Chapter 55: Tickley Topography of a Dragon
The grotto’s pulse seemed to slow, syncing with their own languid heartbeats. Dan lay sprawled across Dargo, his cheek pillowed on the solid, steady rise and fall of his chest. His fingers were still absently tracing the whorls of old scars, a tactile echo of the mapping that had just taken place. The air hung rich and heavy with the scent of their spent passion, moss, and deep, wet stone.
A comfortable silence stretched, filled only by the distant drip of water and the soft, rhythmic sweep of Dargo’s hand up and down Dan’s spine. It was a silence that felt earned, a buffer against the world of grim scrolls and impossible choices waiting just beyond the glowing moss curtain.
Then Dan shifted, a slow, deliberate movement. He pushed himself up, pivoting in the circle of Dargo’s arms until he was seated in the dragon shifter’s lap, reclined back against the broad expanse of his chest. He could feel the powerful heartbeat against his shoulder blades.
He let his head loll back to look up at Dargo’s face. The sharp features were softened in the bioluminescent glow, the gold of his eyes a low, banked fire. A smile, small and devilish, touched Dan’s lips.
“Okay,” Dan said, his voice still a little hoarse but laced with intent. “My turn, now.”
Before Dargo could process the statement, Dan took advantage of his position. He reached back, his hands finding Dargo’s arms where they rested on his own thighs. He started by running his fingertips down the length of each arm, from the bunched muscle of the biceps to the slender bones of the wrist, a feather-light touch that was more sensation than pressure. Then he turned Dargo’s hands over, palms up, and lightly scraped his nails over the calloused skin there.
The effect was instantaneous. Dargo jolted as if struck by a tiny bolt of lightning. A sharp, startled laugh burst from him, followed by an uncontrollable twitch that ran the entire length of his body. He tried to snatch his hands back, but Dan held firm, his grip surprisingly tenacious.
“Stop that,” Dargo growled, but the command was undermined by another choked laugh as Dan’s nails skimmed his palm again.
“Why?” Dan asked, all innocence. “You were very thorough with your ‘cartography.’ Just returning the favor.” He shifted his attention, his hands sliding from Dargo’s arms to the solid, muscular planes of his outer thighs. His fingertips danced along the skin, not tickling, but tracing with a teasing, investigative lightness.
Dargo, despite his pride, allowed his mate to do this. He stiffened, a low rumble building in his chest that was half warning, half helpless amusement. Each skimming touch elicited another jerk, another suppressed snort of laughter. His whole body had become a live wire of involuntary reflexes. He clamped his jaw shut, but his eyes were wide, shocked by the sheer vulnerability of it.
When Dan realized Dargo wasn’t demanding him to stop, wasn’t shoving him away in a fit of dignified pique, he carefully slid off his lap and turned to face him, kneeling on the soft moss between his legs. The look on Dan’s face was a soft, playful smile that promised chaos.
He leaned forward, his exploration becoming bolder, more systematic. He ran his thumbs along the arches of Dargo’s feet, earning a full-body shudder and a yelp that echoed. He discovered that the spot just behind Dargo’s knee was a catastrophic weakness, reducing the centuries-old dragon to a writhing, breathless mess with a single, circling fingertip. The sensitive skin of his inner arms, the dip of his collarbones, the tendons along his neck—nothing was safe.
Dan explored every possible inch, emboldened by the boisterous, unguarded laughter that rumbled through the body below him. It was a sound he’d rarely heard: deep, unfettered, and utterly without restraint. It was better than any magic. Each gasp and squirm was a treasure, a piece of Dargo he was being willingly given.
“You—“ Dargo got out between heaving breaths, tears of mirth glinting in the corners of his eyes. “You are a menace. A tiny, vicious plague.”
“You love it,” Dan retorted, pausing to press a grinning kiss to Dargo’s quivering stomach. He sat back on his heels, watching Dargo try to regain his composure. The dragon shifter was a glorious wreck, his hair escaped from its braid, his chest flushed and heaving, a residual smile still tugging at his lips.
The playful energy settled into something warmer, more curious. Dan’s eyes swept over Dargo’s human form, then seemed to look past it, into the immense power coiled invisibly beneath the skin. The trust between them felt vast and deep in that moment, a canyon they’d carved together.
A thought, bold and sudden, crystallized.
“Can I?” Dan asked, his voice softer now.
Dargo, still catching his breath, wiped at his eyes. “Can you what? Administer further torture? I believe you’ve proven your expertise.”
“No.” Dan’s gaze was steady, his green eyes earnest in the pulsing light. “The other form. Your real one. Can I… explore that?”
