#knitting basement

[evilmus]

Jim and Turg

Sitting in a tree

K I S S I N G

First comes love

Then comes crime

Then comes the knitting basement making many a dime

[far-hall-bridge]

absolutely joymaxxing rn

[rpfisfine]

I need to relearn how to knit

[aeide-thea]

me like: i wonder what would happen if you tried to quilt partially/fully-felted roving to an outer cotton shell. like could you make weird hippie sweatpants or would getting the wool felted enough to be quiltable onto the cotton without an inner woven layer to sandwich it in place make it too not-fleecy to have the right feel. 🤔

[cacston]

As a stop motion Animator, we included knitting in our film. And as long as you know the motions of knitting, it's so easy todo

as a knitter, you start to notice how rare it is for characters in tv shows and movies to knit correctly. from worst to best, it ranges from:

- laughably incorrect, just flinging yarn around

- knitting the most basic scarf incredibly slowly because the actor Learned How To Do It For The Role

- old lady actresses casually knitting an intricate lace pattern while doing a monologue

- gromit from wallace and gromit

[grunge-mermaid]

re: last poll reblog

I just went through the community centre events calendar from September to December to see if there's anything I missed

for all the events at the location in my town: I'm under 65, I don't have diabetes, and I'm not a recovering addict

for the all but one of the events in the next town: I'm under 65, over 30, don't have diabetes, I know how to crochet granny squares, I'm not a mother, and I don't have specific chronic illnesses

the one event in the next town that I'm eligible for? "colouring for adults 16+". colouring...

[inkskinned]

i got rickrolled today but it didn't work because i have adblocker installed, so youtube just told me i violated the terms of service. yesterday i was trying to edit a picture as a joke for my girlfriend, and google made me check a box to prove i'm human because i wasn't "searching normally".

it isn't just that capitalism is killing fun and whimsy, it is that any element of entertainment or joy is being fed upon by this mosquito body, one that will suck you dry at any vulnerability.

do you want to meet new friends in your city? download this app, visit our website, sign up for our email list. pay for this class on making a terrarium, on candlemaking, on cooking. it will be 90 dollars a session. you can go to group fitness, but only under our specific gym membership. solve the puzzle, sign up for our puzzle-of-the-month-club. what is a club if not just a paid opportunity - you are all paying for the same thing, which makes you a community.

but you're like me, i know it - you're careful, you try the library meetings and the stuff at the local school and all of that. the problem is that you kind of want really specific opportunities that used to exist. you are so grateful for libraries and the publicly-funded things: they are, however, an exception - and everything they have, they've fought tooth-and-nail to protect. you read a headline about how in many other states, libraries have virtually nothing left.

do you want to meet up with your friends afterwards? gift your friends the discord app. you can choose to go to a cafe (buy a coffee, at least), a bar (money, alcohol) or you can all stay in and catch a movie (streaming) or you can all stay in bed (rent. don't get me started) and scream (noise complaint. ticket at least).

you want to read a new book, but the book has to have 124 buzzwords from tiktok readers that are, like, weirdly horny. you can purchase this audiobook on audible! your podcast isn't on spotify, it's on its own server, pay for a different site. fuck, at least you're supporting artists you like. the art museum just raised their ticket price. once, they had a temporary exhibit that acknowledged that ~85% of their permanent art galleries were from cis white men, and that they had thousands of works by women (even famous women, like frida! georgia o'keefe!) just rotting in their basement. that exhibit lasted for 3 months and then they put everything away again.

walmart proudly supports this strip of land by the street! here are some flowers with wilting leaves. its employees have to pay out-of-pocket for their uniforms. my friend once got fined by the city because she organized a community pick-up of the riverfront, which was technically private property.

no, you cannot afford to take that dance class, neither can i. by the way - i'm a teacher. i'm absolutely not saying "educators shouldn't be paid fairly." i'm saying that when i taught classes, renting a studio went from 20 bucks an hour to 180 in the span of 6 months. no significant changes to the studio were made, except they now list the place as updated and friendly. the heat still doesn't work in the building. i have literally never seen the landlord who ignores my emails. recently they've been renting it out at night as an "unusual nightclub; a once-in-a-lifetime close-knit party." they spent some of those 180 dollars on LEDs and called it renovating. the high heels they invite in have been ruining the marley.

do you want to experience the old internet? do you want to play flash games or get back the temporary joy of club penguin? you can, you just need to pay for it. i have a weird, neurodivergent obsession with occasionally checking in to watch the downfall and NFT-ification of neopets. if i'm honest with you all - i never got into webkins, my family didn't have the money to buy me a pointless elephant. people forget that "being poor" can mean literally "if i buy you that toy, i can't afford rent."

you and i don't have time to make good food, and we don't have the budget for it. we are not gonna be able to host dinner parties, we're not made of money, kid. do you want some kind of 3rd space? a space that isn't home or work or school? you could try being online, but - what places actually exist for you? tiktok counts as social media because you see other people on it, not because they actually talk to you.

there was a local winter tradition of sledding down the hill at my school. kids would use pizza boxes and jackets and whatever worked, howling and laughing. back in september, they made a big announcement that this time, rules were changing, and everyone must pay 10 dollars to participate. when im not scared shitless, i kind of appreciate the environmental irony - it hasn't gone below 40. so much for snow & joyriding.

i saw a bulletin for a local dogwalking group and, nervous about making a good first impression, showed up early. the first guy there grimaced at me. "sorry," he said. "there's a 30-dollar buy-in fee." i thought he was joking. wait. for what? the group doesn't offer anything except friendship and people with whom to walk around the city.

he didn't know the answer. just shrugged at me. "you know," he said. "these days, everything costs money."

