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It was far too easy for Hamilton to, on a slow night at his law practice, slip out before the day’s end, wander into Fraunces’s, bask in admiration and get served free alcohol. So much alcohol that he was now, at approximately one thirty in the morning, stumbling out of said tavern into the bitterly cold winter night with one single thing on his mind. A depraved thing. The confounding desire for it flowed steadily through his veins from his brain to his heart to his fingers and lower extremities, mingling disastrously with his inflated ego. And why shouldn’t he have it? This depraved thing that helped bring him down from the high of his accolades that he didn’t really deserve– because he was depraved himself – and around and around the cycle went. Until Hamilton, half-delirious, was in front of City Hall, a place his brilliance had been on display one million times and a place that reminded him of how perilous everything truly was.
He pushed open the heavy front doors, muscles weakened with the cold, and stumbled into the front foyer where he was greeted with darkness except for one bright glow from an office at the end of the hall. He smiled drunkenly to himself and wiped a strand of loose hair from his brow, sloppily shoving it back into place. Upon reaching the doorway, gripping it for balance, Hamilton saw him: a dark silhouette against the light of the fire, unaware, deep in concentration over a book. The line of his body, still hard like a soldier; still desirable even in their shared advancing age. Hamilton strode over and grabbed his shoulder, spinning him: an aggressive greeting completely unbecoming of a statesman.
Burr’s face changed in a split second from irritated surprise to knowing. He parted his mouth, a soft breath escaping. But before he could speak Hamilton grabbed his face and kissed him– savage and bold and unthinking– the first bolt of sober clarity he had all evening. Their lips met off-center: he felt Burr’s teeth, the fleshy wetness of his bottom lip, the smell of his skin and the drag of his five-o-clock shadow. The force of it knocked Burr back, knocked the book from his hand into a fluttering pile on the floor, knocked him nearly off his feet and into an adjacent shelf. But he returned the kiss, with a soft, pleased grunt.
Burr pulled back after a few seconds, turning his head a fraction of an inch to the side, trying to get a better look at his attacker.
“What on earth has gotten into you?” He muttered, hands suggestively placed at either side of Hamilton’s waist.
Hamilton stared at his mouth, “I want you– I don’t care how. Right here.”
“You’re drunk. I can smell it on you,” Burr replied.
For the love of God, Hamilton thought, kissing him again, pressing the hardness between his legs into the other man’s, don’t be a gentleman. Undress me. Take advantage of me. Do everything I know you’re capable of. The words wouldn’t form, and Hamilton was reduced to a dull whimper, his hands grasping blindly at Burr’s outfit like he was an inexperienced teenager.
He knew it like he knew his own body: silk necktie, satin vest, ivory buttons. Beneath that, Burr’s beating heart, alive and racing. And beyond that, still, a man capable of reducing Hamilton to– his mind faltered at that while he pawed at himself, aware that the door to the court office was still wide open, and aware that the thought of being caught with Burr like this turned him on. To ruins. To a sputtering mess. To something less than human, half-deranged with lust. Something that deserved to be punished.
At times it was all too much, being Alexander Hamilton, and the weight of responsibility that went with it.
“Alexander,” Burr caught his attention again, “ Alexander. Here?”
“I need you,” Hamilton responded, still at his mouth.
It wasn’t the first time, and it wouldn’t be the last.
It grew like a sickness between them, blossoming riper and more succulent every time they met. Hamilton was no romantic, especially not when it came to Burr, but in his drunken haze he recalled their first fuck, their second, their third, and each one after. God, why did he do this to himself? Why did Burr? He recalled a scientist who studied explosive chemical reactions between opposing elements. An astrologer who tracked disastrous planetary aspects, leading to dual annihilation. Stags dying, antlers intertwined. It would be the death of them both.
Hamilton dutifully dropped to his knees and looked up, plaintive, meeting jet black eyes that glittered like a predator's. He gripped Burr’s thighs and hips, felt the toned muscles beneath his skin and wanted to tear through them with his bloodied teeth. He grabbed further upward, to the ties and buttons at his waist, yanking them apart and moving in with his mouth, taking Burr’s length all at once. He gagged; Burr grabbed his chin
“Look at me,” he croaked, flush. “The door.”
“No one’s here.” Hamilton answered after pulling away with a lecherous sucking sound and a pop.
“Are you out of your fucking mind?”
