private storyline ..... b1?

[non_stop]

It turns out you can't write your way out of hell when you're an omega.

So Alexander Hamilton -- not his birth name, not this time -- decides to take a different route. Born into abject poverty, again in the Caribbean, he earns his way out.

And, in New York, he leverages what he's learned, his cleverness and his quickness and his persistence, into a position at a bawdy house that's clean, safe, and run by an alpha woman who is fiercely protective over her whores.

He does not hope for more than this. He saves, obsessively, and invests. He cannot be a statesman like this. He cannot write financial systems to into existence. (And he sometimes doubts whether he ever did those things -- sure, he remembers philosophy, he can quote in a Latin that he never learned, but it all seems so unlikely. So bizarre.)

He is a prized commodity quickly, in this brothel. He likes it that way. When his next heat approaches, the alpha madam raises his price.

To his surprise, someone new meets that price.

He is in only the early stages right now, pre-heat, warm skin and a welcoming scent rising. He's horny, but he's not even close to out of his mind. He's never gone out of his mind, even in heat.

He waits, in his rooms, with the broad mirror, the wide bed, the luxurious sheets. Waits for his client.

Comments

[non_stop]

It almost works. Burr listens, and he likes it, on more levels than one.

Then something happens. Burr changes the script. His fingers have woven into Alexander's hair, rubbing slow on his scalp. He is still purring, subtly, in a way Alexander can feel better than he can hear, a vibration that gently, gently warms him, settling a restlessness that he can always feel at the pit of his chest.

And Burr changes the script. He doesn't follow the cues, the direction, the play-interaction between whore and buyer. A promise, that Alexander doesn't believe, and then a ring, slipped onto his hand, that he looks to in honest bewilderment. What does Burr mean by it? What does he want?

But his mind can't chase itself in circles when he is being petted so. After he has been so satisfied.

Burr must work some hypnosis on him, some animal magnetism, because Alexander does not respond, not with words; instead, he is soothed to a light and troubled sleep. But: a true sleep, nonetheless.

[slowtoanger]

It takes a half hour for his knot to go down. He doesn't rush it, rather he encourages it--cradled by the soft wet heat of Hamilton's body. Hard tothink much of anything, in that warm, relaxed space, omega asleep on his chest. Easy to drift off himself, if he's not careful.

But he doesn't drift off. After half an hour, when he can feel his knot beginning to soften, he shifts them. Carefully, laying Hamilton on his back on the bed, and reaching to that rag on the bedside table, gathering up the liquid that gushes free as his cock slips out. How beautiful Hamilton looks from this vantage point between his legs. How used, how ruined, how fully and completely fucked. Easy, to extend his tongue out, wake him with gentle licks. But Hamilton has been used hard. He needs sleep.

A small washbasin--washing between Hamilton's legs as he sleep, dabbing thighs and ass and cunt. He shifts, at the touch of cold water but does not wake. After Burr strips--unable to save his breeches, gets down to his shirt, sets the rest in the hall to be laundered, sees a platter of food--breads and cheese and small pieces of fruit, already left for him.

A good madame, anticipating needs and adding it to his bill. He should kiss her.

He positions himself against the headboard, Hamilton on his chest, and wakes him with small kisses, at his neck and head and face. Half awake, tearing off a small square of sweet bread, holding it to his lips, purring. He wants to take care of Hamilton. Wants to pamper him.

[non_stop]

Stirs slowly, being drawn back to himself from a great distance. Kisses and alpha-smells, purrs that draw out echoes of the same sound from low in his own throat. He feels warm and good, contentment to such a degree that it makes his skin tingle and prickle, pleasantly, along his scalp, his spine.

He is taking something between his teeth, a bit of sweet licked off of fingertips. Bites down as his eyes flicker open once, and close again as he stretches, arms drawn up over his head, drawing his body to its full length and then shifting up a little to melt back on the presence behind him.

Burr, he thinks. It's so hard to care who it is, though. (Maybe Burr notices the flicked glance to a certain spot at the headboard, a bit of leather looped and tucked against the mattress; a sheathed knife, in case. It isn't a conscious move on Alexander's part and he has no desire or intent to use it. His caution is just written into him on an almost cellular level.)

