"i can't believe this name was OPEN"

he almost makes a joke but figures you're dead sick of them from every joe like him that waltzes in here. "save your…energies."

a small mysterious smile tips up the corners of your lips. "man like you determines his own future, i'm guessing?"

"summat like that," he smirks, breaking your gaze and looking up into the small cozy booth.

"may i?" you lay your hands out on the tabletop, eyebrows raised inquisitively. "paid practice, if you will."

he huffs shortly and shakes out his plaid jacket arms, resettling them on the table so his hands rest palm up in front of you. the smile stays on your face as you take them in your cool, soft hands.

"career man," you say simply. "bad dreams?"

he stares at you, unwilling to budge, give you anything to feed on. keeps his body lax and loose in the chair, but feels his thighs tense up despite his practiced relaxing.

"a lot of attempts to cut this line short." you trace a groove quietly. your eyes flick up to his, trying to work it out. pretending at it, anyway. "plenty of chances at love. married before? maybe more than once?"

his thighs jump.

"always in command. everyone follows suit," you say with a trace of admiration. "not many who would call you a friend because of it though."

he doesn't realize he's pulled his palm away until it's resting on his lap. his thumb twitching.

you don't even seem surprised. your eyes trail upwards softly to his, luminous and solemn, as he scrapes out of the chair. "she's unfaithful."

he leaves the tent, irritated, which burns hotter into righteous anger at the night wears on. as soon as his girlfriend is climaxing, he presses her on whether she's cheating on him; he's got no moral high ground about the matter, just wants the truth. she cries through her broken orgasm and confesses everything.

john makes a plan to visit the carnival, alone, the next night but it's already left the city.

—

it takes a few searches online, two weeks, and a car ride an hour north to find you again. same booth, same set-up, in a muddy corner of the fairgrounds.

you seem surprised when he marches in and firmly plants himself in the chair.

"right. tell me then."

"tell you what?"

"how you knew."

a light flickers in your eyes. "ah. you're paying for my time then."

he makes a big huffy show of handing over the money to you.

"you want to know?"

he glares at you.

"you are just like my dad and uncles, no offense. military men through and through. divorced, the lot of 'em. they either have terrible pick of women, or they turn good women terrible by treating them like shit. your pick." your shrug, tapping the cash into your purse. "and your girlfriend or whatever she was was literally texting some bloke half the time she was in here. didn't seem like she'd send those kinda texts to her brother."

john doesn't remember the last time he felt proper stupid. wool pulled over his old man eyes.

"right."

you wrap a braceleted arm around the back of his chair, sipping at your wine with the other.

"i need your counsel," he utters, the back of his head leaning against your arm. he turns his head slightly to gaze up at you.

you tut kindly with a soft smile. "i shall finish my drink, and then we shall begin."

prophesying is arduous, akin to racing across the courtyard thrice and performing scientific equations in one's head. in order for you to touch the spirits, the conditions must be right. the ceremony cannot be hurried or filled with shortcuts.

you've taught john well. he ensures the lights are dimmed so, the wine is to your preferences, and his bedding soft beneath you as he undresses you from your layers. he is not permitted to rush you through this. he lays you down and caresses your bare skin from the crown of your head to the tips of your toes, always in that direction, never the other.

he has attempted to kiss you on the lips, but you've scolded him severely enough to sway him: he will be stealing the breath of the spirits that speak through you.

he relaxes you with his broad, warm hands, cupping your heavy breasts and running through your downy hair. his mouth on your cunny is a release that opens you wider to the spirit world, a knock on the door.

but he knows, is familiar with the ceremony by now, that the true release — when his prick is notched deep inside you and unlocking the door within, when your cunny seizes over his cock and draws out his spirit, his essence, mixing with your own — is what has you gasping open-mouthed under his face — the maidens proposed are ill-suited, their families will be a pox on your seat of power — and it's not required for him to respond to the spirit speaking through you, but he does anyway.

yes, spirits of wisdom, i hear you. guide me, your faithful servant, true.

he grabs the flesh of your bottom and cries out terribly loud, sinking his cock deep deep deep, pulsing his seed as if he can drive it into the spirit realm itself, forcing your eyes to open and lock on his, your mouth still open to speak the spirit's words.

