#hasan it begins

[feral-ballad]

Forugh Farrokhzad, tr. by Hasan Javadi & Susan Sallée, from Another Birth: Selected Poems of Forugh Farrokhzad; "Let us believe in the beginning of a cold season"

[Text ID: "I am naked, naked, naked / naked like the moments of silence / between the phrases of love"]

[princegaza]

🍉 My son Abdul Rahman searches for water for his family inside the destroyed city of Khan Younis. 🌹 🇵🇸

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

@apollos-olives @heba-20 @soon-palestine @el-shab-hussein @ibtisams-blog @marnota

@riding-with-the-wild-hunt @i-am-aprl @northgazaupdates2 @fallahifag @fairuzfan @sar-soor @90-ghost @hellspawnelf @aroacekittywrites @ttohrus @proheromidoriyashouto @quagsiredoesnotfuck @turian @iamjustthinkin @genera1kenobi @fireyfobbitmedicine @tasteofyourblood @lesbianmaxevans @chimney-begins @ratmanwalking @aleksstroud @shellofashadow @ibtisams-blog @buttercuparry @wlwaerith @vetted-gaza-funds @sayruq @ripe @straycatj @thunderstruck9 @haflacky @catasters @northgazaupdates2 @northwezt @northernsiberiawinds

[daweyt]

Forugh Farrokhzad, from “Another Birth: Selected Poems of Forugh Farrokhzad; ‘Let us believe in the beginning of a cold season’”, tr. Hasan Javadi and Susan Sallée.

[fairuzfan]

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.

[x-reader-theater]

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.

[fullofgutsndopamine]

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.

[abdalrahmanamjed]

🍉 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)

https://gofund.me/c1047514

@2spirit-0spoons @heba-20 @soon-palestine @ibtisams-blog @marnota @riding-with-the-wild-hunt @i-am-aprl @northgazaupdates2 @fallahifag @fairuzfan @sar-soor @90-ghost @hellspawnen @aroacekittywrites @ttohrus @proheromidoriyashouto @quagsiredoesnotfuck @turian @iamjustthinkin @genera1kenobi @fireyfobbitmedicine @tasteofyourblood @lesbianmaxevans @chimney-begins @ratmanwalking @aleksstroud @shellofashadow @ibtisams-blog @buttercuparry @wlwaerith @vetted-gaza-funds @sayruq @ripe @straycatj @thunderstruck9 @haflacky @catasters @northgazaupdates2 @northwezt @northernsiberiawinds @el-shab-hussein @appsdotli @buttercuparry @turian @jezior0

[nfr-girly]

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.

————————————————————————

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)

[criswritessometimes]

hickey blurbs - (2/3) - ted

contents - hickeys, making out, gn reader, no use of (y/n)

schlatt charlie

ted left early in the morning to play basketball with his dear and best friend hasan, leaving you in a state of not quite awake and not quite asleep. however, sleep takes your body back over as time passes until you hear the door creak open. your head raises as you see ted try to sneak back into your bedroom to get to the connected bathroom. “morning,” you groggily greet as he walks in, “how’d it go?” “got my kicked my ass again,” he replied, “but i get to come home to you so whos the real winner.” he jokes, coming over to give you a kiss on the cheek. you rest on your elbow as you hold his jaw, kissing him on the lips. “go take a shower, i’m not done cuddling with you.” you instruct, laying back down and checking your phone. “will do babe.” he grabs a change of clothes and shuts the bathroom door behind him as he enters. 

as youre holding onto your phone checking it, your body is trying to usher you back to sleep and after the fourth time your phone has almost fallen on your face you decide to set it back on the nightstand and lay in bed. you’re not sure when, but you feel the bed dip as ted gets back into it. he pulls the covers down and climbs in, pulling them back up. “my sweet partner is so sleepy.” he says in a hushed tone, teasing you, but he doesn’t want to wake you up. “hmmmm.” you groan in reply. his body molds to yours like it did this morning and all other mornings before he left for his early basketball time. “you’re so pretty when you’re like this.” he says, soaking in the moment with you. “who’s not to say you aren’t either.” you reply quietly and open your eyes to see him looking back at you. “hi.” you say, a smile gracing your face. “hi.” the same smile makes it way onto his face. you glance down at his lips, hoping to tell him you really, really want to kiss him. he understands and leans in, holding you closer. you hold onto his shoulder as your tongue swipes on his bottom lip, asking him to open them, and he does. as more and more passion is put into his kiss, you push yourself up and straddle his waist. his hands hold onto your hips as you don’t break contact with his lips. he pulls away first, “you’re gonna be the death of me one day, yknow that?” “yeah well at least we’ll both have fun.” you smile, leaning back down to kiss his lips, then his jaw, then his chin, then his neck.