This is what Burr wants. This is what many alphas want, and Alexander has played out the fantasy before, when he wasn't in heat, of being nourished and protected by the strong alpha mate. Never thought it would be the dark-eyed man that featured in Alexander's nightmares before he knew what past lives were.

It's instinct, he tells himself. Just instinct. It shouldn't unnerve him, that he's never been in quite this state before, the fever-warm heat washing through him, but without urgency, without active need, being in a warm bath and not a boiling pot. Shouldn't be so strange that he likes it.

Eyes stay closed as he lets himself be fed, lets himself wake slowly as the heat also wakes. Little kitten-licks to catch fruit's juices left on Burr's fingers. Tipping his head to the side to draw alpha into his lungs.

[slowtoanger]

"Good boy," Burr says, as that small pink tongue darts out, chasing juice and leaving behind a trail of warmth. Alexander is so much more accommodating upon waking, further into his heat. Stretches against Burr, purrs. Content, even on noticing Burr, his surroundings. Nothing of the anxiety of before, as he melts under the ministrations.

What had changed? Further into his heat? Or had Burr done something to make him feel safe, wanted? Was it a trick of the ring, or of everything that came before--orgasms drawn out under a skilled tongue? He is breathing in Burr's scent, that much as clear, and though his eyes dart once to that stip of leather--likely concealing a weapon--he makes no move for it, seems to forget it once his eyes leave it, relaxing once more. That he should need it at all is troubling, but Burr is not naive enough to be surprised. Many whores keep weapons at hand, for unruly or drunk customers. But someone hurting Alexander--pushing him down before he is ready, or despite his struggles--

He doesn't realize it before it happens--a rush of protection and safe spilling out of his scent glands, and his noises grow deeper, more rumbly, so they might be felt more through his chest. Tangles their legs together, as he continues to bestow small pieces of food. How wonderful Alexander's lips look, curling around a bite of strawberry, suckling at Burr's fingers.

He can feel himself grow warm, forces it down.

"You're so pretty," Burr says, and runs a thumb under his eyelids. "How did you ever get to be so pretty?"

[non_stop]

The more conscious he gets, the more he realizes that he feels just really, really good. It feels like a full-body purr, like someone set him out in the fresh spring sunshine and let him take it in until he's more made of lazy warmth than he is of flesh and blood. He, for once in his life (his lives) is not in a rush. Doesn't want to push. Doesn't want to struggle.

He is aware, very, of his hips, his chest rising and falling, the length of his legs. Very aware, once he shifts position a little, of how he can press his wet (of course he's wet) cunt against Burr's thigh, not urgently, just because he likes it.

Is this what heat is supposed to feel like? Could he have had this all along? He doesn't feel like he's out of his mind with it, doesn't feel the way he's seen other omegas look -- feverish and wretched unless they were being knotted, outright begging in need. This is just pleasant. There is no particular pleasure, nothing so intense that it can't be disregarded, just a harmony and ease that he isn't sure he's ever felt, except in the sweetest of times with Eliza.

His fingers curl around his own length, not fully hard, and he holds himself, massages with his fingertips, draws his thumb over the head. Not even opening his eyes, not for more than brief glances. He bites Burr's thumb, gently, because he likes the way it feels between his teeth.

Burr's words send a rush of those tingles all along him, and his eyes definitely open now, dark and hungry. He realizes that he's arched up in pleasure, just a bit, shivering in satisfaction. He must be pretty; Burr said so. Burr has every reason not to say so, and Burr said so.

The idea of Burr's eyes on him is powerful, and this is the first thing that really stirs him to movement. He slides off Burr's lap and twists around, swinging a leg over him so he's straddling Burr's hips.

"I feel good," he says, with a little frown, and if he sounds still a little bewildered at that, who can blame him? For someone who is accustomed to the endless drum-beat of ambition, keep going, keep going, non-stop, this laziness is a foreign country. He finds he's displaying himself, spine straight and shoulders back, a proud carriage; his fingers comb through his hair, gently falling over his shoulder. He likes how Burr looks at him. "I feel like I can breathe." Like his rib cage has loosened two settings, something heavy and tight at his breastbone abruptly released.

