[Izzy Montoya] The walk home had been filled with generalities, and swigs from the whiskey bottle hidden in a brown paper bag. It’s not a long walk, her place is only a few blocks from the Brotherhood, only a few from the dive bar they’d taken refuge from the cold in. Once they arrive at her building, at 420 Fullerton, the snow has picked up, and both are bitching about the chill, and glad to step inside the lobby of her building.
Izzy pauses in the entryway to retrieve her mail, then with a wave to the doorman she leads Eddie to the stairs, bypassing the elevator completely. A quirk, maybe. Or simply for the exercise – if he doesn’t ask, she doesn’t say – but she chooses to walk up three flights of stairs instead of taking the elevator.
Her apartment, 3c, is nice, though a bit on the sparse side of decorations and furnishings. She lets him in, and then locks the doors behind him once he’s stepped into the living room. The doors to the walk in closet are open – inside there’s a small table, and it’s there that she pauses as she removes her coat. Once that’s hung on a hook nearest the doors, she removes her badge from the pocket of her coat, and it joins her holster in the drawer of the small table. Her keys go in the dish on top, and there’s a feeling that this removing of her weapon, her badge, is almost a ritual, a removing of the day’s work from her mind, if only for a little while, until she takes up the items once again.
“You want anything to eat? I might have some leftovers that aren’t fuckin science experiements yet. Or I could order somethin…”
[Edward Bellamonte] It takes him a bit too long to think over what should be a simple question – does he want something to eat, or doesn’t he? – before he shrugs. “If you’re hungry and care to order, I’ll have something. If not, don’t go to the trouble. Though if you do have left overs that haven’t turned, I could probably make something if you don’t mind some kitchen invasion.”
Where he learned to cook is anyone’s guess; he can’t remember a time Rosalie touched a pan, and he’d seldom watched the staff. From some roommate at Harvard, maybe, or some girl. Regardless, he’s not pushing boundaries and is, in fact, just about as non-intrusive as he can be. This is her territory, even if she is kin, and as invited guest? He’s going to respect it. He does, however, explore the room he finds himself in; it’s sparse, but there are still smells, and things to touch.
The next question doesn’t come until the food issue’s decided, and it’s curious; he can’t imagine, “What made you decide on law enforcement?” So blue collar, so plebeian. He’s not as bad a snob as some, perhaps, but he’s still a Bellamonte.
[Izzy Montoya] He offers to raid her kitchen and she smirks and gestures toward it. “Have at it. I can’t do anything that don’t involve hittin buttons on th’fuckin microwave. S’a reason I picked a place this fuckin’ close to the Broho. Easy meals within walkin’ distance.”
She bends to unlace her shoes, and kicks them off, before standing with her hands at the small of her back, and stretching. She tucks the tail of her blouse from her slack, and unbuttons a top button, and apparently is as dressed down as she gets outside of the gym. She follows him to the kitchen, and hops up to sit on the counter, and watch him delve into the scary world that is her food supply.
“My dad was a cop. An’ it seemed a surefire way to be more useful to you fuckers, than getting consistantly nagge to pop out fat squallin brats every couple of years.”
[Edward Bellamonte] “Fat, squalling brats can be fun,” he says with a shrug. “Those belonging to various cousins have been, anyway. I guess it would be different if they were mine, or one of my sisters’. And I’m sure it is useful to ‘we fuckers’,” he says – again, with that tiny hint of amusement that should resolve into a grin, or a smile, but doesn’t.
He pokes through the fridge and pulls out a container, eyes its contents, sniffs, and is momentarily disgusted. “Mind if I throw this away?” Then it’s on until he finds some leftover noodles, some butter and cheese, and remains of a steak with some of the attendant vegetable. A pan gets set on the stove and the burner lit; it’s allowed to warm before he adds butter. He’s more relaxed inside than he had been out, but he’s always turned a little; she is never at his back. Once the butter’s melted, the meat and vegetables get added, and another pan emerges. Milk, a bit more butter, the cheese – he’s making a sauce.
“You’re only a few blocks from the loft, too,” he says, apropos of little. “And my father was a Galliard.”
