sunny 🌷

It's a sketch, so... nothing cool, but... I like it, it's also old art, yes, but I'm trying to show what I do.

cw: 18+ mdni, fauxcést, use of ‘Dad’, fluff.

and you ignore him at first, waving him off while he smothers your face in kisses, almost dropping the book in the water, candle burning and bubbles kissing the top of the bathtub, whatever tunes you like to play in the background. Completely intune with your book until John is standing beside you, wet from taking a shower and a rag covering his soft dick.

“Scoot.”

You groan, closing the book with your dry hand and looking up at him, pleading eyes, lips uncontrollably curved upward, “Daaaad, come on!”

You whine through a giggle, moving forward, “The bath will overflow! You’ll have clean it up because you made the mess!”

“Yeah, yeah, ‘ve got it.” He climbs in behind you, pulling your body to his chest as the water splashes onto the tile with every little wave created by the two of you. “Waters still hot, you sitting in boilin water before I got here kid? Jesus.”

“How do you get in my bath and start criticizing?!” You ask, more than amused, another mixture between a chuckle and a whine escaping you, “Damn, I just wanted to read my book in the bath! It was getting good!”

“Language.” He chides playfully, big and calloused hands creeping up yout waist to your shoulders and down your arms, bringing your knuckles to his lips and kissing them, “Missed you so much ‘nd this is how you treat your old man love?” He brushes the stray curls of your nape up with his wet fingertips, “Kinda shite, no?”

“What’s shite is the water all over the floor you’ll have to clean up because you made the mess.” A giggle falls from your lips, leaning back into his hold, eyes closing as you relax. So sweet, after both of your long days, John coming home just to smother you the way you needed. And Price only has you swirling in his head, how pretty you look in the slightly dim light of the bathroom. Would’ve been such a gorgeous goddess, his stunning girl.

A ghost of a smirk spreads your lips apart after a few comfortable moments of silence. “There’s something poking my back.”

“Shut up, let me enjoy time with my kid.” John playfully bites your cheek, finally kissing your full lips.

John price who’s done so much wrong with just his two hands. So much so to the point he’s got blood under his nails lodged so far under, the only way to clean it up is to rip the whole nail out. Hands are so stained by red the only way he feels clean is by cutting them off. 

And his hands that have hurt so many. 

Are touching you. 

He’s heard screams that haunt his dreams. His hands have done more pain than pleasure, he doesn’t know if he’s redeemable anymore. 

But when you make that little sound? Just a hum of content? You’re pushing back further into his body whispering, “don’t stop,” while his hands roam. 

Rough, sinful hands. So slowly caressing every inch of flesh and every curve. How it feels when he touches you and feels that tightness inside of him quelling. 

It’s like you are his redemption. The one good thing in life he can hold onto and it will be okay, like his hands are washed free. Like the blood can simply be mistaken for dirt. 

Or when your head is in his lap and he tries to stop brushing his fingers through your hair. He doesn’t want to stop, ever. But he only does because it feels like he’s corrupting you. Only for you to bring his hand back with a huff and slight pout. 

You don’t know his hands are tainted. 

But he really likes it that way. 

“tits look good in yer top love.” uttered with a straight face over his coffee mug in the morning. “makes me want to fuck ‘em.”

bend over in front of him to pick something up? he's groaning and tipping his head back, palming himself through his jeans with a, “fuckin’ christ love, look at you. perfect fuckin’ arse. c'mere, don't walk away when I'm picturin’ you face first on the carpet.”

it's worse if he's had a few drinks. he can't help but tell the lads how his “missus ‘as the prettiest cunt I've ever fuckin’ seen.” before abruptly leaving so he can go home and see it for himself.

“i’ll lick ya clean soon as i get back. then we’ll go out for tea. your treat.”

you just groan in response. feeling floaty and already half gone. you’re already asleep by the time he lets the door slam shut.

They haul you out of the Konni’s cell feeling like you’d walked straight through a glitter cloud and breathed deep. Your chest feels fizzy like champagne bubbles under your ribs, like a shaken can of soda about to explode, your tongue two seconds faster than your brain. You sit, palms on your knees, determined to be normal. Spoiler: You weren’t.

