton lets out another little noise. Something soft and wrecked and furious about how good he feels.

“You’re a menace,” he mumbles, voice hoarse and frayed at the edges. Like he’s been yelling for hours and now can barely summon vowels.

“Mmm,” Jefferson hums lazily, his lips brushing warm skin. “But your menace.”

Hamilton groans. Not entirely in protest. “Regretfully.”

It’s quiet for a long moment. The good kind of quiet. The kind that feels earned. There’s city noise drifting through the half-open window—car horns, faint shouting, the occasional drunk person shouting about cryptocurrency—but it doesn’t reach them here.

Here, there is only warmth. And sweat. And breath. And the low thrum of the overhead fan rattling like it’s seen things.

Jefferson shifts slightly, rolls his hips with smug laziness, and kisses the hinge of Hamilton’s jaw.

“I should’ve done this sooner,” he says, almost to himself.

Hamilton doesn’t move, but his brows twitch faintly. “Done what?”

Jefferson’s voice is low. “Loved you like this. Back when we were idiots.”

There’s a pause. A small, tight pause. Hamilton makes a wounded noise, something that might’ve been a scoff if it hadn’t landed closer to a sob. But he doesn’t argue. Doesn’t tease. He just exhales. Shaky. Long. And lets himself melt.

Jefferson watches him settle. Watches the little twitches of exhaustion ease into stillness. And for a moment—for a long, quiet moment—everything is perfect.

Which is, of course, when it all goes straight to hell.

Because without warning—without fanfare, without warning signs, without even the dignity of a magical ripple in the air—Thomas Jefferson is yanked violently out of bed and flung through what feels like a collapsing orgasm and a collapsing star at the same time.

There is no gentle transition. No fade to white. No mystical shimmer.

There is just—

SLAM.

Linoleum.

Pain.

Darkness.

And the overwhelming smell of lemon cleaner and generational trauma.

Jefferson groans.

“Fuck,” he chokes out, blinking up at a flickering ceiling light with all the betrayal of a man who was mid-afterglow and very much planning round two.

He tries to sit up. His spine screams. His shoulder blades stick to the floor. His nipples are cold. His soul is colder.

Shirt: Wine-red satin. Unbuttoned. A war crime on campus.

Slacks: Somehow fine, but rumpled in a way that screams I time-traveled out of a threesome .

Shoes: Gone. Obviously.

Mental state: Somewhere between “post-nut clarity” and “existential horror.”

He pats his chest. Finds the velvet pouch still there. Groans again.

“Did I fall asleep mid-afterglow and get cursed by a witch?” he mutters. “Was this a punishment orgasm? Did I just nut my way through the space-time continuum?”

He unzips the pouch with resigned dread.

Inside:

• One travel-size bottle of massage oil (coconut, TSA-approved)
  
  
• One black silk blindfold
  
  
• Two used restraints (still warm, disturbing)
  
  
• Three nipple clamps (he does not want to talk about it)
  
  

He pushes himself upright, every joint in his body protesting like a union on strike, and shoves at the janitor closet door. It sticks. Of course it does. Because of course this isn’t just time travel. It’s metaphorical time travel. With symbolism. And shame.

He slams into it with the desperate force of a man who once tried to copyright his own thesis formatting. The door creaks open.

And Jefferson stumbles out into—

Hell.

No.

Worse.

College.

Specifically: The East Wing of the political theory building.

The cursed hallway.

The place where God went to die and left debate flyers behind as a warning to future generations.

It looks the same.

The same sickly overhead lighting, flickering like the dying hope of a poli-sci major. The same scuffed linoleum, eternally damp from unknown sources. The same faint smell of espresso, cheap weed, and broken dreams.

Jefferson exhales slowly. He knows where he is.

But he walks anyway.

Each step forward is like sinking deeper into a thesis he doesn’t remember writing but knows will ruin him by page five.

There’s the vending machine.

The vending machine that owes him exactly $1.50 and a decade of emotional closure. He once punched it after a midterm and nearly dislocated a knuckle over a packet of stale peanut M&Ms.

Still here. Still humming ominously. Still mocking him.

Next to it: the corkboard.

Covered in announcements, activism, and academic despair. Color-coded pushpins stab like tiny pastel knives. The flyers are fresh and familiar and chronically overwritten. “Existentialism & Bagels – Friday Morning Discussion.” “Consent Is Hot.” “Eco-Marxist Potluck.” “Join Debate Club (We Know You’re Lonely).”

And then—

Center stage.

Dead in the middle, like a sniper round to the heart:

“Feminist Hegelian Reading Group – Thursdays @ 8PM – Free Pizza (maybe)”

His entire body stills.

A muscle under his eye twitches.

“No,” he whispers.

He spins in place, already dreading what he knows he’ll see.

There. Across the hall.

The dented plaque: Department of Philosophy .
The peeling sticker on the lounge door: “Do Not Microwave Fish.”
The couch: tragic. Unwashed. Possibly cursed.
The lights: clinically depressing.

“This is the east wing,” Jefferson says, with the hollow realization of a man watching his past materialize like a bad Yelp review. “This is my undergrad building.”

He stumbles back half a step like it might help.

It doesn’t.

His gaze lands on the last nail in the coffin.

Bright yellow. Too glossy. Poor font choice. Unholy graphic design.

STUDENT SENATE ELECTIONS – SPRING 2015
Vote Jefferson for President!
“Because Rational Discourse Is Sexy.”

He makes a noise. A soft, sharp, wounded thing. Half laugh, half sob, fully betrayed by Helvetica Bold Italic.

“Oh no,” he breathes. “I remember this flyer. I printed this flyer. I— wrote that tagline.”

He stares at it like it might bite him. Like it already has.

And then it hits.

All of it.

Not just the building. Not just the year. Not just the campus, the smell, the flyers, the ghost of a thousand unpaid library fines.

But the semester .

The semester he ruined everything.

The semester he turned a student election into an ideological war zone. The semester he tried to debate Hamilton into submission. The semester he snarked his way through their tension instead of addressing it. The semester he mistook dominance for love and competition for connection.

The semester he chose winning over wanting .

He feels it all land on him like bricks. Heavy. Familiar. Inevitable.

He closes his eyes. Breathes in deep.

Disinfectant. Dry-erase marker. Coconut oil still lingering faintly on his skin like a memory.

Old heartbreak. New mission.

When he opens them again, he’s already smoothing his shirt. Already drawing himself taller. Already calculating like a man who just realized the exam isn’t over and the question was never multiple choice—it was how do you fix a timeline you broke by being a petty bitch with trust issues?

He pulls the velvet pouch from his jacket pocket.

Fingers curl around the restraint like a rosary.

“Okay,” he says aloud, to God or fate or the weird janitor closet that flung him through time. “New mission.”

“We are not doing the Cold War again.”

“We are fixing this.”

He buttons exactly one button of his shirt. Just one. Just enough to frame the tender mark Hamilton bit into his collarbone not eight hours ago. The rest stay open—deliberate. Theatrical. A calculated choice in slutty time travel aesthetics.

He slips the restraint into his back pocket like a promise.

Stares down the hallway.

And smiles.

“Time to stage the gayest controlled emotional implosion the universe has ever seen.”

And with the grace of a barefoot prophet in slutty silk and spite, he starts walking.

“Let’s get my husband.”

---

Location: Seminar Room, Department of Political Theory

Inside, the air was heavy with the scent of despair, burnt espresso, and collapsing boundaries.

The seminar had officially lost all contact with the syllabus thirty minutes ago. At some point, the discussion had derailed so catastrophically that it left the station, reversed through time, and punched Plato in the face. The whiteboard was still cursed. The TA was mentally elsewhere—specifically, in a lavender field in southern France where none of this was happening.

In the physical world, however, there were only two gravitational bodies, and everyone else in the room was helplessly caught in their orbit.

