greenhouse au
Apr. 29th, 2016 02:14 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
iniquiticityFor the purposes of fic, this is NOT IN ANY WAY CANON, and, whoops, it's not NSFW either. well, #mypg13 life.
anyway, ostensibly this happens here rather than flower metaphors. then they fuck. i don't know, man. don't make me try ot figure this out. i got enough problems with this damn story.
The greatest benefit of the ultimate horror and catastrophe of being dragged, metaphorically kicking and literally screaming, into General Washington’s estate, was that the man had many books. Phillip Schuyler was generally not interested in books, unless they were about military history, and Alexander had read almost all of them. General Washington had books about every conceivable subject, and from them Alexander learned much about the man: while he had military history books, his clear passions were about growing things: There were whole sections of farming and soil conditions and light and plants, and more about plant identification and classification, many with added notes, and even more with whole pages added to the back of Washington’s notes in his uncharacteristically tiny, neat script. He had a huge collection of the mechanics of creating and maintaining one’s own greenhouse.
It was only that it was incredibly difficult to imagine the man, as perfect as he kept himself, with his hands in dirt - Alexander knew conceptually that Washington tended his own greenhouse, but how could a man do so in a silk jacket with violet cufflinks? But they kept to themselves, and Alexander told himself that he did not care, really, because Washington was a tyrant on his worst days and only terribly annoying in his best. He knew when Washington was in the greenhouse, and usually after his early breakfast, after writing, he would take whatever he was reading to the greenhouse and read for a while, while Washington ate breakfast, and then leave. This also served as a way to think without Lafayette appearing at his shoulder, like a spy-mouse.
Alexander knew, objectively, that the general was a well-desired among men and women of many stations. This was not only for his rank, and his heroism, and his courage, and his “impeccable” manners (which, Alexander thought cynically, managed to include forcing young men to marry him), but also that he was extremely handsome. The general had a proud face with his broad, thoughtful brow, and a clean-shaven jaw, and a perfect strong swell of his shoulders; his clothes were cut to emphasize his features but not exaggeratedly so. Alexander could track the round of his biceps and the strength of his forearms; he could imagine, without much effort, the chiseled stomach, and the muscular back, and the powerful thighs.
Alexander thought of him as a very rude, well-carved statue, all marble strength and cut. He acknowledged that he not unpleasant to look at, only he had disturbed him too much to ever truly manage decent attraction. This, of course, did not even begin to fold in the rumors of the general’s impotence, or some other kind of disability of which had delayed his marriage so much. If the general was enjoying himself with anyone, it was Lafayette (who was a story for another day, and a story he would know, mark his words), but he did not, in all honesty, suspect that they were engaged in such a manner. The general was either disinterested, incapable, or so far wrapped in his manners that something so crude had not even occurred to him.
(Another perk of his removal to the Washington estate, however, was that his trysts with John were much easier to manage, for he did not have any of his sisters looking over his shoulder. Lafayette was worse in some manners, and better in others, but if he knew - and Alexander suspected that he must have known, because it seemed Lafayette knew everything - he had either declined to share the information with the general, or the general knew and took no action. Alexander remembered with some entertainment John’s shock that their illicit gatherings would continue, for would not have Alexander preferred his husband? How could a man prefer one who had forced his hand? Although there was some minor different kind of difficulty, because Henry Laurens despised both Alexander and General Washington, and his most recent planned event John had been cancelled due to the controlling nature of Henry Laurens. The best that could be said about General Washington was that he was not Henry Laurens.)
Except on this day, he had gotten terribly into the book, because it was a fascinating discussion on the evolution of land-grants, and Washington of course had made notes about how he had come to acquire his own land, and Alexander had learned Washington had had a brother, Laurence, and a father, Augustine, for one reason or another, he had gotten their property, on top of what he had acquired from the war. Alexander thought there were ways that he could perhaps manage his own property, and he had not heard the greenhouse door. He looked up and the general was there, his arms up to the elbow in the dirt of some pot in one of the aisles.
Alexander was struck, for the general was dressed down, and in the middle of his hard work, and focused on his plant. Instead of the full outfit he usually wore, he was wearing only a brown leather vest, plain and well-worn, and under it a broken-in cotton shirt where not even repeated bleachings had completely removed the brown dirt-stains from it. The shirt was white and in some places translucent with sweat and stuck to the fine form that it hit; Alexander could see with decent clarity the biceps he knew in abstract existed. Washington had clearly worked for some time - the sweat of his shirt also beaded at his collar, and trickled down his neck, making his skin shine. He hardly looked general of the armies, hard-worked and dressed down. In fact, if he were to be completely honest, Washington looked --
-- well, he looked exactly the type Alexander had managed himself, more often than not, in the army. Older, calm and powerful, with a well-attended body.
