Duskfire Glacier I am the cut that ends foes—

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His great weight settles upon her, and Tikigâk is again taken by him. It is no gentle, delicate thing—no tenderness between them as his hips collide against her own, his shifting but unbreakable grip smearing the blood of their kill upon places it had not touched. 

The fire builds within her with every thrust, transformative—it climbs higher, and higher, clawing its way through her, extending its limitless reach. It does not hurt, even as it burns every conscious and coherent thought, even as it begins to leave her breathless. There is the desire to flee from it, as much as there again is that desire to fight for it, to keep moving in this same way that fanned this flame, the friction, the feral symphony they bodily orchestrated, all of it, became suddenly explosive—it burned hot and white against her eyes, senseless for a moment, pressing against him in some mute demand she had no words for, that felt like nothing she had ever known. 

And when she breathed again, the feeling ebbed but she remained suspended in its afterglow. A rumble of delight rolled through her as his hips pressed flush against her own, his verbal sentiment echoed by this sound, accompanied by a rare, vulnerable softness in her gaze that he had brought her to some space that had, before this, been entirely unchartered for her—the look candidly revealed her trust.