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604to647 · 2 months ago

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The Might of the Realm

8.9K / Din Djarin x Princess!Reader

Summary: Din Djarin, General to your father’s army, finds himself in the gladiator arena of a foreign planet fighting for the success of your diplomatic mission.

Warnings: 18+ Content (MDNI please). Established secret relationship (they are stupid in love), Mando'a nicknames (mesh'la, cyar'ika, cyare), the helmet comes off but reader is blindfolded, bath sex, fingering, unprotected PiV (Star Wars is made up and in space, so we pretend it's fine). A wee bit of angst if you squint.

A/N: Written for @beefrobeefcal's The Glandolorian challenge! This is the same AU that I imagined for my Kiss It Better drabble, with the same Princess!reader: set post Season 3, Carson Teva has dispatched Din to a New Republic stronghold planet to train and strengthen their armies; he becomes their General and falls in love with the realm's princess. I imagine this story to take place before Kiss It Better, when they are still sneaking around 🥰.

Many moons before another General (🤭) came on the scene, I outlined a long story for this AU that I'm not sure I'll ever write, so kindly forgive my self indulgent word count - I really took advantage of this challenge for a chance to write these two 🥰 Struggled a bit with the Dieter Bravo reference, but I think I found something that works (Thank you to @morallyinept for your invaluable character dialogue database!) Also got inspired by someone's Gladiator II premier look and snuck in one (1) The Princess Bride reference 🤭 / Dividers by @saradika-graphics

“No.”

“Princess, it will be fine.”

“I said ‘no’, Din. We came to pay our respects to the new rule and to affirm that our established trade routes through Flavin 5’s space will remain intact. We did not come to be participate in some archaic gladiatorial fighting match to assert dominance.”

Even through the blankness of Din’s visor you can tell he’s amused by your hiss of a retort but is holding back his reaction. His stoic and impassive demeanor normally reserved for others, you know that if he’s being less than fully direct with you it’s for one of two reasons: 1) he doesn’t want to lie or 2) he doesn’t want to risk your ire. You suppose it’s the latter in this case, and that thought alone is reason enough for you to calm your emotional response to this predicament and reassess.

Taking a deep breath, you rest one hand on your hip and mimic a stance you’ve seen your fearsome General make many times; with your other you gesture at Din to present his argument for voluntarily sending your guard, the top lieutenants of the army he commands, into a battle arena on foreign soil.

“Mesh’la, I know your instinct is to protect your people, but you know as well as I that our troops, and especially the men who have been deemed fit to accompany you on this diplomatic mission, are more than capable of handling themselves in any combat situation.”

Din almost chuckles at the way you tilt your pretty head ready to interrupt, his feisty cyar’ika; he continues hurriedly, but with the calm confidence he knows you respond to, “You diligently studied Flavian traditions and history before embarking on this trip – you yourself taught me all I know of these people. Despite the new ruling family’s decision to resurrect this ancient custom, what is your sense of these people? Do they seem barbaric? Cruel for cruelty’s sake? This isn’t the Petranaki arena on Geonosis.”

You would roll your eyes at Din’s perfectly level-headed analysis, if you didn’t consider his strategic and tactical mind one of his most attractive qualities; Din’s shrewd ability to consider all angles of any situation is one of your army’s greatest strengths, and one that never fails to weaken you at the knees. He’s taking this situation as seriously as you need him to, and so, you consider your answer carefully - working through your thoughts out aloud, “No, they are not a cruel people – and you’re right, these gladiatorial games were never about execution or spectacle like they were on Geonosis. The ancient Flavian events were meant to bring the people, no matter class or station, together to be entertained, usually in celebration.”

“Do you think that tradition is being respected? Or do you suspect some hidden agenda?”

You remunerate on this, thinking back to the new Flavian royal family you met earlier today, “No. I believe them to be sincere. Their purpose in resurrecting this historic custom is, I think, to build a connection with their people. Participating in the gladiator match would be a show a respect for the Flavian people and a celebration of the new royal family.” You take a deep breath, “So, we should participate.”

“I agree completely, Princess.”

This time you do roll your eyes at Din, but there’s no arrogance in your expression, “Fine. But Din, just because there’s no ill intent does not mean there isn’t risk. We don’t know what to expect from such a fight – there hasn’t been one like it held in centuries. Who knows what opponents our men would face in the arena?”

“No matter who or what our troops are pitted against tomorrow, Princess, there is no doubt in my mind that they will be able to handle it.”

Nodding thoughtfully, you have to agree, Din did train them himself after all, “I believe it. Especially since they will have their fearless General there to lead them.”

“No.”

“Din, it will be fine.”

“I said ‘no’, mesh’la. I cannot leave you unprotected and without guard in the Royal Box,” huffs Din.

Stepping into Din’s space, you lay your hands on the shiny beskar that sits across his expansive chest, swearing you can feel it vibrate beneath your gentle palm from his thundering heartbeat; tipping yourself towards the great warrior before you, you feel his big, gloved hands move to your waist to steady you just as you knew they would. Giving Din your most innocuous expression, you coo, “There is no need for me to have a protective guard if we deem the Flavian royals to be of honourable intent; if it is safe enough for our soldiers to participate in the gladiatorial games, then it is safe enough for me to be alone in the Royal Box.”

Din’s smile at your cleverness and persuasive tactics is hidden beneath his helmet, but he’s yet not ready to show you he’s given in so he remains as silent and cold as the armour he wears.

You use this opportunity to loop one arm around your hulking General’s neck to bring him closer to you still, your free hand takes one of his from your waist and brings it up to his helmet in a silent request. The familiar click of Din’s helmet unlocking is the only invitation you need - using your nose to lift the brim of his helmet slightly above his strong jaw so you can find his plush lips with your own, you feel the hint of a smile against your pout before you deepen the kiss. Opening to let Din lick into your mouth, you melt against the hard metal that represents everything he is to you: extraordinary, flawless, indestructible.

And such a good kisser, letting loose a soft whimper you nearly miss Din chuckle something against your lips.

“What’s that, General?” you sigh dreamily.

“I said, Princess, I saw what you did there, and that was NOT the way,” chastising with no actual bite, Din lowers and relocks his helmet.

“I’m not sure what you mean,” flashing him that breathtaking smile of yours that always makes him forget himself, “I’m only following the logic you already agreed to. Grogu and I will be fine watching you showcase the might of our realm from the safety of our spectator seats tomorrow.”

“Grogu will be with me in the fighting area.”

“No.”

“Cyar’ika, he will be fine.”

“He’s just a baby, Din!”

“And a Mandalorian apprentice. You’ve seen what a formidable fighter he’s already grown to be.”

And so on, and so forth – the two of you, the General and his Princess, spiritedly discussing and debating matters that affect your realm. The thought crosses your mind, not for the first time, that when you ascend the throne after your father you will need a ruling partner who challenges you like this: one who makes you wiser and forces you to expand your horizons, but trusts your compassion and tender heart, and who you trust to keep you and your kingdom safe. And as you always do when this thought naturally lends itself to an image of Din by your side, tall and proud as your King consort, you push it away as far as you can. It hurts too much to imagine something that seems to materialize so clearly and happily, as if it could actually become a reality, when you know it could never be.

The crowd in the arena is deafening. Already amped from the opening entertainment acts, they’re now cheering loud, calling for the main event.

Sitting front row in the Royal Box, you scan over the floor of the arena – knowing that it’s unlikely, but still hoping for a flash of silver beskar from behind one of the gates that line the sides of the arena floor, behind which lay the holding areas for the gladiator fighters selected for today’s match. Once or twice, you think you spy the sunlight catch something shiny from beneath the stands, but before you can look more closely, someone from the Flavian royal family will engage your attention. Though your mind never strays far from Din and his, your men, you cannot forget yourself or your role - your purpose for being in this arena today: you’re here to secure the continued prosperity your kingdom and strengthen your realm’s relationship with a long-standing ally.

If you’re honest, despite the trepidation that sits heavily atop your heart, you cannot help but be affected by the electricity of your environment. The stadium thrums and pulses with the excitement of thousands of Flavian citizens who have come out in the hot sun to partake in today’s festivities – you see children of all ages waving noisemakers and colourful flags, men and women young and old already cheering for who they anticipate to be today’s victors. Based on the chatter in your tent, the news of your General fighting today has spread like wildfire through the city – very few Flavians have ever seen a Mandalorian, never mind have the privilege of seeing one fight; today was going to be a day they remember for the rest of their lives. As for your companions in the Royal Box, you’re happy to see that your and Din’s assessment had been accurate – there is no underlying bloodlust or malevolent show of power associated with these fights, everything is only in good fun; your royal cohorts are all in splendid moods, showing genuine enthusiasm akin to the original spirit of the same games put on by their ancestors.

You’re just chatting amiably with the new Flavian king about having some of the wonderful Flavian wine and fruit you’ve enjoyed in the tent sent up to your room later, when a fanfare of trumpets echoes throughout the stadium announcing the start of today’s fight. The crowd quiets to a soft buzzing as the amphitheatre’s speakers announce the entrance of your fighters; the volume rises again as the audience goes wild when the might of your realm runs in through the gladiator’s entrance. You can’t help but beam, chest bursting with pride at the impression they make on the Flavian crowd – a big, broad Mandalorian General, towering in his stance and intimidating in his majestic armour, flanked by your guard: five of the strongest, most formidable soldiers from your father’s army.

You spy Grogu before the Flavian royals do, but it’s only because you know where to look. A perch for him has been attached to the side of his father’s jet pack so he can remain secure at Din’s shoulder during combat, but have the flexibility to jump off and join the fray if needed. The instant the Flavian prince spots him, he excitedly points him out to the others – and you take great pleasure in informing your hosts that they, in fact, have the honour of seeing two Mandalorians today.

With only a few moments before their opponents arrive in the arena, you take a closer look at your fighting contingent – they have been outfitted with Flavian weapons (swords, blasters, electro shields), the standard issue armament of your kingdom they normally carry nowhere in sight; the only exception is of course Din, who carries the gladiatorial weapons like the others and all of his usual weaponry – you chuckle to yourself, imagining the poor Flavian weapons master who tried to strip a Mandalorian of his religion.

A loud voice announcing the incoming fighters for Flavin 5 jerks you back to the scene before you. The crowd thunders as a squadron of battle droids nearly a hundred strong marches into the arena, each carrying varying sized blasters or blaster rifles in addition to their own swords, a few wielding double ended electro staffs. You barely have time to fret over how outnumbered Din and your troops are before the king is rising in his seat and giving the ceremonial hand gesture for the fight to begin.

You hear your General shout quick, decisive commands and his trusty men move swiftly into the desired formation, electro shields lit up and expanded in one coordinated movement. They advance as a team, strong and sure, every aim of their blasters true – each man practiced at covering the comrades at their sides as the droids begin shooting back.

When your men are close enough to the front line of the remaining droids, the intimidating battle cry you hear emanating from Din’s helmet is repeated in response at tenfold the volume by his men, a signal to shift fluidly into a tiered offensive formation that you recognize from watching their training on the palace grounds at home.

The legion moves with precision and speed, the crouched soldiers providing the impenetrable shielding needed by the men who stand tall as a precision sniper team that can’t be touched; your Mandalorian the tallest, unphased by the droid fire that bounces harmlessly off his beskar armour.

The formation is far more effective than the static positions of the droids and in almost no time at all, your fighters have driven the remaining thirty or so droids back towards the entrance gate. Answering another roared order, your contingent springs apart with an unrivalled ferocity to attack the remaining droids via direct combat.

