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evilfloralfoolery · 3 months ago
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Daggers and Deception - Part I
Being shot is a real pain in the ass, especially if you're coming down with a cold. And that's exactly what's happening to this perpetually surly mercenary who has been forced into seclusion while he recovers.
But he's not the only one stuck in the middle of What Kind of Fresh Country Fuck Hell Nowhere. Someone is in the apartment next to his. Someone who knows something he shouldn't . . . and is obviously allergic to air.
Neither man is what they seem to be.
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The driveway is as long as a damn subdivision block, but the house at the end of it sure as hell isn't like his place.  Tall and shaded by trees, the rambling, archaic property sits by itself with no neighbors, no sidewalks.  No nothing.
When the boss said "the middle of nowhere," he wasn't even kidding.  
Goddamn it.
"Let me carry that."
Max's gruff voice at his side.  Not an offer, really.  More like he was going to do it and there wasn't room for discussion.  Typical.
Grimm grunts.  "Yeah. Whatever."  
Not like he can't manage with his good arm.  But Max isn't having any of his shit today, or any other day, for that matter.
"You're upstairs on the right," Max says as he falls into step beside Grimm, bag in hand.  "I tried to get you space on the first floor, but they're remodeling the--"
"It's fine," Grimm interrupts.  "It ain't my leg that's broken."
Max hefts the bag over his shoulder and fishes through his pocket for a key.  "You're still going to take it easy. Behave yourself or I'll see to it that we extend your stay."  He flicks icy blue eyes to Grimm.  "I mean it, Amadis."  
Oooo, resorting to surnames. So fucking terrifying.
"Yeah, yeah."  Grimm waves his good hand in a dismissive gesture.  
Not like he has a choice.  Couldn't be out in the field with a busted shoulder, much less with his arm in a sling.  The wound had been clean enough not to fuck up anything permanently.  He hopes.  At least, that was the line the doctors had fed him.  But damn, there had been a lot of blood. Lucky as hell that the bullet hadn't ripped through both sides of his body.
If one could call that a silver fucking lining.
He follows Max up the questionable facade of a staircase, the wooden slats complaining beneath his footfalls with every step.
Definitely a death trap in the making. 
"How old is this place?"
Max glances over his shoulder.  "Old."  
Grimm rolls his eyes.  
By the time they reach the third story, sweat has begun a steady trickle down the back of Grimm's neck, the small amount of physical exertion taking an unpleasant toll.  Which is stupid.  And annoying.  Fuck, the stab wound across his chest hadn't hurt as badly as this.
Max sets the bag down in front of a door that looks like it might cave in if Grimm breathes wrong and holds up a set of keys.
"The black one is the front door.  Silver is your room.  You've got a kitchen, bathroom, bedroom, all of it.  We'll have groceries delivered to you once a week, but if you need anything, call Rex.  He'll make sure you get it."
"And if I wanna leave?"  
Max levels his stare at him.  "You won't."  
Hmn.  Grimm hooks a loose strand of his dark hair behind one ear as Max finagles the keyhole and convinces the door to open, carting his bag inside and dropping it in the middle of the living room area. 
"Fridge and cabinets are stocked.  Clean sheets on the bed.  Towels in the bathroom.  There's a curator on the property who takes care of all that, so she'll be by to check on you now and then. She's also a nurse and she'll help you with dressing that wound and repacking it.  Be nice to her."  
Grimm rakes a hand through his hair with sniffle.  "I'm nice, dammit."
"Uh huh."  
Max reaches into his pocket and produces a bottle with a white label.  "Take these."
Grimm eyes the label with a look of marked disdain.  Opioids. Not a fucking chance. "You know I'm not taking that shit."
 Max shoves the bottle at him.  "Take it anyway."  
He sets the bottle on the nearest piece of furniture and folds his good arm across his chest.  Too bad the damn sling ruins the effect.
"I'll be in touch," Max says.  "Rest, Grimm."
Like he has a choice. 
"I can't believe you're making me do this country isolation bullshit."  
Max's expression doesn't waver. "Believe it."  He pats Grimm's shoulder with one hand.  "And change your shirt.  You're about to drip sweat all over this ugly-as-hell rug."  
