(no subject)
Jun. 27th, 2016 12:01 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
iniquiticitytumblr prompt "greenhouses sex pollen au w/ virgin washington"
The sense between them has been - delicate, in some way. Delicate is a strange word for two men like them, him physically imposing, his husband a whirlwind. But that’s the best word for it, he’s decided. There’s a spark that they know, this impossible chemistry that he doesn’t understand. Hamilton hovers around him, resists the visible urge to touch. And he -- well, his experience with this desire is incomplete, to say the least.
More presently, one of the war historians has asked him for some letter he wrote, so he’s spent most of the evening ruffling through his correspondence. Lafayette has already given him new candles twice, and helped in the effort when he wasn’t busy around the estate. He wonders, idly, what time it is.
That thought is disturbed by the sound of his door slamming closed. He startles, and several letters flutter to the floor, disorganizing themselves. He groans, irritated, and looks up, half-ready for a sharp word, because there’s only one person who would do that, only --
Hamilton has never looked at him like this. Hamilton has never looked like this, even though they both understand their desire and compatibility perfectly well. Hamilton’s face is flushed, red creeping down his exposed throat. In his newest strategy for private indecency, Hamilton has unbuttoned the top button of his undershirt, displaying even more of himself. The dark pupils of his eyes are blown open - something not quite like panic is lodged firmly there.
“Sir,” he says, in a low, ragged voice. Washington blinks at him; Hamilton’s voice sounds as lascivious as a street whore. He should disapprove, only his mind has decided to savor it without his permission.
“Is something the matter?” Washington says, setting his letters in a neat pile to the side and standing up to approach the ones that have fallen on the floor.
“Yes,” Hamilton answers, and keeps staring him. His gaze is so overbearing as to be suffocating, and Washington’s mind feels uncomfortable even if his body -- well, his body desires. He understands what it means in concept, but in practice there is something disorienting about it. “What is the matter is that I am here, and you are there, and you have not appropriately had me, even though i am yours. And since it is your great pride you are an excellent husband, you should have me.”
Washington frowns, even though there is a substantial part of him that says - demands - screams - urges yes, yes, yes, yes. “Are you ill?”
Hamilton looks down his nose at him as he picks up the papers and sets them down on the desk. Then, Hamilton’s fingers go to the buttons of his own undershirt, and he pushes the offending article off his chest. Washington notices, now, the bulge in Hamilton’s breeches, his lust made flesh. Hamilton stalks over to him and crouches down so they’re eye-to-eye. Hamilton kisses him without his consent, forces his tongue into his mouth, and Washington’s body goes without his mind.
“I may have inhaled a large quality of some mysterious pollen, that I am having a reaction to. But am I not quite charming and handsome?” Hamilton says, very close to his lips, his own mouth a teasing smirk. Washington’s thoughts, which he would like to think are usually very rational, are spiraling in all directions and being quickly conquered by some base desire. His desire is a different language, harsh and brute, but he understands it perfectly, even if he pretends not to. His alien desire speaks straight to his heart. Kiss him, it says. Touch him.
He touches Hamilton’s cheek, warm under his fingertips. “You are very charming and handsome,” he answers.
“Well, I believe that shall settle the matter, and now perhaps you will use your very lovely mouth in other ways, on me.”
Hamilton gives him another kiss, equally ferocious. The desire crushes his rationality more effortlessly than anything. He kisses back, slides his hands around Hamilton’s neck. Tries to stand, but Hamilton’s hand on his shoulder pushes him into sitting against his desk. Hamilton resettles himself in his lap, and the man’s hands go to his waistcoat, unbuttoning the delicate buttons with surprising efficiency. He should not allow himself to be undressed and used in such a way, sitting here on the floor against his desk, only --
It’s perfect, like this, his new thoughts say. Touch him, his new thoughts say, so he does, feels pale, warm skin under his hands. Hamilton groans into his mouth. He decides, instantly, that he prefers it to symphonies. Hamilton pushes his waistcoat off, tosses his cravat away, pulls off his undershirt. He should be opposed to being half-naked in his office with his husband kissing him, but he is not. Hamilton’s mouth is at his jaw, at his neck, at his throat.