Din cuts down mechanical fighter after mechanical fighter, mowing through the defensive lines of the Flavian droids that have none of his agility and lighting quick reflexes, bolstered by his trusted troops at his back who move with the confidence of men who have been trained by the best, used to fighting with the best.

Grogu has left his father, jumping from his perch onto and over droids with lightening speed - they shoot at him with their blasters only to miss their fast-moving green target every time and take each other out instead.

You watch their every move with bated breath – every bolt that connects with your realm’s armour quickens your breath, the clashing sounds of weapon on weapon too loud in your ears, and each hit or wound sustained by one of your men jolts a phantom pain through your own body.

When the last droid soldier falls, your men, your man, stand victorious at the epicenter of the arena; bloodied, exhausted to the point that the heaving of their chest plates can be seen from the Royal Box… but all standing.

You can hardly believe it - your heart exploding with pride, tears nearly springing from your eyes in relief. Looking to your hosts, you half expect them to congratulate you and acknowledge the victory of your fighters, but instead, you see them still engaged with the scene before them, eyes trained on the arena floor.

They smile with genuine excitement and anticipation, and your eyes snap back to Din and your soldiers at the sound of the brassy, melodic fanfare now being played throughout the stadium. The crowd rises to its feet with an ear-splitting roar as the orchestral horns continue to crescendo, announcing the coming of something.

You glance at the Flavian prince, his face alight with boyish joy – he’s excited in an almost childish way and when he sees you looking at him, he beams and points to one of the gates that’s now opening, voice elated, “Cliff beasts!”

Cliff beasts?!? You stand from your seat and rush to the edge of the balcony, gripping the railing and leaning as far as you can so you can see what new challenger is about to enter the arena. You gasp when you see it – a woolly beast larger than Din and his men combined, trotting out into the arena on four stubby but powerful legs. A magnificent horn, the length of which must span at least half of the creature’s massive body protrudes from its snout, thick and battle ready.

A mudhorn?? Of all the beasts to have entered the arena, what where the chances it would be the beast of Din’s clan signet? For a moment, you’re alarmed that maybe there have been unseen machinations at play and you’ve been blind to it all – that you’ve somehow failed in your diplomatic duties, failing your kingdom, your men, Din.

You study the Flavian prince who’s now proclaiming to his father, the king, “These cliff beasts are so large!” The two of them are enthusiastically waving and gesturing to the other attendees in the Royal Box, their chatter is of wonderment and genuine amazement at the sight of this creature that they’ve never before beheld on their planet - you conclude, with relief, that it has to be a coincidence. Wait, what did he mean – these?

Peering down into the arena again you see a second, smaller mudhorn ambling behind the first. A parent and its child! Your heart tightens, imagining how scared the two creatures have to be and how fiercely the adult will fight in order to protect its young. You catch Din’s visor pointed up at you from the arena floor and you know that he understands the distressed expression of your face perfectly.

Immediately, your General gathers his men and lays out his strategy – unknowable to the crowds of the arena, but you can read Din clear as day: he won’t cause harm to another living creature if he doesn’t have to.

Din and his soldiers slowly fan out, purposefully ignoring the young calf while surrounding the adult mudhorn. As expected, the mudhorn charges in attack. Trying to blink as little as possible for fear of missing anything, you watch wide-eyed as your men deftly leap and roll out of the path of the stampeding animal. When the mudhorn stops and turns back towards the perceived threat to its young, the soldiers surround it again – rocking on the balls of their feet ready to evade its charge again. They aren’t always as lucky or fast enough – you cry out in anguish whenever the Mudhorn makes contact, sending your guard flying, landing with a sickening thud on the arena floor from the force of the impact. The crowd gasps in worry, cheering louder than ever when your men get up to rejoin their brethren in repeating the same maneuver over and over.

Din’s plan is working, the mudhorn is getting tired.

Part of you is relieved, the other hopes that its fatigue doesn’t make the creature desperate; though your men are still standing, you don’t know if any of them can sustain more injury to their bodies – an increasing danger that only grows as Din and your soldiers begin tightening the proverbial noose. You spy Din protracting his fibercord whip from his vambrace by hand only seconds before he does what you suddenly realize he’s going to do. The mudhorn is pawing at the ground, exhausted and angry while your men surround it, now each only about an arm’s length away, when Din uses a jetpack blast to leap onto its back - throwing the whipcord around its horn and pulling back on his makeshift reins. The other men scatter and the crowd screams as your General rides the wildly bucking animal around the arena. At their General’s direction, your men are now divided between two tasks: half shoot at the galloping beast that unwillingly bears their fearless leader and his son, their blaster bolts a distraction but doing little to the mudhorn’s tough hide; the remaining men tasked with capturing and restraining the calf – the seemingly easier task.

Heart nearly in your throat, you watch as Grogu climbs down the front of his father’s arm and onto the mudhorn, quickly crawling to the top of its head where the massive horn joins the creature’s skull. With one of his little green hands holding onto the cord his father holds taut and the other placed directly on the mudhorn’s woolly head, you see Grogu close his eyes in concentration. Gradually, the mudhorn’s steps slow and its movements around the arena become unsteady, then wobbly, before it finally teeters and crashes onto its side fast asleep. Din jumps off just in time to avoid being crushed by the animal’s huge body - Grogu does a dramatic flip into the air at the same time and lands perfectly in his father’s waiting arms. The crowd roars its approval.

The Flavian royals next to you are on their feet, clapping and cheering with astonishment and admiration – congratulating you on the victory of your men and thanking you for the fantastic show you’ve provided them today. Clasping your hands in appreciation, they heartedly assure you that the documents confirming your planet’s trade routes will be completed and delivered to you tomorrow.

You express your appreciation before turning your attention back towards the arena, heart full - relieved and proud of the men still on the fighting floor. You have to admit they make quite the sight waving to the cheering crowds while standing next to a sleeping mudhorn, two of your lieutenants holding a makeshift leash with a smaller mudhorn standing docile at its end. To the admiring masses, the large beast was subdued by these men, the might of your realm, but you know the truth. You blow a little kiss to Grogu who pretends to catch it in his little hand before waving back, happy but somewhat tired.

Even with his helmet on you can read Din’s expression as he looks up to the Royal Box. Where is my kiss, mesh’la?

You smile back a playful smirk just for the unseen eyes behind the dark T-visor. Later.

You pace in the large, ornamental suite that your hosts have graciously provided – it’s beautiful, a true testament to Flavian luxury and craftsmanship, but you have no attention to spare for its finery. Not when you’re straining your ears to listen for footsteps coming down the hall, eyes continuing to dart towards your door as if for some reason you may have missed hearing them come.

“Princess…”

Your lady’s maids, Olivia and Serine, pace right along with you, following your tracks around the grand room. They’re as exhausted as you are, but you know their hearts to be as determined as your own; you give them the most indulgent look you can muster and any plea to ask you to rest dies on their lips. The three of you continue to take turns listening intently for the telltale sounds of a soldiers’ march.

Finally, you hear something. Faint but purposeful footsteps walking in synchronicity – the herald of well-trained soldiers with an intended destination. Perked, you look to your faithful companions with renewed vigor and sprint to your door, flinging it open without grace and hurrying into the dimly lit hallway.

They’re still far enough down the hall that you have some time, even with your hastened steps, to study how your men appear to be faring; you know that when you ask, they will insist they are fine so not to worry you.

Two of your country’s finest are limping slightly, one of your lieutenants and a captain. Your other lieutenant is walking fine, but he has a nasty gash on his forearm, dripped, half dried blood wrapping around his wrist like a terrible bracelet. The armour of your realm that the legion proudly wears has taken a beating, covered in evidence of today’s bout – marked, dirty and bloodied, but none of the men themselves appear to be grievously injured.

But it’s the man at the front of the pack that you study the most sincerely. Din’s gait is not too unfamiliar for you to suspect he’s hiding any serious injury - he would know better than that. After the battle on the Fields of Planoor he had learned not to conceal his injuries from you, that you were so familiar with his body and the way it moves, you would know something was wrong without a single word from him. As Din stalks towards your group, you can feel the hot gaze from behind his visor assessing you just as you assess him; your General holds himself a bit straighter, his massive frame puffing in pride. He bears no sign of serious injury, a little sigh of relief escapes your lips as you continue to run down the hall, Olivia and Serine hot on your heels. But his back is probably killing him.

The men stop to a coordinated halt as you reach them; their weapons sheathed, they each raise their left fists to their chests and bow, “Princess.”

You wave your hands in a graceful but frantic manner, dismissing this need for formality, “Please. Are you okay? Is everyone alright?”

Reaching for Grogu, your heart settles a little when he climbs down from his secured perch on his father’s shoulder and leaps into your arms. Fussing over him, you check his fuzzy green ears and sweet face for injuries; when you run your hands over his limbs and body to do the same, he coos and giggles as if being tickled. Resting your palm against the security of the beskar rondel he wears beneath his tunic, you exhale in contented relief and place a long kiss to his head. He’s okay.

Those same words are now being echoed out loud in the low modulated rasp of the voice you trust most in this galaxy, “He’s okay, Princess. Not a scratch on him, the little womp rat. The Lieutenant could do with some fresh dressings for his arm, but the rest of us are fine – a bit banged up and tired, but nothing a warm bath and a good night’s rest can’t fix.”

Knowing that Din’s helmet will give nothing away, you study the faces of your countrymen, trying to ascertain if their beloved General is downplaying the damage for your sake. Finding no deception in their eyes, and knowing that they know you would know, you relent, “Have you eaten?”

“We were given sustenance after our victory.”

You raise your eyebrow at this, suspecting that Din’s words answer only for his men, but not necessarily himself. Nodding, you give your final charge for the evening, “Olivia, Serine, please kindly see our brave soldiers to their rooms, run their baths and tend to them as needed.”

Your ladies-in-waiting curtsey in assent at your words and intuitively, Olivia extends her arms for Grogu – there are no secrets between you and your closest companions. Din nods at her and she takes her favourite little green playmate into her arms, happy to help clean him and put him to bed tonight while his father is otherwise occupied.

Din turns to face his men – similarly, there are no secrets between the General and his most trusted squadron, men who love their princess with an unyielding loyalty that rivals only his own. Your father’s soldiers salute their esteemed leader, bidding their Princess and General goodnight before following Olivia and Serine to their assigned quarters.

Silently, you take Din’s hand and lead him back down the hallway to your room, careful not to hurry should he be much battered and sore, though the urgency in your chest is nearly bubbling over. Your concern appears to have been unfounded because as soon as the door to your room shuts, Din sweeps you into his arms with a force that takes your breath away - crushing you to his chest so tightly that you can feel him deflate beneath the hard beskar as he exhales his own long held sigh of relief.

You chuckle, “You would have thought that I was the one fighting cliff beasts in the arena today.”

“Cliff beasts?” Din tilts his head quizzically at you.

“I’ll tell you later. Right now, let’s get you out of your armour,” your fingers slide under his pauldrons, feeling for the familiar release mechanism.

“Cyar’ika, if you wanted to have your way with me, you only had to ask - you didn’t need to send me into a fight arena with a mudhorn,” jokes Din, wincing slightly from the stretch of his muscles as they contract and relax with the weight of his armour being lifted from his aching body.

You cluck your tongue in playful disapproval, even as you continue to make quick work of removing the rest of Din’s armour. With now practiced precision, you lift off his chest plates and the attachment frame, unhook his jetpack, unclip his cape, slide off his vambraces, unstrap his thigh plates, unlace his boots, unbuckle his belt, unzip his flight suit. The ceremony of this process is one you will never tire of, nor is its significance lost on you.