Mother. Fucker.
 "Smartass," Grimm says.
Max cracks a hint of smile. "Take care of that cold, too."
Grimm narrows his eyes. "What cold?"
Max doesn't respond, but takes off instead, leaving Grimm standing in the middle of his new quarters with a whole lot of silence and weird-ass furniture.  Floral couch with a high back and wooden feet.  A carved, pockmarked end table with wooden feet.  Mismatched coffee table with some kind of folded flaps on the side.  With wooden feet.  
"Somebody got a damn foot fetish around here or what?" Grimm mutters to no one in particular.  
Max is wrong about the "cold," but is right about his shirt.  A combination of a bumpy ride and a short stair climb has him sweating bullets.  He hefts the bag onto the couch and paws through it until he finds a black tank top.  A hell of a lot easier to manage than a T-shirt.  At least his target had the decency to shoot him on his non-dominant side.
He slips the sling over his head and pulls his arm out of the thing, grabs the back of his T-shirt with his good hand . . . and hisses with a wince.  
Fuck, fuck, fucking FUCK.
A deep breath.  A struggle.  The material peels its way from his damp skin with far too much effort, leaving him sweating and panting as if he's run a good ten miles without a break.  A shock of cold travels down his spine and he fights against a sudden wave of nausea that forces him to take a seat on the floral fuckery of a couch.
The bottle sits on the coffee table.  Beckoning.  Mocking. He flips it the middle finger and tosses the tank top back into the bag.  Fuck this whole shirt-wearing shit.
After securing his arm in the sling once more, he meanders into the kitchen, takes a quick inventory of the food.  
Chicken, veggies, some ground beef . . .and an entire shelf of instant ramen.  The corners of his mouth twitch into a smile.  Max knows him too well.
Not to mention, it's easy as hell to make with one arm.  A few minutes of boiling water, some frozen stir fry veg, and a little soak later, dinner is served.  Grimm sits at the table, palms a pair of chopsticks, and settles in.  
From the stairwell comes the sound of footsteps, a jingle of keys, and the protesting creak of a door.  A rustle of bags.  Footfalls on aging hardwood.  
Grimm tilts his head.  Max had mentioned the house was sectioned into apartments, but he hadn't mentioned other visitors.  Who else even knew about this place, anyway?  It's not like it was on the map. 
And man, are the walls thin as hell.
Pretty much every move his neighbor makes is audible from dropping the keys on the table to moving into the kitchen to put away whatever it is that they're carrying.  Or maybe Grimm's hearing is just too finely tuned for his own damn good.  Not like it didn't come with the job.  
It is not until his neighbor retires to the back of the apartment that Grimm stops being able to hear him walking and moving around.  The soft tinkle of piano keys wafts from the other side of the wall in place of movement, a wistful and almost sad melody.  Was it being played or just listened to?  Not like Grimm knows enough about music to tell.  Still, whatever it might be is oddly soothing and he finishes his "dinner" and drags himself to the bedroom for a rest.  Or maybe just some tossing around and growling.
At least the bed is enormous and inviting enough, all carved with huge spiraling posts and some kind of bars connecting them.  Maybe for a canopy or something at one time.  But whatever, all he cares about is if the mattress is comfortable.  He eases himself onto the duvet and sprawls out as much as his damn shoulder will allow.  The sling isn't exactly comfortable, but he makes do with it via a few propped up pillows and little bit of shifting around.
His eyes drift shut, the whir of the fan a comfortable, lulling nuance that nearly drags him into sleep immediately.  Or at least until the abrupt sound of a sneeze from the other side of the wall snaps him out of it.  A bitingly sharp “EKSSCH!”  And another.  And another.
“EKSSCH! EKCHISSH!”
Well, damn.
A fourth follows less than a minute later and Grimm tilts his head back, eying the wall with a raise of one eyebrow.  
He raps his knuckles on the aging sheetrock.
“Hey,” he says. “You dying or what?”
Silence. Guess the guy didn't realize he had a neighbor, either.
“Yes,” comes the curt response after some time.
Grimm chuckles. Obviously male.  Deep voice, but not as deep as his rumbling bass. Some kind of posh-ass accent, too.  
“-iihEKSSH-uuuh!”
