Niall Centric One-Shots

Little Red Riding Hood

A.N.: Dedicated to MiniShampoo because I'm an asshole, and I told her that I was working on another A/O/B verse. Sorry. (p.s. This is more of just a wolf!au, but who cares? (Probably me.))

Warning(s): Terrible ending because I'm a terrible author when it comes to writer's block; age difference: Niall's seventeen in this, man.

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Little Red Riding Hood, so small, fair, and sweet, watch your step in the woods. Who knows what beast you'll meet?

The snow may seem at peace; the grace of the sun may be warm, but keep your eyes wide open as you traipse through the evergreen trees. Be careful, be cautious because not everything is as it seems.

Rumor says there's a wolf bigger and worse than a crimeful man. Eyes as red as the crimson hood you wear; fur as black as your fears.

He's hungry, he's starving, and don't you look like a treat?

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The Eastern village at daybreak was always a drowsy, humble place, and in late Winter, its tranquility seemed to increase a tenfold. The morning air was always dusted over with frost, the many cottages and buildings decorated with a smooth layer of pure white snow. The sun peeked over the white-capped mountains, a shower of light waiting to spill across the sleeping village. The snow, though thick, was soft beneath the villagers feet, and their breaths puffed little, glittery ghosts into the air.

This was why Niall always rose early; dawn was his favorite time of day when everything was cold and serene.

Niall greedily soaked in the warmth the gleaming sun embraced him in. It had been months since he'd step foot outside of his family's cottage. Niall had a relapse the month before, his lungs tightening and threatening to fail themselves if he didn't take a moment to rest. He had been born with a lung condition that not even the village's healer could diagnose and cure, but that man took a small flesh wound, such as a paper cut, as a battle wound.

Niall inhaled deeply at the sweet scent of the crisp Winter air; the feeling of release and freedom didn't last.

"He's out; Mary thought he was dead."

"How long has it been since he's been out here?"

"Look at him, doing the ladies work."

"I bet you six knobs that he's got a vagina under that cloak."

"He's too weak for anything.

Niall ignored the snide comments and gossip from the villagers he rarely spared glances to. His knuckles were white from the weak grip he had on the empty pail he was carrying with him to the shed where his mother's prized cow stood; he had more important things than snarky villagers.

Woman's work.

He used to scoff at the remarks when he was younger and oblivious to the gender roles his village setup, but when he began to see boys his age start hunting, bulky rifles the size of them on their nimble shoulders, or when the boys began to learn how to skin the animals, always coming back home with blood or tufts of fur stuck behind their ears, he began to realize he wasn't the 'same.' Niall couldn't partake in those activities because he was too weak and unstable for the part. His mother decided to fix the problem by teaching him the women tasks, like cooking, cleaning, sewing, milking, and so on.