“How we doin’ then, hen?” Soap asked, perching his ass right on the table like he’d shelled out for front-row seats to the world’s most awkward strip show. “Feelin’ alright? Need some water? A biscuit? Maybe a muzzle?”

You meant to say “I’m fine.” Truly. That’s all. Maybe add a shrug for effect. A sarcastic “living the dream” at worst.

But instead, what came out without your permission was “Sometimes I fantasize about you on your knees with Ghost’s cock in your mouth, gaggin you, tears streaming down your face, loving every second while you slurp it like it’s the last lollipop on Earth.”

Silence crashed in like a tidal wave of “what the actual fuck.”.

Soap made a noise like a tea kettle. Ghost’s head turned one centimeter, slow as syrup. Gaz’s eyebrows shot up his forehead. Price blinked like a Windows update just started behind his eyelids without consent.

Your hands flew to your mouth like you could retroactively stuff the words back in. “I- shit- oh my god, no-! Fuck! I didn’t mean to say that out loud, I meant- I do mean it, that’s the problem- ”

Price’s voice went captain calm. “Compound strips away your filter, love, but not your smarts. We’ll stick to clinical questions from here on out.”

“Copy,” Soap lied immediately through his perfect teeth, not missing a beat. “Clinically speaking, do I look hot as fuck in this fantasy of yours?”

Your traitorous mouth, now fully in the driver’s seat, spoke without your permission: “Abso-fucking-lutely devastating. Spit dribbling down your chin like you’ve been deepthroating a firehose. You get all cocky, trying to tease with your tongue, and he just grabs a fistful of your mohawk, shoves you down that extra inch till your nose is buried in his pubes, and growls, ‘Be useful, you mouthy little slut.’”

Ghost’s eyes flickered, sharp, predatory, and way too intrigued. “Specific.”

“I read,” you blurted. “A lot of smutty fanfics. And now I think about it more than I should. You holding his hips. Him making those low little grunts, gagging just a bit- ”

“Fucking hell,” Soap whispered, dazed.

Ghost turned his head slowly toward Soap. “You gag?”

“Shut up,” Soap hissed, ears going red, while Gaz slapped a hand over his mouth to stifle a cackle, shoulders shaking.

“Okay,” you said brightly, lying to God. “I’m fine. I can be fine. We can proceed like adults.”

Soap, already vibrating like a horny chihuahua, leaned forward. “Any other…clinically relevant scenarios rattlin’ around in that filthy mind of yours?

“No,” you snap, turning away from all of them, fully intending to face the corner like a child being punished, but your mouth had other plans. “Sometimes I pretend you’re all Barbies. Not the girl ones. Like…you’re my boy Barbies and I make you kiss. Price and Ghost. Soap and Gaz. Ghost and Soap. Gaz and Price. Ghost and Gaz. Sometimes all four of you together.”

Price choke. “You fantasize about us kissing?”

You nodded, miserable. “It’s a whole thing. In the shower. Or sometimes in the gym. Sometimes I imagine you in the ops theater chair, legs spread, shirt sleeves rolled, and Gaz on his knees between them while you read an after action report out loud and say ‘mmh’ like you’re grading coursework.”

Gaz dropped his forehead to the doorframe, laughing. “An oral exam. Mate, I’d ace that shit with extra credit.”

Price turned the exact color of a hard stop sign and still somehow kept his dignity. “That would be a misuse of the facility.”

“In my head it’s… efficient,” you squeaked. “Multitasking at its finest: briefing and boning.”

Ghost, deadpan, asked: “Document more efficiencies.”

You stared at the floor like it might swallow you whole. “Sometimes I imagine Ghost and Gaz in the gym’s back corner pretending to spot each other while the bar never actually moves cause Gaz it too busy grinding in his lap and Gaz says, ‘Good form, lieutenant,’ and Ghost says nothing, just ruts up against him, and then Gaz shuts up for the first time in his life when he feels Ghost’s monster cock under his shorts.”

Gaz’s hand slid over his own mouth like he was test fitting the fantasy. “Shit, I could be persuaded. Sounds like a solid workout.”

Soap kicked his heels. “Put me in, coach.”

