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Yes, technically it was, of course, a red riding hood.
Except the horse that it should have gone with had been most ignominiously stolen, leaving Hrothbert the Hunter, Hob to his friends, to walk the four and a half miles home.
Which meant he would not get home until well after dark. On second thoughts, perhaps that was for the best seeing as his returning on foot would almost certainly prompt nosy questions from the villagers, if only from the gaggle of nieces that Mich the dyer had taken into his home lately.
Fuck. He’d miss his assignation with Mich too.
Since the charitable arrival of the man’s newly widowed sister and her skirtful of children, the house had been decidedly too small and too inhabited to get away with anything, and so they’d taken to taking their pleasure in the shack with the vats, but that was impossible to navigate after dark, and for all that Hob adored Mich’s woad-stained hands clenching around his hips or arms in desperate need, he did not relish the idea of tripping in the middle of things and winding up tinted blue all over for his trouble.
Hob mused that this was probably what one would call a rotten day. One in which the Lady Fortune not only turned her back on him but actively farted in his face.
Of course, the townsfolk would call it a fair and square bet and conveniently overlook the fact that he’d just gotten cheated out of his damn horse in a game of cards and had been forced to watch, panting and not nearly sober enough to keep running without losing his dinner, as one of the bastards spurred it on out of sight.
Of course, the townsfolk probably considered that the proper order of things - one of their own on the high horse, and the hunter with his feet in the dirt where they belonged. Hob spat at an innocent mushroom that none of them could probably even identify as edible or poisonous - he, the half-savage, was of course familiar with everything that lived in the woods and how to eke a living out of said things, but that, as he had found, was worth next to nothing to folks who believed food to come from the market.
And now he wasn’t even going to be able to take his anger out on Mich. Or, perhaps, let Mich fuck him limp and shut up that roiling head of his.
Angry and horny. And alone. Truly a rotten day.
He kicked at a piece of deadwood that lay across his path. It did him the favor of splintering quite satisfyingly, its spongy yellow innards betraying just how low the sun had already sunk.
At this rate, he was grateful for his red hooded cloak - if anything, it made him look less like an animal to anyone who might still be hunting in the blue hours of the evening. Of course, he had a way of cutting his way home short, possibly even short enough to make it home before full dark, and avoid encountering any hunters, amateur or professional, along the way… but only if he chose to beat a path through the Cursed Wood.
Nobody in their sane mind hunted in there - not least because the decent kind of animals, the juicy deer and the sturdy boar and the noisy pheasants, they avoided this place.
There was nothing to be had in the Cursed Wood except nightmares.
Nightmares of a beast that was said to be perpetually hungry, probably on account of the dearth of actual animals in its domain. Or possibly because it had eaten them all. Of course, Hob had no truck with such childish stories in the full light of day, but the fact remained: the Cursed Wood was not worth his time on a normal day.
And today was not a normal day. Today was, by the looks of it, a Cursed Day, and Hob had half a mind to give that hungry beast a piece of his mind and compare notes about who had had the worse day.
Mythical beasts notwithstanding, the Cursed Wood would cut about two miles off his way home and might just get him within sight of the village before all he had was the moon to go by.
The moon, at least, did him the favor of being full so once he was out of the woods, so to speak, it would be plain sailing across moonlight-silvered fields towards the hut at the edge of the village that Hob called home. Maybe Mich could be persuaded to share if not his bed, then at least his bread. Maybe Hob could manage to rustle up at least a rabbit to bring as an offering.
He still would have preferred a good fuck, but sometimes rabbit stew shared with a gaggle of children was the best one could hope for. Or at least a bundle of firewood and a handful of mushrooms, if his luck failed him again.
He patted the knife in its sheath by his side, then pulled his tightly curved bow off his shoulder and fished in the sadly thin quiver for an arrow worth shooting.
That should not have made that much of a sound.
Hob froze, senses on high alert. An animal. He sent a quick silent prayer to the Guardian of Beasts that he would spot it and not lose another arrow to the dark -
And then the dark rose up from the very ground, a shadow towering over him, shaggy and lean-limbed and growling so quietly, so darkly, as if it was the earth itself speaking to him. There was just enough light left in the woods to discern the silhouette of a wolf, made of pure black, its eyes deep voids that glittered with the nervous bluish fire of the will-o-the-wisp.
Hob went down with a shocked ‘ooph’ and, dropping his bow and arrow, only just managed to get purchase on the beast’s face and push it away when it opened its jaws wide and… spoke.
”You dare trespass on my land, human?”
“Not doing it on purpose, mate,” Hob replied, breathless and thoughtless, adding, with wide-eyed wonder, “oh, wow. What sharp teeth you have.”
Wait, what?! No, it didn’t make sense. At all.
”Tempting me, Little Red?”
Oh, that was rich. Hob snorted. “Oh come on now. It’s not like I can’t handle what you throw at me, little one.” A savage grin, more desperate bravado than anything else. “And it’s Hunter to you. Hob the Hunter.”
