Hurt/no Comfort - Blog Posts

Prompt #64

“You know you really shouldn’t have fallen in love, especially with a hero.” The hero said, pressing the dagger deeper into the villain’s stomach, attaching their foreheads, with a sad smile and tears running down their face.

The villain let out a shaky breath. “Forgive me for loving you, then.” They said, before collapsing on the ground as the hero let go of them. They gave the hero a trembling smile as their eyes closed. Forever.

Prompt #43

"Oh, shit. Is that a hickey on your neck?" The villain asked, eyes narrowing. He stepped closer, to take a more keen look. The hero blushed and nodded. The villain's eyes went wide, "Who-who gave you that?"

"You." The hero replied, his eyes filling with sadness. He took a deep breath. The villain's memory had gotten worse since the day he found out that the other had Alzheimer's. The doctors were hopeless because the villain was on stage 4 of the disease.

‘It can’t be helped anymore than the treatment that we have him on’, They had said. The hero had gotten mad, how could they lose hope when his villain was still this young? Couldn’t they do something about it rather than shaking their heads with pity plastered on their damn faces? The hero wanted to lash out, but, he couldn’t. He wouldn’t, not with the villain by his side, looking gloom.

"Me?" The villain frowned, and continued shortly, "But we haven't met since two days ago." The hero went close to him, his steps heavy and filled with anxiety. He raised his hand, and brought it to the villain's cheek. “My condition’s getting worse, isn’t it?” The villain murmured again, concern lacing his eyes. The hero shook his head.

“No, no. You’re right. We met two days ago, that’s when you gave me the hickey.” The hero whispered, kissing the villain. The villain kissed him back with tenderness. The hero broke the kiss, and saw the villain’s beautiful face now stained with too bitter of tears.

❌Credit me if use this❌

Love and Nature

Osdea, the god of love, fell hopelessly in love with the god of nature, Ezella. Osdea tried everything she could to have the indifferent god acknowledge her, but Ezella never gave her the time of day. Osdea tried helping the flora and fauna, hoping to appeal to the god of nature through kindness. She tried befriending the different nature spirits, attempting to learn anything about Ezella. She tried just being in the same area as Ezella often, so maybe they'd take an interest in her, like she had in them.

Finally, when Osdea had given up hope in all else, she brought Ezella a small bouquet of flowers, ones she had seen them care for, and tried talking to the god. Ezella curtly turned Osdea down, but Osdea saw this as progress, for she had finally gotten Ezella to acknowledge her! And so Osdea brought another bouquet of flowers the next day, with the same result. She continued bringing flowers every day, each time with the same result.

On the fourth day, Ezella, growing steadily losing what little patience they had left from the frequent irritations said, "Every day you cut and bring me flowers that I have grown. Every day I turn you down, but that still does not seem to dissuade you. Your young naivety seems to know no bounds, so let me put this as plainly as possible. For as long as you continue bothering me and cutting the flowers I have grown and calling it a gift, I will never return your affections."

Osdea, stunned, watched as the god of nature swiftly turned and walked away, her eyes never lingering from their back, not even when her face grew warm or when the world in front of her clouded too an unrecognizable blur of colours. Only when Ezella was long out of sight was Osdea able to move, collapsing to her knees, and crushing the flowers.

She didn't even remember dropping them.

Hastily, she tried straightening the broken stems and rightening the misplaced petals, but the tears and her shaking hands only worsened the damage until her lap was covered in flower petals and leaves. She held the broken and baren flower stems to her chest, head in her lap and arms wrapped around her trembling body.

Gradually, slowly, her tears sprouted new flowers, wrapping first around the edges of her feet, then her dress and legs, her torso, her arms, her neck, her hair, her head. Oh so gradually, the suffocating pain in her chest took on a new shape; a shape that made more sense. Oh so slowly, her tears did dry, and the flowers clinging to her form began to bloom.

The forest nymphs were the first to find her. The rising sun painted her skin a brilliant golden colour through the shadows of towering trees and their vibrant green leaves. The delicate white of fresh blooms sparsely covering her form seemed to sing at their first sight of light. The god's chest rose and fell slowly as she laid sprawled across the forest floor, as if asleep. The nymphs, simply relieved that the poor god was no longer weeping, left her to sleep.

