Future PSL 4

[slowtoanger]

He doesn't know when to expect his heat, after the last one. His cycle must restart, if it restarts at all. Ned still is not sure he will ever have another heat, that Burr has not caused himself irreparable damage to his biology with the concoctions. Burr isn't sure he wants another heat regardless. Not after the last one.

Things are better, in the days after their visit to the Madison's. It is easier for Burr to be around Hamilton, and his family. Spends less time shut up in his room, and his skin gets some color. And Hamilton smiles more. Seems younger, each time he spots Burr, years melting off his face, each time bringing Burr up short.

When had he begun looking so old? So worn, and stress marked? Had Burr done that? Bent his shoulders and marked his face and made him a touch too thin? They aren't that old, either of them, but--older than either of their parents lived to be, though it's possible Hamilton's father is kicking around somewhere, still. One can never be sure, with connections such as those.

They aren't whole yet. That will perhaps take time. And Burr is still so angry, sometimes. Wakes in the middle of the night wanting to cry or punch something. Sometimes he cannot look at Hamilton at all. Yet the episodes grow fewer and farther between. He is used to coping with emotions on his own, and this is something he can't burden Hamilton with. How much more would it add to Alexander's daily pains, his already unearned guilt, to know that some part of Burr feels broken and abandoned, for something that was not Hamilton's fault.

Hamilton had forgiven Burr so easily, but still--

Sometimes he cannot look in the mirror. Avoids raising his head, as he gets ready in the mornings. Things he doesn't dwell on.

As it is, the heat comes as suddenly and unexpectedly as the last. Another nightmare, the same. That something like this could happen again, that he would never be safe. He shouldn't have stopped taking those suppressants at all, regardless of what Ned said.

Yet. He isn't around anyone. Him and Theodosia are sitting in the little park across from their townhome--a small wild area, soon to be developed, when he realizes he has begun to drift. When time gets away from him, and Theodosia asks a question he has not the mental faculties to answer.

Always disoriented, at the start of his heats, before he even begins to give off those pheromones. Theodosia asks what is wrong, and he forces a smile. But his hands shake, when he pushes to his feet, and he stumbles and has to be caught my her.

"I'm afraid I don't feel well, darling. No need to worry. I think an evening nap might be in order--" but he sounds strained to his own ears, and his heart is hammering, as his eyes dart around. There could be anyone here, anyone passing, and if they happened to be an alpha--

Theodosia, dear and wonderful and everything to him, hurries him home, as his legs begin to shake more and more. The house is empty, but the panic continues to swell in his chest. Hamilton on business, the children out with their tutor. Burr excuses himself, bids her attend supper, and shuts himself in his room as he feels that awful heat start, bluming, between his legs. Locks the door. Shoves a chair beneath the handle, for good measure.

Turns towards his dresser, fumbling through his bottles for the scent reducers, but damn Hamilton, he has taken that too. And his legs are starting to give, buckle, as he stumbles towards the bed. He can feel the barest amount of slick starting to form. Lays back and closes his eyes, tries to breathe through the cramps that come next, and the headache, heart pounding. The need. The need, the need, the need.

He cries.

Comments

[non_stop]

"It came on him quickly," Theodosia tells him, when he arrives home and smells a hint of something odd in the air. "In the park. I took him home as quickly as I could." She's already had her first heat, earlier than Burr's had taken hold but not by much, so she knows some of the symptoms, at least.

A lurch, in Hamilton's stomach, as he thinks of it. Normally, he looked forward to Burr's heats, enjoyed the closeness, the adoration, the way they could do nothing but share in each other for days at a time. But the last time Burr had a heat, someone hurt him.

Hamilton kisses Theo on the forehead. "You have been unwavering in your affection and support of him," he says. "You are truly astonishing."

She tends towards being withdrawn, as Burr does, but Hamilton is confident that she adores him -- perhaps not as openly as she did when she was a baby, always lighting up at the sight of him. But adores him, nonetheless. He presses her hand to his heart, clasped in both of his, and she gives him that little, soft smile, and he wonders how he is lucky to have such a wonderful human being as a child.

He can smell the heat better when he gets upstairs. He goes straight to the room, knocks to warn Burr -- "Aaron? It's me, it's Alexander." But when he tries the handle, it doesn't go -- it's locked, and the handle won't move, like something's jammed against it.

"Aaron?"