And, in an incredulous tone: "I like this." He likes it very, very much.

[slowtoanger]

Yes, that is nice--the way Alexander rubs himself against Burr's body, leaving streaks on his thigh. Better, when he shivers at Burr's words, the way his eyes darken, the hand that wraps around his cock, the way he straddles Burr, above him, curves his spine.

Good enough to eat. The food has been set aside, and Burr grabs Alexander's hips. Squeezes. He can't help but watch, transfixed, as that hand moves up and down his length, trailing over the head, the slit. He wants to taste him. Wants more to watch, as Alexander works at himself, settled in Burr lap.

"You like it, when I call you pretty," he says. "When I call you a good boy?" And he swears he hears breath catch, hand speeding up. "Do you like being here, spread out for me like a work of art?" His hands creeping up, rubbing over his stomach, his chest. A bit dizzy, at being able to touch him. Knowing he could taste him, if he but bent forward.

"You're so pretty, Alexander. So perfect. Look at the way your hand moves on your cock, the rise and fall of your chest. Your cunt, dripping. Your very existence is pornographic--"

Working himself up, watching, growing hard. He can't take it--wants him in his mouth, now. Flips them with a growl and slides down the bed, so he is hovering over that cock. Alexander, watching him. Burr, watching Alexander.

He grips lightly, feels the weight of that cock in his hand. Maintains eye contact as he extends his tongue, licks over the head.

"You said you once dreamed of fucking my mouth, having me on my knees for you. Why not now? Why not do it now? Would you like to fuck my throat? I am amenable, open," and his breathing betrays his need, his want. Practically salivating at the prospect, of Hamilton holding him down, gagging him on cock.

[non_stop]

He is even easier to manhandle now.

"Told you," sighs Alexander, rolled onto his back, as he curls up his legs and spreads them apart, putting himself even more lewdly on display for Burr's dark, glittering eyes. "A surpassingly gifted whore." Surpassingly gifted at everything he tries. He draws his fingertips up his slit and then licks them off, and then Burr is on him, a slow lick at the oh-so-sensitive head that has Alexander shuddering, his hips lifting off the bed.

"Yes. No." He frowns in thought again, his thumb crushing Burr's bottom lip. "Not like that," he decides, and Alexander takes him by the shoulders and drags Burr down so he's on his back. And then Alexander straddles his shoulders, one hand on the headboard for balance. "Like this," he says, and he feeds his cock into Burr's very amenable mouth. Hips slowly sinking, and he leans his forehead against the headboard. "This is good, this is how I wanted to see you," he says, "sinking into you, down and down. It's only that I can't, mm," a little surge of his hips as Burr tongues at the slit at the top, a stutter in his movement and his words. "I can't knot you. I never knotted anyone's mouth, but I wanted to. I wanted to know what it felt like. Has everyone ever knotted your mouth?" As he sinks deep, deep, until he feels the working of Burr's throat. "I'd let you knot my mouth. Do you want to knot my mouth? You can, later. You can even have me fuck myself on a phallus, if you'd like -- I have some. I'd ride it, and look up at you... like that, the way you're looking at me."

Open-mouthed gasp. "Your mouth is so hot. Your lips are tight -- that's it, don't let me pull out, just," as Burr's lips seal just under the head of Alexander's cock, tightening, at his instruction. "Just that -- that -- I can believe it, I can believe you sucked every cock in New York politics. As good as a whore, and I've had plenty."

He guides one of Burr's hands between his legs. "I'm dripping," he says, breathlessly. "I've never dripped before. Is heat always like this?" Both hands braced against the headboard, now, as he rocks his hips, slow and smooth strokes into Burr's mouth.

