Christmas Thread

[slowtoanger]

They're due to leave tomorrow for a long carriage ride to the Washington's. Two carriages between them, with a nanny in the second and most, if not all of the children. It is snowing lightly, and Hamilton has not stopped nagging the footman to keep the hearths well stocked. A chill wind buttressing stone and creeping in under window panes.

Burr should be helping them pack, getting the children ready, but he is still in bed, though it is well into the afternoon, beneath a pile of quilts. He can hear the pattering of the children overhead, shouting as they quibble over toys or clothes, and certainly though they are doing their best to pack, Burr or the nanny will have to see to refolding all the luggage for the journey. Hamilton must be in his study, at the torturous task of deciding which writings to take and which books he can afford to leave behind. No doubt there is a mountain of papers scattered about, him in the middle of a hurricane.

And Burr should be helping, but he is wracked at length by odd pains, difficulty drawing breath. He is larger than he should be for how far along he is, though that is not to say he is not a good deal along.

"I should think to prevent you from traveling," Ned says, as he sits back from his examination. "The strain on your body is great, and you would be too far along to go, I should think, were this a normal pregnancy."

"What do you mean?" Burr asks, a little annoyed. Ned knows Burr does not care for him to mince words. And Burr has been in this situation far too often, that he receives the words with less attention than he should. He is thinking of his own letter and correspondence he must see to, before they leave tomorrow morning. But Burr also knows his own body. He knows this current pregnancy has been one particularly grieved by pains and difficulties, ones his small body cannot contain. He should not be due for a month yet at the very least (which is not so much as guess, given Hamilton's travels had him away for a long while. The pregnancy simply could not be farther along) despite whatever size he may be.

"I think it unlikely that you are carrying only one child," Ned says, simply, "both from what I can feel and from what you have told me."

Comments

[non_stop]

Perhaps incongruously, Hamilton has always adored this: children underfoot, clattering up and down the stairs, shouting at each other and wailing about lost dolls and complaining about missing stockings. In the midst of chaos, he has always been at his best -- generating chaos, when there isn't any conveniently available.

"Make sure your stocking didn't get folded up with anything else. Rachel, my dearest, let's check where you played with her yesterday," he says, to Sally, and offers his hand to her. She takes it and drags him upstairs to the attic, where Hamilton finds a missing hat of James Alexander's and several lost handkerchiefs, but no doll -- then outside to the hawthorn tree in the yard, where they need to check every knot on the trunk before locating the doll in the crook of a branch.

It's when he climbs back up the stairs that he hears Ned's words, and he pushes into the room straightaway -- "Twins?" -- soft and disbelieving.

[slowtoanger]

Perhaps Burr should be thankful that this revelation means Alex will abandon any notions that Burr was not faithful in his absence, and that the pregnancy is not further along than he says. Of course Alexander would not feel anything but delicate rapture and adoration at such a development, with his endless love of children and of Burr himself. Especially of Burr's swelling midsection. As it is, Burr may be the only one unhappy with the development.

"Wonderful," he mutters under his breath as he shifts uncomfortably. He already feels like he's being crushed, and his old maternity wear is growing tight, which is a shame because Burr wants to be fashionable and believe it or not maternity waistcoats are expensive and though others insist it's better, he doesn't want to end up in dresses.

"Twins, or perhaps triplets," Ned says affably as Burr blanches. "As always you are carrying a touch high, so it is difficult to feel."

[non_stop]

"Twins!"

He rushes to Burr's side, reaching for his hand, to place his practiced kiss to the knuckles, the little signal they share between them -- for Hamilton kissed Burr's hand for the first time just before their lips met entirely, and just before he thoroughly ravished Burr, greeted with a welcome just as thorough.

"Isn't that quite dangerous?" he asks Ned, visibly worried. "He's so very small -- and," turning to Burr, "not as young as you once were, when you delivered a baby practically on the march in the middle of a war. Perhaps we should not take this trip, after all."

