Grant has thing for girls with pretty skin; it's partly why he became a tattoo artist. He especially likes leaving his mark on virgin skin. It's barbaric and possessive and he knows shouldn't be so smug about it but it's his thing.
When he catches his first look at the petite woman through the store's front glass, he knows two things instinctively. Firstly, she's never gotten a tattoo before; she just looks too pure, too untouched. Secondly, he knows - like he knows his middle name - tatting her will be like putting graffiti on a church wall, like marking his name up and down it's stained glass window. It's wrong how much he wants it, to mar her innocent beauty.
He's waiting on his last client of the day – and the shop's, since they usually don't schedule on Sunday afternoons, and everyone else on shift had already cleaned up and gone for the day. The bell jangles above the door, knocking him from his musings as she comes through the entry. She looks really damned nervous, like she expects the floor to give way beneath her.
He steps up behind the counter.
"May I help you?" He smiles rather than smirks. He usually scares the good girls. With full sleeves on both muscled arms and snake bite piercings, he's not exactly the type you take home to Mama.
Her eyes are caught up on his smile. She looks quickly at the chessboard tile floor as if she, too, feels the instant attraction. Then her eyes are right back on his in seconds as if her shaky resolve was suddenly shored up around her.
"I'm here to have some work done by Antoine." She nods certainly.
He has to stop for a second as the name doesn't ring any bells.
"Antoine Triplett," she reiterates.
"Oh, Trip! Yeah. Shit… I'm sorry sweetheart. He's not in today, family emergency. I took his appointments. You must be my three o'clock." He looks at the appointment book. "Miss Simmons?"
"Yes, I'm Jemma."
He offers his hand. "I'm Grant. What will we be doing today?"
"I've discussed at length my idea with the other artist," she says hesitantly. "My friend Bobbi recommended him."
"I'll understand if you want to reschedule; I understand sharing a vision with someone. I'd be disappointed if I didn't get to work on you, though. Anything I can do to convince you that you're in as good hands – if not better – with me than you were with Trip?"
"Would you mind very much if I looked at your work?"
"Not at all, sweetheart. What's your idea?" He grabs his portfolio from behind the counter and slides it to her across the desk.
"I'm a biochemist, and my partner recently suffered an injury as a result of some of our miscalculations. I feel a bit adrift without him working with me, to be honest," she rattles off, though it seems more habitual than the result of nerves. "Anyway, I decided to get a biochemistry-related tattoo to remind me that I'm still a scientist fully-capable in her own right. I'm going to get…. Oh, this is really lovely." He looks upside down at the book to see which piece to which she is referring.
Ah, the chain of daisies looping around Skye's shoulders. The stems and leaves are in gray and blooms are in full, vibrant colors.
"It looks almost three dimensional, it must have taken such a delicate touch!"
"Thank you. That client in particular is a bit of wiggler by nature, too. In case you were worried about that."
"Oh, I'm not overly concerned with that bit, I've a high pain tolerance and can sleep through anything."
"You were telling me what you wanted to get?"
"The representation of water at a molecular level. I've always wanted to know the where, why, and how of things, so I was drawn to science. And water is the basis for all life."
He likes the glittering in her eyes. He gets that, blinding fervor for something. "And for your passions, clearly!"
"Yes. The tattoo would be very simple, really, and minimalist. Three dots and two lines connecting them."
"Where would you want to get it?"
"Small, on my rib cage so it's easy to hide if need be."
"Can totally do it if you're game. Probably wouldn't take more than a few minutes. Do you have a frame of reference?"
"Antoine- "
"You mean Trip, honey. No one calls him Antoine except maybe his mother."
"Right. Trip thought using this one would work." She pulls up a picture on her phone. As she hands it to him, their fingers brush. Their eyes look for a brief moment, and she's blushing when she looks back down.
"Oh yeah, this will work fine. But with your skin tone, I'd suggest black and grey. It will look better than these primary colors."
"Really?"
"In my professional opinion, yes. Let me mock it up, and we'll place it and if you still want to you can back out. Nothing is permanent 'til needle touches skin."
"Can I watch you?"
Her curiousness is refreshing. "Sure."
Grant finds he quite likes the feel of her eyes on him. The soft weight of them journeys from his hands up to his face and back again. In a few minutes, he turns to her with the tracing paper with the bare bones of the design on it.
