#cerealninjakat

[bonegender]

Nighthawks

This is for the @countdowntotwinpeaks WONDERFULXSTRANGE Secret Exchange! This fic specifically was made for @cerealninjakat who asked for Dale Cooper and Laura Palmer having coffee together. They have a feeling they met before, or maybe they haven't. If you would like to see the original fic in its original color block formatting, there is a link to the doc HERE

CONTENT WARNINGS: CSA mention, Underage Sex mention, Main Character Death Implied, Timeline Divergence, Body Horror, Psychological Horror

The smell of coffee was pungent, and stinging. That acidic aroma which rose from an industrial maker practically took over the entire diner. As he stood in the breezeway, Cooper relished in the scent so familiar,  so calming and inviting. He allowed himself to get lost in the way it mingled with the undercurrent of a greasy spoon breakfast. The rich, sharp scent of roasted beans mellowed out with the introduction of butter, eggs, toast and bacon. Beyond that was the wispy trails of cigarettes gone by that clung to the nostrils. It was utterly invigorating. This was the thing he looked forward to the most when waking up; a nice hot meal and hopefully, a good cup of coffee.

Dale Cooper returned to himself after his momentary journey on the Smell Express, and realized that he had been standing in the entrance of the diner for a little bit longer than he anticipated. He excused himself, pressing further on into the establishment, eager to find a seat. His stomach whined, just as eager to be filled with the sensory journey he had gotten lost in just moments ago. He knew how good it would feel to have a stomach full of America’s Finest, especially after a long night of work. He deserved it, he told himself. All he had to do was just find himself a seat.

Judging by the morning rush, that was a job easier said than done. All of the booths had been taken up, understandably, by families and couples.  There were a few like himself that simply wanted some time alone; to distance themselves from the rest of the patrons. There were times, however, that he couldn’t help but feel guilty for taking a whole booth as a single occupant, but Cooper always had an excuse at the ready. No one could say he wasn’t waiting for someone. No one could say whether or not  that someone never arrived, and therefore left him to enjoy his meal all alone. Regardless, there would be no reason for such excuses that morning, it seemed. He would just have to see if there was a seat at the bar.

Miraculously, there was. Sitting all by her lonesome was a girl - no, a young woman - of at most eight-teen years of age. She sat, cross-legged, painted nails tapping the surface of the diner bar-top as she mulled over the colorful menu full of delicious pictures of food. Her golden blonde hair curled around her face and shoulders, almost creating a makeshift halo around her head. Lost in her thoughts, she twirled her index finger in her locks only to tuck some of her strands of hair behind her right ear. She knew she wanted a cup of coffee since it was in the morning just before school, but she was having a hard time deciding what, and if, she actually wanted something to eat. The buzz from last night still clung to her insides, and the burn in her nose could be felt all the way to the back of her throat. 

It was then that she noticed someone approaching her. Laura turned her head, bringing her torso with it as she looked at the oncoming presence. The motion caused her hair to sway, knocking it loose from the ear she had just pinned it back with. Her blue eyes locked onto the man and in an instant what hackles she was about to raise softened. This man wasn’t too bad to look at, and his smile could beat the sun out in a competition for the brightest thing that morning. She adjusted her posture, leaning back a little and offering her own smile in return.

“Good morning.” She said, voice slightly raspy from just having woken up not too long ago.

“Good morning to you, miss.” He said in return, voice smooth and dark like a hot cup of coffee.

“Laura.” She insisted, tucking her hair back behind her ear from where it had fallen out, “My name is Laura.”

“Dale Cooper.” He said, placing his hand on the empty bar stool beside her, “Laura, is it alright if I sit next to you?” 

“Sure thing Mr. Cooper.” And with that, Dale Cooper sat next to Laura Palmer at the diner bar. Something about it felt strange, yet familiar. It was almost dreamlike the way their exchange had went. He couldn’t quite put his finger on why, but there was something disquieting about their meeting. Perhaps it was the shift in her body language, or the way she fidgeted with the hemline of her tweed skirt. 

“It’s Agent Cooper, actually.” He spoke up, pulling his eyes away from her kneecaps. He reached inside of his comically large trenchcoat to pull out his official badge, “Special Agent Dale Cooper, at your service.” 

It took everything in Laura’s body to keep her from letting out a laugh. Special Agent? Was this guy really part of the FBI? A very real look of ‘oh shit’ graced her eyebrows as he actually produced a badge and identification. He offered it to her, and as she took it in her hands to feel it over and look at the picture, Dale took the opportunity to sit down and make himself comfortable. Laura studied the photo and sure enough the overgrown boy scout was set right there next to her. Despite her best efforts, she did let out something of a breath of laughter as she handed back his badge.

“Very nice to meet you, Mr. Special Agent.” Cooper laughed. What a nice laugh it was, thought Laura. A laugh that made you want to put your walls down. A laugh that felt like a childhood friend.

The two patrons settled in together at the diner bartop. Cooper took off his oversized overcoat and folded it gently so he could tuck it onto his lap for safe keeping. He looked far more professional with that silly thing off, Laura mused to herself. The way his suit was tailored perfectly to his shape almost made him look like a cartoon depiction of an FBI agent. A true Man In Black, with slicked back hair and serious brows. Well, mostly serious. Agent Cooper’s brow was a bit furrowed as he stared at the menu, but otherwise this man didn’t look like he could hurt a fly.

That, or a very vulnerable teenage girl. 

“What makes you so special, Special Agent?” Laura probed, placing her manicured hands flat on her menu. 

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you, Laura.” Cooper said rather matter-of-factly. He then flagged down a member of the waitstaff, ordering a coffee to buy himself more time with the menu, “But what I can tell you is that it’s very special.” A mischievous grin smoothed along his lips, and that alone was good enough for Laura. At least for now. 

Beyond his smile however, the special agent felt that persistent air of uncertainty. Did he know her from somewhere? Was she a missing persons case? He tried to get a better look at her without pointedly staring, but that was a rather difficult feat when you were mere inches from another person. His dark brown eyes watched as Laura brought her gentle, delicate, and soft hands around the slightly yellowed ceramic coffee mug. He followed the movement from the bartop, watching almost in slow motion as the white touched the healthy pink of her lips, which was topped with a thin veneer of lip gloss.

The air is heavy with the must of ancient, blood-red curtains. It almost suffocates. Were it not for the grand expanse of zig-zag, black and white flooring, the room would for sure be practically inhabitable. He swallows. He grips the arms of a black velvet arm chair. He squints from the harsh, unyielding light that surrounds him. There is music in the air. A saxophone breaks out against the stifling aura in an attempt to rouse him. Where is he?

