"Oh," Hamilton gasps, "oh," as the familiar, soaking heat of Burr's body closes around him. He can't breathe; he clutches at Burr. God, God, he can feel how he swells, how it makes Burr shift around him, a movement-not-movement. His heartbeat seems to force blood into the tender tissues of his cock, a rough and bruising arousal. Burr takes him in, and Hamilton feels a strange sort of jitter of muscles inside him, an eagerness for the penetration that Hamilton doesn't fully register as out of the ordinary.
And Laurens fucks him. Laurens uses him in a way that Hamilton knows is designed to make Hamilton feel helpless and pleasured. Hard thrusts pantomiming ruthlessness, just enough that he has to squirm at the friction, not enough that he is hurt. Even the tight grip of Laurens' hands speaks of care.
He can't think, can't speak. He is an instrument between them, an intermediary, an extension of Laurens and an extension of Burr -- or he is something precious held between them, petted and pleasured by both. Both realities overwhelm him. His desperate breaths have gone quick. He is limp, allowing himself to be moved and manipulated.
Laurens shifts him, changes angle, and then he is instantly hard, air punched out of him as he cries out and twitches forward deeper into Burr. "There you are," Laurens murmurs, approvingly, and Hamilton is making these ah sounds as the air is driven out of his body.
"Too much, it's too much," he pleads, and now the ruthlessness is true, but it's pleasure, not pain. He cannot control himself. Burr's scent is delicious and Laurens' is dominating, and Hamilton is theirs. He surges forward and sinks his teeth into Burr's neck because he has to, he can't not, Burr is perfect and Laurens is perfect and he needs, he needs -- !
He thrashes as he comes, only Laurens' teeth on him preventing him from moving enough to buck Laurens off entirely. Laurens swells, and Hamilton is so used and sore that he bleats in protest but it is so good, too, being knotted. He doesn't know if he has a knot in him, after one devastating climax already, and "Aaron, Aaron, do you -- are you --" spilling from him. If Aaron's body is wrapped around him like this, he may swell into a knot regardless, even if it's brief.
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And Laurens fucks him. Laurens uses him in a way that Hamilton knows is designed to make Hamilton feel helpless and pleasured. Hard thrusts pantomiming ruthlessness, just enough that he has to squirm at the friction, not enough that he is hurt. Even the tight grip of Laurens' hands speaks of care.
He can't think, can't speak. He is an instrument between them, an intermediary, an extension of Laurens and an extension of Burr -- or he is something precious held between them, petted and pleasured by both. Both realities overwhelm him. His desperate breaths have gone quick. He is limp, allowing himself to be moved and manipulated.
Laurens shifts him, changes angle, and then he is instantly hard, air punched out of him as he cries out and twitches forward deeper into Burr. "There you are," Laurens murmurs, approvingly, and Hamilton is making these ah sounds as the air is driven out of his body.
"Too much, it's too much," he pleads, and now the ruthlessness is true, but it's pleasure, not pain. He cannot control himself. Burr's scent is delicious and Laurens' is dominating, and Hamilton is theirs. He surges forward and sinks his teeth into Burr's neck because he has to, he can't not, Burr is perfect and Laurens is perfect and he needs, he needs -- !
He thrashes as he comes, only Laurens' teeth on him preventing him from moving enough to buck Laurens off entirely. Laurens swells, and Hamilton is so used and sore that he bleats in protest but it is so good, too, being knotted. He doesn't know if he has a knot in him, after one devastating climax already, and "Aaron, Aaron, do you -- are you --" spilling from him. If Aaron's body is wrapped around him like this, he may swell into a knot regardless, even if it's brief.