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Pairing: Poly!TF141 (Price/Ghost/Soap/Gaz) x Trans!Male!Reader (Medic)

Genre: Action, Hurt/Comfort, Slow Burn Romance and smut but not detailed.

Summary: Being Task Force 141’s combat medic means you keep them alive. But somewhere between the blood, bullets, and quiet nights in war zones, they start to keep you alive too.

The hum of the helicopter faded behind you as your boots crunched into the gravel. You had your rifle slung, medpack strapped tight across your back, and a thousand-yard stare that came from too many nights tending to bullet holes and shrapnel wounds that always felt too personal.

"New doc’s got edge," Soap muttered, watching you from under his mohawk and half a smirk.

"You mean he's competent," Gaz corrected, flicking his eyes from you to Price.

"Means he’s still here after Kandahar and Rio both," Price said, lighting a cigar with a tired sort of respect. “That’s not edge. That’s grit.”

Ghost gave a quiet grunt in agreement, masked face unreadable. But you felt their eyes on you—measuring, testing. Not cruel, not cold. Just...cautious.

You didn’t expect easy. You were the new guy. A trans guy. A medic. A walking contradiction in a world that didn’t always know how to handle any of those things, let alone all three wrapped in one person.

But you could stitch a wound under fire, hold a man’s hand while he bled out, and patch your own damn self up when necessary. That earned you a place in hell. Or, apparently, in Task Force 141.

You dropped your gear next to the barracks door, glancing at the four men already halfway through a post-op debrief.

"Someone bleed out while I was gone?" you asked, raising a brow.

Soap snorted. “Nah, doc. But you left me emotionally scarred.”

“I’ll put in a requisition form,” you deadpanned, and that earned you a snicker from Gaz.

Ghost didn’t laugh, but his gaze lingered a second longer than necessary. Price just took another puff of his cigar.

“You’ll fit in just fine,” he said, and that was the closest thing to a welcome you were gonna get.

Your first week with 141 was quiet, in that chaotic military way. No one questioned your skills—your hands were steady, your voice calmer under pressure than some of the grizzled vets. What they did question was how long you'd last. Not from prejudice—but from painful experience.

You patched up Gaz after a frag nicked his side. He winced when you pressed the gauze too hard, but didn’t complain.

“You always this gentle?” he asked.

“Only with pretty boys who don’t whine,” you replied dryly, and saw the faintest blush under his stubble.

Ghost was next—knife wound, shallow, but you worked in silence. His eyes followed your hands.

“You don’t flinch,” he said after a pause.

You didn’t look up. “Neither do you.”

That night, Soap offered you a drink during downtime. He grinned wide, all charm and chaos.

“Tell me something real, Doc.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Like?”

“I dunno. Why’d you sign up? What keeps you here?”

You hesitated. The truth was sharp, buried deep. “I’ve lost people before. Now I try to stop others from losing theirs.”

He didn’t push. Just nodded, then clinked his bottle against yours.

The next week, you caught Price watching you clean your rifle after a mission. It wasn’t the first time, but it was the first time he spoke.

“You’re not what I expected,” he said.

You glanced over. “You expected someone broken?”

“I expected someone hiding. But you’re not. You just… carry it differently.”

You didn’t answer. But something shifted after that. They started inviting you in—quiet moments after ops, shared cigarettes, deeper questions over late-night watch rotations.

They were protective, too—not in a condescending way, but in the way soldiers who had learned the hard way to value what keeps them human protected what they loved.

You weren’t part of them yet. But you were on the edge of something real.

Something more.

The mission was clean. No one died—on your side, anyway. When you returned to base, bruised and riding the high of success, Price called for a toast.

“Earned it,” he said, pouring the whiskey like it was water, his voice rough and low. You clinked glasses with him, Soap already half-gone and loudly daring Gaz to arm-wrestle him. Ghost watched from the shadows, eyes on you more than the bottle.

One shot turned into three. Laughter turned into touches—shoulders brushing, Soap leaning in too close to tell you how “bloody good” you looked patched up and shirtless.

“You’re dangerous like this,” Gaz murmured, eyes hooded. “Kinda unfair.”

You didn’t remember who kissed you first—only that someone did. Rough stubble, hot mouths, calloused hands pulling you between them. You gasped against someone's throat, fingers gripping a combat vest still half-zipped open.

“We don’t have to stop,” Price growled at your ear, his breath hot, possessive.

And you didn’t want to.

