#psychic fringe

[ophilosoraptoro]

Bending Time: The Successful Time Travel Experiments using Kozyrev Mirrors

#fringe science #soviet union #history #science #psychic powers #time travel #CIA #Kozyrev Mirrors #project looking glass #remote viewing #ufo #time mirror #time #physics #quantum physics #relativity #einstein #space #space time #Youtube

[aspelladay]

Psychic Vampire Repair

Flower essence remedies may be used to repair the damage done. They will also assist you to manifest new behavior so that you are no longer as vulnerable. Recommendations include:

Apple (FES), for depletion of sexual creative forces and energy (also excellent for incubi/succubi repair)

Fringed Violet (Australian Bush), to repair damage to the aura caused by other individuals

Garlic (FES), repels parasitic entities of all kinds and repairs any damage done

Rue (FES), heals and empowers those whose energy and life-force is easily depleted or is overly absorbent of negative forces

(from The Element Encyclopedia of 5,000 Spells by Judika Illes)

#spells #vampire spells #healing spells #apple #fringed violet #garlic #rue #flower remedies #psychic healing spells

[avaganda]

Fringe 1974 - Dr William Bell and his research assistant Nina Sharp are contracted by the government to do research into Fringe Sciences, including telekinesis, pyrokinesis, remote viewing, flotation tanks, precognition and experiments into mind control and enhancement using LSD.

#fringe #william bell #dr william bell #nina sharp #mind control #brainwashing #telekenisis #psychic #remote viewing #walter bishop

[nando161mando]

Janet Russon, a psychic medium from Utah, was a central source of “intelligence” for OUR, leading to at least one failed mission and no evident rescues of missing children.

#operationundergroundrailroad #timballard #psychics #janetrusson #anti-trafficking #Trafficking #gardymardy #guesnomardy

@vicemag @vicenews @viceuk

#janetrusson #fraud #fraudsters #psychic #paranormal #fringe science #supernatural #vice news #vice #our #operation underground railroad #rescue #usa #america #utah #psychics #anti trafficking #human trafficking #child trafficking #gangster dubbed ‘mr nice’ jailed over involvement in global drug trafficking network #son of el chapo extradited to us to face fentanyl trafficking charges #ex laliga ace could be killed ‘very quickly’ after swapping football for drug trafficking where he earned 6 times wages #trafficking #gardymardy #guesnomardy #ausgov #politas #auspol #tasgov #taspol

[careless-with-your-heart]

WIP Wednesday! #Fringefic (I'm Found in the Water)

I am still alive, and this story has not died. I'm working on new chapters. But, yeah, now Astrid has to save everybody. I hope they're fucking grateful. Snippet below the GIF!

Peter wrenches one arm free of the grip of the goon to his right, lunging toward the Secretary. Before he can reach his father, the second goon has hauled him back, and the one he’d shaken off has unholstered a gun and is training it on him. Peter stills, simmers, tries to suppress the roar of anger that fills his ears.

“Funny,” his father says, his weathered face impassive, “I thought that, once a dog was neutered, it became less aggressive.”

“I might have hesitated to kill you in the past, you unrepentant monster, but if you harm a hair on Olivia’s head, I swear to God, I will end you,” Peter spits.

The Secretary picks at an imaginary bit of lint of his impeccable suit. “Hmm. Patient one-twelve’s hair is perfectly unharmed, son, I assure you. She does have this…interesting bruise on her inner thigh, however. The perfect outline of teeth. It looks like your lower anteriors are still just a tad crooked. It’s a shame I never got you orthodontics as a teenager—but I couldn’t have you with access to anything sharp, metal.”

The Secretary pauses, and then a twitchy, lecherous smile curls over his face. “You know, your mother being gone and all has left me so lonely. Do you think, now that your little mind reader has a taste for Bishop men…?”

Peter’s vision tinges red. “Don’t touch her.”

“Her skin is so soft, isn’t it?”

“Shut your fucking mouth.”

“Nice and supple. It cut so nicely right before I installed her spinal port.”

Peter struggles anew, twisting, kicking and stomping wildly. He has one thug nearly off of him before he feels the prick of a needle in his neck. Still, he fights, wrenching against the arms that vise around his, his eyes fixed on his father as he fights the medication.

#fringe #fringefox #fanfiction #ao3 #ao3fic #polivia #au #Astrid is a BAMF and more people need to know it #Peter is easily provoked #Walternate is a creeper #Olivia also kills a guy with electrode cables in the new chapters but he totally deserves it #When your dad finds out you psychically banged a girl how awkward is that #AITA: My adult son that I held captive for his entire childhood came home expecting me to release his kidnapped girlfriend #I have had too much caffeine can you tell

[thegoldenreport]

FRINGE PRINCIPLE

I.

I teach fourth grade at an elementary school. I’m sure I do. I wake up every morning. I make coffee. I let my dog out and then back in. I jump in my car and drive down a street and then another street and then I park. I get out. There is a massive, stone-brick building in front of me. Obsidian black. The glass doors are left wide open so I don’t have to use my badge. But I do have a badge. It’s a white laminated card with my name on it and a sketched picture of a bird eating a snake.

II.

I’ve worked here for at least four years, maybe more. Nobody really talks to eachother, but I’ve grown to appreciate the solitude. The hallways remain dark most of the day. I can always hear the children; their shuffling feet, their bright laughter, their whispered secrets. I walk to my classroom and the hallway is empty. There is a flashing light which marks the number on my door. I enter and flick the broken light switch out of habit. I do not usually see anyone while enroute to my classroom. But I always hear the children. 

III.

There is a lesson plan already loaded on my computer. Something about rocks. Or other types of physical matter. It is the only light that penetrates the dark in here. I scroll through, observing how beautiful the rocks are. My students will love this lesson. It’s all images. The seats and desks are positioned in ways that seem haphazardous. Like they weren’t put back the last time we used them. Maybe we had a group discussion yesterday and I forgot. Maybe it was one of the after school programs. I take the next fifteen minutes to tidy up the desks into neat and even rows. And then I wait at my desk for the children.

IV.

Time for lunch already. It astounds me how quickly the day goes. I stare out at my empty seats. They must already be in the cafeteria. How eager they can be to spend time with their friends. I retrieve my own packed lunch from the mini fridge beneath my desk and head to the teacher’s lounge. The hallways remain uncaringly cold and vacant. Though I did run into at least one colleague. Her name escapes me. She seemed like she was in a hurry, so I didn’t say hello.

V.

Bell rings. The day is over. I hang back in my classroom for a few extra hours. My students are having an exam in three days. I wanted to make myself available for questions. But everyone appears to have left already, except for those after school kids. Sprinting down the hallways like their life depends on it. I stay late enough to watch my own computer power down by itself. They’re going to lock down the school for the night, so I grab my things and head out. I pull my jacket tighter around me. The glass doors remain wide open, swinging a bit violently in the outdoor breeze. I don’t see the security guard, so I close them, making sure the latch is firm. And then I go home.

I’ve done this for many years.

Many people depend on me. 

Why would I return if I didn’t have a job to do?

