#lackadaisy amber

[yanci-indigo]

Cat Portrait ✿｡⁠*ﾟ⁠+

[ahhhh-118]

What a coincidence @yanci-indigo it appears that I am YOUR secret santa 🤭

I try to lean to a very portrait/painting style!

I drew the lovely Amber with her gang! Well at least the bug versions of them, see if you can find them all and identify who is who 😏

I know you don’t celebrate Christmas but this was a very fun thing to make for you as a gift!! :D

So Merry Christmas/Happy Holidays/Happy Day!! ❤️

[acesandocs]

She's an uptown girl!

Wanted to draw @yanci-indigo's oc Amber Humble. Im not super happy with the shading in the color version but oh well.

[blue-iced-tea]

Backgrounds as my worst enemy haha

Still trying my best huhu

[dragonfoxstardesigns]

Did someone say time to art?! Well I’ve finally gotten my art muse back today!

Been sewing for quite awhile now so haven’t had a chance to sit down and draw lately until now so here’s a little treat from today’s drawing session!

I have went back to firealpaca because apparently when I had clicked the trial version of Clip Studio Paint V2 it didn’t want me to use it anymore unless I had to pay for the V2 since I had already gotten v1 awhile back.

However...my bank saw it as fraud since it uses Stripe and not Paypal :’3

I hope to get that situated, but in the mean time I’m enjoying finding my artistic happiness again. I missed drawing all of my OCs including both my Kingzvire characters and some fandom ones like Reginald “Regi” Earnest who is one of two Lackadaisy OCs I have (Naomi is my other and I’ll draw her soon!). The two headshots below are of my Kingzvire characters - Nosch and Amber who I draw quite a lot :D

Anyways, hope you all have been doing well! Just taking it one day at a time! <3

Digital art commissions are OPEN as well if you are interested ^-^b

[rudnitskaia]

AAAAAAAAA~~~💖💖💖

Thank you, thank you, thank you, dude, both for your birthday wishes and for your art!! You did amazing job, everyone looks awesome, and I'm so honored you choose to draw my dear girl among these wonderful OCs, I can't stop screaming (/pos)! ✨😭✨

Squeeze you tightly in hug ~💖

The LackaOCs of this blog's biggest fans :3 Part 1(According to Tumblr)(Hoping Tumblr won't mess up the quality lol pls just zoom in if it does :'))

Amber Humble - @yanci-indigo

Flynn Mulligan - @realbouru

Lucio - @mivanti03

Benjamin Heller - @aghostnamedcalamity

Maura Venza - @rudnitskaia (Advanced Happy Birthday btw!)

And to my other follower and mutuals I really appreciate all the support y'all gave me! Which is why I'll be drawing some of y'alls OCs on my sketchbook : )

[glowinggator]

First I need you to know I absolutely love the way you write rocky! He feels so in character!

Second I saw requests are open so speaking of rocky: imagine if reader was a wealthy client who helps fund the speakeasy but they're only really there for rocky

like everyone else thinks it's pretty obvious they're into him but I imagine rocky would be clueless lol

(can be neutral or fem pronouns, whichever you prefer :) )

A/N: Thank you so much! I'm always worried that I'm a little too heavy-handed with his speech patterns, so I'm glad that it comes off right! And wow, I loved this idea so much! I got a little bit carried away with this it, actually -- never let it be said that I don't love this silly cat. Buckle in friends, it's gonna be a long one -- 3.4k, to be exact. Thank you all for all of the lovely asks and reblogs thus far -- because as much as I love writing, it's all of you that keep that fire burning when times get rough. Enjoy!

Content Warnings: None! Gender neutral reader, no pronouns or presentation indicators used.

Deafening raindrops turn into quiet pitter patters as you descend the long, spiraling staircase into the speakeasy. Comforting and familiar walls lift your spirits from the dreary outside world, caked in gloomy clouds and ever-growing smog. You wipe your boots on the doormat as you reach the bottom of the stairs, frowning a little when you notice just how far the mud splashed up the leather. 

        What a shame -- you'll have to clean them off when you get home tonight. Lord knows how your coworkers love to gossip, and with how calm things have been lately, they're just itching for something to discuss. Like how the head doctor has mud on their evening boots… after a heavy rain. How scandalous. 

        You're pulled from your thoughts by the gentle voice of the doorman, peering over at you with a hint of concern -- Horatio, you think his name was? Sweet boy. 

        "Is everything alright, Doctor?"

        You tear your eyes away from your shoes, smiling kindly. 

        "Of course," you chirp, "Just a bit of mud. Do be careful when you head out tonight. That suit looks nice on you, I'm sure you wouldn't want it getting dirty." 

        He straightens his posture at the compliment, adjusting his cufflinks with an endearing -- if not a little overenthusiastic -- nod. Content, you smooth out your outfit and move forward once again. You stride through the door, flashing your pin for formality's sake, and slink into the main room with a neatly contained excitement of your own. 

