amrev_intrigues | (no subject)

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Winter's cold; he hasn't been warm in days, not properly, even under blankets with Burr and Laurens both.

Oh, Laurens, Laurens; what would they have done without him? When Alexander is too exhausted from his duties to help with nursing the child, Laurens sometimes takes a turn helping soothe Burr back to sleep -- he's awakened to find Burr's hips swaying, his head twisted back against Laurens, mouth fallen open, whimpering in that particular, perfect way he does when he's being fingered in just the right way, rolled over and palmed at Burr's cock, sleepily, tucking his face against his mate's throat and feeling down to where Laurens' hand is between Burr's legs. (Once, memorably, he even ducked under the blanket, parted his lips, and took Burr into his mouth, loosened his jaw, closed his eyes, and let Burr takes his pleasure from his throat, while he was still only half-awake.)

Alexander is constantly exhausted, in the cold. He still hasn't grown fully accustomed to the cold American winters, and they drain him, make him feel pallid and frozen and small. So he has not been as attentive a mate and father as he was before, and he feels his failure in it keenly. He should be able to force himself through this. Burr is, as always, suffering worse and working harder, though thank goodness Theodosia doesn't need feeding every few hours anymore. So why can't Alexander help him? Why can't he be good enough?

His nightmares have become feverish and incoherent. A handful of times, they've even been so severe that they manifest, making him toss and turn, awaken with terrifying and mournful whines on his tongue, a sense of overwhelming loss all he can remember from the illusion.

They aren't starving, but food is thin.

He's doing well enough, he thinks, at hiding how terrible and stretched thin he feels, until Washington responds to his, "It's impossible," with a snarled, "then make it possible."

Alexander rounds on Washington, a growl rising in response, and snarls back: "Everyone else here can say it's impossible, and then I get it done. When I say it, it means no."

The alpha pheromones slam into the room like cannon-fire, and in under five seconds, both of the beta members of Washington's staff have vacated the room. Laurens watches in outright horror -- because Washington doesn't back down, and Alexander doesn't back down. "Alex," says Laurens, and Alexander just turns the growl on him, alpha-hostility.

Then, to everyone's shock, including Alexander's, Washington extends a sort of olive branch: "Go talk a walk, son."

"I'm not your son," Alexander spits, and there, right there, could have been the moment that Washington killed him. No one has any doubt -- a full head taller, broader, stronger, older.

"Talk a walk."

Alexander turns on his heel and goes.

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Burr can work, now. A much-needed outlet, to let siphon his agitation, his energy. Theodosia bound in a sling around his chest, and sometimes Hamilton's, though more and more often Burr is forced to work in a room of his own--a storeroom with a hastily added table--when Theodosia is sleeping and the officers are talking or arguing, or when she is crying and cannot be soothed for anything.

He is in this little room, soothing the sleeping child, when he hears the argument, moreover smells the argument. Hamilton has been different lately--for all that he has spent the war running and fighting on endless energy, he seems now drained out, thinned. Tired. Laurens has taken what burdens he can, and Burr himself does not require so much careful care, yet still, there is something haunted about him, hunted.

Burr comes through to the main room just as the door slams shut. He has to force his legs to not shake, to not cow and show his sensitive neck, walking in a room spilling over with so much alpha, so much hostility and challenge. He perhaps whimpers, which causes Washington to whirl around, anger and consternation fading quickly when he sees Burr and the child. A particular soft spot, through this whole war.

"Captain," Washington says, gives a little bow, sets back down behind his desk with a weary sigh. Laurens is crossing the room, holding his hands out for the child, but Washington stops him.

"I should like to hold little baby Theo for a time, while I work. If it seems so that everyone is taking their turn but me. And you might go after your husband, Aaron. Nothing can sooth so well as the touch of an Omega."

Something Burr should bristle at (does, secretly) yet has grown too accustomed to, these past weeks. What it is, to be folded into Washington's family. Small indignities, traded for care.

Laurens forces Burr into a heavy cloak before the door, and when Burr steps out it is into drifted snow, a camp of huddled forms and too little equipment. Hamilton, perhaps, pacing nearby. Burr calls out to him.

