#ram!price

Ram Hybrid! Price who was born with curled horns, broad, dark, and striking. He remembers them and the the weight of them, the ache behind his ears when he got headaches, the way kids at school would ask to touch them. He remembers using them too, affectionate butts, defensive slams, moments of instinct.

But the horns are gone now.

It was a mission gone wrong, a cruel captor and a medical choice made without his consent. He doesn’t talk about it and no one asks. Sometimes, in the quiet of his office or late shift, he runs his fingers over the scarred stubs behind his ears and goes still.

The world treats him the same of course. He's respected, feared, trusted, but he doesn’t feel like a proper hybrid anymore. Especially not when other rams tower over him, horns full and proud. Or when people glance past his species ID with confusion. Or when instinct creeps in and he has no way to channel it.

So he hides that ache under duty and command and power and control.

Until you come along.

You’re a guard dog hybrid, maybe an Akita or Anatolian, sturdy and loyal, protective to a fault. Your instincts don’t just notice Price, they fuckin' latch to him.

You scent his discomfort before he voices it. You see how he holds his head in profile, like trying to shield where the horns should be. You hear how his voice tightens whenever the topic of hybrid rankings or anatomy comes up.

By nature of your upbringing, you grew up around plenty of literally sheep and goats and some of your closest friends were rams. (Naturally, y'all got along great.)

So, you do what you do best.

You nudge his head with your own. Big ol’ affectionate bonks.

At first, Price goes rigid. He thinks you're teasing, but then you do it again. And again. Until finally he starts indulging you, leaning his head against yours just to feel the pressure ease.

One day, you even rest your head against his neck and stay there, rumbling a low, steady sound that vibrates right into his chest.

“Don’t,” he murmurs, gruff and low.

And you just huff, your tail thumping happily against the couch cushion.

Gaz is the kind of sheep hybrid who knows he’s compact and powerful and beautiful because of it. He wears his horns like a crown and doesn't give a damn that they curl tighter, or don’t reach as high, or aren't as thick as some of the other rams.

And sometimes Price just watches him be. He watches him lean into affectionate headbutts with you. And he watches him laugh when Soap makes goat jokes and sticks on a helmet and they just go at it. He watches him take a small polishing cloth out of his kit bag, sit down cross-legged, and start working the shine into his horns like the very important ritual it is.

And one day, just casually, Gaz says, “Cap. You wanna help?”

Price freezes mid-step, enough that you see the flicker of surprise and caught-off-guard-ness in his expression.

Gaz keeps on, folding his cloth, and waits.

You’re lounging nearby, head on your arms, fluffy ears twitching with the quiet. And you know Gaz well enough to know this isn’t some pity offer, he genuinely wants your Captain to do it.

Price stands there a second longer, like maybe he thinks it’s a trap. Then he steps closer and slowly kneels.

Gaz shifts a little to face him and tilts his head.

Price takes the cloth when it’s handed over, careful with the tin. He dips a thumb into the polish. And when he starts, it’s with a kind of softness you’ve never seen on his face before, not even when he's sleeping.

He polishes in slow, small circles, following the natural curl of Gaz’s horn. Just at the base first, thumb anchoring the ridge while the cloth works upward.

“You’ve got good symmetry,” he murmurs.

Gaz hums. “Mum always said they’d curl tight and neat and strong.”

“They do,” Price says. “They’re… regal.”

Price pauses like he doesn't know where the words came from.

But Gaz just smiles like the proud little sheep he is.

You shift closer, head resting on your arms again. Your tail thumps once behind you, lazy and content.

Price keeps working. Up one curl. Down the next. Gentle around the ridges.

You can imagine him doing it for himself: horns bowed over a basin, cloth warmed in his palm, the slow build of shine beneath his fingers. You wish you could have seen it.

Gaz doesn’t rush him, just hums and sighs contentedly every few passes. It almost makes you giggle, but you can't bear to interrupt.

When Price finishes and he sets the cloth down and traces the last curve of Gaz’s horn with bare fingertips, his eyes are a little shinier than they were before.

other ram! price stuff: this and this (i didn't know if I should change reader much or anything, so I left this one ambiguous, but idk could still be the same reader) anyway. Watch my make up fake sciencey words

🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️ Yes. I agree.

Because Ram Hybrid! Price who lost his horns after all that trauma and who’s carried that loss quietly for years has resigned himself to it, built armor over the grief, moved on in the way soldiers do: by burying it.

And then he meets you.

You, who are brilliant and stubborn and kind in the precise way that makes him damn near uncomfortable. You're a hybrid too, maybe not a ram, maybe not even prey-aligned, but you understand. You're an engineer, in the simplest terms. You build things. Keep shit running. Best of all, you see damage not as something to mourn, but as a blueprint for what comes next.

And one day, after knowing him long enough to earn his trust, after seeing the way he flinches when Gaz offers his horn polish tin, after watching him pretend he doesn't care when others on base stare too long at the bare stubs on his head,

you do something no one else has ever tried.

You make him horns.

He only agrees to come because you asked.

He doesn’t like surprises, but he likes you, in that gruff, stubborn way of a man who’s spent too long trying not to.

So when you lead him into your small workshop, he only grumbles a little.

“What’s this, then?”

You don’t answer right away. Just gesture toward the padded workbench. Something waits there, wrapped in soft cloth. The shape of it is unmistakable.

He goes still.

