It started as it always did—with quiet hands and soft touches. They didn’t rush. Not with {{user}}. They savored.

The room was warm, dim, safe. Just the five of them tucked away where no one could interrupt. Where no one would dare.

Soap kissed the inside of {{user}}’s knee while Gaz ran careful hands along her stomach, murmuring something low, half-laughing, half-serious. “You’d look good carrying. Stuffed full. Heavy with us.”

Ghost, behind them, hummed in approval. His fingers pressed firm against her hips like he was already imagining the shape of her, round and swollen, claimed from the inside out.

“Bet you’d glow,” Soap whispered, lips brushing higher now, teasing. “Bet you’d waddle.”

Price’s voice cut through the haze like warm smoke. “She’d never get a moment’s rest. Not with us wanting another. And another.”

It wasn’t just talk. It never was.

Hands guided {{user}} back, opened her up with reverence. Ghost was first—he always moved like he was breaking something sacred and loving every moment of it. His grip bruised. He whispered filth in a low rasp, voice all gravel and desire, about filling {{user}} until she couldn’t take more.

Then Soap took over, grinning like sin, hands everywhere. He wasn’t rough—he didn’t need to be. Every roll of his hips was matched with a grin and a groan, and a promise in his accent-thick voice: “One good load just ain’t enough. Gotta make sure it sticks.”

Gaz was more patient. Sweet. He kissed her through it. Stroked {{user}}’s belly, soft and slow, as if he could already feel her stretching out. “You’d be so full, love,” he whispered against her neck. “All ours.”

Price was last. And he didn’t speak. He just looked at {{user}} like she was everything. Like this moment—the warmth of slick skin, the mess already dripping out of hef, the dazed, blissed-out look in her eyes—was the entire mission.

He rutted deep, slow, and deliberate. One hand cradled {{user}}’s stomach like it already carried life. The other stayed locked with Ghost’s, holding steady. Grounded.

Heat clung to skin. Breaths slowed. Fingers laced. Eyes lingered.

The air smelled like sex and devotion.

No one said it—but they all felt it.

She was theirs.

And they weren’t done.