Hi. So I don’t have a request it’s more of a question. So I’ve been seeing your series foolish, honest love like everywhere…
It looks like something I’d really love to read and I really would actually like to read it. I was wondering is the full story available on here or is it only on A03?
Because I don’t want to start reading it and loving it if I can’t keep up with the story. I don’t read on A03 because it’s really confusing for me, I only really read on here and sometimes still Wattpad, but this is my main source of fics and inspirational stuff.
AHHH this is probably such a late reply but I thought I’d clarify. The full story is on AO3 but if enough ppl are interested I could maybe cross post it onto tumblr? The problem is I update it when I can (so like once in a blue moon) bc of college and life and im lazy asf so trying to format it to fit tumblr is just extra work.
Summary: pt 1 after fighting with Laurie, the reader finds herself outside of his door late at night. Finding him awake, Laurie begins to question the reader, urging them to marry him.
Word count: 2.93k
Warning: ANGST ANGST ANGST, both of them are being dumb asf, slowburn
This story is a snippet from my longer story, Foolish, Honest Love on ao3. If you want to know what happens next, you'll find out there!!
STORY STARTS UNDER THE PAGE BREAK
Ducky has never found satisfaction in what she’s accomplished, only a tedious sense of burden that reminds her it is simply her duty to act, to be, to accomplish, like her sisters. Therefore, in her eyes, the act of accomplishing fails to be great, as the achievements, talents, & general prowess of her sisters have folded her accomplishments into inevitabilities. Throughout the entirety of her existence, no matter to what degree of excellence she works towards, she’s grown to understand that Apollo will never descend from the heavens & place his golden wreath of laurels upon her head. Rather, she will slow until she stagnates, & her accomplishments will be etched onto the very bottom of a long list of feats performed by the effervescent, eternal, ever-loved March sisters. The great has become mundane to her like Atlas finally lying prone on the ground & resting the world upon his stomach in a despondent & apathetic declaration that his efforts were futile.
No matter what she does, she knows she’s unable to be like Jo or Amy, determined in their aspirations, or Meg, the kindest soul the world has ever been gifted. She could've entertained the idea of pursuing sewing & design or a career as a seamstress or tailor, but Miss March always knew that she would only find her love for sewing when her models were the giggling, squeamish frames of her sisters. For any other seamstress, the three other March sisters would be nightmares when attempting to accomplish even the most minute & menial of tasks. Always fidgeting & swerving, it was utterly impossible to have them remain still for longer than ten seconds. They were intangible spirits of wind & flight, unable to be held by the grasp of man. However, Miss March loved it, as she was always laughing & floating with them.
Outside of her sisters, the only person in which she found this sense of fulfillment was Laurie. Around him, she truly felt she was a whole, sufficient being, He would listen to her winding tangents about fairies & her justifications on why they truly, surely must exist. Although he couldn’t do much else, still he offered a sympathetic ear to her rambling tirades whenever a sewing project came to a grinding halt, with papers scattered across the floor like clouds plastered on a stormy night sky. When she was only at the beginning of learning shorthand, a language of sharp lines & curves, of endless & swift movements, of wind & whispers, he would read aloud passages slowly & methodically for her to transcribe, waiting until the scratching tick of her pen had passed before moving onto the next word. Rising like the tide from his lips, slow, intentional, & promised, his stories mainly consisted of tales pulled from either his memories or imagination. To assist her daily practice, he’d visit several times a week as she eventually became capable of transcribing speech to shorthand at the pace at which normal conversation is held. Since meeting Laurie, he’d always been like the persisting smell of rain after a storm on a heavy summer day. A soft reminder of what has been & that more is always to come.
The soft wisp of smoke from her oil lamp tickles her nose & prods at faded memories of Masachuttesses' winter nights by the hearth with her sisters. Her fingers run over the doorknob to Laurie’s room, which has grown warm from the heat of her hand as she ponders there, grazing her fingers over the metal. The sun has fallen, the moon has risen, &, like a breath, the guests have departed while the evening simmered to a close. She’d spent the rest of her eventful & admittedly humiliating night conversing with Mister Gatenby - or “Andreas”, which he’d requested she’d call him- whom she’d invited to the party, herself, as both an apology & chance to become closer to the possible suitor. To his jokes, she laughed appropriately, & to her answering his queries concerning her work, he nodded inquisitively. Although amiable & enjoyable, conversations with him differed incredibly from discussions with her sisters. Both shared a sense of energy & wonder in speech, but he’d never interject &, if he did, would immediately apologise & demand she finished before he continued. Although she truly does miss her sisters with her entire being & finds her longing to return to the Marches growing day by day, work is a promise here. If she were to attempt to try & find a new career anywhere, it was almost a guarantee that no business would have any interest in hiring a woman when a row of men, although only half as competent & skilled as her, could do the same work. No matter where she travels to, stable pay would be a hard thing to come by, so she stays confined to the small desk in her employer’s, Mister Darrow, office.
As the moon stretches across the night sky like growing vines on a terrace, she breathes & contemplates, her hand finding rest on the golden door knob as she stills herself in silence. In her free hand, her fingers are wrapped around the curling handle of an oil lamp, the only source of light within the hallway. A warm, orange-tinted glow from the lamp creates a bubble around her & tints her untied, cotton sleeping gown an amber hue. With only the balls of her feet pressed against the marble tiling of the floor, the cold ground sends frigid shocks up her like electricity. A chorus of crickets plays her a symphony as the faint sound of her breath fills her ears, & the smell of a cold autumn night, of decaying leaves & wet bark, streams in from the windows. She’s unsure of how long she’s been standing here, waiting for some divine being or herself to act on their accord & decide. Lady Luck holds her by the tail as they await for the wheel of Fortune to come tumbling in & crush the middle March under its burdening weight. An endless stream of possible outcomes plays in her mind as her fingers dance over the doorknob, unsure & constantly moving, & she mulls over whether she should open the door & speak with Laurie or turn on her heels & run all of the way back to her own abode.
Perhaps he’s asleep, unaware of the cacophony that plays in her head & rings throughout the empty halls. Rather, he could be waiting on the other side of the door, just as she is, & contemplating, just as she is. He could be just as anxious as she is. He could see her & curse her name, tell her to never come back. He could break into tears. He could ignore her. He could hate her. Could he? Will he? Whenever she finds herself in his presence, her thoughts begin to swirl & spin like a violent wind. Yet, in the same vein, whenever in his presence, her mind is quieter. A blanket of snow coats her thoughts & dampens the cacophonous & tone-deaf orchestra that plays in her skull.
It’s not curiosity that leads her to act, but, rather, a sense of naive hope. Hope that when she opens the door, waiting on the other side is the strong stench of the sweet ochre wood stain that stuffs Mister Laurence’s manor & the Laurie that defines her past & the outline of her present. A hope that maybe all can be as it was. Simple. Happy. Enough. More than enough.
Slowly, as to not make the metal wail as it grinds against the other screws & parts that live within the door, she cautiously turns the knob & presses her weight against the door. The entire room is painted in the night’s blue breath, except for the golden light that pools around the oil lamp that rests on his nightstand. Etched in midnight blue by the dark sky, the shades have been shoved apart, & the windows flung open, one slightly wider than the other. Soaking in the breeze, the familiar smell of Laurie: the settling dust that the manor collected over years; of the rich fabrics that left a sharp taste of salt on the tongue, a residue of their travel overseas; of kicked-up, fresh dirt & pine needles that have nestled themselves in his hair; of the wildflowers he let Amy & Beth decorate him with; & of the withering & ink-stained paper that Jo scratched the visage of her stories onto up in her attic, which had rubbed off her & onto him. In the lamp light, as if painted by a master’s hand, his skin is tinted a bright golden hue, &, once a curly mop of deep, earthen brown, his hair is now alight with a fiery orange that almost appears to flicker with hot, red licks of feverish heat. Laying in bed, Laurie does not move as the light from her lamp pools into the room. With his cheek pressed against his pillow, all she can see is the back of his head as she tiptoes into his room, silently praying that she doesn’t step on an especially creaky plank in the wooden flooring. The sheets have been tugged & thrown awry, leaving only half of him covered. Untouched by the lamp light, the bottom half of his torso melts into a soft baby blue. His shoulders rise & fall with his steady breath, & his arms rest next to his head, on the pillow.
Placing her lamp on the second nightstand, bought only to create perfect symmetry, she sinks into the plush mattress as she shakily puts her weight on his bed. A gentle hand places itself on his shoulder as she begins to rub it with a feather-light touch. Still, he does not stir nor move, & Ducky takes a deep breath while her eyes travel over his frame. When her gaze falls onto his face, she sees his eyes, stained scarlet by the lamp light. His eyes are flooded with the same red that stains battlefields & bouquets of azaleas & petunias. He does not look back at her, & his eyes stay unfocused & unmoving.
“Hello, Laurie,” she whispers, breaking the silence that the two wade in.
“Hello, Ducky,” he replies. Left in a disorientated state as the alcohol steadily works to flow out of his system, his voice is muffled & slightly hoarse. For a moment, both stay as they are, a painting of a man & woman, both tinted golden by the lamp lights & surrounded by the blue hues of the night’s breath. Her eyes rest on his face. Suddenly, his head turns, & his eyes meet hers as he shuffles his body around to lay on his back. Her arm falls & presses against the mattress.
“Do you hate me?” He asks with no prompting or further explanation. Taking a moment to register his words, she sighs as her lungs tighten & heart’s valves pinch themselves. Pursing her lips, she slowly blinks in consideration of how she’ll reply.
“No, I don’t think I could ever, even if I wanted to,” she admits with a thin smile. Laurie doesn’t nod or give any confirmation of hearing her, but his hand does travel down to grab hers. Unlike last time, his touch isn’t brash & demanding. Burning hot, that touch was the red of spearing insults & stinging cuts, flowing with vermilion liquid that was warm with pure ire. Rather, this touch is gentle & tender, as if he’s apologising for any lasting bruises that he may have left with his last touch. Curling around her wrist, the touch is the red of rosy cheeks of elementary school lovers & the flushed fingers of hands that intertwine by the hearth on a frigid winter’s night. Pausing a moment, he waits patiently for her to ask him to let go. Neither look away. Their eyes stay locked on each other, & she does not squeal or shriek or yank her hand out of his grasp. Taking her silence & small, slowly growing smile as a quiet yes, he lifts her palm & presses her hand against his cheek. His head falls into her hand, & his other hand slides up, covering hers like a shadow.
In her heart, a warm glow thrums & emanates; a minute spark of hope desperately trying to heave one more breath. Just one more breath. Looking down at Laurie, his eyes have fallen to gaze at their connected fingers, & she cannot find it in herself to believe that the same flickering flame of hope lives within him too. She cannot dream of ever knowing this tender, domestic love with him. Like ambrosia & myrrh, his touch is far too decadent & divine for her to ever indulge in. Her fingers will callous with labour & wrinkle with age yet still she is well aware that the same hope will continue to live within her. By that age, both of them will have strings knotted around their fingers, tying them both to strangers, who they call their spouses.
“Then why are you so intent on wedding with anyone but me? You’re well aware I’m capable of providing you with the life that you deserve - you and your sisters, both-, are you not?” he pushes, his voice clearly soaked & heavy with fatigue. Clenching her teeth, Ducky shakes her head & turns to look away from him. Swallowing the bubbling mixture of screams & piercing retorts that threaten to fly out from her lips & stain the walls, she takes a deep breath, swallows down the mixture, & blinks away the slight sting from the corners of her eyes.
“Do you find me hideous?” He continues, filling the null void between them as he impatiently waits for her to speak.
“No, Laurie, we’re both well aware that’s not the reason,” she replies with a stern & sharp tone.
“So, you think I’m attractive?” he eggs her on, unable to escape the wrath of his boyish charm, which has continued to plague him since birth. As he speaks, the edge of his lip brushes against her palm for a split second. Realising that he’d expected her to reassure him, she’d fallen right into his trap.
“Laurie, if it’s this that you wish to discuss, I am content to leave this instant,” she warns him, beginning to pull her hand away from his face. Pushing against her, he presses her hand back to his cheek without saying a word. In the remaining silence, she can hear him whisper a small apology. She brushes her thumb against his skin as she adjusts her position in his bed.
“Do you love me, Ducky? Even now?” he asks as his eyes meet hers once more. Her breath catches in her throat. His question nips at her skin like frostbite. She furrows her eyebrows. Thinking over his words, they rest in the syncopated sounds of both of their shallow breaths.
