Little Women Fic: Into the Woods, Ch 1 (Jo, Laurie) (NC-17)
I swear to God, I don't know how but somehow, I ended up writing what's probably the most simultaneously sexually explicit and depressing fanfic this fandom has seen yet. I'm blaming the luminous and ridiculously talented Rese for this. If she hadn't updated chapter 2 of her great series Ankle, I wouldn't have caved in to her and written her a fic featuring Jo and Laurie committing adultery and cavorting in the woods. But she did and then I accepted and... well, now you know the rest of the story. ;)
In any case, massive amounts of thanks goes to my two lovely betas, Elisabeth Harker and elizabethisboss. Without your help, I would have no idea how this piece should even begin, let alone end. Thank you for once again inspiring me!
Also, part 2 of this fic will be up on next Wednesday, right before I go on vacation for two weeks. I'm getting so addicted to sex cliffhangers, it's actually a little unseemly...
Title: Into The Woods, Part 1/2
Fandom: Little Women
Series: Into The Woods
Characters/Pairings: Jo/Laurie, Bhaer, Amy
Rating: NC-17
Summary: 'And when she puts her mouth against that of her sister's husband, she can almost pretend she only does this merely to gain silence and peace in their pocket of smooth, bone-chilled beauty.' Jo, Laurie and a secret in the dark that could destroy everything...
Important Note: This is the NC-17 rated version of the story. If you'd rather skip over the explicit sex to linger on the emotional convulsions, you can read the R-rated version archived at fanfiction.net
***
"We could run away," Laurie whispers at the beginning of their evening, and his eyes are more desperate than they should've been given the liberties she's now allowing.
The field where their trysts begin and almost always end is dark and damp this time of year, not that it stops the either of them. Still, somewhere in the back of Jo's mind, she thinks of her mother warning her that the woods would be the death of her if she didn't pay them more mind, if she didn't stop dawdling in them every time she went on her way to Aunt March's and came home with a cold from hours and hours of tracing icicles shining atop tree branches.
And somewhere even further back, she thinks of tales she's heard of the woods, the whispers and stories, the words formed between circles of girls and beneath bed-covers, the words she's spun out for her sisters with bloody satisfaction, as she had entertained them with her stories of girls lost in the dark, lost in the woods, never to return home fully.
She doesn't smile now, not at him or the memory. They both hold too many shadows for so innocent an expression.
"We can't run," she reminds him, voice dull in her own ears. "We've got too much tying us down. We can't just imitate the wind, you know. We're only human beings."
"And why," he whispers, and his fingers are cold on her bare face despite his gloves, "do you continue to pass these needless restrictions on yourself, despite what you could achieve?"
And when she looks at him in wordless answer, his eyes gleam feverishly with a light that could come only from the dark.
He's terrified her many a times before but never as much as he terrifies her here.
"Hush," she says, in lieu of an answer.
And when she puts her mouth against that of her sister's husband, she can almost pretend she only does this merely to gain silence and peace in their pocket of smooth, bone-chilled beauty.
The air around them is icy, is wet, is much too cold for what he's tempted her to come out for now. It's madness to follow him here, amidst the pale white and blue backdrop of snow, inside the shining cover of dark, in that one place where the eyes of others cannot see how much they are betraying. But whenever he stands outside the shadows of Plumfield and beckons, she knows she will come down to meet him whatever the weather, her hair undone and her dress barely fixed, far more desperate than she had ever been as a girl, far more desperate and deceiving.
When the lights in Plumfield hit him in the dark, shadows stood out in his face in sharp relief and she could almost swear she sees his mouth curve up like that of a strange beast's.
When he tightens his fingers on her collarbone possessively as he takes over their embrace, she realizes the truth might be far worse than even her strange fancies.
It's not hard to believe that what she feels in his arms might well be a form of sorcery, some spell enacted to keep her running to his long shadow whenever it fell on her presently. It must be part and parcel with the feel of his hands as they race down her back, with the calluses of his finger-tips as they ripple past her ribs, with the feel of his mouth as it traces lines into her skin, marks her with more pure possessiveness than even his piano would could receive from him.
His mouth is, as always, is almost distressingly soft and hot, nearly painfully electric. And even before she gives herself over, she can feel his tongue darting out to trace the line of line of her collar, overlapping the curve of her cheek and the tip of her own tongue, until she ends up gasping like a child, frightened, helpless, lost, alone, holding on to whatever might touch her in the dark.
Helpless, Jo thinks and fights back a sudden shudder at only God knew what, knowing she was being ridiculous.
And yet the thought is still enough to make her hands tremble as they roam the slice of skin between his collar and his chin, makes them shake hard and falter, make them slide off of him as though he were repellent suddenly.
He notices and his eyes gleam like a river of oil as they gaze out at her, his face suddenly transformed by surprise into something young and sweet and very nearly innocent, concern making him once again knowable in the chill night.
"What's wrong?" he asks, and her stomach clenches at the noise, and the honest concern behind it. "Is it too cold for you out here? Are you... do you not want to, currently?"
He is giving her a way to duck down. He does not do that all that often during one of their witching hours. And if she and her moth-eaten heart had even an inch of pity left in it, she would have taken it, grasped it with the fervor of a dying man. Would have taken this time to finally cast him out. Would have sent him back home peacefully.
