#lucifer sandman fanfiction | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

rippersz · 23 days

Text

𝐄𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐃𝐢𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐁𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐬

‧˚₊꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒦꒷‧₊˚⊹

‧˚₊꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒦꒷‧₊˚⊹

Zombie Apocalypse AU w/ Gwendoline Christie characters; (~9.2K words)

(Featuring: Larissa Weems, Brienne of Tarth, Jane Murdstone, Anna from WTM, Lucifer Morningstar, Miranda Hilmarson, Captain Phasma, and Jan Stevens) x Reader

‧˚₊꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒦꒷‧₊˚⊹

It started about two months ago. Russia went down first, then Mongolia. China. India. And in the midst, Finland, Sweden, Norway, the United Kingdom, down to the very southern tip of Africa. The Ocean is no killer of disease, frozen or not, and encouraged it to ravage South and North America, then Canada and Greenland. Until every place was overrun by dead freaks. Stinking corpses and moving gore.

They traveled in herds, packs, whatever it was that people wanted to call them—murders, perhaps—and shuffled aimlessly across any land they could find. Eager for food, for sustenance, to fill the empty bellies that would never be full. Gorging themselves on creatures like you.

Officially ‘the other’. Officially ‘the enemy’. The sole survivor of a good group that was attacked some days ago because an idiot forgot to shoot one of the creatures in the head. And by sunrise, it was over. Screams echoed into the silence and you soon found yourself alone… running for your life with a duffle bag over your shoulder (slowing you down) and a gun in your hand (low on ammo). Trekking through thick woods in a heavily-infested Vermont town was not a good idea, but you had no choice. The house you were camping in was left behind, ravaged by bullets that you put into your friend’s heads, and every other spot nearby had been looted. You couldn’t move all of those bodies yourself. You couldn’t do much yourself. There was no army background attached to your name, no conspiracy theorist survival-obsessed gene in your body, and not much training in fighting either. All you could do was run. Run and run and run until you were miles away and your lungs started to burn. Not the most useful skill considering most people could run, but if you were quick enough to speed past the shuffling bastards, you were quick enough to make it to safety.

—

Safety…what a joke. A shit joke. A joke that was, quite honestly, the worst joke to ever exist. There was no safety. No place, nowhere. You’d been walking for a few hours, hearing nothing but the forest’s silence, and stumbling over leaves and branches. They ravaged the animals, took them into their mouths like they were people, and ate until there was nothing left. Not even a squirrel, or a fox, and the birds had grown weary of the vast number of hunters (both dead and undead) that found themselves in the woods looking for food. So no birds either. And no houses. And you were pretty sure, as you paused to catch your breath, that you were doomed.

Only a few bullets left and your aim was never perfect. One knife tucked into your waistband but it was getting uncomfortable, digging into your skin, and caked in blood. Creature blood. Everything smelled horrible. Like burning flesh or dirty meat, raw and soiled. You probably didn’t smell too good either. It wasn’t like the world still worked without the people; only a few places had running water and you couldn’t trust the creeks and rivers. The undead enjoyed walking through shallow water, knowing somehow that there’d probably be prey nearby.

But you hadn’t seen anything in a while. A long while. A suspiciously long while...

Everything was green and brown around you, whisked by wind and soil, and you stood out like blood against snow. The last thing you saw was yesterday. Ever since? Not a single flash of undead flesh.

You swallowed, throat embarrassingly dry, and tapped your fingers against your thigh.

It wasn’t good when everything was still. You were vulnerable, out in the open, and without a good few rounds of bullets to spare. Every muscle and organ in your body screamed for mercy, crying with the effort it took to keep surviving even when you didn’t want to.

You thought about it a few times; gave the gun in your hand a long look on several occasions, but ultimately decided that ‘opting out’ was only a last resort. Somehow, even amidst the chaos and hatred and swill of humanity’s nature, you managed to hold hope. And often wondered where it would get you. How it would get you. While you were sleeping? While you were already wounded? Fighting off the hands of a loved one? The twist of hope’s rope… would you feel it closing in around your neck? A literal metaphor for the eventual death you’d experience?

Thinking about it gave you a headache.

For where was the point in wondering?

You had no one else. Whatever form of death awaited, it would end up being your fault. Probably because you couldn’t run fast enough. Probably because-

Because-

Wait.

Somewhere behind you, on the right, was a low sound. A hum. The smooth whoosh of something quick. The parting of wind… the low growl of…

“Fuck.”

You shot off in that direction, bag smacking against your shoulder blades, and instantly felt the exhaustion pull at your body again. It lingered like a plague, like the undead disease, and you yearned to fall to your knees - to give in - but it wasn’t the time for that. You had to at least try. You had to at least make it over the hill. Right over the hill. So close but so far. You leaned forward, threw yourself at the ground, and grasped onto gnarled tree roots. The Earth smelled wet with decay, sweet with promise - you huffed against dry leaves. They crunched and scratched at your fingers, eventually crinkling into nothing when your arms worked to drag you up. You probably looked a little mad, scrambling up a steep hill to reach something that probably won’t save you, but there was no other option. The hum grew louder, the quiet was broken, and you only had a few moments to get this right.

“Help!” Your lungs caved around your scream, but the forest swallowed it instantly. Greedy trees with their greedy barks, wanting to keep you hidden from salvation. The hum grew louder. Your fingers grew clammy, sweating and slipping against rough wood.

You’d be bruised to high heaven later, and probably exhausted, but the hum and the growl of an engine meant a road and a road meant civilization and goddammit you just needed to get over the stupid fucking hill.

There was a loud ringing in your ears, nearly deafening, and making your voice sound fuzzy.

“Help! Help!”

Was that you? Were you the one screaming like that? Why couldn’t you be quiet? Those things could have been lurking… wandering nearby… coming up behind you, eager to grasp at your ankles and drag you back down to Hell.

A glance back over your shoulder, aching from the duffle bag, found nothing but blurred terrain and darkened leaves–a symptom of the setting sun. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. If the light went out, you’d be screwed. You couldn’t use the last of your matches and the world went black when evening struck. So there really was no choice. As the growl turned into a roar… there was no choice. Just a little higher- a little more. Your arms pushed, biceps straining against the cotton of your shirt, and your pants threatened to get caught on wayward sticks and tear into rags. The boots on your feet pressed hard against loose rocks, kicking them out of place, and gained just enough ground to push you up - over the ridge. The final stretch. Your chest pushed to the hard dirt and forced a grunt of effort from your tired body; the sound echoed through the woods, through the ground, and through the air that sat above the concrete road in front of you. Hard and vast, grey and long… you looked at it as though it were the holiest of grails, lying just beside it with your arms outstretched, your fingers still pulling at dirtied grass. Soil covered your skin, masked your features, caked beneath your fingernails, and when the roar of the speeding vehicle grew so close you had to close your eyes and wince, you knew raising a hand for help would not be enough. In the shade of the forest’s edge, half draped over the peak of the hill, you were inhuman to other survivors. Your dry mouth opened, your throat croaked, and your legs moved to push you up–closer–just short of the wind that caressed your hair when the car, the truck, ran past you with no second glance. You looked after it, watched it pass, and felt the burn in your heart grow into its own inferno. It licked at your insides, at your desperation, and had you hauling the duffle bag off of your shoulder and out onto the road. It rolled, a shuffling sound, and you followed after it with deep growls of effort and dwindling strength.

“Please,” you wheezed, panting for breath as soon as you staggered up to your feet.

In the distance, the car turned into a disappearing black spec. It drove and drove, out of sight, and you stood there, putting your arms in the air to wave it down and bring it back. To beckon it back. To beg and plead.

“Please please no-,” your voice was soft, weakened by days of rugged survival, “no…” rough and lost to the wind, it dissipated into nothing and you were forced to swallow again.

The thick smell of car exhaust settled against the steaming road. You watched the horizon, tracking the space in the atmosphere where the gold traced into a deep blue, and felt your bones quake beneath your skin. Their final cry. The last hurrah as you watched your future, the tatters of it, drive away from you.

Too late.

You were too late.

And you’d die there, on that road, and they may never come back and find you again in the morning. And your corpse would be chewed upon by undead bastards who would never give you a proper burial. And you’d be just another stupid human that found themselves trampled beneath the stinking feet of the walking dead.

Tears teased your eyes, burning the dry lands of your irises, and you felt the heart in your chest lurch against its cage.

Too late.

You were too late.

You had a duffle bag, a handgun somewhere off to the side, and the clothing on your back. One lasting water bottle, the knife you felt poking your side, and small bags of food that wouldn’t last you long at all. The tent, too, was destroyed by animals the night before. The most you could go was perhaps one more day, but your feet were aching so terribly that each step was a journey within itself. And you couldn’t push yourself to go further. There was no further. There was nothing in the woods and there was nothing beyond the road and you were running on fumes that no longer existed.

But you couldn’t just lie there and take it. You were about to reach over, bending at the waist, to grab your bag. To pull it up over your shoulder and trek on, even though it was pointless. But something stopped you.

Something–a sound–made you freeze.

It was faint. It didn’t sound like the undead, with their discordant groans and disgusting squelches, no… it was far. Getting closer. Closer. The hum and the growl. The purr of a motor. The hiss of pavement.

Your head snapped up, eyes bulging wide as you looked over the horizon to see…. Yes. Yes! Yes, it’s them! The car! A grin pulled at your lips. Halle-fucking-lujah! You felt the anxiety ebb, slowly falling away from your body, as they got closer. The black spec turned into a black blob, then a figure that took shape, and finally you could make out a Vermont license plate and the dirt that stuck to big wheels. Up close, it was a sleek thing, tall and well-built. Midnight black and aside from the splatter on the rubbered wheels, it was polished and clean. The dark paint reflected the bright world around you, turning it into weird warped versions of a faux-paradise. You swallowed at the feel of warmth against your legs, the exhaust from the truck flooding over the smallest sliver of skin around your ankles. Suddenly fearing a changed mind and bad intentions, you stumbled back until your heels pushed against your bag.

Tinted windows stared down at you, menacing and opaque. Not a thing to see behind them, even if you squinted. Nothing moved, nothing jumped, and you watched with bated breath for a window to roll down - until finally, it did.

The driver’s side. It went whirr-ing down, sliding for the shortest period of time in the world until only a shadow met you - and then a flicker of movement. And then-

“Oh my god! Jesus! Okay okay!” You flinched, not even hesitating to raise your hands above your head. You spread your fingers out, desperate to prove your innocence to the stranger in the car. And the gun they were holding, pointing at you, through the gap.

“Were you bit?” A rough voice, muted and deep, broke the atmosphere.

You shook your head.

“Words. Use them.”

“No,” you licked your lips, instantly deciding to turn around in a slow circle. “Not bitten. Not scratched.” You tried to ignore the way your hands shook, even as you shifted all the way back to face the gun’s muzzle.

“Ask where…” a voice, soft and feminine, came from somewhere beyond the driver’s seat. It was saying something, telling something, but faded into a whisper so quiet you couldn’t hear a thing. Your eyes shifted to the dark backseat windows, trying to see something- anything- and found no surprise in the lack of life.

“Any weapons?” The driver seemed to ignore the other person, and instead held the gun steady. You watched it with weary eyes.

“Yes.” And before they could ask, you tugged the knife out of your belt and the gun out of your pants pocket. They were held up in the air, another white flag, and you twitched the hand that held the firearm. “At least three bullets left, but that’s it.”

“And the others?”

You blinked. “Others? What oth-”

“Where is the rest of your ammunition? In the skull of a human or scum?” The stranger spat, and you detected the hints of an accent.

Scum… you’d never heard them referred to as that before. Your last group called them walkers, and some others claimed flesh-eaters. You were tempted to use ‘zombies’, but it felt rather silly. The world took that term too lightly, and the undead were nothing if not a very serious problem. But scum? Like they were beneath humanity and not its current destroyer? You’d ask about it later, you decided, if they deemed you well enough to take in.

“Both,” you breathed honestly, dropping your weapons to your sides with a heavy sigh. “They um- weren’t quite there yet. Got ambushed overnight.”

The gun still didn’t move.

“They don’t ambush. What really happened?”

Hm. They weren’t wrong. Animated corpses didn’t ‘ambush’, but when a herd of them went lurking about, it certainly felt that way. You didn’t think logistics were entirely necessary, but you understood the need for specifics. Trust among men was eviscerated in the face of danger, especially against those once living. You’d seen paranoia before, in others. Humans simply didn’t take each other in anymore… not without some level of severe mistrust. The second thought after seeing the truck drive off was that you probably wouldn’t be accepted anyway - you’d killed without technical reason. Could have just left. Run away.

But you didn’t.

You didn’t want to see them turn into those… creatures.

So what else was there to say? You stared at the gun, willing a click and the shot of a bullet, as you opened your mouth.

“A herd. A lot of them. Just… descended upon the place. Someone might’ve been walking around in the woods or something, and there was just not enough protection,” you paused, licking your lips, “...I was the last one alive. Had to shoot them and go.”

“How long since?”

“Few days, give or take,” you shrugged. The exhaustion only built as you stood there, trying not to sway and collapse in your spot. The truck was still running, hissing hot exhaust; it was the first genuinely warm thing you’d felt in so many days that you wanted to crawl underneath and take a nap. The world, turning to autumn, was growing chilly. There was no chance you could survive winter on your own.

“...Give or take,” you heard the driver scoff and laugh, bitter and mean. You frowned.

Then the window started going up, and you couldn’t help yourself. With a hard thunk, you pushed your shoulder hard against the car, and knocked on the thick glass with the butt of the knife. A look of utter desperation crossed your features, heavy and thick. Urgency, anxiety, fear forced any sense from your mind. There was no chance. There was no survival at all.

“No please- please I can’t be out here alone please- I’m smart and- and I can run fast and be an asset. Please,” you shook your head, searching with worried eyes, “please, please you can’t do this to me-”

Something dark spliced through the corner of your vision, dragging a shadow with it, and you just barely dodged the sudden swing of the truck’s backseat door. It bounced with force and you glanced back at the driver’s window once before stepping back and hastily swinging your bag over your shoulder. The knife and gun were slipped back into your clothing, concealed, and you held yourself strong as the black leathered interior bore itself to the world.

“-we can’t just leave them-”

“-on’t be stupid. They could be a liability-”

“-not stupid. We need more people-”

Voices, at least two, were rushed and tangled in an argument. You didn’t pay much attention to what you could hear, though the growing irritation was hard to ignore. It would be a hassle to be accepted, you knew, but you’d deal. There was no choice. The backseat door was open and there was a figure hustled back against the other window.

“The offer won’t last,” the stranger murmured, somehow louder than the two people in the front seats, and you decided not to take any chances in the world alone.

With a grunt, a push, and a final slam of the door, you found yourself in the truck. Your bag was pushed down by your feet, you tugged your knife out to rest it on your thigh, and you turned to say thank you- but was cut off by a cold blade at your throat. It grazed the soft dirty skin, less than a centimeter away from pushing, and you felt saliva pool in the back of your throat. Swallowing would have pressed you closer, so you fought the urge and only stared.

“Woah-”

“Try anything and you die. I don’t want a peep, not a shuffle. Do I make myself clear?”

The driver’s voice, clearer in such close quarters, was deep and mean. Accent, as you had clocked, from somewhere in the United Kingdom. It held a natural growl, a gruffness from years of smoking, perhaps, and you couldn’t help but sense the intimidation. It wasn’t fake confidence, you noticed, as you looked up and met the cool sharp grey gaze of a woman. Her hair, a deep blonde, was slicked back and short, ruffled slightly by the nape of her neck. A long neck… that led to strong looking shoulders. They were half covered by a jacket, but you could see the strength in the chords of her muscle. A force to be reckoned with. A leader, perhaps. She was pale, with a defined nose and lips twisted into a permanent sneer, and you probably would have thought she had some potential for post-apocalyptic modeling, if it weren’t for the scar that covered one half of her face. Slashed across the left eye, the wound was jagged and rough - it dragged from a point close to the exact middle of her forehead, right to the corner of her jaw. Thicker at parts and thinner at others, it split through a pale eyebrow and seemed to have permanently rendered her blind. The lid didn’t even move when one stormy eye shifted, and you suddenly felt extremely creeped out. Something about her was undeniably cold. Almost reckless, but her hand was so steady with control you knew not to make a move. She’d probably kill without hesitation, dump you back into the road, and drive off with the duffel. There was no choice but to answer, answer quickly, and do as told.

“Yes, clear.” Your head shifted half an inch up and half an inch down, still cautious of the blade.

But she didn’t move.

It was a battle of wills for just a moment, with your hands in your lap, empty and docile. You weren’t looking for a fight, or a staring contest, but the stranger didn’t let up until the figure to your right decided to sit up and speak.

“Ah they do not seem so bad. Look at them. Tired and scared, like sad city mouse,” another woman, one with a Russian accent and a voice a hint too loud, cooed.

Silence followed, persisted, for only a minute- and then the blade was tugged back so quickly you swear it nearly cut the air in two. The driver tsked as she twisted herself around, murmuring as she went.

“More like a rat.”

And then you were thrown to the side with a heavy wheeze as the truck lurched and began moving, working into a turn so you could go back the way they’d come.

You glared at the back of the headrest, not feeling above a little bit of irritation for some poor handling, but eventually grew bored. With some apprehension, your eyes flicked over to the person in the passenger seat. Their profile was strong, feminine, and you noted the unbelievably well-kept head of snowy hair. She looked clean, just like the driver, and a spark of hope welled up in your tired heart. Running water and food existed where they came from, wherever they were camped out, and if you played your cards right, you could finally indulge in some good hygiene. Unless the woman in the passenger seat was stingy with her water… god her skin was so clear, and she seemed to be wearing makeup. No one wore makeup anymore. Not the people in your old group and not the few stragglers you’d stumbled across. It simply wasn’t a necessary luxury anymore, but the woman sitting across from you, back straight and hands in her lap, seemed to think it was of the utmost importance. You wanted to speak, wanted to ask her name, but found yourself turning to your right - and catching the gaze of the person that opened the door for you.

“Anna,” your savior spoke, tilting her head to the left and regarding you with curious eyes. A pale hand, big and long-fingered, shot out and hovered above your lap. You glanced down at it, at the clean skin and the perfect fingernails, and knew that you hit the survivalist jackpot.

With a nod and a quick clasp of her hand, you whispered your name in reply. She nodded before leaning back against the door and crossing her arms; she seemed quite comfortable there, with a rather large gun resting across her lap. Her hair, blonde as well, fell in gentle waves to her shoulders. She saw with deep blue eyes - a contrast to the cold steel of the driver - and didn’t hesitate to flick them over your body in some sort of analytical search. Weapons, you figured, is what she was looking for. And the knife in your lap, which she eyed with some interest.

You wanted to say something, wanted to thank them, but it didn’t feel like enough. Nothing felt like enough those days. Asking something of someone was a risk every single time. And you’d asked—begged—them to take you in. You needed to pull your weight, no questions asked.

“Um- thank you for-”

“Shoot them.”

“What?!” You straightened up, eyes going wide as, in your peripherals, you saw Anna’s hand inch toward her gun. Through the rear-view mirror, you caught the way the driver’s brow twitched.

“You heard me. Shoot them.”

“Pha-”

“I said no talking,” the stranger growled, not even bothering to address the woman in the passenger seat. The white-haired woman looked frustrated, her red lips tugging into a frown, as she watched the driver double down on her focus. “Didn’t I say that?”

“But I-,” you wanted to plead your case, wanted to defend yourself, but were cut off.

“I am not going to shoot,” Anna said before you could speak. “Why do you expect her to be quiet hah, Phasma? We just saved her жопa. No need for fighting.”

You glanced at her, picking up on the Native tongue. Fresh off the boat, or perhaps visiting, with the way she said it so easily. Zhopa? Given the context, it wasn’t hard to tell what she meant. Yes, they had just saved your ass. And yes, you wanted to say thank you. Even if that Phasma person wasn’t too keen on a bit of gratitude.