price sat on a fallen log, his unwilling companion on their knees in the dirt. reaching up with trembling hands, offering bite after bite.

the roasted rabbit he poached that dawn, tomatoes stolen from the vine at a farm they passed. every other bite, he sucks their fingers into his mouth, teeth grazing knuckles, biting down when they flinch or try to pull away. the fear, disgust, and loathing in their eyes a different kind of morsel.

it is a punishment, of course, for trying to slip his hold again. a heavy hand usually does the trick, but he can’t ride double with someone squirming from a bruised backside.

eventually he relents. allows them to retreat. to sulk on the other side of the campfire. through the flames he watches them rub their spit-sticky fingers over the coarse weave of their hose, trying to scrub the feel of his tongue off. he breaks that spell when he tosses them his scraps and cracks a joke about trussing them up like the rabbit. about suckling something else until they cry.

Bare concrete walls, chains hanging from hooks, one exposed bulb casting ominous shadows. There is even what appears to be a table containing several neatly arranged implements of torture, although Price suspects at least two of them are novelty kitchen utensils.

Simon sits in the middle of it all wearing his skull mask, trousers, and an expression that cannot be seen but can nevertheless be felt radiating through the photograph.

Price studies the ropes binding his lieutenant’s wrists.

He blinks.

He studies them again.

The rope is looped around Simon’s arms perhaps twice, secured with what looks suspiciously like a shoelace knot, and hanging loose enough that a moderately determined toddler could escape it.

“Are we certain this is current?” Price asks.

The intelligence officer standing opposite his desk shifts his weight. “Timestamp puts it at fourteen hundred yesterday, sir.”

“And we’re certain it’s Riley?”

“Yes, sir.”

Price looks back at the photograph.

Simon’s boots are planted comfortably apart. His shoulders are relaxed. There are no visible injuries. Someone has placed a folded blanket beneath him so the metal chair won’t be uncomfortable.

There is also, Price notices with mounting despair, a bottle of water positioned beside his right foot with the water level already half gone.

“Right,” Price says.

The investigation continues and it should be difficult to determine how one of the world’s most highly trained special operations soldiers was abducted from his own home. Simon Riley is six foot something of professionally cultivated paranoia. He checks exits without thinking, sleeps lightly, and once identified a surveillance team because the same pigeon appeared outside three different cafes.

You, by comparison, possess all the operational subtlety of a marching band falling down a staircase.

Price discovers you have been following Simon for six weeks.

Not discreetly, no. You’ve followed him to the store, the gym, the shooting range, and several coffee shops. You’ve taken photographs from behind newspapers held upside down, worn a black trench coat during a heatwave, an once crouched behind a decorative hedge that did not make you as invisible as you probably led yourself to believe you were.

Security footage shows Simon looking directly into the camera on several occasions while you scurry behind him between hiding places.

Price sees all of this and lowers his face into his hands.

The next report arrives shortly before lunch.

“A syringe was recovered from Lieutenant Riley’s residence,” an officer tells him.

Price straightens slightly. Finally. Something resembling an actual crime.

“Forensics?”

“Lorazepam, sir.”

“What dosage?”

The officer consults the report. “Zero point five milligrams.”

Price stares at him.

The officer clears his throat. “Ativan.”

“I know what lorazepam is.”

“Yes, sir.”

Price looks at the report again, perhaps hoping an additional zero will materialize through force of will.

It doesn’t.

“Zero point five.”

“Yes, sir.”

“That dose wouldn’t knock out a pensioner after Sunday lunch.”

“No, sir.”

“Riley weighs nearly two forty.”

“Yes, sir.”

They stand in silence and Price’s eye begins to twitch.

The final piece of evidence is recovered from a traffic camera positioned across from Simon’s flat where Pricd can see you dragging Simon beneath the arms towards the back door.

Dragging is perhaps generous. You are straining, red faced and panting, moving him approximately three inches at a time while Simon allows his boots to scrape uselessly across the floor. His head lolls against his shoulder with theatrical unconsciousness.

In the process, his boot catches the base of a standing lamp, which begins to fall.

Simon, still allegedly unconscious, reaches out one hand, catches it, carefully rights it, and places it back beside the doorway.

