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blackvahana · 6 months

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Location: Leviathan's private library* 7/4/24

*one of his private libraries.

I need to sit and do some work, so I asked Lev if I could borrow a specific library of his. He said to go ahead, that it's a private space and hence I won't be disturbed nor noticed.

This place is dense in all senses of the word. It's definitely on one of the slower Planes if not the one he rules, the air is thick, everything moves slowly. I find myself not struggling against that since I can move through it like a fish in water, but it is certainly water I'm metaphorically moving through.

The place is registering as heavy shades of leather brown, but actually, it's not? It's like blue-hued fish scales in the light in the way it bends light through iridescent scale-like arrangements of matter, like sheets of broken blue obsidian. It's a series of structures that act as books; while the subjective mind would show the average person from my plane brown leather books, it really is more like a set of crystalline maps -

He corrects me: even he sees it like that, like books. “These are universal expressions and understandings of the world around you. There's a reason the person seeing it as books would be able to interact with it, unlike someone hallucinating the image of a book over a box. You just happen to see more (than just leather books).”

Interesting, thought registered and taken on board.

The library is a dense space, not extensive, definitely a person-study-esque experience, at least the personal study of a king. It definitely feels like it's strung with spider webs, thin ropes of… something… that hang from the books and the crystalline structures down on the ground like webs weighed by age and dust. These are extensions of the library's functions. Sitting at the old wooden desk, thick and mahogany-esque is how it registers to me, I intuitively remember from all my years with him how to work the place. These strings are hooked into the self, allowing reference of various points in the library allowing his mind - and its users’ minds - to almost be a computer on a network of devices. It effectively binds one to a network of all the books, categories of book, and overarching connections between books whether that's referencing each other, discussing the same topic from different viewpoints, or even things like understanding the linear progression of history through two completely disparate books happening to be written one after the other chronologically.

The books in hand (as opposed to still in the shelves) have stronger gravitational weight, though they can be read without turning pages and the information taken in through the book as a whole, it's easier to bring one or two to the desk… for me, at least. Really, he knows this library better than I know it, he spends his time writing whilst plugged in to the library as a whole, shifting information back and forth from himself and the books to streamline the process of writing and studying and referencing. I can see him with many hands writing multiple things at once, or, in this memory(?), working on one main thing with two different types of notes being taken on either side of the paper. The rest of the table is cleared of books, it's all being strung through those webs.

For me, taking a book as an anchor allows me to concentrate on one thing over another, and yet even still the information cannot be bound to page-by-page extraction unless you want to bore Lev's energy, which sustains and acts as the librarian to this place, with insistence on doing things a thousand times slower than he usually operates. Think of it like trying to read a book to a fast reader by describing every single letter one by one, including the spaces between them.

Anyway. It's organised into various topics though not linearly - linear as in point a to point b solely - instead it's organised in multiple ways at once like the centre of a Venn diagram of ways to organise books, kept in neat arrays and… probably that's why it feels like it's gathered heavy dust, the books don't often get moved anymore and instead are kept neat, but that dust in a way doubles as a locking mechanism of the books into his energy and territory given references to his associations with ash.

#Astral projection #Irt the title. I don't actually know how many libraries he has but I know it's more than one.#And for funsies I'm gonna put posts like this in the projection tag #astral diary //#Location: Lev's private library

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gunaerystargarygun · 4 days

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i finished the fiddauthor fic! i'm posting it here first because i'm shy. (': please remember i haven't written for like, funsies or pleasure in a while so if it's bad, that's because i have no talent <3!

anyway, fic under the cut babes

tags: hurt no comfort, literally nobody is happy and this fic is just angst, blood n violence mention

"Gotta say, NOT really lovin' how you're not helping me out on this, Sixer." They stand, well, float in a gilded room, almost every inch of the space covered in a metallic sheen. Bill hovers a few feet above him, laying on his side with a half-empty glass of wine that he swirls. The single eye looks down, judging.

"Haven't even gotten an apology, ya know? Really hurt my feelins! I thought we had somethin', Fordsy." The pet names fall on deaf ears, no reaction until Bill snaps his fingers, the spectral collar shackling around Ford. The glowing links wrap around a thin, pitch colored wrist. A sharp tug causes a growl to bubble of out his throat, a high-pitched chuckle coming from the other. "Ohhh, someone's got an attitude today!"

"I have nothing to apologize for!" Ford snaps, he reaches up, grabs the chain and lets go with an immediate cry of pain. He shakes his hand, the skin already red from how hotly it burns.

"You have everything to apologize for!" Bill flares, practically doubling in size and staring down, flames in the corner of his giant, omnipresent eye. "I gave you everything, and this is how you repay me?"

