#Like it's fucked in and of itself that this part of my oppression is because I am deemed as a trans woman

[brick-van-dyke]

This, plus I'd argue that it often leads to being treated as trans women as well and being subjected to parts of transmisogyny, it's why I don't really think the whole TME and TMA thing really works very well in actually identifying transphobia because of how often we're all grouped together as either "lying men pretending to be women" or "lying men pretending to be women and lying about being female to male transgenders", or just "you don't look like either so you must be a male" or some other brand of transphobia and intersexism as well mixed in.

Tbh actually I think that's kind of the point. There's so much intersexism and sexism in general that goes into the whole idea behind "all those who don't conform to gender roles and are their assigned sex are automatically trans women" in terms of grouping us all together as a monolithic entity. "You can't be a happy trans man, so you must be a trans woman" and "it's only when you're unhappy that you're a trans man who's a victim that we must save". Like that in and of itself is kind of the point with transphobia. We can't exist because we undermine the idea that "the issue of transness is trans women so trans men and intersex people are all trans women by default, unless they are sad or traumatised in any sort of way because then they're victims of trans women". It's only ever one or the other, and that always changes he idenity you're perceived as because the only "real" ftm in existence are "victims" they have been able to label as 'detrans victims of the transgender cult". If you're not, you don't exist; you're not supposed to exist. So you "must" be a trans woman, that's the "only" explanation for your being here. So they treat you as that because anything else is a lie.

A lot of the times I've been called transphobic bs on the street or online, or treated like shit in an institutional setting like a hospital, it typically starts off with assuming I'm a pre-transition trans woman and start treating me with either microagressions meant towards trans women or explicitly start calling me things like "a creepy man pretending to have a girl's name", and then when I say I'm a trans man they either deny the fact I'm a trans man or insist that's another word for "trans woman" because that ruins their transmisogynistic world view of "all trans women look like men" and "trans men don't exist" or "are broken women so they can't look like men", and I don't look like a frail, broken down victim to them, so I "must be" the former.

"Trans men benifit from invisibility", actually we suffer from the intentional erasure of our identities, history, and culture. An erasure, that is violently enforced through the constant assault, rape, and community isolation that we have to endure silently (because if we speak up we are further punished, further pushed out of communities, and silenced harder).

[necronomeconomicism]

Ok gotta talk about it.

As a Jewish historian, I fucking hate Israel in ways most probably will never be able to comprehend. I'm going to try and explain it anyways. The central creation myth of Israel is that it is Jewish, and then consequently, that Israel is a part of Jewishness. Its easy to simply state this is false, but fully comprehending this and putting it into practice in thought and deed seems rare to me.

The evil at the heart of this violence predates the recent acceleration of genocide. Israel is a colony, and more than that, an antisemitic fraud itself. After WW2, when Israel was being founded, the Jews of Europe generally did not wave goodbye to their neighbors and head to the promised land. Many were expelled from their homes. Zionism itself, as an action, was a false choice at the time. A mere excuse to place an ally in the middle east, and an excuse to complete the expulsion and destruction of the European Jew. The Zionist Jew is more than complicit in this, they actively seek the destruction and assimilation of all other Jews.

Many fail to realize, and largely because of Israel, that Jews are not inherently white, Ashkenazi, European-descended people. Our faith and culture has an immense variety that is spread all across the globe. Jewishness, in population and volume of culture, exists more so outside of Israel than within it. Israel is for a very specific kind of Jew. The kind that lets Yiddish die, that attaches themselves to European things, that makes themselves and their practices as white as possible.

And they have the nerve, the fucking belligerent GALL, to frame themselves as the necessary saviors of our people. To the Zionist, questioning Israel is to question Jewishness itself. They bake adoration for the colonial machine into their very prayers, and push them on us even as children. To *not* oppress, to *not* kill, to *not* genocide, is to invite death. This is the core of fascistic thought, of course. "Kill them before they kill us." And they KNOW this too, they really do. The truth of that irony does not matter, because as is true for all fascists, the truth itself does not matter to them. They wanted this, they wanted this even before the British saw it in their best interest to give them the land. Any excuse to RETVRN, as the neo-nazis say of Rome, or the German Empire, or whatever the fuck stupid country they want to poorly animate the corpse of. Some select Zionists even *sided with the fucking Nazis* in agreement they should abandon Europe to colonize Palestine. (Haavara Agreement)

My people have proved time and time and time again you don't need a nation state to have an enduring culture. We have protected ourselves for thousands of years without the help of these spiteful, doom-saying maniacs. I was going to post something like this on Passover, but that would be hypocritical. The state of Israel doesn't actually have shit to do with Jewishness. Hear Israel (the state and supporters, Israel the icon) I should outlive it long enough to bury it. (old yiddish curse)

Free Palestine. Donate what you can, they need it right now.

[prickly-paprikash]

Kendrick doesn't just hate Drake as a person. He hates the very idea of Drake.

Hip-Hop is rooted in revolution. In defiance. These are the songs of an oppressed group of people, and decades upon decades people have hated it. Accused of being meaningless and invalid. Media outlets took steps to belittle hip-hop and make sure it isn't recognized as an art form and as a means to fight back.

2Pac spoke of wealth disparity and inequality. Tupac was literally a member of a communist organization when he was younger and never stopped speaking against capitalism.

Lauryn Hill spoke of the struggles a woman faces. Not just women, but black women. Salt-N-Peppa. Queen Latifah. MISSY FUCKING ELLIOT.

N.W.A made sure people knew about police brutality and violence against the Black community.

And now, in this day and age, we're also experiencing an explosion of Queer Hip-Hop. Lil Nas X is at the forefront of this. Lil Uzi Vert came out as non-binary and uses they/them pronouns, even when they knew that a lot of their fans would never use it or even respect them for it. Auntie Diaries, a song about a young man who grew up in a transphobic environment and bought into those beliefs, but could never fully do it because his Uncle loved him so much and taught him a lot of life lessons, and that wisdom translated to him accepting his cousin as a woman as well.

Drake is none of that.

He's the perfect representation of what people think hip-hop is. Flexing. Posturing. Objectifying women. A fucker so insecure he bought 2Pac's ring just to feel like he's part of the black community. Rejected by Rihanna publicly. Tried to groom Millie Bobby Brown. Kissed and inappropriately touched an underage girl during his concert. His songs have inspired so many young boys to treat girls like shit. His belief that the amount of rings and chains and cars he has is the true meaning of success.

Additional Edit: This is my fault. If this post gains more views, then it would be remiss of me not to add to this. It was my fault to begin with, not stating this beforehand because while I did know, I got lost in celebrating Hip-Hop in a place that doesn't usually do so, and rightfully so.

2Pac did fight for wealth equality and better social living for the black community. He also has a long, long history of battery, domestic abuse, and sexual harassment against women. Specifically against women of color. He made a song to celebrate his own mother, but outright refused to give the same show of respect to other women in his life. His hypocritical nature was brushed off in later decades, just the way I did now.

N.W.A is the same. Sexual assault charges, violence—they spoke of Police reform, but refuses to give the same treatment back towards the women in their lives.

50 cent refuses to backtrack on any of his misogynistic lyrics.

Modern rappers of today, such as the dead XXXtentacion. 6ix9ine. Kodak Black.

I do love Hip-Hop. I love rap. And the music itself has always been anti-authoritarian at its core, because those are its roots. And I was happy that circles that did not normally know of it or enjoy it were getting into it, even for one thing like this rap feud.

Lil Nas X, Little Simz, Childish Gambino, Missy Elliot, Queen Latifah, Lauryn Hill—rappers who have at the very least consistently tried to put their money where their mouth is. Who have tried to act in accordance to what they rap and write and sing for.

@shehungthemoon @ohsugarsims finnthehumanmp3 were the ones who rightfully clarified in the comments. I know an apology won't correct my hypocrisy or my stupidity. I should have added all of this before making this post, but I wanted so badly to celebrate a genre of music but failed to do my due diligence in showing a better, holistic view of it. If anyone felt triggered, offended, troubled, frustrated or any other intense negative emotions surrounding this, please do block me. I'm sorry.

[mahoutoons]

i'm feeling controversial today so here's another hot take. and before you type away at your keyboards, know that this is all coming from a south asian.

white leftists have got to stop acting like christianity is the only religion that deserves to be criticized and you cannot touch any other religion because that'd be racist and bigoted. because as an indian who's watching my country progress towards hindu nationalism, this attitude doesn't help at all.

white people see hinduism as this exotic brown religion that's so much more progressive but don't know the violence of the caste system, how it others a large portion of the population on the basis of caste, literally branding them as "untouchables". they teach us in school that this problem is a thing of the past but the caste system is still alive and shows itself in violent ways. and that's not even covering how non hindus are treated in the country. muslims especially are being killed, have their houses bulldozed, businesses destroyed, and are being denied housing, our fucking prime minister called them infiltrators and there's this fear among hindu extremists that they'll outnumber the hindus in the country. portraying hinduism as this exotic religion does a disservice to all those oppressed by the hindutva ideology

similarly, white people see buddhism as this hippie religion that's all about peace but have no idea how extremist buddhists in myanmar have been persecuting the rohingya muslims for years and drive them out of the country.

if anything portraying these religions as exotic hippie brown religions is a type of orientalism itself.

and also y'all have got to realize that just because christianity has institutional power in america doesn't mean there aren't parts of the world where they are persecuted on the basis of religion. yes karen from florida who cries christophobia because she sees rainbow sprinkles on a cake is stupid but christian oppression DOES exist in non western countries where they're a minority. pakistani christians get lynched almost on a daily basis over blasphemy accusations. just look up the case of asia bibi, a pakistani christian woman who was sentenced to death on blasphemy charges because of something she said when she was being denied water because it was "forbidden" for a christian and a muslim to drink from the same utensil and she'd made it unclean just by touching it (which is ALSO rooted in casteism and part of pakistani christians' oppression also comes from the fact that a lot of them are dalit but that's a whole other discussion). and that's just one christian group, this isn't even going into what copts, assyrians, armenians etc have faced and continue to face. saying that christians everywhere are privileged because of american christianity actually harms christian minorites in non western countries.

and one last thing because this post is getting too long: someone being anti america doesn't automatically mean they're the good guys. too many times i've been seeing westerners on twitter dot com praise the fucking taliban just because they hate america. yes, the same taliban who banned education for women, thinks women should be imprisomed at home, and consistently oppresses religious and ethnic minorities in afghanistan. yes, america's war on afghanistan was bad and they SHOULD be called out for their war crimes there. no, the taliban are still not the good guys. BOTH of them are bad. you cannot pretend to care about muslims and brown people if you praise the taliban. because guess what? most of their victims are BROWN MUSLIM WOMEN. but of course white libs who praise them don't rub their two braincells together to make that conclusion.

this post has gotten too long and i've just been rambling so the point of this post is: white "leftists" whose politics are primarily america centric should stop acting like criticism of ideologies like hindutva, buddhist extremism, and islamic extremism BY people affected by these ideologies is the same as racism or religious intolerance because that helps literally no one except the extremist bigots. also america is not the centre of the world, just because something isn't happening in america doesn't mean it isn't happening elsewhere

[sissa-arrows]

Do Christians/Catholics and Jews in Muslim countries have to pay dhimmi nowadays? Or was that a medieval thing? (I know ISIS did it in the territories they occupied but obviously I'm not counting them)

First thing first Dhimmi is the name of men who had to pay the tax and it means “protected person” the tax itself was called Jizya.

No Muslim state currently apply it or wish to apply it right now.

That being said the Jizya is very often misunderstood so I will explain what it is. You have to put things in their historical context. People were very often at war and borders were not as secure as they are (mostly) nowadays. In Islam you can “draft” Muslim men if a war was to happen but you cannot “draft” non Muslim men they have to chose to join the army (some didn’t allow non muslim men in the army making them automatically dhimmi) So the Jizya was a way to participate to the protection of ALL the people (including non Muslims) for men who were physically able to take arms to defend the land but didn’t. Women, children, elderly and disabled people who were not Muslim didn’t have to pay it. Same with non Muslim abled men who wanted and were allowed to take arms instead to protect the land and its people. In the majority of cases but not all people who couldn’t afford it were also automatically forgiven. The Jizya was also a way to be allowed autonomy and freedom in their religious practices.

It’s also important to say that the amount was often based on existing taxes before the Islamic conquest in the area and that Muslims had to pay their own taxes that non Muslims didn’t have to pay. (For exemple I don’t even live in a Muslim country and I give 2.5% of my savings, value of my gold jewelry included, to someone in need or to charity every year because it’s an obligation for Muslims.).

