Duskfire Glacier stolen breath

AW

the air was still, save for the rhythmic crunch of snow beneath her paws.
késhka moved with precision. the cold bit at her, but she did not feel it—not when her muscles burned, not when her focus was razor-sharp.
she pivoted sharply, claws carving into the ice-packed ground as she lunged at an unseen opponent, a specter of her own making. her teeth snapped through the empty air, then she rolled her shoulders, shifting her weight to spring back before the imagined counterstrike could land.
again.
this time, she tested a feint—twisting mid-stride, her hindlegs digging deep for traction before she launched into a strike meant to cripple, to unbalance. she had no time for wasted movement, no patience for sloppiness. every motion had to be purposeful, had to be deadly.
she exhaled, steady, measured, then reset.
again.

iosef stood near a barren tree line; he'd been her silent spectator. eyes of sea glass narrowed with keen interest, watching as she danced around a target lost to the naked eye. and her movement was just that; where he fought with brute strength and rage, she dances around her opponent. it's fluid and precise. powerful and captivating. graceful, but still lethal. he'd never witnessed such a style. it awoke something that stirred in his chest. igniting, and surely consuming if he'd let it.

his chin tilts upward as she flourishes, the corner of his lip tugging into a smirk. a gleam of satisfaction that mingled with his interest. and soon, his competitiveness. watching her was amusing, but he wished to join her. to fight against her. to witness the strength that's undoubtedly got him hooked. with a grumble of a chuff, he strides forward, steps heavy as he trudges through the compact snow.

"not bad," he spoke. an inkling of his approval leeching through with a slight lilt of his tone. "but you could do better." he circles her, eyeing her. searching for her weaknesses and for her strengths. tail risen and stiff, the thick muscle in his shoulders coiling tighter with anticipation. "you fight призрак. Проверьте свои силы с реальным противником." he goads her with a toothy, wolfish smolder. 

he stops, staring down at her with challenge. "unless you're too scared."

keshka let him circle her, her breath even, her body still save for the slow flick of her tail. she did not move to meet his challenge immediately, nor did she bite back at his taunts. instead, she let his words hang in the cold air between them, let him prowl, let him think he had the upper hand.
scared? her lips curled, her voice smooth, laced with something teasing. you might be surprised, soldat.
her muscles tensed—not in hesitation, but in preparation. the weight of his gaze, the smoldering challenge behind it, meant nothing if he could not back it up.
real opponents don't announce themselves.
then she moved.
quick as a shadow, she surged forward, testing the tension between them, snapping close—not quite striking, but close enough for him to feel the whisper of her breath.

ITS SHORT but it's here < 3

there it was, the warrior of a woman he'd been itching to see. a marvel, and it'd only just begun. she was quick. and this he knew, but perhaps he'd underestimated her swiftness. she's a blur in his peripheral; he snaps his jaw, only to receive a mouthful of air. 

the fire in his eyes wields his competitiveness. he rounds, heaving himself on his strong hind legs for a moment to twist toward her. he would not bring his weight down on her, least not yet. but he did lunge for her scruff, dusted with a hue of pink he hadn't noticed before.

she was not the type to take a hit.
she felt the shift in his weight, the brief moment where he braced before the lunge, and she moved. not away, but under, slipping low and twisting just beneath the arc of his strike, feeling his breath rush past the fine hairs along her nape.
close—too close.
her heart thrummed with the thrill of it, the burn of movement, the electric pulse of combat. she did not have his brute force, but she did not need it.
her feet found purchase in the churned snow, and she twisted sharply, muscles coiling before she leapt—teeth flashing for the thick fur along his shoulder, not to wound, but to make her mark.
a ghost’s touch. a promise that she was there.
and then she was gone again, pivoting, fast, circling. waiting.

she was too quick. a flurry of white and pink that even his trained eyes struggled to track. beneath him, slinking below his belly, leaving him to lean down to try and snap his jaws, to sink his teeth into that plush fur and drag her from beneath. 

and then she's lunging at his scruff, her teeth grazing the thick muscle of his shoulder. it doesn't sting, but it's enough to cause a frenzy in his mind. there's a shroud then, that falls over his it. the muzzle being released, a glimpse of an enemy old that startles his system. reboots it, brings out the man he was forced to become.

