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amrev_intrigues2022-07-07 10:02 pm
slowtoanger) wrote in amrev_intrigues2022-07-07 10:02 pm
Private Storyline 10
Burr isn’t sure what comes over him. What drives him to wake up in their little cabin, which is much too muggy for it being still winter, feeling warm and ill but also needy, half-hard. Like the nights when he had been pregnant, and waking to pee meant also waking Alexander to offer him some relief in other ways.
He doesn't think it's a heat--isn't familiar enough with himself, yet, to recognize it this early. But--God, he needs. And he pains. He twists in bed, and Hamilton beside him stirs, but does not wake. His stomach is twisting, and he kicks the blankets off, nearly wakes Laurens, sleeping beside them--too cold, still, to separate most nights.
He can smell Hamilton, well, despite the bath he had taken before bed. He can smell the sweat, and the salt, and the pheromones that are always present, that mean Hamilton. He whines--a little, noiseless thing, that vibrates his chest. He wants him, god, he wants him, and he doesn't want to wait. They haven't talked about this--Burr using Hamilton while he sleeps, in the same way Burr wishes Hamilton to use him.
But. Well. It would be like a surprise, wouldn't it? And Burr would not begrudge Hamilton similar things, if he woke needy. So Burr's breath stutters out of him, as the grabs the edge of the blanket and peels it slowly down Hamilton's body, revealing pale legs that glisten in the dying fire light. God, he is beautiful, here in nothing but a nightshirt, and Burr feels like he can't breathe, when he lays a hand so gently on the back of Hamilton's calves, waits to make sure he does not stir, and slides those hands carefully upward, pushing up the nightshirt, revealing bare thighs, ass.
He reaches out, strokes up and down, drinking in the sound of his skin against Hamilton's. Up, further, until his hands come to the swell of his assk, and he squeezes the flesh, works it in his hands, until he parts him, and feels himself stiffening to the point of pain, at the sight of Hamilton's entrance contracting against cold air. He can't help himself. He can't help it. He wants to taste, needs to, and so he bends down, mouth hovering over, breath puffing hot against his hole. Extends his tongue and laps, and when it meets Hamilton's flesh he shivers, bites back a little moan as he pushes his face closer--licking and lapping and sucking.
They've never done this before. Never, and it feels so filthy, is so filthy, to be tasting an alpha in this manner, and he shivers, whimpers, thrusting against the bed at the same time he takes, ravenous, from Hamilton's sleeping form.
He doesn't think it's a heat--isn't familiar enough with himself, yet, to recognize it this early. But--God, he needs. And he pains. He twists in bed, and Hamilton beside him stirs, but does not wake. His stomach is twisting, and he kicks the blankets off, nearly wakes Laurens, sleeping beside them--too cold, still, to separate most nights.
He can smell Hamilton, well, despite the bath he had taken before bed. He can smell the sweat, and the salt, and the pheromones that are always present, that mean Hamilton. He whines--a little, noiseless thing, that vibrates his chest. He wants him, god, he wants him, and he doesn't want to wait. They haven't talked about this--Burr using Hamilton while he sleeps, in the same way Burr wishes Hamilton to use him.
But. Well. It would be like a surprise, wouldn't it? And Burr would not begrudge Hamilton similar things, if he woke needy. So Burr's breath stutters out of him, as the grabs the edge of the blanket and peels it slowly down Hamilton's body, revealing pale legs that glisten in the dying fire light. God, he is beautiful, here in nothing but a nightshirt, and Burr feels like he can't breathe, when he lays a hand so gently on the back of Hamilton's calves, waits to make sure he does not stir, and slides those hands carefully upward, pushing up the nightshirt, revealing bare thighs, ass.
He reaches out, strokes up and down, drinking in the sound of his skin against Hamilton's. Up, further, until his hands come to the swell of his assk, and he squeezes the flesh, works it in his hands, until he parts him, and feels himself stiffening to the point of pain, at the sight of Hamilton's entrance contracting against cold air. He can't help himself. He can't help it. He wants to taste, needs to, and so he bends down, mouth hovering over, breath puffing hot against his hole. Extends his tongue and laps, and when it meets Hamilton's flesh he shivers, bites back a little moan as he pushes his face closer--licking and lapping and sucking.
They've never done this before. Never, and it feels so filthy, is so filthy, to be tasting an alpha in this manner, and he shivers, whimpers, thrusting against the bed at the same time he takes, ravenous, from Hamilton's sleeping form.