[Izzy Montoya] (Not it!)
[John Thornton] The day had dawned, chill and gloomy, enough such that even people inside found themselves worn down and chilled in spite of their shelter from the breathtakingly cold wind. Ice formed, swiftly… making the whole of the city seem somehow desolate and unforgiving… Making it seem almost an arid desert to the huddled masses of homeless and downtrodden peoples forced to make their way in the inhospitable landscape. Shelters were filled to overflowing; several deaths had occurred in recent days from exposure to the elements. It was expected more would come given the sudden chill snap that enveloped the Windy City this January.
However, at an apartment building in Lakeview, a man who seemed somehow uncaring of the cold, ignorant of the slow death of his skin as winter’s chill fingers brushed exposed skin. In fact, save for the trench coat, gloves, scarf and earmuffs, the man seemed not to care much at all on the matter. A vague scent of smoke seemed to follow him; it was clear he was a frequent smoker, if only newly so.
He stands before the door to Izzy’s apartment, and with a simple knock, waits to see if she was home.
[Izzy Montoya] It had been a hell of a night. The paperwork for the scene in the ‘Green last night was astonishing, and her careful wording had to replace what actually happened in several places. Especially after the call from Imogen, confirming what she’d already was 99% sure was happening. If ever she was glad she’d decided she didn’t want kids, now’s the time. After seeing that – it’s unlikely she’ll ever willingly conceive.
That’s not to say the ‘practice runs’ will stop anytime soon, of course.
Today hadn’t been much better, with Finn dogging her every move, still wanting to talk about last night’s scene. He’s new, he’s eager, he’s excitable. He drove her absolutely fucking nuts. And so, now, in the evening hours, she’s curled up on the couch, the tv on some inane show she’s not really watching, while she does her best to put a dint in that Christmas bottle of scotch a certain detective gifted her with.
When the knock is heard, she stands, and makes her way to the door, drink in hand. She’s decidedly dressed down, perhaps more so than he’s seen her in better than a decade – boxer’s and a tank top, covered by a silken robe that’s untied and open. She checks the peephole, and opens the door, leaning against the frame with that same little smirk. “Nice ‘muffs.”
[John Thornton] “Yeah… I tried to find pink ones with flowers, but all they had were these.”
John smiles that wan not a smile, as hazel eyes made green in the yellow lighting of the hallway without her apartment glance at the drink in her hand. A curious brow rises upon his forehead, as the black rimmed gaze turns again to meet Izzy’s gaze.
“I gather you liked the Christmas present?”
As he speaks, gloved hands remove the earmuffs and fold them up. Then, they’re dumped into a pocket of his trenchcoat, soon to be followed by the leather gloves. John’s skin was flushed, if pale… It seemed even someone who doesn’t care about being cold was not immune to its effects.
[Izzy Montoya] “Sexy.” She stands back and gestures for him to enter the apartment, clicking the locks closed behind her automatically. As she heads deeper into her place – final destination the couch, again – she gestures toward the walk in closet area. “You can hang your coat in there, if ya like. Table for your gun, unless ya don’t trust me.”
It’s said with a grin, a lopsided smirk, even as she makes a quick detour to grab a glass for him from the kitchen. “Absofuckinglutely love it – s’the best gift I got. Useful too after last night.”
She shakes her head, and tips back another good swallow from her glass, before settling to the couch and pouring him a drink to match her own. “Make yourself at home.”
[John Thornton] “Thanks…”
John puts his coat and scarf in the closet, and unties his wet shoes to leave them by the door. He was clad as was typical just coming off the job; dress pants that were half of a navy business suit. A white dress shirt, unbuttoned at the collar adorned his upper half, a striped tie in navy, black, and gray hung askew from about the collar. He turns and approaches the couch, sliding his shoulders from the black leather holster en route. Setting the weight of the gun and holster on the table as bidden, John then removes the glock from the small of his back as well.
An idle stretch as he knuckles the small of his back, before he makes his way to the couch and begins rolling up his sleeves.
“I’m glad to hear you liked the scotch. I thought it might help…
What happened last night?”
John rubs weary eyes on his palms momentarily… They were red and angry.
Business had been slow in recent days.
[Izzy Montoya] “Always helps.” She pulls her legs up under her, and gestures toward his drink. “Help yourself.” Before she shakes her head.
“There are some days I question the shift to homicide. Specially when it involves coverup like last night- fomori fetus made the family go nuts – 10 year old boy dead, either by his own hand as instructed, or by the father’s help. Pregnant mom drowned in the pool, likely by the husband, to escape. Then he set his ass on fire to attempt to kill himself. Fucker survived. Like as not they’re gonna tag him as responsibile, if he ever snaps out of it long enough to get out of the nuthouse. Had to pull in Dr. Slaughter for the autopsy, so she could cover up the bellydweller. Make like it was some normal fuckin’ kid.”
She finishes her drink in one swallow, and closes her eyes, the back of her hand against her lips as the burn fires it’s way down to her belly. Then, softly. “Never been so fuckin’ glad I don’t want kids, man.”
[John Thornton] John’s expression is an unreadable deadpan at her last sentiment; he takes his glass of scotch in hand without a word. Many of those within the sept had seen him gulp down such quantities in a single swig; tonight, he seems content to take his time. A swig, but smaller than the entire quantity of the glass… It was a Christmas present for Izzy, after all.
And a fair bit better than the cheap stuff he usually drank.
“Sounds like a mess. I’m glad Imogen was able to help…”
John’s eyes narrow; it almost seemed like a frown, or at least, the opposing expression to his not-a-smile. Another swig, as he continues…
“The Trueborn say that the end is coming soon. It’s hard to understand why anyone would want to be pregnant, within our social group, given that belief.”
There’s something there, something about the way he says True…
((Perception + Empathy, diff =6 to see what’s going on in John’s head.))
[Izzy Montoya] (perception+empathy! Don’t be a whore, kahseeno!)
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 1, 2, 4, 5, 5, 5, 9 (Failure at target 6)
[Izzy Montoya] (+1 diff – FUCK YOU KAHSEENO!)
