#bittle birkholtz brousins

[halfabreath]

If you are still doing requests from the Rosh Hashanah prompt, Could you write a quick thing with Holster craving latkes even though it’s not Chanukah?

yes!! thank you bud!!! this turned out a lil sad but i hope you like it!

Bittle Birkholtz Brousins: Tag. Ao3. Masterpost.

Bitty carefully weaves his overflowing grocery cart through the crowded aisles, scanning the shelves for the next item on his list. He only needs a jar of honey and then he’s done, he’s free, he can get the hell out of this grocery hell he’s been trapped in for the last hour and half. He knows better than to go grocery shopping on a Saturday afternoon but somehow shopping for the Haus and Rosh Hashanah had happened on the same day, and Bitty’s officially run out of time. He’d waited until the last minute to venture out and now he’s paying the price.

“Excuse me, dear,” Bitty grits out, just barely managing to smile at the athleisure clad soccer mom who’s blocking the end of the aisle with her two shopping carts. She takes her time moving them to make a space just wide enough for Bitty to squeeze through. “Bless. Your. Pea-pickin. Heart.” Bitty says, all but strangling the plastic covering the cart handle. He rounds a corner, finally in the place he needs to be, but stops in his tracks the moment he turns into the next aisle.

“Adam, no.” Bitty groans, slumping over to let his forehead rest on the industrial sized detergent he’d shoved in the basket. Holster is standing in the middle of the miraculously empty aisle, a giant bag of potatoes slung over one shoulder. He has jars of applesauce and containers of sour cream tucked under his other arm. He’s grinning that manic grin he always wears when he’s about to go overboard.

“Adam, yes.” Holster shoots back, crossing the distance between them in three huge steps. He dumps the applesauce and sour cream in the cart before hefting the gargantuan bag of potatoes higher on his shoulder.

“Don’t tell me,” Bitty begins, but Holster’s already nodding. “But it’s not even Chanukah,” Bitty whines, curling over the cart childishly. “You almost destroyed my kitchen the last time you made latkes.” Bitty shivers, the Oil Incident of ‘15 flashing before his eyes.

Holster rolls his eyes and hooks his fingers into the front of the cart to pull it forward. “You’re so dramatic. No one was ever in any danger.” Bitty trails after him, incredulous.

“Sure, Holster, between the two of us I’m the dramatic one. That’s what people say about us. That Adam Birkholtz is so lowkey and chill! No, his cousin is the one who’s always shouting in the quad or throwing pies at innocent bystanders! Yup, Eric Bittle definitely cries whenever Lardo sends him a picture of ducklings or he remembers a random episode of Grey’s Anatomy or songs from Les Miserables play in Annie’s.” Bitty plops jars of honey into the cart to punctuate his words, trying to match Holster’s regular speaking volume.

“It’s irresponsible to play ‘I Dreamed A Dream’ in public places!” Holster protests, but he doesn’t even try to address any of the other examples. He hefts the bag of potatoes higher up on his shoulder, shifting his weight from foot to foot like he always does when he’s nervous. Holster stares down at the contents of the cart, his free hand idly tracing over the giant bottle of Sriracha tucked in the corner. “C’mon, Bits,” He says softly, gaze jumping up to meet Bitty’s. “I’m just. Craving latkes.” He finishes lamely, raising his free shoulder in a little shrug.

Bitty studies his cousin, takes in the set of his brow and slight slump of his shoulders. “Your mom’s not coming down for family weekend, is she?” He asks, reading the answer on Holster’s face before he can even answer. “I’m sorry, Adam.” The grocery cart between them keeps Bitty from reaching out, but he gently bumps the metal against Holster’s leg.

“‘S okay,” Holster’s gaze drifts back down to the contents of the cart. He stares at a stalk of broccoli, takes a deep breath, and lets it out. When he looks up he’s smiling, just a small, crooked thing, but he’s standing straighter than he was a moment ago and he looks like his normal self. “Do I really need a reason to crave fried potatoes? C’mon, I promise I’ll clean up the kitchen and I pinky promise that there will be zero danger this time around.”

“Fine,” Bitty sighs, and he automatically ducks his head when Holster lets out a celebratory whoop.

“Sorry,” Holster winces, having the decency to look just a little sheepish. He whoops again, this time in a half-whisper, raising one finger in a tiny celebratory wave. He reaches out across the cart and Bitty meets him halfway to link their pinkies together in a solemn vow. 

“Let’s get a move on,” Bitty nudges the cart forward to push the end into Holster’s leg. “We’ve got about a thousand potatoes to shred.”

[halfabreath]

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

'He’s wearing Ransom’s white snapback (no wonder he couldn’t find it before) and he must have raided Ransom’s drawer because he’s sporting a pair of Ransom’s joggers that show off the cut of his hips and hug his thick thighs perfectly, but Ransom can’t even concentrate on the fit because Holster’s also wearing a floral crop top and nothing could have prepared Ransom for that.

It’s not that Holster’s wearing a crop top, it’s that Holster’s wearing a crop top. '

Art by: @overdue-library-books

Fanfiction by: @halfabreath

Bonus:

[shitty-check-please-aus]

This probably doesn't count as Shitty but Shitty and Bitty being cousins. Their is a aunt Carrie that is most likely one of Mama Bittles sisters. So why not southern bell turned cut throat feminist lawyer.

an au to rival the Bittle Birkholtz Brousins series by @halfabreath

(do I need only the smallest excuse to reread that? yes. Gonna go reread it now)

[checkpleaselibrary]

Bittle Birkholtz Brousins (series) by halfabreath

no archive warnings apply

not rated, general audiences

7 689 words

wip

eric bittle & adam birkholtz, eric bittle/jack zimmermann, adam birkholtz/justin oluransi

When Eric Bittle is 8 years old his Aunt Judy marries a Northeasterner named Jacob Birkholtz and suddenly he’s not the weirdest cousin anymore, it’s this gangly 12 year old named Adam who Did Not Want to move to Georgia and now they’re stuck in the same town together.

Parts 1-3, as they're posted on Tumblr.

[ao3feed-holsom]

Oh Please, Say to Me (You'll Let Me Be Your Man)

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/2HugnQ2

by halfabreath

It's their last kegster as members of SMH, and Ransom knows he looks good. The romper accentuates every asset hockey gave him and he chose the color specifically because it goes perfectly with his complexion. He looks good - better than good. Ransom knows he looks great.

But Holster looks incredible.