Alexander Hamilton was the eye of the storm. Or maybe the lightning. His curls clung to his forehead in damp, furious coils. His eyes were wild with frustration and intellectual betrayal. The bridge of his nose was slightly pink—whether from fury or shame, it was hard to say. His pen, a sad Bic soldier, tapped the desk with military precision, faster, sharper, each click like a gun cocking.

Across from him lounged Thomas Jefferson, embodied sin in a blazer. His posture was so disrespectfully casual it might’ve been considered a microaggression. One leg draped over the other, Montblanc pen twirling between fingers with aristocratic disdain, he looked every inch like a man who had won arguments just by existing and was addicted to the high.

They weren’t sitting. They weren’t discussing.

They were circling each other with words like knives, with wounds barely healed, with seven years of academic foreplay and absolutely zero emotional literacy.

“You’re completely misrepresenting Rousseau,” Hamilton said, voice tight as piano wire, one wrong note away from snapping. “Again.”

Thomas tilted his head. Slowly. Like a cat watching a bird hit a window.

“Am I misrepresenting Rousseau,” he said, mild and venomous, “or are you just projecting your daddy issues onto a critique of power structures you clearly don’t understand?”

Someone gasped.

A girl in the back audibly whispered, “Holy shit.”

The TA didn’t even look up. She took another sip from her dented Hydro Flask and scrawled “APOCALYPSE” in the attendance column.

Hamilton’s knuckles went white around his pen.

“My father is not the point, Jefferson.”

“You bring him up in every Hobbes discussion like he’s the third author.”

“My god ,” Hamilton spat, “you quote Hobbes like you’re auditioning for a gay reboot of The West Wing .”

Someone choked on a matcha latte. Another reached blindly for their vape.

Thomas smiled.

That smile. Slow. Knowing. A war crime in expression form. The smile of a man who had absolutely, irrefutably won—and was about to say something that would make Hamilton invent a new branch of law just to sue him with.

“I think,” Thomas murmured, “the text speaks for itself.”

Hamilton’s chair creaked. His shoulders rose with dangerous control.

He slammed his hand down so hard the desk rattled.

“The text doesn’t have a restraining order against context , Jefferson!”

The room erupted.

Not with noise—because no one dared—but with energy. Tension. Crackling like static off a Tesla coil. A girl pulled out her phone and recorded. Another began softly praying. The TA whispered “oh no” into her water bottle.

And outside, crouched just beyond the classroom window, hidden between overgrown hedges and the brick facade, Future Jefferson watched it all like a benevolent god and mildly disappointed ex-husband.

He adjusted the cuffs of his half-unbuttoned satin shirt, rolled his shoulders, and sighed.

“Yup,” he murmured to no one. “That’s the one.”

He reached into his coat pocket, touched the cool weight of the silk restraint still curled in his palm, and let out a small, almost fond laugh.

“Five more minutes.”

T-minus 3 minutes to abduction

Every molecule in the room screamed.

There was no noise. Only pressure. Like the aftermath of a lightning strike—hot, silent, and vibrating with the potential for irreversible destruction. A girl clutched her pearls. Someone else, entirely unironically, began reciting a Hail Mary.

Jefferson leaned forward, not an inch, just enough to let the overhead light catch the edge of his smirk.

“You always get this agitated when you’re wrong.”

Hamilton, trembling, gave a laugh that could be legally classified as a threat.

“I am not agitated.”

His voice cracked on not . He winced. His pen snapped.

Jefferson raised one finely shaped brow.

“No? Then why is your handwriting getting smaller every time I speak?”

Hamilton’s eyes dropped to his notebook.

Shit.

The last three lines were microscopic. Barely legible. His margin notes looked like the anguished cries of a man cornered by both Kant and his own emotional repression.

He stood.

No. He exploded to his feet. His chair shrieked against the floor, ricocheting backward like it too wanted out of this conversation.

“That’s it,” he snapped, voice sharp enough to puncture god. “I refuse to share a classroom with a man whose entire academic career is just I’m right because I said it sexily .”

Jefferson tilted his head. “I’m right because you’re leaving .”

Hamilton pointed at him. “I hope a pigeon eats your dissertation.”

Jefferson didn’t blink. “I hope you choke on your own rhetoric.”

The TA—finally—broke her thousand-yard stare and muttered, “I’m putting a trauma clause in the syllabus.”

The door slammed behind Hamilton with the weight of the Old Testament.

Silence.

T-minus 0 minutes to abduction

The hallway was empty, save for fury.

Hamilton stormed through it like a plague, muttering obscenities and half-finished insults under his breath.

“Fuck him. Fuck Rousseau. Fuck his stupid little annotations about nature and trees and—”

He turned the corner.

And saw red.

Literally.

A flicker of red silk. A hand.

And then—

A breath of something chemical. Sweet. Sharp.

“Wha—”

Darkness.

Chapter 2: Alexander Hamilton Woke Up on Silk Sheets and Immediately Agreed to Fuck His Rival to Spite His Rival

Summary:

this fic was supposed to be about repression and jealousy. about mirrored choices and the long shadow of legacy. about what it means to look at the older version of your enemy and wonder, is that where I end up?
instead.
instead alexander hamilton woke up on silk sheets and immediately agreed to fuck his rival to spite his rival.

Alexander wakes to silk.

Not metaphorically. Not metaphorically at all.

His cheek is pressed into a pillow that feels criminally expensive, and the sheets he’s tangled in are lavender-scented and softer than anything he could afford unless he s a kidney and maybe his honor. There's a soft hum in the air—low, vibrating, like a luxury air filtration system. It’s warm. Too warm. Like someone has calibrated the room temperature to the exact degree most likely to make his blood simmer.

And he is not alone.

He realizes this in pieces: first, that there’s breathing behind him—deep, even, a rhythm so relaxed it must belong to a psychopath. Then, the weight of an arm slung over his waist. A thigh hooked between his. Bare skin against bare skin.

His eyes snap open.

He jerks upright, the sheet falling off his chest—and realizes with a sudden, c flush of horror that he’s shirtless. Possibly worse than shirtless. He looks down.

Oh God.

Sweatpants. Thank God for that, at least. But still. What the fuck.
“What the fuck .”

He turns sharply—too sharply—and the man lying next to him stirs.

Thomas Jefferson blinks slowly, lashes brushing his cheeks like he’s in a perfume commercial, and says, in the calm, satisfied voice of a man who’s just solved c fusion with his dick:
“Good morning, Alexander.”

It’s er Jefferson. er. Hair longer, face more angular, eyes warmer in a way that feels wrong. Like someone taught him gentleness and he liked it too much.

Hamilton recoils instantly.

“You— you —what the hell is going on?! Why am I here? Where is my phone—why are you—why are we —why are you looking at me like that?!”

Jefferson just smiles.

And then, like the devil unveiling a particularly twisted miracle, he shifts his body slightly to the side.

Behind him, a second man is tied upright to a carved wooden chair. Young. Terrified. Also Jefferson.

Young Thomas Jefferson looks like a cornered cat. His wrists are bound. His ankles too. 

“What the fuck ,” Hamilton repeats, voice thin now. “ What the fuck. Is this a sex thing? Is this a murder thing? Why am I in silk sheets?!”

“You’re safe,”  Jefferson says, calmly, too calmly. “No one’s going to hurt you.”

“That’s even creepier! ”

Behind him,  Thomas growls through clenched teeth:
“Untie me. I swear to God, I’ll kill you—I’ll kill *me—*whatever the fuck this is—”

 Jefferson ignores him entirely.

“Alexander,” he says, voice like warm brandy. “This isn’t about hurting anyone. This is about setting things right. Course-correcting. Demonstrating a truth you’ve both refused to acknowledge.”

“I—what? No. No, no, no. I’m not—I’m not doing whatever this is. If this is some kind of weird polyamorous masturbatory exhibitionist ego thing, I want out.”

Jefferson nods.

“Of course you do. That’s what you always say. That’s what he always said.”

He gestures idly toward his younger self, who is straining against the ropes and looking seconds away from biting someone.

