Break&Sharon, prompt: snow white.
Her lips are silenced by an apple red sweet, a lollipop that leaves her pretty pout delightfully parted. (and if she ever catches him in the act, he'll deny that his eye strays there for far too long, mischievous grin placed at the ready.) She charms a smile, he charms a smirk, and together they pass the china cups and pour the tea, crystal cubes awaiting their fate of wishing wells and forgotten promises, stirred into wakeful dreams.
His fingers brush against hers, offering what she may freely take, and she, fair haired, fair skinned accepts with a tilt of her chin. Questions are quietly reflected in her eyes, stained on strawberry blushes and white gloves, stained on powered noses and frilly handkerchiefs, but neither breaks the spell that has yet to be spoken. He thinks if he tried, he could easily tease them out; see the words tumble and fall, like glass coffins, resonating in (denied) princes that have yet to whisk her off her feet. It would only take a sleight of hand, and pressing a kiss against the corner of her dimple, before her troubled words would emerge. (he'll settle for the palm of her hand, the inside of her wrist, if she wishes, all she has to do is ask.) He wonders what their final form will be, hesitant or impetuous, cheeky or dismal, as they run back and forth on her tongue, and in her mind.
His pulse will race, without her meaning to, as the bourbons and candy canes will twine round his veins, laced in the lightest of touches, as he hears her voice echo in the air. It reverberates like a heart that beats and a heart that aches, and his fair lady has a heart that's a mixture of ebony and snow, layered like icing on a cake; too frail in appearance, too tenacious in reality. He has a heart that wants (taking, wanting, devouring) a flesh so pale, a mouth so red, (his head dips, and he'll steal her breath and inhale her oxygen, meet her lips with sugar on his tongue) and it's a captured heart that's neverhis. (but always will be.)
She speaks, mustering up her eloquence as easily as brushing away biscuit crumbs off her silk dress, and he can't help but notice the lollipop lipstick gloss that shines. (radiant, rose, red.)
"Who is the fairest of them all?"
Her question at last has been asked, and he masks his surprise behind a devilish grin, leaning in ever so slightly to clasp her hands (to hear hitched breath and whisper secrets of broken mirrors and glacial girls who sold their hearts to wolves) and murmurs in her ear, "Wouldn't you like to know?"
The answer to that, of course, is Emily.