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]

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."

[slowtoanger]

Hamilton is gone, that familiar way those gears in his head stop turning, that singular focus made fuzzy and indistinct but also Burr Burr Burr. It's--that attention, the way Hamilton talks to him, calls him beautiful, it's--intoxicating.

An unfurling, the leaden relaxation of muscles submerged in hot water, when Hamilton knots him. A piece fit into another piece, a space made for itself. He never feels more contained, cradled, so perfectly kept, as when Hamilton has a knot in him. Wishes often that they could stay knotted all the time, leave some piece in the other, a constant dull ache that pulses with his heartbeat, as though the very blood reaches out to caress.

Burr groans, the groan of the tired, the used, the spent, and folds down over him. He imagines he's never been so tired before, not after Quebec, not so exhausted and sated at the same time.

Well, he tries to fold down over him. He wants to yield to those gentle attentions, so precious for all they are scarce. Not scarce in the sense that Hamilton guards them--no, he is as passionate and singularly focused in this as he is in anything. But it is the moments after, when he is still slowed and lazy and blessedly relaxed, when he showers Burr with attentions delicate enough to fracture, beneath his normal overabundance of energy, those are the moments Burr treasures.

But it is not so easy a task, now. He cannot lay stomach down on his Husband's chest. Yet he cannot lay on his side while they are knotted together, unless Hamilton will go with him.

But he does purr, goes pink, at the praise. Moves, the way he does sometimes, a minimal canting of the hips, tugging the knot against his entrance, just to feel it is still inside, the full weight of it, the space it eats up. Little motions, like he could massage the come inside and keep it there, claimed.

"Don't go down," Burr says, sleepy, about the knot. "Stay," because there is nothing he wants for in these moments but his husband. Because he knows the carriage is to depart soon, and he wants it not to.

Then, to keep up the fantasy; "If he were to walk in now, you would be stuck, buried deep in me. There would be nowhere to go, no way to hide the evidence of our crime. Not only taking me, but knotting me as well." And that thought pleases him greatly: not only that he gave himself to another man, but allowed him this knot, allowed him to breed him, to come inside. A risk of a pregnancy, if he were not already.

[non_stop]

Hamilton gives a little, soft laugh, a fond laugh, at how Burr wants to curl into him. He is always so sweet at times like this, even as he pleasure-seeks. "Up, up -- here." He lifts his hips and shifts them both over, onto their sides, carefully and slowly -- a maneuver he's certainly done before. Burr curves towards him, an arc around the heavy lump of his belly.

"Tempting you." A swift kiss. "Satisfying you? I hope." A sigh of bliss, as Burr pulls at him, shivers around him. "You are divine. You would be worth such risk... life and limb, to have you. Leave you wet and used. Have you always wanted to be such a slut?"

He starts tracing around where he has buried himself in Burr, toying with him.

[slowtoanger]

Burr hums, tugs Hamilton's arm over, up, to rest his head on it. So he can smell him, and feel the warmth, bask like a snake in the sun.

"I believe so," he says, "though I was not honest with myself until I met Bellamy. And then after, when nothing bad happened, and I knew I had always been right and my uncle had been wrong. And now--you make me want it all the time."

Presses, so his lips are against Hamilton's skin. "And what if you had found me like this, pregnant and tied to a man who mistreated me, by action of inaction? Would you be able to satisfy yourself only with stolen moments?" Asks because he knows the answer already and wants to hear Hamilton says it--fantasies not of a knight in shining armor, but someone who would save him for a sweeter kind of torture. What does it mean, to fantasize about someone you already have completely?

His eyes shut, and he lets out a little sigh, when Hamilton's fingers trail through slick, the spots that weeps, where it is still opened on Hamilton's cock. He gives another tug of his hips, encouraging, wringing free small jolts of pleasure.

[non_stop]

"Aren't such stolen sips all the sweeter?" He strokes Aaron's hair back from his temples, fusses with him, finds himself nuzzling, stealing little kisses -- or when his lips aren't so occupied, kissing him along his jaw or his throat, instead, or coming close to the place at his throat where the smell of him is so strong. He can't help himself. One arm cradled under Burr's waist, and the other between his legs, teasing him. "With such torment between, they are as Tantalus's fevered visions..." An obsession. And they both know how Hamilton can fall into obsessions. "I would have a corner of you, even when another man had you -- I would know you thought of me, when your eyes closed, when you cried out in rapture, when his knot swelled in you, wishing my knot had you fast, wishing it was my seed catching hot on your womb."

[slowtoanger]

Burr hums, pushes a knee across the sheets, opens the space between his legs more, welcoming, though they are already spent. Would that they could lay here forever, his husband beside and inside him. Tracing skin, offering gentle kisses. He hitches a little forward on the knot, down into Alexander's hand.

