In this NSFW Choose Your Own Adventure, 141 is in a night club celebrating a successful mission. Your task is to seduce them into giving you private intel. Can you do it?
Task Force 141 x Reader
NSFW Choose Your Own Adventure
🔗 READ/PLAY HERE
🎮 interactive fanfic "Venus Trap" by Quadra
📖 Episode 1 of 1
Task Force 141 are the most feared vampire hunters in this Choose Your Own Adventure. How will you survive with them on your wings?
Simon "Ghost" Riley, Johnny "Soap" MacTavish, Gary "Roach" Sanderson x Vampire!Reader
Choose Your Own Adventure
CW: Character Death, Stalking/Abduction, Violence
🔗 READ/PLAY HERE
🎮interactive fanfic "Blood, Sweat and More Blood." by Batonix
📖 Episode 1 of ?
In this NSFW Choose Your Own Adventure, you wake up with no memories of how you ended up in this hospital. Luckily, Task Force 141 is there to help you remember -- right?
Task Force 141 x Reader
NSFW Choose Your Own Adventure
🔗 READ/PLAY HERE
🎮interactive fanfic "Asset Unknown" by P2rizell
📖 Episode 1 of ?
It's your one year anniversary with Task Force 141 -- all of them. Care to celebrate it with them in this NSFW Choose Your Own Adventure?
🔗READ/PLAY HERE to make your own choices!
[Playthrough by Anonymous]
Price makes a soft sound against my mouth—surprised, maybe, or relieved—before his hand slides from my jaw to the nape of my neck, fingers threading into my hair. He kisses me slow, like he's savouring it. The taste of wine lingers on his lips, warm and faintly sweet.
The movie plays on. Explosions, gunfire, the distant hum of dialogue. But it all fades into background noise, muffled, irrelevant.
Soap shifts beside me, his knee pressing a little harder. Ghost's fingers tighten around mine. But I don't break away. Not yet.
Price pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against mine. His breath is warm, uneven. His eyes are dark, soft, holding mine with an intensity that makes my chest ache.
"Happy anniversary," he says, his thumb stroking along my jaw.
I smile, my lips still tingling. "Happy anniversary."
The room settles around us—the flicker of the fairy lights, the warmth of their bodies bracketing mine, the quiet hum of a film none of us are watching anymore.
I pull back from Price, my lips still warm, my heart thudding slow and steady against my ribs. The room feels different now—charged, expectant. Soap's hand finds my knee, a warm weight. Ghost's thumb still traces slow circles across my knuckles.
Price's eyes hold mine, dark and knowing. "What do you want, love?"
The question hangs in the air, heavy with possibility. Four pairs of eyes on me, waiting. The fairy lights flicker in the quiet, casting soft shadows across their faces.
"I want all of you."
The words hang in the air, simple and honest. I feel them land—Price's breath catching, Soap's hand tightening on my knee, Ghost's thumb pausing mid-stroke.
Price studies me for a long moment, his eyes searching mine. Then something shifts in his expression—a quiet surrender, a wall coming down.
He stands, offering me his hand. "Then you'll have us."
I take it, and he pulls me to my feet. The room feels different now—smaller, warmer, charged with possibility. Soap rises beside me, his hand finding the small of my back. Gaz pushes himself out of the armchair, stretching casually, but his eyes are dark and focused. Ghost is the last to stand, unfolding himself from the corner of the couch with that quiet grace.
We're all on our feet now, the fairy lights casting long shadows across the walls. The movie still plays, muted and forgotten.
Price steps closer, his hand settling on my hip. "Tell us what you need, love."
Soap presses against my other side, his breath warm against my ear. "Anything you want, hen."
Gaz circles around, leaning against the doorframe, watching with that sharp, knowing gaze. Ghost stays back, arms crossed, but his eyes—those brown eyes fixed on me—say everything.
Four of them. Waiting. Mine.
"Bedroom. Now."
My voice comes out steadier than I expect. Price's hand on my hip tightens once, a quick squeeze, before he steps back and gestures toward the hallway with a tilt of his head.
"After you, love."
I move first, my bare feet carrying me across the living room. Past the coffee table. Past the fairy lights strung along the mantelpiece. I can feel them behind me—four sets of footsteps, different rhythms, all following.
The hallway is dim, lit only by the spill of light from the living room. My bedroom door is at the end, slightly ajar. I push it open and step inside.
