A Very Slashy Red Ridinghood

Very slashy Red Riding Hood
March/April challenge

Three things you have to understand before I tell my story.
What you have to understand first, is that the wolf, well, he wasn’t a wolf except for once a month, on rare occasions twice.
The second thing you must understand, is that the woodcutter –so often touted as the hero of the story- was nothing more than a jealous lover.
The third thing that needs to be understood is that the grandmother –my- grandmother, didn’t have anywhere near as integral a role as people seem to think.
Something else, something you’ve probably already noticed, but I\'m not the tender sweet young innocent that the stories claim. Young, yes, and I’ve been told that I\'m sweet, but I\'m no blushing virgin, and, well, I\'m not a girl.

Usually the story starts with our protagonist, a lovely, innocent young woman in a red riding cloak, walking through the forest on an errand from her mother, taking a basket of goodies to her grandmother who is either sick in bead, or so old as to be bedridden, or –in one telling I chanced to hear- simply laid up with a broken ankle.
As I’ve already mentioned, I\'m no girl, I do happen to have a red riding cloak, but I don’t wear it while walking, and I wasn’t walking that day either, I was riding, and full tilt at that.

I wasn’t on an errand from my mother, since she’s been dead for years, no, I was taking a sturdy basket of salves and ointments and bandages to the wolf from my grandmother, the town’s resident healer. This of course automatically disproves the theory that he distracted me with patches of wildflowers so that he could run ahead, eat my grandmother and then don her clothes to lure me in and eat me as well.
No none of this happened.
What I was really waylaid by was the woodcutter, he also lived in the forest, though much nearer to town, still on the road. The wolf’s cottage was far and away from the town, reachable only by a narrow deerpath.

This was of course to protect everyone involved, the villagers and their flocks from the wolf when he was on the prowl, and to protect him from any vengeance they might choose to extract for damages done them, either real or imagined.
For the most part, he lives peacefully and allows them to do the same

I was riding along the road when I was brought to a stop by a felled tree crossing it, massive knotted roots too high for Thistledown, my horse, to be able to jump without raking her belly.
So I came to a halt and moments later Valkean, the woodcutter, emerged from the tree line. He watched me for a moment, leaning against his axe, “I know what you are.” He finally said.

“What are you talking about? I\'m in a hurry is what I am, on an errand from my grandmother, who as I recall, fixed your leg good as new when you broke it midwinter last.”
He remained impassive at this, still leaning on his axe, “You’re that monster’s whore.” Was all he said. I would’ve been outraged if I hadn’t been so utterly shocked, “I what?”
“You’ve made yourself that creature’s whore.” He repeated calmly.
“Valkean Godbless!” I exclaimed firmly, hoping that I sounded more like my grandmother when she’s cross with someone, than like a petulant child, “How dare you? An innocent man’s life is in danger and you’re waylaying the only one who is willing and able to bring him aid! So help me, if this is because I wouldn’t dance with you at the last May Fair I will be sure that my grandmother calls down a host of Pixies to dull your tools and vex you without reprieve!”

It was an empty threat of course. My grandmother could no more call down hosts of pixies than I could tame packs of wolves.
“Mark my words Red, and mark them well, this will come to a sticky end as all such things do.”
Then with no more than five powerful swings of his axe, the roots were cut down to where Thistledown could jump, and jump she did, almost without my bidding.
Thistledown is a good hose, she knows her own way through the trees and within a quarter of an hour, we’d reached the wolf’s cottage… I’ve not told you his name yet have I? It’s Thomas du Loups, Thomas of the wolves.
Lycanthropy runs his family line, it’s nothing he chose, and nothing he was cursed with.

I was off Thistledown’s back almost before she was stopped, unbridling her quickly so she could crop at the sweetgrass that grew rampant around the cottage.
The door was locked, as it always is after a full moon, though for once Thomas was well enough to open it.
He smiled as he led me to the kitchen, “You can tell your grandmother that her tea works wonders. Though, I did feel the inexplicable urge to roll around in the duskroses. Going to need your help with the thorns I couldn’t reach this morning.”

It made me laugh to think of it, the picture of this great huge mangy wolf rolling around like a spring-fevered pup in this bramble patch of delicate peach and pearl roses, “That must’ve been something to see.” I laughed again, nudging him into a chair and shrugging out of my cloak, draping it over one edge of the table, “Well? I can’t operate while you’re still wearing your shirt.” I chided, smiling slightly as I opened the basket my grandmother had sent, relief that he was alright for once sweeping away my encounter with Valkean.
Too many times I’ve arrived the morning after a full moon to find Thomas on the ground or the front steps, broken and bloodied because of his wolf.

