amrev_intrigues | Private Storyline 7

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Private Storyline 7

The small clearing with the circle of cabins that has been their home the past week and a half is starting to thaw--the end of an unseasonable blizzard--dripping pine needles and mud and chill, crisp air.

Burr sits in a rocking chair, Theo bundled in a sash against his chest while the wagons are loaded, waiting for Hamilton to bear him into the wagon. Still sore, torn, unable to walk for more than a few paces, lest the surgeon or Hamilton or Washington begin gripping at him. Beside him, three overstuffed sacks--necessities from Mrs. Smith and Linden, who can never be repaid for their kindness, as well as his own possessions.

Washington inspects the wagons nearby, accounting for supplies, though Hamilton or Laurens has likely already been over the process three or four times. Tents broken down, flour counted. He spots Burr and his face softens, crows feet smoothing, a sight Burr thought he would never see, in the stoic general. Because he sees Theo, no doubt--a soft spot for children.

"How is little Theo bearing this cold?" He asks, as Burr rocks her, asleep, blessedly, before she will doubtless cry for the rocking wagon.

"Not awfully," Burr says. "Hamilton has wrapped her in our wool with enough care I thought we should never be ready, and I have here our extra blanket, should we need it. Laurens has tracked down some oiled tarpaulin, in case it rains, and I am sure he will have no reservations over ordering someone to pitch it over the wagon, should there be the first threat of rain."

Across the clearing Hamilton is tugging at his saddle straps, his back to Burr, a fine sight amid mud and pines, in a continental coat and freshly laundered trousers. Washington follows his gaze, shakes his head, though he is smiling.

"Come," he says, "I will help you into the wagon now before he spirits you away, lest I never have the chance to see little Theo."

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The image of it -- of Laurens, drawing off the excess -- does strange things to his stomach, things that are hot in more ways than one. Chews on the inside of his cheek, as he twists his quill between his fingers.

"Perhaps I should insist that Washington keep me by," he says, slowly. "I..." A breath out. "Oh, I want nothing more than to be close by, should you have another heat -- you are insatiable, already, and to have you while you are so ravenous has," a swallow, "great appeal." He stands, to pace. "It makes me wild to think that he would see you that way before I could -- but that is the jealous one in me. You should not suffer, if the war keeps me away, and I trust him with my life and yours both."

And he realizes, mid-step, that he is entirely focused on his own emotions, once more -- that he could not bear to have Burr suffer, so he would have Burr seek relief.

A sigh.

"But I am all in my own mind again," he apologizes. "What is it you want?"

Edited 2022-05-06 02:41 (UTC)

"I want to be with you, my first heat--" his second heat ever, his first with Hamilton. "I don't want to share you with anyone, but I am not ignorant to the impracticality of it. I don't--" a swallow, his face warm. "I don't know my cycle. When it might come. It is still irregular, likely, and it has been so long since the last, that the next could fall anytime, within the next few months, and I would not want to restrain my own career or yours over something we will have for the rest of our lives together."

But, well, there's the practically of the matter--Burr laying by himself, alone, torture, while he waits for that heat to pass. Sweating it out, in a camp or headquarters full of alphas. Too long into the heat and he might jump anyone who wandered too close to his door or tent. And much more likely they would jump him, and they would not be gentle, either. He had heard stories.

He should have suppressant, should be on them, though they are awful for ones health, and probably not good for nursing. And getting a reliable supply in wartime would be nearly impossible, at best. And legally dubious.

"I worry what might happen, if you are not there, and I find myself alone in a camp full of alphas," with no other to quickly ease him through the heat, or to drive others away with their scent. But more than that, he had wanted Laurens for none of those reasons, while Hamilton was away, simply because he was pretty and kind and Burr was there and could sense his want. Yet how easily to ask? And what would Burr think, if Hamilton went to another omega? Beside himself, with hurt and jealousy. Yet Laurens was in some way a part of their family, not an outsider, not just another.

