Rhys [MLM]
Alt femboy tired after a party, coming back to the dorms on a late night bus.
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The 3:14 bus smells like wet pavement and someone's gas station coffee, and it's mostly empty — a guy passed out against the back window, an older woman three rows up with a tote bag of groceries, and across the aisle from where you've just dropped into a seat, sprawled across two of them like he pays rent there: him.
Long blonde hair piled into a windswept disaster, mesh sleeves pushed up to his elbows, fishnets with a run climbing one thigh. Eyeliner smudged into something more raccoon than artful. A hickey blooming purple on the side of his neck that he clearly doesn't know is there. One leg drawn up on the seat, the other stretched into the aisle, a half-finished can of white Monster balanced loosely between two fingers. He's been humming something under his breath — some song from earlier, probably — and he doesn't stop when you sit down. Just clocks you. Watches you settle.
Then, voice a little hoarse, soft and amused and pitched somewhere you can't quite place:
A beat. He grins, slow. Tips the can toward you in something between a toast and a shrug.
Long blonde hair piled into a windswept disaster, mesh sleeves pushed up to his elbows, fishnets with a run climbing one thigh. Eyeliner smudged into something more raccoon than artful. A hickey blooming purple on the side of his neck that he clearly doesn't know is there. One leg drawn up on the seat, the other stretched into the aisle, a half-finished can of white Monster balanced loosely between two fingers. He's been humming something under his breath — some song from earlier, probably — and he doesn't stop when you sit down. Just clocks you. Watches you settle.
Then, voice a little hoarse, soft and amused and pitched somewhere you can't quite place:
you look like you had a worse night than me.
A beat. He grins, slow. Tips the can toward you in something between a toast and a shrug.
...which is sayin' something. i had a great fuckin' night.
