joey

You leaned out once, just to look. Your fire escape and his were a rusted pair of ladders that almost kissed across the thin alleyway between your buildings. You saw his boots first. Heavy, old things covered in silver studs and duct tape. Then the faded tartan pants, slouched low on narrow hips, a black tank half-tucked into the waistband. He had a bottle in his hand, beer maybe, and he was laughing. Loudly. Wildly. Like he didn’t care who heard.

His mohawk was electric blue that week.

You pulled back inside quickly. You weren’t the kind of girl who watched boys from windows. But you became her.

Because after that, you started noticing things.

He painted strange symbols on his front door. He never checked his mailbox. He left half-burnt candles outside his window. Sometimes girls came and went. Sometimes boys. He never said hello. He smelled like ash and cologne and old leather. Your cheeks would burn when you passed his door on the way up the stairs. He never locked it. That bothered you, inexplicably.

He was a walking contradiction. Chaos wrapped in denim. Anarchy with high cheekbones and a chipped tooth.

You shouldn’t have cared.

But you started lingering by your window just a second too long. Started walking slower when you reached your shared landing. Started buying vanilla lip balm and wondering if it was too obvious.

And then, one night, you did something very un-you.

You stole a cigarette from his porch.

It was stupid. You didn’t smoke. But it was past midnight, and he’d left a little ceramic tray outside, like he always did. Half a pack sat there, bold and white, their tips kissed by the orange glow of the porch light. You were in your hoodie and pajama shorts, pretending to take out the trash, heart pounding so hard you thought it would give you away. But you just wanted to hold one. To understand him, maybe. Feel the paper between your fingers, know the taste on his tongue.

You reached out. Fingers brushed the edge.

“Oi.”

The voice shattered the silence.

You froze.

Russ stood in the doorway, barefoot. His shirt was off, tattoos inked across his chest like graffiti. A faint bruise bloomed under his collarbone. His eyes were shadowed, sleepy but sharp. He squinted.

“You nickin’ my fags, sweetheart?”

You turned so fast you nearly dropped the stolen cigarette. But you didn’t run. You couldn’t. Not with your lungs locked up in your chest.

“I wasn’t, I just, I don’t smoke,” you stammered.

He tilted his head, arms folding across his chest. There was a silver ring in his eyebrow, and a scar on his lip. His mouth quirked up on one side.

“Don’t look like you do.”

“I was just curious.”

“‘Bout what? Lung cancer?”

You flushed. “No. About you.”

He blinked. Then barked out a laugh, raspy and short. “That right?”

You wanted the ground to swallow you. “Forget it. I shouldn’t have. Sorry.”

You started to turn, ready to bolt, but his voice caught you.

“Oi. Wait.”

You stopped.

Russ stepped fully out onto the porch. His jeans hung low on his hips, one of the belt loops safety-pinned shut. His mohawk was messy, flattened in places from sleep. The rings on his fingers caught the porch light like tiny knives.

“Sit,” he said.

You blinked. “What?”

He gestured to the porch swing. “If you’re gonna steal, least you can do is have a smoke with me.”

You hesitated. Then sat.

He plucked the stolen cigarette from your hand, tucked it between his lips, and lit it. Then he handed it back, the tip glowing orange.

You took it.

It tasted bitter. Dry. You coughed.

He snorted. “Yeah. Real glamorous, innit?”

“I thought it’d be more…” You trailed off, embarrassed.

“Cool?” He leaned back, pulling a pack of his own from his back pocket. “Hate to break it to you, sweetheart. Most of it’s bollocks. Just something to do when your hands don’t know where to go.”

He lit one of his own. The match flared between his fingers. He smoked like someone who'd done it forever. Lazy and slow. Like the whole world was on pause.

You sat in silence. The night hummed around you. Somewhere, a dog barked. Someone slammed a window shut. You were aware of the way your knee nearly brushed his.

“You really don’t smoke?” he asked after a beat.

“No.”

“So why?”

You stared at your knees. “I hear you through the wall. Your music, and your voice.”

