↬ warnings: some freak shit with henry, but nothing nsfw
↬ notes: there's sort of an established relationship between you and the guys here! can you tell i don't really write a lot of kissing scenes... don't answer that
𝐊𝐞𝐧
• the first time ken tried to kiss you, it was quite possibly the most awkward thing in the world. a combination of too much teeth, and an odd amount of smacking noises to accompany it. if you hadn't known any better, you would have thought he was trying to replicate something off of a cartoon show.
• actually. knowing ken, thats exactly what was going on.
• he gets better at it, the two of you make sure of that. you had originally introduced kissing lessons as a joke, but ken had been so damn excited about learning that you couldn't find it in you to say no— even if your face felt like it was on fire the whole time. thankfuly the doll didnt seem to mind.
• its a lot for him to remember at first ("don't rush into it, the other person may be caught off guard," "some teeth is okay, but too much and you'll get hurt," "take care of your dental hygiene," "make sure that they aren't trying to pull away before,") but youre a good enough teacher that he can't bring himself to care.
• really the whole thing is a charade merely disguised as lessons in order to spend disgusting amounts of time together. but when both of you are sitting on your living room couch, one hand on ken's chest and the other cupping his jaw softly while you plant a sweet kiss on his lips, you can't help but think it was the greatest idea you'd ever had.
you pull away from ken for the first time in nearly a minute, tongue coming out to dart at your swollen lips as you looked at him.
the blond was sitting against the far side of the couch, chest heaving and eyes scruntched up at the corners as he looked at you. his shirt (a tasteful hawaiian flannel, with striped shorts and flip flops to match) was wrinkled and unbuttoned. he looked, for a lack of better words, dumbstruck.
"is it always like that?" ken asks after recovering a little, scooting towards you more as he asks the question. his tone is one of excitement and wonder, and you cant stop a grin from breaking out on your face. "can we do it again?"
"woah woah, hold your horses cowboy." you huff out a small laugh, not missing the way his head perks up at the mention of horses. "give me a second to breathe. i don't know exactly how your lungs work, but i need at least a minute to recover after a kiss like.... that."
"was it not good?" came the next query. you heard the blatant insecurity in his tone, and read even more of on his face. you couldn't stop your chest from seizing a bit at the sight, immediately doing your best to reassure him.
"it was amazing ken, really." you spoke with a broad smile. you weren't just saying that, either. compared to the first kiss he had given you, this was worlds ahead. better than some of your past partners, if you said so yourself— not that they provided any real competition. none of them had tasted like fruit or whimpered when you ran a thumb over their jaw. god, you could listen to that sound all day...
"there are different kinds of kisses is all." you continue your explanation, weaving your fingers with kens in the meantime. running your fingers over his pulse point, you feel it jump a little. "some are shorter, some are rougher, and some are more intense. doesn't mean one is better than the other— that decision is up to you and your partner."
"that's you, right?"
"yes buddy, that's me." ken preens at you, doing a little arm pump at the confirmation that he was right.
"so which one do you like more? 'cause i could do all of them— can we do all of them? i mean, if you want to!"
right, back to the task at hand.
you feel a mischevious grin tugging at the corner of your lips, reaching out to grab the proverbial opportunity that had been given to you.
"i don't know ken, i've never thought about that before. you know, we may just have to try them all. what do you think?"
the giggle he lets out is a good enough answer for you.
• theres a certain charm to the way that ken goes about asking you for a kiss after he gets the hang of it (or about as much "hang" that a living doll can get). sort of akin to a child who wants to ask for something, but is too shy to speak up. more often than not, you'll find him hovering around or behind you. never close enough to touch, but definitely close enough to crowd. he barely registers it either, only stepping back if you ask aloud, and always with a bit of a crestfallen expression. its those moments that you have to take the extra time to explain 'no ken, i'm not mad, i need you to move so i can reach the stove'
• you've, essentially, created a monster. a tall, beach blond monster who can only be satiated with a kiss. good luck trying to explain the do's and don't of PDA to him... you're going to need it.
𝐇𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐲 𝐋𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐦
• with henry, the kiss always comes from a sense of desperation. a crushing need to be close to you, to grab you as tight as he can and not let go— almost like he's afraid you'll dissapear into smoke if he doesn't.
• his favorite place to kiss you, aside from the obvious, would be your hands. he positively preens when you run your hands through his hair or dance them across his face as gentle as can be, so it's no surprise that he takes a special interest in them. henry always leans into them with a careful look, placing a slow kiss to your palm or knuckles before saddling closer by your side to plant more. they're never less passionate than the ones he pressed to your mouth, just.. different.
• henry likes knowing that he's yours, and vice versa. a kiss reassures him, in a way, that you're still there— wherever there happens to be that day. often times it's your appartment or walking down the streets together. occasionally a shop or two if no one seems to be around to complain.