Edited 2022-05-06 06:42 (UTC)

It isn't uncommon for alphas who must be absent to make arrangements with their omegas. Especially in the lower classes -- omegas who are rich or noble often must simply suffer through, in the privacy that their homes afford them, but for an omega crowded in with many others, waiting out a lengthy heat isn't an option.

"On St. Nevis," says Hamilton, "it was quite ordinary to have these agreements. Alphas were often away at sea, and voyages can be so long, so it was called a half-marriage, un demi-mariage -- a way to ensure that the paternity of any child would be known, and that someone trustworthy would be there." He takes a seat next to Burr, on the bed. "Sometimes the demi would live with them, and I remember being fascinated, wondering if the alpha and the demi ever touched one another. I thought, if I was the alpha, that I might want that."

Such things aren't spoken of, like that, not in America. It would be quietly accepted if a relative of the husband, or a trusted friend, helped -- but it would not be formalized. It would not be legitimized. Better that they all pretend that all children of an omega are from the same alpha. And children of such unions are sometimes abandoned, Hamilton knows, as the alpha is unable to accept them.

At least he is sure he wouldn't have that problem.

"Then we will ask him," Hamilton resolves. "Together."

A flood of relife, that Hamilton might allow him this--that they will not clash on this matter like two brick walls, one of them with the power of society and the law on their side, the other with only the anxieties of things that are not discussed in polite society. Hamilton, of course, has never shown himself to be the type to abuse his position as alpha, husband, but the anxiety is still there, that Hamilton could, if he wanted, order Burr to do nearly anything.

But there is something else, another anxiety, a small burst of panic.

"It was not only the matter of heat I wanted to discuss with you," he says, and he cannot meet Hamilton's eyes. Sits on the edge of the bed, against the headboard, curled. "When you were gone, he was there, and as much as he could never be a replacement I found myself...he was very attractive, and I wondered if it would not have been begrudged, to take comfort in him. The same way I would not begrudge you, if you wanted to take comfort, while I was indisposed. He is family, as you say. It would not really be cheating, would it?"

He is unfamiliar with these things. It feels like spitting in Hamilton's face, to ask this of him. Unfair, in the face of his other concession, yet it is not only about Burr. He wants Hamilton to be happy, has seen the way Hamilton looks at Laurens, no quick flame extinguished by their tryst.

"You wanted him," murmurs Hamilton. Oh, but this one is much more difficult. He moves to his feet again, and paces, paces. Laurens is so many things that Hamilton is not. Steady -- kind -- rich -- tall, even. And Hamilton's virtues, such as they are, seem to have their match in Laurens: courage, and intelligence, and education.

And it is so difficult to have faith that Burr would want him still, if Laurens were an option. Marriage seems like a fragile guarantee, in the face of that.

"I cannot fault you for it -- I know what it is to want him desperately. But the thought has me anxious." This is not a refusal as much as it is a request for reassurance.

"Oh, Alexander, no--I am not. He isn't--" and he's doing this wrong. What was it Laurens had said, when Burr asked him for relief? That Hamilton would never feel secure in sharing, that he needed all of someone, more than anyone else might need all of someone. "Alexander, come here," Burr says, and sits on his knees on the bed, opens his arms to him.

Hamilton falls into him, and when he tucks his head against Burr's neck, Burr folds his own head down against Hamilton's hair, breathing in.

"I didn't mean as a replacement for you. When you were gone I felt like a part of me was tearing away. I wanted only animal relief, or the comfort one might find in a dear friend. But I missed you, and wanted you. I would never knowingly hurt you. I won't bring it up again, if you wish it. I only thought that if you also shared those desires, the arrangement might be amenable to both of us. But it is not a necessity, not needed as a companion in heats is."

And he pulls away then, pulls Hamilton's head up to kiss him, sweet, tender kisses, while he strokes the sides of his face. Love--he loves Hamilton, in a way he had never loved anyone else. He feels drunk with it, adrift.

The offered comfort eases his anxiety in one way, but deepens it in another.

