Content warning: bathing/genitals
My eventual escape from the nine-limbed-hug-of-death-by-dragon came, as it always did, with the insistent beeping of my alarm clock. The shrill, electronic noise seemed to physically pain Toothless. He let out a low, irritated groan, his snores cutting off abruptly. The arm around my waist, which had felt less like a limb and more like a hydraulic press, loosened its grip just enough for me to gasp in a lungful of sweet, life-giving oxygen. He shifted, pulling away with the reluctance of a predator being separated from a particularly satisfying meal, and I seized my chance, rolling out of bed and onto the floor with a less-than-graceful thud.
Freedom. Sweet, breathable freedom.
Toothless sat up in bed, the sheets pooling around his powerfully built waist. He stretched, his massive shoulders and back muscles flexing with an audible creak, his long, black tail thumping against the headboard with a sound like a muffled drumbeat. He fixed me with a sleepy, emerald-green glare, his ear-flaps drooping slightly. A low, questioning rumble emanated from his chest. It was his version of "Five more minutes," a sound that was both a complaint and a plea.
"Nope. Not a chance, bud," I said, pushing myself to my feet and stretching out the kinks in my spine, which felt like it had been used as a pretzel in his sleep. "Time for… food." I pointed to my mouth, exaggerating the motion. "Food."
His expression changed instantly. The sleepiness vanished, replaced by a keen, focused interest that was almost alarming in its intensity. "Foooood," he rumbled, the word a deep, guttural approximation, one of the first and most important he had learned. He swung his powerful, digitigrade legs out of bed, his claws clicking softly on the hardwood floor as he followed me out of the bedroom and towards the kitchen, an nine-foot-tall shadow of insatiable appetite.
Our morning routine had settled into a strange kind of domesticity. I would put on a pot of coffee, the rich, dark smell a comforting anchor to my old, normal life. While it brewed, I'd pull out a bowl—a large, stainless steel mixing bowl that was now permanently designated as his—and fill it with the contents of three large cans of high-quality tuna packed in oil. The government-issue nutrient paste had been a spectacular failure, but after a week of him refusing to eat, I had gotten desperate and tried real fish. The result had been… enthusiastic.
He sat at the kitchen table, in a reinforced chair I'd had to bolt to the floor, watching my every move with the intensity of a hawk tracking a field mouse. The moment I placed the bowl in front of him, he descended upon it. There were no utensils, no decorum. He simply buried his draconic face in the bowl and went to work, the sound a chorus of happy snarls, wet chomps, and satisfied growls. It was both fascinating and deeply unsettling to watch, a display of pure, primal satisfaction that felt out of place in my quiet, suburban kitchen.
I sat opposite him with my toast and black coffee, feeling like a man having breakfast with a particularly handsome, well-muscled panther who had somehow learned to sit at a table. He finished in under a minute, lifting his head from the now-gleaming bowl, his lips and chin glistening with fish oil. He looked at my toast, then at me, and let out a soft, hopeful whine, his big green eyes wide with a shameless, manipulative plea.
"No," I said, holding my breakfast protectively. "This is my food. Hiccup's food." I pointed to myself. " Mine ."
" Mine ," he repeated, the word a possessive, rumbling purr. He wasn't looking at the toast anymore. He was looking at me, his gaze intense and unwavering. A shiver went down my spine. That was another one of the first words he'd learned, and he applied it to a growing list of things: the workshop, the bed, the last piece of salmon, and, most emphatically, me. It was a declaration of ownership that was equal parts endearing and deeply alarming.
After our… meal, I retreated to my sanctuary: the garage. It was my workshop, my lab, the place where the world made sense. Here, I could lose myself in the clean, logical world of code and machinery. Today's project was a new series of myoelectric sensors for a prosthetic arm, delicate work that required absolute focus and a steady hand.
For the first hour, I had it. The only sounds were the hum of my computer, the soft click of my keyboard, and the gentle whir of the robotic arm I was calibrating. It was bliss.
Then, the garage door creaked open.
Toothless padded in, his tail swaying gently behind him. He had already tested his new fin, a series of sharp, graceful movements in the backyard that had shown a remarkable level of control and dexterity. Now, he was bored. He walked over to my workbench, his head tilted, watching the robotic arm move with a curious, intelligent gaze, his ear-flaps swiveling to track the faint sound of its servos.
I tried to ignore him, focusing on the lines of code scrolling across my monitor. But his presence was a tangible thing, a bubble of heat and that ever-present ozone scent that was impossible to disregard. He nudged my shoulder with his head, a not-so-subtle request for attention.
"Not now, bud," I murmured, my eyes still on the screen. "I'm working."
He responded with a low, unhappy growl. He nudged me again, harder this time, almost knocking me off my stool.
