mama scout PUHLEASE more reader x luigi x hasan. it was so good. AND THE PREGNANCY ONE. OMFG. EEKKK
i was thinking about it and i feel like a trip to sicily or turkey with both luigi and hasan would be so...yeah... staying in the same room...yep.
Five to Nine — { Reader x Luigi x Hasan }
Wc: 5,187
Notes: lapdog Luigi, Threesome, come eating, sleepy-sex, ITALY!, lowkey breeding kink, Fantasize by Ari vibes, In love as fuck Hasan, lowkey self-sabotaging reader, fluff, smut, and just a bit of angst, reassuringbf!Hasan, reassuringbf!Luigi
Luigi won the coin toss, maintaining his undefeated status as the trip's first destination picker, while Hasan sprawls dramatically across the living room couch, listing off Turkish landmarks between heavy sighs.
The rematch of rock paper scissors only cemented Luigi's victory, though Hasan swears Luigi's "paper" moved suspiciously after his "rock" was already thrown.
"Just take the L," Luigi mumbles around a forkful of takeout, watching Hasan who has effectively gone on strike from his dinner, his container sitting untouched on the coffee table. "The weather in Sicily is perfect right now, and my Nona is already planning all the dishes she's gonna force-feed you."
"But it's literally the best time to visit Istanbul," Hasan counters, sitting up with renewed energy. "The tulips are blooming everywhere, and my cousin knows this place in Kadıköy that makes künefe that would change your life. We could be walking through the Grand Bazaar next week instead of—"
"Instead of eating the best pasta in the world and swimming in the Mediterranean?" Luigi interjects, his brows furrowed, his tone one of scold.
They never come to an agreement.
But whether Hasan wants to admit it or not, Sicily is seducing him day by day.
You catch him in these unguarded moments; bare-chested in the morning sun, sitting cross-legged in the guest house's garden with bedhead and yesterday's shorts.
His ritual begins with espresso, served in those impossibly small cups that somehow contain multitudes, looking impossibly small in his hand.
He's developed a habit that makes Luigi roll his eyes — dropping brown sugar cubes into the dark liquid and purposefully not stirring, just so he can crunch on the half-dissolved crystals between sips.
His content sighs give away what his words won't.
The guest house is a short bike ride from the main Mangione villa, a journey marked by olive trees and stone walls wearing centuries of sun.
It's comfortably strange to see Luigi here, to reconcile this version with the one who stress-orders smoothies on DoorDash and goes through a pre-stream checklist eight times (because it’s an even number) before going live back home.
Here, something ancient in his blood seems to wake up.
You've been watching the transformation since the plane landed; the American tension melting from his shoulders, his gestures becoming more expansive, more Italian. His cheeks carry a permanent flush that has nothing to do with the Sicilian sun — it's as if the very soil beneath his feet is feeding something in him that America never could.
And then there's the language — flowing from Luigi's lips like water finding its old path down a mountainside.
He claims relearning it is like muscle memory, the same way his body remembers how to navigate the dirt paths of the countryside on the rusted bikes he’d dragged out of the shed for the three of you, but you and Hasan exchange knowing looks every time he slides into it, the way his voice drops an octave, how his consonants soften and vowels stretch.
It's impossible not to stare.
You catch Hasan watching him during heated debates with his uncles about soccer teams, clearly not understanding a word but mesmerized by the passionate gestures, the rapid-fire exchanges that end in backslapping laughter.
"What did she say?" Hasan asks for the tenth time that morning, after Luigi's aunt corners him in the kitchen with excited Italian and insistent hand gestures.
Luigi's translation comes with a smirk, "She says your mustache makes you look like her first husband, and that's a very good thing." Hasan preens a little at this, and you notice how he's started leaning into conversations with the family even without understanding.
Another day dissolves into the kind of sunset that feels like a cliché in how perfect it is — all burnt orange and deep purple bleeding into the Mediterranean.
The three of you are retrieving your bikes from where you'd abandoned them that morning by the stone wall near the beach, sand still clinging to your calves, salt crystallizing in your hair.
Thankfully, the evening air has cooled just enough to make the ride back to the guest house seem inviting rather than exhausting.
"I think you bent my wheel," Luigi announces, crouching beside his childhood bike. It's a relic from his teenage years, a faded Bianchi celeste that's now more memory than color. He runs his fingers along the rim where there's a subtle but definite wobble.
