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fullofgutsndopamine · 19 days

Text

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.

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

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fullofgutsndopamine · 17 days

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“Look,” hasan huffs, his longs between his ear and shoulder, “i don’t fuckin know either.” he watches the water boiling that’s threatening to over boil and spill onto the oven any second, “but my girl all but asked for it, so-“

the person on the other line snorts, which makes hasan roll his eyes. they speak first:

“my girl,” the voice mocks, “i thought you hated valentine’s day-“

“fuck valentine’s day.” hasan confirms with a nod, even though they can’t see him.

“right,” the other voice, Mike, confirms, “So if it’s fuck Valentine’s then why in the world are we celebrating it, much less cooking. you’re a horrible fucking cook, actually-“

“thanks for the confidence, dude,” Hasan huffs, just as water pours over the side of the pan and bubbles onto the stove. “fuck, i’ll call you back.”

he doesn’t give him time to answer before chucking the phone on the counter, running over to turn the flame down.

“no,no, no, no. fuck, dude.”

he grabs the spoon, stirs around what’s left in the pot before groaning.

this was suppose to be perfect. this has to be perfect.

look, hasan doesn’t like valentine’s day. in fact, he borders on hating it, but when he met her, when she talked about how romantic the holiday was, the small gestures were so nice-well, she had a way to make people fall in love. hasan knows this first hand.

hasan knows she’s due to his door any minute. she was so fucking excited to text him-hasan hasn’t noticed he chewed his nails so low, was so anxious about getting it right for once.

he checks the flowers on the counter, with the obnoxious bow he re did again and again until his fingers ached and throbbed-thirty minutes ago, they seemed perfect-the most ideal flowers he could find. now, as shadows cast in the small apartment he imagines the leaves are more wilted, the browning spots

he grabs his phone, seconds away from cancelling, asking for a second chance (ignoring the part of him that aches at the idea of not seeing her, much less disappointing her, but he has to get it right, needs to)

the knock is quiet, but loud enough to set Kaya off, loud barks echo through his house.

“fuck!”

he wipes his hands at the apron around his waist, stained from the failed meal he tried to create-her favorite, something he had never heard before but mentioned on a date that he scribbled on a stained cocktail napkin and shoved deep into his jeans- he takes a second, checks his hair in the mirror by the door, messed form his hands running though it, opens the door before he can overthink it.

“Hey!” she smiles, standing straight when she sees him, “happy valentine’s day!”

she also looks nervous, a small bag in her hands that she has a death grip on. she invites herself further into the house before she can regret it, pulls him by his shirt for their lips to collide, crash into one another.

he giggles: “what’s that about?”

his face is bright pink and he fumbles with his glasses like he does when he’s nervous. she shrugs like it’s nothing, like she wasn’t thinking about it the entire drive over here:

“missed you, is all. it’s the best holiday after all.”

his hand is tangled into hers as he leads to the kitchen.

“listen,” he sighs, “i fucked dinner up-“

she immediately goes to the scene of the crime, grabbing the spoon and half empty packets of food, immediately going to work.

“it’s suppose to be valentine’s day,” he groans, “you aren’t suppose to do the work.”

she rolls his eyes: “valentine’s day doesn’t mean i can’t cook-and no, it doesn’t make you sexist for making me cook, before you say it.”

“grab some cheese,” she hums, turning the flame back on the stove and stirring the water, “you didn’t ruin it, i promise.”

hasan obeys, grabs the ingredients, comes back and carefully, slowly, the apron goes around your head, can feel as his hands grab the back of it and ties it for you.

“co chef.” you insist, “this is perfect.”

“this isn’t how i imagined valentine’s day.” he sighs, tries to hide how disappointed he is.

“really?” she says carefully, “this is just how i imagined it. this is perfect.”

“you’re just saying that.”

instead, his hand snake around her waist, his head fits right in the crook of her neck, peppering kisses there.

“happy valentine’s day.” it comes out quietly, unsure, from him.

she reads his mind:

“it’s perfect.” she smiles instead. “happy valentine’s day.”

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

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fullofgutsndopamine · 23 days

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like vines (we intertwine)

or: hasan uses a client as an excuse to see you

or or: the tattoo/flower shop au no one asked for

tw: cursing, mention of anxiety

hasan was going to the store purely for research purposes and absolutely nothing else.

or at least-that's the lie he told himself.

look, it's his only client (which is hard to come across when you're an apprentice) and he tips well enough so he's telling himself it' to gather intel, to make an impact, make him a regular-

and no it's definitely not to see you-why would you even think that?

In a desperate attempt to get his hands to stop shaking, to make the nerves disappear, he went through the small cabinet in his corner, grabbed the first small pre-packaged food his fingers collided with (goldfish, as it would be) and a small water bottle and made his way to next door

the door to the flower shop is propped open, and he can hear something acoustic gently being played through all corners of the store as he gets to the threshold of the door.

a deep breath.

there's no time to second guess his hair (or how badly he needs a haircut) he fumbles with his glasses he keeps folded and in his shirt pocket-hasn't been wearing them because his anxiety has sky rocketed lately, prefers the world slightly blurry-figures he should at least see you at this point

He uses his knuckle to press the glasses up his nose as he ducks into the small storefront, trying to not hit the small bell that hangs over the door, flowers wrapped around it.

