The Grand Finalé

Hii, I'm Red I write hero x villain, prompts, whump, original works, etc. I like pasta, cinnamon rolls, and tiramisu. Oh, and I like red lipstick. I'll write my first post... eventually.

[red-lipstick-stains]

"dirt under your nails"

When I found Hero, his mangled body a mess of blood and gore—caked in mud... an overwhelming sense of dread and grief rose within me. The brutality shocked even the media. Yet, news reporters and journalists pounced on his defeat against the masked villain, Havoc. They dived into speculations and gossip with the ferocity of starving wolves. Feeding off my family's misery and suffering, throwing question after question, with a hunger that only beasts should be capable of. My hand tightened on the newspaper I held. The headline read: NUMBER 4 HERO, VAWK, SERIOUSLY INJURIED, and then a picture of his mangled corpse underneath. The media's audience, the villains, the heroes, the civilians, they couldn't believe it. VAWK always prioritized patrols during the daytime, seldomly did he ever patrol at night—when Havoc struck most—but when he did? He proceeded with caution. Yet... His body laid motionless in the ICU. Crazed fans complimented Havoc's victory, thinking his display of Hero's body was a work of art, a masterpiece. Normal, feeling civilians spoke of the evilness of such a heinous act.

The newspaper crumpled in my hand. The image of limbs twisted in odd angles and dirt streaks down his face as he was rushed into emergency surgery flashed through my mind. Power stirred through my veins. "Whumpee?" A warm voice asked behind me. I blinked. Then turned around to see... Assistant. He was a new employee. Joined Hero Headquarters as the Vice-President's Assistant a few weeks before. I disapproved of how quickly he had risen into the position. He had outstanding qualifications, sure, but so did the other candidates. I wondered why exactly he'd been favored over the rest.

The smile on his torn lips was cautious. As if he wasn't trying to startle me. His eyes flicked down. I followed his gaze and realized the newspaper in my hand now littered the floor in uneven pieces. My anger had stirred my power without me knowing. "I didn't mean to do that," I sighed, heavily, bending down to pick up the scattered papers. He chucked, softly and crouched down to help me. He tilted his head up to look at me through uncombed strands of brown hair, "agitated?" "Very." There was no humor in my tone, but he grinned anyway. His smile softened and he dragged a trash can over. "I can imagine it's been a rough week," he said, conversationally, "with your brother's hospitalization." "Yup." I answered, dryly. And Assistant being here wasn't making me feel any better. He studied me. "Is he recovering well?" I shrugged with one shoulder. "Not really. But he's alive." Barely. "Is that so?" He asked, voice deceptively light. I looked up, meeting his sparkling eyes. Did Hero's pain amuse him? I shook my head and looked back down. No. I'm being paranoid. He's an assistant here. A week of the media pestering me with questions ran my patience dry. That's all. He hummed and irritation flared, "you know it's rumored that whenever Havoc targets a hero, he goes for his family next. Do you think-" "No," he reached down to pick up another piece of torn paper, "can you just leave-" I froze. My hand shot out and wrapped around his wrist. "What are you-" He started to say, but I cut him off. "Shut up." His nails... "Dirt under your nails..." My mind flashed to the dirt streaks on Hero's face, as if Havoc had dragged his nails across skin—feeling the angles of Hero's jaw, the soft touch of cooling skin from blood loss. The way Hero's costume had blood and mud stains all over. "You have dirt under your nails." His brows furrowed. "Um, yes?" My grip tightened on his wrist and my power stirred again. His eyes sharpened. Agony exploded in my head. A million shards burst into my skull at once, violently forcing its way inward. I couldn't feel anything but the hot, white shards stabbing me, running down my scalp to the soles of my feet-

Stop, I can't, I can't- - - - My head pounded against my skull. I tried opening my eyes but was met with darkness, a blindfold obscuring my vision. My hands flexed against restraints. I groaned and my head drooped to the side. A hand snaked under my chin and tilted my head upright. "You're awake," a smooth, amused voice greeted. It wasn't... Assistant. "Who..." I cleared my throat, hating how scratchy my voice sounded, "are you?" "Hm," one of his fingers traced the outline of my jaw, "take a guess, darling." I tried pulling away from his grip, but he easily forced my head forward, stretching out my neck uncomfortably. "Ah, ah," he murmured, amusement coating his words. "None of that, please." "I'm not playing this game," I ground out, "just tell me who you are." He tilted my jaw to the side ever so slightly, "amuse me." I stayed silent. He tsked, disappointed, and dropped his hand from my jaw. "Do you know what I think, Whumpee?" His fingers pulled the blindfold off me. I blinked rapidly against the blinding light, the pounding in my head sharpened. When my vision finally adjusted, it settled on a tall man with dark hair. Deep green eyes, pale skin... The first thing I noticed about him, though, was the wound running from the inside of his jaw up his left cheek. Fresh stitches ran neatly along the wound. It couldn't have been more than a week old. "I think," he crouched forward, meeting my wide eyes with his darkly amused ones, "you know who I am." I swallowed. He watched the movement and slowly dragged his gaze back to mine. My heart leaped. "Havoc," I breathed. He smiled and anger flared in my chest. "You disgusting little monster, my brother almost died because of-" My vision went white with pain as millions of shards attacked the inside of my skull. Stop, stop, please- When the pain slowly subsided, I was panting heavily, chin against my chest, and my throat was raw, as if I'd been screaming. I blinked back tears. "Language," the villain—Havoc—warned me, softly. His fingers reached for my chin again and he made me meet his terrible, dark eyes again. "This doesn't have to be unpleasant, Whumpee." I glared at him, spitting out my words through ragged breaths. "What do you want?" This time when he smiled, it was slow. As if he was savoring his next words. "To make sure Hero comes back to finish what we started once he's recovered." My eyebrow twitched. "You want a rematch? Why?" "Do you see these stitches on my face, darling?" My eyes trailed to the wound, but I didn't respond. "Hero did this. And I'll make sure he pays for it." I opened my mouth, then closed it. He must've sensed my hesitation because he smiled. "Go on," he coaxed, gently. "How are you going to make him pay?" I asked, voice quiet. The smile on his face made my stomach sink. "With you, of course." "He's not going to recover quickly." "Oh, I know," he leaned forward, breath ghosting my cheek as he softly continued, "that's why, I'm going to keep you until he does, darling."

[ashtonbrandywritesthings]

One summer when i was a child, my Aunt B came to stay with us.

My mom said it was because she broke up with her boyfriend, and we weren’t supposed to talk about it.

“Mind your business,” she said.

“Don’t ask her a thousand questions.”

I didn’t really have to. Aunt B talked about it a lot while she was there.

She ranted and joked and scoffed and rolled her eyes, and the thing about Aunt B was that she was so funny. She was one of the funniest people i knew. She was so funny, in fact, that I thought that breakup was the funniest thing that ever happened.

But then she would cry - and cry and cry with big, fat scary tears and big fat scary sobs.

I had never heard crying like that before.

“Boys are mean,” was about the only explanation she would ever give.

(She said it a lot that summer)

I had two older brothers and I thought they were pretty mean, pushing me or teasing me, and they would make me cry but not like that.

Never like that.

I asked my mom about it once.

“Some boys are a lot meaner than other boys,” was all she said. She told me I would understand when I was older.

I did eventually, when I found my own boy that made me cry like that.

It was grief, i learned though i wish I hadn’t. Yes, a grieving, not for the boy, but for the part of you that got lost while loving him.

It’s almost a right of passage for girlhood, isn’t it?

Figuring out that boys are mean, yes, but some boys are a lot meaner.