He chuckled softly as he peeled out of the rough-spun shirt, and I had to force myself to continue with my organizing of the salves and tinctures, knowing all too well that his slim torso was entirely battle-toughened muscle from his monthly transformations.
Battle-hard muscle, wrapped in well-tanned skin, and lined with tracks of scars, all in all, not something easily ignored.
Equal parts wanting to soothe and caress, and wanting to add my own little marks to the pattern, to see that warm skin turn red beneath my nails.

I shook my head as I opened a jar of healing salve, finally looking over at him.
He arched a brow, slowly turning his back to me. There were a few rose thorns still imbedded in his skin, mostly between his shoulders where he couldn’t reach without doing himself more damage.
I plucked them out easily, letting the blood well up a moment in each of the marks to cleanse what infection may be there.

I had the sudden urge to lick the blood away, though I didn’t do it, he’s warned me before that the lycanthropy is contained in his blood, and though the chance is small that it could be passed on to me that way, there is still that chance.
So I didn’t do it, I simply wiped the blood away with a soft cloth and waited for it to well up a second time, then a third. These things are important, they’re the Ancient Ways, the ways my grandmother taught me.

Simply put, the way that healing has to be done for it to do any real good.
I warned him, as I always do, “The next will sting.”
“I do not mind the sting Sanguin.” He’s always called me that, ‘blood red’ It’s because my name is Red, and he says that I\'m in his blood as much as anything else is, “It’s a good pain, a clean one.”

I nodded, fetching a crystal of salt from the basket, pressing the flat side against each of the marks in turn. I heard his growl as I finished with the salve, it’s a sound that has always sent shivers up and down my back in the most enticing way, “What’s in your head?” I asked, barely managing to keep the tremor from my voice.
He chuckled, unfolding from his seat and turning to face me. He hoisted me up to sit on the edge of the table, planting himself firmly between my legs before tracing the line of my jaw with his fingertips, “Nothing much. Just thinking of having a tender, sweet little morsel before breakfast.”

His tone –more than the suggestion- sent another thrill down my spine, “Oh?” I said, attempting to retain an innocent façade, “And what did you have in mind Monsieur Wolf? I know you’ve not had time to bake us fresh croissants.”
He laughed, shaking his head as his fingers slipped down my chest, “I was thinking more of a petite baguette.”
Ah yes, the innuendo was astounding and it caused me to blush like a maid at her first May Fair dance, “Thomas!”

He laughed again as those same sneaky fingers tugged at the fastenings of my trousers, pulling them open easily before folding to his knees, cheek resting against one of my knees, grinning up at me, his eyes gone somehow doe-like and predatory at the same time.
I gasped then, “You can’t be serious!”
He only grinned further, growling softly again, “I\'m going to eat you up.”
I gasped again as he shifted, growling softly still against the inside of my thigh, strong fingers almost plucking at my arousal, if anything, heightening my need further and lowering any inhibitions. It wasn’t like anyone was going to see us after all.

I squeaked, leaning back on my hands s his tongue –equally as strong and nimble as his fingers- curled across the tip of my manhood, sending my pulse thudding in my ears.
He always manages to get such wanton noises from me at times like these, the sort that make me blush to think of later.
Noises like as the vaguely feline yowl that a quick swipe of that talented tongue and a light pressure with the edges of his teeth manage to produce.

I found that my fingers had a mind of their own, tangled tightly through Thomas’ hair, not about to let him up until I’ve finished.
He always laughs about it later, how demanding I can get during our encounters. I squeaked another surprised moan as he took me in completely and without warning.
I wasn’t going to last much longer and we both knew it.

He chuckled as he drew away, even despite my nails pressing against his scalp, honestly that probably just encouraged him.
He caught my wrists as he unfolded to his feet, brow arching as he pinned them to the table above my head, pressing me back fully with the movement.
He smirked, leaning in to nuzzle the line of my jaw, voice little more than a growl itself really, “I want to be inside you.”

The statement surprised me a little, usually if that’s what he’s after he just does it, he doesn’t bother to let me know aside from the necessary warning, and sometimes not even that much.
I hoped my voice didn’t sound as shaky as it felt, “So what are you waiting for? An engraved invitation?”
He chuckled again, drawing away for a moment, lifting one of the jars of salve from the basket, “Clove, chickweed and cassia.” He red from the label, “What does it do?”

