[SE] sky full of song

Amalia I took the stars from my eyes, I made a map Again he laughs in the face of her attempted facade, his blue eyes blazing easily through the walls she tries to build. Amalia glows beneath the sound, her heartbeat an echoing thunder in her ears as the beast stalks nearer, but never near enough. The crown swings toward him and then away, an extension of her arm, a little more brazen now, a little more wild, a little more reckless and craven and beguiled. Pendulous, magnetized, her body arcs toward him, narrowing that gaping space before she oscillates away, the distance that much keener by how nearly it was closed. The girl tries to taunt, to scintillate and inspire, to be the thing that breaks him and bends him to her will: but she is an unpracticed thing, woefully out of place, wonderfully trapped by her own devices. Perhaps she invites because she is afraid, terrified beneath her giddy infatuation that the thing they toy with is just that: infatuation, focused, fleeting, fading as quickly as it flares up. There are many girls for him to dance with, many hands for him to hold. Countless lips that would long to touch him, to flutter on his and offer more, more than an anxious damsel can, with fewer demands of patience and wait. Oh, but then his hands are on her, and Amalia has no room for anxieties: her focus is entirely enraptured by him. Swift and seamless he takes her hand, pulling him flush against his figure, his face a heartbeat from her lips. The baker feels her mouth go dry, keenly aware yet wholly oblivious, caught by his skin and scent and eyes. She tucks her lip between her teeth, staring into his hooded gaze, her own black sinking into blue. Her right hand remains gripped on the tree; her left is entirely in his grasp, frozen by the ministration of gentle fingers on her arm, hair rising lightly in response to the careful, measured touch. He must be able to feel her heartbeat; it hammers fast and heavy and loud, enough to shake her slender frame (or is that his breath that makes her tremble, the unsaid things in his smoldering eyes?). His lips touch hers for just a second, and Amalia cannot help the slightest whisper of protest as they leave, too fast for a proper kiss, too fast for anything, too fast too fast too fast- Perhaps part of her does not want to be patient, and that in itself terrifies her more. There is a battle of body and spirit within her, wants and worries raging like seas beneath her sun-kissed skin. There is a piece of the girl which remembers Frey, the grasping touches of the many-handed god, the way she fit within them as a fluid fills a glass. Deimos' lips light a similar fire, set her ablaze with the lightest embrace, and she yearns for more just as she fears it, aching and terrified by the intensity of his touch. Her cheek, her chin, and oh, her ear-! "Deimos!" she gasps against his hair, tilting her head as he follows her neck, eyes wide with surprise at the unexpected sensation. Slender hands grasp tighter at the branch of the tree: Wait!, she wants to say, but her tongue is tied, locked by the war inside her skin. She wants him - she wants him - but she also wants him, wants to know and be known by him, wants him to be the sun she orbits instead of just a passing comet, a blazing glow of glorious light which passes by too soon. Once, the girl gave herself, surrendered and allowed thinking it lust was romance, mistaking flirtation for emotion, for love. And once the thing she gave was returned, a little more tarnished for the misuse, an empty crevice left inside her where she'd thought that he might fit. Deimos is too precious, too magnificent, too dear; he has taken a place in her hollow heart, and the wounded girl cannot bear the thought that his feelings for her might burn out and leave her holding naught but ash. So it is with no little bit of relief that she feels him pull away, though her body trails after him, still hungry for his warmth. The theft of the crown goes entirely unnoticed until it is upon his head, resting firmly on untamed curls, bright and delicate and not nearly as beautiful as he. Bemused, Amalia can only blink, her dark eyes clouded, her expression still drawn with pleasure and discontent. It his laughter which rouses her from her reverie, reminds her that they are still in the world, that there is more here than him and his hands and his skin and his breath and his fingers and his hair and his lips. There is a game to be won, still in play, the rules always changing but the dancers the same. Grinning widely at the man, Amalia sticks out her tongue in mock indignation, though her flushed face and trembling hands belie any real rage. "Very well, Deimos the Shade, ruler of the Fiat Lux!" Her laughter ringing through the small grove, Amalia swings in the opposite direction, aiming to take him by surprise, to catch him as he attempts to flee and find her way back into his radiance, to run fleeting fingers over his nose before falling into a graceless bow. "What would you ask of me, my lord, your humble servant for this festival day?" She leans toward the ground, but her head tilts up, dark eyes glittering from behind her tawny mane, long hair falling over shoulder and face, attention and thoughts and allegiance and dreams focused entirely on him. And I knew that somehow I could find my way back