Bramblepoint i take my whiskey neat

the dark man is a danger she can almost taste. untamed and brooding and adorned in obsidian. he doesn't rush. doesn't need to prove anything. he simply is, and that's what keeps her attention.

when his breath ghosts her spine, a warm, hungry flicker sparks to life in her belly. but she makes no move to come closer or further from his touch. there is satisfaction in the anticipation, in making him linger, just as she lingers herself. to see who will be the first to bend.

four paws return to the soil when he drops the bark. her eyes flick down to the offering at her feet, then back to him. the smile she wears isn’t one of thanks. it curves without warmth. 

she crouches to collect the bark, her shoulder brushing the inside of his leg. close enough for her breath to trail heat across his inner thigh, yet casual enough to feign disinterest.

there is dishonesty in her gaze when she peers up at him. wilt? suyin does not wilt. she merely takes new shapes—always one more refined, more absolute. but he doesn't need to know that.

she rises with a dry chuckle—her tail a leather crop dragging across his broad and sculpted chest, "is that a threat?"