[thewirewitch]

There was another FLEA in my BED and it JUMPED before I could GRAB IT.

[thekickassknitter]

Mr. Kickass and I met at my university*.

* he was not a student. We met at the anime club**.

**while I was on a date with someone else***.

***someone who did NOT really want to be at the anime club****.

**** so I started acting like a smart-ass to make her laugh. She did, but some one from behind me had a better comeback *****.

***** It was Mr. Kickass.

curious. how did u guys start dating

[ice-creamforbreakfast]

::Download:: (Patreon - Free)

The 1920s and 30s were all about exploring places you most certainly shouldn't be. While that's rightly frowned upon now (yes, even your next door neighbour's basement, Susan), your sims can still look stylish and era-appropriate while scaling the depths of Tutenkabbagepatch's tomb, or looking for that jar of pennies from the 70s in their parents' attic.

Item descriptions below:

Freya Outfit - Look stylish while conducting your onsite research in this blouse and jodhpurs combo!

Polys - 4756

Alejandro Sweater - It can get quite chilly in those tombs! Keep warm in this stylish knit sweater.

Polys - 3428

O'Connell Pants - Want to travel light but still need storage space? These slim-fit cargos have your back!

Polys - 1150

Darnell Hat - Keep that head safe in those rocky tunnels with this stylish pith helmet!

Polys - 882

Earhart Boots (fem frame) - Who says you need to sacrifice style while exploring? These boots are both chic and comfortable! That buckle? I don't even know if it does anything other than look nice and shiny!

Polys - 1514

Earhart Boots (masc frame) - STRONG! DURABLE! POWERFUL! No, these are the same boots under the toxic guise of male-driven advertising. Shiny buckle!

Polys - 1514

[sigh-tofm]

when the power goes out one cold and rainy november evening…

… price

- goes full dad. pulls the grill up to the back veranda door and cooks up some mean steaks for you two. gets a fire going in the fireplace to keep the house heated. has half a mind to call the power company and tell them that they don’t need to hurry, he’s got everything covered here. actually, they don’t need to come at all, not for a few days. tells you his thoughts as he pulls the mattress off your bed and deposits it in the living room in front of the fireplace, so you both can keep warm tonight. you let him know in no uncertain terms that he will do no such thing. you’ll let him have is fun tonight, but you will need a hot shower and a working oven in 36 hours, no matter how much he wants to play boyscout. but as you sit in front of the roaring fireplace and your admittedly very rugged and handsome husband feeds you bits of grilled steak and holds a glass of red wine to your lips, a thick, warm blanket covering you both, you must admit that this isn’t bad either.

… kyle

- excitedly improvises. you know, it’s like this every day when we’re in the field, he beams as he brushes the dust off the firepit in the woodshed. doesn’t mean it has to be like this now though, does it, kyle. you pull your jacket tighter around yourself and watch as he finds the least rotten firewood in the shed and uses up eight matches before he can get a light. you almost tell him to leave it and come inside, that you’ll order in tonight, but he’s so engulfed in fanning the little flame to life that you can’t help but play along. you get an umbrella when the rain comes down harder and use it to shield both your boyfriend and his firepit from the weather. when you gently ask how he’s going to cook up the pizza you two were in the middle of preparing when the power went out, he wilts a little, but somehow manages to macgyver a cooking system for it that only leaves it slightly burnt. you know, he says while you two are standing under the awning, admiring your fire baby and nibbling on damp, blackened pizza, in the field we sometimes need to share sleeping bags too.

… johnny

- immediately relents. moans and groans about being off duty and that he shouldn’t be expected to fend for himself like this when he isn’t in an active war zone. you pull up the local takeaway menu on your phone and hand it to him. go get us some warm food, soldier, you prompt him and gather up some supplies while he’s away. the old scottish farmhouse you live in has a fireplace, of course, so you light a fire there and with some effort pull the couch up in front of it. blankets and pillows from the living room, old fair isle knit jumpers from the hallway closet, a sheepskin rug to warm your feet on. when he comes back with his arms full of steaming indian (best to get some extra, mo chridhe), his mood seems to have lightened a little too. especially when he sees you in thigh high knit stockings, wearing his jumper and laying on the sheepskin rug. okay, maybe this isn’t so bad. at least he’s not being shot at.

… simon

- is prepared. goes down to the basement and carries up box after box of emergency equipment. hands you a round little paraffin stove (which you have no idea how to work) and a matching aluminium pan, as well as a large variety of ready-made freeze dried stews and soups. just add water, he says unhelpfully, and continues pulling out equipment from his kit. amongst the various bags of tools and gadgets you can spot tent poles and emergency flares, and it’s obvious he’s been itching to use all this stuff for a while. you decide to entertain him and google your way around the stove, finally getting a light on it. you light candles and pull out your winter coats while the water boils, making it an overall cozy time. hav’ta be prepared, he mutters as he comes to sit with you when the food’s ready, the living room full of his unpacked catastrophe preparations. next time we’ll just go to a hotel, you gently request and serve him year-old mushroom stew, brought back to life with some warm water. he looks longingly at all his equipment. you yield. or camping.