The room is familiar. My bed, unmade from this morning. The lamp on the nightstand, casting a warm orange glow across the sheets. A hoodie thrown over the chair in the corner—Gaz's, probably, from last week.
I turn to face them.
Price fills the doorway first, shoulders broad, eyes dark. Soap slips in beside him, that cocky edge softened into something more serious. Gaz leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching. Ghost hangs at the back, skull mask still in place, eyes fixed on me.
The room feels smaller with all of them in it. Warmer.
Price steps forward, closing the distance between us. His hand finds my waist, fingers curling into the fabric of my shirt.
"Last chance to change your mind," he says, low enough that only I can hear.
I meet his eyes. "Not a chance."
"Show me what you've got, all of you."
The words hang in the warm dim light of my bedroom. Price's hand tightens on my waist, a flicker of something dark and approving crossing his face. Behind him, Soap lets out a low breath—almost a laugh, but not quite.
"Bold words," Price murmurs, his thumb tracing the curve of my hip.
Then he moves.
His hands find the hem of my shirt, lifting it slowly, deliberately. The fabric slides up over my stomach, my ribs, and I raise my arms to let him pull it over my head. It falls somewhere on the floor, forgotten.
Soap steps forward, his hands finding my waist from behind, warm and calloused. His mouth brushes my shoulder. "Beautiful," he breathes against my skin.
Gaz pushes off from the doorframe, circling to the foot of the bed. He doesn't touch me yet, but his eyes travel down, then back up, a slow appraisal that makes my skin prickle. "You sure you can handle all of us, sweetheart?"
I meet his gaze. "Try me."
Ghost hasn't moved from the doorway. His arms are still crossed, his mask still in place, his eyes fixed on me with that unreadable intensity. But I catch the way his fingers flex against his bicep—the only crack in his composure.
Price's hand slides up my stomach, stopping just below my ribs. His eyes never leave mine.
"Tell us what you want first," he says, voice low. "Who do you want?"
"Price. Always Price first."
His eyes darken, something primal flickering behind the calm. His hand slides from my waist up my spine, pulling me against him. The kiss this time isn't soft—it's hungry, claiming. His beard scrapes against my chin as his tongue finds mine, tasting of wine and something deeper.
Soap's hands fall away from my waist. A deliberate retreat. I feel him step back, giving us room. Giving Price space to take what I've offered.
Price walks me backward until my knees hit the edge of the bed. He breaks the kiss just long enough to look at me—really look—before his hand presses against my sternum, guiding me down onto the mattress. The sheets are cool against my bare back.
He follows me down, one knee on the bed, hovering over me. The boonie hat is gone now—tossed somewhere across the room. His grey-streaked hair is rumpled, his eyes intent. He looks at me like I'm the only thing in the room worth seeing.
Behind him, I catch movement. Soap settling into the armchair by the window, watching openly. Gaz leaning against the dresser, arms crossed, a slow smile spreading across his face. Ghost still in the doorway, arms uncrossed now, hands loose at his sides.
Price's mouth finds my neck, warm and slow. His teeth graze my pulse point, and I arch into him.
"Tell me if you want me to stop," he murmurs against my skin.
I thread my fingers into his hair. "I won't."
I hook my fingers into the collar of his shirt and pull. He comes willingly, his weight settling over me, his mouth finding mine again. I arch up into him, my legs parting to make room, and he sinks into the space with a low groan that vibrates through his chest.
His hand slides down my side, over my ribs, my hip, stopping at the waistband of my jeans. He pauses, lips still brushing mine.
"Yeah?" he breathes.
"Yeah."
He makes quick work of the button, the zipper. His fingers hook into the denim and fabric beneath, and I lift my hips to help him tug everything down my legs. The cool air hits my skin, raising goosebumps. Price sits back just enough to look at me—hair mussed, eyes dark, chest rising and falling beneath his shirt.
He takes me in. Slow. Thorough.
"Christ," he mutters, almost to himself.
Behind him, I hear Soap shift in the armchair. The creak of leather. A sharp exhale. Gaz hasn't moved from the dresser, but his arms have dropped to his sides, his hands gripping the edge of the wood.
Price leans down, pressing a kiss to my stomach. Just above my navel. Soft. Reverent.
Then he trails his mouth lower.
