the newly appointed duke of hell, crowley, hisses at the other after he slams the supreme archangel, aziraphale, against the wall of the bookshop.

"let them look!" he hisses again, sunglasses not only hiding his eyes but also hiding the anger in his eyes and the tears threatening to fall. how dear aziraphale come back and act like everything was just supposed to stay the same?

he grits his teeth and releases the other's lapels with a growl. dam that soft, please, and pleading coming from the other. crowley takes a step back, shoulders hunching slightly as he glares at the supreme archangel. crowley himself had changed, his clothes were the same dark color but there were no slightly lighter colors to break up all the black.

TEN GODDAMN YEARS, WYLL.

remember when I was scared shitless to even try to talk to you at first, and didn't realize your balthazar and your michael were run by the same person-

“i did not.”

there’s no affection in his voice as he stares at lucifer. his son of morning. the mockery is not lost on him and the slight will be punished - only not yet. he can make out every blemish still marring the beautiful white wings of his eldest, much like the new wings he knows have been gifted to noma the twice traitor. he’s known this moment was coming since the day michael failed him for the first time.

“how could i, when i knew i would see you again? michael’s sentimentality ensured you would return and i allowed for it. there was nothing to miss.” matter of fact and cold. “however, son of morning, you seem to have returned... lacking.”

god can wear your crown while conquering you tbh

❛ i shall not deny that the thought is enticing... ❜

balt vc: let’s not i prefer you in one piece