endoftheverse: dream (pic#14478822)
Sam Winchester | Lucifer | Endverse ([personal profile] endoftheverse) wrote1992-11-28 04:04 pm

Lucifer's Dreamwalking

 

Comment here with your character in the middle of a dream while sleeping at night, and Lucifer will appear.

(He will be appearing at random to new CR, just looking around for company...!

But can also be summoned into dreams after any praying that is directed to 'angels' or to Lucifer directly.)
frogfear: (Default)

[personal profile] frogfear 2020-11-29 03:23 am (UTC)(link)
Since arriving in Deerington, Willow's dreams seem to have moved away from nightmares about Glory, and Buffy's death, and the pressure of trying to help keep things in Sunnydale in order back more towards her mind's usual way of working things out.

Tonight, she's trying to find her way out of a hedge maze. The maze itself is brightly lit, the sky is blue, sun shining. The hedges themselves are tall, and green, and covered with thorns and a variety of flowers. Willow is following a bright blue butterfly that seems to be consistently getting distracted by the flowers.

"Ooh, look! A yellow one! I like the yellow ones!" The butterfly exclaims cheerfully as it lands for a drink.

She's trying to be patient, and she can't help but smile at the little creature's enthusiasm, but there's still an attempt to stay on task. "You're supposed to be helping me find a way out of here, remember? You just had a yellow one."

"We'll get there, we'll get there," the butterfly assures her. It drinks its fill from the flower, and takes off, heading back in the direction they just came from.

"Butterfly!" She's exasperated now, and gestures down the path in their original direction. "You said it was this way? You really don't know where you're going do you?"

The butterfly returns to her and lands on her shoulder, gently opening and closing its wings and settles in to clean its antennae. "Oops. I got a little turned around. I know where we're going now. We're going this way," it declares decidedly, pointing with one of its legs. There's a moment of hesitation. "I... just don't remember if that's where the exit is. Sorry, Willow."
frogfear: (6)

[personal profile] frogfear 2020-12-01 12:00 am (UTC)(link)
Willow's head jerks up in Lucifer's direction, with a bit of a start. As far as she knew, it was just her and the little butterfly she had been following. She's polite enough though to offer a small, friendly wave and a smile. "Oh, hey. I, uh, didn't see you there."

"She," the butterfly corrects him immediately. "And I'm trying my best, okay?"

"It's okay, I know you're trying," Willow assures the little creature on her shoulder. She looks to Lucifer. "Hey, can you see which way to go from up there?"

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possessum: (𝟏𝟎𝟒)

[personal profile] possessum 2020-11-29 11:11 am (UTC)(link)
[ To dream is a sort of freedom.

But it is also a sort of cage.

Paimon's dreams are often of his existence here in Deerington, and those are generally welcomed ones. He dreams of the people he's met here, the bonds he's formed with others. His experiences in this place, absorbing and growing and learning. Often, these dreams are blended with Peter's time here too; they've experienced everything in this place together, after all. Waking up in Deerington marks the beginning of their life together, however convoluted and fretful it may be. He enjoys dreaming with Peter. It lets the demon feel.... things he hasn't quite been able to feel.

But then there are the dreams of existences before Peter. And these are...... confusing. These are strange; he doesn't understand. Tonight, Paimon is in one of those dreams, and it feels like being in the memory of someone.... else. Someone he doesn't quite recognise, but knows deep in his spirit.

He sits on the floor of a room. The door to the room is closed, and he doesn't know where it leads, but try as he might to open it, he cannot. Not from the inside, but someone else may open the door from their end.....

But as far as he knows, he is stuck here. Around him are various knickknacks and art projects — odd bits and bobbles of things pieced together, many unfinished. He sits at the desk for awhile, examining the items, feeling them in his hands. After an unknown amount of time, he moves to the bed, where he sits with long legs draped over the side, feet on the wooden floorboards. He stares at the wall, unmoving, unblinking. Every so often, he utters a soft sound — one of those odd cluck-sounds. When he manifests in dreams, he sometimes looks the way he does now: a bandage across his face from when he'd broken his vessel's nose, purple bruises beneath his eyes. And lately.... the crown he's acquired here, recently. It's an odd-looking thing, made of some sort of stretched leather, with bumps along the outside. It sits atop locks of messy, tangled curls.