Hasan, all six-foot-three of him, had been folded onto the too-small frame earlier that morning, knees nearly hitting the handlebars with each pedal stroke.
"Listen, some of us weren't built to be Italian-sized," Hasan defends, but there's affection in his mock offense. He's still wearing Luigi's cousin's too-small swim shorts, having forgotten to pack his own, the dark green fabric stretched tight across his thighs. "Maybe if your family wasn't composed entirely of pocket-sized people-“
You watch them bicker as the sky deepens to indigo, Hasan attempting to mount the bike without making the wobble worse while Luigi provides running commentary on his technique.
The chain squeaks in protest as Hasan starts pedaling, but his laughter echoes off the old stone walls as he leads the way back, the bike's crooked trajectory somehow making perfect sense for the three of you.
𓏵
That evening, you’re lying awake between them, watching shadows from the gauzy curtains dance across the ceiling while the ancient fan spins lazily overhead, doing little more than stirring the warm air.
Hasan's arm is heavy across your waist, his breath steady against your neck, while Luigi has managed to curl himself into an impossibly small ball against your other side, one hand loosely gripping your t-shirt.
Your thoughts drift like the curtains in the breeze, caught between the surreal and the mundane.
There's something about being here, in this old house with its creaking floors and walls that hold a century of summers, that makes everything feel simultaneously more real and more dreamlike.
You think about how different they both are here — Hasan, who usually fills every space with opinions and energy, finding quiet contentment in morning gardens and evening wines.
And Luigi, whose American life is all precision and planning, melting back into a version of himself that moves to a slower, sweeter rhythm.
You wonder if they feel it, too — this sense that you're living in a pocket of time that operates by different rules.
Back home, your relationship raises eyebrows, requires explanations on and off the internet, comes with labels and categories that never quite fit; but here, in this drowsy Sicilian night, it feels as natural as the way the three of you arrange yourselves in sleep.
Hasan's protective sprawl, Luigi's tender curl, you in the middle bridging the contrast.
You think about how tomorrow Luigi's Nonna will pretend not to notice the three of you sharing one room, and how she'll still set three plates at breakfast, each with its own perfectly folded linen.
Lying there for another ten minutes only seems to sharpen your awareness, each passing moment drawing you further from sleep's edge.
The sheets feel too warm, then too cool, and Luigi's steady breathing only emphasizes your own restlessness.
Finally, you give in to the inevitable, carefully reaching for your phone on the nightstand.
The screen dims to its lowest setting — barely a ghost of light in the darkness — as you roll onto your stomach, tucking a pillow under your chin.
You're mindlessly swiping through your FYP when a familiar laugh catches you off guard — your own.
Before you can stop yourself, you're clicking through to the profile, then another, then another, falling down the all too familiar rabbit hole of fan-made compilations. Dozens and dozens of little moments you lived through, now spliced and set to music.
You losing it at Hasan mid-political rant on stream, Luigi’s steady hands over yours as he teaches you his Nonna’s pasta recipe for a YouTube video, and the absolute clusterfuck of the three of you trying to coordinate in Overcooked while chat loses their minds.
The clips are sweet, honestly, in how they catch these little pieces of your life together — the real stuff, the moments where your laugh isn't performative and your eyes are bright with genuine joy.
"the way hasan looks at her when she's not looking 🥺" one comment reads, with thousands of likes.
Another video shows Luigi kissing your shoulder during a stream while you're focused on chat, Hasan pretending to gag in the background before breaking into that signature laugh shortly after.
The caption reads "name a more wholesome trio i'll wait"
"lu found his player 2 AND 3 we love to see it"
But your thumb pauses mid-scroll, that warm feeling in your chest cooling as your eyes drift to recent comments, dark and tempting.
“has anyone else seen the subreddit? they're tearing her apart over there"
Your heart sinks.
You know you shouldn't look.
But your fingers are already typing "r/HasanAndLuigi" into the search bar.
The newest thread catches your eye immediately.
"Does anyone else think she's ruining their dynamic??"
Your thumb hovers for a moment before clicking.
"The streams had this amazing chemistry and now it's all weird and forced."
"She's clearly manipulating both of them. Classic pick-me behavior."
"Notice how she always has to be the center of attention? Always inserting herself into their bits?"
