bloodbuzz.

CHARACTER INFORMATION:

FULL NAME: Julia ‘Jules’ Stanton

PRONOUNS AND GENDER: Cis woman, she/her

SEXUALITY: Bisexual

OCCUPATION: High school custodian

TL;DR:

trigger warnings: death

roswell native

her dad was a middle school principal, and her mom ran this little apothecary shop downtown, which is where Julia spent every second of every day she was allowed to

Shortly after they settled in, her mom started to act?? strange?? She was erratic and forgetful. No one thought too much of it until she accidentally burned down the apothecary shop and couldn't explain what had happened. They took her to the doctor to find out that at the age of 32 she had early onset dementia. Deterioration was pretty fast after that – by the time she died six years later, she had stopped remembering the strangers in her house.

jules took it super hard and spent a lot of time blaming her dad even though there was literally nothing that man could've done. she started acting out, and he kind of just thought she would grow out of it.

she did not – current miscreant and a MENACE but she’s Trying

former gifted kid burnout n now she is a high school custodian bc life comes at you fast

very much a ‘just go with it’ kind of person, even if ‘just going with it’ kind of makes her the architect of her own destruction? big fan of blaming the universe for her problems, even if it’s almost always a three-step trace back to ‘the consequences of her own actions.’

FUN DUMB STATS:

Birthday: January 27th, 1988

Zodiac Sign: Aquarius ☉ | Taurus ☽ | Sagittarius➶  

MBTI: ENFP  

Enneagram: Type 7w8

Temperament: Melancholic

Moral Alignment: Chaotic neutral

Element: Earth

WANTED CONNECTIONS:

my life for a ride or die friendship

neighbors at tripp’s

drinking buddies

former coworkers (she has worked? kind of everywhere and was equally terrible at them all)

ESTABLISHED CONNECTIONS:

tbd

VIBES:

a sharp snort of laughter shot from striker’s wide nostrils . “ there ain’t no way i can drop twenty bucks on a new tire . what do you think i am , made of money ?? “ striker was perpetually in a bad spot — his wages were all but guzzled up a minute after they were handed to him thanks to booze , gas , repairs on the trailer and the occasional box of condoms . the expense may have seemed frivolous , but you’ve seen him ; the money dropped on contraception was a gift to the entire population , keeping the curse of any more cannons away from spoiling what little allure roswell clung onto . 

he had attempted other jobs when the brothers first left tennessee . initially he had tried to work at a laundromat , but all those new-fangled machines baffled his little brain . then he had tried to be a general handyman , but working for himself was a recipe for disaster — he would sleep through any and all alarms , misplace his logbooks , and his itchy fingers made it impossible not to rush out of a client’s home with heavy pockets filled with small , valuable belongings . the ranch was where he was most comfortable , and guillermo at least understood him — striker was a strange thing , and having that element of grace had been enough for him to maintain his position at puhlman’s for the last decade . at the scar his lips tightened , and as though they were at some show and tell he tugged down the collar of his shirt , revealing the top of a mass of scars that largely remained hidden beneath the cotton of his shirt . “ humans . “ he responded , deadpan , before responding , “ i guess there are shitty types of all creatures , hm ?? but i can promise you that my bertha ain’t gonna go bitin’ you or stormin’ you . she’s a sweetheart . she only nibbles , and that’s if she really wants an apple , “ a small glance at his scars was enough to plunge him into silence for a moment . not many people had ever glanced upon them , hidden beneath his rotation of plaid shirts , refusing to swim with friends or fully undress in the arms of a woman to keep them shrouded . potato was shoved in his mouth to excuse the quiet until he was choked with a beat of laughter , covering his lips with a splayed hand . “ yeah , i use a lasso . used t’ ride bulls down at the rodeo , too . john wayne is a softie compared to some of the people i used t’ run with . cotton-eye randy would’ve had the guy shakin’ in his cuban heels , “ 

.