Osdea was not asleep. How could she sleep with the ceaseless, creeping pain inside her chest?

As the nymphs left, tears escaped and trickled down their familiar path over her skin and in between the delicate flowers.

The nymphs returned at sundown, the god's chest still steadily rising and falling, eyes closed to the world. The white flowers from before now more thoroughly covering her, and new flowers blooming at the edges of her face, there was very little of the god that was left untouched now. Small pin-pricks of blood scattered across her body where the flowers weaved their way through her skin.

Still, the nymphs left Osdea to her slumber. Still, Osdea was not asleep. She was paralyzed, as if the flowers had taken root in her muscles, rendering them completely useless. If nothing else, the whites and greens of the flowers and their stems, set against the dimming light of the falling sun brought some small glimmer of happiness to the sorrowful god.

'Perhaps,' thought the god 'this is the true nature of life; holding onto the smallest glimmer of hope and joy, no matter the cost.' Tears welled along her eyes once again, now hidden beneath a thin layer of foliage.

The petite white flowers weaving and sprouting through her skin were not what troubled Osdea. What troubled her was the feeling of small, sharp barbs being dragged through the inner linings of her being. Treacherously slowly, the talons clawed their way up her chest and into her throat. Every tentative rise and fall of her chest, every movement, no matter how small, pressed the stabbing blades in further.

Osdea learned what she could and could not do quite quicky. Movement was strictly forbidden. The god was still allowed to breathe, but gradually even that privileged had been restricted until her breaths were slow and shallow and her head grew light. She was not allowed to speak. Even if she wanted to, she wouldn't be able to croak out even a single word. But she was fine with that. She had no one to listen to her words anyways.

The stars above shone so brightly. Somehow, they seemed brighter than usual, almost as if they wept for the god, their small lights ever so slightly growing before trembling and shrinking again. The stars and their weeping slowly began to fade away as dawn drew near, and clouds covered the sky like a heavy blanket. Osdea could feel the plants blanketing her body still in anticipation. The world around her seemed to hold it's breath as she swam in and out of consciousness. She could still breathe. She didn't know why she was struggling. Her head felt so heavy.

The clouds were painted a brilliant ruby red, painting the forest in hues of pink. Osdea had never seen a sky quite like that, and she knew she never would again. A faint smile spread across her lips. This much she was still allowed.

She couldn't breathe.

The world fluttered in and out of existence, as if a butterfly were sat on her nose.

She was okay.

The sun began to crest its head over the horizon, vibrant scarlet to match the clouds above. The birds did not sing, nor did the deer begin to stir. The nymphs would not visit this morning.

She would be okay.

In and out, the world faded and re-ignited repeatedly. Dark crimson shadows fell over the forest. White flowers were painted pink.

It would be okay.

The world of reds and dark shadows swam in front of Osdea's eyes. From the darkness, her eyes landed on one figure, slowly approaching. The darkness encroached and consumed her vision. She pried her eyelids open, even if only once more. She would not let herself be robbed of her sight. Not yet.

She was out of time. She was not okay. She didn't want to die.

Light returned to the god. A soft face filled with love and sorrow stared down at her. For a moment, Osdea forgot about the tearing thorns in her chest, about the flowers covering her body, about the air missing from her lungs. For a moment, Osdea felt like she was dancing through the forest again, wanting nothing more than for Ezella to turn their attention to her.

Osdea watched as Ezella's lips moved, but no sound ever reached her ears. Why couldn't she hear the god? Why couldn't she hear the one person who's voice had rung through her head for days now?

Osdea opened her mouth, but the words she wanted to say were torn apart by the thorns within before they ever knew the breath of life. The scene before her clouded to a blur of reds again with only Ezella remaining in focus.

Ezella leaned down, filling Osdea's vision. Soft lips found her forehead, as if the flowers had parted specially for them. A drop of water rolled down her temple. It was warm. It was cold.

The clouds faded from her vision, and the thorns in her lungs disappeared. The god of love no longer felt the pinpricks of flowers weaving through her skin.

The god of nature rose with the rising sun, and began their daily care for the earth and its creatures.

