Difference between revisions of "Log:Life Skills and Spin Cycles"

25 July 2017

Cressida tries to do laundry like a normal person and makes some friends!

Dirty Laundry

"When you wish upon your star, Don't let yourself fall, fall in too hard..." Music from the low quality speakers of an ancient boom box playing a much scratched CD of Marilyn Manson's 'Antichrist Superstar' Album, fills the room from the devices perch on one of the folding counters, a rhythmic cacophony of sound that plays for an all but empty Laundromat. It's heading to the end of a workday on a Tuesday Afternoon and the place is deserted save for a few of the large washers running their cycle, and one person rummaging around behind the counter in the 'Employees Only' area.

That singular person is a man of average height, with black hair that came from a bottle, pale skin and faded tattoo's on his exposed arms. He is wearing black, from boots, to torn denim, to his black shirt that reads 'Fuck me and Marry me young' in white lettering. He is in the process of folding clothes, and not doing it very well.

Is there a 'No Shirt, No Shoes, No Service' sign? Well, even if there is one, the woman who enters the laundromat either:

{Tab}a) doesn't notice it

{Tab}b) cannot read it

{Tab}c) does not care about it

Is she shirtless? No. No silly! She's barefoot. She puts the 'dirty' in the term 'dirty hippy' -- she's wearing loose and airy boho clothing that probably hasn't been washed in a while. She doesn't smell like a homeless person -- it's not /that/ bad but she does have the aroma of someone who has been following Phish on tour. Patchouli. Weed. Stale B.O.

Seeeeeexy.

To mortal eyes, they see a blonde with half-lidded eyes and lopsided smile who seems to glow somehow. To the Lost? Oh, there is so much more. Moons. Planets. Comets. Asteroids. There's darkness and light, colors and voids. Humming quietly to herself, she walks over to one of the machines. The space girl holds a couple articles of clothing in her hands and her bare feet slap against the linoleum flooring as she makes her way through the laundromat. Coming to a stop in front of one of the washers, she stares at it. Mystified. Has she ever done laundry in a machine before? Maaaaaaybe not.

A moon falls out of its orbit, bounces a few times upon the ground before fading out of existence.

Actually.. AKSHUALLY... Phish /are/ on tour, like right NOW, which is why Count is actually doing work, because his only employee, just left for two goddamn weeks to follow them in a haze of drugs and bad music. Damnit Lulu.

There is also no such sign, there is only a poster with a 1950's style pinnup girl doing laundry that reads 'Dirty Laundry: Drop your Pants here!' Count would be happy with near naked people, so long as they were attractive, because well, standards. He remains in the little back area until he's done folding the rest of that pile for a Drop Off customer and then makes his way back out, and starts heading for the back room, on his way to his apartment when he glances up to the... /BLINK BLINK/. Yeah, Cressida definitely stands out a bit, and his prowling gait slows a touch, golden eyes like that of a lions narrow, focusing on her and his posture shifts to something like that of a jungle cat stuck in a human frame. He is clearly Lost, the horns that sprout from just below the hairline, brown black and gleaming, those eyes that are taken straight from an African lion, other details that are less than obvious, but he is no high wyrd freak, far from it.

He watches her and her confusion for a pair of moments before he moves around the bank of washer and makes his way towards the planetary person.

What does she have to wash? A skirt (like the one she's currently wearing) and one pair of underpants (like the pair she's currently wearing maaaaybe?). And that's it. Most people come in here with a whole load. Not her! Why she decided that she needed to come to a laundromat to take care of this, who can say. It probably was a random thought. Maybe she heard someone talking about a laundromat and she decided to give it a whirl. Maybe these aren't even her clothes!

ADVENTURE.

Anyway. She opens the lid of the washing machine and peers inside it. Hmm. She sticks her free hand in and grabs the churner thing (technical term, shut up). Twists it. Back and forth, back and forth. One can almost imagine the gears in her mind moving in a similar fashion, slowly putting this all together and figuring it out. The galaxy in miniature that moves around her picks up the speed of its orbit as comprehension begins to kick in, her glow starting to brighten as if she herself is the lightbulb going off.

"Ah-HA!" she /shouts/ because, apparently, she doesn't understand inside voices and throws her skirt and underwear into the machine before slamming the lid shut. And then? She waits. In eager anticipation. Something is going to happen now, right? But the washing machine continues to slumber, doing nothing at all.

Frown.

Furrow.

Confusion.

She curls her hand into a fist and bangs on the machine because hitting something is usually an effective solution. BANG BANG BANG! Pause? Nope. BANG BANG BANG! If she's noticed Count yet, she makes no indication of such, too occupied with this puzzling machine.

The Beast of the Tongue(s) is more than happy to watch her experiments with the washing machine with a sort of smug amusement. Count you see, leans heavily on his human side, he's well versed ion pop-culture and lives comfortably in the modern world. So, when he does come across a heavily Wyrded Lost who seems to fail at the basic functions of modern life, it's a special treat, like a delicious cheesecake after one has been so good with their diet for so long.

It's only when she starts banging the machine... that is striking the machine with her hand, not fornicating with it. "Hey now!" he interrupts, barely restrained laughter in his throat. "Settle down there sugar tits, that's not how you get the machine to work." he steps up close, waving a hand in front of her next attempt to use the washer as a percussion instrument. "Seriously? You gotta put the money in first."

Hey now! Sugar tits! There is someone talking and a hand waving in front of her; the fallen star blinks a few times and then twists, following the hand to the arm to the shoulder to the neck to the face. Oh. Oh! An utterly blank expression slowly transforms into a lazy, sleepy smile, her grin hung crookedly there upon her lips. Light-filled fingers reach down into her shirt, searches a moment between her boobs before fishing out a couple crumpled, sweaty dollar bills from her .. bra? She doesn't seem like a bra-wearing sort of girl; maybe there is an interior pocket or something? Anyway, she nods to the horned beast and gives him an appreciative salute.

"Thanks! I was wondering what was wrong with it."

She then opens the lid, throws the money into the washer along with the clothes and closes it again. PROBLEM SOLVED.

Certain that the machine will start doing its job now, she turns and leans against it as she brings her attention back 'round to this helpful fellow. "This is my first time," she tells him, twinkling proudly.

No DUH.

Count stares at her, he just STARES for a long set of moments with a look that is utterly dumb founded. "Christ on a cracker, how do you even survive? How have you not drowned in three inches of bathtub water?!" The words are harsh, but the tone, the tone is far from it, there's laughter in it mixed with a whole lot of 'wtf' and finally some sympathy "Oh honey..." did he just 'Oh Honey' her? He totally did. "Alright, let me hold yer hand through this." and he goes to open the washer again and retrieve the bills, and then uses the edge of the machine to straighten them out a bit. "Okay, come with me."

At this point, lest she resist, he does indeed literally take her by the hand, and lead her around towards the change machine. "The washers only takes quarters." he behind to explain, and then starts to feed the bills into the machine. Except that these bills are crumpled and sweaty and the machine DOES NOT LIGHT THEM. This machine, gets a look from the beast, a look filled with pure distilled loathing, before he hands her back the money, her whole two dollars. "Tell you what, since you don't have enough on you anyway, it's on me." fucking charity flaw he then produces a key from his pocket and moves to the Dryer beside the change machine, opens up the coin collector and takes out a handful of quarters.

