[SE] sky full of song

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame There was provocation in the air, sizzling and snapping against the spring winds, and he narrowed his eyes at the sensation as it seemingly began to wrap its cords around Amalia, cause the sun to wane in his hands, billow outward in teasing machinations. He only sensed the danger in her reverberations seconds before her finger managed to scald his nose; he’d been fervently distracted by hands and fire; snaking along his skin and diverting his intentions. As the boop came full throttle, he reeled and reared back, snorting out a low chuckle, a growl eerily, poignantly, scraping against the back of his throat, down through his ribs, carving its way along his tongue. Then she escaped – much like a doe, a fawn, a wild, untamed creature, defiant and seditious, springing across the grass as if borne solely from the salt and loam of the earth, given wings and fey essence – he arched a brow and simply watched for a few seconds, stunned, lured, beguiled all over again. There was a chasm between them, wide and gaping, no hands held, no fingers touching, no lingering caresses; and he studied it, scrutinized it, the worth, the chase, the beckoning, clawing ministrations and Machiavellian tendencies rampaging through his skull. It was an invitation to a new diversion, but suddenly infinitely more dangerous, perilous, hazardous, precarious, and it sunk against his frame in a menacing, malicious coil, for the beast so dearly loved to hunt. The grin he returned at her behest was positively sinful. Carnivore upheaval and silent repartees scalded his motions, they were decadent and sinister, a predator’s stalking strides, a calm before the storm, hushed and intangible, the untouchable, unattainable heathen in the wake of whimsical dances and exuberant crowds. She must’ve known he’d give chase, a man who once prided himself on being unpredictable, sliding in amidst the gaps and pathways she left open, some people simply seeing him coming, looming, and swerving out of the way, chaotic intentions distorting the measures of his rapacious heart. It was far too late for her to escape, and maybe she could dart and dash and spin away, but eventually, he’d close in – he was composure and infinite patience, after all, already extending those wares and munitions to her being. However, he was malicious and incandescent too, wolf strings plucked and defiant, the rebellious lure of his desires made all the more apparent on his face; devilish smile, narrowed eyes, mischief, mayhem, and immorality simmering below his skin. He followed the sun here and there, chased down the heavenly beams with every forethought and purpose designated to swallowing the fire whole, a hushed roar to his treacherous furor, audacious amore sculpting its way through his lungs as he laughed back at her. The warrior didn’t run, but blended and maneuvered, swerving as his great height served him some advantages, but not speed, not this time, not with her lithe, limber, willowy motions leaping and launching  - he saw the flower crown nestled ahead, scooped and tucked out of his reach again. Her flight was much like a bird, and he merely bided his time, chuckling as she dared to instigate, prompt, and trigger his pursuit; his inhalations were vicious, savage connotations, nearing the top of her head, and then she’d flee, and he’d ensue the same untamed, behemoth invocations. His breaths, ominous and forbidding, billowed purposefully towards the back of her neck, where golden hair curled and escaped, and he’d motion away too, a turn, a twist, in an opposing direction, returning on a frigid wind, on a scalding of smoke, fire, and coals. He didn’t reach for her, his hands down at his sides, the same arch to his brow conveyed, and the rest of him licentious, twisted together in abandoned, dissolute overtures, thoroughly corrupt, the depths of his gaze lingering on her, barbaric and raptorial through and through. His blood wound a steady pulse in his head, contorted and eager, fervent and ready, waiting for him to reach out and snag, hold, clamoring for it in a wicked, daring display, but his gaze remained on her face, on her cheeks, on her mouth. “I think you know what I want.” It was his own challenge, ensued as he folded his arms, not buying into her current instigations, eyes never quite lingering on the crown and its bulbs, its laurels, its blossoms; far more occupied by the real thing. His smile was dimpled and iniquitous, a blend of impish decrees and the more salacious undertones, but body withholding, consistently a whisper, a murmur, a trace away, playing her own game against her. master of nothing place; of recoil and grace