(Ransom and Holster are idiots, but they're idiots in love).

Words: 6496, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Series: Part 4 of Bittle Birkholtz Brousins

Fandoms: Check Please! (Webcomic)

Rating: Not Rated

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: M/M

Characters: Adam "Holster" Birkholtz, Justin "Ransom" Oluransi, Eric "Bitty" Bittle

Relationships: Adam "Holster" Birkholtz/Justin "Ransom" Oluransi, Adam "Holster" Birkholtz & Eric "Bitty" Bittle

Additional Tags: Bittle Birkholtz Brousins, Miscommunication, Drinking, Vomiting, gratuitous descriptions of freckles and blushing

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/2HugnQ2

[jack-manpain-zimmermann]

Okay but why is This Country an AU of the Bittle Birkholtz Brousins by @halfabreath

Holster is Kerry

Bitty is Kurtan

Aunt Judy is Sue (Kerry’s mum)

For seriously:

(possible tw for the content of a lot of the show but this video is safe and hilarious)

[halfabreath]

I'd love to hear about any of the BBB fics. thanks in advance!

For the Directer’s Cut Ask! This is from Oh Please, Say to Me (You’ll Let Me Be Your Man) aka the long awaited “holster and ransom finally kiss because of crop tops and @teluete making me think about blushy, freckled Holster” chapter of the Bittle Birkholtz Brousins universe. 

“I think those assholes are the only thing I’m not going to miss about this place,” Holster’s standing up straight, hands on his hips, surveying the stretch of campus before him. The fireworks explode again, illuminating him in white light for a brief moment before fading.

“Scantrons,” Ransom says absently, distracted by a wayward freckle on Holster’s hip. A quick motion in the corner of his eye draws his attention; Holster’s holding out a hand to help him up. He reaches up and takes it immediately and lets Holster pull him to his feet.

“Those gross breakfast sausage patties at the dining hall,” Holster adds, hand firmly clasped around Ransom’s.

“The sticky carpet in the library,” Ransom says with a wince when he’s finally on his feet. He swears Holster gives his hand a squeeze before he lets go to clamber back through the window. “The awkward section of the lecture hall that doesn’t get wifi.”

“That one trash can on the quad that’s always full.” Holster half-kneels on Bitty’s bed, offering a hand for Ransom to take when he climbs through the window. Ransom’s successfully made it from Bitty’s room to the Reading Room a million times in every possible stage of intoxication but he takes it anyway, and this time he doesn’t let go.

“Professor Matthison, Dr. Graves, Dr. Mr. Ryton, Dr. Mrs. Ryton.” Ransom lists as Holster carefully rearranges Sr. Bun so he’s resting in the middle of Bitty’s pillow and not precariously close to the edge of the bed.

“Freshmen.” Holster says as they finally exit Bitty’s room. “Sophomores,” He adds after a brief moment. “Juniors,” He says when they reach the second flight of steps. “Most Seniors. The odd grad student who sticks around way longer than they should.”

“Parties at the soccer house that never stand up to the hype.” Ransom kicks their door closed behind him as Holster leads him up the stairs, their hands still joined.

“The people who come back from study abroad all enlightened an’ shit.” Holster says. “Like, we get it, you left America, good for you.” He stops by the desk to collect the water bottles they’d filled before the party and Ransom drops his hand reluctantly to take his. Ransom makes a b-line for the bottom bunk, just barely pulling ahead, and manages to flop down first before Holster can beat him to it. Holster, undeterred, climbs on top of him in retaliation and the next thing Ransom knows his best friend is straddling him, the back of his head resting against the bottom of the top bunk.

Suddenly, Ransom can’t think of a single thing he’s going to miss about Samwell, because Samwell will always be the place he met Holster, the place he played with Holster, the place he co-captained with Holster, the place he kissed Holster.

I graduated from undergrad 2.5 years ago and this passage was inspired by the things about my college that annoyed me (minus the deep rooted homophobia and evangelicalism). I changed a few letters in the professor’s names and the terrible parties were at the football team’s house but everything else is 100% accurate, down to the sticky carpet and annoying post-study abroad folks. 

The breakfast sausage patties were so, so gross but as I was writing I got to remember how my friends and I would dice them up and add them to breakfast burritos to make them edible. The parties were a letdown but my friends and I would have wine and cheese nights instead of going. The lecture hall didn’t have wifi but I’d write notes on the corner of my friend’s notes. For every bad thing, I’d remember at least one good thing that happened because of it, and since my undergrad experience was so marked by really bad things (again, the homophobia and evangelicalism) it felt so freeing to actually remember the good times. 

[halfabreath]

Something in the brousins verse + those fruity flavored freeze pop things + summer? (Apparently “fruity flavored freeze pop” is among the technical terms)

i love this prompt!!!! thank you so much! this was so much fun to write. 

Bittle-Birkholtz-Brousins: Tag, Ao3, Masterpost

Eric - he’s Eric or Dicky when he’s in Georgia - stands in threshold of his kitchen, leaning against the doorframe. The sharp right angle of the painted wood cuts into his bare arm, but he doesn’t mind the small bite. What he does mind, however, is the giant laying in the middle of his kitchen when Eric has a vlog to film.

“Adam,” He sighs, tilting his head to rest his forehead against the cool wood. He receives only a drawn-out groan in response. The summer heat settles around his shoulders like an electric blanket turned up to the highest setting, but Eric’s used to it. Adam, however, is not, and even though he’s called Georgia home for well over a decade his Northern constitution still hasn’t adjusted to the heat and humidity. He’s currently sprawled on the cool hardwoods that span the length of Eric’s kitchen, wearing only a pair of shorts Eric knows belong to Ransom not only because they’re slightly too short and slightly too tight, but because he saw Ransom wearing them when he and Jack visited last month for the Fourth of July.  

It’s been exactly thirty three days since Jack left, and there’s exactly ten days until he’ll see him again. Just ten days. Eric can survive ten more days, right?

A mournful moan echoes around the kitchen as Adam rolls over, turning into a relieved sigh when his back reaches a new patch of cool flooring.

Right. Eric has a sweaty giant to contend with.

“You’re lucky I mopped and swept the floor this morning.” Eric says as he steps over his cousin’s prone form. Adam’s frown only deepens; he’s giving out a real Nick Miller vibe today but Eric can’t even tell him that because he knows it’ll just encourage him. “Let me guess, the air conditioning at your house is acting up again?” Eric says mildly as he sets his camera down on the counter.

