A/N Okay, so before you guys kill me for not writing in a while, allow me to offer up a reasonable excuse.

Does writer's block count as a reasonable excuse? No? Can you make an exception this one time? Lately I've gotten ideas for good Klaine fics but they never end up going anywhere. The truly funny thing about these individual ideas is that they all involved either Kurt or Blaine not being human (i.e. my incubus!Blaine fic, which is so strange that I won't post it-unless you guys really want me to-or my guardian angel!Kurt and angsty!Blaine fic, for which I had many ideas that I couldn't tie together coherently...) and my ideas grew so abstract that I forced myself to stop writing them down and go sit in a corner to regain my sanity for some time.

But anyway, before I write a whole chapter on me, I recently visited Redbox and rented Red Riding Hood. The movie itself was meh, but I thought the plot had some promise in it. So, I decided to kinda sorta maybe adapt some of those ideas into a fic. That's how this was born. But...I hope you like it, nevertheless!

~ Ceecee

Kurt

Life used to be something I never put much thought into. It seemed so simple, really. You would be born, you would do what you were supposed to do for a handful of decades, and then you would slowly crumble away until finally coming to a halt at death.

One, two, three. That was it. That was all I needed to know.

I grew up in a small, nameless village tossed somewhere in middle of a green labyrinth that made up the Forest. The Forest also had no name; mankind had never tamed it enough to call it his own. Beyond the expansive Forest were mountains, which separated us from the rest of the living. Our village was not well-known because of these massive pieces of land, and we normally went by undetected by other colonies. It was a rare occurrence that we received visitors-those who were born in the village never left unless on rendezvous and those who lived elsewhere never came. After all, with all your family and friends living in one area, why would you have need to travel unnecessarily?

Still, rumors about the other colonies fluttered into our village from time to time. We would gather around and listen, bewildered, as our rendezvous party described the people who wore skins of animals, the vast supply of dormant horses (our village had only a handful of them), the houses made square from the bones of the earth, and the mysterious, ghostly pallor of the men and painted faces of the women. Our buildings within the village were of a simple architecture, usually circular in nature, constructed mainly from the lumber that our woodcutters salvaged from theForest. Woodcutting was one of the few jobs our village had, and was strictly considered a man's chore. Women were expected to stay with the children and center their work on the interior of the house; cleaning, cooking, sewing, and nurturing.

I lived near the center of the village with my father, his wife, and her son. My mother, a beautiful woman named Elizabeth, passed away from plague when I had only lived my eighth winter. Her death was extremely hard for our family, my father especially. He and I had continued to live alone for eight more years, and he was as wonderful a father could be, teaching me how to ride horseback, how to hunt, how to work, how to be a man...

He never found out that I would not stay inside or go out and play with the other boys while he went to work. He never knew that I secretly met with some of the women in the village and implored them educate me in the craft of how to mend damaged clothing and create meals. It was best he did not know, as discovering that his teenage son was learning how to do women's work would most likely break his heart.

This kept up until my seventeenth winter, when my father met Carole, a woman in the village whose husband had also passed away from illness. Shortly after their meeting (much shorter than I deemed comfortable), they married and she and her son Finn, who was also in his sixteenth winter, moved into our house.

It was not an easy transition.

Her son and I disliked each other greatly, having nothing relatively in common. While Finn rather notch his crossbow and hunt for deer, I tended to stay home and assist Carole with chores around the house. My father did not mind, he was too preoccupied with earning enough to raise a family to mind.

However, as time passed, Finn and I learned to tolerate one another-more for our parents' sake than our own. He showed me how to sharpen sticks into spears while I feinted interest and I showed him how to close up holes in his pants, a regular occurrence with his choice hobbies.

And for a while, all was well. But even whiles reach an ending.

The attacks started a winter later.

A woodcutter named Rolfe, a dear friend of my father's, had wandered away from the rest of the woodsmen one evening in search of thicker trees to cut down. He never returned from this excursion. Upon hearing of his disappearance, his fellow woodsmen set out to search the dense Forest, hoping to retrace Rolfe's steps and find him. Eventually, they did come to find him. Well, parts of him. They discovered something else, too. Imprinted among the blood-swollen soil was a fresh, irregularly large paw print.

My grandmother had always told me stories about creatures who stalked the night-half man, half beast-that devoured both animal and human flesh alike. A werewolf, she told me, relished nothing more than killing other living things; its victims screams were like siren calls, their blood the murderer's aphrodisiac. Many a gruesome tale about these creatures had been told, and as the other children shrieked and trembled, so I sat still and intent, horribly fascinated by such grisly stories.

According to legend, during the rising of each pregnant moon, a seemingly normal man would undergo a hideous transformation. His skin would sprout a thick pelt of fur, his nose would lengthen and bond with his mouth and chin, his teeth and nails would sharpen themselves into fierce points, his bones would stretch and bend into inhuman forms, his ears grew long and hairy, his body would form a tail, and in his place would be a monster. The only sliver of humanity a werewolf retained was his eyes.

Of course, as we aged, most of us came to believe that her stories were just old wives' tales, made up to frighten children into good behavior. No one expected them to be real.

Grandmother was the second to die.

And so began our fear of the night.

I know, I know, not much action. But rest assured, I'm just getting started. Your favorite characters will soon make an appearance and I won't force you be stuck reading monologues. I'd love to know your thoughts on this, so feel free to click on that little button that says "review" and lend me your knowledge :)