“But trust me,”  Jefferson continues, with infuriating gentleness, “You’ll feel better after. We all will.”

Hamilton opens his mouth to argue, but  Jefferson moves faster than expected—leaning forward, cupping his jaw with something terrifyingly close to reverence.

“I know what you sound like when you break,” he murmurs. “I know what makes you shatter. I know what you need even when you won’t admit it.”

 Thomas makes a strangled noise. His whole body is taut with rage and humiliation.

“You promised, ” he grits out. “You said—no touching. No kissing. I was supposed to be the one—”

“You were, ” Jefferson says. “And you failed. So now I’m showing you how it’s done.”

Hamilton tries to yank his face away—but not before the heat in Jefferson’s eyes lands its mark.

It’s awful. It’s unbearable.
It’s also—

Shame coils low in his belly.

He hates them both. Hates the implication. Hates that something in him wants to find out what happens if he says yes.

So he bares his teeth and spits,
“I’m not gay.”

“No,”  Jefferson says softly. “You’re just obsessed with the way he argues. You fantasize about shutting him up in seminar with your mouth. You dream of humiliating him in public and fucking him in private and never having to admit you care.”

“You think you’re any different?!” Hamilton snaps, turning viciously toward the younger Jefferson. “You look at me like I’m something you want to dissect and eat. And then burn. You’re obsessed. You’re repressed. You’re pathetic.”

“I hate you,”  Thomas says, voice shaking. “You ruined my life.”

“You ruined mine! ”

“Good,”  Jefferson cuts in, serene. “H onto that. H onto every ugly thing you’re feeling right now.”

He leans in closer. His lips ghost Hamilton’s neck, and Hamilton—God help him—shivers.

“You can scream,” Jefferson whispers. “You can deny. But you’ll remember this. You always do.”

And he pushes Hamilton back against the pillows.

Hamilton hits the pillows with more give than expected—sinking into down-filled softness that only makes him feel more exposed. The fabric catches against his back like heat; like breath. His wrists are still loose, still free—but somehow it doesn’t matter. The pressure of Jefferson’s hand against his sternum is weight enough.

“You’re always like this at first,”  Jefferson says, not unkindly. “Panicked. Proud. Quick to anger. You try to talk your way out of it before it begins.”

Hamilton turns his head sharply, eyes darting toward the man tied to the chair.

 Thomas’s chest is heaving. The ropes dig into his skin like evidence. There’s a welt blooming low on his side, as if he fought harder than he wants to admit. He won’t look at either of them directly.

“Don’t listen to him,”  Thomas grits out, throat raw. “This isn’t real. He doesn’t know what he’s doing.”

“Oh, but I do,” the er version replies, smooth as glass. “I’ve had years to understand what we did wrong. What you did wrong.”

“I am twenty-two!”  Thomas explodes. “I'm angry and scared and confused. You don’t get to condemn me for that.”

“I don’t condemn you,”  Jefferson says softly. “I just won’t let you touch him.”

That shuts him up.

Hamilton’s pulse hammers beneath his skin.

He wants to sit up, to reassert control, but the heat in his limbs makes it harder than it should be. There’s an ache curling low in his stomach—shameful, slow—and a tightness in his chest that won’t loosen, like he’s bracing for impact that never comes.

“You want me to be grateful?” he mutters, voice ragged. “You think this is going to prove something? You can’t just fuck me into compliance, Jefferson. That’s not how this works.”

“Of course not,” the man above him murmurs. “I’m not trying to control you. I’m trying to show you what it means to be chosen. Deliberately. Not by force. Not because of pride. But because we always wanted to.”

His hand skims Hamilton’s ribs—not groping, not even quite suggestive—just a glide of skin on skin, warm and maddeningly careful. Hamilton’s breath stutters.

“God,” he spits, trying to twist away. “You speak like a cult leader. What the hell happened to you?”

Jefferson smiles faintly. “I got tired of pretending I didn’t love you.”

Hamilton’s heart stumbles.

It shouldn’t affect him. He’s been hated by Jefferson in too many essays, too many hallways, too many eye-rolls and intellectual ambushes. There’s no version of that word— love —that should belong in the same universe.

But it rings.

Like an , painful chord he forgot was inside him.

 Thomas jerks against the ropes. “You don’t mean that. You’re just trying to prove a point. To me. To yourself.”

“I’ve already proven it,”  Jefferson says, brushing a thumb just beneath Hamilton’s throat. “Years ago. This is just cleanup.”

Hamilton exhales harshly.

He wants to argue. To scream. To run.

But his spine is burning with awareness now. Every place their bodies almost touch is a live wire. Every shift of Jefferson’s weight makes the mattress dip just slightly more. There’s a thread of gravity pulling him in, unspoken and involuntary, and he hates it.

“What happens next?” he asks, voice strained. “You tie me up too? Make me beg for it?”

“I don’t want your begging,” Jefferson says. “I want your consent. ”

That, for some reason, is worse.

It’s too quiet after that. The kind of quiet where someone is watching you breathe.

 Thomas is still trembling. The ropes creak every time he shifts, and every movement is agony—frustrated, frantic, unspent. There’s something breaking loose behind his eyes.

“You’re sick,” he says softly. “You’re torturing us. You’re humiliating me. ”

 Jefferson doesn’t look at him.

His gaze is still locked on Hamilton—slow, deliberate, steady as a held note.

“I’m reminding you,” he says, voice like silk over steel, “what it felt like. To want something more than you feared it.”

And he leans down again.

Not kissing. Not yet.

Just lowering his face to hover inches above Hamilton’s. Close enough to feel the exhale. Close enough to watch his lashes flutter with the effort not to flinch.

Hamilton stares back at him, jaw clenched.

“I hate you,” he says.

“I know,” Jefferson says. “It’s the same as love. Just in reverse.”

And then—slowly, reverently—he presses his lips to the corner of Hamilton’s mouth.

Not a kiss. A promise.

Hamilton’s breath caught—then hissed out between his teeth. “You’re insane,” he spat, shifting on the mattress, wrists straining reflexively though they weren’t tied.

 Jefferson didn’t answer. He only pressed his palm to Hamilton’s sternum, warm and solid, and slowly smoothed it downward, pausing just above the waistband of Hamilton’s sweats. Not groping. Not testing. Just resting . Steady. Controlled.

And Hamilton—angry, confused, heart jackhammering—let him. On purpose . His gaze skittered to the corner of the room, where the other Jefferson sat restrained, bound at the wrists and ankles in one of the armchairs, shirt half-undone, chest heaving like he’d just run six miles.  Thomas was pink-faced, jaw clenched, practically vibrating with the effort of keeping quiet. His whole body strained against the cuffs. Not violently. Not to escape. Just reflexively. Like every inch of him was demanding to intervene.

Hamilton turned back to the elder version, deliberately curled a hand into his shirt. “You think you’re proving something?” he said lowly. “You think this changes anything?”

“Not for you,”  Jefferson murmured. His lips brushed the corner of Hamilton’s jaw. “But it might for him .”

And just like that, Hamilton snapped —not with resistance, but with decision. “Fine,” he said, jerking his chin up, voice bitter, shaking, triumphant. “Let’s show him.”

He reached down and shoved his own sweatpants off, kicking them down to his ankles in defiance.  Jefferson didn’t even smirk. He just sat back for a moment, hand ghosting over Hamilton’s exposed hip like he was cataloging every inch of him for posterity. The silence was unbearable.  Thomas made a choked sound in the corner—something between a sob and a curse.

And Hamilton… arched his back . Just slightly. Just enough to say yes .

Not to  Jefferson. Not really. No, this was aimed directly at the bound, seething wreck watching from across the room. Hamilton’s eyes locked on his—unforgiving, vicious.

“Am I doing it right?” he asked, saccharine sweet. “Am I being a good boy for you ?”

 Jefferson leaned down, murmured low in his ear: “You’re perfect.”