"Yet, I would not be honest if I said it had no appeal to me, either," he says, drawing back, tingling from the sweet kisses. He cannot help it -- he indulges in that sensation, chasing the lovely kisses back to Burr's lips and sipping between, a lover's taste more intoxicating than the finest wines. "And you have been so generous, in sharing my body, to which you have every right to lay your claim -- in law, in right, and in truth, you could say, 'this is my cock, my knot, my hole' -- and instead you, with both our consent, lent it to another who gave it such pleasure. How miserly, to deny such pleasure to another who would enjoy it as greatly. And you could, as easily, be anxious, because Laurens has what you do not, and that which I have made no secret of enjoying."

He kisses up the line of Burr's jaw, once, twice, three. Then at his throat, a long and lingering kiss, worrying at that sensitive gland with his teeth. Presses his nose against it, and breathes in.

"You assure me, now, that you would choose me, if I made you choose -- and I would choose you, the same. But I freely add the deadly sin of greed to my faults, besides envy, and lust: if there is a way for us not to have to choose, I am willing to try it." He pulls back, enough to see Burr's eyes, glittering black. "Only -- perhaps we could reserve some things for us, alone? Or for when we are all present."

How easily, Hamilton unfurls Burr's body like a flower. A few kisses, a wandering, eager hand, a lick and a nibble over a sensitive gland, and he is opening himself--spreading his legs, muscles loosening as his breathing hitches.

Burr's brain isn't functioning fully, when Hamilton asks that, and it takes a moment, with those sinful lips rubbing against his throat with each words, puffs of breathe, hot and warm.

"Oh," he starts, his own hands coming up to curl over too-thin hip bones, to pull Hamilton closer. "I though perhaps only to let you knot me, unless I am in heat and you cannot be found. But--" he liked when Laurens knotted Hamilton. Liked to think of it, the two of them tied together, had taken himself in hand with thoughts of just that.

He keeps his grip on Hamilton, as he falls back onto the bed, drags them downward so Hamilton is over him and Burr is beneath, and from here he reaches up, brackets Hamilton's face, runs his thumbs over his eye lids.

"You're so pretty," he says. "It's unfair, how pretty you are."

Edited 2022-05-06 21:23 (UTC)

Burr's responsiveness gives him heart; it seems Burr is not too injured by the hasty ride. Burr unfolds beneath him, captures him in winding limbs the way he has captured Hamilton's heart.

"I cannot hope to be your equal," returns Hamilton, in kind, though he cannot help but preen a bit at the compliment. "But I will settle for rendering you speechless, once in a while." He lowers his weight, not all of it, but enough to press Burr down between him and the mattress without smothering him. "And if he cannot knot you, how can we fill you to excess? Or is it just a fantasy, and not something you'd like to try -- me, in your very pretty cunt, and him penetrating you from behind? Two knots, for my lovely, insatiable slut?"

He says this like praise, and a good part of him means it as praise. He had never realized how wonderful sluts could be, truly; if he'd imagined anything, it was that he would be with someone sweet and naive. Sweet and slutty -- a thousand times better.

"But to have him knot you without me -- that, I wouldn't like, not without need."

Edited 2022-05-06 22:10 (UTC)

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?"

Oh -- God. What would be a humiliation if encountered in truth is a powerful fantasy here. He can imagine the helpless noises Burr would make, the arch of his spine, the soft cries -- trying to stay quiet, no doubt.

"And what if he did take you?" Hamilton retreats only far enough to start working at Burr's clothes, and to send a glance at the baby, making sure she's still fast asleep. "With such prodigious strength -- how his thrusts would batter your poor -- eager -- wet -- cunt," as he strips off Burr's jacket, his cravat, his shirt. "Around such a body your legs would be stretched so wide -- where do you think he would fuck you? Over his desk? Tie you there so anyone could come in and see you? Against the wall, so every move you make only drives you further down on his cock? Or would he be willing to dirty his bed with you?"

Burr is fully hard, but Hamilton does not deign to touch him, as he loosens the trousers and deprives Burr of the stockings that so appealingly cling to his shapely calves.

"You would be helpless," says Hamilton -- "not that you would think to resist, needy as you are."