one of his hands moves to your shoulder blade and starts lightly scratching it, which in turn you hum into his skin. you kept kissing all over his neck to test the waters as ted’s letting out content hums and his breathing has slowed down. you slightly suck on one part of his neck before you start nibbing it. looking up, you try to find any signs of him telling you to slow down, but you don’t see any, and you continue. with the skin still in your mouth, you suck until one of his hands comes up to the back of your neck; that was the sign to slow down this time. you let go, licking and kissing it to hopefully soften the blow. his head leans up to look at you; you look back with that knowing look on your face that you’re not doing anything wrong. “what?” you ask. ted looks at you thinking, he takes a moment and says, “just don’t them too dark.” his head falls back onto the pillow. you smile and keep working on his neck, moving all over to leave more and more marks. some were darker than others, but you hoped he’d forgive you. you pull away again and look at all of them in their beauty. “done?” he asks. you almost forgot your favorite spot, right below his ear. “not quite.” you lean down to the spot and start kissing it. you can hear ted catch his breath and squeeze you tighter as you start sucking on the spot. “ok, ok, i’m saying you’re done.” he picks you up from his lap and set you next to him on the bed. “but i just started on the last one.” you complain. “yeah, well you left like 8.” he replies as he gets out of the bed and begins to head to his office to start recording his video for the month, that is until he passes the mirror by the door. “ahh baby,” he starts examining his neck, “these are so dark.” you stretch getting out of bed and walking over to him, “got carried away i guess.” you kiss his neck and walk pass him into the kitchen to make some breakfast.

[deentalks]

Hasan al-Basri said:

The dunyah in its entirety - from its beginning to its end, is like a man who falls asleep, sees whatever he loves in his dream then wakes up.

💌 المجالسة وجواهر العلم (٢٢٧/٥)

[princegaza]

🚨🚨🚨Save us quickly we are dying

🍉🍉🍉 Hey, 🌹 awesome Tumblr community, 🇵🇸

Everyone must participate and repost so that the voice of This little boy from the midst of the destruction in Gaza City reaches Ayana, her followers, and all donors and supporters.

Thank you, Ayana, @2spirit-0spoons her fans, and her followers for their continued support of the donation campaign for Amjad Al-Shaltawi’s family, and we call on them to continue supporting and re-participating until the campaign achieves its goal and we are able to reunite the family, evacuate them from under the bombing, reach a safe place, and escape genocide.

Thank you, Ayana, @2spirit-0spoons her fans, and her followers for their continued support of the donation campaign for Amjad Al-Shaltawi’s family, and we call on them to continue supporting and re-participating until the campaign achieves its goal and we are able to reunite the family, evacuate them from under the bombing, reach a safe place, and escape genocide.

@2spirit-0spoons

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

@heba-20 @soon-palestine @ibtisams-blog @marnota @riding-with-the-wild-hunt @i-am-aprl ا @northgazaupdates2 @fallahifag @fairuzfan @sar-soor @90-ghost @hellspawnen @aroacekittywrites @ttohrus @proheromidoriyashouto @quagsiredoesnotfuck @turian @iamjustthinkin @genera1kenobi @fireyfobbitmedicine @tasteofyourblood @lesbianmaxevans @chimney-begins @ratmanwalking @aleksstroud @shellofashadow @ibtisams-blog @buttercuparry @wlwaerith @vetted-gaza-funds @sayruq @ripe @straycatj @thunderstruck9 @haflacky @catasters @northgazaupdates2 @northwezt @northernsiberiawinds @el-shab-hussein

[feral-ballad]

Forugh Farrokhzad, tr. by Hasan Javadi & Susan Sallée, from Another Birth: Selected Poems of Forugh Farrokhzad; "Let us believe in the beginning of a cold season"

[Text ID: "All my wounds are due to love / to love, love, love."]