You're behind the desk as he comes in, a pair of scissors in one hand, a large bouquet of roses in one hand, broken stems are scattered around you

you feel his presence immediately, head snapping up and customer service voice on: "Hello! Welcome to-"

Your shoulders drop and you try to roll your eyes like you're irritated that he's stopping in again,

“Hasan.”

He tsks, "Where's the warm welcome, sunshine?" He smirks, "Not very welcoming of you."

"Don't you have a job to do?" You tease, but come from behind the desk, pull out the stool that's hidden behind the desk and drag it to the side of the desk.

"Research," he nods, "for a client."

He eyes the seat but ignores it temporarily, instead taking the long way to the desk, looking at the flowers that line the small interior of the shop

his fingers gently touch the edge of the petals, rubbing them between his fingers gently,

"sunshine," He calls gently, and you’re still not sure if he knows your name, "This is?"

He let's the sentence hang in the air, even though you both know that he knows exactly what this flower is, say it everytime he comes in-

"Peonies," you hold a sigh, because you're just happy he's here, that he's in your orbit right now, borderline miss him when he's gone, "you're looking for lilies, yeah?"

you make your way around the counter joining his side.

"That's right," he smiles, "you must like me coming in if you rememebr the flower i'm looking for."

you snort, "someone has to know what you're talking about, and it sure as hell isn't going to be you."

it's quiet for a beat. him saying you must like him coming in looks for a second and you desperately try to say something to fill the space,

"and i don't like you," you smile, "i like the snacks you bring."

his face goes from being hurt to laughing again and before he can say anything you're talking again

"did you bring any snacks today? because i can't possibly help you without a snack."

and he's laughing, rolls his eyes as he takes a small package of goldfish out of his pocket, "you have a price."

you all but squeal, taking it happily as you go to rip it open with your teeth, excited because you forgot to pack lunch again

"so," he prompts, smirking still, "the lilies?"

you roll your eyes, "this way-"

"lead the way, sunshine."

and he holds his hand out in the air, let's it hang their until your red faced but accept, taking his hand and walking him the approximate fifteen steps to what he's looking for.

"you know," you're trying to ignore that he hasn't dropped your hand yet, "this is your fourth time in this week alone. most people would buy a flower by now."

he snorts, crosses his arms over his chest, and you're trying to ignore how you have the perfect view of the outline of the bullfrog on his arm, arguably your favorite of his tattoos, not that you'd ever tell him

"are you saying you don't like my visits?" he teases, goes in and sticks his nose into the flowers, "i'm trying to make the perfect outline for a client is all."

you nod, "right, and that's fine. but that's what you said three weeks ago! doesn't the client want the tattoo by now?"

he thinks quick: "he's picky. keeps changing his mind when i send sketch’s over.”

okay really, the client chose one the first day he came in to see you, hasan had already tattooed it and everything, but the shop he's at is lonely and loud, and something about your small store and the welcoming presence keeps him coming back.

and it has nothing to do with you, he'll insist.

"right," you say slowly not actually believing him,

"here, come sit with me."

and the hand not holding his you grab a single lily, take it over to the desk with you as hasan follows and sits on the stool you had for him.

"what're you doing, sunshine?" he teases as he opens his own goldfish, slowly eats them.

"if he doesn't like the pictures," you say quietly, eyes on the flower as you cut the stem, "maybe he’ll like the actual thing-"

he's watching you the entire time. the way your eyes narrow on the flower as you cut, how the tip of your tongue pokes out of your mouth as you concentrate, how you smile when it's cut and how you slowly smooth the petals down, like you're getting them just right for him.

"here."

and before you can second guess it, you're leaning in close to him, no space between you two, as you tuck the flower behind his ear. hasan holds his breath as you lean in close, tries to not think too hard of it, of how close you are, as you finally back up.

"perfect," you settle on, "and if he doesn't like that, he can come talk to me."

you're talking to the floor, not to him, face bright red

"yeah?" he says gently, clears his throat so his voice doesn't back as fond as he feels,

"send him over and you'll deal with my asshole clients?"

you smile, "that's right."

"appreciate the support." he laughs, "tell me about your day. Did Martha come in?"

something about hasan is comforting. you can't place it, but you feel like you could tell him anything.

the first time he came in, a particular older customer had just left, yelling and ranting about prices-you were still a little shaken up from it, and he could tell. he didn't push it, knew it wasn't his place. originally, that visit was just for the flower, but seeing you, getting to talk to you and hearing how your voice rises as you tell about your favorite customers, or stories of growing up, and how it drops, telling about martha, about all the overtime you have-he finds comfort in it

so he stayed late that day. used the excuse of a made up client, just so you'd have a friendly face at your shop, someone to listen to you about these silly problems.

you started looking forward to his visits, checking the clock, counting down until it's time until you'll see him walk through the door, enjoying all his silly stories-how his own voice drops like it's a conspiracy as he talks about drawing, about finding comfort in his sketch book, a pencil tucked behind his ear always- how he came in later that week and saw you a mess again, wouldn't let you speak as you were close to tears, about to apologize for your appearance, for your shaking voice-

he brought markers. it was a silly thing he saw the bosses kid do, trying to keep them busy, letting them color in these empty tattoos of his, let you talk and rant as you picked ho the faded markers, the faded green as you colored the grasshopper in, the leaves wrapped around his wrist like a vine, how you ignored how his hand rested on your knee so casually as he talks, trying to keep your mind and hand busy, to keep you from being upset

silence falls today, after hasan finished a story from college, you're shaking your head, the laughing still scattered when your eyes meet the clock.

