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abadarkade · 1 day

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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."

#omg im so happy to read this again #this was like the first ask i ever sent on Tumblr #was for this fic like the inspiration #so excited to read it again after prom

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abadarkade · 1 day

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or: hasan invites you over to carve pumpkins with his kid sister. halloween traditions ensue

not part of a series, but in the same universe as fitps. i don’t know either

tw: cursing,

they/them reader

there’s yelling coming from inside the house.

you can see hasan, a kiss the cook apron tied around his waist, a backwards hat on his head and one oven mitt on, yelling into another room.

but the thing is, the smile never leaves his face.

a deep breath,you fix your hair in the reflection of the door (because this is obviously not a date. just hasan who wanted company while carving pumpkins) and rang the doorbell.

you act like you don’t see his head whip up, fear on his face for a second as he throws the oven mitt on the table, takes his hat off to fix his hair, only to jam it back over his head.

“Don’t answer the door, it could be a stranger-“

you hear him yelling, not even able to finish it as the door freaks open, and his little sister pops her head out.

“are you here to kill us?” she asks in a small voice, and she wears the same smile Hasan has on his face.

“Hi Ames,” you coo. “i don’t think so, not today at least.” you tease back as you kneel on the concrete steps.

“Has, they said they weren’t here to kill us!” she yells over her shoulder, but Hasan is behind her, rolls his eyes.

“Yeah,” he snorts, “I heard. I don’t think a killer would exactly tell us before they kill is though, hmm?”

he tickles her side and she giggles but he keeps going and she squeals into his side until he picks her up, swings her over his shoulder and tickles her as she lays on his shoulder.

“isn’t that right?” he finishes as she giggles over his shoulder.

“Sorry about her,” Hasan's face is lightly pink, “she’s been talking about you all day.”

“that’s not true!” she struggles to be heard over his shoulder, “Hasan was! he said-“

he huffs, and she’s on the ground, a smile on her face so she obviously knows what she’s doing, Hasan kneeling in front of her: “I put clothes on your bed. go change.”

Amelie does a fake gasp, “But my pretty dress!” her face falls, crocodile tears on the horizon, “You don’t like my dress?”

He rolls his eyes, “Of course I like your dress. I chose it.” he tickles her side until she’s smiling and his voice drops, “We don’t want yucky pumpkin guts on your pretty dress, right Aimes?”

she gasps, a theatrical kid, “Pumpkin guts?! Yuck!” she giggles and he nods:

“Exactly. Hurry up, put it on and we’ll get carvin’, yeah?” and she nods and all but runs out of the room.

Hasan stands, his face pink like he’s embarrassed to show this soft side of him. “Sorry uh-c’mon, i’ll show you the kitchen. it’s not a long walk.” he snorts and jams the hat back over his head, a nervous habit of his youve slowly picked up on.

You follow closely behind, take the time to look at the walls as you pass. Hasan is sentimental, even if he insists he’s not; art work from school and library reading programs line the wall, her name carefully written in Hasan's unmistakable chicken scratch writing in the corner, her age next to it.

if a wall isn’t covered in her art work, it’s covered with the two of them: her on his lap, faces pressed together, dressed up for past halloweens in handmade costumes (Hasan's fingers covered in bandaids, obviously he stayed up countless days and hours to make them, to have her have a good halloween-)

“Short walk,” Hasan snorts, “Here.” and he pulls a wooden chair out for you to sit on as he shuffles to the kitchen.

“Okay, confession time.” he sighs, his hand rests on the bar to the fridge. “I have bad news and good news.”

you hold in a sigh, afraid the bad news is: i hate you and you’re only here because my kid sister loves you for some reason or we need to do this quick, i want you out-

“Go ahead.” you hope your voice sounds steady.

“So,” his head disappears in the fridge, appears with a large mason jar, “I had midterms, so i didn’t have time to make apple cider. we’re telling Ames this is homemade, she won’t know the difference.”

you snort out relief, a weight from your shoulders gone, “Homemade apple cider too? I thought you hated Autumn, Hasan.” you tease.

“i do!” he insists, “But Ames loves it, so unfortunately, that means i love it. It was our moms tradition so-“

there’s some weight there but it doesn’t sit, and instead you laugh and he comes back over with a smaller cup, mis matched form whats in his hand, of apple cider, warmed up, and hands it off to you:

“cheers.” he says gently and you smile back and clink the side of his cup gently, taking a sip.

Hasan chugs it back, wipes his hands on his jeans and goes to the stove, stirring something in a pot.

“What’s the good news?” you call back gently as you watch him in his element, a smile on his face as he stirs. He hasn’t said it, but you were hit in the face by the smell of chicken noodle soup, so it’s obvious that’s it.

“Hm?” he calls back, finally looking at you.

“you said good news and bad news,” you reason, turning the cup over in your hands, “so what’s the good news?”

he snorts, “good news?” his eyes travel to the ceiling, “Hm. good news i guess is your pick of two: my amazing homemade pumpkin seeds we make or my amazing homemade soup.”

you laugh, “i think my favorite thing about you is how modest you are.” you tease back gently.