The sun rose on the second morning. Where had previously laid Osdea, the god of love, now laid a beautiful flower bed, alive with dusty blues and pure whites. Sat in the center of the bed was a bush of roses, petals and thorns dyed the same blood-red colour.

I wrote the thing!!!

I didn’t mean to draft then finish 1.1k words like idk ~4-5 hours but here we are. First public fic :D

Please read tags because I am practicing writing for a horror comic sooooo ya. It’s not actually happening but i describe the things like they are happening

I Bet You Think About Me | Coriolanus Snow

Pairing: Coriolanus Snow x fem!reader (District12!reader)

Summary: On the day of his wedding he had everything... except for the bride that he wanted.

Warning/s: angst, kind of like hurt/no comfort kind of thing, wedding, marriage without love, Coryo is drinking alcohol, reader is basically Lucy Gray in this situation, possible grammar and spelling mistakes

Author's note: I'M BACKK!! I missed writing so much, to be honest. All those Coryo and Lucy Gray edits to this song, plus the music video, inspired me to do this. Enjoy!

3 AM and I'm still awake, I'll bet you're just fine

Fast asleep in your city that's better than mine

And the girl in your bed has a fine pedigree

And I'll bet your friends tell you she's better than me, huh

Coriolanus Snow. The young president of Panem. He truly now felt like he had everything. He did an outstanding job as the Gamemaker. In fact, not long after, his work was praised so much that he could finally take that last step to get what he always, truly wanted. And he, in fact, did it. He was the newest president of Panem, and he knew that that was going to last for a very long time.

He had the title. He had the riches. He never had to starve ever again. He never had to wear poorly made clothes. He had the trust of the people in the Capitol, and he had the control of those in the Districts.

But as a president, everyone expected of him to choose his First Lady of Panem as quicklyaspossible, and he knew that it couldn't be just anybody.

So here he was today. Dressed up in a traditional but quite modern black tuxedo with a white undershirt and a purely white rose tucked into his suit on the right side of his chest. Standing in front of the mirror in his bedroom, preparing his wedding speech that he will have to say once he and Livia Cardew are standing on the aisle.

Livia Cardew. She was truly perfect for him. He didn't love her, of course, but that was also his own choice. That's what made her perfect for him.

Once he was forced to find himself a bride because every elite in the Capitol kept pushing, he realized that he truly had no choice. He had to keep up his reputation respectable. So, of course, he knew that his wife, the Future Lady of the Panem, couldn't be just anybody.

Livia Cardew was rich. Her family was too, of course. Their family was respected and considered quite important. Plus, she was pretty. He couldn't really deny that, really.

He chose power, money and reputation that Livia had instead of the love, kindness and compassion that came with you.

He chose it that day that he left you in the woods of District 12. He never knew what happened to you. Did you die? Did you manage to run away in the storm that somehow messed up his head. And perhaps High-as-a-kite-Bottom was telling him some sort of truth when he said that mysteries had a way of driving people mad. And perhaps, if he stayed with you, he would marry someone for love.

Coriolanus let out a groan, shaking his head in a poor attempt to shake those thoughts away. His love for you made him weak. Weak in a way that he never wanted to experience ever again.

Livia didn't have his heart like you did. He doesn't love her. Therefore, he shall never feel weak ever again. He wanted that. He wanted to never love Livia. It was easy, though. It was easy not falling in love with her. Easy compared to you.

But no! He simply refused to think about you on this day. The day of his wedding. He refused the thoughts of you to consume his mind once again. Coriolanus wouldn't let that happen.

So he turned back to the giant mirror that stood in front of him and started to go over his vows once again.

"My darling Livia. You are the most beautiful person I have every encountered." Coriolanus felt his breath shorten at his own lies. "And today, I am honored to be your husband."

It was so fake. It was so cheesy. It was so untrue.

He had to prepare the speech for his bride. For the bride that he never loved.

"Mr. President?" One of the servants came in and addressed him shortly. "It's time."

"I will be there shortly." Coriolanus replied coldly, and the servant closed the door behind him.

Once the door was closed shut once again, he let out a quite loud sigh. In just a few minutes Livia will become a Snow and he will have to proudly show off his little wife that tormented and made fun of him for years during his academy days.

