#hambrr

“I’m just saying,” Hamilton says as Burr slides his shirt over his head, “if things keep on as they do, in this climate--”

“Alex,” Burr says, and it’d sound more like a threat if his hands weren’t busy undoing Hamilton’s pants. He moves Hamilton to the bed, taking a moment to move the textbooks (scrawled with notes) and Hamilton’s laptop. The books thud on to the floor, and Burr knows he’ll get a dirty look later but for now he’s distracted by the way Hamilton’s hair is loose and wild about his face, the watch his eyes lock onto Burr with a wrenching intensity.

“Revolution’s got to be bottom up--” Hamilton is still arguing a point Burr long ago conceded (he hadn’t meant to engage in this – arguing with Hamilton was like arguing with a brick wall, and Burr has better things to do with him). Burr muffles the rest of the argument with a kiss – he has his own ideas on what should be bottom up - which Hamilton returns easily enough – Burr knows how to be distracting – and Hamilton’s hands tug at the hem of Burr’s shirt, which Burr divests himself of, and pants as well. Hamilton’s neck tips back as Burr grinds against him, and Burr takes advantage of such bared skin. Hamilton’s words have shifted into noises, purrs of encouragement, and Burr is well-encouraged, soon has him ready for the taking.

The heat of him never ceases to be astonishing, and they move together. One of Hamilton’s hands reaches up, cups the back of his neck, brings him closer so their foreheads almost touch.