The air in the grotto seemed to chill by several degrees. All the laughter drained from Dargo’s face, replaced by a familiar, guarded stillness. The shift was so complete it was jarring.
“No,” he said, the word flat and final.
“Why not?”
“Because I am not a petting zoo,” Dargo said, but the sharpness was undercut by a thread of real fear. “My control in that form is absolute, but it is not… fine. A twitch of a claw, an inadvertent shift of a ton of muscle, and you are paste, Dan. The thought is not acceptable.”
“You wouldn’t hurt me.”
“Not intentionally. Which is the only thing that makes the possibility worse.” Dargo sat up fully, the playful vulnerability sealed away behind a wall of ancient, protective instinct. “It is out of the question.”
Dan didn’t push. He studied the rigid line of Dargo’s shoulders, the way his hands had clenched into fists on his knees. He wasn’t seeing refusal; he was seeing terror. The same terror that lived in the scrolls—the fear of loss, of causing inadvertent harm to what you cherished most.
“Okay,” Dan said slowly, holding up his hands in a placating gesture. “Not the big one. I get it. But your smaller scales, from when we were travelling to the Blackrush river. You were the size of a sparrow & a cat. Would you allow me to explore that one?”
Dargo stared at him. The gold of his eyes flickered, calculating. The outright ‘no’ was still there, poised on his tongue, but Dan’s logic had found a crack in the armor. A smaller form. Less mass, less lethal potential. The risk was not eliminated, but it was downgraded from catastrophic to merely dangerous.
“There is that… option,” Dargo admitted grudgingly. “I still do not favour them, but for you… I would tolerate.”
“As long as it’s you. That’s all I want. To see you. To touch you. Not just in human shaped around a dragon’s heart, but as the dragon.”
The silence stretched. Dargo looked away, his gaze tracking the slow pulse of blue light along a vein of moss. The war inside him was visible in the tight set of his jaw. Pride warred with trust. Fear duelled with the deep, aching want to be fully known by this man who had fought his way past every other defence.
“Then stand back,” he said. “To the far wall. And do not come closer until I tell you.”
Dan scrambled to his feet, his bare feet slipping slightly on the luminous algae as he retreated to the edge of the grotto. He pressed his back against the cool, pulsating stone, watching.
Dargo stood in the center of the open space. He was magnificent even in his human form, all coiled power and solemn grace. He closed his eyes. The change did not come with a roar or a flash of light. It was a silent, unsettling melting.
It was a silent, unsettling melting. His human outline blurred, not with explosive force, but as if reality itself softened and pooled at his feet. The air thickened, charged with ozone and the deep, mineral scent of a mountainside after a quake. Dan held his breath, his back pressed hard against the living stone.
From the shimmering mirage, a new form condensed. It was not the sparrow, but the cat. The shape settled with the soft finality of ash. Where Dargo had stood was now a creature of impossible, compact potency, roughly the size of a large panther but wrought entirely from shadow and obsidian.
He was breathtaking. Glossy, plate-like scales sheathed his form, each one a dark jewel reflecting the grotto’s blues and greens in starlight pinpricks. A ridge of deadly-looking spines ran from the crown of his wedge-shaped head down the elegant line of his neck to the tip of a long, restless tail. His wings, folded tight against his flanks, were membranes of smoked leather stretched over bone as fine and cruel as daggers.
He lifted his head. Those same piercing gold eyes, now the size of plums, regarded Dan from across the chamber. There was no familiar human expressiveness there, only a primal, ancient assessment. A low sound emanated from his chest, not a growl, but a resonant hum that vibrated in Dan’s teeth.
“Okay,” Dan whispered, more to himself. “You’re… stunning.”
The obsidian head tilted slightly. The hum shifted in pitch, a questioning note.
“Can I come closer?”
A slow, deliberate blink. A single, clawed forefoot lifted and placed back down with meticulous care. Permission. A warning. Both.
Dan pushed away from the wall. Each step was measured, his bare feet whispering through the cool algae. He stopped an arm’s length away, well clear of the scythe-like curve of the claws. The scale of the presence was all wrong; the intelligence in those eyes was vast, housed in this compact, lethally beautiful sculpture.
He could feel heat radiating from the scales, like stone baking in a sun he couldn’t see. The ozone scent was stronger here, metallic and clean.
“Hi,” Dan said softly, his earlier playfulness gone, replaced by pure wonder.