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 2, 3, 4, 4, 7, 8, 9 (Success x 3 at target 7)
[John Thornton] John seems tired, fatigued beyond the toll normal for the job he works. Indeed, further inspection of his eyes, specifically the whites, would reveal swollen and angry capillaries… Only just beginning to settle back into their normal rhythms. John had been drinking more lately than before. Maija’s death made that easy to place.
Perhaps it would also explain the note in his voice as he mentions the Trueborn… It wasn’t a note of fondness, not a note one typically uses for allies. It was something… distrust perhaps twinned with something hot and cloying. Anger, certainly… A sense of unresolved bitter anger.
As though shooting Wahya had not been sufficient salve to the wounds losing Maija to the jaws of their ally to heal this child of Fenris.
[Izzy Montoya] “Yeah. Otherwise I was gonna have to pull a break-in, or falsify the reports afterwards.”
She runs her fingers through her hair, and studies him for a long moment. There’s clearly something on his mind, likely dealing with those born with fang and claw, judging by the way he emphasizes the word True. He stares at his glass, and she studies him. He’s changed since she was here before, they both have. While she had the advantage of growing up kin, he didn’t, and the struggle is written across his face more often than not.
“Want is.. well. Fact of the matter is, not many of’em are being born anymore. The more kids the purebred pop out, the more likely they are to be born True, and add to the front lines. Ain’t an easy thing, and I ain’t anything anyone would want raising their fuckin’ kid anyway – even if they were Garou. They believe that if we’re to have a chance, we need every warrior we can breed in order to save the world. For us, it fuckin’ sucks. Expectations are high. I use other methods to appease the masses.”
Then, as she sets her glass down, and fills it up again, only then does she make mention of the anger in his eyes, the bitterness that drips off him like sweat. “It’s a pretty fucked up life we’re asked to live, ain’t it.”
[John Thornton] “You could say that…”
John takes another swig of the scotch, and then scrubs a hand through his hair before continuing.
“Not to mention that they don’t dare arm us or help us to protect ourselves. They’re quick to say we’re losing the war, but equally quick to dismiss the idea of further utilizing non-Trueborn warriors on the front lines. The only suggestion I’ve ever heard them give is to run if things go poorly. And if running’s not an option, run anyway.
Meanwhile, our enemy is more than happy to militarize it’s kin. Granted, it twists them mind and body, making them as bad or worse than its trueborn warriors. Still, I suspect that may be why we’re losing. The enemy trades a kin for a garou and calls it a victory. We trade a garou for one of their kin and call it a victory. Meanwhile, the enemy’s main force is saved for times it truly needs to rely on trueborn skill.”
John shrugs, shaking his head, his tone heavy with frustration.
“Nevermind when we’re killed by the very ones it’s been suggested we call for protection.”
At this, John sighs…
“I talk too much… Doesn’t really matter.”
And with that, he finishes his glass of scotch.
[Izzy Montoya] She listens.
As foul mouthed and brash and crass as she can be, there’s never been anyone who could say that she doesn’t listen, and listen carefully when people speak to her. She’s highly intuitive, she’s perceptive, she’s adept at finding out what beats inside those she talks too. Usually she’s disappointed. Sometimes she’s not.
For John though, she worries. She listens to him as he talks too much, unloading a lot of what he holds inside, a lot of what trips him out and makes him angry. She nods, occasionally, and she lets looks a sigh when he says it doesn’t matter. “It does matter. We matter.”
She shoves her fingers into her hair, holding it back from her face a moment, before she lets it fall again. “Garou are assholes. There’s no two ways about it. Some are worse than others. A good many of them think they have to protect us, and by doing so it means keeping us away from the war. Fenrir – well, we’re made of stronger shit than most of the pliant useless fuckers. We want to fight. We do fight however we can. Fact of the matter is though – we just aren’t as fuckin’ strong as them, and we can’t take the damage they can and still keep tickin.” She shrugs a shoulder. “So we have to adapt.”
And then, with a smirk, and a nudge of his thigh with her bare foot. “And who the fuck says we gotta run any plans of learnin to protect ourselves through them fuckers first? I ain’t never run from shit, John. And neither have you. They say I shoulda been mated at 15 and popped out a brat every fuckin year – ain’t done that either. There’s always ways, and it’s not always us against them, even on our own side.”
[John Thornton] “No… That’s entirely too true of late.”
John seems to consider for a few moments, a curious brow risen upon his forehead as though to gauge her reaction as he speaks.
“Against the suggestions of a certain notable Adren, I’ve begun teaching every one of our kind who is interested how to use a gun. It isn’t a perfect solution, but for now… It’s better than doing nothing at all.
The simple fact is, however much we actually fight, they fight more. They get into more combat than we do. It just seems a hideous waste of resources to me for them not to use those skills to train kin to be as deadly as we can be. Even if we can’t take as much as they can, that doesn’t mean we’re worthless.”
John shakes his head and shrugs again…
“I think perhaps they’ve given up on the idea of me and mating… My luck of late has been… very poor.”
[Izzy Montoya] “Good. And if you need more teachers, you know I can out shoot your crazy ass any day of the week. Always could.” She’s certainly not opposed to teaching others, to making sure they can protect themselves the best they can. “I ain’t shit for hand to hand, but I do what I can.”
She considers something, and takes a smaller slug from her glass, before she nods. “Only thing I gotta know is this – that you’ve made sure you know why you’re fighting, and who you’re fighting for. They’re a bunch of fuckers – no doubt, and hard as hell to live with and I’ve wanted to shoot more than one on our side, more than once. So I just want to make sure that you are certain, that you know as fucked up as they are, they’re on the right side.”
She leans back and nods. “That said, and assuming that I’m right bout ya, that even as fucked up as all the recent shit has ya, you KNOW what side to fight on – I’ll help anyway I can. There’s kin networks all over the fuckin US. No reason there shouldn’t be one here in Chicago.”
At the end though, she just nods, slightly and chuckles softly. “They give up on me because I’m a fuckin’ slut, and take great pains not to help get knocked up. Men can knock a gal up way into their 70s though. I doubt they’ve lost hope for your precious seed.”
Even so, under it, is a sense of understanding, that she knows where he’s coming from, and does not look down on him for his mourning the relationships lost still.
[John Thornton] John smiles that wan not-a-smile, as the hazel-eyed gaze seeks the bottle of scotch. As she’d suggested he make himself at home, he pours himself another half glass, before turning to her with a curious brow raised… A clear question as to whether or not she too would like a refill.
