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izloveshorses · 1 month ago

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Cowboy Like Me

ao3

Rated M, 5k, smut, western au 🤠

~~~

“Get me a whiskey, will ya?”

The sun was just starting to set through the windows, the cigarette smoke and the dust in the air making the beams of light thick and hazy, almost heavenly. Dmitry about laughed at the thought. As if this place wasn’t as far from heaven as it could get.

Dmitry poured the shot, the amber liquid catching in the light, and slid it to the man too drunk to sit upright. “Take it easy,” Dmitry said. “Last one, okay?”

The man grumbled something unintelligible but he probably wouldn’t remember this conversation tomorrow, so Dmitry didn’t take it personally.

Since things were slow, Dmitry took his time lighting a cigarette, inhaling slowly. Just one small breath of relief. It wasn’t like he had a bad life here. A rough one, sure, with the usual crowd he got, hungry and angry and bitter creatures they all were. And the saloon he owned, though filthy down to every crack in the wood, was, really, a fairly decent establishment.

But he couldn’t help but notice he was mildly miserable almost all the time. That he felt more like a ghost than a person. Aimless and hollow.

The doors swung open, squeaking loudly on their hinges. His eyes couldn’t help but trail up to the source of the noise and linger there. By the sudden silence without the piano going or the noisy chatter, Dmitry wasn’t the only one to stare.

And who could blame him? She was too pretty, too clean, for such a place. Her reddish blonde hair was neatly pinned into an updo, the fabric of her dress lacy and such a rich and deep shade of blue it was nearly black, her chin raised so high there was no doubting she came from a world of civilized refinement far from here. Most folks around here got their pride beaten out of them. But this young lady hadn’t a speck of dirt or hardship on her.

Her piercing blue eyes found his. Slowly the bar returned to its normal chatter, the piano picking up again. Dmitry started cleaning a glass as she made her way to order.

“What’ll it be, miss?” he asked without looking up.

“You stole something of mine last time I was here,” she said in a clear, commanding voice instead of ordering. “I came to demand you return it.”

He just raised an eyebrow at her. “Bold accusation. All I do is pour drinks.”

“I know it was you.”

“How do you know,” he tossed his towel over his shoulder and set the glass down, “that I didn’t pawn it off as soon as you left town? If you’re so sure I took whatever it is you’re looking for?”

She was still narrowing her eyes at him. “I don’t think you would’ve done that.”

He rested his hands on the bar, leering over her. “If you want it so bad,” he smirked, “you should just go on and take it.”

They stared, daring the other to break first. Slowly she reached to steal the glass he had just cleaned, and then, like she owned the place, found the neck of a bottle of vodka, all without breaking eye contact. And she poured herself a shot, knocked it back, her pretty throat swallowing it all in one gulp. While she was still in his space she plucked his cigarette from his lips and backed away from the bar.

Dmitry, god help him, watched her amble up the stairs. When the chatter returned, he vaguely realized the whole saloon had fallen silent to watch the exchange. It wasn’t every day someone threatened the man who poured the drinks, after all.

“Hey, how come the lady can walk away without paying,” the drunk man at the bar whined, “but you’re charging me for every shot?”

Dmitry pulled the rag from his shoulder.

“What, if I give you a kiss and bat my eyelashes, I get a discount?”

Dmitry removed his apron. “Just don’t fall off your stool, Ivan.”

“Aw, fuck you!”

He stepped out back to find Vlad, snoring with his feet propped up on the wooden porch railing. Drunk as a skunk already. He kicked at his legs and Vlad startled awake. “Cover the bar for me, will you?” Vlad only grunted, still nursing the heartbreak from when his lady left him a few weeks ago, it seemed. But he pushed himself up and followed Dmitry inside. Vlad was in charge of the hospitality side of things at this saloon, only here to keep the few rooms upstairs in order and such, but, even in his depressive state, he was capable of pouring drinks in Dmitry’s absence. Maybe. Hopefully. Probably.