An irritated frustration of a sound that is clearly a “stop this shit right the fuck now!” level of annoyance.
“Bless you,” Grimm says, more out of amusement than anything else.
A pause he can almost feel follows before a quiet "thank you" is issued from the other side of the wall.   
His neighbor opens and closes a drawer or two and wanders back to the other side of the house, accompanied by a few more sneezes and what sounds like a well-placed curse at one point.  
That gets another round of chuckling.
Somewhere from inside the apartment, the piano music resumes and Grimm is now certain it is, in fact, not a recording.  The man is definitely playing whatever it is himself.  With a sigh, Grimm closes his eyes again. Maybe the guy will keep playing long enough for him to ignore his throbbing shoulder and pass the fuck out.  
The fan whirs, the plaintive strands of whatever the guy is playing a nice counterpoint to the white noise.  Grimm takes a deep breath. Exhales.  Repeats.  Sweat beads his brow, threatening to trickle into his ear and the ramen feels like a ball of lead in the pit of his stomach.  A hint of a groan escapes him.  The first few days are always the worst with a wound like this.  It'll pass.  Eventually. 
(TBC . . .maybe)
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m-oshun · 1 year ago
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nooo don’t kill me your so sexy aha
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salamispots · 1 year ago
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something something giant isopod sharing is caring pass the detritus
inprnt
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nouverx · 7 months ago
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Day 1 and Day 2 of RadioStatic Week
First Meeting and Sharing a meal! I like the idea that Alastor is the one who approached Vox first because of how unique he looks eheh
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girlboyburger · 2 months ago
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mspaint commissions !!!! all 16 of 'em!!
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laddertek · 1 month ago
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etho said actually you _don't_ understand the intricacies of how tango is my boyfriend and bdubs is my ex
(and how tango and bdubs kiss too)
Scar: We went on that little adventure, you know! Etho: Yeah, yeah, we had our adventure, that's true, that's true. Scar: You disparaged your teammates. That's it, all right, no more spoilers. Etho: (laughs) Our team has -- our team has some weird dynamics this -- this season. Cleo: (overlapping) Really, Etho? Is there trouble in paradise? (pause) Who's third-wheeling with you, again? I can't remember. Etho: (laughs) Uhh. The -- Cleo: Genuinely can't remember. I know it's you and Bdubs. And...Tango? Tango. Tango. Etho: (loudly) Why -- Why is Tango the third wheel? Why -- why isn't Bdubs the third wheel? Cleo: Because it's you and Bdubs. I'm sorry. I understand how that relationship goes. Etho: (dissatisfied) Hmm.
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14dayswithyou · 4 months ago
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💖 EVEN MORE DAY 4 SNEAK PEEKS! 💖
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ineed-to-sleep · 8 months ago
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She is Looking at you 👁👁
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seventh-district · 7 months ago
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Making Incorrect H:SR Quotes Until I Run Out of (hopefully) Original Ideas - Pt. 4 - Nuthin' but Boothill Edition
[Pt. 1] [Pt. 2] [Pt. 3] [Pt. 5] [Pt. 6]
#boothill#honkai star rail#hsr#hsr incorrect quotes#hsr memes#honkai star rail memes#hsr meme#honkai star rail meme#hsr textpost#hsr boothill#boothill hsr#hsr spoilers#hsr 2.2 spoilers#hmmm... don't think it's worth tagging the others in the 9th image. this ain't about them#still unsure abt how to do the alt text for these kinda posts properly but hopefully i'm improving#anyways. don't think i've ever seen heard and typed "cowboy' so many times in one day as i have while making this good lord#i did a bit of digging around and haven't Seen any of these done yet so. here's hoping that's the case!#i'm only ~3/4 of the way through the 2.2 main quest but the need to make these compelled me to put these out Now#i can already tell u that there Will be more of these for Boothill tho bc i'm crazy abt him. probably enough to make another dedicated post#but i'm gonna wait until i'm fully caught up on the plot (and will probably spoil myself for more of his character lore after that as well)#speaking of. i'm gonna go eat mac n' cheese and stay up too late playing through the rest of the main quest#i'm loving it so far. many thoughts head full abt it all but in a good way. hoping for more Boothill moments as we approach the end#he's def not the main character here but he is to Me okay. he is to me. i'm scarfing down every crumb he drops#i'm also suffering from Aventurine withdrawals out here. Argenti mentioning him was Interesting but i need More. Where Is He.#also. was Argenti intentionally not voiced or was it a game issue?? the hell was that. threw me off so hard when i couldn't hear him speak#anyways i'm getting off topic and wasting precious gaming time so i'll be takin' my leave now
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swampybogg · 8 days ago
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chiropteracupola · 6 months ago
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c. 1540 CE: a young man from Chalco, and his dragon.