[slowtoanger]

Burr is a little caught there, on the sight of Hamilton, raising one hand up to kiss it. The naked emotions in his face. They've been married so long, but still Burr sometimes feels--self-conscious. Breathless.

Perhaps it is to Ned's credit that he does not say the worst of it: that occasionally these twinnings result in malformation, the kinds of fetuses kept in jars to be studied by medical students. And perhaps it is to his benefit that he shares still this other news:

"The chance of complication is quite high, but not certain," Ned says, extends his own hand to rest for a moment over Burr's, then on Hamilton's knee, if he is sitting. "I think it likely that this birth shall carry on without serious complication, given the history of the mother. It is not so shocking a thing--when I have seen twinning before it has almost always been in particularly fertile omegas with many previous children. And while Aaron is small, he is strong, and healthy. Though I don't wish to downplay what a strain this will be." Turning serious then, leaning forward and looking down those little round glasses. He knows well Burr's tendency to wander, Hamilton's tendency to worry, and both their tendency's to spark fights instead of saying what they really mean. He gestures for Hamilton to retrieve something for note taking, continues when he returns (though Ned will send his own, more detailed notes later)

"Often these pregnancies go short, and this can sometimes mean the babes are sickly and pass shortly. Others, one might come and the second will not, and sometimes neither come, despite whatever pains the mother is in. There have been cesarians preformed in Europe in these cases, though I stress that this is rare, and none have yet happened here," and this is still solemn, because mothers do not tend to recover from such operations, "though these are severe cases, I think the more likely complications we are to deal with would be abnormalities in the circulation of the blood, or hemorrhaging during and after labor. I think this risk increased by your history of bleeding before labor. And most of all I think there will great difficulty ensuring he eats enough to sustain both babes. He is small, as you have said, and this will be a great strain. His body will either be forced to enter labor before they are due, or he will not be able to sustain them, or pass them when the time comes. Likely, he will be unable to walk without great difficulty towards the end, and will suffer from pain and aches."

Then, finally: "I will not lie and say this will be easy. That all your children have survived and thrived thus far is a miracle, and lends itself to your good breeding. This fact, I think, should give us hope. But I would tell any other expectant parents in your situation that fatal complications are likely in these cases, for mothers as well as children."

He sits back, lets that sinks in.

"However, I do not think that shall be the case for Aaron, who has born many strong children already, and done so with minimal difficulty. Given, however, the complications had with you first child on account of travelling, I am hesitant to endorse the activity. It is a long ride, and a longer stay, and if you do go, it will not be advisable for you to return before the arrival of the babes. And certainly if you do go I should attend you at all times," and Ned does have other patients, but none that can't wait.

"Well," Burr says, dryly, leaning back against the pillows and crossing his arms. "I should still like to go. If I'm going to die it might as well be at the inconvenience of the Washington's."

[non_stop]

He takes down Ned's instructions with a quick and practiced pen, squinting through the spectacles that never quite seem to be perfectly aligned, settling himself where Burr can lean a bit against him. And as the paper dries, he leans over almost absently and kisses Burr on his temple, the sort of thoughtless gesture of affection that flows from him like water from a clean, natural spring. That it is without thought means that it is also without calculation.

"A carriage and inns are quite a different thing from traveling a-horseback in midwinter," Hamilton notes, "when we cannot stop for fear of the British." And though Washington has always been something of a sore point for Hamilton -- his dependence on Washington, particularly -- he recalls with fondness how Washington melted for little Theo.

A hint of a smile, for Burr's benefit. "Twins oft come early, don't they? You must, you must say when there is discomfort, or the beginnings of birth -- none of your stoic, stubborn silence."

[slowtoanger]

"Very well," Ned says. "If you shall endeavor to follow those careful instructions and take the utmost care, I see no reason you cannot travel. I will urge, though I am sure you have heard more than enough from Hamilton, that you must stop at the first sign of discomfort outside the usual aching joints, and rest adequately at each stop. I shall be able to join you at length, but I must see first to my other patients. I will send my equipment ahead of me, and I shall also give you references to a few doctors in the area, though I do not anticipate you will have need of them."