With that thought, President Coriolanus Snow stepped forward towards the door. On the doorway, he lingered. He looked out of the window across his room. He looked out on the city of the Capitol and its glamor and riches and he once again came to a realization that Livia was a perfect fit for his lifestyle unlike you. But he won't ever think of you again.

With the thoughts of you that once again swarmed his head, he loudly closed the door behind himself. Slamming it shut.

Well, I tried to fit in with your upper-crust circles

Yeah, they let me sit in back when we were in love

Oh, they sit around talkin' 'bout the meaning of life

And the book that just saved 'em that I hadn't heard of

After the priest said everything that needed to be said and after Coriolanus, and Livia, did everything that needed to be done the young, freshly married couple walked towards the reception, quickly being surrounded by the Capitol's elite that eagerly introduced themselves like they were one of the most important people there.

Perhaps they were, not that Coriolanus cared even a slightest bit.

Livia was standing in the middle of the circle made by the numerous Capitol's elite while he was standing next to her, a glass of posca in his hand. He knew that drinking that liquid in his glass was not the smartest thing for him considering the fact that the alcoholic drink was perhaps a bit too strong.

Not like he considered it worth giving a damn. He needed something very strong to wash away the feeling of Livia Snow's lips on his once the priest said that he can now kiss his bride.

And now, as he took yet another sip from the tall glass, he still felt disgusted by her. Himself. The whole situation.

A few more minutes, that to Coriolanus felt like hours, passed by. The people's excited chatter. The joy of the new President and the Panem's First Lady was over-the-top evident on everyone's face, except for his.

Livia was bathing in attention that were given to her, smiling, quite pleased with the whole situation. Coriolanus felt like he was going to throw up as he watched the scene unfold in front of him as he, too, had to pretend to be happy with everything.

And perhaps it was to much of the posca that he drowned that night or perhaps it was all of the whiteness of the entire reception that made him think what he thought. Hear what he heard.

As he took another sip from the glass, he could have sworn that he heard that melodic voice that haunted both his dreams and his worst nightmares.

But now that we're done and it's over

I bet you couldn't believe

When you realized I'm harder to forget than I was to leave

And I bet you think about me

Coriolanus watched with wide eyes as you stood a few feet away from him, dressed in the blood-red dress that reached the floor barely as it hugged your frame perfectly. You, in your red dress, stood out so perfectly among the white clothes that every guest was required to wear. You stood out so much, he wondered how nobody but him noticed you.

You stood tall and proud by the enormously big wedding cake, which required the front door to be taken away so it could be placed where it was. Snow remembered watching the staff bringing in the cake, the door laying on the grass behind the servant as they carried the said cake. It was ridiculous.

You turned towards the cake, not noticing his ever so blue eyes trailing on you as you moved.

Coriolanus felt his breath shorten once again as he watched your everlasting beauty. He was suddenly very aware of the cool glass that contained posca in his hand and the cold sweat that was sliding down his spine. Was it panic? Was it anticipation? He didn't know.

He watched you as you stretched your hand out towards the top of the cake as you stood on the gigantic table where it was placed, your red heels clicking as you did so.

Suddenly, you knocked over two figures, one of himself and one of Livia dressed up for their wedding. He let out a quiet, barely audible, gasp as you did so and then slowly lowered yourself to the ground.

A little girl, dressed in white, a guest, appeared you as Coriolanus watched. You quickly froze, standing completely still. After a very short while, you slid your finger over the icing of the cake and put the finger in your mouth, tasting the cake.

The little girl smiled and did the same. You and the girl shared the smile before you struck your hand into the cake, ripping one piece out revealing the red color under the purely white cake before you shoved it into your mouth, eating it. The little girl ran off after getting the taste of the delicious cake as you chewed on your piece.

As you did so, Coriolanus and you established eye contact. You made a grimace that clearly indicated that you were disappointed that you had been caught.

Coriolanus Snow allowed himself to blink for a moment to compose himself, and once he re-opened, you were gone.

