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Crowley's feet crunch through the leaves of the forest floor.
She knows it's dangerous to tread through this place during the night, to rely on the pale gleam of an unforgiving moon to keep horrors at bay. But she has no choice.
Her nan needs her and this is the shortest way.
Crowley's muscles twitch from the exertion, calves pulsing as she runs, skirting around the trees, wondering if she could leave unscathed.
The forest has swallowed people in its bowels already. She remembers Mr. Lucas who never returned home, to the contentment of his beaten wife, after trying to escape following the eastern path that sank between the trees. Or Mr. Hastur, who disappeared after stealing his sister's entire life savings, trying to sneak away through the woods. The trove of golden coins found the next day scattered, bright and perfect, over the mossy ground.
The air feels tense, heavy around her, and Crowley can taste the acrid push of fear frothing up her throat. A branch cracks behind her, the thumping sound of swift footfalls rustling like a threat in the breeze. She must be imagining as much, surely.
Crowley shakes her head, her blood-red cloak falling around her shoulders, rust-red curls tumbling down her back in a messy tangle. The long strands brush the bare skin of her shoulders. Sweat dampens her neck, turning icy on her skin when the draft touches it, and her feet hurt from keeping her relentless pace fitted in her black boots.
She's so close already. Just a little further.
There's a faint noise coming from a place at her back, a suggestion of movement among the leaves, of intention to chase. Crowley's heart is thrown against her ribs, beating painfully, because there's no fucking way to mistake the rhythmic sway of steps that close in on her. She isn't alone in this relentless darkness.
Her muscles ache when she tries to go faster, her tendons screaming in every push and flex of her legs, her stomach pulling when she struggles to draw air. The footsteps grow in their intensity, close enough to resound in her ears. Crowley tries to scream but her throat refuses to let out a single sound. Behind her, a twig cracks, and Crowley cranes her neck again to search in the shadows, in the shapeless night. In the blink of a second, she catches sight of shifting movement, of something that slithers in a place she can't reach.
She's almost within its grasp.
Crowley's breath leaves her in a punch when she turns to focus on the path ahead and hits against the low branch of an oak, the pain radiating from the front of her skull to her back. The knock throws her to the ground, and as she struggles to regain her footing, to keep her gaze fixed on the canopies of the trees, she knows she's absolutely fucked.
Her vision turns hazy, blackening at the edges, and Crowley hopes that whatever death awaits her, is at least swift and merciful.
The last thing she sees is the flash of kind blue eyes that glint in the dark, the soft curve of a face she doesn't know.
Crowley falls into a long slumber.
Crowley can feel the warmth of a hearth buffeting against the sensitive skin of her bare legs. She's sprawled on a soft surface, on some sort of lush fur that holds the wisps of a scent that makes Crowley think of the wild, of wet soil, of shivering leaves at dusk, and the musk of beasts.
She presses a hand to her forehead, where the pain of her collision with the tree branch is pulsing in a soft suggestion, and shifts minutely. There's a damp cloth on her head that she grasps between trembling fingers, her eyes fluttering open, taking in her surroundings. Her gaze slides over a small table at her side, a bookshelf, a rug that expands huge over the floor of this unfamiliar cottage, and she finally realizes she's resting on a bed. For a second, she thinks maybe someone found her and brought her back to the village, but when she looks through the window, she can see the shape of the oppressive mass of trees, the looming darkness of the woodland.
Where the fuck is she? She's relieved at least, that whatever had been chasing her hadn't been swift enough to get her when she fell, because she's sure whoever rescued her had saved her from a horrific end. A sigh rushes out of her in a stuttered puff of air.
"Oh, jolly good. You're awake," a prim voice says to her right.
Crowley turns abruptly, which brings a backlash of dizziness and really, it's a miracle she had woken up at all if her head is aching so sharply.
"There, there, girl, no sudden movements," the man says, easing closer to the bed. When Crowley fixes her attention on him, she can see him in detail.
She takes in the finespun threads of his blond hair that gleams rose-gold under the firelight, his soft pink mouth, a twitch of concern in his soft blue eyes that crinkle gently at the corners, steady on her entirely. He's dressed in plain trousers and a linen shirt, the fabric tensing around the curve of his broad shoulders. Her gaze drifts across the barrel chest emphasized by the tight pull of his braces where they button along the waistband of his trousers.
It's stupid to notice, especially in the situation she's in, but she finds this stranger deliciously handsome. And yet, Crowley swallows dry because there's a skittering feeling across her spine while she holds his gaze. An intense spark in his pupils that rattles Crowley to the core. She doesn’t know this man. Injury or no, she needs to leave.