"I couldn't ever decide how I wanted to come," Alexander continues, and hisses as Burr's fingers quest inside of him. "In your throat, so you never had the chance to spit it out? On your tongue, so I could make you swallow?" He withdraws, and presses the head of his cock against Burr's face, his lips, his cheek. "On your face, so Troup could see? Mark you as a slut." Sinking in again -- "Or on your suit, so you had to work, work at blotting it out? Pretending it didn't happen." He pulls back. "Which one? Ask me for the one you like the best."

[slowtoanger]

Burr likes giving blowjobs. Is good at them, skilled. Had learned to give and receive, on his knees, for the boys at Princeton, in that army, for Jefferson. He knows how to relax his throat, how to let someone feed him inches of cock--how not to gag on it. Knows how to suck, how to move his tongue along that delicate head. Knows how to vary pressure--how to suck hard, just before they come, to leave them weak in the knees. Knows how to swallow, knows how to beg for more.

Oh, but Hamilton is good, so good, and his only regret is that he can't speak with a cock in his mouth, to whisper more pretty things in his ear. But he tastes good, feels goon on his tongue--the quiet, slick sounds, the panting. He is hard, painfully--his cock hard against his stomach, tenting his shirt.

"My ass," Burr gasps, swallowing, when Hamilton pulls away, leaving him painfully bereft. He feels half-wild, squirming with need. He can smell it--the slick. Can feel it, dripping onto his shirt. "You could come in my ass--or in my mouth. I would drink you down. Swallow all of it." His hands scrabbling, pinching nipples, feeling skin. Wonderful, beautiful, beautiful.

Perhaps Hamilton could knot Burr's mouth some day--slip his balls his, stretch his jaw so wide he could do nothing but take it. Oh, and the thought of him fucking himself on a phallus--enough to make him whimper. Perhaps he can fuck Burr and take it at the same time. God, he would look beautiful like that. Paintings, Burr should have paintings done of him, filthy ones. Says as much, as he squirms with need.

[non_stop]

"I won't wait for that," decides Alexander. He could, but he doesn't want to. Not with Burr looking up at him like that. "I want to come now." Demanding; he's heard some omegas become demanding in heat. Evidently he's one of them. Evidently Burr doesn't hate the idea. He rubs this tip of his cock all along Burr's lips, coaxing his tongue out to dart and lick where Alexander can see it. He watches in fascination, and the climax actually takes him by surprise: suddenly his thighs are trembling and he's twitching his hips forward, thrusting into Burr's mouth without warning and shooting hard against the back of his throat. Burr does gag, a little, but then his hand comes up to cup Alexander's stones, massage at them as they empty, milk them dry.

He is still hard, only starting to soften, as he clambers down and kisses Burr, his own tongue following the path of his cock. He tastes his come. Their noses bump and he is clumsy and he doesn't worry about being perfect. He is still content.

"Later," he breathes, against Burr's mouth. "I can fuck you later. Push my come up with your tongue, I want to lick it out of your mouth." It's disgusting and he loves it, and so does Burr.

Burr's cock is sliding against the entrance to his body again, and Alexander closes his legs a little so Burr can fuck his wet thighs.

"Do you want my cunt again?" Alexander asks, nosing at his gland, nipping at it. "I always thought God must have meant that I deserve it, making me an omega -- that it must be Providence saying I deserve every cock willing to defile me. Saying I deserve to be used like a slut, made a whore. I've taken so many. Filthy sailors, merchants... Made myself popular because I didn't care if they were Negro, I'd take them, if they had the coin, and they did.

"If you've seeded me, I deserve that too. You want to keep me for that, don't you -- watch me big-bellied, young and sweet but too much of a slut to close my legs for a man who could be my grandfather." He's just rubbing his cunt on Burr's cock, now, gasping, sliding wet along the length of him.

[slowtoanger]

God, if ever there was a time Burr's body might give out, his heart, or some other vital organ, it is now. He thinks it possible to come from just that--from Alexander, eating his own spend from Burr's mouth, and then whispering filthy things, sliding his body along Burr's cock but not taking it.

"The only cock you deserve is my own," Burr growls, and grabs his neck, trying to control the torturous wiggling of that body. "Though I would gladly pay to watch you take each one. Would gladly keep you in my house, pregnant and naked."