You scroll further, each comment feeling like a twist of a knife already buried deep into your gut.
"I know for a fact that Lu deserves better. He seems so different now, less genuine. Idk bout Hasan anymore fr”
"Anyone else notice how Hasan keeps looking at her during streams? Like checking for her reaction? It's cringe."
Your vision blurs as you keep reading, the room around you becoming a void — just you, and these people hiding behind a screen.
"She's not even gaming material. Just sits there trying to be cute while they literally carry her lmao."
You know you should stop reading, but you can't help it, each comment feeding the doubts you try so hard to silence — it angers you, of course it does, and there’s a guilt in it, too.
Why ruin a moment of your vacation with this?
Hasan shifts beside you, his arm tightening slightly around your waist. You quickly lock your phone, but not before seeing one last comment.
“Wonder how long before she ruins everything yall let’s make bets😭”
The words echo in your head as you lie there in the dark, trying to steady your breathing, but it’s hardly any use.
You'd think after two years of being dissected under the internet's microscope, you'd have developed thicker skin.
Every gesture analyzed, every laugh timestamped and discussed, your whole existence parsed into clips and quotes and theories. Usually, you're better at maintaining the boundary — that careful distance between you and the version of you that exists in their minds.
But tonight, something's different.
And the worst part is, you know better.
Hasan's given you the speech a hundred times — about parasocial relationships, about the toxicity of parasitic stan culture. Luigi's shown you his own scars from similar rabbit holes. And yet here you are, 3 AM, letting strangers' words burrow under your skin.
You slip out from between the boys with practiced ease — time has taught you how to navigate this particular dance. Hasan's arm falls slack against the sheets, and Luigi only makes a soft sound of protest before settling back into sleep, the stone floor cool under your bare feet as you pad to the balcony.
The old wicker chair creaks as you curl into it, knees drawn to your chest, and below, the village sleeps, only the occasional light flickering in distant windows.
The moon hangs low and heavy over the Mediterranean, casting everything in silver.
It's peaceful here, far from the digital go-go-go of everything back home, but your mind keeps echoing with words from strangers who think they know you.
And you can't even blame them entirely.
You're the one who keeps looking, keeps reading, keeps seeking validation from people who only know a fraction of your life. The girl they see in clips and streams isn't really you — she's a character they've created, part truth and part projection.
And sometimes, on nights like this, the veil between those versions of yourself feels dangerously thin.
Not much time passes before Hasan materializes like a guardian spirit summoned by the weight of your thoughts, silent and steady in the way he always seems to be when your mind grows too loud, and though you don't look at him, you feel the warm press of his lips against your tear-stained cheeks while his hand finds yours in the darkness, thumb brushing over your knuckles with that absent tenderness that means he's deep in thought but still completely attuned to you.
The silence stretches between you despite the heaviness of it, while a light breeze carries the sweet-sharp scent of lemon trees from the garden below, mingling with the traces of him that always remind you of late-night streams and sleepy morning kisses, and you can feel his eyes studying your profile with that infinite patience that's become one of your remaining safeties.
As he settles into the chair beside you his grip on your hand remains steady, drawing it into his lap where his other hand begins mapping the delicate architecture of your wrist and the soft terrain of your inner arm, each touch an anchor line pulling you back from the swirling eddy of anonymous voices and digital dissection.
When another tear escapes his lips find it immediately, kissing it away with such gentle reverence that your breath catches in your throat because this — these small, sacred moments that exist beyond the reach of clips and edits and analysis — this belongs to you alone.
His forehead comes to rest against your temple while his breath warms your ear, and in this space between heartbeats he simply waits, holding you steady until you're ready to find your voice again.
"Sometimes I forget," you whisper into the night air, your voice barely louder than the distant whisper of waves, "that there are thousands of versions of me out there now — versions I didn't make, versions I can't control," and you feel him shift closer as your fingers tighten around his, grounding yourself in his warmth while you search for the right words to explain this peculiar kind of haunting.
"I'll be doing something completely normal, like laughing at Lu’s terrible puns or helping you fold laundry, and then I'll remember that someone somewhere is probably analyzing that moment, breaking it down frame by frame, trying to find hidden meanings in the way I look at you both," and your voice catches as you continue, "and suddenly I'm not sure if I'm being genuine anymore or if I'm performing for an audience that isn't even there."