A woman sits across from him. Blonde. Beautiful. Bewildering. He knows her. She knows him. Like a ghost, she crosses the floor to embrace him. Her lips: red. Her touch: gentle and familiar. An old friend. She smells of a perfume older than her. He closes his eyes as their lips meet.

The two of them stared at each other, confused. Something had just happened that they had no control over. What was that just now? They asked each other the question with only their eyes. Was it real? 

Whatever it was, Laura kind of liked it. Maybe they were just thinking the same thing? Maybe he wanted her just as much as she wanted him. Her cheeks flushed with color as she remembered the touch from just moments ago. This wouldn’t be the first time she had made a bad decision with an older man, and at least this one seemed much nicer than the others.

Cooper on the other hand turned away. He closed his eyes as he focused on the smell of coffee and the din of restaurant chatter. He gripped the fabric of his trousers, trying to remember the heavy air from that place so strange. Was it a vision? Why had Laura been there? What made them act that way? At this point he knew she was much too young for him to be sharing such intimate touches with her. He knew that she was thinking about this all in an inappropriate light. He had been there, in her shoes, when he was younger. Hot, young, eager to make stupid decisions just to feel something. Eager to mess with others' lives to take back some sense of control.

They were never really in control, were they?

“Hey, it’s okay.” Laura spoke, thus breaking the tension between them ever so slightly. Her smile took the spot of the brightest thing in the room, her eyes soft and understanding, “I get stared at by tons of guys. I’m kind of used to it by now.” It was true. Laura knew she was beautiful. She got compliments all the time on her looks, her hair, her smile. It was not a wonder how she became prom queen. Everyone in the town seemed to love her, or at the very least envy her. She wasn’t quite sure why anyone would envy her, but then again no one really knew who she was. No one in the town, save for those she dealt with, really knew what kind of girl she was. 

Please, she thought, please like me. You’re one of the few people I want to like me.

Cooper dared to look at her once again, the shame of images from moments past still lingering on his mind and on his lips. His dark brows furrowed, mouth drawing to a stern line as he gingerly shook his head.

“I’m sorry,” He started, looking her square in the eye. “I don’t know what came over me. My behavior was inappropriate for someone your age, and someone my age should know better.”  The agent looked around the diner, hoping that maybe there was another place he could move to. He knew what just happened between them was a faux pas, and perhaps the only way to make up for that was to put some distance between them. It wasn’t her fault, none of this was, but there was something awfully wrong about this whole interaction. He still couldn’t shake the feeling of the lingering premonition. Was it a premonition? 

Laura’s stomach practically lurched. Had she done something wrong? There was no shame in looking at someone beautiful, right? Whatever happened moments ago was okay so long as she liked it, right? So long as she actually wanted it? As Cooper looked away, she bit her bottom lip with anxiety. He was going to leave her. She desperately wanted him to stay. For whatever reason, her heart ached at the very thought of having to sit by herself again. Fueled by the sinking feeling of rejection, the young woman reached out to the Special Agent. Her slender hand wrapped neatly around the wrist of his left hand and in an instant the diner disappeared.

The roles are reversed. His hand is around her wrist. Beneath her fingernail lies an important clue. She’s lying down on a table, naked and cold. The light above them flickers and Sheriff Harry Truman sits to her right. Where was she? Why couldn’t she move? Why couldn’t she breathe? She wanted to cry. She wanted to scream. She wanted to be anywhere but here. 

Suddenly, it’s very dark. She’s walking through the woods by herself, late at night. She’s crying, and alone. Was she crying from her vision before? Or was it something yet to come? All she knows is that she wants to go home. She wants to be in her bed, safe from the situation she found herself in. How was she supposed to know where anything was, let alone her home?

“We’re going home.” He says, his face full of determination. She doesn’t understand, but he must know. Cooper’s hand is outstretched, begging for her to take it. The tips of his fingers touch the inside of her palm.

Just as she is about to give up, she sees him. Special Agent Dale Cooper. What was he doing here? Why did he look so old? Why did she trust him?

She screams.

It took a few seconds for them to realize that they were both standing.  Tears were streaming down Laura’s face as she finally came to her senses. Her hands instinctively flexed, curling and unfurling before taking her palms to wipe away the remaining tears from her cheeks. Her cheeks were now flushed with embarrassment as she knew they were making complete fools of themselves in front of so many people. What had gotten into her? Why was she acting like this? What were those visions? Tentatively, Laura dared to look around at the other people that shared the restaurant with them.

No one seemed to notice. Not a single other patron stopped to look, make a snide comment or step in to intervene. These people were a soulless audience, looking everywhere but at them. For a moment, she was awestruck. Surely they had heard her scream. Surely they were concerned for a pretty girl crying. Surely…

It was then that Laura began to understand.

Cooper had a sneaking suspicion that something was awry, but this for sure solidified it. He tried to remember some of the things Gordon and Jefferies had told him about situations like this. Shared visions weren’t unheard of, and perhaps that was what he had felt from her. Maybe she was a special case like he was? Did she dream like he did? The diner around him became nothing more than a backdrop as all of his attention shifted to making sure Laura stayed grounded.

“It’s okay Laura.” He spoke with certainty, “You’re not there anymore. You’re here, in this diner with me.” Cooper offered a reaffirming smile, but he was met with a look of soft incredulity. There were more tears budding in the corners of her uncertain blue eyes, and her brows furrowed in a way he couldn’t quite discern. He reached out for her, hoping to give her something solid to hold onto. Just as his hands made contact, a look of realization and acceptance flashed on Laura’s young face.

Once again they are in that room with the red curtains. Laura Palmer sits in the black velvet chair with Dale Cooper at her side. She understands. Everything has become illuminated as they stare into each other's eyes. Above them is an angel, dressed in white. Her face is serene. 

Laughter fills the room. Tears fall onto a black dress.

“I have to go now.”

The words hit Dale like a bullet to the gut. He felt sadness, guilt, uncertainty, but most of all he felt panic. Something was ending. He wasn’t quite sure what it was, but it was a bitter end to something far beyond just their brief meeting here. He tried to say something, anything, but before any of the words could come out he felt the warm caress of her arms around him. Laura tucked her head against his shoulder, squeezing him with love and fear. He could feel her arms shaking, trying to hold on to him. He folded, blanketing her in the smell of aftershave and dry cleaning.  

They wept.

