No, he's never been fucked like that before, and damn Burr for being able to see that, anyway. Damn him for making Alexander feel so well taken care of, damn him for making Alexander want more. He's tried so hard, in this life, not to want more. He has to work at it every single day, because the nature of Alexander Hamilton was always the wanting.
He tenses a little, at the purrs. Against his instinctive reaction to burrow closer to the alpha's body, to go easy. There is too much to fear.
Burr's words invoke a bright, pale sort of yearning, like the weak sunlight after a storm. He wants... he does want to nest. And it would be so easy to be petted and kept, dressed in finery -- he can see it, he can imagine.
But it's the books that draw a hesitant, mournful sound out of him. It is so difficult to acquire books, and when he does he hides them away, hoards them in the dark spaces of his rooms. The world has learned so much more since his first life, and he wants to take it all in, and he can't. Impossible to advance politically as a bastard son of a whore, but as an alpha he could do the impossible and be admired. As an omega, the doors are closed.
He knows better than to think this is any more than talk. Burr will take great pleasure in discarding him once the night is done, and Hamilton will drink whatever it takes to prevent a child from taking root, no matter what he's starting to wish.
Burr has hit too close to what he needs, and it makes him want to fuzz out, let go, let Burr take him. And a part of him is relaxing, emitting a gentler sort of pheromone.
"I don't need a quill to do that," he says, a whisper, in Burr's ear: "Powerful men buy whores. Young omegas with sweet fresh --" and he clenches down, deliberately, "cunts. What makes you think I haven't been passed around like a party favor, riding them hard and hungry, kneeling with their hands fisted in my tale-woven hair, taking their seed on my face or my tongue -- listening to every secret, and every scrap?"
no subject
He tenses a little, at the purrs. Against his instinctive reaction to burrow closer to the alpha's body, to go easy. There is too much to fear.
Burr's words invoke a bright, pale sort of yearning, like the weak sunlight after a storm. He wants... he does want to nest. And it would be so easy to be petted and kept, dressed in finery -- he can see it, he can imagine.
But it's the books that draw a hesitant, mournful sound out of him. It is so difficult to acquire books, and when he does he hides them away, hoards them in the dark spaces of his rooms. The world has learned so much more since his first life, and he wants to take it all in, and he can't. Impossible to advance politically as a bastard son of a whore, but as an alpha he could do the impossible and be admired. As an omega, the doors are closed.
He knows better than to think this is any more than talk. Burr will take great pleasure in discarding him once the night is done, and Hamilton will drink whatever it takes to prevent a child from taking root, no matter what he's starting to wish.
Burr has hit too close to what he needs, and it makes him want to fuzz out, let go, let Burr take him. And a part of him is relaxing, emitting a gentler sort of pheromone.
"I don't need a quill to do that," he says, a whisper, in Burr's ear: "Powerful men buy whores. Young omegas with sweet fresh --" and he clenches down, deliberately, "cunts. What makes you think I haven't been passed around like a party favor, riding them hard and hungry, kneeling with their hands fisted in my tale-woven hair, taking their seed on my face or my tongue -- listening to every secret, and every scrap?"