“I’m dying,” Adam groans, letting one arm flop over his forehead. “I’m dying, I’m dead, I’m deceased. Will you tell Judy I love her?” He says as Eric steps over him on his way to the fridge.

“No, but I will tell Ransom you’re hopelessly in love with him.” Eric shoots back. A cool wave washes over him when he opens the fridge; Adam sighs in relief and rolls over towards the cold air, curling his entire body around Eric’s ankles.

“Low blow.” Adam grits out as he tries to shove his head into the fridge. Eric just shrugs and pulls the ingredients he prepped this morning out of the fridge, stacking the neat containers in his arms.

“Maybe so, but someone has to tell him and if it’s not going to be you then it’s going to be me.” Eric twists around, only able to escape from Adam’s clutches thanks to Katya and her Russian calisthenics that somehow, inexplicably, prepared him for this very situation.

Adam pushes himself up so he can press his cheek against the fridge door. “Not all of us can have a cinematic as fuck first kiss with a gorgeous Canadian who has cheekbones that could cut glass and an ass that’s so perfect science itself can’t fully explain its existence.”

Eric opens his mouth to protest, then closes it because Adam’s not wrong. Turns out the Bittle-Birkholtz-Brousins have a type.

Eric turns and leans against the counter as he studies his cousin. Adam looks absolutely miserable from the heat and the boredom and the pining and the fact that he’s probably re-watched Flight of the Conchords six times this summer. 

“Come on, get on up. You’re helping me with this vlog.” Eric declares. Adam’s eyes goes wide and he straightens up, looking like himself for the first time all day.

“Really? I get to be on the vlog?” Adam asks, already perking up. He lets out a whoop when Eric nods and even stands up.

“I need you to do an impartial taste comparison. I’m trying to recreate the flavors of freeze pops with fruit instead of what essentially amounts to frozen simple syrup. But you have to put a shirt on!” Eric turns suddenly, reaching out to poke Adam’s bare chest. “You hear me? No shirt, no special guest appearance.”

Adam grins. “You’re telling me that I get to eat popsicles for the next couple hours and I get to be on the vlog and all I have to do is put on a shirt? You’ve got yourself a deal.” He sticks out a hand; Eric takes it and shakes it three distinct times and the next thing he knows they’re in the thick of the Super Secret Brousin Handshake (it’s the Parent Trap handshake, verbatim, but no one needs to know). Adam’s hip bump almost sends Eric flying into the countertop but he just barely keeps his balance so he can retaliate on the next one, and Adam’s booming laughter echoes around the kitchen when Eric’s exaggerated hip bump hits him on his upper thigh instead of his hip. His smile remains even after the handshake ends, even when it’s stained red from the cherry popsicles Eric keeps making him try.

That’s more like it.

[halfabreath]

Ooo what about BBB and “I’m gonna lunch a pumpkin”? 🌸

thanks you so much for the amazing prompt! i’m assuming you meant “punch a pumpkin” so i went with that! sorry it’s a little late, but hopefully you’re still in the thanksgiving mood.

Bittle Birkholtz Brousins: the masterpost, the tag, ao3

NOVEMBER 24, 2004

“But Mama –” Eric protests, socked feet trying and failing to find traction on the hardwood floors as Suzanne pushes him down the hallway. “I don’t want to sit with him!” He says, brutal honesty winning the day over forced hospitality.  At eight years old he’s not tall or strong enough to resist her but he leans back anyway, reaching out in an attempt to catch the crown molding with his fingertips to use as a grip.

“Dicky,” Mama scolds, hands firm but gentle on his shoulders. “You’re gonna sit with your cousin and you’re gonna be civil.” She comes to a stop just before the threshold to the kitchen, where the dreaded kid’s table is waiting for him. Mama turns him around and kneels, reaching out to straighten Eric’s bow tie. “I know y’all don’t get along but Dicky, you have to be a good host. He’s family and he’s new here.” Eric frowns, but she turns him and again and pushes him through the door before he can protest.

The kitchen, only recently vacated by his aunts and grandparents, seems strangely empty. The smells of the day have mingled together in an appetizing menagerie of poultry, sugar, and spices, but even the grumbling in Eric’s stomach isn’t incentive enough to take the only open seat.

“Be a good host,” he mumbles under his breath. “Be a good host.” Eric takes a fortifying breath and walks across the kitchen to take a seat next to his new cousin. There are only four chairs at the table, two of which are occupied by his Uncle Roy’s twin daughters. They’re only six but they’re well behaved and still tired from their nap, sitting quietly as they eat their dinner. They’re even chewing with their mouths closed, which is more than Adam can do, apparently.

Adam doesn’t speak when he settles in, cheeks bulging with food as he chews. Both his elbows are planted on the table and his long legs are splayed beneath the table, his knee encroaching on Eric’s space. Eric presses his legs together and starts spooning food onto his plate, arranging each dish carefully in a neat circle. He glances at Adam’s plate, wincing when he sees everything piled up in the middle of the plate in an unsightly mound of conflicting textures. Eric turns his attention back to his neat plate and carefully ladles gravy into the divot he’d carved out of his mashed potatoes. He pours in just enough so it flows out one side, spilling directly onto the turkey. He glances back at Adam’s plate, noticing that his mashed potatoes are naked. Be a good host.

“Would you like gravy, Adam?” Eric asks, holding out the chipped gravy boat he insists on using. It’s Mama’s old one and she always tries to throw it away, saying it’s too cracked to be used by guests, but Eric loves the intricate, if faded, design painted along the sides. Adam glances over at him, briefly, before turning his attention back to his plate with a firm shake of his head. Eric deflates and sets it down.

In movies - not that there are many Thanksgiving movies - but in movies or TV shows or commercials Eric’s seen the kid’s table is a rowdy affair. Not so at the Bittle-Birkholtz Thanksgiving - Coach and Mama have two siblings each but only Uncle Roy and Aunt Judy have kids so they didn’t even have to adjust the four chairs that usually sit around the kitchen table. The kitchen is quiet as the cousins eat, only the soft scraping of silverware against the ceramic plates disrupting the silence. Eric works his way around his plate, mixing flavors and textures appropriately. Beside him, Adam shovels food into his mouth, mixing up everything on his plate until the food is mashed up together in a disgusting gray lump. They only look up from their food when footsteps echo down the hallway from the dining room, their gaze trained on the entrance as Adam’s father appears. He almost fills the door frame; he’s the tallest one in the family by far.