“I hardly think thanking us for a kind deed is worthy of execution, no matter how much silence you require,” the fair-haired woman across from you said smoothly, throwing a slight glare to the woman on her right. And finally, she took that moment to turn around in the seat and make eye contact.

Something that proved to be far more difficult than you thought it would. Good lord, she was gorgeous. Pale skin, deep admiral blue eyes, and lips redder than blood. Not even a scratch on her face, not even a single spec of dirt - as if the apocalypse never happened and there weren’t dead people roaming every street in the world. In fact, she didn’t seem incredibly worried about the predicament the human species found itself in, and was looking at you with kind eyes, a furrowed brow, and a smile that she hoped was welcoming.

“My name is Larissa,” her hand, gloved in white fabric as soft as silk, reached out as an olive branch. You wanted to take it, wanted to feel something so lovely for the first time in a long time and create some sort of bond, but your hands were very dirty. A part of you guessed that Larissa hadn’t put them on earlier that day with the hope to return to camp holding soft fabric smudged with dirt and dried blood, so you only looked down at your palm and then back at hers.

“Oh uh- I don’t wanna get your gloves dirty-”

“Oh,” she glanced down, realizing that she was, in fact, wearing hand-coverings. “Later, then,” a warm smile shone back at you - and you were helpless, instantly offering her a nod in return.

“Finished?” The driver piped up, eyes cold as she stared at you in the rear-view.

As if on cue, Larissa turned back around in her seat, rolling her eyes as she went, and you could only fall quiet. Introductions were over, you were warming up to the easy heat in the car, and Phasma–if you dared address her by name in your head–had a good handle of the wheel. You were safe. For now. And with one last suspended look at the gun on Anna’s lap, you reached over for the seatbelt, tucked yourself in with a click, and leaned back in the seat. It was so suddenly comfortable, such a huge contrast to the shit you’d dealt with recently, that you couldn’t help but close your eyes and revel. Even for a moment. Even for a second.

—

“Get up,” a mean grunt, paired with a quick rush of piercingly cold air, tugged you from the depths of sleep.

Before you could even open your eyes properly, a shiver set itself into your bones. Eager to escape it, and the confines of the car, you jolted and scrambled for your seatbelt. Leaning against the open door, watching you grab your things, was the driver. Phasma? Weird name, but there was no time to dwell - especially not when she was looking at you like that. Eyes sharper than the knife on your lap, holding a polished chrome pistol in one hand, and waiting with some tension for you to hurry up. The duffel was pulled up onto your shoulder, the knife was tucked into your belt, and your hands scratched at the leather as you looked around wildly for your gun.

“We took it. You’ll get it back when you prove you’re not a complete imbecile,” she spat, peering down her nose at you. Disgust danced in her expression, sparking flames of unwanted insecurity, and you felt compelled to look away. Her nostrils were flared, her pink lips curled into something disdainful and mean, and you couldn’t help but watch the way her jaw shifted as she tensed, watching you watch her. The hatred seemed a bit out of place, too strong for normal trust issues, and you briefly wondered if perhaps she’d always been that way - even before the end of civilization. She was clearly a bitch, and not interested in showing you kindness any time soon, so you decided to forgo a response, ignored her glaring, and slipped out of the car without a word.

Before your feet were completely on the ground, and your bag was out of the way, the door slammed closed behind you, quick and sharp. The speed of it nearly clipped your shirt, and you whirled around to face the stranger’s irritation. She seemed to have lost interest in you and side-stepped your figure without another glance. One finger on the trigger, a shit-ton of audacity-filled swagger in her walk, and a back broad and strong. She looked like an outlaw, tall, mean, wearing grey with a belt around her strong hips and a leather jacket over her shoulders. You wanted to throw your gun at her and watch it hit the back of her head, but there was no way in Hell you’d be able to run away faster than she could catch you.

“Come,” you heard Anna speak, interrupting your train of thought as she trudged up to your left. You turned, seeing the way she cocked her head. “I’ll introduce you.” The gun swayed in her grasp as she turned, making little shuffling sounds in the grass.

The grass.

You went to go forward, but stopped. The grass. It was… terribly neat. Very well maintained. Not like apocalypse grass, which was flat and bloodied and mudded and dusted, but like rich person grass. Striking green grass, healthy, it bounced back behind you when you stepped on it. And the air… you took a deep breath and closed your eyes. It was fresh. Pure. Free of the smell of death and free of gunpowder and spraying blood. Just where on Earth were y-

oh.

Oh.

You looked up, finally, and found yourself in a courtyard. On all sides was a wall, sections of it made of brick, others of stone, and the rest of wrought iron fence, bolted hard into the ground; and across the way, piercing the sky, was a manor. Or what looked like a manor. No - what was definitely a manor. Dark, illuminated slightly by the deep blue of the atmosphere and the torches that littered the ground in neat paths, splitting off into cobblestone sections. You swallowed. It was gorgeous. Untouched. A world that seemed to run on and on while the rest of the globe went to shit.

How fucking lucky were you?

“Come! I must say twice?!” Anna called, giving you an exasperated beckon as she started disappearing behind the dark stone brick of the main entrance.

Sparing a quick glance behind you, you found a fortified gate and short stone walls - reinforced and built upon with barbed wire, wood, and sheets of metal. It must have opened up for the truck when you were still asleep, but was very much firmly shut and impenetrable once closed. You wanted to explore it more, wanted to study the mechanism and the layout and come to understand just how they managed to get the place so protected, but you didn’t want to leave Anna waiting. And a low rumble of thunder, far but rolling quick, told you that rain was eager to make her appearance - and you did not want to get caught in that.

After adjusting your bag and patting the knife in your belt for reassurance, you set off after the Russian stranger.

—

“So I am Anna, this you know already,” she pointed to herself, tapped her chest twice, then rolled her hand over to gesture to the clearing ahead.

It was beautiful, outlined against a dark wood. Rocky paths led to a big circle in the middle, and the ruins of stone benches and statues littered the camp. You could definitely see what it used to be - a beautiful place for the elite to sit, to bask, to enjoy the nice air and the wind. But the end of the world had gotten to it, not with the bearings of total destruction, but with the promise of change. A big spruce shelter had been built to the far left, reinforced with four beams and no walls - clearly just meant to keep the rain at bay while they worked outside. Beneath it, there were wooden benches and designated spots for farming equipment, guns, and even a water purifying system from the looks of it. If you assumed that sleeping quarters and showers existed in the castle, then they seemed to be in the best shape anyone could be in.

Even the people, who were busy going about their evening and tending to their duties, while you watched by Anna’s side and felt your excitement grow.

“Phasma was woman driving. Not so kind,” she tsked, giving you a knowing look, and you found yourself unable to ask about the strange name. You figured she wouldn’t have known the answer anyway. Then her hand moved, stealing your attention. “That is Jane,” she pointed to a pale woman sitting on one of the large stone benches.

Her back was turned, but you could see the severity of her expression in the reflection of a hand mirror. She was handsome, free of makeup, with jet-black hair. The strands fell from between her fingertips, spilling like water, as she threaded them into a braid around her head. Her movements were slow, methodic, and you watched, sort of hypnotized, as the long sleeves of her hooded dress stretched across her slim back. Tight along her arms and resting over the black pants covering her thighs, leading down to knee-high leather boots. Fit for an apocalypse, but somehow still chic. You watched her hands for a moment more, and turned slightly to her right when Anna gestured to the woman beside her.

“Miranda. Good girl, but way too skinskie,” she nodded to herself while crossing her arms.

The stranger in question–Miranda–was holding up an antique hand mirror for Jane to look into while doing her hair. They seemed to be the same height, though Miranda’s build was lankier and toned. The sleeves of her white top had to have been torn off, leaving freckled shoulders free to the air, and around one wrist was a black watch. It nearly matched the same leather as her belt, which held an attached holster and a sleeve for a walkie-talkie. Its antenna stood out against the baby blue of her uniform pants; tight by the hips but baggier toward the ankles, tucked into dark laced boots. Her hair was styled into a fair blonde bob, probably recently cut by the sight of such clean edges. It looked unbearably soft kissing the back of her neck.

“She was policewoman. Strong.” Anna commented, gazing at her from your spot by the castle wall.

You nodded absentmindedly, looking over the two strangers and the chess board that sat between them on the bench. Jane had black and Miranda white. The latter seemed to be focusing quite hard on the game, holding a pawn loosely in one hand, as the dark-haired beauty tsked and adjusted the hand mirror that slowly slipped to the side. You watched Miranda jump and offer what you assumed was a sheepish apology, as she tried to multitask. Her small smile was pink and soft, warm and welcoming. A friend, perhaps.

“Very…domestic,” came your soft murmur, sparked by the surprise of such a peaceful camp. In the past group, everyone was too busy trying to sleep, find food, or talk themselves through panic attacks. Maintaining sanity with comfort was not a priority.

“Da. Comfortable,” your companion nodded. “Jan is there, washing.” And you turned, yet again, to find a figure standing in front of a clothesline.

The combat boots made her seem tall, though they were a bit out of place—not really matching the long white sleeved shirt and full red skirt combo. Immaculate and clean, you noticed, though that was to be expected from a woman trying her hardest to get blood out of a white blouse. Her hands were covered by blue rubber gloves, with one clutched around a sponge and the other around the neck of a bottle of white wine vinegar. On the ground by her feet was a large pale jug of hydrogen peroxide and a bucket of what you assumed was water. And the blouse in front of her, held up by wooden clothespins, rippled from the breeze. It seemed to get colder and windier the longer the night went on, probably bringing the rain with it at some point. With any luck, it would clear up the light splotches of pink that covered most of the shirt’s chest up to the collar, but ‘Jan’ didn’t seem too patient and satisfied with that. She got back to her scrubbing a moment later, the strict waves of her blonde hair bumping gently against her neck.

“Jan is very chic. You go to her for fashion advice, no?” Anna tilted her head at you, dragging dark blue eyes over your face. The lawn lamps stabbed into the grass lit everything up with a sweet warm glow, bringing out the flames in her expression as she peered at you curiously. Very handsome, in her own sharp-featured sort of way. You couldn’t help the snort that bubbled up.

“Respectfully, I think fashion is the least of my concerns right now, Anna.”

“Hm. Maybe,” she hummed, shrugged, and gave you a once-over that set your heart racing before turning her attention back to the group.

“Brienne!” You jumped, flinching away as Anna’s loud voice carried into your ear. In the distance, a hulking figure shifted and unfolded, moving to look up at the call. They were sitting on a big pile of cut logs, holding a stone cylindrical sharpener in one hand and a… sword… in the other. Anna waved, talking to you gently as you both watched the figure’s expression change into one of suspicion. She was handsome. Pale, with the lightest blonde lashes and brows, and eyes that sparkled even from that distance. They squinted, drawing frown lines across her face, as she straightened up in her spot. You tried desperately not to stare at her figure, but it was impossible. The deep blue ribbed shirt clung to her torso like a second skin, wrapping tightly around strong biceps and broad shoulders. It was tucked into muddy green cargo pants, offsetting the brightness of the steel that covered the toes of her dark boots. You tilted your head and watched as she glanced between you and Anna before she finally decided to shoot the woman a firm nod. Anna’s lips quirked up into a smile. “She was once soldier. Good woman - she will protect you if you’re in trouble. Saved me many many times.” Her blonde curls swished as she nodded to herself.

That was good to know, you reasoned. Everyone seemed quite strong. Tall, too. And pale. The camp was gorgeous, the people seemed mundane enough, and the company was… well. Your eyes drifted over to Anna’s side profile, a silhouette of soft dips and curves, and you couldn’t hide the attraction you felt even if you tried.

“Larissa, you know too. She is leader, xорошо?” You didn’t really know what ‘harasho’ meant, but the light intonation of her voice had you saying ‘Yeah’ anyway.

Then an arm was winding itself around yours, jostling the bag on your shoulder and the gun slung around Anna’s body. It rested against her back, hitting her thighs, and you were suddenly powerless to the way she steered you further down the gravel path. Toward the right, there was a makeshift driveway; a patch of land ripped up from the grass and replaced with gravel, soil, and rocks. The black truck made an appearance again, probably having been driven up from around the back, and you watched with curious eyes as Phasma busied herself with a few bags and boxes from the trunk. Jesus, she was fit… tall and lethal. A small grunt left her lips when she hauled two boxes up into her arms, never faltering or pausing. Damn. You found yourself getting lost in the sight of her legs in those cargo pants, filling them out, until Anna clicked her tongue.

“Lucifer is strange, but ultimately harmless. Do not worry, they are not naked under the robe.”

Lucifer? Naked under the what?

You were going to take a quick glance around, to find whatever the hell Anna was talking about, but there was no need. Some feet in front of you, lounging on a red and gold velvet chase, was a lithe figure. They were almost glowing in the reflection of the walkway lamps, with the deep crimson of a flowing silk robe offsetting the smooth pale planes of soft skin. One elbow was propped up on the arm of the chair, and you traced the folds of flowing sleeves up to a slim forearm, wrist, and a delicate hand. Slender fingers were curled under the curve of a pale cheek, and you felt your heartbeat speed up at the sight of soft features and crystal eyes. And their hair, curled so perfectly into handsome shining ringlets of spun golden-web… goodness, they were…

“Luxurious,” you murmured, tilting your head as you watched the stranger chat with Larissa. She was standing over them, in front of the chase, and even at that height, you had a feeling that the one laying down was somehow a little bit taller. “Is Lucifer their real name?”

“Da,” Anna nodded, “little strange, no?”

“Yeah,” you gave her an odd look. “Strange as fuck.”

“Don’t get comfortable,” a voice growled from behind you, making you slip away from Anna’s hold and turn around. Phasma was walking past, holding a big bag under each arm. Her muscle was impressive, but dear god she was an asshole. You had to sort out that situation as quick as possible.

“Hey what’s your problem, man?” You spread your hands out at your sides before letting them slap against your thighs. “You picked me up, and while I’m grateful for that, I am, you didn’t have to-”

“Exactly,” she bit out as she whirled around and marched right back to you. Her breath was cool, washing lightly over your face, and she stood so close that your foreheads nearly touched. From that angle, looking up, you could reach out and trace the jagged line of her scar. It was quite attractive actually, even if her eyes narrowed as she watched you look at her. They were cold. Not an ounce of care.

“Don’t. Get. Comfortable.” Her lips twitched, carrying a silent threat.

“Okay,” Larissa’s voice, sing-songy and weary, cut into the conversation. “Why don’t we all take a moment to calm down, hm?” Her smile was blinding as she turned to you. One gloved hand hovered above Phasma’s right shoulder, but was instantly shrugged off the second it made contact. Her sneer didn’t fade even when she stepped back, eyes still flaming with anger. Larissa cleared her throat. “Y/n, you’re new here. Why don’t you and I have a little chat?”

Her expression, although kind, hid a sharpness that you didn’t think was wise to fuck around with. If Larissa was the leader, according to Anna, then it was her you had to charm. You didn’t really know why she was the top dog, especially because some of the other group members seemed more… abrasive… but clearly something about her was good enough to be the one in charge. And pissing her off, messing around with her people, was a one-way ticket to possibly turning into those fuckers lurking in the woods. So you didn’t really have a choice - and you didn’t really want one. No matter what, you’d stay. You’d be of some help. You’d stay on the soft grass, smelling the clean air. You’d become best friends with Larissa, the group would learn to like you, and you’d try not to combust when any of them looked your way.

Easier said than done though, of course. Especially when Larissa’s smile knocked down all of your reservations at once, in one big swing, and coaxed an obedient nod from your body.

“Okay. Yes. Sure.”

“Perfect,” Larissa’s grin, somehow, grew even wider.

“It’s getting late,” were Phasma’s parting words before she turned away and headed off toward two big wooden double doors.

You watched her strut without much thought, and found yourself on the other end of a staring Larissa. Her eyes were utterly striking in the evening light, and the outline of her face… a sight to be seen for a person as weary as you.

“So… is your group considered women only?” You murmured, peering up at her through your eyelashes.

Red lips twitched.

“Not intentionally. Though we have had the discussion before,” she contemplated her next words carefully, looking all over your face before resuming, “and we think it’s best if it’s just women. And Lucifer.”

“And Lucifer?” You still can’t get over that being their real name. Probably just picked out in a moment of edginess when they were a teen. Lucifer did sound cool, sort of bully-worthy. Like they were emo kid once upon a time.

“Lucifer is what many would refer to as non-binary. Not a man and not a woman. I hope that won’t be a problem?” Something flashed behind her eyes. Not a threat, but a warning. You couldn’t help but smile.

“Not at all. They and I are… one and the same,” you shrugged and adjusted the bag on your shoulder.

“How lucky I must be…,” someone purred from over your shoulder.

You tensed up, surprised by the closeness, and felt yourself grow a little weak at the tone. Like spiced honey, their voice was intense and smooth. You wanted to lap it up.

“Ah right on time for a proper introduction,” Larissa, ever the most efficient woman from what you could tell so far, found herself a golden opportunity. One hand shot out and gestured over to you, then to the person slinking around to your right. “Y/n this is Lucifer, one of the strongest members of our group. Lucifer and I make most of the big decisions, with the necessary input from everyone else. And Lucifer,” Larissa’s grin relaxed into a smile, “this is Y/n. Depending on our discussion of the rules, they may become a familiar face, so I suggest you play nice.”

You found that you couldn’t look to the side without short-circuiting. There was something.. something… about their aura that had you wanting to shy away and cower. It wasn’t the explosive intensity of Phasma or the consuming strangeness of Anna, or even the gentle but strong hand of Larissa… but instead a subtle sort of consumption. Utterly intriguing and fascinating - like they were put on the Earth to confuse humans. You didn’t even look at them and you could feel that. Didn’t even know them and you could feel that. Standing so close. So much body heat.

“It’s a pleasure,” they murmured, turning to you fully.

You swallowed, braced yourself, and looked up to your right.

Sweet holy Jesus. They were even more handsome up close. Just absolutely soft and glorious. And carrying the faint scent of… firewood? You cleared your throat.

“Um yeah- likewise. Hi.”

A flash of black, followed by measured footsteps in the grass, had all three of you shifting to see Jane walking past. Miranda was not too far behind, taking her time to cross the yard.

“Dinner is being prepared. Show face in the next 20 minutes or go to bed hungry.” Jane didn’t even spare you a glance before she disappeared behind the same doors Phasma had gone through.

“Thank you, Jane,” Larissa managed to call just before they closed behind her with a dull bang.

“Three moves…,” Miranda was muttering, holding the box for the chess set in one hand. “She beat me in three moves.”

“Oh it’s not hard. I would’ve beaten you in two,” another voice entered the fray, polite but amused. Jan, you recognized, as she sidled up between you and Larissa with a small smile on her deep red lips.

Miranda scoffed and turned to look at Anna, only to find that she was gone. One glance behind you revealed that she’d wandered over to Brienne, probably prompting her to go inside for dinner. You hummed, hiding the amusement of friendly banter. It had been so long since you felt even the smallest sense of normalcy. If they were so comfortable with each other, then it must have been a bit since they were all alone out in the world. You’d probably ask Larissa about that later - once everything was said and done.

“I would’ve beaten you in one,” Lucifer smirked as they pulled away and went walking inside. Had they been barefoot the entire time?

“That’s not even possible!” Miranda yelled, but the door was already shut. “...Is it?” She turned to Larissa, then to you, then back to Larissa.

“I don’t think so, Miranda,” Larissa smiled before looking at you. “Any chance you’re good at chess?”

Dear lord, having two sets of beautiful blue eyes on you was nerve-wracking, but you ignored the flush building up on your cheeks and nodded.

“Um yeah- it’s possible to beat someone in two moves. But it’s only black, I think.” You gave Miranda an apologetic smile and a shrug as she pouted.