you don't want him to leave

"It's late," you finally say, "i know you guys close soon."

his head snaps up, to the clock overhead and holt shit you're right, he's been here far too long, boss is going to wonder what's going on-

"same time as tomorrow?" you ask gently as he drags the chair back behind the desk

he smiles, leans over the counter with a smirk, one hand on the flower behind his ear, and you bite your lip to not laugh at the difference between him, all tattoos and sharp edges, with a little flower tucked behind his ear so he'll remember it-

"yeah," he settles on, "yeah. same time as tomorrow."

and he leaves before he can do anything stupid, like say he'll miss you.

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

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fullofgutsndopamine · 23 days

Text

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.

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

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fullofgutsndopamine · 10 days

Text

Sleeping In The Garden (You Broke The Dark)

(or the single dad hasan fic no one asked for)

tw/cursing, insta-love

cavity inducing fluff below the cut, don't say i didn't warn you

more here

you arrived early to the library to set up.

you didn’t need a full hour and a half to unpack a small suitcase full of various cheap school supplies; Crayola paints and old brushes warn with age, stencils and small canvases.

it's winter break at the small school you teach, and to make ends meet, you've been doing small paint and sip activities at local libraries for the kids.

it gets the children out of their parents hair for an hour and a half, and they're usually excited to see the artwork they work on come to life-and the hot chocolate is an added bonus for most kids.

kids file in, and while the class was filled, you can't help but notice the seat in the corner unoccupied as you gather your supplies, say a quiet prayer to whatever god exists, and walk to the front of the room-

the door is thrown open, and a tall man ducks into the room, snow covering his mop of curly brown hair, hunched over so he doesn't tower over his kid, his hand on their back as he speaks quietly to them:

"Go on. You're okay."

She takes a step, but immediately retreats back and hides behind the mans leg, her tiny fingernails dig into his leg.

"Baby," he sighs, "C'mon. I promise-"

He looks up and sees you, his face turns pink and he stands a little straighter, takes the hat off his head and tries to wipe the snow out of his hair.

"I'm so sorry we're late," he sounds genuine, "I can offer you an assortment of excuses, each shittier than the last-"

"Papa."

he realizes his mistake, the curse word, and half turning around, speaks gently: "That's right. My bad. That's a quarter in the jar when we get home, okay?"

finally, a small giggle from behind his legs, and he stands a little straighter, as if proud of this breakthrough.

"You aren't too late," You reassure him, "We didn't even really start."

"Oh, good." and he sounds so genuinely happy, you have to bite your lip from smiling back, "She hasn't stopped talking about this since I signed her up."

"Papa."

A groan from behind his leg that makes him laugh

"You can stay," You say, probably too quick even, borders on pathetic, "If it makes your daughter more comfortable. Plenty of parents stay."

And that's not a lie, necessarily, a few parents stayed, but they mostly linger towards the back, by the various snacks, heads buried in their phones.

"Papa," the voice from behind his legs come, border on pleading: "Stay?"

and then, a little quieter, a little teary, she finishes with a, "Please?"

and listen, you don't know the man in front of you, or the kid either, but as he kneels on the floor, his head titled and voice low, "Okay." He nods, "I'll stay."

he pushes down the laundry list of things he needs to do; phone calls to make, grocery shopping to do-

his daughter comes first, always.

He looks up at you, a small smile on his face: "I won't get in the way, I promise, where do you want us?"

And he stands, and slings his daughter onto his hip, a carbon copy of him, a mop of curly hair on top of her head, some sloppy ponytail and a knit hat shoved over her head-

"There's a seat right there." You bite your lip and turn, pointing towards the empty chair, hoping you turned in time so he doesn't see the red of your face.

"Thank you uh-" He shakes his head, laughs, "Sorry, I didn't get your name uhm-"

You laugh, "Right, It's nice to meet you-"

And you offer your hand, hands in the air and feels awkward for half a second as you introduce yourself, but he laughs, shakes back:

"hasan," he gives the kid on his hip a gentle shake, "And this is Ophelia."

"It's nice to meet you two," You smile at the small figure on his hip, who buries her head into his shoulder blade, her hands hold tiny handfuls of his sweater, makes him roll his eyes but fond at the side of his lips as he bounces her on his hip, "Have a seat, and i'll bring everything over in a second."

He shakes his head, as if dazed, "Of course, right." and walks to the table, trips over his own feet, but manages to help himself from falling.

He sets Ophelia on a chair, and takes his own coat off, sits cross legged next to her on the floor, still towers over her, his voice low but he's smiling and pointing at everything, obviously trying to make her more comfortable-

You stand at the front, slowly starting the beginning instructions after you set hasan and Ophelia up with the supplies, watch as he carefully ties the apron around her waist, a tickle on her side as she finally giggles, reaches over and stars grabbing at the paint exctidely-

you go around, getting ready to serve the small paper cups of hot chocolate, once you realize everyone is mostly comfortable (even Ophelia, who has made friends with the little boy next to her) when you feel a presence by your elbow.

