[deans-writing]

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[deans-writing]

if anyones curious what ive been up to

i picked up a story of mine from a year or so back and ive been writing a lot abt it. so. yeah :D

[deans-writing]

You've Forgotten How To Get Shit Done

Characters: (Right 2 Fight) Dean, Kitberry, Adam, Anthony

Warnings: None

Notes: None

The city was a cesspool for mindless violence and oddities. Everyone knew that. Anyone would tell outsiders that it was like a tension that would never die out when you were on the street. God forbid you just tried to go down to the store, because chances were you'd get attacked by someone just picking a fight. It was cartoonish.

While Adam looked out of the locked up cafés windows, they could still see it. Blood stains on the sidewalk, beat up cars as a result of people being slammed into them, store owners loading their firearms which were beyond necessary. They had stopped listening to Dean and Kitberry's ninth argument of the day from the other side of the booth, just inspecting what they could from their seat.

Anthony took a moment to sneak a peek at Adam and whatever they were staring at. He was pleasantly surprised to see nothing more than the already existing marks.

He hummed in acknowledgement, which incentivized Adam to look back. "Not so bad right now." They offered, to which Anthony rolled his shoulders. "Right now." He retorted.

Dean looked over. "What're you two talkin' about?" He asked, putting he and Kitberry's petty squabble on pause. Adam tilted his head, using it to gesture outside. "Not so bad right now. Anthony thinks-"

"Knows." Anthony chimed in.

"-okay, yeah, knows it'll be worse later."

It was true. Everyone at the table knew it. It was rare enough to not hear some kind of scrap from anywhere in the city at any point, so an empty street in the middle of the day just meant it was going to be worse than usual later.

Dean stared outside, his lip curling upward with frustration while his nose scrunched. "This fucking place." He spoke quietly, fist clenching on the table. "Y'know, when was the last time you even saw a cop on the street?"

"That's not exactly a bad thing." Kitberry pointed out, and everyone could hear the smile on her face (if she had one, Dean had theorized she never took the mask off because she didn't for a long time. Kit never confirmed nor denied that) from under the mask.

Dean just scoffed. "You get what I mean though! No ones in control except for... What, the mob? How much are you willing to bet that they're paying the cops to just stay the hell outta stuff?" He raved, opening his fist to wave his hand at the window.

It was a good point. He neglected to mention the other groups in the city that seemed to be around every corner with no real reason- not any one that they knew at least- but the idea still got across.

They went quiet. The state of the city was something that had always loomed over every waking moment, it was impossible to really forget about it all. Talking about it so directly was still almost touchy.

Dean looked down at the table, and Adams head drifted back to stare out of the window. Anthony let his hand rest on their thigh as some sense of comfort in the moment.

"Someone should do something." Adam muttered to momentarily break the silence, which overtook them again right after.

About ten or so seconds of quiet continued, though when Kitberry looked at Dean to try and see what he was doing in that time- she could almost see a twinkle in his eye. Then he spoke.

"We should do something."

That got the rest of the groups attention, who snapped looked at him.

"What?" Adam just stared at him.

"We're sitting on our asses, bitching about how bad the city is, right?"

"You mean you're doing that." Kitberry snickered.

"I will stab you." He warned after turning to look at her, then back to the group. "I'm serious though! I can fight, I know Anthony can-" Dean proclaimed, pointing to the taller male. "-you and you, not so sure, but it isn't too hard." He added on, flicking his finger between Kit and Adam.

Anthony seemed to get lost in thought as Dean explained. Yet again, he had a point.

"Most of those bastards can't throw a good punch. And if they can? There would be four of us! It wouldn't even matter! We could do something instead of bitching that there's nothing we could do, you get that?" Dean paused. "We could make a difference, or at least try."

He was so dead set in his thoughts. With how he worded it, it seemed as though it was a thought in his head before. Just one he'd never acted on or expressed.

Anthony was the one to speak, which was a surprise in general, even more so right then.

"Worth trying." He said in agreement. "...I'll take that chance."

Dean beamed at that, an almost childlike smile shining off of his face while he leaned over the table and held his hand out.

"That's my man." He laughed as Anthony reached his own hand out to dap him up, their palms slapping together before their fingers curled against down them and against each other.

Both sat back down, and Kitberry was next in the conversation. "Fuck it." She shrugged. "Why not?"

Why not was one of her main philosophies when it came to anything. A simple one that anyone could appreciate, because it also meant that if shit hit the fan- she'd have your back. Dean could name a few times off the top of his head she'd come in clutch for him.

Then the attention went to Adam, and Anthony found himself holding their thigh a little tighter. "You don't have to." He murmured. Adam gave him a small smile while they put their hand over his. "It'd be nice to have you along though." Dean said, "But if you can't, there's no shame in it."

Adam glanced back outside. Back to the bloodstains, the signs of fights and constant injustice because no one was doing a goddamn thing. It was an infection of violence that scorched everyone around it with its blast radius, and they would be charging headfirst into the fire to fight it off with a stronger flame.

They wouldn't just be another bystander to it. Their attention focused back in on the other three.

"I'm in." They declared. Dean harshly clapped with a cheering yell, "Atta'boy!" And that smile was back on his face.

He made constant jokes about them being the weakest in the group (a lot more playfully when Anthony was around, he wasn't looking to get into a fight with the big fuck because he thought it was a little too serious) but when it truly came down to it, they weren't a coward. He respected it more than they'd ever know.

Anthony kept staring at Adam. "Are you sure about this?" He asked quietly, they just nodded back. "Yeah. We'll all be together. And, y'know, I can handle myself."

"Ehh... Sorta." He teased, Adam rolled their eyes as they held back a larger grin. "I'm sure." They confirmed again, squeezing his hand gently. Anthony nodded. He knew he'd be looking out for them more than Dean and Kit- partially because he knew Dean and Kitberry could handle themselves- mostly because he just refused to let Adam get hurt. (Not that he wanted to see the other two get fucked up mind you.)

Dean looked around at the three of them. "Tomorrow. At 12. We all meet in that alleyway, y'know, near the garage where the guy sells weapons and shit?" He explained. "We start then."

The others agreed with hums of agreement and nodding their heads.

Adam looked back outside, and Kitberry mumbled to Dean. They stopped listening almost immediately, stopping them from hearing the previous argument between them being kicked back up as Dean threatened her.

[deans-writing]

Aftermath

Characters: Rusty Caldwell, Dot Enid

Warnings: Very brief mention of suicide

Notes: Eugh I gotta. Write more

Dot wasn't anywhere near himself when him and Rusty had made it back to camp. Anyone who knew him could see that from a mile away. He was constantly staring into a void- walking around like he'd been locked in his own head and his body was moving on his own. He was almost silent at the fire, hands dangling between his legs for what felt like hours.

It was worrying. Rusty had mentioned to a few of the others that Dot had finally pulled the trigger on a guy, and it clearly brought down some consequences on his mental state. It worried him greatly, and he could see it worried others. He simply assured that he'd talk to Dot and make sure he'd be okay. Truth was, he wasn't sure if he would be able to make it so. Nothing more than wishful thinking. He had to try something though.

By the time the sun fell and everyone retreated to their spots for the night, Dot still hadn't moved from his spot next to the fire. Rusty decided that was the best time to talk to him, maybe it would help to keep the conversation semi-private.

His approach was light, cautious. The last thing he needed was to scare the poor bastard any more. Dot didn't seem to register his presence until he was taking a seat on the same log that he rested on, although keeping some space between them.

"Hey." Rusty greeted. Dot's eyes shot open, like coming back to reality for just a second. They went softer after the jolt of life, but it showed that he was at least listening now. He returned the greeting with a hum. "So... How're you doin'?" He asked. It would be stupid to ask if Dot was alright, he clearly wasn't. Better to keep it a little more open-ended.

Dot's shoulders rose then dropped. Like a string of words were simply too hard to drag from his mouth. Rusty wrung his hands together, rings rubbing against rings. "You saved me, y'know." He murmured. It was hard to admit that he ever needed help, but for a moment he was able to pull that barrier down- for Dot's sake- and he seemed to listen in a little closer at that.

"I mean, bastard was this close to puttin' me down like a dog." Rusty laughed. It died down when he looked at Dot's face again, which didn't change. "...doesn't change how it feels though, does it?" He asked, leaning forward with his elbows against his thighs. "First time killin' someone and all isn't ever easy-"

"It was." Dot cut him off. Rusty flinched, only at the shock of Dot speaking again.

"It was easy. I just grabbed it and shot him and.. and I didn't feel anything." He added. "I didn't feel anything, Rusty. That's... Wrong. Ain't it?"

A loaded question, one the older male wasn't ready for. His chest tightened as the realization that Dot was now feeling exactly what he had so many years ago. As if it were a curse that had been passed down. Rusty stared at the ground beneath them.

"Y'know, I still don't know the answer to that." He confessed. "I been askin' the same thing for a long while now. But, the way I see it? You weren't killing for the hell of it." Rusty began to explain. "You were doing it to save me, you did it for a pretty good reason."

He just didn't want to admit that a lot of the time, killing wasn't for a good reason. They were outlaws. Bad people. No way to make that look good, but he had to try. If he didn't, he worried that the next person who Dot would take aim at would be himself.

"We ain't goin' around shootin' some fella on the street. We're killin' bastards who start things with us, other outlaws." In the lines, it could be read that Rusty believed they all deserved to get shot and killed as well- which he partially did. Partially. "...it's like our job. Just somethin' you gotta do, y'know? And that's what you did."

Rusty had been too busy trying to make Dot feel better about blowing a guy's brains out, he didn't even stop to see if any of it was helping. He looked back up to Dot, who just kept staring into the burning firewood. He scooted closer to the younger outlaw, a hand reaching out and placing itself on Dot's shoulder.

"I- I guess." Dot mumbled. It was a touchy subject, a fresh wound for him. "It just doesn't feel right that I didn't mind killing him. Figured I was just guilty, but I'm not. When I shot him I was almost.. I dunno, glad. Felt like I did something good." Dot explained the best he could. Even though each time he spoke it felt like he was straining every part of his brain and will to continue.

Rusty nodded solemnly. "Well, for normal folk- you didn't. But we ain't normal. We're outlaws, and in those terms, you did. You saved my life and wiped that piss-ant out. Better than doing it just cause." He said. It was hard to tell if he was actually helping, if his points were making sense and doing anything to get Dot back to fighting shape. (Figuratively, at least.)

It was quiet after that. Dot took his time letting Rusty's words sink in and fight with his own fears and worries about what had happened. It didn't absolve all of it, not even close. He wasn't sure if anything ever could. His nerves still ran hot, but Rusty had explained his side well enough that his actions didn't seem as godawful.

The older male broke the quiet. "I'm gonna go get some firewood, it's startin' to go dim." He pointed out, nodding to the orange light, which had indeed started to die down. "C'mon, go get your gun and watch my back." Rusty said, patting Dot's back as he stood up. He'd been sitting there in his own head for long enough.

Dot agreed silently, standing up and making his way to his tent while Rusty went closer to the edge of camp. He felt like he had some higher power to thank over the fact that the conversation had ended well, as well as it could've. He knew he couldn't fix it right there, but he'd given enough that Dot had a chance to work through it himself.

A win in his book, one he had desperately needed.

[deans-writing]

Get The Fuck Out (Of My Club)

Characters: Hades Illiano, Chain Hawk

Warnings: Alcohol abuse

Notes: hi :3 (also this is. this is gta and the underworld is a gimmick it's a fucking GIMMICK if you haven't been reading abt him) also this is. short but HEYYY I WROTE SOMETHING!!! (please be proud/silly)

Past the flashy lights, roaring music and ludicrous amounts of liquor- The Underworld was a way for Hades to relax- even if just for a short while. There were no gunfights. The threat of failing and missing out on a payday was nonexistent with how tight he ran the business. He could sit back and let his income roll in. Though once the door to his office swung open and allowed a wave of music to burst through, he was shaken from his relaxed state.

He looked at who was entering while swinging his legs off of his desk and planting his feet on the ground. "Chain?" Hades raised a brow as he leaned forward. His hands came up and gripped his knees. The boxer let the door slam shut behind him, a sound that was drowned out with the club's ongoings. "Get up." Chain commanded simply.

Hades did as he was told, standing up and then following Chain as he motioned for him to come along. The two walked to the window that allowed the fighter to overlook the entire club. "See that?" Chain asked, pointing to the bar. Hades squinted through the tinted vision his shades created.

It was certainly a sight. A man- clearly under the influence- stood in front of the bar. He was leaning over it, his fists pressed hard against the wooden top. The only thing stopping him from grabbing onto the bartender who was backing away was the distance created by the bar.

"Is he-"

"She cut him off and he just- lost it. Started shouting and getting real aggro." Chain said. "...figured you'd want to handle him." He mentioned. Hades fists clenched. "Yeah." He growled. "I do."

Professionalism be damned, who did that son of a bitch think he was. Screaming at his staff like that? That was strike one. Hades pushed past Chain, his shoulder grazing his back as he made haste out of the office in his power walk. He wouldn't kill him, that was the one rule. He wished he could just tear his throat out- but he was in public. He wasn't the mercenary right now.

God, he wanted to be.

He went out through the door and down the walkway, turning the bend to find himself only a dozen or so feet away from the drunkard. His shouting had grown louder as he approached, and the bartenders efforts of calming him failed. Evidently.

"Hey!" Hades called out. He still tried to sound at least somewhat calm, maybe drown out his murderous rage. The malice in his heart seeped through anyways, whatever. The man stopped for a moment, turning his head. His stare was filled with undeserved rage. Hades made a mental note to hire another guard to stick around the bar and keep an eye out for people like this.

He walked closer. "You're done." He put it bluntly, "Pay your tab, and get the fuck away from my staff." Hades ordered. The man didn't budge. "You can't jus' fuckin'-"

"Yes, I can." Hades cut him off for the second time (ha), the drunk was trying to ignore his commands- strike two. The attention was at least off of his staff. He could handle the heat. "Back off." He continued. There was a glimmer of hope for the man's odds of not being hospitalized once he did in fact step away, then it vanished when he took a step towards Hades with that same anger burning his face.

Strike three. It was going to get physical no matter what he did now. Fine.

