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sweetdreamsjeff · 21 days

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RAIDER OF THE LOST ARTS

Jeff Buckley Revisited

by Simeon FlickMarch 2023

Remember me, but oh, forget my fate. ––Henry Purcell, “Dido’s Lament”

Jeff Buckley

When Jeff Buckley drowned in the Wolf River tributary of the Mississippi on May 29, 1997, just as his band was arriving at the Memphis airport to start helping him finally nail down the long-awaited and already agonized-over second album, music lost not only one of its most singular and revolutionary of raw talents, but also the most mythologized—even during his lifetime—since Kurt Cobain’s death just three years prior. Buckley bore the boon and bane of being the scion of an also semi-famous and ill-fated folk/jazz/soul singer named Tim, and spent his entire life and career—following a single week-long reunion just before Tim’s 1975 death from an accidental heroin overdose—futilely trying to distance himself from the wayward father he never knew apart from the music of nine mostly half-baked studio albums. That an ever-growing number of people, the majority having discovered Jeff’s music post-mortem, feel they know the son better than he or anyone else knew his father, and still feel his loss as acutely as one would a dear family member, is a testament to the unparalleled emotional conveyance and lasting legacy of Jeff’s music despite having released only one official studio album during his lifetime (1994’s hauntingly gorgeous, seamlessly diverse Grace, which has found a home on innumerable “Greatest” lists and has been declared a personal favorite by many of his idols). Jeff Buckley’s influence lives on in the burgeoning underground cult of posthumous acolytes, and in the hyper-emotive, falsetto- and vibrato-laden, multi-octave vocal histrionics of so many subsequent singers, which only seem to come off as pale and obvious allusions that smack more of imitation than assimilation, much less embodiment, and we may never see his like again.

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Jeff Buckley entered the world during a meteor shower on the evening of November 17, 1966, the son of an already absent father and a mother, Mary Guibert, who at 18 wasn’t much more than a child herself. Like Cobain, who would arrive only three months later, Jeff had a typical Gen X childhood, replete with divorce, paternal estrangement and maternal domination, often violently reinforced alienation from his formative peers and unstable itinerancy (Mary dragged him through virtually every backwater town in California for all too short stints before he finally put his foot down in Anaheim, where both parents had grown up, and where extended family awaited). The sole refuge, besides the brief but stabilizing presence of the occasional father figure like stepdad Ron Moorhead, was the music men like him turned Jeff onto: Led Zeppelin, Joni Mitchell, Bob Dylan, and countless others who would seemingly become part of his DNA. Music became his north star, his raison d’être, and when things went wrong, which was all too often (Jeff had to be a rock for flighty mother Mary, taking on too many of her responsibilities too young), he would escape into it for hours.

This would compound once he took up the guitar. Like many children of musicians do, in order to carve out a distinct musical identity (and to maintain a healthy generation gap), Jeff—or Scotty, as he was known by his middle name then––gravitated towards Gen-X’s chosen instrument: the electric guitar, to the exclusion of his mother’s classical piano and his father’s acoustic guitar and vocalizations. Aside from the occasional lead vocal in a high school cover band, mostly for the high-ranged prog-rock and new wave classics none of his other bandmates could pull off, he considered himself just a guitar player in the ’80s. But not just any player; with Al DiMeola as one of many paragons, Jeff threw himself headlong into the world of virtuosic technique, teaching himself complicated licks by ear as he worked diligently to master not just the instrument but music itself.

This trajectory was maintained after his 1984 high school graduation with a stint at the derided Los Angeles organization, MIT (Musician’s Institute of Technology), with its many specialized subsidiaries, including GIT (Guitar Institute of Technology), where Jeff continued his musical edification. After obtaining his virtually useless professional certificate from GIT but with his gun-slinging reputation solidified a year later, he gigged in various area bands and worked as a studio rat, arranging and recording demos for other aspiring artists. But the lead vocalist in him remained as of yet dormant.

Jeff’s father, Tim Buckley.

By the late ’80s it was already soul-crushingly evident that Los Angeles was a dead-end cesspool of intolerable immersion in other people’s music, and that a drastic change was required to sweep away the bad influences and external white noise to finally get him in touch with his own muse. New York City beckoned—just as it had to Tim in the ’60s—as a locus were people could become the epitome of themselves, get as weird as they wanted, and be unconditionally accepted or ignored as merely part of the scenery, and reach their full, rewarded potential in whatever their chosen field. Jeff tested the waters for a few months in 1990, but his money and options ran out, and he reluctantly returned to Los Angeles.

It wasn’t until April 26, 1991, when he performed as part of the Hal Willner-curated Greetings from Tim Buckley tribute show at Brooklyn’s St. Ann’s Church that he was able to lay the groundwork for a permanent relocation, having garnered the interest of several music industry types offering tangible professional succor, not to mention his first real girlfriend. That night marked the beginning of Jeff’s mythology-building not only as an artist in his own right, but also as an inextricable extension of his father’s legacy; many of the concert’s attendees were blown away not just by Jeff’s supposedly similar voice and delivery, but also by his physical resemblance (apparently there were some eerie backlit cheekbone shadows cast against the church hall walls that heightened the drama).

That there was so much defensiveness and/or mandated avoidance in so many subsequent interviews seems very bite-the-hand-that-feeds, but everyone has to break free from their parents at some point; that it often requires the assistance of those selfsame parents is a frustratingly ironic aspect of adulthood most of us have to face and embrace. Jeff simply had the misfortune of doing it in a highly scrutinized industry with zero—or even negative—expectations or tolerance of rock star progeny. He was also not only abandoned by his father, to whose funeral he was not even invited, but also projected on by Tim-obsessed fans and former love interests expecting the son to deliver on the father’s failed promise(s).

Jeff set up shop, and with the assistance of a demo tape of original songs he had recorded while still languishing in Los Angeles (courtesy of father Tim’s old manager, Herb Cohen), and a threadbare press kit (the only news clipping being a photocopied review of the Tim memorial show), he began beating the Manhattan pavement to drum up gigs and busk on the streets.

As of yet, short on original material, he leaned on sophisticated covers that resonated with his emphatically empathic and emotive spirit as he wall-pasta’d in search of a unique artistic identity. Songs by more recently assimilated influences like Nina Simone, Edith Piaf, and Leonard Cohen stood side by side with pitch-perfect deep-cut gems by Van Morrison and the beloved Zeppelin, with all-inclusive guitar arrangements that cast his different-every-time performances in full-blown Technicolor. His self-accompaniment on electric guitar as opposed to the acoustic form usually favored by the often excessively earnest—if not outright cheesy—solo folk artists of the past (including early-phase Tim), differentiated him from obsolete traditions, and it also broadcast the implicit message that this lone performer would eventually have a band behind him.

But the comprehensive guitar skill was just a tripod for the potent weapon his voice was becoming.

It’s difficult for most laypeople to differentiate between learned technique and natural timbre. Jeff didn’t inherit his father’s vocal gift; his was high-ranged and effeminate instead, with a thick palate and some huskiness occasionally muddying up his tone production. But what he did with it despite or because of the confines of those “limitations” is absolutely astounding. Instead of self-consciously diluting his delivery, he threw the book at it, almost as a diversionary tactic, like a magician smoke-and-mirror distracting his audience from an otherwise debunkable prestige move. With his uncanny imitative abilities and concomitant penchant for self-pedagogy, he adopted a rapid vibrato in accordance with essential influences (Simone, Piaf, Garland, and even father Tim, as was his undeniable birthright), nicked tricky classical and R&B trills and phrasing, turned his angelic upper register into a strength by frequently, often breathily leaning into his falsetto, incorporated various operatic (chromatic glissandos) and jazz (scatting) effects, learned how to push a full chest voice into his higher register like Robert Plant (and Tim) and to raggedly scream like Cobain and others of his generation. He ran sustain drills as he traveled across the city in cabs or on foot, drawing out his notes as long as possible to hone his deftly rationed breath support (just try holding out along with the 25-second E4 at the end of Grace’s “Hallelujah”). Tim had set the bar high for the younger Buckley, and Jeff rose mightily to the challenge, developing a comprehensive technique that kept pace with his guitar mastery, which had been pared down to unassailable jazz progressions and Hendrixian blues tropes and, like Cobain, would feature downplayed––if any––solos for the duration. If Jeff’s musical continuo was a haunted house, his voice had become the ghost that lingered within it.

(There’s something more compelling about the resulting output of singer/songwriters who start out exclusively as instrumentalists; it makes for more effective and meaningful musical accompaniment and better structured songs, and they tend to work more diligently and eruditely at mastering vocal technique. Tim leaned almost exclusively on his phenomenal voice, and insufficient thought was given to structure and harmony in his songs, and the lyrics were by turns predominantly unremarkable or unwieldy, the main drawback of being able to sing the phonebook. The resulting chord changes and accompaniment were more limited, derivative, yet ironically more obtrusive. Jeff had harnessed hooks, vivid and compelling lyrical imagery, and upper harmony into underlying works that left room for everything important, but especially the vocals. Thus, Jeff managed to achieve with one album what Tim failed to do in nine; he produced a timeless classic.)

Jeff’s most crucial influence––his self-declared Elvis––was the Qawwali singer Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan. Qawwali singing introduced Jeff not only to its mystical eastern harmony, which was a subtle but unmistakable undercurrent in his guitar parts and his music in general, but also to a highly freeing ilk of vocal improvisation he would use to sparing but profound effect in his live performances, most notably in his wordless vocal warm-ups for things like “Mojo Pin” and “Dream Brother,” and in the way he would subtly tweak the songs’ melodies from show to show.

With all of this gelling within and beginning to burst out of him, Jeff flogged his wares at many a Manhattan venue, but he would find his symbiotic Shangri La at Sin-é, a hole-in-the-wall café run by a fellow man of Irish descent, ex-pat Shane Doyle. Jeff crystalized into the self-accompanying male diva he had been striving to become there at Sin-é and found a home away from home not only on the small stage, where he reveled in an unparalleled, as-of-yet anonymous freedom within the material, but also behind the counter, where he could often be found washing dishes.

This is where Jeff’s buzz began to build, thanks to his Monday night residency, the impression he had made on the industry folk at Tim’s memorial concert (including several Columbia employees who started showing up on the regular), and the steadily growing crowds comprised predominantly of young women. As word of mouth spread and audiences began to overflow onto the sidewalk, the higher-ups at several major labels started circling to investigate the fresh blood in the water. A hilarious bidding war ensued, with record company execs actually trying to make table reservations at the tiny walk-in café, and the street’s curbs clogging with limousines. Jeff would end up signing with Columbia, a Sony subsidiary that was home to many of his heroes, and that made all the right overtures and promises to this hot young talent who was desperately intent on accomplishing the impossible feat of using and defeating the music industry from the inside, as opposed to being consumed by it like his father had been.

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Jeff’s “million dollar” deal––consisting of a $100,000 advance, a higher than normal royalty rate, and a three-album guarantee––was unusual for a solo artist of that time, considering there were scant few original songs, no band, and no official demo tape to speak of (the L.A. recordings, which Jeff in his humorously nihilistic cups had dubbed The Babylon Dungeon Sessions, technically fulfilled the applicable criteria but weren’t aurally suitable). Columbia knew they had a hot property on their hands, the Gen-X manifestation of a Dylan or Springsteen-esque heritage artist, and Jeff made sure they knew, mostly through intentional late arrivals to countless business meetings. But because his talents spanned so deep and wide, everyone was initially at a loss as to what form his recorded output should take. What the hell do you do with an artist that has the chops and versatility to go in any direction??

The logical first step was to try and capture the solo version of Jeff on tape and issue it as a soft introduction. Live At Sin-é was culled from two performances recorded during the summer of 1993 and released on November 23 as a perfunctory, slightly disappointing four-song EP consisting of two originals (“Mojo Pin,” and “Eternal Life,” both of which would get definitive, full-band versions on Grace), and two covers (a rhapsodically incendiary rendition of Van Morrison’s “The Way Young Lovers Do” and a transcendent reading of Edith Piaf’s “Je N’en Connais Pas La Fin,” complete with a fingerpicked merry-go-round guitar waltz for the French-sung refrain).

In Columbia’s posthumous ambition to exploit remaining vault caches to continue paying down Jeff’s sizable debt to the label, the original release’s felonious dearth was rectified with 2003’s Legacy Edition, a two-disc, one DVD set that was a much more complete representation of Jeff not just as an artist during that pre-fame period, but as a person. Along with scads more songs from the same shows, the expanded set includes between-song banter that manages to do what his scant, more visceral studio work couldn’t: put his pronouncedly nerdy, madcap, sometimes salacious sense of humor on full display.

Meanwhile, Jeff had also begun working toward his only completed studio LP. Sony had brought him in to record the lion’s share of his repertoire in February of ’93 as a way to gently kick off the A&R cataloguing and selection process for the album (these were later released as part of the 2016 compilation You And I), and recording sessions were scheduled for September at Bearsville Studios, which was located near Woodstock in upstate New York. The only problem––and it was a big one––was that he didn’t have a band. Like so many other aspects of Jeff’s career, this got rectified at the last possible moment; he met and connected with bassist Mick Grondahl first, then drummer Matt Johnson less than a month out from the initial recording dates.

A tall, dark, and handsome Dane, Grondahl had an ideal combination of low-key receptiveness and musical adventurousness that allowed him to be the perfect on- and offstage wingman: he was interesting in an unobtrusive way. Johnson was a wet-eared Texan who had the ideal balance of power and precision (a slight and diminutive presence, Johnson’s physicality was bolstered by his construction day job) and the breadth of taste and experience to match the extreme dynamic variations of Jeff’s sonic palette (Johnson could crush it like Bonzo or play pindrop-soft like a seasoned jazz pro––whatever the music required).

Columbia was less than pleased that Jeff had recruited a rhythm section with virtually no stage or studio experience, but he would eventually be proven right in his selection of introverted, lump-of-clay rookies that doubled as a gang of friends who could hang with him in every sense, especially through all the spontaneous twists and turns he threw at them. This was one of many battles he would actually win for the better against Sony, though he would initially come off as the loser (it took a few months for the band to get up to speed on the Grace repertoire, because they rarely if ever played the album’s songs during rehearsals or soundchecks, preferring to fill that time with “jamming,” since they needed to build an intuitive rapport. They also knew they would be playing the same emotionally demanding songs night after night for the next year or two).

The trio began work on Grace at Bearsville Studios, which had been pre-rigged with several different recording environments to spontaneously capture whatever came out of Jeff and his band in any permutation and style, whether it was solo, low-key jazz combo or full-on rock group. Andy Wallace, who had dialed in the mixes for Nirvana’s Nevermind, wore the coproducing and engineering hats for these sessions, along with providing a regimented lens through which to focus and refract Jeff’s chaotic genius. Recording proceeded slowly and steadily, without too much fanfare, but then, again at the last minute there was an explosion of prodigious productivity. Among other developments, German vibraphone prodigy Karl Berger was in town, and with the assistance of a local quartet, he and Jeff co-arranged string parts for “Grace,” “Last Goodbye,” and “Eternal Life.”

The eleventh-hour burst of creativity suddenly began transforming Jeff’s modest debut into something more akin to the fully produced masterpiece that usually doesn’t happen until later in a discography. More studio time was booked for intensive overdubbing of additional layers, which pushed costs beyond the initial budget, and though Columbia held Jeff in high esteem and generally handled him with kid gloves (full artistic control was implicit), the majority of expenses went into his recoupable fund, which had to be paid down by Jeff through album sale royalties. Though Grace would eventually prove itself beyond worthy of the investment, this was one of the first major manifestations of Jeff’s Sony-sourced headache that would plague him for the duration.