“Precious seed… I suspect they would lobotomize me for my baser instincts, were doing so more easily done.”
A moment passes, two perhaps, as John considers what Izzy has to say. Then, his tone sad almost… He begins to explain where he stands on the grand battlefield that is the garou versus the Wyrm. ((Perception + Empathy, diff = 6 to figure out why his tone seems so funny))
“I still remember my first encounter with the enemy. I still remember going into that gas station. I still remember the way that everything was too perfect, the way that the large man who entered upon my heels set the cigarettes on fire, the way the clerk grinned. That grin still chills me, thinking back on it. It was the most evil thing I had seen at the time, though I hadn’t realized it until my head felt as though it was going to explode. Somehow, he looked at me, and in that look, set a thousand suns to light within my brain…
After, I was in bad shape. A woman, garou… Mrena. She healed me. She fixed whatever it was the clerk had done to me.
She and I were dating… When… … the Wyrm’s agents killed her.”
Then, John downs the drink in one fell swig, as his mind turns its eye to darker memories, portions of the past kept behind locked doors he seldom allowed himself to open. His expression is that same deadpan as before, that same untelling not expression, as he continues. But there is a coldness in his eyes… A sense of undying hatred that would never be extinguished, not even upon his death.
“I will never forgive our enemies for that. Whatever our allies seem to think I intend.
Still… If I ever see Wahya Many-Tongues again… If ever I have the opportunity to send him to the same fate he… … I will kill him. Whether he is an agent of the enemy or not.”
[Izzy Montoya] (perc+emp)
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 1, 4, 6, 7, 8, 9, 9, 10 (Success x 6 at target 6) [WP] Re-rolls: 1
[John Thornton] John’s tone seems sad, almost nostalgic… As though he remembered a time, once upon a time, when Izzy would not have had to ask that question. As though, when they were partners, it wouldn’t have even come up.
It seems almost that even as John recognizes and accepts that things have changed, he laments that one change is Izzy losing faith in him to know the difference between good and evil… As though she could ever doubt him to know which side he should be on.
[Izzy Montoya] She accepts the refill, and listens. She listens to more than just his words, but also to the subtle subtexts that weave through his tone, across his face, deep in his eyes that he thinks hide everything. They hide a lot, but not from her. Never from her.
She sits up, and scoots closer to him, reaching over and slipping her hand into his, between his fingers and the glass he holds. She doesn’t say anything for a long time. It’s not the touch of a lover – though lord knows he could have had her dozens of times over throughout the time they were partners – it’s one of a friend. A partner. Someone who understands.
“I don’t ask because I doubt ya, because I don’t. Deep down, I don’t. There’s no man I’d ever let be at my back more than you, ever. I just needed to know the loss wasn’t clouding your vision. That’s all. I know how hard it is to lose them, to love them and have them wrenched away. Even as jaded a bitch as I am – I know. I just… needed to be sure that YOU know deep down, that even as fucked up as our own are, they’re better than the alternative.”
She nudges him with her shoulder, and then just rests her head against his shoulder with a brief sigh. “And you ever need a fuckin’ alibi for offin’ that dude, I’ve got your back.”
She always has. Always will. She took a transfer out of state to protect him, before she knew he was kin. There isn’t anything she wouldn’t do now to do the same.
[John Thornton] ((Paused here for now))
[1-7-09]
[John Thornton] “Thanks…”
John sighs, giving her hand a squeeze as she laces her fingers in his. His free hand scrubs through the mop of brown hair atop his head… Keeping reality from becoming too hatefully real. It was so real sometimes, like the walls were too straight… The dinge and dirt too grainy and solid… Lying to yourself only works while the illusions still hold.
“Our own are kids with the power to give their parents a spanking. Many of them are what… teenagers at most? And more often than not, they’ve come from broken homes or strange upbringings so out of joint with the main stream it’s hard to believe we even share a common language to the extent we do.”
He sighs deeply, shaking his head.
“What I don’t know is why I seem to them so distrustful. I’ve raised my gun against our mutual enemy on multiple occasions; I’ve had to kill more than a few of the Wyrm’s minions.
They distrust me… And yet seem surprised I keep them at the same distance they keep me.”
John considers for a few moments, before a curious brow rises upon his forehead, hazel eyes turning to Izzy’s.
“They haven’t mentioned anything to you about why I’m seen in this light, have they? Joe or Kemp… Or any of the others?”
[Izzy Montoya] She rests her chin on his shoulder, briefly, watching their fingers laced together. A part of her can’t help but wonder what if… what if all those years ago they had let the professionalism drop, just once, if they’d given in, if they’d…
Things could have been so different, then.
But she shakes it off, and chuckles softly as he continues. “I know. As tough a bitch as I am, the thought of raising a Modi scares the shit outa me. But if you ever repeat that, I’ll call you a liar and shoot out your kneecaps.” She teases, of course. She always does. “I’d be a shitty mom to a normal kid. I can’t even imagine how fucked up a trueborn of mine would be.”
She reaches with her free hand for her glass, and takes a swig, before setting it down again, closing her eyes to enjoy the burn of alcohol down through her chest, settling in her belly. Then, she shakes her head. “They haven’t mentioned it – though I’ve only met those two once. I could ask around and see…” She thinks a moment, and then shakes her head. “Only thing I can think of off the top of my head it might have to do with is that you weren’t raised with us, with the knowledge of their world. Being older makes it more difficult to believe, and harder to shift your loyalties to the Garou rather than the humans themselves. But I’m just guessing.”
[John Thornton] John shakes his head… Dark socketed hazel eyes turn to the amber liquor in the scotch bottle.
“No… It’s probably best if they don’t realize I’m aware of their mistrust. Just as it’s probably best they remain ignorant of mine.”
John shakes his head, giving her fingers another gentle squeeze.
“You say you wouldn’t make a good mother. I’ll submit you would do a wonderful job.
Look how you take care of me.”
He smiles that sad, wan not-a-smile, as he continues.
“You might even scare your kid bad enough that once he can become a nine foot tall tower of fur and fury he’s still scared to death of displeasing you.”
