[SE] sky full of song

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame In some parameters, he very well could be the moon: distant, forlorn, cold, rock and rubble, stone and ice, never quite maneuvering from its perch, constant and monolithic, incapable of casting its own light. But the beast had never thought of himself amidst the other celestial beings, too trapped in his own earthly shell, slowly eroding, encased in his marauding lacquer, destined to resist and rebel. He stared towards the heavenly bodies instead, occasionally stepping into their bright orbits and illustrious wakes and knew very well he didn’t belong, but inhaled their elegance and finery, brooded and stoked, kindled and incensed anyway. Perhaps it was to take a chance, a glance, at what could have been, had he taken alternate paths and routes, had he not maneuvered so close to ruin, had he not associated himself with death, had he not become a feral, bestial thing. Aloof and nonchalant, he would then scatter amidst the high beams and summer sonnets, chiseling right back to the shadows, where he belonged, where he was comfortable, where he festered, withered, and growled, where he came apart at the seams and didn’t know how to stitch it back together – not anymore. The strands unfurled and uncoiled, and he only held them closer, taut, rigid, controlling and precise, not letting the world see just how many times he’d messed up, a defect, a flaw, an inept, undeserving calamity restlessly toiling in the darkness. Then he held the sun in his grasp and laughed, chuckled, contorted himself back together again. Time measured him in sets and events: crowned one moment, dead the next, granted renewal for the unknown, swaying purposes, and then chasing after mischief, glory, and finally, sinking down, down, down into self-destruction (grief and agony; heavy on his shoulders, eclipsed along his flesh, his skin, his marrow, his bones). He wasn’t sure where these chapters started, where the tales twisted and turned, sorrow bending its way towards the light, reaching and scalding, tremulous and tender, but he knew they were written in some accord with her ink and benedictions. But he was a star now, constructed carefully, managed with precision and derision, the wicked smile tucked along his mouth, infernos and chilling contradictions – side by side, winter and summer, pulsing, pervading, with his composed enigma. Beneath, he brewed and boiled, a scintillating, simmering, smoldering conviction, no wraiths, no phantoms, no specters in sight now, a clever, devious fiend fervent to make his mark. Deimos once made the whole world wait in his blistering silence, in the condemnation of living things, in the undulating, coiled roll of his muscles before he fanned the flames and stoked savagery; he could unsettle her too, except this time it was for amusement and temptation. The warrior intended to feed the fire and witness her struggle with its decadence, its ire, its deep, beckoning unknown, the Cheshire grin apparent, the diversion not quite forsaken, but tempered to his wiles and deceptions. Maybe he’s played these games far longer than she; but for brutality and impatience, the demeaning, demanding structure of loosening an enemies’ or opponents skills. This was an entirely different accord – he wanted, yearned, and longed too, but had withstood the demands of his own being for eons. The Reaper laughed again, not even bothering to suppress the rumble from his chest as she strived to appear nonchalant and dispassionate, not remotely bothered or incensed, when her entire face claimed otherwise (burning bright; roses and petals). He wandered closer, still purposefully out of reach as she swung along boughs and branches, as her sunlit expanse caught the nuances of leaves and blossoms, tilting his head to ensure he had a memory stored of the canvas, the tapestry. Then he studied again, eyes intentionally not locking onto the crown in her fingers, but her, always her, I think you should show me clawing at his mind, stretching to the more unholy ventures and promises – his gaze widened for a few moments, then narrowed again, beguiled and allured, but not falling for it this time. She required patience and he’d give it to her – a tease, a torment, on both of their frames. “Show you?” He inquired, an intense, rooted depth and fathom to his voice, brow arching, a simultaneous dare, as if she didn’t know what she craved (but it held iniquitous in his soul, not even bothering to hide the nuances and notions). Quick and swift, despite his mass, Deimos reached for her on a closer swing towards his figure, ducking beneath the bough to catch her in his grasp. The hand intended to pull her flush against his chest, where heartbeats gathered, clamored, and reverberated together, gaze hooded, looking down at gold and black. The signs of mischief disappeared for a moment, and his features were a series of broad, enticing, inveigling cords, ducking his head so his mouth, his lips, whispered against hers, then swept on a descent, crossing over to behind her ears, along the length of her neck. He wanted to hear a gasp, a plea, a movement of wilderness through her teeth and tongue. And all the while, his other hand roamed; not to her sides, not to her waist, not to her face, but along the depths of the arm carrying the cluster of flowers, teasing and toying, skin inching along skin, until his grasp grabbed hold of them, firm, unyielding, striving to pluck the crown completely out of her hold. When it was fully relinquished and in his grip, he tore away from her form; complete, utter mischief and audacity sizzling along his frame, bounding backwards, settling the diadem on his untamed mane. “This monarch thanks you.” His laughter was ruffian and seditious, and the grin accompanying it was marked by the seditious, before he swung around several other trees, pretending to make a worthwhile escape. master of nothing place; of recoil and grace