Lackadogs: Maeve

Thanks for the tag @ehhhh-119 !

I'm honestly not surprised

Tagging: @gentlelass @realbouru @rudnitskaia @themissingrainfallkingdom @akosisab and @sundaesatmidnight !

Consider yourself tagged if you are reading this:

Make this picrew of yourself

Take this uquiz (How Fandom Would See You If You Were A Fictional Character)

Thank you for the tag @machiavellli !

First post, haha

Slowly but surely figuring out how to use Tumblr, I might not post much due to school and family stuff, but I'll try my best! :D

Have a good day/night 😄

Awwww, he's adorable ❤️❤️❤️

💜 Another of my Lackadaisy ocs 💜

🍀 This is Cassie’s little brother 🐰

AHAHRBUXJXSN, FINALLY DONE 😭

Introducing the final member of the trio, Miss Angelique "Angel" Caradine.

Born: 14th of February, 1901

Boston, Massachusetts

Born to Marie and Philip Caradine. Angelique, or "Angel" as she calls herself nowadays, had had a fairly normal upbringing. Well... If you discount the fact her father and older brothers were in a gang. Being the youngest of the Caradine siblings, she had always been told she had a lovely voice. And having been babied from a young age, it came as a shocker when her previously mentioned father and older brothers were murdered during a turf war by an opposing gang. Thrusting her mother and siblings into poverty, and forcing them to become nomadic.

From that point on, Angelique would use the one thing she was told she was good at to try and help her remaining family. That being her voice. She would sing for small crowds in parks whilst her brother played instruments, and her sister danced. Eventually it became a career for her as she reached her early twenties. And at the age of 21, she would leave behind the house her family had managed to secure in Tennessee. Travelling north to find herself settling in St Louis, Missouri. Sure her apartment wasn't... The best. But as long as she kept on moving, things would surely come her way... Right?

Aside from singing, Angel has shown to be quite proficient in dance. Commonly incorporating at least a bit of choreography into her performances whenever the moment arises. She has also shown to be skilled in the art of gossip, making it all the more chaotic due to her rather sociable personality, and the fact that once you get her to start, you can't get her to stop. And, unknown to most people, she does speak the slightest bit of French.

(Colour ref)

As always, have a good day/night! 😘

(a/n: yes, I do ship her with everybody's favourite boy Nico. I was planning to have Calli shipped with a cannon character, but decided that her and Maeve have... Other plans 😈)

Thought I'd share a bit of art of one of my other oc's, Maeve Midwinter❄️.

Born: 27th of November, 1903 Salem, Massachusetts

Moving to Missouri when she was just 19, Maeve Midwinter is the owner (and only staff) of a small bookshop in downtown St. Louis. Sporting an ever present demure smile for who knows what reason, and a politeness staggering to those she is forced to associate with, *cough* gangsters *cough*. This mim damsel is quite content leading a (fairly) untroubled life with her books and gramophone.

Living in the attic of her bookshop, Maeve has an affinity for… Shall We say… dark humour, An obsession with all things shiny, nature walks, botany, macarons, and romance novels.

Feel free to ask me any questions about her, have a good day/night!

Hello, Tracy. I've took this day as an opportunity to just tell you an amazing birthday, your webcomic has brought so much joy to my depression and since the first day i found out my life just went so much better. I hope you are doing absolutely wonderful, a single reminder you are probably my favorite human at this day. Happy birthday, Mrs.Butler! <3

That's terribly kind. Thank you! It means the world to hear that it brought someone a little bit of joy. ❤❤

AHAHAHAGUSJFZTUXBH- *cough cough* pardon me. Just finished Calli's little character poster after... Multiple hours, and here it is!

Transcription (so sorry for the blurriness 😭):

Born: December 6th, 1899

Murray bridge, South Australia

Born and raised on the murky expanse of the Murray river, Calliope was always one for life on her family's cattle farm. And, undenounced to her parents, the life of a small-time bank robber in the latter half of her teenage years. Considered more wayward and rebellious the older she got, it came as a shock to her when her elder brothers, and father, were enlisted in the armed forces to fight in the great war. Leaving only her and her mother to take care of the farm for the years they were away. And by circumstances of a tragic heartbreak, Calliope left her homeland and became a stowaway on a cargo ship heading for the distant lands of the Americas. In the hopes of finding an opportunity to build a new life for herself.

Though as they always say, old habits die hard. With the young Australian lass getting recruited for little pay in the esteemed Marigold gang. Now both a well-known patron, and a long-time bootlegger. Nothing, and she means nothing, is getting in the way of her current life. Or... That's what she thinks at least.

