Burr's legs, shaking, give out. He is no fainting Omega. He is strong. Was strong, all those years ago. But Hamilton is--Hamilton melts something in him. Wears away something that he desperately needs and--
Maybe it is the growl, that shoots straight through Burr's body, that enacts that primal, irresistible instinct to cow: the whimper and bare his throat, sending those smells of submission and good and yours. Maybe it is the way Hamilton shoves his, that makes him go cold all over, the icy drench of terror tightening every muscle past usefulness till they must give out, limp.
But Hamilton doesn't--he's not screaming at Burr. He's not throwing things, striking him, sending him away. His instinct is not to reject, but to claim, to make Burr his.
"Alexander," he says, and he expects himself to whimper, but there is a core of stone there. A core he didn't know was in him. There is some disconnect between his body and his mind, his self. For all his voice is steady and he is Burr his body reacts. He is limp. The way an omega in heat does when too stressed to fight anymore. So that--so that it might be over sooner, and they might be less hurt.
He is limp, pressed against the wall, but his fingers are clutching desperate, for all his grip is weak. Clutching at Hamilton. And he's shivering then, harder than he has in a long time. "You can smell it?" He asks. He doesn't want to know the answer.
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Maybe it is the growl, that shoots straight through Burr's body, that enacts that primal, irresistible instinct to cow: the whimper and bare his throat, sending those smells of submission and good and yours. Maybe it is the way Hamilton shoves his, that makes him go cold all over, the icy drench of terror tightening every muscle past usefulness till they must give out, limp.
But Hamilton doesn't--he's not screaming at Burr. He's not throwing things, striking him, sending him away. His instinct is not to reject, but to claim, to make Burr his.
"Alexander," he says, and he expects himself to whimper, but there is a core of stone there. A core he didn't know was in him. There is some disconnect between his body and his mind, his self. For all his voice is steady and he is Burr his body reacts. He is limp. The way an omega in heat does when too stressed to fight anymore. So that--so that it might be over sooner, and they might be less hurt.
He is limp, pressed against the wall, but his fingers are clutching desperate, for all his grip is weak. Clutching at Hamilton. And he's shivering then, harder than he has in a long time. "You can smell it?" He asks. He doesn't want to know the answer.