“…You—"

You shrug, but your fingers a twitching, nervous. “I did. Took some time. Some research. A few casts. Nikolai sent me an old picture— I— I know I didn’t ask, but I figured if you hated them, you’d just headbutt me.”

“That a request?”

“Not unless you think I need it, Sir.”

The corner of his mouth twitches.

You step forward and unwrap the cloth.

They gleam in the light, dark, ridged, and strong. Not exact replicas, these curl a little differently, sleeker, shaped to balance with his posture that's gone so long without them.

They're nothing like the weight replacements they sell in stores. Rams loosing their horns is rare, even in battle, especially since World War 2. So you took your damn time and made them perfect.

They're lightweight carbon and flexible alloy. A custom base he can slide over the old scars. Pressure-mounted and magnetic-secured. They can be removed, adjusted, and reinforced. And polished. You made sure of that.

“I don’t need—” he starts, voice low.

“I know,” you cut in gently. “They’re not for need. They’re for you. For when you just need to... feel it.”

He doesn’t move.

You lift one of the horns and turn it over in your hand. Then offer it out.

“Let me show you?”

His jaw ticks. Then he nods.

You step close, closer than you ever have. His head dips naturally, letting you near the vulnerable scarred spots above his temples. You slowly slide the mount into place.

The horn clicks in. Then the other. Perfectly balanced.

And then he just stands there, breathing like the air’s too thick. Like the world’s gone sideways.

“They’re not… quite the same,” you murmur. “But they’re yours if you want them.”

He lifts a hand. His fingers trace the curve of the horn, slow and careful. He taps it lightly with his knuckles.

They make a solid sound.

He swallows, hand lingering near the curve. Like he can't decide whether to touch them again or hit them harder.

You wait and finally, Price exhales. And when he looks at you, eyes warm, wet, brimming with something raw, you see it. That recognition of self, belonging. Of the boy he was. Of the ram he still is.

He steps forward slowly and presses his forehead to yours.

His voice is soft on the words. "Thank you."

The debrief had ended ten minutes ago. And Lieutenant John Price is still in the meeting room.

The lights hum softly overhead, casting everything in a tired yellow haze. His coffee has gone cold. His hands are braced on the edge of the table, knuckles pale, horns casting long curved shadows against the maps below him.

He is very aware of them lately. Very aware of how forward they feel when he’s angry.

The door opens quietly.

Price’s head snaps up. “This room’s restricted.”

Nikolai steps inside anyway.

He looks like he’s come straight from the hanger, flight suit half unzipped, jacket hanging open, the faint scent of fuel and oil clinging to him. Fur shows thick at his throat and along his forearms where the sleeves are pushed back. His ears, broad, folded down, as black as his hair, and unmistakably canine, tilt forward as he takes in the room.

He is still new here, carving out where he stands. Not quite one of them. Not quite outside.

“I was looking for you,” he says evenly.

Price straightens. “You found me. Now you can leave.”

Nikolai shuts the door behind him.

Price’s jaw tightens. “You are not supposed to be in here,” he repeats.

“Yes,” Nikolai agrees, though he doesn’t move toward the exit.

There’s something about the way he’s standing, boots planted, shoulders loose but ready, that sets Price’s nerves alight. Between aggressive and submissive and neither and something solid.

“You did not... discharge it,” Nik says after a moment.

“Discharge what.”

“This.” His hand makes a small, vague motion toward Price’s chest, then his horns.

Price goes still. It is still new, being around another hybrid in the field. Still rare enough to find them, especially any prey hybrid, not that Nik is one. He still doesn’t know exactly what Nikolai is. Some kind of winter shepherd, maybe. The fur is too thick. The build too massive, perhaps something bred to guard flocks against wolves and worse. And importantly, something that does not yield easily.

“I don’t need to hit anything,” Price says flatly.

Nikolai studies him for a long second. Then he steps forward.

“You are leaning forward,” he says quietly. “Even now.”

Price hadn’t noticed.

His head and body are angled just slightly toward Nik. Heat crawls up his spine.

Nikolai gestures to his own chest.

“I can take it.”

Price stares at him. “I beg your pardon.”

“You want to ram something,” Nik says, almost conversational. “Better me than the wall.” Just a calm offering.

Price exhales sharply. “You don’t even know what you’re asking.”

A faint smile touches Nikolai’s mouth. “I know exactly what I am built for, Lieutenant.”

He widens his stance. The invitation is unmistakable.

For a moment, pride nearly wins.

Then Price steps forward. Close enough now to see the individual strands of fur at Nik’s collarbone.

“This is a stupid idea,” he mutters.

“Yes,” Nikolai agrees.

The first contact is controlled, Price leans forward, horns press into thick muscle and fur. A testing pressure.

Nikolai does not move.

“Harder,” Nik murmurs.

Price drives forward properly this time. A solid hit. His horns press into fur and muscle, Nikolai’s boots slide half an inch against the floor before stopping again.

His hand comes up to settle at the back of Price’s neck.

“Again.”

The second impact is fiercer. Anger finally finding somewhere to go, the frustration of command, of responsibility, of almost losing men under his watch, it pours out through bone and muscle and force.

Nikolai absorbs it.

Price shoves until his breath turns ragged, until the tight coil in his chest unspools.

When he's decided it's done, he simply stops. His forehead rests against Nik’s chest, horns harmlessly leaning against him, breath hot against fur.

The hand at his neck returns, squeezing once.

“You see,” Nikolai says softly. “Better.”

Price huffs weakly. “Don’t get used to it.”