The Sentinels legs and hands, thumbs together

@Donovan

Indie found herself, once again, drawn towards the ever-smoldering remains of that forest. The thought of it never truly left Olive, ever since her discussion with Cathenna about the power of elemental fire versus their aqueous deity. Though the stories and legends of their sea god captivated her endlessly [as she was prone to do when told a vivid story or imbibing something completely new], she always found herself going back to thoughts of fire.  Flames, infernos... they took everything and left nothing, without asking for permission or offering an apology. It was the way she wished to live, free and footloose. Fire enticed her, energized her, seasoned her mind with a certain zest for life; whereas water was calmer, centered, balanced. Indie much preferred the former. 

Fire took this forest wholely, completely, and Indie searched fervently amongst the burnt, meandering paths of the flames... to find some sort of insight in their wild, unruly wisdom. The earth still felt warm even though it was blanketed in snow —the arsonist flames incinerated the green canopy, leaving large gaps in the tree cover. Snow floated down through these fringed gaps, backlit by the sunlight which poked through. The world was getting colder, but this forest was hot. Indie nosed at the snow, digging a small hole, whuffing loudly and then inhaling the scent of the burnt earth. Her heart fluttered. The scent was full of sadness, yet at the same time full of life. The forest would eventually grow back with the force and ferocity that only fire could produce, like a phoenix from the flames — of this she was sure, and it inspired her.

The vaudevillian had pledged herself to the women known as Sirens; the ones who hated men and fought scrappily amongst one another. It was so exotic and Indie felt herself drawn to them — she always wished to know more; to understand what the women were saying when they spoke in anything but the common language. Plus, she quite liked the sexy title of Siren and wished one day to have a name synonymous to a fictional creature of enrapturing beauty... and when she did, Indie was sure she would wear the badge well.  But for now, Indie snuffled around in the snow and mused about the fire which ravaged the sentinels but also burned very strongly inside herself. 

An unusual yearning for a paticularly firey woman had sparked the russet Italian with his unusual travels. The gang, a group which he loved dearly and helped lead was not by his side for this journey. Whether it be a short travel, or long, the crook held no clue, but this undeniable blossom of desire of his old friend was no longer able to be ignored, and had to be acted on. The ending of their relationship was rather grave, Indie's reaction to him trekking so far was hardly predictable. Besides, some time away from his family would do some good, right? He couldn't be around those bastards forever. A subtle smile arose on the brutes maw as he thought of the Merry-Andrews Gang, what a bunch they were. 

His roaming had brought him upon the scorched skeleton of a forest. Donovan's orbs shifted, admiring the beautiful destruction. His pace slowed to a leaisurely walk, a snowflake landed directly on his nose - and he was glad no one was there to see his smile when it did. How embaressing it would be to catch someone with such a tough reputation like himself grinning at a white speck of frozen water landing on his nose. Very much is the answer. 

It wasn't so much the fire that he could relate to, but more the aftermath. No, not the weak trees or dead plants, but the few living things that survived such flames licking agaisnt its bark or attempting to swallow its flowers that somehow, quite impossibly, survived. Survival of the fittest was a factor, but luck played a large part. For, fire can kill all, and it will do so, nothing is as strong as fire no matter how high one's built themself to be. Don knew well he was lesser than the flames of such a strong being, and he accepted it well. 

With all these thoughts scampering about his mind, he hardly noticed the charcoal wolf hidden within the singed woods, concealed well in the jet repercussions of natures blaze. A flurry of their scent filled his nose, causing his eyes to widen at the suden realization. "Ind." His voice was unexpectedly rough and quiet, as he hadn't spoken a word likely in days. It was a failed effort to get the shadow's attention. So instead, he cleared his throat, partly because he needed to fix how corse the way he spoke. Hopefully she would hear this effort. It was strange, the excitment he had expected all along upon finding the zesty girl was not present. Instead, he barely felt anything - maybe because this in fact could be a stranger and he'd interpreted them wrong. He would just have to wait and see.

It was him. There was no denying it.