“No,” you said at once, which meant yes. “You and Price in the copy room,” you continued helplessly. “Projector humming. Paper warm from the tray. You mouthing off, and he turns you, palms to the machine, murmurs, ‘Hands flat,’ and you listen for once in your life, and he bends you over and rails you from behind till you’re moaning louder than the copier- oh my god I need to die now.”

Soap looked personally blessed. “My two genders: submissive and stapled.”

Price rubbed his temple like he was warding off a migraine from hell. “Operational boundaries.”

Ghost’s head tilted. “And you? Where’re you in all this, love?”

Your heart jackhammered like it was trying to escape your chest and make a break for the nearest exit. Oh fuck, no. Not this. Not the grand finale of your personal spank bank symphony. 

You slapped a hand over your mouth so hard it stung, fingers digging into your cheeks like it could physically weld your mouth shut. 

Hold it in. Just. Hold. It. In. 

You bit down on your tongue, squeezed your eyes closed, and willed the serum to fuck off for five goddamn minutes. 

But nope. The truth bubbled up like acid reflex from hell, building pressure in your throat until it actually hurt, a sharp, twisted ache in your gut like you’d swallowed a live grenade. 

You face contorted, sweat beading on your forehead, and you whimpered through your fingers, shaking your head wildly. 

The guys exchanged glances. Soaped leaned in with that shit eating grin, Gaz propped himself against the door like he was settling in for premium cable, Price folded his arms with a mix of concern and curiosity, and Ghost watched like a predator scenting blood. 

You lasted maybe ten seconds before the dam burst, the words exploding out in a frantic, mortified torrent: “I’m right in the middle of it, you assholes- oh god, please shoot me. Sometimes I imagine the four of you turning me into a human kebab in the war room at 0300, Ghost pinning me face down on the table, mask hiked up enough to bite my shoulder while he slams into me from behind, his cock stretching me till I’m seeing stars and begging for a mercy I don’t really want.” 

You couldn’t stop even if you wanted to, the words coming out faster now. “Soap under me, grinning like a maniac as he thrusts up into my cunt, hands groping my tits and pinching my nipples till they’re raw, whispering in Gaelic how tight I am.”

You paused long enough to take a breath, dizzy. “Gaz is at my head, feeding me his dick inch by inch, making me choke on it while he strokes my head and calls me a good girl.”

You can’t even look at any of them now. “Price is orchestrating the whole thing like it’s an op, circling us, barking orders, telling Ghost to go deeper, Soap to make me scream, Gaz to hold me steady. Then Price finally joins in, pushing his thick cock in right next to Ghost and Soap, making me cum so hard I black out. Everyone swapping holes like it’s musical chairs, cum dripping everywhere, me a sweaty moaning mess in the center, loving every degrading, delicious second of being your shared fucktoy.”

The room went silent, save for the faint hum of the fluorescent lights and your own ragged panting. 

Soap’s jaw hit the floor, his eyes wide as saucers and a visible tent forming in his pants. Gaz let out a low, appreciative whistle, adjusting himself not so subtly against the door. Price cleared his throat three times, face flushing like he’d chugged hot sauce, but his eyes went dark and hungry. Ghost didn’t move a muscle, but you swore you saw his gloves flex, like he was imagining gripping your hips right then and there.

You collapsed back in your chair, covering your face with both hands, dying a thousand deaths. “I… I need a new identity. Witness protection. From myself.”

Soap recovered first, fanning himself dramatically. “Hen, if that’s yer idea of a team building exercise, sign me the fuck up. When do we start?”

Price shot him a glare that could melt steel. “MacTavish, zip it before I make you.” But even he couldn’t hide the way his voice had dropped an octave, rough around the edges.

Gaz chuckled, eyes sparkling. “Best debrief ever. ”

Ghost’s voice cut through, silk smooth and deadly, “Detailed logistics. Impressive.” He paused, then added, “Feasible.”

You peeked through your fingers, horrified and horny in equal measure. “I’m so sorry. I did not mean to- I meant it, I just didn’t- I wasn’t going to tell you.”

“Noted,” Price said, dry as sand. “No one breathe a word of this.”

Soap crossed his heart. “Promise” (It sounded like a lie.)

Gaz beamed. “We are honored hypotheticals.”

Ghost inclined his head. “And apparently efficient.”

You put your head in your hands with trembling dignity. “I’m okay.”