In some cases Muslims also had to pay the Jizya. In what is today day Algeria and part of Libya for example the Imazighen were like “we’re okay with the whole religion thing we revert to Islam but Arabs (actual Arabs not Arabized Imazighen) can’t rule us we will rule ourselves”. Because of that the Arabs did not trust the Imazighen with weapons they didn’t allow them to serve in the military and made them pay the Jizya instead. Which was lived as an injustice (they also had to pay the Muslim specific taxes and making them pay the Jizya was implying that they were not Muslims) and led to revolts against actual Arabs not against Islam.

Lastly and this is not against anon at all as it seems to be a genuine question, people (again not anon) who mention the dhimmi status or the Jizya as a way to make Islam look oppressive and bad are stupid as fuck. Because it was at a time where Europeans gave you the option of conversion, exile or death. You can think the Jizya is wrong but it clearly was a HUGE improvement for a lot of the places where it was applied and it was better than what the white Christian neighbors were offering to religious minorities.

[burningcheese-merchant]

Yes,more please!

More Yandere Beast stuff? At your service, three short headcanons for each one

SHADOW MILK

Has one specific Pure Vanilla puppet that he treasures and never brings any harm to. It's the most well-crafted and detailed one of all. He calls it his Mini Silly-Vanilly and he makes it and the puppet he also made of himself kiss and do NSFW things

Tries to be A Bro™️ and help his fellow yanderes win over their respective loves. He eggs them on when they feel like ranting and raving about their love lives (or maybe he just likes gossip and drama idk), helps mastermind courting plans, gives romantic advice of dubious quality, solicited and not (mostly not). His help gets mixed reactions. Tough crowd :/

Already planned their wedding way in advance, but keeps making changes because he's always hit with new inspiration (making them playfully chase each other all the way up the stairs of the Spire of Truth and Deceit, and publicly executing their enemies in increasingly ridiculous ways are staying put, though)

ETERNAL SUGAR

Got Shadow Milk to make her a Hollyberry body pillow. It's nice, but she ended up tired of it really quickly. She wants the real Hollyberry to snuggle and squeeze and use as a pillow. (She still uses the body pillow though)

Would very much like to steal Holly's dresses and wear them herself, even if they might not fit. Would also like a lock or two of her hair to put in a necklace, or make into a bracelet, or weave into the strings of her harp (wtf lol)

Has mastered dozens of love songs on her harp, both written and composed by others and by she herself, all to be played and sung to Holly. A significant portion of them are very dark and unsettling, but she either doesn't notice or doesn't care

MYSTIC FLOUR

Once thought of the concept of playing "strip Go" (like strip poker, just with Go) with Dark Cacao. No one has ever seen her turn so red before. She immediately barricaded herself in her room and did not come out for almost a whole week

Keeps replaying that moment where he was beaten and on his knees and she was caressing his cheek, tempting him to look up and into her eyes, in her mind over and over and over and over and over and over again. It has practically tattooed itself to the insides of her eyelids. She can't make it stop nor does she want to

Ends up wandering along the exact same path through the mountains that Cacao took while he was lost and alone whenever she leaves the Ivory Pagoda. Some deranged part of her insists that she might find him again if she keeps looking, and the other, equally deranged parts of her seem to agree...

BURNING SPICE

Absolutely fucking loses his shit if and when any of the Wild Spices speak ill of Golden Cheese at all. He can roast her all he wants, but the second anyone else tries, he 180s to "KEEP MY WIFE'S NAME OUT YO FUCKIN MOUTH" mode

Is so out of his goddamn mind that he's already attuned himself to both Golden's aura and her scent, so he can literally track her and hunt her down like a ravenous animal no matter where she goes. He is a predator in the truest sense of the word

Also often fantasizes about marrying Golden, like how Milk wants to marry Vanilla. But what he thinks the most about is the wedding night... and the night after that, too. And the night after that. Every night is going to be their wedding night, once he gets his hands on her... Every single fucking night

SILENT SALT

Keeps trying to write White Lily letters and poems detailing his feelings. They keep coming out wrong (aka they are extremely long and rambling, not to mention fucking weird and creepy), so he keeps throwing them away and starting over repeatedly

Has considered learning magic to impress Lily, but can't get the hang of it. (Has also tried to brew a love potion for her, but can't get the hang of that, either)

He never takes that helmet off, but his stare is nevertheless so damn pointed and downright oppressive that Lily can sense whenever he's watching her, even if he's dozens of feet away and she can't even spot where he is. He comes out when she asks him to, at least...

[olderthannetfic]

https://www.tumblr.com/olderthannetfic/756016587973279744/httpswwwtumblrcomolderthannetfic755410324078

No, I'm not 17. I just have more than one personality trait and don't need to make my orientation's cutesy colorway a core part of my outfits or make my orientation itself stand in for a personality. We all go through that phase in high school or college, but then you move on. You grow up. You realize this is one fairly small component of who you are. You get hobbies and interests and opinions and stop draping your wall in four different flags or putting them up in the windows so everyone knows you're being so bold and brave aka existing. You stop engaging in Pride discourse about a parade that takes up one day of your life and focus on something remotely important, like laundry or a new video game or a bug crawling across your monitor.

Grown adults giving a fuck about some colored fabric is embarrassing. "This fabric excludes me!" "This fabric is ugly!" GET! A! SECOND! PERSONALITY TRAIT! Get a hobby! Learn to sew, play more video games, RP, read, do something remotely engaging or interesting instead of being old enough to vote and yet also still crying because the stripes on the fabric hurt your feelings or don't make your eyeballs happy.

When you have anything - literally anything, even one other thing - going on in your life, Pride becomes cringe terminally online bullshit and you realize the meanie weenie fabrics can't hurt you.

Because they don't matter. They're pieces of fabric.

If you want to have a victim complex or a pity party, you should probably get a real problem. This is the same reason I didn't feel bad for anti-maskers. The fabric is not oppressing you.

--

Ah, so only emotionally 17. Got it.

[sinner-sunflower]

A HH Lucifer-centric AU 19/?

PART 1, PART 2, PART 3, PART 4, PART 5, PART 6, PART 7, PART 8, PART 9, PART 10, PART 11, PART 12, PART 13, PART 14, PART 15, PART 16, PART 17, PART 18, PART 20, PART 21, PART 22

Hello!!! How's everyone's weekend?!

I had the most relaxing trip of my life. Me and my best friend went on a picnic and the place was so gorgeous I wish I was rich enough to have that kind of landscaping.

Anyway!

Here's my update. I hope you all enjoy.

As always: likes, reblogs, and ESPECIALLY COMMENTS are so appreciated and it honestly gives me motivation. We're near the end meaning this might end this week :((

Disclaimer: I did get some help with chat gpt for some paragraphs just to get my ideas across and also because English is not my first languagee. I edited them of course myself because u know how automated shit can be.

I'm learning I promise!

-------------------------------------------------

Every denizen of Hell held their breath in anticipation as each agonizing minute passed without a word from the King. Some feared he had met his demise the moment he entered, leaving them grasping at false hope. The Overlords pondered the same grim possibility but dared not voice it in the presence of higher demons.

Amidst the tension, the task of pacifying Paimon fell upon the Goetias, who found themselves ensnared in his relentless tirade about their illustrious King and their collective duty to fix Hell's problems, a duty he believed lay solely with them, not Lucifer.

The Sins, meanwhile, remained vigilant, their eyes fixated on the entrance through which Lucifer had disappeared, searching for any subtle sign of their brother's fate.

Satan, ever watchful, kept a peripheral eye on Goodie. The Good of Humanity had fallen into an unusual silence since Lucifer embarked on his suicide mission. Unlike the rest, she wore neither worry nor despair on her face, hell, not even of glee; instead, there was a knowing glint in her eyes the Sin of Wrath definitely did not like. He could only hope Lucifer emerges from all of this still himself.

At the very back, Vox stole a glance at his rival, noting the whatever-the-fuck thing he had with the King. He half-expected the radio demon to remain his usual apathetic self. And he was half right. The guy was smiling with no care in the world. Yet, to his surprise, a strained smile is etched the demon's face. It's not as noticeable but if you've been looking at Alastor as closely as Vox had been for the past how many years, it's like a giant pimple you can't ignore. There was a glassy look in his eyes, as if the radio demon is going to-

Vox wonders incredulously if his wiring got fried by that shockwave earlier because there is no fucking way.

The media demon is silently thankful he couldn't finish that thought as they are knocked down once more.

----------------------------------------------

It all unfolded in a blink, leaving them no time to respond. The ground quaked with a force that they realized was from the towering tree that's trembling before them. Roots and branches contorted, twisting inwards and outwards like a well-oiled machine, as if the very essence of the tree was tearing itself apart. Red flowers all around withered as the oppressive miasma dispersed. Then, with a thunderous crash, the colossal tree collapsed into a single heap.

The dust clears presenting a lone figure stands in the center of it all.

Belphagor: Lucifer!

There stood the King of Hell, his horns protruding proudly and his corrupted halo casting an ominous black glow. His six wings spread wide, a testament to his power and dominance. It was Lucifer. But... something seemed off.

The Sin of Pride appeared altered. His once pure white attire had transformed into black, adorned with accents of red. His porcelain skin, once flawless, now bore a grayish, melancholic hue. However, the most striking change lay in his hair—it was no longer the radiant gold of angels, but a sinister black with tendrils of creeping red, moving like of the deadly miasma.

Lucifer looked like a shadow of himself.

Before anyone could react, the fallen angel lunged towards Goodie, swiftly pinning her to the ground.

Lucifer: Ẏ̷̆��̨̖̯͎̤͎͖̪̊͌͑̓̇o̵̻͗̔͊̃͘̚͠ṳ̸͎̍̊͗̌̈ ̵̱͙͇͛͑i̴̳͈̗̺͒̏̃̀̚͝n̸̢̧̖͖͚͉͙̤͇͆̃͛͊̿͛́̚͘s̸͇͚̱͍͈̤̘̒̂̈́̆͗̈̆ͅó̵̇̅́͜l̶͇̝̞̜̰̘͊̒͂̓͝ë̶̮͔̰́̀̑̔̽͊̐n̶̡̧̗̤̘̞̑̇̀t̴͙̲̳̦̦͎͔̠̔ ̵̮̰̞͐̌͌b̸̧͚̾i̴̧̜̪̳̤͔̹͉̦̇͠t̴͖̐̀̾̌̽̎̂̅͜ͅc̵̛̞̳͛̋̆̏͆̏h̷̟̺̬̗͗̉̓̍!̴͉̲̼̪͓̻̪̻̀̊ ̷͇͓̲̬͍̦̙̹͓̔̈́͊̇

Goodie chokes from the stench of hellfire on her skin.

Goodie: I never lied to you, angel. I told you that you were the key.

Lucifer: Y̷̢̘̻̩̲͐͋̐̌́́͝ŏ̴͎̌́u̷̟̯͋ ̶͔̝̘̓̈́̄̈́́̀̐ǵ̸͍͌͝͝á̵̧̫͔̤̘̹̓͗͂v̶̢͕̘̼̦̰̐ẽ̵̝̥͈̝̓͋̌̋͠ ̸̝͙̐̓m̵̩͖͍͒͌͛̔e̸̤̹̻̪͇͔̽̇ ̵̜̬̰̟̖̘͈̐̆̀á̸̻̜̬̫̝͇͚ ̷̢̗̠̮͊ͅf̶̡̩̟͘͝a̵̢͎͆k̷̲̰͓̤̐͌̽͐̿̕͠e̷̛̪̖̅̒̀̓͐͜ͅ ̸̭͙̫̂̚ͅs̴̩̝̺͕̲̯͒e̸̮͍̤̦̯̎̈́̔̌̇͌ä̷̳̖͓̒̕l̶̦̬̙̘̝̉̏̔̈́͆͘͠.̸̨͓͉͒̄̚ ̶͈͆̽̿̋̑̈̕T̶̗̹̱̞̭̩͉̍͆̀̚é̵̹̗͖ļ̶̜̬͍͓̗̿͑̾̋̏̕l̸̛̀̆̓̾ͅ ̷̡̗̼̀̿̓m̸̛̗̞͕̠̟ę̵̬̰̻̮͎̉̓ ̵̥̩̞̮͈͖̅̃̑͜͝ŵ̷͈̥͕̦̘̙̏h̶̝͈̬͖̲̯̝͊̓̕ȳ̴̱̓̄̎͝ ̵̛̣̭̘͔͋̏́̀̋I̵̡̦̬̬̫͓̭͆̍͌͗̍́̀ ̶̛͈͆s̵̛̗͙̙̭h̷̝͌͌͜͝͠ȏ̴̝̹̻͚̾́̃̔͘͝ư̸̮͓̰̖͔̙̇́͊̽̐̔l̶͙̟̙̣̮̱̞̂͌̏͗d̴̢͊͒̉̈ ̸̠̠̮̉̿n̴͚̯̜̫̊o̴��̡͉̪̥̗̹̲̄̽̄̀t̴̢̺̱̊̉̎̕͜͠ ̷̛̹̜̿͝ķ̴̻͚̙͔̈́͊̍í̸̥̼͕̮̾̿͌l̷̢͂̏͆͊̃͠l̷̡̨͎̪̝̖̱̽̽̓͐̀́̈́ ̷͖̿̋͛y̶̻̝̆͂͝ỏ̸̧̹͇̫̀̐̀̍͋̃ų̶̟̩͔͇̝͚̎̈́̑̕͠ ̵͍̃͗͠ẁ̷̝̟̥̰̘͎͒͛́͒h̵̦̜̩̬͋͐̋ė̶̃͜ṙ̸̡̧̟͉̻̬͚̅e̵̤̮̟͌̓ ̴̹͕̮͍̺̲͇̉y̴̨̛̪͛̍̓̏ô̴͔͍͉̅̈́̌u̴̙͖͖͎͐͛̒ ̶̟̙͍̖̭̃̌́l̵̙̽̈́̐͝á̷̡͔̞͈̜͎͒͌̑̐͝y̴̼̹̪̻̒̓̽̀̚?̴̛̻̘͈͍͕̒̃̀̓̏

Goodie: It was not a fake. Without it, you would have perished the moment you set foot in-ah!-side.