It was his scent that she noticed first; the spiced perfume of fresh earth. He was quite unique in that; but the starlet had quickly missed it as a phantom, passing sensation. Indie hadn’t been away from the gang for too long, perhaps just a couple months, and the memories still burned hot in her head — it was not the first time that the reverie of his scent wafted past her nares.  But the vaudevillian choked down her biting retrospection [just like every other time she experienced true emotion and vulnerability] and rolled her tongue to rid both her mind and mouth of the taste. There was no time for such things.

But at last a clearing of a man’s throat hooked Indie’s attention and she raised her head to regard the figure before her. The Vamp wholeheartedly expected to see a Siren standing there, watching her, trying to figure her out [or, perhaps it was that white pest who had difficulty reading social cues], but no pale pelt stood before her. It was a man, and the brute’s mottled hues of cedar and ink spoke what his words couldn’t.

A moment’s silence fell over the two. Indie canted her slender crown inquisitively, as if questioning the specter in front of her — then it clicked.

"Don?” she questioned breathlessly. The vamp took a slow, dragging step towards him. “You’re not a vision, are you?” It was so bizarre that he would be there [amongst all the other places in the world] that she almost believed her eyes and ears were playing tricks on her, not just her nose. The immediate emotional reaction to this surprise had been unwelcome, so she continued to wax poetic. “Or a phantom, a ghost who bedevils these charred remains?” her cool contralto questioned thrice, drawing close to Donovan’s form with another step. Then she halted her slow dance towards the familiar stranger and stood firmly upon her four dark pillars.

Once the initial consternation wore off of her expression, questions began to boil and roll within her mind. Why was he here? How did he find her? What did he want? Where were the others? And suddenly, in light of all in information she instinctively sought, that last question seemed the most important. “Are the others here?” she intonated softly, wishing to see the patchwork faces of her harlequin gang but doubting that the entire group would [could] travel this far.

Deadly silence fell against them, his gingery eyes grasping onto the silhouette's own. It was painful, he wanted her to speak to badly, every milisecond, a minute. It was a silent torture, but finally he was released from the confinement of the quiet cell the moment she spoke. It wasn't of distain, or happiness, at least at first. To hear his name escape her ebony lips was unnerving. She steadily closed some of the space between them. The criminal opened his mouth to answer, but was interupted by another question, and then another, drawing past the barren area of snow placed seperating the two.

"No." The wolf spoke, his voice holding no emotion. He was far too shocked to feel anything, it was actually her. Unless... it was him expirencing an illusion. Had he gone insane from the journey? Perhaps his brain was giving him a sign to go home, creating a mirage of the treasure he had been in search for, and providing him reason to return. A rusty paw landed, only to be follow by three others, his head poked from his neck, his gaze searching desperately for evidence of this facade.

He decided, hallucination or not he would continue to answer the multiple questions thrown in his direction. "I left in an attempt to find you, I never told my reasoning." Donovan admitted, he knew the entire group would come if her mentioned this was a scouting to find her. He needed to do this in solitare, to create his own thoughts and converse with her in private, a luxery they would never receive with Merry-Andrew's around. 

"I'm not a vision, look." He hesitated momentarily, before nudging her shoulder with her nose. Don instantly stepped back, he had felt her. A sudden wave of memories crashed onto him and the menice kept the former space before the touch. It was unpleasant to relive all their good times, only to be reminded of the falling out. "See, Ind." 

Indie’s velveteen brow knitted when Donovan revealed that he was in fact, alone. It was a blow to learn that they were not here, for there were many, many nights were she laid awake from want of their company. Had Indie wanted to expatriate herself from the Merry-Andrews? No, not really. She loved them, and the veiled woman appreciated their hedonistic and scurrilous lifestyle… actually, she felt thrived amongst that beloved congregation of freaks. Her natural vivacity and cunning mien had been put to great use, working alongside some of the best cons in the business and ravaging countrysides. Really, it had been the only life she had ever known; initially unwanted, but eventually loved. It was an indisputable fact that the gang absconded with her when she was just a pup [just a few weeks old], plucked from her mother’s breast as a raven would pluck a juicy, sweet berry from a bush. But, the vamp had gotten over that fact long ago... there was no use crying over spilled milk. The crime had been committed and there was nothing Indie could do to change it.  Raised as one with her captors, she developed deep respect and love for the scrappy gang — it was her own “Indie” brand of Stockholm Syndrome.