Grace, which was finally released on August 23, 1994, tends to vex the neophyte at first blush. There’s so much to unpack, the resulting bottleneck can be off-putting. Only through repeated listens will it reward those who “wait in the fire,” as the title track has it. Once that rote assimilation has inured you to Jeff’s eccentric voice and anachronistically innovative affectations, and Grace has dilated your emotional receptivity wider than you ever thought possible, you will tend to listen obsessively for a while before you realize you need to take a break so your strung-out, wrung-out heart can snap back to normal. You will probably only be able to listen to it every once in a while thereafter, as the lachrymose music makes demands of your psyche that require exceptional equanimity to withstand (the irony is that while Grace might help you grieve a breakup or death, listening to its ten tracks can also exhume that grief long past the time you have worked through it). The fact that Jeff is no longer here but still sounds undeniably alive in the speakers, and that the making of this album led to insurmountable expectations for a satisfactory follow-up that added to his pre-death stress, only augments the album’s haunting intensity.

The sonic progeny of Robert Johnson, Nina Simone, Edgar Allan Poe, and John Dowland, Jeff comes off as the wide-amplitude, tragic-romantic, card-carrying Scorpio that he was, irresistibly obsessed with love and death, singing often of the moon and rain (and yet also of burning and fire), and bedroom-as-sanctuary-and-wellspring, and a melancholic, nearly heart-rending yearning for absent lovers past and present. All of this can’t help but feed into his steadily growing mythology, not to mention strike he’s-all-alone-and-vulnerable-go-save-him reverberations of longing through the heartstrings of every heterosexual female within earshot, while also getting straight men of all walks gratefully as in touch with their feminine side as he was. In the age of grunge––which force-fed emotion through intimidating volume and distortion––Grace was an anomaly, delivering a wider range of feeling through a listener’s induced surrender to its heightened peaks and valleys, with Jeff’s by turns angelic and demonic voice keeping pace, and, unlike Cobain, with absolutely no irony to lean on, hide behind, or use as disclaimer.

“Mojo Pin” is the perfect overture for an audiophile quality album with such wide yet still somehow cohesive style and dynamic oscillations, with softly looping guitar harmonics fading in, followed by a wordless melody delicately sung over a fingerpicked folk/jazz guitar pattern. The music rollercoasters from there, with dramatic stops featuring vocal melismas that proceed into straight 4/4 time, finally crescendoing in a loud, climactic buildup, and a ragged scream from Jeff that tapers seamlessly back into the jazz feel.

The first stanzas tell us so much about the author:

I’m lying in my bed, the blanket is warm This body will never be safe from harm Still feel your hair, black ribbons of coal Touch my skin to keep me whole

Oh, if only you’d come back to me If you laid at my side I wouldn’t need no mojo pin To keep me satisfied

Here we find a vividly lovelorn artist who tends to compose from the subconscious (as with many of his original songs, “Mojo Pin” was inspired by a dream he had had) has already begun confronting his mortality, equates love with addiction like so many troubadours before him (“mojo pin” is a euphemism for a shot of heroin, which, inspired in part by his father, Jeff used for a short time during the tour in support of Grace), and feels hopelessly separated from it all, with a heightened sense of longing that can’t help but garner the listener’s sympathies.

The title track picks up the thread in more ways than one; along with “Mojo Pin” it is the second of two pre-Sony songwriting collaborations with former Captain Beefheart guitarist Gary Lucas—as part of his short-lived Gods and Monsters project (that’s Lucas’s guitar-noodle wizardry on both). And with lines like “Oh, drink a bit of wine––we both might go tomorrow,” it ups the mortality-as-enabler-and-aphrodisiac ante.

With its churning 6/8 groove, and with Jeff starting the song in typical fashion––toward the bottom of his discernable vocal range (D3), “Grace” culminates cathartically on a sustained, heavily vibrato’d, full-chest E5 bad-assedly blasting from his manic larynx and also marks the first of several ominous allusions to being harmed by water (“…And I feel them drown my name…”).

“Last Goodbye” was supposed to be the big first single. It even got an MTV video treatment (just look at his dour expression as he and the exhausted band take a precious day off from a European tour to do this exorbitantly expensive production of a compromised artistic concept in a despised medium), but with no real chorus to speak of, its chart success was modest at best. A Delta blues slide glides across an open-tuned electric 12-string guitar before dropping into a mid-tempo dance groove and a lyric full of bittersweet memories of a failed relationship with an older woman in L.A.

Not only was Jeff a bit shorthanded when it came to filling an entire 52-minute album with originals, but it also would have been a shame not to round out the running order with some well-chosen and interpreted covers in emulation of the intimate immediacy of Jeff’s Sin-é days. The first of these appearing on Grace is “Lilac Wine,” a torch-song standard written by James Shelton and adopted by Nina Simone. Jeff gives the distant-lover-as-intoxicant lyrics the hyper-emotive treatment, with perfectly sustained vibrato on the drawn-out notes and with his voice occasionally breaking into a heartrending sob, especially on the line, “…Isn’t that she, or am I just going crazy, dear?”

“Lilac Wine” is a significant indication of the barely fathomable depth of Jeff’s––and by extension, the band’s––versatility and their ability to do exactly right by the artist and repertoire (it’s difficult, in that sense, to listen to any of Tim’s records without taking umbrage with the musicians in the various band incarnations smothering Tim’s voice and stepping all over his 12-string guitar with their ego-fulfilling and poorly––if at all––thought-out parts).

“So Real” represents not only the successful search for a second guitarist, but also a tenacious battle fought and won against Columbia for the very soul of the album.

Michael Tighe, a mutual friend of Jeff and his ex Rebecca Moore (the one he had met and fallen in love with at the Tim tribute, and whom “Grace”s lyrics supposedly feature) joined the band on second guitar after most of the work on the album had been completed, and he brought an intriguing set of chord changes with him. When it came time to record B-sides and possible non-album singles (a cover of Big Star’s “Kangaroo”, which, to Sony’s consternation would often stretch out to 15 or 20 minutes in concert, was also laid down), Tighe’s progressions, which were inordinately sophisticated considering he hadn’t been playing guitar for very long, were dusted off, tracked with engineer Cliff Norrell, and Jeff did the lead vocal in one take after a last-minute walk to finish the lyric.

Distinguished by the verses’ seamless changes in meter (back and forth from duple to triple time), its by-now standard mélange of tragic-romantic imagery in the lyrics (“I love you / But I’m afraid to love you,” and the foreboding “And I couldn’t awake from the nightmare that sucked me in and pulled me under…”), another wildly climactic E5 at the end, and a massive chorus hook, the song fit Jeff’s MO––accessible innovation and wide-amplitude expression––perfectly.

So much so that it quickly shed its B-side status and usurped a coveted spot on the record from another, highly contested original: The excessively personal and harsh “Forget Her,” which in retrospect would have been the sole manifestation of irony on the album. Jeff was justifiably dissatisfied with this disingenuously caustic 12/8 blues-pop dirge waltz he had allegedly penned about the aforementioned, hapless Moore, upon whom the lyric displaced Jeff’s own culpability for the relationship’s dissolution. But the label was head over heels with it, as the song’s melodramatic, Michael Bolton-esque chorus made it the one and only potential crossover smash in their minds. Columbia exec Don Ienner, who was essentially Jeff’s boss, tried everything short of bribery to futilely sweet-talk Jeff into keeping it on the album, which, in itself, was a tangible reason for Jeff to dig in, though he also feared that the slightly smarmy song would be a one-way ticket to One-Hit-Wonder-ville. As it turned out, “So Real”s chorus was hookier anyway, enough to warrant its own video treatment, though its subsequent commercial impact was also negligible.

A plaintive sigh kicks off what is now widely regarded as the definitive recording of Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah,” the second cover of the album, performed solo and glued together from multiple takes into a solemn paean to the ecstatic pain of long-term relationships. Inspired by John Cale’s 1991 reading, Jeff sticks to the ultra-romantic verses that find love and suffering linked in paradox, and the guitar tone and reverb augment the song’s church hymn vibe, almost as though it was recorded at a service or funeral. If you’ve heard this recording or noticed it in myriad movies and TV shows and haven’t cried at least once, you’re not human.

“Lover, You Should Have Come Over” is a classic swinging blues adagio, perhaps the best known and most covered original on the album. Water and death are linked once again (“Looking out the door, I see the rain fall upon the funeral mourners / Parading in a wake of sad relations as their shoes fill up with water…”), and then Jeff abruptly breaks that train of thought to do right by Moore in recognizing his role in their breakup (“…Maybe I’m too young / To keep good love from going wrong”). Again, his vocal starts low and builds to another E5 at the end. In the hands of another artist, all of this would have sounded forced and over the top, but somehow Jeff was able to make it work. That’s his genius/madness; he himself was fully dilated and committed in a way that wasn’t healthy or sustainable, but damn, did it make for visceral listening.

“Corpus Christi Carol” reaches even further back than 1950’s “Lilac Wine” and completely blows the listener away with its expectation-defying display of musical depth. He becomes a bona fide classical singer here, exhibiting total immersion in the anonymous 16th-century lyric that the aptly named English composer Benjamin Britten incorporated into 1933’s Choral Variations for Mixed Voices (“A Boy Was Born”), Op. 3, finally arriving at Jeff’s adolescent ears through the version for high voice recorded by Janet Baker in 1967. Jeff completely inhabits the allegory of a bedridden, Christ-like knight endlessly bleeding, witnessed by love and the purity of his cause, with the empathic delicacy that was already his trademark. The stark arrangement for electric guitar and scant overdubs is superbly matched by the lamenting vocal, which ends on a ghostly, falsetto’d E5 that is utterly cathartic in its climactic glory.

Jeff wanted to make an album that compelled rock fans to forget about Zeppelin II, and “Eternal Life” delivers on the heavier side of that promise. Written during his time in L.A., the creepy intro stops on a dime before a bludgeoning, yet highly danceable groove drops in and a reactive lyric confronts applicable listeners to wake up and smell the mortal coffee:

Eternal life is now on my trail Got my red-glitter coffin, man––just need one last nail While all these ugly gentlemen play out their foolish games There’s a flaming red horizon that screams our names…

Racist everyman, what have you done? Man, you made a killer of your unborn son Oh, crown my fear your king at the point of a gun All I want to do is love everyone…

There’s no time for hatred––only questions What is love, where is happiness What is alive, where is peace? When will I find the strength to bring me release?

With distorted bass as well as guitar alongside complementary strings and a killer groove featuring a highly effective, accelerating hi-hat pattern from Johnson on the verses, the song successfully proselytizes for universally incontestable causes, and reinforces Jeff’s projected mythology as a doomed soul whose seemingly relished fate awaits him sooner rather than later.

“Dream Brother” may be the last song on the album, but it was the very first idea Jeff and the band had worked up together. At the risk of overusing the word, and just like the album as a whole, it is haunting from start to finish, with a droney, string-cranking intro giving way to an eastern-inflected guitar motif. Jeff’s more static but no less sublime vocal melody goes beyond complementary; it builds tension by hanging on or around the fifth for most of the verse stanzas before resolving to the tonic on the last note of the phrase. Grondahl’s bass line, as with all his work on the album, is a sublime treat; here we find him working his way through the exotic Phrygian mode, recasting the guitar parts into a harmonically complex, emotionally compelling accompaniment that perfectly underpins the vocal.

The song features another penned-and-sung-at-the-last-possible-minute lyric, the chorus of which admonishes dear L.A. friend Chris Dowd (of Fishbone) not to abandon his new family like Tim had Jeff and Mary: “Don’t be like the one who made me so old / Don’t be like the one who left behind his name / ‘Cause they’re waiting for you like I waited for mine / And nobody ever came.” Grace’s only allusion to Jeff’s father builds in intensity to an instrumental bridge with wordless Qawwali wailings that are utterly bone chilling in their echoing-into-eternity saturation. The album’s final line puts an ominous capstone on the pyramid of the untimely-death-by-water preoccupation: “Asleep in the sand, with the ocean washing over…”

PART TWO

Jeff Buckley

From ’94 to ’96, both solo and with the band, Jeff Buckley toured the world and elsewhere. Those two years were highly transformative; he met and/or was lauded by so many of his personal heroes (including Zeppelin’s Page and Plant, Paul and Linda McCartney, U2’s Bono and The Edge, David Bowie, and he had a brief affair with Elizabeth Fraser of Cocteau Twins and This Mortal Coil, who had covered Tim’s “Song to the Siren” [for aural proof of the romance, go to YouTube and check out their unfinished, embarrassingly smitten PDA duet on “All Flowers in Time”]), picked up an all but unshakeable smoking habit as a late-blooming extension of delayed formative-year rebellion and as a temporary, self-harming relief from the stresses of touring and just-shy-of-A-list fame (he managed to make People magazine’s 50 most beautiful list in May of ’95, which mostly appalled him, and also had an eye-opening night out with Courtney Love), turned down numerous primetime opportunities—SNL, Letterman, and acting roles and commercial placements—in favor of “underground” platforms like MTV’s “120 Minutes,” and was constantly at odds with his record label.

Australia and France embraced him like a returning hero, with the latter country’s Académie Charles Cros presenting Jeff with the rarely-awarded-to-an-American Grand Prix International Du Disque in honor of Grace on April 13, 1995 (two live shows, the second representing a career peak, were recorded during a French leg of the tour and later released as 1995’s Live at the Bataclan EP and 2001’s Live à l’Olympia).

The tank ran dry on March 1, 1996, which marked not only the final date of a hastily booked Australian/New Zealand tour to capitalize on Jeff’s surging popularity there and subsequently the last in official support of Grace, but also the final show with percussionist Matt Johnson, who had reached his hard limit with the band leader’s exacerbated lifestyle excesses and reckless behavior, not to mention Jeff’s escalating hazing of him.

Drummerless and exhausted, a different Jeff Buckley returned to a different New York. Though it suited his dysfunctionally nomadic, reactively noncommittal spirit, touring is not conducive to one��s mental or physical well-being nor is any level of fame, which is unfortunately what moves the units at the cost of anonymous normalcy. As a result, Jeff could no longer frequent any of his old haunts without being recognized and approached by strangers who thought they knew and deserved a piece of him beyond his timeless music. But then even his friends couldn’t help but feel jilted in their wanting a less ephemeral friendship with him, as he made them feel like the undeniably corroborated center of the universe when he was around, having given of himself interpersonally as completely and unadvisedly as he did in his music.

With inchoate fame now cutting him off from his usual decompression options, Jeff couldn’t recharge his psychic batteries. That coupled with the fact that Columbia and the press had been persistently hounding him regarding a follow-up to Grace piled even more pressure on the stress heap, further hampering his creative process and making The Big Apple taste more of the cyanide within the seeds than the once novel fruit of clandestine self-discovery.

There’s an industry saying: a recording artist has their entire life to make the first album and six months to make the second. Already no stranger to writer’s block under normal circumstances (he was inherently a better interpreter than a composer and understandably loath to commit to locked-in versions of anything), Jeff found himself hitting the creative wall in the midst of his increasingly stifling paradigm. The new songs were coming, albeit more slowly than everyone preferred, and in a different, more current vein than Grace. Having kept an ever-vigilant ear to the cultural ground, Jeff had met the Grifters and the Dambuilders while on tour, gaining a new love interest—Joan Wasser, to whom he related early on that he was going to die young—from the latter band and befriended Nathan Larson of Shudder to Think, and their contemporary alternative rock vibes ignited a light bulb over Jeff’s head, giving him the inspiration to pursue a rawer sound, much as Cobain had for Nevermind’s 1993 follow-up—In Utero.

It wasn’t necessarily Sony’s cup of tea. Though the label was by no means dead-set on putting out Son of Grace, they were a bit befuddled by the significant shift in musical mores away from the classic heritage artist sound toward the aural marriage of the Smiths and Soundgarden evident in the newer material. His sagacious selection of classic solo repertoire, and Grace by extension, had gotten Jeff’s foot in the door, as their sophisticated old-school values were arguably a premeditated affectation on Jeff’s part to woo the industry’s boho Boomer gatekeepers into signing and unconditionally supporting him. Now that he was more or less ensconced on the inside, and having gained more than a little leverage from all the hard work of the past year and a half, Jeff wanted to change things up to reflect more of what he’d been listening to and writing as an artist of his own generation. Though jumping high through Jeff’s hoops was by now second nature, Columbia was nevertheless befuddled.