Games, he prefers a slow hunt. A building, agonizing pace with little final payoff; I'd asked him how he likes his steak and he said bloody, which tracks with everything, so no surprise here that he's doing this quietly, deliberately.
I thread my fingers through his hair and guide him lower.
He follows without resistance, a soft grunt of approval vibrating against my skin. His mouth trails down—over my ribs, my stomach, the jut of my hipbone. Each kiss deliberate, worshipful. His hands slide under my thighs, parting them, settling between.
I feel his breath warm against me before his mouth finds where I want him most.
The first touch of his tongue makes me gasp, my fingers tightening in his hair. He works slowly, deliberately—a man who knows exactly what he's doing and intends to take his time doing it. My hips shift, and his hands press down, holding me steady.
Somewhere behind me, I hear Soap mutter something low. The creak of the armchair. The soft sound of a belt being adjusted.
I don't open my eyes. I let myself sink into the feeling—Price's mouth, his beard scratching against my inner thigh, the wet heat of his tongue tracing patterns that make my breath hitch. His fingers dig into my skin, grounding me.
"Fuck," I breathe, the word dissolving into a moan.
Price hums against me, and the vibration sends a jolt through my entire body.
I tug at his hair, pulling him back up.
Price follows, a low sound of protest caught in his throat, but the moment my lips find his, that sound turns into something else entirely. He tastes like me—salt and warmth and want. His beard scratches my chin, his mouth wet and hungry against mine. I bite his lower lip, just hard enough to make him groan.
"Fuck," he mutters against my mouth.
I smile, smug and breathless. "Taste good?"
His answer is another kiss—deeper, slower, his tongue sliding against mine. His hand finds my thigh, squeezing, spreading me wider beneath him. I can feel him hard against my hip, still half-dressed, restrained.
Behind us, the room is quiet except for the sound of breathing. Someone shifts. The leather of the armchair creaks.
Price breaks the kiss, resting his forehead against mine. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide. His chest heaves against mine.
"You're going to kill me tonight," he says, voice rough.
I tighten my fingers in his hair. "Not yet."
"Soap, get over here."
He doesn't wait. The armchair creaks as he rises, and within seconds he's at the edge of the bed, looking down at me. His eyes roam from Price's hand on my thigh to my flushed chest to the lazy smile curving my lips.
"Finally," he says, his Scottish accent thicker than before.
Price shifts, making room but not leaving me entirely. His hand slides up to my hip, possessive but patient. Soap's fingers find the hem of his shirt—my shirt, actually, one of his I'd stolen weeks ago—and pulls it over his head in one smooth motion. The tattoos ink across his skin, the lamplight carving shadows over his chest.
He crawls onto the bed, his eyes never leaving mine. One knee, then the other, bracketing my hips. He hovers above me, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off his skin.
"You called, hen?" His grin is sharp, wolfish.
I reach up and hook a finger into his belt loop, pulling him down until his lips are a breath from mine.
"You gonna make it worth my while?"
I reach for Price's hand without looking away from Soap. His fingers find mine immediately—warm, calloused, grounding—and I squeeze once before pulling Soap down by his belt loop.
Our mouths meet, and Soap kisses like he fights—eager, a little reckless, all in. His tongue sweeps across my lower lip, tasting, claiming. I feel Price's thumb trace circles on the back of my hand as Soap deepens the kiss, one hand bracing beside my head, the other sliding down my side.
"Christ," Soap mutters against my mouth, half-laughing, half-breathless. "Been wanting to do that all night."
I grin, tugging at his bottom lip with my teeth. "What took you so long?"
His answer is another kiss, hungrier this time, his hand sliding up my ribs until his thumb brushes the underside of my breast. Above me, Price's grip tightens—not possessively, but present. Connected.
Soap breaks the kiss first, panting slightly. His blue eyes are dark, pupils blown wide. He glances to the side, toward Price, then back at me.
"You two gonna share or what?"
I reach up with my free hand and catch the back of Price's neck, pulling him down.
He comes without hesitation, his mouth finding mine. The kiss is slower than Soap's—deeper, more deliberate. Price kisses like he's memorising me, like he's got all the time in the world. His beard scratches my chin, his tongue sliding against mine as Soap watches from above, still straddling my hips.
I feel Soap's weight shift. His hands find my thighs, squeezing, grounding himself as he watches his captain kiss me. His breath is hot against my skin, uneven.