Din, a Mandalorian, willingly lets you touch his armour and remove it from his body – trusting your delicate hands with his most precious property: the physical embodiment of his honour and creed, the very symbol of his people. Not only that, but he allows you to strip him of protection and reveal his vulnerability to you, exposing him and his softness – he exists as the man beneath the beskar for you and you only. You’re the most privileged being in the galaxy – the weight of Din’s trust in you is something you will never take for granted.

When Din stands before you in only his boxers and helmet, you begin your study of his body in earnest. Dancing your fingers across his hard and tanned chest, you trace old scars in order to separate them from new marks; palming his torso and checking his thick arms with the same careful hands. Rounding your warrior, you continue your roaming examination over his muscular back and listen intently for any change in Din’s breathing when you press down on his tense shoulders – relieved when you hear him groan in satisfaction instead of pain. As you’re lightly scraping your nails over his wide thighs you hear the telltale unclicking of Din’s helmet – he beckons you.

Rising to meet his lowering face, you use your thumbs to lift the brim of Din’s helmet slightly, always keeping your eyes closed so you don’t see any of his face – not for the world would you betray Din’s trust. Mouth finding his easily, you kiss Din gingerly – unsure of what injuries he may have sustained beneath his helmet; lightly pecking his soft pout and pressing restrained affection to the corner of his mouth.

“I’m not going to break, cyare,” Din grins as if he’s reading your mind.

Snapping down his helmet with a bit more force than necessary, you peer up into the black horizonal stripe of his visor and sniffle, “I can see some big bruises starting to form over your abdomen and on the back of your thighs. And the muscles of your arms and back are overstrained and need to loosen or you’re going to be more sore tomorrow than you already will be.” The emotions you held in all day now start to spill over your lash line; dropping your head, you cry softly at the toll today’s events have taken on your strong man’s body and how he bears it without complaint. Contrite and indebted that he sustained these injuries at the behest of your kingdom - your behest, for you.

Din gathers you in his arms and pulls you flush to his chest, tilting back his helmet again he kisses you lovingly, devotedly – with every stroke of his tongue, every nibble of your lips, he reminds you that it is not only his duty, but his honour to serve your kingdom, to serve you. He would do anything for you, without you ever having to bid it. It is not in him to deny you anything, his heart’s desire is to give you everything.

“I love you, Princess.”

“I love you, General.”

Not without some difficulty, you pull yourself out of Din’s embrace and lead him to the suite’s fresher, running the taps of the large tub and scenting the water with fragrant, healing oils.

“I can do that, mesh’la,” one of Din’s large meaty hands covers yours as you test the temperature of the water.

Shaking your head shyly, you bring that hand up to your lips and kiss its calloused knuckles, “Please. Let me serve you, Din.”

“That is not befitting of a princess.”

“I am not like other princesses.”

Tilting your chin up with two of his thick fingers, you can feel the smile behind Din’s next words, “No, you are not. There is no one like you in the galaxy.”

“And I’m yours.”

The helmet, never having been relocked, is lifted again and Din sweeps you into a passionate, hungry kiss, different than the reassuring and devoted kisses of earlier – deeper, greedier.

“Get in the tub, Din,” you murmur against his lips while you can, before you forget your task and give yourself over to him completely.

Chuckling, Din can only acquiesce whenever he hears a direct request from your mouth – he never hears you command him as his sovereign, only ever as his love. No matter – he would obey either way. Stripping off his boxers, helmet still on, Din slips into the steamy water of the deep soaker tub, letting out a heady groan at the way all his muscles relax in reaction to the sudden heat against his rough skin.

With a soft footedness that still surprises Din, so used to picking up every little sound with his helmet’s acoustic sensors, you reappear suddenly with a small tray table bearing various Flavian fruits and wine for Din and a thin silk scarf for you.

“I know you didn’t eat after the match,” you say matter-of-factly when Din tilts his helmet in question. Neither did you.

“Will you join me, cyar’ika?”

“Of course, my love,” you begin to disrobe, perfectly understanding the double meaning of your General’s question.

Though he’s seen and worshipped your naked form more times that you can count, there’s always something about being unable to see the eyes that devour you which makes you shy. Able to detect the rise in temperature of your face, your bashfulness amuses Din to no end – if only you could see his own expression; every time Din sees you bare before him is like the first time, he thinks you might even laugh at the slack jawed, awestruck expression hidden by his helmet – if Mandalorians were to believe in a literal afterlife, then Din could well be deemed a heretic for he’s sure he’s already seen heaven.

Stepping in the tub, careful not to trip over Din’s strong legs, you settle on your knees in the water near his feet; taking the wash towel from the side of the tub, you lather it up with your own luxurious cleanser, the scent of which you know Din loves and begin to wash his body. With great care and affection, you wash and massage Din’s feet, calves and thick thighs, the two of you quietly chatting about your individual perspectives on what transpired in the arena today as you move up his body with your loving touch.

Din groans when you wash his groin area, and you smirk and pretend to throw him a look of disapproval even as you stroke his fast-hardening cock with the washcloth.

“Cyare…” he strains.

“Hmmmm?” Humming, you shimmy to straddle his lap and innocently begin to wash his hard chest and tree trunk arms.

“You’re teasing…”

“Not at all, I’m cleaning,” you giggle. Rising onto your knees, you lean over Din’s mountainous shoulder to clean his back, dangling your wet, supple breasts right at helmet visor level. Definitely teasing.

Two can play at this game. Din’s modulator muffles his snicker as he makes sure you’re entirely engrossed in your task of scrubbing his back, concentrating adorably so that you don’t notice when his big paws reach for your chest, groping and kneading the pillowy flesh with hardly any warning.

You squeal and grind down on Din’s cock - in retaliation he zeros in on your already pert nipples, rough fingers roll and pinch, flick and tug your pretty peaks until you forget your work and bury your face into his shoulder, completely lost to the pleasure that only the General can give you.

“Din,” your voice a soft whimper, needy yet still regal and melodic, “… you have to…”

“What do I have to do, Princess?”

His teasing tone makes you gush; this man knows exactly what he’s doing – you try to claw back some semblance of control over the situation, “You need to let me tend to any injuries you may have sustained under your helmet. And let me wash your hair.”

“Oh, do I?”

Nodding in earnest with your eyebrows raised, “Yes, and then you have to rest. Your body needs it.”

“My body needs you, mesh’la.”

Leaning back, your eyes follow the trail of your fingers as they rake down the smooth skin of Din’s broad chest, slowing over the various long-healed scars whose tales of origin you know by heart, you prepare yourself to argue your way. But the truth is, you don’t want your way – you need Din, too. Here on Flavin 5, there is no fear of getting caught, no need for hurried kisses or fleeting touches – the two of you have time. Time to enjoy one another. Time to let your hearts run rampant with affection and want.

Tomorrow morning is the last morning you can wake lazily in Din’s arms, like any other couple waking to just another day in the rest of your lives together. Tomorrow you will return home and your love for your steady warrior will once again need to be tucked away close to your heart, safe from the prying eyes of the kingdom.

So, you don’t argue.

“Injuries first, General.”

“I have none, Princess.” You can feel Din’s shit eating grin radiating from behind the beskar.

Grinding down a little on Din’s hardening length as a warning, “I should like to see for myself, thanks.”

“Of course, mesh’la. I would see you satisfied.” Though still smirking, it’s with enormous feeling that Din picks up the scarf from the side table and with his practiced hand, covers your eyes; wrapping the silk around your head twice before tying it securely. He doesn’t ask you if you can see, knowing that if you could you would volunteer it. Sitting prettily with your hands clasped together, you wait for the welcomed sound of Din’s helmet being lifted and set down where you scarf previously lay.

Heart full, your hands reach out to gently touch Din’s face, fingers tracing over the most intimate part of the man you love. His jaw relaxes as you stroke though his facial hair and his plush lips curl as your thumb brushes over them. Din’s strong nose feels unbroken, thank goodness – your gentle kiss to the tip earns you a breathy chuckle that tickles your throat. Mapping the strong lines of his forehead, you discover your first wound at Din’s hairline – the soft curls of his brown (or so you’re told) hair already matted and sticking with dried blood. When your fingers caress Din’s temple, you find a small superficial cut by his left eye, and your heart tightens further upon feeling a nastier slice on the apple of his cheek. Even without seeing and Din giving away no hint of tenderness at your touch, you’re sure there are bruises starting to form on the face you love.

Though you’ve never seen it, you know Din’s face – positive that you could pick it out of a crowd as surely as you could your own in a mirror. It’s the face of the strongest warrior you’ve ever known, one whose honour and integrity is as unbreakable as the beskar armour that covers his body. A protector who fights without fail to defend the weak, uphold justice, and push back against tyranny and corruption – no matter how hard something may be or the risk to his own self, the man who bears this face will never back down, always standing up for what’s right. It’s the face of a man who loves fiercely – loves his Creed, his people, his duty, his son, his woman. You. You know the face of this man, the man who owns your heart, your body, your soul - wholly and completely.

You wash this face, carefully cleaning your discoveries. Then, before you wash his hair, you cradle Din’s head delicately and check for bumps and scrapes, sighing in relief when you find none. Lathering up a generous amount of your shampoo, you distribute it through Din’s curls, massaging his scalp as he groans in approval. Your smile at the sound could melt even the steeliest warrior’s heart, Din is sure – it melts his.

When his hair is rinsed and face pat dry, salve applied to his wounds, you attempt to get Din to eat from the food on the tray.

“After, Princess,” Din’s voice somehow lower than when it’s filtered through his modulator.

“After what?” you pretend to be confused.

“After I have what I’m truly hungry for,” you can feel the sides of his face lift beneath your hands as the curve of his mouth pulls up into a wicked grin.

You flash him what you think is a mirroring smirk, “And what is that, General?”

Din takes an excruciating long time trailing his fingers featherlike down the column of your throat as an answer. His massive hand skate over your naked breasts, pinky pretending to be caught on your pert nipple before catching up with its brethren that have moved on to tickling your soft tummy. When his hand finally dips below the water, it’s no more hurried, no less teasing – knuckling down the front of you, his hand so big and wide, his thumb and baby finger stretch to slowly stroke along the apex of your thighs at the same time with no additional effort at all. You quiver at your warrior’s languid and gentle touch – that these same hands are trained for weapons and brutality is not lost on you; how lucky are you to be able to feel them as they are now, so close to where you need them, reverent and worshipful. Hands meant for building up and protecting, instead of tearing down and destroying - and yet you know them capable of both - and moreover, that they can and will do both to you.

Leaning forward to press your lips tenderly to Din’s, you whisper, “Promise you’ll eat after?”

He knows the condition of the ask is empty - you need him as much as he does you, both of you hungry for more than the food your empty stomachs growl for. The worry you felt for your Mandalorian every second he was in the arena today has morphed into a blazing desire now that you have him secure once again in your loving arms; even when he was facing blaster fire or the murderous glare of a mudhorn today, Din’s thoughts never strayed far from the moment he could return to your warm embrace.

But he plays along, because he knows you need to hear it, “I promise, cyare.” And then, because your well being is always as much on the forefront of his mind as his is yours, Din adds, “As long as you eat with me.”

“Promise. Now touch me please, Din,” you’re trembling, not just from want but need, a need for the reassurance that he’s here safe, that the violence you saw in the arena did not touch him.

