The first sensation of morning was pressure. A deep, unyielding, and surprisingly warm pressure wrapped around my entire torso. The second was the scent—a strange, clean aroma like ozone after a thunderstorm, mingled with a subtle, musky heat that was entirely alien and yet, disturbingly, becoming familiar. My cheek was pressed against something solid but yielding, a surface that was smooth and hard, yet rose and fell with the slow, steady rhythm of a sleeping heart. I cracked open an eye. A landscape of polished, interlocking black scales filled my vision, each one the size of a small cent and shimmering with a faint, oily iridescence in the soft morning light filtering through my bedroom window.
I was being hugged. Or, more accurately, I was being held hostage by a hug.
My head was pillowed on a pectoral muscle so dense it felt like a slab of granite wrapped in warm leather. An arm, thick as my thigh and corded with a terrifying, inhuman strength, was draped over my back, its heavy claws resting just shy of my shoulder blades. A second arm was wrapped securely around my waist, pinning me flush against a torso that was a living furnace. I tried to tilt my head back, and the sharp, elegant line of a reptilian jawbone met my gaze, leading up to a sleek head that was currently tucked into the space above my own, its soft, rumbling snores vibrating through my entire skeleton.
This, I reflected with a sense of weary resignation that had become my new normal, was my life now. Cuddling with a nine-foot-tall, anthropomorphic dragon-man who saw me as some combination of a chew toy, a personal space heater, and a very confusing new pet. His name, according to the government agent who had dropped him on my doorstep, was Toothless. A ridiculous name for a creature whose mouth, I had unfortunately seen up close, was filled with a full complement of very sharp, very retractable, and very real teeth.
How did I get here? The question had been a constant, looping refrain in my head for the past three weeks. I was Hiccup Haddock, a robotics engineer. I designed prosthetic limbs, wrote elegant code for advanced AI, and spent my weekends tinkering with drones in my workshop. My life was a quiet, orderly affair of logic gates and servo motors. Then, the Interspecies Cultural Exchange Act happened. And then, a dimensional rift, a cosmic accident, or a very poorly-planned prank by the gods had deposited a handful of beings from a world of myth and magic squarely into ours. And because I was one of the world's leading experts in custom prosthetics, and because one of these beings had arrived with a rather significant injury, my quiet, orderly life had been spectacularly, and perhaps permanently, derailed.
It had started with a knock on my door. Not a normal knock, but a series of heavy, official-sounding thuds that rattled the frame. Outside stood a woman in a severe black suit, her name was Smith, and she had the kind of forced, brittle smile that suggested she'd rather be anywhere else. Behind her, flanked by two burly men who looked like they wrestled bears for a living, was him.
He was a creature of elegant, terrifying beauty. He stood a full 2 heads taller than the men escorting him, his body a masterpiece of lean, powerful muscle wrapped in skin-tight scales of the deepest black. His legs were digitigrade, bent like a cat's or a bird's, ending in three-toed feet with wicked, curved talons that clicked softly on my concrete porch. A long, powerful tail, thick at the base and tapering to a fine point, twitched restlessly behind him, a clear indicator of his agitation. But it was his head that was the most striking, the most undeniably alien. It was the sleek, aerodynamic head of a dragon, with two large, expressive ear-flaps that swiveled to track every sound, and a series of smaller, nubbly spines that ran along his brow line. His eyes, great, luminous orbs of emerald green, were slitted like a cat's and held a look of such profound, intelligent fury that it made the hairs on my arms stand up.
"Mr. Haddock," Agent Smith had said, her voice straining to remain cheerful. "Meet your new housemate! This is Subject 734, designated 'Night Fury.' He's part of the Asgardian displaced persons program. All the paperwork is in this folder. Food, basic care guidelines, emergency contact numbers… it's all in there. He doesn't speak any known language, but we're working on it. The main thing, the reason you were chosen for this placement, is the caudal appendage."
She gestured vaguely at his tail. I followed her gaze and saw it. The end of his tail was a mangled ruin. The left fluke of the fin that should have been there was gone, replaced by a stump of scarred, twisted flesh.
"He's a biped, but his species uses that fin for balance, especially during high-speed locomotion," Smith continued, reading from a clipboard. "Without it, he's clumsy, unstable. We're hoping you can… you know." She made a vague tinkering motion with her hands. "Work your magic."
