Hamilton thrusts hard, jerking Burr's body up the mattress, and then he is pinned, held down as Hamilton fucks into.
Good, it feels so good, there are no thoughts, no words, just pleasure, waves of it, punctuated by each snap of Hamilton's hips, each punch of his cock against Burr's insides.
His legs are shaking, his mouth slack, drooling. He is babbling, but he doesn't know what he's saying, rubbing his ass against the sheets and trying to get more of something already bruising, already dangling on the edge of a beautiful pain.
"Come on my cock or don't at all."
And Burr's cock jerks, already hard past pain, the pleasure burning hot and tight inside him, building with every brutal punch.
Oh, but there is something else nudging against him, slamming against his entrance but not quite slipping inside.
Burr squirms against it, against the pain, but Hamilton holds him down, presses him hard into the mattress as the knot snaps forward, past the tight edges of his entrance and inside him, and then he is pulling it out as Burr sobs, no, no, another lost, pitiful whine as he thrusts is back in.
Hamilton is fucking Burr with his knot, fucking Burr with his knot and Burr didn't even know that was something a person could do, something his body could accommodate, but he is wild for it even still, for the wet, sucking sounds of that swell sliding in and out, for the sounds that fall from his own mouth, sobs and incomprehensible half words.
It hurts, a stinging, tearing pain, but it feels so good for that pain, and Burr never wants Hamilton to stop, wants to be nothing but an object for his use, kept here in bed, open and wanting for him to fuck into at intervals and leave like nothing.
"More," Burr cries, "more, more, more," but there is no more to give, and he is already tipping over, clenching down hard on everything Hamilton is giving him, his knot and the glorious length of his cock, spilling hot inside.
"Monty," Burr cries out, sobs out, lost and overwhelmed and face wet, riding out the waves of his orgasm, thrusting down weakly and squirming and spilling over him stomach.
His thoughts come back slowly, chest heaving, ruined. He is not with Monty, a devastation double-fold: Monty is dead. Monty is not buried in him, knotted in him.
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Good, it feels so good, there are no thoughts, no words, just pleasure, waves of it, punctuated by each snap of Hamilton's hips, each punch of his cock against Burr's insides.
His legs are shaking, his mouth slack, drooling. He is babbling, but he doesn't know what he's saying, rubbing his ass against the sheets and trying to get more of something already bruising, already dangling on the edge of a beautiful pain.
"Come on my cock or don't at all."
And Burr's cock jerks, already hard past pain, the pleasure burning hot and tight inside him, building with every brutal punch.
Oh, but there is something else nudging against him, slamming against his entrance but not quite slipping inside.
Burr squirms against it, against the pain, but Hamilton holds him down, presses him hard into the mattress as the knot snaps forward, past the tight edges of his entrance and inside him, and then he is pulling it out as Burr sobs, no, no, another lost, pitiful whine as he thrusts is back in.
Hamilton is fucking Burr with his knot, fucking Burr with his knot and Burr didn't even know that was something a person could do, something his body could accommodate, but he is wild for it even still, for the wet, sucking sounds of that swell sliding in and out, for the sounds that fall from his own mouth, sobs and incomprehensible half words.
It hurts, a stinging, tearing pain, but it feels so good for that pain, and Burr never wants Hamilton to stop, wants to be nothing but an object for his use, kept here in bed, open and wanting for him to fuck into at intervals and leave like nothing.
"More," Burr cries, "more, more, more," but there is no more to give, and he is already tipping over, clenching down hard on everything Hamilton is giving him, his knot and the glorious length of his cock, spilling hot inside.
"Monty," Burr cries out, sobs out, lost and overwhelmed and face wet, riding out the waves of his orgasm, thrusting down weakly and squirming and spilling over him stomach.
His thoughts come back slowly, chest heaving, ruined. He is not with Monty, a devastation double-fold: Monty is dead. Monty is not buried in him, knotted in him.