"Sorry, hope I didn't scare you," He smiles, scratches the back of his neck, "Thought i'd ask if you needed help."

He smiles weakly for a second before his eyes go wide, "Not that it doesn't look like you don't have this under control or anything!"

finally, you laugh, and it seems to make some anxiety he has go away.

"That would actually be great," You laugh, "If you wanna carry the tray, I can hand 'em out. We can doule team."

He nods, "Sure, of course-"

"And I can re-pay you," you continue, a smirk on your lips.

"Oh," He shakes his head, "No way. How happy Ophelia is, is good enough payment"

'and meeting you' hangs on the tip of his tongue, but he swallows that down

"The payment is unfortunately," you continue, turning around, "In marshmallows."

you turn back around, a large bag of mini marshmallows in your hand

he laughs, a giggle, his voice teasing, "Hot chocolate and marshmallows?"

"Marshmallows are my love language." You laugh, and before you realize what you're saying he's nodding, like that actually means something

"Good to know," he laughs, "I'll keep that in mind."

And your face blushes red again and you shrug, struggle with the ends of the bag for a second before he takes it, opens it without asking and hands it back

he snorts at himself, "I'm so sorry," he shakeshis head, "I think i'm still in dad mode."

You laugh, shake your head, "That's okay-"

He cuts you off, "You lead the way?" he says gently, "And maybe i can make it up to you later?"

for a second, you wonder what, exactly, he wants to make up, but as he looks at his dirty converse and kicks gently at the ground, his face red, you know what he's getting at.

"Yeah," you shake your head, hoping it doesn't come off as desperate as it feels, "I'd love that."

"Yeah?" his head whips up, and he nods, as if he's calm about the whole thing.

"yeah," he nods a final time, "It's a date."

and you two deliver hot chocolate with marshmallows, both of your faces tinged pink, ignoring the way your hands knock into each other the entire time.

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

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fullofgutsndopamine · 24 days

Text

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.

"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.

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

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fullofgutsndopamine · 21 days

Text

We Put The World Away (We Get So Disconnected)

tw/ cursing,mention of anxiety

“babe.”

You call gently to hasan, a room away. The walls are thin and the apartment is shitty, but it’s your shared space with him, and that’s all that matters.

“Yeah, birdie?”

You can hear the smile in his voice.

“Are you streaming tonight?”

You don’t have to ask-five times a week, on the dot, hasan is streaming and last time, he promised one with you-you two known as friends (“Only friends, chat. Don’t make it weird.” he’ll say, roll his eyes, hope they don’t see the pink rising in his face)

And last week was the promised stream with you.

It held more weight than hasan wants to admit. It’s not that you two don’t want to be public. But you’ve both seen the way couples are treated, how everything is dissected-you both figure it’s for the best.

You two are both known for being local, living close by each other and having a friendly completive streak going in various games-hasan teased your appearance by saying he’s finally going to break the winning streak you’ve had.

And it’s been fun, until now.

Living together, in this shitty apartment, you two have gone out of your way to make it not obvious that it’s the same apartment; hasan frantically muting his stream and acting like it was an accident to text you because you were singing while you were cooking (“Birdie, as much as i love your singing,” he texts, “i’m live.”)

Or when he almost came into your room while searching for his wallet, or phone or anything he accidentally sets down-

He pops his head in, his hand resting on the doorframe, “Gonna go live in five minutes. That okay, birdie?”

You nod, practically rolling out of bed until hasan comes to your side, his hand on the side of your face as he lifts your head up to gently kiss your forehead.

“Don’t forget your emotional support blanket,” He teases, his fingers weaving into yours, is quicker than you as he leans back and grabs it, throws it over his own shoulder, “Come on.”

He leads to the bedroom, as if it isn’t yours as well, and starts making his way to his set up, turning the computer on and getting the camera right, as you try and make things right.

The little things, the ones he’d forget easily.

Picture frames line the walls and the dresser, that you either shove in drawers or flip over. The two of you with your faces pressed together, a darker picture of you two by the fire outside-

Next goes the small collection of things people probably wouldn’t pick up on, but your anxiety says you have to get rid of it; the pressed flowers that were given dates and dates ago, or the newest bouquet of flowers he picked from the little garden on the side of the house, the shelf in the corner of odds and ends he brought home from traveling; paper straw wrappers he twisted into rings, bottle caps from various beers-

shoved into drawers, into your pockets, anywhere else-and hasan is laughing, drags a chair up to the computer, taps it twice.

“C’mon, Birdie.”

He whistled after, some bird call you haven’t thought to ask about, that goes hand and hand with the nickname he gave you after he caught you singing in the kitchen.

(“I’m not the singer, hasan.” You’d say, your face bright red as you stirred pancake batter, the sun barely shining through the windows that early.

“Nonsense,” He says, “You’re a better singer than me.”

You roll your eyes but your face is red as he takes your hand and spins you around, “Birdie,” He says, and it’s final in that moment, “I think i’ll call you birdie, my singer. They sing it so well, better than I could.”)

“No birdie.” you remind him gently, and it’s not that deep, but you hate having to tell him not to call you by this nickname.

He nods once, serious, “No birdie.”

And his hand cups the back of your head as he brings your head closer to his, kisses your forehead. “Alright, Let’s do it. I’m right here, okay?”

You nod once.

