Third Batch Of Lack-ocs Done!

Coming up shortly! Lackadaisy Ingenue will premiere on YouTube a little later this month.

"There's nothing more that I'd like to do, than take the floor and dance with you~" -Peaches & Herb (Shake your groove thing)

Felt like drawing my oc Calliope on a 1970s fit (and changed her hair a bit), dunno how historically accurate it is but I'm tired, and I got inspired by a 70s playlist.

But now I'm curious... What would your oc's look like in 70s attire? Some food for thought (It's not that I'd totally like to see them-)

Have a good day/night!

Reblog if you are okay with people giving you lots of boops!

Hi, good day. I just want to say...

...thank you for being moots with me, and I love your art!!!

Take this flower as a gift!

Ahhhh! Tsym! (⁠ﾉ⁠◕⁠ヮ⁠◕⁠)⁠ﾉ⁠*⁠.⁠✧

(note: testing out the waters with a new M00ny persona drawing!)

🌚 - 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!

AHHHHHHHHHHH! They're all so gorgeous ❤️

wakes up from a cold sweat

i need to design Ari's parents

Bored, so why not? 😊

Leaving it open for anyone that wants to join!

Okay y'all let me start my busy day.

Made this picrew here -> " Let me be pls. :) "

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

Calliope: Recollection

(a poorly drawn mini-comic inspired by a recent convo between yours truly and @ahhhh-118, enjoy!)

Translation:

Cairns family homestead, 1917...

Adeline: Calliope?... Where are you going with that shovel?

Calliope: just gonna go withdraw some money, mum.

Calliope (in mind): just a little money...

A few years earlier...

Robert: Oi, Calli! Where yah goin'?

Calliope: Goin' down to feed the sheep, why?

Callum: *narrows eyes in suspicion*

Robert: You've only got a few more bucks in your allowance, so.yah betta make it count.

Calliope: Yessir!

Calliope (in present mind): *sigh*

Calliope (still in present mind): It's just to keep us fed... I promise I'll pay you back... Someday

For context, this follows an eighteen year old Calliope (aka, when she still had long hair) whose mother approaches her about where she's going. Calliope responds that she's going to withdraw money, but doesn't tell her that she's withdrawing money from the secret stash of money Calli and her brothers had stolen from banks and buried out on their families property (they come from a family of cattle farmers). Calli reminisces to herself about only taking a little, before we're thrown back to a fifteen year old Calli with her two older brothers Robert and Callum. Robert asks Calli where she's going and she responds with lie, of which her brothers catch onto. Robert replying with what he knows she's actually going to do, and says to use the rest of what she has in her 'allowance' wisely. As to make it even they had divided up their loot. Calli salutes him with her shovel before we cut to eighteen year old Calli thinking to herself, this time about how she would pay back her brothers the money she took from them to be able to feed her and her mother while they were away fighting in the great war. If they ever did come home, that is...

Woo, that was a doozy! Sorry for making the post so long 😅, there was just too much info I wanted to stuff in. Thank you so very much to the people that read this far!

With that in mind, have a splendiferous day/night!