He is here, trapped in a dream, in a memory that isn't quite his but belongs to some part of him, some..... past self. This place is something Peter doesn't dream about; it's not one of his memories, and on some level the demon is aware of that fact. Though this is technically some part of Peter's mind, the place Paimon inhabits, Peter is not here with him. Paimon is all alone, and something in him aches, softly. He is so very lost. ]
possessum: (the light that once was yellow is grey)

[personal profile] possessum 2020-12-01 11:58 pm (UTC)(link)
[ Paimon doesn't notice the man in the corner until he speaks — and his head moves upwards, eyes vexed widely, startled. But his movements are weirdly slow, lethargic. Even in this dreamscape where the usual limits of him aren't quite so pressing, he's something so strange.

Some part of him remembers seeing.... strangers, before Deerington. People watching him from the shadows, smiling at him. There was a hunger to those smiles, but a happiness, too. They were his... followers, swarming Peter like insects on a dying animal, welcoming Paimon in. Is this man.. one of them?

But something's... different to him. And yet familiar. Paimon slowly begins to stand up from the bed, turning to face where the man is. The... feeling of him, whatever remnants exist even in this dream space, seem to draw him closer. He....... has felt this before, hasn't he? (A coldness, something in him whispers and shudders, but it isn't unpleasant.) ]


Why are you here? [ It isn't accusatory, more shyly voiced than anything. And then he wonders, because maybe this man is one of the cult, somehow— ] Are you here for me?

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creidim: commission, dnt (☾ 086)

[personal profile] creidim 2020-12-03 09:15 pm (UTC)(link)
[ When Luna dreams, there's often terrible things. She dreams of running along the deck of a huge ship as it falls apart around her; of hoping she can change things concerning her death, and still is struck all the same — feeling wholly as she's impaled by the mast of the crow's nest. Other times, she dreams of being in the dark depths of a dungeon — cold and alone and hungry; or the searing pain of a terrible curse and the high-pitched screams of a dishevelled Dark witch in her ear as she grips at her hair, demands answers. Sometimes it's blood and flowers and white dresses, the swing of a mallet and the cracking of skulls.

They're not always so terrible. There's dreams of happiness, too. She dreams of meetings with Dumbledore's Army in the Room of Requirement; of visiting Honeydukes and stuffing her face with various wizarding candy; of spending time with her father as she paints murals in their home — small snippets of joy in her life, of magic. More recently, there's shy romantic dreams replaying her first kiss, or simply cuddled up close with a certain demon-possessed boy exchanging soft words and kisses like secrets.

Fortunately for Lucifer, it's... not that dream in particular. No teenage romance tonight. Instead, Luna finds herself in the Forbidden Forest, the light through the trees illuminating an ethereal blue. She walks alone, quiet — the dream slowly sewing itself together. She comes across a small group of Thestrals, the huge skeletal horses coming to meet her — snorting softly in greeting.

This is a simple joy, something from her very core — her love of magical creatures. She reaches to pet one softly, smilingly dreamily at the creature. As frightening and strange as they may be, as much as they appear to come from an outright nightmare, Luna isn't scared. She never has been. ]


Hello. [ She breaths it out softly, utterly delighted. ] It's good to see you again.
creidim: dnt (☾ 083)

[personal profile] creidim 2020-12-10 11:39 pm (UTC)(link)
[ It's rare people turn up when she dreams of this. Usually it's just her and the Thestrals — a scene almost reoccuring in her dreams. She spends a little time with them, just as she would back home, back at Hogwarts. The arrival of a person surprises her, but she goes along with it. It's just a dream, after all. ]

... Oh, hello. [ Her lip purses and then she smiles breezily. ] They're friends, yes. They're called Thestrals, creatures who can only be seen by those who've seen death.

[ It feels like an automated response, of sorts. As if she's not quite aware that there's someone else here in her dream with her. The replaying of a conversation providing her with words. She pets the Thestral fondly for a few moments.

But there's a long pause and she frowns a little — somewhat disorientated. She's... not sure where she can place the man, where his face comes from. Something is... not right here. ]


Have we... met?

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nottheonlytraveler: (Hard to breathe when you're standing on)

[personal profile] nottheonlytraveler 2020-12-08 02:25 am (UTC)(link)
[Dean doesn't really understand how dreaming works in Deerington, if they are already in a dream, but, hey, it's not as if dreams within dreams would be the strangest happening in his life.

