[SE] sky full of song

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame It was acceptance in the end, in the beginning, that stole his breath away again; a less powerful man might have been gasping and reeling, and he was laughing, swaying from the adoration and belief (but there was a moment or two when he thought of the tears gathering at the back of his eyes, dashing them away before she could see, curling the proof of astonishment back into his fingers). I do not deserve you echoed back again, might’ve stifled him now, but he kept going, proceeding, a sojourn, a crusade. He could scarcely remember the feelings from before because they’re too shrouded and dampened by the after, by the shards of naught left, by the filaments of nothingness clinging their ways to his skin – but not now, not when devotion surrounded and guided. He was a covetous, insatiable being again, taking and grasping and clawing, swallowing and devouring the ambrosial taste, the shy intimacy, diving headfirst into the reaches of amity long since denied. Deimos could always recall the violence, the vehemence, but never the warmth, the intricacies, the sudden fall, the slow burn, but it settled in his heart now, made him duck his head into the crook of her neck and simply breathe. It was an overwhelming line he’d crossed, blinding and mesmerizing, alluring and beguiling, staring straight into the sun – twisting back into its rays and beams instead of away from it, glowering in the shadows. He didn’t turn away, but simmered and smoldered in it, inhaling and exhaling, pressing and touching, memorizing little curves and lines detailed and sketched by the heavens, permitting his behemoth palms to remain, steady, beacons and sirens, lured and ensnared and having no inclination of leaving. Amalia made him almost reverent instead of seditious and iniquitous, but only for her. His faith and conviction could be tied in knots and gnarled in sword hilts, but it was extended to her too, an eternal resolve, as stalwart as the beast could be; the world was his, the world was hers, the world was theirs. Emboldened and impassioned, lips taking advantage of his location, mouth against her pulse, breath billowing along her skin, then purposefully, mischievously, pushing air past his teeth and tongue in a peppering, ghostly fixation, tickling and tormenting. Her hands prevailed along his chest, and his heart echoed its rapacious, ravenous appetite, pulsing and beating with its savage, wild, untamed crescendos, moving with his laughter and abandon. Then they were at his neck, at his beard, and his body shuddered, boneless and wanton, the behemoth responding by dragging his teeth along the shell of her ear, teasing, before her grasp was on his face again, and onyx met blue, fallen, broken, brooding kings and forbearing warriors gazing on serenity, sanctuaries, and repose. He leaned his forehead against hers, and listened, chuckled, choked back on the raw suffering pulsing away (gone) from his figure, tones a confident rumble when he admitted he didn’t know what he was doing either – Huyana had carved and whittled his new form out of stone and marble, the apathy chiseled into shards and splinters – but he’d put the armor and chainmail back along his surface long ago. “So we learn.” It was a new path he was eager and fervent to explore, but later, later, later, when they’d somehow sealed the hows and whys – her inquiry a reflection, a reverberation, of one of his unsaid melancholies. The Reaper couldn’t understand why she didn’t see anything in herself. He purposefully stepped back, only slightly, never truly out of her grasp, reach, or orbit, stuck and tied there, then leaned down, so that his eyes were upon hers, and she couldn’t evade, couldn’t escape, with his hand on her chin, lifting her up again. “You are so many things all at once. I admire your strength. I long for your acceptance.” He tilted his head, as if to examine and scrutinize her. “You have an endless conviction. You are bold. You are radiant.” Do you want me to keep going? the arch of his brow insisted, the hint of a smirk curling and coiling along his lips. It was his bestial soul who’d be without anything or anyone without her – he doubted other individuals, save for a select few who knew what he was, what he’d been, would’ve have even bothered with him, wouldn’t have paid him a second thought as he lurked in libraries, as he offered help and assistance, as he wound his way through shrouds of darkness and shadow because it was all he understood. No one would’ve tolerated him had she not reached out into the Stygian abyss and tried to pluck him from its gnarled claws; he would’ve been the same brooding storm, the same brewing anomaly, the same vigilant, violent fiend waiting for an opportunity to strike. Nothing to give him, as if she hadn’t already, and he wanted to scoff, wanted to laugh, wanted to roll his eyes at the absurd claim – instead, his eyes met hers again, steady and certain. “It is I who have nothing to give you.” She proffered him everything in that moment, and he’d already taken so much, yearned and craved for more (her heart, her soul, her form, her trust, her belief in his stupid, asinine existence), because he was voracious and ravenous, because he couldn’t be sated, because enough was never enough – and he’d do the same for her, bow his head and give, give, and give again. “But whatever you want, I will try to grant it.” master of nothing place; of recoil and grace