[z-moves]

Hello, I am a mother of four children, Qusay, Sama, Firas and Seela. We are asking for your urgent help to evacuate us from Gaza to a safe place. Since the beginning of the war, we have been displaced from our home to southern Khan Younis and then again to Rafah. We are currently living in a tent that lacks the basic necessities of life, such as food, clean water and shelter. The occupation has bombed and destroyed everything we own, from a home to a source of income. Please find your hearts to help us get out of Gaza to safety. I want to give my children a safe childhood, so please donate to us. If you do not have any money to donate, please consider sharing the link. Thank you for your compassion. Your donation, no matter how small, can save our lives!

https://gofund.me/275b20bd

hello! i hope that your children will be able to be safe. i'll share this so that people will see it.

€533 / €80K

this fundraiser is extremely low on funds!

this fundraiser is #268 on @/gazavetters's list of vetted fundraisers. link to Google Sheets:

tags for reach (please let me know if you don't want to get tagged):

@heritageposts @nabulsi @appsa @feluka @timetravellingkitty @rhubarbspring @irhabiya @wellwaterhysteria @junglejim4322 @kibumkim @neechees @mangocheesecakes @kyra45-helping-others @tortiefrancis @toiletpotato @fromjannah @omegaversereloaded @vague-humanoid @aristotels @komsomolka @neptunerings @riding-with-the-wild-hunt @ot3 @amygdalae @ankle-beez @dykesbat @watermotif @stuckinapril @mavigator @lacecap @socalgal @chilewithcarnage @ghelgheli @sayruq

[inkofimagination]

clouded confessions

late night smoke session turns into some feelings being revealed.

shy!hasan heheh

word count: 4k

-

“Boo, no,” came the quiet exasperated sigh through your lips. You shook your head with a frown, and stared down at the crazed page before you; scribbles of your notes that seemed to only get progressively more snappy. The sight only made the simmering agitation in your chest closer to its near-boiling point. You bit your lip, and squinted your eyes at the page. Maybe if you stared incredulously at it long enough, it would burn to ash.

This shit was truly too tiring for you.

Another sigh, it felt like that was all you were doing, huffing endless long breaths. You loved your job, really, cherished it too close to your heart. And it was all trial and error, you knew this. but fuck, it was tiring. The disappointment and anger that forms when you aren’t satisfied with your results are enough to doubt everything. And no one likes that feeling. The feeling of losing that grasp and love for your passion.

No one liked feeling the fear of not being good enough either.

You pushed your hair behind your ears, and with your eyes still on the page, you readjusted yourself so you were now lying on your stomach. Huffed as you settled with the paper in your grasp, and with one more quick scan of the notes, you felt the displeasure plaguing you only grow. You picked it up with narrowed eyes, and roughly crumpled it, tossing it across the room.

See how exhausting this is? 

Today was a bad day, a grumpy day. You never liked those. You rather liked the days when you found enjoyment through your craft, the days when you could just fucking blaze through the cases without a

You were pretty sure you were beginning to see red. Maybe you were possessed because you were starting to feel the urge to smash your pretty head against the wall many, many times.

You rested your head in your arms with a small frown, and huffed. Deciding that, yes, going to bed would be best. Maybe tomorrow would be better.

You stared at the door and pursed your lips. The good lawyer and bad lawyer in your head were currently having a nasty debate. Go to bed and come back tomorrow with a fresh start or stay, and continue to get progressively angrier. The bad lawyer was sorely losing. 

The disappointment towards your work tonight was beginning to make you feel rather sad, instead of angry. And with that, you rapidly decided that it was, indeed, time to go to bed. 

You braced yourself before pushing yourself up, and sitting in a kneeling position. It was uncomfortable, the hard floor wasn’t all that kind to your legs, it actually rather hurt. You took a moment to brush your jean-covered legs before actually standing.

As you packed up, you began to zone out and get lost in thought. Whilst closing the case and reaching to clasp each buckle closed, a soft, nearly impossible-to-hear knock interrupted your actions. 

You were staying at your friends Hasan’s house at the moment because he was kind enough to let you stay due to your apartment being renovated.

Your hands stilled, and you looked over to the door with your eyebrows furrowed in confusion, thoroughly convinced he was asleep after his long stream.