Leading her back to the washer/ STILL HOLDING HER HAND/ (again provided she allows this) he then points her to the coin slot. "You need to place two dollars and fifty cents in here." A beat "That's ten quarters, you do know how to count money yes?"

Wouldn't it be funny if this is all a scam? If she played dumb to get people to give her things and do stuff for her? That would be clever, huh? But she's not that clever. No, scratch that, she /is/ clever but just not in that way. Listen! Life skills are HARD, okay?! It's not like she got a manual or had a class that covered this kind of stuff.

When he takes her hand, she doesn't resist. When he takes her hand, the starstuff just below her skin moves and shifts and shimmers from the slight pressure of his grasp. When he takes her hand, she smiles and the celestial bodies that surround her include him in their orbit. She's grateful for his assistance and not offended by it, nope.

"Drowning in three inches of water would be dumb," she answers as she pads along with him to the change machine. "You'd have to lay face down and not bother to get up when you start to drown. Or, well, I guess .. could you be on your back? Yeah, I guess you could be on your back, too. But still: dumb. All you need to do is sit up. Unless you are paralyzed which, in that case, someone has put you in there and that is murder. Not much you can do then. Also, if you are drunk or really high, you might not be able to sit up. I've been that high before but I don't have a bath tub."

They're back over by the washing machine by this point, the space girl still nattering on about bath tub drowning scenarios. "..you could also be tied up but, again, someone would have to have done that to you. Also, maybe? You were in the bathtub and there was an earthquake and part of the ceiling fell on top of you and pinned you down and you can't get up and no one can hear you crying for help because you are three inches under water so it's just like gurgle-gurgle-gurgle. You could splash a lot, hopefully enough to get enough water out of the tub so that the level decreases enough that you nose and/or mouth is above it but .. you don't have much time." OH. MY. GOD. Luckily, he asks her a question which diverts her attention from this very interesting bathtub drowning discussion and she looks at the quarters. "Sure I can!" Just watch her go.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

And now she has run out of slots.

She looks at Count, not knowing what to do now. It also should be noted that there is no detergent in the machine. Just clothes.

Of course she picked the oldest machine with the damned coin slot push tray nonsense, of course she did. "Okay good, now we push it in and do it again." Count, knowing this machine is a tricky sumbitch, does it for her, pushing, and then shoving hard when it tries to jam, and then pulls it back out again. COINS GONE! LIKE MAGIC! "Okay and we fill it up again." and once more he does it for her, because there is a twinkling of impatience there, and then the machine lets out a warbling electronic .BEEP. "Now, you pick your cycle." he says gesturing to the buttons, and then, glancing to her clothes, selects the hottest and longest setting.

Presto, the machine bucks once and the water inside starts flowing, as which point count opens the lid and notes that yup, there is no detergent. "You also... seem to be missing the soap. Come, follow." and he tugs on the front of her shirt and leads her to the detergent dispenser. "You can buy soap here, that's one dollar, four quarters, though most bring it from home." there's a pause then as he imagines her bringing a bar of some hippy lavender bath soap from home and just chucking it into the wash. "Laundry Soap." he adds. Picking one (TIDE) he puts in the money and out pops a little cardboard box of detergent and leads her back to the washer. "Soap goes in here." he says opening the rubber flap and then opens the box and pours it in haphazardly. It should be noted that Count is not great at doing laundry himself, despite this being the second Laundromat that he has owned.

Now that that's all done he leans against the machine and lets out a breath. "So you've really never done this before?" he looks incredulous "How do you normally wash your clothes?" On the machine the counter changes from 32 minutes to 31. "My name is Count, by the way."

She follows him around like an obedient puppy, peering at what he does with interest. Will any of it stick though? She does seem like a burn out and when she leans in to watch him pour in the soap, an unlit joint can be spotted tucked behind her ear. But she's trying, gosh darn it! You can tell because she's got her thinking face on: slight frown, furrowed brow, extra star-filled eyes.

Once things are underway and all her mental notes are scrawled on mental napkins, the star takes a step back and lets her shoulders roll into an easy slouch. "I usually live by a stream or a pond and just hand wash stuff," she tells him. "..or I get people to do my laundry for me." There is a little bit a smile on that last admission, an impish hook to her lips. It's not exactly the same as what happened here -- it's more a case of friends with real lives and real houses and real appliances being like 'god, Cressida, give me your clothes, you fucking stink, let me do your laundry' but it suddenly dawns on her that here and now ended up being a vague parallel: frustration leading to someone just taking over the problem for her. And that is kind of funny to her. Sorta.

When he introduces himself, she gets excited. This is demonstrated by a flare of brilliance and an expansion of her galaxy -- where there was just a small collection of moons and planets, there are now many. Thrusting out her hand, she holds it out to shake! "My name is Cressida," she says with enthusiasm, her nebula-esque hair twisting and floating more noticeably now. "You are very good at laundry."

Count takes the hand with the ease of someone who does indeed introduce himself like a normal person and is familiar with the social cues involved. "A pleasure to meet you Cress, I'm Count." Didn't he already say that? Yes he did, Shut your Face hole. Beast brain problems. "Tank you, I should hope so .." he's only mildly okay at it to be honest "...after all, this is /my/ Laundromat." Aww he's proud of it, or at least makes it seem like he is. Tricksy Winters.

He may not be the brightest bulb in the knife drawer, but he is perceptive, and the half joint in her hair is noticed, and indeed, he lifts his hand to snatch it from behind her ear, and then brings it up to his nose to sniff at it. "A stream, really? It's 2017 darling, you don't need to wash your clothes in the river." there's a faint shudder at that "Is that where you bathe too?"

It should be noted that Count is rather warm to the touch, almost hot, his body heat is far more than a normal humans, yet the mantle about him, were it not for the smothering of the dusk nearby, brings a faint shill to the air. He smells of.... food, delicious food, like, whatever Cressida’s favorite food is, he smells of it. "You gonna share this?" he asks, holding up her joint.

Look at him, navigating social interactions with ease. Fancy! Cressida grabs his hand and there is tangible excitement there, the woman pumping his mitt up and down and up and down and up and down like it is the Best Thing Ever(tm). She doesn't squee audibly but a few of her comets go careening out of the established orbit, a few bouncing off nearby machines and one passing through Count's chest. It doesn't feel like anything -- it would be that same as someone pointing a laser pointer at you -- but it does pop out his back with a soft fwhooooop noise.

"It's very nice to meet you! And I don't bathe /in/ the stream but I get my water from there. I have, like, a shower thing set up, what do they call them? A sun shower? Something like that. I don't do well living around regular people." You don't say? That is .. not shocking. "I make friends though and sometimes visit their houses and use their bath tubs. Hot water is pretty divine, I have to admit."

