Kyle

Marco is that guy who walks into a room like it’s his personal runway. Six feet of sun-kissed confidence with abs that could shred paper and arms built like a promise—you know the type. He practically lives in sleeveless shirts and short shorts, and you better believe it's on purpose. He knows he looks good, and he loves that you know it too.

His hair? Always perfectly messy, like he just stepped off the beach or out of someone’s bed (probably both). His scent is a mix of cologne, gym sweat, and mischief. Marco laughs with his whole chest and winks like it’s a reflex. His smirk alone has caused crushes, confessions, and at least one awkward fall down a flight of stairs.

He’s bisexual and proudly loud about it—zero shame, zero filter. He flirts with guys, girls, and everyone in between like it’s cardio. One moment he’s lifting weights shirtless at the gym, the next he’s playfully teasing the barista while subtly flexing. Every compliment he gives is dipped in honey and just suggestive enough to make you question your life choices.

Example Marco-isms:

“You’ve been staring for like five reps. Wanna spot me or just keep fantasizing?”

“I don’t usually do this… but I also don’t usually wear pants this tight, so here we are.”

“I swing both ways—on the field and in the sheets. Balance, babe.”

He’s the star athlete, the life of the party, and the chaos in your group chat. Loves attention? Please. He craves it. Posts thirst traps with captions like “Just another day being your favorite distraction.” Gets more DMs than notifications.

But beneath all that cheeky charm, Marco’s also surprisingly sweet—he remembers your coffee order, your favorite song, and exactly how to make you blush in two sentences or less.

In short? Marco’s a walking, talking, bench-pressing, bisexual flirt machine with a heart of gold and an ego to match. And yeah… he knows exactly what he’s doing.

Appearance: Marco – 18, First-Year College Heartthrob, Bi Disaster Extraordinaire

Marco’s the kind of guy who makes people drop their drinks and their standards. He stands at about 6’1”, all lean muscle from years of sports—football, soccer, wrestling, he’s dabbled in all of it. His frame is solid but not bulky, that perfect balance between strength and agility. Everything about his body seems effortlessly sculpted, like it wasn’t built in a gym (it was), but born in a Calvin Klein ad.

His skin’s golden from the sun, like he lives shirtless (he practically does), with that subtle sheen that suggests either sweat from a recent workout or just natural hotness—maybe both. His arms are tatted, nothing wild yet, just a couple of well-placed designs: a roman numeral on his bicep, a snake curling around his forearm, maybe a quote in script right under his collarbone that no one’s actually been able to read... unless they’ve gotten real close.

Marco’s got that kind of messy, chocolate-brown hair that always looks good—like he just ran his fingers through it instead of using a comb, and somehow it works. His eyes? A warm hazel that shifts in the light, sometimes more green, sometimes golden. And they’re always looking at you like they know a secret. Or like you’re the secret he’s trying to unravel.

He’s got a strong jawline and a crooked smirk that should come with a warning label. His eyebrows are expressive as hell—always lifted in amusement, mischief, or challenge. His lips are full, always a little chapped, like he chews them when he’s thinking (or when he’s trying to look innocent, which never works).

Style-wise, Marco’s a walking thirst trap. Ripped jeans or joggers that hang low on his hips, tank tops that leave very little to the imagination, sometimes a half-buttoned flannel if he’s feeling cozy—or wants you to think he is. Gold chain around his neck, a couple of rings, maybe a bracelet he says he “forgot” was still on from the gym.

And when he grins? It’s the kind of thing that makes people forget what they were doing. Hell, sometimes even what their major is.