#aasb

[jo-harrington]

Was this what happened when someone looked upon the true form of a God? Were they fully unprepared for the sight before them? Was that the true test, to see something so unfathomable and horrific and still find it... "Beautiful," you muttered. "God...Eddie, you're beautiful."

(Excerpt from As Above, So Below Chapter 6: Revelation)

A commission from the lovely @toomanyacorns. Or, more accurately, PART of a larger commission by Kelso, just needed to do a little fast hand photoshop magic because it contains a huge spoiler and only a few people know about it. And I will be creating a V2 post once we get there (not long now).

BUT! Our brave Knight and her lost love in his monstrous form.

This one has been a long time in the making and once again Kelso drew this with only a few sentences of a description, almost no other references besides the art that she drew herself . I know a lot of AASB came from my brain but she honestly did a lot in shaping some of the imagery in this story with her wonderful imagination and skill and I cannot thank her enough for her talent and her friendship.

[deny-the-issue]

As Above So Below

Chapter Ten: A Different Perspective

Previous Chapter, Next Chapter coming soon

As Above So Below Masterlist

Summary: Your friends try to help you, and Silco attempts something reckless.

Thank you to @silcoitus for beta reading! <3

AO3 Link

Ko-fi Link

Taglist: @arcaneincorrectquotess, @lazycondensedmilk, @zauns-eye, @crunchlite, @alva-dore, @roxannadanna831, @astudyincontrasts, @mmartos, @ilikemymendarkandfictional, @juniper-sunny, @roxnpens, @a-gal-with-taste, @artwithvivien, @leave-me-alone-doctor, @fantadym

[Explicit Language] [Demon!Silco] [Silco x reader] [silco x fem!reader] [gore] [angst] [medical equipment] [3.6k words]

Grim

He knew he shouldn’t have bothered you yesterday, but he was just so bored going from shop to shop with his mother. Seeing you Topside was too good to pass up. 

How could he have known you and his mom had such a violent history? 

Besides—that was like forever ago. He doesn’t care what his mother says; people can change, and you certainly did. You helped save the Lanes! 

What kind of monster would do something so heroic? 

The anger keeps his rationality from catching up to him. No matter what he says now, he knows there is a world of trouble awaiting him at home now that he’s run away. 

Starting from the tunnel entrance you caught him tagging, he zig-zags methodically through the streets looking for any sign of you or your home. Hands firmly tucked in his pockets, his lost feet kick some rubble out of the way as he trudges through the streets of the Undercity. Even in the daylight, the air has a bite to it, forsaken by the sun. 

With each abandoned street searched, uncertainty chills the obstinance within him, and he thinks about heading home. He can’t hide forever, and he knows what Ekko would say if he went to the tree. 

A heavy sigh passes his pouty lips, and with slumped shoulders, he turns down an unsearched path that leads back to the lift. The way is lit with dim electric lamps, unlike the others, giving a sense of welcoming from the otherwise dim atmosphere. 

His heart jumps with hope at the sound of a door handle turning, but the joy lodges in his throat like a pill at the sight of a stranger in a long black coat. The man sees Grim out of the corner of his eye and freezes. This was not a reaction of surprise but of calculation. Eyes unblinking, the man turns to face Grim. 

He steps back, the hair on his neck prickling with the sense of unknown danger. Like a flip of a coin, the man’s face relaxes into a welcoming smile. 

“Hello. Are you lost, boy?” 

Shaking his head, he answers nervously. “No—I’m just headed home.”

“To the lift?” The man inquires, taking a cautious step closer. 

Grim nods without thinking, an uneasy feeling stirring in the pit of his stomach. 

“Do you mind if I join you? I so easily lose my way,” the man pleads. 

Grim shrugs, “Sure.”  

Ever the polite young man, Grim tries to hide the discomfort the stranger causes him. Shoulders tense, he averts his gaze when he starts the journey again. The man joins Grim’s side, matching his pace. 

“You must spend a lot of time down here,” the stranger breaks the silence, “but I wonder—do you know the history of the Lanes?”

“Only what they teach in school.” Grim knows that it’s the glorified version because of Ekko, but he withheld most of the details.

“Well, let me give you a little lesson on the way. They say a ruthless revolutionary started the war, but in truth, it was his daughter. He dominated the Lanes with an iron fist; so much so, people began calling him the Eye of Zaun after a local religious deity.”

This sparked Grim’s interest—he never heard this before. The culture of the Lanes only lives on in the people who lived it, but this man doesn’t seem old enough. Grim wonders how he knows and listens with rapt attention. 

“If you like, I could show you the statue that was built in their honor.” 

Grim wants to agree but listens to his gut. “My mom’s waiting for me, sorry.”

“Oh, but it won’t take long at all! It’s just around the bend, see?” The stranger urges, pointing around the corner. 

Grim turns away from the man to look in the direction he indicated. 

Brow furrowed, he squints at the dark alley in confusion. “I don’t see—“

He feels a sharp pinch in the side of his neck and then the stranger is on him. Grim thrashes against the man’s hold, but his arms and legs grow heavier by the second. It takes more and more effort to move until his mind feels as foggy as the Pilt on a cold autumn morning. 