"Where am I?" Her voice comes wobbly and unsure.
"My house," he says simply. Oh, so gentle. His eyes slide off Crowley's face, down over her body where she is spread along what must be his bed.
It's then that Crowley realizes the tattered state of her clothes. A tear along the skirt of her dress that leaves her tender thighs exposed, down to the pale shape of her feet. He must have taken her boots off while she slept. The laces in the upper part of her dress had grown loose as she ran, sleeves now tugged down and bunching at her elbows, the neckline pulled so low it hugs her breasts, exposing the tops of her nipples. Her body tingles under his very obvious appraisal and she shifts her legs, pressing her thighs together. Her skirt falls open just a little more and his eyes dart to the movement.
She's never been particularly shy, but blood wells in her cheeks, down her long neck when she sees the darkened edge in the man's eyes, before he blinks it away.
He seems to understand her silent embarrassment.
"I tried to make you as comfortable as possible," he says, apologetic, and he really seems so. A small, disgruntled frown between his eyes. "I'm sorry if I crossed a line, but I didn’t wish to...touch you overmuch."
"No, no," she rushes out, because she's alive and well. Unharmed. And it's obvious it's thanks to him. "I, uh… thanks. I guess you were the one who saved me?"
"Oh, yes. I found you unconscious not far from here," he says, quietly. "There are dangerous things lurking in the forest. You shouldn’t venture inside it at night." He wrings his hands, as if parsing something."I'm- I'm Aziraphale."
He sways closer, and Crowley can see he's barefoot. Feet covered in mud. Who treks without shoes through the forest?
“I’m Crowley,” she replies as a treacly, uncomfortable feeling pools in her stomach despite how polite Aziraphale seems. She knows about fae, about the magical creatures who dwell around and she isn't ready to trust so easily. She sits carefully on the bed, holding the upper part of her dress with her hands over her chest. The skirt rides up immodestly. Fuck it. She can only manage so much.
"How long have I been out?"
He huffs a loud burst of air at the question. "A day."
Crowley's mouth hangs open. "A day?" She scrambles to her feet still holding her dress in place, wondering how she is going to put herself to rights. "I need to go. My nan is expecting me."
Aziraphale's smile strains at the corners of his mouth before he squeezes his eyes closed as if in pain. He shakes his head. “I don’t think that’s a very good idea.”
Crowley clutches her arm to her chest, fisting her fingers in the fabric of her dress. “What-what?”
“There’s all sorts of monsters out there tonight. It’s a full moon. You should know better than to travel alone on a night like this. You’re from the village,” Aziraphale says gently.
The bottom drops out of Crowley’s stomach as she rises to her feet on unsteady legs. “How do you know I’m from the village?”
“My dear, nobody else would be close enough to come through the forest with no belongings,” Aziraphale says, ducking his head as if to show he means no harm, but fear is already pulsing in Crowley’s throat, turning her blood to ice.
“Give me my shoes,” she says, voice flinty.
“You really shouldn’t go anywhere,” he repeats. He sounds so earnest and yet it does nothing to calm her.
She moves to dart past him, to go to the door anyway and his hand shoots out to stop her, grasping at her arm and pulling it away from her already torn dress. She yanks herself away from him and trips, falling into the wall. Her bodice parts, exposing her entirely, the rise and fall of the heavy swell of her chest, her stiff, pink nipples, and Aziraphale looks at her with hungry eyes, so dilated he looks almost animal.
Her body starts to tremble as she looks at him. The impossible sturdiness of his body, his handsome face.
Her thighs quiver when she pictures those broad hands easing her legs apart to claim a space between them, to fuck into her with vicious intensity. Fuck, she’d feel it for days.
What the fuck is wrong with her?
She blinks away the daze of starlight, of this strange night in which things seem to dance off the regular pathway. Crowley reaches out to grab the cloak hanging by the door and rushes to open it, forcing herself to move despite the flex in her muscles that seems to beg her to stay. Aziraphale’s hands are around her waist before she can do anything else and she’s pressed against the door, bare tits scraping over the cold wood, nipples sensitive as Aziraphale holds her tight. Heavy and warm against her back.
The moan that escapes her is a splintered thing, torn from her throat unbidden. Aziraphale presses his nose into the side of her throat, the whole line of his body trapping her in place. He breathes deeply. “It isn’t safe for you out there. Stay with me,” he says with considerable effort, hands going around her waist, broad and possessive and then she feels it. Fangs, sharp against the arch of her neck.