        Red satin curtains line the wall, contrasting beautifully with the natural grey stone -- the Lackadaisy speakeasy has a unique atmosphere, and despite having seen it no less than a hundred times, it never ceases to light a twinge of admiration within you. You weave between the towering stone pillars, letting your eyes rake across the room as you pad towards the bar. But… something is missing. Or, more aptly, someone. 

        The barstool squeaks in protest when you plop down at the bar, brows furrowed. Although before you're allowed to stew in your disappointment, a drink is placed in front of you. You look up, meeting eyes with the tall cat in front of you. Victor Vasko, resident bartender, for lack of a better word. He glowers down at you, although you know him well enough by now -- it's hard to be intimidated when you know his scowl is all but carved into his face. 

        You're also acutely aware that you're one of the last benefactors of St. Louis' finest speakeasy. 

        You slide a ten across the bar -- more than enough to cover drinks for the night, if not everyone else's too -- before swirling the drink in your glass. The amber liquid dances just shy of the rim before settling back down against the ice -- it's liquid gold in these parts, and they call it that for more reasons than one. You don't miss the subtle widening of Victor's eyes as he pockets the money and moves to the other end of the bar, presumably to clean -- or more aptly, shatter -- a handful of glasses. 

        Sweetness cascades over your tongue when you raise the glass to your lips -- it's a far cry from the common coffin varnish. That is to say, it's a luxury reserved only for new patrons… and those with deep pockets. You smile to yourself, savoring the taste. It's not the greatest drink in the world. Even a priest could tell you that. It's bitter, and burns in a way that tells you that its creator would really prefer to put the "fire" in firewater over anything else… and yet you couldn't fathom going anywhere else. It's not like you're aiming to get drunk here, anyways. 

        "So," Zib drawls, lumbering onto the bar stool next to you, "What's a man gotta do to get a drink around here?" 

        You huff a laugh into the glass, rolling your eyes. "Sorry, I only buy drinks for pretty boys."  

        He leans forward onto the bartop, leaning his head on his arms and gazing at you. His eyes are half-lidded, pupils lazily tracking your glass as you raise it to your lips. It's hard to tell if he's just tired, or if he's already gotten a headstart on drinking tonight. You'd put money on the "all of the above" option, if you could. 

        "I can bat my eyelashes if you want," he says.         "Jesus Christ, shut up," you laugh, swatting at him but waving down Victor nonetheless. He stomps over, rolling his one visible eye, but acquiesces and pours him a drink at your soft smile. It's clearly a cheaper alcohol, but Zib doesn't seem to mind. He seems to prefer it, if anything. He takes a strong drink, sighing at the burn. He pulls himself up from his crossed arms, leaning back with a groan.

        "Thank God, I don't know enough violin to pull anything else off. Or Shakespeare."

        "Hey!" You sputter, kicking his leg beneath the countertop, "What's that supposed to mean?" 

        "Nothing, nothing." He hums, pausing. Sips. Tilts the glass. "Just that you seem to have a favorite here, no shame in that. Other than the fact that you've chosen the strangest man in all of St. Louis to set your sights on." 

        "Excuse me, for one, I don't play favorites. And two, he is-- he isn't…" Swirling the liquid around in your own glass, you furrow your brow. When nothing comes to mind you take a sip of your own, thinking. 

        You know well enough that your protests are just for show at this point. It's become a near-daily point of banter between the two of you, considering how obvious you are in your affections. Many moons have come and gone since Wick showed you the Lackadaisy, but unlike the astral body, your interest in Rocky Rickaby has never waned. 

        It's hard to remember what kickstarted your affections for him -- maybe it was his natural lyricism, or perhaps his flair for theatrics. Maybe it was his unwavering spirit, or his penchant for getting into trouble. If you asked Wick, you're sure he'd tell you that you were simply attracted to the danger he brings with him, but he's never seen the way his eyes sparkle when he's excited. He's never seen the way he glows when he's truly happy -- not like you do, anyways. Maybe it was a combination of all of those things and more. What you do know is that…

        "He's got his own charm. He's different, yes, but I like different. But again," you say, looking at him over the rim of your glass, "I don't play favorites."  

        Zib chuckles, shaking his head, but says nothing. You wait one breath, then two. 

        Silence. 

        You scoff, muttering to yourself. "Set my sights on… You make it sound like I'm picking out a dog at the pound." 

        He grins, and you sense that you've fallen directly into his trap. Damn it. 

        "He'd bark if you asked him to."

        "Oh, you reprobate," you exclaim, laugh tinging the edges of your words. You swat at him once again, this time making contact. You'd like to say he choked on his drink, or sputtered at your attack, but this has become such a song and dance that really, you'd be more surprised if he didn't expect it. "You're incorrigible, you know." 

