Sound of the rising sun

We should go inside now.
The voice that barely was there reached the ears of the Fair one, who laid in the sunny patch on the open window still, curled in the warmth; the bath of gold around them.
An eye, graveyard blue, cracked open just a little. The eye was not one of the child's anymore, bearing more michevious glint than any child could have (yet, the Dark one saw the Child in those eyes, still. He was a lot older, after all), as the lips, pale like flower petals on snow, melted on the smile.
That was not a smile of a child either; a coy nomore, but perhaps for a show, and there was no one here to play to (or perhaps there was).
The smile that rose to the lips, like the sun raises from behind the horizon every morning (burning, fiery sun that guards the pale moon posessively, like a jealouse lover), was sleepy, yet somehow whimsical; an unnerving smile, perhaps, but the Dark one chuckled at it, as he recognised his influence on that smile.

The hot sun is bad for the skin. Especially for one so fair such this is.
A breath that quite wasn't there ghosted over the Fair one's neck. It held the familiar scent of oranges and burnt cinnamon and nutmeg and hint of... was that ginger?
The Fair one glanced lazily (oh, how they loved to act) to themselves, almost like suprised to see the white skin (so white, colour of death; the smoke from funeral pyres) that was covered only by equally white lace cloth. They traced fingers, long and jewel decorated, over the skin, almost curious, like a child, yet in no child-like manner (too sensual, too sure), pulling the lace up to a soft tight; baring more of luscious skin with a hint of dusty pink (like it was shy to be exposed).

"Is that so." the Fair one mused, and their voice was not of a child's anymore, either. They no more spoke with the voice of their kin, but with a one in which the Dark one's calm-fanged inflections have begun to take root in; the gold of his eyes tinging in the words.

The dark, golden, grey, shadowy skin was hot, so hot it almost burned and the Fair one wanted to melt, as the touch that almost wasn't there raked over the fair skin, but from the inside (for the Dark one is bound), leaving burning traces in their wake, the crimson nails tracing the boundaries of the prison (willing, pleasant prison).

We don't want you to get hurt, do we? The Dark one murmured, a ghost of a painted lips moving over their cheecks, smug and amused (posessive, jealouse).
You're not allowed to. the golden voice said, as though speaking to a child, obsidian and amber eyes narrowed, lips curved until he looked condescending.
Chuckle left his painted lips, as carmine nails raked over the fair skin, tracing the lines of their face, over their lips, down their nose.

A flickering breath left the full lips of the Fair one, as they almost choked on the power radiating from the Dark one (like the warmth radiates from ember), and they turned their head away from the lips that hover over their cheecks, and for a moment they were ashamed of their weakness.

Now, lets go inside.
The keen eyes (eyes of obsidian and amber) saw the shiver and he strokeed their hair (whisps of smoke and cotton and snowflakes; colour of nothingness), smiling in a superior way.
And the Fair one rose on their feet and gathered their lace cloth (for they were beaten), as they stepped in the gentle shadows of the house, away from the burning sun.

A pleasant creature indeed.
And then he is gone, leaving only a ghost of the kiss on their brow and a sharp laughter in the still air.