I Don't Even Go Here - Tumblr Posts
When yer best friend has better boobige then you
MCU Genderswap Aesthetic
Lupita Nyong’o as T’Challa / Black Panther
Random Headcanon: That Federation vessels in Star Trek seem to experience bizarre malfunctions with such overwhelming frequency isn’t just an artefact of the television serial format. Rather, it’s because the Federation as a culture are a bunch of deranged hyper-neophiles, tooling around in ships packed full of beyond-cutting-edge tech they don’t really understand. Endlessly frustrating if you have to fight them, because they can pull an effectively unlimited number of bullshit space-magic countermeasures out of their arses - but they’re as likely as not to give themselves a lethal five-dimensional wedgie in the process. All those rampant holograms and warp core malfunctions and accidentally-traveling-back-in-time incidents? That doesn’t actually happen to anyone else; it’s literally just Federation vessels that go off the rails like that. And they do so on a fairly regular basis.
AHHH always happy to provide suggestions :) love your writing as always!
Just A Spark (Gonna Let It Happen)
Or: five times hasan helped you + 1 the one time you helped him
feat: fire fighter hasan
tw: mention of drinking, cursing, mention of ptsd/trauma
thanks to the wonderful @the-phantom-author for letting me run with their idea. @medlarmeadows and @abadarkade for their wonderful suggestions and always offering ideas when i run out
more hasan here
one. first encounter
sometimes, when the thick blanket of night falls in the room, hits his eyes even though they’re blocked by his arm-he wonders exactly what he did wrong in a past life to be here.
he isn’t sure if he believes in that past life bullshit; people with cards and stars that tell him he looked at someone the wrong way, years ago, in a different lifetime, landed him here- but fuck, he did something wrong.
it’s the steady beep of a half broken fire alarm that makes an eye snap up. it’s ironic, or something, that the fire stations fire alarm would be broken, but he can’t find himself caring enough to pull up a chair, find the screwdriver, to care long enough to do something for it.
instead, he lays with his forearm over his eyes, counts the seconds in between the beeps, find the peace in the lull between the five seconds.
there’s parties to go to; things he could make himself do-instead, he lays in a twin sized mattress that lightly reeks of a delicate mixture of body odor and oil.
Last nights call plays in his head: what was suppose to be a harmless call for a ninety year old-the flash of fear in her eyes when he gets there, holding her hand and promising her it’ll be okay-
he sits up and flips the pillow over to the cooler side, hopes that makes a difference, tries to face the wall and count the markings that line the wall.
An alarm blares over head.
he wonders if he squeezes his eyes shut long enough, picks the sides of the pillow up and slams it into his ears. instead, he sits up with a sigh, pulls his shoes up and says a hail mary to whatever supernatural powers be, wills it to be better.
The engine starts up, James, his partner forever, hops into the seat next to him and they’re off.
Three streets away in a yard only lit up by a fire, you find yourself borderline pacing.
The coughing didn’t bother you. At least, not at first.
The bonfire started hours ago, before the sun had set, hiding behind clouds and dipping in and out of them, as if it was an elaborate game of hide and seek that you were losing badly.
The coughing was almost expected. Peter and Paul, the two idiots together, disappeared off an hour ago with a large container of gasoline and a glint in their eye that you didn’t fully trust-honestly, you were surprised it took this long for it to catch up with you.
“Dude,” someone, you think his name is Scott, a friend of a friend, speaks up: “The first cough is whatever. The second? Sure. but the third? Can you please get it together?”
It’s dramatic.
an anxious habit, your hands go to the side of your hand, nail to your head to scratch at an invisible itch.
"Hey," Scott says in-between the coughs, scratches at his throat, "what's in these brownies anyways?"
Peter speaks up: "Nothing ground breaking. A family recipe-"
"Oh, please," Ava snorts, "Is the family recipe from a box found at Meijer's?"
"Fuck off, you're disrespecting my dead Nana," Peter puffs his chest out, "Who's dead, by the way, you sick fuck-"
"Guys," Scott is borderline wheezing, "The brownies?"
Peter rolls his eyes, "Oil, mix.." He ticks them off on his fingers, "Oh, I added some chopped walnuts in, to spice them up-"
"Stop trying to make 'spice them up' happen. Your Nana did not say that."
