#Deep In Those Woods

[credince--writes]

Deep In Those Woods- Chapter 9

Keegan P. Russ x Fem!Reader

Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5 - Chapter 6- Chapter 7- Chapter 8 - Chapter 9

AO3

You find a strange man in the woods, no doubt running from the federation. He seems, well, in simple terms beat to shit. May your act of kindness not go unpunished.

A/N: lil treat for everyone since it's been so long since i posted this fic

Taglist:

@dindjarinsmeshla @tessxq @ladyvlolypop @tiny-kasper

@biggiecheeselover @konigsleftkidney @mykneeshurt @katsufairies @noname0756 @brain-has-left @vinithechocolatevampire

All it had taken was the muzzle of a handgun stuffed into the poor fed’ saps mouth- gagging on the metal pushed to the back of his throat (before he pulled the trigger)- for Keegan to acquire the necessary materials (a donor radio) to repair his radio (Merrick was pissed).

Not only did he get a reaming that had to of ranked at least in the top four of his current reaming tally- he’d counted a least twenty-five times Merrick had broken some kind of communication guideline. But at the same time- who was going to complain? They were doing the dirty work- Merrick could cuss Russ out over the radio until the batteries died and he doubted any brass would give a shit as long as the papers came across their desk marked as a success. 

He’d conveyed over to the Ghosts that regardless of his time spent there no, he was not injured (a blatant lie)- ‘just about as banged up as usual, sir.’, the objective hadn’t been reached yet (it had gotten more complicated, and it didn’t help he’d been down for… he really didn’t know how long. Asking would give it away.), and there was a surprising amount of federation presence in this valley (which signaled exactly what they were worried about). 

What he wasn’t prepared for, however, was Merrick calling his bluff. He’s used to getting away with it- 

“You’ve been on a path of self-destruction since he died, Russ.” “I don’t need your fuckin’ pity, Merrick.”

“I need to know you aren’t a liability in the field.”

“When have I ever been? Just give me the file.”

Merrick paused, that twitch of the vein in his neck he’d always had when anyone managed to raise his blood pressure ten points. “Don’t make me regret this Russ.”

He didn’t linger on the fact that this was probably exactly what he was worried about regretting. That much so that when he’d watched Kick no so subtly kick Hesh and Logan out of the back of his bush plane and into the landing zone he’d nearly contemplated slinking back into the woods and just not coming out. But that damned dog would find him- he was sure of it.

He didn’t though.

Logans arms wrapped around him, pulling him forward and into a tight hug. “I’m so pissed at you right now-”

Keegan's ribs groaned in response, the air leaving his lungs in a wheeze and letting out a strained, quiet “Ow.”

His arms immediately retracted, scanning him up and down for visible wounds. Hesh lingering in the back, scanning the treeline with Riley at his side. He quirks a brow, glancing over at him. “You good?”

“Nothing a few hundred hours of sleep won't fix. You both didn’t need to come out-” And babysit me, you fucking pricks went unsaid. He turned, marching his way back on track- he's fulfilled the list of items that needed to be carried out before returning to you.

Soft hands, kind eyes.

Soup.

His stomach grumbled, much to his dismay.

“Where’rya headed? Towns the other way.” Logan piped up after twenty minutes of navigating the forest in silence. 

“Not headed to town. Headed up the valley.” His reply was blunt- and had he been in any sort of a better mood he’d had filtered his words to come out less like a baseball bat to the teeth.

“I think what we’re getting at is where.” Hesh bluntly replied- matching Keegans tone. Glancing back behind him to make silent conversation via eye contact with Logan.

It was going to be one of those hikes, wasn’t it.

Sure a shit hope not.

“Base of operations. Unless you want to be sleepin’ in the woods for the next month. Shut your trap and get a move on.” Keegan had been reasonably bitchy, withdrawn into himself. It really hadn’t been that long since they’d buried Ajax. There was a far away look in his eyes more times than not, a certain glaze that hadn’t gone away. Either outright ignoring Logan most days, locking himself in his room.

Merrick had grabbed Logans shoulder, pulling him back from knocking on Keegans door not to long before he’d been sent off to these woods. 

“It’s not the right time.” He’d offered.

Give him time to mourn, in his own way.

