Phoenix’s decision to become a lawyer in part to save Edgeworth often is interpreted along the lines of “Phoenix changed his life to save Edgeworth because he’s gay for him.” and while I don’t think this is necessarily untrue, I think a much more compelling and realistic interpretation is that Phoenix’s reaction to seeing somebody he loves in trouble revealed to him his deep-seated desire to protect the innocent from injustice, so he became a lawyer.
Edgeworth has, in the grand scheme of things, very little to do with why Phoenix is a lawyer. he was, however, a catalyst for Phoenix unlocking that part of himself (along with Mia!). and, to me, the sentiment that love reveals who you are is much more romantic than the idea that Phoenix made a sacrifice only to save the man he loves. loving Edgeworth brings Phoenix closer in line with his true self, and it’s through his love that he sees the potential of who he could be. even if he couldn’t save Edgeworth or if he never even came face-to-face with him again, Phoenix would remain changed by his love and would stay on this path he’s realized he’s so well-suited to. becoming a lawyer was never a sacrifice for Edgeworth; it was the realization of who Phoenix is: a protector. that he realized this through his feelings for Edgeworth is almost immaterial.
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"Still trying to intimidate me? Cute."
(ID: Kirby series fanart of Meta Knight and Galacta Knight based off of a couple dynamics template by @/ReddsMess on Twitter. Original template and source below the cut, as well as a HAL language variant. Top-left panel - high-angle shot of MK lit from above, standing firm and glaring up through his mask, his wings curled out and breaching the panel in places, subtitled "Well well..." Top-right panel - low-angle shot of GK lit from below, looming in the air and leering down through his mask, his wings curled out and his hands spread wide in challenge, both of which breach the panel in places, subtitled "Look who came to see me..." Bottom panel - MK & GK stand next to each other, the latter leaning towards the former and gently caressing the side of his mask with the back of one hand, grinning smugly and wrapping a wing around the knight, subtitled "My Knightmare." MK stands stiffly with his fists clenched at his sides, blushing vividly and glaring away from the warrior. A little flurry of white hearts emanate from GK, while one small one hovers above MK. END ID.)
Started 03/30/24, finished 04/02/24.
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HAL language variant:
Original by ReddsMess (template link) NOTE: The artist has marked 16-18+ in their bio, so browse at your own risk!
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I think one of the reasons I dislike zutara as a ship so much is because their friendship is so beautiful on its own without romance and such a huge sign of growth and character development. zuko and katara were one of the first m/f relationships I saw in media where the characters weren’t related or love interests. and while there are several other m/f friendships katara was my favorite character when I first saw the show and as such their friendship was (and still is) very dear to me.
also, I know everyone loves a good enemies-to-lovers, and I do too, but y’all are sleeping on the criminally underused trope of enemies-to-friends. in almost every enemies-to-lovers story I’ve read the reason that they get from enemies to lovers is because of some undeniable and immutable attraction. but what if we didn’t have that? what if you didn’t haunt my dreams at night? what if it wasn’t a struggle to pull my eyes away from you? what if I had every reason to hate you and all you had to give me was a late apology and a promise to do better? what if forgiving you was a choice I didn’t have to make? then what? I’d have to know you on purpose. you’d have to trust me when I forgive you because I’ve thought of every reason not to.
and I hear some of you saying “oh but that could be a great enemies-to-lovers story too” and maybe it could, but you’re missing the point. the reason zuko and katara hits so hard for me is because they didn’t have to be friends. they both had other friends and other family and they both would have had happy and full lives. but they got past it anyways. and it didn’t have anything to do with romance or love. it was purely growth and self-improvement. zuko didn’t apologize because of a crush on a cute girl, he apologized because he regretted what he did and was maturing into a better and kinder and more thoughtful person. katara didn’t forgive him because he was hot, she forgave him because she understood that her anger and hate was poisoning her and she wanted to move on.
tl;dr: the beauty of zutara’s friendship is that they became friends because of growth and maturity that had nothing to do with romance and throwing in that they were attracted to or in love with each other cheapens the significance of their character development and shows that romantic love is the only way to overcome personal challenges.
