Hmmm….. Diavolo and fluff! If that counts as a genre!
Yeah!! Fluff/crack/angst (horny is done through my other blog/req through dm)
~♡~
You loved the rain. Always had. You knew you looked a little odd, several demons looking at you in complete confusion, unsure of what to make of the lone human as they rushed to get to cover. However their looks and bustling about did not deter you from simply standing in the pouring rain, face towards the sky and a small smile, letting your stress and worries slip away with each drop, if only for a little while.
Your moment of serenity was soon interrupted by a very concerned Diavolo, as he tapped your shoulder to get your attention.
"Is this a human custom? Most demons take cover from the rain...are you like a flower? May I join?!" He beams as he stands next to you, waiting your permission despite his dampening hair quickly getting into his eyes. Wanting to enjoy the rain, you simply nodded. "I would love for you to join."
After a few moments just enjoying the rain Diavolo speaks up again. "May I show you something I have not had the opportunity to enjoy since I was a child?" He extended his hand with a bright smile. Despite the onslaught of the rain, his hands were still surprisingly warm as he tugged you gently to join him as he ran and jumped into a puddle, laughing boisterously, beckoning you to join him. Your laughter soon joined his, as the two of you danced and jumped in puddles until neither of you could handle the cold anymore. Thankfully, Barbatos was prepared, picking both of you up and returning ro the Demon Lords castle for a change of clothes, tea, and falling asleep in the comfort and warmth of each others arms.
~♡~
Ay Landy you know Jm a simp for this man I had to make this a lot shorter than I had in mind to still jave brakn cells afterwards fbsjfndkxk
"LEVIIIIIII TURN. IT. DOOOOOWN. THINK OF YOUR FISH"
"His fish? His fish? Mc, really, you think his fish is more important to him than his beloved little brother nOT BEING ABLE TO GET HIS BEAUTY SLEEP?! SHUT IT DOWN LEVIATHAN!!!" Asmodeus stood next to you in his nightgown, face mask, and his hair in a towel. He already explained that while he would be pounding on the door? His skin wasnt worth it.
Satan, however, was oddly cool about the situation. At least until it wasnt odd. He had hexed Lucifer into his office. He couldnt leave. So Satan knew full well that the music blasting out of leviathans room was infuriating the first born more and more by the moment as no work was being completed.
The twins were nowhere to be seen, and Mammon...was out of the house. Nobody knew what Levi was so upset about, thus the music blasting at 3 am was more than a little concerning and unnecessary.
"LEVIATHAN, LORD OF SHADOWS, PLEASE- PLEASE FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS GOOD, TURN DOWN THE DAMN MUS-...ic" he finally opened the door, his face tear stained and nose running a bit as his security blanket was wrapped tightly around him, including over his head, and his headphones on top of that.
His voice wavered and his bottom lip quivered as he spoke "are you mad at me? For whAT? Oh todays been the worst- I used a bunch of my cash to try and get VIP tickets for this concert I really want to go to, and didnt get them. All my gacha pulls sucked. My chip bag exploded when I tried to eat lunch. Lucifer found out about my grades and threatened to take away my manga. My Ruri-chan pillow is missing, my bluetooth magic-sound proofed headphones arent working and now your maaaaad" he sobbed into your shoulder and not knowing what else to do, you wrapped your arms around him.
Satan reached for a switch on the headphones as you held Levi a little awkwardly, before walking into his room and fixing all the things Levi had complained about while you held the emotional mess. Asmo scoffed a bit but wished you all good night before heading back to his room.
"Its been a crappy day, but you'll have the right start for tomorrow." Satan clapped his hands together, as if to knock dust off of them.
Levi finally cracked a small smile from his blanket burrito, in your arms on the couch. "Thanks guys...and um...sorry about the connection issue-" he laughed a little nervously, checkjng three or four times that his headphones were connected before letting his music play for himself, slowly falling asleep with his head in your lap.