And Hamilton moaned . Loud. On purpose.

Thomas twitched in his restraints.

The hand returned—hot, firm, reverent. Tracing down Hamilton’s side, to his waist, then lower, the pads of  Jefferson’s fingers brushing along the inside of his thigh, coaxing his legs apart with infuriating patience. Hamilton’s cock was already half-hard, much to his horror and fury. But he didn’t hide it. He grinned . Mocking. Broken. Glorious.

Hamilton twitched when he felt the first touch.

It wasn’t obscene. Not yet. It was a palm, bare and slow, smoothing down his spine like he was some wild thing that needed gentling. And maybe he was. His teeth were bared against the pillow, wrists clenched in the sheets, trying not to tremble from the humiliation of it—being handled , being seen , like this. And by Jefferson, of all people.

Well. The future Jefferson. The one who spoke in low, deliberate tones and touched him like an archivist. As if Hamilton were a document to be carefully restored, each ragged edge smoothed, each smudge of blood and ink treated with reverence.

“Try not to squirm,”  Jefferson murmured. “You’ll distract him.”

Him . Thomas, bound in the velvet chair across from the bed, arms cinched with rope at the wrists and ankles, bare-chested, eyes wild.

“I’m not watching,”  Thomas spat, already flushed from the neck down. “I don’t care. This is—this is deranged.”

Hamilton made a derisive sound into the pillow. “You would say that. Loudly. While watching. Pathetic.”

“Shut up—!”

“Enough,” came the er voice, soft but razor-edged. “You’ll get your chance to speak when I permit it. Until then—be still.”

To Hamilton’s horror, the command actually worked .  Thomas stiffened, jaw locking, pupils blown wide.

And then— oh . The slick.

Hamilton tensed. Not because he hadn’t expected it—he had, vaguely, in that surreal, dreamlike way that one accepts reality when it becomes too strange to resist—but because of the way it was done.

Two fingers, gloved in oil, slid against him with obscene gentleness.

“There we are,”  Jefferson said, like he was coaxing sound from a stubborn violin. “Don’t brace. You’ll only make it harder on yourself.”

“You smug bastard,” Hamilton whispered, arching despite himself.

Thomas made a noise. Not quite a word. Not quite a groan. He shifted in his bonds, biting the inside of his cheek as if he could draw blood to remind himself he was not aroused.

Jefferson ignored them both. He kept working—small, deliberate strokes, never rushing, always retreating just enough to tease. One finger turned to two, then curled with slow intent, and Hamilton couldn’t stop the way his body arched again, shameless, responsive.

“Oh, fuck you ,”  Thomas rasped from the chair. “He’s doing that on purpose—he’s—he’s faking —”

“I am ,” Hamilton hissed back, breath hitching. “Just to ruin your life. Watch closely, Jefferson, this is how you lose.”

“God—”

“He’s not faking,”  Jefferson said, serene and devastating, pressing deeper. “But by all means, keep telling yourself that.”

Hamilton whimpered. It was humiliating. Worse than humiliating—it was euphoric , in a way that made him hate himself, made him clutch the sheets tighter because if he let go, he might grab Jefferson . Either one. Both. The room felt warped with heat and history. With dread. With possibility.

The older man leaned forward, voice low at his ear.

“He wants you,” he said, not to Hamilton. To the boy in the chair. “He wants me , but he wanted you first. And you were too afraid to want him back.”

“You don’t know that,”  Thomas snarled, throat tight.

“I do. I remember.”
He turned Hamilton’s head with one hand—gently, always gently—and kissed him on the temple.

“You never kissed him,” he said to his younger self. “You never even touched him properly. So now, you’ll watch.”

 Jefferson was relentless.

Not cruel. Not rushed. But relentless, the way an expert musician rehearses one perfect movement until it becomes divine. His fingers coaxed rhythm from Hamilton’s body—slow crescendos and teasing retreats, notes struck just wrong enough to keep him aching, desperate for the chord to resolve.

And Hamilton—Alexander fucking Hamilton—was letting it happen.

No, worse: he was arching into it. Making awful, involuntary sounds against the pillow, sounds that cracked at the edges when  Jefferson murmured “There, good,” like he was praising a lesson well-learned.

“You’re letting him—God, you’re enjoying this,”  Thomas choked from the chair. His arms strained in their bindings, veins taut in his forearms, the rope digging into his wrists with every twitch.

Hamilton twisted his head, half-laughing, half-shaking. “I’m enjoying ruining you.”

He was flushed to the chest, back bowed like a bowstring under tension, every inch of his skin shimmering with sweat and oil. And still—still—he turned his mouth into a smirk, even as his body trembled.

“Tell me, Jefferson,” he gasped, eyes gleaming with malice, “does it make you sick or hard , watching the man you become fuck the boy you wanted?”

 Thomas lunged, only to be yanked back by the chair’s anchoring. His teeth ground together. “I never wanted—”

“Liar,”  Jefferson said coolly. He never stopped moving. “You wanted everything. Power. Control. Him .”

Another flick of the wrist. Another twist of the fingers inside Hamilton that made his hips jerk.

“You just didn’t know how to take it.”

“Shut the fuck up—”

“Shhh,” Hamilton crooned mockingly, voice broken and bright. “You’re ruining the moment.”

And then— Jefferson withdrew.

Just like that. His hand, slick and gloved, left Hamilton gasping and empty, the sudden loss making his whole body buck in protest. “No— fuck —what are you—?”

“Shh,” the er man said again, smoothing a hand down the back of his thigh like he was soothing a spooked thoroughbred. “You’re ready.”

Hamilton panted. “That’s—subjective—”

“Hush.”

He reached into the drawer beside the bed.

 Thomas was red-faced and heaving, wild-eyed with horror and something dangerously close to envy. His hands clenched into fists behind the ropes. He couldn’t stop watching. He couldn’t breathe .

 Jefferson lifted something from the drawer. Not a condom. Not a plug.

A small, burnished bronze mirror.

“What the fuck is that,”  Thomas barked.

“History,” said the er man, voice rich with amusement. “Perspective.”

And then he angled it—just right—so his younger self had no choice but to watch the slow, careful stretch of his older body entering Hamilton from behind.

The slick drag. The tremor of impact. The sound Hamilton made, sharp and raw and shattered .

 Thomas’s entire body convulsed.

“Oh my God,” he rasped.

“You see?”  Jefferson said, sheathed deep. “How he takes it? How he opens up when you’re patient?”

Hamilton sobbed a laugh, shaking under him. “Take notes, Jefferson. You’re going to need them.”

 Jefferson leaned in, and rolled his hips.

The sound Hamilton made this time was a hymn.

Chapter 3: Two Jeffs, One Very Very Loud Breakdown

Summary:

Young Jefferson breaks the restraints. Not for freedom. Not for justice. Not even to stop the madness. He breaks them out of pure, unfiltered horniness. Alexander says some emotionally devastating things mid-thrust and the timeline ruptures a little more. God help us.
Anyway, sorry for whatever this is. Unless you liked it. In which case: you’re welcome, sicko <3

Jefferson rocked forward again, slow and deep—obscene in how well it fit, how well Hamilton took it, shivering and panting and biting the pillow like it might anchor him. Every thrust was deliberate, methodical, like he was fine-tuning the tension in a living instrument. And Hamilton—god, he wasn’t resisting anymore. He was meeting it. Matching it. Back arched like a drawn bow, hair slicked to his neck, thighs twitching with every drag and push.

“I should be disgusted,”  Thomas said, voice hoarse, eyes locked to the mirror like it was a goddamn execution. “I should—this should—”

“Feel like punishment?”  Jefferson finished, without even glancing at him. “That’s what he wanted.”

“It’s not—fuck, it’s not supposed to look like that—”

“Oh?”  Jefferson leaned over Hamilton, one hand braced on the bedpost, the other wrapping around his waist, dragging him up into the curve of his chest. Hamilton cried out—humiliated by the tenderness, by how much he wanted it. “And how is it supposed to look, then? Rougher? Faster? More of your grudge and less of his pleasure?”

