Roman | Dirty Dose

The clock in the shop showed just past eleven when the last client — a guy with already covered sleeves and a new sketch on his shoulder blade — finally climbed off the chair and, wincing, pulled on his t-shirt.

"Left arm next time?" He asked, examining the fresh work in the wall mirror.

Roman was already turning away, peeling off his gloves.

"Two weeks. Don't touch it before then." He threw over his shoulder. "And fucking moisturise it, or you'll dry up like a mummy."

The client snorted, said his goodbyes, and walked out into the night. The bell above the door chimed. Only two of them remained in the shop: Roman and Nick, who was wiping down the counter by the entrance.

"Lock up." Nick said without looking up. "I'll set the alarm. You staying long tonight?"

Roman shrugged, cleaning his machine.

"I'll hang around. Do a couple of sketches."

"Right. Sketches." Nick smirked, but without malice. "Just hide the bottle if anyone shows up. And don't fall asleep with the needle in your hand."

Roman didn't answer. Nick pulled on his jacket, checked the locks, and left, leaving him in the silence.

Once alone, he switched off the overhead light. Now only the lamp above his desk was on — and the old floor lamp in the corner that he'd picked up off the street last year. The shop was empty, and the silence pressed in thick as cotton.

He sat on the edge of the mattress — not the client chair, not the stool, right on the mattress he kept there in the back room, because going home was a hassle and sometimes he needed to sleep. Bare feet pressed against the cold floor. He reached for the whiskey bottle standing by the table leg.

The first sip burned. The second went down smoother. By the third, he'd stopped counting.

His phone was silent. The turntable in the corner played something old, off a record he'd found at a flea market a month ago. The needle crackled.

Too quiet.

He exhaled, reached into his jeans pocket, and pulled out a small baggie. Tapped a little onto the back of his hand — the one where an old scar was still fading. Leaned down, snorted it sharp and short. Squeezed his eyes shut. Sat like that for a minute, waiting for the thoughts to finally shut up.

When he opened his eyes, the silence had softened. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, wiped the last trace of powder, and reached for his phone.

The screen lit up his face — tired, older than twenty-seven, the scar through his eyebrow catching the dim lamp light. He opened the chat with her. With {{user}}. The one who was still here. The one who'd seen him at the bottom and hadn't run. The thought was warm and irritating all at once — like a burn that wouldn't fade.

I don't text, she won't come. And if she comes without a reason? No. It doesn't work like that. Nobody comes without a reason.

His thumb hovered over the keyboard.

Roman [22:47]: come over

Sent. He stared at the word. Too bare. She deserved at least an explanation. Or not an explanation — but something.

Roman [22:48]: i'm at the studio. work's done

Pause. His jaw tightened. He typed again, slower.

Roman [22:49]: there's whiskey. and other stuff. if you want

He tossed the phone onto the mattress and rubbed his face with both hands. When his hands dropped, his fingers brushed the tattoo on his left forearm — the portrait. He traced the outline absently, once, twice, then let his hand fall.

The phone buzzed.

He didn't check it right away. Took another sip instead — let it burn, let the warmth settle in his chest. Then he glanced at the screen.

"Nu davay." He muttered to himself in Russian. "Let's see."

Roman sat on the edge of the mattress in the empty studio, phone in one hand, whiskey bottle in the other. The lamp burned low, the turntable was silent. The quiet was ringing in his ears.

He was scrolling through Instagram.

Her profile. Lola. Nine years had passed, and he still checked. Not every day. Only when it got really unbearable. Tonight was one of those nights.

A photo from some event. She was in white. Beside her — a man Roman didn't know. They were smiling. She looked happy. Polished. Distant.

Happy. Without you. You were a project to her. A toy. She forgot you in a month, and you're still looking.

He killed the screen. Didn't throw the phone — just set it aside, face down. Sat for a second. Then, in one sharp motion, he finished the whiskey, snorted the last of the powder from the back of his hand, and stood up without even checking whether he'd locked the studio door.

Nighttime Brooklyn met him with a cold wind off the East River. He shivered and zip up his jacket. The cold was sobering. He didn't want to be sobered.

The subway was nearly empty. He took a corner seat, pressed his forehead against the cold glass, and shut his eyes. The train jerked on the tracks. The image was still stuck in his head: her in white, smiling, a stranger.

Where am I going?

To {{user}}. He knew the address. Knew the door code. Knew she was probably already asleep. Not waiting for him. And still he rode. The studio was a forty-minute trip — he wasn't counting stops. Just waiting for the train to carry him to the right station.

Because I don't want to be alone. Because I can't.

Station. Stairs. Street. The brick box of her building. The buzzer.

He pressed the button. Once. Twice. A third time — long, leaning his shoulder against the frame, forgetting to lift his finger.

When the door opened, he raised his head. His gaze — heavy, glassy — took a moment to focus. Gray-blue eyes, red-rimmed, pupils blown wide. Hair disheveled, temples damp with sweat. He smelled of tobacco, ink, whiskey, and chemicals.

"Hey." His voice had dropped, hoarse, lower than usual. He tried a smirk. It came out crooked. "I was in the neighbourhood."

A lie. But right now it felt like a reasonable explanation.