It was where she had met Don, this crazy, lovely, senseless, beautiful renaissance man. But Donovan… He had been born into the gang, not stolen into it. Merry-Andrews ran in his blood. The man had trained her, tutored her from her tender, young age… raised her up and showed her how to hone and harness her innate artistries. They were too similar, she and that pastiche brute who stood so front of her, so attuned to another through a bond that only a tutor/student relationship could provide. They were fascinated with each other and he continued to fascinate her now. 

“You're a fool,” she spat at him, arcing her fine head and shoulders away from his hot touch. Her legs soon followed and she stepped away, sweeping away from him in a dramatic humpf … only to toss her mane moments later and throw her molten amber gaze over her shoulder to stare harshly at him. Unable to look away.  She narrowed her eyes and the image of Donovan’s red and black veneer obscured against the dark, charred remains of the forest. The sight of him melted into embers that, greatly resembling the flames that claimed this forest. Perhaps he was the inferno in it’s second coming — this time, to claim her. How dare her? Anger plumed deep in her chest, but the shewolf felt validated in her enmity. Donovan was, quite honestly, the last wolf she wished to see right them. It wasn’t right of him to steal this… freedom away from her, and he knew.

It had been nice to forget for a while.

“We were fools,” she admitted. Indie huffed again, her heaving sigh crystalizing into a fine mist the moment it left her licorice lips. Then, the hurt quickly set it. “Wh- Why would you do this?” her voice cracked as she spoke suddenly, twinged with pain. Why did he wish to cause her pain? He had been there when it happened. He knew why she had left. He knew she didn't want to see him. He knew why. He knew. He knew. He knew. 

Donovan's ears lowered to his skull, his head pivoted to the right, listening intently to what the fatale spoke. At first she had been confused, no sign of regret or unweclome had shown on her face. Why would he do this? In truth, the gangster didn't fully know. He knew he loved Indie, in some strange way that was slightly off from the other members of Merry-Andrew's. The brute never spoke it aloud, never to anyone, those three words everyone at some point yearns to hear never dripped off his tongue. Not to his father, or mother, or siblings...or Indie.

They say the apple doesn't fall far from the tree, and in this case was completely true. Don never took after his mother, she was a stunningly gorgeous femme with mixes of light greys, creams and amber. She had a heart for object outside of the family, a feeling he had yet to experience. His father and him were practically twins, tall, intelligent men that always chased after something just out of reach. Constantly greating large plans that would occasionally fall out, they had ambition, but now it was only one of the two autumn's night pelted wolves. 

His eyes never shifted off the coquette, grabbing at whatever emotion besides distain left in her expression. Her insult was nothing, it could've been a harmless mosquito btie agaisnt his scruff. The second was much more impactful, but he could find no falseness. They were fools. Daft, idiotic, hopeless fools. The couple had been a teacher and a student, he, from a young age, showed the yearling the ways of a gangster; the ways of Merry-Andrew's. It always should've been that way, no matter how desperate the urge for a romance to blossom. 

Every action the vamp made was utterly perfect, the flow, the grace, she would blink and Don would be in awe. He found her flawless in every sense of the word, even when her stubborness was annoying, or vixen ways were unnecessary, the nightfall flavored apparition was without fault. The dent in her tone at the last query instinctively made Don's jaw clench. The crook had no intention of causing the silhoutette pain, only to place his eyes upon her one last time. 

"Ind, I-" his voice was hoarse, he didn't know. At least not completely, "I had to see you again, I can't stand it anymore." It was true, their end had caused an extreme amount of pain. Yes, he still blamed her, just looking at her forced an agony to fill within his body. "Please, don't force me out, can we just talk?"

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.

Donovan had never shed a tear in his life, he was brutally trained to never have feeling, it only held you down. He was constantly bashed with the idea that emotions were for dumbasses, for morons, for pussies. He never once yearned to be normal, he wanted to be heartless and cold, he never excpected he would crash into the burning chaos of love. When his father's soul left the gang, and Indie's flaming presence disappeared he wanted to cry. To desperately release the pain in another outlet versus violence. The amount of deaths he committed to pour his safed in torment was the strong way, the way he was routined to believe. No, he never allowed his stinging eyes to pour out salty tears, but he wanted to so damn bad when he lost them. The most important beings in his hellish life.

