Fastpaw and Myrtle, the "good end" version.
As I wrote the story I felt that it was a huge shame that Myrtle was doomed to be eaten. The story was based on a strip in which he ate his lover, after all. Still, she really liked him, and I thought he was a fool to do it.
So here is the alternate ending in which he has a change of heart. This may become the new canon; maybe the other version was a might-have-been, or a flashback he had as he thought about eating her. In either case, here is the happy ending (for both of them) version. 83
Fastpaw and Myrtle
" Good end" version
By Strega
The raccoon stood a little over four and a half feet tall, and to Myrtle that was just the right height. She stood less that that herself, inheriting a slight frame from her elvish mother. Humans and the other tall races towered over her, but when she bumped into the praka minstrel in the inn hallway their eyes were at almost the same level.
It happened that she and he frequented the same inns; she a saleswoman for spices and he a traveling minstrel. Some people found the raccoon people ugly and untrustworthy, with their bandit-masked faces, fur and ringed tails. She thought they were cute, and more than cute.
The second time they met she learned what praka semen tastes like. She found him in a booth at the inn, strumming his lute and murmuring lyrics. Like most of the raccoon-folk he could not speak Common, but surprisingly he could sing it, after a fashion. As she sat at a nearby table he played an ancient Elvish love song she'd asked for, and he smiled and looked her over with bright raccoon eyes.
No one saw her slip beneath the table in his booth, and his claws plucked only one note wrong when she pulled up his loincloth and began to rub. He was more like a dog than a man down there, but all the parts were in about the right places and about the right size. A rattling purr began to mix in with his singing after his sheath drew back and she began to suck, and after that he only strummed the lyre for several minutes. After a fair time his eyes glazed and his ears twitched, but still he did not interrupt his playing. Myrtle swallowed a mouthful of raccoon seed, tugged his loincloth back into place and slipped from beneath his table as quietly as she'd arrived. He had the waitress bring her a drink after that, and they smiled at each other until she had to leave a little while later.
She didn't know him, but she liked him. There was nothing wrong with that, but she should not have trusted him. Ultimately that misplaced trust might be her undoing.
The next time they met was at another inn in the same city a few month later. She was on her way to her room with a bottle of wine and ran into him coming the other way up the hall. He didn't have his lyre but she recognized him instantly. His eyes brightened at the sight of her too, and when she held up the bottle of wine he smiled and held up the key to his room. Within there was nowhere for two people to sit, save on the bed.
The cork was hardly out of the bottle before his nimble, furry fingers sought out the fastenings of her clothing. Carefully trimmed claws stroked her skin and a narrow raccoon tongue tasted her flesh. Myrtle gasped and returned the favor, tugging his belted loincloth away and cradling what she found beneath. Already he was stiff, his sheath tight and a pink tip exposed. She wasn't sure how it would work, coupling with him, but his fur was soft and his hands clever and it seemed the most natural thing in the world to turn away and go to hands and knees.
First he licked, making sure she was ready, but soon enough he entered her from behind. Clawed hands clasped her hips and belly fur rubbed her rump and back. Somehow his shape became more feral than before; he'd been humanoid, if furry, but the creature that mounted her now might be just a great raccoon. His paws knew where to rub her, though, and such was her lust that she yelped out her passion while the beast still arched and growled.
Afterward he licked the juices from her thighs. Most of his seed remained in her, but she knew nothing would come of it. The Maker's people could bear young only with their own kind.
When she was clean, save for the raccoon hair clinging to her sweaty flesh, they snuggled up together in the tangled covers. "A small magic," he sang-spoke when asked about his change of form. "Learned along with my songs. Sometimes it pleases me to be more raccoon, less man." Then he rested his muzzle on her shoulder and they drifted off to sleep together.
The next morning she went on her way, sharing a loving nuzzle and a lick or two. His muzzle wasn't suited for kissing, even in his humanoid form. He listened at the door and nodded when the hall was empty, and so she left. It only occurred to her after returning her room key that she might have mussed the covers of her own bed. She worried, briefly, then shrugged. There were many places she could have whiled away the hours; no one would assume she'd spent the night in bed with a raccoon.
