The Sentinels legs and hands, thumbs together

Though they were so similar, there was always a darkness to Don. It had always been there; she had recognized it when they were just silly youths, he somewhat older than she. There was a place within him that even she couldn’t reach, no matter how she grasped and grappled for it. Don much preferred to file things away, hide it from view, save it for later, but Indie put herself on display. But was she not this way because of him? Was she not the very product of his vision of her? He nurtured her vivacity and intensity; grew it under his tutelage; seeming to draw strength from her joie de vivre. But she drew more than just strength from him; she was a finely-honed weapon, sculpted beneath his dextrous hand.  Indie was his perfect little pet, and she could feel him tugging at her if she was a marionette. 

"Don't waste your emotions on me, Don.”  She just wanted him to stop, stop, stop… but at the same time she wanted more, more more. The veiled vixen could not [and likely would not] ever stop wanting him… But theirs was a forbidden fruit, even amongst the ribald company of their family. They had fallen in step and danced together through the world as one, but it was tragic meregue. They were fated, star-crossed lovers at the truest and deepest meaning of the phrase. It had been wrong and so the world cut them down, felled them like hatchet would a tree.  Being so bad felt so, so good… until it didn’t anymore.

The hellcat turned towards the looming brute and she rushed upon him, pressing her head hard against his the curvature of his sinewed neck. How could they go one without touching for one more aching moment? He was a large brute but she was a tall woman and their bodies fell together beautifully. Her perfumed, finely-crafted muzzle easily met his ear. She whispered to him. “We’ve said everything there is to be said.”  Her voice, coming softly now, felt exasperated and light in her chest. Her statement was true and at the same time it was also not true [Indie’s words often held a certain indefiniteness about them. The conman had taught her that trick himself.] They had yelled, fought, argued, said everything that there was to be said — but the inked woman would never truly run out of things to say to him. She wanted him to go, but wanted even more for him to stay. Even in their hate there was love. Though he blamed her, he still sought her out. Though she pushed him away, she would not let him leave. Though they could not look at each other, there was yearning. They were close, yet distant.

They were fucked up in the way that only Merry-Andrews wolves could be fucked up.