#caught in a role you didn't seem to choose? #tied to a set of responsibilities you can't explain? #you may be trapped in a psychic web #and we wanna hear about it #contact the golden report and share your story! #talking helps #we promise #fringe principle #issue 44 #the golden report #unreality #weird #dark #surreal #original #writing

[zpomnicore]

#Praxis #Psychic Defense #Speedcore #Breakcore #8bit #Party #Lauschangrif #Berlin #Lynx #Christoph Fringeli #Memero #Nihil Fist #Messias #Cathartic Noise Experience

[underdark-dreams]

thinking about rolan being super protective over tav 😭 him constantly sneering at the party at any partial sign of tav seeming overworked or stressed and assuming its because they cant take care of their own business- him constantly giving tav books for no charge when they stop by sorcerous sundries and insisting they make time to read and enjoy some leisure for the night and giving a VERY TARGETED GLARE at the party over their shoulder (when tav isnt looking) so they know not to bother them

Yes, yes, yes! 😭 Overprotective Rolan with a bookish Tav is so good

It takes a minute, but once Rolan's protective side toward them kicks in, he's hovering around Tav's periphery any time they cross paths. Glancing at them every ten seconds while trying to seem chill and aloof. Fussing in a way that's very blunt but well-meaning at heart

If Tav has slipped away from a gathering for a quiet moment of relaxation, anyone who dares to interrupt them is stared down under Rolan's withering gaze until they take too much psychic damage and decide to leave Tav alone

If he sees Tav yawn one (1) time at a party, Rolan will step in to guide them away under some pretense, only to shoo them off to their tent

OR. If they're visiting him at the Tower, Rolan insists they take the guest room immediately. He keeps it spotless in the event that someone (read: Tav) might need it. He's truly very generous to the people he cares about...also highkey dying to impress Tav by showing off his new place. Would be over the moon if they started spending many nights there and would make any changes the thought might make Tav more comfortable

Finds a lot of happiness in looking after Tav & providing them a place where they can unwind away from everything. And if it means Rolan gets to spend more time around them, well, that's just a fringe benefit

Rolan definitely does not memorize every niche interest that Tav happens to mention. He also does not keep an eye out while combing through his library, pull any volumes he thinks Tav would enjoy, and place them in a strategic and very obvious location before Tav's next visit

Tav: Oh what a coincidence, I love [subject] :)

Rolan: You don't say! Take these seven books about it, I insist

Rolan would be absolutely smitten to find out that Tav is a reader. Also would be personally offended if he found out that they don't have time to sit down with a good book. He gives them an open invitation to the Tower's library for as much quiet time as they like. Maybe even gives them a key to his private collection [blush]

For Rolan, having a lively discussion with Tav about whatever book they last read from his library is like the most thrilling form of flirtation. He could talk with them for an hour and his tail tip would be swaying in little excited arcs behind him the whole time. This tsundere nerd

#bg3 rolan #rolan bg3 #rolan x tav #bg3 headcanons #bg3 spoilers #rolan

[gallifreyinstituteforlearning]

Can you tell me anything about Nechronomancers?

Certainly!

Nechronomancers

🕰️ Who are Nechronomancers?

At the fringes of Time Lord society, you'll find the Nechronomancers. Originating from the prestigious House of Arpexia (and probably linked to Faction Paradox), they decided that mainstream Gallifreyan life wasn't for them and rejected societal norms and the very concept of time itself. Nechronomancers throw away their names, genders, and histories, choosing a path of existence that defies everything a Time Lord is supposed to stand for.

🔮 Masters of Temporal Manipulation

What makes Nechronomancers particularly interesting isn't just their radical lifestyle but their unique abilities over time, too. They have skills that hint at an in-depth understanding and control over temporal states, and possess powers that go beyond what ordinary Time Lords can achieve. Their mastery over time allows them to phase in and out of temporal streams, weaponise themselves, manipulate temporal energies, and even resist effects that would disorient or harm others based on time-based anomalies, making them useful in the Time War.

🧬 Unique Biological Traits

Neurological Adaptations: Their brains may have been changed to interface with time in strange ways, supported by psychic abilities finely tuned to temporal frequencies.

Bioenergetic Fields: They may generate distinctive bioenergetic fields that interact with time, allowing them to phase in and out of temporal streams and even create temporal echoes for simultaneously interacting across multiple points in time.

Temporal Immunity: Their biological rhythms could be synchronised with temporal energies, affording them immunity to time-based anomalies and effects. This synchronisation might affect their ageing process and shield their cellular structure from temporal fluctuations.

Multidimensional Awareness: A heightened awareness that extends into parallel dimensions enhances their mastery over time-space, positioning them as beings of significant power and mystery within the Time Lord society.

⛪ Religious Zealots

Nechronomancers also have their own set of beliefs and mythology. They draw inspiration from a figure known as the 'Seventh Founder' or 'old one' or 'other', a nameless, genderless entity who embodies the essence of their ideals.

⚔️ Faction Paradox

Their association with the Faction Paradox adds another layer of 'what?'. This connection hints at a shared interest in the darker aspects of temporal engineering.

Hope that helped! 😃

→🫀Gallifreyan Anatomy and Physiology Guide (WIP) →⚕️Gallifreyan Emergency Medicine/Monitoring Guides →📝Source list (WIP)

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

》📫Got a question / submission? 》😆Jokes |🫀Biology |🗨️Language |🕰️Throwbacks |🤓Facts 》📚Complete list of Q+A 》📜Masterpost If you like what GIL does, please consider buying a coffee or tipping below to help make future projects, including complete biology and language guides.

#doctor who #gil #gallifrey institute for learning #dr who #dw eu #gallifrey #dw meta #gallifreyans #ask answered #whoniverse #gil biology #gallifreyan biology #time lord biology

[prokopetz]

The third major revision of the increasingly overwrought tabletop RPG about what if Samus Aran was secretly three to five space gerbils operating a person-sized mech suit is now up.

This is primarily an "expansions and clarifications" type update, with few major structural changes, apart from splitting scenes into multiple types and providing simplified rules for the less critical ones. Those expansions and clarifications are substantial, however, so if you're updating from the previous playtest draft I'd definitely recommend giving the changelog a once-over.

My next steps, in no particular order:

Finish the mech suit upgrades table (there are currently a couple of unfilled slots, and I'd like to bump it up to a full 18 eventually)

Provide some examples of pre-generated space gerbil roles

Discussion of campaign play (including advancement)

Discussion of playing without a GM (possibly including solo play?)

Add a bunch of big stupid random mission tables (needed for both GMless play and hypothetical solo play module)

As always, comments, criticisms, and bizarre rants are welcome. Additionally, this is probably the first major revision of the game where a full end-to-end run is feasible (at least for a one-shot), so if anyone would like to volunteer to run an actual playtest, please drop me a line!

Illustrations by @pencilbrony

Full changelog under the cut:

Space Gerbils Changelog 2023-01-08

Note: all page numbers refer to the PDF version.

Print-and-play token sheet updated with twelve additional papercraft minifigs, courtesy of @pencilbrony

Added a brief inspirational media section (p. 8) and a not-so-brief glossary (pp. 9–14)

Two new full-page illustrations by @pencilbrony (pp. 16, 28)

Added procedures for randomly selecting starting mech suit upgrades and increased number of starting upgrades to 2 (p. 21)

Added two new mech suit upgrades ("Co-pilot Protocols" and "Copy Circuit") (pp. 21–22)

Re-worked "Hyperdrive" upgrade for compatibility with revised critical success rules (below) (p. 22)

Re-worked "Well Maintained" upgrade so that it doesn't require players to keep track of how many times it's been used in each scene; all upgrades are now either "once per scene" or "once per phase" (p. 23)

Added six new proficiencies ("Bodyguard", "Fringe Science", "Machine Empathy", "Motivational Speaker", "Observant" and "Psychic") (pp. 24–26)

Re-worked "Direct Neural Interface" proficiency so that it no longer benefits from cost discounts for pushing yourself (p. 24)

Re-worked "Special Operations" proficiency to be less complicated and (somewhat) less overpowered (p. 26)

Added a note about re-naming proficiencies (p. 27)

Made starting Stress Limit more explicit (p. 27)

Revised phase flowchart to reflect simpified workflow (see below) and made it available as a separate PDF (p. 29)

Re-worked Setup Phase to allow players to choose their initial positions (p. 30)

Clarified that Extravehicular Activity task may not be performed if doing so would result in no space gerbils crewing the mech suit (p. 32)

Revised protocol descriptions (p. 34)

Added rules for multitasking (p. 35)

Clarified handling of Fallout Phase when multiple tests were made in preceding Action Phase (p. 37)

Critical success now occurs on any success where the chosen result shows doubles or better, not just double 6s; critical success and complications may now occur on same test (p. 38)

"Lost" complication re-named "Scrambled", and now disallows Reassigning in following Operations Phase (pp. 39–40)