He’d wanted to bite back- like we were given time to mourn? Like we were able to shut ourselves out?

He didn’t.

“How far?” Hesh asked.

“Keeping low? Two day hike.”

One and a half days, then. 

---

A lot of people don’t realize just how quiet the forest is at night. The lack of sound out in the sticks- when the birds have gone to sleep, when the bugs and frogs aren’t nearby. The occasional hum of a mosquito just to add a whining hum into the silence.

“Be a doll and check these for me, would you?” Keegan mused to no one in particular- pulling his vest off and pulling his shirt up and over his shoulders and into his lap. “Infection check.”

At least a bit of his baseline humor returning- “Anything for you, honey.” Logan joked back. Crossing the two steps over to him and kneeling down. Both he and Hesh shared a glance at the remnants of black and purple bruises splayed out across his ribs, back onto his shoulder. “What happened?” Tentatively pulling the bandage back to see a deep, angry gash next to his shoulder blade. “And who patched you up- you can’t reach back here, let alone patch yourself up.”

Hesh knew the bruises looked worse than they were- or at least hoped. Neither were strangers just to how much of a pain rib injuries could be- let alone lingering ones not treated properly.

“I had brunch with the locals. And the bandage fairy, kid, who else?”

“Seriously-” Hesh but into the conversation- frustration rising up in his throat. 

“A Civ. Pulled me out of a ditch and licked my wounds.” He grumbled, as if the admission of it was like waving a white flag in failure- admitting that he did need help.

“I’m doing the op alone. I don’t need backup.” He tossed the folder back onto the briefing table. “That’s final.”

“Must’ve been pretty bad to down you.” Logan offered, trying to lighten the tension of the conversation.

Keegan's silence was answer enough. A silent admission- neither would press him on it. They both knew better. It was better to let it lie, for the time being. 

----

One thing they can’t turn off as soldiers, especially after time spent in no mans land-  is the light sleep. It’d saved their asses many times before, he’d agree. Fully alert, glancing to see Logan & Hesh, eyes open and on the same page as him.

Gunshots-

One thing you can’t hide, with the silence of the forest, it the piercing sound of gunshots. Even far away-

Rifle, most definitely. Multiple shots- rapid succession in a varying frequency. Not someone holding down the trigger of a full auto rifle. Multiple separate hands pulling triggers. 

“Seven.” Logan spoke, hushed down and slipped into the role of soldier.

There are probably a number of times Keegan would be able to count on his hand that he’d truly felt dread. Fear creep into his hindbrain and claw at the back of his throat as his time as a Ghost.

“We need to move now.” Keegan all but croaked out, tone evening at the end and assuming the role of Sergeant, and nothing else. All three were up and moving in step, silence. No fire to put out- the light and smoke are too risky in their situation. 

They both heard fear in his tone as they quickly, guns drawn, ran toward the sound of the gunshots. 

Keegan wasn’t going to barge in, middle of the night under the cover of darkness to startle you out of your skin. His grandma taught him better manners than that- better to show up in the morning when he knew you’d be making breakfast and grovel then. 

He knew he left on bad terms, but he was sloppy, he realized. The last time he was running in this direction it was away from a group of Federation scouts.

Was this to blame on him? Did he lure them to your home?

Your sanctuary?

Why had they waited so long, had they been stalking in the periphery the entire time he laid there? Were they expecting to find him within your doors- not you, oh God, he stares up to the sky for a moment, eyes narrowing on the bright sliver of moon in the sky.

You’d be in bed- and men would be there.

He shut his spiraling thoughts down, locked them deep within himself in that little box he’d refuse to open. Not now- maybe never.

He’d never forgive himself.

The sound of his breath, the occasional scrape of Riley’s nails against bare roots. The synched footwork of the three men breezing over the landscape and into the clearing he knew. Just above the incline would be your home nestled between the trees. Hidden from eyes for so long.

He saw the flashlight attached to a rifle, along with a corpse casting a bright streak of light into the field. Gunshot wounds would always be one of his least favorite things- the obliteration of flesh with buckshot no matter how often he saw it would always make something curdle in his gut. 

Even if there was satisfaction of knowing that it was likely you were the one that pulled the trigger.

Good Girl.