This vexation next manifested as bewilderment over the choice of legendary Television alum Tom Verlaine (RIP) to aid and abet his alt-rock vision as the inexperienced coproducer for the second album. No one at Sony thought Verlaine was the right man for the job; they would just as soon have gone with Andy Wallace again rather than someone who, as with Grondahl, Johnson, and Tighe, didn’t have a track record to speak of. Whether or not Jeff’s choice was ill informed was irrelevant; it became his new crusade against the label, a pyrrhic war waged solely on the principle of getting his way even if it ended up biting him in the ass.

Columbia green-lit some bet-hedging recording with Verlaine to humor Jeff, but also to surreptitiously gather leverage as a failed, debt-enlarging investment, as the odds were slim that he could pull another rabbit out of his hat within the limited, impossible-for-Jeff parameters. Two brief as they were dissatisfying sessions occurred at various New York studios in 1996 and then a third at Memphis’s Easley McCain studios with Johnson’s permanent replacement, Parker Kindred, in early 1997. Jeff had become interested in recording at Easley through Grifters guitarist and Memphis resident Dave Shouse, and in relocating to that hallowed town for its legendary status in the history of blues and rock ‘n roll, and yet also as an escape from the lost anonymity, label pressure, and detrimental distractions of New York.

Jeff began striving for—and was at least able to temporarily reclaim—some semblance of a normal life in Memphis; he settled in at 91 Rembert Street, where he could often be found lying in the overgrown grass of his front yard, staked out all the good local restaurants, got a Sin-é-reminiscent Monday night residency at a downtown venue called Barrister’s, proposed marriage to Joan Wasser, and spent time with local friends who didn’t treat him like a rock star. At the time of his death, and as this evidence indicates, Jeff was trying to settle down, but he also felt ready to finally nail the landing on the second album, which he earnestly hoped would not only eclipse Grace but would frighten people as well. He was also noticeably uneasy.

The iteration of what was going to be called My Sweetheart the Drunk that came out almost too soon in May of 1998, not the barely attainable one Jeff would have overworked himself to complete had he lived, is the version the label should have agreed to put out had he been willing and able to play the long game. Though disc 2, with the exception of “Haven’t You Heard” and the cover of “Satisfied Mind,” is mainly for diehards (it contains sloppily recorded and produced home recordings that only hint at greatness, as well as superfluous original mixes of select disc 1 material), the ten Verlaine tracks are nothing to scoff at. In fact, the minimally but still excellently arranged and produced songs not only sound surprisingly finished, but would have also found Jeff paving the way for the future of alternative rock/pop in a manner that was more in touch with the times but still rang true to Jeff’s old-school tragic-romantic sophistication. Hindsight finds these recordings nothing to be ashamed of, the natural, expectation-managing and yet still promise-fulfilling continuation of Jeff’s artistic journey, though he didn’t—and wouldn’t—agree with that assessment (the tracks probably could have used just a little more tightening up… At the very least, and as it stands, disc 1 of My Sweetheart the Drunk could have been a highly respectable and acceptable “sophomore flop”). Jeff would have had to ease up on the malignant perfectionism had he lived, and in that light it both does and doesn’t seem strange that he continued massaging these recordings—with additional overdubs and polishing occurring at Easley after the band’s return to New York—despite his clearly declared intention to abandon what he had already recorded, concede defeat regarding Verlaine (who urged Jeff to erase the tapes), and start from scratch with Andy Wallace.

Sketches for My Sweetheart the Drunk has plenty of wide-amplitude thrills (“Vancouver,” which started life as an instrumental break on the Grace tour, now featured a soaring vocal that found him suddenly clued in to the detriments of giving too much of himself: “I need to be alone / To heal this bleeding stone…”), lots of tragic-romantic flair (the beautiful, minimally orchestrated ballads “Morning Theft” and “Opened Once,” the swinging caveat “Witches Rave,” and the macabre, “Come as You Are”-ish “Nightmares by the Sea” are by turns self-castigating and wary), more struggle over suitable repertoire (Jeff harbored hypocritical paranoia that the set-apart, slinky R&B slow-jam, “Everybody Here Wants You” would be chosen as a single against his wishes [it was], even though the song is an instant classic, and the album could have done without the cover of the Nymphs’ “Yard of Blonde Girls,” though he didn’t trust Columbia to agree), two Qawwali nods (the mantra jam “New Year’s Prayer”, and the utterly harrowing “You And I”), and plenty of fodder for precognition-of-untimely-death speculators (“Stay with me under these waves tonight / Be free for once in your life tonight…” from “Nightmares By The Sea”, and “Ah, the calm below that poisoned river wild…” from the goosebump-evincing “You And I”).

**************

Recording contracts have always been a Faustian bargain for the artist, especially at the onset, when it is weighted heavily in the card-holding label’s favor. Art and commerce often meet in the cultural-industrial ring as irreconcilable spouses who stay together for the kids, with the artist wanting to make a unique, challenging, and hopefully timeless statement for theirs and successive generations, and the label needing to make a profit, not lose their shirt, or just break even. The latter often requires innocuous music that has been dumbed down or otherwise compromised for mass consumption, usually the antithesis of the former. The artist, though, according to the standard contract they signed, is legally beholden to the label, which owns the master recordings and the right to exploit them until such a time, often years or even decades down the road, when the artist has gained enough cachet through account-balancing sales and accumulated cultural pertinence to renegotiate the contract into a more equitable form that befits their too-hard-earned stature. As with life in general, and back when labels were still labels, one had to play a patient, penitent, somewhat circumspect long game, with eyes intent on the future prize in order to succeed as a recording and touring artist, and to eventually win out over the label.

Bob Dylan and Joni Mitchell, now in or on the cusp of their 80s respectively, managed to successfully undergo and even control their fame-reconciling heritage artist transformations and break through to the other side. Jeff Buckley, who realized too late and too far out to sea that he had given up essential access to a normal life, and whose DNA and hardship-forged personality was geared for fleeting, heightened moments of impulsive escape and unrealistic levels of emotional outpouring during which there was no tomorrow, did not. After an itinerant childhood in a chaotic, single-parent household, neither of which allowed him any bonded, bolstering long-term friendships or gave him the necessary emotional support to instill enough confidence to enable him to pace, self-nurture, and recharge as an adult, Jeff was predestined for burnout. Add to this the looming legacy of his father’s similarly self-inflicted and untimely doom, the demoralizing fiscal and creative debt to—and incongruent association with—a major label, and pervasive generational nihilism, and you have the recipe for a death by misadventure.

The world generally eats pure-heart-on-sleeve empaths like Jeff Buckley for breakfast, and just like house-always-wins Vegas casinos, record labels are particularly good at exploiting, devouring, and then remorselessly shitting out their charges no matter how vigilant the artist may have been to the contrary. In Jeff and Columbia’s case, it’s difficult to pick a winner; dying got him out of both having to deliver on a second album and pay off his way-in-the-red recoupable, but his absence-generated popularity and Sony’s dogged determination to monetize ample vault caches in the aftermath may have balanced the ledger by now anyway. Either way you slice it, and for what it’s worth, the artist is gone, and Columbia is a tawdry shadow of its former self, but Jeff’s timeless music remains.

Trying to imagine how Jeff would have navigated the post-5/29/97 waters is not challenging, considering the comprehensive changes already in motion that would herald not only the end of his generation’s all-too-brief moment in the sun, but also the beginning of the end of the record industry as he had known it. Jeff probably would have seen Sony’s support slowly dwindle, becoming even more isolated until his contract came up for renewal and he was then most likely dropped from the label, as its various employee archetypes, which were industry-wide revolving doors, would have inevitably jumped ship for higher positions elsewhere. This exodus would have severed nurtured—and nurturing—connections, leaving Jeff in the hands of green, bottom-line-focused reps that had had nothing to do with scouting or signing him and were subsequently less inclined to offer the kind of largesse and preferential treatment to which he had been accustomed.

A new generation was also coming of age, one that sought shallower, more effervescent thrills to match their innate, well-nurtured ebullience. Soundgarden, Jeff’s now fellow-in-untimely-death friend Chris Cornell’s band, which was the first of the Seattle grunge era to sign to a major label, broke up almost on cue that year. Groups like Spice Girls, Backstreet Boys, N’Sync, Hanson, and solo artists like Brittney Spears, Ricky Martin, and Christina Aguilera were prepared to replace grunge’s locked-up engine in the zeitgeist car, with already emergent, transitionally mellower sounds from the likes of Dave Matthews Band, Blues Traveler, Phish, Spin Doctors, and Hootie and the Blowfish having paved the way. Autotune was introduced that year, with computer-based digital recording having begun its ascendant journey to becoming the analog-supplanting, music-devaluing standard.

Within a decade, for better and worse, the industry as Jeff knew it would no longer exist, nor would the focus on organically profound music on which he had been brought up and of which he had become a part. With no plan B (he endearingly applied for what would have been a meagerly if at all remunerated position at the Memphis zoo’s butterfly exhibit), Jeff would have been hard-pressed to maintain a subsistent income—let alone pay down his debt to Columbia—inside or outside the new, less tolerant manifestation of the industry, which would have scoffed derisively and dismissively at his to-date album sales. And he probably would have recoiled from the rising popularity of bubblegum pop and nü-metal buffoonery in disgust.

Kurt Cobain once said he wished he had paced himself better, played more of a long game by holding back some of Nevermind’s material for subsequent albums, and a general feeling persists that Jeff had similarly neglected any thought of the future by putting everything he had into Grace, and there wasn’t enough left to create something new to match its grandeur, at least not within his unsustainable paradigm. It seems as though he was done, that his music’s true moment in the sun could only begin after he had disappeared somehow. Amassing cachet would have to rely on his premature-demise-as-career-move absence, the removal of his chronic perfectionism that allowed Sony to put out whatever was in the vaults without his opposition (albeit in full, duly diligent cooperation with next-of-kin trustee, supposed legacy preserver / promoter, and posthumous stage mother Mary), and amassing fin de siècle malaise that would find solace in Grace. But Jeff’s death feels wrong as well, redolent of the same sense of tragedy as JFK’s assassination, as if we had truly lost one of the good ones, and the subsequent sensation of all hope for a fair and just future having been annihilated in a flash, regardless of whether or not either of them actually deserved that idolization.

The grief-sourced application of culpability gets complicated when someone who has deeply affected strangers and loved ones alike is directly responsible for their own death, but it can’t exactly be called a suicide. And though we have plenty of lyrical and anecdotal evidence that could easily be construed as self-fulfilling prophecy (like Cobain, Jeff had consistently and insistently telegraphed his denouement), it is otherwise difficult to substantiate rumors that Jeff had been dreaming of his demise just weeks—if not longer—beforehand. But as with the cinematic portrayal of Mozart obsessively composing what would become his own requiem in Amadeus, if someone persistently gives thought and voice to fatal intent, walks that fine line long enough, the border between this world and the next will begin to blur and smudge until it finally wears thin enough for one to cross over without even noticing. Freud may have said it best: “Until you make the subconscious conscious, it will direct your life, and you will call it fate.”

Unlike influencee Rufus Wainwright, whose songs are also emotive but restrained in comparison, Jeff never developed the necessary filters to mitigate the harmful aspects of his heightened sensitivity and permeability, preferring instead to empty his emotional ballast onstage night after night to the adulation of interchangeable, undemanding strangers (though some of them often clamored annoyingly for renditions of Tim’s songs), as if each show were his last (which he had hypocritically accused Tim of in a 1993 interview). In all of Jeff’s 30 years, he had never learned the kind of self-love that would awaken and bolster the basic long-term survival instincts to enable him to throw off the chains of his deeply ingrained fatalism. With his pallid, fey appearance, alluring gender-balanced charisma, heart-rending empathy, unregulated outflow of emotional energy, and foolhardily unshielded vulnerability, he seemed to many as though he was marked for an early end no matter what evasive action he might’ve taken.

Though Jeff had been exhibiting unstable, borderline bipolar behavior in the weeks prior to his drowning, he didn’t consciously intend to die that night (a nearby witness apparently heard a single cry for help), but his willful ignorance of the dangers of his impulsive and fatalistic nature and the whimsical flouting of the perils of his immediate surroundings would be the co-conspirators of his mortal undoing.

Fully clothed at twilight, Jeff waded backward into a notoriously dangerous river despite a lifetime aversion to water—and in denial of all the overt signals his subconscious and conscious had sent him. Doing the recently learned backstroke to the braggadocio boom-box strains of Zeppelin’s “Whole Lotta Love” in a roiling river all but universally avoided for its severe, passing-boat-generated undercurrents was supposed to be a spontaneous trip to and from the edge to take his mind off of life’s untenable pressures for a short while. But instead, and to his torch-carrying fans’, friends’, and family’s ongoing bereavement, it lasted forever.

**************

England’s annual Meltdown Festival consists of a series of concerts given over several days by contemporary artists and is curated by a celebrity participant with an ear toward the high-minded performance of unconventional repertoire. Jeff was invited by 1995’s chosen Master of Ceremonies—Elvis Costello—to take part on July 1, which serendipitously coincided with that year’s European tour in support of Grace, though it was inconveniently sandwiched between concert dates across the channel.

Along with collaborations in mixed ensembles comprised of co-billed artists, Jeff did a four-song solo set that featured the apropos “Corpus Christi Carol” (the song that had originally piqued Costello’s interest), Nina Simone’s “The Other Woman,” and “Grace.”

He began with an absolutely devastating rendition of “Dido’s Lament,” which Costello had personally requested from the setting of Dido and Aeneas by 16th century British composer Henry Purcell. Jeff was indistinguishable from a fully trained, operatic countertenor as he delivered the moribund lines with innate familiarity:

Thy hand, Belinda, darkness shades me On thy bosom let me rest More I would, but Death invades me Death is now a welcome guest

When I am laid in earth May my wrongs create No trouble in thy breast Remember me, but oh, forget my fate

Costello came out after the last of the four songs and accompanying ovation had died down and following some gracious comments recognizing the young artist’s overflowing docket, he essentially summed up Jeff’s contribution—and the debt of gratitude music owes him—with his closing salutation that now stands as a fitting epitaph:

“He gave everything. Thanks, Jeff.”

#Jeff Buckley Revisited #jeff buckley #jeffbuckley #by Simeon FlickMarch 2023 #simeon flick #Remember me #but oh #forget my fate.#––Henry Purcell #“Dido’s Lament”

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mourningwings · 8 months

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(thirst) — dirty dateables ✧⁺ . ₊

— author's note: as i promised :) part one here!

diavolo who promised time and time ago that he would uphold his royal bloodline one way or another, either by conceiving a future heir or by fucking his eternal consort good enough that you yearn for nothing more than to stay with him and his (admittedly) large length.

barbatos who is far better with his two-pronged tail than his cock at working you over to sweat, tears, and an "impressive" mess of cum (his words, not mine).

simeon who should knows he shouldn't, shouldn't, shouldn't- but he just can't help himself (but he can definitely help you) when your soft moans beg more like prayer.

solomon who's fingers, so long and pale, help him flick through spellbook pages with ease or to sort through herbs and bottles, and especially, to fill and stretch whatever hole of yours needs him. he's so good at handling special liquids, after all.

thirteen who nearly crushes your head with tattooed thighs when your tongue first dips inside her cunt. thirteen who shakes and quivers with such a sweet cry because "you're so good, you're so good, you're so good".

understqrs Ⓒ 2O23

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still-a-morosexual-help · 1 year

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Shoutout to baby Diavolo for realising his father was a shitty dad & that he needed some real adult supervision so he goes out shopping for a brand new dad and picks possibly the oldest being in creation

Also makes adult Diavolo being so upset in S3 about forcing Barbatos into servitude so funny Babygirl you were a literal child - terrified and neglected - whom Barbatos could have wiped out of existence with a flick of his finger and instead he found you so adorable he decided for himself that he would look after you for the rest of eternity

Do you think Barbatos and Lucifer have ,(spiked) tea parties about once being powerful, respected, stoic and mostly solitary beings but then one day they decided to adopt some kid - who was a kind yet excitable ball of sunshine and wasn't getting the love, attention and/or understanding he needed from his current guardian - purely because they found him (and his sheer audacity) adorable and now they have to deal with the utter chaos their lives subsequently devolved into?