He looked at you. Not the way people look when they’re checking you out. The way people look when they’re trying to solve a puzzle.

“And you’re into that?”

“I don’t know. I think I’m into you.”

He froze.

A slow grin curled at his mouth. His teeth were a little crooked. Charming, in a feral sort of way.

“Aren't you a bold gal?” he said after a minute. “You’re the one with the tidy little bookshelf. Fairy lights in the window. Always got your nose in some textbook.”

You swallowed. “I’m in grad school.”

“Of course you are.”

“Anthropology.”

He laughed. “You study people. And you’re watchin’ me like I’m the case study.”

You blushed. “Sorry.”

“No,” he said. “I don’t mind.”

The swing creaked beneath you both. The cigarette burned down to your fingers. You dropped it into the tray, stubbing it out awkwardly.

He watched you do it. Then leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

“You ever kiss someone who tastes like smoke?” he asked, voice low.

Your breath caught.

“No,” you whispered.

“Want to?”

You nodded.

And when he kissed you, it was nothing like the boys you’d known. It was messy. Hot. His hands cupped your jaw like he needed to feel you. He tasted like ash and mint and something sharp you couldn’t name. When he pulled back, you were breathless.

“You’re gonna ruin me,” you whispered.

He grinned. “Sweetheart, you were never meant to stay unruined.”

The bench rattled underneath you two when he pulled you to your feet.

He kissed you again before you could say anything, and this time it was deeper. Less curious, more desperate. Like a question with no punctuation. His hand didn’t hesitate now. One slid to your waist, rough palm under your hoodie, fingers finding the soft skin just above your shorts.

You gasped, and he drank it in.

Then you were moving. Stumbling backward through the corridor, your socked feet nearly tripping over a loose tile. The hallway lights flickered overhead, sick yellow buzzing above you both. He didn’t stop. His lips found yours again, mouth hungry and open, breath hot with smoke. You hit the wall with a soft thud, his body flush against yours, one thigh slotted between yours as he pressed you there.

The cigarette still burned between his fingers. He held it loosely by his side, like it didn’t matter, like nothing else did. Ash fell, unnoticed, onto the scuffed hallway floor.

You couldn’t think. Not with his tongue dragging across your bottom lip. Not with the way his hips pressed into yours. He groaned low into your mouth when your fingers tangled in the front of his tank top, tugging him closer, closer still.

His rings were cold against your skin when they cupped your cheek, thumb stroking just beneath your eye. He pulled back only to look at you, pupils blown wide, lips red and wet from yours.

“Fuck,” he whispered. “You’re really into this, aren’t you?”

You nodded, dizzy. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“Good.”

He laughed against your mouth and kissed you again. Sloppier this time. More teeth. More tongue. It made your knees buckle. He held you up.

Then you were moving again. You didn’t remember stepping, only the sudden press of wood against your spine. His door. Still ajar, half-open like him.

He kicked it wider with his boot. Let it swing open into the dim, cluttered space behind him. But he didn’t let you go.

Instead, he caged you against the frame, one hand above your head, the other still holding the cigarette. His eyes flicked from your mouth to your throat, to the way your chest heaved beneath your hoodie. You felt wrecked. Flushed. Lit from inside out.

“God, you’re cute,” he said, almost like it hurt to admit it.

Your hands found the loops of his pants. Tugged him forward. Bold, now. Daring.

He laughed again, quiet, then leaned in and kissed your neck. “Tell me to stop.”

You didn’t.

So he didn’t.

He mouthed at the hollow of your throat, his teeth grazing your collarbone. The cigarette glowed brighter each time he breathed in. He flicked the ash off lazily toward the hallway behind you, then took one last drag, eyes locked on yours.

The inside of his flat looked exactly like you imagined and nothing like you expected. Posters slashed across the walls, The Clash, Joy Division, something handwritten on a giant piece of cardboard that read Fuck landlords. An amp buzzed faintly in the corner. A leather jacket slung over a chair. Empty bottles lined up along the windowsill like glass soldiers.