"Ride me," Burr says, wrapping his hand around Hamilton's cock again, coaxing back towards hardness. "Fuck yourself on me, if you really want it." Ah, but a thought then, as he watches, mesmerized, the slide of his cock between Hamilton's thighs, wet with slick. He brings his other hand, the one not on Hamilton's throat around, to rub over his other hole, testing. Still stretched from earlier, or eased back towards tightness?

"Perhaps you should get that phallus, so you can take both at once. Face away from me, so I can fuck you on it, greedy little slut that you are. Do you think that would satisfy you? Two cocks, claiming your holes? Would that I could knot in both, though perhaps if you are good you might ride my face after, and I could clean you out with my tongue."

[non_stop]

His hole feels furled tight again, on first investigation, but slick has leaked here as well, and as Burr presses a fingertip inside, he finds Alexander is quite accommodating, knowing perfectly well how to relax the ring of muscle to allow all manner of intrusions.

"Then pay," Alexander encourages, breathless. "I would show you. See what your handiwork has done -- the great Alexander Hamilton, now just a pretty little thing made to be fucked."

He rolls over, drags a small wooden box from under the bed. Fumbles at it, and emerges with two choices: one obscenely thick phallus of polished leather with a bit of give to it, and another, overall slimmer, made of solid glass. He clambers over Burr, not yet sinking down on him. "Try them inside my cunt," he suggests, "see how they feel and slick them up at the same time." He kneels up, ensuring he is open and available.

[slowtoanger]

Oh, but Burr should like to use them at the same time. To insert one quickly into his cunt if only to wet it, and move it back while fucking him with the second. He reaches up, slides fingers into Hamilton's cunt, yet he need not ensure he is wet, for the obscene amount of slick that rolls down his fingers, wets his hand.

The glass one will do nicely, he thinks, to prepare him. He trails it in the slick--cold and hard, before thrusting it in suddenly, down to the hilt. Drinks in any sounds, unable to tear his eyes away from the way it disappears in him, yet as soon as Alexander seems to be gathering himself, found that spot of pleasure, he pulls away--draws it out, slick, not yet warmed, and pressed it cruelly against his ass. Presses, not hard enough to cause injury, but hard enough to breach him, feeds each inch in slowly as he prepares the second larger, pushing it into his other hole at the same time.

"How does that feel?" Burr breathes, and he feels transfixed, helpless, at the sight of Hamilton speared so wide. Yet this is not so good a view, so he shimmies down the bed until his face is beneath Hamilton, so each drop of slick down those obscene bodies lands on his face, licks around the intrusions, drinking in each shudder, shaking legs.

"Oh, now you are very pretty. Perhaps this is what I should have a painting made of. Your holes, so wonderfully stuffed. I can see the muscles quivering, Alexander. Trying to draw more inside. A body made for fucking."

[non_stop]

He isn't watching the phalluses, he's just watching Burr. How Burr's eyes drink him in. Grey hair, wrinkles at the corners of his mouth and eyes. Chin grown more prominent, eyes more sunken. He is fascinated, distracted, and doesn't pay enough attention to brace himself for the sudden penetration. Even just this one thing seems to light up his nerves all the way along his belly and thighs, a glow of hot, violated pleasure, and he trembles, buckling a little. Has to lean his weight down on it, and he gasps as it presses up against the end of him, the place where his womb begins. But as he's about to tell that to Burr, it withdraws, and then it's at his ass.

He's ready for it, relaxing the one hole, readying himself to be penetrated -- but Burr has the other, the thick and leather one, at his cunt at the same time. Both are relentless, pushing, pushing -- the head of the glass one makes it inside him, and his ass tightens around it, trying to squeeze but unable to. He can't help it, his body tightens reflexively just because of the overwhelmingly broad, leather cock in his cunt, just on the edge of too big for him. He can't hold himself up on his knees, folding down to brace himself on his hands, too. Can't stop himself from working his hips down on it, jaw dropped open, panting with little rhythmic breathy sounds.