Washington has always considered himself well-educated on life experiences, but this - he has never done this. He has never felt like this, new-aches, new-heat, new-desire. He has not been so unprepared for something in a long time. Hamilton bites him, and he yelps. Hamilton looks up, and grins.
“You. Have you never?” A beat. “You have never. You wouldn’t, if you weren’t wed.”
“I have never,” he agrees. Hamilton throws his head back and laughs, and Washington seizes an unfamiliar urge to kiss the line of his neck. The laugh turns to a moan and Hamilton stills, and Washington understands, and continues. Hamilton has never bent to him like this, like he’s doing, like he wants, like he gives himself over. Washington may be old, but he likes to think himself still capable. He tastes Hamilton’s body. He tastes new. Skin, and some sweat, and some plant from the greenhouse, and something so terribly and completely him, overwhelming and sweet and wonderful.
“You have, because you are the type of man to do so,” he says, to Hamilton’s chest. He pulls his mouth away to touch, because he has always so much wanted to touch, and he has many missed touches to make up for.
“I have,” Hamilton says, allowing himself to be touched for a little while before he gives into himself and reclaims Washington’s mouth. His hands are on Washington’s breeches. Washington should stop him, only he doesn’t. “Worry not. You shall be very experienced at pleasing me, when I am finished teaching you.”
He bares Washington’s desire and wraps his hand around it and Washington ceases to have any thoughts at all. (He does, however, manage to knock his head quite firmly against his desk.) Hamilton strokes him with an unfamiliar, exquisite intensity that makes his lust become a solid brick in his stomach. Then, after Washington is unable to comprehend anything other than that touch, Hamilton stops, and Washington makes a noise he’s never made before.
“I shall return to you quite promptly,” Hamilton says to him, smug, “And much better.” Then, his husband is tearing at his breeches and his stockings, and then he is bare and naked in front of him and Washington is eighteen and confused again. Hamilton seems unbothered by his nakedness as he pulls Washington’s breeches off, and now they are both sitting here on his floor naked and painfully aroused. “Now,” Hamilton says, “I may confess that you may become addicted to me and will want me at all hours, but worry not - I shall always want you, as well.”
“You say that as if I do not always want you,” Washington replies, barely. Hamilton wraps a hand around him again, and then makes a big show of arranging them, and then -
Washington squeezes his eyes shut and clenches every muscle in his body to hold back his release, when Hamilton presses his body around him. A hiss of raw sensation escapes through his teeth as Hamilton’s body takes him in, flexes and consumes him, slick and tight. How it possible that something can be so unbearably overwhelming? How could this be a thing that exists, which has been permitted to have been made? How could any human be capable of doing this to another man? And there is more, and more, and more, and next to it the orchestration of Hamilton’s moans and gasps, and the heaving sound of his breath, and Hamilton’s hands on his shoulder, and --
“You have done me a great harm to keep this from me, for some long,” Hamilton hisses, close to his ear, “But I have made adequate preparation to know it, because I have guessed about its impressiveness, and my guesses were all vastly inferior to the truth.”
He has no response. He has nothing, is nothing. He is flesh undone and less than a man. He opens his eyes and Hamilton is looking at him, a droplet of sweat dripping down his face. Hamilton is grinning brightly at him, and then Hamilton is kissing him and pushing his hips back against him and Washington’s new hands find his hips, squeeze. Hamilton nods.
“Push into me,” Hamilton says, and he does, and Hamilton’s face goes beautifully slack with pleasure. He nods, breathless. “And again, and again, and again, and with more force than you can imagine, and then spend inside me. I am sure it is yet another thing you are excellent at. Your status, and your strength, and your confidence, and your height, and your power -- i know what a man you are, and you shall give me this part of you. I will take it from you.”
