#this is under a cut bc it's uhhhhhhh...a hard m rating

[reciprocityfic]

#10 for Amy/Laurie

10. an alternate ending to an episode or scene.

“Can you unbutton me, please?”

He gets up slowly, takes one step and then another as she turns her back to him. He’s in a mood all of a sudden; something about the seriousness of her speech about marriage coupled with the fact that she’s leaving him - to go spend time with Fred Vaughn, nonetheless - has put a heaviness in his heart. He doesn’t want her to leave him. In fact, he can think of nothing he’d love more than to spend this afternoon with her in her studio, talking about nothing and everything with her, watching her as she paints.

He reaches out with steady fingers to the buttons of her apron. He’s practiced at this, at undoing the back of a woman’s dress, except usually the context is quite different; usually he’s hurried and at least a bit drunk, desperate for the women in front of him, even more desperate to forget about everything for a little while.

This is different; this is slow and quiet and shouldn’t be anything but innocent, but there’s something about it, a certain edge to the air. He looks up at her from under his eyelashes, looks at the pale skin of her neck, her golden hair. She’s beautiful; he’s never registered before how absolutely beautiful she is.

And it shouldn’t be anything but innocent, but suddenly the room feels too hot and he’s having trouble swallowing. It’s wrong. It’s so wrong, isn’t it? She’s Jo’s sister, for God’s sake - little Amy March.

Except she’s not little, not anymore. She’s grown, and elegant, and so, so beautiful, and he likes her so much. He doesn’t want her to leave. He doesn’t want her to marry Fred Vaughn.

He undos the last button, unties her bow, but doesn’t let go. She goes to walk away, oblivious to the crisis he’s having behind her, but is stopped by his grip on the ties of her apron.

“Laurie?” she asks, her voice laced with confusion.

She smells incredible; he can detect hints of lavender, vanilla, and something he can’t quite place. It’s lovely, and before he can stop himself or think, he steps closer to her, buries his nose in her hair and inhales deeply.

He feels her stiffen just slightly, and she says his name, but he barely notices because he’s intoxicated by her. She’s there, she’s right there. He can feel the warmth coming off her body, and he can’t help himself. He bends his head down, gently presses his lips against the nape of her neck.

A moment passes, and then she turns, using enough strength this time that she pulls the apron ties from his hands. He curses inwardly - he’s ruined everything, most likely. Surely, she’ll scold him, scurry off to Fred, and never want to see him again.

But she only stares at him, eyes wide, cheeks flushed, shoulders moving up and down with each of her deep breaths. He stares back; it’s taking everything he has to stop himself from rushing towards her, wrapping her up in his arms and devouring her.

“Fr -”, she begins, but her voice breaks, and she clears her throat. “Fred is here.”

He keeps his mouth shut. He has no nice words to spare for Fred Vaughn, not right now. He lets his gaze travel down her body, licks his lips - he’s made his intentions clear. It’s up to her, now, to decide what she wants.

It seems like it takes her ages to speak; he feels like his entire life hinges on her next words.

“I...I could tell him I’m ill.”

He can’t help the smile that begins to turn up the corners of his mouth, and he quickly swallows, trying to compose himself even a little. He nods at her, and then she’s off, taking off her apron and hanging it by the door. He watches her through the window as she greets Fred, his fists clenching when the man presses a kiss to her cheek.

It takes a few minutes for him to actually leave (Fred Vaughn has always been too long-winded for his own good), but finally the man gets back into his carriage and leaves. She stays outside until the man is gone, and he watches her take a deep breath before she turns and walks back inside.

She closes the door behind her, and looks at him.

They stare each other down, the air between them thick with the tension of anticipation. The base of his spine tingles as he watches her eyes trail down his body, and if she doesn’t do something soon, he might scream. He just needs one more confirmation - one more assurance that she wants this as much as he does.

“Laurie,” she whispers. Her voice is breathless, but there’s an edge to it, one ripe with restrained excitement.

It prompts him to move, and in one second he’s on her, grabbing her face with both of his hands and pressing his lips to hers. She lets out a gasp that turns into the most delicious whimper when he pries her mouth open with his tongue. She’s hesitant at first, but soon melts into him, catching on to kissing him in record time. She’s always been a diligent student, and this is one thing he’s eager to teach her.

There’s so much he can show her, so much he’s going to show her - him, and only him. She’s his now, as long as she’ll allow it. No one else can have her, ever.

Her hands are all over him, roaming over his chest, pulling at his collar. Finally, they find their way to his hair. Her fingers tangle in the strands, grab and tug, hard. He moans into her mouth, and he can feel her smile against him. It makes his cock ache, and they’ve only just begun.

They need some sort of surface, something to steady themselves, and he backs her up until her back hits the wall of her studio with a thud. He spreads his legs apart as best he can with his foot, and presses himself between her legs; even through all her skirts, he can feel how warm she is, can only imagine how wet she is. The thought makes him groan again, deep in his throat, and he presses himself more firmly against her. She gasps, and throws her head back; he’s sure she can feel him, hard and insistent in his pants.

He takes the opportunity to kiss down her chin, along her jaw, until finally his lips land on her neck. He wraps one arm around her waist, pulling her impossibly closer to him, and uses the other to brace himself against the wall. He kisses her skin, nips and then licks. He can’t leave a mark, he knows, especially against her pale skin. He wants to, desperately. There’s so much he wants. He wants to undress her slowly, lay her out bare before him, wants to kiss every inch of body, wants to bury his face between her legs and feast on her until she screams his name as she comes.