“Unbelievable,” Price mutters.

You turn around at the sound and he drops his arm and resumes being unconscious before you see him.

You stare suspiciously and Simon remains perfectly still.

After several seconds, you shrug and return to your kidnapping.

Price pauses the footage, sits back, and runs both hands slowly down his face, dragging his palms over his beard until he resembles a man trying to physically remove himself from existence.

Behind him, one of the task force operators shifts impatiently. “Captain?”

Price says nothing.

“Do you want us to assemble a team?”

“No.”

There is a pause.

“No, sir?”

“No.”

“But Lieutenant Riley has been taken hostage.”

“Has he?”

The operator looks at the frozen image on the screen. Simon’s enormous, supposedly unconscious body is halfway inside a compact hatchback while you attempt to fold one of his legs through the door.

“He’s tied to a chair, sir.”

“He could break those ropes by sneezing.” He says while he picks up Simon’s personnel file.

He opens it, turns to the appropriate page, and begins filling out a leave request.

The operator watches him. “Sir?”

Price writes Simon Riley beneath the section marked PERSONNEL NAME.

“Captain, what are you doing?”

“Administrative work.”

“Shouldn’t we at least contact him?”

Price checks the box beside personal leave.

“He’s been missing for two days.”

Price writes seven beneath REQUESTED NUMBER OF DAYS, considers it, crosses it out, and replaces it with fourteen.

“Sir.”

Price signs the bottom of the form with a flourish made violent by fatigue.

The operator makes a questioning noise in the back of his throat.

Price places the completed document neatly on top of the photograph showing his lieutenant sitting comfortably in a dungeon with a blanket beneath his ass, a half finished bottle of water by his foot, and enough slack in his restraints to knit a second rope.

“No deployment,” Price says. “No rescue attempt. No one contacts him unless there’s an actual emergency.”

“But- ”

He stared at you without responding, and there was a long pause of silence before your smile dropped into something smaller.

“Wait? Do you not sell?” You covered your mouth, “Oh my gosh that’s so embarrassing, they told me they bought from you before!”

“Relax, bird. I do.”

“Oh! Great, that’s great. Um, how much for an eighth?”

“On the house.” He smirked, digging through the back of his car.

“What?”

“First time buyer, gotta guarantee you like it.”

You caught the bag he tossed you with a shy smile on your face, humming. “Okay, thank you!”

Ghost watched you jog to your friends after that, holding the bag out to them with a proud smirk.

The next time you bought from him, you were all by yourself, jean shorts showing off your pretty legs.

“Hi.”

He chuckled, “You’re back.”

You leaned into the window, low-cut shirt clinging to the swell of your breasts.

“I am.” You smiled, “How much for an eighth this time, for real?’

“Already have some pre-rolls, you can just have ‘em.”

“Huh? No, I didn’t pay you last time!”

“No one ever wants the pre-rolls anyway,” He shrugs, he lies. “They’re cherry flavored.”

That sparks your interest, “Really? I didn’t know they did that.”

You hand him your phone then, “Put your number in, yeah? So, I don’t have to hope to randomly run into you to buy more.”

When he hands the phone back you laugh after reading the contact name, “Ghost? That’s your drug dealer name? Really?”

“Do you want free weed or not?”

You laugh louder this time, “Yes! Yes! I was just teasing. Thank you!”

You text him two weeks later, a stupid meme at that with beady eyes, ‘more, please sir?’

He hates the way it makes the corners of his lips twitch.

He’s mobile that day, and you send him your address with one too many exclamation marks tagged on the end. You run out in leggings and slippers, a giddy smile on your lips.

“Hi.”

He laughs, “Hi, bird.”

“I liked the pre-rolls!” You say excitedly, leaning into the window, “Never had those before.”

“Yeah? What you need today?”

“You have any more?”

He frowns a little, “Get in with me, I’ll roll you some.”

You open his passenger side door too willingly, “Oh good. I don’t know how to roll,” You confess, “My friends usually do it for me.”

His mouth dips into a smirk, “Yeah? ‘Ts not that hard, watch.”

You lean closer, eyes wide like he’s actually teaching you valuable information and not how to roll a joint.