        "Just being honest," he says. 

        You shake your head, sipping lazily at your glass before slipping back into easy conversation. It's nice to simply chat the hours away with him -- despite his dour outward demeanor, he's quite good at keeping a conversation going. His taste in literature doesn't hurt much, either, nor does your own affability towards his own theatrics. For as much shit as he gives Rocky, he isn't all too much better in the drama department. 

        You weren't always treated so casually -- the memory of Mitzi all but batting Zib and Rocky away from you still brings a smile to your face. Hell, you're sure if Mitzi heard the dreary remarks falling from Zib now, she'd pick up the broomstick again… if only for her own sanity. But once it became clear that you'd sunk your claws into their best -- and up until recently, only -- rumrunner, the air changed. 

        You don't have to guess why -- everyone's been plenty clear about it.

        'If Rocky hasn't driven you away yet, there's not much anyone else can do to scare you off.'

        You cast a look over your shoulder every now and again, glancing at the door, aflutter with anticipation. It's impossible to hear the rain this far down into the cave system, although it's unlikely that the rain has let up at all considering the torrential downpour you weathered just a few short hours ago. You nervously bite at your lips, forcing your head back into the conversation. 

       ��'It's just the storm holding him up,' you tell yourself. 

        You vaguely realize that somewhere along the way your simple affection and interest has bloomed into something more all-consuming, and you can only hope that Zib doesn't catch your sudden fluster. Best to file that thought away for later. 

-----

        It's half past midnight when Rocky waltzes through those towering wooden doors, caked damn-near head to toe in mud. His suit seems to have taken the brunt of it, although the drying flakes embedded in his fur and the single symmetrical pair of clean streaks along his lapel tell a story all on their own. He clasps two bottles in his hands, mysteriously absent of any dirt or grime. 

        Calvin is hot on his heels too, pupils pinpointed with what you assume are the remnants of adrenaline. He too comes through the door with bottles of what you presume is liquor, although he certainly has an… abundance compared to Rocky. Because for Rocky's two, Calvin anxiously clutches no less than eight bottles to his chest. He practically waddles through the door, more out of fear than exertion. He, however, is almost entirely clean of grime… save for his pant legs, which are all but drenched. 

        Once Calvin is past the doorway Ivy comes skipping through too, hands wrapped around her own pair of bottles. Her wardrobe seems to be in slightly worse condition than Calvin's. Mud dapples her sweater, and the twigs tangled in her fur so abundant that you could probably call her a fire risk. But she seems joyful nonetheless as prances past Calvin and falls in line right behind Rocky in his march towards the bar. You realize in the back of your mind that she's chatting happily with Calvin behind her, although the words turn to water in your mind as you gaze at Rocky. If he's noticed you yet, he gives no indication. His tail, slicked thin with muck, flicks happily behind him. Small drops of mud hit the stone floor, causing Calvin to flinch back and clutch the bottles tighter to his chest. There must be a story there, you think to yourself. 

        You huff out a laugh -- partially out of amusement, and partially out of relief. You'll have to ask for the story of tonight's escapade later on. 

        "Praise be to the rain, protector of your ever faithful moonlight servants," Rocky finally reaches the other end of the bar, placing the bottles down with a thunk. He spins, his back towards you as he casts a hand in the air with a flourish. The smile that stretches across your face is painfully lovesick, if the way Zib nudges you gives you any indication, but you pay him no mind as you lean forward to watch the show. 

        "For such modern ventures, we need no stream to wrench forth our gold from the Earth, dearest raindrops. Rather, it is you, oh dearest clouds who bring us such prosperity, such joy. It is--"  he spins back towards you, locking eyes. He stiffens, blinking owlishly. A moment passes before his eyes sparkle in that perfect way you've come to adore, fangs peeking beneath his lips as his expression changes into a grin, and then a beam. 

        "You," he moves across the floor towards you, stretching his arms out for a moment before realizing his state of dress and letting his arms fall back at his sides. His tongue darts between his lips, practically buzzing with excitement as he pads towards you. 

        (You briefly catch the shocked looks of his, quite literal, partners in crime. Eyes wide, the two look at each other inquisitively, then at him, then back at one another. Clearly they're shocked at his willingness to drop his monologue, and the feeling is mutual. It makes the smile stretch further across your face, and you realize that if he hadn't silently retracted the offer, you would have accepted the hug, velvet be damned.)

        You spin your stool to face him, pushing your drink to the side with a wave in his direction. And it should be illegal for anyone to be so damn cute, because the way he lights up -- at your acknowledgement? At your excitement to see him? -- sends a hot flush through your cheeks that has you melting from the inside out. Up close you realize that despite (somewhat) clearing himself of mud, he wasn't able to keep entirely dry from the rain. Water drips down his nose, and you fight back the obnoxiously domestic thought of drying his fur for him. Tender looks and loving touches, of hands carding through fur… It's soon replaced by the vision of him toweling off himself, and Christ, something so mundane shouldn't be so damn attractive. That too, you tuck away for later. 