Lucifer: H̵̹̩̗̑̎̈́́̕o̷̘͝ẇ̷̢̨̛͇̞̝̦̠̎ ̸̯̹͋̃͑͘͝d̴͉̭̟̫̙̠͂à̶͎̮̝̺̺̥͙̓͛͂̒́ŗ̴̡̺̬̭̝̳̓̈́̑̍͝ĕ̷͓̕ ̸̺͈̖̣̳̃y̴̜̞͆͑̉͠o̴͓͋ủ̸͈͎̳̥͈̞̍̀͜ ̸̥̑͐̇̂̈́̐͝t̶͓͋r̶̼͠ỉ̸͍̻̫̩͍̓͌̍̄͝ċ̷̞̤̭̳̈́̓́̃k̶̖̹͙̋̓̑̀̅̔͊ ̵͙̠̻̜̎ͅt̵̛͇̀̑̀h̴̛̥͉̲̬̰͛̊̀̅͝e̵͇̮̫̟̗̍͊̓ ̶̰͎̟̜̗̈̋͂̓K̶̞͉̰̫̂͂̋͝ͅi̷̯̟̤̽͛̈͑n̵̬͙͑̉̍͊̕͠ģ̸͖͍̪̉͗̂͠ ̷̣̯͖̭̜̀ͅǫ̵̨̣̿̽̑͜f̶͔͖̬͐͌ ̸̼̅̿͒̎́Ḣ̴͎͕̳́ͅe̶̛̞̱̦͈l̴̡̲̯͔̰̱̂̅̀̄̈͗͋l̸͍̩̯̗̏?̴̯̥̭̦͙̃̏!̸̼̹͍͖͒̊̅̊̌̔̍

Goodie: Do not delude yourself. There was no chance that this could have ended differently.

Lucifer was heaving so much that Goodie could sense his energy waning. Seizing the opportunity, she managed to escape his clutches. Despite the danger surrounding her, (such bothersome loyalty) she couldn't resist letting out a chuckle, teasing the angel one last time.

Goodie: I gotta say, angel, I do like your new look. Corruption definitely suits you.

Lucifer: F̸̢̨͔̲͖̖̳͍̑̽͜U̵̼̪̰͈̟̜͙͌́́̅̈́̔C̷̢̯͓̘̬͖̝̎K̶̳̖͓̘̝̗̀̓̈́̾̉̾̾͊͠͝Î̶͇͕͚̪̭̎N̴͉̟͍̻͇̚G̵̠̲̰͈̖̎͂͋̾ ̴̧̥͕̹̭̘̜͍̟̎̂̔͗̋̿̒B̶̢̦̤̥͕͉͋̂͌́́͂̈̔͠I̸̗̭̼͊̐͂̀̈́̐̏̐T̸̠̹͓̮̱̻̹̯͉̦̍̔̽̍̄͌̆C̸͍̩̉̈́̈́̄͒̓͑̾͝ͅḨ̴̦̙͉̫̪̫̇̀̄̈́̋͘!

Lucifer then collapses to his knees, clutching his throat as if he's drowning in searing heat. Confusion and desperation fill his voice as he struggles for breath.

Lucifer: How? *gasp* why? *gasp* -trusted-

There's a flurry of movement around him, voices overlapping and blending into a chaotic white noise. Amidst it all, someone speaks with a commanding tone, their words cutting through the haze.

Alastor: Listen to only me, my dear.

There was a faint humming of music? Was Alastor here?

Alastor: I'm here, my Majesty. Calm yourself. You need not to panic.

He's trying, he really is. But his ears are muddled and he can't understand anything anymore. Everything is happening all at once, leaving him disoriented and terrified.

As consciousness begins to slip through his grasp, the Sin of Pride feels a sense of detachment. A new presence moves in front of him, accompanied by a chorus of apologies that echo faintly in his ears.

A cool sensation brushes against his fevered forehead, offering a brief respite from the overwhelming heat and chaos. And with that fleeting moment of relief, Lucifer succumbs to the darkness.

Roo: How fun~

--------------------------------------

Transformation central! (Transformation central!)

Reformation central! (Reformation central!)

Transmogrification central!

[sergle]

I really truly, from the bottom of my heart, hate you bitches so much, because on the tiktok of literally COCK AND BALL jokes w brittany broski, there were a few notes/messages like this:

And I KNOW you don't think anyone's going to check. You had someone go into your askbox and say "hiii brittany broski is shitty about palestine she's really ignorant :/" and you went oh omg I didn't know!! thanks for telling me! So I checked! This is in reference to her talking in her podcast, because people were asking why she hadn't done any big press statements about Palestine, you didn't retweet this or that, you must not care, don't you care, what's your stance, etc etc please say more OKAY COOL. So what's going on there? What did Brittany say on her podcast? Is she a Bad Person? Can I have some transcript, please? ____ "Hey guys, before we get into this week's episode, I want to talk to you about the ongoing and prolonged suffering and loss of life in Gaza, in Israel, and the oppression of Palestinian people widespread. I don't ever want it to be a question that I would ever not be against the oppression of any group of people, that I would ever stand on the side of the oppressor." "There was a lot of fear of misusing my platform." ... "I will admit that I was nervous to talk about it, because I don't want to say the wrong thing. And this is too fucking serious of an issue to misspeak, or to spread misinformation, or to speak over or for someone." ... "So I want to take a moment on my biggest platform- which is this podcast, to say that I stand with the people of Palestine, I stand for the liberation of Palestinian people." ... "Every day, to log on to social media, and be just inundated with graphic, unimaginable violence, and loss, and grief, it's just--There are no words." ... "And I feel helpless. That's part of it too, when you feel helpless, the last thing you want to do is talk to people about it-- but visibility is a resource in and of itself. And I can offer that." ... "The outpouring of rage and passion online, and anger at what's happening, I would argue needs to be dedicated and focused on our elected officials. We live in a democracy- albeit an inherently flawed one- we live in a democracy where we have elected officials who were elected and put in power to represent us, and if we feel misrepresented, if we feel underrepresented in foreign affairs? These officials have public phone numbers and emails. There are scripts available online to express your disdain and your rage, and unfortunately that's one of the only ways we'll see actionable change."   "If you expected more from me, it's a terrible feeling- but I don't want to center myself, this needs to be all eyes on Palestine right now, where the real activism is happening. I would encourage you to follow journalists that are on the ground, people who are in Gaza, we need to be listening to them. I would also hope that we're at a point in this conversation where I can express my desire to stand in solidarity with the people of Palestine and that NOT meaning or suggesting or condoning anti-Semitism of any kind. There's a rise of anti-Semitism and islamophobia in the United States and it's just-- it's disgusting, and it's scary, so I want that to be said too. I just wanted to share that I am experiencing part of this collective sense of helplessness and hopelessness-- but it DOESN'T HAVE to be hopeless. I'm going to include a phone number in the description of this episode where, if you don't know the name of your senators or your Congressman, it's never too late to learn, and you can reach out to them." _______ Hm. What a bitch!! Yeah, just so ignorant and uncaring. Obviously she's not keeping up with anything. Should've retweeted more shit ig!

[mossy-aro]

You really think there is no discrimination because we're ace/aro??? what the fuck are you a 2017 exclusionist? listen to literally any episode of the ace couple podcast and stop spreading misinformation holy fuck. By saying that YOU are literally the one saying aspec oppression isn't real, when the erasure and so much more is already part of it

AKSJDJSKDKSKDKSKSKSMSKSNSKSNSKSSKSMSJSJSJNDJSJSKDKDKDKS LMFAOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

no you’re completely correct. im exactly like a 2017 exclusionist and i definitely said all of the things you’re accusing me of. im sorry but WHAT are you on about. im assuming this is about this post where in my first sentence i literally talk about how. aphobia is literally a real thing. that exists? would love it if you could point out WHERE exactly in that post i said ‘discrimination towards aces and aros doesn’t exist’. please point it out to me.

to reiterate what i said in that post for the people who clearly did not understand (hey anon!), i pointed out that aphobia manifests itself differently than other forms of discrimination because its underlined by hyperinvisibility as opposed to hypervisibility. furthermore, that while systems do not specifically target ace and aro people on the basis on their identity (due to the fact that most people do not know we exist), this does not exclude systemic discrimination from affecting aspecs in targeted ways. and that on top of that, that there are pervasive beliefs about compulsory sexuality + romanticism (as well as amatonormativity more generally) that exist in society which alienate and dehumanise aspecs and make our lives worse on a more social + interpersonal level.

like what about all of that ^^^ is saying i don’t think discrimination exists. please learn to read and process things like genuinely

[fandomfluffandfuck]

https://www.tumblr.com/fandomfluffandfuck/760023370649812992?source=share

PLEEEAASEE WRITE A FULL THING ABOUT THIS OMGGGG 🙏

For reference, my ask box is no longer open for requests, but this is from before I closed it, so I will be writing for this ask.

related to this, that reads, "sorry i got a huge wet spot on my boxers and started whining and whimpering and rutting against you while we were play fighting. ignore it. uhhh yeah it will happen again. sorry"

HELL YEAH, I will write that and I will write the fuck out of it!!

Pre-war setting, getting together, grinding, almost underage vibes? like this is post-high-school, so they're of age, but there's also discussion about feeling young, y'know?

Time doesn't feel real for Steve or Bucky right now. It's purgatory in the sticky, hot, barely-breathable-heat-clinging-to-your-throat summer after miraculously lasting through all of high school. They're supposed to be real adults now--they graduated, they're done, move on and be a part of the real world, why don't'cha, boys? They're supposed to be adults with jobs, saving up for their brides and eventual babies as the breadwinners. Men of their houses. Respectively.

Bucky is... well... he has the job part, not so much the savings part (in this economy?) or the gal who he's supposed to be going steady with, dreaming about wedding then knocking her up with his babies, as many as they can have. He's got gals, that ain't the problem, the problem is that none of 'em that he brings around ever last that long to think about rings.

All that said, if Bucky is nearly there, then Steve certainly isn't there at all. He ain't an adult yet. Not really. He doesn't look like an adult, for one, he's still short and scrawny, far from the strapping family man he's supposed to grow up and be. But, also, he has no job, he has no savings, he has no gals mooning after him. All he has is this one last short season of responsibility-less summer before it all gets serious.

So, Steve plans to savor this one last summer as much as he can. Meaning, a'course, while his Ma is out for her evening shift at the hospital and before Bucky has to high tail it out of the matchbox-sized Rogers' apartment to make it to work bright and early in the morning, here they are. Alone. Just two pals, lounging around and melting into the sofa with the oppressive Brooklyn summer heat. Trying and failing to stay cool, even with sheets over the windows to keep the light out.

It's just the two of them and their sleeveless undershirts and boxers, sweating through the fabric. And, like always, when it's just the two of them, it's devolved into reckless stupidity--

Boys will be boys.

They start out with Bucky reading one of his sci-fi books and chuckling to himself, sprawled out to ward off excessive heat, while Steve sketches quietly next to him, more curled up since the warmth does him more good than bad. They're shoulder to shoulder. Nothing weird. They've always been close. They grew up in each other's pockets, spending as much time at the other's crowded home as their own. But. Then, they're closer than close as they're rolling off the bed and onto the floor with two matching "oof"s of air being punched from their chests.

