[fjk-pic]

訳あってこの姿でしばらく過ごさなければいけないらしいクロちゃん(2枚目は英訳版/@cerriieeさん)

[fjk-pic]

へびクロちゃん

[fjk-pic]

クロにゃん

[fjk-pic]

おすし

[fjk-pic]

かわいければ許されると思ってる

[elect-elecman]

Y’know what? Whether you prefer The Megas or you prefer The Protomen or you like both equally or whatever your opinion is, the one thing that we ALL collectively agree on is that Megaman-based music absolutely SLAPS

[enma-darei]

A good song from a good stage from a really good game.

[mechandra]

please listen to this incredible music nerd play a megaman song on an instrument of his own design

[ineffable-bisexual]

Hi, I’m a piece of gay angel trash.

[brinnanza]

anyway here’s a snippet of the fic that won’t end aka the mortifying ordeal of being known fic aka things that aren’t crowley’s fault. this is from the section about the siege of alexandria and they are, of course, at the remains of the library. (in the fiction of the good omens verse, the destruction of the library of alexandria Definitely Happened because the angst potential is Too Good)

–

Crowley watches in silence for a while. Aziraphale doesn’t seem to notice his presence, just keeps inspecting charcoal briquettes that used to be tomes. Crowley clears his throat, but Aziraphale just flaps a hand at him without looking up.

Crowley exhales. “What are you doing, Aziraphale?”

“I should think that would be obvious,” Aziraphale says. He pushes aside a bit of broken shelving, fishing for something slightly less blackened than its surroundings that’s trapped underneath. 

“You know you’re not going to find anything.”

“Do I?” Aziraphale says mildly. The scrap of papyrus in his hands gleams golden for a moment and then expands until it’s the size of a full sheet. The repaired areas are blank, Crowley can see – apparently not even a miracle can restore text without knowing what it once said. Aziraphale peers at it, a deep-set wrinkle in his brow, and then he sets it in a pile of similarly repaired scrolls.  “How kind of you to remind me of the futility of effort. I shall endeavor at once to restrict myself to profound cynicism, as you do.” There’s no bite to the words, just Aziraphale’s typical sarcasm, but Crowley can hear something like defeat creeping in at the edges of his voice.