You’ve done this. This is your entire job too, but people are mean, and brave especially through a computer screen and you aren’t entirely ready for two straight hours of having to ignore frantic messages about dating.

His hand slips under the desk, into your hand and his fingers weave into yours as he goes live.

The stream goes good, somehow.

hasan has to bite back a few birdies, a few pet names, and you almost give away too much lore with the two do you, too much that will make it known you two are more than friends.

And you two almost get away with it.

Almost.

hasan stumbles out of bed as his alarm goes off, is suppose to stream in ten minutes-didn’t plan on sleeping in this late but was so comfortable next to you, so warm-

“Fuck.”

You don’t think much of it. Wrap the blankets further around you before you throw it over your head, the sun too bright, and snuggle into his warm spot as he leans down, a kiss on your forehead as he hops around to get his jeans on.

“Chat!” He says the second the stream starts, “Listen, I know i’m late-“

You’re use to hearing him talk. it’s comfortable at this time, helps you lull back to sleep, a safety blanket-

When it’s finally time to get up, you don’t think much of it.

Throw the blanket off, tap around on the nightstand until your fingers collide with your glasses and you shove them over your face and hair lien that it happens quick-

“Fuck, fuck-“

hasan frantically tries to adjust the camera as he talks, “No chat, we aren’t together-“

You duck as you try and leave the room as you hear him talking, “No chat, for fucks sake. It was two in the morning. i’m not going to let them drive home-“

And it almost blows over. Everything is almost in the clear.

Until the next day.

Your day to stream, and you immediately are muting people mentioning hasan, or his bed, or anything to do with him and frankly- you think everything is going fine, like you almost fooled them-

a message comes through chat: is that his shirt???

and you think you’re in the clear, didn’t read it out loud but you did look down right after, gently pull at the shirt and holy fuck-it’s laundry day and naturally, you went for one of his shirts, old and worn with age, but definitely known for wearing it on stream, even wearing his damn flannel-you take the flannel off and throw it across the room in hopes it shuts everyone up.

A week passes.

hasan thinks it’s hilarious; says “They’re not my type.” with a smirk and an eye roll but his eyes are mischievous and you can tell he enjoys every second of it.

You two stream together again. And it goes fine, if anything-he wins, and your winning streak is gone and he’s gloating as he ends the stream, turns to you.

“I think we have them fooled, birdie.” He smiles widely, “No one’s the wiser.”

His finger under your chin as he pulls you close for a kiss.

your quiet for a second, a smile on your face as your eyes slowly trail to the computer, where the red light is still on, stream still going.

“hasan, you idiot. It’s still going. Stream is still going!”

He fumbles, and it’s heard, as he turns the camera back on, “Just kidding, chat!”

He makes sure it’s off, looks to you with his face red: “That was a close one.”

And he pulls you in for a kiss, like he got away with something.

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

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fullofgutsndopamine · 24 days

Text

shake up the scenery (know you love the greenery)

or or: Hasan is the reason you're going to fail out of class, you're entirely convinced

You flick the light on at your desk, crack your knuckles, and take a deep breathe.

This exam has been weighing heavy on your shoulders, too frozen in fear to even study for it-finally talked yourself into studying, got out the highlighters and pens and notecards-ready to at least try studying now.

You opened the digital copy of your textbook, a groan coming out of your lips the second it loaded and you saw the amount you had to read-

and right on cue, as if he was planning it, deep in his basement rubbing his hands together waiting for his masterplan to work, loud music thumps outside.

"You have got to be-"

the music thumps under your feet, can feel it radiate down your body

Look, you aren't a confrontational person-really, you aren't-but this is the last class you have, so you gather up your courage and stomp across the yard

You don't even have to knock, the door opens as you stomp across the yard-Half empty beer bottles laid on their sides in the grass, stepped on cans of beers in between bushes and lining the steps

"Well, well, well-"

He smirks as he opens the door, practically takes up the entire doorframe, crosses his arms in front of his body-

"Finally decided to join our parties?"

"I'd rather pull my teeth out one by one-" You huff out, "The music, Hasan-"

"It's pretty good, right?"

He leans in to you, into your ear so he can really be heard, and you just know he can feel and see the pink on your face, even if it's dark in the house-

"Join us," He pulls on your sleeve. His voice drops, gets a little softer, is harder to hear him over the music. "Come on. Have some fun, finally."

And this isn't the Hasan you know-the loud mouth abrasive guy who's ready to fight with anyone, make them repeat themselves so he can show them what an idiot they are-this Hasan is soft around the edges; kinder. His voice drops and his shoulders slump, like he's trying to make himself smaller for you.

"If I fail, it's on you-"

"If you fail," He smirks, "I'll make it up to you. Take you out."

His voice borders on slurring, is obviously drunk, and you roll your eyes, "Turn the music down, asshole."

and before you can make a fool out of yourself anymore, you turn around and disappear

It's around 4 in the morning when you give it a rest. Eyelids are heavy with sleep, and you know you held onto none of what you just read-climb into your too small bunk, pillow pressed against your belly as you set your alarm to go off in an hour and a half, hoping Hasan will eventually give it a rest.

Walking into the classroom feels like death march; slow and steady, can feel the war drums behind you as if they're wishing you one final goodbye and thanks for the expensive tuition prices-

three hours later, one exam down (that you definitely failed)

"Hey!"

