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nfr-girly · 4 months ago

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You and Hasan separated and co-parent, but he still loves you // Hasan x reader

Summary: Hasan wants to convince you to give him a chance again

border by: @enchanthings-a

*this is a pt 2 but can be read on own* part 1

You set up the table as you wait for Hasan to arrive, you know what you two will have to talk about eventually but you don’t think about it

you hear fast footsteps running before a force is collided into your legs almost knocking you over

“Oof! Baby calm down” you pick up Theo and he giggles

“When is baba coming?”

“soon baby he’s bringing Kaya too!” He gasps in excitement before jumping down to go watch tv

half an hour goes by and all the food is prepared, you sit on the sofa with theo when you hear the doorbell ring

“BABA!!!” Theo bolts toward the door and tries to open it but is to short to reach, you chuckle and go to open the door.

you open it to Hasan, all dressed up with Kaya next to him, Kaya runs into the house before you can say hello

“BABA!!” Theo jumps up and down as Hasan picks him up, trying not to have his eardrum burst

“Hey big guy how are you? I missed you”

Theo starts rambling on about stuff, Hasan listens and chimes in now and then, but you don’t miss his glances at you

“Baby give baba a minute okay?” You laugh as he runs back into the house

You turn to Hasan to find him already looking at you

“Hi”

“Hey”

You two are silent for a second before you invite him in, he hangs up his coat before you lead him to the living room

“It’s really nice to have you here, i didn’t cook anything fancy we only planned this yesterday so..”

“Hey it’s okay, I miss your cooking anyway, you were always better than me” he chuckles

You two sit with Theo for a few minutes before heading to the table to eat

“I’ve prepared a special meal for Kaya too, I remember all her favourites”

“You’re kidding, after this she’ll love you more than me”

“That’s what I aimed for” you smile

Hasan helps Theo get on his chair as you hand the plates of pasta out

“Tell me this is with your homemade sauce because I could die for it” Hasan says

“It iss so you better like it” you joke

“You need to give me the recipe, you kind of owe me”

“For what?”

“Well I gave you a baby!”

“What so the morning sickness everyday for 9 months wasn’t enough?”

Hasan shuts up.

You all sit at the table and begin dinner

Theo talks about his time at school, speaking twice as fast so none of you could keep up

When you and Hasan can get a word in, you talk about small things that have happened in your lives, you didn’t realise how much there was that you hadn’t told Hasan. 4 years ago you two told each-other everything

Dinner flows by, and it feels like nothings changed. It feels like the dinners you would get before Theo could even talk, before all the arguments you and Hasan would have, before Theo had to go live with your mom so he wouldn’t hear the things you two said

You and Hasan never liked to talk about what happened, right now you two were friends and it felt better to stay that way.

You all finish dinner and Hasan helps you tidy up, Theo is worn out so you take him to bed

He gets changed and you tuck him into bed

“mama, is baba gonna stay?” You’re taken back slightly by his question

“No baby he has to go home soon”

“Whyyy I don’t want him to go, can he read me a story?”

“Let me ask him okay?” You go downstairs and ask Hasan, to which he agrees and you both go upstairs

“Hey bud, what do ya wanna read?”

“This!!” He pulls out a book and Hasan cosies up next to him

You’re about to leave when Hasan says “you coming mama?”

You think for a second before joining them, Theo lies in between you and Hasan

He begins reading softly to him, making sure to take his time. Near the end Theo starts snoring so you both know he’s asleep.

Hasan smiles and puts away the book, you both gently get out of bed and head downstairs

“I haven’t read to him in ages” he says

“I know, you should come over more often”

Hasan looks at you, longer than he wanted to

“So uh, are you and Kaya headed back home?”

hasan stops, “well, I was hoping we could talk about what I said yesterday”

Your breath catches in your throat - you were really hoping he’d forget

“I know that you don’t like talking about it, which is fine because I have a lot to say. I know that you and me didn’t work out, and I know that it was really bad last time. Believe me I’ve been scared myself, I don’t want that for Theo again”

“But it’s been 4 years, you and me worked it out, we broke up, we worked on ourselves and became friends again. And I’m happy we did that. But as soon as we both got happy again I felt so fucking miserable. Because I didn’t have the love of my life by my side which by the way you are, that’s never going to change. I just want us to be a family again, me, you, Theo and Kaya. so just please give me a chance, and if it doesn’t work out again then I’ll never say anything more about it.”

By now you’re tearing up, you have a million thoughts in your head and you don’t know which one to focus one

“Hey hey” he steps towards you, wiping your eyes

“Don’t cry okay? Please I hate seeing you upset”

“I’m not upset it’s just.. I’m so scared Hasan, Theo’s only just gotten used to the fact his parents aren’t together, but I know he still remembers our fighting. I just know, and I don’t want to put him through that now that he’s older”

Hasan takes in your words, he knows there’s a bigger risk than he realises but his need for you grows stronger

“I promise you, that I’m not going to let this ruin us, we’re better now, we’ve worked on ourselves. Nothings gonna change the fact that you’re the one for me, and I know you still love me.”

“Just tell me if you want to try again, I’m not going to force you but I don’t want you saying no just because you’re scared” Hasan pleads

You look up at him, you know you want to try again, and as much as you want to say no, you can’t help but wonder how things will end up if you try

“Okay” you nod

Hasan is taken back, “what?”

“Okay, we can try this out”

Hasan takes a moment before he smiles

“Really baby you mean it?”

You laugh slightly, “yes I mean it, but I want to take this slow, no rushing into things”

Hasan agrees, before thinking

“I know that you just said we can’t rush into things, but I really wanna fucking kiss you right now so can you give me that?”

You laugh and nod, Hasan doesn’t give it a second before he pulls you in and connects your lips to his

He holds your waist as you hold his face, all the worries you held wash away because all you care about now is him.

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guys call me shakespeare I wrote this in like 30 minutes

🏷️ @mavericksice @thatsactuallyinzane @kaya-p @fullofgutsndopamine @inhibitionfreewriting @the-phantom-author @makeandshift @hot-insurrectionist @hasblair @haileyisnotcool @xxepherr @hoziersmom @w3-posts

(tagged people who interacted with part 1 in case they wanted to read part 2)

#hasanabi #hasan x reader #hasanabi x reader #hasan imagine #hasan x you #hasanabi x yn #hasan #x reader #hasan piker x reader #hasan piker x you #hasan piker

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x-reader-theater · 2 years ago

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Secret Messages from a Lover

summary: While you're streaming, your boyfriend sends you a message.

pairing: Corpse Husband x Gender Neutral Reader (no pronouns are used.)

word count: 670

warnings: none.

a/n: i really just needed to write something so self-indulgent because god i want this so bad. i figured others want it too. i've been so depressed lately that I just need a little fantasy, you know? my requests are open, and you can find my request rules here.

“God, that video is so fucking funny,” you say, pulling your blanket around your shoulders tighter with one hand while the other brings your patterned tumbler with the sparkly straw up to your mouth, so you can drink your water. Your knees pull further up to your chest, which is easily done in your very spacious gaming chair. “OTV never fucking misses.”

