10926/Shake, Rattle, and Fold

Shake, Rattle, and Fold
Date of Scene:	26 April 2022
Location:	House of Mystery
Synopsis:	Plotting... over laundry.
Cast of Characters:	Meggan Puceanu, John Constantine

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Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Even Laughing Magicians need to confront washing machines. This isn't England, where a tiny laundrette squishes under the kitchen counter and you might fit four dish towels into the tumbler. Neither is there a constant income stream to require going to the laundromat and having all those white shirts cleaned and pressed. Behold, the necessity of figuring out detergent and waiting. A lot.

Meggan has a small ironing board set up on the counter and the work of making those shirts crisp and tidy for them to be stained all over again is simply par for the evening. Trashy telly is on; she occasionally watches the vice of Love Island, though probably wishes she didn't. For an empath, the audience's reactions really don't feed her at all. Their torments are more embarrassing than not. Still, as she makes a collar lie flat instead of crumpled up, the distraction is mild at best. "This is why t-shirts are miracles. No fussing, you know?" Her hair is up in two buns, Sailor Moon-style, and the slip dress she wears is probably circa 1998. "Reckon this is your uniform like Superman's got the big S?"

John Constantine has posed:
"Oh, you know me better than that, luv." John steps up behind her and wraps his arms around her waist, leaning in to kiss her cheek briefly before settling his chin on her shoulder. "I don't do uniforms."

He smiles. "So do you actually feel the cringe, or do recordings not ping your empath satellite?"

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
"What do you call a trenchcoat? Armour? Your camouflage?" Meggan asks, her nose wrinkling playfully. Steam boils up from the perforated, superheated plate of the iron when she tilts it back, examining the crease squashed into the sleeve. Time to pull the shirt to the side and fix that. "Never was much good at it. Wasn't ever a lot of need for it staying at a caravan, and out there in the Lakes, wearing a suit's but for Sundays. You can imagine how well that went over." Traveller parents with their adoptive faerie daughter, all too aware of her pointed ears from damn near the moment she was dropped in their arms. The Church of England isn't all that friendly to different sorts.

She hums at her work for a bit, leaning back against John until his weight supports her from toppling too far. "You're the one who got started on it with the last season, don't be blaming me! Right unfair of you. Granted, it makes me wish drinking did a lick of good. They're all so fake. I know it's edited. Still, it's terrible!"

John Constantine has posed:
"That doesn't answer my question, though, you strumpet." He reaches down and whacks the side of her hip, rolling his eyes. "And it's a trenchcoat, ducky. You don't call it armor unless you're a stoner from Jersey with a mute-by-choice heterosexual life partner."

John pinches her ass and steps away from her, so he can light a cigarette. "Maybe we should bug Zee for her wash-and-press spell," he considers. "Though I do like you domestic."

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Meggan tosses her head, golden streamers of her loose hair beneath the buns tossed in kind. John might get slapped, but not by intend. "I cringe cos I never want to end up like that." Green eyes twinkle, narrowing. "Imagine us, getting all cozy in a hot tub, then listening to a chav spouting off. You'd slap him stupid in a heartbeat." The people prancing around in their skivvies hardly warrant 'D-list celebrity,' almost unconscionably wretched in their views, fashion, and actions. "Big Brother sometimes twigs me, but that might be the neighbours getting riled. I dunno. The /House/ getting upset is palpable."

She huffs a breath and shakes her head, blowing at the lighter just to make the flame leap considerably higher in eager anticipation. "You like me domestic, do you? Why is that? I reckon it's better than sitting all day at the pub or moaning over my coursework."

John Constantine has posed:
"I just like the aesthetic, is all," John admits with a laugh. "You could be playing video games in your house-cleaning and laundry-ironing togs and I'd be right riled up all the same." He takes a deep drag of his cigarette and finds an ashtray. Or rather, the ashtray finds him. One of many spells cast a long time ago to make his habits more tolerable.

"I don't get into hottubs with strangers. Only people on the pre-approved list, please."

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Meggan laughs brightly and finishes off the sleeve, pressing the cuff flat and holding up a fairly well-ironed shirt. She will never earn housekeeping points at a good rate this way, and the House itself can do a better job, but she did it. "Look, no lippie on the collar or anything. I should fix that." Her eyebrows arch in promise, mouth puckered into a playful round. "I do play video games, when not trying to stop the city from poisonin' itself. Or everyone poisoning it."

Those wide, thoughtful green eyes gleam anew. A tug on the cord frees the iron and she swoops over the counter with its board, alighting in a flutter of silk to hug John from behind.

