Drakkon ✓

3

Very few have witnessed scales melt into flesh and survived to live the tale. My body is iced, but my wide eyes burn from how fast they flicker. I struggle to keep up with the dozens of changes that happen simultaneously. His enormous body caves into itself, retracting muscle and bone to shift into another form that is none less formidable. The sound of bones popping roars in my ears, and his colors become disgustingly familiar as his scales become tanned flesh.

The transformation takes five seconds. I wonder how long my death will take?

He stands before me. Bare feet, dark hair dusting his lower legs and thick thighs... I inhale sharply. I've never seen a naked man before, but I'm sure they're not supposed to look like this. His monster's cock is... monstrous. It's weaponized with ridges throughout, decorated with translucent scales at the tip, and worst of all, erect. It's pointing outwards, as if determined to impale someone. The rest of him is just as chaotic. There is no poetry to this man. He is a violent, manic, declaration of war that was written in blood.

His irises are alien. They're as bloody as the seas of death that he brought to Earth, crowned by dark lashes like the underground world he forced us into. The rest of his face, however, looks falsely human. I hate this the most, because it adds salt to the wound.

His black hair is short and curly atop his head, brushing his forehead. His cheeks are stubbled, his nose sharp, and his lips plump. He has no fangs or pointy ears as I expected him to have. He looks like the men in the magazines that I now rip and burn for warmth.

The rest of his body is substantial proof that he's not human. His chest is lined with abs and his arms roped with muscle. I haven't seen this amount of virility, health, and strength on a man since the Old Times. Most of the men nowadays are malnourished, sickly, and pale. They're walking ghosts, while this dragon is very much alive.

I'm not impressed by his ridiculous cock and body. I'm resentful, because while he gets to keep in shape by hunting us, dozens of humans die of starvation daily. I've seen too many children's ribcages and ate too many rats in my lifetime.

I look away. My fear has changed to another form. When he was a dragon, I feared he would kill me. Now that he's on two legs, I fear he'll force himself on me. His state of undress doesn't make things better.

He takes a step forward. It's eerily silent, because a body of his size shouldn't be so stealthy.

He lowers his body and falls to his knees. His breathing causes clouds of white to puff in front of his face; as if warning of the fire burning in his chest. His hand reaches for me, and my trembling worsens.

I'm traumatized and spiteful. I want a planet between this thing and I.

He grips my coat, and I fight the urge to punch him away because I would easily lose that battle. His strong hands tug at my coat, not understanding it. I wonder if his kind ever wears clothes. Do they feel the cold seeping into their bones? Do they feel guilt gnawing at their gut?

I stay still, playing dead. After a while, he figures out how to undo the zipper and opens it up. His attention locks on my injury, and he lifts my shirt for a better look. The cold wind leaves me breathless.

I look down, and although there's blood everywhere, I can tell that the cut isn't deep. I'll heal in mere days.

My arms are claimed by my captor, and I'm lifted onto my feet. I prefer having his dragon claws around my waist than his hands on my arms. He looks so human that I nearly fall for the illusion. The touch of this form feels too intimate, because our superficial connection is trying to dig into me and become emotional.

He walks to the only door on the roof, revealing the few scales dotting his back. He violently kicks the door in, and I have no option but to follow inside because the cold has become unbearable.

I go down the steps, keeping many feet between myself and the dragon. The weak sun barely lights the dark hallways. There's garbage everywhere because the looters tore this place apart. This used to be an old office building. Papers and computer parts are scattered, and chairs lay in disarray.

The dragon rummages through desks and cabinets, looking for something. I can only daydream about getting away. We're many stories above ground. I would have to get past this labyrinth of obstacles before I can leave this building.

He finds something. It's a small red box that has already been looted, but bandages were left. I don't know the intellectual capability of these creatures, but this one is pretty smart if he can identity the purpose of human objects.

He walks up to me, and he keeps coming until his six-foot figure is a matchstick away.

My heart rate picks up. I will never be able to relax around this thing.

He extends the bandage. When I don't take it, his expressionless face finally shows something— disapproval.

He presses the bandage onto my chest until I have no option but to take it. I can only guess he wants me to use it, so I quickly pull my shirt up and press it onto my skin. It sticks onto me. Now, I can only hope the cut doesn't get infected.

The staring game continues. I'm too intimidated to look into his red irises and feel the warmth of his breath on my forehead, so I look at his shoulder. Terror is swirling in my belly, poking holes. My eyes refuse to cry, but I'm not above pissing myself in fear.

He raises his bare hand— god, it's huge. Large enough to swallow my face and my last breath.

I stumble back and my legs meet a chair that I almost collapse on.

He lowers his hand. It travels past his belly, stopping at his center. His shoulder jerks with erratic moves. It doesn't take a whore to figure out what he's doing below. He's... touching himself. He's doing the thing I do when I'm so hungry I need a distraction from the pain in my belly.

He's masturbating.

I'm injured, and he's thinking with the head between his legs. My dignity and freedom are a game to him.

Fear and indignation grip me tighter than he's gripping his cock. I want this dragon to get away from me. I want to be embraced by the grime, darkness, and bleak comfort of the underground world, where I lived a quiet life with my sister. If I can't have that, then I want death.

I— the roach in the corner, fight back although I know I will get squished. My hand flies, and I slap the fuck out of this monster, hoping to send him back to the hell he came from.

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