#hasanabi x y/n

[fullofgutsndopamine]

i’m half doomed (and you’re semi sweet)

tw: mention of fighting, flashback of fighting,hasan is kind of a dick, angst if you squint, unspecific fighting, mention of break up

more here

there’s loud giggling coming from deep in the house.

honestly you didn’t realize how much you missed it until just now, just realizing how lacking it was, how quiet the house was without hasan’s loud footsteps and constant bumping around.

“Aurora-“

you call gently, just as hasan rounds the corner, his hair a million different ways and a smirk pulling at his lips.

“Speak of the devil.”

you say lowly, hoping that the only person who heard it was hasan and not his twin that is two steps behind him, constantly colliding with the back of his legs.

“Mama,” she buries her face into your legs until you kneel down, moving the mop of curly hair out of her eyes when she speaks again. “Can Papa stay?”

it’s a question, not a demand.

“Oh,” hasan says quickly, panic evident in his eyes. this is definitely not something he was prepared for, “baby-“

“Baby,” you coo, the spoon resting on the oven, “We have an early morning tomorrow-“

“and-“ hasan’s knees crack as he kneels on the tile of the kitchen, his hands a claw as he tickles her belly, “someone has to get some good sleep because someone has a birthday tomorrow. I wonder who that could be-“

she giggles, her hands go into hasan’s hair as she gently pulls at it and he continues to tease her:

“who’s birthday is it tomorrow? Hm, I can not for the life of me remember-“

she giggles, climbs onto his knee and pulls at the corner of his eyes, pulls at the corner of his lips until he’s smiling:

“it’s mine, Papa!”

he gasps:

“it’s yours?!” he shakes his head, “absolutely not. you’re my baby you aren’t allowed to get older-“

you have to turn away. it’s too sweet, reminds you of when things were briefly okay-when hasan was home and didn’t have dark bags under his eyes, when he would actually come around and help-those long nights out when he came home reeking of cigarettes and in stained clothes, how your voice cracked as you begged to not be a single parent (or at least, what felt like one)

hasan’s eyes flash to yours as he stands, Aurora thrown over his shoulder. his voice drops as he leans in, and you try to ignore how you can feel his hot breath against your ear:

“i’ll leave soon. i’m sorry-“

suddenly meek and mild, not the hasan who made himself known, had no problem with that-

“Papa,” Aurora sticks her head out from behind his back, “Stay for supper? it’s just me and mama-“

his eyes snap to yours. his, wide with worry and like a deer in headlights, trying to not fuck up this co parent thing.

“Baby-“

“Mama,” Aurora pleads, “Please?”

her eyes are wide and sad and they suddenly look very much like hasan’s

“Well,” your eyes shoot to wilbur’s, “If Papa doesn’t have any plans-“

Aurora doesn’t hear that part. hears exclusively the yes that she got and squeals as hasan tries to steady her on his shoulder.

“hope you weren’t busy.” you smirk. you’re teasing, obviously, as you stir the pasta on the stove.

“Go wash your hands, babe.” hasan says gently, sets her on the floor and watches as she runs towards the restroom, still squeaking.

“Nah.” He shrugs, leaning over the stove now, finally answering. “i had a frozen pizza with my name on it but honestly-“

his hand dips into the pan on the stove, where there’s some sauce the chicken lays in. his finger connects, drags through it and brings it to his mouth with a happy sigh before you can smack his hand away:

“no, no.” he finally says, wipes his finger on his worn jeans, “this was much better, anyways.”

“what, freezer burned pizza doesn’t cut it these days?” you tease back against your better judgment, “you’ve changed.”

He laughs and the side of his eyes crinkle and the bags under his eyes are more evident and you try to shake it off before you can over think it.

“Look-“

Aurora comes back into the kitchen, all but stomping as she gets to the table:

“Mama,” She pulls her chair back, “Papa can sit next to me. I’ll get him a plate!”

You turn the flame off the stove and reach over, grabbing a plate and handing it off to Aurora, who tangled her hand into her father’s and drags him to the table with his plate.

dinner isn’t even as uncomfortable as you imagined. you imagined him clearing his throat, desperately looking for something to say, or having to take an emergency phone call to try and make himself leave early-

instead, he listens contently to every word aurora says. gasps at the appropriate times when she tells stories, knows when to gently remind her to focus on trying to eat; he falls back into the routine you two had like no time had passed. it was comforting, in a way, but knew the familiar ache would come back when he left

instead, you ignore it for your daughter. try to push it down and make it a problem for tonight-already knowing sleep won’t be on the agenda anyways, so this is something you can overthink again and again until your forced to pace in your kitchen by the light of the stove-

“I mean,” hasan clears his throat, “it depends on what your mama thinks-“

“Hm?”

you try to not make it obvious you weren’t listening, lost in your own thoughts.

“I said,” Aurora huffs, “Papa should stay and read me a bedtime story! for my birthday, mama!”

hasan looks sad in his seat. like it hit him that he’s doomed to a lifetime of day before or day after, always belated birthdays with his daughter, always an excuse or a reason-

“babe-“

you can tell by the way hasan speaks he’s setting it up to gently let her down, to try and slowly pull the dagger out of her back

“that sounds like a good idea to me,” you stay instead, “I think you have a new book Papa would like too-“

hasan’s head snaps up so quick at your voice you’re briefly afraid he’s going to break his own neck.

“M-me?”

his finger is hard against his own chest, his voice borders on shock or disgusted, you aren’t sure which one yet-

“Put your plate in the sink, Rory.” you say gently instead, “And then you can show papa your book.”

she squeals as she hops off the chair, drops the plate and goes back to hasan, where her fingers tangled into his and she pulls him away.

enough time has passed and the house is quiet enough you can hear the sinks steady stream of water fall from the faucet, a leak you can never remember to fix, that you finally figure you should check to see why it’s so quiet.

your hands play with the bottom of the old shirt you wear, suddenly aware of the old clothing and how dirty and stained it is-how for a while, hasan would be dressed up when he got home, when things were briefly okay-white button ups untucked out of jeans after a long shift, the buttons undone on the sleeve and how they were crookedly shoved up to his elbows-

a deep breath, insisting the worst-a toddler meltdown, hasan frustrated and near tears or him just gone, somehow escaped through the front door as you devoured the silence of a dinner you haven’t had in years

instead as you nudgethe bright yellow door open, you find hasan-

the bed is far too small for him; his feet dangle off the edge of them and you know his neck and back are going to hurt the next day now-but instead of a meltdown he lays on his back in the too small bed and on his chest, a little head curled under his chin with the blanket drawn up to her own neck, eyes closed and fast asleep but hasan still gently flips through the book, his voice low and steady as he reads gently in her ear-

“you’ve always had some special talent for being able to put her right to sleep.”

he laughs, closes the book and sets it on the nightstand where a picture of the three of them at a pumpkin patch years ago lays-Aurora on your hip, hasan’s face pressed against yours and silly smiles on your faces, cheeks pink from the wind blowing-

“i’ve always said i was boring,” he sighs, ruffles Aurora’s hair gently, “Guess that confirms it.”

“come on,” you roll your eyes, “I have coffee for the road for you. Just how you like it.”

he hesitates for a second. a careful kiss to the crown of auroras head, before he starts the gentle dance of untangling himself from her. limbs appears slowly; an arm, a leg, a torso-Aurora never stirs; a heavy sleeper like her father as he ducks out of the room.

in the kitchen you carefully pour black coffee into a to go cup, making sure the temperature is right before putting half a packet of splenda (the yellow package only, the one you keep far in the back of the cabinet for him, for these rare visits, in hopes he’ll come back) before securing the lid and handing it over.

hasan takes a sip, savors it as he groans and closes his eyes, really enjoying every sip.

“I needed that, princess,” he sighs, “thank you.”

princess hangs in the air and you try to not let it overpower you. try to not let him see the pink that climbs up your face with the old familiar name

i miss you, you think. the bed is too big without you. instead it comes out; “Any plans for the night?”

he takes another long sip of coffee before answering: “nah.” and he leaves it at that.

you snort, “i have a pack of 25 multi colored balloons that need to be blown up if you’re bored.”

you’re teasing. it’s obvious, at least you think. previous birthdays where hasan would be poured over the scratched up table in the front room, slowly, carefully, blowing up balloons until he collapsed back in the seat always insists this is the last year he would be doing this. you tried to bite back the sting when you think that time actually was the last time.

“Yeah,” hasan nods, locks his lips: “sure, i’ll do those real quick-“

“hasan,” you scoff, “you don’t have to-“

he throws back the last of the coffee, shakes his head: “it’s the least i can do. always your least favorite part. i’ll be quick, and then i’ll leave, i promise.”

out of habit when he says promise your pinky goes in the air and as if he’s never left, hasn’t stopped doing it, his pinky immediately wraps around yours, shakes once, falls

“where the usually are, yeah?”

hasan asks but doesn’t give you time to answer before he digs through the drawer, comes out with his victory, the small plastic bag of balloons.

hasan sits on the couch, gently blows them up, acts like he doesn’t hate it as you carefully unfold the banner of letters that read out happy birthday in various pastel colors as you struggle you hang it over the picture window.

“why don’t you let me do this?”

you feel hasan’s hand on the small of your back before you can even register his voice.

“remember,” he said gently, his voice low like he’s afraid he’s overdoing it, “before-you’d wrap the presents and i’d hang the banner-“

“because i could never reach the top-“

you both finish at the same time.

your hand is still in the air as you turn to face him: “and you always insisted on playing the beatles version of happy birthday as we did it. again and again-“

“i know,” he smiles, “and you’d always swear you couldn’t sleep the next three nights because it was stuck in your head.”

“that’s right.” you’re finally laughing, leaving out how you haven’t listened to that song in years now, “again and again-“

gently, he grabs the side of the banner out of your hands and has a hand on your hip as he gently supervisors you walking off the ladder before he takes your spot.

when he turns around you’re back and he knows from the old box in your hands immediately what’s next:

“the usual place?” he says gently, instead of the old comments he’d usually spit out; ‘again?’ or ‘this is so fucking stupid. she doesn’t want these pictures out’

you pass him the first photo, the frame half broken and super glued back together,permanent fingerprint stains on it that you can’t get out no matter how long you scrub or soak it-

“she was so fucking tiny.”

if you didn’t doubt yourself, you’d think hasan’s voice cracked, bordered on a whimper as his fingers danced over the silhouette of her in the frame. the day you brought her back from the hospital; hasan’s clothes are wrinkled and the bags under his eyes are big, even though his eyes are downcast and he’s looking at the tiny pink bundle of blankets in his hand with such a proud smile

“you were so afraid you were going to drop her,” you finally say as you set the final photo out, “i’m surprised i got you to take that picture.”

he carefully sets it on the table like he’s afraid it’ll break, but you realize it’s angled towards him as he sits back in the chair and brings a balloon to his mouth

“you can help me bake the cake,” you say gently as you sit on the armrest of what use to be his chair, “if you aren’t busy.”

your hand rests on his shoulder, plays with the tip of his collared shirt that’s wrinkled:

“might as well stay.” you try again. “p-please. Aurora”you shake your head, “aurora would be thrilled to see you.” you get out.

stay you think let’s get this right i can get this right

he nods slowly: “i’m here.”

and you recognize the weight in it, how you waited for this, as his hand drops into yours and follows you to the kitchen.

[prettytoxicrevolver]

1 from dialogue and 3 from scenarios for hasan?

(everyone boo emily cause this drabble sucks and it makes me sad i didn’t do better)

Hasan never takes a day off from streaming.

He’s complained multiple times about feeling guilty when he can’t stream especially with the conflict going on in the world.

It took you weeks to convince him that a couple of hours out and about won’t kill him, that it’ll actually do him some good, and you were grateful when he finally wore down and accepted your hangout request.

The two of you decided to head to a local Apple Orchard on the outskirts of LA. You hadn’t been apple picking since you were a kid and you were beyond excited when you got there. Thankfully, Hasan is a foot taller than you and catches up with your quick steps with ease.

The two of you grab a basket and head out to the field where you slow to a stroll and pick any apples you can actually reach. Hasan is behind you, watching with soft heart eyes for the younger girl before him.

You reach up on your tip toes, stretching to grab an out of reach apple and when you finally grasp it, you let out a small cheer and turn with a triumphant grin towards Hasan.

“You have a leaf in your hair,” he says, reaching up to tug the stray leaf out of your hair and tossing it lightly on the ground.

Your heart thunders realizing how close you and Hasan are and you try to ignore the tension but it’s so palpable that the older boy drops his hand from your hair. Your face is about to fall to one of disappointment when Hasan takes a leap and intertwines your fingers together.

You look back up and he tosses a wink at you, causing your heart to skip before he pulls you along with him to continue on your outing.

[mystic-writings]

hasan piker (hasanabi)

series

imagines

drabbles

cold hands (660~ words)

his clothes (850~ words)

headcanons

other

[jjkbambi]

the morning after luigi mangione x reader (18+)

summary!!! part two of is it new years yet because you do not get back together just cuz he has good dick OMG 🖕🖕🖕🖕😒 he also has a great personality and loves eating pussy

warnings: smut, kinda angsty, he’s manipulative but honestly he’s such a nice guy, you should really give him a second chance

^ not edited let’s alll just practice gratitude 🙏

seven days, thirteen hours, and nine minutes and thirty six seconds.

that’s how long it had been since luigi had seen you. not that he’d been counting, he was truly trying to be normal about the distance this time around.

he replays the morning after on a loop, searching for the slightest hint he’d done something wrong to no avail. as a matter of fact, your quiet body was beside him until deep into the afternoon, nothing but soft snores exchanged between the two of you. he wakes before you, kissing your forehead before taking his leave. his frat brothers whistle at him as he enters the wretchedly messy house, throwing him a water.

“happy new year, big guy,” one of them, hasan, greets. “did’ya spend your night thinking about new goals or scoring the same one?”

luigi rolls his eyes. “fuck off.”

another brother chimes in, bright-eyed. “when are we meeting her?”