You grew up in a silver-spoon gated community

Glamorous, shiny, bright Beverly Hills

I was raised on a farm, no, it wasn't a mansion

Just livin' room dancin' and kitchen table bills

Coriolanus and Livia sat down at the front of the reception as the entertainer did his job. He entered the guests of the Capitol’s elite with the microphone in his hand, tight grip on it, which showed Coriolanus that he was nervous.

Coriolanus brushed it off because, all things considered, he was doing quite a good job. He even found himself laughing along to the jokes that were being made.

After one more joke, he turned to one of the Capitol’s elite to quietly, with a smile on his face, discuss the joke that was made. However, the moment he turned back around, his smile disappeared at the sight in front of him.

You were standing there, in a red suit, with a red microphone on your hands, making jokes.

"And then," you spoke in the fit of giggles. "He left me in the woods to die after he told me he loved me."

You laughed after it, and every single Capitol’s elite followed. Coriolanus felt like he wanted to die at that moment, the look of pure horror planted onto his face.

"And best of all was that he HIMSELF tried to kill me with a gun!" You smiled as you tapped a few times on the table near Livia as you pointed at him with a smile, and every single guest of the wedding reception broke into laughter once again.

This can't be real, can it? Coriolanus thought to himself as he watched you.

But you know what they say, you can't help who you fall for

And you and I fell like an early spring snow

But reality crept in, you said we're too different

You laughed at my dreams, rolled your eyes at my jokes

After that, you, out of nowhere, pulled out a little red box as you made your way towards Livia, who was looking at you with anticipation and excitement.

You handed her your gift as Coriolanus found it harder and harder to breathe.

Livia quickly, but gracefully, opened the box as she removed the ribbon on top.

And as she pulled out the shawl that belonged to Coriolanus' mother, he felt like he was going to scream at the top of his lungs.

It was the shawl that Coriolanus gifted to you back when the two of you took off into the woods. That was the only thing that he found once he started to chase you through the woods. He never found you, though.

Livia placed it around her as she thanked you for the gift. Everyone around you swooned at your sweet gesture as they clapped pleasingly.

You bowed your head down slowly after you drowned the glass of alcohol, falling into the crowd of guests. Disappearing once again.

Now you're out in the world, searchin' for your soul

Scared not to be hip, scared to get old

Chasin' make-believe status, last time you felt free

Was when none of that shit mattered 'cause you were with me

Coriolanus chased after you, trying to catch you. He was suddenly blinded by the light because of the photographer that was taking pictures.

After the photographer went away, Coriolanus rubbed his eyes as his vision, thankfully, turned back to normal. He looked ahead.

And there you were. In a while wedding dress. The back of the dress was trailing behind you. The dress was also graced by white roses all over it. Your hair was in a type of hairstyle that was holding it all up. Your eyes were watching his every move as you stood in front of him.

Coriolanus felt like he couldn't breathe, and so, for a moment, he felt himself longing to cherish every moment of this.

It was just like Coriolanus had imagined it. You as his bride, himself as your groom. It was everything that he truly needed. Everything he ever wanted. Just you and him. You two of you having your first dance as a freshly married couple.

Suddenly, all lights but one went away. The white light above you shined as Coriolanus tried to catch his breath.

He slowly stepped forward, and you immediately followed his lead. Soon, you were standing in front of each other. Chest to chest. So intimate. So perfect.

He slowly reached for your hand, placing it onto his as he soaked up the feeling of your soft skin against his.

He slid his other hand around your waist, bringing you closer to him as you placed your other hand on his shoulder. For a moment, everything stood still. For a moment, the only thing that Coriolanus could hear was his breathing and the beating of his heart.

Coriolanus and you leaned your foreheads against each other, noses brushing. Coriolanus closed his eyes. He never wanted this to end. Then you started to dance.

You were moving with such grace as he spinned you around. His hand in yours as you slided around the dance floor.

"Coryo," your soft voice that whispered in his ear broke the peaceful silence, and his eyes snapped to yours. His eyes. His ocean blue eyes that were always so cold now looked at you with so much gentleness and pure adoration.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Anything, my love." Coriolanus answered without any hesitation.

"Does it make you feel sad that the love that you're looking for was the love that you had?"