The door opened, and you tilted your head a bit to get a glance at the unexpected guest. When the sight of a cheeky, sheepish smile came into your vision, you had to let out a soft laugh. He only smiled wider at the sound and looked down to hide it. “Hi, Hasan,” you said, looking away from his shy form to get back to your earlier activity of packing up your things. 

Hasan Piker. You two became best friends not very long ago, but he was something else. You didn’t know what, but you knew you did really, really like Hasan. Strange, but he was the easiest person to talk to despite the fact you two very opinionated people. You could sit with him for hours and just talk about the weirdest things that have no relevance whatsoever.

“Hi, what are you up to this late at night, hm?” he walked in, shutting the door behind him and curiously looked at the various crumpled balls scattered across the room. 

You let out a small ‘shit’, his short look at your mess acted as a reminder that you probably should tidy it up. Placing your case full of documents back on the ground, you paced over to each of the white papers, gathering them in your arms. “Well,” you huffed, “i was going to get to the bottom of this case, but it didn’t really go the way i wanted it to…” 

Softly smiling at your mumbled words, he walked over and quickly picked up the rest (the majority) of the papers. “What about you, cheeky boy?” you asked in return, dumping the crumpled balls into the trash. Behind you, he grinned at the nickname. Always smiling when around you, he was. You looked up at him as he came to stand next to you, following your earlier actions. He brushed his hands and turned back to you with a hum, “Couldn’t sleep, ‘nd heard you shuffling around,” he tilted his head at you rubbing your eyes. 

A sheepish ‘Oh’, passed your lips, “sorry if i woke you, war’, thought i was being quiet,” 

He shook his head at your murmur, and waved a hand with a small smile, “You can’t wake someone who wasn’t sleeping in the first place darling, don’t worry about it,” he wasn’t lying either, really. Even his perfect sleeping schedule gets messed up due many thoughts of his.

Nodding, you bounded over back to your case and picked it up again.

“Okay, well, I’m gonna go to bed now, thanks for helping me tidy up,” you grinned softly at him, “I’ll see you tomorrow, Hasan,” 

“See you tomorrow, sweets,” came his gentle reply, still standing there like a moron just watching you. He considered stopping, not wanting to seem like a creep, but ultimately those considerations were put to rest within two seconds. Maybe he could play it off well enough. You had to have known he had a crush on you, and he knew it. He’s such a sweetie towards you, bless him, but not subtle whatsoever. 

You gave him one last pretty smile before walking to the door, and just as you were about to open it, your hand ready on the handle, you stopped. You pursed your lips as a thought passed your brain, and raised your eyebrows with a hum. “Do you wanna smoke?” 

You don’t smoke weed often but when your stress is going through the roof sometimes it is the only thing that helps.

A beat of silence. 

“Fuck yeah, man.”

                                                          *

“Y’know, i love your hair,” 

You gently whispered, twirling a soft dark brown strand between your fingers, and surveyed his face. His eyes were closed, and his body was so relaxed you would have thought he was sleeping. Maybe he was, you didn’t know any better. Hasan had his head in your lap, the rest of his body slung across your bed. You had been playing with his hair for the past 15 minutes. Once you started, he’d gone completely silent and shut his eyes. Maybe he really was sleeping. 

He absentmindedly hummed in return, and you smiled at the sound. With one hand in his hair, you picked up the joint from the ashtray set on your bedside table, and took a puff. “It may possibly be even better than mine, i must say,” you declared, placing the joint in Hasan’s expectant hand. 

At your words, he scoffed dramatically, shaking his head. He took his own puff, before battling your words with his own. “No way girl, are you fucking kidding me?” he exhaled with a scrunched face, making sure to turn away from you as the smoke trailed out of his mouth.

“I’m fully serious,” 

He passed the joint back to you with a floppy arm, and you reached over to place it back in its respectful seat in your ashtray. “Nonsense,” he murmured, closing his eyes once again as you played with his hair. 

“You’re so pretty,” at his whispered words, your hands, where they were making a small braid in his mane, ceased their movement. the sweet compliment was unexpected, and truthfully, popped up out of nowhere. You pouted down at him, feeling your heart swell at his words. Maybe he was sleeping and dreaming about someone. “Hasan, your eyes are closed, y’know,” he reluctantly opened his baggy, bloodshot eyes, and looked at you. 