“in your dreams.”

he had no intention of sharing you in any way; the thought of anyone else even looking at you irritated him. but starting the new year off by your side was far too great a fate to be stoic about. he grabs a plate of what’s left of their shitty communal breakfast (jar salsa from the night before, scrambled eggs, and two pieces of mostly burnt toast) and brings it into your room.

“y/n,” he calls out while entering. the door to the bathroom is now closed, and he sees your shadow shuffling around the room.

hesitant, the door creaks open. youre back in your black minidress, holding onto your heels. “hey, pretty.”

“hi,” you say tightly, the mistakes and soreness from the night before lingering in your mind. you’ve just wiped away the tears still streaked on your face, yet your ex-boyfriend hardly looks hungover.

“dressed up just for me?” he jokes, kissing your cheek. he offers you the plate of food but you shake your head.

“lacy’s waiting for me. i’ve got to go.”

“stay,” he says, his voice honey-sweet, like the boyfriend you knew months ago. it makes you feel sick, the familiarity of it all suffocating you. the room feels too small.

you push away from him. “i have to go.”

“baby,” he drops everything he’s holding to grab you again. “what’s wrong? is everything alright?”

he always blows your mind with his audacity. “no, everything’s not alright, luigi,” you spit back. “we shouldn’t have—none of that should’ve happened.”

“what do you mean?”

“luigi,” you sigh. “we’re over, alright? it’s done.”

“y/n—”

“i mean it,” you raise your voice so slightly, but still it breaks. “you cheated on me, then pulled all this shit, i can’t do it anymore.”

“you can’t do it anymore? are you serious?”

“yes!”

“you ignored me for weeks then showed up at my fucking party, dressed like that,” his voice was low, but angry. brows furrowed, he doesn’t lose his grip on you. it scares you. “you can’t tell me you weren’t bartering for my attention.”

“i wasn’t.”

his jaw sets. “then who’s?”

“oh my god. nobody’s!”

“don’t fucking lie to me—”

“lu, stop, seriously.” your voice trembles this time, and you both notice it. he drops your hand.

“i didnt mean to hurt you,” he says, soft at your upset. “i swear—i dont remember cheating on you. i’m not gonna mess up like that again, i promise.”

he leans in to kiss you, to seal the pledge with his gentle touch, but you pull back. “it doesn’t matter that you didn’t mean to hurt me—you did. you can’t just pretend it didn’t happen.“

his big brown eyes bear into yours and he swears, “i can make it up to you.”

“luigi,” you hadn’t even realized you’d been crying until he brings his hands up to wipe your tears away. “i just don’t think this is a good idea, i’m sorry.”

“come on,” he says, frowning. “i love you. only you.” his lean-in to kiss you is successful this time. the kiss feels much better—softer—than last night’s. he’s gentle with his desperation, intent on making you stay. “‘m sorry, okay?” he says between kisses. “let me make it better.”

“no, luigi, we shouldn’t—”

“you’ve got to hear me out, y/n,” he takes your lips again. his hot kisses move down your neck—and it all feels so different this time around. even the air in the room feels lighter. his voice is against your ear when he swears, “i’ll be good to you, sweetheart, i promise.”

saying no to him is near impossible—it’s why you shut yourself off of him for weeks, avoiding places he frequented, deactivating your social media, ignoring his constant stream of messages and calls. now, he has you, and within minutes, you’re pressed against the wall again.

“feels good?” he teases, grinding his hard-on into your core. you melt underneath him, you can’t help it, he’s so warm.

“lu,” you whimper. you’re still sensitive from how selfishly he took you the night before, you can’t help but react to his touch so quickly. it felt so raw.

“wait—” he never does. his hands are on your hips again, moving your body against his.

“just let me take care of you,” he says, trailing kisses down your neck again. this time, he was sure to leave marks.

he keeps the dress on this time. he places you back onto the bed, and as you gather the courage to take him in again, he moves beneath you.

“knew i recognized these,” his voice hot against the fabric of your panties.

you told yourself the lacy black panties were just meant to match the dress, but it all seemed so intentional—the party crash, the kitchen drive-by, the fact that you were wearing his valentines day gift. whether this was a manifestation of your greatest fear or desire, you couldn’t tell.

he kisses your thighs, then runs his tongue against your core through the fabric of your panties before ceremoniously ripping them off. he kisses and sucks at your wetness. you tremble at the suddenness of his movement. his big nose is so prominent in your pussy, you can’t help but grind yourself against his perfect face and whine as he drinks you in.

“you’re such a fucking mess,” luigi says, smiling into your warmth. his unshaven stubble tickles your sensitive cunt, sending a tremor through you. “so wet, i’ve barely even touched you.”

“i can’t help it,” you whimper.

he grabs your ass, pulling you closer to his relentless mouth. it’s ridiculous how good he feels. he’s completely shameless in his endeavor to ruin you.

“look at me,” luigi orders, so you do. you look down to see him, finding that he’s already gotten to touching himself. his hard length at the edge of the bed, furiously red, as he strokes himself. “i think about you everyday,” he admits in between licking at your core. “i missed how this pretty pussy tasted. i missed having you like this. holding you down so you can’t squirm away. missed hearing you beg.”

you’re almost there, fidgeting underneath his hands. “luigi, please. it’s too much.”

“you’ve taken worse,” he growls into you.

he feels like he’s on fire. one hand moves up and down along his cock fervently, while the other lends itself to fingering your frothing pussy. you mewl at the sudden entry, back arching.

“luigi,” you whine. “please.”

“i’m trying to do a nice thing for you, y/n,” he hums, “but you want me to be selfish, hm? want me to take you?”

“yes,” you say, breathless.

“fuckin’ slut,” he grumbles, pulling himself away from your wet cunt. he grabs your ankles and pulls you to the edge of the bed. “what d’you want from me, huh?”

“want you.”

“course you do,” luigi says, surprising you with hard slaps against your sensitive clit. you cry out at the sensation, the unfamiliar storm of bliss and torment, and he chuckles darkly. “you fuckin’ belong to me.”

he grabs your chin and forces you into another kiss, your wetness now staining you both. he lifts your leg up and slides himself back into your wet warmth. “you’re dripping,” he praises as he pounds into you. the exhilarating pain sets your senses alight, you grip onto him tighter without even realizing. “all for me, yeah?”

“all for you.” you nod. this is not how you expected this conversation to go. you writhe at how big he is, how hard.

“you can take it,” he grunts. he’s not fast, this time—his thrusts are agonizingly slow and tortuously deep—just as you think it’s all entirely too much, one hand grips your clothed tit, the other lifts to cradle your chin, forcing your lips to part open. he spits into your mouth. “swallow,” he orders.

you do.

“good girl,” he places sloppy, wet kisses along your jaw, your neck, then goes to bite at your tits. “so fuckin’ pretty.”

“i thought about you too,” you admit sheepishly, out of your mind. he looks up at you, raises his eyebrows, urging you to go on. “i missed you.”

to your surprise, he scoffs. “fuckin’ bitch.” he suddenly loses the interest in being gentle with you, returning to your body rough and angry. his fingers massage against your clit, unraveling you. “you’re just as crazy as i am, you know that? running around town like you don’t belong to me. like you don’t touch yourself late at night thinking about this cock. wishing those fingers were half as good as mine, huh? fuckin’ idiot.”

“luigi,” you cry out. was this him being nice?

“be a good girl f’me,” he grunts. he feels you pulse around his cock and drives into you with even more force. “cum all over me, baby. have my fuckin’ kids.”

“luigi,” you mewl again, desperate for release.

“come on, pretty, show me how good it feels.”

his lips return to yours, hot wet and desperate, as he cums inside of you. you’re a complete mess—squirming and whimpering as you unravel onto his cock, he catches your moans with kisses and leaves you shaking underneath him.

“good girl,” he hums, kissing your forehead.

for a fleeting moment, the two of you are perfect. everything feels just right. he slips into the spot beside you, the disarray of tangled sheets forgotten as he pulls you into his warmth. you sink into the nape of his neck, and though there are no more words spoken, the air is thick with an undeniable love, quiet but all encompassing.

but when he stirs awake, reaching for you, all that lingers is the soft, fading smell of your spring perfume.

MASTERLIST send requests ! <3

[slut4calum]

Hasanabi: Teacher's Assistant

Halfway through junior year, and the finish line was starting to shimmer in the distance. Just push through this final year, the mountain of exams, the stress-fueled ramen nights, and then it would be freedom. Freedom from textbooks, freedom from professors' drone-like lectures, freedom from the constant pressure to prove yourself. But for now, there was only the present, the slightly stale air of lecture hall B-12, and the prospect of three more hours grappling with the intricacies of 17th-century French literature.

My first class, European Romanticism, was familiar territory. Professor Dubois, with his tweed jacket and perpetually surprised eyebrows, was practically an old friend after two semesters of dissecting Byron's angst and Wordsworth's musings on daffodils. The next two classes, however, were uncharted waters: Medieval Art History, where I desperately hoped the professor wouldn't quiz us on the difference between Romanesque and Gothic arches, and Advanced Genetics, where the potential for complex Punnett squares already had my head spinning.

By the time I stumbled into my fourth class, PSC 419: The Political Effects of Globalization, I was ready for a nap. But the exhaustion evaporated the moment I saw Dr. Kemp. He was tiny, a sprite of a man with twinkling eyes and a neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper beard. As he outlined the syllabus, his voice was a warm rumble, like well-aged whiskey swirling in a glass. And then, the door creaked open, and my heart did a triple flip.

"Ah, Mr. Piker," Dr. Kemp welcomed, "Nice of you to join us. Class, this is your TA, Hasan. Hasan is working on his PhD in political science here, Hasan, what are your office hours this semester?"

The man who walked in was…well, breathtaking. Dark hair tousled by invisible hands, eyes that held the glint of mischief and intelligence, and a smile that could charm the sunrise. He cleared his throat.

"Uh, yeah, pretty packed schedule this semester, so just email me if you need to meet up, and we'll find a time."

That was it? No booming baritone introductions, no grand plans for interactive seminars? Just a mumbled email address and an evasion of office hours? Disappointment flickered across my face, quickly masked by a cough. Dr. Kemp chuckled.

"First day and already zoning out, Ms. Y/N? We have a lot to cover this semester, globalization is a tangled web, isn't it?"

He launched into a whirlwind explanation of the coursework, detailing everything from intricate trade agreements to the rise of populist movements. I tried to focus, tried to decipher the complexities of cultural homogenization and international power struggles, but Hasan kept drifting into my vision. His hand resting on the lectern, the way his brow furrowed in concentration, the playful glint in his eyes as he met Dr. Kemp's gaze. My mind was a chaotic dance floor, Professor Kemp's words mere background music to the silent symphony of possibilities playing out in my head.

The rest of the class passed in a blur. Charts of global trade flows morphed into Hasan's sculpted jawline, intricate political maps became sketches of his smile. Finally, the class ended, the sweet release from academia and its alluring distractions. As everyone shuffled out, I lingered, hoping for a chance encounter, a stolen glance, anything to break the spell before it consumed me whole. But Hasan was already gone, swallowed by the labyrinthine corridors of the university, leaving behind only the faint echo of his name and the intoxicating image of him leaning against the wall, arms crossed, eyes holding mine for a single, lingering moment.

My legs finally stumbled out of lecture hall B-12, the weight of the day settling on my shoulders like a damp backpack. My notebooks bulged with scribbled notes and half-formed insights, remnants of the academic marathon I'd just run. Exhaustion tugged at my eyelids, urging them shut, but the phantom heat of Hasan's gaze still pulsed beneath my skin. Could his name become a mantra tonight, a whispered incantation against the inevitable sleep that beckoned? Would I dream of power dynamics and trade imbalances, or would his face, framed by that dark, tousled hair, be the only image etched in my subconscious mind?

Dinner in the cafeteria was a blur of lukewarm pasta and whispered gossip about the new TA. My roommates peppered me with questions, but my answers were mumbled monosyllables, my attention already caught in the web of possibilities Hasan had woven around me. Even the rhythmic thrum of the washing machine sounded like a heartbeat, my chest pounding a primal rhythm against my ribs.

Finally, curled up in my bed, surrounded by the familiar chaos of textbooks and half-eaten candy wrappers, I felt a strange mix of exhilaration and trepidation. Junior year might be about finishing lines, but with Hasan lurking on the horizon, the only finish line I could see was the one blurring the edges of my consciousness, pulling me toward a dream where textbooks and exams dissolved into the intoxicating haze of his smile. One thing was certain – this semester, at least, was going to be anything but smooth sailing.

The Tuesday morning sun peeked through my blinds, but the usual jolt of caffeine-fueled urgency was missing. Today, with only CJ 290: Criminal Theories on my schedule, the pressure valve hissed a sigh of relief. Professor Evans, a woman with a penchant for dissecting motives and questioning morals, was never one for early morning torture sessions. I lingered in bed, savoring the luxury of stolen minutes, my mind a tangled mess of globalization, trade agreements, and, more persistently, Hasan's captivating eyes.

My day unfolded in a leisurely waltz, devoid of the usual academic frenzied pace. I drifted through a bookstore, getting lost in the labyrinth of dusty spines and the promise of new worlds, then indulged in a leisurely lunch in the park, watching squirrels chase each other across the sun-dappled grass. But even the chirping birds and rustling leaves couldn't drown out the persistent hum of his name in my head. He was a phantom presence, whispering possibilities around every corner, making the mundane seem vibrant with anticipation.

As dusk began to paint the sky in hues of orange and purple, I found myself drawn to the familiar warmth of the campus dining hall. My heart did a somersault when my gaze landed on a familiar figure seated at a corner table. It was Hasan, his head bent over a book, his brows furrowed in concentration. My breath hitched, and I instinctively ducked behind a towering stack of trays, my heart pounding a frantic tattoo against my ribs. Should I approach him? Strike up a conversation about trade agreements or political philosophers? But the words caught in my throat, choked by the sudden shyness that bloomed in my chest. I watched him from the shadows, a voyeur to his book-filled world, content with simply stealing glances of his coffee-sipping lips and the way the light played on his dark hair.

