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@joyousdefunct
▓ ＪＯＹＯＵＳＤＥＦＵＮＣＴ. a collection of original characters. this blog features triggering themes. curate your space with care. 25+
・・・・・・ 𝙿𝙸𝙽𝚃𝙴𝚁𝙴𝚂𝚃. ❪ 𝙲𝙰𝚁𝚁𝙳 ❫ 𝙿𝚁𝙾𝙼𝙿𝚃𝚂. ・・・・・・
▓ 𝐀𝐅𝐅𝐈𝐋𝐈𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐒. 7-inchez / putrefacerem, bysoleil / halfgigas.
@echolaliia / cont.
“buncha blue-balled dudes sittin’ on their hands to keep ‘em outta their pants?” cal makes a face, wiping oil from between his fingers with the bottom of his shirt. “that’s why they make you talk about your feelins … kills your hard-on.” he swings himself up into the seat of the mower and turns the key; cowboy on a stallion. the engine roars to life, like it hadn’t spent the last year housing cobwebs in the back of his garage.
fuckin’ a-men; he grins, boyish and always a little too proud of himself, before cutting it. would've been his accomplishment of the day, had he not spent a good hour with miss stackhouse beforehand.
sunshine in a bottle.
“what’d i tell ya? cleaned the carb, drained out the old fuel,” cal ambles towards the porch, sweating like a pig. neck and shoulders baked a nasty red. “only had a third to spare from the gas can in my truck, but i can bring some more by later.” he plants one foot on the bottom step, looking up to where she's perched in the shade.
“won’t turn down free lemonade … louisiana’s tryin’ to cook me alive.”
what made u guys pick ur url's !
IT'S HARDLY HER FAULT—OR HIS—THAT THIS PLACE IS SO FUCKING DREARY. He's accustomed to brutal winters—long winters. Snow that decimates his field of vision—the sudden and intrusive presence of mills in Moscow whose smoke polluted the air.
Glasgow's something else entirely. Something lesser-than.
Even this shotgun, for example—it's not of a quality he'd grown accustomed to, even when he was a body learning to shoot.
"Would that be terrible, truly?"
Shit, he's smarmy. The gunshot doesn't rattle his skull, and he's learned to ignore the perennial ringing in his ears (this is what you do: you repress and ignore and you persist)—but the rest of the moor still feels it.
"If you do that, maybe I will become more helpful."
“so this isn’t a shooting lesson at all.”
she breaks the action, removes the spent shell, then turns it once between her fingers before tucking it into her pocket. it's ritualistic. appealing, in times of such uncertainty and change.
“it’s some kind of personality assessment?”
she shifts her footing, searching for firmer ground. a grouse emerges from the brush a few yards away. instinctively, she raises the barrel, but her grip falters, the weight of it suddenly unsteady in her hands.
in the gloaming, holding that pump-action, she looks like emma. his heart kicks rabbit-feet in his chest at the similarity.
his inhale carries something unsteady. something of coming too-quickly in from the cold. his eye slots closed, finding it, while he comes into and fills up the space in some fine balance between still and twitchy.
it's a process that lasts only a handful of moments all tallied together, but that ends in a quiet, "i did... not mean to. mm. alarm you, mrs. dalton." even he recognizes how foolish that sounds. but he admires her readiness, even when she must be afraid. "you are safe."
hopefully she doesn't split hairs about the pronoun and its dismissal, omittance, of his safety.
"i can stay. until mr. dalton returns."
were it a thing she could discern, it would be blue sky above a tornado. the surety of her daughter’s arms wrapped tight around her waist, cheek pressed to her skirts. she wonders what richard is thinking of. there is a stillness in him that does not belong to peace.
her grip shifts almost imperceptibly against the worn walnut stock. the shotgun is heavier than she remembers. she steps closer.
safe from what?
“you’re pale.”
every instinct she possesses urges her to soothe him, to make tea, to ask the right question in the right voice until whatever has seized him truly loosens its grip.
“whatever it is, we’ll keep watch together. eddy will understand.”
@vitalphenomena / "you can't shoot what you can't see."
annis shifts the borrowed shotgun awkwardly against her shoulder, trying to keep clear of the damp purple blooms and slippery moss beneath her boots. somewhere above the mist, wings beat once— she fires a heartbeat too late. the recoil makes her jaw tighten.
“i’m well aware,” her eyes sweep the moor again before settling on him, “though i suspect you’re only here to see whether i’ll admit i’m out of my depth.”
pidgeen tongues her teeth, up and back and around, up and back and around, and considers this finely brushed woman's question. not too hard, though, because she's eyeing the grocer so's she won't be shorted. those stains on the tile have been fucking her off for days now, ever since she's been stitched up.