She turns on her heels and almost runs back to her house. But she leaves the door open to him and only the fact that he come in without a word of invitation marks him as something other than a creature of only fang and teeth.
(Although what did that mean anyhow? The darkest places in a man were always underneath his breast beating.)
In Plumfield, a house given by an old woman who had thankfully had no idea what Jo is capable of doing, she stands by the banister and blinks back tears and thinks: This is not my life. This is not who I am, nor even who I was, and certainly not who I was meant to be.
And then Laurie is there and he is stroking her hair and pressing his face down her neck, between her breasts, and cloth parts like paper beneath his long, clever, spiderish fingers, as though she were nothing more than a mannequin doll, all ready for her unveiling. His lips glide along her and she shudders as his teeth bite along lobe, cheek, collar, and chin before descending down south, crescendoing up and down her legs until she is almost breathless again, her knees already knocking.
"Don't tell me you don't want this," he murmurs, and the hell of it is that when it comes to her, he's almost never wrong.
"And don't tell me you won't follow me," she snaps back, and is alight up the stairs again before he can catch her, her dark curls waving as wildly as a war banner as she clambers up with him behind her, his breath like that of a wolf as he exhales and follows her up, up, up, up, somehow further up into the breach.
I'll teach you tricks that your mind won't even be able to conceive of, he had once promised her before, and he hadn't been lying. The memory snags in her mind and makes her thighs quiver as she races on as though she could outrun desire itself, finally like the wind itself when she outruns the hidden snags and coils of want he made in her with just the snap of his teeth.
He catches her at the top of the banister, and when she catches him looking, her wrists are already trapped between his fingers, caged helplessly. His lips part and the shine between his teeth when he catches her looking is a little obscene.
He says, suddenly, "You can't marry that old man. I won't let you do that to yourself-- I won't let you do this to yourself and rot."
She swallows and replies, her own teeth bared. "You're a fine one to tell me what I should do in my marital bed. You haven't exactly been keeping your own life serene."
His fingers clench down harder on her wrists and she wishes she could say her resulting gasp was from pain only. "I asked you first, Jo. I asked you first! It isn't my fault that you would have rather run like a child. It isn't only my fault we're here!"
The world blurs before her eyes, as though the faint frost of the outdoors had moved into the manor she tended for him here. "Maybe not. But you didn't have to make the choices you went through with. Not with my sister. Not when you knew I was--"
Waiting. For him to come back. For him to ask again. For him to do what ought to have been done already.
And as though he knew, he softens. And Jo damns herself once more for knowing he would. For knowing what she could bring him to.
"I know," he says, and swallows himself. "I know and I'm sorry. And I regret it. So much. If only I knew..."
And he is, she knows, and he does. Just as she does, and just as keenly, and just for so much. For the future they abandoned and the present they have created and the people they are hurting as they stare at each other, the flickers of candles in the winter all that lights them up.
Jo thinks of golden curls and gentle, spotted hands spreading open the pages of a book. The people that they are betraying. The people who are depending on them.
The people who they ought to cherish and love.
"We ought to stop," she says, suddenly, abruptly. "This is madness, and you know it. We're risking everything for-- for what? A few stupid, stolen moments? Things that should to mean nothing to us?"
"Yes," he says, and his voice is so agreeable it makes her bones hurt. "Yes, we are. Yes, we must. Yes, we ought to be. Only..."
With him, there's always an only. And if he lets her wrists go free now, it's only so he can use those clever hands of his to contort dark circles around her hips and hold her to him, in a different way of being caged in through trust.
"Only, If we can have just one more time," he says, and his smile comes out nearly shy and crooked. "Since we're already here and... and it would help me come to terms soon enough..."
His eyes tell a different story but fool that she is, she nods at him anyway.
Maybe, she thinks, like a stupid, trusting child. Maybe he's being honest now.
His nails make a bracelet of marks around her palms and she gestures to her small little bedroom at the top of the stairs and asks him, very softly, to come in already, while the dark still held him calm.
He smiles at her and it's the smile of a carnivore and she knows, somewhere, deep down into her bones, that she's doing something wrong.
And still, she can't take it back. Still, hope has her now.
"Thank you," he says, as though she were offering him a courtesy, and she turns her face away from him as soon as his fingers undo the first button on his fine coat's collar.
Eight minutes later, he stretches out, pale and naked and all too ready, across the axis of her bed. Seven minutes after that, she is trapped beneath him, panting already and bereft of any dress. Another ninety seconds pass before he pushes himself up atop by his elbows and presses pale, thin lips to the shivering skin nape of her neck. And in another thirty seconds, and his tongue is lapping at her throat as though he were thirst incarnate and she a spring ready to sate him until nothing more is left.
Three more minutes rise and follow, and he follows the path of her flesh further down again. Thirty more seconds after that, and he is biting a path of fire down her spine as one of his hands pins her shoulder down and the other clenches hard on her breast.
She measures time carefully so as not to cry aloud when he begins the long, slow, torturous efforts of losing himself in her flesh. And yet, as soon as he he speaks again, she knows she is lost and the effort is as nothing, that she might as well have not even begun trying to elude him.