With his friend behind the bar and the saloon seemingly calm— at least for now— he made his way up the stairs, and had to force himself not to take two steps at a time, only because he knew the entire saloon was eyeing him. A part of him didn’t really care anymore. On the landing Marfa and her girls silently glared at him through their cigarette smoke, flicking ash to the floor, while he passed. Maybe because they knew they would never get business from him in particular.

He knocked twice at the usual door, then tried the knob. The sun cast long shadows in the room but his eyes still found her easily. She was seated at the rickety vanity, her hair unpinned and falling over her shoulders in golden curls, reading a book in one hand and holding her— his— cigarette in the other. He slowly pulled the door shut.

Her eyes flicked up at him, then back down at whatever she was reading. “Took you long enough.”

In spite of himself, he smirked, because damn, he couldn’t help it. “In case you forgot, some of us actually have to work around here.”

All she did was hum, unimpressed, and slowly rose to her feet after snuffling the cigarette in the ceramic ashtray. It had only been a few minutes, but the candles on the mantle were dripping wax.

“And you’re the one who was gone for…”

His retort died on his tongue when she let her gorgeous, spotless dress slip to the dusty floor.

All right then.

Dmitry didn’t take his eyes off of her but blindly kicked off his boots. She moved in a wide arc, slow but purposeful, her footsteps creaking the floor, smirking at him all the way. And, like the complete idiot he was, his smile widened. “What brings you to Saint Pete’s this time?” he asked when she sat at the edge of the bed. “Business or pleasure?”

Her blue eyes were light, playful. “Just passing through.”

He tsked, kneeling in front of her. “You’ll have to be careful,” he drawled, “there are some scoundrels in these roadside towns who’ll rob you dry.”

His hands slid down her ankles, unbuttoning her silk shoes one at a time. But her fingers tilted his chin up towards her so he would look at her. “I can handle myself,” she insisted.

He managed a soft “I know” just before she kissed him, and flashes of light sparked in his vision.

Dmitry didn’t know what to call it, this thing between them. ‘Arrangement’ was too detached a word. But it— whatever it was— started on an evening where she genuinely was passing through, all the way from New York to wherever it was she was going, he couldn’t remember, and by some stroke of luck her train had to stop here overnight instead. And when she ordered a drink at his saloon, alone and unaccompanied, well. He had to make sure she was all right. So he kept checking up on her, making small conversation. Even had a drink with her when she asked for the company after the bar died down.

And there was this… current, of something. Of want, maybe. Of recognition. Between them. Something he hadn’t felt before. So when she beckoned him to follow her up to her room after he closed the bar, and then proceeded to unbuckle his pants, he was surprised, of course, but not startled. Because nothing had ever felt right, like this.

Or maybe he was just really fucking lonely.

What is this? he had asked. Not because he wanted to stop, but. It seemed like the only reasonable question to ask when a stranger was actively pulling down your trousers.

Her blue eyes had met his. Whatever you want it to be.

So he had cupped her face and bent forward and kissed her, and that was the end of that discussion, as far as he was concerned.

The following morning she had resumed her journey, leaving him with nothing more than a kiss on the corner of his mouth when she thought he was still sleeping and the ghost of her smell on the ugly paisley sheets. And she stopped in on her way back a few days later, as if to prove she was not just some lucid hallucination, and then after another couple months she came in again, and… well. You see how the pattern formed.

They didn’t talk much beyond what was necessary. She told him to call her Anya, though he was pretty positive that wasn’t her real name. He didn’t blame her. It didn’t matter anyway. All that mattered was that when she was here he wasn’t thinking about his dead father or the lawmen threatening to raid his saloon once a week or the patrons with guns and tempers who were sore losers at the poker table. All that mattered was her skin, her eyes, her sighs.

It was obvious she came from money. Sometimes she would babble something in French, which meant she was well educated. Maybe her father was some oil tycoon or something. Sometimes he thought about asking, insisting on a real answer as to why she ventured all the way out here. But if she wanted him to know she would’ve told him. And, then again, he didn’t exactly want her to know all the dark parts of himself he wasn’t so proud of, either.

