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guzhufuren · 2 months

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A Guide to Some of the Best Queer Asian Shows

The guide includes a show’s basic summary; main genres/tropes/themes and official streaming links (additional info on how to watch at the end of this post)! You can find some content warnings in the reply section of this post. Shows are listed by countries, numbered by the order I recommend watching in, not by rating. All shows have happy endings unless specified otherwise. The list will hopefully be updated regularly (last updated on 04/04/2024, 98 queer shows in total).

Most shows are about mlm, I specify with coloured notes those that are focused on wlw, polyamory, aromantism/asexuality, etc.

Tumblr does not allow large texts or more than 30 images per post at the moment, so you can click on every country’s list to expand them and view them fully in a separate post. You can access this guide in a google doc here.

Thailand 🇹🇭 (full list here)

1. KinnPorsche mafia boss/bodyguard; action; kidnapper/kidnapee side couple

Kinn, a son of a prominent mafia head, is ambushed by an enemy, and meets Porsche, a bartender who comes to his rescue for a price, thus beginning their reluctant relationship as boss and bodyguard, which soon turns into something more.

iQIYI

2. Bed Friend friends with benefits; office setting; trauma

King and Uea work in the same office. After a company outing ends in a drunken hook-up between them, Uea and King agree to keep seeing each other on a strictly physical basis. With no strings attached, will these two be able to keep things between them simple and carefree or will their emotions eventually get the better of them?

Uncut 18+ on iQIYI or GagaOOLala or cut on YouTube

3. The Sign reincarnated lovers; fantasy; thai mythology; police

The story of the love between Phaya and Tharn who used to be mythological creatures Naga and Garuda in their past lives, and were forced apart. But fate intervened, and two men were reincarnated in new bodies. Now, they work together as partners in the Special Investigations Unit to uncover violent crimes and supernatural mysteries while their love is tested by mystical forces and past enemies.

YouTube

4. I Feel You Linger In The Air period drama; time travel; bittersweet

Jom, an architect overseeing the renovation of a rundown villa, continuously dreams of a man he's never met. When a twist of fate transports Jom to Chiang Mai in the 1920s, he assumes the role of a servant to the affluent young master Yai, the mysterious man from his dreams.

GagaOOLala or YouTube

5. You're My Sky sports; university setting; coming of age

Thorn, a young basketball player follows his senior Fah to university as a result of the promise they’d made — to become national basketball champions. However, to his dismay, he finds that Fah has already given up on basketball. --- Aai has to work in pairs throughout the semester with San, 1 year footballer; in order to receive a scholarship to study in Japan, Ai must be willing to do everything to get an A grade. --- Track running requires the compatibility of the team members to be very high. Vee, who became the new racquet 4, has to speed up training to fit in with the team as quickly as possible, especially with Dome, spending extra time together to train. Is love actually a major obstacle on the path of being an athlete?

Viki

> more tv shows from Thailand

GMMTV Thailand 🇹🇭 (full list here)

1. My School President high school setting; secret crush; school president/rebel musician

Gun is the head of his high school music club. Tinn is a school president and Gun's long-term rival. The Principal wants to disband some of the school’s “useless” after-school clubs, especially the music club. Per school rules, the student council president is the one who has the power to dissolve clubs. Gun is now at Tinn’s mercy, so he attempts to do whatever he can to persuade his rival not to cancel the music club. Little does he know, Tinn actually has a secret crush on him. Could romance brew as Gun makes a desperate attempt to secure the future of his band?

Viki (MSP) & YouTube (Our Skyy special 33-40) & YouTube (special)

2. Moonlight Chicken adult romance; age gap; deaf character

Jim is an ordinary guy running a chicken rice diner. One night, he meets Wen when he stays past closing drunk. Brought together by fate that night, intangible feelings arise. Neither can stop thinking about the other despite Jim's efforts to remain unattached. Jim also takes care of his nephew Li Ming, who is falling in love with Heart, a deaf teenager who is practically kept under house arrest by his affluent parents.

YouTube

3. Not Me revolution; freedom fighters; secret twins

When his twin Black is viciously attacked and subsequently left hospitalised in unconsciousness, White is unable to endure the harm done to his brother in silence. He learns Black was a part of a gang of anti-capitalist freedom fighters, and it was one of them who betrayed him. White disguises himself as Black to discover which one of them betrayed him and put him in a coma.

YouTube

4. 23.5 wlw; high school setting; secret admirer

Ongsa moves to a new school and meets Sun, a cute popular girl who she immediately falls for. However, she decides to approach Sun in instagram dms under the pseudonym Earth, leading Sun to believe she's talking to a guy. But Ongsa does not want to lose the opportunity to talk to Sun, so she decides to keep the fact that she is a girl a secret and continue talking as Earth.

YouTube

> more tv shows from GMMTV Thailand

Japan 🇯🇵 (full list here)

1. Cherry Magic! mind reading; secret crush; office setting

By still being a vіrgin at 30, Adachi gains a magical power – the ability to read other people's minds by touching them. At first, he’s overwhelmed by his new ability, and it’s not proving to be helpful to him. But that all changes when he accidentally touches their office’s most perfect guy Kurosawa, who he learns has romantic feelings for him.

WeTV (Cherry Magic) & no international streaming of Cherry Magic The Movie is available to my knowledge, so watch on bilibili or KissKH

2. Kieta Hatsukoi (My Love Mix-Up!) misunderstanding; high school setting

Aoki has a crush on Hashimoto, the girl in the seat next to him in class. But he despairs when he borrows her eraser and sees she's written the name of another boy — Ida — on it. To make matters more confusing, Ida sees Aoki holding that very eraser and thinks Aoki has a crush on him!

Viki

3. Our Dining Table food; child character

Salaryman Yutaka finds it difficult to share meals with other people. However, his life starts to change when one day, his cooking attracts the attention of a young boy named Tane and his older brother Minoru. The two brothers are impressed by Yutaka's cooking skill and invite him to their house to cook together. Yutaka's dreary life begins to change, and soon he finds himself looking forward to the meals he shares with the Ueda siblings together, as well as developing a taste for romantic feelings.

GagaOOLala

4. She Loves to Cook and She Loves to Eat wlw; neighbours; self-discovery; food

Nomoto loves to cook, but tends to make too much food and has no one to share it with. Luckily for her, turns out her neighbor Kasuga has a big enough appetite for the both of them.

No international streaming available, translated to english by Furritsubs, S1 & S2, watching instructions provided, please support translator on kofi.

5. Takara-kun to Amagi-kun high school setting; relationship exploration

Takara is a good-looking popular guy in class, while Amagi is a simple but bright and pure fellow classmate. The two begin to date in secret after Amagi's blurted out confession.

Viki or GagaOOLala

> more tv shows from Japan

China 🇨🇳 (full list here)

Most chinese shows are adapted from explicitly queer novels, the shows are undeniably and obviously queer, but nevertheless the queer romance part is censured. The only exception is number 4 on the list, it is not censored.

1. The Untamed period drama; fantasy

An epic fantasy led by a problem child who comes back from the dead 16 years later in order to fix the broken world he left behind — and finally unite with his soulmate.

YouTube

2. Word of Honor period drama; fantasy

The leader of assassin organisation Zhou Zishu quits his position in pursuit of freedom with drastic measures. In his travels, he meets Wen Kexing, the leader of Ghost Valley who wants nothing but revenge. The two become entangled in various machinations within the martial arts world, and eventually become soulmates instrumental in each other's redemption.

YouTube & Special Episode on Tumblr or DailyMotion

3. Couple of Mirrors wlw; period drama; socialite/assassin

You Yi is a kind-hearted socialite and a successful author. Her perfect life is turned upside-down when she discovers a betrayal by the two most trusted people in her life. With no one left to turn to, she finds refuge in the friendship and support of Yan Wei, a lonely female killer disguised as the owner of a photo studio.

YouTube. the show doesn’t have a happy ending, but it can be a happy ending for you if you stop watching at episode 12 timestamp 28:02.

4. Stay With Me enemies to lovers; high school setting; unconventional families; slow burn

Su Yu is a high school student who lives with his single poor father. Su Yu gets a new classmate Wu Bi. The two clash right from the start, and after getting off on the wrong foot, their explosive relationship takes a turn.

YouTube or GagaOOLala. the show doesn’t have a happy ending, but it can be a happy ending for you if you stop watching at episode 24 timestamp 05:00. OR watch the full thing and look at this post after

5. The Spirealm inside of a video game; mystery; fantasy; horror-ish; hopeful ending

A game designer Lin Qiushi is transported inside of a game he recently played, and now he must go through 12 horrifying survivor game doors to survive in the real world. Inside his first door he meets Ruan Nanzhu, a mysterious man who offers him to team up.

The show was taken down from streaming, download files here and subtitles here.

Various WLW mini web-dramas here.

Various WLW short films here.

South Korea 🇰🇷 (full list here)

1. Love for Love's Sake inside of a video game; high school setting; healing

At the age of 29 Tae Myungha finds himself transported into a fictional video game, and now 19 years old, he meets Cha Yeowoon, who is in the darkest moment of his life. And a translucent window appears where he receives a mission — to make Cha Yeowoon happy.

iQIYI (better subtitles) or GagaOOLala

2. Semantic Error enemies to lovers; university setting

A serious programmer and a rebellious artist clash over a school project. Their animosity keeps escalating to new extremes, defined by petty pranks and feisty arguments.

Viki

3. Love Tractor farm setting; farmer/city musician

Sunyeol, a city man with zero ability to survive in the countryside, comes to his grandfather's rural home. In front of him appears Yechan, a passionate and kind young farmer. While learning about rural life and assisting with farming tasks, Sunyeol gradually finds himself drawn to Yechan's warm and straightforward nature, while Yechan helplessly falls for Sunyeol.

iQIYI

4. Our Dating Sim high school friends to lovers; office setting

After 7 years, Lee Wan meets his first love, Shin Kitae, in a gaming company. When they were best friends in high school, Lee Wan was in love with Kitae. But he ran away and disappeared after confessing his feelings to Kitae after graduation. When the two of them begin working on a new dating simulation game and get more immersed in the project, old feelings are rekindled.

Viki or GagaOOLala

5. She Makes My Heart Flutter wlw; bar setting; niece and aunt dynamic

The extroverted Gang Seol is hired by her aunt Jung at her only-women bar. Even though they are both lesbians, they seem to be worlds apart and have very different love stories.

YouTube

> more tv shows from South Korea

Taiwan 🇹🇼 (full list here)

1. History3: Trapped mafia boss/policeman

The story of a police officer who becomes trapped in the underworld, as he develops feelings for a gang leader.

YouTube or Viki

2. Kiseki: Dear to Me mafia; age gap

Bai Zongyi, an exemplary high school student with dreams of becoming a doctor, is one day unexpectedly drawn into the world of a charismatic and mischievous gangster Fan Zerui, who blackmails him into taking him in and treating his wounds. Just as their love story begins to unfold, Fan Ze Rui's criminal life catches up with him. On the other hand, Chen Yi and Ai Di are two orphans who grew up in the gang together. Ai Di has always loved Chen Yi, but Chen Yi only notices their boss.

Viki or GagaOOLala or YouTube

3. My Tooth Your Love dentist/chef; trauma healing

Bai Lang is a successful bistro owner with an severe fear of visiting the dentist... until a toothache forces him to come face to face with the handsome yet cold dentist Jin Xunan.

Viki

4. Anti Reset android/human

When Chu Yi Ping, an emotionless man, dislocates his hand in an accident at school, his uncle gives him Ever 9 as a caretaker, an experimental intelligent robot that his company is secretly testing.

Viki or iQIYI or GagaOOLala

5. History2: Crossing the Line sports; high school setting

When an injury sidelines a high school senior from the volleyball team, he develops feelings for a recruit.

