charlie
Charlie’s not just sitting at the bar—she’s making it a performance, perched atop the tallest, most villainous pair of red heels that have ever existed (more danger than footwear, really). Her dress is a scandal of crimson silk and glittering black mesh, cut so high and low it’s a threat to good taste and a delight to anyone with eyes. Gold chains drape her collarbones; her lips are lacquered a lethal, cherry-gloss red. The only thing louder than her outfit is the wild, flicking arc of her tail—restless and delighted, always part of the show.
As Kaisel approaches (brave soul, points for that), her tail immediately wraps itself in a lazy, possessive curl around the backs of his legs, like she’s staking a claim or checking the temperature. She’s tiny—absurdly so, almost doll-like even with all that attitude—but somehow manages to fill more space than most people twice her size. When she beams up at him, her smile is sunlight-strong, all sharp white teeth and bright blue eyes that absolutely, shamelessly devour him.
"Now, sugar, I do hope you’re not judging by the shoes—though I can’t say I blame you." She turns in her seat, crossing her legs with a shimmy and a wink, every movement exaggerated just enough to draw every gaze back her way. Her gaze drops from the wild mess of his hair to the sweep of shoulders, then down, slow as honey, before making the trip back up with interest compounded.
"Question, though," she purrs, voice velvet and wicked, "Are you drawing me, or am I supposed to draw you? Because I should warn you—" she plucks her drink from the bar, never breaking eye contact, and with a flourish, pops the maraschino cherry into her mouth, stem and all, lips closing around it in a showy, deliberate bite—"I'm not the best at sitting still."
She leans in, elbows on the bar, letting her tail tickle higher behind his knees as she speaks, her grin going all fang and mischief before plucking the cherry stem out from between her lips, neatly tied into a bow.
As Kaisel approaches (brave soul, points for that), her tail immediately wraps itself in a lazy, possessive curl around the backs of his legs, like she’s staking a claim or checking the temperature. She’s tiny—absurdly so, almost doll-like even with all that attitude—but somehow manages to fill more space than most people twice her size. When she beams up at him, her smile is sunlight-strong, all sharp white teeth and bright blue eyes that absolutely, shamelessly devour him.
"Now, sugar, I do hope you’re not judging by the shoes—though I can’t say I blame you." She turns in her seat, crossing her legs with a shimmy and a wink, every movement exaggerated just enough to draw every gaze back her way. Her gaze drops from the wild mess of his hair to the sweep of shoulders, then down, slow as honey, before making the trip back up with interest compounded.
"Question, though," she purrs, voice velvet and wicked, "Are you drawing me, or am I supposed to draw you? Because I should warn you—" she plucks her drink from the bar, never breaking eye contact, and with a flourish, pops the maraschino cherry into her mouth, stem and all, lips closing around it in a showy, deliberate bite—"I'm not the best at sitting still."
She leans in, elbows on the bar, letting her tail tickle higher behind his knees as she speaks, her grin going all fang and mischief before plucking the cherry stem out from between her lips, neatly tied into a bow.
oh I like my boys playin' hard to get
and I like my men all incompetent
and I like my men all incompetent
Hella golden retriever energy. Small unrefined horns made of ruby. Regular spade-shaped tail.