So now, when she was letting him unlace her corset, he didn’t dare ask why. Or how. A lucky man at the poker table didn’t question his winning hand, didn’t ponder how the dealer possibly dealt him the perfect lineup of cards, didn’t ask if this was some fluke or trick. He just cashed in his chips and ordered another round of drinks before anyone got suspicious.

Unlacing and unbuttoning her garters and petticoats was Dmitry’s way of cashing in.

When she was here, he didn’t want to waste time on pondering such things, because if he did, there was a chance she would wake up and remember she had better things to do than romp about with some street rat who—

“Anything interesting happen today?” she asked as she peeled his shirt off of him, eager thing she was, and he couldn’t help but take some pride in how breathless she sounded.

He was too busy to answer at first, tired of chasing after her, his hand curling around the nape of her neck and tangling in her hair so he could kiss her proper, nipping at her lower lip. Hold still, goddammit. And for a second she did. Melting against him, angling her jaw open and sighing, his hand cradling her head. His knees were on either side of her, kneeling like a stupid religious beggar, with her arms looping around his neck.

Her hands traced down to his chest, always curious, and pushed him away slightly. “I asked you a question, sir.”

He snorted an exasperated laugh. “I’m getting there,” he insisted, angling her jaw with his thumb so he could kiss her throat. “Missed you too much. And you’re still in too many clothes.”

Her sigh was strained. “It hasn’t even been that long.”

“Three weeks and four days,” he huffed out. The shortest time they’d been apart since this started, sure, but still. Enough to make him feel pathetic and impatient now that she was within his reach again. He felt his fists close around the fabric of her slip at her side and back. “So forgive me for being a little…”

She bit back a smile. “Libidinous?” He didn’t know what that meant, and his confusion must’ve shown on his face because she let out an entirely unladylike giggle before he could puzzle out the word. This was always embarrassing, saying or doing something absolutely stupid in front of this beautiful, intelligent, remarkably educated young lady, revealing his hand that he really couldn’t keep up with her like he pretended he could. But instead of teasing him she lifted her arms so he could lift her slip off of her. And then, scarring his dignity even more, he actually let out a noise at the sight of her. He impatiently threw the garment away— off off off!— as she lowered herself to her back, hair fanning out around her on the mattress, pulling him down with her by his cheek and the scruff of his hair.

Once she was finally—finally— bare, he hovered over her, planting kisses on her soft skin. Sometimes they didn’t even bother taking their clothes off before getting started. Other times she would slip into something a little easier to remove, or, like tonight, she would make him earn it, one button at a time. He huffed as he nudged her legs apart with his knees. “You missed it,” he said into her sternum. “Poker game this afternoon ended in a big fight. Had to pull them apart and they dueled out front.”

“Sounds dangerous,” she said, fingers digging into his shoulder when he noses at her breast. “I thought I smelled gunsmoke when I got here.”

He smiled at her. “Don’t worry, the crowd tonight has really mellowed down.”

“I like it when they’re a little rowdy.”

His mouth found her nipple, earning a broken exhale. She wouldn’t let him leave marks that would be visible in the morning— she was a lady, after all, wherever it was she came from and wherever she was going— but sometimes he nipped at spots only he would get to see. Like on her stomach or the inside of her thigh, or here, on the soft flesh of her breast. Just for him. “If they were rowdy,” he murmured, his voice husky and low, before hovering over her face, “I would still be stuck down there.”

As if on cue, roars of laughter erupted downstairs, loud enough to hear up here. The piano kept on with its ragtime tunes, muffled by distance and the wooden walls.

He thought she liked the idea of it, having a real cowboy from the Wild West all to herself, all rough and jagged with his rowdy saloon and bar fights and gunslingers obeying him, only tame for her. Little did she know he couldn’t shoot a gun to save his life and he was terrified of horses and bourbon gave him a stomach ache, so he made a pretty lousy cowboy at that. So maybe it was good they didn’t talk. Lest whatever illusion she had crafted for him gets ruined and she never comes back.