Even if he had not pledged his fealty to your kingdom, Din would submit to your request, to you – if it were up to him, he would spend the remainder of his days catering to your every whim, carrying out your will, doing anything and everything necessary to ensure your happiness.

He parts your folds with his fingers, finding you slick and ready for him. As Din glides his thick digits along your seam, your soft moans fill the steamy room, “Ohhh Din, yes right there, please.”

“Such a polite little princess, isn’t she?” hums Din, loving how responsive you always are for him. He kisses down your neck, nipping at your shoulder as you come to a rest against his chest. You’re shuddering from the way he’s stroking your pussy, swirling infuriatingly at your needy hole but never dipping inside, teasing you with long broad swipes up to your clit.

Pressing his thumb against your already slippery nub, Din takes advantage of your lack of sight and surprises you by dipping his head down to take one of your breasts in his mouth at the same time – you cry out from this sudden double attack, body trying to run.

The old bounty hunter in him activated, Din chuckles and increases the pressure of his hand on your pulsing clit, and with his free hand, he holds you firm by the nape of your neck - face now buried deep in your cleavage, biting and sucking every bit of soft flesh his mouth can find. Rolling your pert nipple between his teeth, he seals his lips over the sensitive peak and murmurs, “I got you, mesh’la. Let me make you feel good.”

At his sure words, you immediately relax and willingly giving yourself over to your warrior, sighing in surrender as he worships you with his fingers and his mouth. This is the only time that you allow yourself to be covetous of what is not rightfully yours – Din’s face you may know without having ever seen, but the lascivious sight of what he looks like when he loses himself in your pleasure remains a mystery. You secretly long to see it – wishing to know how dark his eyes burn, how his lips wet and plump, how his brow might furrow or relax in reaction to your whines and whimpers.

If you were his riduur – no. No, you can’t let yourself go down that path of longing, it only ends in heartbreak.

As if he can sense that your mind has started to wander, Din slips two of his thick fingers deep in your heat and curls them, beckoning you back to him. You fly right back into the moment and to the space of devotion that he holds just for you, gasping for air at the stretch of his welcomed intrusion.

“Need to get you ready for my cock, cyare,” purrs your Mandalorian, bringing you back fully and binding your heart to his in the here and now.

Nodding almost mindlessly, you crash your mouth to Din’s. The kiss is desperate, needy for so many reasons – your tongues licking and chasing, dancing to the song of perfect pleasure that strums along the electric current that connects you. Din feverishly conducts the symphony of your body – grand upward motions of his fingers in your cunt send waves of bliss that crescendo through your core; the sweeping of his lips against yours keeps you in tempo with his own urgency; his rolling downward gestures on your clit coils the band below your belly tighter and tighter.

No one can play you like Din can – beneath the beskar armour he’s a master musician, lover. Like the weapons he so deftly wields and handles, your body is an instrument he knows intimately – every shift, slight change or tensing is noted and adjusted for so he can optimize performance, maximize your pleasure. Din knows you’re going to come before you do by the key in which your breath hitches, the cadence of your fluttering walls.

“Come for me, Princess,” he growls, biting down on your plush bottom lip. Now it’s your turn to obey – you come with an arch of your back and a chorus sung to your General’s name, Din, Din, Din, Din.

Here you can be as loud for as long as you want and Din can fuck you through your high for as long as you need, withdrawing his fingers and licking them clean only when your cunt is complacent enough to release him, “Always taste so sweet, cyar’ika.” You sigh at the filthy sounds of another forbidden sight you long, lust for.

Lips finding his again, you taste yourself on Din’s tongue and tease, “I thought we were eating after.”

This time it’s Din’s turn to act coy, repeating your question from earlier with a knowing smirk against your pout, “After what?”

In response, you reach between your bodies and even without the benefit of sight, easily find Din’s hard, throbbing cock. Stroking his length with your delicate hands, you lift to line him up with your entrance and wordlessly sink down, “After you come, General.”

“As you wish, Princess,” Din groans at the way your pussy hugs him. When you feel him shift beneath you to plant his feet on the bottom of the tub, you stop Din with a hand on his wide chest and shake your head, “You’re tired and your body needs rest, my love. Let me do the work.”

Big, loving hands come up to cradle your head and a playful but reverent tone accompanies Din’s protest, “A General’s duty is to serve his Princess.” You tilt into his paw and nuzzle; your Mandalorian’s affectionate touch and the feeling of fullness combine in making you compliant. Leaning in close you ghost over Din’s lips, “Together then.”

Half awestruck, half groaning in agreement, Din slides his hands back down your soft body to come to a rest on your waist, holding you gentle and secure, “Together.”

It’s easy to find the perfect rhythm, your bodies already so in tune with one another. Din’s slow upward thrusts meet your lighter bounces halfway, causing the water of your bath to ripple and splash against the sides of the tub. It’s tender and patient until it isn’t – with no communication other than your soft whinnying and Din’s grunts and heavy breathing, your tempo and intensity remain matched, building together.

Always together. How you love being together with your Mandalorian. How you love him.

You press yourself to Din, the rise and fall of his chest grounding you as your hips work in tandem with his. Arms snaking around his neck, you cling to the General as your joint movements become more fervent and passionate, the water now choppy from your lovemaking.

Together. Everything is better when you’re together. You were able to get through today, together.

Love, relief and gratitude flood your pleasure wracked body as you crawl up Din’s broad mountain frame to find his lips. Latching your mouth to your Mandalorian’s, you kiss him heady and desperate. Every press of your plush and swollen pout thankful for his survival, of today’s fight and of all the fights that came before today so that he could come into your life. A thank you to maybe that same mystical force that gives Grogu his unexplainable powers, for making the man that fills you so full at the moment the warrior, the father, the man is. Thankful that he loves you. For all of him.

Din meets every brush of your lips with the same devotion, somehow able to read the emotion behind your eyes without seeing them - the same way you’re able to read him even when he’s hidden behind his helmet. He himself grateful for bringing his son and your countrymen back to you safe, for being the one to give you what you needed for the success of your mission. A thank you to that same power than runs in his son’s veins and makes him a warrior far stronger than Din could ever be, for bringing him to you. Grateful that a woman as regal, compassionate, and kind as you saw past his hard armoured exterior to the man beneath and holds him in your esteem. And in your heart.

“Ni kar'tayl darasuum gar,” Din growls with a deep rumble of his chest that echoes off the walls. I love you.

“Ni kar'tayl darasuum gar,” you cry back in the perfect pronunciation that Din taught you. I love you.

Neither of you able to hold back your love for one another nor the crest of your bodies any longer – coming together, lyrical song sung loud and shameless. The Princess and the General have nothing to hide here, tonight.

Later, after you’ve each eaten and drank your fill of Flavian fruits and wine, and you’ve massaged and kneaded Din’s sore muscles until you’re satisfied with the way his aches have melted away, Din guides you, still blindfolded, out of the cooled bath to the bed.

With Din protectively hovering over your naked body ready to take you again, you realize that as thankful as you’ve been feeling, you haven’t actually acknowledged those sentiments out loud to the man to whom you owe everything, “Thank you, Din. Thank you for being the might of the realm.”

Though he knows you cannot see them, Din’s eyes fill with a love he hopes he can properly convey in other ways, “No need to thank me, cyar’ika, it will always be my honour to fight for you. You must know - you are the might of the realm. The realm prospers and remains strong because its Princess is brave, smart, good. You’re everything, mesh’la. You’re my might – I can only do the things I can because I do them for you. I would do anything for you.”

You feel the scarf you wear across your eyes dampen as it absorbs your tears, “I know, Din.” Happy, content, you welcome your General between your legs once more; and with the rare luxury of time and freedom that the two of you have been gifted tonight, you know it won’t be the last time.

#the glandolorian 2024 #din djarin #din djarin fic #din djarin fanfiction #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #din djarin x female reader #pedro pascal characters fanfiction #pedro pascal characters

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multishipper-baby · 1 year ago

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Okay so I got over my shyness so... Here's my quick breakdown of why I chose every song for this playlist with some slight ship analysis.

All the Rowboats

This is how I imagine Owynn sees Golden before they met: as a piece of art, carefully locked up by his grandpa. A masterpiece serving maximum sentence, if you will. I think it's a good starting ground for their relationship- the idea of Owynn dehumanizing Golden in an artistic way, being in love with that idea of him even as he knows Golden is miserable with the life he currently leads, because Owynn wants that same life so desperately.

Paparazzi and Toy Soldiers

As stated, Owynn is very much interested in becoming famous with his music, and Golden already is famous with his. It's easy to imagine Owynn being interested in Golden because of this- wanting to be like him, becoming sometimes possessive when he doesn't get the attention he desperately wants. Trying to get close to him both out of interest in him but also with ulterior motives; trying to take his place in the industry, while also driving him away from the animatronics to hurt the rest of his competition.

Basically: Obsessive, but also very jealous of his fame, fanboy Owynn.

Down Boy

This one represents the part of their relationship when Golden just runs away from home, and no longer has his fame helping him. Now, Owynn feels more in control, like he can be the one that takes the reigns. However, for him to maintain this illusion of control, he feels like he needs to keep Golden down. Make himself superior by making his crush inferior, hoping that Golden will reciprocate the level of admiration he held for him back when the tables were turned.

Lemon Boy

Golden POV song. He's wary of Owynn's actions, but doesn't quite realize just how fucked up he is, so he tried to give him a chance and let him into his life despite his friends' warnings that it might not be such a good idea. And, because Golden is such an affection starved character, he very much falls for Owynn hook, line and sinker, despite his many flaws.

Russian Roulette

Because of Golden's growing affection for him, Owynn starts to grow worried that he himself is becoming too attached. That if he keeps this up, he's going to start genuinely caring- which is not part of the plan, because he needs to be open to hurting Golden for his own ends if he wants to screw the animatronics over. He needs to be willing to ruin what they have to get what he wants.

But by the time he realizes that, he's already staring down the barrel of the gun, knowing there's no way to escape the feelings.

Tears of Gold

Another Golden POV, this time when he realizes that Owynn was using him- to get fame, to ruin the animatronics, to better his self esteem. He's understandably very upset by this, but also confused, as Owynn insists that it started out as a lie but now he's very much in love with Golden for real. It might be another lie, but Golden is too generous, and can't help but wonder if perhaps it's true. If he could give Owynn another chance, even if he probably shouldn't.

Goldwynn playlist makes an appearance!

Full tracklist under the cut:

Paparazzi by Lady Gaga

Russian Roulette by Red Velvet

Blank Space by Taylor Swift

Toy Soldiers by Marianas Trench

Down Boy by Holly Valance

Tears of Gold by Faouzia

Lemon Boy by Cavetown

All the Rowboats by Regina Spektor

#fnafhs #golwynn #analysis #it forms a little narrative. it wasn't intentional (my other playlists don't have that)#but I thought it was fun #also I didn't explain blank space. but that's just because the song explains itself perfectly #I hope this makes sense and doesn't sound stupid lmao

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writingfics-passingtime · 2 months ago

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hi, can you please write about the reader overthinking decorating a pumpkin and loki threatens to tickle them if they don't start it 🤗🤗

I can still post pumpkin content cause it's still November, right?