"It hurts in me," gasps Hamilton, "the glass is so hard. It can't bend, and I have to -- you have me spitted on it," the sentence trailing into a high moan as the sensitive place inside him is crushed under the weight of the overwhelming penetration.

"Made for it," he whispers, echoes. "Made for you."

[slowtoanger]

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?"

[non_stop]

"Oh." He just takes Burr's cock, sinks into him smooth, like it belongs there. His ass feels open and a little bit sore, a little bit used. Can he? He hasn't taken that one in that hole, before. Has barely taken it in his body's most-used entrance.

Burr starts to fuck him, better than last time, because he doesn't tease with it. Alexander stretches, tightens as he lifts his hips to meet the thrusts, working it inside of him. Enjoying it. Savoring it. The room smells thick of pleasured omega, wanting and satisfied at once.

He has a difficult time focusing on the words. He is scattered, each thrust, each shiver of pleasure, draining the intelligence from him.

He drapes himself forward, exposing the little hole.

This changes the angle, though; he strains, strains -- "Oh, there, just there, just there, please, yes, yes," and before Burr has the chance to penetrate him with it, paroxysms ripple up his middle, and he comes hard on Burr's cock. Hard enough that he ends up braced on his knees, face pressed against the mattress, as he jolts and shivers through it.

Stimulation is just on the edge of unpleasant now, but he goes relaxed and liquid and turns his head to the side, cheek rubbing against the sheets.

"Yes," he breathes, "I can take it. I can take it. Try me."

[slowtoanger]

Burr whines, as Hamilton comes--gripping hard against Hamilton's skin, as he pushes down hard, clamps against him. He is so close to coming, with Hamilton here, like this--the way he shivers and trembles and then goes liquid. The smell of him. But he doesn't. Breathes through it, as the other hand continues to work the phallus, pushing and pushing.

His hole, growing more slack with his pleasure, and the head breaches, barely, and Burr can feel it in Hamilton--the strain, the little shivers. And Hamilton's legs are trembling now, and he is breathing hard against the sheets, perhaps drooling. Burr bucks forward, seeking pleasure, his knot small enough still to slide in and out, and he can feel the pressure of the head, even through Hamilton's body. Another push, sliding a few inches further, and Hamilton whines, begins to push himself back against it, and Burr is breathless as the sight--ass swaying, stretching, stretching.

It slips in. Hamilton cries--someplace between pleasure and pain, but he is fucking himself back, and Burr is groaning, feeling each inch of pressure against where his cock is buried, and then with his free hand he is grabbing Hamilton's hip, fucking into his roughly, driving him back on the phallus, hard, against those spots of pleasure.

[non_stop]

He has never been so stretched -- he has taken two cocks at once and still he has never been so stretched. "It's so big, it's so big," his voice a whine -- "it's too much," he is certainly crying, he is certainly drooling, he is out of control and clawing at the bed and squirming, squirming, driving himself back on it. "I can't take it, I can't," as he does, his entire world narrowed to the incredible penetration, the thickness that feels as though it crushes everything in him, hollows him out so that all he's good for is cock. "You'll ruin me, you'll fuck me open and ruin me," and the thrusts draw loud, vocal cries.

Hamilton knows that sometimes it's possible to milk come out of a soft cock by targeting the right spot, inside -- what he didn't know is that if he is so mercilessly penetrated that the targeting doesn't matter, and the soft and spongy place inside him is squeezed so relentlessly that it is near flattened.

He grabs Burr's hand and hitches himself up, just enough to guide it to his mostly-soft cock, put Burr's fingers at the tip. "Look, you're forcing it out," to show Burr how the white semen literally spills from him, doesn't shoot but just weeps out of the slit, forced by every rough thrust. And he moans, helplessly, as he is fucked so hard the words are scattered away again.

"Knot me --" It isn't a plea, it is a demand, a shout. He wants it immediately; he refuses to wait, and Burr won't be able to refuse him. "Knot me now."