“Nuh-uh, not anymore they aren’t,” his eyes surveyed your face and he nodded to himself with finality. You cheekily smiled, nearly gushing, “Hasan Piker got a li’l crush on me?” you cooed, untangling your hands from his hair to pinch his cheeks. 

He tiredly pushed your hands away with a hidden smile, you quietly laughed to yourself. You felt adoration fill your chest. Really, that pestering anger inhabiting your heart before had melted away as soon as your cheeky boy had popped up on the other side of that door. He didn’t even need to do anything, he didn’t even need to know that you weren’t having a good day, or time, or whatever. Hasan Piker just had to be himself to make you practically beam like the sun. 

He had a crush on you? you had a crush on him. a big one too. 

You clicked your tongue as he turned his head away from you, and you rested one hand on his chest and the other on the top of his head. Hasan had a smile covering his face, but he was shying away. You couldn’t believe it, you made the Hasan Piker shy. What a night!

“Stop it,” his voice was partially muffled into your lap, and you brought a hand up to your lips. The big smile on your face felt permanent. “You got a crush on me?” came your voice again, this time quieter, not as teasing—just as filled with adoration. He wiggled around, still groaning. 

You lightly tapped his cheek, a silent ‘look at me,’ passing from you to him. a small smile was glued to your face as Hasan turned, brown eyes landing on your beaming face—to which he grinned.

That stupid grin stayed on his face as you raised your eyebrows at him and kept eye contact, whilst he looked away and gazed at the ceiling instead. He wanted to keep eye contact with you, it was a continuous challenge between you two. He never lasted more than ten seconds.

You let out a sigh, and looked away as well, trying to pull yourself together. Feared you were having a heart attack with how fast it was beating. The remnants of smoke clouding the air and your lungs only seemed to intensify your feelings—which were already so much. You didn’t know it, but he felt the same. maybe even more so.  

“Shit, can you blame me though?” he exclaimed, sitting up. You jumped as he nearly knocked heads with you. Even he didn’t expect this, earlier before his mouth betrayed him.

God, you plagued his mind, and it just slipped out. Really, you were like a stubborn piece of gum stuck to the side of his brain, it was frustrating. Hasan was a complete ladies’ man, and knew his way around the female anatomy like he was a master in the art.

He loved women, went crazy for them but there was just something about you, that made him ache. You were so, so, so pretty, and carried such an abnormally beautiful soul with you everywhere you went. You were passionate in what you did, you were kind, and god damn, you were too fucking funny. You’re so much. too much. Hasan was a very confident man, a charmer, never afraid to speak his mind. Then there’s you, making him feel like a little girl crushing on Harry Styles. 

Cheesy as fuck. 

“I mean—you’re crazy, girl. Literally a fucking angel, it’s ridiculous,” Hasan mumbled to himself, more ranting than anything. He gaped for a few seconds, trying to gather the words on his tongue. You folded your lips into your mouth as you watched him begin his big confession.

“Listen, i’ve met women, right? Many, many women, men even! A lot of people!” you had to hide a laugh behind your hand at his words, “but you, ah–,” he snapped his fingers and shook his head at you. 

“I am a confident man,” Hasan declared, pointing a hand at you. 

“Yes, you are,” 

After your small reply, he went quiet, still trying to figure out what it is he wants to say. He wasn’t about to say he loved you, no matter how much he wanted to, he was sober enough to know that that was a bit too much.

Hasan felt a lot towards you, you made him feel vulnerable, seen. You made him feel like a literal horde of butterflies were swarming his entire torso. You sometimes made him feel like he was dying, with the way you made his heart skip beats, or made it beat rapidly fast.

How does one convey that feeling without sounding clinically insane? I mean, sure, he’d been able to charm his way with the ladies before. But those ladies were different and you were something.

Something really important. It didn’t help that he was still high as fuck, so, he was relatively stumped on what to say—he did know that he wasn’t up for humiliating himself in front of you tonight. 

You bit your lip as you watched him struggle, you considered simply just saying ‘I know, i know, me too,’ to make this whole thing easier for him. But you wanted to give him the time to find it.

The man showed no signs of giving up, and therefore you kept quiet. You played with the rings decorating your fingers as he stayed groaning and shaking his head at the ceiling every so often.