“I don’t think I’m capable of stopping,” she admits, knowing no part of her would be capable of lying to him.
“Then marry me.”
“Laurie,” she begins, pulling her hand away, “If I married you, life would become torture for us both. It’d be horrible.” His hand chases after her like a puppy biting at her heel, until her hand weaves itself between strands of his hair & brushes it out of his face. As his hand plops back down on his chest, his eyes flutter shut.
“I don’t see why it has to be,” he explains, pouting as if he’s a child being told he can’t have candy, not a man discussing the terms of a marriage. Shaking her head, she continues to pet his hair, lightly running her fingers through it.
“I’d rather marry a man who tolerates me than one who cannot love me back,” she tells him in a matter-of-fact tone as if her words are the foundations that built civilization’s first temples & palaces.
“Well, what if I were to fall in love with you, Ducky?” he asks as if love is a simple switch that one can flip in the back of the brain. Glancing up for a second, she catches a glimpse of a silver ring on Laurie’s finger reflected in the moonlight. A stroke of white in the hazy golden aura.
“I do not have the time to wait on an empty promise. Amy wants to attend art school, Meg has children, Jo is off doing whatever it is that Jo does best, & Marmee, Beth, & Hannah are dependent on me. I’m not young forever, and what I’m earning now is nowhere close enough to provide for all of them,” she informs him, & the edges of her lips quiver with a sad smile. Swallowing her words, Laurie takes a deep inhale as his eyes twitch, & he looks past her at the black void that engulfs the ceiling.
“And Gatenby can?” he bites out with a voice that is barely a whisper. Although his voice is not laced with venom, there’s a sharp sting to his spit. His words are bruising, leaving a tender, purple welt that pulses with a dull & thrumming pain in her heart. Her hand falls back into her lap as she looks down at her palms, empty & calloused.
“Andreas, yes, he can provide enough and allow Jo a chance to publish her stories,” she doesn’t hesitate to reply. Lying does him no better than telling the truth.
“Could you even love him? Could you love him as you do so to me?”
“Goodnight, Laurie. I don’t wish to entertain these questions any longer, ” she swiftly concludes the conversation, shooting up & grabbing her lamp. As she rushes towards the door, he makes no move to attempt & follow after her. Instead, he stays curled up in his bed. Basking in the golden light, he watches the door slowly wanes shut & the sliver of amber light under his door until it fades to the same ocean blue that engulfs his room.
a/n: IM SO SO SORRY THIS UPDATE TOOK SO LONG!! I’ve been recovering from surgery most of the summer and cramming a 5-year degree into 4 (accounting major here). I will try to keep updating whenever I’m free I promise!! If you would like to be on a taglist for chapter updates/ao3 updates, pls drop a comment 😞🙏🙏. I love you all so much ty for being so patient and amazing mwah mwah mwah
Summary: pt 1 after fighting with Laurie, the reader finds herself outside of his door late at night. Finding him awake, Laurie begins to question the reader, urging them to marry him.
Word count: 2.93k
Warning: ANGST ANGST ANGST, both of them are being dumb asf, slowburn
This story is a snippet from my longer story, Foolish, Honest Love on ao3. If you want to know what happens next, you'll find out there!!
STORY STARTS UNDER THE PAGE BREAK
Ducky has never found satisfaction in what she’s accomplished, only a tedious sense of burden that reminds her it is simply her duty to act, to be, to accomplish, like her sisters. Therefore, in her eyes, the act of accomplishing fails to be great, as the achievements, talents, & general prowess of her sisters have folded her accomplishments into inevitabilities. Throughout the entirety of her existence, no matter to what degree of excellence she works towards, she’s grown to understand that Apollo will never descend from the heavens & place his golden wreath of laurels upon her head. Rather, she will slow until she stagnates, & her accomplishments will be etched onto the very bottom of a long list of feats performed by the effervescent, eternal, ever-loved March sisters. The great has become mundane to her like Atlas finally lying prone on the ground & resting the world upon his stomach in a despondent & apathetic declaration that his efforts were futile.
No matter what she does, she knows she’s unable to be like Jo or Amy, determined in their aspirations, or Meg, the kindest soul the world has ever been gifted. She could've entertained the idea of pursuing sewing & design or a career as a seamstress or tailor, but Miss March always knew that she would only find her love for sewing when her models were the giggling, squeamish frames of her sisters. For any other seamstress, the three other March sisters would be nightmares when attempting to accomplish even the most minute & menial of tasks. Always fidgeting & swerving, it was utterly impossible to have them remain still for longer than ten seconds. They were intangible spirits of wind & flight, unable to be held by the grasp of man. However, Miss March loved it, as she was always laughing & floating with them.
Outside of her sisters, the only person in which she found this sense of fulfillment was Laurie. Around him, she truly felt she was a whole, sufficient being, He would listen to her winding tangents about fairies & her justifications on why they truly, surely must exist. Although he couldn’t do much else, still he offered a sympathetic ear to her rambling tirades whenever a sewing project came to a grinding halt, with papers scattered across the floor like clouds plastered on a stormy night sky. When she was only at the beginning of learning shorthand, a language of sharp lines & curves, of endless & swift movements, of wind & whispers, he would read aloud passages slowly & methodically for her to transcribe, waiting until the scratching tick of her pen had passed before moving onto the next word. Rising like the tide from his lips, slow, intentional, & promised, his stories mainly consisted of tales pulled from either his memories or imagination. To assist her daily practice, he’d visit several times a week as she eventually became capable of transcribing speech to shorthand at the pace at which normal conversation is held. Since meeting Laurie, he’d always been like the persisting smell of rain after a storm on a heavy summer day. A soft reminder of what has been & that more is always to come.
The soft wisp of smoke from her oil lamp tickles her nose & prods at faded memories of Masachuttesses' winter nights by the hearth with her sisters. Her fingers run over the doorknob to Laurie’s room, which has grown warm from the heat of her hand as she ponders there, grazing her fingers over the metal. The sun has fallen, the moon has risen, &, like a breath, the guests have departed while the evening simmered to a close. She’d spent the rest of her eventful & admittedly humiliating night conversing with Mister Gatenby - or “Andreas”, which he’d requested she’d call him- whom she’d invited to the party, herself, as both an apology & chance to become closer to the possible suitor. To his jokes, she laughed appropriately, & to her answering his queries concerning her work, he nodded inquisitively. Although amiable & enjoyable, conversations with him differed incredibly from discussions with her sisters. Both shared a sense of energy & wonder in speech, but he’d never interject &, if he did, would immediately apologise & demand she finished before he continued. Although she truly does miss her sisters with her entire being & finds her longing to return to the Marches growing day by day, work is a promise here. If she were to attempt to try & find a new career anywhere, it was almost a guarantee that no business would have any interest in hiring a woman when a row of men, although only half as competent & skilled as her, could do the same work. No matter where she travels to, stable pay would be a hard thing to come by, so she stays confined to the small desk in her employer’s, Mister Darrow, office.
As the moon stretches across the night sky like growing vines on a terrace, she breathes & contemplates, her hand finding rest on the golden door knob as she stills herself in silence. In her free hand, her fingers are wrapped around the curling handle of an oil lamp, the only source of light within the hallway. A warm, orange-tinted glow from the lamp creates a bubble around her & tints her untied, cotton sleeping gown an amber hue. With only the balls of her feet pressed against the marble tiling of the floor, the cold ground sends frigid shocks up her like electricity. A chorus of crickets plays her a symphony as the faint sound of her breath fills her ears, & the smell of a cold autumn night, of decaying leaves & wet bark, streams in from the windows. She’s unsure of how long she’s been standing here, waiting for some divine being or herself to act on their accord & decide. Lady Luck holds her by the tail as they await for the wheel of Fortune to come tumbling in & crush the middle March under its burdening weight. An endless stream of possible outcomes plays in her mind as her fingers dance over the doorknob, unsure & constantly moving, & she mulls over whether she should open the door & speak with Laurie or turn on her heels & run all of the way back to her own abode.
Perhaps he’s asleep, unaware of the cacophony that plays in her head & rings throughout the empty halls. Rather, he could be waiting on the other side of the door, just as she is, & contemplating, just as she is. He could be just as anxious as she is. He could see her & curse her name, tell her to never come back. He could break into tears. He could ignore her. He could hate her. Could he? Will he? Whenever she finds herself in his presence, her thoughts begin to swirl & spin like a violent wind. Yet, in the same vein, whenever in his presence, her mind is quieter. A blanket of snow coats her thoughts & dampens the cacophonous & tone-deaf orchestra that plays in her skull.
It’s not curiosity that leads her to act, but, rather, a sense of naive hope. Hope that when she opens the door, waiting on the other side is the strong stench of the sweet ochre wood stain that stuffs Mister Laurence’s manor & the Laurie that defines her past & the outline of her present. A hope that maybe all can be as it was. Simple. Happy. Enough. More than enough.
Slowly, as to not make the metal wail as it grinds against the other screws & parts that live within the door, she cautiously turns the knob & presses her weight against the door. The entire room is painted in the night’s blue breath, except for the golden light that pools around the oil lamp that rests on his nightstand. Etched in midnight blue by the dark sky, the shades have been shoved apart, & the windows flung open, one slightly wider than the other. Soaking in the breeze, the familiar smell of Laurie: the settling dust that the manor collected over years; of the rich fabrics that left a sharp taste of salt on the tongue, a residue of their travel overseas; of kicked-up, fresh dirt & pine needles that have nestled themselves in his hair; of the wildflowers he let Amy & Beth decorate him with; & of the withering & ink-stained paper that Jo scratched the visage of her stories onto up in her attic, which had rubbed off her & onto him. In the lamp light, as if painted by a master’s hand, his skin is tinted a bright golden hue, &, once a curly mop of deep, earthen brown, his hair is now alight with a fiery orange that almost appears to flicker with hot, red licks of feverish heat. Laying in bed, Laurie does not move as the light from her lamp pools into the room. With his cheek pressed against his pillow, all she can see is the back of his head as she tiptoes into his room, silently praying that she doesn’t step on an especially creaky plank in the wooden flooring. The sheets have been tugged & thrown awry, leaving only half of him covered. Untouched by the lamp light, the bottom half of his torso melts into a soft baby blue. His shoulders rise & fall with his steady breath, & his arms rest next to his head, on the pillow.
Placing her lamp on the second nightstand, bought only to create perfect symmetry, she sinks into the plush mattress as she shakily puts her weight on his bed. A gentle hand places itself on his shoulder as she begins to rub it with a feather-light touch. Still, he does not stir nor move, & Ducky takes a deep breath while her eyes travel over his frame. When her gaze falls onto his face, she sees his eyes, stained scarlet by the lamp light. His eyes are flooded with the same red that stains battlefields & bouquets of azaleas & petunias. He does not look back at her, & his eyes stay unfocused & unmoving.
“Hello, Laurie,” she whispers, breaking the silence that the two wade in.
“Hello, Ducky,” he replies. Left in a disorientated state as the alcohol steadily works to flow out of his system, his voice is muffled & slightly hoarse. For a moment, both stay as they are, a painting of a man & woman, both tinted golden by the lamp lights & surrounded by the blue hues of the night’s breath. Her eyes rest on his face. Suddenly, his head turns, & his eyes meet hers as he shuffles his body around to lay on his back. Her arm falls & presses against the mattress.
“Do you hate me?” He asks with no prompting or further explanation. Taking a moment to register his words, she sighs as her lungs tighten & heart’s valves pinch themselves. Pursing her lips, she slowly blinks in consideration of how she’ll reply.
“No, I don’t think I could ever, even if I wanted to,” she admits with a thin smile. Laurie doesn’t nod or give any confirmation of hearing her, but his hand does travel down to grab hers. Unlike last time, his touch isn’t brash & demanding. Burning hot, that touch was the red of spearing insults & stinging cuts, flowing with vermilion liquid that was warm with pure ire. Rather, this touch is gentle & tender, as if he’s apologising for any lasting bruises that he may have left with his last touch. Curling around her wrist, the touch is the red of rosy cheeks of elementary school lovers & the flushed fingers of hands that intertwine by the hearth on a frigid winter’s night. Pausing a moment, he waits patiently for her to ask him to let go. Neither look away. Their eyes stay locked on each other, & she does not squeal or shriek or yank her hand out of his grasp. Taking her silence & small, slowly growing smile as a quiet yes, he lifts her palm & presses her hand against his cheek. His head falls into her hand, & his other hand slides up, covering hers like a shadow.
