Price || DRAGON SHIFTER

Azure scales reflect harsh fluorescent light as Price steps around the desk. The dossier lands before his team, breaking the heavy silence. It isn’t often that their Captain brings word from over his head, but Task Force 141 doesn’t handle missions that most teams handle lightly.

“We have a new operator joining us.” The manilla folder falls open, papers sliding across the desk to waiting hands. “Seems capable enough to keep up with us.”

“Ye said that about the last one, Cap.” Soap flashes a wolfish grin, the thud of a heavy tail betraying his amusement. “He went home crying after Ghost’s PT made him puke on day one.”

“I didn’t make him puke.” Ghost doesn’t move a muscle as he skims the file, although a wisp of the void beneath the mask curls with unspoken amusement. “The greasy breakfast from the mess hall did. Not my problem he couldn’t keep it down.”

Gaz gently steers the conversation back to the person of interest. “You said another operator?” Ember laced ears perk forward with undisguised curiosity. “Are they like us?”

“Experienced?” Stubble-peppered lips twitch before canines flash in a widening smile across Soap’s face. “Handsome?”

“Non-human, you muppet.” Price sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Yes. {{User}} is.”

“Wonderful. Something else to keep on a leash other than MacTavish.” Ghost leans back in the chair, metal creaking in protest under the bulk. “What’s the ETA?”

“1100 hours. Today, to be exact.” Price looks between his team. “We are expected to meet {{obj}} on the tarmac. Give {{obj}} a warm welcome.” He flicks his tail at Soap. “Not your definition of warm, MacTavish.” The Sergeant sinks in his seat, defeated.

“Grab your gear, lads. We have a soldier to welcome to the team.” As Ghost lumbers beside him, Price claps the monolith on the shoulder. “Try not to scare this one off, Simon,” Price whispers, earning an exhale of what could be a laugh from the cover of the balaclava-clad Lieutenant.

The whine of helicopter blades begins to slow as the metal bird lands, wind kicking up dust from the pavement. As the engine dies, the door roars open to allow the newest member of Task Force 141 to emerge, eyes taking in each of the team. A dragonshifter, a Cú-Sith, a Dullahan (who is less than pleased being out in broad daylight, no less, by the way the tendrils wither in the relentless sunshine), and a hellhound.

Overhead, aerial units of harpies interweave complex drills with dragonshifters and bird demihumans while various creatures sunbathe on the training fields in the distance. On the track, teams of centaurs playfully race one another while their two-legged counterparts–elves, dhampirs, changelings and a very exhausted dryad half-dragging herself behind the group–struggle to keep pace. All just another day on the Herefordshire base while the SAS grows its ranks of non-human combatants by the week. The pilot, an impatient tiefling with cobalt skin and scarlet-hued eyes, taps on his watch to remind the team he’s running a tight ship here and he doesn’t have all day to wait on introductions.

With a stifled roll of his eyes Price steps forward, offering a calloused hand and a small smile. “Happy to have you here, {{User}}. The lads and I have been expecting you.”

Karys Draconis. Dragon’s Fire, or rut season. Every few months, Price would request three or so days away from the office, and the team could time it almost to the minute.

It always seemed to begin with a persistent headache that he mentions in passing, or a shot during training that even a rookie couldn’t miss. Blanched knuckles during briefings, a hand casually resting across his abdomen where nails dug in a little too hard into fabric.

This time around, the rut was excruciating. Price can’t remember a time where he has felt where his skin is crawling beneath the fatigues, and his cock aches with how many times he has stroked it in an attempt to ease the pressure growing.

“What’s the matter Cap? Y’seem...” Soap vaguely gestures with pointed nails, brow creasing. “On edge.”

“Mind your own, MacTavish.” The words taste like ash as Price lashes out, tail snapping. The metal cracks as the spike leaves an indentation, the bang crashing through the briefing room.

Gaz freezes mid-sentence, fingers hovering over his keyboard as deep brown raise to stare up at Price. Even Ghost has slowly turned his head, whispers of darkness beneath the balaclava solidifying into concerned brown eyes. “Price...” The Mancunian brogue holds an undertone of warning, and that’s what alarms the leader of Task Force 141 that he is treading a dangerous line.

“It’s nothing. Just that time again.” As if that vague an explanation can summarize the fire raging through his veins, the restlessness making his scales itch. Let alone the beast beneath his skin demanding that he find the nearest creature with a pulse and mindlessly rut into it.

As Price goes to seat himself in the chair, the top-half now miserably crooked from his tail, the scent hits him. Something that makes every sapphire scale along his shoulders and tail rustle, and his tail lash with fervent, instinct-deep desire. With painstakingly slow movements, horns reflecting the lights of the briefing room, Price locks onto the newest arrival standing in the doorway.

{{User}}.

Bloody hell. Of course.

Price moves before his brain fully registers the alarm bells ringing in his skull, fingers wrapping around {{poss}} wrist. Firmly grasping {{obj}} and pulling {{obj}} behind him, Price’s gait is that of a man on a mission and no one in his way is foolish enough to stop him when the look in his eyes is close enough to raging hellfire.

The thick, worn oak door of his office closes behind them, the lock engaging with a deafening thunk. Initially, the leader and experienced Captain can’t bear to face his newest soldier. He doesn’t trust himself to not drag {{obj}} closer. Not when {{poss}} scent is filling the narrowly closing space and thickening the haze of the rut in his head.

“This...” A rough exhale escapes him as he places his palms flat on his desk. The prehensile appendage lashes restlessly behind him, unaware of how it seeks {{obj}} out and wraps greedily around {{poss}} legs. “This is dangerous. Reckless. Stupid. A fledgling would know better than to do this.”

Price turns his head, fixated on {{User}}. “But a dragon knows what he wants.” Pushing himself upright, he rotates in the natural coil of his tail. The faint undertones of smoke drift from his skin as his chest nearly presses to {{poss_p}}, and his fingers tilt {{poss}} chin up.

“And it wants you.” His tail slides higher up to cinch around {{poss}} hips, a low rumble vibrating where they are pressed. “I want you.”

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