amrev_intrigues | Private Storyline B2

Private Storyline B2

Burr goes back. Of course he goes back. How can he not go back? They spend nights together, opening each other's flesh, wrapped, circled, ensnared. And each time he comes he brings something; little gifts, trinkets, books, blankets, quills, parchment. Things he knows Alex will like, thirsts for, an attempt to plug a hole that is always widening, desperate, grasping.

He wants to tighten them. Draw them together. To draw Hamilton to him the way he has drawn other young men. To wrap him close, the way one holds a dangerous thing, slick and pointed and sharp. Oh, but this Hamilton is not the same. Perhaps if given power he will dissolve the same, into paranoia and delusion, yet this Hamilton is desperate, fragile, breakable, for as much as he covers himself in sharp edges. Not unlike the Hamilton he once knew, and yet--

Burr will not be in the position, to fall victim to him. Too old, already ruined. Perhaps they never could have been anything more than two sharp objects, poised always to cut, before. But now, maybe--. He doesn't know. He wants Hamilton to come home with him. Better than a brothel, for all he respects Benedicta. Hamilton deserves more than only bodily pleasures, as much as his need for independence burns. No less independent there, in the brothel, than he would be with Burr, but then, the brothel is an easier dependence, to no one person. Something like independence, if one could only close their eyes and wish hard enough.

Burr takes to hiring him for the day, the night, not at the brothel but at his own home. Pays extra for it--pulling in a steadier income than he ever has before. Sits with him at dinners, puts him to bed in his own room, even, on some nights, for as much as Hamilton is perturbed by such arrangments. Burr wont admit it. Would never say it. But. He is lonely. Frustratingly lonely, painfully lonely. Everyone he knows is dead, outside a few, and here is Hamilton.

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He's expecting Burr to hit his ass, so the sound he makes is a punched-out, shocked one. He twists his head to the side, squirms a little to feel the knee pushing him down, oh, yes, he likes it, the sharp shocks of impact, the rushing heat to the stinging flesh. When Burr's finger works inside him, Alexander lets out a sort of yowl, thready with need.

He is tight, as always. He can be used and used and used, and an hour later he is a vise. Wet as October (he is a little wet all the time, lately), but a vise.

"Oh, Daddy," and he grinds his cock against the bed, "my little cunt is so tight," as he gasps sharply for breath, "so good, how could I refuse? Anyone can use me, anyone, hit me, please hit me again," though he lets out a bereft sound if the finger pulls away.

Grabs his hair again, wrapping it around his fist and dragging his face up from the bed only to slap him hard, once, across the cheek before letting him fall back, limp.

"Such a whore," he taunts, "begging to be fucked and I've hardly touched you." Hands, yanking Alexander to the edge of the bed, and Burr sits, drags Alexander over his lap, so his legs hang down--kicks them apart with his own foot, so that his cunt is exposed.

"Is this what you want, Alexander?" He asks, as he brings his hand down hard over one ass cheek. Arranged in such a way that with each hit Alexander's cock bumps against Burr's leg, and he brings his hand down again, again, again. Wants to make him cry, beg, beyond play acting. Desperate, out of his mind. Slapping hard enough to shake his whole body, to make his own hand sting, Alexander's flesh a lovely, bright red color that he wants only to sink his teeth into, sooth with his tongue.

The slap is a stinging shock, and it has Alexander fully hard in an instant. He has similar reactions often, to a client's violence -- he had thought he was wrong, broken in some way, until he found that some of the other whores felt the same way. He has come to conclude that it represents a wild and reckless side of his nature that never diminished, not with the conclusion of the war, not with his tenure as a family man, and certainly not after being remade into a young man, with a young man's body and a young man's passions. He likes to be hurt. Not badly -- though he has pushed himself until he was badly hurt, before, without realizing it until later. He likes to be demeaned, too. Reduced. He is too proud to let a client do this easily, but when it is one that has visited him before, that he has learned to trust, he has been known to allow it.