“Hey, Eric, Hannah, Alexandra.” He greets warmly, a smile peeking out from his thick blonde beard. Eric gives him a little wave, which he returns. “Adam, I have to head to the airport to make my flight but your stepmom will give you a ride home in a few hours, okay?” Uncle Jacob’s voice is soft, gentle in a way Coach’s rarely is. Adam just nods and looks back down at his food, dragging his fork through his mashed potatoes. When Eric looks back Uncle Jacob is frowning but the expression quickly smooths over when he sees that Eric is watching. He waves again and disappears. Adam’s up in a flash, the chair squeaking sharply as he pushes it back suddenly. His long limbs flail as he runs across the small kitchen, loud footsteps coming to a stop just outside the door.

“Dad,” Adam says, voice easily carrying through the kitchen. “Can you drop me off at home before you go? Please?” He asks, desperation undercutting every word. Even so, Eric glares at the part of the wall he knows Adam is standing behind. How rude and selfish and inconsiderate after everyone worked so hard making the food he’d barely touched.

“Adam, no –” Uncle Jacob says immediately. Good. At least Uncle Jacob has manners, even if he hadn’t passed them on to his son.

Adam’s not deterred, though. “Please, Dad.” He whines, and Eric huffs in annoyance. Doesn’t he know everyone in the kitchen can hear him? Their girls aren’t paying attention but Eric certainly is.

Eric’s gaze drops to the shadows the father and son cast down the hall, just barely able to make out the movement of Jacob shaking his head. “No way. It’s bad enough I have to go to work.” He points out, and Eric agrees. At least he has to go fly a plane; it’s one of the better excuses Eric can think of to get out of a social engagement.

“Dad, I just want to go.” Adam says quietly. He sounds more restrained, like he’s trying to keep himself calm.

Jacob huffs out a soft laugh. “Why, so you can watch Friends re-runs? I don’t think so.” It sounds like he’s about to scold his son, and Eric knows it’s not polite to eavesdrop but it would be satisfying to hear his rude cousin called out on his poor behavior, so he straightens up in his chair and focuses on listening to the conversation happing outside the room.

Instead of an admonishment, he hears a soft sob. “I don’t – I don’t know anyone here.” Adam says, voice thick with tears, and suddenly, Eric doesn’t think this is very funny anymore. “I don’t fit in and no one likes me and they like, whisper when they think I can’t hear and ask me weird stuff and I just really, really want to go home.”

“Home to the house, or home to Buffalo?” Jacob’s gentle tone is back, sincere with worry, and Eric considers getting up to give them privacy but he can’t risk them hearing him move – then they’ll know he’s been eavesdropping for sure and Mama will be so disappointed in him. He hasn’t been a good host at all.

“I don’t know, maybe? Just somewhere that isn’t here.” Adam says, the words broken up by sniffs and sharp breaths. Eric looks around the kitchen, unable to imagine not wanting to be in his favorite place in the whole world. He wonders, absently, where  Adam’s favorite place is and if it’s even in Georgia at all.

There’s a rusting sound that Eric thinks might be hugging, and when he glances down the two shadows have merged into one giant one. “Adam,” Uncle Jacob says quietly, sounding almost as sad as Adam is. It’s strange; Eric didn’t think dads were supposed to get upset like that.

“Please.” Adam’s voice is muffled but Eric can just barely make out the word. He looks back down at his plate, ashamed that he’s been listening this whole time.

They’re quiet for a long moment until there’s more rusting and the shadows split into two separate forms again. “Son, I know this is hard. You’re in a new place with new people but they’re all family and they might not know what to say or what to do but they care about you. Besides, how do you think Judy would feel if you left?“ Uncle Jacob reasons.

There’s a pause and a short sniff before Adam responds. “Sad, maybe.” Adam mumbles, speaking softer than Eric’s ever heard him.

“Sad, definitely.” Uncle Jacob corrects. “She loves you so much, Adam. And I know you love her, too. This is the kind of stuff we do for people we love. Okay?” Eric shifts in his seat, wanting to give them privacy but two afraid of making noise to actually move.

Adam sniffs again and when he speaks his voice is steady. “Okay. For Judy.” He says. Eric relaxes, relieved he’s calmed down. He shoves a forkful of food into his mouth; he should have been eating this whole time. Hopefully Adam doesn’t notice when he’s come back and realize what he’s done.

“That’s my guy. I have to go, but I love you so, so much, kiddo.” Eric can hear Uncle Jacob’s smile in his voice. It’s weird to hear a dad admit it so readily. Mama says it often, but it’s a once a year admission from Coach.

“Love you too, Dad.” Adam says easily. Footsteps echo back down the hall. Eric’s not sure how long Adam stays in the hallway but when his cousin walks back in his eyes are dry and only a little red-rimmed. He picks up his fork but doesn’t eat.

“Hey,” Eric says suddenly. Adam looks over with flat eyes and a frown already on his lips. “I made a pie today, all by myself. Do you want to see?” He’s already jumping out of his chair but he just manages to catch Adam’s unconvincing shrug and nod combo. He carefully picks it up from the counter, the old tin still warm beneath his hands as he carries it over to the table. It’s slightly less perfect than he remembers it being when he’d pulled it out of the oven hours ago. The crust isn’t uniform in color, texture, or pattern and he can see precisely where little air bubbles had formed in the pumpkin filling, but it still smells amazing when he ducks his head to sniff it. Adam leans in after, still congested, but he gives Eric a little smile anyway.

“It looks really good.” He says slowly, like he has to convince himself to say the words at all. Maybe he does, and maybe that’s okay. Eric’s realizing he doesn’t know nearly as much about his cousin as he thought he did.

“Do you want to eat it?” Eric asks, and Adam nods before he even finishes he sentence. Adam searches around for new plates for all four of the cousins while Eric slices out four unequal but triangular slices. His hand wobbles as he transfers the slices to the plates but he doesn’t drop any of the pieces. Adam distributes them while he grabs the whipped cream, and they pass the container around until everyone’s ready to eat.

The girls eat quietly but Adam hums a second after his first bite, eyebrows raising in surprise. The bottom crust isn’t as crunchy as Mama’s pies and Eric thinks there’s maybe a little too much cinnamon, but even as the pie’s list of faults grows the other three people at the table keep on eating.

“You made this by yourself?” Adam asks halfway through his slice. He sounds impressed, and he actually turns to face Eric when he asks the question instead of staring down at his food.

