My friend dared me to do this whoops.
I love how this book goes from a wholesome oneshot about loving people regardless of their looks to... this.
This isn't a serious oneshot I kind of wrote it as a joke because I was stressed and feeling sad so I wanted to write something funny.
This is based off of the song Dead Girl Walking from Heathers.
Trigger warning sex.
Mild(ish) smut ahead.
John Laurens was a dead boy walking.
His father had found out his secret.
The secret he'd spent his entire life working tirelessly to conceal, hiding letters and plastering on fake smiles and deflecting his father's tireless inquiries about his love life.
It had all been in vein.
John had grown too careless, so blinded by his love for Alexander Hamilton that he hadn't thought to conceal the flush of pink that colored his cheeks when he read his letters, hadn't thought to throw the letters Alex sent him into the fireplace to keep their explicit content a secret, to ensure that Alex's words were not seen my anyone's eyes but his.
When he'd departed to join General Washington, he'd left some letters behind.
His father had found them.
He could still rememeber his father's letter, the words that had ripped his heart and mind to shreds and filled him with fear so intense his vision had gone blurry and he'd cried himself to sleep.
You've fallen for another man. I can't bare to call you my son.
His father told him that the next time he saw him, he'd kill him.
He had exactly thirty hours before his father killed him, before he would be hanged in the town square like a criminal.
Loving another man was a crime, and John Laurens was guilty.
Thirty hours, and John Laurens would be dead.
He had no idea what to do.
Once his father got an idea in his head, he refused to back down. He wouldn't stop until John was dead.
He could flee the country, could emigrate to Canada or the West Indies or France, but it would only postpone the inevitable. His father would track him down. He wouldn't stop until John was dead.
He only had thirty hours to live. How should he spend them?
Should he go steal the Redcoats' canons? Perhpaps annoy them so much that they shot him dead and he didn't have to worry about his father anymore.
Or perhaps go to a tavern and spend his last thirty hours getting drunk out of his mind.
Or perhaps...
John's cheeks flushed at the thought.
It was stupid. Reckless and terrible and completely and utterly stupid.
And yet...
John smiled to himself.
I only have thirty hours to live. I might as well make the most of them.
As Washington's Aide de Camp, Alex had his own private office.
John stood outside of it, wondering what to do.
Am I really doing this? Is this really happening?
He put his hand on the door knocker, then thought better of it. He didn't have time to knock. Knocking was for people who weren't going to be dead by this time tomorrow.
He broke the lock and shoved his way inside.
Alex stood up from his desk, startled by the noise. His eyes widened when he saw John.
"John, what are you doing here? I thought you were going back to Mepkin." He must have noticed the look on John's face. "What's wrong? Are we under attack or something? Are the Redcoats here?"
John took a deep breath.
It's now or never, Laurens.
"I'm deeply apologise for startling you, though I am happy to reassure you that we are not under attack by any of Mad King George's red-coated lackeys." John took a deep breath, steeling himself for what he was about to say. "I am here because I want you to sleep with me. I-I want us to move undercover and move as one, if you understand my entandre."
Alex's face went as red as his hair.
"John..."
"My father found my letters. He knows that I perfer men to women. He is going to kill me. He thinks me a monster, a threat to society, a stain on the Laurens name." John took a step forward and grabbed Alex by the collar of his shirt. "I have thirty hours to live, and I would like to spend them with you."
"A-Are you sure?" Alex asked, his beautiful blue eyes staring into John's with an intensity that drove him mad with desire. "Are you doing this because you are really ready to perform the most intimate and private act of love, or has your anger with your father taken leave of your senses and replaced them with a burning desire to do something reckless?"
"The clock is ticking on my lifespan, my love. I do not have time for this discussion." John shoved Alex off of him. "Take off your clothes."
Alex's hands shook slightly as he unbuttoned his shirt. John instantly felt a wash of regret. In his hysteria, he had not even considered Alex's feelings, had not considered whether or not Alexander wanted to do this with him. He did not want to spend his last thirty hours forcing the man he loved into performing an act he did not wish to perform.
"Alex, stop." John said, his face turning red with shame. "Are you sure you want to do this? I-I was so caught up in my zeal that I neglected to consider your feelings on the matter."
"I want to if you want to, my dearest." Alex said, pressing a kiss to John's nose.
John smiled and laid back on the desk on which Alex had been busily writing letters for General Washington just a few moments ago.
"Come here, dear boy. Come here and kiss this dead boy walking."
Alex kissed John, rough and hungry and passionate, like a starved predator devouring its prey. John smiled against his lips and got to work undoing Alex's pants. Once he was done, he flipped Alex over so the smaller man was under him and kissed every inch of him, making the redhead scream at the top of his lungs. Alex entwined his fingers in John's hair, pulling with just enough pressure to drive John mad.
John rode Alex with the ferocity with which he rode his horse into battle. Both men were screaming at the top of their lungs, and Alex's neck and chest were covered with marks that would probably take weeks to fade.
All of a sudden, the two men were inturrupted by the sound of something hitting the floor. Alex looked down and saw that they had knocked the lamp off of his desk.
"I think we broke the lamp." Alex said sheepishly.
John laughed as he resumed riding Alex. "Come on, Alex. Love this dead boy walking."
"I love you, John Laurens. I love this dead boy."
When the two men had finished, they lay in each other's arms, enjoying the sound of each other's breathing and the warmth of each other's bodies.
"I love you, Alexander Hamilton."
"I love you to, my dead boy walking."