The confession hangs in the air between you, heavy with the weight of two years' worth of archived moments and dissected smiles, until you finally turn to meet his eyes in the moonlight, "I love what we have — me and- and you and Lu — I love it so much it terrifies me sometimes, but I hate that I have to share it with people who think they know us better than we know ourselves," and your voice drops even lower as you admit the fear that's been gnawing at your heart, "I'm scared that one day I'll lose track of which version of me is real."
His jaw tightens for a moment before he brings your joined hands to his lips, brushing a sleepy kiss against your palm.
"Lemme tell you something,” His voice is still rough with sleep, warm against your skin. "We see the real you. The you who can't sit still during horror movies but insists on watching them anyway. Who somehow got my boomer dad addicted to your stupid matching game on his phone." You can feel his drowsy smile against your wrist as he continues, softer now. "Who shows up to every protest even though crowds make you anxious. Who just — knows exactly when to push us and when to let us be stupid and stubborn.“
He cups your face with both hands, thumbs brushing away tears as his eyes hold yours in the darkness, heavy-lidded but certain, "Let them have their theories and their dumb fucking edits. The real you — that’s ours. That’s yours." his voice drops to barely more than a whisper as he presses his forehead against your own, "and no amount of online brain rot can touch what we have.”
There’s another moment of silence, but within it, you can sense Luigi behind you. Before you can turn away from Hasan, a sleepy grumble cuts through the quiet. "Can you two please come back to b-“ His voice catches as he notices your tears, shifting instantly from annoyed to concerned. "Hey, what happened?"
"Doomscrolling," Hasan explains quietly, reaching for Luigi who interlaces their fingers without hesitation, his other hand finding the nape of your neck, his thumb tracing soothing circles against your skin; and suddenly you're all connected — a closed circuit of warmth and contact in the dim light. "Reddit again.”
Luigi makes a soft, frustrated sound, and you can practically feel him biting back the "I told you so" that's written all over his face. But he just tightens his grip slightly where his thumb is tracing circles against your skin, and you're grateful he chooses to pull you closer instead of lecture.
The birds are just starting to wake in the lemon trees as Hasan and Luigi hold you between them, all soft touches and careful attention. Hasan's lips find your temple while Luigi's nose traces along your jaw, their hands steady and sure against your skin.
"Come back to bed, please," Luigi requests softly with those perfect manners of his, even while his eyes promise something decidedly improper as they flick between you and Hasan. "Think we can give you something better to think about.”
You let them guide you back to bed, Hasan's fingers threaded through yours while Luigi's hand stays steady at the small of your back.
There's something almost reverent in how they settle you between them, the familiar dance of bodies finding their places. The birdsong from the lemon trees filters through the window, a gentle soundtrack to the way Hasan's lips trace your shoulder, how Luigi's fingers card through your hair with careful purpose.
You’ll remember this forever.
"Just be here," Luigi murmurs against your temple, and Hasan hums in agreement, his hand sliding warm and sure across your hip. “Focus on this.”
Their touches are deliberately slow, patient but intent in a way that makes your breath catch, that pushes thoughts of comments and Reddit far from your mind.
The earlier hurt starts to fade under their attention, replaced by the heat of skin on skin and the steady reminder of exactly where you belong, and always have.
You're cocooned in their warmth, their bodies pressed close in a way that should feel overwhelming but never has — perhaps because being overwhelmed by them has always felt like being home.
“You know how much we care about you," Hasan murmurs, punctuating each word with soft kisses beneath your ear. His nose nuzzles against the sensitive skin there, drawing out a quiet laugh that makes both of them smile. "How much we love you."
The tenderness in his voice makes something tighten in your chest.
Your shoulders twitch slightly from the ticklish brush of his breath, but you lean into the sensation anyway. "I do," you whisper back, the words carrying the weight of a vow. Your voice catches, steadies. "I do."
"Do you?" Luigi breathes against your skin, teeth grazing your earlobe in a way that sends shivers down your spine. His voice carries something deeper than the question itself, an understanding that makes your breath catch.
There's a weighted silence, broken only by a quiet sniffle. Of course you know — it's in every touch, every shared morning, every small gesture of care.
But Luigi's question reaches past that surface certainty, down to where darker thoughts curl and whisper; where doubt breeds in the shadows, insisting that this can't last, that three hearts can't possibly hold each other with equal weight, that something this complete must surely fracture under its own intensity.
