Woman, [kavinsky appears like a shadow beside her. if shadows were skinny, bloodlessly pale, and riddled with tattoos of various quality. his hollow eyes are clear, bright in the pulsing black light of the club. which makes sense. he's a vampire now, and doesn't really need substances to feel good. granted, it'd probably be fun if he could get substances, but—] Those fucking pants are the bomb. [who needs that when you have hot roommates.]

You look good enough to eat.

[this compliment comes with the exposure of a neat white fang over his bottom lip, a wink.] What are you, some kind of old-school pilot? Lady Indiana Jones? Indianette Jones.