Nearly immediately from the commotion of landing in a heap of sweaty boys in the floor, the scuffed, beat-up coffee table of Steve's Ma's--she got it for free from one of the other nurses at work--has gotten shoved out of the way. Also, the thin carpet underneath their writhing, squirming bodies gets thrown ascew, shoved over chaotically, rolling up under itself. Steve finds himself sweating even more, really coating every inch of his skin as he fights to have the upper hand in their play wrestling match.

Rolled over and rolled around, Steve is currently on top and winning because his bony fucking elbows and sharp knees are merciless weapons that give him the advantage every now and again (just when he can manage to hit Bucky in the right spots). Not unscathed, Bucky's shirt has rolled up, showing off the whole band of his underwear and a slice of his pale stomach. There's a light dusting of hair leading down towards his crotch that Steve's not seen before. That, and new muscle definition creeping in from a mix of his labor-heavy, adult job and how there's never enough food to go around these days. It's just more proof that Bucky is an adult these days. Damn.

Steve ignores those curious parts of his best pal, though, 'cause they're laughing and chuckling and upping the ante to make each other giggle, gasping for air, more until... slowly, slowly, slowly, the humor of it dies down, turning into grunts of effort and breathless shit-talk that's all bark and no bite.

Steve ends up pinned, wiggles out of it, Bucky gets pushed back onto his side, but not all the way over, then Steve's back on his back, ultimately, though--

Steve gets situated on both of Bucky's legs and victoriously grins down at him, his hair hanging over his forehead, blonde and damp. He's won. He's just waiting for Bucky to say it now.

C'mon. Say it! Say it! Steve chants in his own head, too out of breath to shit talk at this juncture.

But Bucky just doesn't know when to give up (something they both have in common as cursed by one Sarah Rogers and another Winnie Barnes). So, the coffee table ends up shuddering from the impact of Bucky's hip when he tries to roll unsuccessfully and get Steve off of him. Steve snickers at him, knowing he's not hurt. Steve clings to Bucky's larger, more muscular, more adult-feeling (and looking) body to stay put. He isn't going down.

In retaliation, on his back, smiling like a goof, Bucky sticks his tongue out. Of course, Steve just does it back. But, not before internally debating if he has the breath or not to blow a raspberry on his exposed skin--it's what he deserves for being a squirmy little shit (nevermind that Steve uses the same tactic when he's the one who's pinned). He doesn't have the breath, though. So, he'll settle for sticking out his tongue.

Even as he teases his friend, this wistfullness overtakes Steve--it's been a good summer. The heat is good for Steve's body, not for his asthma, but his joints and bones like it well enough it doesn't matter. He hasn't had a cold in ages. And, obviously, it has to have been a good season for him to be so enthusiastically wrangling Bucky like he is. Playfighting like this is peaceful. Fun. Super fun. Steve doesn't ever want to grow up if he has to give this up.

Crawling all over Bucky, gathering his wrists in both hands but then finding he can't do much else without his hands free, Steve gives them up and shoves at his shoulders instead, tickles his grossly sweaty armpits, exposed thanks to his tank-top, jabs his bared stomach, and gets all of his (light) weight centered on his hips to keep the other man down. He's got this. He's gonna keep him right here. He's stuck. Sucks to suck.

It's so fucking fun to wrestle like they are, but Steve can't help his competitive nature rising up inside him. He can't take shit unseriously. It's in his blood. He knows Bucky isn't using all his strength against him, but he knows that he's using enough. It's taking effort for them both to play fight like they are. Bucky's using a hell of a lot more force against Steve's bird-boned body than anyone else would ever dare. And Steve is relishing in it. He's fired the fuck up. He's gonna win. He's on top. He's gonna pin Bucky so good and jab him with bony knees and tickle him until he cries uncle.

Then, with the victory under his belt, he'll have ammo to hurl at Bucky for the rest of the summer, lording it over his head until he's frustrated enough that he challenges him to a second round. It'll be exactly as fun to wrestle that second time, too. So. There's nothing to lose. It's a perfect plan.

Steve is so focused. He's moving over top of Bucky, crawling everywhere, pushing, shoving, thinking about what he's gonna do next and where Bucky's weak spots are, how to exploit them, and sythesizing all this playful strategy when any and all of Steve's focus is shot to shit as--

A fractured whimper fills the heavy, hanging air between their barely-clad bodies. Loud and unable to be ignored.

Instantly, Steve stops in his tracks. Wiggling to stock still. At first, he's pretty sure he's hurt Bucky with a noise like that and so he fucking freezes. He didn't mean to do any actual damage! He doesn't want to actually hurt him! They were just rough housing and he got carried away. An apology is already spinning in his mind. But.

Oh.

Steve has stopped moving, leaving him with his thigh pushed up tight between Bucky's legs and, oh, that's Bucky's dick. Steve can feel it. It's hard as... as fuck.

It's harder than anything Steve's felt. Ever.

Still not moving, rooted in his place precarously on top of his best friend, Steve realizes that it's hot, too.

Hot and hard.

His dick.

And a new, completely different kind of heat wave washes stickily over Steve from the cheeks down. Dumbly, his mouth hangs open, he should apologize and skitter away, but he can't move; he's stuck, feeling his blood push through his veins, hotter and hotter with every rickety pump.

Bucky feels it, too. The new, fresh heat wave. It's plain to fucking see that he feels it too--with his hard, hot body and dick underneath him, close enough they're touching everywhere--he's sucked his pink, pink bottom lip between his white teeth, his eyes are squeezed shut, and his blush is a million times worse now than it was when he was just reading his book on the couch and suffering through the heat that way. He's painted in color and gloss, sweating through his undershirt now. Its thin, white fabric clings wetly to his heaving chest. Steve's throat makes a funny sound as he realizes that his friend's his nipples are hard and obvious through the fabric. Targets that beg to be hit. Beneath him, Bucky's so hot that he's nothing more than a melted puddle.

However, Bucky's frozen in time, too. It's like he's so, uh, aroused that he hasn't realized Steve's not still squirming on top of him, not still fighting, not still incidentally rubbing his leg up against his dick, making him get hard and harder, harder, making him whimper, making his sweat, making him--

Steve's brain stutters to even more of a hault--no thoughts whatsoever--as he follows the line of Bucky's body down with hungry eyes, shifting his weight enough to see, oh, there's wetness on Bucky's underwear, too.

It's not sweat.

Playfighting with Steve on top of him like this makes him leak.

The frozen-overheated moment shatters in slow motion with Bucky cracking open one dazed eye, the horror dawning on his face, realizing what he's done--the sound he's just made and the line he's just crossed involuntarily with his best pal. His lips start to shape a mornful, mortified apology. But, fuck it.

Steve lets all of his repressed, denied, wished-away wanting pour forward, and he moves forward, too, surging up against Bucky to press their lips together hard. Almost as blindingly, desperately hard as Bucky is against his lean thigh.

It's hungry and urgent and hotter than the weather outside. It's everything Steve was aching for. Wanting.

Needing.

As it turns out, Bucky's whimpering tastes sweeter than it sounds. And whaddya know, his sweat and wetness feels better than it looks, too.

Fuck.

[mintacle]

My hot take is that the same people who call Jason copaganda, pr-gunviolence or etc are from the same vein as people who blame schoolshootings on videogame violence, who blamed crime on Metal and satanism.

Instead of taking a critical look at a system within which a symptom of a problem is making itself known, you look if there is an outside influence, a kind of "virus" that you can blame for making it "sick".

DC comics are a little fucked up. That's the agreement you entered when reading them. All characters are inconsistent and sometimes in the wrong. Jason is a Bat, so at least it feels like he's maybe substantial enough to blame for the whole batclans issues, in a way that Helena Bertinelli (for example) can't be, because she is less closely tied and has less appearances. Congratulations, you have an identified patient! Jason is the problem that is rippling out and causing all these nasty and unsatisfied feelings the readers have about how crime is handled in these comics.

We see crime being fought in imperfect ways and our current cultural consciousness goes off with warning bells to identify the problem. But what you were taught was to identify what outside influence happens to be present and connecting the issue, and how to justify that all evil stems from this malignant influence. So surely if we could just remove this bad thing, we could go back to the wonderful world we knew where everything was ok.

That world never existed. The thing we are nostalgic for, is the world before we became aware of it's flaws. The problem has always been there, has always been an integrated part of this whole you used to love and admire.

But because the kind of people blaming Jason for "copaganda" do genuinely and truly come from a good place of wanting social justice (I'm saying you are good people. I disagree and think you are making a logical error, but we do care about and want the same thing. Good People) because you come here with the right intentions, you use the buzzwords of copaganda. Or gunviolence. You know from what you have heard that the issue is systematic, but you are struggling to find what that system equivalent is in DC comics. You are falling victim to the fallacy of assuming a main narrative perspective. Just as irl cops are hard to identify as the problem bc you might have to first struggle through the cognitive dissonance that your old worldview of good cops was wrong (so so wrong), you experience cognitive dissonance if trying to read comics with someone like Batman being wrong and flawed.

Looking beyond any superficial similarities to cops Jason is called out for (uses a gun, kills, enforcing his vision of justice) he really doesn't have much more similarities. He isn't a figure of authority, he lacks the nigh god-given justification to do whatever he wants whatever the outcome and is questioned at every turn. Just the sheer instances of Batman or another Bat showing up to beat Jason up and lecture him on what he does.

Extending this, he does not have the pervasive and persuasive power to shape a narrative. Jason's narrative is so far out of his hands. Which has been a core truth about him since for ever. From his maleable origin story, to his death, the years of him being gone and having No Voice Whatsoever, his resurrection in utrh showing him trying, struggling to have a voice against Bruce's story and being drowned out and denied his perspective, the inconsistency of his character after, each writer trying to shape him into something. Now cops fucking have a narrative. Their narrative is the main one we are fed. Their violence is structured and oppressive. Jason is neither a structural systemic power, nor is he oppressive of anyone. If you disagree with his violence for the sake of the moral highground of condemning killing.... Then, just, there are other media, you know.

Cop violence is systemic violence. It is violence that is "justified" to the extent it requires no justification. It is above being questioned. I am genuinely willing to hear an argument how Jason is cop-coded. But to me he is the punk resistance based "violence" that is only organized in the anarchical but organical sense of caring to protect the community that surrounds you. He doesn't approach Gotham as a paternalistic force of protection shielding it from above, but as one of them from within, showing up for the people who are suffering the way he has suffered too.

[rainforestakiie]

AdamsApple Month Harvest

Sweaters part 02!

hi everyone! haha i wrote this in Spain next to the hotel pool! darn it’s hot! i hope you like it! i worked hard on it!

Part 01 - Part 02

A few days had passed since Adam’s fiery encounter at the Hazbin Hotel. He had thrown himself into his work, every fiber of his being focused on fulfilling the avalanche of orders that poured into his shop. His hands moved mechanically, stitching fabric with practiced precision, but his thoughts? They swirled in a storm of anger and resentment.

“Fuck Lucifer,” he muttered under his breath, his voice low and venomous as he carefully stitched teeth and bones onto a particularly macabre sweater requested by one of his more eccentric regulars. Each tug of the thread felt cathartic, like he was stitching his anger into the fabric itself. “Stupid fucking Lucifer, thinking he’s better than me!” His fingers worked deftly over the seams, his golden eyes narrowed in concentration. “As if I’m scheming something! Like I give a shit about his stupid kingdom.”

The rhythm of his work soothed him, but it also kept the thoughts at bay. He found himself repeating the same curses over and over, weaving his frustrations into every stitch, every scarf, every sweater. His shop was filled with the soft hum of the sewing machine, the scratch of needles against fabric, and Adam’s incessant grumbling.

Later, as he worked on a long scarf with a blue and black striped pattern, he found his focus sharpening on the intricate details. There were three ‘Vs’ stitched into the ends—a design request from a client with an eerie fascination with symbols. Adam paused for a moment, his hands hovering over the fabric, his eyes far away.

“Why the hell does everyone think the worst of me?” he hissed, the words slipping out, quieter this time, tinged with exhaustion rather than fury. His shoulders sagged slightly as he sighed, the weight of everything catching up to him. “Why can’t they see I’m just… trying to live my life?”

The shop felt colder suddenly, the air thicker, as though the oppressive presence of Hell itself was closing in on him. Adam’s hands slowed, his movements more deliberate as he carefully folded the finished sweater. He took a deep breath, eyes tracing over the delicate patterns he’d woven. His heart wasn’t in the insults anymore, the anger beginning to ebb like the receding tide.