She cupped his cheeks. “You wouldn’t dare keep me waiting.” He had just enough time to smirk before she tangled her fingers in his hair and kissed him. Her tongue slipping against the seam in his lips, his head tilting to part his mouth open for her and properly deepen the kiss, she tasted like the vodka he served, warm and sharp at the same time. Addictive. Making his stomach roll.

His fingers found their way between her legs, earning a muffled gasp into his mouth, a fist tightening around locks of his hair, the feeling so good he had to squeeze his eyes shut for a second. He knew her well enough by now, all her tells, that he could coax her over the edge pretty quickly. The rhythm of it. The allure, the push and pull. The way her hips bucked eagerly into his hand. Needy. Always so needy for him.

“Easy,” he murmured. “Save some of that energy.”

She huffed, annoyed he was telling her what to do, probably. “Need more.”

His fingers curled inside her, thumb brushing over her. “You know I’ll always take care of you.” The words came out a little softer than he intended, laced with something tender. But he moved a little faster, even though he didn’t like being told what to do, either. Her arms looped around his neck to keep him close. In return he sucked kisses down her neck, following the path of goosebumps lighting up her skin, paving the way for him.

She really was gorgeous, writhing below him like this, so much that sometimes it made him forget to breathe. She was probably the most beautiful thing he would ever get to see. And sometimes he couldn’t help but marvel at it, his luck of the draw, that she let him even look at her, let alone brand kisses on her skin, trace constellations on her freckles, whisper prayers into her flesh to a god that may have existed only to have created someone like her.

When she came all over his hand, pulsing around his fingers, her nails dug into his shoulder blades so much it hurt. Let her mark him up. Let everyone know he was taken. If only for tonight.

She sleepily opened her eyes, offering him a dazzling smile that he couldn’t help but kiss. With her breasts brushing against his bare chest and her knees squeezing his waist and her pretty sighs in his mouth, his trousers were tight and uncomfortable. With one hand he propped himself up above her and with the other he undid his belt and shimmied out of his pants.

She pressed a foot against his hip bone until he was on his side, and then on his back. Dmitry had stopped bothering to ask how she would like to take him this time. She always told him what she wanted, or just took care of it herself. Like now, as she was straddling his hips and angling him against her entrance.

And then, god help him, he moaned when she sunk around him, her palms on his stomach, not one to waste time. She felt so good his vision went white for a few seconds. This was always good. Every time.

She wiggled her hips back and forth for a second, either to test the waters or just to torture him, he wasn’t sure. But he did moan out a “Fuck…” just the same.

She smirked, and then started moving for real.

She just. She was so perfect, Dmitry didn’t think he could ever be with anyone else. She ruined him. Ruined everyone that wasn’t her.

He wanted to sit up and kiss her, the sorry sap he was, but her hands were on his chest now, pinning him down. She was so small he could easily take control and have his way with her. But he liked seeing her like this, taking what she wanted from him, confident and needy. His fingers dug into her thighs, so hard that maybe he would leave bruises, and his hips snapped up to meet hers, needing to exert at least some of his frustrations of the day. That first night he had been so careful, fucking her slow and tender until the sun rose, but he learned pretty quickly that wasn’t what she came here for. She didn’t want gentle from him. So now he knew she could take it a little rough, a little mean, a little dirty.

She really did love his body, he could tell by the way she always caressed him like this. Obviously. She wouldn’t be the first. But he was dumb enough to think there was something more to it than that. Hope, maybe. There were moments where she would look at him with something affectionate and loving, would laugh with such fondness at things he said, that his heart would crack with want.

Sometimes he wondered if he could get her to his shitty house instead of staying in this shitty room, even if it wasn’t much better. But it was his own home, and he had his kitchen, and maybe he could make her breakfast in the morning…

She let out a little moan, his attention snapping back to the present. Her breasts bouncing, hair cascading over her shoulders, back arched… he didn’t want to miss a thing.