“You will beat her next time Miranda,” Anna returned with Brienne in her wake. The sword she was sharpening earlier was still in her hands. “She cannot win forever.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Brienne cut in, her voice strong and deep. Her mouth was pulled into a light frown, and you noticed the scar that cut through the upper lip on the right. From the time before, you suspected. Otherwise she’d be turned. “She beat me and Phasma one after the other.”

Miranda sighed, tsking beneath her breath.

“Then there’s no hope…” Goodness, she looked like a sad puppy.

“Why not?” It slipped out of your mouth before you could grab it.

And of course, all of the attention then dragged itself over to you. Five sets of sea-blue eyes, all gorgeous in the glow of the evening lamps, traced lines over your tired body. In comparison to them, you looked a sight. Obviously having been picked up from the side of the road, unclean and awkward, somewhat detached from society. In your bag? Not enough clothing and not enough supplies. In your belt, peeking out from beneath your shirt? A knife, dirty and growing dull. And in your eyes? Lurking sadness and horror - the same which probably lived in the women that were observing you.

Larissa, thank goodness, finally broke the lull of silence.

“Brienne and Phasma were in the military,” she said gently.

“Oh. That makes sense.” And it did - Jane must have been an intellectual force if she beat people that used to be in the military before the world ended. Though that made you wonder… “What branch?” You turned to Brienne, not really surprised that you had to look up to meet her eyes. It seemed you’d been adopted into a camp of skyscrapers. Though the sharpness of her eyes had you swallowing. “I mean- if you don’t mind me asking.”

She seemed to consider it, sizing you up, before saying, rather shortly, “SAS. Then Delta Force.”

You couldn’t hide the way your eyes widened.

“Oh.”

“Oh, indeed,” Larissa hummed. “But I think now would be a good time to head in, wouldn’t you say?” She spared her smile for everyone, meeting the gaze of each woman, before finally looking at you and raising her eyebrow.

It wasn’t really up to you, so you just shrugged and waited for Anna to say ‘Da, da, xорошо’ before heading in. Brienne followed after her, then Miranda, who was studying the back of the chess box, and Larissa, who started taking off her gloves. Jan, meanwhile, stayed where she was and kept her eyes on you. They were curious and deep, never-ending, and lined with mascara and eyeliner. Mascara and eyeliner that… well it suited her, but goodness it was certainly intense. Dark and shadowed, but beautiful nevertheless. You couldn’t look away.

“Jan Stevens,” she breathed and gave you her hand, elegant and admittedly quite charming. Her nails were painted a deep cherry red. Utterly flawless.

At the sight of it, you weren’t entirely sure what to do. Your palms were still dirty, and sort of calloused, and you didn’t want to… ruin her. So you hesitated, stared at it, looked back up at her, and found her kind smile to be unwavering.

“Go on,” Jan finally whispered, giving her hand a pointed look, and you fell prey in an instant.

Quickly, you shot out to gently cup her hand into your own, and gave it a gentle shake. You felt strangely compelled to bring it up to your lips, but you weren’t sure that meeting a stranger in an apocalypse really called for such formalities. Even though you yearned to feel her skin beneath your mouth. It wasn’t proper; though you did think that Jan’s expression fell just a little bit. Like she was excited. Like she wanted you to kiss her hand.

“Y/n. It’s nice to meet you.”

“Likewise,” she purred, looking you up and down, before turning toward the door. “Come quickly now. If we’re late, Jane will send us off to bed without dinner. And we wouldn’t want that.”

It probably would have been wise to consider and contemplate the fact that you were in a stranger’s camp, with a stranger’s group… but the saucy little wink that Jan threw over her shoulder sent a deep blush crawling up your cheeks. And just like that, without fail, you were one of the flesh-eaters… caught in the pretty paws of eight different beasts.

‧˚₊꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒦꒷‧₊˚⊹

Please let me know if my characterization is okay and if you'd like to see more. Be safe, darlings. - Rip x

‧˚₊꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒦꒷‧₊˚⊹

Far too many names to tag. Find it as you come.

‧˚₊꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒦꒷‧₊˚⊹

207 notes · View notes

phantomstatistician · 1 year

Photo

Fandom: The Sandman (comics vs TV show)

Sample Size: 1,301 (comics); 4,048 (TV show)

Source: AO3

NOTE: Do not compare colors between charts

678 notes · View notes

daydream-cement · 1 year

Text

The Road Trip Ch. 1

Larissa Weems, Captain Phasma, Miranda Hilmarson, and Brienne of Tarth are all stuck in a car together, headed towards a vacation none of them are prepared for.

this fic has been such a joy to write with my @bri-sonat !!! this was such a labor of love and i loved writing every bit of it :)

“So, you want to take a right up here and get on to the highway,” Brienne looked up from the map in her lap, pointing towards the turn coming up. She was sitting in the passenger seat beside Phasma, who was driving the car.

At Brienne’s direction, Phasma snapped her head toward the knight, giving her the usual glare, signaling that she was very much aware of where to go. “Yes, thank you, Brienne.” Her voice was dripping with sarcasm and with a sigh, the captain flicked on the car turn signal before steering the car down the ramp leading to the freeway. “Can you two shut up back there!?” Larissa and Miranda had taken their places in the backseat. The headmistress sitting behind Phasma, and the constable sitting behind Brienne. The shapeshifter had made a comment on how the chromed captain should’ve slowed down even more when turning, and Miranda had simply opened a bag of crisps.

“Sorry, Phasma…” Miranda would gladly admit that she found the captain a little intimidating if it meant she would keep her life. “I’ll open the snacks more silently next time.” She glanced at Larissa who was leaning slightly forward, only enough for her voice to reach Phasma’s ear, silently begging the headmistress to keep her mouth shut.

Phasma had warned them all in advance that in her car, her rules were final, and her rules were: ‘keep your mouth shut, or I will shut it for you.’ It was a simple one, the problem was, Larissa had no interest in simple things, not allowing herself to get bossed around considering she usually did the bossing.

“I’m just saying, you could’ve taken that turn a little bit more gracefully. It almost made Miranda spill her drink on me,” Larissa stated matter-of-factly, rolling her eyes at Phasma’s stubbornness. She thought she was offering ‘constructive suggestions’ on the captain’s driving, and that it would be appreciated. It was not.

“I’ll kill you a little bit more gracefully…” Phasma muttered under her breath, instantly questioning why she had agreed to go on this God-forsaken road trip knowing that if the entire ride was going to be anything like the first ten minutes had been, she would surely lose her sanity. She was starting to envy Lucifer’s choice, to not respond at all. She too wished she wasn’t in this car.

“What was that?” The shapeshifter hadn’t quite heard exactly what the captain had said, but she could draw her own conclusions about what it could’ve been if she based it on the very little she knew about the chromed trooper.

“I said, I’ll kill you a little bit more gracefully if you don’t sit your ass back, stop breathing into my ear, and shut your mouth.” Even if Phasma’s voice was at a normal volume, the threat, and anger in it did not go unnoticed, and Larissa decided that it was best to obey her for now if she wanted to get to her destination in one piece.

The silence in the car was deafening after Larissa had leaned back into her seat, Brienne sneaking occasional glances at Phasma, and Miranda had started munching on her snacks. Every once in a while offering the shapeshifter some by silently holding it out for the headmistress to take, which she did.

The sounds of classical music filled the car which helped in lulling Miranda to sleep who was now napping against the window, her head on a pillow that she brought from home. Larissa had opted to take her phone out, answered some emails, and was now playing Candy Crush on it, trying to pass the time, mindlessly snacking on the crisps the woman next to her had given her before falling asleep.

Brienne had her eyes fixed on the map in her lap, reading over the bookings again and again, ensuring that everything was as it should be. Sitting next to Phasma who relished in the silence, staring dead ahead at the winding road as she drove them closer to their destination, was proving to be an interesting experience.

The knight would not say that she was intimidated by Phasma, but there was definitely professional regard that played a part, wanting to respect the trooper's wishes for tranquility.

“Hey, Phasma?” The knight in the passenger seat spoke up, silent to avoid waking Miranda and to evade enraging the captain by making too much noise. She had contemplated saying anything for the past half hour but landed in having to swallow the fear of angering the scary woman next to her.

“Brienne.” Remaining focused on the road, Phasma’s mouth formed into a frown, a tiny bit annoyed at the disruption of her peace but grateful for her hushed voice. “Is something the matter?”

“Not really. I just wanted to bring it to the captain’s attention that once constable Hilmarson wakes up she will be... energetic, to say the least.” Brienne had been terrified of bringing this to Phasma’s attention, knowing it would not be liked by the driver. “I’d say we have another ten minutes of silence.”

Phasma grunted, “Thank you for the information, Lord Brienne.” To say that the chromed trooper would cherish the next ten minutes was an understatement. She already rued the seconds leading up to Miranda’s eventual rousing.

“You’re welcome,” Brienne went back to her activity of reading over the documents in her lap, every now and then looking out the window, observing the passing landscape.

As if she had an internal alarm clock, Miranda awoke ten minutes later on the dot with new-found energy, causing Larissa to put her phone away, realizing she had spent almost two hours playing that silly game. It did prove to be a successful way to pass the time, even if it felt like no time at all had passed.

“What did I miss?” Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, Miranda took in the very quiet space, glancing to the rearview mirror where she met Phasma’s eyes that bore into hers, causing the constable to look away faster than she had intended.

“Not much,” Larissa mumbled next to her, answering her query.

“Not much? Wha- Does this mean you’ve been sitting in silence this entire time?” Miranda couldn’t believe her ears, this was not how a road trip was supposed to be. There was supposed to be loud music, sing-alongs, and games. Apparently, there had been none of that during her slumber and she found that offensive.

“Yes. It is how our driver wishes for it to be.” Larissa had given up on defying Phasma long ago, succumbing to the captain’s will for serenity. The headmistress turned her head to look out the window as the comforting sounds of piano filled the car space once again.

Miranda frowned, almost pouting, at how boring her fellow travelers were being. This was not how she expected the trip to be even if she knew of Phasma’s rules beforehand, but she had hoped that the captain would be adaptable and abandon her regulations once she realized how fun they could have. This was too boring for her.

The constable started looking about the car, peeking over the passenger seat to see what Brienne was doing but grew bored of that the second she saw the large map. She switched her eyes to Phasma who did not rip her eyes away from the road for even a second, other than to stare at Miranda through the mirror after she had woken up.

Phasma was an interesting person to study but she was not stimulating enough to keep Miranda entertained so she moved her gaze again, landing on the headmistress’ turned head. She was staring intently at Larissa’s hair, hoping that the shapeshifter would notice her trying to get her attention.

Larissa could feel Miranda’s eyes on her as the shapeshifter stared out the window. The constable would want to have more interaction than the knight, captain, and principal were currently offering her. Finally, Miranda’s voice rang out once more, “Larissa, we should play a game.”

“A game?” Larissa shifts back to stare at Miranda plainly; it had been years since she partook in a travel game.

“Yeah! Have you played the alphabet game? Or twenty questions? Or maybe, maybe we could play eye spy?” Miranda’s excitement was contagious, causing Larissa to smirk. The constable’s demeanor reminded Larissa of her more energetic students, endearing Miranda to the shapeshifter.

“Pick a game and I’ll try my best to learn.”

“Oh, let’s do the alphabet game! Brienne will be good at this! I can tell.” Miranda was talking a mile a minute, explaining all of the rules to her fellow passengers, “All you have to do is one of us will pick a category and then we go around in a circle, stating something that starts with the letter we are given. Like if the category is food, Larissa might say apple for the letter A and then Phas would say banana for B, and then Bri would say cake for C!”

“Don’t drag me into this.” Brienne’s voice sounded from the front, her ears spiked after hearing her name, clearly uninterested in whatever the two women in the backseat were planning on doing to pass the time. She was content reading the map and had no need for games to keep her mind stimulated, finding occupation in the small things being something she had mastered over the years.

“Oh, please Brienne! It’s no fun with just two people!” Miranda begged, her hand coming up over the back of the seat to squeeze the knight's shoulder.

Brienne sighed, rolling her head back and staring up at the car ceiling. “Fine. But if we miss our exit, that is on you.” The knight returned her head to its previous position, looking over at Phasma. She could practically see the frustration grow within her and decided to save the chromed trooper from this ‘irrelevant and childish game.’ “However, we should probably leave the captain here out of it, I have a feeling that she would not find it as enjoyable as you, Constable.”

“Okay, fine, but Phas if you wanna join in at any point, you just jump right in.” Miranda took charge of the game, knowing if she left it up to the other women, they might not end up playing the game. “I’ll make it easy on us and pick a category. We are gonna do ‘things you can find outside’ and Bri, you are gonna start okay?”

“Can’t you find anything outside?” Larissa asked, her brow furrowing.

“I was about to ask the same question.” Brienne followed Larissa’s statement, glancing at the map every now and then to make sure they did not miss their exit knowing Phasma would not be happy if they did.

“Nature-y things! You know what I’m talking about. Don’t play devil’s advocate. Luci doesn’t need your help.” Miranda gave Larissa a playful shove and then laughed at her own joke.

Phasma’s hand gripped the steering wheel tightly, her knuckles turning white. “Just get on with the game already! Enough with the dilly-dallying, it’s annoying.” Even if she didn’t want to admit it, she found the three’s game slightly intriguing, she had never heard of anything like it before. She wouldn’t want to partake, of course, but there was that naturistic curiosity that she couldn’t shake, even if she tried.

“Bri!! Go!! Something nature-y that starts with A!” Miranda wasn’t interested in pissing off Phasma more than she already had, so she was more than happy to do what she was told.

The suddenness of the beginning of the game caused Brienne’s mind to freeze for a second, scrambling to find an answer, “Uh, oh, umm, shit. I guess, apple?” She was unsure of her answer, but it was found in nature, after all.

“Good one! Bear!” Miranda partially shouted, regretting her decision when she watched Phasma tighten her grip on the steering wheel even more.

“Catkin.” Larissa had prepared ahead of time, already thinking about the letter she would get four turns from now. Miranda shot the shapeshifter a strange look, questioning the validity of her answer, “It’s found on a tree...”

“Oh, it’s me again. Deer? Yeah. Deer.” Brienne was growing more confident in her answers, getting the hand of the new game she had been introduced to minutes ago. She was used to being put on the spot as a knight, but this was entirely different. Her brain was working overtime trying to come up with responses fast enough.

“Elephant!”

“Frog.”

“Are you sure you don’t wanna do ‘G’, Phasma?” Miranda knew what the response would probably be, but she felt guilty for not trying to include her.

“Yes. I am sure,” Phasma responded through gritted teeth, Miranda’s game already transitioning from intriguing to exasperating.

“Okay, then... Brienne, it's your turn.” Miranda rolled her eyes, frustrated that the chrome-clad captain wouldn’t participate in her game.

“Grass.” Brienne smiled to herself, proud that this answer came to her much quicker than the others. Could’ve had something to do with the vast amount of greenery running along the asphalted road, there wasn’t much else to look at.

“Hill!” Miranda was on the edge of her seat, ready with her response when Brienne finished speaking.

“Isopod.” Larissa wore a smug smirk with her answer, believing it showed off her diverse knowledge of many topics. In most situations, she stood out in a crowd due to her height, but this group simply made her blend in, so her intelligence was the only thing she could rely on to stand out.

“Jagu- Oh! Phasma, our exit is coming up.” Brienne interrupted herself when she noticed that the ramp to get off the freeway was closer than she thought. She had gotten so invested in the game that she completely forgot to check the map, thankfully there were signs along the road that reminded her. “Sorry, Hilmarson, Weems. We’re going to have to put a lid on the game for now.”

Miranda huffed in response, slouching back in her seat, her only source of entertainment gone for now.

“This exit right here?” Phasma was satisfied with their incessant game finally ending, even more so that their destination was close. She would finally get out of this car. She lifted one hand of the steering wheel, pointing towards the ramp that was getting closer and closer.

“Aye.” Brienne nodded, looking up at what Phasma was pointing at, and then down at her map again, checking so it matched, checking so they didn’t take the wrong turn. The captain placed her hand on the steering wheel once again, using her other to switch on the turn signal, preparing to change lanes.

The shift of the car caused the pouting constable to dramatically slide over, her head landing on Larissa’s shoulder as she stared out the front windshield. The shapeshifter wanted to comment on the roughness of the steer, but refrained from it, not wanting to anger Phasma even more. She instead brought a hand to the back of Miranda’s head, running her fingers through her short hair and shaking her own head gently at the silliness of the Aussie woman.

“Are we there yet?” Miranda called out, keeping herself comfortably attached to Larissa’s side.

Phasma’s only response was to glare at Miranda through the rearview mirror, conveying her words very clearly through her piercing gaze: ‘ask again, and I will kick you out of this car.’

Brienne was much kinder than Phasma and decided to answer Miranda’s query, “No. I would say that we have another forty minutes in this car before we arrive.” After she had finished speaking, a calm filled the car and it remained for the duration of the drive.

Lucifer was waiting patiently at the destination when they arrived. Their expression contained a nearly undetectable smile as they were mildly surprised all of the women arrived in one piece. With Phasma in the car, they had expected at least an appendage to be missing. Lucifer’s voice twinged with the mischievous knowledge that they had been the sole cause of this silly little trip, “How was your journey?”

Phasma slammed the door shut, looking over at Lucifer with a scowl as she grumbled under her breath about how frustrating they all were. How rude they were for ignoring her very clear rules. Brienne emerged from the passenger side, closing it before answering the lightbringer’s inquiry, “For me? Fine. For the captain? Best not to ask.”

“I slept during most of it, but it was okay. A little boring for my taste, personally.” Miranda shrugged before stretching, trying to get rid of the rigidness and stiffness currently hounding her limbs.

“We are lucky someone isn’t dead,” Larissa huffed, gripping her purse to her as she took her place at the lightbringer’s side, not particularly interested in helping with the bags while Phasma was near the trunk. After their little spat at the beginning of the trip, Larissa was avoiding her at all costs.

Lucifer was amused with Phasma’s and Larissa’s answers. This was going to be very entertaining to the Lightbringer.

Brienne rounded the car, stopping in front of the trunk and opening it. She and Phasma, the strongest ones in the group, had been chosen to carry the heavier pieces of luggage that had been brought on the trip. This was quite obvious, and the two women had no issues with accepting the job, but they started to question just how much of this was needed for a week’s vacation.

As Phasma lugged the baggage toward the shared house they had rented, she realized she would have to sit through all those hours once again when it would be time to return home. It made her groan, knowing that she had barely stayed sane on the ride here. She did not know how she would survive. Less keep this week accident free. Her trigger finger was already twitching, and she just had to be grateful that they had separate rooms.

The trip back was going to suck, that she was sure of.

#gwendoline christie #larissa weems #wednesday netflix #gwen christie #brienne of tarth #game of thrones #got #captain phasma #star wars tfa #star wars #star wars the last jedi #star wars the force awakens #lucifer morningstar #lucifer morningstar (sandman)#the sandman #fanfic #fanfiction #crack fic #the road trip

288 notes · View notes

yourlocaldisneyvillain · 7 months

Text

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: The Sandman (TV 2022) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Lucifer Morningstar (Vertigo Comics)/Original Female Character(s), Lucifer Morningstar (Vertigo Comics)/Reader, Lucifer Morningstar (The Sandman TV)/Reader, Lucifer Morningstar/Reader Characters: Lucifer Morningstar (Vertigo Comics), Lucifer Morningstar (The Sandman TV) Additional Tags: Clubbing, Birthday, silly lil fic, as a gift for my darling wifey <3, Dancing, Grinding, but like grinding as in dancing in the club lol, Kissing, Flirting, birthday fic, basically you meet a tall beautiful stranger who is most definitely the devil, and you decide it's a good idea to flirt, and they're so amused by it that they actually allow it, also.... it's your birthday :)))

Summary:

You meet the Devil at the club. Naturally, you flirt with them.

happy birthday @zephyr-is-tired <3 this one is for you, but others can read it too :)

#gwendoline christie #lucifer sandman #lucifer morningstar #sandman lucifer #lucifer netflix #the sandman 2022 #lucifer #lucifer morningstar fanfiction #i will produce my own garbage and also consume it

58 notes · View notes

countslimeula · 1 year

Photo

Light-bearer.