YouTube or Viki

> more tv shows from Taiwan

Philippines 🇵🇭

1. Sleep With Me wlw; radio; disabled character in a wheelchair

A science textbook writer with a sleep disorder meets a wheelchair-using radio host who runs the midnight shift. This chance encounter at the radio station quickly sparks their interest in each other.

GagaOOLala

---

You can watch many shows for free on YouTube, and watch others on the streaming websites by setting VPN to one of the countries in the list. In other cases I recommend paying for subscriptions to show appreciation and support of content in order to get more of it in the future, but if you can’t, watch on KissKH (better quality), Dramacool or get files from MkvDrama. Enjoy! 🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍⚧️

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cryptidghostgirl · 3 months

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Understand (Dark!Alastor x Exorcist!Reader)

Pairing: Dark!Alastor x Exorcist!Wife!Reader

Description: Y/n has been using the exterminations as a way to try and search for the soul of her earthly husband for years. What happens when she actually succeeds in finding him?

Warnings: Cannon typical violence and angst. Also uh,, not healthy. (The end is kinda fucked up)

Word Count: 2,411

Master Lists:

Master Lists

Hazbin Hotel Master List

Y/n slid the dark mask over her face, jiggling it slightly to make sure it had clicked properly into place. She had never wanted to be an exorcist, hated the very thought. When she had been alive, she was the type of human who felt bad about accidentally stepping on bugs. If she had had any other choice, she would’ve taken it but she didn’t and so Y/n tried her best to detach herself from the experience.

Exorcists were a handpicked group by Adam. If you weren’t one, you didn’t know about them and if you knew about them, you were fucked. Y/n’s entire existence in the peaceful afterlife had been turned on its head when she’d been chosen. Pulled out of normal day to day and pushed into harsh, year round training. There was nothing nice about it and nothing she could do. No one listened to a thing she said, not even Sera. Sometimes, Y/n caught herself wishing she’d just been sent to Hell instead.

There was, however, one small benefit to these yearly trips. While it was a pain to act like she was being more violent than she was on the field, a constant terror in her life that Adam and Lute would find out she’d been letting demons go, it also gave her the opportunity to search.

Y/n had been married in life. Her husband had been a criminal, one of the worst, something she hadn’t learned until after his death. Still, she couldn’t stop herself from loving him. Every day on earth she’d lived without him by her side had been abysmal. No other love was quite like his love.

When she had first arrived in Heaven, Y/n had searched everywhere for him. There had been no luck. It had been a foolish hope, she knew: looking for a serial killer among the blessed but, she couldn’t help herself. She wanted to hear him explain, wanted to understand. Most of all, though she tried not to think about this part, she wanted to give him a kiss. To throw her arms around his neck with abandon the way she did when they were young. She wanted to hear his voice, have him tell her he still loved her too and mean it. She wanted to know she hadn’t wasted her life, her one chance at a living love.

The gates opened and Y/n dove through with the hundreds of other exorcists. Their game was underfoot, their cat and mouse sadistic chase. For Y/n? The search was on.

----

Alastor watched as the exorcist descended upon him. He was feeling brave and stupid, empowered after his near win against Vox just a few weeks before. Cracking his knuckles, he wondered what the exorcist’s voice would sound like if added to his broadcast.

A wicked grin on his face, she hovered before him. Her wings flapped with great strength, sending gusts of wind Alastor’s way as she kept herself vertically in the air. Alastor simply looked down, pointedly away from the exorcist, and straightened his lapel with his hand that wasn’t holding his microphone. He was trying to make her angry. As she inched closer to him, Alastor assumed it had worked.

“Don’t see many of your lot around these parts this time of year.” he mused, checking his nail beds, “What can I help you with?”

There was a silence. Alastor looked up towards the angel, confused. Normally a blasé statement like that would have gotten a rise out of anyone intent on killing him. Instead, the lights of her eyes on the mask just stared at him. Slowly, she lowered herself to the ground.

“Say that again.”

Her voice came out muffled and harsh through the mask, clearly altered by some equipment within. He laughed, taking a menacing step forward. Leaning down condescendingly, he conceded to her demand.

“How may I be of use?”

The exorcist was silent again. After a moment, Alastor shrugged. He straightened himself up again, his hands on top of his microphone as if it were a cane. He summoned his shadows.

“Well you’re certainly making this easy.”

His horns began to grow, throwing strange and menacing shadows across the walls of the ally way. Still, the angel stood there.

“It… it can’t be.” she mumbled under her breath.

Alastor raised his eyebrows.

“Can’t be who, darling?” he asked, feigning innocence, “The Radio Demon can’t be such a big name you folks up in Heaven hear my shows, can it?”

Alastor let out a laugh, taking a step forward as the exorcist tentatively took a step back.

“Oh who am I kidding, of course it is!” he exclaimed.

The exorcist took another step back as Alastor threw his microphone into the air, catching the center of its stand neatly in his outstretched hand. Her back hit the shadows he had put up to block the ally way and she frantically turned her head to the side, checking what it was she’d run into.

Alastor tsked her, walking up so they were just a few feet apart. Harshly, he used his microphone to turn his face to hers again.

“Don’t look away from me, dear. I might get jealous.”

“Were you married?” the exorcist asked suddenly.

Alastor froze in his tracks, his brow furrowed the slightest bit.

“Sorry if that’s weird.” she stuttered out, rubbing her arm holding the spear uncomfortably, “I just, well, I’ve been looking for my husband? He died in the early 1930s and well, he sounded a lot like you.”

Alastor’s heart dropped, crashing into his diaphragm. The angel watched him nervously as he removed his microphone from the side of her head. She let out a breath she’d been holding, something that was quickly taken in again as he used the end of his microphone to life her mask from her face.

It clattered harshly against the concrete as it fell from her face. Alastor’s eyes went wide. There was no doubt about it. Sure, she had a soft ethereal glow about her now, but hadn’t she always in a way? Sure, her hair was cropped around her ears and she was in armor. It didn’t matter, in an instant he knew. The shadows fell from around them, his horns shrunk back to their normal size.

“Y/n?”

“Alastor?” she asked back, just as breathless.

Slowly, she reached a hand out to his face and cupped his cheek. He leaned into it on instinct. Y/n’s spear clattered to the floor, her other hand finding his other cheek as she looked up at him in simple amazement.

“You…” gingerly, Alastor reached his free hand up, laying it on top of one of Y/n’s, “Of course you’ve been in Heaven this whole time. You were always so good, much too good for me.”

“Oh hush, Alastor.” Y/n scolded lightly, her eyes filling with tears, “You know I don’t like it when you put yourself down like that.”

“No, Y/n.” he let his microphone disappear, taking both her hands off his face and holding them intently in his own, “You don’t understand. I did terrible things when I was alive, I still do them now. There is a reason I am down here.”

“I know.” she responded almost immediately.

“No, y-”

“I don’t mean to interrupt but Al, I do know.” Y/n cut him off, “You were killed hurrying a body hun, hard not to. Plus, when the police searched the house they told me what they’d, um, found in the basement freezer.”

Y/n chose her words carefully, her eyes averted. When she looked back at Alastor, he was still smiling yes but, there was something confused about him too. They had grown up together. She had always known exactly what was going on in that head of his. Well, most of the time anyways.

“I’ve been looking for you.”

“You have?” Alastor asked, “After everything, after… God, how long did I leave you up there alone?”

“About thirty years.” Y/n shrugged.

There was a moment of silence. A question tugged at Alastor’s tongue, one he wasn’t sure he really wanted to know the answer to. Still, time was running out. The screams of demons being attacked were becoming more and more infrequent. He didn’t know if he’d ever get another chance.

“Did your new husband make it up to heaven with you?”

Y/n’s eyes went wide.

“New husba- Alastor, I never remarried.”

“Why not? You deserved to be treated well, Y/n. To have had a good life. Why waste it all on me?”

“I loved you. I still do.”

Y/n knew it was a bad idea, knew the risks if any other exorcist in the area heard her. Still, she couldn’t help but feel it would be worth it to die, knowing she’d found Alastor and that he knew she still loved him.

“You find anyone down here yourself?” Y/n asked awkwardly after a moment, looking around the ally.

Alastor took a step forward, closing what little space had been left between them. Like he had done it a thousand times before, because he had done it a thousand times before, he raised a hand to Y/n’s cheek and turned her face to his. Eyes wide, lips slightly parted, she stared up at him.

“No one.” Alastor shook his head, “There’s no one but you.”

A horn sounded from a ways away and Y/n turned up to the sky. Waves of exorcists were flying over head, going back to the portal, back to heaven. Y/n took a step back, Alastor’s hand falling from her cheek.

“Al, I have to go.”

“Please, Y/n. Stay with me here. I can’t get to you up there, I don’t want to lose you again.”

“I have to go, Al. I don’t want to cause any more trouble for you and everyone else down here.” she insisted, turning to where her mask lay on the ground, “I’ll be back in twelve months, I promise.”

As Y/n leaned over to grab her called disguise, her wings splayed out behind her. Light hit the tip of her spear just right in that moment, catching Alastor’s eye. A wicked idea filtered into his mind. Something he never could have done, would have ever even imagined when he’d been alive. But now? Hell had hardened him, taught Alastor sometimes you had to be cruel to get what you want and not just when it came to killing creeps. He had tried life without Y/n before, tried nearly sixty years of it. Alastor didn’t like it one bit.

“We will get to see one another then,” Y/n was saying as her trembling fingers fumbled for the edge of her mask in the dim light, “and I promise I’ll find a way we can end up together for good, I really d-”

A searing pain shot through her, causing her words to catch in her throat. It was worse than anything Y/n had ever felt before, emanating from the center of her back. Panting in pain, she reached a hand behind her back. It came away wet with sticky, golden blood. Her vision blurring, Y/n looked up at Alastor. Clutched in his right fist was the head of her spear. From the other hand, he dropped her left wing to the floor.

“Alastor…” she panted, her breath weak, “what…”

He took a step forward and an arrow of fright shot through Y/n. She tried to take one back but the pain was starting to really get to her now and she stumbled, falling to the ground. Alastor stood over her, smiling menacingly down as she scooted back from him. Y/n was full on hyperventilating now.”

“Al, what are you doing? What… how… I don’t understand.”

Alastor hushed her gently, the way he used to when they were little kids and he found her crying. Tears began to drip from Y/n’s eyes and she jolted violently with fear as his clawed hand grabbed her shoulder, forcing her to twist around and giving him access to her other wing. He grabbed it, pulling it out to its fullest extent.

“Alastor please.” Y/n begged, tears rolling hotly down her face, “Please don’t. Please.”

“My, these sure are pretty.” Alastor hummed, admiring the weft of the feathers as he held Y/n’s remaining wing.

“Why would you do this!?” Y/n screamed, her voice echoing in the empty ally.

Alastor fell to his knees behind her, still holding her wing out, still immobilizing her in pain.

“I’ve already lost you once.” he said softly, leaning into Y/n’s ear. She whimpered, trying to scoot away from him but unable to due to the hold he had on her appendage, “I won’t do it again. If Satan, or God, or the fucking universe think they can keep us apart, then not a single goddamn one of them has been paying attention because you are mine. You are mine and there is nothing that I wouldn’t do to keep things that way.”

As the final words left Alastor’s lips, he cut through Y/n’s remaining wing in a single motion. She let out an earsplitting scream before passing out in a steadily growing puddle of her own golden blood.

“There, there my love.” Alastor hummed gently, dropping the spear to the ground and smoothing her her wild hair down around her face as he pulled himself to his feet.

Straightening his jacket, Alastor leaned down and picked her limp body up off the sidewalk. The injuries were bad, but nothing he couldn’t help her handle.

“I just can’t explain to you how happy I am to have you back in my arms.” he said to Y/n’s sleeping form, looking down at her tired and tearstained face with nothing short of adoration, “You might be mad for a while, but I can handle that. At the end of the day, we will both know that you’re not going anywhere.”

