Link must be down right terrifying for normal people in Hyrule to encounter.
He’s like a fucking heroic cryptid.
Just imagine it, your village/region/kingdom is under attack by some monster or another and out of the trees this slender little twunk appears and immediately starts acting like he’s gonna help.
And you’re skeptical of course cause look at him.
And then you find out that he’s basically a one man army who just fuckin wrecks the dragon/god/monsters/etc terrorizing your place before he breaks all of the pots in town and disappears again.
Shit must be wild.
Your village has a statue of Link that’s built between his reincarnations, and people put clay pots around it as offerings and thanks.
One day some fucking kid shows up, breaks all your worship pots, and runs off without anything more than a “YAAAH!” as they jump off a cliff into the forest below. You’re confused as fuck but your great-grandmother is weeping like she just saw a god.
its like if you met jesus and he was a gremlin
Villager: (Wakes up one more morning to see all the pots in town are broken) HE IS RISEN
Occasionally people will send me asks wanting to know “what fandom was like in your day” like I’m some old wizened crone of yore at the age of 32. But then at the same time I recall the sound of dial up, the nails on chalkboard screeching, and the absolute frustration when the signal randomly dropped and you had to start all over again. I also remember having to ration my time online to intervals during the day when it would cost less and also so your nan could use the phone to call our Kev and you had to log in as quickly as possible, cover your ears, wait for things to load then click “save link as”, disconnect from the net and then print it out on a shuddering laserjet printer* roughly the size of a small tank so you could read it at your leisure without running up the phone bill, before vacating your much coveted spot on The Family Computer and absconding up the stairs with your print outs like a gremlin to devour the words of a stranger on the internet.
By contrast, I’ve had Ao3 open in one of my tabs for the last three days while youtube plays in the background
and I can’t remember the last time I intentionally logged out and let
me tell you it makes me feel like a lush wastrel indulging in the height of decadent luxury as I flip back and forth between
fics, unable to decide which one I want to focus on. It’s great.
But also yes, fandom has always been this batshit crazy. No, none of the arguments are all that different. Yes we really had to put disclaimers on things or risk being sued by the authors. And yes, I still download my favorite fics because you never know when something will vanish off the internet. I do not however have to print them out anymore, so that’s nice.
headcanon st. patrick actually drove crowley out of ireland specifically and now he’s not allowed back there
Okay but why am I imagining St Patrick chasing Crowley all the way to the Irish coast with a broom like my Irish grandmother when she sees a rat
imagine aziraphale wants crowley to go take care of something in ireland as per the Arrangement, and crowley has to explain that he Physically Cannot
“What do you mean you can’t go to Ireland? It’s only a minor miracle and I know you’ve got a tempting to do over there!”
Crowley doesn’t drop his head into his hands and groaned but it’s a near thing. Very near. They’re in Aziraphale’s shop—as usual—and although the weather outside suggests otherwise, it’s cold as space* inside the dusty book-filled place.
“Because,” is what he says after a moment, glaring at the angel. His signature sunglasses were tossed on the desk an hour after their arrival at the shop and Crowley somewhat wishes to put them back on. That would, however, infer to Aziraphale that he’s leaving and Crowley really doesn’t want to leave.
Even if this specific line of questioning sort of makes him wish to.
“That isn’t a good enough reason, Crowley.” The angel responds tartly, and Crowley wants to throw the nearest book at him. Unfortunately, considering his serpent-like nature, the heat makes Crowley quite sedate. The cold of the shop, too, does much the same.
He really can’t win when it comes to temperature.
“I’ll owe you for next time, angel,” Crowley tries, actually promising for once, and he hopes that’ll convince Aziraphale to drop it. Crowley offering him this olive branch of sorts.
Unfortunately, it doesn’t.
“I’ve performed every task we’ve been given in Ireland since the 5th century, Crowley. This is becoming a tad bit unequal,” Aziraphale says, standing directly in front of the demon sprawled on the sofa. It’s the only time the angel is taller than him and can look down at Crowley.
Crowley finds the sight quite enticing.
“I can’t go to Ireland!” Crowley snaps.
“Can’t or won’t?” Aziraphale snaps back, glaring down at the demon.
Crowley really doesn’t want to answer. Because he knows, if he tells Aziraphale the truth, the angel will honestly laugh. And… Well… Crowley likes hearing Aziraphale laugh but not about this. This is… It’s… It’s humiliating, is what it is.
“If I tell you…” Crowley trails off before sighing. “You’re going to laugh, angel.”
Aziraphale gasps, offended. “I would never!”
Crowley gives him a dark look. Never say never.
“You know that Saint fellow the Irish love, yeah? Think you met him once,” Crowley begins reluctantly. Aziraphale nods a little uncertainly until Crowley expands: “Saint Patrick.”
“Oh yes! Lovely chap! Performed a lovely set of miracles assisted by yours truly, absolutely grand man!” Aziraphale exclaims, frowning after a moment. “But what does he have to…”
Crowley nods. There we go. Connection.
“Oh.”
Aziraphale stares at him. Crowley stares back.
“Oh my.”