[slowtoanger]

When he hears the knock on the door his body goes rigid--when the knob turns and catches, and before he knows it his back is pressed up against the opposite wall, and his legs are shaking again, and there is a low growl rumbling in his throat that cannot seem to escape.

He doesn't know what to do. Can't move. Paralyzed there against the wall. Terrified the door will open, though he knows he has closed it. Half of him screams to hide himself, yet the other half cannot tear his eyes from the door, to in some way defend himself. To make no noise.

He is silent, though it is difficult to breathe, too slowly for his pounding heart. Bites down on his hand, hard enough to draw blood.

[non_stop]

He presses himself against the door, and he can smell -- terror, on the other side. An omega in fear and distress. His husband, in fear and distress.

"Aaron, please," and Hamilton lays his hand flat against the wood. "Love." He projects as best he can, his own pheromones, warmth, love, acceptance -- and, of course, he can't help it: desire. "You're safe. I love you. Please, let me in." His own distress is rising, though he suppresses it as best he can -- he doesn't want to provoke Burr any further.

Wonders if he could get in through the window. He could get out on the roof through the guest room.

[slowtoanger]

He can't stop it. Can't help it. He's confused, and he hurts, and aches, and feels ill, sick with fear and need. He lets out a sob, before he clamps his hands down over his mouth.

He can hear Alexander through the door, but worse is when he cannot hear him, when he could be anywhere, doing anything--

Burr propels himself, suddenly, from the wall. Loses his feet on the small steps beside the bed, tumbles hard to the wood. Knocks his face, his lip between his teeth and the wood. A little pained sounds, but he is already crawling on scrapped palms before he has really gotten his knees under him, dragging himself into the small closet, closing the door, darkness.

Tears spilling down his face as he shoves himself into the back corner, behind spare fabrics. Covers his mouth again, eyes wide in the dark, watching the slit of light from under the door. The door that doesn't lock.

There's nothing he can do. There's nothing he can do. He's helpless, and anyone--anyone, or Hamilton. Anyone could come through the door, and it would not matter what--none of it--

He can't breathe. Big gasping breaths that seem to inhale only empty lungfuls. Digs nails into his arms, hard, hard.

[non_stop]

Hamilton enters his bedroom like a burglar, having slipped out of the guest room's window and climbed across the roof to the window into his own room. It doesn't lock, since it's on the second story, and he's able to slide it open. Knocks over a couple things on the table just under it, as he clambers inside.

Burr isn't here. A chair shoved under the door, a lock -- at first, Hamilton thinks Burr might have left via the window already.

And then he smells him, in the closet, panic and heat and terror.

"Aaron. It's just me, it's no one else. It's just me here. It's Alexander. It's your husband." He touches the door, reaches for the knob --

He can't. Not when Aaron is hurting so badly, not when he wanted to hide so desperately.

He has to adjust himself, his cock a hard line in his trousers, responding to the smell of the heat, but he sits down, back against the closet door.

"I'll keep it closed for you," he promises. "I'll guard you. No one's coming to get you."

[slowtoanger]

Burr is crying, and squirming, his own cock painfully hard, straining against the front of his breeches. And he can feel the slick running, catching in the fabric. Tear covered, snot covered, slick covered. A pathetic, whimpering mess.

He jerks back when Hamilton enters the room. Thinks his heart might give out, when he hears him outside the door. But the door doesn't open. He can smell Hamilton's need, but the door doesn't open.

"I'll keep it closed for you. I'll guard you. No one's coming to get you," he says, and Burr sobs louder, coming apart. No need to be quiet now, as he shakes in the closet.

Does Hamilton mean it? His rational brain and his animal fear, at war. Always so much less reasonable, so much more reactive, when those hormones flood his body. He can smell Hamilton. Can feel him. Can smell his arousal, alpha, and isn't that what had happened with Jefferson?

Put him too near an alpha, and it wouldn't be a matter of saying yes or no. His heat would decide for him, until he was unable to resist.

How long can Hamilton bear it? Would he really sit the whole of his heat there, making sure Burr was safe?

He whines, and thrusts his hips up against empty air, palms himself. He wants him, but he wants also to exercise this power. Feels drunk from fear, from need. He wants Hamilton, but he can't stand having him come in yet. He has to calm down. He needs to calm down.

[non_stop]

Focusing grows more and more difficult, as the smell grows stronger -- or perhaps as it has time to impact him. It isn't long before he reaches for the book on the bedside table, opens it, and begins to read out loud; it is Memoirs of the Author of the Vindication of the Rights of Women, by the husband of Mary Wollstonecraft. Burr is partway through, and Hamilton picks it up at that spot precisely.

