Yes. Yes, yes, yes, yes. He can't think beyond the primal, rhythmic pounding, the rush of blood in his ears, the rough wonderful pain as Laurens shoved thick fingers into his weeping cunt. He needs it, he needs it, and he twists against the bed sheets, bucking and trying to force himself down further, to well and truly fuck himself on those fingers.

The sound, oh, the sound, and the smell, the feeling, hot, warm, dominant alpha pressing him down, using him roughly. Burr can feel him, the press of him stiff against the curve of Burr's ass, and he wants him, needs him, writhes wildly as those fingers circle around something blissful inside. He clenches down, feels more slick, and it must be costing Laurens hand now, must be running down his wrist, but it's not enough. Burr is spasming, but the clenching is fleeting, and he is too empty, needs more, more--

He whines, an awful, sorrowful omega sound, before he is kicking out and throwing himself at Laurens, pushing until he is on top and Laurens it on bottom, and he tears at him, yanks down trousers and tries at once to seat himself on Laurens cock. He thinks of Hamilton, but it is a distant though, buried behind hormones and mad, uncontrollable desire. He tries to skewer himself, rubs his wet cunt over the length of him, but Laurens hands are there, clamping down over delicate hips, and Burr lets out a frustrated sob.

"Please, please, I need it, I need it--" he feels on fire, and his breath is coming too fast, and Laurens smells so good, so strong, so virile, and Burr needs to convince him, needs to present himself, needs to do better.

So that is when he bucks again, slides down and swallows Laurens in one needy, pleading gulp.