“Please,” Cooper begged, his voice fragile and afraid, “Please, don’t go.” He tried to hold on to her but despite his best effort she slipped from his grasp. Laura, once such a young looking girl pretending to be grown, was now someone with knowledge beyond her years, beyond comprehension. Once again, she smiled at Cooper and he could feel his heart shatter like a mug against the floor.

“I’m going to be late.” She told him.

The sounds of the diner started to fade away. The clinking of plates, subtle conversations and echoing songs from the jukebox became nothing more than faint memories as Dale could do nothing but watch her go. Her golden blonde hair flowed behind her almost as if she were floating instead of walking. It was as if raindrops were falling onto sidewalk chalk, washing away the bright colors and erasing what they had created. Dale realized far too late that he was at the end of a dream. What questions he had now were given answers. A dream. The faceless patrons of the diner smiled at him as they continued to melt into his subconscious.  

Dale took a final look back at where he and Laura had been seated. As expected, he saw both of their mugs sitting abandoned. Just as Cooper felt himself slip completely from the dream, a featureless waitress set down a plate of food he never ordered. Viscous, yellow, pallid and abhorrent, the image mocked him as he fell from the scene.

Special Agent Dale Cooper woke, staring at his dark ceiling. He stayed that way for several minutes, holding onto the slurry of emotions stirring in his gut. Laura. He repeated her name in his mind, eager not to forget it. She had to be important. 

Instinctively, he reached over to his bedside table, fishing around for something he knew was there. The plastic felt comfortable in his hand.  With a heavy sigh, he brought the tape recorder close to his face so that he could drearily recall his journey through the realm of sleep. With a simple click of a button, the mechanical whir of the tape touched his ears in the early morning silence. 

“Diane," He croaked, voice peeling open the door to his tired mind, "It's early in the morning, February the 24th. I just had the strangest dream.”

[whoslaurapalmer]

wally brando & becky burnett & ruby  2,390 words 

and ruby had been screaming, but that was not important.

my fic for @cerealninjakat for @countdowntotwinpeaks’s wonderfulxstrange!! wally and becky helping out ruby after her breakdown in the roadhouse in part 15. 

[cometcrystal]

cerealninjakat replied to your post: i love how you can very clearly tell who each...

My man Freddie Prinze Jr ruined his hair bleaching it to death, Robbie didn’t even try.

Put on the blonde bucket hat hair wig or don’t even bother

[laughingpinecone]

003 for James, Josie, and, just to mess with ya, John Justice Wheeler.

James

How I feel about this character: (does the bookhouse boys sign but on the other cheek and it stands for “James Hurley Defense Squad”)

Any/all the people I ship romantically with this character: healthy options, none I can think of. I find his mess with Laura engaging; I find whatever it is that they wrote with him, Donna and Maddie potentially engaging (less so than him and Laura, but still engaging) but it didn’t even come close to its potential. Would it that we’d had FWWM-level laser-focused characterization throughout the show... his storyline would’ve been so good. So good.

My favorite non-romantic relationship for this character: Shelly!! Shelly knows what’s up. And Bobby. And the Bookhouse Boys damnit!

My unpopular opinion about this character: I fistpumped at that Shelly line.

One thing I wish would happen / had happened with this character in canon: I wish we could have a better grasp of his social circle in the present day. I hope he can be close to Shelly and Bobby. Wish we had interactions with Audrey, way back when. And I wanna know what he’s done as a bookhouse boy!

Favorite friendship for this character: well, Freddie. But I’d like to see him bounce off literally all his generation and the entire Sheriff’s department (except Hawk because in this specific instance he’s a meanie)

My crossover ship: none I can think of...

Josie

How I feel about this character: how to take potential and compress it into a doorknob... in a world that’s not the show’s, not TSHOTP’s (still flat and racist, alas) and probably not Isabella Rossellini’s Josie either (I don’t trust them with writing her as Coop’s LI), she’s amazing. Somewhere out there.

Any/all the people I ship romantically with this character: had they been written better, the doomed clash of loneliness that’s Josie/Harry would be interesting to me. I wouldn’t say I’d ship it in the sense I’d be wishing them to ride into the sunset together, but I’d be interested in the same way I’m interested in Laura/James or Laura/Bobby

My favorite non-romantic relationship for this character: Pete. As antagonistic relationships, Coop and Catherine

My unpopular opinion about this character: I keep spreading the word of the doorknob thing being potentially cool to anyone who’ll listen...

One thing I wish would happen / had happened with this character in canon: many things, but they should’ve managed to keep the centrality of both Josie and the mill plot even after the recast and trashfire LI switch. She’s as much of a Coop as they get, she deserves to be a main character!

Favorite friendship for this character: I hope she and Sam Lanterman can get along fine...?

My crossover ship: I know there’s a good joke in here but I can’t think of an

wait what Billy Zane was in Twin Peaks???

How I feel about this character: whomst

Any/all the people I ship romantically with this character: shockingly enough, none whatsoever!

My favorite non-romantic relationship for this character: in my dreams, he’s depicted as sleazily as he is, and so is Ben, and then they can have scenes where they’re terrible together. Catherine can come too

My unpopular opinion about this character: if I squint real hard I can see some potential (see above) but it’s even further away from what’s actually on screen than the mental gymnastics we have to go through for poor Annie. Also like. He hits most of Audrey’s checkboxes of tall dark stranger etc (aside from yknow, the good taste checkbox), so I could theoretically see her fall back into her disaster pattern, same as with Coop, except this one’s sleazy and hurts her. It’s not a plot I wish for Audrey! But it would be a plot! As opposed to the black hole we got on screen.

One thing I wish would happen / had happened with this character in canon: I wish SOME people hadn’t been childish, petty and incapable of writing characters without love interests for FIVE MINUTES. JJW wouldn’t have existed and I think to myself, what a wonderful world

Favorite friendship for this character: again, Ben

My crossover ship: it’s not even a crossover, JUDY is right there, go on boy, make like a Jeffries and poof out of reality never to be seen again unless as a metaphysical teapot (which in his case would be a massive improvement, lbr)

[michonnegrimes]

It is a scientifically proven fact that no one will ever love the Beatles more than the Beatles loved each other.

you’re absolutely right it’s part of what makes them so wonderful as people, not just musicians. the relationships between them are everything.

