My Bf And I Have The Same Fucking Brain

What I love most about this is that absolutely nobody voted for Crowley.

Kevin? What the hell did you just do?

“Modern Fairytale” by Syd and Olivia

Once upon a time in the Enchanted Wood, right next to the Sugar Plum Zoo, a pair of little twins did share a bed; a bed the size of a shoe. And every day and every night they’d do what little twins do. They’d play in the forest, and plant a big seed, they’d bake a big bread, and they’d frolic in glee. 

Thenst one day, a giant did step on their father’s big, burly, busty silhouette. And so, the twins were left with just step-mother, and she had plans for them. Plans of other.

For evil step-witch did not want any twins. She sent them away to the University of Michigan. 

“Now, this is how you will have a 401k. You will go to college, and find a job one day. It will be very simple, for it was when I was young, and then you’ll own a home with your very own sons.” 

“We’re daughters,” said the twins. 

“Oh shit, I didn’t notice. What were your names also? I don’t think the authors mentioned them at the top of this tale,” asked the step-mother. Evil, but always offering very constructive criticism. 

“My name is Piper,” said the daughter on the right, filled with chutzpah and up for a good fight. She had hair of bright red and a face full of freckles. She sang to the birds. Her sister was named Sheckles. 

“Well, Piper and Sheckles, go thee away and pick a major that will help you someday,” the step-witch threw the children out from the roof, and then she did push them off of the roof. The children did fall and landed in Michigan. 

So Piper and Sheckles skipped through the grass. They found a lily pad; the home of their first class. 

A toad was their teacher. His name was Miss Toad. Long live Miss Toad. 

Miss Toad sang a song to all of the class and it went like this, tweedle-dee, tweedle-dass. 

Miss Toad’s Song (To The Tune of Despacito). 

“Hello children, hello kids. 

My name’s Miss Toad, and here’s all my biz. 

You made a good choice by coming to college, 

It is the ONLY choice from my knowledge. 

For with a degree, you’re like a big tree. 

The degree is a seed, but the tree could be thee.” 

“What the fuck does that mean?” asked the twins. 

“Oh, shut up, you twins. You stupid, stupid, twins, and listen to my beautiful song. 

For if you don’t listen and don’t graduate, 

Your future will be all wrong. 

And if you have a degree and some learning from me, 

You can own a home in twenty-seven days flat. 

And if you study your math, and go to each clath, 

You will get all your dreams just like that-” 

The song ended abruptly as a hawk came in and ate Miss Toad. 

Piper and Sheckles swore to finish their education at the University of Michigan to honour the late Miss Toad. All hail Miss Toad who simply did not live as long as we wanted. 

So they took their school seeds and put them in dirt. And for four years the seeds did grow. And they watered the seeds, and rushed a sorority, and the seeds continued to grow. 

And then one day after four years of talk, the seeds became six-foot-five beanstalks, and Piper and Sheckles wiggled with glee. 

“I wonder, oh, what’s in my beanstalk for me?” 

Piper climbed it first, she liked to fight. She climbed up her beanstalk, and climbed it just right. Once at the top, she peeled back the leaves to see what had grown from her college degree. 

But nothing at all. It was just dust. 

Just dirt, and dust, and betrayal of trust. And a ghost, yest a ghost. The ghost of Miss Toad climbed out of the beanstalk that had just growed.

“Miss Toad, or your ghost, I don’t understand?” said Piper, with a whole lot of nothing in hand.  

“Well Piper, this is called a BFA. It’s worth nothing, and you owe me one-hundred-thousand dollars today,” said Miss Toad, as he hit Piper in the shins with one of those riding crop things. 

Sheckles called from across the way, “Sister, there’s nothing in my beanstalk for may!” 

“Miss Toad made promises of owning a home, but now I just owe one-hundred-thousand dollars, and his ghost is hitting me in the shins with one of those riding crop things.” 

So the twins did jump from their beanstalks so high and said, “We’ll figure out how to survive.” 

But they were not the first and they’ll not be the last to pay off student debt until they die. 

They went to jobs mouse and asked for a job, and the mouse said, “A job, now what is a job? You must have three-to-four years working at this before you can get your first job at this.” 

“What?” said the twins. 

“Exactly!” he said. 

So the twins walked down the road. The found the realestate badger, the badger of realestate, to find our young couple a house. Now they date. 

The twins, yes the twins, and a couple as well, said, “How do we purchase a house? What the hell?” 

“Well, you must pay in breadcrumbs, of which there are none, as we are in the middle of a recession. When I was a cub in the 1960s, I brought this cottage for four breadcrumbs, and now Zillow says it’s worth 3.46 million breadcrumbs and there isn’t even in-unit laundry. By the way, the federal minimum wage is seven breadcrumbs and twenty-five cents an hour before tax.” 

“Oh, whoopsie no, and whoopidey no!” said Piper, the feisty young twin, “Let us go to the only parent we know. See if she can help us win.”

So they went to their wicked step-mother indeed and said, “Dearest step-witch, we are in need. We tried to do things the way you said, and now the ghost of Miss Toad has a price on our head.”

The wicked step-mother looked them up and down. 

She said, “This is your fault,” and began to frown, “You were the ones who listened to me, and that is your fault, zipedeedee. But listen to me now, for this is quite right. The vaccine is filled with microchips, and blue lives matter, global warming isn’t real, but if it is, it’s your fault. Good luck having your own sons in this burning rubble of a failed society, you cucks. I’m on bath salts.” 

Then the wicked step-mother did jump off the roof, and run to the polls to vote for Jeffery Epstein Dead Sex-Offender for President of the United States of the Enchanted Wood right next to the Sugar Plum Zoo. 

And as the world started to burn, Piper asked Sheckles, “What did we learn?” 