He clings to consciousness just long enough to hear the man say, “I never understood why he gave it all up for a child.”

When Grim comes to, he has no perception of time passing. Groggy mind and heavy eyelids—the panic doesn’t set in until he tries to move his bound arms. 

He wiggles about trying to get free, but the effort makes him feel woozy. What happened? The stranger's face floats up from his cloudy memories. He did something. 

With wet cheeks and panicked, shaky breathing, he starts to look around for anything that could help. He spies a sharp scrap of metal on the ground some feet away, near the piled-up equipment. Horrific screeches drown out his grunts as the chair scrapes across the floor with each flail of his body. 

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Sine sneers from behind, grabbing the back of Grim’s chair and dragging it back into place. 

“Piss off!” Grim spits, just as fierce. 

Sine stomps in front of Grim, brandishing a knife threateningly. “Listen here, boy. I don’t normally kill children, but it’s not a moral—it’s self-preservation. You kill one little shit and the whole city hunts down the killer. But that’s not the case with you, is it? The Lanes are treacherous—who knows what could befall an adventuring kid. Why, you could just disappear, never to be found again.”

For the first time in his life, Grim feels the icy tendrils of death licking at his back. The fear lodges in his throat as he holds back a silent sob. 

“So, be a good boy, and stay quiet. One more outburst and I’ll kill you in front of our mutual friend; is that understood?” Sine waits for Grim to nod before gagging him, pleased with his compliance. 

What does he mean by “mutual friend”? Dread seeps into his veins, slowing time to a crawl. Sine strolls past a set of doors on the far wall and hides behind one of the protruding metal beams. 

The minutes tick by, measured only in the sounds of leaky pipes and the groaning of a derelict building. Waiting, watching, feeling like a foot blindly searching for the next rung of a ladder that isn’t there. Grim’s thoughts spiral, dizzying, pulling him down into the pits of drug-induced sleep. 

In and out of consciousness, Sine’s voice rips through the vale. The next moments rush by like water in a stream, memories slipping through his fingers just as easily. 

He doesn’t know why he was let go, or even remember what you said. One fact remains in his frenzied mind as he staggers through the Undercity: you need help. 

Shredded knees and bloodied hands, he bolts toward the first human voices he hears. 

“ELI!” His mother cries as soon as he rounds the corner, running to catch him as he falls. 

He did it—he’s safe. 

He notices Ekko and another burly man standing close by, and relief washes over him at an alarming pace. Fearing he could fall asleep at any moment, he tugs the collar of his mother's shirt, urging her to listen. 

“I know you hate her, but she saved me. You need to help her, Mom! Please help her.”

“Where is she?” Ekko interjects, knowing instantly that he is talking about you. 

“T-the old factory—the bloody one…” Grim slurs, fading fast. 

It was up to them now to decipher what he meant. He did the best his frantic mind could muster. His mother looks to the others with pleading eyes.

“These knees haven’t run in a long time, but I can stay with him and call for help,” Ekko offers. 

She takes one last look at her son, kissing his forehead before making a makeshift pillow for him out of her jacket and placing it under his head. 

Ekko dials for the enforcers on his cell, anxiety twisting his face as he watches them sprint off. 

One last prayer echoes through Grim’s mind like a lullaby, singing him into slumber. 

I hope you’re ok. 

Silco

Molten breath fogs the window Silco faces with unseeing eyes, too stuck in his head to truly be aware of his environment. Face tense, brow furrowed, his lips pressed together in a thin line. Shadowy tendrils wisp off of him like smoke from a fire as his demon magic seeps through his cracking facade. 

Silco is seething. 

And you’re the cause. Of course, he could have handled that better—why didn’t he?! 

All of his bedroom furniture vibrates with the physical manifestation of his rage like a frightened animal. 

Precious and fleeting though it may be, life is worth living. Your life is worth everything. You see him and do not flinch. He is the visage of nightmares, yet you do not turn away; you embrace him in a grotesquely familiar way. 

Why did you have to wrap your fragile human hands around his demonic heart? Perhaps you remind him of himself in his past life. 

Damned if he knows. 

His face twitches and the glass cracks as the building groans under the building pressure of his unrestrained magic. 

Instead of staying by his side—staying safe—you’re running towards danger to get away from him. This feels fitting, somehow; like it’s what he deserves, and it cements his feet to the ground while his mind chases after you. 

A dusty, faded painting crashes to the floor as his mood grows more turbulent, finally pulling him from his stupor. Grumbling, he leaves his home in peace. He means to haunt the Lanes, but somehow always manages to fixate on the revolutionary statue like a nail to a magnet. 

What is it about this hunk of metal that draws him to it? He chose his name off the placard because it felt right. It’s the only thing that felt right in this new world. 

He knows he has lost so much—he feels it in his bones. He wonders as he peers at the metal figures before him. Was it a lover? A child—no, a daughter? Or perhaps a brother? 

He should tear the damn thing to shreds and be done with it! Someone already started; it wouldn’t be hard. But the flames of destruction peter out, extinguished by the cool breeze. With fresh air filling his lungs and caressing his face, he finds it hard to dwell on his emotions. 

Clean air mixed with earth from the sheer depth of the Lanes. He doesn’t know why, but it feels like victory running its fingers gently through his hair. 