Price breaks the kiss slowly, his lips lingering. When he pulls back, his eyes are dark, his composure cracked just enough to see the hunger underneath.
Soap lets out a low breath. "Fucking hell, that's—" He stops, shakes his head, a rueful smile tugging at his lips. "Didn't know I'd be into watchin'."
Price's thumb traces my jaw, featherlight. "Neither did I," he says, "until now."
I look between them—Price above me, Soap straddling my hips, both of them watching me like I'm something precious. Something wanted.
My gaze drifts past them, to the doorway.
Ghost hasn't moved. His arms are still crossed, his mask still in place. But his eyes—those steady brown eyes—are fixed on me with an intensity that makes my stomach flip.
And Gaz, leaning against the wall beside the dresser, his hands in his pockets, watching with that sharp, knowing gaze. He catches my eye and smiles, slow and deliberate.
"Both of you. Now."
Ghost moves first.
He uncrosses his arms and steps forward, those long, quiet strides eating up the distance between the doorway and the bed. His eyes never leave mine. The skull mask makes him unreadable, but the way he moves—deliberate, unhurried, purposeful—says everything.
Gaz follows, pushing off from the wall with that easy grace. He stops at the foot of the bed, hands resting on the wooden frame, his dark eyes sweeping over the scene—Price beside me, Soap straddling my hips, me bare and flushed between them.
"Look at you," Gaz says, his voice low, appreciative. "Giving orders from your back."
I meet his gaze. "You got a problem with that?"
A slow smile spreads across his face. "Not even a little."
Ghost reaches the bedside. He stops beside Price, close enough that I can see the faint wear in the fabric of his mask, the tiny imperfections in the skull pattern. His eyes travel down my body, then back up. His hand lifts, hesitates for half a second, then his fingers brush a strand of hair from my face, tucking it behind my ear.
The touch is surprisingly gentle. Almost reverent.
I catch his wrist before he can pull away, holding him there. His pulse beats steady against my fingers.
"You gonna keep that on?" I ask, nodding toward the mask.
Something flickers in his eyes. A question. An offering.
He reaches up and pulls the mask over his head.
"Come here, all of you."
The words leave my lips, soft and certain, and they move.
Ghost steps closer first, maskless, his face finally bare—sharp jaw, pale skin scattered with scars, a blond brow lifting slightly as he meets my gaze. He's handsome in a way that catches me off guard, even though I should have expected it.
Price shifts, his hand still in mine, his thumb stroking slow circles across my knuckles. Soap slides off my hips, settling beside me, his hand finding my thigh. Gaz rounds the bed and climbs on from the other side, the mattress dipping under his weight.
They arrange themselves around me like they've done it a thousand times—Price at my back, pulling me against his chest. Soap on my right, his fingers tracing patterns on my hip. Gaz on my left, his hand sliding up my arm, warm and steady. Ghost settles at the foot of the bed, his eyes meeting mine, his hand resting on my ankle.
Four of them. Surrounding me. Holding me.
I'm surrounded by warmth, by the weight of their bodies, by the quiet sound of their breathing. Price presses a kiss to my shoulder. Soap's hand tightens on my hip. Gaz's fingers lace with mine. Ghost's thumb traces the curve of my ankle bone.
"Happy anniversary," I say, and I feel Price's smile against my skin.
Gas lets out a low chuckle. "Best anniversary I've ever had."
The fairy lights flicker beyond the open door. The house is quiet. The world is quiet.
And I'm exactly where I want to be.
"Your turn, Ghost."
His eyes meet mine from the foot of the bed, that bare face still a little unfamiliar, still a little startling in its quiet handsomeness. His thumb pauses on my ankle bone. For a moment, he doesn't move.
Then he crawls up the bed.
Slow. Deliberate. His body moves with that coiled precision, each movement controlled, measured. He settles over me, one knee on either side of my hips, his hands bracing beside my shoulders. Price shifts behind me, his chest warm against my back, his hands resting on my waist.
Ghost looks down at me, his brown eyes searching. He doesn't speak. He doesn't need to.
I reach up and touch his face—my fingers tracing the scar that runs along his jaw, the faint stubble, the shape of his cheekbone. He closes his eyes for half a second, leaning into my touch.
Then his mouth finds mine.
The kiss is soft at first. Testing. His lips are warm, slightly chapped, and he kisses like he's still deciding whether to let himself have this. I pull him closer, my fingers threading into his blond hair, and he deepens the kiss with a low sound that vibrates through his chest.