Eric nods proudly. “Mama didn’t help me at all! She usually does but she was so busy today that I made it from scratch.” He knows it’s not polite to brag but Adam doesn’t seem off put. He actually pauses before his next bite, looking down at the piece on his fork thoughtfully.

“Cool.” Adam says, and takes another huge bite. He chews and swallows quickly. “It’s really good. You should make more.”

“More pumpkin pies?” He asks. Bitty hadn’t considered that. They’re only in season for one day of the year. Then again, Mama bakes almost every day, and he always likes helping her, so maybe he could do that, too.

“Any pie.” Adam says with a shrug, picking up the remaining crust with his fingers. Eric doesn’t think he’s ever seen any kind of food disappear that quickly before. It’s encouraging to see how Adam doesn’t seem to care about any of the flaws Eric has tallied up in his head. They’re actually getting along, too, so maybe he should start baking more. For the peace.

“Thanks,” he says, turning his attention back to his own slice. The flaws don’t seem to stand out as much anymore now that Adam’s reaching for another slice. The grownups pour into the kitchen soon after with empty plates and serving platters. Aunt Judy dances through the crowd until she reaches Adam’s side, immediately pulling him close. He goes easily, shoulders relaxing when she combs her fingers through his short hair.

“I’m sorry that took so long, sugar. I just need to get my stuff and then we can go home; your dad said you were tired.” She’s looking down at Adam in concern, brows knitting together the same way Mama’s do when she’s worried.

Adam glances down at the plate, at Eric, and then back up to his stepmother. “You don’t have to rush. I can stay longer.” He says easily, shrugging one shoulder casually. Eric looks over at him in surprise, but luckily neither Adam nor Judy see him.

“You sure?” Aunt Judy asks, brushing her knuckles over Adam’s cheek. Mama did the same thing when Eric had a fever a few months ago. Adam smiles and it looks genuine; Eric hopes it is.

“Yeah.” Adam says easily. He looks over at Eric and offers him a little smile. Eric returns it and picks up the pie plate, holding it out to the two of them. Aunt Judy and Mama both get slices but Adam eats most of it, accepting every slice Eric hands him.

TEN YEARS LATER.

“Yo, Bits! Bit-tay!” Holster’s booming voice carries through the Haus, growing louder as he thunders down the stairs from the attic. He’s yelling so loudly it almost dwarfs the sound of his feet thumping on the creaky floorboards. “B-Train! B-Titty! Itty Bit - ” He swings into the kitchen, face falling when he sees the chaos in the kitchen. Bitty’s kneeling on the linoleum floor, tears in his eyes and flour smeared over his cheek as he picks up the pieces of a ceramic pie plate. The entire contents of a bag of flour is spread out over the kitchen table, forming little white mountains and valleys. There are pumpkin guts smeared over the cabinets and a beautifully dressed but still completely raw turkey on the counter.

Adam’s not stupid enough to stomp over to Bitty and risk cutting his feet and legs on the many shards scattered over the kitchen floor, but he does spring into action. He slips on a pair of shoes and tiptoes through the mess until he can kneel in front of Bitty, who’s sniffing quietly as the gathers the pieces of the pie plate in his hands.

“Hey, Bits.” Holster says quietly, placing a careful hand on Bitty’s shoulder. His cousin looks up at him with wide, wet eyes, and Holster has to hold back every instinct he has to pull Bitty in for a crushing hug - his cousin is still holding ceramic shards, after all, and Holster doesn’t want either of them to get impaled. He leans back and just barely manages to grab onto the trashcan with his fingertips, dragging it over so Bitty can dump the shards into the trash. The moment his hands are free he buries his face in Holster’s shoulder, clinging to him with a strength that most people would find surprising.

Holster’s not most people, though, and he never underestimates his brousin. He wraps his arms around Bitty’s shoulders, rubbing up and down his back soothingly. “So, uh,” Holster begins, but before he can continue Bitty’s speaking a mile a minute, the words spoken against the soft fabric of his t-shirt.

The first burst comes out in a confusing jumble of muffled syllables Holster can’t make out, but when Bitty turns his head to take in a shaking gasp of air the words become clear. “And I didn’t put the blender lid on so the pie filling went everywhere and I was trying to clean it but then I dropped my pie pan and it’s one of the ones your mom lent me but when I was cleaning I forgot to put the turkey in and now Hausgiving is ruined and everyone will be mad and it’s my first Thanksgiving in the Haus and I just want them all to like the food!” Bitty’s voice gets higher and more frantic with each word, but Holster just holds him tightly until he’s finished speaking.

“First of all, everyone already likes the food.” Holster says calmly, knowing that when Bitty panics about people liking his food it’s rarely about the food itself. “They’ll like it because you made it! And because their only other option is cafeteria turkey and like, Bits. That’s not a high bar. That’s maybe the lowest of bars. It doesn’t have to be the best turkey in Massachusetts because these assholes wouldn’t appreciate it if it was.” Even with their history, Holster knows he’s guilty of this as well - just last week he’d dumped Sriracha on the fancy French scrambled eggs Bitty made, but in his defense, how was he supposed to know that Gordon Ramsey’s recipe was difficult to make? All eggs look the same! Holster shakes his head to clear his mind; he’s getting way off track. “Besides, Judy won’t be mad that the pie plate’s broken. Bro, you have no idea how much shit I’ve broken over the years. She’s totally used to it by now.”

Bitty sniffs against his chest and even though the trembling in his shoulders is ceasing Holster knows he has to step up his game. He glances around the kitchen, steady gaze traveling over the series of catastrophes that befell his cousin.

“Hey, tell me all the food that’s giving you trouble.” Holster says in a moment of inspiration. His top priority now is getting Bitty cheered up - Bitty’s freakishly productive in the kitchen under most circumstances, but sadness isn’t one of them.

Bitty finally looks up, swiping the back of his hand under his eye. “Why?” He asks, and Holster’s relieved to have his focus. His lips are still turned down in a sad little frown, but at least now he looks more intrigued than devastated.

“I’m gonna beat it up.” Holster says simply, like it’s a normal thing to do. Bitty’s mouth drops open in surprise.

“What?” He asks, doubting if he’s heard correctly. He sits back on his heels and scrubs away the last of his tears with the back of his hand, finally fixating on something besides the mess he’s in.

Holster nods seriously. “Bitty, I’m gonna kick the ass of each and every vegetable, mineral, or vitamin that’s caused you trouble today.” He says, clapping a heavy hand on Bitty’s shoulder. It’s comforting, because Holster, for all his loudness and snark, is inherently comforting as well, and Bitty can’t help but smile.