And you know how Luke is definitely Simeon's kid? And how Diavolo is definitely Barbatos's kid? And how Barbatos plays such a big role in Luke's life that he's basically Luke's other parent? And how married Barbatos & Simeon seem in their chat? Do you think one day Luke's gonna wake up in horror and realise the future Demon King is technically pretty much his step-brother?

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another-lost-mc · 1 year

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Where They Prefer to Bite MC THE DEMON BROTHERS + DATEABLES + SIDE CHARACTERS 1.1k words | NSFW | gn!Reader | Vampire!AU Content warnings: Possessive behaviour, biting and blood-drinking, some sexual content (oral sex) in the third portion. They/them pronouns are used for the characters.

─ PREFERS TO BITE YOUR NECK: Satan, Belphegor, Diavolo, Simeon, Thirteen

There's something so appealing about the tantalizing seduction of feathery-light kisses against smooth, delicate skin.

The evening started as all fairytale romances do: a sweet, chaste kiss pressed against your lips. Sin disguised as passion unravels tears at your self-control until you fall into their greedy embrace. Their tongue curls so eagerly with your own, and it’s enough to set your heart and body ablaze.

The lazy drag of their kiss across your warm cheeks and against the soft edge of your jaw leads them down, down, down. Their hand cradles the back of your neck so gently, and you relax into the seductive trap you've willingly stumbled into as you feel a white-hot pinprick of pain—

—but your gasp of discomfort in their ear stutters into a confused, breathy moan as pleasure washes over you. The desperate sounds of their lips sucking wetly around punctured skin are disguised by your own incoherent pleas as you beg them for more. Your hands scramble for purchase in their hair and you clench the front of their clothes so tightly that your knuckles turn white. You whimper their name as you melt against them because whatever this feeling is, you never want it to stop.

They flick their tongue teasingly against your pulse point, and it's almost like they can taste your heartbeat as heat surges through your body and warms the skin beneath their lips. They caress the delicate column of your throat playfully until they start to suck a little harder, drinking greedily as hunger and lust take over. They leave little marks that bloom like amethyst clouds across your skin; it's the first of many ways they intend to claim you tonight.

Let go, their voice whispers in your mind, and you fall apart untouched except for the hint of fang that scrapes your neck and their hands wrapped around your waist. They hide their smirk against your skin as the scent of your arousal floods their senses, and they drink until they've had their fill.

─ PREFERS TO BITE YOUR WRIST: Leviathan, Barbatos, Mephistopheles, Raphael

Your hands are so soft.

That's what they think to themselves when you walk together, your arm linked with theirs or your fingers laced together as they lead you through nighttime's busy streets. Their eyes shine brightly in the moonlight and their lips curl into small, loving smiles each time you glance at them shyly with an affectionate gaze of your own.

They spare no expense when it comes to selecting the most thoughtful gifts for you. The silk scarf around your neck compliments the unique kaleidoscope colour of your eyes. (It hides the tempting sight of your bare neck from view, for they can only control themselves for so long.)

There’s a delicate chain around your wrist made with precious metals and jewels, specially designed and crafted for you. Their fingers trembled slightly when they put it on you earlier. It’s understandable that you would mistake the mouthwatering hunger in their eyes as simple adoration for such a beautiful trinket. (Their namesake is engraved on the chain you wear—they’ve claimed both your heart and your blood for themselves.)

At evening’s end, they’ll urge you to sit comfortably before drawing your hand to their lips for the softest kiss, one that demands nothing of you but promises you the world so long as you remain theirs. They kneel at your feet like you’re an altar of worship, and hunger gnaws deep in their belly when they remove their gift and tuck it away for safekeeping.

Your gentle fingers card through their hair when they move closer to you, setting comfortably between your legs, as their lips moving lazily against your skin. You wince when the soft kiss on the inside of your wrist gives way to a flash of fang and a moment of searing pain.

They watch you with dark, half-lidded eyes as you squirm with pleasure while they feast upon the generous gift you’ve given them in return. When they’ve sated their bloodlust, the jewelry they clasp around your wrist once more will hide the lingering marks that adorn your skin.

─ PREFERS TO BITE YOUR THIGHS: Lucifer, Mammon, Asmodeus, Beelzebub, Solomon

The heat between your legs diffuses your natural scent, and their heightened senses can detect the faint metallic taste of copper in the air. Desire warms the blood that pumps through your veins and it's irresistible. Desperation brings them to their knees before you and they’re ravenous as they peel back the cumbersome layers of clothing until you’re both bare and wanting in their dark silk sheets.

The time for sweetness and coy flirtations has ended, and all that remains is the heady scent of your arousal and your trembling body beneath theirs as their gentle hands pry your legs apart. The first drops of arousal dot your skin and they’re powerless to resist the temptation to taste you. The sounds of their lips and tongue coaxing pleasure from your body is muffled by your soft thighs clenched around the sides of their face, legs trembling beneath their hands that hold you in place while they ravish you.

They lift their head when your pleasured cries finally fade away to silence, showing you their mouth shining with your slick release. Even as you pant heavily with satisfied exhaustion, your greedy eyes still track their tongue when they lick their lips with a satisfied hum.

They cherish you above all else—your love and your blood sustains them, and they would be lost without you. They take you to bed so they can prove their love to you with unholy worship. They draw pleasure from your body with their hands and their mouth; afterwards, their loving words and needy kisses are saturated with your taste.

The soft, jiggly flesh of your thighs is the perfect place for them to litter your skin with evidence of their claim on you. The lingering tenderness you feel tomorrow will be undeniable proof that your heart and body belongs to them. You stroke their hair while they mar your delicate skin with bruises, and they shudder each time you sigh their name.

When you’re relaxed and satisfied and pliant beneath them, it’s their turn. Hot, open-mouthed kisses on your inner thighs turn into suckling bruises and nips with too-sharp teeth. Your back arches so beautifully when they finally break the skin and the warm, syrupy blood mixes with the taste of your cum on their tongue.

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lou-struck · 1 year

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They Said No... Part 3

Obey Me! Datables (minus Luke x MC!)

Featuring: Simeon, Solomon, Diavolo, and Barbatos

Part 1 HERE

Part 2 HERE

~We all get asked to do things sometimes that we do not want to do. And it's okay to say no, but sometimes you need a little extra help to get the point across.

Warnings: MC gets propositioned and S*ut shamed by a demon, threats, violence, sass, discussion of pact making, and other things like that.

Diavolo

The enchanted orchestra plays a haunting waltz as the Prince’s golden gaze scans the ballroom. The hundreds of well-dressed guests don’t capture his attention at all.

How could they?

None of them are you.

He has been so preoccupied with diplomacy and engaging with some of his more noble guests he hasn’t gotten to see you at all tonight. He misses you and your smile terribly, especially when a fake one has been plastered on his face all evening.

To help in his search and hopefully get a bit of alone time with you, he decides to drop his princely grin and walk about the room as if he has a set purpose. If he seemed preoccupied, no one would bother him for the time being.

It works like a charm and the crowded dance floor parts for him like the red sea. He passes what looks like Beel hunched over the buffet table, Satan chatting with a representative for the Animal Shelter, and Asmo playfully twirling a glass of demonus in his freshly painted nails as a crowd eats up every word that comes out of his mouth.

But where are you?

Finally, after minutes of searching the room, he finds you leaning against one of the pillars on the far side of the ballroom staring out the window at the purple-tinted moon.

He can’t keep his expression of indifference any longer; the grin tugs at his lips as he grabs two flutes of demonus from a passing servant. Ready to sweep you off your feet and hopefully into the gardens for a little stroll away from the party.

But someone beats him to it.

A long-haired Demoness with long deep blue curls saunters up beside you, “Well don’t you look sinfully delicious this evening?” She draws gently, trailing one of her gloved hands down your arm. You tense under her unfamiliar touch and subtly move a bit further away from her.

“Tell me, Little Lamb,” she coos, flicking her serpentine tongue in your direction. “What does a demon have to do to get you alone for an evening?”

Wha, excuse me?” you blink.” Your behavior is uncalled for.” You take another, much larger step back. “You should go now.”

“Oh, come now,” she laughs, tossing her head back haughtily. “Don’t think I haven’t heard of your reputation MC, a mere human seducing their way through the Devildom. Surely you can make an exception for one more?”

The glasses in Diavolos’ hands shatter violently, and their contents drip onto the marble floor Barbatos took such care in polishing earlier. “What do you think you are doing?” he growls, filling the room with his overwhelming aura.

“L-lord Diavolo,” the demoness shakes, her violet gaze wide and darting between you and the Prince, no doubt trying to figure a way out of the punishment that awaits her. “I was just joking around with them; that’s all; humans are too sensitive.”

“You continue to insult Mc,” he frowns. “Do you not wish to keep your tongue? Leave now before I take more drastic measures.”

They nod hurriedly and rush away from the ballroom, leaving you and the Prince surrounded by onlookers. Your eyes brim with unfallen tears, but you keep your composure beautifully. “Thank you, Diavolo.”

The rage inside him dulls as he shakes the demonus off his hands and escorts you away from prying eyes.

Barbatos

“Sorry for the wait, Mc,” Barbatos says, leading you into the lounge outside of Diavolo’s office. “The young master has been tied up in meetings all afternoon, but once he is done, the three of us can go out to dinner.”

You smile brightly as the butler, your hand lingering on his own, not wanting to let go. “That’s alright; I don’t mind waiting with you.”

You’re just too precious; it makes his ancient heart skip a beat. “I just have one last chore to do, and then I’ll be all yours.”

“Oh,” your slightly disappointed tone fills him with pride as you glance around the room. “Can I help with anything?”

“Absolutely not; you are a guest. All I require of you is that you relax and enjoy yourself until I come back,” he says, placing a hand on your lower back to lightly guide you into the comfortable seat in the room. “I promise I shall only be a few moments.”

He leaves quickly, making sure to be near enough should you require anything. With a steady hand, he wipes a vase far older than himself faster than anyone else would attempt to. The ancient porcelain still shines like new under his careful touch, but as he looks into the rich colors within, he can only think of your eyes.

His ears twitch as the sound of footsteps is much heavier than your own. They thud down the hallway stopping at what seems to be the door to the lounge, and step through the freshly oiled hinges.

A weary feeling settles over him for two reasons,

Firstly, The young master isn’t expecting any more guests today.

And Second, You are completely alone in the room with a strange demon.

Instinctually, he places the vase down and rushes down the hall to check on you.

He pauses just outside the door catching the scent of the son of a well-known Noble Demon. His green eyes peek through the crack in the grand double doors, it may be impolite to eavesdrop, but as a Butler, it is quite the perfected skill.

“You there, Human.” the pompously dressed Demon sneers in your direction. “Go make yourself useful and fetch me something to drink.” They smirk confidently at you and lounge back into the chaise as if they own the place.

It grinds Barbatos’ gears, but he doesn’t interfere yet; the mantra ’a good butler does not make a scene.’ replays in his head as if it is a warning, but his hand is already on the doorknob before you even reply to the rude Demon.

“Excuse me?” you say with a composure that makes his heart flutter, “But I believe you have mistaken me for someone else; I do not work here; perhaps one of the Little D’s would be able to assist you.”

He scoffs as if he had never been told no before. “I am a very important guest of the Crown Prince; you are nothing. If I want you to grab me something, you will get it for me.”

“I already told you I do not work at the palace; I have business with Lord Diavolo just the same as you do,” you explain again.

“You speak as if we are equals; perhaps I need to teach you a lesson,” they spit, uncurling their barbed tail and pointing it threateningly in your direction. Your eyes widen a bit, and you subtly shift in your seat; Barbatos spots thin tendrils of magic already at your fingertips in case the entitled demon attacks.

He can watch no longer- Stepping into the room without his usual polite smile, “That’s quite enough; your disrespectful behavior is not tolerated in this castle.” At Barabatos’ entrance, the Demon begins to shake something fierce as whispers of what the butler does to threats to the crown replay themselves in his ears.

Barbaots tries to hide the softness he feels when he sees the way the fear of your features falls away in his presence.

Although it is immensely satisfying to watch someone who was once so proud and entitled backtrack and blubber out a seemingly endless stream of apologies and excuses to you, Barbatos is in desperate need of your quality time, and this imbecile is getting in the way of that.

“Furthermore, why would you ever ask them to do something for you that you are clearly capable of yourself,” he asks, smiling maliciously, leaning close to the trembling Demon’s ear. “Are You Helpless? If that’s so, why should someone as pathetic as you ever request an audience with the future king?”

“R-right, s-sorry,” he mumbles, scurrying out of the lounge as if he were a rat. The thought of such sends a shudder through him as he turns his attention back to you. Your shoulders are stiff and rigid, your breaths come out shakily, but you are unharmed, and that’s all that matters.

“Little Rose,” he asks in a feather-light voice, crouching down to your eyes level and taking off his white gloves to hold your hands properly. “Are you alright?”

You nod slowly as he rubs gentle circles into the back of your hands. The contact soothes him just as much as it is soothing you. “I’m okay.” you say at last, “Thank you for being there for me, Barbatos.”

“When you need me, I will always be there for you- I promise,” he says softly, meaning every word.

Simeon

Simeon is all smiles as he walks down the cobbled streets of Majolish. How can he not be? He’s going to have lunch with you.

A part of him feels bad about not telling Luke about this little date, but he really wanted to have some alone time with you.

As of late, It seems as if everyone else has no problem getting you alone; it pulls at his heartstrings to know that he isn’t as present in your life as he wishes to be.

Some may call his feelings possessive, but in all reality, it is love, true unadulterated love. Every time he sees your face, he wonders if falling from the celestial realm would really be that bad of a thing.

Just as he approaches the Bistro told him to meet him, he notices you off in the distance. You walk quickly across his path, a look of irritation on your pretty features that has the Angel wondering if he himself has done anything to upset you recently.

He hasn’t, but the feelings of insecurity persist, and he gets closer.

“No comment,” you say aloud, your hand swatting at the air around you as if there was a bug. “I told you I have nothing to share.”

He may not be able to see the other presence around you, but he can feel it. One of the tiniest Lesser demons he has ever taken note of buzzes around your head like a fly around a bowl of fresh fruit.

“Come on, sweetheart; you gotta tell the people what they want to know.” The voice says in a comically high-pitched voice.

You stop and stare at the little bugger. “I have nothing to say to you about the brothers, the prince, or anyone else for that matter,” you say defiantly.

“Listen, MC; I’m a busy demon. The kind of Demon who has deadlines. If you don’t give me something good, I’m done for.” He pleads, circling around your head once more.

Simeon takes a careful step forward, more than ready to come to your aid when the Demon opens his mouth again.

“What about the Angel? You gotta tell me something about him. No one is that good, that pure. I’m sure my readers would kill for a story about how one of the highest-ranking angels of the celestial realm is being corrupted right here in the Devildom.”

Simeon stops in his tracks. The accusations may be false, but those rumors are dangerous, especially to him. If his superiors heard a story like that was gaining traction, they could take him away. He would never get to see you again.

The Angel knows he has told you many secrets in the late hours of the night that would satisfy this pest of a reporter. But those secrets were exchanged in hushed tones with many tears. You would never betray him like that.

Would you?

His heart feels so tight in his chest as you stare at the Reporter in shock. “at first, I thought you were just annoying. “You say calmly, “but it seems to me you are more than that; how stupid can you be? Simeon is one of the kindest beings I have ever met; your story has no substance; leave me alone.”

The emotions that welled up in Simeon’s chest when you took his side were indescribable—making the sweet Angel feel as if he were falling for you all over again. He feels rejuvenated and ready to help you get rid of this Reporter once and for all.

Despite the pissed-off look on your face, the Reporter does not back away, throwing up his tiny hands and changing the subject.

“Okay, nothing special there. But how about Belphegor? Is it true he was kicked from his exchange program early as a result of sleeping through his classes?”

