woe is men

anonymous asked:

hello eggplant! could you maybe recommend some of your favorite Sota Yamamoto programs? recently i've fallen in love with him, help

it’s hard to make a list of recs for him because he’s so young and hasn’t competed for that long…there aren’t that many videos of him available. some performances worth watching:

and these aren’t programs, but bb sota was on a tv show with nobu in 2011 where they went to a universal studios theme park, it was so cute: part 1, part 2

i should make a sota intro post someday…if he ever comes back to competition ;____;

Submission

I don’t even know who to blame for this one, sorry…  In response to the fanboy Kakashi anon:

Kakashi doesn’t think he compares to Jiraiya-sama, not in the least. The man has a truly enviable grasp on subtle turn of phrase and the greatest eye for folds and drapes that hint in ways even more erotic than showing. Jiryaiya-sama is a master of his craft, let no one dare deny it.

(Else Kakashi will fight you. In the face.)

The thing is, though, that Jiraiya-sama is gleefully, viciously, irrevocably straight. (Or, if you’re truly a connoisseur of his works and a bit of a genius gifted in looking beneath-the-beneath, tragically, desperately, and obliviously closeted.) And while Kakashi is and always will be ever so fond of the way Machiko-chan tilts her head just so when Seichiro-sama nibbles just there, Kakashi just can’t help but think that the whole third chapter of Violence #5 would have been greatly improved if Satoshi-kun had just kicked Seichiro’s feet out from under him and promptly shoved a hand down his hakama.

It’s nothing more than an idea for a while, an odd little brain-doodle of a what-if that bubbles up in the long stretches of boredom nobody tells you make up 85% of ANBU ops. ‘Would there have been a war,’ he wonders on day 5 of what ends up being an 18 day stakeout, if neither feudal lords felt the young prince had wronged their busty daughters? ‘Would Satoshi still have died tragically stepping in front of a poisoned needle meant for his dear childhood friend?’ he ponders once he’s lost and/or killed his tail and settled in for the 18 hour run back to Konoha. 'Could everyone have the happily ever after that never exists in real life?’ he contemplates over a bowl of high-calorie mush meant to prod his chakra coils into filling up faster.

“What about Machiko!” cries Ebisu, a berk of a chuunin made just tolerable by being a fellow enthusiast. “Where does her happy ending come in?” Kakashi thinks long and hard on that one for about 8 seconds.

“Clearly loyal, supple handmaiden Hana would sweetly ease her woes.”

The two men contemplate that for a blissful second, before Kakashi remembers that the chuunin currently possesses all the paperwork required to spring him from the prison Konoha calls a hospital.

It becomes kind of a thing a month later, when Kakashi is back in his least favorite place, damaged enough that there’s no escaping through the window. He’s trapped for the foreseeable future and granted no distractions but the pen and forms required for an after action report.

He doesn’t do the report. He’s got a reputation to live down to.

A week after that, paperwork-chuunin Inuzuka Hige runs him to ground in training ground 15, waving his not-report like a declaration of war. “If you leave this here I will gut you like a boar,” she roars and in fear for his balls, Kakashi turns out ten thousand words of slow, sweet, 'incredibly glad we both somehow survived’ hardcore yaoi fix-it in less than a day.

It becomes absolutely a thing after that. There are message boards in admin building basements where first his, then others’, hand-scribbled fiction is pinned up, and tiny post-its of praise are pinned up under it. It seems like the village had been waiting poised on an exhale for someone, anyone, to start the tide. Because then there is a flood, spanning volumes and series and worlds, scratched on anything from expensive calligraphy paper to the margins of a BBQ menu and distributed on an old clunker of a photocopier that in some accounting somewhere has been listed as both non-functional and disposed.

It becomes so much more than him.

Someone starts illustrating, and someone else starts coloring. And yet someone else starts writing fictional derivations of Kakashi’s own derivation and this, he thinks, is what it must feel like to be happy.

(One writer’s time-travelling, world-building epic is so goddamn astounding he finds himself first in line next to the photocopier exactly on time every Tuesday morning like clockwork to get his print.)

His nose isn’t always buried in Icha Icha any more, though you’d have to know him better than most do to even notice behind the lurid orange covers he tacks on everything. He’s still unflinchingly loyal to the classic originals but now his horizons have been blown wide open. There’s a new wave of pornography storming across the hidden continent and Kakashi has to stay at the forefront of it all to remain a big name in fan-writing. Viva la fucking revolution!