Here's a sassy, stoic reader, an absolute teasing menace Loki, and a tender, emotional ending (because I can't help myself).

word count: ~4300

pairing: Loki x female reader

content / warnings: sexual tension, suggestive banter, flirting and touching, tickling, swearing

minors dni: this work does not contain smut, but does contain a suggestive relationship between the reader and an adult-aged character. I am not comfortable with engagement from anyone under the age of 18. Thank you for your understanding and respect.

note: thank you anon ~ I wasn't going to respond yet because my prompts aren't open, but I've seen a few other writers receive and fulfil this ask, and I've liked seeing what other have done with it. My imagination went a little wild. Thanks for your message x

If anyone has an idea for a title, help a girl out

The room was alive with voices, clinking bottles, and the occasional scrape of a knife against pumpkin flesh. The compound’s main dining hall had been transformed into an unlikely tableau of domesticity. Avengers, gods, and spies bent over their assigned gourds with varying levels of skill and enthusiasm. Stark’s pumpkin already looked like a disaster of glitter and questionable wiring, while Natasha’s had been carved into a clean, menacing grin, a masterpiece of precision.

And then there was you.

Your pumpkin sat pristine and untouched in front of you, its smooth surface mocking your indecision. Brushes, carving tools, and paints were scattered around your space, all conspicuously unused. You held a small knife in your hand, twirling it absently as you stared at the blank canvas.

“Do mortals often find themselves defeated by vegetables, or is this particular weakness unique to you?”

Loki's voice slid over you like velvet, dark and rich, tinged with mockery.

You didn’t look up. “It’s a fruit, actually.”

“Ah,” he drawled, moving closer. “Semantics. How very like you.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw him lean against the edge of the table, his long, lean frame clothed in casual, dark fabrics that clung just enough to remind you that he wasn’t of your world. His sharp blue eyes sparkled with amusement as he surveyed your untouched pumpkin.

“You’ve been staring at it for nearly an hour,” he said, his voice low and teasing. “Surely even you can’t find this much to overthink.”

You exhaled sharply, finally meeting his gaze. “Maybe I’m waiting for inspiration.”

“Or perhaps you’re simply afraid to begin.” His lips curved into a slow, knowing smirk, the kind that made your pulse stumble. “One wrong cut, one poorly chosen stroke, and the whole thing could be ruined. What a tragic metaphor for your careful, overthought life.”

“Thanks for the analysis, Freud,” you said dryly, turning your attention back to the pumpkin. “Now, if you’re done, I have work to do.”

“Work?” His laugh was quiet, mocking. He moved closer, the faint rustle of his clothing brushing against your senses like a whisper. “Sitting frozen with indecision isn’t work, darling. It’s fear.”

You bristled but kept your voice calm. “If you’re so invested in this pumpkin, why don’t you decorate it yourself?”

“Because I find your quandary far more entertaining.”

He stepped around behind you then, his tall frame casting a shadow over your seat. His presence loomed, a magnetic pull you both resented and couldn’t entirely resist.

“I’ll give you a choice,” he said softly, his voice close now, the faintest trace of his breath against your ear. “Either you begin decorating this ridiculous fruit, or I’ll take matters into my own hands.”

You turned slightly, meeting his eyes over your shoulder. They gleamed with dark amusement, his smirk widening as he caught the way your lips parted involuntarily. “Oh? And how exactly would you do that?”

Loki’s smirk deepened, his gaze dropping briefly to your lips before returning to your eyes. “I could start with this.”

Before you could react, his fingers brushed against your sides, featherlight but enough to send a jolt through you. You stiffened, gripping the edge of the table as his touch lingered, just shy of maddening.

You twisted in your chair to glare at him. “That’s your plan? Tickle me into submission? How original.”

His chuckle was low, dark, a sound that sent a shiver up your spine. “Oh, I think it would be quite effective. And besides,” he murmured, leaning closer, “I suspect you’d secretly enjoy it.”

Your breath caught at the sheer audacity of him, the way his voice dipped into something so sultry, so intimate, that your stomach twisted. “Sounds like you're desperate for an excuse to touch me,” you shot back, your tone sharp despite the heat rising in your cheeks.

He tilted his head, his smirk softening into something more dangerous, more deliberate. “Desperate? No, darling. Just curious.”

His gaze swept over you, slow and deliberate, as if he could see straight through you to the rapid beat of your heart.

The air between you seemed to thicken, the tension coiling taut as his words hung there, daring you to respond.

Your grip on the table tightened as you forced yourself to meet his eyes, even as heat coiled low in your stomach.

It felt like gripping the steering wheel of a car spinning out, but you snapped the moment.

“You’re not as intimidating as you think you are."

Loki laughed, soft and wicked. “Of course not. And you're the picture of composure, as always."

His hand brushed against yours then, the faintest graze of his fingertips, and you swore the room tilted.

“Go on,” he urged, his voice a low murmur, his eyes locked on yours. “Prove me wrong. Pick up the brush. Start decorating. Show me you're not afraid of a little fun.”

You hesitated, your heart pounding so loudly you were certain he could hear it. The weight of his gaze, the dark amusement in his smirk, the sheer magnetic pull of him it was... intoxicating.

Finally, with a sharp exhale, you grabbed the brush. “Fine,” you said, your voice tight as you dipped it into the paint.

Loki straightened, his smirk triumphant but his eyes still glinting with wicked intent. “There’s a good girl,” he said softly, the words like a caress against your ear.

It left you burning long after he’d stepped away.

As you focused on the paint in front of you, doing your best to ignore the heat coursing through your veins, you felt the thrill of his words linger.

The brush hovered over the pumpkin, the orange, unsullied skin glaring up at you like a taunt. Loki had retreated to the far end of the room, his fingers tracing idle patterns on the edge of the table as he spoke with Thor. You knew it was only a matter of time before his attention flickered back to you, the heat of a flame too close for comfort.

You had no intention of giving him the satisfaction of seeing you squirm under his gaze any longer.

Sliding the brush down as quietly as possible, you rose from your seat. The soft scrape of your chair legs across the floor was muffled beneath the ambient chatter of the room, and Loki didn’t so much as glance your way. Your pulse quickened as you edged toward the door, heart hammering with every step.

He didn’t follow.

Once you’d slipped into the quiet of the hall, the tension in your chest eased, and you let out a breath you were very aware you'd been holding.

You made your way toward the compound’s library, the solitude of it a welcome balm. The others would still be occupied for at least another hour - enough time for you to lose yourself in the pages of your book and avoid whatever game Loki had been playing that almost made you crack.

The library greeted you with its familiar quiet, the scent of leather sofas and paper a comforting presence. You found your usual spot tucked away in a far corner, a large bay window cushioned with soft pillows overlooking the courtyard. Settling in with a contented sigh, you pulled your book from where you'd wedged it between the seat cushion and the wooden frame.

The story drew you in almost immediately, the tension of moments ago dissolving into the words on the page. The sunlight filtering through the window began softening into twilight, painting the room in hues of amber and shadow.

The quiet here was sacred, untouched by the chaos of the compound. As you turned the last few pages, your chest loosened, the illusion of safety creeping in.

Surely, he hadn’t followed you. Surely, Loki had other things to occupy himself-

Surely not.

“I expected better from you.”

The voice slithered into your ears, so low and sudden that your breath caught in your throat. With all your years of training, you managed to stay frozen. Futile, though. You knew he could see right through it.

You looked up, and there he stood, shadowed and immaculate, his silhouette framed by the dim glow of a single, golden lamp. His icy blue eyes glinted with cruel amusement, his lips curling into a smirk that made your stomach twist.

“How... predictable,” he continued, taking a slow, deliberate step forward. “You flee like a rabbit, thinking you can burrow away from the wolf.”

Your heart hammered against your ribs, but you forced yourself turn back your book. “I don’t recall fleeing,” you started, turning a page. “I walked out, actually. Perhaps you’ve forgotten the difference in your old age.”

He chuckled, the sound low and dangerous, like distant thunder rolling over jagged peaks. “Ah, there it is. That fire you wear like armour. Does it soothe you to pretend you’re unshakeable?”

You scoffed, even as your pulse betrayed you. “You’re awfully sure of yourself for someone whose only hobby seems to be tormenting me.”

“Torment?” he echoed, his voice silken as he closed more distance between you. “My dear, if I were tormenting you, you’d know it. Shall I demonstrate?”

You didn’t dignify that with a response, instead turning another page of your book. The words blurred before your eyes, but you kept your expression neutral. “If you think I’m going to feed your ego by reacting, you’re going to be sorely disappointed.”

"Why did you refuse to take part?" There was something unnervingly earnest in his voice that pulled at your heart. "Why did you leave?"

You looked up, wearing a mask of indifference and sarcasm. “I didn’t realise decorating pumpkins was a matter of state importance.”

The smirk tugging at his lips was slow and predatory, dark amusement glinting in his eyes. “Such sharp words, little rabbit. Always so quick with your tongue when your heart’s trying to claw its way out of your chest.”

Your pulse spiked, but you refused to let him see it. Instead, you tilted your head, letting a slow, sardonic smirk curve your lips. “You said you weren't desperate, Loki. But you seem to have taken to taunting me for sport."

The laugh that slipped from him was low and sinuous, curling like smoke through the still air. “Oh, I don’t need sport to occupy me. But you…” He leaned forward, the space between you vanishing in an instant. “You’re far too entertaining to resist. Especially when you’re trembling behind that mask of yours.”

“I’m not trembling.”

“No?” His voice was a purr now, his breath brushing your ear as he lowered himself just enough to meet you at eye level. “I suppose you weren’t squirming earlier, either. Like prey in my hands.”

Your cheeks flared with heat, but you kept your expression neutral. “You sound obsessed.”

“And you sound very ticklish.”

The way he said it - smooth, dark, laced with that damned smirk -sent a ripple of mortification through you. It was all the confirmation you needed of his intentions to follow through on his earlier threat.

It was inevitable.

So you leaned back, lifting your book as if to shield yourself from the weight of his gaze. If you were going down, you were going down swinging. Well, verbally, at least.

“You’re overplaying your hand.”

“Oh, am I?” He stood to his full height, towering over you now, his shadow eclipsing the faint light. “Because the ones who act so tough, so stoic, so unbothered... they’re always the most fun. It’s so very delicious to watch them fall apart.”

“Is that what you tell yourself at night?” You forced your tone into something light, dismissive, though your grip on the book tightened. “That you’ve got me figured out?”

His smirk deepened, his head tilting as he studied you like a puzzle he already knew how to solve. “I don’t need to tell myself anything. You do all the work for me.”

Your lips parted for a retort, but his eyes flickered down to the slight tremor in your fingers, the way your knees shifted restlessly against the cushions.

And you saw how his smile widened, satisfied and predatory, when he saw all the hallmarks of someone about to flee.

“Go ahead,” he murmured, voice dropping to a velvet whisper. “Run. It’ll be more fun for me.”

For a split second, you froze, torn between logic and instinct. Then you bolted, your book tumbling to the seat as you darted for the nearest gap.

But Loki was faster.

You didn't make it two full steps before he caught you with a preternatural ease, his ensnaring hands dragging you back against him in one smooth motion. His low chuckle brushed your ear as he manoeuvred you down onto the window seat, half-pinning you on your side with his arms wrapped firmly around your waist.

“Pitiful,” he drawled, his tone rich with mockery. “And here I thought you’d make it a challenge.”

You shoved at him, scowling. “Let me go, you overgrown-”

Whatever venom you’d prepared was shattered as his fingers pressed into your ribs, curling with precision against the fabric of your sweater. Laughter burst from you, loud and uncontrollable, and you immediately clamped your lips shut, mortified by the sound.

“Ah,” Loki purred, his grin widening. “There it is. That lovely sound you try so hard to keep from the world. Go on, darling. Let me hear it again.”

“Loki, wait- no!” you gasped, but his hands had already found the curve of your waist, his fingers pinching with precision that felt criminal.