[corvidaedream]

Art assumptions: You watched that Pride & Prejudice movie with Colin Firth a lot, and was, at least partially, inspired by Noel Stevenson. Off hand remark: your style of inking reminds me a little of Shel Silversteins's stuff!

i actually have never seen that one, but i really liked the keira knightley one! and I loved noelle stevenson so much when i was like 14!! i mean i still enjoy her work, but i remember seeing this animated gif piece she did of an old sailor years back where the smoke from his pipe moved, and just losing my mind over how much i loved it.

ur second comment unearthed the memory of how my childhood copy of Where The Sidewalk Ends smelled and I need to go track it down now (I'm not sure if its somewhere here or at my parents' house...)

[renmorris]

✿▼■ ☯ I can't remember his name, but the OC blue rose desk guy. Whoever. I need to know more about him...

Gerald From HR

(my long suffering twin peaks oc, displaced by time and space, cursed to never age or die but spend forever working in every FBI office always. is he human? maybe! is he a spirit? maybe! is he extremely nervous and in possession of a great deal of enthusiasm for Garfield? absolutely!)

✿ - Sex headcanon: God I am not prepared to ask myself ‘does Gerald fuck?’ I have NO idea. 

▼ - Childhood headcanon: he’s vaguely Appalachian, might be from southwestern PN or thereabouts. I haven’t put…anything concrete down about Gerald in general because his existence is kind of…multiple. He’s multiple things and all of them are equally true. Hell, sometimes he’s a tulpa based on Gordon’s grandpa (in accordance with Mel’s hcs)  

■ -  Bedroom/house/living quarters headcanon: I haven’t thought much about his actual apartment but it’s probably cozy and cute. His office desk is covered in Garfield merch

☯ - likes/dislikes headcanon: 

Likes: Garfield, donuts, fresh coffee (Diane makes it best), positive reinforcement, chilling with his cat and watching television on occasions he’s allowed to exist outside of the office, chatting with Gordon about nonsense

Dislikes: having to talk to Albert about his behavior, being murdered (it’s happened a few times), being yelled at in general, when someone takes the last of the coffee and doesn’t put a new pot on! he put up a little sign and everything asking folks to be courteous and it STILL happens

[countdowntotwinpeaks]

It has been brought to my attention that we could do with an AO3 collection for the exchange, so here it is! Feel free to begin posting here if you use AO3, it'll remain unrevealed until September 3rd

Using this collection is not required by the exchange, which remains based on Tumblr. On September 3rd, you will need to make a Tumblr post that either contains your work directly or links to your work on a site that requires no further logins to be accessed (like non-archive-locked works on AO3!).

@mindblownie @mooncustafer @magnificentmoose @michaeltillotson @cursedexe @spunkyjacobin @whoslaurapalmer @bluerosering @cerealninjakat @waltwolfman (/ @ketterle) @petitelappin @dye-ann @ilysetration @zigcarnivorous @romantickyhrdina @littlestsnicket @cosmoburger @cannibalenthusiast @laughingpinecone

[luluwquidprocrow]

you’ll find it again

originally posted: september 3rd, 2020

word count: 2,390 words

rated: teen

wally brando & becky burnett & ruby

friendship,  emotional hurt/comfort,  mental health,  loneliness,  season 3,  ruby at the whims of the supernatural vs. ruby’s own mental state,  dissociation and uncomfortable sensations that occur after a breakdown,  growing up is hard and life is hard and friendships are hard!,  one instance of language because have you met me

summary: and ruby had been screaming, but that was not important.

opening notes:

for @cerealninjakat for @countdowntotwinpeaks wonderfulxstrange 2020, who asked for "wally and becky try to help out ruby after her breakdown". i hope i delivered!

title from don’t see the sorrow by au revoir simone

.

becky and wally had argued again; ruby could tell, because she focused on becky so she wouldn’t think about herself. becky drove ten miles over the speed limit through the darkness, her knuckles clenched on the steering wheel, her tongue pushed into her cheek. from the backseat, ruby couldn’t see wally, but she knew he was looking right ahead at the road. an argument meant wally had just said something true that becky didn’t like and she’d done a lot of yelling. they’d still come and got her, though. together. like ghosts out of the night, bursting into the roadhouse, when the crowd had throbbed around ruby like a heartbeat that wouldn’t ever slow down. and ruby had been screaming, and

don’t think about that, she reminded herself. she curled her hands into the cuffs of her sweater, searching for the loose thread she knew was there but couldn’t see. think about becky and wally.

becky had parted the crowd, snapping at anyone who got in her way, while wally kept close behind her. ruby was screaming but that was not important. becky got down beside her and put her hands on either side of ruby’s face, blocking out the roadhouse, asking ruby to look at her. wally knelt next to them and took one of her hands and he’d been wearing his motorcycle gloves, and that had made a line in ruby’s head that split her panic into the uncontrollable previous second and the too-conscious next, because he didn’t have to wear them inside. ruby clutched his hand and she was crying now and she could deal with that. then they were at the bar, and wally was trying to put an ice cold glass of water into her hand but she couldn’t hold it, and then time pulled forward and ruby was in the back seat of becky’s mom’s car, becky’s sweater draped over her own and her cheek against the window.

“how,” ruby had tried, meaning to ask something like, how were you there, how did you know where i was, because becky and wally weren’t who she was meeting at the roadhouse.

wally said something about just knowing all of a sudden—ruby couldn’t catch all the words—until becky had punched him in the shoulder and almost drove over the yellow line in the middle of the road and swore something awful, and then no one talked.

becky drove like she was in a hurry, she always had. it was probably better than wally driving, because while ruby was sure wally was a good driver, he would’ve had them both on his motorcycle, and just all of them crammed onto one seat would’ve been terrible. when they were little, becky had convinced wally to let ruby sit behind him on his tricycle and to let becky ride on the handlebars, and they’d made it halfway down the street like that, wally slowly peddling along while becky shouted to go faster and ruby held on to wally for dear life anyway, before becky’s dad saw them and caught up in an instant. ruby turned her head and watched the streetlights hit the cracked curb, weathered street signs, the graying asphalt road, in stark white bursts every few minutes that blurred as becky sped on by. a red light lingered somewhere ahead and becky screeched to a halt at a traffic light.

the only sound in the car was becky’s harsh breathing as she waited for the light to turn—no, it was ruby. it was ruby’s own breathing, so loud in her own ears in the quiet, waiting for becky to race forward and fill everything up again. ruby pulled hard at the thread on her sweater and the cuff puckered, the soft knit pushing into her wrist. it didn’t make sense. the roadhouse was too loud, the car was too quiet, her sweater was unwinding and so was ruby again.

wally reached for the radio and turned the dial. he skipped over static, a guitar cord that made ruby’s shoulders seize, dr. amp shouting into the night, until he found some soft keyboard song, keeping the volume low. green filled up the car, and becky took off.

