I write fanfics.

Coffee & Communism: Chapters 8&9 CLICK HERE

"His hand lingered on your throat, thumb tracing over your racing pulse like he was testing just how close he could push you to the edge before he even kissed you. There was no real pressure, just the weight of his palm against your skin, steady and firm. The warmth of it made your breath hitch. He noticed, of course he noticed, because his eyes—dark and razor-sharp even in the dim light—tracked every twitch in your expression.

Characters: Hasan Piker//you **

Just something fun I came up with a few days ago, finally getting pen to paper on it. ENJOY

Now live on AoC here!

You’d watched him stream through power outages, through breakups, through the absolute dregs of modern politics. Hasan was background noise when you were folding laundry, entertainment when you were meal-prepping, emotional support when your landlord raised rent again.

He was a habit. A parasocial one, sure—but so is caffeine.

You rarely typed in chat. That space was its own chaotic biome—inside jokes, mods bickering, subscriber spam, emotes flying by like migrating birds. You watched. You lurked. Sometimes you smiled quietly to yourself when someone made a good joke. Sometimes you rolled your eyes when chat got weird about a guest’s outfit.

But you stayed silent. Safe.

Until tonight.

Maybe it was the wine. Maybe it was the way his hair looked under that stupid LED backlight, pulled back messily, those loose strands catching blue around the temples like the moonlight was flirting with him. Maybe it was the way his hoodie dipped just low enough to reveal that chain on his collarbone—something about the soft cotton and gleaming metal that made you think about biting things.

Whatever the reason, you typed.

imagine sitting on your face during the trump debate stream. you’d never come back up for air.

You hit Enter before you could second-guess it.

The line scrolled by with a dozen others. You figured it’d disappear instantly. Forgotten.

Then he stopped mid-sentence.

His eyes flicked to chat.

Brows pulled together.

“Bro,” he muttered. “What the fuck—hold on...”

You froze.

No, no, no—

His eyes scanned the screen, then narrowed.

“Who the fuck is—‘OohLaLatte69’?” he read out loud. He pronounced it slowly, like he couldn’t decide if he was amused or deeply offended.

You wanted to dissolve into the floor.

Hasan leaned toward the monitor. “‘Imagine sitting on your face during the Trump debate stream. You’d never come back up for air.’ ARE YOU GOOD?”

The chat exploded.

💀💀💀

CAUGHT LIVE OMG

she horny on main fr

ban her lmfao

MODS

“I—I—bro. No. You’re getting muted. That’s a timeout,” Hasan said, clicking furiously. “You can’t just drop that in the middle of a take about fracking!”

Muted. Ten minutes. The little gray icon appeared beside your name.

The worst part?

You saw the exact moment he tried to hold back a laugh. His mouth twitched. His eyes crinkled. He ran a hand over his face and muttered something about degenerates and sex pests and needing a palate cleanser.

And then he moved on.

Just like that.

But you couldn’t.

You stared at the screen. Heart hammering like you’d just confessed a crime.

Muted. Silenced.

You didn’t even really regret it.

You regretted getting caught.

You didn’t tell your best friend.

She was a mod now. Deep in the trenches. She’d recognize your chat name instantly. She’d laugh herself breathless, then post a screenshot to the Discord. You’d never live it down.

So you stayed quiet.

You kept lurking.

After the timeout ended, you didn’t type anything for a week. Then a month. You changed your profile picture. Subscribed with Prime, but anonymously. You watched him play horror games with the lights off. Watched him rage at Valorant. Watched him argue with chat about rent control and milk pricing and how often men should wash their towels.

But you didn’t speak again.

You couldn’t risk it.

Especially now.

Because that same voice that mocked you for being horny on main?

That same face you watched from behind your laptop, curled up in bed with a spoonful of peanut butter and a weighted blanket?

It walked into your café.

Real. 3D. Larger than life.

And you—God help you—you looked him straight in the eye and said:

“Name for the order?”

Characters: Hasan Piker//Original Character **I was craving this type of plot half-asleep last night, so i decided to create this! Chapters 2-23 now live on AoC here!

Saturday. A bruised June heat crawled over Los Angeles like it wanted a fight. The sky was thick with smog and sun glare, helicopter blades thrumming overhead like war drums. Downtown’s concrete arteries pulsed with bodies, signs raised, voices hoarse, sweat soaking cotton and slogans. The protest was the kind of sprawling, chaotic beast only LA could birth: part righteous fury, part street fair, part Instagram opportunity.