For his part, Dean dreams of a lake, quiet and nearly still, surrounded by trees and mountains; birdsong lingers in the air, and everywhere smells like it's just rained. He's walking along the edge of the water, glancing out at the sky, covered in shades of purple and gray. Off to his right, a log cabin sits, just the right size to be cozy, but not confining, and further ahead, to his left, a dock stretches out into the water, covered in chairs, fishing poles, coolers, and a collection of empty beer bottles like the aftermath of some beachside party.

Dean feels almost at peace, except for the fact that there seems to be a presence nearby. He turns, trying to seek out the source, and trying not to jump at every shifting shadow.]


Hello?
nottheonlytraveler: (I ain't a fool)

What could possibly go wrong?

[personal profile] nottheonlytraveler 2020-12-10 01:51 am (UTC)(link)
[Dean turns at the sound of the familiar voice, wondering what Sam's doing here before figuring it must be some dream version of his brother, probably trying to teach him an important moral lesson, or however the hell his subconscious works these days.

Except, when Dean sees him, he knows it's not Sam; the white suit, for one, and the hair, for another. He stiffens. Even after older Sam explained how Lucifer was possessing this version of Sam, Dean didn't exactly fully believe him; he remembers, still, all the demons gossiping in the Pit, talking about Lucifer the way human Christians talk about God. And Dean has never believed in God, despite the fact that, according to Cas, God has work for him to do, so why should he believe in the devil, either?]


Let me guess. You're a man of wealth and taste?

[If this has to happen, you're damn right Dean's going to be quoting the Stones.]

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perfectantidote: (76)

cw: boddy horror, mentions of substance abuse, orgies, suicidal ideation

[personal profile] perfectantidote 2020-12-08 04:58 am (UTC)(link)
[ It's the same. It's always the same.

The Gates of Heaven slam shut, and he falls, endlessly spiralling down as his trueform begins to rot, trapped within his prison of flesh that is too small for everything he once was, and now feels like a hollow labyrinth beneath his ribs. His wings break and shatter as he crashes into the mud and the dirt.

The world goes silent, without his kin - even in exile, he'd always heard them. And now... now there is nothing. Now there is silence, and feelings. And oh, he feels it all. Pain and sorrow, guilt and regret, trauma and fear. It overwhelms him, like mud trying to pull him under, and he tries to drown it out - the constant pain, the way his true form never stops hurting as his shattered wings drag behind his vessel, the way the silence is a constant pressure, the way most of the senses he used to know have been violently, suddenly amputated, the way there's nothing inside of him but an empty, jagged chasm. His existence is pain, and he tries to drown it out, tries to march on towards his inevitable end by numbing himself, trying to make his blood sing and his mind go cotton soft and buzzing, hands upon hands upon hands on his skin just to feel connected, tethered, to something, someone, in ways he was once connected to his kin and is no longer, and those hands turn into claws that tear at his flesh and bone, and he flees into the safety of the wrecked Impala, with the ghostly apparition of Dean's repeating death a vista to the first time he'd cried, utterly broken and beyond any ability to keep going on.

And then, finally, finally...

Out in the mud, Dean putting the colt against his forehead. Behind him, Sam.

His failures. He couldn't save either of them. He's of no use to either of them. He cannot function, not even in this place. He's tried kicking the habit once, and relapsed. He's trying again, but everything is too much, and he wants to do this, but he can't do it, and he knows he's just waiting for them to pull the trigger, when they realize he's a festering disappointment that has long outstayed its welcome.

But the shot doesn't come. Instead the mud drags him under, and then he falls all over again, to repeat the same horror.