She'd learned his name now, Fastpaw. From the occasional comment she heard in inns she learned he had a reputation as a lady's man. That was par for the course for a bard, praka or not, and with any other one it would be a harmless fling. Young raccoon-folk often ended up in the beds of other-species lovers. Eventually the diverse kinds would return to their own, taking fond memories and little more to their later lovers and marriages.
What she did not learn while asking around about him was that Fastpaw wanted rather more from some of his lovers than a romp in the hay. He covered his tracks carefully, moving from inn to inn and town to town and choosing only those who would not be missed. If he'd known her well enough he might have turned that unwelcome attention her way as they lay curled together in bed, but he hadn't. For all he knew she was at the inn with friends who'd note her absence, and so she'd gone on her way with a lick and nuzzle.
If she had forgotten him and moved on, all would have been well. She did not, and it could have ended in tragedy.
They met again nearly a year later. He wandered much as she did, and by chance their paths crossed again in Veryondy, north of the Kron hills and east of the Maker's lands. She had traveled there with a caravan, the trade roads not being the safest. She visited a dozen inns and restaurants with her packets of spice samples before picking an inn at random to stay for the night.
And there he was, in a cleared area at one end of the common room this time. His singing had improved since last they met, but it was his skilful play on the lute that had the soup bowl next to him half full of copper pieces, with some silver mixed in.
His eyes passed over her without pausing, and she realized the raccoon-man had forgotten her. That was disappointing but understandable. He must seldom sleep in the same inn twice, to keep the novelty of a praka bard fresh. Maybe it wasn't even him; hard though she tried she sometimes mistook one coonfolk for another, and it wasn't well lit in the inn. She flagged down the waitress and bought a bowl of soup and some good local bread.
A flagon of wine arrived with it, though she'd ordered no such thing. As she looked at it in confusion she heard the coonfolk minstrel drop a note...and recognized the song he was playing. It was the Elvish love song, and it was the same note he'd dropped when her lips wrapped around his cock. She looked up to find the raccoon smiling as he played, and looking anywhere but at her. He played one-handed for a moment, flexing the other to relieve a cramp. She knew enough of the praka hand-sign language to recognize a number: he was staying in room twelve.
Myrtle smiled and decided she didn't really need to pay for a room tonight. She knew where she'd be sleeping. She was mostly right.
She was sopping up the last dregs of soup with a bread crust when the bard finished playing. He bowed to the audience, such as it was in the little inn, and poured his bowl of donations into a pouch. His lute went in its case and he made his way to the master of the inn, presumably negotiating when he'd be welcome to play next. Myrtle finished her wine and headed casually for the stairs.
A minute after she reached the hall he was there, too. She hardly had to pause at the door to room twelve before he turned the key and they were inside. No one saw them enter and no one saw the raccoon-man nibble her neck as he swung the door shut. Their clothes left a trail between the door and bed. They still found time for a few words.
"Here selling spices again?" sang-spoke the raccoon, sniffing at her breast. To his nose her line of business must be obvious.
"Earlier, yes," she said as he lifted her from her feet. "By myself this time, and no one saw me come in. So we don't have to hurry."
He set her on the bed and smiled a whiskery smile. "Good." Had she but known, the last thing she should have said was that no one knew where she was.
She saw it happen this time. A complex gesture of his furry hands, a just-as-complex, half-sung string of syllables. His shoulders rounded, his hands grew more paw like - but still nimble, as she well knew. His torso lengthened, legs shortened. From raccoon-man to feral raccoon much the same size, if not a bit larger. Illusion or true change? As he climbed into bed with her it did not matter.
Belly to belly they coupled, her legs hooked over his, impaled in his lap. She wasn't sure if he was better hung as a feral, having had his humanoid cock only in her mouth, but he was well hung enough. She bounced in his lap, his forepaws guiding her as she moved. "Good coonie," she moaned, and he grinned.
In the glow of approaching orgasm she didn't notice the calculating look in his eye. One paw-hand stole behind her neck, pulling her forward. It would be a nuzzle, or kiss, save that he yawned jaw-creakingly wide as her face fell toward his mouth. Eyes shut, shuddering through her passion, she did not see. As she came his jaws disjointed, his hands tugged her toward his waiting gullet. She was calling his name, climaxing, totally vulnerable. By the time she recovered her head would be in his throat, and the rest would soon follow. It would be so easy....