Their bodies press closer with shared intent, a wordless devotion passing between them as they bracket you like prayer. "Can you stay quiet for us?" Luigi breathes, and the hard length of him against your thigh makes his desire clear.
Hasan has also seemed to abandoned all pretense of restraint, his hands mapping your skin with desperate reverence.
"Let us remind you, baby.” Hasan murmurs against your sternum, each word punctuated by open-mouthed kisses trailing heat between your ribs. "No better way than to show you."
Your vision swims, tears of earlier doubt transformed into something warmer as you gaze at the sky through the window, its gentle glow a preview of the approaching dawn. Soon enough, Luigi's Nonna will perform her current morning ritual — slipping silently into the guest villa to drop off calazione with careful discretion, then vanishing back home before anyone else stirs.
"I can be quiet," you whisper, the words soft but certain. “Yes.”
The internet's constant chatter fades to nothing — those vicious subreddits, the endless stream of TikToks, the edited moments set to whatever melancholic song fits the narrative they're trying to build.
You forget about the screenshots of Hasan's laughter at your jokes, the clips of Luigi's hands guiding yours to fix your mic on stream, all those private moments picked apart by people who think they know.
Your focus shifts entirely to the present — to their warmth surrounding you, to the way they touch you like something precious.
When a hand slides between your thighs, finding you wet and ready, it draws matching groans from them both, their bodies pressing closer as if to remind you who you belong to.
Their praise washes over you like sunlight, making you arch into their touch.
Hasan's hands are firm but reverent as he holds you steady, while Luigi's touch remains impossibly gentle, his fingers tracing delicate patterns across your skin. When a soft sound escapes you, Luigi catches it with his lips, swallowing the noise while Hasan works to take you apart.
"Love that sound," Luigi murmurs against your mouth, his hands sliding warm and sure along your sides. The contrast between their touches — Hasan's intensity and Luigi's tenderness.
There's a languid quality to Luigi's kisses, born of exhaustion but no less intimate for it.
His eyes stay fixed on you, missing nothing despite his weariness, and his hands move with careful purpose — one moment buried in Hasan's messy curls, the next gentle against your jaw as he draws you into another kiss, swallowing each soft noise you make.
Even through his fatigue, his focus is absolute, cataloguing every reaction, every tremor, every sign of pleasure they draw from you.
“Making me jealous.” Luigi whispers, his voice so gentle and soft it’s hardly there, but you’d recognize his voice in a sea of them — you’d know it anywhere.
Hasan’s mouth is warm against you, his tongue lapping small, lazy trails from your entrance that tenses around his tongue, and up again where he sucks on your clit, his eyes drawn to amused slits, his glasses discarded somewhere on the bed, where you tell yourself you won’t break them again.
Hasan guides Luigi's hand between your thighs with purpose, and Luigi's fingers slip inside you with that particular early-morning rhythm — present but unhurried, hovering in that space between sleep and full awareness, his touch carrying all the familiar comfort of dawn-lit moments like these.
Your breath catches sharply when he curls his fingers just so, and Hasan's response is immediate — his tongue moving in slower, more deliberate patterns, occasionally dipping down to taste where Luigi's fingers disappear inside you.
You can tell, now, though that Luigi has riled himself up just by the sound of you, and the sight of Hasan between your thighs. “Has,” he whispers, reaching down to rake his fingers through Hasan’s hair, the same fingers sticky with the heat of your arousal. “C’mon.” He whispers, almost pleading.
These days, Luigi has developed an almost reverent fascination with watching Hasan finish inside you — a desire he'd been embarrassed to voice until recently.
"I just like seeing you both feel good," he'd confessed weeks ago, voice barely above a whisper, cheeks stained pink as he avoided your eyes.
But his admission had been met with nothing but tender appreciation, with soft kisses and eager promises to give him exactly what he wanted.
His fingers card through Hasan's hair with purpose now, still wet from being inside you, his pleading whisper heavy with the weight of that shared secret, that particular desire you've both learned to recognize in every subtle tell.
But you've grown to understand the deeper currents of his fascination — how his cheeks flush darker than they did during that first hesitant admission, how his jaw goes slack with want as he watches, the way his pupils swallow the warm hazel of his eyes, and how his breathing turns ragged and uneven.
