He whines, when Hamilton pulls out, shivering at the damp, cold wet that spills from him. He is filthy, and there is so much, Hamilton bred him so good. Good alpha, and when Hamilton comes back Burr latches on to him immediately. When Hamilton settles him in front of the fire, as lethargic and clumsy as his limbs are he half crawls into Hamilton's lap, curls against him--head propped on his thighs as Hamilton washed him. Purrs. Purrs.
Hamilton spreads his legs, and Burr hums, opens them further. He isn't desperate, but his cock is still half hard, and he expects for all he feels satisfied and lazy to still be fucked. Hormones, or habit, making him present himself a little, and preens when Hamilton croons, when Burr flexes his muscles and more cum leaks out.
He is still wearing his stockings, and stretches lazily, showing himself off. Let's Hamilton maneuver his body as he wishes. He doesn't think he has ever felt so content, or so loved. Small.
When Hamilton speaks, Burr cries. He soaks in each word like a wound, curling his fingers into Hamilton's skin, breathing him, and allowing himself to be washed, infantile.
And he wants, in that same lazy way. He wants to give what Hamilton gives. Caresses his cheek with shaking fingers, transfixed, at the way the fire catches his eyes. He wants to bath him, and tugs hard enough to make Hamilton roll, to catch himself over Burr.
Another rag in the basin, and Burr lift it with clumsy fingers, shaking fingers, presses it to Hamilton's forehead, watches the water run down. Little, small, ineffective strokes. Over torso, and arms, neck and face. Washing Hamilton as Hamilton washes him. Watching Hamilton. Looking, looking. Drowning in him.
He wants to help, to give, but he is so tired, and it is hard, to keep his arms raised. Whines, when he drops the rags. Heavy. So heavy. The way he sometimes gets, after heats.
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Hamilton spreads his legs, and Burr hums, opens them further. He isn't desperate, but his cock is still half hard, and he expects for all he feels satisfied and lazy to still be fucked. Hormones, or habit, making him present himself a little, and preens when Hamilton croons, when Burr flexes his muscles and more cum leaks out.
He is still wearing his stockings, and stretches lazily, showing himself off. Let's Hamilton maneuver his body as he wishes. He doesn't think he has ever felt so content, or so loved. Small.
When Hamilton speaks, Burr cries. He soaks in each word like a wound, curling his fingers into Hamilton's skin, breathing him, and allowing himself to be washed, infantile.
And he wants, in that same lazy way. He wants to give what Hamilton gives. Caresses his cheek with shaking fingers, transfixed, at the way the fire catches his eyes. He wants to bath him, and tugs hard enough to make Hamilton roll, to catch himself over Burr.
Another rag in the basin, and Burr lift it with clumsy fingers, shaking fingers, presses it to Hamilton's forehead, watches the water run down. Little, small, ineffective strokes. Over torso, and arms, neck and face. Washing Hamilton as Hamilton washes him. Watching Hamilton. Looking, looking. Drowning in him.
He wants to help, to give, but he is so tired, and it is hard, to keep his arms raised. Whines, when he drops the rags. Heavy. So heavy. The way he sometimes gets, after heats.