Don't waste your emotions. There was no sentiment to squander, for he had his entire life's feeling crammed into his heart where it dwelled, it's abyss only growing more the longer his blood pumped. He would always deeply care for Merry-Andrews, but he wouldn't waste his preserved emotion on them, only for one could he do such a thing. 

The shadow's sudden shift in temper and rushed touch was relieving. Instantly, he closed his eyes, resting his muzzle agaisnt her. It felt so intimate in the most innocent way possible. The ghost of regret that followed him anytime they merely spoke fondly after his fathers death had disappated into thin air. Maybe that's all they needed, time. God he hoped, he craved the vamp so often - she hardly left his mind. Her murmer sent a shiver through his entire body, only one wolf had that ability. 

"We haven't done everything there is to do." The brute argued, his voice was low, even his whispers pounded loudly. Donovan pushed himself farther into their embrace, taking as much out of it as he possibly could. "Indie, I've missed you so fucking much."

I literally couldn’t be more pleased with your choice of models for him <3  ryan gosling

The starlet didn't tell him that she missed him [which she did]. She didn’t tell him that she was only grasping at straws for what came to him so easily [which she was].  She didn’t tell him anything because she didn’t want to know it herself, didn’t want to see the truth that lay in his consuming, heavy-handed gaze. So she pulled one of her long arms around his and pressed herself into him, cradled the man as if he was the child and she was the teacher. In many ways she was the teacher: he had taught her of wheeling, dealing and stratagem but she taught him of the arts and the sweetness of life. The perceptive woman felt as though the sweetness of life what he needed most right then. Donovan’s life had been hard; didn’t he deserve a little beauty from time to time?

So Indie’s lips yielded to her voice and a soft, gentle song spilled forth. It was a song she had sung many times to him, and from him to her. It was a beautiful ditty, sung to them in their youth by their nannies and  governesses and [when chanted in such a haunting manner] was sure to brew an exquisite sense of nostalgia within her forbidden love. The obsidian chanteuse hummed deeply and rocked her sculpted head against his; just two creatures of night swaying together like intertwined branches in a strong breeze.

“Now that it's June, we'll sleep in the garden
And if it rains, we'll just sink in the mud
Where it is quiet and much cooler than the house is
And there is nothing to wake us up

And I am content to walk a little slower
Because there is nowhere that I really need to be
I find that life’s easier when it’s just a blur
With no details to confuse where or what or what I see”

Indie’s gold-plated aria snaked from her lips to his ears — such a small sound, yet it loud and clear to the two of them. How could she ever let him leave? The chanteuse wanted him but the sight and touch of the dappled gangster stirred a cocktail of anxiety and guilty within her gut. It would have been so nice to blame him [and a small part of her always would], but reflected in his eyes was the image of a woman distracted. Their deep connection was their ultimate undoing; for they were so intimately connected that nothing else mattered. He made the rest of the world seem dull and unimportant. His shininess had distracted her — and mistake she would never make again.

“We were so good together,” the vixen no longer sang, but spoke her thoughts in a husky tone. She pulled away from their slow dance to look him. Look down. “but now we’re all broken.” Look up.

"You wish to speak to me. Speak, Donovan, and tell me everything."

Ah! Thank you, I'm glad you like it

The tables had turned, in this moment it was no longer him teaching her, him observing her, him comforting her, it was her solice for him. The vamp's sudden grasp hadn't phased him, he was a rock, and always will be, not even flinching at the pull, but instead embracing her with his head best he could. A feeling of space laid within him that he desperatley wanted to close, attempting to use this clutch as a form of shutting those walls. The crook might have been a pessimist, and although Indie had shown him a world of light and undeniable beauty, he would always keep the mindset, never wanting to be caught offguard again. The booming silhouette was crafted perfectly, made excactly into what he visioned her too be - perhaps even better, but a part of him would always fail to meet her standards on his own. Without the glamour in his life, he was blind to it. 

The gangsters eyes were shut tight, a large amount of effort put forth to make sure they stay closed, for he feared opening them and this moment be gone, to wake up within the heart of Merry-Andrew's again, solitare in his den. Lonely when surrounded by so much family, wolves who would take their life for him and vice versa. Guilt always lingered, he was provided with such good (at least towards each other) wolves, yet he still unaccompanied, lacking.


