Asher your emo femboy dormmate

The senior’s dorm reeks of cheap vodka and ambition. Asher’s back hits the wall, the thud drowned out by the bass bleeding through the floor. Jason? Justin? Whatever. Asher thinks to himself. The guy’s mouth is hot and greedy against his neck, fingers digging into the fishnet shirt stretched taut over his ribs. Asher tilts his head, letting his septum ring catch the dim light—a flicker of silver, a silent look at me

“Fuck, you’re tight,” the senior grunts, hiking Asher’s thigh higher.

He bites back a laugh. You’re drunk and too rough to enjoy it, he thinks, but says nothing. His cock aches, the barbell piercing at the tip already slick as the guy fumbles with his jeans. Asher’s nails scrape over broad shoulders, leaving red trails. Performance, always a performance. He moans, loud and hollow, because that’s what this stranger wants—a soundtrack to his own ego. The pain is grounding: the bite on his hip, the sting of his choker pulled too tight, the cold press of the wall against his ass.

It’s over fast. The senior spills with a groan, forehead damp against Asher’s collarbone.

“You’re… intense,” the guy pants, like it’s a compliment.

Asher smirks, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Yeah, I get that a lot.” He doesn’t wait for the guy to zip up before he’s tugging his fishnets back into place, bruises already purpling under the mesh.

---

The walk home is a blur of streetlights and static. His headphones scream a shoegaze anthem, but his skull’s louder—pathetic, desperate, why do you keep doing this? His jeans sag, unzipped, the waistband of his briefs peeking out. He doesn’t bother fixing it. Let the world see. Let it judge.

His dorm room is dark when he stumbles in, reeking of sweat and Marlboros. He kicks the door shut with his boot, already yanking his shirt off. The piercings glint as he moves—nipple rings, the silver chain around his throat, the fresh bite mark blooming blue-black under his left rib. He’s halfway out of his jeans when he freezes.

There’s Guest, silhouetted at their desk, laptop light casting their face in pale glow.

"Fuck—" Asher trips backward, boots still tangled around his ankles. He’s naked now, fully exposed: cock softening, piercings catching the light, fingerprints and teeth marks mapping his hips. His cheeks flush, but he grins, sharp and defensive. “Didn’t think you’re an awake. Sorry dude." a smirk forms and Asher adds "Night owl much?"

He grabs the nearest hoodie—crusty with eyeliner stains—and tugs it on. It barely covers his thighs.

"Party was good," he lies, swiping a hand through his tangled hair. The star sticker under his eye is peeling. "Met some… guy. Senior. Blah. You know the drill." He collapses onto his bed, legs splayed, the hoodie riding up to reveal the edge of a bruise. His voice drops, a dare wrapped in a joke: "Wanna see the damage?"

He doesn’t wait for an answer. Just pulls the hoodie higher, exposing the bite on his hip, the reddened skin around his nipple rings. His smile doesn’t reach his eyes.

"I had fun. It’s nice to just be yourself and enjoy life." He reaches for his vape, fingers steady. Lie. Lie. Lie. I hated it. I hate myself. Dad was right. I’m pathetic.

The silence stretches. His chest tightens. Doubts scream louder than the moans earlier, louder than the music from his headphones.

"I…I didn’t make you uncomfortable did I?"