The man's hand reached out to grab onto Hades' chest only a second after that thought. He didn't earn a warning, he figured. Hades grabbed onto his wrist and pulled him in to close the distance. A few moments before they collided, he had pulled his head down. It was like a reversal of a battering ram, except it was the top of his skull breaking the man's face.

The top of his mouth had been the main point of contact, more than enough to leave him with a sore set of gums and an ache in the rest of his face. His body reared back from the attack, and Hades allowed him to fall back while he let go of his hand. He didn't fall down, and that just wouldn't do.

Hades stepped forward, leaving some distance between the two just for his leg. It rose halfway up his stomach, his knee just barely missing him. He stuck his leg straight out and kicked the man square in his own abdomen. It both knocked him down and knocked the wind out of him, whether it was the initial blow or the harsh slam against the metal flooring they stood on that did it was up for debate.

The crash below echoed, but was completely void as a result of the music still blaring over it. No one who hadn't been watching even noticed it happened. Maybe that was for the best, considering what he was going to do.

He took a step further and crouched down. His hands quickly began to pat the man down as he wheezed and gasped for air, certainly in no position to stop Hades as he found the drunks wallet in his jeans right pocket. He slipped it out of the crevice swiftly before standing up and turning to the bartender.

The money meant nothing to him, he had more than enough. Hades threw down the wallet onto the bar where the man's fists had initially been. "Take what you want... Pay his tab though. The rest is yours." He paused, looking down and licking at the inside of his cheek. "I'm sorry about that. This- this shit isn't happening again." Hades assured while he met the girls stare.

She merely nodded, letting out a soft "thank you" which he couldn't really hear as she took a hold of the wallet. He turned his attention back to the man, his stare hardening and frustration burning through him once he realized he'd have to get huffed up the stairs and thrown out like the trash he was.

At least he wouldn't be bothering anyone anymore.

[ycurkxng]

Curbstomp

Character: Dean King

Warnings: Violence, the title says it all tbh. Dead dove do not eat and all that

Notes: I just wanted to write something violent tbh

When the fight had started, Dean felt nothing but the overwhelming, yet familiar, boiling in his chest. Heat, enough that it could make hell look cold. It swelled up inside of him, making his chest pound harder with his rapidly increasing heart rate as he began to swing his fists, aiming to hurt and maim with each blow he dealt.

Knuckles cracking against another's jaw, blood beginning to seep out of him and the other, painting his already bandaged fists a screaming red that stuck out like a sore thumb. The liquid crept in between his fingers, splattering off as he slammed his fists rapidly into the others features. In terms of all the fights he'd found himself in, Dean counted it as a pretty normal one. But that rage? The level it had reached so quickly? ...no, no. That wasn't normal.

It was anything but, and he was going to take all of it out on the dumb bastard.

The amount of pain Dean had dished out in a matter of seconds was overwhelming for the other, his head shrieking out in agony as his face bled from the fresh cuts it was receiving. Courtesy of the beating being handed to him, of course. Yet, it still wasn't enough. He didn't care about just ending the fight and walking away, no. Dean wanted to make an example, send a message, strike fear into the man's heart if he ever even heard his name again.

In a split second, Dean's hands had found themselves gripping the back of the mans neck, squeezing tight with his blunt nails digging into his soft flesh. Instincts overtook everything, and he pulled his own head back, quickly shooting it downwards to slam the hard part of his skull into the man's nose. There was a sickening crunch as it broke underneath the force of the headbutt, but just one wasn't enough.

He repeated the action, making himself slightly dizzy with how quickly he was banging his head back and forth, and causing shocks of pain shooting through his own head. Despite the fact he was aiming for the man's nose, he was still driving his damn head into a part of someone else's face, and that never felt good. It didn't stop him, of course, but it was something to note for later on.

The second time, he could feel the man's legs begin to buckle. His mind couldn't keep up with the pain in his head, and he was crumbling underneath it all. To be fair, if Dean was on the receiving end of his own rapid headbutts, he'd probably fall real quick too.

The third, he continued to drive his head into the man's broken and almost flattened cartilage after the actual strike, pushing him down as he worked with his arms to slam him onto the rough pavement underneath the two. Dean let go of his neck when he got close to the ground, letting him hit the ground with a soft thud.

What he would experience next would be anything but soft, so it would've been a good idea to relish in the few seconds he had to lay there and feel nothing but anguish. The only reason Dean didn't continue to strike him was because he'd begun to look at the surrounding area, quickly formulating a plot on how he'd inflict the most amount of pain and violence with his assault.

His eyes widened as he stared at the curb, his bloody lips curling into a wicked grin as he moved his death stare down to his opponent, if he could even be called that by then. Victim would be a more appropriate title, if Dean was being honest.

"You're gonna remember me." He snarled, hatred leaking out of his tone as he grabbed onto the man once more, flipping him on his stomach as he began to drag him to the curb. Dean lifted his upper half up as they reached it, only to throw him down, bouncing his head against the sidewalk and granting hin a new cut to tell the doctors about.

There was a groan of agony, and a miserable attempt at speech, which only turned into the sound of the man spitting out the blood that had dripped down from his nose into his mouth. Dean found it kind of cute, still trying to talk, beg, possibly. It wouldn't do him any good, but it brought a sick satisfaction.

The brawler leaned down, grabbing onto the man's jaw and prying it open. One hand gripping his chin, with his fingers prodding into his open mouth, and the other having a firm hold on his hair, yanking at his scalp while adjusting his skulls position.

His teeth grinded against the curb, making a sound that made Dean's skin crawl. He held his head in place with his hand as he reared back up, only letting go to replace his hand with his boot, which pressed down much harder against his cranium. Dean watched closely as his body began to move, resisting a little more in a desperate attempt to stop the inevitable. Admirable, but pathetic nonetheless.

Without wanting to waste anymore time, Dean lifted his boot up, just to slam it back down on the back of the others head.

He could hear teeth crunching and shattering as he drove them into the curb, followed by a blood curdling scream that pierced his ears, echoing throughout the empty streets. Speaking of blood, that began to rush out pretty quick. It painted the curb he'd just had his mouth destroyed by, and seeped down to the road. Dean stepped back, tilting his head as he watched what the man did next.

In all honesty, he'd never actually curbstomped somebody. He'd always seen it get done in movies, games, even. But the act itself? ...it felt amazing, and the result it brought was horrific, in the best way possible. He watched as the purest forms of panic, terror, and shock took over the man. He rolled onto his back, cradling his aching jaw and continuing to cry and scream out. Dean could almost feel his own teeth whimper in pain as he stared down at the knocked out and destroyed chompers littering the ground.

With how the man was screaming, it wouldn't be long before someone called 911 for him. Not a very good idea to stick around in a situation like that, and Dean already knew that. So, he stepped away, for good, this time.

He turned around, and quickly walked down the sidewalk, aiming for his home. A part of him knew he wouldn't be easily recognizable if the man did tell the cops what happened, which was nothing short of a guarantee after what he'd done to him. Shock alone would make it hard to properly remember the events, and, hey, how was he really gonna tell people what happened?

That thought brought a smirk to Dean's face as he walked off, leaving a brutal display of carnage in his wake. Story of his life, truly.

[ycurkxng]

First Blood

Character: Dean King

Warnings: Panic attack

Notes: None

Everything was too much, too fast. Dean had been left reeling from the battle. Slashing, stabbing, swinging, Dean was reacting purely on instinct to keep himself alive. Everything was fuzzy, he barely knew what the hell was happening. His body hurt, his heart was pounding into his chest, and his vision was quickly going in and out. Darkness consumed his sight for only a few moments, before dashing back in, and going back to black.

Blood. He could recognize it from its smell, overpowering, and sickening. Crimson red covered his navy blue jeans, splattered along the denim like a canvas. It churned his stomach, as if a hand crammed it's way down his throat and strangled his intestines. The red became more noticeable in other spots as he looked at himself. His hands, his chest, his entire front half had become tainted with the fluid. He looked away, only to have his vision latched onto his next bit of reality.

Reality came back to him slowly, piece by piece. He began to bring the world back together for his own mind, one step at a time.

He was standing, at least. His legs were shaky. Gravity seemed to be tugging at his weight considerably harder than normal. Something was covering his pant legs, warm. Almost burning his legs. Was that just his body heating up from the actions, or was there another factor at play? Dean looked down, doing his best to focus in on his jeans.

A knife. Things began to click together, that's what had cut him. That's what drew blood. It's dark, dull handle caught his eye amidst the screaming colors that rested around the scene. And with the knife, his gaze travelled to where the blade itself was- and he saw skin.

Flesh, lacerated and pierced. White skin had been overwhelmed by the still pouring blood, flowing down the body and onto the pavement below. It was in the neck, plunged in and twisted.

Time itself seemed to stop as he stared for eternity at the body, and he felt a million different things flood him at once. An overwhelming sense of guilt, shame, horror, disgust. His mind raced. He did this. His actions had led to a corpse being on the ground in front of him. He'd done it. He'd survived. But at what cost?

He felt lightheaded.

And everything finally pieced itself together, the events were clear to him, even in his dazed state. He began to recollect just what had happened.

The alleyway, he'd simply been trying to take a moment to text a friend back. He'd leaned against the wall, when the other approached from behind. His footsteps caught Kings attention quickly, and he turned, just to see the man. A coat, going just a little past his waist. His hair was disheveled. He was out of it, hell, he was probably on something. Seemed like everyone was in that damn town.

But, he'd gotten close to Dean, far too close. He was asking seemingly innocent questions, before requesting his phone to call someone. Dean refused, and he stepped closer. He saw his hand, slipping into his jacket. So, when it came shooting out with a blade, he quickly pulled himself back with a loud yelp of surprise and fear, striking back with a wild kick. Not aimed for anything specifically, just trying to get the guy away.

Running. He had tried to run, only to be brought down to the ground with the man's full weight. He got tackled, his head smashing against the ground with a crack. That's when everything got real fuzzy, but he didn't let himself quit. He shot his head back up, the back of it landing harshly against his attackers features. He stumbled back, and Dean pushed his body back, knocking him down to his back.

Dean clambered to his feet, stumbling as his hands found themselves down by his legs while he pushed himself up from the earth. The other had gotten up faster, and he continued to rush. He turned, just in time to catch a swift slash. It tore his hoodie and shirt, leaving an open wound as he began to bleed. He swung again, and Dean just barely managed to shoot his arm up in time to slam against his wrist, stopping the frenzied attack of the other.

Running. Not an option, he had figured. He'd grabbed onto the man's wrist, twisting it in a desperate, yet futile, attempt to make him drop the damn knife. All that he got in return was the knife coming around as he moved his hand to cut at Dean's, forcing a cry of pain out as he let go, and struck with his other hand.

The quick cross he had thrown with his right had made the man stumble, and Dean took advantage of his vulnerability. Like prey revealing its underside. He brought him down, grabbing him by the shoulders and dragging him to the floor. Dean landed on top of him, once again, he grabbed his wrist. This time, his fingers reached up and locked the others into place. He wasn't cutting him again.

"JUST- STOP! PLEASE! FUCKING STOP!" Dean practically screamed, hardly able to comprehend just what the hell was going on. But his pleas bore no fruit, as the man only continued to try and attack. He used the hand Dean hadn't grabbed to begin clawing at his face, his jagged nails digging into his features. Deans grip wavered for only a moment, and the knife came shooting up once more. He hadn't taken his sight off of it for a moment, and he watched as it drew ever closer to his side.

He didn't know what else to do. Dean tightened his grip, and he pulled the hand away. Using the momentum of his own movement, Dean brought the knife back down onto him. Aim didn't matter, he just needed it away from him. Where it landed?

The side of his attacker's neck. As the blade stabbed in, his movements quickly ceased. He could hear gurgling, and the man's grip quickly grew weak. His face, one that had previously been red with rage and the heat from their quick movements, turned into a ghastly white. His eyes were wide, filled with shock. As if he didn't see any world where Dean walked away alive. The sight made Dean flinch back, making the knife twist as his body cringed away. He let go of the handle, falling back to his ass as the man continued to choke.

Dean had gotten himself back up, walking backwards until he hit the wall behind him. And that's where he stood now, looking down at a scene that seemed like something out of a nightmare.

He tried to step off to the side, to get away from what he'd done, but that ended with him slamming down onto the earth. His knees buckled, and he hit the ground with a thud. He caught himself on his elbows, pushing himself up from them as he continued to just gaze upon it. What the fuck did he do?

That question circled again and again in his mind, he felt his adrenaline and anxiety mix together at their peak, a recipe for disaster. He couldn't have done this. He never wanted to, he never wanted to do this! He tried to get away, tried to just... Leave. But he couldn't, he had to fight back. How did things get so out of control?

Tears quickly rushed his eyes, flowing down like a river in a matter of seconds as his entire body trembled. He felt the weight of a thousand wrongs crush him. His lungs tightened, the air being forced from them as the world around him seemed nothing more than a distant memory once more. He never wanted to do this. He didn't want this, he never would've wanted this!

I can't breathe.

What the fuck did I do?

How did this happen?

I can't breathe.

What the hell did I DO?!

This can't be real.

Fuck.

I can't breathe.

Wrong. Wrong. This is wrong.

What the fuck am I going to do?

I CAN'T FUCKING BREATHE.

Dean gasped, doing everything in his power to draw air into his lungs. He couldn't think, every thought was cut off and derailed by another shrieking sentence in his own brain. He needed the noise to stop, it was like static. Rupturing through his thoughts and forcing him to cradle his head, bloodying up his hair as he hunched down. His knees met his stomach as his forehead met the ground.

And he began to sob.

He cared little for muffling himself. He screamed out with soul crushing misery. The world around him no longer mattered. There wasn't a single thought in his head, yet his mind was still cluttered. It felt like his head was going to explode, pushing at the confines of his skull and drawing out further pain from his already wounded figure.

Each cry left him breathless, until he was just hyperventilating. He could feel the tears running down his face, which had been contorted into one that reflected the mental and physical torment that coursed through him like blood.

His lungs hurt. His chest hurt. His face hurt. His hand hurt. His head hurt. Everything hurt, and he just wanted it all to stop. He needed to stop, he needed to breathe. But he just couldn't. Nothing would allow that.

I'm so sorry. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.

Why didn't you stop? Why couldn't you just fucking stop?

Oh, god.

Oh, god.