You press a button on your stream deck, switching from the video you were just watching to your face, with chat scrolling in the top left-hand corner. You take another sip from your tumbler and pick out one of the comments passing by, scrolling to stop it from moving as you read it aloud.

“Were you on the newest Fear& episode? I was. QT, Hasan, Will, and I just kinda chatted for a bit. That was a good fucking episode, though,” you say with a grin. “Love those guys. QT especially, she’s fucking hilarious. She makes me laugh so fucking hard whenever I talk to her, even if we disagree on Taylor Swift.”

You keep scrolling back down, so you can keep seeing the comments when another one jumps out at you. “Are you gonna keep streaming? Yeah, chatter, I actually just started before that OTV video. I think Toast is gonna invite me to some Pico Park today? If not, I’ll just play some Valorant or something to pass the time. I gotta git good if I wanna beat, well, anyone,” you admit with a laugh, hiding your shame by taking another drink of water.

You see your phone light up in front of you. It’s a Discord notification, which you quickly check on your second monitor, assuming it’s Toast inviting you to the Discord call.

It’s not. It’s your boyfriend, Corpse.

“You look so cute today babe. You look so cosy wrapped up in your blanket and your smile is so bright. I'll never get tired of seeing it. I love you and have a good stream 🖤”

You feel your cheeks heat up at that, and you take a sip of your water to try and hide your reaction. You haven’t told anyone you're dating Corpse yet, and you have no plans on it any time soon, but he makes you so happy you find it hard not to blurt it out whenever you can.

You send back a bunch of yellow hearts and an “I love you too!!!!!!! 💛💛💛💛💛💛💛💛💛”, biting your lip as you type on your very satisfying, clack-y keyboard.

That’s when you get the notification from Toast to join the shared call.

“Ah! Toast’s calling!” you exclaim for the benefit of your audience.

You quickly join the call, the connection sound filling you comfortable, over the ear headphones.

“Hey! What’s up!” you say into the call, getting a couple of “Hey!”’s and “Hello!”’s back.

Then you hear a familiar voice say, “What’s up.”

“Corpse!” You’re grinning at this point as you continue, “I didn't know you were gonna be playing!”

“Uh, yeah. Toast invited me last minute. Surprise?” he says like it’s a bad thing.

“We haven’t played anything together in a while and I saw him online and thought, ‘Fuck it,’ yaknow?” Toast asks and you chuckle.

“Well, it’s good to talk to you again, Corpse,” you say, setting your tumbler down on your desk. He got you that tumbler for your birthday not long ago, and it’s your favourite thing you own. He also got you the blanket that’s wrapped around your shoulders for your six-month anniversary, and it’s the warmest blanket in your house. You always wear it when you stream because the A/C is always blasting.

“It’s good to talk to you too,” you say, shivering as your heart hammers at his words.

You begin loading up Pico Park, just listening to everyone talk to each other, when you get another notification on Discord.

“I love you 🖤” it says.

“I love you too 💛” you reply, smiling into the camera for just a moment, just for him.

#corpse husband #corpse #corpse husband x reader #corpse husband x y/n #corpse husband x you #corpse x reader #corpse x you #corpse x y/n #corpse husband x gender neutral reader #corpse husband x gender neutral!reader #corpse x gender neutral reader #corpse x gender neutral!reader

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fairuzfan · 11 months ago

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During an appearance at Vassar College in early February, controversial New York Times Jerusalem bureau chief Ethan Bronner was asked about the ongoing evictions of Palestinian families from homes in East Jerusalem which Israel occupied in 1967. Israeli courts have ruled that Jewish settlers could take over some Palestinian homes on the grounds that Jews held title to the properties before Israel was established in 1948.

Bronner was concerned, but not only about Palestinians being made homeless in Israel’s relentless drive to Judaize their city; he was also worried about properties in his West Jerusalem neighborhood, including the building he lives in, partially owned by The New York Times, that was the home of Palestinians made refugees in 1948. Facts about The New York Times’ acquisition of this property are revealed for the first time in this article.

“One of the things that is most worrying not just the Left but a lot of people in Israel about this decision is if the courts in Israel are going to start recognizing property ownership from before the State [of Israel was founded],” Bronner said according to a transcript made by independent reporter Philip Weiss who maintains the blog Mondoweiss.net.

Bronner added, “I think the Palestinians are going to have a fairly big case. I for example live in West Jerusalem. My entire neighborhood was Palestinian before 1948.”

The New York Times-owned property Bronner occupies in the prestigious Qatamon neighborhood, was once the home of Hasan Karmi, a distinguished BBC Arabic Service broadcaster and scholar (1905-2007). Karmi was forced to flee with his family in 1948 as Zionist militias occupied western Jerusalem’s Arab neighborhoods. His was one of an estimated 10,000 Palestinian homes in West Jerusalem that Jews took over that year.

The New York Times bought the property in 1984 in a transaction overseen by columnist Thomas Friedman who was then just beginning his four-year term as Jerusalem bureau chief.

Hasan Karmi’s daughter, Ghada, a physician and well-known author who lives in the United Kingdom, discovered that The New York Times was in – or rather on top of – her childhood home in 2005, when she was working temporarily in Ramallah. One day Karmi received a call from Steven Erlanger, then The New York Times Jerusalem bureau chief, who had just read her 2002 memoir In Search of Fatima.

Karmi recalled in a 15 May 2008 interview on Democracy Now! that Erlanger told her, “I have read your marvelous memoir, and, do you know, I think I’m living above your old house … From the description in your book it must be the same place” (“Conversation with Palestinian Writer and Doctor Ghada Karmi”).

At Erlanger’s invitation, Karmi visited, but did not find the elegant one-story stone house her family had moved into in 1938, that was typical of the homes middle- and upper-class Arabs began to build in Jerusalem suburbs like Qatamon, Talbiya, Baqa, Romema or Lifta toward the end of the 19th century. The original house was still there, but at some point after 1948 two upper stories had been built.

Erlanger, responding to questions posed by The Electronic Intifada via email, described the residence as “built over the Karmi family house – on its air rights, if you like. The [New York Times] is not in [the Karmi] house.” Erlanger described the building as having an “unbroken” facade but that it consisted of “two residences, two ownerships, two heating systems,” and a separate entrance for the upper levels reached via an external staircase on the side.

Questions The Electronic Intifada sent to Thomas Friedman about the purchase of the property were answered by David E. McCraw, Vice President and Assistant General Counsel for the newspaper, who wrote that the original Karmi house itself “was never owned even partly by The Times. The Times purchased in the 1980s a portion of the building that had been constructed above it in the late 1970s.” The purchase was made from “a Canadian family that had bought them from the original builders of the apartment.”

McCraw acknowledged in a follow-up conversation that as a general principle of property law, the “air rights” of a property – the right to build on top of it or use (and access) the space above it – belong to the owner of the ground.

