It makes him hurt. Some deliciously vulnerable, small, quivering thing in his stomach, to see Hamilton gasping, fucking himself downward even as he keens. Burr takes pleasure in working the phalluses against each other--grinding them in small circles towards the other, fucking him hard and quick. Drawing out while the other is in, pushing in while the other is out, so there is no outlet, no relent.

He laps at him, drinking him in. Never enough, of his sweet, pheromone-thick slick. He can feel the quivering muscles against his tongue, can taste each pleasurable thrust, as Hamilton's body responds with wet.

Made for you, Hamilton says, and Burr moans, hips jerking against nothing. And he needs to be in him, needs to be inside of him now, this moment, right now. He draws both of the phalluses free as he slides back up the bed, yanks Hamilton back up by the hair, harsh, so that he falls backwards onto Burr's cock, and he begins thrusting forward immediately, slapping skin and grunting. The other phallus, the thicker one, is there, in his hand--pressing against his hole, stretched already from the glass.

"Do you think you can take it?" Burr pants. "Do you think you can take it? Split yourself open on it? For me, for me?"