they were almost there, wherever becky was going. ruby could tell. dread started to shudder to life inside her. she’d have to move. she’d have to talk. she closed her eyes and let the car jostle her against the seat belt.

gravel crunched under the tires, and ruby knew exactly where they were. she opened her eyes to see wally’s parent’s house on the other side of town, with the big yard and long driveway, the dark wood siding and the old brick chimney, little white flowers by the front steps that turned yellow in the porch light. becky got out, and then wally, and then ruby, opening the door slowly, holding becky’s sweater around her. the night air was hot and sticky on her face, and it fogged her glasses.

the brennan house reminded her of her mom’s house, and that was why ruby liked it. they both had shelves crammed with books, and oversized chairs draped with handmade blankets, and when you walked in it didn’t just feel like someone else’s home and you were a visitor, it felt like your own home too. when was the last time she’d been here with wally and becky? it couldn’t have been that long. new years, when wally was back and becky smiled so easily and ruby was still in college. but that couldn’t have been this year. maybe it was forever ago. when was the last time she’d seen becky and wally at all? wally sent her postcards from the road and ruby hung them all up around the kitchen. becky was so sparse nowadays, with steven. ruby was just trying to figure out what she was supposed to do with herself, in a place as small as twin peaks, as big as the whole wide world.

ruby felt that prickling stab of staring at something without really seeing it, like she should be somewhere or someone else. she swayed on her feet, looking up at the house over her glasses, tears in her eyes again.

they all went inside together.

the lights were off inside, and wally turned on some of the lamps in the living room, bathing the furniture in patches of warm gold. ruby and becky took off their shoes, but wally kept his on, but he had his gloves tucked into a pocket now.  

“where are you parents?” ruby asked. her voice sounded raw, and she cleared her throat a few times.

“it is thursday,” wally said, “which means it is the night my parents spend together, away from worldly concerns.”

“it’s date night,” becky muttered.

“ruby,” wally said, “would you like some hot chocolate?”

she didn’t think about the glass of water at the roadhouse. she thought about a ceramic mug hot on her fingertips. “sure.” she watched wally drift into the kitchen and take mugs down from the cabinet. ruby’s mom was always leaving cups of tea places, on wooden coasters on the coffee table in the living room, on the little desk by her easel at the big window, by the old chair in ruby’s room, all of them half full. she told ruby that sometimes it was more about the company and the feeling than the tea itself. ruby liked that a lot.

“becky?”

becky sighed. “yeah, okay.”

she and ruby sat down on the couch by the wall, like they’d always done, ruby cross-legged and becky’s left leg bent with her arms wrapped around it. wally’s mom liked to knit, and there were large, uneven blankets all around their house, because her tension was always too lose. ruby’s mom had tried to teach her, but mostly they baked together instead, and wally’s mom’s blankets stayed holey but comfortable. ruby tugged a soft blue one from the back of the couch on top of the two of them. and then she waited.

who had she meant to meet at the roadhouse? ruby couldn’t remember. she had just been there. there was supposed to be someone there and she was supposed to meet them. like wally said, she’d just known too. so she’d gone. and she’d been waiting and waiting, and no one had come. she’d stared off towards the stage and tuned it all out and thought she saw something, once or twice, a flicker of blue light out of place on the stage, the edge of a black jacket sleeve off to the side, thought she heard a voice by her ear, but no one had come. ruby was alone, until someone was lifting her out of her seat, and then—everything was breaking apart.

but becky didn’t ask about the roadhouse. she looked at ruby, her eyes flicking back and forth between ruby’s.

“is there anything i can do?” she asked.

ruby blinked a few times. “no,” she said, shaking her head. “no, no—no.”

“anything you need me to do?”

“mm-mm.”

becky fell silent. she looked down at her hands, twisting her rings on and off, and as ruby watched she felt thick shame and embarrassment start to sink inside her. it hadn’t been the first time, not really, not if she was honest, that everything felt like it was falling out from under her. sometimes she felt so impossibly sad and so helpless, and her whole life was quiet but it wasn’t unbearable, it wasn’t terrible, it wasn’t like that at all. but in the roadhouse the loneliness had clawed at her as the world moved on and no one cared, more than ever, and the emptiness of it had scared her so much. not just ruby’s emptiness. everyone’s. the only thing she could do was scream. why had it happened like that? why had becky and wally had to see her like that?

“i don’t know what happened, i don’t,” ruby whispered. she had to fix it. they had to still like her. they had to like the ruby who double majored, the ruby who smiled at cats, the ruby who made cucumber sandwiches for picnics, the ruby who shared clothes with becky, the ruby who played the bongos while wally could not play the guitar and didn’t care. they had to keep that ruby. they had to like that ruby who did all those things and forget about the ruby screaming in the roadhouse, forget they saw the ruby who could fall apart. both of them couldn’t exist. “i’m—i’m okay, though.” she scrubbed at her eyes with the sleeve of becky’s sweater, bumping her glasses.

“hey.” becky took her hand. she pushed a lock of hair behind ruby’s ear, then hesitated. “you know i love you, right? because i do, ruby.”

ruby knew, or she had known, and forgotten. it was good to hear it. it was good to know. it was good to know. she smiled a little, because she knew if she smiled the whole way she’d cry again. she held onto becky’s hand.

wally walked back in, carrying three mugs on a big wooden tray. he gave becky the mug with a cat stretching against the side for the handle, and he gave ruby the one with roses bursting all along it, and he took the one that had instructions for cooking eggs next to little drawings. he put the tray on the floor and sat down on ruby’s other side, a few inches between them but close enough, and ruby draped the other end of the blanket over him too. then she wrapped both hands around the mug, her skin tingling with the warmth. she didn’t trust herself to swallow properly yet, so she kept it there. her mom was always right. she could hold the mug in her hands and have becky and wally beside her and feel a little more like okay. she thought about the roadhouse, for a moment. she thought about whoever was supposed to have been there. maybe she’d tell becky and wally about them, but later. maybe she’d tell them a couple things. not now. but she hoped, whoever they were, that they felt close to okay too, if they needed to. she thought they might.

there was a vase of little pink flowers across the room, in a halo of light from a nearby lamp. wally’s dad bought them, but sometimes he picked them instead, at the little spot by the lake where the picnic tables were. they’d all gone on lots of picnics when they were younger, and even into high school, when just ruby and becky and wally would go, without their parents, and spend hours in the afternoon breeze off the lake, the three of them naming ducks and throwing food at each other and skipping stones on the water. that was good, too.