        He stops at your feet, eyes crinkled with mirth. 

        "I didn't think you'd still be here," he says, leaning against the bar countertop. Although he quickly notices the muddy stain he's left, and while he does pull back to attempt to clean it… it's not like there's much clean real-estate left on his suit to wipe with. You giggle -- honest to god, giggle -- at his antics, and just like that his attention is pulled back to you. He leans back against the countertop, resting his face against his hand. It squishes his cheek with a boyish charm, ears flicking towards your voice. It's cute. He's cute. 

        "Well, I wouldn't want to miss my favorite…"  Heat rises to your face at your own use of the word 'favorite.' Zib will never let you live this one down. 

        "...Musician." 

        Said cat snickers behind you, and oh yeah, you really aren't living this one down. It takes a lot of willpower not to shove him off the barstool then and there. But Rocky simply waves his free hand at him before turning it upwards, fingers splayed. It's clear that he's attempting to be casual in his body language, but the energy in his voice and barely hidden beam ousts his joy at your praise. 

        "Pay him no heed, dearest muse. Now, what form of entertainment would you desire tonight? Pick a key, any key! Through spoken word or melodic strings--"

        Any other night you'd be enraptured with his rambling, but tonight you seem to get lost in his words. Your eyes rake across his face, taking in the little details that make him, him. You're only a little ashamed at the way your eyes keep darting to his lips while he speaks -- truthfully, you're more embarrassed at the longing it sparks within you. Maybe you should have taken the time to unpack this earlier, but alas. You force your eyes upwards, taking in how his own bright blue ones shine with excitement, before letting them fall once again.

        And Rocky is nothing if not unique. The bridge of his nose tells stories beyond your imagination -- no matter how many times he tries to tell you their stories. They all just seem too wild to be true -- littered with little dots and lines that you could connect like constellations, they convey decades worth of life. A knife trick accident here, a wire snap there… allegedly, a horde of bees created many of the smaller dots. An experiment from youth gone wrong, he said, but you can't imagine he'd do anything different if presented with the opportunity again. Your lips upturn at the thought, and let your eyes roam to his cheeks: his fur bounces with every word he speaks, but even still, you can see little uneven patches. A thin line here and there, not quite reaching skin; a patch that's just a fraction shorter than the rest; all from recent incidents that simply came a little too close. But on his left cheek there's something new, something that you've never seen before.

        There's one last streak of mud on his face that, clearly, he had missed. You're so focused on the mark that you hardly even feel yourself move to grab your handkerchief. 

        "--But in an art such as this, moderation is for the weak. If you'll give me just five minutes I'll have--" 

        He stills at your gentle touch, halting his speech for the second time tonight. His fur is softer than you expected, despite its dampness from the rain outside. You tilt his head upwards by just a fraction, your thumb and index gently holding his chin in place. Stricken with a sudden wave of adoration, you drag your thumb experimentally across what you can reach. The movement is so painfully fond and oh, so close -- just millimeters away from his lips. It's a gentle action that lasts no more than a second -- hell, maybe you didn't even realize you were doing it -- but it feels like a lifetime to him. He thought he'd get used to the lightheadedness that you always seem to inflict upon him, but he couldn't be more wrong. And before he has any time to recover, you're dabbing at his cheek with a silken cloth. 

        And for all your observations tonight, you end up missing the way his breath catches in his throat. You miss the way he leans into you by just a fraction, how his eyes widen at your softness; how they take to memorizing every contour of your face in awe; how he melts in your hold, like he's never been held with such kindness before. He doesn't think he has. 

        And that's nothing to say of all the things you can't see -- how his heart leaps into his chest, pounding so hard he's half sure you can see it through his shirt; how he prays for the world to stop just as it is now, so that he could enjoy this for just a few more seconds. How he's so sure that he's dreaming, but far too joyful to even consider pinching himself awake. 

        He's so enraptured with your touch that he hardly even processes your movements. It's only once you lean in -- close, so damn close, so easy to close the gap -- to get a better look at the spot that he finds his voice again. 

        "Oh, you don't have to, it's--" he curses himself for stumbling, for being so breathless in your presence, considering your previous praise for his eloquence. He doesn't know why you keep coming back here, why you keep entertaining him as you do, but he's not going to complain. He swallows, counting to five before starting again with renewed, albeit artificial, confidence. "I'm sure that lovely, lovely silk piece cost you quite the pretty penny." 

        And this time, it's your turn to blink owlishly. You look at the cloth, then back at him, before laughing softly. And just like that you're leaning back in, once again coaxing the mire from his face. It's silent between the two of you for just a moment, so quiet that you damn near forget where you are. And in a moment of courage, you up his face in full. You feel his jaw clench beneath your hand, emboldening you to push just a bit further. You catch his eye, smiling softly. 