"The most beautiful, wisest, and most powerful of all angels" - Dream of the Endless.

If you like my work consider tipping me through my ko-fi or supporting me on patreon!

[ Image I.D: An Illustration of Lucifer Morningstar from the Sandman series. They are a tall humanoid, with pale skin and short platinum blond curly hair. They are wearing a latex overcoat and have a pair of bat wings on their back. They are looking down at the viewer while their hands are held in front of them, touching their finger-tips to each other. They are framed by a radiant light and a thin red “halo” around their head. They are smirking.

Second image is a close up of the same illustration zoomed in on Lucifer's face.

Image I.D ends.]

#Lucifer Morningstar #the sandman #the sandman netflix #lucifer #art #illustration #sandman #sandman fanar #sandman fanfiction #the sandman fandom #the sandman fanart #Gwendoline Christie

157 notes · View notes

queerfanfiction · 9 months

Text

masterlist

I created a masterlist of my works and linked it on my page (/masterlist). However, I thought I would post it as it's own post, too.

Wednesday (TV 2022):

Larissa Weems x Reader/OC

Love Notes You’re a music teacher at Nevermore that makes encouraging handwritten notes and mix CDs for Larissa anonymously. Will Principal Weems ever find out you are her secret admirer? Ch 1 Ch 2 Ch 3 Ch 4 Ch 5 Ch 6 Ch 7 (currently writing)

Topic of Study Arriving to Nevermore on fellowship is a normie PhD student writing their dissertation on Normie/Outcast rhetoric and relations. The best way to research is hands-on, so reader has decided to make Principal Larissa Weems their main object of study. Ch 1 Ch 2 Ch 3 Ch 4 Ch 5 (currently writing)

Mummy Issues (one shot) (request)

Guardian Angel (one shot) (request)

—

Game of Thrones (TV 2011)

Brienne of Tarth x Reader/OC

Angel in the (K)night (one shot)

—

The Sandman (TV 2022)

Lucifer Morningstar x Reader/OC

Possessed (one shot) (request)

Flying (one shot) (request)

All works above are also crossposted to AO3.

75 notes · View notes

autumn-leaves-chasing-breeze · 8 months

Text

The Reaper and The Devil

Hi All! I saw the below writing prompt and was inspired to write a Reader/Lucifer fic. This is the first fic I have written in a LONG time so feedback is welcome! There will be 3 parts to this fic, I hope you like it! Thank you to my darling friend @weemssapphic for the beta! x

@writing-prompt-s: Each type of death has a unique type of Reaper. The Reapers of Drowning collects the souls of the drowned. The Reapers of Old Age collects those that have come to their natural end. Write a story about a Reaper for an unusual death finally having a soul to collect.

Warnings: implied past smut, death, gn reader... I can't think of anything else, let me know if I need to add more!

“I’m bored.” Your voice comes out in a whiney and, let’s face it, rather annoying tone. You’re pacing Lucifer’s throne room as they sit and read a book you recommended months ago.

“Hmm?” Lucifer’s lips curl into an almost invisible smirk as they pretend to keep reading, idly turning the page and letting their eyes aimlessly scan over the printed words.

You stop and turn towards them, slumping your shoulders forward and letting your head hang towards the ground with a whimper, much like a petulant 5 year old who had been told they couldn’t have any sweets at the store.

“I’m bored.” You repeat, your words slightly muffled as your voice reverberates against your chest.

Lucifer glances over the top of the book they’re holding and a more visible smirk grows on their face. They return their gaze back to the pages in front of them and idly turn to another page, now completely having given up on reading but also not yet willing to put you out of your misery.

“Little Lamb, you have all of Hell at your disposal, you can’t be bored.” Their voice is sweet as honey and almost mocking as they speak.

You throw your head backwards now, looking directly above you at the ornate ceiling.

“I’ve done everything there is to do. Literally. I’ve swam the Lakes of Asmodeus, I’ve walked the Trails of Lilith, I’ve danced at the top of Mount Abaddon, Hell, I’ve even jumped from the Cliffs of Hecate. What else is there for me to do?” You turn your attention back to Lucifer and throw your arms up in the air in defeat.

Lucifer slowly closes their novel and finally turns their attention to you. Your heart skips a beat as their eyes, finally, meet your own and a mixture of adoration and panic arises within your chest. Whining to the Devil that there is nothing left to do in the Kingdom of Hell has cost more than one demon their head. But you can’t help but feel a twinge of pride at getting their full attention.

“Sweet Reaper, come here.” Lucifer’s tone is sweet but also slightly sour, like the first bite of a green apple in the autumn. You hesitate for a moment, your back stiffening, before slowly making your way over to them. Your heart races in your chest and you cast your gaze to the floor as you stand before them.

“How long have you been in Hell?” Lucifer looks you up and down, their gaze piercing into your soul, a curiosity and lingering warmth dancing in the fire light reflecting in their eyes.

“1,359 years, 7 months, 1 week and 3 days.” You murmur before lifting your head and locking eyes with the ethereal being before you. “Not that I’m counting.”

A dry chuckle leaves the lightbringer’s throat as they uncross their legs and pat their thigh, indiciating for you to sit on their lap. You take a step forward and follow the silent instruction, sitting sideways and gently wrapping your arms around their neck as their hands snake their way around your waist.

“My, my, no wonder you’re bored, Lamb.” Lucifer’s features have softened and they look into your eyes with a gentleness that only you get to see. They lean forward and place a soft kiss to your lips which makes you release a breath you didn’t realise you were holding. As the kiss deepens slightly, you feel your body begin to relax and melt into Lucifer’s touch.

You may have been in Hell for over a millennium but your relationship with Lucifer had only begun to blossom a mere 200 years ago, a blink of an eye for two eternal beings. You were still nervous around them, still finding your footing in how to respond to one another’s touch and not entirely settled on when to know you were pushing them too far.

Lucifer broke the kiss and pulled their head back to look into your eyes. Your heart began pounding in your chest as their hand slowly inched its way up your back and onto your cheek, gently brushing a lock of hair that had fallen into your face behind your ear.

“Sorry I’m being whiney. I appreciate you letting me stay here.” Your eyes dance between Lucifer’s, love and adoration evident in your gaze as you struggle to stop yourself from kissing them again.

Lucifer’s lips curl into a soft, amused smile. “I like it when you whine. It makes me feel powerful.” Their tone is low and seductive, making your breath catch in your chest. Their eyes dart between your own and your lips, making you blush and suck your bottom lip between your teeth as you look away.

“Don’t be shy, Little One.” Lucifer’s lips are so close to the shell of your ear you can feel their breath warming your skin as they whisper. “You weren’t shy earlier.”

A shiver travels down your spine and you slowly turn your head to face them once more, images of your earlier antics playing in your mind as you lose yourself in their blue irises. They chuckle again and pull away entirely, leaning against the back of their throne.

“Then again, if you’re so bored now, I clearly didn’t do a good enough job.” They’re tone is teasing but it still elicits a bubble of guilt and anxiety to flourish in your stomach.

“No, no, you did an excellent job. Otherworldly, in fact.” You look down at your hands as you speak, they’re now resting in your lap as you nervously play with your rings. “I just… It’s been nearly 14 hundred years since I had a soul to collect. I’m a Reaper, my entire being relies on collecting souls of those who have passed. Why did I have to be the one born into the role of collecting the souls of humans who have died laughing in their sleep?”

Lucifer’s face softens as they lean forward and place a gentle kiss to your cheek. For the Ruler of Hell they were a surprisingly gentle and loving being. They place their forefinger under your chin and turn your head to face them again.

“You’ll have another soul to collect soon, I can feel it.” The warmth and calm in their voice did wonders in grounding you and you leant forward to rest your forehead against their own.

“I hope so.” You whisper as you slowly close your eyes, the feeling of their arms gently pulling you closer to them makes you smile softly.

Lucifer opened their mouth to speak again but they’re interrupted by a red glow coming from the ring on your left index finger. They look at the ring and a warm smile pulls at the corners of their mouth.

“Be careful what you wish for.” The Morningstar’s statement makes you open your eyes and look at them, confused. They nod their head towards your hands and you look down, the glow of your ring lighting your face. You grin in excitement but it slowly sinks into a sad smile. It’s nice to be needed but, at the same time, you weren’t as accustomed with collecting souls as your sibling Death. Death was collecting souls and leading people to the afterlife for millennia before you were even conceived into existence and the rarity of your job meant it still weighed heavily on your shoulders.

Lucifer notices the sadness in your smile and runs their fingers through your hair. “Would you like some company on your journey, Little Lamb?”

Your eyes light up and you nod your head, yes. Being a Reaper is hard, only doing your job every thousand years or so makes it even harder, but having Lucifer by your side as you work? That will make it easy.

Right?

#lucifer morningstar #lucifer x reader #gwendoline christie #the sandman #lucifer fanfiction #the sandman fanfic #the sandman lucifer

127 notes · View notes

dianneking · 8 months

Text

10 Days Of Gwen Goodbyes - Masterpost

Hello and welcome to the latest undertaking of the Angst Fairy! This is going to be a collection of strictly 100-word drabbles featuring different Gwendoline Christie characters, one for each day for 10 days!

The drabbles will be crossposted on AO3 here, and will be linked down below so you'll be able to find them easily enough.

Day 1 : Larissa Weems (Wednesday)

Day 2: Jane Murdstone (David Copperfield)

Day 3: Commander Lyme (Hunger Games)

Day 4: Jan Stevens (Flux Gourmet)

Day 5: Captain Phasma (Star Wars)

Day 6: Lady Jane (The Darkest Minds)

Day 7: Miranda Hilmarson (Top Of the Lake: China Girl)

Day 8: Gwen (In Fabric)

Day 9: Brienne of Tarth (Game of Thrones)

Day 10. Lucifer Morningstar (The Sandman)

60 notes · View notes

cissyenthusiast010155 · 11 months

Text

Lucifer Morningstar (the sandman) Masterlist

Mommy…Master List

Approach at your own risk... smut = * extra smutty=**

Series

The First Corruption Part 1 ~Eve!reader**

Part 2, Part 3*

I’m Here, Little one Part 1

Part 2*

One Shots

“I love MILFS” shirt…

Initialized Necklace ~gn!reader

Change in Pace

Shadow Shadow ~Soft!Lucifer

Pet Play Kink with Lucifer Morningstar*

DD/lg Fetish with Lucifer Morningstar*

Oh and I take Requests, so hit me up with your ideas 😉 Requests & Prompt-List

83 notes · View notes

therealtruealiyah · 17 days

Text

NOVA - dreamland

Every living, breathing being has experienced the feeling of surrealism. The feeling that the moment they're in cannot possibly be the life they're living. The feeling that their reality has somehow melded with their fantasy.

This is how Raine felt as she looked down at her hand engulfed within Nova's... gazing in a feverish daze upon the back of Nova's perfectly blonde head as she led her deeper into the bar.

"Is here okay?" Nova's words sounded as if Raine's ears were underwater.

"Hmm? Did you say something?" Raine blinked while the sounds and lights around her came more into focus.

"Would you like to settle here, my love?" Nova smiled, amused at the blazing effect she has on Raine in such a short period of time.

"Oh! Yeah... yes. Here's fine." They took their seats at a twosome table in a dimly lit corner of Luigi's Bar.

And so it began...

"Can I get y'all anything?" A quirky young lady bounced over to them to take their order. She wore ripped black shorts, knee-high purple socks, black suspenders, and a purple cropped top with Luigi's written across her ample bosom in faded black letters.

"I'll have an old fashioned and whatever my lady is drinking please, cheers." Nova spoke boldly and firmly.

"I— can I get a whiskey and sprite?" Raine bit back the last of her words. The barista nodded and bounced away, her feet turned so far toward each other that it was impossible not to stare.

"You're adorable." Nova smirked.

"Am I, really?" Raine laughed nervously, her cheeks flushing yet again.

"So... Raine Jackson." Nova dropped her voice to an almost whisper as she leaned closer. The sound of her name on this woman's lips was just enough to undo her completely.

"Yes, Nova?" Raine's eyes dropped to the plump of Nova's bottom lip and there they remained.

"Tell me... what's a girl like you doing working all alone — and probably underpaid — at some mom and pop clothing shop? Is this how you imagined your life to be?" Nova's question threw Raine for a loop, for she wasn't expecting to have such a deep and intimate conversation on the first date. Raine's eyes shot back up to Nova's.

"Actually, no, it isn't. I dropped out of college to take care of my grandmother when she fell sick. She and my grandpa are the ones who raised me... my grandpa died when I was 14, so my grandma was all I had left in the world. She meant everything to me. And when she died..." Raine trailed off, trying her damndest to swallow the nagging lump that has suddenly made its appearance in her throat.

"You lost all hope." Nova finished. Just then, the barista came and sat down their drinks.

"Here ya are! One old fashioned and one whiskey with sprite. Can I get y'all anything else?" She smiled.

"Thank you, we're good." Raine mumbled, grasping desperately at her drink. Nova placed her warm hand on top of Raine's, stopping her from grabbing her drink as recklessly as she was going to.

"Be still. Sit with the pain. This alcohol won't magically snatch it away. It hasn't before and it won't now." Nova's voice was the calmest thing Raine has ever had the pleasure of listening to. She felt the tears well up in her eyes. Oh, no! Not here! Not now! She thought to no prevail. The tears kept coming.

"I've been so alone." She hung her head, attempting to shelter her face from possible onlookers in the crowded bar.

"I wanted to be a pediatrician. I was damn good at it, too. I was so close."

"Go back, my love."

"It's too late. I can't just pick back up where I left off. Besides, I'm 26 years old! What if I—" Raine was cut off by Nova's sudden grabbing of her jaw. Nova brought Raine's face a half of an inch away from her own.

"Doubt is the weak mind attempting to overthrow the mighty." Nova growled in a hearty whisper, a burning fire in her eyes.

"Nova." Raine was aroused. Intrigued. Enflamed. It's not that she loved being handled, no. She just loved being handled by her. Raine needed more... more of whatever it was that Nova was doing to her. Nova released her jaw slowly and stroked her cheek comfortingly.

"You can do anything, Raine Jackson." Every time Nova said her name, Raine fell deeper into enchantment.

"Can I do you?" She whispered before she could stop herself.

"Not before I do you." Nova grinned wickedly. At this, Raine immediately gushed sweet natural juices down below. She squirmed slightly in her seat at the brand new mixture of pleasantness and discomfort and whined quietly with unadulterated desire.

"Forgive me, I'm not sure what came over me." Raine moaned, her pussy throbbing faster and harder.

"I know. You want me to fuck you." Nova dropped her voice and her eyelids to half mast. Raine gasped as she felt Novas hand creep up her dress under the table. "You've wanted me to fuck you since the very first moment you saw me. I wanna hear you say it."

Novas thumb was now pressing down on Raines button from over her panties and moving in slow, torturing circles. Raine couldn't control the way her eyes fluttered shut and her soft moans escaped her lips.

"Nova." Raine gasped out.

"Say it." Nova demanded more firmly, pressing even harder.

"Nova!" Raine screamed, suddenly once again aware that they were in public. Raine clasped her hands over her mouth and looked around to make sure nobody overheard her screams of pleasure. Luckily the music in the background and the football game on the big screen were enough to drown her out. Meanwhile, Nova was full-on laughing.

"You're so wet." She smirked.

"You did that on purpose." Embarrassed, Raine brought her drink closer to herself and hovered over it, taking the skinny black straw into her mouth and sucking until she hit rock bottom.

"Why, of course I did, darling. I wanted to hear you scream my name." Nova sat back into her chair, legs crossed, and she watched Raine squirm as she sipped on her drink.

Wishing, oh so desperately, that it were Raine she was sipping on instead.

#lgbtq #lucifer morningstar #smut #wlw smut #wlw #wlw love #lgbtq community #fanfic #the sandman #fanfiction #fantasy #gwendoline christie #gwen #gwen christie

18 notes · View notes

notsomassiveblackhole · 3 months

Text

It’s that time again…

This particular fic is a disaster, and I shan’t apologize for it. Lucifer endures a prank that vastly alters the trajectory of their life—pretty normal stuff!

It also may or may not include multiple Gwen characters…

#gwendoline christie #larissa weems #principal weems #wednesday #lucifer morningstar #the sandman #fanfiction #flux gourmet #jan stevens #jane murdstone #david copperfield #brienne of tarth #game of thrones

24 notes · View notes

daydream-cement · 1 year

Text

The Road Trip Ch. 2

The Big 5 become more acquainted with one another and we even have a gay volleyball game :)

this fic has been such a joy to write with my @bri-sonat !!! they write for phasma and brienne and i write for larissa and miranda. it is so fun going back and forth to create these stories

“Luci! Is there a pool? There needs to be some type of entertainment because these ladies don’t know how to have a good time...” Miranda tugged at the immortal’s arm, speaking in a hushed tone for the others not to hear. Lucifer ducked their head down a few inches, listening intently to the constable’s words. Everyone in the group knew Miranda was Lucifer’s favorite.

“Excuse me, it's the space ranger who can’t have a good time. Perceptually sour if you ask me...” Larissa hissed as she clearly had been eavesdropping on Miranda's words.

Lucifer was incredibly pleased with themselves. They had truly brought together the most stubborn and morally-affixed group of women the immortal had ever seen. The spats would be endless, but once they began to find common ground with one another, the women may appreciate one another more than they first thought.

“I can hear you, you know,” Phasma panned. She was walking a couple of feet ahead of the trio but had heard everything Larissa said about her. The shapeshifter’s opinions about the captain weren’t unknown to her, in fact, that opinion was the most common one, amongst others.

Brienne, who was walking next to Phasma, groaned at how heavy the bags were, “Whose Gods damned bag is this? I feel like I’m carrying cement blocks.” She lifted the bag she was holding in her right hand, hoping someone would recognize it, and that it would be the owner of it.

“Better to overpack than underpack, dear.” Larissa called from behind the strapping knight, enjoying the sound of Brienne’s groans as she carried the shapeshifter’s bags. The headmistress found Ser Brienne to be quite attractive and was interested in flirting relentlessly with the reserved woman over the next week, knowing she could easily make Brienne flustered if she wanted.

“This is yours? What’s even in here?” Brienne couldn’t begin to fathom how one singular person would need this much stuff for one week.

“Probably makeup and clothes too nice for a vacation? Am I close?” Miranda leaned around the front of the Lightbringer to tease the shapeshifter by scrunching up her nose as she spoke. Larissa was, by far, the most feminine in the group, but she simply rolled her eyes at the comment, completely unashamed of her aesthetic preferences.

Brienne and Phasma stopped in front of the door, bags still in their hands. “So, who has the key?” The knight looked from Lucifer to Miranda, to Larissa, before landing on Phasma.

“It’s unlocked.” Lucifer flicked a hand and nodded towards the front door.

Phasma rolled her eyes before pulling on the handle, revealing that it was in fact, unlocked. The captain entered the house first before being followed by Brienne and eventually the rest of the group. They all streamed into the living room, where the knight and the captain were finally able to put the bags down.

Lucifer paused in the living room of the large vacation home, hands clasped in front of themselves, “You can all pick a room. All are available. The week is yours to enjoy. All I ask is that you don’t maim or murder one another.”

Phasma murmured under her breath, “I will try my very best, but these assholes make it hard.” Her words didn’t reach the ones they were directed to, only Lucifer, who shot a glare towards the chromed captain.

“Now, Brienne and Phasma. Considering you’ve already carried the bags this far I am assuming that you have no issues carrying them the rest of the way to their respective rooms?” Lucifer kept their gaze fixed on Phasma, looking over to Brienne with their usual grace and elegance.