(Oh my Kentarou-kun, what could you and Takeshi-kun possibly do with those soft, smooth tentacles you’ve sprouted?  We should all find out.)

A Black Woman Speaks...of White Womanhood

by Beah Richards

A Black Woman Speaks…
Of White Womanhood
Of White Supremacy
Of Peace

It is right that I a woman
black,
should speak of white womanhood.
My fathers
my brothers
my husbands
my sons
die for it; because of it.
And their blood chilled in electric chairs,
stopped by hangman’s noose,
cooked by lynch mobs’ fire,
spilled by white supremacist mad desire to kill for profit,
gives me that right.

I would that I could speak of white womanhood
as it will and should be
when it stands tall in full equality.
But then, womanhood will be womanhood
void of color and of class,
and all necessity for my speaking thus will be past.
Gladly past.

But now, since ‘tis deemed a thing apart
supreme,
I must in searching honesty report
how it seems to me.
White womanhood stands in bloodied skirt
and willing slavery
reaching out adulterous hand
killing mine and crushing me.
What then is this superior thing
that in order to be sustained must needs feed upon my flesh?
How came this horror to be?
Let’s look to history.

They said, the white supremacist said
that you were better than me,
that your fair brow should never know the sweat of slavery.
They lied.
White womanhood too is enslaved,
the difference is degree.

They brought me here in chains.
They brought you here willing slaves to man.
You, shiploads of women each filled with hope
that she might win with ruby lip and saucy curl
and bright and flashing eye
him to wife who had the largest tender.
Remember?
And they sold you here even as they sold me.
My sisters, there is no room for mockery.
If they counted my teeth
they did appraise your thigh
and sold you to the highest bidder
the same as I.

And you did not fight for your right to choose
whom you would wed
but for whatever bartered price
that was the legal tender
you were sold to a stranger’s bed
in a stranger land
remember?
And you did not fight.
Mind you, I speak not mockingly
but I fought for freedom,
I’m fighting now for our unity.
We are women all,
and what wrongs you murders me
and eventually marks your grave
so we share a mutual death at the hand of tyranny.

They trapped me with the chain and gun.
They trapped you with lying tongue.
For, 'less you see that fault-
that male villainy
that robbed you of name, voice and authority,
that murderous greed that wasted you and me,
he, the white supremacist, fixed your minds with poisonous thought:
“white skin is supreme.”
and therewith bought that monstrous change
exiling you to things.
Changed all that nature had ill you wrought of gentle usefulness,
abolishing your spring.
Tore out your heart,
set your good apart from all that you could say,
think,
feel,
know to be right.
And you did not fight,
but set your minds fast on my slavery
the better to endure your own.

‘Tis true
my pearls were beads of sweat
wrung from weary bodies’ pain,
instead of rings upon my hands
I wore swollen, bursting veins.
My ornaments were the wip-lash’s scar
my diamond, perhaps, a tear.
Instead of paint and powder on my face
I wore a solid mask of fear to see my blood so spilled.
And you, women seeing
spoke no protest
but cuddled down in your pink slavery
and thought somehow my wasted blood
confirmed your superiority.

Because your necklace was of gold
you did not notice that it throttled speech.
Because diamond rings bedecked your hands
you did not regret their dictated idleness.
Nor could you see that the platinum bracelets
which graced your wrists were chains
binding you fast to economic slavery.
And though you claimed your husband’s name
still could not command his fidelity.

You bore him sons.
I bore him sons.
No, not willingly.
He purchased you.
He raped me,
I fought!
But you fought neither for yourselves nor me.
Sat trapped in your superiority
and spoke no reproach.
Consoled your outrage with an added diamond brooch.
Oh, God, how great is a woman’s fear
who for a stone, a cold, cold stone
would not defend honor, love or dignity!

You bore the damning mockery of your marriage
and heaped your hate on me,
a woman too,
a slave more so.
And when your husband disowned his seed
that was my son
and sold him apart from me
you felt avenged.
Understand:
I was not your enemy in this,
I was not the source of your distress.
I was your friend, I fought.
But you would not help me fight
thinking you helped only me.
Your deceived eyes seeing only my slavery
aided your own decay.
Yes, they condemned me to death
and they condemned you to decay.
Your heart whisked away,
consumed in hate,
used up in idleness
playing yet the lady’s part
estranged to vanity.
It is justice to you to say your fear equalled your tyranny.