You could recognize Hasan anywhere-and no, not like that-the long hair that desperately needed to be cut, the backwards baseball cap for baseball teams and sports you know he didn't watch or know-

"Hey-you!"

and before you can stop yourself, you're throwing the chain link fence of the basketball court open, making his friend Connor, who holds the ball in his hands as he's about to pass it-pause, smirk and throw his head:

"Hasan," His voice is honey and you hate it, the sarcasm drips, "Another groupie."

Sweat makes his hair stick to his forehead but if it bothers him, he makes no effort to move it-instead stops, a smirk slowly creeps on his face:

"We can't keep doing this."

The bastard is enjoying this.

And that's enough for you.

Finding some confidence you didn't even know existed you march over to him, shoving a finger into his chest

"You're the reason I failed my biology exam."

He laughs, the kind where he throws his head back and the laugh comes back more of a giggle: "I'm the reason?"

And as you realize how much you're looking up to him to speak, noticing his freckles in the sunlight and the different colored nails on his hand as he holds a hand to his chest in mock horror-you can hear your heartbeat in your ears, can't believe you're doing this.

Like sure, you and your roommate spent months practicing what you'd both say to him to get him to shut up: the insults and how hurt he'd look but that was just for fun-mostly for when you were slightly tipsy over cheap, bottom shelf wine-

"Y-Yeah!" You shake your head, "Your stupid fucking music and-and-"

You shake your head again, before you can stop yourself from saying something stupid, show how you've been watching him-

He laughs; "My music right. Well-"

He leans down, closer to you, his voice a whisper: "Sounds like I owe you that coffee, eh?"

You want to punch the smirk off his face.

"No, Hasan-"

"One coffee," He says, "And if I say something stupid you can leave, I promise."

"You won't last two minutes."

"Try me."

It's quiet as you both stare eachother down.

"Fine. 6pm. The cafe. Don't be late-"

"Right," He smirks, "See you there, sunshine."

The sunshine is obviously a jab, but you take it as you walk away, hoping your feet don't give out as you make your way to your dorm, now having to figure out what to do with yourself for the next five hours.

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

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fullofgutsndopamine · 25 days

Text

i love you, i love you (it’s disgusting)

frat hasan + "Wait a minute. Are you jealous?" &

"Don't go on that date." "Why?" "You know why."

"Say it."

or: no one is asking for hasan fics. in fact, they get the least amount of engagement however i am currently obsessed with him, so i will continue to write my self indulgent fics

angst, idiots in love, over use of the word princess

your hands shook as you tried to pin earrings to your ears.

you try and ignore it.

music thumps downstairs, your roommate and best friend, hasan, was throwing a small get together with some friends from class. Insisted you came until he finally pulled out of you that there was a date for tonight.

you try not to think of how sad his eyes looked, or how he got so quiet, or how he played with the sleeves on his shirt as he spoke, quietly: "a date? they're lucky. I hope they know that."

And at the time, when he says it, you roll your eyes-hasan is your best fucking friend of course he says that, doesn't think he means it, some social obligation to say that.

Time is closing in on you, and you have about five minutes to say goodbye to everyone and get in your car before you'll officially be running late, and you're already so nervous for this date, this guy you met on a dating app, trying to push down all the thoughts you have on all the dateline segments you could be a part of as you walk down the stairs-

"Hey!" He stands up a little straighter when you walk down the stairs, ignoring the low whistling and compliments your friends throw at you, "Not too late. We're playing beer pong and I need my partner! C'mon."

"You'll be fine without me, hasan. I believe in you." You laugh, know the nervous is oozing off of you, you just have to get out of here as soon as possible-

he drags his feet to the kitchen, almost sulking before he speaks again

"Need help?" He calls gently over the island, sets his warm beer on the counter top and drags his feet to you. A tradition, your neck always has the necklace he bought you when you both got accepted to the same college around your neck-but you can never get it clasped by yourself, always need his expert help, his fingers, to gently loop it around your neck-

He spins you around gently, takes the necklace out of your palm and expertly claps it around your neck, lets it hang perfectly on your chest-

your about to turn around, leave, before you talk yourself out of it, when hasan's voice is in your ear:

"You don't have to go."

You flip around, eyes narrowed, and you ignore how he's shrinking, shoulders in on themselves as he plays with his beanie, tucking hair behind his ear-

"Wait a minute-" You're smirking, "Are you jealous?"

He snorts, "Get real. C'mon-"

"No, no." The smile doesn't leave your face, "You're jealous. Say it, hasan."

His face is red and he rolls his eyes, "I am not jealous. I just think Thursday dates are idiotic. And at a bowling alley? Get real. You hate bowling."

"If I didn't know any better, I'd think you were jealous." You tease, a smirk on your lips.

He rolls his eyes again, and there's silence for a beat, not the normal between the two of you, usually never shut up when you're both in each other's presence-

"I have to go, l'm about ten seconds from being late-"

You turn, and his hand is on your shoulder, makes you turn around slowly, and his voice is so low it's hard to hear over the music.

"Don't go on that date."

"Why？

"You know why, princess"" He rolls his eyes.

You bite your lip as you look at him. "Say it. Say it, hasan."