Coriolanus was speechless. The look in your eyes caused the lump in his throat to be stuck there forevermore. He didn't say anything. He didn't protest to your claim. How could he? You were right. On the day of his wedding, he wished to marry you, not Livia. He never found in Livia what he did in you, and he, let's be honest, never will.

Suddenly, before he could stop you, you moved away from him, letting go of his hand and shoulder.

But now that we're done and it's over

I bet it's hard to believe

But it turned out I'm harder to forget than I was to leave

And, yeah, I bet you think about me

You lifted the front of your dress a little bit so you could walk without tripping over. You gazed over your shoulder at Coriolanus before you continued to walk away.

Once you were far away from him, you turned around, quickly causing your hair to fall down your shoulders as you leaned towards him.

All of a sudden, your dress turned red, and as you took a hold of your guitar that he knew all too well (hihi, get it?) the white roses on your dress were painted red.

The white curtain behind you fell, revealing the red light and the Covey as you played your guitar, softly swaying to the music you made.

"I hope you get what you deserve, Coriolanus Snow," you spoke softly, meeting his eyes once more. "But I don't need to worry. You will get what you deserve one day."

With a soft smile, you started to sing.

I bet you think about me when you're out

At your cool indie music concerts every week

I bet you think about me in your house

With your organic shoes and your million-dollar couch

I bet you think about me when you say

"Oh my God, she's insane, she wrote a song about me"

I bet you think about me 🌹

->

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TAGLIST:

@hellonheels-x @especiallythewomenandthechildren @prettyinsatiable @10ava01 @regulusblackcore @writesleah @thecrowdedstreetin1944 @caroline-books @runningfrom2am

You're Still Bleeding

Ⅰ. ⚘ Of Roses & Regrets

Synopsis: Uraraka Ochaco is haunted by the (death?) of Toga Himiko. The war may be over, but her mind is fraying, unraveling into rose-tinted memories and crimson hallucinations. Midoriya Izuku tries to help her move on, but mourning is never linear, and the past refuses to stay buried.

Preview: "Healing is uneven. Quiet. Sometimes it’s crying while brushing your teeth. Sometimes it’s staring at a cup of tea for hours. Sometimes it’s walking the same street Himiko bled out on, again and again, hoping something will feel different.”"

Words: 1.9k

Tags: tgchk, not really major character death, midoriya izuku is a good friend, horror, obsession, survivor guilt, angst, hurt/no comfort, grief/mourning, hallucinations, emotional baggage

Notes: if im being honest this has been rotting in my drafts for about a month or so.. i also REALLY need to stop writing horribly miserable queer love stories. hope u liked it just as much as i do!!! if im being honest, i dont know where to take this next lolol pretty please lmk if u have any ideas.. MANY THANKS FOR READING<333 also cross-posted on ao3!!

Blood trickles down her teeth, She smiled like she forgave me. I begged her to stay.

Ochacco doesn’t remember falling.

She remembers Himiko’s face, inches from hers. The weight of her body pressing close as they collapsed together, as if the battle itself had decided they had done enough. She remembers the rain, washing the blood away before it could dry. She remembers reaching out, fingers brushing against skin that had always been just out of reach.

Then—nothing.

And when she wakes, it’s over. The war, the fighting, the girl who had smiled through bloodstained teeth—all of it is over. She hears it in the way the medics talk around her, avoiding her eyes when she asks about the League. She sees it in the way no one tells her where Himiko is.

She doesn’t ask again.

Because she already knows.

And yet, she can’t stop looking.

She lies in bed with tubes in her arms. When she blinks, she half-expects to see red.

Instead, she sees flowers. A vase of them—roses, too bright against the sterile white. Ochacco stares at them without really seeing.

“She’s still asking about her,” one nurse mutters.

“You mean the League freak? The knife one?”

“Shh—don’t call her that. She might hear you.”

“She’s been staring at the same wall for twenty minutes.”

“Yeah, and it's freaking me out.”

Ochacco curls her fingers into the blanket, gripping it tight.

This is how it's been for a few days. People whisper and talk about her, without telling her anything. Like she's not even there. Like she's the one who didn't make it.

The discharge from the hospital is quiet. She’s healed enough, they say. No need to keep her here when there’s so much rebuilding to do. A nurse hands her a folder of papers and a plastic bag of her old belongings. The folder has her name on it. The bag has a cracked phone, scorched gloves, and a single, still-damp hair tie.