And Burr... Burr is already an exception to the rules. Alexander needs what Burr gives him. I don't need you -- what a bald-faced lie, and it has only grown a greater lie with time's passage. He was changed on a base and chemical level the first time Burr brought him to a feminine climax after hardly having time to touch him.

What he has adopted, with Burr as well -- and Burr was already familiar with the practice -- was to have a signal that causes such play to stop. Alexander loves to beg someone to stop, loves to fight (wishes Burr were younger, so that he could fight as hard as he could, and be bested), loves to play at being coerced. If his mouth is occupied, his signal is three hard knocks or thumps. If it is unoccupied, it is lighthouse, because he has always loved them, and because it doesn't sound like no or stop or please.

Burr takes such breathtaking control of him. Alexander falls -- lets himself fall, legs kicked apart, so that he can't rely on that for any kind of balance, has to lean where he is exposed across Burr's lap, has to grab at the bed. He whines, desperately, fingers digging in to hold on.

He submits at first, to the first few hits, but when they keep landing in the same place, he starts to squirm, making little sounds of protest and pain. "No," he answers, to Burr's question, though he means yes, yes, please. "No, Daddy, please -- it hurts," and he lets his voice go breathless and shocked. "You must -- you must stop, I'll allow you -- oh -- such liberties, I'll let you do anything to me," and he trembles trying to hold himself in place. A vicious hit makes him buck, and he slips partway off of Burr's lap.

Perhaps he lets himself slip -- because he thinks that if Burr can't adequately hold him here, he'll tie Alexander's hands, maybe bind him down. If he was immobilized, he would really be able to fight, and cry, and go out of his mind.

Oh god, the sounds of him begging, testing Burr's self control. His desire to push him down and fuck him hard and fast, leave him leaking and used and wanting. Burr slaps him again hard across the face, when Alexander complains. Pushes him off his lap, when he starts to slip, so that he lands hard on the floor.

"I didn't say you could speak. Good boys take their punishment silently," Burr says. "Bring me the ropes from the nightstand, and the cravat." Pushes Hamilton back down with a foot on his back if he tries to stand, makes him crawl. Oh, the sight of him whimpering, on his knees--

When Hamilton crawls back, forces his mouth open, fits the cloth inside, rough enough to make him gag. Pulls him back across his lap, drags him those few inches across the floor, and then when he is once more in position Burr tugs his arms back, ties them together with the length of silk rope, but leaves his legs free.

"You aren't to move," Burr says, orders. "You are to keep your legs--spread--" kicks them apart, "and take your punishment like a good little whore--"

Oh, and yet here, in this positon, each of Hamilton's squirms, his jerks as Burr spanks him, will only rub across Burr's painfully hard cock. He hopes he squirms. Hopes he fights.

And Alexander is a master at looking up, large-eyed, those beautiful hazel-blue irises that came intact into his new incarnation. He can make himself look younger, sweeter, more innocent, and more alluring, at the same time. -- He is naked, on his knees, in front of Burr, still in his nightclothes. Burr does seem to enjoy that, Alexander finds -- takes Alexander while part-clothed, constantly, while taking great pleasure in stripping Alexander or ordering him to strip himself completely bare. One day, when no servants or clients are expected, perhaps he'll just have to stay naked, and see how Burr likes it.

These thoughts are driven from his mind as Burr drags him up again -- Alexander's weight is still slight, still less than Burr's, though that will change soon, he imagines -- and stuffs his mouth. He waits, breathing rough through his nose, while he is tied, and then begins to struggle more in earnest. Sounds that would be cries of distress, if he were not biting down on the wadded fabric.

