"I'll look--" Burr pauses, flushes, "swollen, without the bindings. And if Hercules measures me he'll know, won't he?" And the pants won't last long, if Hamilton keeps feeding him. Maybe this is why so many omegas wear skirts and dresses.

He doesn't know what version of the truth he'll tell, because it won't be long before he must say something, the distribution of that swell not enough to be accounted by simple overindulgence. Well, overindulgence of food and drink, that is.

He shifts, feels Hamilton begin to slip free, and with it the rush of warm liquid between his legs, grimacing at the mess running down from him and dripping onto Hamilton.

What a mess. Both of them, a mess. He begins to pull off those bindings. Useless now for their original purpose, at least now they can be used to mop of the mix of liquids. The sheets will have to be washed, though. They smell too much of sex.

Oh, but he's rushing again, and Hamilton looks so beautiful, laying beneath him, hair tangled around his head and still flushed from exertion. Burr leans down and kisses him, slow--dragging lips against Hamilton's own and licking there at the seam.