"Walnuts?" his eyes go wide, "I'm allergic-"
it's a blur after that. Yelling, running around, phone calls with fingers shoved in their ears to block out the noise, frantic googling that yielded no results
Honestly, the first thought you had when you saw him was relief. you wonder if that's what he's use to; the guardian angel status, the way he walks into a room with authority, like nothing actually scares him
Ava walks next to him, although it's less walking and more running, trying to run to keep up with his strides
You have Scott leaning against a dead tree trunk, his shirt ripped off in a panic, his hand on his throat as if he could scratch the itch out-your hand rests over his, your face close to him as you try to talk him off an invisible ledge.
"You're going to be fine," You're saying, trying to convince yourself, more than anything, "by tomorrow this is going to be a funny memory we'll all look back at-"
Hasan recognizes this-knows that it's you more panicked than him, and he realizes how out of his element he is-needs to rescue a cat in a tree, reset a fire alarm-
EMS comes in first, breaks up the two of you-you take the hint, inch further away so you're not in the way, but can still hear what’s going on-if he’ll make it.
“Hey.”
your head whips up. eyes stinging, didn’t realize you were crying until the familiar pinch came.
“Hey,” you shake your head, “sorry. Am i in the way?”
The taller man shrugs, “he’s good. James got him, too.”
He studies you for a second.
“are you okay?”
before you can answer stuff is flying from his belt; a smaller pack hits by your feet, a walkie talkie inches from your toes-
he plops down next to you with a groan, like that took a lot out of him.
Panic looms. blooms in your chest, fills it, threatens to take over-
“here.”
he digs in his jeans and pulls out a caramel candy, holds it by the wrapper.
“isn’t that an old man candy?”
you sniffle but a shaky hand reaches out, grabs it and unwraps it.
“it’s Hasan, by the way.” the man says gently, eyes downcast as he unwraps his own, “and it’s not.”
finally some comfort, the rise of panic crashing like a wave in your chest as it retreats for now.
“Hasan the old man,” you settle on, “got it.”
two
"You've got to be kidding me."
Hasan chomps on gum as if he doesn't have a care in the world
"I know the medical emergency was a little above your pay grade," You hope your voice doesn't come out as shaky as it feels, "So I figured saving my cat would be more up your alley."
He snorts, rolls his eyes as he cranes his neck to look up the tree.
"What's it's name?"
"My name?" You scratch at your neck, not sure how this is relevant but if it saves your cat-
"No," hasan says slowly, "The cat-"
"Oh."
You hope he doesn't see the rising red splash across your face
"Tomato," You clear your throat, "Tomato is the asshole who thought it was a good idea to climb a tree at five in the morning when i have an interbiew in an hour and my hair is still wet-"
and my hair is still wet- your hand flies to your head, where a towel is still damp and wrapped around your head, stained and worn with age-past hair colors stained and marked the towel up
"Hey,"
Hasan's voice brings you down, crashes you back to earth. Instead of the rising heat on your face and the worried roar in your head, your back in your front yard. Hasan stands in front of you-a too tight uniform shirt across his chest, stained, a mop of curly hair and a constellation of freckles across his face.
wide eyed, looking at you, his hands on either side of your arms:
“you’re fine,” he’s saying, “Tomato is fine. i’ll get her down in time.” he hesitates for a second, considers the weight behind it, “i promise.”
he turns to the tree before you can see him flustered:
“what a fucking stereotype,” he sighs, calls over his shoulder, his shoulders already aching from the work out he’s about to get: “got a ladder?”
there’s a quick fight between you two (“just tell me where the ladder is“ “you’re going to save tomato! you can’t carry the ladder too!”) before he throws his hands up and makes his way to the small shed in the corner of the yard, ignoring you, all but marching back to the scene of the crime.
“can you hold the ladder?” he says gently, before a smile paints across his face, “can you handle that much?”
the bastard is smirking now. in the sunlight his freckles are more pronounced, can trace the lines of them on his face.
“shouldn’t you have someone with you?” you’re calling up gently as he scales up a ladder. he’s clicking his tongue as he does so.
he doesn’t answer:
“i fucking hate cats,” he’s saying instead, “murderous, ungrateful bastards-“
his fingers reach out at the branch, so close to touching Tomatoes tail-he hisses, climbs up another branch.