[slowtoanger]

The site of Hamilton crying, wrecked, should not render Burr on the edge of coming. Should not feel so good, to see him in pain, desperate. But it does. A fight, to control himself, as Hamilton takes Burr's hand and lays it there, against the spend that spills from his flaccid cock, oozing out with every thrust. He wants it in his mouth. He wants to fuck him and drink it in at the same time, yet to do so would be to stop fucking him, which is out of the question.

His cock, thick and pulsing in Hamilton, half crushed by the pressure from the phallus in Hamilton's ass, and Hamilton is not riding Burr so much as clinging, holding on as he is used. Knot me, Hamilton begs, and Burr whines, so close to that wonderful place, knot swelling. A few more thrusts, a few more moments of driving himself wonderfully into that hot warm body, and he seats himself, fucks up hard enough for his knot to slip in, impossibly tight, tight enough where even the phallus in Hamilton's ass is unable to move, every inch of skin squeezing around him, and he is coming--embarrassing, mewling thing, gripping on for the force of it, eyes sliding closed and mouth open, because the sight of Hamilton so wrecked is painful then, too much, and he is rocked by those waves of pleasure, by the knowledge that he is seeding Hamilton for the third time. Good omega, mated, filled, seeded omega.

[non_stop]

“I need it out,” shaking voice, too much as of the knot, and Alexander pulls up far enough to get his hand underneath him, to pull at the phallus. “Get it out, get it out —“ It hurts, it hurts, and he is whimpering at it — Burr’s hands take over and he drops his head, trembling as the hard wooden head presses at the swollen knot inside him. Gasping as it eases all the way out, and then he is twisting around, bringing one leg up to carefully shift around to face Burr completely.

He lays himself flat on Burr’s chest, and finds himself licking the sweat from the hollow of his lover’s throat, under his jaw, making little huffing sounds as he takes in the alpha’s smells. He is restless for some reason he can’t explain, unsettled, and his gland itches. He rubs at it as he scents Burr, nipping over and over at Burr’s skin, tiny little bites that aren’t nearly enough to leave marks. There’s something he wants and he has no idea what it is.

His hips start moving. He is a mess between his legs, ass open and oozing, slick everywhere. His hand goes down to the base of Burr’s cock to hold it steady, and he starts using it to caress inside of him, working the knot back and forth the inch or so it can move within him. He isn’t chasing orgasm, he just wants to feel it. He bears down until Burr’s cock touches the entrance to his womb, and grinds a little there, though it’s not exactly pleasurable. His skin feels to small and he feels too hot.

He calms only slowly, fretting less and less, finally slowing his restless movement, the strange little bites. He flushes with embarrassment at the display as he comes back to himself, back to the slow warm satisfied feeling he had earlier.

“I like your knot,” he sighs. “I like your cock. I like this…” He can’t explain the strange dissatisfaction. His hips rock very slowly, now, a soothing pace, not requiring that he lift himself. Emitting smells in response to Burr’s protective ones, of possessiveness. Mine, his smells say. He’ll want to start nesting soon.

“Why was it so easy?” he asks, “to convince you to stay. You tried to go, but it was so easy.”

[slowtoanger]

A stab of shame, of regret, at that pained whimper, struggling to free himself from that which spears him, and yet he cannot help those aftershocks of pleasure, the way his cock, still hard, seems to swell impossibly more at the sight of his struggle, at those sounds, a body in distress.

When the phallus slips free, the relief is immediate--Hamilton turns, sags against him, and the pressure inside him loosens, the knot no longer painfully wedged. But Hamilton, despite his breathless whimpers, is not grinding against him, seems half out of his mind, biting and kissing and licking. Oh, he is so wonderful. So sweet. So perfect, a perfect omega, and Burr wants him, Burr needs him, though there is no further way to join them than they currently are, but those bites, little searching things, and Burr grabs his hair, tilts his head back, gently, noses to that place on his neck, and bites hard.

Suckles, licks there, as Hamilton moves. Works over that spot, running his hands over everything, everywhere--never enough. He can never have enough of this. Wants all of him.

Why was it so easy? Why was it so easy to stay, and shouldn't it be obvious.

"Oh Alexander," Burr says, still licking there, "don't you know? We've always needed each other."