Silco enters a familiar, meditative state, drinking his fill of lost memories at the fountain’s edge. Until the rushed sound of footsteps pounding across the stone ground pulls him back to the present, and his mind instantly thinks of you. 

Listening closer, there are two sets, their steps jumbling together in a cacophony of panic. With the stealth of a ghost, he hones in on their location and stalks them from the rooftops. 

Something is happening in his Undercity, he feels it bubbling in his chest like one of those infernal fizzy drinks everyone is obsessed with nowadays. 

He watches intently as the large man and blond woman bolt through the gate Silco himself broke. Why here, of all places? Did they not take the violence as a sign?

Silco grits his teeth as he prepares for another massacre. But when the pair enter the building, a scream follows soon after. Silco’s in the factory within the flutter of a butterfly's wing, rushing to the source with inhumane speed. 

He expected blood, he expected death, but he did not expect you. Your final breath rattles from your lungs and he just stands there. An all-powerful demon, completely helpless to save your already extinguished life. 

Silco pushes the woman out of the way roughly, cuts his palm with one of his claws, and places it on your stomach. Red light pulses from him into you, but nothing happens. He growls, high-pitched and broken as he fruitlessly tries to revive you with every ounce of magic he has. 

The crimson glow fades with a fizzle, taking his hope with it. Bowed and bent, he cradles you in his arms. The familiar feeling sparks something within—a memory. A recent one, at that. 

You talked of a scientist, didn’t you? If he could help a demon, it’s possible he could revive you. Is it mad and desperate? Yes. But you’ve left him no choice. 

With the look of a war-torn man, he rises, determined to carry you into the next life. The burly man looks to block his way but thinks twice about it, instead running to check on the woman. 

It’s the best decision he could have made. Silco is in a mood that would obliterate all who stand between him and this scientist. 

He walks to the place where the maniac fell all those nights ago holding your broken mask. The physical trail is long gone, but a demon’s senses are far superior to humans’. Even from a good distance away, he can smell the rotten decay of magic and meat. He follows the scent deep into the Lanes until he comes upon the cavern. Viridescent light seeps out of the mouth with echoes of someone tinkering within. 

Silco’s heavy footsteps are greeting enough, and when he stands in the middle of a cluttered laboratory with a surgical table in the middle, he feels an odd sense of nostalgia. 

“I see you too have forsaken death,” rasps the huddled form of a man emerging from a side alcove. 

Silco can see the human underneath the monstrosity of black oozing veins creeping up the man’s neck and face. The skull of one, perhaps. 

Silco brings forth your body, laying it on the table with utmost care. 

“Help her,” Silco commands with fire behind his eyes. 

The man drags himself closer and examines your body with a series of pokes and prods. “How much for the body?”

Silco grabs the man by his throat, snarling over him. “Bring her back to life!”

When Silco releases his hold, the man lets out a wheezy cough, desiccated hands leaning heavily on the table’s edge for support. 

“It would change her, possibly beyond recognition. The past experiments were quite—“ the man takes a long, gurgling breath, “unpredictable. This may be a side effect of the shimmer; the compound is as chaotic as the results.”

“Would another power source work?”

“If it is stable, the subject might undergo less transformation,” the decrepit man nods. 

Silco holds out his palm, igniting a blood-red, magical flame. The scientists' eyes light up and the veins crawling up the side of his neck wriggle and pulse with excitement. 

The cogs of his mind go to work, all too eager to begin his next experiment. With the flick of his wrist, one of his sharp nails slices a gash into the flesh of your arm but sighs dejectedly as the wound barely bleeds. Limping over to one of his many tables of equipment, he peers into a large, hand-written book. 

He mutters to himself as he runs a shaky finger over the page, “...blood from the living body.”

Silco’s conviction wavers, and he sinks further into despair. Looking down at your cold corpse, he hates himself for what he said to you. 

Spewing endless poison without an ounce of the care that resides deep within his cold heart; that’s the last impression you had of him. He wonders if you loathed him in the end. Gently, he removes the strands of hair covering your face, trailing a claw down your cheek as his face trembles, threatening to break. 

The scientist teeters over, pulling a tray table with a scalpel, fabric scissors, and medical pliers on it. Without an ounce of care, he goes to work, cutting a long line up your sleeve. 

“Silco, please fetch her blood from the freezer,” he asks as he hastily discards your bloody clothing. 

Silco’s demeanor perks up, hope restored. Confused about how he came in possession of such a thing but unwilling to question it, Silco remains vigilant as he strides to the large commercial freezer. It was big enough to hide a large human body, and it probably has at some point. 

Cautiously, he opens the hinged lid. Cold air freezes his face as he peers in. Vials upon vials of blood fill the interior, each with a different name. Yours is close to the end of an unfinished row, but surprisingly not the last. 

Did every one of these people willingly give him his blood? Unlikely—but he knows you did. You would do anything for the people you care for, even if you wouldn’t admit it. That’s where he was wrong. There is a fine line between suicidal and selfless. To be honest, Silco himself does not know where it lies, and he shouldn’t have pushed so hard. 