• theres a deeper part of henry, a darker part of him, that yearns for the taste of copper during a kiss. the urge to bite at your lip until blood spills into his mouth, tongue immediately soothing over the mark in reassurance, is constant. even in the sweetest moments those feelings will show their ugly head, prompting a shudder to roll through his body at the very thought.
• occasionally, he imagines you doing the same to him.
henry is burning up. he can hardly breathe as his hands search for purchase on your clothes. he's panting heavily, pupils blown out to the point where you could barely see the ring of blue around them. his head feels like it's full of static— his lips even more.
a stray drop of blood drips onto the floor unceremoniously, barely staining the tip of his shoe. a few more lie beside it, having fallen just moments before. a testimony to the teeth-shaped indent on his bottom lip that tasted like you.
you're in no better shape than henry is, really. you're breathing just as hard as him, and there's a splotch of red smeared messily by the corner of your mouth, ("like lipstick," henry thinks faintly) although he knows it isn't yours. did he want it to be? no, that was for later.
"was that okay?" you have the audacity to ask him that while he struggles not to beg for more. you, staring at him with a curious expression and that worried look in your eye— as if you hadn't just given him everything he wanted.
henry doesnt answer you; not verbally anyways. he doesnt need to when he's already back to kissing you again, practically moaning into your mouth as he tastes the tangy salt and blood between you all at once. you reciprocate the action, your tongue occasionally poking at his wound in what he hoped was an attempt to tease him. it was filthy and quite possibly derranged, but that made him love it even more.
• freak to the max about that kind of stuff, what can i say. "always the quite ones," as you once put it. he had just taken another drag of his cigarette at that, blowing the smoke to the side as he grinned that small grin of his. the one he knew you loved.
• any sort of relationship with henry letham of all people is going to be weird and sort-of-macabre, and by extent the kissing, but the two of you make it work. he'll ramble on about the work of the late-great tristian rêveur while you lie there next to him patiently, a little bit of his blood still clinging to the corner of your lips. it's not perfect, but it's undoubtedly and irrevocably the two of you, and that's all that matters.
𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐫𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐫
• okay. we've all seen the movie. there's no sense in pretending that this man would kiss you with anything less than the passion of a thousand supernovas. that's just a fact.
• whether you believe it comes from a place of self-confidence and heat, or a much more desperate part of him, driver will always give you his undivided attention. thats just who he is. methodical— obsessive, even. every word and small touch to your back as he pulls you closer is carefully planned out beforehand.
• it's a sign of trust to him, really.
• he's no stranger to soft pecks on the cheek or lips, don't get me wrong, driver just prefers the ever-encompasing feeling of your mouth on his, tongues dancing around each other as you both take your time mapping out each individual detail. everything about you is intoxicating to the point where driver wants to drown in it.. sometimes he thinks he just might. wouldn't be the worst way to go.
• he definitely uses chapstick. nothing too flavorful, (unless you like that, then he'd reconsider) just enough to keep them from cracking or drying out. he finds that it makes for a much more enjoyable kiss either way, and you agree.
• it's also my strong belief that driver has definitely forgotten to take his toothpick out once or twice before going in for a kiss, resulting in a little poke. you always wave it off, but the first time it had happened he'd looked positively mortified (or about as mortified as he could get). thankfully, driver's been pretty mindful about it since then, always making sure to toss the thing or settle it behind his ear before pecking you.
• in spite of the rest of his fast paced lifestyle, driver is not really a big fan of PDA. it's simply too much attention on somebody with too many criminal ties, and he'd rather die than risk your saftey. but on the off chance that he's feeling risky, it's usually after a nice cruise through the streets with you.
driver's steady hands are cradling the sides of your face as the two of you stand beside his car— a new one he just picked up from sharon. you had asked to tag along that day, always jumping at the opertunity to be in the front seat with him. his favorite habit of yours was how your hand always seemed to find his on the road, fingers interlocking as you let him whisk you away on whatever road he had in mind.
the flickering white light from above casts an irregular shadow across driver's face while he recalls all of this. it draws out the intensity of his eyes as his gaze darts from your eyes to your nose and to your lips. even here, standing in a dingy underground parking garage, he can't help but think that you looked stunning.
your own arms were wrapped around drivers middle, squeezing lightly as you admired him back. the two of you often had moments like this. moments where driver seemed incapable of doing anything but soaking you in, almost overwhelmed with the realization that you loved him just as much as he loved you. living on one's own for so long takes its toll on the importance behind human touch, and driver had been deprived of it (of you) for far too long.
nothing was said as you craned your head slightly upwards, lips carefully capturing his own in a soft kiss. nothing had to be; it was a familiar motion between the two of you by now.
driver accepts the display of affection with a barely audible hum, showing his appreciation as his mouth begins to move in tandem with your own. he can taste the faint remnants of the toothpaste you used this morning before he picked you up, and it brings him comfort. everything about you to him is comforting. safe. the one part of his life that he's been allowed to really, truly enjoy. and enjoy himself, he would.
eventually you had to break away, much to driver's disappointment. if he had it his way, he'd be glued at your side at all times, there to angle your lips towards his at any point. but then again, if he had it his way, nothing would end up getting done. your appartment had seen enough evidence of that— you'd lost count of the amount of times you'd shown up late to something because driver couldn't keep his lips (or hands) off of you.
you reach to press one last kiss to his lips, an unspoken promise for more. "come on, let's get inside before someone complains."