And with that, they had nudged him inside, handed me the folder, and left, the sound of their retreating car a death knell for my peaceful existence. I was left standing in my living room with a mythical creature who looked at me with the same expression of contemptuous rage a cornered panther might give a particularly annoying monkey.
The first week was hell. Pure, unadulterated, walking-on-eggshells hell. He refused to communicate, refused to eat the specially formulated "draconic nutrient paste" the government had provided, and refused to stay in the guest room I had prepared for him. Instead, he had claimed my workshop, the one place I considered my sanctuary. He would wedge himself into a corner behind my largest 3D printer, a coiled mass of black scales and simmering hostility, and just… watch me.
Any attempt I made to get close was met with a low, guttural growl that vibrated in my chest and made my teeth ache. The sound was not animalistic in a simple way; it was complex, layered with intelligence and a deep, profound warning. It said, I am not a beast to be tamed. I am a storm, and you are made of straw. Do not test me.
Twice, when I had foolishly tried to offer him a piece of salmon—a desperate guess based on his reptilian appearance—he had responded by opening his mouth and unleashing a contained, explosive blast of what looked like pure, violet energy. It wasn't aimed at me, but at the wall just beside my head. The first time, it had left a fist-sized, molten crater in the drywall. The second time, it had vaporized my favorite coffee mug. I got the message.
He didn't know the language, that much was clear. But he was intelligent. I could see it in the way his eyes tracked my movements, the way his ear-flaps would swivel and focus when I was working on a particularly complex piece of code, as if he could understand the logic of it even without understanding the words. He was a prisoner, wounded and alone in a world he didn't understand, and his only defense was to be as terrifying as possible. And he was very, very good at it.
But I'm an engineer. My entire life is about observing a problem and finding a solution. And the problem wasn't just his hostility; it was his pain. I would watch him when he thought I wasn't looking. He would try to move quickly, or dart across the room, and his balance would fail him. He would stumble, his powerful body suddenly clumsy, and the frustration and shame that would radiate from him in those moments was a palpable thing. He was a creature built for grace and speed, and his injury had stolen that from him. It was a phantom limb, a constant, irritating reminder of his own brokenness.
So, I did what I do best. I started designing.
I spent my days at my desk, sketching, modeling on my computer, running simulations. I filled pages with aerodynamic calculations, stress-test models, and intricate designs for a prosthetic that could replicate the complex movements of a biological fin. He watched me from his corner, his green eyes narrowed in suspicion, the low growl a constant soundtrack to my work. He probably thought I was designing a weapon, or a cage.
After a week of non-stop work, I had the first prototype. It was a beautiful thing, if I did say so myself. A framework of lightweight carbon fiber, hinged with micro-servos, with a "sail" made of a durable, flexible polymer I had developed myself. The harness that strapped to the base of his tail was connected by a series of clever, counter-sprung cables to a smaller brace on his intact, right-side fin. In theory, the natural movements of his good fin would be mirrored by the prosthetic, allowing for intuitive, symmetrical control. It was a crazy, brilliant, and probably suicidal idea.
The day I finished it, I walked into the workshop holding it in my hands. It was a strange, skeletal-looking contraption, and his reaction was immediate. He rose from his corner, his body unfurling to its full, intimidating height. The growl was deeper this time, a rumbling promise of violence. He thought it was a shackle.
"Hey, easy there, bud," I said, my voice soft, my hands held up in a placating gesture. I placed the prosthetic on the ground in the center of the room, then slowly backed away. "It's not what you think. It's for you. To help."
I gestured to the prosthetic, then to his own mangled tail. He followed my gesture, and a flicker of something—understanding? curiosity?—passed through his furious green eyes. I retreated to the far side of the workshop, sitting on the floor to make myself as non-threatening as possible, and I waited.
For two whole days, we existed in that state of tense stalemate. He would circle the prosthetic, sniffing it cautiously. It smelled of my workshop, of oil and metal and polymer, but it also smelled of me. My scent was all over it. He would nudge it with his snout, his ear-flaps swiveling as he examined the hinges, the texture of the sail. He was an engineer in his own right, I realized. He was analyzing my design, judging my workmanship.
On the third day, something shifted. The constant, soul-crushing boredom of being trapped and grounded must have finally outweighed his suspicion. When I entered the workshop, he didn't immediately retreat to his corner. He stood his ground, watching me with a wary, calculating gaze.
