Fairy Tales - Dreadful Longing (II)
Title: Dreadful Longing (II)
Rating: R
Summary: Red Riding Hood and the Wolf again. Because she did go back.
Author's note: I have no excuse, so let's just say the characters insisted and I was too fond of them to refuse. With thanks to geekmama for beta reading!
Dreadful Longing (II)
by Hereswith
Six days passed, from dawn to dark, and each night, somewhere near the borders of the village, a wolf howled. She wrapped her shawl around her as she listened, the fading notes carried by the breeze through the crack of her window into her bedchamber, and she stared at length at her own reflection, at the young woman in the mirror, her gaze wide.
On the seventh day, she went back to the forest, following a childhood memory to a clearing where a mere nestled, tranquil and hushed, ringed by tall pines and firs. It was a stone’s throw from one bank to the other, dragonflies flitting among the sedges and reeds, and she bent, dipping her fingers into the still, black water.
When she straightened, he was behind her.
“You took your time, Red.” He touched her hair, sniffing at it. “Lavender. So I have to stomach the stench of tame, tended gardens, do I?”
Her skin prickled and her palms were damp. “If you mean to have me.”
He slipped up against her, a hand going around her waist, settling low, and he said, into her ear, “Do you even know what it is you wish of me? What it is I wish to do to you? Or have they kept you ignorant, for innocence’s sake?”
“I may be innocent, but I have eyes,” she argued. “I have seen the farm animals in season. And-the innkeeper’s stable boy, with one of the serving girls.”
“By accident?”
Affront, there. “Of course!”
“Did you shy away?” He was close enough the slightest of movements was an intimacy, and his voice was soft; the edge was in his words. “Or did you linger?”
She could not reply, a feverish flush coming over her. At his chuckle, she twisted about, and he let go. But she almost regretted it; her cheeks heated far worse when she was facing him. He stood, clad in the simple clothes he had worn before, arms loose at his sides, linen shirtsleeves folded to his elbows, and the sun was on him, making him real.
“You would not run from me,” he said. “But would you run for me?”
It confused her, but then she realised what it was he intended, and her breathing quickened so fast it dizzied her. “You would hunt me?”
His lips stretched into a grin. “To ground.”
She remembered, more vividly for the contrast, the spring festivities in the village and the mock, giggling games of chase and catch, a play without consequence. This would be nothing like it. It was a challenge, a terrible, exhilarating dare.
He did not reveal any hint of impatience while she hesitated, but when she lifted her chin, though she had not spoken, he craned forward, and his fingers curved like claws. She shut her eyes, counting one and two and three. Then she fled.
The clearing offered no hope of shelter, so she headed away from it, crashing through spider-webbed fern fronds and in among the firs. He did not take up immediate pursuit, giving her that much reprieve, and she did not waste it, determined to avoid easy capture.
The surroundings were forbidding: looming trees hung with strands of lichen; giant, moss-mottled boulders and broken trunks with upturned roots. Branches slapped against her, slowing her, and she skidded down a slope towards a more open expanse, but nearly tripped, pinecones stirring in her wake. Struggling for balance, unused to the exertion, she faltered, but she heard him call out-wolf’s call-and she flinched, increasing her strides.
She ran until she was panting, her throat raw. Until there were no landmarks she recognised, only the vast, impenetrable woods, filled with growing shadows.
When she spotted him, the scarred, gangly wolf, she swerved on instinct, a last, stubborn attempt at escape, but he felled her and she went down with a single, startled cry.
Under the weight of his paws, she lay frozen, and she half feared the fangs would follow. But paw gave way to human hand and then he set her free.
“Very good,” he said, and he was barely winded. “Very, very good.”
She rolled to her knees, her skirts tangled and her hood askew, her chest heaving. He was naked. Inches away from her and not a stitch of clothing that covered him. She could not look, wanted to look, with such eagerness, and he shifted position, shameless, as though he guessed at her predicament, allowing her full view.
Her breath hitched. He was larger than the stable boy and she could not imagine how he would fit. “It will hurt, will it not?”
“It might.” He studied her, levelly. “Are you ready?”
“Yes. No.” She shook her head, trying again. “I don’t know.”
