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.