“do you remember,” ruby said softly, “when we used to have those picnics? by the lake?”

“we should go again,” wally said.

“we can go tomorrow,” becky said. “my mom still has all the baskets.”

“i can drive,” wally offered.

“nope,” ruby said. “becky will drive, and we’ll all die.” she patted becky’s knee.

becky giggled; then she bit her lip, her face scrunching up. “fuck,” she said. “fuck—no, i’m gonna drive the speed limit. i’m gonna be the best driver.”

“then that makes you the best,” wally said, simply.

becky looked across ruby at him, and then tapped her mug against his. “thanks.”

wally smiled. it was a quiet smile that pulled up the corners of his mouth only slightly, but it was his best smile. in unison, the three of them took sips of their hot chocolate. it went down smoothly, comfortably warm in ruby’s chest.

“you know what this needs?” ruby said.

“potato chips,” becky said.

“potato chips,” ruby agreed.

wally looked thoughtful. “i think that can be done. but we’ll have to adjourn to the kitchen.”

he and becky were up in an instant, racing towards the kitchen like they were kids again, becky shouting when her hot chocolate tipped, wally’s steady voice assuring her that his parents had napkins. ruby got up, took becky’s sweater off from around her shoulders, and then ran into the kitchen after them.

ending notes:

ruby is now an immovable piece of this friendship and i will THROW DOWN for her

[deadendtracks]

Tagged by @ceebee-eebee

Nickname: a friend somehow started calling me Amelia Bedelia at one point, which got shortened to Bedelia, and makes zero sense in any context really. 

Star sign: Aries.

Favourite musicans:  uhhhh how many hours do you have? Radiohead, Nick Cave, David Bowie, Feist, Zoe Keating, PJ Harvey, Bjork, The National, Songs: Ohia/Magnolia Electric Company, Queens of the Stone Age, Siouxsie and the Banshees, DJ Shadow... those are just the ones that have stood the test of time. There’s always new stuff I play obsessively for awhile.

How many people do I follow: 137

Tumblr crush: probably @annaxmalina

Lucky number: Don’t have one, but I do tend to notice when the time is all one number like 1:11. I don’t know what that’s called. But you know, when you glance at the clock and it’s 2:22. That happens to me a couple of times a day. It supposedly means things.

Dream vacation: don’t really have a where so much as a what: love meeting up with people somewhere new and exploring or going for a specific reason, like a play or an exhibit or a concert. which isn’t going to happen for... a depressingly long time now.

Favourite food: I have no idea. I like most foods, food is good. I make a good lasagna.

Drink of choice: i drink a lot of water which is boring, but I have a weird fondness for carrot juice.

Instruments: played the cello through high school (because I didn’t own my own and had to give it back), played the electric bass for awhile but was never very skilled.

Languages: English. I ... have tried to learn other languages and do pretty well at reading/writing but I’m pretty sure I have audio processing issues and I have a very hard time with the hearing/speaking part. Probably if the American public school system started teaching kids another language in elementary school instead of high school/college I could have done better.

Celebrity crushes: Cillian Murphy (obviously), otherwise this is mostly “actors I admire and find super hot” because I don’t tend to pay enough attention to celebrity news to know anything about them as people: Eva Green, Tessa Thompson, Lucy Liu, Oscar Isaac, Zendaya, Cate Blanchett, Helen Mirren, Brit Marling.

Fun fact: The other day I accidentally interrupted a smol snake in the middle of trying to swallow a toad much larger than it. The toad hopped away a couple of inches and then they both just sat there waiting for me to leave and it got awkward as fuck so I left them to it.

Tagging: @weeo @bakedapplesauce @emjenenla @cerealninjakat

[whoslaurapalmer]

4, 15, 16, 10, and 27 for ATLA!

thank you sam!! 

4) Do you have a NoTP in your fandom? Are they a popular OTP?

it’s mostly not that they’re notps, it’s that i just have very little shipping stake here, ten year old!me when this was initially airing cared much more about shipping characters with OCs than any canon pairing, so 26 year old!me interacts with atla in a much more casual way, but lately i’ve seen a lot of sokka/zuko and i’m like, i get it, i suppose, but it’s just not something that vibes with me personally?? i’m assuming that one is big popular, though. 

15) Unpopular opinion about the manga/show?

you know what??? today it’s, they had like FIVE MINUTES OR SOMETHING LEFT IN THE SHOW WHEN ZUKO SAID ‘WHERE IS MY MOTHER’ LINE THERE WAS NO WAY THAT COULD’VE BEEN WRAPPED UP IN THAT TIME FRAME and to wrap it up in the comics afterwards in again i think kind of an unsatisfying way was cheap, i think the line should’ve been cut out point blank because then it went on to be baited again in korra and there was still no real actual resolution, it was like teasing a specific kind of sequel story so hard and then DIDN’T HAPPEN 

i don’t know though what they could’ve done with ursa to make any resolution truly satisfying, though. not sure. 

16) If you could change anything in the show, what would you change?

mai and ty lee with more screen time cause boy did they deserve it. i think an azula backstory episode would’ve been nice, especially in a parallel to zuko alone, and to learn more about, how azula and mai and ty lee function as friends. i mean we get that a little in the beginning of season 2, and there’s the beach episode in season 3, but. i always like more. 

10) Most disliked arc? Why?

i don’t think there’s an arc or episode or part of the show that i genuinely dislike? like, i even take some enjoyment in the great divide. (i think aang’s imaginary referee panda is cute.) i didn’t like jet much as a kid but as an adult i have more sympathy for him so even jet’s episodes aren’t something i completely dislike. 

27) Least shippable character?

goodness. ozai????? aang????? (ozai because who looks at ozai and says ‘mm yes. shippable.’ quite frankly who looks at any terrible parent character and considers them romance-shippable, in a way that’s not ‘honest character examination so it’s not even romance anyway’?????? and who looks at aang and says ‘you know what this twelve year old with the weight of the world on his shoulders needs? romance.’ ......well bryke clearly did. BUT ANYWAY) 

[aplaceofstone]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Twin Peaks Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Dale Cooper & Laura Palmer Characters: Dale Cooper (Twin Peaks), Laura Palmer Additional Tags: character-typical orientalism, Dreamscapes, Post-Canon, Symbolism, Road Trips, Future Fic, but also past fic! what year is this, trick - Freeform Summary:

Windom told Dale about the dugpas. Dale tells Laura about the dugpas. Laura doesn't say much in this one, already knowing that projection is one hell of a drug. And while they don't talk about it, they both remember peeking under the curtains only to find themselves staring at a vast and starless expanse beyond. In the end there is nothing to say.

