"How much of a slut do you want to be, Burr? Warmed up enough for me already? I don't think so. I don't think anyone's touched you since you got to New York."
Burr's cock aches, pained and throbbing, as he jerks with the words. A slut, yes, he is a slut, a hole to be used--
Oh god, Hamilton's tongue is in him, licking at a place that has seldom recieved such attentions before--with Monty he had been in heat, or suffering beneath days of anticipation.
He could come from that feeling alone--the tongue lapping against his wetness, pushing inside as Burr writhes and bucks and attempts to find any kind of friction that will not come.
Slow, Hamilton is taking this slow, but Burr is already wild with want, already aches with hardness, emptiness, his need to be filled by something, and if Hamilton will not hurry this along then Burr must do it himself. He reaches a hand down beside him, beneath the leg still propped high, drags fingers besides Hamilton's tongue, teasing into his mouth before retreating to trail through the slick, nudging at his entrance. Getting Hamilton's attention, shivering at those blown pupils, the hunger crawling over his face.
He makes a show of this: of slipping the fingers inside and fucking himself, the slow, audibly wet drag, the closed eyes and the breathy moans. Has done this before, before he had any alpha, alone in his tent on the march to Quebec, when tension still simmered between Montgomery and Himself, the want to sink down, open his mouth and allow himself to be fucked into--
He works the fingers, stretches himself, fucks himself down onto that hand and stares at Hamilton through pleasure-lidded eyes.
"Alexander," he breathes, tips his head back and allows his mouth to fall open, panting, as he works himself.
God, god it feels so good--not the fingers themselves but the knowledge that Hamilton is watching, head still propped there between his legs, and at the tentative lick that follows Burr's legs clench inward, his hips bucking into the air.
More licks, ravenous, devouring, dragging lips over Burr and sucking as those fingers continue to work in and out and Burr is coming for the first time that night, whining and shaking and fucking still downward, against Hamilton's mouth, clenching around his own fingers, release staining his belly, and if he was not wet before he will be now
But he's not satisfied. There is something building--some need. Not a heat, but something unsates. He wants Hamilton still, wants to feel him inside, reaching those deep parts of him.
God if this were hell they might continue like this, some precipice before penetration, before a good fucking, bruised and leaking and limp and used.
"Gag me," Burr babbles, still fucking down against his fingers but finding no pleasure, "hit me, bind me, do something--"
no subject
Burr's cock aches, pained and throbbing, as he jerks with the words. A slut, yes, he is a slut, a hole to be used--
Oh god, Hamilton's tongue is in him, licking at a place that has seldom recieved such attentions before--with Monty he had been in heat, or suffering beneath days of anticipation.
He could come from that feeling alone--the tongue lapping against his wetness, pushing inside as Burr writhes and bucks and attempts to find any kind of friction that will not come.
Slow, Hamilton is taking this slow, but Burr is already wild with want, already aches with hardness, emptiness, his need to be filled by something, and if Hamilton will not hurry this along then Burr must do it himself. He reaches a hand down beside him, beneath the leg still propped high, drags fingers besides Hamilton's tongue, teasing into his mouth before retreating to trail through the slick, nudging at his entrance. Getting Hamilton's attention, shivering at those blown pupils, the hunger crawling over his face.
He makes a show of this: of slipping the fingers inside and fucking himself, the slow, audibly wet drag, the closed eyes and the breathy moans. Has done this before, before he had any alpha, alone in his tent on the march to Quebec, when tension still simmered between Montgomery and Himself, the want to sink down, open his mouth and allow himself to be fucked into--
He works the fingers, stretches himself, fucks himself down onto that hand and stares at Hamilton through pleasure-lidded eyes.
"Alexander," he breathes, tips his head back and allows his mouth to fall open, panting, as he works himself.
God, god it feels so good--not the fingers themselves but the knowledge that Hamilton is watching, head still propped there between his legs, and at the tentative lick that follows Burr's legs clench inward, his hips bucking into the air.
More licks, ravenous, devouring, dragging lips over Burr and sucking as those fingers continue to work in and out and Burr is coming for the first time that night, whining and shaking and fucking still downward, against Hamilton's mouth, clenching around his own fingers, release staining his belly, and if he was not wet before he will be now
But he's not satisfied. There is something building--some need. Not a heat, but something unsates. He wants Hamilton still, wants to feel him inside, reaching those deep parts of him.
God if this were hell they might continue like this, some precipice before penetration, before a good fucking, bruised and leaking and limp and used.
"Gag me," Burr babbles, still fucking down against his fingers but finding no pleasure, "hit me, bind me, do something--"