“No?” he echoed, mockingly incredulous. “You were so calm a moment ago. What happened?”

He didn’t give you a chance to answer. His hands slipped beneath the hem of your sweater, squeezing tighter, his nails grazing the bare skin of your sides. You quaked at the contact, laughter spilling out uncontrollably as he found every sensitive spot with uncanny accuracy. Your hands clutched at his forearms, his chuckle hot and tempting against your neck as your head fell back in mirth.

“Tell me the truth,” he said, his voice low and commanding, the words a dark melody against your ear. “Why did you run?”

“I- I...” you wheezed, twisting in his hold, going nowhere. With a ferocious, defiant growl, you yelled, "I... walked!"

Loki paused, his lips curling in that knowing smirk, and then he tickled harder, digging in with precision. You crumpled back against him, laughing helplessly, unable to catch your breath. Every sound that left your mouth was a mix of laughter and helpless gasps, each one a surrender to him, to the unrelenting tickling.

“Let's try again,” Loki commanded, his voice low, his breath warm against your ear. “Tell me why you fled.”

You struggled to pull yourself together, trying to come up with another witty retort, but before you could speak, Loki found an especially sensitive spot, just under your ribs, and his fingers locked in with a brutal efficiency. You shrieked, squirming beneath him, but he held you there with the effortless force of a god, his smile widening against the shell of your ear.

You thrashed harder, your laughter raw and breaking, tears welling in your eyes. “I’ll- kill you-”

“You’ll what?” He laughed, low and dark, his fingers picking up speed again, pressing and kneading with wicked precision. Every stroke of his hands felt like it was designed to unravel you, to push you past your limits and then some.

The realisation hit like a blow: he could read you. Every shudder, every hitch in your breath, every twitch of your body. And worse, he was enjoying it, adjusting his touch with the kind of skill that only centuries of mischief could hone. His hands didn’t just tickle; they teased, tormented, mastered you.

"You- oh my g-" you gasped, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. "You absolute fucking-"

“Such language,” he chided, his tone a tease of disapproval. “And after I’ve been so gentle.”

His fingers danced lower, teasing the curve of your hips, and the laugh that escaped you was so deep, so raw, it left your chest aching. Loki stilled for half a heartbeat, his grin sharp as he took in the sound, before redoubling his efforts. He pressed his thumbs into the tender space just above your hipbones, his fingers curling to squeeze in a way that had you screaming, your body writhing in his iron grip.

“Okay! Okay!” you gasped, tears of mirth welling in your eyes.

“Speak, then,” he commanded in low and silken voice, his fingers unrelenting. “And don’t lie to me. You won’t like the consequences.”

“I—” You hesitated, your breath hitching, but he gave you no mercy. His nails dragged lightly over your ribs, and the sound that tore from you was half a laugh, half a desperate gasp.

“Speak."

“I didn’t want to embarrass myself!” you finally choked out, your body trembling beneath his. “I didn’t want to make something stupid and have everyone see how bad it is!”

Immediately, his hands stilled, and you gulped in a shuddering breath. He unwrapped his arms from around you and leaned back, his smirk softening into something almost... fond. You shoved at him weakly, as if not quite believing he was retreating.

“Well,” he said, standing and staring down at you, admiring his handiwork, “you’ve certainly made a spectacle of yourself now.”

You glared at him, flushed and breathless. “You... are insufferable.”

“And you,” he countered, his grin returning, “are utterly fascinating. Shall we?”

Before you could protest, he hooked his arms under your knees and around your back, sweeping you up effortlessly, carrying you toward the door. You squirmed in his grasp.

“What the hell are you doing now?”

“Delivering you back to the battlefield,” he said, his smirk a knife’s edge. “You’re not escaping that easily. You’ve still got a pumpkin to ruin, and I, for one, am thoroughly invested in the spectacle.”

You groaned, your head falling back in defeat. "I hate you."

The smirk in his voice was undeniable. "No, you don't."

The dining hall was no longer the lively scene it had been earlier.

Now, it was deserted, shadows stretching long and dark across the room, flickering with the faint light of a few dying candles. The scent of melted wax and pumpkin guts permeated in the air, and the silence was nearly oppressive.

Loki carried you inside, his grip firm but not unkind, and though you didn’t resist, you couldn’t help but feel a smouldering irritation at the way he seemed to enjoy this small victory. When he set you down, his hands lingered at your waist, steadying you, as though daring you to bolt again.

You stepped forward, stopping just shy of your untouched pumpkin. Its smooth, orange surface gleamed in the low light, mocking you. The tools remained where you’d left them, and the weight of your earlier frustration pressed at the edges of your mind.

“I... don’t know what to do with it,” you said finally, turning back to Loki. You hated how the admission sounded - small, almost defeated - but there was no taking it back now.

Loki’s sharp gaze softened imperceptibly. His lips twitched, but the smirk didn’t fully form. “Then I shall help you,” he said, his voice low and smooth, offering no room for argument.

Before you could respond, he sat in your chair with that infuriating ease, his presence commanding even in the simplest of movements. His eyes met yours, glittering with a mixture of challenge and amusement, and he reached out a hand, curling his fingers in a silent demand.

“What are you-” The words barely left your mouth before you realised he was beckoning you to sit on his lap. Heat flushed through you, unbidden, and you scoffed, trying to mask it. “You do realise chairs are meant for one person, don’t you?”

Yet, unwilling to have him see how he was sliding under your skin, you turned and settled yourself against him. His muscled chest brushed against your back, his legs firm and solid as your seat.

“And yet, here we are,” he murmured, his lips brushing your ear as he spoke. His hand settled at your waist - an anchor, not a cage. “Now, let’s see if we can salvage your poor, neglected pumpkin.”

You scoffed, grabbing the carving tool. “Fine. Show me your masterful technique, Your Highness.”

The title came out sharper than intended, but Loki only chuckled, low and indulgent. He leaned closer, his shadow engulfing yours, and reached around your shoulder to guide your hand. His fingers slid over yours, his grip firm but not harsh. “Relax,” he murmured. His voice sent a delicious shiver down your spine. “You grip it like a weapon. This is art, not war.”

You bit back a retort and let him guide you. His body was close enough that his every movement brushed against yours, his breath warm against your cheek. Together, you began to carve into the pumpkin, slow and deliberate. His free hand flexed against your waist, your free hand steadying the canvas.

As the shapes emerged, you realised they weren’t ordinary designs. They were runes.

Norse runes. Delicate, intricate, and entirely unreadable to you.

Loki worked with a confidence that bordered on arrogance, his hand steady as he traced the lines with your hand.

“What does it say?” you asked eventually, breaking the silence.

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he leaned closer, his breath warm against your neck as he murmured, “You’ll see. Keep holding it steady."

The tension between you grew with every passing second. His touch lingered long, his presence close. Every shift of his body beneath yours was impossible to ignore, every brush of his breath against your skin a reminder of just how thin the line between teasing and something real had become.

When the carving was done, you slipped off his lap, feeling the need for a the brief moment of distance for your sanity, and retrieved a candle from the sideboard.

But the room felt colder without him holding you.

You lit the wick and placed the candle inside the pumpkin, watching as the light filled the carved runes, casting jagged shadows across the table.

You turned back to Loki. His expression was unreadable, his gaze fixed on you as though he could see straight through to your very thoughts.

Carefully, you sat back down on his lap, unable to ignore the magnetic pull he seemed to have on you. This time, you sat side-on. His hands settled instinctively, one on your back, one on your knee, holding you steady. With his height, your faces were almost level, but you still had to look ever so slightly up.

“What does it say?” you asked again, your voice quieter now, as if speaking too loudly might shatter whatever fragile thing had formed between you.

“The name of a great warrior,” he said, his tone mockingly reverent. “Renowned for wit, skill, and unmatched beauty.”

You arched a brow, your lips twitching. “Let me guess. Your name?”

His grin widened, and the silence was answer enough for you.

You rolled your eyes, but a genuine smile tugged at your lips despite yourself. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Yet undeniably fascinating,” he countered, his voice a low purr. His gaze dropped to your lips, and his smirk faltered, replaced with something quieter, more tender. Relieved. "There it is." His words were almost a sigh.

You tilted your head, raising a brow in question.

“I was beginning to fear you didn’t know how to smile.”

The intimacy of his words rendered you speechless for several, long seconds. Your mind faltered, your fingers fidgeting in your lap.

“What? You don't remember what happened like... twenty minutes ago? I recall laughing to the point of tears, thanks to you.”

“That was different,” he said simply, his tone quieter, earnest.

The air between you thickened, heavy with unspoken things. His hand moved in slow, deliberate patterns against your back. “It must be exhausting,” he said after a moment, his voice gentle and laced with something that sounded dangerously close to sympathy. “Always bracing for the next crisis.”

His sudden sincerity caught you off-guard. You fidgeted with your hands, stained with pumpkin pulp, your gaze dropping to your lap. “It’s not like that,” you muttered, though the words felt hollow.

“Isn’t it?” His hand stilled on your back for a moment before continuing its slow, soothing movements. “You are allowed moments of meaningless joy. To partake in frivolity. It doesn’t make you weak.”

A bitter laugh escaped you, soft and humourless. “I take it you didn’t buy that I was embarrassed about the pumpkin?”

He tilted his head, his lips curving into a faint smirk. “Not for a second.”

You looked up, straight into him. "But you let me go."

His gaze fell to your lips, as if he were already missing your smile. Mourning it. Plotting a witty remark or flirtatious comment that might see its return.

He then looked back to your eyes, swallowing harder than usual, his voice now gentle. “I thought you were due for some mercy. You... seem to have very little for yourself.”

The words settled over you like a weight, heavy and undeniable.

And for a moment, you couldn’t breathe.

"It feels wrong," you admitted in little over a whisper. "To... do things like this when so many people-" The breath caught in your throat and you had to look back at your hands, sniffing to buy some time. "It's selfish. Carving pumpkins. Decorating. Laughing at stupid things. People are out there suffering, and I’m here playing holiday games. Safe.”

Loki was quiet for a long moment, his hand resuming its slow, deliberate movements along your back. It brought you far more comfort than you'd ever admit out loud. Not yet, at least.

When he finally spoke, his voice was soft, the usual sharp edges dulled. “You cannot bear the weight of your world every hour of every day. Even the strongest flame falters if it is not tended.”

The rawness of his words cut through your defences. You couldn’t meet his eyes, but your lips twitched as you tried to deflect. “You know,” you muttered, half-laughing as your head dipped, “getting tickled to death felt a lot less exposing than this conversation.”

His chest vibrated with a low chuckle, and when you glanced up, his smirk had returned, a glimmer of mischief in his eyes. “I’m happy to oblige,” he drawled, his fingers curling against you as if preparing to pounce.

You shot him a warning look, though you couldn’t quite keep the corner of your mouth from twitching. “You wouldn't.”

“Oh, wouldn't I?” he teased, his hands still hovering ominously close.

"No," you shook your head, that twitch turning into a smirk. "I sat with you of my own free will. Trusting you. You won't jeopardise that."

The playful glint in his gaze softened slightly as he settled back, studying you with a quiet intensity. "The little rabbit may just be a fox after all," he mused, ceding his advantage.

He studied you for a good, long while, you both sitting in a comfortable silence as he traced idle patterns against your back, his thumb brushing your knee.

Finally, you swallowed your nerves, and broke the silence. "Thank you. For your help.”

You looked back to the table, eyes roaming over what he'd carved with your hand;

The name of a great warrior. He'd said. Renowned for wit, skill, and unmatched beauty.

