(no subject)

[iniquiticity]

Anonymous asked
Greenhouse!Alex and Greenhouse!George going on a particularly sexually tense ride and then dismounting in a clearing and just going for it.

sometimes they race. washington has never pushed nelson so fast for such a frivolous reason, but his old warhouse doesn’t seem to mind the extra effort, especially in the cooler evenings. hamilton’s horse, peacock, a spritely younger thing, and filled with the same personality as his rider, chomps at the bit to run. so the first time they disturb the servants with the dust and hamilton’s whooping and smug taunts, and the next time washington beats him despite nelson’s age, and after that it’s a competition. hamilton is competitive to the core; washington forgot, maybe, every race he was upset about losing.

they race in the blazing august heat and peacock quits halfway through their usual route, out in a clearing past the woods. hamilton hisses and curses at the horse. washington and nelson, more well-paced but certainly as sweat-caked, come up quick, and washington says something about the strategy. hamilton looks over his shoulder and glares, but his eyes are hot and all he do is look at washington the right way. they dismount and hamilton pushes him into the scrubby grass and hot dirt; the heat simmers; washington’s panting with exertion and a roaring desire that surges, all at once. they stare at each other for a long time before his hands are moving on their own, pushing hamilton into the ground and fighting with his breeches.

hamilton helps him, sweat-slick and shining in the early afternoon sun; he nods a quick, sharp little nod as washington strokes himself a few times, spits even though it won’t be enough. hamilton pushes back against, groans and hisses as they fuck, hot and sharp and half-dry. even if he’s never done this, it still provokes some kind of fake nosalgia - pleasure/desperation, heat and hurriedness. hamilton digs his nails into the wildflowers and gasps, his skin boiling to touch where washington digs his fingers into his hips.

he comes, gasping into hamilton’s hair, inhaling the smell of his skin and soap and sweat and his tanned skin. hamilton shifts to get a hand on himself, streaks the dirt with his own milk-white release. they lie on the packed-dry dirt together in a pile of their own mess, a peculiar, new and gorgeous kind of solitude.