[SE] sky full of song

Amalia I took the stars from my eyes, I made a map Gods, but it feels good to be looked at with those eyes, blue and brimming with unsaid things and focused solely on her. Voracious, insistent, but gently so, with a delicacy unexpected from one so Herculean, his surprisingly tender touches rising goosebumps on her skin. All of Amalia's careful preparations and pre-planned scenarios have not equipped her for this: none of the futures she replays in her mind have ever been so bright. His mouth on her lips, his hands on her waist - how is she to think of anything else, when he is so tantalizing close; how can she say no to anything he asks when he continues to give and give? He promises patience, and she smiles in response, shy and grateful, apologetic and pleased. She lets her dark eyes flutter shut, leaning further into his touches, slender fingers wrapped around the large hand on her cheek. There are thousands of things she could say in that moment, but none of them feel adequate, eloquent enough to encapsulate everything she feels. Elation, comfort, devotion, joy, but also fear, anxiety, the ever gnawing dread that this moment will falter and she will be left alone in the dark, that much colder for having felt his warmth. That he has been willing to take the lead alleviates her fear: that he would ask her to step back in, only to learn she does not know dance, weighs like pitch within her gut. The moment is too perfect, too terrifyingly fragile and beautiful and vibrant and good, and Amalia fears that by holding it too close she will cause it to collapse, shards of glass and deadly hope slicing against her heart. Reluctantly she pulls away, his hand still woven into hers, her heart still throbbing against her ribs. Needing space to think and regroup, but no less his because of it, Amalia squeezes against his fingers and settles them in her hand. "You still need your crown, my king." Trembling with laughter and life and maybe something more, she begins to lead him to where their flowers lie, golden head making frequent turns to ensure he follows still, her jet eyes wide and wondering and blazing, radiant as the thing that fills her heart. Her steps are closer to a dance than any dignified stride, jubilant and childlike, a clear betrayal of the overwhelming feelings which push against her skin. Halfway to their destination she stops, no longer able to contain. Spinning suddenly back in toward Deimos, she raises her hands up to his face, a luminous grin and a lustrous laugh bubbling from her throat. Rising on tiptoes once again, Amalia smooths one hand around his neck, fingers tangling in his hair, the other back on lips and beard, as she gazes, rapturous, into blue eyes. "Hi," she whispers simply, stupidly, unable in that moment to find better words to convey the things she feels. Hi, her ardent smile seems to say, My name is Amalia, and I am young and foolish and hopeful and scared, and I have never done anything like this, and I am yours. And I knew that somehow I could find my way back