"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.
no subject
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.