Bramblepoint i take my whiskey neat

her gaze doesn’t lift right away. the quiet is electric, like the hum before a blade kisses skin. only when the branch stops swaying does she glance up, slow and side-eyed, like it costs her nothing to notice him.

what she sees is all harsh edges and ruination. a hulking man, as lightless and cold and brooding as she. there’s a scar carving through his stillness, one that doesn’t mar so much as mark. easy on the eyes? no. but arresting. dangerously so.

the berries hover, trembling with weight or threat—it’s hard to tell which. her lips part slightly, just enough for breath to pass, sweet and unhurried.

"how kind." she murmurs, voice smooth as riverstone, cool where his had rasped. her paw reaches up and skin brushes skin. featherlight. delicate. indulgent.

she plucks single plump berry from by its stem. it lolls from the side of her lips.

"what should i thank first—your chivalry, or your curiosity?"