Releasing her hand, he moves to pour himself another glass of scotch, refilling her glass as well with the stuff. It was 15 year, good stuff… Like what he drinks when he cares what he’s drinking…
Like what he drank before it became an end unto itself.
“When you say shift my loyalties away from humanity and instead to the Garou… What specifically do you mean? Are they afraid I’ll reveal their secrets or something?”
[Izzy Montoya] She nods, slightly. “Probably. Though I doubt they’re unaware.” Mused, and then she nudges his shoulder with her own as he tells her she’d be a fine mom and scare her kids. “Probably – but you’re easy to take care of. I’ll just get you drunk and take advantage of you.”
She’s kidding.
Maybe.
He releases her hand, and she settles back on the couch again, though she doesn’t move away to reclaim her corner. Her thigh remains warm against his, her hand holding her drink lightly against her belly.
“I think its.. Well, consider my upbringing. I was taught from day one that the Garou way is the way, Garou law is above human law, and all things that have to do with the Nation is important – and more so, it was my sacred duty to protect them in any way I can. It was a big reason why I became a cop. For you- the reasoning is no less sound, but different as it came from an entirely human perspective. And they know that as Fenrir Kin, we have heads almost as hard as our Trueborn, which can make the shifting of loyalties difficult to juggle. When faces with a choice between human and the Nation, whereas before you’d automatically fall on the side of human, now you KNOW there’s a choice – so which do you choose?”
She runs her fingers through her hair, and then tucks it behind her hear. “Take, for instance, a situation where there’s a cop who shows up in the wrong place at the wrong time. For some reason he doesn’t run when faces with the delirium. That makes him a liability, because he’s see some Garou gut some seemingly humanoid being. He has his gun out, his hands are shaking, but he doesn’t back down. He’s not kinfolk, there’s nothing that marks him as one of ours – what do you do? The garou would say dispose of him. He could destroy everything we fight for. The humans would say leave him be, who would believe him anyway? And a kinfolk with a gun would shoot first, and deal with the fall out later.”
Suddenly, it doesn’t sound like this is a fictional situation at all, especially when she tosses back another deep swallow of that scotch, the heat of it warming her skin, blushing high in her cheeks. “It’s all about the loyalty, and the split second decisions.”
[John Thornton] “I can see your point… Maybe it makes me bad, or untrustworthy as kin go, but I don’t see how making myself just as bad as what they fight is a greater good. Compromising on convictions is a slippery slope…
But I think I understand a bit now why they don’t trust me.”
John takes a swig of the scotch, a faint red blush beginning to creep along his own cheeks. A few moments pass, and he begins to elaborate.
“There was a situation, not that long ago. A kin named Henry Allard was being fingered for a murder, and his partner and some of the garou asked me to help them get him off the hook. Kemp suggested I plant evidence and put the crime on a human fall guy, even though we knew a garou had done the deed.
I suspect the seeds of their distrust were planted when I told them I wasn’t willing to plant evidence like that, to put the crime on some innocent person… Even though I was willing to go to bat for Allard, to name him as one of my informants in an investigation, and to do whatever I could to prevent them from deciding Henry as the prime suspect.”
John shakes his head, and after another swig of the scotch, shrugs and sighs…
“Doesn’t matter. Though if you’re thinking to take advantage of me, now would be the opportune time. I’m already getting drunk, and their distrust has not yet become outright hatred.”
Then, hazel eyes again turn to her, and he realizes how warm his leg is where her thigh rests against his own. A curious brow raises with feigned gravity… As all the while, that wan not-a-smile plays about his lips.
[Izzy Montoya] She nods, slightly. “That would certainly do it. The Garou – they’re a very All or Nothing breed, and many kinfolk, myself included, have been taught that, and it colors our split second decisions. We’re the mob doing anything needed – ANYthing – to protect the boss. While some think it makes us bad, if we are able to protect the Nation from discovery by the humans, then the end justifies the means.”
A beat. “Sometimes. It always sucks though, when faced with such a decision, and I’ve never known a kinfolk that hasn’t wrestled with it. You just don’t have the benefit of having all that time to become jaded and bitchy, like me.”
Her smirk returns, lipsided and amused, and it only warms as he mentions her taking advantage of him, that now would be the time. “Like I’ve ever given a shit what they think about who I choose to fuck and when…”
He arches a brow, questioning, and she arches one of her own – smirking. “And I suppose my taking advantage of you hinges on one thing… can you follow my rules?”
[John Thornton] John’s brows furrow in thought, as pieces fall into place in the puzzle within his mind.
“Well, all or nothing… I won’t compromise on who I am. I’ll protect the nation as best I can, I’ll do what I can to prevent their secrets from being known…
But I won’t become the devil to do so… Even at the risk of becoming jaded and bitchy.”
He smiles that wan not-a-smile and finishes his scotch, as dark socketed eyes turn to Izzy with a curious brow risen upon his forehead.
“Rules? Refresh my memory; it’s been some time since I last heard the list.”
He places the scotch glass on the table, as the flush in his cheeks continues to spread upon his flesh.
[Izzy Montoya] “I’d never ask you too.” Compromise, that is. She made her choices years ago, and she’s made them over and over since. Before she’d ask him to compromise himself – she’d do it for him, and save him the dilemma. It’s as second nature as breathing to her, after all these years.
And then his little not-quite smile returns, and she grins and counts them of on her fingers. “Simple. Don’t fall in love – I don’t do that shit. Don’t fuckin’ try to claim me – I won’t be tied down to one, no matter who they think they are. And don’t mark me where I can’t hide it – I’m not a 15 year old looking to impress her fuckin’ girlfriends.”
Right. Simple.
[John Thornton] John shakes his head and almost seems on the verge of a laugh. As though at least a couple of her rules struck him as something that couldn’t happen anyway. Or perhaps, as if a couple of her rules were things he couldn’t, or wouldn’t, do anyway.
Not as he is now.
“Izzy, right now love is the last thing I need to try on for size. You’re an adult, and given that I’m a decent person, enslaving you to my whims doesn’t seem to suit me either.
Rule three… I’ll be sure to restrain myself.”