[drgnflyteabox]

mdni - the 141 find a cozy place to stay during an op (that's definitely all that happens). implied fat!reader

(dubcon, poly, gangbang, anal, price is in charge of everyone<3)

So blizzards can happen in the blink of an eye on high, isolated mountains, right?

And the 141 have done missions in rural places, snowy places, mountainous places, right?

And there are tons of tiny little isolated towns, all over the world, built around these mountains for one reason or another - coal mining, logging, etc.

Now imagine the 141 on a mission, somewhere cold, somewhere isolated, a place that feels like the edge of the world. Desolate.

Now imagine the 141 seeing, in the near distance, a winking pale orange light. It's a good enough place as any to approach - it isn't safe to be caught in this blizzard, anyhow. Even with their gear, the safehouse is still an hour away and the snowfall seems historic...

Now imagine you're sitting in your family home, all alone, going a little crazy with cabin fever. Your woodstove is burning hot, but you're still cuddled up in knits and a thermal underneath. You're making stew for dinner with root vegetables from the basement cellar, it's bubbling and softening for you while you crochet, trying to keep your mind off the monumental shoveling task you'll have to deal with tomorrow

Until there's a knock on the door.

"Hello ma'am, I'm just wondering if me and my friends here could rest until it's safe to continue our hike?" (I love the way gaz says ma'am)

Hike? Nobody hikes up here - you've only ever seen a couple tourists in your life, thrill seeking ice climbers who came and went.

And they certainly weren't dressed in snow camo, hiding guns behind their backs.

But you were raised right, and the man at the door has kind eyes - he's handsome, too, but you'd never say it out loud. Gaz pushes the door further in when you tentatively open it, and in comes barreling three more massive men, their boots stomping and leaving a mess.

Soap smells the stew on the stove and beelines for it, lifting his helmet to inhale deeply.

Ghost sweeps the room like it might be hiding an enemy somewhere- even though it's one room total, the stove in the middle, separating the kitchen and your bed.

Price approaches you all apologetic, apologizing for "these ruffians", holding his camo helmet to his gut like it's formalwear. "Apologies, sweetheart, we weren't expecting the weather to turn on us."

You aren't quite sure how you end up sitting on prices lap, naked except for your socks, while he squeezes your stomach and grunts in your ear not to be shy when putting your weight on him. His other hand is cupped over your pussy, murming thank yous for feeding his men.

They're eating your stew, stripped out of gear, cocks tented in their white cargos.

"We're a gaggle of lucky boys, eh?" Soap says. "Nice, cozy, soft girl. Warm cabin. A man could get used to this."

You wind up pressed down on your mattress, hands held behind you by one man while another fucks you hard, spurred on by price behind them. At first, it's johnny, whining high in his throat while price guides his hips and gaz holds your arms by your head. "Need to thank her proper, boy." The obvious authority in prices voice makes your pussy clench around him, and he shakes over you, trying hard not to come too early.

Gaz reaches down from where he's holding your arms, pinching your clit until you buck against Johnny and squirt around him.

Then it's gaz, who lifts your legs and squeezes your big thighs, locking eyes with ghost. He's steady, only breaking composure when Simon praises him. "Thats a lad. Good, just like that, Kyle." He's the first to ever make you come from penetration alone, hips moving in a way that makes your abdomen tighten and tighten and tighten until you reach the longest orgasm of your life, nearly crying with how intense it feels.

Price ends up flipping you over - nudging you up on your hands and knees, the bed creaking with the combined weight of he and his lieutenant taking their places in front and behind you.

Simon slips his cock in your mouth, staring down at you through the balaclava. You can barely make out a thick scar, one that looks like it might go through his whole face. You lose focus when price pushes his fingers in your ass, though, and you squeal.

There's no where to run except further down simons cock, though, where you gag, spit running all down your chest onto the bed.

"Shh, sh," Price rubs your flank like you're a spooked animal. He squeezes the ample flesh of your asscheek appreciatively. "Jus wanna give your poor pussy a break, aye? I reckon she's tired,"

He pushes into you impatiently and it burns a little, but he soothes it with a palm over your soft, sore cunt. Rubs a thumb over your clit slowly, jostling you back and forth over simons cock.

You come once more before the night is over, tears finally running down your cheeks, mixing with your saliva, with simons come. It's a painful orgasm, wrenched from you - but that makes it all the sweeter.

They wipe you down and spoon feed you more stew, after, to recover your energy :') price has the boys tidy their boot tracks and put away leftovers while he and Simon hold you from both sides. They can barely fit with you on your bed, but tucked in like this - on top of your furs, naked as the day you were born, praised for your soft body and "What a good girl you are, babydoll."

Sigh

I'm sure this idea has probably been written but I was listening to this and couldn't stop imagining it lmfao

[tacticalprincess]

ok ok but imagine being simon’s gf and könig just being so infatuated with u :( he likes you so so much, believes you deserve better than simon and just pines after you ^_^

very im on fire of him

könig’s never been one to be discreet about his feelings, especially toward you. he doesn’t owe simon anything, much less loyalty. his crush has become an inside joke amongst the crew, has gotten dirty looks thrown at him by simon too many times to count for being just slightly too touchy to be friendly, too intense in his yearning. tuning in intently whenever you talk, doing small favors for you whenever he gets the chance, asks after you when you’re gone. too close for comfort, oughta get himself in trouble, simon says.

