Fairy Tales - Dreadful Longing
Title: Dreadful Longing
Rating: R-ish
Summary: A not so little Red Riding Hood and the Wolf. A meeting in the woods, of course ("woods" also being the prompt).
Author's note: It's been a busy, busy summer, and I haven't had much time for fannish things. But I was browsing the prompts for the Porn Battle XII and inspiration unexpectedly struck. Before anyone starts to wonder, the wolf in question is in man-form here. As always, thanks to geekmama for looking it over for me!
Dreadful Longing
by Hereswith
Was he a danger? She could not doubt it. He moved with lean, long-limbed grace and though he was man-shaped in seeming, his teeth were so sharp and so white. She had seen him before, straying close to the path; this time, he was waiting for her, and she stopped to ask him, "What do you want?" with anger in her voice, and more: a thrilled curiosity.
"What," he repeated, putting the emphasis on another word, "do you want? I can hear you, singing as you walk. No creature living could miss it."
Oddly, it piqued her. "What of my singing?"
He tilted his head, his gaze narrowed and cunning. "Your heart is in it."
Merely that, but it caught her with truth. Her heart, and all her dreadful longing. Nothing about him was handsome, and everything was. Scars marked him, straight lines and jagged, like he had been in battle, and he was past his youth, but not old, his hair grizzled iron-grey to black. She knew what her mother would say, what her father would caution, but the forest had darkened even as they were talking; it was darkening still, and the wind brought a chill to the air, raising shivers up her spine.
He broke the silence, snorting. "Run, then," he told her. "Run to safety. Lock the doors and bar the windows shut. Send the men out to chase me with torches and pikes." The final syllables slid on the edge of a snarl. "I have no interest in frightened village girls."
Her mouth was dry, but her hands shook only slightly. She was afraid, but her hood was coloured bright and bold, and she felt bold too, wearing it. She stepped to the side, trading the gravel beneath her boots for dead leaves and undergrowth.
"Ah." He sounded amused. "Wrong direction, little Red. You are entering my territory. And in the wild places, the rules are different."
She nodded, accepting the fact, and slowly backed away from him, further into the woods. "What would you do, if I was a woman?"
"Are you?" It had him poised, intent again, and he followed her with a deliberate, stalking stride, his nostrils flaring and his expression changing as he drew in her scent. Her stomach clenched, but she continued her retreat until she hit the trunk of a fir, her shoulders pressing into the uneven surface of the bark. She set her basket down, careful to keep him in sight. Did he note how tense she was, how her pulse pounded? She was certain he must. She had his attention and where it lingered, on her bared throat, the full curve of breast and hip, it burned.
"If I touched you," he said, and his legs brushed against her legs, his breath fanned against her cheek, "would you scream? Or would you suffer it, pretending I was one of them? A farmer’s son. A sweet-smelling, well-favoured boy."
"No," she replied, surprised at the calm in her tone. A woman’s calm, though he unnerved her completely. "I know what you are."
"What am I?" He leaned in and nuzzled the hollow behind her collarbone, and she gasped. "What would you call me, Red? What do you call me, in your dreams?"
She gave a choked laugh. Her dreams had been painfully naive, in comparison. “Wolf,” she named him, and bit her lip hard, her knees nearly buckling, because he growled into her neck, low and feral, like he would, meant to devour her whole; he hoisted her skirts up, calloused hands on her skin, between her thighs, and she might have pleaded mercy, before sensation overtook her, but he lifted his head to look at her and his eyes, in the lee of the tree’s height, were a gleaming yellow-gold.
She sank onto the moss and the blueberry shrubs, when it was done, her legs trembling, her dress and her hood pooled around her. To her horrified fascination, he licked his fingers clean with quick flicks of his tongue, then crouched in front of her, one palm braced against the forest floor. Regarded her, quiet and unblinking.
She said, "And now?"
He smiled, and there was no comfort in it, but no threat either. "Go. Or they will come, rallied in search of you. And I find I am… loath to abandon this hunting ground."
She rose, retrieving her basket. Night had not yet fallen, she could make out the path and her way to it, would not stumble awkwardly on roots or stones. She should leave, and in haste. He was right; her father might already question her tardiness. But she hesitated, wondering if something else should be said.
Before she could gather her thoughts, he spoke. "I will not be content with morsels." He glanced up, the motion barely human, the shadows blurring him, but he held himself leashed, not even the hand curled into the soil had shifted form. "Will you return, with that warning?"
She swallowed. No village dances, no courting, callow suitors, had prepared her for this, and her grandmother’s tales could not help her. The decision was hers alone. "Yes."
