A/N Based on the Neil Jordan film "Company of Wolves", which is adapted from the radio play by Angela Carter and is a retelling of Little Red Riding Hood with werewolf mythology. Rated M for sexual themes and non-graphic imagery.


Once upon a time…

Or so the story goes.

He gently tipped the glass bottle, and Rosaleen could hear the chorus of crickets and marsh toads amidst the flooding of the wine's bouquet in the air. It tickled her nose, sweeter in scent than it would be in taste.

"A glass for you, dear."

"It's unwise to drink in the presence of a strange man."

The huntsman grinned, his yellowish teeth bared as he poured a second glass.

"And an absolute crime to allow such a vintage to waste to vinegar."

Rosaleen delicately took the filled glass. "Drink makes men silly."

The huntsman merely quirked an eyebrow. "Luckily, there are none present at this table – wouldn't you say?" And he sipped at the dark red wine.

"No… you would be the devil in a man's clothing, wouldn't you?" Rosaleen smiled, tipping some of the wine into her mouth. It dusted her tongue like velvet before burning slightly. Bittersweet. She licked her lips, the peculiar sensation on her tongue.

The huntsman chuckled from somewhere deep within his chest. His long fingers drummed against the table's wooden surface. His close proximity caused her toes to curl and her stomach to clench.

"The devil's not here tonight, Rosaleen. He's busy somewhere else creating mischief."

"Or she."

Rosaleen licked her lips again, they glistened red. The huntsman stared unnervingly at them, entranced by their plumpness.

"The devil could be a woman. Most probably is a woman."

"My dear," the huntsman purred, "perhaps I will not oppose your view on this matter."

He leaned across the table, strong arms holding up his weight and reaching towards her. The hair on the back of his hands tickled the underside of her chin and she drew away from his parted mouth.

He whined in disappointment.

Startled by the noise, Rosaleen's hand knocked over her glass. The wine cascaded onto his shirt and also soaked her hand. Amused, he settled himself fully on the table top, kneeling, and peeled off his linen shirt. He smiled at her fixed gaze on the dusting of hair on his dark chest.

"Here." He took her wet fingers and slowly began to suck them, tongue swirling around the knuckles and stroking the underside of each individual finger.

"They say Romulus and Remus suckled from a she-wolf," she gasped.

"And they created the greatest city of all." He let her forefinger slide slowly past his lips until her was completely freed again.


Her hand trembled on the table top, still glistening. She was pushed up against the back of her chair, yet she wouldn't get up to retreat. He knelt on the table, half-naked; like a breathing, musk-scented statue.

His eyes were beginning to glow yellow. Without taking his eyes off her, he began to unbutton his trousers. As each inch of material was rolled away from his body, her eyes traveled along with the line of hair on his torso, inch by inch.

She stared boldly, without shame, and the fearlessness of her gaze caused his newly exposed regions to stir.

"Are you cold, wolf?"

He glared at her through hooded eyes, breathing becoming shallow.

"I am no wolf."

"You are no man." Her eyes flashed, angered at being rebuked. He chuckled, amused, and beckoned her closer.

"I am never cold, Rosaleen. On my person, I always have a fur coat."

His long fingers trailed down the line of fur that went down his torso. She could see the goose-bumps that formed on the skin of his arm, and his fingers tangled into the mass of dark hair in between his thighs.

She slowly began to stand up as he began to pant lightly. Without taking her eyes away from his, her hand met his own and lightly stroked through the coarse, wiry hair. He whined, under her mercy, struggling to keep his eyes directed at hers.

She cocked her head innocently. "Why do you pant so, wolf?"

"Because it is very hot in here."

"Why does sweat form on your skin so?"

"My, how hot it is in here."

Her hand curled around his firm base and lightly squeezed. He yelped and shuddered.

"Wolf, why does it rise so?"

"Hot. It is so hot in my veins."

He growled, torso clenching, body jerking forward, hands reaching out to grab her. Unable or unwilling to violently lay hands on her, he seized his upper arms instead, hugging himself aggressively while suppressing a howl.

Rosaleen merely gazed interestedly at the pearly wine on her fingertips. She lifted her dainty fingertips up to the wolf and he licked and suckled her greedily.

"Your fur coat serves you well, wolf, does it not?"

He shuddered, shifting to lie down on the table surface, spent. "It most certainly does."

"It must be so good to be warm all the time."

The wolf reached forward, gently laying his hand on the skirt of her dress. You can have my fur coat, Rosaleen. I'll give it to you."

Rosaleen's eyebrows jumped. "All of it?"

"All of it, if you want."

Rosaleen went to her basket and took out her mother's cooking knife.

The wolf watched her knowingly, sprawled shamelessly on the table top. His torso lay exposed, curved into a sinuous 's' and lit by the moon. His long, hairy arms stretched out languorously on either side of him.

Rosaleen pressed the tip of the knife against his collarbone and paused for a short moment. He closed his yellow eyes.

She then neatly cut him open from throat to belly, the knife hissing through his skin. She set the blade down and peeled him apart to take a peep inside. Silky, grey fur lined him inside and gleamed. She ran her hand appreciatively over the lovely fur coat, and she carefully climbed inside.

Standing up, she took care to settle him properly around her shoulders so she wouldn't have a hunched back. Standing tall, she leapt down from the table and grabbed a needle and sewing thread. Using the round mirror the huntsman had given her, she stitched herself up into his lovely, fur-lined coat.

She ran his hands up and down his lean torso, before slipping back into the huntsman's clothes. Adjusting his cap securely on his head, she left the small cottage, closing the door carefully behind her.

Boots crunching in the snow, she walked fearlessly into the night, for the world would never be cold to her again.