The Lycan and the Witch

This is a short work of erotic fiction containing furry, or anthropomorphic, characters, which are animals that either demonstrate human intelligence or walk on two legs, for the purposes of these tales. It is a thriving and growing fandom in which creators are prevalent in art and writing especially.

Please note that all characters are clearly over eighteen and written as such in all stories.

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Faolán howled, twisting and writhing, though there was little the runty Lycan could do as he was hurled through the air. The dead of the night was upon him, the moon shining down, and there was nowhere, absolutely nowhere, for him to go, nothing he could do, not even as the most broken of howls ripped itself from his lungs. He was scrawny and he was weak and every other Lycan in the forest let him know it. His black fur was shorter and not as healthy and thick as that of his brother, the worst of his tormenters, the anthro wolf towering over him as Faolán crashed down to the ground. His clothes were ripped, no shirt on, but Lycan did not always need to wear clothes, the white patch on his chest stark in the night while the stripe on his face gleamed under the scarring of fresh blood.

"Weakling..."

The brutish wolf -- Faolán could no longer say his name for the fear of the trembles that it sent through him -- loomed darkly, saliva dripping from his fangs, his tongue a pink flutter in that muzzle of death. There was nothing soft about the beast, not as he lunged, claws ripping, tearing, Faolán helpless, his paws raised but batted away a moment later.

Once, they'd played nicely as cubs. That had been a long time ago, a very long time ago, a time when life had been different, simpler, before rivalries that had no place between family members had come into play.

A foot sunk into his stomach, forcing all breath from his lungs. Doubled over, curled up on the ground, his skinny tail between his legs, Faolán wheezed.

"No... Don't do this..."

Blood trickled into his eyes, too much for him to easily blink away, but it was not as if his dark-furred brother, sensing an easy victory, was going to stop at that. He was already plastered with so many cuts and bruises that the sheer number of them was enough to strike him down -- and yet his brother kept coming. It was the end, it had to be, but he would not close his eyes against the torment, holding onto that one, last moment as he raised his arm as if to protect himself.

His brother howled.

"D-don't..."

He didn't know what happened next, though she relayed it to him later. All he knew was the flash of light lashed through the clearing, splitting the air, the trees bending lightly as if to get out of its way. It sliced his brother across the muzzle, the brute grunting, reeling, eyes wide. For it was a power that not even a Lycan could stand up against, not when they were as unprepared as he was, lashing out, snarling, his claws and teeth not able to do anything against a foe that he could not see.

"Show yourself!"

But she was canny and she was sly, explosions bursting furiously from the ground around the dominant wolf, clods of earth flying, splitting the night sky with the watchful moon staring down. The pine trees swayed and yet Faolán's brother was not known for his bravery, which was, in a way, to be expected, considering the one that he had chosen to take as his first Lycan kill.

Her magic burst forth, pushing the Lycan away, the others lurking in the trees starting and shuddering from the otherworldly wind. They could not stand up against it, not fight it, snarling and snapping, though they had been there to see a kill. While the muscled, brutish Lycan towered, it no longer seemed that they were there, that night, to bear witness to the cutting out of weak blood.

Not then. Not Faolán. Not under Arabella's watchful magic, so close to her garden walls.

Deafened and whimpering from the explosions, the previously powerful Lycan cowered and fled with his tail between his legs, Faolán slipping into sweet unconsciousness. But to be at the mercy of his rescuer, blood trickling into the dirt, was not entirely a bad thing, a gentle hand caressing his muzzle, magic wrapping itself around him.

"Come, sweet one..."

Yet he would not wake under the care of Arabella for days.

*

The witch frowned, pouring over yet another concoction. She needed to keep the Lycan in an artificial sleep for a time, all to allow his wounds to heal. Arabella's fingers fluttered, darting between herbs and tree sap, though it would take more than the power of nature to bring him back to the life that he should have always been able to live. Yet her magic was a finite source and she had used up so much of it in scaring off the brute, the slavering mutt of a Lycan who had taken far too much power into his own paws.

