#most difficult post ever

[kolyasz]

© to the artist

[silvadour]

[coolesthscharacter]

not to be that guy but i feel like the only reason latulas winning currently is because of hs2 which took dirk strider from being ‘guy putting up a cool front but he still does actually cool stuff sometimes’ to ‘comedy relief loserguy in anime cosplay’ which makes it literally impossible to vote for him vs latula because compared to her, a character whose only character trait is very similar (surfacewise) to how dirk was in homestuck, like obviously people are gonna pick latula even though compared to regular dirk shes kind of a loser because compared to ult dirk shes radical as hell and solos ez

(this isnt a criticism btw its an observation . i like figuring out trends in stuff im an analysis nerd. pls still vote for whoever you want)

[heirtotheempire]

The Bad Batch season 3 has been interesting thus far. I really liked episodes 1-7 and I've nothing particularly bad to say about any of those episodes. But honestly episode 8, and after today, episode 9, it's once again gotten to be a bit of a pain to get through. Maybe I'm just too much of a Crosshair guy, idk. Today's episode especially irked me but last time I discussed the topics it delves into I got some pissy people in my notes and I'd rather avoid that this time around.

[zingaplanet]

About your pinned post, what's your opinion on Fedal and Prosenna?

Y'all are watering my asks and indulging my ranting habits, i love it ❤️🤌

Well, now that is an interesting relationship comparison! And I say that not because I think they are both opposite versions of each other, it's a bit more as if they're alternate versions of how each other could've been, if that makes sense?

I think this is the case with many rivalry relationships as well, especially one that managed to reach the intensity level of federer-nadal and prost-senna (where they battled each other almost over decades still at the very top level of the sports). I do think with rivalries, there's always a kind of mad obsession that naturally comes with them, you have to, I reckon, otherwise you wouldn't be able to maintain that drive. The difference is the way you choose to deal with that level of intensity, and (because competition is the most soul-baring form of bonding there is) relationship intimacy with another person. It isn't easy because it could be suffocating.

Senna might be the most obvious target here. He was, undeniably, obsessed with Prost (if not at least with beating him). But I think Prost was equally obsessed in some way! Otherwise he wouldn't have been sucked into the narrative and mind games for that long. And unfortunately, I think they dealt with it (Senna, at the very least) with the only way they knew how, by maintaining a distance so as not to combust when they clash too close with each other. Prost talked a lot about trying to make friends with Senna in the beginning (inviting him to his home, to lunch, etc) but was completely ignored as Senna told his friends that he was 'scared to be friends with Prost' because he viewed him as his ultimate rival.

I think this was very understandable. Senna obviously couldn't imagine the dual intensity of being close to someone he already designated as an ultimate chasing target in life, a benchmark of his own identity in a way. But that also kinda only left one avenue for them to channel this emotional intensity and any string strung too tight will always break eventually. Maybe this was also why their rivalry was very intense and problematic, even by the treshold of high-level sports. Let's be honest, at its peak it was one of the nastiest history has seen.

When Prost retired, not only did Senna, I imagine, lost his sense of identity and purpose in racing (which he himself said), I think they also lost a way to channel this intensity. Imagine the one thing that plagued every second of your life (to beat him, to best him, to defeat his records) suddenly being taken away, and the jarring gap it must've left. That's maybe why Senna begged Prost to come back almost every week since he retired and why their personal relationship started getting better after, as sans the other avenue, this could be the only way to channel that level of intensity.

I don't really believe in soulmates but I do think some people are meant to meet in life. And a bond that intense, where you can use the phrase mad for each other quite literally, needed to be channelled in one way or another, albeit unfortunately Prost and Senna couldn't make the right choice in time.

The sad thing was I don't think Senna ever imagined the possibility of them being in that duality of friends and rivals while they were still active (Prost might've, but it wouldn't have worked in itself). There's no one to blame in this regard, it could just be the difficulty and stigma around high-level male dominated sports in this period. I actually genuinely believe if Senna were to make it, they would've been close (Prost said so himself) because there's no way one can simply sever an emotional bond that intense without finding an alternative. It truly is one of the saddest tragedies and what-ifs in sports.