"You want it on your ribs, right?"
She gives a quick jerky nods.
"You're going to need to take your top off." She looks momentarily alarmed. "Don't worry, I'll get you a drape cloth. Though I thought Europeans liked their nude beaches," he teases as she ducks behind a shoji screen he points out to disrobe.
"Yes, that's true of other European countries, but not generally of us Brits. And I'm considering this my act of bravery for at least a month."
She returns clutching the purple blanket Skye brought in anticipation of being frozen to popsicle proportions when he'd done her work. Jemma presses it tightly to her chest. She shows him her preferred side. He presses the tracing paper to warm skin. Despite the room being a bit chilly, her body heat seeps through even the gloves he's got on.
He wants to know what her skin feels like with no barriers like he wants his next breath.
He looks up as he pulls the paper away. She's looking down at him, mouth slightly open in surprise. There's something unreadable in her eyes. He clears his throat.
"Have a look." He nods to the mirror. She spins to it where it hangs on a wall behind her. He had been so distracted by touching her that he'd missed the delicate expansive of back. Had he not been caught up, he'd have been planning just where to put his next mark. A fall of cherry blossoms and lotus flowers maybe…or one long hickey.
She looks like she's thinking about the placement for a moment. She's smiles at him brightly in the reflection and, fuck him, that smile. He's so damned screwed. "Let's do it, in black and grey like you mentioned."
"You sure?"
"I'm positive, Grant."
She jumps up onto one the chair he guides her to and lays down. The only sounds in the room is the delicate rustling of her breathing and his own voice, explaining how they clean their instruments. He shows her the needles still in the sealed packets. "You still good?"
"Ready," she affirms.
"Just going to do a test line." She takes a breath and exhales . "Do it."
He's got to give her credit. She doesn't flinch or suck in a breath. She's perfectly calm.
The piece going down his side had hurt like fucking hell; he'd drunk a lot and cursed more, and she's like placid waters, unmoving and peaceful.
She's asleep by the time he gets to the shading. No should be that pretty while sleeping. He suddenly knows he's going to want her under his machine again soon. Under his body even sooner.
He wakes her once he's done.
"Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to drift off the sound and sensations lulled me a bit. Likely all those endorphins released."
"No problem, you made my job easier. Go have a look, sweetheart."
The sight of her jumping up and down excitedly has him smiling a mile wide. "I love it, it's exactly what I wanted."
She turns and hugs him tightly, the blanket trapped between them. He wraps his arms around her in return and takes the opportunity to run his hand down her smooth back.
"Thank you so much."
"My pleasure, darlin'."
Oh yeah. He's going to need some more of this woman. He gives her his best slow smile, the one that's gotten him out of speeding tickets and into a number of women's pants, and suggests she let him take her for a drink to celebrate her first ink.
Six months later
"Who's the girl?" Lincoln asks as Grant inks a lightning bolt over the other man's shoulder on to his chest. Grant had heard the bell jangle but was to immersed to look up until the other man's question. But there's Jemma, waiting for him to finish up for the night.
In the bright lights, he can see, riding along her collarbone, the tendrils of steam he'd added for her last month, half hidden by her shirt. The ice crystal is hidden by her hair. They are still bickering over where to put the water droplets, on the inside of her thigh (she says he's being crude) or along the curve of her hip.
All the physical forms of water.
"That's my girlfriend." He pauses in his work to gesture at her until she steps around and leans to kiss him all too briefly.
That's okay. If he's learned anything these past months, it is that patience is virtue that pays off and then some with Jemma."
"He forgot personal canvas," she quips.
"I know your body best, why should I entrust it anyone else?"
She rolls her eyes. "You almost done?"
"Five minutes, unless Lincoln man's up suddenly."
"Oh be nice! I'm going to go look a Skye's book and pine after some color work."
Yes, tattooing Jemma is his one of favorite things: it's intimate, peaceful, and most times sensual, which works for him. It's tied for favouritefavorite with pretty much everything else he gets to do with her. He loves all things Jemma, in every sense of the word. She's under his skin as much as his mark is on hers.
AN: I own nothing all. Many thanks to my lovely Myr! If you liked it tell me please!-MM