He was gone by the time I gathered the courage to emerge from my self-imposed exile. The dining hall was bustling, the hum of conversation washing away the quiet intimacy of my stolen observation

. I left with a pang of disappointment, the taste of his unspoken presence lingering on my tongue, a sweet-sour mystery I couldn't quite decipher. As I lay in my bed, I couldn't help but think of him. His tall, muscular body, piercing brown eyes, and the way his voice commanded attention in the lecture hall. I had been his student for the past semester and every time I saw him, I couldn't help but feel a surge of desire.

I know it's wrong. He's my TA, someone in a position of authority. But the more I tried to suppress my thoughts, the more they consumed me. I finally gave in to my fantasies. I closed my eyes and imagined him in my bed, his hands roaming my body, his lips on mine. I could feel the heat between my thighs as I thought of him undressing me, his touch igniting every nerve in my body. I ran my hands over my breasts, imagining his lips on them, sucking and flicking my nipples. My breathing became more rapid as I thought of him trailing kisses down my stomach, until he reached the place I craved him the most. I could practically feel his tongue teasing me, his fingers exploring every inch of me. My own fingers moved faster as I imagined him entering me, making me moan his name.

As I reached my peak, I couldn't help but scream out his name. I collapsed back onto my bed, panting and flushed. But my mind couldn't stop there. I needed more, I needed him. I imagined him holding me close, whispering dirty words in my ear as he continued to pleasure me. I wanted him to be rough, to dominate me. And in my mind, he did just that. That night, as I drifted off to sleep, the shadows behind my eyelids danced with the image of his smile, a silent promise of encounters to come, of a semester forever teetering between textbooks and stolen glances, between academic pursuits and the intoxicating allure of a TA with a name that was becoming my own personal forbidden fruit.

The Wednesday morning sun rose, casting a golden hue over the campus as I made my way to my first class of the day, EN 370: European Romanticism. Professor Dubois, with his tweed jacket and perpetually surprised eyebrows, greeted us with his usual enthusiasm, diving into the depths of Shelley and Keats with fervor. But my mind wandered, drifting back to Hasan and the tantalizing possibilities he represented. HY 346: Medieval Art History followed, the lecture hall echoing with the professor's passionate discourse on the intricacies of cathedral architecture. Yet, as I scribbled notes on flying buttresses and pointed arches, my thoughts strayed once more to the enigmatic figure of Hasan, his presence a magnetic pull that defied the boundaries of the classroom. BIO 243: Advanced Genetics brought with it the complexities of Punnett squares and genetic inheritance, but even as I grappled with alleles and phenotypes, Hasan's image lingered in the recesses of my mind, a persistent whisper of distraction amidst the academic clamor.

Finally, the moment I had been waiting for arrived as I stepped into PSC 419: The Political Effects of Globalization. Dr. Kemp's warm rumble filled the room, a soothing undertone that hinted at the depth of knowledge and experience lying just beneath the surface. "Good morning, everyone," he began, his voice carrying the weight of years spent navigating the intricate web of global politics. "Today marks the beginning of a journey into the heart of one of the most pressing issues of our time: globalization."

As he spoke, each word seemed to carry with it a sense of urgency, a call to action in the face of a rapidly changing world. "Globalization," he continued, "has reshaped the political landscape in ways we are only beginning to comprehend. From the rise of transnational corporations to the erosion of national sovereignty, its effects are far-reaching and profound." His words hung in the air, a silent invitation to delve deeper into the complexities of this modern-day phenomenon.

But even as Dr. Kemp expounded on the intricacies of trade agreements and cultural exchange, my attention was inexorably drawn to Hasan. His presence at the front of the room was like a magnet, pulling my gaze away from the professor's lecture and into a world of tantalizing possibilities. I found myself captivated by the way his brow furrowed in concentration, the way his lips curved into a half-smile as he listened to Dr. Kemp's words. I couldn't stop staring at Mr. Piker, wondering if he knew what I had done the night before. I tried to focus on the lecture, but my mind kept drifting back to the thoughts from the previous night.

"Hasan," Dr. Kemp's voice broke through my reverie, bringing me back to the present moment. "Would you care to share your thoughts on the role of globalization in shaping political ideologies?" Hasan's eyes met mine for a fleeting moment, a silent acknowledgment of the unspoken connection that crackled between us. "Uh, yes, of course," he replied, his voice steady despite the hint of surprise that flickered across his features. "Globalization has undoubtedly had a profound impact on political ideologies," he began, his gaze sweeping across the room. "It has facilitated the spread of ideas and information on an unprecedented scale, challenging traditional notions of sovereignty and identity." His words were measured, his tone confident as he delved into the complexities of the topic at hand. And yet, despite his obvious expertise, there was a hint of vulnerability in his eyes, a fleeting glimpse of the man behind the TA facade.

As Hasan spoke, I found myself hanging on his every word, caught in the magnetic pull of his presence. His voice was like a siren's song, drawing me deeper into the labyrinth of his thoughts and ideas. I couldn't tear my gaze away, couldn't shake the feeling that we were connected in some inexplicable way, bound together by the invisible threads of fate.

The rest of the class passed in a blur, the minutes slipping by unnoticed as Hasan and Dr. Kemp dissected the nuances of globalization and its political ramifications. I scribbled notes furiously, my mind racing to keep pace with the torrent of information flooding the room. But amidst the chaos of academia, one thing remained constant: Hasan's presence, a beacon of light in the murky depths of my subconscious.

As the class ended, I felt a strange mix of relief and disappointment wash over me. Relief that I could finally escape the confines of the lecture hall, but disappointment that I would have to wait until next week to see Hasan again. I lingered for a moment, watching as he gathered his belongings and made his way to the front of the room. Our eyes met briefly, a silent exchange that spoke volumes without a single word being uttered. And then, just like that, he was gone, leaving me to navigate the swirling currents of my thoughts alone.

As I made my way back to my dorm, I couldn't shake the feeling that something had shifted, that a door had been opened to a world of possibilities I had never dared to explore. Hasan had awakened something within me, a hunger for knowledge and connection that transcended the boundaries of the classroom. And as I lay in bed that night, the echo of his voice still ringing in my ears, I knew that this semester would be unlike any other, a journey into the unknown with Hasan as my guide.

Two weeks passed in a whirlwind of lectures, study sessions, and stolen glances. Despite my best efforts to focus on my studies, Hasan's enigmatic presence continued to linger in the back of my mind, a constant distraction amidst the academic chaos. But as the days flew by, the impending exam in PSC 419 loomed larger and larger on the horizon, a stark reminder of the need to buckle down and prepare.

The next time the class met, the atmosphere crackled with nervous energy. Dr. Kemp's warm rumble filled the room as he handed out the exam papers, his eyes flickering with a mixture of anticipation and gravity. "Alright, class, you’ll have 50 minutes to complete this exam," he announced, his voice carrying the weight of authority. "You may begin."

As the minutes ticked by, the rustle of papers and the scratch of pencils on paper filled the air, each stroke a testament to weeks of diligent preparation and late-night cramming sessions. I kept getting distracted by Hasan sitting at the front of the room, his gaze flicking across the rows of students, no doubt looking for any signs of cheating. Every time our eyes met, I felt a blush creep up my cheeks, a mix of embarrassment and excitement swirling in my chest.

Despite my nerves, I managed to focus on the exam, my mind racing to recall the intricacies of globalization and its political effects. But as I flipped through the pages, answering each question to the best of my ability, doubt crept in. Had I studied enough? Had I missed any crucial details? The uncertainty gnawed at me, a constant companion as the seconds ticked by.

As I gathered my belongings and made my way out of the lecture hall, a sense of unease settled in the pit of my stomach. The weight of Hasan's gaze lingered on me, a silent reminder of the unspoken tension that simmered between us.

Friday came, and I anxiously awaited the exam results, a knot of apprehension tightening in my stomach. When Dr. Kemp finally handed back the papers, my heart sank as I saw the red mark glaring back at me. Hasan had failed me. Confusion and frustration swirled in my mind as I scanned through my answers, unable to comprehend where I had gone wrong.

Desperate for answers, I sought out a classmate to compare notes. To my disbelief, our answers aligned perfectly. Each question meticulously answered, every concept grasped with precision. With newfound resolve, I confronted Hasan, armed with evidence of my innocence.

Summoning every ounce of courage, I made my way to Hasan's office hours, determined to confront him about the unjust grade. As I entered his office, the air seemed charged with tension, the weight of our unspoken conflict hanging heavy between us. Hasan's eyes met mine, but there was no warmth in his gaze, only a guarded wariness that sent a chill down my spine.

I launched into my argument, laying out the evidence of my innocence with a conviction born of righteous indignation. But instead of engaging in a rational discourse, Hasan's demeanor grew increasingly defensive, his rebuttals growing more vehement with each passing moment. It was as if he were grasping at straws, desperate to deflect blame and avoid accountability for his actions.

As the minutes ticked by, it became painfully clear that Hasan had no intention of acknowledging his mistake, let alone rectifying it. His refusal to even entertain the possibility of an error left me feeling helpless and betrayed, a pawn in his reckless game of academic manipulation.

But then, as I prepared to leave, Hasan's tone shifted, his voice dropping to a husky whisper that sent shivers down my spine. "There might be another way to resolve this," he said, his eyes locking with mine in a knowing gaze. My heart raced as I realized the implication of his words, the sudden surge of desire mingling with the lingering anger and frustration.

In that moment, I saw an opportunity to turn the tables, to reclaim control over the situation and emerge victorious. The thought of using my newfound leverage to secure a better grade both thrilled and terrified me, the line between right and wrong blurring in the heat of the moment.

With a tentative nod, I accepted Hasan's proposition, a rush of adrenaline coursing through my veins as I realized the power I held in my hands. As we drew closer, the air crackling with anticipation, I knew that this was a gamble I was willing to take, consequences be damned. For in that fleeting moment of forbidden desire, I saw not only a chance to right a wrong but also a glimpse of the intoxicating allure of surrendering to temptation.

With a sense of both trepidation and excitement, I agreed to Hasan's proposition, feeling a surge of adrenaline coursing through my veins. As we drew closer, the air between us crackled with anticipation, the tension palpable as we stood on the precipice of a decision that would alter the course of our academic and personal lives.

Hasan's gaze bore into mine, dark and intense, as if searching for any hint of hesitation or doubt. But all I could feel was a fierce determination, a resolve to seize control of the situation and emerge victorious, no matter the cost. The lines between right and wrong blurred in the heat of the moment, overshadowed by the intoxicating allure of forbidden desire.

Without a word, Hasan closed the distance between us, his touch sending shivers down my spine as he brushed his fingers against my cheek. In that moment, the world fell away, leaving only the two of us locked in a silent dance of longing and anticipation.

His lips met mine in a searing kiss, igniting a firestorm of passion that threatened to consume us both. With each touch, each caress, the boundaries that had once separated us melted away, leaving only the raw intensity of our desire.

As our bodies entwined, the air around us crackled with electricity, charged with the urgency of our shared longing. Hasan's hands roamed my body with a hunger that matched my own, igniting a wildfire of sensation that blazed through every nerve ending.

In that moment, all thoughts of exams and grades faded into obscurity, replaced by the primal need to surrender to the irresistible pull of desire. As Hasan's lips trailed down my neck, his touch setting my skin ablaze, I knew that there was no turning back.

With each passing moment, the intensity grew, building like a tidal wave ready to crash over us both. And when it finally hit, the sheer force of our passion left us breathless, tangled together in a web of tangled limbs and whispered promises.

Hasan's fingers found their way between my legs, trailing along the wetness that had welled up there. A gasp escaped my lips as his thumb circled around my clit, sending sparks of pleasure shooting through every nerve ending.

"You like that?" he growled in a low murmur against my ear.

I nodded eagerly, unable to form any coherent words as desire consumed every fiber of my being. The intensity grew with each passing second, building like a pressure cooker ready to explode.

Hasan's fingers explored my depths with a skill and finesse that left me breathless. The way he teased and pushed against my gates of pleasure, driving me to the edge of madness, was exquisite. My body clenched around his fingers, begging for release, but he held back just enough to keep me teetering on the precipice.

"Just like that," he taunted, a smirk playing on his lips. "You want me to fuck you so badly, don't you?"

I moaned in response, unable to form coherent words as desire coursed through my veins. The urgency within me grew with each passing moment, demanding satisfaction. But Hasan knew exactly how to wield power over me, to keep me desperate for him.

"No," he replied with a mocking tone. "You're not going to come yet." A flicker of frustration crossed my face as I struggled against his firm grip. He chuckled at my futile attempts to break free from his hold.

"Don't worry," he continued, his voice dripping with seduction. "I'll make you scream my name when I give you what you crave." His touch intensified, fingers pressing deeper inside me as if testing the strength of my walls.

The anticipation was unbearable, my body trembling with a mixture of impatience and ecstasy. "Fuck," I moaned, frustration coursing through my veins like wildfire.

Hasan smirked, his eyes locked onto mine with an intensity that sent shivers down my spine. "Not just yet," he replied, his voice dripping with sarcasm as he slowly pulled his fingers out of me. My breath hitched in disappointment as I felt the ache deepen between my legs. "You're going to have to beg for it properly."

My hesitation mingled with defiance as I locked eyes with Hasan. He knew exactly how to push all of my buttons - the power he held over me was intoxicatingly dangerous. But even amidst the haze of desire, there was a flicker of reluctance deep within me.

"Please," I whispered hoarsely, barely able to form the words amidst the overwhelming need coursing through every inch of my body. Hasan chuckled darkly at my plea before pressing his lips against mine in a searing kiss.

With a swift movement, he lifted me up effortlessly and threw me over his desk. Sharp and dirty furniture scraped against my skin as I landed with a thud. The air crackled with anticipation as Hasan positioned himself at the entrance of my wetness.