He slowly extended a hand, palm out, letting it hover near the dragon’s muzzle. Dargo didn’t move. He watched the human hand with absolute, unnerving focus. Dan let his fingers descend, not to touch, but to feel the radiant warmth. Then, with infinite slowness, he let his fingertips brush the scale between the nostrils.
It was smooth. Not slick, but like polished flint, and surprisingly, wonderfully warm. The scale gave just a fraction under his touch, a flexible armor. Dargo exhaled, a warm puff of air that ruffled Dan’s hair.
Emboldened, Dan traced the line of the jaw, his touch firmer. He followed the contour up, over the arch of the eye-ridge. The scales here were smaller, tighter, like chainmail. He skated his fingers over the crown of the head, between the beginning of the spinal ridges. The hum in Dargo’s chest deepened, becoming a contented, almost purring vibration.
“You like that, huh?” Dan murmured, a smile returning. “Even like this, you’re a secret softie.”
A warning rumble, but the dragon shifted, pressing his head more firmly into Dan’s caress. The message was clear: continue.
Dan lost himself in the exploration. He ran his hands along the powerful curve of the neck, learning the way the larger plates overlapped the smaller. He traced the leading edge of one folded wing, the bone beneath the membrane unyielding and sharp. He avoided the obvious weapons—the claws, the teeth, the spiked tail—focusing on the architecture of the form itself. He found a patch of softer, almost velvety scale in the hollow behind a foreleg joint, and Dargo’s whole limb twitched, a reflexive jerk.
Both of them froze.
Dan snatched his hand back. Dargo went perfectly still, the purr-cut-off. The gold eyes were wide, staring at his own limb as if it had betrayed him.
“It’s okay,” Dan said quickly, his heart hammering. “It’s just like before. A reflex. You didn’t hurt me.”
Dargo made a sound, a low, distressed chuff. He looked from his claw to Dan, the ancient intelligence now clouded with a very familiar, very human anxiety.
“See?” Dan said, gently but insistently. He reached out again, slowly, and laid his whole hand flat on the dragon’s side, over the strong, steady beat of a massive heart. The scale was hot against his palm. “All in one piece. I trust you.”
The tension in the compact form eased, incrementally. The hum returned, softer. Dargo nudged Dan’s chest with his muzzle, not roughly, but with a weight that demanded acknowledgment.
“Want me to keep going?”
Another nudge. Yes.
Dan’s exploration became bolder. He sat in the moss, and Dargo, after a moment’s hesitation, coiled his powerful form around him, a living wall of warm obsidian. Dan leaned back against the dragon’s side, his fingers tracing the intricate patterns of the scales. He found a scar, a long, hairline fracture across a scale on the haunch, and knew it was the match to the sword line on Dargo’s human torso.
“You’re everywhere,” Dan whispered, his voice thick. “All of you. This is just… another angle.”
Dargo rested his heavy head on Dan’s lap, closing his eyes. The trust in the gesture was absolute, humbling. Dan scratched gently under the jaw, where the scales were thin and delicate. The purr-rattle shook through both of them.
“I can see why you hate the little forms,” Dan mused after a while, his fingers threading through the smaller spines behind the ears. “It must feel… restrictive. Like wearing clothes three sizes too small.”
A huff of agreement, warm air gusting over Dan’s knees.
“But you’re still in there. All your stubbornness, your terrible sense of humor, your secret ticklish spots.” He dug his fingers in a little, and the dragon’s tail tip gave a single, involuntary whip-crack against the moss. “See?”
The golden eye slit open, glinting with amusement. Dargo lifted his head, turning to look at Dan. Then, with careful, precise movements, he shifted. He butted his head under Dan’s hand, then nudged his arm, guiding it upward towards the base of his own neck.
“What? What is it?”
Dargo made an impatient sound and pushed Dan’s hand firmly against a specific spot, just where the neck met the shoulder. The scales here were slightly different, arranged in a subtle, circular pattern.
Dan pressed. A scale gave way, not loosening, but shifting on a hidden pivot. Beneath it was not flesh, but a deep, dark hollow. The entrance was smooth, lined with soft, resilient membrane. The warmth emanating from within was profound, like the breath of a forge.
Dan stared. His mind raced, connecting fragments of lore Dargo had offhandedly mentioned months ago. A throat pouch. For young. Or for hoard.
His breath caught. He looked from the opened pouch to the dragon’s watching, solemn eye.
“You want me to… put my hand in there?”
A slow, deliberate blink. Yes.
This was a trust of another magnitude entirely. This was the heart of the dragon’s instinct, the most vulnerable and guarded physical space. Dan’s mouth went dry. He looked at his own human hand, at the dark opening, then back at the patient, golden gaze.