Alexander felt a betraying jolt of heat in the base of his stomach, of which he glared at. His eyes were drawn back to Washington’s form, which sat in the back of his mind. He caught a glance of Washington’s hand, huge and strong, covered in dirt, the muscles of his forearms, visible through the sweat-slick shirt, and perfect fit of the vest, which expressed his strength without making him seem brutish.
He stared at the book and pretended to read. There was some joy that he felt in the general’s constant confusion, and such an approach would only puzzle the man. Washington would not deny, of which he was almost completely sure - he would want Alexander to want him, and try to provide, though Alexander had a sneaking suspicion he was far, far more experienced than his forced husband.
But the greenhouse was hot, and slick in the back of his neck, and Washington was looking so good - human. Alexander put his bookmark in the book and left it on his little chair and stood up. Washington’s side when stiff when he approached. Learning to read the general had been difficult, but Alexander was an excellent judge of a man, and it had only taken a litlte while to learn what Washington’s twitches meant.
“General Washington,” he said, in cool voice, and he put his hand on Washington’s forearm. The strength was very real, and Alexander’s barbarian thoughts wondered in what ways he could use it. Washington looked at him only in the corner of his eye, and went tense; Alexander drew his hand up Washington’s shirt, traced his powerful arm.
“How may I assist you, Lord Hamilton?” Washington asked, half-frozen. Something not quite fear - a kind of insecurity that Alexander delighted it - blinked in his eyes.
“You are usually more well-dressed,” he said, resisting the urge to laugh at how Washington watched his hand, which traced the curve of his bicep through the shirt. Washington’s body was firm and wonderful, and with a little effort he convinced Washington’s body, and perhaps the man overthinking the situation inside, to face him.
“I know there shall be some dirt involved; I have work-clothes, and display them.”
Alexander could see strength behind the shirt and under the vest. Washington’s neck was bare, and powerful, and Alexander could see how tense he was. If Washington had ever engaged with Lafayette - or Lady Dandridge-Custis - it had not been for a while, to have such anxiety about these touches. “They display you.”
Washington’s eyes were wary, and dark, and appealing. Alexander’s dark enjoyment of the man’s suffering mixed with his pleasure and overwhelmed any disapprovals his mind could think of. He let his hand trail up the powerful shoulder, his thumb tracing the muscle of his neck.
“In what way may I assist you, Lord Hamilton?” Washington asked, and finally he wrapped one of his large hands around Alexander’s hand and held it, as if he was not sure exactly what to do with it.
“Do I not make myself clear, General Washington?” he asked, and he twisted his hand in Washington’s grip, spreading the wide fingers and teasing his nails at the center of his palm. The general flinched, and pulled his hand back. He reached for a handkerchief in his pocket, and wiped the sweat from his brow and the back of his neck.
“I fear you do not, sir,” Washington said, and put the handkerchief back in his pocket. “Accept my most sincere apologies, that I do not know your words-without-words.”
Alexander took a low breath and gathered himself; his desire had coalesced into something solid in his stomach, with the tease of flesh and the promise of a strong grip. He smirked. “It must be different among generals, but us poor foot soldiers must make do in silent darkness, left with only our own desires, and guesses”
Finally, a flicker of irritation appeared in the general’s worried, stern countenance. He let his hands rest at his side, and looked away, and then back. “If you wish to proposition me, sir, make clear your intent, and speak your desire with words.”
Alexander considered. He could be clear about such a thing; he could make more actions; he could leave, and let his forced husband wonder. He offered his hand, fingers downward. Washington took it, and kissed his knuckles, a peculiar sort of subservience for someone with so much status, not to mention bulk.
“Would you prefer me to bathe first, or do I present a more appealing figure dirt- and sweat-slicked?” Washington asked, his lips against Alexander’s hand. His breath was warm. Alexander, being a man of reasonable age, and denied his usual partner, was quite engaged with this.
“As you are, perhaps with your hands washed,” Alexander said, and his heart beat very loud in his chest. Washington took a breath and evidently steadied himself.