“Gotta make sure to take out all the seeds and stems before you grind it.” You watch him grind it enraptured. “Gotta roll up the tip first, then, wrap the paper tight.”

You nod eagerly.

“Fill it with your flower, roll it upwards with your thumb to make your shape. Then,” He licks across the paper, “Seal it with the glued edge, and twist the tip.”

He holds it out to you, “There you go.”

You take it between your fingers with a soft smile, “Thank you.”

You text him three days later, a picture of a lopsided joint that he definitely didn’t sell you.

‘How’d I do?’

‘Looks like shit.’

‘That’s mean :(‘

‘Come over, let me help.’

‘On my way!’

You show up an hour later, the crooked joint in your hands. You sit on his couch with a frown.

“You know, I didn’t think it came out that bad.”

“Give it here.” He laughs, “You packed it up wayyy too much. Got too much at the end here too, didn’t tap it out.”

Still, he lights it, holding it out for you to smoke. You take it between your fingers, inhaling a small amount before coughing slightly. He smirks at your watery eyes, taking the joint from you to smoke it.

“Sorry,” You say, “I got my lip gloss on it.”

He chuckles, the tip glistening with the gloss, placing it in the corner of his lips, “Doesn’t matter.”

It tastes like your lip gloss. Strawberries and weed.

You take turns smoking it. Simon watches you the whole time, with lidded eyes, focused on the way your pretty lips curl around the joint. The way your chest rises with each inhale, your eyes becoming heavier and heavier, a lazy smile smeared across your lips as you lean closer to him on his old couch.

All he can think about is those lips wrapped around his cock and not the tip of the joint. And he’s definitely rock hard in his sweats, but he doesn’t care if you notice, not when you keep giggling at every bad joke he cracks.

He jerks himself off when you leave, promising you’ll be safe and text him when you get home. He finishes when your message pops at the top of his screen ‘made it safe :)’

He invites you over himself a week later because he’s got random inventory, he ordered them himself, of strawberry wraps and he’s certain you’ll like them.

You do like them. You’re melted into his couch, blinking lazily at him.

“How come you never charge me?” It’s a whisper.

He looks at you, the room dizzy with smoke and your pretty gaze.

“Never make pretty girls pay.”

“Oh?” You sound disappointed, “So, you give it free to other girls?”

He shakes his head, “Just you.”

You squint, “Are you only giving me free weed so you can get a lay?”

He smirks, “Is it working?”

You scoff, smacking him in the shoulder, “Unbelievable.”

He catches your wrist.

“You giving it to my friends for free too?”

“Careful,” He smirks, “You’re starting to sound jealous.”

You roll your eyes, trying to pull away from him. He keeps you close, tugging you into his lap so fast you have no choice but to slip onto his thighs. You don’t look at him, eyes focused to the side.

“Just you.”

You peer down at him then, “Huh?”

His fingers find your cheek, still burning from the embers of the joint, “You’re the only one I don’t charge.”

“Yeah?” You whisper.

“C’mere already.” He murmurs, pulling you down to kiss him.

You make a noise of surprise, like you hadn’t expected your smoke sessions to lead to this, with his cock pressed between your thighs eagerly, grip on your chin and hip to keep you close to him.

You kiss him back earnestly, smaller hands finding his shoulders. He loves it, fuck he loves the way your hands shake against his skin, the vibrations that leave your chest and fill his. He’s been dreaming about this since the moment you walked over in your tiny skirt.

Your bottom lip pops away from his, glistening with his saliva and not the lip gloss you insist on wearing.

“Wanted you to do that for ages.”

He chuckles against your lips, “Yeah?”

Your hips grind against his then, “Only reason my friends made me go was because I wouldn’t shut up about how hot you were.”

He presses his teeth against your neck, fingers making quick work of your belt and pants. “Came over with your ass and tits out, been jerking off to the memory ever since.”

You inhale sharply, “Fuck.”

Your eyes flutter when his fingers find your cunt, squelching with the sound of your arousal. He dips one finger in, drawing a whimper from you, and god you’re so fucking warm. The weeds got you nice and lax, a small grin on your lips as he coaxes you with one thick finger and he's sure he's never wanted to fuck someone more.

