You can blame JWAB and latbfan for this. We got to talking about this gifset of Ichabod putting his coat on and...well, one thing led to another, and here we are. One-shot, pure fluff. This is set some time in the future; Katrina's out of the picture for whatever reason you care to invent.

Now make sure you read JWAB's fabulous "Conversations with Photographs" for an amazing Sleepy Hollow fic, and if you're an Arrow fan, you can't miss latbfan's "How Was Your Day?" And you may want to check out my own more canonical Sleepy Hollow fic "She and He." Okay, enough talking.

"Dudes just look better with their clothes on." In contrast to her words, Abbie pressed a kiss against his bare shoulder.

"I beg your pardon?" Ichabod asked. "You did not seem to have objections to my nude form earlier. Or last night. Or the night before that. Or, indeed, the night before-"

She laughed, and despite his fatigue from their earlier exertions, he felt lightning race through every fiber of his body (albeit rather concentrated in one particular area). Her laughter always had that effect on him. When she laughed, she was utterly carefree, her head thrown back, her eyes closed. And now, since she shared his state of undress, he was able to watch her breasts rise and fall with the force of her laughter.

He cherished each and every instance in which he could coax a laugh from her lips, whether with a word or a caress. Laughter was a frequent and treasured part of their coupling; their daily lives were too dangerous and too frightening to allow for an abundance of mirth. But here, in the safety of her plain little room and her deeply comfortable bed, they were free to find joy in each other.

Seldom did Ichabod think of Katrina; the wounds were still too painful. Yet he could not help but cast his mind back to their marital relations, such a contrast to his decidedly unmarital relationship with Abbie. With Katrina, their lovemaking had always been intense, deeply serious, full of portent and meaning. Satisfying in their own way, but altogether a different experience from what he now shared. He pushed thoughts of her aside with the softest pang of regret.

"I didn't say I had objectionsto naked men," Abbie said. "But, I mean, have you ever actually seen a penis?"

"Once or twice," he said drily.

"They're weird looking. And no offense or anything, but they especially look weird when they have a turtleneck like yours," she teased.

It was his turn to hoot with laughter. " A turtleneck? I must admit, a frightfully apt descriptor."

"Right?" Her warm hand brushed against the organ in question before flitting away again elusively. He shuddered; perhaps he did have the strength for another go, after all. "Not that I don't appreciate what it can do, but c'mon, not what you'd call 'nice to look at.'"

"A fair point." His hand strayed to her breast, dragging his palm across her nipple. "And we have nothing so lovely as these."

"Uh huh," she said, a bit out of breath. "Right. And chests and backs and those little man lines you've got by your hips are all awesome." As she spoke, she raked her nails down over his chest to play over the "man lines," as she so charmingly called them, then dipped lower again, to graze his inner thighs. His flesh leapt under her fingers. "But really, you have no idea how hot your Colonial Williamsburg getup is."

"What does the capital of Virginia have to do with my clothes?" he asked, puzzled.

A short laugh. "Doesn't matter. You look good in 'em. I love to watch you put that coat on. And let's not even get started on the boots."

"Why, Abigail. I had no idea you were using me not for my body, but rather for my clothes," he said with mock outrage.

"Oh no, I'm using you for that, too. Don't worry." In a quick, cat-like movement, she was astride him, leaning down to steal a kiss from his laughing lips. Almost lazily, she kissed her way along his jawline, behind his ear. Her teeth grazed against the place where his shoulder met his neck, once lightly, then harder, more urgently. The pain-tinged pleasure spread through him in ripples, and he could not but stifle a gasp.

"Too hard?" she murmured against him.

"Of course not," he said, though he lay an arresting hand on her cheek. If he had permitted it, they could have carried on quite nicely this way. Abigail was more than happy to lead their joinings, and he was usually more than happy to follow. But her words about his wardrobe had given him...ideas.

Before she could protest, he slid out from under her and away from the warm cocoon of their blankets. Her room was small, so it took a mere half step to bring him to the chair over which he'd draped his clothing a few hours before.

"Uh, you going somewhere?" Abbie propped her head on one hand, the better to watch him. He took a moment to appreciate the loveliness of her pose: hair loose and mussed, her arm creating a graceful triangle, her one breast pressed against the sheet, the other hanging heavy and full against it.