Soap couldn’t help himself. “You sure? You look a bit… fizzed.”

You took a breath. You tried a normal sentence. “My chest feels- ”

John Price stood under the steaming cascade of the shower, the water pounding against his skin. The world was a void- pitch black behind his eyelids, silent as the grave. 

No vision, no sound, just the raw, unfiltered sensations of touch and smell guiding him through the haze. The shower steam clung to his skin, hot and heavy, mingling with the floral bite of his wife’s perfume: jasmine laced with vanilla. 

He couldn’t see the water beading on her body, couldn’t hear the wet slaps of flesh of the muffled gags, but fuck, he felt it all. 

That mouth was a furnace, slick and eager, lips plush and swollen, the velvet drag of her tongue swirling with a fervor that made his knees buckle. Tight rings of throat muscles clenched around him as she swallowed deeper, the vice like grip on his throbbing head pulling a groan from his chest- he felt the vibration in his own throat, even if the sound was lost to him. 

His hands tangled in soggy, wet hair, fingers digging in as he pushed forward, inch by inch, until a nose pressed flush against the coarse hair at the base of his abdomen. He held there, hips rocking instinctively, the friction building like a storm, savoring.

The throat fluttered around him, milking him with involuntary clutches. The build was excruciating, pressure coiling low in his gut , his balls tighting, and then he was cumming- hard, flooding that sweet, swallowing mouth with pulse after pulse. 

He imagined the overflow, the mess, but all he knew was the exquisite release, amplified a thousand times by the darkness and silence. He’d come here for help with a simple shower, but this… this was better than anything he’d planned. His body slumped against the tile, spent and buzzing, the scent of familiar perfume lingering in the steam.

A few weeks earlier, the world had exploded around him. The bomb’s blast wave hit, rupturing his eardrums in an instant and slamming his head against debris hard enough to steal his sight. 

Temporary, Laswell had assured him, her fingers tapping out the message in Morse code on his arm. Probably. But in the moment it felt like eternity. 

He was medevac’d out, bound for home where his wife and stepdaughter would take care of him. The thought chafed at first- Captain John Price, reduced to an invalid, relying on others for the basics. 

Until the first whiff of his wife’s familiar perfume hit him. His wife’s touch was familiar: soft palms guiding his fork, the brush of her fingers against his stubble as she helped him shave, the gentle tug of fabric as she helped him get dressed, nails scraping in a way that made his pulse quicken. 

Laswell’s taps had relayed the doctors’ estimate: a week or two for his vision and hearing to return. A week or two of this limbo, feeling like a burden. But her presence made it bearable, the way her hands guided him, steady and sure.

Until the shower. He’d needed help, the water too unpredictable without sight or sound. But then her perfume filled the air, thick in the humidity, and suddenly hands were on him, lathering soap over his chest, trailing lower. 

When her mouth descended, it was revelation: no visual cues, no auditory feedback, just the raw intensity of wet heat engulfing him. Every ridge of her palate, every flick of her tongue, every desperate swallow. All of it was amplified, electric, ripping through the darkness. 

Price couldn’t shake it. That orgasm haunted him, replaying in the dark theater of his mind constantly. The intensity, the way it had consumed him whole. The memory of her throat gripping. 

Which was why, not long after, when that familiar perfume wafted toward him again, he didn’t hesitate. He reached out, pulling her close, his hands mapping the soft curves of her body by feel alone, her skin fever hot, a faint sheen of swear making her slick to the touch.

She guided him, straddling his lap on the bed, and then- fuck- she sank down onto him.

Tight. So goddamn tight and hot, her cunt gripping him like a velvet fist, molten silk clamping around his cock, fluttering with each inch she took. 

He ground up into her, hips thrusting deep, cock pressing against her cervix with each roll, feeling it yield just enough to send shocks through him.

Her body was plush, breasts heavy and soft against his palms, nipples pebbled and dragging with each bounce. 

No sight to distract, no sounds to pull him away- just the exquisite squeeze, the way her walls fluttered and clenched, a vice. His hands roamed, fingers digging into the give of her ass, pulling her down harder, the slap of flesh a vibration he felt in his bones. 