His hands slid up to hold her waist, hip bones digging into his palms, steadying her. She was close. “Doing so good, darling,” he encouraged. “Want you to feel good.”

She bit her lip, rolling her hips this way and that. “Fuck,” she swore, “don’t stop doing that.”

In spite of everything he smirked, but did as told, pistoning his hips at the angle she was clearly enjoying. The mattress groaned and creaked under them as she bounced faster on him.

Dmitry wasn’t an idiot; he could piece together the clues. She probably didn’t get to be this… unbridled… where she came from. Didn’t have the freedom to curse or get mouthy with a man without consequence. Didn’t get to ride whatever man she pleased without marrying him first. And Dmitry was probably nothing more than a means to find release from having to be so buttoned up all the time.

He didn’t know why she came here. Why she picked him. What kind of life she came from. But if she needed to cope with whatever darkness existed in her or her life— and, let’s face it, everyone on the fucking planet needed to cope with something— then he was sure as hell not gonna complain about it. He was happy to provide whatever distraction she wanted. Even if it left him ragged and gasping and ruined.

Her hand found his, locking them together, eyes holding his own. “Dima…”

She didn’t often use his name. Not this gently. And there was that feeling again. Like his heart— his soul— was trying to hammer its way out of his chest to get to hers. Like it recognized her.

“Anya, I—” he whimpered, cutting himself off. No need to tell her he loved her or something stupid.

He kept babbling, nearly growling, as he felt her reach her peak. That’s it, feel good on me. Feel good on me—

When his thumb brushed over her she shattered above him, completely wrecking him in the process. It took everything he had to thrust a few more times before he spilled himself inside her.

After she slumped on top of him, breathing hard, she curled against his side, and he kissed the top of her head. The sun had set by now so she was nothing more than shades of silver and blue in the evening light. This was always his favorite part. Where she let him hold her, dropping that mask of regality and haughtiness, where she was just a girl and he was just a boy. And he could pretend, at least until the second or even the third round, that he was hers and she was his, in this small way.

He was happy, here, like this. You could say that was probably just the sex talking, but. He felt safe with her. Felt wanted. For once.

“Do you have to go back downstairs?” Anya finally asked.

He shook his head. Vlad could handle it. Hopefully. Maybe. Regardless, Dmitry wasn’t sure if he could even walk himself out of bed just yet, anyway, his legs were still shaking.

Vlad probably wasn’t even aware of what Dmitry was up to right now, he wasn’t exactly lucid at the moment. Dmitry didn’t blame him. If Anya decided to never see him again he would probably be in the same state of misery, too.

At first, Dmitry thought Vlad wasn’t aware of what was going on between him and this young lady from the east coast. But last time, the morning after Anya had left, Dmitry was sweeping the floor when Vlad stopped him, helped him light a cigarette.

Is she paying you? Vlad had asked.

Dmitry’s fist tightened around the handle of the broom, exhaling a long drag. No. But he gave his answer quietly. Because it wasn’t like women hadn’t paid him for a night upstairs before.

Are you paying her?

Dmitry’s head snapped up. No!

Ah. I see. Vlad only nodded thoughtfully. Dmitry thought that would be the end of the discussion, so he continued his chore, but his friend rested a hand on his shoulder. She’ll break your heart.

At the time Dmitry had rolled his eyes. What did he know?

But now, his sorry heart felt so fragile he thought it could shatter at any moment.

Because happiness didn’t really exist for people like him, in this place. Because men like him were destined for nothing more than to drink themselves to sleep on the back porch and wake with wet eyes, or slump over on a barstool because he had nowhere else to go, or get shot in front of a saloon after a poker game.

“You sure you don’t want to go down and check?” she went on. Dmitry shook his head again and his fingers brushed up and down her spine. “We started earlier than usual.”

He smiled up at the ceiling, tilted his head down to look at her. “Do you want me to leave you alone for a while?”

“No,” she said. “It’s just… you like taking care of people, is all.”

