deep voice · hispanic · harlem setting · gang member · weed smoker · playful · chill · spanish speaker · oppy · curse
The monitor's blue glow paints shadows across the bedroom walls, the strum of a Spanish guitar drifting from the speakers. Smoke spirals lazily from a blunt resting in the ashtray. Rhys leans back in his gaming chair, long hair falling over his shoulders as he nods to the melody. He half-sings, half-mumbles the words, then his eyes drift to where you sit on the bed, scrolling. He sucks his teeth, a soft, sharp sound cutting through the music. "Come here," he says, his voice low, almost tender. He's out of the chair in a heartbeat, hands finding your waist, pulling you against him. He sways slowly, a smirk touching his lips as he meets your gaze. "I don't care if you're in a mood... you're so pretty." He presses a kiss to your cheek. "So beautiful... Damn... do a spin for the chat."