Burr does not hold back. He hits hard, and Alexander can do nothing but take it. He thrashes and bucks, fighting Burr's grip, fighting all of it: he is in an endless battle, not against the ties that close on his wrists but against the little presence inside him, against Burr, against the whorehouse, against his own body. Stinging pain seeping into his flesh -- he burns. His struggle brings him right against Burr's cock, hardened at Alexander's distress. He enjoys it. He enjoys it.

Somehow, this is the detail that breaks him. Burr's obvious desire. Alexander wants so badly to be wanted, and so badly to be attended to. He is ravenous for the acclaim that he achieved in his past life, and starving for the lack of it here, starving so long he'd forgotten what it was to be sated. Burr's obsession, though, frenzies him. He weeps, sobs and fights, and all it does is spur on his torment, bring his own cock (hard, so hard) against Burr's thigh. He has no balance, no leverage. Burr has him. Burr has him.

He fights, and, finally -- a tug to his bound arms, a nudging leg reminding him to keep his own apart -- finally, finally, he submits. He goes limp, breathing in trembling, quivering breaths, so wet that it has leaked onto Burr's thigh, so hard that he wants to whimper every time he is pressed against Burr's thigh. Face a mess of tears and snot.

Burr has him.

Oh, he likes it when Alexander squirms, when he fights. Burr could come only from that, if he were not savoring the experience, if he didn't know that what was to come would be sweeter still. For more alluring--heady pleasure, when Alexander gives in, collapses limp on Burr's lap. Lets himself be rocked with the slaps, the sharp stings against his thighs. And Burr has worked him over--both ass cheeks, thighs, cunts, the underside of his balls. Oh, but Alexander is weeping--his cunt dripping wet onto Burr's pants, waiting, trembling for something to push its way inside.

"There, was that so hard?" Burr coos, as he brings down the final smack, and he rubs his hands slowly over the abused flesh, drinking in each hitching breath, the ruin. God, it makes him so hard, to have Alexander like this, limp and tear-stained and past the edge.

He hums, like someone would hum to a fussy baby, as he drags a finger slow through the slick fluid that has gathered on his cunt before pushing it inside. Nothing so much to satisfy him, but to dehumanize him. A hole, an object, no will or rights. He should like to fuck him limp like this, unresisting and silent. Oh, but there's more here still to be gained.

"Would you like a reward?" Burr says. "Why don't you kneel for me?" and when Hamilton does he pulls out his cock, red and wet and hard, lets it bob before his face, bounces it against his skin and nose. Intoxicating, the sight of him--wide, teary eyes. Innocent, with a cock pressed in his face. Works the gag out gently.

There is something soaring in Alexander, a perpetual knot for the moment undone. A raging fight in him, quieted. The eye of the hurricane, a breath of stillness in an roaring tumult.

A quiet little half-sob, something hardly more than a hitch in his breath, as Burr stops, and caresses him, releasing another little knot of emotion. Burr's hands, Burr's smell, Burr, Burr. He hurts; he aches. The clinical way Burr's touch probes him meets no resistance, just eyes fluttering closed, a flicker of muscle squeezing around Burr's finger as it withdraws, like a little request for it to stay.

Trembling limbs as he lowers himself to the ground. Curling forward, pressing himself against Burr's legs, like he's drawn to warmth out of the cold. He can't keep himself up on his knees, instead folds down, heedless of how it hurts, hands still bound. There is no doubt who he belongs to -- as if he had any in the first place.

The gag out of his mouth, and no words follow it. Just Alexander, face averted shyly, hesitantly hitching forward and nuzzling Burr's cock, a gesture of worship, of welcoming. His eyes lift to Burr's face, looking up through lashes gone spiky with tears.

He does not make any more move to suck Burr's cock. Alexander is allowing himself to be subsumed in the idea of being Burr's vessel, his toy.

He shifts back onto his heels again, and his lips part, jaw relaxed. He is ready to be used, wants badly to be used. Will wait, sweetly, to be used.

Spends long moments simply thrusting against his face--jabbing him with the wet head, dragging it through tear tracks.