The lid closes with a heavy thump, and he offers the vial to the scientist. It quickly exchanges hands and is placed on the tray beside the scalpel, rolling to clank against the raised lip. The scientist works with surprisingly deft hands, and your naked body is exposed to the ambient air in no time. 

Without consulting Silco, the man begins to carve runes into your skin with the scalpel. Starting from your wrists, and traveling up your arms. 

Uncomfortable with how he’s handling you, Silco’s skeptical mind returns. “How did you know my name? Did she tell you about me?”

The man wheezes, and Silco cannot tell if it is from humor or bad lungs. “How much do you remember?”

Silco sneers at the strange question, defenses rising. But seeing you on the table made him remember his promise. 

“I remember nothing of my life before, only the carnage of the spell that brought me back to this world and everything that has happened since.”

The scientist hums, one brow raising with interest. “That is unfortunate, old friend. We accomplished quite a lot together before your untimely death. You may call me Singed.”

Silco blinks, stunned that this man has the answers he’s been looking for. Then, confusion twirls his mind in knots. 

“You knew me as Silco… before my death?” he asks for confirmation. 

Singed nods, continuing his work all the while. The runes are running down both your arms and one of your legs so far. 

That statue, those people—they call to him from beyond the grave, through the infinite webs the magic has weaved to shield him from the truth. It is no wonder he keeps finding himself at its fountain edge—why the deep, sinking loss weighed like an anchor on his soul. 

Nothing breaks a man more than love and loss. 

Singed finishes the line of runes down your torso and the scalpel clangs as he drops it onto the metal tray, his good eye closely inspecting his work. Next, he shatters the glass vial on the tray, picks up bits of frozen blood with pliers, and places them in some of the wounds in your abdomen. Singed thinks deeply for a moment before remembering the last step, then fastens the table’s straps firmly around your wrists and ankles.

Satisfied, he looks to Silco. “Empower the runes with your magic. It is imperative you do not stop until the magic has run its course. The transformation will be torturous, but, as we know, you cannot have eternal life without pain.”

Steeling his heart, Silco holds his palm just above your damaged abdomen. He falters as he thinks it through one last time. Would you even want this? 

Could you forgive him if you come back as a monster? 

He grits his teeth, the tension showing at his temples. Damn you! Damn you for dying on him. Damn you for growing on him like mold. 

Selfish though it may be, he has to try. 

Shadows seep from Silco’s form and his hand begins to glow as his power gathers. The room dims unnaturally, and Singed steps back just before a needle of red-hot light shoots into your body. 

A crimson wave of magic whips through the room when Silco’s hand is pulled flush with your wounds by the wild magic. The light spreads through the marks on your skin like wildfire until your whole being is lit from within. Wind howling, loose pages swirling around the room, glassware clatters and crashes to the floor while bolts of red lightning shoot from the illuminated runes and ricochet around the room like ethereal bullets. 

Singed quickly retreats behind a heavy door leading deeper into the cave, bony hands held above his ducked head for protection. Silco’s magic continues to build, a thaumaturgic tornado full of broken glass, torn paper, and scarlet hail. 

The destruction and sheer intensity are a window to what’s within him. Too much to control, he lets loose an inhuman roar as he unwillingly transforms into his demonic form. He towers over you like the beast he is, eyes and horns blazing with ruby flames as his torn clothing flaps in the arcane windstorm. 

Ethereal and dancing like the sparks of molten steel, Silco pours himself into you, willing to tear himself apart to imbibe you with new life. 

[solynaceawrites]

AS ABOVE, SO BELOW [1]

Rating: Explicit Archive Warning: Graphic Depictions of Violence, Major Character Death Fandoms: 七つの大罪 - 鈴木央 | Nanatsu no Taizai | The Seven Deadly Sins Characters: Estarossa, Mael, Original Female Characters, Original Male Characters, Moth (OC) Relationships: Estarossa/Moth, Implied Mael/Moth Tags: Alternate Universe, Romance, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Slowburn, Alternate Universe - Demon Hunters, Horror Summary: There's a thin line that separates the planes, and a delicate balance to be kept. Moth, a demon hunter with a dark past, works to put any creature that harms a mortal back underground. Yet when her encounter with a devil hound ends with a strange mark on her wrist and seductive whispers in the dark, she finds her circle of trust growing smaller and the world more dangerous. The devil is playing his fiddle, and the tune is as alluring as it is lethal. [A vaguely modern AU in which Moth is a demon hunter, Mael is a priest, and Estarossa is a prince of hell.]

»»————-　⚜　————-««  

The city is suffocating. Weathermen offer apologies full of self-deprecation as the heatwave they swore would pass the city by digs in its claws like a cat curling up for a long nap. The air is thick and oppressively humid; hair and clothes stick, sweat-damp, to anyone unlucky enough to find themselves outdoors, while air conditioning units and fans chug to bring a semblance of relief to those taking refuge. Children idle indoors, dogs pant and sprawl in what little shade they can find, and the streets shimmer. There is no birdsong. No traffic. There is only the low, persistent hum of machinery pushed to its limit and the quiet rumble of distant thunder, too far off to yet be a true threat.