He swallowed. He nodded.
He nodded.
Dan wasn’t sure what his mate was planning, but he trusted Dargo with life & limb. He slid his hand into the fold of scales.
The membrane yielded, warm and silken against his skin. The space beyond was deeper than he anticipated, a darkness that was not empty but charged, like the air before a summer storm. His forearm disappeared to the elbow. The heat was intense, a dry, clean warmth that seeped into his bones.
He expected hardness, the touch of collected treasure. His fingers brushed something first.
It was soft. Supple. Slightly curled. He closed his hand around it and withdrew his arm slowly.
Resting in his palm was a single, pristine white feather, tipped with a delicate grey. It was familiar. Dan stared, his mind scrabbling back through months of travel, to the high passes near the Skyfinger Peaks. A griffin had swooped too low, a defensive snap at Dargo’s wing. Dan, riding behind him, had thrown up a panicked shield of molten air. The griffin had shrieked, veered off, and this feather had spiraled down, landing on Dan’s leg. He’d tucked it away, a silly trophy from his first real, useful act of mid-air defense.
He’d lost it a week later. Or so he thought.
“You kept this?” Dan’s voice was barely a whisper. He looked from the feather to the dragon’s immense, watchful eye. “I lost this. I was annoyed for days.”
Dargo’s throat produced a soft, rattling purr. He nudged Dan’s other hand back toward the pouch.
Bewildered, Dan reached in again. This time, his fingers found a small, smooth stone. He pulled it out. It was a river rock, flat and dark grey, with a single, perfect white stripe running through its center. He remembered this, too. He’d plucked it from the shallows of the Blackrush, the day Dargo, in his sparrow-sized form, had perched on his shoulder and muttered critiques about his fishing technique. “For luck,” Dan had joked, pocketing it.
It had also vanished from his pack.
Next was a twist of copper wire. Dan recognized his own clumsy handiwork. Early on, when his control over metal was still a shaky, frightening thing, he’d practiced by mindlessly shaping a bit of scavenged wiring. He’d made a lopsided, knotted ring. An abstract nothing. He’d been ashamed of it, a testament to his lack of formal training, and had discarded it behind their temporary shelter.
Dargo had retrieved it.
Dan laid the objects on the moss before him: a feather, a stone, a twist of wire. Junk. Lost, discarded, insignificant junk. His throat tightened. This was no hoard of gold or gems. This was a collection of moments. His moments. Fragile, human, ephemeral things that had passed through his fingers, deemed worthless.
To Dargo, they were treasure.
“You’ve been stealing my crap,” Dan said, but the words came out thick, blurred by emotion. He swiped at his eyes with the back of his wrist. “You sentimental lizard.”
The dragon chuffed, a sound of clear satisfaction. He nudged the small pile with his nose, then carefully, with a precision that belied his size, nudged each item back toward Dan.
The meaning was unmistakable. They are yours. They were always yours. I was just keeping them safe.
This wasn’t just about showing vulnerability. It was a confession. A display of a devotion so specific and quiet it shattered Dan completely. All the grand, terrifying talk of soul-mergers and eternal bonds paled against this simple, stolen pile of trinkets. This was the tether. Not a blinding magical fusion, but this quiet, constant gathering of someone’s discarded seconds.
“The ritual,” Dan began, his fingers closing around the cool river stone. “All those diagrams, Dargo. I want the connection we have to be your lifetime, but I am, admittedly, terrified that we might make a mistake. I know we have 9 months before we make the final decision, but… I guess it’s good to get the fear out of the way.”
He looked up, meeting that ancient golden gaze.
“I don’t want new. I want this.” He gestured to the treasures, to the dragon coiled around him. “I want you to keep stealing my junk for the next thousand years. I want to keep finding your ticklish spots. I want the tether that lets me be me, and you be you, and still have this in the middle.”
The dragon was still for a long moment. Then, he shifted. The air shimmered, the compact form dissolving, condensing, reshaping. Scales receded, wings folded into bone and muscle, the mighty head lowered and reformed.
Dargo knelt before him in the moss, fully human, utterly naked. His braid was ruined, his hair a dark cascade. He looked at the items between them, then at Dan’s face.
“Then we find that version,” Dargo said, his voice rough. He picked up the twist of copper wire. “The one that doesn’t erase a single, damned feather.” He reached out, his calloused thumb wiping a stray tear from Dan’s cheek. “The one built on a hoard of moments, not a monument of power.”
Dan let out a wet laugh. “It won’t be in the scrolls.”
“Then we’ll create our own,” Dargo said, simple as a stone.