“Yes. Will not be an issue.” The knight slightly bent her knees, picking up the bags once again, and looking over at Phasma who hadn’t said anything, only making the same movement as Brienne.

“Are you- are you not staying?” Larissa questioned, watching the being turn on their heels at the sight of the knight and captain picking up the bags. The shapeshifter’s tone was tinged with annoyance. She couldn’t believe the Lightbringer would bring them all here and leave just like that.

“I have work to do, but I will be back soon enough.”

“These are heavy so can we, you know, get going? I don’t want to have to carry these longer than I already have.” Phasma sighed, she was irked at the prolonged conversation. She just wanted to get these bags unloaded and go lay down in her room, she had had too much human interaction for one day.

“Whose bags do you have, Phas?” Miranda ran up to the captain, looking at the bags in her hand.

“Yours, I think. And mine.” Phasma started walking away, moving to the stairs leading up to the second floor, not even bothering to wait for Miranda who had started trailing behind the captain. “Just tell me whichever room you’d like and I’ll place them there.”

“Yes, Captain.” Miranda ran up to Phasma’s side, telling her that she wanted the room closest to the stairs considering she’s a night snacker. The captain in turn hummed and placed the constable's bags in the room she wanted, before leaving to find one for herself.

Downstairs, Brienne had started following Larissa as she led the knight to the room she wanted. Walking up the stairs, the shapeshifter swayed her hips more than usual, trying to drag the Lord Commander’s eyes to her ass, hoping to seduce her. Said Lord Commander had her gaze fixed on the carpet-clad stairs to remain polite and well-mannered.

Stopping in front of a door, Larissa let Brienne walk in first so she could observe the knight’s strong back, and eventually her ass whenever she would place down the shapeshifter’s luggage.

Larissa watched the handsome knight set her bags on the floor. If Brienne were to have seen the way Larissa observed her, she would have seen the eyes of a hungry animal. Larissa decided to plant the first seed of flirtation, anxious for how Brienne would react, “Thank you for helping with my bags, Ser. It isn’t every day I have the pleasure of having such a strong and attractive knight at my service.” Larissa made sure to remain in the doorway, wanting to force some type of interaction before she allowed Brienne to pass her by.

“That’s a very funny jest. I hoped we could’ve made it through the week without cruel jokes but I suppose that was wishful thinking. I expected more from you, Headmistress.” Brienne rolled her eyes before pushing past Larissa, having no interest in staying in her room and being made a mockery of any longer.

Larissa furrowed her brow in confusion, watching the knight storm away. Perhaps she had used the wrong title when addressing Brienne?

Speaking over her shoulder as she walked away, Brienne corrected Larissa’s use of the title, “Also, it’s Lord Commander, if you wish to use my title. That, or Lord.” The knight descended the stairs to grab her own bags, and eventually settled in her room of choice.

With her question answered, Larissa was left alone to unpack her bags to contemplate what she could have said to offend the other woman. She found it hard to believe Brienne could have been so upset over a compliment. The shapeshifter pushed the upsetting thoughts to the back of her mind, instead opting to change into her swimsuit to sit by the pool she spotted from her bedroom window.

-----

“Larissa! Get in the pool with me!” Miranda rested her head in her arms at the edge of the pool, watching the shapeshifter intently.

Larissa was laid out on a white chaise lounge, large sunglasses covering her eyes. She sat up ever so slightly, eyes now peering over the black rims of her glasses, “Only if you promise that my hair won’t get wet. I’m not looking to have to redo this.” The shapeshifter’s hands gestured to the intricate updo that took her far too long for it to be ruined by a half hour in the pool.

“No roughhousing! I promise!”

The shapeshifter was skeptical of the idea of Miranda keeping her promise, but with a deep breath and a shake of her head, Larissa stood from her spot. She removed her swimsuit cover, folded it gently, and placed it on her chair before heading towards the stairs of the pool. The shapeshifter knew she had made the right decision when the cool water hit her skin, immediately relieving her of the sweat that had been building.

The two women ended up chatting idly in the pool. Miranda lounged in a pool float while Larissa sat on the stairs, a hand outstretched, gripping the float to keep Miranda from floating away. They exchanged work stories, Larissa being particularly enthralled with Miranda exposing her short affair with her boss followed by his eventual termination. With a little bit of begging and pleading, Larissa even showed Miranda her shapeshifting powers, turning herself into a mirror image of Miranda and back again.

“You seem to be enjoying yourselves.” Lucifer seemingly appeared out of nowhere, standing at the pool's edge with their typical look of serene confidence, “Where are the other two?”

“In their rooms, most likely..” Miranda shrugged, glancing at Larissa who nodded in agreement, and then back at Lucifer who looked displeased with her answer.

“Oh, that simply won’t do.” Lifting at their robes, Lucifer began their journey up into the house to retrieve Phasma and Brienne from their respective rooms, leaving Miranda and Larissa to exchange a concerned glance. Lucifer decided to start with Brienne, the idea of pulling her from her room seeming much easier than convincing Phasma to socialize with the others.

With a gentle rapping on the door, Lucifer turned the handle, opening the door wide without receiving any true permission to enter, “Aren’t you going to join the group, Lord Commander?”

Brienne was sitting at the desk in her room, writing in her journal but looked up at the door when she heard Lucifer enter, “No, Sire. I have no interest in swimming, sunbathing, or anything like that so I thought it best to stay inside and document the journey here instead.” She looked back down at her leather book, placing her quill back onto the paper.

“Well when you are quite finished, I’ll expect to see you outside with the others. I’d hate to have to come back up here and retrieve you.” Lucifer nodded and turned on their heels, returning the bedroom door to its closed state upon exiting, not allowing Brienne to protest.

Striding down the hallway, the lightbringer glanced around at the homeowner’s chosen decor, not quite appreciating its aesthetic value. They assumed the captain would’ve chosen a room farthest away from the others, so they continued down the hall, peeking their head in and out of rooms until they came across a closed door.

When they knocked on Phasma’s door, they awaited a response, knowing an intrusion would lead to a more visceral response than Brienne would have to offer.

“Who is it?” Phasma’s voice sounded from the other side of the closed door, vexed at the sound of a visitor.

“A friend.”

“I don’t have any friends. Go away.” Phasma was not interested in socializing, hosting any people, or entertaining any kind of conversation.

With a wave of their hand, the lock was undone and Lucifer pushed open the door, remaining on the ‘safe side,’ not crossing the threshold, “Not with that attitude. Now come out of there and socialize with your peers. Miranda was saying something about easily being able to beat you in some athletic competition.”

Phasma was sitting on her bed, now clad in more casual clothes, having shed her chrome armor, “What the hell, man! Did you not hear me? Also, you can’t lure me with lies. Miranda is very aware that she can’t. Now, I won’t ask you again. Go. Away.” She glared at Lucifer that had in some way unlocked her door and invaded her solitude.

“I didn’t think you were scared to lose a simple round of volleyball to an Earthly police officer. Very well. Truly I expected more from you.” Lucifer made no moves to close the door, nor to leave. They stood with their hands meeting in front of themselves, a plain look spread across their face, “I’ll inform Miranda she has won before it even began.”

Phasma scoffed at Lucifer’s pathetic attempt to coax her out to the rest of the group, “If that is what you think, then sure.” The captain rolled her eyes at the fallen angel, “You can tell Miranda that if she wishes to challenge me, she can come here and say it herself. I’d gladly beat her. If it’ll shut you both up.”

“I’m sure she will appreciate that.” Lucifer nodded, taking their leave, but leaving the captain’s door wide open as they did so, knowing it would upset her so.

“Hey! Close the fucking door! You opened it, you have to close it. It’s common decency! Oh, you asshole!” Phasma shouted after the fallen angel, a smile on their face as the captain angrily rose from their bed, huffing as she closed the door and locked it, again. Isolating herself, again.

When Lucifer returned outside, Larissa and Miranda were still out by the pool, only now they had changed positions. Larissa was laid out at the pool’s edge, listening to Miranda recount policing stories from her place inside her raft. The two were getting along quite swimmingly.

Lucifer was nothing, if not a patient being. They planned to sit down in the outdoor lounge area until Brienne and Phasma came out of hiding, lest they wish to suffer the consequences.

“Miranda, Phasma said she would play volleyball with you, but you have to go ask her.” Lucifer offered up to the constable, the woman’s eyes lighting up in response. Miranda jumped from her innertube, lightly splashing Larissa as she did so, wading her way to the pool’s edge to lift herself up and out.

Miranda dried herself off in a half-assed manner, now doing her own rounds to ask Phasma AND Brienne to play volleyball with her. There was no way she would leave Brienne out if she was inviting Phas.

She took the same path as Lucifer. Knocking frantically on Brienne’s door first, “Bri! Bri!! Come and hang out with us! We are all gonna play volleyball! I need your athleticism! I know Phasma won’t want me on her team!”

Brienne stood from her desk, the tiniest bit irritated at the ceaseless knocking and wanting it to stop. She cracked open her door a tiny bit, being met with Miranda’s smiley face. “Constable Hilmarson. Volleyball, you say, what’s that?”

Miranda tilted her head back and forth, debating how she wanted to explain the game to Brienne, “We just hit a ball back and forth over a net! It’s silly fun! You will be good at it! We will play in the pool too! It’s not super serious!”

“Oh. No. I’m not getting into the pool. You guys have fun, though.” Brienne started to close her door, Miranda’s hand coming out to stop it.

“Please, Bri! We don’t have to play in the pool. There is a spot in the yard. I bet Phas won’t care either way and Larissa won’t get her hair wet anyway. Come on, we will be a great team…”

Brienne cracked the door open to its previous position, her expression softening at seeing the constable’s excitement, “As long as I stay out of the pool, I am all for it. Let me change real quick and I will join you.”

“Oh, you are the BEST!” Miranda rocked back and forth on her heels for a moment, pulling her towel tighter around her waist; noticing the water pooling at her feet. Brienne only chuckled and closed the door when the constable started walking away, moving to the dresser to get changed.

Miranda was a bundle of nerves as she walked down to Phasma’s room, knowing the captain could easily harm her if she chose. She hesitated momentarily outside the captain’s door, knocking twice and calling out, “Phas! Luci said you might be willing to play volleyball with me!”

There was silence for a few seconds, and Miranda was wondering if Phasma was even in there anymore. She was just about to leave when the captain’s door flew open, startling the towel-clad woman, and causing her to jump a tiny bit.

Phasma wore a smirk on her face as she took in Miranda’s frightened and wet form in front of her, “Did they now?” The captain looked over the constable’s shoulder, seeing Brienne walk down the stairs in what looked like a tank top and sweatpants, making her raise a brow, “Is the Lord Commander joining you as well? Interesting.”

“Yep! Brienne is gonna play. I don’t think Larissa will, but I can play you and Brienne since I already know how to play. I wouldn’t wanna make it unfair by playing.”

“Wouldn’t it be unfair for it to be two against one?” Phasma was now leaning cross-armed against the doorframe, a smirk still playing on her lips as she spoke to the constable who was practically bouncing on the spot from her glee.

Miranda felt heat spread across her cheeks as she worried about offending Phasma and incurring her wrath, “Well... I don’t mean to offend, but I’m just assuming I’ll be better than both of you since you haven’t played. Not really an unfair match-up if you consider that.”

“Who says I haven’t played volleyball? We probably have something similar to it, or at least an exercise like it up on the Starkiller.” Phasma was teasing Miranda, she enjoyed watching the constable squirm under her intense gaze.

“A game where you hit a ball back and forth over a net. If it hits the ground on the other team's side, you get a point?” Miranda gave a general summary, sounding unsure of every word as the captain stared at her. The constable’s voice kept getting quieter under the intimidation of Phasma, “You can choose the teams if that means you will play with us...”

Phasma chuckled wryly at how unsure the woman in front of her sounded, knowing that her sheer proximity had caused Miranda’s previous confidence to dawdle, “Awh, what’s the matter? Did you forget the game, or do you always sound this unsure when explaining things?” The captain was loving the effect they had on the constable way too much. She could sense her nervousness, and the first-order captain was surprised at how much power she held over the cop.

“You don’t have to play. I thought I was being nice by asking.” Miranda folded her arms over her chest, not willing to look into Phasma’s eyes.

“No. I’ll play.” Suddenly, Phasma’s previous persona was gone without a trace, her usual stoic expression on her face. She removed herself from the door frame, standing up straight, “I was just fucking with you. You make it so easy.” The captain said no parting words before closing the door in Miranda’s face, moving to change just as Brienne had done.

Brienne had found a spot in the kitchen where she could look out into the lounge area, sipping a glass of water as she observed Miranda walk over to Larissa, surely to ask the shapeshifter the same question the constable had asked the knight.

“Rissa! Are you gonna play volleyball with us?” Miranda hovered over Larissa, who now lay back in her spot on the lounge chair; one knee bent as her face was turned up towards the sky.

Larissa raised a hand to her brow, blocking the sun from her eyes as she gazed up at Miranda. Even with the constable’s giddy behavior, Larissa had a wonderfully easy time saying no as Miranda reminded her of many of her students, “No. I’m quite alright watching from over here, but do ask Lucifer if they would like to play.” The shapeshifter was looking to avoid both Phasma and Brienne after the events that occurred earlier in the day. She was really having terrible luck with the others on the trip thus far.

Miranda made eye contact with Lucifer, who sat contently next to Larissa, shaded under an umbrella. Their serious expression told Miranda everything she needed to know. The blonde tucked the volleyball under her arm and sped away, not willing to dig deeper into Lucifer’s unwillingness to join in on the game.

“Brienne! Catch!” Miranda gave Brienne a verbal warning before she threw the volleyball toward the knight, hoping to test her reflexes and hand-eye coordination.

Brienne, still holding a glass in one hand, caught the ball hurling towards her with one, glaring at Miranda once she had, “You should be more careful with that, Hilmarson, I could have dropped my glass.”

Miranda’s eyes widened at the scold from the knight, a blush spreading across her cheeks. Her eyes shot down to the concrete patio, feeling remorseful for her actions, “Sorry, Bri…”

Phasma had emerged from behind Brienne, watching the scene fold out in front of her, “Caught that with one hand. I am very impressed, Lord Brienne. We might just win this yet.” The captain had walked up to the knight’s side, gazing down at the Lord Commander who sat on a barstool.

Brienne lowered the hand that held the ball into her lap, her eyes following it, “Yeah, I have had to catch a lot of things being thrown my way for many years. After a while, it becomes a reflex.”

“Damn. You are boring. Bring back the fun Brienne, I don’t like the mopey one. If we are going to win this, I need you in your best mindset, and this,” Phasma motioned to Brienne with her hand, “ain’t it.”

Brienne rolled her eyes at Phasma’s antics, knowing her words held some truth, “Whatever you say.” Raising her glass to her lips, she finished the rest of her water before putting the empty cup on a nearby table. She looked at the captain, shoving the volleyball onto her chest, “Let’s prove Constable Hilmarson wrong, shall we? I know that you’d like to.”

Phasma grabbed onto the ball with both hands, taking it from Brienne, “I would very much like to. Let’s kick some ass.”

Lucifer leaned in towards Larissa, speaking quietly so as to not let the others hear their words, “Keep an eye on this bunch... I’m going back to work for a while.”

Larissa turned to face Lucifer in order to give her verbal confirmation that she would attempt to keep everyone from killing one another, but when she turned to the immortal, Lucifer was already gone. With a sigh, Larissa plucked herself up from the lounge and followed after the group of women so she could watch the women play volleyball in the nearby yard.

The shapeshifter watched as Brienne and Phasma took their place on the opposite side of the net as Miranda. She was surprised Miranda would agree to compete in any activity against the other two women. Larissa allowed herself to gawk at appreciate the athletic forms of each of the women before her, especially Brienne.

The way Brienne’s tank top was slightly too tight for her accentuated her shoulder blades and waist. Her shoulders and biceps were on full display for Larissa to take in, and she was thanking every single God that ever existed for the knight’s wardrobe not being updated.

Brienne’s sweatpants didn’t help in hiding much either. Larissa couldn’t know when the last time the Lord Commander updated her clothing situation was, but when the knight’s black sweatpants clung to her legs and ass like that, the shapeshifter couldn’t even begin to give a single shit. She was staring, and she felt no shame about it whatsoever. She was a woman of culture, she knew she had to appreciate art when she saw it, and that was exactly what she was doing.

Miranda wasn’t about to admit it, but the confidence she had once felt about playing the knight and captain was fading quickly. She positioned herself in the center of the makeshift court, swallowing hard as she waited for Phasma to serve the ball over the net.

The match started with a harsh serve from Phasma, and Miranda could have sworn that the ball was on fire as it passed by her skull. This one hit would be an indicator of how the rest of the match would go.

In the few moments Larissa wasn’t watching Brienne, who had now procured a shine to her tanned skin because of the sweat, she was watching Miranda work her ass off to keep up with the passes and spikes to her side of the net. Miranda was diving and springing back up immediately, showing off the skills she had built up over years of playing in her sand volleyball league.

Miranda was breathing heavily, beginning to struggle in keeping up. With an easy fake out from Phasma, Miranda was laid out on the ground, ready to chase down the ball. Phasma tipped the ball over the net gently, causing the ball to land in the grass next to Miranda, another point for the team of two.

The constable rolled over onto her back, taking a breather, regretting so many of her life decisions at this moment. Holding her arms above herself, Miranda made a ‘T-shape’ with her hands, indicating she wanted a timeout.

“Are you okay, darling?” Larissa called to Miranda, standing up from her chair, only clad in her swimsuit with her hands on her hips.

Brienne and Phasma turned to look at Larissa who had spoken up, the knight running a hand through her disheveled hair before wiping the sweat off her brow. The captain doing the same movement as her teammate.

The knight looked at the collapsed constable with empathy, but Phasma’s eyes remained on Larissa, noticing the way the shapeshifter’s eyes quickly glanced at the Lord Commander and back to Miranda. If that glance meant what the captain thought it meant, she now had a very interesting opportunity if she felt like messing with the headmistress. Maybe she would sleep on it, or Brienne.

“All good.” Miranda held up a thumbs up before dropping her hand back down her side. She made no attempt to get up off the ground, instead, she wanted to let her breathing level out first, “Can you bring me water, Rissa? I’m dying...”

“Of course. Do you two need anything?” Larissa tilted her head, hands still on her hips as she popped out a knee, waiting for their response. She allowed her eyes to wander all over Phasma and Brienne, not hiding the way her eyes raked up and down their bodies. The shapeshifter found Phasma to be incredibly attractive as well, her aggressive nature was something Larissa could put up with if need be.

Brienne kept her eyes fixed on Miranda, worried about her current condition, “Water would be fine, thank you.” The knight ducked under the net, rushing to the constable’s side to shield her from the sun until they could get her into the shadow, or inside.

Phasma watched Larissa’s eyes wander over both of their bodies, an intrigued smile on her face, “Same for me.” When the shapeshifter’s eyes remained on the captain’s thighs even after speaking, she realized she needed to snap the headmistress out of whatever fantasy she had found herself in, “My eyes are up here, you know.”

“Mhm...” Larissa hummed, pursing her lips to suppress a smirk. Turning on her heels, Larissa walked away from the volleyball match to retrieve the water. She ended up choosing plastic bottles over glasses so she could carry them all. On her way back outside, Larissa checked her make-up in the hall mirror, swiping beneath her bottom lip to straighten up her lipstick. If she was going to be flirting with anyone, she wanted to look good doing it.

Once back outside, Larissa was relieved to see Miranda sitting up with the help of Brienne when she walked over.

“Bri, I’m fine. I swear.” Miranda repeated once again, trying to shake her arm loose from the knight’s grip. More than anything, the constable was trying to retain the small amount of dignity she had left while Phasma was watching. She thought Captain Phasma was incredibly cool and wanted the first-order captain to think the same of her. Miranda felt her loss and Brienne’s care were ruining her image with the captain.