Burr, for his part, does his best to seem unaffected by the careful affections. Ultimately fails. Melts a little against his husband, gives a little soundless sigh.

"Should I stub my toe you shall be the first to know," Burr says, heatless. He doesn't want to rise to pack, certainly doesn't rise to see Ned out, let's Hamilton see him to the door.

"You will have to write to the Washington's I suppose," he says, when Hamilton returns. Extends his hand to allow Hamilton to take, tugs him towards the bed. "Though I much prefer to drop the matter on them as it happens."

[non_stop]

"If they don't know yet to expect the unexpected, from you, from me, then they deserve the shock," returns Hamilton. Burr takes his hand; Hamilton follows, eyes now glowing. "You've anticipated me -- I was going to ensure your comfort before the voyage, ask if there was any pressing need, any urge you must fulfill... I offer myself fully at your service."

Twins! Evidently Burr's body had agreed with his words, in the last heat: he wanted to be with child again, and had outdone himself, as usual. As much as Hamilton wants to pet the swollen curve of Burr's belly, he knows Burr dislikes how people touch him, casually, when he is gravid -- so Hamilton's hand goes to the small of his husband's back, instead, rubbing where he is always so sore. Pressing at the strained muscles, and drawing Burr towards him, too, so that they might kiss.

[slowtoanger]

And Burr yields so instantly and so fully--eyes fluttering nearly closed, mouth falling open and a small shiver of an exhaled whimper slipping out of him.

He'd thought his body at it's limit before, with those other pregnancies, yet now with this one he continues to grow, the joints of his hips aching and his ribs and body sore, always sore. His back arches, back into Hamilton's hand, and his cheeks go warm and red. He's sore all the time, and now it will only get worse, and he doesn't know how his body will take it, what will happen to his body and his joints with the constant rocking of the carriage, that constant heat-pain in his spine.

He looks pretty on the bed--that gracefulness of his frame is not lost in pregnancy, that new weight which should make him clumsy. Instead he is a beautiful spill, yielding gently across the sheets, looking at Hamilton like yours, yours, yours.

"My legs," Burr says, fluttering his eyelashes (not to be manipulative, not at all) "the joints hurt so terribly," and he puts his hand over Hamilton's other, puts it on top of his belly and then drags it down slowly, over the curve and down again, over his pelvis to the junction of his legs.

[non_stop]

Hamilton is instantly breathless, just to see Burr that way. His grace -- even so heavy! Burr is one of those rarest, among women or omegas, who take on that glow of health and beauty when they are with child. Even exhausted, he glows. Hamilton still oft feels like the clumsy and overeager suitor, sometimes.

"Oh?" asks Hamilton, "is there somewhere that's particularly stiff?" with a laugh. "Unable to bend? A bit swollen?"

But he does not go precisely for the junction of Burr's legs, but rather rubs slow at his hip and the crease of his thigh. Hitches up so he can pull over an extra pillow for Burr to lean against, then he takes the weight of Burr's leg in both his hands, stroking to soothe.

"I think I've gotten half the pillows in the house into our carriage," he says. "For you. It's a very jolting sort of journey."

[slowtoanger]

And Burr melts, makes a little wounded sounds and lets his head fall back, opens his legs wider for Hamilton even as he goes limp. Everything hurts these days, all the time. Carrying more than his body can reasonably bear, even as he is liable to get much, much bigger.

He goes liquid, in between swaying forward into Hamilton's hands, those little blissful sighs and whimpers as Hamilton rubs at tense and aching muscles. And he does not only go limp, but wiggles on the bed, stretching like a contented cat.

"I think it shall be miserable regardless," Burr says. He lets Hamilton work, but also reaches out to lay his head against Hamilton's side and tangle one hand in the fabric of his shirt.