Still, as he mentions love… There is something there. Not love in the romantic sense, necessarily. But a shared companionship, as though their friendship having lasted for so long had endeared her to him such that he did love her, even if only as his best friend. Not in the way that would violate her rules…
[Izzy Montoya] That smirk of her’s finds it’s home across her lips once more. “It’s been a while since I’ve fucked a kin…” Well that explains those rules, don’t it…
She leans forward to set her glass on the coffee table, before she turns her head to look at him, and arching a brow, slightly. He mentions love, and something flickers in her gaze, matching the way he feels. They’ve a long history together, that even a decade apart can’t erase from their memories. Truth is, he could have had her anytime back then – but they always shied away when it got too close. Partners that sleep together is a recipe for disaster, and they avoided it. Truth be told, she wouldn’t trade their friendship now, their connection for anything at all.
“…but for you… I might just have to make an exception.” And sometimes, the most basic of connections, bowing to the most primal thing in their nature, is what goes far to help mend a broken soul. She lifts her hand, warm and strong to slide her fingertips along his jaw. She isn’t hesitating, isn’t giving him the chance to back out – she’s simply enjoying the moment, the anticipation for a little longer.
And then she chuckles, and leans forward to claim his lips with her own.
Finally.
[John Thornton] John’s lips are warm and soft, and taste of the 15 year old scotch… And as they kiss, his arms wrap her in a gentle hug, his hazel eyes closing… It felt like it had been so long…
His heart began racing within his chest as excitement spurred its pace like the proverbial bait rabbit at the dog track. A hand begins stroking her hair, as his kiss becomes heated… more passionate… Needing.
[John Thornton] ((Cool to pause here?))
[Izzy Montoya] [Yessir!]
[January 14]
[Izzy] His arms come around her, and she takes his glass to put it blindly on the coffee table, uncaring if a bit sloshes over the side. There’s nothing but the press of his lips on hers, the sense of finally coming home, the sensation of 15 year old scotch and memories….
Christ, Izzy, what did you do?
You should see the other guy
But your face, oh Izzy.. [his touch was soft, tender, hesitant]
I’m FINE, John… [shaky, she was. and chicken too. she walked away]
But..
and stop looking at my ass.
No.
Better.
[but it never went farther than that… not once]
Her breath catches as lips part, and even as eager, as willing as she is, she takes her time, savoring this, savoring him. She’d waited forever, and she won’t rush this, not with John, not ever. He pulls her closer, and fingers slide into her hair… her arms slide around his neck, and she turns, shifting her position so that she can slide a shapely thigh across his lap, straddling him without missing even a moment of his kiss..
[John] John’s hand moves through Izzy’s hair, his hand moves to cradle her neck, as if to keep her from pulling away…
Izzy…
Yes John?
Would it be wrong of me to compliment your dress tonight?
John? It’s never wrong to compliment my dress.
Even at a policeman’s ball?
I’m not a man, John.
That’s not a mistake I’d make, Izzy…
You’ve been staring at my ass again.
It had been the policeman’s ball, before she left for Miami. The drinks had been plentiful; cops were good at drinking if nothing else… The job drove you to it. And perhaps, after one too many, John had been thinking. But they were both professionals.
Somehow… Professionalism didn’t seem very important right now. Maybe John just hadn’t felt like a cop in a long time.
His other arm crushes her against his chest, the flush on his cheeks growing redder as his skin warmed and became hot… And the presence of a shapely thigh and the way she was straddling his lap was taking way too much of his attention. Their lips parted, his tongue dances against hers… Gently, delicately… As if he feared to break her… Or perhaps, as if beyond anything else, he didn’t want her hurt.
Not on his account.
[Izzy] They’d so carefully tread that line for so very long… despite the eagerness, the flush of excitement, the desire that they’d been holding back for years – they’re still careful, still tender, still considerate. They don’t want to hurt the other… but what the do want can’t be denied…
But still, the kiss, this kiss lingers in the way only the long anticipated can. They waited ten years for this first kiss, and she means to make it memorable for the both of them. He holds her there, worried she may pull away [again] – but there is no tension against his fingers. She has no intention of pulling away, of backing down, of letting him out of her arms – let alone this apartment – for hours to come…
Her fingers slide from his neck, along his haw, then down to his shirt, fingers tugging at his loosened tie, and tossing it away once it’s been freed from his shirt… fingertips are warm as they slide between the buttons, slipping them free one by one, her touch a gentle caress along skin between each one… she’s taking her time, she’s lost in the heat of his kiss… in him…
[John] As she pops his shirt buttons free, she finds a plain white tee shirt underneath. Still, his skin was warm through the thin cotton… Thin cotton which seemed to form fit to a chest that saw regular exercise. True, it was no bodybuilder’s chest, not by a long shot. But it was clear John saw regular use of the gym.
Still, he doesn’t draw away from the kiss, his heat coming in brief, heated moments as their tongues entwine and dance. He drew in a deep sigh, as all the heated tension of the past seemed revivified and alive again. His excitement began to become a physical thing, alive of its own accord, reflected in his anatomy.
One hand continues to cradle the base of her neck, as the other grazes gently along her back… Sliding under the hem of her tee shirt… Rubbing the skin on her back with a gentle, almost tender touch. The touch was light… little more than a light caress of his fingers along her spine.
[Izzy] When she can tug the tails of his shirt from his slacks, she spreads it back, and repeats the tug with that t-shirt, to give greedy fingers the first taste of his skin… fingers slide up along his chest, a soft moan sounding in the back of her throat as his fingertips find the silken skin of her back, along her spine, bringing a shiver of delight dancing under her skin.