she let out a huff of laughter, shaking her head. "if you're that hard up cannon, all ya gotta do is ask. not me, but someone will like, definitely help you out," she said, teasing lilt to her voice. sometimes looking at striker was like looking into a funhouse mirror. julia was notorious for borrowing money that the lender would never see again – admittedly, her list of donors had vastly whittled down in the last decade. the difference was, she thought, that she asked. shamelessly and often, she asked. wasn't hard to see where her money went – her seat at the wild pony was hers for a reason.

her eyes flickered to the scars marring his chest. "worst beast of 'em all," she grumbled. "got one on the back of my skull. this woman in carlsbad cracked me over the head with a beer bottle when i was nineteen. bitch of it all was i'm the one who ended up on probation because i was underage in a bar. two years washing police cruisers with dawn dish soap, and as far as i know, she didn’t have to deal with a goddamn thing." it was a bad quality, she thought – the way she was always quick to counter something heavy with a something light. not that the incident had been one of levity at the time – but she delivered it like was, because that's what she always did. julia stanton wasn't good at carrying heavy things, even if it was a dumb attempt to balance the scales, just a little. but that wasn't how balance worked – one side would always sink when the other was delivered with a 'no big deal, it never is' tone. so when striker's eyes were cast down and the lebaron went quiet, she let it. she didn't ask hard (important) questions – she rarely did. maybe it was because of her own unwillingness to provide answers about things that felt dark – but maybe that was too generous a reason.

the laugh that bubbled out of julia at the revelation surprised even her, nearly dropping her own fries in the process. the lebaron floor claimed a few, and she would mourn their loss in three to six months when she found them again. "fuck off, you don't actually know someone named cotton-eye randy," she said through small peels of laughter that indicated he absolutely knew a cotton-eye randy. "show me. not randy – the lasso thing. fuck, maybe randy – i still have questions about that. how to use a lasso or whatever. never know when the janitor things is gonna break bad and i’ll need a new gig."

DIARIES OF DIRTBAG | JULIA STANTON PLAYLIST

google your own leaked nudes

nothing good ever happens at the goddamn thirsty crow - father john misty

julia - yellow ostrich

we begged 2 explode - jeff rosenstock

die hippie die - no parents

dickhead blues - kara jackson

love is a black hole ! - martin luke brown

only nice when i'm high - lauren morrow

google your own leaked nudes - clowncore

the night josh tillman came to our apt. - father john misty

i slept with all your mothers - harriet

south park waltz - natural rat

bloodbuzz - the national

hands raised in surrender . as much as striker exercised a gentle hand , a softness that was often overlooked within most cowboys , there was a part of him that was incapable of lying about anything worth lying about . “ alright , missy , i’ll keep it cold , hard and truthful when speakin’ with you . my tires are on their last legs as is , “ with the car door open the male swung up into the passenger seat . it was a whole lot fancier than his ford pickup , a car older than him and spluttering on its last choking gasoline breaths . whenever he took a seat on his own front bench there was the strange lingering scent of chinese takeout , manure and grot , punctuated by a collection of month-old parking fines and paperwork that he would look at soon , if you just stopped mithering him about it !! 

“ yeah , i like it , “ striker responded , open mouthed , as his tongue was loaded with a mash of half-chewed potato , spewing out across his jeans and the dashboard that was now home to his shredded workboots , “ it’s the only thing i’m any good at for a start , an’ i love cows . i could tell you anythin’ you wanted about them . this right here is country boy heaven , “ without an education it seemed manual labour was all striker could busy his time doing . what else would he do , now that he was on the wrong side of forty without a qualification to his name , with a roof over his head that shuddered in strong wind and , every few months , required a tarp or a bucket to catch leaking rainwater . “ an’ they ain’t so bad . i guess they look like brutes from the outside but they’re gentle , they’re like big dogs , and i’ve existed more or less in one piece since i started workin’ at puhlman’s . my boss looks after me , “ and striker was sure that , if it was possible , guillermo would pay him more , but with a struggling ranch on his hands he couldn’t blame the owner for handing out paychecks that barely covered gas . with another flurry of chip salt like a grease-scented first snowfall , he mumbled : “ i wish i could look out fer you half as much as you look out for me . “

.

