[SE] sky full of song

Amalia I took the stars from my eyes, I made a map She laughs as he blows against her neck, giggling and twisting under his ministrations, too lost in the moment to stop and consider how deeply she is falling, how hard, how fast. Then there are lips on her ear, and teeth, dangerously exciting, wholly unexpected but not unpleasant, far from it in fact- but overwhelming, so much happening all at once, a wild whirlwind of change and sunlight and fire and raging seas. She feels that she might get lost, that he could swallow her whole and she would like it, giving the pieces of herself away. Her fingers curl tighter against his hair in response; a small gasp escapes her coral lips, exhaled sharply against his skin. Her thoughts are muddled, coiled smoke, wafting in and out of existence. She doesn't know what it means. There are lines to draw, but she does not know how to draw them. Is this too much? Is it not enough? Voracious hunger gnaws at her, a singing cry for intimacy, closeness, to know and be known in return. What is it he could want from her - her, a mess of contradictions, earnest anxiety and discontent, infinitely curious but ever unable to find answers to questions of the heart? Words tumble past her lips, earnest proclamations for him alone. She says he has her, and it is true, but the promise sounds too wanton, too earnest and naive. Amalia coils back in on herself, hands on her cheeks, disbelieving, self-conscious, still unable to make sense of the change, of the idea that she could be wanted by him. His hand is on her chin, and she rises half-reluctant, letting her fingers drop to his wrists as her shadowed gaze once more meets sunlit blue. Thumbs trace over his exposed skin, hungry for warmth, fearful that he will push her away. To fall back into darkness now that she has touched the light... to have her resistances be her undoing, to be unmade as he discovers the truth of her, that she is young and stupid and afraid. That there is nothing he can offer her but inexperience, that she is born to take from a giving world and has no idea how to pay it back. If only she could just accept, relax and ease her troubled mind, not demand so much, just be- Yet the girl asks, and asks again - of herself, of the world, of him. She should not have doubted. The hope on her face is a symphonic thing, and as he speaks she begins to glow, dropping her eyes in disbelief, unable to prevent the smile which pulls incessant at her mouth. Her head shakes softly, but her hands continue to explore his, and her lips press sweetly over his thumb, his palms, whatever he will give. And then, emboldened, she rises up, toes digging once more into the grass, a kiss on his mouth to still the praise, the prize she knows she will never deserve. One, then another, punctuated by laughs, sighs, soft sounds of happiness which rise from her throat and ghost like promises between their lips. She is not the things he said, but if he believes it she will try, will light a candle in her darkness and expose for him her beating heart. "You've given me everything," she says into his beard, stepping back to gaze into his face, to show him the adoration clearly written on hers. It is wrong to ask for more of him, when he has already given so much, and Amalia's voice shakes with fervent insecurity, an aching plea for understanding burning in her eyes. Fingers knitting once again, she raises his hands to her face, pressing kisses on the knuckles which have held a hundred swords before holding them against her cheeks. Her hands in his, she rests her face upon them, tilting her head to look up at her behemoth, her bastion, her bulwark, her point of light in the storm. At Deimos - her Deimos - who has dragged her from her shadows, when she had forgotten how to take care of herself, had spent too long caring for everyone else. "Just be patient as I learn." And I knew that somehow I could find my way back