Chloe Ramirez had her sunglasses pushed up into her wild curls and a pen tucked behind one ear, though she'd long since replaced her Moleskine with the voice notes app. Her phone was out now, recording a scuffle breaking out near the Trader Joe’s lot, but she didn’t flinch. She’d seen worse. She grew up two neighborhoods over from where the cops liked to throw tear gas like rice at a wedding.

She was there covering the protest for the LA Times, of course. Technically. She preferred to think of it as an expose-in-the-making. She had a working thesis and everything.

“Performative Leftism and the Monetization of Rage: How Clout Turned Protest Into Content.”

And speak of the devil.

Hasan Piker.

Six-foot-something of socialist ragebait in designer sunglasses and a tank top that looked specifically engineered to highlight biceps sculpted by moral superiority and Turkish genetics. He was standing on the makeshift steps of a flipped milk crate, loud, proud, and looking like he’d just stepped out of a leftist thirst trap.

"...because the working class is not a monolith, and if you’re not listening to Black trans organizers, then shut the fuck up and sit the fuck down!”

The crowd cheered.

Chloe did not.

She tilted her phone just enough to get a clean angle on him, deadpan expression intact. The neon-orange press badge around her neck caught the sun like a bullseye.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” she muttered under her breath, tapping a note into her phone. Hasan Piker spotted LARPing as Che Guevara again. Thoughts pending.

He caught her eye mid-rant.

For a half-second, their eyes locked. Hers narrowed, his unreadable behind Ray-Bans that probably cost more than her rent. His mouth hesitated just long enough to be noticeable, then curled into a smirk.

Oh hell no.

Chloe cut through the crowd like a dagger, shoving past a guy vaping under a “No Justice No Peace” flag and stepping right up to the edge of his little soapbox.

“Hey Twitch boy,” she called, voice sharp over the chanting and drums. “You livestreaming this one too? Or is this just content farming for your next YouTube highlight reel?”

Gasps rippled. Someone giggled. A kid with a DSLR muttered “yo.”

Hasan arched a brow, not missing a beat. “Good to see the LA Times is finally doing boots-on-the-ground reporting instead of rewriting LAPD press releases.”

Touché. But Chloe was locked in now, journalistic bloodlust rising.

“Oh, you mean like you rewriting Marx in between posing shirtless for thirst tweets?”

The crowd oohed like this was a rap battle.

He stepped off the crate with a kind of lazy swagger that had no business looking that confident in ninety-five-degree weather. “You follow me for the shirtless pics?”

“I cover disinformation for a living. You’re in my beat.”

A full-on grin split across his face then. White teeth, unbothered, cocky.

“Well then, Chloe-from-the-Times,” he said, and the way he said her name made her spine stiffen with a jolt of something infuriatingly electric. “Guess we’ll be seeing a lot of each other.”

“Oh I hope not,” she said, lying badly.

But already, her brain was rifling through the implications. Proximity meant access. Access meant deeper reporting. And if Hasan Piker wanted to play poster boy for the online left, she was damn well going to hold him to it.

Meanwhile, Hasan was thinking... well, she didn’t know what he was thinking. But he didn’t walk away.

Neither did she.

The sun baked on. The city roared. And two people who hated everything the other stood for stood close enough to feel each other’s heat.

Somewhere, someone handed Chloe a cold LaCroix. She took a sip without breaking eye contact.

War was declared.

Characters: Hasan Piker//VanillaMace **After watching Fear& podcast, I HAD to create this fanfic, mostly for myself. But also for the masses <3 Chapters 2-16 now live on AoC here! ____

Hasan adjusted his shirt and flicked his phone screen on for no reason. Again.

He wasn’t nervous.

Okay — maybe a little.

He’d already seen the clip a dozen times — QT's stream, the teasing, the weirdly endearing wave from Vanillamace when she realized he was watching. She’d looked straight into the camera and gone, “Hi, Hasan,” in this overly stiff, mock-awkward voice. Like she was roleplaying a fangirl, but the smirk gave her away.

He’d chuckled then — and again now.

The studio door creaked open. Hasan straightened up too fast and cleared his throat, trying to look casual.

Hasan sat up straighter, almost too fast, clearing his throat. He stood, polite instinct overriding the sudden thump in his chest.

Vanillamace walked in like she was coming home from a Pop Mart haul — her purse proudly displaying several various plushes. Her massive pink hoodie slipping off one shoulder, short curls a little flattened from whatever headset or chaos had touched her that morning. She looked effortlessly chaotic, in a way that made it impossible to predict what she’d say next.

“Morning!” she chirped, dropping her stuff by the guest chair and bouncing a little on her heels before sitting down. Hasan stood a beat too long before sitting back down, hoping it didn’t look weird. It probably did.