Washington nods, because Hamilton has always been better with words than him, and there are no words accurate than the ones he uses. He pushes, and Hamilton pushes against him. It is unfamiliar but he understands regardless. Some alien side of him knows, has always known, will always know, maybe. Or perhaps it is Hamilton, who exists as his incredible other half, filling in his missing pieces, the fire that keeps him warm. The fire between them that ignites into a blaze, uncontrollable between them, their gasps and their moans, and their semblances of kisses between slack mouths. Hamilton’s hand is on himself, and Washington pushes it away to be on him, to feel his pleasure. Hamilton throbs in his grip as he strokes, moans and begs senselessly. There is another man inside his husband, too, and that man knows knows other half, so completely. They are matched perfectly and peculiarly, as they always have been, as perhaps they always will be.
He wants this to be eternity. Perhaps he can have this moment forever, and discard war, and politics, and his estate, and community, and deception. Perhaps he can always have Hamilton so tight and hot and needy and wonderful around him, and he understands and can provide. Only, like all things, there is an end - a defined end that he races towards, hot and heavy like a charge, like the august heat of a battle. He charges, clashes, only the other side is not an opponent, but some ally--
He gasps as the ends hits him, aching sharp and hot in his stomach, twisting and unbearable. He forgets, for a moment, as men are wont to do, that he is with Hamilton, and his husband takes up his own cause; his end is hot against his stomach, and suddenly they’re a together mess, panting and weak, and Hamilton’s dead weight in his lap, his breath hot against his chest where he’s leaning.
“Maybe I should be more careful, with the pollen,” Hamilton murmurs against him, his voice thick.
“I see no reason for that,” Washington replies, and Hamilton laughs and looks up at him, shaking his head.
“Well, it should hardly be needed after this, I think; as in all things, you are a man of exceptional skill even with no practice. And with practice…” his expression is lewd. He shifts; there an ache, for a moment, but then he pulls himself close and wraps Washington’s arms around him.
It should be ridiculous, them naked and filthy with their pleasure, but he finds he hardly minds it.
Well, Hamilton is good at that.
The sense between them has been - delicate, in some way. Delicate is a strange word for two men like them, him physically imposing, his husband a whirlwind. But that’s the best word for it, he’s decided. There’s a spark that they know, this impossible chemistry that he doesn’t understand. Hamilton hovers around him, resists the visible urge to touch. And he -- well, his experience with this desire is incomplete, to say the least.
More presently, one of the war historians has asked him for some letter he wrote, so he’s spent most of the evening ruffling through his correspondence. Lafayette has already given him new candles twice, and helped in the effort when he wasn’t busy around the estate. He wonders, idly, what time it is.
That thought is disturbed by the sound of his door slamming closed. He startles, and several letters flutter to the floor, disorganizing themselves. He groans, irritated, and looks up, half-ready for a sharp word, because there’s only one person who would do that, only --
Hamilton has never looked at him like this. Hamilton has never looked like this, even though they both understand their desire and compatibility perfectly well. Hamilton’s face is flushed, red creeping down his exposed throat. In his newest strategy for private indecency, Hamilton has unbuttoned the top button of his undershirt, displaying even more of himself. The dark pupils of his eyes are blown open - something not quite like panic is lodged firmly there.
“Sir,” he says, in a low, ragged voice. Washington blinks at him; Hamilton’s voice sounds as lascivious as a street whore. He should disapprove, only his mind has decided to savor it without his permission.
“Is something the matter?” Washington says, setting his letters in a neat pile to the side and standing up to approach the ones that have fallen on the floor.
“Yes,” Hamilton answers, and keeps staring him. His gaze is so overbearing as to be suffocating, and Washington’s mind feels uncomfortable even if his body -- well, his body desires. He understands what it means in concept, but in practice there is something disorienting about it. “What is the matter is that I am here, and you are there, and you have not appropriately had me, even though i am yours. And since it is your great pride you are an excellent husband, you should have me.”