It is so blasted cold outside. Hamilton moves quickly, if only because he needs to warm his blood, his blood that's always moving sluggish as syrup in his veins.

He turns his face away from Burr's call. He wants Burr desperately and also wants him to go, so that Hamilton can have his moment of weakness alone. He'd actually wanted it, for a blood-red half-second, wanted to push until Washington's teeth ripped at his throat.

Shame, that he would have done that in front of his husband.

The only invitation or response Burr receives is that Hamilton's steps slow, and stop.

"Hamilton?" Burr pushes his way through snowbanks, tripping and falling and being everything but graceful. He grabs his husband's arm, pulls them together.

"You're going to freeze," he says, voice low with worry. "Out here in the cold with no cloak," and he opens his own then, folds them both inside, so that they are face to face, red-cheeked, and Burr's arms are wrapped around him.

"I heard the yelling, and smelled you both, moreover. Whatever is the matter? Another fight with Washington?"

"I challenged him." Hamilton's body is stiff, against Burr's, and not in the way that usually preludes his habitual friskiness. He doesn't relent to Burr's embrace. He's caught somewhere between wanting comfort and feeling humiliated and the out-of-control anger that rose unprompted against Washington. He doesn't know which way to let himself go. "I didn't back down."

He's not sure the betas on staff aren't still running away.

Stiff, unyielding. Burr doesn't know what to do, but offer what comfort he can. He tugs him towards a nearby log, sits down, cloak still wrapped around them both, if Hamilton will let him.

"Why not?" Burr asks. It isn't usual, or acceptable, for alphas to be challenging one another in such a way. Chain of command must be maintained, and men could be shot or court-martialed for less. But Alexander does so much, all the time, for all of them. Runs himself thin.

He doesn't need Burr, now, to tell him the ways in which his decision was wrong. It isn't wrong to snap beneath an unbearable load, but to get to that point--

There isn't much Burr can do, if Hamilton won't let him. He leans his head on his shoulder, tries to offer what comfort he can.

"Because he was wrong." He averts his face, and the scent that comes from him is shame, a tangled mess of recrimination and regret. "Because he called me son."

The gentle tug leads him along, and Hamilton lets it -- every brush of Burr's hands seeming to drain some unbearable itch from under his skin.

"I'm so tired," whispers Hamilton. "It's so dark, in the winters here." So dark, and. yet he seems to never sleep. He slithers his hand around Burr's shoulders, under the cloak, and draws him close. He's trembling, just a little, the heat of anger withdrawing and leaving even less in its wake than there was before.

"You need a break," Burr whispers, against his skin. Yet here they cannot get one. Not at war, as they are.

Hamilton's temper has gotten the better of him. If the general was wrong, his was not the way to address it, and yet...

"No one is doing more than you," Burr says. He has never been one to comfort. Had not received such comforts, himself, as a child. He doesn't know what Hamilton needs to hear, or how to make him feel better. Perhaps it is best to address it head-on.

Hamilton is here, and trembling. Vulnerable. Burr kisses him--the skin on his neck, holds him in the silence, the blowing wind, the call of a few winter birds.

"Why don't you like it when he calls you son?" Burr asks.

"No one should be doing more than me," he counters. "And if they are, I'll challenge them too." It's a stupid, petty thing to say. Meaningless.

Why don't you like it. How can he explain? It just hits a place that is tender and bruised, that sometimes grows painfully inflamed.

"I'm no one's son," is what he says, after a moment. It isn't true. James Hamilton is alive and more or less well, still out of debtor's prison. But if he was really someone's son, shouldn't they have cared for him, when he was cast out twice over? Washington works him as hard as any other taskmaster, and though he calls the aides his family, they aren't. Washington is their commander. Their master. It is a temporary thing, made by exigencies of war.

And yet --

In truth, Hamilton hates being called son because he likes being called son.

"You don't have to prove yourself, Alexander. I can't speak of your relationship with Washington, but Laurens and I would love you no matter what. Little Theo adores you--yesterday I could not get her to stop crying until I gave her a shirt with your scent on it, and as far as she knows the most productive thing you do in a day is hold her."