"Delayed" complication re-named "Time Loss" (pp. 39–40)

Subsection on complications and physical threats removed and replaced with more general discussion of interpreting mixed outcomes (p. 41)

Workflow for End Phase simplified; the End Phase now always follows the Fallout Phase, and its triggers no longer depend on what happened in phases prior to the Fallout Phase (p. 42)

Clarified and expanded End Phase triggers, and included a trigger for all space gerbils Stressing Out at the same time (p. 42)

Added explicit rules for recovering Stress and conditions between scenes (p. 42)

"Hazardous" condition re-named "Unsafe" to avoid potential confusion with scene Hazards (p. 44)

Brief discussion of mission structure added to "Running the Game" (p. 47)

Scenes now divided into two types: engagements and interludes (pp. 49–59)

Re-named Mission Clock to Threat Clock (p. 49)

Expanded discussion of Obstacle traits (p. 52)

Added eight new Obstacle traits ("Barrier", "Cryptic", "Hazardous", "High Risk", "Jinxed", "Small Target", "Stressful" and "Volatile") (pp. 52–54)

"Secure" Obstacle trait re-named "Big Target" (p. 52)

"Consequence" Obstacle trait re-named "Fixed Consequence" (p. 53)

Added rules for scene Hazards (p. 55)

Added discussion of handing the end of an engagement (p. 56)

Simplified rules for handling non-critical scenes and having adventures outside the mech suit (pp. 57–59)

#gaming #tabletop roleplaying #tabletop rpgs #space gerbils #game design

[philliam-writes]

you are in the earth of me [03]

Pairing: Anthony Lockwood x fem!Reader

Content: no warnings apply

Summary: A hand catches your wrist. Warm fingers brush against the slip of skin where your glove ends, sending an electrifying shock up your arm. You start. Lockwood lets go and pulls back. “Like it or not, we are in this together,” he says quietly. His voice drops to a low tremble, gaining a quality that feels like a solid caress on your skin. Heat crawls up your neck. “And as with any proper team, there are no secrets, and no holding back valuable information. Deal?”

Notes: [01] || [02] | [04]

Words: 4.3k

A/N: A shorter chapter, but I still hope you'll enjoy it! Thank you so much again for all the support! ♥ If anyone new wants to join the taglist, just lemme know!

03: wring those embers

back then, i was dauntless and dawn could never know and my weakness made me weep less than i would ever show you — The Amazing Devil: The Calling

Indeed, at Rotwell everyone works hard to solve the Problem. It is quite impressive how immaculate they look while doing it—as though in addition to the highly sensitive Psychic Talents every Rotwell agent possesses, they secretly train to perform under stress with no fold in their jackets, no holes in their pants, no grime smudges on their faces. Seems as though your invitation to those seminars got lost on the mailing route.

You slither by the countless other agents in their splendid burgundy jackets, aware you stick out like a sore thumb with your torn coat and muddy steel-capped boots. After the night you had, it is hard to plaster on the charming smile that is Rotwell’s USP. Every winning smile sent your way by your colleagues is too bright, too clean. They look very new and fresh and shiny, like someone has popped them out of a plastic case this morning.

The glittering glass building rises on Regent Street with its smooth-fronted edifice of glass and marble. Snarling lions, holding rapiers in their forepaws, have been inscribed into the glass of its sliding double doors. Outside, a line of the desperate and ghost-haunted stands, waiting to get inside and petition the company for help. You squeeze past them inside the spacey foyer, a wide room with gold-fringed red carpets leading to the different departments laid out before a row of neat receptionists sitting at their tidy desks. Right at the room’s centre, in front of the white-marbled wide stairs leading to the upper floor, stands Tom Rotwell’s marble bust with its forever-frozen, blank expression passing judgement over his legacy. You feel very small under his scrutinising gaze, and duck along the marble pillars towards the maintenance apartment on ground floor.

Someone barks your name. There goes your plan to head in unnoticed and get cleaned up before any of the adult supervisors catches you. But when you turn, you recognise the scrawny boy heading your way: Aleck Gorobec, an agent from the Domestic Hauntings Division. He’s always had this habit of chewing on something—right now, he’s working a toothpick between his front teeth as though he’s trying to make a gap as wide as the Grand Canyon. “Hey, Crawford wants you in his office.”

The relief vanishes in an instant. If you had to chose between spending the afternoon in Daniel Crawford’s office or doing a tango with a Wraith, you’d be already on your way to put on your best Sunday dress.

“Like, right now? ‘Cause I really need to get a new jacket—”

“NOW now,” he says. “Better not keep him waiting, he seemed prety pissed. I think he got into a fight with his wife. Again.”

Even better. He’ll chew you, spit you out and feed your remains to that little rat of a dog he owns.

You will find no support in Aleck; now that he has relayed the message, he turns and saunters back to his little group of half-sized lackeys with identical hair cuts, leaving you to your fate.

So you make your way towards the staff elevators and think about faking a heart attack so you could skip seeing Crawford. They wouldn’t let someone with a weak heart deal with something as harsh as work regulations, would they?

The lift brings you up two more floors to the deputy sector. Each floor is lined with heavy crimson carpets you know for a fact are steam-cleaned every night when the majority of agents set out for cases. Employees on this floor have their own canteen and coffee shop regular agents aren’t allowed to use—you have a feeling a cup of coffee or tea they serve up here costs half of your rent compared to the one they sell downstairs that is delivered by the local Starbucks.

Muffled voices drift through the rows of closed oak doors. Somehow, the smell always reminds you of a teacher‘s room; stuffy but comforting in a way, the sleek couches and spartan cabinets in the small waiting areas and lounges have absorbed the coffee smell over the years.

Crawford’s office is at the end of the long hall. You were hoping he would be caught up in a phone call as well, but when you knock, there’s an immediate “Come in!”

Andrew Crawford is a small, stocky man with little to no neck depending on his mood for the day. Apart from making it his life ambition to harass every even slightly successful agent under the age of 25, his other hobbies include collecting every type of Little Trees Car Air Fresheners on the market. As far as you know, he doesn’t even own a car.

“Took you long enough,” Crawford grumbles. His little hairy moustache twitches in annoyance. “Take a seat.”

You prefer to stand. Somehow you don’t think that’s what Crawford wants to hear. So you make your way across the office, slowly sinking into the hard plastic chair. Deputies’ rooms are all furnished equally: marble-topped desks, chairs, bins, filing cabinets and a few plants. You count ten, eleven, twelve of those air fresheners hanging from a single yucca plant.

Crawford finishes abusing his plastic keyboard, throws a glance at a large-scale street map of the Strands, his area he’s responsible for, takes a swig of cold tea and turns to you for the first time.

“Wait, where’s your damn jack—” Crawford stops, takes you fully in: the tears and holes, the grime and ectoplasm smudges on the once-splendid red. He grunts, and leans so far back in his swivel chair it creaks loudly in protest. “Almost didn’t recognise it. Say, Rotwell is one of the best employers anyone with Psychic talents could ask for, don’t you agree?”

You hate questions like this. “I, er—yes?”

Crawford looks at you. Then looks some more, as though he’s just waiting for you to realise what this is all about. He clears his throat and leans forward, puts his massive arms on the table as though he’s just having a chat with a close pal in a pub after work. “See, thing is, I was informed you were seen with unknown operatives from other agencies. And last time I checked—” He turns to the monitor to his left, slams his thick fingers on a few keys—“you were not on a job that required assistance from external agents.”

You start fidgeting with the hem of your gloves. “Well, no, but sir, I was attacked—”

“I heard that happens from time to time when engaging ghosts.”

“No, I mean by a man. Someone alive.”

Crawford eyes you suspiciously with his tiny, dark eyes. “When did that happen?”

“In the early morning hours. Three, four a.m.”

“And what do you want me to do about it now?”