"Are you ready for this?" he asked, his voice dripping with seduction. My heart raced in response, a mix of excitement and apprehension coursing through me like electricity.

I nodded eagerly, unable to form coherent words amidst the whirlwind of emotions threatening to consume me. The uncertainty mingled with desire as Hasan pressed against the entrance of my core.

"Fuck," he growled lowly, gripping my hips tightly. "You want it rough, don't you? You want me to fuck you hard and fast?"

My breath hitched in response as I nodded frantically, unable to resist the magnetic pull that drew me towards him. He began to thrust into me with a force that made the desk move forward with each thrust.

"You like that, huh?" Hasan taunted, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "You like how I'm taking you so fucking hard?"

My mind was consumed by a mix of pleasure and frustration, but I couldn't deny the raw hunger between us. With each powerful thrust, my walls clenched around him tightly, desperately begging for more.

Hasan's eyes locked onto mine as he picked up the pace, his grip on my hips growing tighter with each passing second. The air in the room was thick with anticipation, filled with moans and curses that echoed off the walls.

I could feel myself teetering on the edge once again, desperate to surrender to the overwhelming pleasure coursing through my veins. But Hasan knew exactly what he was doing to me - he chased my sweet spot relentlessly, and I could feel myself edging closer and closer to the brink once again.

And then it happened. The intensity intensified until I exploded in ecstasy, crying out Hasan's name as waves of pleasure crashed over me like a tidal wave.

Hasan's thrusts grew more intense, his grip on my hips tightening as he fucked me harder and faster. The friction between us was unbearably intense, sending shockwaves of pleasure cascading through every inch of my body.

My mind spiraled with a mix of guilt and desire, torn between the forbidden desires that consumed me and the rational thoughts screaming for moderation.

"Fuck," I moaned, unable to contain myself. "You're so fucking good at this."

Hasan's eyes smoldered with dark amusement as he leaned in closer, his lips brushing against mine in a hungry kiss. "That's right," he whispered huskily. "You love being fucked. You love how I use you for my pleasure. God youre such a whore, letting your TA do this to you, all for a good grade. You're my little slut, aren't you?"

He growled, his voice low and husky. I moaned and came again, my pussy clenching around his cock.

"Yes! Yes! I'm your little slut!" I cried out as he pounded into me hard and fast.

I moaned and writhed beneath him, my body responding to his dominance. "Yes! Yes! Fuck me harder!" I cried out as he pounded into me with a force that made the desk creak and squeak.

The door to the office was locked, but it didn't matter. The sound of our bodies slapping together was loud enough to be heard outside. Hasan's hands gripped my hips, pulling me back onto his cock with each thrust. I could feel his balls slapping against my clit, sending waves of pleasure through me.

"Fuck, Hasan," I moaned. "You feel so good inside me." Hasan grunted in response, his eyes locked on mine as he continued to pound into me. His grip on my hips tightened, and I could feel him starting to lose control.

"Fuck, I'm gonna cum," he groaned. "Where do you want it?" I bit my lip, considering. "Inside me," I finally said. "I want to feel you fill me up." Hasan grunted again, his thrusts becoming more erratic as he neared his climax.

He thrust one last time, burying himself deep inside me as he came. I could feel his hot cum filling me up, and the sensation sent me over the edge as well.

I came hard, my pussy clenching around his cock as he continued to thrust into me. I was panting and shaking as he slowly pulled out of me. He sat back on his heels, looking down at me with a satisfied smile. "That was amazing," he said, stroking my hair gently.

I smiled back at him, feeling a sense of satisfaction and contentment. "Thank you," I said, my voice still shaky from the intensity of the orgasm. He leaned down and kissed me gently on the forehead. "You're welcome," he said, his voice low and husky with desire. “I think someone earned themselves a 105%,” he winked at me as we left the building.

[rafeshow]

where a fan made an 10 minute video with a compilation of hasan and reader being in love.

just for clicks

hasanabi x fem!streamer!reader

tags : hasan being a bit of an ass, tension, lingering touches, angst, use of y/n (scary ik), this is a blurb (I can’t make more parts if ppl want it), basically just angst, nothing really from the readers pov

a/n : i’m pretty sure you were looking for a more sappy direction w this request, but i rlly couldn’t help myself and i made it angsty 😭. also this is my first fanfic on this acc so pls be nice to me 🙏 im not good w english

It was a regular streaming day for Hasan, for the most part. His typical bogging on about politics, random internet drama, and his frequent frustration at chat. Behind all that though, his mind was a fog. You; another streamer, having been friends with Austin, being introduced to the Fear& group, and all but weaseling your way into being a staple member of the friend group, was all that Hasan could think about. Austin had tried to set the two of you up when you were first introduced to the friend group, but you never ended up going on any serious or planned romantic ventures, the two of yous schedules preventing from such.

That’s not to say you weren’t interested in eachother, it was quite the opposite actually. It was unspoken between the two of you, literally. Minus talking on the podcast or short interactions in videos, you had never spoken outside of ‘work’. That didnt stop the tension from growing though.

It started as accidental; Hasan gently grazing the back of your neck when walking behind your chair during filming in the cramped podcast room, his warm fingers barely lingering for a second on your bare neck, followed by rushed apology. Then it was you; lightly holding his waist as you attempted to squeeze behind him during a cooking stream, still unable to get past without his backside brushing against your front to a degree. And those two accidental touches wouldn’t have been a problem if they had just stayed those two accidental touches. The two of you managed to bump into eachother enough times that it had you each questioning if the other person was doing it on purpose.

Hasan was the first to break the ‘accidental’ rule, having grabbed your waist firmly and practically picking you up off the ground to move you on one occasion. You followed suit with the rule breaking, leaning across him to grab something from QT while filming the podcast and intentionally resting stretched for a moment; your top half shelved atop his forearm as it laid flat on the table.

The two of you refused to do anything about it though, and it was driving you both mad. Each touch was getting more daring then the last, and it was a game of who was going to break first. You were mad because you thought he was intentionally toying with you; knowing it drove you mad whilst not being interested himself. Just doing it to mess with you. Hasan on the other hand was just generally pissed you hadn’t done anything yet, which was ironic considering he didn’t have the gall to do anything himself either.

It was all that Hasan had been thinking of that day, and he questioned that if his facecam didn’t cut off at the top of his head that chat would be able to see the steam emanating from it. He was beyond frustrated, but he found it easy to play off; opting to take his anger out on the idiots who left comments on his livestream.

The two of you hadn’t thought about what your predicament looked like from an outsiders perspective though, not until now atleast.

Hasan was watching some political interview; mostly letting it play while opening links from chat in other tabs. As he opened one in particular, his heart stopped. He quickly clicked back to the tab, his brows taught together as he re-read the title.

“No fucking shot.” He forcibly laughed out, not only in disbelief himself but also trying to play his reaction down a bit for the stream. It was a compilation video, titled “y/n and hasan being down bad for 7 minutes”.

He was shocked he hadn’t thought about it, honestly. He was so concerned with keeping his feelings down while streaming by himself that he hadn’t even considered how he looked when he was actually with you. He clicked play without a second thought, his brain still registering the situation at hand. He had to stop himself from letting a grin slip out.

He watched the whole video without saying anything, which was alarming for chat and him. He was just entranced at how painfully obvious the two of you made it. The way he stared at you as you spoke to someone else. The way you never looked at him when he spoke to anybody. The way he stared at your hands as you fidgeted with a mic cord. The now obvious touches. He was baffled.

But his emotions quickly flipped back to his previous frustration. All that has been going on and you still hadn’t done anything? The two of you still hadn’t even talked? You had interacted this way long enough for somebody to make a 7 minute long compilation and the two of you still hadn’t done anything? He turned to chat, decided to take it out by being defensive.

“It’s actually hilarious the shit you idiots come up with. You do realize we’ve never talked right? The little shit we’ve said on camera is all we’ve ever said to eachother. Ever. I don’t even know her actual name. I don’t even have her in my contacts. I’ve never even thought about her in that way. You guys are so apt on shipping every male and female to ever interact together, it’s disgusting. You guys are fucking weird.” He took a beat, knowing the shit he was saying was doing anything but help his case, and knowing the hole he was digging for himself was just getting deeper. The few excuses he could come up with were borderline pathetic and certainly laughable. He just hoped he said his words fast enough that none of it stuck, even though he could practically feel the clips getting posted to twitter. In a last stitch effort to save himself, he blurted out;

“And anything she’s ever done around me is just for fucking clicks anyway.” He closed his mouth immediately after saying it. Hasan knew how much of a low blow that was, he knew how much he defended other streamers in the space for the same shit, and he couldn’t believe he’d just let that out about you of all people. He knew then in that moment that he’d lost all chances of anything with you, and he couldn’t grasp the fact that he was able to royally fuck himself over in a matter of seconds. He sat there silent, grumbling something else about chat being stupid, and then he went back to his political video.

He tried to keep a stone face, but he couldn’t help as his eyes caught chat every few minutes, mixes of shock and anger still bubbling between all of them. Hasan tried to redeem himself as much as he could; making some jokes and throwing some insults at whatever video he was watching. The main mass of the shocked comments eventually fizzled away, but he ultimately ended up wrapping up stream after another 30ish minutes. All he could do now was watch as everything unfolded before him.

[fullofgutsndopamine]

three times hasan faked it + 1 time he didn’t have to

more hasan here

hasan is good at faking many things.

look, he’s not one for bragging-really, he isn’t. it’s just part of his charm, of his appeal, another tick of good things about him-could be an actor if this streaming job ever falls through, if he ever gets sick of politics and dumb jokes.

at least, he likes to believe he is.

one

“i fucking hate this movie, dude.”

it’s obvious by the way his eyes have been glued to the screen and how he hasn’t said much that he’s lying. really, the only way you knew he was here was by the constant rubbing of the pad of his thumb over your hand, where it traveled and slowly creeped, two fingers at a time over your spine until it reached the back of your neck where his hand rested against yours, a gentle squeeze there, as if he’s saying: i’m here

“mhm,” you counter, eyes on the screen, “it’s obvious you hate it by how quiet you’ve been this entire time.”

he rolls his eyes but his hands stay constant:

“whatever,” he rolls his eyes, “this is the best part. hold on.”

he fucking hated this movie. his eyes were close to rolling out of his head but as he was about to make a joke, to say how dumb this was, he saw how excited you were, how wide eyed and excited you were over tbis movie and naturally, he had to love the movie as well.

two

“boo!”

hasan is many things, but at the very top of the list with your initials next to it, it’s a scaredy cat

he’s not proud of it.

the smile on his face gives him away, doesn’t give him enough time to fake a reaction, to play up being terrified:

“nothing?” your shoulders slump, “i didn’t scare you at all?”

look, he’d beat up anyone who even implied this, knows how cliche it is but the world is less scary with you by his side-isn’t on edge like before, isn’t always waiting for the other foot to drop.

“you didn’t even give me a chance to react!”

his giggle is loud as he reaches over to elbow you.

“reacting is your whole ass job!” you argue, moving out of the way as he tries to pull you close and plant a kiss on your forehead like he always does when you arrive at his side.

your face is bright red as he finally pulls you in close, another kiss to your cheek-

“cmon,” he giggles, “give me another chance.”

instead, you reach up, messing up his hair: “your time is coming.”

three

“i’m not much of a dancer.”

his voice is low as he drawls on, but as you stand with

“our kitchen would say differently,” you shush him, “come on.”

he groans, knows there’s no way he’ll get out of this, better to just shut up and follow what you say-you haven’t led him astray before.

“i’m going to embarrass you,” he all but whispers as he wraps his arms around your core, as you rest your head against his chest, “i’m going to step on your feet and it’s going to be horribly embarrassing.”

“shh.”

he leads, a gentle box as he’s careful to not step on your toes, grumbling and trying to act like he hates it-grateful you can’t see the pink across his face.

+ 1

“what is this?”

his giggle gives him away, proves he’s actually enjoying this.

“it’s a surprise, hasan.” you tsk at him, your hands shield over this eyes so all he can see is dark in front of him, “just-“

you pause, a sigh before kicking your lips:

“listen,” you counter, “do you trust me?”

there’s weight there, where he could play dumb or say the wrong thing and act like he doesn’t trust you-

“yes.” he says instantly, before he can even overthink it, his hands over yours as you guide him

“good,” you settle on, can hear your feet behind him as he smirks, his hands in front of him as he tries to make out a house he once knew by heart. “now shut up, and act like you’re enjoying this.”

you can’t see it as he rolls his eyes, as he tries to play up this act of someone who hates everything, hates this.

“okay, don’t open your eyes.”

there’s struggle for a second as one hand drops, he can tell by the difference in the lightning that you flicked a light on-

“okay. one, two-“

he can hear the deep breath you take as your hands drop. the second he can’t feel you anymore his hands scamper in the air, unsatisfied until they come back into contact with your hand, until his fingers are laced into your hand.

i’m the kitchen now lays half deflated balloons, a half hanging up happy birthday banner-

“it’s not great,” you sigh at your side, “I’m so sorry. i’ll make it up to you, i promise. the store-“

“hey.”

your head snaps up when you hear his voice, when his forefinger connects with your chin to lift it up so it strains, when you can finally make eye contact with him.

“this is perfect-“

“hasan,” you sigh, “you lie so badly-“

“i’ve literally never lied in my life,” he laughs, “this is perfect.”

you don’t believe him until he pulls you close to him, when your belly collided with the side of his legs, his hand outstretched as he points out the little things you spent all the time doing-

“this is perfect,” he insists, the smile never leaving his side, “you’re perfect.”

pink raises on your face as you shake it: “cliche.”

“shut up.”

he pulls you in for a final kiss.

[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.

