Title: Demons Don't Often Get Pancakes (except maybe from Canadians?)

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A brown-golden drizzle spilling over tanned, fluffy circles; accented with a twist of the bottle, a zigzag or two, and a flick of the wrist. With an expert hand and a pink tongue sticking out in concentration, Matthew adds the finishing touches to his meal. Butter slips and slides under the freshly heated syrup, mixing and falling in a waterfall of deliciousness down the stack of pancakes.

Matthew pauses as he sets the bottle down, stepping back to survey the moment. Mon dieu, this is a masterpiece. Perfectly pleased and completely content, he reaches for a fork-

And that's when the candles suddenly sizzle out, maple scented smoke wafting lazily through the air; and thunder rips across the sky, which had been clear and cloudless exactly two seconds ago; and the temperature of the house plummets at least thirty seven and a half degrees; and… Did the washing machine just shut off?

Euh… Matthew shivers slightly. Perhaps a bit of whatever Arthur's dabbled in has rubbed off on him? Nervously tugging on his curl, he turns back towards the stove, a blue bowl and spatula resting nearby on the counter. Matthew is immediately distracted. There's still some batter left, ooh, and maybe he can add some blueberries? Or, or… walnuts. Yum.

Almost comically, of course, is the fact that the Canadian completely oblivious to the column of mauve and ebony smoke curling dangerously behind him, rippling and cracking like angry clouds. The temperature falls further still and thins the air.

"Oh."

That is, Matthew is completely oblivious until he turns and finds himself facing a rather broad chest that certainly hadn't been there seconds before. Matthew looks up, and up, and up, and until he meets a pale, expressionless face staring down at him with eyes mirroring the smoky haze.

Well.

Black, pointed horns that nearly scrape the ceiling, sprouting from hair almost as pale as the creature's skin. Crimson tinted violet eyes set in an intimidating, but somehow soft face, and large nose from which aforementioned eyes peer at the Canadian from above. A glittering, night tail that shifts slightly, leaving gorges in the wooden floor. The thought hits Matthew all at once-

There is a demon in my kitchen.

What else can the towering monstrosity be with its horn and tail and evil aura wafting around the kitchen, chasing away the wisps of maple scent? Correction. There is an attractive demon in my kitchen. Merde. I'm going to die.

Before the shock has a chance to wrap its fingers around Matthew's mind, he scrambles behind the counter, left of the stove - anywhere away from the demon and the aura that reeks an unnatural stillness.

The demon looks at Matthew, not bothering to blink. The gaze holds the Canadian still; Matthew is frozen in complete fear, until he realizes that there is a demon in his kitchen. Demons are not supposed to be in his kitchen, not in this household. Steeling himself and grabbing a spatula for support, Matthew places his hands in his hips and manages to still his shaking.

"Wha-what are you doing here?" Matthew inquires, not quite able to keep a tone of wariness from his voice.

The demon pauses, a crease appearing between his brows. Silence, much like his broad shoulders, fills the kitchen. "What am I doing here?" he echoes, seemingly confused. The demon's eyes narrow. "What are you meaning by that, human. You must be stupider than most. If you summon demon, demon appears, and you make contract." He speaks in a cutting, emotionless voice that somehow reeks of of callousness.

Once Matthew has gotten over that sinful Russian accent, dammit, he takes in the demon's words. "What? S-summon?" Matthew shakes his head, surprised at how calm he is. "You must be mistaken, I didn't-"

"Did not summon me?" The demon regards Matthew with a disdain, giving a small huff. The smoke around the demon's face crystallizes slightly as the temperature drops lower. "Then what," he points at the plate of pancakes, "is that."

Matthew looks down and gasps. "Oh!" There, in glistening drops and dribbles of maple syrup, is a perfectly formed pentagram, mixing with butter and decorating his pancakes.

Well.

"Oh, no, I didn't- I-I mean it looks like I did, but I wouldn't! I'm sorry! I-I don't really, I didn't, I go to church on Sundays, actually, and! Oh, it was just, I wasn't paying attention, I don't know! I was just, you see, and it went, the syrup! Um, I'm sorry, I'm really sorry, I just-"

He cuts himself off as the demon holds up a hand. He looks up, and sees that the demon's eyes are shining with something akin to amusement "You are meaning to tell me," the demon snorts, "that you accidentally formed pentagram on whatever that human food is, and summoned me?"

"Er… oui," Matthew says, having the strangest feeling that the demon is holding back laughter. Is he going to die now? Oh, I bet he's going to eat me. I mean, I did summon him - on accident! Oh, he's probably going to torture me then drag me down to hell… I wouldn't mind going to hell if it's full of demons like that - mERDE-

He looks up to see that the demon is watching him again, but the amaranthine eyes are much lighter. Matthew opens his mouth to ask a question; "Um…"

"Nyet," the demon shakes his head as if reading Matthew's mind. "I am not here to take you to hell, kill you, or make contract, seeing as it is misunderstanding."

"Oh, okay. Good."

An awkward silence proceeds to persist around the kitchen once again, and Matthew realizes just how out of place the demon looks, standing amidst cookbooks, lightly tanned, wooden chairs; a column of mauve and black stark against blue-tinted walls and a set of French doors that leads to the backyard. Nothing goes unnoticed by the Canadian's gaze, and he soon catches the demon giving the stack of pancakes a look of longing. Matthew quickly makes the connection.

"Um, Mr..."

"Ivan," supplies the demon.

"Well, Mr. Ivan, since you had to, um, go through all that trouble of being summoned- on accident- would you, I mean, before you go back to h-hell, would you like some pancakes?"

"Chto?" The demon raises an eyebrow. Again, the human has done something unexpected.

"Pancakes," repeats Matthew, his voice seeming to grow a bit stronger. "I could make you some?"

Ivan pauses, but there is no real consideration needed. He nods. "Da."

Silently, Matthew begins to make a new batch of pancakes, well aware of the demon's gazes resting on his every move, from pouring the batter, to flipping the pancakes, to stacking them.

"H-here," Matthew says finally, this time deliberately forming a pentagram with syrup on the new stack of pancakes. Setting a fork on the plate, he slides it over to Ivan.

The creature regards the plate with ill-disguised delight. He takes the plate and fork with a hand that almost dwarves the utensil, and a design of frost swirls its way onto the fork and dish, almost coating the both in ice as the Russian takes a small bite of the pancakes.

The kitchen is completely still, frozen, for a beat; perhaps two before Ivan moves.

"Mm… da," the demons nods his obvious approval, eyes flickering. He turns his gaze to Matthew and speaks again: "Spasibo."

And with a toothy grin, smoke fills the kitchen, the clouds disperse from the sky, candles flicker on, and the washing machine starts back up -

- the Russian demon is gone without a trace.

{-}

Matthew soon found himself lucky. Extremely lucky. The stain in his favorite hoodie, (which had been there for almost a year), disappeared over night. Shipping fees for anything he bought off of Amazon were almost nonexistent, (even for overseas!) Perhaps it's just his imagination, but people seemed to notice him more and more, (but Matthew was now completely ignored in church, odd enough.)

And every so often, a certain tall, Russian, and rather attractive demon will show up for pancakes with a smirk and an excuse of, "Demons do not often get pancakes."

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A/N: Credited to a tumblr post. Sorry for my absence, I will update soon. Thank you for reading; please review. ;3