He hardly even processes the words coming out of his mouth. He can hear Burr's soft sounds behind the door, catches hints of him panting, sounds of movement. The terror is, Hamilton truly hopes, starting to fade.

He reads. The light dims in the sky. His voice does not grow hoarse; he has spoken at longer stretches than this.

[slowtoanger]

The heat doesn't fade, but it ebbs a little--always in waves, the one or two times he had been forced to bear with no assistance from anyone.

His terror, his panic, seems to ebb with it. He is curled, still crying, heart pounding, desperate and needy and lost, in the corner of the closet when Hamilton begins to read. It is Burr's book--his book on Wollstonecraft, and he must control his wild, catching breath, quiet his sobs, in order to hear it.

A little like a transe, there in the dark of that closet, listening to Hamilton as he cries. He likes the dark. Likes wallowing, in this moment, where no one can see him. Likes Hamilton, outside the door, protecting him.

He doesn't know how long it had been. The floor beneath him seems wet, his pants ruined. His cock feels bruised, where it has been long ignored. His face swollen, his throat hoarse.

He wants Hamilton. He wants to be taken care of. He wants his husband.

The fear hasn't really gone, when he forces himself to knees, shaking, and crawls forward to open the door. Turns the knob just a bit, a little crack that let's candlelight spill in.

Then he retreats back to the corner. Hamilton may come in if he likes, but Burr won't leave this space. This small, safe little corner.

[non_stop]

His tongue stumbles over the words as soon as the knob starts to turn. The door pushes open, just slightly, just a crack, and Hamilton smells a rush of pheromones, of Burr, and heat pulses through him in response. He breathes, slow, trying to calm himself.

"Aaron?" His fingertips nudge the door a little wider. More fear, now, that he smells -- Aaron's peculiar fear, which used to come across him when memories of his uncle got too close. This is something else, Hamilton knows, not quite the same.

He slips inside, moving on his knees, and he touches wet ground. Oh, Burr must be suffering, terribly.

"Darling." He kneels in front of Burr. Reaches for his hand, and brings it up to touch his lips: their gesture, fraught with meaning. "Can I -- may I touch you?" His voice trembles a little, because he knows that if Aaron refuses him, he will back away, and that it will hurt.

[slowtoanger]

Burr can't speak. Trembling there still, in the darkened corner. He flinches away, when Hamilton comes closer, yet at the same moment he whines for him. Still crying, after so long.

Goosebumps, when Hamilton touches his hand. When Hamilton kisses it, and Burr nods, wants to fall into him, wants to crawl away. Waits.

[non_stop]

Alexander Hamilton is a man of instincts before thought, emotion before contemplation. No matter what he has learned from his two decades with this man, he has always been willing to cast himself into the tumult of his own heart. To stop himself from doing so, from immediately falling on Burr, is one of the most difficult things he has ever done. His fingernails dig into his own palm, a hint of pain to give him a hint of control.

God. God, he wants to have his tongue in Burr already, wants to eat out his lovely cunt and drown in the endless slick. Burr makes such sounds when he's pleasured in his heat, and Hamilton wants them so, so badly. Ravenous for them.

Hamilton touches Burr's foot. Slides off the shoe, and glides his thumb up the steep arch of the stockinged foot. He dips down and presses a kiss to that vulnerable, sensitive arch, and then the bone of Burr's ankle. Slow kisses, trailing up, pausing when Burr tenses, stroking hands, gentling. The other leg gets the same treatment; Hamilton does not go above the knee. Slow, slow. He could lose himself in this.

[slowtoanger]

Burr loses his air, oxygen, when Hamilton kisses his arch. Makes a little whine, as his knees begin to tremble, as his legs fall open. He always liked the sight of himself, in nothing but stocking, those legs folded over Hamilton's shoulders, or a delicate ankle grasped in one hand, held open while--

God, he is terrified, and trembling, and crying, but he cannot resist any longer. The same thing that had happened with Jefferson; insensible, begging on the stairs, until finally he had been knotted and used.

Hamilton doesn't push. Teases in much the same manner. And Burr falls back and makes wounded noises like pleasure. Chest heaving, his heat still pounding through his body. He can feel each heartbeat, through the swollen lips of his cunt, and there is more slick, impossibly more.