“I don’t think he likes me.” Hasan huffs, scaling the tree higher
“can you blame him?” Nibbling fingernails, “some scary man is climbing up a ladder and invading his space-“
“handsome?”
head titled back as he slowly climbs the ladder, “what?”
“a handsome man, i assume you said,” hasan continues, silence for a second before there’s light rustling; a branch falls, a bundle of leaves-you’re about to ask if he’s okay before he retreats back, an orange bundle under his arm, meowing and yelling at him as he carefully climbs down. Heavy gear clatters around him, and you worry about it falling off of him for a second
once his feet are down he continues:
“a handsome man,” he finishes, “who rescued your cat, right?”
silence
“right?”
“thank you, hasan.”
three
you run through the list in your head: eggs, milk, loaf of bread-
music seems to blare around you. wraps around you, makes your head pound-your only plan to try and get out as quickly as you can.
Faces pass; none familiar, all just as frantic and busy as you are-
cans of soup- your eyes scan the shelves, falls on the familiar red branding-fingers reach out, almost grasp it-fall
again.
reach, fingers brush against it-push it back a little further.
“mother fucker-“
“need help?”
the voice is familiar. too familiar. your eyes narrow, back still to them.
“i think you need me at this point,” the voice is almost gleeful, “should just follow you round to help-what is it? chicken noodle? you look like a chicken noodle soup enjoyer”
“it’s tomato.” you grumble unhappily.
“tomato?” he turns around, head over his shoulder, “hmm.”
he looks tired. bags under his eyes, hair a million different directions, shirt is untucked and stained-a pen cap is hanging on for dear life at the neck of a stretched out shirt.
“shouldn’t you be sleeping?”
“shouldn’t you be calling the fire department for something?”
“awe,” you finally smile, snatching the can, “you do miss my calls-“
“when they see your number they automatically dispatch me to you. you’re a liability.”
you reach for the can but he holds it higher in the air, a smirk creeps on his face:
“what do you say?”
a huff, “please?” you try, “pretty please?”
he rolls his eyes: “there’s no way you think that’s what i want.”
“who’s your favorite fire fighter?”
“what’s your partners name? Rob? He is-“
he huffs, turns his back to you and sets the can back on the shelf, his fingers still brush against the can as he hums like he’s considering his own soup options-
“hasan, please. my chili depends on you-“
he ignores you, still humming, as you pull on his shirt:
“you’re my favorite firefighter,” you find yourself saying, “it hurts to say that.”
he turns around, hands you the can: “was that so hard?”
four
weeks pass. with job deadlines on the horizon, your apartment all but falling apart-it’s easy to forget about about anyone else.
sleep finally finds you. a cold side of the pillow, eyes finally shut-
a fire alarm blares that makes you shoot out of bed. tomato lays at your feet, grabbing him, running outside to the yard, sweater long forgotten.
by the time you’re at the yard, you can at least see the building isn’t burning up. in fact, you can’t see anything. you weigh your options for a second, considering ignoring the blaring fire alarms before you hear the fire truck and groan, knowing what’s coming up, knowing who’s around the corner.
the second the car parks everyone is running out, talking into walkie talkies-
“is this you?” hasan calls as he jogs past you, “you’re an arsonist at this point-“
you go to yell back and he’s gone.
an hour later he appears. his hair is disheveled, his shoulders slump. he walks next to his partners, something in his hand-
“if you need cooking lessons, i volunteer,” hasan says, “i can teach you how to fucking make ramen-“
“why do you assume that i’m behind all bad things that happen here?”
“your track record doesn’t help,” he says, “to begin with. and this has your name written all over it. please,” he stops, drops the pan and claps his hands together as if begging: “let me teach you how to cook.”
“it wasn’t fucking me!”
his eyes narrow: “Please. no one believe you-“
“you’re a dick. don’t you have a donut to eat? or-“
“that’s police officers, idiot.” he huffs, “and fuck them, anyways. look-“
he stops, leans into you, “i know just the place. i’ll teach you-“
“you aren’t teaching me how to cook! and it’s not me!”
“fine,” his eyes narrow, “but the next call here, if it’s yours, i take you to a cooking class-“
“what-“
“even if it isn’t your call. you owe me a date.”
his hand outstretched to you: “a deals a deal-“
“what’s in it for me?”
