It's late. Tuesday night. Well, really, it's Wednesday morning. But only just. The witching hour, if that's particularly useful information. For Evelyn Clarke, the witching hour may as well be any other hour of the day. Painfully mortal, painfully normal, aside from being strikingly, almost otherworldly beautiful. Not a kiss of magic on her or in her, however. Just youth, exercise, and winning the genetic lottery. But she's up late. Later than usual, judging by the way she blinks sleepily around, slipping through one of the heavy metal side-doors on her wing of the hotel. It clicks behind her as its locking mechanism engages, and she tips her head up to the sky.
A big black pullover hoody covers her torso. It's baggy, much to big for her. Probably a guy's that she stole. It's long enough that it swallows up her waist, hips, and upper thighs. Bare legs beneath. She's probably wearing shorts, but you can't see them. Little slippers on her feet with ankle-high socks, cream colored, bunched up at the ankles. The slippers have raccoons on the toes and are a charcoal gray. She's got her eyes shut and is rubbing her temples. Collecting her thoughts. Getting some fresh air, perhaps.
Though the smell of cigarettes is in the air.
There is the smell of cigarettes in the air. In fact one was just snuffed out moments before the mortal slipped out into the cool night air. Leaning against the nearest wall in the darkness is a darkling named Ink. To mortal eyes his mask is that of a tall, lean muscled, tattooed man with a bushy beard. Tonight he's dressed in a black hoodie with the hood up, dark jeans and a pair of matching dark sneakers.
He doesn't say anything when she steps outside and for a long moment he doesn't even move. Instead he simply watches her, smiling as he realizes she has no idea he's there. His movements are quiet, silent as he places a thick, hand rolled cigarillo between his lips before sparking it up with his chrome zippo. In the silence of the night the striking of flint on steel is loud, but the flash of spark that become flame is even more dazzling in the darkness. Puffing the cherry to life, the thick, pungent scent of skunky weed fills the night air.
Evelyn Clarke knows the smell. She knows the sound, too. The clink of the lighter. The strike of it, and the sound of flame bursting to life. Combustion in the air as that flame dances to life. Combustion in the air as it touches to the tip of the cigarillo and sets it alight. From the blazing fire of the sun above, to right here. Energy released into the air. And smelling like marijuana. She's far enough away from the man that he likely doesn't see her jump, even if just a little. Her own hood is draped around her neck, thick white draw strings hanging over her chest. She makes fleeting, brief eye contact -- or at least, what she assumes to be eye contact -- in the area that she sees that cherry light ablaze.
She takes a few little shuffles in the opposite direction. The little patio is paved, and there's plenty of room. He seems content, for now, to stay in his spot. She does, however, stay near enough to the door that she could easily slip in if he attempts anything sheisty. And she does become acutely aware of the fact that it might appear that she's not wearing shorts.
I assure you, she is.
Another sigh, though, and she turns her attention away from him. Both hands reach up to the back of her neck and she pushes her thumbs into the slender column.
"Shit," she says.
The cherry blazes to life in the darkness, highlighting Ink's handsome features and reflecting in the depths of his dark eyes. Holding the smoke in his lungs he plucks the small cigar from his lips then looks from the woman to the door and back before softly exhaling from the corner of his mouth. The blunt is held out in offering as a quiet rumble of a chuckle can be heard. "Don't worry. If I was going to rape you I wouldn't have lit my blunt first." Shaking his head he lifts one tattooed hand up to pull back his hood. "I'm Kevin, crashing here since I just got back into town." Shaking the offered blunt to show its her's for the taking he adds, "Smoking alone blows."
Evelyn's lip curl into a rather disgusted looking expression. Which is probably just as well for Ink, or Kevin, or whoever might greatly enjoy the taste of that disgust rolling off of her. Quite a way to proposition a girl into sharing a joint with you. Not exactly starting off on the right foot, though, well. Maybe that's entirelyt he point. "Okay," Evie says, looking at the man across from her. He's... well. He's hot. That sucks. If he hadn't been so gross, maybe she'd have taken him up on the offer. But as it is, she's already starting to slip back towards that metal door behind her.
"I'm sure there are some bats, or, like, decomposing animals that can keep you company," she says. Though her eyes do drop down to the offered spliff (is it a spliff? sorry if it's not a spliff). There's a long pause. Moments of consideration. And then, bewilderingly, she reaches forward to take it. She holds it like a cigarette, and how a lady holds a cigarette at that. Puffs on it, the little cherry rolling from yellow to orange, casting that pretty little face in such a warm light. She hands it back, french inhaling as she does, before letting it wash out through her nostrils. No introductions from Evelyn Clarke. Not with the day she's been having.