He was broken out into a sprint, passing the corpse without a glance and running into the house through the doorway. Feed crunching broken glass beneath him- the thick, tangy smell of blood hitting his senses- rifle raised.

The house had been ransacked, broken glass and furniture tossed.

He knew Logan had assumed a shadowing position behind him, Hesh not far behind and ensuring no one snuck up on them from behind. Riley an alert presence watching his back.

He peeks from over the beam, a direct line of sight- line of shot to where the blood splatter and corpses piled to your bedroom. Navigating the living area with ease- practiced and knowing that a pile of magazines and books layed around that corner. 

He payed no mind to the sound of paper rustling when Logan's foot caught it.

“Kitchens clear.” Logan muttered, moving back in step. 

He clears the hallway, knowing not much is laid ahead and signaling Logan ahead as he stops over the bodies and into your room. The gore splattered from what he assumed to be a well placed twelve-gauge shot coated the right side of your wall, covering cabinet to ceiling. 

The beds sheets hastily pulled back. Drops of blood misted against the comforter and pillow. The bedside table drawer thrown open, something pulled out from under the bed. You’d tried to run.

“House is clear!” Logan called, footsteps nearing his own from the hallway. 

Hesh staged himself in the doorway, a knowing glance to the shattered glass against the wooden flooring. He wouldn’t step in with Riley- there was no need for unnecessary injury. Not with a cleared house and nothing but corpses amongst them.

Keegan was frozen, bile raised in the back of his throat as he stared at the bloodied cotton torn between the two men's hands. Logan's eyes lingered too, a grim, knowing expression washing over his features. 

The angle of the shot, he followed through the house, implied you’d gotten to the front door. Implied you’d been able to kill three of them before you disappeared. Whether that of successfully escaping, running into the woods to hide or captured- he tried not to even will that option into existence. 

That you’d peaked out from behind the beam, killed the men huddled in your doorway, and ran to escape.

He needed to find you.

Now.

He was moving- brain on autopilot and a vile monster curling over his skin. The cold, calculated and methodical practice of a Ghost meshed with the anguish and rage bubbling up inside him. He’d pulled a shirt from the ground of your bedroom, no blood splattered against the cotton.

He remembered it, you wore it the first day he was cognizant enough to remember you spoon feeding him soup.

“Riley!” Keegan bit out, completely detached. Logan flinched at the bite in his words, the emotion, devoid and removed from the obviously distressed man in front of him. Arm outstretched, passing the shirt to Hesh before marching towards the body laying in the grass to investigate.

“Seek.”

[will-ruadh]

Assad Zaman as Luka in "Dark Woods, Deep Snow: a Grimm Tale for Christmas" (2013)

[panthermouthh]

Just realised my bright morning drives to work are going to fade away in to darkness and cold again. Day ruined

[batwynn]

Remembering that time when I was five and didn’t even know filters existed—never mind knowing how to stop talking—and I was out with my grandmother (divorced from my grandfather) having a lovely day in a lovely little Maine town in the 90s.

The thing about Maine in the 90s was certain things like smoking weed was illegal across the country and generally frowned upon, but Mainers simply Did Not Care and more than happily grew and smoked pot anyway. The other thing about Maine is most of those Lovely Little Towns are constantly full of out of state tourists coming to buy kitch and eat lobster. These tourists tended to be from states that generally did not have the same attitude about pot as Mainers did. It was still considered a Very Bad Thing To Do.

So when my five year old self saw an older gentleman smoking a classic tobacco pipe amongst a crowd of tourists I remarked, on the top of my lungs, that my grandfather had a pipe too! Not that kind of pipe, though!

There was literally a beat of shocked silence before my grandmother laughed a little too loudly and said something about it being a different color or some nonsense. Of course no one, like, ratted out my five-year-old self and my grandfather out to the police for that. But there were definitely some shocked button-upped folks in that lovely little town that day.

Anyway, that was the one and only time I was a snitch.

[moonfoxgazer]

Here it's safe, here it's warm, here the ghosts guard you from every harm, so rest your weary head and close your sleepy eyes and when again it's morning you won't be alone, never again.

Another little doodle based off some sketches I did at work recently. This one was the one I liked the most and really just wanted to line and color digitally. No doubt these two would take cat naps together in Ambi's lair. Aether belongs to @ectospacecadet who I am sure is going to get sick of my constant tagging but they deserve credit for their awesome cat boy, please follow them!!! It's well worth it.