It's more than simple voyeurism — it’s about witnessing something precious being cherished, about sharing in that moment of complete surrender even from the outside.
It's an intimacy that makes your heart clench to contemplate.
"Ohh," Hasan breathes, his lips glistening as he nuzzles against your inner thigh, keeping your legs spread with that particular gentle strength of his — firm but never bruising.
The fresh laundry scent of the sheets is giving way to something headier, a mixture of arousal and European summer skin. "Lu gets just as desperate as you sometimes," he murmurs, his gaze traveling from your flushed face to where Luigi is leaving a trail of soft kisses across your shoulder, working his way down to brush his lips over your nipples.
The observation makes Luigi pause his ministrations, a shaky exhale warming your skin, and you can see the way his fingers tighten slightly where they're still tangled in Hasan's curls.
Luigi's movements have gone desperate and uncoordinated, his hips rocking against you with barely contained need as he makes no attempt to deny Hasan's words.
You both get like this sometimes — greedy for attention, for touch, for closeness, working in tandem to draw every ounce of affection from Hasan while consuming each other just as hungrily until the lines between giving and taking blur completely.
"Not needy," he mumbles against your skin, but you can hear the smile in his voice, feel it curve against your shoulder. "Just have needs." The distinction makes you laugh breathlessly, even as his teeth graze your collarbone.
You slide your fingers into Luigi's dark curls, gently pulling until he has to emerge from where he's hidden against your neck. "Can't help yourself, can you?" Your voice is soft as you study him — the heavy-lidded exhaustion in his eyes, the way arousal fights against bone-deep tiredness beneath his summer-warmed skin. He looks almost drunk on the combination, barely able to keep his eyes open but unable to look away. "Want to watch Hassy fill me up, hmm?”
The sound Luigi makes is somewhere between a hum and a giggle, childishly delighted at getting exactly what he wants. "Mhmm," he tries to burrow back into your neck, shy even now, but you tighten your grip on his curls, holding him where he can see everything.
Hasan takes advantage of the moment to position himself between your thighs, his cock teasing against your entrance.
"One condition," you murmur through a gentle gasp, tightening your grip in his curls. His eyes stay heavy-lidded with exhaustion and want, but his grin spreads wider, more knowing.
"Yes?" The word comes out breathless as Hasan's hand finds its way to his ass, squeezing possessively. Luigi's hips stutter against your thigh, his own neediness becoming more apparent with each passing moment.
"You'll clean up his mess when we're all done." You keep your fingers wound tight in his hair, holding him so his throat is beautifully exposed, vulnerable. That knowing smile never falters as he nods as much as your grip allows, his submission making something hot curl in your stomach.
Hasan sinks into you with a certainty that feels like coming home, and somehow it's Luigi who makes the loudest sound — a hot, desperate whine that cuts through the morning air.
His exhaustion seems to evaporate, replaced by laser-focused attention even as his touches remain butterfly-soft against your skin.
He pants against your ear, punctuating your gasps with breathless little laughs of delight while Hasan sets a rhythm that's deep and unhurried.
The dawn light filters through gossamer curtains that dance in the morning breeze, carrying with it the fresh scent of dew and a chorus of birdsong that's grown bolder with the rising sun.
Sunlight gilds your skin as Luigi fights to keep his eyes open, determined to memorize every detail of the sight before him, his mouth tracing endless patterns across every part of you he can reach, his pinkie hooked around Hasan's in that small, sweet connection they always seem to maintain.
The noises spilling from your lips have gone quiet and yearning, heavy with exhaustion but edged with desperate need as you grasp for both their hands, and they hold you steady as pleasure builds, but when it finally breaks, your drawn-out whine seems to echo in your chest.
Your thighs tremble wider as waves of sensation roll through you, and Hasan's answering warmth flooding inside you feels like the most perfect affirmation — a reminder that this love, this connection, this moment exists in a space no outside force could ever touch or taint.
"I love you," Luigi breathes against your lips, the words carrying all the weight of prayer. He shifts to press his forehead to Hasan's, nose brushing nose as he repeats those same words with equal devotion, like offerings laid at an altar.
True to his word, he moves between your thighs the moment Hasan settles beside you, making soft sounds of contentment as he keeps his promise.