His dreams are nightmares - without fail. ]
Edited 2020-12-08 04:59 (UTC)
progeny: (.o11)

[personal profile] progeny 2020-12-26 07:50 pm (UTC)(link)
[it's two days after christmas that jack makes his call. that he ends up sat on one side of the table of the bunker kitchen, two plates of christmas dinner and two bottles of beer sitting in wait. sure, this is a dream, and sure, angels may not need to eat. but that isn't really the point. sam had told him that christmas was for family. so alternate reality or not, lucifer still falls under that banner. even if the rest of his family wished otherwise.

so for now, jack waits there in silence, his invitation to lucifer being easily ignored if the archangel chooses to keep his distance. he knows that lucifer has no real reason to speak to him. that even their connections to sam really aren't enough of a reason for him to agree to this meeting.

but he can hope.]
progeny: (.o41)

[personal profile] progeny 2020-12-29 10:52 pm (UTC)(link)
[looking up from his plate, jack finds it impossible to contain his smile. as much as he knows that he should be staying away, that both sam and castiel would be angry with him for even considering talking to lucifer again, it's impossible for him to stay away indefinitely. lucifer may not be his father in the same way that castiel is, but he's still a part of him. and any attempts made to ignore that would be futile.

he's lucifer's son, like it or not.]


Sam and Dean both said that...Christmas was for family. They wouldn't have let me invite you, so...

[his words trail off as he turns his gaze back to the table again. to an imitation of the christmas that the four of them had shared only days ago.]

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venatoris: polaroid_this (pic#14718283)

cw; nightmares, alcoholism

[personal profile] venatoris 2021-03-12 02:16 am (UTC)(link)
[ Dean rarely sleeps.

When he does, it is fitful and unrewarding; his body twists and turns in sheets that tangle around his arms and legs, pinning him in place, holding him down. He wakes in cold sweats, sheets drenched. The bottle of whiskey sits on the rickety bedside table, and he reaches for it, pours a few fingers and downs it. It's a routine; wake, shiver violently, drink, run missions, drink, repeat. His relationship with alcohol has become less casual friendship and more deeply intimate relationship as the years go by.

Sometimes, back home, he would seek the company of what he knows - rough, survivalist women who wear their hair in ponytails; the ones that go on missions and drive the humvees and argue with him, who give him a run for his money, who are happy with what little he can offer. It's release, but it is never fulfilling.

Mostly though, he spent his nights alone, because the dreams that ravaged his subconscious would spill into his waking moments, paralysis holding him down, breathing ragged and forced, wheezing as he lays there unable to move, eyes darting wildly, the nightmare still tormenting his brain until he comes out of it, into full wakefulness.

It is much the same in Deerington, though he hasn't been here very long. There is no reason to think it'll be much different, though. Different horrors, but still horrors all the same, and Dean does not expect his soul to be healed in a place that many people call hell.

He dreams in blacks and whites and greys of angels and demons, in colors of sticky fingers with popsicles, sammy, sammy it's dripping!, of green army men and fireworks exploding across a starless sky. It's not a nightmare, not yet.

But it could be. ]
Edited (word choicessss) 2021-03-12 02:20 (UTC)
noquests: (12. whatever)

:)

[personal profile] noquests 2021-03-12 02:35 am (UTC)(link)
[The dream finally seems to land on a particular day — beautiful day, really. Dean might vaguely remember it was somewhere around 1988, maybe later, maybe earlier. He was just a young kid then, anyway. But there's a picnic blanket smoothed out on a grassy hill overlooking a playground that seems all but abandoned. It's behind a hotel somewhere in Utah, and their dad's gone for the day, and it's just the two of them. It's sneaky and wrong and they could get in trouble, but-

Sam is very, very happy. He sits with his legs stretched out in front of him, a pile of dollar store drawing materials all around him; he's drawn what is maybe a rabbit, maybe a dog, maybe a blob with arms and legs. But he's happy, and he smiles over at Dean as he appears, not apparently concerned with the fact that Dean isn't a child.]


What're you shaking for? S'not even cold. Look.

['Sam' motions to the sunny sky with a small hand. It's warm.

Not a cloud in sight.]
venatoris: @tweak (pic#14718270)

B(

[personal profile] venatoris 2021-03-12 02:42 am (UTC)(link)
[ Dean's dream world tips a little on its axis as his subconscious flits through memories, some real, some imagined, many deeply personal. He lands here, though, and he remembers this day, remembers Sam's scribbled drawings, remembers his own legs stretched out as the sun beat down on his face. It wasn't hot, it had been just right - warm, comfortable, just the two of them.

He remembers buying those supplies, the notebooks and crayons with cash they were supposed to use for food, but Dean hadn't cared. Sam had wanted to draw, and what Sammy wanted from Dean, he usually got.

It had been a good day, he remembers.

Why, then, is he trembling? He doesn't know. ]


I'm fine. Show me what you drew?

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