"You don't have to let Washington take liberties. I know he can be stubborn, and pig-headed, and disastrous. But he does care for us--has granted both of us many privileges, that other enlisted would not receive. I think it likely you would need only to speak to him in a manner befitting his rank, so that the issue does not escalate to one of discipline, though I know you are very passionate." A little smile, on his last words, twining his fingers with Alexanders, so he can feel the warm metal band against his flesh. A small, soothing reminder. Burr is here. Burr will not go away, will not cheat or abandon him.

He knows the truth of it; every time that Theodosia lays eyes on him, no matter how many times a day it happens, she breaks into a brilliant, awed smile, complete adoration. And he melts, each time it happens. When she needs to be settled back to sleep, sometimes he neglects it, delays it, just so that he can cradle her in his arms and look in her eyes, while she wiggles, chews on her fingers, and stares right back in his.

He turns, to lift Burr by the waist and transfer him to Hamilton's lap, straddling him -- not as the prelude to wandering hands, but so that he can bury his face against Burr's collarbone.

Quietly, shakily, Hamilton starts to weep.

Burr doesn't know what to do. His form of comfort always so inadequate--offering solutions where there were none, when he personally had always preferred to ignore problems, or wallow in them, a kind of glorious degeneracy, of drink and pleasure.

Hamilton has pulled him into his lap, folds against him and cries, and Burr can do nothing but hold him, rub his hand through Hamilton's hair, over his back, lay his cheek on Hamilton's head.

"Love," Burr says, but his voice shakes. He has never seen him like this, doesn't know what to do. Wants to shuss him, the gentle, constant hisses, that ease Theo to sleep, yet does not want Hamilton to think Burr wants him to be silent.

"I love you," he whispers, even as he knows love cannot fix all hurts. "I love you, I love you, I love you."

"I know," he forces out, in between rigid shakes, that go through his body, something like sobs that he doesn't let to the surface, "I know, and I'm disappointing you," or at least he thinks he is, because he is disappointing himself, in every little failure, and especially now in his loss of control.

His hands go to the fastening of Burr's coat, and he opens it at the throat, the chest, opens the shirt underneath, and presses his face against it, inhaling the smell he's come to understand as home. Presses himself against Burr's beautiful form, firm and sweet breasts, waist still soft from childbearing. He takes lungfuls of Burr, like a drowning man finding shore.

"No, no," Burr says, as he allows his body to yield. Head tipping back, effusing scent, pushing back his shoulders and presenting his chest--shielded, still, beneath the thick of his cloak.

"How could you disappoint me? How could you ever disappoint me? Alexander, I married you," but his words seem inadequate, and Alexander is hurting, and what to do then but put him down the way he puts Theo down, when she is upset? Guides his head, to the space between his breasts and presses there, bringing his pelvis forward so it is flush with Alexander's stomach. Lets him take. Lets him breathe in.

As though married couples don't disappoint one another all the time.

Hamilton closes his eyes and stills himself, a long moment. Hard to tell what he's doing from the outside. Stretching his other senses, listening for anyone near enough actually observe them, not just see the shape of them on a distant log.

Conversation, too far away and indistinct; the echo of men drilling in the mud.

Hamilton's hands move to Burr's trouser buttons, undoing one, two, three. He slips his hand inside and palms Burr's soft cock. He's desperate for closer connection, he realizes. Something frantic. And so he bites at Burr's collarbone and pets that little, soft organ, soon knowing the gratifying sensation of feeling it thicken and elongate in his hand.

His other hand, he burrows into the trousers and between Burr's legs, fingertips stroking the barely-damp entrance to Burr's body, coaxing out the slick.

"Oh," small, shocked sounds, quickly turning needy as Hamilton slips a hand into his pants, between his legs, stroking and teasing and doing all kinds of wonderful things.

Burr shifts in his lap, face red, glancing around to make sure they are not seen. Terrible, to be doing such things here, in broad daylight, where anyone can see, and yet--he can't deny how quickly he grows hard, wet, at the idea. Hamilton, here, beneath his body, unable to help himself. And Burr will give him this gladly.