My Trick or Treat story for @cerealninjakat!

ETA I’m told AO3 is being glitchy, does this work?

-

It's another all-night drive to nowhere. Town after town, highway after highway until time and distance lose meaning. Their whole world has shrunk to the space within the arcs of a rental car's headlights, all dark asphalt and road paint. The radio is broken. When words flow out of their throat, they come out heavy and full of static. All they fill the air with is ghosts.

"Have I told you of my encounter with the dugpas?" asks Cooper.

"The what?" asks back Laura, eager to break the silence, not quite sure this is the way to do it.

"Dugpas, Laura." He grows bold, there's an echo of an old story molding his words, it's an easy path to follow. "The dark magicians who are otherwise known as red caps, as Madame Helena Blavatsky describes them in her early theosophical writings. They are an old sect of monks who resisted the yellow-cap gelugpa reform of the fourteenth century - a deeply spiritual affair, the details of which, if I am to be completely honest, mostly elude me - and practice their drunken sorceries in the great monastery of Sakia-jong, deep in the heart of Tibet. Or… in Bhutan." He frowns, losing momentum, struggling to chase back that memory, that knowledge, the abstract idea of a geographical map, finding no help in Laura's distant gaze. "...sources differ. It is said... that they can imbue even common objects with their evil magnetism. It is a fearsome power to be sure. To hex pieces of cloth that they place on the mountain paths that lead to their monastery, so that incautious hikers will step upon them and be subject to a tremendous psychic shock, making them fall to their doom. The high path of knowledge and spirituality is indeed a treacherous one..."

"Oh, yes." She nods, slowly. It's a slow day. "I met those. Didn't think they were monks, though."

"What do you mean?"

"I met those. But I didn't think they were monks."

Cooper nods. Certainties like that, they go nowhere. One day he and Laura herself will find out what she meant by those words, if it was her memory, or his, or something they have not experienced yet, or they will not. Happens to the best of them.

Regardless, he has his tale to tell, a tale which, as he recalls, began when he appeared in the mountains, far, far away. "Laura, the mountains…"

In his memory, which is coming back to him as would a dream, one moment he was not there, the next he was, dragged through the ether by invisible forces. Summoned, is, the word, through obscure magic rituals. The mountains! The stone was old and heavy under the melting snow, banded, folded upon itself in so many layers that traced their parallel lines along the sharp cut of the mountainside; the gray horizon stretched farther than he had ever seen. Cooper stood motionless on a flat, dark rock. The pale six o'clock sun was still high in the sky. Amidst that stillness, a crimson line snaked through the valley, slowly marching toward him. It was a procession of monks, chanting in unison as they walked, and they wore red robes and red hats, and he knew what they were, and he could not move, overtaken as he was by fear. One by one, as they came next to him, they grabbed his face and observed it, tracing their fingers along his hairline and down to his jaw as if to find some secret there, a crack, a fault line. He didn't know their faces and they knew his face and they judged him. He knew, as he knows now, that there were good monks far away, in the monastery which lay at the end of the valley, whose golden domes could be seen on the horizon where the two mountains met. He thought, in his terror, that if he could get away, he would be able to take refuge there and the good monks would look after him. He thought they would show him their truths. But he could not get away. One by one, they grabbed his face and observed him, and they let him go.  Imperfect moon, they said. Imperfect moon. There was no moon in the sky, but that is what they said, and then they left. The valley was empty again. He wanted to run to the safety of the monastery, but as the last monk passed him by, he was not in the mountains anymore. Whatever mystical force had taken hold of him had loosened its grip, or another power had grown stronger. He found himself back in his bed, relieved by the simple familiarity of the objects around him, and went on to get a good cup of coffee, a fact which is positioned as the moral of the story, and maybe it is, he concludes with an awkward smile.

And then: with the gravity of the plate collision that gave birth to the mountains, this moment shifts, morphs, stretches, grows tighter and more brittle.

They linger in their motel room. The desert fills the horizon outside their window; Laura feels that she has seen this place already, with its vast clouds above and constellations of cacti on the ground, and lived this life already, and heard this story already. So it goes, on and on, swirling in the clouds, already written in secret patterns on the ground. They are tired.

"Have I told you of my encounter with the dugpas?" asks Cooper.

"The what?" asks back Laura.

"Dugpas, Laura. That is a name for the darker parts of the self. There is, you see, a tendency in occultist writings to speak in metaphors for the struggle of the human soul, so a text may describe the depraved dealings of a dark sorcerer, but when push comes to shove, what they mean to show is that all men may fall prey to those fallacies. It has long been proven that symbolic images are a way for the human brain to grasp abstract concepts that would be much too difficult to be absorbed directly. And so the Path of the Shadow, or the Left-Hand Path as it is also known, is a dark discipline for the the so-called black magicians of the Occident, but their archetype applies to us all. In a way, it is said, it stands for the selfish choices made by our ego in every little event in our lives, when we move away from universal unity and toward separation."

"Story of our lives," Laura laughs. There is no answer Cooper could offer that would make them feel better, so he offers none. Story of their lives.

Her laughter fades and he has to keep telling his story, to make sense of it. In this particular story of his life, then, the curtains parted and the mountains appeared before him.

"No, no, no, let me start again: I was standing in a small room, back then," he says, and they both know where that  back then is, and that it still looms over them, trembling red in the corner of their eye, chevron reflections in a diner's toilet. It is them. But back then they curtains and the chevron were all around them, they were a place, which usually affords a certain degree of separation from the self. Except all of a sudden the curtains came up to him, sneaking on the floor and rising up against him from all directions. His body was surrounded by heavy red velvet. He tried to fend off the attack, but he saw faces in the fabric's folds, sneering at him. What he had thought to be curtains were rows of men and women dressed in red vests and red caps, some of them old, some of them young, their faces were all harsh and marked by evil, and they were all him.

This sea of red-clad people who were him swarmed to him and parted back, and instead of the room, the mountains laid before him. The mountains! The stone was old and heavy under the melting snow, banded, folded upon itself in so many layers that traced their parallel lines along the sharp cut of the mountainside; the gray horizon stretched farther than he had ever seen. Cooper stood motionless on a flat, dark rock, trembling, feeling naked against the open expanse of the valley. The pale six o'clock sun was still high in the sky. The figures in red had swarmed the ground. A doctor came forward - long face, gray hair, a veterinarian, a distant part of Dale Cooper but a part of him nonetheless - and visited him as he stood there, paralyzed by fear. Cooper knew that this sea of red was not all of him: there was a house far away at the end of the valley, whose roofs could be seen where the two mountains met, where all the good he had done waited for him, wearing different vests and different faces, to look after him and to show him the way.