“you better,” she cautioned, though her smile lingered. “hard no bullshit policy in the stanton household, for better or worse. did notice your front passenger tire’s lookin’ a little fucky – place just outside of town sells used tires for like, twenty bucks. they’re shit, but they’ll do it if you’re in a bad spot. if you need a ride, i need to replace the spare on the old girl, anyway. think i’m one pothole away from fucking up the ecosystem or whatever.” the tires were the least of the lebaron’s problems, but they were, if she played her cards right, the cheapest. 

she understood the sentiment – it didn’t seem like there was a place in roswell where she hadn’t worked, at least for a little while. waitressing, bartending, secretary, custodian. she hadn’t been particularly great at any of them – jules thought it had been a long, long time since she was great at anything. so she worked jobs so few wanted to do, because at least there was some security in just being there. she felt a smile threatening the corners of her lips, watching striker settle in in his element. only when he mentioned ‘big dogs’ did she chuckle, gripping her burger with one hand to free the other as she rolled up the leg of her jeans and awkwardly positioning herself to show the jagged scar on her calf. “that’s from a doberman,” she said, still half-chewing as she pointed to it. truly, it would’ve healed a lot better if she hadn’t tried to superglue it and waited for hours before accepting it wasn’t going to stop bleeding, and she found herself at roswell general with two dozen stitches. “dogs are brutes. but i’m trusting your judgment. kind of.” her conclusion was half-hearted, more to prove her earlier point.  “you ever have to use a lasso? or is that full on john wayne bullshit and just a movie thing?” she tucked her leg underneath her, carefully the most burned french fry from the cup. his quiet sentiment threw her again, and julia had to find a way to stop letting sincerity surprise her. if asked, she would’ve quickly said she doesn’t do shit for anybody, life’s a whole lot easier that way. she didn’t have time to unpack anything to the contrary. “giving me too much credit and you’re not giving yourself enough. you do just fine.” 

like an obedient puppy striker followed alongside jules . the promise of food drowned out anything else — the splinters in his fingertips, the distant mooing of cows within the barn , the wind whipping his cheeks red — like a stray without the promise of its next meal . living with barely enough to tuck a dollar inside his boot for safekeeping meant that he was dictated by the kindness of others , mostly strangers ; often his rugged appearance meant that generosity was a virtue and , more often than not , he was left trawling through garbage for fresh-ish produce . “ fries too ?? what’d i do to deserve all this ?? “ today , it seemed , was his lucky day , his good deed of the day ( preventing jules from the fate of thundering hooves ) had been immediately payed off with the waft on the wind of some damn good food . 

“ i ain’t no liar !! my mama told me never to lie unless i’m savin’ somebody’s feelings . “ and he lived his life by the values his mother taught him . a real , true , southern gentleman ; sure , that meant that some of his actions — shrugging off his shirt to cover a puddle to ensure a lady’s feet didn’t get wet — were a little outdated , but he tried to be as good a man as he possibly could with the resources handed to him . as they approached the vehicle his footsteps picked up to double-speed . “ jus’ the same old shit , yeah . it’s kind of an all-weather job . can’t jus’ shy away from shearin’ the sheep ‘cus of a little bit of wind . “ that explained the watercolor wash of unexplained bruises constantly mudding his complexion . “ you picked a mighty day t’ become a food delivery service . “ 

.

she never knew how to answer those kind of questions, even it they were rhetorical. the thought ‘just wanted to do something nice’ rang insincere, even if it were true. something about that kind of sentiment sounded wrong coming from julia – like bait that should have a hook just a little further up the line. instead, she shrugged. “strays gotta look out for each other,” she said, giving him a smile that was almost warm, if not a little too wide. jules was glad for the seemingly merciless wind and it giving her hair a partially face-obscuring life of its own, despite her best (useless) attempts to sweep it to the side.