Her song was without flaw, every word, every note, was perfect. Just as he saw the jet woman, faultless. Flashes of forbidden dances, prohibited words exchanged, banned stares of desire played through Donovan's mind, for a second he considered singing along, but decided he'd never dare strip the firey girl from her spotlight - it's where she belonged, what she deserved, and he loved to watch as she blew his mind. 

Their sways were like calmed waves of an ocean, steady shifts left and right that undeniably fit so well, how could it two wolves be so perfectly made for one another, yet irrefusable be the source of pain in their lives. The melody seemed to go on for ages, and he never wanted it to end, to stay in this position for the rest of his life was dandy to the autumn brute. An immortal ball with only two guests. 

Why did Don come here? He didn't know, but the amber oddity knew he had to see her again, if only for a moment. No expectations were set, no potential aftermaths played out in his mind, the wolf wouldn't allow himself to go so far in his dreams. Indie and him were two fires created by matches placed together to create an even larger inferno, but as time grew on their wooden sticks began to fizzel out into charred planks - where fire no longer lavished so brightly. The criminal did not allow himslf to even hope for a spark to suddenly light again, he was too burned to think such ways.

The moment she stepped away he was forced to open his eyes and his hazel orbs to fall back upon the femme. To suddenly hold a gaze with her ingeous own, caused his heart to skip a bit. Speak. As said before, he'd done no planning - something rather unlike Donovan, but he couldn't be his complete self if he truly aspired to get what he wished for so badly. So he just let it pour out of his mouth. "Merry-Andrew's has been wondering where you are, I have yet to give them an explination - they all believe it's because you were too heartbroken about Vincent." He avoided sharing his true emotion, yet at least. If anyone was to have it leak into the open it would be her.

Note: Vincent's his father

literally up at 1:00 am to write this post because how can i not

She liked how strong he felt, how he was the stone pillar which she snaked herself around and clung to. Don was always that for her: the platform on which she grew and learned. The screen on which she projected her colorful film. The shoes that gave her tapdance that satisfactory clack.  Together, they had been powerful. Almost too powerful.

“You should tell them the truth.” It was a short and curt, but biting sentiment. How did it always come back to this? It seemed this was all they were any more, which was a shame considering all they had. “Tell them how he died. Tell them it was not the heartbreak over Vincent that drove me away, but heartbreak over you. And tell them about the accident that was not an accident. Tell them how fate lost while their stupid rules won.”  Aaah, that was it. The fault lie not with her just as it did not lie with him — but instead found its home on the shoulders of the entire Merry-Andrews gang. Their beloved, ragtag bunch who told them such a relationship was forbidden, censured them; which was crazy, because the Merry-Andrews wrote their own rules. True to form, Indie and Don never listened. She with her wild surmises, and he with his calculated brilliance — who were they to control fate? 

Who were they not to?

Indie huffed an exasperated sigh, but her tone contained once single, solitary woeful note. “Do that and they’ll stop asking about me. Then they’ll hate me, just as you do.” the mummer knew quite well that wasn’t true, just as she knew Donovan would easily see through her guarded, false words. They were words meant to elicit emotion, to cause a rise, to say something so acrimonious just to hear him say the complete opposite. But she could never pull her tricks on him; Don was too smart for them. He knew all her facades and farces intimately, for he created them [conjured them within her] himself. However, behind every single one of her caricatures lay a little glimmer of truth; a little piece of her that refused to die, even when concealed by an exquisite emotional mask. Before she fled, things had gotten bad. There were moments that Indie wondered if he, indeed, hated her… and even running from everything she had known felt better than that.

But then, Indie reminded herself: Donovan was just as much to blame as she was. His continual denial of that fact sparked anger within her, burning away at simmering guilt. The perfumed shewolf watched him silently, loving the anger and strong emotion she felt, enjoying the sentimentality of their dynamic. It was so comfortable, yet always so new and so fiery - no matter where they were. They were their own inferno, constantly reigniting each other and sidling up against the warmth the other created as they burned. They weren’t good for each other, but somehow they were the best thing they had ever known.

So sorry for the wait! I've been so busy and I really enjoy this thread so I wanted my response to be top-notch, also trying out a new style, hope you don't mind!