Clearly, he was having a crisis. 

And just as you were about to say something, it came to him. Slowly, oddly—not the way he wanted it to, but he couldn’t exactly be picky, and he considered leaving this entire thing for later and instead writing you a letter. But, you didn’t seem like the type of girl to dig that and you were gazing at him expectantly, concernedly, he could feel it burning into the side of his face.

He never wanted to leave a crowd waiting. 

“Okay,” he turned to you with wide brown eyes, suddenly feeling a burst of energy. The relaxing effect of mary jane said its farewells, and Hasan, ever unaware in his state of mind, wondered if he had done cocaine instead, you felt like a drug to him. “You, pretty lady,” he huffed, “make me lose my mind, it’s unfair,” 

You raise your eyebrows at that, and let out a small laugh, but quiet down with a small smile once realizing he wasn’t done.

“You—and, as i stated before, a fucking angel, i mean come on,” he shrugged before reaching over and grabbing the joint from the ashtray again, Hasan figured he needed his heart rate to go down, relax a bit. He took a puff, grey smoke flowing out of his mouth in a long exhale, before continuing; “I like you a lot, darling. So much too, it kinda hurts a bit,” he placed the joint, now a stub, in the ashy part of its respectful tray.

You nearly melted, the smile on your face became a mere slightly gaped mouth and you thought your eyes were hearts, big red ones like from tom and jerry.

“Just something about you,” he let out a loud ‘whew’, waving an arm and sending you an exasperated look to which you couldn’t help but laugh prettily. And to Hasan, that sound was his fuel through this. This awkward confession that had been weighing him down the whole time he’d first seen you, this confession that he was convinced would make his chest burst eventually. You made it so easy for him, he didn’t care if he got rejected straight after or got laughed at, he still made you laugh.

Sleep, food, water, even fucking air was unnecessary, for the man believed he could live off of your joy and happiness forever. 

“You got me wrapped around your pretty little finger,” Hasan murmured.

He slumped and looked at you, starting to feel the insecurity kick in. So, he sighed and looked away, pulling a fresh joint from the small tin on the bed, and ignored your observing stare—despite the fact he desperately wanted to return the eye contact. 

You watched as he placed the joint between his lips, and you quickly crawled and snatched the zippo lighter you two shared off the bedside table, making it out of his reach. He still didn’t look at you, merely huffing with a small smile beginning to form on his face, and you had to grin at the sight.

You folded your lips into your mouth, and your eyes flickered around his face. You crawled over to him next, kneeling in front of his relaxed cross-legged form leaning against the headboard. 

Letting out a huff at his stubbornness to look at you, you raised a single eyebrow. He only looked away further. it was an odd sight, a vulnerable one, to see the ever-confident Hasan Piker, show shyness and insecurity. He felt exposed, to let his charming facade fall. 

You knelt forward and softly grabbed the side of his face, making him have no choice but look at you. to him, it felt like one of those scary fucking laboratory hypnosis sessions. Like his mind just stopped, and was consumed by you, you, you. You were overwhelming, like he couldn’t take a deep breath for a second.

Shit, he thought he might pass out when your hazed eyes flickered between his own, and soon landed on his lips for a split second. 

And he thought he might’ve died and been sent to heaven when you gently lifted his face to bring the lighter up to his lips and lit the joint still set between them. It was silent, aside from the soft breaths coming from each of you, and the crisp sound of the paper on the joint burning whilst he took an absent-minded puff. You watched as the joint burned orange, and proceeded to flick the lighter closed, and set it on the sheets. 

Truthfully, you seemed relaxed, and understanding, like you just knew. But you were so happy, nearly bursting on the inside. You weren’t quite sure how you were holding yourself together, you felt fully ready to fall apart. Just because of him. Hasan Piker, sure to be the death of you. 

You turned back to him, plucked the joint from his lips and brought it to your own. He watched with wide eyes as your soft lips wrapped around the white papers, and you took a hit. You weren’t looking at him anymore, rather simply looking down, and he was feeling a bit glad about it. Not because your eyes were so intense and burned into him just naturally–but because he was sure to truly lose his shit if you did. 