Yes, yes, he would be desperate for it, would let Washington do anything to him, fuck him anywhere, in front of anyone, if only to feel that length pushing into him, knotting him. He is naked now, but Hamilton still does not touch him, pins Burr's hands above his head, leaves him to writhe.

"He would fuck me till it hurt," Burr says, trying to jerk his hips upward and failing. His legs are opened too wide to get any real leverage, and he can feel now the liquid building, the wetness of him against the open air. Hamilton, staring down at him, still fully dressed. Hard, though his breeches.

"Push me open until I ached. Perhaps he would not even wait, till we were in his office, but bend me over some crate in the field, fuck me open in front of all the men. And perhaps he would leave me there," Burr says, makes a small, desperate noise as he imagines it, eyes falling closed, "wet and dripping and desperate, leave me there, nothing but a hole for the men to use, to line up, one after the other, fill me with their come, their knots, over and over."

"There would be no doubt then, that I would be pregnant. But we would have no clue who the father was. It could be anyone--" and Burr does get the leverage then, tightening those sore abdominal muscles past pain to sit upward, to latch his teeth around Hamilton's scent.

"Anyone except you."

Hamilton growls as Burr targets the gland, at the action and the image both.

"Oh?" and his tone is dangerous. "What makes you think I wouldn't be last? After your exhaustion, your body open and weeping, seed spilling down your legs and dripping from you -- what makes you think I wouldn't take you as you fight to keep your eyes open, as you cry with exhaustion from pleasure and pain both -- would you still beg for me? I think you would. I think the army wouldn't be enough for you, not without me."

He draws his thumb very lightly down Burr's wet folds, testing to see if he is in too much pain for stimulation there. "Your cunt overflows for me," his fingers delicate and toying, backing off if Burr tries to thrust up for greater stimulation. He gathers up that slick on his fingers, thick and wet, and goes to Burr's tighter entrance, the one that isn't still healing childbirth. Two fingers to spread that slick around, and then he breaches Burr with his thumb.

"Ah, now," he says, "perhaps I would defile what they had not. Who could blame them for preferring your cunt? It blushes so prettily when it is abused, after all -- and it welcomes cock so eagerly, and clings to it once inside. But how could I find climax once you were so stretched and loose? Unable even to hold in my knot."

He gathers more of the slick, and presses it in deep, this time with first and middle finger together, curving to seek out sensitive tissues.

"You must tell me if this hurts unduly," Hamilton insists. "Truly. For I know you'd like to ride my tongue, now that your belly isn't in the way, and we'll have plenty of chances to defile you."

But his fingers communicate his longing -- he plays with the clenched ring of muscle, and works at stretching this tight place in Burr's body. Hitching in further -- it has been weeks since Hamilton has penetrated Burr, and his oak-root has taken great interest in the proceedings.

"You could do anything to me," Burr gasps, as that finger works it's way in, "and I wouldn't be able to stop you. If you wanted to fuck my ass or my mouth. I wouldn't fight back, even if I wanted to." And he twists his hips down, lower onto those fingers.

"There would be enough come, to ease your way in," and his lower half clenches then, squeezes tight around that intrusion, flutters as he moans. Hamilton's fingers are nudging towards something, deeper, some wonderful spot, and Burr cannot help but try to fuck himself back, to urge Hamilton on.

He has never been taken before, in this way. Had Hamilton's fingers, but no one has ever breached him, stuffed a cock in him, when it could just as easily slip into his cunt--him and Bellamy, teenagers stolen away after church, curled in straw and touching those places for the first time, easing into slickness, fueled only by want and instinct and curiosity. That first orgasm, the first time being filled, confusion and delight at being knotted, the following pregnancy scare.

The heartache, when Bellamy had died. Things to not think about, when he can be so easily distracted.

He reaches up, to where Hamilton's erection is straining against his pants, grips him through the fabric, squeezing and working his palm up and down. He wants to lick him, to drool over the fabric, but with his legs spread so he cannot but wiggle against Hamilton's fingers.

"Your cock," Burr gasps, "I want your cock. I want you to knot me--to come in me. The first. Mark me."