[deans-writing]

Firefight

Characters: Joel Joyce, Mac Limit

Warnings: Death, injury (what you'd expect from me)

Notes: someone help Joel :[

The radio in Joel's vest crackled to life, an easily recognizable voice calling after the static cleared. "Kid?" Mac spoke through it, letting out a small cough. He hadn't gotten over his bout of gas inhalation, hence why he was still in bed. Something everyone knew he hated having to do.

He squeezed the steering wheel tight with his left hand to let his right release it. It travelled to his radio, clicking on it. "Yeah? What's up?" He said, glancing at the house at the end of the trail. It seemed so ominous. With a quick glance to the heavily modified assault rifle in the backseat, he started to wonder if this really was a bad idea.

"Listen, these- these guys are unstable. Y'know?" Mac cleared his throat with a grunt. "We've fought at least a dozen like 'em. They've been trying to threaten us for food, you can't take chances with this shit." He explained his worries. Joel could feel sweat build up on his brow as he got closer to the survivors base.

Even though he so desperately wanted to reason with the group, he knew Mac had a point. He'd heard stories of him rampaging through hostiles like Rambo, a one man army whose only objective was to destroy what threatened what he cared about.

But he had to try to reason with these people. They were desperate, should they really be executed just for that? No. He didn't think so.

His hand around the wheel flexed while he pulled it over, turning it off to the side and hitting the brakes. He reached over and pulled the shift into park. "I... I'll be careful." Joel finally answered. "I got, uhm, a grenade and the rifle." He said that as if Mac were going to let him leave without either. "Listen, I'm heading in now. I'll let you know what happens."

Joel looked down at the pistol on his hip. Up close and personal like that, if he really had to? He doubted he'd really be able to draw that fast. A deep breath in, a heavy breath out. He shook away the jitters with a quick shiver before opening the driver's side door and stepping out. "...stay safe, kid." Mac said over the radio, leaving Joel by himself in the outside world.

A piece of him longed to just get back in the car and drive away, to simply leave the group to fend for themselves. The rest of him shut those thoughts down though. If it got bad, he could at least run like hell... Yeah. That would work.

Another deep breath in as he rounded the car and approached the steps to the porch. Joel fixed his posture, trying to stand with more confidence than he really had. "Hey!" He called out with his breath, loud enough for those inside to hear, just not enough to wake the dead.

Figures darted past the window. He squinted, trying to make out just what they were holding. The click of the front door lock drew his attention, and he looked over to see their leader swing it open. He was unarmed- at least for the moment. The survivor knew they had weapons somewhere. Who didn't?

Joel and the leader stared at each other for what felt like minutes. The other male spoke up with his voice lowered. Joel could tell he was forcing its pitch lower, it sounded beyond unnatural. He'd already heard him over their radio. Everyone had.

"Here's the deal." He began, taking a step forward into the outside. "You're gonna get us the food we need, the shit we've been asking for." Joel bit his tongue to stop himself pointing out how he'd never really asked them. The man continued. "You either do that, or I get real angry. You wanna see what happens when you make me MAD?"

Jesus, Mac was right. One, he did talk like a jackass. And two, he was unstable. Still, he wanted to attempt some form of shared rationality with him. Joel held his hands up, his palms facing the other. "We can't... Do that. Okay? You've been-" A low growl from him made Joel stop. The man's face twisted with hatred, and he stepped back.

"Then get the hell out of here, boy." He snapped, "Or I swear to god..." The man finished, stepping back and slamming the door with him. Joel winced at the sharp groan of wood crashing. So much for reasoning with him, crazy bastard.

Joel turned around and stepped away. He went back around the car to the driver's side, he leaned against the open door with one elbow propped up to the roof. "Hey." He sighed while he talked over the radio once more. "They didn't bite. Guy didn't even give it a second thought, just got real aggressive... They didn't attack though. So, positives." He added, letting a light chuckle punctuate his words.

"That could've been worse." Mac pointed out. "Maybe we should send you to do the talking more often, never goes well when they see my ugly mug." He threw in his own joke. It elicited another laugh from Joel, and one from himself.

Joel clicked the radio to speak once more, "Well, that's just cause..." He trailed off when he could hear someone shouting from inside. He allowed himself to take a glance at the house again. "Huh?"

It stopped. He didn't look away though. "Mac, I think someone's-"

A gunshot and glass shattering is what made him stop completely. He almost screamed as he threw himself down to the ground. The bullet collided with the hood of the car, lead scraping metal made his ears ache.

"TOLD YOU TO LEAVE!" He could hear their leader scream. That was followed by another gunshot. Mac's panicked calls for Joel blended in with the deafening blasts from the other survivors guns. They were fucking shooting at him?! He was getting SHOT at?!

He scrambled to the door just next to him, which led into the backseat. Joel had killed before, but those were just zombies. Mindless drones that wanted to just kill and kill and kill... well, maybe not entirely mindless. He'd seen their hivemind at play- why was he even stopping to think about that?! People were opening fucking fire at him!

"Kid?! KID?! TALK TO ME! WHAT THE FUCK- JOEL!" He could still hear Mac scream as his shoulder which held the radio rose up to his neck while he crawled. The bullets were tearing through the vehicle, just barely whizzing by his prone form. His heart was racing in a way it never had before. He felt sick.

Joel reached up to latch onto the door's handle and pull open, just enough to let his arm slip in and take a hold of the assault rifle by its grip. He already had the grenade on his person, but did he seriously have to use it? His mind said no, though the roaring gunfire directed at him said yes.

His mind was blank. Every thought had been overwritten with pure instinct, with unrelenting desperation to survive. Joel pulled away from the backseat and sat up, using the wheel and back end of the car as cover from the bullets. He'd only seen shit like this in the movies. Those weren't very fucking helpful for the moment. Joel's jaw clenched.

The shots would attract zeds, no question about that. He had a minute, maybe two? They were in the middle of nowhere.

Joel shook it off. No time to worry about zombies.

He spun around and pulled himself up, propping his hand that gripped the assault rifle's barrel onto the trunk. The other tightened around the rubber grip. He counted three people. One in the window to the left of the door, and the other two off to the right side. Their leader stayed close to the door. Joel let go of the barrel, allowing his hand to shoot into his vest and past his radio. Mac was still talking over it. He just wanted any sign of life from the young survivor.

No time to waste, Joel thought. He grabbed onto the frag grenade stashed inside of a pocket. The urge to bite down with his teeth like some action hero was there, though he'd learned from Denis that it was bullshit. He let go of the rifle completely. It rested upon the trunk.

With shaking hands, he held the grenade in place to rip the pin out of it. An immediate panic surged through him. Fuck, was he about to blow himself up?!

Joel stood up. His target was in his sights. The large window on the left would be the easiest to hit. He pulled his arm back, like a catapult. He fixed his aim- and he launched it forward. The grenade soared through the air and dove through the already broken window. He ducked back down. It almost felt like a game of football again. A very weird game of football.

He didn't have his eyes on where he'd thrown the explosive when its explosion came. It shook the house with its presence- and bloody murder rang out from inside. The bullets stopped pouring out at him for a moment.

"DARLENE! NO! NO!" Someone howled from inside.

His heart sank. What did he do? He'd just taken a life! He killed someone, maybe someone who did a lot of bad, but someone who may have-!

The gunfire started back up, and then the guilt for his actions was replaced by that same will to survive that made him throw the grenade in the first place. He grabbed onto his own gun again.

Their aim was notably worsening. Possibly the pure force of each shot making their wrists ache, killing their accuracy... Or, hell, maybe they just sucked shit. It didn't matter. Joel adjusted his own aim, though he'd realized that one of the figures had disappeared from its original positioning.

He fired blindly, his own rounds from the rifles double drum magazine spraying the right side of the house down. His ears were ringing already, but he only stopped when he didn't see anyone standing. Were they dead? He hoped so... Was that fucked up to think?

"BASTARD!" The leader shrieked, making his presence known. Joel tried to swivel his aim to where he'd heard it, the door. It was too late for that though. He'd started shooting again, and the only other survivor left in there with him joined him as the two barged out of the front door. Their bullets collided with the trunk of the car and just narrowly missed Joel. He fell back, bringing his gun down with him.

Joel moved as fast as his body would allow while he pulled himself up to his feet. He kept one hand firmly on the trigger, the other going off and back on to plant into the ground and push himself up. He started to fire the moment two bodies got in his sight, and he began to back up.

Their back and forth shooting had left both parties backing away, but never giving up on their end goal. Joel let out a small squeak as he backed up into a ditch, nearly losing his footing with the sudden change in terrain. He adjusted fast to continue moving down. It was the best chance he had to catch them off guard.

His strangle of the trigger stopped when he'd reached the bottom and could no longer see anyone. They were still moving though, he knew that. He could hear their boots meeting the casing ridden ground beneath them. With a shaky huff, he fixed his aim to point upwards to the top of the ditch.

A head peaked over, for just a second.

On instinct, he snapped his aim to the skull and slammed down on the trigger. Bullets spat from it like poison, and he watched as at least two sped through the survivors head. She didn't even make a sound while she fell back. All he could hear was a body smacking against the earth's floor.

Fuck. Fuck. Jesus fucking Christ- what did he do?

No time to think. Shit.

There was no more movement ahead. It had stopped completely, though he noticed the lack of a distraught yell for this survivor. Joel kept his finger firmly around the metal lining while he began to walk back up the ditch. He couldn't feel anything in his body besides the intense pounding in his veins, which gave him shivers.

Joel lowered the gun to be level with the ground as he came back up, finding himself even with the car he'd driven in on now. It wasn't safe. He'd had it drilled into his head to never let go of that damn gun until he was sure he wouldn't die without it. Rose's words, not his.

He started to let his mind wander when he couldn't see anyone else, though his aim never faltered. What the fuck had happened? How did things get so bad so fast? ...where was the leader?

The crumpling of a jacket alerted him to that information.

It was too little too late however. The sole survivor had stood up from behind the car, rage in his eyes and hatred surging through the pistol in his hand. He fired without a thought, just as Joel had gotten his aim in his direction.

Fire. It was fire and hell on earth once the bullet hit him. It raved through his lower left side, zipping out of his back. Joel cried out in torture as he found himself being dragged down to the ground once more, firing back himself on the way down. He didn't expect to hit anything, he just wanted to ward him away.

A gasp followed by choking on some liquid made it clear that he had hit something though. He didn't know what, having made it to the ground with a hiss of pain. Something in him cracked. The force of the bullet left a blast radius in its wake, hurting anything inside of him that it got close to. He hated it.

Joel dropped his gun, wheezing for air and wrapping his arms around the new wound he had. He'd been shot, he realized. There was a goddamned hole in him, and it was a nightmare. How did anyone in the group handle this? He could feel tears build up in his eyes, ready to let loose at any moment.

It felt as though death itself was knocking at his door, eager to get in and rip him apart. He expected to see the leader just stand up from behind the car and unload the magazine into him. Joel peaked under the gap at the bottom of the car, getting an okay-ish look at the situation.

The leader was... Unresponsive. For the moment, at least.

Blood rushed from his neck, and his gun was laid out at his side. He actually hit him with that? That was lucky. A miracle, actually. Joel didn't feel like pushing his luck by sticking around what would be a hot spot for the dead in only a minute or two.

Guilt, shame, pride, anxiety, pain, it all swirled violently in his head. There were a million thoughts for each thing, none of them good. He felt nauseous as he pulled himself together, getting off of the ground and grabbing onto his weapon. That damn rifle saved his life. And whatever God was looking out for him to let him hit that shot.

Joel pushed aside his befuddled thoughts in favor of getting back to the car. It'd been shot to shit, with holes littering the doors, roof- hell, just the entire body of the vehicle. That was going to be a nightmare to fix up, he thought.

He dragged himself back to the front side of it, tossing his weapon into the passenger seat as he plopped down in the driver's. Joel shut the door behind him, glancing down at himself. Red streaked down his blue puffer vest, leaking onto his jeans, and then the leather seat.

He felt thankful he hadn't turned the car off, being able to reach down and switch the stick shift again, slamming it into the ability to drive ahead. After adjusting it, he moved that hand to his radio, the other taking a hold of the wheel as he began to drive away from the scene.

"Mac?" He called weakly over their communications. It wasn't even a second later that he heard the other side light up with life.

"Joel? Kid?! Fuck, what happened? Are you alright?!" He demanded, not caring how his horror painted him at that moment. "They- they shot at me. Shot me." Joel mumbled. Each bump of the dirt trail made his side scream. "They- WHAT?! Are you okay?! Where are you? Are..." Mac paused.

"Are they dead?" He asked, his tone considerably softer than it had been before. "...mhm." Joel confirmed. Mac sighed heavily. "Shit. Do you need someone to get you? Are you okay?" He continued on. "I'm driving back, but I- I need help. It hurts, man." Just saying it hurt was an understatement, but he didn't feel like rambling on about how it made him want to curl up and die.

The sound of tires squealing against the road as he swerved onto it filled the air to replace Mac's brief silence.

"Just get back here, alright, kid? You're alright. You're gonna be fine." Mac offered the support, despite there only being so much he could do from where he was. Joel still appreciated it. "Okay." The younger man coughed.

"Okay... Now focus on the road, not me. Or the bullet."

"Got it."

With that, Joel took his hand off the radio and set his hand on the wound. He pressed down firmly. That's what the others always told him to do. It hurt, but the bleeding slowed.

He just had to get back home. Then he'd be fine.

[deans-writing]

Clawed Out

Character: (Red Dead Redemption) Vincent King, Rock, Florence Shaw, Rusty Caldwell

Warnings: Attempted scalping, general violence/death

Notes: None

The night, the very one which Vincent so often found himself staring at, had turned into something that worked against him. A cruel twist of the knife that fate held. Light only illuminated his situation once his body had been slammed into the ground.

Vincent couldn't help but think about the hours previous while he jerked his arms to the side, trying so hard to free them from the grip of his tormentor. A cold steel turned warm with his blood against his hairline and made him fight harder.

He sat around the campfire at camp with the other members of Rusty's gang. To break the silence that clouded the area, he spoke. "Gonna head up Roanoke." He'd said. The stares he got told him something was wrong, but no one actually spoke. Vincent explained it would be for collecting a bit of cash. He'd found a treasure map on a rival gang members corpse, and it certainly caught his attention.

“The land you’ll dare to walk is filled with red warm sand." Rock cut in, stopping Vincent from going on. "Those who own it will believe you their property as well. Your body as the toll." She stared dead at him while she spoke. Her eyes were cold, sending a violent shiver throughout his figure. He'd never heard one just so demented as she was. He only scoffed, waved his hand away and said it would be fine.