He blinked at her, a little surprised. If this was just supposed to be a casual rendezvous here and there, how had she noticed this? How could she observe parts of himself even he wasn’t aware of?

Dmitry escaped the warmth of her arms and rolled to sit at the edge of the mattress. She whined in annoyance, but he only bent forward to collect his trousers and dig through one of the pockets. His fingers snagged on the chain and he held it aloft so she could see it, nearly laughing at her expression— relieved and incredulous how dare you at the same time. If she weren’t naked and lithe and irresistible on the bed he might’ve even called her adorable. When he brushed her hair away and secured the chain around her neck he kissed the bump in her spine where the clasp fell. The golden locket, studded with green gemstones, was resting on her sternum between her breasts, back where it belonged.

Anya’s fingers traced over the locket while she flattened herself onto her back. “So you did steal it.” He grinned and nodded as he got comfortable at her side again, arm draped over her middle, kissing her shoulder. It would’ve been so easy to swipe her jewelry or her purse from her every time she visited him. If it was anyone else, he might’ve gone and done it. But he didn’t dare with her. Not until last time, when he was watching her sleep, the locket sparkling in the moonlight. “Why?”

He swallowed, wet his lips. “Because I wanted you to come back.”

She wore it every time, never took it off. He figured this one would be important enough.

Her eyebrows furrowed. “I always come back.”

But he never knew when she would come back. Or even if. If this would be the goodbye, this time. And, dammit, not even his spite could stop his heart from turning sentimental and sappy at the thought of losing her. Even though he knew she came from a world of gold lockets and pretty parasols and fancy garden parties and her pick of the litter of eligible suitors— hell, she could even be married for all he knew— he heard himself ask, “Why do you?”

She bit her lip, hesitating. Perhaps deciding if she should keep playing their little game or actually be honest. Her fingers picked up the locket, holding it up so they both could see. “This belonged to my grandmother,” she said quietly, popping it open to reveal not a photo but an inscription. He hadn’t opened it at all, felt too wrong and invasive, but she was showing him now. “I haven’t seen her since I was seven years old.”

Dmitry frowned, struggling to follow. “Dead?”

She shook her head. “She lives in Paris now.”

“Oh.” Paris. The complete opposite of this town, he was sure.

“And the life my family wants for me…” she brushed her fingers over the inscription— something written in French, he now recognized— and closed the locket, set it over her heart. “It’s not enough.”

Dmitry swallowed. But this still didn’t explain anything. “Anya…” he whispered. That may not have been her real name, but she responded to it like it was, her blue eyes flicking to his. “Why do you keep coming back here?”

She looked so vulnerable, so small, like one wrong word from him would cleave her in half. But she took a breath. “Hope,” she finally answered. “That maybe this time you’ll ask me to stay.”

Now it was Dmitry’s turn to be confused. “Who are you running from?” he asked, because that was the only reasonable explanation as to why anyone would want to stay in this dump, to stay with him of all people.

But she just shook her head, her smile so fond he started to doubt. “Running to,” she corrected.

Oh. He wanted to argue, to say no one in their right mind would choose this, that he— a nearly illiterate orphan with hardly a penny to his name— couldn’t give her the life she deserved, the lifestyle she was used to. Nothing about him or his life had happiness on the horizon. But. but. She was looking at him like she already was happy. Like he had the answer to what she was looking for. He didn’t know what to do with it.

And, well. If happiness existed for him, here she was, in person form.

He maneuvered so that he was hovering over her and dropped a single kiss to her neck. “You’ll have to work,” he drawled. Her face lit up with relief. “Everyone around here has to earn their keep.”

Even her laugh was pretty. “Of course.” Her knee slid up his side, until her calf was hooking over his hip. “I’m a hard worker.”

“Pretty thing like you?” He found her hand, smooth as porcelain, a hand that hadn’t seen a day’s labor. But she was strong. He knew that. She was brave for coming all the way out here on her own so many times. She had to know how to fend for herself, how to take care of things. And she was smart as a whip. Not porcelain, then. Polished and beautiful, yes, but not brittle. Made of stone. His lips twitched into a smirk before he kissed her knuckle. “Think you can handle it?”