Living a congenial life on the wooden panels and planks of the Marigold room's backstage area, and being mostly forgotten about by a certain Marigold night manager. Calliope enjoys a plethora of... Interesting activities. Those including: Precarious automobile operating, wrangling with almost any cattle you put in front of her, mending household appliances, and dutifully using a shotgun. Her weapon of choice.

Woo! Thank you for reading all that (if you did), Maeve and Angel are going to be here (hopefully) soon. Feel free to ask any questions!

As always, have a magnificent day/night! 😘

🌚 - Miss Misery - 🌝

A Lackadaisy fanfic by GentleLass

Prelude

It was a splendid morning. Wind gently blew, leaves slowly swayed and the sun shone up in the Italian sky. A wonderfully blue sky, that wonderful sky underneath which Marjorie had grown up and that she had loved so much. Just like she had oh so loved the green and blooming prairies, among which she now ran, happy, thoughtless as ever, without a worry in the world. She was just a five-year-old, her dress was but a white lace, and the only accessory she was forced to drag along herself were her golden eyes that perfectly reflected the fervent sun of her motherland. No shoes, corsets, girdles, bows or hats to hinder and weighten her movement. She was free, absolutely free to run and jump and sme and play, by her own rules. And indeed she ran and laughed in the flowers, sprinting like bats out of hell. To her right, a flock of swallows crossed the soft clouds, returning after a long winter to flee from another; to her left, hares jumped fast towards North, almost as if challenging her to a race. And Marjorie of all people certainly wouldn’t have backed from a challenge, so she started running towards their direction, faster and faster. But the closer she got, the more the sound of their jumps became loud, louder, loudest, deafening. Until she got so close she started to feel the ground shaking underneath her feet to the rythm of their furious jumping…

… the Ford Model T roughly steered again thanks to the rough driving of Nicodeme, and the dream ended. Marjorie returned to her 30 something years of age (you don’t ask that to a lady!) , she returned to the corset that was twisting her guts along the cars’ brusque movements, to the shoes that squished her feet and to the skirts hindering her movement. The sky, as blue as it had been, turned grey and threatening, and the clouds returned to thicken into dark hoards of smoke. The sound of footsteps on grass was replaced by squealing and derailing of wheels on wet mud, and the girl’s laugh were soon covered by the flurry of water. Ah, Missouri. The land of humidity and swamps and just… wet.

Wet, Marjorie thought with a grimace of displeasure. That wouldn’t get along well with her heels, if not for the length of them, then the cost. She didn’t do that often - no, not wearing costly shoes in the least likely of occasions, that’s something she always did, if only for some twisted form of sadomasochism, subconscious and mostly unknown even to herself, but very evidently much explored - I meant, grimacing. Changing expressions, or just emoting. Her mind and soul weren’t empty, just… mostly unknown, as said, and as such she knew her looks where the easiest way to get her own - ‘with a smile you’ll get to the world’s heart when you yourself don’t even own one’, her father used to say. And she took those words to her… whatever is it that beats inside her chest (Marjorie drunkenly laughed “Bolero’s the only percussion inside me!” more than once), wearing a smile like you wear an accessory, an accessory like any other, interchangeable, replaceable, and most of all, material and meaningless when it came down to what truly matters. And indeed, when she thought nobody could see her she let it down like it mattered nothing to her, because it didn’t. When she thought nobody could see her… Marjorie snapped her gaze in a violent way that clashed with the fluffy fluttering of eyelashes, immediately baring her fangs as if out of instinct - whether a violent one or something else, it’s up to you to decide: the smile of Marjorie Ford can be as much that sewed shut of a doll, as it can be that cackling and threatening of a hyena. She smiled, and for a second she believed that the person who could see the smile would think the same thing and smile back, too, and the interaction would be just that easy and would go down just that smoothly. Just two people politely smiling at each other, no commitment, just smiling for the sake of smiling.