Grey smoke trailed out of your mouth and you turned back to him with a small smile, tilting your head. At the sight, Hasan let out a sigh, and lightly hit the back of his head against the headboard. “You’re so cute,” you quietly said, delightedly, and he groaned again and shook his head, bringing his hands up to cover his own smile. “God, don’t—” he sighed, running a hand through his hair, “Damn you, woman,” 

You beamed, and shuffled to grab his hands away from his face. With them in your grasp, you folded your digits with his and his closed eyes opened. Hasan looked at you exasperatedly feeling like a crazed man on a drug. You laughed, the sound ringing clear in his ears like the prettiest bell he ever heard. Again, he could listen to it for ages, like it was a lifeline. 

You gave him a knowing smile, released his hands, and readjusted yourself so you were even closer to him. You watched as he took a deep breath, processing the close proximity. Your heart skipped multiple beats as you brought both hands up to cup the sides of his neck, he sighed as you rubbed your manicured thumbs along his jawline. This beautiful man, you thought. You were disgustingly attracted to him, all of him. His entire fucking being. 

He was leaning forward towards you now as you hovered before him. To him, it felt like he was being drawn in, he looked back on his hypnosis thought. Your eyes flickered all across the other’s face, and he moved so you were now instead sitting in between his legs. Hasan, cheekily with a grin, placed his hands on your waist and you huffed a soft laugh, resting your forehead against his for a moment. It wasn’t lustful, it was the final buildup of all the unspoken attraction, love, and need between each other. It was sweet, sensual. 

He nudged his nose against yours, and he was so, so close. You two moved fluidly and teasingly, closely hovering over each other and chasing the other’s lips. It was like a dance, a silent, ‘you have me, now come get me,’. 

Oh, and the reward was legendary. You had your hopes and dreams, but this? It was difficult to describe just how much better it was in comparison. Your lips finally slotted together like puzzle pieces, and this time, you really did melt. Your shoulders slumped and with a broken exhale, you curved into him. He didn’t care, only softly laughed into your mouth and wrapped his arms around your waist tighter, holding you together, whilst you curved your arms around his neck. 

He was perfect, so much so, it ached. Your feelings toward him before this were like a game of tag, and endless chase, constantly seeking him out in everything you did; even subconsciously. The attraction kept you going, something to look for, to stay motivated for. But this? This was so much better, being able to have him right here. He was overwhelming all of your senses, you felt like you were drowning in him. You’d happily die this way. 

And Hasan? The man thought he was living a fantasy. He really didn’t know what the fuck was happening, if he had something unknown put in his coffee this morning that made him extra desirable in the eyes of others, especially towards someone like you. Yes, Hasan Piker—ladies’ man, but you were a princess in his eyes. Someone he did not deserve, could and should not have. But here you were, and you were perfect in every sense imaginable. An indescribable beauty was carried in all of you, and he adored all of it. 

Hasan, his mouth still on yours, ran his hands up your waist and flat on your back, only pushing you closer into him. God, you were so close, but he wanted more. Yes, he was already losing himself in you, but just a little more, just a little closer. He happily sighed into your mouth as one of your hands tangled in his hair and the other lightly scratched at the nape of his neck, and this time you were the one smiling. 

You had to reluctantly pull away to take a breath, and Hasan blinked his brown eyes open with a grin. He rested his head against yours, and drew gentle circles on the curve of your back. 

“Does that mean you’re into me too, pretty girl?”

[junkiespromise]

☆; here you'll find all the fics/blurbs/drabbles i have written so far.

☆; f1

the eras masterlist (ts x f1)

lando norris

you are in love ; part of the ts x f1 series

charles leclerc

coming soon !

fernando alonso

coming soon !

alex albon

coming soon !

jenson button

coming soon !

lewis hamilton

coming soon !

carlos sainz

coming soon !

sebastian vettel

coming soon !

mark webber

coming soon !

kimi raikkonen

coming soon !

george russell

coming soon !

max verstappen

coming soon !

oscar piastri

coming soon !

other f1 drivers

superstar ; mick schumacher

begin again ; pierre gasly

☆; youtube

jschlatt

coming soon !

ted nivison

coming soon !

johnnie guilbert

coming soon !

jake webber

jake x rockstar!reader

tara yummy

coming soon !

hasan piker

coming soon !

☆; jackass

johnny knoxville

coming soon !

steveo

coming soon !

☆; misc

joost klein

coming soon !