In her heart, a warm glow thrums & emanates; a minute spark of hope desperately trying to heave one more breath. Just one more breath. Looking down at Laurie, his eyes have fallen to gaze at their connected fingers, & she cannot find it in herself to believe that the same flickering flame of hope lives within him too. She cannot dream of ever knowing this tender, domestic love with him. Like ambrosia & myrrh, his touch is far too decadent & divine for her to ever indulge in. Her fingers will callous with labour & wrinkle with age yet still she is well aware that the same hope will continue to live within her. By that age, both of them will have strings knotted around their fingers, tying them both to strangers, who they call their spouses.
“Then why are you so intent on wedding with anyone but me? You’re well aware I’m capable of providing you with the life that you deserve - you and your sisters, both-, are you not?” he pushes, his voice clearly soaked & heavy with fatigue. Clenching her teeth, Ducky shakes her head & turns to look away from him. Swallowing the bubbling mixture of screams & piercing retorts that threaten to fly out from her lips & stain the walls, she takes a deep breath, swallows down the mixture, & blinks away the slight sting from the corners of her eyes.
“Do you find me hideous?” He continues, filling the null void between them as he impatiently waits for her to speak.
“No, Laurie, we’re both well aware that’s not the reason,” she replies with a stern & sharp tone.
“So, you think I’m attractive?” he eggs her on, unable to escape the wrath of his boyish charm, which has continued to plague him since birth. As he speaks, the edge of his lip brushes against her palm for a split second. Realising that he’d expected her to reassure him, she’d fallen right into his trap.
“Laurie, if it’s this that you wish to discuss, I am content to leave this instant,” she warns him, beginning to pull her hand away from his face. Pushing against her, he presses her hand back to his cheek without saying a word. In the remaining silence, she can hear him whisper a small apology. She brushes her thumb against his skin as she adjusts her position in his bed.
“Do you love me, Ducky? Even now?” he asks as his eyes meet hers once more. Her breath catches in her throat. His question nips at her skin like frostbite. She furrows her eyebrows. Thinking over his words, they rest in the syncopated sounds of both of their shallow breaths.
“I don’t think I’m capable of stopping,” she admits, knowing no part of her would be capable of lying to him.
“Then marry me.”
“Laurie,” she begins, pulling her hand away, “If I married you, life would become torture for us both. It’d be horrible.” His hand chases after her like a puppy biting at her heel, until her hand weaves itself between strands of his hair & brushes it out of his face. As his hand plops back down on his chest, his eyes flutter shut.
“I don’t see why it has to be,” he explains, pouting as if he’s a child being told he can’t have candy, not a man discussing the terms of a marriage. Shaking her head, she continues to pet his hair, lightly running her fingers through it.
“I’d rather marry a man who tolerates me than one who cannot love me back,” she tells him in a matter-of-fact tone as if her words are the foundations that built civilization’s first temples & palaces.
“Well, what if I were to fall in love with you, Ducky?” he asks as if love is a simple switch that one can flip in the back of the brain. Glancing up for a second, she catches a glimpse of a silver ring on Laurie’s finger reflected in the moonlight. A stroke of white in the hazy golden aura.
“I do not have the time to wait on an empty promise. Amy wants to attend art school, Meg has children, Jo is off doing whatever it is that Jo does best, & Marmee, Beth, & Hannah are dependent on me. I’m not young forever, and what I’m earning now is nowhere close enough to provide for all of them,” she informs him, & the edges of her lips quiver with a sad smile. Swallowing her words, Laurie takes a deep inhale as his eyes twitch, & he looks past her at the black void that engulfs the ceiling.
“And Gatenby can?” he bites out with a voice that is barely a whisper. Although his voice is not laced with venom, there’s a sharp sting to his spit. His words are bruising, leaving a tender, purple welt that pulses with a dull & thrumming pain in her heart. Her hand falls back into her lap as she looks down at her palms, empty & calloused.
“Andreas, yes, he can provide enough and allow Jo a chance to publish her stories,” she doesn’t hesitate to reply. Lying does him no better than telling the truth.
“Could you even love him? Could you love him as you do so to me?”
“Goodnight, Laurie. I don’t wish to entertain these questions any longer, ” she swiftly concludes the conversation, shooting up & grabbing her lamp. As she rushes towards the door, he makes no move to attempt & follow after her. Instead, he stays curled up in his bed. Basking in the golden light, he watches the door slowly wanes shut & the sliver of amber light under his door until it fades to the same ocean blue that engulfs his room.
a/n: IM SO SO SORRY THIS UPDATE TOOK SO LONG!! I’ve been recovering from surgery most of the summer and cramming a 5-year degree into 4 (accounting major here). I will try to keep updating whenever I’m free I promise!! If you would like to be on a taglist for chapter updates/ao3 updates, pls drop a comment 😞🙏🙏. I love you all so much ty for being so patient and amazing mwah mwah mwah
Laurie x March!Reader (aka "Ducky")
Summary: At a gathering in london, hosted by Mister Laurence, Laurie gets drunk & the reader is forced to take care of him. While assisting him, Laurie attempts to propose, & the reader is everything but happy
word count: 3.8k
Warnings: ANGST, literally that's it just angst, also a lot of self doubt from reader
This story is a snippet from my longer Laurie x reader story, Foolish, Honest Love on ao3. If you want to know what happens next, you'll find out there ;P
Also, I am taking requests for Laurie x reader drabbles/minifics in my asks!!! :)
STORY STARTS UNDER THE PAGE BREAK
To say one’s heart & mind works separately is a lie because the heart is an organ that does not think, nor does it hold any greater understanding of what it is. It has no consciousness, yet is unrightfully given the capability to think & know. Nobody truly thinks with their heart or their throat or their liver or their pancreas. When someone says “thinking with their heart” or “thinking with their mind”, they mean thinking with their intuition or their rationality, or thinking with logic or emotion. They create a great divide in thought that, in all honesty, has & will never exist. A black & white. A right & wrong. A sky & sea. Existing between all of these concepts is a great trench, a lack of understanding, that was dug by the hands of men.
In thinking with her heart, the middle March finds it best to avoid Laurie, &, in thinking with her head, she agrees with her heart. All of this to say, for the past couple of days, she’s both missed & feared the sight of his face. It’s easy to grow distant from someone when there’s no possible way to close said distance, but, when you’re staying in the same residence per the request of his grandfather, it’s much harder to remain distant, both in a literal & metaphysical sense.
Within the lounge, where she resides now, Miss March distances herself from the greater commotion of the gathering, in the dining hall, without being fully disconnected, like a hand is to the torso. The walls are dressed in a tender maroon wallpaper with an eloquent & detailed moulding of marble & gold, replicating greek columns, which act as a trim that runs across the ceilings. She shares the chaise lounge with other guests as they squeeze next to each other, and their skirts overlap like incoming tides crossing over one another. She’s unsure if she's become overwhelmed by all the stimulus or simply unable to sense anything. The air doesn’t carry any distinct scent. Oddly, the space around her smells of the sound of bustling people & drinks swishing in crystalline glasses. Around her is noise & people, & all of her senses confirm that truth in a monotone wave. Nursing an empty glass, which she had thrown the contents of into a houseplant & plans to hold for the rest of the evening, she sits within conversation between several men & women, an intellectual hive of people that act more like displays for their attire then beings with bones & blood. For them, knowledge is a sport. It’s a trinket to place on your coffee table to try & impress your inlaws. It’s an accessory to tout & best acknowledge in thoughtful hums & inquisitive gasps.
A man in a matching set of birdseye patterned, taupe slacks & waist drones on about the recent unification of Germany. While Miss March does find the subject, itself, interesting, she can’t seem to hold intrigue in the conversation. Something about the smoke & the long days warping together in England has led her to misplace the inquisitiveness of the young girl who dreamed of moving to Europe & leaving behind the dreariness of subordinate domesticity. While, with age, she’s gained the emotional intellect necessary to process her emotions beyond simply scraping the shallow tide with her toes, she’s also gained the awareness that, oftentimes, the act of digesting her emotions is tiring. She’s learned that the energy used toward emotions is better spent producing something tangible & of worth.
Luckily for her, Laurie’s grandfather is a man in the know, which means he knew several associates with daughters of varying ages with varying tastes in clothes who were more than happy to lend a dress to a young lady. Over her crinoline skirt & bodice, a dress in a sweet champagne shade is draped across her. The lacy trim, not wanting to melt into the dress, itself, is a muted purple, almost a grey, that wraps around her puff sleeves & the edges of the champagne tier, with a silk white skirt with a lavender sheen peeks out from underneath. Nothing about the dress is loud. She feels much more at home in the fabric, especially after walking around in the daunting mauve dress like a living, breathing cake topper, a piece of decor for her employer to flaunt. For the first time since leaving New England & Meg & Hannah’s trusted fingers, she’d had her hair done by someone other than her family’s servant. The trusted maid of Mister Laurence had offered & promised to not pull too hard on the March’s hair. As the maid braided & pinned her hair, the middle March almost cried. However, it wasn’t due to any pain inflicted on her scalp, as the maid’s touch was tentative & gentle. It was the simple act of being touched & cared for, a touch Miss March had been subconsciously craving for since leaving her home. A touch she had forgotten until reuniting with Laurie in the crowded foyer.
Touching her shoulder, a soft hand brushes her & whispers a polite ask for her attention. She flutters her eyelashes, shaking off the weight of the dust that had collected on them, &, with the help of the welcomed touch, swims out of the mental fog she had sunk herself into. Her eyes flitter up & meet with the warm sight of Mister Laurence gazing back at her. Whether the strong scent of candle wax, lingering dust on velvet carpets, & forest breeze eminates from him or the memories of his manor in New England that she spent odd mornings & afternoons in, she’s unsure of. However, it’s another reminder of the young girl she tried to comfort & wish goodbye to before leaving for Lancashire.
“Pardon my forwardness, but, Miss March, I must ask you to join me for a brief moment. I do hate to take away from such wonderful company,” Mister Laurence requests, playing the role of the man wise beyond his years more gracefully than anyone Miss March has ever seen. With a curt nod, not even bothering to bid adieu to the people in the room, she lets curiosity lead her as she rises to her feet & wraps her arms around Mister Laurence’s. Ushering her out of the room at the exact speed that is swift without being suspicious, Mister Laurence guides the young lady to a hallway with no prying eyes or wandering ears. His gaze does not hold the anger of a great man who is weighed down by the hubris of those around him, but in his eyes is something deeply paternal & saddened. Around him, an umber waistcoat & slacks with a herringbone pattern remind her more of a bear then a man of business & wealth. However, her judgement may be heavily clouded from growing up under his watchful eye. While his hair used to be a soft salt & pepper, it has faded to a faint white & grey like the shadow of a tree painted on fresh snow during a cloudy evening. For most, with age comes wrinkles that hide within them their growing envy for the youth that’s being wasted on careless & stupid adolescents. Mister Laurence’s wrinkles are like the rings of a tree, lines that prove that he has lived & seen. They’re a promise that, if one is to ask, he will tell the story preserved in every smile line & crow’s foot. Bending down so his lips hover around her ear, she’s immediately washed in the same sincerity that soaks his demeanour.
“Y/N,” he calls her by her first name, a telltale sign of loyalty & unease from the man, “I do hate to put this upon your shoulders, but my grandson is acting aloof-”.
“In what sense?” she interrupts in the classic March fashion, &, used to this speech pattern, he continues speaking over her.
“And, while I don’t wish to make you pay for his poor decisions, I have an important associate that I do need to impress,” he explains to her as his hand returns to her shoulder, “And you and I are both well aware that no servant is paid well enough to have to deal with my grandson’s… ”
“Stubbornness?”
“...Tenacity.”
Both finish his sentence at the same time & share a gaze that communicates that neither are completely wrong with their wording. Nodding his head to agree with her, he looks away at the hall ahead. No paternal figure wants to admit their children’s faults. To say a truth is to make it known, but to admit a truth makes it tangible. She can feel the glass ball that rolls up & down his throat, ever so often bobbing at the opening to his stomach. Hiding beneath his heavy wool morning coat, his shoulders tense while trying to protect the rest of his body.
