It started with a look.

They were supposed to be loading up supplies—clean, quick, no fuss. Civilians still milled around outside the gate, brass making their usual rounds and pretending not to notice what they didn’t want to deal with. But all it took was {{user}} leaning against the truck’s tailgate, sweat-slick and flushed from the afternoon heat, lips pursed just so, and it was done.

Soap was the first to crack.

“Hold on a sec,” he tossed over his shoulder to a nearby corporal—half excuse, half prayer—and then vaulted into the back of the covered truck like a man possessed. The others followed, one by one, as if some unseen gravity had shifted, dragging them into the shadowed heat.

The canvas flap dropped shut behind Price with a dull, final thud.

Inside, it was stifling. Dust motes hung in the golden light filtering through the seams, the air thick with want, adrenaline, and not enough patience. The silence didn’t last.

“Ten minutes,” Ghost rasped, voice sharp and low.

“Five,” Gaz shot back, belt clinking as it hit the floor.

They didn’t have time to be gentle. Couldn’t afford to be. They manhandled {{user}} up onto a crate, mouths colliding, teeth scraping over skin. Fabric tore, boots scuffed against wood, the whole truck rocking ever so slightly with their urgency.

Price stayed by the flap, observing through the narrow slit, keeping an ear out for approaching footsteps. But his gaze kept drifting back, drawn to the sight of his men devouring {{user}} like they’d been starved for far too long.

Gaz eagerly dropped to his knees, his tongue shameless and messy. He moaned against {{user}}, holding her still as if the taste alone was going to finish him.

Soap moved fast, slick fingers working {{user}} open as he murmured filth in that lilting Scottish accent, soft and coaxing even as the words themselves burned.

“Ye love this, aye? Bein' tucked back here, while the lads march by, none the wiser...”

Ghost lingered at first. Watching. Calculating. His eyes behind the mask unreadable until he moved in, unzipping with one hand. He fisted {{user}}’s hair and tugged her head up. “Open. Be good. Take all of it.”

And then Price finally gave in. Slow, deliberate steps across the cramped place before pressing in from behind with a ragged groan, his control breaking as the others kept moving around him, relentless.

It dissolved into chaos—heat, sweat, and the thrum of need. {{user}} passed between them, hands and mouths and cocks claiming every part, shared like something sacred and filthy all at once.

The tarp strained, the entire truck barely containing them. The risk was too high. The space too small.

It was perfect.