You open your mouth, and close it. One of Crawfords few talents is successfully making you feel as though you are the problem. What if you were? What if you’re overreacting? An agent’s life tends to be dangerous, what of it? “Well, the culprit is still out—”

“Do you have a name? Did you see his face?”

“No, and I didn’t, but—”

“Then what exactly do you expect from me? Clearly, nothing serious happened to you, you got off with just a few scratches. The real issue is that due to what recently transpired, further employment might be a problem.”

You grit your teeth against a groan of frustration, feeling your body burning with anger, your blood boiling with rage that threatens to spill over. “I have worked here for five years, without any complaints, no breaches of contract.” You ball your hands into tight fists. “I am an exceptional agent, you know that. And you’re letting me go just like that?”

Crawford sighs wearily. “Trust me, this isn’t easy for me either. I am aware you are one of our more lucrative agents. But lucky for you, we are not letting you go. I merely suspend you for conducting unauthorised work with an external agency. Until your suspension is lifted, all benefits are revoked. That includes using certain facilities and access to equipment for field work. You can leave your jacket here.” Crawford reaches forward and taps a spot on his desk with two fingers, before returning to the paperwork in front of him.

It takes a moment to stir from the ice-cold grip that has taken hold of your body and heart. Your mouth is dry and a fist-big chunk of anxiety is lodged tightly in your throat. “I was not working with anyone. This is all a misunderstanding.”

“Misunderstanding or not,” Crawford replies calmly; something has caught his attention on the monitor, he isn’t even looking at you, “we’re just taking safety measures to ensure the confidentiality agreement wasn’t breached on your end.”

“But I—”

He looks up at you then, and blinks as though wondering why you are still wasting his time. “And where is your rapier?”

“Still at ho—the dormitory.”

“All right. No need to bother. We’ll send someone later to clear out the room. If you need help finding new accommodates, there are a few establishments offering lodge for little money in Lambeth I heard.”

The aggressive typing resumes. You are clearly dismissed.

Wrenching out of the jacket, you make no effort to hide your anger and frustration. Crawford gets a balled-up knot of dirty fabric thrown on his desk, but he seems to care little for your tantrum safe for raising a single bushy eyebrow at the flickering screen.

You stomp outside the room, slamming the door shut behind you hard enough it rattles the golden-framed paintings of rolling hills and slithering lakes on the wall.

You’ll show him. You’ll show them all.

When you catch a glimpse of yourself in the polished glass window on your way out—no wine-red jacket, nothing to identify who your employer, no former employer was; just your tired face yet eyes bright with determination, for the first time since a long while, you look like yourself again.

At the Lions Den, it isn’t just the cleaning crew mingling near the entrance. DEPRAC vans park in front of the main doors. A few officers are lost in a deep conversation about the intricately interwoven iron railings decorating the windows on the first floor. Two very tall, very sturdy Rotwell agents stand guard, self-important and with their chests puffed out as though they are guarding Buckingham Palace itself.

There is no way you’ll be able to get inside through the main entrance—even if you did, you have a gnawing suspicion security has been tripled inside since yesterday. They must have figured out someone has broken in, otherwise why would DEPRAC be here?

You duck behind naked rhododendron bushes and sneak towards the iron door leading to the back garden. Many residences in Chelsea have garden terraces; this one is a courtyard between several buildings. Slim paths wind through the back and disappear behind shoulder-high hedges. The trees, their leaves turned gold and russet with the late fall, are strung with chains of white lights, and stylish ghost lamps scattered between them that give off the familiar green glow at night. A small fountain plashes musically in the centre of the yard.

Minding the pebbles crunching under your boots, you gingerly make your way across the lounging area, past the small tables and cushioned three-piece suites—until you catch the swish of a black coat disappearing around a corner.

Just great.

You hurry after it, hearing the crunch of stone under heavy work boots somewhere behind you. DEPRAC, or worse, Rotwell agents.

The two are hiding behind a bench facing the back entrance. Before whoever strolls behind you can round the corner, you grab Lockwood by the end of his coat, and Lucy by the back of her collar, and yank them behind the trunk of an elm casting long, dark shadows on the building.

“What are you doing here?” you hiss; all three of you are cowering so close together your knees almost touch.

Lucy looks as though she is still recovering from being grabbed like that—by considering if she should swing at you or not. Lockwood on the contrary has already collected himself and put on a diplomatic smile. Yet you can see the steady, fast hammering of his pulse against his throat.

“Why, Lucy has never seen the infamous Lions Den, that’s why I took her up on a little sightseeing—” Lockwood begins.

“We need to get inside,” Lucy hisses back. Straightforward, to the point, like an arrow aiming true. You can work with that.

“Not sure if you noticed, but Rotwell dormitories have a strict jacket-only policy,” you say. You feel their eyes on you like a pair of red-hot coals.

“Where’s your jacket then?” Lucy asks.

You draw your shoulders back. “I quit. This morning. Afternoon. So, no jacket for me.” What’s a little lie if they will never find out the truth. Whatever shrapnel of self-respect you can hold, you will staple it on you as though it is the last leaf whipping on a barren branch during a cold winter storm—the last remnant of the previous season where everything was warmer and cosier.

There is silence. You can hear the soft electrical hum of the lights and ghost lamps turning on above your heads as dawn sets in, the water plashing in the stone fountain in the centre of the courtyard.

Lockwood and Lucy exchange looks—it seems like a glance, but you recognise a full blown conversation governed by face muscles and eye narrowing; it is the same whenever you and Kipps argue about something without wanting a third person to understand the topic. Kipps’s teams calls it your ‘sibling conversation.’ Lockwood and Lucy look a lot like that right now, conjuring full volumes with shared glances only.

“Just follow me,” you mumble, and duck behind a juniper tree before they can reach the conclusion of their argument. “And keep your heads down.”

You lead them away from the agents strolling down the path you’ve been on just a minute ago. Lockwood and Lucy immediately stick to your heels, careful their heads don’t poke over the hedges.

The three of you sneak around the east wing, through another iron gate and pause to listen for voices. Only a couple House Sparrows chirp in the trees above your heads. This could be a graveyard for how frequent visitors stroll by.

Finding your apartment isn’t hard. Bright, neon-yellow DEPRAC tape marks an X where the full-height window, smashed and gaping, leads inside the rooms. Glass lies strewn across the grass. The entrance to your apartment is like a dark mouth, the broken glass still sticking to its frames standing out like jagged teeth.

Again, you listen for voices. Again, only silence answers. You look back at Lockwood and Lucy. “I’ll go check things out. You stay here and keep watch. If anyone comes, let me know.”

Not interested in any disagreement or otherwise unsolicited opinions, you turn to slip inside. A hand catches your wrist. Warm fingers brush against the slip of skin where your glove ends, sending an electrifying shock up your arm. You start.

Lockwood lets go and pulls back. “Like it or not, we are in this together,” he says quietly. His voice drops to a low tremble, gaining a quality that feels like a solid caress on your skin. Heat crawls up your neck. “And as with any proper team, there are no secrets, and no holding back valuable information. Deal?”

You wrestle with what you should say. You have never been skilled at putting things delicately. Frankly, you’re better off on your own than having to worry about those two—and yet. If Lockwood and his agents had not let you stay and patched you up, what use would have your confidence now?

Not trusting your voice, you nod.

Glass shards crunch under your boots when you step inside. The whole room is demolished: furniture overturned, the cupboards have been completely and methodically emptied. All the drawers are missing. What remains of your desk is splinters and broken leftovers. Your clothes have been ripped off the hangers and thrown on the ground, some even torn. You don’t want to think about how you would have met the same end if he had gotten you into his hands.

The wardrobe’s door barely hanging on its hinges squeals when you carefully pull it open. You find your duffel bag at the bottom, and meticulously start throwing whatever intact clothes you can find inside. A few shirts, something you can wear to sleep, underwear, a few jeans, your favourite turtlenecks, sweaters. A package of unopened gloves. Your library pass that grants you access to every Archive in London—the one you thought you’d lost a week ago and technically should return to Rotwell.

