06-17-2018, 01:12 AM
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[sup]c) miithers[/sup]
★ WHEN MY HEART IS MADE FROM GOLD AND FORGIVENESS SEEMS TOO BOLD
Hazel busied herself with her task, running her fingers through the long strands of Margaery’s hair. She’d always admired the mousy brown of Margy’s hair; it looked like it belonged in a photo shoot, set against a white backdrop in NYC. Hazel wished for hair like that, instead of the frizzy, curly mess she had to deal with.
As Margy finally spoke, Hazel’s grip tightened around the handle of the brush. There was her confirmation — her check mark in the one blank box that she’d left her pen hovering over for days, now. Anger kickstarted low in her chest, quickly coming to a boil in her veins. So now not only did Bastille not give two shits about what he was doing to himself, but he didn’t seem to care about what he said and did to others. It was all good fun until someone else got caught in the crossfire, wasn’t it?
Hazel let Margy finish, gritting her teeth and trying not to tug on the woman’s hair too harshly. Deus, she was going to shove Bastille into his bookshelf the next time she saw him. He’d deserve it this time. He’d deserve every inch of what Hazel was going to give him, because this sort of subject was just...something you didn’t mess with. You left it alone, no matter what.
Smoldering, Hazel swallowed against the bitterness, silently setting down her plan for mutilating the Seraph later in favor of focusing on the present. It took a moment longer than usual to feel the burn of liquid anger in her veins fade, like that wave was more powerful than the others. But Hazel didn’t notice — just breathed in and out, in and out. Just to level off her racing heart.
“I don’t know why you should believe anything he says,” Hazel said after a moment of silence. “He doesn’t know you, Margy. He doesn’t know the first thing about you.” She frowned, reaching up to collect a small portion of brown hair to begin braiding. “Bastille may be able to read people and twist words, but he can’t tell you who you are. None of us can. Everything that makes up your character is up to you, and only you. It took me way too long to figure that out — twelve years too long. And in the time I spent at that house, living as something Mother told me I was, I realized the only thing I could do was embody only what she told me. It wasn’t me. I didn’t have my own personality. But by the time I ran...I was already covered in scars.” Hazel sighed quietly, some of the fight seeping out of her shoulders.
Biting her lip with a newfound sort of nervousness, Hazel rolled up one leg of her overall shorts, revealing pale, ugly scars that peppered the insides of her thigh. Some were thin and long, shaped like a shooting star or the path of a kitchen knife. Others were the results of burns and fingernail scrapes. She let out a small breath.
Hazel tried to ignore how her hands shook as she looked back up at Margaery, eyes haunted and a little desperate. “Please don’t let yourself get covered in scars, Margy.” She said quietly. “It’s not worth it.”
As Margy finally spoke, Hazel’s grip tightened around the handle of the brush. There was her confirmation — her check mark in the one blank box that she’d left her pen hovering over for days, now. Anger kickstarted low in her chest, quickly coming to a boil in her veins. So now not only did Bastille not give two shits about what he was doing to himself, but he didn’t seem to care about what he said and did to others. It was all good fun until someone else got caught in the crossfire, wasn’t it?
Hazel let Margy finish, gritting her teeth and trying not to tug on the woman’s hair too harshly. Deus, she was going to shove Bastille into his bookshelf the next time she saw him. He’d deserve it this time. He’d deserve every inch of what Hazel was going to give him, because this sort of subject was just...something you didn’t mess with. You left it alone, no matter what.
Smoldering, Hazel swallowed against the bitterness, silently setting down her plan for mutilating the Seraph later in favor of focusing on the present. It took a moment longer than usual to feel the burn of liquid anger in her veins fade, like that wave was more powerful than the others. But Hazel didn’t notice — just breathed in and out, in and out. Just to level off her racing heart.
“I don’t know why you should believe anything he says,” Hazel said after a moment of silence. “He doesn’t know you, Margy. He doesn’t know the first thing about you.” She frowned, reaching up to collect a small portion of brown hair to begin braiding. “Bastille may be able to read people and twist words, but he can’t tell you who you are. None of us can. Everything that makes up your character is up to you, and only you. It took me way too long to figure that out — twelve years too long. And in the time I spent at that house, living as something Mother told me I was, I realized the only thing I could do was embody only what she told me. It wasn’t me. I didn’t have my own personality. But by the time I ran...I was already covered in scars.” Hazel sighed quietly, some of the fight seeping out of her shoulders.
Biting her lip with a newfound sort of nervousness, Hazel rolled up one leg of her overall shorts, revealing pale, ugly scars that peppered the insides of her thigh. Some were thin and long, shaped like a shooting star or the path of a kitchen knife. Others were the results of burns and fingernail scrapes. She let out a small breath.
Hazel tried to ignore how her hands shook as she looked back up at Margaery, eyes haunted and a little desperate. “Please don’t let yourself get covered in scars, Margy.” She said quietly. “It’s not worth it.”
★ — hazel — "speech" — eight months — the ascendants — tags — ★
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WITH EVERY HEARTBEAT I HAVE LEFT
i will defend your every breath; i'll do better