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freaky-flawless · 3 months ago
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The De Nile sisters!
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royalarchivist · 5 months ago
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Richarlyson: You're skinny sir, are you eating well these days?
Pac: Not really. To tell you the truth, I've been eating... I stole, together with my son, we stole some cupcakes from the Federation. I ate some, but I know chocolate isn't the best thing to eat, right?
Richarlyson: 12 kilos D:
Pac: 12 kilos?!? No– what? My god. My god... Am I malnourished, Doctovo? Am I- Am I malnourished?
Richarlyson: You weigh less than a pitbull, sir.
Pac: Less than the singer? Damn... [Laughs]
Richarlyson: [Hits Pac]
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amogus-real-not-clickbait · 11 days ago
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part 1 of a little comic / art sequence that i've been working on! :D it's part tribute, part experimenting with brushes n colors and trying new thingz :]
| 1 | 2 | ... |
and thus continues my endless quest of spreading the carrot fics like a plague! if you've seen my art floating around you probs already figured that this au holds a very special place in my heart, forever and always!!
if you haven't heard of it, it's a fic series by @crowned-ladybug called carrot soup!! it made me wish i could speak colors and i need more people to share my struggle xd
go check it out if you're into sweet voice lore and qpr level gayness and just wanna feel warm and soft and warm (hurt/comfort my beloved) <333 there are some heavier themes cos everyone's traumatized but they're working through it! be sure to check the tags and stay safe! <3
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playoffsides · 16 days ago
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quinn hughes (ref 1) (ref 2)
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gingermintpepper · 2 months ago
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“Your hair’s gotten longer.” 
It’s conscious effort that keeps him from tucking the strands behind his ear, from taking the knife at his hip and shearing it all off. He keeps his stance focused, attentive, there’s little else he can do when he’s taken so completely after his mother when it comes to his hair. His father scratches his chin, the clouds of his beard snaking about his finger like mist parting for mountain-peaks. Ares’ chin is still child-smooth. He can feel the tickle of his over-long fringe against his soft jaw. There’s no heart in his chest, but still he feels as though a pulse is lodged in his throat. 
Father sighs, put-upon, disappointed, and Ares feels a slight tremor start in his calves from holding himself so tense. “Well done, Ares. Go clean yourself up and get some rest. Phoebus will want to look you over later.” 
He should be ecstatic to be praised by his father. Over-the-moon with joy. There should be pride emanating from every pore of his body, the blood on his skin should be sweeter than ambrosia. 
Instead, he bows, manages a soft ‘thank you, Father’ around the lump in his throat and immediately flees the room. A mild ‘make sure to trim your hair’ hits the back of his head like a spear through the skull. He almost wishes the great door had slammed on his foot so he would have reason to feel this horrid in his retreat.  
Phoebus Apollo is waiting for him in his infirmary. 
He’s gilded as ever, gold from crown to heel. Perfect like the statues they carve of him in his temples. He has a smile for Ares when he sees him, a crinkle at the edges of his pretty eyes from the weight of his joy. Ares is waiting to see the crack in the marble, to see if that’s the chip that’ll reveal his fangs.
“Brother,” he greets, and his voice is warm - like the arms that embrace him, his voice is so warm, “Welcome back. I’ve heard you’ve done well.”  
There’s a tremble in Ares’ fingers he hadn’t noticed before. Strain from carrying his sword for so many days, a throb from wounds he hadn’t noticed he’d accrued. “Heard? There’s already gossip?” 