Hips curl closer, pressing her back into his touch, while remaining locked int that kiss – there’s no smirking now, there’s no laughter, there’s only exploration and the steady heat building between them…
His touch slides over skin, and there’s the feel of scare tissue lower on her right side, where a bullet exited skin that was unblemished before she left Chicago… Miami was a rough time, a harsh town, and while she’d always managed to escape permanent injury here, there was another story… and it has a match along the front, over her hip, where the bullet was half an inch shy of catching her ballistics vest…
It’s forever [and too soon] but she breaks the kiss, only to each down to the edge of her shirt and pull it off, tossing it aside. She grins at him, and before claming his lips again, she tugs at his t-shirt, leaning back so that she can help him rid himself of his dress shirt, his t-shirt… only then does she lay claim to his lips once more, trembling lightly as she presses close, the touch of her skin to his building the fire within her, until she’s lost to it…
…lost in him…
[John] She pulls off her shirt, John pulls off his… The two of them bask in the communal fire of their shared touch. Like Izzy, John has not escaped his profession unscathed… A large circular scar sets on his right shoulder near his pectoral muscle, large and raised from the otherwise unblemished skin nearby. Its twin rests upon his back, high on the shoulder…
It had to have been done by a high caliber rifle, a through and through… Any closer the shoulder joint and he would have lost the arm. It seemed a lifetime ago, forever ago… In a time where his biggest worry was that a drug dealer or supplier would hire someone to take him out. As had nearly happened that day…
His chest is heaving, flushed with excitement, passion, and alcohol. Eyes of hazel seek hers, a light shade of green in the lighting in her apartment… Before he puts his hands under her butt and stands, lifting her, holding her to him as he carries them to where he guesses is her bedroom.
His eyes only deviate to make sure he doesn’t run them into things; other than that, they remain locked on hers…
[Izzy] her fingers trace the scars she finds, and then she’s laughing softly, her arms sliding around his neck, his shoulders as he lifts her, easily. She’s tall, but slender, body hardened from years on the force, despite eating shit and drinking a lot, and generally not taking the best care of herself – she does, however, spend a lot of time chasing down assholes… and has excellent genes to boot.
His eyes don’t leave hers, and her own never waver, either. It’s as if they are afraid to look away, afraid they’ll change their minds, though from the moment of that first kiss, that first touch, Izzy knew there would be no turning back… this time, the line will be crossed. This time, she’ll give him all of her – everything she’s held back for so very long.
The walk to her bedroom isn’t far, just past the bathroom, at he end of the hall. There’s little in their way to step around, and the trip to the bedroom is made in short order. And once he’s found the way to the bed is minus any obstacle, she lays claim to his lips once more with a softly delighted moan…
[John] As they kiss, he stares into her eyes and sets her down on the bed, again with more tenderness than might be expected in a moment of passion between two who’ve known each other as long as had they. Then, he uses the toe of one dress shoe to sneak out the foot, and then the socked toes of the freed foot to likewise free its companion of the dress shoe.
He leans in, pushing her back or forcing her to lean back, as he moves into the bed with her. His chest heaved, though not really from exertion, perhaps moreso from anticipation. He pops the clasp on his metal banded watch and absently places it on whatever nightstand, headboard, or ledge happens to be convenient.
Then, he wraps his arms around her tightly, welding her to him… His lips whispering her name quietly as the kiss grows more intensely passionate. “… Izzy.”
[Izzy] She doesn’t look away. She couldn’t even if she wanted too – and she doesn’t want too. What she wants is written clearly in her dark eyes. She wants him. Tonight it’s more than sex, it’s more than a fun romp in the hay with some random rage monster, some stranger picked up and brought home. This is John. This is the man who partnered her through the rookie years, who was her equal as a beat cop, who rose with her to get their detective sheilds within a month of each other. This is the single solitary man she would trust the whole of her life too, without question.
This is John.
And tonight, it’s her name on his lips…
She lifts her fingers to trail along his jaw, before wrapping around him, holding just as tightly as she is held… “…John…” It’s said with the sense of a smile, of contentment somewhere under the burning fire of desire as her hands slide down his back, and over his hip, and wraps her leg around him, pulling him tighter against her.
[John] Her leg pulls him tighter, and John obliges eagerly… His hands finding the bottoms of her boxers, his fingers trailing in a tender caress along her thighs… Then, the hands move to the elastic, working it slowly down in time with the slow grinding motions of his hips, which press his constrained anatomy against her in a steady rhythm. This wasn’t want born of simple lust, not a case of a simple hookup that would never mean anything… Maybe it meant breaking Izzy’s rules, but this was more than an idle fling. Perhaps they both realized it.
All those times on the job when they could have. When perhaps they should have, given the way their relationships were going in those days. All of it a buildup to this solitary point in time.
As he pulls off her boxers, he trails tender kisses along the back of her calf muscle, a hand moving to support her leg as he removes them from the final foot. Then, tossing them aside idly, John unbuckles his belt and begins to take off his dress pants…
[Izzy] All those times. All those times they could have and didn’t… but if they had, this moment? This moment wouldn’t mean near as much to either of them. This certainly breaks her rules on some level, and maybe she knows it. Maybe she welcomes this change, this moment in time that means something more than all the rest.
They both know it.
And she, for once, is unafraid of it.
She smiles at him – no smirk here, just a soft smile that no one has seen in a very long time – as she watches him leave little shivery kisses along the back of her calf… Her dark eyes linger over him as he unbuckles his belt, as he starts to slide them off, slide them free, remove the last barriers from between them. She rests her hand on her belly, fingertips trailing across her own skin lightly, as dark eyes slide over him, missing nothing, seeing everything memorizing this moment in time to be remembered later…
And only when he’s finally dropped those pants, removed his boxer briefs, removed the last of their restraint in the moment… only then does she lift her hand and reach for him.
“…commere.”
[John] ((Paused for now))
1/17/10
[John Thornton] John smiles that wan not-a-smile… Though perhaps it was more of a smile than anyone had seen him wear lately… And speaks in a low whisper. “Yes ma’am.”
Then, as bidden, he goes to her quickly, wasting no time on the heap of his clothing on the floor. His lips move to meet hers again in a passionate kiss, a kiss of heat, of lust, and of something deeper. The something they’d both felt since she returned to Chicago… That familiarity, the sense of knowing. Even in this moment that they venture into the unknown and uncharted territories beyond the map they’d made for each other.
His hands find her as well, his touch light, gentle… As he begins exploring her not with his eyes, but by touch instead. Meanwhile, his manhood stands erect and proud… As anticipation gives way to something more substantial.
[Izzy] Yes ma’am he says, and at last he is near her, in her arms in a way they had never dared dream of before. And while he smiles, and it’s more of one than usual, though still not full blown, she resolves to bring at least one full, real one to his lips before nights end.