"Runes are... actually quite beautiful."

He hummed softly in agreement.

You turned your head slightly, eyes still on the sharp lines. "What would my name look like?"

Then, you looked up at his face, and your breath caught.

His eyes were alight, faintly glittering from the flickering candle inside the artwork. Something between a smile and something far more satisfied curled onto his lips as he nodded at the runes.

"Exactly like that."

#loki x reader #no y/n #ticklish!reader #loki x you #marvel fanfiction #marvel tickle fluff #loki tickle fic #answered #thanks anon!#halloween fic #fall fic

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mxtxfanatic · 4 months ago

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No, every interpretation is not valid in a piece of media unless the creator has explicitly said somewhere that they have left their work open to interpretation. If you wanna “choose your own adventure” your way through a story, Minecraft exists, The Sims 4 was made free, a blank Word/Google document is a few clicks away, a pen and paper are easily found in the supplies section of most stores. A story for adults with a plot, characters, and conclusion is not your build-a-bear. You are looking for fanfics.

Someone else took the time to make a thing and share it with you so that you could understand the thing they are trying to communicate to you. If an author writes, “The sky is purple,” you don’t get to go, “Well, in the world that I live in, the sky is blue, so the sky in the story must be blue, too. Let’s discuss!” and treat that as “valid interpretation” that should be discussed with equal weight as the people discussing “ok, what’s the significance of the sky being purple? 🤔” I don’t give a singular fuck about whether you are familiar with the "cultural context" of the story or whether you can understand the original language it was written in or whether or not you know the creator on a person level. None of that shit matters, because nobody consumes media for the express purpose of finding out whether or not it conformed to the bank of knowledge Rando Number User #24,232 has learned in life. No person engaged in real critique ever has to take you seriously if your attempts at "analysis" begin and end at "I don't know the author irl to know what their intentions were, so anything goes!" That is a lazy copout, nothing "critical" to be found. Not everything in a general fandom space has to be canon-exclusive, no, but every claim to canon has to align with what is in the actual source material. There’s nothing wrong with either of those statements.

So no, you don’t get to waltz into a canon space going “Jiang Cheng is a great brother and uncle, let’s discuss” and then get upset when told “In this book, Jiang Cheng is an abusive uncle and childhood friend, and round these parts, we discuss the book.” Don’t wanna discuss Jiang Cheng's canon characteristics? The main tags never went anywhere. Get from round these parts.

#mdzs #jiang cheng #canon jiang cheng #actually idek why I’m writing these except to give myself something to do #cause the stans trying to ‘reclaim the tag’ are doing so to be bullies #and the people watching them do so while watching from the sidelines and complaining about ‘drama’#also do not care about not tolerating horrible fandom behavior #because they're also sympathetic to fanon!jc and don't wanna lose that content #or get turned on by their fav content creators that they are fully aware are bullies #which is why i had to step in to begin with #so at this point I’m just talking to talk #which is fine lmao

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thatscarletflycatcher · 3 months ago

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Annotated Editions: the case of Jane Austen's Persuasion

The other day I made a post about my poor opinion of David Shepard's annotated editions of Jane Austen's novels, specially in terms of how much praise they get in the Austen fandom. That last qualifier is important, because while in general I do think they aren't great in a vacuum, it's specifically the place of honor they get in fandom that makes my judgement harsher; not because popular=bad, but because, well, if you claim to be excellent, you should be excellent.

So I'm gonna try here to compare three annotated editions: Shepard's, Norton Critical, and Oxford World's Classics.

Let's begin with the introductions/prefaces. Prefaces are complicated, because for the most part there is a tradition in this sort of literature to treat them as a free space for an essay, basically fulfilling the role of an afterword, instead of working as an introduction, as a summary of the historical, biographical, anthropological, artistic, etc, clues that will facilitate and enrich the comprehension of the text by the reader.

How goes Shepard about his introduction to Persuasion?

There's a brief note to the reader before the preface itself explaining what kind of notes he has added to the text; so far so good.

The preface itself is roughly divided in the following sections:

a biographical sketch of Jane Austen (5-10%)

comments on the spot Persuasion occupies popularity wise in the list of Austen novels, followed by, as Shepard's argument for why it is so;

An in-depth comparative analysis of the whole plot and main characters of the novel, with other Austen novels, pointing "pros" and "cons." (90-95%)

A comment on how he thinks Austen's style would have been moving forward, disagreeing with Virginia Woolf.

The first section is useful to contextualize the work, but the second is basically spoilers + Shepard's opinions on the novel and on the novel as compared to other Austen novels; this latter part is of little or none usefulness to the reader, and even its quality as an essay has several very weak, "sloppy" points. For example, the assertion that Persuasion, like the rest of Austen's novels is a romance; not only because many would disagree, but because a good introduction would include a discussion of the genre of the novel, and for an Austen novel the discussion and explanation of the nature and tensions of romance, bildungsroman and comedy of manners is VERY important. Another weak point is the blank assertion that Austen never wrote a scene between two men alone, which is false). Another notorious absence in this introduction is the historical setting of Persuasion; it is a rarity between Austen novels in how relevant the Napoleonic Wars are for the plot and how firmly they date the narrative. Tied to this are considerations of class, and the meaning of the navy as a symbol of meritocracy and Austen's special relation to it through her family... none of which are even mentioned in this preface.

How does the Norton Critical Edition by Patricia Meyer Spacks tackle the same part?

When did Austen write the novel and when was it published.

Brief summary of currents of opinion on tone and theme of the novel.

A discussion of traditional views on the "femininity" of Persuasion.

Critical evaluation of this in relation to contemporary analysis of the ethical and the political in Austen and the novel.

Her own interpretation of the novel as an ethical study on the concept of self-love.

A brief note on the choices made for the presentation of the final text.

I do think, even by this brief summary, one can uncontroversially say this is a better preface. While it still lacks the practicality of information that is mentioned rather than explained about the context of the novel, its use of spoilers is sparse and isolated rather than extensive. No supporting references to other novels are made (which I think is a good thing, because those involve a certain requirement of familiarity for the reader), and while the personal interpretation of the editor is presented, it is not an opinion on why Persuasion is popular, but a reference, a way for the reader to organize and approach the text of the novel.

Now on to Oxford World's Classics, introduction and notes by Deidre Shauna Lynch.

Napoleon and the briefest historical context he provides for the novel

An analysis of Persuasion's uniqueness in the Austen canon through the character of Anne

The permanence/change break through the changed roles of houses and the predominance of travel in comparison to previous novels

The role of memory and with this a tieback to continue elaborating on the historical context of the Napoleonic Wars in England and the cultural change it brought in the understanding of History

Persuasion as a sequel-like novel, for which a main interpretative key is that of History and Memory

A stronger attention on aging and disability

The interrelation between war history and social history in the novel, and the time frame of the events

More elaboration on the theme of past and present and personal history, with a contrast between Sir Walter's reading of the baronetage and Anne's reading of the newspapers

An interpretation of Persuasion as commentary on Sir Walter Scott's restoration plots; Wentworth and Mr. Elliot as two forms of return of the past.

An analysis of The ConversationTM between Anne and Harville still on the theme of personal history.

A comparison between the two endings of the novel

The assertion that the novel isn't melancholy and nostalgic in the end, but open to the future

This introduction is much more meandering and essay-like than the Norton one, and in that way much closer to Shepard's, in its use of spoilers and commentary on a text the reader is unfamiliar with. It's definitely not a GoodTM introduction as introduction, but it still includes mentions of important historical context and keys to reading the text; and its commentary provides references not only to other authors writing at the time, such as Scott and Wordsworth, but of more contemporary sources as well. There is some poliphony to it beyond a mention in passing to Virginia Woolf.

Besides that, it's also worth mentioning that the volume includes a brief biography of Austen and a chronology of her life elsewhere, a full note on the text editorial choices, a selection of bibliography for further reading, and three context appendixes on rank and social status, dancing, and Austen's relationship with the navy. As much as I'd think those appendixes should have taken the place of preface and the preface a place of afterword, the information to the reader has been included.

In terms of this kind of extra, Shepard has included a chronology of the novel, maps, and pictures in his notes, which are features the other editions don't have that might be of interest; but he has not provided good contexts like the Oxford edition does, either in the introduction or as appendixes; or pieces of solid, well researched essays and contextual texts like Norton does. Both Oxford and Norton include the cancelled chapters in an annex; he doesn't.

Someone would reasonably argue that Shepard chose to include all contextual information in the notes, and here is where personal opinion comes across the strongest: I think he does it that way, not for the reader's convenience, but for the padding of the notes and to inflate the value of his role as an editor. The addition of titles to the chapters of the novel, and the repetition of notes and information serve, in my opinion, the same end. In my opinion, there is a substantial difference between providing someone contextual information before they engage with something, and giving it as the something unfolds. Your first experience of a soccer match would be entirely different if someone told you the rules of the game, the stakes of the particular match, etc, before you get to the stadium than if they were to feed them to you during the match; and I think the former is a much more satisfying and rich experience.

So, notes!

Shepard's editions have lots and lots of notes. For example, for Chapter I of Persuasion he makes 65 notes, against 9 of Norton and 15 of Oxford. A first impression would say "oh, that's a really nice lot of info!" until you stop to think if this is really such a heavy text that it requires a note every 40 words on average. That's almost two notes on the extension of this paragraph alone. Let's dig a bit more to see where are the differences in selection.

Norton's, as you might have guessed now, tend to be editions heavy on the commentary side through essays and articles, and so notes are minimal and sparse. The notes on this chapter are on "baronetage", "patents", "creations", "Dugdale", "worsting", "chaise and four", "Tattersal's", "black ribbons", and "alineable". None of the notes go over a line. Oxford includes all these, and adds "High Sheriff", "exertions of loyalty", "duodecimo", "heir presumptive", "awful legacy", "dear daughter's sake", "every ball", and "his agent". Listing all the Shepard notes would be exhausting, so let's try some general classification of the notes that aren't the ones above:

3 geographical notes that amount to "this is a place in England, see map", which are easily understood in context.

14 glossary notes which usefulness/necessity is very variable. Awful and town are very reasonable notes; one wonders the necessity of notes on bloom and independence which are easily understood by context.

This theme of usefulness extends to the rest of the general notes. That stillborns were not uncommon during Jane Austen's era, or that Austen's fabricated entry of the baronetage actually does look like an entry of the baronetage is trivial and not necessary for the understanding of the text at all. That lady Russell is the widow of a knight is something that the text will state the following chapter, and that knights ranked below baronets will be heavily implied there too. The explanation of what an old country family is literally reads as redundant. Many notes are like this: information that is trivial, explained further on in the text or easily understood through context. This is specially the case of notes like the one saying that cousin marriage wasn't illegal, that people of high status spent a lot of money showing it off, and that rich people also went into debt.

There are useful notes, but when you trim them down to the actually pertinent and useful, there aren't many more than the ones included in the Oxford edition.

Now let me take a look at some of the notes shared between Shepard and Oxford:

On patents/creations:

Shepard:

The book listed families in order of receipt of the title. Thus Sir Walter would first see the earliest patents (i.e., grants conferring the baronetcy); there would be only a “limited remnant” of them because most early baronetcies had expired by this point due to the death of all possible heirs. Sir Walter could only know this by consulting another book such as Dugdale (see note 9) and comparing its list of all baronetcies with the entries in his baronetage, for the latter would show only existing titles—that he has done this indicates how obsessed he is with the matter. This carefully acquired knowledge arouses Sir Walter to admiration for himself as the holder of a surviving baronetcy. He would later come to the many pages showing the creations, or new titles, of the last (i.e., eighteenth) century and feel contempt for their relative newness (his came from 1660; see note 12).