        "You know money doesn't mean a thing to me, Rocky," you murmur, just loud enough for the two of you to hear. 

        A million words are left silently humming in the gap between you, a million words you hope he can pick up on in your silence. 'Not when it's you,' you think to yourself. 'I'd give up every penny for just another second with you.' 

        There's a glimmer in your eyes that can only be described as fond, and he basks in it before you turn back to your task. This time, he doesn't stop you. 

[yanci-indigo]

I feel motivated to try digital drawing so I'm going to redraw my old drawing way back at March.

(Lots of fixes needed I mean lmao)

~ 🧊

[lackadaisy-headcanon-supply-unit]

✨The Moonshiners’ Menu✨

So it looks like you have found our blog (or at the very least this post, drifting along the deep blue river of Tumblr). Welcome!

If you have a thing for beautifully drawn and dapperly dressed fictional feline criminals from the 1920s (be that “thing” a platonic fondness or romantic attraction... or even an eldritch cactus), you’ve come to the perfect place! Step right up and quench your thirst with our following selection:

Oneshot On The Rocks:

Rich and full-bodied with a deep, soulful amber shine. The serving size may only equal a single chapter, but in exchange for the lack of wordiness it is sufficiently potent. Soft or bold, tragic or harsh, sweet or (for the more daring) spicy - all those nuances will be tailored to the requester.

(Translated into common tongue: we do fluff, angst, crack, anything in-between, but no smut. Dirty jokes or suggestive references, sure, but actual erotica's off the table. Please pick another tavern to indulge your unorthodox desires of that sort.)

Headcanon Home-Brew: 

Clear, undiluted character; an essence of the purest kind. Bullet-pointed brews based in our very own interpretations of the cast, personally prepared for pretty much any theme under the sun so long as it ties back to a relationship with the reader in one way or another.

(Oh yeah, right, I forgot to add. Any relationship type goes! Lovers, friends, siblingly bonds, adoption, whatever the heck. Not everyone wants to smooch the kitties, and that is more than alright. We serve whatever sort of affection is needed.)

Scenario Cider: 

A ripe golden concoction blooming with the smooth taste of apple orchards. Fragrant and foamy, it has a delectable tease of plot... or semblances thereof; it is not fully a Oneshot, not a Headcanon cocktail either, but something to satisfy tastes in-between that blends the strongest points of both.

(We retain the right to refuse service, a.k.a not do a request, if we are not comfortable with it for whatever reason. We shall likely expand on these rules in the future if more disclaimer-worthy details emerge.)

Absinthe Imagine: 

A herbaceous chartreuse refreshment dripping with indulgent abandon. Mostly it can be described as an idea, a thesis, a feeling poured into crystal-polished words and gently whispered over the counter like a wistful secret. May remind a bit of Headcanons, as they're similarly concentrated, but more loose and situation-like.

(Oh, and one more thing; we write at our own pace and have some rather busy lives outside of this lovely hellsite, so please be patient with us! We're doing our best! As well, true quality doesn't exactly develop quick, heh.)

Which is all very fine and well, but, a reader insert isn’t quite a reader insert without the characters themselves! At the moment we are able to provide the following “flavors” from Lackadaisy’s cast of beloved kitties:

🔥 Roark "Rocky" Rickaby 🔥

⚾ Calvin “Freckle” McMurray ⚾

🎶 Ivy Pepper 🎶

⚒️ Viktor Vasko ⚒️

🍷 Mitzi May 🍷

�� Dorian “Zib” Zibowski 🎷

✒️ Mordecai Heller ✒️

🔮 Serafine Savoy 🔮

🐊 Nicodeme "Nico" Savoy 🐊

💎 Sedgewick Sable 💎

(Regarding rarer flavors (side characters from the comics not included here), most we can offer is a couple drops (some headcanons or maybe short scenarios/imagines), but don't let that stop you from ordering whatever your little heart desires! Just don't expect it to be particularly lengthy.)

Requests Open!

[yanci-indigo]

THE BEETLE LONGING FOR THEIR ADOPTION DAY IS FINALLY HERE YIPPEE!!!

The art was so beautiful huhu tysm for the answer!!! Amber slays on your art style as well (⁠人⁠*⁠´⁠∀⁠｀⁠)⁠｡⁠*ﾟ⁠+*⁠♡

Would Benjamin accept beetles? I would love to give him one! (she's a girl so she has a ribbon)

Sure, why not! Kids got a whole zoo at this point anyways 😂 Benjamin loves bugs!

He’s gonna have to find new hiding places lol

[sorrow-already-spoiled]

Midnight Glow Martini

_______

Notes: Hello! A combination Chai and Ani piece for your consideration! This was very inspired by the Lackadaisy pilot episode! The vibes are very fun!