“i’ll leave you alone.”
you groan, knowing that’s not going to happen. sunrise threatens to fall over the horizon, and you know he won’t give up anytime soon-
your hand falls into his-larger and calloused-slips into his like a missing puzzle piece, like a perfect piece-
“it’s a deal.”
five
look, this isn’t bribing.
but after your fourth call to your apartment this month, you figured you at least owed them something for coming out-even if they somehow always sent just Hasan out-
you couldn’t sleep, anyways. or at least, that’s your excuse. the tray of baked goods threatens to fall out of the seat any second.
The door to the station is open, all the workers walking around, half suspenders down, shirts untucked, plates of food half eaten-
you couldn’t find your guy in the line up,is your first thought. before you quickly shake your head, trying to get that idea out as quickly as it came. he isn’t your guy. if anything, he’s the pain in the ass who keeps saving your ass-
putting the car in park, saying a prayer before grabbing the plate and walking in, hoping you look more confident than you feel.
“Well,” one of the firefighter smirks as you show up, “have any batteries that need to be changed?” he teases, “or is cilantro in trouble? hasan hasn’t shut up-“
“it’s tomato,” hasan appears behind him, “i know my mortal enemies name.”
“look what the cat dragged in-“
“it’s almost like you’re at the place where i work. imagine that-“
“i made brownies.”
the guy next to him immediately perks up, grabs the plate and pulls back tinfoil: “thank you!”
hasan stops him before he can run off, grabs a brownie before he can leave, eyes it as you stand in front of him.
“so,” he says, “what’s the trick with this? i don’t have any allergies-“
“damn. nut allergies are the most common allergies. i thought that’s how i could take you out-“
“and they aren’t burned-“
“that wasn’t me with the ramen, you dick.”
“these look good.”
“always the tone of surprise,” you roll your eyes, “most people would say thank you.”
“why would i say thank you before I’m potentially poisoned?”
“you’re insufferable.”
“here,” he smirks, “you take the first bite.”
“i’m not hungry-“
“that’s exactly what someone who poisoned food would say to get out to eating it.”
“you’re a dick, give it to me.”
“ah,” he says instead when you reach for it, his hand still on the brownie as he leans forward, a hand cupped under your mouth as he goes to feed you the bite.
“this is outrageous,” you roll your eyes as pink rises up, but don’t put up more of a fight as it makes contact, as you bite off, “it’s delicious”
he watches you carefully as you chew
“see?” you roll your eyes: “now you.”
“eh?” he shrugs, “i don’t know how hungry i am-“
you gasp and he giggles, before shoving it in his mouth:
“not bad.” he settles on.
+1
“if you’re looking for your guy, he called in sick.”
you aren’t proud of the fact that they know who you’re really here for, and less that you know the man who yelled that-Michael-will proudly tell hasan that.
“what?” you tease, “the big baby can’t handle a little bit of a cold?”
he snorts: “he did the kids fire safety at the elementary school this week-he blames them.”
“what a baby.”
you try and make polite small talk. they’re all fine-the entire time, thinking of the plan you’re already cooking in your head.
everyone knows where he lives. the house was famous before the newest fire fighter bought it (and when you’re in a small town like this, a new guy on the team is a big deal, gets around) and in the center of town, you pass it every day on your way to and from work: seeing him leave in the morning, at night, still in his uniform, shirt untucked and wrinkly as he moves around his front yard: tends to the garden on the side of the house (looks like he’s very proud of his herbs he’s growing, at least) hunched over as he flicks his tongue and has a small ceramic bowl of kibble for the gang of cats that seem attached to him-
a quick stop at the only grocery store in town, the paper bag of groceries on your lap, your stomach bubbles and bursts as you worry your lip about this-
you park the car and find yourself in front of his house before you can talk yourself out of it.
tapping your foot, waiting for him to answer-
“hullo?”
he still looks good, even sick.
glasses crooked on his face, his hair a mess, the tip of his nose is red, lines over his freckles from a pillow-
he groans. stands in the doorway, his hand against the doorframe.
“i’m off duty,” he tries, “you’ll have to put out your own fire-“
“heard the kids made you sick,” you say instead, ruffling through the plastic bag on your wrist, “nothing ramen can’t help.”
