The leader finishes first, going still with a grunt and then biting Pope hard on the shoulder before he pulls out. It'll leave a mark. The sort of thing that'll ache until it heals. He watches almost idly as he does his belt up, patting Pope's hip.

"Told you we'd make him cry," he observes, with a cool sort of triumph.

Carver holds tight onto Pope's wrist. Crying almost silently as he's fucked, every nerve overstimulated and hurting. He flinches when the enemy finishes and shoves his head down.