“Of course, sir,” Washington said, and very tenderly drew his hand up Alexander’s arm. Alexander wondered the best way to phrase that he would like to see some strength.
anyway, ostensibly this happens here rather than flower metaphors. then they fuck. i don't know, man. don't make me try ot figure this out. i got enough problems with this damn story.
The greatest benefit of the ultimate horror and catastrophe of being dragged, metaphorically kicking and literally screaming, into General Washington’s estate, was that the man had many books. Phillip Schuyler was generally not interested in books, unless they were about military history, and Alexander had read almost all of them. General Washington had books about every conceivable subject, and from them Alexander learned much about the man: while he had military history books, his clear passions were about growing things: There were whole sections of farming and soil conditions and light and plants, and more about plant identification and classification, many with added notes, and even more with whole pages added to the back of Washington’s notes in his uncharacteristically tiny, neat script. He had a huge collection of the mechanics of creating and maintaining one’s own greenhouse.
It was only that it was incredibly difficult to imagine the man, as perfect as he kept himself, with his hands in dirt - Alexander knew conceptually that Washington tended his own greenhouse, but how could a man do so in a silk jacket with violet cufflinks? But they kept to themselves, and Alexander told himself that he did not care, really, because Washington was a tyrant on his worst days and only terribly annoying in his best. He knew when Washington was in the greenhouse, and usually after his early breakfast, after writing, he would take whatever he was reading to the greenhouse and read for a while, while Washington ate breakfast, and then leave. This also served as a way to think without Lafayette appearing at his shoulder, like a spy-mouse.
Alexander knew, objectively, that the general was a well-desired among men and women of many stations. This was not only for his rank, and his heroism, and his courage, and his “impeccable” manners (which, Alexander thought cynically, managed to include forcing young men to marry him), but also that he was extremely handsome. The general had a proud face with his broad, thoughtful brow, and a clean-shaven jaw, and a perfect strong swell of his shoulders; his clothes were cut to emphasize his features but not exaggeratedly so. Alexander could track the round of his biceps and the strength of his forearms; he could imagine, without much effort, the chiseled stomach, and the muscular back, and the powerful thighs.
Alexander thought of him as a very rude, well-carved statue, all marble strength and cut. He acknowledged that he not unpleasant to look at, only he had disturbed him too much to ever truly manage decent attraction. This, of course, did not even begin to fold in the rumors of the general’s impotence, or some other kind of disability of which had delayed his marriage so much. If the general was enjoying himself with anyone, it was Lafayette (who was a story for another day, and a story he would know, mark his words), but he did not, in all honesty, suspect that they were engaged in such a manner. The general was either disinterested, incapable, or so far wrapped in his manners that something so crude had not even occurred to him.
(Another perk of his removal to the Washington estate, however, was that his trysts with John were much easier to manage, for he did not have any of his sisters looking over his shoulder. Lafayette was worse in some manners, and better in others, but if he knew - and Alexander suspected that he must have known, because it seemed Lafayette knew everything - he had either declined to share the information with the general, or the general knew and took no action. Alexander remembered with some entertainment John’s shock that their illicit gatherings would continue, for would not have Alexander preferred his husband? How could a man prefer one who had forced his hand? Although there was some minor different kind of difficulty, because Henry Laurens despised both Alexander and General Washington, and his most recent planned event John had been cancelled due to the controlling nature of Henry Laurens. The best that could be said about General Washington was that he was not Henry Laurens.)
Except on this day, he had gotten terribly into the book, because it was a fascinating discussion on the evolution of land-grants, and Washington of course had made notes about how he had come to acquire his own land, and Alexander had learned Washington had had a brother, Laurence, and a father, Augustine, for one reason or another, he had gotten their property, on top of what he had acquired from the war. Alexander thought there were ways that he could perhaps manage his own property, and he had not heard the greenhouse door. He looked up and the general was there, his arms up to the elbow in the dirt of some pot in one of the aisles.
Alexander was struck, for the general was dressed down, and in the middle of his hard work, and focused on his plant. Instead of the full outfit he usually wore, he was wearing only a brown leather vest, plain and well-worn, and under it a broken-in cotton shirt where not even repeated bleachings had completely removed the brown dirt-stains from it. The shirt was white and in some places translucent with sweat and stuck to the fine form that it hit; Alexander could see with decent clarity the biceps he knew in abstract existed. Washington had clearly worked for some time - the sweat of his shirt also beaded at his collar, and trickled down his neck, making his skin shine. He hardly looked general of the armies, hard-worked and dressed down. In fact, if he were to be completely honest, Washington looked --
-- well, he looked exactly the type Alexander had managed himself, more often than not, in the army. Older, calm and powerful, with a well-attended body.