And then his lips are on hers, his body pressed against her, and she moans low in the back of her throat, even as she arches into the lightness of his touch, the slide of his fingers gentle over her skin. She responds eagerly, not as the young Garou might, not even as a young girl. Izzy is a woman, fully aware of him, and her reactions to him. Her breasts are slight,though his touch sends sensitive skin crinkled and hard, aching for his touch… her abs are smooth, flat, strong, and the curve of her hip womanly, without extra padding. And all of her is on fire for him…. skin flushed, warm under his touch.
Her hands explore as well, even as she is lost in his kiss, memorizing every line and plane of his form under her eager touch, teasing, tempting in mirror of him, until fingers slide between them, and around his manhood, stroking gently, eagerly, as she tangles her leg around his to pull him closer still..
Eager, always eager… though tonight? Tonight feels like she’s finally come home….
[John Thornton] His breath escapes in a rush as she begins to stroke him, his skin flushed and warm as the temperature seems to rise another ten degrees at least. His hands find her breasts, gently brushing the hardened and sensitive skin, tempting them with brushes that almost seem accidental in their lightness.
His lips part… His tongue seeks hers, to dance and entwine against it in serpentine zeal.
Then, a hand drifts lower… to her stomach, along the midline of her abs, then lower still… until a finger finds the sensitive skin of her womanhood, and slides between the folds gently. Her clitoris is grazed, and then again… As his hand tries to excite her senses.
His eyes meet hers, becoming a strange shade of bluish gray in the dim lighting, like the deep sea on a cloudy day, with little sun to illuminate the water’s brilliance. A part of him wonders why they waited so long for this. A part of him knows this wouldn’t be what it was if it hadn’t taken the time it had in arriving…
And then thought seems lost in the intensity of sensation racing along his synapses.
[Izzy] His hand tries… and succeeds, as her voice catches in a soft cry, the sensations brought on by his touch racing through her slender frame, her breath caught, held, then let loose again in a soft moan. His eyes meet hers, and she is instantly lost in that gaze, in the color of his eyes, such a deep bluish gray, even as she reacts to every teasing touch…
There is no thought here, nothing but instinct that guides her, fingertips sliding along sensitive head to gather the moisture there, and slide along his shaft again… the touch is light, exploring, maddening with her teasing, even as thighs part for him, open to his exploration…
Any other, she would be rushing, she wouldn’t worry with the tease, knowing exactly how to get the most satisfaction, swiftly. Not tonight. Tonight, she lingers, she teases, she memorizes the feel of him under her fingertips, in the palm of her hand, hips curling into the caress of his hand…
[John Thornton] Her hips curl into his hand’s caress; his find themselves bucking into hers of their own accord, as the reptile brain, the seat of base reflexes, found itself teased and maddened in a way most thoroughly pleasant. His breath was uneven, ragged… Spurred on or halted completely by her hand’s motions, as though she could play him like some odd organic instrument had she but the desire to do so.
Meanwhile, his hand gently teases the soft folds of skin, gently brushing the clitoris, then drifting lower to slip inside her… Then brushing along the sensitive folds again in a most delicate fashion. As their eyes meet, lock, become lost within each other, John can’t help but find himself equally lost… Held fast by her stare moreso than iron shackles could force his attention.
In between kisses, he hears himself whisper her name… “Izzy…” It had been unintentional, but that made it no less pleasing to him, no less genuine, no less heartfelt in tone.
[Izzy] It’s his whispering of her name that does it, the sound of her name on his lips and his fingers dipping deep within her, teasing over sensitive folds… and it becomes too much, not enough, all at the same time. Her breath hitches, and she pulls him closer, between her thighs, her fingers slipping from his back to lace in his between her legs and pulls him away with a breathless smile…
“..John…ohjohn…” She doesn’t dare close her eyes, fearing it only a dream, and she does not want to ever forget the way he looks at her right now, the way he burns for her, and what she sees in his eyes – her own an open window to all she’s ever felt for him, for all these years…
And the hand she teases him with, guides him to her, as hips curl in welcome… “please…”
[John Thornton] His hips acquiesce without delay, guided to her as he was, her hips curled as they were… A gentle push… Another… As he eases his manhood inside her. Even in this, eager as he was, excited as he was… Needful as he was in this instant, he was gentle. And so he pushed in slowly, bit by bit, until his hips bottomed out against hers.
His hand, his fingers, tighten about hers, as he withdraws, and then pushes forward again, starting slowly… All the while staring into her eyes, seeing reflected in them a look not unlike that within his own. Years of need, want… Unfulfilled and pent up. Stored until now…
He places a gentle kiss to the tip of her nose, before his hips pick up the pace… His breath becoming a series of ragged gasps and the unbidden sounds of pleasure.
[Izzy] She holds her breath, she holds it as he slides so deeply within her, so carefully, so gently… inner muscles tense and tease against him as he finally finds himself buried completely, and only then does she exhale a long soft moan… her fingers tighten around his, holding tight as if that is the single stable thing she has in this sea of sensation, as her other hand slides around his lower back, nails dancing over skin, before she holds him to her…
Her lips part in a breathless smile, her expression as open, as naked as he’s ever seen her. She holds nothing back, nothing – not from him. And when he kisses the tip of her nose, she laughs, and her hand slaps lightly against his ass, before he’s moving faster, and she meets every thrust with a welcome curl of hips, a desperate need to be closer still, to ride this wave with him as far as it takes them…
Her breath is a soft pant, and she does not hold back her cries, her little gasps that fall into moans that fall into a soft rhythm, urging him on, with hips and touch and lips as she buries her face into the curve of his shoulder, his neck, breathing deeply of his scent, of him….
[John Thornton] Her smile, her open expression cause him to stare in amazement, as though trying in vain to record it all, if only to convince himself he’d ever seen such a thing. And then, she slaps him on the ass… And it happens.
John’s lips finally curl up in a smile. It wasn’t a wide smile, not an all encompassing smile by any means… A weak and fitful thing. But compared to the smiles anyone else has seen lately, it was a marvel to behold. In fact… at the first instant, John had seemed almost on the brink of laughter.
It was as though, even though nothing was okay, this… This was okay. As though he’d forgotten, if only for a brief instant, all his cares and worries… All the myriad things that caused his smiles not to exist. As though for an instant, he could smile in spite of what all was wrong with the world, rather than find himself downtrodden by it.
