Bramblepoint i take my whiskey neat

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he watches her with the casual disinterest of a man who’s seen too many women reach for things they shouldn’t, but there’s a flicker behind his half-lidded stare—somewhere between hunger and habit, like even his cruelty is bored of itself. the way she stretches, poised and deliberate, it's obvious she wants to be watched, and ryūjirō—well, he's obliging. there's a branch sagging above her, heavy with those venom-dark berries, and he moves without a word, steps quiet but lazy, like he’s not stalking but drifting. his breath smells faintly of old blood and colder steel, eyes shadowed beneath a brow that’s never quite softened. he ducks beneath the tangle, one scarred shoulder brushing hers, and with a slow motion he lifts the bough, pulling it downward until it sways just above her teeth. his paw doesn't shake. there's a tension in it—feral, controlled—like he could just as easily crush the stem or her throat. instead, he holds it there, the berries trembling like a dare between them. go on, his voice scrapes low, rough as the underside of bark. you reached for it.