"Don't tell me you don't want this," he murmurs, and time for her loses all meaning, the clocks in her mind in disarray when he begins kissing her freely, as though she has already given in.
Laurie's mouth is hot as it trails down the supine curve of her spine, undaunted by her shivering, undaunted by the way her nails rake down her covers like knives as he continues on with his tender press. Even were there layers and layers between his mouth and her skin, even were they still wrapped within cocoons of silk and cotton and linen, she knows she might have been able to ignore the feel of every single ridge and notch of his tongue, every single tremor from the click of his teeth, every time his nails found a way to sink in. But they aren't and he isn't and she can't, she can't, and as he traces up and down the delta of her back, she finds she is barely breathing, that she is already falling apart and into him.
He chuckles and she feels it ripple through the panes of her back, the curve of her belly, the flushed points of her nipples, the suddenly helpless curl of her toes, her thighs splayed open with submission. He laughs, and it ripples through her until she has to hold onto her pillow to not groan back and show him how much he could still do to her, despite Amy, despite Friedrich, despite everything that ought to warn her away from him, despite everything that still separates them.
A sigh, and then his cheek presses against her tender skin, the faint stubbles there scraping it again, though more gently than it had during their first great descent.
(The first time, there had been a letter in his hand, there had been her desperate words enshrined on parchment, there had been harsh words, there had been low refusals and even lower acquiescences, and then there had been his fingers and her shaking wrists, and his mouth and her stubborn lips, and a moment after that had found her falling apart against him.
"I didn't think this would make you that unhappy," he had said, a little brokenly, even as his fingers had threaded through her hair.
"It's not that," she had said, though it was, and managed a smile through the sodden mess. "It's just that-- your chin hair. The color confuses me and it-- it scratches like the devil in the most uncomfortable places imaginable."
"Oh," he had finally said, and then settled down to kiss her nose, as though they had not just done something awful. "Then let's do something of it."
Amy had not look best pleased about his shaved face but later, as he had twined his fingers about her golden tendrils at their family picnic, he had looked up and straight at Jo and smiled, just a little bit.
This is for you, the smile had said. This was done for you, only for you, as near everything in my past.
And that was when she had first known that his marriage would not be their end.)
"What are you thinking?" he asks, and she presses her flushed face to the cool pillows beneath it and takes a slow, drugged breath.
"Nothing," she answers almost honestly, when she can, and he laughs softly yet again.
"Let's change that," he whispers back, and heat trails across the small of her back and the swell of her hips to the soft curves below and the cleft right beneath them.
Oh God, she thinks, though it does not stop her from curving up like a crest of tidal water, about to crash on something clean and cruel, something that would strip her of bone and flesh.
Palms against her ankles, he opens her up slowly, as though she were something to linger on, something to feast within on a chilly winter's eve that left his table otherwise stripped and bare. He opens her and she stretches herself out; he leans forward and she hisses at the deliberate tremor of his breath, at the silken feel of his hair. Strands of it preceded his lips by mere seconds, and when his teeth finally introduce themselves to her once again--
Jo thinks, almost madly, does he do this as well to his wife? Am I the only one so blessed?
And then he presses forward and his tongue invades the narrowest part of her and all thought escapes the present.
The first time he had done this (that she had allowed him to do this), she had thought she might shatter from what he had teased out within the surface of her thighs, from her belly, from her hips, from her erratic heart, and from a million other unknown elements. The first time he had done this (in a meadow, in the haze of spring, in a picnic they'd abandoned for far darker pleasures), she had thought she might well die of the tremors he had induced deep within, in the thousand little earthquakes that started deep down between her thighs and within his fingers, that had rocked her up and would have given them away had he not taken the precaution of gagging her to begin with. The first time he had done this (and she had let him, she had almost begged him, and wasn't that the hell of it?), she had thought there would be nothing left of her but bleached bones in the aftermath, as she had sunk back into his arms and looked into his fervid eyes and wanted to no longer exist.
She had thought and thought and thought that during their second time. And their third time. And perhaps even their fourth time as well. And now, it's been long enough that only echoes of it come back to her as she claws ineffectually at the pillows beneath her and keens out loud for an end.
There's little earthquakes again, trapped somehow between her thighs and the ends of her skin, and she would move her hips up and away were it not for his hands clamped tightly around them, she would, she would, she would move away--
And yet, she knows as she hisses at the feel of his slick, faintly muscular tongue moving against her, she would always come back again.
Laurie's fingers hold her tight and she can barely move but when she does, it's always toward him.
He spreads her open as though she were a delicacy, something sweet and fresh and flower-scented, something that needed to be bared. He spreads her open and his lips fall like a rain all over her, all over, as though all that the smooth, damp delta between her thighs needed was the aching tenderness of Laurie applying himself again. He kisses her, and it's incongruously light and gentle, as though he were bowing down to touch her cheek in front of a group of children. He nuzzles sweetly against her opening as though he had all the time in the world with her, and it's not enough, it's just not enough, and though her knees buckle and she tries hard to shift herself closer, to gather him back inside her, he keeps the space between them nearly tortuously polite and she can't-- she can't--
Her next breath come out low and nearly as a sob, and when he chuckles against the smooth curves just above her swell, she almost wishes she could curse him.
