poplitealqueen:

You know what would make a fun, quirky romantic comedy? Some lonely, unimpressive, depressed office drone or something of that nature decides one day that, fuck it, they’re gonna sell their soul for happiness.

So, they do. They get everything they need to summon a supernatural wish-granting creature, and then would you believe it? They screw up the name in the incantation (thanks Google Translate), and *two* soul-acquiring demons show up.

Bickering starts, understandably. Rulebooks are busted out, phoning supervisors is threatened (you don’t think demons have mobile phones? That’s the easiest medium to get people to sell their souls! You’d be surprised what ends up in spam emails and texts), it’s a general ruckus until finally the office drone clears their throat and says, “Um…how about a contest?”

And the demons stop, turn as one, and look at the drone.

“I forgot my fiddle at home,” one says.

“I didn’t take that elective in highchool,” says the other. “But if it’s a competition of who can conjugate French verbs the fastest, you’re fucked, mate.”

The office drone would clear their throat again (they’re the type that is constantly clearing their throat, not because they have to but because they’re just awkward), “No,” they say carefully, “I brought you here to make me happy, so whomever can make me the happiest should win my soul…um…right?”

The French-elective and Devil-came-down-to-Georgia stereotype exchange a look. They silently shake on it, sparks flying about their hands, and then they pull away and each extend that same hand to the office drone.

“All three of us need to shake on it at the same time,” Georgia prompts when Office Drone just stands there staring at the outstretched hands like they’re covered in open sores.

“Um…” Office Drone blinks nervously. “I really don’t care much for physical contact. It’s a…a personal preference, you see.”

“In bed, too?” asks French.

Office Drone nods, and French groans. “Well, blast!” They sigh overdramatically. “There goes my plan to screw my way into your good graces. Shame, I’m a wonderful lay.” French grins, pulls their hand back and holds it up, palm facing the Office Drone. “How’s about a high five on it?”

“Or–” Georgia starts out, but French cuts them of with a grunt and an elbow in the ribs. With a scowl, Georgia holds up their hand for a high five too, muttering about how unprofessional this is.

“So, do we have a deal?” French asks again, wriggling their fingers.

Office Drone looks at them both, looks at the pentagram drawn in blood and salt and chalk beneath their feet that has most certainly ruined the flooring of their studio apartment for good, and then highfives them both.

AND long story short it turns into two demons competing to make a human happy, only to realize that the human makes *them* happy and oh WHAT they’re all in love, the End.