Hamilton turned his head, gasping, eyes glassy and defiant. “This is punishment, you idiot. Just not for me.”

Thomas couldn’t stop watching.

He was straining forward, sweat beading along his brow, teeth clenched against the visible outline of  Jefferson’s cock inside Hamilton, moving with ruthless rhythm. The mirror showed everything—the pull of his hips, the twitch of Hamilton’s thighs, the slick, stretched entrance swallowing him deeper.

Hamilton wasn’t just taking it.

He was thriving in it.

Every moan now was intentional, flung like a dagger at the younger version across the room. And  Jefferson—smirking, focused, possessive—was fucking him with the kind of practiced intensity that made it clear he’d done this before. Many times. With him. With Hamilton. Not just a fantasy. Not just a threat.

“You—you’d let him do this again?”  Thomas spat.

“I’d let him do worse,” Hamilton panted, almost delirious. “He learned . You never did.”

 Jefferson bit the side of his neck, sucking a deep bruise into the curve of his shoulder while still thrusting, slow and relentless. “You were always so loud, Thomas. But you never listened.”

Hamilton choked on a laugh. “Still doesn’t.”

And then  Jefferson shifted angle—and Hamilton screamed.

Full-bodied. Shaking. Collapse-in-place noise. The kind of sound that echoed in the walls and yanked something primal out of his younger self, something dangerous and furious and aching.

 Thomas’s chest rose with frantic speed. “What did you just—”

“That,”  Jefferson murmured, thrusting again, “was what you kept missing.”

Hamilton sobbed through his teeth. “Hit it again—God—do it again—”

“Oh my god,”  Thomas said again, broken.

And for the first time, he didn’t sound angry.
He sounded starved.

 Jefferson didn’t even pause. Just wrapped one arm around Hamilton’s middle, lifted like he weighed nothing at all—and Hamilton gave a strangled little gasp, half-protest, half-moan, legs scrambling to hook around Jefferson’s hips as he was hauled up and fucked deeper in the process.

“Wait—wait—oh fuck—”

“No waiting,”  Jefferson said, voice low, satisfied, as he adjusted his grip and stood fully upright, hing Hamilton like a ragdoll—with his cock still buried to the hilt.

 Thomas backed up instinctively. “What the hell are you—”

 Jefferson stepped off the bed and carried Hamilton toward him, unhurried. Every step made Hamilton shudder, eyes fluttering, arms clinging around Jefferson’s neck in breathless disbelief. Still being fucked. Still open , trembling, absolutely dripping around the length inside him.

“Oh my god—”  Thomas’s voice cracked. “That’s not—you can’t just—he’s—”

“Mine,”  Jefferson said simply, stopping just inches from his younger self.

Hamilton tipped his head back with a fucked-out little grin, daring him to break. “Jealous?”

 Thomas’s breath hitched. His eyes were locked— obsessed —on the way Hamilton twitched in  Jefferson’s arms, the way he clenched and moaned as Jefferson gave a single shallow thrust just to make a point. His knees buckled.

“You could’ve had this,”  Jefferson said, one hand stroking down Hamilton’s side possessively. “You wanted to ruin him. But I—”

“—learned how to play me,” Hamilton finished, voice hoarse and giddy. “He learned where everything goes. ”

 Jefferson pressed in again, making Hamilton yelp and cling tighter. “Even the parts you didn’t know existed.”

 Thomas was breathing like he was the one being ruined. Hands clenched at his sides. Face flushed, jaw tight, dick hard enough to show through his pants and still—still—he said, “That’s not—you’re—”

Hamilton, sagging in  Jefferson’s arms, barely managed a whisper: “Say it. Go ahead. Slut? Whore? You’re better than him?” He looked up through wet lashes. “You won’t say it. Because you want to be him.”

His whole body jolted like he’d been struck. The shame in his eyes flickered—then darkened, twisted, curdled into something feral. He made a hoarse, awful noise deep in his throat, part protest, part prayer, like he didn’t know whether to run or drop to his knees and beg for the same treatment. His nails dug into his palms. His arms trembled with restraint. He shook his head once, frantic—“You don’t know what you’re saying”—but Hamilton only gave him that wrecked little smirk. Daring him.

Something snapped . Literally.

The rope groaned—then gave . Not all of it. Not cleanly. But  Thomas wrenched his right arm free with a guttural sound, half-yank, half-sob. Skin scraped raw, blood beading around his wrist, but he didn’t stop. Didn’t pause. Just kept going , chest heaving like a man possessed, dragging the remaining knots down and tearing himself loose with the kind of brute, unthinking force you only summon when you want something more than you want air.

He staggered upright.

Eyes wild. Cuffs swinging loose around one wrist.

He’d held out so long —white-knuckled, furious, sweating through every second of this like he wasn’t hard enough to pass out —but the moment Hamilton whimpered, “He learned where everything goes,” in that smug, broken voice?

It was over.

“Please—”  Thomas croaked, the word torn out of him like it had claws. “ Please. I—just let me—”

Hamilton’s eyes flew open in horror. “ What?! ”

 Jefferson didn’t even hesitate. “All right.”

“ ALL RIGHT? ” Hamilton squirmed in his arms, suddenly very awake. “No! No, no, wait, that’s not—there’s no way that’s physically—!”

 Jefferson just gave a slow, deliberate thrust, and Hamilton gasped, legs jolting tighter around his waist.

“I’m already— you’re already inside— ” Hamilton babbled, twisting. “Where the fuck is he supposed to go?! There’s not— it won’t fit, Thomas— !”

Thomas had dropped to his knees like a man praying at the altar of his own depravity. “It’ll fit,” he muttered, wide-eyed and glassy. “I’ll make it fit. I swear, I’ll be careful—”

“ You were tied up five minutes ago! ”

“Let him try,”  Jefferson said smoothly, lowering Hamilton down just a fraction—enough that he could feel the slick drag of movement, the obscene stretch of him still impaled. He looked down at his younger self. “Take your time. He’ll squirm more that way.”

“I’M RIGHT HERE,” Hamilton shouted. “I AM AN ECONOMIST , NOT A GODDAMN CLOWN CAR.”

 Thomas, still on his knees, looked up dazedly. “You’re beautiful .”

Hamilton let out a strangled, deeply offended noise.

“Nope. Absolutely not. I revoke consent. I change my mind. There is no universe where you both get to be inside me at the same time, I’m not even drunk— ”

 Jefferson tilted his head, amused. “You could be.”

 Thomas’s hands were on his thighs now, shaking with the effort not to touch. “I—I’ll let you ride me after. Or— during. You can—fuck, you can do anything—”

“I want to go home,” Hamilton whispered faintly. “I want to go home and write angry pamphlets.”

But neither Jefferson seemed to hear.

 Jefferson’s cock twitched inside him.  Thomas’s pupils were blown wide. And Hamilton, poor bastard, knew in his soul that it was already too late.

 Thomas’s hands were trembling as they slid up Hamilton’s thighs, reverent and desperate, like he still couldn’t believe he was being allowed this. His cock nudged against the tight space where  Jefferson was still buried deep, and Hamilton twitched , hips bucking involuntarily as a wrecked noise punched out of him.

“ Thomas— ” he gasped, voice high and ragged. “You’re not—you can’t— oh my fucking god— ”

But  Thomas was past caring. He was inching in, slowly, carefully, panting against Hamilton’s chest like every second of restraint was killing him. His eyes rolled back as the head of his cock breached the tight squeeze of already-occupied heat.

Hamilton convulsed, legs kicking out uselessly, mouth falling open in a silent cry as his body fought to process it. The stretch, the pressure— Jefferson still inside him, steady and deep—and now another , younger version pressing in?

“ FUCK— !” Hamilton sobbed, clawing at Jefferson’s shoulders. “I can’t—I can’t— that’s illegal— !”