"You look so pretty with a cock in your face. Open up," Burr says, running a hand over his head, and when Alex does he sets the head against his full lips. Rests it there, the smallest movements dragging it back and forth. Watches his plump limp, dragged lower by the weight.

"Lick," he orders, and Alexander's tongue darts out, lathing over the head. A little gasp from Burr, fisting in his hair, forcing his hips still. He is in control here, and yet the sight of Hamilton on his knees, obedient, Burr's cock pressing at his mouth--

Burr pushes in, slowly, savors the feel of each inch sliding over his lips, his tongue, jerking forward when he hears that soft gagging noise. Draws back, rubbing his head over the inside of his cheeks. Exploring, probing. Fucks a little further, till Alexander is half way down his cock. Leaves it there. Forces him to breath around it.

"Good boy--oh--does your ass hurt? Is it sore?"

Oh, but Alexander cannot answer, with Burr's dick in his mouth. Can do nothing but bear it, if he is in pain. Burr can see his cock, straining against his stomach, but he doesn't reach to touch it. Good boy. Perfect boy.

Burr snaps his hips forward, roughly, until his cock hits the back of Hamilton's throat, and then he's pressing further, feeding it down, until his balls touch Alexander chin. Tears, beautiful tears, running down his face.

"This is one thing--" panting, for the pleasure, trembling, "--this is one thing you do well. So skilled, at taking a cock in your mouth. My perfect little whore. How long can you stay like this, I wonder?"

His jaw slack, his mouth open. This space belongs to Burr, and Burr claims it, not just the channel it makes for his cock but the inside of his cheek, the roof of his mouth, his flattened tongue. Burr dominates yet another of Alexander's senses, as the early secretions of his cock leak all over his mouth, all he can taste. He wants to be still. He wants Burr to claim these odd spaces in him, to defile and transform his sharp tongue and his quick and clever mouth into something that knows only the touch of Burr's cock. Not even a sharp and hard fucking, but a degrading caress.

Does he hurt -- yes. Is he sore -- yes. A fresh rush of tears at the reminder of the pain, not because it hurts. It is a complicated emotion, something like a sweet, painful gratitude. He leans more of his weight onto Burr, in a kind of response, casting into Burr's hands total control of his body, his balance, the sensations he receives. There is hardly any more control to give, with his hands so tied, but he gives it anyway.

Alexander almost never gags. When he sucks a cock, he's controlled: he knows what he's doing. In this instance, he does, though, because he wasn't thinking about controlling the reflex. He was thinking about the weight of Burr on his tongue, the wide stretch of Burr in his mouth. He was awash in praise: good boy, perfect little whore.

After that, he can't seem to get the reflex totally under control. Little twitches as his throat tries to tighten, as he has to swallow, from the overflow of saliva. He closes his eyes, but it is in pleasure, not distress. He likes the little struggles of his throat. He likes the thought that Burr is requiring that his body be subdued.

He goes liquid, his weight leaned forward, nose buried in Burr's wiry hair. Breathing is difficult but not impossible. The way he's balanced, the way his arms are tied, means that it would be very difficult for him to pull himself back and off the length in his throat. Burr would have to -- would have to weave fingers in his hair and pull him away. This does not distress Alexander. It feels right. Tears still sometimes flowing, but eyes are closed, perfect calm, perfect submission. He can stay like this for as long as Burr wants him to. He could stay like this forever.

Burr leaves him there a long while. Perhaps should have brought a book, something other to entertain himself, to dampen his desire, so that to restrain himself is not such torture. Alexander looks wonderful on his knees--was made to be on his knees, rendered silent with a cock in his mouth.

"Someone should have done this before, to the unruly little immigrant who could not learn to keep his mouth closed. Should have forced him down and shut him up with a fat cock." A little testing thrust, pulling back and pushing back in, and Alexander does not resist, the warm, hot cavern of his mouth, allows himself to be rocked with it. Limp, silent, unresisting. God, why does him here, placid and usable as a doll make Burr's eyes flutter, make his muscles clench, make him groan?

