A/N: Don't own any characters in here. None; they are not mine.

Disclaimer: Huh. Don't quite know why I'm posting this. Just a little one-shot I wrote up last night, and my friend demanded it be posted. And so, here it is. AU like whoaaa. Totally non-canon. S'got some poorly written smut. I tried. I failed.

Hopefully it's not too much crap. But yeahh.

Tempest

Dead punk Girl.

Marluxia named her.
A girl he'd seen around, not too pretty -- her breasts are too small and her hips too narrow -- not exactly ugly. She's got short hair, it was probably beautiful once, slicked back from her cheeks and her eyes, which are always watching. He hates her eyes; they're this electric sort of blue, super-charged, angry.
Nymph.
Larxene hated the name at first. It made her sound like some sort of a pussy dyke, some pretty little bitch like the girls that worked the street five blocks over. She was better than that. She hated Marluxia, too. Daddy's rich boy; he hung around where she did because he could. Not really because he wanted to. His hair was always perfect, cut and clean and nice. Just like that stupid smile of his. She wanted to rip that smile off his face.

-8-

"So you're the new guy," She purrs as she leans down to meet his eyes. There are scars on her wrists -- cutter, he realizes dully, -- and her tits are all but spilling from her top. There's something savage in the way she smiles at him, her teeth crooked and yellow. Too yellow. He eyes her arm again; there's more to that story, but he won't ask.
Not yet.
"Yeah, I might be," He replies simply, "Who're you?"
"Larxene," She responds as she eases herself into his lap, straddling him. Her shorts are too short, the button undone, and he can smell sex on her like poison. Her shirt should be white, but it isn't, and he is willing to bet that she hasn't showered in a few days. He thinks he should be disgusted, but there's something sickeningly beautiful about this creature; "And lemme guess, you're Marluxia."
He nods and she laughs. It's bitter and sharp, and he thinks it might have been a beautiful sound once. Once; not now. She's grown ugly now, sitting there in her shorts and her too-small top, her skin pale. He can trace her veins, bright blue beneath the milky white, and she smiles at him when she catches him eyeing her tits.
"Yes," He won't lie to her, "I'm Marluxia. And you need a shower."
"Yeah, so what?" She leans in close, licking her lips, making a horrid show of it, "You goin' to do somethin' about it, pretty boy?"
"I might."
"So do it."
It's a challenege Marluxia is not interested in taking. Slowly, she stands up off him, looking down at him as if she won some great award.
"That's what I thought. Go home, Pretty boy. You aren't welcome here."
She sways off then, leaving him alone in the silence. He knows she's not like the other girls, and he believes that if she hadn't gone this way, she may have been the prettiest in the city. But now all that's left is a skeleton.

-8-

The next time she sees him, he finds her, sitting alone in an alley. There are dirty needles strewn about and she's picking them up, inspecting them before tossing them down with a snarling curse. He thinks she looks like a dog, snooping for table scraps,
"You're going to get sick."
"I don't care," She says over her shoulder, whipping an empty needle at the wall. It shatters, glass landing harmlessly on the pavement; "Get lost, Pretty Boy. You ain't welcome here."
Her speech is different, he notes. She's not out to get on his good side, not interested in making friends with him now. He tilts his head. Her hair is greasier than before, and the dirty smears on her shirt are worse. She's deteriorating, and he wants to laugh at the sickening mess before him.
He moves over to her and catches her wrist gently in his hands. She looks at him, her eyes frighteningly bright, pupils thin and narrowed, like a cat's eye. He smiles at her, watching her like she's something fascinating. She's not, and she knows it.
"Poor little Nymph..."
Her lip curls up at that, a screwed up look of hatred crossing her face before she rips her arm free, rubbing it. The skin is still sore, though she won't tell him that; "Larxene," She corrects, "My name is Larxene, Pretty boy."
"And mine is Marluxia, but I thought we already went through this."
"...We have," She shifts and reaches for another needle, ignoring him for a moment, "What do you want, Pretty boy?"
"Just to talk."
"About?"
"Everything," He replies and he has to laugh at the puzzled expression, "Don't look so confused, Nymph. I'm not going to hurt you."
"Yeah?" She laughs, barring her yellowed teeth at him. Again, he's struck with the impression that she may have been beautiful, once; "Maybe I don't wanna talk?"
She stands up, apparently giving up her search and starts towards the street again, walking past him. Her hips sway, and there are bruises on her thighs and the backs of her shins.
"Later, Pretty boy."
"Goodbye, then."