“A servant caught him with several other young women & clearly inebriated,” he reveals to her, & the edges of his lips quiver & twitch as they are tugged by invisible strings into a frown. His words dig a hole into her chest. All that remains is her skin, which caves in & sags where her sternum once was. It leaves a tingling sensation where her muscles & bones used to rest. She feels that Mister Laurence is speaking of a different grandson, which she has never met. What happened to the young boy who would treat her childish fears with utmost sincerity? What happened to the boy who made pinky promises seem like the most honourable pacts a man could make? What monster, what man had stolen the skin from him & now wears it as a costume?
“I’ll confess. I’m unsure of where I went wrong with him,” Mister Laurence slips out between hushed lips, telling his secret to the wind & Miss March. Pausing to swallow his words, she furrows her brows & purses her lips. Swimming in her mind, she can’t think of any words that can comfort him in this moment of vulnerability. So, rather than speaking, she wraps her arms around the older man & hugs him tightly. Surprise washes him over as she squeezes his ribcage tightly, &, for a moment, he freezes as his eyes dart around to try & catch leering gazes peaking around the corner. But they are hidden in the inky shadows of the hallway. With a long exhale, Mister Laurence allows his tension to escape, & he swallows her in his embrace..
“You worry about business, and I’ll worry about Laurie,” she comforts him while pulling away, pausing to fix his bowtie, “He’s very lucky to have a grandfather that’s as kind and loving as you.” Mister Laurence smiles at her reminder as the rosy glow on his cheeks alights the hallway for a moment. Each breath they take in the space that they share feels like it fills each corner of their lungs. Nodding to her, a silent show of gratitude, he leads her to an oak door which lays slightly ajar. Holding the nob, he turns back to her before speaking.
“Thank you for your assistance. He’s in here,” Mister Laurence informs her, & he slowly swings the door open. Immediately, the souring scent of wine hits her face, &, as an instinct, her nose scrunches up & a grimace stains her lips. Splayed out on a couch, dishevelled & basking in his own ruin, she sees more of a strange, unfamiliar man than the boy that she knew. She sees a man that will grow to be discontent with his wife, yet who stays for the kids. A man who never really loved his children but is patiently waiting for the fulfilment that comes from acting in the role that society has told him to. A man who will never be fulfilled. A man that has learned that he must settle for what he has, quietly & miserably. A miniscule part of Miss March relishes at the idea that he’d have to learn how cruel the impartial hand of life can be, but the rest of her is well aware that Laurie will never know “enough”. He’d love his wife, even if she loved another man. He’d work to provide for his kids, &, if the wife was never around, he’d raise them all on his own. He’d move mountains to try to find the better side of “enough”. Laurie will love & love because that is Laurie’s nature. He loves wine & women. He loves trekking through forests & acting a fool, even in public spaces. He loves to engage in conversation while in the company of the March sisters, where no sentence is ever finished & nothing is ever truly said but the quiet “I love you” that rattles around in the pauses between words for a quick draw of breath. Laurie loves Jo. Laurie will continue to love, & love will truly be the cause of his death. Yet, Laurie will find a way to love the silent & cold hand of what lies beyond in a way that no person has ever done before. Miss March cannot even entertain the idea of Laurie living a life that is just “enough” because, to her, his company is more than enough. It is good. It is plenty.
That same man has tossed away his vermillion silk tie & waistcoat, leaving him in a starch white shirt that’s a third of the way unbuttoned & hastily tucked into raven black slacks. Closing the door behind her, the click of the door knob alerts him to her presence. However, his verdant eyes don’t move to meet her as he stares through strands of his messy chocolate hair & up at the silver ring that he often displays on his pointer finger.
“Are you here to scold me, oh my dear mother?” He asks to the wind, acknowledging her existence. Miss March inhales deeply as the beating of her heart starts to drown out the sound of her breath. Clasping her hands together, she tentatively begins to make her way over to the cobalt ottoman that rests near the matching couch. The room is a demure periwinkle with small etchings of leaves adding a splash of muted emerald to the room.
“No, Laurie. Your grandfather asked me to keep you company,” she tries to ease his nerves as she inches closer.
“No, he told you to keep me away from the guests as I am his greatest failure,” Laurie shoots up at her words, sitting up far too fast for his drunken mind to handle. A warbling groan of pain slips out of his mouth as he rakes his fingers through his hair & clutches his throbbing head. At the sight of his agony, Miss March rushes to him &, readjusting his legs, sits on the edge of the couch cushion, right in front of him. With a tender touch, she gently wraps her fingers around his wrists & rubs small circles with her thumb.
“Oh, shush, you’re as much of a failure as I am a dancer,” She teases him with a sympathetic smile. At her words, a small & raspy chuckle escapes his lips &, tilting his head, his celadon eyes, in which the fields of Elysium hide, gaze up at her. Hiding beneath a smoke of anger, she’s able to see the young boy that she grew up with. The young boy that she once fell in love with. He’s scared & small & all the things a child is never allowed to be.
In this moment, as much as she despises it, she knows she must admit her faults to him & ask for forgiveness. She was cruel & unjust for bringing up Jo with the intent of spitting in his face. She hurt him with the intention of leaving a mark, & she succeeded in doing so. If he doesn’t ever forgive her, she’ll grow to understand. It won’t be an easy process, but loving Laurie has never been anything close to easy. Taking a deep breath, she shoves the racing thoughts out of her vision & looks him in the eyes.
“I apologise for what I said in the alley, concerning your feelings for Jo. I shouldn’t’ve ever used them to hurt you,” she apologises quickly, &, after speaking, immediately purses her lips together & stares at him. She waits for him to scream. To yell at her to get out. To say he hates her & never wants to see her again. To tell her he always hated her. That he only tolerated her for Jo. To say she’s stupid. She’s vile. She’s not worth Jo or Meg or Beth or Amy’s time. She waits for him to tell her the truth she’s been too scared to say to herself aloud. She waits & waits until, finally, his lips part, & he draws a quick breath.
“It’s alright. I was being mean too, and I, truly, do owe you many apologies, as well, ” he replies with a thin smile, replaying the events in his head. Ducky’s stomach squeezes as relief floods her system, & she sharply inhales while attempting to keep some kind of composure. A tight smile graces her features, slipping past her facade of propriety & decorum.
“I’ve been spending this past year, & some odd months, wallowing in my own melancholy, but,” Laurie pauses for a moment, slouching forward so his eyes are level with Ducky’s, “but I cannot waste away my life being miserable. If money is truly of the highest concern, then marry me.” His words grab her by the neck, shove their long, spindly fingers down her throat, wrench the breath from her lungs, & pry the air out of her. Her mouth falls agape as she struggles to comb through & fully understand what he’s said.
“Laurie, I refuse-”
“You won’t have to work, nor do you have to love me, & your family will be provided for: Beth, Amy, Marmee, everyone,” he prattles on, afraid of the nearing rejection that comes when he stops to breathe. Ducky can’t hear anything other than her own heartbeat & what, to her, sounds like the faint whisper of Laurie’s voice. She can’t even hear herself think.
“You’ll be happy, I promise. Everyday I will spend in honest devotion to your happiness,” he’s breathless as he finishes his speech, &, feeling the walls begin to collapse in on her, Ducky jumps to her feet. Rushing back & forth, in front of her very eyes, are countless memories of Jo & Laurie, of the way it’s always been. Jo loves her work. Laurie loves Jo. Ducky was left to love the footprints Laurie had left while chasing after Jo.
“Laurie, I, as a woman, must either enter a marriage for security or for love,” she whispers out as her arms wrap around her waist, squeezing her sides tightly, “while you can marry for any reason under the sun, and I will not be an accomplice in allowing you to waste that privilege.” The room grows smaller, the air between them thinner. It’s hard to breathe & her vision becomes a swirl of blues & greens with a spotty pillar of white & black wiggling around in the centre. Laurie stops, & Ducky stops. Neither move. Neither speak. Neither breathe. The walls stop moving, & everything around them fades into their shadows. They are a boy & a girl. A lady & a man, all grown up & yet the exact same as they were the day that they met. While his previous proclamations were loud & steady, the words he speaks next are a promise meant only for his lips & the spirits that hide in peoples’ breaths.
“But I can give you both, love and security, if you’d allow me. I’ll inherit my grandfather’s wealth, and we could be happy, all of us.”
Clear on his face is the same sincerity that he’s gifted to her in every moment of embarrassment & shame. His eyes stay glued to hers. After waiting for years for him to say these words to her, she can’t help but feel his admittance is fake. That maybe his words are meant for someone smarter, braver, older, & better then she is. His words are meant for Jo.
“No, no, you don’t get to, this isn’t right,” she bites back, walking backwards & grasping for the door knob yet only finding the air between her fingers, “Stop it, Laurie, please.”. He follows her, &, in his drunken state, collides with the furniture, sending his body awry.
“Yes, yes I can, and we both know it to be true,” he tries to correct her as he raises his hands to grip her forearms. Her shoulders immediately tense at his touch. His fingers crinkle the poofy champagne fabric that delicately floats around her skin.
“You’re acting a fool, Laurie-”
“I can, I swear on my life Y/N, I am able and I am willing and, and content to do so.”
“-I won’t allow it, I simply cannot,” she continues to ramble on, & her finger tips brush against the cool metal of the doorknob. Laurie opens his mouth to rebuke her statement, but, before he can, her palm flies up & presses against his lips. Covering his mouth with her hand, she shakes her head as her eyes gleam with tears.
“Please, stop. It hurts, Laurie. Please, Laurie, you’re hurting me,” she pleads to him as her fingers curl around the door knob, “I cannot do it. You broke my heart once already. Is that not enough for you?”
To watch the boy she admires fall in love with her sister, who she’s loved since the dawn of time, was a constant, real ache that left her sobbing into Beth’s chest as she begged Meg to help her & relieve her of the pain, which was an impossible task. After the middle March had left for Europe & caught word of Jo’s rejection in a letter from Beth, she had a heavy heart knowing that the two people who were connected at the hip for all of her adolescence had now grown cold & distant. It was as if she’d heard that the moon no longer followed the sun, leaving the night cold & bleak. All she has done her entire life is labour & hurt for those she loves without question or complaint. However, she cannot look Laurie in the eyes as he slurs out ideas that would’ve sent her younger self spinning & giggling with a maddening joy. She cannot withstand that pain for him. She doesn’t feel happy or sad. Nor is she angry or scared. All that she can feel is the heavy pounding of her heart & a dull ache emanating through her. The pain swallows her mind, &, while her body still remains, Ducky has clearly fled far from the room. She’s racing down the streets in her dress, seeing how far her legs will take her.
She yanks the door open just before he can reply & heaves her body through, slamming the door shut after her. Leaning her weight against the slab of carved & varnished oak, a few tears trickle down her cheek as she chokes back a sob, not wanting to alert any guests nearby. In her mind, she’s already ran all the way back to New England. There, back in her home, she lies, hiding her tears in Beth’s dress, as her sisters practically cocoon her, protecting her & the fire from the harsh reality of the world that waits outside their loving embrace & on the other side of the oak door.
i told you it's literally & only just angst... sorry. please like & repost :)
no because idk how readers don’t get excited or feel giddy about commenting on a writers work. like after i’m done reading something i’ve loved the thought of going crazy in the comments or the tags of the rb and knowing that it’s going to make the writer smile but also i need to let them know how much it made me smile how much i enjoyed it how much i’m going crazy over it like???? how can you not want to do that?? experience that and make someone else experience that and thus leading them to write more stories that will keep the feelings going. i will never understand you serial likers and ghost readers.
my dad saw ao3 open on my computer and asked if that was like my writing club and just so you know that's what fanfic writers are now, we're all in the same writing club where we all write about the same media and show each other our little stories and that's kind of cool actually
Hello!! I absolutely love your writing and was so excited to see your requests are open!! 💛 I was wondering if i could request a platonic amy march x reader (gn or fem is absolutely fine) with the prompt "i missed you so much". i was imagine maybe reader had been travelling for a while or just hadn't been spending much time with amy recently, and they both miss eachother alot and just have a fluffy reunion! though of course feel free to go whichever direction inspiration takes you!!!! (i also don't mind whether its just best friends or reader and amy are siblings, though i am very biased to the latter)
Even if you don't end up writing this, thank you so much for the things you have written because I'm absolutely in love with them!!!! and of course an extra big thank you if you do write this!!!!