"You only needed to show me you wanted this," he tells her, almost chidingly, and then applies himself to her again, without abandon, as though he had a right to have whatever she could give.
And that was all it takes, apparently, because even before she can take another breath to tell him off, he steals it away by stretching her open once more and finally licking his way within. She should have known this, should have been prepared for this-- she has done this too many times with him to claim that she's any innocent. She's done this and dreamed of this even more, for even longer, and she can't say she hasn't tried to prepare, hasn't thought a thousand times of what could finally make him diminish in her mind, finally render him insignificant.
But even as her knees buckle and she moans face-down against her pillows, she knows there's no way to prepare for him.
Not him, not Teddy, not Theodore, not Laurie-- not even when he went about pretending to be respectable and happily married Mr. Laurence. And certainly not when he was with her, splaying out her legs and-- God, why not say it?-- taking her, taking her with his teeth, taking her as though he had a right to her. Taking her, his tongue hot and fervid and very nearly vicious, scraping along all her inner ripples and ridges. Taking her, and making her cry out by both giving her too much and yet not enough, keeping his fingers to himself so far, not yet penetrating her, teasing her until she was shaking with it. Taking her, and taking her to pieces with it, holding back until the burn in her belly has her by the throat, until she is ready to break with it--
"More," she whispered hoarsely, and felt herself trembling so hard it was a wonder she was still a whole person. "Don't-- Teddy-- don't you dare tease me so--"
Jo could feel the imprint of his smile against her swollen wetness, as though he had finally won something he shouldn't have ever had.
"All right," he murmured behind her, somewhere in the winter's dark. And then she felt one of his lovely hands abandon its post by her cold ankle and slowly travel up, calluses flickering against her curves with years of want before he reached his destination.
She has one last moment's worth of incoherence left to her, and then his thick thumb travels from the swollen hood of her pleasure and against her silky folds and then finally up, twisting casually against and then inside, as though the gesture meant nothing to him.
It's enough to make her hips jerk, hard, in a way that might have loosened from his grip were it not so tight on her. And when she speaks again, it's barely in the human tongue, let alone the English language.
"That wasn't--" she begins, and gasps when he interrupts her words with his mouth suckling at whatever inner folds it could reach as his fingers burned their way through her, as he pistioned and pressed parted her from within, fingertips buried so deep in her it almost hurts. "That's not-- that's not what I-- I meant--"
But her words are swallowed up by his leisure, by his laughter, by languid lashes of his tongue that send earthquakes spiraling up and down the curve of her spine, by the almost cruel flex and jut of fine, pianist fingers inside and against her as he takes her so close to her breaking point that it's almost like torture to simply keep tottering and not yet falling off the edge.
"Please," she gasps, and wonders if this will be enough to kill her. "Please-- just-- I need more--"
"Shhhh," he almost soothing says in between the wet, obscene sounds of him taking strange pleasures against her. "This shall be our last time by ourselves, shan't it? So you may as well put up with my strange notions for just a few moments longer."
And if she hadn't known him so well, she might not have even realizes it was pain in his voice just then. But even as her eyes go wide, she can feel him withdraw both his fingers and his lips from her, his teeth clicking together as though to retain the taste of her. And when she can finally bring her head up to peer at him over her shoulder, she can see herself smeared messily on lips he did not even bother to clean up as his dark eyes stared at her with furious intent.
"It will be, won't it?" Laurie says again, and his voice is almost vicious with thwarted tenderness, and she has to swallow hard against the hot bellow of his breath.
"I don't know," she finally says, and can feel frustrated love beating low and dark in her own breast. "I want to be with you. That's the only thing I can tell you. But I just don't know how to. I never have."
That's all she says, and it's somehow enough. In another moment, his fingers ease along her hips and his eyes gentle just a little bit and he smiles again, just around the corners of his lips, and just as it had been before, she knows it's a smile made only for her, one that can come only from him.
"I love you," he says, and she knows these were words only she would ever hear from him. "And I will not want anyone else the way I want you, not ever. No matter what other ways I may find to ruin this."
And because she is a coward, because she does not want to ruin this, she sighs and shudders and turns to lie with her back to her pillows and covers, her hands reaching up to bring her to him.
"Hush," she whispers, and he is reaching over her, stretching above her, his lips already so close to a kiss. "Don't talk now. Just be with me." And wishes it will be enough for him.
It isn't, it isn't nearly. It never, ever is. If love were ever enough, they wouldn't be so haunted.
He knows that, just as well as she does. They both know who's really to blame for this.
And still he loves her enough to laugh brokenly and give himself back in.
"All right," he says, and touches her face, and is nearly the boy she loved once again. "Just this once. Just for you. As every thing's always been."
And when his hand drift up to touch her breast and take in the beat of her heart, she wishes the world still for him.
Part 2 of the Story.
***
Author's Note: As always, I very much appreciated any and all comments, questions and bits of constructive criticism! Let you know if you've enjoyed this and more porn shall be forthcoming. ;)
Also, if you've read the more explicit version of this, I really do want to ask-- did you actually enjoy reading the more sensual parts of the story? Writing Victorian-era-appropriate sex for Little Women was about the hardest challenge I've ever faced, since I hate getting too euphemistic and coy about sex but at the same time, didn't want to throw readers out of the world of LW by suddenly talking about pricks and nips and dicks, etc. etc. Are the language choices for sex working for you so far? Is the foreplay actually hot? If it didn't do anything for you, please let me know-- the sex is still being written and if it's terrible, I need to know and correct it!