Really, what was he doing, trying to project strength and depth and pride, which was honestly really, really hard to do when flat on his back and panting from the weight of the beast’s paws on his chest.
The beast who looked at him quizzically, and talked to him, in a sultry growl that really, really had no right to be as desperately attractive as it was.
Damn the residual horniness but he wanted to touch those teeth, feel their glistening menace on his blunt little fingertips.
A drop of the beast’s warm drool hit his chest, and the thought hit him, all at once, of how there was no stench of hellfire or at least the dark miasma of a predator’s maw, rank with the blood and guts of its prey.
The beast smelled like meat. Fresh meat. It made his own mouth water slightly, and made his lips part as he felt the tip of its tongue lick none too gently up his throat, stopping in the cleft of his chin as if waiting for Hob to make his move.
Gently, he removed one hand from where he was telling himself he was still holding the beast’s jaws apart, and reverently ran his fingertips over one of the sharp fangs.
The tongue invaded his mouth with such fierceness that all Hob managed was a strangled little gasp that came out lewd even to his ears. Lips stretched wide, eyes wider, he was shocked to find that the beast’s tongue, rough though it was, tasted… again, like flesh.
Like mankind.
A wild cascade of laughter bubbled up in his head at the thought of biting down with his tiny row of human teeth, of sinking them into the great beast’s tongue and tasting the consequences… but even this laughter found itself muffled into a soft groan.
The beast’s snout crushed his nose just enough to be a threat, just enough to make him draw breath like a drowning man, fingers scrabbling for purchase in the coarse but shockingly soft fur, to pull away, or to pull closer.
And he was still horny, damn it all. More so now, actually. Hob liked being handled roughly, but the utter absence of terror in his mind mystified even him. It was like the monster wasn’t really there, or wasn’t really a monster but something desirable, something that spoke to him in ways that were not, well, words.
Which a wolf shouldn’t have in the first place.
He watched in fascination as the creature’s claws plowed through his clothes without as much as scratching his skin. Watched as his sturdy linens and leathers parted like so much butter, and wanted, wanted with a primal thirst, to arch up and make those claws touch him, sink in his flesh, acknowledge how real he was and how out of place.
“What… what sharp claws you have,” he managed, swallowing a sudden surfeit of saliva.
The beast chuckled and ran one of those claws down his newly exposed skin, making him shudder. As it reared up with an expression that, in a human, Hob would have characterized as something like smugness, he caught a glimpse of what was between its strong furred thighs, and yeah, he had to admit the sight made his mind short out for a moment, imagining that in his hand. In his mouth. Inside him.
It was… aggressively engorged, and flushed with brutal strength, dripping a foamy string of white that made him think of the madness of wolves, though that, as far as he knew, did not turn wolves into speakers of human language…
He still hadn’t managed to tear his eyes away from it when that tongue, that devilish and monstrous tongue, found its way through the shreds of his clothes and took possession of him in rough licks that seemed to cover every inch of him, murderous teeth grazing his skin so softly as to be almost not there.
He heard himself gasp, with voice, and with wantonness as his legs spread wide of their own accord, and the tongue probed once, gently, and then dove in and drove the breath out of him, and no, it was nothing like it was with Mich, it wasn’t, it was primal and wild and affording him no respect except that given to a good meal.
Is this what it’s like to be prey? Hob felt, acutely, the arrow shaft poking him in the ribs from where he’d fallen, and he tried to right himself, only to find himself roughly picked up in paws that were horrifyingly, deliciously like hands now, enormous, clawed hands that dug into his skin like he was bread, warm bleeding bread, ready to be torn asunder.
It was as if he was all skin, every bit of him pressed against the fur of a broad chest, caged in large bony hands, squirming, thrusting in their confinement, gasping in what could only be read as wanton moans because fuck but this felt good.
“Still think you can take it?,” the beast growled, and fuck but that voice went straight to Hob’s groin.
“Yeah,” he gasped out, half-laugh and half desperate plea. “Why? Second thou… ah!”
No. No, the beast clearly did not have second thoughts, and from the way things were going, Hob doubted it had much in the way of first thoughts either. Actually, his own capacity for thoughts of any kind was fast being squeezed out of him by the sheer girth of the monstrous cock invading him. He felt the beast’s limbs tremble with the strength it must take to hold back, to work its way into him gently, slowly, sharp shallow thrust after sharp shallow thrust until all he could to was writhe desperately in the creature’s clawed embrace, trying to get away, or to drive himself deeper, hunting claw-handed for that hit of friction, that thrust that made his mind overflow and his body twitch.
He roared, when it came, big wet groans that were still not loud enough to drown out the triumphant laughter of the beast taking its pleasure from him and filling him with more pleasure than it could possibly have intended to give.
This, this was animal, and rough, and it filled him beyond his wildest dreams but it was good, so, so good that it brought tears to his eyes at the thought, fleeting and unreal, that this may well be the last time he got to experience this, because surely he would not survive the night… or ever find this fantastic creature of nightmare again.