They took their time, like they knew exactly how to handle you. Each of them had a different rhythm—Soap, eager and teasing, Gaz smooth and reverent, Ghost quiet but deep, and Price… commanding. They didn’t fight for you. They shared you, like you belonged to all of them.

And maybe, in that moment, you did.

The room was dark, just the soft amber glow from a desk lamp left on. Your back hit the mattress, breath caught in your throat. Warm hands tugged at your shirt, and you let them—let it all fall away, piece by piece.

Soap was first—mouth hot, movements hungry, the kind of desperation born from weeks of tension and unspoken touches. His accent was thick in your ear as he bit at your neck, his hips grinding down against yours.

“Wanted this since day one, doc,” he breathed. “You have no idea.”

You moaned into his mouth as Gaz moved behind you, hands steady on your hips, lips brushing your nape.

“Let us take care of you,” Gaz whispered, fingers teasing where you were most sensitive. “You’ve patched us up so many times… time you let go.”

Ghost didn’t say a word—he just knelt beside you, mask pulled up just enough to kiss, his mouth hot and consuming, his eyes locked on yours. When he finally touched you, it was careful, deliberate, like he wanted to memorize your reactions. Your body trembled under his touch, your breath hitching at every glide and press.

And then came him—Price. Solid. Grounded. The kind of presence that demanded attention without a word. He came to the edge of the bed, watching as your body arched between the others. He pulled off his gloves slowly, eyes dark.

“Spread your legs, soldier,” he said, voice low with command and heat. “You’ve earned every bit of what’s coming to you.”

You did as told, dizzy with pleasure and whiskey, breath stuttering as the room closed in around you. Hands—everywhere. Mouths, tongues, sweat-slick skin pressing to yours. You couldn’t tell where one of them ended and the next began. All you knew was heat, the sound of their voices coaxing you further, the way they praised you, touched you, held you down like you were theirs.

And god, you were.

Over and over, they took you—each of them claiming you in their way. Soft praise, rough thrusts, gentle kisses, punishing grips. You lost track of time, of names, of everything but the burn and the pleasure and how much you wanted. How good it felt to be wanted back.

By the end of it, you lay tangled in limbs and sheets, heart pounding like a war drum in your chest. Soap’s arm thrown across your waist. Gaz curled behind your back. Ghost’s hand resting over your sternum. And Price… sitting beside the bed, still watching, protective and proud.

“You still with us, doc?” he asked, voice soft now.

You gave a breathless laugh. “Barely.”

“Good,” Ghost murmured from your side. “Means we did it right.”

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autistic price and his boonie hat is his comfort item , to the point where he sleeps with it on which leads to his hair getting greasy , which he also hates . gaz buys them both matching bonnets made of similar materials , so price gets to wear something on his head while he sleeps but doesn't need to worry about greasy hair ♡

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hi i'm neil ! i go by (s)he him . i'm 18 & the world's most annoying trans homo . autistic & chronically ill . i use fem & masc terms . here's my strawpage and my rentry ! pre - t ! taken by my super cool and awesome bf . i don't roleplay or send pics so don't ask ! dms are open !

my posts are tagged as # mine !

my reqs are open ! ( taking art , writing , or headcanons ! ) this is my main , and here's my twitter !

please note that john price is always trans in my works even if not specified . i don't write cis price . my fave ships are nikprice and poly141 ! i also don't write and rarely reblog fem reader ( unless it's gender fuckery ) .

do ; forcemasc , breeding , trans male preg , body worship , praise , bears & fat guys ( i'm not into feederism tho ! ) , hypno , endytophilia , humping / grinding , bondage . but i'm open to writing almost anything !

don't ; misgendering ( don't mind feminisation ) , detrans , ageplay , raceplay , incest / fauxcest / stepcest , underage , mutililation / gore , vomit , scat , being injured , feet .

dni ; basic dni , minors , chasers , terfs / radfems .

please like after reading !

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Nik's big hands on Price's tiny waist, whether he's just moving past him or railing him. Nik staring down at what his hands look like on his waist silently, occasionally twitching his fingers to watch Prices straighten and glare back at him.

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need to write this right now

price smoking a cigar and blowing the smoke into nikolai's mouth

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i NEED lieutenant price and nikolai forcemasc NOW

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price smoking a cigar and blowing the smoke into nikolai's mouth

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The pipeline….

Thank you to my lovely friend @oto999 for the font teehee

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U

get OFF my blog.