"Ever had any luck running from yourself?" asks Laura, her interest piqued.

"Oh, they let me go."

The doctor stitched him back up, shaking his head at the end of his exam. Instead of explaining himself, he fell atop him, unfolding like a piece of fabric, leaving behind only the echo of his words: he shall bring others. He was a curtain again, and so were the others, and Cooper was back there, back inside. He spent the rest of that day thinking about those faces, an instant and twenty-five years. But the curtains never showed them again. They were far away.

Once again the moment shifts. It cracks, splinters, gains new mass.

They walk, because a car will not lead them where they need to be. They have been walking for a long time. The day is cold for the season, the snow hasn't fully relented yet, but their jackets are warm and their boots well-worn. The slope is mild and they are not alone on the path, tourists and locals alike enjoying the pleasures of a sunny day.

A row of gaudy little flags planted on the edge of the path catches Dale's attention; he waves at Laura to wait for him and kneels down to check out the closest one. The fabric is smooth under his fingers. The ground is smooth under his knees and he falls off the path, down the cliff. The world goes dark. Eventually, he lands on a different path underneath, one they did not tread on their way up. Laura is following after him, balancing herself with her open arms as she steps on big, flat stones on the mountain's side. With one last hop, she is standing by his side, helping him back up with a steady hand. They look ahead, trying to find their bearings.

The mountains beckon them. The mountains! It comes back to them, as would a dream, or they come back to it, or both at once when seen from an impossible perspective encompassing both ends of the story. The stone is old and heavy under the melting snow, banded, folded upon itself in so many layers that trace their parallel lines along the sharp cut of the mountainside; the gray horizon stretches farther than he has ever seen. Cooper stands motionless on a flat, dark rock, Laura by his side. The pale six o'clock sun is still high in the sky.

There are people walking on the path above; some stop to look at them. There are rows of people on a path higher up still, and yet more on the other side. Wool hats all over, 'tis the season (although which season it is, they could not say); some of them are red. They stare, for a while. Then they walk away, carrying their red hats with them, struck by indifference, keeping their secrets, their vices, their miseries, spreading them into the world. This place does not care. They have fallen into a mirror of itself and see now with razor-sharp clarity the simplicity of it all under the tales and symbols. It is vast and terrifying.

"Have I... told you… about...?" Dale says, and they are among ghosts, and a cold fog covers his words.

"Tell me that story," says Laura with the same urgency in her voice. "How did you get out?"

"I…"

The valley ends somewhere up North, as all valleys do. But there is nothing at the end of the road, where the mountains meet. No-one has summoned them: no-one has the power to let them go. Evil exists. A desolate crossing place leads into the unknown.

"I don't think I ever did."

[laughingpinecone]

H, K, M, N, Z

H: How would you describe your style?

[ethereal whooshing], on a good day!

K: What’s the angstiest idea you’ve ever come upwith?

I’m pretty milquetoast with angst, generally it’s more of a... backhanded sadness with the characters making their peace with the sad situation at the end. There was that one time I ran with canon’s angst in the worst possible what-if for that angst. So there’s this one death row inmate who’s taking the fall for someone else, and someone is frantically trying to prove his innocence. The death row inmate is trying to make everyone else cut ties with him so they won’t mourn him when he’s gone, so he plans to send the proof of his innocence to this other person after his death. This ends up not happening in canon but it left me wondering, how would this person react to his death and this final sucker punch? So I wrote it. It was sad. Incidentally, #pleaseplayghosttrick

M: Got any premises on the back burner thatyou’d care to share?

Well I’m still writing down various ideas for that ensemble Twin Peaks postcanon...

N: Is there a fic you wish someone else wouldwrite (or finish) for you?

Yeah that’s what my #letters tag is for! o/ Yuletide here I come! ...I wish I could outsource said ensemble Twin Peaks postcanon... the singular parts are not ambitious at all but there are so many of them. It cast too big for it gotdamn runtime, dangit

Z: Major character death–do you ever write/readit? Is there a character whose death you can’t tolerate?

Depends on the character’s status in canon! I’m getting more and more soft-hearted - if I have the reassurance that they’re alright (ish) in canon, I can read sad divergences. If there’s no catharsis in sight, no thank you. Albert is a special case where he’s technically alrightish (...ISH) in canon as far as we know but I can’t do it.

[random-red-ramblings]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Twin Peaks Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Characters: Dale Cooper (Twin Peaks), Laura Palmer Additional Tags: mentions of drug use Summary:

What are dreams? What is the difference between dreaming and reality? Is there one? Does it even matter?

Written for smallfandomfest

for @cerealninjakat

[corvidaedream]

Top 5/10 art supplies you like to work with. Top 5/10 favorite characters.

Crow quill pen nibs! I have like five or six of them bc they're so tiny and I keep forgetting where I put them, and they're only like 20 cents at the store so I'm slowly amassing a hoard of them. I really like the amount of control I can get with them, and how tiny the line can get.

India ink

Gouache! It's so expensive, though, so I always feel a little stressed out using it... but it's so smooth and matte...

Crayola washable markers. This isn't a joke. I love using them for doodling and thumbnails/composition stuff. they're cheap and they dont let me get bogged down in thinking about color or detail. I like starting with a yellow one and adding increasingly darker ones on top as I refine whatever I'm doing. I have no idea when or how I started doing this, but it's a thing I do now.

Pentalic Traveler Pocket Journal. I've been using these babies on and off since I was 14. If you wear pants from the men's section, they fit perfectly in the front pocket, or most coat pockets, or a tiny shoulder bag. They take watercolor decently enough, take glue very well. They have a secret pocket in the back cover, and I love a good secret pocket.

Magazine clippings

Risograph. We have one at school, and I love it so much. I'm going to be devastated when I graduate and have to actually hunt down a print shop that has one and pay to use it...

Cintiq. Another thing we have at school that I will almost definitely not have access to when I graduate bc they're so big and expensive.

I bought a bottle of Black 2.0 paint last semester for a project and it's absolutely lovely.

I'm starting to get into colored pencils lately also.

[renmorris]

cerealninjakat replied to your post “wow I can’t get over the fact that riverdale had the nerve to name an...”

I just learned that there are literally no references to Twin Peaks, but a character actually just walking on fire. I'm weazing.

I JUST SAW THAT...that’s...god that’s so good. that’s so fucking stupid