she chuckled, shaking her head as she tugged open the lebaron door, trying to keep the goddamn thing from swinging off against the elements. “if you ever lie to spare my feelings, i’m putting a knife in your tire,” she threatened, idly. though she’d never been the type of person that anyone really tried to spare. she supposed it was a consequence of a lifetime of taking no shit and giving a ton. it seemed fair, and she was too old to kick up a fuss over it. thirty-four wasn’t the age to start demanding to be treated with kid gloves. she climbed in, carefully leaning over the takeout bag to pop the lock on the passenger door. “tell me about it,” she grumbled as she rifled through the bag to separate the orders. “hope you’re planning a decent tip.” she was kidding – but her delivery fell deadpan as she focused on the task at hand. with as much subtlety as julia was capable of, she dumped half her own cup of fries into the bottom of the bag before she handed it over to striker. she couldn’t help it – he seemed too goddamn touched by the gesture for her to do anything else. she turned in her seat, pulling her knees to her chest as she made careful work of unwrapping her own burger. “you like it? the whole ranch hand thing? seems fuckin’ masochistic, if you ask me. putting your life in the hands of a buncha cattle, all that.” 

jules’ claim was right — by some miracle all three cannon brothers had made it to adulthood , by hell or high water . striker had run out of digits to count his broken bones by the age of fourteen and now , decades later , still returned home with questionable lumps , bumps and bruises , unable to recall their origin no matter how hard he stretched his brain . at least one of them should have been six feet deep a long time ago , and yet the trio continued to terrorise their little stretch of new mexico , whipping up innocent bystanders in the carnage . “ i ain’t gonna let ‘em stampede you !! “ was his foolproof response , as though he was some kind of pied piper when it came to cows and farmyard creatures , “ you tellin’ me you don’t trust me ?? “ the question hung in the wild air before his nose scrunched and he silently acknowledged that her lack of trust was probably right after all . 

with the strength of a ranch hand who slung foals into barns and hay bales over his shoulder , striker slammed against the rickety door with full force . a rusty squeak , a cloud of straw and dust ; in a spiral of sand and dirt flying up nostrils and into airways the door was well and truly wedged shut . with large hands , dirt settled into cracks and hairlines , the oldest cannon shackled shut the lock , allowing himself to slide down the door until his body collided with the ground . “ phew !! couldn’t have done that without you . “ his gratitude was genuine , a dimple twisting into his cheek following the gesture , “ now , what was that ‘bout a burger ?? “

.

jules rewarded his assurance with the eyeroll she thought it deserved. his comment got a good-natured scoff – though, she realized, she did trust striker. in the same sort of way she trusted anything, really – mostly, and right up until the moment she didn’t. this, she thought, was a good test of her often misplaced and misguided judgment. “course not,” she said, though her lingering expression said the exact opposite, right until she grinned. “i’d never tell you that.”

she let out an audible sigh of relief that she had not, indeed, been trampled to death or been swept up in whatever nightmare windstorm had been sent down to specifically punish her for wanting to do something nice. still, she stepped away for the door too quickly, as though they were about to deal with cows suddenly fast and desperate enough to come charging through the door. it had never been more apparent that while julia didn’t mind getting her hands dirty, she didn’t do farms. “liar,” she said, teasing lilt to her voice as she dusted her hands off on her jeans. “c’mon, it’s in the lebaron. got you fries and everything. don’t say i never gave you nothing.” her smile lingered, despite the hair flying into her face and the dirt kicking up all around them. “the hell you doing out in this anyway? or is this some typical day in the life of a ranch hand shit?”

Seth isn’t going to question what this person has decided to do with the remainder of the drink that the drunk left behind. While it was free, he’s definitely not going to be surprised if it already had roofies or something more devious in it. Some eye drops in it, maybe. Or maybe that’s just the way that Seth’s mind works. Maybe normal people weren’t always assuming the worse about others or assuming that there’s always something behind a kind word. Seth’s hesitant to trust his own family, employees– the person didn’t matter. But add in the character of that drunk he’d kicked out and Seth’s not going near it. “If it’s paid for, I don’t give a shit what you do. But if you spill it, you’re cleanin’ it up,” he replies with a shrug. Seth’s general demeanor is why he’s not normally behind the bar. Instead, sitting in front of it, sometimes people forget that he’s the owner at all or never knew. “That’s your type, huh? Seems like you could do a bit better for yourself than that piece of shit. Unless you’ve got a concussion from him pushin’ you over or something. And if you did, don’t drink that. I’m not pickin’ your ass up off my floor and that shit’s dirty.”

