ok cat lover John Price headcanon got to me.
less cat lover than cat defender and man terrorizer.
(reformatting this with a title for fic-posting practicalities)
‼️‼️STRONG TW FOR VIOLENCE AGAINST ANIMALS. NON GRAPHIC but very much present
cw: minor sexual implications, men being awful
gn!reader x john price (literally they just make eye contact)
length: who knows. I wrote this in the notes app at 12:10 am. not super long.
Somewhere across the white dust yard, men are laughing.
It’s a cruel laugh. One you’ve become well acquainted with over the years, one you’ve learned to listen for around corners. When you hear it on base, you turn on your heel and go the other way.
A few shots ring out across the grey landscape, but nobody reacts. A few of the men hiss in disappointment. You see one punch another on the arm, the shamed soldier sitting back from his gun in chagrin.
You’re watching them from the shadows of a maintenance shed, your own finger tightened on the trigger of your pistol. You know these men - you’ve trained with them, even came up from recruitment with a few of them. You’ve watched them grow callous and then hard and then outright cruel, doing what they think will get them the furthest with the others. They’ve been cruel with you, especially when you outpaced them at the academy. Especially when they found you here, placed in the same town, two units sharing a cinderblock compound. Theirs serving backup to yours, the hierarchies of power clear.
You’re with the experts. They’re the chattel, here to take bullets for your unit while they do their job. You know it and they know it, and they’ve done their best to let you know they’re upset about it.
So why are you hesitating?
Somewhere out there is a colony of stray cats. It’s nothing new. The same flea-bitten, rib-ridged ferals pop up everywhere the military goes around here, drawn by the scent of blood and the mice that infest the kitchens. They’re not pets - at least, not the ones at the new bases, where they haven’t learned to tolerate human touch yet.
Someone fires another shot, and a jubilant cheer rises in the men. Your gut twists, your upper lip rising in fury. You have real power over them now. You could raise the pistol and they’d scatter like beetles under barrel, pissing in fear and begging you not to tell your CO what they’ve been doing with their precious, precious ammo. Shooting at cats like a bunch of middle schoolers with a BB gun. They should be ashamed.
But what if they aren’t?
You’ve lived with men like this for long enough to know that should is rarely enough when it comes to shame and conscience. You can just as easily imagine their guns turned back on you, the cruel laughs restarting as you take the cat’s place. Just target practice, just a bit of fun.
The main door of the compound swings open and slams shut again behind your CO. He’s a big man, imposing even behind a desk, and he leaves a cloud of grey dust behind him as he strides towards your comrades. They don’t notice him, focused on their next target.
A cigar is clenched in his teeth, his hand reaching behind him to bring his gun around from where it hangs on a strap around his broad chest. Your breath catches to see the rifle so comfortably in his hands, steadied against his enormous shoulder, for all the world looking like a toy in the captain’s grasp.
A toy whose barrel is now pressed against your comrade’s temple.
The men scramble back in the dust in horror, the one with his eye against the scope lying so deathly still you wonder if Captain Price hasn’t shot him already. With one lazy hand, he takes the cigar from his mouth and speaks with a steady, unnervingly arousing stream of smoke.
“You want to waste my ammo, Corporal, I suggest we do it properly.”
The corporal doesn’t move. You see Price lean into the gun, the barrel indenting itself into the man’s skin until he rolls away, panting in terror in the dust. A shiver of something that is not fear runs down your spine.
“Go on.” His voice is a low, livid drawl. You’ve never heard your captain sound so dangerous.
The men don’t move.
A flash of movement and a single pop, and a plume of dust flies up from between the corporal’s legs where he lies in the dust and weeds. A collective whimper goes up around the men, each of them scrambling back another inch.
“You heard me. Let’s see you dance, corporal.” Price gestures with the gun to the field they’d been shooting towards.
“Sir - we were practicing, sir -“
The rifle points at the speaker, and his voice dies quickly.
“You itchin’ to go first, Hemings?”
Hemings just bleats in response. Price returns the rifle’s aim to the corporal.
“Up you get, Jonesy. Come on.” His voice is mocking, raspy with smoke and disdain. The man heaves himself up in reluctance, and you’re distantly satisfied to see the dark patch at the front of his fatigues. He takes a few tottering steps out before turning around, his hands spread pleadingly at the captain.
Price takes another mouthful of smoke. “Back up, Jones. I like a challenge, unlike you bastards. Go on, a little further - I wanna see you run.”
Then he turns the rifle on Hemings.
“You’re up.”
The boys’ eyes are wide. Hemings tries to speak, his first attempt coming out in a squeak. “Y-You want us to shoot, sir?”
One dark eyebrow raises. “Y’didn’t seem to mind before, did you?” He pauses, turns towards the corporal. “You heard me, right? I said run.”
The corporal bolts. One by one, your terrified comrades approach the sniper rifle and shoot, they’re shaking hands trying desperately not to hit a moving target. Their chances of a hit are incredibly low, you know, but their fear under the captain’s powerful, disgusted gaze is effective nonetheless.
When they’re done, the corporal stands, dazed but unhurt in the field, his bonds with his comrades forever altered. The men sit in the dust, unable to look at each other or their captain.
The captain himself, towering above them, slings his rifle to his back. “I want a report from each of you on the rounds you discharged today. On my desk by tonight.” He turns, ignoring their stunned silence, and for one brief moment meets your eyes in the shadows of the maintenance shed. Your blood floods with electricity, a flush of heat coming to your face. There’s power in his whole body, his demeanor, the hand that lifts the cigar from his lips. You think he might be smiling, but it’s hard to tell in the shadow of his hat and beard.
Then he’s striding back to the compound, leaving your heart thundering and the scraps of men in the dust behind him.
75. KNIGHT OF WANDS: PASSION (What are you passionate about other than writing?)
embroidery and painting - i haven't been embroidering as long as i've been painting, but both i love both crafts and they're very calming for me to do!
20. JUDGMENT: CRITICISM (Are you afraid of how others will perceive your writing?)
not so much anymore! i used to worry a lot about how other people would see my writing, especially when i was just starting out with fics when i was like 12-13ish? but now that i'm older i'm a lot more confident in my writing, and while there's still a little worry before i post a fic, it's a lot easier to remind myself that at the end of the day, i'm writing for myself first and foremost and as long as i'm happy with how a fic turned out then that's all that matters!