[Izzy Montoya] “Only if you like fat squallin brats. I ain’t the fuckin maternal type.” She gestures toward the garbage can when he discovers a science project gone horribly wrong, and watches as he goes about cooking something out of the leftovers there. She notes he never quite turns his back, the same way she’s never quite far from a weapon in arms reach. There’s a reason she’s sitting on the counter. The knife drawer is directly under her.
“Both folks was kin. Grandfather was a ‘dox.” Explains a bit more her affinity for the law, most likely. “According to some fucker that I met the other day – Thomas – he’s got stories an’ shit about him. He got all fuckin’ starry eyed like it makes a difference who my ancestors fuckin’ were. They’re dead – they ain’t no help to noone.”
[Edward Bellamonte] “Nor am I terribly paternal. It’s fun to feed them candy, shake them up and give them back to their parents.” He’s ‘fun Uncle Edward’, the terror of parents everywhere. In more ways than one, really. “Hand me the whiskey?” When the bottle’s handed over, a splash goes into the pan with the meat; the incipient sauce gets stirred, and then he moves to lean against the counter.
He could definitely stand for a good meal or ten, this Fang prince.
“And . . . well. Ancestors matter – not so much the who, I tend to think, since we learn through mistakes at least as much as we do through triumphs, as the strength of the tie. Yours is pretty strong, sorry to say.” Sorry is the wrong word, really; some day, in theory, she’s fairly likely to produce a cub or two, and no Garou is going to be sorry for that. However, it makes it a lot more difficult for her to do what she wants. “You have to be more careful than most. Or you should.”
There’s a smirk, small. “But I kind of doubt you’re the careful type.”
[Izzy Montoya] She passes the whiskey when asked, and takes a swig of it when it’s returned, before setting it back on the counter beside her.
He doubts she’s the careful type – and she smirks. “You’re here, ain’t ya?”
She shrugs, slightly. “Yeah, I been told my whole life it’s my fuckin’ duty to have kids, like it’s the fuckin 1920s or some shit. I ain’t down with bein’ anyone’s lil woman, cookin an’ cleanin and all that bullshit for some fuckin man.”
Women’s rights plays hell with the Garou Society Model, don’t it?
[Edward Bellamonte] He shrugs, isn’t shocked; he’s a traditionalist, perhaps, but a modern one. Traditions change, and not adapting is death. “That’s what carry out menus and cleaning services are for. Not the having babies part,” he adds. “Obviously. Well, with someone, I guess. But the cooking and cleaning.”
He picks a bit of meat out of the pan, tastes it, and approves – enough, anyway, as is made obvious when he gets another and offers it to her before adding the noodles.
“While it’s arguably your duty to have children – as it is mine – there’s no reason for that to be all you are. You seem intelligent, you work hard. That’s more important than a lot of things, in the long run.”
[Izzy Montoya] She lifts a knee, hooking her foot on the edge of the counter and wrapping an arm loosely around it as she takes the piece of meat he offers, and chews.. “Holy shit, that’s good…” She seems surprised – mainly because all she would have done with the leftovers herself is heat them up again.
She seems intelligent, and that brings back the smirk. “Gee, thanks.” She doesn’t tell him of her near perfect SAT score, or the disappointment of her folks and many Ivy League schools when she opted to turn down scholarships and join the force instead. She’s intelligent, and could have gone far in any field she chose – instead, she works hard for way too many hours of the day in a job many look down on, despite the fact it’s one of the more honored professions. Sure, she doesn’t make a lot, but it’s what she’s good at, what she loves.
And it’s no more dangerous than baiting Garou. Something she tends to do more often than not.
“Bein’ where I am puts me in a position I can cover up your fuckers and your fuckups too. S’part of what caused me to bail for a few years – the coverup wasn’t quite covered enough, and I took the fall to protect a buncha folks.” Folks like John. “Took me two years to claw my way back to Detective.”
[Edward Bellamonte] “I’m sorry to hear it,” he says, giving the mixture another stir and letting it sauté for a bit before pouring the sauce over it and allowing it all to heat together. “But it sounds like you’ve made the best of it – that you were able to says a lot.”