He looks at you, in your eyes, and the idea of losing his best friend terrifies him-the reason he's at this school, why he's gotten this far in life-

"Beause-" He sighs, looks over his shoulder at his group of friends behind him, turns to you again,

"Because I'll lose my beer pong partner tonight?"

It comes out a question, not a statement, and you pray he doesn't see how your shoulders drop, how much that hurt to just be a beer pong partner, not the nights you two spent on projects-in completely different majors but poured over books next to each other, hands lightly touching as you two reach for snacks or pens, or how you can see out of the corner of your eye as he keeps looking up at you as you read, a smile on his face as he looks back down, flips the page.

you shake your head, roll your eyes, "That's not even worth a response, you dick."

And slam the door in his face, having to pull over down the road so you can fix your smeared make up from crying, all these nights when you were too drunk to get to your bed, him equally drunk, offering his bed, doesn't want to overstep boundaries, sleeps on the floor next to his own bed, waking up in the middle of the night with his hand outstretched as if he fell asleep reaching for your hand-how you were so close to saying something this whole time, how excited you were that it seemed like he was finally going to-

you don't see your phone blowing up, him begging you to come home, give him a chance, let him speak, to meet at your shared spot with him-

the date is a no show.

This isn't necessarily unexpected, because he was flaky at best, and creepy at worse, but you're thinking of an elaborate lie to tell your friends, how perfect this date went, as you spent most of your night at an empty ice cream shop down the way, feeling sorry for yourself over a cup of ice cream-

the lights in the house are off, expect the kitchen, and expect it's just because the party moved downstairs and someone forgot to turn the lights off

you kick your shoes off at the door gently, hang the keys up by the door-happy to be home, make a promise to yourself to delete the dating apps and stay single when you get to your room-

you look up and hasan is standing in the doorframe to the kitchen.

You stare at him, not giving him the satisfaction of talking first, and he catches on quickly, speaks first:

"I was a dick." He finally says.

"Yeah," You snort, "You were."

He nods, "Give me another chance. Let me prove-" He shakes his head, licks his lips, "Let me try again."

You sigh, emotionally exhausted from this day, and not really in the mood for this, but he says please again, and he sounds so pathetic you finally nod, let him walk into the room, grab your hand (you ignore the butterflies it gives you) leads you to the couch in the front room, sets you down on the couch, and, still holding your hand, pulls the table closer to the couch, sits on the edge of the table.

"I didn't want you to go on that date," He says gently, in a whisper, "Because I'm an idiot who's in love with their best friend, but too big of an idiot to say anything."

And you knew this. Like, you both did, but hearing the other say it is terrifying-

"Hasan-"

"-And I didn't want you to go on that date," He continues, "Because it hurts to see you go on these dates with these dicks. You deserve better. and I-I'm asking for a chance to show you-"

"hasan-" You try again, but hasan can't shut himself up,

"A-And I love you, and I mean it, and I should ve just tucking said it-"

You lean in, hand on the side of his jaw and pull him closer to you, lips clashing into eachother-

"hasan," You pull away, "Shut the fuck up."

He smirks now, "Didn't think it would take me rambling for you to finally kiss me, princess"

And you roll your eyes, face red, and he says:

"Again." And pulls you in for another kiss.

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

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fullofgutsndopamine · 8 days

Text

i'll wake (with coffee in the morning)

Having a late night with hasan, where he breaks down about how much stress he is under with work and Amelie and stuff so you both go to bed super late. Letting hasan sleep in the next morning cause he doesn't have work or a morning skate and to be honest he doesn't get enough sleep. Him freaking out about trying to get breakfast together for amelie and him coming downstairs to you having made breakfast for both of them, just trying to do small things to help because you care about them both so much omg I'm so soft for this series sorry I'm rambling

tw/angst (genuinely, this is all angst), curing, mention of past abuse/toxic family,

FITPS verse, not necessary reading, but more in the same verse here if you're interested

"Hasan."

it's the third time he rolls over in bed with a huff, that you realize sleep won't be finding hasan tonight.

The light from the shitty convivence store the next block open with the fluorescent OPEN sign that blinks and hums in the dark shines in your eyes, no matter how you reposition yourself

He huffs, doesn't answer, scoots up in bed so his back is against the bedframe.

And you sit up, turn the light on and illuminate the small room, your hand on his chest, voice is borderline pleading: "hasan, talk to me."

this happens, ocassionaly.

it's been awhile, since he's been like this, when the anxiety hits and the sleepless nights find him.

But when they do find him, it's usually after a long week, him struggling to juggle Amelie, her school and hockey practice, and him-with his job; business has picked up, and while it's good for paychecks, you can't ignore the dark bags under his eyes and the groaning of his bones when he goes to pick Amelie up, throw her in the air, the missed dinners he's passed by, sleeping on the couch, too tired to even walk up the stairs-

he doesn't answer.

stares straight ahead, runs his hands through his hair, shaking, unsure of himself, his voice cracks, and he doesn't look at you, like this has been on the back of his mind for a while-

"What if all of this was a mistake?"

He laughs, but it's without humor, his eyes dark:

"Like, what if she's actually fucked by me raising her? What if she turns out like me?"

this is heavy, especially for a Thursday night, but you know this song and dance, are an expert in it-

"hasan, come on."

"No," He shakes his head, "You come on-"

He's spiraling, and there's only one fix.