“Relax,”  Jefferson said, voice low and maddeningly calm as he tightened his grip on Hamilton’s hips, anchoring him in place. “He’s not even halfway.”

“HALFWAY?”

“I t you I’d go slow,”  Thomas moaned, forehead pressed to Hamilton’s chest, aching to move, to thrust, to kiss . His lips hovered just above Hamilton’s, hot breath ghosting across his skin—

And then a hand grabbed his jaw.

 Jefferson yanked his younger self’s face back with a lazy strength that made Hamilton jolt. “Ah-ah,” he said, eyes narrowing. “You two aren’t like that. Right?”

 Thomas blinked, dazed. “Like what—?”

 Jefferson’s fingers dug in harder, a warning. “Don’t kiss him.”

“I wasn’t—I mean, I was —I just—”  Thomas looked helplessly down at Hamilton, who was blinking up at them with watery, furious eyes, lips flushed and trembling.

 Jefferson smirked, and shifted his hips just enough to make Hamilton gasp.

“He lets us wreck him,” he said, slow and indulgent. “Not love him.”

Hamilton let out a breathless, mortified noise. “Jesus Christ , I hate you both.”

Jefferson smiled. “No, you don’t.”

Thomas was trying very, very hard to pretend he wasn’t jealous.

It wasn’t working.

Because Hamilton was in his arms— barely upright, slick with sweat, shaking —but it was  Jefferson who had him writhing . It was  Jefferson’s mouth dragging along his throat,  Jefferson’s teeth biting down on his shoulder,  Jefferson’s hands playing Hamilton like a goddamn harpsichord . Tuning him. Winding him tighter.

Hamilton gasped, high and raw, when  Jefferson pinched both his nipples between calloused fingers. He arched , full-body, like it was a reflex, like he needed more. Like he didn’t care who was watching. Like  Thomas wasn’t even there.

Young Jeff’s hands tightened on Hamilton’s hips. He didn’t even realize he was grinding against him again until he saw Hamilton shudder and whimper from the friction.

“Thomas ” Hamilton gasped. “Stop—stop being so rough—he’s gonna see—”

“I hope he sees,”  Jefferson said lowly, biting into the back of Hamilton’s neck. “He should learn something.”

“I’m right here! ”  Thomas snapped. “I am him!”

“Then act like it,”  Jefferson growled. “You want him? Take him. But don’t get sentimental.”

 Thomas groaned through clenched teeth, fists shaking where they held Hamilton’s hips. His cock throbbed, and Hamilton’s body clenched down so tight around  Jefferson it made all three of them moan.

“I hate this,” Hamilton whispered, trembling. “I hate you both.”

“You’ll beg for more,”  Jefferson said. “You already are.”

And he was .

Because when  Thomas finally slammed forward again—mouth just shy of kissing him—Hamilton shattered like glass between their bodies, and neither of them stopped moving.

Not even for a second

Hamilton didn’t know what was hing him up anymore. His legs had long since given out, his spine felt like it had melted, and his mind— gone . Utterly blank except for the overwhelming, nerve-frying sensations:  Jefferson’s bite on his shoulder,  Thomas’s hands on his hips, both of them inside him, using him, stretching him to his fucking limit like he was made for this.

He couldn’t think. Could barely breathe. And when  Thomas leaned in again, lips just brushing his cheekbone like he wanted to kiss him so badly , Hamilton actually twitched —like he didn’t know whether to lean in or pull away.

He didn’t have to choose.

Because  Thomas snapped.

“Fuck this,” he growled, voice deep with jealousy. " Fuck you. "

Then—

Strong arms. A sharp tug.

Hamilton yelped —a pathetic, broken sound—and was ripped from  Jefferson’s grip like a stolen treasure, still panting, still impaled, now dangling off  Thomas’s chest like a doll.

 Jefferson let out a low, dangerous chuckle. “Territorial now, are we?”

“Shut up,”  Thomas spat, cradling Hamilton against him, one hand on his throat. “Go back to your husband,  old man.”

Hamilton blinked, dazed. “He’s your husband too,” he slurred.

“Not right now he isn’t, ”  Thomas snapped. His pupils were blown, his lip curled. “He’s mine.”

 Jefferson lounged back, utterly smug, lazily stroking himself as he watched. “Finally.”

 Thomas kissed Hamilton’s throat— actually kissed it—biting down hard as if to claim it.

Hamilton jerked in his arms, overwhelmed. “Tommy— wait —I’m—I can’t— ”

“You will, ”  Thomas snarled into his skin. “You can take it. You took him , didn’t you? You let him wreck you— bite you— mark you—”

“I didn’t let —” Hamilton tried, voice cracking.

“Then it’s my turn,”  Thomas growled, dragging Hamilton down onto him in one hard, angry thrust.

Hamilton screamed .

 Jefferson just smiled from across the bed. “Don’t forget what I taught you, sweetheart.”

“I won’t,”  Thomas said, grinding up into Hamilton with vicious rhythm. “I’m gonna ruin him better than you ever did.”

And Hamilton?

He was gone.

A sobbing, gasping mess in their arms, twitching with overstimulation, clinging to the younger version of the man who’d just offered him up like a gift —and now was watching with glittering eyes as his younger self claimed him like he’d never give him back.

Thomas’s grip was bruising—possessive, wild, like he was afraid someone would rip Hamilton out of his arms again. But the moment Hamilton whimpered —just a breathy, helpless little sound—he froze.

“…Did I hurt you?” he asked, barely above a whisper.

Hamilton, wrecked and trembling in his arms, shook his head before he even formed words. “N-no, just—just too much. ”

And that should’ve made  Thomas back off.

But instead—he just held him tighter. One hand slid up under Hamilton’s thigh, adjusting the angle with awkward but sincere care, the other flattening against the small of his back like he thought Hamilton might fall apart if he let go.

“Okay,” he murmured, more to himself than anyone else. “Okay, I got you.”

He rocked in again. Slower this time. Gentler. Still too deep— impossibly deep—but steady, almost reverent.

Across the room,  Jefferson leaned back against the wall with his arms crossed, watching them both with the calm satisfaction of a music teacher at a piano recital.

“…You’re going too shallow,” he said mildly.

 Thomas growled without looking up. “I know how to fuck someone.”

 Jefferson quirked a brow. “Do you?”

 Thomas scowled. “Shut up—”

“No, no, sweetheart—listen.”  Jefferson’s voice was soft, condescending, infuriatingly patient. “It’s not about how hard you go. It’s about precision. You want to tune him. Not break him.”

Hamilton let out a helpless sound —somewhere between a sob and a moan.

 Jefferson smiled. “Right there. That’s a C-sharp. Good. Now angle up—just a little—yes. There. You feel that? He clenched.”

 Thomas, flushed and panting, obeyed despite himself, adjusting Hamilton’s hips under  Jefferson’s guidance like he was being taught to play a string instrument he’d been clumsily plucking for years.

“There,”  Jefferson purred. “That’s his spot. He’ll sing for you if you keep rhythm.”

And Hamilton did. His breath hitched, broke, turned into a high, wrecked gasp as  Thomas struck the same spot again, and again, and again.

“Oh my God ,”  Thomas whispered, stunned.

 Jefferson just smirked. “I t you he was responsive.”

 Thomas’s hand was shaking as he cupped Hamilton’s face, genuinely overwhelmed. “You’re—fuck, you’re so good. I didn’t—I didn’t know you could feel this much.”

And Hamilton, sobbing now, could only choke out, “ I didn’t either. ”

And the room went quiet for a beat—just ragged breathing and the obscene sound of slick motion, of skin against skin, of Hamilton falling apart in real time.

Until  Jefferson hummed, pleased. “Well. Now that we’re all caught up—”

He pushed off the wall, walking slowly toward them like a lion returning to the den.

“Let’s see if you can play a duet.”