Which is probably why the Federer-Nadal dynamic is very rare and quite strange in a way. They seem to get the memo early on that it was somehow possible to channel this bond not just through intense (and ferocious) rivalry but also through a deeper personal connection such as friendship. I found this fascinating as it seemed to appear out of nowhere, both of them didn't really have an example to follow. They themselves saw the nastiness of the Sampras-Agassi rivalry right before their era and tennis locker room in the 2000s wasn't exactly a welcoming space for any newcomers, the tour was quite hostile.

Federer, however, initiated the friendly nature of their acquintances even before their rivalry began. Maybe it was something just akin to his nature, but it wouldn't have worked (just as Prost's attempt didn't) if Nadal hadn't reciprocated, especially as their rivaly grew more and more intense.

I truly believed that this early dynamic that they've put themselves into (and in a way trapped themselves in) kinda dictated the way the rest of their rivalry went and why it never truly went nasty. It's about a very delicate balance between professional drive and personal relationships. They've had some mishaps and some miscommunications along the way, of course, but perhaps it's what helped them to not let themselves be consumed by the sport as well. Tennis wasn't their whole life, it's a big part of their lives, sure, but Roger Federer and Rafael Nadal still exist outside of the sport. They have families, children, other dreams and ambitions etc., and both didn't hesitate when asked if they could imagine life after tennis.

So I think it's not that their bond was less intense in a way, they simply found ways to diffuse them better through a strong (sometimes negative as well) competitive relationship balanced out by an equally strong, positive personal relationship. Yet, it doesn't mean that the loss of one doesn't affect the other. Hence when the rivalry ended (with Federer's retirement), Nadal said a part of him left as well, and has been struggling with his form ever since. Similar to Prost and Senna though, we do see their personal relationship growing stronger after the retirement, again as if to compensate the sudden loss of emotional bond.

It's fascinating to me, this level of interconnectedness in both of relationships, of almost existing for the identity of one, and the need to be two in order to be whole. I talk about this emotional intensity as if it was something alien and abstract but I do believe that what lies underneath is a very strong, perhaps almost intimate, level of respect even in the nastiest forms of rivalry. In a way, it almost resembles a sense of belonging, knowing that the other is the only one that truly understands what it means to be you, or in simple words, to live what you have lived, to be on the losing side of your best wins, and to live their best days alongside the worst moments of your life.

Some rivalries aren't so lucky to have as happy an ending as others. But I do think nonetheless, that finding your complete equal, one that gives you purpose, dreams, and the thoughtless will to get up everyday, to make all of it matters because they matter and so you must too, is already a gift in itself, right?

[padfootastic]

summary: from euphemia to james to sirius to harry to lily luna—traditions passed down through the generations of potters. love in the form of feeding your people, aloo paranthas as a labor of love etc etc

a labor of love

(also on ao3!)

August, 1970

“Jamie, breakfast’s ready!”

Loud steps thundered around the house as her ten year old raced down the stairs. Euphemia didn’t even bother to reprimand him at this point—she knew it was a pointless endeavour. Instead, she made sure the safety charms on the staircase were always updated.

“HiMumGoodMorningWhatsForBreakfast,” James’ words came out in one single whoosh of air and it was only because this was her child that she had extensive experience with that she could decode what he was saying.

She smiled gently while placing the plate in front of him. “Aloo parantha, honey.”

“Yesss,” James hissed in pleasure, a quick fist pumped in the air, before bending forward with his nose mere millimetres away from the paranthas.

Euphemia swapped the back of his head with a ‘tsk’. “James. How many times have I told you not to smell your food? You’re not a dog.”

“Ma, you don’t get it, okay. It smells so good,” he replied with a goofy, cross-eyed expression. “Seriously, whenever I go to heaven, I just know it’ll smell like fried potato and ghee and coriander. Life can’t get any better than this.”

Euphemia could only smile at the innocent look of wonder on her son’s face as he tore a piece off to stuff it in his mouth, hoping it always stayed there. If she had to keep making him aloo paranthas every morning to keep it there, she’d happily do so. 

August, 1976

Sirius huddled closer into the wall, pulling his knees up to his chest and trying to count his breaths so he didn’t go so fast anymore.

It was some ungodly time of the day and he was sitting on the floor, pressed right up against the corner of the living room of Potter Manor, having a minor—really, not a big deal at all—panic attack about…well, everything.

It hadn’t been two days since he’d run away from Grimmauld Place and already the hopelessness was settling into his bones. He couldn’t stop replaying the words and curses and taunts and Reg’s face and—

“Sirius?” A drowsy voice cut through his spiral. He shouldn’t be surprised.