— aubrey!! (@yokolesbianism/aubeystawby) 💛💛
AWWW tysm!! Literally you’re the sweetest & it warms my tiny little heart!! Of course I will write your little request, but I made it a little different. (for flavor ;0)
Word Count: ~800
(not edited, so there’s some grammatical errors. sorry not sorry)
The ache of the youth spent in the twisting thorns of blackberries & dashing madly down dusty paths like deer fleeing from the maw of a greater beast is not felt until, when waking up one morning, her bones are stiff & wooden. As if, if she were to bend her elbow, she could hear a creaking sound from the rusty nail between her two joints. Ever since Amy had left for France to pursue her dream of becoming a great artist,- one who, in her triumphant cries, “would rival Renoir and Boticelli and Thomas Lawrence!”- y/n, the youngest March, has awoken to the splintering ache of an accosted youth.
To say she misses her sisters is an understatement to the highest degree. Everything is far too quiet without the constant chirping of her sisters, a never ending symphony of adolescent conundrums & complaints. Once an eternal twilight, with her sisters playing the role of singing cicadas, the morning had risen with their departure from the best. Several things, which she previously thought were silent, have now shed their fear, & the appliances remind her of her creaking bones with their squeals & whines. The only thing that ever eased her mind was Beth’s piano, a reminder that, although her sisters have grown, she still remains young & a girl.
However, one early morning, the noise of chittering like field mice in a barn snuck in from underneath her door. Like a puppet, her wooden bones acted in the same order that they always have. Planting her feet on the ground, she threw her- well, it was first Marmee’s, then Meg’s, and then Jo found it far too “girlish”, so it was lastly Amy’s- shawl, a soft blue & green woolen piece, to keep herself from freezing in the morning sun.
“Marmee! What’s with all the clamor?” Y/N shouts out as she rubs the last grains of dreams quickly forgotten, a gift from Sandman in the night. Their voice is scratchy like an itchy wool scary as they waddle toward their door. Before Marmee can even consider replying, a shrill squeal fills the house.
“Sister! How I’ve missed you!” the shriek makes the wallpaper curl into itself, & the pounding noise of, what can only be assumed to be, heavy iron weights plummeting onto their creaking wooden stairs grows closer & closer to the half-awake Y/N. Immediately recognizing that voice before she can even register the smell of fresh air streaming in from her open window or the sticky feeling of morning dew on her face, Y/N snatches the door knob & swings it open wildly with reckless abandon.
There, standing before her, in a voluminous, almost cartoonishly large crinoline skirt with tiers upon tiers of ruffles & lace-trimming in differing shades of porcelain blue & silver, her sister & part of her soul, Amy, stands before her like a statue carved from marble & opal. With a toothy grin that reminds Y/N of all the long summer days spent rolling around in the vibrant green grass by the meadow, Any doesn’t waste a second as she barrels towards Y/N & catapults her arms around her little sister, who is unsure if she’s simply still dreaming or actually awake.
“Oh, how I’ve missed you! I’ve missed you so so dearly! All I could think of was how I wished you were beside me. Oh, I’ve so much to tell you! ” Amy rambles on as she digs her face into the nest of locks that rests upon her sister’s head like a rabbit burying into fresh earthen dirt. Curling her fingers around the poofy & seemingly floating sleeves that hug Amy’s sleeves in ways Y/N didn’t know was even possible, the cool touch of the soft, buttery linen kisses her fingers like a distant memory of childhood that’s been lost to the breeze. The fabric leaves a tingling sensation that reminds her of the bells that decorate the Church during Christmas time.
As the folds of linen ripple between her fingers, it’s then she finally feels her mind recenter. The colors around her bloom like the first day of spring, & everything falls into focus. Amy is back. She is real & home & here, in her arms. Slowly, Y/N tepidly wraps her arms around her sister & presses her face into the fabric of her dress. Something hot dribbles down her cheeks, & her silent tears collapse into Amy’s dress. The rust melts off of her joints as she feels her youth soak back into her bones. Her sister, her person, is home.
hello!! i came across your fic 'foolish, honest love' and it looks really good!!! i just wanted to ask before i start reading it, if there's a happy ending/laurie and reader end up together or not? i'm not asking for spoilers or anything of course but i'm just wary of the fact i can't really handle angst without a happy ending sometimes, and i just want to know before-hand what i'm getting myself into so i know not to read it when i'm feeling emotional etc.
— @yokolesbianism
I'm happy to answer, & I totally understand. For all intents & purposes, I plan to have a happy ending where the reader & laurie end up together. In Gerwig's adaption, Amy & Laurie had a convoluted relationship based in the fact that Laurie was, to put it briefly, childish & unwilling to grow past his heartbreak. I want to do my best to replicate it while also showing the flaws in the reader, mainly that she's become trapped in her own impropriety & other things that will pop up later in the story. I know this question is a simple yes or no, but I love discussing character arcs & my writing :). Obviously, this story is a slow burn, so we're going to be here for awhileeeee, but I have every intent of ensuring that there's a happy ending.
Laurie x March!Reader (aka "Ducky")
Summary: At a gathering in london, hosted by Mister Laurence, Laurie gets drunk & the reader is forced to take care of him. While assisting him, Laurie attempts to propose, & the reader is everything but happy
word count: 3.8k
Warnings: ANGST, literally that's it just angst, also a lot of self doubt from reader
This story is a snippet from my longer Laurie x reader story, Foolish, Honest Love on ao3. If you want to know what happens next, you'll find out there ;P
Also, I am taking requests for Laurie x reader drabbles/minifics in my asks!!! :)
STORY STARTS UNDER THE PAGE BREAK
To say one’s heart & mind works separately is a lie because the heart is an organ that does not think, nor does it hold any greater understanding of what it is. It has no consciousness, yet is unrightfully given the capability to think & know. Nobody truly thinks with their heart or their throat or their liver or their pancreas. When someone says “thinking with their heart” or “thinking with their mind”, they mean thinking with their intuition or their rationality, or thinking with logic or emotion. They create a great divide in thought that, in all honesty, has & will never exist. A black & white. A right & wrong. A sky & sea. Existing between all of these concepts is a great trench, a lack of understanding, that was dug by the hands of men.
In thinking with her heart, the middle March finds it best to avoid Laurie, &, in thinking with her head, she agrees with her heart. All of this to say, for the past couple of days, she’s both missed & feared the sight of his face. It’s easy to grow distant from someone when there’s no possible way to close said distance, but, when you’re staying in the same residence per the request of his grandfather, it’s much harder to remain distant, both in a literal & metaphysical sense.
Within the lounge, where she resides now, Miss March distances herself from the greater commotion of the gathering, in the dining hall, without being fully disconnected, like a hand is to the torso. The walls are dressed in a tender maroon wallpaper with an eloquent & detailed moulding of marble & gold, replicating greek columns, which act as a trim that runs across the ceilings. She shares the chaise lounge with other guests as they squeeze next to each other, and their skirts overlap like incoming tides crossing over one another. She’s unsure if she's become overwhelmed by all the stimulus or simply unable to sense anything. The air doesn’t carry any distinct scent. Oddly, the space around her smells of the sound of bustling people & drinks swishing in crystalline glasses. Around her is noise & people, & all of her senses confirm that truth in a monotone wave. Nursing an empty glass, which she had thrown the contents of into a houseplant & plans to hold for the rest of the evening, she sits within conversation between several men & women, an intellectual hive of people that act more like displays for their attire then beings with bones & blood. For them, knowledge is a sport. It’s a trinket to place on your coffee table to try & impress your inlaws. It’s an accessory to tout & best acknowledge in thoughtful hums & inquisitive gasps.
A man in a matching set of birdseye patterned, taupe slacks & waist drones on about the recent unification of Germany. While Miss March does find the subject, itself, interesting, she can’t seem to hold intrigue in the conversation. Something about the smoke & the long days warping together in England has led her to misplace the inquisitiveness of the young girl who dreamed of moving to Europe & leaving behind the dreariness of subordinate domesticity. While, with age, she’s gained the emotional intellect necessary to process her emotions beyond simply scraping the shallow tide with her toes, she’s also gained the awareness that, oftentimes, the act of digesting her emotions is tiring. She’s learned that the energy used toward emotions is better spent producing something tangible & of worth.
Luckily for her, Laurie’s grandfather is a man in the know, which means he knew several associates with daughters of varying ages with varying tastes in clothes who were more than happy to lend a dress to a young lady. Over her crinoline skirt & bodice, a dress in a sweet champagne shade is draped across her. The lacy trim, not wanting to melt into the dress, itself, is a muted purple, almost a grey, that wraps around her puff sleeves & the edges of the champagne tier, with a silk white skirt with a lavender sheen peeks out from underneath. Nothing about the dress is loud. She feels much more at home in the fabric, especially after walking around in the daunting mauve dress like a living, breathing cake topper, a piece of decor for her employer to flaunt. For the first time since leaving New England & Meg & Hannah’s trusted fingers, she’d had her hair done by someone other than her family’s servant. The trusted maid of Mister Laurence had offered & promised to not pull too hard on the March’s hair. As the maid braided & pinned her hair, the middle March almost cried. However, it wasn’t due to any pain inflicted on her scalp, as the maid’s touch was tentative & gentle. It was the simple act of being touched & cared for, a touch Miss March had been subconsciously craving for since leaving her home. A touch she had forgotten until reuniting with Laurie in the crowded foyer.
Touching her shoulder, a soft hand brushes her & whispers a polite ask for her attention. She flutters her eyelashes, shaking off the weight of the dust that had collected on them, &, with the help of the welcomed touch, swims out of the mental fog she had sunk herself into. Her eyes flitter up & meet with the warm sight of Mister Laurence gazing back at her. Whether the strong scent of candle wax, lingering dust on velvet carpets, & forest breeze eminates from him or the memories of his manor in New England that she spent odd mornings & afternoons in, she’s unsure of. However, it’s another reminder of the young girl she tried to comfort & wish goodbye to before leaving for Lancashire.
“Pardon my forwardness, but, Miss March, I must ask you to join me for a brief moment. I do hate to take away from such wonderful company,” Mister Laurence requests, playing the role of the man wise beyond his years more gracefully than anyone Miss March has ever seen. With a curt nod, not even bothering to bid adieu to the people in the room, she lets curiosity lead her as she rises to her feet & wraps her arms around Mister Laurence’s. Ushering her out of the room at the exact speed that is swift without being suspicious, Mister Laurence guides the young lady to a hallway with no prying eyes or wandering ears. His gaze does not hold the anger of a great man who is weighed down by the hubris of those around him, but in his eyes is something deeply paternal & saddened. Around him, an umber waistcoat & slacks with a herringbone pattern remind her more of a bear then a man of business & wealth. However, her judgement may be heavily clouded from growing up under his watchful eye. While his hair used to be a soft salt & pepper, it has faded to a faint white & grey like the shadow of a tree painted on fresh snow during a cloudy evening. For most, with age comes wrinkles that hide within them their growing envy for the youth that’s being wasted on careless & stupid adolescents. Mister Laurence’s wrinkles are like the rings of a tree, lines that prove that he has lived & seen. They’re a promise that, if one is to ask, he will tell the story preserved in every smile line & crow’s foot. Bending down so his lips hover around her ear, she’s immediately washed in the same sincerity that soaks his demeanour.
“Y/N,” he calls her by her first name, a telltale sign of loyalty & unease from the man, “I do hate to put this upon your shoulders, but my grandson is acting aloof-”.
“In what sense?” she interrupts in the classic March fashion, &, used to this speech pattern, he continues speaking over her.
“And, while I don’t wish to make you pay for his poor decisions, I have an important associate that I do need to impress,” he explains to her as his hand returns to her shoulder, “And you and I are both well aware that no servant is paid well enough to have to deal with my grandson’s… ”
“Stubbornness?”
“...Tenacity.”
Both finish his sentence at the same time & share a gaze that communicates that neither are completely wrong with their wording. Nodding his head to agree with her, he looks away at the hall ahead. No paternal figure wants to admit their children’s faults. To say a truth is to make it known, but to admit a truth makes it tangible. She can feel the glass ball that rolls up & down his throat, ever so often bobbing at the opening to his stomach. Hiding beneath his heavy wool morning coat, his shoulders tense while trying to protect the rest of his body.