You throw the old quilt off your body, wiggle your toes against the cold wood floors as you pad to his side, hold your hand out:

"hasan, come on-"

He doesn't say anything back, but allows you to tangle your hand into his, to pull him out of bed, and lead as you slowly lead down the creaking steps, to the couch where you let him fall onto, curl next to him:

"hasan," You try, your voice borders on pleading, "What's going on?"

You pull him closer, against his chest, your hands tangled into his hair, pulling at it gently, something he usually likes, finds comforting-

His voice is weak, like he's thought about this all week, tossed and turned, lost sleep over it-

"I don't want her to end up like me," His voice breaks somewhere in the middle, "Like, to be fucked up like me? Didn't even fucking finish school, working at a shop like a fucking loser. Maybe my Dad was right."

He snorts, but there's no humor, his eyes dark.

"hasan, come on. You just need some sleep." Your voice borders on pleading.

instead, his voice is dark: "Like, this is the kicker, right?" he snorts, "You grow up and your family is shit, dies early, leaves you alone to raise a kid, right?"

He laughs, shakes his head, "And the whole time, you're terrified you're going to fuck her up. Turn out like her Father, or even worse, like you, right? And you can't do a damn thing about it."

"hasan," You plead, "You aren't a fuck up-"

"And it's all going to be my fucking fault," He shakes his head, "I can't blame anyone but myself."

Sometimes, when he gets like this, there's no talking him off the ledge.

instead, it's laying against the couch, pulling him into you, gently ruffling his hair, letting him rant into your pajama shirt, goes from borderline yelling, to sobbing, whole body shaking weeping that leaves wet stains on your shirt that you both ignore, holding him close, praying for it to be over-

by the time he's exhausted, when his eyes are drooping and low, from lack of sleep, and from crying, he leads you by the hand up the creaking stairs, to the old bedroom-

the only saving grace, you can think of, as you lay in the bed, is that tomorrow is his only day off after a full week of working late, showing up to Amelie's practices just in time, peeling his grease stained shirt off in the parking lot, trying to look presentable after a long day, the world beating his ass day after day-

Birds outside the powerlines wake hasan up.

Which is unusual, since usually, his alarm has him up at 4am, when birds dare sing yet, still trying to sleep in for five more minutes-

this causes him to panic, naturally.

"Fuck!" he all but screams when he rolls over, the alarm clock says 10:06 in red, as if mocking him.

You aren't in his too small bed, and your spot on the mattress is long cold, which also worries him-

one thing at a time your voice comes through his head, the gentle voice you use on him when he's spiraling, when you hold either side of his face in your palm, making him look at you: one thing at a time, hasan. Just one-

a deep breathe and he nods, hops around on the floor as he gets into his old work jeans, worn with age and from working, covered in a mix of grease and who knows what fuck else-

he's buttoning his work shirt, which he's 90% sure smells and he'll need to Febreze, as he runs down the stairs, to the kitchen, yelling to Amelie:

"Aimes!" He yells, running his hands through his hair, is going to have to skip a shower since his alarm didn't go off, "sunshine, we got ten minutes, baby girl. You gotta get up!"

Breakfast will have to be quick, instant, something that will make the mothers in the pick up line clutch their necklaces and lean their heads in to whisper about that brother, the one who's raising his kid on a steady diet of store brand poptarts, instant oatmeal, and most days-pleading and begging with whatever god exists to stop making him a fucking joke for the love of god-

"hasan," Amelie giggles as he rounds the corner into the kitchen. "We're up already, silly."

she's giggling, a smile on her face as she wears one of his old shirts from marching band, far too big on her, down to her knees, is kneeling on an old mismatched stool as she helps you pour flour into a mixing bowl-

"We're-" he pauses, his shirt buttons fucked up, "Late?"

It's a question, not a satement.

"It's Sunday, honey." You smile warmly at him, walk over and fix his shirt for him, "Come on, breakfast will be ready soon."

"hasan," Amelie giggles, "We're making pancakes."

She giggles like it's a secret, when in reality, it's just a rare treat. Panckes are money and time consuming-and he has neither.

"I see, sunshine'." He smiles as he sits down next to you, "With chocolate chips?' He tickles her side, kisses the side of her face, fond on his face.

"Here." His head looks up, and he's immediately handed a warm mug of coffee into his hands. He inhales it deeply; smells perfect-

"You didn't have to do this." His voice is gentle, small, like he's scared, isn't use to this kind of treatment-

"I know," You shrug, as you grab the bowl of batter, "But it's what you do for people you love."

and you say it so simply, so matter of fact.

the first i love you he's ever gotten, that's ever meant something, isn't matched with the rug being pulled out from under him, without the kiss of a fist-

"Yeah," Amelie parrots, "For people you love."

and you ruffle her hair as she helps you pour the batter, the love is said with the same mocking siblings do, but the smile says she loves having you around, another parental figure, someone to help hasan-

Your eyes slowly drag up, as you realize what you said, afraid he'll be upset, or not feel the same, will yell or kick you out, scare him off-

instead, he comes into the kitchen, drags his finger through the bowl to taste it, another dip to touch it to the tip of Amelie's nose, before his hands go around your waist, his chin on your shoulder-

"Yeah," he says gently, into your ear, before he nuzzles his nose into your neck, his voice is low and deep, how you know he means it: "I love you too."

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

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