Exiled from Qatamon

Ghada Karmi standing by the front door of her childhood home in Jerusalem’s Qatamon neighborhood in 2005. (Steven Erlanger)

Hasan Karmi hailed originally from Tulkarem, in what is now the northern West Bank. In 1938, he moved his family to Jerusalem to take up a job in the education department of the British-run Palestine Mandate government. Ghada – born around November 1939 (the exact date is unknown because her birth certificate along with all the family’s records, photographs, furniture, personal possessions and an extensive library were lost with the house) – has vivid memories of a happy childhood in what was a well-to-do mixed neighborhood of Arab Christians and Muslims, foreigners and a few Jewish families. The neighbors with whom her parents socialized and with whose children the young Ghada and her siblings played included the Tubbeh, Jouzeh, Wahbeh and Khayyat families. There was also a Jewish family called Kramer, whose father belonged to the Haganah, the Zionist militia that became the Israeli army after May 1948.

Karmi describes the house at length in her memoir – but she told The Electronic Intifada her fondest memories were of the tree-filled garden where she spent much time playing with her brother and sister and the family dog Rex. The lemon and olive trees she remembers are still there, Erlanger noted to The Electronic Intifada.

In the mid-1940s, the lively Qatamon social life gave way to terror as the dark clouds of what would come to be known as the Nakba approached. Violence broke out all over Jerusalem after the UN’s devastating recommendation to partition Palestine without giving its people any say in the matter. Spontaneous riots by Arabs were followed by organized violence from Zionist groups and mutual retaliatory attacks that claimed lives from both communities. This climate provided the pretext for the Haganah’s premeditated campaign to seize Jerusalem.

Poorly armed and disorganized Arab irregulars, who had nevertheless succeeded in disrupting Zionist supply convoys to Jerusalem, proved no match for highly-trained and well-armed Zionist militias which, on the orders of David Ben-Gurion, began a well-planned campaign to conquer the western parts of the city. The occupation of western Jerusalem and some 40 villages in its vicinity was executed as part of the Haganah’s “Plan Dalet.” These events are well documented in books including Benny Morris’ The birth of the Palestinian refugee problem, 1947-1949 (1987), Walid Khalidi’s (ed.) All That Remains: The Palestinian Villages Occupied and Depopulated by Israel in 1948 (1992), Salim Tamari’s (ed.) Jerusalem 1948: The Arab Neighborhoods and their Fate in the War (1999) and Ilan Pappe’s The Ethnic Cleansing of Palestine (2006).

Zionist militias used frequent bombings of Arab civilians to terrorize residents into fleeing. These attacks were amplified by posters and warnings broadcast over loudspeakers that those choosing to remain behind would share the fate of those killed in atrocities.

Karmi wrote that one night in November 1947, their neighbor Kramer came to see her father and said, “I have come to tell you at some risk to myself to take your family and leave Jerusalem as soon as possible …. Please believe me, it is not safe here.” Many Qatamon families left after the Zionist bombing of the nearby Semiramis Hotel, which killed 26 civilians including the Spanish consul-general, on the night of 4-5 January 1948.

The Karmis however held on, and Ghada records in her memoir her mother steadfastly saying, “The Jews are not going to drive me out of my house … Others may go if they like, but we’re not giving in.”

Toward the end of April, bombardment by Zionist militias against virtually undefended Arab areas became so heavy, and the terror generated by the Deir Yassin massacre earlier that month so intense, that the Karmis relented and departed by taxi for Damascus, via Amman, with nothing but a few clothes. Their intention was to bring the children to safety at their maternal grandparents’ house while the adults would return home to Jerusalem. A few days after reaching Damascus the elder Karmis tried to return to Jerusalem but were unable to do so. So began the family’s exile that continues to this day.

As Arabs left their homes, Jews were moved in by the Haganah. “While the cleansing of Qatamon went on,” Itzhak Levy, the head of Haganah intelligence in Jerusalem recalled, “pillage and robbery began. Soldiers and citizens took part in it. They broke into the houses and took from them furniture, clothing, electric equipment and food” (quoted in Pappe, p.99). Meron Benvenisti, an Israeli scholar and former deputy mayor of Jerusalem, wrote in his book Sacred Landscape of personally witnessing the “looting of Arab homes in Qatamon” as a boy. Palestinians also lost art work, financial instruments and – like the Karmis – irreplaceable family records, as the fabric of a society and a way of life were destroyed.

Jerusalem return denied

The Karmis’ story is a variation of what happened to tens of thousands of Jerusalem-area Palestinians during the Nakba, in which approximately 750,000 Palestinians were expelled or fled from their homes all over the country and never allowed to return. (In my book One Country I describe the departure under similar circumstances of my mother’s family from Lifta-Romema.)

As of 1997, there were 84,000 living West Jerusalem refugees (23,000 born before 1948), according to Tamari. Half lived in the West Bank, many just miles from their original homes, but thousands of others were spread across Jordan, Lebanon, Syria and the Gaza Strip.

Arab property is well-documented through administrative and UN records, but tracing the fate of an individual house or proving title is extremely difficult if not impossible for Palestinians scattered, exiled and forbidden from returning home. Some, who have foreign passports that allowed them to make brief visits, have attempted to locate their family properties. In recent years a small Israeli group called Zochrot (Remembering) has even joined in – taking some displaced Palestinians back to their original villages and homes, whose traces Israel often made deliberate efforts to conceal or destroy. But such activities are not welcomed by most Israeli Jews still in denial about their state’s genesis.

Ghada Karmi recalls an earlier attempt to revisit her family home in 1998. The residents were unwelcoming and would not give her the phone number of the landlord, though a plaque outside bore the name “Ben-Porat.”

The owner of the original, lower-level house at the time The New York Times bought the upper levels was Yoram Ben-Porat, an economics professor who became president of the Hebrew University and was killed with his wife and young son in a road accident in October 1992. According to Erlanger, the house remained with heirs from the Ben-Porat family who rented it out until it was sold in 2005 to an Israeli couple who did some remodeling. It is unknown when the Ben-Porats acquired the house or if they were the ones who had the upper levels built.

During Karmi’s 2005 visit, Erlanger invited her to see his part of the house and introduced her to the Israeli tenants in the lower level who gave her free access while Erlanger took photographs. For Karmi, revisiting the house was disconcerting. She described to The Electronic Intifada its occupants as “Ashkenazi Jewish Israelis, liberals, nice people who wanted to be nice.” She felt like asking them, “how can you live here knowing this is an Arab house, knowing this was once owned by Arabs, what goes through your mind?” But, she explained, “in the way people have of not wanting to upset people who appear to be nice, I didn’t say anything.”

The New York Times

In the early years after their original residents left, many of the former Arab neighborhoods were run down. But in the 1970s, wealthier Israeli Jews began to gentrify them and acquiring an old Arab house became a status symbol. Today, Israeli real estate agencies list even small apartments in Qatamon for hundreds of thousands of dollars or more, and house prices can run into the millions. In Jerusalem, such homes have become popular especially with wealthy American Jews, according to Pappe. The New York Times did not disclose what it paid for the Qatamon property.