Much of what she doesn’t tell him, he doesn’t tell her either; stellar GPA, amazing test scores, and then the Change and college burn out. He had gone ivy league, and it hadn’t fit well with his other responsibilities. But he, of all people, doesn’t look down on her for what she’s chosen to do instead of following ‘the right track’; the world – and the Nation – need her sort.
“I hope I never find myself in need of your services, but am pleased to know that they’re there.”
[Izzy Montoya] “Just means I’m a stubborn bitch that won’t take no for an answer.” Which is exactly how she survives in the male dominated profession. There’s something to be said for her decision to claw her way through the Force – since she cannot claw her defiance into the Garou society. A psychologist would have a field day with her and her issues. Which is precisely why she doesn’t see one.
That, and she doesn’t need one.
“There’s a few of us. My partner back in the day, he’s Detective now. Works Vice. John Thornton. He’s only recent found out he’s Fenrir Kin, an is one of the reasons I came back, to fill in some of the fuckin missing pieces of why I did some of the shit I did while we were beat cops.”
As the dinner seems nearing completion, she hops down from the counter to turn and grab a couple plates form the cupboard that was behind her, and some silverware too.
“You wanna keep hittin the bottle here, or have beer with dinner?” As those are her only two choices.
[Edward Bellamonte] “Beer with dinner, more whiskey after?” It’s an idea, and he plates the food as she claims whatever else is necessary. He is, of course, starting to feel it – but he’s far from sloppy, and it shows mostly in that near-smile and tone of amusement coming a bit more frequently. Apparently, she’s doing him good . . . or maybe it’s the booze. Or both. Who knows with these things, really?
“And there are far worse things than stubborn bitches. In fact, I’m brother to two of them,” he adds with a smirk, a bit larger than any so far; it’s fond, that tone, and colored with a bit of big-brother exasperation.
The mention of John gets a nod; he hasn’t met the man, that he remembers, but the name is vaguely familiar.
“Where are we eating?” He has a plate in each hand, and takes them where she directs.
[Izzy Montoya] She nods, apparently agreeing that it’s a good enough plan, as she grabs a beer for each of them out of the fridge, finds her bottle opener and pops the tops, before she nods. “Have to be the couch, ain’t gotta table yet”
She grabs the silverware, and the beers and leads them to the couch, where she sets the bottles down on the coffee table, and claims the corner of the comfortable sectional. She pulls her feet under her, sitting Indian style, and takes her plate from him to set it in her lap. She doesn’t waste any time, either, digging in immediately.
And talks with a mouthful… “Holy fuckin mother of shit… this is GOOD..”
A beat, and back to his sisters. “One of those two tryin to calm down fonzy boy yours?”
[Edward Bellamonte] “Gabriella,” he says with a nod. “The one with the lighter hair. The other was his cousin . . . I’ve already forgotten her name.”
That’s with a dismissive wave as he sits, similar to how she is, and takes a bite. “You’re right, not bad. If you don’t let your leftovers get sentient, there’s a lot that can be done with them, you know.”
That’s . . . actually . . . teasing. And genuinely so, without effort. Edward looks surprised at himself, and eats some more before he says anything else.
“If you need a table and don’t feel like going shopping, I have one in storage. It should fit in here.”
[Izzy Montoya] “Ah, the one givin me the ‘oh fuck please don’t’ eyes. Raise them all obedient n’shit, do ya?” She rolls her eyes at his tease, but the smirk remains, comfortable and slight, and clearly she doesn’t take offense to it. She is a woman well aware of her faults – and lack of cooking skills is certainly one of them.
“I fuckin’ hate shopping.” that can’t possibly be a surprise at this point. She studies him a long moment though, and then arches a brow. “What’s it gonna cost me?”
And she doesn’t mean just money, either. Everything costs something, after all.
[Edward Bellamonte] “Looking out for my little sister when Kate and I can’t. Not baby-sitting or anything, but being there for her if she needs someone. She won’t call on you often, but I like the idea of her having someone like you around.”
It’s not that much, as far as costs go, at least in theory – nothing that should twinge whatever principles or morals she has.