“See, I would like to believe you, Constable, but I can’t. I still say that you should let me take you up to your bed so you can lie down.” Brienne held firm around Miranda’s shoulders, not letting the constable’s stubbornness win over hers.

“Miranda, just let her help you. Don’t be so ridiculous.” Larissa tapped her foot, holding out a bottle to Miranda who took it happily, ignoring the knight’s help while she drank greedily. The shapeshifter kept Brienne’s water in her grasp and tossed the other towards Phasma who caught it with ease.

“Oh, this is bloody ridiculous. Come on, up you get.” Brienne had grown tired of the constable’s hard-headedness and was now taking things into her own hands, literally. Hooking one arm under Miranda’s knees, she placed the other under her armpit for leverage. Standing up, the knight brought the other woman with her, carrying her in her arms.

“Lord Commander Brienne of Tarth put me down this instant! This instant I say!” Miranda was trying her best to thrash around in the knight’s arms as she carried her away from the court, to have her put her down, but unfortunately for the constable, Brienne’s arms were stronger than her diminished form.

“I’m going back to the pool,” Larissa muttered, loud enough for the others to hear. Miranda was in good hands with Brienne, so she had no worries for the constable’s safety in the imminent future. The shapeshifted wouldn’t mind if Phasma chose to stay outside with her, but the odds the captain would want to socialize were low, so she was prepared to sit company-less.

“You do that. I’m going to go take a shower. Later, loser,” Phasma threw up a hand before leaving in the same direction Brienne did. Larissa stood in place, loving watching the captain leave before walking back to the pool.

“I swear… Bri, I’m okay. I’m just tired is all.” Miranda continued her arguing with the knight the entire time she was carried to her bedroom, her tone becoming more resigned over time. Bringing her arms around Brienne’s neck, the constable leaned her head against the knight’s sternum, giving in to being carried, “I can walk. There is no need to pull out the knightly virtues just for me.” The constable had to take a moment to consider how strong she found Brienne to be as the woman didn’t seem to tire of carrying her.

Brienne maneuvered the corridors of the home, carrying Miranda up the stairs to her room, eyes straight ahead and completely focused on getting the constable into her bed, “You say that, but I am having a hard time believing you. It is better to be on the safe side… I regret to tell you that is just the kind of person I am, I can sadly not put a lid on my ‘knightly virtues.’”

“I did a good job keeping up. You guys were-” Rather than finishing her sentence, Miranda shook her head and let out a breath. The constable expected more of an even match-up due to the other women’s lack of familiarity with the game, only now realizing she was sorely mistaken, “Did you have fun at least? I feel bad for being the reason it had to end.”

The knight stopped in front of the constable’s door, and gave it a light shove, causing it to glide open. Brienne carried Miranda inside and pulled the bed covers down before placing the cop on the exposed undersheet, “You did a wonderful job, Hilmarson. I had a lot of fun, thank you for inviting me.” The Lord Commander let go of the Aussie woman and rose to her full height, “You lay down. I’ll be right back.” After that, she left the room suddenly, her steps sounding as she left for the stairs.

The constable let out a long sigh, relaxing into the bed beneath her. She bit her lip, smiling to herself as she thought of the silliness of it all. Brienne was incredibly kind, but so much of the woman remained hidden to Miranda. Watching the doorway, the constable sighed, finally able to catch her breath after the intensity of the volleyball game.

When Brienne eventually returned from her obvious trip to the kitchen and bathroom, she had an array of items with her. In one hand, she held two water bottles. In the other, she held a granola bar and an aftersun lotion, the bar balancing on the lotion. She set everything down on Miranda’s nightstand as she spoke, “You need to drink a lot of water before and after resting, you have lost a lot of fluid and you’ve been exposed to the sun, so, water, drink it. The granola bar is for after you wake up, you need to get something in that stomach of yours, to make sure your blood sugar doesn’t drop. And the lotion is to comfort your skin, I’m sure your skin will thank you.”

Miranda couldn’t help but watch the knight with the most bewildered expression, almost dumbfounded from the care she was being shown, “Thank you very much, but... Bri, you really didn’t have to do all of this...” The constable reached out, taking Brienne’s hand for a moment and giving it a squeeze to demonstrate her appreciation. Releasing the knight’s hand, Miranda then reached for water, ready to rehydrate before her nap, “You are wonderful.”

Clasping her hands behind her back after Miranda released her grip on one of them, Brienne scanned the cop and the things on her bed table, making sure she hadn’t forgotten anything. “I know I didn’t have to.” The knight didn’t elaborate, she only bowed before moving to the constable’s doorway, “Sleep tight, Hilmarson.” She then left, softly closing the door behind her as she did.

Miranda couldn’t deny that she found the formality of the knight’s behavior to be a little strange, but more than anything she thought it was endearing and humorous. The constable didn’t feel as if she deserved the care which Brienne granted her as it was more fit for a maiden in a fairytale than someone such as herself. She didn’t dwell on this feeling long, opting for sleep instead.

163 notes · View notes

bi-bard · 2 years

Text

Sorting it Out - Lucifer Morningstar Imagine (The Sandman)

Title: Sorting it Out

Pairing: Lucifer Morningstar X Reader

Word Count: 738 words

Warning(s): pain described

Summary: (Y/n) doesn't know how long they spent in Hell before Heaven seemed to finally come to their senses. But the question of whether or not they wanted to return to Heaven was still to be answered.

Author's Note: I am actually quite happy with this.

Part 2 to "Little Angel"

PART ONE HERE!

----------------------

I had lost count of my time in Hell.

Night and day had long since been forgotten. I hadn't usually focused on them while in Heaven but keeping an eye on Earth gave me some count of how long I could spend working.

In Hell, I didn't even have that.

I didn't really mind it though.

After a while, Hell became more like home and less like a prison. I think Lucifer did that on purpose. They didn't want me to hide from them. They wanted me to want to spend time with them.

The loss of my wings hurt less and less. The wounds had long since scarred over. I tried to ignore them. I did pretty well as long as I didn't press too hard on them.

I was to the point that I didn't see a point in Lucifer "sorting it out" like they said they would.

I was in the main room, watching the flame in front of me dance. It was entrancing, truly. And it frightened me less than the crowd of demons hoping for the demand to rip my head off.

"Hello, little angel," I looked up when I heard Lucifer's voice. "Sorry to leave you waiting."

I furrowed my eyebrows. We hadn't discussed meeting for anything.

Lucifer chuckled before starting to walk toward me.

"Close your eyes," they said.

I did as I was told. I had become so trusting. I wish I knew how long it had taken me to get to that point.

"I'm sorry in advance, but I have to do this now. I was given a limited time."

I didn't get to question their statement before two fingers were pressed to my forehead. I hissed at the feeling of something pushing through my skin. The scarred skin opened to make room for something new.

I gasped as the pain burned off.

"I'm sorry," Lucifer mumbled to me, hand moving from my forehead to my cheek. Both of my hands touched their arm; one grabbing the wrist as the other laid on top of their hand. "Shh, shh, shh, it's alright."

I took a deep breath and opened my eyes.

I saw Lucifer's free hand move slightly.

"I need you to look, little angel."

I turned my head to the side. A mirror conjured next to us.

Lucifer's hand fell slightly, but I still held onto it. Like I needed something to ground me there.

I let out a shocked laugh. A weak laugh, but a laugh, nonetheless. My wings. Back. In all their glory.

"I got answers for you," Lucifer explained. "And now I've fixed their mistake."

"You gave me my wings back."

"Because you did nothing to lose them in the first place."

I slowly looked back toward them. They had a grin on their face.

"They suit you."

I chuckled. "Thank you. For everything. You never had to be as kind to me as you have. You've done so much more than I ever expected."

"You should have higher expectations then."

I looked down for a moment. I never thought about things like that. Never wanted to, really. It was easier to ignore things like that.

"(Y/n)."

I looked up again. Lucifer had never called me by my name. It was always "little angel" or sometimes just "angel", but never my name.

They had stepped closer to me. They pulled their hand out of my hold as they did. I grinned at them, trying to resolve some of the tension.

"Can I kiss you," they asked softly.

I nodded before putting any thought into it. I didn't need to.

I had never allowed someone to kiss me before.

It was new but nice.

Lucifer cupped the back of my head, holding me in place as they guided the kiss. I felt helpless but in the best way. I kissed back slowly, awkwardly.

I leaned back, eyes going wide. My thoughts were a mess. I couldn't put a sentence together.

"Little angel," they muttered. "That took too long."

I slowly nodded.

I leaned in and pecked their lips again. Lucifer let out a low chuckle against my lips before leaning back.

"Can I stay here," I asked. "At least, for a little bit..."

"Of course," they replied. I grinned. "If that's what you want."

For once, I felt like I knew what I wanted. Like I was allowed to entertain what I wanted.

And I nodded.

----------------------

Navigation Guide

What I Write For

Some Original Characters

#lucifer morningstar imagine #lucifer morningstar fanfiction #lucifer morningstar x reader #the sandman x reader #the sandman fanfiction #the sandman imagine #sandman imagine #sandman fanfiction #sandman x reader #fanfiction #imagine #x reader #dc x reader #dc imagine #dc fanfiction

315 notes · View notes

scifrey · 1 year

Text

Carpe Diem

Status: One-Shot

Series: the Hob Adherent series

Fandom: The Sandman (TV 2022) Includes some comics canon, and some cameos from the wider Gaiman-verse (including the Good Omens and Lucifer television shows), but it’s not necessary to know to enjoy the story.

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Discussions of grief and in-canon character death.

Relationships: Morpheus | Dream of the Endless/Hob Gadling, Eleanor | Hob Gadling’s Wife/Hob Gadling (past)

Characters: Dream of the Endless | Morpheus, Hob Gadling, Lucifer, Patrick the Bartender, Crowley, Aziraphale, Johanna Constantine, Matthew the Raven

Summary: Hob turns six hundred and sixty-six, invites some fellow Immortals to his bar to celebrate, and receives a gift from Satan herself. Or, the Key to Hell was always going to Be a Problem(tm).

Set between the epilogue and chapter one of Cling Fast.

READ ON AO3 OR READ BELOW:

Hob tells Patrick he’s turning thirty-six.

About five minutes before the party is set to start, he takes immature delight in adding a tiny little x2 between the 3 and the 6 on the poster wishing him a happy birthday with a sharpie. Normally Hob doesn’t make much of a fuss about his birthday–it’s too easy for his fellow, aging humans to start tracking them that way–but it’s May 1st in the Year of Our Lord 2022, and Hob Gadling is turning six hundred and sixty-six years old.

He figures that deserves a party.

They close The New Inn for the private event, and Patrick, grumpy bastard that he is, refuses to hire in a catering staff so he can enjoy himself, too.

“It’s your birthday, Bob,” he says, as Hob is tying off the last of the bunting above the banquettes. “I’m not having a stranger back here screwing up your orders.”

“We do need to hire a server before the summer, though,” Hob points out, jumping down and wiping the tread-prints from his shoes off the leather seat. “And a new kid for the kitchen.”

“Well it’s not happening any time today, so just… let me celebrate you from my happy place.”

“Fine, fine,” Hob grants with a smile. Patrick is very, very good at his job. He also has an anxious fear of crowds, when there isn’t wood and fridges and pint-glass washers between him and other people. “But tell me you’ll try to relax a bit, please. It’s my party, and I want you to have fun.”

Patrick gifts him with a set of bowfingers and turns his back to resume prep. Hob wonders what the Signature Cocktail du Jour is going to be, with that many sliced limes, peaches, and strawberries.

Hob is generally very pleased with himself and the world. He’s in a university and profession he loves, he’s inspiring young minds and hearts towards kindness and generosity to their fellow humans, he’s very slowly restoring the White Horse one city council fight at a time, he is master of The New Inn and it’s domain, and he is swiftly becoming best friends with a magical talking raven.

And, of course, in the nine months since Morpheus has broken free of his prison and returned to Hob’s life, he has become a fixture of his Tuesday afternoons and no small part of his attention and affection besides. That's something worth celebrating, too. Hob's Stranger has somehow, wonderfully, become his friend. And he’s agreed to come today, which is even better. Hob has been getting better at couching his requests in dares, and highlighting his pleas with sad puppy eyes. The two things Morpheus, humanity’s facet of Dream of the Endless, seems to be weak against are a bet, and Hob showing any unhappiness or disappointment.

These facts are carefully recorded in his mental List of Things I Know About The Stranger. The list is growing longer, slowly but surely, which is thrilling in itself. Hob is starting to feel like he knows Morpheus, for a given value of ‘knowing’ when it comes to interacting with a singular facet of anthropomorphic personifications of vast universal concepts.

He’s also not above using this knowledge to his advantage, although he’s careful to deploy this hoarded wisdom to his own advantage very, very sparingly. No point in tipping his hand this early in their fragile friendship.

Hob is immortal, he’s happy, he loves his life and the people in it, and it’s his birthday.

What isn’t there to celebrate?

The first guests arrive around happy hour, and clump together on one of the banquettes. They’re his colleagues in the History department, with the addition of a PhD hopeful who’s clearly tagged along in order to get into Doctor Gadlen’s good graces before the mad race for a thesis supervisor begins in the summer. Patrick knows some of them, as Hob’s dragged them here from the university often enough, and is happy to take care of them while Hob fiddles with the music.

He's curated a playlist of his favorite songs from the last six and a half hundred years (the ones he could find recordings of, of course), and damn anyone who complains that the mix is weird.

Hob’s offering up beer and wine on the house, as well as soft drinks for those who prefer it, and platters of nibbles. Word must get back to the school because soon a second wave of professors and TAs slide through the door. The maxim is entirely true: academics are cockroaches and will pop up anywhere free food and booze are on offer. Hob’s happy to welcome them in, even if he only knows a few of them on sight, and even less by name.

A party is a party, and it fills him with joy to know they’ll be going home full and happy. Hob is High Priest of the Last Temple of Morpheus. It’s his duty to ensure everyone who comes through the doors of The New Inn leave in a state of mind and body to rest peacefully and fully.

Hob’s colleagues are joined soon enough by some of the bar regulars, folks from the social charities and organizations that Hob works with to keep the people on his little patch of city well-cared for and housed, and a few people who serve on the same Heritage Protections board as he’s a member of on behalf of the White Horse.

But there’s one particular person he keeps craning his head around to see, every time the little bell above the door jangles. The one particular person who has not yet arrived. Hob distracts himself with gracefully accepting presents he very specifically told people not to bring, offering up cheek-kisses and handshakes in return for the collection of cards, wine bottles, and novelty teacher mugs.

The sun sets, bringing along with it Johanna Constantine, and Ric the Vic, both of whom Hob knows peripherally through the Goings On (™) of London. They offer him their congratulations, and slide into one of the tables in the corner to enjoy their free libations and pretend strenuously that they’re not not planning to leave to fuck in the next few hours.

Hob had spread word through what passes for a grapevine in the sparse community of Otherfolk of the city that they, too, would be welcome at Hob’s birthday party. After all, they’re the only ones who’d understand–and enjoy the irony–of the number. He doesn’t actually expect many of them to take him up on it, but manners are manners.

All the same, he’s fairly sure he sees some of the Doors slipping in and out between his supply cupboard and the bar with a platter of pigs-in-a-blanket, and Bod Owens chatting up the PhD hopeful by the loos. The Marquis de Carabas’s coat catches his eye and Hob turns to welcome him, only to come face-to face with a very different imposing nobleman in a long distinctive coat.

“Happy Birthday , Hob Gadling ,” Morpheus greets him. He’s got the world’s tiniest potted cactus cradled in his palm, and he holds it out awkwardly to Hob. The tips of his ears, mostly hidden by the puff of his dark hair, are delicately pink. They’re the same shade of the seductive-slick curve of a conch shell, of the secret inside curve of his lips when he pouts, the tip of his tongue when he chases a stray drop of wine in a startlingly mortal gesture.

It’s adorable.

It’s not fair .

Hob really needs to get this stupid crush under control.

“Aw, is this for me?” Hob asks, delighted, as if the cactus pot wasn’t already embraced by a silky red bow.

Morpheus just raises his eyebrows, as if to say, Are you daft? so Hob takes it. He wonders if it would be too forward of him to buss a kiss off Morpehus’ cheek in thanks, as he has been doing with all of his other gift-givers this evening.

It’s a step more intimate than the hand-holding they do when one or the other of them needs comfort during a difficult confession. But Morpheus is Hob’s friend now, and it’s how he greets his other friends. Morpheus deserves no less. He decides to go for it.

The King of Nightmares takes the kiss with startled good grace, and Hob pulls back quickly so he’s not imposing on Morpheus’ personal bubble. His friend can get prickly when he feels his sovereignty threatened, or his independence violated, for very understandable and obvious reasons.

He fiddles with the cactus, turning the pot around in his fingertips and admiring the single dusty-purple bloom at its apex. He hopes it’ll get enough sunlight in here.

“Where’s Matthew?” Hob asks, to fill the awkward silence.

“Behaving extremely poorly for a denizen of his station. ”

“Come again?”

“ Out front, entertaining some of your regulars by repeating filthy words for peanuts,” Morpheus says, amusement and disdain warring in his tone. Morpheus is forever despairing over Matthew’s constant desire to be in the spotlight.

Hob laughs, delighted, and chivvies Morpheus over to the bar for a glass of his teeth-suckingly sweet wine. He directs his friend around to the empty place where the bar meets the wall beside the tiny area cleared of tables and chairs for dancing. No one has moved to that side of the pub yet, so it's empty of the press of dreamers that Morpheus sometimes finds overwhelming.

Hob slips behind the bar to pour Morpheus's libation himself, ignoring Patrick’s eye roll. He doesn’t understand why Hob wants to be the only one to touch the wine. Sure it’s expensive, but it’s not like Patrick is going to pour it wrong or something.

But for Hob, it’s a ritual. It’s a gift.

It’s an offering to his friend and god.

It means something that Hob is the one who pours, who presents, who proffers.

Morpheus takes the cup with all the dignified grace that the gesture demands, and backs into the shadows to enjoy it in peace. Hob moves the cactus to pride of place on top of the coffee machine, and goes about fetching himself his own first drink of the evening. Now that Morpheus is here, he can finally relax and indulge.

“Don’t get any ideas above your station,” someone hisses at the little plant, and Hob peers around the machine to find The Bentley Snake hunched forward on his elbows, propped up behind the hidden corner of the bar, whiskey in hand. His dark red hair is shorn short on the sides this time, a long standy-uppy flop at the top, and he’s wearing the latest in a long line of painfully slim-cut black suits.

Sometimes Hob wonders if he’s doing Immortality wrong, being the only one of the lot who seems to like wearing more than black or white.

“Please don’t threaten my new plant friend,” Hob asks him.

“Needs ssssssome threatening,” the Snake says, sunglasses trained on the cactus. “Thinks its high n’ mighty just cause it sprouted in the Dreaming.”

Hob processes this as he pulls a pint for himself. “You know about the Dreaming?”

“Sleep, don’t I?” the Snake mutters.

Hob refills the Snake’s whiskey glass, and clinks his pint off the Snake’s tumbler. “I don’t like to assume.”

“Oi, I sleep, don’t I, Lord Shaper?” the Snake says, with a jerk of his chin at where the bar meets the wall.

Morpheus is little more than a black shadow and starshine eyes. He must be feeling a bit crowded, to have retreated so thoroughly. Hob doesn’t blame him–it’s starting to get stuffy, what with all the bodies and the salt-rank whiff of booze and sweat. The music is a touch loud now that there's so many voices competing to be heard over it, and Hob is thinking that now’s a good time to open the windows, let the pre-storm breeze that’s kicking up wash the place fresh.

Though he doesn’t point it out to the man, Hob’s Stranger has been different since his return.