He placed the sweaters and mittens into a box, the soft rustle of tissue paper filling the room as he packaged them with care. Each item was perfect, flawless in design, because despite everything, Adam still took pride in his work. It was the one thing he had control over, the one thing that he could do without question or judgment.

But the memory of Lucifer’s sneering face gnawed at him. The King of Hell’s words replayed in his mind, taunting him, filling him with a lingering sense of doubt. The way Lucifer had mocked him—mocked his very existence—stung deeper than Adam had anticipated.

“What did I generally do to them?” Adam whispered, his voice barely audible, as if speaking it aloud would solidify the painful truth. “Why does everyone hate me so much?”

His hands stilled over the box, his wings trembling slightly. It wasn’t just Lucifer. It was the way Vaggie had looked at him, the disbelieving scoff she gave. It was the way even Charlie had seemed uncertain, like she was waiting for him to prove her wrong.

Adam’s chest tightened. He wasn’t scheming. He wasn’t up to anything shady. He was just a man—or whatever he was now—trying to survive in a place that was never meant for someone like him. And yet, no one seemed willing to believe that.

The anger that had fueled him earlier had melted away, replaced by a hollow ache. He sighed quietly, his fingers tracing the edge of the box. He wanted to scream, to lash out, but what good would that do? It wasn’t like anyone would listen. Not here. Not in Hell.

His shop was his sanctuary, the one place where he could escape the chaos outside, the sneers, the assumptions. Here, he could create. Here, he could be useful. But even that felt fleeting. It was only a matter of time before the rest of Hell started thinking the same thing as Lucifer, wasn’t it?

“Fuck them,” he whispered, but the words lacked the venom they once held. They felt empty now. Hollow. He sealed the box with a finality that felt heavier than it should have and stepped back, surveying his work. Everything was perfect. Yet, nothing felt right.

For a moment, the room was still, the weight of his thoughts pressing in on him. Then, with a soft exhale, Adam turned away from the neatly packed orders, wiping his hands on his jeans. His eyes drifted to the window, where the neon glow of Pentagram City flickered in the distance, casting long shadows across the floor. The Hazbin Hotel loomed somewhere beyond those lights, a constant reminder of everything he wanted to leave behind.

But as much as he wanted to forget, as much as he wanted to bury the past and move on, the encounter with Lucifer had opened old wounds. The doubts, the fears—everything he thought he had put behind him was crawling back to the surface.

And yet, despite it all, Adam knew one thing for certain: he was never going to beg. Not for anyone. Not even for the fucking King of Hell.

With a deep breath, Adam picked up the next piece of fabric and threaded his needle. The anger may have melted away, but the determination? That still burned fiercely inside him.

And for now, that was enough.

Adam looked up as the bell above his shop door chimed, the familiar sound cutting through the quiet. He blinked a few times, pushing the lingering storm of thoughts away as his most loyal customer stepped inside.

Rosie. The cannibal with her floating black-and-red dress, gliding across the floor as if the laws of gravity didn't apply to her. Her eyes, black and pupil-less, sparkled in the dim light, and her high-pitched, almost sing-song voice greeted him with that same unsettling charm she always carried.

"Hi, sugar!" she chirped, her voice carrying an old-time accent that had always made Adam wonder just how long she'd been in this Hellhole. Her red hat was perched perfectly atop her head, framing her perfect white curls. As she walked further into the shop, her heels made no sound on the floor, a ghostly glide that sent a chill down Adam’s spine no matter how many times he’d seen it.

Adam swallowed, trying to pull himself together, but it was too late. Rosie had already fixed her gaze on him. Those shining black eyes, sharp and unblinking, zeroed in on his face. He could feel her stare peeling back layers of him, seeing more than he wanted to reveal.

"Oh! Pumpkin!" Rosie gasped, a dramatic gesture that had her hand flying up to her chest. "What's with the long face?" Her voice was teasing, but there was an edge to it, something that always left Adam feeling like prey. Before he could pull back, she was already upon him, her fingers cupping his face with a surprising amount of force for someone so dainty-looking.

"With a face this handsome, you shouldn’t be crying or frowning! No, no, nope!" she tsked, her red lips pulling into a sharp grin that sent a shiver down Adam’s spine. Her fingers were cold against his skin, her long nails tapping against his cheekbones in a way that made him feel like she was sizing him up—like a cut of meat in her butcher’s shop.

Rosie leaned in closer, her teeth gleaming in the low light, wickedly sharp as they caught the glint from the overhead lamps. “So cute, I could just eat you all up!”

She snapped her teeth playfully, but Adam knew the threat was never entirely absent. Every word she said was always dipped in a hint of menace, even when she was just being Rosie.

Adam forced a smile, gently pulling his face from her hands. “Thanks, Rosie,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly, trying to avoid her piercing gaze. “Just… you know, busy with orders.”

Rosie wasn’t convinced. She narrowed her eyes, tilting her head in that bird-like way she did when she was trying to read someone.

“Busy, huh?" She glanced around at the shelves, her fingers idly grazing one of the mittens on display. "Hmm, maybe that’s part of it, sugar, but I’ve been coming here long enough to know when something’s eating at you."

Her lips curled into a sinister smirk at the pun, the tips of her sharp teeth peeking out again.

Adam stiffened, trying not to let her words get to him, but damn if she wasn’t perceptive. He turned back to his workbench, threading a needle and pretending to be focused on the sweater he was stitching. “It’s nothing, Rosie. Just business stuff. Hell’s a tough crowd to please.”

Rosie sauntered over to the counter, her movements fluid, like a predator closing in on weakened prey.

“Oh, come on now, sweetheart,” she cooed, resting her elbows on the counter as she leaned forward, watching him like a hawk. “You’ve got a face that screams, ‘I’m about to rip someone's head off,’ and I’m guessing that someone’s not one of your lovely little customers.”

Adam’s hands stilled, the needle frozen mid-stitch. His thoughts flicked back to Lucifer, to the hotel, to the humiliation he nearly faced at the hands of the King of Hell. Anger bubbled up again, hot and bitter in his chest.

Rosie was watching him closely now, her eyes glittering with a mixture of amusement and curiosity. “Come on, darling,” she purred. “Spill. What’s really going on?” She straightened up and fixed her hat again, her nails tapping on the countertop like claws against bone. "I won't bite... unless you ask me to."

Adam let out a heavy sigh, his grip tightening on the sweater in his lap. He wanted to keep it to himself, to shove it all down and keep pushing forward, but something about Rosie—whether it was her unnerving charm or the fact that she was the closest thing he had to a friend in this place—made him want to unload, even if just a little.

“My…old friend,” he finally said, spitting the name like it tasted bitter on his tongue. “Gave me shit. Tried to make me beg for help in front of everyone at the hotel. Like I need him or his damn protection.”

He shook his head, his wings bristling at the memory. “I don’t know why they all think I’m some... charity case. I’ve been doing just fine on my own.”

Rosie’s smile widened, dark amusement glinting in her eyes. “Oh, sugar, I bet he loves to remind everyone he’s top dog, but trust me, half of it’s just for show.” She tilted her head, tapping a finger to her lips. “Still, you’ve been ruffling some feathers, haven’t you?”

Adam scoffed, finally meeting her gaze, feeling some of his frustration seep into his words. “Apparently. He thinks I’m scheming something because I’ve got a business. Like I’m up to no good just because I don’t need him.”

Rosie chuckled softly, a sound that was both soothing and chilling. “That’s Hell for you, darling. The moment you start standing on your own two feet, everyone assumes you’ve got some dirty little plan up your sleeve.” Her voice lowered, almost conspiratorial, as she added, “But I wouldn’t worry too much about this friend of yours. He’s just pissed you don’t fit into his neat little box. You? You’re different, and that scares him.”

Adam blinked, taken aback by the comment. Different? Scaring Lucifer? He hadn’t thought of it that way. But something about Rosie’s words lodged in his mind, planting a seed of doubt and intrigue. Maybe he was different. Maybe that’s why Lucifer had been so intent on knocking him down a peg.

Adam sighed and placed Rosie’s latest order down. He arranged it with tissues and everything he gives to his best customers.

Rosie smiled sweetly, her sharp teeth flashing as she patted his hand. “Now, chin up, sugar. You keep doing what you’re doing, and let the King of Hell stew in his own insecurities. Besides,” she winked, taking her package. “if anyone tries to give you trouble, you just let me know. I’ve got ways of dealing with those kinds of problems.”

Adam let out a small laugh, despite the weight still pressing on him. “Thanks, Rosie. I’ll keep that in mind.”

Rosie tipped her hat and turned to leave, her dress floating behind her like smoke. “Take care now, pumpkin. And remember—don’t let anyone, not even Lucifer, make you feel like you’re less than you are.”

With that, she disappeared into the night, leaving Adam standing there, the shop feeling emptier but a little less suffocating.

It took Adam a long moment before realising Rosie knew he was talking about Lucifer. Adam bummed, glancing back at the closed door in awe.

Was he that obvious?

Rosie had a way about her, a strange, unsettling charm that somehow always managed to lift Adam's spirits. Her voice, though pitched in that almost-too-sweet tone, could cut through the thickest fog of his mood like a knife. After her visit, Adam had felt lighter—more focused, more himself. Her teasing words still echoed in his mind, "Pumpkin, with a face this handsome, no one should dare frown!" It worked, somehow. His hands moved with renewed energy, and the orders he had been dreading seemed to disappear as quickly as they arrived.

For days, he immersed himself in his work. Each stitch, each thread pulled taut with care and precision. His fingers danced over the wool, coaxing life into the fabric. He was no longer muttering under his breath about Lucifer, no longer grinding his teeth with resentment. Instead, a strange calm had settled in, and for the first time in weeks, Adam felt... proud. Proud of his craft. He'd completed more orders in that stretch of time than he had in months.

Days blurred together until, one afternoon, the familiar chime of his computer snapped him back to reality. A new order.

Humming the catchy, macabre tune of "Hell's Forever," Adam turned to his screen. But as soon as his eyes settled on the name of the sender, the lightness in his chest collapsed like a house of cards.

The Hazbin Hotel.

Adam’s frown deepened into something almost cartoonishly exaggerated, his brow furrowing so hard it could’ve cracked marble. He rubbed his eyes, convinced he was seeing things—some glitch in the system. But when his vision cleared, the reality remained, staring him dead in the face like a slap.

There it was, all neatly typed out with a message attached.

"Hi Adam, I’m so, so sorry for how everything turned out! Please come back to the hotel. You don’t have to stay, but we’d really love to talk. – Charlie"

Adam’s lip curled in disdain. Of course it’s Charlie, he thought bitterly. He quickly scanned the rest of the order. She hadn’t just ordered a couple of sweaters; she’d tripled the amount of money offered, the sum flashing on his screen was enough to make most Sinners lose their damn minds.

But Adam wasn’t most Sinners. He wasn’t just anyone. He was Adam—the First Man—and he didn’t give a shit anymore.

With one swift movement, Adam canceled the order. No hesitation. He shut the laptop with a decisive click, the sound echoing in the silence of his dimly lit workshop. "Fuck them," he muttered darkly, running a hand through his wild hair. "Fuck them."

As he trudged upstairs to his bedroom, his thoughts swirled in a storm of anger and exhaustion. "Maybe tomorrow will be better," he whispered to himself, pulling the covers over his head. But a bitter voice in the back of his mind scoffed at the idea. Nothing in Hell ever got better.

And, as expected, tomorrow wasn’t better.

The day after that, another order from the Hazbin Hotel. He canceled it. The day after that, same thing. Canceled. And the next day. And the next.

For a full month, Charlie kept sending orders, each one with a desperate little note attached. The amounts of money offered became increasingly ludicrous. At first, it doubled. Then it tripled again. Until, one day, Adam opened his computer to see they were offering him one million Hellbucks.

It was insanity. Complete, unbelievable madness. The kind of money that would make anyone else in Pentagram City salivate.

But Adam wasn’t just anyone.

Without blinking, he canceled the order again. And this time, he went a step further—he blacklisted the Hazbin Hotel, blocking them from placing any future orders. That’s it, he thought. That should finally shut them up.

He leaned back in his chair, a satisfied smirk creeping across his face as he folded his arms behind his head. For the first time in weeks, he felt like he was finally in control again. That was the end of it. Had to be.

But deep down, a shadow of doubt lingered.

In Hell, nothing was ever that simple.

The next day, Adam stood behind the full-length mirrors in his shop, working meticulously on his latest creation—a new dress for Rosie. It had been his most challenging project yet, every stitch and fold demanding the utmost attention to detail. Adam knelt beside her, carefully hemming the skirt, the copper-red fabric gleaming under the dim light of the shop. The color had been her special request, matching her signature look, and it wasn’t just any shade of red. Adam had made sure it was the exact tint that would blend perfectly with the bloodstains from her rather grisly meals.