“A servant caught him with several other young women & clearly inebriated,” he reveals to her, & the edges of his lips quiver & twitch as they are tugged by invisible strings into a frown. His words dig a hole into her chest. All that remains is her skin, which caves in & sags where her sternum once was. It leaves a tingling sensation where her muscles & bones used to rest. She feels that Mister Laurence is speaking of a different grandson, which she has never met. What happened to the young boy who would treat her childish fears with utmost sincerity? What happened to the boy who made pinky promises seem like the most honourable pacts a man could make? What monster, what man had stolen the skin from him & now wears it as a costume?
“I’ll confess. I’m unsure of where I went wrong with him,” Mister Laurence slips out between hushed lips, telling his secret to the wind & Miss March. Pausing to swallow his words, she furrows her brows & purses her lips. Swimming in her mind, she can’t think of any words that can comfort him in this moment of vulnerability. So, rather than speaking, she wraps her arms around the older man & hugs him tightly. Surprise washes him over as she squeezes his ribcage tightly, &, for a moment, he freezes as his eyes dart around to try & catch leering gazes peaking around the corner. But they are hidden in the inky shadows of the hallway. With a long exhale, Mister Laurence allows his tension to escape, & he swallows her in his embrace..
“You worry about business, and I’ll worry about Laurie,” she comforts him while pulling away, pausing to fix his bowtie, “He’s very lucky to have a grandfather that’s as kind and loving as you.” Mister Laurence smiles at her reminder as the rosy glow on his cheeks alights the hallway for a moment. Each breath they take in the space that they share feels like it fills each corner of their lungs. Nodding to her, a silent show of gratitude, he leads her to an oak door which lays slightly ajar. Holding the nob, he turns back to her before speaking.
“Thank you for your assistance. He’s in here,” Mister Laurence informs her, & he slowly swings the door open. Immediately, the souring scent of wine hits her face, &, as an instinct, her nose scrunches up & a grimace stains her lips. Splayed out on a couch, dishevelled & basking in his own ruin, she sees more of a strange, unfamiliar man than the boy that she knew. She sees a man that will grow to be discontent with his wife, yet who stays for the kids. A man who never really loved his children but is patiently waiting for the fulfilment that comes from acting in the role that society has told him to. A man who will never be fulfilled. A man that has learned that he must settle for what he has, quietly & miserably. A miniscule part of Miss March relishes at the idea that he’d have to learn how cruel the impartial hand of life can be, but the rest of her is well aware that Laurie will never know “enough”. He’d love his wife, even if she loved another man. He’d work to provide for his kids, &, if the wife was never around, he’d raise them all on his own. He’d move mountains to try to find the better side of “enough”. Laurie will love & love because that is Laurie’s nature. He loves wine & women. He loves trekking through forests & acting a fool, even in public spaces. He loves to engage in conversation while in the company of the March sisters, where no sentence is ever finished & nothing is ever truly said but the quiet “I love you” that rattles around in the pauses between words for a quick draw of breath. Laurie loves Jo. Laurie will continue to love, & love will truly be the cause of his death. Yet, Laurie will find a way to love the silent & cold hand of what lies beyond in a way that no person has ever done before. Miss March cannot even entertain the idea of Laurie living a life that is just “enough” because, to her, his company is more than enough. It is good. It is plenty.
That same man has tossed away his vermillion silk tie & waistcoat, leaving him in a starch white shirt that’s a third of the way unbuttoned & hastily tucked into raven black slacks. Closing the door behind her, the click of the door knob alerts him to her presence. However, his verdant eyes don’t move to meet her as he stares through strands of his messy chocolate hair & up at the silver ring that he often displays on his pointer finger.
“Are you here to scold me, oh my dear mother?” He asks to the wind, acknowledging her existence. Miss March inhales deeply as the beating of her heart starts to drown out the sound of her breath. Clasping her hands together, she tentatively begins to make her way over to the cobalt ottoman that rests near the matching couch. The room is a demure periwinkle with small etchings of leaves adding a splash of muted emerald to the room.
“No, Laurie. Your grandfather asked me to keep you company,” she tries to ease his nerves as she inches closer.
“No, he told you to keep me away from the guests as I am his greatest failure,” Laurie shoots up at her words, sitting up far too fast for his drunken mind to handle. A warbling groan of pain slips out of his mouth as he rakes his fingers through his hair & clutches his throbbing head. At the sight of his agony, Miss March rushes to him &, readjusting his legs, sits on the edge of the couch cushion, right in front of him. With a tender touch, she gently wraps her fingers around his wrists & rubs small circles with her thumb.
“Oh, shush, you’re as much of a failure as I am a dancer,” She teases him with a sympathetic smile. At her words, a small & raspy chuckle escapes his lips &, tilting his head, his celadon eyes, in which the fields of Elysium hide, gaze up at her. Hiding beneath a smoke of anger, she’s able to see the young boy that she grew up with. The young boy that she once fell in love with. He’s scared & small & all the things a child is never allowed to be.
In this moment, as much as she despises it, she knows she must admit her faults to him & ask for forgiveness. She was cruel & unjust for bringing up Jo with the intent of spitting in his face. She hurt him with the intention of leaving a mark, & she succeeded in doing so. If he doesn’t ever forgive her, she’ll grow to understand. It won’t be an easy process, but loving Laurie has never been anything close to easy. Taking a deep breath, she shoves the racing thoughts out of her vision & looks him in the eyes.
“I apologise for what I said in the alley, concerning your feelings for Jo. I shouldn’t’ve ever used them to hurt you,” she apologises quickly, &, after speaking, immediately purses her lips together & stares at him. She waits for him to scream. To yell at her to get out. To say he hates her & never wants to see her again. To tell her he always hated her. That he only tolerated her for Jo. To say she’s stupid. She’s vile. She’s not worth Jo or Meg or Beth or Amy’s time. She waits for him to tell her the truth she’s been too scared to say to herself aloud. She waits & waits until, finally, his lips part, & he draws a quick breath.
“It’s alright. I was being mean too, and I, truly, do owe you many apologies, as well, ” he replies with a thin smile, replaying the events in his head. Ducky’s stomach squeezes as relief floods her system, & she sharply inhales while attempting to keep some kind of composure. A tight smile graces her features, slipping past her facade of propriety & decorum.
“I’ve been spending this past year, & some odd months, wallowing in my own melancholy, but,” Laurie pauses for a moment, slouching forward so his eyes are level with Ducky’s, “but I cannot waste away my life being miserable. If money is truly of the highest concern, then marry me.” His words grab her by the neck, shove their long, spindly fingers down her throat, wrench the breath from her lungs, & pry the air out of her. Her mouth falls agape as she struggles to comb through & fully understand what he’s said.
“Laurie, I refuse-”
“You won’t have to work, nor do you have to love me, & your family will be provided for: Beth, Amy, Marmee, everyone,” he prattles on, afraid of the nearing rejection that comes when he stops to breathe. Ducky can’t hear anything other than her own heartbeat & what, to her, sounds like the faint whisper of Laurie’s voice. She can’t even hear herself think.
“You’ll be happy, I promise. Everyday I will spend in honest devotion to your happiness,” he’s breathless as he finishes his speech, &, feeling the walls begin to collapse in on her, Ducky jumps to her feet. Rushing back & forth, in front of her very eyes, are countless memories of Jo & Laurie, of the way it’s always been. Jo loves her work. Laurie loves Jo. Ducky was left to love the footprints Laurie had left while chasing after Jo.
“Laurie, I, as a woman, must either enter a marriage for security or for love,” she whispers out as her arms wrap around her waist, squeezing her sides tightly, “while you can marry for any reason under the sun, and I will not be an accomplice in allowing you to waste that privilege.” The room grows smaller, the air between them thinner. It’s hard to breathe & her vision becomes a swirl of blues & greens with a spotty pillar of white & black wiggling around in the centre. Laurie stops, & Ducky stops. Neither move. Neither speak. Neither breathe. The walls stop moving, & everything around them fades into their shadows. They are a boy & a girl. A lady & a man, all grown up & yet the exact same as they were the day that they met. While his previous proclamations were loud & steady, the words he speaks next are a promise meant only for his lips & the spirits that hide in peoples’ breaths.
“But I can give you both, love and security, if you’d allow me. I’ll inherit my grandfather’s wealth, and we could be happy, all of us.”
Clear on his face is the same sincerity that he’s gifted to her in every moment of embarrassment & shame. His eyes stay glued to hers. After waiting for years for him to say these words to her, she can’t help but feel his admittance is fake. That maybe his words are meant for someone smarter, braver, older, & better then she is. His words are meant for Jo.
“No, no, you don’t get to, this isn’t right,” she bites back, walking backwards & grasping for the door knob yet only finding the air between her fingers, “Stop it, Laurie, please.”. He follows her, &, in his drunken state, collides with the furniture, sending his body awry.
“Yes, yes I can, and we both know it to be true,” he tries to correct her as he raises his hands to grip her forearms. Her shoulders immediately tense at his touch. His fingers crinkle the poofy champagne fabric that delicately floats around her skin.
“You’re acting a fool, Laurie-”
“I can, I swear on my life Y/N, I am able and I am willing and, and content to do so.”
“-I won’t allow it, I simply cannot,” she continues to ramble on, & her finger tips brush against the cool metal of the doorknob. Laurie opens his mouth to rebuke her statement, but, before he can, her palm flies up & presses against his lips. Covering his mouth with her hand, she shakes her head as her eyes gleam with tears.
“Please, stop. It hurts, Laurie. Please, Laurie, you’re hurting me,” she pleads to him as her fingers curl around the door knob, “I cannot do it. You broke my heart once already. Is that not enough for you?”
To watch the boy she admires fall in love with her sister, who she’s loved since the dawn of time, was a constant, real ache that left her sobbing into Beth’s chest as she begged Meg to help her & relieve her of the pain, which was an impossible task. After the middle March had left for Europe & caught word of Jo’s rejection in a letter from Beth, she had a heavy heart knowing that the two people who were connected at the hip for all of her adolescence had now grown cold & distant. It was as if she’d heard that the moon no longer followed the sun, leaving the night cold & bleak. All she has done her entire life is labour & hurt for those she loves without question or complaint. However, she cannot look Laurie in the eyes as he slurs out ideas that would’ve sent her younger self spinning & giggling with a maddening joy. She cannot withstand that pain for him. She doesn’t feel happy or sad. Nor is she angry or scared. All that she can feel is the heavy pounding of her heart & a dull ache emanating through her. The pain swallows her mind, &, while her body still remains, Ducky has clearly fled far from the room. She’s racing down the streets in her dress, seeing how far her legs will take her.
She yanks the door open just before he can reply & heaves her body through, slamming the door shut after her. Leaning her weight against the slab of carved & varnished oak, a few tears trickle down her cheek as she chokes back a sob, not wanting to alert any guests nearby. In her mind, she’s already ran all the way back to New England. There, back in her home, she lies, hiding her tears in Beth’s dress, as her sisters practically cocoon her, protecting her & the fire from the harsh reality of the world that waits outside their loving embrace & on the other side of the oak door.
i told you it's literally & only just angst... sorry. please like & repost :)
Laurie x March!Reader
Summary: Assisting in making the costumes for Jo's upcoming show, Y/N, who is love with Laurie, is forced to spend time with Laurie, who is in love with Jo. Angst ensues.
word count: 2.8k
Warnings: Fluffffffffff, all platonic, angst, reader gets called "Ducky"
This story is a snippet from my longer Laurie x reader story, Foolish, Honest Love on ao3.
Also, I am taking requests for Laurie x reader drabbles/minifics in my asks!!! :)
STORY STARTS UNDER THE PAGE BREAK
A trickle of syrupy scarlet begins to pool and form a bubble on the tip of the young girl’s finger. However, the sight of blood does not squeeze even a squeal out of her. Rather, all she does is sigh and place the finger between her lips. Between her lips, a row of pins rest beside her finger like a line of spiked fences, a warning to wandering souls. With her free hand, she guides the loose fabric to curl around her waist.
“I must be the prettiest. I am the princess,” her younger sister declares like true royalty as she remains still under the middle March’s touch. Humming in agreement, she pulls her finger from her lips and leads the needle down a familiar trail. Although the house is always a little bit of a mess, in the most recent days it has grown into a beast of its own. Pieces of fabric are strung about everywhere, and loose pages of noted and edited scripts cover the floor as a gray and white layer of snow in autumn. A sheen of dust and the stink of old paper and musty fabric smothers in the autumn air. Without a knock, a boy enters, carrying the autumn breeze on the edges of his footsteps. Lost in her work, the middle March doesn’t pay any mind to anything outside of the glimmer of her needle as she works to avoid the wrath of her younger sister. If the needle is to even brush against her skin, the younger March will inform the whole neighborhood of the atrocity her sister has committed. Adorning a heather gray wool skirt, of which some other sisters have surely worn in seasons past, her heather purple bolero pinches around her collar and floats over her white collar shirt and black bodice.