James always had a way of doing that.

“H-Hi, Jamie,” he replied, straightening up and wiping his eyes in a futile attempt to hide the tears he could feel pooling there. It wouldn’t work, he knew that, James always, always knew but he still had to try.

Sure enough, a pair of sock clad feet (adorned in little animated snitches) stopped right in front of him. His gaze traveled slowly, reluctantly, up to see James looking at him with a complicated look on his face. It was a mixture of sadness and frustration and resignation. Sirius hated that he put it there. James wasn’t made for expressions like that—he should always be happy, smiling, and this felt wrong, wrong, wrong.

Before he could do anything, though (not that there was much in his control), a hand entered his vision, palm up in invitation. Without even thinking twice about it—he would always choose James—he let himself be pulled up and straight into strong arms that were the only thing keeping him whole and grounded so far.

The hug ended in less time than it took for him to draw a full, shaky, breath. The abruptness of it left him reeling. 

“Come on,” James said, tugging him in the direction of the kitchen. Sirius followed, confused, letting himself be manhandled into the kitchen stool and watched James take something out of the cooking cabinet.

“Boiled potatoes,” he explained, already moving on to the spice rack. “Mum always keeps some ready to go.”

With quick, practiced movements, James had them peeled and mashed. Another sealed container was retrieved—‘Dough. For the rotis’—and a flat top griddle was placed on the stove.

Sirius watched the whole thing in a daze, unable to identify a single thing but being comforted all the same. It felt almost like a ritual; the rhythmic movements of James’ hands as he rolled the dough into balls, and stuffed them with the potatoes. Watching him smooth it out into a round, flat shape. 

“I didn’t know you were so proficient in the kitchen, Prongs,” Sirius finally said as the kitchen warmed up from his best mate’s ministrations, the smell of ghee-fried dough and spiced potatoes permeating the air.

“I’m not, really,” James shrugged. “But aloo paranthas are—they’re different, you know? Everyone should know how to make them.“

“I’ve never even tried them.”

“Well, then, everyone should have them at least once in their lives,” James said, firmly.

He placed a plate full of warm, steaming—aloo paranthas in front of Sirius and without even knowing what they really were, he could feel the rest of the tension seeping out of him. It’s a temporary relief, to be sure, but that it happened at all is enough to both awe and excite him.

He looked up at James with wide eyes, only to receive a knowing smile in return.

“Have a bite, Pads,” James pushed the plate closer. “I promise you won’t regret it.”

And he didn’t.

As he sat there and entirely demolished four of the wonderful paranthas—after days of not feeling the slightest pang of hunger—Sirius was helpless against the warmth that suffused his entire being, not just from the heat of the potatoes, but from the boy in front of him who’d decided to take a chance on him. Decided to welcome him not just in his arms but his house, his family. 

August, 1995

“Sirius, why are we here?” Harry asked, confused. A minute ago, they were in the garden, talking about something or the other, and then suddenly his godfather had grabbed his wrist and dragged him into the kitchen.

“Because you, my dear Prongslet, have been severely, unforgivably wronged and it’s time to start rectifying that,” Sirius proclaimed, which really didn’t help.

“…huh?”

“You just told me you’ve never had anything but bland, boring British food. Ever.” Sirius stressed the last word, making a point Harry wasn’t quite sure of.

“Yes…because the Dursleys are raging racists and Hogwarts isn’t too creative with its culinary choices,” Harry slowly said, feeling eerily like he was defending himself for…not being able to have a diverse palette?

“Exactly. If James had a grave, he’d be rolling around in it.”

Harry’s eyebrows raised in disbelief.

“Look, I was supposed to do this for you since the day you were old enough to eat solids. That I didn’t…well. Let’s not go there right now. But now that I do have the chance, it’s practically first on the list of my godfatherly duties—“

“What is, Sirius?” Harry asked, slightly exasperated. The man was making no sense.

“Making aloo paranthas, Harry! Come on, keep up, it’s bad enough you’ve gone this far without—any longer and I swear, James will find a way to come back to wring my neck and tie you to a chair just so he could force feed you,” Sirius finished, a slightly haunted look in his eyes like he was speaking from experience.

Harry blinked. What—?

“Now, luckily for us, the boiled potatoes are already done. You’ve got me to thank for that bit of foresight, of course, never go without since fifth year—“

“Why?”

