blood boiling.

during the day,  there were students by the lake,  sitting on the grass and either doing classwork or pretending they were not on the campus but rather in a pretty park.  during the day,  the lake was pretty.  at night  …  at night,  the lake was a different story.  it was too calm.  too quiet.  quiet as a grave.  the atmosphere was eerie and sherry shuddered as she shoved her hands into the pockets of her coat,  looking anywhere but to the water.

she just had to get to ren’s car and get her laptop so that she could settle into bed with a cup of hot chocolate and a good movie.  and it was not far from here to the parking lot.  she could get there very quickly if she — walked fast.  she was not running,  just hurrying  …  so that she could give ren back his car keys and— what was that sound?

water. the woman used to love water. the calming flow. the reflection of light. how rays burst and bounce along its ripples, when looking up at the sun from beneath it. now water is all she knew. she herself became water. she was foolish to underestimate how violent it could be. they say ice is brittle, yet no one thought to consider how storms too brew from water. ice and water were the same, just formed from different environments. waves crash and destroy, chipping away at land. she was also withered by the unforgiving nature that is water.

〈  rogue ╱ ic.  〉

〈  rogue ╱ hc.  〉

〈  rogue ╱ aes.  〉

〈  rogue ╱ musings.  〉

〈  rogue ╱ canon div.  〉

〈  rogue ╱ character study.  〉

〈  rogue ╱ visage.  〉

〈  rogue ╱ behavior.  〉

“ you care very much to tell me that, don't you ? ”

teeth turned pointed — veins like tendrils, clenching at the muscles beneath her flesh. it was a needle pulling blood from her chest. a shackle pinching and grinding at her skin. a sword piercing through the gut.

she was seething. words linger like a poisonous gas, but she inhaled them all the same. the woman can't help but wonder, why now ? what game did they continue to play ? what was there to possibly gain from toying with knives ?

the wounds fresh — the confrontation past. it didn't matter the number of sunsets that would fall. this garden may overgrow — weeds spilling from the plot, despite no one wishing to feed it. still the seeds sow. invasive life ascending from a long dead earth.

erza's arms cross, bore like armor. at first, her eyes evade, cloaking the windows so that no one might see what's inside. but she has had enough of this. a darkened gaze lifts, head tilting as face gave a skeptical expression. she doesn't smile, not even ironically. she wasn't one for falsities and games any longer.

“ maybe. it is. or maybe it's yours. you don't appear to have the tact to know otherwise. ”