Edited 2022-05-07 01:15 (UTC)

He must be gentle, even when Burr begs so well. This hurt the first time, for Hamilton; he was treated roughly, by a boy just as ignorant as he was. Not until Laurens did he have someone who could really make him light up, from the inside.

"I can feel you straining," encourages Hamilton, shrugging off one arm of his jacket, working at the throat of his shirt. "There is a place, on men..." His free hand falls to Burr's hips, holds him steady. "Now... there you are." He finds the little swell, deep in Burr's body, and coaxes at it, light and circular rubs. "It'll have you all warmed up for me. Ready for me."

He has to pull away to strip, which he does hastily, nearly dropping his boot by the baby, before remembering to slow down and be quieter and more careful with it. He muffles a little laugh against Burr's throat as he returns. "Poor needy thing, I'm sorry," apologizing for his brief absence, as he draws on more slick and presses three fingers now into Burr's body.

"I'll show you how to do this," he promises. "I'll show you how to find it in me. How to get me hot for it -- are you hot for it, Aaron? You're so warm inside. I wonder, if you'd been knotted so many times, if you were so loose, if I could fit my whole hand in your cunt. Give you a fist instead of a knot, how does that sound?"

He slides his cock into the wet mess between Burr's legs, not penetrating him, just moving his length along that slick warmth. Covering himself in it.

He pulls away.

"On your front," he says. "Present yourself for me."

Burr whines, when Hamilton pulls away, grinds back against the sheets though there is nothing to force deeper into him, nothing to grant relief. Yet his complaints quickly turns to moans as Hamilton pushes three fingers into him, and soon Burr's legs are trembling, pushed wide, as he grinds back against those jolts of pleasure, eyes closed and head turning against the sheets, mouth open.

A sight, and he can tell Hamilton is watching, whispering filthy things into his ear. His fingers, yes, his hand, Burr would take it all, would open his body eagerly, for anything Hamilton would give him.

His cock is leaking against his stomach, when Hamilton instructs him to turn over, and Burr does so eagerly, going to his knees with his face down against the sheets, pushing his ass out and wiggling it, presenting himself.

What would Hamilton give him, if he asked? His fingers, his tongue? Burr wants all of it, yet the thought of any delay to receiving the inches of his warm length is detestable, so he reaches back with one hand, spreads himself, on display.

"Alexander," he says, in that slow, deep way, that makes him shiver. "I need you."

Edited 2022-05-07 02:34 (UTC)

If only he could capture this in an image -- if only he could have it magically caught on a painting, so the whole world could see how rapturously beautiful Burr is when he needs. There, just there, with the light cast over his flushed cheek and his eyes wet, his hand back and pulling himself open, the red shine of his wetness.

"What an image you make," but he cannot hold himself back. Hamilton is no passive admirer.

He presses the tip of his cock to Burr's hole, and guides Burr's fingertips to touch him, warm skin over his rigid, swollen length. "How hard I am for you," he says. "Oh, Aaron, however you need, I know I need you a thousand times more. Relax, be easy, as much as you can."

Guided by the touch of Burr's soft fingertips, he bears down; Burr's body does not want to yield, but the slickness and the stretching have done their work, and he sinks inside. It is breathlessly tight, muscle spasming around him. "There, there -- I'm within you." Stroking up his thighs. "Do you feel?" He guides Aaron's fingertips to touch the stretched ring of muscle, to feel Hamilton sinking further and further and further.

He must -- he must give Burr a moment to adjust. He has to, there has never been such an intrusion into Burr's body. Oh, but it is difficult. His hand clenches on Burr's hip.

"You're perfect. You're wonderful, you're filthy, a whore for me. I'll give you all the fucking you need. Weeks without -- you must be starving for it."

He settles his knees between Burr's legs, lifts his hips a bit. Withdraws, and snaps his hips in, harshly, seeking that little sensitive place in Burr. He fucks with deep, hard, thorough thrusts, conquering thrusts, like he owns every inch within Burr that he's managed to touch.