You and all the members of the student council were visiting the human realm- more specifically, a beach Diavolo had bought. While you knew the demons enjoyed the chance to be in the glorious warmth of earths sun, none of them had seemed to appreciate it as much as the little moment you walked in on Barbatos having.
Sitting on the stairs of the beach house, Barbatos looked out upon the vastness of the ocean, gentle orange, pink and red hues reflecting in the oceans relatively calm waters as the sun began to rise. Wordlessly, you made your way to sit next to him, and for once, the butler seemed slightly startled.
"Ah, hello mc. I hope I was not the reason for your early awakening..."
You shake your head and smile
"I guess even in my sleep my brain knows I want to spend more time with you...if you would be alright with that...this must be one of the few quiet times you have to yourself.."
He smiled a little bit and turned back towards the ocean. "It is peaceful this time of morning...and your company only adds to that my dear. Please stay...there isnt much time before I must get working on breakfast for the Young Master and everyone else."
"Do you mind if I sit a little closer then? Before it gets too warm to do so?" You chuckled softly, already knowing the answer as Barb gave you a small knowing smile, pulling you closer with his tails with a kiss to your head. Though your time together in that position only lasted a few more minutes as the rays of sun began to trickle towards the stairs, it is a memory you wont soon forget.
hi I was trying to read Ryssa's latest fic and then I accidentally wrote a drabble
there are pronouns but no names so it might be e/R, it might not be; however, it is definitely pretty gay
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He knows that you don't have to be a musician to appreciate music--everyone appreciates music. That's rather the point of the thing.
But he also knows that the love of his life has the voice of an angel, and he can barely hold a (too flat, off-key and out of tune) note. He goes to rehearsals, sits in the back, and listens for his lover's voice in the chorus. He wishes he could join in, but this is a place for professionals, not romantic amateurs.
He watches his boyfriend's face as he tries to pick out the right note in the harmony (it's impossible; the layers meld together too well, but he likes to pretend he's got it figured out). He already knows how much singing means to him, and even if he didn't, it's written all over his face. There's a light there, a spark in his eyes, a radiant glow that could light a room; this is where he is most at home.
There's only one other time he's seen that look: with moonlight filtering in through the open window to spill onto white sheets, the only shadow on his face coming from the hand stroking his cheek. The memory smiles and leans in to kiss him, skin warm against skin.
He can't join the chorus, but that doesn't really matter, not in the long run. Because what he can do is hold his boyfriend's hand, make his boyfriend laugh, fit his body into the curves and spaces of his boyfriend's.
He can't sing a note to match the one coming from his boyfriend's throat, but that doesn't mean that they can't harmonize.
I wrote a biography about Grantaire for a nonexistent AU that places them in America purely because I don't know anything about European schooling.
His adolescence was really really terrible and he went on a quest to ruin his life from quite a young age.
Grantaire was lost. He'd been lost for a long time.
His parents had had a very precise path drawn for him, of course. He was to have all of his father's brilliance with numbers, was set out to be a mathematician or an engineer of the finest caliber; he was going to leave as lasting an impression on the world of mathematics as his father had. Then he was going to settle down with a pretty girl--probably blonde--from a white upper-middle class family like their own. They'd have beautiful, intelligent children who would carry on the family tradition of excellence.
When Grantaire was in second grade, he was placed in the lowest math class. When he was in third, he couldn't remember his times tables. By the time he hit high school, he was almost remedial.
Grantaire's father gave up on him, but that didn't make his attitude toward his son any friendlier. His boy did not understand mathematics, so he would never be what his father wanted him to be, but he was still expected to be great.
There wasn't a single part of Grantaire that believed he was capable of meeting those expectations. Moreover, the older he got, the less he wanted to meet them. At the age of twelve he fancied growing up to be a glorious failure in his father's eyes, dreamed of getting kicked out of the house at sixteen, left without saying a word at midnight on his eighteenth birthday.
It didn't help that this image they always fed him of his pretty wife--blonde hair, blue eyes, pretty face, whatever--it didn't do anything for him. Around middle school, he thought he might have an idea of why. By the time he entered high school, he knew he was gay.