“Maybe occasional coffee or something? I like the idea of having someone like you around for me, too.” It’s with a shrug; not demanding, or begging, just an idea.
[Izzy Montoya] She just studies him for another long moment. “I ain’t a fuckin babysitter, an’ if she can’t fuckin’ handle herself, I’m likely to push her ass into a dumpster while I take care of shit.” It’s not a no, exactly, but more of a this is what I am, deal with it sort of statement.
And then he brings up occasional coffee with him, and she smirks, and takes another bite of her dinner. “Deal.”
A beat, and then. “What exactly ya mean by someone like me…” Curiosity, mostly.
[Edward Bellamonte] The first bit gets a smirk, and the movement of lips and cheeks is rusty; again, he seems a little surprised at it. “I wouldn’t expect anything else. And she can handle herself fairly well, but everyone needs a partner sometimes.”
At ‘Deal’, smirk takes on a hint of pleasure, and adjusts to something nearer a real smile before dying away, and then there’s the question about someone like her.
“Someone down to earth, who isn’t obsessed with pedigrees – they’re important, don’t get me wrong, but not that important – and the person who can get her the next step or three up in social standing. That kind of girl . . . irritates me.” To say the least, and given what little she’s picked up about him, there has to have been a lot of ‘that kind of girl’ in his life. “I can’t deal with that shit right now.”
[Izzy Montoya] “I ain’t gonna be her fuckin’ partner.” There’s a sense that partner means much more to her than just someone she’s paling around with, which isn’t surprising considering her line of work. A partner is someone you take a bullet for, someone you cover for, someone you do anything for. If anything, his sister will be an acquaintance she tolerates for the time being.
But then he continues, and she actually chuckles. “Getting a bit tired of the pretentious assholes, are ya? Could make it difficult t’ function in your family line…”
[Edward Bellamonte] “Oh, I can deal with it when I have to – I always have. It’s just nice to have real people around, too.” People who don’t plot to have him killed, and don’t succeed in the case of his father. Friends, or at least friendly sorts, instead of sycophants and yes-men. “But I’ve been tired of pretentious assholes at least as long as I could walk.”
Another bite or two (and a long swig from his beer can, which hasn’t been being ignored all this time) and his meal is finished; he sets his plate aside and settles back. The first bit gets a sigh. “Partner was a bad choice of words, given. I don’t expect you to have the kind of bond you must with your actual partner or anything – you’d have to get to know and trust each other and more, for that. I . . . well, I guess it’s kind of like a packmate for you, isn’t it?”
[Izzy Montoya] She chases the last bite of her dinner, and then finishes it off before she answers. She sets her plate on the coffee table and hands her beer in hand, finishing it off with a couple of swings and setting the empty near her plate. She’s pleasantly warm now, comfortable. This is her place, and while he is more monster than man, it’s nothing she hasn’t dealt with before.
“Guess so. Partners – well, for us, it’s closer than a fuckin marriage, which is why the divorce rate is so fuckin’ high. When ya find that right partner, ya click, and it’s like ya know them better than ya know your own hand. Ya know what they’re gonna do, sometimes before they do, an you move in synch. And ya do anything to protect the other.” Which is exactly what landed her in Miami. Protecting John.
[Edward Bellamonte] “Sounds pretty exactly like a packmate to me,” he offers, and other than his Rage (which is a relatively paltry thing), he’s giving her no reason to be anything but comfortable. It’s her place, indeed. “It’s unfortunate that not all of you have such close friends.”
It’s more than that, as he obviously knows, but he lacks a better word that hasn’t already been used. She settles back, comfortable, and he reaches for the whiskey (which can’t have been left far away) and sets it between them – no glasses needed.
“Most kin – in my experience – don’t understand it. The pack bond, I mean. I think you must.”
[Izzy Montoya] She nods, slightly, and takes a good swig of the whiskey before setting it back down. She lifts her hands and runs them through her hair, pulling it back off her face and neck for a moment before letting it fall. There’s something in her eyes, something like loss, or perhaps loneliness, or perhaps neither of them at all. “Ain’t had a partner in a while. None like John was since I left here.”