Rosie admired herself in the mirror, her sharp grin reflecting back at Adam. She let out a delighted chuckle, her voice high-pitched and dripping with that old-timey charm that always made Adam smirk.

“Oh sugar!” she cooed, her black, pupil-less eyes gleaming with mischief. “It’s positively delightful!”

Adam couldn’t help but beam as he stood, brushing off his hands with pride. “I made it that copper-red just so the bloodstains will blend in,” he said with a wink, his voice carrying a mix of dark humor and satisfaction.

Rosie giggled, her laugh sounding like the sharp tinkle of broken glass. “Oh, darling! You’re so talented! You really do know how to treat a girl, don’t you?”

Before Adam could respond, the familiar sound of the door chime echoed through the shop. He tilted his head, expecting to see the usual—a loyal customer, maybe even that pretty white-haired succubus who frequented the place. But as he looked toward the entrance, his stomach dropped.

Standing in the doorway was something far worse. Something unexpected. Something... horrifying.

Charlie.

Adam squinted his eyes in disdain, a deep frown pulling at the corners of his mouth. Of course, it’s her, he thought bitterly, his golden eyes narrowing as he took in the sight of Hell’s naive princess. She stood there awkwardly, her fingers nervously twitching at her sides as she glanced around the shop.

Rosie, who had been admiring her new dress, turned slowly toward the door. A dramatic, high-pitched gasp escaped her lips as she spotted the newcomer.

“Oh, Charlie!” she exclaimed with mock enthusiasm, her grin wide and sharp. “If it isn’t the little pumpkin princess herself!” Her voice was sugary-sweet, but it dripped with a venomous undertone that made Adam’s sneer grow.

Charlie glanced nervously at Rosie before letting her gaze sweep over the shop. Her expression shifted from weary caution to something more innocent, almost childlike wonder, as she took in the sight of Adam’s work. Sweaters, scarves, and dresses adorned the walls like intricate pieces of art, each one meticulously crafted with a sinister elegance that only Adam could pull off. Slowly, her eyes brightened, and soon enough, she was smiling that same wide, hopeful grin.

“Rosie!” she squealed, her voice full of relief upon seeing the cannibal. She took a few steps forward, but her eyes were drawn back to the clothes surrounding her, the admiration plain on her face.

“This... this is amazing!” she said, her gaze flickering to Adam, though she seemed hesitant to meet his eyes directly.

Adam’s stomach churned with irritation. He hadn’t blocked the Hazbin Hotel from his shop just to have Charlie stroll in here like nothing had happened. The sheer audacity of it grated on him.

Rosie tilted her head, watching the scene unfold with amusement, her sharp teeth peeking out as she grinned at Adam.

“Well, sugar, seems like the princess has come to grovel. Isn’t that sweet?” Her voice was dripping with sarcasm, but there was an edge to it that hinted at a dark kind of curiosity.

Adam’s fists clenched by his sides, his knuckles turning white. He had half a mind to throw her out right there, but something held him back. Maybe it was the way she looked at his work with such genuine appreciation, or maybe it was the memory of how things had been before the Hotel incident. Either way, it didn’t stop the flood of anger bubbling inside him.

Charlie, however, seemed to steel herself, her expression softening but determined as she stepped forward. “Adam,” she started, her voice softer now, almost pleading. “I... I’m so sorry about everything that happened. I didn’t mean—”

“I don’t care,” Adam cut her off sharply, his voice cold. He crossed his arms, glaring at her like she was nothing more than an annoying fly buzzing in his shop. “If you’re here for another order, you can turn right around and get the hell out.”

Charlie flinched but held her ground, her smile faltering. “I didn’t come here to place an order,” she said quickly, her eyes flicking toward Rosie, who was still watching with that ever-present, predatory grin.

“I just... I wanted to talk. To explain.”

“Explain?” Adam’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “Explain what, exactly? How you and your pompous ass of a father tried to humiliate me? How you keep sending me orders like I’m some fucking charity case? Please, enlighten me.”

Charlie winced again, but this time, her gaze hardened slightly, just enough for Adam to notice. “I’m not trying to make you feel like that. I just—look, I didn’t know how else to reach you.”

Adam let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “You could’ve left me the fuck alone. That would’ve been a great start.”

Silence hung heavy in the room, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife. Rosie looked between the two, her grin growing wider as if she were enjoying every second of the standoff.

Finally, Charlie sighed, the weight of her frustration and regret evident in the slump of her shoulders.

“Please,” she whispered, “just... give me a chance to explain.”

Adam stared at her for a long moment, his jaw tight, his heart pounding in his chest. Every instinct told him to throw her out, to slam the door in her face like he had done with her orders. But there was something in her voice, something that made him hesitate.

Rosie, sensing the shift in Adam’s demeanor, leaned closer, her voice a low, teasing whisper. “Well, pumpkin, what’s it gonna be? Are we keeping the princess, or tossing her to the wolves?”

Adam’s golden eyes flicked to Rosie, then back to Charlie. He exhaled through his nose, frustrated beyond belief.

“Fine,” he muttered. “You’ve got five minutes. Say what you need to say. But after that, I want you gone.”

The tension in the room thickened, an uncomfortable silence enveloping them. Charlie shifted on her feet, fidgeting with her hands as if trying to find comfort in the motion. Her wide eyes, full of nervous energy, darted to Adam’s face, then away, unable to hold his intense, unwavering stare. Adam, standing tall, his arms crossed over his chest, broke the silence first.

“So,” he began, his voice low and biting, “where’s your bodyguard? No way you came to a place like this by yourself. Vaggie wouldn’t let you step foot in my ‘shady little business’ without her breathing down your neck.”

Charlie gave a weak, half-hearted laugh, the sound fragile, almost broken.

“Vaggie doesn’t know I’m here,” she admitted, her words falling flat, and Adam scoffed, a bitter smirk twisting his lips.

“Of course not,” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head as if the situation was almost too ridiculous to believe. His golden eyes flickered with something dark, like a fire barely restrained.

Charlie swallowed, her throat tightening as she glanced back up at him. “Adam, I’m... I’m so sorry for how I acted... for how we acted,” she stammered, her voice soft but filled with guilt. “I should’ve... I should’ve controlled the situation better. I just—”

She paused, the words catching in her throat. “This hotel... it’s mine. It’s my responsibility. No one decides who stays or who gets thrown out but me. And you... you shouldn’t have been treated like that. If you needed help, I would’ve helped you.”

Adam snorted derisively, but didn’t respond. He just stared at her, his arms still crossed, his gaze as hard as stone. The silence that followed was deafening, and Charlie visibly winced. She took a deep breath, clearly struggling to keep her composure.

“My hotel... it’s about giving people second chances,” she whispered, her voice faltering. “It’s about helping others, giving them a chance to change...”

Adam’s snort turned into a dry, bitter chuckle, but he still didn’t speak. He just let the weight of her words hang in the air like a dead thing. Charlie shifted again, her hands trembling as she tried to continue.

“But Adam, you... you hurt a lot of people...”

Before she could finish, Adam cut her off, his voice sharp as a knife. “I don’t care.”

Charlie’s eyes widened in disbelief, her mouth opening slightly as if she had been physically struck.

“You... you don’t care?” she asked, her voice barely more than a whisper, her face painted with shock. “How can you say that?”

For a long moment, Adam said nothing, his jaw clenched tight. The two just stared at each other, locked in a silent battle, neither one willing to back down. Finally, Adam spoke, his voice low and filled with a quiet, simmering rage.

“Do you have any idea,” he began slowly, his words deliberate and measured, “what it’s like to have your entire life decided for you the moment you’re born?”

His eyes bore into hers, sharp and unyielding. “Do you?”

Charlie blinked, her lips parting as if she was about to speak, but nothing came out. Instead, she looked away, her expression growing more and more uncertain.

“Of course you had a choice,” she finally said, her voice weak, unconvincing. “Everyone has a choice.”

Adam shook his head, his jaw tightening even further.

“No,” he said firmly, his tone dark and unwavering. “I never had a choice. Never.”

Charlie’s brow furrowed, her confusion evident, but she stayed silent as Adam continued, his voice cold and bitter, like a man recounting a life of suffering.

“I was born in Eden,” he said, his eyes distant as though looking through time. “And from the moment I opened my eyes, I was told what I had to do. I had to name all the animals, tend to the fruits. I had to care for Eve, make sure she survived after we were cast out. I worked my ass off to make sure my children didn’t die from some illness or a bad wound.”

His words grew harsher, more guttural, as memories of ancient pains and burdens he had carried for millennia clawed at the surface. “And when I finally made it to Heaven,” he said, his voice darkening, “do you know what I was told? That humanity was my responsibility. That because too many of my descendants had sinned and ended up in Hell, it was somehow my fault. And I had to ‘deal’ with them.”

Charlie’s breath hitched as she listened, her eyes growing wide with dawning horror.

“They made me their fucking executioner, Charlie,” Adam spat, his voice a razor-sharp whisper. “I didn’t get to decide whether there’d be an extermination or not—that was already decided by Heaven. But I was the one who had to swing the blade, to kill them. And when I didn’t want to, when I so much as thought about refusing, I was punished. I was hurt.”

The room seemed to grow darker as Adam’s words sank in, the weight of centuries of anguish pressing down on the air around them. Charlie stood there, frozen, unsure of what to say, her own guilt and confusion written across her face.

Adam’s gaze darkened as he looked her in the eyes, his voice dropping to a near growl. “Do you know who my first children were?”

Charlie blinked, stunned into silence, her mind racing to catch up. After a long pause, she nodded slowly, her voice barely audible.

“Cain and Abel...”

Adam rolled his eyes, shaking his head.

“Cain and Abel, sure. But I had more. Many more. Seth, Alimica, Miriam, Rachel... the list goes on. But they’re not around anymore.” His voice dropped lower, filled with a haunting sadness that carried the weight of endless grief. “Do you know why?”

Charlie’s mouth clamped shut, her heart sinking as she felt the answer lingering just beyond her understanding.

Adam’s voice grew dark, almost venomous. “Every time I tried to stray from Heaven’s rules, they eliminated one of my children’s souls. Cain and Abel might be the last of them, but I have no fucking clue where they are now. And that might be for the best because if Heaven finds them, if she finds them, she’ll erase them too.”

Charlie’s face paled, her hands trembling as the full weight of Adam’s words fell upon her. She couldn’t look away from him, couldn’t deny the pain in his voice, the absolute conviction in his stare.

“So don’t you dare talk to me about hurting others,” Adam said, his voice barely more than a dangerous whisper, “when the so-called ‘sinners’ you’re trying to protect are the same reason Heaven wiped out my children.”

Silence fell like a hammer, the air thick with the gravity of Adam’s confession. Charlie stood there, speechless, her world shaken to its core as she struggled to process the depth of the suffering that Adam had been forced to endure for so long.

“did as what I was told because I had nothing less.” Adam said blankly. “All I have left now is this shop. Something I built myself, there’s no shadiness behind it, no scheme to hurt hell or your sinners…”

“I just want to live happily and peacefully.” Adam whispered. “Please let me do that.”

Charlie opened and shut her mouth, trying to speak and failing. Her eyes watered and she gave a sharp nod, bowing deeply.

“I’m so sorry Adam! Of course you can live here happily and peacefully!” She let out with a sob. “I’ll make sure nobody will bother you!”

Adam nodded. Charlie’s breath hitched and she turned around, leaving the shop without another word. Adam felt guilty for making her cry but he was so tired. Tired of being blamed.

Adam stared at the door after Charlie had left, her sobs still echoing faintly in the shop like the remnants of a storm. The air felt heavy, thick with unspoken words and shattered promises. He clenched his jaw, blinking away the faint sting of guilt that crept into his chest. He didn’t want to hurt her, but what choice did he have? He’d been carrying centuries of other people’s burdens, their sins, their mistakes—and for what? For this endless cycle of blame and expectation that never seemed to let him go.

"I did what I was told because I had nothing left," Adam murmured, his voice hollow, echoing in the dim light of the shop. "All I have now is this place... my own space. Something I built with my own hands, something that’s mine."

He looked around, his gaze tracing the sweaters and scarves he had crafted, each stitch a small rebellion against a fate he never asked for. "There’s no shadiness behind it, no scheme to hurt Hell or anyone else."

His voice lowered into a whisper, as if he was speaking more to himself than anyone else. "I just want to live happily and peacefully. That’s all I want... just some peace."