"Your intimidation tactics won't work on me anymore. What, nothing new in that bag of tricks of yours?" Bill's pupil twitches, searching the entire form of Ford before shrinking back down to his standard size.

"Well, now that you mention it, I do have a real treat for you!" Ford wines, the collar somehow tightening around his neck as Bill pulls him closer. He's just barely an inch away from him, the eye unblinking. He sees his reflection in it's almost glass like finish, shuddering as Bill's voice echoes inside his skull. "I could rip you apart molecule by molecule, y'know? Rip apart your atoms and put you back together like my own little science project."

"Then do it." Ford spits.

"Nah, I don't feel like doin' something so…. pedestrian." he waves a hand about, dismissively, as if this entire subject bores him before tapping a finger on Ford's forehead. "I'm more interested in goin' down memory lane." He freezes.

"Got quite the extensive history with a few people, don't you?" The lilt in his words makes Ford swallow.

"Don't." he tries to keep his voice even, strong, but it waves. He squeezes his eyes shut as Bill laughs.

"Give me an apology then." he grabs Ford's face. "Tell me you're sorry, and I won't do what I was gonna do." The words taste like vinegar, no, battery acid on his tongue, but he's cut off. "Look at me when you apologize. It doesn't mean anything if you don't look at me." The grip on his face is painful at this point, and Ford forces his eyes open.

It's almost impressive how a single eye, devoid of any other features, can look so fucking smug.

Again, Ford begins the apology. Bill's eye creases, the glow of his body seeming to grow brighter as he apologizes for all his "slights" against his muse, how it will never happen again.

"There." Ford's eyes are downcast, the overwhelming sense of shame rising in his gut. "Will you… will you please just let me go now?" Bill put his hand to where his chin would be, pupil looking upward while a thoughtful look crosses his face. "Hmmm," and he holds that hmmm for at least a full minute before snapping his attention, and fingers, back to Ford.

"Nope! Enjoy the highlights of your most painful college memories!" Before Ford can even truly process what the hell just happened, a bright light overtakes his vision and then….everything is dark.

He regains his consciousness sitting on the side of an uncomfortable, too tall bed. His feet dangle, and he raises a hand, a throbbing pain in his head. Ford glances around, taking in his surroundings.

It's his college dorm room.

A cold, sinking feeling forms in the pit of his stomach. College wasn't a miserable experience, so why did Bill send him back here?

Then, he hears the sniffling. A scrawny man sits on the edge of the dorm bed, a tissue pressed against his eyes. "Know what this is, Fordsy?" The echo of Bill's voice is in his head and only adds to the pain that currently throbs inside his skull. It's obvious that Fiddleford can't see him, otherwise he would have already said something.

Ford doesn't speak, the door to the room flinging open just a moment later.

There he stands. A much younger version of himself. A few days stubble on his face, glasses slightly askew from hauling his bags all the way in by himself. There's a bright, wild look in his eyes as he rushes over. "Fiddleford McGuckett, right?" the younger version of Ford heaves his bags across the room, passing through himself and landing on the bed no indication of a bounce.

The mattresses were basically rock.

"I'm Stanford, Stanford Pines!" he watches as the younger version of himself grabs McGuckett by his shoulders, the tears shifting from fear to surprise, to…something else. "Your theory in class? Brilliant - absolutely brilliant!" Was he always this excited about theories? His hand moves from his shoulders, picking up his hand and shaking it furiously. "Y-you really think so?" Fiddleford's voice wavers a little, trying to process this strange man who burst into his room and started shaking his hand.

"Think so? I know so. Your math was a little off but that's no big deal, we can work that out. Hey, you got a white board? Big piece of paper? We need space for this."

"What?"

"You heard me, we're gonna crack this math right now. No sleep until we solve this!"

"I, uh," Ford watches as the younger version of himself hurries over to the bed, digging through his bags and tossing out various things as he looks for something to write on.

He blinks, watching a red bloom across Fiddleford's face, watching him as he rips through his bags before finding his box of pencils. His eyes scan over his body quickly, averting when Ford whips around to show his prize triumphantly. "I've got, uh, post-it notes!" Fiddleford says, sliding off the bed and reaching into the desk drawer.

"Hmm, a little small, but we can put them together and create one giant post-it if we need to!" He pops open the top of the box, holding it out and offering a pencil to his new roommate. Fiddleford looks at it before taking one and saying. "You can call me Fids, by the way. I know the names kind of a mouthful."

"And you can call me Ford, now come on, we've got relativity to solve!"