Donovan coveted the times where he was the pedestal, holding her up high with ease and showing the world her beauty; he wasn't one to hide what he loved - he hid that he loved. One would know truly if this brute cared would be how often he recognized you, and Indie was acknowledged often. It was no doubt, to any member of Merry-Andrews, his appreciation towards the dancing shadow, but all expected his doting nature to one of a proud mentor. 

Her words were unexpected, just as they always were it was a trait taught by himself, though perhaps too well. It was often he was caught off guard by the whispers and yells of the vixen, despite knowing so well of the things released from her maw. Vincent, in truth, was killed by a rival gangster group, one he made sure to abolish mere days after Indie's leave. It was the situation his father, the late leader of Merry-Andrew's was killed that forced Don to blame the femme fatale standing so divine beside him. The yin-yang mobster had held his love captive, how they discovered the exchanged feeling between the two wolves was still a mystery to him, but they knew and they used that information in the most evil way possible. Indie or his father - Donovan was forced to choose. Of course, the practically identical leader insisted on him to be killed. It was an awful memory to relive, forcing him to unconsciously take two steps back.

"I don't hate you." Instantly, unable hold back the rejection. It was an impulse, especially after all their arguments and quarrels, it was strange to not be contradicting everything that left her mouth. No, the criminal didn't hate the silhouette, he hated how utterly perfect she was to him. How someone could be above his own father in such a small amount of time, he hated that he unknowingly was creating a woman so beyond faultless it was unbelievable. He saw her facade, the wolf knew well how she was manipulating her words in attempt to hear what she wanted, but dammit if anyone was going to retrieve that from him it was her. "You know it," which she did, and wouldn't deny - the vixen obtained enough to know his every move, just as he would hers. They calculated one another so precisely it was abnormal and even quite scary. 

"I can't tell them, they'll be beyond furious." Donovan was still too stubborn to end the sentence with, with the both of us, too difficult to admit his title as Boss could be stripped, hell he killed the last one didn't he? It was then the realization fell that he'd drifted slightly from the flame he could so easily grow, so a few paw steps closer and he glanced directly in her engulfing orbs, heat building up within his chest, entering his heart and pumping into his veins. She held the power to ignite him once more, his body yearned to feel like warmth within it.

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.

His emerald gaze followed the shadow, not daring the glance away in case he might miss something spectacular. Indie always created an edge-of-your-seat feeling, somehow in any situation, and Donovan experienced first-hand constantly. She wouldn't have to even be in his presence, even in his dreams she would commit acts he wouldn't deem believable. Conjure sentiments no other had undergo before, that was a skill he knew wasn't molded by any mentor other than herself. The entire time Don was a statue, as he most often was, an unmoving, stoic piece of art to be glanced at. In conversation his actions weren't unpredictable, he was a concoction of a plethora of rock, melted together by heat and formed into stone. He was accurate proving she held hardly a belief of a hatred towards her, he was here. He traveled for his heart, and one cannot hate their heart, no matter the tragedy prompted.

She couldn't return to Merry-Andrew's, a smoke exited his nose in compunction, of course she couldn't return - so would he be forced to leave his flame, his heart, his amour or to leave that all behind and return to his other beloved, the gang. It was a quick, though troublesome decision. Merry-Andrew's didn't provide the spark he needed to burn within his body and burst through every maneuver he made. His home was a place of sorrow, the lack of a father, the lack of his flame had singed it's core, leaving a skeleton, just as the forest they stood in now. He was their leader, but every decision made seemed to ache, he could no longer support a group that destroyed him. "Then I will stay here," his gaze locked with her own, "with you." 

A golden world, built by them. Hand-made by the only two souls who could possibly materialize such an idea. One that a half of this couple could never make on their own. Her open invitation was swiftly reacted to, Donovan eliminated the gap blocking any touch, and wrapped his neck agaisnt her own, muzzle directly next to her ear. "Then a golden world we'll create." The gangster insisted, a feeling of light beginning to form within him, starting at the void within his heart and spreading throughout his body. Now, all he could think of was their potential, what they could commit this very moment and it be as impromptu as every other choice made by them.