When he finally lifts his head, his lips and cheeks gleam in the morning light, evidence of his dedication painted across his skin as he rests his cheek against your thigh, eyelids growing heavy once more, the picture of satisfied exhaustion. "Look at you," Hasan murmurs, voice warm with affection, and you find yourself sharing his appreciation for the sight — Luigi debauched and drowsy, marked by both of you in the gentlest way possible.
His hazel eyes find yours, then Hasan's, peering up through dark lashes with that practiced false innocence as he rests against your thigh.
The way he pulls his bottom lip between his teeth is pure performance — he lost any real claim to innocence long ago, but he plays the part beautifully.
"Fuck," Hasan breathes, already reaching for his phone to capture the sight. "If it wouldn't cause an international incident, this would be my lock screen." The photo joins the others in that carefully guarded folder — a private collection of moments like these, Luigi, yourself and him raw and honest and breathtaking in ways the world doesn't get to see.
All members of the High Honor Guard are low level Force (Ashla) sensitive.
Hear me out.
We don't know exactly what qualifiers are needed to become an member, but we know only High Honor Guards can carry a bo-rifle. Bo-rifles always gave me lightsaber vibes, with their different colors, and different ways of using energy (like Ezra's first saber).
What if then bo-rifles were powered with kyber-like crystals that were handed down to new guardsmen as older ones retired? And, what if these crystals originally came from Lira San with the Lasats that traveled to Lasan?
These Lira San crystals were always the key to the Lasan people finding their way home. So therefore, would only be given to trusted, Ashla sensitive individuals or families.
Guards would of course, have to go through some kind of spiritual training, maybe to help them connect with the Lira San crystal in their bo-rifle.
This would explain
A] Why Zeb knew Chava (I love how he grudgingly acknowledges her, lol)
B] Why Gron seemed so open to the Ashla teachings and could help with the ritual.
C] How Zeb could access a map using his bo-rifle (in an ancient configuration)
D] How Zeb could use his rifle to guide the Ghost to Lira San.
I had a thought about Lasan. People tend to agree that Zeb is kind of looked down on or seen as less intelligent by the people around him, despite him obviously being very smart, and I was wondering why that was. I do think there's some underlying xenophobia in the rebellion, even if it's not as rampant, that when someone looks at Zeb they might see him as something 'other' or somehow more animal like and therefore unintelligent. But then why does Zeb so frequently look down on himself as well? Is it just a lack of confidence? Well, I was thinking and I came up with this idea: what if the foundation of knowledge itself is different on Lasan compared to the rest of the galaxy?
So, hear me out, I'm a historian, I love history and there was a history class I was in some time ago that was all about the Aztec, Inca, and Maya, major empires each during their heyday, and in one of the units, we learned about the Mayan calendar and their number system (you don't have to be a mathematician for this, I promise) (I can't do math) (also this whole post is an excuse for me to talk about this cuz I think it's neat).
The Mayans (and by extension most people in Central America) used a completely different number system to do math. They used what's called a vigesimal system, not a decimal system. A decimal system is a Base 10 system: 1's, 10's, 100's. This is the way we learn math today.
(sorry for the shitty quality. and the. stains. i was snacking on salt an vinegar chips and they spilled. ignore that.)
However a vigesimal system is not Base 10, but Base 20, and this changes the most basic arithmetic. Actually, it flat out changes the way numbers are read.
It seems like Lasan was a fairly isolated planet, there weren't a lot of Lasat seen in the galaxy at large, and Lasan was neutral during the Clone Wars, so it could be that there wasn't a big push to learn how things are done in the rest of the galaxy unless you were specifically planning on leaving Lasan. And since Zeb was in the Honor Guard, I don't imagine he ever even wanted to leave, but rather was forced to. Which means he probably never would've learned the systems that the rest of the galaxy used.
Now, I will say that the decimal system only exists because humans have ten fingers, which is why it called Base 10. And the vigesimal system exists because humans have ten fingers and ten toes, which is why it's called Base 20. Lasat have neither, which means they probably didn't use a vigesimal system; but it also means they probably didn't use a decimal system either. Not unless they imported it. Like I said, I'm not a mathematician, so I'm not even going to try to figure out what a Base 8 or a Base 16 number system looks like, I'm not that good at math.