“ramen?” he laughs, “like-“
“it wasn’t me!” you insist, can feel your heart thump in your ears, “let me redeem myself; make you some soup.”
“i can’t call the fire department-“
“if i start a fire i’ll put it out myself, i promise.”
he laughs: “i guess i’d like to see that.”
comfortable silence for a second.
“so?” you push, “the soup?”
his eyes narrow for a second before his hand slowly slides up the doorframe, an invitation in-you duck and act like you can’t see the smile light up his face
Who up Allying their Mastercomputer
[Reblogs >>> Likes] ⚠️PLEASE DO NOT REPOST⚠️
Thanks for all the attention and absolutely unhinged tags for my first ihnmaims piece! Here's a silly
I did have something serious in mind after the last piece but literally I have no time and I must revise for exams. So u get this which I still spent too much time on
Ref:
I'm kind of obsessed with this man
Guess who got an email from the school she graduated from last semester! Yeah!
ME!
It's like a surprise party where you're the piñata.
⚠︎︎ Yuno Aroaceflux Lesbian Icons ↻ or ♡ to use
Lord of the Rings fanart! I watched for the first time recently and loved it
Theory Time
The reason endermen don’t like it when you look at them is because they communicate telepathically with one another by locking eyes! Humans are absolutely not designed to do this so when we look at them we are accidentally projecting all of our thoughts into them at the same time and it hurts :(
Okay so as you all know I’m extremely cool and clever and also a published scientist, so let me tell you about my latest research.
In the Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild, the continent of Hyrule is one of the biggest open-world maps ever created, even beating games like Skyrim and the Witcher. But, HOW BIG?
Obvs it’s very hard to get a precise size because the in-game map does not have a scale bar (terrible map skills from that cartographer). HOWEVER, if you climb the Ridgeland Tower there’s a guy up there who is a weeaboo for the Rito, who begs you to glide for him in the name of “research” (what a fucking dweeb am I right?) If you do so, he tells you how many metres you’ve flown before landing. This includes if you simply step off the tower and plummet to the ground in a straight line, and happily for my in-game ankles, the tower is surrounded by water to cushion the many landings I made to bring you this information.
Ten drops gave me a mean average height for the tower at 63.83, median 64.2, so I’m taking it as 64 for ease of Maffs.
For a flight from the tower, I picked a strip of land on the same contour line as the tower base and then flew along that. There was a slightly higher standard deviation in twelve flights because sometimes Link would step nicely over the edge and start gliding and other times he would yeet himself bodily into the sky and then start, and one time gave me an outlier because I got zapped by an electric Wizzrobe that saw me. But over all, flying the same line and hitting pretty much the same landing spot, I got an average of 250.1 metres. I took this as 250, again for ease of Maffs.
Pythagoras’ theorem hit then, so I worked out that the distance from the base of the tower to the landing spot was 242 m. Putting that into Adobe Dreamworks, I could then translate that per pixel of the map I was working with (2.42 metres per pixel.) From there, that allowed me to calculate the area of Hyrule’s land mass, roughly, in pixels and then convert it back, so having done that GUESS WHAT FOLKS
Hyrule is 25,454 km2, or 15,816 sq mi.
Wales, by contrast, is 20,735 km2, or 12,884 sq mil.
So the continent of Hyrule is, it seems, bigger than my entire country to the tune of about one and a quarter times the size.
Thank you all for listening, I will now take questions.
A Vulcan named Stork works at the Terran adoption agency. Parents always request that he be the one to deliver their child to them.
Me, watching Love Like the Galaxy episode 8:
Wow, there is one brain cell amongst the four children in the Cheng family mansion and not a single one of those four children are using it.
Me, watching the parents in episode 8:
Okay to be fair, look at the example they’re being given for how to make not only the worst choice but also the stupidest one.
Yes, I’m watching the episode where a girl in fantasy ancient china decides the best way to avoid getting beaten by her mother for fighting to avenge her older cousin being thrown into a lake and bullied, is to run away (with no carriage, provisions or guards).
But hey, her mother decided she was in the wrong and should be punished for fighting back when her cousin got bullied so you know. One brain cell. Nobody’s using it.
I am enthralled.
Viki has Love Like the Galaxy free to watch (not sure for how long I think it’s a holiday special) so now’s your best shot to watch it.