He watches in mild amusement as his younger self moves around the room, trying the experimental coffee he came up with back at home. Past the shakes and thirty seconds of blindness every other hour, it worked wonderfully, as he recalled.

"You know, Sixer, this changed his life." Ford says nothing as Bill scoots closer to him, pointed angle of his triangle stabbing into the fabric of his clothes. He moves, but Bill follows close. "Thought you hung the moon," Bill's voice is unnaturally soft as he watches Fids point to a stray post-it note stuck to the side of Ford's head. "Thought you painted each constellation in the sky, too."

As Ford has his back turned, his eyes are on Fids.

Fiddleford watches with an abject gaze of wonder as Ford works on the white board they found when they tried to open the curtains for sunlight. Guess the board was cheaper than a window. He follows every movement that Ford makes, listening intently and scratching down a few notes from what Ford is babbling about. The way he looks at him - what Bill says is right.

"And you enjoyed that, didn't you." It isn't a question. It's an accusation.

"I didn't know." Ford tries to explain.

"Bullshit." Bill snaps, floating up to meet Ford's gaze. "Farm boy over here made you feel like a goddamn genius, made you feel like everything you ever said was worth listening to and you fuckin' loved that."

"He had good ideas," Ford tries again.

"Oh, right, your research assistant. A-S-S-I-S-T-A-N-T." Bill punctuates each letter by getting closer until his eye is just inches away from Ford's nose before backing up suddenly and smacking his forehead. "How could I forget! The guy wouldn't even call partner had such good ideas!"

"Is there a reason you're showing me this?" Ford spits.

"Of course there is." Bill snaps his fingers, the room dissolving and a literal roll of film whipping around them. There's a few thing Ford can see, snippets of his memories through college before swallowing hard.

"Little Fordsy finally made a friend without his brother around, and so did Farm boy! Sure do hope nothing happens." Bill suddenly reaches out and snatches a memory. "The great thing about me is I see everything, Fordsy!"

Bill grabs the edges of the film and stretches it, raising it above them before pulling it down, shoving them both into the memory.

The lights above buzz with a warm, fluorescent glow. Rows of books line either side of him. In front of him, he's hunched over a table, an open book in front of him as he snores softly. This was the winter of his second year, staying up late and studying for a final.

He didn't plan on going home this year, anyway. Stanley's stocking wasn't hung, and he needed to make sure he had his papers in on time.

Fids had a family, though, but he said he couldn't let Ford stay at the college by himself. It was a kind gesture, one that made an unusual, fluttering feeling rise in his stomach. No friend had ever done that for him. Then again… he never really had a friend other than Stanley. "I'd been up for almost two days straight, maybe three hours of sleep?" Ford runs a hand through his hair, watching as his body twitches slightly over the book.

The soft sound of shoes against the carpeted floor catches his attention. He turns, Fids coming into view with two Styrofoam cups in his hands, smoke rising off the coffee. "Oh, Ford." his voice is quiet, sighing as he moves forward and sets the cups down.

He doesn't remember this…then again, he spent so much time in the library, it's a wonder he could remember any specific instance.

Fids sits next to him, scooting his chair a little closer and adjusting the collar of Ford's jacket, the collar no longer poking him in the side of his jaw. Ford blinks, lips pressed tightly together as Fid's hand raises, brushing the shaggy hair from his face but… the motion is slow, more careful than just the fear of waking him up. "Workin' yerself to death, y'know?" Fids voice is still soft, hand lowering and resting on Ford's outstretched arm. His thumb moves gently against the fabric of his jacket, eyes looking down he swears he sees the smallest hint of a smile.

Slowly, Fids pulls his hand back but pauses as the palm of his hand reaches the back of Ford's. His mouth goes dry as he watches him lower it against his, Fid's face twisted in an expression he can't read. The young man swallows, dragging his fingers over Ford's knuckles and pausing before quickly pulling hand away, flexing his fingers, as if he touched something sacred.

"Few more minutes might do ya some good." But a few minutes turns into an hour, and then another, with Fids sitting by Ford and reading, occasionally checking on him before the librarian makes her rounds and tells them that the library will close in the next fifteen minutes.

He watches Fid gets up and disposes of the cups of coffee before returning, gently shaking Ford awake. "Huh?" he grumbles, pushing up his glasses and rubbing his eyes. "Whas happenin?" his voice is tired, watching the soft expression Fids' face shift as Ford looks up to him. "We fell asleep," Fids tells him. "Librarian just came by," he yawns, stretching his arms above his head. Ford can't believe this, eyes widening.

Fids extends a hand, helps him up and clean off the table. They collect their things, talking about the plans for the next year.