_______

“Are you sure this is the place?” The shovel drives another few inches into the loose gravedirt. 

“Of course I’m sure! Shut up and dig!” 

“You could help!” Animozapino turns to look at Chaimoiw from where she is standing on a mausoleum rooftop, scandalized. 

“I’m the look out! And I’m wearing a skirt!” Chai makes an irritated noise in the back of her throat and strikes down again. It makes a dull metallic thud as it collides with something solid. Ani and Chai both look towards the sound, their bickering instantly forgotten. Ani jumps off the mausoleum and grabs a shovel. 

_______

It doesn’t take long to uncover the rest of the coffin. The pair of them stare down at the six foot long box, hesitating at the prospect of cracking it open. 

“Do you want to….” 

“No, no. You do the honors.” Ani steps back, as Chai nods and jumps into the hole. With a creaking groan of splintering wood, the lid of the coffin springs free to reveal cobwebs and amber glass bottles. Chai breathes a sigh of relief. 

“You were right.” Ani scoffs, twirling a face-framing ringlet curl around her finger.

“Of course I was.” Ani had in fact, not been sure, but she would sooner die than admit that. “It is my wife we’re stealing from after all.” Chai glanced up.

“I thought you were getting a divorce?”

“Paperwork hasn’t gone through yet.” It hadn’t gone through yet because Ani hadn’t submitted it yet. She had stopped by the notary office with every intention of doing so, but couldn’t do it. Apparently, Zerea hadn’t submitted hers either. Ani wasn’t sure what that meant, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to. “We should get out of here quick though. Zerea would never leave an asset uncollected for long, especially not with how expensive Canadian whiskey is these days. Practically liquid gold!” Chai nods, and starts passing up bottles. 

The tell-tale rumble of a motor starts to hum in the vicinity, and not from their own vehicle. Ani and Chai look at each other in alarm, all too aware of what that means this far out of town. 

“Uh, Ani? I think your wife is coming to collect.” Ani shakes her head.

“She’s got goons for this kind of thing, which is much worse for us. Hurry!” The precious glass cargo clattered together as they made a mad dash for the car. Ani threw open the door to come face to face with the startled eyes of Folceli causing them both to shriek in surprise. “What are you doing here?!” 

“Chai said I could come?” Ani’s head whips around so quickly she feels her neck crack. Chai is already looking at Folceli with a look of utter betrayal. 

“No, I said you could come someday, not necessarily today! How did you even get here?” Chai hauls Folceli out of the vehicle to start piling the bottles of whiskey in the backseat. 

“I was in the back seat!” Folceli’s defense was cut short by the bright beams of headlights illuminating the car, and the three figures. “Oh shit.”

“Language, kid!” Chai chides as she shoves Folceli back into the backseat with the rest of the bottles that clink together worryingly, rolling about freely. 

“I’ll drive.” Ani gathers her skirt in her hands to swing up into the driver’s seat, turning the crank to fire the engine as the first spray of bullets pepper the back of the vehicle. Ani steps on the gas, wheels digging into the grass for a terrifying moment before gaining traction and taking off. The sudden movement causes the bottles to shift, and for one of them to roll out of the not-quite-yet closed door. It bounces off the floor and out into the air, inevitably going to shatter. 

Folceli dives for it, catching it firmly in their grasp and flopping the majority of their body out of the vehicle in the process. Ani can do nothing but watch in the rearview mirror, cursing loudly. Only Chai’s quick reaction time allows her to reach out and grab their ankles, and haul them back into the backseat. She slams the door closed firmly, looking at Folceli who cradles the bottle they rescued. 

“That was scary.” Chai laughs despite herself, spinning the wheel to start heading towards the entrance of the cemetery. Chai pats Folceli on the head and takes the bottle from them. 

“Help me move these.” The pair in the backseat shove the whiskey bottles onto the floor, trying to keep their balance as Ani erratically swerves the vehicle to avoid as much of the gunfire from behind as possible. 

“Chai, do something about these people trying to kill us already, will you?! My hands are a bit tied!” Ani was a hell of a shot herself, she was proud to say, but there was no chance in hell she would let Chai drive at this speed (or any speed at all), and Folceli was still a child. 

“I’m fucking trying to!” The back windshield explodes into a thousand shards of glass as Chai tries to pull up the back seat to access the storage compartment as Folceli mouths the word ‘language’ with an irked expression. The car tilts dangerously to the side as Ani turns sharply, careening around a mausoleum and heading for the graveyard entrance. The black car follows their path, gaining ground quicker than Ani would like. 

“Bingo.” Chai holds up two slim cases, one containing a rifle, the other a gatling gun with a clip of bullets. Chai tosses the slim case to Folceli and unclips the larger for herself.  The mechanical sound of the clip sliding into position is followed by a heartbeat of silence and Chai’s maniac grin as she looks out through the gaping hole that used to contain their back windshield. “Hello there!” 