Her hand dragged up to cup his face. “I’ll have you know,” she started, “where I come from, I am the fastest sharpshooter in the county.” To prove her point, she took her thumb and forefinger and angled her hand at him, closing one eye, like she was aiming a revolver. “I’ll protect you.”

His smile grew. Well, then. He kissed her mouth, slow and soft and sweet, like she deserved. Maybe one day he could see himself deserving the same tenderness, too. “Stay.”

#dimya #fanfiction #my writing #anastasia broadway #anastasia #me? posting Two fics in the same week? it's more likely than u think!#also i think this is the first time i'm sharing my smut here lol oops #enjoy i guess #yeehaw i should say #i may or may not write a sequel to this #it's in my head #but we'll see #i should not promise anything bc i can't write on command ahlsjdfk

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lineffability · 1 year ago

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in which God gives them the happy ending they deserve!!!! (and the best one i could think of) This is set in the bookshop. It is also set during the second coming/advent of the final war storyline that will be s3. I'm starting very much in medias res bc i needed to write this scene specifically first or my body would have IMPLODED, so this is where we are: Aziraphale and Crowley have reconciled --and just decided that, if they have to join the war, it will be on the side of the humans--when the Metatron arrives in the bookshop with the intent to kill. The armies of heaven and hell stand united and ready for the war, and he cannot have his plans thwarted by THEM. But then, someone else appears. @gooodomens i agree i think she is Her

The doorbell chimed. It was the lady from the shop next door. The jeweler.

"Oh. Bad time?"

The silence that greeted her was an unmistakeable answer.

"Well. Always a bad time." She smiled. Looked at the old man.

The Metatron suddenly stood frozen in fear.

The implications of this fact slowly dawned on Crowley and Aziraphale.

By sheer instinct alone, Aziraphale reached for Crowley. Caught his arm, slid his hand blindly downwards until it reached Crowley's. Heard him suck in a breath. Their fingers slid into each other and combined into a strained fist, so close that every last atom was squeezed out of the space between them. Don't you dare let go.

The lady looked at the metatron, sighing inaudibly. She looked him up and down, and when she looked up again he was a little boy. She motioned for him to leave, which he did, slightly confused but without objection or malice, and with a skip in his step that seemed so innocent he might have been playing in the park with his friends. "Will have to start that one again," Azirapahle thought he heard her say, but she had not talked at all, had she? She just stood there.

"Is this--" Crowley hissed.

"Believe so." Aziraphale somehow managed to squeeze out between pressed lips, and swallowed.

"Fuck."

"YES" God said. And suddenly there was no sound in the room, no air, no static, just the idea of a bookshop. Her gaze now moved towards them, and when it hit they could do nothing but stare back like deer in the headlights of a car--a Bentley, perhaps.

"AZIRAPHALE" He stood perfectly still, the weight of her word, his entire being, resting on his shoulders. It did not feel heavy. She turned her head. Almost smiled. "CROWLEY." His eyes were wide, sunglasses gone. He stared back. His name. His self.

She looked at them. Fixed them with a gaze human eyes could not comprehend. And in it was everything. God smiled. An unreadable expression.

"SO?"

And for once, both of them, the angel and the demon, were completely and utterly speechless.

And then God asked them a question.

"WHAT DO YOU WANT?"

They stood there with their hands clasped so tightly together that one began where the other ended. They stood there, together, before God. Not a judgement, but a question. Crowley moved his lips, shaking, finding his voice. He held on to Aziraphale for dear life -- and love, too. Aziraphale held on tight.

"Answers," said Crowley.

God smiled, and gently shook her head.

"Peace," said Aziraphale.

God continued smiling. And lifted a hand. Gently moved a finger. Understanding passed between them, settled deeply in their souls.

"VERY WELL. GOODBYE."

