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"Little Red"Written By: The Plotting Housewife Disclaimer: Gundam Wing belongs to Bandai, Sotsu
and associated Parties. This work is written for pleasure not profit. Rating: NC 17 Warnings: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Alternate
Universe - Little Red Riding Hood Fusion, Smut, Violence, Blood, Mild
Gore, Horror, Dark, Shapeshifting, dubcon Pairings: Trowa Barton/Quatre Raberba Winner Summary: Quatre makes the journey to his grandmother's
cabin in the woods, armed with only a red cape and a basket of food.
It doesn't take long for him to realize that something is terribly
wrong and that his gran is not exactly who she says she is.A retelling
of Little Red Riding Hood ~ In smutty GW style because why tf not? " Little Red" Quatre could certainly understand the need to bring his Jidd her food. She was well into her nineties and could no longer get around like she used to. She'd already sold her 1989 Buick Cutlass to, "A nice young man who would have a much easier time finding a girl if he wasn't covered in those devilish tattoos." It seemed his grandmother was on an endless to quest to make sure that every "nice young man" she encountered would meet a "respectable" girl and settle down and Quatre was no exception. She was dead set on marrying him off and had no qualms about guilt-tripping him with the woes of her declining health. "I'm not too long for this world now, habibi," she would tell him, resting her wrinkled old hand on top of his during afternoon tea. "It's my job to make sure you are settled down with a respectable girl." Her hand would shake as she lifted her tea cup to her lips, her watery brown eyes twinkling in amusement and a trace of warning. "Are you going to leave your sweet Jidd hanging on her deathbed with no wedding, or great grandchildren?" Allah, how he hated to disappoint her every time she asked him if he'd met a girl yet and was forced to see the dejection in her eyes when he told her no. The problem was, he just wasn't into girls. It wasn't the soft, pillowy swell of female breasts that had his mouth watering, the flirtatious batting of long eyelashes, or the sensuous curve of wide hips that made his dick harder than steel. It wasn't the thought of making love to a woman that motivated his trembling fingers to wrap around his cock in the darkness of his bedroom at night. It was the thick sinew of masculine power and dominance. The stretch of smooth skin over hard muscle, the slight scrape of a five o'clock shadow, and the deep rumble of a male voice burring sweet nothings into his ear. The heady vibration of a man moaning with pleasure as Quatre took him deep into his throat. He wanted to be thrown down, pinned beneath a virile body while the rugged scent of sweat and musk wafted beneath his nose. He wanted to feel the scratch of stubble against his neck and the tickle of hot breath laced with whiskey and mint. None of that pussy shit either, but real whisky. The kind that put hair on your chest and stripped the paint off your car. He dreamed of surrendering to his fantasy man, shyly parting trembling thighs and exposing himself to the ravenous gaze of his conqueror. He dreamed of hands, big and callused and stained with motor oil, manhandling him onto his belly. Pulling him open with fingers that dug painfully into the soft flesh of his buttocks. And he dreamed of the air being forced from his lungs as the heavy weight of his lover's body descended onto his back and a cock that was surely too big, sought entry into his most coveted place. But of course he couldn't tell his Jidd that. In her world, men were never subservient. They didn't allow themselves to be dominated and plundered. A man who permitted such things was a dishonor to his family. In his culture, it wasn't all that long ago that people were hung for far lesser crimes than sodomy. Besides, the poor woman already had both feet in the grave and if that didn't do her in, he didn't know what would. Lying and saying he had found a girl was out of the question. He knew without a doubt that his Jidd would insist on meeting her. He'd considered asking his friend Relena to play the part, but that was a pipe dream doomed to fail. Relena wasn't a Muslim and in his Jidd's eyes, that was nearly as bad as being gay. So he endured the guilt and the forlorn look in his grandmother's eyes when he let her down yet again and just hoped he could instead convince her that he was happy where he was for the time being. It would have to suffice because he wasn't going to go against his own principles and put a girl through a relationship that could never be what she truly wanted, or deserved. ***
"You're
going to take this food to your Jidd and help her cook her meal since
she's still having that sciatica in her hip." There went his plans of spending his day off binge-watching American Horror Story and lazy wanks on the couch.
