"I'll let you be in my dreams if I can be in yours." -Bob Dylan
Crane's hands are large and warm as they brush over her skin. Warm, but causing goosebumps to rise in their wake. They start at her shoulders, then move down her arms; down and back up, then down again, ghosting over her breasts, touching only enough to entice and frustrate.
Abbie mewls helplessly. Her limbs feel like lead. She is not bound or restrained, but she somehow knows if she moves, it will take a great deal of effort.
His hands continue lower, over her taut stomach, his thumbs briefly – too briefly – skimming over the dark curls at the apex of her thighs before continuing down her long, lean legs.
As he works his way back up, she parts her legs slightly. It takes an amazing amount of energy to manage this much, but she wants – needs – to encourage him to touch her.
"Crane," she moans, almost a whine.
He takes the hint and moves his hands to the insides of her legs on his journey.
Then, she feels his hands on her shoulders again.
She is about to protest, but then realizes while his hands are on her shoulders, they are still on her thighs, moving higher at a frustratingly slow pace. Both sets of hands are definitely his hands. She would know them anywhere.
"What—?" she wonders, opening her eyes.
"Shh, Lieutenant," he says, bending to kiss the curved bone of her hip.
"Shh, Miss Mills," he echoes, his voice coming from some place above her head. He bends down and kisses her lips.
She startles, looking down at Crane. Then, she looks up at Crane.
Two Cranes? How is this possible?
They are different somehow. The Crane by her legs, the one coming precariously close to burying his face in her folds, is her Crane. She knows this. His eyes are soft, affectionate, and familiar; they gaze upon her as though she is a precious jewel.
The Crane behind her, who is now kissing her neck, one hand over her breast, is familiar in that he is Crane, but...
"Ichabod," she moans, the ministrations of the two men – the two Cranes – making her head spin.
"Mmm, Abbie," the Crane at her groin answers, his tongue finally darting out to taste her.
"Captain Crane," the other Crane corrects, nipping her earlobe in mock reproach, then soothing the sting with his tongue.
Oh. Oh, no. How did this happen? I've completely screwed up the time-space continu-ummmmm...
Her alarmed thoughts do not last long, however, as Ichabod – she'll call 21st century Crane Ichabod – continues to work her over with his tongue like it's his job, sufficiently distracting her.
The Captain, however, is moving lower, kissing down her body until his lips cover her breast.
"Oh, God," she moans, reaching out with her hands, her heavy arms moving like they are dangling from a puppeteer's strings. One hand finds Ichabod's head and threads her fingers into his hair. The other somehow wraps around the Captain's cock, large and erect and perfect.
Captain Crane groans, his lips and tongue moving expertly over her nipple, his hand coming to gently knead the other. "Yes," he murmurs against her skin, "move your hand on me." His voice is low and husky, but somehow still commanding. He thrusts his hips against the motion of her hand on his shaft.
"Ah," Abbie gasps as Ichabod slips two fingers inside her, moving in concert with his sinfully talented tongue. She feels something brush her cheek and her eyes flutter open.
Captain Crane's wide-brimmed black hat is hovering in front of her face, perched atop its owner's head as he lavishes wet, sucking kisses on her breasts. Abbie's brows furrow in a haze of confusion as she moves her head to look down. She sees Ichabod crouched between her legs wearing his burgundy coat.
Somehow, she knows both Cranes are wearing their boots. Because she wants them to be wearing their boots.
She drops her head back, the sensations of wet tongues and prickly-soft beards on her body taking over again. She moans, just slightly, and feels her body begin to heat and tighten.
What is that buzzing sound?
Abbie's eyes blink open as the insistent buzzing of her cell phone on the bedside table drags her from her dream. She is overheated and feels damp all over. Irritated, she reaches for her phone with one hand.
As she answers, she realizes her other hand is between her legs. "Hey," she greets, her voice a little breathier than it should be.
"Good morning, Lieutenant," Crane's voice answers. "I didn't wake you, did I?"
God, since when is his voice so sexy? "Not really," she answers. "I'm still in bed, but awake." Her fingers move of their own accord, slipping easily into her wet folds. She searches for something to get him talking, wanting his voice in her ear. "What's up?"
"I was calling to see if you might join me for breakfast," he says. "I would very much like some more of those waffles at the diner."
"Sure, that'd be fine," she answers, her fingers dipping and circling. So close. Need more. "What did you wind up doing last night?"
"Oh..." he hesitates a moment, then says, "I finished reading The Return of the King."
"Oh, good; now I can show you the movies," she answers, trying very hard to control her breathing. "What did you think of it?"
"I liked it very much. Mr. Tolkien was very thorough with his details..."
Crane continues talking, and Abbie closes her eyes, letting the warm tones of his baritone voice wash over her, aiding her as she strokes herself to completion. She somehow manages to make the appropriate responsive noises, but then has to press her lips together to remain silent when she comes, her back arching off of the bed.
"Miss Mills?" Crane asks, waiting for her response.
"Yeah, I didn't think the ending was too long, either. I liked knowing what happened to everyone," she answers, amazed she heard his question at all. "We can talk more about it at breakfast though. Pick you up in an hour?" she asks.
"Excellent, I will be waiting," he answers, then disconnects the call.
Crane stares at his phone, at her contact photo smiling up at him, chiding himself. That was not what you were meant to say to her. "Miss Mills, I have been plagued by dreams of you for several months." Not that rubbish about waffles. He sighs, swings his feet out of bed, then gingerly walks to the shower, his erect shaft pointing the way.
An hour later, Abbie pulls her car up to the cabin and hops out, walking to the door with her DVD box set of Lord of the Rings in her hand. She grabbed it at the last minute on her way out the door. She takes a deep breath before opening the door, images from her dream still vivid in her brain.
The problem is, this was not the first time she's had such a dream. Sometimes, it's with 21st century Ichabod. Sometimes, it's with 17th century Captain Crane. This morning was the first time it involved both of them. It was almost too much, and, if she is honest, she's still a little worked up.
She opens the door without knocking, as usual. "Crane?" she calls.
He walks out of the bedroom, his eyes locked on her. "Miss Mills," he greets. His voice is serious, his expression intense. He seems to be staring straight into her soul as he crosses the small cabin.
"You okay?" she asks, noting his serious demeanor. Since he'd found his peace with Katrina and Henry's lives and deaths, he has, for the most part, been rather happy. Seemingly more so than he was when they were alive, even. So his sober manner gives her pause.
Then, with absolutely no preamble, he strides across the room, gently takes her face between his hands, and kisses her. Lingeringly. Longingly. Passionately.
They never make it to breakfast.
A/N: This is for Shady Ladies dottierthanthou, briony-in-the-nettles, darlalovesichabbie, uneange1, and lovfair