"let them." came his only response before dipping back down for another. he ends up chasing your lips instead, mouth twitching into a barely-there smile as you pull away with a teasing laugh. you're already making your way towards the elevator, grinning at him as if to say 'catch up'. you barely make it there before he's got you by your wrist, interlocking your fingers and pulling you into his chest gently.
"sucker." you mummble against his jacket, but driver hears the unmistakeable smile in your tone.
as he leans down for yet another kiss, he can help but think that you're right.
the child is too lonely, let's give him a famous twin brother and an older spy brother and detective grandparents and a fucking convict who he can have a QPR with and he's still a teacher and yes, somehow Rocky, Adrian and Eva are there too..
If Colt is short for Colton, then that name means "coal town" while Ryland means "land where rye is grown." There's something poetic being named after different resources that kinda reflect their characters.
Coal is a hard mineral that you extract from mines but it can run out, like how Colt's story is about a tough stuntman coming to terms with his limits. Meanwhile rye is necessary for survival and cultivated for harvesting but is surprisingly durable, like how Ryland was secretly trained as a backup sacrifice, but he managed to survive.
Then you have Courtland, which means "land of the court" or a royal land. It's in the same vein as the other two except kind of detached, like how Court has to stay out of their lives in the AU because of his job.
‘Convicted murderer Courtland Gentry escapes from the nearby state penitentiary and turns up at your house, pleading for help.’
The late-night news droned on in the background as you dozed off on your couch; you barely registered the anchor’s urgent tone in your half-sleep state.
"...still searching for convicted three-time murderer and juvenile offender Courtland Gentry, considered dangerous and likely armed." You cracked one eye open: an image of a broad man clad in a blue jumpsuit appeared in the top right of the screen. He had down-turned blue eyes— one swollen shut with a bruise from his apparently violent arrest the previous year— and a weathered face that looked neither smug nor regretful. You let your eyes shut again as the solemn reporter continued. "Gentry broke free during a transfer earlier today. If you see him, do not approach; contact police immediately. On to weather, we can expect sunshine starting from Wednesday...”
You must have drifted off somewhere between the weather and the next story, the 2 a.m. TV's glow flickering across your sleeping face. It couldn't have been twenty minutes later when a scrape coming from the kitchen woke you; your eyes flew open and you sat up with a jolt. You lived alone, and could not imagine what kind of an animal could have slid open your kitchen window. As you stared wide-eyed over the back of the sofa, knuckles gripping the fabric in disbelief, you watched in horror as a figure pulled himself hastily through the frame. He pulled himself to his feet, clutching his side, and you locked eyes: prison-cropped hair and stubbly, it was the man from the TV. 'Convicted three-time murderer' Courtland Gentry looked as surprised to see you as you were him.
Before you could draw breath to scream, he was crossing the room in a panic; a large, calloused hand clamped over your mouth, the other pinning your shoulder back against the cushions firmly as he reached over the back of the sofa. Your muffled shout vibrated against his palm.
“Listen to me," he whispered, voice low and calm like he was trying to sound as non-threatening as a fugitive could. "I’m not going to hurt you, but you need to be quiet." His face was inches from yours, sharp blue eyes staring down at you expectantly, a smear of blood along his jaw visible in the TV's blue glow. “Do you understand?”
You froze, trying to recall advice for what to do in such an event: all you could think was to cooperate and give him whatever he wanted to try and stay alive.
As you nodded frantically, your gaze drifted to the dark stain spreading across the side of his shirt: fresh blood. He sighed in relief and removed his hand from your shoulder, placing it against his bleeding torso and wincing as he pressed down on what was an obviously grievous wound.
"I need your help,” he nodded down to his side, grimacing. “Got shot on the way out. Don't think it's life-threatening, but I can’t keep moving like this. So," he continued, "bandages, first-aid kit... got any?"
Again, you nodded frantically, eyes gesturing over to your bathroom. He turned his head and nodded once in silent understanding, then paused, hand still over your mouth. You could feel the tremor in his fingers as he spoke.
“I just need somewhere to lay low a couple hours, then I’ll be gone.” His eyes searched yours, intense and surprisingly calm given the situation. “You have my word. Now, if I let go, are you going to scream?” He waited, watching you carefully with raised eyebrows.