An old, outdated kit with a few zip fasteners missing hangs from a hook. Whatever leftover equipment from missions you’ve hoarded over the years—salt bombs, iron fillings, hands-sized lavender packages, one canister of Greek fire, a slightly rusty iron chain—you pull out from the back corner and cram inside the kit. There’s also the last model of a layered leather harness with small pockets and buckles to hold equipment that you prefer to the standard agent belt around the waist.

It should be enough to manage simple cases as a freelance psychic operative until you find your bearings and build a reputation. Type Ones should be no problem, and most non-agents can’t tell the difference between grocery-bought salt and the extra grainy and purified salt from Sunrise Corp. You’ll have to drop by at the Thames Embankment at some point, where a lot of the cheaper merchants ply their trade under the brick arches of Hungerford Bridge.

But your first job will be making sure no one will get hurt over that stupid key ever again.

There is one more thing. On the door, tapped against the wood, is an old photograph. Matthew, Kipps, you. Age eighteen and thirteen, the boys crowd you and pull grimaces behind your beaming face as you proudly present your shining new rapier and the Fittes Manual to the camera. Seven years, but it feels like a lifetime.

People always used to say that you two have the same eyes—everything else is different like night and day. His blonde curls shine like a halo in the setting sun stealing through the curtained window in the back. He has a half-smile on his face, and his head tilted towards Kipps as though he is just on the verge of turning and telling him something. You see the same dimple on his cheek that you have when you smile, and when you squint you can make out the small smudge of pasta on the corner of his mouth you guys had earlier to celebrate you achieving third grade.

You fight the urge to touch his face on the picture—the only comfort during the first months without him. Even though you know he won’t come back, sometimes you wished an echo would reverberate, something that connects you to him apart from the memory of the last day spent together before he died. You take the picture and fold it neatly before putting it into your back. Grief can try and catch up later when you’re too busy to give it more thought.

As you get your stuff ready, something glinting on the ground catches your eye. It is a small, polished coin, flat on one side and engraved on the other. Depicted on the bottom is an infinity sign, and above is a double cross. You brush your thumb against it, but of course there is no psychic echo attached to this item. Because it belongs to a living person—that living person who must have lost it when he destroyed the interior.

Beneath your gloves your palms are slick with sweat. You stare at the symbol for some time, unblinking. The bitter taste of a certain word spreads on your tongue, closing your throat.

Unwrapping this revelation will have to wait. You move swiftly to the hallway and stand before the umbrella rack that holds your rapiers. Most of them are a little too fancy not to link them back to one of the bigger agents with their jewelled handles, but there are two with simple designs, so you decide on the 17th Century Italian Rapier.

“Take the Solinger Rapier,” comes Lockwood’s voice from behind you, startling you. You shouldn’t be surprised he doesn’t listen to orders, still you throw a glare at him over your shoulder which he promptly ignores by giving you a bright grin. “More balanced.”

“So much for being a team. Scared I’ll just run off with the evidence?”

“Ah, so you did find something. Well, we at Lockwood and Co. hold teamwork to the highest account. It is only polite I help.”

Any reply gets stuck in your throat when loud steps thump on the other side of the apartment’s door. Lockwood and you look at each other, eyes wide.

You throw your kit at him without a second thought so you can go after your other bag, and to his credit, he catches it effortlessly and bolts for the smashed window. Before you follow, you quickly snatch the Solinger Rapier and fasten it to your belt.

With your duffel bag in hand, you join Lockwood and Lucy outside. The sun is already behind the horizon, the sky a pale grey-blue, the colour of tempered steel. You take your kit back from Lockwood, ignoring his satisfied grin like a cat in the sun when he notices which rapier model dangles from your hip, and lead them back through the gardens out on Dovehouse Street.

Everything is going so smoothly. Too smoothly. Since the universe can’t have that, just as you close the iron gate behind you and set out down the street to where you guys can call a cab, a familiar voice calls out your name—a voice that always has your fight-flight-response kicking in, tending towards fight the moment you turn around and see Sebastian Vernon’s self-satisfied, arrogant grin.

Sebastian Vernon, a fellow Rotwell operative at the height of his career: he’s recently turned 19, he managed to luck out a Jack of all Trades regarding Psychic Talents and sports an impressive, sharp jawline many girls you know swoon over. The Golden Boy, The Pride of Rotwell. Of course he developed an ego as big as an inflated balloon with nicknames like that.

“Did you get my note this morning?” His voice jolts you from your thoughts. “Great drawing, isn’t it?”

“So it was you. I almost couldn’t tell; it looked like a five year old drew that.”

A muscle jumps in his jaw, his smile cools down to freezing point. “I heard they kicked you out,” he continues. “What was it this time? Botched a job? Set a customer’s house on fire?” He strides towards you with his hands behind his back, his cologne trailing like a cloak. His hair is pinned up fashionably, expression arch. He has always possessed a regal bearing. You can’t understand how he manages to look down his nose at you, even though you are one head taller.

You have crewed with him sometimes during the years, and neither have warmed to the other. You try to chalk it up to personality conflict, but deep down, you know that it is mutual dislike. Sebastian always finds ways to make you feel less-than with the barest twist of inflection or a carefully chosen word slipped like a knife between the ribs, so sharp you don’t notice the wound until you look up from a lapful of blood. And you aren’t above a blunt riposte, even if it often comes far too late.

When he’s close enough to stand in front of you, he whistles. “Like what you did with your face. Gotta compliment whoever gave you that shiner.”

“Jealous they managed that within a day when you couldn’t do it in the last five years?”

His smile turns arctic. At least that’s something you can always hold against him: kicking his ass in every in-house rapier duel since joining Rotwell.

“Always with that big mouth,” Sebastian seethes. “Whoever rearranged your face should have done us all a favour and shut you up for good.”

“I would appreciate,” Lockwood says in a conversational tone, making you startle—you have completely forgotten him and Lucy, “if you do not threaten my agency’s associate.”

He holds himself leisurely, relaxed. His long, slender fingers curl around his belt—not outright resting on his rapier handle, but close enough that he could reach it with one swift, quick movement if he wanted.

Sebastian blinks. “I’m sorry, am I supposed to know who you are?”

A corner of Lockwood’s mouth twitches. His voice is deceptively calm, his smile wolfish. “Lockwood from Lockwood and Co.”

Sebastian’s pale blue eyes widen. He looks at you. “You’re telling me you’re working with Andrew Lockwood? From the Lockwood and Co.?” A sort of deranged laugh escapes him. “I know it’s bad, but I didn’t expect it to be that bad! Surely, even you can do better than Lockwood and Co.!”

You throw a quick glance at Lockwood. He regards Sebastian in silence, and his face can be hewn from marble in its impassivity, which you realise now makes him all the more terrifying. His gaze sharpens like a hound on the scent.

“Why not ask your ginger boyfriend if he can get you a position at Fittes’s?” Sebastian’s smile crooks into a cruel half-moon. “Or has he already reached his expiration date?”

You open your mouth—and to your surprise Lucy shoulders past Lockwood and wrenches one of your bags out of your hand. Her eyes are blazing, red blotches of rage spot her cheeks and neck. “His name is Anthony Lockwood. And Kipps—Quill Kipps has a name, too! If you don’t have anything nice to say to your fellow—former colleague after everything she’s been through, then best keep your mouth shut.”

She whirls around and marches off, like a sudden autumn storm sweeping through the streets. Lockwood and you share a look; you notice his eyes glint with barely contained mirth and pride before he dashes after Lucy.

When you glance at Sebastian, he keeps his face blank, but the emotion behind it becomes unsettling and dangerous, like a vague whiff of burning plastic from an electrical outlet.

You hurry after your two new companions. Sebastian’s voice trails after you like a shadow. “Careful you don’t get your new team killed. Again.”

You draw up your shoulders, take your doubt, ball it up, and crush it into a fuel you can use.

“So,” you say when you caught up with Lockwood and Lucy. You’d offer to take your bag back, but Lucy holds it as though she can’t wait to use it as a weapon and bludgeon someone with it. “Kipps has a name, too. Nice one.”

