a/n; thought of noelle while writing this. that actually sounds a little dirty. ah well, she's my wifey. take it anyway you want. I started writing this a while ago, but only now got the courage to finish it up. it's kind of weird... which is normal for me, I s'pose. anywho - read, enjoy, review. that is all.
pretty things, pretty lies.
forget the smiles she sold to you.
LARXENE/NAMINE.
She was sixteen years young when she saw her first.
Tall, blonde, and beautiful in a way that made you shiver. The cigarette between her fingertips glowed red like the dress she was wearing -- bold, the young girl staring thought, as though she owns you before you even meet.
(And by the way Naminé was watching her, she probably did.)
Men would sidle up like snakes wearing cheap cologne and cheap grins that would say, "how much do you want?"
But she only smirked and pursed her lips and blew rings of smoke into their smug-trash faces.
Across the street, Naminé would laugh.
- - -
She was cold and alone when she asked her for a light.
Didn't even smoke (as fragile and porcelain as she was), but a friend of hers told her that it was a great conversation starter, so the shivering girl in white let it loose behind a streetlight.
The woman slid into a feral grin that seemed to take up her whole face as her acidic eyes looked the small girl up and down. "Sorry, sweetheart," she nearly sang, "but I left my lighter in my other purse."
Naminé bit her lip, gaze cast downward on the scuffed sneakers that were her shoes.
The woman purred and hooked a bright red talon underneath the young girl's chin.
"You can call me Larxene."
- - -
She was lying in a motel room when she saw her last.
Not as tall without stilettos on, blonde hair a little too fake in the harsh morning sunlight, and mascara was smudged across her cheekbones -- but she was still beautiful. And Naminé couldn't help but shiver and shake as the static blur of the night before came rushing backwards to the bruises on her hips.
"It's free for you, darling," said the woman now named Larxene, shrugging on a coat that pretended to be fur. "But you still have to pay for the room."
A cigarette trembled in her slender hand as she turned and walked away, the lipstick clinging to the edges of her mouth and the bed sheets and the young girl's collarbone.
Naminé winced as the door shut with a bang.
- - -
She was small and afraid on the walk back home, her white dress rumpled and stained with cheap wine.
Echoes of laughter and less-than-innocent cries bounced off of every empty soda can, every blinking stoplight. All she could hear was the sound of her voice, and when she licked her chapped lips, it was still her taste lingering.
Larxene.
Like lightning.
Sudden and electrifying -- a jolt of energy that sped up your heartbeat and burnt you up from the inside.
So Naminé covered her smile behind her hand, hysteria bubbling out of her eyes in tears.
(because lightning never strikes the same place twice).
