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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.
And with an affectionate grumble he mutters, "alright, ya lazy thing, just for a little."