Not hers.

She holds it in her palm for a long moment, heart stuttering. Ruby red, stretchy. The kind you’d find on a convenience store shelf. It smells faintly of iron and roses.

She says nothing. Slips it into her pocket.

People talk about healing like it’s a destination. Like there’s a point you arrive at where everything stops hurting.

Ochacco knows better.

Healing is uneven. Quiet. Sometimes it’s crying while brushing your teeth. Sometimes it’s staring at a cup of tea for hours. Sometimes it’s walking the same street Himiko bled out on, again and again, hoping something will feel different.

It never does.

But sometimes, she thinks she sees her. Would it really be so wrong to hope?

In a slashed lipstick tube left on a windowsill. In dried rose petals scattered like secrets across alley concrete. In red—always red—smudged across glass like a kiss or a warning. A heart drawn in blood. A name scratched into wood. A flash of blonde hair in a crowd. A shadow ducking around the corner. Red eyes, wide and bright like they were on that last day.

She blinks, and it’s gone.

Always gone when she looks.

Always gone.

“Have you thought about talking to someone?” Izuku asks her one day, gently. He brings her bento boxes sometimes. Tries to smile like he used to.

“I’m fine,” she says.

“You’re... not, though.”

Ochacco shrugs. “Are you?”

Izuku doesn’t answer.

He sets the bento down without a word.

Ochacco doesn’t touch it. Just stares at the chipped edge of her table like it might offer her something.

He breaks the silence. “I passed by the train station last night. Thought I saw her.”

She freezes.

“Wasn’t her, obviously,” he adds. “Just some girl with space buns and a limp.”

Ochacco exhales through her nose. “You still look, too?”

“Sometimes.” He shrugs. “Old habit.”

They sit with that for a minute. Then Izuku says, “You know she’s probably gone.”

“Probably,” Ochacco echoes.

“But that wouldn’t stop you.”

She looks at him then, really looks. She doesn't know how to say the things that matter anymore.

He’s thinner than she remembers. Eyes rimmed with something like sleep deprivation or grief, maybe both. 

“You know what’s worse than losing people?” he says, voice low. “Losing the part of yourself that used to care about anything else.”

Ochacco swallows. Her throat burns.

Izuku nods toward the bento. “Eat something.”

She picks up the chopsticks. Doesn’t say thank you. He wouldn’t want her to.

But as he stands to leave, brushing a hand briefly over her shoulder like a goodbye, something settles in her chest.

Not peace, but a weight she can carry.

What would I ever do without him.

She finds an incident report two weeks after returning home.

It’s crumpled at the bottom of a file, misfiled. The date matches the last day of the war. It lists casualties, injuries, environmental damage. One line makes her pause:

Subject: League member (female). Status: presumed deceased. Body unrecovered.

She reads it once. Then again.

The words don’t change, but something inside her does.

Presumed. Not confirmed.

Unrecovered. Not buried.

She stares at the words until they blur. Then reads them again.

The dreams start small.

First, it’s Himiko standing in the rain, smiling. Her head tilted like she’s asking Ochacco a question she can’t hear.

Then it’s her voice. Low, sweet, syrupy. "You're still bleeding," she whispers.

Ochacco wakes up breathless, her hand still reaching out.

The worst part is that for one brief, aching second, she wants it to be real.

Sometimes she dreams in first person—sees her own hands stained with blood. Sees herself cradling Himiko’s face. Sees the moment her eyes closed.

Only... sometimes they don’t.

Sometimes they open again.

Sometimes she closes her eyes on purpose.

Just to see her again.

The dreams rot her from the inside, but she drinks them like nectar.

It’s easier there. 

She starts to visit the alleys. Narrow, winding paths with peeling posters and rusted gates. Ones Himiko would've liked. Places where you could vanish if you wanted to. Places heroes don’t patrol often.

She tells herself it’s nothing.

She tells herself she’s just... curious.

But one night, she sees lipstick smeared on a wall. A deep, wine red.

Next to it, the faint outline of a heart.

Her fingers shake as she traces it. Tells herself it's just graffiti. It could be anyone.