“I’m sure you will-” She begins, speaking around the pins in her mouth.
“Ducky, how’s the costume coming along?”
“- be. Just don’t paint the fabric without asking me first again,” Ducky continues while their older sister speaks around her. Like a knight in battle, the eldest of the three forces through the chaos of their home.
“Jo, you better have removed the part where I have to kiss a toad!” the youngest of the present sisters yells out to Jo. Ducky places her palm against the youngest’s stomach as a way to calm her and tell her to refrain from moving.
“Amy, you have to stay still, or I’ll poke you,” Ducky reminds her before returning to sewing the draping robin blue fabric. All of their conversation overlaps and forms a symphony of dissonant harmonies.
“I’m nearly finished with Amy’s, and all I have of Meg’s is final fittings, she’s putting hers on right now -” Ducky begins as she begins looping the thread into itself, forming a knot.
“Perfect, we’re just behind schedule!” Jo continues her own tangent while she stations herself besides Ducky and begins to digest Amy's appearance.
“- and then all I have left is to make your jacket, and figure out Laurie’s ensemble, and I’m unsure what you want for me, regarding ‘my part’ in the show, itself,” Ducky trails off as she picks up her scissors and frees her needle from the taut thread caught in the knot of Amy’s dress. A heap of tulle the color of a robin’s egg and a mellow baby blue silk cascade from underneath her beaded white bodice like a waterfall. Hours and hours have been spent on beading the bodice, alone, and, with sweat, time, and a minimal amount of blood, the middle March has managed to piece together the costumes for Jo’s newest and best show.
“You’re going to be the wise old witch who lives in the forest -” Jo starts to fall into her tangent as she waves her hands. In her right hand, the newest version of her script resides.
“I’m only acting because Marmee’s done getting involved in your shows,” Ducky confirms.
“- Well, yes, but that doesn’t make your role any less important,” Jo reminds her as Ducky rises to her feet and brushes off her skirt. Blood rushes into her legs and feeling finally slips back into her feet after sitting for hours on the rickety wooden stool. As the teen boy discards his jacket, Jo is alerted of his presence and her attention shoots over to him. Rushing over to him, her arms shoot out to greet him.
“Teddy!” Jo shouts when she’s engulfed in a hug. The two prattle on in a quick back and forth of banter and quips, and Amy waddles off to the mirror so she can properly admire herself. Leaving Ducky all by her lonesome, she sets down the pins between her lips and straightens up her makeshift sewing station. As she collects the spools of thread that had attempted to escape the nest of odd bobbins and spools of an assortment of colors of thread, she can't prevent her eyes from glancing over at the teen boy who’s attempting to swallow Jo in a hug. While she’s too young to wade deeper into her own emotions, she’s perturbed by the small pest named Envy that nips at the walls of heart. She’s not mad, not angry at either her sister or the boy, but she wants to be hugged like that. She wants to be seen & touched with the same feeling of “I feel you, and, therefore, I know you”. For a brief moment, the stories of far fetched courtship and romance are a faint taste on the tip of her tongue, real and tangy. Seeing her younger sister and being old enough to swim in the depths of her own feelings, the eldest March strolls over as a wreath of wisdom hangs around her head. With a knowing gaze and sturdy smile, she bends down so her lips are the same height as Ducky’s ear.
“Do you think he’s handsome?” she whispers to her younger sister as her words bubble up into a giggle. Ducky’s head shoots around to look at her older sister. A similar shade of red to the wound on her finger soaks into her entire face. Her nails dig into her palms, and her chest shutters from the pounding of her heart.
“Shut it, Meg!” she mutters out while gathering the last bobbins and placing them back into the small heap of thread. Laughing over the embarrassment of a young lover, Meg presses a hand against Ducky’s shoulder before gliding over to assist in admiring Amy’s dress by the mirror.
“Ducky, what have you planned for the right hand man to the hero, the protagonist, of my tale?” Jo enthuses as she rushes over to the younger sister’s station. Scooping up a pile of concepts and measurements all messily scrawled across different sheets of paper in looping, unfocused handwriting, the middle March digs through the loose scraps of paper until pulling out several ideas all scribbled on with a stick of graphite and colored pencils. Jo leans over to peer at the drawn figures, and the teen boy mirrors her movements. Sketched onto the paper in coagulating shapes, a drawing of a man clad in a puffy nectarine orange jacket in gold trim and forest green waistcoat dawns the garments over a pair of orange slacks in a matching shade and white high collar shirt with a forest green and orange striped cravat.
“Perhaps the costume will make up for the fact that you can’t act,” Jo quips out as the two gaze at the young girl’s sketches. Teddy whips his head around to glare at the elder sister as she begins to leap away. Never does Jo simply “walk”, rather, her spirits carry the heels of her weathered leather boots just an inch above the physical Earth. To Ducky, Jo is beyond what any human can promise to be. After all, no mere human of flesh and blood could survive carrying the weight of tenacity and creativity like her sister does. Jo flings her body around and contorts it like a hanging rag left to dry in the wind, and the taupe skirt of her dress wrings her as she flips around to face Teddy.
“You wound me so,” he replies with a filling smile. Jo’s hand flies up to smack Teddy’s forearm.
“Good, make use of that anguish in scene fourteen,” Jo quickly snips back as she starts to float away with the spirit of genius, her true paramore, “Now, stand here and do whatever Ducky tells you to do without any complaint.”
“What if she stabs me?” Laurie whines while he finds his place where Amy had recently stood before him.
“I don’t want to hear any of it! You most likely deserve it, anyways,” Jo declares before rushing away to join her two other sisters by the mirror. A squeal of delight leaves Amy’s lips as she scampers away, chasing a distant thought that rattles around in her head.
“I’ll paint my shoes to match!” Amy giggles as she rushes off, leaving the two other sisters to follow her in quick pursuit. With a small smile, Ducky attempts to silently apologize for her sisters’ behaviors.
“Never a dull moment, eh?” Teddy eases her with a knowing glance, and she shares the look while flipping to a blank page in her notepad. Grabbing her measuring tape from around her neck, the middle March brushes back a few strands of hair that had escaped from her makeshift updo, kept together only by a single piece of loose, pale pink ribbon. Lightly gripping his forearms, her fingers sink into the billowing fabric of his watery gray shirt.
“I’ll need to take your measurements. If I touch you in any way that’s discomforting, let me know,” she explains to him as she guides his arms up to extend out like a child’s when they’re pretending to be an airplane. The tips of his fingers brush against the fading cream and pink flowers that orner the sage green background of the wallpaper that, over the past years, has been dented and scraped from calloused yet tender fingers of youth. Nodding in reply, he stands stalk still as she wraps the measuring tape around his arm before jotting down the measurements in her small notebook.
“Jo told me that you're some sort of expert seamstress,” Laurie informs her, speaking to try and swallow the silence that the two of them are sinking in. As the tips of her fingers brush against his, a pursed smile tucks itself into her lips.
“I’m nothing close to that, but I do sew,” Ducky corrects him while she slips the tape around his neck, continuing her work.
“Is that your big dream? Jo will be a writer, Meg will act, Amy will paint and Beth plays, and you’ll sew?” he asks with a sense of genuine inquisitiveness, tilting his head back as she leans in to better see the faded numbers, leaving about a hand’s width of space between his face and hers. However, as she’s consumed by her work, she isn’t sent awry by the lack of distance between the two. Whispering the measurement to herself, she ushers back to her notepad and copies down the digits, pausing from the conversation to focus on her craft.
“No, no, that’s Jo’s dream for me,” she admits while shuffling to loop the tape around his bust.
“Well then, what will you be?” Laurie continues as he raises his hands above his head to allow Ducky to reach around him comfortably. She pauses for a moment, both engulfed in her work and unsure how to answer his question. Tendrils of sunlight begin poking through the window as the sky starts to fade to a rusty hue.
“I’m not quite sure,” she begins as she turns to copy more digits before adjusting the tape to next measure his hips, “Far. Free, not depending on any man to live how I want to.” Listing off her floating aspirations, Teddy gazes down and watches her precise fingers whisper a secret against the rippling powder blue, silk fabric of his waistcoat.
“What about you? What’s your dream?” she swings the question back to him, and he’s slightly taken aback by her forwardness. Often entranced by Jo and her wild acclaims of the future, he’s yet to think about what it is that he wants. Pursing his lips, the boy considers several archived visions of an ideal future that he’s contemplated in the past.
“Well, I want to marry a woman. I want to spend my days free from tutoring, content to do whatever I please whenever I’d please. Maybe I’d settle down and put my musical talents to some use, as they’re the only talents my grandfather thinks has worth,” Teddy admits, and, as he discusses his aspirations for his future, a dull ache washes over Ducky, and she’s faced with an answer that’s unfamiliar to her. When her sisters are faced with the question “what do you dream?” every single one of them has a secret truth that is inlaid in the very foundation of their mind. They dream of safety. Of a home that is good enough, and a husband that is kind enough. Of a life that is fulfilling enough. They dream of the brink of enough, of simply a little more than bearable. A man can dream of happiness, but a woman only hopes for enough. Only has Jo honestly strayed from this path, as even Amy, with age, begins to share the three other March’s mindset. Jo continues to strive for greatness, and Ducky can do nothing but admire her for it.
“I sincerely pray for a safe and speedy recovery to any woman who falls for your ‘charms’,” Ducky retorts, and, for a second, her own tone reminds her greatly of Meg. The eldest sister always spoke with a sense of grace and intellect that Ducky found surreal. How could one speak like a bubbling brook flows? For a moment, as the words dribble out from her lips, Ducky is filled with the same rush of ease that she often feels when Meg is teasing Jo. As if called on by a greater divinity, just as Ducky finishes her measurements, Jo and Meg rush back over, with Meg sporting a new, oily black mustache painted onto her face.
“Teddy, come quickly,” Jo commands to her companion, snatching his arm and dragging him along before he has time to digest her words. There’s no goodbye or reply as he follows behind Jo like a puppy on her heel. As he’s hurried away, Ducky’s eyes linger on his stumbling frame as the timid smile from her lips falls. The middle March begins to curl into herself as the eldest ushers across the dining, over to her sister. Meg rests her cheek against the side of Ducky’s head as, with her embrace, she shields Ducky from the world’s eye.
“Ducky, tell me plainly and you mustn't lie. Do you fancy him, Teddy?” she asks her younger sister, but both of them already know the answer without speaking. Closing her notepad, Ducky doesn’t even glance up at her sister as she presses her weight into her older sister’s frame. The younger March curls up into her sister’s embrace and folds herself into the young girl that used to hide in Meg’s nightgowns as shrieking thunderstorms raged through the night.
“It doesn’t matter how I feel. He’s already in love with Jo,” she mutters into her sister’s chest as she wallows and wades in her own misery. Of course he loves Jo, who couldn’t fall in love with Jo? When she’s basking in the light of her own flowing talent and erudition, everyone falls in love with her. Jo is everything every mother never wants her daughter to be, and, in that right, she is what every mother prays her daughter becomes. She has never changed and, yet, is constantly born anew with each day. Never a lady, but yet an adult, wise yet naive to the weight of the world, everybody is in love with Jo, and this love holds no romantic intention. Rather, it is a deep well of devotion to a person that fills a lover’s stomach and renders one completely whole. To love someone entirely is to find peace within yourself and be content with one’s nature when in the presence of the one you love. So, in this manner, Ducky is entirely in love with Jo.
“It matters a great deal to me how you feel,” her older sister reminds her while strands of Ducky’s hair begin to curl around and hug Meg’s finger, “I’ll always want to hear about your feelings, no matter how large or pointless they may seem.” Silently, the two of them bask in each other’s embrace, and, without a word, Ducky knows her older sister understands her emotions inside & out. In her arms, she feels protected from everything, come snow or hail. In her arms, she is safe to be a young, scared girl.