[purgemarchlockdown]

Hm...

[corpsentry]

black eyes

[cannellaeluce]

“Lavinia,” Ursula K. Le Guin

[cs-cabin-and-crew]

Guys… I’m in trouble.

McCosh is launching another campaign for a special edition of all the woods she watches over.

I already own the book… but my sister doesn’t. Which means I can just get a new copy and give her my old one…

Pray for me 😔

[credince--writes]

Deep In Those Woods- Chapter 8

Keegan P. Russ x Fem!Reader

Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5 - Chapter 6- Chapter 7- Chapter 8

AO3

You find a strange man in the woods, no doubt running from the federation. He seems, well, in simple terms beat to shit. May your act of kindness not go unpunished.

A/N: holy fuck i'm back?

Taglist:

@dindjarinsmeshla @tessxq @ladyvlolypop @tiny-kasper

@biggiecheeselover @konigsleftkidney @mykneeshurt @katsufairies @noname0756 @brain-has-left @vinithechocolatevampire

It was the sound of men that woke You. Dazed somewhere in between the land of sleep and consciousness- the lead heavy feeling of dread settled in her gut as you opened your eyes. The hairs of the back of your neck- arms- raised straight and tall.

The sound of men.

A million horrible thoughts flashed through your mind- none of them you’d be willing to sit down and analyze too quickly- to send yourself down that spiral of dread and reality. It had been nearly three weeks since that dreadful man took the mask from your hands, and simply walked out into the forest without so much as an acknowledgement or a thank you. It had been a week of anger- a week of sorrow at the loss of the little companionship you’d been able to savor in this self-inflicted, necessary, prison. 

The sounds of whooping-

Gunshots.

Seven. 

You were up, moving in the dark. Your clothes- dirty from the work in the garden yesterday piled at the foot of your bed were already being pulled on. A light sweater- overalls, socks. Your bedroom door was open, with a straight shot to see the tunneling flashlights the group of men were carrying tearing through the dark of night. There’s a handgun in your bedside drawer- a 40 cal that belonged to your father. It felt heavy and cold but tucked neatly into the strap along the waist of your overalls. The extra clips tucked into the many pockets. 

Your chest, flat against the floor as you slid forward- arm outstretched. The pounding of your heartbeat in your ears. Grabbing the large canvas bag pre-packed with essentials. Right next to it the long, cold cylindrical metal of a shotgun.

Yours.

You’d grimmance- but even though there were too many thoughts running through your mind it was silent. A horrible calm- the retracted muddy floor of the sea before a tsunami. The sound of the butt of the shotgun dragging against the wooden floors as you pulled it closer- up into your arms as if you were coddling a child hiding from the monster.

More gunshots.

Rifles. Close.

Three shots.

You slip into the kitchen at the sound of breaking glass- had they tried the door knob they’d have known that it wasn’t locked. Not here- not in her safe place. There had never been any stragglers in the years she’d spent here.

Not until he had come-

Wrapping preserved jars in fabric as quickly as you could- a satchel of fabric and dried meats, anything you could quickly grab and stuff into the bag to remain as quiet as possible without alerting them to the possibility of your presence.

They’re speaking- a language you can’t understand. Spanish, part of you offers up. The only logical language in this fucking occupation-

Footsteps, getting closer.

The cabinets in front of you illuminated, the glass reflecting back and flowing the tall figure of a man with a light on the end of his rifle.

Your heartbeat, pounding. 

Your grip tightens on the gun- finger inched towards the trigger. Dread’s cold claws digging into your skin- would you be fast enough? Could you truly fight back? Kill? What will they do with your body? 

You close your eyes, as tight as they can go- the sound of the man's footsteps on wood changes, now on tile. Now in the kitchen- behind nearly ten feet backwards and to the left.

You have no shoes- you have no plan. You are packed- ready for this, dreading the possibility but preparing for it since the day you came out here. 

You are not ready for this-

You are not ready for death, you are not ready to die- you are not ready.

Not ready-

Not ready at all-

The footsteps retract at the sound of a man calling from down the hall. Counting to ten, you peak your head out to see the backs of two men standing in the hallway daring to look into your bedroom.