She was worried about monsters in the woods, but there’s a monster right here. Under this roof.
Using all her strength, Crowley pushes him back, rips the door open and tears out into the woods, shoes be damned. Anything is better than being eaten by a monster in a cottage. It's clear Aziraphale isn't human.
She hears the low growl behind her and her blood begins to beat hard in her ears, something aching in her gut, and she doesn’t want to name it because this is fear - it’s -
Crowley runs between two trees, an angry snarl close at her back. Glancing behind her, she sees Aziraphale, eyes gleaming, chest heaving as he moves with inhuman speed. She doesn’t stand a chance as he finally bears down on her. Without an ounce of finesse, she finds herself on her back, head spinning from her injury, from the blood pounding in her veins.
Aziraphale rises above her, maddeningly feral. “I said it isn’t safe, I'm trying to- to help you,” he says again, breathless, as he presses down onto her body, between her parted legs. His hips buck forward and Crowley can feel him, how hard he is in his trousers, the obscene bulge that rubs against the excruciatingly wet flush of her still-clad cunt. He was getting off on it, on hunting her down. On chasing her like prey.
To protect her, he'd said. Yeah, Crowley doesn't really know about that.
"Help me how?" Crowley snarls back. Because being sensible and tame has never been her forte. "By shoving your cock inside me? By fucking me on the forest floor?"
She doesn't want to think about how much the idea appeals to her, about how she's dripping already. He looks at her, expression dark, oddly conflicted, while she squirms underneath him, long body a flush, sweat-slick stretch of smooth skin, thinking about how easy it would be if he tried. She would just have to tilt her hips up and he would be buried inside her with a tight, long shove.
"No," Aziraphale says, his voice glass-ground. "It isn't like that."
Crowley doesn't answer, only struggles in his grasp. The movement pushes her tender tits against the rough linen of his shirt, making her nipples hard and sending little zings of pleasure between her legs. Her thighs fall open wider, an inviting spread, and Aziraphale slides between them. She can't deny it. To him. To her.
She's soaked through her knickers, slick wetting her inner thighs, beginning to wet the erection tenting the front of Aziraphale's trousers.
“Miss Crowley,” Aziraphale growls. A harsh, wounded noise at the back of his throat. “You’re - You need to stop that. You’re not making this easy.”
“Let me go,” she demands, writhing into the dry crinkle of the leaves and pushing her body up into his. Rocking her hips on his cock, shivering into the pleasure of it. There's something exquisite in it, satisfyingly arousing. Forbidden.
Aziraphale lets out a keening noise that transforms into a snarl. Crowley sees his hair is a riot of blonde curls, eyes glazed over, mouth a twisting shape of red. He presses his weight down on her, letting her feel him. The thick width of his thighs, the powerful curve of his chest. In the air, something shifts as he groans, “You smell... delicious .”
His words die in a pained growl, and to her horror, Crowley sees the way his face shifts and morphs, mouth enlarging to a snout, limbs stretching to paws, soft fur replacing smooth skin. She can hear the sound of bones popping out of place, the wet squelch of muscle, tearing.
Aziraphale's growl grows in intensity and Crowley can do nothing but stare at the drifting image of this beast, at the clothes ripping open, feeling the pressure of terror writhe inside her.
When Aziraphale stops trembling, Crowley can see him for what he is. The finger-long fangs, sharp as knives. She can feel the claws around her wrist. The rough linen that had pressed against her chest is now fur.
He's a fucking werewolf.
She screams.
The claws tighten around her wrists and the snout presses against her tits, breath flaring hot over her nipples. She’s going to be devoured. A little girl in the forest eaten by a wolf. How cliché.
But there is no sudden pain, no excruciating slashing of skin. Aziraphale’s paws remove themselves from her wrists and his claws find their way into the fabric of her dress firmly rending it in two, a single claw tearing her knickers apart. She yelps, left bare on the forest floor, before he wraps his clawed fingers around her thighs, spreads her open with maddened urgency and then presses his snout against where she's spread open for him, rubbing over her sensitive clit.
His tongue is excruciatingly hot as he laps at the slick at her entrance, long and doing something inhuman, pushing into the tight opening with controlled but eager thrusts. Crowley’s hands fly to his head, grasping at his soft ears as she tosses her head back in a strange sort of ecstasy. Adrenaline is still pumping through her. This can’t be happening and yet it is. Tongue-fucked by a werewolf, deep and satisfying.