While before he was reserved and formal, now he’s skittish about touch, always buttoned up to the throat in whatever clothing he manifests for himself, and reluctant to allow himself to be crowded or contained. They're working on it, with long walks along the quay or visits to farmer's markets, but overcoming trauma is never a fast process. Even the occasional therapeutic hand-holding Hob imposes on him has to be well telegraphed, or Morpheus will shake him off without realizing he’s done so.

These are all very understandable and normal reactions to the torture he’d suffered at the hands of Burgess. But while Hob has done his best to comfort and guide Morpheus toward healing in his limited, mortal way, it’s not like he can he can force the God of Sleep to make an appointment with a headshrinker.

Hob flashes a glance over at Colonel Williams, by the front door, who is one of the social support folks Hob knows from helping the unhoused get back on their feet. She specializes in suppressed trauma and PTSD, and Hob wonders if there’s a way he could maneuver Morpheus into an ‘accidental’ conversation with the woman sometime tonight.

“ So deeply that I cannot oust you from my realm for decades at a time, Serpent, ” Morpheus rumbles, and right, Hob’s forgotten that he’s supposed to be mediating between two otherworldly entities. Morpheus turns his gaze to Hob. “What is he doing here?”

Morpheus sounds two thirds curious and one third jealous.

He doesn’t mean it like that , Hob tells himself. It may be my birthday–well, the date I chose to be my birthday–but I’m not going to get that lucky.

An odd tension frazzles the air, and the Snake rolls his impossible spine backwards a bit, not retreating, exactly. Just not standing so close to Hob.

Huh.

Who knew that Morpheus would be so territorial with his head priest?

Hob laughs, trying disperse the feeling that if he’s not careful, he may inadvertently start a supernatural brawl. “Come on, my friend. You think after six and a half centuries, you’re the only creepy-crawly I know?”

“I am not a creepy-crawly, Hob Gadling,” Morpheus rumbles, with all the theatrical offense of a maiden-aunt. “But I did not think you would consort with the likes of him . Not with your upbringing as it was–”

The Snake bristles. “Hey! I was invited!”

Morpheus steps out of the shadows just enough for his face and hands–and empty wine glass–to be visible in the dim pub lighting. Night has well and truly fallen outside. He sets the glass on the bar top with a challenging tink .

“ Invited ,” Morpheus repeats flatly.

“I just let it be known among the Othered set that they were welcome to drop by,” Hob hisses, low enough that Patrick won’t be able to catch it over the conversation and music around them.

“It’s a special number, you know. I felt like it should be celebrated with everyone , especially those who really know what it means.”

Morpheus inhales sharply and turns narrowed, laser-focused, glacier-blue eyes to Hob’s face. “ How did you phrase this invitation? ” he asks with no little urgency.

Hob blinks.

“Uh, something something freely welcome to partake of my hospitality, all those who know the number something something?” Hob says, nerves flooding him. He tugs on his ear. “Did I… um… say something I shouldn’t have?”

“ All those who know the number ,” Morpheus groans. “The number of the beast.”

"Six-one-six," the Snake says.

"Six- six- six," Hob corrects, "According to modern translations. Which is also the number of years I've… oh. No. No, it's my birthday ,” Hob says, sweat beading by his hairline and trickling down the back of his shirt. “That’s… that’s what I meant.”

“But that it is not what you said .”

The Snake straightens up all at once, eyes popping wide behind his glasses if the sudden height of his eyebrows are anything to go by. He slams back the rest of his whiskey and chokes: “That’s me out, then. Many happy returns, you poor doomed bastard. If you ever get any.”

“That’s not ominous at all,” Hob says, and chugs half his beer.

The Snake wends his way to the front door and is gone in a gust of chill spring breeze, and the sound of the rain just starting up outside. Hob hopes Matthew has found a good roost under one of the table umbrellas. One of these days, he's going to make good on his threat to get the raven a Service Animal vest, just so he can come inside in weather like this.

Morpheus fully manifests, posture tense, nostrils flaring. He scans the crowd. For who, Hob can guess, but he doesn’t like to think on it.

Morpheus has, after all, told him all about his trip to Hell.

And then the lights flicker.

Hob is… well, he’s almost disappointed by how dramatic the Devil’s entrance is.

In the last six hundred years, he’s come to learn that people like him tend to lay low and not bring attention to themselves. Even Morpheus, with his fine clothes and fist-sized ruby, behaved as a mortal might at their meetings–walking into the White Horse, sitting down, no excess displays of power or even wealth, really, save for the handful of dreamsand he’d blown in Lady Constantine’s face.

But Hob has to give the Devil their due. When they play, they don’t play small.

The storm that’s been brewing since sunset suddenly, and violently breaks. Rain cascades against the roof like the rush of an oncoming train. A clap of thunder loud enough to rattle the martini glasses in their hangers above the bar shakes the room, making more than one person yelp. The crack of lightning that follows flares like an atom bomb, white light blasting in through the windowpanes, casting everyone in harsh, dramatic black-and-white chiaroscuro.

Ears ringing and eyes sparking, Hob sets down his beer and scrubs at his face.

(Okay, so he’s also a little disappointed there’s no fiddle sting to accompany their appearance. But then again, the New Inn is hardly Georgia.)

When his vision has cleared, Hob whirls around to check on his friends and colleagues. There’s probably something dangerous about turning your back to Satan, but he’s got the King of Nightmares guarding it. He’s more worried for the humans than the two celestial entities that are, if he knows his friend, puffing up and posturing. Hob skims out from behind the bar, heading for Patrick, who has stopped a few steps away from the service gap.

And he's… he's just standing there.

Fear seizes Hob’s throat, and for a terrible second, he worries that the light really was an atom bomb, that everyone he’s ever known and loved in this life are nothing more than people-shaped pillars of ash, and it’s his fault. He invited them here, and then he invited the literal Devil as well, and now they're—

But no, when he reaches Patrick, his friend is alive. He breathes, he blinks, his flesh is soft and warm. But he’s frozen. Hob looks around and… yes, the humans in the room–well, the mortal ones, at least–have simply stopped moving.

“Are they…?” Hob crackles.

“ They will be fine,” Morpheus assures him. His hair is sticking straight out, like a furious cat, and he’s starting to lose coherence around the edges. His coat swirls off into shadow like heavy ink in water, his eyes are as fathomless as deep space, and his fingers elongate into razor-sharp and obsidian-tipped claws. “Time has stopped for them. When it resumes, it will be as if the lost moments never happened. ”

Not all of them, Hob thinks, seeing Johanna’s eyes darting around the room with terrified fury. He decides not to point it out, though, in case the Lightbringer decides to do something permanent and terrible about it. He just gives her a long look, and tries to put as much reassurance in his expression as he can. I’ll get us out of here safely, don’t you worry.

Johanna blinks back once, slow and squinty like a cat. Message received.

A quick glance also confirms that the rest of the Otherworld denizens have made themselves as sparse as the Snake. He doesn't blame them.

Then, finally, when he’s assured himself that everyone under his roof and thus in his care is as safe as they can be, with the literal Ruler of Hell sharing that selfsame roof, he skirts around the bar to join Morpheus on the empty dance floor. Only then does he allow all of his attention to settle on his new visitor.

They are… tall . ‘Grand’ is the adjective that comes to mind first, followed by ‘statuesque’ and ‘ literally awe-inspiring’.

That’s an angel , Hob things. Or at least, they used to be. Of course they’re so… present. So overwhelming.

It’s like having all of his senses buffeted all at once–all he can smell is the acrid tang of sulfur, all he can hear is a high-pitched screech, all he can see is an overwhelming brightness that might actually be an overwhelming darkness, and his skin feels like it’s covered with biting fire ants. He gasps, reaching out clumsily behind him to clutch at the bar, the crush of the gravitas emanating from the corner stealing the breath from his lungs.

One of Morpheus’ fingers stretches out, impossible and eerie. It taps Hob gently on the forehead, right where his third eye would be, if he was that kind of spiritual. The drowning rush of screaming discomfort snaps off, like a faucet cranked shut. Air rushes back into the room.

“Be not afraid,” my hairy arse , Hob thinks, as he coughs and scrubs his eyes again. It’s a wonder the blessed virgin didn’t shriek her head off and go running off into the night.

“I’m… I’m fine,” he reassures Morpheus, as his friend shuffles a step closer, hand resting protectively on Hob’s shoulder.

It takes him a few seconds to actually see what he’s seeing. Satan themself is presenting as a white woman, with fair, severely arranged golden curls that resemble nothing so much as a crown of thorns across their forehead. What Hob took for giant bat wings is actually a luxuriously patterned black pashmina, draped artfully over across one shoulder, over a rich white tea-length dress.

For being the ruler of Hell, Hob has to admit that they actually look… well, glamorous .

“Hello, Robert Gadling,” Lucifer Morningstar purrs from the empty stage in the corner of the pub. It’s little more than a triangular riser jammed against the wall, just big enough for a tall stool, a mic stand, and some folksy performer on Sunday afternoons. But it gives them an even greater height from which to look down their nose at him, so of course that’s where they manifested. “I am ever so grateful to be included.”

“Er, yeah,” Hob says, pushing himself upright and wiping his clammy hands on the thighs of his jeans. “Welcome, then.”

“ Hob ,” Morpheus says, scandalized. Shadows writhe anxiously in a puddle by his feet, the Nightmare side of Dream closer to the surface in his worry.

“What?” Hob says. “Doesn’t hurt anyone to be polite.” Hob steps forward and holds out his now-dry hand for the Devil to shake.

“Certainly not,” Lucifer agrees, and takes his hands between theirs. They pull him forward a few more steps, pressing his fingers between their palms as if they could taste his sins on his skin, and peers down at him with intelligent eyes the same color of the storm clouds outside. “And it’s been ever so long since I’ve been to a party .”

Hob cranes his head back to look up at them. They’re just a handspan away now, only their entwined arms between them keeping them parted, and for an absurd moment, he thinks that Lucifer is going to kiss him. Morpheus must think so too, because he lets loose a ripping growl, warning and threat in the sound to rival the thunderstorm outside.

Lucifer laughs and lets Hob go. They take a dainty step down from the stage, and sashay their way toward the bar on totteringly-high bleach-white pumps.

“I, uh, I‘ve got wine and beer,” Hob says, spinning around and scrambling to catch up with them. “Or anything harder. Or softer. Whatever you like, really. What can I pour for you?”

“Red wine, naturally,” the Devil purrs.

They stop at the bar just an arm's length from Morpheus, a clear challenge. They lean elegantly on one elbow against the padded edge, eyeing him up like they’d either like to eat him alive or gouge his eyes out. Possibly both. Hob slips between them like a fleshy immortal shield. Maybe it won’t actually keep them from lashing out at each other but, meh, he can’t die if they do.

He reaches over the bar, grabs one of the open bottles of Syrah, a glass from the rack above their heads, and pours a generous measure. He holds it out genteely to the Devil, and they accept it with good grace.

Hob then immediately refills Morpheus’ abandoned glass with his Vinsanto, and tops up his own with an awkward backwards reach for the amber tap.

“So… are you gonna release them?” Hob asks, once Lucifer has raised their glass for a clink, and he’s very cautiously obliged. It feels like bad luck to drink from it right away, though, so he turns to offer the same toast to Morpheus, who stares hard at Hob as they clink glasses, as if he’s drilling a blessing into Hob’s skull.

“No, I think not,” Lucifer says, taking their first sip, and offering Hob an appreciative eyebrow bounce at the taste. “No need to cause a panic. But don’t worry; I shan’t stay for long. I only wanted to pop in and wish my new friend many happy returns.”

“Is that what we are?” Hob asks, with a huge gulp of beer. “Friends?”

“Of course!” Lucifer says, their eyes narrowing a little, shoulders tensing up, lips slimming tightly and… “We are friends, aren’t we Robert Gadling? Why else would you have extended your invitation to all who know the true number of your years?”

Which is… a bit of an odd thing for the Lightbringer to be worried about, honestly.

Hob looks again. There’s nerves there. There’s concern. Why would…

Oh . Hob thinks. They’re lonely, too.

Hob risks a glance back at Morpheus, who is clutching the stem of his wineglass tight enough that it’s creaking. His eyes are leaking purple-black starstuff around the perimeters, which whisps away like the leading edge of a fast-moving cloud. Otherwise, he's perfectly still, posture ramrod straight.

“Yes,” Hob answers, turning back to Lucifer. “Yes, we are friends. Why not? I’ve no quarrel with you, unless you’re here to drag me to Hell?”

Whatever it was the Devil was expecting Hob to say, it wasn’t that. They look first genuinely surprised, then flattered, then secretly pleased, then distraught in such quick succession that Hob barely has time to pass each expression as they pass over their face.

“Of course not!” Lucifer says, so quickly and so completely surprised that it comes out in a rush. They sound genuinely hurt at his assumption. “My kingdom only contains those human souls who believe they should be there. They send themselves to Hell. Please. I have better manners than to drag anyone against their belief and will.” They narrow their eyes at Hob and take another sip of wine, struggling to regain their teasing nonchalance. “Why, have you done something worthy of punishment?”

Many things, Hob thinks. Terrible things. Things I just hope one day I live long enough to be able to atone for.

“Ah, well, this isn’t about my death,” Hob hedges. “Which I am still not interested in, thank you very much. This is a celebration of my life!”

“It is indeed. Happy six hundred and sixty-sixth birthday, Robert,” Lucifer says, and they clink glasses once more.

“Hob,” he offers up. “My friends in the know call me Hob.”

“ Hob, ” Morpheus hisses again. “ You are being unwise. ”

“I’m being personable ,” Hob corrects, but takes a tiny step back, closer into Morpheus’s orbit, to appease him. One of the swirling black shadows wraps around Hob’s ankle.

“Dream Lord!” Lucifer greets him, sounding as if they have just noticed him behind Hob for the first time. “What a delight to see you again so soon.”

“Lightbringer, ” Morpheus growls in return.

“And how do you know our dear little birthday boy?”

Morpheus lets out another grumbling snarl, all without changing the placidly haughty expression on his face.

“Robert Gadling is my head priest, as well you know, ” Morpheus intones, voice as deep and dangerous as the fathomless darkness at the bottom of an ocean. “ You stand in my temple uninvited. ”

“Just as you bullied your way into Hell?” Lucifer asks silkily. They sip their wine showily. “Besides, I was invited, wasn’t I?”

Both pairs of eyes fall on Hob, their weight like a physical blow, and he buys himself some time by taking a long drink of his beer. Which, of course, goes down the wrong pipe, and leaves him coughing like a complete tit in front of two of the greatest powers in the universe.

Oh yeah, that’s me. Hob “embarrassingly human” Gadling.

Morpheus sets down his wine and hastily lays a hand on Hob’s curved back. It’s probably meant to be as possessive as it is calming, but at this point, Hob doesn’t mind. It feels good to have the comfort of his friend’s proximity. And the very visible gesture of his claiming and protection.

“I see I am in danger of wearing out my welcome,” Lucifer sighs, as if put upon. They finish their wine in a serpent-like gulp, opening their jaws wider than the mouth of their human-shape ought to allow, and set the glass aside.

“Quite.”

"In which case, allow me to present me with your gift unto you now, Robert Gadling of Essex," Lucifer says.

With a flourish, they're suddenly cupping something spindly and large in both their palms. It is the ivory of old bone, gnarled and pitted, and looks nothing so much as a big, eldritch key. There’s a circle at the top, crowned with four spikes, and the teeth on the shaft look as if they may be made of actual fangs.

And, of course, much like Morpheus’ cactus, it is topped with a whimsical, cheery red bow.

Morpheus lets out a horrified gasp.

“I had intended on bestowing this differently,” Lucifer drawls, eyeing Morpheus meaningfully. “But as it is in poor form to attend a birthday party with no gift for the celebrant.”

She turns the full weight of her gravitationally heavy gaze on Hob.

“Er… thank you?” Hob asks.

“You will not, soon enough.”

Yeah, okay, that sounds like a trap , Hob thinks. But with no clue how or even why he might refuse the gift from a literal fallen angel, and what the eternal ramifications of that action might be he does, Hob reaches out to take the key.

“ Do not accept! ” Morpheus all but wails. “ If you become ruler of Hell, you will never again cross the threshold into my realm.”

That’s saying a little more than I think Morpheus means to , Hob thinks, fingers frozen in the air, hovering above the ribbon. It sounds less like “you’ll be barred from my realm” and more “I’ll never see you again.”

“Is that true?” Hob asks. "This will make me ruler of Hell ?"

Lucifer smirks triumphantly. “I have already emptied Hell of all its demons. The gates are shut. Even now, the fires ash and grow cold. I have renounced my crown. A new King is required. They who next touch this Key will become that King.”

Hob shudders, short hair springing up, skin crawling with horror. Demons. Loose on Earth. Loose everywhere . And unable to be commanded to return to Hell by exorcism or spell, for the gates would be barred to them.

He cuts a look to Johanna, who is clearly following all of this. There are tears running down her cheeks. Sweat breaks out on Hob's brow, heart pounding hard behind his ribs, dread creeping down his spine. He hasn't felt this sunk with terror since he first came face-to-face with a machine gun in a muddy trench.

He's being given a choice.

It's not much of a choice.

Hob licks his lips, hoping his voice is steadier than his trembling, hovering hands. “What happens if I don’t accept your gift?” he crackles, voice barely above a whisper.

“Then I will think that you have very poor manners indeed,” Lucifer pouts.

Hob's breath shudders out of him, leaving his skin cold and nerves on high alert. “That’s all?”

"Of course, I will then have to bestow the Key upon the next most worthy candidate,” Lucifer says, eyes slinking up to Morpheus over Hob’s shoulder like toxic honey and, ah, there it is.

There’s the trap.

If Hob accepts the Key, he will become King of Hell, and never see Morpheus again. But he could command the armies of the damned back into their pits, and possibly, like he has in his little kingdom here on Earth, find new and better ways to help those there punishing themselves.

But if Morpheus accepts the Key, then Dream of the Endless will become King of Hell, plunging every sentient being in existence into unspeakable horror every time they fall asleep.

Which makes Hob’s choice a very, very simple one.

Before Morpheus can stop him, Hob plucks the key out of Lucifer’s hand.

" Hob !" Morpheus wails.

He reels back, as if all the places he was touching Hob suddenly burn him. The floor shudders beneath their feet, the foundations rumbling without warning. Thunder? Hob guesses, then, No, earthquake!

The room shakes with the power of Morpheus' fury and agony. Hob grasps at the bar to stay upright, and wonders if now that its head priest has become overlord of another realm, the temple of the New Inn will defile and crack apart around them all.

Morpheus keens like a wounded hart, clutching at his chest. He staggers, rocked by the judder of the floor, what little color he had manufactured for this humanish form draining away entirely. Outside, Matthew is cawing furiously, battering against the window in a desperate attempt to break in.

Hob's stomach heaves, and he's not sure if it's from the shaking of the building, or the enormity of what he's just done. What he's just accepted.

“What, no kiss for my gift, your Majesty?” Lucifer laughs, shrill and triumphant.

They seize Hob's face between red-taloned hands, and press a fire-hot, acid-slick mouth against his. Hob screams , the crawling burn of his flesh melting from his lips outwards throwing his animal mind into a mindless, terrified panic. Someone's hands fist in the back of his jumper, yanking at him, but the Devil's grip has seared him down to the bone, fingers embedded in his cheeks, nails scraping against the side of his teeth and tongue. The searing agony reaches his eyes, sizzles in his tears, so all he can see is the poisonous green steam of his own eyeballs boiling in their sockets.

Glass shatters, a bird cries out, a door slams open, cracking against a wall, a sonorous voice calls his name, and Hob flails, kicks, screams, and screams, and screams and—

"Forgive me, I am a titch late. I got caught up reading and… goodness me!" a prim voice gasps. "Well, this won't do at all!"

A loud noise, like a fleshy crack, rings out.

As suddenly as a snap, the pain is gone.

Hob gargles on the tail end of a scream that aborts somewhere behind his teeth.