Her smirk returns as she rests her elbow on the back of the couch, her head in her hand. “In case ya haven’t noticed, I’m not th’nicest bitch around. Not many are built to handle my brand of in your face honesty n’shit.”
She understands. More than most.
[Edward Bellamonte] He snorts, and says conclusively, “Then they don’t know what they’re missing. And I think you’re nice enough, if brash and abrasive.” It’s wry, and he’s as relaxed as Izzy’s seen him when he takes the bottle and a healthy swig before setting it back between them.
“Of course, I’m fairly sure I don’t want to piss you off.” It’s an amusing thing, that – and rare, the Garou who realizes a pissed off kin is potentially as dangerous as any Garou. He shifts, adjusts until his position is a near mirror of hers, and idly reaches to brush a bit of hair from her face and tuck it behind her ear; it’s slow, that movement, and projected so as not to create any unnecessary tension. Fingers linger (on hair, not skin) for the barest of moments longer than necessary, and then his hand falls, coming to rest on his legs, crossed in front of him.
“I hope you find someone. I . . . don’t deal well without someone in that position.” It’s a gift of sorts, handing her one of his weaknesses to examine; he wouldn’t give it if he weren’t buzzed.
[Izzy Montoya] “Nice? Fuck, you tryin to ruin my reputation or something? Don’t let that shit get out…”
It’s said with a lopsided smirk that’s softened more into a grin though. She’s certainly feeling the effects of the alcohol at this point, as much or more than he is. He mentions not pissing her off and she just grins. “Yeah, don’t think that fuckin’ gun in there is the only one I got within reach.”
He reaches toward her, and she falls completely still, waiting, watching to see what he does. It’s not tension, just awareness, as he tucks her hair behind her ear, his fingers lingering on the long tresses for half a moment, then falling away again.
“If it happens it does. If it don’t, well.” She shrugs, though she’s watching him, the way he offers his weakness to examine. “Need someone t’keep ya in line, do ya?” It isn’t a slam, at all, but an observation. “Or someone t’take care of.” Oh the subtleties between Alpha’s and their pack.
[Edward Bellamonte] “A little of both,” he says, amused. “I’m a shitty Alpha.” Or so he thinks, but then, he is as much the perfectionist as his sister, if in a different way. “I generally do best as Beta.” Not quite a leader, but not quite a follower either – a second in command. And at least he knows it, now.
Then, “Don’t let what get out? What reputation?” Which is to say that her secret is safe with him as long as she wants it to be; Edward is the type that probably knows a lot of secrets, in fact, and learns them fairly easily. He’s got that air about him, for all that he is at least as much monster as man – he’s as good a friend as he knows how to be.
[Izzy Montoya] He has an open honesty that’s rather refreshing. The way he examines his faults, his strengths, and lays them out there. It may be because of the alcohol, but it’s certainly noted that he chooses to share. And also, to keep her not very hidden secret too.
She chuckles, and reaches for the bottle, and takes a long swig, making a face as she sets it down. They’ve destroyed a good portion of the bottle, plus the drinks earlier and a beer. She’s just about at her limit. She shifts her position, and rather than stretching out her legs onto the coffee table, she opts not to turn in her seat, and instead stretches them out over his lap, as she settles into the comfortable couch. It doesn’t seem to be a move with much thought behind it.
“Who’re you packed with now?”
[Edward Bellamonte] “I’m not. It’s . . .” He’s not sure how to complete that, what to say; it’s foreign, he feels incomplete, off balance, lost. He hadn’t always been as bad as he is now – even when he first came to Chicago he was at least a little better – but that’s just the way it is. “It’s weird,” he settles on, moving to massage one of the feet he finds in his lap.
There’s no more thought put into that than there was into getting them there in the first place.
“I was with the Unbroken Circle, before. But I got called away, and things are different now. A lot’s the same, but . . .” he shrugs. “I’ve only been back for a few days, and haven’t seen anyone but my sisters. Well, until today.” His hands move easily, naturally, and he works out knots and tension gently, with just the right amount of pressure. “Lukas was my Beta, and they were the first pack I led.”