[non_stop]

Burr's legs fall open, an invitation, but Hamilton cannot take it. Not the way he ordinarily would. Something makes him hesitate, and he worries, worries that Burr will take it as rejection. That it will wound him. But it might wound him more to take him while he is so afraid, and so Hamilton will not. A knotting will have to wait until Burr can tell him why he locked himself away, and why he finally opened the door.

"This isn't right," Hamilton manages, and he presses his face against the inside of Burr's knee. "I don't want to hurt you -- Aaron. Tell me to stop, tell me to just use my mouth, tell me -- do you want to take me, instead? Anything, I'll do anything for you." He means it, truly, but he needs to know what. He needs something, some answer.

[slowtoanger]

"Please," lips that feel rubbery, unable to function properly. "please stop." Breath catching, shuddering in his chest, his lungs. He doesn't want this, at the same moment he wants it so badly. At the same time he cannot stop his hips from twitching upward against nothing.

"Hamilton," higher, thinner. Vulnerable. "Hamilton, I'm scared."

Like a child. He sounds like a child. And though he is no longer panicking, no longer in terror, the overmuch, conflicting swell of emotions makes his cry harder, choking. He is growing more distressed, slowly. Ramping up as his heat starts to swell once more.

He hates himself. For acting like this. A gross overreaction, before his own husband, over something that had happened months ago. Over something Burr had wanted. To be giving Hamilton mixed signals, acting like a mad omega, bound for an asylum.

He wants Hamilton to hold him. Wants him to whisper sweet things. Wants everything to be okay.

[non_stop]

"Okay, okay." So much easier to control himself when he smells that rising fear -- and when Burr gives him something to focus on. A direction. Because he would never, not even at the worst of times, force the man he loves.

He scoots up next to Burr and gathers him into his arms. Shifts them so Burr is on his lap, and holds him, just holds him. The sweet inviting slick, wet and soaking into Hamilton's trousers, but there is a barrier between them, two barriers. His instincts scream for him to render Burr insensible with pleasure. His instincts scream at him to comfort his husband.

Hamilton is trembling, and he strokes Burr's back. "I love you, I love you," he breathes, "I love you, I won't hurt you, I promise. You're all right, you're here, with me. We can wait it out, together."

[slowtoanger]

Burr is sweating, as he clings to Hamilton. A mix of terror and need. He clings to him, pushes himself against him hard, as if he could make everything better by virtue of being close.

Sobs into his neck, overwhelmed, but he can't stop his hips from working, the shudder that shakes up his spine, when Hamilton's thigh slots between his legs.

Panting against Hamilton's neck, and dragging slick through layers of fabric, needy, needy, needy--

He had heard rumors that Omegas could die, if they didn't satisfy their heat. Not true, he knows from experience, but it certainly feels true now.

The dark of the closet soothes him. More over, the warm weight of his husband soothes him. The sweet words. We can wait it out together, Hamilton says, where before Burr had thought--

On opening the door, finally, and Hamilton falling upon him, removing his shoe, kissing up his leg, he'd thought--

But Hamilton loves him. And Burr clings harder. Grinds down harder. Smearing tears against Hamilton's neck.

[non_stop]

It couldn't be more difficult if it had been actual torture. Hamilton is sweating freely, skin damp, hair wet, his cock so hard that it genuinely does hurt trapped the way it is, but he can't shift it out of his trousers without making Burr more afraid. And Burr is so afraid, afraid and needy at once, which makes Hamilton ache. Why is it all so wrong?

He's going out of his mind. The smell of Burr taking him to some white-hot place, holding him too hard as he squirms against Hamilton's thigh, grinds down on him. Weeps on him.

Hamilton finds himself keening, unable to suppress it entirely. He doesn't understand what's happening, and he doesn't know how to comfort his mate. He doesn't know how to make it better. For Hamilton, who defines himself by his family in so many ways, this is agony. Burr's agony is his agony.

[slowtoanger]

Burr's hips work harder. He can smell the need from Hamilton, from himself, and the heat is burning hot, making his whole body tight with want, anything, anything--

Brushing forward, so that his crotch is grinding against the bulge in Hamilton's pants, and away again, and he is so needy his legs clench down around Hamilton as his body seizes--small little jerks as he comes. An unsatisfying orgasm, that does little but make him want more, which only makes him cry more. His cock still hard, and if something does spill it isn't much, and he is already so wet, defiled.