His husky voice tingled in the back of her crown and she couldn’t help but flick and flutter her ear against his curling, frosted breath. That sweet mouth was a fingerbreadth away from the velvet of her cheek — the space between them was alive and sparking with electric desire. So often they had built fantasies together, alternate realities where where she called him my lord and he called her my lady and they were proper royalty — respected across their lands for their zest, piquant ambition and joie de vivre. It was Donovan who spun these stories and the perfumed harlequin who staged them; and their fantasies often seemed so real, so authentic, as if they both truly had royal blood running through their veins instead of their true blood of thieves and crooks. They were decorated performers, after all: he, a skillful puppetmaster and she, his ornamented puppet. 

But, sometimes, Indie had a difficult time picking apart the fictitious from reality. Possibly because it felt so good to pretend to be all the things she wasn’t; or, perhaps because it was these particular fantasies, scenes concocted from their own passions, had been entirely within their grasp. Stupid rules were what caused it to all turn sour; but they didn’t believe in rules…  rules were established to restrict the best, most pleasurable things in life to always keep you wanting. Needing: and a wolf in need was a wolf that would  readily submit. Donovan and she were never in need, they would never submit, they would always provide for themselves. Perhaps, in that respect, Donovan and Indie were the most authentic of the Merry-Andrews despite their individual departures from the gang.

“I couldn’t ask you to make that decision.” Indie’s fruitful voice was kept low, as this was a rare moment of pure truth.  He lost his own father for her sake…. now the rest of the family? If he were to proceed with such a choice, Indie needed to be secure that her titillating tutor was 100% on board. They both needed to want this. “I couldn’t. Not again.” The vamp couldn’t ask him to make that decision again, but she could. She would. She wanted to. She did. Indie would take from Donovan whatever we was willing to give her, as if he were a fish battling a fisherman’s reel.  For the most part, loving a shrouded man like Don was a struggle; he was the scaled creature, hidden amongst the deep waters, fighting and pulling against the fisherman’s line and refusing to give in — but every so often, he would double back, dart towards boat and slacken the fishing line. Every time he did so, she would reel him in just a bit closer and closer; and thought Indie felt as thought she called the shots, it was always but Donovan who was really in control.

Finally, words escaped her. Donovan pressed hotly against her and all other thoughts quelled. Her mind went quiet and his nearness caused every fur of her dense pelt stood on end. It had been so long since they touched like this, talked like this. Indie relented. Indie brushed her tender cheek against his own and her tail preformed its own curious bachata behind them; snaking and twirling against his ankles, exploring his lower limbs and inching along the warm softness of his hind legs.

She was his queen, his empress, his consort. He was a newly claimed King, but she always held the highest position. They were a growing bonfire, that was once only a lit match, growing brighter, burning stronger - waiting to blaze the entire world. Two dark flames licking agaisnt the ends of the earth, taking it all for themselves. They were selfish, but they didn't care; the world was created for them afterall. Two egocentric sleuths, filled with a hunger for passion and desire that never ceased. And they would chase after their dreams no matter who it affected, just as he had pursued Indie leaving Merry-Andrew's behind, ready to abandon them at any moment for his flame.

He wasn't a natural born leader, no one was. Never from a pup could it be fate that caused them to be a future chief. It took time and work - so much toil. Donovan was extremely intelligent, but he was blind to notice the methods of his fathers teachings were harsh and unnecessary, but he was manipulated to believe it helped, and perhaps it did. He could've easily treated his student the same way, constant yelling, random shifts in mood, and occasionally blood covered fur. The trainee was treated with the upmost delicacy, of course with his anger issues there would be the occasional burst, but it was never too far out of line. He wanted her to be perfect, at first to impress the gang, specifically the Boss, but overtime his rationale had switched to something more personal. 


A wry smirk formed agaisnt his maw, a quick exhale of amusement escaped his nose, a cloud of frosty breath escaping in front of his muzzle. "You never did." This was entirely the crooks decision, it was a necessity to escape that home of nostalgia. No matter how badly he yearned for Indie, Donovan was a greedy man, who without the pain of the gang, likely wouldn't have chased after her - for reputation's sake. That was all thrown out the window once he realized how badly the loss of his father and his forbidden fruit had injured him, along with Merry-Andrew's he had to leave. The gangster lifted his head to smell the ash drifing through the air, the opposite of snow. Before laying his chin agaisnt her head. "I need this, Ind." A soft whisper lingered toward her ear, the same silk voiced that didn't match the man speaking it - the one who only she had heard, and only she would ever hear. The one used during the most intimate of moments, laying beneath a heavily starred sky, swapping stories, sharing hearts.