It was a curious decision for The New York Times to have purchased part of what must obviously have been property with – at the very least – a political, moral and legal cloud over its title. Asked whether The New York Times or Friedman had made any effort to learn the history of the property, the newspaper responded, “Neither The Times nor Mr. Friedman knew who owned the original ground floor prior to 1948.”

As Friedman prepared to make the move to Jerusalem from Beirut where he was covering the Lebanon war in the early 1980s, The Times hired an Israeli real estate agent to help him locate a home. According to McCraw, Friedman’s wife Ann went ahead to Jerusalem and looked at properties “and she, working with the agent, made the selection for The Times.” During the process Friedman visited Jerusalem and looked at properties as well, a fact he mentions in his book From Beirut to Jerusalem. By the time the property was selected, Friedman had moved permanently to Jerusalem and oversaw the closing.

The choice of the Qatamon property – over several modern apartments that the real estate agent also showed – makes The New York Times a protagonist and interested party in one of the most difficult aspects of the Palestine conflict: the property and refugee rights of Palestinians that Israel has adamantly denied. It also raises interesting questions about what such choices have on news coverage – with which the newspaper itself has had to grapple.

In 2002, an Electronic Intifada article partly attributed the pervasive underreporting of Israeli violence against Palestinians to “a structural geographic bias” – the fact that “most US news organizations who have reporters on the ground base them in Tel Aviv or west Jerusalem, very far from the places where Palestinians are being killed and bombarded on a daily basis” ( Michael Brown and Ali Abunimah, “Killings of dozens once again called ‘period of calm’ by US media, 20 September 2002).

In 2005, The New York Times’ then Public Editor Daniel Okrent echoed this criticism, writing:

“The Times, like virtually every American news organization, maintains its bureau in West Jerusalem. Its reporters and their families shop in the same markets, walk the same streets and sit in the same cafes that have long been at risk of terrorist attack. Some advocates of the Palestinian cause call this ‘structural geographic bias.’” (“The Hottest Button: How The Times Covers Israel and Palestine,” 24 April 2005).

Okrent recommended that in order to broaden the view of the newspaper’s reporters, it should locate a correspondent in Ramallah or Gaza – where she or he would share the daily experiences, concerns and risks of Palestinians. This advice went unheeded, just as Executive Editor Bill Keller recently publicly rejected the advice of the current public editor that current Jerusalem Bureau Chief Ethan Bronner should be reassigned because of the conflict of interest created by Bronner’s son’s voluntary enlistment in the Israeli army.

Thus, in a sense, Bronner’s structural and personal identification with Israel has become complete: when the younger Bronner joins army attacks in Gaza, fires tear gas canisters or live bullets at nonviolent demonstrators trying to save their land from confiscation in West Bank villages, or conducts night arrest raids in Ramallah or Nablus – as he may well be ordered to do – his father will root for him, worry about him, perhaps hope that his enemies will fall in place of his son, as any Israeli parent would. And on weekends, the elder Bronner will await his soldier-son’s homecoming to a property whose true heirs live every day, like millions of Palestinians, with the unacknowledged trauma, and enduring injustice of dispossession and exile.

#palestine #palestine history

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fullofgutsndopamine · 9 months ago

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prompt: " don't judge, but we were out of clean onesies, so i dressed the baby in that huge old t-shirt you got at that concert five years ago. if i'm being honest, it suits them! "

they/them pronouns for reader, use of ‘mama’ one mention of “my girl” hasan is a girl dad, i don’t make the rules

how quiet it was when you opened the door should’ve been hasan’s first warning.

“honey?”

he calls, kicks his shoes off into the corner of the room, sets the keys on the hook by the door and starts his usual routine of trying to find you.

he begins where you usually are, your favorite room in the house is the kitchen, cooking has always been your love language, looking up extravagant new foods to try. you’ve always said your favorite thing to cook was what the person in the rooms favorite thing was, and hasan loved when you slid a plate over to him, acting like he didn’t see you working hard on it all day.

no luck. he nibbles his lip, borders on being worried, because this is your room, where you always are-

“honey?” he calls, his hand on the banister as he slowly trudges up the stairs, figures giving the shared room of hours a chance

usually, if he isn’t home, you aren’t here. insist the room is too large without him, the bed too big and lonely and cold; when he isn’t home, the door to the room stays shut, wait until he gets home to sit on the bed and do laundry with him as he talks about his day

he nudges the door open, and there you are.

“baby?” he leans against the doorframe, a smirk on his face, “what’s going on?”

“look,” you say immediately, a grin on your face as you hold your daughter up, who lets out a gentle coo, a smile always on her face, has hasan’s smile even though he insists she’s a copy of you, not him, “don’t judge-“

he laughs, comes over and takes the baby out of your arms, immediately has the little bundle in his own arms as he rocks her carefully, she reaches for the mop of curls on his head

“no judgment,” he laughs gently, “i missed my girls, is all-“

he pulls on the shirt she wears, practically swallows her, and a laugh rips out of him

you huff, but a smile is on the corner of his lips, “we were out of clean onesies, so i dressed the baby in that huge old t-shirt you got at that concert five years ago. if i'm being honest, it suits them! "

he remembers.

it was the concert he met you, when you made some comment to your friend about people being too tall at concerts, and how he held his phone up during it, titled it so you could see the show, turned to you halfway through, when he found some confidence, and let you stand in front of him, until your favorite song came on, and suddenly your hand was tangled into his and while he didn’t know the song, didn’t really even know the band-it was your favorite song, so it become his favorite song, as he spun you around and around

you left the small venue sweating, hand in hand with hasan, a perfect stranger, who had a band shirt over his shoulder, insisted you took it, insists it suited you-it took months for you to find the note he tucked into your jeans as you said goodbye with his phone number in it, but he waited for you-

“it does suit her,” he laughs, “kinda sentimental it’s hers now, hm?”

his eyes border on tearing up as he plays gently with the seam of the shirt, thinking of that stupid band, and how he’s grateful the band brought you, and eventually this baby-

“don’t get sappy on me now, hasan.” you tease gently, rest your chin on his shoulder as you gently tickle your daughters belly

“that band fucking sucks,” he laughs, blinking away any tears, shakes his head and sniffles, “i won’t ever make her listens to them.”

you snort, slap his arm gently, “oh fuck off, hasan. you loved them-“

“no, no, honey,” he laughs, “you liked them, so i tolerated them because they meant you.”

your face flushes, even though he’s told this story a million times, it doesn’t ever stop making your stomach flutter, “that’s not what you said during our first dance when you were crying.”

your hands play with his hair as he rests your daughter against his shoulder, patting her on her back as he dances in place with her, “i was crying because something was stuck in my eye, i told you. confetti, i think-“

“sure, and i definitely didn’t hear you singing it to her just last night.” you tease back.

you walked by the room in the middle of the night when she woke up crying, hasan is immediately up first, his voice gentle as he reassures her, “shh. Papas here. Shh. let’s see.”

and the opening to the song is always immediately falling off the top of his tongue, a smile pulls on his lips as he recites the song by heart, how he’s sung it at every milestone-the wedding, while he sang it to you as you too swayed back and forth-the first night at the house when everything scared you, the way to the hospital it was the first song he played, his lips pressed to your head as he mumbled it in the middle of contractions-

“no idea what you’re talking about,” he insists, doubles down, “c’mon, honey. let’s make mama some tea.”

he leans in, a kiss to your forehead, part of the routine to make you tea as you sat on the couch with him, a cup of warm tea in your hands as you shared your day, as he disappears, humming the song as he goes.