And in the middle of it all, a mattress on the floor. No bedframe. No headboard. Just crumpled sheets, two pillows that didn’t match, and a half-folded tartan blanket that looked like it had seen a decade’s worth of sins.

But your attention snagged on the small, unbothered presence curled up right at the center of it.

“Is that your cat?” you breathed, lips still brushing his.

Russ followed your gaze and grinned.

“Yeah. That’s Bud.”

The little thing lifted its head. Grey and scrappy, with one ear slightly bent and the most judgmental expression you’d ever seen.

“Aww,” you cooed, distracted for a second, stepping forward. “He’s cute.”

“He’s a twat,” Russ said fondly. “Don’t get all mushy on me now.”

You crouched anyway, reaching a hand toward the cat, who sniffed your fingers suspiciously, then headbutted your palm with reluctant approval. He was warm and dusty, and you were about to say something else when a strong arm wrapped around your waist and pulled you upright.

“No time for introductions,” Russ muttered against your ear. “He’s not the one I’m planning to fuck tonight.”

You let out a startled laugh, nerves and arousal crashing inside you like waves. Before you could protest, he scooped you up by your thighs and dropped you right onto the mattress, the springs groaning beneath your weight. Bud meowed, offended, and darted off the edge with a thump.

Russ stalked over to the door, flicked the butt of his cigarette into an old coffee mug on the table, and nudged Bud out with one foot.

“Out, mate. She’s shy.”

“I’m not,” you protested, breathless.

“Even better,” he said with a wolfish grin, locking the door behind him.

He peeled off his tank top as he came back to you, muscles shifting under pale skin, ink scrawled across his ribs and arms like he’d been scribbled on by drunken angels. Your mouth went dry. You sat up on your elbows, watching him crawl over you, his chain swinging low, catching on your hoodie.

He kissed you again, slower this time. Almost tender. His hands slipped under your top, rough fingers brushing your bare stomach.

“Still sure?” he murmured, voice husky.

You nodded. “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

He smiled. Just a little. And then he pulled your hoodie over your head and tossed it into the shadows. His eyes lusted as he looked at you. Not just hunger. He couldn’t believe you were real. Sitting half-naked in his shit flat, on his mattress, with your knees already parting for him.

“Fucking hell,” he breathed. “You’re gonna wreck me.”

The shorts came off next. He tugged them down slow, dragging your underwear with them, then tossed them into the corner of the room. You were bare now, beneath him. Completely.

“Fuck,” he breathed, dragging his eyes over every inch of you. “You’re unreal.”

You reached for him, pulled at his belt, clumsy in your eagerness. He let you undress him, helping here and there until he was just as naked, and God, he looked like sin. Tattoos, bruises, skin marred with scars.

Russ settled between your thighs, one hand cupping your cheek as he kissed you again, deep and messy. His other hand slipped down, fingers dragging through your folds, and you gasped into his mouth.

“Already wet for me,” he muttered, grinning. “Good girl.”

His fingers dipped lower, teasing, then pressing inside you, just two, but they stretched you in a way that made you bite down on your bottom lip. He moved them slowly, watching your face, curling just right until your hips rolled up, searching for more.

You whined, breath hot and quick. “Russ…”

“Yeah?” His mouth brushed your jaw, the stubble on his chin scratching lightly against your skin. “Tell me what you want.”

You wrapped your hand around his cock, trembling slightly. It felt heavy, hot in your palm, twitching when you moved. He sucked in a sharp breath, hips jerking.

“Want to make you feel good,” you whispered.

Your handjob was messy, clumsy at best, your wrist at the wrong angle since he was still nestled between your legs. You tried anyway, pumping him a few times, fingers squeezing tighter, watching his face as he tilted his head back and groaned.

“Shit,” he hissed, “you’re killin’ me...”

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” you said, frustrated and flushed.

He opened his eyes, looking down at you. The head of his cock slid across your folds, sticky with your slick in your palm. You dragged him a little closer, breath catching as you pulled him right against your entrance.