Leaning down, he planted a soft kiss on Y/n’s forehead. For a moment, his smile went hollow. He hadn’t meant to go this far, to hurt her this bad. Alastor had just been so scared, so utterly terrified at the prospect of losing her again.

“She will understand.” he reassured himself, “She has to understand.”

——

Part Two → Caged Bird (Dark!Alastor x Exorcist!Reader)

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colormepurplex2 · 3 months

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Now I'm Yours | JJK

🤍Alpha!Jungkook x Omega!f.Reader 🤍A/B/O, Established Relationship/Mates | angst, smut, fluff 🤍WC: 14,064 🤍Rating: MA 🤍Summary: Jungkook is terrible at feelings. He’s possessive, reckless, and most definitely an Alphahole; you were once his sworn enemy for a reason. But, after he claimed you as his mate during your designation celebration, how do you even begin to navigate the dark waters of such a precarious relationship? Especially when there is darkness creeping over the horizon, threatening to blanket your world in permanent shadow. ⚠️ Vulgar language, semi-hate sex, fingering, knotting, creampie, discussion of violent acts, drinking, fighting/physical altercation, alpha challenge, knife violence/attack, blood, injury, bond sex, dick licking/oral, slick eating, biting/marking, blood/wound licking, surprise pregnancy Each chapter will have specific warnings listed.

Read Make You Mine, the first installment of the series, here!

Chapter 1. Distance Makes The Heart Grow Fonder

Chapter 2. Feel It In Your Soul

This story is complete.

A/N: This story is part of the "New Year, New Me Love" @bangtanwritershq gift exchange, written for the wonderful @hisunshiine! And as always, a special thank you to @moonleeai and @downbad4yoongi for being A+ betas!

Can also be found on: Ao3 | Wattpad

◅ Back to Main Master List ©️ 2024-02 ColorMePurplex2

#bts #bts fanfic #bts jungkook #bts angst #bts smut #bts non idol au #bts abo #jungkook abo #alpha jungkook #omega reader #abo smut #bts knotting #jungkook x reader #jungkook x you #bts enemies to lovers #alpha jungkook x omega reader #jungkook smut #bangtanwhq #btscreaturescoven

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thecuriousquest · 6 months

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Don’t Close Your Eyes

Tag List: @issamomma @repostingmyfavs @palesweetscherryblossom @chickennugnugnug @murderofravens

Warnings: Platonic yandere themes, hurt/comfort, vomiting, painful migraines, Gojo is kind of a bad dad, Gojo obsesses over his daughter’s beauty

Summary: Your father, Satoru Gojo, gives you everything you want. What will happen when something you want breaks one of his very few rules? (Featuring Uncle Nanami)

Master List

—————————————————————————

You love your father with all of your heart, but it’s really hard to be his daughter sometimes. He spoils you rotten. You want ice cream or mochi for breakfast? Cookies for dinner? You got it. The most expensive sushi for lunch? Say no more. You want that really expensive necklace and designer outfit? Done.

He wraps you up in the thickest of blankets and carries you through life. If he had things his way, he’d make sure you didn’t even have to put a toe on the ground. You’ve never been confronted with any real world issues thanks to your doting pops, but you feel as though you’re living inside of a shell.

However, having inherited the Six Eyes from him, you suffer not only from an overprotective father, you also suffer from violent migraines due to oversensitivity and overstimulation of the senses. You’re extremely light sensitive. Even the dullest fraction of light can trigger a headache.

This being said, your daddy doesn’t allow you to cover your eyes…ever. He says, “They’re too beautiful to cover up” or “Why would you even think about hiding something I gave you?” You can’t even convince him to buy you those really dark sunglasses where no light can pass through.

You often find yourself trying to cut up towels for makeshift blindfolds just so you can get some sleep, but you’re only lightly scolded by your father and told not to “play with scissors” despite being fourteen years old.

———

Satoru comes home from a mission, greeting Nanami as he asked the blonde sorcerer to keep an eye on you while he was gone.

“How was she? Who am I kidding? She was perfect, wasn’t she?”

“No, she was not. She was crass and rude because she was in pain the entire time. She cursed me out more times than I care to tell, and she barely ate, and what she did eat, she threw up. Gojo, you have to do something about her migraines because whenever I come over to watch her, I end up getting them as well.”

The lanky man’s jaw hangs wide open as he listens to Nanami’s speech. After a minute of processing, he drops the bag of souvenirs on a nearby table and huffs a fatherly sigh.

“Are you sure it’s her? I mean, you could just be incapable of looking after her.”

“It’s not her, Gojo. It’s you,” Nanami states as he picks up his bag. “I’m leaving now. She’s upstairs in her room crying her eyes out because you refuse to do anything about her oversensitivity.”

With that said, Kento brushes past Satoru and leaves the Gojo household.

Satoru trails up the stairs, bag in hand, and knocks on the door twice. When he receives no response, only hearing you choking on sobs, he opens the door to see you shaking under the covers. He strides over to you, pulling the blanket back so that he can see you holding your head with your eyes squeezed shut. Placing the bag on the floor, your dad takes a seat on the edge of the bed.

“Hey, there’s my pretty girl. Uncle Nanami told me you were having a bad day. Tell me what’s going on.”

“Hurts!” Is all you can bite out with the amount of pain you’re in. You curse yourself for even speaking because your skull is pounding from all of the noise. “Please, Daddy, make it stop!”

He shushes you, pulling you up towards his chest so that you can cry into his shoulder.

“We could try a sedative?”

“Those don’t fucking work! You can’t do anything right! God, you’re fucking useless!” You grip his shirt and blow tears and snot into it as you wail at him in a fit of pain and teenage rage.

Gojo, being used to the cursing, only rolls his eyes. He can’t scold you right now. It wouldn’t help anyway. You wouldn’t even be able to focus on a lecture at the moment. Instead, he holds you closer and presses a kiss against your hair.

“Daddy, please…covering my eyes…it’s the only thing that works.” You flinch when the migraine feels like a brick has been smashed against the back of your head.

“You know the rules. I want to be able to see your gorgeous face every day. You’re my sunshine, sweetie. Your eyes are so beautiful.”

“Fuck you! Uncle Nanami lets me cover my eyes!”

“Well, then, Uncle Nanami isn’t going to be able to watch you anymore.”

You shake your head slightly, desperately. “I…No, you can’t do that. Daddy, please, I want to see Uncle Nanami!”

Gojo lowers his glasses and looks at you. “I’m your father, so I can do whatever I want. These headaches are just a phase. You’ll grow out of them. You don’t need to cover your eyes. I never wore them as a child. You didn’t have these migraines as a little kid, so you’ll probably get over them at some point. You just need to-”

The storm in your head causes violent waves to crash against your skull, rattling the ship that is your brain. Blood rages in your ears, and you can only hear your father’s voice in a low hum before succumbing to nausea for the fourth time today.

Throwing your blanket off of you and reaching for the trashcan that’s right by your bed, you hurl into the black plastic bin that’s almost half full of your bile and stomach contents. Gojo looks into it and can clearly see that Nanami had made you fish for dinner.

Your father does his best to try and comfort you, rubbing your back as you vomit water and whatever else your stomach can wretch. Coughing signals an end to your regurgitation, and you put the trash bin down on the floor in front of you.

Calmly now, with no heat or bite behind your words, you look away from your father and ask, “Can you stay with me until I fall asleep?”

You hate to ask him for this after being so angry with him, but a comforting presence next to you can sometimes help with your migraine induced insomnia. It can sometimes even dull the headaches to a certain extent.

“Of course. Anything for my little girl.”

Lying down, you rub your temples as Satoru trails the tips of his fingernails up and down your back. Being emotionally drained and physically exhausted, as well as having your father sit right beside you, it doesn’t take long for you to fall asleep.

As Gojo watches his precious angel close her eyes, he runs his fingers through your hair and smiles. You’re finally asleep and looking peaceful. If you had eye coverings on, he wouldn’t be able to see the whites of your lashes curving as you enter a dream.

He knows in his heart that he’s doing the right thing.

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cissyenthusiast010155 · 2 months

Note

I am SO excited that the Mafia AU won for your Lady D fic poll and I CANNOT wait to read it!

My Little Toyslut ~MobBoss!Alcina Dimitrescu xFem Spy!Traitor!Reader (Mafia AU)

Summary— The infamous, mob boss Lady D finds out she had a traitor in her midst. What will she do when she finds out it’s Reader, one of her closest and most trusted advisors…? Anon Response— Hi hi hi anon!! I am so glad to hear how much you look forward to my Alcina!MafiaAU fics! Here is another one, it’s another one shot (doesn’t take place in the same plotline as the first), but it’s still an Alcina!MafiaAU fic. Hope you enjoy! ♥️

Link to First Alcina!Mafia Fic (;

Mommy… Master List

Requests & Prompt List

Warnings: NSFW, 18+!!, smut, wee bit of angst, eating out (oral sex), implied smut, kissing, teasing, degradation, light torture themes, light hate sex theme, light non-con theme, implied overstimulation, fear, implied future smut, etc.

Enjoy (;

You were swaying in the air, your wrists bound by tight rope which in turn was hung around a rusty ceiling beam. Your head was ringing and your vision was blurry as you began to wake up. Part of you vision was clouded from your dried up blood, a consequence of having been hit in the head. That's how you had lost consciousness.

You tried to wiggle at your restraints, but it seemed that the more you fought, the tighter the rope pulled against your sensitive and now raw wrists. In dismay, you turned your attention to the room around you, trying to memorize and remember every detail as if your life depended on it.

Realistically, it probably did. The most infamous, powerful boss in the city had found out you were a spy, undercover for the Agency. You had spent years infiltrating Lady Dimitrescu's inner circle of corruption. It had taken immense push and pull over the years to gain her trust. And then another fucking idiot of a mob boss had found your name out, and in spite and seek for vengeance, he had given you up. One of Lady D's closest advisors... He wanted to watch her empire crumble, and you were his choice of weapon.

You were torn from your thoughts as the only door in the room opened and two goons entered, followed by none other than Lady D. The two men gave you sleazy grins as they stalked towards you, but Dimitrescu had other ideas...

"Leave us."

The goons turned around with grumbles, but listened as they left the falling apart room, slamming the door behind them. Lady D's gaze then turned towards you. Your breathing was shallow and you lowered your head and gaze in turn. She slowly stalked towards you, making the hairs in the back of your neck bristle with pure fear. You were trembling, hanging mess by the time was right in front of you, towering over your hanging frame.

"I must say I was... surprised when it was your name that came up in my recent meeting..." She purred warily.

You still kept your head down and did not meet the woman's gaze. You wouldn't dare. Afterall, you'd seen her slaughter men for far less. When you made no response, Alcina cocked her brow in satisfaction and she continued.

"I must admit... You had me fooled. Not many people can say that... not many who are alive anyway..." Alcina hummed, as her claws ran up from your cheeks down to your feet.

You shuttered at the touch, closing your eyes and preparing to feel the pain of being slashed to bits. But instead, you heard the sound of her claws retracting. And then you felt her stern hand on your chin, roughly forcing your head and gaze up to meet hers. You fought against the restraints and her hold, but to no avail, they were both far stronger and far more resolved.

"Look at me, Draga!" She sneered.

Your meek gaze met the powerful woman's. You bit your lip and tried not to cry or shake too violently. Her eyes were red and bloodshot, as if she had been crying.

"I invited you into my empire, into my bed... and this is how you repay me...??" Alcina jeered.

You couldn't stop the tears that came pouring down your face anymore. They flowed all the way down to Alcina's fingers, where she curtly would wipe them away without another word about it.

"I... I-- I'm sorry--" you stammered, your eyes looking around frantically while trying to make sense of what she wanted from you.

For a mere moment, you saw the rawness of hurt flash across the woman’s facade. But it was quickly replaced with rageful apathy.