"Toothless, no," I said, trying to sound firm. " No ."
He seemed to consider this. He looked at my back, then at the robotic arm, then back at me. Then, with a surprising gentleness, his long, black tail snaked around my waist, pulling me away from the desk and turning my stool to face him. He leaned in close, his great green eyes staring directly into mine, and gave a soft, crooning purr. It was a blatant, shameless act of emotional manipulation. And damn it all, it was working.
"Okay, fine," I sighed, surrendering completely. "Five minutes. Then I have to get back to this."
His purr intensified, and he rubbed his cheek against mine, a gesture that was surprisingly soft despite his scaly hide. This was our other routine. My work, punctuated by his non-negotiable demands for affection.
Later in the afternoon, we had our language session. We sat on the living room floor, a stack of large, laminated flashcards between us. I had made them myself, with simple pictures and big, block letters.
"Okay, ready?" I asked, holding up the first card. It was a picture of a fish. "What's this?"
" Fish ," he rumbled, his pronunciation clear. He licked his lips. Good. We had that one down.
I held up the next card, a picture of a bed.
He squinted at it. "Hic-cup," he said, pointing a single, black claw at the bed, then patting his own chest.
"No, that's not 'Hiccup'," I corrected gently. "That's 'bed'. We sleep in the bed." I mimed sleeping, resting my head on my hands.
He just stared at me, then pointed at the bed again, then at me, and repeated, with unwavering confidence, " Mine ."
I sighed. "Okay, close enough, I guess."
We went through the stack. He was a quick study, his memory for nouns was incredible. But concepts, abstract ideas, were harder. I held up a card with a smiley face on it. "Happy," I said, smiling broadly. "This is happy."
He tilted his head, his ear-flaps swiveling. He looked at my smiling face, then back at the card. He opened his mouth slightly, pulling back his lips to reveal the tips of his retracted teeth in a strange, reptilian approximation of a smile. It was less a sign of joy and more a low-grade threat display. It was one of the most terrifying things I had ever seen.
"Okay, good try," I said, trying not to show my alarm. "We'll work on that one."
The session ended, as it often did, with him growing bored and simply flopping onto his back, demanding belly rubs. His underside wasn't covered in the same hard, interlocking scales as his back, but a softer, smoother, almost leathery hide that was surprisingly sensitive. His leg would thump against the floor like a dog's, his purr a deep, thrumming earthquake in the small room. It was in these moments, when his guard was completely down, that I could almost forget he was a mythical creature of immense power and not just a very large, very strange cat.
As evening fell, I felt the grime and grease of the workshop clinging to me. My muscles ached from a day spent hunched over delicate circuitry. All I wanted was a long, hot soak. My bathroom was one of the few extravagances in my otherwise practical house, dominated by a large, freestanding bathtub, big enough for two. A feature that, until recently, had felt like a ridiculous waste of space.
I ran the water, the steam filling the room with a welcome, cleansing heat. I poured in some eucalyptus-scented bath salts, the sharp, clean smell cutting through the air, a promise of relaxation. I could hear Toothless moving around in the living room, the soft click of his claws on the floor a familiar, comforting sound.
I stripped off my clothes, tossing them in the hamper, and was just finishing sitting onto the inviting, steaming water when the bathroom door creaked open.
Toothless stood in the doorway, his massive frame filling it completely. He looked at me, then at the large, steaming tub, then back at me. A low, curious rumble started in his chest. His ear-flaps perked up with interest.
"Uh, hey," I said, instinctively crossing my arms over my chest, alongside with sinking the rest of my body into the water. "Private time here, bud. You know, alone?" I pointed to him, then pointed out the door.
He ignored me completely. He took a step into the bathroom, his eyes fixed on the tub with a look of intense fascination. He reached out a hand and dipped a single, clawed finger into the hot water. He let out a soft, surprised hiss, but not of pain. It was a sound of pleasure.
He looked at me again, a wide, toothy, and utterly terrifying grin spreading across his draconic face. He rumbled a single, newly learned word, a word that was a statement, not a question.
" Good ."
My brain, a finely tuned instrument of logic and engineering, promptly short-circuited. There was a naked, nine-foot-tall dragon-man in my bathroom, and he was advancing on my bathtub with the determined, curious air of a toddler about to discover the destructive potential of a permanent marker.
"Whoa, hey, wait a minute, bud," I stammered, my voice a good octave higher than usual. I instinctively tried to shrink, to make myself smaller, a futile gesture when you're naked and there's nowhere to hide. "This isn't a team sport! This is a solo activity. Hiccup-only zone!"
He paid me no mind. He reached the edge of the tub, his great green eyes wide with a childlike fascination as he stared at the steaming, eucalyptus-scented water. He looked at me, then back at the tub, and then, with a complete and utter disregard for displacement theory, he stepped in.