[Izzy Montoya] His hands fall to her feet and she lets her eyes closed, a please sound falling easily past her lips. She is open, brash, abrasive – but that also means she is equally free to show other expressions as well. There’s a sense about her that she holds nothing back – no matter the situation, even if she doesn’t always react as one would expect her too.
This, however, is simply pure delight.
“Lukas – dark broody lookin’ fucker at the Broho?” Yeah, she’s met him, at least once. She smirks. “Said my look ‘screamed cop’ – now what the hell else would it scream?”
[Edward Bellamonte] “…..” There’s the sense of a tongue being bitten – he is a Ragabash, after all, and he doesn’t know her well enough to just speak his mind. She holds nothing back, but he is a different story. There’s a breath taken, and his mouth opened slowly, the air tested to see if he can speak without saying inappropriate, and then he answers the first rather than pouncing on the second.
“Him and no other. We came together from Boston, he and I. Kate joined us from New York. The rest are dead or otherwise gone, now.”
[Izzy Montoya] She opens an eye at him when he bites his tongue, and smirks. “Say it. Unless your chicken…”
Then back to the others.. “He n’Kate still packed then?” There’s a sense of her putting all the pieces together in her head. She’s worked at finding out who’s around, where they are, what territory they hold, so that she can be mindful of actions – not her own, of course, but theirs – those who might just fuck shit up and where they might do it.
[Edward Bellamonte] “Oui. And . . . Caleb? He was around when I was here before, but I only met him once or twice.” Edward has a French accent, mixed with the Manhattan – it comes out when he’s drunk and content. “And someone named Sinclair that I’ve never met. And . . . another Shadow Lord whose name I don’t remember.”
None of this is secret, of course – she could ask a lot of people about both the Unbroken and the Circle to find this out. There’s a last knot worked, and Edward takes the whiskey bottle for another swig before switching to the other foot. He’s good at this, really – he watches her face to know how she’s feeling, and if he applies too much pressure or hits a bad place (or good one), he corrects for it.
“What about you?” She’s kin, and not a real part of any pack – he’s asking about to whom she’s connected. Obviously the Jarl, who might have issue with his hovering, but other than that? Edward has no idea.
[Izzy Montoya] Chicken he is, and that amuses the hell outa her. She likely could fill in the blank easily enough, but it was certainly more fun to try and goad him into answering it. The smirk that finds it’s way across her lips is knowing, with a tinge of victory. Sometimes, it’s the little things…
“Theron?” She offers the name – its the only other ShadowLord she’s met at the brothehood, so likely it’s possible. “He make sure to warn me it’s dangerous out there, that there’s a fuckin war going on. Then got offended when I made fun of his pompous, idiotic ass for stating the fuckin’ obvious.”
He is good at this, and it’s clear she’s more relaxed than she has been since they met – hell, possibly since coming to Chicago, when in someone elses presence. “Ain’t met many Fenrir yet. Thomas – the guy who spouted off my liniage like it was a fuckin’ Bible, couple a’kin. Heard names of the others, but haven’t made personal appearances as of yet. They tend t’find me sooner or later, so I don’t gotta do any legwork. Curata – Fianna, but nice enough bloke – hangs round time to time.”
[Edward Bellamonte] Not chicken so much as polite and respectful, as well raised as he was bred. But they could be taken for one and the same, and he allows her the feeling of victory; it does neither of them any harm, and likely does her good.
It’s the little things, indeed.
“Theron, yes. And . . . I can’t say I’m surprised, really,” he says with a roll of his eyes. “Most of us take ourselves far too seriously, and of course we know everything there is to know, and because you can’t change as we can, you must need to be told everything. Multiple times. As slowly and loudly as possible, because clearly, you couldn’t understand.” And he doesn’t agree, despite his other, obviously more traditional leanings.
“It’s horseshit,” he says, and then, impulsively and still somehow lazily, shifts to his knees and kisses her nose, then her lips before sitting back and continuing his work on her foot as if he couldn’t possibly have done such a thing.
