Demoncember writing prompt — Demon who absolutely must take your soul, but no longer wants to
“Hi, listen,” the client says, from the reverse-summoning circle that’s just burned its way sulphurously into the office carpet, twitching nervously in a designer dress. “I tried summoning my, uh, the succubus assigned to my contract, earlier today? A couple of times? And then I tried to get hold of a supervisor or something? And I’m just having trouble getting hold of anyone—”
“Jamdaggu,” Jamdaggu says. “Master of Lust.”
“Uh.”
There’s a short silence while the client looks at Jamdaggu, forehead wrinkled; Jamdaggu is sitting in his office chair wearing bunny slippers and a Sailor Moon hoodie.
“I know you’ve been told,” Jamdaggu says peaceably, licking his thumb and turning a page in an old issue of Soul Collector Monthly. “Lust’s on strike. The whole department.”
“Yes,” the client says, “but I just — I need—”
“Penkhalem from Relatively Vanilla Sex Toys swears by Hitachis,” Jamdaggu says, not looking up.
“No,” the client says, wringing her hands. “I need you to come and claim my soul.”
“We’ll catch up to you when management see fit to settle the current industrial action,” Jamdaggu says. “Free extension! Lucky you.”
“No, I need you to come and get it tonight,” the client says, looking queasy, and Jamdaggu finally raises his gaze.
“Mm,” he says. “Interesting. I suppose if you’re that dead set, someone could point you towards Contract Enforcement—”
She blanches.
Jamdaggu heaves a sigh, puts his magazine aside, and gestures towards his coffee machine. “Latte?” he says, and busies himself fiddling with it. “Nobody’s that keen to pay up,” he says eventually, setting down two cups with latte-art dicks drawn in the foam. “You think you’ve fiddled it, and you think you’ve fiddled it in a way that’s going to go horribly wrong if we don’t show up on time. What is it? Swore your soul to War as well? Double-booked it to fairies? Waiting for everybody to show and start arguing?”
The client wrings her hands. “There’s a witch,” she says eventually, in a small, defeated voice.
“That’s very clever,” Jamdaggu says, settles in his chair, and sips his coffee unconcernedly.
“Obviously not that clever.” She looks at her hands.
“Lust have the most routine, day-to-day contact with actual humans,” Jamdaggu says. “You lot are clever, but we’ve almost always seen it already. Now, if you tried it on a War demon, you could probably still pull this shit off; but here?” He shakes his head. “What is it, promised she can put your soul in a doll?”
The client plucks at her skirt. A first tear slides along her downturned cheek.
“Lust is on strike,” Jamdaggu says gently. “The girls aren’t scabbing for you. I’m not scabbing for you. The witch turns up today? She gets you. Seller’s remorse or not, you didn’t accidentally trip and fall into selling your soul; our struggle is bigger than you.”
“I just—” the client says shakily.
“Do you know what happens, when you people try this on Lust? For centuries now?” Jamdaggu says. “We take you on a routine stroll over to Contract Enforcement, and we sit you in a comfy chair, and then everyone ignores you while Hell negotiates with everyone else you tried to rip off. Because we’re invested in not being the bad guys, in that situation. We’re invested in you little con artists being the bad guys. So we sit down with the fairies, or witches, or fucking snake-spirits from the Waters of Primordial Chaos, and we say: we didn’t want this. We’re not getting what we want, what we were promised, and neither are you. But if we’re all grownups about this, we can all walk out with something.” He sips again. “Witch putting you in a doll? Standard approach is to say, okay, we’re out a soul; if we say you have it can we do a Hades-and-Persephone thing? Alternating weeks Downstairs for a length of time sufficient to defray the fucking annoyance we’ve been put to?” He shrugs. “And people, even witches, they don’t want to fight Contract Enforcement, and after all, you’re the little con artist that’s put them out, and they are getting to keep you, so…you’d be fucked anyway, if we did turn up.”
“But—” the client whispers.
“But you didn’t think Hell could be grownups about it?” Jamdaggu raises an eyebrow. “Sure, she’s going to turn you into a doll; but look on the bright side! You’ve probably got away scot-free from being on loan to Lust every other week, and you didn’t want to end up one of our sex dolls, did you? That’s a sticky end!” He nudges the still-full cup closer to her. “And you got a free coffee from the Master of Lust! How many demonologists would shank someone for the bragging rights? I’ve even nearly got the hang of making it!”