Another time, he tells himself. For now, he’s more than content with what he has.

What he has is her in his arms, chest heaving and moans falling from her lips, hands splayed across his back, squirming against him. What he has is Amy, Amy March, his Amy, no one else’s, Amy, Amy, Amy.

“Laurie,” she breathes, as he bites at the spot between her neck and shoulder, and the sound of her saying his name like that makes his cock twitch. He bites her again, harder this time.

“Laurie,” she moans, reaching one of her arms out to try and grab onto something. She knocks something off a shelf beside them, and it clatters to the ground. The noise doesn’t make him pause in the slightest; the world could be falling apart around them and he wouldn’t stop. Not as long as she kept keening his name the way she is.

Laurie, Laurie, Laurie, Laurie.

Her blouse is mercifully thin today, and he removes his hand from her waist, walks it up her ribs until he’s teasing the tops of her breasts that spill just slightly over the top of her corset. He hates corsets; he’s always hated them, and he’s never hated them more than he does right now. He makes a silent pledge to destroy every single one of hers as soon as he can.

“Laurie,” she says again, but this time, her voice is lower and purposeful. It’s meant to pull him out of the Amy-induced stupor he’s in, but before he can respond, she brings her hands to his face and pulls him from her neck so that she can look him in the eyes.

“Laurie,” she murmurs.

He’s almost afraid that she’s going to tell him to stop; she’s the more sensible one between the two of them, after all. But her green eyes are shining, her pupils are blown, her skin is flushed, her hair is mussed, and a small smile plays on her lips. He’s never seen anything as beautiful as she is now, in this moment.

He can’t do anything but marvel at her. There’s a confidence about her now - she knows what she’s doing, is aware of the effect that she has on him. He can see that she loves it, that she wants him with everything she is, and it’s so profoundly erotic that he almost comes untouched, right there in front of her.

She stands up on her tiptoes and gives him a soft, lingering kiss before pulling away, nipping his bottom lip as she does.

“Amy,” he almost growls, his voice gruff. Her smile grows.

She moves her hands to his abdomen, lets her fingers fiddle with the top button on his waistcoat. She waits for his permission, just in case.

He leans down, whispers in her ear, “Can you unbutton me, please?”

He pulls back, watches her expression light up with joy and longing. She takes a deep breath, stares at him a moment longer.

This is it. This is the beginning of everything, he wants to tell her.

Her fingers are the slightest bit unsteady as they undo his first button, the only thing belying her nervousness. He kisses her forehead, sweetly and gently, in an attempt to soothe her.

She’s on the fourth and final button when they both hear a noise. This one, they can’t ignore.

“Amy? What’s going on in there? What’s all that ruckus?”

Aunt March. The one variable they hadn’t accounted for.

They jump apart, Amy quickly getting in front of him and attempting to smooth her clothes and hair. He rushes to refasten his waistcoat. He’s just closed the last button when the old woman enters the studio.

“Amy, I just saw Fred Vaughn…”

Aunt March stops when she sees that Laurie is standing there behind Amy.

“What is he doing here?”

He can’t help the smile that appears on his face.

“Hello to you as well, Aunt March.”

“He just stopped by for a visit a little while ago,” Amy explains, not turning to face him. She sounds remarkably normal for what just transpired between them. He can detect the tiniest quiver to her voice, but he’s confident it will go unnoticed by the old woman.

“Hm.”

Aunt March looks between the two of them. He prays she doesn’t notice anything; the woman has always been more astute than he gives her credit for.

“Amy,” she repeats after a moment, “I just saw Fred Vaughn leaving, alone. Whatever is the reason for this?”

“Oh, yes. Well, I’ve been feeling rather...rather sick, actually. So I sent him away, and promised I’d send for him as soon as I could. I thought it would be better if I stayed in to rest this afternoon.”

“Then what is he doing here, still?” Aunt March asks, motioning to Laurie again with the glasses she has in her hand.

“Oh, uh…”

“I was just leaving, actually,” Laurie assures her.

The woman looks between the two of them again, and he resists the urge to shift nervously. Yes, Aunt March is very astute.

“I suppose you do look slightly flushed,” Aunt March says finally, and he notices Amy’s shoulders relax slightly out of the corner of his eye. “Do you feel feverish?”

“Just a little lightheaded,” Amy tells her.

“Well, you heard her. Leave, Theodore. The young woman needs to rest.”

“Yes, Aunt March,” he says quickly, moving from behind Amy and heading towards the door. He feels Amy follow him.

“What are you doing, Amy March? You need to rest.”

“I’m just telling Laurie goodbye, Aunt March.”

“Be quick!”

He opens the door, then turns around. She’s standing in front of him, skin still pink, hair still slightly out of place. If he looks closely, he can see the tiniest red mark just above the collar of her blouse, and something quite like pride swells in his chest.

He wants to kiss her more than anything, but he presses his lips to her cheek instead.

“Don’t kiss her, boy!” Aunt March scolds from behind them. “You’ll catch what she has!”

“Get rid of Fred Vaughn,” he whispers in her ear. He leans back, presses his lips against her other cheek. “You’re mine now.”

“As you wish, my lord,” she whispers back.

He pulls away, looks at her once more, sees the most brilliant smile on her face. He doesn’t want to leave her - never wants to leave her, ever again - but for now, he must.

So he turns away, begins to walk across the grass, whistling as he does. And he knows he won’t forget her last beautiful grin for as long as he lives.

send me a number and a pairing (preferably laurie x amy) and i'll write you a mini fic!