The berries were inflaming his nostrils. The scent was beautiful.
Just like her. Like little Red.
The one who never looked his way when she skipped through the towering woods. The one who strolled care-free in the summer, and looked pretty when she trudged slowly in the falling snow.
The one who wore a red cloak in the spring. The season of awakening, the season that was warm, but not one to warrant a beautiful scarlet dress.
Spring. When she wore the cloak.
The Red one with a hood. The one her Mother gave her to protect her if it rained. The one that cut off leaving a few centimetres of pink dress, and the rest bare leg.
She had loud red lipstick, the colour she was given at Christmas. When he watched through the window, slavering over the smell of Roast Dinner and the beautiful sight of Red.
Red lipstick. Red. The colour of passion. The colour of anger.
Anger that he would never be able to interact with her like a human. Like a man. Like the Huntsman. Pitch black fur, to his light and glistening head of gold. Fearsome face to his charming and friendly demeanour. His ravenous hunger to his brilliant strength.
It was Saturday. She was bound to appear over the bridge. What if she was afraid? What if she heard the rumours of him? What if she turned back and took a different route to her frail Grandmother's?
These thoughts made his heart race. He wanted to talk to her. Maybe at least brush against her, before anything was to stop him.
Then she was there, walking slowly by. She was humming a tune. A melancholy one, but beautiful. A masterpiece tune coming from the Red lips.
He stepped back, and snap. Twig.
She stopped in her tracks. It was now or never.
"Hello. Lovely day isn't it" in the friendliest tone he could muster. He bowed.
She smiled and curtsied. "It is".
Two words. Four letters. It contained more happiness than the Wolf could ever imagine.
He inched towards beautiful red. He started to smell the Strawberry jam in the basket.
"So where are you going on this beautiful morning?" He dared to ask.
"My Grandmother's house. She's unwell, Mr Wolf."
He circled her. His body brushing against her back.
He managed to touch her.
So long. And it happened.
Red Riding Hood touched him.
Could we finally be able to exist together? He thought.
The plan was a failure.
The Grandmother was now throwing a disgusted look at his wasting body. She was bleeding from his teethmarks.
All he wanted was to surprise her, to say that they could be together. To say how he hungered for the redness of her. Not her blood, but her. Her utilisation of that beautiful colour, now reflecting in his black eyes. Now a blur as she is hugged by the Huntsman, shaken by the events of seeing her Gran re-emerging from the belly of an ugly beast. The blood from the incision was all over the cottage, all to save that old woman who would probably die from her cold anyway.
To save Red from him. From the Big Bad Wolf.
The Huntsman ushers them out of the room as he brandishes his axe again. Not asking the dying animal why he did it, but only wishing to conquer him. He raises his axe, and mutters something. All the Wolf did was look at Red Riding Hood. Her beautiful red lips, her strawberry blonde hair, and her deep sea blue eyes, now with a hue of red from tears.
The gaze of the wolf locked on to the shining blade of the axe.
'I was hungry' he thought. Not for Meat. For her.
He closed his eyes as he heard the whistle of the blade coming down and driving into his skull.
I recently joined, and I heard about the request for Red Riding Hood Stuff, and with the stimulus of sexuality and stuff, I came up with this. The idea of exploring the origins of an antagonist is inspiring, something different, giving another few dimensions to your average fairy-tale villain, so I thought the idea of a Wolf's hunger worked well with it. This is just my first RECord, so please be kind? Thanks - AF