He clutches on, arms around Hamilton's back, as he is worked at. Legs trembling embarrassingly quickly, panting heavy in Hamilton's ear. When was the last time he was inside him? The last time they had well and truly fucked?

If Hamilton lets him, Burr will speed this up--reach down quickly to yank his own breeches around the swell of his ass, to undo Hamilton's ties and slip his cock free, already hard, and sink onto it--into his wet folds, before he has the chance to register properly that first touch. Will begin grinding against him, dragging his cock in and out.

Edited 2022-05-16 13:25 (UTC)

"Oh -- Are you --" He'd only intended to bring Burr off, feel the way his husband rides his hand, while he flushes and tries not to move to much, tries not to show what they're doing. But Burr, as always, is more of a slut than even Hamilton anticipates.

It's better than the affirmations, the words. The fact that Burr wants him matters more than any of that, because it means that even when he's brought low and weak, he is desired. And Burr seems to like it too.

Far be it from him to stop Burr. A sweet, wet cunt envelops him, shocking warm in the cold winter.

"You're already soaking," and Hamilton's voice is low, low, so it doesn't carry. "Are you always ready for this?" Voice is broken, muffled into Burr's collarbone, his breast. He fixes his lips on Burr's nipple, not sucking on it, but taking it in far enough that he can roll it between his tongue and the roof of his mouth. One arm wrapped around so a supporting hand is at Burr's lower back, and the other taking him in hand, still, working his erection.

"I would not stop you," Burr gasps, twisting his hips and beginning to fuck now in earnest. "I would not stop you, even if you decided to bend me over and fuck me on the desk in--nn--in headquarters."

He cannot bury his head in the crook of Hamilton's shoulders, cannot muffle the little sounds he makes--punched out of him by the rock of his own hips, feeling that cock sliding into him, good, so good. Oh, but he has to be quiet, and they have to be quick, and he is already embarrassingly far along, from that dual attention. Tightening his muscles rhythmically, working his body around Hamilton's cock.

"How does it feel?" he asks, and his voice cracks. "How does it feel, to have your cock in me? How does it feel to fuck me, out here in the open, where anyone can see--oh--" another bitten-off moan. The stretch is delicious, of being seated so fully, and the knot there, driven in and out of him by gravity, by the bounce of his own hips. He can hear it, he swears, sliding into his flesh.

"I can feel you." Hand moves up, grasps at Burr's back. "I feel you like it's your whole body. You're all around me. You're so warm," just soft words, whispered words. Only between the two of them, dispersing to quiet in the cold air. "I belong in you, I should fuck you all the time." The words aren't exactly meant to titillate -- what's pouring out of Hamilton is a purified longing, an unmanageably intense desire to mingle himself and Burr over and over and over again. He wants Burr close, he wants Burr to melt into him. He wants there to be no space between. Burr's willingness wraps around him the way the cloak does, and provides greater protection against the winter's suffering.

"You're mine," he whispers, and he lifts his head and catches Burr's mouth in a kiss. "You're mine."

You're mine, Hamilton says, and Burr comes hard--legs giving out, so that instead of resting his weight on his knees, on the log beneath them, he falls wholly into Hamilton's lap, clinging. His eyes close, and he rocks with it--waves of pleasure, keening as his cock shoots between their bodies.

"Alexander--" he says, a desperate, high-pitched thing. Doesn't know what he is asking for, perhaps nothing, but it feels right to say, as if in the throws of pleasure he could more fully contain him. He wants him to come inside, to knot, even here, in the middle of camp, where anyone might see. And perhaps that is what makes the orgasm harder, causing him to fuzz out, clenching down what must be painfully, and trying to drive the knot into him. He knows Hamilton needs this--needs to bring them together, needs them to be one.

"I'm yours," Burr says. "I need you," wanton, desperate.

He could easily wrap his hand around the base of his cock, prevent the knot from going in. A cautious man would do this. A cautious man wouldn't have half-stripped his lover in an army camp in broad daylight. Burr is begging for it, not with please and knot me but with words that are unimaginably more devastating, words that make Hamilton burn.

