The sun has lit the horizon, chasing the tinges of red from the sky. There are still streaks and bits of red in other places, namely across the Moons. Rocco has recently stirred, not having slept the last bit of the night away as much as he dozed in a languid state. Somehow they ended up at Zillah's. Somehow he ended up with company. Company that numbered three. Because a proper Moon doesn't end the solstice with a threesome, he goes for a foursome. He's not even sure who they were. He doesn't actually care. They're gone, he's not. He's naked aside from a robe he found which is probably Zillah's and he's rummaging in the fridge for something more solid than yet another of those bottles of disgustingly expensive champagne he armed himself with for the festivities. It's long gone warm and flat. His ass is in the air as he bends down to shove things around to poke in the back of the fridge. His hair is a mess and streaked with dried blood, mud and traces of substances. He smells like stale beer and champagne and cigarettes and weed and the acrid tinge of what's probably meth or something.
At some point in the night, Zillah managed to find her bed. Luckily, those sheets are black, and the bloodstains will never show. She didn't bring anyone home with her, and as such there's no one there to see it straight away. Streaked with the blood of the sacrifices, one fishnet thigh-high still on, blackened fingers reach for her robe to find it gone. Instead, she ends up draped in one of her sheets, fabric dragging behind her.
There's not much to be found in the fridge. Some milk gone bad, leftover pizza that looks like it's still edible, raw meat.
"Fucking robe thief," she hisses. Has she even seen the crown atop that mess of hair, wild enough to make an 80s rockstar jealous? The curve of the moon, the spiked spirals that writhe in shadow?
It's quite a sight to behold, Zillah clad in a trailing wrap of dark sheet and shadows, glittery crown atop her head. Too bad Rocco is not seeing it just yet. He's too busy digging in the depths of the poor fridge, finally latching onto what he hopes is leftover pizza. A sniff of it shows it's not gone bad. He hopes. He must trust in it though for he sticks two slices atop each other like a sandwich and shoves it to hang from his mouth as he kicks the door closed and straightens up to turn. "Muh huh," is mumbled around the pizza as he turns and goes quiet.
And there he stands, body marked with the tokens of worship to the dark god himself, streaked with the remnants of the ritual and subsequent partying. At least he has the robe tied closed. The pizza is plucked from his mouth with his free hand that doesn't hold that bottle and he chews a few times as he stares, finally managing, "Well fuck me blind. Ain't had a butchers in the mirror yet have you, love?" A smirk crosses his face and he leans against the edge of the fridge, looking entirely too smug for his own good.
There's an arch of brow as he stands there and stares at her, one hand going to the curve of her hip. "What are you going on about, Roc? Is my makeup smeared or something? I'm sure you've seen me looking worse." Her free hand reaches out, and she snags one of the pieces of pizza from him. Chewing on it, as she turns and then...stops. Catching a glimpse of herself in glass, and just stares at herself. Reaching up, and tracing around the general shape of the crown with her fingertips. "You've got to be shitting me. Is...what drugs did I take last night for this to happen?"
"Clearly not enough," Rocco jokes with a laugh, obviously amused not just by the appearance of the crown on her messy hair but also by her reaction. "Better you than me. Looks like I can head back now if I want." He doesn't seem to want to, though. It's said in a way that just pays lip service to the thought of leaving. The rest of the pizza is shoved into his mouth and he chews, the now free hand reaching out to tangle in some of her curls, almost like he's petting her. His mouth is still full. Very full. He speaks anyway even though the words are muffled around the pizza. "Good look on ya. Been wonderin' if you'd ever get cursed with one of your own. Should I bow and scrape, oh my Queen of the moon and darkness?"
"Fuck me sideways," Zillah murmurs, eyes shifting to try and look up at the crown with her own eyes, instead of simply getting a reflection. "You better fucking not leave on me now, Soups. Or I will track you down and gut you slowly, with the rustiest spoon I can find." She still has the half-piece of pizza in her hand, forgotten about in the face of this. "I mean, what Queen doesn't appreciate a little bowing and scraping? But yeah, yeah. At the least, Pledge to my Freehold. It's stronger with you. I'm gonna need someone like you around, o gilded king."
"Is it now?" Rocco asks, voice an amused rumble, meaning the question of it being stronger with him. "Well, if you're saying you need me, I'm not one to disagree. But pledging here, that'd require being here. Which I'm taking it you aren't opposed to. Though you as Queen? Might be the stupidest idea the Wyrd's had since ... well, me. Your Freehold here, seems all sunshine and rainbows and baby kitties. Not like back home." No, the Freehold back in their corner of New York was all about the grit and grime and darker side of taking care of each other. "Not much for touchy feely like they are here. And been booted from that cozy little eatery up the road because my kind ain't welcome. Think that'll change with that Crown on your head now?" At least he stopped toying with her hair, leaning back a touch to take in the view again as he finishes chewing and swallowing that makeshift breakfast. Or is it dinner? Is it breakfast if you never really slept and are still half intoxicated from the night before?
"Even baby kitties have claws, love. Maybe it's time to remind them of that. Maybe that's what the Wyrd wants." Zillah lifts a shoulder in a shrug, and turns her gaze to him. "Stay in Town. Help me help them survive the cold of winter and the dark until some spirited Spring comes along and hopefully doesn't fuck it all up. If you're talking about Crossroads? Love, you're gonna come in on my arm and they can fucking deal with it. Whoever told you that wasn't the owner, and can go get bent." She bites into her pizza, a vicious and tearing thing, grinning once she's swallowed. "I'd best get my lovely arse to the hollow. They're bound to be wondering who the new head honcho is."
"Might need a shower first, love. I know I do." Ooooh is Rocco suggesting a shower together or is he just making a statement? He's got a lecherous grin on his face so it could go either way. "Not that you don't look good coated in blood and grime. Truth be told, I always did like that look on you. But we should see what state of shambles the workings of this place are in and how we can unfuck it for our best interests." After all, clearly the Wyrd thinks the Freehold needs the Moon's touch for the season. Best be prepared rather than be hiding out through Winter, after all. Right? "You sure you're good with this?" His head nods toward her Crown. "Might want to take a second, let it sink in before facing the masses."
"You gonna scrub my back for me, handsome?" There's tease in that tone, the twist of Zillah's lips. "But you're right. Time to take stock of the clockwork and see if we can't get things ticking. It's been too quiet." She starts to walk towards the bathroom, letting the sheet drop as she goes. "Truth be told? I've felt something looming over the horizon for me, lately. Didn't think it would be this. Thought that Rorschach's return might have been it. It's all about adaptability, sweetheart. But let's get that shower first. Don't want to scare them all off, before the pledging."
"Oh I'll scrub your back, your front and all the inside parts," Rocco mentions as he swigs down a few loud gulps of the champagne before he starts to veer too close to sobriety for his own good. Or is that for everyone's own good? He doesn't yet remove the robe as he shoves the bottle onto the counter and follows after her toward the bathroom.
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