she circles him as if he's prey, and for a moment, as he leaps toward her again to overwhelm and shove, she isn't keshka. but an enemy. a target. there's a glaze over his eyes, a guttural snarl that doesn't sound familiar to his own ears.

she sees the shift—something feral, something dark slipping over him like a second skin. it does not frighten her. no, it excites. she welcomes it, the rawness of him, the way he moves without thought, only instinct. a beast unchained.
her paws slide back, graceful, measured. she does not flee—never. but she tests him, teases the edge of his control with every step, every calculated movement. how far will he go?
his snarl is a raw thing, guttural, clawing at the cold air between them. she sees the haze in his eyes, the specter of something past, someone else. but she is not them.
she is késhka.
and she does not yield.
when he lunges, she does not retreat. instead, she meets him, twisting at the last second to let his weight crash past her, a ghost of a smile curving her lips. her tail flicks once, taunting, and then she moves, darting in low, fast, her teeth snapping just beneath his jaw—not to wound, not yet, but to remind.
focus, soldat.

there's a click of teeth beneath his jaw. the soldier moves with a renewed vigor, a swiftness that belies a form honed for brute strength and not speed. side steps, chin tucked to throat to protect vitals. he uses his heft to charge forward, to crash against her svelte side. to overpower. she is strong still; hard to move, but he does not give up.

if she topples, if she falters, he is quick upon her. caging her in between two thick forelimbs, his form looming atop. eyes burning with a fury unmatched. he'd lean down to snap his jaws just short of her throat, but he does not bite. he would not, despite the urge roaring inside of his veins.

he'd press his nose to her fur and flesh, to feel her pulse. her heart beat strong, true. he grins something toothy and wolfish. "продолжай, женщина."

keshka waits. waits just long enough for his grin to grow wide and cocky, for his chest to rise with the satisfaction of having her beneath him. that’s when she strikes.
a sharp twist of her shoulders, using the slick of snow beneath her back to slide just enough. her hind legs coil, and with a sudden, violent shove of her back paws into his belly, she throws him off balance. not far—but just enough.
she’s faster. always has been.
before he can recover, she surges up and rolls them, their bodies crashing in a tangle of limbs until it’s her weight pressing down now, her foreleg braced across his throat. her face lowers, eyes burning bright and sharp as steel, and she snaps her teeth just over his nose—close enough that he feels the wind of it, the pinch that almost was.
slow, she says again, voice dark with triumph, breath panting against his cheek.

his glory does not last. he knew it would not; she was a woman too strong, and perhaps too stubborn to be rolled over into submission. it is why he does not mind it, when he is the one pressed onto his back. he does not mind the limb pressing uncomfortably at his windpipe, and he does not mind it when her teeth nearly graze his nose. his laugh is thunderous, deep from the depths of his lungs.

the fire in his eyes is mirrored by her own. a pale, enchanting pink. his grin is all teeth, crooked and imperfect. chest heaving with exertion, he accepts his defeat with what little grace a beast like he could have. she won, fair and square, and he now respected her more for it. she would make a good comrade, a strong ally. someone he could depend on to fight by his side with the ferocity not many had.

"fair fight. good. but you do not draw blood." he grunted, as if disappointed. "why?"

one of her marks scarring his skin would be one he'd wear with pride.

her smirk is slow, curling like smoke at the corner of her mouth as she leans in, her breath warm against his ear. his laughter, his thrill—she can taste it between them. it stirs something sharp inside her, something wild.
ты хочешь, чтобы я заставил тебя кровоточить? késhka murmurs, low and dangerous, her pink eyes gleaming like dusk over ice. her paw presses just a little firmer to his throat, teasing the line of dominance she now holds over him. a test. a dare.
but after a moment, she shifts, releasing him with a shrug of her shoulders as if the fight had been nothing at all. maybe next time. her tail flicks over his side as she steps away, leaving the space between them charged and unfinished.
you’ve got enough scars already. she tosses the words over her shoulder, voice cool and unimpressed. but the glint in her eye says otherwise.
if he wanted blood, she would give it.
but only when it mattered.