Please comment & repost, & check out the whole fic :)). If you want me to add u to a taglist, lmk, & please send any laurie x reader drabble/fic requests my way!! I'd love to hear y'alls ideas! Have a lovely rest of your day, friends! <3
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
Laurie x March!Reader x Jo (platonic)
Summary: When a Laurie & Jo are walking home, they spot Jo's younger sister on the ground (reader/Ducky). Jo attempts to help her sister, but it does not go as planned.
word count: 2.5k
Warnings: Fluffffffffff, all platonic, laurie gets kicked in the no no square, reader gets called "Ducky"
This story is a snippet from my longer Laurie x reader romance story, so please let me know if you want more!! its already at 20k wordsssss :)
STORY STARTS UNDER THE PAGE BREAK
This is part of a larger story I'm writing called "What Women are For", which is Laurie x Reader (romantic). Let me know if you're interested in reading it!
Tightly curled up into a knot, in the middle of the dirt road, a trembling wad of buttercup yellow fabric shakes and wails into the torn flesh of her fist. Sympathising with the lump of stains, tears, and snot, the trees hang still in a moment of tender silence. The middle March sister has stopped trying to breathe through her sobs, as the dust from the path had raced up her nose and left a shocking pain. It’s as if someone shoved stinging nettle straight up her nostrils and pushed until the tip of the branch tickled her brain.
A hot red bite mark appears as if it’d been welted to the plush skin of her hand. She swears she’s bitten straight to the bone. Still, the tears continue to cascade down her blubbery cheeks as they slip their way into the wound. Overwhelmed with pulsing, hot pain, she can’t tell if the injury, itself, or the salt from her tears biting at her raw flesh hurts more. Everything hurts so much. All she wants is for Marmee to pick her up and cradle her like she had when the girl was younger. She wants Marmee to kiss away her tears and promise her everything would be alright. She wants to be home, where Meg would wipe at her wounds with a damp rag while Amy buries her face into Beth’s stomach and cries her own, fat tears. Even when she isn’t the one who got hurt, Amy still always ends up crying. However, the middle March didn’t mind Amy’s theatrics, as it meant that Jo would end up teasing the younger March rather than her. Still, she’d never admit that, or any of this. She’d be far too embarrassed. If anyone knew that she felt this way, she’d surely have to run away from home forever. Wherever could she go, anyways? She’d go West to California. No, she’d had to leave the country and go to Europe. Maybe then she could build her life up from scratch and escape the teasing of her sisters.
Caught up in her own puddle of pity, the middle sister doesn’t catch the familiar sound of clumsy, crashing boots hitting the dirt path. Not far down the road and following the setting sun, a grey tattered wool skirt chases the wind as a high collared, perfectly off white shirt stumbles after her. Their laughter sings in perfect harmony with each other, and, around them, the world pauses to smile and watch as their youth passes them by. Each leaf and blade of grass gleams warmly, knowing that they will feed this memory to the flora of next summer. Unsuspecting and attempting to hide within the folds of her baby fat, she doesn’t hear as the footsteps come to a halt. The sound of their panting breaths fills their own ears. For a moment, all they can do is stare at the small conglomeration of dirt and snot. Swiftly, that moment ends as one of them stomps up to her.
“Ducky, what on Earth are you doing?” she spits out with more venom than intended, but such is the voice of a teen girl. The older sister’s hand shoots out and pinches Ducky’s dust-covered forearm. However, the young girl doesn’t squeal as her eyes shoot up to confirm her worst fears. The dirt on her face has mixed with her tears, leaving a thin film of mud on her cheeks. Her face is still stuffed with her baby fat and clinging onto her childhood as she enters her first few years of teenagedom. Immediately after locking eyes with her older sister, Ducky starts to thrash and shake like a force beyond nature. Her fists swing wildly and her legs rise and fall like the waves of the tsunami. Dirt kicks up around them and peels back their human disguise. It reveals what the two truly are. They are girls. They are hurricanes and the screaming wind at night. They are motion and sound and all that will forever remain restless. Girls will never be civil. They will never shed their empathy to trade it for boots and proper manners. Instead, they will spend their days fighting in the dirt and letting the dust mix with their sweat. The dust will turn to mud and clay, and, when the sun sets, they will freeze into statues, preserving their childhood forever.
“Let go, Jo-” Ducky shrieks as she kicks everywhere but where her sister is planted. Still, Jo is stronger than her sister, and her grip is determined. Ducky’s plump fingers wrap around Jo’s wrist as she continues to flail like a blouse in a tornado.
“What is wrong with you?” Jo yells back even louder, joining her sister in her insanity. After all, what are sisters for, if not to join each other in their melodrama? Rushing to her aid, a boy, about Jo’s age, presses his palms to the younger girl’s shoulders and allows his weight to give him the upperhand. Ducky, seeing Jo’s companion, lets out a deafening scream as her eyes shoot up to Jo.
“-No! No! No! Just let me die here! I’d rather die!” Ducky spits out, as she clings onto her sister’s arm. Now, instead of screaming curses about her name, her fingers plead Jo to not let go. Her eyes, the size of teacups at this point, dart between the two. She’s too stubborn to hold her sister's gaze, but she’s too scared to look into the boy’s, who she’s spent the last half year avoiding like he’s death incarnate.
When he first introduced himself to the March’s, after the ball where Meg had sprained her ankle, it was then she started feeling something fester and skitter around in her stomach. An adolescent boy was in her house. He was in her house, and he was talking to his sisters. She didn’t speak a word, and she never intended to ever find herself within a mile of him. Every time he would make his way over to their home, Ducky would race over to tumble behind the nearest wall or piece of convenient furniture. Amy and Beth would laugh and tease her for her ridiculous behavior, but they didn’t understand. How could they? Amy and Beth were still kids, but she, Ducky, was a teen girl. Amy and Beth could never understand.
“No can do. So sorry to dissapoint,” Jo’s friend replies through shallow gasps of air, and, for the first time, Ducky gets a good look at his face. His hair is the same color as when the first calls of morning brush against the forest’s skin, and slivers of his eyes twinkle amber in the last caresses of the day’s gentle touch. When she meets his eyes, his gaze is real but not stern. Without speaking, she can see the boy who’s only truly grown in the ways that allow him to wear a man’s clothes. With hunched shoulders and a tight jaw, what stares back at her isn’t the lumbering shadow she’s stitched onto his frame. All that’s there is a teen boy, who’s not all that different from her.
And, as the dust settles, and all three of them catch their breaths, the youngest of them is able to think again. It’s then, she realizes, a boy, a teen boy, is touching her. Once again, she tenses up and acts before her next breath. To say exactly what happened next is impossible. However, in the blink of an eye, Ducky’s knee raises, his grip loosens, and suddenly he’s curled up into himself and clutching between his legs.
“Are you insa - Oh lord, Teddy are you okay?” Jo stumbles through her words as she rushes over to her friend’s side. Ducky inches away from the two of them. Her breaths are shaky and ragged, and the inside of her throat is torn from heaving in dust. She’s not exactly sure she’s even breathing.
“He grabbed me! What else was I to do?” Ducky shouts over Jo while a new stream of steady tears bubble down her cheeks. All she can hear is the rush of her heart as her skin tightens and squeezes her aching bones. Does Jo care more about Teddy then her? Will Jo hate her forever for this? She can’t lose Jo to a boy. It would be too devastating.
“Because you were kicking and squealing like a rabid pig,” Jo reminds her as Teddy starts to sit himself up and brush off the dirt that cakes his linen pants. The dirt has turned his pristinely off-white shirt a patchy shade of taupe, and pieces of hair cling to the sweat that stains his forehead.
“I’m sorry! Please don’t be mad at me,” the younger sister begs, pulling her knees to her chest. Only then does Jo notice the clean rip across her sister’s dress, and her knees, which may have once been red, are painted a festering purple and green. Jo shuffles on her knees over to her sister. Reaching out to touch Ducky’s wound, her hand is quickly swatted away.
“Don’t touch me-”
“What happened?” Jo asks with a biting tongue that’s nearly indistinguishable from Marmee’s stern tone, who they both knew would be anything but pleased if she saw this scene play out in front of her.
“- I won’t tell you!” Ducky exclaims, her fingers digging into the fabric of what once was a yellow dress. Now, the dress better resembles a scrap of hazy beige fabric with twisting red stains.
“If I say, he’ll make fun of me! I’ll be a big joke to the both of you,” Ducky continues rambling on before Jo can reply. The older sister scoffs before she can even think of a smart response.
“Stop being stupid.”
“I’m not! He’ll laugh at me and then you’ll join in too. I’ll die before I tell either of you.”
“I promise I won’t laugh if you tell us what happened,” Teddy speaks up, stopping the glaring contest between the two March sisters. Rather, he ends up with both of the sisters’ wrath upon him as they try to burn holes through him with their gazes alone. However, after his words settle in a new silence, the younger of the two March’s expression softens like butter left in the sun.
“...Will you pinky promise?” she inquisitively replies, not an ounce of humor in her voice. Still curled into a shaking dust ball, Ducky’s shoulders fall as her skin relents and lets her body relax again.
“Yes, I will,” He replies with the same sincerity as he crawls over, pinky extended. Still shaking, Ducky sticks out her pinky. The blood on her finger has congealed, leaving a deep maroon and brown crust on it that highlights the creases and wear of her fingers. Without hesitation, Teddy curls his pinky around her own, and she stares down as some of her blood coagulates and mixes with the muck that coats his hand. The teen boy’s gaze stops slightly higher, as he finally is granted permission to commit the middle March’s features to memory. Her cheeks are practically about to burst with youth and baby bat. An enteral rosy flush of girlhood stains her skin, and her eyes walk a fine line of being doe-like and bug-like. Her features are an odd amalgamation of the child she’s been and the lady she’s becoming. Suddenly, a fit of giggles bubbles up from her chest, and she looks up at Teddy while their fingers stay intertwined.
“I thought I saw a fairy, and so I chased it. and then I tripped and fell and ripped Meg’s dress and the pain was so bad I bit my hand and I skinned my knees and I think some of my chin,” Ducky admits with a twitching, uneven smile stretched across her face. One of Teddy’s eyebrows raise in an incredulous surprise, presenting a smile that’s symmetrical to the younger girl’s. He slowly turns his head back to meet Jo’s gazes, whose eyes are glued to her sister’s. Slowly, like a pot of water coming to a simmer, all three of them dissolve into a fit of giggles. Their voices bubble and pop into the summer air as they shake the dust off their clothes with their heaving shoulders and shaking heads. None of them know exactly what the joke is, but none of them can fight through the never ending stream of laughter to ask. For what feels like seconds and days, the three lay on the road twisting and writhing in laughter until the sun finds rest in a valley far from the three’s line of sight.
Once the three finish collecting the remnants of themselves and picking up their aching bodies from the road, Jo hoists Ducky onto her back and kisses her bloody hand. A small streak of the dusty maroon liquid stains her lips, but the older sister doesn’t try to wipe it off. Ducky’s cheek is pressed to hers as they walk at a leisurely pace. All either can hear is the steady rate of their perfectly similar breaths. A silent “I love you” is shared in each inhale, and, through each exhale, boths’ feelings are validated and fully realized. Teddy matches their pace as they walk through the beginning of the young night’s song. Stretching out her hand, Ducky lightly brushes the creased fabric of his sleeve in a poor attempt to tap his shoulder. The young girl doesnt look over to him but, rather, rests her chin on her sister’s shoulder.
“I’m Y/N, but Jo n’ everyone calls me ‘Ducky’,” the young girl introduces herself as if he hasn’t been Jo’s friend for several passing seasons, “I hate it, but you can call me it, if you want to.” Although she has found the courage to speak to the young boy, she hasn’t found it in herself to look him in the eyes. Perhaps one day she’ll find her bravery hiding in the trenches of her gut, but today is not that day. Teddy smiles through a sigh as he looks over at her. Half of her dress is so torn it almost drags against the ground, and the rest of her is hidden under the protective folds of Jo’s gray skirt.
“I’m Laurence, but Jo calls me ‘Teddy’ and everyone else calls me ‘Laurie’,” The young boy plays along in introducing himself. For a split second, he catches her eyes darting over to catch his gaze, but the second is quick.
“Okay, Laurie,” she replies simply, ending the conversation as soon as it had started. For the rest of the trek home, the three walk in silence, and the world doesn’t speak either as it watches over the three make their way home.
Please like & repost & comment !! Also let me know if you're interested in reading the whole Laurie x reader fanfic !! It goes back & forth between past & present, similar to 2019 movie adaption.