Her touch created a tingle every place it lightly ran itself against him. "Let us create what Merry-Andrew's never could."

“You always were high handed, Don.” 

His voice dripped with honey and hers cascaded like a fine-spun silk and together, they wove a most sensuous and sumptuous fabric. Indie was not in the least bit immune to his wiles, though Indie often wished she was — but there was no helping it! Yes, her puppeteer’s deft hands had sculpted her to match his [what Indie thought to be an unattainable] chimera, to fulfill his ever whim and fantasy… and as a result, he wanted her so…but his satisfaction did not come at Indie expense. After all, would a man like Donovan have composed a woman who was not bewitched by his power and in love with his mind, completely bound to his success and indulgences? Indie’s visceral need to please and inspire pride within her tutor might as well have been written into her DNA, as it had been inscribed upon her psyche since she had been an inky babe. Indie wanted him just as much as he wanted her [she always had], but in the end of thing, neither of them would be left wanting. 

Donovan laid his chin against her and she held him up proudly, gently pushing her neck and chest into him to feel his form, his framework, his muscles, his very being against her own. Indie was still quite starry eyed at the fact that Donovan was even here, but there were other quite consequential matters at hand. Donovan had traveled long, it seemed; and though the thought of parting with Donovan was painful, his place was not with the Nereides. Indie knew this immediately and knew she would never — could never — ask him to join her there. If he did, Donovan would cease to be all the things she loved. Or, perhaps the strongman would rage against his chains and become even more of the things she loved. The latter sparked a fire curiosity within her, but losing him to indentured servitude was a risk she was not willing to take. Really, it would have been so easy for her to leave the Neredes, but there was still so much for her to learn. Indie wasn’t finished with the Nereides yet. Donovan’s place was not beside her yet. The golden world was not theirs yet. 

But it would be soon.

“We must find you domicile.” Indie said, flicking her sibilant tongue as the words ran across it. Indie pulled herself from his embrace and backpedaled several steps, gathering herself up and letting a look of ‘serious business’ settle upon her visage. It was a face he would recognize easily, and the mummer wished to elicit a laugh from him by harkening back to their past in such a way; but there remained an air of gravity about it. If they were going to do this damn thing, then they needed to have a plan. Donovan and Indie always had a plan

“There are these women, called the Nereides…  I travel with them,” Indie almost felt ashamed of not immediately not throwing all her plans with the Nereides aside to be with him, but she knew her preceptor would understand. The group of amazonian was newly formed and there was much opportunity to be had [should she stay amongst their ranks]. Indie prayed that the gangster might even be impressed with her dedication to their mutual cause.   “Oh Don, they call themselves sirens and they are all magnificent and quite amusing!” She giggled, excited to one day preform the siren’s vivid ocean stories for her comely audience of one. She cocked an all-knowing brow at the brute before continuing on. “But, amongst their ranks you would not do well — the Nereides treat their men as they would treat prisoners.”

“and you…” she emphasized “You’re the farthest thing from a prisoner.”

Suddenly, her molten gaze flashed and a wry smile tugged at her lips. “North.” Indie stated as if Donovan would understand her exact meaning. The vamp quickly continued, as the idea had come over her quite suddenly. “There’s a pack up north on the coast — there’s a woman named Thuringwethil amongst them.” Yes, diversify their portfolio! It was a tried and true tactic of the best spies - have you fingers in everything. know everything. know your competition. understand the playing field. This was so much more accomplishable with two rather one. “You should try them on, see if they are to your liking.”  In her excitement, she had begun to tap her toes against the ground and step in a circle around him, holding Donovan in the center with her strong gaze, coming nearer and nearer to the statuesque man with every completed circuit about his being.

“and if they are not to your liking, then we will melt their crowns to shape our own!” Indie wasn’t entirely sure if she meant this, as she rather liked the woman Thuringwethil [but, quit honestly, knew nothing about her] — but Indie was a stream-of-consciousness kind of poet and possessed a hedonistic and unfettered mouth that spouted only the words that tasted good upon her tongue. And yes, those words did taste good upon her tongue.