#caroline writes #hasanabi #hasan #hasanabi x reader #hasanabi x y/n #hasanabi x you #hasan x reader #hasan piker x you #hasan piker fanfic #hasan piker fanfiction #hasan piker fic #hasan piker imagine #hasan piker x reader #hasan piker

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abdalrahmanamjed · 6 months ago

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🍉 I'm afraid my future will be lost

🙏 Please help my father so that he can save our lives and save our future.🌹🇵🇸

they have been verified on @el-shab-hussein and @nabulsi list of vetted fundraisers here (#250, line 254)

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#el shab hussein's #prince gaza #Palestinian #palstine #free palstine #go fund them #gofundme #Thanks #TRUE

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scoutofmymind · 15 days ago

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mama scout PUHLEASE more reader x luigi x hasan. it was so good. AND THE PREGNANCY ONE. OMFG. EEKKK

i was thinking about it and i feel like a trip to sicily or turkey with both luigi and hasan would be so...yeah... staying in the same room...yep.

Five to Nine — { Reader x Luigi x Hasan }

Wc: 5,187

Notes: lapdog Luigi, Threesome, come eating, sleepy-sex, ITALY!, lowkey breeding kink, Fantasize by Ari vibes, In love as fuck Hasan, lowkey self-sabotaging reader, fluff, smut, and just a bit of angst, reassuringbf!Hasan, reassuringbf!Luigi

Luigi won the coin toss, maintaining his undefeated status as the trip's first destination picker, while Hasan sprawls dramatically across the living room couch, listing off Turkish landmarks between heavy sighs.

The rematch of rock paper scissors only cemented Luigi's victory, though Hasan swears Luigi's "paper" moved suspiciously after his "rock" was already thrown.

"Just take the L," Luigi mumbles around a forkful of takeout, watching Hasan who has effectively gone on strike from his dinner, his container sitting untouched on the coffee table. "The weather in Sicily is perfect right now, and my Nona is already planning all the dishes she's gonna force-feed you."

"But it's literally the best time to visit Istanbul," Hasan counters, sitting up with renewed energy. "The tulips are blooming everywhere, and my cousin knows this place in Kadıköy that makes künefe that would change your life. We could be walking through the Grand Bazaar next week instead of—"

"Instead of eating the best pasta in the world and swimming in the Mediterranean?" Luigi interjects, his brows furrowed, his tone one of scold.

They never come to an agreement.

But whether Hasan wants to admit it or not, Sicily is seducing him day by day.

You catch him in these unguarded moments; bare-chested in the morning sun, sitting cross-legged in the guest house's garden with bedhead and yesterday's shorts.

His ritual begins with espresso, served in those impossibly small cups that somehow contain multitudes, looking impossibly small in his hand.

He's developed a habit that makes Luigi roll his eyes — dropping brown sugar cubes into the dark liquid and purposefully not stirring, just so he can crunch on the half-dissolved crystals between sips.

His content sighs give away what his words won't.

The guest house is a short bike ride from the main Mangione villa, a journey marked by olive trees and stone walls wearing centuries of sun.

It's comfortably strange to see Luigi here, to reconcile this version with the one who stress-orders smoothies on DoorDash and goes through a pre-stream checklist eight times (because it’s an even number) before going live back home.

Here, something ancient in his blood seems to wake up.

You've been watching the transformation since the plane landed; the American tension melting from his shoulders, his gestures becoming more expansive, more Italian. His cheeks carry a permanent flush that has nothing to do with the Sicilian sun — it's as if the very soil beneath his feet is feeding something in him that America never could.

And then there's the language — flowing from Luigi's lips like water finding its old path down a mountainside.

He claims relearning it is like muscle memory, the same way his body remembers how to navigate the dirt paths of the countryside on the rusted bikes he’d dragged out of the shed for the three of you, but you and Hasan exchange knowing looks every time he slides into it, the way his voice drops an octave, how his consonants soften and vowels stretch.

It's impossible not to stare.

You catch Hasan watching him during heated debates with his uncles about soccer teams, clearly not understanding a word but mesmerized by the passionate gestures, the rapid-fire exchanges that end in backslapping laughter.

"What did she say?" Hasan asks for the tenth time that morning, after Luigi's aunt corners him in the kitchen with excited Italian and insistent hand gestures.

Luigi's translation comes with a smirk, "She says your mustache makes you look like her first husband, and that's a very good thing." Hasan preens a little at this, and you notice how he's started leaning into conversations with the family even without understanding.

Another day dissolves into the kind of sunset that feels like a cliché in how perfect it is — all burnt orange and deep purple bleeding into the Mediterranean.

The three of you are retrieving your bikes from where you'd abandoned them that morning by the stone wall near the beach, sand still clinging to your calves, salt crystallizing in your hair.

Thankfully, the evening air has cooled just enough to make the ride back to the guest house seem inviting rather than exhausting.

"I think you bent my wheel," Luigi announces, crouching beside his childhood bike. It's a relic from his teenage years, a faded Bianchi celeste that's now more memory than color. He runs his fingers along the rim where there's a subtle but definite wobble.

Hasan, all six-foot-three of him, had been folded onto the too-small frame earlier that morning, knees nearly hitting the handlebars with each pedal stroke.

"Listen, some of us weren't built to be Italian-sized," Hasan defends, but there's affection in his mock offense. He's still wearing Luigi's cousin's too-small swim shorts, having forgotten to pack his own, the dark green fabric stretched tight across his thighs. "Maybe if your family wasn't composed entirely of pocket-sized people-“

You watch them bicker as the sky deepens to indigo, Hasan attempting to mount the bike without making the wobble worse while Luigi provides running commentary on his technique.

The chain squeaks in protest as Hasan starts pedaling, but his laughter echoes off the old stone walls as he leads the way back, the bike's crooked trajectory somehow making perfect sense for the three of you.

𓏵

That evening, you’re lying awake between them, watching shadows from the gauzy curtains dance across the ceiling while the ancient fan spins lazily overhead, doing little more than stirring the warm air.

Hasan's arm is heavy across your waist, his breath steady against your neck, while Luigi has managed to curl himself into an impossibly small ball against your other side, one hand loosely gripping your t-shirt.

Your thoughts drift like the curtains in the breeze, caught between the surreal and the mundane.

There's something about being here, in this old house with its creaking floors and walls that hold a century of summers, that makes everything feel simultaneously more real and more dreamlike.