She's still shaking his hand when plucks the joint from behind her ear with his free one. The star is not dismayed by this; if anything, she brightens even more and fiiiiiinally releases him in order to fish around in one of her pockets. "Here," she says, pulling out a lighter and snck-snck-sncking the roller thingie until there is a flame.

Weed is for sharing, yo.

Before saying anything else, Count leans in and gets the joint lit, taking two or three hits to get the smolder going and passes it over, holding the smoke in his lungs for a few long moments before tilting his head back and blowing the fragrant cloud to the ceiling. "Yes, hot water is pretty great." Says Count, a lover of the finer things in life, like roofs and hot water, such a spoiled cat/goat/reptile man. "You got a lotta friends in town then? You part of the 'hold? Lived here a while?" What? He's winter, always fish for information while smiling amiably.

He then settles back against the washer before using his hands to hoist/hop up backwards, turning the churning machine into his seat. The planetoids and comets do not go unnoticed, his eyes, which are always moving at even the most uneventful of times keep snapping to track one of the darting celestial bodies that course through and around her. It's distracting, like a laster pointer.

If Colin was here, he'd remind her to keep her lip buttoned. But he's off doing Winter things and without his sensible guidance, Cressida is maximum-Cressida .. which is to say? Blabby. "Nah," she replies, accepting the joint back and taking a few quick puffs and then one looooong drag. There is a look of such pleasure that sweeps over her features and her galaxy goes all screwy, some bodies orbiting this way, some orbiting that way, some just kind of looping in place. Her answer is momentarily arrested as she holds the smoke in her lungs and then it's a long, slow..

Releeeeeeease.

Handing it back to Count, she continues. "I just arrived so I don't know anyone yet. Found myself a little place to live so I'll probably stick around through the winter at least. I could head back up to Maine but I like moving around, seeing new places. There are so many things to see, so many things to do, so many people to meet -- don't see much sense in settling down, yannow?"

Cressida watches Count hop up onto the washing machine and decides to the do the same. She follows his lead -- turn, hoist, hop! -- and then wiggle-bumps against him to make him share the space. Just wait until it hits the spin cycle, lady; then this seat will REALLY pay off.

Count is grateful for Colin's absence, Count likes it when people talk about themselves, Count keeps all information to use later, or not, Count is Count and does what he wants. "Oh yeah? I spent a little time in Maine." he says letting a piece of real information slip out, a deliberate gesture as he makes to take back the joint and fill his lungs with THC goodness once again.

He has no issues with personal space, and when she bumps, he scoots an inch or two, so that they are both squeezed on that single washer that's just about to finish filling and now starting its agitation churn.

“There is a certain seduction in travel, wandering, escaping places that are too familiar, hold too many memories." a pause "I got here a few weeks back, I might stick around a bit, who knows..." well it might be hard to move with a Laundromat in the car. "Quiet here, not like big cities." The Laundromat is located in the places called 'Twixt' between the good neighborhoods and the bad. However this is Vermont and the 'bad' neighborhoods are filled with white kids that decided Meth was better than working at Dad's hardware store.

"So what do you to then? You gotta Job? How do you make a living?" Question Question Question.

There they sit, shoulder to shoulder on the agitating washer, passing a joint back and forth. Is weed legal in Vermont? Even if it is, it can't be legal to smoke in laundromats. Hopefully a cop won't wander in here -- although they could probably take care of the situation between the two of them.

Some Lost might be set on edge by all of Count's questions but Cressida answers them easily, having already decided that the Beast was simply a friend she hadn't met yet. "Oh yeah?" she replies when he mentions that he's spent some time in Maine. "What part? I spent about half a year in Hanging Hills. It's near Fallcoast. Or maybe it was a year? I dunno. It's hard to really keep track of time. Anyway, it was cool! I might go back there at some point. It's not like it's very far." The joint makes it way back to her and she slips further into her high, the scope of her universe increasing further still. Her orbit expands and the air darkens before filling with stars; she's a living, breathing a planetarium. Puff-puff-pass.

"Do? Job?" Another crooked smile and she just shrugs. "I just get people to do things for me and rely on the kindness of strangers, I guess. I dunno. I just get by. Sometimes I get busy so a job would be a distraction." God. She sounds like a millennial.

Good thing Count owns the place, yeah? And I mean really, it's a Laundromat, with no one else there, you think someone's gonna walk by the big glass front, peer inside and call the cops? Well, maybe, there is that busybody wife of the owner of the Chinese Food place a few doors down, Mrs. Miyagi is never happy.

"Fallcoast Huh? I spent some time in..." theres a pause, as if he's gonna think about it "Some shit town a bit north of there." So exacting on the details there Count. instead of taking a drag, he just holds the joint for a moment, about the time it would take him to puff it if he chose, and then he hands it back to her, no sense in getting /too/ fucked up next to a too high wyrd stranger.

When she mentions 'getting other people to do things for her' his lips form into a wry smile "Well aren't you devious." he says with amused sarcasm, tho honestly, Charity /is/ Count's greatest weakness.

"Oh yeah, I know the place," Cressida says with a drawl and a drowsy nod. Shit town a bit north of there -- there are a ton of those. She probably just picked one and assumed that was the place Count is talking about. "They had really bad pizza there." Her mouth pulls down into a faint frown, as if bad pizza is one of the worst sins a town could commit and the darkness around her grows darker. A void opens up within it and starts to swallow up nearby stars, planets, moons. Bad pizza is BAD. It makes her universe upset.

He's just holding the joint so she helps him along, reaching over and plucking it from his fingers just as he starts to pass it over to her anyway. He's warm; she's somewhat cool. Space is a cold place, after all. Her lips lightly go 'round the blunt; you don't wrap like you would a cigarette. You kind of hover close, you know. No filter, it's hot. Anyway, she tokes away, puffs of smoke mingling with the faux-clouds of interstellar dust that compose her hair. "I mean, I do stuff for people too sometimes. If I like them. Like, barter, you know? You scratch my back and I'll scratch yours kind of thing."

If she likes them. That means sometimes she /does/ just get people to do things for her with nothing done in exchange. Just because she can. But look at her! Devious? Nah. She's adorable. Stinky, sure, but adorable. Who /wouldn't/ want to do things for her?

Count is not oblivious to the change at the mention of bad pizza, and she earns herself one upraised eyebrow from the beast "Must have been fuckkin' terrible Pizza." Yeah just comment on this vaguely and maybe the crazy chick won’t explode, sure she /seems/ chill, but her Wyrd is clearly high as fuck, and she is getting high as fuck.

"I don't tolerate bad food..." Well, this is not true, because Count /loves/ cheap Chinese food, but he's also a Chef of the calibre that'd make Gordon Ramsay weep. "...but then again, I am a knight of the tongue." Tongues really. He even sticks one of them out, and it's a vivid blue color, like that of a skink. "You know what, if you just sit right here..." he says, hopping off of the washer, "I have some leftovers, you like Thai food?"

And of course, the moment he hops down, the machine makes a noise and then starts to shudder. Yup, hello Spin Cycle.