It seems right that Burr clenches hard enough to hurt a little. They are messy, they are not calm or orderly, and sometimes they hold each other too tight. Sometimes they need each other too much. Always, they need each other too much. This is perhaps the first time that this angry and violent need in Hamilton feels, to Hamilton, like it has been matched and mirrored.

He wraps his arms tight around Burr and there -- there -- the knot presses heavily inside, Burr's tight body yielding to it just enough to seat him fully on Hamilton's cock. Glorious, glorious heat; his little captain claiming and enveloping him, as Hamilton penetrates and claims in turn. Hamilton may be crying again -- certainly his vision has blurred, which doesn't stop him from showering Burr with kisses, a thousand of them, on his lips and his jaw and his throat, his cheek, his nose, between whispers of "mine, you're mine," stroking Burr's back and cradling his body against Hamilton's.

The physical pleasure is almost an afterthought, but it is delicious, his cock twitching and spilling deep in Burr, and Burr's body sweetly welcoming. He imagines that there is an additional hunger for it, now that Burr's body is empty of child. That something in Burr wants to carry a child of Hamilton's flesh -- though, obviously, in such a war, it would not be prudent in the least.

He sighs and the tears are still there, much slower, much quieter, easy to wipe away with the awe-inspiring comfort of his mate helpless in his arms.

Never feels more sated than when Hamilton is buried in him, tied, and he feels those little jolts of warm pressure, the feeling of his semen spilling inside. He can't get pregnant again this war, if he means to make anything of himself besides a mother, yet he cannot deny the pleasure of it, to be bred in this way, the breathless risk, hazy, remote, good.

Oh, and Hamilton, sweet Hamilton, cradling Burr's body against himself, whispering such wonderful things, showering him in kisses. Burr, never as good with words, does nothing but press into it, keening, releasing those sweet-pheromone smells, as he had done that night in the inn. Yours, yours. Reaches down between them, takes Hamilton's balls in his hand and rubs at them, massages, milks more out of him, even as he remains with his head buried in Hamilton's shoulder, lax and limp.

"Oh, what are we to do now," Burr asks, voice gone low, "with you buried inside me. In front of everyone. Your cock, knotted in me, where anyone could see my stretched hole, how wonderfully I take you, but for this cloak."

Hamilton breathes, finally, laughs a little. It's not the first time they've tied in public. The first time was also quite memorable, though.

"Least it wasn't your mouth this time," he murmurs. "And it's not if anyone can see. If it's anyone can smell how delectable you are, and the satisfaction you're wafting off."

The smell would disperse quickly in the air, and, anyway, most of it is trapped well within the cloak. He's just needling Burr a little bit, a little pleasant humiliation.

"You smell so good," he continues, "you might end up with a line of suitors halfway to New York." His cock twitches inside Burr, at a combination of the gentle stimulation and the thought. "I'd let them have you, because I know you'd like it."

"oh," Burr says, shifting when he feels that twitch, "I think rather you are the one that likes is--" begins circling his hips again, just to torment him--shallow little bounces. "Would you like to see me taking their cocks, fucked by anonymous strangers, while you watched? Why does it excite you Hamilton--the though of me, fucked in the streets, taking their knots, seeded by them." It is a reckless thing to do, to push this situation farther, to urge that knot to stay swollen, yet something compels him. Always a little off balanced, less responsible where Hamilton's body is concerned.

"I'm so loose already, from being such a slut. Perhaps you could fit your fingers in, alongside that knot." Taking Hamilton's hand, guiding him there, where his slick flows around Hamilton's cock.

Too absorbed, to notice anyone is approaching until Laurens' is there, until his voice startles Burr enough to make his squeak, jerk, held in place by the knot.

"I was getting worried he had killed you," Laurens says, seemingly oblivious, "or the two of you had wandered off somewhere to freeze. Come now. There's work, and Theo is crying for her mother"

He is smiling, affable, yet under the cloak Burr is still speared on Hamilton's cock. The best person who could have found them, all thing considered, yet still--

"Oh, well," Burr stutters, his face red. He is clinging to Hamilton, yet the man is not offering much help. "I can't move, you see. Not for--a few minutes at least."