“Hope it’s okay that I brought friends,” Vanillamace added, gesturing to the plushes attached to her purse. “They get separation anxiety.” She laughed as she playfully stuck her tongue out, tucking her imaginary hair behind her ear.

QT strolled in behind her, sunglasses still on despite the indoor lighting, and snorted. “God, you’re both insufferable already.”

Hasan raised an eyebrow. “Both?”

QT didn’t answer, just took her seat and sipped a coffee like she hadn’t said anything at all.

Vanillamace swung her legs under the table, adjusting her mic like she actually knew how the setup worked. She was chill. Comfortable. Not in a cocky way — just… settled. She was making small talk with QT like she was an old friend and greeted Marg with the exact same bubbly cadence she used on her streams.

Hasan watched her out of the corner of his eye. Was she always like this in real life? Or was this still the “on” version of her?

It was hard to tell. She wasn’t doing too much. Wasn’t trying to be funny. But everything she said had that effortless, off-kilter rhythm — like she lived in the in-between spaces of conversations. Every time she chimed in, it felt like someone had cracked open a window and let the breeze in.

He caught himself nodding too much when she spoke. He was being too agreeable. That’s what QT was going to say later — he could already hear her calling him out on it.

Normally, he’d lean back. Play with his phone. Look barely interested until he absolutely had to engage.

Today, he was alert. Aware of his body. Of his hands — still picking at his nail.

Of whether or not she noticed.

Will Neff slipped in next, all bombast and shoulder checks, offering Vanillamace a quick “Yo!” and an exaggerated finger-gun like they were old friends.

“New blood in the chair, huh?” he grinned, flopping into his seat.

“Hi,” Vanillamace smiled. “I brought emotional support frogs.”

“Respect,” Will nodded solemnly. “That’s more than Hasan brought. All he does is bleed for socialism and forget to moisturize.”

Hasan flipped him off without looking.

Then Austin slid in, more chill than usual due to coming off an illness. “I knew it was gonna be a good day when I woke up with my shirt still on,” he announced. “Vanillamace! I've been seeing you all over my TikTok.”

“Sorry about that,” she grinned. “Hope it wasn’t a thirst trap.”

“Oh no, it absolutely was.”

QT rolled her eyes, pulling her headset over her ears. “Jesus Christ. Marg, you rolling?”

From behind the cameras, Marg gave a muffled “We’re good!”

Hasan adjusted his mic, breathing a little slower now. He could feel his shoulders relaxing — just a bit — as the podcast settled into its rhythm. Vanillamace was chiming in, quick and witty when prompted, but never trying to hijack the conversation. She laughed at Will’s jokes, co-signed QT’s rants, even agreed with Austin's interpretation of strip club etiquette.

And when Hasan gave her a (not) Sonny Angel, she seemed so genuinely happy and thankful to have it.

And it landed harder than he expected.

Does she even realize how cool she is? Or how weird I’m being right now?

He was used to being casual. Controlled. Detached, even. But here he was, hands raw from fidgeting, brain buffering every time she smiled at someone else.

He caught Will watching him. Then smirking.

Then whispering something into his ear.

“You’re being weird.”

Hasan blinked hard and shook his head. Will just raised one eyebrow, and returned to the group conversation.

__

Then, the outro music played.

Mics off. Headsets off. Chairs scraped back from the table.

Hasan stood, stretching his arms overhead, cracking his neck like he hadn’t been clenched the whole time. He turned to say something to QT, but she was already halfway out the door with Will, arguing about brunch plans.

Austin gave Vanillamace a hug and promised to send her plane videos on Instagram. “You’re so real for the Sonny Angels, by the way,” he said, already pulling his phone out. “I literally bought a Hello Kitty blind box yesterday. It’s a lifestyle.”

“Let me know if you get the ballerina one,” she beamed.

And then it was quiet.

Hasan turned just as she was gathering her things, one plush slipping from her purse. He reached down, grabbing it before it hit the floor — a tiny mushroom-headed guy with a star on his belly.

He handed it over without a word, their fingers brushing for a second too long.

“Thanks,” she said softly, suddenly a little less manic, a little more real.

“No problem,” he replied, stuffing his hands in his pockets before they could do anything stupid. “You, uh… good time?”

She looked up at him, tilting her head just slightly. “Yeah. You’re less intimidating in person.”

He laughed under his breath. “That’s a lie.”

“It is,” she grinned. “But I’m being nice.”

And just like that, she hoisted her bag up and headed for the door, plush swinging gently from her keychain.

Hasan stood there a second longer than necessary, staring after her. Then he exhaled through his nose and muttered, mostly to himself—

“Yeah. I’m fucked."