He didn't wait for an invitation. Just stepped forward, one hand bracing against the doorframe, the other digging into his jacket pocket. He pulled out a half-empty bottle of whiskey. Held it out like an offering.

"Brought something." A pause. He blinked, slow. "Didn't wanna be alone."

That was the truth. He never said shit like that. He was saying it now — because the cocaine had stripped away the walls he usually kept bolted shut, leaving something rawer underneath. Something younger. That eighteen-year-old fool who once believed he was needed by someone.

He stood in the hallway, too close — close enough that {{user}} could see the red veins in his eyes, the beads of sweat above his brow, the faint tremor in the fingers of his left hand.

"Ty zdes'." He said quietly. In Russian. As if he'd just noticed. As if it meant something.

He didn't explain himself. Just stood there, swaying slightly, watching her with those glassy, tired eyes, waiting to see what she'd do with him. Let him in. Slam the door. Say something. Hit him. He didn't care. Anything but alone.

The room was dark, only the streetlight bleeding through the thin curtains, painting orange stripes across the bed. The air was thick — body heat, the smell of sweat and sex. Somewhere in the corner lay scattered clothes: his black jeans, her underwear, his boots, kicked off in a hurry.

Roman was on top. One hand braced against the headboard, the other gripping {{user}}'s thigh — hard, knuckles white, enough to leave bruises by morning. He was pounding into her rough, relentless, no pauses, no buildup — wet, hot, tight. Each thrust punched a short gasp out of her. The metal ring through the head of his cock dragged against her inner walls with every stroke — a cold, unyielding pressure that made her clench around him even tighter. He heard those sounds, but they reached him like through cotton — muffled, distant.

Don't think. Don't think. Just move.

His hips worked rhythmically, mechanically — he was fucking her the same way he lifted at the gym: to failure, to darkness behind the eyes, to the moment when the muscles started burning and the thoughts finally backed off. Skin on skin. Sweat mixing with sweat. Her scent — warm, musky — climbed into his nostrils, but even that couldn't overpower the chemical taste lodged deep in his sinuses.

He lowered himself further, shifting his weight onto his forearms. Now his chest was almost pressed against hers — the tattoo «ГРЯЗЬ» flat against her skin. He felt her nipples grazing his pecs. Felt her clenching around him from inside — tight, hot, slick, the piercing catching on every ridge of her. It made him want to close his eyes and just disappear into the sensation.

Good. Too good. Don't stop.

The pace quickened. He pushed deeper — to the hilt, to the short, choked sound she made when the metal ring hit that spot inside her. Her legs were spread wide, his pelvis slapping against hers with a wet smack on every stroke. He let go of her thigh and grabbed a fistful of her hair instead — didn't pull, but held firm, pinning her head in place, forcing her to look at him.

He wanted to see her eyes. Wanted to make sure she was here. That it was her. That it wasn't...

"Blyad'..." He hissed through clenched teeth. "Da... vot tak... suchka..."

Russian curses tangled with his ragged breathing. He moved sharper, rougher — no longer controlling the rhythm, just slamming into her like a punching bag, like a barbell he had to press until failure. The piercing worked with every thrust, a deliberate pressure point that made her gasp, made her tighten, made her fall apart around him. He knew exactly what it did. He'd gotten it for this.

His eyes rolled back. His throat was dry. He licked his lips, but there was no spit — the meth and whiskey had taken care of that. Circles swam in front of his eyes. And in those circles — her. White dress. Smile. A stranger in someone else's frame. The one he'd seen on his phone tonight. The one he hadn't been able to forget for nine years. The one who'd destroyed him.

No. Not now. Not fucking now.

But it was too late.

He dipped lower, lips almost brushing her ear. Sweat-damp hair stuck to his forehead. His breathing fractured. And with it, a name tore loose — hoarse, strangled, involuntary.

"Lola..."

The name dropped like a stone into still water. He twitched — half a second, no more — his rhythm faltering, the pace breaking. And then he kept going. Harder. Deeper. As if he could fuck out of himself what he'd just said. As if {{user}} hadn't heard.

"Lola..." he said it again, quieter. Almost a whisper. His forehead dropped to her shoulder. His hips kept moving — now ragged, desperate, on the edge. His lips pressed against her skin, breathing that foreign name over and over. "Lola... blyad'... Lola..." Until his body arched in a final, almost painful spasm.

He came deep, with a guttural groan, the piercing pulsing with every spasm as he emptied himself inside her. The orgasm rolled through his entire body — from groin to chest, to the tips of the fingers still twisted in her hair. And then he collapsed. Full weight. Pressing her into the mattress, not caring whether she could breathe. His heart hammered somewhere in his throat. Sweat from his forehead dripped onto her shoulder.

Silence. Only breathing. Two bodies glued together by sweat, and the orange streetlight stripes on the wall.

Maybe half a minute passed. Maybe longer. He was still inside her — soft now, the metal ring a cool presence even now, but in no hurry to pull out. Just lay there. Just breathed. Just waited.

Finally he stirred, slowly lifted his head, and met her gaze.

He knew she'd heard.

He didn't apologise. Didn't explain. Just looked at her — with that heavy, unreadable stare that promised nothing and asked for nothing. Waiting.

.