#I'm going to enjoy this | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

evilfloralfoolery · 3 months ago

Text

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.

____________________________________________

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)

#EFF writes #I'm going to enjoy this #And I hope you will as well #I'll post more if the interest is there #And YES #I happen to love this fucking trope of grouchy asshole and sophisticated asshole #JUST LET ME LIVE lol

46 notes · View notes

zephyrchama · 6 months ago

Text

Water Wrinkles

Seven demon brothers sat solemnly in a circle around you. You did your best to ignore them. It wasn't often that you got to spend time at the human world villa, and you were intent on soaking up as much sun as you could before returning to the Devildom.

You reclined your beach chair back, crossing your arms under your still-wet hair. It was a gorgeous day. Perfect for being at the pool.

Leviathan let out a muffled sob. As the demon with the highest affinity for water, he blamed himself.

"Let us take you to a hospital," Satan insisted for the tenth time.

"They're going to laugh us out of the ER," you nonchalantly repeated.

Satan lowered his eyes and muttered, "I couldn't find any traces of a curse in the water... So how...?"

Asmodeus had his head in his hands, unresponsive. Sometimes his fingers curled around the ends of his hair. You briefly glanced over to make sure he didn't pull his hair out - that would be grounds for a real emergency.

"I can't bear to watch. Lucifer, do somethin'," Mammon whined. He was fidgeting all over the place and winced whenever he looked at your feet.

The oldest glared at you. You knew it was out of concern, but his fears were unfounded. Even Lucifer refused to listen to reason when he thought you were in danger.

"Actually, yeah. Lucifer, can you pass me a towel?" you asked. It was embarrassing having seven shirtless demons intensely staring at you. If they wouldn't let you go back in the water, maybe covering up would make you feel less self-conscious.

Lucifer didn't move. It was Beelzebub who plucked a spare towel off his younger twin and handed it to you with a shaking arm. He looked like a wet puppy, having been the one who first discovered your "condition" and swept you out of the pool.

Belphegor hadn't gone in the water that day. He only hogged the plush towels because of how comfortable they were and, following Beelzebub's lead, dumped them all onto your chair. Now he sat, wide awake. He was anxiously squeezing a loose chunk of concrete but at some point, without realizing, it got crushed to powder in his hand.

You had more than enough towels now.

"In half an hour you're going to forget this all even happened," you said to reassure the worry warts.

"In half an hour, you might be gone!" Mammon snapped back.

"You're going to be a wrinkled mess of skin and bones," Asmodeus weeped quietly.

Leviathan pressed his hands over his ears. Though, with nothing to cover his eyes he was forced to look at your wrinkled hands again. Based on the noises he was making, you'd think someone was torturing him.

"As I've said!" you reiterated. "All humans get wrinkly in water. Look, now that I'm drying off it's going back to normal."

Beelzebub grabbed your ankle, raising it for the brothers to observe at eye level. "I don't see a difference."

You didn't expect the sudden manhandling and slunk several inches down the lounge chair while the demons stared at your foot. Kicking and twisting your leg was futile. You modestly crossed your free leg.

"I think it's getting worse," Satan said.

"We need to take action," Lucifer decided.

Asmodeus was actively quivering now. Belphegor and Leviathan had crept behind you and started picking at your wrinkly fingers. You tried to swat them away to no avail.

"Give me 25 minutes! Literally! Probably even less, this will go away on its own! I just need to dry off."

"We need a solution now," Mammon asserted. The cogs in his brain were turning. "We need fire."

You tried to sit up, to jump up and stop Mammon before he burned the whole villa down in an attempt to dry you off, but Beelzebub had not let go and you stumbled. You grazed your knee on the concrete and winced.

A second round of panic overcame the demon brothers. Beelzebub let go, Lucifer picked you up, and Belphegor wrapped your knee with every available towel he could lay his hands on. Asmodeus and Leviathan were crying on each other's shoulders. Mammon came running back, oblivious to the second disaster that just occurred, with a flaming stick in his hand that Satan tried to keep at bay. If you got burnt on top of everything else, they'd probably go insane and destroy the human world.

In the midst of the chaos you caught a glimpse of your hand. It was practically dry. You couldn't even see the wrinkles anymore. You angrily wiggled in Lucifer's grasp as various hands fussed over you.

"Stay!!" you shouted over the clamor.

The brothers went tumbling to the ground, save for Lucifer who fought to stay rooted in place. You could finally hear yourself think again. There was primarily one thought on your mind.

"I just want to go swimming."

3K notes · View notes