The Sentinels legs and hands, thumbs together

You keep doing you. It’s amazing :)

Donovan said all the right things. He did all the things he was supposed to do, and he did it all with such finesse. The gangster saw her as unblemish; a work of art, but the many himself had a great admirer in her. The mottled man was smart in the ways she wasn’t, spoke the ways she couldn’t. Donovan was dangling himself in front of her, as if he was a finely-sculpted jewel on a long string, swaying like a pendulum. She listened to his apothegm. She knew Donovan was full of ambition and her suggestion [err, catharsis] would indeed not do. Her long legs drifted around and away in an arch, her sooty paws brushing the ground as she strode in the opposite direction for several steps. She faced away from her dark cicerone, pushed out her buxom chest and deeply inhaled, filling her legs with the strong scent of burnt pines and cedars.  "I know. I know you don’t.” The words flew from her lips in a flurry of sweet, frosted air. “You're here. You're here.” She repeated, eyes squeezing shut as she felt her eyebrows knit together. He could hate her just as much as she could hate him: not at all. Donovan had left the Merry-Andrews to find her —and the depth and the raw emotion he offered her was overwhelming. 

"I cannot go back with you, pouls de mon coeur.”  the dame said, summoning a moniker from their recent past and letting the thick, syllabolic words slide from her tongue like honey. Indie was prone to dramatics and the title pulse of my heart only seemed appropriate for a man of such acuity. He was oxygen, and the veiled shewolf just realized that she had been gasping for breath, starved for sweet air entire time she was away. That cognizance just made it more painful to face the truth. She needed him, but could not return home with him. “You know that I cannot. There is nothing there for me anymore." Her dependance on him was palpable, though she worked hard to hide it from him. She would always need him, for they were so much better together than they were apart — and Indie liked to be the best. 

"But here…” her thick voice came sotto voce, she lifted her sculpted chin to look at the burnt treetops and pale sky above before swinging her head over her shoulder to look at upon his aristocratic visage. “Here, we could bring about a golden world.” It was a vague suggestion made to her cicerone. Indie waited to his response, waiting to see how his brilliant mind would process her charge. Indie stood completely still except for a beguiling flick of her tail low between her feathered hocks, inviting him to step closer and share her space.  Here, they were shielded from any prying, disapproving eyes.