“A fair answer. But I do mean to have you, Red.”
He dropped to all fours, and it should have been absurd or it should have scared her witless, that sudden, predatory stance. But she had said yes to him. Yes to returning and yes to the promise of how it would end.
She leaned over to remove her shoes, fumbling a little, uncertain. But he bared his teeth at the sight of her feet, her ankles, white against the forest green, and she bunched her skirts, her heart pounding loud, exposing her calves to him too.
Rumbling belly-deep, he advanced, moving his body in between her legs, and she slid to her back under him, though it daunted her. He bit at the fist she had clutched to her breast, and she would have protested then, but he licked the crook of her thumb, the insides of her fingers and her palm, and when her hips rose, he entered her.
It did hurt and she arched, glimpsing the sky high above her, between the waving tops of the firs, and across it, the winged flight of a bird. He nipped her neck, distracting her, but he did not pause, and the pain soon dulled, losing its power over her. When it did, when it had, she thought she might begin to understand why the serving girl had moaned so.
Shuddering, snapping at air, he pulled out of her, hunching against the ground. She felt a pang, because his throes were like hers had been, against the tree, and she could not share in it. But she pushed up to sit, unsteadily, and regarded him. She could be as quiet, but not as unblinking, but he did not mistake it, and he made a chuffing noise that sounded like approval.
There were, she noticed now, thin red scratches on his underarms, probably from the same brambles that had snagged at her own clothes. She reached out, but he swivelled his head, and his guarded stare stopped her. Instead, she brushed dry needles and twigs from her dress, smoothing the creases carefully.
“Twilight comes,” he said. “Can you find your way home?” Worry must have been plain in her features, for he pointed to their right. “Thirty paces east there is a brook. Walk along it downstream and you will emerge on the village road. You smell of wolf,” he added, bluntly. “Few animals will approach you.”
She blushed, but she asked him, “If things are equal, do you smell of lavender?”
“Ha!” He grimaced in distaste, but his eyes glinted. “You are brave. Utterly fearless.”
It was unlike any compliment she had received. Pretty, they would say, and praise her sweet figure, the pale, sleek gold of her hair.
She would rather be fearless.
Rating: R
Summary: Red Riding Hood and the Wolf again. Because she did go back.
Author's note: I have no excuse, so let's just say the characters insisted and I was too fond of them to refuse. With thanks to geekmama for beta reading!
Dreadful Longing (II)
by Hereswith
Six days passed, from dawn to dark, and each night, somewhere near the borders of the village, a wolf howled. She wrapped her shawl around her as she listened, the fading notes carried by the breeze through the crack of her window into her bedchamber, and she stared at length at her own reflection, at the young woman in the mirror, her gaze wide.
On the seventh day, she went back to the forest, following a childhood memory to a clearing where a mere nestled, tranquil and hushed, ringed by tall pines and firs. It was a stone’s throw from one bank to the other, dragonflies flitting among the sedges and reeds, and she bent, dipping her fingers into the still, black water.
When she straightened, he was behind her.
“You took your time, Red.” He touched her hair, sniffing at it. “Lavender. So I have to stomach the stench of tame, tended gardens, do I?”
Her skin prickled and her palms were damp. “If you mean to have me.”
He slipped up against her, a hand going around her waist, settling low, and he said, into her ear, “Do you even know what it is you wish of me? What it is I wish to do to you? Or have they kept you ignorant, for innocence’s sake?”
“I may be innocent, but I have eyes,” she argued. “I have seen the farm animals in season. And-the innkeeper’s stable boy, with one of the serving girls.”
“By accident?”
Affront, there. “Of course!”
“Did you shy away?” He was close enough the slightest of movements was an intimacy, and his voice was soft; the edge was in his words. “Or did you linger?”
She could not reply, a feverish flush coming over her. At his chuckle, she twisted about, and he let go. But she almost regretted it; her cheeks heated far worse when she was facing him. He stood, clad in the simple clothes he had worn before, arms loose at his sides, linen shirtsleeves folded to his elbows, and the sun was on him, making him real.
“You would not run from me,” he said. “But would you run for me?”
It confused her, but then she realised what it was he intended, and her breathing quickened so fast it dizzied her. “You would hunt me?”
