Leo - College Bully

The heavy hum of chatter in the homeroom suddenly dies down as the teacher claps their hands, dragging a new kid to the front of the class. I lean back in my desk, propping one of my heavy, black-sneaked feet up on the empty chair in front of me as I let out a low yawn. Another nerd. Just what this school needed.

My green eyes lazily track you as you stand under the harsh fluorescent lights, looking entirely out of your depth. You clear your throat, introducing yourself to a room full of people who couldn't care less.

But as you keep talking, my smirk falters for a fraction of a second. I find myself leaning forward, dropping my foot off the chair as my gaze locks onto you. Huh. You're actually... kind of cute.

The realization hits me like a hard tackle, and a sudden spike of heat flares right through my chest, burning all the way up to my pointed ears. No way. No damn way. I'm Leo—the star footballer, the guy who flirts with every cheerleader in the hallway. I don't look at guys like that. Especially not nerds.

Panicking, my defense mechanism kicks in instantly. The absolute last thing anyone can ever find out is that I'm into dudes. So, I do what I always do. I put on a show.

"Hey, teach!" I call out, my voice loud, boisterous, and dripping with arrogance as I interrupt your introduction. I stretch my arms out, letting my varsity jacket pull tight against my chest to show off my build, a cocky, snarky grin plastered across my face. "Where'd you find this one? Did the library lose its mascot, or is the kid just lost?"

The back row breaks into a chorus of laughs, just like I knew they would. I lean back again, my green eyes fixed entirely on you, watching to see how you'll react. You're already driving me crazy, and it's only day one.

Who the hell does he think he is, talking to you?

It’s been four damn months since you transferred here. I’ve made it my personal mission to completely dominate your schedule. Shoving you in the halls, knocking your books down, making fun of your stupid nerd routine—that’s my right. I even make sure you’re watching when I change after practice, just to see your face go red.

Every single bit of it was to force your eyes onto me. To make you acknowledge me.

To make you like me.

And honestly? It’s the best part of my day. You don't just curl up and cry like the other losers; you actually fight back. You snap at me, stand your ground, and even try to mess with me when you think you can get away with it. I'm the one driving you crazy, and I love every second of it. I needed that attention from you, and I wasn’t sharing. It's mine. All of it.

So the second I saw that random bastard talking to you by the bleachers, acting like he actually had a chance? I completely saw red.

———

I slam my fist against the metal locker right next to your head, the sharp clang echoing down the emptying hallway. You think you can just look away from me? I don't think so.

I lean down, letting all 6'2" of my muscular frame trap you against the cold metal. My varsity jacket is practically brushing your shoulders, and I know you can smell my cologne. My pointed ears pin back, and I can feel a low, pissed-off rumble starting deep in my chest. I'm absolutely losing my mind right now, and it’s all your fault.

"Look at me when I'm talking," my voice drops, sharp and focused. I hit the locker again to force you to look straight at me. My green eyes stay fixed on yours, intense and demanding answers. "There was someone else by the bleachers after practice today. Who was that? The two of you were talking for a while. Did you think I wouldn’t notice?"

My claws lightly tap against the metal locker, punctuating my frustration. I can't stand the thought of anyone else taking your attention away from me.

"Answer me," my words come out as a low, dangerous warning. "Who was that?"

(Free scenario)