[fullofgutsndopamine]

Just A Spark (Gonna Let It Happen)

Or: five times hasan helped you + 1 the one time you helped him

feat: fire fighter hasan

tw: mention of drinking, cursing, mention of ptsd/trauma

thanks to the wonderful @the-phantom-author for letting me run with their idea. @medlarmeadows and @abadarkade for their wonderful suggestions and always offering ideas when i run out

more hasan here

one. first encounter

sometimes, when the thick blanket of night falls in the room, hits his eyes even though they’re blocked by his arm-he wonders exactly what he did wrong in a past life to be here.

he isn’t sure if he believes in that past life bullshit; people with cards and stars that tell him he looked at someone the wrong way, years ago, in a different lifetime, landed him here- but fuck, he did something wrong.

it’s the steady beep of a half broken fire alarm that makes an eye snap up. it’s ironic, or something, that the fire stations fire alarm would be broken, but he can’t find himself caring enough to pull up a chair, find the screwdriver, to care long enough to do something for it.

instead, he lays with his forearm over his eyes, counts the seconds in between the beeps, find the peace in the lull between the five seconds.

there’s parties to go to; things he could make himself do-instead, he lays in a twin sized mattress that lightly reeks of a delicate mixture of body odor and oil.

Last nights call plays in his head: what was suppose to be a harmless call for a ninety year old-the flash of fear in her eyes when he gets there, holding her hand and promising her it’ll be okay-

he sits up and flips the pillow over to the cooler side, hopes that makes a difference, tries to face the wall and count the markings that line the wall.

An alarm blares over head.

he wonders if he squeezes his eyes shut long enough, picks the sides of the pillow up and slams it into his ears. instead, he sits up with a sigh, pulls his shoes up and says a hail mary to whatever supernatural powers be, wills it to be better.

The engine starts up, James, his partner forever, hops into the seat next to him and they’re off.

Three streets away in a yard only lit up by a fire, you find yourself borderline pacing.

The coughing didn’t bother you. At least, not at first.

The bonfire started hours ago, before the sun had set, hiding behind clouds and dipping in and out of them, as if it was an elaborate game of hide and seek that you were losing badly.

The coughing was almost expected. Peter and Paul, the two idiots together, disappeared off an hour ago with a large container of gasoline and a glint in their eye that you didn’t fully trust-honestly, you were surprised it took this long for it to catch up with you.

“Dude,” someone, you think his name is Scott, a friend of a friend, speaks up: “The first cough is whatever. The second? Sure. but the third? Can you please get it together?”

It’s dramatic.

an anxious habit, your hands go to the side of your hand, nail to your head to scratch at an invisible itch.

"Hey," Scott says in-between the coughs, scratches at his throat, "what's in these brownies anyways?"

Peter speaks up: "Nothing ground breaking. A family recipe-"

"Oh, please," Ava snorts, "Is the family recipe from a box found at Meijer's?"

"Fuck off, you're disrespecting my dead Nana," Peter puffs his chest out, "Who's dead, by the way, you sick fuck-"

"Guys," Scott is borderline wheezing, "The brownies?"

Peter rolls his eyes, "Oil, mix.." He ticks them off on his fingers, "Oh, I added some chopped walnuts in, to spice them up-"

"Stop trying to make 'spice them up' happen. Your Nana did not say that."

"Walnuts?" his eyes go wide, "I'm allergic-"

it's a blur after that. Yelling, running around, phone calls with fingers shoved in their ears to block out the noise, frantic googling that yielded no results

Honestly, the first thought you had when you saw him was relief. you wonder if that's what he's use to; the guardian angel status, the way he walks into a room with authority, like nothing actually scares him

Ava walks next to him, although it's less walking and more running, trying to run to keep up with his strides

You have Scott leaning against a dead tree trunk, his shirt ripped off in a panic, his hand on his throat as if he could scratch the itch out-your hand rests over his, your face close to him as you try to talk him off an invisible ledge.

"You're going to be fine," You're saying, trying to convince yourself, more than anything, "by tomorrow this is going to be a funny memory we'll all look back at-"

Hasan recognizes this-knows that it's you more panicked than him, and he realizes how out of his element he is-needs to rescue a cat in a tree, reset a fire alarm-

EMS comes in first, breaks up the two of you-you take the hint, inch further away so you're not in the way, but can still hear what’s going on-if he’ll make it.

“Hey.”

your head whips up. eyes stinging, didn’t realize you were crying until the familiar pinch came.

“Hey,” you shake your head, “sorry. Am i in the way?”

The taller man shrugs, “he’s good. James got him, too.”

He studies you for a second.

“are you okay?”

before you can answer stuff is flying from his belt; a smaller pack hits by your feet, a walkie talkie inches from your toes-

he plops down next to you with a groan, like that took a lot out of him.

Panic looms. blooms in your chest, fills it, threatens to take over-

“here.”

he digs in his jeans and pulls out a caramel candy, holds it by the wrapper.

“isn’t that an old man candy?”

you sniffle but a shaky hand reaches out, grabs it and unwraps it.

“it’s Hasan, by the way.” the man says gently, eyes downcast as he unwraps his own, “and it’s not.”

finally some comfort, the rise of panic crashing like a wave in your chest as it retreats for now.

“Hasan the old man,” you settle on, “got it.”

two

"You've got to be kidding me."

Hasan chomps on gum as if he doesn't have a care in the world

"I know the medical emergency was a little above your pay grade," You hope your voice doesn't come out as shaky as it feels, "So I figured saving my cat would be more up your alley."

He snorts, rolls his eyes as he cranes his neck to look up the tree.

"What's it's name?"

"My name?" You scratch at your neck, not sure how this is relevant but if it saves your cat-

"No," hasan says slowly, "The cat-"

"Oh."

You hope he doesn't see the rising red splash across your face

"Tomato," You clear your throat, "Tomato is the asshole who thought it was a good idea to climb a tree at five in the morning when i have an interbiew in an hour and my hair is still wet-"

and my hair is still wet- your hand flies to your head, where a towel is still damp and wrapped around your head, stained and worn with age-past hair colors stained and marked the towel up

"Hey,"

Hasan's voice brings you down, crashes you back to earth. Instead of the rising heat on your face and the worried roar in your head, your back in your front yard. Hasan stands in front of you-a too tight uniform shirt across his chest, stained, a mop of curly hair and a constellation of freckles across his face.

wide eyed, looking at you, his hands on either side of your arms:

“you’re fine,” he’s saying, “Tomato is fine. i’ll get her down in time.” he hesitates for a second, considers the weight behind it, “i promise.”

he turns to the tree before you can see him flustered:

“what a fucking stereotype,” he sighs, calls over his shoulder, his shoulders already aching from the work out he’s about to get: “got a ladder?”

there’s a quick fight between you two (“just tell me where the ladder is“ “you’re going to save tomato! you can’t carry the ladder too!”) before he throws his hands up and makes his way to the small shed in the corner of the yard, ignoring you, all but marching back to the scene of the crime.

“can you hold the ladder?” he says gently, before a smile paints across his face, “can you handle that much?”

the bastard is smirking now. in the sunlight his freckles are more pronounced, can trace the lines of them on his face.

“shouldn’t you have someone with you?” you’re calling up gently as he scales up a ladder. he’s clicking his tongue as he does so.

he doesn’t answer:

“i fucking hate cats,” he’s saying instead, “murderous, ungrateful bastards-“

his fingers reach out at the branch, so close to touching Tomatoes tail-he hisses, climbs up another branch.

“I don’t think he likes me.” Hasan huffs, scaling the tree higher

“can you blame him?” Nibbling fingernails, “some scary man is climbing up a ladder and invading his space-“

“handsome?”

head titled back as he slowly climbs the ladder, “what?”

“a handsome man, i assume you said,” hasan continues, silence for a second before there’s light rustling; a branch falls, a bundle of leaves-you’re about to ask if he’s okay before he retreats back, an orange bundle under his arm, meowing and yelling at him as he carefully climbs down. Heavy gear clatters around him, and you worry about it falling off of him for a second

once his feet are down he continues:

“a handsome man,” he finishes, “who rescued your cat, right?”

silence

“right?”

“thank you, hasan.”

three

you run through the list in your head: eggs, milk, loaf of bread-

music seems to blare around you. wraps around you, makes your head pound-your only plan to try and get out as quickly as you can.

Faces pass; none familiar, all just as frantic and busy as you are-

cans of soup- your eyes scan the shelves, falls on the familiar red branding-fingers reach out, almost grasp it-fall

again.

reach, fingers brush against it-push it back a little further.

“mother fucker-“

“need help?”

the voice is familiar. too familiar. your eyes narrow, back still to them.

“i think you need me at this point,” the voice is almost gleeful, “should just follow you round to help-what is it? chicken noodle? you look like a chicken noodle soup enjoyer”

“it’s tomato.” you grumble unhappily.

“tomato?” he turns around, head over his shoulder, “hmm.”

he looks tired. bags under his eyes, hair a million different directions, shirt is untucked and stained-a pen cap is hanging on for dear life at the neck of a stretched out shirt.

“shouldn’t you be sleeping?”

“shouldn’t you be calling the fire department for something?”

“awe,” you finally smile, snatching the can, “you do miss my calls-“

“when they see your number they automatically dispatch me to you. you’re a liability.”

you reach for the can but he holds it higher in the air, a smirk creeps on his face:

“what do you say?”

a huff, “please?” you try, “pretty please?”

he rolls his eyes: “there’s no way you think that’s what i want.”

“who’s your favorite fire fighter?”

“what’s your partners name? Rob? He is-“

he huffs, turns his back to you and sets the can back on the shelf, his fingers still brush against the can as he hums like he’s considering his own soup options-

“hasan, please. my chili depends on you-“

he ignores you, still humming, as you pull on his shirt:

“you’re my favorite firefighter,” you find yourself saying, “it hurts to say that.”

he turns around, hands you the can: “was that so hard?”

four

weeks pass. with job deadlines on the horizon, your apartment all but falling apart-it’s easy to forget about about anyone else.

sleep finally finds you. a cold side of the pillow, eyes finally shut-

a fire alarm blares that makes you shoot out of bed. tomato lays at your feet, grabbing him, running outside to the yard, sweater long forgotten.

by the time you’re at the yard, you can at least see the building isn’t burning up. in fact, you can’t see anything. you weigh your options for a second, considering ignoring the blaring fire alarms before you hear the fire truck and groan, knowing what’s coming up, knowing who’s around the corner.

the second the car parks everyone is running out, talking into walkie talkies-

“is this you?” hasan calls as he jogs past you, “you’re an arsonist at this point-“

you go to yell back and he’s gone.

an hour later he appears. his hair is disheveled, his shoulders slump. he walks next to his partners, something in his hand-

“if you need cooking lessons, i volunteer,” hasan says, “i can teach you how to fucking make ramen-“

“why do you assume that i’m behind all bad things that happen here?”

“your track record doesn’t help,” he says, “to begin with. and this has your name written all over it. please,” he stops, drops the pan and claps his hands together as if begging: “let me teach you how to cook.”

“it wasn’t fucking me!”

his eyes narrow: “Please. no one believe you-“

“you’re a dick. don’t you have a donut to eat? or-“

“that’s police officers, idiot.” he huffs, “and fuck them, anyways. look-“

he stops, leans into you, “i know just the place. i’ll teach you-“

“you aren’t teaching me how to cook! and it’s not me!”

“fine,” his eyes narrow, “but the next call here, if it’s yours, i take you to a cooking class-“

“what-“

“even if it isn’t your call. you owe me a date.”

his hand outstretched to you: “a deals a deal-“

“what’s in it for me?”

“i’ll leave you alone.”

you groan, knowing that’s not going to happen. sunrise threatens to fall over the horizon, and you know he won’t give up anytime soon-

your hand falls into his-larger and calloused-slips into his like a missing puzzle piece, like a perfect piece-

“it’s a deal.”

five

look, this isn’t bribing.

but after your fourth call to your apartment this month, you figured you at least owed them something for coming out-even if they somehow always sent just Hasan out-

you couldn’t sleep, anyways. or at least, that’s your excuse. the tray of baked goods threatens to fall out of the seat any second.

The door to the station is open, all the workers walking around, half suspenders down, shirts untucked, plates of food half eaten-

you couldn’t find your guy in the line up,is your first thought. before you quickly shake your head, trying to get that idea out as quickly as it came. he isn’t your guy. if anything, he’s the pain in the ass who keeps saving your ass-

putting the car in park, saying a prayer before grabbing the plate and walking in, hoping you look more confident than you feel.

“Well,” one of the firefighter smirks as you show up, “have any batteries that need to be changed?” he teases, “or is cilantro in trouble? hasan hasn’t shut up-“

“it’s tomato,” hasan appears behind him, “i know my mortal enemies name.”

“look what the cat dragged in-“

“it’s almost like you’re at the place where i work. imagine that-“

“i made brownies.”

the guy next to him immediately perks up, grabs the plate and pulls back tinfoil: “thank you!”

hasan stops him before he can run off, grabs a brownie before he can leave, eyes it as you stand in front of him.

“so,” he says, “what’s the trick with this? i don’t have any allergies-“

“damn. nut allergies are the most common allergies. i thought that’s how i could take you out-“

“and they aren’t burned-“

“that wasn’t me with the ramen, you dick.”

“these look good.”

“always the tone of surprise,” you roll your eyes, “most people would say thank you.”

“why would i say thank you before I’m potentially poisoned?”

“you’re insufferable.”

“here,” he smirks, “you take the first bite.”

“i’m not hungry-“

“that’s exactly what someone who poisoned food would say to get out to eating it.”

“you’re a dick, give it to me.”

“ah,” he says instead when you reach for it, his hand still on the brownie as he leans forward, a hand cupped under your mouth as he goes to feed you the bite.

“this is outrageous,” you roll your eyes as pink rises up, but don’t put up more of a fight as it makes contact, as you bite off, “it’s delicious”

he watches you carefully as you chew

“see?” you roll your eyes: “now you.”

“eh?” he shrugs, “i don’t know how hungry i am-“

you gasp and he giggles, before shoving it in his mouth:

“not bad.” he settles on.

+1

“if you’re looking for your guy, he called in sick.”

you aren’t proud of the fact that they know who you’re really here for, and less that you know the man who yelled that-Michael-will proudly tell hasan that.