And a million bells softly chimed. The sound was all-encompassing, everywhere, in every crevice and every atom and the spaces in-between, too. It was light and it was blinding, and when it faded away, God was gone.

A low rumbling, gone, too, a sound they never even knew had been there, all this time, under everything. Then a groan, a sigh of a billion voices, a laying down of arms, relief, nothing, nothing at all and yet the world, still. After everything.

God, gone, the angels and the demons, too. Gone from earth. Completely. Forever.

(Not from existence, never that, but from this universe. Crowley's creation. The stars were still shining. A home he had built.)

They were all alone.

They knew this with utter certainty.

"It's just us," Aziraphale breathed. Slowly, finally, he turned his head to look at Crowley.

"It's just us," he confirmed. Looked at Aziraphale.

They looked down at their clasped hands.

"Well." Crowley cleared his throat, tried to find some ease in his tone. "That went better than expected."

"Crowley, God has abandoned the earth!"

"Not abandoned, Aziraphale," Crowley breathed. "Left the earth alone. Has given it actual freedom. And...and we, I mean us, we're still here. Angel--" And he suddenly stopped, tripped over the word. It carried a different weight; it felt lighter. There was something gone from it. He tried again. "Angel."

For the fraction of a moment, he was terrified. If Azirapahle was no longer an angel, did that mean--?! No. No, that was not it. His terror was reflected in Aziraphale's eyes, but it slowly drained out as he raised their clasped hands. He let go gently, opening up their palms.

"I feel it, too," Azirapahle whispered, except his face was suddenly joyful. "I'm not an angel anymore. But I'm not--"

"You're not fallen, no," Crowley breathed, and the relief he felt could have moved mountains.

"Crowley, you're-- you're not --"

"I know." Relief gave way to confusion. Crowley groaned. This felt entirely new. But they knew who they were, they remembered everything. "Are we human?"

"I'm not sure. No."

"You're right." Crowley knitted his brows. Felt into his being. "I think we could be. If we wanted. But we're not. But I don't have any powers. You?"

"No. No, I don't."

"What does this mean?"

"I don't know."

They stared at each other. The war was over. There would never be another, save from the many that humanity would inevitably wage. As was their choice. And when they died, they would be dead. Nothing more, nothing less. Earth and decay and the natural cycle of life. And they would be good, too, and insurmountably kind, and would receive no divine reward for it.

They knew this to be true with utter certainty.

"Gonna have to tell the atheists they're finally right," Crowley said and laughed incredulously. He stopped when he saw the expression on Aziraphale's face, who was staring somewhere far away. For once in his life, he could not read it.

There were too many emotions on it at once.

Then his eyes snapped back to Crowley's--and his emotions singled in on one feeling alone. "Crowley-- it's just us. We're, we're here. On earth. Together."

The words hit Crowley like a pile of bricks, the joy in them almost toppled him off a cliff. Yet there he stood, in front of Aziraphale, who had been abandoned by God, stranded on earth forever, and had never looked happier. It was too much to bear. He wanted to bear it forever.

"I would like to do something very human," Aziraphale said. There was no doubt in his voice, no question. His smile was pure, angelic. He was not. (At last, at last.) He lifted his hands and gently grabbed the collars of Crowley's jacket. The softest of fists. Happy tears teetered at the edges of his eyes.

The way Crowley's heart clenched and released felt wholly human. He forgot to breathe.

And then Aziraphale kissed Crowley. No angels and no demons, only them, together, so close. It was fervent, and devoted, and joyous. And it was good.

#good omens #ineffable husbands #ineffable spouses #ineffable partners #crowley x aziraphale #inefficable #my writing #I might have to write the Before and After of this as well #it's in my head #actually it's a whole fic isnt it #my own season 3 #ahaha #this might be a bit all over the place but that's bc IT IS #AS IS MY HEART #NO TIME FOR EDITING WE DIE LIKE CELESTIAL BEINGS #NOT AT ALL

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