As soon as he's bitten, the restlessness diminishes. It is, to Hamilton, as though an itch buried deep in muscular tissue has been scratched. Burr may even catch the hint of a purr or two, as Alexander closes his eyes.
He isn't drowsy. Just lazy, again.
"I don't need you." A statement perhaps belied by his body: his face is buried in Burr's throat, his hips still occasionally working themselves on Butt's knot. "Just your coin." A sigh, finally, like some burden has lifted from Alexander. Pressing his palm to the bed next to Burr's arm, he lifts himself so he is seated astride, Burr's cock and knot still embedded secure inside him.
He reaches to the table by the bed, and retrieves a little flask from the drawer, taking a long swallow of the wine within. Offers it to Burr.
Hair mussed, falling loose. Semen drying on his belly, his cock. He would clean himself up if the materials weren't thoroughly out of reach, and he's grown accustomed to waiting while a knot goes down. Slim body, spare, without much softness, not even where an omega should have a bit, in the chest and at the belly. The birthmark where the bullet wound entered him is above his right hip, under the ribs. The birthmark is larger than the wound itself was, trailing a bit to the right like it was smeared to the side. He rubs at it with the heel of his hand, a subconscious habit from when it still used to ache.
And now he has a chance to examine Burr, the way he hadn't before. He has more hair than Hamilton would have thought. He was half-bald before he was thirty; seems like it could have finished the job by now. Fleshier than he used to be, and the redness of a man too prone to alcohol, in the nose and the cheekbones.
Alexander drinks again, and sets the flask aside.
"Why did Jefferson think you'd invade New Orleans?" is the next thing he wants to know. "It doesn't sound like you." A snort. "It sounds like a joke."
no subject
He isn't drowsy. Just lazy, again.
"I don't need you." A statement perhaps belied by his body: his face is buried in Burr's throat, his hips still occasionally working themselves on Butt's knot. "Just your coin." A sigh, finally, like some burden has lifted from Alexander. Pressing his palm to the bed next to Burr's arm, he lifts himself so he is seated astride, Burr's cock and knot still embedded secure inside him.
He reaches to the table by the bed, and retrieves a little flask from the drawer, taking a long swallow of the wine within. Offers it to Burr.
Hair mussed, falling loose. Semen drying on his belly, his cock. He would clean himself up if the materials weren't thoroughly out of reach, and he's grown accustomed to waiting while a knot goes down. Slim body, spare, without much softness, not even where an omega should have a bit, in the chest and at the belly. The birthmark where the bullet wound entered him is above his right hip, under the ribs. The birthmark is larger than the wound itself was, trailing a bit to the right like it was smeared to the side. He rubs at it with the heel of his hand, a subconscious habit from when it still used to ache.
And now he has a chance to examine Burr, the way he hadn't before. He has more hair than Hamilton would have thought. He was half-bald before he was thirty; seems like it could have finished the job by now. Fleshier than he used to be, and the redness of a man too prone to alcohol, in the nose and the cheekbones.
Alexander drinks again, and sets the flask aside.
"Why did Jefferson think you'd invade New Orleans?" is the next thing he wants to know. "It doesn't sound like you." A snort. "It sounds like a joke."