But she'll smoke his weed.
He can sense it, taste it in the air. That disgust that flows from her at the words he speaks. Still she stops, his mask and the offered weed drawing her in. It is the type of combination that leads to more of that same emotion in most, but that feeling usually starts to turn to shame. Shaking his head at the whole of it he doesn't seem to dwell much more on it all. "Meh, I'm not into the whole death metal scene to tell you the truth." Smiling a bit he adds, "I'm more into the drugging unsuspecting women with laced spliffs..."
Trailing off he plucks the small cigarillo from her fingers to take a heavy drag. Softly exhaling from the corner of his lips he offers it to her once more. "Or... Maybe I'm into getting high and sharing with a stranger to pass the time." A shrug follows those words as he pulls a hard pack of cigarettes from his pocket. Flipping open the lid he pushes one of the filtered ends up with the pad of his thumb, pulling it from the pack with his lips. Sparking up the cigarette he adds it to the mix of puffing and passing.
Shame is not anything that drips off of Evelyn. Not yet. No, she seems perfectly content with herself, though that initial spike of what we'll call "icky" was rather sharp. It's softened and blunted dramatically, however. Thanks in part to the offer of weed and, well, the fact that he's hot. Hot people can get away with a considerable amount of bullshit, can't they? "Could've fooled me," she says, smiling. She lets her eyes drop to the hoody and jeans, lift to the beard and what looks like tattoos. The mention of spiking a spliff gets an amused laugh from Evelyn and an arch of her brow.
The weed's already started to roll up into her. She can feel it on the back of her eyelids first. Little cottony, tingling pinpricks. It feels good. She hands the spliff back to Inkevin (good name) and takes the now freshly-puffed cigarette. That gets a longer drag. She knows what she's doing with this one. She looks pretty when she smoked it, french inhales, and blows it out through her lips. Doesn't even catch in her throat.
"Damn that's good," she says, laughing.
"You could've led with that one, Kevin," she says, holding the cigarette, watching him smoke. She taps her fingertips onto her chin, as if pensively. Considering his rather awful ice-breaker.
"It'd make this conversation WAAAAY too easy if I did something like lead with a normal ice-breaker." Ink grins as he lifts the cigarillo up to blow ash from the smoldering cherry. It isn't apparent if he's feeling the weed yet or not. Though the slight touch of a smile that can be seen gracing the corners of his mouth now that the hood is down could be an indication. "I would have opened with something polite and charming, introduced myself..."
Pausing he takes a heavy hit from the spliff, holding the smoke in his lungs while handing it off. Exhaling softly, he takes the cigarette in hand while continuing. "You would have gave your name, we'd joke about something like... How it looks like you're not wearing anything under the hoodie. We'd both laugh, sexual tension and all would build..."
Trailing off once more he takes a heavy drag from the cigarette and shrugs, "Then, we'd never get to have this conversation and I'd miss the expressions you make while trying to figure out if I'm as big a dirt bag as you initially thought."
Evelyn laughs again, fingertips passing lit cigarette and lit cigarello in an intimate, back and forth dance. Careful to not step on toes or, in this case, fingertips. An exchange of a little burning flame back and forth. A synchronized swim. She takes another drag of the cigarello. This one a little deeper. She's gotten acclimated to the heat of it filling her lungs. Her eyes lid, just a touch, and she lets a tiny bit float out of her nostrils before pulling it back in. Holds it, and then exhales again. She's feeling it. Clear as day. If there were lights on her eyes, they'd be pink and fuzzy.
"Sounds nice," she says, tipping her head to the side, "You should try it some time."
Something does happen when he starts to talk about missing the expressions on her face. She turns her attention down to his chin and jaw. To his lips. His beard. He'd be forgiven if he thought this meant she wanted to kiss him. But she's watching for something. Anything. Reading his expressions as if they're one of those shitty brochures in the lobby telling her to get waffles at some no-name diner with a cockroach problem.
"You like that? Making people think you're an asshole?" she asks, and her eyes immediately lift up to meet his again. She hands him the cigarello and takes the cigarette. Another long, thoughtful drag. The nicotine mixes with the body buss of the weed and her fingers tingle, just a bit.