The angel’s head drops, he looks away. Aziraphale’s shoulders start to shake.
“Angel?”
Crowley sits up, tired sluggishness forgotten in the face of his angel in distress. He reaches out with a hand and touches Aziraphale’s arm.
He’s far enough forward now that he can peer up at the angel’s face, see the expression on it and Crowley blinks.
“Are you—are you laughing?”
That breaks the angel’s silence and loud laughter echoes around the shop.
“You absolute bastard! Stop laughing, angel!” Crowley stands up and grips Aziraphale by both arms.
“I’m sorry. I—it’s just,” Aziraphale hiccups out, still laughing. “You got chased—out of ireland—as a snake!”
Crowley hisses in frustration and it only makes Aziraphale laugh harder.
“I hate you, angel,” Crowley mutters. He doesn’t, not really, but he really really wants to in that moment.
__
* Space is, Crowley recalls, very fucking cold. Too cold to be entirely honest but still miles preferable to the muggy heat of London in summer. At least space doesn’t stink of boiled piss and sweaty humans.
Fuck this. Does everyone just not see the blood scrapes on some of their backs and faces???!!! Anyone, seriously, correct me if I’m wrong because this is making me upset af
Domesticated sheep need to be sheared because they don’t shed their coats on their own and it can be bad for their health if it gets too big.
Also, it looks considering how close they cut that it went fairly well. I see like 2 nicks maybe, but with the photo it’s hard to tell. I mean, unfortunately, you’re going to nick a few animals because they don’t understand the order of “stand still” very well.
Sheep can die from heat exhaustion if they aren’t sheared.
Also, their skin secretes lanolin, which quickly soothes and heals any nicks they get during shearing.
in conclusion, it is good to peel the sheeps
Please peel your sheeps
They. Look. Like. Peeled. Potatoes
Peel your sheep peeps!
Remember when they found Shrek living in that cave and freed him
Despite being a demon, Crowley is cold blooded. Quite literally. His hands are always cold, especially in winter, a time of year he detests when he can feel each and every single one of his 6000 years in his aching human bones.
“You should have brought gloves,” the angel tells him, and it’s all Crowley can do not to mimic him out of sheer annoyance as they walk through St James’s park.
“Yes well I didn’t.”
“Put them in your pockets?”
“In these jeans?”
“Oh for heaven’s sake” the angel says, removing his left glove, and handing it to Crowley, “there, put that on.”
The demon arches an eyebrow at him. “One glove, really?”
“Just put it on.”
“Well at least I’ll only lose the one hand,” he grouses, slipping the glove on and flexing his fingers, thoroughly enjoying the warmth left over by Aziraphale’s hand. “But what about you, won’t your left hand be cold now?”
“No,” Aziraphale replies, taking Crowley’s right hand in his left, and slipping them into the warmth of his jacket pocket as they begin to climb the steps and head out onto the main street, the demon falling uncharacteristically silent as they walk close together side by side as the first snow of the season begins to fall. “Not really.”
It’s also why he likes to sleep so much. There’s just something in him that’s hard wired to find a nice cozy spot and curl up and sleep for a few hours centuries. After the end times fail to happen, Aziraphale’s shop becomes one of his favorite spots. After all, he’s got some time now, he can enjoy it now.
The couch in the back isn’t just the couch anymore, it’s Crowley’s couch, and it’s not uncommon for the angel to slip back there every so often and find the demon fast asleep, his long limbs splayed out in a gloriously decadent sprawl as he naps the day away. Other times he’ll be curled in on himself, limbs taught, breathing rapid. Those are the times Aziraphale finds it hard to leave. He doesn’t sleep himself, not really, not in the way Crowley does. But he knows the value of rest, and there’s something so incredibly restful about sitting there in the cloistered back room, a good book in hand, a cup of tea on the table beside him, and Crowley’s slumbering head in his lap.
so morgan stark finds an old flip phone while snooping around and manages to dial the only number on it and poor steve almost gets cardiac arrest thats it thats the headcanon
At first, Steve thinks his hearing is going. But then the nurse points at the side table drawer, saying “Your phone is ringing.”
After that, Steve doesn’t understand where the ringing is coming from because his phone is in his pocket and not the drawer from where the ringing is coming from. He has to dig deep inside, knuckles bumping against who even remembers what before they curl around the source of the ringing and the vibrations.
His brain yells a warning but it’s too late. Steve pulls the phone out and he’s catapulted back to 2016. He’s standing in the middle of a dusty street, at the counter of a small shop that sells these burner phones, loading his number up before he walks down to the post office to drop off this package he’s made for Tony.
Heart racing, Steve stupidly thinks, It’s Tony. Tony’s calling. He flips it open, vision swimming and going hazy when he sees the all too familiar name on the screen. Mouth dry and hands shaking, Steve presses the accept button and hoarsely asks, “Tony?”
I know people have made observations about the fact that Hell grants Crowley a trial, but Heaven immediately condemns Aziraphale, which says a lot about the nature of forgiveness – or lack thereof – in Heaven.
But even the way they treat them upon condemnation is so different:
Beelzebub: Do you have anything to say before we take our vengeance?