Before you could comprehend what was happening, she dropped your head and sliced something above you with her razor sharp claws. Your limp, trembling body hit the cement ground with a crack!. You were still bound by the wrists, but you were no longer hanging from the ceiling.

In one swift move, the lady grabbed you by the wrists and pushed you up against the dirty wall, so that your were outstretched from her one hand tight hold on your wrists, your toes barely touching the floor.

You winced, letting out a guttural and painful groan, and tore your head to the side, screwing your eyes shut tight. You could feel the woman’s heavy, hot breath against your neck. Her face was right up in your personal space.

You waited for your doom with bated breath, tears still running down your cheeks with no plan to stop anytime soon. But instead of doom, you suddenly felt Alcina’s hot mouth on your neck. Her slippery tongue licked and irritated your sheening skin, as her mouth sucked tightly, creating the exact vacuum of pressure for the perfect bruise.

At the first hickey, you didn’t know how to respond, your body simply limp, still, and silent towards the menacing woman. But by the second bruising, this one the lady placed right on your collarbone, you couldn’t help the breath you sucked in, accompanied by a shiver running through your spine.

But slowly, bruise after bruise, Alcina started to warm your body up. By the time she got to your pressure point, you had craned your neck back for her access and were overtly breathily groaning out after each marking, your eyes threatening to roll back. You could feel the tight coil in your core slowly building as your breathing shallowed and your body came alive.

Alcina sliced your clothing off piece by piece with no further comment, and you took it from her, not daring to oppose. With more exposed skin came more slow and meticulous sucking and marking. By the time the powerful woman got to your thighs, you were an aching mess. But you bit your lip, resisting the urge to beg, as you knew better to talk unless instructed to.

“Who do you belong to, Draga…?” Alcina growled into your now exposed cunt, her hot breath alone to make your core clench around nothing.

You suddenly felt dizzy, and very subservient. The lady tended to have that effect on you. You had hated it at first, as your job was to take her down by spying on her. But overtime, you had learned that Lady Alcina Dimitrescu wasn’t as bad as you originally thought. Or at least her tongue and fingers weren’t…

“I… y-you my lady—“ you whimpered.

“That’s right… So what’s this when I hear someone else is claiming to own you and your services…?” She cooed wickedly, as her free hand gripped your left thigh until it bled.

“N-nothing ma’am—! I belong to y-you and you only…!” You pleaded, trying to fight back tears.

“Good girl…” Alcina hummed, before sliding her lengthy tongue all the way into your core.

You couldn’t help how your body reacted to the woman and her wicked administrations. You shuddered, hating just how good her slithering tongue felt inside your cunt. Your head hit the wall with a light crack! as your eyes effectively rolled back, a filthy moan spewing out from your lips.

“That’s right… My little toyslut… aren’t you…?” Alcina chuckled darkly, pulling away her tongue from your cunt momentarily.

The whimper that erupted from your throat at the loss of stimulation made you want to throw up. But all these feelings were quickly stifled by the intense pleasure of two of the lady’s fingers filling your core. You nodded your head vigorously, willing to do and say anything as long as she continued to make you feel this good.

The first orgasm that Alcina pulled out of you hit you like a brick, your body spasming against the wall and her firm hanging hold on your wrists. You desperately tried to stifle your sounds of pleasure, but your pleasure was so intense, you couldn’t contain your screams.

“That’s it, my little whore… Be a good draga and take it.” the tall mob boss wickedly cooed.

