#tboy!reader

Price knows what you are the moment you join the team.

Baggy clothes when off-duty. Eyes flicking away from mirrors. Pillows clutched in front of your chest. Sports bras in the hamper that are two sizes too small.

It’s exactly what Gaz did before his transition, before Price showed the sergeant how to become a man. Gaz clocks you, too, and starts throwing in specific word choices to see if you’ll react. Do you even know what you could become?

“You know, your hair would look great shorter,” Gaz will comment conversationally. It’s easy, when he’s the resident fashionista of the team, the one that you can go shopping with or talk about skincare to. You never bothered to wonder how he knows about it all. Or he’ll say, “Oh, that sweater would look so good on you. It’s from the men’s section? Yeah, so? Plenty of girls shop there, it’s completely normal. Clothes don’t have genders.”

But clothes very much do have genders, at least for their plans. If you wear a dress or crop top when the team goes out for drinks, Price will stop you, give you a once-over. “You’re not wearin’ that.”

If pressed, he’ll say it’s too revealing. He’ll refuse to let you off of base until you’re wearing something that can pass as androgynous or at least soft masc. Even butch would be a good start. So you sigh, and always end up changing into jeans and a hoodie, or an oversized tee, depending on the weather.

But you’re still not out of the closet. Maybe it’s because you’re yet to come to terms with it, or maybe you’re afraid that the team won’t support you. Either way, Price decides that he has to take things into his own hands.

You wake up with Gaz pressing his palm over your mouth so you won’t scream as Price cuffs your wrists to your bunk.

“Shhh, shhh,” Gaz murmurs, as you thrash to free yourself. “Relax, lad, it’s just me. It’s Gaz and the captain. Just relax. This’ll be over soon.”

Lad? Is he talking to you?

You don’t have time to question it, because suddenly there’s the loud buzzing of shears next to your ear, and you stiffen in terror. Gaz keeps you clamped silent, though you could probably still try to scream if you wanted to. But you’re too disoriented, not fully awake.

By the time you feel the shears press to your scalp, it’s too late. Your long hair falls in coils around your head, the cold air of the barracks now hitting skin that hadn’t been exposed since you were an infant. Tears well up in your eyes as you feel Price run the shears in smooth, practiced lines, careful not to nick you. When he’s done, you’re left trembling and crying with a plain buzzcut.

Gaz strokes the spiky fuzz, cooing softly at you. “Shh, it’s okay. You’ll love it once it’s grown out a little bit. Shh, shh, don’t cry. Almost done, I promise. Such a good boy.”

“‘M n-not a boy—“ you try to choke out, but a sharp slap from Price cuts you off with a gasp.

“If I ‘ear your say that shit again, I’ll wash y’ mouth out wif soap, you understand me?” the captain growls out, and you whimper, flinching, as he moves again, but instead of another slap, he’s pulling out a knife, and your heart lurches in your throat. You start to struggle again, but Gaz is holding down your legs and the cuffs and keeping your arms above your head.

Price cuts open your pajama shirt, baring your chest to him, and you can’t help the instinctive terror that he’s going to rap3 you right here and now. You trusted him, and now he’s going to defile you.

But he doesn’t make any move to rid you of your pajama shorts, leaving them untouched. Instead, he’s opening a small rectangular package of something that looks like sets of big bandaids. You’re confused, at first, and then start to jerk wildly as he palms your left breast, placing a small square of tissue paper over your nipple before carefully applying a length of the “bandaid.” Your heart thuds frantically against your ribs as he winds a longer, thinner strip over the top of the first and then rubs over it to ensure that it’s smooth and sticking properly. He repeats the process on the other side, and you suddenly realize that your chest is far flatter than it’s ever been before. In the dim light, it almost looks like you just have plain, masculine pectorals instead of bound breasts.

“Ideally, we don’t want y’ arms up over y’ head, but I knew you’d wriggle too much if I didn’t secure you,” Price says gruffly. “We can redo the TransTape later when y’ calmed down.”

“T-trans?” you repeat, your voice faint. “I’m… I’m not…”

“We won’t judge,” Gaz reassures you, still petting your head. “We’re going to help you be the man that you’ve always been on the inside. Are you okay if we take the handcuffs off now? Will you be a good boy?”

You nod meekly, and are rewarded with the click of the key in the handcuffs. Your arms drop down to your chest, crossing protectively over it. You feel naked, even with the thick tape coverings.

Gaz presses a tender kiss to your temples, distracting you as Price begins to fiddle with a tiny glass bottle and a plastic-protected syringe. Your eyes widen again, panic setting in. “What’s that? Captain?”

Price just grunts in reply. Gaz holds your arms down, keeping them pinned to your chest. “Just breathe. It’ll just be a tiny prickle. You’ll feel so much better in just a few weeks.”

Your breathing picks up as Price draws from the bottle, tapping the needle to ensure that there are no air bubbles trapped in the hollow metal. Gaz pets your arms, murmurs sweet nothings to you as Price pinches some of your soft belly fat between two fingers and jabs the needle into your skin. You give a stifled cry, muscles twitching reflexively as Price injects you with the clear liquid. It burns, and you feel sick to your stomach from the entire ordeal. You're trying not to cry again.

As soon as Price withdraws the needle, you're scrambling into Gaz's arms, burying your face against his neck. He seems like the safer option at the moment.

Gaz holds you close, feeling the tremors arcing through your body. He nudges you into his lap, settling you sideways so he can rub the injection site with two fingers, massaging away the pain. "Poor boy, I know it's scary. But we already have everything set up for you. You'll see the doc for your top surgery consultation in a week, and we'll schedule from there. We'll have to get you on a better exercise regimen, too, get you eating healthy and pushing yourself. You're going to have a lot more energy now that you've started testosterone."

Testosterone-- so that's what the shot was. You've heard of those but never dared to consider them. You were too afraid that it would end your new military career. But Gaz is talking about surgery, changes that you can't imagine. You're so overwhelmed that it feels like you might throw up.

Price is rummaging through your closet, tearing dresses, skirts, and crop tops off of the hangars and tossing them to the floor. So much for your wardrobe. He leaves you only with band tees, plain black socks, and your most ragged jeans. "We'll 'ave to get you some proper clothes soon. No boy of mine is going t' be seen runnin' around in this shit."

You find yourself nodding as Price tosses Gaz a wrinkled grey shirt that you didn't know you even owned. It might very well be left over from whoever had this room before you. Gaz helps you into the shirt with much tenderness, gathering you to your feet and guiding you to the bathroom. He takes a clean cloth, wetting it under warm water, and washes the tears from your face. You’re still sniffly, wobbly.

Price pads in after the two of you. “Go on, lad. Have a look in the mirror.”

You drag your gaze up. It’s almost a jumpscare. You barely recognize yourself. Your face looks sharper, more masculine, without long hair framing your cheekbones. Your chest is taped almost completely flat. You could probably pass for a cis guy from a distance, maybe even up close, if it was just a passing glance.

Your eyes fill with tears again, but this time for an entirely different reason. Gaz kisses your forehead again, watching as you stare at your reflection.