In any case, massive amounts of thanks goes to my two lovely betas, Elisabeth Harker and elizabethisboss. Without your help, I would have no idea how this piece should even begin, let alone end. Thank you for once again inspiring me!
Also, part 2 of this fic will be up on next Wednesday, right before I go on vacation for two weeks. I'm getting so addicted to sex cliffhangers, it's actually a little unseemly...
Title: Into The Woods, Part 1/2
Fandom: Little Women
Series: Into The Woods
Characters/Pairings: Jo/Laurie, Bhaer, Amy
Rating: NC-17
Summary: 'And when she puts her mouth against that of her sister's husband, she can almost pretend she only does this merely to gain silence and peace in their pocket of smooth, bone-chilled beauty.' Jo, Laurie and a secret in the dark that could destroy everything...
Important Note: This is the NC-17 rated version of the story. If you'd rather skip over the explicit sex to linger on the emotional convulsions, you can read the R-rated version archived at fanfiction.net
***
"We could run away," Laurie whispers at the beginning of their evening, and his eyes are more desperate than they should've been given the liberties she's now allowing.
The field where their trysts begin and almost always end is dark and damp this time of year, not that it stops the either of them. Still, somewhere in the back of Jo's mind, she thinks of her mother warning her that the woods would be the death of her if she didn't pay them more mind, if she didn't stop dawdling in them every time she went on her way to Aunt March's and came home with a cold from hours and hours of tracing icicles shining atop tree branches.
And somewhere even further back, she thinks of tales she's heard of the woods, the whispers and stories, the words formed between circles of girls and beneath bed-covers, the words she's spun out for her sisters with bloody satisfaction, as she had entertained them with her stories of girls lost in the dark, lost in the woods, never to return home fully.
She doesn't smile now, not at him or the memory. They both hold too many shadows for so innocent an expression.
"We can't run," she reminds him, voice dull in her own ears. "We've got too much tying us down. We can't just imitate the wind, you know. We're only human beings."
"And why," he whispers, and his fingers are cold on her bare face despite his gloves, "do you continue to pass these needless restrictions on yourself, despite what you could achieve?"
And when she looks at him in wordless answer, his eyes gleam feverishly with a light that could come only from the dark.
He's terrified her many a times before but never as much as he terrifies her here.
"Hush," she says, in lieu of an answer.
And when she puts her mouth against that of her sister's husband, she can almost pretend she only does this merely to gain silence and peace in their pocket of smooth, bone-chilled beauty.
The air around them is icy, is wet, is much too cold for what he's tempted her to come out for now. It's madness to follow him here, amidst the pale white and blue backdrop of snow, inside the shining cover of dark, in that one place where the eyes of others cannot see how much they are betraying. But whenever he stands outside the shadows of Plumfield and beckons, she knows she will come down to meet him whatever the weather, her hair undone and her dress barely fixed, far more desperate than she had ever been as a girl, far more desperate and deceiving.
When the lights in Plumfield hit him in the dark, shadows stood out in his face in sharp relief and she could almost swear she sees his mouth curve up like that of a strange beast's.
When he tightens his fingers on her collarbone possessively as he takes over their embrace, she realizes the truth might be far worse than even her strange fancies.
It's not hard to believe that what she feels in his arms might well be a form of sorcery, some spell enacted to keep her running to his long shadow whenever it fell on her presently. It must be part and parcel with the feel of his hands as they race down her back, with the calluses of his finger-tips as they ripple past her ribs, with the feel of his mouth as it traces lines into her skin, marks her with more pure possessiveness than even his piano would could receive from him.
His mouth is, as always, is almost distressingly soft and hot, nearly painfully electric. And even before she gives herself over, she can feel his tongue darting out to trace the line of line of her collar, overlapping the curve of her cheek and the tip of her own tongue, until she ends up gasping like a child, frightened, helpless, lost, alone, holding on to whatever might touch her in the dark.
Helpless, Jo thinks and fights back a sudden shudder at only God knew what, knowing she was being ridiculous.
And yet the thought is still enough to make her hands tremble as they roam the slice of skin between his collar and his chin, makes them shake hard and falter, make them slide off of him as though he were repellent suddenly.
He notices and his eyes gleam like a river of oil as they gaze out at her, his face suddenly transformed by surprise into something young and sweet and very nearly innocent, concern making him once again knowable in the chill night.
"What's wrong?" he asks, and her stomach clenches at the noise, and the honest concern behind it. "Is it too cold for you out here? Are you... do you not want to, currently?"
He is giving her a way to duck down. He does not do that all that often during one of their witching hours. And if she and her moth-eaten heart had even an inch of pity left in it, she would have taken it, grasped it with the fervor of a dying man. Would have taken this time to finally cast him out. Would have sent him back home peacefully.
She turns on her heels and almost runs back to her house. But she leaves the door open to him and only the fact that he come in without a word of invitation marks him as something other than a creature of only fang and teeth.