This was it. My one chance.
Slowly, my heart hammering against my ribs, I approached him. I knelt on the ground, picking up the prosthetic. He let out a low, warning growl, but he didn't back away. "It's okay," I murmured, my voice barely a whisper. "I just want to help you fly again." I didn't know if he could fly, not really, but it felt like the right thing to say.
I moved behind him. This was the most dangerous moment of my life. His back was to me, but I was well within range of a tail swipe that could break every bone in my body, or a backward snap of his jaw. His presence was a tangible thing, a bubble of heat and that strange, clean scent of ozone. He was trembling, a fine, high-frequency vibration of pure tension.
"Okay, just… hold still," I whispered, more to myself than to him.
My fingers, surprisingly steady, began to work the leather straps of the harness. I had to lean close, my body partially pressed against his powerful, scaly flank as I reached to tighten a buckle on the far side. The contact sent a jolt through me. His scales were not slimy or cold; they were smooth and incredibly warm, like polished river stones that had been sitting in the sun all day. Beneath them, I could feel the coiled power of his muscles. His growl died in his throat, replaced by a confused, rumbling purr. The sound was so unexpected, so contrary to the tension in his body, that it seemed to startle even him.
I finished my work, my mind reeling from the close contact. I gave the harness a final, gentle pat. "There," I said, my voice a little shaky. "All done."
He didn't move for a long moment. Then, slowly, cautiously, he gave a deliberate twitch of his right fin. The cables tightened, and the prosthetic on his left side opened in perfect, mirrored synchronization. He let the fin relax, and the prosthetic closed. He did it again, faster this time, the artificial fin snapping open and shut with a soft, satisfying thwump . A low, wondering sound, a soft, guttural croon, escaped his throat. He turned his head, looking back at me over his shoulder. The fury in his eyes was gone. In its place was a look of such profound, stunned, and grudging gratitude that it felt like the sun coming out after a month of rain. For the first time, he wasn't looking at me like a threat, or a jailer, or an annoyance. He was looking at me like an equal.
That had been a week ago. Since then, the ice hadn't just broken; it had melted into a strange, confusing, and very clingy puddle. He had decided, apparently, that I was his. He still didn't speak, but he had started trying to understand. I'd spent the last week pointing at objects and repeating their names, a frustrating and often fruitless exercise. "Desk," I'd say, tapping the wood. He'd just tilt his head, his great green eyes watching my mouth with an unnerving intensity, sometimes attempting to mimic the shape of the word with a low, rumbling growl. It was slow progress, but his open hostility was gone, replaced by a possessive, non-verbal affection. And physical contact. He was obsessed with it. He would follow me around the house, his head resting on my shoulder as I tried to cook, his tail wrapping around my leg as I tried to work. And at night, he would crawl into my bed, wrap his ridiculously powerful body around mine, and hold on like I was a life raft in a storm.
Which brought me back to my current predicament.
I was being held entirely too tightly. The initial warmth had crossed the line into a restrictive, borderline-suffocating heat. I needed to get up. I needed to pee. I needed coffee. I began to wiggle, trying to create some space, to squirm my way out from under the arm pinning me down. It was like trying to tunnel out of a collapsed mine with a teaspoon.
My struggling seemed to have the opposite effect. The arm around my back tightened, pulling me even closer. The muscular chest I was pressed against expanded with a deep, contented sigh, and the rumbling snore intensified. He was dreaming, I realized. And in his dream, his favorite new squeaky toy was trying to get away. He let out a soft, possessive rumble, hazy with sleep, and nuzzled his head against my shoulder.
"Yeah, yeah, I get it," I wheezed, my lungs compressed. "All yours. Just… can you be mine a little less tightly?"
I gave one last, desperate squirm. The response was immediate. His entire body seemed to contract, a reflexive, muscular clench that squeezed the last of the air from my lungs in a pathetic gasp. My face was now so firmly smushed against his chest that I could feel the faint, rhythmic thud of his powerful heart against my cheek. It was a slow, steady, and deeply unhelpful beat.
This was fine. Everything was fine. I didn't need to breathe. Breathing was overrated. I closed my eyes, surrendering to my fate. At least it was warm. And if I had to be suffocated by a mythical creature, I supposed there were worse ways to go. This was my life now. And the scariest part? The part that kept me up at night, long after he had fallen asleep with his arms wrapped around me?
I was starting to like it.