He found some humor in the fact that Rock of all people had actually been trying to warn him, and he wished he'd listened.

Travelling up the side of the river on Constantine, the sun began to set. Vincent set his lantern upon his hip, looping it on his belt while his hands took hold of his horses reins. He'd spent too many nights in pitch black to have any real fear of the dark. He'd fought and killed in the darkness of nature what felt like a thousand times over.

Then, he could hear wailing. It wasn't an animal. It was a person, calling out for help to whoever would listen. His heart started to thump harshly against his chest then. He pulled off to the side of the trail he'd been walking and hitched Constantine to the nearby stump of a tree. A part of him was still glad he'd left his animal out there, but the rest of him cursed himself for not grabbing onto his shotgun before going deeper in.

He'd seen the entrance to a cave while he broke through the treeline. He narrowed his eyes upon seeing lights die out by the person who had been crying out. By the time he'd gotten close enough to realize the person hadn't even been injured, it was far too late. He'd drawn a gun and aimed it at Vincent, who raised his hands. Then, his head cracked.

In an instant, the world had grown painful and dreary. Vincent hit the ground with his gun falling just out of his reach. Hands locked around his wrists and pinned them on his back, and his head was yanked up. He felt someone tear his hat off. And then the knife came.

Thinking about how he got in his dire situation had left him right back to where he started. On the ground with someone trying to scalp him, with the rest of his friends coming out of their hiding places to laugh manically. He could feel something start to boil inside of him.

Rage. The very rage that drove him to go on a homicidal rampage against those who'd murdered his father a world away. It burned bright, setting fire to his veins and making his brain swell inside of his skull. He began to growl. His hands trembled erratically. His jaw clenched.

Vincent leaned down. The man on top of him let out a grunt of confusion, right before Vincent snapped his head back up. The back of his head smashed into the front of the others and he fell back with a yell, dropping his knife in the process. "SHIT!" He cried. Vincent grabbed onto the knife.

He looked up through his hazy sight and saw a leg. It had been shot up in an attempt to kick him in the head. Vincent grabbed onto the man by the ankle and raised the knife high up before stabbing down into his knee. He screamed and tried to move back, only to collapse. Vincent quickly clambered ahead of himself, pushing himself up with one hand.

His other grabbed onto his Schofield while he made it to his feet. Things became clear through his anger. He was surrounded. Standing and fighting would be a dead man's effort. Vincent fired once blindly, he could hear the sounds of men scattering away from the general direction of his aim. After a few quick steps back, they began to move closer again. He fired in their vicinity, turning his head after his hand had already made it there.

"VAFFANCULO!" He roared. They were far enough away from him to feel confident in making a break for it. Vincent turned and ran, his arms took a moment to make it in front of him while he darted for the cave. Gunshots didn't follow him, not even arrows. That meant they were going to do everything in their power to close in for the kill. Fucking animals, Vincent thought to himself.

Past the initial darkness of the entrance, he found himself bathed in light. Torches were slammed crudely into the dirt to keep their area illuminated. Vincent ran further inwards, before throwing himself behind a wagon. Stolen for certain, but it'd serve its purpose in giving him a moment to regain his composure.

The blood had rushed from his wound as if it were escaping the flames of a house fire. It ran down his forehead and over his eye, partially blinding him. Vincent grit his teeth and snarled as he wiped at the cut. The attacker hadn't managed to carve the blade too deep into his flesh. The pain wasn't the part that bothered him.

Footsteps hit the ground harshly as the group approached the Sicilians choice of cover, calling out all the while. He gripped his gun tight and began to count in his head. He had fired twice while he ran away, giving himself the space he desperately needed in order to get to a semi-safe spot. Four shots. He prayed silently that it would be enough. Their numbers and weaponry up close would prove to be far too much if he wasn't able to send enough to hell.

Taking a deep breath in, Vincent stepped out from behind the wagon. His revolver was levelled in the direction of his attackers. He fired the moment he got sight of them.

The first shot hit one of the men in the stomach. A loud groan and he fell forward, clutching at his stomach. The men around him scattered like cockroaches seeing light. He cocked the hammer shot again. It zipped by the hand of another. It clearly didn't stop him though. Vincent raised his gun before slamming the hammer down and taking another shot. It went through the deformed skull of another. His legs gave out and his body crumpled on them, leaving his husk curled up.

Vincent took a step forward, trying to take back the distance he'd given so much of to the animals that chased him down. Their numbers had thinned. He could only assume they were taking position near the entrance of the cave, preparing themselves to either capture, torture or murder King. Possibly all three.

He pulled down the hammer to his revolver and shot again. The lead found a throat, soft and easy to slide its way through and out of. Two dead, one wounded and likely not getting back up to fight. Two still stood and were actively rushing him. Vincent spun his revolver so he'd be holding onto the barrel, which still held the heat from his previous shots. He took a step towards one of the men.

Vincent lowered the gun to his side while he got close. The attacker held a machete, he spotted. He'd only heard of the weapon through Camilia in passing, though he didn't pay much attention then. He understood why she seemed to speak of it so highly in that moment. A long sharp blade with a thick wooden handle. It was just his luck that he was about to go into melee combat with one.

He shot the gun upwards, aiming the handle of it at an angle. The enemy hadn't seen the strike coming, letting it break his jaw with one hard hit upwards. He staggered back before Vincent hit him again. The wooden grip bashed the top of his head. An incoherent cry was let out while he continued to stumble away from Vincent.

The other had gotten close while he was busy dealing with the first. Vincent felt a slash at his shoulder, and he growled upon the cut. "HMPH!" He bit his lip to stop himself from making too much more noise. His empty hand grabbed onto the man's hand, and he forced it against him. Vincent raised his own knife up and swiftly drove it deep into his throat.

"Hngh..." Vincent sighed as he pushed the man's corpse down before standing back up to his full height. He turned to the first one he'd been beating on, who was pressed against the stone wall that made up the confines of the cave with both hands on his head. He quickly drew bullets from his gunbelt and loaded up his revolver with one bullet before taking aim.

With one quick squeeze of the trigger, the man was dead in an instant. His brain matter splattered onto the stone behind him and he sunk to the ground. Vincent was finally able to breathe a little easier as the reality of what he'd gotten himself into got the opportunity to get deep into his mind.

Trapped. He'd gotten himself trapped in a cave, with at least five more of the animals outside. They'd be waiting for him. Vincent grimaced as he stared off to the distant entrance. There was no one else to help, he was on his own and was being forced to fight his way out. It was that, or he'd die in the process.

"Okay." He murmured. Vincent loaded his revolver up once more before he walked to the man he'd killed only a moment prior. His machete would be used against his own friends. Vincent grinned at the thought while he held the machete tight in his left hand, his gun in the other. He didn't consider it quite enough to take on the small band, but it would have to do.

Vincent ignored the fear in his mind, and instead focused on stoking that heat in his chest. That would be the thing that got him through alive.

The next minute or so was a blur.

He'd rushed up, gun raised with the machete not too far behind. The first man that stepped out of cover caught two shots to the chest, before Vincent buried the length of the machete into his face. Two more began to approach after the first one had become a corpse stuck on a blade. Vincent spun the body to be facing his friends, and he ripped the machete out while simultaneously kicking him back.

The body got sent backwards, crashing into the others. One stayed standing tall while the other got knocked back. Vincent took aim at the first. He too was pumped full of lead, being treated like a bottle for target practice as Vincent fired off three shots into him. Two had hit the upper half of his chest, and the third stuck him in the sternum. He fell back just as the second one had gotten up.

Vincent saved his bullet, taking a step forward and swinging the machete down from overhead. It struck his skull, but didn't fully go through. The man had already begun to yell and try to push Vincent away, but it was too late. What followed next was violent, repeated and enraged attacks.

The man's body fell while Vincent continued to strike his head with the blade. Grunts and growls turned into screams of fury while he attacked. The pain on his hairline seemed more intense as his heart pumped faster, and the rush of blood only grew heavier.

He stopped once his arm grew tired. Vincent stood back up and turned to the entrance of the cave. He raised the revolver in preparation for something to jump out at him while he walked through.

"Bastard..." One man groaned. It was the one he'd stabbed at the start of it all. Vincent lowered the barrel of the gun to aim at his head. "BASTAR-" He fired. The man's head snapped back and he laid on the dirt. Vincent looked around, sliding his revolver back into its home in its holster. Someone was missing, he was certain. Though he didn't have the time to sit there and hunt for the one that got away.

Without any time wasted, Vincent ran back through the treeline and to Constantine. He took the reins off of the stump he'd left it to prior, and he rode off. Back down the trail, through the forest, and all the way back to camp.

In only an hour, he'd made it back. The lights caught his eyes, and he snapped the reins down onto the back of his steed. It rushed forward. "Me! 'S just me!" He called as he approached the current lookout, one hand raised to show peace. Florence turned, lowering the repeater that went to every person who took guard. "God." She mumbled, getting a good look at Vincent.

His front half was dirtied and bloodied, his shoulder actively ran red and half of his face was still covered in his own blood. "What-" Florence paused, watching as Vincent rode past her. The question of what happened didn't seem important. She glanced to the trail he'd ran up, before turning and making her way to where he stopped his horse.

"Follow me." Florence said, slinging the Lancaster around her shoulder as she got next to Vincent, who was dismounting his horse. "How does it feel?" She asked, resting a hand on the males back as they walked to the nearby table. "Hurts." He admitted sheepishly. "Didn't expect so many of them." Vincent added, looking down.

She grimaced at that. Florence had heard of Murfree Broods territory, and had she been there when he discussed going past it, she would've warned him. It was clearly too late for that though. "If I'm being honest, I'm surprised you made it out at all, King. The choice to go was... Kind of stupid." She patted his back once they reached the table. He took a seat and looked up at Florence, allowing her to assess the damage.

Both turned their heads to stare at the two pairs of footsteps as they approached. Rusty and Rock. One looked concerned, hand on his hip. The other looked... Well, it was hard to tell. Rock never showed much emotion outside of pure mania in any situation. "How was the walk on bloodied ground with hollow bones inside?" Rock asked.

Vincent glared as Rusty looked at her in confusion. "Fuck you." He snarled. Rock simply grinned at that before turning and walking back off. "Jesus Christ." Rusty sighed, standing next to Florence. "What happened?" He asked, making her give a quick glance. "Lunatici got hold of me." He pointed to his hairline, which Florence had begun to push his hair away from to look at how deep he'd been cut. "Cut me there, tried to go across my head."

Rusty's eyes widened. "You went up Roanoke?" He said with an exhale of disbelief. "Lord above." Rusty put a hand to his own forehead, rubbing the sides. "They tried to scalp you, kid. If they had... Well... You would've had a lot more issues than some cut." Florence hummed in agreement. "You're lucky. They stopped before it got too bad." Vincent hummed lowly. "Only one held me down. Slammed my head into his and ran. I killed an entire goddamn group of them."

There was a pause as the other two took that in. "There was someone crying in the forest. I went in and tried to help." Rusty frowned, that's what he'd taught the Sicilian. He couldn't help but feel partially responsible because of that. Vincent continued. "Got hit with... Something. I was on the ground, they started that. I had to use a machete and a revolver to fight them off." He explained. Rusty nodded. "Well- hey, at least now you got a damn impressive story to tell when you talk about that scar."

Vincent chuckled. "Kinda wish I'd listened to Rock." He admitted. "Jesus. Never thought I'd hear you say that." Rusty added. "Apologies, but, if I can address the wounds?" Florence cut in. Vincent nodded while she stepped back. "Like I said, you got lucky. This cut on your head, it's nothing severe. It'll scar, but it'll be fine. I'll put bandages on it. As for your shoulder?" She pointed to it. "Shallow. They'll both hurt, but at least you'll be okay." She assured him, giving a comforting smile.

He nodded again. "Thanks, Ms." He mumbled. Florence patted his healthy shoulder. "I'll go get bandages. Wait here." She told him, turning around and walking off to her tent. Vincent turned to Rusty. "...is it actually a good story to tell?" He asked quietly. "Well, most armed groups die to an ambush of them." Rusty gave a shrug. "Yeah, I think it's a pretty good goddamn story."

Vincent leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his hair and pulling it back. He hadn't found the treasure he set out for, all he'd found was trouble and pain. He already knew he'd go back there, but next time he'd bring others. Strength in numbers. That's what kept him safe with the gang after all.

[deans-writing]

Combat Warriors (Again)

Characters: (Roblox) Dean King, Anthony

Warnings: General violence

Notes: None

Dean didn't think he'd find himself right back at this world. But when the offer from Anthony to tag along, he couldn't exactly refuse. He followed closely behind him the entire time. He'd itched for a fight that the world had brought for ages, and to experience it with someone he considered to be at least somewhat talented in combat? Dean was thrilled. He didn't exactly try to hide it, to Anthony's dismay. Maybe? He couldn't actually tell how Anthony felt about it. He had the same damn stare the entire time.

"What weapon do you use?" He asked as they approached the menu. "War hammer." Anthony grunted back, going through the options to find just that. "A fucking what?" Dean's eyes widened. Anthony simply pointed to the preview menu ahead of them. He looked up, getting a good look at the tool. It was just how it sounded, a giant fucking hammer that was half the size of Dean.

Anthony glanced over to Dean. "...you're not using a weapon?" He asked. Dean simply shook his head. "I got a molotov. Then, y'know." He gestured broadly at himself, "I ain't swinging around some shit like a chainsaw, so it's a lot easier to just move faster than someone to kill them." Dean explained. The taller male nodded. "Hm." He hummed, staring at the menu again. "Now?" Dean nodded back.

With a quick press of a button, the two were warped into the battlefield.

Both could automatically hear the screaming and sounds of war just off in the distance. It was commonplace for something like this, neither seemed all too bothered by it. Dean looked around, clenching his hands into tight fists. "So, you wanna jump some motherfuckers?" He asked, grinning wickedly while he turned his head to look up at Anthony.

Anthony stopped to think for a moment. It could be fun, he figured. "Yeah." Dean didn't stop the small cheer he let out at that, "Sick. Let's go then." He said, walking ahead of Anthony and gesturing for the other to follow. He did so, keeping a death grip on his weapon. "Last time I was here, I tore a guy's throat out." Dean commented. "I... Think he had a sledgehammer?"