John Constantine has posed:
"When have I ever given you lip, now?" John's about to turn around when he gets a hug from behind, and smiles. He takes another long drag of his cigarette, then reaches behind him and smacks her ass softly. "Thank you for ironing me shirt, luv. I don't know what I'd do without you." Yes he does. He'd run around in wrinkled shirts like he did before they got together, obviously.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
"Isn't that your middle name? John Lippy Constantine?" Fra Filippo Lippi, in fact, but she doesn't have the wit to pull that one off. Renaissance painter jokes shall have to wait. Another smack makes both of them bounce when she jumps, barely in contact with the floor to begin with. "Besides, I reckon that's the sort of thing a girl's meant to do and I never have the need. Little things to know you're cared for while slopping through a canal or tossing demons. They might see you have it all put together and run if they're smart." Not that they ever are.

John Constantine has posed:
"At this point, luv, any demon who recognizes me and sees me in a pressed shirt is more liable to make fun of me and ask if I've settled down and got kids yet, maybe make a crack about my owning an SUV." He looks nonplussed about it, though, instead reaching over and taking her hand so he can pull his floating woman closer and press a kiss against her cheek, smiling.

"That's all right, though, innit. You end up wearing the shirts better'n I do anyway."

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Meggan rotates as bidden, still tempted to scrunch and wrinkle John's shirt with another hug again. She examines the state of his hair and promptly runs her fingers through it to better tousle it, giving him a disreputable look. Strengthening the existing one, then. "Two of three aren't bad?"

Her hint of a smile widens to full bloom. "And to think, you inherited a demonic army and Merlyn as your ... guardian-in-law? See how they like that or if they get all knickers in a twist." She leans into that kiss, returning in kind to his jaw. "So what's the trouble we're getting up to tonight?"

John Constantine has posed:
"I can do without your father's help, though, luv. That man's got the tact and whimsy of a five-star general in a Hollywood military biopic." He's fully aware there's no such thing as a _five_ star general. He also doesn't care.

"I dunno, but can we do it in doors?" He smiles at her and puts his cigarette out, sliding his hand over the back of hers.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
"Merlyn kinda raised me with Roma, he's not dad. Far as I know. I've never met him and Mum... you don't just ask Mum who she shacked up with. That's wonky to think about. Who your parent decided to go after." Cheeks pink and laughter bubbling, Meggan waves her hand. "Besides, I /know/. He's a right arse, and he acts like he knows everything about all -- and you don't get to know til you grow up."

Nimue did right by enchanting or entrapping him just to make a point. Meggan's never going to argue that.

"Indoors trouble? We can. That's the dryer." How she hears it, a matter of sheer luck or guesswork. "Go get a basket and we can snuggle up in warm towels, yeah?"

John Constantine has posed:
"Long as he keeps his weird backwards-living arse away from us, I don't give a right shite who he is, do I." John flashes her a smile and leans in to pop her a kiss on the mouth before he heads off to find the elusive laundry basket.

He ends up walking by it three times before it realizes it's that thing weaved out of hay or something and not a plastic one. "Fancy. "He makes his way back to her with it.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Woven out of straw? Hay? The house has a sense of humour, but then, one would hope.

"Fancy? More like reusable, but last time round I found an apple crate that must've popped up." When your home is sentient, be polite. Meggan sighs at the pile of towels, sheets, and various sundries awaiting her. "At least these ones are fast. I bloody hate the endless piles of togs that need fussing over. Maybe we ought to ask Doctor Strange about spells that make clothes. He'd probably give you a funny look."

She clears her throat. "Me, I'm like to just explode a room. I don't get the funny little squidgy bits."

John Constantine has posed:
"Stephen Strange doesn't know how to look at me any other way than 'funny'," John says with a snort. He helps her dump all the towels and whatnot into the basket and t hen picks the basket up, slapping Meggan on the ass again -- it's a nice ass, it merits slapping -- and then asks, "Where are we putting this down to forget about it until we need a very specific garment inside it?"

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
"He worked perfectly good wonders while you were off doing what you needed to do, far as I recall. We owe him a nice hamper at Christmas and whatever celebrations are best. Mabon? May Day's coming up, might we lobby him for equal sorcerous rights?" Meggan is going to be chased by the Vishanti, just watch. She scoops up a towel and holds the ends together, shaking out the bottom. Every smack to her backside jolts the towel and she whips it at John's hindquarters to make a point. "End of the bed in the guest room, you figure? I'd rather have our room for the important things, like losing where your keys are."

John Constantine has posed:
"That works for me," John says, laughing when she snaps the towel at him. He starts moving with the basket towards the guestroom. For someone who is essentially otherwise homeless and lacking in funds, he sure does have a big fucking house.

"Don't forget we need to take care of Zee's wards situation. Unless we want her to just move in here," he says, smirking.