The build was ferocious, his balls heavy and aching, slapping wetly as he drove into her deeper. When she clenched- fuck that milking grip- it ripped an orgasm from him so intensely he knew he shouted, even if he couldn’t hear it. His release flooded her, hot and thick, painting her walls white.

Addiction set in fast. Day after day, he followed that scent like a hound, drawn to her again and again. Fucking up into that perfect heat, her body soft and yielding under his hands. God, her cunt felt tighter than he remembered, better, gripping him in ways that made his toes curl. Her skin tasted of salt under his lips, her hair a damp tangle into his first as he fucked her senseless- or so he imagined, relying on the tremor in her body, the gush of wet soaking against his thighs. 

Each time tighter, hotter, her cervix kissing his tip with bruising force, ripping climaxes that left his eyes rolling back in useless sockets. He’d flood her again, balls draining deep, the overflow trickling warm between them. 

Plans formed in the haze: blindfolds, earplugs, anything to recapture this heightened bliss. 

Fuck fuck fuck, he could stay lost in this forever, buried in her. 

***

Price blinked against the light of the room, his vision a hazy wash of shapes and colors, like peering through fogged glass, the weight of weeks in darkness lifting. 

Price rubbed his eyes, the bridge of his nose, the skin tender. He woke up being able to see. Not perfectly, but enough to make out the edges of furniture, the slant of sunlight through the window. 

His first instinct was to find his wife. To see her face again, not just imagine it from memory. He pushed off the bed, steadying himself on the frame, and shuffled towards the hallway. 

But as he passed the kitchen, something snagged his gaze on the wall: the calender, hanging crooked as always, its grid a blur of ink. 

And there, nine days out from today, a red star in one of the squares. Scrawled beneath it in, what he recognised as your lopping handwriting: Mom coming back from her business trip. 

Price froze, the words sinking in. 

His wife. Away on business. 

That meant…

A motion from the doorway snagged his attention. There you were, his stepdaughter, framed in the entrance, your figure sharpening enough in his vision to catch the way you halted mid step, eyes widening, your expression a mix of surprise and something he couldn’t quite read through the haze. 

The air shifted, carrying a scent that hit him square in the chest: jasmine, sweet and light, undercut by warm vanilla. 

he would rather you be dead than missing. at least, then, there would be some closure. he wouldn’t have to wonder, to doubt, to hope. that, the hope, is the worst part. it renders kyle restless, half-mad, furious. how can he stop, take a break, enjoy a meal, breathe, when there’s an honest to god chance that you’re still out there, waiting for them, still alive, counting down the seconds until they come to save you? where there is hope, there is only agony.

“it’s been five months, boys. we’ve exhausted every effort, and we’ve found nothing. this can’t continue much longer.”

“what the fuck are you on about, laswell?” it’s johnny who snaps first, to no one’s surprise. his patience has always been a fragile thing, and even worse without you here to reign him in. nothing’s been the same without you. they’re falling apart at the seams. “we won’t just give up on them, we can’t!”

“we need more time, kate.” this is the closest to desperate that kyle’s ever seen john price. it’s unnerving, he thinks.

laswell sighs, her lips thinning, the shoddy camera doing very little to hide her weariness. she’s doing everything she can, to find you and to make sure you have something tangible to come home to. “i can give you another month, but that’s it. after that, we have to call it, john. it’s out of my hands.”

another month, and then it’s done. they’ll assume you dead, bury an empty casket, and expect them to go on with their lives. but they will never know the truth. they will never know what became of you, what happened on that op, how long you waited for them before you finally realized that they weren’t coming. one more month. thirty more days.

their search is relentless. they scour every corner of the earth, call on every friend and would-be ally. farah, alex, and their freedom fighters, los voqueros, even graves and his shadows. they find nothing. it’s like you’d vanished into thin air.

“i hope they’re dead.” simon admits one night, as the four of them sit in the common room, your spot, between johnny and kyle, left empty, as if you might reappear just to claim it. “i hope they died the second we lost contact. that’d be better than whatever’s been done to them.”

he’s right. they all know he’s right. six months is a long time to spend captive. god knows what you’ve been through, what’s left of you. you would be better off dead, and simon understands that better than the rest of them. he loves you enough to hope that you have not suffered.

that does not stop kyle from leaping out of his seat, his fist smashing into his lover’s nose with enough force to break it. he would’ve swung again, too, if the captain did not drag him off by the scruff of his neck.

he’ll feel terrible for it later. he’ll regret it, he’ll apologize, he’ll sob into simon’s arms and tell him that he loves him, and he’ll be forgiven. it’s not his fault, simon will say. they all miss you. they all wish to see you home. they’re all angry.

they get the call three days before their month is up. john pulls them out of training, corrals them into his office, where alejandro is on the phone.