"I
suggest you get a move on," Zayeed called from the bedroom. "You've
got a lot of walking ahead of you." Ten miles was a long way without running into someone. He just hoped whoever that "someone" was, didn't have pointy teeth...or a distinct lack thereof. Oh, knock it off, you drama queen. This is Vermont, not the fucking Outback. The scariest thing you're apt to run into is a nest of rabid squirrels. He hummed as he popped an orange wedge into his mouth. "I'll bet there are some good rabid squirrel stories from the locals. I'll have to ask one sometime," he mused as he passed by the clearing and disappeared into the dark canopy of the forest. "That is, if I make it home alive." *** Trowa Barton stared at the tiny log cabin from his spot behind the tall hedges which lined the perimeter of the old hag's property. Pale gray smoke curled up from the top of the chimney and his enhanced olfactory senses detected a hint of strong coffee and the sweet aroma of freshly baked bread. He'd been stalking the old bitty for a few weeks now, waiting for the opportune moment to pounce and rip her throat open. He wasn't typically one for grudges, but ever since she'd chased him away from her chicken coop, brandishing a broom which she repeatedly thwacked him on the head with, he'd been unable to let it go. He'd been a newly transformed wolf then, cold and starving after his first shift into an unfamiliar body which predictably didn't go all that well. At first, he was slow and ungraceful, unaccustomed to walking on four legs, not to mention the strange new experience of being so close to the ground. He'd failed to catch himself a meal and by the fourth day, he was lost in the forest and desperate for warmth and food. He'd stumbled upon the cabin with legs as shaky and awkward as a newborn calf, but the chicken wire was no match for his powerful jaws and razor sharp teeth. The real challenge was trying to catch one of the little bastards after they inevitably went into a frenzy as soon as they sensed his proximity. His clumsy limbs were too slow for the hysterical flurry of panicked chickens and for a few minutes, he'd only managed to snag a mouthful of feathers while his sensitive ears twitched painfully from the loud screeching. After ten humiliating minutes, he finally caught one by the tail and began to back out of the pen when he was struck on the backside. It startled him more than hurt and his shock forced him to let go of his meal. "Get away from my hennies, you flea-infested vermin!" Vermin? Fleas? He'd growled and snapped at the old woman who swung her broom, smacking the bristled end against his snout with surprising strength. He'd attempted a lunge, but amazingly, the old bitty spun the broom with the agility of a ninja and jabbed the wooden end into his chest hard enough to actually hurt. Unable to get a bead on her with his body in the condition that it was, he retreated from the standoff, back into the woods with his tail between his legs. Thankfully, he was able to get himself a rabbit only a short time later. When he transitioned back to his human form after that embarrassing first time fiasco, he was covered in rabbit blood and naked as a jaybird. By the time he found his pack, he was too exhausted to care much about the snickers over his undignified state. It wasn't like they had any room to laugh. They'd all gone through their first time, too, and he was willing to bet their experiences were just as mortifying as his was. At the moment, he was in his default human form, but he could already feel the telltale signs of impending transformation, fueled by his need for vengeance. Though he typically refrained from eating humans...honestly, they were stringy and bland...today's menu featured one crotchety old woman with a side of broom. Revenge is a dish best served cold, his furry ass. In the short time that he'd come into his shapeshifting, he'd finally mastered the ability to transform at will and was no longer under the influence of the moon phases. Fucking Christ, was that a relief. He bit down into his tongue as the throbbing ache in his jaw became more noticeable, trying to muffle the soft moan of pain. He didn't want to alert the old bitch to his presence just yet. His limbs twitched and convulsed, the joints popping in his knees and hips, turning towards the backs of his legs which allowed him to leap in ways he could not in his human form. His fingers curled into fur-covered toes and claws pushed through the sensitive skin at the tip of each one, sharp as razors and twice as deadly. The worst part was the excruciating pain in his face as the bones and cartilage shifted and elongated, forming a long, pointed snout. His eyes moved further down and to the sides while his ears were pulled up towards the top of his head. Finally, his teeth extended into two rows of gleaming points designed to rip and tear flesh with ease. While his human form possessed enhanced sense of smell and hearing, those senses were even more honed in this one, though the quality of his eyesight was reduced to a colorless world of