Laurens shifts up behind Burr, and his fingers trace up a thigh, a warning of his presence, and then dip and skim between his legs. "You're always so wet," Laurens marvels; "May I?" And Hamilton watches with dark, wanting eyes as Laurens presses his cock between the lips of Burr's cunt, uses his fingers to spread the moisture over himself. Moves back and forth, a tease, before pulling away, leaving smears between Burr's thighs.

He shifts around them, so he is behind Hamilton, now -- nudges him forward, and opens his legs, urging, until Hamilton realizes what he wants and hooks one leg over Burr, leaving him terribly exposed.

And Laurens seems hungry to see the sight of him, how his hole works against nothing, twitches, wanting to close. Hamilton is flushed. He is not aroused, but the aching, tired strings of arousal tug at his insides, as the remnants of one lover are observed by the other. He feels his entrance with such sensitivity, the brush of air, the drying slick and the semen that leaks from within, where Burr left him so messy.

He makes a little, wanting sound, and it seems to break the spell. Laurens plays the head of his cock up and down Hamilton's cleft, teasing as the head catches on his hole, making him twitch.

"Slut of an alpha," remarks Laurens. The press against Hamilton's hole firms, and then the head of Laurens' cock is inside him, smooth and slick, a stretch so wide -- And Hamilton's breath leaves him as he is penetrated, like Laurens is pressing the air out of his body. The stretch is so much, always just this side of too much. It is uncomfortable, and he is soft, still. But that's what he loves about it. He is used. It isn't about his enjoyment, and the act of submitting himself to Laurens' desire is an astonishing thrill.

He closes his eyes and presses his face against Burr as Laurens begins to fuck him.