The glow of exploding gunfire lights up the backseat as bullets pepper across the hood of the enemy car. It swerves to try to avoid some of the fire, narrowly avoiding crashing into the gatepost on the way out of the cemetery. 

The rough grass and mud beneath the tires turns to the packed dirt of a proper road. Ani cranks the gear shift and pins the gas pedal to the floor. It only takes a few seconds for the other car to recover and regain their pursuit, still well within gunfire range. 

Click. The backseat goes quiet as the gatling gun’s clip runs out of bullets. 

“Oh that’s not good.” Chai tosses the now useless gun to the floor. 

“Did you even hit them?!” 

“Of course I did, Ani! But it’s an armored car! What do you want from me?!” 

BANG. A single shot rings out, and gunsmoke fills the car. The pursuing spins out of control and flips onto its side in the ditch. 

“The wheels weren’t armored.” Folceli pulls their face away from the scope of the rifle, the empty shell shot falling to the ground. 

“Oh shit… Good shot kid.” Ani grinned at them through the rearview mirror. She lets Chai fuss over Folceli in the backseat and focuses on getting them as far away as possible before the goons have time to recover. She breathes a sigh of relief as they hit the city outskirts, and are able to hide in the multitude of narrow side streets on their way back to the King’s Club.

_______ 

Underneath the lavish Kingsley Hotel, was a little known secret of the city: the King’s Club. Rich red and gold decor mixed with natural dark woods, all accented with semi-functional mechanical elements made quite a sight. A stage stood empty, only a few patrons sitting at the plethora of tables. Once upon a time, this had been a lively jazz club, with music, dancing, and plenty of alcohol, though Ani had never seen it in its prime. Since prohibition had rolled in, it had become risky to keep the King’s Club operational, and the price of acquiring alcohol only continued to rise. Many patrons weren’t willing to risk the hard hand of the law for good music and mediocre whiskey.  The resource competition with Zerea’s own speakeasy, “StarDrop'', didn’t help either. One of these days, someone was going to end up dead, if tonight's car chase had been any indication. 

The mood in the club is downright gloomy when Ani, Folceli and Chai return. This place had just started to feel like home for Ani, after the Kingsley family had so graciously taken her in after…. Well. Just after.

A pair of figures sit at the bar, and Ani moves towards them with her armful of bottles (fewer than they had started with, the dangerous road home had claimed four of the 18 bottles, leaving dark stains across the carpet of the car. Although, honestly, the car had bigger issues after tonight). Folceli and Chai follow, setting the bottles down on the bar. 

“Looks like you three had a successful evening.” Leander turns to look at the three of them, pinstriped suit jacket undone, the sleeves pushed up casually. “Any issues?” Of the four Kingsley children, Leander was by far the easiest to deal with, and the least prone to worrying or overreacting. 

“Yes.” Chai answered immediately, and Ani shot her a look that said ‘zip it’. 

“Nothing we couldn’t handle, of course.” Not her smoothest cover, but Ani would take it. “Where’s Daisy? I need her to look at the car.” Leander’s hand freezes halfway to his mouth, and he stares at his watered down whiskey for a second before answering, 

“Out.” and slamming back the rest. Chai made a disgusted sound in the back of her throat, muttering. 

“I don’t know what she sees in him.” She jumps over the bar and waves the bartender away. “Anyways… shall we taste test what we nearly got shot for?” Leander’s eyebrows raise, but he says nothing. 

With practiced ease, Chai sets up a neat row of crystal glasses and cracks the seal on one of the whiskey bottles. She pours a perfect two fingers in three of the glasses, sliding one to Leander, one to Ani. The fourth glass is filled with milk and cocoa powder, which is slid across to Folceli. They know better than to complain, and take their chocolate milk without complaint. Chai grabs her own glass. 

“Cheers!” the crystal clinks together as they all take a sip. “You know… that’s actually pretty good.”

“Best I’ve had in a long time, that's for sure. Might be worth the risk, eh ladies?” Leander says while swirling the whiskey in his glass. “Still not sure where you got the tip on the shipment from.” 

“Course it’s worth the risk, and if you want it to keep coming, you shouldn’t ask where we’re getting it from.” Chai stares down Leander with a dark grin, and the conversation divulges into pleasantries, only briefly interrupted by Chai practically chasing Folceli out of the Club at bedtime. It was all familiar, and comfortable. Ani leans back against the bar. Maybe her luck was going to turn around after all.

[blue-iced-tea]

Yowww new sketch wow so cool

[selfshippingwhore]

Name: Clementine “Cleo” Whiskertail

Background:

Cleo, with her cream-colored fur and a penchant for trouble, is a sly and resourceful member of the Lackadaisy crew. Born into the speakeasy life, she’s as comfortable swaying to jazz tunes as she is dodging bullets in dimly lit alleys.

