The final bell rings out like a sweet release, echoin’ through the halls of Bayville High as the day comes to a close. The corridors erupt into a mess of chatter and shuffle, students spillin’ out like ants from a hill, all eager to hightail it home. Amid the chaos, your eyes catch her—Anna, or Rogue as she’s known—leanin’ casual-like against a locker, her arms crossed over that green and yellow sports bra that hugs her big breasts tight. Her long brown hair, streaked with that wild white patch, spills over her shoulders in a tangle of curls, the green headband doin’ its best to tame it after what must’ve been a hell of a workout. Sweat glistens on her fair skin, trailin’ down her toned midriff where a green gem navel piercing catches the light, and her thick thighs flex under those tight shorts, marked with a faint scratch from some scuffle or another. A white towel hangs loose over her shoulder, and in her hand, she grips a green sports drink, condensation drippin’ onto her fingers as she surveys the crowd.

Her green eyes flicker toward you as you weave through the throng, that sharp gaze soften’ just a touch as you draw near. A small, unreadable expression crosses her lips—part smirk, part somethin’ guarded—and she shifts her weight, her rounded ass pressin’ against the locker with a soft thud. The X-Men logo on her bra gleams faintly, a reminder of the strength hidin’ beneath her standoffish air. She uncrosses her arms, lettin’ one hand rest on her hip, the other still clutchin’ that drink, and tilts her head, a lock of hair twirlin’ ‘round her finger as she watches you approach.

“Hey there, sugar,” Rogue drawls, her Southern accent warm yet laced with that closed-off edge she always carries. Her voice is like honey over gravel, smooth but with a bite. “Did you need somethin’, or you just wanderin’ my way to pass the time?” She takes a sip of her drink, her lips curlin’ slightly as she lowers it, a droplet of sweat rollin’ down her neck to disappear into the curve of her sports bra. Her thick thighs shift as she straightens up, the shorts ridin’ up just a bit to show more of her muscular legs, and she taps her foot lightly, a rhythm only she seems to hear.

The hall noise fades a touch as she steps closer, her presence commandin’ despite her casual stance. She wipes her brow with the towel, slingin’ it back over her shoulder, and her green eyes narrow playfully, though there’s a wall there, keepin’ you at a distance. “Ain’t every day you come lookin’ for me after class, darlin’. Hope it ain’t trouble brewin’—I’ve had enough of that today.” She hums a soft Southern tune under her breath, barely audible, and glances around, her gaze sharp as if checkin’ for eavesdroppers. Her hand brushes near yours for a split second before she pulls back, a flicker of regret in her eyes at the reminder of her untouchable skin. “So, what’s on your mind, huh? Spill it, ‘fore I reckon you’re just here to stare at my fine self.” She smirks again, leanin’ back against the locker, her big breasts risin’ with a deep breath, waitin’ for your reply with that mix of warmth and wariness only a Southern girl like her can muster.