“I may not know too much about reporting down here, but I am fairly certain the best information comes straight from the source,” he says in his calm and cheery voice. With his presence known, he sees the Reporter fly out of your personal space bubble quickly. You look visibly relieved that there is no longer buzzing in your ear.

Now that you are feeling better, the Angel continues his lecture, “As for me, I have nothing to say to someone who works with such a lack of integrity. Please leave the two of us in peace.” Although he speaks with a smile on his face, his words are not a friendly suggestion. The lesser Demon flies away quickly, not wanting to face the wrath of the Angel.

With the pest gone, he turns and gives you the biggest, most sincere smile he has to offer. Feeling an emotion he cannot name with your knees buckle at the sight of him.

“I’m glad he’s gone,” you say softly, taking his outstretched arms for balance as you make your way back over to the Bistro. “I kept telling him to leave us alone, but he would just keep pressing with these awful questions.”

“I know,” he says, kissing the top of your head lightly, “But I would like to thank you for sticking up for me.”

“And you, me,” you giggle, glowing with a light all your own.

Solomon

The great sorcerer finds himself continuously drawn to the clock, the slow-moving hands taunting him as he comes to a disappointing realization.

You’re late…

You’re never late.

He looks back at the fully prepped conjuring station and fiddles with the covers of a few of the jewel-encrusted spellbooks longingly. Your magic lesson was supposed to begin ten minutes ago, but you are nowhere to be found. He spots his DDD lying face down on the end of the clean countertop and reaches for it.

Perhaps you messaged him, and his ringer was off. He picks it up only to see his blank lock screen. Your pixelated smiling face does little to ease his mind. With one last glance at the clock, he turns and walks out the door. His cape flows behind him as he walks through the hallway of Purgatory and out its doors.

He’s out on the street, walking towards the House of Lamination with vigor, using his arms to propel his speed walk forward like he is a mom walking the track at their child’s soccer practice.

The thought does cross his mind that he had forgotten a possible time change the two of you had agreed upon earlier, but as he rounds a corner, he is able to make out your figure through the light fog that settles on the ground.

But you are not alone; in front of you, there is something large in your path, the fog makes it difficult for him to see exactly what it is, but the aura radiating off of it reveals that it is a lesser Demon who is currently on their knees in front of you.

‘Well, this certainly looks intriguing,’ he thinks to himself, stepping closer. A wave of his hand sweeps away the fog, but neither you nor the begging Demon seems to have noticed his presence yet.

“Please, please, please. Mc. You just have to accept me.” it begs, a clawed hand creeping forward, trying to grab ahold of your shoe pathetically. “I’d do anything for you, Protect you, worship you, anything.”

Solomon has no clue what is happening right now. Is it perhaps another demon professing their love to you?

No, if that were the case, you would have politely turned this poor Demon down with a kind look on your face. But instead, he sees you look uncomfortable, very uncomfortable, as you take a step farther away from the Demon’s outstretched hand.

“I have already told you no,” you say at last. “I am not interested in making any more pacts.”

Solomon immediately understands why you look so uncomfortable. When making a pact with a demon, it does more than grow one’s powers. It creates a bond.

Many Demons do not understand just how draining it can be to have a pact with a demon who doesn’t deserve it.

Although Solomon may desire pacts with strong demons so that he can be strong enough to protect the human realm should the need ever arise? You are different- you have your own reasons for making pacts with the brothers. These pacts are a symbol of your love. Something he is certain this little pest is undeserving of.

Solomon decides that he would like a bit of attention now…

“Oh my,” he says, walking around the Demon as if he were as insignificant as a fallen tree branch. “Do watch your step Mc; it looks like no one has come by to clean up these paths after last night’s storm.”

You look visibly relieved to see another friendly face, and Solomon kisses the back of your hand tenderly. The Demon stares at you both angrily but knows better than to say anything in response. Solomon smirks and looks down at the pushy Demon with a narrowed gaze.

“Why would MC share a part of themselves with a demon who is too stupid to understand the meaning of the word no?” he says with his silver tongue. “They may be kind enough to turn you down politely, but me? Not so much I’d leave if I were you.”

Wordlessly the Demon picks itself off the ground and runs off with its curly tail between its legs. Not wanting to anger Solomon the Wise any more than he already has been the smartest decision they have made today.

As they scamper off, you look a bit embarrassed as you check the time. “I guess I’m running a bit late to our lesson today, aren’t I, Solomon?” A soft giggle slips past your lips, and Solomon wonders if he will ever get tired of hearing that sound.

“You had a good reason,” he replies simply.

You groan. “Still, I had been trying to shake them for at least thirty minutes, but they wouldn’t leave me alone.”

“Hmm, then how about we do something else today?” he offers. “Take a break, maybe, sneak up to the human world for some frozen yogurt or a soft pretzel?”

Your eyes light up at his proposition. “Could we get a drink?” you ask, “Demonus isn’t gonna cut it today.”

You’re just too cute sometimes. It makes him feel much younger. He looks at you with an almost boyish grin and laughs, “I think we can make that happen.”

#obey me!#obey me nightbringer #obey me #obey me headcanons #obey me writing #obey me x reader #diavolo #diavolo x reader #obey me diavolo #barbatos #obey me barbatos #barbatos x reader #simeon #obey me simeon #simeon x reader #solomon #obey me solomon #solomon x reader

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leviathans-watching · 1 year

Note

Would you be willing to write how the brothers (any you decide but at least leviathan mammon and belphie) as well as any side characters (Raphael and barbatos perhaps?) would react to us/the reader telling them "you always were my favourite." ? Thank you even if you don't do my request I love how you characterize them. You write Raphael really well also [: - ⛓️

telling them they're your favorite

includes: older brothers, belphie, barbatos, raphael x/& gn!reader, luke & gn!reader (no pronouns mentioned)

wc: .7k | rated g | m.list

a/n: ught this was so fun to write and tysm!! i hope you enjoy! my inbox is open to chat, req, and leave feedback so come say hi <3

reblogs plz =)

➳ lucifer flicks a glance over at you. “is that so?” he asks, brow raising. “i thought you didn’t have favorites.” “well, i would never admit it to the rest of them, but you just get me so well. and cause me the least number of headaches,” you reply, and he lets out a half-chuckle. “i wonder why you’re admitting it to me now,” lucifer ponders aloud. “it probably has nothing to do with the fact that i know you’re hungry and know i keep snacks hidden in my desk.”

➳ mammon loses his composure quickly, sputtering. you don’t think you’ve ever seen his cheeks get that red that fast. he recovers after a long moment, chest puffing out. “i always knew it,” he insists, pride heavy in his tone. “i mean, i am your first man an’ all. it’s only natural that you’d like me best, especially since i am the coolest and best-looking of all of us.” you laugh, and he goes on. “but ya should tell me. why exactly am i your favorite and what do you like about me best?”

➳ levi shakes his head. “no, you’re just saying that to cheer me up. there’s no way a gross, lonely, yucky otaku like me is your favorite!” “you shouldn’t say those things about yourself,” you insist, laying on the puppy-dog eyes for n extra guilt factor. “it makes me sad. and i hate seeing my favorite–or should i say my bias?–sad.” levi gives you a little half-smile, convincing clearly working, and you decide to go in for the kill, prey upon his envy. “but i suppose if you don’t want to be my favorite i can pick someone else…” wow, did that turn his mind around!

➳ belphie huffs out a laugh. “please, i know you wouldn’t actually ever admit it, even though it’s true. what is it you want?” even if you insist, you know he won’t believe you, or at least believe you’re actually admitting it like he said, so you just come clean. “well, i need a ride and mammon’s the only other one home but he always makes me give him gas money.” “i knew you wanted something,” belhie grumbles good-naturedly as he pulls himself out of bed. “fine, but only if i get payment of my own. don’t you think a kiss should be enough?” his eyes slant devilishly. “at least to start.”

➳ barbatos smirks. “i didn’t know my food was that good.” “are you kidding me?” you reply, grabbing another mini-cupcake. “these are so freaking good. barbatos, if you promised to bake for me every day i’d marry you in a heartbeat.” this gets a rare true smile out of him, one complete with crinkles at the corners of his eyes. “don’t let anyone else hear you saying that,” he warns, “or else you’re going to have a bunch of wannabe-bakers messing up the kitchen at the house of lamentation, and is that something you really want to deal with?”

➳ luke pumps his fist, vibrating with excitement. “i knew it! i knew it, i knew it, i knew it! of course you like me the most, especially compared to those mean demons!” wrapping his arms around your waist, he gives you a tight hug, looking up at you affectionately. “you’re my favorite too, mc! besides simeon of course, but no one will ever beat him.” you laugh, ruffling his hair, and even though it’s mean of you to think you’re sure if he were a puppy his tail would be wagging a million times a minute. “well, it is simeon so i suppose that’s fine.”

➳ raphael blinks uncomprehendingly. “me? i’m your favorite? but, we haven’t even known one another for that long and you seem so close with the brothers!” before he can fully spiral, you smile, knocking against his shoulder. “and? i really like you. you’re kind, smart, genuine, and a good mediator. why wouldn’t you be my favorite?” you leave then, but for the rest of the day note the small, bashful smile he wears, and the way he can’t make eye-contact for more than a few seconds at a time without looking away, ears turning the slightest bit red.

leviathans-watching's work - please do not copy, repost, or claim as your own

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kittievampire · 1 year

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There's this text message from Simeon where he doesn't know how to take pictures on his phone. MC offers to help and he says that Lucifer would be impressed to see his pictures if MC taught him what to do.

My headcanon is that Simeon isn't as naive as he seems tho (cuz how you gonna be an angle and be dressed in the most slutty outfit huh). So MC goes to purgatory hall, helps him out, then "helps him out" wink wonk and he uses his 'new' camera skills to take pictures of her. And a couple 'accidentally' make their way to Lucifer.

I think it would be best if the way Simeon acts genuinely makes mc believe that he's innocent so she's not just naive, he's playing her ya know? Fuckboy Simeon? Gaslihhting? Imagine if he said "you know what you're doing". Okey tanks <3

So jealous cause I never got this text from Simeon >:(

Like, does bro not love me too? Wtf?

Anyways,

Lemme see what I have in my bag, dear~

Click here if ya wanna request!

Taking Photos is Hard!

Warnings: Cursing, Smut, Feigning Innocence (Gaslighting), Fuckboy! Simeon x Fem! MC, Photo/Video Exhibitionism, Creampie, Mention of Facial, Lucifer is the real victim here

Enjoy.

Simeon wasn't the best with technology, and you knew this.

That's why you were so compliant when he requested your assistance.

"I'm sorry, again, for inconveniencing you, MC." He apologized once more as he stepped aside, allowing you entry to his shared room with Luke. "Luke is out right now. He and Barbatos had planned a baking marathon, and Solomon wanted to tag along as well, so it's just the two of us in here."

You nodded your head in understanding, sitting down on the white sofa. "Ooh, this is comfy," You said with a small smile. "Okay!" You clasped your hands together. "You said you needed help with photos. Do you know how to get to the camera?"

Simeon pulled the device out of his pocket, pinching his brows together as he swiped through the applications. "Yes... I believe so, I've been there once... What does it look like?" He asked, eyes flicking to meet your gaze for a mere moment before looking back down at the screen. "It has a camera icon," You said, gently grasping his arm and tugging at it so he'd sit down beside you on the sofa.

The angel sat himself down beside you, and you peered over his shoulder to look at the D.D.D., pointing at the camera icon. "Right there." He clicked on it, screen immediately presenting a closer look at his crotch area. You could've sworn you saw a tent in his pants, but you quickly shook it off with a blush.

"Okay, so, do you see this huge white circle right here?" Simeon nodded. "That's what you're going to click to take a photo."

The angel stared down at the D.D.D. "Oh, what does this thing do?" He asked, swiping to the video option and pointing at the red circle. "That's to take a video. Go back to the camera."

There was silence for a moment.

"How do I do that?" You let out a small sigh, swiping back to the camera option. "Try taking a photo, I'll be your model!" You joked, leaning back onto the couch. "Ah, okay! Wow, you sure know what you're doing!" Simeon shot up with a smile, holding the D.D.D. in each hand horizontally. You sighed in relief, thankful that he knew how to, at the very least, hold the damn thing when taking a photo. "Tilt your head to the side a little? Put your knees together, and push your arms against yourself, but leave your hands on the sofa!"

"Wow, you're really getting into the modeling thing," You chuckled softly, following directions and adjusting your position as per requested. The camera flashed and Simeon repositioned himself. "Turn over,"

After adjusting your position multiple times in this little photoshoot, you found yourself bent over the sofa, skirt at your ankles, and Simeon slowly pulling your panties down to your knees. "S-Simeon, I don't think this is necessary!" The angel frowned, gently running a hand over your ass and caressing your lower back, which made you shudder. "Come now, MC. I'll let you photograph my most intimate areas as well if you be good for me." His voice was so sweet, almost as if he wasn't caressing the nakedness of the lower half of your body.

Simeon pulled his hand away, pushing his white pants down with one hand. "Stay just like that, Dove," He murmured softly, swallowing a lump in his throat as he saw your drooling cunt spew more of your essence onto your panties. A shudder sound was heard and you could see the wall glow a bit as the flash went off. Your breathing hitched as you felt your juices running down your thigh, pussy absolutely soaked in anticipation.

You wanted—

No, you needed him to do something. Anything!

Instead, Simeon stood behind you, snapping photos (mainly close-ups of your sopping cunt), while fisting his weeping hard cock. He then paused for a moment, swiping to the record option and hitting the red dot. "Dove," He moaned out softly, reaching out the hand that was getting himself off to gently run his fingers over your slit. You gasped. "What's this, hm? Why are you so wet?" You shook your head, burying your face into one of the pillows on the sofa. "I didn't know you were so perverted, Dove. You're dripping," He cooed, shifting his position so that he pressed the blunt tip against your entrance, precum oozing down to your clit. "W-Wha—?!"

You felt like the air was punched out of you, letting out a sharp gasp as Simeon slammed his entire cock into you in one go, your walls squeezing his length. You cried out, only for the angel behind you to shove your head into the pillow to silence you. "Shhhhh. MC, your voice is so angelic, but I want to hear what this cute little pussy of yours has to say as well," He said, angling the camera to capture how he thrusted his hips forward, cock slamming into you, earning a squelch from your cunt and a whine from your mouth, one that was muffled into the pillow. "There you go," He moaned out softly, moving his hand down to gently caress your ass.

Your walls clenched tightly around him, eyes rolling back as tears started to gather at your lower lash line. You squeezed the pillow in front of you, body jerking forward in protest to his rough fucking. Your vision was going blurry, and it felt like your brain was melting. All you could think of was Simeon and his huge cock that was fucking you into the sofa.

Simeon grasped one of your legs, lifting it and pushing your knee against the couch. This new angle allowed him to shift closer, thrust deeper into you, slamming into the spot that made you scream. "Quiet, MC," He warned softly, one of his hands moving down to circle your throbbing clit.

The stimulation from the bundle of nerves, as well as from his merciless thrusting, was sending you near the edge. "S-Simeon!" You moaned out, hugging the pillow close to your face. "That's it, Dove, let everyone know who's fucking you so good." His voice was so taunting yet so smooth, a sharp contrast to your shaky and slightly raspy voice.

He felt your walls convulse around him, letting out a gasp at how tight you were. "You're close, aren't you, MC?" Simeon stopped himself from leaning forward to kiss you, as that would screw with the camera angle. He chuckled softly. "You're squeezing me so tight, how naughty."

With a muffled cry of his name, you felt him slam into your sweet spot once more, and your orgasm racked through your body harshly, juices gushing out of your cunt, further lubricating his cock. Simeon started thrusting faster, the tip of his length bullying your cervix as he chased his own high, free hand gripping one of your hips tightly. "Gonna cum in you, Dove—" He groaned— "Take it! Take it all! Take all of my cum like a good girl, MC!" He whimpered out, almost begged before he buried himself deep inside of your cunt, moaning as he came. You could feel him filling you up, a white ring of his cum forming just around his cock as he painted your walls and filled you to the brim. He thrusted a few more times, riding out his high, before slowly pulling out of you.