"It was /terrible/. It was vee-gone? I mean, what the fuck? They wouldn't even put any pepperoni on it. They wouldn't even let /me/ put any of my pepperoni on it. What is the point of having pocket pepperoni if you can't put it on your pizza? They took away my slice, kicked me out of the restaurant and called me a murderer. I should have laid waste to them all." Cressida presses her lips into a line and narrows her eyes, that black hole created by the memory eating up a few more planets. Oh look! There goes a moon! Goodnight moon .. /forever/. Good thing these are all figments.

Count sticking out his tongue snaps her out of her dark mood and she blinks, the space around her brightening up again and the black hole narrowing to a pin-point before disappearing entirely. "It's blue!" she shouts -- SHOUTS -- before clapping her hands as if this is best thing ever. So the tally thus far:

Vegan pizza: worst thing ever

Blue tongue: best thing ever

But then? THEN? The spin cycle begins and we need to revisit this list because something has shot up to the tippy-top of the 'best thing ever' list. The star exhales and lets her head tip back slightly, the dopiest of dopey smiles taking over her face. The room? The room is suddenly very, very bright.

"Ooooooooooh...."

Spin cycle. Spin cycle, I love you.

It's almost as if he'd planned this... but that would mean he was, somehow, so very familiar with the cycle of these machines, that he could time such things by how it vibrated beneath him. And /that/ would be silly.. right? Right?

He watches her ans smile, smiles like the deviant bastard that he is, leonine eyes gleaming with a carnal voyeuristic pleasure.

"You acted correctly, Vegan Pizza is not food, it should be illegal in fact. Tell you what, you come by later this week and I'll make you a /real/ pizza, good enough you'll have to wash your panties after." He's apparently rather confidant in his cooking skills. Also she never did anser him about Thai, did she? He certainly cant recall.

Cian comes from the strip mall into the laundromat.

Dirty Laundry. It's empty here aside from Count and Cressida. The latter is seated atop a washing machine, the former has just hopped down from it. The whole place smells of weed and the glowing woman is smoking down the last bit of a joint while very much enjoying the spin cycle. She is losing the thread of the conversation as sensation kicks in, finding it hard to concentrate in her altered state. Stars are raining down around her -- stars and comets, planets and moons. If a mortal were to come by, they would not notice this in detail but they would pick up on /something/ most likely and find a reason to be elsewhere rapid-quick.

"Mmmmn, pizza," the Elemental replies in a drawled mumble and nods absently as she takes a few last puffs off her joint. It's getting awfully hot near her fingertips at the point and she even lets out a low, plaintive 'oooooooow' because inside her head-outside her head sometimes is one and the same. "Yes. Make me pizza. Good. Yes."

Clio doesn't have amenities so she's left to wash when busking nets her more than just burgers and beer money. She blusters through the door bopping her head to some earphones and just dancing her merry little heart out in time to the beat in her head. Hips swaying side to side and blue ponytail swishing. She bowls with her laundry bag since the place is practically empty sending the Hefty(hefty hefty) bag across the linoleum and into a washer named Hera. "The Fuckin' night begins to shiiiinnneee.." She sings in time to the line into a fake mike which is way too close to her face. Her mantle when outside the influence of others, as if in response to the weather which had put the Stormy Harpy in an amazing mood, is thundering with the sounds of waves on cliffs. Anyone close to her that doesn't influence her mantle can feel the spray of something cool and wet across their cheeks without any wetness to touch. And beyond the thunder the violent clash of thousands of distant soldiers in war. But the Thunder quietly rumbles again and Clio's nose twitches..

Are there people here? Clio hardly notices at first because of her performance but then she pauses and puts her hand up to her earphones pulling them down slowly as she scans the place, nose in the air. "Puuuusheeen?" She calls eyes wide until they land on Cress and she pauses and blinks slowly. "Fuck me." She upnods at Cress, "How you fuckin doin'?" Thoughts of weed and Count, gone. Predictable swearbird.

Count is here, and now leaning back against the opposite bank of washes, an inch away from laughing if that smile full of bastards glee is any indication, as he watches Cressida ride the 'soapy tornado machine' with apparent ecstasy. It's a form of entertainment that he DAMN WELL DESERVES after having to hold her hand (literally) while teaching this GROWN WOMAN how to use a washing machine. Fucking Elementals I swear.

He's opening his mouth, about to say something when the Fuck-Birb makes her way in, singing and dancing and oblivious to the world. his attention to his batle-ready-bff is immediate and he lifts his hand "Hey Tweety..." but even as he starts to wave, he can see her attention being drawn away towards cresida, like some poor little creature drawn to the anglerfishe's light, but more lesbian-y. "Oh, Okay, I fucking see how it is now..." his tone full of mock-offence.

Whurrr-whurrr-whurrrr goes the washing machine, the spin cycle spinning faster and faster and faster. Cressida glows bright, brighter, brightest and the top of the room is dark, creating a canvas for the galaxy in miniature that is multiplying second my second. Planets zoom past, dragging their moons along with them. Comets streak through the air, passing through both machine and person whenever they're encountered. Meteors rain from above, fading into nothing before hitting the floor. 'How you fuckin doin'?' The fallen star closes her eyes, smiles a really wide, really dopey grin and holds up a finger.

Hang on a sec, that finger seems to say.

Whurr-whurr-whurrrrr!

"Oh. Shiiii.."

Blindingly bright and then the illumination retracts back into her. Or mostly into her. She's back to a regular twinkle. "Have you /tried/ these things? Doing laundry is /AWESOME/." She hops down from her perch, her, uh, tender moment done and crosses the distance to Calliope. When she gets close? Fwoooosh, the swearbird's mantle goes away. Hand extended, she's all ready to do what it said in the 'Social Interaction for Dummies' handbook: shake hands.

"Hi! I'm Cressida."

Is Count smirking? Smiling? Almost laughing? She would have no idea why. For serious. Those kind of subtleties are lost on her. Broad strokes, people. Broad strokes.

Well if you gotta walk in on lesbian-y anglerfishing! Cian's got his hoodie's hood up and over his head, keeping his already transparent self hidden. With his hands stuffed into his pockets, he may pass as some fringe edge hipster. The satchel slung over his shoulder looks remarkably emptyish, only somewhat weighed down as he follows the wake of FuckBird. With earbuds in himself, he doesn't really hear much ahead of him. Out of one pocket comes a nametag, it says C'Ian' on it, the C having been drawn in with a Sharpie. It is clearly from another laundromat. Humming along with his music his fingers slide along the bank of dryers, skipping over every appliance and perhaps ducking towards the change returns in between fingers tip-tapping along until he realizes he's not alone! What?

Those deep-black eyes blinks rapidly at spying the blue haired storm, and the Cress-verse. Oh and one of the few times he's seen the proprietor of this fine establishment, which makes the Darkling second guess the name tag. Fwip! What name tag? "Uhh hey," he strains his vocal chords to come across loud enough to be heard, hands go right back into his hoodie's pockets, one pocket making excessive and sudden clicks and whirs.