Shorter than him, she still held more strength to her stature, her chest drawing the eye as it filled out the front of her bodice, a deep purple dress falling neatly to her ankles, revealing a pair of practical boots. Her figure was shapely and enhanced by the dress, though Arabella was the sort that appreciated form over function, her natural beauty and figure shining through regardless of what she wore. Her hair had been pushed back from her face with a headband, falling in a shower of black ringlets, tightly curled into one another, though she stopped paying attention to the cut of her cheekbones and the fullness of her lips after leaving her twenties behind. No, that manner of life was not for her, not for chasing men anymore, not when there were far more important things for a witch who had taken herself off to a life in the forest to take care of.

The Lycan groaned in his sleep, lying on her bed, and she smiled, though the line of her lips remained tight with worry.

"Rest now. This time is for your body. Allow it."

He had to, her hand stroking his forehead, his ears with the notch in one that would never heal, muzzle scarred. Her herbs may help with that, but magic could not be wasted on such a thing.

Sleeping fitfully, Faolán knew nothing of her care.

Not yet.

*

When he woke, the room around him blurred into focus, light streaming through an open window, a sparrow perched on it. The room was larger than he was used to and more open, a bedroom of sorts with a sitting area and a desk, a lamp that looked like it was used for reading, positioned beside a comfortable armchair. The Lycan groaned, rolling his head to the side, though his entire body ached.

What had happened? Where was he? Yet even the nuances of those questions felt too tiring, growling in his ear, dragging him back down into the grey darkness of sleep.

Sleep had to come.

In and out. He took a while to wake fully and, sometimes, there was someone else there with him. A woman with thick, curly black hair, a smile on her lips that disappeared when she turned away from him. Her voice slipped over him and took him by the paw like a fine silk that he had never had the grace to touch and hold for himself. It was soothing, it was comforting, it was everything that he had never had in his life, though that was about to change with the gentle guidance of Arabella.

She sat on the edge of her bed, though she had not slept in it for some time, stroking his arm.

"I see you're back with the living world, wild one."

Faolán blinked. No one had ever called him that before.

"I... Yes." The words came thickly and slowly as if they were being drawn out of the sludge of his mind with every breath he took. "It's... Who are...you?"

"Arabella. Some may call me a witch, but we don't bandy around terms here. You had yourself in a quite a pickle. Seems some wolf was taking you to task?"

Faolán flinched, his breath catching, chest tightening.

"I... It... My brother..."

Her brow tightened, furrowing just a fraction.

"I see. Well, please rest assured sweet one. You are safe here. Rest now. Or perhaps you would like to sit in the garden for a time? There is a guest room here that you can have for as long as you need."

And that was just how Faolán found himself in a very uncharacteristic position, perched on a bench that was too small for him in the garden of a witch who had, so it seemed, saved his life. He folded his legs as much as he could, thin knees sticking up, the lines of his body harsh and angular, yet he couldn't seem quite able to make himself fit there. Neither did the cup of tea, brewed with herbs from Arabella's own garden, fit in his large paws, his fingers long, though he only wore the tunic and trousers that she handed to him because it felt proper. He had been plucked from his world and covering up his modesty, at least, seemed right when in her presence.

But the garden was quiet and she sat on a stool, bent over, blowing on her tea to cool it. Birds sang, the stone wall at the bottom of the garden layered with moss and ivy, the natural world blending seamlessly into the abode that required a little more tending than the rhythm of nature itself. A bond bubbled away where a small waterfall poured into it, a frog croaking beside, fresh frogspawn bobbing where it must only have been laid a few days ago.

"In time they'll become tadpoles, then froglets," Arabella commented, noting his interest. "They only need time to grow. You only needed time to grow too."

Faolán didn't know what to say to that, so he lapped his tea, messily, out of the small cup instead, drawing a giggle from the witch's lips. She bid him to stay while she went about her work, stripping the bed of the sheets that she had not been able to change while he slumbered and healed, though the marks and scars littering his body still could not bear the scrutiny of close contemplation.

"I... I can help..."