Crowley pulls him closer, demanding more, the curve of a leg hooking around his shoulder bringing the hungry sharpness of his mouth closer to her clenching cunt. Aziraphale gives it to her. She can feel the hard press of his fangs on either side of her clit, the tickling fur tingling the eager spread of her vulva, and it’s the most astounding sensation, terrifying and arousing all at once as he begins to wriggle his thick tongue inside her, massaging her from the inside out in thick, wet pushes that fill her more than any cock she's ever had. She wraps both her legs around his neck, warm and furred, and arches off the ground, practically sobbing with pleasure while Aziraphale tongues at her clit, pressing it gently, sliding all over in messy, thick strokes. She’s never felt this way before. She’s so wet, so hot between her legs she might be bleeding, she has no idea what Aziraphale’s fangs are doing every time they brush and graze against her pulsing folds, and she isn’t sure she cares. If she dies like this, it is a sweet death.
The pinpricks of Aziraphale’s claws sink into the meat of her twitching thighs as her orgasm begins to crest, wild and overwhelming, washing through her like an ocean storm. Her muscles contract as she gushes all over Aziraphale’s snout with a keening cry that echoes all through the forest. He laps at the wetness, fur matted down by the evidence of her release.
“Fuck,” she swears, tossing her hand up above her head, utterly spent.
But Aziraphale isn’t done. He’s growling in his chest now, paws roaming over her body, the stroke of his claws gentle and threatening in equal parts. He flicks his tongue over her breasts with long, languorous licks so hot that it makes the rest of her body shiver. He sucks at her nipples in hungry, uncoordinated pulls that feel slick and hot, and she holds him closer pushing a mouthful of her breast into his mouth. Which is several degrees of stupid but Crowley's way too gone to care. Aziraphale mouths and tongues at her other breast, the sharpened tips of fangs scratching the tender skin, while he pushes the hardness of his massive erection against the naked wetness of her cunt. She can already picture the image she's making right now, lying in the torn wreckage of her dress, leaves in her hair and the evidence of teeth and claws beginning to be etched into her skin. Crowley's panting when he finally pulls back, her tits sensitive and reddened.
Then he grasps her hips and flips her over and she realizes he isn’t finished with her.
She scrabbles at the leaves, trying to find purchase, pulling her shaking legs beneath her. Something hot and slick and huge is already rubbing between her arsecheeks, sliding across the cleft of her buttocks while Aziraphale makes little whining sounds of pleasure. She’s taken a cock before, but never one this large.
His claws scrape at her hip as he holds her in place and pushes inside her cunt from behind, cockhead catching where she's wet and hot, until he's finally sliding through the slick mix of her spend and his saliva, thick and heavy, dragging in her clenching, jerking grasp. Crowley gasps a breath that's all moan, the air punched from her lungs at the stretch of it, at the exquisite fullness. Closing her eyes, she rolls her shoulders against the acute pleasure-pain as Aziraphale breaches her, pushing and pushing and pushing until he is fully sheathed inside her body. She feels like she can barely take it. Full to the very brim.
He moves and she cries out. She can feel it in the base of her throat. In the tightening of her still wet nipples. In the way her stomach contracts with every thrust. Her toes curl against the way her body stretches to accommodate him. She gasps and whines with every push of Aziraphale's huge cock inside her body, not knowing how much more she can take, but not certain she wants it to end.
He blankets her back, his soft fur warming her sweat damp skin as he rubs his fangs against the back of her neck. She swears and lets him fuck her. Lets him take his fill of her cunt while she fists at the ground, groaning at every drive of his hips into the slick-hot stretch of her vulva, the heavy hang of his tight balls slapping against her sensitive cunt. It will be over soon, and when it is, she will think about this moment for the rest of her life, the way every time he slides inside her feels like another pulse of an orgasm, lighting her up, making her throat sore with cries of more and stop and please .
Tears flow from her eyes. She is so overwhelmed. Aziraphale rocks into her with tight, wet shoves and then he comes and there's so much of it that she can feel the warm rush of it spilling inside her while he growls into the skin of her back. Crowley doesn't know how but somehow his cock begins to feel bigger inside her, moving more slowly with each pulsing spurt, dragging against her walls with every powerful thrust. Soon, his movements become a slow rocking and she can barely breathe with how full she feels. Of cock and come.
In the flick of a moment, she realizes what has happened. His cock knotted . They are stuck together to keep his semen inside her. To breed her. Like a dog .
Her whole body feels hot. Would she get pregnant? Just from this? From being stuffed full of werewolf cock and bred like an animal?
She entertains the idea of him keeping her here for his use alone. To fill her over and over with his come until she overflows, and to fuck her with this wild abandon every time the full moon crests in the sky. A shiver wracks her body at the potential of it, of being used.