Hamilton resumed his work, lips wet and stretched, mouth filled, cheeked hollowed. He pulled back, gazing up again, panting, “Yes.”
It was so easy with Aaron– he was Aaron when they were like this– Alexander didn’t even have to think about it. He teased the head of the other man’s cock with his tongue, eliciting from him a wonderful, unguarded noise. He spat into his right hand and gripped it, stroking Aaron in time with his tongue and mouth.
He paused again and, slurred and breathless, began begging, “ Please fuck me. Right here. Against the bookshelf, against the window, on the floor. I want– I want–” Hamilton closed his eyes and fell against the rumpled tangle of fabric around Burr’s thigh, pathetic. You’re a mess. You’re a fucking disaster, Hamilton. You’re – he ended his aborted thought with a whimper against Burr’s skin that turned into a biting nip.
Burr hissed, grabbing a handful of Hamilton’s stained linen undershirt and pulled him into an upright position. He kissed Alexander again and spun him, pushing him toward an empty desk.
And the most humiliating part of it all was that Hamilton had prepared for this, fantasized about it all the night previous, fucking himself open with his fingers and whatever lubricant he had available until he came wet and disgraceful across his stomach. Imagining Burr there instead. He spent the day getting his body ready. He knew what he was going to do. There was no spontaneity to this, despite how badly Hamilton’s pride wanted to pretend otherwise. The reality of being fucked by another man completely prevented it.
Hamilton groaned into his arm and braced himself against the cold wood of the desk with his left hand while Burr pressed into him from behind, whispering obscenities.
“Did I hear you correctly, Alexander? You want to get caught? Legs spread like a whore while I devour you?” Aaron gripped a handful of skin at Alexander’s ass, tight enough to leave a mark. Hamilton answered by shifting out of his shoes, his stockings, his breeches, one-handed, one layer after another until he was bare from the waist down. Once that hand was free he nodded, yes , stroking himself harder.
Hamilton closed his eyes and sensed Burr’s every move. There was another grab of his ass, a slap that ricocheted around the room, followed up by a muted, hot voice in Hamilton’s ear, vulgar, This belongs to me, doesn’t it, Alexander? To which Hamilton nodded again, yes , face burning and red, frantically this time, yes, yes, yes, it always fucking has and you know that. He felt a different sensation, then. Burr dropping to his knees and doing exactly as he promised: spreading Alexander open and diving in deep with his tongue like he was starving for it.
Time stopped there; the air hung languid and heavy around them, the fire making it worse. Hamilton bent forward, braced against his left forearm, biting into it, while jerking himself off with his right. The swimming effects of the alcohol had long since worn off with his rush of adrenaline but it didn’t matter. Drunken or sober he’d find his way here, just like this, a plaything for Burr to torture. A man in desperate need of retribution for everything he was and everything he’d done.
“Such a perfect little ass. So firm,” Burr whispered in his ear, standing once more while his fingers worked Hamilton open. He dropped his voice lower still, and the growl of it hit Hamilton directly in the tip of his cock, “But so yielding.”
The words made him groan and he had to pause his strokes for fear of ending it all right there. He felt the rhythmic jerks of Burr’s grip on his own erection directly behind him; his hand on Hamilton’s back, steadying himself.
“What do you want, Alexander? I want to hear you beg for it again.”
Hamilton’s defiant answer, “You won’t stop until I’m completely degraded.”
Burr slid a boot between his legs, nudging them open. One finger turned into two inside of Alexander, in and out, faster. Then, the two fingers hooked, and pressed into his prostate, and Hamilton cried out from the sudden flare of ecstasy.
“What do you want, Alexander?”
Alexander’s answer was muffled into his sleeve, where he was shocked to see a wet spot from his own saliva, “I want you to fuck me.”
Hamilton had barely voiced the answer before he heard Burr spit into his hand to wet himself; then felt the blunt pressure of his hardness, slow–excruciatingly slow–entering him by millimeters, and pulling back out again to rub lecherously against his rim. It was torture when Aaron did this, and it was his favorite move. I fucking hate you, Alexander groaned, and pushed back against it, forcing Aaron inside of him.
The pleasure was instantaneous and explosive and Alexander rode him like that for a few minutes, braced against the desk, fucking himself against the other man’s cock. Christ did it feel good, the way Burr could hit the most tender spot inside of him, assuaging his ache. Hamilton’s breath increased and his skin glistened as if he were running a marathon; he focused on the delicious animal sounds from Burr’s mouth every time Hamilton thrust back until their roles reversed and Burr took control.