He could feel the stare in the back of his head grow a little harder against him. "Dumb bastard just figured a bigger weapon meant he could win. He was slow." He took a moment. "No offense to you, obviously." Dean clarified, looking back. "Unless you can't fight for shit with that thing. And if that's so," he turned back ahead of him. "Then you should take full offense."

There was no response. Dean didn't actually mind the silence from talking with (or at) Anthony. It was peaceful, in a way. He liked rambling, and Anthony seemed to listen. Dean just hoped he wasn't secretly wishing he'd shut the fuck up, or something like that. The way he figured it, just so he didn't worry? He nearly choked out Anthony in a ring. If he didn't at least like him a bit, Anthony wouldn't have talked to him afterwards.

It's not like it really mattered. They had something else at hand.

Dean stared off into the distance. He could see figures brawling. The clashing of metal, wails that turned into the echoes of death, the smell of blood that attacked his nose made him wince. "There we go." He laughed through it. "You ready?" He asked, glancing over as Anthony got up to his side. "Mhm." He confirmed quietly. "Then let's get a fuckin' move on, I don't wanna miss out."

And with that, Dean was off in a sprint. Anthony took a second before following. Despite the fact he was carrying considerably more, he was able to keep up with Dean fairly easily. It's not like the brunette actually noticed, he had his sights locked on one target in particular. "Blonde one." He huffed, "Machetes." Anthony turned a bit to see just who he was talking about.

He found her quickly. Her blades were coated with other players essence. The question wasn't could they take her, it was how fast they could drop her. "Put that bitch down." Dean said, slowing down his run while they approached her. "I'm finishing this one." And Anthony went ahead. She could've seen the two from a mile away, it was hard not to. She raised her machetes in preparation for a fight.

Anthony rushed forward. Both of the blondes machetes were lifted above her head, before being swung down. Anthony pulled his own weapon up, letting the blades dig into the wooden handle of the hammer. She wasn't able to pull them back in time before Anthony kicked her back. His shoe was shot into her stomach, knocking her away. Not down though.

The opponent was still attempting to pull herself together. Anthony took the opportunity by the neck. He pulled the hammer back and swung it low, aiming for her legs. It practically shattered them upon impact. She hit the ground, one machete being dropped. To her credit, she still tried to keep herself in the fight by holding onto one.

Anthony stepped away. Luckily for him, at the perfect time. Dean sprinted forward and lunged forwards, landing on top of the incapacitated enemy. She let out a cry as his weight crashed into her. Dean grabbed onto the hand that still held the machete, squeezing it tight and holding it against the ground. His other hand went back, and then back forward into her skull.

People in this world were much easier to kill. They fell apart like paper in water. So the heavy punches that slammed into her head again and again began to tear her face apart. In the real world he would've shattered his fist and only caused her to choke on her own blood. But here she would be torn to shreds.

Anthony watched with mild interest as Dean beat her to death. The manic glee that spread across his face mixed with the blood of their enemy painted him in a new light. He didn't say anything about it. It was a game and he was having fun, wasn't that the entire idea?

Once it was done, her face had been turned into a bowl of beaten brain matter and shattered bone. Dean sighed deeply as he pulled himself off of her. "You see anything el-" He was cut off by a sudden shove from Anthony, forcing him to stagger. There was a moment of rage. An urge to shout and take a swing- then he saw just why he'd been shoved.

An arrow. It narrowly flew by his head. Anthony had gotten him out of the way just in the nick of time. "Fuck!" Dean gasped as he turned to who had tried to shoot him. "Fucker- FUCKER!" He growled. He clambered to the corpse he'd made before his hand latched onto one of her machetes. Dean stood back up and took a second. Anthony watched closely.

Dean pulled his arm back, before taking a step forward and leaning down while he launched the weapon at the would-be assassin. It soared through the air. He wasn't looking up, he was too busy trying to reload his crossbow to get another shot off. He didn't even get a look at what his demise was.

It pierced his neck, the tip of the blade finely carving through his throat and bringing the rest of it in with it. Dean cheered as he turned to Anthony. "You see that shit?!" He smiled like a giddy kid. Anthony nodded. "Impressive." The taller male admitted. "Oh, uh- thanks. For... Y'know." Dean nodded his head towards the now dead archer. "Not letting me get shot."

Anthony just shrugged. "It's fine." He started to walk away. "More. Over here." Dean was quick to get to his side. Thankfully the group Anthony had seen was only across a street, and they were too busy fighting amongst themselves to see the duo coming. "I count four." Dean reached into his jacket.

He took out his molotov and a lighter. "Wanna pick 'em off?" Dean asked. Anthony stared at the bottle before he looked back to the group. "Do it." He confirmed. Dean flicked the zippo lighter open and held the flame up to the rag that stuck out of the bottle. It caught fire in seconds. He pulled his arm back yet again before throwing it forward. The plan wasn't to kill someone with it, it was to simply make the group scatter like rats.

Flames burst out from the point of contact that the bottle smashed against. Those who were fighting quickly got out of the way, caught off guard and confused as to who had thrown it. Dean darted ahead and cocked his arm back while he got closer to them. Anthony didn't question his means. He trusted the ends would make it worthwhile.

Dean focused on one man, sending his fist into his jaw when close enough. He held a fire axe, and he looked like he knew how to use it. Anthony hadn't followed behind him. With four others around it would be stupid to go after one at a time with two of them. When one came rushing up around the fire to try and catch them, he jumped into action.

Anthony sent the head of his hammer into the attacker's stomach. He cried out at the force of the blow and took a step back. Anthony looked at his weapon of choice as it was swung at him in blind desperation. He took a quick step back to avoid the slash of the sickle, his eyes narrowed.

There were another few swings the man took. They were clumsy. He was too eager to try and take Anthony down that he thought a few sloppy cuts would hit. Each one was evaded, Anthony weaving and stepping away whenever it got close. He could've found it funny, had it not just grown annoying after the second one.

It did stop though. The man had taken a swing too risky, leaving him hunched over in front of the avatar. Anthony snapped the handle of the hammer up. The wood cracked the man's face and made him jerk upright. One hand raised to try and protect his face, though it did little to defend him from the incoming swing of the metal.

His head was obliterated on impact. The head of the hammer was swung right through his skull, leaving him as nothing more than a corpse with a lone neck that sprayed out blood. Anthony pulled the hammer back as the body collapsed. It was messy, and his clothes had gotten more splatter on him than he would've liked. Anthony changed his attention back to Dean to get a look at how he was fairing.

The situation for him had grown a little worse. The roars of a chainsaw as it was slashed through the air Dean occupied before moving away had caught his senses. Another had slipped past while Anthony was busy fighting and joined in on attacking Dean, who hadn't been given a moment to try and fight back. With two on him at once, it left him narrowly dodging and pushing back against his attackers when he got the chance. When King saw Anthony turn he called out.

"NEED A HAND- PLEASE?" He yelped. It was clear he didn't like asking for help, but fighting back effectively against two enemies who were armed with a chainsaw and axe was something even he couldn't do.

Anthony moved over as fast as his legs would allow. He targeted the one with the chainsaw, sending his hammer into his back. The attacker crumpled, his chainsaw dropping just beneath him. He caught himself on his hands to hold himself above it. Dean finally got his moment of breathing room.

He ducked yet another swing from the fire axe while Anthony stepped over the downed enemy. Dean grabbed onto the man's wrists, forcing the axe down while he leaned in. His mouth latched onto the others neck, and Dean sunk his teeth in. Without restraint they pierced his neck and began to draw blood. Dean clamped down, bringing his teeth to meet inside the side of the man's neck. He screamed, like a wounded animal.

Dean ripped his head back, still holding firmly onto the flesh in his mouth. It tore off, exposing muscle and tissue that was once protected. The bite alone wouldn't kill, he hadn't taken out the carotid artery. Dean spat the man's body back into his face, blood and saliva mixing together for the purest form of a silent insult. He was too busy screaming in pain to see the skull coming at him. Dean's forehead cracked his nose and broke it on impact. Blood began to rush from the crushed cartilage.

Anthony looked down at the chainsaw wielding hostile. He raised his foot up and pressed down on his back. The chainsaw was still active, revving with delight. It had fallen right under him. Just a little push, Anthony figured. He stomped down.

The spinning blades tore through the man's torso, his body shaking just as violently as the machine did. He sputtered and groaned rhythmically while it ran through him. Anthony pressed down a little more. He was already out of the fight, damn near dead. He had just wanted to make sure. He fought against the resistance of the man's ribcage and forced him completely onto the chainsaw.

He took a step back. He would've continued to watch his body shake with the weapon, if he hadn't heard shouting from just next to him. Anthony snapped his head and instinctively moved closer in preparation to attack. He didn't have to do that though. Once he got his eyes on the scene, he knew it was fine.

Dean had managed to rip the axe away from his enemy, leaving him defenseless and heavily wounded. Dean raised the weapon overhead, and sent it crashing down. The other tried to raise his hands to block the attack. It didn't help. The axehead chopped through his fingers and buried itself into his skull, leaving him limp on the end of it.

With a grunt of effort, Dean yanked it back out. He looked to Anthony, almost as if for approval. He only got a nod of the head. He should've expected it. It at least it showed some form of- well, he didn't know actually. "..I counted four." Dean pointed out. "Where's the other guy?"

Both turned their heads. They looked around, scanning the area for the fourth man. Anthony eventually spotted him around a corner not too far off from their current position. His head had barely peaked from around it. "There." He said, pulling his hammer into one hand to point the end of it at the man.

"Should we, y'know- get him?" Dean asked. Anthony looked down, thinking. "I mean, I guess it could be something like..." He trailed off, looking back at the man. "Holy shit." He murmured. Anthony raised a brow. Before he was able to ask what was wrong, Dean shouted. "GET OUTTA THE FUCKIN' WAY!"

Anthony's neck cracked with displeasure while his head snapped. His eyes widened upon seeing what Dean had been so afraid of.

A rocket. It was aimed right towards both of them. The man hadn't just run because he was a coward, but because he needed to get out of the goddamn blast radius. Anthony stared at the projectile for another moment. Two hands grabbed onto him by the front of his jacket and threw him to the side. His hammer landed just at his side.

The duo fell to the ground as the rocket collided with the earth where they had just stood. The explosion wasn't as large as Dean had expected so they'd been more than enough of a distance away from where it landed. They were both quick to get to their feet, with Anthony retrieving his weapon. "We're gonna kill that guy, right?" Dean asked as he composed himself. He brushed the dirt off of him. "Yeah." Anthony confirmed.

"Let's go then." Dean spoke as he got back into a sprint. Anthony rushed to his side. The man had gone back into cover. Neither could see him running away from the corner, so they could only assume that he'd stayed. When they rounded the corner, they were glad to know the theory was right.

Dean lunged at the man. His heels pushed him off of the ground and propelled his form through the air. His arms were outstretched, letting them wrap around his waist and drag him down to the earth through gravity and his forceful weight. After a moment of struggle on the floor, Dean slammed down onto the man's stomach with his elbow. He wheezed. Dean began to drag him up to his feet.

Once stood upright, he pulled the man in front of him by the back of his neck and shirt. He shot his knee up into his back, and then proceeded to shove him forward forcefully. "Hit him!" Dean demanded. Anthony acted on his first instinct. He raised his hammer up, not to swing. He held it sideways and thrust it forward, the head cracked the man's features with the hit. He stumbled back upon impact only to get grabbed by Dean again.

Dean wrapped his arms around the man's waist while spreading his own legs apart. Anthony tilted his head with confusion. He was confused right up until Dean leaned back, pulling the man above and behind him. A suplex. Dean had mentioned it in passing while talking about wrestling, he just hadn't actually seen it.

The man's head smashed into the ground, and there was a loud crack. His body rolled backwards from where Dean was, and he laid there. Dean pulled himself back up to his feet. "Is he dead?" He asked. Anthony shrugged again. "Dunno." The two stared at him for a moment. "Eh." Dean sighed. "Fuck it... You wanna go to the final stand? I wanna shoot something."

Anthony had heard of the game, but he couldn't remember if he'd actually gone in or not. "Sure." He paused. "Grab on."

Dean waited a second. He hated Anthony's way of teleporting. It was so sudden, abrupt. Still he complied. His hand found Anthony's shoulder, and the moment his fingers curled around his jacket he could feel the world change.

It whirled through his body, leaving his organs sloshing and wailing out their disapproval of it. Anthony stood unfazed as they found themselves in the resting place of Final Stands store. "Eugh..." Dean stepped away, an arm wrapping protectively around his own stomach. "Does that not BOTHER you?" He questioned. He shifted his eyes to Anthony, who simply shrugged. "Feels fine."

The brunette shook his head while he gathered himself. "Okay." A deep breath in, followed by a short exhale. "Okay. I'm good." Dean pushed open the cracked open door to get inside the front of the store. "I'm good." He repeated, with Anthony following close behind.

He'd get used to it eventually. Just not that day.

[deans-writing]

Run (FOR YOUR GODDAMN LIFE)

Characters: (Roblox) Dean King, Kitberry, Adam, Anthony

Warnings: None (I don't think?)

Notes: None

The world Kitberry had brought them to was a very confined one. Nothing more than a forest that was boxed in by neverending darkness. Hardly what you'd call a proper world, but it counted enough for her to insist they visit it. Maybe it was out of boredom. Maybe it was because she just wanted to walk around something she thought was cool. Dean learned not to question her.

At first, it had been an uneventful walk through the woods. Dean stopped himself from just asking to leave by keeping a small conversation open. He hardly paid attention to it, he kept finding himself being drawn to the open caves scattered around. The flashlights they'd come into the world with were unable to penetrate the deep dark it brought. Dean noted the expressions of concern written across his friends faces.

Then night came.

Their entire world was wrapped in darkness. Dean found it hard for his eyes to adjust to it. When he finally did get his vision back, he looked around the group. Kitberry seemed unfazed, if anything. And, as if on queue, Adam had gotten right behind Anthony. If he weren't also petrified, he would've made a light jab to poke fun at how this seemed to happen every time. Instead he kept his mouth shut.

Finding light had become their main goal within seconds. No one in particular led the way. They travelled side by side, apart from the obvious two. Dean could feel paranoia settling in. With every snap of a branch, sudden gust of wind and soft breath, Dean flinched as if he had just been shot.

