Work Text:
“Wear your heart on your skin in this life.”
― Sylvia Plath, Johnny Panic and the Bible of Dreams: Short Stories, Prose and Diary Excerpts
xXx
Abbie didn’t know quite what it was that possessed her to get a tattoo, but here she is, lying on a padded bench, half her ass out, getting tattooed.
By the sexiest man she has ever met. When she decided to get a tattoo, a lovely, large, colorful tattoo of a cluster of her favorite succulents, she didn’t really think about what the tattoo artist might look like, but she wasn’t expecting a tall, whipcord-thin Englishman with a well-groomed beard and a voice that sounds like sex itself. She wasn’t expecting him to be smart as well as talented. She wasn’t expecting the adorably nerdy tortoiseshell glasses he donned to do his work.
She didn’t know she had a hot college professor kink, but apparently she does, and in a big way.
He is no college professor. But put him in some Dockers and a tweed jacket with elbow patches and he would definitely look the part.
And don’t even get her started on his hands.
Having them on her body, even gloved, is almost worth the burning pain of getting the tattoo.
xXx
Ichabod Crane thought he was hallucinating when she walked into his shop. When she said she wanted a tattoo, he figured he was either dreaming or dead. There was no way he was going to get to tattoo this tiny goddess. She was easily the most breathtakingly beautiful woman he has ever seen, and she wanted him to tattoo her.
Then when she told him where she wanted the ink, he had to clasp his hands behind his back to keep his fingers still.
Since the day he met her, he has done little else with his spare time except draw her. He sits in his apartment each night, doodling and sketching, trying to get her lovely face perfect. He is grateful for his eidetic memory, yet wishes she was truly there with him so he could take the time to memorize every detail.
He has yet to find the perfect way to capture her likeness, but he will not rest until he finds it.
Now, a week after their first meeting, he sits, head bent over her hip, drawing the outlines for her tattoo. A design she crafted but he drew. The beautiful florist from the shop three blocks over and one block up wanted a tattoo of plants, but not flowers.
He would love to tear the gloves from his hands so that he can simply touch her skin with no barriers. Or maybe just lean down and brush his lips over the enticing roundness.
Perhaps later. The bold thought takes him by surprise, and he clears his throat. “How are you faring?” he asks, lifting his head to stretch his neck and back. He hopes she wants a break so he can try to gain control over the haze of lust fogging his brain.
“Okay,” she answers.
“Would you like a break?”
“How far are we?” she asks.
“About two-thirds done with the outline,” he answers.
“Yeah, I think I need to move a little,” she decides. “I’m getting stiff.”
“Very well. One moment,” he says, then wipes the excess ink and blood on her hip.
Abbie shifts, gingerly sitting up. She stretches her torso, arching her back and rolling her head side to side.
Crane quickly diverts his attention elsewhere, not wanting to be caught staring at her outthrust bosom, pointing straight at him at eye-level.
She stands and groans. “Would a bathroom break be allowed, or would it mess up the design?” she asks.
“It will be fine, as long as you take care, and I know you will,” he answers. He again averts his gaze as she shuffles away, hanging onto her yoga pants as they sit awkwardly, halfway on her hips. It’s killing him not to look, but he is resolved not to give into his baser desires.
He’s had attractive female clients in before. Some have even been quite obvious with their attention. He recalls a redhead called Caroline who was bubbly and earnest but her attraction made her tongue-tied around him. And young Zoe who simply gazed at him with wide-eyed adoration and left with a beautiful tattoo but disappointment in her heart. He tries not to recall the embarrassingly forward Katrina.
He’s always maintained a professional demeanor, never giving into temptation.
But none of those women were the delightful Abbie Mills. He didn’t know he had an ideal woman until she walked through his door.
He also doesn’t know how it is they’ve never crossed paths before. From the idle, superficial chit-chat they’ve shared while he works, he’s learned that her flower shop is quite close, she lives nearby, and she even frequents the same coffee shop as he.
As he hears the bathroom door open, the thought that has been lurking in the back of his brain for the last hour marches forward and begins making a ruckus.
“Okay, I’m ready to let you torture me some more,” she says, giving him a smile that makes his heart stutter.
“Surely it isn’t as awful as that,” he replies, gazing up at her from his stool. She is a tiny thing, and he doesn’t have to look up very far.
“No,” she responds, resuming her spot on the bench. “The company makes it bearable,” she adds, quieter, like she almost doesn’t want him to hear it.
But he does, and it only strengthens his resolve. However, business first. He bends his head over her hip once more, and returns to his work.
xXx
Abbie was only a little surprised when Crane asked her to meet him for coffee after finishing the outline of her tattoo. She hadn’t missed the way he was looking at her, though he tried rather valiantly to hide it.
