She’d thought her makeup was her armour. Warpaint she could dress herself up with to fight
She’d thought her makeup was her armour. Warpaint she could dress herself up with to fight the world. She’d thought it was a disguise, a way to become one-step removed from herself, so whatever happened, she was safe. She’d used it to embellish the parts of her that were strong, and smooth over the parts that were weak. She’d thought all this, but he’d seen through it in a second. He’d cut her to the wick, with an offhanded comment, and in a moment stripped her bare. She was crying before she realised it, her shoulders slumped, her head hung. This wasn’t the way it went. This wasn’t the way she’d planned it. The hand on her shoulder, calloused as it was, pulled her back from that precipice. He’d taken her home, his low voice a reassuring rumble in her ear, formless, the words drifting into one another, glaciers in the summer. It didn’t matter what he was saying, only that he was saying it. He’d run a bath, taken an age to undress her. She liked that. There may have been an apology somewhere. She didn’t care. The water was warm. -- source link
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