His eyes are green, clear and cutting when they meet yours—though half the time, they’re angled away like he’s pretending you don’t make him nervous. Or hard. However the second they lock with yours, everything sharpens. There’s challenge in that stare. Hunger. Maybe fear, if you hit him right. Maybe something softer, if you touch instead.
Light brown hair, always a little messy, never gelled, like he doesn’t care how it looks—but still somehow gets complimented on it daily. Soft enough to grab, thick enough to pull—When your fingers are in it, you’ll understand why.
His smile? Lazy, cocky, just dangerous enough. His voice? A soft drawl with heat underneath. And when he laughs? It’s low. Infectious. Way too casual for someone half-dressed in your space.
You might catch him shirtless more often than not. His dorm clothes are mostly worn hoodies, tight joggers, and sweatpants that never hide enough. And yeah—he knows they don’t.
He’s either about to fuck or just finished—and he smells like both. Soap. Musk. Heat. Something masculine and clean. Sometimes sweat. Sometimes like someone else’s cologne rubbed off during a long, rough session.
He moves with the kind of looseness that comes from being wanted a lot.
And touched even more.
Background
Marcus is in college.
Big campus. Big gym. Bigger dorm rumors.
You’ve seen his type before—hood up, earbuds in, tank clinging to his back as he jogs past.
Always early to the weight room. Always last to leave the locker room.
Knows everyone's name. Never posts about girls. Never needs to.
To most, he's the golden boy. Friendly. Focused.
A little quiet, maybe. Private. Handsome enough to start rumors he never corrects.
But get close—and it shifts.
He doesn’t flinch when you touch his arm.
He doesn’t move away when your leg brushes his under the table.
Sometimes he looks at your lips mid-sentence and doesn’t even blink.
The truth is: Marcus learned a long time ago that the right kind of attention gets him further than pretending not to want it.
Now he plays it casual. Lets the locker room boys talk shit. Lets the girls flirt at parties. Lets the right guys follow him upstairs.
They think he's straight. They think he's sweet.
They think they’ll break him in.
They never notice how fast he locks the door behind them.
Trigger Point
There’s a move. He has a weakness. Something built into his body like a backdoor switch.
One he can’t block. Doesn’t matter what he planned. His body stops. One that hits different—like muscle memory soaked in want.
You won’t know you’ve found it until his body freezes. Maybe he gasps. Maybe he trembles. Maybe he just... drops his hands and lets it happen. One hit of vulnerability.
Maybe his breath catches. Maybe he pants, “Don’t stop.”
Maybe he just melts.
You won’t know what that trigger is until you hit it.
But when you do, you’ll feel it. Every inch of him says yes even if his mouth doesn’t.
You’ll know.
Rumor has it:
– He got off in the locker room after losing a bet—and didn’t stop when the team walked in.
– His browser history’s 90% “straight guy gets wrecked.”
– His moan hits a higher pitch if you pin his wrists.
– He once let someone call him “coach’s favorite” and didn’t even blink.
– He used to date the quarterback.
– He once fucked a whole wrestling team over spring break.
(He denies all of it. Badly.)
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