You think about how different they both are here — Hasan, who usually fills every space with opinions and energy, finding quiet contentment in morning gardens and evening wines.

And Luigi, whose American life is all precision and planning, melting back into a version of himself that moves to a slower, sweeter rhythm.

You wonder if they feel it, too — this sense that you're living in a pocket of time that operates by different rules.

Back home, your relationship raises eyebrows, requires explanations on and off the internet, comes with labels and categories that never quite fit; but here, in this drowsy Sicilian night, it feels as natural as the way the three of you arrange yourselves in sleep.

Hasan's protective sprawl, Luigi's tender curl, you in the middle bridging the contrast.

You think about how tomorrow Luigi's Nonna will pretend not to notice the three of you sharing one room, and how she'll still set three plates at breakfast, each with its own perfectly folded linen.

Lying there for another ten minutes only seems to sharpen your awareness, each passing moment drawing you further from sleep's edge.

The sheets feel too warm, then too cool, and Luigi's steady breathing only emphasizes your own restlessness.

Finally, you give in to the inevitable, carefully reaching for your phone on the nightstand.

The screen dims to its lowest setting — barely a ghost of light in the darkness — as you roll onto your stomach, tucking a pillow under your chin.

You're mindlessly swiping through your FYP when a familiar laugh catches you off guard — your own.

Before you can stop yourself, you're clicking through to the profile, then another, then another, falling down the all too familiar rabbit hole of fan-made compilations. Dozens and dozens of little moments you lived through, now spliced and set to music.

You losing it at Hasan mid-political rant on stream, Luigi’s steady hands over yours as he teaches you his Nonna’s pasta recipe for a YouTube video, and the absolute clusterfuck of the three of you trying to coordinate in Overcooked while chat loses their minds.

The clips are sweet, honestly, in how they catch these little pieces of your life together — the real stuff, the moments where your laugh isn't performative and your eyes are bright with genuine joy.

"the way hasan looks at her when she's not looking 🥺" one comment reads, with thousands of likes.

Another video shows Luigi kissing your shoulder during a stream while you're focused on chat, Hasan pretending to gag in the background before breaking into that signature laugh shortly after.

The caption reads "name a more wholesome trio i'll wait"

"lu found his player 2 AND 3 we love to see it"

But your thumb pauses mid-scroll, that warm feeling in your chest cooling as your eyes drift to recent comments, dark and tempting.

“has anyone else seen the subreddit? they're tearing her apart over there"

Your heart sinks.

You know you shouldn't look.

But your fingers are already typing "r/HasanAndLuigi" into the search bar.

The newest thread catches your eye immediately.

"Does anyone else think she's ruining their dynamic??"

Your thumb hovers for a moment before clicking.

"The streams had this amazing chemistry and now it's all weird and forced."

"She's clearly manipulating both of them. Classic pick-me behavior."

"Notice how she always has to be the center of attention? Always inserting herself into their bits?"

You scroll further, each comment feeling like a twist of a knife already buried deep into your gut.

"I know for a fact that Lu deserves better. He seems so different now, less genuine. Idk bout Hasan anymore fr”

"Anyone else notice how Hasan keeps looking at her during streams? Like checking for her reaction? It's cringe."

Your vision blurs as you keep reading, the room around you becoming a void — just you, and these people hiding behind a screen.

"She's not even gaming material. Just sits there trying to be cute while they literally carry her lmao."

You know you should stop reading, but you can't help it, each comment feeding the doubts you try so hard to silence — it angers you, of course it does, and there’s a guilt in it, too.

Why ruin a moment of your vacation with this?

Hasan shifts beside you, his arm tightening slightly around your waist. You quickly lock your phone, but not before seeing one last comment.

“Wonder how long before she ruins everything yall let’s make bets😭”

The words echo in your head as you lie there in the dark, trying to steady your breathing, but it’s hardly any use.

You'd think after two years of being dissected under the internet's microscope, you'd have developed thicker skin.

Every gesture analyzed, every laugh timestamped and discussed, your whole existence parsed into clips and quotes and theories. Usually, you're better at maintaining the boundary — that careful distance between you and the version of you that exists in their minds.

But tonight, something's different.

And the worst part is, you know better.

Hasan's given you the speech a hundred times — about parasocial relationships, about the toxicity of parasitic stan culture. Luigi's shown you his own scars from similar rabbit holes. And yet here you are, 3 AM, letting strangers' words burrow under your skin.

You slip out from between the boys with practiced ease — time has taught you how to navigate this particular dance. Hasan's arm falls slack against the sheets, and Luigi only makes a soft sound of protest before settling back into sleep, the stone floor cool under your bare feet as you pad to the balcony.

The old wicker chair creaks as you curl into it, knees drawn to your chest, and below, the village sleeps, only the occasional light flickering in distant windows.

The moon hangs low and heavy over the Mediterranean, casting everything in silver.

It's peaceful here, far from the digital go-go-go of everything back home, but your mind keeps echoing with words from strangers who think they know you.

And you can't even blame them entirely.

You're the one who keeps looking, keeps reading, keeps seeking validation from people who only know a fraction of your life. The girl they see in clips and streams isn't really you — she's a character they've created, part truth and part projection.

And sometimes, on nights like this, the veil between those versions of yourself feels dangerously thin.

Not much time passes before Hasan materializes like a guardian spirit summoned by the weight of your thoughts, silent and steady in the way he always seems to be when your mind grows too loud, and though you don't look at him, you feel the warm press of his lips against your tear-stained cheeks while his hand finds yours in the darkness, thumb brushing over your knuckles with that absent tenderness that means he's deep in thought but still completely attuned to you.

The silence stretches between you despite the heaviness of it, while a light breeze carries the sweet-sharp scent of lemon trees from the garden below, mingling with the traces of him that always remind you of late-night streams and sleepy morning kisses, and you can feel his eyes studying your profile with that infinite patience that's become one of your remaining safeties.

As he settles into the chair beside you his grip on your hand remains steady, drawing it into his lap where his other hand begins mapping the delicate architecture of your wrist and the soft terrain of your inner arm, each touch an anchor line pulling you back from the swirling eddy of anonymous voices and digital dissection.

When another tear escapes his lips find it immediately, kissing it away with such gentle reverence that your breath catches in your throat because this — these small, sacred moments that exist beyond the reach of clips and edits and analysis — this belongs to you alone.

His forehead comes to rest against your temple while his breath warms your ear, and in this space between heartbeats he simply waits, holding you steady until you're ready to find your voice again.

"Sometimes I forget," you whisper into the night air, your voice barely louder than the distant whisper of waves, "that there are thousands of versions of me out there now — versions I didn't make, versions I can't control," and you feel him shift closer as your fingers tighten around his, grounding yourself in his warmth while you search for the right words to explain this peculiar kind of haunting.

"I'll be doing something completely normal, like laughing at Lu’s terrible puns or helping you fold laundry, and then I'll remember that someone somewhere is probably analyzing that moment, breaking it down frame by frame, trying to find hidden meanings in the way I look at you both," and your voice catches as you continue, "and suddenly I'm not sure if I'm being genuine anymore or if I'm performing for an audience that isn't even there."

