What other fuckin show would have a plot where a major character disguises themselves in order to fool their closest friends only to have the whole thing fuck up because one of their idiot underlings can’t remember to keep his name a secret? Like nobody would think of that, but that’s just how it happened and it was brilliant
ajfdklsajfdklsajflkdasjfkladskjlfjdlsk bless this spontaneous drama, bless this beautiful accident.
writing-prompt-s: An old and homely grandmother accidentally summons a demon. She mistakes him for her gothic-phase teenage grandson and takes care of him. The demon decides to stay at his new home.
It isn’t uncommon for this particular demon to be summoned—from exhausting Halloween party pranks in abandoned barns to more legitimate (more exhausting) ceremonies in forests—but it has to admit, this is the first time it’s been called forth from its realm into a claustrophobic living room bathed in the dull orange-pink glow of old glass lamps and a multitude of wide-eyed, creepy antique porcelain dolls that could give Chucky a run for his money with all of their silent, seething stares combined. Accompanying those oddities are tea cup and saucer sets on shelves atop frilly doilies crocheted with the utmost care, and cross-stitched, colorful ‘Home Sweet Home’s hung across the wood-paneled walls.
It’s a mistake—a wrong number, per se. No witch it’s ever known has lived in such an, ah, dated, home. Furthermore, no practitioner that ever summoned it has been absent, as if they’d up and ding-dong ditched it. No, it didn’t work that way. Not at all. Not if they want to survive the encounter.
It hears the clinking of movement in the room adjacent—the kitchen, going by the pungent, bitter scent of cooled coffee and soggy, sweet sponge cakes, but more jarring is the smell of blood. It moves—feels something slip beneath its clawed foot as it does, and sees a crocheted blanket of whites and greys and deep black yarn, wound intricately, perfectly, into a summoning circle. Its summoning circle. There is a small splash of bright scarlet and sharp, jagged bits of a broken curio scattered on top, as if someone had dropped it, attempted to pick it up the pieces and pricked their finger. It would explain the blood. And it would explain the demon being brought into this strange place.
As it connects these pieces in its mind, the inhabitant of the house rounds the corner and exits the kitchen, holding a damp, white dish towel close to her hand and fumbling with the beaded bifocals hanging from her neck by a crocheted lanyard before stopping dead in her tracks.
Now, to be fair, the demon wouldn’t ordinarily second guess being face-to-face with a hunchbacked crone with a beaked nose, beady eyes and a peculiar lack of teeth, or a spidery shawl and ankle-length black dress, but there is definitely something amiss here. Especially when the old biddy lets her spectacles fall slack on her bosom and erupts into a wide, toothy (toothless) grin, eyes squinting and crinkling from the sheer effort of it.
“Todd! Todd, dear, I didn’t know you were visiting this year! You didn’t call, you didn’t write—but, oh, I’m so happy you’re here, dear! Would it have been too much to ask you to ring the doorbell? I almost had a heart attack. And don’t worry about the blood, here—I had an accident. My favorite figure toppled off of the table and cleanup didn’t go as expected. But I seem to recall you are quite into the bloodshed and ‘edgy’ stuff these days, so I don’t suppose you mind.” She releases a hearty, kind laugh, but it isn’t mocking, it’s sweet. Grandmotherly. The demon is by no means sentimental or maudlin, but the kindness, the familiarity, the genuine fondness, does pull a few dusty old nostalgic heartstrings. “Imagine if it leaves a scar! It’d be a bit ‘badass,’ as you teenagers say, wouldn’t it?”
She is as blind as a bat without her glasses, it would appear, because the demon is by no means a ‘Todd’ or a human at all, though humanoid, shrouded in sleek, black skin and hard spikes and sharp claws. But the demon humors her, if only because it had been caught off guard.
The old woman smiles still, before turning on her heel and shuffling into the hallway with a stiff gait revealing a poor hip. “Be a dear and make some more coffee, would you please? I’ll be back in a jiffy.”
Yes, this is most definitely a mistake. One for the record books, for certain. For late-night trips to bars and conversations with colleagues, while others discuss how many souls they’d swindled in exchange for peanuts, or how many first-borns they’d been pledged for things idiot humans could have gained without divine intervention. Ugh. Sometimes it all just became so pedantic that little detours like this were a blessing—happy accidents, as the humans would say.
That’s why the demon does as asked, and plods slowly into the kitchen, careful to duck low and avoid the top of the doorframe. That’s why it gingerly takes the small glass pot and empties it of old, stale coffee and carefully, so carefully, takes a measuring scoop between its claws and fills the machine with fresh grounds. It’s as the hot water is percolating that the old woman returns, her index finger wrapped tight in a series of beige bandages.
“I’m surprised you’re so tall, Todd! I haven’t seen you since you were at my hip! But your mother mails photos all the time—you do love wearing all black, don’t you?” She takes a seat at the small round table in the corner and taps the glass lid of the cake plate with quaking, unsteady, aged hands. “I was starting to think you’d never visit. Your father and I have had our disagreements, but…I am glad you’re here, dear. Would you like some cake?” Before the demon has a chance to decline, she lifts the lid and cuts a generous slice from the near-complete circle that has scarcely been touched. It smells of citrus and cream and is, as assumed earlier, soggy, oversaturated with icing.
It was made for a special occasion, for guests, but it doesn’t seem this old woman receives much company in this musty, stagnant house that smells like an antique garage that hadn’t had its dust stirred in years.
Especially not from her absentee grandson, Todd.
The demon waits until the coffee pot is full, and takes two small mugs from the counter, filling them until steam is frothing over the rims. Then, and only then, does it accept the cake and sit, with some difficulty, in a small chair at the small table. It warbles out a polite ‘thank you,’ but it doesn’t suppose the woman understands. Manners are manners regardless.