Your pulse thundered in your ears. A dangerous convict was in your flat, bleeding on your furniture, and yet you found yourself shaking your head no and believing it. He looked like a man who had run out of options as you stared up at him. His blue eyes were sharp but exhausted, pain etching deep lines around them. After a long, terrifying second he carefully lifted his hand from your mouth, ready to clamp it back down if you screamed. You didn’t; the only sound was some midnight TV segment chuntering on in the background.
“Good,” he murmured, voice rough with relief. “Thank you.”
He eased back just enough to give you space to sit up.
“I— I have a first aid kit,” you whispered, scared to speak too loudly, "but it's in the bathroom." Your hands trembled as you pointed behind him to the bathroom. Courtland watched you carefully, like an uneasy dog.
"Alright. I can work with that."
Shell-shocked and in a daze, you returned clumsily to the living-room with the first-aid kit. Courtland had lowered himself onto the couch and turned on a small lamp next to the sofa, wincing as he peeled his shirt up and off. The sight of his bare torso as you approached from behind— lean muscle, old scars— made your stomach twist; nonetheless, you kneeled in front of him, placing the box on the table and carefully prying the latch open. You looked up at him for permission to move closer, and, when he nodded, you slowly crept forward, squinting at his abdomen; up close, the gash was ugly and deep, much worse than the odd graze you had ever treated. You wondered whether this twenty-year-old, dusty, household first-aid kit would be up to fixing a bullet-wound, but Courtland interrupted your spiralling doubts.
"This isn't my first rodeo," he gestured to his scar-addled torso. "If I could reach it, I would do this myself, but I can't, so I'm going to talk you through it, ok? Just need to do what I say." It was comical that he was trying to reassure you when he was the one sporting a bullet-wound.
Your eyes darted between his and the bullet hole: this man was dying and you had nothing more than a girl-scout first aid kit to retrieve the bullet, sterilise and pack the wound. Still, you nodded, resigned to cooperating.
"Okay. Clean the tweezers."
You obeyed, trembling hands ripping open the plastic of the individually packed anti-septic wipe and shakily wiping down the tweezers. Courtland peered down at you as you worked.
"Now pull bullet out." He said it like it was just another instruction in a recipe: you clenched your jaw and moved closer, tentatively placing one hand on his torso to peer into the wound.
“I'm sorry,” you mumbled, an advance apology for the pain you were about to cause. He let out a humourless huff, gritting his teeth.
“Just do it.”
And so you did: he squeezed eyes shut, save to look down a few times to direct you, and grit his jaw as you finally pried the bullet from the wound. Your stomach churned as you dropped the bloody metal onto the coffee table.
"Good," Courtland affirmed. "Now we need to clean and pack it."
You cleaned the gash as gently as you could; he tensed under your hands, jaw clenched tight, but stayed perfectly still. A low groan escaped him when the antiseptic hit the raw flesh.
“Easy… easy,” he breathed, eyes half-closed. One of his hands came to rest lightly on your shoulder— not restraining, just steadying himself. His palm was warm and rough. “You’re doing good."
The closeness was overwhelming. His scent— sweat, blood, and adrenaline— filled the small space between you with heat. Every time your fingers brushed his skin, you felt goosebumps rise.
After five minutes of silence, you found yourself a little bolder; you'd pulled a bullet from his side: you felt you were owed an explanation.
“Why my place?” you prompted softly as you packed gauze into the hole. Courtland replied immediately, as though he were listing off attributes of a safehouse. You had an inkling he was not your average con.
“Lights were off. Ground floor. Looked… safe.” His thumb brushed absently against your shoulder. “Didn’t expect anyone to be home, let alone someone like you—” he hissed suddenly as you hit a tender spot.
“M'sorry," you muttered. "'Someone like me'?”
He looked down at you, eyes intense through the discomfort.
“Kind.”
You didn’t answer. Instead you focused on taping the bandage securely, wrapping it around his lean waist. Your hands kept brushing the hard planes of his abdomen, and you tried to ignore the way your pulse jumped every time.
When you finished, you sat back on your heels. Courtland tested the wrapping with a careful breath, then reached out and took your now-bloodied hand.
“Thank you,” he said, sincerity cutting through the rough edge of his voice. “I meant what I said, by the way. I’ll disappear in a few hours. Won't come back again." His thumb stroked once along your knuckles before he let go. You peered down at your hands, conflicted.
"But what now?” you whispered, still perched on the floor in front of him.
Courtland leaned his head back against the couch, eyes sliding shut for a moment before he spoke.
“Now… you wash the blood off your hands, go to bed, and decide whether you’re going to turn me in tomorrow morning.” He cracked one eye open, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth.
You found yourself fighting back a smile of your own.
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