Hamilton didn’t even look up. Couldn’t. He was slumped forward against  Thomas’s chest, hair stuck to his temple, lips swollen from biting back screams. He was trying to breathe—trying to think —but the rhythm  Thomas had settled into had him melting at the seams, and now—

Now the er one was back.

“Don’t—”  Thomas said hoarsely, tightening his h like a guard dog.

 Jefferson didn’t stop walking. Just smiled. “Relax, I’m not here to take him back.”

“You always say that and then—”

“ You were the one who threw him across the room and t me to go back to my husband, remember?” The er version’s voice was all amusement now, casual and smug. “I’m just here to supervise. Think of me as—oh, I don’t know—a conductor.”

“You’re so fucking annoying.”

“And you’re inexperienced. Which is why, ” he drawled, crouching down beside them, one hand sliding gently up Hamilton’s trembling thigh, “you’re going to listen to me.”

 Thomas shivered.

Hamilton, still in his arms, let out a wrecked sound as the er man’s fingers danced across the inside of his thigh—nowhere obscene, not yet. Just hovering.

“See how he’s shaking?”  Jefferson murmured. “He’s overloaded. Not just from sensation, but emotion. He doesn’t know whether to scream, cry, or kiss you.”

 Thomas swallowed. His hand trembled slightly as he adjusted Hamilton’s hips again—carefully, now. Attentively.

“…What do I do?”

 Jefferson’s grin turned predatory. “You listen. ”

One hand lifted Hamilton’s chin, forcing him to look at  Thomas, glassy-eyed and flushed and barely coherent.

“Look at him,” the er man whispered. “He’s letting you see him like this. That’s not just surrender, that’s trust.”

“I—”  Thomas choked. “I don’t deserve that.”

“No,”  Jefferson agreed, thumb brushing Hamilton’s nipple just to hear the way he gasped, “you don’t. But he gave it to you anyway. So what are you going to do?”

“…H him,”  Thomas breathed.

“Good. Then do it. ”

And he did. He pulled Hamilton even closer, pressed kisses to his shoulder, his cheek, his hair—whispered something that neither version of Jefferson could ever remember later, something stupid and tender and real.

And Hamilton— God, Hamilton—cried. Just a little. Just for a second. A single, broken breath against his collarbone, like he’d been hing back that last shard of vulnerability for years and had finally let it go.

 Jefferson sat back, watching the tremble in  Thomas’s hands ease, watching Hamilton go limp in his arms like he’d finally found somewhere safe.

“…You're learning,” he said, softly now.

 Thomas looked up at him.

 Jefferson smiled.

“Now,” he said, brushing hair back from Hamilton’s temple, “make him sing again.”

Hamilton whimpered.

He wasn’t sure which part of himself he’d lost—whether it had slipped free when  Thomas rocked into him slow and careful, or when  Jefferson had whispered, “just like that, he’s opening for you—can you feel it?” like it was poetry.

He wasn’t sure if he was still conscious.

Thomas was holding him like glass now. No more growling. No more snarling possessively over his shoulder. Just arms wrapped tight, chest trembling with restraint as he moved in a rhythm that had been dictated, tuned like a piano string under the watchful eye of his older self.

 Jefferson sat behind them on the bed, long fingers moving in tandem—adjusting hips, tilting Hamilton’s head back to kiss his throat, dragging teeth across the back of  Thomas’s shoulder with idle affection.

“Deeper,” the er one murmured, voice dark silk. “He can take it. You’re just afraid.”

“I’m not afraid,”  Thomas hissed.

“Oh no?”  Jeff laughed softly, his hand sliding to press between Hamilton’s shoulder blades, guiding him arching deeper into the younger one’s lap. “Then prove it.”

The sound Hamilton made when their hips met again was inhuman.

And both of them froze.

“…See?” the older one whispered.

Thomas was shaking. His arms nearly buckled from the overwhelming heat, the tightness, the sheer reverent violence of Hamilton losing his mind around him. Every muscle of Hamilton’s body locked in place, clenching so hard it bordered on brutal.

“ Jesus, ”  Thomas gasped.

Hamilton didn’t speak. He was somewhere else. Held upright only by their bodies—his hands grasping wildly for something, anything, nails scratching into Young Jeff’s back while he trembled and keened.

And then—

 Jefferson, still calm, still slow, reached around Hamilton’s chest again and pinched his nipple just so.

Hamilton screamed.

Not a loud scream. Not a desperate one. Just a shattered, fragile, breakable sound—high and stuttering and helpless.

 Thomas groaned so loudly it bordered on obscene.

“Now kiss him,”  Jefferson whispered.

“I—”

“Kiss. Him. Before you disgrace us both.”

And Thomas did.

He leaned in like it hurt. Like it scorched to be allowed. And then he kissed Hamilton on the mouth for the first time—not as a punishment, not to shut him up, not to claim him—but soft. Slow. Like something sacred.

Hamilton sobbed into it.

It was disgusting.

It was perfect.

Jefferson smiled behind them, licking his fingers absently as he watched their mouths move together like they’d been born for this choreography.

“Don’t stop now,” he said, biting Hamilton’s shoulder gently once more, just enough to make him jolt between them again. “We’ve only just found your key.”

Eventually, Hamilton started to slip.

It was subtle at first—just a falter in his breath, a tremor in his grip where he clawed at  Thomas’s back. His mouth parted but no sound came out. His lashes fluttered like moth wings. His pupils were blown wide and unfocused.

“Wait—”  Thomas slowed, but didn’t stop. “He’s—he’s shaking, is he—?”

 Jefferson reached forward and brushed his knuckles against Hamilton’s cheek, watching as his head lolled into the touch like a ragdoll.

“He’s gone,” the older one said with quiet reverence. “But he wants this. Look—he’s still holding you.”

And he was. Barely. One weak hand curled near Thomas’s ribs like a memory of defiance.

“Should we—”

“Finish it,”  Jefferson said, voice low and firm, fingers stroking Hamilton’s throat, soothing his overstimmed pulse. “Let him feel you before he blacks all the way out.”

And so  Thomas did.

He kissed him again. Fiercely this time. Clutched Hamilton’s face between both hands like he couldn’t bear the idea of letting him fade alone. And as his hips moved—gentle but unstoppable—he leaned in and whispered shakily against his temple:

“I love you.”

Hamilton made a tiny, cracked noise.

Then his eyes rolled back, his whole body spasmed once—

—and he collapsed.

Just dropped, like a puppet with its strings cut, slumping against  Thomas’s chest, completely unconscious.

The silence after was deafening.

 Thomas held him like he was made of glass. His heart was hammering out of his ribcage. His mouth trembled like he wanted to cry or laugh or scream.

“…Did I kill him,” he whispered.

 Jefferson was already stroking Hamilton’s hair, checking his breath with the back of his fingers.

“He’s fine,” he murmured, pleased. “You tuned him open like a symphony. He just short-circuited.”

“That’s not— that’s not comforting— ”

But Hamilton sighed in his sleep then, the smallest, softest exhale against  Thomas’s throat. A little content sound. Like he was dreaming of something sweet.

And  Thomas melted.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispered. “I actually love him. This is so fucked up. ”

 Jefferson just grinned. 

“You think that’s bad?” he said dryly. “ You’re me. ”

The bathtub was enormous and clawfooted. 

Thomas crouched beside it with a face like someone had just asked him to perform open-heart surgery on a baby goat. Hamilton lay half-submerged in the warm water, limp as a drowned starlet. His head lolled back against  Jefferson’s chest, curls wet and dark and stuck to his temples. He hadn’t so much as twitched since the collapse. Thomas, in contrast, was twitching constantly.

“Why are we not taking him to a hospital ?”

“Because hospitals don’t know how to treat post-orgasmic ego death,”  Jefferson said serenely, running a washcloth down Hamilton’s chest like this was just Tuesday. “Trust me, he’ll be fine. You just scrambled his spine.”

“You say that like it’s a compliment— ”

“It is a compliment.”