its hard to ignore a stare that burns a hole in the side of your head, weighted like a caress on all the exposed parts of your body. könig gets some sort of satisfaction out of watching you squirm under his intense gaze, eyes trained on you most of the time he’s around, because at least he makes you feel something. he wishes to sliver underneath your skin and infiltrate your thoughts just as you’ve done to him, sending his emotions into haywire just by way of existing. smiling at him so brightly, extending a fraction of the warmth and kindness that comes naturally to you, craves it when he’s alone at night. your boyfriend can’t blame him.

simon’s weird, quiet teammate, helplessly infatuated with you, his too cute, too sweet, too soft girlfriend. could only dream of experiencing the parts of you that are exclusively for simon — wonders how someone like you even ended up with a man like him. looking far too out of place under his tattooed arm, bottom lip tucked between pearly teeth bashfully while he chats to the group of guys in typical boyish manner. the occasional ducks of his head to kiss your forehead when he remembers you’re there is not enough attention showed to such a pretty, doting thing like you, in könig’s humble opinion. it’s not even that he believes he’s better than him, but a selfish part of him would rather you end up in his calloused hands than anyone elses. his mind strays the longer he observes you, imagines all the ways he’d treat you better, take care of you like you deserve. would’ve probably already proposed to you by now given the chance. you might seem happy enough, but that doesn’t stop him from searching for cracks in the polished porcelain. always waiting for a spot to slip in.

he finally gets you alone one night, finds you where you wandered off into price’s basement to fetch more beer. coming behind you to grab the case from your delicate hands like lifting a feather off the ground.

“boyfriend not here to do this for you?”

after you regain your composure from the startle, you scoff, peering up at könig through your lashes. “just thought i’d do something nice for him.”

“sweet. does he always allow you to do a man’s job?” sarcasm bites at his words.

“allow me—?”

“do you think he even noticed your absence, maus?” he presses a bit harder, his face holding the same indifference it always does under his mask, tone flat around his accent. “as i did?”

his eyes search yours for a second, looking for any sign of reciprocation for his feelings, and somehow you can tell he knows you don’t know how to respond. as a show of mercy, he steps to the side to let you squeeze past his frame and up the stairs leading back inside the house, heavy footsteps following slowly behind. he watches as you so easily slip back into simon’s side, how his arm finds its home around your shoulders without effort. concern knits your boyfriend’s eyebrows together as he leans down to peck your lips, never breaking eye contact with könig over your shoulder, a petty display of ownership. he watches.

[raspberryconverse]

Oh, NBD. Just installed a wall of cedar in my closet.

— Coley 💗💜💙 Bisexual people exist (she/her) (@raspberrychucks) Feb 12, 2023 February 11, 2023 at 11:23PM via Twitter https://twitter.com/raspberrychucks

[sunniskyies]

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥 𝐢𝐧 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐬 || 𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐏𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬 || 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟐

𝐑𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭: - 𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: Domestic fluff as you both settle back into life together <3 𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: Ford Pines x fem!reader 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: - 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬: Literally just fluff, a bit of being a guardian figure to the kids 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 2.2k 𝐀/𝐍: You guys are SO SWEET about the last one, so here's more fluff for you beautiful old man addicts <3

𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟏 > 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟐 > 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟑 > 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟒

The kids are in bed— well, mostly. You can hear the chirp of excited conversation through the ceiling. It was late, Stan and Ford’s explanation taking a long, long time. It didn’t help that the retelling got as thick and awkward as wet cement when it came to talk of Ford’s portal, and the events leading up to his departure.

Exhaustion tugs at every battered bone in your body, but you’re so content you might as well be purring like a kitten in front of a roaring fire.

You're curled up bridal-style across Ford’s lap, his arms enveloping you; warm, cradling, completing. He’s donned an old red knit jumper he fished out of his old chest of drawers. It smells like it belongs in a museum, sort of dusty and woodsy. Your face is pressed to his chest, and you feel much younger than your age. It feels like your first day in this house, the two of you huddled on a sagging mattress giggling and talking of futures and other such nonsense; youthful, hopeful, infatuated.

Now the two of you are more than thirty years on, enfolded together like the pages of a book left on an old yellow reading chair. You don’t speak, saving that long conversation for a lick of sunlight and mugs of coffee cupped in hand. No, right now you just sit in silence, Ford’s large hands stroking dust from your hair, a thumb gently soothing the bruise forming on your temple where you struck the wall.

Still unaware of the time except for the inky night hanging in the air, you feel Ford shift. His arms move, body ready to stand up with you. He stops when he notices two large pupils staring up at him curiously.

“You’re still awake, dear,” he smiles, voice quiet. “Let me take you to bed, I must lock up downstairs, make sure nothing vile is seeping through that blasted portal.”

“Ford, no, let’s go to sleep. You can do that in the morning,” you say, trying to ward off the edge of desperation edging into your tone. You can’t help but remember the miserable months of nights in a cold bed while your lover hid away in the basement, sleeping on his desk rather than with you. It has to be different— he’s better now.

Ford doesn’t share your fretting. “No, it’s not stable. Reopening the portal… it’s not safe to leave these things.” He continues to stand up, your body delicately draped over his arms. He seems to notice your expression. “I’ll join you soon, love.”

You doubt that. He’ll probably be there ‘till morning, his simple task snowballing as his keen eyes notice the slightest things amiss. “No, that won’t happen. No, no, I’ll join you. I’m rather accustomed to the portal myself after all this time with it.” You dismiss, stretching a leg to try and stand on the floor.

Ford bundles you up closer, “Absolutely not! You need rest, I swear I will join you.” He begins carrying you to the hall. Your fingers clutch the red fabric of his sweater. 

