God, Hamilton may be an agent of sin, with the awful delicious things which spill from his mouth, pushing Burr further and further, to depths of depravity he thought he would never go.

Hamilton moves with Burr, presses him down to the mattress, until he can feel the weight, knows he could not easily free himself, and the knowledge sends a rush of blood down, through his stomach and pools in his groin.

"It wouldn't have to be his," Burr gasps, "it could be anyone's. I would beg for anyone, to fill me from behind. Would take any knot, even if--even the general's," he says, watches Hamilton's face, to know if this is a step too far, this deepest fantasy, that Burr might fuck anyone. Hamilton's relationship with the general, as difficult and strained as it sometimes is, the pseudo-father figure, the idea of him pressing Burr down against his desk, easing his cock between wet, hot folds--

"I hear he has a big cock--" Burr whispers, pupils blown, leaning up to bite harshly on Hamilton's earlobe. Out of control, rolling his hips upward, grinding. "A huge knot. What would you do, if you caught him fucking me, my eager, wet cunt? How would you punish me? Help your little omega keep his legs closed?"

More, he wants to do more, to say more. To take this even further, far past propriety, past what anyone could consider less than disgusting. A slut, a whore, filthy, disgusting.

"What if you only found me after, dripping with his seed?"