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Hear me Roar

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It was a backwater surgery.  A posting in the arse-end of nowhere.  A salutary lesson in why you should never call the professor a ‘stuck-up, silver-spoon-sucking imbecile who wouldn’t recognise gangrenous flesh if it was served on a platter garnished with watercress’.

Even if he was one.

On any normal day the visitors to Cristalan’s office – a small airless hole tucked above the village shop – were farmers, loggers, lumberjacks.  They sported the expected injuries: cut thumbs, sliced fingers, crushed legs.  Easy to fix, or impossible to fix.  Boring as hell.  A normal day in purgatory, waiting to be recalled to a city, a town, anywhere but here.

Today was not a normal day.

A tall man stood before him in the road-worn mismatched armour of an adventuring warlock, his long dark hair tied back with a piece of thong.  A small purple pseudo dragon gripped his shoulder with tiny sharp claws.  The man, who had introduced himself as Rue, was obviously suffering from deep, burning embarrassment over his deep, burning issue.

“So, let me get this straight. You are -in pain-,” Cristalan placed a tiny emphasis on the words, carefully avoiding any details that would deepen the tide of crimson flushing Rue’s face, “because you…um… had relations with a dragon.”

Rue nodded vigorously, looking anywhere except at the chirurgeon, glad that a verbal response was not required.

“This dragon.” It was a flat statement, not a question.  Full details of the incident had already been drawn out during a painful five minute conversation.

Rue nodded again. “But he was big.  Really big.”

“Big.”  Cristalan looked at Phus.  The little dragon fluttered his wings and tried to look bigger. He gained maybe half an inch from the exercise.

Really big.”  The warlock shifted around in obvious physical discomfort.

“A really big…pseudo dragon.” Cris knew he should at least try to keep the disbelief out of his voice for the sake of professionalism, but it wasn’t easy.  During the course of a privileged childhood, his sister had been given a pseudo dragon.  They could change size, but never grew bigger than a house cat.

Rue frowned, storm clouds gathering in his eyes, chasing away embarrassment. “Are you saying you don’t believe me?”

“No, no. Of course not.”  Cristalan gestured to the cot in the corner.  “Perhaps I should… examine the affected area.”




Phus had been on edge for days, enduring the torment of his first heat cycle, a constant stream of emotions and images flowing from his mind to Rue’s.  It had brought them both to the edge of madness, a searing torrent of heat and need that suffused them as one.

There was no sane explanation for what happened next, no possibility of explaining it to anyone who hadn’t experienced a link of this magnitude.  Rue could no longer extricate himself from it, the drive to breed was overwhelming, it was his drive, his urge, it belonged to him just as much as it belonged to Phus.

And so, with the wild uncontrolled passion of beasts, they turned to each other for release.

Phus had taken many sizes in the past, from a tiny mouse tucked in his pocket to the solid weight of a house cat perched on his shoulder.  Now he reared up, topping Rue’s six foot frame by several inches.  Size is dominance in the minds of beasts and thus their roles were set.  Acceptance blanketed Rue’s mind and he rolled over to receive his dragon.  Behind him, Phus roared his supremacy.



Cristalan frowned, unable to fit together the facts of his examination and the halting description he’d received from the man now bare-arsed on the cot.  There should, according to what he’d heard, be some significant abrasion, possible tearing, and a risk of prolapse.  The sex organ of a seven foot dragon, received with no more lubrication than a little dragon spit, is going to leave quite a lot of evidence of its passing. 

Certainly Rue was suffering some discomfort, and there was clear evidence as to why.  The skin of his rear was inflamed, small but deep claw marks scored over it. There were tiny wounds up his anal passage, such as might be made by a thin barbed implement.  Cristalan’s gaze flickered to Phus, who sat on the post of the cot watching him work.  Such as might be made, he thought, by the barbed phallus of an ordinary sized pseudo dragon.

“Er…” Cristalan paused for a moment, wondering how best to word his thoughts, “tell me about this mental link you mentioned. Are you seeing things from your own point of view, or his? Or perhaps a… erm… mixture?”


Phus had been on edge for days, enduring the torment of his first heat cycle, a constant stream of emotions and images flowing from his mind to Rue’s.  It had brought them both to the edge of madness, a searing torrent of heat and need that suffused them as one.

The situation wasn’t ideal.  In fact it was downright tricky. For one thing his adored one wasn’t exactly built in the proper fashion.  This was not Rue’s fault and Phus would not dream of distressing him by saying so.  But it did cause undeniable difficulties.

I am dragon.” He would not let his beloved down.  Their shared passion blazed high, towering over both of them.

There was no tail to bite onto; he had to use his claws to hold on tight.  Also - and it would again be unfair to apportion blame - there was a sad lack of sensation.  His dearest Rue was disappointingly… cavernous. Fortunately, his barbs provided some much needed friction and several points of stability.  He clung on, scrabbling for purchase against sweaty flesh.

It was still bliss. The mental closeness of his life partner.  Their collective colossal desire for release.

I am dragon.” thought Phus, his belief given life in the mind of his dearest Rue. “Hear me roar!”  

A shrill “Yip!” sounded in the forest glade, heard by no-one.