But something made him pause. His muzzle closed; a fang scraped her forehead and she opened her eyes. Already his jaws were shut and he was rolling forward atop her. Legs hooked over his haunches, and she rubbed the big raccoon's chest fur as he snarled, arched, and came. Like the feral beast he resembled he drove into her, claws scraping her back as he ejaculated.
Afterward he stood panting, eyes closed, and when he went to dismount she held him close so he instead rolled on his side. She moved along with him and they lay belly to belly, his still-unsheathed penis against her thigh. Even spent he was stiff, thanks to that inner bone she'd felt. A hand-like paw stroked her side as they recovered.
"Someone likes being a raccoon," she smiled, and his eyes opened. It turned out he could sing-speak even in this more feral form.
"Someone likes being in bed with a beautiful woman," he crooned, and hooked his muzzle over her shoulder to make sure he hadn't scratched her in his moment of passion. He had, but it didn't look bad. "Sorry," he sang, and licked the scratches clean.
His tongue progressed from her back, beneath her arm and to her breast. They made love spooned together, eventually, he half curled around her as he licked. It was slower, both because they were already half-spent and because he had much to think about. It was only the third time he'd set out to eat a lover and held back, and the other two times it'd been because he heard a noise and feared being caught in the act. Never before had he such an opportunity and not fed.
This time he came first, tail thumping the covers. Even in the midst of it he couldn't stop wondering. Why hadn't he eaten her? He didn't eat every woman who came to his bed, far from it. But twice this year alone he had gotten a woman beneath him with the plan of doing more than that, and both those women, a gnome and a halfling respectively, had ended the evening in his stomach. Why not Myrtle? She'd be a larger meal than those two, but he could manage her. By all rights he should be getting a start on digesting her by now.
As he licked the sweat and juices from her body he thought: It is not too late. _I can still..._but no. He knew he wouldn't eat her, and he was beginning to realize why.
His spell was fading. It'd lasted through two matings, but all things had their limits. He returned to his natural form, still furry and clawed but more like his lover in shape. It didn't matter; she liked him equally well in either shape. Just as they had last time they snuggled together, she more beneath the covers than he, and drifted off to sleep.
Myrtle woke to the smell of food. Eggs, ham, fresh-baked bread. Her eyes flew open as she heard the door, Fastpaw had had food brought up! The serving-person would see her! But past the covers drawn up around her eyes she saw him come in. He was in his belt and loincloth and carried a tray in his dextrous furry hands. It must be a second trip, for a crock of milk and a flagon of what looked like juice sat on the little table in the corner.
"Breakfast," he sang with a grin, and she realized how hungry she was. There was only one chair so they pulled the table over to the bed, where she sat across from her lover. He too was ravenous; she'd never have suspected he could put away so much food.
"Skipped dinner," he sang at her quizzical look. "I was going to eat after I finished playing, but something better came up." He smiled. "It was worth missing a meal." For a moment he looked almost sad, but he was too good an actor to let his emotions show. The meal he'd missed had been her, and he remembered other meals he hadn't missed. He didn't regret most of them, but now that he'd met Myrtle there were one or two he'd take back if he could. He thought as he ate: how many people had he eaten? Fifty, by now? Not counting the odd kobold, were-rat, or kender, which he'd take whenever he could. How many lovers?
He buttered a still-warm roll. He'd petitioned the Maker to give him the ability, and even though the mage usually required a considerable payment to so endow those who were not high in his favor, it'd amused him to grant the request. Fastpaw had seen gul and even volpa swallow people. He wanted to be able to do it. It excited him, and it still did. He had almost swallowed Myrtle even though....
He chewed on the roll, swallowed. "It's not often I meet someone so many times," he sang, thinking as he talked. "We travel in the same circles." He smiled almost shyly. "And no one has ever ducked beneath my table like that without even being asked."