“What, you’re going to punch a pumpkin, or something?” He asks, grinning up at his stupid, brilliant, idiotic, hilarious cousin.

Holster’s eyes light up and he stands, assuming a fighting stance. It might be threatening if Bitty didn’t know his only reference was undoubtably Mortal Combat II. “I’m gonna punch a pumpkin, Bits, and you can’t stop me. I’ll drop kick that motherfucker right into the sky.” Holster’s getting into it now, waving his hands dramatically as his words grow more impassioned. He’s about to go full Cosmo Kramer, Bitty can tell, so he stands up and bats Holster’s hands out of the air.

“Please don’t murder my pie, Holster.” Bitty says, unable to keep from laughing even as he speaks.

Holster rolls his eyes. “Ugh, fine. But that pumpkin’s on thin fucking ice.” He points at the pumpkin rind and the orange mess that’s sprayed over the cabinets and wall, admonishing the vegetable forcefully. Bitty’s laughing when Holster’s phone chimes, and he pulls it out of his pocket to glance at the screen. “Hey, Ransom’s about to get coffee from Annie’s. You should go with him.” Holster says, and it’s clear from his tone that it’s not a suggestion, but Bitty just shakes his head.

“But I have so much to do! I can’t just leave! There’s the mess and the pie and the turkey and, and, there’s so much to do!” He protests, looking around at the mess that’s surrounding them. Something hot claws at the back of his throat as pressure begins to build behind his eyes again, but Holster steps in before he can start crying again.

Holster takes a step towards him, careful not to step on anything sharp. He settles both his big hands on Bitty’s shoulders. “But you can take a break. You’ll be gone fifteen minutes, tops, and when you get back I’ll have everything cleaned up so you can start fresh.” He says, using the soft tone Bitty rarely hears him use with anyone else besides his mothers or Ransom. He squeezes gently, a comforting pressure. “I’m pulling rank, Bitty. Get out of here.” He pushes Bitty gently towards the door, giving him plenty of time to step around the ceramic on the ground.

“Thank you, Adam.” Bitty says once he’s clear of the mess. His jacket is draped over one of the kitchen chairs and he can hear Ransom making his way downstairs as he shrugs it on his shoulders. Holster waves him off.

“No worries, brousin. This is the kind of shit we do for people we love.” Holster smiles and Ransom appears at the bottom of the steps before Bitty can reply. He looks into the kitchen, perfectly sculpted eyebrows raised in concern, but Holster just shakes his head once, a quick little motion, and Ransom immediately nods in acceptance. Bitty’s had his fair share of silent conversations with Holster but even he has to admit that they’re on a whole other freaky level.  "Now go get caffeinated and make sure Ransom only gets one extra shot of espresso. Oh, and Bits -“ Holster pauses just before Bitty opens the door.  "If I see you two do that fucking PSL handshake, I’m going to burn your turkey.” Holster threatens. Bitty laughs as he walks outside, Ransom right on his heels. Holster glances around the kitchen and gets to work, only stopping to make a quick call as he sweeps up the pie plate.

“Hey, Jude! Judy! Juju beans!” He greets, putting the call on loudspeaker before setting his phone on the counter. “What’s up? So, hypothetically, if I had to cook a turkey as quickly as possible, how would you, in your infinite wisdom, recommend doing that?”

[halfabreath]

WHAT KINDA BITTLE BIRKHOLTZ BROUSIN NONSENSE IS THIS I’M WEEPING LOOK AT THEM

[halfabreath]

BBB Masterpost

All the Bittle Birkholtz Brousin Shenanigans in one convenient place

The Posts:

Part 1:  when eric bittle is 8 years old his aunt judy marries a Northeasterner named jacob birkholtz and suddenly he’s not the weirdest cousin anymore

Part 2: Puberty and Beyond

Part 3: The Samwell Years

Part 4: Bitty!! Is!! The!! Pie!! And Holster’s in a Jam

The Drabbles:

Holster Comes Out

“I did the dishes,” from the 100 Ways to Say “I love you” prompt

If p then q

Fruity Flavored Freeze Pop Things or, Summertime Sadness

Rosh Hashanah

Fics:

Come Together, Right Now (Over Me) or, Two Thanksgivings

Oh Please, Say to Me (You’ll Let Me Be Your Man) 

[halfabreath]

the ways to say i love you post kills me every time I see it (in a good way) so if you're feeling it, number 34 or 67? ♥

100 Ways to Say “I love you” || Accepting

67. “I did the dishes.” 

Takes place in the Bittle Birkholtz Brousins AU, during the Fourth of July Canadian Invasion that takes place between Bitty’s sophomore and junior years. 

Adam has just selected the most two perfect bananas from the bunch in Aunt Suzanne and Coach’s kitchen for an Official Best Friend Sundae when Eric (they’re AdamandEric in Georgia, not Holster and Bitty) steps into the kitchen. Jack’s right on his heels, beads of sweat collected on his forehead, and he lets out an audible sigh of relief after he carefully closes the porch door behind him.

“Feels good, doesn’t it?” Adam says, feigning innocence. Jack’s cheeks flush and Eric’s hand flies up to cover his lips, still red and swollen from kissing. Adam leaves them hanging for a long moment before jerking his head in the direction of the vent. “The air conditioning,” He clarifies, barely holding in his laughter when they visibly relax. If it were any other couple he’d chirp them to hell and back, but for Eric and Jack? He’ll bite the inside of his lip until he bleeds to keep a straight face. He’s not supposed to know about them - no one is - but in the eleven years they’ve known each other Eric has never once successfully kept a secret from his brousin. If he doesn’t blab then his expressions do the work for him, and Adam can’t help that he’s cultivated a sense for his cousin’s emotional well being. And now? Eric “Dicky” “Bitty” Bittle-Birkholtz-Bousin is happier than Adam’s ever seen him and there’s no reason for him to know that Adam knows his secret.

So, Adam keeps his mouth shut and turns his attention back to the sundae ingredients he’s strewn over the counters. Ransom’s waiting for him in the living room, no doubt deep in his self-appointed summer reading list, and he keeps his focus staunchly on digging out a rare whole oreo from the pint of cookies and cream and definitely does not hear the distinctive sound intimate whispering and the soft smack of a kiss behind him. It’s cute, how sneaky they think they’re being, and Eric’s trying and failing to be casual as he leans on the counter by Adam’s elbow.