But alas, it couldn’t. We don’t always get what we want, much to Marjorie’s dismay. The eyes that looked at her now were anything but polite; they didn’t have the sparkle of amusement and kindness that should accompany a smile, they were cold. They were unyielding. They were all that were Marjorie’s own and more, but they didn’t match hers. She saw it. She knew he was seeing it too. She felt it. He didn’t smile back. He didn’t. His face remained a mask of pure indifference. It seemed to mock her, mocking her with its icy, hard eyes, mocking her as his lips never curved into a smile. The smile that was so obviously forced on her own lips froze, and it faded reluctantly, slowly, trembling, and the collapse was much more natural and spontaneous than the raise of it. Mocking her, mocking her, mocking her with his lips that never rose from the stern line - no, no Sir, with those serious and even respectable looks, the ostentatious diligence he dedicated to his work, the spontainety of his frown, while she was constantly fooled by her own decievment and the illusion of beauty surrounding it, and it made her angry. And anger’s the ugliest feeling of them all, and Marjorie’s supposed to be the most beautiful of them all, because what else did she have to offer? No friends, no family, no prospects. Certainly not a husband. She was alone with her feelings and desires. No friends, no family, no prospects. That’s how it is, isn’t it? You’re alone, Marjorie, and alone you stay - the truth that is so deeply engraved deep inside your bones, like iron bars of a rib-cage around… whatever it is that beats inside your chest (“Samba and Rumba!”). So Marjorie smiled and it felt like a sneer instead, but she didn’t stop smiling. She kept the expression frozen as the car’s brakes screamed in surprise and the tires screeched and the wheels hit the ground, until the other person fell for it, or just got tired of watching her, and looked away.

Tired of her, tired of her, tired of her— —no, NOT again. It’s just not worth so much worry. Marjorie took a big breath, realising she had been holding it all the while, and sighed. Rolling her eyes and abandoning her head against the window, and letting the usual numbness overtake her, her natural state of mind just as vague, and dull, and bleak as the view outside opaqued by the rain.

Boredom is the most sublime of all feelings, as it afflicts only those with a sensible and refined soul, too selective to be swayed by small flashes of petty emotion.

Souls that inevitably end up disheartening and brutalising: out of boredom, in fact, one can commit actions that are vile and dangerous, or degrading and not very sensible. Marjorie knew a bit too much of it for comfort, on both accounts. She knew too much of the evils caused by human greed and the pleasures provided by selfishness. She knew enough, really. Enough to know she has no reason to expect anything better from life, enough to know that she has no need for any better, and the world will provide her everything, and everything only if there is no resistance on her part.

That’s why she didn’t say anything when she recieved that hard, and frankly uncalled for, stare, from the man sitting as distantly from her as he could in the relatively crampled space of the Ford Model T, just as intent as she was in drowning out the cackling and growling voices of the two hijackers on the front seats.

And to think he could have even made for an acceptable partner in crime, at least compared to those other two… animals… currently fighting for the steering the wheel… if only hadn’t he been so… so…

So Heller.

The bland interest aroused by Mordecai’s manner waned in a matter of seconds as Marjorie’s probing eyes lingered on the strict and austere mien, observing with a certain disgust the blatant disdain and unpleasant disposition he shamelessly displayed against all manner of common courtesy and efficiency in work interaction.

Not that she minded him being rude in the slightest; he was, after all, a fellow employee, and therefore beneath contempt, for the sake of her own making things easier and less committed for herself if anything. No. No, it was because she could see, she knew - the glint in the other’s eyes, the stiffness of his posture and the rigidness of his features, the scowl he bestowed upon her after the first glance, after the first few sentences - this man didn’t like her. At all. No, he probably disdained her as much as she disdained him, in fact. And she didn’t like it - Marjorie didn’t like the taste of her own medicine, but yet again, nobody does. That was something completely beyond her control, a reason more to not like it.

But also a reason to ignore it: again, this game was just not worth the candle. It doesn’t mean anything, because it never does. It was was a game. Life is just a game. A game of pretend and lies, a game she played over and over and over again, trying to fill her stomach with a fake satisfaction and a fake smile, hoping that it might fool someone into giving her whatever it is would actually satisfy her - what exactly, not even she knew.

WOAHHH hey there!!! I’m just publishing this prelude to my Lackadaisy fanfic - Miss Misery - here, because I frankly can’t be bothered to learn how to properly operate AO3. AS ALWAYS I lingered a little *too much* on whatever it is that is happening inside this madwoman’s head… I hope it isn’t too boring, and I swear I’m trying to put a little more action into the other chapters. Hope it gave a little insight into this PUZZLE of a woman’s thought process behind her chaotic and seemingly irrational way of acting and aroused your interest to soon read more.

Comments and constructive critique are more than welcome!

REMEMBER THAT POST WITH CINDERELLA WHERE HER DRESS CHANGES TO THE COLOR OF YOUR BLOG?

THIS ONE DOES IT TOO!!

I found a bunch more!!

x

Happy birthday 🥳

Today is my birthday