It was only when he could hear something else moving did he get truly concerned. He thought himself to just be imagining things, right up until he looked at the others. Kitberry had turned her head to try and find the source of the noise, and Adam had frozen up entirely, his hands clinging on tighter to Anthony's arm. Dean couldn't read Anthony, but when he saw him grab onto Adam a little tighter, he knew enough.

"What the fuck did you get us into, Kit?" Dean snarled. Kitberry rolled her shoulders, pointing her flashlight right at Dean's eyes as she spoke. He hissed and threw one hand up to cover his retinas. "Uhm... If it helps, I'm just as confused as you, bestie." She offered. Dean's shoulders rose up higher against his neck. "That doesn't help! That doesn't help at all! That's worse!" He exclaimed, almost forgetting there was something else in the forest with them.

A grunt and death stare from Anthony is what reminded Dean to quiet down. "Sorry. Sorry." He murmured. "Listen... Fuck. Can you get us outta here?" Dean asked, snapping his head around to get a lay of their surroundings. Unfortunately, he still couldn't see dick if it was more than ten to fifteen feet away from him. "I can... I can try."

Kitberry turned around, finally bringing the light away from Dean's face. She brought her hands up and gripped the air. The other three watched closely. "Just... What the f- UMPH!" She yipped, backing away from the spot she'd just tried to rip apart. "...shit." Kitberry exhaled, turning back around. Her mask had gained a crack. "Can't do it."

Dean's eyes widened. He stepped forward immediately, a hand going up to the mask. He barely stopped himself from touching it. "Fuck. Why not? What's wrong?" He stopped himself from acting like a protective mother (not like he'd know anything about that) and instead focused on the matter at hand. "Against the rules. I can't- I can't get it open. Not until we make it to sunrise."

A sense of dread overwhelmed Dean, and he could sense it in the others. "Fuck. Okay, okay. We can do that. You know what's out here with us?" He finally brought up the elephant in the room. They weren't alone. Whatever had been moving around earlier was clearly something that this world had put into attack mode upon their arrival. He only prayed it would leave the others, if it came.

"No clue. It doesn't tell me that much. I'm sorry, I just-" Dean shook his head, shushing her while he did. "It's fine. It's fine. We just gotta make it to morning, right?" Kitberry nodded in response. "Okay. Then we just... Keep walking." He sighed. Anthony looked as though he were about to speak, but Dean continued. "Think about it. We've got an entire goddamn forest where it could be. If we sit in one place, we're just waiting for it to fin-"

Footsteps cut him off, swift and thundering on the earths floor. It came barreling towards the group. Dean swung and aimed his light at the source. His eyes widened and he screamed out as its figure was revealed to all.

The first thing they could all see were its eyes. Ghastly white, wide open. Next was its mouth, also wide open. Teeth, sharp enough to cut through kevlar lined its gums, and Dean could swear there were splotches of red along the gray teeth. The rest of its body was very clearly inhuman. It had similarities to a skeleton like Dean's own, but it had been twisted and mangled into a new identity entirely.

Dean stopped studying it the closer it got. "RUN FOR YOUR FUCKING LIVES!" He shouted. The others did just that. Anthony and Adam bolted off in their own direction, with Anthony pulling the other closer to his side while they ran. Kitberry went her own way too. Her light became less and less visible while she ran.

By the time he started to turn to move, it was already feet away. It growled while it swung at him with everything it had. Its claws were lengthy, at least two feet long. The tips of them looked as though they would shred him to pieces if he let it touch him.

"HOLY SHIT-!" Dean threw himself away from the creature's claws, dropping his flashlight in the process. It's scream oozed pure rage, one that even he hadn't experienced. It swung its lanky and grotesque limb back in preparation for another swing. Dean turned tail. The snow crunched underneath his boots and kicked up behind him as he began to sprint with everything he had.

The roar it let out echoed through the forest, reverberating off of the trees and damn near defending him while he ran away. The others could be damned, he needed to get away from whatever the fuck it was that had its sights on him. His concern for them was considerably less than it was for himself in the moment. He didn't feel bad for it. Mostly because he didn't have time to. But even if he did, he'd already watched them run. It was only on him now.

He could hear it. It was so close. His heart pounded sporadically in his ears, and his vision had almost become brighter with the fear he experienced. Dean wanted to scream. To pray. To wish upon whoever was listening that the monster would just die, fade away and leave him be. If he'd learned one thing though, it was that no one was listening.

He was the only god that could get him through his situation.

A part of his mind screamed at the rest of him for not keeping a hold on the light. He was sprinting through the abyss, hoping that he didn't trip and eat shit on a log, or an out of place rock, or literally anything that would lay around in a forest. But he couldn't hear the berating over the thoughts of "FUCK FUCKING FUCK HELP ME OH JESUS CHRIST HELP ME."

Dean was running on sheer terror and adrenaline. He was more than certain that he'd never run so fast in his life. Not from the cops, not from his trauma, not from relationships- no. From the thing that threatened to rip him to pieces if he stopped for even a second. His breathing became heavier while he continued to run.

Just off in the distance, Dean could see something. Maybe not salvation, but there was light. A small red blip that shone through the night. He could just barely make out what surrounded it. Walls, a roof, wide open entrances. It looked like a military outpost. Dean wished that it would've brought him relief to see something like that, but he only experienced further misery while he drew closer. It was abandoned.

It was something.

Dean ran faster, pushing himself beyond the limits he had set up for himself. He worried that the monster behind him would do the same, but the noises didn't stay at the same distance. They were further away while he created a larger gap between the two. Maybe he'd just given himself the chance to wriggle out, break line of sight and hide in the trees while it searched relentlessly.

The base was damn near empty. Torn apart bunks, a rotting corpse, broken gear. It wasn't what he was really there for. The plan (the one he'd thought of in a few seconds, the totally reliable one) was to get out to the other side, and run around one of the corners and dash away. If he could think, he'd stress about the details.

What if it tracked his footsteps in the snow? What if it see through the dark? What if it hear him? What if it just tried to cut him off by not even going inside and just chasing him from the side he ran to? What if, what if, what if. Those would get him killed before the actual nightmare did.

The small size of the outpost made it easier for Dean to get through the entire thing in just a few seconds. He cleared it, and rounded the corner of the other entrance he'd run through. Dean aimed left, going right back into the deep dark of the forest.

He damn near fainted from relief as the noises of its footsteps vanished with the distance he continued to make. It screamed out, which still hurt his ears, but it wasn't so close. It was behind him, it was back at the base. It could've been confused, even angrier, concerned, all as to where it's prey had gone off to.

Dean didn't stop running. His chest hurt. His lungs burned. His arms felt as though they would fall off from the shoulders. He only stopped when he found a small building. There was a door, metal. Almost like a safe house.

"H...ey?" He gasped, finally stopping his sprint and halting to a stop at the door. His breaths were deep, ragged. It scratched his throat. "Anybody?" He wheezed, resting a hand on the outer wall and doubling over to pant with exhaustion. Shuffling footsteps from inside caught his attention. "Dean?"

He felt his world brighten a bit. It was Adam. The door opened with a crack, and Dean could see inside. Kitberry caught his attention first, holding her light and damn near blinding him with her pastel pink aesthetic. She'd stood a little behind the door. Adam and Anthony were off to the side, with Adam at the lever. Dean couldn't help but smile, even if the faces that greeted him looked concerned.

Dean staggered inside, and Adam pulled the lever down again. The door slammed shut. "Jesus." Anthony murmured first. Kitberry stepped forward and took a hold of Dean as he nearly collapsed against her. She helped him stay standing with an arm wrapped around his shoulder. "What happened?" She asked. Dean shook his head while he tried to get enough breath to speak.

"Chased me... Didn't stop. Barely... Barely lost it." He stumbled over his words, his body wavering side to side while he spoke. "What about... You guys?" Dean asked, looking up. Adam looked back to the door, then to Dean. "We just kinda ran." He shrugged. "Found this place. I don't know how it has power though." Adam admitted with a shrug.

Kitberry raised her hand. "That may have been me. I saw a generator and turned it on. I thought maybe it would power something." She paused. "Guess it did."

Anthony turned his head to the boarded up windows. It hid most things from looking in, or out. But it was enough to notice the light that began to beam through the cracks. "Hey." He pointed to it. "Think it's morning." He stated plainly. Adam took a moment before hesitantly opening the door again, leaving the entryway now bathed in a warm glow.

The sun had brought the world back to its former state. Dean put a weak fist of celebration in the air, while still desperately trying to pull himself together. "Kit." Anthony turned to her. "The portal?" He asked, stepping over to her. She nodded with understanding, letting go of Dean- who almost immediately slammed against the nearby wall- and once more reached into an empty space.

To her and everyone else's delight, her fingers pierced through nothingness. She pulled her arms apart, and their exit was opened. "Cmon." Kitberry huffed, reaching and taking a hold of Dean's elbow to help him through. She went first, with the damn near passed out male following close behind. Anthony stood to the side, gesturing for Adam to go through first.

He kept a close eye on them as they hurried themselves through, turning back to look outside one last time. He hated how close it was for any of them. At least it was over now.

Anthony turned back to the portal and finally went through it himself. It closed behind him, leaving the monsters world alone once again.

[deans-writing]

Spar

Characters: (Roblox) Dean King, Anthony

Warnings: None

Notes: This is short...... sorry

Dean cracked his neck with quick shifts of his head while he adjusted the bandages around his fists. "Alright. So, the rules." He started, holding the end of the bandage tight before strapping it down. "No real cheap shots. You know what I'm talking about?" Dean asked, standing still to stare at Anthony.

"Uh... No dick shots." He stated. "That's one. The throat, the back of the head, and the knees." Dean brought a finger to each part of his body as he spoke. "No biting either. And no elbows. We're sparring, not killing each other." He paused. "Choking?"

Anthony stared. His immediate thought was a very basic strangle. Someone's hands wrapped around a throat, but from what he'd heard from Dean before, he'd likely meant something on the ground. An elbow locked around his neck, or both legs squeezing the air out of him. "...your call."

King nodded. "Tap twice to submit, and the choke stops. That goes both ways." He looked down in thought. "If we gotta stop it, just yell it. You think something's broken, or you just don't wanna keep Fighting." Dean explained, "You got anything else?"

He shook his head. "I can handle it. Do we just go, or?" Anthony questioned, putting his fists up preemptively. Dean nodded. "Yeah. No need for a countdown. Let's go."

And it was off. Dean's arms snapped up, both hands slightly open to protect his face from incoming attacks. Anthony's fists covered his chin, with his elbows tucked in tight to where his ribs were. Dean didn't know if it was because he had actual training with boxing, or if he'd just seen other people do it and followed it. Either way it was effective.

The shorter male took a few steps forward, throwing in a quick jab with his left fist. Anthony jerked his body to the side and retaliated, a hard right landed against Dean's temple. He clenched his teeth and planted his feet into the ground. Anthony could punch, good to know.

Dean struck back fast as Anthony tried to pull himself back up. His fist clashed against his chest. It wasn't exactly a hit to end a fight, but it was something. He wouldn't just swing once though, that was stupid.

Anthony's fists moved to protect his chest. Dean slipped in a quick combo to his features. Once with a crossing right, followed by a left to the stomach. He could hear a huff of air leave Anthony's mouth upon impact. The pain itself didn't seem to have too much of an effect on him, but the force of the blows certainly did.

By the time he'd gathered himself, Dean was winding up another punch. Anthony ducked underneath Dean's arm as it came firing at him. He responded appropriately, sending a fist quickly into Dean's abdomen. He wheezed out with the air being drawn from him. Dean stepped back quickly, but he didn't quit.

Dean took a quick step back forward while slightly lowering his upper half, one of his hands raised up to sock Anthony, or at least hold him back. He could feel his knuckles meet some part of the others face, but he couldn't see it too well. Dean raised his other fist up too, an uppercut.

Anthony cringed away, avoiding the strike that could've put an end to the fight right where it was. Dean found himself in a vulnerable position with his last hit not connecting. Anthony punched down, and Dean shouted in (mostly) surprise as he felt his eye catch the brunt of Anthony's attack. Most people he fought really weren't that good at punching the way Anthony could.

It excited him, in a way. But he could still find the weak spots. Maybe over enough time he could help Anthony buff them out, try to raise him up to Dean's level in combat. Dean took a few steps back to get out of Anthony's range.

The taller of the two made an attempt at approaching, yet halted as Dean's right leg shot up and snapped the lower half of it at him. It wasn't meant to hit. No. Only meant to delay, to give himself a second or two of breathing room. Once it was lowered back to the ground, Anthony moved.

He attempted to stick to what he knew best, which was striking. Dean knew that he'd have a much more difficult time keeping the fight there in his favor. When Anthony was close enough, Dean reached and grabbed onto the collar of his jacket. He ducked his head and raised his shoulders, defending himself from the incoming strikes. Anthony only had time to get a few out, before Dean's foot had wrapped around one of his ankles and completely swept his leg with one swift kick to the side.

Anthony brought Dean down with him. The two hit the ground in unison with groans. Dean clambered to get on top of Anthony, trying to ignore the quick shots he was letting out in an attempt to stop whatever Dean was trying. Dean responded with a hard knee being slammed into Anthony's side.

He let out a hiss from the sudden pressure on his body. Dean flipped Anthony onto his side, laying down behind him and wrapping one arm around his neck. His legs snaked around Anthony's body and held his free arm down. Anthony had strength, which made it notably more difficult to hold him down as he started the choke.

Dean's other arm helped lock in his choking one. His hand was clutching onto his forearm and pressing into Anthony's throat. He really didn't like doing something like that to the guy, but it was for sparring. He had a chance to get out as well.

He could sense the hesitance in Anthony as oxygen became more of a delicacy. He knew his limits though, what he could and couldn't break out of. Before Dean even knew what happened, he could feel the quickly delivered signals of submission hit his limbs.

Almost automatically, he snapped his arms away from Anthony's neck. He could hear him gasp out for a moment while Dean pulled the rest of his body parts off of him. "You put up a decent fight." Dean couldn't help but admit. He stood up with a low hum, before looking down at Anthony. "Here."

He held out a hand to Anthony, who shifted to lay on his back. "Where'd you learn to do that?" He asked, reaching out and holding onto Dean's wrist. With a huff, Dean leaned back and helped bring Anthony back to his feet. "Nowhere, really. Just kinda second nature." Dean shrugged. "...let's take five. Run this back."