“Shut it. I just can’t stand haughty guys like him,” Lucy grumbles, impatiently swiping hair out of her eyes.

“Funny,” Lockwood notices brightly, “how you sometimes use that same voice with me.”

Lucy rolls her eyes, but some of the tension in her shoulders dissipates.

“I gotta admit, good teamwork so far,” you say. “I guess I can let you take a look at this.”

You flip the coin between your fingers and present it with the symbol up on your open palm.

Lockwood wastes no time plucking it from your hand, his fingertips brushing against your gloves. Even through the fabric, you feel the warmth of his skin. You put that information into a box, close it up, and shove it into a far, dark corner where you’ll hopefully forget it and it can collect dust.

“Fascinating,” Lockwood mumbles, inspecting the coin from every angle. “Does anyone know what this symbol means?”

Lucy glances at his open palm. “No.”

He said so earlier. No secrets, no holding back information. Yet this is something you can’t share yet. The fact that somehow, this symbol seems … familiar.

“No,” you echo, eyes fixed ahead on the road. Black clouds, like slabs of onyx, gather at the horizon, rolling over London. “Never seen it before.”

taglist: @helpmelmao, @simrah1012, @chloejaniceeee, @fox-bee926, @frogserotonin, @obsessed-female, @avelinageorge, @quacksonhq, @wordsarelife, @bilesxbilinskixlahey, @che-che1, @breadbrobin, @anxiousbeech, @charmingpatronus, @starcrossedluvr, @yourunstablegf, @grccies, @sisyphusmymuse, @ettadear

#lockwood show #lockwood books #lockwood & co #l&c #lockwood x reader #anthony lockwood #anthony lockwood x reader #lockwood x you #lockwood x y/n #lockwood netflix #lockwood and co reader #reader insert #lockwood reader insert #l&c reader insert #phill.l&c

[cryptomiracle]

Hi!! I love how you're getting new to writing and I was wondering if you could write a thing about jeff! About him with a mean child reader! And like the kid is just sad and went Through a lot so that's why their mean? But I want the thing to be about jeff trying to make the crack a laugh and or a smile?

WARNINGS

Reader is supposed to be about 11-14

Cursing

This does not apply to my other hcs/fics for Jeff!!

Disassociation

Jeff being emo

Reader lives in slendermans manor as sally's "care taker"

(click here for an explanation on what sallys care taker means)

(e/c) means "eye color"

(f/f) means "favorite food"

(f/d) means "favorite drink"

(y/n) means "your name"

..................................

your unfocused (e/c) eyes stared aimlessly at the plate of dull, unpleasant, looking food that sat in front of you.

The world around you looked fuzzy almost as if you were underwater.

the memories of your past plaguing your mind, you felt the burning sensation of tears well up in your eyes, the painful lump in your throat almost suffocating you.

The blurriness deepend and you took note of how your thoughts started to slow down, how you felt the world around you slowly collapse.

then there was nothing

just you sitting there, devoid of any feeling other than psychical, but even that felt dull, lifeless.

The tears that threatened to spill over soon dissolved, the thoughts that were once overflowing, were now silent.

Everything was silent, the voices that were once all around you, the ones belonging to people you knew had exited the room.

How long had it been since they left? Why didn't you take note of that

You fell deeper into your trance like state, not noticing the young man quietly sitting down across from you.

*BANG*

The sound of a fist being slammed against the hard wood table pulled you out of that daze

With a shiver and a little gasp, your eyes quickly focused on the pale calloused hand that had hit the table, and then looked up to the man sitting across from you.

You soon recognized him to be jeff, his haircut was a bit choppy you could tell he did it himself, his fringed bangs slightly covering up one of his lidless eyes, while the other was in full view showcasing his dark blue irises.

you: "what do you want.."

you said lowly as you crossed your arms across your chest, and turned your head away from him.

jeff: "you've been sitting here for almost two hours (y/n).."

he paused before speaking again

jeff: "sally is getting worried"

you turned your head back to it's original place, and shot him a confused look.

you: "since when did you care about how sally felt?"

you scoffed

he huffed, and leaded back into his chair

jeff: "have you even eaten?"

he asked, completely ignoring your question

you: "no.."

you then realized how hungry you actually were, your stomach felt as if it had been twisted into knots, you looked down at the gruel like substance that resided on your plate, the color of it.. or lack there of combined with the texture and the way that it defied gravity caused whatever hunger you had, to turn into nausea.

you grabbed your fork, and started toying with the un-earthly "meal"

he laughed as he watched your expression go from blank, to disgust.

jeff: "I'm guessing ej cooked tonight.."

he grinned, causing the smile he carved into his face to grow in size

you looked up and nodded

jeff: "hm"

He paused and looked at you, like he was thinking of something.

jeff: "wait here"

he said as he stood up from his chair and walked out of the dinning room, you wanted to get up and leave but curiosity got the best of you, so you stayed seated.

about 3 minutes later, he came back into the dining room carrying a plastic bag in his hands

you: "what's that..?"

you asked hesitantly

jeff: "open it"

he said as he sat the bag on the table in front of you, you gave him a suspicious look, before slowly pulling the bag towards you

he sighed, patience was not one of his virtues.

jeff: "can you just open it?? it's not a f#cking b0mb (y/n)"

you whispered a quick "assh0le" under your breath before opening the bag to reveal a to-go box and a can of (f/d)

you carefully opened the to-go box to see it was filled with (f/f)

you: "where'd you get this?"

you questioned him, ignoring the slight excitement you felt.

jeff: "I stole it from tobys fridge"

He said nonchalantly, as if he hadn't just stolen from one of slendermans most trusted and highest ranking proxies.

your jaw went slack, he saw the shock on your face and smiled

you: " and what if he finds out? you idiot!"

you stretched your leg out and kicked him in the shin

jeff: "if he finds out, I'll just say I ate it."

He shrugged his shoulders

your brows started to furrow, anger bubbling over.

jeff: "oh c'mon, what's he gonna do?"

he said as he moved your previous plate to the side and pushed the to-go box closer to you.

you: "uh, I dunno.. decapitate you?"

your voice slightly raised with annoyance, he let out a chuckle.

The chuckle then turned into a fit of laughter once he realized you were being serious, he placed his left arm on the table and rested his head against it, he then used his to hold his stomach.

once he finally finished laughing, he looked up at you and leaned back into his chair.

you looked at him with a slight scowl across your face, you couldn't understand what was so funny to him.

Jeff: "y'know, toby is not as much of bad@ss as everyone thinks he is"

you raised your eyebrows, was he insane? I mean yeah he was, but you didn't think he was delusional.

He reached his hand into his blood stained hoodie, and pulled out an old beat up Samsung.

The screen quickly lit up, he slid his thumb across the screen then clicked onto his gallery.

He scrolled until he found what he was looking for, he then slid his phone across the table to you.

You picked up the phone, it's screen was cracked and there was dried blood in some of the crevices.

When you looked at the screen, you were shocked to say the least

displayed on the screen was a low quality video of toby, he was up in a tree hugging it tightly.

the video zoomed onto his face, fear was written all over his face.

The camera then moved down to the base of the tree, showing the back of what appeared to be smile dog.

Smile dog stood up against the tree, his claws dragged against it creating deep scratch marks on it.

He growled lowly at toby, then barked viscously at him.

toby: "GET Y-YOUR F#CKING DOG JEFF"

you heard jeff snicker in the video

jeff: "he just wants to be your friend toby!"

jeff taunted as smile slightly wagged his tail

jeff: "don't worry, he doesn't bite"

then suddenly, smile dog jumped up and bit tobys foot

smile shook tobys foot roughly, he backed up still holding onto tobys foot while trying to pull toby out of the tree.

with one more tug, smile dog ripped tobys shoe off of his foot and took off running.

toby: "G-GET BA-CK HERE Y-YOU MUTT"

his voice slightly cracked when he screamed.

