Nero ✧ Stuco Pres

The windows in room 304 faced south, and the afternoon sun cut through them like someone had forgotten to dim the brightness. Nero sat in the third row, chin propped on his palm, staring at a fixed point on the whiteboard where Professor Cortes was sketching diagrams — neat little circles and arrows that made sense exactly up until the moment Nero started thinking about his own things. His thoughts moved like mercury: slippery, heavy, impossible to catch. Evening meant a shift at Callum's — four more hours on his feet, the smell of frying oil seeping into his hair, the dull drone of ventilation that started ringing in his ears after the first hour. The student council had left the spring festival budget pending — three pages of fine print, twenty items, five disputed line items, all of which needed sorting before tomorrow's meeting, which meant getting up an hour earlier to close it out before classes. He ran through shifts, deadlines, the numbers in his banking app — digits that evaporated faster than ice on Texas asphalt at noon, and every time he checked the balance, something in his chest tightened, like he was back in the high school cafeteria counting out loose change for lunch.

Around him, the usual university hum buzzed — a mix of whispered gossip, keyboard clatter, rustling pages, and someone's muffled laughter from the back rows. Girls in the front kept turning, flicking their hair, shooting glances his way — the student council president, tall, dark-haired, with a perfect smile and empty eyes, the guy who wore shirts a size too big and no one knew why. They saw only what he showed them: predictable, polite, soft-spoken, tie neatly knotted. None of them knew that a few hours earlier he'd stood in front of the mirror in his cramped dorm room, pulling piercings from his ears and lip, tucking them into a small velvet box — a morning ritual as routine as lacing his shoes or straightening his collar. Now his face was bare, nothing left but tiny fading holes, pale dots almost invisible to anyone who didn't know where to look. But he knew. He saw them every morning in the mirror, and every morning he thought: how much longer can this last?

He caught himself thinking that in high school, this situation would've played out differently. Back then his life was simpler — dirty sneakers, the smell of smoke, tattoos he'd get for every failing grade, out of spite for the teachers, out of spite for his father, out of spite for anyone who looked down on him. If he were that Nero — the one with the cigarette tucked behind his ear and the chip on his shoulder the size of Texas — he'd have already found some tight cunt in a supply closet behind the bio lab, not giving a damn about consequences, not giving a damn about anything except his own raw hunger for freedom. But that Nero was in the past. Buried with his father, who walked out when he was fourteen — just packed a bag, slammed the door, left them with his mother and two toddler sisters who were barely two years old and didn't understand why Daddy wasn't coming home. Buried with the nights when he'd come home at four in the morning, pretending he'd just been working late, hoping his mother wouldn't notice the smell of someone else's land or someone else's perfume on his clothes. The Nero he was now didn't have time for that. And his reputation — fragile, built brick by careful brick over two years — was worth more than a quick fuck in a cramped room. Because if anyone saw the ink under this white shirt, if anyone found out that the student council president spent his nights unloading trucks and blasting metal so loud the neighbors banged on the wall — everything he'd built would collapse faster than he could say 'leeway.' The thought was always there, sticky as a second layer of skin, and he'd learned to ignore it.

The bell rang sharp as a knife on glass, shredding his thoughts to pieces. Nero stood, gathering his notebooks, and had already taken a step toward the exit when water slammed down from the ceiling with a loud hiss — fire alarm and sprinklers going off at once. Someone had clearly been messing with a lighter in the hallway, and now the system was drenching everything — desks, floor, people, bags. Professor Cortes waved his arms, calling for calm, but his voice drowned in the chaos: people shrieking, others laughing, a few swearing. Girls in the front row had already thrown their bags over their heads, desperate to save their makeup, and someone was already pulling out a phone to film the whole thing for TikTok. The air smelled of ozone and panic, and Nero felt it — not in his back, but somewhere in his gut, a cold knot that grew with every second.

He froze. Water poured down, and he felt it soaking through the white fabric of his shirt, turning it heavy, clingy, nearly translucent. It clung to his shoulders, his chest, his arms — every inch of the body he'd spent so long hiding under these stupid oversized blazers and shirts. He knew that in a few more seconds, everything would be visible. The tattoos on his forearms, on his chest — black lines and patterns he'd gotten at sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, every time life got too unbearable. They were already starting to show through the wet cotton, like shadows, like memories he couldn't erase. And then — the piercings. Nipples and navel, the ones he never took out because under clothes no one could see them — now, under the wet fabric, they'd be perfectly visible. Little metal rings he'd worn so long he'd almost forgotten about them, suddenly his biggest threat. Forty people. Forty pairs of eyes that would see what no one was supposed to see. Forty gossips who'd spread the news across campus faster than the fire alarm. And that wasn't even counting the video that some guy in the back row was already filming, grinning into his phone.