Anthony merely nodded, walking away from the small ring they had found themselves in. Dean followed.

[deans-writing]

Pick Up

Characters: (Roblox) Dean King, Kitberry, Adam, Anthony

Warnings: None

Notes: None

"They're at Royale High." Kitberry had told Dean. His eyes narrowed with very apparent confusion, she didn't bother looking over to reply. "Game where you dress pretty and shit." She explained quickly. Kitberry brought her hands a little ahead of her chest before gripping onto the air, Dean stared intensely at what she was doing.

He'd seen it a thousand times over. It was still terrifying, but incredibly interesting. Her fingers curled and pierced into what seemed like reality itself, before she ripped her hands apart to the sides. Time and space split from her power alone. "Shit." Dean chuckled. "You think you could do that with someone's chest? Like, just tear open?"

Kitberry shrugged in response as she stepped through the portal. Dean followed closely behind.

Jesus, it was bright. Dean raised a hand instinctively to cover his burning eyes from the light he found himself staring dead into. He looked down a bit, realizing they were staring right out of a window. "Couldn't have moved us to not stare at the goddamned sun?" Dean asked, somewhat jokingly.

The two behind them had already started staring. Hard not to when a portal just opens up in your apartment. Adam had instinctively ducked away behind Anthony, who had his arm put out in front of the other. Their tension had lowered when they realized it was just Dean and Kitberry, yet Anthony still stood a bit on edge.

Kitberry was the first to turn around, giving Dean a quick backhand pat to his elbow to alert him. He quickly spun around too, lowering his raised up hand. "Hope you guys don't mind the intrusion." He admitted with a soft laugh. Anthony just gave a hum in return. "'S fine." He shrugged.

Dean took quick steps forward, his hand going out to his side and curling slightly. Anthony took a small step forward as his opposite arm imitated the action. Both of their hands came together, palms clasping with their fingers curling up to each other. "How you been doin', man?" Dean asked, grinning wide. He didn't bother hiding how happy he was it'd actually been returned, and that he hadn't been left hanging. It showed that Anthony at least gave half of a shit, which was better than nothing!

Anthony shrugged again. His eyes went up and down, studying Dean's body. He let out a low grunt as he pointed to the brunette's forehead, which had a point in the center that was coated in blood. Dean raised a brow along with two fingers, wiping at the spot. The blood smeared onto his digits. "Oh... Thought I got that. Sorry."

Dean was quick to wipe the crimson off on his pants. "Equestrias fuckin' violent, y'know." He laughed. "...My Little Pony?" Adam spoke up from behind Anthony. Dean nodded. "Mhm. Kit found us this weird ass tycoon-" He was cut off as Kitberry suddenly called from behind. "HAIIIIII!" Without looking back Dean gestured to her. He could visualize the :3 in her voice.

Adam gave a little wave to her. "A guy managed to slip into my place. Headbutted him." He explained with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Anyways. How've you guys been? Anything interesting? Anyone die?" He quickly asked, taking a step back to give Anthony and Adam a bit of space.

"Still trying to get home." Adam murmured. "Other than that, things have been alright." They shook it off. "...home? You can't just-" Dean went silent, feeling the stare of death go right through him like a shotgun blast. He met Anthony's gaze. Something about it screamed to stay quiet. Even though if it did get serious, Dean had a lot of confidence in his ability to get out of the scrap okay- he didn't really want to fight Anthony.

Somehow, he got the feeling that it was partially reciprocated.

Dean shook his head. "Sorry about that, man. Sure you'll find your way back sooner or later." Adam nodded in return. Anthony's stare died down, and Dean could feel the immense relief leaving him from where he stood. King didn't feel good about staying quiet. It wasn't exactly his place to do anything about it. Plus, it didn't seem like there was any need to jump in. Adam was safe, and Anthony didn't want them to go home. It's not like they were being held there by force.

They didn't look like they were in any real danger. But as someone who knew what it was like to never know if you would find your way home or not, it struck a bit of a chord. But, again, wasn't his place. He'd talk to Anthony later. Probably just to question why he didn't want Adam to go back. He could see it in that stare, he could feel it with how he guarded them as if their very soul depended on it.

It's not like Anthony was a bad guy, Dean could tell. He didn't have the markings on his very being that created a true bastard like the brawler had seen a million times over, in the mirror and in other people. His intentions- from what Dean could gather- was simply to keep Adam safe. To care for him. He respected it.

Dean did his best to snuff out the thoughts and bury it deep into his memories compartments. He shook his head before pointing a thumb back to the still open portal. "Well... To cut to the chase, we were comin' here to see if you guys wanted to join us. We were gonna head out to this duo tycoon, figured you guys might like that. We could team up, fuck anyone up who tried something." Even though he didn't need the help at all, Dean still found it fun to have friends close by in combat.

Quiet followed. Anthony didn't dare answer, only looking at Adam, as if he were a pet waiting for its order.

Adam eventually nodded. "Yeah." He decided. "Yeah, that sounds fun." He stepped forward, ahead of Anthony. "Fuckin' A." Dean turned back to Kitberry. "Get the portal open, dumbfuck. Or did you already forget where it was?" Even though it'd seem nothing short of horribly rude to others, to the two, it was a form of endearment. Kitberry saw very well what happened to those Dean was serious with his threats towards.

"Fuck you." She spat, turning to the portal and reaching through. "Eat my dick." He retaliated. Anthony stared. "...do you two always talk to each other like that?" He asked. He hadn't spent too much time around either, much less when they were together. Dean simply shrugged. "It's fine. The stupid cunt knows I love her."

Kitberry snickered as she stepped away from the portal and to the group. "I'm used to it, don't worry." She nodded to the portal, "We're good to go, by the way. You really wanna go dressed like that?" She asked, looking Dean up and down. He frowned. "Hey, fuck you. I look handsome. My mom said so."

She took a moment, debating if it was worth grabbing onto the low hanging fruit.

"Your mom left you!"

It was.

Dean threw his head back in laughter. If it were anyone else throughout the universe, he would've had their jaws down their esophagus in a matter of seconds. "Oh, fuck you." He repeated, turning and walking to the portal. "Cmon, let's get a move on. I don't wanna lose our spots for the bases."

The three watched as Dean leapt through, before it was made two by the fact Kitberry ran and jumped through after him. The two remaining shared a stare. At least they were fun enough to be around, and they had stories from their adventures that were intriguing to listen to.

Anthony took a firm hold on Adams forearm before they followed the other two, walking through the portal into the (kind of) unknown.

[deans-writing]

No Creative Name He's Just High

Characters: (Roblox) Dean King, Kitberry

Warnings: Drug use (just pot dw)

Notes: None

Kitberrys senses were assaulted the moment the portal into Dean's apartment was opened. The stench of burning cannabis swarmed her nose, combined with music blaring from the males phone. The song was at least one that seemed more relaxed than most of his playlist.

"I don't wanna let you down, cause life's so sweet when you're around!" The music continued. Kit opted to ignore the lyrics as she stepped into the living room, her portal closing behind her. She looked around for a moment before hearing a soft grumble. "Whozat?" Dean questioned from his spot on the couch. She sighed, stepping into his vision.

It only took a moment of staring at his face to see his state. "Oh, you're fuckin' ZOOTED." She said with a soft laugh, watching as Dean grinned wide upon realization that it was Kitberry, and not someone there to stab him. His eyes were red. His clothes reeked of pot. And he just looked too goddamn happy, not exactly like him to smile upon seeing her when he was sober.

Dean shook his head. He planted one palm firmly against the cushion beneath him in an attempt to push up, which only resulted in him falling back down into the softness of his furniture. "Was just thinkin' 'bout you." He admitted. "What're you doin' here?" Dean added on, his eyes widening while he attempted to take a firm hold on the shred of comprehension he still had left.

She sat down on the arm of the couch opposite of Dean's head. "I was thinking of bringing you to this game I found. All violent and shit, right up your alley." Kitberry paused, "But... I don't think you're up for fighting right now. You look too stupid." Dean whined at that response, like a puppy upset about not getting attention. "Sorry."

They both paused. "Mmmhh... What about Adam? Anthony? Any idea where they're at?" Dean murmured to slice through the quiet. The thought of getting up from his position was enough to bring a frown to his lips, he was far too high. Even Kitberry could see that. "Dunno. And I don't think you're in any place to find them either." She paused, looking him over with a snicker. "No offense, bestie."

A new song started to play. A hard hitting and swift guitar riff. Dean groaned, reaching out to his phone on the table. He didn't hit it. He wasn't even close, actually. Kitberry watched for a bit with amusement as his bandaged hand smacked around the top of the wooden table. "You got that?" She teased.

Her eyes wandered the table, eventually finding what Dean had used to get inebriated. A lengthy rolled up joint. The end still burned, leaving the smoke to waft throughout his home.

"HNGH!" Dean barked, slamming his hand down onto his phone. Kitberry looked back to where he'd hit. He worked to power on the phone. "Buttons on the right side." She said. He grunted as his index finger curled into the power button. It seemed he was genuinely focusing with all his cognitive abilities to figure this out. Even she knew that bringing him to fight would be a shitty thing to do.

Kitberry took a hold of the joint, glancing down to meet Dean's gaze, which snapped up to her as he saw it leave the table. "Ask." He stated with a deadpan tone. The music finally stopped as he hit pause on the song. "...nah."

She pulled the joint up underneath her mask. Dean watched in confused horror as it vanished without a trace. "Wh.. did... Did you eat my fucking joint?!" He gasped out, sitting upright. "You couldn't just smoke it?" Dean paused. She only stared back at him, silent. "Whatever." He sighed. "As long as it gets you high."

Dean grabbed onto his phone while Kitberry nodded. "Probably. Maybe. Hopefully." She shrugged as another song began to play, She's Homeless. Kitberry recognized it due to the fact he consistently played it in their downtime between worlds. The volume was lowered. Dean laid back down, resting his hands on his stomach. "Remotes on the table if you wanna put some stupid shit on."

Kitberry hummed in response, reaching for the remote to Kings Roku. She could already feel the drug taking effect on her. Dean had upped the strength of the shit he was getting, she could tell. If anything, she was happy about that. Made everything a better time she found.

YouTube found itself quickly being pulled up on the television, and Dean laid back down while Kitberry got a proper seat on the couch. It felt better than the arm. Dean at least preferred this for a night, rather than going out and getting his shit kicked in because he was high.

[deans-writing]

Car Battery! (AGAIN?!)

Characters: (Roblox) Dean King, Kitberry, Adam, Anthony

Warnings: None

Notes: i hate this FUCKING GAME/SILLY

The crowd clapped as the show host moved across the stage, his smug grin plastered on his face. Dean glared as he approached with his fists clenched just out of sight. It took every bit of self control he had not to grab at the sentient banana now. To rip it apart, sinking his teeth into the fruits skin to yank like a dog with a new toy.

Kitberry had managed to convince him just earlier that before Dean went through with his plan, they should at least play another game. Two other contestants had joined them upon the stage, although he'd barely taken the time to really get a good look at them. They seemed connected at the hip. Although Dean had noticed the stare the shorter of the two gave to the host, strange.

"Say... Do I know you from somewhere?"

Dean didn't hide the low growl that crept out from his throat. His body leaned forward, he could feel a burning sensation pumping through his veins up into his mind. The stare he received back was one that didn't seem to mind Dean's own, no matter how piercing it was. "Well, doesn't matter."

With a dismissive wave, it held the microphone closer to its mouth and spoke. "You're here now. Pick a category!" Its smile grew wider while its arm extended to the screen just behind it. Dean forced his eyes away. He already had to hold back the violent bile building in his shaky fists.

He inspected his options closely, none of them appealing. Artistic Integrity, I Don't Like That, and Math Zone. Dean groaned. The only one he had even a bit of confidence in was math, and he knew better than anyone else that he was downright atrocious at it. He'd never paid attention in high school, much less in math.

"Math Zone." King grumbled, using a curled index finger to gesture to the category. The banana gave a nod, before stepping back. The announcer's voice boomed as he spoke. Dean still wondered just where he was.

As he spoke, rambling on before he gave the actual question, Dean glanced over to the other contestants he'd only given a brief glance over before. His eyes narrowed while he studied them. Neither looked like they belonged next to each other, their aesthetics clashing as if in a fight for their life. Similar to himself and Kit.

He read the names on their respective podiums. Adam. Dean couldn't describe their fashion style, only able to think; fuck, aren't you cold? He brushed the thought off, his attention quickly moving to the other, who leaned in close to Adams ear. Very obviously, he was whispering answers. Dean quickly glanced at Kitberry. If only his own duo was smart enough to be that helpful. He looked back.

Anthony. King shuddered upon reading it, the familiarity of it bringing back memories of training and too dark conversations. He looked Anthony up and down. He dressed with simplicity, one that Dean actually found quite nice. He of all people knew that a basic, plain-jane fashion sense could absolutely be rocked. The guy seemed to do alright with it, he figured.

"Psst..." Kitberry hissed, drawing Dean's attention back. "What's the answer?"

Son of a bitch. He hadn't been paying attention. His head snapped up, taking in both the fact that he was on a timer- and that he had four possible answers- with the information presenting itself on the screen. The question itself was simple, if he were a smarter man, at least. After getting his head knocked around for over a decade, he certainly wasn't.

What kind of triangle has one angle that measures precisely 90 degrees? He felt his blood boil with the realization he had no fucking clue, and that he didn't have time to try and dig around in his brain for an answer. Kitberry was just as lost as him, evident by the fact she seemed to just stare off into the distance.

"Dunno, guess." Dean murmured back. Almost instantly, he heard the button for Kits answer buzz. A very act first, think later kind of person. He couldn't believe he'd be following that example.

Obtuse Angle. He slammed down on the button that correlated with his answer with the side of his fist, and his head snapped back up. The host took a step back in front of him, holding the microphone up to the podium. A moment or two went by, and the announcers voice came back.

"I give up." He almost sighed, and Dean set his head in his hands. Just as he could hear the buzzer at his podium go off, signifying his dumbassery to everyone else. And as if salt in the wound, he could hear the other podiums ring out with a soft ding.

There was silence for nothing more than a few seconds. Dean felt as though he was being silently humiliated by both the host and the announcer, he would prefer that kind of pain over a- "Car battery!"