Yet covered in dirt and clots of blood and the remnants of a rather unfortunate cat, Moth finds that she cares little about the heat. In fact, she almost hopes that her heart gives out. Dying would be preferable to the hours-long trek through back alleys to reach her home while mud dries into another layer of skin, and even breathing as shallowly as she can through her nose she can still  taste the rank odor emanating from her ruined clothing.

Her boots squelch as she trudges down another narrow path. The viscera coating the soles is fast turning to glue where it comes into contact with the overly warm cement, and that faux glue is in turn slowly peeling her shoes apart. She reaches up to brush an errant lock of hair from her face and black flakes shake from her like fleas.

Fucking kelpie, she thinks, and kicks a can viciously.

Read the rest on A03!

[birrdies]

my current wip has officially exceeded 80,000 words.

[morphitime]

Amazing artwork of my players for our campaign. 

Gragnar our Sorcerer Kobold who just picked a fight with death. 

Steel-Toed Sam our Rouge and hot mom of the group. Also, the only levelheaded/sane person in this madhouse. 

Phraan the Bard/Rouge who betrayed his country and sold his soul for love.

Seraphina the runaway prices who would do anything to find her dead husband.

Art By: https://twitter.com/LustriaVT - @lustriavt

Check out our camping: https://www.youtube.com/@AASBTTRPG

[neonmalware]

The Devil

[xidipsum-art]

Lucifer: Beauty is in the eye of the beholder Lucifer: But if you say Lilith is not beautiful, I will be forced to correct your vision

[rook-inthe-valley]

One of the Last Conversations We Had Before You Left

AASB RP Short Story; join the server here; auds are closed

Sheepsage was never fond of the den of shadows, for every warm breath she exhaled dissipated in its frigid grasp all too quickly; she herself shivered despite the thickness of her coat and resolve. There was never a thing that could quite shake her, like this beautiful, haunting graveyard. 

"Sheepsage."

And him. 

She wasn't quick to cut her gaze to him, like she might've done when they were younger. Instead, her eyes fluttered closed, reaching into the depths of her mind for patience. Patience and compassion, and maybe just a tiny murmur from the stars that splayed out against the ceiling of the den. Goldenbriar, Ashnose, even Gullkit or-

"Sheepsage."

"What?" Her voice was colder than the air around them, though she willed her anger down as she snapped her eyes to his. There was no telling what the tom cat would do when confronted with defiance; maybe once she would've been able to trust her anger to go undeterred, but warriors were missing. Warriors were dying. Slatestar's eyes had grown darker. "Has something happened to RiftClan in which you need my immediate attendance?" Her tone melted over the course of her inquiry, but she wasn't all that sure whether it contained a hint of authenticity. 

Shiverfur was unreadable, not that he ever wasn't, and Sheepsage didn't bother troubling herself with trying to pry something unknown from him. Her stomach churned with longing to greet him with a nose touch, or a lick over the ear, like she could calm the raging storm inside of his mind. Alas, Sheepsage had long conceded to its depths, too tired and too lost for such calamity to claim her soul now. 

"Is it wrong for me to want to visit with you?" Shiverfur spoke with such conviction that Sheepsage was inclined to believe he had woven stars into the night sky himself. Though, there was little hint of emotion in his tone, and she felt frustration flare in her chest. She had dozens of moons to practice her smile, however, and what a shame if she did not offer it now. 

Vapid and humorless, the warrior tilted her head towards him. "I suppose I cannot stop you from sharing my company." 

"I suppose you cannot."

They shared the silence like it was their last meal together; the molly drawn tall and unwavering, her tom cat companion unassuming and calm. It was in these moments they were quite a pair, twin souls of a rapidly diminishing flame. It was Sheepsage who spoke first, much to their mutual surprise. "My mother once told me stories of Ridgewalker and Riftseeker and spoke of loyalty like it was a disappearing breed," she whispered, the den hushing her words as though they were a cardinal sin, not to be heard above a murmur. "She said our true loyalties should be with ourselves, not some warriors dead and gone."

Shiverfur twitched his ears. "Do you believe her?" He prompted, and Sheepsage believed he was humoring her, asking questions where he knew answers just so they could both revel in conversation where there had been none for moons. 

Sheepsage snorted, a laugh dying in her throat before it could taste the air. "I do not believe nearly anything Juncosong tried to teach me, Shiverfur," she said his name like a prophet, similarly to how he had said hers like a prayer. "Though, I have to wonder if in times of unrest, the strongest loyalty we can feel is to ourselves. When is the last time you've been loyal to yourself, Shiverfur?"

"My allegiance lies with RiftClan, always." There was something short and ill-tempered in his voice suddenly, but so restrained that if Sheepsage had not been looking for it she may have missed it. She quirked her head, contemplative, and nodded. 

"Do you devote yourself to RiftClan, or to Slatestar?"

"Are they not the same thing?"

Sheepsage thought of Houndpaw then, eyes growing brighter over the moons they spent training together. And then she thought of how pale they had been, reflecting the cave floors, as they watched their clan split in opinion, in devotion. "I don't think they are anymore, Shiverfur."