“what?” you tease, “the big baby can’t handle a little bit of a cold?”

he snorts: “he did the kids fire safety at the elementary school this week-he blames them.”

“what a baby.”

you try and make polite small talk. they’re all fine-the entire time, thinking of the plan you’re already cooking in your head.

everyone knows where he lives. the house was famous before the newest fire fighter bought it (and when you’re in a small town like this, a new guy on the team is a big deal, gets around) and in the center of town, you pass it every day on your way to and from work: seeing him leave in the morning, at night, still in his uniform, shirt untucked and wrinkly as he moves around his front yard: tends to the garden on the side of the house (looks like he’s very proud of his herbs he’s growing, at least) hunched over as he flicks his tongue and has a small ceramic bowl of kibble for the gang of cats that seem attached to him-

a quick stop at the only grocery store in town, the paper bag of groceries on your lap, your stomach bubbles and bursts as you worry your lip about this-

you park the car and find yourself in front of his house before you can talk yourself out of it.

tapping your foot, waiting for him to answer-

“hullo?”

he still looks good, even sick.

glasses crooked on his face, his hair a mess, the tip of his nose is red, lines over his freckles from a pillow-

he groans. stands in the doorway, his hand against the doorframe.

“i’m off duty,” he tries, “you’ll have to put out your own fire-“

“heard the kids made you sick,” you say instead, ruffling through the plastic bag on your wrist, “nothing ramen can’t help.”

“ramen?” he laughs, “like-“

“it wasn’t me!” you insist, can feel your heart thump in your ears, “let me redeem myself; make you some soup.”

“i can’t call the fire department-“

“if i start a fire i’ll put it out myself, i promise.”

he laughs: “i guess i’d like to see that.”

comfortable silence for a second.

“so?” you push, “the soup?”

his eyes narrow for a second before his hand slowly slides up the doorframe, an invitation in-you duck and act like you can’t see the smile light up his face

[fullofgutsndopamine]

Hasan Piker Masterlist

Halloween:

Haunted house worker x

trick or treating x

Halloween movie fest x

College:

competition x

best friends x

frat!hasan takes care of you x

frat!hasan has feelings for you

enemies to lovers

frat!hasan begs you not to go on that date

Dad!hasan

paint date x

dinner date x

Odds & Ends:

enemies to lovers summer au x

Person A is about to move out of the house they grew up in. Before they leave, they call and invite Person B over so they can dig up the time capsule that they had buried in the backyard together when they were kids. x

5 times it didn't matter when hasan touched you, +1 time when it did

5 + 1 feat fire fighter hasan

hasan works at an animal shelter to feel human. he has a reputation

or, three truths and a lie: hasan is drunk and an idiot and she promised herself she’d stop adopting strays at frat parties. one of these is a lie.

soulmates au x

coffee shop au x

baseball au x x

town hall au

tattoo au x

flowers in exchange for a tattoo x

caught by chat x

bookstore first date x

he comforts you after scary video x

you and hasan divorced, but he’s still there to decorate for your kids party x

you’re the drunk neighbor trying to get him to lower his music x

school teacher contest x

FITPS (big brother!hasan)

missed hockey game x

inviting him for dinner x

things you said when you slept x

Trivia AU (1/4)

one

two

[fullofgutsndopamine]

i have read all your hasan fics multiple times over do you have any recs for other blogs to hold me over between your updates🫰🫶

hello friend! thank you for the kind words. unfortunately, i’m in a writing slump (but would love any and all requests if you have any-seriously.)

anyways-luckily we’re surrounded by some very talented people here (seriously. can their talent rub off on me osmosis style or?) so i have some below the cut!

(sorry for all the tagging below-if you want to be removed let me know! if we’re mutuals and j forgot you-please let me know!!! i’m unfortunately mostly a mobile user, so it’s super easy for me to lose/forget things)

happy reading

first off, the wonderful @kaya-p who never disappoints and always has some amazing idea up their sleeve

recommended reading: x and x

(i know you asked for fics but they also post the most amazing tik toks too so like check this out as well please)

literally anything by @the-phantom-author there’s not enough words for how much i love them and how talented they are

this is their masterlist. would highly recommend, once again, their dad!hasan but also the soft launch!gf (and the rockstar au as well)

@makeandshift makes me giggle and roll around in my bed. heads up, i think they’re on a temporary hiatus, but a good time to catch up. I recommend (grab a good emotional support snack to eat while reading!)

masterlist here but specially: x x x

the wonderful kitty @st4rc4t wrote this, and i routinely come back to it as a comfort read (TW/drug usage) x

anything by @lovable-liar liar. they’re extremely talented and whatever fic you pick you won’t be disappointed

recommended reading: x

[fullofgutsndopamine]

5 times it didn't matter when hasan touched you,

+1 time when it did

TW: alcohol consumption, mention of being drunk, cursing, anxiety mention, idiots in love

one

"when you fall i'm not calling an ambulance."

Hasan speaks from your elbow, his voice is low as his eyes are searching the sky.

"not that you can even afford the ambulance ride," he adds, "careful-jesus fucking christ."

he winces as you toe the curb slowly, one foot in front of the other, arms out on either side of you as if for support.

"hasan," you roll your eyes, "i'm fine. jesus talk about an-"

out of instinct his hand reaches out and laces into your fingers as if that's some sort of support.

to him, you say it's an overkill but to the steady heartbeat in your ears from almost falling off the ledge, you're happy with it.

you try to shake his hand off but if anything his grip around your hand tightens and he rolls his eyes:

"now you're stuck with me," he rolls his eyes, “tough.”

two

liquid confidence makes your teeth chatter. you can feel how hot your cheeks are without a hand pressed against them, but it doesn't stop Hasan from giggling as he reaches out, the flat of his hand against your face:

"you're drunk."

his voice borders on slurring and he's less sober than you are, but it's hilarious as you both all but fall backwards, a loud giggle cutting through the air.

"cmon," he giggles, "let's go outside. Air will do good, or some shit."

he stands and doesn't give you an option to disagree before he's using his own hands to gently lift you up, giggling as you sway in place.

he leads and you follow outside as the air hits your cheeks, the wind blows your hair wild.

naturally, standing in the street with hasan seemed like a good idea when you're a few drinks in. it isn't until the car drives by, no headlights, swerves and beeps at you, a middle finger out the window when you realize the weight of what happened.

"you idiot."

he's never sounded more sober, his eyes wide in horror.

"i thought-"

he shakes his head as your mouth opens, closes again.

"idiot," he says again, but he grabs your hand and squeezes it as he pulls you into him, a messy kiss to the top of your head, "you're a liability, you know that?"

"hasan-"

"shh," he squeezes you a little tighter, "holy shit."

three

on the list of things you'd never be caught doing, business meetings was at the very top.

first, late dinners is an immediate pass. and then to not know anyone besides hasan? triple pass. if hasan wasn't so damn convincing you'd never be here, never be caught dead-

"And what do you think of that?"

It's one of his friends, someone you'd have to really press your hand against your temple to remember a name or even their face, really-

and being put on the spot?

"what do they think of the podcast?" hasans voice finds you, wraps around your brain like a safety blanket, "they don't think about it at all-" his giggling means he's kidding, but it's a dumb question to begin with, and something you hate leaving in the air-

the white tablecloth, far too fancy for the restaurant moves and before you can think too much of it, you feel hasan's larger hand find yours without searching too hard, tangle his fingers into yours. he pauses, his focus still on the people in front of him before you can feel his squeeze your hand four times: i'm here it seems to say you're safe

as if he read your mind, knew what you needed-a deep breath and you're ready to face the friends.

four

"hasan," you huff, voice gruff from sleep, "move the fuck over-"

you and hasan have shared a bed together for years-doesn't feel weird, don't let yourself think too hard about it. the oklymornlem is you forget how bad of a sleep hasan is-constantly tossing and turning, a furnace himself, reaching and pulling you closer against him, already dripping with sweat.

his leg is thrown over yours and he groans, not saying anything.

you grab the pillow from under his head, wrestle it out from under him before you win, smack him in the head with it. he barely moves; shakes his head and huffs but rolls over to face you

even in the dark you can see the freckles that liter his face, his curly hair plastered down on his face from sweat.

you know what he's about to do before he even does it, but you don't let him win, don't go do without a fight.

his hand twitches, then his fingers, and without opening his eyes his hand lifts, his fingers dancing across the half folded sheet until they come in contact with your leg-how they slowly linger down your arm, practically danicng until he gets to your hand, his fingers laced into yours before he turns his head the other way, an obnoxious snore rips through the air-you can't see him but you know he's smiling in his sleep.

five

"dude," he giggles and it bounces around the titled walls of a too small cafe, "how do you even do anything with these? they're so fucking small-"

he's half leaned over the table, shoulders hunched as he lifts his hand up against yours, rests his heel of his hand against yours-

"it's not my fault you're practically some mutant or some shit-" you huff, not making a move to move your hand off of his, don't want to lose the warmth of his hand or the way you feel electric through your fingers when you touch

he laughs; his hand collapses against yours:

"it's a modern day miracle you can get anything done."

a frustrated huff comes out of you, the other hand searches for the discarded straw wrapper before you grab it, throw it at his head. he makes a quick dart to the right, it misses and landed on the ground next to him.

he smiles with all his teeth:

"missed me."

you huff, grab for anything else your fingers will touch before he's giggling again:

"hey!" he giggles, "no second throws! the fuck-" he darts out of his seat and runs to where you sit, ducks behind you. his fingers dig into your shoulders as he stands behind you and you try to not think too hard about it.

+1

"hm," Sam smiles at Hasan as they all sit in a too small kitchen, passing time before a stream,

"What's this?"

he throws his chin between you two and hasan looks down, like he's suddenly aware your hand is in his.

you release your fingers from his, ready for him to retract them, waiting for them to dart away like they do while you sleep, while you're caught in meetings-

instead, he looks down and shrugs:

"don't want them to get too far away, right?" sam rolls his eyes: "what could they possibly get into in this small house?"

hasan shrugs, "fuck if i know, they're a liability though; it's for the best."

Sam rolls his eyes and looks away, yelling at the across the room at someone and he looks at you, and you're waiting for his grip to loosen, or for him to shy away:

instead, he squeezes your hand four times like he always has, a wink at you.

you're aware of him, of his presence, of all the eyes on you. you're waiting for him to come to his sense, to drop you, drop your hand-

instead, he leans in close and you can feel his lips against your ear: "thanks for coming."

you're thinking of something to say that makes it seem like you don't care, like this isn't a big deal-

instead, he moves quick, only a second of hesitation like he really sat on this, really thought about it-

his lips are against your temple before you can overthink it, he moves away, a shy smile on his face as if he's asking if that's okay, if he's okay-

his arm throws over your shoulder, hands still intertwined as he lands a final kiss to your temple.

[fullofgutsndopamine]

sunlight, sunshine (all for you my daisy)

Character A’s tattoo parlor and Character B’s flower shop have lived side-by-side for years, and the owners have a pretty good relationship going on. Character B is always bringing leftover, slightly droopy flowers to Character A, and Character A has been offering a free tattoo for ages. Character B finally decides to take them up on the offer after closing.

TW: cursing, one usage of 'my girl'

word count: 2,500

music blares from the shop next door.

you’ve learned to at least tolerate it, has gone from full screaming to just songs about how much the singer hates their town, and frankly-you have to take the wins where you get them.

you walk to the door, shutting it gently and ignoring the bell that rings overhead, as you flip the sign to closed on the door, flick the lights off

this is your favorite time of the day, closing. when the music turns off and you can walk around, one last trip around the store to water the flowers, make sure everything is at least semi neat.

Thursdays are your favorite day.

not because you close early (although that does help) but picking up the flowers used for decor for the week; the small tulip in water by the cash register, the small bouquet of sunflowers and roses when you walk in, the daises in the break room-collecting them all, wilted petal edges and all, crisp and browning, folding into themselves-wrapping s small string around them and bringing them next door.

originally, it started as a peace offering

the music blaring from next door gave you a headache, made you reevaluate your life, especially when customers made the dull ache behind your eye throb-

you went over, ready to all but plead for the owners to at the very least turn the music down, when you instead met him

he was tall, all elbows and sharp edges-the freckles that danced around his face were a surprise-, hovering in a corner as he chewed on his fingernails, a baseball pulled over his head low, and turned the wrong way, his hair in his eyes-

you couldn’t see him, but you saw his arms. even crossed over one another and leaning in close to see a co workers work, you could see the tattoos that littered his arms.

the sleeve was all black, all simple line work, starting with a large map, colors thrown in, the compass by his elbow, you think you can make out a lighthouse and an ocean wave if you squint-

“Hey.”

no one looks up.

you’ve never felt more uncomfortable in your life, the shop is blaring this music and isn’t that well lit, and the walls are covered with various band album photos blown up, awards line the walls.

you step closer, to the man with the sleeve of maps, and pull on his shirt sleeve: “i said hey”

you beg your voice to not come out as a whine, but fail, as he whips around.

immediately a smile is on his lips, the freckles that line his cheek make him look almost welcoming instead of terrifying- uses his hand to move hair out of his way: “Well, hello.”

there’s humor behind his voice, a gentle teasing like there’s some inside joke here that you’re missing. his voice is surprisingly deep and low, all gravel-barely above a mumble not a voice you’d think would belong to him

“Listen, you’re scaring the old ladies away-“

“what?”

his eyebrows are scrunched together in confusion but you swear you can see a smirk pull on the edges of his lips as he leans in closer, a shoulder down as he tries to make himself not tower over you.

“i said,” you hold in the sigh, wanting to get out of here, “you’re-“

“here,” he says gently, “follow me.”

and you can barely hear him over the music thumping as he leads, his hand stays on your shoulder as he gently guides you to the back of the shop, behind a few doors, to a more lit up room, where the music is at least a little gentler, not as abrasive. a couch is pushed into the corner, a small refrigerator hums in the other corner, a fold out plastic table in the center.

it hits you this is probably their make shift break room.