Simeon zoomed in on your pussy, that was drooling with his cum, before stopping the video and taking a few pictures.

You turned your head to the side so you could breathe, panting heavily as you tried to gather your thoughts and come back to reality. That was, until you felt something poke against your cheek. You glanced over to see Simeon holding his cock up to your face, looking up to see Simeon holding the D.D.D., camera pointed directly at you.

"You didn't think we were done were you?"

Lucifer was in his study, stressed out from the stack of papers that still needed to be signed. He decided to take a short break and scroll through his D.D.D., though he wasn't expecting to get a text from Simeon so late into the night.

With a raised brow, the eldest looked at the notification.

Simeon: 3 attachments

"So he finally learned how to send pictures," The Avatar of Pride mumbled to himself, clicking on the notification before catching his breath in his throat. Lucifer nearly choked at what he saw.

The first picture was of your naked body sprawled out on a bed, a lewd expression on your face, and what he assumed was Simeon's cock balls-deep inside of your cunt. The second picture was of your face in front of the same cock, coated in cum with a dazed look on your face. The third was just of your pussy with cum pouring out of it, streaming down your thighs, as if you'd been stuffed completely full.

Lucifer felt his pants get tighter around the crotch, failing to notice the three dots that indicated Simeon typing.

Simeon: Oh, I'm so sorry, I didn't know that would send to you!

Simeon: How do I save these to my gallery?

Hope you liked this anon!

Masterlist

#obey me #obey me mc #obey me simeon #obey me simeon smut #omswd simeon #simeon smut #simeon obey me smut #om! simeon smut #simeon obey me #obey me simeon x mc #obey me mc x simeon

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devilevlls · 1 month

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So for the drabbles (I think that’s how you spell it) could you do 14 with a vampire mc? Like basically following the same thing as the vampire event but this time it only affects humans (specifically only mc) and they lock themselves in their room to not hurt anyone? You could do whoever you think would fit best but I can list my favourites to help you decide! Barbatos, Lucifer, Solomon, Simeon, Thirteen and Raphel<3 if possible I’d like it to be sfw since they’re my comfort characters. Sorry if it’s confusing, I’m ESL. I love your writing, have an amazing time zone! (I think Luke would be interesting in this scenario) -⭐️anon

Heey! Thank you for the request! Here's the drabble with the plot: A disease that only affects humans and turns them into temporary vampires. ( I hope I understood correctly (►__◄) )

Why won't you let me help you?⋆.˚

Gender-Neutral MC༘ ⋆｡˚

The disease struck without warning, turning ordinary humans that step in devildom into temporary vampires, craving blood and darkness. MC found themselves paralyzed with fear as they read the notice in RAD’s newspaper and horrified by the potential harm they could cause, they locked themselves away in their room, avoiding contact with anyone, especially the seven brothers they had grown close to.

As the days passed, MC's isolation deepened, almost in a depressing way. They missed the chaos and laughs the brothers gave them, their thoughts consumed by guilt and fear. The human couldn't bear the idea of hurting the ones they cared about, even unintentionally.

But this evening, a knock echoed through the silence of their room, followed by a familiar low, imposing voice.

"MC, open up. It's Lucifer," came the confident, almost arrogant voice of the demon who embodied pride itself.

Despite recognizing Lucifer's voice, MC hesitated. They couldn't bring themselves to face him, not when they feared their own newfound powers.

"Go away, Lucifer," MC called out, their voice trembling with apprehension. "I don't want to hurt anyone."

There was a scoff from the other side of the door, followed by a low chuckle. "Hurt me? You underestimate my abilities," Lucifer replied, his tone dripping with self-assurance. "I am Lucifer, the avatar of pride. Do you truly believe you could harm me? Just if I allow you to do so."

MC's heart pounded in their chest as they considered Lucifer's words. They knew he was one of the most powerful demons in devildom, but their fear was too great to risk it.

"I don't want to take that chance," MC confessed, their voice barely above a whisper. "Please, just leave me alone."

There was a moment of silence before Lucifer spoke again, his tone softer, almost gentle. "Why won't you let me help you? Hiding away won't make it pass. You're stronger than you realize, and you have friends who care about you. Everybody is concerned"

Tears welled up in MC's eyes as they listened to Lucifer's words. Despite his cocky demeanor, there was a hint of genuine concern in his voice, one that he only showed when around them.

Slowly, hesitantly, MC unlocked the door, revealing Lucifer standing before them with a knowing smile.

As Lucifer stepped into the room, his presence seemed to fill the space with an aura of confidence and reassurance. With a flick of his wrist, he closed the door behind him, the click of the lock echoing in the silence.

"MC, there's no need to be afraid," Lucifer said, his voice soft but commanding. "I'm here to help." The eldest looks around, noticing how dark the room was.

MC's heart fluttered nervously as they watched Lucifer approach, their instincts screaming at them to flee.

"I... I don't know if I can control it," MC admitted, their voice barely above a whisper. "What if I hurt you?"

Lucifer's smile was reassuring as he reached out, gently placing a hand on MC's shoulder. "Trust me, darling. I've faced far worse than a temporary vampire."

With a poised determination, Lucifer tilts his head back, exposing the smooth expanse of his neck. "Here," his voice, a low murmur, invites MC, his offering laden with an underlying allure. "Take what you need. Just a small taste to soothe your hunger."

MC hesitates, caught in a tempest of conflicting desires. Yet, the relentless ache of hunger propels them forward, and the sight of Lucifer's skin proves too enticing to resist.

Their eyelids flutter closed, and leaning in, MC's fangs brush against the supple skin of Lucifer's neck. A teasing lick against his Adam’s apple elicits a shiver from Lucifer, a soft chuckle escaping his lips.

Bold human…

A tremor courses through them as the warmth of Lucifer's blood meets their lips, its flavor boiling temptation and desire. A soft hiss escapes Lucifer's lips, his fingers instinctively finding purchase on MC's waist, drawing them closer into an embrace.

In that fleeting moment of intimacy, the hunger subsides, replaced by a tranquil sense of fulfillment. As they reluctantly part, their eyes lock with Lucifer's, a silent exchange of gratitude and understanding lingering in the charged atmosphere.

"Thank you, Luci..." MC whispered while breathing heavily, their voice filled with emotions.

Lucifer's smile deepens, a glimmer of pride dancing in his eyes. "You're stronger than you realize, MC. And remember, I'll always be here to offer support... or a drop of blood, should you require it. This will pass. Would you like me to stay with you?"

With a newfound sense of assurance blooming within, MC nods, reassured by the knowledge that they no longer face their struggles alone. "Please," they murmur softly.

Throughout the evening, they find solace in each other's presence, cuddling on the bed. As exhaustion finally claims MC's consciousness, they drift into a peaceful slumber, cradled in Lucifer's strong arms.

Once they're asleep, the avatar of pride reaches for his phone, capturing a tender moment with a click. With a gentle smile, he sends the image to the group chat with his brothers, accompanied by the words, "They're doing just fine."

Drabble prompts you can use in your requests!

#obey me #obey me shall we date #omswd #obey me one master to rule them all #evllsposts #obey me drabble #obey me writing #obey me scenarios #evllsasks #obey me lucifer #obey me lucifer x reader #obey me luci x reader #obey me luci x mc #obey me lucifer x mc #obey me x mc #I'm sorry if that's not what you meant(≧へ≦)#obey me gn!reader

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thefandomthings · 2 months

Note

Can you please do OM! Solomon with fluff prompt 9: "I love you." "Say it again." "I love you."

I loved the fic you wrote about jealous Simeon by the way!

Say it Again

Fluff prompts: "I love you." "Say it again." "I love you."

Pairing: Solomon x Gn!reader

Warnings: Fluff, teasing, established relationship, I looked up things for Solomon and it came up with the Box of Truth so that's in here.

Notes: Tysm! @eternallyanxiousandstressed, that means a lot to me, I thought I did a pretty awful job in writing him, so this makes me feel loads better! I've never really gotten into Solomon's character, game crashed when I was only about lesson 9 💀, so I apologize.

Solomon is an even bigger ass and tease than Mammon, especially when he is helping you with learning magical arts. He might tease you, but he does help you. He doesn't want anything to go wrong and you curse or injury yourself.

"MC, you flick your wrist to the left, not down." Solomon grabs your wrist and moves your hand correctly. You nod and mimic as he showed you, the wand he is having you use is rough against your palm and fingers. He is using a wand he made himself, for dramatic effect and because he is The Greatest Sorcerer. Even if he doesn't necessarily need it. (Mostly bc its funny watching things pop out from the end.)

"Can't we do something more interesting Sol?" You ask, bored out of your mind. You don't mind trying to summon a frogs, but its getting boring watching the tiny toads flop out onto the ground and then disappear into 'fairy dust'.

"What do you have in mind then?" Solomon questions, setting down his wand, leaning against the counter.

"We could try the Box of Truth again? Maybe this time we won't get stuck together?" You giggle fondly at the memory, watching a sly smile grace his lips. He pushes off the counter, walking towards you slowly. Solomon sets his slender hands under your shirt and on your hips, this thumbs drawing circles against your bare skin.

"Silly girl/boy, you don't have to trap us in a box again to tell me you love me." His voice is sultry, his satin grey eyes roaming your face, soaking in every detail like he hasn't done millions it times before.

Your face flushes, hands cradling his face. He kisses your palms lovingly, pulling you closer to him. Your hips pressed against his.

"I love you, Solomon."

He grasps your chin between forefinger and thumb, pulling your face closer to his. His lips brush over yours softly, but he doesn't give you a kiss.

"Say it again"

"I love you, Solomon."

He gives a light chuckle, his lips molding to yours. It was such a soft kiss, but heavy. Full of love, passion and desire.

"I love you too, MC"

#obey me #obey me solomon #obey me x reader #prompt event #solomon x reader #obey me imagines #obey me headcanons #obey me solomon x reader #thefandomthings #obey me fluff #obey me fluff x reader #solomon fluff

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l3viat8an · 11 months

Note

Ok ok I’m one to love corruption Simeon, but what about corruption Diavolo?

They way he’d love how the lust grows in your eyes, how desperate your whimpers and moans get as time goes on, how cock drunk you get off of him and how even after he’s finished you’re begging for more

He’d go feral

~��

Nsfw content MDNI

Little idea that wouldn’t leave my head after I read this~

With a devious glint in his eyes, Diavolo revels in the power he holds over you. He thrives off your desperation, your longing for more of his touch. His smirk only widens as he continues to stretch the boundaries of your desires.

"It's intoxicating to witness how your lust flourishes under my touch. Your cravings, your insatiable hunger for sin, it's all a testament to your true nature, little one.”

He pulls out of you, leaving you aching and empty, yet still you whine for, pleading “D-Dia please…please I still…still want need more..”

He pushes you gently onto your back, spreading your legs wide as he gazes down at you with unhidden desire.

He chuckles lightly before speaking again, "Look at you, still so needy and eager for me. You can't get enough, can you?"

Slowly he lowers himself between your thighs, his tongue darting out to lick a trail along your folds, savoring the taste of your mixed cum. (From earlier;)) His expert tongue dances over your clit, flicking and teasing, driving you wild with pleasure.

“Moan for me, beg for more, my little one. Show me how much you need me to push you further into darkness."

Your moans fill the room as Diavolo devours you, his fingers joining in to add even more pleasure. He revels in the way your body jerks and twists beneath him, the way your moans grow louder and needier. And even after you've cum, body shuddering and shaking, he knows you're still insatiable.

"Oh, you still want more, don't you? Well, I'm more than happy to oblige. There's so much more sin for us to explore together…..”

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natimiles · 3 months

Text

I See the Light (Levi x reader)

Summary: It’s your wedding day with Levi!

Words: 1500

Tags: female reader; wedding; established relationship; assertive Levi (but not that much).

Notes: IT’S MY 5TH WEDDING ANNIVERSARY TODAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY! And you guys will celebrate it with me with this cute little fic where we marry Levi. I’m gonna be self-indulgent today, so we have a female reader.

The title is the song from Tangled, I walked down the aisle at my wedding to that song. Half of Levi’s vows are from his proposal at the “Wedding” event. And the reader’s vows are my real vows, teehee. I cut some stuff so it isn’t too big and adapted the demon references, but it’s essentially mine. Yes, I said it all at my wedding, and there’s one awesome picture with everyone laughing with a big :O face.

This is queued because I’m obviously not here today. Enjoy the fluffy!

“I swear I’ll hit you,” Asmo threatens, pulling the tie a little more roughly than needed to tie the knot, just to make his point.

“S-sorry,” Levi says, taking his hand away from his mouth with a sheepish smile.

He hasn’t felt this nervous in so long… But could he be blamed? It’s an important situation, one that makes him anxious and sends him spiraling.

He never thought he’d be so nervous doing something with you — well, not anymore. You’ve been together for so long, sharing your days and nights with him, showering him with love and appreciation. After all these years, he grew accustomed to all of it. So feeling nervous now is kind of new again.

He knows better than to test his brother’s ire, and he knows that if he bites his nails and ruins the nail polish — again — Asmo will kill him.

And you’d have no one to marry today if his brother killed him.

Levi tries to calm himself down. He closes his eyes and thinks about you. You must look so beautiful in a wedding dress. You didn’t let him see it yet, saying it’d bring bad luck — some human superstition. He imagines you in the room next to his, getting ready for this important day...

“Just breathe,” Asmo smiles. “Everything is going according to plan.”

“Alright,” Levi tries to take a deep breath, but it’s shaky. He wonders if you’re ready, if you can start this and bind yourselves to each other for eternity, and... Oh... Oh, he hopes you attend it. You wouldn’t run away, right? You’ve had years to realize he was a loser; it’d be really mean if you decided to leave him now... He frowns; his hands are sweating again, and— “Ouch!”

“I told you I’d hit you if you bit your nails,” Asmo glares. “I’ve already painted them three times, and we have no time left to do a fourth. So stop it.”

A soft knock on the door interrupts the two brothers’ light fight, and Satan peeks his head inside.

“Are you finished? She’s good to go.”

“Good to—” Levi starts yelling.

“To go get married, Levi!” Asmo cuts him shortly, pinching his arm and earning a loud yelp. “For the love of anything!”

“Don’t need to hit me,” he mumbles, rubbing the spot where he was pinched.

Satan chuckles, looking at the banter. “Can we go?”

“Wait!” Asmo raises a hand to make them stop. He checks his brother, his eyes roaming over him one last time to make sure everything is fine. The dark blue suit is pristine, the tie is straight, Levi’s hair is still in place (combed back), his makeup is good, and his nails are still painted. “Alright, let’s go!”

When the three arrive at the entrance to the Demon Castle Garden, they meet the rest of their brothers, Simeon and Solomon, gathered there. They whistle, cheer, and smile, making Levi blush even more. Asmo complains, saying he forbids them from making Levi start biting his nails again and adjusts everyone in line to start.

With everyone ready, the Avatar of Lust flicks his wrist, and a soft song starts to play on the speakers on the other side of the door, making everyone there fall silent. As the door in front of them opens, it’s possible to finally see the garden and everyone waiting there.

The long dark blue carpet connects the beginning to the end of the corridor where they’ll walk down now. The string lights hung in the trees — probably with a bit of magic — giving an air of stars illuminating the place. The large vases beside the rows of chairs, filled with flowers from the Devildom and the Human Realm, in beautiful compositions of navy blue and orange.

The best men start to walk in pairs through the corridor, splitting into two when they reach the end — one pair going to Levi’s side and the other to yours. One by one, the pairs walk: Asmo and Solomon, Lucifer and Mammon, Belphie and Beel, Satan and Simeon...

“I think I’m dying,” Levi mumbles under his breath, to no one in particular.

The song changes slightly, and he closes his eyes for a few seconds to take a deep breath. He regrets suggesting he could enter alone so his brothers could pair between them with no problem. Levi feels the cold sweat trickling down his spine, making his whole body shiver. It’s so scary; he wonders how people do that without passing out. But he will be strong, and he will fight this anxiety one more time — for you.