The resulting tidal wave was biblical. A tsunami of hot, soapy water erupted from the tub, crashing against the far wall and flooding the tiled floor in an instant. I was left sitting, staring in stunned disbelief as Toothless settled himself at the opposite end of the tub with a deep, rumbling sigh of absolute bliss.
He sank down until the water was up to his powerfully built chest, his long, black tail coiled neatly in the space beside him. He leaned his head back against the tiles, his ear-flaps drooping in contentment, and closed his eyes. A purr, so deep and resonant it made the water around me vibrate, rumbled from his chest. He had the blissful, serene expression of a creature that had just discovered the single greatest invention in the history of the universe.
For a long moment, I could only stare. My bathroom was a disaster zone, I was sitting in what amounted to a large, lukewarm puddle, and I was sharing it with a mythical being whose sudden, purring contentment did absolutely nothing to alleviate the five-alarm fire of embarrassment raging in my own mind. He was… huge. Not just tall, but broad. His shoulders were so wide they practically touched both sides of the tub, and his long, muscular legs were bent to fit, his knees drawn up to his chest. We were knee-to-knee, a tangle of pale, skinny human limbs and powerful, black-scaled dragon limbs in the rapidly shrinking confines of my bathtub.
My entire body felt like it was blushing. A hot, prickling wave of heat spread from my neck to my ears, down my chest, and all the way to my toes. I was acutely, painfully aware of my own nudity, of the stark contrast between my lanky, unimpressive form and the living statue of draconic perfection sitting opposite me.
He opened his eyes, the emerald green irises seeming to glow in the steamy air. He looked at me, then picked up the bar of soap floating beside him. He sniffed it, his nostrils flaring, and then, with a look of intense curiosity, he tried to take a bite out of it.
"No! No, don't eat that!" I yelped, lunging forward and snatching the soap from his hand. "Not food. This is… for cleaning." I held up the soap, then rubbed it on my own arm, working up a lather. "See? Clean."
He watched me, his head tilted. He then looked down at his own chest and then back at me, and then, he simply straighten his posture, presenting his pectoral muscles to me. a clear, unspoken instruction in his gaze. He wanted me to do it. He wanted me to wash him.
My brain screamed at me to say no, to get out, to run for the hills and never look back. But my mouth, the traitorous bastard, said, "Oh. Uh, okay. I guess."
Taking a shaky breath, I shuffled forward on my knees, the water sloshing around me. I lathered up the soap in my hands until they were covered in a thick, white foam. "Alright, just… hold still," I murmured, my voice barely a whisper.
Hesitantly, I placed my hands on his chest. The contact was a jolt, a sudden, overwhelming infusion of heat and texture. His scales were incredibly smooth, almost like polished obsidian, but they were layered over a foundation of muscle so dense it felt like touching living rock. I began to scrub, my hands moving in slow, circular motions. The soap lathered against his warm scales, the clean, sharp scent of eucalyptus mingling with his own unique, ozone-like aroma.
He let out another deep, rumbling purr, leaning into my touch, his eyes closing again in pleasure. Emboldened by his reaction, I continued, my movements growing more confident. I washed his broad, powerful chest, my fingers tracing the lines of his muscles. I moved to his shoulders, which were impossibly broad and corded with strength, and then down his arms. His biceps were thicker than my head, the muscles flexing under my touch as I worked the soap over his skin. It was like washing a statue of a god, a perfect anatomical study in power and grace. The sheer, raw masculinity of him was overwhelming, and my own body, despite my profound embarrassment, was responding in a way that was deeply, deeply unhelpful.
I worked my way up to his neck and the base of his sleek, draconic head. He tilted his head to give me better access, a soft, happy growl escaping his throat as I scratched with my fingernails at the sensitive spot just behind his ear-flaps. He was like a giant, scaly cat, and the thought was so absurd it almost made me laugh, a hysterical bubble of sound that caught in my throat.
I grabbed the washcloth, rinsed it, and began to wipe the soap from his upper body. As I did, my hand brushed against something that was definitely not a scale. Tucked just under his left arm, almost hidden, was a scar. A jagged, puckered line of pale, silvery tissue against the perfect black of his scales. It was an old wound, long healed, but it spoke of a past battle, of a life of violence and survival that I couldn't even begin to imagine. The sudden, stark reminder that this purring, bath-loving creature was also a warrior, a survivor, sent a strange, protective pang through my chest.
"Alright, your back," I said, my voice a little rough. I moved behind him, a maneuver that required a significant amount of awkward shuffling and contorting in the cramped space. I washed his broad, powerful back, my hands mapping the incredible musculature that rippled beneath his scales. I could feel the ridges of his spine, the powerful muscles that connected to his shoulders, the sheer, latent power coiled in his resting form.