[non_stop]

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."

[slowtoanger]

"No one knows you better than I do," Burr says, when Hamilton tries to scorn him. Always difficult, and sensitive, lying even to himself. "Not even Betsy--you would never reveal to her those things you've revealed to me, in the throes of your pleasure. I always knew them from the moment I Saw You. You couldn't hide."

Watching the movement of those throat muscles as he swallows, shifting on his cock. How long till it goes down, and he is horny again? Or how long until he wants rest, or to nest?

"I don't wish to rehash old tales," and when Hamilton is done with his drink he reaches out, snags him back down, so there bodies are pressed together. Massaging him, as he did before--soothing what he is sure is a sore ass. "Anything Jefferson purports to believe publicly is usually quite different than what he actually believes, and the duplicity of Wilkinson's character proved useful to him, in a time when he wished to ensure I was ruined irreparably."

But he doesn't want to talk about this. Not now, here where everything has been so wonderful. "How are you feeling," he asks, hands skating low. "Are you sore? Was it too much?"

[non_stop]

"Do you not want to rest your eyes upon my supple, young flesh?" laughs Alexander, as Burr pulls him down again. "I've been told it's quite nice." Maybe Burr just likes to feel him, like this. Maybe a more comfortable angle for his knot. Alexander can accommodate it. He snuggles in, refreshed.

"Don't change the subject," he says, though it's hard to remember what he wants to talk about, with hands that wander the way Burr's currently do. No, not wander: the motions are purposeful, though they may be disguised as wanderings. Alexander isn't blind, he knows he's being distracted and plied. "I know Jefferson, and he convinces himself to believe exactly what he says -- it's the most mind-boggling thing about him. And he'll never admit it's different from yesterday, or that it might chance tomorrow. He should have known a filibuster was the only likely plan -- I dreamed of one myself, in '98. Though I didn't plan it would stop at Mexico," tracing his fingertip down Burr's unfortunately covered chest. "Mine, I thought, would go much further... south."

Ah, he never thought he'd be making that into a flirtation. It's a bit funny, really.

"Lots of opinions about you made their way to St. Nevis," he says, "each rivaling the other in ignorance and stupidity. I followed it as soon as I could remember how to read. I wanted them to lock you away, I remember, because I feared that you would creep out of the darkness to come and finish me while I slept." He'd been a child, full of memories he couldn't understand and ignorant of the reality of the world.

[slowtoanger]

"Perhaps you were right to fear," he says, his eyes caught on the movement of Hamilton's fingers, the small goosebumps that follow. Such a command over his flesh, even now, as tired as he is. "I have no problem finishing you, over and over and over. What would you have done, I wonder, if I had come for you in Nevis? Barely mature and already selling yourself, I'm sure. When did it start, I wonder, and would you have taken me, as you do now?"

Was he nineteen? Eighteen? Would Burr have cared, been able to stop himself? Perhaps it would have been better, for Burr to take him from that place, for all he would have been unable to keep his hands off him, once he knew he was a whore, and was amenable to sharing his body in those ways.

A wretched boat ride made better by a small, tight body. Willing, and pretty, for all he was the Hamilton he knew all those years ago.

[non_stop]

A flicker of a smile, sad. "I don't think I would have appealed to you, this way," he says. "Too young for your taste." He hesitates, not sure if he wants to say. Strange, he can confess to a filibuster, to military pretensions that he once took such pains to keep quiet -- he can confess to using his mouth on Laurens, the two of them euphoric on the thrill of one another's presence. But this is still difficult.

He takes a breath. "I first took coin for use of my hand, and a man finishing on my face. I was nearly fifteen, but not quite." A pause. He feels the need to defend himself, his choice. To show that he was not abused. "I wasn't pimped. I kept control -- no one forced me. In my first heat, someone tried, and he was shocked to find an omega, a slight little thing, could beat him silly." Beat him unconscious, more like, with a broken arm and a broken nose. Hamilton had a few bruises, nothing more.

He props himself up, because he needs to see Burr's face, Burr's reaction.

"Does it appall you?" Do I appall you, he means.