“Where’d Jack go?” Adam asks, using his finger to force the glob of ice cream off the spoon and into the bowl. Eric rolls his eyes and digs around a drawer to hand him a second spoon, which Adam takes dutifully after licking the ice cream residue off his finger.

“He’s gonna take the first shower. What’re you still doing here?” Eric asks, moving the bananas to the side to hop up on the counter. He’s just about eye level with Adam like this and now that he’s closer Adam can see obvious hickey on his neck.

Adam uses the second spoon to tap against his own neck, estimating where the hickey would be in his own reflection. “Got some dirt, bro.” He says, smiling down at the ice cream when Eric blushes and scrubs his hand over the spot, trying to get the imaginary dirt off. “The air conditioning in my house broke. Dad and Judy are taking the basement and all the fans so your mom said Rans and I could crash in your living room so we don’t get roasted overnight.” He spins the spoon idly, flipping it between his fingers. “We’re going to watch a movie if you want in, but you’re probably tired. From…cooking all day and the party and stuff. You probably want to turn in.”

Eric sighs, handing over one of the bananas when Adam gestures for it. “Nah, I promised my mother I’d do all the dishes from the barbeque earlier today since I took off early to get a good fireworks spot with Jack.” He sighs, leaning forward to rest his forehead on Adam’s shoulder. “It’s going to take me forever to get all that pie filling out of the tins if they’ve been sitting around since the party ended.”

“I did the dishes.” Adam says, nonchalant. Eric sits straight up, looking at him with wide, surprised eyes.

“You did the dishes.” He repeats, clearly shocked. Eric looks at the empty sink and spotless counters, gaze travelling over every surface in the kitchen as if he expects to find a cache of dirty dishes hidden somewhere.

Adam nods as he places the peeled banana in the bowl, arranging it with the care of a Michelin star chef. “Yeah. You said you wanted to hang out with Jack.” He explains, keeping his eyes firmly on the second banana he’s peeling. “I mean, he came all the way down here.” Eric’s silent as he settles the second banana into place but hands him the jar of hot fudge when he’s finished. Adam looks at his cousin’s face, and as obvious as Jack and Eric were being maybe Adam was a little too obvious, too.

“Thank you.” Eric says, leaning back against him. Adam sets the jar back on the counter and wraps his arms around his cousin, holding him tight. “When did you figure it out?” Eric asks, voice muffled in Adam’s shoulder.

“I knew something happened at Jack’s graduation because of your crazy emotional one-eighty.” Adam rubs Eric’s back as he explains, smiling softly when Eric’s arms wrap around his torso. “Then when we picked him up at the airport you looked so happy, bro. Happiest I’ve ever seen you in Georgia.” Every one of his suspicions had been instantly confirmed by Eric’s blinding smile and easy exuberance when Jack had appeared at baggage claim.

Eric’s quiet for a long moment. He squeezes Adam once, tightly, before letting go. “Ransom came all the way down here, too.” He says quietly. Adam lets out a tired sigh, already shaking his head. His gaze falls back down to the counter, unable to deal with the pity he knows will be in Eric’s eyes.

“I think we both know that’s different.” Adam’s jaw is tight and his voice is so low he almost can’t hear it above the constant hum of the air conditioner and the chirping crickets. He crushes a handful of oreos over the sundae, taking out his frustrations on the brittle cookies. He doesn’t want to talk about this - he never wants to talk about this - and while Eric’s never been able to keep a secret from him Adam’s never been able to keep one in return. It’s safe to put himself back together in front of Eric and he lets the devastation and futility of his stupid, stupid unrequited love for Ransom cross his face for just a moment before collecting himself with a steadying breath. Adam clears his throat and picks up the can of whipped cream. “Anyway,” He says, applying it liberally to the top of the sundae. “The dishes are done so you can go spend some super platonic time with Jack.” Eric shakes his head and opens his mouth to protest but Adam squeezes a dollop of whipped cream directly into his mouth before he can speak. Eric sputters and slaps Adam’s shoulder. “I’m fine, bro. Really. I’ve got it locked down and I get to hang out with my best friend. There’s nothing bad about that. Now go get some more of that stubble burn.”

Eric holds up his hands in surrender until Adam puts down the can of whipped cream. “I’ll clean up this stuff. Go have your bro ice cream thing.” He sticks the two spoons in the ice cream and shoos Adam out of the kitchen.

“It’s a Best Friend Sundae, trademark pending!” Adam calls over his shoulder at full volume, and the second the words leave his mouth Ransom lets out a cheer from the living room. Adam swoops in, dramatically lowering the sundae into Ransom’s hands and yeah, there’s nothing bad about this.

[halfabreath]

For the prompts - #10 Not said to me

Prompt Free For All, Accepting until Sept. 1st! This prompt from here.

Part of the Bittle Birkholtz Brousins AU / the tag / the masterpost

The ping pong ball sails through the air in a perfect arch, flying from Lardo’s hand to land directly in the red solo cup with a barely audible splash. Ransom buries his face in his hands and Holster roars in frustration beside him. When he looks up Lardo’s raised her arms in a double fist pump of victory while Shitty dances behind her, celebrating joyously. 

“Every fucking time,” Ransom mutters, shoving his hand in the cup to grab the ball. Holster’s right behind him, pressed up against his back as he reaches around to pick up the plastic cup. His other hand comes to rest on Ransom’s hip, warm even through layers of clothing. Ransom knows it doesn’t mean anything. If there’s hardly any room in the Haus and the crowd around the pong table keeps closing in around them then Holster has to press close to get to the beer. If playing pong with Lardo is the fastest way to get hammered then Holster’s just tipsy and wants to make sure he doesn’t fall over. If p then q. It’s simple logic.

It doesn’t mean anything, and Ransom’s usually very good at accepting that. He’s had enough practice over the years of living with his drift compatible best friend and d-partner to know when his amygdala goes haywire and he has to remove himself from the equation altogether. And now, feeling the contraction of every muscle as Holster chugs the entire cup of beer in the middle of the party they’d planned together with Holster’s huge hand splayed over his hip?

Ransom knows he needs to get the fuck out. 

There’s a rush of cool air when Holster pulls away to wrap his arm around Bitty’s shoulders. Bitty leans into him, like he always does, but he’s looking up at his cousin in concern. Holster looks down at him and they have another one of their silent conversations, reading each other’s expressions through a decade of practice. Ransom looks away, feeling like an intruder, just in time to see Shitty throw a ball that bounces off the rim of a cup. He turns back to celebrate with his partner but Holster’s ducked his head so Bitty can whisper something in his ear. 