She didn’t even have to think about it when he asked her out. Especially because it would be two weeks before he would be able to color in her tattoo.
So she readily agreed, happy that she doesn’t have to come up with an excuse to find a way to see him before her next appointment. She had already been trying to figure out how to at least walk or drive past his shop during the interim.
She had the first part of her tattoo done on a Tuesday evening. He invited her to meet him for coffee late Sunday morning.
Abbie spent that morning fretting over what to wear, trying to decide between casual comfort and casual elegance. She finally compromised with a simple maxi dress and low wedge sandals, which would work for any occasion.
When she arrives and finds Crane already waiting for her, she briefly panics and double-checks the time.
“You aren’t late,” he assures her, giving her an indulgent smile. “I am habitually early. To the point of ridiculous, most of the time,” he adds with a self-deprecating chuckle. He allows himself a moment to take in her appearance. She is sunshine itself in a long, flowing, yellow sundress with her hair a riot of tight curls falling about her shoulders. When he last saw her, her hair was straight and smooth.
“I suppose that’s better than being habitually late,” she says, taking his offered arm. He looks too good today, still dressed like a college professor in a pair of khakis and a navy blue button-down shirt. The only deviation from the professorial aesthetic is that his shirt has more buttons undone at the neck than is reasonable. And the tattoos. She can even see the edge of one peeking out on his chest.
“I certainly hope so,” he replies. “But I have been remiss in complimenting you on how surpassingly lovely you look this morning, Miss Mills.”
“Thank you,” she says, smiling and looking down for a moment before looking back up at him. “You know, you can call me Abbie.”
“I know,” he simply responds, giving her a slow, sexy smile that makes her feel warm despite the air-conditioning of the coffee shop.
They reach the front of the line and place their order, then go find a table.
“Let me see your arm,” she blurts once they sit, surprising them both.
“Pardon?” he asks.
“Can I see the tattoos on your arm?” she asks. “Sorry, I’ve just been wanting to get a good look at them.”
“Oh, of course,” he answers, extending his right arm towards her. His skin is covered in Celtic symbols and knot work from his wrist and up, disappearing under his sleeve, just above his elbow. “They are Scottish, not Irish,” he explains.
“You’re Scottish? You don’t sound Scottish,” she asks, tracing some of the patterns with her finger.
“My family is originally from Scotland, yes,” he says. Her touch is soft and very distracting. His fingers twitch and flex nervously, and she releases his arm with a small exclamation.
“Still working on the left?” she asks, pointing.
He holds it out. “Yes. I’m attempting to do that one myself, so it takes longer,” he answers.
She looks at the offered limb. “Looks like… an ocean theme?” she guesses, seeing several fish, some seaweed, and a section of coral reef.
He nods. “I have a strong affinity for the ocean. Any body of water, really, but especially the ocean.”
“Me too,” she says. “I used to pretend I was a mermaid when I was a little girl,” she admits, laughing.
Suddenly, Crane knows how to best capture her likeness, and files away a mental note. “That is adorable,” he says with a small smile.
“It’s silly,” she says, shaking her head.
Their order is called, and he excuses himself to go retrieve their coffees. Just after he sits, a toy from a nearby toddler lands nearby. He immediately leans over to pick it up and hand it to the apologetic mother. When he leaned down, Abbie could see more of the ink on his chest, so she decides to keep grilling him.
“What’cha got there?” she asks, pointing.
“Oh. It’s… my first tattoo, actually,” he answers.
Something in his demeanor gives her pause, and for a moment, she thinks he’s not going to elaborate. But he takes a drink, then reaches for his buttons.
He opens his shirt just enough to reveal a surprising tattoo of a spreading tree over his left pectoral. Beneath it is a stone bearing the name Ebenezer and some dates.
“My brother,” he explains. “We were in a horrible car crash. I lived, but only just. He was not so fortunate. The tattoo covers the large scar I received in the accident.”
“Oh my God,” she gasps.
“I wanted something to memorialize him. Not that I could ever forget him. He wasn’t just my brother; he was my twin brother,” he quietly adds.
“That’s so sad. I can’t even imagine, and I’m so sorry you lost your twin,” she says, unthinkingly reaching across the table. “You don’t have to tell me any more if you don’t want to.”
“Perhaps another time. Thank you,” he replies, giving her a sad smile. She doesn’t realize she’s put her hand over his until she feels the soft stroke of his thumb caressing the side of hers.
She lifts her hand, embarrassed even though he didn’t seem to mind at all. She takes a drink of her coffee, hiding behind her cup while he re-buttons his shirt.
“Please, tell me about your flower shop. I feel I should apologize as I am familiar with the establishment but have never been,” Crane says, changing the subject. “How did you come to be a florist?”