"I love you," he sighs out. "I would never be unfaithful," which slips out before he can stop it. He's not meant to let Hamilton know that he knows--those anxieties Hamilton's felt the past few months. "You're who got me with twins--you did."

[non_stop]

"Oh." Not oh like a realization -- at least, not a realization that Burr was faithful. "I knew. I know." And, truly, he did. It makes so little sense that he would worry and worry at the idea, the way he did -- after all, Burr had a heat, and even though omegas can have little halfway-to-heat surges even while they're pregnant, Hamilton would have known. He smelled it when he hardly knew Burr at all. It doesn't make sense, as a fear, and yet his mind traces the thought over and over, like a stone carved long ago, a track impossible to change.

"It would not torment me so if it wasn't a vision I've welcomed before -- once known, it is hard to banish."

He almost never refers to Laurens, almost never speaks his name. It is not that he wants to forget him -- never. If anything, if anything at all, it is that he holds the memory so close, too close, and that he does not want to diminish it with words.

"You know sometimes I am given to torment," says Hamilton, low. "Phantasms, specters that are just convulsions of the thoughts, that my reasoning mind rejects. My trust and regard for you is absolute, and your conduct in all ways has been above reproach. I gave my faith to you as a wide-eyed, worshipping boy -- and you proved him a wise augur," and then, a hint of humor: "In that decision, anyway, if little else."

[slowtoanger]

"I think of it too," Burr says, low, and squeezes Hamilton's hand. This is one area--a wound that never could quite heal and never will--a place where Burr cannot do enough to help his husband.

They lost something when Laurens died, something they have never been able at reclaim. And they've talked about it before, Burr suggesting they welcome another, yet it always terminates at the same junction--"I want only what will make you happy," Burr says, with an earnestness that surprises himself.

And then Burr cannot stop himself, seeing that pain and want in Hamilton's eyes, that want that never can be fulfilled. It stings, that that is someone Burr cannot fulfill, but also that Burr should want to please Hamilton so fully. That at some point his desires has become so hopelessly tangled with Hamilton's desires.

So that is why Burr twists suddenly to crash himself against Hamilton--to push him down into the bed, stomach pressing heavy between him, and when Burr tries to kiss him his stomach gets in the way and he nearly goes toppling over the edge.

[non_stop]

After all this time, Hamilton can hardly believe it: that anyone would hold his happiness above theirs. That anyone would mind his happiness. He is still, in himself, a boy neglected, a boy determined. He is always hungry. He is never satisfied.

But Burr, somehow, has created moments of stillness, breaths of satisfaction. Burr sates him, more than anyone ever has, and more than Hamilton had believed anyone could.

Hamilton lets out a little oof of expelled air and a burst of laughter, as he loops his arms around Burr and steadies him. He lets his hand linger on the heavy swell. "You," sighs Hamilton. "You are so beautiful." He doesn't expect the word to come out of him until they do. Burr is beautiful and disheveled and a little ridiculous, and Hamilton is, as ever, entirely under his spell. If only God had provided, in His wisdom, a way for children that didn't carry with it such risk and pain and loss. His brow creases as worry falls over him like a shadow.

"And you are always brave," says Hamilton. "My little Colonel."

[slowtoanger]

And Burr melts at that more than anything else: more than gentle hands and clumsy flirtations. He loves Alexander, and there is nothing more intoxicating than Alexander's love for him. Than the way Alex looks at Burr like he is the most beautiful omega in the world.

So Burr leans down and kisses him. And if is quite a lean--one that requires he turns a bit sideways, and his belly is still in the way so he must roll onto his side and tug Hamilton impatiently after him.

"I can't reach," he says, exasperated and annoyed. He's bigger now than he was with most of the children. And it wouldn't be a problem at all if Alex were a bit lower on the bed, but he isn't, and Burr is an inch shorter than him. And the real issue is the difficulty in bending at the waste.

Did he say difficulty? He meant impossibility (because how could anyone his size bend over without toppling completely?).