The announcer spoke all too cheerily. Dean's heart sank, and he didn't even have the time to look up before a familiar pain roared through his nerves once more. Like an old wound reopened through surgery, in this case, it felt closer to a dirty needle doing the cutting. He'd been lucky enough to not have it crack his skull open this time. A win, no matter how small.

Dean's back had taken the strike this time, and he wailed out while slumping against the podium. His hands clutched the top in a struggle to keep himself standing on now weak legs. He could hear a soft "ssss" from one of the other contestants, the vision of ones shoulders rising with a wince in response to his agony becoming clear in his foggy mind.

"Again?" Kitberry couldn't help but laugh at it. She was lucky he liked her, otherwise he would've gone for her throat. Dean felt the cold- but still searing hot- urge to strike. Once more, he pulled himself upright. Adrenaline helped with ignoring the fact he could practically feel a part of his spine get shattered upon impact. The corners of his vision revealed that the first stranger he'd looked at, Adam, had leaned over a little bit. Their expression read one of internal debating, for what? He shut the thought down.

Directly in his sightlines was the host. It's smile, wide as ever. It almost looked proud. That could've also been him twisting the situation a bit to make it look worse, although he truly didn't care if that was actually the case. "You... FUCKING-" He raised one foot up, using it to boost himself up to the top of the podium.

Kitberrys ecstatic tone cut through the rage in his mind while she cheered. "Get his ass, girlie!" She called. Her smile was clear despite the mask.

Dean launched himself forward. Lunging towards the host, his arms spread out wide. There was a loud shout from behind him, "WHAT THE FUCK?!" He cared little to find out just who was yelling. The hosts eyes widened as Dean's figure drew closer from above.

His full weight came closer to smashing down onto it, with Dean swiftly putting his fist against its features. He sat up on his knees, staring down at the banana beneath him. His ears rang out with laughs and exclamations of approval from Kitberry, and cries for him to not do it. The voice that yelled the latter was the same as the one who'd yelled before. The crowd had also begun to shout, some excited to see an attack like this, others surprised, some terrified at the oncoming assault.

Dean screamed out as he slammed against the banana, trying to wrangle himself together to direct a flurry of blows at the fruit. The officer just close by, a donut, started to sprint towards the stage. He had to pull it apart, it was his job. But with how hard Dean was holding the face (if it could be called that) of the host, it was clear it would prove a challenge to stop whatever was going to go down.

Then, the cameras cut, leaving countless amounts of screens black.

All viewers outside of the studio itself were left in the dark to what was going to happen to their favorite gameshow host.

[deans-writing]

I don't have a good name for this

Characters: (GG&C) Dean King, Frankie

Warnings: Violence, injury

Notes: fuck Frankie all my homies hate Frankie

Thugtown had turned into nothing more than a ruined city, the gas dropped by the military having made every area below nothing short of lethal. The fumes alone singed Dean's nostrils, forcing his eyes to water. Not enough to kill him though, just like every other goddamn thing in there. From zombies, to goons, to giant goddamn rats that spit acid, everything got mowed down.

Just like the damn blimp, if it could even be considered that anymore. Blimps normally didn't have fully automatic machine guns attached to them, they also didn't usually have a fucking weasel swinging it around the top of the only rooftop that hadn't been ravaged by the chemical gas below. Frankie's time in the army had unfortunately come into play, the only thing that had stopped Dean from murdering him when he still had himself on the roof. It made Dean think as he dove from cover to cover, avoiding the hail of gunfire being rained down on him from Frankie's backup plan.

If it hadn't been for the bastards mistake, Dean wasn't sure he would've actually gotten the upper hand.

Frankie had gotten cocky (he assumed, at least), reaching away from his mounted machine gun, to grab onto a rocket launcher. He was either stupid to arm himself like that, or insane. Dean figured both. He was busy trying to set it up on his shoulder to fire down on the roof, leaving himself vulnerable, unable to move away in time. Just a single stray would send him back. He didn't need to be accurate, just aim in the general direction.

Keeping that thought fresh in his head, he aimed his Thompson up. Frankie wasn't even looking, the dumb prick. That allowed Dean to begin spraying, he kept the gun held down in the area that Frankie's body was in, and although most bullets just hit the blimp- it was the few strays that got him. First, it whizzed right past his head. Then, it clipped him. Right in the shoulder, enough to make him lose his grip. The rocket fell forward as he fell back, and like a delivery from God, it landed damn near right in front of Dean.

The blimp couldn't go down, he needed it to get out. That machine gun though, that could go. He would've loved to stop and think about the logistics. Like how the armor Frankie had put on the blimp may have ripped off and ruined his chance of escape from the splash radius alone, or how the gun's weight being blown to hell would shift the weight of everything- but he couldn't. It had to go down, or he didn't have a chance in hell at getting out with his life.

Dean shot out of cover, dropping his Thompson to grab onto the launcher, his hands grasping at it as he moved them to hold it semi-properly. If he were less desperate, maybe he would've been worried that the fall it had taken would result in a misfire when he attempted to use it. So many things that could go wrong, but he was forced to take each chance. If he didn't, he was going to die. And he refused to die in that shithole.

Rolling onto his back, he took a moment. Frankie was still getting back up after taking his own tumble, and he hadn't even yet noticed that he'd lost his second biggest advantage. He had to aim, if he shot dead at the blimp, it was going down, and he'd be stuck. A moving target, at an angle, while not even holding it over his shoulder. He'd have to be the luckiest son of a bitch alive to nail it from there.

Do or die.

He slammed down on the trigger, and watched with bated breath as the rocket propelled from the tube of a weapon, moving towards the blimps gun. It felt as if everything was going slower, his entire life came down to that single shot. He could just barely see Frankie in the blimp still, eyes widening as realization dawned on him as to what was really happening.

Impact was inevitable, Dean watched with nothing short of absolute relief as the rocket crashed into the gun, almost instantly exploding. The armor on the blimp shook, before coming off with the sheer force of the explosion. Frankie was also hit by it, still being close, the blast radius sent him flying back and slamming against the innards of the blimp. Nothing was stopping Dean from boarding now.

They both knew that, and both reacted appropriately. Frankie began to get up and reach the controls, trying to get the blimp away fast enough, before Dean could make a move. Although he could barely move, courtesy of being so close to the explosion just moments before. Unfortunately for him, Dean had already rushed to his feet. The launcher found it's place at the ground once more, being chucked off to the side as Dean sprinted at full speed to the ledge, before pushing himself off of it to leap forward.

He latched onto the bottom of the entrance, his knuckles turning ghastly white as he gripped with every bit of force he had. Dean's arms strained as he pulled up, folding over onto the inside of the blimp with his upper half as he dragged the rest of himself in behind, before sitting up on his knees to stare. Frankie was sitting on his ass, far away from any gun to defend himself. Like he had every other time Dean got close, he tried to talk.

"I was.. I was kiddin', y'know?" Frankie pushed on a fake smile, lying through his teeth. Dean sneered, getting up to his feet. "I ain't laughing." He snarled, taking quick and furious stomps towards the other male. "You fottuto maniaco. You killed the entire city, Bellucio, tried to kill ME- and guess what?"

Dean got down on one knee just in front of Frankie, leaning in close. "You lost."

He grabbed Frankie by the side of the head with one hand, before slamming him down into the floor. Dean cocked his other arm back, before punching down into his skull. His already bruised and battered knuckles cracked against his cranium, but the sounds of Frankie's cries gave him the proper motivation to keep pounding.

It was therapeutic, a single target to unleash a night full of frustrations out on. He almost forgot about the screaming pain in every part of his body, the strained and worn out feeling that rumbled throughout every last muscle. He'd been pushed to his very limits, and made to go past them. At least he knew he could survive some crazy shit now.

However long it had been, 15 seconds, or 15 minutes, Dean didn't care. Time became nothing more than a figment of his imagination, but reality was still very much there. The gas was rising, and he needed to go. But there was one last thing he could do.

"Cmon." Dean grunted, finally ceasing his assault as the grip on Frankie's hair tightened. He stood up, pulling the other along with him back to the entrance. He shoved him back to the floor as he let go, replacing his hand with his shoe to his back. It was as if Frankie could read his mind, immediately beginning to sputter out. "You can't... You can't kill me! You need me!"

Dean glanced over to the controls, just a stick he could steer. Hopefully it wasn't anymore complicated than that. "I can figure it out... Cmon, Frankie." He paused, pressing forward with his shoe ever so slightly. "You like to fly, dontcha?"

There was a shout from Frankie as Dean gave the final push forward, kicking him straight out of the blimp, directly into the gassed and destroyed Thugtown below. If he wasn't dead from the gas alone, the landing was going to make him nothing more than a stain on the ground below.

It was over. Through blood, sweat, and a lot more blood, he'd managed to pull through. He looked down at himself, at his torn up suit. His sleeves were ripped apart, his vest had been cut open, flashes of his white dress shirt beaming through. At least, in the spots where it wasn't soaked in blood and guts.

He just had to fly a blimp to finish off the night. Out of everything, that would be the easiest thing to do.

[deans-writing]

Mourning

Characters: (Saints Row 1) Aaron Trouble, Troy Bradshaw, William Sharp

Warnings: None

Notes: Lin should've come back for sr4 fuck you

It'd only been a few weeks since Sharp had set the perfect trap. Leaving Lin tied up, and luring Aaron in to save her. That ended with a cracked open head, and a bullet in his stomach. And worst of all, a dead friend. One he'd barely had time to sit and grieve for, instead, he had to use her death as motivation to push through the searing agony in his gut and skull.

Sharp's car went down easy enough, getting slammed into by a truck twice its size was enough to render it unusable. That's when Aaron got out, finally letting the pressure go off of his stomach while he ripped Sharp out from his wreck of a vehicle. Only to strangle him, right there.

He had tried to fight back, punching and clawing desperately through his dazed state. It only pissed the Saint off more. His grip tightening, fingers leaving purple bruises in his neck while he could hear the life being torn away from his body. It was nothing short of pathetic.

Only when the last bit of Sharp's soul left his husk did Aaron let go. Without a target, without something else clogging his mind like hair in a drain, he realized just how desperately he himself needed help. Even though he didn't feel like he'd earned it, Aaron's primal instincts took over, forcing him to get to a hospital.

Now, there he sat. In the church, alone. Other Saints had glanced at him when he finally walked the streets again, he could hear the murmuring, only for their conversations to kick back up once he was out of sight. The few who'd gotten close enough to say anything were met with the teenagers empty stare.

No one bothered him inside, the only one who'd even spoken to him was Julius. Aaron barely listened, only hearing something about Gat wanting blood for what'd happened. As eager as Aaron was to get up and join him on a warpath, he was forced to stay. Both by Johnny himself, and the still healing gutshot wound. The doctors had been desperate to get him to stay, but it was either his aura that made them stop arguing, or the knife in his hand.

The silence the religious structure brought was both comforting, yet deeply unsettling. It sent shivers down his spine with each shake in the air from a breeze outside. There was always a Saint running their mouth, or someone cleaning their weapons, or just someone smoking and drinking. People were avoiding him like the plague, which was the smart move.

Troy Bradshaw wasn't the brightest though.

His steps into the church brought the teenager back into reality, each thud echoing gently throughout the building. By the time he rounded the corner of the entrance, Aaron's head was already turned back to watch him. Troy gave a small wave, his hand not passing above his chest while he did. "Hey, kid." He murmured.

Aaron didn't respond, and Troy understood why no one wanted to go near him. Someone had to though, lord only knew just what was going through his damn head. With that in mind, he chose his next words carefully, all the while moving closer and sitting next to the gangbanger at one of the remaining pews. "You, er, you doin' okay?"

Stupid question, he immediately figured. After a few moments of silence, he continued. "At least- I don't know, relatively? The others, they're worried about you, y'know." For a second, he thought about putting a hand on the others shoulder. Although he feared he'd lose his hand in the process faster than he could actually get a word in.

"...Lin wasn't your fault." To the point, blunt. There was no real way to shuffle around the subject with this, it seemed to be easier to just cut straight to the chase, rather than keep up some cliche small talk that wouldn't actually help at all. "Everyone knows you did what you could. Nothing you coulda changed-"

"I shouldn't have made it out." Aaron cut him off.

Troy felt his blood run cold at that statement. Two things to unpack: One, the obvious. The kid thought he should've died? Two, he could fucking talk? It seemed inappropriate to begin questioning him about the latter, so he bit his tongue as Aaron continued to speak.

"Lin didn't deserve to die. She should've made it out of there, it... It should've been me." Aaron almost felt out of breath at that, finally letting out what had been stuck in his head for weeks. Troy was the only person who'd gotten close enough, and seemingly cared enough, to make Aaron's lips loose. And once it began spilling out, he couldn't seem to plug it back up. So, he continued.

He slumped over a little while he spoke, his head turning to stare down. "I thought she was gonna be right behind me when I got that trunk open, but when I got up- she just wasn't there. She wasn't fucking there, man!" He could feel his emotions ramping up in intensity, forcing tears to prick the seams of his eyes. "I could've saved her. I was just worryin' about myself- she shouldn't have died, Troy. It should've been me, you get that? Not her. ME."

Troy had heard all too much about survivors guilt, and this was a textbook example. It was somewhat horrifying to hear from someone clearly so young. Everything about Aaron told Troy that he was just a kid. How he carried himself, his expressions alone, Jesus, he didn't look like an adult. But it seemed to be too late to simply get him out now, so all he could do was help him out. Make sure he didn't die.

"...I can't say shit that's gonna make you magically feel better." Troy sighed, "But, I can tell you this much. I don't think Lin would want you to kick your own ass for this. You made it out, and you killed that fuckin' guy. From where I'm standin', you did pretty alright for her." He added, finally reaching a hand out and placing it on Aaron's back. He froze up for a split second, expecting a shot to the face, or a broken arm- but nothing came.

He just shook. Trembling in place as his hands reached up, cradling his head while silent cries finally began to escape. Troy didn't want to risk anything by pushing too hard with comfort, so he sat still, his hand remaining on the Saints back. A way to tell him he wasn't alone, at the very least. Troy knew he wasn't much better at comforting people with his words, so this seemed to be the best way. And that's just how he kept it. If Aaron needed someone to sit there with him, let him know that it truly wasn't his fault? Then Troy would do it.

No one else around the damn place seemed to be capable of it.