And Alexander doesn't want the knot out. Burr is perfect, his response is perfect, and when Hamilton starts to cry, it is only because of that perfection.
He doesn't remember ever refusing like that before. Cajoling a client away from what he doesn't want, yes; flatly refusing, yes; refunding and walking away. But -- just asking? Just asking, because he trusts in the answer? Never. Never.
So he cries. He makes little snuffling noises against Burr's throat, wanting nothing more than the smell of him, at first. This is when the tears start to flow, and then he doesn't stop them, and they intensify, as he is cradled and comforted and held. Twice in one night is practically unheard of, but he purrs even as he cries, a complex mixture of anguish and contentment in his smell.
When Burr says tell me what you need, Hamilton mewls, lifts his head and kisses Burr, hard, desperate and yearning. He isn't aroused, this isn't a sexual need, not exactly. He just kisses him, over and over again, fierce, boiling over with emotion he cannot contain or understand. Burr's knot is going down, and he squeezes it with his body, not wanting to let it go. When it slips free, he makes sad little whimpering noises, and clings to Burr.
"I want a cave," he admits. "I want to be able to touch all the sides." The canopy of the bed isn't low and close enough. The desire for a small, dark space is stereotypically an omegan response of fear and insecurity, but, paradoxically, Alexander wants it because he is comfortable and secure here. He doesn't know what to make the cave of -- if he were at the brothel, he would probably bodily drag a table on top of the bed and drape it in blankets and hide underneath.
But if Burr tries to get up, Alexander clings on to him. "Please don't take him away," he bursts out. "If I say he's yours, promise you won't take him away."
no subject
He doesn't remember ever refusing like that before. Cajoling a client away from what he doesn't want, yes; flatly refusing, yes; refunding and walking away. But -- just asking? Just asking, because he trusts in the answer? Never. Never.
So he cries. He makes little snuffling noises against Burr's throat, wanting nothing more than the smell of him, at first. This is when the tears start to flow, and then he doesn't stop them, and they intensify, as he is cradled and comforted and held. Twice in one night is practically unheard of, but he purrs even as he cries, a complex mixture of anguish and contentment in his smell.
When Burr says tell me what you need, Hamilton mewls, lifts his head and kisses Burr, hard, desperate and yearning. He isn't aroused, this isn't a sexual need, not exactly. He just kisses him, over and over again, fierce, boiling over with emotion he cannot contain or understand. Burr's knot is going down, and he squeezes it with his body, not wanting to let it go. When it slips free, he makes sad little whimpering noises, and clings to Burr.
"I want a cave," he admits. "I want to be able to touch all the sides." The canopy of the bed isn't low and close enough. The desire for a small, dark space is stereotypically an omegan response of fear and insecurity, but, paradoxically, Alexander wants it because he is comfortable and secure here. He doesn't know what to make the cave of -- if he were at the brothel, he would probably bodily drag a table on top of the bed and drape it in blankets and hide underneath.
But if Burr tries to get up, Alexander clings on to him. "Please don't take him away," he bursts out. "If I say he's yours, promise you won't take him away."