Perhaps, if he were not so off balanced by the sudden company, he would throw off the cloak, and give Laurens a show. Invite him to take Burr from behind, if they were not in the open.

Hamilton laughs, arm around Burr's waist. "What was it you were saying?" he prompts Burr. "About you being loose, from being such a slut? Thinking something else could fit next to my knot?"

And now Laurens' steps falter, his face going flaming red as well. "Are you both mad?"

"Yes," confesses Hamilton, "but this is the cure, not the infection." He sees the swell between Laurens' legs, and stifles a smile. "I think he's jealous," he murmurs, to Burr, just loud enough for Laurens to hear. "His cock must be so cold, this winter, and your body's embrace so warm and welcoming. I can attest, too, that your other passage is of fine and supple quality, tight and very pleasurable, both for you and for anyone who chooses to employ it to sate themselves."

"Alexander," hisses Laurens, though his eyes have gone dark and wanting. "You both are lucky it wasn't Lafayette he sent to find you--"

"Lafayette would have laughed," Hamilton dismisses. "Though I wouldn't have teased him so badly."

If anything he is more embarrassed, when the initial adrenaline fades, and he is left feeling shakey and turned on while Hamilton laughs at him.

He can feel the way Laurens look, with hungry eyes, and he cannot help squirming again, on Hamilton's knot. Yes, his other passage--quite warm, and it would be only right, wouldn't it?

He glances around, yet he can't see anyone, through the fog, their own little world here, isolated. Laurens must have been looking for them for some time, or gotten lucky. And really, if Washington did send Lafayette, the man would not bat an eye. It would be nice, to tease Laurens--to get him frustrated enough to give Burr a good fucking.

He looks, maintains eye contact, as he draws the edge of the cloak away, shivering as his bare ass is exposed, and lifing himself just barely on his knees, so the place where he Hamilton disappears into him in visible, spend dripping down, the place where his own come streaks his chest. Can see the way Laurens drinks the sight in, the hardness in his pants, the way the breath catches in his chest.

"Yes, quite cold," Burr says, as he begins to wiggle. "And I am so warm inside. I should begrudge you, Laurens, for wanting to warm yourself."

Edited 2022-05-17 23:27 (UTC)

"You are," sighs Laurens. "Both of you."

But, better than the fog, the dinner bell rings, calling the men to get rations. Laurens, who looked about to refuse, now seems to hesitate.

Hamilton plays a bit with Burr's entrance -- slicks his fingers, and smears it over his, as he said, other passage. Burr has produced enough, and it seems to come from a place below where he is knotted, because as Hamilton strokes him, there seems to be more.

Laurens steps up and nudges the cloak back to where it covers him, as a handful of men pass close by. They hardly give the scene a second glance -- a married couple in an embrace, and their close friend, nearby. What's so strange about that?

But, after they pass, Laurens throws a leg over the log next to them, and comes at Burr from the side, his hand joining Hamilton's.

"He's slicking you up for me," says Laurens, a little awed. "Getting you ready. I guess he does like to see you taken by other men." And then he stutters to a stop, because this reveals that he was listening before he stepped up.

Hamilton laughs, again, a low chuckle, knowing -- "I like it when it's you," he tells Laurens. "I like it when Aaron likes it."

"We need to hurry," Laurens says. "Can you shift over?"

Hamilton takes Burr's weight, and moves his leg so he's also straddling the trunk, facing Laurens. And Laurens sweeps the cloak to the side, quickly undoing his trousers, bringing out his length and touching the tip to Burr's hole, where Hamilton's fingers are spreading him. It's Hamilton that guides the tip of Laurens' cock straight in, smearing Burr's secretions down the shaft to provide additional lubrication.

"You are hot inside," breathes Laurens. "And very welcoming." It is tight within Burr, the presence of Hamilton's knot changing the shape of him, inside. Laurens fucks into him slow, withdrawing, pushing in a bit further, withdrawing again, slowly opening him deeper and deeper. Despite his words about hurrying, he seems in no rush to use Burr too hard. "I suppose I should have been using you, on these coldest nights, shouldn't I? Just slide inside you while you sleep, and rest inside."