“I’ve been told before.” he teases back again, “Oh! here.” he puts the spoon on top of a box of pasta to the side, pads over to you and grabs a shirt off the chair.

“I uh-so you don’t get your shirt fucked up when we’re carvin’.” and he seems nervous, as he gently passes it over, some over sized light blue dress shirt, “use it as a smock, or whatever. we take carving seriously here.”

and to hide his pink face, he beelines for the stove, occupies himself with it as you turn the shirt over in your hands.

it’s nice of him, very nice. the shirt you’re wearing is a program shirt from a library program you run, definitely not anything fancy, or anything s good wash wouldn’t get out-but it’s such a nice thought you unbutton it and slowly put your arms into it-

it smells like him.

minty, mostly. you’ve only had the smell of him linger briefly and not in a creepy way-like when you babysit Amelie late when he has a late project due, or he picks her up from a library program-he always pulls you in for this hug after, like you’re his long lost best friend or something, anything more-

Amelie comes running down the stairs, making hasan flinch, “Ames, if i have to take you to the hospital we won’t have time to carve pumpkins!” he reminds her gently.

she comes into the kitchen, obviously wearing one of his shirts, too big on her, is down to her knees, and long pajama bottoms, but has a large smile on her face.

“Nu uh, Hasan!” she teases, “we won’t cause i��m careful!”

she’s shaking her head so hair hits either side of her face.

“mhm.” he rolls his eyes he opens a drawer in the kitchen, “c’mere, you’re a mess. you’re gonna get hair all over my kitchen table.” but he says it with fondness in his voice, he disappears, kneeling on the floor and you can see his hands carefully work through her hair, put little rubber bands around her hair.

and she appears a second later, messy piggy tails now.

“Go sit down. Apple cider?” he asks, nudging her towards the table, where she flops down next to you.

a gasp. “Mhm!” her eyes narrow, “is it homemade?”

he rolls his eyes, “of course it’s homemade! what kind of monster do you think i am?”

and you look up at him and he winks at you as he takes a cup down and pours the juice into there.

“hopefully not a monster like the ones under beds!” Amelie gasps, eyes wide as she moves her hands around, now talking to you. “Hasan always checks for mon’sers under the bed before bedtime but he says he never finds any.”

Hasan tickles her side as he hands over the cup and she leans into it, giggling, as he speaks; “that’s right. cause monsters know not to mess with me.”

You bite your lip at how cute the two of them interacting is, but Amelie is standing on the chair, Hasan's hand hovering on her lower back, as she talks wildly with her hands about monsters.

“c’mon, Ames. Wanna help me carry pumpkins in?” she nods furiously, hops off the chair, and the two of you follow hasan to the front door, as he opens it, gently pushes to the front and hands Amelie her pumpkin first, it’s tiny and small, puts it in her hands:

“you got it, Ames?” he says gently, “careful.” he says as she slowly teeters to the kitchen table with the small pumpkin.

“i can carry yours.” you laugh, feeling like it’s the least you could do.

he snorts, “please. what kind of gentleman would i be?” and he turns around, two pumpkins under his arms, clearly struggling, “besides,you got your own to take care of.”

you stare wide eyed at him, because that’s so nice and not expected, thought you were coming over to watch and like, maybe help Amelie carve, not make your own.

you shut the front door and jog to his side, where Amelie is putting down old newspaper to cover the dining room table, “hasan,” you say gently, “you didn’t have to buy me one. lemme pay you back.”

he laughs. a hard laugh.

“I’m literally never going to take your fuckin’ money. besides, your practically part of the family, you got to at least participate in the competition, isn’t that right, Ames?” he says as he sets your pumpkin under newspaper, gently plays with Amelie’s hair.

“Mhm!” she agrees with whatever her big brother says.

“that’s nice of you,” you say gently, as hasan pulls your chair out again and has you sit down again, picks Amelie up by her armpits and sets her on the chair next to you. “i’m just-gonna feel so bad when i kick your butt in the competition.”

Amelie gasps and giggles, “Hasan always use to win against Mama.”

he puffs his chest out, wearing it with pride. “That’s right-“

“‘cept that one year-“

“ah!” Hasan says, face pink again as he gently has his hand over her mouth, “we don’t talk about that, remember, sunshine?”

she giggles and licks his hand so he pulls it away, fake horror, before he leans in and kisses her forehead.

“i’ll get the tools, gimme a second.”

and he pads to the stove, another stir of the soup, before going to a cabinet and pulling out a small orange nylon bag of tools.

“Alright, lemme get Ames set up real quick.” he’s at her side, picks her up by under her armpits and steals her seat, sets her on top of his lap as he passes her a permanent marker.

her tongue hangs out of the side of her mouth as she carefully draws a circle around the stem, caps it and hands it back.