Washington frowns, even though there is a substantial part of him that says - demands - screams - urges yes, yes, yes, yes. “Are you ill?”
Hamilton looks down his nose at him as he picks up the papers and sets them down on the desk. Then, Hamilton’s fingers go to the buttons of his own undershirt, and he pushes the offending article off his chest. Washington notices, now, the bulge in Hamilton’s breeches, his lust made flesh. Hamilton stalks over to him and crouches down so they’re eye-to-eye. Hamilton kisses him without his consent, forces his tongue into his mouth, and Washington’s body goes without his mind.
“I may have inhaled a large quality of some mysterious pollen, that I am having a reaction to. But am I not quite charming and handsome?” Hamilton says, very close to his lips, his own mouth a teasing smirk. Washington’s thoughts, which he would like to think are usually very rational, are spiraling in all directions and being quickly conquered by some base desire. His desire is a different language, harsh and brute, but he understands it perfectly, even if he pretends not to. His alien desire speaks straight to his heart. Kiss him, it says. Touch him.
He touches Hamilton’s cheek, warm under his fingertips. “You are very charming and handsome,” he answers.
“Well, I believe that shall settle the matter, and now perhaps you will use your very lovely mouth in other ways, on me.”
Hamilton gives him another kiss, equally ferocious. The desire crushes his rationality more effortlessly than anything. He kisses back, slides his hands around Hamilton’s neck. Tries to stand, but Hamilton’s hand on his shoulder pushes him into sitting against his desk. Hamilton resettles himself in his lap, and the man’s hands go to his waistcoat, unbuttoning the delicate buttons with surprising efficiency. He should not allow himself to be undressed and used in such a way, sitting here on the floor against his desk, only --
It’s perfect, like this, his new thoughts say. Touch him, his new thoughts say, so he does, feels pale, warm skin under his hands. Hamilton groans into his mouth. He decides, instantly, that he prefers it to symphonies. Hamilton pushes his waistcoat off, tosses his cravat away, pulls off his undershirt. He should be opposed to being half-naked in his office with his husband kissing him, but he is not. Hamilton’s mouth is at his jaw, at his neck, at his throat.
Washington has always considered himself well-educated on life experiences, but this - he has never done this. He has never felt like this, new-aches, new-heat, new-desire. He has not been so unprepared for something in a long time. Hamilton bites him, and he yelps. Hamilton looks up, and grins.
“You. Have you never?” A beat. “You have never. You wouldn’t, if you weren’t wed.”
“I have never,” he agrees. Hamilton throws his head back and laughs, and Washington seizes an unfamiliar urge to kiss the line of his neck. The laugh turns to a moan and Hamilton stills, and Washington understands, and continues. Hamilton has never bent to him like this, like he’s doing, like he wants, like he gives himself over. Washington may be old, but he likes to think himself still capable. He tastes Hamilton’s body. He tastes new. Skin, and some sweat, and some plant from the greenhouse, and something so terribly and completely him, overwhelming and sweet and wonderful.
“You have, because you are the type of man to do so,” he says, to Hamilton’s chest. He pulls his mouth away to touch, because he has always so much wanted to touch, and he has many missed touches to make up for.
“I have,” Hamilton says, allowing himself to be touched for a little while before he gives into himself and reclaims Washington’s mouth. His hands are on Washington’s breeches. Washington should stop him, only he doesn’t. “Worry not. You shall be very experienced at pleasing me, when I am finished teaching you.”
He bares Washington’s desire and wraps his hand around it and Washington ceases to have any thoughts at all. (He does, however, manage to knock his head quite firmly against his desk.) Hamilton strokes him with an unfamiliar, exquisite intensity that makes his lust become a solid brick in his stomach. Then, after Washington is unable to comprehend anything other than that touch, Hamilton stops, and Washington makes a noise he’s never made before.