He twitches his hips forwards again, wraps Alexander's hair around his hand, pulling him forward, fucking him on his cock. His hand, sore and bruised beneath the skin, from spanking Hamilton so hard, and that sends another frisson of pleasure through his stomach, as he gags Hamilton on his cock. A litany of praises; Good boy, good omega, taking my cock so well, good only for sucking my cock, for taking it.

"You should love it, if someone pushed you down and used you against your will while you struggled. Look how eager you are for it. Never more calm than when I am fucking you, are you?" Breathing heavily, little rhythmic sounds pulled from him, each time his cock breathes that throat. Oh, he should like to force him down, to fuck him while Hamilton begged for mercy, as much as he likes this now--taking him while he is nearly absent. Wonders, how good it would be, to take him suddenly, by surprise, while he is half asleep.

Not quite just silent. The praise, along with Burr's whole and undivided attention, has made Alexander feel not just cried out, not just fought to exhaustion, but -- kept. Wanted. Burr only just told Alexander that you swept me off my feet, and Alexander wanted to believe it, and now he can feel it. Filthy fantasies, centered on him. Actions, centered on him. Praises, centered on him. Everything centered on him.

Burr takes Alexander's hair, and begins to fuck him. If he isn't totally unresisting now, it's that he savors it unduly when Burr's cock is deep in his mouth, and strains for it in a way he can't entirely suppress when Burr pulls away.

Never more calm, no, never. Never so safe. Never belonged so well. It's on the next thrust that Alexander resists Burr pulling him back off his cock, that Alexander, pushed to a place past contentment and into euphoria, purrs, a delicious vibration where Burr's cock is in his throat.

"Fuck," Burr swears, because Hamilton purrs, which is evil and sinful and enough for his hips to twitch off the bed, for him to drop his hair and fall backwards onto the bed, twisting against the sheets.

"Again," he chokes, "again." He is meant to be in power here, control, but Hamilton purrs so rarely, makes any kind of omega sounds and god it is good, so good, vibrating straight up his cock, from the head to his balls, making him breathless, wheezing in pleasure.

He needs to control himself, needs restraint, yet Hamilton knows none, and he can feel his cock leaking in his mouth and he grinds into that cavern, lost with it, unable to do anything but ride it, say his name like a prayer, "Hamilton, Hamilton, Alexander."

He has to push him off suddenly, as he feels his cock twitch, his balls tightening. Wraps cruel fingers over the base of his cock, sitting up suddenly, breathing through a denied orgasm. Hamilton, looking up at him, face wet, mouth still slack and open, certainly doesn't help.

"On the floor," Burr chokes, and when he does Burr unties his hands, reties them in the front, so that there is nothing keeping his sore ass from contact fully with the floors. Sweating, as he looks down at him, on second thought grabbing the other rope, tying one of his legs to the foot of the bed, forcing him open.

Burr is close, Alexander knows it, and he wishes nothing more than that Burr knot his mouth, deep in his throat, and keep him there on his knees until it’s done. He’s already imagining it, the twitch of Burr’s cock against the back of his palate, the strange and ever startling sensation of semen hitting the back of his throat in rough jets. Burr hasn’t knotted his mouth, maybe because it’s not something most omegas are even willing to contemplate — he never did that with Eliza, and certainly her mouth was on him quite often, and his on her as well. But he is no lady from a good family, no sweet wife.

He is bereft and bewildered when this chance is taken from him, surprised and a bit wounded, unsure if Burr’s actions are a rejection. “Daddy,” a breath, a whisper, unwilling to raise his voice enough to really speak but wanting to beg for it.