He did his research, read whatever crap material there was available at the time, doing everything he could to be sure before ever thinking of speaking to another person about it.
He let a comment slip one night at dinner and spent the rest of the meal listening to his father talk about how "fucking fags are ruining the country." His was the kind of house where fear and silence ruled together. As much as Grantaire wished he could say "You know, I think I'd be great at sucking cock," cowardice weighed down his tongue and stitched his lips together. He took to rebelling in much more physical ways.
He was fourteen and a freshman, but shockingly good at befriending older students who knew where to get booze and cigarettes and were perfectly happy to share--especially since he gave them cash lifted from his father's wallet in exchange.
Sophomore year, he came home one day drunk in the middle of the afternoon and stinking of tobacco, and his father didn't even notice. So he gave up.
He went from drinking occasionally with friends to drinking often with strangers--there were a lot of people in sketchy parts of town who were happy to help a teenager out when his fake ID wasn't cutting it. He went to every party he heard about--and god did he hear about the parties--drinking himself past memory during most of them. He celebrated his fifteenth birthday by getting trashed and losing his virginity to someone he'd never met and whose name he doesn't know; he just remembers dark hair, a jawline that could cut glass, a smile that made his stupid teenaged knees buckle, and a tongue that made his stupid teenaged dick hard as a rock.
He doesn't remember the sex, but he certainly felt it the next day.
He barely graduated high school. It's funny--he aced every assignment he turned in, could have aced every test if he'd bothered to show up. There were English classes where he got the top grade on essays the others struggled with, art history classes where he got every question right without staying awake through a single class of the chapter, but he just couldn't be bothered to spend his days in school.
He spent them wandering the streets with a cigarette in his mouth instead.
He still doesn't really know how he spent the year after he left home, after he graduated, because he certainly wasn't in college. He was homeless, he was unemployed; he was resourceful, he called in favors, he stole, he sold, and he got by.
When he was nineteen, he got checked into the emergency room with a broken leg, a dislocated shoulder, and two cracked ribs. He'd asked for one favor too many, and no one could ever say he wasn't a fighter, but four against one isn't anything like a fair fight.
He sent the bill to his rich father, read off the credit card number from memory, and decided it might be time to make a change.
He took out loans, got a job at the only shitty cafe that would take him (christ they had a high employee turnaround, but it was money, and he could take the owners' shit as long as he needed to), and signed up for classes at the community college.
He went for art history and English literature for the most part, because he'd always done well with them, and because he didn't hate them. He figured he'd take one with him to university as a major, he if got in.
A couple of years later, he was transferring into university on a scholarship of all things, one that paid for most of his classes and which he's still sure was meant for someone else.
He was short a few GEs, so he walked into an upper division poli-sci class and made his first real friend.
He was startled by the authenticity with which they spoke to him; it wasn't something he'd encountered very often from the crowd he used to spend time with. But all of a sudden he had friends who not only tolerated him, but welcomed him with open arms and open hearts, who made him one of them without hesitation.
Courfeyrac had a smile that warmed him in a very different way than the nameless, faceless guy who'd fucked him into a mattress all those years back; this felt good and natural, like coming home to a lit fireplace after a cold winter afternoon.
There was Bahorel, who would match him drink for drink before having a good-natured round of sparring with him; there was Jehan, who refused to let a day go by without speaking to every one of his friends at least once; there was Combeferre, who let him borrow as many books from the library as he wanted, even when they had no bearing on the classes Grantaire was taking; there was Feuilly, who understood perfectly Grantaire's enthusiasm for learning outside the classroom because it was how he'd learned everything he knows.
And then there was Enjolras, Enjolras who breathed light into everyone around him, Enjolras who stood like a warrior, Enjolras who said stupid things and had stupid plans that Grantaire would never in his life agree with, but which he goes along with because he knows it's how best he can keep them all--his friends and, to a lesser extent, himself--safe.
Grantaire was lost.
But here, with these men around him, he thought he might have found his place.
