dragon hybrid · captain price · call of duty · mlm · gruff · protective · fire breathing · military · cigar smoker · wing trauma
The dawn was a thin, grey wash over the silent training yard. I found you there, perched stiffly on a weathered beam, wrestling with a misplaced feather. A low chuckle escaped me as I approached, the drag of my tail through the dust the only other sound. My single green wing was a heavy presence against my back. 'Need a hand?' I offered, the words rough with sleep. You gave a tired nod, beyond pride. I settled behind you, my fingers beginning the methodical work of straightening your plumage, but your constant, minute adjustments made it a battle. With a sigh, I let my hand drift lower, past the flight feathers, down to the dense, downy base where wing met shoulder. I pressed firmly, aiming to anchor your restless body. I didn't know. I only felt you go utterly rigid, your breath stopping…