Around us, the room is quiet. Soap's hand finds my hip. Gaz's fingers lace with mine. Price's breath is warm against the back of my neck.
Ghost breaks the kiss, his forehead resting against mine. His breath is uneven, his eyes still closed.
"Happy anniversary," he murmurs, his voice rough, barely above a whisper.
I kiss him again, deeper this time.
My fingers tighten in his hair, pulling him down as I part my lips against his. He lets out a breath—sharp, surprised—and then his mouth opens under mine, his tongue meeting mine in a slow dance. His hands shift, one sliding up my side, the other burying itself in the sheets beside my head.
Ghost kisses like he operates—controlled, precise, but with an undercurrent of something fierce, something barely leashed. His body presses into mine, warm and solid, and I feel the tension in his shoulders slowly unspool.
Behind me, Price's hands rest on my hips, steady and present. Soap's thumb traces lazy circles on my thigh. Gaz's fingers are still laced with mine, his thumb stroking across my knuckles.
I break the kiss just enough to breathe, my forehead still pressed to Ghost's. His eyes are darker now, his lips slightly swollen.
"Didn't know you could do that," I murmur.
One corner of his mouth twitches—the barest hint of a smile. "Neither did I."
I pull back just enough to look around the room.
Price behind me, his chest warm against my back, his hands steady on my hips. Soap beside me, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on my thigh, his blue eyes dark and patient. Gaz on my other side, his fingers still laced with mine, that sharp smile tugging at his lips. Ghost above me, bare-faced and breathing hard, his eyes searching mine like he's still trying to figure out if this is real.
"Don't stop," I say.
The words come out soft, but they land like a command.
Ghost's mouth finds my neck, his breath hot against my skin. Price's hands slide up my ribs, thumbs brushing the undersides of my breasts. Soap shifts, his lips pressing a kiss to my shoulder, his hand sliding higher up my thigh. Gaz releases my hand and cups my jaw, turning my face toward him for a slow kiss.
Four sets of hands. Four mouths. All of them on me, around me, filling every inch of space.
I close my eyes and let myself sink into it—the weight of them, the warmth, the quiet sounds of breath and skin and whispered words. Ghost's teeth graze my collarbone. Price's mouth presses against my spine. Soap's fingers curl into my hip. Gaz's tongue slides against mine, slow and sweet.
The fairy lights flicker in the hallway. The house is still and quiet. And I'm surrounded, claimed, wanted—by all four of them.
I lie back and let them take control.
The shift is immediate. A quiet rebalancing, like they've all been waiting for permission. Price's hands slide up from my hips, slow and deliberate, tracing my ribs, my sternum, until his palms cup my breasts. His thumbs brush across my nipples, featherlight, and I arch into his touch.
Soap takes the cue. His mouth finds my neck, lips and teeth grazing the sensitive curve where my shoulder meets my throat. His hand slides up my thigh, slow, teasing, stopping just shy of where I want him most.
Gaz leans in from the other side, his fingers tilting my chin toward him. He kisses me—lazy, thorough, like he's got nothing but time. His tongue slides against mine as his hand wraps around my wrist, pinning it gently above my head.
Ghost moves last. He settles between my legs, his eyes meeting mine for confirmation. I give it with a small nod, and he lowers his mouth to my inner thigh. A kiss. A gentle bite. Then his tongue traces a slow path upward.
I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.
They move around me like they've been doing this forever—Price's hands on my breasts, Soap's mouth on my neck, Gaz's lips on mine, Ghost's tongue working me closer to the edge. I'm surrounded, held, taken apart piece by piece.
"You good?" Price murmurs against my ear.
I can barely form words. "Yeah."
His hands tighten on my hips. Ghost's mouth finds the spot that makes me gasp. Soap's teeth graze my earlobe.
I'm not just good.
I'm theirs.
Wanna make your own choices and see what happens next? READ/PLAY HERE! (˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶)
🎮interactive fanfic "Domestic bliss" by Cyberkitty
the captain needs shaving. 🌶️ (john price x f!reader)
the bathroom was small, trapped in a chokehold of heavy humidity and the scent of sandalwood soap. john price sat on a low stool made from wood, looking entirely too big for the confined space. he wore nothing but a pair of grey sweatpants that hung low on his hips, exposing the rugged expanse of his chest and the dark hair tapering down his stomach.
you stood directly between his spread thighs, dressed only in a thin white camisole that clung to the swell of your breasts, dipping sharply at your waist before meeting your cotton panties. every shift of your weight flexed your hips right at his eye level.
john’s gaze tracked the movement, lazy dangerous grin tugging at the corner of his mouth as he handed you the straight-edged blade. the cold steel contrast against his warm skin.