[Izzy Montoya] She snorts, clearly agreeing with his comments. Then he leans forward and her eyes are open immediately, though she doesn’t stop him. The kiss on the nose amuses her, so much so that her lips are caught mid-smirk when he steals those briefly as well. She watches him, brow arched slightly, as he goes back to rubbing her feet.
Then she moves, shifting her position and moving over until she’s straddling his lap, her hands on the couch behind him as she chuckles. “Complete and total horseshit.”
As with everything about Izzy, this kiss is controled – but also open, brash, and unrestrained. From the first moment her lips find his, there’s no hiding the desire there, there’s no holding back, and every bit of her intentions written clear as she doesn’t so much kiss him – as lay claim to him for the rest of the evening. She’d known it was headed this direction from the moment she allowed him to walk her home – it was just a matter of time.
She pulls back after an eternity of moments, chuckling softly. “So quit teasing, and fuck me already.”
[Edward Bellamonte] “Yes ma’am, Detective,” he says with a grin. “Far be it from me to deny such a lady.” He kisses her again, deep this time, as seeking and claiming (but only for the night) as her own kiss had been. It’s tortuously slow when he begins undoing the buttons of her shirt – and oh no, he’s not going to stop teasing.
But he sure will fuck her.
“Here on the couch, or do you have somewhere else in mind?” That just before he leans in and down to lick, then nip at lightly, a nipple, through the cloth of a bra at the moment, if necessary.
to Izzy Montoya
[Izzy Montoya] Fingers find their way into his hair as he kisses her, holding him there as she kisses him, the wrestle for control, and claiming one of ancient songs and tales, and even as she submits to his fingers along her shirt, his tongue and teeth across thin material that provides bare protection at best to the sensitive skin beneath, there is still the illusion of control – even though she knows he could overpower her at any moment, should he so choose.
It only adds to the thrill – baiting Garou is something of an hobby, after all.
She slips her blouse off and tosses it to the side, and pulls back long enough to help rid him of his shirt as well. She chuckles softly. “Here, the bed, both, I don’t care.”
to Edward Bellamonte
[Edward Bellamonte] “I think I’m in love.” It’s all overblown dramatics, of course, and there’s careful attention given to first one nipple, then the other, all through satin and lace, or whatever material she’s chosen today. Only when they’re good and taught does he undo the hooks and remove it, tossing it in the general direction of their shirts.
There’s no scarring on his chest, and just a little fine hair; he’s thin, too thin, though he bears the signs of someone who was once a healthy size and probably will be again. Lower, just peeking out from the top of his trousers, is the beginning of a scar, all white relief; it traces the line of his hip bone, in towards his pelvis, and vanishes beneath the waistband. There’s just a light smattering of hair – no big, burly bear he, but a skinny thing.
Lips slip to her neck, her throat, and teeth only barely graze skin, then kisses trail down to tease over nipples as he undoes the button at her waist; slowly, hands ease in to cup her butt.
He could overpower her easily, oh yes, but Edward doesn’t do things like that – he is what he is reluctantly, and he’d far rather enjoy this slowly, and make sure she enjoys it as well. She’s adjusted carefully, no contact broken, and his lips find hers again as he slides her pants down further around her hips so hands can move into her thighs and thumbs can lightly tickle across the indent where legs meet torso.
to Izzy Montoya
[Izzy Montoya] She is slender, lean, her curves slight, but there. She takes care of her body, though it’s not without scars of her own. His hands slide around her hips, easing her slacks down and find the most prominent scar – the rest she’s had since childhood, this one is relatively recent, a few months at best. A bullet wound, front and back – what they call a through and trough, low on her right side.
He thinks he is love, and it brings a soft laughter to her lips, as she takes it for the dramatics it is. He takes his time, enjoying the unwrapping of her body, the unearthing of her skin under lace, as her nails trail along the barely seen scar along his hipbone. “I think I’m gonna enjoy this…” She says, her voice filled with laughter, her eyes darkened with a delighted desire, as she lays claim to his lips once more.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
And she wasn’t kidding – initial explorations, leading toward the first of many breathless cries are found on the couch, lasting until the walk toward the bedroom is done on shaky legs, the short trip down the hall interrupted by several stops for eager hands and lips to explore once again. She’s as uninhibited in bed as she is in life, clothed or unclothed, once the barrier is broken, she exhibits a freedom few women truly discover.
