Bramblepoint i take my whiskey neat

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ryūjirō watches her like a wolf that hasn’t eaten in days—his hunger not frantic, but coiled, ancient, patient. there’s rot in him, sure, but it’s the kind that knows how to preserve, how to ferment, how to turn fruit into something darker, richer, ruinous. her words drip spoiled honey, and he drinks them in with the silence of a man who’s long since stopped needing to prove he knows what to do with sweetness once it’s handed to him. when she straightens, mouth stained from the tear of wolfsbane, and meets his gaze like a challenge, he doesn't speak—his jaw just ticks, slow, like he's holding something back only because letting it out would ruin the game too early. he likes her better this way: laced with poison, draped in silk, shameless in the way she curves and commands, not begging but expecting. his paws crunch low earth as he steps forward, stopping just behind her. for a beat, he doesn’t move, just lets his breath touch the arch of her spine. then, without a word, his jaws catch the edge of the bark and tear. the strip comes free with a snap, and he drops it beside her feet like an offering. you’ll bloom, he rasps finally, voice like smoke curling off wet stone, but don’t think i won’t enjoy watching you wilt, too.