The confession hangs in the air between you, heavy with the weight of two years' worth of archived moments and dissected smiles, until you finally turn to meet his eyes in the moonlight, "I love what we have — me and- and you and Lu — I love it so much it terrifies me sometimes, but I hate that I have to share it with people who think they know us better than we know ourselves," and your voice drops even lower as you admit the fear that's been gnawing at your heart, "I'm scared that one day I'll lose track of which version of me is real."

His jaw tightens for a moment before he brings your joined hands to his lips, brushing a sleepy kiss against your palm.

"Lemme tell you something,” His voice is still rough with sleep, warm against your skin. "We see the real you. The you who can't sit still during horror movies but insists on watching them anyway. Who somehow got my boomer dad addicted to your stupid matching game on his phone." You can feel his drowsy smile against your wrist as he continues, softer now. "Who shows up to every protest even though crowds make you anxious. Who just — knows exactly when to push us and when to let us be stupid and stubborn.“

He cups your face with both hands, thumbs brushing away tears as his eyes hold yours in the darkness, heavy-lidded but certain, "Let them have their theories and their dumb fucking edits. The real you — that’s ours. That’s yours." his voice drops to barely more than a whisper as he presses his forehead against your own, "and no amount of online brain rot can touch what we have.”

There’s another moment of silence, but within it, you can sense Luigi behind you. Before you can turn away from Hasan, a sleepy grumble cuts through the quiet. "Can you two please come back to b-“ His voice catches as he notices your tears, shifting instantly from annoyed to concerned. "Hey, what happened?"

"Doomscrolling," Hasan explains quietly, reaching for Luigi who interlaces their fingers without hesitation, his other hand finding the nape of your neck, his thumb tracing soothing circles against your skin; and suddenly you're all connected — a closed circuit of warmth and contact in the dim light. "Reddit again.”

Luigi makes a soft, frustrated sound, and you can practically feel him biting back the "I told you so" that's written all over his face. But he just tightens his grip slightly where his thumb is tracing circles against your skin, and you're grateful he chooses to pull you closer instead of lecture.

The birds are just starting to wake in the lemon trees as Hasan and Luigi hold you between them, all soft touches and careful attention. Hasan's lips find your temple while Luigi's nose traces along your jaw, their hands steady and sure against your skin.

"Come back to bed, please," Luigi requests softly with those perfect manners of his, even while his eyes promise something decidedly improper as they flick between you and Hasan. "Think we can give you something better to think about.”

You let them guide you back to bed, Hasan's fingers threaded through yours while Luigi's hand stays steady at the small of your back.

There's something almost reverent in how they settle you between them, the familiar dance of bodies finding their places. The birdsong from the lemon trees filters through the window, a gentle soundtrack to the way Hasan's lips trace your shoulder, how Luigi's fingers card through your hair with careful purpose.

You’ll remember this forever.

"Just be here," Luigi murmurs against your temple, and Hasan hums in agreement, his hand sliding warm and sure across your hip. “Focus on this.”

Their touches are deliberately slow, patient but intent in a way that makes your breath catch, that pushes thoughts of comments and Reddit far from your mind.

The earlier hurt starts to fade under their attention, replaced by the heat of skin on skin and the steady reminder of exactly where you belong, and always have.

You're cocooned in their warmth, their bodies pressed close in a way that should feel overwhelming but never has — perhaps because being overwhelmed by them has always felt like being home.

“You know how much we care about you," Hasan murmurs, punctuating each word with soft kisses beneath your ear. His nose nuzzles against the sensitive skin there, drawing out a quiet laugh that makes both of them smile. "How much we love you."

The tenderness in his voice makes something tighten in your chest.

Your shoulders twitch slightly from the ticklish brush of his breath, but you lean into the sensation anyway. "I do," you whisper back, the words carrying the weight of a vow. Your voice catches, steadies. "I do."

"Do you?" Luigi breathes against your skin, teeth grazing your earlobe in a way that sends shivers down your spine. His voice carries something deeper than the question itself, an understanding that makes your breath catch.

There's a weighted silence, broken only by a quiet sniffle. Of course you know — it's in every touch, every shared morning, every small gesture of care.

But Luigi's question reaches past that surface certainty, down to where darker thoughts curl and whisper; where doubt breeds in the shadows, insisting that this can't last, that three hearts can't possibly hold each other with equal weight, that something this complete must surely fracture under its own intensity.

Their bodies press closer with shared intent, a wordless devotion passing between them as they bracket you like prayer. "Can you stay quiet for us?" Luigi breathes, and the hard length of him against your thigh makes his desire clear.

Hasan has also seemed to abandoned all pretense of restraint, his hands mapping your skin with desperate reverence.

"Let us remind you, baby.” Hasan murmurs against your sternum, each word punctuated by open-mouthed kisses trailing heat between your ribs. "No better way than to show you."

Your vision swims, tears of earlier doubt transformed into something warmer as you gaze at the sky through the window, its gentle glow a preview of the approaching dawn. Soon enough, Luigi's Nonna will perform her current morning ritual — slipping silently into the guest villa to drop off calazione with careful discretion, then vanishing back home before anyone else stirs.

"I can be quiet," you whisper, the words soft but certain. “Yes.”

The internet's constant chatter fades to nothing — those vicious subreddits, the endless stream of TikToks, the edited moments set to whatever melancholic song fits the narrative they're trying to build.

You forget about the screenshots of Hasan's laughter at your jokes, the clips of Luigi's hands guiding yours to fix your mic on stream, all those private moments picked apart by people who think they know.

Your focus shifts entirely to the present — to their warmth surrounding you, to the way they touch you like something precious.

When a hand slides between your thighs, finding you wet and ready, it draws matching groans from them both, their bodies pressing closer as if to remind you who you belong to.

Their praise washes over you like sunlight, making you arch into their touch.

Hasan's hands are firm but reverent as he holds you steady, while Luigi's touch remains impossibly gentle, his fingers tracing delicate patterns across your skin. When a soft sound escapes you, Luigi catches it with his lips, swallowing the noise while Hasan works to take you apart.

"Love that sound," Luigi murmurs against your mouth, his hands sliding warm and sure along your sides. The contrast between their touches — Hasan's intensity and Luigi's tenderness.

There's a languid quality to Luigi's kisses, born of exhaustion but no less intimate for it.

His eyes stay fixed on you, missing nothing despite his weariness, and his hands move with careful purpose — one moment buried in Hasan's messy curls, the next gentle against your jaw as he draws you into another kiss, swallowing each soft noise you make.

Even through his fatigue, his focus is absolute, cataloguing every reaction, every tremor, every sign of pleasure they draw from you.

“Making me jealous.” Luigi whispers, his voice so gentle and soft it’s hardly there, but you’d recognize his voice in a sea of them — you’d know it anywhere.