(Although what did that mean anyhow? The darkest places in a man were always underneath his breast beating.)
In Plumfield, a house given by an old woman who had thankfully had no idea what Jo is capable of doing, she stands by the banister and blinks back tears and thinks: This is not my life. This is not who I am, nor even who I was, and certainly not who I was meant to be.
And then Laurie is there and he is stroking her hair and pressing his face down her neck, between her breasts, and cloth parts like paper beneath his long, clever, spiderish fingers, as though she were nothing more than a mannequin doll, all ready for her unveiling. His lips glide along her and she shudders as his teeth bite along lobe, cheek, collar, and chin before descending down south, crescendoing up and down her legs until she is almost breathless again, her knees already knocking.
"Don't tell me you don't want this," he murmurs, and the hell of it is that when it comes to her, he's almost never wrong.
"And don't tell me you won't follow me," she snaps back, and is alight up the stairs again before he can catch her, her dark curls waving as wildly as a war banner as she clambers up with him behind her, his breath like that of a wolf as he exhales and follows her up, up, up, up, somehow further up into the breach.
I'll teach you tricks that your mind won't even be able to conceive of, he had once promised her before, and he hadn't been lying. The memory snags in her mind and makes her thighs quiver as she races on as though she could outrun desire itself, finally like the wind itself when she outruns the hidden snags and coils of want he made in her with just the snap of his teeth.
He catches her at the top of the banister, and when she catches him looking, her wrists are already trapped between his fingers, caged helplessly. His lips part and the shine between his teeth when he catches her looking is a little obscene.
He says, suddenly, "You can't marry that old man. I won't let you do that to yourself-- I won't let you do this to yourself and rot."
She swallows and replies, her own teeth bared. "You're a fine one to tell me what I should do in my marital bed. You haven't exactly been keeping your own life serene."
His fingers clench down harder on her wrists and she wishes she could say her resulting gasp was from pain only. "I asked you first, Jo. I asked you first! It isn't my fault that you would have rather run like a child. It isn't only my fault we're here!"
The world blurs before her eyes, as though the faint frost of the outdoors had moved into the manor she tended for him here. "Maybe not. But you didn't have to make the choices you went through with. Not with my sister. Not when you knew I was--"
Waiting. For him to come back. For him to ask again. For him to do what ought to have been done already.
And as though he knew, he softens. And Jo damns herself once more for knowing he would. For knowing what she could bring him to.
"I know," he says, and swallows himself. "I know and I'm sorry. And I regret it. So much. If only I knew..."
And he is, she knows, and he does. Just as she does, and just as keenly, and just for so much. For the future they abandoned and the present they have created and the people they are hurting as they stare at each other, the flickers of candles in the winter all that lights them up.
Jo thinks of golden curls and gentle, spotted hands spreading open the pages of a book. The people that they are betraying. The people who are depending on them.
The people who they ought to cherish and love.
"We ought to stop," she says, suddenly, abruptly. "This is madness, and you know it. We're risking everything for-- for what? A few stupid, stolen moments? Things that should to mean nothing to us?"
"Yes," he says, and his voice is so agreeable it makes her bones hurt. "Yes, we are. Yes, we must. Yes, we ought to be. Only..."
With him, there's always an only. And if he lets her wrists go free now, it's only so he can use those clever hands of his to contort dark circles around her hips and hold her to him, in a different way of being caged in through trust.
"Only, If we can have just one more time," he says, and his smile comes out nearly shy and crooked. "Since we're already here and... and it would help me come to terms soon enough..."
His eyes tell a different story but fool that she is, she nods at him anyway.
Maybe, she thinks, like a stupid, trusting child. Maybe he's being honest now.
His nails make a bracelet of marks around her palms and she gestures to her small little bedroom at the top of the stairs and asks him, very softly, to come in already, while the dark still held him calm.
He smiles at her and it's the smile of a carnivore and she knows, somewhere, deep down into her bones, that she's doing something wrong.
And still, she can't take it back. Still, hope has her now.
"Thank you," he says, as though she were offering him a courtesy, and she turns her face away from him as soon as his fingers undo the first button on his fine coat's collar.
Eight minutes later, he stretches out, pale and naked and all too ready, across the axis of her bed. Seven minutes after that, she is trapped beneath him, panting already and bereft of any dress. Another ninety seconds pass before he pushes himself up atop by his elbows and presses pale, thin lips to the shivering skin nape of her neck. And in another thirty seconds, and his tongue is lapping at her throat as though he were thirst incarnate and she a spring ready to sate him until nothing more is left.
Three more minutes rise and follow, and he follows the path of her flesh further down again. Thirty more seconds after that, and he is biting a path of fire down her spine as one of his hands pins her shoulder down and the other clenches hard on her breast.
She measures time carefully so as not to cry aloud when he begins the long, slow, torturous efforts of losing himself in her flesh. And yet, as soon as he he speaks again, she knows she is lost and the effort is as nothing, that she might as well have not even begun trying to elude him.
"Don't tell me you don't want this," he murmurs, and time for her loses all meaning, the clocks in her mind in disarray when he begins kissing her freely, as though she has already given in.