“okay,” he smiles, his arm up high on the doorframe, “you were saying?”

he’s cocky.

the smile doesn’t leave the corner of his lips as he talks, looks at your lips the entire time, waiting-daring-for you to say something

“i said-“ you pray your voice doesn’t shake, finds level ground, “can you turn your music down? you’re scaring away all the old people and that’s 90% of our clientele”

he smirks, “Yeah? and why would i do that, sunshine?”

your eyes slant at the nickname you were given, know he isn't going to let this one go. (Later, you'll ask about this. He'll do a vague hand motion, his eyes narrowed like he can't believe you didn't pick up on this- "yknow," he says, his voice drips with sarcasm, "Flowers-sunshine? the thing the flowers need-" and you'll doubt the story, until it's reveled even later, months and months down the line, the truth)

“Because the old people!” you huff out, “listen, i have a peace offering.”

he snorts, “i gotta see this. go on.”

You roll your eyes, hoping he doesn’t see the pink creep onto your face. there’s a single tulip, tucked into your back pocket. usually, it’s reserved for crying children that come into a shop, you insist no one can be upset when they have a tulip-

and you grab it and hand it to him, “here, our nicest tulip if you turn the music down.”

he laughs, the kind where he throws his head back and squints his eyes, but when his head snaps up, his fingers reach for the stem delicately-

“this is your best tulip?” he laughs, “the edges of the petals are brown.”

okay, so it’s a lie, a flower you knee by the register, exchange them out every few days, but you didn’t have time to make him a fucking bouquet

“yknow,” you huff, “most people would just say thank you.”

you go to move hair out of your eyes and your well aware of how red and burning your face is

he’s laughing, but a part of him seems to melt away, this hard exterior he puts out, “Thank you.” and it sounds sincere, “but no promises with the music.”

“no promises,” you shake your head, “just less screaming. i can’t have another boomer yell at me.”

his expression hardens, “they yell at you?” he seems shocked, like he doesn’t work with the general public.

“I mean,” suddenly you’re tripping over your words that come back small and hushed, “Sometimes?”

It’s a question, not an answer, and he shakes his head like he can’t believe it.

“I’ll make you a deal,” he smiles, his eyes on the flower in his hand as he rubs the stem between his fingers, “You keep the flowers coming, and I’ll see what I can do about the music.”

Your eyes narrow. 

“Here's the deal: flowers once a week, and you stop playing music that could give 90 year olds heart attacks”

He laughs, pauses for a second, his voice comes back gentle, almost shy: “Once a week, yeah?”

Obviously referencing the flower delivery by you.

You roll your eyes, “Sure, fine.”

He smiles, “My name's Hasan,” he tucks the flower behind his ear, “It’s a pleasure doing business with you.”

And so it begins.

Every Thursday you close the shop up, collect the wilting flowers from various corners of the shop and walk next door.

Hasan is usually behind the desk, a pad of paper in front of him and a smudged pencil on his fist, always making a move to quickly slide the pad of paper out of view when you appear. It starts getting more elaborate. The first few times, he used a half empty water bottle to put the wilting flower in, a small wax dixie cup until he eventually upgraded to a small plastic cup with the shops logo on it with lots of water

And he always has last weeks flower tucked behind his ear, as if he’s been waiting for your arrival, has been watching the clock for the time to happen, for the smirk to gather on his face and to take the flower out from the pages between his sketchbook, when they get too old and brown, and tuck it behind his ear

It becomes a joke, when you drop the flower off, for him to offer you a free tattoo in exchange for the wilting flower.

Or at least, you always took it as one

But as you show up tonight, hasan behind his usual spot, the store empty beside him and the music a lot quieter than usual, he smiles when you walk in the doorframe.

“Well,” he leans back in his seat as he throws his pencil down, his hands behind his head, “Look who’s here.”

“Who would’ve thought?” You ask as you approach the desk, “It’s almost like we do this every fucking Thursday.”

He laughs as he takes the flower from you, this time an actual bouquet, smaller than usual, of assorted flowers, a mess of roses and tulips, a dash of daisy and a mix of peonies.

Even though they’re wilted around the edges, and the age is showing, he takes the small bouquet and presses his nose into it gently, closing his eyes, a small smile on his face. 

“Say your line.”

His eyes snap open, “Come again, sunshine?”

“Say your line,” you sigh, “You say it every Thursday?”

He hums, his eyes travel to the ceiling, “Hmm, let’s see?” 

You huff, cross your arms over your chest and tap your foot on the ground, acting like you’re irritated.

“Thank you?” He finally says. The smirk says he’s enjoying this.

“Hasan-”

“Oh!” he shakes his head, “I got it: this flower is brown.”

“You’re literally insufferable,” You huff, “How you have any friends is beyond me.”

He laughs, “Alright, damn. Let’s see. Tattoo for your time?”

“That's the line,” You rock back and forth on your heels, “And yes. I’m ready.”

He all but perks up, “Oh? I thought you were terrified of needles.”

And you hesitate, don’t want to say that everything seems less scary with him by your side, because you two aren’t that close yet for you to be saying that, or that you trust him, because that’s a big word all by itself-

“Thought I could piss my family off in time for the holidays.”

He laughs, “There’s my girl,” and then, his voice a little lower, “You sure?”

You nod, fumbling for your phone as you grab it, unlock it as you show him a picture of what you have in mind, ignoring how your hands shake, “This.”

He leans in close, hums as he touches the screen and moves it along, really taking a good look at it: “Give me ten minutes.” he settles on, wheels his chair back and grabs his drawing pad and disappears with it.

As promised, wilbur appears back no more then ten minutes later, a water bottle in his hand as he throws it to you, flops into the chair and wheels to your side, his voice low: “So, I was thinking this-”

And your finger traces the outline he made, a simple sketch, simple line art, but you can see where he erased, tried again, erased and finally got it right

“Perfect, Hasan.”

He smiles, “Go sit in the chair. I’ll be a second.”

Hasan's side of the shop is small, his booth a lot smaller than the seasoned artists that work there, pushed in the corner, the only thing that makes it his and sticks out are the glow in the dark stars that line the brick walls, the fairy lights hanging from the small mirror pushed in the corner, the small framed pictures that line the wall of various insects

“Get comfortable.” He throws his chin at the small chair he has, and you obey, flopping down, playing with your hands out of nerves.

“You’re okay,” He says gently as he wheels over, heard him going through his cabinet as he appears in front of you in large glasses, crooked, pressed onto the crook of his nose, “I got you, you’re good.”

And there’s weight behind it, wonder if he knows that, as you lay in the chair, fixing your arm on the arm rest where he’ll be working.

“I’ll take it slow,” he says gently as he gathers supplies and instruments, “And i’ll be gentle, I promise. And if you need a second at any point just tell me and-”

It’s weird, seeing him this genuine. Usually, it’s passing insults to one another, the only way you know how to make friends, little comments to one another so it doesn’t feel like you’re both doing anything-

“I’m ready.” You say gently, nodding, “Let’s go.”

he heistates for half a second, his voice gentle: "You ate today, yeah? Drank something? I have snacks-"

He wheels back in his chair, to a little cabinet where his hand hovers over it, offering the snacks.

"I did," You say back, just as gentle as he did, "I'm ready."

Hasan goes slow, as promised. The buzzing of the needle is the only sound you hear, well aware now that Hasan has turned off the shitty pop punk music and has instead traded it for some acoustic album that plays gently through the speakers, only interrupted by his voice occasionally, low and soft, “You’re doing good, almost done.”

And when you look up, you realize the music you heard, that calmed you down so much, was also accompanied by hasan's own humming, gently, as if it’s just to himself, as he does the line work.

He sees you staring.

“You good, sunshine? Need a break?”

“I’m okay.” You say gently.

He nods, “One more minute, I promise. You’re doing good.”

And you nod, feeling comfortable with him, the little atmosphere he made.

A minute later, the buzzing stops and you feel the scrape of a rag over your skin, “All done, sunshine. You did amazing, go take a look.”

You get up slowly, and while the mirror isn’t necessary considering it’s on your wrist, hasan insists its part of the experience, as you turn your hand around in the mirror, the fairy lights hitting it just right, the little outline of a tulip under your pinky.

hasan appears behind you in the mirror, pushes his glasses up over his face into his hair, “What’d you think? And be brutally honest, I can take it.”

“It’s perfect.” you insist, and he laughs

“Well, you’re easy to please-”

“I owe you, let me pay.” 

And you’re up, pulling at your purse on the floor, ready to give him the few bucks to your name, when his hand is over yours, looking up and he’s looking into your eyes, “It’s part of the agreement, remember?” And then, gentlier, “I’m not taking your money.”

You shake your head, “The deal was flowers for-”

And he cuts you off, throws his chin at your wrist, “Exactly. Flowers for the different music. I’m just holding up my end of the bargain.”

You nibble your lip.

“Let me buy you a drink, at least.”

He laughs, as he wipes down the bed, “Sunshine-”

“One drink,” you say, your voice almost begging, “Please.”

He stops for a second, like he’s thinking, before nodding, “Let me clean up, i’ll be a minute. You can sit at my desk.”

You obey, sitting at the desk, ignoring his drawing pad and how it’s looking back at you, pleading for you to take a look, when he appears, his jacket over his shoulder, “Ready, sunshine?”

You stand, nodding immediately, as you go from behind the desk to his side, his hand in the air, fingers outstretched as if asking for you to hold it, to tangle your fingers into his-and without second thought you do, and follow him out.

[fullofgutsndopamine]

climbing towards the sun (you fill my lungs)

or: the wedding singer au

TW/ drinking (to excess), cursing, corny, ambiguous ending (but happy ending), hasan is in a band, banter, talk of drinking (liquid confidence), hasan is an idiot

more hasan here

requests open

“and that was hips don’t lie, which is, oddly enough, the grooms favorite song.”

a single cheer is heard in the back. the groom, drunk, holds up a half empty beer bottle that sloshes over the side onto his stained tuxedo.

“that was a joke,” the singer continues, “for the other half of you.”

even far away, with the lights that are half off (and at this point, you doubt its ambience and more the shoddy electric bill wasn’t paid at this place) as the chandelier swings: left, right, left, right-a hail mary it doesn’t fall on anyone and this isn’t known as a wedding and a funeral- it’s easy to see him.

the singer looks nervous. holds onto the microphone stand with shaky hands stained yellow from nicotine you can see halfway across the floor. the stand is an obvious life boat for him; leaves sweaty handprints on it after his hand is moved (how his hands keep going to his eyes, as if he’s pushing an imaginary pair of glasses up his face, even though he wears none currently)

“anyways uh-“ his eyes dart around, like he’s waiting for something to take him out, “this will be our last song before the food-“

more cheers. more than he’s gotten the entire set erupts.

“Anyways, this is my favorite song so-enjoy.” he takes a step back from the microphone, strums, steps back: “or not.”

no one’s on the dance floor. people linger on the outskirts of it, like they’re waiting to be pushed in, a drunken bet, but no one takes the plunge.

“jesus.” you snort across the floor. Annie, your best friend is at your elbow, “at this point we should just pull the plug. this has to be abuse at this point.”

annie snorts over the rim of her cup: “i don’t know,” she shrugs, her finger traces over the rim of a lipstick stained cup, “i think it’s kind of cute, how nervous he is.”

you fake gag, an eye roll: “it was cute for maybe the first song. And then he fucked up the words to California Girls and frankly, i can’t forgive that.”

“Oh please,” Annie snorts, “this is like your fourth grade recital-“

“one, two-“

the drums hit immediately after and he begins, his lips pressed hard against the microphone, eyes shut in an attempt to forget this place:

“wouldn’t it be nice if we were older-“

“shut the fuck up,” you gasp, “did you tell him to play this?!”

“it’s a wedding,” she rolls her eyes, “he was like, contractually obligated to play this at some point-“

“hold my drink.”

“No!” annie protests, looks at the empty floor, “we can’t do-“

you don’t listen. instead, the cup is pushed into her chest and the dress is held up in your fist, a hand raised above your head as you ignore a vacant floor.

“Maybe if we think and wish and hope and pray-“

finally nearing the end of the song, the end of this nightmare, where he can leave, he pops open one eye. he’s grateful he went without his glasses; seeing the world fuzzy and blurry around the edges makes it harder to make people out, don’t really exist to him

except for a second. one person exists. middle of the dance floor, not caring how empty it is-

suddenly, he’s not rushing through the words. they have to be perfect, have to be right, just for-

the song ends too quick. the bride comes on stage. a hand on hasan’s shoulder as she thanks them, slurring, half heartedly-hasan doesn’t care, has to get off the stage-

“Will.”

he jumps. his bow tie is undone around his neck and his hair is sweaty as it stands up in the back:

“dude-“ will begins but hasan cuts him off, his hand still on his shoulder-

“the person on the floor. during the last song?” he drops his voice, licks his lips, “were they hot? do i have a chance?”

he rolls his eyes: “isn’t the first rule of being a wedding singer to not fall for wedding guests?”

“it’s a yes or no, dick.”

will fumbles with his blazer, pulls hasans pair of glasses out from the breast pocket:

“go get them.”

the only good part of being a wedding singer is the free alcohol. after two shots the world spins loosely but he feels semi confident, plays with the sides of his glasses in his hand as he, half blind, tries to find the only face he wants in the crowd.

you aren’t hard to spot, to your own credit. the bridesmaids dresses are a sin, some tacky orange color that couldn’t be saved no matter what, and your hair, frizzy from dancing and the humidity of bodies around you doesn’t help.

hasan takes the final gulp of liquid confidence and, hands still nervously on his glasses, too afraid to shove them on his face, makes his way to you before he does something dumb, like come to his senses

“No,” Annie argues with you, “because having a Pitbull song would be dumb-“

“excuse you,” you snort, “that’s mister worldwide, to you-“

“oh fuck off-“

“hey.”

hasan gets the word out before he can stop himself. wishes he came up with something smarter, something that would make him stand out to you as much as you did to him-

“hey,” he tries again, “figured i’d meet my number one fan.”

you laugh and hasan has to stop himself from thinking how he’d never get sick of hearing that for the rest of his life-

this close, it’s easier to see him. see past the nicotine stained skin and the nervous ticks-replaced by a constellation of freckles you want to memorize, a mop of unruly curly hair

you hope your voice doesn’t come out as nervous as it feels.

