Bramblepoint i take my whiskey neat

for @Ryūjirō <3

the orchard unfolds like a trap disguised—lush, overripe, and muggy with the scent of spring's breath gone stale. the press of her paws are muted beneath tangled bramble and soft rot. here, even the sweetness had teeth.

she moves as smoke and silk through the dappled grasses, too precise to be wandering. she stops at a large shrub, bedecked in berries that glisten like jewels.

there, her claws delicately part a curtain of blackberry vines, their thorns tugging halfheartedly at her fur. she ignores them.

beneath the clusters, something catches her eye. small berries—lustrous and dark, almost black, and kissed with a sheen of deep blue. not the kind one reaches for on a hungry day.

she reaches for one.

---

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.

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?"

---

his jaw ticks once, slow and sharp, like a blade grinding back into its sheath. her voice slides against his ears like silk dragged over a wound—too soft, too smooth for a place like this. her question hangs there, smug and coiled, and he doesn't smile, but something in his posture loosens—just a touch. thank the boredom, he mutters, voice worn and guttural, tinged with something that might've been humor if it wasn’t so tired. his eyes stay on her, heavy-lidded and wolfish, dragging over the curl of the berry against her mouth, then up to the ice in her stare. wasn’t chivalry. wasn’t curiosity. was a moment i didn’t feel like sayin’ no. his paw lingers at the branch a second longer before letting it go, slowly, like he wants her to feel the weight of it snap back into place. don’t read too deep, sweetheart. this orchard’s full of rot.

his roughened tone doesn’t reach her, not in any real way. and when he lets go of the branch, the tension snaps back into the space between them. she lends him a half-curved smile.

"and rot breeds the sweetest fruit." or perhaps the most dangerous. suyin sweeps her paw across the soil to carve a small hole, "besides, the most surprising things come from a little ruin." it’s the kind of thing someone might say lightly—if not for the way her voice dips, velvet-worn and knowing.

so, suyin marks the spot not with scent, but memory. for safe-keeping. the poison-drop goes tumbling down.

he never leaves her vision. she sees discipline in his loose restraint. it is not decorative nor performative. rather, functional and dangerous all the same. the kind of man who doesn’t need to draw his weapon to make you feel the edge. 

and she appreciates that. but the danger isn’t the point—it’s the control. the restraint. that deadly calm that only ever belongs to those who’ve killed before, and often. the very same that she harbors, too.

a good sword, he may make.

"if you're still bored," she suddenly says, rising to her full height as she saunters past him, "i could use a helping hand."

---

he doesn't bother masking the hunger behind his stare, doesn't soften it with charm or feigned chivalry. what for? she walks like sin and silk and speaks like she's tasted blood from both ends of a blade. it draws something feral in him, something older, more animal than man. her words are ripe, laced in something too smooth to be harmless, and when she brushes past, the air shifts, thick with her scent and the promise tucked between her hips. a helping hand, she purrs, and his jaw flexes once, slow, as if weighing the offer between his teeth. he doesn’t move right away, doesn’t give her the dignity of an eager yes. just turns his head enough for their eyes to catch in passing. you sure? his voice is low, raw, like the scrape of a whetstone across steel. i don’t do gentle. there’s a flicker of something behind his grin—not warmth, but heat. a warning dressed in want. if she knew what kind of beast she was tempting, she'd run. but she doesn’t. or worse—she does. and that’s what makes her so fucking interesting.

"good. i didn't ask for gentle." she answers with spoilt sweetness. 

her nose leads her to a tangle of violet flowers. yes. this was what she was looking for. wolfsbane.

with her teeth, she wrenches free the roots and finds his starving gaze when she straightens again. there is a tightness to his jaw, a prophecy of dark rapture that excites more than it cautions. men like this—they are the only language she understands. the only kind who have use beyond their breeding.

"i'm sure we will find use for that... intensity."

for this is only just the start. the first thread. she, the fruit. he, the rot who will make her bloom.

suyin turns to the nearest tree, front paws scraping a loose strip of bark. it's too stubborn to be pulled free. still, her tapered waist curves to meet generous, rounded hips as she rises onto her hindquarters. 

there's a faraway charm in her half-lidded eyes when she finds him behind her shoulders, "we can start here." a lazy purr, "loosen it for me?"

black banner curls behind her.

---

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.

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?"