-8-

He asks around because somehow, she's wiggled her way into his mind and gotten stuck. Not many people give straight answers. Her name is Larxene -- he knew that -- and she is nineteen and a half. Though, this number varies from sixteen to thirty-three. She's not right and she's got a mean streak in her. She's a whore. That doesn't surprise Marluxia. She cuts for the fun of it, because she likes seeing herself bleed, because she likes the pain that ripples through her skin. This surprises him, slightly. She dropped out of highschool, has one sister, lives alone. He drives by her house. The lights are on, but he can't see if anyone's home. He leaves.
She was home, entertaining a guest. Fifty bucks; it's not enough, but it'll buy food and shampoo and pay for her to wash her clothes. She needs a good shower. Her hair can't take much more. She's afraid it's going to fall out soon.
She thinks of Marluxia as the big man thrusts into her, and she finds herself fighting not to cry his name out. He leaves her with a hundred and she thanks God above for small mercies. One hundred will go a lot further than fifty.
She slices herself when the man leaves and watches as the blood runs down the sink in a thick trail.

-8-

"You're clean for once, Nymph," Marluxia remarks as he comes up behind her, wraps his arms around her waist, pulls her close. She smells like cheap shampoo and even cheaper laundry detergent, and her hair is still wet.
"What do you want?"
"To talk?" He suggests as she turns in his arms. She eyes him warily, like she's heard it all before, like she should be able to see through any lies. He smiles at her; "Just to talk. That's it. Nothing else."
"...Alright."
He smiles wider and takes her hand, leads her off down the street towards a small cafe. He buys her cake, which she eats like she's starving. It's too sweet, triple chocolate or something, but she's hungry and it's been months since she's had something this good. He watches as she devours it like some hungry animal. He wonders if she knows she might have been beautiful. She must know.
"So. Tell me about yourself, Nymph."
She lifts her eyes, fork caught between her lips, confusion on her features. Nobody's asked that before, and she doesn't know how to respond. She shakes her head and resumes eating, and Marluxia doesn't push it.

-8-

It isn't long before she's on her knees in front of him, sucking his cock. He thinks she's prettiest like that, her cheeks flushed, pale pink lips wrapped around him. His hands are tangled in her hair, pulling each time it feels good. She doesn't whimper or whine about the pain, either; she moans against his dick, scraping her teeth across the head, her hand between her thighs.
Marluxia thinks he'd fuck her if she'd let him. Maybe...maybe not. He can't be sure. But he can be sure that she's good at what she does, and the pressure of her tongue is wonderful, and her crooked teeth feel good. Her tits don't seem so small now, and the fact that her shorts are too small no longer bothers him.
He cries out her proper name when he climaxes and she sits up, kissing his lips. He can taste himself in her mouth and, holy hell, he's getting hard again. Her hands are all over him, pushing his shirt off.
"Larxene..." He groans out, making her stop, "Nymph...no more. Enough."
She's not sure what to do. Her hands hover hesitatingly above his cock, bright eyes confused. He swallows, pushes her back onto the sofa and moves over. Kneeling, he undoes the button on her shorts, helps her wiggle out of them. She's panting and squirming, watching him. And he's sure her eyes are glowing as he slips a finger into her, making her hips buck.
She spills profanities as he finger-fucks her, licking at the inside of her thighs. He knows she's pretty now...he likes the way her eyes roll back in her head, they way her tongue sweeps across her lips, the way her hair sticks to her neck and her cheeks.
She practically sobs as she comes, her muscles tightening around him, his tongue flicking lightly across her clit.
"You going to talk to me now?" He drawls and she nods, dazed and dizzy. The phone rings, though, and when he comes back from the call, she's gone. There's a note pinned to the sofa, along with five bucks, and he has to smile when he reads it.
Raincheck, Pretty boy.
I hope you fuck with your dick as well as you do with your fingers.
You owe me five bucks. Pay me when you see me.
-Nymph.
He tucks the money into his pocket and goes to take a shower.

-8-

Marluxia doesn't see her for weeks after that.
He wonders if she's hiding, but he can't see Larxene ever doing that. His nymph doesn't do that, and he isn't sure when she became his. But she is, and he's happy to have her. His not too pretty, not too ugly little Nymph, running around with her greasy hair and too-small shorts.
He thinks maybe if she were someone else that he would love her.
Maybe.