The sheets piled into a large laundry tub, her magic pulling at them, helping release the dirt in a minimalist way without expending too much of her magic all at once. That would, unfortunately, have been a little too much for her to waste, as much as it could be replenished, over time. But the Lycan was eager, as much as he struggled to stand, kneeling to rub the cloth over the washboard, squeezing water from it, the water frothing with natural soap and cleansing bubbles.

"Don't over-exert yourself, sweet one."

He shivered. He liked being called that but did not know how to tell her that. He could only hope that Arabella knew as, quietly, they washed the sheets and hung them out to dry, her directing him, showing him what to do with a kind but firm hand, watching, as always, that he did not push himself too far too soon. That, after all, would have only set back his recovery and neither of them, most certainly, wanted that. It was hard enough to help, to try to do whatever it was that he could do, though that was only the first day of the rest of his life, all with the witch who had saved his life.

He grew stronger every day, Arabella showing him how to set traps and snares that would dispatch prey quickly and cleanly. He could not hunt, after all, in his current state as he was used to, and a Lycan, even as old as he was at eighteen, she uncovered, needed a good supply of meat to keep growing. Yet his black fur remained scruffy and tufted in places, even as his health improved. It seemed that that, at least, was there to stay, but Faolán hardly minded that when he was still alive.

Thus, he learned to live more like a human than a Lycan, his heritage at his back, though it was hardly something that he wanted to spend all that much time looking back on. No, that manner of life was too sharp, too painful, the kind of thing that did not belong weighing heavy on his heart.

Better to look ahead, to let the witch feed him, to show him how to be better, a better version of himself rather than someone that he was not. He was a Lycan, that much was true, but the runts of the litters rarely survived: there, he was an anomaly. And the anomaly was destined to survive, his strength building rather than returning, for he had never had all that much of it to begin with. He was a different wolf than he had been, muscle rounding out his shoulders marginally. Of course, he would always be on the thinner, scrawnier side, but he rather liked the thought of being the best version of himself, not trying to always be like his brothers, like the Lycan who had led the way for him for so many years.

Maybe that had never been his path to follow.

But he could not flee from it forever, darkness nipping at his heels, anxiety closing around his heart even on a bright, sunny day, when he was down on his knees, taking great care in tending the garden. It was an important job and yet he froze, breath trapped in his throat, windpipe closing so that not a modicum more breath could pass through, heart racing faster and faster and faster.

"Faolán? Are you quite alright?"

He stiffened, her hand on his shoulder, yet not even instinct could rip a growl from his throat, everything locked up and tight.

She had to lead him back inside that day, but they didn't speak of it, not even as he sat before the fire, even the heat of that on the spring morning not enough to warm his bones through. Arabella cooked him vegetable soup with chicken broth, a variety with a herb sprinkled into it to help him sleep a little more soundly, maybe even coming to terms with his past. She could not pry too deeply into it, after all, not until Faolán was willing to share it with her.

Until then, all Arabella could do was set him on the right path.

He tried to forget, turning from the past again and again, though it was always there. Faolán watched the frogspawn grow into tadpoles, leaving the jelly behind and little tadpoles squirming all over the pond. They were surprisingly strong swimmers for their size and he covered the pond protectively with a net, though he couldn't do anything about the minnows that picked them off within the pool. He could, however, try to make sure that as many as possible survived, taking on an element of care that distracted him from the care that had been required, in the end, for him to merely live. Faolán bowed his head down to his knees, bent up towards his chest, as the sunset tipped his black fur with crimson and auburn shades at the eve of the day. Maybe it was time for him to care for others too. Maybe that was his path.

What he'd thought would be his path had not been so, after all.

Yet fleeing could not go on forever, as much as he might have liked it to. He broke down, all in a rush, not even able to feel it coming. One moment he was getting ready for bed and the next he was crumpled on the floor, wailing, howling, trying to muffle his whole body wracking sobs into his legs. Tears flowed freely but he didn't want to be caught, didn't want to be seen as the runt -- he had to be up early, after all, still had to make himself useful to the witch who had changed so much in his life, all for the better.