The sound of drawers being opened- the sound of pillaging, rustling.

The bile rises in the back of your throat. Your eyes quickly snap to look at the pair of shoes sitting by the door. They’d both ducked into your bedroom completely, the sound of your socks against the flooring not registering. Grabbing both shoes- 

Laughing-

You crane your neck to the side, the sound of it- predatory and gleeful. Snickering and muttering little comments back and forth to each other. Peeking your head out barely from behind the line of sight of a beam you could see it. They stood in the doorway nearly chest to chest pawing over something shared between their hands- fighting over it like dogs ripping apart the corpse of an alleycat cornered in its home.

Held between two hands was a pair of your panties- being waved around like a prize.

You wanted to vomit.

Without thinking, the butt of the shotgun was shouldered against you. Feet squared. You take two steps to the right- thigh brushing up against the couch you’d spent so many hours lazing on. Staring up at the sky and dreaming of the future and better days- the flowers that came every year in the spring.

The sound of your foot scraping against the ground.

Their heads turn- stepping forward.

The sound of the shot didn’t register, only the kick against your shoulder. Suddenly the top and sides of the doorframe are much darker- a splatter against the wall.

The slump of two bodies.

The sounds of shouting.

The racking back and forth of the shotgun filling the ringing in your ears.

You're running- out the side door of the kitchen and away from the flashlights flickering across the lawn and into your home. There’s barely a sliver of moonlight in the sky, just enough light and the habitual knowledge of the land beneath you keeping you from tripping up and screaming in fear.

The flashlights flicker onto the glass in front of you- you see the hairs atop your head in your peripheral reflecting light. The blinding glare of a flashlight to the left of you catching up too quickly- not with the weight of your bag to keep up with.

He’s going to tackle you- you know this. You know that when he gets you down onto the ground you won’t be able to fight back. He’ll be too heavy- too strong.

You stop, spin as quickly as you can while raising the shotgun up- not enough time to properly shoulder it and fire. You feel nothing other than the pounding of your heartbeat and the adrenaline coursing through your veins. His body is still in motion, colliding with you and sending you tumbling to the ground.

The wet gurgling and the hot, sticky blood pouring onto you. The shotgun tossed somewhere to the side forgotten as you force down a gag- swallowing the vomit rising up in the back of your throat. You push your hands onto shoulders, only to be met with something you could only explain as hot hamburger meat.

You can feel the blood seeping out of the holes with the last pumps of his heart. Your pinky- slipping into one of the holes near his collarbone. You feel the bone- under the skin, trying to heave his dead weight off of you. Rolling, struggling, kicking your legs out and onto the ground trying to obtain better traction. Slipping your arm from the back weighing you down, you roll back and forth obtaining the smallest momentum and are able to push the corpse from your body and onto the grass beneath you. Staring up into the sky trying to spit the blood from your lips- blinded by the flashlight at the end of the rifle inches from your face.

[no-tengo-ojos]

🐁👨‍🍳

rat straight up ratatouilling it in your inbox

Oh rat from the 2007 American animated drama-comedy film ‘Ratatouille’, we’re really in for it now

[love-songs-for-emma]

i was on zillow today, fantasizing about being able to live somewhere, when i came across the listing for my childhood home. it wasn't active/being sold, but it was on there with some pics of the interior. and my GOD. THEY MADE HER UGLY. THEY TOOK HER RUSTIC PUSSY OUT. WHAT THE FUCK

[juniperhillpatient]

I took a different path in the woods than usual & forgot how deep the forest really goes

[purposefully-lost]

Also god Rabbit and Fawn but they once had some kind of divine myth attributed to them?? Something something an undying and devoted love that was plagued with tragedy. A story that in modern times is remembered as belonging to some other gods or mythos

[mushtoons]

RE: jerking and hurting yourselves with the needles: most injection needles are very thin and nurses generally are trained to pull the needle out if the patient is jerking. The worst that would happen would be a bruise or a scrape and maybe the syringe getting yeeted across the room. There's a nearly zero percent chance that anything more than that would happen, even if you jerked, and even those more than that would have effects that only last a short time.

mmm still tho! this kind of fear rational or not terrifies us 😭 🙏

[shadowthief78]

more than halfway to perfection wahoo!!!!!!