It isn’t, though — a rejection, that is. Once he knows that, the tension darkening his brow dissolves, and he obeys, though he winces to put his stinging skin on the hard wood floor. Twists around to let Burr have at his arms and he reaches for Burr once unbound, but then he is tied again and he makes a sound of frustration. Burr presses him back flat against the floor and the frustration turns to pain, going limp again as a fresh surge of the thrill that always accompanies pain lights him up.

Burr knows by now how flexible Alexander is, that he stretches to maintain it, that he takes some stubborn pride in the way his body accommodates those who take pleasure in it. With one leg tied to the bed, Burr can have him in any number of positions.

He wipes at his face with his bound hands, breathing, trembling. Burr only rejected him because Burr wants to have him, fuck him where he’s been so abused. It will hurt. “Please,” soft, “please.”

Edited 2022-05-20 18:20 (UTC)

There is no need to prepare him more than he already is--wet, slick running down over his ass, glistening for low candlelight. A feast, and Burr should like no better than to bring him off with his mouth, again and again and again. But this isn't about Burr, and though Alex will enjoy it, it won't further that delicious pain as much as fucking will. Hard, rough. Anything, to rub his raw ass over the floorboards, make him feel each thrust acutely and painfully. Oh, he should like him to struggle more, as much as he likes him laying there and taking it. Would like him to beg him to stop. Perhaps he will, when he feels that pain.

Burr likes to torture him a bit first; drags his cock over his entrance, fucking against him, but not pushing in. Wants to ask him to beg, to ask nicely, yet Hamilton is so accommodating, the words are spilling from him mouth before he has thrust more than a handful of times. "Poor baby," Burr coos, cruel. "Daddy will take care of you," and then he lines himself up and pushes in, one hard, deep thrust that rocks Hamilton against the floor.

Raises himself, so that each thrust pushes him down down, picks up Hamilton's other leg and hikes it up, over his hip, stretching him painfully, and making all his weight rest there on the swell of his ass.

He doesn't know what he was asking for -- more or less of this, for it to stop or for it to escalate.

He draws in a hiss as Burr toys with bruised flesh, and has to bite his lip at the first true press inside. His cunt is as tender as the rest of him -- more tender, because it was so sensitive in the first place. The insides of his thighs bear the marks of Burr's treatment of him, still flushed bright red, and his mouth falls open for him to gasp as Burr seats himself inside. His body is in a confusion of signals, and his cunt even more so, from the pained lips to the desperate craving of deep within. He tries to flinch away, but the bound leg brings him up short, and then as Burr glides deeper, he angles himself up to take it, instead, though it puts all the weight where he is bruised.

"It hurts, it hurts," he breathes, and squirms against Burr's hold on his free leg. "Oh god--" Messy, wet sounds as Burr withdraws and starts to thrust, and every one of those thrusts pushes air from Alexander's body. Every one drives him incrementally away from Burr, but unless Alexander wants himself yanked from ankle to hip, he has to actually tense enough to drag himself back towards the bed, meaning that he has to rub himself more raw against the floor.

He burns with humiliation at the sounds of pain that Burr punches out of him, and at the obscene squelch as Burr fucks him where he is soaked wet, his own arousal made obvious to them both. He tries to find purchase with bound hands above his head, but there's nothing there, nothing he can reach. Ends up thrashing half out of hurt, fighting Burr's grip, and half because the angle Burr has chosen isn't the one that hits him where he needs it, and nothing he does will make Burr change. Because his pleasure, right now, is having Alexander in pain, and Alexander has no control.

He is inviting more punishment, he knows. He can't help it. Burr has never reduced him this way, by combining the pain with a not-quite-enough temptation of pleasure, the messiness and ecstasy of being mercilessly fucked without the skilled attentions Burr usually lavishes on him.

Hamilton begs. He begs, cries at the pain, tries to squirm away for as much as he must also fight to keep the pain off his leg. And it feels so good, the squirming, his struggles, and Burr can feel his eyes go lidded, so turned on, so hard. He thrusts faster, harder, just to hear him cry, hitting against the entrance to his womb again and again. He isn't giving him the pleasure he wants, begs for, drinks in the satisfaction of using him like this, the whore he is. Something to be fucked and thrown away.