“No, Bits, it’s fine,” Holster’s not slurring his words but he’s speaking at full volume; he’s always loud when he’s tipsy and then gets relatively quiet when he’s actually drunk. Bitty huffs and gives Holster a quick squeeze before plucking the cup from his hand. 

“I’m going to get you some water. You, too, Ransom. Y'all are going to need it with Lardo’s hot streak.” Bitty says, wincing when Ransom reaches over to dry the pong ball off on the hem of his best friend’s shirt.

“A kegster mitzvah!” Holster waves as his cousin pushes through the crowd, calling out to him as he moves away. “Make good choices! God guide you in your quest! Use protection!” Bitty’s only halfway across the room but Holster’s increasingly ridiculous advice has his shoulders shaking in laughter as he weaves through the partygoers. Holster’s beaming, amused by his own joke, and he cups his hands around his mouth for one final bellow. “I love you, brousin!” He says it so easily, at top volume and in front of friends and strangers alike. 

Ransom knows that the sudden tide of emotion rising up in the back of his throat is just synapses firing through his temporal lobe. It’s organic data, just the limbic system doing its job, neurons and neurotransmitters and hormones and a deep, overwhelming, soul-crushing, world-changing love for his best friend. 

Ransom knows it doesn’t mean anything. 

He turns away and lobs the ball at Lardo and Shitty’s cups, feeling only marginally better when it catches the rim and falls in with a gentle splash. Lardo nods once at him, a sign of respect, and he’s suddenly lifted into the air by two strong arms. Holster’s singing his praises as he spins him around, only setting him down when Shitty yells at them to continue the game. Holster turns so he’s perpendicular to the table, mapping out his shot carefully. He’s got one eye closed and his glasses are slipping down his nose as he tests the motion of his throw one, two, three times before tossing the ball directly into the center cup. He immediately turns to Ransom, sweeping him up in a hug.

If Ransom’s heart swells when Holster buries his face in his neck, if his heart beats too fast, if he squeezes his eyes shut to block out the rest of the party, if he thinks he could stay here forever, if –

If p then q. 

It doesn’t mean anything.

[halfabreath]

Noel, how does Brousin!Holster feel about the engagement??? brought to you by my reread of the bittle-birkholtz-brousins series

YOUR URL IS A GODDAMN MOOD, BUDDY

HOLSTER FEELS VERY

(and look Holster knows that he’s going to spend every holiday from now on eating maple apple pie and fighting the tragic spread of Jack’s Cruel Sheep Empire but Bitty’s so happy Holster can deal with losing maybe sometimes possibly not always winning Catan 100% of the time and that’s LOVE, BABEY)

LOOK AT THE WAY THEY RUN TO EACH OTHER I’M FUCKED UP YOU GUYS I CANNOT

I MEAN! FUCK! Y’ALL!

Read the Bittle Birkholtz Brousins ‘Verse!

[halfabreath]

What up fam, just popping in to say that I’m currently working on:

The water aerobics au

So Cold And So Sweet (selkie!Holster)

Sequel to this cowboy!Holsom fic

A 5+1 continuation of this trans!Ransom fic

An addition to the Bittle Birkholtz Brousins verse

Holster + what even is gender anyway

[shitty-check-please-aus]

Got any good but maybe not so well known fic recs? Any pairing but particularly zimbits, nurseydex, or holsom.

 Caveat: I’m very bad at remembering to make bookmarks on AO3 and frankly don’t have the energy to dig through my tumblr likes to find the good tumblr fics. This is not a comprehensive list. But you did ask for maybe my top three favorite ships, so I feel like I’ve got some good ones for you.

Holsom

@halfabreath invented Holsom. This is a fact. I particularly recommend the Bittle-Birkholtz Brousins series, the selkie one, and of course the one inspired by a post on this very blog, the one where Holster turns into a tree

@ivecarvedawoodenheart contributed several asks to the aforementioned Brousins saga, which makes her another expert. Read all her stuff, but start with this Lost Suitcase AU

eventually we’re gonna do a totally amazing collaboration Holsom thing where we mail each other pages of the story

once you’ve read the feel-good one, try crying with this one where they break up

@wholesomeholsom (who is @jennycaakes on AO3) recently dropped this excellent breakup and makeup fic 

this one also: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16841698

This very very scary one by @someobscurereference

Zimbits

We all know I love @whoacanada​, but I want to highlight this one where Jack wakes up from a coma and samwell never happened…. or did it? 

Do I love My Big Fat Greek Wedding? Yes. Do I love this fic based on the movie by @wrathofthestag? Fuck yes. 

Ones I’m biased towards because the prompts came from this blog:

 this Groundhog Day AU by @iboatedhere on AO3 is amazing

this one by @ivecarvedawoodenheart was inspired by me showing up to visit her with a lot of rollover meal points to burn

another @whoacanada masterpiece, where bitty gets turned into a LEGO figure and Jack has to turn him back because they’re soulmates

The Piemaker and the Boy (the author orphaned it, I’m not just snubbing someone by not saying their name) is very good! I love Pushing Daisies and I love this

THIS ONE WITH A CAMP AND SUPERNATURAL EVENTS AND ARGH IT’S JUST SO SPOOKY AND GOOD by @hockeydyke

This one where Jack knits because it’s just so sweet by @annathaema 

Nurseydex

@playing-for-keeps’s buzzfeed unsolved au is fucking amazing

Sidenote: I did go through and read every single thing that playing-for-keeps has written, and it’s all great

THIS ONE WHERE NURSEY KEEPS GOING TO DIFFERENT PARALLEL UNIVERSES by Tripped on AO3

The Huntsman and the Bard by @rhysiana does not have nearly as many kudos as it deserves. Maybe I’m just a sucker for a Tam Lin retelling, but this is so fucking good

The demon au by @chillwhiskey on AO3, who is @dumouwin on here

This very spooky one called five for silver, six for gold by @kt_fairy

This other very spooky one called above, beneath, betwixt, between by @geniusorinsanity

Other Pairings

Jack/Holster

Everybody Knows Your Name by @giraffeter on AO3 (hopefully the same one as tumblr decided to auto-tag)

Polyfrogs

This one in a vaguely medieval setting with magic and knights and stuff

Finally, read my stuff. I’m pertainstothesea on AO3 and I’m just confident enough in myself to say that all of my stories are good.