bakerstreet | the Surprise Kiss Meme

[on offer: a bar in Lexington. AU Ari, definitely not a local. Sounds like she's English, posh, which doesn't really jive with the way she just broke that guy's nose with her forehead. Turns out she's about as partial to having her arse groped as Raylan is to having his hat messed with. Unknown as to why she's fixated on Boyd. Maybe he was quoting scripture. Maybe he was just giving her one of those long, appraising looks. Regardless, she's stepped in close, right up close, right in his face, and then taken liberties with his virtue by laying a kiss on him hotter than any underground coal fire that's been burning for a decade.

Sound good? Feel free to edit or reverse the kisser/kissee arrangement. Or the setting. I'm flexible. Also, I tend to prose.]

[Sounds fine, let's go with that! Possibly, the kiss might be an apology of sorts for disturbing his quiet drink? If that doesn't work, feel free to alter her motivation to whatever feels comfortable, I'll just take it up to the moment immediately preceding the kiss.]

Any day when he's 'invited' up to Lexington by Raylan Givens is a day that's going to need a drink or three at the end (provided, that is, that the day doesn't end with him being thrown into a lockup). That Boyd was currently drinking in the first bar he'd found after leaving the Federal Building rather than waiting until he got back to his own bar in Harlan was a good indication that the chat with his old buddy the marshal had been more trying than usual. At least though, he was still free to drink, so it definitely could have gone worse.

The bar had already been busy when he'd come in; filling up with the after-five crowd, but he'd managed to find an empty table where he could quietly ponder his next move re Raylan and his goddamned questions without having to make small talk with any chatty bartenders or fellow patrons—a thing that preoccupied him enough that he wasn't paying particular attention to the altercation between an attractive woman and the asshole who was making unwanted advances until said asshole fell directly across his table, collapsing it under the force of his weight and just lay there in the wreckage bleeding profusely, in classic barroom brawl style.

Still seated in his chair, Boyd contemplated the body at his feet for a moment before looking up to address the woman who'd been provoked into head-butting him, utterly deadpan, but with a degree of admiration. "Might I offer my assistance in takin' out the trash?"

[Ari is more likely to kiss him because she wants to, not by way of apology. But if she could get him outside, away from the crowd, that would be even better. He can watch as she pitches this guy headfirst into the side of the dumpsters, if that sort of thing amuses him. ]

"Finally," she says, dragging a hand through her long dark hair, pulling it out of her eyes. "A real gentleman." The figure at her feet groans something about what he's going to do to her when he can see again. His nose is a mass of blood and broken bone, so the sentiment is almost unintelligible. "My apologies for the loss of your drink, but if you'd be so kind, " she grits her teeth as she hauls the asshole to his feet with both hands, "as to open the door for me, I'll make it up to you."

Asshole now firmly in hand, wrist locked up behind his back and momentum already carrying him forward, she flashes Boyd a feral grin and glances at the backdoor a few steps away.

Mildly incredulous that she was apparently much stronger than she looked, he stood, a little bit of amusement playing over his lips. "Well, that wasn't exactly what I had in mind, but what kind of gentleman would I be if I didn't hold open the door for a lady." A lady that was probably a cop, given the way she was handling herself physically. She wasn't going to need too much help then, if that were the case.

Forging a path through the crowd, he walked over to the exit indicated, opening the door into the alley and waving his hand with a little flourish as he stepped to the side. "After you, ma'am."

One of Boyd's credos: Always be polite to (potential) police officers who were capable of breaking your nose.

Boyd wouldn't be the first person to mistake her for law enforcement, nor would he be the last. Sometimes she even finds it useful to let that misconception ride. And sometimes, like today, she completely forgets herself. She escorts the asshole out, and through the door at speed, not stopping until his head impacts the steel of the dumpster so hard, the resulting boom echoes down the narrow alley. He slumps to the ground, boneless, and she wipes her hands on her jeans.

When she turns back to Boyd, that feral grin has mellowed to a smirk, and she looks him up and down. "Now, where were we? Oh yes, I remember."

She advances on him, eyes dark and intent, and pins him up against the back door, hands at his hips. She only stops an inch away from him, nose to nose, whisky sweet breath warm on his lips. The hesitation is only a formality, it seems, and when he doesn't recoil or turn away, she kisses him. Hard. Not a quick peck, either. She kisses him like it's the hottest day of summer and he's the last glass of iced sweet tea in all of Harlan County. She kisses him like she knows him.

Watching her literally 'dispose' of the guy, Boyd was beginning to get the impression that his assumption might be erroneous. Most cops weren't quite so forceful with perps that weren't offering any resistance whatsoever. If the guy could even technically be called a perpetrator. He was a dick, yeah but that generally wasn't a crime.

