A/N: Based almost completely from a thread my darling friend and I did as my final sendoff with Naminé in an RP. Read and review if you like; it's fun!

Pretty

It is around noontime when he comes to check upon his pretty little witch, as he always does, as schedule mandates and requires. Over her shoulder he can see she's already hard at work, drawing four little children on an island, bright against the blue sky, all hand-in-hand with dreams in their eyes.

He smirk-smiles and whispers, breath hot against her ear: "Isn't that pretty?"

She swallows, shakes slightly. His closeness is making her nervous.

"Y-you're flattering me," she stammers as she colors in the purple trim of a girl's dress.

"I never flatter, weedling," he smirks, drawing his hands over her shoulders, against her neck. "I mean what I say."

She looks up at him for a sign that he is lying, and can find none. But when she looks down at the paper she realizes something.

"…it's all wrong," she says. The colors are completely mismatched. Instead of coloring Kairi's dress, she has made her own purple, and that simply will not be acceptable.

And she knows what she must do. She seizes the paper, folds it haphazardly. Wrong, wrong, it's all wrong. It may please Marluxia but it will not be enough to please Sora.

She begins to tear it, feels the paper's edges falling between her fingers.

"Naminé, stop," he snaps, indignantly. That is not enough to get her to stop. Once she scatters the paper pieces she sets her eyes on her sketchpad.

He will not see that destroyed too. He grabs hold of her shoulders, shoves her violently against him. She tries to run again, but he digs his fingers into her wrists, tightly. She stops, bites down a whimper.

"Naminé," he growls, "control yourself."

She breathes, slow, steady, like she's just run a very long way.

"I'm sorry," she whispers, turning away from his grip. He lets her go, but she is not so brave to leave. She looks at him fearfully.

She is barely audible, but she promises: "It won't happen again."

"Good girl," Marluxia says with a smug smile. "You know I don't like to have my possessions reflecting badly on me."

"I-I know you don't," she replies nervously. "I'll make it up to you," she adds, because she cannot afford to have him so cross with her. "I promise I will."

This piques Marluxia's interest. She realizes too late that this is not necessarily a good thing.

"Oh, will you now?" he asks, summoning a rose and twirling it, thoughtfully, between his fingers. It makes him seem softer, approachable, almost romantic.

It is nothing more than a pretty little lie. Naminé isn't sure whether or not believe it again.

"This I have to see personally," he continues, almost purring. "Show me what you have, then. I may just give you a little treat."

She swallows. Now?

Her fate may rest entirely on this. It's hardly her best work, it's simply the biggest thing she's tried to complete. And she had hoped to have more time for it before she shared it with anyone, much the less him.

"…you want to go, r-right now?" she stutters. "If…if you want to, then you can see it."

He smiles and she walks carefully in front of him. She is careful to maintain a certain distance from him, far enough to be out of reach but not so far that he thinks she'll run away.

She goes down to a room in the hallway, a spare one nobody was using, a spare one she had taken for herself.

She bites her lip and braces herself. She opens the doors widely, slowly, in hopes of not upsetting all the papers pinned to the walls.

It looks like a very flat, squarish rendition of Wonderland. It looks like the golden afternoon garden with the talking flowers that were among the first to call Naminé a weed. No detail has gone unnoticed, no color has been left out.

It looks like the place where she first appeared.

It looks like the place when they first saw each other.

"…I dream about it, sometimes," she admits, quietly, as he surveys the room. "I remember it."

He says nothing, simply graces the room with a half-smile.

"D-do you like it?" she asks bravely, in spite of herself, in spite of her role.

"My little weedling," he coos, grabbing her shoulders and bringing her closer, "you've outdone yourself. Had I a heart, I'd be proud."

She remembers how to breathe again.

"Though, I suppose," he adds, creeping in closer to her reddening face, "you may have to settle for something lower than appreciation."

"L-lower?" she squeaks, hardly able to think. "What do you mean?"

His answer is an almost chaste kiss, his lips on hers. His touch is soft, simple, hardly demanding, hardly pressing.

It's nice, Naminé realizes, and when he pulls away, she looks up at him with a bright smile.

"Thank you," she whispers, happy that the room has his approval. She is looking at him admiringly, pleasantly, trustfully.

She's looking at him like she trusts him.

He bites back the urge to laugh at just how pathetic she is.

That was far too easy, he thinks.

But all he says to the pretty little witch is: "Of course."

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