Burr doesn't squeal, when Hamilton snaps his hips forward, but he does make a kind of high pitched noise, on the end of a bitten off moan.

If feels so strange, to be taken in this way. Tight, gripping, building to something, and when Hamilton bumps against some place inside him he grinds his face against the sheets, whimpers.

"What--" he tries, stops, moans again, clenching. It feels so good. And he has gone so long without, so needy, even when he ached with the pains from the birth. A whore. Hamilton's whore.

He begins pushing his hips back, feeling each inch sliding in and out of him, the small jolts of pleasure that travel through Hamilton's body to his own. He cannot see Hamilton like this, face down and ass up, yet the degrading nature of the position makes his cock leak, heavy between his legs.

He is shaking now, his knees sliding on the bedding with each punishing thrust, trying desperately to maintain that position, that angle.

"If feels so good," Burr gasps, and he had not known, yet been fascinated all the same, at the way Hamilton took Laurens cock, begged for it. "Please, harder" he says, and he doesn't know what he is asking for until the words leave him, "choke me."

"Of course it does -- I could ply your body with attention a thousand ways and you would love every one." Burr is his slut, his sweet slut. He trembles for it, almost unable to stay upright under Hamilton's hard thrusts. "Do you think you could come for me just like this? Just as I use your arse, and leave the rest of you neglected?"

The plea is not one he expected at all. Gag me Burr begged, once, but not this. He hesitates; and the first hesitation is a shameful one, because he thinks primarily that he must not leave a mark, that it would be awful to leave the inn in the morning with the signs of such abuse on his husband, and only one who could be the perpetrator. Then, as the image resolves in his mind, he still hesitates, because Burr has a habit of asking for things that will hurt him, that he wants in the instant of desire but that carry a heavy price later.

But it's unmistakeable how his cock twitched and how he surged forward at the plea, even though he went still, buried deep, to consider it. A pause of a few seconds, no more, as the above thoughts run through his mind, and then he folds forward over Burr. Has to lean some of his weight on the omega, the rest on his arm braced on the bed, as he deliberately takes Burr's throat in his hand. He does not squeeze, not any harder than necessary to feel Burr's throat work, to detect that soft rabbiting pulse.

He resumes his fucking, and this time he can't pull away as far, so they are short thrusts, buried deep, and the way he has leverage against Burr's body, the way he holds Burr in place to be fucked, is mostly the hand at his throat.

"Tell me why you want it." This is a command; his hand is a teasing taunt without real pressure. "Tell me what you need."

He could come just from this, his cock heavy, his body strung tight with each hard thrust. But when Hamilton reached forward, grabs Burr around the neck, holds him in place, pressing his face down into the sheets as he fucks into him, that--that is how Burr can come.

A deeper pleasure, to be used in such a way--a whole body flinch, clenching down, feeling Hamilton's hand squeeze--hold, but not to the point of pain. Pinning him, laying over Burr, so he cannot move, cannot do anything, as his hole is used.

"I'm nothing," Burr gasps. "A whore, your whore. A hole to be used. I deserve--I deserve it. Tell me I deserve it. To be used and left, leaking your come."

He is pushing back too, snapping his hips back to meet Hamilton, though the movements are shallow. Drooling against the sheets. He can feel the building pleasure, as each thrust hits that place in him, but it still isn't enough, for all the said it isn't enough.

"Please," Burr begs, "hit me," and he is clenching down again at the thought, knows he will come, speared on Hamilton's cock, if only he will be given those things. A slut, an abused slut--that is what he is, what he wants to be.

Edited 2022-05-07 18:27 (UTC)

"My whore," echoes Hamilton, tenderly. "Of course you deserve it -- I always told you that you're more than a hole, because a hole can't beg for it. Now you want that, don't you? You want it so you can't even beg for it, so you're just used."

He stops, for a moment, but it's just to reach down off the bed, where he's discarded the cravat. He winds it tight around his fingers, a solid wad of cloth, and leans forward. "Open," and presses it between Burr's teeth, fully into his mouth. He reaches again, and snags the sash Burr was using to hold the baby. Undoes the knot, and says, "Hands behind your back," knowing that Burr will have trouble making that happen on his knees the way he is. He wraps the sash twice around those slim wrists, and ties it deftly.