"eeehh..."
of course, pidgeen knows the answer right away. the bauld aul bunnies, naturally. goes without saying that she'd never have seen the like of such thing when she was small. they'd be took of her by the mob of other children she was raised alongside, and she's take nearly as much heed, which is to say none. just the roll of things! but what a notion it must be to have such a wonder of things to yourself to play with. must be a grand bitta money herself has on her.
"be the rabbits, wouldn't it? sure, i'd spend double the time playin with the box as i would the chalk - bang for the shillin there, so it is," pidgeen nods. she's softened a bit now, at the mention of childer. her hand goes to her hip and thoughts go to wee will, who she's to pick up as soon as she's got this blasted fuckin stain off the floor.
but here, since she's standin and waitin, "is it many kids ya have, missus?"
"the rabbits it is, then."
she sets the plain brown box back onto the shelf without another glance. somehow, the painted meadow seemed brighter now. less like eye-catching advertising and more like part of the gift itself; useful and pretty. bang for the shillin.
“just the one— my sosie.” there’s a fond round to every syllable. “this box’ll likely become a stable for a family of mice by week’s end … or buttons, perhaps.”
the grocer sets down the vinegar with a dull thunk. her attention catches on the size of the bottle as she indicates she’s ready to be checked out.
“ ... if you're using that for cleaning, a little washing soda goes a long way with it. people swear by vinegar for everything, but it isn't quite the miracle it's made out to be.”
as the grocer names the total, annis reaches into her handbag, withdrawing a tidy leather billfold.
"what about you? do you have little ones at home?”
@rusticmutt / cont.
she wasn’t even gonna come.
earlier, tucker stood in front of the bathroom mirror for almost twenty minutes in an oversized tee with a towel wrapped around her wet hair, telling herself she was staying in this time. that there was nothing good waiting for her out there. she'd even washed her makeup off, and was just about to get in bed when one of her friends texted:
𝚞𝚛 𝚎𝚡 𝚒𝚜 𝚍𝚛𝚞𝚗𝚔 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚛𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚏𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚘𝚊𝚍𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗.
wes. stupid. they'd been broken up for months now. it wasn't her problem anymore. except … it always somehow became her problem, especially since wes worked for her father and wes knew things about tucker that she didn’t need anyone else knowing, especially her parents.
so she'd rolled her eyes, then reached for the gloss she'd already tossed back into the bathroom drawer. showed up frowning ten minutes later. she hated this place. it was always a little too humid, a little too honky tonk and stinking of puke. almost everyone was someone she’d grown up with, young and old alike, including the packed-too-tight, red-faced crowd of guys screaming at each other over the music.
and now this one was brushing her off? for trying to save him the trouble?
her hand lingered long enough to note that telltale mountain brawn; a mean sorta ropey sinew that seemed to flex then still, before she dropped away like she’d put her hand in the flame: abrupt, rejected.
“ ... sorry,” she tells him, cheeks flushing pink. her eyes drift past him, and she catches sight of wes taking another wild swing.
“that’s my dumbass ex. he gets drunk and thinks he’s the toughest guy in the room … it just isn’t worth gettin’ involved, i should know — ”
tucker trails off when nearby, one of the men gets the air audibly knocked out of his lungs. he stumbles back, boots slipping in a puddle of beer— “look out!” tucker scoots to the side and bumps into levi, trying to move them both out of the way.
uncertainty is a natural, unspoken element in these little dances of his. there's a hesitance before they offer up their hand, lean in close. girls, girls, girls – they are always prettiest in summertime.
( there's a delicacy to it, why you can't simply lunge at a rabbit mid - pursuit. his daddy had taught him that. )
he pries himself from the door, moving carefully to jump on in after her. there's a groan in the framing as he shuts the driver's side; his keys are already dangling in the ignition. ❝ well, it's real nice to finally meet you, tucker. ❞ jedidiah nods, long strands of his hair twitching around his face. ❝ i'm jedidiah. ❞ the rabbit's foot hanging off of the key gives an eager little jolt as he turns the engine over.
❝ jed. ❞ he tilts his head with a smile, balancing his wrists on the steering wheel. ❝ but i bet my sister's done told you plenty. ❞
there it is again— that little tug; a stitch unraveling somewhere unseen. nice to finally meet you. i bet my sister—
“you mean kit? you’re her brother?”
it comes out a little disbelieving, like a laugh wanted to attach itself but doesn’t.