[non_stop]

How lucky is Hamilton, that he found someone who would accept all that he gives? Even when it is too much, Burr seems to hunger for it; like Hamilton, he can never be loved enough.

He laughs. Steadies Burr and his inconvenient weight. He pulls away -- only long enough to re-settle himself, smooth the folds of his coat out of the way, angle himself so as to be conveniently in range. He kisses Burr slow and sweet.

"I might kiss you somewhere else," he offers, lowly, "and perhaps employ my tongue to set you at ease for the journey. I am utterly at your service."

[slowtoanger]

Ah. So that is what Hamilton wants: for Burr to guide them, to use Hamilton's body as Burr so often invits Hamilton to use his own.

Usually, Burr prefers Hamilton take charge. It is easy, intoxicating, to say a few words and watch Hamilton act. To see the way his body exhibits control in those passive ways. But that is not to say there isn't pleasure to be found in this; the same kind of pleasure he'd found watching Hamilton come apart by the hands of another.

"But how am I to know how best to employ you?" Burr asks, teases. "I am but an innocent mated omega, I know nothing but what my husband allows," a joke less private than he would like, but whose humor is only heightened by it's publicity: that everyone thinks Burr something of a whore. His hands work now in deference to that: they pet over Hamilton's flanks, his hips, his thighs. And he has very nice thighs, muscled for all he is lean. Thighs Burr has had the pleasure of being between countless times.

[non_stop]

"Ah, but I've heard rumors of your husband," returns Hamilton, with a flash of humor in return. "That he's debauched, a libertine -- even a tale that he has such secretions that he can't find whores enough to satisfy. Perhaps he is so occupied in satisfying himself that he does not well enough satisfy you..." He returns the slow touches, goes back to rubbing slow at Burr's sore hips.

[slowtoanger]

"Oh, but I think perhaps it is that he satisfies me too much," Burr says, and they know each other better than they know anyone. He knows what makes Hamilton flush hot, those things that other alphas complain about when drinks flow readily. 'Ruined' bodies, swollen with child. And if it weren't for Hamilton's eager love, Burr's vanity would give him a complex over widened hips, stretch marks and baby fat. But Hamilton loves eagerly, ravenously, like one starved. Even now he rubs at Burr's hips, those joints which shift even after so many pregnancies. And Hamilton's love makes Burr love too. "So attentive to my needs that there is hardly ever not a cock in me, that it seems I am rarely not with child. So potent is he that he very inconveniently filled me twice, and now I am left to deal with the consequences. Fat and dependent on another for my relief, which surely will only worsen the former problem."

"And that is the real issue," Burr says. "That he gives so readily, and sometimes one wishes to take," to play at the innocent being debauched, unable to help oneself. But not only that, not so selfish, because it is about Alexander, not being able to stop himself from touching him, wanting him, even were they not married.

During this Burr's hands continue to run, teasing only in light touches where his husband's manhood rests. He works too at buttons and ties, but this he does gently and gracefully and slowly. Unbuttons but does not part, does not leave a wrinkle. Enough space to slip a hand inside, trail fingers. He likes it when Hamilton goes pink. He looks pretty no matter what, but Burr drinks this in all the same.

And he thinks he know what he wants. He rolls to bring his leg on the other side of Hamilton's own, straddling. They almost never do it in this position: with Burr sitting on top, and even less so with Burr facing away. Because they can't stop the need to touch each other, to hug, press bodies together and lose themselves in gentle kisses. No, if anything Burr lays on Hamilton's chest, or on his back on the bed, or oh his stomach while Hamilton drapes over him.

But like this Burr is in control, top heavy as he is. Like this he can watch Hamilton completely, lean down and kiss him, which he does.

"And I find it impossible to resist you, though it is wrong. It's just that I've never seen anyone so beautiful, and my husband is away, and he'll never know."

[non_stop]

A shaky breath, drawn in; he had not expected his husband to be so bold, not with the carriage leaving so soon.