Burr growls, as Hamilton squirms, fights against him. Draws his hand back and slaps Alexander hard against the face once, twice. "What's the matter?" he spits, "a whore can't take a little fucking?" He struggles more, turns his face to the side when Burr hits him, so Burr wraps a hand cruelly around his jaw, forces him forward as Burr spits in his face. "Filthy, disgusting. Listen to how wet you are."

Oh, but for all this is good play be doesn't want his ass to get truly raw. Wants only to deepen bruises. So it is that Burr draws out, picks him up and flips him down onto his face, so that his leg is twisted, not too tight but enough to be uncomfortable. So that Burr is pressing him down into the floorboards, and with each thrust his pelvis slams against that reddened skin, his balls slapping against his red and abused cunt. So that he can hiss in his ear, vile, awful things, that make Hamilton buck.

When Burr thrusts into him, Alexander shockingly -- to himself and, he imagines, to Burr -- comes immediately. Something about it is just right, and he's been straining for it for so long, pleading and fighting and Burr's cock just has to caress the right places inside him, just once, and he's completely gone. It drags a scream out of his raw throat, an uncontrollable rush of even more fluid, a series of spasms like a hook digging in somewhere behind his navel and yanking hard. At first, he thinks that he's wet himself, because that certainly hasn't happened before, but he doesn't smell urine and it didn't come from his cock -- no, his cock is spilling onto the floor, semen smearing under him.

Burr wasn't trying to make him come. Was, in fact, trying not to make him come, and Alexander was so needy for it that he got there anyway. And the instant he has the breath he's dropping his head in submission -- "Daddy, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, please don't hurt me, I'm sorry," a sob breaking out of him, and then another, as he kneels in the filthy evidence of his own pleasure.

Hamilton comes quickly, as Burr fucks back into him, gushes slick and spend around Burr's cock without warning. As Hamilton screams, lost to his pleasure, cramps around him and smears his cock in that feminine release, Burr finds himself coming too--Hamilton's begging, his cries for mecy pushing him over the edge, and he thrusts in hard once, stays there, knotted, pumping him full of release even as Hamilton drips, squelching as he shifts.

Hazy from pleasure, as he carefully pulls Hamilton up, keeping them tied, back to chest, and leans against the bed.

"Shhhh, you did so well." Burr whispers, lapping at the back of his neck. "You don't need to apologize. You came everywhere," a little laugh, disbelief. "Can't you feel?" He asks, as he tugs the bindings free from Hamilton's wrists, kisses over them before guiding those hands between them, to feel over Burr's balls, coated in Hamilton's spend. "Good boy," he coos, and he continues to pepper kisses, little licks, "such a good boy, my boy. Does it feel good, having Daddy's cock buried in you? Does it feel good, to drip Daddy's come?"

The aftershocks still work through him, endless aftershocks, and he cannot believe it -- rippling through him like little earthquakes. Paroxysms, the doctors call it, and it is hardly a fitting description, given what Burr has done to him. He's still a little out of his mind with it, spine curving as another shivers along his core.

He can hardly focus enough to know that he's being unbound. Being knotted is an ache that makes him feel more solid, more real, rather than the untethered, wild thing he had become.

"I've never," and another flutter, compressing him on the knot. "What did you do to me?" A little slurred. He twists far enough to nuzzle Burr, brush over his lips in a terrible and off-center and still-exactly-what-he-needs kiss. "Daddy," he murmurs, drunk with it, as he runs his fingers along his slit. "You're dripping with mine, too."

"Oh yes," Burr purrs, "but it was nothing I did. So wonderful and sweet," and he runs his fingers there beside Hamilton's, scoops up what he can and brings those fingers up, rests them on Hamilton's lips, inviting him to taste.