I blinked twice, having to recall, “It’s a general healing salve that warms the skin and dulls pain.”
He grinned downright wolfishly as he flipped open the catch and lifted the lid, “Perfect.”
I hardly had time to react before he’d dipped his fingers through it, settled himself firmly between my legs once more and began stroking gently at my entrance, sending another shiver of pleasure up my spine.

It seemed like both no time at all, and an eternity before he pressed against me himself, growling as he eased forward, one hand against the back of my neck, lifting me into a hungry kiss.
I could only moan and loop my arms across the back of his neck, clinging to him as he began thrusting in earnest, nipping hard at my lower lip, my jaw, my throat, claiming and marking me as a wolf would its mate.

I would never have thought of using the salve in such a way, but it worked wonderfully, heating against my insides, relaxing muscles, dulling whatever slight pain there may have been, and just easing the way in general.
I hardly cared how wanton I looked, arms looped around his neck, hands tangled through his hair, both legs snug around his waist, clinging to him at that point, only able to undulate against him with each thrust.

It was then, when I was close enough to taste the forest and the wolf on Thomas’ skin that the door burst open, revealing Velkean standing there, pistol leveled at Thomas’ head. We had both turned at the crash of the door, I gasped, holding Thomas closer reflexively.
Velkean’s smirk was audible in his tone, “I told you, didn’t I Red? I told you your whoring would come to a sticky end.”

I didn’t hear the gun go off as much as I felt it.
Thomas was gone.
I felt a wail tear free from my throat, thinking he’d been hit, I couldn’t hear anything.
But I saw the wolf surge up from the floor where Thomas had been standing, saw the gun flash twice more as the wolf charged, I saw Valkean’s expression change as he leveled the gun towards me instead, I saw the flash as the wolf pounced, bearing him down.
In the same instant I felt a sudden, searing, ripping pain blossom across my chest and down my arm, knocking any breath left in my lungs right out of them again and throwing me backwards into the waiting darkness.

I woke to the warm feeling of my grandmother’s dog, Taeta, licking my shoulder.
At least, I thought it was Taeta until I opened my eyes and the world spun back into focus. I found myself on my back on Thomas’ kitchen floor, my riding cloak spread over me like a blanket.
Now that I could see the wolf Thomas had become, now that I had a chance to study it more closely, I could see that calling it a wolf was incorrect, but there was nothing else it could logically be.
It was bigger than any wolf I’d ever seen, darker and somehow completely different, all while looking exactly the same.

He whined softly, leaning forward, lupine brow furrowed in concern, ears perked.
I smiled slightly, reaching up to pet one of his ears, it was softer than it looked, almost like satin really, “I\'m not afraid.” I said, even though I was half-terrified, but only because I didn’t know what had happened.
I got the distinct impression that he was laughing at me, as that massive head dipped again to resume licking at my shoulder.

It was a short while before the general dull ache began to focus itself, one spot deep against the front of my shoulder, making my chest and arm ache and my breath come short.
It didn’t take me long then to realize what had happened. Because of Thomas pouncing him, Velkean’s shot had gone wide, striking my shoulder instead of my head or my heart, whichever it was he’d been aiming for.

He whined softly again, nosing at the wound and lapping it again. My brow furrowed, still petting his ear, “You can’t change back can you?” He shook his huge head, sighing heavily, warm breath making the ache in my shoulder not seem so bad. The ache was just a pinpoint now, I knew exactly where it hurt, right where the shot was, grinding against bone, I knew I wouldn’t be able to get it out myself, not with the way it flared to life again when I tried to prop myself up on my elbow to rise to a sitting position.

I\'m not sure how really, but it struck me that I could understand what it is Thomas was trying to tell me, even as a wolf, it’s not that I read his thoughts really, so much as I simply understood the words, clearly against the back of my own mind, I have to bite you to get it out. Do you understand?

I did understand. I understood every nuance of the question, I understood that once he got the bullet out, I would be like him, a werewolf. Don’t get me wrong, the proposition terrified me, but I knew that neither of us would be able to make it to town without my bleeding to death before we even got out of the woods.
I nodded slowly, managing to keep the tremor from my voice, just barely, “I understand Thomas.” I swallowed hard again, “Go ahead.”

Well, I suppose you know the rest of the story, or can guess it well enough. My grandmother was the one to bring us a basket after that, the morning before the full moon, so that it would be there and ready when we needed it to patch each other up the very next day. We were very nearly self-sufficient out there, hunting when we needed to, working up quite an extensive garden, with an herb patch to rival my grandmother’s, and nowadays people come to us for healing, which we’re happy to do, as long as you stay away when the full moon is coming.
That’s the way the story really ends, it’s still going on, the end of it, but now you know the right beginning now.