Hamilton keens, and Burr leans forward. Burr wants to breathe him in, to use him as a balm until he never has another nightmare, or bad heat. He wants Hamilton to take him, to push him down and fuck him until he can't remember his name, can't form words. Why then is he still scared?

An animal reaction. Losing himself. Leaning forward and licking over Hamilton's neck, his jaw, the skin of his face. Licking over him the way he licked their children when they were born, grooming them, scenting them, his, his, his. He is still shaking, each movement uncoordinated. Wraps his hands around his face to turn him, to grant move access, tips his head back, clumsily jerking at his cravat, licking exposed skin greedily. Hamilton's scent gland, sucking it into his mouth, as his other hand goes around, to the small of Hamilton's back. Pulls them together. Laying the way they do in bed when they do not want to separate in the morning.

[non_stop]

Good; good. It means he is not the enemy, not the cause of the fear, and that his mate draws comfort from his presence. This steadies Hamilton, and the effect of the grooming, the little licks, is like magic. Hamilton still worries, but instead of distress, he transforms back to comforting his mate, crooning and nuzzling and submitting to Burr's possessiveness.

Those possessive teeth are at his gland and Hamilton's grip goes tight on Burr, a wave of heat flashing through him like a shock. He can smell the dissatisfaction on Burr, and has to wrench himself back from trying to remedy that, again. Tangled up in Burr as much as Burr is in him, impatiently yanking his cravat the rest of the way off, exposing himself as much as he can to comfort his mate. "Darling, darling," rough and raspy voice, "love, what do you need, what can I do, I adore you, you're everything, you're everything to me, I love you," in cascading whispers.

[slowtoanger]

And Burr can't stop, once he's begun. His hands scrabble, tearing at buttons, shoving Hamilton's waistcoat and then shirt open, exposing the expanse of his chest, and then he's sliding down, continuing to groom, to lick, to suck little marks into skin. Seals his mouth over a nipple, biting, pulling.

Leaning back until he is on the floor, his knees bent, feet on either side of Hamilton. Lays there for a moment, catching his breath. It's easier, like this. It's easier, with Hamilton speaking to him, and he's still scared, but--but he needs it.

"Take care of me," he says, and his voice cracks, overwrought. Lifts one leg in the air, the white of his stocking a delicate line, as he points his foot and brings it down to rest against Hamilton's chest. "Touch me. Massage me. Groom me."

Little, indulgent requests. Safe requests. He can do this. He wants it, so badly. His clothes feel too heavy, and damp, and tight, and he tugs at his cravat, the lace around his neck. Wants to be free, exposed, but he likes being trussed up. Delicate lace, stockings, garters Hamilton had gotten him, with little bows.

[non_stop]

This, he can do.

He follows Burr down to the ground, shedding his shirt and waistcoat along the way, leaving him bare to the waist. Chooses to leave on his trousers, for now, if only to stop him from taking any steps that might be too far.

He smooths down the stocking, leaving it in place, fussily tucking it so that the wrinkles are pulled flat. The other side has the same treatment, removing the shoe, but settling down the stocking, with little kisses and licks, and a nip to his knee. Then he moves up and tugs out the knot in Burr's cravat, begins to lick and purr at Burr's face and neck, fingers clumsily working at the buttons of his shirt. He is emitting little purrs, not relaxed purrs but relaxing purrs, in between little murmurs of love and affirmation and adoration.

When he has the shirt off, he sets the cravat back around Burr's neck, tying it in an intricate set of ruffles from muscle memory alone. Then he's nosing around it, nipping at Burr's gland, then licking it, licking, licking until the skin is soothed again. His fingers are combing through Burr's sweat-soaked hair, brushing it back from his temples, settling it at the back of his neck.

[slowtoanger]

Burr is gasping, overwrought, hurtling to some deep place, lost. The terror is fading. The terror is fading, as Hamilton offers him such sweet attentions, but for each bit of fear that drips out of him, it is replaced by heat and need and desire ten fold.

He feels like he is burning. Already he has waited so long, been hard so long. He bares his neck as Hamilton licks, wants him to bite, bite, to take.

He is dehydrated. From the slick, from the sweat. He is feverish, from resisting the heat. He lets his legs fall open impossibly farther, bucks up against Hamilton, rolls against him, mewling.

"Please," he sobs, and his fingers come down hard, squeezing bruises into Hamilton's flesh. "Please, please, please. Be rough with me," he asks, though it seems such a strange request. Such a strange one, on the tail-end of panic. But...and yet--

"Show me," gasping, "show me how much you've needed it. How much I've made you want. Please, breed me."