Appearance:

Fur: Creamy and soft, like a dollop of whipped cream.

Eyes: Amber, always alert and calculating.

Build: Petite but wiry, she can slip through tight spaces without a sound.

Signature Accessory: A silver pocket watch dangling from her vest, a relic from her late grandfather.

Personality:

Streetwise: Cleo knows every nook and cranny of St. Louis. She’s the go-to cat for information, whether it’s about rival bootleggers or secret speakeasy entrances.

Mischievous: Her playful grin hides a thousand secrets. She’s the cat who can swipe a rival’s wallet while dancing the Charleston.

Loyal: Cleo’s loyalty lies with Mitzi May and the Lackadaisy crew. She’d take a bullet for any of them, but she’d prefer not to.

Role at Lackadaisy:

Scout and Smuggler: Cleo scampers through the city’s underbelly, gathering intel and slipping contraband past the law. Her nimble paws are perfect for smuggling tiny flasks of moonshine.

Backup Singer: When Vivi needs a break, Cleo steps up to the mic. Her voice is raw and bluesy, a stark contrast to Vivi’s velvet tones.

Backstory:

The Orphan: Cleo grew up in the shadow of Lackadaisy, an orphan taken in by Mitzi after her parents’ mysterious disappearance. She never knew their names, only the scent of their fur on a faded handkerchief.

The Silver Watch: Her grandfather, a retired detective, left her the silver pocket watch. Its ticking soothes her nerves during high-stakes heists.

The Rivalry: Cleo has a love-hate relationship with Silas “Snake Eyes” Malone, the same gangster who hunts Vivi. They share a history, but Cleo won’t reveal the details.

Motivation:

Family Secrets: Cleo’s quest for answers about her parents drives her. She believes Lackadaisy holds the key to unraveling the mystery, but she must tread carefully. Snake Eyes is always watching.

Cleo’s cream-colored fur blends into the moonlit shadows as she slips through the back door of Lackadaisy. Her amber eyes scan the room, catching glimpses of secrets and whispered promises. In this cat-and-mouse game, Cleo dances on the edge of danger, her silver pocket watch ticking away the seconds. ⌛🔍🎶

[yanci-indigo]

WAAAAAA THIS IS SUCH AN AMAZING ART THANK YOU SO MUCH!! She's just as elegant and a stunner in your art style (⁠◍ꈍ⁠ᴗ⁠ꈍ◍⁠)⁠✧⁠*⁠。

Oftentimes, the need to Gentlefy someone else’s oblivious OC strikes. I can’t but bend to my own visceral nature.

Graceful Amber belongs to @yanci-indigo ����

[dragonfoxstardesigns]

Phew! We made it to the end of the year! I admit that some months like June, and months August through November I didn't do much or any art at all so I kind of put some art from the month before and/or around then for the ones that were empty. I'm hoping 2024 will be the year of the most art! Especially when I have long breaks from work like this month :3

Characters I drew the most were Zib from Lackadaisy, my Lackadaisy OC Earnest, my SWTOR Cathar OC Koh Ta, Najuma and Hodari from Palia, my ocs Amber and Nosch from my series Kingzvire, my Voltron Legendary Defender Galra OC Repard, and Death-Heads' Deal characters LouLou and Alrick ^-^

[dukemercury]

what if you lived in the roaring 20s but were a little kibby cat (style is based off of the lackadaisy comic by tracy j. butler!) thornwhirr, moldbright, and yarrowclaw belong to @lasilhouetteinbianco, @headphonecables, and @transsexualprophet respectively!

[ID: two colored drawings of anthropomorphic cats dressed in clothing from the 1920′s. The first picture features Thornwhirr and Dustmill. Thornwhirr is a tortoiseshell cat with heterochromia, with a noticable triangular orange patch over xir right eye. Dustmill is a grey cat with grey hair, and dark birthmarks on their face. Thorn is dressed in a black and gold flapper dress with a golden headband, scarf, and flats. Dustmill, meanwhile, is dressed in a white coat with a fur collar and golden tiara and golden heels. They have their back turned to the audience, looking over their shoulder mysteriously as they hold out a peacock feather fan. Thorn leans on a cane as xe smirks at Dustmill. The highlights in the piece make them both look glossy.

The second picture is of Moldbright and Yarrowclaw. Moldbright is a fawn colored cat with a white patch across their face and green eyes. Yarrowclaw is a  grey spotted tabby with amber eyes. Moldbright is dressed in a light yellow shirt and overalls, while Yarrowclaw wears a grey shirt, dark blue vest, and orange neckerchief. Both have paperboy caps. Moldbright looks to the left, hat raised in what could be a polite greeting with a calm expression, while Yarrowclaw looks to the camera with a bright expression. End ID.]