Racket: Her voice cracks ominously like thunder and a lesser man would cower beneath her wrath; the little boy stands tall, however, because he's used to storms and knows that it's often worse when they're over because then you can truly see what damage they've done.
Mile: Sometimes she thinks she can run on and on all the way into twenty tomorrows and she'll still never be able to forget him; bright blue eyes stained across her conscience and sweet voice flitting in and out of her dreams always ending in choked screams as she throws him to the floor and he doesn't get up, never gets up, twenty more tomorrows without him and she's not sure she can handle it.
Job: When she was little she wanted to be a prostitute because then maybe somebody would love her; certainly not her parents who always slapped and shouted, certainly not the kids at school who wound her up like a clockwork toy for their own amusement just to watch her snap and certainly not Sora, far too wrapped up in Kairi to notice somebody else, even if that somebody else did want to be a prostitute when she got older.
Swamp: His eyes are large and innocent but the depths are untapped, vast as the sea and sticky as a swamp; one look and she's going under, going under, gone too far and he doesn't even notice, smiling sweetly: "Hi, Larxene" and she's too busy trying to breathe to notice.
Rainbow: She always managed to find simple joys in bright, vibrant pretty things; yellow thunder as it streaks across dark purple skies, red and orange fires, green grass and blue sky, maybe because she was restricted to a nobody castle of black and white and wanted to rebel with her mind full of rainbows; it was hardly any surprise that she outshone even the brightest supernova as she imploded on the battlefield, so bright even the enemy was impressed for that split-second before it all went black and the prettiest thing of all turned to ash.
Town: She never liked to go to town because of all the stereotyping; goths in one group, preps in another, mix and be damned; he never liked to go to town because she'd always be there complaining about it and she looked so cute when she got frustrated.
Brief: Their meetings throughout the white floors of Castle Oblivion were brief, taunts and jeers that always ended up into fights, so why did she always feel so strange afterwards? Maybe that was why she was so bitter the second time; he'd sparked something within her and she didn't like it, he liked it less because within seconds she was on the floor bleeding black blood and he'd never even known her name.
Stranger: He'd always been told never to talk to strangers so why did he feel so compelled to talk to her? It must've been the hair. Yeup, he grinned as her antenna bobbed, it was definitely the hair.
Chapel: They never went into the church because of Aerith Gainsborough and the Sephiroth and the blood and the police and the flowers spilling across the sidewalk but they'd been outside it often enough, him mourning his mother whilst she stood beside him with face upturned like a marble angel feeling just a little bit jealous because he'd never cared about her in that way and probably never would.
Legend: Naminé was a princess and Sora was a prince, so what did that make her? A wicked witch, of course; only she was sick of being the villain and really far too old to play lets-pretend, but… Maybe she could just a little longer if it's what the kids wanted; hell, when she was a kid she'd loved stories and myths and legends and what better way to feel special than to star in one yourself?
Romantic: "I'm sorry I forgot, Larx, I had to run here 'cause I had a detention and I only just managed to swipe this from Marluxia's garden on the way," Sora babbled, thrusting the single battered rose in her direction, their anniversary present. She could've been angry, had been angry for the past twenty minutes, but at the look on his face and the mostly petalless rose in his hand she couldn't help but laugh; he was no Romeo but at least he was trying.
Screw: He swore she had a screw loose because she could shout and scream and rage for endless hour after endless hour, but he loved her so much he didn't care, felt proud, almost; ("My girlfriend's a great artist." "Yeah, well my girlfriend's in a mental asylum.")
a/n: sora/larxene to get me back into writing and hopefully kill my traitorous brain that wouldn't write. not checked through but I hope you enjoy.