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☆ from gold, i am undone
{☆} characters tsaritsa
{☆} notes cult au, yandere, drabble, gender neutral reader
{☆} warnings blood, implied self harm, implied suicide attempts
{☆} word count 0.9k
You weren't meant to be here.
You can feel it in the marrow of your bones– it weighs you down like heavy shackles, gold bleeding from your pores until it is all you know. The taste of ichor on your tongue, the warmth of its invasion beneath your skin, that gleam of gold that lingers in the color of your eyes like specks of dust.
You are changed, and you are whole.
But you are so unbearably broken.
A shattered piece of porcelain hastily put back together with gold to fill the cracks.
Decoration, in the end, for you are not fit to walk as "mortals" do. This gold had filled every empty crevice of your body, spilled the red into your frantic hands and made you bleed so it's callous gold could make room inside your body. It has taken from you many things, given many more, but you scratch and bite and tear until it drips onto the floor and even then it never leaves. It stains the floor no matter how hard you scrub– a permanent reminder of the sickening gold that molds you into something that used to look like you– that does look like you. Desecrated, yet so horribly divine.
All you see is a monster.
Something new, something old.
A hollowed out shell, wounds left to rot and fester until you suited the image of the Creator they bore upon statues and murals, the Creator worshiped in prayers spoken in hushed whispers and joyous chants praising your magnificence.
But what magnificence is there in detachment? What joy is there to be found in carving a God out of a human? They kneel like lambs before the shepherd, but the flock has made you– and you want to unmake them. Unweave the tapestry of their being stitch by stitch until it all falls apart and the world knows the cost of casting molten gold into the shape of a human, knows the price that has been left unpaid.
You want to take it from them. Watch them squabble and pray, blind sheep stepping into the wolf's open maw– to tear the seams of their being until the world is unwound by your heavy hands.
But you know it will not satisfy you.
Nothing does anymore.
You are no wolf. Only the shepherd who guides.
And with every drop of blood spilled, they ripped the humanity from your very bones until your body was the cast in which they made something anew– something gold, something horrific. A monster as much a God, a beast as much a man.
There is nothing left but absolute authority.
You try again and again to mend this act of desecration, to peel back the outer shell and rend the gold from your marrow– but your body cannot, will not, die. It mends itself back into place no matter how damaged, and all you feel is the uncomfortable tug of your body forcing itself to live. You cannot die, but were you ever truly alive at all?
Yet with every cycle, you know only one constant besides the thrum of golden ichor in your veins– cold.
Ice that burns, ice that spreads and festers and devours. Claws that pull you apart until the gold runs thick, teeth that burrow into your bones and rip it out from the source..eyes that witness the fall of a God with reverence– hungering, all consuming reverence.
You welcome it.
It is the first time you felt pain since you were cast into an image of a being you were not meant to be. The sting of cold upon your skin makes you shiver, your body tries to reject it, but you want to welcome it– for a brief moment that lasts only as long as it takes for you to blink, you see the glint of something familiar in the reflection of her empty eyes. Something achingly, horribly familiar– something human, all the more terrifying for it.
Even when Teyvat itself crumples like paper beneath the weight of her sins – of this desecration anew, this wretched heresy – you allow her hands to do it again. You grasp her hands in yours like chains, willing her to shackle you, willing her to pull you apart and make you whole again. To break you until the gold cannot put you back together again.
You long, each time, for those eyes like spears that lodge into your skin– burrow deep and sting deeper, making gold flow like water. You long for the biting tongue, the cutting words and those teeth like weapons– long to see the spite and anger and impure disgust aimed at the woman of silver who leads you down a hall that ends only in damnation. You follow each time like the lamb led astray by the wolf, but you do not wail in betrayal when she sinks her teeth into your throat and devours you whole.
For is it a sin if you welcome it? Has their God sinned, in the eyes of the flock, for welcoming such heresy with open arms? For allowing the wolf into their home?
Is it a sin to be broken beneath the only hands that have loved you?
Is it a sin to want to love, too, those hands and teeth stained in gold?
Then you shall be damned, you swear it. Damned, but gold no more.
For death is the closest you have ever felt to being human.
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