"And you had no idea, huh, Sixer?"

"He had his own life, Ford." Bill's voice drips with venom, Ford staring down at the floor. "He was happy in California, you know?" A taloned hand taps the side of Ford's head. "Remember that wedding?"

He doesn't.

"Oh, that's right!" Bill throws his arms out. "You didn't go! Your research was more important than seeing your best, no, your only friend get married!" Ford turns his head slightly. "And you still had the audacity to call him, three years later and ask for his help, and what did he do?"

"He was here within the week," Ford spoke quietly.

"Without hesitation. Dog doesn't forget his loyalty, huh? Guess that's what makes him better than you."

"But hey," Bill's arm slides around Ford's shoulder, an amused look dancing in the single eye. "Can't really blame him! Remember that night in college?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Ohh, right!" Bill extends his thumb, blue flaming burning around the pitch colored digit. "Here!" He squeezes his eyes shut, and when he opens them, he's sitting on the floor of his dorm room, but he's no longer a viewer

He's in his body.

"You ever been drunk before, Ford?" It's an innocent enough question, and curious enough that it makes Ford look up from his books. He thinks back to when, in his youth, he and Stanley snuck into his parent's liquor cabinet and took a drink of their mother's vodka. It tasted terrible, and sent him into a coughing fit, and that was hard to play off.

"Can't say that I have," he never developed a taste for it, and he can't help but wonder if Stanley found a taste for it. "Why, have you?"

"Nope." Fids shrugs. "Had some family members that had a knack for makin' moonshine, but hoo-wee, that's strong enough to power a damn car engine!" he sits up in the bed, looking a little sheepish. "I heard about all those college parties and stuff, s'posed to be a rite of passage ya know but all those people? No thanks."

To his surprise, the words fall out of his mouth before he realizes what he says. "Do you wanna drink together?"

"What, really?" Fids sounds genuinely surprised.

"Of course. It'd be good to see what effect it has on my body, for research purposes, of course." Fids snorts a laugh, hopping off the bed. "Right, we'll have our own little party, right here!" The transparent figure of a triangle burns into the air above Fids.

"And what a quaint little party you have. " There's an insidious laugh, the picture of him phasing out.

Ford smiles at his roommate, a warm, pink color spreading across the young man's face while the cold, sinking dread begins to slither through his guts.

The whiskey, on its own, tastes disgusting. It burns going down, sending him into a coughing fit, but if mixed with Pitt cola, it's tolerable.

The company is nice, too.

Crowds make him feel like he's lost, an easily lost face in a sea of people infinitely more interesting than him. But with Fids… it's easy. Conversation is easy, which is something he never thought would be easy. Physics, calculus, organic chemistry? They're all so easy compared to small talk, but maybe that's because there's numbers, rules, a set procedure of how things work and that's comfortable.

It's strange, but Fids has that comfortable feel of his equations.

Shaggy brown hair falls in his eyes, Fids pushing up his too large glasses. The drink has colored his face dark red now, a bright smile on his face as they laugh about seemingly anything. A warm, tingly buzz courses through Ford as he drains the rest of what's in his cup. They tell jokes, talk about their lives. Fids tells him the story of how a goat managed to get the tractor started one day; took out the wall of the bank!

He laughs, almost choking on his drink and now, he sees through the corner of his eye, the look of pride on Fidd's face that he got him to laugh like that. "Y'alright, Ford?" his speech is slurred, and Ford simply nods, wipes the back of his mouth. "Yeah, m'good." Fid slows down on the drinking, but Ford seemingly underestimates the strength of mixed drinks.

"Oh, I got somethin' to show ya.'" Ford struggles to get up, managing to stand up for half a second before he stumbles and falls.

Directly into Fidd's lap.

"Woah, you okay?" He asks, holding his friend. Ford has never been one for touch, or rather, touch was seemingly never meant for him. When he fell, and Fids subsequently caught him, Ford's shirt had rode up on the side. Fid's hand is planted firmly against his side, the warm flesh soft and malleable. The tips of his fingers brush against the tuft of hair training from his navel and he freezes, face burning. Nobody has ever touched his body like this, even on an accident.

"Yeah…" he turns to look at him.

Fid's eyes soften as their eyes meet, a crooked, gentle smile on his face as he raises a hand, gently touching Ford's face. "Think you might've had too much to drink," that's more than likely true, the words barely registering as Ford looks at Fid. His eyes are a warm, earthy brown color. Innocent. They remind him of a deer.

"Ford? You ok-" his words are interrupted as Ford shifts around, sitting in Fid's lap, legs hooked over his hips. Fid is shaking beneath him, hands resting on his sides as they look at each other.

