i can make the badguys good for a weekend
Charlie’s grin turns incandescent at that, bright and unabashed, the kind of smile that promises trouble and enjoys the promise far too much. "Then I’ll consider myself very lucky," she says, voice warm and pleased, blue eyes holding his without flinching. If Jack’s magic brushes the edges of her mind now, it doesn’t fizz or pop like a shaken bottle finally uncorked. Instead it opens into something cavernous and old, a vastness layered with centuries and forgotten skies, with worlds that existed long before this one pressed itself into shape. There’s brightness there, yes—champagne bubbles still rising, still dancing and golden—but beneath it lies depth, weight, the quiet patience of something that has endured being worshipped, broken, buried, and reborn. Not new. Not fragile. Something that has learned how to wait. Something, perhaps, unlike the comparatively new minds he has been used to.
When fire blooms around her hands, Charlie inhales sharply, delighted surprise flashing across her face as her fingers splay instinctively, toying with his flames as if they’re another indulgence offered freely. She laughs softly under her breath, eyes flicking hungrily up to his. "I am older than I look," she says lightly, as though it’s a harmless confession rather than a warning, head tilting to the side with feigned thoughtfulness. "Though I’ve always been very fond of learning new tricks." Old dog or not.
Rather than sliding out of the booh and perhaps grabbing Jack by theballs coat, instead one blink she’s there, fire and grin and heat between them, and the next Charlie darts! across the tavern in a blur of motion, suddenly occupying a doorway that leads out of the main room. She turns back toward him, tail animated and expressive, tracing a slow, encouraging curve that draws the eye and follows the sashay of her hips without shame or subtlety.
When fire blooms around her hands, Charlie inhales sharply, delighted surprise flashing across her face as her fingers splay instinctively, toying with his flames as if they’re another indulgence offered freely. She laughs softly under her breath, eyes flicking hungrily up to his. "I am older than I look," she says lightly, as though it’s a harmless confession rather than a warning, head tilting to the side with feigned thoughtfulness. "Though I’ve always been very fond of learning new tricks." Old dog or not.
Rather than sliding out of the booh and perhaps grabbing Jack by the
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Hella golden retriever energy. Small unrefined horns made of ruby. Regular spade-shaped tail.