Laurie's mouth is hot as it trails down the supine curve of her spine, undaunted by her shivering, undaunted by the way her nails rake down her covers like knives as he continues on with his tender press. Even were there layers and layers between his mouth and her skin, even were they still wrapped within cocoons of silk and cotton and linen, she knows she might have been able to ignore the feel of every single ridge and notch of his tongue, every single tremor from the click of his teeth, every time his nails found a way to sink in. But they aren't and he isn't and she can't, she can't, and as he traces up and down the delta of her back, she finds she is barely breathing, that she is already falling apart and into him.
He chuckles and she feels it ripple through the panes of her back, the curve of her belly, the flushed points of her nipples, the suddenly helpless curl of her toes, her thighs splayed open with submission. He laughs, and it ripples through her until she has to hold onto her pillow to not groan back and show him how much he could still do to her, despite Amy, despite Friedrich, despite everything that ought to warn her away from him, despite everything that still separates them.
A sigh, and then his cheek presses against her tender skin, the faint stubbles there scraping it again, though more gently than it had during their first great descent.
(The first time, there had been a letter in his hand, there had been her desperate words enshrined on parchment, there had been harsh words, there had been low refusals and even lower acquiescences, and then there had been his fingers and her shaking wrists, and his mouth and her stubborn lips, and a moment after that had found her falling apart against him.
"I didn't think this would make you that unhappy," he had said, a little brokenly, even as his fingers had threaded through her hair.
"It's not that," she had said, though it was, and managed a smile through the sodden mess. "It's just that-- your chin hair. The color confuses me and it-- it scratches like the devil in the most uncomfortable places imaginable."
"Oh," he had finally said, and then settled down to kiss her nose, as though they had not just done something awful. "Then let's do something of it."
Amy had not look best pleased about his shaved face but later, as he had twined his fingers about her golden tendrils at their family picnic, he had looked up and straight at Jo and smiled, just a little bit.
This is for you, the smile had said. This was done for you, only for you, as near everything in my past.
And that was when she had first known that his marriage would not be their end.)
"What are you thinking?" he asks, and she presses her flushed face to the cool pillows beneath it and takes a slow, drugged breath.
"Nothing," she answers almost honestly, when she can, and he laughs softly yet again.
"Let's change that," he whispers back, and heat trails across the small of her back and the swell of her hips to the soft curves below and the cleft right beneath them.
Oh God, she thinks, though it does not stop her from curving up like a crest of tidal water, about to crash on something clean and cruel, something that would strip her of bone and flesh.
Palms against her ankles, he opens her up slowly, as though she were something to linger on, something to feast within on a chilly winter's eve that left his table otherwise stripped and bare. He opens her and she stretches herself out; he leans forward and she hisses at the deliberate tremor of his breath, at the silken feel of his hair. Strands of it preceded his lips by mere seconds, and when his teeth finally introduce themselves to her once again--
Jo thinks, almost madly, does he do this as well to his wife? Am I the only one so blessed?
And then he presses forward and his tongue invades the narrowest part of her and all thought escapes the present.
The first time he had done this (that she had allowed him to do this), she had thought she might shatter from what he had teased out within the surface of her thighs, from her belly, from her hips, from her erratic heart, and from a million other unknown elements. The first time he had done this (in a meadow, in the haze of spring, in a picnic they'd abandoned for far darker pleasures), she had thought she might well die of the tremors he had induced deep within, in the thousand little earthquakes that started deep down between her thighs and within his fingers, that had rocked her up and would have given them away had he not taken the precaution of gagging her to begin with. The first time he had done this (and she had let him, she had almost begged him, and wasn't that the hell of it?), she had thought there would be nothing left of her but bleached bones in the aftermath, as she had sunk back into his arms and looked into his fervid eyes and wanted to no longer exist.
She had thought and thought and thought that during their second time. And their third time. And perhaps even their fourth time as well. And now, it's been long enough that only echoes of it come back to her as she claws ineffectually at the pillows beneath her and keens out loud for an end.
There's little earthquakes again, trapped somehow between her thighs and the ends of her skin, and she would move her hips up and away were it not for his hands clamped tightly around them, she would, she would, she would move away--
And yet, she knows as she hisses at the feel of his slick, faintly muscular tongue moving against her, she would always come back again.
Laurie's fingers hold her tight and she can barely move but when she does, it's always toward him.
He spreads her open as though she were a delicacy, something sweet and fresh and flower-scented, something that needed to be bared. He spreads her open and his lips fall like a rain all over her, all over, as though all that the smooth, damp delta between her thighs needed was the aching tenderness of Laurie applying himself again. He kisses her, and it's incongruously light and gentle, as though he were bowing down to touch her cheek in front of a group of children. He nuzzles sweetly against her opening as though he had all the time in the world with her, and it's not enough, it's just not enough, and though her knees buckle and she tries hard to shift herself closer, to gather him back inside her, he keeps the space between them nearly tortuously polite and she can't-- she can't--
Her next breath come out low and nearly as a sob, and when he chuckles against the smooth curves just above her swell, she almost wishes she could curse him.
"You only needed to show me you wanted this," he tells her, almost chidingly, and then applies himself to her again, without abandon, as though he had a right to have whatever she could give.