"There, that's not quite what you asked for," says Hamilton, "but that's good, isn't it?" Resumes fucking Burr, those rolling thrusts. "So you can hardly breathe, your face pressed into the pillow, drooling around your gag, and helpless, so I can use you. This is what you were really asking for, isn't it?"

He folds down over Burr, and in his ear: "Come on my cock, Aaron, but don't expect it to make me stop fucking you."

And Burr does come, clenches down, harder, feels those spasms, those waves of pleasure, more intense and acute than he is used to, so that he cannot help the sounds that spill from him, loud and obscene, muffled by the gag.

And Hamilton doesn't stop, fucking into Burr's ass, and that is almost sweeter. Feeling those thrusts, not slowing for all Burr's body grips his cock--sore and tender, and he cannot move, cannot so much as wiggle, rocked by Hamilton's thrusts, his face scraping painfully against the sheet, so good--

His cock twitches again, between his legs, but he cannot get hard again so soon, for as much as he wants to. He is oversensitive, and it hurts, and he whines against the gag, little sobs, but Hamilton does not stop and it is wonderful.

"I want to fuck you forever," confesses Hamilton, breathlessly. "I want to be inside you all the time -- God, Aaron, can you hear how you sound? I want to fuck you all the way hard again, I want to wring you dry. Does it hurt? It sounds like it hurts -- it sounds like you love it."

He has to grab at the base of his cock, stave off an orgasm, stop for just a moment while he takes in a shaky breath, and then he reaches to Burr's softening cock, and pulls at it, ruthlessly, while he fucks him again. He doesn't expect that Burr can harden again or come, he just wants to wring more of those muffled noises out of him, feel him shake and tremble so helplessly.

But it can't take long, now. He is swelling, his knot swelling, and he has to let it come or he risks not knotting his poor, needy mate.

He buries himself, and wraps a hand around Burr's waist, and with the other keeps toying with him, working at him, while his knot swells. "Such a good hole for me," he praises, "you take me so well. It hurts and you still take it, you're so good; I love using you. I love you."

It hurts. It hurts so good, Hamilton tugging at his cock, more flaccid than hard, fucking into him roughly, against that spot, bright starbursts of pain, and him wiggling backwards, forward, trying to get more, trying to get away--

Hamilton comes, forcing the knot in, large and swollen and Burr whines, jerks against the bed, overstimulated, used, so wonderful, so close to those things he wants desperately--hit me, choke me, abuse me.

Burr purrs with the praise, the strain, stinging in his ass, melts against the sheets and turns, as well as he can, hissing for sweet, wonderful pain, to lick Hamilton's neck, his jaw, his face. Strange, old instincts, too sweet and tender for anyone else. A hole, yes. That is what he wants Hamilton to make him. Perhaps one day they will go there with no restraint. Use Burr until he cries, until he doesn't know who he is.

"Oh, Aaron, Aaron," pulling the gag from his mouth, fumbling to untie his hands, just nuzzling into the sweet affection, the almost-frantic grooming, the overflowing and adoring sentiment. He lets Aaron twist into the same position that Hamilton used to fuck him when he was heavy with child, on his side, upper leg bent and lower leg straddled by Hamilton, a perfect angle into his body. Room enough for Aaron to turn and lick.

Hamilton's purr rises in his chest, a feeling beyond words as his mate clings to him with hands and body and with the sweet clench inside of him.

And when this rush of affection fades into the aching contentment of being knotted to Burr, lovely, perfect Burr, Hamilton doesn't let Burr on top of him or next to him, as he usually does. He covers Burr with his body, presses him into the mattress, holding off enough of his weight not to crush him but covers him protectively and possessively, tucking blankets around them both. He hasn't ever done this before, but it feels right, in light of Burr's instinctive and tender affections. Purring, purring; nuzzles and little bites to his neck near his gland.

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