By her increasing speed and your curling toes, your fractured mind could barely piece together the fact that this woman was not stopping anytime soon…

~~~

Alcina Dimitrescu Masterlist

#alcina dimitrescu #alcina dimitriscu x reader #re8 alcina #alcina x reader #resident evil alcina #alcina demitriscu #lady alcina #alcina x female reader #Alcina Dimitrescu smut #alcina x y/n #resident lover alcina #lady dimitrescu #lady d #lady alcina dimitrescu #resident evil #resident evil lady dimitrescu #maggie robertson #cissyenthusiast010155 answers

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writingquestionsanswered · 1 year

Note

hello, do you have any tips for getting more creative titles? Like going for a more poetic style without it being too much. I like for example, "These Violent Delights" and "Our Violent Ends" by Chloe Gong. They're simple, telling, and short - and I just think it's different (from "The" type titles, and the Blank of Blank and Blank format). I also think "The Folk of the Air" is simple yet creative. I feel like I don't know enough words to get the title. I appreciate any advice! Thank you.

Coming Up with Poetic Titles

Some of the most beautiful, poetic titles often stem from actual prose quotes, either from poetry, classic literature, song titles, public domain lyrics, plays, etc.

These Violent Delights and Our Violent Ends, for example, are actually derived from a quote from Shakespeare's Romeo & Juliet ("These violent delights have violent ends...") which is appropriate since the These Violent Delights duology is a Romeo & Juliet retelling. Other examples are The Lovely Bones by Alice Sebold (I knew a woman, lovely in her bones... “I Knew a Woman” by Theodore Roethke), The Fault in Our Stars by John Green (The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars/But in ourselves... Julius Caesar by William Shakespeare), Her Fearful Symmetry by Audrey Niffenegger (What immortal hand or eye/Could frame thy fearful symmetry? "The Tyger" by William Blake), Across the Universe by Beth Revis ("Across the Universe" by The Beatles), To All the Boys I've Loved Before by Jenny Han ("To All the Girls I've Loved Before" by Hal David and Albert Hammond, made famous by Willie Nelson and Julio Iglesias.)

Series titles, like The Folk of the Air series and A Song of Ice and Fire series are usually broad references to what the story is about. I haven't read The Folk of the Air, but I know it's about faeries, so I'm assuming that's a reference to the fae in that story. A Song of Ice and Fire is a reference to a prophecy and history book in the series, but the imagery also references many of the themes and events in the story.

So, whether you're titling a book or series, here are some places you can look for a title:

-- references to relevant source material, such as original fairy tale if you're doing a retelling (Ash by Malinda Lo)

-- references to relevant poems, song titles, lyrics, plays, music, classic literature (Catch a Falling Star by Kim Culbertson)

-- relevant quote, title, person, place, or event that appears in your story (The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins, The Cruel Prince by Holly Black)

-- beautiful imagery that appears in your story (Under the Tuscan Sun by Frances Mayes)

-- who or what your story is about (The Book Thief by Marcus Zusak, The Martian by Andy Weir, All the Crooked Saints by Maggie Stiefvater)

My post Coming Up with a Book/Story Title has more tips!

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I’ve been writing seriously for over 30 years and love to share what I’ve learned. Have a writing question? My inbox is always open!

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Visit my Master List of Top Posts

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#writing tips #writing help #writing advice #wqaadvice

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5eraphim · 1 year

Note

omg i have a request... like a scenario type with vampire mercs (norm or yandere i dont mind either) and a vampire hunter s/o? I am THINKING very normally about this hehe

Ahhh, love this! I'm so weak for all things vampiric and gothic, but in general I keep my requests 4 characters max. Sorry if this is so few, but I'd prefer to really go in depth with a few than to shallow-ly touch on all the mercs, (with very rare exception) but you're free to asks for others when requests open back up,. I hope you're ok with the characters I chose to feature here! :) (Also note, I refer to demo and Engie as living with demons who, for the sake of the story are meant to stand in for Medic's medical equipment/weapons and Engie's machines respectively.)

Characters: Demo 🐏, Engie 🦫, Heavy 🐻 and Medic 🕊️ (Team Fortress 2)

Rating: M (MINORS DNI)

Word Count: 2.6k

MASTER LIST

TIP JAR

(Song Inspo- See the Light, Ghost)

Medic

One of the elders of the vampires Medic's all too familiar with your type. He's been targeted by countless hunters over the years and managed to survive every encounter. He was never shy about killing and feeding and made many enemies with humans over the centuries. No one's managed to kill him yet though he had to admit you came closer than any he had remembered before. But Medic felt far more shaken than usual, discovering the demons you slaughtered to get to him.

He'd always been so fascinated by mortals and loved pursuing them at night, to watch the precious fear which tempted him onward before overpowering his victims with his enhanced strength. As a powerful, supernaturally charged vampire, he hardly considered mortals much of a threat, just a bit of a challenge keeping him from his next meal. When he was transformed into a vampire, he was blessed with a mystical charm, the ability to hypnotize humans who let their guard down around him and compel them to do as he pleased. Many vampires possessed the power of "suggestion," but Medic brought this to a new level. Typically he'd use this charm to instigate things to get mortals alone in a vulnerable, more suggestive state of mind before going in for the kill. Luring and stalking his victims just long enough to know what they feared and desired most, using that to his advantage.

Unlike so many misanthropic vampires, Medic was quite captivated by humans; he was turned into a vampire ages ago and, under the conditions of how he was turned, forgot all about what his life was before he became a vampire.

He regrets the lack of memories of his time among the living but tries his best to make up for it by learning all about humans in their lives now and is quite fickle in this regard. Finding a new obsession every time he dwells among the living to feed. His obsessions come and go as soon as he has his fill. It wasn't until he met you that he genuinely felt like he had met his match.

Not physically, of course; his sparring matches with you were more to stave off his boredom and for amusement than to actually try and kill you, but still, you had his attention all the same.

Sure, if he really wanted to best you, he could compel you to obey his sinister will and eliminate you in a matter of minutes, but where was the fun in that? You were prey unlike any he knew before, and he wanted to give you a violent and gruesome end worthy of the time the two of you shared together.

What Medic wants more than you under his total control is for you to come to him of your own volition. He wouldn't dare try to corrupt a mind so sharp and captivating as yours. While he dreams of being the one to deal your killing blow, he can't help but imagine how charming it would be for you to join his side. To become one with him, living in the night as his mate. Until then, this little ongoing battle would have to do.

Medic deluded himself into believing all your fighting and animosity was your unique way of trying to get his attention. Like you were only acting out because you were jealous of the others he spent his time with and fed upon.

You were so precious to him, and truly loved him deep down. You merely had an unconventional way of showing it. Medic would be the type to see you getting ganged up on by other monsters before jumping into action to save you, tearing the vile creatures to pieces, covering the two of you with the gore, only to stroke your hair and comfort you afterward. To ensure that you are all right and don't sustain any damage. He'd hold you tenderly in his arms as though cradling a baby bird while he whispered,

"The only one who gets to kill you is me. Is that understood?"

Heavy

Heavy has been out on his own for so long now, living in his eternal purgatory in isolation. He doesn't remember much of the past. It hurts too much to try and remember what he once had. But he knew he gave his life to protect his family from a vampire ages ago. Though in a cruel twist of fate, he managed to survive the attack only to wake up cold, alone, and ravenously hungry.

Unlike some vampires, Heavy had to slaughter a living creature every night to sustain this unbearable hunger. It wasn't exactly that he felt guilty for killing more that this was all a part of the balance of nature. It wasn't his fault he was so large, so capable of killing. The fact of the matter was that Heavy needed an awful lot of blood to survive, and it was the job of smaller prey creatures to provide for him.

So long as he mostly kept to himself, Heavy wouldn't worry about anyone bothering him, and he wouldn't bother anyone else. Animal blood kept him alive well enough, even if he gave into temptation, slaughtering masses of human livestock in a bout of gluttony, so long as he didn't drink from the living, everything was fine.

The fact that you managed to hunt him down and tried to target him in the first place was quite curious. He couldn't understand why one so small would bother trying to pick a fight with him of all vampires.

Heavy forgot how long he'd gone without interacting with another intelligent lifeform, and you caught him completely by surprise the first time you ran into him. It hurt all over again, remembering how long he'd been alone. How long it'd been since he'd seen the last of the family he knew as a living mortal, he tried so hard to forget for centuries, but you wouldn't let him.

When he was a younger vampire, he was so cruel and bitter, taking his frustrations out on his food, tearing whatever poor creature was his dinner that night to shreds leaving trails of carnage behind, but now he was more efficient. Though it still required a great deal of blood to sustain a creature of his size, he wasn't so careless anymore. Encountering you was a break from the regular routine it had been sometimes since he met prey that managed to put up such a fight.

While he wasn't blessed with otherworldly charms or powers of hypnosis, his already powerful physical abilities were somehow the only things amplified by vampirism, and trying to take you in a fight felt cruel. But if this was a fight you wanted to pick, he supposed he had no choice but to satisfy you.

At first, he was mainly apathetic to your existence. You were stubborn and hard to kill, but you were still just a tiny human fighting a supernatural entity, and it was only a matter of time before that caught up with you. During a particularly heated battle, you finally slipped up, realizing too late you were out of silver arrows and defenseless when you felt his hands drawing around your neck. But when he finally got close for the first time in his life, Heavy decided to spare his prey. And just a moment away from dealing the killing blow, he hesitated, halting for long enough for you to escape.

Later that day, he lay restlessly wondering where this change of heart came from and couldn't stop himself from dreaming about what it would be like to take you under his wing. Thinking about sharing a more domestic, peaceful life with you. In his eyes, you were the last remaining tether he had to the human world, and killing you would sever that bond for who knows how long.

He dreamed of harnessing your fiery human spirit, training you to work at his side, and showing you how to hunt from the shadows, creeping silently and evading human attention.

From then on, he'd be anticipating your arrival. Wondering if it was wiser to jump right into the action and turn you into a vampire the first chance he could or to wait for the hunter to come to him. The time spent awaiting your return was agony, painfully aware of his loneliness while you were no doubt back home, licking your wounds, hopefully regaining your strength enough to rechallenge him. He desperately missed the feeling of your warm skin against his cold body, your precious blood pumping away, practically begging for him to take a bite.

Demo

He was a vampire with a fearsome reputation known for his explosive anger and the bloodshed he brought with him. However, the supernatural powers he was blessed with were almost more akin to a werewolf's than a vampire's. Demo was blessed with the gift of rage, the ability to manifest every ounce of his anger and lay ways to whatever poor soul was stupid enough to invoke it.

But it wasn't just rage which captivated Demo, but hedonism in all forms. Unlike many vampires, Demo liked to keep around a few humans to amuse himself with. Not precisely to a consensual agreement, but a mutually beneficial one. He would keep his captives fed and safe, and they would provide him sustenance in return, and it wasn't long until the hostage began to grow comfortable and compliant. Demo found blood tasted much better when laced with pleasure, far better than fear, and he loved to wait until the last moment, when his captives were comfortable, before draining them of their delicious blood.

Even when Demo feeds from his harem before going in for the kill, the man is well-practiced and knows how to make the feeding sessions as pleasurable for the victim as it is for him.

All this was quite familiar for Demo, humans were easy prey at the end of the day, and even the holiest and most righteous would eventually succumb to the flesh's temptations. The process was familiar, but the pleasure was sweet all the same. When he did have to fight back, it only made the inevitable meal all the more precious. He loved when people played hard to get, and there wasn't a human alive who managed to escape him and his temptations.

You were so adorably feisty and stubborn the first time he crossed you. A cute little mortal who wanted to play Van Helsing, using your little toys of pure silver, holy water, and scriptures to keep him back.

Though Demo was amused, he was impressed at how well you managed to keep him away. After all, holy relics and verses only worked against the supernatural if you really believed and put all your faith into your words calling upon your deity to protect you. You were a fighter, that's for sure, and the way you were so confident God would protect you from demons like him. It was almost enough for him to spare you, but how could he deny himself a feast such as yourself?

Not only were you pious, but you could also physically fight him back, a rare combination greater than any he'd encountered. Most who tried to protect themselves with holy relics would begin to doubt when he really let out his rage, but somehow, you didn't falter. Not even for a moment. It would be an honor to be the vampire who finally managed to conquer your pure heart and turn you into one of his own. The only issue is how hard it would be to catch you.

While your faith appeared, unshakable Demo would still plant seeds of doubt in your mind whenever he could. Promising you pleasures beyond your wildest dreams, endless time to spend pursuing knowledge of whatever you wanted, powerful supernatural abilities you could conjure at will, and trying to use a bit of materialism to sweeten the deal. Promises, more specifically, to convince you to align with him. Demo telling you about how he would spoil you with riches, the most beautiful clothes, the finest of jewels, anything your heart desired would be yours. All you had to do was submit. It was meant to be, so why resist?

Engie

Out of all the vampires, he was the least happy to be sought out by a hunter.

He didn't want to end up like this. He didn't want to kill to survive, and being hunted down by you was just another cruel reminder of how far he'd strayed from humanity and how no matter how hard he wanted it, there was no place left for him among the living.

Furthermore, unlike Medic, who was apathetic to the slaughter of his demons, he felt personally offended as he was much more compassionate and personal with the demons who lived with him. Engie hated you before he met you, wanting to kill whoever was responsible for damaging his property slowly and painfully.

But you were far from easy prey. And no matter how hard Engie tries to take you down, you somehow always manage to remain just a touch out of reach. The game of cat and mouse is far less endearing to Engie than it was to any of the other vampires.

