"The way you beg," Hamilton breathes. Burr comes; the seed smears along his belly, and Hamilton trails fingers through it, makes it messier. Ruins Burr.
He settles carefully -- the knot has to twist a little inside Burr, for him to shift to a comfortable position, and he can feel the dizzying way Burr squeezes and milks him. Eases Burr's leg down, and he tucks himself in behind his lover, nose against the back of Burr's neck, fingers spreading to waist, ribs. The position isn't perfect -- it pulls at his knot just a hint. But it should be as comfortable as Burr gets, these days.
This is his favorite time. Hamilton aches to be close, closer, closer still. Not just the long slow roll of pleasure as their bodies trail down from the lengthy climax, but that now Hamilton can grasp and hold Burr, have him so close, just be fully in this moment without fear of loss or jealousy or loneliness.
He complies. How could he do otherwise, a request as soft as that?
What he says isn't like the first French Burr drew out of him. Not dirty talk. He says: I imagine you as a pine so green it's blue -- as a sapling, straight and tall and supple and so, so alive, stretching its roots so far, thick with green. I imagine you stretching to the sky. I imagine you growing your roots around the pieces of me, and binding them into something new. You don't know your power yet, but you will --
It is murmured, as Hamilton drifts. Half poetry, half nonsense, cradling Burr against him.
The knotting is a long one. He can tell Burr is tired by the time it releases, slick mess running between Burr's legs. But of course he ducks down and licks up the fluid on his thighs, chases it to the source where he presses long, slow licks along Burr's soft and swollen cunt. Oh, it's filthy; he gathers some of his own seed on his fingers and scoops it up and presses it back inside, crooking his fingers to drag slow against the walls as he pulls them back out again. He cleans Burr up -- eventually. Doesn't go down on him like a race to the finish, but relishes it, the inherent eroticism of worshipping this place of Burr's body, lavishing such attentions on what he has just stretched and abused.
Of course, he makes sure Burr finishes, regardless.
no subject
He settles carefully -- the knot has to twist a little inside Burr, for him to shift to a comfortable position, and he can feel the dizzying way Burr squeezes and milks him. Eases Burr's leg down, and he tucks himself in behind his lover, nose against the back of Burr's neck, fingers spreading to waist, ribs. The position isn't perfect -- it pulls at his knot just a hint. But it should be as comfortable as Burr gets, these days.
This is his favorite time. Hamilton aches to be close, closer, closer still. Not just the long slow roll of pleasure as their bodies trail down from the lengthy climax, but that now Hamilton can grasp and hold Burr, have him so close, just be fully in this moment without fear of loss or jealousy or loneliness.
He complies. How could he do otherwise, a request as soft as that?
What he says isn't like the first French Burr drew out of him. Not dirty talk. He says: I imagine you as a pine so green it's blue -- as a sapling, straight and tall and supple and so, so alive, stretching its roots so far, thick with green. I imagine you stretching to the sky. I imagine you growing your roots around the pieces of me, and binding them into something new. You don't know your power yet, but you will --
It is murmured, as Hamilton drifts. Half poetry, half nonsense, cradling Burr against him.
The knotting is a long one. He can tell Burr is tired by the time it releases, slick mess running between Burr's legs. But of course he ducks down and licks up the fluid on his thighs, chases it to the source where he presses long, slow licks along Burr's soft and swollen cunt. Oh, it's filthy; he gathers some of his own seed on his fingers and scoops it up and presses it back inside, crooking his fingers to drag slow against the walls as he pulls them back out again. He cleans Burr up -- eventually. Doesn't go down on him like a race to the finish, but relishes it, the inherent eroticism of worshipping this place of Burr's body, lavishing such attentions on what he has just stretched and abused.
Of course, he makes sure Burr finishes, regardless.