“Please don’t leave me,” you murmur plaintively, the corners of your mouth downturned. You miss the way Ford’s heart stutters, your eyes all hopelessly syrupy and mournful through your lashes.

He hesitates.

“Please? You can stay down there any other night I promise, just stay this time.”

His jaw tightens. “I don’t want that. Not again,” he says firmly. “Okay… I’ll… I’ll come with you.”

You immediately relax again, at ease in the rhythm of Ford’s steps as he carries you to your room. A stupid grin hijacks your face as he ever-so-gently places you under the sheets (he remembered what side of the bed). You watch from your nest of sheets as he gets ready for bed in the soft lamplight, lifting up the duvet for him to slide in next to you.

His arm around you, frothy sheets up to your neck— you think you might die here and now for how perfect everything feels. You feel his nose bump the top of your head as he presses a kiss to your hair.

“If you’d have told me this morning that… that today would be the day I would’ve never believed…” you say, heavy eyelids closing as you're interrupted by a yawn. You feel his chuckle reverberate where you lean into his chest. 

“Go to sleep, sweetness.” He murmurs, tone laced with a smile. There are his hands again, rubbing soft circles on your arm, your hair. He might as well be rubbing in anaesthesia, his touch lulling you to sleep. Darn you Pines.

Before sleep pulls you under, “I’m so glad your back, Stanford,” slips quietly from your lips. Ford’s heart skips again. Arms tighten around you as if you’re a precious photo about to float away on the wind; skin softly creased from a lifetime of loving, hair matte and grey like faded ink from thirty years of waiting.

“I’m more grateful than you could ever know, my dear,”

A stretch trembles through your warm limbs, the aches from last night dulled by a deep slumber and the warm morning sunlight soaking through the window. A thrill passes through you, your arm sliding through the sheets to Stanford’s side and—

A cry pours from you as your hand meets cold, empty space. Your body is jolted upright, perspiration glistening on your forehead. Your heart is hammering, lungs gulping in buckets of air. Where is he? Where is Ford? Did he come through the portal? Did it really happen? You don’t register the wail emanating from you, nor do you register the pound of heavy boots down the hallway.

“____ are you okay?!” Ford exclaims, almost slamming into the door as he hurries in. His hand is tense, hovering above the gun strapped to his belt.

The sight of him— the feeling you get is so overpowering it’s nauseating. Your paralysed limbs untense, body slumping in relief.

“Goddammit Stanford Pines, you just gave me the fright of a lifetime,” you bemoan, uninvited tears swimming beneath the sieve of your hands. You don’t see as his face goes from confused to slack with realisation.

“Oh,” He groans. “Oh sweetness I’m so sorry.” Feeling horrible, he leans on the bed to pull you into him, rubbing your back. “I should’ve waited for you to wake up, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay, it’s okay. I’m sorry, I probably scared you half to death.” You mumble, slightly embarrassed. As much as you are connected to Ford, thirty years has changed both of you, and you find yourself —embarrassingly— feeling like you need to impress him, like a teenager with a crush. God forbid he thinks ill of you!

You relish his rumble of a laugh. “I thought a monster slipped by me or something! I’m grateful you're okay.”

“Yeah, well, I think you might’ve just taken a year off my life, Ford.” You roll your eyes lovingly, a few of the last of those silly tears escaping.

After getting up and pulling on some summer-friendly clothes, you slip down to the kitchen to find the morning well underway. The sun is beating through the windows, and Dipper is sat cross legged on the floor reading a book. He’s reading with the cover down, but his furtiveness is wasted on you; you know he's reading A Good Girl's Guide to Murder. ‘Mature murder mystery books’ indeed, Dipper!

At the kitchen bench, Mabel is haphazardly balanced on a stack of books, multiple propped open at once. From the batter congealing the pages together and the fact that most of the books are iced, you know they are cookery books. And a cookbook in Mabel’s hands is either as dangerous as a matchbook to a forest, or as useless as shoes to a fish.

By the looks of it, it is the latter. Although, is there a faint… burning?

“Great Aunt ___!” Mabel squeals, revealing sprinkle-harbouring braces. “I'm baking, look I’m baking! See, I had this great idea to try and substitute the liquids in my Mabel Cakes with Mabel Juice because Grunkle Ford has never had either —can you believe that? Me neither, so I thought I could kill two birds with one stone and make them together… but I didn’t realise the plastic dinosaurs in the juice would melt in the waffle iron!—” You try to cut off the young girl’s 100-mile-an-hour babble, but that girl is unstoppable.

You wince as she holds up two fists of semi-cooked, eye-wateringly bright gobdules of cakey dough. You, pained, notice the half-melted dinosaurs, faces in liquified agony as strings of molten plastic drip from their bodies. Matchbook in forest, matchbook in forest!

“—So now it’s a bit of a Jurassic Park, another reason why I think Grunkle Ford will love it, even if it’s a bit of a.... disaster. But if you think about it it’s more like a Magical Mabel Disaster! And oh, I added extra sprinkles because you can never have too many sprinkles! Do you think the hardened dinosaurs will make up for the uncooked dough? Or should I cook it more? Doesn’t matter, it’ll taste great!”

You give her a wobbly smile, mostly because you fear what might happen if you open your mouth.

“I tried to stop her,” Dipper mutters from between his pages, voice smug and matter-of-fact.

“Oh don’t act like you're so grown-up, you’re reading a little girl's book,” she retorts in a sing-song. Dipper slams his book closed, the tips of his ears matching the cover.