But her chest is tight. Her throat dry.

Please, she thinks.

Just once—let it be her.

But then, she recalls-

There’s talk of a new vigilante. Not quite a villain, not quite a hero. Small-time acts. Petty crimes. Stolen bandages. Blood drained from criminals—but no deaths.

No one knows who it is.

But Ochacco hears the description. Blonde. Agile. Always smiling.

Hope curls inside her like hunger.

She shouldn’t want to believe it.

She does.

She doesn’t say anything. 

But the thought echoes inside her regardless: I hope you're just as eager to see me again.

She starts walking the city more at night.

Her steps feel heavy, like they're someone else's. She thought about how Himiko always stared at her with those gorgeous, ruby eyes, like she was something shiny. Something good.

Ochacco wonders what she looked like to Himiko in those final moments. What did she see? Was there any softness in her gaze? Or was it just a mask, the same one that Himiko wore so often?

She wonders, too, what Himiko looked like to her. Had she ever really seen her? There's so much they haven't shared with eachother. Does she know enough about Himiko to keep her memory alive after all this time? Or was she left with fragments, pieces of who the girl once was?

The first time she sees her, really sees her, it’s raining.

Ochacco’s umbrella is flipped inside out, and she’s muttering curses under her breath when she looks up and—

There.

Across the street.

Blonde hair, matted to her cheeks. A hoodie pulled low. Eyes locked on hers.

Himiko.

It has to be.

Their eyes meet.

Just for a second.

But it's enough.

Ochacco steps forward.

A car blares past. When it’s gone, so is she.

Ochacco stands there, soaked, heartbeat like thunder.

The dreams get worse.

Or maybe they get better.

Because in them, Ochacco doesn’t wake up gasping anymore.

She lingers.

She walks familiar streets dipped in dusk, and every rose she passes wilts in her hands. Red petals stain her palms like cuts. Like kisses. Like guilt.

Himiko waits at the end of the path, always. Leaning against a lamp post, or crouched on a windowsill. Lipstick smeared like war paint, like ritual.

“I missed you,” she says in every dream. Or: “You looked so pretty covered in red.” Or: “I never wanted to hurt you, you know.”

Sometimes she wears a crown of thorns.

Sometimes she wears Ochacco’s old hero uniform, soaked in blood.

Ochacco always reaches for her. And always wakes up before they touch.

She starts keeping roses in her apartment.

Deep red ones. The kind that bruise when you press your thumb in too hard. The kind that rot fast, leaving stains on the wood.

She doesn’t throw them out.

Instead, she lines the petals along her windowsill, like offerings. The smell clings to her clothes.

Once, she wakes up with a thorn scratch on her wrist.

She doesn’t remember how it got there.

In her dreams, a reoccurring symbol: 

Red ribbons float through the air like severed veins.

Red nails tap-tap against porcelain.

Red eyes shimmer like lanterns in the dark.

Red lips curl, open, and whisper her name.

She's seated at the edge of a field that shouldn't exist. The grass is a little too tall, swaying in wind that feels more like breath — warm, humid, close. The sky overhead is black, starless, thick as ink, and feels as if it might collapse onto her at any moment.

The roses beside her bloom with mouths. When she reaches to pluck one, it shudders and sighs—"Why did you let me die?"

She freezes. The voice is hers. Or maybe not. Maybe it's—

Another rose blooms. It laughs. A choked, wet sound.

She stands. The ground underneath squelches like flesh. Her feet sink an inch.

A figure waits just beyond the roses. Himiko’s silhouette. Only her hair doesn’t fall the way it used to. It's soaked. Dripping. Her face is a blur, smeared and obstructed.

The figure tilts her head. A giggle. Then—

The roses begin to bleed. A slow trickle of red pools around Ochacco's shoes.

She blinks.

Himiko’s smile is made of teeth. Too many. Not human.

She starts to run—but the field stretches. The sky groans. Every step feels like dragging her legs through syrup.

And then she wakes. But her mouth is open, and the taste of blood is there. Not hers.

One night, a message is spray-painted across her apartment door.

Messy handwriting. 

COME FIND ME.

The paint is red. Still wet.

Her fingers tremble as she touches it.

She smiles.