His amusement edged slowly towards puzzlement and threatened to quickly shift gears into wariness as she approached him in such an obviously predatory fashion, had it not been for the way she'd looked him up and down beforehand. Adrenaline spiked, he managed a little smirk of his own as he tried to figure out what her game was.

"I believe you mentioned somethin' about makin' it up to—" he began to prompt, helpfully, before his words were swallowed by the most toe-curling kiss he'd ever experienced in his entire goddamned life. If she'd surprised him before, that was nothing compared the astonishment he felt now, combined with his state of arousal going from zero to sixty in about two seconds flat.

He was fairly breathless when the kiss eventually ended, but he wasn't at a loss for words for too long. "And here I was expectin' to get my drink replaced, not my socks rocked." Or any other word that might rhyme with sock.

She stayed close, breathing hard, grinning like the devil herself. She hadn't expected quite such an enthusiastic response. Most men swallowed their tongue when she came at them like the world was on fire and she content to watch it burn. Clearly, he wasn't 'most men'. She cast a wary eye down the alley, looked back at him.

"I have a case of Pappy Van Winkle 20 year old in my trunk. I think I could be persuaded to part with a bottle. But I suspect my little outburst might have drawn unwanted attention."

Her hips rolled against his as she pushed herself away, and that was clearly what she was doing. Forcing herself to manage some level of restraint, at least for the moment, judging by the way she was licking her lips and looking at him.

"You want to get out of here?"

As a rule, Boyd was not the type of guy who thought with his dick. (No, he'd leave that to Raylan.) And this situation here had more red flags than most—a primary concern being if things should go sideways, he was currently unarmed, on account of having had to leave his gun in the glovebox of his truck, it being sort of frowned on for a convicted felon to walk into the Federal Building packing a firearm.

But on the plus side, she was an extremely hot woman and that was a pretty rare, expensive bottle of bourbon (possibly also hot) she was offering to share. And somehow, he didn't think she was licking her lips in anticipation of the whiskey. Seriously, how often did an opportunity like this come along?

"Well, you can color my interest piqued." That was kind of obvious. "I believe I heard tell of a few cases of Pappy 20 Year goin' missin' a while back." He lifted his eyebrows in a friendly, inquisitive expression. "You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"

"I might," she said. "But that's privileged information."

She grinned at him again, the look akin to the one crocodiles get as they see the wildebeest herd approaching the watering hole. Hungry just didn't quite cover it. She spoke to him as she opened the backdoor and headed back in, moving with purpose. One hand fished in the front pocket of her jeans and came up with a wad of bills, which she threw at the bartender.

"But I might be persuaded to part with it, Mister..?"

She headed for the front door, the crowd parting in front of her like bait fish around a shark. She turned her head to catch his eye, and yes, make sure he was keeping up. She had things to do, him included, and she wasn't about to wait around to explain the misunderstanding to local PD.

"Well, I will certainly do my best to be persuasive."

It was maybe just slightly unnerving to see that kind of expression on a woman's face (even if his dick was disagreeing), but he followed her back into the bar all the same, albeit slowly, trying not to look too much like a dog on an invisible leash and feeling more committed with every moment that passed to solving the puzzle of this very intriguing and probably very dangerous lady.

"Crowder. Boyd Crowder. And with whom do I have the pleasure of conversin'?" Or kissing passionately, as the case may be.

"Boyd Crowder, mmm." She rolled his name around in his mouth like a pearl. Once they were free of the crowd, she slowed down to his pace. He moved much like everything here in Kentucky, just a little bit more leisurely than she liked. It was both fascinating and maddening, making her feel like she was struggling to stay in sync.

"Wednesday. Barking Mad Wednesday. Though you, sir, may call me Ari."

In the parking lot, she spun on one heel and walked backward, keeping an eye on her surroundings. And him, lord have mercy she could not keep her eyes off him.

"I'm right over here. Need anything out of yours before we go?" The car she was headed towards was a little black Stingray with a paint job that had seen better days. Just classy enough to be hers, just ratty enough not to stand out too much.

Edited (words) 2014-01-20 19:02 (UTC)

While Boyd might be considered to be a touch more energetic than many of his fellow Kentuckians, he could still saunter as slowly as the best of them and he took full advantage of the opportunity to watch her just as closely as she was watching him, with enough distance between them to enable him to get a very good view of the entire package.

"Barkin' Mad, huh? Ain't that a colorful appellation. I'll wager there's an interestin' story behind that. Is it well-deserved?"

His truck was in a parking garage about a block and a half away and he debated whether or not taking the trouble to go over there to fetch his Glock was a necessity or just a precaution. "Well, that all depends on how long we're gonna be gone and whether or not I'll need my overnight things."

Boyd Crowder | Justified

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