Eventually, he became increasingly obsessed with the hunt, spending his waking hours preparing for your next ambush, dreaming about the night he would capture and slaughter you. Avenging all his creations you destroyed before now.

As much as he didn't want to admit it, his obsession with you grew as fervently as the hunt itself, culminating with the day Engie decided to try to stalk you during the daylight. Engie was a younger vampire, native to a sunny climate. He never found sunlight to be as unbearable as it was to other vampires, so long as he didn't linger in direct light. Direct sunlight was unpleasant, but it wouldn't burn him to ashes as it would to elder vampires. The real reason he stayed on his own more was to stay away from crowds and give into a feeding frenzy.

He wasn't prepared to be so taken aback by your human vitality. The freshness of life pumping through you, giving you a rare kind of beauty he never saw from any sort of prey before now. You were nothing less than radiant in the light of the sun, a deity incarnate. Your skin flushed with life, your voice pleasant and calm, and your smile all appeared ethereal as though he had seen you for the first time. Engie never thought he'd see you as anything but a mortal enemy, yet at this moment, he was undone. All his resentment and hostility felt so trivial now. He didn't want your hatred. He wanted your adoration. He needed to have you all to himself, but not to kill.

If he couldn't kill you, he thought it was only just to turn you into a vampire.

Only then would his loneliness and resentment for being a vampire be satisfied, and you would be forced to rely on him to survive the strange new existence. All newborn vampires were fragile, and it wouldn't be hard for him to keep you from running away.

Not to mention the bond shared between vampires and their scion would help do away with all the hatred you held for Engie in life. No matter how hard you thought you hated him, once Engie sank his fangs into you and infected you with his venom, it was only a matter of time until your will crumbled as you gave in to the surreal newfound devotion you developed for your vampire mate. All resistance was futile, your rational mind silenced as your primal vampiric urges began to take over.

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elf-punk · 1 month

Text

A Moment of Sympathy (Simm!Master x Reader)

Pairing: Simm!Master x Fem!Reader

Summary: Work sucks and your relationship is falling apart. As you’re walking home from a rough day, you come across a disheveled, blonde man in a black hoodie. His words are erratic and his mannerisms give you the chills, but you’re drawn to him. He is unambiguously and criminally insane, but you can’t help but stop and listen to his tales.

Tales of red pastures, orange skies, and travels through time and space.

Chapter List Chapter 1 Chapter 2

Chapter 2 Chapter Word Count: 2.5k

You walked through the alleyway in silence. You felt your mind being gently tugged along by the Master, who walked slightly ahead of you, muttering to himself and violently wringing his hands.

“He can smell me, the stink, the filthy stink…no, no, no…”

His hood was pulled back up over his head, hiding the tufts of dirty blond hair and making him indistinguishable from his shadowy surroundings once again. His very visible and jerky movements were the only evidence of his materiality. Gazing at his wiry frame as he walked, you registered a panicked and erratic gait. He walked like broken clockwork, with hunched over shoulders and legs moving independently of his body. He was incomplete, somehow. Unfinished.

“Hurry up,” he called over his shoulder. “Or you’ll be dinner.”

You picked up the pace, not keen to get on his bad side again.

“Where are we going?”

He stopped dead in his tracks and whipped his head around.

“You tell me!” He spat.

You blinked and dryly opened your mouth, your speech lost. How could you know anything?

Your silence only enraged him further, and a dark look contorted his face.

“If you don’t have any ideas, I’ll have to take them from you.”

Vague mutters of useless and should have killed you fell from his mouth as he stomped towards you. He forcefully placed his free hand at the crown of your head, and closed his eyes.

What followed wasn’t strictly speaking pain but an acute discomfort of something sinking into your mind and crawling around; opening doors you preferred to keep closed, and making a home in your deepest and most tidily locked-away memories.

You scrunched your eyes shut as your assailant wove his way through your neural highway. He treated each bit of information as a stone to be turned over, cursorily inspected, and immediately cast aside. You could feel the Master deciding which of your mental activities were and weren’t interesting. His faint interest thrummed and simmered within your skull. You felt amusement bubble up—his, not yours—at a memory of vomiting in the ballpit at someone’s fifth birthday, and twisted pride at your decision three years ago to tick the little square box labelled Saxon at the local polling station.

New images began to form in your mind’s eye, memories that weren’t your own. Sharp vignettes revealed orange skies, mountains that reached into eternity, humanoids dressed in robes of deep burgundy and ornate headpieces. And at the center, a young boy stared terrified into eternity. Then the image changed—the innocent boy morphed into a man with manic eyes and a twisted grin, and then another man, then a woman, and then another.

So many lives this Master had lived. All dripping in blood and death.

Faces began to flick through your inner vision to a hypnotic rhythm—a rhythm of four—one, two, three four. One, two, three, four. It grew louder, a deep thumping of layered heartbeats that enveloped your own.

You could feel the Master growing alarmed with your expedition into his thoughts, feeling a sense that this shouldn’t have happened. The soft haze of his hypnotism intensified and he sank further into your consciousness, rabidly, desperately searching. Just as you felt your mind slipping away into the bottomless pit that was his own, everything stopped. Razor-sharp focus converged on an unusual concept, but ultimately one you should have known would pique his interest: Chicken Cottage.

Like water hurtling down a drain, he withdrew.

At his absence, you resisted the urge to violently throw up and pass out. Lucidity slowly came to you as the shocks and shivers spreading through your grey matter dulled. Feeling somewhat debased, you realised that he had looked for a place to eat using your memories as his own personal search engine. He had converged on a chicken shop on Kemble Avenue, not too far from your office complex; a place you’d frequent whenever the workload got too intense.

“We’re going there,” he hissed.

You nodded, simultaneously reeling from the experience of having your brain turned inside out and sedated by his hypnotic influence.

If you came out of this with a single neuron left intact, you would officially start going to church.

His lips curled upwards before he streaked off towards the faint glow of the main road. Not keen to lose him in the dark, you set a light jog towards Kemble Avenue, and checked your watch for good measure. 1AM. Not an issue for your new friend, since Chicken Cottage was an all-night establishment. After ten minutes or so of a blended power walk and jog, you turned the corner.

The Master was standing by the gaudy chicken shop facade with his arms folded and head bowed. At the sound of your footsteps, he roused.

You gestured at the door, confused as to why he didn’t simply barge into the establishment, viciously murder the employees, and feast on the stock—and possibly the remains of the unlucky night shift workers—which judging by the traces of his memories lingering in your mind, was definitely on the table.

Chicken shop stick-up, you thought with a wry smile.

He scowled and shoved past you as he entered the restaurant with you mentally in tow. You entered, blinking away the sudden sting of the orange fluorescents.

“Do you have any money?” You asked without thinking.

The Master could’ve vaporised you on the spot for such disrespect.

“Right,” you breathed. “Guess it’s on me.”

You turned towards the slouching, oily-haired cashier who vacantly awaited your order.

“Five large boneless boxes,” you stammered, with a nervous side-glance at the Master.

He looked murderous.

“Ten,” you corrected, and he gave an approving nod, as if to confirm that you were temporarily safe from a painful death.

“Any sauces?” The cashier drawled, peering at you over thick, grease-lined spectacles.

“Five of each,” you breathed.

The boy stared at you gormlessly.

“Just do it!” You said shrilly, slamming an open hand down onto the counter. This kid was not ending up dead on your watch. To your relief, a jolt appeared to pass through him and he muttered an “Okay, calm down” as he busily prepared your order. The Master smirked, enjoying your aggression.

The boy couldn’t know who or what the Master truly was, but did he need to? You could see the nervousness in his shaky movements, and the way his eyes routinely flicked back and forth between the Master and the stove in front of him. Shaky hands lifted a rack of chicken from the sizzling oil and tipped them into ten empty boxes with a practiced eye, before darting to the counter to retrieve five packs of Barbecue sauce, Ketchup, and Mayonnaise. Followed to the letter.

He bagged your order, and you quickly tapped your card against the reader, ignoring the irritation you felt at footing the £200 bill. The master jerked out a wiry hand and snatched the order from the boy before stalking over to a plastic table in the corner of the restaurant.

You sat opposite him, tight-lipped as he devoured the food. Stealing a look over at the counter, you could see the boy grimacing as the Master ripped flesh from bone with spindly fingers, and dropped the fried meat into his gaping mouth. An unholy smacking of his lips followed.

“So,” he began, mouth full. “What’s the deal with you?”

“What?” You responded.

He rolled his eyes and made a theatrical gesture with his free hand as if to say Talk. I’m bored.

“Well,” you began bracingly. “I’m twenty-seven years old, and I work at-”

You stopped. An aggressive tugging sensation filled your mind. Truth was being pulled from you, whether you liked it or not.

“I hate my life.”

The Master nodded matter-of-factly.

“Understandable. This planet is a backwater shithole, after all.”

“It’s boring,” you mused. “I hate my job, and my friends are shallow. I’ve not seen my family in years and I have a partner, but I’m pretty sure they’re on their way out. The funny thing is, I don’t care. In fact, I’m relieved. The only thing I look forward to is getting blackout drunk on the weekend, but even that doesn’t do the trick because it’s back to the rat race on Monday morning.”

Words spilled from your lips in a passion of communication. You wished you could stop—you’d sew your lips shut if that’s what it took, but as his presence grew in your mind, you felt your thoughts doubling, quadrupling. The only way to stop the painful overflow was to talk.

“I’m not convinced that anyone would really care if I just disappeared tomorrow. You could kill me right now and the world would keep spinning—not that I want that, mind you,” you clarified at his widening grin. “I don’t like the thought of not existing. The idea of everyone going about their daily life when I’m gone disturbs me—they’ll eat chips, scroll TikTok, and keep living, and I’ll be gone.” you whispered, tears forming in your eyes.

In an uncharacteristic act of tenderness, he reached a hand out and swiped his thumb over your cheek, catching your brewing tears. You recoiled at whipcord speed.

“Poor human,” he crooned. “So caught up in your own minds.”

The artificial yellow lighting hit his face at a curious angle, revealing a disturbing depth of emotion in his eyes. The sudden change disturbed you. In your imagination, the bad guys were just bad guys. They didn’t have regrets, stories, or complex emotions, and they certainly weren’t beholden to tender gestures of comfort a mere hour after violently threatening to end your life.

“Who are you, really?” You pleaded, keen not to let the moment pass. You had seen images of red skies, carnal horrors, and wars raging across galaxies in his memory, but you wanted to hear it from his own mouth.

Conflict passed over the Master, as he decided whether vaporising you and the kid at the counter would be easier than what he was about to say.

For better or worse, he stilled his hand.

“You’ve seen into my memories,” he mused, stroking his chin. “It shouldn’t have happened—if I’d sent those visions to another human…”

“They wouldn’t survive?” You conjectured.

“No, no it wouldn’t kill them—unfortunately,” he added bitterly. “It would turn them into a drooling mess, though.”

You nodded, inwardly smiling at your good fortune.

“Have you ever stared at the sky, human? Sat atop a hill and watched the constellations?”

“Of course,” you replied. “I used to play this game with my friends—we were lost aliens stranded on this planet waiting for rescue.”

“Funny you say that. I am much the same.”

His voice took on a wistful quality as he gazed past you.

“If you were to go outside now, look up at the sky, and turn your head northwards, you would see the Andromeda galaxy, yes?”

You nodded, though it had been years since high school astronomy.

“That’s about 2 million light years away. If you traveled in the same direction for another 250, you would reach the constellation of Kasterberous, and within that, a binary star system,” he stopped for a moment, and eyed you. “That’s when two stars orbit one another.”

“I know what a binary star is.”

The Master ignored you.

“Within that system was a planet—undisturbed and unmatched for billions of years.”

“Gallifrey,” you whispered, drawing the alien word out of his memories.

“Gallifrey,” he confirmed. “The shining world of the seven systems.”

Mockery laced his voice. He shoved a handful of chips into his mouth and chewed obnoxiously, as if to break the illusion that the planet he described was deserving of reverence.

“Home of the time lords. Load of pompous idiots, really. Spent billions of years holding onto enough power to conquer the Universe ten times over, and never used it until it was too late.” His voice slipped into longing. “Mind you, Gallifrey really was stunning when the suns were in the right spot. Imagine a red sky drawing out into eternity, draping over mountains and oceans, and reflected in cresting waves. Beautiful, but a lie. The most beautiful lie.”

The mask of civility slipped, and rage and madness began to creep into his eyes again. You stayed silent. What could you say?

“Oh, but that was nothing,” he spoke dangerously. “I haven’t told you the best of all, the most wonderful and terrible thing. The beauty and horror. My first love, if you will.”

He smacked his lips manically, and began to violently rap his fingers against the table.

“That rhythm,” you whispered. “What is it?”

“It’s me, human. It’s everything I am and more.”

His presence in your mind had shown you only pieces of the jigsaw. Against your better judgement, you decided to press him.

“How long have you heard it?”

“For longer than you can possibly imagine. It came to me as a boy, when I gazed into the Untempered Schism, a little slight of a gap in space and time. Tiny, not large enough to cause any real damage—or so they thought,” he hissed bitterly.

“It went on day and night. I wailed and wailed, begged for my mother and father to listen. Screamed at the Imperial Physicians until my voice was hoarse, but…” he flicked a chicken bone away with spindly fingers. “Not one of them listened.”

He gazed at you avidly, unhealthily.

“Can you imagine that, human? A society of telepaths and hypnotists, and not a single one them able to hear the drums?”

“I thought I could hear them. Earlier, when you were in my head.”

“I was projecting them into your mind,” he said in curiously crestfallen tones. “You weren’t hearing them as I do, just a lesser faded copy. Convincing another of their existence is a lot harder, it would require making the sound tangible and identifying an organic source.”

You didn’t understand what he meant—the drums had sounded as clear as day in your mind, maddening and endless.

The Master lowered his eyes frustrated and downcast.

“You don’t understand what I mean. How could you?” He flicked his eyes upwards to meet yours and suddenly grabbed your wrist with a vice grip. Your eyes watered as you feebly attempted to pull away from the skeletal yet inhumanly strong hand crushing every tendon in your lower wrist. His grip intensified and you cried out a shaky wail.

“I am burdened with something too glorious for you to comprehend, human,” he growled, deep insanity rumbling through his voice.