Neither said anything, as was almost cyclical in the words exchanged to each other. The den of shadows grew impossibly colder, and Sheepsage began to see whisps swirl overhead, as if they were calling to her. She hoped Ashnose would be among them- maybe his presence would stitch two fractured hearts back together- and he would appear in front of them. Tell Shiverfur what to do, so that his burdens may lessen. Remind Sheepsage what it is to speak kindly, and to love as though her heart was not decaying with him. The whisps didn’t stay. There was no divine intervention, nor was there divine retribution; as always, they would make mortal sins trying to remain Gods. 

The desire to say I love you crept along her spine, and for a moment she almost said it, but refrained. They had learned long ago there was no use putting it to words, or attempting to reconcile like a pair of young lovers. This was no place for family anymore, and so many moons had floated them apart that Sheepsage wasn't so sure this was the tom she did love. The idea of putting that to words in and of itself was entirely futile. In lieu of an admittance, she uttered an apology, "I only speak to wonder when you've last been Shiverfur for yourself."

Her reconciliation was accepted, if the twitch of his whiskers was anything to go by. And as he rolled words around his mouth, figuring how to respond in a way that would satisfy both of them, another set of paws joined them in the den of shadows. 

Hesitation clung to Shiverfur, and whatever he was about to say was lost as Slatestar came to settle between them, eyes cast forward. "I don't see you here very often, Sheepsage. What troubles you?" The way he spoke was warm and familiar, with so much light in his voice that the molly had almost forgotten the darkness. Still, she couldn't help but to detect the twinge of suspicion that was becoming more normal every day. 

Do you think I come here to betray you? The Den of Shadows? If this is disloyalty, then Palecreek is a traitor. Sheepsage held her tongue and willed her defiance away. Instead, she aimed to appease, "I speak to Goldenbriar here. I like to believe she guides my heart when it is most troubled. Some days, I admit, I miss my mother, and my former mentor often reminds me I made the right choice by pledging my loyalty with RiftClan. With you." Satisfaction unfurled in her stomach as the suspicion eased from the dark furred tom cat, though not completely. 

Slatestar met her eyes, but Sheepsage did not look away from him. You cannot fool me, Slatestar, and you cannot kill me. What now? 

"Very well. I will take Shiverfur with me on my way out then, you'll need the utmost concentration to pin a spirit like my littermate down." The leader was not unkind as he departed from the den, having been somewhat convinced by the molly's practiced monologue. He didn't wait for Shiverfur to follow, and the deputy paused at the entrance of the den, his head angling towards Sheepsage. 

The warrior held the tom’s eyes as she drew in a breath. She wondered if they would ever be what they used to be, and with a rattling exhale, she said her own departing words, “I’ve always been loyal to you, Shiverfur.”

He opened his maw in a half smile, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes as he stared intently at her. Almost as though he could tell her heart was not where it used to be, as though he had caught the carefully decided words she used against their leader. She willed him to respond in kind anyways, to be her likeminded ally, but instead of and I to you, the deputy faced forward and let his words echo off the cave walls. 

“You have always been loyal to RiftClan...” Right?

Then he was gone, leaving guilt and grief to prey upon Sheepsage’s mind in his absence. 

[lastinfur]

[pixiestickjoker]

just want to say,

as a die hard fan of as above, so below that has watched it so much, including on repeat for more than a month once,

papillon and zed definitely had a thing going on.

when papillon was getting pulled into the car and right before he died, he was only directly calling out for zed

he didn't call for george or scarlet, just zed

that is all

[jo-harrington]

Gratia. (An As Above, So Below Story)

Gratia. Charitas. Solamen. Grace. Charity. Peace. The oath of the Knights of the Holy Order.

Summary: You and Eddie-- separated by time and endless suffering--don't realize how many strings keep you connected on the web of fate. What players are there trying to cut those strings? And when will you both find out that they are unbreakable?

Word Count: 2.1k

Pairing: Eddie Munson/Fem!OC (The Knight - Written in 2nd Person POV - You/Your - No Use of Names of Physical Descriptors)

Warnings/Themes: Soulmates, Kas!Eddie, Angst, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Grief, Minor Character Deaths, Manipulation, Transformation, Corruption, Supernatural Encounters, Religious Elements, Criticism of Religion, Biblical and Other Literary and Pop Culture References

Note: So...originally this was going to be one long thing. A tale about the Knight and Eddie and their unbreakable bond. And I wavered about how relevant it would be to the larger story. How relevant are any of these blurbs to the larger story? But if there's anything I've learned writing AASB, it's that I'm really writing the whole thing for myself. And after finding myself in an odd state of grief that kind of just keeps getting worse over the weekend, I know that this little fic...and the two that follow...really are only going to just be for me to help me get through it, so I need to be true to myself and write them anyway. **So if you do read this, please know it can be read in tandem with As Above, So Below. And you should have at least read the Prequels, with maybe some bonus points for Genesis. Iif you've read the Hymns, this is set before Nachzehrer.**

You can find my masterlist here.

Please do not interact if you are not 18+.

“God is a comedian playing to an audience that is too afraid to laugh.” ― Voltaire

November 10, 1986

"I'm sorry for your loss."

"Thank you."

"She's not suffering anymore. Tranquilla."

"Thank you, I know. She's been sick for a long time. She's at rest now."

"Mom brought mostaccioli. And chicken cutlets. She's setting it up in the other room then she'll be over. You should get some, you need to eat."

"I'll be alright, thank you for coming."