“I think you’ll find it’s very sophisticated and easy to digest—”

You let the twin’s bickering fade into the background as you begin to tidy up the carnage Mabel’s baking attempt has left. Usually, she gets distracted by things quite quickly, leaving Mabel-messes scattered around for anyone to find. You don’t mind it though, all too glad to slide the Mabel Cake into the bin. You shiver. Those plastic faces… they haunt.

Ford was back down in the basement, the sounds of clanging and buzzing drifting up through the weary floorboards. You want to go down there, but that silly part of you doesn’t want to disturb him again today. No— that’s ridiculous! Ford loves your company, you don’t get in his way —it’s not like it was when Bill was around.

Five minutes later, you're standing in the small room in the basement holding a cup of coffee and a salvaged Mabel Cake. You see Ford through the glass, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, tools being used and replaced back onto his belt. He’s hauling colossal slabs of metal from the sides of the portal, the machine slowly being stripped down to bone. Like a massive carcass, it creaks and groans as Ford’s tools slice away at its flesh, and you hope he’s staying well out the way each time pieces of it fall to the floor like toppling trees.

After a few moments, Ford seems to notice you through his welding mask, though you can’t see his face through the tinted visor. He perks up though, dropping a massive saw to the ground and hurrying over.

“Hello, my dear! Is it too noisy?” He says as he slips through the door, pulling off his helmet and drawing you in for a sheepish kiss.

“No, just bringing you some of Mabel’s baking efforts— you don’t have to eat it, but she was awfully excited.” Ford surveys the cake with a smile, and you resist the urge to wipe the smear of soot from his cheek. 

“Thank you. For the sustenance, and for, uh, for checking in,” he says sincerely. Is that a flush you see? Your suspicions are confirmed when you set the coffee aside and bring him in for a deeper kiss, blouse-clad arms sliding around his neck, and you feel his pulse thrum beneath his skin.

The relief you feel! You’re not the only one navigating these unknown emotions, that the man who’s mapped the multiverse is also feeling the giddy nerves you are. Your skin prickles where his degloved hands bear your skin.

It feels strange to be held romantically after so long of loneliness. It’s not that you haven’t found love with the kids and Stan, but you could never bring yourself to even look at another in the way you used to look at Ford. Even if you never finished the portal, you would’ve spent the rest of your life alone, satisfied at least in the knowledge of how it felt to be loved, once. It excites you childishly knowing just by his kiss that Ford felt the same, the way he cradles you in his gaze and with his hands as if he’s trying to reabsorb every inch.

When you break away, his eyes open after yours, and he seems to be at a loss for what to say.

“Do you, um, want to go for a walk this evening? You haven’t left the shack yet, and we haven’t truly caught up…” you offer shyly.

“Yes! That would be… splendid! Spectacular. This evening. Perfect.” He blurts. The calm of last evening has clearly floated away in the daylight for both of you.

“Perfect.” You repeat.

𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭: @sleeplessdreamer14, @2hiigh2cry, @taffycandyqt, @papi-machucha, @muffin1304

© sunniskyies 2024, do not repost or translate my work

[roanofarcc]

UNVEILED

pairing. ghost-bride!reader x trevor lefkowitz

summary. requested. Out of all the mysteries that lived within the walls of the Woodstone Mansion, Trevor was only curious about the mystery of you and the veil that constantly covered your face.

warnings. fem!reader, mentions of death, dead!reader, bodily injuries, talk of insecurities, murder, hurt/comfort

word count. 2.8k || masterlist

a/n. this came out a bit angstier than intended lol but don’t worry there is comfort too! also…maybe I write a part two to this?? feel free to request for all of the ghosts; I love this show so much <3

It often felt like you were on the outside of things, peering in but rarely interacting. The ghosts that shared their purgatory with you in Woodstone had tried and still sometimes did to include you in their TV-watching nights and other ghostly shenanigans. They tried to be kind, but deep down you knew the mystery that shrouded your presence unnerved them. You were the one death none of the already established ghosts had witnessed nor had they seen it coming. One day you simply were one of them, hidden behind a veil and forever stuck in your wedding dress that was ruined with deep crimson smudges.

Only Hetty, Thorfinn, and Sasappis had seen you hours before you met your fate on your wedding day. They saw your features illuminated with a blissful wedding glow. The next thing they knew, chaos had erupted throughout the mansion and you, bloodied and veiled, could see them. What had happened, they only caught pieces from wedding guests as they fled the mansion without any kind of celebration. A groom who flew off the handle and a poor almost-wife caught in the crossfire.

The three of them held more sympathy and kept the secret of your death, what little details they knew. But they had established their own friendships amongst each other and the new ghosts that later joined their strange collection. You could never find it in yourself to truly be a part of their tightly-knit circle. You floated about the house, not quite as estranged as the basement ghosts, but with an uneasy air of mystery that made it difficult for the core group of ghosts to befriend you genuinely. They were never unkind to you, but your presence seemed to unnerve them, sometimes. All you were was a sheet of off-white, faceless, and gory bride.

Your husband, the man you once swore had loved you more than life itself, had covered your face with your veil after he killed you. For a while, you wanted to believe the gesture was one of love but the more you sat in it, you knew it was one of self-preservation. He didn’t want to look at what he did to you, and you thought why would anyone else? You hadn’t even seen what you looked like, but you could feel the deep grooves of your injuries across your face. When you brushed your fingers along your cheeks and down across your chin, you were back at what was supposed to be your wedding night, lying on the ground as the man you once loved saw nothing but red. When he was done ruining the delicate skin along your face with something sharp you hadn’t even seen coming, he placed your veil back down where it had remained since.