And in an instant, the grip on your wrist released and the Master sprang to his feet. You saw a blur of movement as he streaked across the restaurant and out of the door with a shrill shattering of glass, and sickening crack. Your mouth opened in horror and a wail filled the restaurant as you saw the boy from behind the counter lying sprawled across a table with snapped neck.

All you felt was the soft, chilling winds of the early morning passing through the open door.

#the master #simm!master #simm!master x reader #doctor who #the master x reader #dhawan!master #missy #john simm #sacha dhawan #michelle gomez #dr who

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inkedobsidian · 1 year

Text

~Safe place pt. 2~ S.R

prompt: Safe Place

requested by: @si1v3rpho3nix

summary: actions have consequences and the consequences of hitting a federal agent is the B.A.U team.

pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader

warnings: abuse, court, fighting, blood

word count: 2,203

Master-List - Prompts

Spencer had counted the number of laps Y/N had taken of the doctors' room in his head for so long he was almost falling asleep as if he was counting sheep. He knew it didn't matter what he said they weren't going to stop so there he sat listening to her feet hit the ground as they echoed around the empty room they were placed in. Even with a quick glance at her Spencer knew that Y/n's injuries could be severe, especially when she woke him out with a heavy shout as she sat up in bed. The cut on her cheek had spread giving her a clear shining black eye, and the bruise on her rib cage seemed to be more severe than she let on when she was talking about the incident to Spencer on the way here. Y/N had almost gotten to her 72nd lap of the office when the door finally opened.

"Aaron?" Y/N said in disbelief cocking her head to the side as he closed the door behind him where Y/N caught a glance at the team in the hallway.

"Have you had any news yet?" Hotch said leading Y/N towards the seats where they took seats opposite, Spencer just stayed where he was in silence knowing that Hotch was allowing him to stay in the room.

"Well my eye will go down soon they said hopefully a few days, they don't think I have a concussion and the lip just looks cool I promise." Y/N always knew to crack a joke when dealing with Hotch. Ever since Elle's shooting Hotch has always kept a closer eye on his team if that was even possible. His face softened and he let himself smile at her joke knowing it would also calm her anxiety.

"The doctor said they'd be back shortly with the results on your ribs yes?" Aaron said leaning to place his elbows on his knees returning to the stern unit chief.

"Yes, but they're not that bad I promise I can still travel to work," Y/N said nodding almost pleading with him to not make her take sick time.

"L/N… You understand where this has to go right?" Hotch said giving Spencer a side eye to see if he knew the answer as well.

"Nothing needs to happen, I'm fine," Y/N said shaking her head almost childlike, a complete alternative to her attitude nothing less than 5 minutes ago.

"L/N, he put his hands on you. To go with that he put his hands on a federal agent even if you didn't want to press charges the unit would do it for you." Hotch said slowly, he valued his team as people more than their title but he knew the reality and so did she, that's why Spencer was the one that called Hotch.

Y/N began to space out staring at the bloody and bruised hands that somehow belonged to her. She'd seen the most violent criminals and she'd gone toe to toe with a fair few but what she did, the anger that flowed out of her with each retaliation scared her more than any crime scene photos ever could.

"I hit him back Aaron… and I didn't pull any punches." She whispered playing with her hands almost wringing them out as if that would fix the reality. Aaron knew what she meant, he'd read everyone's file when they joined even all the hospital records from when she was a child.

"He hit you first, all you did was defend yourself," Hotch says sternly until he sees her eyes drift and glisten over with tears she's begging to hold back. "Y/N," This made Y/N's head snap to meet his eyes, Hotch never called her by her name he hadn't the entire 4 years she'd worked there. "You are part of this team and this family, we will be there. Do you trust us?" It was almost instinct that when Hotch finished that sentence she looked directly toward Spencer, he was her definition of trust.

"Yeah… I do." Y/N said breathing out almost like a meditation technique, she knew this was going to be ugly.

Y/N had been in a court more times than she can count on both hands but she'd never been on this side of the bench being the one called a victim. A victim. Every time someone called her that the hairs on her body stood up straight and a shiver went down her spine. This must be what the victim's family must feel in every interview they do. As was explained the case was pretty straightforward but it didn't help or make the experience any easier. Having people who don't know her discuss her life, her childhood, and her entire career. There was a portion of the trial where Y/N felt that she was on trial for his murder of how much the defense had combed into her life.

"The opposition calls Dr. Spencer Reid as a witness your honor." Y/N's attorney, Mr.Flynn said standing up. Spencer?? Y/N hadn't been informed that any of the team were being used as witnesses nonetheless Spencer. Yet here he was in a full black suit and his hair slicked back Y/N would've winked and called him 'pretty boy' if they weren't in a court, the thought alone made her chuckle to herself and calm down.

"Now, Dr. Reid you've known the victim for how long?" There was that word again, victim. By the looks of it, it even made Spencer cringe.

"5 years, ever since she joined the BAU." He said smiling fondly on her first day. Y/N knew why he smiled and it almost made her laugh.

"And how long had the relationship between the victim and the accused been going on for at the time of the incident." Mr. Flynn had clearly chosen Spencer because of his ability and knowing that the jury would take his words for almost fact.

"2 years 7 months." Sometimes Spencer cursed his own brain, some moments he would like to forget.

"And in that time whenever you met the accused did his behavior seem, hostile? Stand-offish?" This part made Y/N cringe as she knew the answer that was coming up. It made her realize that maybe her lawyer didn't listen to her when she explained of the situation.

"Actually none of our team have ever met the accused so the only opinion I can form is based purely on his profile." Spencer knew he shouldn't get fired up, he shouldn't let himself but there was something about looking at his face from across the court that got Spencer's anger rising.

"A profile? Would you please explain to the jury what a profile is?" Mr. Flynn had clearly met Spencer before because he used that as a cue to sit down for a moment on the edge of the table. Spencer took the opportunity and ran with it. He turned his body to face the jury knowing the body language would reel their attention in.

"A profile is something the BAU create using the habits of someone's crimes to narrow down who they are. For example our team had a suspect that would kill people who were gay violently and then steal their identity. This gave us the point of his targets, he either had problems with his own sexuality or he was violently homophobic, this man was both due to his upbringing. Then the nature of the killings, they were done with a level of sophistication that only someone with training could pull off, so a military background. You can learn a lot about a person by their actions before their words." Spencer had never exuded so much confidence before, it was almost as if he was putting on the extroverted show of his life to make sure this case closes in Y/N's favor. The whole time he spoke Y/N sat there hanging on to every word like she always did. However someone else in the courtroom noticed this, and he wasn't too happy.

"Thank you for that description, Dr. Reid. Now that our jury has a better understanding if you could profile this case."

"Objection, he's a biased witness he is the cause of the argument." His lawyer finally spoke up. Y/n knew he was right though there was nothing Spencer could say that he wouldn't say out of spite because of the situation. The judge took a few moments to look between Spencer and the jury, you could tell he was trying to figure out whether it was useful or not.

"I've had Dr. Reid as a consultant in this court multiple times, I trust his statement." The judge nodded and Dr. Reid rolled his shoulders back to fix his posture before he began.

"Well to start off with the obvious this was not a serial or premeditated crime meaning it was most likely a spur-of-the-moment crime. However, once they're committed the perpetrator could go on to re-offend depending on the outcome of the crime, or what led the crime to occur. The beginning argument stemmed from Y/N's absence from their life, this could mean he has feelings of inadequacy. Why is she not with me why is she working/with friends etc? This spiraled into accusations of cheating which solidify the feelings of inadequacy. The fact that he acted on his rage after some heated discussion shows a lack of emotional stability and then he continued to attack Ms. L/N showing no remorse for the initial hit and continuing with rage which shows even more instability. The only reason the defendant stopped with his attack was when Ms. L/N landed a painful enough hit to knock him out of his violent actions but even now his body language does not show guilt it shows confidence. Using this I would profile the accused as an insecure man with little control over his emotions and if released in court will go on to hurt another innocent woman who next time might not be able to fight back like Ms. L/V could and the results could be much worse."

The entire was jury was silent after Spencer spoke as everyone seemed to be absorbing what he said, Y/N realized he'd essentially just called her ex a pussy ass bitch in the most Spencer Reid way imaginable and it was difficult not to laugh at that. The team sat just behind Y/N all help the same thoughts as they watched Spencer finish his speech on the stand. The jury then turned to look from Spencer to the accused as they watched his body language shift from the confident stance Spencer had pointed out to his out of his seat with all the blood in his face shouting obscenities across the court room mainly hurled towards Spencer. Spencer almost smiled as this proved the exact point he just made and he knew it. Y/N just held her gaze toward Spencer letting the voices blur in her ears as the judge and the defense shouted at each other. It was only when the gavel hit that the voice stopped and she focused. Spencer was now standing in front of her table smiling at her.

"Judge said we'll reconvene tomorrow to give the defense time to calm down," Spencer said holding his hand out for her to stand up. Y/N let out a sarcastic laugh as she took his hand to walk out of the court room.

"You know if you disliked my taste in men you could've just said." She laughs straightening her suit jacket from her sitting. Spencer cocks an eyebrow as he looks towards her then the podium.

"I thought I just did?" Spencer says smirking. Y/N loved when he acted like this, she knew the speech gave him a bit of an ego boost so she let him have it.

"I'll give you that one pretty boy, c'mon I'll drive I want KBBQ," Y/N says throwing her keys out in the air as the group walked towards their cars.

"Ooo I'm so in for that," Morgan says slapping his hands on their shoulders and leaning in between them.

"Team outing?" Penelope said jumping up as high as she could in her platforms.

"Oh I'm so down, I'm starving," Emily said jumping into the backseat of the main car. The more people agreed to come for food the more Penelope started to wave her arms up and down in excitement. Until JJ and Hotch bowed out because of the boys.

"Just bring them! We'll go get a table get dressed and come back." Y/N said leaning out the window of her car. That seemed to get Penelope's heart racing and even more so when JJ and Hotch both said it sounded like a great idea. Y/N just sat there looking out the window at all her family getting in their cars after sitting in a courtroom with her just for support. Then just as the first car pulled out she felt someone's hand on top of her and she turned to meet Spencer with a smile before she started the car and started following the other SUVs. These people, the family they'd created, that was her safe place.

#criminal minds #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x fanfiction #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid

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plussizewritersworld · 1 year

Text

Y/N sat in the great hall, she opened her Care For Magical Creatures book, studying for the upcoming exam involving Unicorns. It’s now her sixth year at Hogwarts and her goal was to master the class. She loved the creatures and loved being around them. As she was immersed in her book she didn’t realize the pair of eyes burning into her. Her first year when she was sorted into Hufflepuff she made her goal to excel in her studies and pass all her exams. If she wasn’t sorted into Hufflepuff she would have been sorted into Ravenclaw, that’s what her friends always tell her. She loves Hogwarts, she loved her friends, and she loved being in Hufflepuff. She loves love. She cared for everyone and always shows kindness and respect for anyone she meets even when the feelings aren’t mutual. That is why she was sorted into Hufflepuff, her warm heart.

Her kindness is also taken for granted. Ever since she was little. Y/N was raised by her Grandmother who is a muggle. Her parents were both killed by Death Eaters, her Grandmother took her in and taught her everything she needed to know about the wizardly world despit being a muggle. At the age of twelve she was given her letter from Hogwarts and ever since she has been following the footsteps of her parents who were both Hufflepuffs.

“Y/N…someone has had their eye on you.” It was Meri. Meri was the first friend she made at Hogwarts. The two girls were both scared little girls getting on the zhogwarts express. Y/N closed her book and turned around, she met the dark eyes of Marcus Flint. She turned back around and looked at her friend.

“He most likely wants me to do an assignment for him.” Y/N told her. At seventeen most girls her age were starting to take interest in boys. Y/N wasn’t an exception, she had her crushes, only the different between she and other girls were those crushes never shared the same feelings. She isn’t pretty, she isn’t small and petite like most girls her age. She was short, she was chubby, her hair was rarely ever done.

“I don’t think so. This look seems different.”

“And what look could he possibly giving me? We have never spoken to each other before, he’s pretty popular within his house, and also a year older.”

“Don’t forget to add rough around the edges…Slytherin, vile, rude…the list goes on.” Y/N looked down and smiled. “Well you must have done something to catch his attention.”

“I couldn’t imagine what I couldn’t have done…I do need to see Hagrid about my next exam.” Y/N stood up and picked up her book. “I will see you at the Quidditch match later?“ Y/N asked.

“I’ll save your seat.” Meri replied with a smile.

The Quidditch match was intense. Slytherin versus Hufflepuff. Normally Slytherin would easily be able to beat Hufflepuff, but not today. Marcus Flint wasn’t happy. He wasn’t understand why his teammate were letting these Hufflepuffs get past their every good play. He got angry, he started to get aggressive.

“Flint is ready to end this for good!“ Lee’s echoes throughout the field. Y/N wasn’t a fan of Quidditch, she didn’t like how violent and dangerous it got.

“We could win this!“ Meri shouted, y/N turned to her and nodded her head. The two girls were sitting in the front row, both being pushed against the railing as the crowd cheered. It was crazier than usual, usually their team would be losing,but because they are winning, it’s pure chaos. Y/N was being pushed forward, she started to get a little nervous, the thought of falling was something she wanted to think of but with everyone standing up and trying to fight for the front row. She looked out and saw that Flint was close to scoring, she was trying to back up but the more she tried, the worse she was getting pushed.

“Flint is about to score, can they block him?!” Was all she heard before s student behind her roughly nudged her, she lost her footing and fell forward. It happened so fast, she felt a hand try to reach for her, Meri. She felt her stomach drop as she began to fall. She closed her eyes and let out a scream. The impact to the ground never came, instead she landed in a pair of arms. She slowly opened her eyes, she was floating in the air. She instantly wrapped her arms around her rescuer's neck.

