[SE] sky full of song

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame For an instant, he was utterly caught and snared, eclipsed by both hands, and escape was futile (would he have tried?). He was seized and captured by more than just her palms, staring into the bright, sun-kissed reaches and onyx depths, not trying to pull or wrench away, free-falling into the denizens and fathoms. The darker ethers of his features were warped and spun, obscured and blotted out, by the high rise of her solar complexities, eyes widening as he once again invited onto the floor. The beast followed, encouraged and intrigued, beguiled and allured, snagging at the strands, the seams, desperate to unravel into his merciless, unrelenting depths; a laugh buoyed on his howl, deep and comical, a current in the ocean. He basked in the sun and turned his features towards it, carved and sculpted again, not cast from marble or stone; legions and layers of obsidian giving it shape, renewal, beneficence in the cast-off shards. No, he wouldn’t bother striving to bolt or break free; he fell into the orbit time and time again, went around and around the galaxies, the stars, the heavens, squandered them all to look upon her. He wasn’t frightened by it, the way he might’ve been ages ago, shying and shuddering back into the comfortable, familiar press of shadows and darkness, where the world couldn’t drag their eyes upon him, where they couldn’t see which parts were marred, buried, and broken. He sank into it and waited for the stream, the river, the waves, to brush up against him and swerve around his form; he was a damned rock and stone, not swerving, not recoiling, just as defiant but not for violence, not for animosity, not for acrimony. It had a name, but he didn’t relinquish it, kept it unsettled and vibrant against the angles and planes of his chest, the riddled scars, the splintered lacerations. She granted him retreat again, and he ignored it entirely, even as hands slipped away and amusements were reborn, gone from their sheltered storm. He simply stood and watched, a damned monolith in a sea of people, arched brows and keen resistance towards anyone or anything except her; he wallowed and swallowed down the fringes of gold spiraling in his gaze. His fingers itched to reach out for the strands, before sliding back down to his side, temptation a reeling, sudden notion (he knew the singular title for these too; let them careen and ricochet off his bones) as he watched, ever the rapt scholar, responding to her commands. Don’t give me away she uttered, as if he ever would. She might’ve disappeared into the stray wiles and machinations of the crowd, but not to him – the piercing slate of his gaze found her over and over again, a bobbing head slinking and turning along the ravel, lungs inhaling, exhaling, body adapting and succeeding in her steps and footfalls, tracing over the foundations like water, passing through the rest of the gathered as if they were nothing. Then came the rest of the sweeping absurdity, and though he told not a single damned soul what he was chuckling at, it was impossible not to fall into a melee of laughter. He kept time in the rhythm of his mirth, one, two, three, keeping watch as she managed to elongate foolish faces and features, arms and legs akimbo, ensuing rapid nonsense. When suitable moments had passed, he raised his hand above the crowd and proffered her a nod; success, not caught by the passerbys or unknown. But then reality crashed down on him – because that meant it was his turn, and between already making a fool of himself and watching her easily conquer the terms, Deimos was going to be the laughing-stock of the entire floor. A portion of him hung apart in trepidation, the world-weary beast who’d been mocked and ridiculed for his silence, for his faults, for the quiet, hushed lacquer stuck to his rituals. The challenge scratched and toyed with him though, hung there like a noose, because he had already sworn to the challenge, couldn’t back down or away, couldn’t fester and wither and decay, not any damned longer - Boldness and daring occupied his movements, extending a long, held gaze with Amalia in the crowd, before slithering his way towards an intended victim. He would always be taller, broader, mightier than most of the masses, and the Reaper understood it wouldn’t be an advantage this time, this hour, in all these little segmented moments. He’d have to be underhanded and sneaky. He’d have to be the devil in the shadows. He’d have to be hidden and muted, the beckoning, clawing unknown. He’d have to be just as ridiculous as the rest of the realm. The beast’s stare finally found some noteworthy victims; far too occupied with one another than anything else going on around them. While they were tongue-tied, and he struggled to hold his grimace against the very public display of affection, he managed to slip behind them – beholden with a straight face, no smile, no grin, drawn in complete nonchalance, as if he were not even there, a part of the backdrop. The Reaper then extended his arms in a wobbly, snake-like dance, long muscles undulating and coiling beneath his furs and shirt, absurd and stupid, before kicking out with his legs in different directions. All this to win a single boon. master of nothing place; of recoil and grace