Calliope says, “Only just the fuck now, Count?" Her lips tug impishly to the side creating a dimple bending to pull the washer open, "Took ya fuckin' long enough. I'd ask how it's fuckin' hangin' but I know yer fuckin' seein' the same fuckin thing I am." The bluebird burbles crudely and merrily as she opens a, don't go over there holy hell, bag of dirty laundry. Sweety, muddy, bloody, dirty ass laundry. Well okay, she's trying to get it in but she's oogling Cress like a frat boy in Tijuana. In fact, she seems almost startled when the show is over and she's approached.

Not frightened, you see Clio would never be frightened. Nevermind the sudden rabid strobing of her inner light as she shoves a pair of mud covered ratty underwear into the washer and wipes her hand on her jeans. "Yeah, prefer the real fuckin' thing my own fucking self." The little swearbird rambles cheerfully. Of course, if Cress wants a hand she's given the other just to be polite but putting one's hands in the warbird's isn't always the greatest idea. Not in small part do to the blue haired punk's sudden pulsation Cress will get a pop of static. Not only like one gets from Laundry but like someone's annoying cousin has run around on a shag carpet in full wool socks and a onesy. Even in the high fluorescent light, the spark can be seen but after the handshake is merely a slow lingering tickle of tingles. "Calliope fuckin Kraus, you got some nice fuckin' shoes.." Her smile grows -wider-, "Wanna fuck?"

The Uhh Hey gets her attention though, "Hey, if it ain't fuckin Latchey, fancy fuckin' seein you here.”

Hey, if people wanna cream their panties on his machines, he's all for it, because usually that means they might have to stay and do more laundry. Also it's a great show and something to fill his spankbank for later. Clio's comment earns her a smile full of sharp sharp teeth and rolls his eyes a little. "Sluuuuut." he whispers in that way that's not really a whisper, just someone speaking at normal volume with a harsh hiss to their voice.

As Cressida and Clio do not need him to make introductions, the beast is left to his own devices, and since he's a Bro, he makes no move to go and hug Clio, potentially twat-blocking her, so instead, he watches, like the perv he is... but then Cian walks in, and Count's eyes lock in on the darkling, narrowing a bit and he just... walks away. Like, storms off into the back.

He's only gone for a few moments however, and when he comes back he's heading right towards Cian, with soemthing cupped in his hands.

DUN DUN.

Cressida doesn't always make the best choices. Sometimes it is because she doesn't spend the time thinking things through; sometimes it is just for thrill seeking reasons. It's not clear which branch of the bad choice decision tree led her to shaking hands with an electrified, talon-handed swearbird but either way: EXCITING. The tingle shocks her a bit and the orbits of her celestial bodies gets all messed up temporarily. Backwards! Forwards! Loop-de-loops! Some things fizzle and spark and blink clean out of existence before popping back into the room clear on the other side of it. Hello again.

Staring at her palm once it is over, Cressida pauses a moment and then licks her skin. Why? Who knows. Elementals are weird. "Maybe later," she says in reply to Clio's kind offer to get down and dirty. "I'm feeling kind of relaxed at the moment, if you know what I mean." A star-filled wink follows and she opens her mouth to say something else -- probably something /really profound/ -- when she notices:

"CIAN McCARTHY!"

Inside voice, Cressida. Inside voice. She grins. She waves. She makes shooter-fingers at the guy. "I know you. You're the guy who stole my kitten." A frown as she remembers that, the rollercoaster of emotion returning. She points! "Don't steal kittens!" And then, the cloud passes and she smiles once more. "It's nice to see you again."

And to Count: "Where's the Thai food?" Ooof.

Cian totally caught the very tail end of that show, thankfully! But really it's the theater afterwards that has the big wide eyes of solid black tracking after the whirling dervish that is Clio and the event horizon that is Cressida colliding. A little sound escapes him in amusement when Clio goes full Woke Bro on the situation. The pop of static makes him flinch and turn away and into his hood of course, but thankfully the hood is still up and keeping the blistering brightness of the halogens above to a dull roar. "Hey, Clio," he manages in a tone slightly over a whisper.

Count caught his attention briefly but then he's realize that he caught the other man's too and is suddenly looking around the room for the exit, the shadows, something? It's not like he could hide behind Swear Bird. She's busy. His eyes are already wide by the time the beast starts stalking straight back towards him with /something/ in his hands, oh god oh god. Breath Cian, breath. He's /probably/ not going to stab you? Clearing his throat, he's about to say something, charm his way out of whatever trouble he was in.

And then Cressida.

Like a sonic boom, all at once her profundo makes the not-so-little Thief's heart nearly jump out of his chest. Frozen in place his features snapped straight towards the spinning universe looking and admonishing him and then darting back to Count. Fuck! "I um, won't?" He offers in a tone slightly over a whisper. Now. Count. What is that in /his/ hot little hand?

Calliope says, “Fuck you Mansonite, you don't get to call a fuckin' kettle black. Do you want tickets to the next Lilith fucking Fair? You can learn to be fuckin' liberated and shit?" She lifts a hand, making a lazy O.K. Symbol while he's looking then points and mounts, 'you owe me one'. Right now? She's paying attention to Cress. But Count's getting an amused expression sidelong for a moment.

But then he's off and Clio's free to hear Cress' reply. And watch her lick her palm with a slow lecherous smile. "Any fuckin' time." Calliope chirps with a smile that taps her labret ring against her teeth. The avian little bunker shakes her head and h fans herself before sliding off towards her laundry again with a sidestep, "Hah, fuckin making yourself at home I fuckin see?" She calls back to the Spring Darkling as she starts shoving laundry back onto the washer. She slips off her shoes and they and the socks she's wearing also get tossed in. All in all, Clio owns about two loads worth of clothing and Hera's one of those big ones's so it's about half capacity. Clio digs into her pockets and pulls out scattered change in silvers and some crumpled bills, picking the amount out, and sliding coinage in the slots. Leaving Cian to whatever fate Count has in store for him.”

Count was on his way to Cian, but then stops "Woah woah, /MANSONITE?!/" Oh hell no! "Girl, them's fighting words." Nevermind that Antichrist superstar is actually playing from the boom-box in the corner. Count's tone is however, far more realaxed than his words, and then he sticks one of his blue tongues out at Clio before looking to Cian.

"Hey man, I /do/ have cameras in this place you know..." and then he lifts his hand and presses against Ciants chest what appears to be... an envelope? Inside of which is a couple hundred bucks. "You wanna work here, I'll pay you what I pay Lulu." What? "Deal?"

And then Cressida mentions Thai food "What?" blink blink "Oh right..." beast memory "Yeah I don't got enough to feed everyone here, and it's likee two days old anyhow, tell you what..." he looks to the others "...I'll just make that pizza I promised tonight?"

Whurrr-whurrrr-whurrrr... ping. Cressida's laundry is done and as Clio starts hers, the fallen star wanders back to her machine. Opening the lid, she takes out .. one skirt and one pair of underpants. That's it? That's her entire load? Yup! Holding the dripping garments aloft, she calls over to Count: "What do I do next?"

