I can't relate to d e s p e r a t i o n
There’s no pause—none at all—between Kaisel’s arm looping over her shoulders and Charlie’s own curling around his waist. Touch for her is instinct, joy, possession all at once; she fits herself against him with a grin that’s pure delight. Recognition brightens her expression further, blue eyes sparking as her fingers pulse lightly against his side, the rhythm both familiar and teasing.
"What am I doing?" she repeats, feigning scandal as she turns back toward the game. Her nostrils flare dramatically, the picture of offended grace. "I was having fun," she declares, voice pitching upward as she pins the dealer with her gaze. The man holds up his hands, oily grin in place. "Now, now, no one likes a sore loser," he drawls, all mock sympathy. "Tell you what, sweetheart, you can try again—no charge. Just gimme a little kiss on the cheek, hm?"
Charlie’s lashes flutter prettily as she glances up at Kaisel, mischief brewing like a storm. Then she leans forward, palms flat on the rickety table, corset pressing close enough to make the crowd lean in too. Her lips purse in a perfect red bow, her tail flicking lazily behind her. The man bends toward her with all the self-satisfaction of someone who thinks he’s winning, and at the last moment, he turns his head to try and steal a kiss directly from her lips instead.
Fire roars up around Charlie like a living halo, wreathing her from heels to horns in molten gold. The heat singes the man's eyebrows clean off in one satisfying hiss as the ancient wrenches the little table aside with a single sharp tug, scattering shells, coins, and whatever pride he had left across the street. "I," she announces brightly, voice carrying over the startled gasps and laughter of the crowd, "am not a sore loser!"
She straightens with a toss of her curls, flame fading to a flicker that dances along her tail tip, as she turns, flashes Kaisel a sunbeam grin. "Anyway, hi! What are you doing here?"
"What am I doing?" she repeats, feigning scandal as she turns back toward the game. Her nostrils flare dramatically, the picture of offended grace. "I was having fun," she declares, voice pitching upward as she pins the dealer with her gaze. The man holds up his hands, oily grin in place. "Now, now, no one likes a sore loser," he drawls, all mock sympathy. "Tell you what, sweetheart, you can try again—no charge. Just gimme a little kiss on the cheek, hm?"
Charlie’s lashes flutter prettily as she glances up at Kaisel, mischief brewing like a storm. Then she leans forward, palms flat on the rickety table, corset pressing close enough to make the crowd lean in too. Her lips purse in a perfect red bow, her tail flicking lazily behind her. The man bends toward her with all the self-satisfaction of someone who thinks he’s winning, and at the last moment, he turns his head to try and steal a kiss directly from her lips instead.
Fire roars up around Charlie like a living halo, wreathing her from heels to horns in molten gold. The heat singes the man's eyebrows clean off in one satisfying hiss as the ancient wrenches the little table aside with a single sharp tug, scattering shells, coins, and whatever pride he had left across the street. "I," she announces brightly, voice carrying over the startled gasps and laughter of the crowd, "am not a sore loser!"
She straightens with a toss of her curls, flame fading to a flicker that dances along her tail tip, as she turns, flashes Kaisel a sunbeam grin. "Anyway, hi! What are you doing here?"
.
Hella golden retriever energy. Small unrefined horns made of ruby. Regular spade-shaped tail.