.

She pulls a face of indignation – falling just short of a proper sneer – at the notion of leaving behind an entire day of cleaning just to find herself doing it again at her place of solace. “Lofty accusations you’re throwing around. A lady doesn’t spill,” she says, half-heartedly. For good measure, she neatly positioned the ill-begotten napkin over the tiny water ring her bottle left on the bar top. That one wasn’t her fault, anyway. She looks toward the door, face shifting into feigned wistfulness. “Kind of miss him already,” she laments, though the sentiment is marred by the involuntary eye roll. Jules chuckles, taking a sip from the glass to see exactly what it was she’d taken in recompense for having to listen to drunken ramblings of a stranger. As she suspected, it was standard bottom shelf, ‘barely not gasoline’ fumes fare. Her brows inch up, though she does glance at the floor to double-check his claim before look back at him. She clicks her tongue, wry grin curving her lips. “And who said chivalry was dead?” She hums. Julia shakes her head, hint of a smile lingering as she returns to the relative safety of her Shiner. “Oh no, my type is almost exclusively pieces of shit. It’s kind of an art. I don’t even think that one hit on me – any other day, my feelings would be hurt. But somewhere between telling me about how ex-wife left him over a gambling addiction and a potential alien invasion, he said something that may have been a compliment, so I’m letting it go. May have also been an insult, but that’s not my business.” She took a sip from her bottle, tilting her head. “So why did you toss him? General ‘on my nerves’ bullshit, or was he actually saying something coherent at the end there?”

although the cannon boys didn’t expect charity , they sure as hell needed it . the most nutrition the eldest of the three was allowed was whatever roswell’s food establishments were tossing in the garbage after a long day ; if he was lucky , nebula eatery would have discarded a whole tray of organic , gluten-free pizza slices , and if he wasn’t ?? well , it was either a rumbling belly or a too-far-gone apple core for dinner . it was thanks to their extensive network of friends , colleagues and acquaintances keeping an eye out for the boys that he was even able to remain upright at all . meals from the crashdown — although far from fancy dining by any means — was a once-in-a-blue-moon occurrence ; how he’d dreamed of those dripping burgers , those grease-laden fries , the cardboard-encased meals that came with inch tall toys that he’d swear were just for children .

“ well , who else’s gon’ make sure the cows are safe ?! “ countered striker , the reference falling on deaf — and windswept — ears . growing up , the television screen ( which was no larger than the window of a microwave ) was firmly off-limits and , on the off-chance the three boys were granted a glimpse of the flickering images , pixels were formed of old westerns or daytime television . it was likely that striker cannon was the only man on the planet not familiar with the wizard of oz , despite wishing himself to be whisked away on the wind , swirling within hurricanes with his only company being that of black-and-white spotted bovine . “ you ain’t gonna get stampeded !! they’s just big puppies . i been whipped by ‘em a dozen times an’ look at me , i’m in one piece , “ although multiple concussions had undeniably taken their toll on his memory retention . his ranch-roughened palms flattened against his allocated door , the muscles of his biceps veined and flexed , “ we goin’ on three or after three ?? “

.

"you hear how that's not comforting, right? whipped by a dozen of them?" jules asked, eyes narrowed as she looked over it him, glance all but shouting her skepticism. "no, no, no – you're only in one piece because whatever fucked up force is responsible for human life has a huge blindspot where the cannons should be. it's very important to me that you know that. the rest of us have to live in the open, where we can very much be stampeded. especially because i'm here to bring you a burger, and they can probably sense it. so i mean it. work on the eulogy," jules said, though she very clearly did not mean it. if the cows came running, jules was hauling ass until she hit the arizona border – striker could fend for himself.