Your blood was visible to anyone who looked at you, but your face was obstructed by the ivory, pink, and red veil. It was for the best, you believed. The ghosts and Sam already saw you as some peculiar horror movie figure that lingered in door frames and only spoke from time to time; your sudden input made them jump like they had forgotten you’d been there but you were quite hard to miss. Maybe they blocked you out, pretended they were ghosts haunted by some poor little bride in a costume people now bought in stores and wore on Halloween.

Well, that wasn’t the whole truth, necessarily. Not all of the ghosts tip-toed around you. There was one person in the mansion who seemed to be the opposite of turned off by your quiet and awfully haunting nature.

“Knock knock.”

“It’s not a courtesy knock if you’re already sticking your head inside the room, Trevor,” you said, followed by a gentle sigh.

Trevor was a stark contrast to the other ghosts, while they tried to be your friend but ended up tip-toeing too much around you, he seemed to not be put off by you in the slightest; it was odd and you weren’t sure how welcome it was. You didn’t know how to feel about his flirtatious comments or friendly attitude. Since your fiance, you didn’t have the best feelings toward men in general. You never knew what they were really thinking. One moment, they’re ready to walk down the aisle for you, and the next, they’re the reason you’re a ghost. It wasn’t like you could die again, but there were a million ways to hurt someone, even when you both were dead, which was another reason you didn’t cross the distance between you and the other ghosts.

With a shrug, he stepped fully inside your room with a smile on his lips. “Hard to be courteous as a ghost.”

“I don’t think you try too hard,” you replied, curled into your chair beside the window. You sat with your knees pulled up to your chest, the skirt of your dress spilling out along the ground. Trevor helped himself to the chair beside yours, making himself comfortable. “Is there something I can help you with?”

He shook his head. “There’s only so much of Thorfinn’s ‘cod-talk’ that I can handle. So, I figured I’d pay you a visit. You didn’t come to our morning TV time. Sam showed us another reality show called ‘Jersy Shore.’”

“I don’t think I’m the most welcome to TV time.” They invited you, sure, but deep down you knew they only did it as a formality. You often felt like you were butting in.

Trevor looked at you like you had grown another head; his brows furrowed and a little crease formed across his forehead. “What? Of course you are. You live you too, you know?” He scooted to the end of the chair that was angled toward yours and leaned forward. “And I like having you there.”

You looked at him, head tilted slightly. He couldn’t see your face nor the expression you made underneath your veil but he heard the scoff leave your lips. “You don’t have to say that, you know? You don’t have to pretend like you…” you trailed off, unsure of the right word. You don’t quite know what he was pretending to do. To like you. To see you as a friend when he hardly knew anything about you. Your presence unsettled those inside the house. The air of mystery around you wasn’t inviting but rather cold and confusing. You had made yourself that way, with the help of your fiance who had lost his mind on what was supposed to be the happiest day of your life.

“Like I what? Like you? Because I’m not pretending,” he said, his voice so matter of fact it was hard to believe he was lying, but you knew he had to be. Trevor hung around you, talked to you like a friend, but you couldn’t help but feel like it wasn’t real. How could it be?

“Stop,” you signed, hanging your head and dropping your legs back down to the ground. The taste of blood forever stuck on your tongue made you wince. “Look at me.” You weren’t something lovely anymore. And sure, the other ghosts all had something that signified their death forever stuck on them, but it was bigger than a simple appearance. You had loved someone so much and they hurt you so terribly that even in the afterlife the thought of showing your face, your wounds and blood and bridal makeup made you feel ill. Because if someone you loved had looked at you before that, someone who knew you so intimately, and still hurt you, how was anyone supposed to look at you now and feel any semblance of love or even like? What if someone looked at you again, face ruined, and decided to hurt you just as your fiance did?

“I’m trying,” Trevor said. “But it’s a little hard to see you.”

A pang, hot and deep, ricocheted through your chest as you stood up. “That’s the point.”

You weren’t sure if you wanted to cry or scream, perhaps a bit of both but you had resorted to silence considering you weren’t alone. You didn’t want to make more of a scene than you already did with your presence that felt too large and uncomfortable.

“Do you want me to get rid of them?” Sam asked, her voice laced with concern and a gentleness that was a bit lost on you. She and Jay had been cleaning out some old boxes they had found shoved into a closet. In one of them lived a couple of framed photographs of you and your fiance when you were dating. They were a little worn and so old you were surprised they held up after all that time.

You looked too happy in the photos, smiling widely in his arms. There was another taken shortly after your engagement. Your family had brought them to Woodstone to decorate with for your wedding and after the events of that night, they must’ve forgotten them. Somehow they got shoved into a box and remained inside the home ever since. A part of you felt like it was a sweet sentiment, cementing your presence inside the mansion but another part felt like it was some kind of sick joke.

“Oh, so that’s what you look like,” Flower said, peering over Sam’s shoulder. There was no malice in her voice, only the usual airiness, but it carried an unknown weight to her and everyone else.

You felt sick as you stared at the smiling face of the man you almost married. He looked happy too. The two of you together had once been a charming sight. Your families and friends always told you how good the two of you looked together like you had been put on the Earth to find one another. But you no longer looked like the person staring back at you in the photograph, and the last image you had of the man you once loved looked nothing like he did in those photos.