But he's busy. First he's fighting with Clio about .. she doesn't even know what. Then he's beefing with Cian, his weapon of choice being envelopes of money. The star squints hard at both these social interactions, trying to parse out the body language and interpret it against what is being spoken. This is really, really hard for an Elemental, you guys. Why can't people just say what they mean and mean what they say? Mansonite is fighting words? It's not even words plural; it's just a /word/ and just a made up one. OMG. WHAT DOES THIS MEAN? And cameras? Envelopes? Fuckin' hell..

One of Cressida's stars simply blows up out of frustration. A little one. Over there. Just *kaboom-poof*

Anyway, there she stands with her dripping laundry, skirt in one hand and underwear in the other. "What do I do next? And yes, pizza would be nice, please." Drip, drip, drip..

Cian lets the confusing banter between Count and Clio happen over his head, he'll just be here in his hoodie listening to whatever he's got plugged into his ears. Or maybe it's just to dampen the sound from everyone else who feels it necessary to be LOUD. Since the Swearbird is leaving him to his fate, the Darkling doesn't even look to the sun and stars for rescue.

There's a slight perk to his eyebrows, cameras, right. He really should remember about those! He just grins a bit sheepishly towards the beast and a too-long fingered hand lifts to keep the envelope trapped to his chest. "Deal," he whispers to the psuedo-boss, his lips tugging upwards at the corners. The envelope disappears into his back pocket and he quickly stuffs his hand back into his pocket to resume fidgeting. Because if he's not doing that, he's robbing someone.

Somewhere in the background, a star explodes. Which in turn makes the Darkling unsettled and looking for cover. But! He has a duty now, Count's even paying him to do it even! So he sidles on over to the galactic babe of the hour, whispering to her as he points to the dryers, "Stick those in there, 'n...um, you still got quarters?" he asks in that barely there voice.

Some things clink the in the bottom of Calliope's bag as she removes clothing. Several things; glass things. beer bottles to be precise, one rolls out of a pair of disco booty shorts and rolls across the floor. "Count me fuckin in." She calls to Count about his offer of Pizza dumping the last of a bottle of white powder in the soap bin and slamming it shut.

With birdy like business she moves over to scoop up the beer, glances around an pops the top with her thumb-talon and takes a swig. "Like Latchkey fuckin' said." She offers to gesture to the bank of dryers in the back apparently she's going to walk Cress too them. Isn't she sweet? "Same as fuckin washing only far fucking less fun to sit on." She lifts a shoulder in a shrug as she tips her beer back. "So you got a job here now, huh, Latchkey. Lookit, you fuckin nestin'." She jokes and glances back at Count, "Speaking of, I went ahead and did the fuckin' deed. I'm all fuckin' sanctioned and bullshit now. So I can come into the fuckin' city and start operations and shit. But I need a fuckin' hookup or the old damned way I used to fuckin' make sums of fuckin' money's gone to complete fucking shite." Other than the Busking that is, that's really only a Summertime gig. "Know any good fuckin growers?"

The fallen star tilts her head at Clio as the swearbird explains the next step in the laundering process in colorful detail. "You say fuck a lot," she observes. This is not said with any kind of judgement; it is a mere statement of fact. And Cressida, ever the student of social behavior, decides that this is something that she should try. Turning to the newly hired Cian, she gives him a dazzling smile and hands him her wet clothing. Here! Hold this sopping wet boho skirt and pair of cotton panties; surely he doesn't mind. "I don't fuckin' have any fuckin' quarters," she says. "Count fuckin' gave me all the fuckin' quarters. But I do fuckin' have these." The Elemental then proceeds to reach down into her shirt.

What? Is she going to pay in boobs?

No, silly. She just does the same thing she did when she first got here, before Count so generously stepped in and gave her a hand with this complicated process: she fishes out a couple of crumpled, sweaty dollar bills from somewhere inside her shirt. Waving them triumphantly above her head, she turns on her heel and follows Clio toward the driers -- but still continues to talk-shout at Cian. "Don't fuckin' worry. I fuckin' know that the fuckin' dollars don't go inside the fuckin' machine. I already learned that. Fuck fuckin' fuck."

Baby steps, apparently.

When Cian takes over teaching Cressida how to do her Laundry, he looks up towards the ceiling and crosses himself, muttering a murmured prayer to Santa Muerte. However, when he asks her about quarters he digs into his pocket and pulls out the rest of the handful he claimed earlier. "Here." he says passing it over "All she had on her was two bucks covered in titty sweat."

Quarters passed, paying his new sorta-of employee taken care of, Count casts a glance to the break room. "Yeah, Dinners on me, we'll go upstairs once Star Booty has her clothes in the drier." he glances around, considering just closing the place and then decides against it. Automated Business Go!

At first Count reguards Clio with a touch of confusion, furrowing his brows and then recognition dawns. "Oh right, nah, I haven't met anyone who grows weed around here yet. Met a couiple dealers, but no growers." a pause "You know any Cress?"

Dealers? Cressida presses pause on her waving-around-titty-sweat-money action to cock her head thoughtfully. "I might know a person who would sell in a pinch," she says. "Someone whose name rhymes with Messida. But they're not, like, a /dealer/ dealer." Realizing that she forgot to add some color to her statement, she quickly adds: "Fuck fuckity fuck-fuck fuck. Fuckers."

Solemn nod.

One moment Cian is trying to be helfpul, the next minute Clio is being chivalrous or something. A little snicker at the mention that they're not as fun to sit on and he can only nod in a concurring fashion. Mentions of growers and such kind of go over his head, but he's blinking at the bird and just shaking his head in regards to nesting. Darkling's don't nest, they burrow. Harumph.

The sweaty tit money comes flapping out and even Cian is forced to give a little flinch. Shaking his head he whispers something, but at this distance it gets lost on the tumble cycle. One of his hands has managed to crawl out of the pockety hidey hole, and is currently looking like its having a seizure, cramping into different positions before he grumbles and stuffs it back in his pocket. His gaze flicks to Count and he nods in thanks to the pile of quarters. Which swiftly disappear to various pockets and interdimensional rifts. Poof. Save the buck fitty that Cress would need to start things up. Well that and he still has the sopping wet skirt and panties in his other hand. Well. A pair of panties in hand. "Shit."

He's moving after Swear Bird and Fallen Star and he mutters under his breath inaudibly as he provides damp underwear to Cressida, then pulls her skirt out of his satchel, look the circle is complete! The quarters he hands to Clio, since she is taking over tutorial duties.

"What?" She pauses and looks at Cress mock Horrified, "I fuckin' do what? Madame, you must be fuckin' with me." Her lashes flutter and she laughs and hops a step and tucks a thumb into her pocket. "Well shiiiit. Does it fuckin offend your ears, Honey? Because if you fuckin' want I can talk with-fuckin-out." She chatters away. Glancing towards the others with a lofted brow as if to ask them what the hold up was. She's not concerned about her clothing really when it gets washed or dried. After all, it's probably going to have to go through a few times for the blood stains alone.