What a way to go though.
He felt, sharply, brightly, every fiber of his body lighting up at the touch of claws raking his scalp, tightening in his hair, pulling back his head to expose his throat, and he roared as he felt the beast’s teeth break skin just as he convulsed in an orgasm so bright and blinding he was sure his eyes had given out, and succumbed to the soft darkness of the monster’s fur, or the iridescent darkness of its eyes.
He gasped for breath, mumbling wet little words of surrender against the hand that held his face captive, eyes streaming, cock streaming, spread so wide that he wondered, honestly, if the wetness dripping down his inner thighs was the monster’s spend or his own blood.
It was warm, and dark, and utterly right, and he mewled as the unholy girth slipped out of him and left him gaping and ruined.
“Told you,” he managed, gasping, “told you I could take it.”
The beast chuckled, and Hob noticed with what was left of his mind that there was a thick, breathless quality to its voice that made him think it had thoroughly enjoyed taking Hob apart too.
”Bold Little Red,” it huffed, ”when we have only just begun.”
“Hob,” Hob replied, barely conscious, “I… I’ve a name, you know?” Only just begun?! The groan that broke free from what was left of his head spoke volumes.
”I take it you would like a little rest?,” the beast rumbled, and when had its body become cradle-shaped, strong furred limbs surrounding Hob like a bed rendered inescapable by sheer force of comfort?
“Yeah,” Hob managed, head swimming with pleasure and confusion and exhaustion. “Yeah…”
”Sleep, then.”
***
Hob awoke in the thready light from nowhere that signaled impending dawn, limbs heavy and sticky with his own seed as well as the… oh. OH.
He startled half-upright to find himself entwined with a thin human, naked as the day he was born, his tousled black hair sticky with something and shot through with the dead leaves and debris of the forest floor. And trailing in a thin line halfway down his back.
He was also, amazingly, still asleep, oblivious to Hob’s twitchings and noises of surprise.
It was almost endearing, actually. The man’s… boy’s? Hob wasn’t entirely sure… anyway, his eyes were closed softly, thick dark lashes utterly failing to cover the dark rings under his eyes. His body was thin and pale to the point of translucence.
It made Hob want to be bread, to feed him.
He lay by the man’s side well into the sunrise, far longer than was probably wise, his thirst to look upon this wondrous, luminous creature far outstripping his hunter instincts.
Finally, the pale gold of the morning sun having returned the man’s skin to an almost human tone, Hob forced his creaking limbs upright and went in search of his clothes, or what was left of them.
The ache in his lower body was… phenomenal, like the maw of a hungry beast eager to be fed. He groaned, shaking his head, trying to dispel the lingering fever dream. At least his cape was salvageable, and he tied it around his waist with the remnants of his shirt for a sash… and the boy hadn’t moved, not at all, not beyond the shallow rise and fall of his chest as he breathed.
Hob knelt down by his side, leaning in carefully, half expecting a slender white hand to dart out and somehow, impossibly, continue the savaging of last night, but this, this was a different animal, wasn’t it. This was one that wormed its way inside your heart.
With a sigh, Hob the Hunter levered himself up into a squat and gently shoved his arms under the sleeper to pick him up.
***
Twenty-seven ordinary nights and one moon-frenzied, flesh-tearing night later, Hob was acutely grateful for the sanctuary of his little hut. As it was, he was barely able to stand, but he owed it to his lover to render him this little service - to help him return back to full humanity as it were.
Slender pale shoulders shuddered gently as Hob set the blade of his hunting knife against the dark hairs trailing down the young man’s spine, shaving it smooth with one, two, three determined strokes of a hand that should not, by all accounts, be this steady, not after what he’d been put through last night.
“There,” he finally said, after rinsing and sheathing his blade and taking a deep steadying breath that washed none of the deep, doting need out of his voice, “Now let’s get this massive deer that you helped me kill last night over to Mich’s sister and see what we can get in return, mh love?” He chuckled as he draped his own expertly mended red hood over the slender shoulders, and felt his face bloom into a sun-sized smile as his beloved’s moon-gray eyes settled on him, grateful, powerful, and soulful.
“Might even be enough to barter for a cloak of your own. Not that I mind the sight of you in my clothes, mind, but… the red riding hood is, well… it’s mine.”
“And?,” came the amused reply.
“All right, all right,” Hob admitted. “As am I, yes. Truce?”
The finely chiseled pale face nodded regally, but its owner made no move to assist with the transportation of the massive deer carcass that was, all told, taking up almost half of Hob’s home.
“Require a boon, do you?” Hob asked, quirking an eyebrow to absolutely no effect.
Instead of a response, he felt a set of utterly human fingers grasp the back of his head, and a pair of utterly human lips take gentle possession of his grateful mouth.
It still tasted like meat, though. Like meat, and like life.