Hasan’s mouth is warm against you, his tongue lapping small, lazy trails from your entrance that tenses around his tongue, and up again where he sucks on your clit, his eyes drawn to amused slits, his glasses discarded somewhere on the bed, where you tell yourself you won’t break them again.

Hasan guides Luigi's hand between your thighs with purpose, and Luigi's fingers slip inside you with that particular early-morning rhythm — present but unhurried, hovering in that space between sleep and full awareness, his touch carrying all the familiar comfort of dawn-lit moments like these.

Your breath catches sharply when he curls his fingers just so, and Hasan's response is immediate — his tongue moving in slower, more deliberate patterns, occasionally dipping down to taste where Luigi's fingers disappear inside you.

You can tell, now, though that Luigi has riled himself up just by the sound of you, and the sight of Hasan between your thighs. “Has,” he whispers, reaching down to rake his fingers through Hasan’s hair, the same fingers sticky with the heat of your arousal. “C’mon.” He whispers, almost pleading.

These days, Luigi has developed an almost reverent fascination with watching Hasan finish inside you — a desire he'd been embarrassed to voice until recently.

"I just like seeing you both feel good," he'd confessed weeks ago, voice barely above a whisper, cheeks stained pink as he avoided your eyes.

But his admission had been met with nothing but tender appreciation, with soft kisses and eager promises to give him exactly what he wanted.

His fingers card through Hasan's hair with purpose now, still wet from being inside you, his pleading whisper heavy with the weight of that shared secret, that particular desire you've both learned to recognize in every subtle tell.

But you've grown to understand the deeper currents of his fascination — how his cheeks flush darker than they did during that first hesitant admission, how his jaw goes slack with want as he watches, the way his pupils swallow the warm hazel of his eyes, and how his breathing turns ragged and uneven.

It's more than simple voyeurism — it’s about witnessing something precious being cherished, about sharing in that moment of complete surrender even from the outside.

It's an intimacy that makes your heart clench to contemplate.

"Ohh," Hasan breathes, his lips glistening as he nuzzles against your inner thigh, keeping your legs spread with that particular gentle strength of his — firm but never bruising.

The fresh laundry scent of the sheets is giving way to something headier, a mixture of arousal and European summer skin. "Lu gets just as desperate as you sometimes," he murmurs, his gaze traveling from your flushed face to where Luigi is leaving a trail of soft kisses across your shoulder, working his way down to brush his lips over your nipples.

The observation makes Luigi pause his ministrations, a shaky exhale warming your skin, and you can see the way his fingers tighten slightly where they're still tangled in Hasan's curls.

Luigi's movements have gone desperate and uncoordinated, his hips rocking against you with barely contained need as he makes no attempt to deny Hasan's words.

You both get like this sometimes — greedy for attention, for touch, for closeness, working in tandem to draw every ounce of affection from Hasan while consuming each other just as hungrily until the lines between giving and taking blur completely.

"Not needy," he mumbles against your skin, but you can hear the smile in his voice, feel it curve against your shoulder. "Just have needs." The distinction makes you laugh breathlessly, even as his teeth graze your collarbone.

You slide your fingers into Luigi's dark curls, gently pulling until he has to emerge from where he's hidden against your neck. "Can't help yourself, can you?" Your voice is soft as you study him — the heavy-lidded exhaustion in his eyes, the way arousal fights against bone-deep tiredness beneath his summer-warmed skin. He looks almost drunk on the combination, barely able to keep his eyes open but unable to look away. "Want to watch Hassy fill me up, hmm?”

The sound Luigi makes is somewhere between a hum and a giggle, childishly delighted at getting exactly what he wants. "Mhmm," he tries to burrow back into your neck, shy even now, but you tighten your grip on his curls, holding him where he can see everything.

Hasan takes advantage of the moment to position himself between your thighs, his cock teasing against your entrance.

"One condition," you murmur through a gentle gasp, tightening your grip in his curls. His eyes stay heavy-lidded with exhaustion and want, but his grin spreads wider, more knowing.

"Yes?" The word comes out breathless as Hasan's hand finds its way to his ass, squeezing possessively. Luigi's hips stutter against your thigh, his own neediness becoming more apparent with each passing moment.

"You'll clean up his mess when we're all done." You keep your fingers wound tight in his hair, holding him so his throat is beautifully exposed, vulnerable. That knowing smile never falters as he nods as much as your grip allows, his submission making something hot curl in your stomach.

Hasan sinks into you with a certainty that feels like coming home, and somehow it's Luigi who makes the loudest sound — a hot, desperate whine that cuts through the morning air.

His exhaustion seems to evaporate, replaced by laser-focused attention even as his touches remain butterfly-soft against your skin.

He pants against your ear, punctuating your gasps with breathless little laughs of delight while Hasan sets a rhythm that's deep and unhurried.

The dawn light filters through gossamer curtains that dance in the morning breeze, carrying with it the fresh scent of dew and a chorus of birdsong that's grown bolder with the rising sun.

Sunlight gilds your skin as Luigi fights to keep his eyes open, determined to memorize every detail of the sight before him, his mouth tracing endless patterns across every part of you he can reach, his pinkie hooked around Hasan's in that small, sweet connection they always seem to maintain.

The noises spilling from your lips have gone quiet and yearning, heavy with exhaustion but edged with desperate need as you grasp for both their hands, and they hold you steady as pleasure builds, but when it finally breaks, your drawn-out whine seems to echo in your chest.

Your thighs tremble wider as waves of sensation roll through you, and Hasan's answering warmth flooding inside you feels like the most perfect affirmation — a reminder that this love, this connection, this moment exists in a space no outside force could ever touch or taint.

"I love you," Luigi breathes against your lips, the words carrying all the weight of prayer. He shifts to press his forehead to Hasan's, nose brushing nose as he repeats those same words with equal devotion, like offerings laid at an altar.

True to his word, he moves between your thighs the moment Hasan settles beside you, making soft sounds of contentment as he keeps his promise.

When he finally lifts his head, his lips and cheeks gleam in the morning light, evidence of his dedication painted across his skin as he rests his cheek against your thigh, eyelids growing heavy once more, the picture of satisfied exhaustion. "Look at you," Hasan murmurs, voice warm with affection, and you find yourself sharing his appreciation for the sight — Luigi debauched and drowsy, marked by both of you in the gentlest way possible.

His hazel eyes find yours, then Hasan's, peering up through dark lashes with that practiced false innocence as he rests against your thigh.

The way he pulls his bottom lip between his teeth is pure performance — he lost any real claim to innocence long ago, but he plays the part beautifully.

"Fuck," Hasan breathes, already reaching for his phone to capture the sight. "If it wouldn't cause an international incident, this would be my lock screen." The photo joins the others in that carefully guarded folder — a private collection of moments like these, Luigi, yourself and him raw and honest and breathtaking in ways the world doesn't get to see.

#again I edited quickly!#I was workin on this for far too long #luigi mangione fanfic #luigi mangione x reader #luigi mangione fanfiction #hasan piker x reader #Hasan piker fanfic #Hasan Piker fanfiction #Lasan #req

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