She knows what she wants, and is not shy about getting it, voicing her desires in soft encouragement, and even once moving his hand….right…there…. “oh…godTHERE… fuckYEAHholyfuck..” when she needs to.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Some time later finds them in bed, her fingers slowly easing the hold where they wrapped tightly around the headboard as she succumbs to the tingly weakness of afterglow’s heat, her lips bruised, her teeth gentle as they catch his lower lip and bites briefly, easing into a languid kiss before she allows herself to relax completely against him, her breath warm on his neck, her hair spilling across his chest and the pillow under his head.
And she laughs, softly and teases. “Ya know, Eddie, your not bad… for a fuckin’ fang…”
to Edward Bellamonte
[Edward Bellamonte] He is smiling.
It’s strange, to those who’ve never experienced it, how freeing sex can be, how many weights it can lift – it’s not all gone, whatever casts shadows in the Ragabash’s eyes, but for the moment, at least, his lips form a shape they haven’t held properly for more than a few seconds in . . . well, far too long.
You’re not bad . . . for a fuckin’ Fang, she says, and he finds a pillow with which to thwap her – all teasing, in fun, and it feels strange to be that free and light.
“You’re not terrible yourself. For a fuckin’ Fenrir,” he retorts, and steals a little kiss. He lays propped up on one elbow, looking down at her, and tracing slowly, lazily over her skin as their mingled sweat dries. “Line of duty?” That’s asked as fingers land on the bullet scar.
to Izzy Montoya
[Izzy Montoya] She snorts, laughing as he hits her with the pillow and retorts the same. “Jus’ don’t go fallin in love.” She stretches, slowly, muscles already feeling the ache of activity that will make her grin on occasion tomorrow while working. She tucks an arm under her head, and watches him watch her.
She glances down at the scar she knows is there when his fingers find it, and nods. “Yeah. Fuckin douchebag got me as I came around the corner – half an inch higher and it’d hit the vest, instead.” A slight smirk. “I kicked his ass, and cuffed him before I fell. S’what got me my Detective sheild back again – that and the Mayor’s commendation.”
She’d seen and explored his scars as well, though she doesn’t need to ask if it was in the line of duty – those kinds of scars always are.
to Edward Bellamonte
[Edward Bellamonte] “Good for you.” He approves, obviously, and then, “I don’t fall in love.” Which isn’t true – in fact, it’s quite the opposite. Edward is enamored of everything, and his attention span tends to be short. Aside from that, she is purely bred of Not His Tribe, and to fall in love under those circumstances would be beyond foolish, and he’s been enough of that for one day.
His kind of scars are always in the line of duty . . . she doesn’t ask and he doesn’t tell, but instead his fingers return to roaming, finding and teasing a likely tickle spot.
“So what now, Detective Montoya? Is Lieutenant next on your list?”
to Izzy Montoya
[Izzy Montoya] “Good.” And then he hits a ticklish spot, and she squeals and slaps him, rolling away from him onto to press back into his chest, capturing his hand and pulling his arm around her into a classic spoon. A moment’s work and she hooks the blankets with her feet and pulls them up over her, and snuggles in, against him, comfortably.
She’s apparently a cuddler. Who knew?
“Got a while before that. Have t’prove myself to the old bosses here in town again. Got good recommendations in Miami, but folks here are old school, and hard headed. Maybe someday. M’content enough as Detective, for now.” Her voice is low, soft, sleepy.
[Edward Bellamonte] “Let me know if there’s anything I can do,” he says, and kisses the top of her ear; he’s anything but sleepy, really, but he doesn’t mind snuggling in the slightest. “One of the good things about being a Bellamonte is the connections.”
And then, he simply snuggles in, quiet until her breathing slows, evens indicating she’s almost asleep. “If I try to sleep here, you won’t be able to,” he says, gentle. “If I’m not here when you wake up, my number will be. Use it whenever you feel like it, and I’ll be around.”
He’s not going to leave, though, until he’s sure she’s all the way asleep. And there is very definitely cuddling until that point.