His lips stretched into a grin. “To ground.”
She remembered, more vividly for the contrast, the spring festivities in the village and the mock, giggling games of chase and catch, a play without consequence. This would be nothing like it. It was a challenge, a terrible, exhilarating dare.
He did not reveal any hint of impatience while she hesitated, but when she lifted her chin, though she had not spoken, he craned forward, and his fingers curved like claws. She shut her eyes, counting one and two and three. Then she fled.
The clearing offered no hope of shelter, so she headed away from it, crashing through spider-webbed fern fronds and in among the firs. He did not take up immediate pursuit, giving her that much reprieve, and she did not waste it, determined to avoid easy capture.
The surroundings were forbidding: looming trees hung with strands of lichen; giant, moss-mottled boulders and broken trunks with upturned roots. Branches slapped against her, slowing her, and she skidded down a slope towards a more open expanse, but nearly tripped, pinecones stirring in her wake. Struggling for balance, unused to the exertion, she faltered, but she heard him call out-wolf’s call-and she flinched, increasing her strides.
She ran until she was panting, her throat raw. Until there were no landmarks she recognised, only the vast, impenetrable woods, filled with growing shadows.
When she spotted him, the scarred, gangly wolf, she swerved on instinct, a last, stubborn attempt at escape, but he felled her and she went down with a single, startled cry.
Under the weight of his paws, she lay frozen, and she half feared the fangs would follow. But paw gave way to human hand and then he set her free.
“Very good,” he said, and he was barely winded. “Very, very good.”
She rolled to her knees, her skirts tangled and her hood askew, her chest heaving. He was naked. Inches away from her and not a stitch of clothing that covered him. She could not look, wanted to look, with such eagerness, and he shifted position, shameless, as though he guessed at her predicament, allowing her full view.
Her breath hitched. He was larger than the stable boy and she could not imagine how he would fit. “It will hurt, will it not?”
“It might.” He studied her, levelly. “Are you ready?”
“Yes. No.” She shook her head, trying again. “I don’t know.”
“A fair answer. But I do mean to have you, Red.”
He dropped to all fours, and it should have been absurd or it should have scared her witless, that sudden, predatory stance. But she had said yes to him. Yes to returning and yes to the promise of how it would end.
She leaned over to remove her shoes, fumbling a little, uncertain. But he bared his teeth at the sight of her feet, her ankles, white against the forest green, and she bunched her skirts, her heart pounding loud, exposing her calves to him too.
Rumbling belly-deep, he advanced, moving his body in between her legs, and she slid to her back under him, though it daunted her. He bit at the fist she had clutched to her breast, and she would have protested then, but he licked the crook of her thumb, the insides of her fingers and her palm, and when her hips rose, he entered her.
It did hurt and she arched, glimpsing the sky high above her, between the waving tops of the firs, and across it, the winged flight of a bird. He nipped her neck, distracting her, but he did not pause, and the pain soon dulled, losing its power over her. When it did, when it had, she thought she might begin to understand why the serving girl had moaned so.
Shuddering, snapping at air, he pulled out of her, hunching against the ground. She felt a pang, because his throes were like hers had been, against the tree, and she could not share in it. But she pushed up to sit, unsteadily, and regarded him. She could be as quiet, but not as unblinking, but he did not mistake it, and he made a chuffing noise that sounded like approval.
There were, she noticed now, thin red scratches on his underarms, probably from the same brambles that had snagged at her own clothes. She reached out, but he swivelled his head, and his guarded stare stopped her. Instead, she brushed dry needles and twigs from her dress, smoothing the creases carefully.
“Twilight comes,” he said. “Can you find your way home?” Worry must have been plain in her features, for he pointed to their right. “Thirty paces east there is a brook. Walk along it downstream and you will emerge on the village road. You smell of wolf,” he added, bluntly. “Few animals will approach you.”
She blushed, but she asked him, “If things are equal, do you smell of lavender?”
“Ha!” He grimaced in distaste, but his eyes glinted. “You are brave. Utterly fearless.”
It was unlike any compliment she had received. Pretty, they would say, and praise her sweet figure, the pale, sleek gold of her hair.
She would rather be fearless.