“I shall return to you quite promptly,” Hamilton says to him, smug, “And much better.” Then, his husband is tearing at his breeches and his stockings, and then he is bare and naked in front of him and Washington is eighteen and confused again. Hamilton seems unbothered by his nakedness as he pulls Washington’s breeches off, and now they are both sitting here on his floor naked and painfully aroused. “Now,” Hamilton says, “I may confess that you may become addicted to me and will want me at all hours, but worry not - I shall always want you, as well.”
“You say that as if I do not always want you,” Washington replies, barely. Hamilton wraps a hand around him again, and then makes a big show of arranging them, and then -
Washington squeezes his eyes shut and clenches every muscle in his body to hold back his release, when Hamilton presses his body around him. A hiss of raw sensation escapes through his teeth as Hamilton’s body takes him in, flexes and consumes him, slick and tight. How it possible that something can be so unbearably overwhelming? How could this be a thing that exists, which has been permitted to have been made? How could any human be capable of doing this to another man? And there is more, and more, and more, and next to it the orchestration of Hamilton’s moans and gasps, and the heaving sound of his breath, and Hamilton’s hands on his shoulder, and --
“You have done me a great harm to keep this from me, for some long,” Hamilton hisses, close to his ear, “But I have made adequate preparation to know it, because I have guessed about its impressiveness, and my guesses were all vastly inferior to the truth.”
He has no response. He has nothing, is nothing. He is flesh undone and less than a man. He opens his eyes and Hamilton is looking at him, a droplet of sweat dripping down his face. Hamilton is grinning brightly at him, and then Hamilton is kissing him and pushing his hips back against him and Washington’s new hands find his hips, squeeze. Hamilton nods.
“Push into me,” Hamilton says, and he does, and Hamilton’s face goes beautifully slack with pleasure. He nods, breathless. “And again, and again, and again, and with more force than you can imagine, and then spend inside me. I am sure it is yet another thing you are excellent at. Your status, and your strength, and your confidence, and your height, and your power -- i know what a man you are, and you shall give me this part of you. I will take it from you.”
Washington nods, because Hamilton has always been better with words than him, and there are no words accurate than the ones he uses. He pushes, and Hamilton pushes against him. It is unfamiliar but he understands regardless. Some alien side of him knows, has always known, will always know, maybe. Or perhaps it is Hamilton, who exists as his incredible other half, filling in his missing pieces, the fire that keeps him warm. The fire between them that ignites into a blaze, uncontrollable between them, their gasps and their moans, and their semblances of kisses between slack mouths. Hamilton’s hand is on himself, and Washington pushes it away to be on him, to feel his pleasure. Hamilton throbs in his grip as he strokes, moans and begs senselessly. There is another man inside his husband, too, and that man knows knows other half, so completely. They are matched perfectly and peculiarly, as they always have been, as perhaps they always will be.
He wants this to be eternity. Perhaps he can have this moment forever, and discard war, and politics, and his estate, and community, and deception. Perhaps he can always have Hamilton so tight and hot and needy and wonderful around him, and he understands and can provide. Only, like all things, there is an end - a defined end that he races towards, hot and heavy like a charge, like the august heat of a battle. He charges, clashes, only the other side is not an opponent, but some ally--
He gasps as the ends hits him, aching sharp and hot in his stomach, twisting and unbearable. He forgets, for a moment, as men are wont to do, that he is with Hamilton, and his husband takes up his own cause; his end is hot against his stomach, and suddenly they’re a together mess, panting and weak, and Hamilton’s dead weight in his lap, his breath hot against his chest where he’s leaning.
“Maybe I should be more careful, with the pollen,” Hamilton murmurs against him, his voice thick.
“I see no reason for that,” Washington replies, and Hamilton laughs and looks up at him, shaking his head.
“Well, it should hardly be needed after this, I think; as in all things, you are a man of exceptional skill even with no practice. And with practice…” his expression is lewd. He shifts; there an ache, for a moment, but then he pulls himself close and wraps Washington’s arms around him.
It should be ridiculous, them naked and filthy with their pleasure, but he finds he hardly minds it.
Well, Hamilton is good at that.