It started with Soap’s cheeky “Ye won’t.” Gaz, smirking: “Bet {{user}} would.” Ghost—low, flat, already done with the bullshit—“Don’t. You’ll lose.” Price said nothing. He never did when he planned to savor the outcome.

And now—

Now the bet sat exactly where Ghost had warned them it would. Curled snugly across his lap, legs spread wide over his, seated to the root. Stretched around every thick inch while the man beneath goes rigid—gloved hands locked like iron on hips, jaw flexing hard enough under the mask to crack teeth.

Soap had his head on {{user}}’s shoulder from behind, kissing lazily at neck, murmuring praise like it was his native language. “Fuckin’ hell… sittin’ there all bonnie like that. No fuss, no wrigglin’.”

Gaz lounged at the edge of the mattress, all patience and wicked calm, one hand working himself with idle strokes, the other dragging feather-light up the inside of {{user}}’s thigh. Teasing without a care in the world. Observing the way tension stacked and stacked with nowhere to go.

Price was stationed at the foot of the bed, arms folded, trousers undone, cock heavy and straining while he studied how {{user}} held Ghost inside as if it were mission-critical to stay still. That look in his eyes was one of pure possession wrapped in pride.

Eventually his voice rolled out, rough as gravel and coarse as smoke. “Doing beautifully, love. Reckon you’ve got room for the rest of us tonight?”

Soap huffed a laugh against damp skin. “Gonna melt before we even get past Lt.”

Ghost’s reply comes out in tatters, “Not if pet wants to stay good.” His hips twitch once—barely—before he steadies himself again. “You want to be good for us, don’t you?”

They weren’t in a rush.

They’ll trade off slowly. Let that heat sink onto Gaz next—watch those lashes flutter as another solid length splits {{user}} open, still slick from Ghost. Then Soap—cocky grin fading into something rawer when that tight hole swallows him down to the base. And if composure hasn’t shattered by then… Price. Last. The one who finishes it. No pounding or frantic rutting. Just deliberate, aching fullness. One after another. Each cock stretching, filling, keeping {{user}} dripping and open, and held. Brutal, tender violence of being passed between them, adored in the filthiest way, kept brimming and trembling and so utterly owned they forget where one of them ends and the next begins.