He reopens his eyes and takes one step forward. He is so nervous he can’t even look to the sides to see who attended the wedding. Slow and steady, he makes his way to the end of the corridor. He breathes a sigh of relief when he gets there, turning around to see the guests. Levi smiles softly, but it falters when the song stops and the door is closed again.

For a few seconds, it’s all silent and quiet, but then your song starts.

This is it.

There’s no turning back.

You won’t run from him.

You’ll never be away from him ever again.

You’ll share your lives and stay together forever.

The door slowly opens, and his breath catches in his throat. Your white dress sparkles under the moonlight of the Devildom and the fairy lights in the garden. You’re smiling, and he notices how nervous you are when you meet his gaze. In an instant, you’re right in front of him, and he sees you’re just as emotional as he is, which soothes him.3

The ceremony goes well, with Diavolo being responsible for officiating it and saying a few words about humans and demons coexisting together.

And it’s time for you and Levi to say your vows. The sea serpent demon is shaking so hard, you think he might faint at any moment, but he does his best to keep it together. He reaches for one of the rings and holds it in his hand to pronounce his vows to you.

“I always mess everything up when it counts the most, but this is who I am,” he starts with a shaky voice, slowly gaining courage. “I want you to be with me despite that. I never thought I’d be lucky enough to find someone, but I found you. I want us to overcome the difficult stages in life together and defeat whatever stands in our way. I promise to always, always love and cherish you. To infinity and beyond.”

You smile widely as his unsteady hands put the ring on your finger, kissing it lightly right after.

It’s your turn now, so you grab his ring to do the same. And looking into those deep sunset eyes, you begin your vows.

“Who thought we would be here today, getting married? Me,” you smile, and he returns it, blushing slightly. “Because I liked you since the first time I saw you. And after 4 years, 11 months, and 11 days together, it’s finally our time, and I couldn’t be happier to be marrying you. You’re the most wonderful and beautiful demon I know, inside and out. It’s really easy to be with you because you never laugh at the things I share with you, and our silliness complements each other. You are, above everything else, my best friend; the Lord of Shadows to my Henry. Lots of things might change now, but I promise you that my love will never change. I promise to always be your support and keep my games updated. I promise to bring you breakfast in bed on all your birthdays, and I promise to expect the same thing on mine. I promise to make you happy in the same proportion that you make me, and to be by your side forever because ‘the team is us’. I can’t see me loving nobody but you for all my life. I love you, to infinity and beyond.”

With shaky hands and your vision blurred with tears, you slide the wedding ring on Levi’s finger, giving him a peck too. He reaches for your face and cups your cheeks, wiping the happy tears with his thumbs.

You’re so giggly inside, like your happiness can’t be contained anymore. And when Diavolo finally says you two can kiss, it’s like everything explodes. His lips are glued to yours in no time, and you’re returning the kiss with the same intensity.

All shyness, anxiety, and nervousness are left behind, for now, it’s like there’s only the two of you. You can’t hear the guests cheering, or Mammon crying saying he’s happy but that’s enough kissing, or Asmo whistling suggestively and loud.

It’s just the two of you, in your own little world.

You pull away to look into each other’s eyes, foreheads pressed against each other, and you know this is the start of an even happier life.

Taglist: @sh0jun @chandeliermichel @judejazza

Masterlists

#celebrate my wedding anniversary with me!#obey me #obey me writings #obey me fanfics #obey me levi #obey me leviathan #obey me x reader #obey me shall we date #obey me levi x reader #obey me leviathan x reader

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sweetdreamsjeff · 5 months

Text

Jeff Buckley Revisited

by Simeon FlickMarch 2023

Remember me, but oh, forget my fate. ––Henry Purcell, “Dido’s Lament”

**************

y the late ’80s it was already soul-crushingly evident that Los Angeles was a dead-end cesspool of intolerable immersion in other people’s music, and that a drastic change was required to sweep away the bad influences and external white noise to finally get him in touch with his own muse. New York City beckoned—just as it had to Tim in the ’60s—as a locus were people could become the epitome of themselves, get as weird as they wanted, and be unconditionally accepted or ignored as merely part of the scenery, and reach their full, rewarded potential in whatever their chosen field. Jeff tested the waters for a few months in 1990, but his money and options ran out, and he reluctantly returned to Los Angeles.

But the comprehensive guitar skill was just a tripod for the potent weapon his voice was becoming.

**************

The first stanzas tell us so much about the author:

I’m lying in my bed, the blanket is warm This body will never be safe from harm Still feel your hair, black ribbons of coal Touch my skin to keep me whole

Oh, if only you’d come back to me If you laid at my side I wouldn’t need no mojo pin To keep me satisfied

“So Real” represents not only the successful search for a second guitarist, but also a tenacious battle fought and won against Columbia for the very soul of the album.

Racist everyman, what have you done? Man, you made a killer of your unborn son Oh, crown my fear your king at the point of a gun All I want to do is love everyone…

There’s no time for hatred––only questions What is love, where is happiness What is alive, where is peace? When will I find the strength to bring me release?

PART TWO

Drummerless and exhausted, a different Jeff Buckley returned to a different New York. Though it suited his dysfunctionally nomadic, reactively noncommittal spirit, touring is not conducive to one’s mental or physical well-being nor is any level of fame, which is unfortunately what moves the units at the cost of anonymous normalcy. As a result, Jeff could no longer frequent any of his old haunts without being recognized and approached by strangers who thought they knew and deserved a piece of him beyond his timeless music. But then even his friends couldn’t help but feel jilted in their wanting a less ephemeral friendship with him, as he made them feel like the undeniably corroborated center of the universe when he was around, having given of himself interpersonally as completely and unadvisedly as he did in his music.

**************

Thy hand, Belinda, darkness shades me On thy bosom let me rest More I would, but Death invades me Death is now a welcome guest

When I am laid in earth May my wrongs create No trouble in thy breast Remember me, but oh, forget my fate

“He gave everything. Thanks, Jeff.”

#jeff buckley #jeffbuckley #simeon flick #san diego troubadour #march 2023

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he-calls-me-kitten · 2 years

Text

PlayDate

9 demons, 1 angel and 1 immortal wizard. A game night with your harem, planned especially by Asmo. What could possibly go wrong?

Honestly it's just a overly long tease fic what the heck-

TW: There's smexy stuff with organic paint and all so read at your own risk.

"I've never been more excited for a game night! I'm sure Asmo has lots of fun games in store for us!" Diavolo laughed

"I'm suprised you even showed up, Simeon." You nudged the angel next to you. "Especially knowing that Asmo planned it."

"Well I was worried about you." He replied. "I couldn't, in good faith, leave you with the demons on top of Asmo in charge."

"There was really no need Simeon, I'm here to look after MC too you know?" Solomon said, smiling. Simeon laughed at that.

"Attention everyone! Your fabulous game host is here!" Asmo strutted into the room with a peach fur scarf around his usual outfit, just to be extra. You applauded him on, clapping and laughing.

"Asmodeus I really hope you have picked the games carefully keeping in mind Diavolo is joining us." Lucifer said sternly.

"Oh come now Lucifer, don't be like that! I'd like to play any games he has for us." Diavolo chided. Barbatos nodded in agreement.

"The first game for tonight is...Strip Jenga!" Asmo said, bringing out a jenga game box. "The rules are simple, my lovelies! Pulls the pieces from the tower and whoever makes it drop has to strip!"

"Absolutely not." Lucifer bellowed sternly.

"Gah! I knew it! I'm out of here!" Levi got up to his feet.

"Why'd ya have to add stripping as a penalty?!" Mammon said, shaking his head as he draped his jacket on your shoulders. "It totally messes MC's games and I don't want anyone seeing MC!"

"Oh but you're allowed to see are you? Seriously Mammon you think we'd fall for that?" Satan too draped his jacket on you.

Belphie sat annoyed with his brothers. "Gosh this is such a bother. I'm going to go sleep and-"

"Everyone sit down. Its extremely rude to treat your host this way." Diavolo's booming voice made them stop in their tracks.

"Thank you Diavolo! I knew it was a splendid idea to invite you!" Asmo cheerily hopped about as he built the tower. "Solomon a little help?"

Solomon flicked his wrist and everyone watched the tower build itself. The game was eventful would be a gross understatement.

Everyone had knocked the tower a couple times but noone had done it as much as you. Even with the extra jackets, you lost a good half of your clothes - down to your socks and shorts and tank top. And even with lesser clothes than before everyone seemed to sweat as they kept stealing glances at you. And noone was allowed to wear clothes for the rest of the games.

_______Game Fin_________

"Alright! No more of this! Can we change the game please, Asmo." Lucifer said, eyeing Mammon as he tried to take a picture of him, to sell no doubt.

"Alright then, moving on to the next game. Sexy twister!" Asmo announced and threw what looked like a box of colored stickers.

"What are these? Are these edible?" Beel held up a giant red circle, roughly the size of a grapefruit. "Why do they have glue on one side?"

"If I'm inferring this correctly, I assume there is no mat and we have to stick these circles on ourselves and become the mats." Barbatos said, gingerly sticking a blue circle on his bare shoulder.

"And correct! Here we should all stick it on each other, that way we'll get the back too!" Asmo said, sticking something on your behind. You struggled to see a big yellow dot on your shorts.

You giggled. This was rather fun. You put two circles on Simeon's shoulders, one on Diavolo's chest, one on Belphie's face.

"Here MC, if you don't mind, I'd like to do one on you too." Solomon smirked as he daintly stuck one right under your chest.

"Hey no fair! My turn!" Levi stuck one on your thigh and then scurried away realising what he'd done.

"Now that were all covered I'll spin the wheel and we all must try and touch the color okay! What you touch it with doesn't matter!" Asmo spun the little wheel. "Touch Yellow!"

You instinctively touched a yellow circle on Barabtos's back. But apparently someone spotted Asmo's sticker on you.

"Apologies MC ... it's the first thing I saw." Diavolo apologized even as he squeezed on your ass tighter than needed. A lot of them glanced your way and blushed. Diavolo, you lucky demon.

After that it seems people were just looking for the colors on you. On "Touch Blue!" you felt Levi's hand grope around your thigh, above the circle. And Belphie straight up fell asleep holding your leg too.

"Touch Red!" had Solomon almost cupping your chest while Simeon grabbed at your waist. You were clutching Lucifer's tensed up thigh for the last round of the game.

______Game Fin_______

"I need a bathroom break before the next game." You raised up your arm and bolted out of the room. All that touching and close contact...well you simply had to go clean up.

By the time you came back, everyone stood around a little white chair. "What's the next game?" You were almost afraid to ask.

A lot of them averted eye contact. Asmo simply smirked and took you by the shoulders to make sit in the chair. "Put your wrists together for me, could you MC?"

You did as he asked and the next moment you had hand cuffs on your hands and they were tied snugly behind your back.

"Asmo this doesn't even feel like a game..." You struggled to move. And the boys struggled not to groan and look away. Your skin tingled with excitement.

"Sorry MC, as the person with the lowest points, you must serve as the penalty in this game." Asmo cooed and pointed to several buckets of paints kept nearby.

"The game is for everyone to paint you in their own colors. The one who gets the most paint on you wins..." Asmo said, picking up his own pink paint. "...also you can color over someone else's paint."

"Where are the brushes..." Barbatos asked. "...or are we supposed to use our bare hands?" To which Asmo nodded delightfully. Your heart jumped in your chest. What the hell is this game even?!

Everyone had already rushed to pick their colors and now gathered around you, hands dripping with paint. You shook your head. "Wait wait! Not all at once please! It's...it's too much for me to handle!"

"Hmm alright no more than three at a time then! Now let's have draws on who goes first and-" Asmo started.

"This is wasting too much time. I'm the eldest I'm going in first." Lucifer huffed and moved forward.

"Oh don't you dare go deciding everything by yourself." Satan joined in. "Your impatience will be the death of you and I will win this." Satan smirked bumping Lucifer on the way.

"Well I better make sure they don't go too rough on MC." Simeon joined in this round too.

"You have two minutes. 3, 2, 1...go!"

Cold and hurried touches of lavender, blue and green splashed across your body. Satan spread green on your shoulders and down your arms and Lucifer was kneeled at your feet, coating everything blue. Simeon was softly lathering paint on your stomach but was more hesitant on your chest.

"Tilt your head for me a little, MC." Satan whispered as he massaged your neck.

Lucifer gripped your thighs in response. You gave a little jump and he smirked. He slid under your hips and colored there too.

Simeon bit his lip. "I apologise for my indency." He said before slipping his hands beneath your top and underwear.

"Ah Simeon!" You moaned almost involuntarily as he kneeled, massaging up and down your waist. He was leaving lavender stains on the blue and green.

Ding! The timer went off.

Simeon had won. You pressed a kiss on his cheek to congratulate him while Satan and Lucifer gave him death stares.

"Round 2! Im volunteering this time! I can't resist MC anymore!" Asmo chimed in.

"Out of the way! The round hasn't started yet, Asmo. Get your hands off, MC!" Mammon growled spilling yellow as he sprinted.

"Hey if Mammon's going, I'm next! Don't start without me!" Levi almost spilled all his paint on himself.

"3,2,1...start!"

"Oi MC, could you stand up for me?" Mammon's breath was low and guttural near your ear. Your body obeyed him on its own accord.

You felt paint splash down your entire back before Mammon's hands aggressively grabbed you from behind and moved around your body.

"Mammon wait-" You almost toppled over. His hands were groping at you too hard.

"Amateur." Asmo shook his head and promptly dripped some paint on his tongue. "Oh did I not tell you? Its edible! Completely harmless to put inside your body."

"Open your mouth for me, won't you darling?" Asmo said, holding your chin. He kissed you and pried your lips open with his tongue. It tasted like fruit syrup.

Levi had to tilt his head back and stop his nosebleed first. He shouldn't be turned on by any of this. But his boner has been raging since the strip game and now seeing you like this-

"Ahhhh fuck this! I won't lose!" Levi turned into his demon form, tail swishing back and forth and knocking his paint all over it.

Levi surged forward and sat on the ground putting his hands on your thighs. "How ...how are you so soft...MC..." His tail wrapped around you leaving orange stripes all over your skin and clothes.

Ding! "Times up, boys. Mammon wins this round."

Lucifer grabbed Mammon and Asmo by the collar while Satan pulled Asmo off you. Beel and Belphie were next. You sat back down.

And Beel's strategy was to keep cleaning Belphie's colors off you. The more paint Belphie paint Belphie dripped, the more Beel licked.

"Beel wait...that tickles..." It more than just tickled when he kept licking the inner side of your thighs.

And meanwhile Belphie was busy smearing his paint all his fingers and easing them inside your mouth. He even pressed kisses of his colors onto your back.

Beel won that round and earned a kiss on the cheek from you too when he said "You're not hurt are you?" You smiled and shook your head.

The last three. Solomon, Barbatos and Diavolo. You held your breath. This was the most intense trio by far.

"Let's start on a clean slate, shall we?" Solomon clicked his fingers at you. All the paint dripped away and off you onto the white sheets below. "I'd prefer you to be only painted in my colors."

"You are really optimistic, aren't you Solomon?" Barbatos smiled, pulling his gloves off with his teeth. "I must say, MC would look much better in my colors."

Diavolo said nothing. There was a dark layer of lust on his eyes. You watched him take his container of paint and dump it on his chest. Golden paint, colored like his eyes, dripped from his ample chest down to his crotch and thighs. "Let's get started, shall we?"

"3, 2, 1...go!"

"Here MC, sit on me instead." Diavolo promptly made you stand up and sat down in your seat instead. And then pulled you down to his lap, right on top of his erection. Your back pressed tightly against his chest as he held your hips and grinded himself on you. "You feel amazing..."

"Mmmh-" You whimpered at the contact. Intense really was the right word. Meanwhile you watched Barbatos' painted tail slither towards you. Wrapping around your thighs and holding them open. The tip poked at your crotch. "Hope you don't mind, MC."