“—because they’re so versatile—“

“Right, of course, how silly of me.”

“Yes. So, now you’ve gotta peel and mash it, and none of that ricer or fork nonsense, either, okay? You’ve gotta really get in there with your hands.” Sirius demonstrated by taking one slightly cold potato from the bowl, expertly peeling and crushing it between his fingers. He kept going until it was almost smooth, with just the smallest hint of texture. Once done, he turned expectantly towards Harry, eyebrow raised and ‘go on’ written all over his face.

Still slightly bemused, Harry stepped forward and gingerly took a potato of his own. Trying to peel it was—not as easy as he thought and everything else faded away as he concentrated on making sure no brown bits remained. It was a surprisingly soothing task. When he had his first potato peeled and mashed, he turned to Sirius proudly.

“There. What next?”

Sirius nodded in approval. “Now, we do the rest of it.”

And standing there shoulder to shoulder, the two of them managed to get through a veritable mountain of boiled potatoes, interspersed with Sirius’ stories of the Potters, a rare, greedy pleasure for Harry.

“Your grandmum, Euphemia, she’d make this for breakfast every so often. It was James’ favorite and she could never resist his great, big eyes—you get that from him, by the way. Not many people could, mind, but it was particularly effective when he wanted to scam some paranthas out of her.”

and “Your dad wasn’t the best in the kitchen, but this was one thing he was absolutely adamant he learn. Spent hours with Effie and Rani perfecting it, as well.”

Once the potatoes were done, Sirius directed him to the spice cabinet. “Now, this is the most important bit, Harry. Everyone makes their aloo paranthas in their own way. You can have different people following the same recipe and all of their final results would still taste different.”

Harry nodded in understanding. It was a bit like Aunt Petunia’s prized Roast Dinner—she always claimed no one else could make it the way she could, not even letting Harry close to the preparation of it. 

“The first time I had this was in fifth year—similar to you, come to think of it—and I’ve experimented after, right? It was so good I had to. I went to many, many places in muggle London—roadside stalls to fine dining, you name it—and not once have I felt the same as when your dad made it with his eyes still half closed and the paranthas a little burnt on the edges and a bit undercooked in the middle. There’s no competition. So. It’s all in the spice, yes?”

Sirius handed him the container of carom seeds. “That being said, the most important bit?”

Harry leaned forward, eager, all hesitation forgotten in the face of a piece of his culture, his family being passed down to him like this.

“You’ve got to—“

August, 2017

“—measure with your heart, okay, Lils?”

Little Lily Luna Potter, only nine but adopting an air of maturity of someone much older, nodded solemnly, taking her dad’s word as gospel.

“This isn’t just food—this is you telling someone you love them. It’s a warm hug. Feeding someone, taking care of them, is no small job. So, forget all this measurements nonsense and just get in there,” Harry finished, nostalgia coating his words as he quoted his own godfather word for word.

“Get in there, Daddy!” Lily-Lu repeated empathetically.

“That’s right,” Harry chuckled, using one hand to ruffle the riotous mane of red curls piled on top of her head. “The next thing to go in is the powdered spices. Which ones are those, again?”

Lily-Lu squinted thoughtfully. “Coriander powder, red chili powder, tyoo-mer-ic, and cumin powder. That’s all of it, right, Daddy?”

Harry smiled at her serious countenance. “There’s just one more you’re missing.”

She frowned, biting her lip and mumbling under breath. “One more? Coriander…chili…cumin…and—and—garam masala! It’s garam masala, isn’t it?” The last few words were said in an excited shout, almost loud enough to startle him but he could only lean forward and place a quick kiss on her forehead in approval.

“Sure is, sweetheart. You’re a quick one, aren’t you?”

“I’m smart, Daddy, you and Mummy say so,” Lily-Lu returned, self-satisfaction radiating from every inch of her little frame

“That’s because you are; the smartest of us all, isn’t it?” Harry teased, while carefully mixing the spices with the potatoes. This one he’d do himself—Lily-Lu’s hands weren’t the steadiest yet.

“Oh!” She exclaimed suddenly, leaning forward. “The salt! You forgot the salt, Daddy.”

Harry blinked in surprise, looking down at his array of ingredients and realised he had.

“Huh. So I have, it seems. Would you like to do the honours, Lulu?” He extended the container towards her, smiling once again at how she was practically vibrating in excitement.