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thinking about price retiring and just becoming a big ol' bimbo. he's lived a life where he's had to put others first, where relaxation was a hard thing for him to wrap his head around.

so when he meets you and gets with you, he's a bit ashamed that he finds the 'bimbo life' appealing. not having to worry about any responsibilities, getting to be all pretty, it sounds nice and you're more than happy to indulge him.

he grows softer with time, wearing pretty panties and lingerie, and sending you lewd photos whenever you're busy at work. maybe he experiments with makeup, maybe he doesn't—he's still a pretty bimbo at the end of the day. a dutiful, pretty, housewife of a bimbo.

maybe he'll wear lipstick and mascara, and welcome you home with a blowjob. fuck, maybe he lets you fuck his throat until his lip is smeared and his mascara is streaking down his face.

oooh he'd get so whiny whenever you rip his panties off him to get to his pretty hole. but at the promise of you buying new and prettier panties for him, he'll quickly forget about it—it's easy to forget when he gets cockdrunk.

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I think that Price has an unhealthy addiction to any sorting or organizing game.

When he first got a phone he didn’t really use it much because— what’s it good for except making calls and texting when needed, or reading the weather? But when he sees an ad for a game called Nuts Sort.. it was over from there.

Nik didn’t really mind when he saw his husband first playing it. In fact, he was happy that John was using his phone for something other than mundanity. But when he begins to play it in the middle of sleepless nights or when Nik’s trying to serenade him, the Russian begins to grow irritated because now that “stupid granny game”(as he’d call it) was taking up his love’s time and attention.

So.. if the game so happens to disappear from his phone the next day and Nik fucks him feverishly over their dresser to help him forget about the game forever then.. ah, who gives a shit right?

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Unconventional dom!John Price and "forced masculinization" and gender fuckery and topping from the bottom and—

cw: non-negotiated kink, kink discovery, humiliation, misgendering, cis(?) fem's clitoris called a cock and vagina "hole"

John says he wants to "try something", and you agree. That's as simple as it starts.

He's tying you up; that isn't anything new. After all, you both love bondage. You have no idea what he has in mind, but the anticipation is making you buzz.

Something about his touches, how he maneuvers your body—it feels different somehow—odd.

The way he pushes you into the chair, kicks your feet apart so your knees are spread wide. Ankles strapped to the chair legs. Wrists tied in back. The way he claps you firmly on the shoulder. Palms the nape of your neck in his big hand. Ruffles your hair affectionately after cramming the open-mouth gag between your teeth.

Not a second after you're gagged, he's rumbling "good lad".

...Your brain takes a moment to catch up.

You didn't mishear him. No, he said it right in your ear, close enough that you felt his warm breath on your cheek.

Your face heats, flustered. You're actually thankful for the gag; what sort of rebuttal could you say to that? Not that any words you’d utter would have been exactly comprehensible. He’s completely thrown you off guard, feels like you've been tripped you. You've never had someone refer to you that way. Never even considered it—

Your insides squirm with embarrassment at the way the word immediately sent a zippy feeling directly into your crotch. John's praise never fails to short-circuit you, and this is no exception.

John's casual as he strips down, deftly shucking off his shirt. Unzips his pants, kicking them off into some corner.

There's no soft touches, no caresses this time when he rounds on you, oh no. You’re further confused when he squats down—eyes filled with a steely resolve that you don’t normally get to witness. A sort of focus you'd imagine would be relegated to the field. It’s like he’s on a mission. Tactical.

Suddenly, his hand darts forward, going right for your nethers, gripping your poor clit between calloused fingers. He snatches it likes it's gonna try to fucking run away from him, like it owes him money, making you let out a garbled squawk.

He—he pumps it between two fingers—a sort of crude facsimile of the motion of fisting his own cock. Pulling at it. You keen and writhe uselessly under the harsh stimulation. After a moment John finally acknowledges you again.

"You want me to fuck you, don't you, boy?" he asks, nonchalant like he's asking you if you want to go out for lunch later.

He's not put off by your lack of response while he kneads your helpless bud, his fingerprint ridges, every whorl and arch in those two digits are gonna be engraved there. Others trace down, searching beyond even the root, grasping at where the rest of it lies, internal and protected from his prying grasp.

He lets the "question" hang, then sighs, shaking his head with a faux chagrin that deepens the lines running across his brow.

"I'm always taking care of you, aren't I? Always doin' all the work. Have to spend all this time petting you just right, to even get your cock to show his face? For the lazy thing to even peek out?"