"Ah~" You almost moaned before you felt someone grab your face. Solomon pried your lips open with his own, his tongue darting around at every corner of your mouth. The other hand slipped inside your shorts. "There's another way to get paint inside you, you know?" And with that he thrust his painted fingers inside you. You yelped into his ear and held his shoulders for support.

You heard a collective gasp. This was by far the most erotic group. And the ones who were already done now constantly adjusted their pants and stared at them, pissed. They definitely wanted a redo.

Ding!

From first glance it looked like a tie between Diavolo and Barbatos, but your mouth dripped with Solomon and when you stood up, endless paint seemed to drip through your shorts, down your legs. He won.

"I'm going to take a shower." You said abruptly. They all turned apologetic immediately, asking if you're hurt or exhausted.

"In case you didn't notice, you all riled me up pretty bad." You groaned. "So I'm going to go relieve myself. Oh wait ...here's a final game for you."

You smirked as they looked on curiously. Oh they were going to go wild after this. "I'd rather not do it alone so the first one to the bathroom can help relieve me. I'll go up first and then you can start, okay?"

The instant turned-on faces and the pushing and shoving made you chuckle as you walked down the hallway. Game nights weren't so bad after all.

#obey me smut #obey me #obey me belphie #obey me beel #obey me leviathan #obey me satan #obey me solomon #obey me asmo #obey me barbatos #obey me beelzebub #obey me smut imagine #obey me lemon

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2d-reality · 1 month

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Little Things (The Prince of Demons)

characters: Diavolo, GN!MC navigation: Diavolo | Barbatos | Simeon | Solomon | Luke | Thirteen content/warnings: little things you do, out of love. dateables edition! fluff. could be read as platonic but why would u word count: 862 notes: Alas, Dia is the only one I have finished as of now on account of how my work/life balance has been absolutely wacked recently. I'll get around to the rest eventually, I promise! I have bits and pieces here and there but the dateables don't flow as easy as the boys. Mephis will likely not be included bc I'm not even vaguely familiar with his character, and because we are both horse girls and he is my bitter rival on principle. I stared at this piece a lot but did I edit it? no

Diavolo was a lonely man. He knew a lonely childhood, tucked away in the Demon King’s palace with only the grounds staff as company. He attended lessons alone as he grew up learning what it would take to shoulder his father’s throne once he came of age. When the reigning monarch fell into his dreamless slumber, Diavolo had effectively lost yet another lifeline to anything resembling a normal existence-- a parent. As a young man (or, rather, the demon equivalent of a young man), surrounded by nobility of all kinds vying for his attention, he knew they only saw Diavolo, the Crown Prince. Even the brothers, who were the closest to being considered his friends, played along with his antics out of duty. No doubt Lucifer drilled it into them to be accommodating.

Sometimes he felt as though he was cursed-- paying for his original sin by bearing his existence, at the end of the day, alone.

That was, at least, until you came along. You, so small and fierce and human. You, who upon meeting him at the beginning of your tenure as an exchange student, held his gaze squarely and didn’t back down, even when he could practically smell your fear.

You, who for whatever reason, be it ignorance or sheer, unmitigated gall or something else entirely, didn’t for a moment treat him any differently than any other demon you met. Once you were comfortable living among magical beings, it was as if the floodgates opened. Despite horrified reactions from Lucifer and gentle chiding from Barbatos, you told him when his jokes were stupid (even if you still laughed), slapped his arm companionably when greeting him, and called him by a myriad of silly nicknames.

Your friendship is the most precious thing Diavolo has ever received in his long life. You aren’t one of his subjects, born to defer to him whether you wanted to or not. You aren’t an angel, who gave him a cautious respect for the good of your realms’ relations. You didn’t even know he existed before you came to the Devildom. You chose not to see the heir to the throne, and instead saw Diavolo-- a gentle giant with more love in his heart than he was born to carry. Diavolo, who would go to the ends of all three realms for those he cared for. Diavolo, who was loud and boisterous and always wanted to be involved. Diavolo, who liked cigar cookies and video games and could be a bit of a goofball.

He cherishes every aspect of your relationship. He loves when you send him blurry photos of various pairs of objects or animals you see when out and about, with the caption "us fr <3”. He loves getting links to dumb memes in the middle of the night, followed by laughing emojis or “this u??” You poke fun at him, bite back with quips when he makes jokes at your expense, and play silly little pranks on him. His favorite is when you gesture to something on his coat, only to flick the tip of his nose when he looks down to investigate. He’d long since caught on to that ruse, among others, but your bright smile and chirping laughter when you teased him for falling for it yet again are too precious to him to not play along.

He even appreciates the times that you turn down his invitations to spend the weekend at the palace with him, citing exhaustion from the brothers’ antics or pressing schoolwork from RAD. You’re not automatically agreeing simply because you have no choice-- you spend your limited, precious time on him because you want to. More often than not you made up for declining by showing up entirely unannounced some time later, cloaked beneath a spell to shield you from Barbatos’ sixth sense for his Lord getting up to shenanigans, beckoning him to sneak out with you to suck on thick milkshakes in some cramped corner booth and giggle conspiratorially like a couple of misbehaving teenagers.

When he’s around you, Diavolo feels like he can breathe. He doesn’t have to worry about keeping up appearances. You aren’t looking for political sway, or funding, or an elevated social status. For the first time in his life, he can set aside his heavy burden and feel... normal. He can ruffle your hair, and only half-heartedly hold you back from practically climbing him to dig your knuckles into his scalp and return the favor. He can laugh when you swat at his hand as he reaches across your plate to steal a few of your fries. He wears the friendship bracelet you braided for him at all times. He considered charming it to never fade or fray, but when it finally falls apart from wear, your mock exasperation when you tell him you’ll make him another makes him feel so real.

Diavolo was a lonely man. But now, he has a friend. A genuine, honest-to-goodness friend. You have matching contact photos, and inside jokes. You don’t call him my lord when he comes up in conversation; it’s always my friend. Now, thanks to you, he isn’t lonely anymore.

#obey me #diavolo #obey me diavolo #diavolo x reader #diavolo x mc #obey me x reader #om! diavolo #om diavolo #obey me dateables #if you read through these tags i love you special

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girlfailure-smut-hour · 10 months

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Simeon's Corruption

Characters: Simeon X Fem!Reader

CW: Nipple play, Oral (Receiving, giving) Penetration (Receiving.) Some gendered language and MC has breasts, but ambiguous genitals as always.

A/N: I've been wanting to do something with corrupting Simeon for a while. He's such a cutie. MC seduces Simeon by wearing revealing clothes then confronting him about his fantasies. ~2100 words.

Please check out my fic masterlist <3

From the moment you laid eyes on him you knew you had to have him. His beautiful soft skin, slightly tousled hair, and gentle eyes entranced you. The way his tight shirt clung to his chest and the spots where it was cut away so you could see his waist was almost too much to bear. But it wouldn't do for an angel to misbehave like that so you had to take matters into your own hands.

It wasn't easy to make an angel have indecent thoughts. You started simple at first. Innocent flirtation: genuine compliments and the stray touch on his bare shoulder, but he didn't notice a thing. He'd just return your compliments. You had to work for it, so you began to wear shorter skirts, bending down in front of him to show your panties. You wore lower cut tops and leaned over him "to get something," making sure he had a full view down your shirt. You could never catch him looking. It was almost like he was incapable of noticing; too pure, or perhaps too polite. But one day when you were sitting near him, leaning so he could catch a peek down your shirt, you glanced at him and saw him quickly look away, blushing like he'd just walked in on you changing or something.

"Is everything okay, Simeon?" You ask, hiding a smile.

"Y-yes!" He stammers, getting up. "Sorry! I just remembered I have something to take care of!"

He quickly runs off, but you can't help but notice his bulge. Though he tried to hide it, the tightening of his pants was obvious as he ran out of the room.

You smile to yourself. So he can have dirty thoughts, you think. It wouldn't be hard to push him much further. He's probably on his way to masturbate right now, but you decide to let him be, as exciting as it is. You picture him rushing off to his room and tearing away his tight pants exposing his hard cock. Maybe he's lying on his bed right now, pumping his length in his fist, a light wet slapping sound each time his hand reaches the base. Maybe he's moaning your name as he tries to imagine what's under your shirt thinking of all the times you gave him a view down your bra. As he cums, all he can think about is how badly he wishes it were inside of you. After he started to think about you in that way, it would be hard for him to put those feelings aside again.

Catching him the next day, he can hardly look at you. He used to look at you with such pure intentions, not seeing the dirty thoughts you wanted to project onto him. Today, he can't look at you without calling to mind the fantasies he probably pleasured himself to last night.

"Hey Simeon," you say, stepping close to him, and running a finger down his chest, feeling his tense muscles under his tight shirt.

He looks away, blushing with a shiver. "H-hey."

"Is everything okay? You seemed to run off in a hurry yesterday."

"Y-yeah," he stammers, blushing even harder. "I… left something in my room… that I needed."

Lying too now? He'd really come a long way. "You seem… flustered," you say.

"I'm sorry, I don't know what you mean," he replies.

You turn his face with a gentle finger and he gulps as he meets your eyes. They flick down to your chest before he brings them back to your eyes. Your heart is pounding as he looks deep into your eyes with a complicated, unreadable expression. He almost looks as though he's going to cry.

"I… did something bad last night," he says. "And I feel very guilty about it."

"That's okay Simeon," you nearly whisper. "We all do bad things sometimes." You can feel excitement stirring down between your legs as a tingling warmth builds up within you. "Sometimes we feel guilty about things that are perfectly natural." You cup his cheek, and feel the warmth of his blush as he looks away again, only casting furtive glances at your lips and chest. "Can I tell you a secret?"

He perks up, ready to hear the deepest contents of your heart. "You can always share your secrets with me," he replies.

"Sometimes… When I'm all alone late at night, I touch myself while thinking about someone."

"Is it a particular someone?" He asks. Your heart is pounding now. His probably is too, but you only have to look at his flushed face to know he is nervous.

"Yes," you say, "but I don't know if he'd have me."

"I think he'd be quite lucky to have you," he replies.

For a moment, it is quiet between you two. You break the silence by saying, "Kiss me.”

And he does. A gentle, almost shy kiss at first, but it evolves into a passionate, yearning one as he pulls you close and runs his fingers through your hair. You put your hips against his to feel his erection already pulling his pants tight.

As you pull away he says, "I have a confession too. I touched myself while I thought of you yesterday. That was the something bad I did."

"I know,” You laugh. “Did you enjoy it?"

"Aside from the guilt," he says, "very much so."

You get closer and whisper in his ear, "how about we try some of those fantasies then?"

Shivering, he replies, "I'd like that very much."

"Come on," you say, taking his hands and giggling.

"R-right now!?" He asks.

"Yeah!" You laugh as you drag him to your room.

His eyes are darting around and beads of sweat form at his brow as you both enter your room together. You touch his chest and bring your lips close to his.

"There's nothing to be nervous about," you whisper against his lips before kissing him again. He's stiff at first, but as he relaxes, he lets his tongue out a little, wrapping his arms around you. You grab the back of his head, running your hands through his beautiful hair. He pulls you tighter, pressing his hard cock against you.

You push his shawl over his shoulders and run your fingers against his skin. He shivers and you can feel his cock twitch through his tight pants. He pulls away and starts to undress you. His fingers rub the hem of your top nervously, before he lifts it up over your head. Reaching around you, he fumbles with your bra strap before it gives and falls away. He then kneels in front of you, kissing you a few times on your stomach and hips before pulling your skirt and panties down. He runs his hands up and down your legs, soaking you in.

As he steps away, there is a look of awe in the angel's eyes as though you're the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. He breathes deeply, drinking the moment in. You can't even feel nervous around him, the way he regards you.

He pulls you back into a kiss, running his strong, warm hands over your skin. He feels every inch of your body as he kisses you deeply. Gentle, but passionate, you can feel the aching desire in his touch, even though his hands feel light as air.

You undo his belt, then button and zipper, before ripping his pants and underwear down. His cock bounces slightly as the fabric is pulled away. You caress it and can feel his body move against his will, convulsing at the slightest touch. You wrap your hand around him and start to stroke it, gently rubbing it as he struggles to keep his lips locked to yours through the gyrations of his hips.

You guide him to the bed pressing a hand against his shoulder without dropping the kiss or stopping stroking his cock. As his heels knock against the bed, his knees buckle and he falls backward onto the bed, giggling. He looks up at you, his eyes gleaming with adoration for you. You cup his cheek and lean over to kiss him. Slowly you lower yourself onto your knees, until your mouth is inches from his cock. He bites his lip anxiously as your hot breath bears down on his length. He would be fun to toy with if you had the patience to tease him more, but the tension is unbearable already.

You wrap your lips around the head of his cock and he moans your name, leaning his head back in pleasure. You swirl your tongue around the head of his cock and he thrusts his hips involuntarily, pushing a little further into your mouth. You start to press your head down, taking more of his length in, feeling it fill your mouth as you get closer to the base. He moans and brushes your hair out of your face. You look up at him, his cock nearly all in your mouth and he quickly looks away, blushing.

You pull up and start to move up and down, feeling his shaft with your tongue. As hard as he tries, he can't seem to keep from thrusting his hips, pushing his cock against the back of your throat.

“That feels so good,” He moans, nearly whimpering.

His sweet moans are a good reward, but you can tell from his voice and the tightness of his skin that he's getting close so you pull away.

“It’s your turn now,” He says, smiling.

You climb up on the bed, and hang your legs off like he did. As he gets down on his knees between your legs Simeon flashes you a sweet smile. He kisses you gently on the soft skin between your legs; sweet little kisses that send shivers all up and down your spine. His soft hands caress your legs and dance around your dirty parts, teasing out moans and getting you ready for him.

As his tongue finally touches down, your back arches in pleasure. He swirls his tongue around and runs it all over you, moaning as he does so you can feel his excitement vibrating through you. For an angel he’s incredibly talented, using his mouth in ways you couldn’t have imagined. You run your fingers through his soft, messy hair, and he looks up at you from between your legs with a gentle, but somehow dirty look. You blush, suddenly feeling flustered.

He guides you to an orgasm unexpectedly quickly. You start to moan louder and higher, so he keeps up his pace, causing you to moan even louder, nearly screaming now. Gyrating your hips, you can feel a warmth building up in your groin. You grip his hair as you buck your hips, shuddering and convulsing.

He stands and positions his cock at your entrance, leaning over you for a kiss. He cups your cheek and asks, “Are you ready?”

You nod and he gently presses in. You moan, feeling his hard cock against your walls. As he starts to thrust, you clutch the sheets. He maintains his angelic composure, even as he thrusts into you, running his hands up and down your body, cupping your cheeks and rubbing your nipples.“Simeon, you feel so good,” You say. He smiles and runs a hand up to your face.

His sweet moans fill the room, contrasting the sound of slapping skin as he starts to fuck you harder. In his excitement, he grabs you by the hips for better leverage, pulling you onto his cock so he can get deeper and go faster. You’re practically shrieking in pleasure now as he thrusts his length into you repeatedly.

When you start to get close, you say “I think I’m going to cum.” He says “Me too,” thrusting even faster until he slows down and rams his cock into you hard a few more times before stopping entirely. The feeling of his cock throbbing inside you pushes you over the edge. You moan and clutch him as his hot cum fills you. Simeon cups your face as you convulse in pleasure, smiling as a single bead of sweat drips onto your lips.

You stay like that for a while, his cock still inside you. When he starts to pull out, it brings new waves of pleasure, almost overstimulating. He does it slowly, but when he’s done you can already feel his hot cum dripping down.

He picks your legs up and gently places them on the bed. Kissing your forehead, he says, “I’m going to get you a towel.” You try to reply but just mumble something incoherent, having been made pleasure-dumb. He giggles and kisses you again before leaving.

#obey me smut #obey me Simeon X Reader #obey me Simeon smut #Simeon smut #obey me #obey me shall we date #omswd #obey me x reader #om! Simeon #obey me Simeon #Simeon x reader #obey me nightbringer #obey me nb

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