And that was all it takes, apparently, because even before she can take another breath to tell him off, he steals it away by stretching her open once more and finally licking his way within. She should have known this, should have been prepared for this-- she has done this too many times with him to claim that she's any innocent. She's done this and dreamed of this even more, for even longer, and she can't say she hasn't tried to prepare, hasn't thought a thousand times of what could finally make him diminish in her mind, finally render him insignificant.
But even as her knees buckle and she moans face-down against her pillows, she knows there's no way to prepare for him.
Not him, not Teddy, not Theodore, not Laurie-- not even when he went about pretending to be respectable and happily married Mr. Laurence. And certainly not when he was with her, splaying out her legs and-- God, why not say it?-- taking her, taking her with his teeth, taking her as though he had a right to her. Taking her, his tongue hot and fervid and very nearly vicious, scraping along all her inner ripples and ridges. Taking her, and making her cry out by both giving her too much and yet not enough, keeping his fingers to himself so far, not yet penetrating her, teasing her until she was shaking with it. Taking her, and taking her to pieces with it, holding back until the burn in her belly has her by the throat, until she is ready to break with it--
"More," she whispered hoarsely, and felt herself trembling so hard it was a wonder she was still a whole person. "Don't-- Teddy-- don't you dare tease me so--"
Jo could feel the imprint of his smile against her swollen wetness, as though he had finally won something he shouldn't have ever had.
"All right," he murmured behind her, somewhere in the winter's dark. And then she felt one of his lovely hands abandon its post by her cold ankle and slowly travel up, calluses flickering against her curves with years of want before he reached his destination.
She has one last moment's worth of incoherence left to her, and then his thick thumb travels from the swollen hood of her pleasure and against her silky folds and then finally up, twisting casually against and then inside, as though the gesture meant nothing to him.
It's enough to make her hips jerk, hard, in a way that might have loosened from his grip were it not so tight on her. And when she speaks again, it's barely in the human tongue, let alone the English language.
"That wasn't--" she begins, and gasps when he interrupts her words with his mouth suckling at whatever inner folds it could reach as his fingers burned their way through her, as he pistioned and pressed parted her from within, fingertips buried so deep in her it almost hurts. "That's not-- that's not what I-- I meant--"
But her words are swallowed up by his leisure, by his laughter, by languid lashes of his tongue that send earthquakes spiraling up and down the curve of her spine, by the almost cruel flex and jut of fine, pianist fingers inside and against her as he takes her so close to her breaking point that it's almost like torture to simply keep tottering and not yet falling off the edge.
"Please," she gasps, and wonders if this will be enough to kill her. "Please-- just-- I need more--"
"Shhhh," he almost soothing says in between the wet, obscene sounds of him taking strange pleasures against her. "This shall be our last time by ourselves, shan't it? So you may as well put up with my strange notions for just a few moments longer."
And if she hadn't known him so well, she might not have even realizes it was pain in his voice just then. But even as her eyes go wide, she can feel him withdraw both his fingers and his lips from her, his teeth clicking together as though to retain the taste of her. And when she can finally bring her head up to peer at him over her shoulder, she can see herself smeared messily on lips he did not even bother to clean up as his dark eyes stared at her with furious intent.
"It will be, won't it?" Laurie says again, and his voice is almost vicious with thwarted tenderness, and she has to swallow hard against the hot bellow of his breath.
"I don't know," she finally says, and can feel frustrated love beating low and dark in her own breast. "I want to be with you. That's the only thing I can tell you. But I just don't know how to. I never have."
That's all she says, and it's somehow enough. In another moment, his fingers ease along her hips and his eyes gentle just a little bit and he smiles again, just around the corners of his lips, and just as it had been before, she knows it's a smile made only for her, one that can come only from him.
"I love you," he says, and she knows these were words only she would ever hear from him. "And I will not want anyone else the way I want you, not ever. No matter what other ways I may find to ruin this."
And because she is a coward, because she does not want to ruin this, she sighs and shudders and turns to lie with her back to her pillows and covers, her hands reaching up to bring her to him.
"Hush," she whispers, and he is reaching over her, stretching above her, his lips already so close to a kiss. "Don't talk now. Just be with me." And wishes it will be enough for him.
It isn't, it isn't nearly. It never, ever is. If love were ever enough, they wouldn't be so haunted.
He knows that, just as well as she does. They both know who's really to blame for this.
And still he loves her enough to laugh brokenly and give himself back in.
"All right," he says, and touches her face, and is nearly the boy she loved once again. "Just this once. Just for you. As every thing's always been."
And when his hand drift up to touch her breast and take in the beat of her heart, she wishes the world still for him.
Part 2 of the Story.
***
Author's Note: As always, I very much appreciated any and all comments, questions and bits of constructive criticism! Let you know if you've enjoyed this and more porn shall be forthcoming. ;)
Also, if you've read the more explicit version of this, I really do want to ask-- did you actually enjoy reading the more sensual parts of the story? Writing Victorian-era-appropriate sex for Little Women was about the hardest challenge I've ever faced, since I hate getting too euphemistic and coy about sex but at the same time, didn't want to throw readers out of the world of LW by suddenly talking about pricks and nips and dicks, etc. etc. Are the language choices for sex working for you so far? Is the foreplay actually hot? If it didn't do anything for you, please let me know-- the sex is still being written and if it's terrible, I need to know and correct it!