Burr keens--high and desperate, when Laurens pushes into him. So easy, fitting the tip in, and Hamilton helping him along, and then he is there, on that log in the middle of the camp, so full that he feels stuffed on it--held up by those two cocks, sitting fully on them while Hamilton and Laurens sit on the log.

Oh, he is full, and ruined, and he can feel each inch of skin, stretching to allow Laurens access. And he can feel Hamilton through the stretch, the jut of Laurens' cock against his interior wall, fighting for space, and he is gasping, clutching on to Hamilton, doing nothing but riding the sensation out, helpless.

Oh, and then Laurens begins whispering to him, hot in his ear, and Hamilton must have told him, there is no way those fantasies became evident any other way, but they make him wet, a tightening and a gush and another keen, and he is nodding, begging, "yes, yes, please," and he wants to fuck back but cant. Too much, too full, moaning, and little pained sounds, as those spots of pleasure are crushed between both cocks, as Laurens juts against the place where his body is hard from Hamilton's knot, Hamilton's cock. But he doesn't want them to stop. Growls, bares teeth, if either tries to stop.

Edited 2022-05-18 06:51 (UTC)

"Is it like you wanted?" asks Hamilton, his hands moving to Burr's hips to hold him steady. His knot has swollen almost painful, and he has shot a profusion of come into Burr, so beautiful he is, so wonderful the sensations. "Did you imagine it this way? Or did you think you'd be somewhere warm and safe, instead of being taken like a whore in the open air?"

Laurens bends him towards Hamilton, and begins to fuck him, short punching thrusts, now apparently acknowledging the hurry. Hamilton's eyes flicker closed; he can feel the motion of Laurens' cock, by the shifting tension inside Burr, through the wall of flesh that they have crushed flat between them. Burr can barely fit them, constricting, making the most beautiful noises -- too loud, though, and Hamilton catches his mouth in a kiss, and then covers it with his hand.

Laurens picks up the theme from Hamilton, and expands on it. "You're our little whore," he assures Burr, "too much of a slut to resist, right out here, in front of anyone. You show your bare arse to me, you're asking for anything I do to you."

"Come on, Laurens," says Hamilton, "come on, spill inside my husband. Knot him. He's so ready for you, he's made for this, made to hold your cock."

"Of course you are," says Laurens, "Burr, you feel incredible. Alexander--"
Laurens starts to thrust in deep and hard. It didn't take much. Of course it wouldn't, with Burr so helpless between them, leaking wet and squirming. Burr makes a high sound of almost-protest as the knot presses against his stretched hole. Hamilton flattens his hand over Burr's mouth, and Laurens pushes, pushes, and Burr's cry is caught and muffled.

The pressure of Laurens' knot is incredible. "Laurens," gasps Hamilton, and he finds Laurens pulling him into a kiss, over Burr's shoulder, crushing the smaller omega between them. An incredible, passionate kiss, as he feels Laurens' cock twitch and spill in his husband's body.

It hurts, it hurts, he cannot take it, and yet he cannot say no, pressed here between their bodies, mouth covered, riding a rising wave of pleasure. He is jerking, trying to ease the punches, crying out, muffled, but it feels so good, so tight, and there is no more space inside him, yet Laurnes is forcing his knot in, and Burr is crying, jerking, defiled.

He can feel Laurens come, he is sure, and he is so full he cannot move, can hardly breathe, and he is clenching, yet it seems impossible to come, no space for him to clench down. He is crying, and the sounds are muffled still by Hamilton's palm, and he is begging, for all that he quakes, for all that he doesn't know what he needs.

So full, deliciously full, and his cock is leaking against his stomach, more slick running down to stain Hamilton's breeches, as if that could in anyway ease the throbbing intrustion of Laurens. Two knots. Two alphas, and they smell so good, so wonderful, and he wiggles for all it hurts him, those places inside him offered no mercy, compressed.

He whines, because he cannot speak, reaches out with trembling hands, grabbing at Hamilton, at Laurens.