And then, the wan not-a-smile is back again… But its hold less firm upon him. Or perhaps, it suited him more. Held just a trace of the man he used to be, left off just a trace of the scarred walking sore of a man he’d become.
And all the while, his hips move back and forth, bottoming out each time against hers. Faster and faster still… But always with that exceeding care and tenderness. Always with that sense that this was more than idle lust, more than sex for its own sake. As though this held more meaning, even if it flies in the face of her rules, of his sorrows.
[Izzy] He almost laughs. He actually smiles. And she – if she were the type to fall in love – would fall long and hard and never want to breathe again if it was not to share breath with this man she’s waited over a decade for…
And it’s ok. It’s all ok, it’s even better than that, for in her eyes, in her trust, in her openness he sees the truth – there is only one man she would ever be this open with, this secure, this bare and raw and real with.. and it’s him. She would do [and has done] anything for him, should he but ask…
[…though perhaps not break the rules… perhaps…]
And all the while, all the while sensations soar under her skin, dance across her nerves, drag along her slender frame and suffuse it in ever-warming desire, all encompassing feeling and sensation..
This is more.
So much more…
“ohGODJohn” the cry is breathless, desperate, and exalted all in one as nerves trip-fire into release, her eyes closing on their own accord, as she is completely lost to the slide of him so deep within her, tender yet not, not just dragging her to the edge, but pushing her over the top into a free fall of pure desire, delight, and all encompassing fire that steals every breath from her lungs, and every thought from her mind…
there is nothing… nothing but him.
[John Thornton] Her outcries drive him to distraction, it’s all he can do not to give into the rising tide of sensation that threatens to overwhelm him completely. His hips move, tender but fast, gentle but needing, each time bottoming against her hips. His smile seems to fade, concentration taking his expression as his brows knit, focusing on continuing the motion of his hips and not giving in yet. His skin is hot and slick with sweat, his eyes seem alight of their own accord… He draws a deep breath and speaks again, in a sound as much prayer as it is outcry of passion. “Izzy…”
His free hand finds hers, holding both her hands in his, placing them above her head as his lips find hers in another passionate kiss. His hips push into her… slightly less tenderly than before, as they begin to race to the home stretch.
Thought was gone… Lost to their passion. Nothing existed save this moment.
[Izzy] He drags her hands over her head, and she clings to his, fingers laced and held tight as she submits completely to the sensations that overwhelm, submits completely to him. She lifts her head, pressing into his kiss, each touch desperate, filled with everything she’d never be able to say, that she never would say. There are no walls here, nothing is held back. There’s a very real sense that this Izzy? This Izzy is for him alone… no one ever gets this close, finds her this open, finds her…
This Izzy has waited, and belongs only to him.
She’s lost any sense of where she ends, where he begins, as they race toward that moment, the single moment where they will be more than just Izzy and John, more than partners, more than friends… they’ll be one. For a few precious mind-blowing moments – they will be complete.
[John Thornton] The moment approaches, and arrives… John’s hips press to hers once, twice, and then again, locking tight to hers. His hands hold hers as though they were a lifeline, as though even in reaching this moment, his body knew what his mind could not right now. As though his body realized how rare it was to see this Izzy, and recognized that it was special… As though his body feared she’d turn to steam before his eyes, or he’d wake to another nightmare in this most sacred of moments…
His hips seemed welded to hers; it seemed as though his heart was beating against hers, in time with hers… His nerves turned white hot with the overload of feedback from his sweat slick skin.
He drew in a deep breath, and held it… The moment seeming to draw on into infinity of its own accord… Time stretched…
[Izzy] Her thighs press against him, her legs tangling with his, all in effort to stay closer, to hold him tight, to keep him right there, buried within her, their sweat-slicked skin all that separates the hearts pounding in tandem, beating in erratically similar rhythm. She can’t breathe, she can breathe only him, and she’d not want it any other way…
One hand slides free, carefully, but only to warp around his shoulders and hold him tight to her, as if afraid he’ll slip away, he’ll disappear and it be only a dream, only another one night stand though her mind, her body, her soul tells her otherwise.
This is John.
And tonight, right now, and perhaps some part of her – forever…
She belongs to him.
[John Thornton] John remains stuck to her for some time indeed; even after the moment moves on without them, he doesn’t move. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t do anything, save release the long held breath taken upon the culmination of their efforts… And that only because to hold his breath longer would cause render him unconscious. For a very long time, he remains this way… Unwilling to move.
Then, he releases her other hand, his arms wrapping her tight against him, holding her… In the perfection of this moment, that only they would share. The world could end, the Moon could turn red, and the seas could boil with the onset of Apocalypse… And this would still be theirs alone.
He cuddles in tight to her… his arms hold her tight to him, and he buries his face in her neck… Nuzzling her and holding her and breathing her in, as though it was all he could do to stop the rising well of emotions from the roller coaster he’s seen for so many weeks, months, an eternity from his perspective… from overwhelming him. He held her, held her to him protectively… As though he’d never let her go.
[Izzy] He releases her other hand, staying close, so very close, holding her like something precious, something he can’t, he won’t let go… And she slides her arm around him, holding on just as tightly, her fingers sliding into his hair, holding on to him in every way possible…
She knows him so well, always has. She let him see her in a way no other can, would, or will… and this is one night she will never regret. This night, this night is theirs, theirs alone.
Her breath is soft, her lips gentle as she kisses his shoulder, the curve of his neck under his ear. And then she is content to hold him, to be held, to remain this way as long as he wants, as long as he needs, as she needs it too.
Sometime later, when they can breathe, the spell remains woven around them, and rather than break it with conversation, or even with laughter, she simply gathers the blankets from the bed, and pulls them over top. She doesn’t move far from him, not now, not for the rest of the night, until well on into the morning. Even when they part, when he slips free from the heated confines between her thighs, she does not let him move far away. It’s a mere rearranging, until she is comfortably tangled against him, head on his shoulder, her hair tangled and spread across his chest, her hand resting lightly above his still thudding heart.
Content, her sigh as she relaxes.
Content, she is – content and whole.
Finally, at long last, Izzy Montoya is home.
[John Thornton] ((And fades them here. :) Thanks for the rp; this was one of the best, imo.))
[Izzy] (Thank you! And your totally making me blush. (BLUSH) get some sleep. :) )