-8-

"Marluxia?"
He has to contain his smile when he hears her voice. It's not like he's missed his little Nymph or anything like that.
"Yeah?"
"...I..." She pauses, and he can tell she's licking her lips; he can practically see it, almost see her shift her weight as she looks around; "I wanna talk now."
He's silent.
"Please?"
"...Alright."

-8-

She cries into his shoulder when she sees him. He doesn't think she's pretty now, with the scars on her wrists a sickeningly red color, some of them infected. She needs a shower, he mentally notes, frowning as he rubs her back. There are bruises on her legs again, her stomach, and he can see the wad of bills on her counter.
He doesn't ask where they're from.
"I have your money," He murmurs, pulling back to reach into his pocket, "Here."
"I don't want it."
"...Why not?"
"Because I fucking don't, okay?" She snarls, "Fuck! Just fucking keep it, okay? Just fucking keep it."
He says nothing. She falls asleep on his lap, tears streaked onto her cheeks and he thinks she's pathetic, she's really sad.
He knows he would never love this creature, now.

-8-

He wakes up alone. There is no note.

-8-

She drifts in and out of his life, and she never explains. Sometimes, she's there, sometimes she's not. Her presence waves and finally vanishes entirely. He doesn't miss her.
He meets a nice woman, Aerith, and she's much prettier than Larxene. He doesn't tell Aerith about his connections with the woman who's become the Savage Nymph on the street. He hears vague mentions of her occasionally, heard that she's become feral like an angry cat, become untrusting and cold and cruel. This doesn't surprise him.
He passes her on the street, Aerith on his arm, and doesn't recognize her.
She recognizes him.
She goes out and makes six hundred dollars, and thinks of him when she fakes it. She's able to charge more now; everyone wants the Nymph. The name makes her smile. It's his name for her, and it sounds a lot better than Larxene ever did.
She's glad he can't see her now.

-8-

Larxene drifts throughout the rest of her days. She's sort of humming through life...not really sure what else she can do. She's not very pretty, not at all, actually. She's too thin, and her hair is falling out from mistreatment, and her teeth are still too yellow. She's got big scars and her knee is ruined from somebody kicking it in. She can't remember his face.
She misses him.

-8-

Marluxia has two kids, a wife, a nice apartment. He works in publishing, and he's successful. He's happy. He's forgotten her, the little stain on his memory that was once his Nymph. He's twenty-five now.
He's just about to leave the office when the phone rings. He just about discards it. Just about. But he stops and answers it, his tone polite,
"Hello?"
"Hey, Pretty boy."
Silence on his end.
"Look...I...I want to talk."
More silence.
"I'm outside and I just...I want to see you. Okay? I won't--"
He cuts her off, "I'll be there in a minute."

-8-

He doesn't see her right away. She's gotten small, that savage smile on her lips is gone. Her lipstick is too dark and her teeth are still crooked. Her hair is longer now, it's greasy and unkempt, and her clothes hang too big on her. Her eyes are still bright, ringed with too much mascara, only they're not angry anymore.
He thinks she's pretty now.
Slowly, he wraps his arms around her and holds her tight to his chest, and barely notices that he can feel her spine. He almost feels guilty; maybe if he had tried to help her...maybe...perhaps, but then again, not.
"I missed you," She breathes him in, deciding she likes his cologne, "I've missed you so much."
He's married. He's got everything. And there she is, offering him nothing, nothing more than her skinny, ugly little body and possibly a good fuck. He smiles at her and kisses her forehead, smoothing his fingers through his hair,
"I've missed you, too, Nymph."
She laughs, and it's still slightly bitter but he can't blame her for that. He drives her back to her apartment, gets out with her. He wonders if he's crazy, wonders if he's making a mistake. But she smiles at him and she keeps smiling.
Distantly, he wonders how they got to this.
He doesn't fuck her. He just holds her to his chest, cradles her there so she knows she's safe, kissing her neck, her ears, her forehead, each scar that decorates her wrist. He doesn't ask about that. It'll come in due time.
"Stay with me."
"I will."
"Good."
He does love her, he realizes, and he knows she's more than pretty. She's always been more than that.
She's beautiful.