But imagine, if you will, being forced to step out into a world where you can't even read numbers (I'm going to keep using vigesimal as an example). How would people look at you? Say you're in a foreign market and you're trying to scrape together enough credits to buy food. You look at the characters the rest of the galaxy uses and you have to translate them, so you're stood there staring at this price tag, the guy behind the counter is getting impatient. So you manage to translate the characters into the ones you know and pull out your credits. It's a 2 and an 8. 2x20 is 40 and an 8, is, well, 8. So you try to pay 48 credits for the food. Your new traveling companion clears his throat and tells you that's almost double the price and you really can't afford to lose credits on a translation error. Then you remember, they use tens. So 2x10 is 20. Not 40. Now the shopkeeper's looking at you funny, and your companion is paying the proper price for the food. And you have to just stand there, embarrassed, that you can't even do basic math.
So you get back to your new ship and there's this thing there, it's metal, and it thinks with a system called binary. Which is somehow a language based on a number system that you don't understand. And it's yelling at you. Loudly. And a lot. Would anybody blame you if you tried to punt the little trash can into the sun? If that was your experience day-in, day-out would you offer yourself up when somebody asks for ideas? I wouldn't. And to go through some version of that repeatedly without really being able to explain because first of all, who wants to learn new math just for you, and second of all, this is your second language anyway so how are you supposed to explain new math sufficiently when you have to translate everything in your head first. That would be crushing, and isolating. And some days, maybe it's just easier to be the dumb brute.
As someone who grew up bad at math, all STEM actually, and blonde (which doesn't seem like it'd be a big deal, but people really do treat like you're stupider than everyone else. Far and away NOT the worst hair-based discrimination, but the stereotype does get under your skin eventually) I was genuinely convinced I was stupid. I know now that my brain is wired for arts and humanities and I am NOT stupid. But my inability to do simple math without a calculator is humiliating to this day and I can really empathize with Zeb about feeling like you're lacking something that comes naturally to everyone else. The self-doubt and the self-loathing that come with looking around you and realizing that if you ask for help, you open yourself up to mockery because what's hard for you is basic for everyone else. It sucks. I don't blame Zeb for being so down on himself.
Zeb could've had the best education on Lasan but it truly doesn't matter how quality your education is if everyone around you reads 28 differently than you do. It's not a lack of intelligence, it's a translation error coupled with a lack of grace from the people around you. I'd beat myself up, too.
I'm not saying that I think this is what the writers had intended or anything, in fact, I don't think they thought about Lasan and it's culture all that much, if I'm being honest, but that's a thought for later. I just, I had this idea and wanted to share.
Can you believe this post exists because my dad bought me a mug lol. I collect mugs and my dad found one that has Mayan hieroglyphs carved onto it and he knows that I can understand a handful of glyphs and thought I'd like it. I don't have it yet but it's en route. Anyway, it got me thinking about ancient Maya and I've got kalluzeb brainrot and they collided and made this.
ooooh,,,, what if, between the several millenia that lasan and lira san were separate, very few made the trek back and forth, bringing horror stories of two-legged, relatively hairless, small beings that wielded all kinds of weaponry, travelled in herds, packs, armies and could run for days and days on end. a species that spread itself relentlessly across the outer galaxy like a plague. what if that species was humans, and what if they made their way into lira sani mythology? imagine kallus is acquainting with lira san locals and the kits keep hiding from him because he matches the shadowy, bipedal, weapon wielding monsters from mythology. imagine the guilt that would being to the front (has he changed? have humans changed? can he truly change for the better?)
What was the Lasan equivalent of a bowl of chicken noodle soup?
Was it something rich and hearty, full of freshly hunted meat from the town warriors, and root vegetables from the market down the street, stewed in broth over a fire all day and lovingly spooned into a wooden bowl?
Was it full of spices and herbs - things only grown on Lasan, things that had no true replacement or substitute in the outer galaxy? Did the Lasat like it over seasoned or under seasoned? Was there heat to it, hot enough to make you sweat?
During the dust seasons, was it difficult to come by ingredients for it? Was it a joyous relief to see it placed before you on the table after a particularly bad season - a celebration of the fact that you had made it through?
What was the meal Garazeb would have been given as a little boy by his caregivers when he was sick or otherwise unwell? What meal evoked that feeling of comfort, of home for him?
... and after Lasan fell, did he ever get the chance to taste it again?
#project hail mary
#lana del rey