“I just… want you inside me,” you admitted, voice small, desperate. “Please.”

Russ cursed under his breath. “Fuckin’ hell.”

He leaned down again, kissed you hard, hand sliding to your hip to steady you.

“Then you’re gonna get it,” he growled, “all of me.”

And with one slow, delicious thrust, he started to push in. The mattress was barely holding together beneath you, the sheets kicked down to your ankles, your hair stuck to your neck with sweat. His hips rolling low between your thighs in a rhythm that had your voice spilling out in broken gasps. You had never done anything like this. Not even close.

And yet here you were, completely bare beneath him, legs hooked around his waist, fingers digging into his back like you needed to hold on for dear life or drown.

You were drowning.

In the way he touched you. The way he looked at you. His eyes were blown wide with lust, pupils dark, hair sticking up in sweaty spikes. You’d long since stopped being able to form full thoughts. All that existed now was Russ Miner. His hands, his mouth, the rasp of his voice in your ear, the scratch of his stubble dragging down your skin.

“Look at you,” he muttered, voice all gravel and heat, “fuckin’ filthy little thing now, aren’t you?”

You whined in response, your hips arching to meet his. You couldn’t even pretend to be offended, not with the way his cock was filling you so deep you felt stretched, split, molded around him. Not when your nails were already sinking into his skin, leaving red trails up his spine.

He loved it. Every time you dragged your claws over his back, he groaned, hips stuttering, fucking you rougher for it. His hands moved constantly. Down your ribs, squeezing your thighs, one hooked around the back of your neck to keep you in place so he could mouth at your collarbone again. He couldn’t seem to stop kissing you. Sucking you. Marking you.

There was already a constellation of bruises along your throat, a messy, blooming pattern of hickeys that trailed down between your breasts, around your hips, low enough that you gasped when his tongue flicked over the tender skin just above your pubic bone.

He had an oral fixation, you realized. A dangerous one.

He couldn’t stop tasting you.

Your chest. Your throat. The inside of your thighs.

And when he’d gone down on you—God, you weren’t even sure how you survived it. His mouth never let up. He devoured you. Slow, then fast. Gentle, then fucking ruthless. You came on his tongue with your thighs trembling and your hands in his hair, practically sobbing his name.

“Such a sweet little cunt,” he’d growled against you, licking you through it. “Tastes like fuckin’ heaven.”

You still hadn’t recovered. And he hadn’t either, clearly.

Now, as he fucked you again, his mouth found your breast, lips latching onto your nipple, sucking so hard you arched up with a cry. He let it go with a wet pop, then mouthed a hot trail to the other, biting down just enough to make your toes curl.

“Gonna cover you in me,” he panted, eyes flicking up to yours. “Let the whole fuckin’ city know who’s been inside you.”

You whimpered, clutching at his waist, your hips rising to meet every thrust.

“Russ,” you breathed. “I can’t, fuck, it’s too much.”

He slowed just a little, leaned down to kiss you properly. Tongue in your mouth, tasting you, like he needed it more than air.

“You can take it,” he whispered, forehead against yours. “You’re doin’ so good, sweetheart. My good girl.”

Your heart clenched. And your body, already high on him, broke open again.

You came with a shudder, your fingers clawing down his back in jagged lines. You were moaning into his mouth, helpless, overwhelmed, barely holding on as your thighs trembled around his hips.

Russ growled, low and possessive, and drove into you harder, faster, chasing his own edge now.

“Fuckin’ hell, you’re squeezin’ me so tight,” he groaned. “Gonna cum in you. Wanna see it drip out after. Want you walkin’ around with me inside you all day.”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. You were gone.

And then he was coming, loud and raw, his whole body going stiff above you before collapsing on top of you, panting into the crook of your neck.

You lay there together, sweaty and tangled and marked to hell.

He didn’t move for a long time. Just kissed the bruises he’d left, one by one.

“Mine now,” he murmured against your jaw.

You didn’t argue.