“were you waitin’ on her to show up too? i should text her … y’think she’s okay?”
as the truck rumbles down the dirt road, tucker rests her arm along the passenger side door then hisses, rubbing at the skin there. white hot metal, baked in the summer sun. the whole interior was a nostalgia trip, like both jed and his truck were plucked from some 90s stranger danger commercial.
“you two don’t look alike,” she comments, moving her bag to the space between her feet. that left her thighs bare and exposed to the sun, cutting across in chunks through the trees. “whew,” tucker fans herself. “kit's supposed to be bringin’ the cooler. i hope she didn't forget.”
@joyousdefunct
"Someone at your office called someone at my office, and now here I am. We don't have to do the whole jurisdictional pissing contest. I'm pretty happy to just — you know — you do your thing, I do mine."
"Unless you know somewhere I can get a decent cup of coffee."
“i guess i missed that email.”
“i think there’s a place on … on — ”
“ ... i can’t fucking do this anymore!”
@joyousdefunct gets a starter for jackie!
“mannn, this sucks...”
if a rainstorm is bad news for a festival, then thunder and lightning is the absolute worst case scenario. each stage is soaking wet and devoid of equipment, all of it ushered off by the crew by now. jules paces around one of a few crowded tents, displaced musicians packed like sardines to avoid the torrential downpour.
twin throne would have been playing now, under different circumstances. he tries to push the thought out of his mind.
“is it supposed to clear up soon, or..?”
“no idea,” jackie sighed, using one of the tent poles as a lean-to. a paper cup of coffee hung loosely between tatted fingers. she gave it a swirl, took a sip, then grimaced, tossing the rest out on the grass.
“i was supposed to jump onstage with whore volcano for a song, but i guess that’s not happening.”
the actual worst thing about rain like this? it unified the stench of thousands into one giant stubborn funk cloud— wet denim, beer, sludgy run-off that looked (and smelled) suspiciously shitty. she spares her boots a drenching and crosses over.
“i’d say an hour, maybe two. if they don’t pull the plug completely ... sucks, though. i was looking forward to your set.”
they hate me because the years of memory loss has purified my mind
kit glances at the parking lot again, working the straw in her teeth with her tongue as she watches the display. it's like one of those silent films her daddy had them watch sometimes; all that's missing is a unicycle, maybe for one of those beginners out there to start juggling their goods.
at the question, she turns her head, pries the straw out of her mouth and tucks it in the crook of her thumb. ❝ my daddy's got business in the next town over. ❞ fingers press strands behind her ears and she returns the smile. ❝ you live 'round here? ❞
settling back onto her legs, she reaches with her free hand, pulling out one of the takis hesitantly. ❝ damn, they really are blue. ❞ laughing softly at how stupid she sounds, kit raises it – bottoms up – and pops it between her lips.
business one town over — “no kiddin?” no good. tucker morse-codes her thumbnail against the bag, halfway to mourning something that hadn’t even happened yet. “you mean colyer?” tucker drops another chip into her mouth. she doesn’t answer kit’s question.
against the wall, the coolers cycle out of defrost, spilling white noise into the air.
men with business, men from the mountains, local men and men she’d never seen before and never would again: they floated through milton like wisps off a dandelion.
“that place … it’s just a real shithole. there's so many tweakers and like, violence. i used to go to parties there and one time, when i was driving home, i looked out and there was a naked guy chasing me.”
pantone birth chart palette.
alan (left) / naomi (right)
stolen from. @id1eyouth
@deficd // "i don’t have to pretend with you." x
she’s elbow-deep in the cupboard when he says it, knees precariously balanced; the frayed edges of her dress slipping into murky dishwater. cloves, dried ginger, old honey. something else chooses for her— as if she’d known how he’d taken his tea for years already.
“a dangerous thing to admit,” she peeks from behind the wooden door, darkened brows at odds with her pale-everything else. they arch with a smile.
“i could be a complete nightmare,” behind her, the kettle clicks, and a pale green shoot unfurls from the freshly clipped pothos sitting on the windowsill. “you haven’t done your due diligence … ”
@deficd // "you’re addictive, you know that?" x
the camel's smoked down to the filter but he keeps it pinched between the damp, yellowed tips of his fingers. not the first time he’s heard as much, but it sounds brand new comin’ from her suck-swollen mouth. “ego’s big enough,” cal rocks back in the chair by the window, butt ass naked; one foot pressed to the side of his dresser. it’s pock-marked with twenty years worth of burns. “and you’re meant to be leavin’ tomorrow ... don't get all womanly on me.”
YOU'RE GONNA HAVE TO LEARN TO LIVE WITH THIS: an original multimuse based on original lore. by ax. 21+ ©