It was distracting watching him trill out the sounds. He had trouble with a few letters, but her mind filled in the gaps, as with a half-heard song. She'd never heard a praka speak more than a word or two of Common due to the shape of their muzzles; their language was like the chittering of real raccoons and they used sign language to communicating with others. Somehow he'd figured out how to mimic the common tongue by singing.
Myrtle half-elf tilted her head. Oddities of his language aside, he was clearly working up to something.
It took him a while to get there. "You work out of Greyhawk, or Dyvers. How far north do you go? Into Veluna?"
She shook her head. "Mostly from here to Greyhawk and back. I am indeed based in Dyvers. The spice merchant I work for lives there. Why?" She thought she knew, though she almost couldn't believe it.
He nodded slightly and sang, "Veluna is open enough to my people...as long as we keep to ourselves. They are not keen on...things being mixed." A bit of a smile. "Would you like a traveling companion, Myrtle?"
"Are...are you asking me to stay with you?"
"Well, it doesn't have to be so formal. We can travel together, then I'll play the local bars and you can..." He ran down, and was silent for a moment. "I am. It's so rare I see the same person more than once. I've taken many women to my bed, Myrtle." He sucked in a breath. "Even a few men. It's part of being a bard; the music, the alcohol. The novelty of the handsome...all, right, cute...raccoon-man who can sing Common. I've slept with I don't know how many women, Myrtle."
"But just for a night, until the novelty wears off for them, or they are worried others will talk," he sang. "I've not had the same bed mate three times since I left the Maker's lands. No one's ever been that interested." Of course, if he hadn't eaten certain of them...there'd been that black-furred Hestan catwoman; she'd liked him a lot. The last he saw of her was the mass of indigestible black hair he coughed up the next day. Too late to worry about that now, or any of the others.
He reached across the table and covered Myrtle's hand with his own. Paw like, but nimble; gray fur, leathery skin that softened in water (or other fluids, she knew) and became uncannily sensitive. Carefully trimmed claws even though he needed them to play his lute, so he wouldn't scratch his soft-skinned furless lovers. His hand was warm as she interlaced fingers with him.
"I'm not asking you to marry me, Myrtle. But I want to travel with you, stay with you. You can teach me spices; I know some already, because my sense of smell is very good. I can teach you to play a lute or sing. We can comfort each other, share a bed - or not, if we are somewhere that people will notice. If we decide we aren't well matched, well, it doesn't have to last. If we go the other way...in the Maker's lands, or a few other places, no one will flick a whisker to see the two of us together. I've seen stranger couples."
Myrtle's eyes misted, and she looked down at the table for a moment. From his point of view she must resemble an elf so closely as to make no difference, or for that matter a human. Both of those peoples knew what she was, though: the product of the coupling between some bored elvish woman and a crude (to an elf, anyway) rutting, short-lived human. Humans saw her and thought elf, haughty and arrogant; elves saw her and saw an embarrassment. Some looked at her and saw beauty, but no one ever looked and saw someone they wanted to spend their life with.
"We've met three times," she said, "Well, four, but 'met', you know what I mean. Except the first time, I've always been with your feral side, the one you change into. How different is it to be with you when you are a praka, instead of a raccoon?"
"Still a raccoon, just more...people-ish," he sang with a smile. "And the only way for you to learn is to show you."
And so he did, right there on the rickety table, their antics sending wooden mugs and plates and scraps of food sliding onto the floor. They could clean up later. He lay her back over the table, her ankles up around his ears, and showed her that raccoon or raccoon-man, he still knew what he wanted and how to go about getting it.
As he nuzzled and licked her breasts - a muzzle may not be good for kissing, but it is as good as a human's mouth for other things - and pumped his hips against hers, he knew she might not stay. She might tire of the questioning glances shot their way once people realized they were together, or she might find someone handsome without fur to fall in love with. It'd be hard to argue that staying with him would be better than marriage to one of her own kind. Maybe he in his turn would fall for a pretty prakafemme. He'd never eat Myrtle, but the urge to eat others might return; she could never approve of that, and so he would have to leave. There were a hundred things that might go wrong with such a pairing, and the odds were it wouldn't work out.
His lover moaned his name, and Fastpaw shuddered, tail twitching as he came. It might not work out. But he hoped it would.