[non_stop]

For a half-second, Hamilton whites out completely. A bestial creature kept barely leashed within Hamilton's narrow form snarls and snaps and strains for freedom, and Burr, with his words, looses it.

Next he knows, his teeth are buried in Burr's neck at that gland, with bruising force. The growl rising in his throat is a claim on Burr's body, an assertion of dominance, and, if there were any other alphas here, a warning. This is the part of Hamilton's nature that renders him unable to let go of anger and slights, that makes him see red, that, channeled through his intellect, lends his proverbial tongue its razor-sharp keenness.

Any flicker of uncertainty, any return of that fear, would break the spell over Hamilton -- but without that, he is rough. "My needy slut--" He takes Burr's arm and drags him onto his stomach, reaching around him so he can hold Burr tight while he unfastens his trousers, rips a couple of the buttons off in his haste. "I'll give you what you want, your greedy cunt," and Burr can thrash all he likes in this position; Hamilton won't lose his grip. He yanks down those trousers, peels back his own only far enough to free himself, and penetrates Burr in one fluid motion. "You wet slut, you're soaking, you need it, tell me what you need," he hisses. "Whose cock?"

And his short, hard thrusts are swallowed hungrily by Burr's body. He unleashes himself on Burr, dragging him back on Hamilton's cock by his hair, by hard hands on his hips. He fucks with an unmatched intensity, not bothering to reach around to touch his mate. Wet sounds and the slap of his hips against Burr's, the smeared slick on the floor that doesn't give Burr's knees any purchase, forcing him to lean his weight on his arms, forcing him to let Hamilton's thrusts shove him forward.

[slowtoanger]

Oh, God. God, god, god, god, god. Hamilton is in him. Is pushing Burr down into the floor as he slides his cock inside, no preparation, an awful squelch through slick that has been gathering, gathering for hours.

Burr's body gives a jolt, electric, as Hamilton pushes forward, Burr spreading his legs as wide as he can, making those noises, those needy whines, throat bared as Hamilton yanks his head back, spilling those scents, those smells.

He has never held himself back before in such a manner, only then to indulge. He is wild, out of his mind.

"You, I need you," he sobs, and tries to wiggle back, but his knees slip in his own wet, and soon his torso is pressed against the foor. Immobile, unable to fight back, and Hamilton is a good alpha, good mate, to be taking him in such a way.

In truth he should come straight away. Yet something in the delay has broken him, and he hurls himself into abasement, wanting more, needing more.

"Your cock," Burr sobs, "your knot, yours, please, fuck me--Alexander!" Back arching and bucking as Hamilton hits that spot inside him, thrusts into him again and again and again.

Slapping skin, wet sounds, Burr panting and keening and moaning and scrapping his nails against the floor, scrabbling for purchase he cannot find, trying to anchor himself if only to feel each thrust better.

He can feel each inch, each moment of dragging skin, Hamilton's cock against the lips of his cunt, the head pushing against something deep inside. Can feel how Hamilton ruins him, claims him, and he cannot present himself like this, and his left kick against the floor uselessly, toes catching and dragging and pushing uselessly as Hamilton fucks down again and again and again.

[non_stop]

"So wet--" Hamilton remembers, what seems a century ago, the first time they fucked, on a narrow bed in a narrow room, breathing in one another's air, Burr pleading use me, ruin me. The first thing Burr ever begged him for. Gag me, hit me, bind me.

He remembers what he did, too.

It's easier now than it was then, only because of how flooded with slick Burr is, how much his body readies itself to be bred.

"Need my knot?" He drags Burr back onto him, making him feel the start of the knot's swell as it settles inside him. "You need it? Beg me for it. Beg me." He drags it out again, Burr's body struggling to hold on, flailing, whimpering, letting out a cry of loss as it tugs free.

He bears down again, drives it inside Burr, more difficult this time, Burr's entrance fighting him on the push in, and again on the push out. The sounds Burr makes, the helpless way he thrashes -- he is Hamilton's. He will be Hamilton's forever.

"Mine." He worries for a moment that he's swollen too much to push inside, but as he hisses the word, Burr's body opens for him, yields, in a stretch that must be painful and wide. The knot settles hard just inside Burr, swelling and swelling, and Hamilton pulls Burr back by his hair and sinks teeth into his neck, drawing blood this time, a claiming bite. Bites and holds there, as he comes and comes and comes into his mate's hot, willing cunt.