Harry was—not just glad but utterly ecstatic that he could do this, had the opportunity and ability for it. And he had no one but Sirius to thank for it.

Taking care of me even from the afterlife, aren’t you, Siri? he thinks with a silent offering of gratitude to the universe. I don’t think I can ever thank you enough for it, for everything. 

“And now, the absolute final step?”

“The chopped coriander!” Lily-Lu chirped, already reaching forward to clasp a handful of coriander he’d prepared beforehand. She sprinkled it all over their mixture with a high, bright giggle and Harry could’ve spent an eternity in that moment, with his child beside him and the weight of his family behind him.

[chiropteracupola]

the amount of time I spend on tumblr dot com has given me quite the set of standards when it comes to artworks on the theme of 'Trans Angel', and actual museums are failing to meet those standards quite spectacularly.

[dandyshucks]

blinks tiredly. i decide "hm maybe i should try to expand my circle and step outside of it a little, lets go look at the main community tags" and im just greeted with a bunch of edgelords who think saying "fiction doesn't affect reality, don't like don't read" is peak activism and "fighting censorship". head in my hands. this is partially why i do not ever go into the community tags, my nervous system cannot handle blocking fifty weirdos every single day just so i can have a normal experience in the community tags hfdsjkl

[fellhellion]

I have a rich inner world abt both iterations of Miguel and the relationship to fatherhood <- literally just hc

[flufflecat]

collecting school of dragons screenshots before it dies

[bisexualamy]

.

[torchickentacos]

ok i slept for uhhh seventeen hours on and off since last night bc chronic illness <3 BUT that means I'll be up until like five am tonight. sad. BUT!!! that gives me time to read fics that i've meant to for months, and reading fic in general is something i don't do often so i'm kind of excited for my accidental all nighter era.

[pixelkip]

Guess who finally played her favorite touhou game character/setting-wise. which also happens to be the most infuriating,ly hard game in the entire fucking series

sorry i . i need to be feral about this game just bear with me please .

this is my first time listening to the entire ost toghether in a WHILE and holy fuck does it hit different when youre actually playing

fuck yea dude that music sure is c a v e

who gave a first stage boss the right to have such a fucking banger.

I AM EATING THE XYLOPHONE OR WHATEVER HTE FUCK IT IS. ITS SO GOOD OUGHGH KDFJJHKLDFGDFG JADGML

parsee's theme makes me wanna cry thanks zun for making me feel for the most frustrating early game boss ever

yuugi pplease step on me i mean what

i went fucking apeshit just seeing the palace of earth spirits in-game for myself for the first time. the komejis were like,. the first 2hus i got really attached to so yknow im very normal about them i promise. <= proud owner of (bootleg) fumos of both of them

SATORI SATORI SATORI SATORI SATORI SATORI SATORI

i fucking squealed like an idiot when satori maiden started playing . its so. aughhghg <33333

its a damn good thing i'd already listened to Lullaby For Deserted Hell a million times before i played this bc otherwise that stage wouldve made me despise it.

if i ever make it to that extra stage (unlikely bc im struggling to even get through stage 5 on easy) i think ill actually cry . partially bc of the difficulty but also .,. as any of my friends know im totally sane about koishi and Last Remote and Hartmann's Youaki Girl so very normal i promi se all that being said this game pisses me off more than any other game has before. what do you MEAN CONTINUE MAKES ME RESTART THE STAGE AND BOMBS RELY ON POWER LEVEL at the same time tho i am injecting it directly into my bloodstream. Any of my non touhou nerd friends for the love of fuck listen to the Subterranean Animism ost. please . its so good.

[imaginarycyberpunk2023]

first vs last pic (December 2022 / July 2023)

OC: Macha Richter

Yeah, so the first pic is how I played her as a corpo. All the way to the devil ending. I started my VP journey with her in December 2022 on console and I changed her up after the ending when I "made her" into an OC. It's her journey of breaking free, of self discovery. It reflects in her becoming softer, more feminine. And just today I tested a new texture mod and took this pic of her.

[honeysuckle-venom]

My therapist had to cancel tomorrow and I'm not...it's not great timing. I mean it always sucks if she cancels but I just. I'm not. A real person right now. Idk how to explain it but. This is not Ideal.

[sunandmoonshow-unofficial]

Waving at everyone that's messaged me that i haven't responded to, very much not ready for private socialization but haiii ilu