And then, my hands moved lower. I washed the small of his back, the place where the powerful muscles of his torso tapered down to meet his hips. And then, lower still. My soapy fingers slid down between his powerful thighs, aiming for the base of his tail. I reached his crotch.
My brain, which had been slowly rebooting, promptly crashed again, this time with a catastrophic system failure.
Unlike the rest of his body, this area was not covered in scales. It was a patch of smooth, soft, dark hide, almost like suede, that was shockingly hot to the touch. In the center of that patch was a long, vertical slit, tightly closed. But as my fingers brushed over it, drawn by a morbid, scientific curiosity I couldn't suppress, the slit relaxed and parted. From within the dark sheath, his penis began to emerge, coaxed out by the heat of the water and my continuous, oblivious touching.
It was… a lot. And it was deeply, deeply alien. A thick shaft of flesh the color of polished obsidian, impossibly black, began to unfurl, extending with a slow, deliberate, and frankly alarming grace. It was completely smooth, lacking any features of human anatomy, and tapered to a pointed, sensitive-looking tip that pulsed with a faint, violet light, echoing the color of his plasma blasts he used against me during the starting days. It wasn't just sitting there; it was hardening, thickening, growing in length until a good ten inches of alien cock was on full, terrifying display in the soapy water.
I froze, my soapy hand hovering just inches away, my mind a blank slate of pure, unadulterated shock. My engineering brain tried to categorize it, to analyze its form and function, but my human brain was too busy screaming and setting off every alarm it possessed.
"Okay! I think that's enough!" I squeaked, my voice cracking. "Bath time is over! All clean! Yep, you're the cleanest dragon in the tri-state area, congratulations!"
I scrambled backwards, trying to put as much distance as possible between me and the obsidian monstrosity that was still twitching faintly in the water. I fumbled for the drain plug, my fingers slipping on the wet porcelain.
Toothless let out a low, questioning growl, his eyes opening. He looked down at his own impressive erection, then at me, a look of profound confusion on his face. He didn't understand why the pleasant rubbing had stopped.
"No, no, we're done," I said, my voice shaking. "Time to get out. Out." I pointed towards the edge of the tub.
He responded with a soft, unhappy whine. He clearly did not want bath time to be over. He reached out, his big, warm hand landing on my chest, and gently but irresistibly, he pulled me forward.
"Whoa, hey, what are you—"
My protest was cut off as he pressed his entire, massive, and very soapy torso against mine. It was like being hugged by a warm, wet, and incredibly muscular mountain. My back was pressed against the cold porcelain of the tub, and his entire front was flush against mine. I could feel every defined muscle, every hard contour of his chest and abdomen. And I could most definitely feel the hard, thick length of his erection pressing insistently against my stomach.
My entire world narrowed to that single point of contact. My face, my neck, my entire body erupted in a blush so hot and so profound I was surprised the water around us didn't start to boil. I was a tomato. A lobster. A red giant star on the verge of going supernova.
He let out a deep, happy purr, rubbing his cheek against mine, completely oblivious to the meltdown I was having. He thought this was a new, fun part of the game. He shifted his hips slightly, and the pressure against my stomach increased, the smooth, pointed tip of his cock nudging against my belly in a slow, deliberate friction that sent a jolt of pure, terrified electricity straight to my groin.
My own body, the ultimate traitor, chose that exact moment to respond with a distinct and noticeable twitch of its own.
I needed to get out. Now. My mind raced, searching for an escape route, a plan, any plan. My eyes darted around the bathroom and landed on the shower controls just above my head. The cold tap. It was a desperate, last-ditch, and frankly, a very mean idea. But I was a desperate and panicked man.
With a surge of adrenaline, I reached up, my hand closing around the cold water knob. "Sorry about this, bud," I gasped, and I twisted it as far as it would go.
A torrent of ice-cold water erupted from the showerhead directly onto Toothless's head and back.
The reaction was instantaneous and spectacular. His blissful purr cut off with a shocked, sputtering roar. His entire body went rigid, and he launched himself away from me as if he'd been electrocuted. His erection vanished back into its sheath in a comical, cartoonish retreat. He scrambled, clawing and slipping, out of the tub, hitting the flooded floor with a massive splash. He stood there, dripping and shivering, looking at me with an expression of such profound, wounded betrayal that a pang of guilt actually managed to pierce through my wall of panic.
He shook his head, sending a spray of cold water across the room, and let out a low, unhappy growl that clearly said, What in the name of all that is holy was that for?
I just sat there in the now-frigid water, my heart hammering against my ribs, and pointed a trembling finger at him. "Boundaries," I panted, the word coming out as a shaky, steamy puff in the cold air. "We need to talk about boundaries."