Aziraphale licks at her neck, brings her up on her knees, and reaches around her body to toy with her pubic hair, dragging his claws through it and making her tremble. The sensation makes her ache and pulse around his swollen dick and she squirms as he slips his clawed finger between the swollen folds of her sex and presses the pad of it against her clit. He whines, a little encouraging noise. Crowley gasps and begins to move gently against his hand. It is perfect, rocking against his finger and being so full.
Crowley moans, another orgasm torn from her. She feels herself spill between her legs in a mess of wetness and when she tries to rise up on her elbows and glance down her body she can see the solid shape of his furred thighs, the round line of his balls pressed to her arse; she can see liquid shining on her legs, her own release mixed with Aziraphale’s spend trickling down her thighs, escaping from where their bodies are joined. Her cunt pulses at the sight.
Aziraphale growls, almost a word that sounds absurdly gentle, something she doesn’t understand, and begins to rock his hips again, moving her on his cock, fucking her on his knot. Crowley realizes with a diffused sort of bliss that he's going to spend inside her one more time. He's going to leave her dripping and used. It's suddenly too much, black spots flash in her vision and she passes out, pleasure washing over her hard enough to drown her.
Crowley wakes up to the crackle of a welcoming fire and the smell of freshly brewed tea. Her body aches everywhere and when she opens her eyes, she has a strange sense of deja vu.
It is the same cottage with its quaint array of books and its little kitchen and table and its handsome man who is currently sitting at said table biting at his fingernails.
“Oh! You’re awake!” he says, shooting to his feet. There's a fumbling air to his words that Crowley finds oddly endearing.
Out of the pocket of that sleepless night, of that moment between wakefulness and dreams, Aziraphale is again the kind, handsome man that had saved Crowley from certain death.
She groans and doesn’t even try to move. Aziraphale rushes to her side with stilted steps. “I am so sorry for my - for the - for -”
“Fucking me in the woods?” Crowley offers, finally trying to sit up as Aziraphale tries to hand her a cup of tea from the side table.
She can feel the remnants of slick between her legs, a low, thrumming pulse in her cunt. Her breasts tingle with a tender ache that feels like the sting of bruises on them. For all that they had done the night before she feels relatively put to rights. Aziraphale must have taken care of her.
He flushes, fusses with a thread on his shirt. “It was the full moon. A bad day for the forest entirely. A bad day for me in particular," he says, and he sounds truly remorseful.
Crowley takes the tea but sets it aside without drinking it. She doesn’t think it’s the drink and you’re stuck here forever sort of deal but she won’t risk it. “I’ll say.”
She is dressed in an oversized shirt - Aziraphale’s she realizes - and she notes her boots by the door. “Am I allowed to leave now?”
She isn't complaining. She is not going to complain after getting the best fuck in her life, but she wants to know where they stand.
Aziraphale clears his throat, still flushed. “Yes, yes of course. It’s safer now that the full moon’s over and it’s midday. I’m sorry about your dress. No rescuing that I’m afraid.”
Crowley rises to her feet and gingerly makes her way to her boots. She does ache between her legs. Memories of what had happened in the forest come back to her, rushing in furious intensity. Of being kneeled on all fours while Aziraphale pushed into her from behind, of him fucking her full of his come, of his knot. Of that passing thought she had of the night never ending... For all that had happened: the chase, being held down - Aziraphale had been gentle. Almost kind.
She thinks of her boring little life at the village, the prospect of a future that holds no joy for her.
A question rattles her then.
"Was it you who was chasing me the first time?"
She has to know if it had been a ruse to bring her here, to make her trust him. Things could take a far darker turn if it had.
Aziraphale shakes his head, genuinely upset. "No, not at all. I'm not the only one of my kind who inhabits this forest. The one who was after you is a vicious creature."
Crowley had suspected as much but hearing Aziraphale saying it is somehow reassuring. She looks at him. His parted lips, the beautiful face. All the fucking involved and she hadn't even kissed him.
She turns back to him, arching a brow. “And what if I said I wanted to stay?”
Aziraphale looks at her with hopeful blue eyes. “I’d say I wish you would.”
Crowley closes the space between them and kisses him, lacing her hands around the strong slope of his neck. Aziraphale breathes softly into her mouth holding her closer. Tight and comforting.
"Now, how about if this time we start with some words," she says, pulling back.
Aziraphale smiles. "I'd quite like that."
At the village, no one hears again about the girl in the blood-red riding hood.