His nose is filled with the scent of the rain and the petrichor from the gravel drive beyond a broken window and a wide-standing door, not with the reek of burning flesh. His heart races wildly, but it is still within his body. The rigid tension of his hell-electrified muscles ceases and Hob flops backwards, dropping against Morpheus' chest. Strong arms come around his chest Morpheus tilts his pelvis to cradle Hob's sacrum, one strong thigh behind his legs to keep from folding. He plays one hand up Hob's throat, caressing, paling his face, checking for damage and soothing all at the same time.

Hob pries his aching lids open, and finds his eyes have not boiled away after all.

The New Inn is unshaken, all in one piece, save for the way the front door is hanging off its hinges, cracked straight down the middle. The person who did it is obscured by Hob's view by the coffee machine, and the little, forlorn-looking cactus.

"What did you do to him?" Matthew caws from the mic stand, puffed out to twice his size, wings spread and a murderous gleam in his eyes. "What the fuck did you do to him?"

" I will end your miserable existence! I will throw you into the sulfurous lake from which you should never have crawled, you worthless, lothesome, hateful—"

"I'm fine!" Hob chokes out, feeling like he's vomiting up half his esophagus with every syllable. "I'm fine! "

" Your dare! I will tear your atoms apart and scatter them across so many universes that you will never again—"

" — peck your fucking eyes out — "

"Oh, dear! I do apologize, I believe I broke your door in, I'm so sorry, my dear boy—

"Guys," Hob gags. "Just let me catch my breath…"

And before him, unmoving and unperturbed by the overlapping, rising threats and verbal assaults, Lucifer watches him with a knowing, miserable look on their face.

"Enough! Quiet!" Hob thrust the Key into the air, and silence drops like a guillotine. He heaves on a few more breaths, then swallows hard, licking his lips. In an agonized, throat-shredded whisper he adds, "Please."

Because it never hurts to use one's manners.

Slowly, agonizingly, with the gentle help of Morpheus, Hob gets his feet back under him. The first thing he does is reach for his half-finished pint and drain the glass. The alcohol burns its way down, and Hob tastes the faintest touch of blood. Christ's nails, how loud had he been screaming?

Feeling more settled, he turns to face Lucifer.

Whose lipstick and painted fingernails are still utterly pristine.

They… they didn't kiss him.

"You…" Hob pants. "You didn't do that?"

"No," Lucifer says softly, and folds their hands together with elegant contriteness, fingers pointed downward in a reverse prayer.

"But you," Hob starts, then has to stop to swallow the bloody spittle that his screaming has produced. "You know what just happened?"

"The Key does it," Lucifer whispers. "Changes you. Every Devil needs a Face."

"I don't want a Devil Face," Hob says stubbornly.

Lucifer smiles, but it's thin and pained. "You don't get to choose."

Hob snarls and drops the Key onto the bar top. He half expects it to be stuck to his palm, or burned into his flesh. But it falls from his grip easily and lands with an unsatisfying clack . Morpheus, still hovering at Hob's side like Peter Pan's shadow, reaches out for it.

Hob smacks his hand away. "Don't you fucking dare."

" I would not see you suffer—"

"And I would not see all of humanity suffer, so you just fucking back right up there, friend."

Morpheus lowers his arm, but utterly fails to back up. If anything he presses closer. If the skinny little fuck had any bodyheat to speak of, Hob was sure he'd be feeling it through his own clothes right now.

The man by the door steps out of Hob's blindspot behind the coffee machine, and comes around to stand a respectful distance away, and peer at the Key. It's the queer little Bookseller of Soho. Late to the party, because he got caught up in reading, and Hob couldn't be more grateful for his perpetual absentminded tardiness.

“Well!" the Bookseller exclaims. "That’s where that silly old thing has gotten to! You would not believe the fuss that has kicked up in The Silver City. If you’ll give me just a moment…” He snaps once, a downward motion, as if yanking on an old-fashioned Edwardian-era bell pull.

A golden chime rings through the air and the Bookseller nods as if he's done some sort of momentous good deed. "Help is on the way, dear boy. But, ah, I would be ever so grateful if you did not tell them it was me who alerted them? I couldn't bear the paperwork."

And with that, the Bookseller is straight back out the door, which, miraculously, isn't actually broken off its hinges like Hob had thought it was. Turns out the window isn't broken either; it must have been a glass Matthew knocked over on his desperate flight inside.

Lucifer, very graciously, and very apologetically, refills Hob's pint glass by reaching over the bar for the tap, as Hob had done. Hob takes the pint (half head and spilling over the side; Hob guesses the Devil can't be good at everything ) with a nod of thanks. His hand is shaking so badly that Morpheus has to steady his arm just so he can drink.

"Well, friend," Hob says to Lucifer, once he's had a few long pulls on the cold fizz. "That was a hell of a party trick."

Lucifer snorts extremely inelegantly. "Pun intended?"

"Entirely."

" After what you suffered, you would still call the Morningstar friend ?" Morpheus asks, horror in every syllable.

"They didn't do whatever that just was to me," Hob points out. "The Key did. In fact, if that's what it feels like to hold it, then honestly, I don't blame you for wanting rid of the literally damned thing."

Lucifer's red, red, red lips part in gentle shock. They touch one lacquered nail to their own soft, pale cheek, then brush their palm across their neck as if double checking that the flesh there is indeed intact.

"You are generous in your forgiveness, sire," Lucifer says demurely.

"No more generous than all those who punish themselves in Hell for their past deeds deserve, I think," Hob says back. Including you , he doesn't add. But he doesn't need to.

Lucifer offers Hob a grateful bow.

Matthew makes a confused sort of snorfle sound. He hops his way down and across the room to Morpheus, who stoops to allow Matthew to perch on his hand, then transfers the raven to his shoulder.

"So now what, my lords?" Matthew croaks tentatively.

"Now we wait for whatever help was supposedly—"

Another unexpected surge of light interrupts Hob, and he squints against a golden flash-bulb flare of it. When it clears, two male-presenting beings that could literally only be angels stand before them.

This corner of the pub is starting to get awfully crowded, Hob thinks with all the hysterical sarcasm his ordeal allows him to muster.

The angels are both statuesque, both blonde, both clad in raiments of glowing white, with enormous golden wings. Hob glances at Lucifer, who rolls their eyes as the pompous way the angels carry themselves.

"Dream King," one of them says in deferential greeting. Both of the angels bow low to Morpheus.

" Remiel, Archangel of Hope. Duma, Archangel of Silence. Your presence in this moment is most welcome."

Morpheus inclines his head in a shallow bow, not letting on that it was the Bookseller who called them here, as asked. Hob doesn't know much about the hierarchy of celestial beings, but if the depth of their bows and nods to one another are anything to go by, Morpheus is a lot higher on the celestial pecking order than Lucifer's address to him has made it seem.

"Thank you," the one who is clearly not the Archangel of Silence says. "And our gratitude, also, for summoning us."

As one, the two archangels turn to the fallen one.

"Lucifer," Remiel says.

"Brother dearest," Lucifer sneers.

"The Divine Creator demands that you take up the Key and return to your throne."

"It's not my throne any longer," Lucifer sneers. "It's his now."

Remiel spares a glance over his shoulder at Hob that makes it very, very clear that the imperious twat thinks Hob is not much more evolved than pond gunk. The angel turns back to Lucifer.

"A mortal cannot rule Hell."

"Not mortal," Hob speaks up, just because he does not appreciate being snubbed in his own pub. And on his own birthday, to boot.

"Still human , though," Remiel sneers, the facade of literally-holier-than-thou superiority cracking a bit.

"And what's so wrong with being hummmuph," Matthew harrumphs as Morpheus reaches up and pinches his beak shut.

"Oh, well, guilty as charged then," Hob sneers right back, shoving his hands into his pockets and slouching his shoulders in the most insolent way he knows how.

Duma strides silently to Hob's side. Gently, but inexorably, the angel takes Hob's chin between his fingers, and holds his face still for his gaze.

"Doesn't hurt any more," Hob answers the ethereal creature's silent question. "But now we've got a bit of a problem, if you say a human can't rule Hell. Because it looks like it's either me, or Morpheus, and we all know what will happen if Dream of the Endless is forced to don that crown."

Duma's gaze grows tearful and sad. He shakes his head, just once, then releases Hob. Then, with the same hand, he reaches for the Key.

"Brother!" Remiel gasps, grabbing at his draped sleeve to stop him.

Matthew shakes free of Morpheus's fingers and, in a resounding voice that is clearly not his own, booms: "Hell cannot be entrusted to other than those who serve the Name directly… I shall take over Hell." The raven shakes himself all over, blinking rapidly. "What the fuck was that, boss?" He turns his sharp beak toward Duma. "Hey, don't use me as a puppet, man, that's violating!"

"Duma, no ," Remiel protests, but halts in the face of Duma's implacable silence. Remiel curls into himself in shame. "Very well. I cannot allow my fellow to drink from a cup I have refused. I will go with you."

"Have fun, boys," Lucifer sing-songs. "Oh, and there's a bit of a trick to getting the cold water in the palace pipes. There isn't any! Ha!"

Remiel sends Lucifer the stinkiest stink-eye Hob's ever seen in six hundred and sixty-six years.

Duma reaches for the key again and Hob is struck with a sudden flash of inspiration.

“Wait!” he shouts, throwing out a hand to block the Key. He doesn't touch it again though. He's reckless, not stupid.

"Wait?" Remiel echoes, agog. " Wait ? Who are you to command the Host to—"

"I'm the King of the Hell," Hob challenges back, puffing out his chest. "At least until you touch this Key."

"You are no Demonic Monarch, you lowly—"

“Oh, stuff it,” Hob snaps at Remiel, sick to the teeth with being polite to Celestial entities to clearly don’t feel the same courtesy toward him. “Before I give you the key, I want something in return. And I'm not giving up my one and only chance to do a deal as the Devil.”

Lucifer laughs, overjoyed. Morpheus makes a worried, confused sound. In the corner, Johanna's eyes narrow in concern.

But none of that matters. Because Hob’s remembered, all of a sudden, what Matthew had gossiped about, when he was recounting the parts of Morpheus’ trip to Hell that his friend had left out.

The boss stopped at this… this window in a spire, and a woman had called out for him with a name I’d never heard before, the raven had slurred, deep in his cups one evening while Morpheus had been trapped in the Library and sent Matthew for Tuesday Hangs in his stead. She’d reached for him through the bars, tugged on his coat, sobbing. She thought he’d come to rescue her and instead he just left there, like some heartless– He’d mantled his feathers then, shaking his head in a very human gesture like trying to disperse a bad memory. I asked Lucienne about her. She was sixteen, man, she was a kid, and the boss did her pretty dirty. She was heartbroken. It’s ugly.

Remiel bristles, the small feathers along the upper curve of their glossy white wings frazzling in irritation. “You do not bargain with God,” they hiss.

“But our absentee parent not here, my sycophantic sibling,” Lucifer purrs. “And Robert Gadling has not yet abdicated. Hell is his gift to bestow. Or to hoard. Oh, do say you will hoard it instead, little man. It will vex our creator so.”

“No,” Hob says, horrified by the idea of being sole ruler of all suffering for the rest of eternity, and being barred from Dream and the Dreaming to boot.

Lucifer shrugs, like it was worth one last try.

"Very well," Remiel grits out, sounding like every word is costing them a gallon of golden ichor.

“Nada,” Hob says. "She goes free."

Morpheus clutches hard at Hob's shoulder in his shock. " How do you know her name? How—"

"Not now," Hob says gently to his oldest friend, taking his hand from his shoulder, and twining their fingers together behind his back. Then turns his best flinty, bandit's glare at the angels. "Nada is released in exchange for the Key. Those are my terms."

"We cannot simply release a soul from Hell," Remiel says slowly, as if explaining to a toddler. "Without a corporation, it will be naught but a ghost."

"Then give her a corporation," Lucifer says, studying their nails as if bored. "We both know the paperwork is not as persnickety as the Quartermasters make it out to be. There's stacks lying around, waiting to be inhabited."

"Sibling!" Remiel hisses at Lucifer in warning. The former devil just bares their teeth at him. Remiel tries a different tack: "The Dream King condemned her to Hell himself. We cannot give her leave until he recants—"

Hob steps on Morpheus's foot.

Hard.

" I recant!" Morpheus yelps, glaring daggers at Hob. Then he clears his throat and resumes his customary haughty expression. "Nada has been unjustly punished, and it has gone on far too long. I recant my oath, and rescind my ire. Nada is no longer prisoner by my will, nor my pleasure."

Remiel gawps.

"A new life for Nada," Hob repeats firmly, bringing the conversation back to its point. "Reincarnation. A chance to do it all again, without suffering, in return for the Key. Are we agreed?"

Duma looks between Remiel, Morpheus, and Hob.

" Agreed ," Matthew booms, and then squawks: "Man, fuck off!"

"It is done."

Hob removes his hand from the bar.

Duma grasps the Key.

The only indication that it is paining him, that it is burning his face off even as Hob is staring at him and nothing is happening outwardly, is a slight squinching of his features. Remiel makes a disgusted sound and gestures with his hand, and the faint echo of a newborn baby's cry vaults through the room, perfectly audible over the susurrus of the gentling thunderstorm.

New life.

And she shares Hob's birthday.

How about that.

"The bargain is fulfilled," Remiel spits with disgust. "Brother, come."

Both angels snap their wings out—one of Remiel's slapping Lucifer in the face, clearly intentionally by the snarl they let loose—and in the powerful thrust of a gong-like wingbeat, are gone. The Key is gone with them.

Hob immediately squeezes Morpheus's hand tight and turns to gauge whether he's fucked up their friendship forever.

Surely, surely, Morpheus must be furious at Hob for overstepping so completely. Nada had gone to Hell because she'd died by suicide, but she'd only killed herself because Dream of the Endless had seduced her against the rules that forbade him for lying with a mortal ( Do I count as a mortal? Hob wonders frantically, Would we be punished if—focus, Gadling! ) and her people had been slaughtered in retribution. And Morpheus, in his pride, had left her to rot there when she refused his hand in return for rescue. It had all been, quite frankly, some epically toxic masculinity bullshit , and Hob is prepared to square off with his friend about it if he has to.

He doesn't want to, of course, but for the sake of a soul left suffering through no wrong of her own, he will.

But instead, he finds Morpheus limp with shock, silently weeping.

"Hob," Morpheus gasps. " Hob, my priest, my devoted one." He surges forward, anoints Hob's forehead and palms with holy, reverent kisses. The last of the lingering pain from the Key's hold is washed away in the cool calmness of deep sleep and deeper night. It flows down his skin, making him shiver as Hob is consecrated Head Priest once more. "How beneficent your human heart is. And how shamed I am, that it took you to force me to do right by one I had scorned unjustly and unkindly."

"Yeah, well, don't you forget it," Hob says, when Morpheus pulls away. He rubs his face, weary in a way that he hasn't felt in… well, ever. "So, are we done now? Can we… can we be done now, please? I have a party to—" he looks around the room, at all the people here under his invitation, under his burden of care. "To save."

"By all means," Lucifer says. "They will awaken as soon as I go."

" Then go," Morpheus invites, with no little amount of bitchy snark.

Lucifer offers him a hard stare, but after a moment, relents without retaliation. "I shall make my farewells to you then, Robert Gadling, from one former Monarch of Hell to another."

They lean forward and buss a gentle, warm kiss off of Hob's cheek.

“Where will you go?” Hob asks, as they withdraw. “If Hell isn’t your domain any more, what are your plans?”

“Why, stay here, of course,” Lucifer says. Then they look around at the cramped room, the stuffy air, the frozen mortals. “Well, perhaps not here , here. But as I said, it’s been ever so long since I’ve been invited to a party. I’ve forgotten how fun they can be. Perhaps I will find some space to host my own sinful little celebrations.”

“Like… a nightclub?” Hob asks, wracking his brain for what they may mean.

Lucifer’s eyes spark with intrigue. “Now that is an idea,” they murmur. “A nightclub . There’s all sorts of wicked things a soul may get into there. I’ll send you an invitation to the grand opening, Hob dearest. In thanks for tonight.”

“You know what,” Hob says, finding he really means it when he says: “I look forward to it.”

The former Devil blinks, obviously not anticipating or expecting his favorable response.

“See you then, my friend,” Hob says, holding out a hand to shake.

“Is that a binding promise?” Lucifer asks slyly, reaching back.

“Absolutely not,” Hob laughs. “I know better than to make a deal with the devil. Again.” He cuts a wink at Morpheus, who wrinkles his nose petulantly. “But you tell me when and where, and I’ll try.”

“That is acceptable,” Lucifer acquiesces, and shakes his hand not to seal a deal, but in a companionable farewell.

“Oh!” Hob says, as a dark cloud of absolutely rotten-smelling smokes begins to billow around their smart white pumps. “I used to play some violin, in the 18th century. Should I bring it?”

Lucifer breaks into a wide, frankly dorky grin of sheer delight. “No, friend. I haven’t picked up a fiddle since I lost that bout. I’m more of a piano man, now.”

And before Hob can think of anything clever to say to that, the cloud envelopes the Devil, and they are gone.

“-- the hell was that! ” Patrick shouts from beside Hob, right in his ear, and Hob startles away, nearly falling on his arse in surprise.

Hob catches himself on a bar stool, heart hammering in his throat, as all around him the humans resume moving and talking as if the massive clap of thunder that had shaken the Inn had occurred just a second ago.

“Someone should go check if that hit the pub!” one of Hob’s colleagues says, and grabs an umbrella from the stand of forgotten ones by the door and ducking outside before he can see who it was. “No! All good! No fire!”

Johanna Constantine bounds across the room like she's a bolt of lightning herself. Hob braces for a punch in the nose, and gets wrapped in a tight embrace instead. "You mad bastard," Johanna hisses in his ear. "You mad, incredible, pig-shit bonkers bastard ."

"Yeah, that's me," Hob says sheepishly, squeezing her back.

"Happy birthday!" she says, smacks a ridiculous kiss off his mouth, and then crosses back across the room, grabs Ric by the sleeve, and pulls her through the kitchen and—by the sounds of the slamming door—into the back where the bins make a conveniently shadowed corner.

"Yeah, nobody go back there for a while," Hob announces to the handful of people watching what had just happened with open curiosity.

"Ew," Patrick grumps. He does a double take when he catches Morpheus and Matthew on the far side of the bar, several empty glasses before him that he obviously didn't put there.

For a moment, Hob is worried that his co-owner is going to put up a fuss about the live animal in the building, but then Patrick shrugs in the way that mortals encouraged to overlook Morpheus' oddities by the very nature of his existence do. He busses the empties, and moves on to the next customer.

Hob, not inclined at all to overlook Morpheus, leans on the bar beside him, and grins up at his oldest, and strangest friend.

" Are all your birthday celebrations this eventful, Hob Gadling? " Morpheus asks, eyebrow raised coyly, as Matthew attempts to preen the last of his wet feathers into laying right.

"Nah," Hob promises. "Just the milestones."

" Then I already dread the party you will throw to mark your first millennia."

Hob, who has just enough beer left in his glass to toast Morpheus and toss back the mouthful, does so. Then he chuckles ruefully. "I don't, my friend. Not in the least. As a former Monarch of Hell, I have a feeling my life will be even more interesting in the decades to come." He drops Morpheus a cheeky wink. "And I have so much to live for."

On the far side of the pub, someone shuts off all the lights. A spark of candlelight goes up, and, raised in chorus, everyone that Hob holds dear—in the here and now—begins to sing.

PREVIOUS | NEXT

#Cling Fast #Cling Fast adjecent #The Hob Adherent series #Losyark #Sandman #The Sandman #The sandman fanfiction #the sandman fanfic #dreamling #dreamling fanfic #dreamling fanfiction #hob gadling #lord morpheus #dream of the endless #lucifer morningstar #pre-slash #matthew the raven #morpheus needs to learn to use his words

55 notes · View notes