"Could you be satisfied with such partial things? To know what sweet torments were offered, while being in possession of them only at occasion...I couldn't," and his hand tightens on Alex's arm--not a hard, biting grip, but secure, from. "I would want you to steal me away. To be with me always, wholly, completely."

Leans forward, twists his neck, so his head strains around Hamilton's--so his chin brushes Hamilton's jaw. Grips him by the shoulder, leans down, and--there, just there, rubs their scent gland together. A jolt and a shuddering exhale. Yes, yes, he is here, and Alexander is here, and their children are downstairs, and everything is well. He purrs, nuzzles.

[non_stop]

A soft sound, a shiver. He isn’t sure what this means, only that it is something important, something about the blending of the two of them. One flesh, one scent, one soul. He finds that he is holding Aaron, wants to pull him close, can’t quite. His scent is love, love. There is nothing subservient about it. Aaron does not offer himself up -- he does not claim. He mingles them.

Had Hamilton been asked, once upon a time, if he believed an omega and an alpha could have such a mating, he would have dismissed the idea outright. He still has his doubts; after all, there are certainly biological necessities that fall to an omega rather than an alpha. But now he knows that Burr's wit is equal to, oft surpassing his own, that there is every chance Burr's political career could reach heights his own could not. He already knew he would have a partner more his equal, more similar to him, with a man and not a woman. The marriage that transforms them into one entity, under law and God, has wrought such changes...

And yet he knows how to provoke them both, and so he carries the fantasy.

“Perhaps a kidnapping, then,” suggests Hamilton, and once he starts speaking, he lets the fantasy carry him: “and you a bound captive, so none could accuse you of abandoning your virtue — and yet I could sweep you away and touch you all I like. Your cunt — you feel divine on me. I can just imagine you, wrists bound, ankles bound, working an unwanted wedding ring off your finger and casting it aside. Perhaps it would be too difficult to fuck you the conventional way all trussed up, but how could I be expected to abstain, now that I had you in my grasp? I’d have to take your little arse as compensation, and I hardly think you’d complain. I’d take you to be my little slut, always. Wouldn’t you like that?”

[slowtoanger]

Burr shivers, moans. He's wet, instantly. Needy, instantly. That liquid, dark, warm pulse through soft, swollen lips, parted still around Alexander. He's asked for this for so long--to be used, really used. Not just hard fucking, but--tied up. Beaten. Abused. He's had dreams, often, of Alexander moving on top of him, of Alexander bending Burr over, laying a hand over his ass until it shines swollen and red. Of fucking into him hard, hard enough to hurt, maybe even to bleed. Of being pushed down even as he struggles and--

"Yes," he breathes, "please." And he squirms then, wiggles on Alexander's knot. Not because he wants it out but because if it is out--

"They'd all be looking for you," Burr says. "Kidnapped the heavily pregnant husband of a politician? They'd send search parties across the whole of the state. They could pass right beneath our window and not know that we were up here, you, buried inside me."

He feels the slick running, between his legs. Down from that place they are joined, to Alexander's own flesh. He reaches between, feels the knot and tugs, pulls, wiggles on it, back and forth, till he feels the bulge, tugging against his entrance. Softer now, than it was before. Closes his eyes and pulls, slides up the bed, feels the stretch, skin shifting to accommodate, around the thickest part, then--it slips free. Sudden. And Burr is already spreading his legs, presenting himself. Helpless, he should look helpless. Like he really is tied up, waiting, wanting.

A small pulse beneath it, a current of anxiety--that he would hurt Alexander, leave him, even in such a fantasy. That Alexander would come home one day to find Burr gone. Ruin it all by...he could never. Would never. He loves Alexander. But...this is fantasy. And Alexander is here, in front of him.

[non_stop]

He grasps at Burr, digs his fingers in, no, no -- breaking the knotting early is something almost painful, dislodging like tearing away, almost like rejection. He knows it isn't, obviously he knows it isn't. Burr's intentions couldn't be more transparent. And yet it's something of a shock to the system. His cock stiffens as his knot subsides, his heart beating quick, his glands and humors prepared again for a mating. For claiming, because he must assert his claim, now.

But first -- Alexander pulls open a cabinet, takes an older cravat, two, three. The first, he knots around Burr's wrists. It isn't particularly good, as a knot; it wouldn't do to restrain a determined captive, he imagines. "If you called out," he says, "they'd find you. Would you call out, darling? Would you make sure the searchers find you here, dripping wet and used?"

It binds Burr with his arms in front of him. Then, he manhandles Burr onto his side, down to the edge of the bed, and tying his ankles. Then his knees, too, fixing his legs together.

