Original -- Delicate
Title: Delicate
Rating: G
Word Count: 493
Warnings: some prompts just mandate mild crack (…crack because it's BROKEN amirite)
Prompt: broken iPhone at pulped_fictions
Summary: Belial is several billion, going on five.
Author's Note: The Boyfran has grudgingly come to appreciate the functionality of my myriad Apple products, but he still kind of flinches whenever the word "app" comes up in conversation. Here's to you, iBoyfran.
DELICATE
It’s been a serene evening with a nice bottle of wine and a thick book on Parisian architecture right up until the point that the couch across from Vincent bursts into flame.
He sips. “You’re lucky that wasn’t a priceless antique.”
Belial reveals himself in an extremely ostentatious plume of red smoke. “You’re lucky that wasn’t your hair,” he hisses, baring his teeth, which are pointed this evening.
Vincent sets the book and the wineglass down on the coffee table next to his laptop and his cell phone, which are standing by in case of subordinate-related emergencies. It makes him feel more like a babysitter than a CEO, but such are the sacrifices he makes for success. “What did I do to offend your delicate sensibilities this time?” he asks, although he thinks he knows.
“What kind of half-damned dead man are you?” Belial points at him furiously, then shifts his finger to indicate a nearby vase, which explodes. That one was a priceless antique; Vincent will have to get Maion to fix it later. “Starting a charity for the homeless? I thought I knew you. I thought we were friends.”
“I was homeless for a series of years,” Vincent says, quite unnecessarily given the capacity of demonic memory. “If it helps, consider it an act of laziness-which is essentially true; it’s becoming progressively more difficult to think of new ways to spend my money.”
“Traitor!” Belial cries. Another vase explodes, splattering a bit of water on the burning couch.
“Could you just once act your age?” Vincent asks. “Or would that somehow be too virtuous?”
“To be honest,” Belial says, “I stopped counting after the first few millennia, so I technically don’t know my age to act it in the first place-it’s a lovely loophole.”
“Quite,” Vincent says.
Belial considers for a moment, and then everything on the table flies in different directions-the wineglass hurls its contents onto the palest section of the carpet; the laptop slams against the wall; the book’s pages flutter and then crumple forlornly as it lands dangerously near the smoldering couch; and Vincent’s iPhone skids to a stop under Belial’s upraised toe.
“I didn’t realize that tantrums were particularly demonic,” Vincent says. “I’ll have to brush up on my Bible.”
“There’s an app for that,” Belial says. He steps down. “Well, not anymore.”
Vincent pinches the bridge of his nose.
“I’m helping you,” Belial insists. “Now you know what to spend your money on-new stuff!”
“If you don’t fix this in thirty seconds,” Vincent says, “I’m calling Maion.”
Belial beams, grinding his shoe against the glass. “What with?”
Vincent reaches into his jacket pocket and retrieves his personal iPhone, which holds the entire musical canons of Beethoven, Tchaikovsky, and Rimsky-Korsakov instead of an endless address book of clients. He holds it up and taps a thumb on the custom button titled Seraph Summoner.
“There’s an app for that,” he says.
Rating: G
Word Count: 493
Warnings: some prompts just mandate mild crack (…crack because it's BROKEN amirite)
Prompt: broken iPhone at pulped_fictions
Summary: Belial is several billion, going on five.
Author's Note: The Boyfran has grudgingly come to appreciate the functionality of my myriad Apple products, but he still kind of flinches whenever the word "app" comes up in conversation. Here's to you, iBoyfran.
DELICATE
It’s been a serene evening with a nice bottle of wine and a thick book on Parisian architecture right up until the point that the couch across from Vincent bursts into flame.
He sips. “You’re lucky that wasn’t a priceless antique.”
Belial reveals himself in an extremely ostentatious plume of red smoke. “You’re lucky that wasn’t your hair,” he hisses, baring his teeth, which are pointed this evening.
Vincent sets the book and the wineglass down on the coffee table next to his laptop and his cell phone, which are standing by in case of subordinate-related emergencies. It makes him feel more like a babysitter than a CEO, but such are the sacrifices he makes for success. “What did I do to offend your delicate sensibilities this time?” he asks, although he thinks he knows.
“What kind of half-damned dead man are you?” Belial points at him furiously, then shifts his finger to indicate a nearby vase, which explodes. That one was a priceless antique; Vincent will have to get Maion to fix it later. “Starting a charity for the homeless? I thought I knew you. I thought we were friends.”
“I was homeless for a series of years,” Vincent says, quite unnecessarily given the capacity of demonic memory. “If it helps, consider it an act of laziness-which is essentially true; it’s becoming progressively more difficult to think of new ways to spend my money.”
“Traitor!” Belial cries. Another vase explodes, splattering a bit of water on the burning couch.
“Could you just once act your age?” Vincent asks. “Or would that somehow be too virtuous?”
“To be honest,” Belial says, “I stopped counting after the first few millennia, so I technically don’t know my age to act it in the first place-it’s a lovely loophole.”
“Quite,” Vincent says.
Belial considers for a moment, and then everything on the table flies in different directions-the wineglass hurls its contents onto the palest section of the carpet; the laptop slams against the wall; the book’s pages flutter and then crumple forlornly as it lands dangerously near the smoldering couch; and Vincent’s iPhone skids to a stop under Belial’s upraised toe.
“I didn’t realize that tantrums were particularly demonic,” Vincent says. “I’ll have to brush up on my Bible.”
“There’s an app for that,” Belial says. He steps down. “Well, not anymore.”
Vincent pinches the bridge of his nose.
“I’m helping you,” Belial insists. “Now you know what to spend your money on-new stuff!”
“If you don’t fix this in thirty seconds,” Vincent says, “I’m calling Maion.”
Belial beams, grinding his shoe against the glass. “What with?”
Vincent reaches into his jacket pocket and retrieves his personal iPhone, which holds the entire musical canons of Beethoven, Tchaikovsky, and Rimsky-Korsakov instead of an endless address book of clients. He holds it up and taps a thumb on the custom button titled Seraph Summoner.
“There’s an app for that,” he says.