“Well, my good Piper,” Sheckles did say, “We learned that the world is not okay. So, our step-mom’s on bath salts, and we owe a ghost money. What do we do, my twin and my honey?” 

So the twins made passionate sweet, sweet, love on a mushroom outside of a shoe. And that’s where our tale ends, sweet child of mine.

Now tell me please, what do I do?  

for @billiewena‘s birthday bash → bestiesnatural

based on the comic by @pencilscratchins in their Kevin and the Wonder Twins zine!

hope everyone had a good destiel day!

because we need all the softness in our lives, could I ask for slow dancing + ineffable husbands? 🥺

I think we all deserve this, yes

---

Crowley—and he would sooner jump head-first into a pool of holy water and then drink it than admit this aloud—is happy. Deliriously happy, in fact. He's topped out the happiness scales and is inventing new shades of happiness as he twirls the stem of his wine glass between his fingers and pretends not to be watching Aziraphale across the table as said angel watches London go by through the rain-streaked bookshop window.

They're okay. They're both okay. The world, too, is okay. They've still got it. They've still got each other. All is right in creation and eternity stretches out in front of them, absolutely bursting with potential. It's the first day—since it is actually three in the morning now—of the rest of their lives.

So they ought to start, Crowley thinks, as he means to go on.

"Angel," he says, something inside him curling up warmly at the way Aziraphale's attention falls on him all at once.

"Mm?"

"You," he says, tapping on the back of Aziraphale's hand. "Owe me something."

"I owe you a great deal," Aziraphale says quietly, looking away.

That won't do. That won't do at all.

Crowley gestures vaguely at the record player, and the first strains of something soft and slow crackle in the air.

He stands, giving himself a moment for the room to stop swaying, and then offers his hand.

Aziraphale looks at it like he's never seen it before.

"Apology dance," Crowley says. "Version two."

Aziraphale continues to stare at his hand, an adorable little line forming between his brows.

"Come on," Crowley beckons with his extended hand. "Do you know how often I've offered to dance with anyone? At all? Once. Just now. You'd be missing out on a genuine historical event if you don't take me up on it."

Aziraphale takes another moment. He's gotten cautious. It'll wear off, Crowley thinks—hopes—sometime between ten seconds and a millennium from now. Give or take.

But that's all right. They've got time. And now he's not wondering anymore. He knows. He's just got to wait.

"C'mere," he tries, promising himself he'll drop it if Aziraphale doesn't take the bait this time.

But he does. Wonderfully, gloriously, he does. His hand slips into Crowley's like it was made just for the purpose. Crowley's fairly sure it was. Not even God could tell him otherwise.

Crowley does not slow dance. Generally speaking, short of emergencies or spectacular drunkenness, he does not dance, full stop.

But it's very easy to draw Aziraphale close. Rest a hand on his waist. Sway aimlessly with him in small, easy steps around the cramped quarters of the bookshop.

"There we go," Crowley speaks up once he's sure they're really doing this. "Think I like this one better."

And then, because he really wants to and he's still feeling very brave and at least a little drunk, he leans close to rest his forehead against Aziraphale's, and smiles. This is also, he thinks, where his head belongs. In the grand scheme of the universe.

"A-apology... accepted, then?" Aziraphale asks.

"Yeah," Crowley says. "Think so."

"G-good. Good. Crowley, I'm so—"

"Shh," Crowley murmurs, twirling Aziraphale away slowly and then pulling him back in. "Forgiven. Forgotten."

Aziraphale makes a noise of disbelief.

That won't do, either.

Slowly, ever so slowly, with all his attention laser-focused on Aziraphale to see if he flinches or pulls away or stiffens at all, Crowley raises a hand to his cheek, and strokes his thumb along the ridge of it.

"Would you forgive me again if I kissed you, angel?"

Aziraphale's breath hitches. The lights flicker. The record skips.

"Since when do you ask permission?" he asks, voice trembling again.

Crowley laughs, low and crackling along with the record player. "I'm not," he says, leaning in close, until there's barely the space for an angel to dance on the head of a pin between them. "I'm begging forgiveness."

And then he closes the distance, soft, tentative, gentle. Six thousand years, give or take, in the making. It feels like every second of it. It feels like every second was worth it, when Aziraphale opens up under him, and—surprise of surprises—darts his tongue out in the world's least practiced attempt at kissing back.

Not, honestly, that Crowley has any more experience. He's just not trying to rush headlong into the complicated stuff.

He pulls back laughing again, giddy with it, and gives Aziraphale another, more enthusiastic twirl under his arm.

"Well?" he asks. He knows the answer. It's written all over Aziraphale's face.

His angel clears his throat. "Well. We may need some practice to get that right."

Crowley breaks into a grin that immediately makes his face hurt. "Just as well we've got forever, then."

- houses for sale

- how to buy a house

- moving trucks

- how to be welcomed

- is it strange that I can't find my neighbors

- jobs near me

- jobs close to me

- why aren't there any jobs

- why is my neighborhood empty

- what does it mean if your town is deserted

- how to wake up from a dream

- how to tell if you're in a dream

- cheap door locks that work

- how to reinforce doors

- what does it mean if you can only see your neighbors at night

- what to do if there are home intruders

- self defense

- self defense weaponary

- how to make a gun with supplies at home

- why won't the sun come up

- police

- what to do when the power goes out

- how to survive without ever leaving your house

- substitutes for food

- is eating human meat ethical

- is it cannibalism to eat yourself

- how to make the voices stop

- make it stop

Write a horror story in the format of an Internet search history

Ready to start?

Yes No

Cereal.

usually the comment section of a post is a dreadful, horrifying place, but not on this post

you found a safehaven

everyone in the comments is just talking about their favorite soup

⬇️