“Good?” Hasan asks, picks up the kitchen knife carefully, waits until she nods for confirmation, and begins sawing around the stem in a circle, her hand on top of his as he slowly, carefully cuts the top off.

her hand immediately goes into the top, starts pulling the insides out, a fit of laughter.

hasan watches her fondly, hands over a permanent marker to you.

“you got this?” he teases gently and you roll your eyes in mock anger.

he watches you carefully the entire time, a smile on his face, as you draw the circle yourself, watches with a careful eye as you take the top off, but the seeds to the side.

he sets up across from you, eyes narrowed as he does the same, getting up occasionally to help Amelie with a seed she can’t reach or anything small like that-

“Go draw a face” hasan says as he passes her the marker again, grabs a bowl and carefully picks it apart to throw the seeds in.

Amelie is busy, humming to herself as she draw a face, that hasan absentmindedly comes to your side, grabs the seeds. “need help?” you ask gently, and he almost looks surprised for s second, as you’re moving without waiting for an answer, putting the seeds in.

“i gotta watch,” you tease gently, “learn the secret behind the homemade pumpkin seeds.”

he snorts, ducks his head as he pads to the sink, you in toe, and carefully wash them off, hands it back to you as you pat them dry and spread them on a cooking sheet.

“You gotta tell me the secret.” you tease again gently, “is it salt? or hm?” your eyes travel to the ceiling, where little paper bats, obviously homemade, hang up.

“the secret,” hasan indulges, voice low but wears a smirk, “is lots of cinnamon.”

you snap your fingers, “figures. i’ll be the judge of how amazing they are.” you tease.

“hasan makes the best pumpkin seeds,” Amelie calls, her face still on the pumpkin, “everyone knows that.”

he smiles, nudges you so you know he’s kidding, “That’s right, Ames. thank you, sunshine.”

you bite your lip to stop yourself from teasing him about this soft side, the nicknames, that only comes out when he’s talking to Amelie (or when he’s very excited) because you’ve mentioned it before and he pulls a face, eyebrows squished together, insists “i don’t have a soft side! I'm mean, even!”

“you’ll see.” he teases again, nudging you, “you’ll see you’ll see.” he hums.

hasan shoves the baking sheet into the oven once it beeps that it’s preheated, and pads back to the chair, Amelie in his lap as he carefully cuts out the face she made.

“Spooky, Ames.” he teases gently, “Spoooooky this year.” he holds out the ‘o’

“to keep the ghouls and ghosts away, hasan!” she insists, “like that story you read!”

He looks up and you’re looking at him confused and his face flushes pink, “just-just some silly bedtime story I read her is all.” he insists, and immediately tries to change the subject.

“Think you can handle this?” hasan teases you, hands you a marker again.

you roll your eyes, “i think i got it. i think you’re just scared, hm?”

he snorts, “Oh, you wish-“

“Oh ye of little faith,” you sigh, a smile on your lips, “You’ll see.”

hasan finishes first, the eyes are fucked up and crooked, but the mouth is good, scary even- promptly sets it next to Ames and pulls her onto his lap as he squishes his face against hers and tickles her, points out the little things he likes about hers (“the spooky eyes, sunshine’. ooh!”)

you finish and it’s well-not great, accidentally cut half an eye off, and the mouth is crooked, but hasan oohs and awes at it until your face is flushed pink, picks yours and his up and grabs a lighter off the table, shoves it into his pocket and leads you outside.

night has fallen in small town suburbia, the moon high in the sky, the street lights on and crickets chirp. Amelie sets her on the top step, takes the top off and accepts the tea light candle from hasan gently sets it in, and he does the same for yours and his, crouches and sets the wick, Amelie’s job to put the tops on back carefully.

hasan knocks into your hand accidentally as the three of you step backwards and ooh and awe over the spooky pumpkins, Amelie giggling wildly and running around about them.

hasan calls for dinner, Amelie racing in and he knocks shoulders with you, “for the record, i think you won.”

and your face flushes pink the entire time you stand in line behind Amelie, a small plastic bowl in your hand as hasan gently serves you the soup he made, follow him to the table and you eat quietly next to him (“delicious, hasan. really.” “I told you.” he teases back with a smirk and a wink)

the oven beeps and you help clean up the table as Amelie gets pajamas on, hasan serves a small bowl of pumpkin seeds and you three pad into the front room, where he puts on a charlie brown halloween, Amelie on his lap, half falling asleep.

it’s late, when it’s time to leave, and you’re trying to hand back the shirt (“keep it,” hasan laughs, “looks better on you, anyways.”) putting the coat he insists you wear, even though your house is literally in eyesight.

his coat is too big on you but he wraps Amelie up in a blanket on his hip, insists he walks you home, his hand keeps knocking into yours, clumsy the whole time.

you bother linger on your porch, until Amelie stirs, whimpers, a nightmare on the horizon as he says goodnight, promises to text you soon.

the entire time walking back all he can hear is the sing songy voice in the back of his head, yelling at him for being an idiot; should’ve kissed them. should’ve kissed them. should’ve kissed them. should’ve-

#flash back to my fav 🥹

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