You heard jeff laugh loudly over on the video before the camera shot down to the ground and ended.

You smiled at the sight, you genuinely couldn't believe what you were seeing

Toby, one of slendermans most brutal killers was screaming and hiding in a tree because of a DOG

not even realizing that you were smiling your head shot up to look at jeff, a plethora of questions bubbling over in your mind.

jeff: "if toby ever gives you any problems, just call smile"

He pulled his phone back to him, and smiled at you as you giggled at the thought of toby trembling in fear because of smile dog

he slid his phone back into his hoodie before speaking again.

jeff: "now eat.."

he demanded, you sighed and pulled out a plastic fork that was in the bag.

you ripped the plastic casing, and pulled the cutlery out.

taking no time, you dug in.

jeff: "it may be cold, but I'm sure it's better than whatever the hell that was"

he pointed his finger towards your previous meal, you could've sworn you saw it move.

You nodded, and continued eating.

you ate fast, barely taking any time to chew up your food.

you were almost finished when you stopped.

you looked up at jeff, who was hunkered over scrolling on his phone.

His posture was atrocious, but you couldn't judge

you: "why.."

you paused and squinted your eyes at him, still holding onto your fork.

He looked up from his phone, wearing a bored expression on his face.

you: "why are you doing this?"

He raised his eyebrows

jeff: "what?"

you: "why are you doing this for me?"

you: "you don't know me like that, why go through all that trouble for me?"

Your tone was laced with spite, you were worried that he had ulterior motives.

It's not like you and jeff didn't know each other, Slenderman had assigned him to "look after" you, to make sure none of the other residents tried to kill you, but he was usually an assh0le towards you.

he sighed, and turned off his phone.

jeff: "I know you've had a hard time adjusting to living here, and I know your life before was kinda sh!tty.."

he stopped, you could tell he was trying to find the right words to use

you grabbed the can of (f/d) and popped it open, you took a big gulp of it and sat it down on the table.

jeff: "honestly kid.."

jeff: "you remind me of a mini, less f#cked up version of me.."

his expression softened as he spoke

you almost choked, that was the last thing you expected him to say.

you: "gross, don't ever say that last part again"

he scoffed

Jeff: "and here I was trying to have a heartfelt moment with you, you little assh0le"

you grinned and continued eating

..................................

once you were done eating, you put the empty to-go box in the bag, along with the empty can of (f/d)

you stood up, and grabbed the bag Jeff grabbed your old plate, and stood up as well.

You both made your way into the kitchen, you walked over to the garbage can and threw away your trash.

Jeff walked over to the sink, and slid your plate into the soapy dishwater

You were about to make your way out of the kitchen, when you heard him call your name.

jeff: "aren't you gonna help?"

he looked at you, and gently moved his head to the side to get his bangs out of his face.

You sighed, before walking over to stand beside him in front of the sink.

you watched patiently as he rolled up his sleeves revealing his deathly pale skin, and grabbed the dish out of the murky water.

He grabbed a sponge, and gently slid it across the plate.

He then handed it to you, and started on the fork.

You turned on the faucet, the hot water slightly burning your hands.

You rinsed the plate off, and stared at for a second before you started to speak.

you: "thanks.. I guess"

you said in a hushed tone, barely above a whisper.

jeff: "what was that?"

he snickerd

You lightly elbowed him in the side

you: "don't be a douche"

as you set the plate onto the rack that was sitting on the counter, you felt tears well in your eyes.

you realized how long it had been since someone had shown you kindness like that, even though it was as tiny as giving you something to eat.

he handed you the fork as you sniffled.

he heard your sniffles, and turned his head down at you.

jeff: "you alright?"

you dropped the fork into the sink and pulled him into an awkward hug.

you sobbed into his arm as he hesitantly hugged you back

you: "you're kinda stinky jeff"

You managed to say over your sobs, he laughed and gently patted you on the back.

..................................

i will be reading over this later to check for any mistakes, please tell me if you spot any!

ty for reading <3

#creepypasta jeff the killer #jeff the killer headcanons #jeff the killer #jeff the killer one shot #child reader #mean reader #creepypasta fanfic #creepypasta fandom #creepypasta one shot

[antmightpost]

The Other side and Fate

A #JujutsuKaisen theory on The Other side and Fate. This will be a continuation of my previous theory about the 9 levels of consciousness and particularly the 8th level (Storehouse consciousness.

In JJK , Gege makes use of a lot of ideas and words with Buddhist connotations. The Title for Chap 211 was 'Ripen', now the usage of this very term alludes to 'Ripening of Karma or Karmic seeds'. But what are Karmic seeds ? The Karmic seeds (Bijas) are said to be the impressions, Habits and tendencies accumulated throughout one's countless lifetimes. The Storehouse consciousness or Alaya is the repository where these Karmic seeds are stored. These seeds are the very basis or foundation of our personality, the deepest layer of our consciousness

HOW our senses will perceive the world , our inherent bias all comes from the storehouse consciousness. In JJK i believe Megumi's shadow IS the storehouse consciousness, notice how Megumi can literally 'store' weapons and even himself in his shadow.

The idea of Ripening of Karma means that under the right situations and circumstances, these Karmic seeds constituting past thoughts and experiences have the potential to 'ripen' into future actions , emotions and thoughts. Even Megumi's domain name Chimera shadow 'garden' alludes to the idea of the shadows constituting the Karmic seeds

This philosophy of storehouse consciousness is analogous to the western idea of the subconscious or more accurately the 'unconscious' and in terms of depth psychology this idea of the unconscious brings us to the concept of "The Shadow". The Shadow is a part of the Model of psyche (soul) proposed by Swiss Psychiatrist Carl Jung whose works , i believe are one of Gege's primary inspirations. According to Jung the psyche is divided in 3 main parts:

1. Persona (Ego) : It is the aspect of one's character or soul that is presented to or perceived by others or rather 'society'. The outer or assumed aspect of character, it's the mask we wear to create a bridge between our self and fulfilling societal or worldly expectations. It's the Ego we cling to.

2. Personal unconscious (Shadow): The Personal Unconscious is located at the fringe of consciousness, between 2 worlds. The external or spacial world and the internal or psychic world. It refers to the information and experiences of an individual's soul that have been forgotten or repressed but continue to influence their behavior and attitudes on an unconscious level , It is also what you call the archetype of "The Shadow"

Before moving to the final part of the psyche let's look at how the persona and the shadow operate on a micro or individual level. Every person creates an identity for themselves based around the concept of persona or ego , influenced by the information received through sensory input (First 6 levels of consciousness which i mentioned in the previous thread) and societal expectations but this is not the core of their soul, it's performative.

The true essence and nature of the self comes from the shadow of the karmic storehouse as mentioned above, HOW we differently perceive the same world occupied by others is caused due to the nature of our shadow but this is the part that is hidden from us, we suppress and ignore it. It's the most alive part of the soul yet is treated by an individual as if it's dead and nonexistent , this illusion of confirming with the persona and ignorance of the shadow causes a disparity within the Self

This disparity causes suffering and this very suffering is Humanity's Curse. All these traits that one considers to be negative are hidden here but we also lock away our truths which is why Jogo said "They are the Real humans" born from humanity's truth, their shadow, their karmic energy.

This shadow is also what Gege refers to as "The other side". The other side of our soul and that's why the motif of evolution and enlightenment is attached to it, Culling game creates the favorable conditions for humanity's karma to ripen and takes them to meet their other side, their truth. Nirvana or the other side isn't a physical place , it's a state of mind that can be achieved right here, right now

3. Collective Unconscious (Collective shadow) : the primordial grounds of unconscious from where all personality traits originate and return to , it's what I think Jogo referred to as "the wasteland". This is where archetypes are formed, where the personal shadow takes birth. This collective shadow evolves with time, constantly changing, impacting the personal shadow which impacts the Self of an individual.

This is also the space that Kenjaku and Sasaki inhabited in chap 160. Remember this vol 23 Pv ? Look at how there seems to be a different form of existence that is active at night (the big eyes and the shadow).