Tears pricked your eyes as you shook your head at Flower’s words. “No anymore.” And never again.

Back inside your room, you paced, chewing on your fingernails. Something had a tight hold on your chest, squeezing your heart was no longer beating tightly. You were so caught up in your awful, crashing waves of nasty emotions that pulled you under, that you missed someone enter your room.

“Hey,” Trevor said, softly so as to not scare you but you jumped anyway and dropped your hand quickly as your veil fell back over your mouth. “Sorry. I just wanted to make sure you were okay after that. Sam feels really bad about showing you the photos. She didn’t mean to make you upset she just-”

You cut him off with a wave of your hand. “I didn’t know they’d make me feel so awful,” you said, glad he couldn’t see the tears that trickled down your cheeks. “That’s not her fault. I…” you trailed off, falling onto the edge of your bed with your hands held tightly together in your lap.

Trevor sat beside you, leaving a space between you two. “The other dude in the photo. He was your fiance, right?” You nodded, solemnly. “And he was the one who…”

“Kill me? Yes.” The pieces weren’t impossible to put together. You were sure in Sam’s research about the house and the ghosts your story was among them. Maybe Hetty or Sass or Thor told the others what little they knew about your death. They had been off doing something else when you were murdered, but that wasn’t something that occurred silently. In the aftermath, the house was in chaos and your almost-husband was taken away red-handed.

“I’m sorry,” Trevor said.

“He wasn’t.” Your voice came out with a bite, but it wasn’t directed at Trevor. You bounced back and forth between sadness and anger, stewing it in decade after decade. You wanted it soothed but you feared you’d forever be the bitter bride roaming the halls of Woodstone. “He did more than just kill me that day. It was like he knew I’d become a ghost, stuck here forever in this stupid dress, and my face-” You stopped yourself, ghosting your hand against the fabric of your veil. “He ruined me. Both in life and death.”

Carefully, Trevor reached out and grasped your hand. His hand was cold, but as he squeezed yours, you felt warmer. “Don’t let him,” he said, simply as if he knew anything about how you felt. You rolled your eyes; he couldn’t see it but he sensed it in the stiffening of your shoulders and the slack of your hand in his. “He’s not here, you are. Yeah, he fucked up your life but…I don’t know, don’t you ever feel like us becoming ghosts is a weird second chance?”

“It doesn’t really feel like a second chance. It feels like I’m stuck.” Stuck in your dress, in your veil, in your wedding venue, in the sinking feeling that no matter what you do you’re doomed.

“But it can,” Trevor said, scooting closer to you. “It can feel like a second chance. No one here should be friends; no one here should know anything about each other but we do. That’s a second chance if I’ve heard of one.”

“And you don’t think it’ll end badly?” Because doesn’t everything good?

He smiled lightly. “I try not to think about how it’ll end, only how it’s goin’.”

You had once thought that way too. The inevitability of death or something coming to an end was one of the last things that used to occupy your mind. You lived in the moment, swept up in happiness and falling in love with every stranger you met. The ‘till death do we part’ promise your fiance made when he proposed had never weighed on you because you always thought you’d make it into your old age with him. Since you felt death, endings in your mind became bitter and you couldn’t help but believe they’d always be bad. Every end would be tragic in life and death.

“I don’t think I can do that anymore,” you admitted in a whisper, staring down at your intertwined hands in your lap.

“I could show you.” You could feel his eyes burning into the side of your face but you were too scared to look at him and see how genuine he was. You heard it in his voice but seeing it on his face, you were afraid you’d cave. A small piece of you, the part of your heart still intact that wanted nothing more than to be in love again, wanted to cave so badly. The loneliness of your act of pushing everyone inside the home away despite their efforts was tiresome.

You blinked back a couple more tears and sighed. “That might take a while.” You didn’t know if you even had it in you to take back what your fiance stole.

“Good thing we have eternity, then.” You heard the smile in Trevor’s voice and caved, looking over at him looking right at you. He was close, closer than you were sure he had ever been. “Do you trust me?”

The first answer that sprung forward in your head was yes, despite everything, every twisted worry that had accumulated in your body, your instinct when he asked was to say yes. He’d never done anything to make you say no. Unlike your fiance, you never had a troublesome inkling in the pit of your stomach that he’d lose his temper one day or that you got on his nerves when they were already inflamed. No, Trevor stayed with a cheeky grin, a crude joke, a compliment here and there, and an air of trustworthiness that everyone in the house felt but never said aloud.

Swallowing thickly, still tasting the blood on your tongue you answered, “Yes.”

He let go of your hand and touched the end of the veil’s fabric, holding it between his fingers. “Tell me to stop and I will,” he said, quietly. You held your breath and stayed still, not moving a muscle as he slowly started to lift the veil, giving you plenty of time to tell him to stop. It wasn’t until the fabric was fully off of your face that the fear of him turning away in disgust or horror fell over you. He was looking at, looking at what your fiance had done in his successful murder attempt. While you had no idea what you truly looked like, you knew the placement of every cut and groove. You knew it was unsightly and you couldn’t blame Trevor if he pulled the veil right back down over your head, just as your fiance had done after the deed was done.

You waited in thick anticipation, fear encroaching on the corners of your mind. But, Trevor did nothing you feared he would.

His lips pulled upwards in a smile, bright and warm, as he held onto the sides of your face. “Hi,” he said, seeing you for the first time really.

“Hello,” you replied.