"There," he says. "Too much trouble to get to your cunt, especially with that belly in the way," with a light slap to that heavy bulge. "But you're wet and weeping for me." He slides his cock so it rests between the lips of Burr's cunt, smearing it wet. "You don't even need me to stretch you, do you?" He presses the head of his cock at Burr's hole, testing to see if it will give. Sometimes, depending on how hard Hamilton fucks him, how messy they've been, Burr doesn't really need any extra slick or stretching here.

[slowtoanger]

Burr pressed his eyes closed as he pulls at the restraints. Knows they can't be that tight, but pretends that they are, that he couldn't get out even if he tried, really tried. He pulls, and flexes, and squirms. Ineffectual little movements that get him nothing but a painfully swollen cock.

Between his legs it's wet, cold and uncomfortable. He can't spread his legs, and when Alexander pulls him to the edge of the bed he can't even position his hips. He falls over, leaning against his belly, his legs pressed forward, not quite touching his belly, brushing his cock.

He can't do anything to cover himself. His ass is pressed out like this, and he shivers when he feels Alex's cock rub against him.

"What need would I have to call out?" Burr asks. "To be removed from one who uses me so, better than anyone ever could. The perfect cock, the perfect knot. You could keep me tied here all day, return at length to use me and then forget me again, and I would never call out to be rescued."

He tries to move back, to rub himself. Can't. Feels slick and semen, dripping back over his other hole. He'll be properly used, after this, dripping from both holes.

[non_stop]

"You, waiting?" asks Hamilton, as he works the head of his cock inside. The head is always the most difficult part -- once he can get that past the wrinkled, tight little hole, the rest, wet from Burr's cunt, will just slide inside him. And there, as the ring of muscle tightens on his shaft, and he starts to move back and forth, sinking deeper each time, palming at Burr's ass.

"You hate it when I make you wait. You can't even wait for my knot to go down -- two alphas wouldn't even be enough for you. Maybe I'd just need to send a few more in to use you along the way. Accommodating and frustrated young men, eager to have a chance to relieve their desires without a risk of pregnancy, how about that? Tell them: now here is an omega with a pretty little cunt," and he has started to slide his fingers inside the mess of come and slick, seeking out the sensitive places inside, "that you can use and use, and he's such a little whore, he'll love it."

He's started to fuck Burr, too, slow, so he doesn't hurt him from the lack of better lube, but hard and harsh. "Nice and tight. Do you not give this hole up to your husband much, or are you just made for this?"

[slowtoanger]

Burr groans, loud and long, quite forgetting the children playing downstairs, shuffling their things into the carriage. It's shocking they've managed this much time together undisturbed. What's most likely is someone's broken something and they're all of them working together to hide the evidence.

It hurt a little, still, when Hamilton starts to press in. He's not prepped at all, but the sting makes his cock ache, and he wiggles his pelvis, tenses the muscles in his thighs. When has Hamilton not prepped him with the utmost care? No, he is always some kind of too gentle, even when Burr is begging for it and Hamilton mimes at pushing him down and fucking him, one powerful stroke into a soaking cunt.

Like this--it really is like he's a captive, taken by someone who doesn't care but to use Burr as a warm hole to stick his cock. Hamilton pushes in relentlessly, and Burr tightens, draws up on him, to feel the way he sinks in, the way his skin pulls when Hamilton draws back.

And it is not just this--no, Hamilton presses his fingers inside, through slick and come, leaves no entrance unassailed. And Burr can do nothing, nothing but lay and take it. Groans and makes little noises and tugs and wiggles the little that he can. Turns his face open mouthed into the sheets, gagging himself.

And Hamilton presses deeper, strokes that hit just beside that place Hamilton taught Burr how to find, all those years ago, and Burr whines, kicks out with those bound feet, flops, as his whole body tenses.

"Oh please," he groans, dramatic and so obviously played up. And he doesn't know--will this be too far? He's never said something like it before, in jest. And Hamilton--he's always so careful. But the chance, the small chance that Hamilton keeps going, a scene from his dearest fantasy. Face red, panting, eyes scrunching up. "Please stop. It feels--oh, Alexander!"

[non_stop]

And Alexander falters.

But he knows his husband. He knows that Burr fantasizes, begs sometimes for things to be rough. He knows how Burr looks and feels when he is lost to pleasure. He knows that Burr likes this ever so much, and that the sweet soft wet spilling from him is not just from before. He presses inside, and he also buries his nose against Burr's throat, where he can smell the purity of his husband's wanting.

It is a game. And Hamilton knows games.

"You lost your chance to tell me to stop," he informs Burr. "For I am no honest man. I am no husband, no father, no man of the community." He bites Burr, lightly, on the mating mark. "You have fallen into sin, and I will use you just the way you're worth." He straightens up. Sharp, hard thrusts, though not as hard as they could be -- he can't bring himself to hurt Burr, not so heavy with child as he is. "Do you think you deserve this? Do you deserve a knotting? You're soaking for it."