Alexander felt a betraying jolt of heat in the base of his stomach, of which he glared at. His eyes were drawn back to Washington’s form, which sat in the back of his mind. He caught a glance of Washington’s hand, huge and strong, covered in dirt, the muscles of his forearms, visible through the sweat-slick shirt, and perfect fit of the vest, which expressed his strength without making him seem brutish.
He stared at the book and pretended to read. There was some joy that he felt in the general’s constant confusion, and such an approach would only puzzle the man. Washington would not deny, of which he was almost completely sure - he would want Alexander to want him, and try to provide, though Alexander had a sneaking suspicion he was far, far more experienced than his forced husband.
But the greenhouse was hot, and slick in the back of his neck, and Washington was looking so good - human. Alexander put his bookmark in the book and left it on his little chair and stood up. Washington’s side when stiff when he approached. Learning to read the general had been difficult, but Alexander was an excellent judge of a man, and it had only taken a litlte while to learn what Washington’s twitches meant.
“General Washington,” he said, in cool voice, and he put his hand on Washington’s forearm. The strength was very real, and Alexander’s barbarian thoughts wondered in what ways he could use it. Washington looked at him only in the corner of his eye, and went tense; Alexander drew his hand up Washington’s shirt, traced his powerful arm.
“How may I assist you, Lord Hamilton?” Washington asked, half-frozen. Something not quite fear - a kind of insecurity that Alexander delighted it - blinked in his eyes.
“You are usually more well-dressed,” he said, resisting the urge to laugh at how Washington watched his hand, which traced the curve of his bicep through the shirt. Washington’s body was firm and wonderful, and with a little effort he convinced Washington’s body, and perhaps the man overthinking the situation inside, to face him.
“I know there shall be some dirt involved; I have work-clothes, and display them.”
Alexander could see strength behind the shirt and under the vest. Washington’s neck was bare, and powerful, and Alexander could see how tense he was. If Washington had ever engaged with Lafayette - or Lady Dandridge-Custis - it had not been for a while, to have such anxiety about these touches. “They display you.”
Washington’s eyes were wary, and dark, and appealing. Alexander’s dark enjoyment of the man’s suffering mixed with his pleasure and overwhelmed any disapprovals his mind could think of. He let his hand trail up the powerful shoulder, his thumb tracing the muscle of his neck.
“In what way may I assist you, Lord Hamilton?” Washington asked, and finally he wrapped one of his large hands around Alexander’s hand and held it, as if he was not sure exactly what to do with it.
“Do I not make myself clear, General Washington?” he asked, and he twisted his hand in Washington’s grip, spreading the wide fingers and teasing his nails at the center of his palm. The general flinched, and pulled his hand back. He reached for a handkerchief in his pocket, and wiped the sweat from his brow and the back of his neck.
“I fear you do not, sir,” Washington said, and put the handkerchief back in his pocket. “Accept my most sincere apologies, that I do not know your words-without-words.”
Alexander took a low breath and gathered himself; his desire had coalesced into something solid in his stomach, with the tease of flesh and the promise of a strong grip. He smirked. “It must be different among generals, but us poor foot soldiers must make do in silent darkness, left with only our own desires, and guesses”
Finally, a flicker of irritation appeared in the general’s worried, stern countenance. He let his hands rest at his side, and looked away, and then back. “If you wish to proposition me, sir, make clear your intent, and speak your desire with words.”
Alexander considered. He could be clear about such a thing; he could make more actions; he could leave, and let his forced husband wonder. He offered his hand, fingers downward. Washington took it, and kissed his knuckles, a peculiar sort of subservience for someone with so much status, not to mention bulk.
“Would you prefer me to bathe first, or do I present a more appealing figure dirt- and sweat-slicked?” Washington asked, his lips against Alexander’s hand. His breath was warm. Alexander, being a man of reasonable age, and denied his usual partner, was quite engaged with this.
“As you are, perhaps with your hands washed,” Alexander said, and his heart beat very loud in his chest. Washington took a breath and evidently steadied himself.
“Of course, sir,” Washington said, and very tenderly drew his hand up Alexander’s arm. Alexander wondered the best way to phrase that he would like to see some strength.