Rosie, who had remained silent until now, slid her hand onto his shoulder, her touch light but grounding. Adam didn’t flinch, but he didn’t look at her either. His eyes remained fixed on the door, the silence in the room broken only by the occasional creak of the old wooden floor beneath their feet.

Behind him, Rosie’s soft chuckle broke the tension. "Sugar, you did good," she said gently, her voice laced with approval. "You stood up for yourself. That's what matters."

Adam finally shifted his gaze to her, his brow furrowing. "But I don’t feel good," he whispered, his voice barely audible.

Rosie tilted her head, her sharp smile softened by a rare look of understanding.

“It’s never easy, standing up for what you need," she said quietly.

“Sometimes it feels like crap. But give it time." She squeezed his shoulder lightly. "It’ll get better. It always does."

Adam nodded slowly, though he wasn’t sure he believed her. The tiredness in his bones ran deeper than anything he could articulate. It was the kind of exhaustion that didn’t fade with sleep or rest. It was the weight of centuries of being told who he had to be, of being molded into something he didn’t recognize anymore.

Rosie gave him one last reassuring pat before turning to the mirror, admiring the dress he had crafted for her.

"Gotta say, sugar, this copper-red is divine. Almost makes me feel like a new woman," she cooed, twirling with a grin that was both wicked and playful. "And you know what? It hides the bloodstains perfectly."

Adam managed a small smile at that, the smallest flicker of warmth creeping back into him. At least some things could be predictable. Rosie’s dark humor had a way of anchoring him when everything else felt uncertain.

As he stood there, watching Rosie twirl and tease, the faint sounds of the bustling street outside began to seep into the shop. The world kept turning, Hell kept moving, and Adam... Adam was just trying to find his place in it.

Maybe Rosie was right. Maybe things would get better.

But for now, all Adam could do was keep stitching, keep working, and hope that somewhere down the line, peace—true peace—would finally find him.

~#~

A full month had crept by since Charlie had stumbled upon Adam’s tiny, unassuming knitting and stitching shop. Each day that followed was a silent vigil, tense with the dread of her return, perhaps with her little bodyguard in tow this time. Adam’s heart had pounded with each chime of the bell above the door, every creak of the floorboards outside, bracing himself for the worst. But no one from that cursed place came. By the fourth week, the heavy knot of anxiety in his chest began to loosen.

He could breathe again. Maybe, just maybe, it was truly over. The quiet promise of peace settled over him like a fragile veil.

With his fears momentarily silenced, Adam threw himself deeper into his craft, pouring every shred of himself into fulfilling the requests of his customers. The rhythmic click of needles and the gentle swish of fabric under his hands became a kind of sanctuary. It wasn’t just about making scarves, sweaters, coats, or mittens anymore—it was about creating something that soothed his soul.

Happiness, real and pure, flickered within him as he lost himself in the intricate patterns and soft textures. For the first time in what felt like forever, he felt truly at peace, the fear of judgment slowly dissolving like mist in the morning light. And as the days stretched on, the gnawing worry that had once haunted him receded into the background, leaving him to bask in the quiet joy his craft brought him.

The door to Adam's shop danced and chimed, a playful melody signaling the arrival of a new customer. He paused mid-weaving, his fingers frozen in a delicate dance of yarn and needle, and turned expectantly toward the entrance. But there was nothing—only the dimly lit street beyond, empty and quiet. Frowning, he shrugged off the strange chill that crept up his spine and returned to the sturdy boots he was meticulously crafting, trying to ignore the unsettling sensation that settled over him.

The soft chime of the bell rang out again, echoing through the stillness. Adam glanced up, his heart racing, but once more, the doorway was void of life. This peculiar game continued, the bell announcing an invisible presence at least five more times before frustration bubbled over. With a growl, he leaped to his feet, his heart pounding like a war drum, and stomped toward the door, flinging it open with a dramatic flourish.

His golden eyes flared dangerously as they locked onto a figure standing just beyond the threshold—Lucifer. The king's crimson and gold gaze flickered with surprise, as if he hadn’t anticipated being caught so easily. Adam's face twisted into a fierce sneer, a mix of anger and disbelief flooding his veins.

“Stop fucking around! If you want to talk to me, fucking man up and come the fuck in! God knows nothing’s ever stopped you from taking what you want before. There’s no point in being considerate now!”

Lucifer blinked owlishly, momentarily taken aback, but before he could retort, Adam turned sharply, storming back into his sanctuary, leaving the king to navigate the storm of his own thoughts. The air grew heavy as Lucifer hesitated, shoulders sagging under an unseen weight. He glanced over his shoulder, scanning the alleyway as if expecting some lurking shadow to leap out and drag him back into the darkness.

With a measured breath, he finally crossed the threshold, closing the door delicately behind him. The small bell above chimed softly, a quaint reminder of the world outside. As he turned to survey the interior of the shop, his eyes widened in awe, absorbing the myriad of colors and textures, the treasures Adam had poured his heart and soul into.

“Welcome to my shady little shop, where I’m definitely scheming something!” Adam announced with a mock flourish, thrusting his arms out wide, the words dripping with sarcasm.

Lucifer flinched at the proclamation, guilt and shame etching lines on his otherwise handsome face. The air crackled between them, thick with unspoken tension, as the vibrant chaos of the shop contrasted sharply with the solemnity of their uninvited meeting. The king seemed to shrink under Adam’s gaze, as if he were a mere boy caught in a web of his own mischief.

Lucifer swallowed hard, a nervous gulp that echoed in the tense silence of the shop. He stepped further inside, moving cautiously toward Adam, his expression a kaleidoscope of emotions—fear, uncertainty, and something that flickered like a fragile flame of hope. It was a mess of feelings that left Adam bewildered, unable to decipher the depths of the fallen angel’s intentions.

“What do you want, Lucifer?” he finally demanded, crossing his arms defensively. “If you’re not here to attack me again, then what do you want?”

Lucifer opened his mouth to respond, but no words came. Instead, he fell silent, his brow furrowing as he began to fidget with the sleeves of his sweater. It was then that Adam's gaze snagged on the garment itself, and his breath caught in his throat. The sight of it—the sweater he had crafted with such care—stunned him.

“You’re wearing my sweater?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Lucifer nodded shyly, pulling at the hem of the fabric as if it were a lifeline.

“Yeah, it’s made really well…” He hesitated, then added earnestly, “you are very talented.”

Adam scoffed, a wry smile curling his lips. “Shocking, right?”

But the playful tone fell flat when he noticed the way Lucifer’s face fell, guilt shadowing his features as he bowed his head.

“No, I didn’t mean it like that,” he murmured, the sincerity in his voice palpable. “It’s amazing. You are really impressive to have been able to make all of this.”

The honesty struck Adam like a bolt of lightning, leaving him momentarily speechless. He blinked in surprise, grappling with the unexpected compliment. After a moment of stunned silence, he managed a soft, “Thanks,” his voice barely above a whisper. He looked away shyly, taken aback by the warmth of the moment. Lucifer had never had a nice thing to say to him before, and the unexpected praise felt almost disorienting.

But the pull of curiosity tugged at him, and despite his instinct to look away, Adam found himself glancing back at Lucifer. His heart raced as he took in the sight of the sweater more fully. It was a cheerful golden hue, adorned with playful black and white highlights—a duck-themed creation that radiated an innocent charm.

Adam turned away quickly, a flush creeping up his cheeks as he remarked, “That sweater suits you.”

Lucifer's face lit up with a genuine smile, his eyes sparkling as he glanced down at the garment.

“I really like it,” he admitted, his voice softening. “It’s become one of my favorites.”

Adam nodded slowly, a sense of warmth blooming in his chest, even amidst the simmering tension between them. The world outside faded into the background, and in that small, cluttered shop filled with the scent of yarn and the echoes of unspoken words, something inexplicable began to shift in the air

Finally, the silence fractured as Lucifer took a deep breath, his golden eyes shifting under the weight of the moment.

“I’m really sorry,” he began, the words spilling forth like a dam breaking. “I was an ass towards you. I was out of line to talk to you like that.”

Adam remained silent, his heart pounding in his chest as he let Lucifer's apology hang in the air, heavy with unspoken histories and hurt. He could see the turmoil swirling within the fallen angel, but it only served to deepen the chasm between them.

“You’ve never been on my side before,” Adam interjected, his voice low and edged with pain. “Even in Eden, you thought the worst of me.”

Lucifer opened his mouth to deny it, but Adam pressed harder, fueled by a mix of anger and hurt. “You were assigned as my guardian angel, but you never liked me. You treated me like a pet, a dog you didn’t mind babysitting. But the moment you got bored, you disappeared and never looked back.”

The accusation hung between them, taut and crackling with tension.

“Do you even know what it’s like to adore somebody to the high heavens?” Adam continued, his voice rising with passion. “To treat them like they mean the world to you? To think they’re your best friend while that person sees you as nothing but scum? A pet?”

Lucifer tried once more to claim that wasn’t true, his brow furrowing with distress, but Adam shook his head vehemently. “You were so quick to believe Lilith’s lies about me, so quick to abandon me, and then you ask why? Why I don’t give you the time of day? Why I won’t listen to you?”

Their eyes locked, a silent battle of wills igniting the space between them.

“Hell,” Adam challenged, his voice steady, “I never raised my voice to Lilith. I never yelled at her, never raised a hand, never so much as touched her. Yes, I told her what to eat, but I guess she never told you why, right?”

Lucifer fell silent, the realization creeping into his features as he slowly nodded.

Adam huffed in disbelief, the anger boiling beneath his skin. “Well, there you go! She didn’t tell you she wasn’t given the ability to see what fruits and vegetables she could consume. I was made for Eden; nothing in Eden would make me sick or die. But for Lilith, it was the opposite. If I left her to her own devices, she’d kill herself by accident! I had to tell her what would be poisonous to her and what wouldn’t!”

Adam’s voice rose, punctuated by a mixture of desperation and indignation. “Unless you would have preferred me to just, you know, let her figure it out herself?”

The air crackled with the weight of Adam’s words, echoing off the walls of the cozy shop that felt more like a battleground than a sanctuary. The unspoken truths loomed like specters, and the silence that followed was heavy with the acknowledgment of past failures and missed opportunities.

Adam let out a long, weary sigh, the weight of the moment settling heavily on his shoulders.

“It’s fine,” he said finally, his voice softer than before. “I’ll accept your apology because honestly, I’m so tired. I’m exhausted from just…being miserable all the time. From being depressed and angry at how my life has been dictated.”

Lucifer’s lips curled into a weak pout, and he sniffed, his expression reflecting a vulnerability that Adam had never seen before.

“I’m tired too,” he admitted, the admission hanging in the air like a fragile thread.

Adam forced a pained smile, a flicker of understanding passing between them.

“Then let’s just agree to tolerate each other,” he suggested, his voice steady despite the tremor in his heart. “I’m not asking for your help. I’m not asking you to do anything for me. I just…like doing this stuff. There’s nothing sinister behind it.”

Lucifer met Adam’s gaze, and in that moment, something shifted. The fallen angel seemed to relax, his tension easing as he gazed around at the colorful array of items Adam had created.

“I believe you,” he said, a hint of admiration in his voice. “I can do that. I won’t get in the way of your business.”

“Thanks,” Adam replied, a genuine warmth flooding through him.

In that instant, a true smile blossomed between them, tentative yet brightening the shadowy corners of the shop. They might not be friends, and they might never have been, but it was okay. They were both much too old and tired to keep beefing with one another.

But the moment of peace shattered when Lucifer suddenly asked, his tone serious, “What if I want to help you?”

Adam’s heart skipped a beat, his brow knitting together in suspicion.

“What do you mean?” he asked, the tension in the room thickening once more.

Lucifer fell silent, his golden eyes flickering with thought as he wrestled with the implications of his words. After a few seconds that stretched like an eternity, he finally spoke.

“I want to work here.”

The declaration stunned Adam into silence, the words echoing in his mind like the chime of the bell above the door. The thought of Lucifer—a being of power and mystery—working alongside him in his small, humble shop was almost surreal. “What?” Adam managed, his disbelief evident.

Lucifer’s expression was earnest, stripped of its usual bravado. “I mean it,” he pressed, stepping closer, the tension between them morphing into something tangible and electric. “I want to be here, to help you. You don’t have to do this alone.”

Adam’s mind raced, thoughts swirling like the yarn around his fingers. This was a proposition he hadn’t anticipated. “But why?” he asked, searching Lucifer’s eyes for the truth behind his sudden desire to join him in this mundane world of crafts and colors.

“Because,” Lucifer replied, the weight of his words lingering in the air, “I want to understand you. I want to learn what it means to care for something outside of myself. I want to be part of something real.”