Abbie sets her cup down. “Well, if anyone had told me when I was a teenager that I would wind up studying horticulture and opening my own flower shop, I would have laughed in their faces…”
xXx
Once the conversation turned away from Crane’s personal tragedy, he and Abbie found they had much to talk about, and the time flew as they talked long after their cups were empty.
Soon it was nearing lunchtime, and while neither one wanted to part company, neither wanted to be the one to suggest continuing their date into lunch.
It was Abbie’s phone that forced them to address the elephant in the room. After it buzzed the fourth time, Crane suggested she check it.
“It’s just my sister,” she says with a sigh.
“Does she need you? I’m afraid I’ve kept you far longer than—”
Her hand once more on his stops his words. “No, it’s fine. She’s just being nosy. And you’re not keeping me here at all; in fact, I was feeling like I was the one keeping you,” she says.
This time he turns his hand and wraps his long fingers around hers. “Miss Mills… Abbie,” he starts, looking down at her small hand in his. “I find I have no desire for this date to end yet.”
She smiles. “Oh good. It’s not just me then,” she says with a sigh of relief. “How do you feel about Vietnamese food?”
“I would push my own grandmother out of the way if she was standing between me and a bowl of good pho,” he answers.
“Good man,” she says with a decisive nod.
They stand, and begin making their way out of the coffee shop.
“So… Ichabod and Ebenzer?” Abbie asks, finally addressing the question she’s been wanting to ask for at least an hour.
“My parents were… eccentric,” he explains. “At least my brother could be called Ben. There is no acceptable nickname for Ichabod.”
“What’s your middle name?” she asks.
“Cornelius,” he answers.
She stops walking, standing in the middle of the parking lot. “You’re joking.” The lift of his eyebrow tells her he is, in fact, serious. “Damn. I’m so sorry,” she says, then walks to her car, shaking her head.
xXx
They wind up spending the entire day together, even dropping Abbie’s car off after lunch before going to a park, where they walk and talk and continue to get to know each other better.
She tells him more about her childhood living in foster homes with her sister and how Sheriff Corbin wound up taking them in and straightening them out when they were teenagers. He tells her about his parents back in England, and how they weren’t as disappointed in his career choice as he thought they would be.
Conversation flows with remarkable ease, and any silences are comfortable.
At one point, Ichabod extends his hand to assist Abbie across a narrow path through a muddy puddle caused by recent rain. Once she’s across, she doesn’t release his hand. She merely shifts it into a natural position for walking side by side.
His giant hand nearly engulfs hers, yet it feels perfect.
Instead of going out to dinner, she throws caution to the wind and invites him to her place, where she cooks for him and he eats a remarkable amount.
He of course helps with the dishes, and when the last dish is dried and put away, Abbie turns to him.
“Thank you,” she quietly says. “I had… a really great time today.”
“As did I,” he replies, taking a tiny step closer. He reaches out and caresses her cheek, then slides his finger under her chin to gently lift it so he can gaze down at her lovely face. “I would very much like to do it again,” he says, leaning down to place a soft kiss to her forehead. “And again,” he murmurs, moving his lips to her temple. “For as often and as long as you will tolerate my company.” His voice is a low rumble now as he nuzzles and feathers kisses down her cheek.
All she can think is finally. She had been waiting for him to do something all day. She had hoped that when she took his hand he would get the hint, but he is apparently either clueless or extremely old-fashioned. “Yeah,” she exhales. “That sounds great.”
He lifts his head enough to look down at her again. “May I kiss you?” he asks.
Definitely old-fashioned. To answer, she lifts up on tiptoe and presses her lips against his.
His response is immediate; long arms wrap around her and pull her against his body. She clings to his neck, trying to pull herself closer. He slides his arms down and hooks his hands under her thighs, lifting her up.
As she wraps her legs around his waist and hungrily sucks his probing tongue into her mouth, he takes a step forward and braces her against what he thinks is the wall.
The rattle and thunk of the refrigerator, not meant to support an amorous encounter, surprises both of them, and Abbie dissolves into laughter.
Crane sighs and chuckles, and she slides down his body to place her feet on the floor once more.
“So,” she asks, “I assume there is no issue with the fact that I am a client of yours?”
“I am not your doctor, lawyer, or professor,” he answers. “And I’ve already spent an extended amount of time in close proximity to your rather delectable derriere.”
She snorts a laugh. “Have you ever dated a client before?” She takes his hand and begins leading him towards the stairs.
“Never,” he responds. “Though I’ve had a fair few of them flirt unsuccessfully. And one who quite literally threw herself at me.”
“Okay, you’re going to have to tell me about that. Later,” she says, pulling him into her bedroom.
“Later,” he echoes, shutting the door behind them.
xXx
Abbie wakes in the middle of the night, groggy and confused. She rolls over in bed, remembers what happened after dinner, and smiles like a contented feline. But the other side of her bed is empty.
