They’d established one unwritten rule between ops: when they’re all home—properly off the grid, doors bolted, world kept at bay—{{user}} gets whatever the blighter fancies. Nobody gets away until the one in the middle has been thoroughly ruined in the best way imaginable.

Tonight, that meant the lights dimmed low, heat settling heavy in the air, and every pair of eyes locked as though they’re taking aim on a single target.

Soap was the first to break the silence. “Ye’re a right sight, ye ken,” he murmured, breath hot against skin, playfully nipping at {{user}}’s neck. “All laid out and bonnie—makes it damn near impossible to keep me manners in check.”

Ghost gave a grunt of agreement, crouched at the bed’s edge, gloved fingers dragging slow, deliberate paths up the insides of {{user}}’s thighs as if charting grid squares on a map he’s already memorized. “No one else has this privilege. Ours. Too fuckin’ good.”

Price loomed behind the headboard, one hand propped near {{user}}’s face, the other carding tenderly through hair, thumb stroking languid arcs along the scalp. His voice unfurled like cigar smoke over a tombstone. “Doing splendidly, baby. Taking it so beautifully. Allowing us to draw it out. You’re bloody unreal when you surrender like this.”

Gaz had already made a mess of {{user}}’s stomach, splattering open-mouthed praise across bare skin, lips trailing lower, leaving damp streaks and whispered filth in their wake. “God, look at you. You make it so easy to come undone. Can’t believe how soft you go for us. You love being spoiled, don’t you?”

Each kiss was intentional. Every caress crafted to wring out more of those sweet, needy sounds they were obsessed with.

They didn’t rush. There was no hurry when they had all the time in the world and every intention of using it.