“it was sad to see you crashing and burning out there, is all.”

he snorts: “and you waited until the last song to save me?”

“i was going to sooner but you fucked up California Girls and i don’t think i can forgive you for that.”

“yeah?” he giggles, a step closer to you and you can practically feel his body heat on you: “well, i think i can make up for that.”

“is it a public apology?”

“i was thinking more like a dance,” he says, “and an encore of your song.”

his hands still play with his glasses and even though it feels more vulnerable than you’d like, seeing him like this, so nervous, you’re ready for his before you can stop yourself.

“here.”

you open the glasses up, watch as his shoulders slump in an effort to not tower over you, letting you push the oversized glasses up his face.

you give him a second to adjust. pushes his glasses further up his face, looks up-

“better?”

you’re more beautiful than he thought. far out of his league, more scary without the blur around the edges-

“much.” he says, “so that dance?”

his hand wraps around yours before you can even get the yes out.

[fullofgutsndopamine]

Sigh No More (This Is How It Starts)

TW: sex joke, heavy drinking, cursing, mention of past bad relationship

the hiccups give you away.

they always fucking give you away.

your best friend, angie, stands across from you, almost as drunk as you are.

she speaks over the rim of the cup.

“are you drunk?”

Angie giggles, the kind of giggle you can only accomplish when you’re drunk and the world is light and you have no real worries briefly

“No,” you hold out the o for an obnoxious amount of time, dropping your voice to a whisper, a conspiracy between you two as you grab her in closer, “Are you?”

she giggles. the world around her is brighter, the music louder, everything is funnier: “Yeah,” she giggles. “i am.”

which only makes you giggle more, “can i tell you a secret?”

your voice borders on a slur as she stands closer to you, and she can feel your hot breath on her ear as you talk:

“i’m drunk too.”

you two erupt into loud giggles, eyeing the small crowd.

Hasan stands in a half circle a few steps away from them, in a tight white tank top and tight jeans, practically painted on him, both that leave very little to the imagination

“Communism, you fucking idiot, is not the same as socialism and if i’m the first person to tell you that revolutionary idea then-“

Hasan swirls around the amber liquid in the red solo cup, not really feeling like drinking.

This is his third party this week and the fun that came with the parties quickly wore off by the end of the first one.

“Communism-“

“Don’t you dare say anything about Russia-“

A hard shove by his elbow and he whips around, ready to tell the fucker to watch where they’re walking, ready to put himself to his full height, to be the intimating hasan everyone knows he as.

“That’s my ex-“

He’s seen you before, sure. In passing-the school is small enough that as you leave your english class as he’s getting ready for a modern history class-has seen you in the classroom in the corner, doodling on the desk (that he definitely doesn’t make his own) but that’s the start and the end of how he knows you.

“Quick,” you’re slurring, “Kiss me.”

A smirk pulls it’s way on his lips:

“I usually like some foreplay before,” he’ll smirk, making himself taller, “like a fucking name-“

you roll your eyes, grab him by his tank top until your bodies collide into each other:

“Kiss me, you idiot.”

and you sound sober all of a sudden, your eyes full of what he thinks is borderline panic-so before he can stop himself, tell himself what a horrible idea this is, his lips are crashing into yours, warm and feel familiar, like this is where they’ve belonged after all this time-

Hasan watches as the guy-shorter,pink polo and backwards baseball cap for a team he doesn’t recognize, navy board shorts and fuck-sunglasses inside-pauses, like he’s unsure who this is, is debating on stopping or not and for a second you think you got away with it when you feel a heavy hand on your shoulder.

“Babe,” he calls, making your lips part from Hasan’s. “Who’s this?”

And something about this, about asking who this is, rubs Hasan the wrong way as his lips part, his hand goes to your lower back. Acting who this is like he fucking owned you or some shit

“Anthony,” You sound sober again, and your voice borders on being smaller, like you’re scared of this punk in front of you, “This is my boyfriend. uh-“

You pray to whatever god exists that hasan knows to follow the lead, not make you look dumb-

“Hasan.”

He speaks and you hold in a breath of relief. Hasan hand hangs in the air, and Anthony huffs: “Right.”

Hasan snorts, his hand leaves the air and tangled back around your side, “Charming,” holds in an eye roll, “Heard a lot about you.”

So it’s a lie, doesn’t even know this guys name but he looks like a dick so sure-

“Hopefully all good.” Anthony shifts his weight from one foot to the other and Hasan takes some joy in humming, not answering the question.

“I should go-“

“Babe,” Hasan speaks, “I’m gonna get us a drink-“

and the bastard enjoys this, takes your head in his palm and turns your face up at him so you’re on your tip toes as he gives you a gentle kiss.

by the time your eyes open again, and you’re about to say something to hasan about enjoying this too much, anthony is gone.

Hasan stays by your side.

“I think you’re a fucking liability at this point,” Hasan sighs over a glass of water, “Drink some water.”

“not a liability-“ you slur, “think you enjoy-“

a hiccup erupts through your whole body, makes you jump.

“water.”

You take the water and he can tell by the way you’re staring that the room is spinning. his voice turns gentle, tangled his fingers into yours and slowly takes you up the stairs.

“This is my room,” he says, a bunch of lined paper decorate the door, looks like it’s done by various children judging by the way his name is misspelled and letters are upside down, “it’s messy, but you can have the bed.”

A twin sized bed is pushed in the corner. A desk is next to it, crowded with books some half open, others closed with food wrappers as bookmarks. Highlighters and pens are thrown around, along with multiple stacks of stapled papers, a pair of glasses on top of the mess.

“this tours?”

it doesn’t make sense and it’s hard to understand you through the slurring but he nods,

“Yeah,” he says gently, “this is mine.”

“your bed is small.”

he huffs as you gently guides you to the bed, lifts your feet up and swings them onto the bed, his fingers working slowly on taking your heels off.

“Yeah well, can’t afford better.” he snorts.

“You’re kind,” you say as he gives you some blankets, “to do this. you have people thinking you’re tough but you’re a softie.”

he rolls his eyes but his face is pink, “don’t tell others,” he says, “not everyone gets this treatment.”

“Yeah?” you sigh, curling into the covers that smell like him; pine and toothpaste- “What at makes me special?”

he laughs, knows you won’t remember this:

“Only pretty girls get this treatment.”

you giggle, like the drunk you are: “you think i’m pretty?”

your voice has a teasing sing song to it, obviously enjoying it and he rolls his eyes:

“get some sleep-“

“where will you be?” suddenly your voice borders on worry as you pop up, “are you leaving?”

he wonders if you’re like this every night, if the fear of sleeping alone keeps you up.

“I’ll stay, i’ll stay.” he says gently, “look. i’ll work at my desk.”

you don’t move and he rolls his eyes:

“i’ll be right here, close your eyes.”

and you obey and he’s two steps away before you open your eyes again:

“Hasan?”

he holds in a sigh, “yes, sunshine?”

it’s clear the sunshine is sarcastic but something about it makes it feel like butterflies are throwing themselves around your belly

“I can’t sleep.”

he holds in a sigh, holds in the obvious: because you haven’t tried.

instead, makes his way to his dresser, takes out some black shorts he practiced in the weekends with, an old shirt from his days on the debate team in high school-prays your drunk enough to not ask about it-

“Here,” his voice is gentler than you’re use to, and you’re the crying type of drunk so tears threaten to fall when he hands you a bundled up pack of clothing, “Put this on.”

“Is this a bad attempt to see me undress?”

He rubs his forehead, “Jesus fuck, here.”

and he makes a show of turning around, covering his large hand over his face. you half expect him to turn around like Anthony would, but he stays the whole time, barely fidgets.

“Alright.”

he turns around and red faced you’re settling into his bed.

“Alright,” he rolls his eyes, “Close your eyes-“

“You’ll be right here?”

you’re voice is a whimper, borders on pathetic.

“And i’ll be right here.”

You settle into the covers.

“Thanks, Hasan-“

he turns to say something sarcastic but you’re already passed out in his too small bed.

[fullofgutsndopamine]

What’re You After (Some Sort Of Disaster)

previous more

or: you and hasan are rivals for trivia night. Until one day, you come up with a plan.

TW/ cursing, drinking, dick jokes.

yes my trivia team did lose to this question last week and yes, i’m still mad about it

Sarah slams her elephant down with such force that you worry the cheap dollar tree glass elephant will break and send you all on another trip to muitlple stores for a new good luck charm.

it wouldn’t be the first time.

You groan and crumble up the paper and throw it in the middle of the table into a half eaten plate of french fries.

Annie speaks first, “what kind of fucking nerds don’t know stranger things is a tv show set in the 80’s but does know the year our town was founded in.”

“they have to be cheating,” sarah says, “there’s just no way.”

“you all are bitching but you aren’t the asshole who has to go get a drink with our literal enemies.” you groan, rubbing your temple, a headache on the horizon.

Annie, “i’ll buy your drink, at least. and if he’s a gentleman, he’ll buy you another one. Make it a little less painful. think of it as a mission for us, y’know? to get more intel.”

“you can take my elephant for good luck!” Sarah smiles and takes your hand, presses it gently into the middle of your palm like it’s some family heirloom passed on and on.

“Good luck won’t help if he’s a serial killer.” you grumble, turning in your seat to look at his table again, a final glare, “or a dick.”

“which one is the worst, though?” Annie indulges as she digs through her purse.

you’re half listening.

hasan is the odd one out of the group, you see this now.

while the rest of the group is hugging, shoulders touching, heads pulled in close, he stands just outside the circle.

you wouldn’t be able to see it if you weren’t looking directly for it, but something about it makes you think of him in middle school, a mop of messy, curly hair on top of his head, large crooked glasses on the brim of his nose-telling these random facts he has to other class mates so excitedly through broken teeth and then rolling their eyes or ignoring him is so vivid in your head you have to turn away before you start feeling bad for him or something.

“what if,” you finally hear Sarah’s voice again, “you end up having an amazing first date and this is the story we end up telling your children.”

she giggles and Annie laughs so hard people crane their neck to look.

“he wishes,” you snort, “he’s going to be pretentious, i can already tell.”

“He’s on his way,” Sarah points her chin up at him, “remember: her all the information out of him you can-“

“and call us as soon as it’s over-“ Annie adds, and Sarah interrupts her again, a never ending thing, “and turn your location on so we know where to look for your body at!”

you groan, taking your phone out to do so, just as hasan appears at your side.

“Well, it was a good effort today, guys.” he smiles as he rests his hands on the table, “i had no idea that song was from a theme song-“

“of course you didn’t.” Annie huffs under her breath, an eye roll.

“sorry, what was that?” he says it with such a genuine smile and lean in you half believe him until you see the smirk on his lips.

“N-nothing. We best be going,” Annie stands, pulls Sarah up, “You have drinks to get anyways. we lost, and all. you two have fun and be safe!” and she’s pulling her out so quick Sarah barely has time to grab her purse as she’s yelling over her shoulder: “don’t do anything we wouldn’t do!”

you groan and he turns just in time to see your red face.

“one drink,” he smiles, “c’mon. that’s it, i won’t make it too painful. i promise.” and he holds out his pinky in the air, actually waits for you to hook yours around his and shake.

“lead the way.” he smiles and acts like he doesn’t see your red face as you lead out of the room and weave in and out of people.

for a second, you think you lost him. he’s so fucking tall it’s hard to lose him, and he weaves in and out to the bar with you with such practiced ease, his hand hovers over the small of your back as you get to the bar, order your drink, add a casual: “and whatever he wants.”

he takes it well, leans in with an eye roll to the bartender and orders, slides him his debit card so quickly it’s hard to see for a second as he slides into the seat next to you.

“you bastard,” you gasp, “i’m suppose to buy your drink.”

he laughs, “it feels wrong making you buy my drink after losing too. like adding salt to a wound or something.”

you sigh, and he cuts you off before you can speak again, a gentle elbow to your arm, “you all did much better this game. it was close.”

“you’re just saying that.” you huff.

“so what if i am?” he teases back, “it doesn’t matter. besides, only nerds know what year the town was founded in. you all probably had much better to do than look into the towns history.”

something about that borders on sad, leaves a bad taste in your mouth like you want him to elaborate, you wonder how many nights he spent alone, books his only companion, finding solace or some sense of community into looking at the towns history-

“if you tell me you’re wearing an ear piece or you have an inside guy, i promise i won’t tell my friends.”

it’s half a joke, and you say it with a smile in hopes he knows and it earns a laugh out of him, one you haven’t heard before, loud and happy and free as he throws his head back and claps.

when he sits up straight he leans in closer to you, and you can smell his cologne, or maybe his aftershave, but you refuse to let yourself think too much on it, and he moves his curly hair behind both of his ears theatrically, “no ear pierce, i’m afraid. just a kid who spent a lot of time in libraries.”

“not the sob story,” you half tease with a groan as a beer is placed in your hands, “i’m not nearly drunk enough. if you start crying, i’ll start crying. and fair warning, i’m a crying drunk.”

he snorts as he lifts the lip of the beer bottle to his lips, lets it rest momentarily, “noted. i’ll cut you off far before then, i promise.”

you snort back, hold your bottle in the air: “to your win.”

a smirk finds it’s way on his lips, “to new friendship,” and before you can say anything back he clinks his glass with yours gently and downs it.

“c’mon,” you finally say after the burn of the alcohol settles in your chest, “i know a quieter place.”

“lead the way.” he smiles back, offers his hand and you roll your eyes back at him but your hand finds it’s way on top of his, gently cupping around his and you pull him through the crowd.