blacks, whites, and shades of gray. But he didn't need his eyes. In this body, scent and sound were more than enough to hunt blindly if necessary. Now, he was stronger. Even more graceful and powerful than he could ever hope to be as a human. What a difference only two months could make. A chill began just at the tip of his nose and traveled down the length of his spine like a bolt of electricity, manifesting as a full body shake that evened out the thick black and gray fur that covered every inch of his skin. His left ear piqued and twitched at the flurry of clucks and feathers from the chicken coop just on the other side of the hedges. He sniffed the air, eyes rolling in their sockets as he caught a whiff of their fear, carried along by the cold breeze. Today, they were fortunate. Today, he had a different target. He loped down the length of the hedges, leaving paw prints in the snow-covered ground. He rounded the edge, scaling the side of the cabin with silent padding of his feet until he reached the front. He jumped up the three steps without even touching them and approached the door. Raising a fore paw, he scratched at the wood with a pitiful whine, his claws leaving behind faint gouges in the bright red paint. "Who's that?" Scratch...whine. "Is that you, habibi?" Habibi? Scratch...whine. "Hasn't your father taught you how to knock?" Just answer the door, you old bitch so we can get on with it. Finally, his ears registered a soft shuffle, getting closer to the door. "What is it with kids these days? This generation and its lack of manners, deary me." No, ma'am. No kids here. Just a hungry wolf in need of a meal and I must say, while you smell more like fruitcake and Bengay and will probably taste even worse, this will be one of the most satisfying lunches I've ever had. Now, open the door, or I'll huff and I'll puff... He heard the distinct click of locks and a moment later, the door swung open. "Honestly, Quatre. If I ever get the chance to -" She stared down in shock at the two hundred thirty pound wolf perched on her homemade butterfly ‘Welcome' mat, eyes widening in horror as the beast's lips curled back, exposing gleaming pointed teeth in a macabre grin. Its demonic green eyes glinted in the muted gray light with the promise of bloody demise. Trowa could see the dawning realization in her own eyes. The dreadful knowledge that Death was on her doorstep and this time, it was a one-way trip. There were going to be no negotiations, no begging, no thirty day money back guarantees. She knew that as instinctively as she knew there was a wolf at her door. ...And I'll blow your house in. "Oh - oh, my..." Hello, you old hag. Did you miss me? She gasped and stumbled back, fumbling frantically for the door, no doubt to slam it in his face, but this time, he had the upper hand. And revenge couldn't be sweeter. He lunged, throwing the closing door wide open, his fore paws landing square onto her chest and knocking her flat onto her back. Her wrinkled old fists were no match for him, though she fought with what little strength she possessed within her feeble body. With a low growl, he closed his jaws around her throat, waiting for sweet hiss of defeat from her trembling lips, and then he bit down. His teeth pierced through her paper-thin skin and deep into the flesh, severing her jugular vein. The sound of her gurgles as she choked on her own blood was music to his ears. Her blood tasted like copper and age, an entire lifetime of experiences, joy, and hardships. When he thought about it, he was probably doing her a favor. He pulled at the flesh in his mouth, jerking his jaw away from her neck and taking her throat with him. The blood spewed from the gaping wound in a fountain of crimson, spraying the walls as her heart frantically tried to continue pumping to keep her alive. Her clouded eyes rolled back into her head, despite her best efforts to cling to consciousness. The blood filled her mouth and spilled from the corners, rolling down the wrinkled jowels of her cheeks and onto the floor beneath her. To Trowa's colorblind eyes, it looked more like black tar. He watched the progression of death with a strange sense of detachment, listening to the rattle of her body shutting down organ by organ until she became silent and still. The scent of blood in the air was intoxicating and his nostrils flared, inhaling the sweet tang of copper. Not by the hair of your chinny chin chin? Well, who's laughing now, you old bat? The adrenaline of the kill was euphoric. It made him feel drugged like the otherworldly high of an opiate. He tipped his head towards the ceiling, unleashing a howl that vibrated the walls of the old cabin and scattered the nearby wildlife, sending them running for cover. His cock extended from within its hood, erect and in dire need to mate. Once he got back to his pack, he would find a willing body to release the coiled up tension in his groin. For now, he needed sustenance. He lowered his head and sniffed the cooling corpse of his meal, then he began to eat.
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