Maybe it's the alcohol.

Or maybe it's something Ford doesn't want to admit.

He leans forward, lips pressing against Fid's.

He tastes like whiskey and the soda, and yet, there's something else. Desperation. Want. Need. More. Ford's mouth moves against his, sloppy - he's kissed a robot before, but a robot is a lot different than a human mouth. He doesn't know about Fidds, but he seems better at it than him. It's when Ford tries to lift his roommate's shirt that a pair of hands grab his wrists.

"Yer drunk."

"I'm tipsy."

"Yer wasted, Ford." Through the panting, slurred speech, there's pain. "C'mon, let's get ya into bed."

"Y'know you could power a city with that smile? Endless energy." Fid is helping Ford to his feet as he says that, a low, regretful sigh. Just as he manages to right himself, Ford looks at his roommate.

"I'm gonna puke." He wrenches from his friend's grasp -were they even still friends after this?- and leans over the trash can.

It's a very humbling feeling, Ford finds out, to taste bile and cheap alcohol as it comes back up. Fidds stays by his side, keeping the shaggier parts of his hair out of his face while he's on all fours. There's a bleary apology, Ford recalls, as his roommate helps him rinse out his mouth and into clean clothes. Next, he helps him into bed, and Ford has never felt more embarrassed. "M'sorry."

"Shucks, don't be. Kinda things happen from time to time. You'll be right as rain in the mornin'."

"Yeah." Ford watches with admiration as Fidds picks up the room, checking on him and eventually building a wall of pillows around him to keep him on his side. Before long, his eyes shut and indeed, the morning comes with the worst headache he's ever had.

He rubs at his temple, the smell of coffee assaulting him as Fidds approaches him with a cup of coffee.

*"And what did you say, Sixer?" Bill's voice scratches on the back of his skull, nails on chaik board, teeth on sandpaper. The world seems to stop moving as he reaches out for the offered cup.

*"I lied." he answers.

"What happened last night?" Ford mumbles, sipping it. It's got just the right amount of sugar, hazel nut creamer. The urge to throw up is overwhelming. Fidd's face doesn't show any trace of disappointment. "You got drunker than a skunk," he laughs. "Nearly filled up that trash can," he points to the small waste basket near the door. Any trace of last night is removed, except for what's in their heads.

"Didn't embarrass myself, did I? Was kinda worried about that if I ever drank." This time, Fidd's face falls slightly before he shakes it off.

"Nah. You didn't do nothin'. Same old Ford, but you swore you could create renewable energy with a fistful of jelly beans and a slipper." he feels a cold feeling sink back into his stomach as he looks down at the coffee.

"That does sound like me."

"You wanna do childhood memories next? Plenty of those that we can go through, ala A Clockwork Orange style!" There's that thrill in Bill's voice. Ford blinks, realizing that he's on his knees in whatever mindscape they're currently sitting in.

He's silent, hands folded over each other in front of him. Bill scoffs, grabbing the back of his shirt and shaking him. "C'mon, it's no fun if you don't fight back!" When there's no response, Bill shoves him forward, rolling his eye.

"Why…why can't I remember that? Why can't I remember any of these?"

"Oh, because I burned them out of your brain when you pissed me off." Bill speaks as if it's the plainest fact in the fact. "And that farm boy pissed me off, too. Felt like you two were gettin' a little too close there." Ford stares at him.

"You…"

"Yes, me!" Bill throws his thumbs at himself before throwing his arms out, small blue bursts of fireworks going off around him. "C'mon, Sixer, I did you a favor!"

"You cost me…" Ford's voice rises in strength, getting to his feet and pointing at Bill before his strength falters. What had Bill cost him that he wasn't already on the path to lose? "Everything." his voice fails.

"Oh, Sixer." The creature's hand reaches out, gently takes his chin like he's done so many times before. A growing shadow begins got encroach on the area, an unnatural coldness bleeding into the area. Ford shudders, eyes squeezing shut. "Houses built on sand never stand long, you know that."

There's a rush of noise. A train rushing through a tunnel before everything goes black.

When Ford wakes up the next day, his knuckles are bruised, bloody. He gasps for breath, ribs aching as he rolls onto his arms. There's a searing burn in the back of his brain, just above the nape of his neck. Everything aches, vision blurring as he tries to stand before collapsing back onto the floor.

He groans. Tears in his eyes. His tongue moves against the back of his teeth. There's a space missing. The taste of blood floods his mouth.

He wishes Fidds was here.

#gravity falls #fiddauthor #the ending fell off imma be real and maybe i'll change it later but eh

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