“Oh, dear, I can hardly understand. Your voice has gotten so deep, just like your grandfather’s was. That, and I do recall you have an affinity for that gravelly, screaming music. Did your voice get strained? It’s alright, dear, I’ll do the talking. You just rest up. The coffee will help soothe.”
The demon merely nods—some communication can be understood without fail—and drinks the coffee and eats the cake with a too-small fork. It’s ordinary, mushy, but delicious because of the intent behind it and the love that must have gone into its creation.
“I hope you enjoyed all of the presents I sent you. You never write back—but I am aware most people use that fancy E-mail these days. I just can’t wrap my head around it. I do wish your mom and dad would visit sometime. I know of a wonderful little café down the street we can go to. I haven’t been; I wanted to visit it with Charles, before he…well.” She falls silent in her rambling, staring into her coffee with a small, melancholy smile. “I can’t believe it’s been ten years. You never had the chance to meet him. But never mind that.” Suddenly, and with surprising speed that has the demon concerned for her well being, she moves to her feet, bracing her hands on the edge of the table. “I may as well give you your birthday present, since you’re here. What timing! I only finished it this morning. I’ll be right back.”
When she returns, the white, grey and black crocheted work with the summoning circle is bundled in her arms.
“I found these designs in an occult book I borrowed from the library. I thought you’d like them on a nice, warm blanket to fight off the winter chill—I hope you do like it.” With gentle hands, she spreads the blanket over the demon’s broad, spiky back like a shawl, smoothing it over craggy shoulders and patting its arms affectionately. “Happy birthday, Todd, dear.”
Well, that settles it. Whoever, wherever, Todd is, he’s clearly missing out. The demon will just have to be her grandson from now on.
“Are you sure about this boss? Do you really think she’s down here?”
Roy had never been more sure about anything in his life. The destitute dungeon of a lab they had found themselves wandering through reeked with the stench of a cover-up. The too clean, broken beakers and dustless pieces of paper littering the room they had stepped foot in were telling.
The laboratory had been recently used.
“I’m sure,” he replied as he stepped cautiously over a pile of broken glass to stand in the center of the room. He scanned over the dusty desks and peeling walls, looking for anything that would point him toward where exactly Riza would be.
He saw a shadow shift in the periphery of his vision and he jerked his head around. Havoc responded to his sudden movement with a gasp, his weapon raised and pointed toward the corner Roy had focused his attention on. But after a few moments, when their eyes both adjusted, they found that whatever Roy had seen had been a figment of his sleep-deprived mind.
Roy staggered a few steps forward and slammed his hand against the wall to steady himself. The innumerable nights of sleeplessness he had suffered through were beginning to take its toll on him. No, three days, he reminded himself as his vision cleared and the dark spots that had dotted it began to clear. Though it seemed like it had been a lifetime since she had vanished, it had still been less than a week. The military, the one entity he had begrudgingly put his faith in for the support and materials necessary to find her, had continued to drag its feet until he was left with no other options but act on his own accord.
Summary: “But imagine, really imagine your OTP waking up together after their first time” (basically a 2009 phan drabble all about how ridiculously in love they both are with each other)
A/N: Yay surprise fic! I sent out this post and said if anyone wants me to write any of these let me know, and quite a few people asked for this specific one, so I gave it a go. This is basically disgusting mushy fluff, and I really love the song the name of this fic is from, and figured it was quite fitting. Hope you like it!
* * *
It was mid afternoon, and Phil was still in bed. It wasn’t uncommon for him to be so, but the circumstances were a little different this time. The sun was melting into the room, casting soft shadows across everything and warming Phil’s bare shoulders. Phil sighed and hauled himself up to sit against the headboard, and then he smiled down at the person beside him.
Dan was still asleep, face down with his hands folded underneath the pillow. He had his head turned towards Phil, but Phil could see that he was still totally out for the count. His eyes were shut and his jaw slack, and he was letting out little sighs with every other breath. Phil reached his hand out and trailed his fingers across the exposed skin of Dan’s back where the covers had been kicked down. He trailed his fingers across the bumps of Dan’s spine, and down to the small of his back and his hips, where faint finger shaped bruises were starting to show. The sun was shining across Dan’s face, causing his eyelashes to cast long shadows across his cheeks. Dan looked absolutely gorgeous like this. He looked gorgeous in every way, but this way was special, because Phil got to keep it all to himself. He got to keep this memory of Dan folded away in his mind for his eyes only. Phil got to share a lot of things with Dan, they were the best of friends, and so much more than that. Phil knew that Dan had different laughs, and his favourite was the one in which he was completely unreserved - it was loud and obnoxious and went on forever, and Phil loved it because of the way Dan’s eyes crumpled up and how he practically glowed with joy. Phil knew that Dan always had to be moving in some sort of way, whether it was tapping his fingers rhythmically against a table top, or rolling forwards and back on the balls of his feet, or just bouncing his knees up and down. Sometimes it annoyed Phil, but instead of getting mad he would just take Dan’s hand so that Dan could draw patterns in Phil’s palm or play with his fingers absently instead.
Phil had collected all of the little pieces that made up Dan and stored them inside of himself. Each part was special, they made Phil’s heart glow and made him smile brightly and Phil had never been so utterly head over heels in love with anyone like he was with Dan. Phil had more to keep now, he had marks bitten across his neck and shoulders that he wished would stay for a little longer, even though they were already fading. Phil’s skin still burned from Dan’s fingers running down his ribcage and across his torso in feather light touches that made him shiver and made bumps rise on his skin. Phil wanted to stay in this moment forever, with Dan breathing softly beside him, his skin warm from the sun’s rays as Phil took in everything that had happened and all that had changed.