She frowns and puts her hand on the dented pillow beside her. It’s cold.
“Fuck,” she softly curses, and begins mentally castigating herself for falling prey to the silver tongue and gentlemanly manners that were obviously very practiced and not at all sincere.
She sighs and decides to go to the bathroom while she’s awake. She flops her feet onto the floor and pads, naked, to the bathroom across the hall. On her way back, she notices a light on in the living room, so she heads out to turn it off.
She stops dead in her tracks at the sight of Ichabod Crane sitting on her couch in a pair of black boxer briefs, drawing, using one of her large hardcover flower books as a desk.
When he lifts his head, his expression surprised and a little guilty. His eyes rove her form in a way that looks both studious and lustful. “Did I wake you?” he finally asks.
She has been staring right back, taking in his slender but well-muscled body and the ink scattered over it. “I’m not sure. I just… woke up,” she answers, stepping further into the room and grabbing a nearby fleece Mets blanket to wrap around herself. “I thought you left,” she quietly admits.
He looks genuinely hurt that she would think that, and sets his drawing aside to extend his hand. She takes it and allows him to pull her onto his lap.
“I would not ever do that to you,” he softly says, then drops and even softer kiss on her lips.
“I know,” she admits, dropping her head on his shoulder. “It’s just happened in the past, so…” She raises her head again and looks at him. “In my defense, it is like two in the morning and you can’t really expect me to be thinking that cl—”
He stops her explanation with another kiss. “I understand. And I am sorry you were subjected to that kind of treatment,” he says.
“Thank you. You benefit from their absence anyway,” she sleepily says, smiling as she lays her head down on his shoulder again.
“Their loss is my gain,” he agrees. “I am a fortunate man indeed.”
She nods. “What are you drawing that was so important that you had to come out here in the middle of the night and raid my printer paper?” she asks.
“Oh. Um. I hope you don’t find this to be too forward of me, but…” As he shows her the page, he realizes he’s probably going to have to confess that he’s been obsessively drawing her in his off hours for a week now.
Abbie looks at it and gasps. It’s a beautiful mermaid. Not only is it a mermaid, but it is her as a mermaid, with a flowing tail and long, dark hair curled all around, demurely covering her breasts. It is an amazing likeness.
“This is beautiful,” she says.
“Thank you,” he replies. “The idea came to me when you told me about how you used to—”
“Pretend I was a mermaid,” she finishes. Then she remembers the ocean theme on his left arm and truly notices the large empty spot in the middle of his forearm. “You’re not thinking…”
“I am. With your consent, of course,” he says.
She turns and looks at him. “We only just met,” she responds, unsure how she feels about him wanting to tattoo her as a mermaid on his arm so soon into their association. “That’s permanent.”
“I’m aware,” he chuckles. “Abbie. I don’t want to alarm you, but I know my mind and my heart. I truly meant it when told you I wished to remain in your company for as long as you want me. And if one day comes where you decide you no longer do, I will have this lovely mermaid on my arm as a reminder of our time together.”
She stares at him a moment. Then she blinks a few times. “You’re weird,” she finally declares.
He smiles. “You like that about me,” he confidently states.
She sighs in affectionate exasperation. “Damn it, I do,” she admits, raising her hands to cup his face, lightly burrowing her fingers into his beard.
“Is that a ‘yes’?” Crane asks, the look on his face hopeful, imploring, and adoring all at once.
It makes Abbie feel like she is the only woman in the world and the only woman who matters to him. She likes that feeling. She doesn’t think she could ever get tired of it. “On two conditions,” she says, snuggling against his chest.
“Name your terms,” he replies.
“She has to have some sort of flower-like thing in her hair. A water lily, even a sea anemone,” she states.
“Of course!” he exclaims, startling her upright again. She laughs while he chides himself. “How could I have been so foolish as to forget something so important?” He picks up the drawing and book and quickly sketches the suggestion of something over her left ear. “And what is your second command, O beautiful mermaid?” he asks while he draws.
“You put down that pencil and paper and come back to bed,” she answers. Then she begins placing slow, wet kisses on his neck.
He groans, tosses the things on the coffee table, and stands, lifting her with him. She yelps in surprise, not expecting him to be so strong.
He somehow manages to get the fleece blanket off of her as he carries her back to the bedroom, leaving it in a heap in the hallway.
xXx
Two weeks later, when Abbie walks into the tattoo parlor to have her tattoo colored, she finds Ichabod sitting in a chair, awkwardly bent over his left arm, finishing up the outline of his mermaid.
He looks up, an adoring smile lighting up his face. “Hello, my love. Are you ready?”
She leans down and kisses his upturned face. “Ready,” she answers.