Edited 2022-05-19 01:29 (UTC)

Hamilton switches his tone easily, fluently. He always works Burr up during the act, but at the end, he comforts him, reassures him, adores him. Hamilton is stroking Burr's back, purring at him, nuzzling him, holding him. "You are wonderful, how you've taken us, you're beautiful, love, my love, don't come yet, Aaron, it might hurt too much if you do, just let us work you up, let us make you feel so good."

He is kissing Laurens again, and Laurens groans, with a little, "Alex, I can feel you," and this makes another rough rush of seed come from Hamilton's cock, a twitch that he's sure that Laurens can feel. Burr grips on him, making soft and frantic noises --

"You have us, you're all right." He pets Burr's cock, very slight stimulation, and Laurens' hands are on Burr's hips, rocking him just slightly, a shifting of his weight, barely. "You have both of us. Two alpha's knots, you're so lucky, you're such a treasured omega, you deserve every last bit of pleasure, Aaron, I hope it feels so good, I hope you feel so good." He is starting to go down, unfortunately, and he wishes he could linger in this forever, but it means he can nudge Burr that last little bit over the edge.

"There, there," he murmurs, "you're perfect, come for me, Aaron. Come for both of us."

Burr shakes, feels like something inside of him is unwinding, coming apart. There is no space, and yet Hamilton suddenly is fucking up into him, and Laurens is rocking his hips, and there is a hand on his cock and sweet, sweet words. The sounds of the two of them kissing, the feeling of their cocks, jutting against each other through him.

He closes his eyes, bites down on Hamilton's palm hard, as he starts to come. Painful little stabs of pleasure as he clenches, tightening and spasming and giving out. A long one, for all there is no mercy for his body, no moment when those places aren't stimulated to the point of pain, and he is crying with it, so wonderful and painful and too much.

Tries to speak, cant.

Burr clenches so hard that Hamilton can’t withdraw, at first, enough that it hurts a bit. Not that he notices, because his whole focus is in Burr, on the tortured combination of pain and pleasure that he displays as he spasms so hard he’s actually jerking his legs up, tightening his entire body. But, finally, Hamilton can carefully withdraw, and Burr is only held and knotted by one, and Burr sags back on Laurens.

Hamilton does up his trousers, fastens his coat over the wet stain to conceal it, and, with quick fingers, begins to cover Burr as well, closing his shirt, settling the cloak over his front because the trousers truly can’t be helped yet. It takes him longer than it should because he has to pause and kiss Burr senseless, hold his face in Hamilton’s hands and almost cry again because Burr is so wonderful and because he’s so lucky to have this man, this man who is complex and loving in such bewildering ways, this man who is, admittedly, also a complete slut. And what man of Hamilton’s age wouldn’t like that?

Laurens cradles Burr close, purring. It seems actually instinctive, and Hamilton pauses, just to watch them. His stomach twists in sentiment too complicated to easily name.

Edited 2022-05-19 20:20 (UTC)

Burr is spent--exhausted. Collapses limp against Laurens when Hamilton pulls out, can do nothing but reciprocate lazily, half out of his mind, when Hamilton kisses him.

Hamilton's kisses are wonderful--a gentle balm to the places he feels carved out, pitted. Vulnerable, half-naked here in the middle of camp, where the men will soon be wandering by, after dinner. Hamilton pulls back to straighten Burr's clothes, little attentions that make him warm, but then no one is kissing him, and Laurens is purring, and warm and wonderful, so Burr twists, hisses at the pull, and kisses him. Lazy and slow and wet.

"Do you feel better now?" Burr asks as he pulls away, panting. Grabs Hamilton by the hand and holds it--just holds it. He will do more for his husband, to soothe those hurts. Gladly.

"You will go back to work, won't you" Laurens asks, and Burr whines, slumps over once more, sore and spent and tired.

Hamilton doesn't like the reminder that he didn't feel all right in the first place. There's a little twist in the pit of his chest as he recalls the uncontrollable anger.

"I still worry," he says, to Burr. Why it reassures him to have Laurens here is difficult to say, but it does. "I feel every failure so keenly." He cups Burr's jaw, in both his hands. Strokes Burr's cheekbones, with his thumbs. "I want to take care of Theo -- and you, even though you don't need it."

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