“you know how to use one of these, love?” his voice rumbled, low and gravelly from weeks on the run.
“well,” you smirked, stepping closer until your thighs brushed the coarse fabric of his sweats. “i watched my grandpa do it.”
a dark chuckle vibrated against your chest. “mhm. your grandpa, huh?”
before you could apply the shaving cream, his heavy palm came down in a sharp, playful smack against the curve of your ass. the sound echoed in the small room, leaving a burning pink print on your skin.
“yeah,” you softly giggled, swatting his shoulder as you slathered the warm, thick lather over his jawline, burying the thick, overgrown beard he’d been sporting since the both of you went into hiding. (cod:mw4)
at first, john behaved. he tilted his head back, exposing the thick line of his throat, letting you scrape the blade away in neat, practiced strokes. but he was never a passive man. hiss eyes, dark and predatory, locked into your lips. they track the column of your neck, watching the way your pulse fluttered in the hollow of your throat.
slowly, his calloused fingers found the back of your thighs. he didn't just touch, his hands wrapped around them, squeezing the soft flesh with a possessive heavy grip that anchored you right against him.
“john,” you warned, your tone clipped as you held the razor steady against his jaw. “don't move.”
he didn't listen. his hands traveled upward, tracing the curve of your hamstrings until his palms cupped your bare cheeks, groping you shamelessly. he squeezed hard, lifting you slightly so the apex of your thighs pressed firmly against his chest.
“i am trying to work here,” you breathed out, your fingers trembling slightly as you wiped the blade. the heat radiating off him is making it hard to concentrate.
“you’re doing a fine job, love,” he murmured against your skin, voice a rough purr.
he didn't stop. one hand stayed anchored on your hip, while his other hand slid lower, slipping past the edge of your white cotton panties. his thick, rough fingers found the slick, aching heat of your pussy from behind. he stroked you right through the damp fabric, his thumb finding your center with agonizing accuracy.
“john!” you gasped, your hips arching instinctively into his touch as the razor hovered precariously an inch from his face.
he looked up at you through his lashes, his eyes dark with a wicked, unholy satisfaction. “come on then, finish the job.”
johnny is like a bad ass dog. he needs enrichment. he needs attention. he needs to be ran around the backyard before bed so that he actually sleeps at night.
being his girl is so easygoing. as long as you find something for him to do, you practically have the whole morning to yourself. just requires draining his balls at the end of the day, satisfy him like the animal he is.
but the most fun is bringing him to the beach; that’s when you truly get to spread out and relax, with or without friends. you do have to provide him with at least some sort of entertainment, but it doesn’t take much. a cheap bucket and a shovel, all it took to make him turn into a happy little kid again.
runs around for about an hour, only to settle down and finally decide on dedicating his time to building a massive sand castle. waits for you to go into the water with him; just like a good dog. but then after that— its free range. drowns himself like a rat, doesn’t bother to put on sunscreen at all either, so you can see the burn settling in on his skin.
he’ll come in to eat, shoving it into his mouth whole practically, inhaling like a damn vacuum before giving you kisses all around the face. then its right back to the beach grind.
just don’t take your eyes off him for too long; he’ll wander and start making friends with the random guys drinking beer and playing football. you’ll have to bring simon next time.
the size of his body in general is already a problem, you can’t possibly imagine how his mother lived through the birth. the relief must’ve been the best feeling in the world, not having to carry such a huge baby. but now she was letting that menace run out into the real world, practically terrorizing men and women alike on the field.
but but but— this is about his cock.
uncut. freakishly large, curving to the left when hard— hanging even heavier when soft. balls made for breeding. swear, if he was alive a VERY long time ago, the roman’s would’ve grabbed his ass and used him for sexual conquest. would’ve been the pride of a germanic tribe, not some socially anxious freak.
likes, comments and reblogs are much appreciated !!
(this is so short but i was just fckin mad horny and wanted to sexualize him bc who cares)