Marcus didn’t notice what was happening. He heard commotion but figured it was the crowd cheering. It wasn’t till he flew up and was about to score that he saw her dangling. He was close, he was close to scoring the winning point. He wasn’t going to lie, he thought about making the score. He shook his head, let out a growl, and quickly flew to her just in time.

The arena was silent.

“Bring her down Flint!“ It was the voice of Madam Hooch. Flint with one hand around her waist and the other on the broom, he flew down to the ground. She looked at him, tears in her eyes. He stared back at her, still holding her by the waist. Madam Hooch interrupted their moment by pulling Y/N off the broom and to her feet.

“T…thank you.” Y/N thanked Marcus, he didn’t reply.

“Good work Flint.” Madam Hooch added.

Y/N was embarrassed. She was scared to see anyone. Never bad that happened before and yet it happened to her. The whole school saw her almost fall to her death. She found herself most comfortable sitting in the courtyard. It was dinner time so there was no one there, or so she thought. She opened her book and began to read, continuing her studies of the Unicorns.

“That was quite a show.” A voice announced. She got startled and tossed her book in the air, thankfully the person caught it. “Very timid.” He joked. Marcus.

“I’m sorry…I…thank you for today…you saved my life.” She stood up to retrieve her book, when she went to reach for it, he placed it above his head. She looked up at him in confusion.

“I feel like I deserve more than just an apology.” He taunted. She didn’t like where this conversation was going.

“I…I am not sure what else-“

“You know exactly what I mean.”

“I need my book.” She replied. “Please.” She reached for the book which was in the air. He moved it away, causing her to fall into his chest. He looked down at her, he was attracted to her innocence, her naive thoughts on everything.

“I threw the match because of you.”

“It wasn’t my fault Marcus…I am grateful for you and yes you do deserve more than a simple thank you.” That’s what he wanted to hear, but that wasn’t what he was going to get. “I would love to treat you to a trip to Hogsmeade…write a paper for you-“ He knew he had to approach her differently, most girls would be giving in to him, she was going to be a challenge…Marcus never loses.

“Hogsmeade it is then, Saturday.” She nodded her head. He lowered the book and handed it out to her, she reached but he quickly grabbed her wrist. She looked at him, his grip was tight. He leaned his head down, his lips right beside her ear. “You are making the right choice.” He whispered.

It was Saturday and Y/N was dressed and ready to meet Marcus. She was nervous, she wasn’t sure what she had gotten herself into. She has heard many stories about Marcus, she never listened to any of them, never fed into the,, and never judged him for anything, she never talked to him before. She did believe one thing that what said, he can be cruel and vile. She has seen him in the act. He bullied other students, had a reputation for getting violent and physical. She didn’t mention to Meri or her other friends about the outing, so she decided to keep it to herself. She looked at herself in the long mirror. Her choice was a light blue plain dress, heavy stockings, brown small half length boots, and a dark brown trench coat. Her hair was down with loose curls and a beanie to keep her ears warm.

She was ready.

She loves Hogsmeade. All the shops, the people, the atmosphere, it was fun. She never imagined she would be here with Marcus, his hand holding hers while leading them through the crowds of people. She had to admit, holding his hand made her feel warm inside, it was larger than her own, and warm. He led her into Three broomsticks Inn. She has been there a couple times, she enjoys the shops more rather than the pubs. He took them to an empty table towards the back and the two sat down. Y/N looked around, she didn’t like that they were secluded, but she went along with it.

“What can I get you two?” It was an older woman, she eyed the two teens up. Y/N looked at Marcus.

“Two Butterbeers.” He told her, the woman nodded and left them alone. “Haven’t been here before?“ He asked Y/N.

“A couple times…a couple years ago.” She admitted. “I…I prefer the shops.” She answered.

“Hogs Head is better but uh…I don’t think that is your cup of tea.” She nodded her head agreeing. “I have been trying to figure out why I haven’t spoken to you before this.”

“I didn’t think you even knew I existed.” She admitted. Marcus knew she did, he knew exactly who she was, who her parents were. He knew he could control her, he knew he could be the one in control, which is what he liked, what he wanted.

“That’s a silly thing to think about love.” She looked down, it wasn’t silly. She knew it had nothing to do with her appearance. He wanted something. She doesn’t have any experience when it comes to dating but she wasn’t completely naive.

“I suppose so.” She looked at him and smiled. “I…no one has ever asked me to come here…other than my friends.” She explained.

“You mean as a date?” She nodded her head. “So I am your first.” The woman returned with two large glasses. Y/N slid hers close and took a sip.

After their drinks Marcus suggested walking around and looking at the shops. The one glass of Butterbeer was definitely enough to relax her. Marcus extended his arm out to her and she gently wrapped hers around. She had a smile plastered on her face, as they began their walk. She loved it, she loved seeing all the new items the stores had, the people, just the atmosphere. Marcus looked down at her. She was different then most of the girls he has dated. She was quiet, she didn’t cling, and she didn’t talk his ear off.

“Marcus look.” She took his hand and led him this time. Magical Menagerie, a pet shop for magical creatures. In the front display window we’re Kneazles, baby Kneazles. Y/N loves the creature and planned on buying one the moment she had enough money too. “Aren’t they adorable?” She looked up at him.

“Expensive.” Was his reply. She nodded her head agreeing.

“My grandma…she has been trying to save enough money for me to buy one…one day.” Y/N gently tapped the class. Marcus usually dated girls who were on an upper status, their families came from money like himself. Y/N was the opposite. She lives in the muggle world with just her grandmother.

“Come it’s getting late.” He ordered her, she nodded her head and the two made their way back to Hogwarts.

The two arrived back to the school, it was just about dark outside and starting to get cold.

“I had fun.” Y/N said. She meant it too, she thought today was going to go differently, but it was actually nice.

“I still think you owe something.” He smirked at her, she thought for a moment, what else could she possibly owe him? She went on the date and even paid.

“I…I am not sure what else I could do-“

“A date usually ends with a kiss.” He informed her.

“Oh…Marcus I had a great time , I really did but I don’t…I can’t.” She told him, she looked down, suddenly embarrassed.

“And why can’t you?” He was suddenly getting upset and she could sense that. That wasn't her intention.

“I just can’t…I really am sorry.” He suddenly snatched her wrist. She was taken back and tried to pull away but his grip was tight and pain full. She looked up at him, fear filled her eyes. Just what he wanted.

“You would be either severely injured or dead if it wasn’t for me…a simple kiss wouldn’t hurt you.” He growled.

“It’s not just a simple kiss…it’s my first kiss and I will not let just anyone take that away from me-“ She was cut off by his lips smashing into hers. He placed his hand on her waist to pull her closer into him. She tried to turn away but he released her wrist and cradled the one side of her face to keep her from facing away from him. His kiss deepened as she began to lose balance and fall into him. She closed her eyes, accepting what was happening, his warmth began to feel good against her, his cologne was intoxicating. He pulled away and looked down, her eyes still closed, like she was in a daze. This is what he liked to see, this is exactly what he wanted, and he wanted more. He wanted to see what else he could make her do, only he had to take his time, not be greedy.

“First kiss huh?” He teased. She opened her eyes, coming back to reality. “I would have never imagined.” She moved away from him and refused to look at him.

“Goodnight Marcus.” She wrapped her arms around herself and turned away.

“Good night.”

The next few days she made sure to avoid Marcus. She was angry with him, she was angry with herself. Once again she was taken advantage of and she allowed it to happen. She was sick of the treatment, she was sick of how vulnerable she could be. How vulnerable he made her. What was more upsetting was she couldn’t stop thinking about the kiss. The way he held her, the way he didn’t tease her for the way she felt, feeling his arm wrapped fully around her body. The way his lips taste, the way he pulled her into him, the way he could have gone further and she wouldn’t have stopped him.

“Y/N…if you want to master this creature I need your full attention.” The voice of Professor Hagrid invaded her thoughts. She turned to Professor Hagrid. Today he was allowing her to attempt to ride BuckBeak, his Hippogriff. She wasn’t fond of the idea of being in the air, but it was part of her studies.

“I apologize…I am ready.” She told him. Professor Hagrid handed her a piece of dead rat, the offering. BuckBeak instantly smelled the dead rodent, he lifted his head and took interest. She carefully approached, slowly and carefully. She leaned her body down into a bow position and placed the rodent In the air. She heard the footsteps of the creature coming towards her. Her hand remained completely still.

“That’s it…go ahead BuckBeak.” The Hippogriff sniffed her hand and within seconds snatched the rat. Y/N carefully lifted her head, BuckBeak was mimicking her, his head leaned down, she earned his trust. Y/N turned to Professor Hagrid who was clapping his hands and smiling. “Let’s take the ride.” He lifted Y/N up onto the Hippogriff and before Y/N could say anything she was galloping, holding onto the creature's neck. She closed her eyes as she felt him begin to flap his wings and descend into the air.

She was flying.

It wasn’t till she was back in the courtyard catching up studying that she realized she had made a mistake, only she didn’t know this. She was so immersed in her book that she didn’t realize till the book was ripped from hands and thrown onto the ground. She looked up in shock when Marcus was hovering over her.

“Avoiding me?” He spat.

“N…no I-“ He pulled her to her feet by her arm. “That hurts!” She shouted.

“Don’t lie to me!” He shouted back. The truth was he wanted to see her, he needed to see her but couldn’t find her. Ever since he kissed her, he couldn’t get her off his mind. He instantly felt regret when he saw her eyes fill with tears. He released her arm and stepped away from her.

“What is wrong with you?” She asked in a whisper. He ran his fingers through his hair in frustration. He didn’t have an answer. “I…I was avoiding you.” She admitted.

“W…why?”

“You took advantage of me…you stole something that might mean nothing to you or others but means a lot to me.” The tears slowly rolled down her rosy cheeks. “What is worse is…I…I liked the kiss.”

“Why is that worse?” He felt offended.

“I know the type of person you are Marcus, all the rumors, I’ve seen you…I don’t want that.” He felt angry again, he felt angry because she was right. His reputation wasn’t the best.

“You believe those rumors?”

“You proved to me that maybe they are really true. The way you yell at me, grab me…you are a cruel person Marcus.”

“Is that really what you think? What if I said you were a weak Witch born from two weaker ones that couldn’t even fight against He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named? Huh? Had to live like a Muggle and pretend everyday that the world is a bloody rain of sunshine!” She looked up at him, not saying a word, just taking in everything he was shouting to her. “Maybe I should have let you fall.”

“If that’s what you think Marcus…then that’s fine.” She walked over to where her book was and picked it up. He quickly moved so that he was in front of her.

“It’s not fine, you and I both know that.”

“What does it matter? You hardly know me and I hardly know you. Whatever intentions you had…you can forget about it.”

“Yeah I had intentions, I admit that. The other night when I kissed you…seeing you so…the effect I had on you…I want more of that.” She wasn’t sure what to say, how to react, how to feel. “I want more of you.”

“You are going to hurt me.” He moved closer to her. “No…I have to go.” He gently reached for her hand but she moved away. “I have to go.” She repeated.

Y/N didn’t sleep at all, she couldn’t. Constantly tossing and turning. What did Marcus mean? Did he have feelings for her? Real feelings? She couldn’t understand the sudden interest. She got out of bed, unable to handle the restlessness. She knew what would help her. She snuck out of the common room and outside of the castle, she needed air, fresh air. It wasn’t till reached the whomping willow that she noticed a figure. She wanted to turn around, scared of who it could be, but then she recognized who it really was. The tall figure.

“Marcus?” She announced herself.

“W…what are you doing here?” He asked, startled.

“I…I couldn’t sleep.” She told him.

“Find somewhere else to go.” He was still upset with her. She looked down, she was upset with him too, but still she had to yearn to be near him. Ever since we kissed her.

“Why did you take interest in me Marcus?” He looked away.

“I love control and I knew I could get it from you. Your control.” She felt her heart drop. “When I kissed you, the face you made, the moment of I could dominate you and you couldn’t do anything about it.”

“That’s all this was? For you to tell me what to do?” Marcus shook his head no.

“You got it all wrong, love-“

“Do I? Marcus, what you are saying sounds absolutely mad. You can’t have control over someone like they are your pet.”

“I don’t want just someone. I want you. I want you.” He quickly approached her and wrapped his arms around her waist, this time she didn’t pull away. “I want your curves, I want your lips against mine, I want all of you.” He whispered. She was taken back. Marcus Flint told her all these things and she didn’t know what to do. She gently laid her hands on his chest. Her gentle touch gave him goosebumps. He wasn’t used to soft touches.

“What you want…I can’t.” She looked up at him.

“Just let me. Let me have you…emotionally and physically.” She shook her head no. This isn’t what she wanted, this wasn’t normal. She never thought Marcus was this kind of person, did he treat other girls like this? He placed his forehead against hers. She felt something, being in his arms like this, being so close to him, her brain was shouting at her to leave, to push him off you and leave. Your heart was telling you to give him a chance, see where this could lead. What was she supposed to do?

“What will happen?” She asked him. He pulled away and looked down at her. “I…is this a relationship?”

“It can be if that’s what you want. You will be mine.”

“If I agree to this…to being with you…what will it really mean?” She wanted to know what she would be getting herself into, she wanted to know she would be safe. He cupped her face gently, forcing her to look at him.

“It will mean you will do as I say, you will be by my side, you will be loyal to only me.” She gulped a bit. She placed her hands gently on top of his. “Just…just let me have you.” He sounded so desperate, so needy. Was it really him who held the power or was it her? She nodded her head. He let out a small sigh of relief.

“I’ll do it.” She told him, he leaned down and placed his lips on hers, pulling her closer into him while wrapping his arms around her. She closed her eyes and kissed him back, his eagerness made her nervous but at the same time it felt right.

There will be multiple parts to this story, I have so many ideas and I feel like I can create so much more:)

#romance #fanfiction #harry potter #marcus flint #marcus flint x reader #harry potter x reader #hufflepuff #slytherpuff #slytherin #hogwarts

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sweetdreamsjeff · 5 days

Text

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.

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

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.

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

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”).

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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.

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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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