"Oh, naw, Lovely I meant fuckin for me o fuckin sell for. I busk in fuckin summer but things are about to get lean and I got fuckin dirt habits I gotta fuckin keep up or I get fuckin cranky. And easy there, treat the fuckin' word with some respect. If you're gonna fuckin' swear, swear like yer mean it. Not like yer cursin' some poor asshole who crossed you fuckin wrong." She's put a hand out to gesture, you know, wildly like swearbirds do. And she finds a buck fiddy in it, "Oh, hey fuckin that's a fuckin first." She closes her fingers over the coins and shakes her hand like she was going to roll dice and starts putting them in the slot with a quick aside to Count, "You got a fuckin problem with titty sweat too? Fuck man. You've really fuckin' lost sight of the best things in fuckin life." She jeers.

"When it smells like unwashed hippy... yes I do." Count says, lifting his chin, pretending to be a snob, as if he hasn't fornicated in blood and sweat before. Really it's the high Wyrd Elemental that's making him uncomfortable, but he'll never admit that. Then he shakes his head, because this is all so familiar, the original Dirty Laundry attracted insanity as well. "Alright, chop chop, Imma head upstairs, you guys follow when yer done yeah?" and he starts to put away the things he had out earlier, stashing the boombox behind the employees area, turning off lights back there, and then comes back out, heading towards the break room.

This is nuance, man, and Cressida struggles with nuance. See, to her, it sounds like her use of the word 'fuck' and Clio's use of the word 'fuck' were exactly the same. This .. this might require flowcharts and PowerPoint presentations with a test at the end to see if she's learned the material properly. Her star-filled eyes go wide and her expression is SUPAR INTENSE TO THE MAX as she studies the swearbird, the Elemental trying her gosh darn'd hardest to figure out the particulars of the proper respectful usage of the Holy Word, Fuck. "No, my ears are not offended," she answers, all very serious. And if you can't tell by her expression or tone, then maybe you can tell by how all her celestial bits and pieces are at a standstill.

Thinking.

Thinking haaaaard, man.

This is all exacerbated and made more difficult by the fact that she is fairly high right now. A naturally diminished mentally capacity is diminished further by those dank budz, yo. Not that she's stupid, not that she's dumb but her smarts are in other things, not social stuff. The star looks to Cian as he hands her back her wet panties (something that would be much more exciting in any other scenario) and she decides to give this one last shot: "Thank you," she says and that pulls in a deep breath, adding with great feeling: "THANK YOU SO FUCKING MUCH." Turning to Clio, her eyebrows lift up in question. Did she do it right? Was that okay?

Then Count is trying to corral them all towards pizza and you really don't have to tell her twice. She completely abandons what she is currently doing -- dropping her panties to the floor -- and follows him toward the back room. "Piiiiiiiiizza!" All her planets and all her moons, all her comets and all her stars -- they trail along after her, coming back to life after being frozen in studious place.

"Fuck bird," Cian whispers softly as if reaffirming something he'd heard before, because Swear Bird doesn't really cover it. FuckBird is much more apt. "Would it hurt?" he asks of Clio as she mentions that she could go without saying the word fuck. Because he is currently of a mind to disbelieve. With quarters delivered, the Darkling is free to move about the cabin.

Pizza's call is a sultry one, and the man's stomach rumbles a little bit, dragging his attention back to the present. Nodding twice he is about to move after the man but there's HOMG shouting in his general direction. It's like Cressida had actually thrown a bowling ball at him, completely knocking him backwards. Stumbling back and half cringing Cian tries not to whine at the ringing in his sensitive ears.

"You're welcome," he offers, but it's drowned out in the cry for piiiiiizza! And then Clio is left with wet underwear and a skirt. Not that she minds right? Where'd the Shadow go? Poof.

Calliope holds up the a-ok symbol, "Perfuckingfection. Fuckin, beautiful Nyx. Like a goddamned dream." She bites her lower lip and smiles cheekily before turning her melange blue eyes back towards Cian and the wet panty exchange which she watches with only the tiniest adolescent snerk to herself. The blue haired punk rolls her shoulders back and finishes her beer, chucking the bottle in the trash not far off. "Either fuckin' way, if you wanna get me in touch with some fuckin' one, I'd love to start workin'." She explains to Cress, back on track about the dank budz, rather than the quality of cussing. Once the dryer is set to go she starts strolling for the apartment as well as if she knows the way holding the door for Cian because she's actually kinda a nice gal. Most of the time.

"Would it fuckin, hurt, well, not fucking at first." She shrugs at Cian, "But after about fifteen or so fuckin minutes I have the urge to punch things. Look, it's fuckall complicated but.." She clears her throat and croons, suddenly, twittering almost like birdsong Cress' direction, "The tenebrous lurker is right. My heart breaks to pieces, Nox at the idea that my alliteration might in some way offend those divine ears. I would not wish to hinder you, though or waste your time. Courtley Nyx, sweet as sin, who's chaos blossoms fire across the battlefields of eternity. What words I could give you could not compare at all to the complexity of your complexion. I could not find proper words to describe the cool silk of your visage on my parched summer soul. What words would not come out crude and unhindered, thus inspired to, reduced to cinders in the wake of your grace. So I linger with the profane, debase myself in your magnificence to assure that my words no not offend, do not diminish the light of your attentions on this humble earthly creature."

Then back to Cian with a frown, "Fucking Satis fucking Fide? Hmm?" She sneers-smiles at him and hops up the stares. "Pussheeenn, do you have any good fucking vodka?"

Count heads into the back, the fabled employees 'lounge'.

Calliope heads into the back, the fabled employees 'lounge'.

Cressida heads into the back, the fabled employees 'lounge'.

Cian heads into the back, the fabled employees 'lounge'.

The path Count has left open leads to the breakroom which has lovingly been called 'The Foyer to an Armenian Sex Traffickers Lair' and then up the concrete stairs to this apartment, an apartment that is thick with dead things, so so many dead things; Sculptures of bone, bizarre taxidermy, and a kitchen that's make any chef a little moist. Some of the taxidermy here, is clearly, to the eyes of the Lost, things that are not from this early plane, including a very humanoid ribcage that covers a mirror on the wall, and of course the extremely human skull on the altar.

Count is already in the kitchen when the rest follow him up, washing his hands and then preheating the oven, turning it on and then placing a pair of, what look to be round stone trays in there, one on each rack. "Find a place to sit..." he says, but there are 0 chairs, a distinct lack of a couch, and only a mattress and a box spring, which is weirdly placed in the center of the damn apartment, like a centerpiece to his lazy lifestyle. The bed is even at an odd angle, and extremely disheveled, in contrast tot he careful way the taxidermy and death is presented around the room.

When Calliope presses index finger to thumb to make the a-ok symbol in response to the star's wielding of the word 'fuck' that last time, Cressida smiles in a self-satisfied manner. One can be certain that she is giving herself mental pats on the back for figuring this out! In fact, she /does/ give herself a pat on the back -- well, shoulder -- for real. Way to go, you!

