And Dwayne did not hide his shattered heart. Like a bloom of invisible blood, one could nearly detect the imperceptible smear of it on his sleeve. He slumped his newport bones, downcast, lurched off.
But enough of that beta cuck. There was a crystal nictate of intrigue, a widening throb of her eyes that washed the whole of her mien in a sort of cartoonish dazzle. Blue box, you say? Wait, okay, so no blue box? That’s fine, she could live without the blue box, certainly. Mad men? Adventure? Bloodshed? Stress didn’t even filter through the high-flown, rhapsodic prose of the rest of the capture.
“Your better half?” was what came out of her mouth, first and foremost. She wanted the hot goss, obviously. Her russian volume lashes (expensive af) fluttered in blithe enthusiasm, “Are you referring to Ariel?” she was pleased to hear that Ariel was, presumably, thriving. Thriving in bloodshed with madmen and adventure. You know, living the life she fucking wanted. Now, the greater picture came into focus; her grin gleefully dragged across her face. The hound thing. Yes, yessss… “I have an impressive resume in mayhem, should you require some bullet points or references. Unless you prefer on the job training.”