[SE] sky full of song

Amalia I took the stars from my eyes, I made a map His voice is a stormcloud in her ear, the rumble of thunder before spring rain. Somehow she manages to keep from shivering, though electricity dances unhindered down her spine as she tilts her face upward to meet his eyes, finding roguish devilry within. Who is this playful behemoth, this demon arisen from shadow and flame, cracking like smoke through glacial armor, filling her face, her lungs? She breathes him in and he smells like fire, strength and sweat and leather and earth. His right hand envelops her left; his left brings her right onto his shoulder, where it hovers a moment, ghostlike, not quite willing to touch. Part of her knows this is the last escape: if she runs now he will not drag her back, will go on to greener pastures and prettier partners, will find a friend who knows how to dance. She could easily slip from his embrace, laugh this off as a foolish mistake, sacrifice her chance at haven from the storm and let him find a better ship to harbor, a full frigate with gilded figurehead instead of a battered, tattered sloop. But when his left hand lands on her waist, Amalia knows her fate. It does not matter if she should escape: she will not, can not release this light, this soft and supple whatever-it-is that the soldier extends like water in a desert, so close she can touch it, so hot she is afraid. The baker's fingers grasp his shoulder, and the dark-eyed girl nods, her own laughter bubbling up to echo his as the world falls away and they move. His hands are firm on her; she feels secure within his grasp, and so she stops trying to direct him, escape him, instead letting the bestial creature carry her into the crowd. Wild and reckless Deimos cavorts, and Amalia laughs with childlike delight as she pursues him, her footsteps echoing his, her body a shadow to his vibrant cavorting, crashing and coiling, a ship on the waves. The smile which cuts her cheeks is fearless, flush on her face warm and alive. She clings to him gladly, her bare feet scarcely touching the grass as they twirl and canter, scuttle and glide. Deimos is quick to refocus their antics, aiming with solemn purpose toward one oblivious couple, his large figure moving with unexpected ease. One eyebrow raises as he names his price, a brazen response written in the baker's angular face- though she does her best to reign it in, appropriately apologetic when the offended pair turn glares upon the quick retreating duo. "Five each for groups," she raises, audacious, gesturing with her head to a conga line which has formed off to their right. Releasing his shoulder she whips away, dress unfolding like a verdant flower as she twirls beneath his hand. With her right arm she catches the first of the line, progressing to the second and third as she spins before drawing back against him, a tactfully planned retreat. Her hand lands on his broad chest; for a moment she is flush against him, his body a bulwark for her wild abandon, his ribs a sounding board for her heart. "Fifteen," she breathes against his neck before at last retreating (a beat too late, a second too reluctant). Looking up, the girl grins, triumph and challenge glittering in her eyes. And I knew that somehow I could find my way back