He blessed his eidetic memory.

"Quite the contrary." He reached for his trews, turning toward her and arching one brow in a manner he hoped was saucy. "But you did say I looked rather better in my clothes than out of them." He slid one leg into his trousers, then the other, pulling them carefully over his "bits," as she called them.

"I like where your head's at, Crane," she said cheerfully, pushing herself up to recline against the pillows.

Next came his shirt. As he discovered, it was rather difficult to put a shirt on in a desirable manner; one must pull it over the head, and then the process of getting arms—especially arms as long as his—in the thing was a tricky process. But he managed it and took his time arranging the collar just so, tightening the loose queue that held his hair. He left the shirt open at the neck, glancing back at Abbie just in time to see her lick her lips, her hand curling low against her belly.

His trews were suddenly too tight.

But he would not be deterred. He sat—carefully-and pulled on first one boot, then the other. Briefly, he questioned the wisdom of this entire maneuver (there was a willing, beautiful woman naked waiting for him and he was putting clothes on), but another peek at her proved that her hand had found its way lower, twining among the neat, dark patch of hair between her legs. The other hand made itself useful pinching at one peaked nipple.

His breath hitched at the sight and he stood—again, carefully—and reached for his coat. The greatcoat had seen him through cold days and long battles, but he had never been gladder for the thing than he was now.

Though he desired nothing more than to watch her, Ichabod turned his back on Abbie. He slid his arms into the sleeves of the coat and, with one great motion, hitched it onto his shoulders. Again, he minded the details: straightening the collar, tugging down his sleeves, smoothing the lapel.

Hands seized his shoulders and spun him round, and for a panicked moment, he feared they had been attacked, another demon sent for them. But as he gazed down into a pair of dark eyes, his terror subsided, and he crashed into Abbie's kiss.

She walked him back until he was pressed against the wall, her hands already pulling at his trousers. "But Miss Mills, I only just put them back on. And you did so disparage my turtleneck-"

"Too much talking," she growled. "And how the fuck do you undo these buttons?"

He chuckled, sliding his hands under hers and helping her with the tight buttons. The moment he had sprung free, Abbie had her hands looped around his neck and pulled herself up, legs twining around his waist. Given their differences in height, a certain amount of athleticism was always required, but she was always more than willing to rise to the occasion.

"Ready?" she asked, leaning her forehead against his.

He thrust his hips upward by way of response, and they joined together with a mutual cry. She gathered fistfuls of his coat in her hands, clutching onto him as they moved. As usual, she set the pace (fast and hard, as was almost always her wont), and he was all too happy to respond in kind, arching his hips up to reach deeper with each and every stroke.

Her head dipped against his shoulder, and he pulled her tighter. His arms, clad as they were in the thick wool coat, scratched against her bare, smooth back, and she moaned. Without warning, she clamped her teeth onto his neck, firm but gentle, just beside his racing pulse. Even now, he could hear nameless noises deep in her throat as she sucked and nipped at his throat. He wanted to wait for her, wanted to watch as she spilled over the edge, but with one last jerk, he released, only barely managing to keep his footing.

When he could see again, he found that Abbie was staring at him intently. "Wh-what is it?" he asked. "Are you all right? Is something-"

She silenced (and reassured him) with a kiss, and he struggled to keep apace with her dueling, clashing tongue, as he had still not recaptured his breath. He slid his arms beneath her legs to support her, taking a few staggering steps back toward the bed. He stretched her out on the rumpled bedclothes.

"You won't be offended if I say I prefer you au naturel?" he asked with a sly grin.

"Let me think about that." She sat up just enough to seize him by the collar and draw him down between her legs. He slipped his tongue inside her, languorously licking the length of her wet slit. "Nnnope," she sighed. "Au naturel is good for me."

He waited until he'd clamped his lips onto her clitoris to laugh, letting the vibrations sink deep inside her. At the same time, he plunged three fingers into her, curling them upward—a trick she'd taught him, and one which never failed to satisfy. Indeed, in a matter of moments, she arched her back and screamed her satisfaction with abandon.

Smiling, he rested his cheek against her thigh. "I was so right," she panted. "Way sexier with the coat."