Then Clio is crooning and the Elemental pays very close attention to this. "I don't want you heart to break," she says, taking this all very seriously. "You shouldn't worry at all about offending anyone -- not me, not Cian, not a single person. We have a single life, a finite life, and with every passing moment, we are one step closer to the ultimate end. Each second is unique and precious. It is a gift, a solemn vow to ourselves that we will not squander the time that we have been given. So never apologize. Never live your life for others. Live as /you/ please. Follow /your/ joy. Feel everything. Taste everything. Experience everything. And have no regrets." So sayeth the Dusk, not just to Clio (although it started out that way) but to both the swearbird and Mr. Longfingers.

Cressida grins a dopey grin, bobs her head once firmly and then continues on upstairs. Up, up, up towards pizza.

Once she arrives in the apartment, everything gets looked over. She touches pretty much everything. What's this? What's that? What's this do? Oh, this is heavy! It's almost like entertaining a toddler in some ways, having Cressida in one's personal space. She pokes at some of the skulls, sticks her head into the bathroom, jumps on the mattress. "Neat!" she chirps as Count starts to bang around in the kitchen. "Did someone say something-something-vodka?"

Cian blinks once and starts looking up the stairs like a creepy creep who creeps. Because all of that is true. There's a pause because whomever it was was not the first to think "Sex Trafficker Foyer". But before all of that, there is Cressida, announcing in all seriousness to freaking Carpe Dium or something similar. It's an inspiring speech to be sure, and it has the Darkling's black eyes focusing sharply on the living embodiment of sky. "You," is all he manages before the rest descends into subsonic whispers that never reach anyone's ears. He's not Shy exactly, but he's not putting forth extra effort to communicate really.

Back to the Foyer! Cian ascends the steps after the wagging asses of both Cressida and Clio and reaches the Den of Ill Repute Entrance and stops a little. "Seriously?" Okay the when the Wisp is judging your decore? But that doesn't mean that his nimble fingers are moving to slide over that piece of furniture, or that display of human ribs.

Little does Cian, or anyone else for that matter, realize that he's slowly bulking up that satchel on his side. Count was just so kind as to leave trinkets and things laying in the open. He clearly meant for them to be found, lost and then found again, right?

Caipiroska. That's Clio's aim, into the freezer to pull out the bottle of Vodka and then into the fridge, ass in the air, digging about and chirping to herself. "I know you have fuckin simple syrup in here, you're a goddamned cook. Man, what the hell is this sauce, what even is this? Hey Zeus fucking Christos Count do I even want to know how you use this?" All twittering as she digs about completely shamelessly within the ice box. "You got some nice cane sugar, right? Maybe not bleached?" She hopes as she comes up with the syrup, the limes and the vodka piling them on an unoccupied counter.

"I couldn't fucking agree more, well, for the fucking most part. I mean, I'm not out to fuckin' hurt anyone on fucking purpose. Sometimes that shit just happens but I mean, it's not like I actively fucking seek it out. Yanno, unless someone likes that kinda fuckin' thing." She explains cheerily.

As people start speaking of 'purposes in life' and all that other stuff, Count remains almost suspiciously silent, I mean usually he has something to add but... no, his lips are sealed on this subject. his eyes start to scan, watching the three of them as they more than make themselves home in his apartment, and there's the slightest frown there for a moment, eyes narrowing just a touch, perhaps regretting how easily he invites guests up into his domain.

With Clio in his fridge, he has to take a moment before he can start with his own ingredients, so instead he starts patting her ass repeatedly as if trying to get her to go-go-go and get out of the way. Count's kitchen is well stocked, like too well, like he just bought one of everything 'just in case' which is all well and cood considering his appetites and cooking habits, like spontaneous pizza, or making a near complete thai menu at 4am.

Bounce! Bounce! Bounce! Cressida continues to jump around on Count's bed, it never even occurring to her that the Beast, like, might not want a dirty hippy springboarding on his mattress. After all, she's barefoot -- and not in a 'teehee, I slipped off my shoes just now' kind of way. Her feet are filthy because she's been running around without any footwear for goodness knows how long and those filthy feet are now all over his nice, clean linens.

Kleptomaniac Darklings.

Dirty Elementals.

At least the swearbird is only raiding his liquor cabinet.

The star does one last mighty leap and then lands on her ass amongst the blankets and pillows, her meteors and comets drifting down around her in a celestial shower. It's been a while since she slept in a real bed and as much as she wants pizza and booze, this is all so nice and soft and... cooooomfy. She's just going to lay down for a second. She's only going to rest her eyes for a minute.

Moments later, she's sawing logs. Body sprawled. Mouth hanging open. Drooling a wee bit.

Zzzzzz....

Cian is still wandering around the apartment unsupervised, which is probably why Count is going to fire him in the same day he hired him. Clio takes over the kitchen and starts in on alcohol because she's a blessed swear bird. Count won't miss this right? Right. Tilting his head there he kind of blinks blankly at Clio's ass in the air as it dances around and she works on booze. "They bleach sugar?" Up here, his whisper is loud enough to be heard without the din of laundry machines whirring and spinning.

The squeak of a mattress draws his attention, and the man is boldly just following Cressida sort of hovering back a bit while the dirty hippy jumps and spins on Count's mattress. What? Jumping Cressida is just as distracting as vibrating Cressida. So sue him. "So pizza?" he asks of his host in that quiet tone.

He turns back around and the bouncing's ceased and the star lady is just zonked out on the bed drooling apparently. The Darkling blinks slowly and then simply creeps away from the sleeping one to slink back into the actual guest areas, with the peoples.

Clio had given a couple extra stubborn wiggles at the swats before she'd eventually moved to get out of his way so she could make the sugary lime drink and off to deliver it to the washer riding hawtie. But she's forced to sniff sidelong at Count as she peeks around the corner, two fisting drinks. One for Cress who's now falling asleep. She chuckles under her breath and looks at Count, "You still want me to fuckin stick around tonight? I can fuckin crash on the fuckin couch or what the fuck ever." She wonders of the Chimera as she sips the sugar and lime iced concotion she'd made with a little coo of pleasure to herself and offers the second drink towards Cian. There's another one in the kitchen for Count and another that was supposed to be for Cian but is now whomever gets to it first.

That or Count will hunt him down, and burn his house down while he sleeps, or some other confrontational arrangement, lets just hope Cian doesn't touch the Shrine.

He's digging around for this and that, when he hears the snoring and frowns, looking up and over the bar that separates the kitchen from the rest of the room to see Cressida sleeping. He lets out a heavy sigh and then shakes his head "You know what? Fuck it." and he turns back to close the fridge and pulls out his phone, dialing and then putting it to his ear. "Yeah. Delivery. Yes. Yes. Three Large Pizzas. Meat Lovers. Supreme. Olives, Pepperoni, Red Onions, and Mushrooms. Yeah, i got cash, word, thanks." and then he hangs up. "I'll make a real meal another night." Count has become a bit mentally exhausted it seems, and then takes one of the drinks and downs it all in one go.

To Clio he shakes his head "Yer staying, we'll drag sleeping booty here down to the break room before we settle up for the night, you can take some pictures of her first if you wanna, maybe even go steal her undies from the wash." Setting his empty drink down, he goes for the untouched fourth.