Rating: R-ish
Summary: A not so little Red Riding Hood and the Wolf. A meeting in the woods, of course ("woods" also being the prompt).
Author's note: It's been a busy, busy summer, and I haven't had much time for fannish things. But I was browsing the prompts for the Porn Battle XII and inspiration unexpectedly struck. Before anyone starts to wonder, the wolf in question is in man-form here. As always, thanks to geekmama for looking it over for me!
Dreadful Longing
by Hereswith
Was he a danger? She could not doubt it. He moved with lean, long-limbed grace and though he was man-shaped in seeming, his teeth were so sharp and so white. She had seen him before, straying close to the path; this time, he was waiting for her, and she stopped to ask him, "What do you want?" with anger in her voice, and more: a thrilled curiosity.
"What," he repeated, putting the emphasis on another word, "do you want? I can hear you, singing as you walk. No creature living could miss it."
Oddly, it piqued her. "What of my singing?"
He tilted his head, his gaze narrowed and cunning. "Your heart is in it."
Merely that, but it caught her with truth. Her heart, and all her dreadful longing. Nothing about him was handsome, and everything was. Scars marked him, straight lines and jagged, like he had been in battle, and he was past his youth, but not old, his hair grizzled iron-grey to black. She knew what her mother would say, what her father would caution, but the forest had darkened even as they were talking; it was darkening still, and the wind brought a chill to the air, raising shivers up her spine.
He broke the silence, snorting. "Run, then," he told her. "Run to safety. Lock the doors and bar the windows shut. Send the men out to chase me with torches and pikes." The final syllables slid on the edge of a snarl. "I have no interest in frightened village girls."
Her mouth was dry, but her hands shook only slightly. She was afraid, but her hood was coloured bright and bold, and she felt bold too, wearing it. She stepped to the side, trading the gravel beneath her boots for dead leaves and undergrowth.
"Ah." He sounded amused. "Wrong direction, little Red. You are entering my territory. And in the wild places, the rules are different."
She nodded, accepting the fact, and slowly backed away from him, further into the woods. "What would you do, if I was a woman?"
"Are you?" It had him poised, intent again, and he followed her with a deliberate, stalking stride, his nostrils flaring and his expression changing as he drew in her scent. Her stomach clenched, but she continued her retreat until she hit the trunk of a fir, her shoulders pressing into the uneven surface of the bark. She set her basket down, careful to keep him in sight. Did he note how tense she was, how her pulse pounded? She was certain he must. She had his attention and where it lingered, on her bared throat, the full curve of breast and hip, it burned.
"If I touched you," he said, and his legs brushed against her legs, his breath fanned against her cheek, "would you scream? Or would you suffer it, pretending I was one of them? A farmer’s son. A sweet-smelling, well-favoured boy."
"No," she replied, surprised at the calm in her tone. A woman’s calm, though he unnerved her completely. "I know what you are."
"What am I?" He leaned in and nuzzled the hollow behind her collarbone, and she gasped. "What would you call me, Red? What do you call me, in your dreams?"
She gave a choked laugh. Her dreams had been painfully naive, in comparison. “Wolf,” she named him, and bit her lip hard, her knees nearly buckling, because he growled into her neck, low and feral, like he would, meant to devour her whole; he hoisted her skirts up, calloused hands on her skin, between her thighs, and she might have pleaded mercy, before sensation overtook her, but he lifted his head to look at her and his eyes, in the lee of the tree’s height, were a gleaming yellow-gold.
She sank onto the moss and the blueberry shrubs, when it was done, her legs trembling, her dress and her hood pooled around her. To her horrified fascination, he licked his fingers clean with quick flicks of his tongue, then crouched in front of her, one palm braced against the forest floor. Regarded her, quiet and unblinking.
She said, "And now?"
He smiled, and there was no comfort in it, but no threat either. "Go. Or they will come, rallied in search of you. And I find I am… loath to abandon this hunting ground."
She rose, retrieving her basket. Night had not yet fallen, she could make out the path and her way to it, would not stumble awkwardly on roots or stones. She should leave, and in haste. He was right; her father might already question her tardiness. But she hesitated, wondering if something else should be said.
Before she could gather her thoughts, he spoke. "I will not be content with morsels." He glanced up, the motion barely human, the shadows blurring him, but he held himself leashed, not even the hand curled into the soil had shifted form. "Will you return, with that warning?"
She swallowed. No village dances, no courting, callow suitors, had prepared her for this, and her grandmother’s tales could not help her. The decision was hers alone. "Yes."