“we might have something,” the colonel tells them. might. they don’t know if it’s you, they can’t be sure, but that same ring they were sent to dismantle when they lost you was reported to be operating outside of las almas. if you’re alive, that’s where they’ll find you.

might. if. so much is still left uncertain, but it’s more than they’ve had in six months. it’s hope.

the flight to the city of souls is agony. johnny holds his hand when the turbulence gets bad, as you’re not there to do it. they all know how he feels about heights. simon does not speak, but he takes his rifle apart six times, plotting, hoping, dreading. john spends most of their trip in the cockpit with nikolai, burdening his old friend with the worries he’s unwilling to admit to them.

when they land, nikolai tells them to bring you home. he’ll be waiting. the words ‘i promise’ sit on the tip of kyle’s gun like a bullet waiting to be spit, but he doesn’t dare speak them aloud. he won’t risk jinking it. not now, when they’re so close that he can almost fucking taste you. what he wouldn’t give to taste your lips again, to hold you in his arms.

this is it, he knows. either they find you, or go home empty handed to bury an equally as empty coffin.

“you have permission to kill hostiles on sight. no stone left unturned.” alejandro might not love you like they do, but he’s determined to find you all the same. kyle remembers the first time you encountered him, while hunting hassan, you said there was no one you’d rather have at your six. you called him a good friend, and an even worse enemy. you always had a way of sniffing people out.

no stone left unturned. they search every damnable inch of the base, leave a trail of bodies in their wake, not caring what they find if it isn’t you. the first floor’s disappointing, as is the second, and he’s starting to lose hope by the time they clear the third.

maybe it’s for the best. maybe they’ve been chasing a ghost all these months. perhaps missing does mean gone. at least you aren’t in pain.

he sees johnny’s lip quiver as he reports back to the captain, his voice cracking. “they ain’t here. there’s nothin’ here.”

“i found them!” rudy corrects, breathless. “get down to the basement now!”

kyle’s never run so fast in his life. he doesn’t even check to see if the coast is clear, if johnny’s behind him, he can’t hear anything over the ringing in his ears. he found you. you’re alive. they have not lost you.

simon beats him to you, somehow. by the time kyle stumbles into the decrepit cell you’ve been locked in for god knows how long, he’s right there, kneeling before you, your battered face in his hands as you sob dryly into his bare palms.

death’s not the worst of fates. and neither, it seems, is missing. this is worse.

you look like a corpse. not a single nail left on your hands or your feet, and he thinks he could count your ribs through your flesh. whatever’s been done to you, death would’ve been kinder. the difference is mere permanence. this is reversible. death isn’t.

perhaps you wish you were dead. maybe kyle is selfish for being glad that you’re not.

but once you recognize him, when you reach for him with fingers that have been broken and bent beyond repair, he smiles for the first time in six months.

you’re covered in dried blood and filth, and kyle doesn’t care, not one fucking bit, not when he takes you in his arms and you cling to him as if he’s your lifeline. rudy’s calling for medics, simon’s warning him not to hurt you anymore than you already are, though he’s holding just as tight. johnny and price are there too suddenly, grabbing at any part of you that they can reach.

Marie Ange Blaise, from Haiti, who begged to see a doctor for her chest pains and was refused by ICE in Florida

Johnny Noviello, from Canada, Lorenzo Antonio Batrez Vargas, from Mexico, and Jean Wilson Brutus, from Haiti, whose families still have no answers about how they died in ICE custody

Shiraz Fatehali Sachwani, from Pakistan, who they kept detained for 5 months at a Texas concentration camp despite a history of liver and kidney issues

Fouad Saeed Abdulkadir, an imam from Eritrea, who was held in a concentration camp in Pennsylvania for a year and a half for the charge of applying incorrectly to a welfare program