John has a tendency to do that. Ask questions that aren’t real questions. Traps. 

"All the thing's good for is to look pretty, isn't it?"

He finally gives your battered bud a tiny reprieve, but continues scrutinizing your groin.

"Can't even see your prick without spreading you open." He laments half to himself, as he tugs at your lips crudely, spreading you wide and exposed, between a thumb and forefinger.

"But then you have to see that hole too, begging.” he rumbles low and deep from somewhere in the column of this throat. “Open like the mouth of a baby bird crying for food. Whining." He sounds annoyed and his nose wrinkles, and it makes you squirm uncomfortably in your seat, flinch, when you feel the blunt edge of the nail on his pointer finger dig a bit into your lip.

"My little pillow prince", he dubs you, when he finally looks up to your face again. He smiles up at you, but it’s so fucking mean. "That's what you are.” 

“It’s a silly, fussy thing, really. Decorative.” he groans as he straightens, getting back to his feet, knees creaking in complaint. He continues, “How are you gonna fuck anyone with that?" He asks, like this time that one really was a question, like he's somehow concerned about the prospects of your fucking love life.

You can't help drinking him in even as he continues his tirade.

“Have half a mind to give you something to grow out your cock.” he muses. “Would you like that? Maybe a pump would help. Oh, I think you would. We could see how big you'd get.” his eyes glittered.

Even now, you hadn’t predicted exactly where he was going. No, not at all. 

The gag, you completely misinterpreted.

No, you didn’t get to taste him today. Didn’t earn it, he said, as he slotted a silicone toy into your mouth, clicking it into the gag somehow. You stare a it cross-eyed, brows knotted at your forehead. It’s length is left mostly protruding from your face, rather than down your throat—

…The heat coming from your cheeks rivals the heat coming from John as he bounces on your face. 

Hairy, impossibly thick muscled thighs flexing with exertion as he straddles you, grinds the silicone further into himself, presses your nose into the cleft of his ass.

It's not fair. You don't think anyone's ever so smug, so in control, naked with a fucking dildo stretching his rim. You could only stare up at him, moon-eyed. He kept his boots on and that somehow made all the difference, you both had the same amount of fabric on you, but somehow you might as well have been the only one that was naked.

He'd found an additional way to use your face as his sex toy and you are just soaking your seat.

Your "extra" hole, as John dubbed it, oozed messily, slicking your thighs, practically puddling under your ass. You were almost too wet. You positively ached for something, any friction. But in this position there wasn't any, you couldn't find the right angle.

John's low groan spilled into the air as he fucked himself on your face. It's an overwhelming sensory experience. The sound. The sounds you could hear his rim. It's obscene.

Your head's foggy, musky and humid. Strange thoughts coming to you unbidden, ones that you didn’t recognize. 

Damn, you wished you had a cock.

Please, John, if you could you would! You'd grow own immediately if you were able to, for him, if he asked. Even if he made you wear a cock ring and didn't let you come—

Even if he never wanted to touch it! If it simply amused him, you'd do it, even if you had a big, useless cock between your legs and he still insisted he wanted it to just "sit there and look pretty".

Even if he leashed it and made you "learn how to fuck properly". Fuck him until you're exhausted. Hips stuttering with weak thrusts as you run out of steam. Coaching you on technique, critique your form. Tisking, telling you your endurance was rubbish—

John simultaneously interrupted and continued for you. “Even now, I'm still doing all the work". As if you could do anything else!

Says next time he'll make you thrust. If he's feeling nice he'll even give you a strap you can practice with, the type that you can tuck into your spare hole you're so attached to. The one you favour so much, words laden with derision. So the length bumps against your little cock. John grins down at you as your cheeks kiss his cheeks, fuzz tickling your nose.

John sighs above you contentedly, the one you recognized from when he enjoyed a cigar. “Don't worry, boy. You'll cum. I'll rub your little prick for you.” he assures as he picks up his speed. Pap-pwap-pap coming even faster as he strokes himself with the hand that isn't nearly splintering the wood white-knuckling the chair's top rail.

But this time, he wants to see if you can come like he can. “You’re gonna give me the real thing." he growls, like he's caught you out. "Prick just needs the proper motivation. A firmer hand. None of that weak, dribbling nonsense—"

"No”, he pants, “This time, you’re gonna spray, like a good boy.”

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mewing is for losers, define your jawline by sucking your homie's cock. be a man. deep throat him. use every muscle in your mouth and jaw to get him off. the greeks and romans would approve.