You were afraid to nurse your young
lest fallen breast offend your master’s sight
and he should flee to firmer loveliness.
And so you passed them, your children, on to me.
Flesh that was your flesh and blood
that was your blood drank the sustenance of life from me.
And as I gave suckle I knew I nursed my own child’s enemy.
I could have lied,
told you your child was fed till it was dead of hunger.
But I could not find the heart to kill orphaned innocence.
For as it fed, it smiled and burped and gurgled with content
and as for color knew no difference.
Yes, in that first while
I kept your sons and daughters alive.

But when they grew strong in blood
and bone that was of my milk
you
taught them to hate me.
Put your decay in their hearts and upon their lips
so that strength that was of myself
turned and spat upon me,
despoiled my daughters, and killed my sons.
You know I speak true.
Though this is not true for all of you.

When I bestirred myself for freedom
and brave Harriet led the way
some of you found heart and played a part
in aiding my escape.
And when I made my big push for freedom
your sons fought at my sons’ side,
Your husbands and brothers too fell in that battle
when Crispus Attucks died.
It’s unfortunate that you acted not in the way of justice
but to preserve the Union
and for dear sweet pity’s sake;
Else how came it to be with me as it is today?
You abhorred slavery
yet loathed equality.

I would that the poor among you could have seen
through the scheme
and joined hands with me.
Then, we being the majority, could long ago have rescued
our wasted lives.
But no.
The rich, becoming richer, could be content
while yet the poor had only the pretense of superiority
and sought through murderous brutality
to convince themselves that what was false was true.

So with KKK and fiery cross
and bloodied appetites
set about to prove that “white is right”
forgetting their poverty.
Thus the white supremacist used your skins
to perpetuate slavery.
And woe to me.
Woe to Willie McGee.
Woe to the seven men of Martinsville.
And woe to you.
It was no mistake that your naked body on an Esquire calendar
announced the date, May Eighth.
This is your fate if you do not wake to fight.
They will use your naked bodies to sell their wares
though it be hate, Coca-Cola or rape.

When a white mother disdained to teach her children
this doctrine of hate,
but taught them instead of peace
and respect for all men’s dignity
the courts of law did legislate
that they be taken from her
and sent to another state.
To make a Troy Hawkins of the little girl
and a killer of the little boy!

No, it was not for the womanhood of this mother
that Willie McGee died
but for a depraved, enslaved, adulterous woman
whose lustful demands denied,
lied and killed what she could not possess.
Only three months before another such woman lied
and seven black men shuddered and gave up their lives.
These women were upheld in these bloody deeds
by the president of this nation,
thus putting the official seal on the fate
of white womanhood within these United States.
This is what they plan for you.
This is the depravity they would reduce you to.
Death for me
and worse than death for you.

What will you do?
Will you fight with me?
White supremacy is your enemy and mine.
So be careful when you talk with me.
Remind me not of my slavery, I know it well
but rather tell me of your own.
Remember, you have never known me.
You’ve been busy seeing me
as white supremacist would have me be,
and I will be myself.
Free!
My aim is full equality.
I would usurp their plan!
Justice
peace
and plenty for every man, woman and child
who walks the earth.
This is my fight!

If you will fight with me then take my hand
and the hand of Rosa Ingram, and Rosalee McGee,
and as we set about our plan
let our wholehearted fight be:
PEACE IN A WORLD WHERE THERE IS EQUALITY.

Seriously tho

archiveofourown.org
Hollow Men - The_Moss_Stomper - Final Fantasy VII [Archive of Our Own]
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
By Organization for Transformative Works

Also available on fanfiction.net!

Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Final Fantasy VII, Compilation of Final Fantasy VII
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Characters: Tseng (Compilation of FFVII), Reno, Rude (Compilation of FFVII)
Additional Tags: Angst, Grief/Mourning, Tragedy, Hurt No Comfort, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Turkfic, a bit of violence, a touch of pine, lots of pain, Everything Hurts, why did I descend into this pit of woe
Summary:

Rude speaks less. Reno seems to care less with each day that passes. Tseng has less and less control of his temper. Even Turks grieve.

[Follows the Turks after the end of BC up until Sector 7; weeks brimming with mounting desperation and disillusionment. Angst ahoy.]

- - - - -

This has lurked on my harddrive for 4 months, waiting for the final touches. Tried a different style with this one, and it was weird to come back to it after so long. I don’t know what to think of it, hah. What do you guys think? Did it work?

For those who have read The Unwelcome Guest, this is a prequel of sorts. The chance meeting at the end of chapter 5 takes place a few days after this story.