"Ah, and now you have me compromised," Hamilton says, a tone of faux-mourning. "If I am seen like this, with you, my reputation will be in tatters... I will be thought a rake, a seducer, a- a-ah," as he is touched. He soaks in the touch and rises to it, firms to it, as though bewitched.

'As though' -- no, he is bewitched. He could be naught else, with Burr's eyes like the night sky.

"Though I could hardly," a gasp, as Burr's fingers trail up him, "regret its sacrifice, to such a beautiful purpose as your pleasure."

[slowtoanger]

"But it feels too good to resist, doesn't it?" Burr asks, his hand continuing to stoke up Hamilton's length, savoring the feeling of it lengthening and hardening in his hand. "Even if my husband would be insensible, if he were to find us here. Hmmm, what would he do, I wonder?" Twists his wrist, trails fingertips. "To you, to us."

His other hand slides up, Hamilton's side, the ridges of his ribs. Up his chest, to his neck. Rests his hand there loosely, wraps it around, so he can feel the pulse of him, the rush of his blood. So he can feel everything he does with his other hand, up here. And he watches Hamilton, his eyes. He's always had such pretty eyes, no prettier than when they are clouded, desperate.

"I just can't help myself. Not around you," breathy.

He draws Hamilton out, during this. Frees him from breeches completely, continues to stroke.

"What do you think?" Burr asks. "Would you be able to fit now, though my husband has so filled me?"

[non_stop]

"You are small, and so swelled, but surely -- surely we can manage," and Hamilton cannot resist adding: "even though I swell myself at the thought of being in you." He could add a remark about size but somehow he avoids it, though he thinks he could make his husband laugh, if he did say it. Not the right moment, perhaps.

His chin has lifted, and he can feel the apple of his throat work against Burr's hand. His eyes close. It is apt that Burr feels where the circulation of the blood is so palpable, because they themselves are a circulation of liquid desire, some kind of fifth humor that sustains them, one body, one flesh.

"Go on," he dares, "ride me, if you can." He palms the heavy curve of Burr's belly, supports him only a fraction.

[slowtoanger]

Burr hums again, low and sultry, how the voice always seems to sink in moments like these. He lets go of Hamilton's cock, leans forward so that is grinds against where Burr is still clothed, the thin fabric of his night gown. He can feel everything. And surely Hamilton can too--the wet.

It's a small matter to shift the fabric aside, to line Hamilton up against him and sink down. His stomach is tight, and it flutters when Hamilton enters him, his lips pulsing warm and heavy with arousal. Feels good enough that he closes his eyes and bows his head, tightens his grip a little, around Hamilton's neck. It *always* feels good, of course, but--it feels better to imagine this is someone else's cock. That he's having Alexander for the first time, while another Alexander is oblivious in some other room.

His weight makes it hard to balance. He can't fuck the way he wants. Hamilton's cock is a hard, unyielding length, pushing open space in a soft yet overfull body. He can't ride like he wants. Not fast and hard, like he's always so desperate for. Instead he has to grind, little circles that massage the head of Hamilton's cock against his inner walls.

"I haven't ever--" Burr says, disjointed, flushed. "Not anyone but my husband." An obvious lie, anywhere but this fantasy. And his other hand, the one not holding Hamilton's neck, reaches down, feels where they're joined. He clenches down, involuntarily.

[non_stop]

"And you can't help it." A little groan, forced out of him -- how can Burr possibly grip him this way? Silky and so hot. "Look at you; how heavy you are, and you can't help yourself, but to seek your pleasure on me." His voice has gone breathless. Ordinarily, he would take Burr by the hips, help him, use him, but there is something so entirely enchanting about Burr desperately grinding himself down on Hamilton's cock. "He can't be satisfying you -- or is he satisfying you, and you just need more still? What do you think he would do, if he saw you like this? Fucking yourself on another man? He can weigh you down, and still you're starving for it," and, frankly, he may not be able to last long himself under the onslaught of his own words.