"Had you never done that before? I guess it is true, that no one can fuck you like I can. That no one knows your body like me, not even you." Nips them, at the base of his neck, just enough to hurt, and then lathes the place with his tongue. Lazy, wandering hands, fiddling with his nipples, his cock. Chasing that release too, and bringing it to his own mouth, making sure Hamilton is watching as he sucks his fingers clean.

"It couldn't be anyone else's child," he whispers. "Not after a fucking like that. There can be no doubt in your mind."

And of course he does, dipping his head forward to take those fingers in his mouth, suckle all the liquid off of them. Sighs, soft, as he can feel the aftershocks diminishing.

"Like it when you make me helpless," mumbles Alexander. "Hate feeling helpless with you."

On the surface, not a thought that makes any sense. This is what spills from him when he isn't planning his words, not choosing them with care. He means: he likes it when Burr does this to him. He hates it when he feels he has to depend on Burr for everything.

"If I purr again, will you knot my mouth?" is the next thought that comes, on the heels of the first.

"Already wanting, are you?" Burr asks, and he brings his finger around, the ones still wet with his own saliva, to dip into Hamilton's mouth. Push far back, towards his throat. "Perhaps I didn't fuck you hard enough the first time. You did beg so well, crying for me to stop. Perhaps I should fuck you harder." And he pulls his fingers free, moves them down between their bodies, where his other hole is, stained with spend.

"Not very grateful, are you?" And he pushes the tip of one finger in, fighting those clenching muscles, unprepared. "Maybe I didn't spank you hard enough. Tell me, is your ass sore? Your cunt?"

He tips his head back against Burr's shoulder. Glances back, as best he can. "Burr," he says, and he is quiet and liquid, and a sort of aimless kind of sad. "Take care of me. Please?" It isn't a use of his safeword, but it is a soft and sincere request. A quiet, slow unfurling.

He is not in love with Burr, no, he is not swept off his feet, but in this moment, he considers, for the first time, that he could open his heart. He is so vulnerable, even more so now that Burr knows what he carries. Burr has power; he could take the child from Alexander, if it was demonstrated in a court of law that he was the one who took Alexander at his last heat. And a part of Alexander, the agonized and angry and petty part of him, doesn't put it past Burr.

The rest of him considers trust. Considers giving the gift of himself, all of himself, and considers whether that gift would be cherished.

He takes a breath, and admits something that makes him feel the most vulnerable yet -- See, a heat is an uncontrollable reflex, urges that are obviously overwhelming. But this is something he has resisted, has only done as minimally as he can, has been fine without, an urge that is quintessentially omega and amounts to admitting that he's different now in more than just body. "I want to nest," he whispers. "Here." He is so scared of this, and scared of what Burr excites in him, and scared of his future. But the safety here... He wants to burrow in it.

It is not a safeword, but Burr knows Alexander well enough to treat it as such.

"Of course," he says, gently. Removes his finger, and ever so carefully turns them, until Hamilton is facing him and he can lift them both, stagger towards the bed and allow himself to fall, Hamilton on top, still knotted to him. Not much longer until he wont be able to lift him. Already his muscles ache, from the long repetitive motions.

He knows this is precious, that he is being offered something, delicate and breakable, and with the wrong move some part of Alex could seal off to him forever. He cradles him, as one cradles a child, gentle, rocking motions, one hand on Alexander's back as he pulls the spare blankets up from the foot of the bed, wraps them. His knot, starting to go down, yet they are still sealed firmly together. Not worth hurting him, to pull it out.

Begins petting over his head, down his neck, his back. Reaches to the table where they keep the salve, massages it into his hands and sleeps them beneath the blankets, rubbing slowly into his ass and thighs. "There," Burr whispers, "I have you. I've got you. You're so precious, so perfect. So good. Tell me what you need," peppering kisses over his face, eyelids.

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."

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