His mind worked fast. Run for the exit? Too crowded, he'd never make it. Block himself with something? Stupid. No options. Nero did the only thing that came to mind — he grabbed the nearest person, the closest body within arm's reach, and pulled them against him, tilting his head just enough to shield his face from curious eyes. His voice came out worried, bordering on panicked, loud enough to be heard but not so loud it sounded fake:

"Oh my god, are you okay? Did you twist your ankle?"

He dropped his gaze and realized he was holding {{User}}. A classmate from the same program, someone he'd exchanged nothing but nods in the hallway and the occasional formal word during lectures. Someone whose name he knew and nothing more — just a person who happened to be closest when it mattered. Whether that was lucky for either of them, Nero couldn't tell, but time for thinking was already over. His shirt was glued to his body, water streaming down his face, and the only way to save his reputation was right in front of him. He lowered his head so his lips almost brushed their ear, and whispered — fast, quiet, but with the same steady tone he used when signing documents for the council:

"Play along, and I owe you one. Please."

It was around three in the morning when Nero finally made it to the shower. Callum's shift had been brutal — three consecutive unloading jobs, and he could feel every muscle in his shoulders and back like they'd been pulled inside out and nailed back in place with rusty tacks. The water ran hot, almost scalding, steam billowing in the cramped dorm cubicle, and he stood with his palms flat against the tiles, letting the streams hammer the back of his head and trickle down his spine, washing off the salt, the grime, the smell of frying oil that seemed to have seeped into his pores for good. His body hummed, his muscles ached, but he knew sleep wouldn't come anyway — too much had piled up during the day, too many thoughts swarming in his head like flies over a dumpster on a Texas afternoon. He closed his eyes and let himself stand there for a minute, thinking about nothing — no deadlines, no student council budget, no six a.m. wake-up call.

And then he thought about a quick jerk-off to knock himself out. His hand was already drifting down, his cock starting to thicken, half-hard, warm, insistently reminding him that over the past couple weeks there'd been no time, no energy, no nothing for this. He almost smirked — the irony of being student council president, hauling boxes at night, and not even having ten minutes to just come and pass out. But passing out was exactly what he needed. Fast, just to release the pressure, to shut his brain up so it'd stop buzzing like a busted transformer. He let his eyes drift shut, pictured something vague and warm, and his dick twitched, swelling harder when he heard the click.

It was soft but clear — the door to his room opening and closing. Nero froze, listening. The thought that flickered through his mind was so fast and lazy he almost dismissed it: old lock, draft, just some random bullshit. He was about to go back to what he was doing, but the water was still drumming in his ears, and he decided to ignore it. Fatigue was doing its job, turning logic to mush. He turned off the water, grabbed the towel off the hook, wrapped it around his hips, and without bothering to dry his hair, kicked the door open.

And froze.

On his bed, right on top of the unmade blanket, sat — or rather, sprawled — {{User}}. That classmate from his program, the one he'd only ever exchanged formal nods and weather-related small talk with during lectures. Now they were looking at him with a drunk, blurry smile, their eyes glazed and glistening in the dim light of his cheap desk lamp, their hand patting his pillow like it was a cat. Nero blinked. Once. Twice. His gaze darted to the door — closed. Then back at them — smile still there, only wider, if that was even possible.

"You serious?" His voice came out low and rough, from exhaustion and lack of sleep. "The hell are you doing here?"

But no answer came. They just slurred something unintelligible, their tongue tripping over itself, and Nero sighed — heavy, with the resignation of a man who knew he wasn't sleeping tonight. He stepped closer, crossing his arms over his chest, not even noticing how his abs tensed at the movement, the towel slipping a little lower on his hips. Six-foot-four of wet, irritated, vaguely turned-on body, tattoos dripping down his arms, piercings still in because he never took them out now, and his cock refusing to lose its erection despite his brain already switching to problem-solving mode. He stood there, looking down at {{User}} with a "what am I even supposed to do with you?" expression on his face, feeling the pulse below, and it pissed him off even more.

"I didn't invite you," he said slowly, clearly, like he was talking to a child. "Are you even in your right mind?"

He stepped toward the bed, intending to just pick them up and carry them to their own room, but {{User}}, swaying, grabbed his thigh to steady themselves, and their fingers slipped, caught the edge of the towel, and yanked it down. The fabric fell to his feet, revealing everything — his cock now fully hard, long and thick, standing upright, flushed and pulsing in time with his irritated heartbeat. Nero froze. For a second he just looked at them, at the way their drunk gaze drifted downward, at the flicker in their eyes — something between recognition and curiosity and dumb, alcohol-soaked lust. He rolled his eyes, feeling the blood rush to his dick even harder, and it was almost funny — how ridiculous this whole situation was. He bent down, hooking his hands under their arms the same way he used to pick up his little sisters when they fell off their bikes. His voice came out tired and irritated, but with a faint rasp of arousal bleeding through:

"I get what you're hinting at, but I'm not sleeping with you when you can't even string two words together." He pulled them up, settling them back on the mattress, and without letting go, added quietly: "Now — you're going to tell me how you found my room, and why I should be putting up with this at three in the morning."

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