Today was the final day that you would spend with your Nonna.

Well, a more accurate description was that they let you have it.

Let you.

Let you have one day to sit on that stiff funeral home sofa. To stare at her, unrecognizably still in her casket, as friends and neighbors swarmed to offer their condolences. To mourn with you.

But somehow also separately from you.

And tomorrow, after she was behind a cold slab of marble, you'd be off again. Creeping closer to your own death until one day you might be placed in a plot adjacent to her.

Together.

But not really.

If there was anything left of you.

It wouldn't do to think of that today though.

Today, you would sit here. Enjoy your break and bask in the remnants of her soul that still lingered in and around her body.

It brought you some comfort to feel it move the way she did.

It danced like she danced around the kitchen, the boundaries of it crinkling like the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes and mouth. A phantasmic remnant of her lovingly worried gaze was on you every now and again, creating the urge to say "I'm ok Nonnie." To lie to her, like you always did. And whenever one of her friends knelt their own aging bodies to pray at her side, you could practically see the softness of her cushion their jagged edges, comforting them.

You didn’t dare go up yourself though.

Not yet.

Not unless you wanted the Funeral Director to haul you out of the casket because somewhere deep down you just wanted to crawl into it with her and scream,

“Take me with you. Don’t leave me like I left you.”

Because you were not ok.

You closed your eyes as a phantom hand touched your shoulder, as it attempted to soothe the pain deep inside you but only managed to stir up another kind of pain. Another kind of mourning.

If only he was really there, you could ask him to take you with him too. Take you away from here to wherever he and Nonna would wait for you.

An impossible request.

The weight of the sofa shifted beside you and you opened your eyes. You expected to find Fortunata or Antoinette—two of Nonna’s closest friends who could claim a spot beside you if they truly wanted—but instead you found Gabriel’s stiff inhuman posture and expressionless face staring ahead of him at the casket.

“You could have helped her,” you said instead of a greeting. What good would a greeting do? “Healed her.”

You briefly wondered if you'd imagined the corner of his mouth quirking before he spoke.

“And if I told you I had? If I spared her a worse fate? Lessened her pain? Lessened yours?”

“I wouldn’t believe you.”

“Then I won’t tell you.”

You turned back to watch the casket with an unsatisfied hum.

Time passed and you sat silently together as you fought to keep your emotions in check with Gabriel's presence. You weren't nervous, per se; more annoyed. Angry, even. Questioning why he was here on this day out of all days.

All your life, you explained away his presence as a guardian. Unseen and unknown to everyone but you. He used to protect you or so you could recall, but as you got older that seemed to stop.

And he was more of a harbinger of doom than a deterrent of it.

Well, not doom.

Fate.

Or God's will or some shit like that. You didn't know anymore. Didn't care. You only cared about getting to the finish line. Freeing your soul of this curse. Getting your prize.

Heaven. Home. Peace with the ones you loved.

With Nonna.

With Eddie.

So if Gabriel was here, it meant something was about to happen. Something unsavory. Something...

You blinked and he disappeared from your peripheral vision suddenly, and just beyond the space he had previously occupied, stood a man in a black cassock.

Jinette approached you but you didn't give him the satisfaction of your attention until he said your name and offered his condolences.

"May I sit?" he gestured beside you.

"Seat's taken," you responded coldly.

"Ah, your mother, yes," he nodded in realization, and you watched him pull a chair up from one of the rows behind you.

You wouldn't be the one to tell him that your mother hadn't shown her face since you arrived back in Chicago late last night. She had done her duty, arranged the funeral and called you home. Beyond that her obligation was almost over; she could be free.

There had been a brief moment between the two of you when you let yourself into Nonna's flat and found her at the table surrounded by paperwork and old pictures, and you thought for the briefest second that this might be a turning point. That she might exhume whatever love she used to have for you, buried so deep in her heart, so you wouldn't have to mourn alone.

Instead she said she was sorry, then kissed your cheek and left.

And really you only had yourself to blame at the disappointment that punctuated the interaction. How could you have expected anything more than that when the bar was already set so low?

"California is a long way to come just for funeral rites," you said once Jinette was settled.

"I'm afraid that's not what I'm here for."

"Then to attend a funeral of a very devout woman," you amended.

"I'm not here for that either." You would give it to him, the remorse plastered on his features almost looked sincere. "Unfortunately, there is a very dire situation and the Order is in need of your experti--"

"No," you cut him off swiftly. "Tomorrow. You can ask me to go tomorrow. Not today."

The usual coldness of his gaze returned and he addressed you stiffly.

"You cannot refuse. Must not. This is your duty."

You turned to him, hand shooting from your lap of its own volition to grab his robe and pull him close enough that your noses practically touched.

The funeral goers around you began to murmur--your Nonna's friends whispering in fear and shame, saying a prayer to spare them of whatever wrath would befall you for defying and possibly harming his eminence--but you ignored them.

You knew you might pay for it later, but for now your rage was warranted.

"Don't lecture me about duty," you hissed at Jinette. "My entire life has been about duty. Her life too. If you want me to go? You'll beg me. Not guilt me. But I promise that the answer will still be no."