[slowtoanger]

"He would kill you," Burr says, breathless though he can only circle his hips ineffectually. Never pulling out, no, but using Hamilton's cock to massage deep inside him, to press at that one spot and keep pressing, over and over and over. "And then he would push me down and claim me, mark me. He'd take me rough--push my face down into the bed, so I could but moan or drool. And I'd take it, I'd love to, because--oh God, yes, there."

Burr is--his knees pinch inward, and he whines--a desperate, needy omega sound. A sound like *yes* and *there* and *good*. It can't be a plea to anyone--because Hamilton lays there, does nothing but look so pretty and overwhelmed as Burr fucks himself down on his cock. He won't help Burr. He won't.

It feels so good. How can it feel so good when it is simply there, when it is Burr who must move his body, drag his cunt up the shaft and down, enveloped in soft, warm flesh. He likes being filled. He likes simply having anything inside him, working it there. He likes the idea that it should not be.

"It feels so--better. How can it feel better than his?" A taunt, a tease.

He drapes over Hamilton, so that just Burr's hips work, his ass pressing inward and then pushing back, into the air, down again, gyrating. Like he's fucking, like he's the alpha, pushing into the body beneath him. Not an alpha, but an Omega taking an alpha, spreading his legs and seeding him.

Oh, oh God. His cock spurts something, a dribble of cum as he fights off an orgasm. He's too worked up, too needy, too *full*, and they're hardly doing anything, but--

His hand tightens again, around Hamilton's throat. Works there rhythmically, the same way Burr works between his legs, belly pressed hard between them. His other hand creeps up, tangles in that familiar spot, wrapped in Hamilton's queue.

His hips speed up, a desperate, ineffective grinding, pushing them together where they are already joined, smearing slick down thighs and pelvises. Doing nothing more but pulsing against him, in a way that makes him feel every sensation of being filled, skin to skin, an acute awareness of that emptiness stolen away, of the space Hamilton claims inside him, the space Hamilton *presses* into him, where there is not enough room. The way Burr forces it in, makes it fit.

"Fuck," Burr breathes, harsh, into Hamilton's chest, as he starts to come. Little cascading clenches that start deep inside and work lower, clamping thighs down against him, pushing deeper, *deeper*, though there is nowhere to go.

He doesn't censor his sounds of pleasure. If they are playing at infidelity, then Burr will not be a discreet lover. It is a willowy, delicate sound, drawn out and feminine. A sound that makes him blush, even as he makes it.

[non_stop]

He twitches up, grinds up into the most tender places inside his husband, but he can do no more than that -- he must only take what he is given. He must take what he is given in pleasure and in air itself, as Burr's hand tightens on him. He struggles for both as he struggles for everything, meeting the circles of Burr's hips and breathing in harsh gasps and groans as he is pressed and squeezed and stimulated.

And there is something in the fantasy, too: that there is some precious space inside this man, only previously given to his husband, now secretly stolen by Alexander. Cuckolded, unfaithful, even while he is so swollen with child. If Burr had fallen into his lap that way, the things Alexander would have done to him...

"You'll have a knot from me," he gasps out. He has no choice, Burr will take it from him. "Will you fuck your husband, later, wet from my seed?"

And Burr says fuck, and Hamilton is gone. Burr comes on him and Hamilton trembles to hold back, shaking with it, straining, feeling his knot swell and swell -- oh, and Burr shivers tight around it, clenches and jerks and coaxes it.

And that sound.

Hamilton cannot breathe. He climaxes from the root of him, somewhere at the base of his pelvis, swelling to lock himself to Burr's warm, soaked cunt, where he can't help but touch: trail his fingers over the soft lips and the flushed root of his cock. Hamilton's own cock twitches in reaction as he comes and comes again, laying his seed thick inside.

"You are beautiful," he is murmuring. His hands are cupping Burr's face, and he nuzzles Burr's jaw, kisses his throat, his cheek. "Look how beautiful you are."