His fingers dug into the pliant flesh at Alexander’s side and stomach, something he was so insecure about but something that seemed to make Aaron delirious with lust. Burr whispered into his ear about it, telling him how delicious he was, how tender and desirable. And If Hamilton didn’t know Burr’s litany by heart already he’d be unable to make out just what the other man was actually saying, inarticulate and stilted as it was. Aaron whispered it into Alexander’s hair until it became filthy nonsense.
Burr’s free hand snaked up Hamilton’s bare wet thigh, to his ass, another slap. In his haze Hamilton remembered where they were, remembered that not six hours ago he was writing up some case brief about so-and-so, a debt his client owed, a means of repayment. And now, here he was– Burr shifted his angle just slightly and Hamilton’s thoughts ended there for a split second, eyes rolling back into his head while he bit down on his forearm again to stifle a moan– and now here they were, and it was horrible and wonderful all at once, the same kind of perverse. Hamilton thought about just destroying everything he’d worked for and running away with him, somewhere where neither of them were known, where they could indulge in this salaciousness at will. He lifted himself up with both hands against the desktop, crying out and bracing himself back against Burr while he continued to pound him. Yes, yes that would be good, Hamilton thought. Then, this kind of devilish wickedness is how men go completely mad.
“Keep going,” was all Alexander could manage. He was close. It wasn’t a competition, but he loved to finish first. Burr loved it, too. Loved to see what he could fuck out of Alexander. He had confessed that to Hamilton once, almost ten years ago, in the heat of a different encounter in a shared bed at an inn, and it made Hamilton’s legs nearly crumple beneath him.
He felt beads of sweat at his brow and down his arched spine, the flush creeping up his neck while pressure built between his legs and at the head of his cock. Hamilton closed his eyes and, mouth agape, concentrated on his orgasm – envisioning deranged, incestuous things of he and Burr – like brothers – things he’d never dream of admitting even if he were in his right mind– closer– until it was there– bursting out of him as he cursed them both.
“Fuck,” Hamilton swore, looking down at himself through the haze of his climax to see his seed spilling across the loose paperwork and unfinished memos; his gripping hand wringing it out. He hissed, grinding back against Burr, “Oh, God– Christ–”
“--Alexander–” Aaron’s voice, a pleading, helpless sound Alexander didn’t recognize hit his ear and he felt the throb of Aaron’s orgasm inside of him. And then, amidst slow pumping, down the inside of his leg.
Hamilton loved that dirty feeling. Loved the way Burr couldn’t bear to pull out of him. Loved the feeling of Burr’s warm hands on him, his mouth at Alexander’s ear. In the scuffle his cravat had been unwound gracelessly around his neck and Aaron took advantage of it, kissing Alexander’s exposed skin and murmuring vulnerabilities.
“Alexander…oh I’ve missed this…I’ve missed you…” Burr could be startlingly tender. He spun Hamilton around again and kissed him against the desk, open-mouthed. “You have no idea how badly…how badly I needed that…”
Hamilton grinned, still half-drunk, groping for a handkerchief in his pocket, “Likewise.”
He rubbed at the inside of his legs while their mouths locked again. Burr kissed him like they were newlyweds, ignoring the ignominious realities of clean-up. Once finished, Hamilton broke away from him, pulled up his breeches with one hand and tossed the dirty handkerchief into the fire, while Burr watched his every move.
“The correspondence, too, Hamilton,” he laughed softly, pointing.
Hamilton looked, let out an oh of realization, and his cheeks burned. He looked back at Burr, who was finishing buttoning his breeches, “They’re not important?”
“What if I were to say they were?” Burr slowly walked over, putting both hands on the edge of his desk, trapping Hamilton between his arms. “Then what?”
Hamilton put a hand to his forehead and laughed softly, “I don’t…I’ll toss them, too. Sorry, I’m not myself. I don’t know.”
“I’ll say.” Burr murmured, brushing a strand of hair from Hamilton's brow. He trailed his thumb down across Hamilton’s burning face and stopped at his mouth, dragging it across his bottom lip, deep in thought. He waited a moment, gaze darting upwards, “You’ll come home with me tonight, won’t you?”
Hamilton nodded mutely, as if either of them could say no.