She laughs, exhaling the smoke.
"That's weird, man."
It is all part of the game, this discussion. Ink enjoys learning more of the strange, beautiful woman that stepped out into the night where he waited. Chuckling softly he gives a nod then replies softly, "Well. I guess I am weird. But aren't we all?" The cigarillo is nearly fully smoked, taking a few puffs and holding the remainder carefully, he hands it off. With the smoke still held in his lungs he takes the cigarette saying softly, "You can finish it off." Tilting his head back he softly exhales overhead, watching for a moment as the smoke swirls overhead before dissipating.
Looking back to Evelyn he smiles warmly. "Well. You'll learn if you end up staying in town long, us Alexanders aren't usually seen in the best light in any event." A heavy drag is taken from the cigarette before its flicked off into the night. "I don't know if I like people think I'm asshole. Its more I think they already do?"
"Thanks," Evelyn says, grabbing the cigarello from the man's fingers and tucking it back into her lips. It's good for another drag, and so she does. A deep inhale. The cherry's so hot now, it almost burns her lungs. It -does- burn her lungs. She can feel it, deep down. That smoke is thick and dense and angry. She holds it as long as she can, blows it to the side, and drops the little thing to the floor. Stamps it out with those cute little raccoon slippers and everything. She follows his gaze to its natural conclusion, which is up and at the night sky. Twinkling stars, much brighter than she's used to seeing in the city.
She listens, too. Listens to him speak. Kevin Alexander. Files that little nugget away in the back of her skull for some digging later.
"Well, I mean," she says, turning her head back down, an amused, definitely-high expression on her face, "Your approach could use some work."
But she bites on her bottom lip, doing that cute thing that cute girls do when they think they're being cute. Luckily it's cute. A little sway of her shoulders, her hands bunching up into little fists and gathering as much of the fabric of her hoody into them. She can't -really- hold her weed, the poor thing. She thinks this is all terribly absurd and terribly funny. She's not really wrong, either.
But she can keep it together.
"What did the Alexanders do?" she asks, biting back a giggle, "Start a cult?"
Its obvious that it all is just way too cute for a high Ink. Trying not to smile too widely, the both tattooed hands gently reach out to grab on to the bunched up fabric of hoodie she holds. Slowly tugging her closer while he moves closer, he lets his dark gaze search her eyes. "What did the Alexander's do?" The words are a soft whisper, meant to draw her in closer. Leaning in with his eyes going to her her lips, it looks like the perfect lead up to a kiss like in the movies.
He leans in but he doesn't try to kiss her. Instead he lifts one tattooed hand to brush hair back away from her ear so he can whisper gently. His breath washes over her flesh with each word, "The family is best known for finding cute girls, getting them high..." Pausing he lets words hang in the air, "Then, offering to walk them back to their room or to share smores..." Leaning back he looks around then says louder, "They are FUCKING TERRRRRIBLE."
Evelyn Clarke is reasonably sure the man hasn't laced the spliff. She's also reasonably sure that he's not a dirtbag, or asshole. She's likely wrong. She'd likely end up disappointed, at some point, with him in the future. He'd get a good meal out of it, and they'd go about their merry way. But that's not tonight. Tonight she's getting gathered up and pulled in, and she's putting up a tiny little wail of resistance that is far more playful than it is serious. More of a warble in that cold night air. Her eyes drop down to his mouth again. This time, she's thinking about kissing him. And why not? He's being charming. He's hot. He's got tattoos. And she's high.
That's enough, some nights.
She does everything right, too. As a pretty girl ought to. She gets big eyes and shrinks into her hoodie as he sets up the take down, and then softly -screeeeams- at the big reveal. A scream that turns into a laugh that likely wakes up at least a few people in the room directly outside this particular metal side-door to the hotel. That's the short straw. When all is said and done, though, she's giggling. Sliding the key into the electronic lock of the door. Watching it turn green and feeling it locking mechanism click open against it.
"Well, Kevin, who is back in town and just crashing here," she says, an impish expression on her cheek, "I won't be needing a walk, but thank you for the weed. I had a headache, couldn't sleep and, well. This was the perfect remedy."
She's standing in the door, with it propped open just a touch by her foot. Blinking at the man. Laughing, shaking her head. "Good night. Maybe I'll see you at breakfast. I hear there's a place that's got waffles," she says, and the door clicks shut a few seconds later.