Burr kisses hard, and Hamilton responds by biting sharp on Burr's lip, by storming his tongue into Burr's mouth. Burr wants it rougher? That's fine. Hamilton is still worried and angry, and those things transmute fluidly into breaking the endlessly-stretched tension that has always been between them.
His hands drop to Burr's hips, his ass, his thighs, and Hamilton hauls Burr upwards. For a small frame, Hamilton is deceptively strong; he single-handedly dragged cannon weighing close to half a ton back to American lines where even Hercules was having trouble getting it moving. He drills every damn morning for a reason, after all, and he's more than strong enough to pull Burr off the ground, making it necessary for Burr to wrap his legs around Hamilton's waist, thus leaving him in the perfect position for Hamilton to thrust against him. And Burr's smallclothes are doing absolutely nothing to hide the growing state of his arousal.
"Keep making sounds like that," Hamilton promises, roughly, "and we're gonna have a lot more not to be ashamed about." And he rolls his hips against Burr's, sinking his teeth in under Burr's jaw -- because Burr is now hoisted up a little higher than he is. He only just barely remembers to hold himself back from worrying the skin hard enough to bruise.
And he can't deny he likes it, Burr's chest bare, trousers low and undone, while Hamilton is still in his coat, still fully dressed from the morning's drills. Burr is a mess. Hamilton wants to make it worse.
Burr has tormented him for weeks now with white shirts worn thin enough to be almost translucent, and beneath, nipples growing bit by bit larger and darker with every day that passes. Now he devotes himself to finding out if their subtle swelling has created a similar increase in sensitivity, drawing one between his lips and pressing hard with the flat of his tongue.
no subject
His hands drop to Burr's hips, his ass, his thighs, and Hamilton hauls Burr upwards. For a small frame, Hamilton is deceptively strong; he single-handedly dragged cannon weighing close to half a ton back to American lines where even Hercules was having trouble getting it moving. He drills every damn morning for a reason, after all, and he's more than strong enough to pull Burr off the ground, making it necessary for Burr to wrap his legs around Hamilton's waist, thus leaving him in the perfect position for Hamilton to thrust against him. And Burr's smallclothes are doing absolutely nothing to hide the growing state of his arousal.
"Keep making sounds like that," Hamilton promises, roughly, "and we're gonna have a lot more not to be ashamed about." And he rolls his hips against Burr's, sinking his teeth in under Burr's jaw -- because Burr is now hoisted up a little higher than he is. He only just barely remembers to hold himself back from worrying the skin hard enough to bruise.
And he can't deny he likes it, Burr's chest bare, trousers low and undone, while Hamilton is still in his coat, still fully dressed from the morning's drills. Burr is a mess. Hamilton wants to make it worse.
Burr has tormented him for weeks now with white shirts worn thin enough to be almost translucent, and beneath, nipples growing bit by bit larger and darker with every day that passes. Now he devotes himself to finding out if their subtle swelling has created a similar increase in sensitivity, drawing one between his lips and pressing hard with the flat of his tongue.