Something wicked flickered inside of you, and you wondered if you could smite Jinette. Just a little bit. If you could channel the deep-rooted grudge against your plight and let him feel the consequences that waited to befall someone who had nurtured it.

Then you felt a slight disturbance in the room.

The calm of Nonna's soul was shaken from its bliss, and you could practically hear the sharp, punishing clicks of her tongue as you fisted Jinette's robe tighter and tighter. The flame of the candles beside her casket flickered, the leaves on the flower arrangements that filled the room began to wilt, and the whispers around you got louder until they roared in your ears.

Your eyes burned with unshed tears as the feeling of Nonna's disappointment surrounded you--filled you--and you fought it for as long as you could.

But if anyone here was going to reprimand you in this room, in this world, it would be her.

You let Jinette go and fell back into the couch with your arms crossed tightly over your chest. He heaved several heavy breaths and patted his chest pathetically.

"Tomorrow," you told him as Nonna's soul and the murmurs of the people around you settled back down into a serene silence.

The tears finally fell after he left, and you closed your eyes as Eddie's ghostly touch softly wiped them away.

"Tomorrow..."

November 6, 1983

Twang.

He enjoyed it.

Twang.

Enjoyed plucking the guitar strings and letting the reverberation travel along his fingertips and into the very core of him.

Twang.

Deep down in that dark pit where you seemed to hide, every note was like a starburst of brightness and good feelings. Things so foreign and forgotten to him now, yet still so integral to Eddie Munson.

He wasn't Eddie anymore though.

So he resented the fact that he enjoyed it so much.

"Play something," you would whisper in those hidden depths, like a devil on his shoulder, and he constantly fought the temptation to follow that urge. "Play me a song, I know you know how."

He never gave in though.

Could never give in.

It was bad enough that he hid you from Henry, that he even listened to you at all. But feeling something--doing something--was better than feeling nothing in the boring, timeless eternal void of the Upside Down. So he would allow himself these brief visits to the trailer, he would tolerate your soft words and the ever-present softness of the ghost that seemed to haunt him here, so he could pluck a few twangs of the guitar strings and bask in the sparks of euphoria they would bring.

And it was enough. It had to be enough.

Then, when he got bored or hungry or irritated by you, away he would go again.

"I would argue that me being annoying is the reason you still keep me around."

He hissed at you and pulled his hands away from the guitar spitefully.

Twang.

He watched as one of the strings seemed to pluck itself and debated whether he could reach out and take a swipe at you, but there was a sudden pain beneath his sternum. Odd, seeing as he barely felt pain in this body now. He clicked his claws together contemplatively, then hesitantly rubbed at it to soothe the ache, and as he did, he felt the echoes of your soft sigh somewhere deep inside him.

He faltered for a moment, unsure if he should feel some sort of satisfaction that he had comforted you, or resentment that he had fallen for it.

He hated you. Hated your presence there. Hated that you were somehow here when you left him to this fate. Hated that you made him weak again when Henry had remade him to be strong. Infallible.

You might very well be his downfall one day.

And still he couldn't fathom being without you again.

He growled deeply and, unexpectedly, the trailer shook around him, walls clattering, remnants of knick knacks falling.

For a moment, he watched it in awe. Believed that he was the cause of it. That the power Henry had helped him unlock had been activated with his spite.

Until everything started to shake.

The Upside Down became unsettled, the very ground beneath him shifting with some seismic agitation. Roiling and churning, changing.

There was a cacophony of restlessness through the collective consciousness as all of the creatures of the Upside Down felt the disturbance. As Henry felt the disturbance and questioned its origin, because it had not been of his design.

Almost immediately, he was singled out amongst the masses, ordered to his Master's side.

Who else could find the cause of this turmoil than Henry's right hand? His loyal servant? The Beast he created to strike on his behalf, to herald in the end?

Eddie didn't hesitate.

He left the trailer and took flight swiftly and dutifully, beating his wings powerfully to get to Henry as quickly as he could.

To get away from you as quickly as he could.

You and your comfortable constant presence in the respite of the trailer.

“Do not be afraid. Our fate cannot be taken from us; it is a gift.” ― Dante Alighieri, Inferno

[deny-the-issue]

Tonight I wrote about a thousand words for my Silco fic, “As Above So Below” chapter 11! Finally got over my writers block, I hope you all are ready for the next chapter 😈 because it’s coming soon!

[kbanews]

Gernas IG Dukung Aksi Sejuta Buruh untuk Perubahan dan Kesejahteraan

JAKARTA | KBA – Gerakan Nasional Indonesia Gemilang (Gernas IG), Relawan Bakal Calon Presiden (Bacapres) Koalisi Perubahan dan Persatuan (KPP) Anies Rasyid Baswedan, mendukung aksi massa yang tergabung dalam Aliansi Aksi Sejuta Buruh (AASB) bersama Rakyat di depan Istana Kepresidenan RI dan Patung Kuda, Jakarta Pusat, Kamis, 10 Agustus 2023. Ketua Umum DPP Gernas IG, Legisan S. Samtafsir, dalam…

[birrdies]

gnawing at the bars of my enclosure

[beebo-biris]

OH SHIT i accidentally buried my straights whooopsieees

[neonmalware]

Goosebelly - The Star (Reversed)