Nothing. Useless. Weakling. Runt. Should have been left to die. There was so much in his life to hurt him and he'd never given the trauma of almost dying a moment -- not until it overwhelmed him, demanding the attention even as he hyperventilated. In that moment, he was back on the ground, the smell of damp moss cloying in his nostrils, his brother's jaws around his throat, crunching, blood flowing. A rib had been broken, he was sure of it, and his whole body ached, but it felt as if he was right there, the past in the present, all over again, as if it was happening as he sobbed and wheezed.

"Faolán!"

She was there, rushing to his side, throwing herself to her knees to get as close to him as possible as quickly as possible. Arabella's hands fluttered, not knowing whether he was hurt or if it would be better to pull on a little of her magic to soften everything for him, though the ultimate crux of it was that some things had to be felt, regardless of whether they were pleasant or not.

"There... Oh, Faolán, you did not need to keep this in."

She soothed him the best she could even if the anthro wolf shuddered from her, torn between two opposing courses of action. He could have leaned in but that made it so that the words that he had been keeping locked away had to spill from his muzzle; after holding them pushed down for so long, Faolán was not so sure that he could halt them at any point once they had begun their course.

"It was... It... It..."

He couldn't get the words out, so she soothed him, rubbing his back, his ribs still showing through, the vertebrae of his spine. He would never ripple with hefty muscle, but there was the potential for him to put on lean bulk in time, with care, but, as skinny as he still was then, the lean Lycan shivered with cold. He hugged his legs to himself, not knowing anything else, though not even his fur, which had thickened up just a little too with a sheen to the black, could warm him from the horrors of the past.

But there was Arabella again wrapping him up safe and warm in a blanket, chasing the chills from his bones with the pressure of herself, so warm and soothing, a constant presence, up against him.

She waited, holding him, patience softening the moment. Again and again, Arabella told him that it was alright, repeating the same words, knowing that it took time. It always took time. Only when his sobs broke into words, however whispered and raspy they were -- she passed him a cup of water to help with that -- did she find out what had truly sent him into such a state.

"It was dreadful," he whispered, eyes downcast, tail tucked. "I thought... I thought... I thought that I was really going to go...to die."

"But you're not, you're safe now."

Faolán shuddered.

"I don't... I don't think I believe that."

She tilted his muzzle up, eyes tense at the corners. Yet no matter how much she wanted to, there was no way for her to take his sadness from him, not even then. The pain in his heart flashed back to a time layered with trauma, a time that she could not chase away from him, and he would have to speak to someone about that, but not in that moment. The words were still coming.

"I hadn't done anything I wanted, hadn't even lain with a female..."

She started. Was that really what he was worried about? Alas, it was not for Arabella to judge, only to soothe, nodding, taking a chance, drawing the grief struck Lycan in close to her chest.

"Dear, there is time for that..."

"But I didn't think there was time then."

He sniffed and tried to wipe his muzzle off on a scrap of cloth, a rag that had been left for cleaning, but Arabella would not allow that and passed him a handkerchief from her own pocket.

"It's important..." He trembled in her arms. "It's all about virility, power, dominance...to my kind. Maybe it's narrow-minded, maybe it changes when we age, when we mature beyond being mere breeding-mad, in a way, I guess... But for those my age, that's all they think about. I could have been gone and my line... There'd be nothing left of it."

She let him talk. Sometimes talking was the best medicine.

"No one ever looked at me, not that I was...around with the other Lycan much... They said I was thin...weak...pathetic." He whimpered, licking his lips, chewing, trying to release tension in his body through any means possible. "I believed them... I thought I had to die so that our gene pool wouldn't be tainted with my weak blood. My brother kept saying that to me."

"Oh, dearest..."

Arabella could bear it no longer as she wrapped him up in her arms, her bosom pressed to the Lycan through the blanket. Yet she could not hold back when he was in such a state, her heart going out to him. It was not fair, not fair at all that such a sweet one, one so young, had had to go through such things, but the witch was not even all that convinced that it was the true way of the Lycan. To her, it sounded like a group of bullies breaking him down into the ground, not the noble wolves that she listened to howling when the moon was full and high in the sky.