 Thomas looked like he was going to have a goddamn stroke. He kept trying not to look at Hamilton’s wrecked, pliant body, then failing, then looking again. He looked guilty. He looked turned on. He looked like he was about to cry.

“…Is he breathing?” he asked finally, voice shaking.

“Yes.”

“Is he conscious?”

“No.”

“Do we need to—”

“You need to clean him.”

“I— what? ”

 Jefferson handed him a carefully fed soft cloth and an expensive-looking bottle of something floral.

“You’re the one who made the mess,” he said, annoyingly calm. “Get in here. Be gentle. Clean him inside or he’ll get sore.”

 Thomas turned bright red.

“I—I am not— You’re literally sitting right there,   man, what the fuck—”

“And supervising. You need guidance. You’ve never done this before.”

“I knew this would be weird—!”

“And yet here you are,”  Jefferson said smugly, swishing the water with one knee. “Naked. Flushed. Desperate to impress yourself.”

 Thomas let out a sound like a kettle boiling and stood frozen, clutching the washcloth like it might shield him from divine judgment.

“I don’t even know how to— what do you mean ‘inside’ —”

 Jefferson sighed fondly. “You’ve never cleaned someone after a double-stretch?”

“NO?!”

“Then listen closely, because he’s going to wake up whimpering if you don’t do this right—”

“OH MY GOD—”

But despite all the shouting,  Thomas did climb into the tub. Carefully. Guiltily. Cradling Hamilton’s slack thighs with shaky hands, glancing up every five seconds to glare at  Jefferson like this is your fault, this is your fault, even though they both knew it wasn’t.

And as he finally, finally worked up the nerve to do as instructed—gently, reverently, shamefully precise—

Hamilton let out a soft little sigh.

A pleased noise. Almost a purr.

Thomas froze.

“Did he just—was that good? Was that—did I do it right??”

 Jefferson looked far too smug for a man supervising the rinsing of another version of himself’s lover.

“You’re doing fine,” he said, smug. “See? He loves being spoiled.”

“I hate you, ”  Thomas muttered, cradling Hamilton tighter. “I hate you so much.”

 Jefferson just laughed and poured warm water down Hamilton’s shoulders. “You’ll grow out of it.”

They fell asleep in a tangled mess of wet limbs and exhausted sighs, Hamilton curled between them like a spoiled cat, head on  Thomas’s chest, fingers still twitching occasionally as if his body couldn’t decide if it had been ruined or reborn.

 Thomas was too dazed to fight it anymore. He just… held him. One arm draped across Hamilton’s stomach like he’d never let go again. His other hand was curled protectively around Hamilton’s wrist, feeling the sluggish pulse—just in case. Just in case it wasn’t a dream. Just in case it was.

And  Jefferson—
Well.

He kissed them both on the forehead while they slept. Like a smug little bastard.

When morning came, Hamilton was the first to stir.

He blinked blearily, eyes swollen and lashes sticky, and let out a low, surprised sound as he shifted—

“Oh my god, ” he whispered hoarsely. “I think my soul came out.”

 Thomas cracked one eye open, still clinging to him like a safety blanket. His hair was crushed flat on one side. His voice was a croak.

“Yeah. You—uh. You passed out. Like. Real passed out.”

“I had a dream I was whisper-fucked through time, ” Hamilton muttered, lifting a trembling hand to his temple. “That… wasn’t a dream, was it.”

“…Not really, no.”

Hamilton turned his head—saw  Thomas’s ruined mouth, the bruises, the look in his eyes—and went perfectly still.

“…Wait. Where’s the older one? ”

They both sat up at once.

The third side of the bed—rumpled, slightly damp, and very obviously vacated—was empty.

But on the pillow was a single, perfectly fed sticky note. Written in Jefferson’s elegant script:

Adieu, darlings.
Remember to hydrate.
You’re welcome.

Beneath the note sat a velvet drawstring pouch.

 Thomas stared at it like it might explode.

“…Don’t open that,” he said, in the tiny voice of a man who knew what was coming and still couldn’t stop it.

Hamilton opened it immediately.

Inside:

• One travel-size bottle of coconut-scented massage oil (TSA-approved, naturally)
  
  
• One fed black silk blindf
  
  
• Two loosely coiled, unmistakably used restraints
  
  
• And—horrifyingly—three metal nipple clamps, tangled together like a cursed souvenir keychain
  
  

 Thomas let out a strangled sound and covered his face.

“I hate that man. I hate him so fucking much. ”

Hamilton was trying to laugh but kept wheezing instead. “He left us a starter kit. Like a sex witch.”

“ Don’t call him a sex witch! Don’t— don’t validate him! ”

Hamilton collapsed backward into the bed, grinning like an idiot, the pouch clutched to his chest like a forbidden treasure.

“Oh god. He time-traveled into my ass and vanished into the morning dew like it was nothing. ”

Thomas groaned, dragging a pillow over his head.

(They never saw the  man again. But sometimes, when the moon was high and Hamilton started getting mouthy in bed, a faint scent of coconut oil would drift through the room.

And  Thomas would shiver.

And somewhere, in a dimension full of smirking  perverts and mystical TSA regulations, Thomas Jefferson winked at the stars and whispered, “You’re welcome.”)

 

---

 

Jefferson comes to on the bathroom floor, which is, frankly, becoming a pattern.

He’d hoped the return trip would be a little more dignified—maybe reappear mid-spoon, nose pressed into Hamilton’s hair, sock-stealing forgiven by the laws of time itself.

Instead, he’s half-naked on the cold tile, with a bathroom towel tangled around his ankle, blinking blearily up at a familiar silhouette.

“You vanished from our bed for fifteen minutes,” Hamilton says flatly, arms crossed, “just to lie on the bathroom floor?”

Jefferson grins up at him. “Hi, darling.”

“You smell like regret and time travel.”

Jefferson drags himself upright, wincing slightly, and leans in for a kiss. Hamilton intercepts him with a hand to the face.

“Explain.”

“Well,” Jefferson says, dusting tile dust off his chest, “there was a temporal slingshot, a regrettable burst of quantum feedback, and—good news—I did, in fact, fuck you in the past. Again. You were very tight back then.”

Hamilton slaps his shoulder. Jefferson wheezes, but the smirk stays.

“Did you leave a note,” Hamilton asks, already resigned.

“Of course I did. I kissed your forehead like a tragic war wife. It was cinematic as hell.”

“You traumatized your younger self.”

“He’ll live.”

“He thinks he hallucinated it.”

Jefferson smirks and leans his head against Hamilton’s shoulder. “You’re just mad I time-traveled and didn’t bring you any souvenirs.”

“You left me for fifteen minutes in our marital bed with no explanation, no socks, and a still-warm spot on the pillow.”

“Are you saying you missed me?”

Hamilton gives him a long, suffering look. Then: “Do you know how many times you’ve ended up unconscious on a bathroom floor in our marriage?”

Jefferson hums. “Seven?”

“Seventeen.”

“...Oof.”

“I have a spreadsheet.”

There’s a pause. Hamilton exhales and leans his cheek onto Jefferson’s hair. “Next time you disappear into spacetime,” he says softly, “just bring a phone.”

Jefferson smiles. “You’d text me mid-loop?”

“I’d send you a spreadsheet. With all the reasons you’re an idiot.”

“That’s very romantic.”

“Shut up and kiss me.”

Jefferson does.

When they break apart, he murmurs, “I love you.”

“You’re a dumbass.”

“Yes,” Jefferson says, sighing dramatically, “but I’m your dumbass.”

They sit there on the bathroom floor, in the half-light, cocooned in the kind of absurd peace that only comes from surviving another round of marriage, physics, and Jefferson’s nonsense.

A pause.

Then Hamilton adds, “If you ever traumatize a younger version of me again, I’m hiding the flux stabilizer.”

Jefferson gasps. “You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.”

Jefferson leans closer. “Would it help if I said he had a really cute pout?”

Hamilton shoves him. Jefferson laughs. The universe, for now, is back in balance.