While one is asleep, the shadow self is awake. It sends messages to guide and control them through the medium of Dreams. Humanity's actions are instigated by their shadow which arises out of the collective shadow and this form of control is what JJK refers to as 'Fate'.

Now the inclusion of fate doesn't mean that it is supposed to predetermine every action and extinguish free will. It's a form of test and this is where the difference between fate and karma comes into play. Fate is the set of cards given to one based on their previous karma , how they choose to play with them is their present karma offering them a chance to be free of their fate ONLY if they could recognize their shadow and accept it and this acceptance is 'Love' in JJK's context.

Kenjaku talking about the impermanent nature of Fate or Karma

The concept of love or understanding, the love of Self The collective shadow is ultimately the repository from where parts of the soul that humanity ignores originates, this collective shadow IS what Gege refers to as "Evil" in JJK, what Sukuna wanted to get close to through "The Bath".

Jung once said "Until you make the Unconscious conscious, it will control your life and you will call it fate" which summarizes the concept of Fate within the framework of Jujutsu Kaisen.

I'm honestly not very sure if what I've said in this thread and the connections i made will turn out to be true but it was fun to write and share this and i intend to continue this theory. Yeah...there's even more that i want to add later on. Thanks for reading.

#jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen theory

[iamdarkness]

About Lif's material and form.

Ever since I saw Lif for the fist time I could do nothing else but wonder what he was made of. Lately I have seen people wondering about it too and I took this chance to give my opinion. This of course does not in any way undermines anyone else's idea or headcanon. I just want, as I said before, to contribute with my idea and reasons as to why I think it is so. I take as proof other works of fiction as there are no concrete evidence of real activity. At least none that does not look like fake 1800's seance pictures.

First of all I want to say that to me the most obvious material used in Lif and Thrasir's making is Ectoplasm. Why do I think it is obvious? Well it is what ghosts, apparitions and the like are supposedly made up off in other works of fiction.

But what is Ectoplasm in Paranormal Studies? The psychical researcher Gustav Geley defined ectoplasm as being "very variable in appearance, being sometimes vaporous, sometimes a plastic paste, sometimes a bundle of fine threads, or a membrane with swellings or fringes, or a fine fabric-like tissue". Arthur Conan Doyle described ectoplasm as "a viscous, gelatinous substance which appeared to differ from every known form of matter in that it could solidify and be used for material purposes" -Wikipedia

As an example of an entity that has most of these properties in one I present to you :

The spirit of H H Holmes. The famous serial Killer who was haunting the apartment building of the courthouse he was killed on, on the show Supernatural. He demonstrated to be able to be solid enough to kidnap the girls he wanted and he left traces of slime ectoplasm as well as becoming vaporous.

If we take this information that ectoplasm can be solid, gelatinous, viscous, vapor and even crack and break, then we have an explanation of Hel, Thasir and Lif's bodies and why they look different but look to be the same material.

First let us take Hel, and why she appears to be solid enough to crack. Hel has always been this way and has existed for time untold. She is powerful as well and her feelings seemed to be always under control.

Let us take Gozer from Ghostbusters . Ancient and powerful, Gozer can be vaporous and is able to posses humans and is as solid as any living creature. When Gozer is defeated they break as if made of stone. Gozer's resemblance to Hel comes from how old they are and the command they have of their bodies and emotions. They also have always been this way and so they do not have an issue with their physical makeup.

Then we have Thrasir. Thasir is younger than Lif but her life as Veronica has not been as free as Alfonse. Veronica has been possessed so not being herself is nothing new to her. Veronica also seems to be used to suppress her feelings and thoughts. I mean she does look depressed and accepting of whatever fate befalls her when she is Letizia's prisoner. So I feel that her lack of emotional reactions or suppression of them plays a part in this. It feels more like acceptance of her new form and new self in my opinion. For this reason I take that even though she is younger than Alfonse she has more command of her essence than Lif. Still she has not been this way all of her existence so she is solid enough not to "bleed" but not enough to be hard as stone or crystal. As shown on her art. I think their mental state plays a lot on their command on their essence.

And here is where the difference with Lif is. Alfonse of course being a prince has been taught to not show what he really feels. He has restrains as well as parental issues on top of all. The difference with Veronica is that he has at least more freedom and is more of a revel than her. His line in the castle where he tells you that he may not behave as a prince should comes to mind along with the fact that he should not have been part of the Order but still enlisted any way. We see him get angry and sad and react very badly to different situations during the battles. Now imagine what they went through and think of this old saying. " Life is like boiling water. It either hardens you ( like a boiled egg) or it turns you into mush ( like carrots)." Thrasir hardened in that she looks like she is more adapted to being the way she is. She became used to it in a way. Lif though did not and it shows.

Take Slimmer as an example of this.

In the cartoon (Yes I went to watch it when I was little. I'm a geek ok?) Peter asks why Slimmer is the way he is and the explanation was that he was anxious because he wanted to help them but also because he was helping them hunt his own kind. He had the tendency of eating a lot because he wanted to be accepted. He gets be solid enough to eat but turned to slime and vapor as well depending of the need. There was always a pressure on him of not being accepted by Peter and it played a lot on his actions. Guy had existential issues Ok? SO who else has existential issues?

Lif in a way is like this. The artbook mentions his armor is empty but it can not be so even if he was but vapor, because vapor is something to begin with. Also because you can see the change of his ectoplasm from solid to somewhat liquid and vapor. He has also bones and ABS on his ectoplasm body.

And what glorious abs he has. He can Slime me any day he wants

Yeah...just like that.

But I digress. The point is that he gets angry and he looses a little solidity because

The vapor coming out of his mask when he is angry.

And the bleeding of his liquid ectoplasm when he is injured as well when he is protecting Thasir in their Day of Devotion alt is proof that he is a more emotional person than Thrasir and therefore his ectoplasm changes with his mental state. Alfonse seemed to have had self esteem issues to begin with and the physical change seemed only to aggravate them so I believe that he is of course not accepting his situation, not only that his people has died but what he himself looks like and what he has become. I think this was also a part of why he says he can't use the name Alfonse anymore. He does not feel himself anymore so his command of his new body is not always the same.

In conclusion:

He will get flustered when he has a making up cession and someone (preferably me) will get slimmed and maybe not in the good way if you know what I mean ;)

Where was I ? Oh yeah they are made of ectoplasm in my opinion. Now I just need to know why he glows like Hel but Thrasir does not. I feel it is also because of emotions and mental states but who really knows. I like to think that he glows brighter when he "blushes".

#lif #feh #feh alfonse #fire emblem heroes #fire emblem #alfonse #feh lif #fe heroes

[normal-horoscopes]

Dreamt of something called the Grand Old Phlame (GOP). It was an eternal flame, sealed in a glass box so it could be seen, burning some kind of 'fringe elements', and it was psychic. When you would look at it, it would convince you it was a holy flame, and to become one with you god you needed to give your body to the flame. People often did that, hence the sealed box. It was also well known that a person made the flame, the psychic part was a surprise. I guess my question is, what the fuck? Anything like this in real occult history?

1) I love that.

2) Not really? There are stories about like, sirens and hypnotic control, but nothing about psychic flames to my knowledge.

[multifandumbmeg]

The concept of Fringe is truly so unhinged. What was the pitch for this show?

"An FBI Agent with psychic powers and a boatload of childhood trauma, a completely senile old mad scientists who experimented on her, and the scientists con-man son (from a parallel universe) walk into a Harvard lab. They're detectives now. "

"there's a lot of drugs, don't forget the drugs. And interdimensional travel. And a dystopian future. Also everyone's sad"

"Oh yeah and JJ Abrams is here."

"Oh yeah don't forget JJ"

#They really said #I can make a show that is truly so sad an unsettling #But also so charming and funny #With one of the most subtle and moving love stories ever #And best written female characters ever #Leonard nemoy is coming too btw #fringe #polivia