Your grin turns into a broken cry when he adds another, lips quivering around the shape of his name. Ghost. Ghost?

His thumbs already on your lips, gaze strong on you, “Simon.”

You nod in quiet understanding, “Simon.”

There’s a sticky strip of arousal that clings to your panties when he slides them off your thighs and it takes everything in him not to bury his face below and smell.

You scramble to his sweats, tugging them down impatiently. He lifts his hips willingly, lets his strained cock smack against his abdomen angrily. You lick your lips when you see it, eyes wide at the sight.

He grips it by the base, thumb coming up to wipe at the precum spilling from the tip.

“Oh my god.” You groan, “Let me ride you, please.”

He slides lower on the couch, tapping your hips casually in agreement like he hadn’t been picturing you on top of him for weeks, “Go on.”

You rise to your knees above him, shaking hand grabbing his cock so lightly it makes his eyes flutter. You glide his tip along your seams until it snags at your entrance, and you make a soft noise when he pops through. You slide down eagerly as much as he holds your hips and grits through his teeth to take it slow.

Your head falls to his shoulder when you sink to the base, his head rolling to the back of the couch because you’re so fucking warm and tight, and the weed definitely isn’t helping because he’s feeling everything ten times worse.

And when you lift your hips, he swears he sees heaven between your thighs when you drop back down and your pussy makes an obscene squelch.

You bury your face in his neck, arms around his shoulders and just fucking go at it. Ass slamming against his so fast the room echoes with each slap. You whine high-pitched with each thrust like you aren’t the one setting the pace, like you aren’t the fucking yourself raw around his cock.

“Jesus, bird, slow down.” He grunts, fingers dimpling your skin.

He says it because your legs are shaking and there’s sweat beading on your chest, whimpers falling from your lips endlessly, but more so because he doesn’t want it to end this soon. When he hasn’t even laid you back properly to fuck you the way he had hoped.

You don’t listen well.

You just keep sloppily fucking yourself onto his cock because you’ve found the sweet spot, the one that has you on the brink of an orgasm.

His lips on your neck do it for you, your toes curling into his shitty ass couch when you break. You soak his balls then, pussy clenching so tight around him he has to bite down on his cheek so he doesn’t bust.

He’s already moving you to your back, finding a home between your thighs when you come back down. You don’t even argue, like the perfect thing you are, folding your own legs to his shoulders, and arching into the couch.

He slides in slow, and your pussy spreads for him so prettily.

“Fuck,” he drawls, “Listen to her, just fuckin dying for me to fuck her.”

You whine loud at that, hips bucking to get him to move. He doesn’t wait a second longer, thrusts so hard into you, you feel it in your toes and your legs straighten out in shock.

He fucks you slow and hard, pace languid from the weed pulsing in his veins. You like it, at least he thinks you do from the way you keep writhing under him, the beginning syllables of his name broken on your lips between every thrust.

When he leans forward, pressing your knees to your shoulders, you gasp in shock from the stretch, but then his tip snags against that spot in your cunt that melts your brain into mush, and your eyes just roll into the back of your head.

He smirks proudly, bullying his length against that spot until you’re pushing at hips, murmuring something along the lines that it’s too much.

He doesn’t stop.

You pulse around him when you cum a second time, sweet voice ripped from your throat, and turned into blinded pleasure when he stamps his thumb against your swollen clit. Your feet tense at his shoulders, fingers tight against the cushions.

He finishes inside of you then, head falling to your shoulder with a deep groan, hips fucking into you with each pump.

It's your favorite story: a hockey game, too many drinks, a rowdy crowd chanting and cheering, and a chance encounter.

Johnny hadn't been there when you arrived, when you'd sat in your ticketed seat and snuggled close to your friend, sipping overpriced beer and discussing which player was your favorite. You barely felt it when he took his seat, but you could hear him cheering.

He was the kind of fan you've always loved sitting next to, the one that knows exactly the right time to start a chant and never seems to manspread too far into your space. You were too busy discussing which player looked the best pressed up against the glass to feel him looking at you, and you didn't even spare him a glance when you got up to refill your drink during half.

