It's soft mewls that escape him as Burr presses inside, trailing to gasps; his body knows what to do, and how to relax into it, to welcome the penetration, and this instinct serves him well. His fingers curl against the mattress. He is taken. He is awake, now, and knows that there isn't a magic trick that will make him amenable to Burr's seed, that will render him fertile, but he indulges in the fantasy regardless. He likes the thought.

Hamilton's head tosses enough to shrug his hair out of the way, let him blink in the half-light --

Burr fits him like they were born for this. Not the helpless stretch he always had to bear with Laurens, the hint of pain. He feels himself wrapped snugly and securely around Burr's cock, feels its movement in the tender tissues inside him. No pain, though. When he gasps, it is only bliss.

It seems to him that Laurens carved out a space inside him, hollowed him in just the dimensions that would fit his husband. And he realizes Laurens' eyes are half-lidded, only, watching them. Awake.

If Hamilton were conscious, not caught so off-guard, he might be guiding Burr through this. Showing him the angles that feel the best, the pace that Hamilton likes. Now, Hamilton isn't remotely capable of that, and, if he was, he would be lost instantly: it is so overwhelming just to have Burr inside him, hardly even thrusting, just working at his insides with an eagerness that's more erotic than Hamilton dared to imagine. Grinding into him, little thrusts that make Hamilton choke on his breath.