Phoebus blinks, disarming, demure, coquettish, “But of course,” and Phoebus’ voice is honey to Ares’ gravel, the juxtaposition is grating on his skin, “It’s Olympus. The gossip began long before you set your course.” Those warm hands lead him further into the room, bodily sits him on the chaise, pulls his helmet from his head. It’s all one, unbroken motion, “It’s summer alas, so I could not watch your war myself, but I hear it was quite the decisive victory.” 
A thousand thoughts run on horseback through his mind then. 
Did Father overhear some terrible slander that pre-emptively disappointed him? Was Ares’ victory merely a rumour, a bet his father hadn’t bothered to take? Was the gossip more enticing than the stark truth? That Ares wasn’t some child toddling about in the shadow of his sister, that his sword and spear weren’t merely for show - he’d think such a thing would warrant celebration. Not -
“Oh my,” Phoebus is in front of him, pleasant warmth more sticky heat with how close he’s pressed himself into Ares’ space. From this angle, Ares can see the multi-coloured flecks of his eyes, like shards of golden glass suspended in ichor. From this angle, with his hand so gently holding his hair, were Ares to blink too hard, he’d swear Phoebus looked just like his mother. “Your hair’s grown long again.” 
He pushes Phoebus off with such force that he bangs into the wall. It’s Phoebus, it won’t make even the impression of a scratch on him, but Ares wishes it would. Wishes he’d hit his shoulder or crack his neck or hit his head just hard enough for all that perfect, gilded gold to bleed. 
“I’m only here for you to heal me,” the tremble in his hand extends to his shoulder now. He flexes and unflexes his palm. Gods what he would give to just have a sword - “Don’t waste time with the pleasant-work.” 
Phoebus huffs, adjusts the fit of his himation, “...Only because we’re meant to be celebrating your victory.” He crosses the room in two great strides, his hair a swirling tempest behind him as he gathers his poultices and wraps. “The only reason I’ll not throw you from the window is because we are meant to be celebrating your victory.”  
There’s not enough acid in his tone for this to truly be a fight. Ares’ jaw clenches, he bites out a terse, “How benevolent.” 
“Aren’t I?” He’s got nectar and his sutures in hand, that focused look falling upon his face when he switches from overbearing busybody to Paeon of the Gods. “Now strip unfaltering Ares, let us see the measure of damage done to your indomitable flesh.” 
(Somewhere between the fifth set of stitches and the gentle frown that crosses Phoebus’ face when he notices the persistent tremble in his fingers, Ares pins his eyes to the far wall and asks, “What does it mean when Father says ‘well done’?” 
Any other sibling would mock before they gave a true response. Any other sibling would laugh and dismiss it, would say that praise is praise and any lingering ill feeling is just the worst of the war still fogging his mind. Phoebus does not answer immediately. He doesn’t make a single sound. The question settles like fetid water between them, unignorable, the scent right there on the tip of the tongue yet firmly unacknowledged. Ares closes his eyes and tries again to settle his squirming so he does not interfere with Phoebus’ work.  The metallic snip of scissors cutting thread breaks the silence. Phoebus bids him to sit up and slides his warm palms up his back until his fingers tangle gently in the ends of his hair. He twists the dark red strands until he’s gathered it all into a neat handful, holding it loosely as he switches his scissors for his shearing blade. “You should know it was not praise,” Phoebus says softly. The first of Ares cut hairs fall like viscera from his head. Phoebus treats each cutting with the sacredness of a blood-sacrifice. If he focused on the moment of tension right before the blade cuts though, Ares thinks he can imagine the agony of his sister’s sacred birth. “It is acknowledgement. Father thinks you’ve done well so he says ‘well done’.”
Gently, Phoebus releases him. Ruffles his head so all the extra hairs fall like red rain to the floor. Ares runs his fingers through the ends now curling against his ear. “Has he ever told you ‘well done’?” 
A laugh, warm and gilded, “No, and it would not make you feel better if he had.” 
Ares swallows down a thousand different questions. Phoebus wouldn’t answer them, he’s infuriating like that. Instead, he clenches his teeth, the phantom of Father’s dizzying tangle of grey cloud-hairs persistent in the corner of his eyes. “Cut it shorter.”
Phoebus doesn’t protest. He never seems to say a word when it really matters.)
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