Honestly if you and your bestie hadn't stolen to the bar to have a shot before heading back to your seats with your beer, you may not have even stopped joking with her long enough to coo at him to let you through. Even then it's not that you get a good look at him, as much as you notice how tall he is. Tall and broad shouldered, with biceps you could sink your teeth into.

Too bad you notice how handsome he is almost as quickly as you notice he's wearing the opposing team's sweater. It very nearly ruins him, but you like the lopsided smile he throws you as he stands to let you pass —you like the way it softens the blue of his eyes— too much to let something like that stop you.

"You're rooting for the wrong team," you grin, alcohol bubbling in your blood just on the right side of tipsy. Just enough liquid courage to tease the cute guy in the seat next to you as you sit down.

His smile widens and you feel a reflection of the motion on your own face. No ego on this one, no hurt feelings from a little flirting, just a fond look and an indulgent smile. It makes your heart patter in your chest.

"Maybe you should come over tae my side, already sittin' next tae me, could share the sweater." He pats his lap and you roll your eyes.

You turn back to your friend, leaning close to giggle against her as she begs you not to spill the drinks.

"He's trying to be cute," you whisper loud enough for him to hear.

"I am cute!"

You grin, feel your cheeks crease with the force of it. He is cute. You like cute, and your friend is giving you a look that says 'don't you dare,' which means you absolutely should dare.

"We're having a private conversation," you turn to tell him, just as your face lights up the center ice screen a bright red heart tracing its way around you and him. The crowd around you erupts and you start to turn to see what the commotion is.

Johnny sees it before you do, his eyes and hands faster than yours; you just barely register 'wait that's me' before he's grabbing you and then the world narrows in to a single perfect point.

Big warm hands slide over your cheeks, cupping your jaw to turn you back towards him, pressing ever so lightly to tip you. His nose bumps yours even with the directing —perfectly imperfect as every first kiss should be— and you giggle, feeling the pull of his smile as his lips press against yours. Softly, just enough that you could pull away if you wanted to; you really don't want to.

You throw your arms around him and make him kiss you properly, pushing in to feel the chap of his lips and the slight exhale as he leans into you. Relief relaxes his shoulders and you melt into each other.

Then his lips part and, oh. Something sparks, lighting up warm in your chest, and tingling down the tips of your fingers. The slide of his lips fits so deliciously well against your own, unhurried and indulgent. Pressing and parting again and again, following wherever you want to lead. Another soft smile when your teeth catch his lip. Distantly you hear the crowd cheer a second time, but he doesn't pull back. He kisses you, and kisses you, and kisses you.

Warm and giddy: your fingers twisting in his jersey; his big hands sliding to cup your neck; the peak of his tongue, there and gone when you open a little too wide, disturbing the perfect dance you'd fallen into. The crowd cheers a third time, and you pull away to stare at the screen.

Are you still on the kiss cam? Don't they have anyone else to cut to?

"Are you two finally coming up for air?" Your friend asks.

Oh no, you're not still on the cam, they cut back to you. You're the "someone better" that they have to cut to.

"Oh my god," you groan.

"Ah think Ahm in love with you," Johnny says, you glance back at his kiss reddened lips and dreamy eyes. He looks good like this, and you swoop in for another kiss, which he eagerly reaches for.

Until your best friend yanks you back by the neck of your sweater and you make a rather undignified choked sound that kills the kiss cam.

"Vibe killer," you hiss at her. She makes a face and you stick your tongue out at her.

"You don't even know the guy's name." She reasons. It's a good reason, but easily remedied. You look at kiss cam guy.

"Ahm Johnny," he supplies.

"That's Johnny," you pass it along just to watch your friend roll her eyes. She's not mad, but you know well enough that one of you has to be responsible or neither of you will get home.

"Ok, well, don't blame me if you end up on Youtube," She tells you, settling back in to watch the game.

"Yeah, yeah, I'll remember you when I'm famous." You tell her. She snorts and steals your beer to top up her own.

You don't care, more worried about snagging Johnny's phone to punch in your number with a little kiss next to your name than ending up online.

Which you do. "Kiss cam make out" goes semi-viral, with thousands of people watching your movie moment. You only know because Johnny shamelessly sends you the video alongside the dinner reservation details for your first date.