The vulnerability in Lucifer’s voice caught Adam off guard, piercing through the tension like a ray of light. Adam’s heart thudded loudly in his chest as he processed the gravity of what was being offered—an unlikely partnership, perhaps even a strange sort of friendship, forged in the crucible of their shared history.

“I… I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” Adam finally said, his voice a whisper. “You’re not just some ordinary guy. You’re Lucifer.”

“And you’re Adam,” Lucifer replied, his gaze steady. “Maybe it’s time we stopped letting our pasts dictate our futures.”

Adam felt the stirrings of something new and unexpected—a flicker of hope intertwined with doubt. But the allure of this strange alliance was undeniable, pulling at the threads of his heart. He had spent too long being miserable; perhaps it was time to embrace the unknown.

[yuurivoice]

easiest and hardest part in the writing process for each of your projects? like maybe the earnestness of bittersweet or the world building of eoe, etc. idk if my question makes sense lol

I think across the board, the hardest part is undoubtedly just getting the work done. Battling with myself will always be the biggest pain point of the creative process, but I can identify a few particulars.

BitterSweet's best part in regards to writing has been the beauty of tapping into these kegs of creativity and discovering what was actually in there. I have ideas, bullet points, etc, but when the rubber hits the road it becomes magical. For example, realizing that so much of Alphonse's motivation is related to his grief. When working on the Director's Cut and going over chapter 1 specifically, I see these gaps where the grief I figured out later on fit so perfectly. It was always there, I just didn't want to pull back that particular curtain...for reasons that I probably don't even need to sit with my therapist to figure out, I can tell you EXACTLY what that was lol

The hardest part with BitterSweet was the handful of voices that I felt tried to invalidate my work. I let it bother me, a lot. It left a very sour taste in my mouth. To reduce this story about love to the very narrow viewpoint of only being valuable if the trio explicitly kiss and declare with very deliberate and specific language that it's deep romantic love is a garbage thing to do, and the anger I felt was nearly enough to get me to walk away entirely. But this challenge made me better as a writer, because it taught me to trust myself. I accomplished this much by listening to my heart, and my gut. I will accomplish even greater by continuing to do the same.

With Echoes of Evalas there is a bit of that same anxiety, because there are similarly bold choices being made in different ways. Antagonistic relationships, a general moving away from the heavily romance based influences in favor of a broader scope, etc. but a bigger challenge has been making tasteful, thoughtful, considerate choices in relation to how serious subjects will be handled. We're dealing with fantasy colonizers, displaced peoples, implied genocide. That shit is heavy, but the goal isn't to treat it as window dressing, but calling out the wickedness that those same acts are built upon in our world. The thing about it is, it's EASY to handle that with taste and care, but I feel the pressure to get it right and be responsible with my writing. So I do a lot of analyzing as I write.

For example, there was a situation recently with a fantasy race that has some tribal implications, and someone would absolutely throw around the word "savage" carelessly because there are facets of their culture that are violent in nature and opposed to the "normal" way of life. So as I began to delve into it, I recognized that it's on me to express how it is viewed within the culture itself, some of the reasoning, the way of life. You don't pluck the character out of that culture and then just make them the angry, bloodthirsty one, ya feel me? So rather than "x character is a killer with a grudge, he's just really angry and wants to murder the oppressors", we're looking at how the oppressors MANIPULATE and create that image to further that systematic oppression through fear of a culture unlike their own.

Said character is righteous in their anger, as are those who were wronged, but you can't just treat them as "oh they're big scary and violent" and leave it at that. Because that's literally pushing the same agenda that has been used to oppress peoples here in reality, and that's fucked.

So there's a WHOLE LOT of self analysis going on as I write, but I feel like I'm doing the best I can to ensure that what ends up being put to screen is made with the care and thoughtfulness that the fantasy genre has historically lacked.

The thing that I hope comes through loud and clear is that Evalas' stories specifically speak to the wicked thing in people's hearts that make them believe they have the right to oppress and lord over those who are different from themselves, in my pitch I've written for potential collaborators on the project, I specifically call this out:

"In summary, I think I’ve got something to say about whatever wicked thing finds its way into people’s hearts that may make them feel entitled to erase and rewrite that which makes another so different from them. It rears its head in ways broad and narrow, but they share the same ignorance and fear of otherness. Some that I’ve experienced personally, some that I’ve witnessed and stood in allyship against, and certainly more that I’ve yet to understand and consider."

There are many ways I cannot ever experience oppression, but I can identify the systems and hate that fuel the machine, and imagine a world where we put our faith in each other to overcome that hate. It cannot be perfect, or without failure and misunderstanding, but we can find our way towards being greater as a whole in our path to purge that wickedness from the world.

Saying alllllll of that to say, the hardest part of Evalas may also be the easiest, because these are core to my beliefs. It is work that feeds my soul and makes me consider my fellow man, and seek to understand and empathize and learn. If I stumble along the way, I hope I am afforded the grace to learn and continue that pursuit.

[zvtara-was-never-canon]

i just read your ask about how zutaras think airbenders are racist, sexist, ect. and i'm like?? aren't air nomads canonically the most accepting of the 4 nations??? i don't know how accurate the avatar universe wiki is (it's one of the most expansive wikis i've ever seen for a fandom), but it says it there.

Even if we don't take the wiki or anything except the show itself into account - nothing in the show itself indicates they were racist, sexist, etc.

But you know what nation is confirmed to be very fucking racist, and there's hints of it being a least a little sexist? The Fire Nation. The one that commited genocide towards both the air-nomads and Southern Water Tribe.

Zutarians are constantly going on and on about how their ship is more "complext and adult", yet lots of them are TERRIFIED to engage with aspects that would make it a complex, adult, very messy dynamic - aka the fact that Zuko is not only a direct descendent of the guy that started the war (Sozin), of the guy that was responsible for the raids on Katara's tribe (Azulon), and of the guy that order her best friend's capture/death (Ozai) but he also took A LONG time to realize "Holy shit, what my family is doing is terrible" and was in fact constantly putting Katara and her friends in danger, helped Azula get the upper hand in Ba Sing Se and thus kill Aang, then sent an assassin after them to finish/repeat the job later.

There's also the fact that, due to their immaturity, they think they HAVE to hate Aang just because they don't him and Katara together, and it can make them look really bad to hate on the sole survivor of a genocide while praising the prince that was trying to help his nation get rid of said last survivor.

They could deal with that by doing stuff like making modern AUs to avoid the war thing, or actually addressing the complexity of the situation, or being mature enough to say "I dislike Kataang/Aang as a character, but obviously Zuko was an objectively worse person back when he was supporting literal genocide."

Instead they decide to make the air-nomads look like "asshole victims" to reduce sympathy for them and Aang, pretend the SWT and the NWT are exactly the same to make it look like Katara felt oppressed by her own family and culture instead of being traumatized by their death, and pretend the Fire Nation is not only the "feminst nation" but also that said feminism would TOTALLY extend to the girl they were taught to see as being part of an inferior race just because there's a new guy in charge.

Zutarians tend to only acknowledge the elephant in the room when it's for the sake of a fetish or extra drama (see the non-con fics or "Slave/Concubine Katara" fics), or when they are genuinely fucking clueless/racist and think "Oh, it wasn't so bad" and say as much openly.

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

AITA for almost killing my 8th grade english teacher? (warning: racism, sa mention)

I (M16, 14 at the time, white (this is important later)) was part of the newspaper in middle school. The teacher running the newspaper (F… 50? 60? i have no idea) was always really nice to me, and we got along really well. I was ecstatic to see that she would be my english teacher in 8th grade.

That is, until the class actually began.

This english class we mostly read books about oppression and historical atrocities and genocide because our history class wouldn’t cover that for some reason (the reason is racism). It seemed like this teacher would have done a good job of teaching this material, but well. you can see where this is going.

a week into the school year the whole class saw that she was pretty racist - not like overtly racist; she sort of said she cared about fighting oppression and then… was a part of that oppression. like she’d say “i could never be racist” and then she would be racist. it’s hard to explain. she would always be incredibly weird about disciplining the Black kids in the class, blaming one guy in particular for like. every time a guy in the class acted like and eighth grade boy would act. she was also really condescending to him; she’d constantly make comments about how he couldn’t follow rules (which obviously isn’t true). she did this to an extent to all the other Black kids in the class as well; later when some of them went to the principal to talk about what happened they said they didn’t feel safe in her class.

additionally, pretty much nobody even stood for the pledge of allegiance (we were usually busy reading cause the library in that school was really nice and had a really good collection of books), and when they did they’d never actually say it. this teacher had a problem with this, and every time she saw absolutely nobody in the class standing for the pledge of allegiance, she’d make the entire homeroom (oh yeah i was in her homeroom too, forgot to mention that) tell her why they didn’t for literally the entire class period. Every time someone mentioned systemic racism or racist history she’d butt in either saying “my parents were immigrants and they stood for the pledge” or she’d start talking about her gay son. some kids told stories of being called slurs when they were younger. some kids cried. she would always bring up her gay son as a rebuttal. and i get that being gay is hard, i’m gay myself, but that is not in any way applicable to the situation at hand here. This happened on three separate occasions - sometimes a single person would stand for the pledge just so there was at least one person doing it and so we wouldn’t have to have that conversation.

And then there was the actual teaching. oh boy. so, as i said before, almost all of our books in this class were about some sort of historical atrocity because the history class didn’t have time for it apparently. and uh. uhhhhhhh yeah. with this teacher it was not a good experience.

We had read books about racism for summer reading and we were reading the novel Chains at the beginning of the school year, and the teacher would always talk about how “resilient” the characters in the books were and how they made the best of their situations and fought back, but never about how these characters should have never had to be in these situations in the first place and WHO PUT THEM IN THESE SITUATIONS, WHAT SYSTEMS PUT THEM IN THESE SITUATIONS YOU KNOW THE KIND OF STUFF ONE WOULD NEED TO KNOW FROM A COURSE LIKE THIS TO MAKE SURE HISTORY DOESNT REPEAT ITSELF. Later in the year we read Warriors Don’t Cry and it went exactly how you’d expect. “Resiliency”. Also worse than you’d expect. The teacher victim blamed the author, a real ass person writing about real fucking events, for almost being assaulted at a young age. And though we focused more on the systems of oppression, thankfully, we also watched and interview with the little rock nine and some of the people who harassed them in school, and one of them, a white woman, said the n word and refused to apologize. and this teacher defended her???? On another occasion we had a lesson about feminism and we read some of Sojourner Truth’s writing, and she interpreted it as solely being about womanhood and not race - and when I tried to talk about how race is an important factor in the message of one of the speeches, the teacher called my parents. We also read books about the holocaust and this teacher was surprisingly respectful throughout the whole thing. No victim blaming, no talk of resilience, nothing.

I had talked to her about all of this before. We knew each other from the newspaper, and it even seemed like I was her favorite student. She would not budge. Sometimes she even made the argument that I was smarter than the other kids, that I cared more than the other kids, that I would notice these things and care about them but other kids wouldn’t and I should just shut up because nobody understands me because i’m just so smart. which made me fucking pissed. i don’t care any more than the other kids who told you stories of being harassed and ridiculed at 8:30 am on a weekday so that the whole class could excercise their freedom of speech. i’m not any smarter than the other kids who cited countless examples of the atrocities this country committed against people of color to you who you didn’t listen to. in fact, i’m not even that smart. i’d say i’m kind of an idiot. and i want to be an idiot, because then i’m not put on a pedestal to push other people down.

This happened two years ago so i don’t exactly remember the order in which these next three events happened.

Since during these talks sometimes i’d start to cry, in may my french teacher asked me if i wanted to transfer to her homeroom and i did. It was a lot better there.

Around this time about eight of the kids from my old homeroom went to the principal to talk about this teacher and how her class made them feel unsafe.

Anyway, my backpack is very heavy. I usually have a lot of books in there, until this year I used five subject notebooks, I never clean out my folders and I brought a laptop as well. Even with all this though, my backpack always ends up being heavier than I expected.

So, one day my anger toward this teacher boiled over. On my way out of english class, when she went to say goodbye to me, I shoved her to the side with my backpack. It turns out that broke her hip, and she was out of school for two weeks. When she came back she said she had almost died in the hospital. She also announced her retirement, and that she was going to go and “end racism”, ironically. She knew I was the one who hit her, but she didn’t say anything about that. I was still her favorite, apparently. It left a bad taste in my mouth that she still thought of me like this. Eventually I graduated from that school and I haven’t seen her since.

tldr: A teacher of mine was racist and making a lot of the kids in the class feel unsafe, and she tried to keep me from arguing with her about it, so I hit her with my backpack and broke her hip, almost killing her.

AITA???

What are these acronyms?