Oxford:

limited remnant of the earliest patents: a title was also referred to as a patent: ‘a writ conferring some exclusive right or privilege’ (Johnson). Sir Walter regrets the passing away of the families whose titles date back to the seventeenth century. James I had created the title of baronet in 1611 and had used the financial support he obtained from the baronets he created to fund his army in Northern Ireland. endless creations of the last century: Sir Walter’s contempt for the low-born recipients of the new titles that the government had distributed would extend to those who, like the commander of the Fleet, Lord Nelson (the son of a mere country clergyman), had recently been rewarded with newly created peerages for their war service.

Oxford omits information that will be said explicitly later on in the text (that the Elliot baronetcy dates from 1660), and in its place includes a very relevant example of a new patent to show why Sir Walter looks with contempt upon new creations, rather than simply repeating what the text says.

High sheriff:

Shepard:

The High Sheriff (often simply called sheriff) was, after the Lord Lieutenant, the leading official in a county, responsible for the execution of the laws. He served for one year. The position, usually held by a member of the gentry, carried great prestige and would be a source of family pride.

Oxford:

the chief representative of the Crown in county government, the High Sheriff presided over parliamentary elections and the administration of justice. Holders of the office (which is now a mainly ceremonial one) were chosen annually from among the principal land-owners of the county.

While Shepard gives me something I can gleam from the text itself (the social importance of the title) Oxford tells me what his job entailed.

The note on duodecimo is an interesting case, where technically Shepard's information is more complete, but he spreads it in such a way as to pad his note count and extension. He simply notes that it is a small book, and refers to a note on books on chapter X:

“Large” could refer to thickness but is more likely to refer to length and width. At this time books came in widely varying sizes. The principal ones were folios, in which a standard sheet of paper was folded in two to make the pages, quartos, in which the paper was folded into quarters, octavos, in which the paper was folded into eight pieces, and duodecimos, in which the paper was folded into twelve pieces. Thus the length and width of a duodecimo would be one-sixth those of a folio. The type of book would influence its size. Popular books, especially novels, tended to come in smaller sizes, while serious, scholarly ones were usually larger. Thus the size of Charles Hayter’s books helps spur the Musgroves’ worries about excessive studying. They might be naturally inclined to such worries, not seeming bookish at all themselves.

What's the reference for this note specifically? "and having been found on the occasion by Mr. Musgrove with some large books before him, Mr. and Mrs. Musgrove were sure all could not be right, and talked, with grave faces, of his studying himself to death." Clearly the natural place of this note is on "duodecimo" in chapter I, but by this strategy Shepard not only manages to make two notes out of where there should be only one, but inserts notes visually in chapters in such a way as to make it appear like he has lots and lots of substantial, erudite explanations to make all the time. This strategy he repeats a lot through the text.

It's these habits of trickery, of padding and puffing up that I find intellectually dishonest, and rather inexcusable in a man who is an academic and must know better. I have also accused him of sloppiness. Perhaps I could have been more charitable and say that Shepard is a Historian by profession, and the things that touch on the literary and the philosophical, his references are much more scarce and lacking, not particularly well researched (in contrast with his historical notes). I mentioned how despite being relatively similar in tone and aim, the contrast between Shepard and Oxford showed that the Oxford annotator was familiar with literary authors in ways Shepard wasn't. This reflects in notes as well. For example:

Pinny

Shepard:

Charmouth is another coastal town (see note 8, for a description). Up Lyme sits atop the ascent next to Lyme, and offers views of the town and sea. Pinny is a spot a little west of Lyme. (For locations, see map.)

Oxford:

Many readers encountering this description of the scenery of Pinny, just west of Lyme, have detected an echo of the poet Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s ‘Kubla Khan’ (composed 1798; published 1816). See lines 12-13: ‘But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted | Down the green hill athwart a cedar n cover. . . .’ The romance of the landscape is the product of a series of landslides, which have carried into Pinny Bay some of the cliff paths on which Austen must have walked during her stay in Lyme.

Marmion and The Lady of the Lake/Giaour and The Bride of Abydos

Shepard:

These are two long narrative poems by Walter Scott. In contrast to the above poets, Scott immediately achieved great popularity. The two poems cited here, his most widely read, were among the best sellers of the age—and in this age, poetry generally outsold novels, at least until Scott’s own novels appeared. Both poems are stories of love and war, set in sixteenth-century Scotland; a critical element of Romanticism was fascination with the past, especially the medieval past, and Scott was central to fostering this sentiment. Jane Austen mentions each of these poems in her letters. These are two narrative poems by Lord Byron, the other highly popular poet of the time. Both are tragic love stories set in the Middle East; fascination with foreign lands, especially ones regarded as highly exotic, was another feature of Romanticism.

Oxford:

The first two titles refer to long narrative poems, romances of medieval times, published by Sir Walter Scott in 1808 and 1810; the third and fourth refer to ‘Turkish tales’ published by rival poet Lord Byron in 1813. The poets’ representations of warrior heroes committing doughty deeds in picturesque settings probably contributed to their wartime popularity. Still, the notes that Byron appended to his poems adopt a more cynical view of their heroes’ sabre-rattling than do the poems themselves, in ways that distinguish their account of heroism from Persuasion’s, idealistic view of its chivalric war hero. Anne and Benwick prove themselves faithful observers of the literary scene when they attempt to adjudicate between Scott and Byron (an attempt they resume on p. 90). Similar efforts at a comparative evaluation of the decade’s two most commercially successful poets are pursued in William Hazlitt’s The Spirit of the Age (1825) and the anonymous A Discourse on the Comparative Merits of Scott and Byron (1824).

Our best moralists

Shepard:

These could refer to a wide array of works, especially from earlier years. The eighteenth century, whose spirit Jane Austen exudes in many respects, was characterized by a general preference for prose and an emphasis on greater rationalism than the Romantic period. Moral essays, frequently supported by observations on life and contemporary mores, were popular throughout the century. Collections of letters, often highly polished, also appeared. Finally, biography developed as a significant genre, and it, like much of the prose of the time, often had a moralizing tone, pointing out lessons and presenting examples of virtuous behavior.

The difficulty in following precepts of patience and resignation had been a popular theme of many writers, especially when discussing the influential philosophy of Stoicism, which counseled rational indifference to the ills of life. Similarly, as in all ages, many who preached virtue did not always live up to their preaching. One of the most influential prose moralists of the eighteenth century, and a favorite author of Jane Austen’s, Samuel Johnson, addresses this point in one of his essays (The Rambler, #14). He writes that “for many reasons a man writes much better than he lives.” But he argues, “Nothing is more unjust, however common, than to charge with hypocrisy him that expresses zeal for those virtues, which he neglects to practice; since he may be sincerely convinced of the advantages of conquering his passions, without having yet obtained the victory.” Rather, he claims that such a man should be commended for attempting to impart to others some of his own, possibly hard-earned, wisdom. From this perspective, Anne’s counsel to Captain Benwick, which does certainly come from her own extensive experience, would represent a valuable and benevolent service to him, whatever her own failings in achieving patience or self-control.

Oxford:

The texts Anne prescribes to Benwick would very probably include works by Samuel Johnson. Throughout the second half of the eighteenth century readers made an almost medicinal use of the essay series The Rambler (first published 1750-2), in which Johnson treats such topics as the dangers of solitude and the necessity of resignation in the face of loss. Johnson’s biographer James Boswell claimed of The Rambler that ‘In no writings whatever can be found . . . more that can brace and invigorate every manly and noble sentiment’ ( Life ofJohnson, ed. R. W. Chapman (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1983), 154).

Here I would note that the much longer two-notes reference of Shepard sits between vague and repetitive, and that in my opinion both sin by omission of Shaftesbury (Anthony Ashley Cooper).

Dark blue seas

Shepard:

Byron’s The Corsair, a work Jane Austen mentions reading in a letter (March 5, 1814), begins with the lines, “O’er the glad waters of the dark blue sea, / Our thoughts as boundless, and our souls as free.”

Oxford:

Benwick and Anne perhaps recall the second canto of Childe Harold's Pilgrimage (1812). Its description of the hero’s voyage from Greece and of the ‘little warlike world within’ (ii. 154) he enters when he boards the ship certainly glamorizes nautical life: ‘He that has sail’d upon the dark blue sea, | Has view’d at times, I ween, a full fair sight’ (ii. 145-6). They may also be remembering the lines that open The Corsair (1814), a description of the freedom that the poem’s pirates enjoy as outlaws: ‘O’er the glad waters of the dark blue sea, | Our thoughts as boundless and our souls as free’. In a letter of 1814 Austen sounds jaded about the Byronic heroes, such as Harold and Conrad the Corsair, who enthuse Captain Benwick: ‘I have read the Corsair, mended my petticoat, & have nothing else to do’ ( Letters , 257).

'eleven with its silver sounds’

Shepard:

The origin of this phrase, which seems, based on the quotation marks, to be from a particular text, has never been identified for certain. One commentator, Patricia Meyer Spacks, suggests the phrase may allude to a line in The Rape of the Lock by Alexander Pope, a poet Jane Austen certainly knew well: “And the pressed watch returned a silver sound.” The phrase does not represent a literal description of the operation of the clock, for the component parts of a clock were made of other metals than silver, usually brass or steel. Clocks were standard parts of a home, designed for elegant appearance as well as utility.

Oxford:

The literary allusion has not been traced. In 1921 Herbert Grierson conjectured that Austen was here misremembering the description of the coquette’s morning rituals that Alexander Pope gives in The Rape of the Lock (1712): ‘Thrice rung the Bell, the Slipper knock’d the Ground, | And the press’d Watch return’d a silver Sound’ (i. 17-18).

Note how here Shepard is crediting Meyer Spacks, but does not reference where (the Norton Critical Edition), whereas the Oxford annotation traces the conjecture to what appears to be its original proponent.

The pen has been in their hands

Shepard:

At this time there had been moves to improve the quality of women’s education, but it still was inferior to men’s, especially at the higher levels—no universities admitted women. As for books, while women had come to constitute a substantial portion of those who wrote novels, men dominated virtually all other fields of literary endeavor.

Oxford:

even as she has Anne object to examples from books, Austen echoes the precedents set by figures in the literary tradition who have previously commented on men’s monopoly of the written word. Anne sounds like the Wife of Bath in Geoffrey Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales , who is exasperated by male clerics’ representations of women, and, closer to Austen’s time, like Richard Steele’s character Arietta, who recounts the story of Inkle, the mercenary Englishman, and Yarico, the native woman of Jamaica whom Inkle betrays, so as to counter her male visitor’s trite examples of female inconstancy. Arietta observes, ‘You Men are Writers, and can represent us Women as Unbecoming as you please in your Works, while we are unable to return the Injury’ (.Spectator, 11 (13 Mar. 17 n)).

I'm not saying that necessarily Shepard's notes should be absolutely excellent in every single way and aspect in order for it to be a serviceable/good annotated edition; but all the things I have mentioned above make them appear to me thoroughly undeserving of being considered excellent, above the rest, or definitive.

#Jane Austen #Persuasion #annotated editions

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so-i-grudgingly-joined-this-site · 2 years ago

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He's got a long list of ex-lovers, they'll tell you he's insane...

So I was thinking and decided to calculate roughly how many people Dream has dated in his life. He's ten billion years old and he has dated at least four people the last ten thousand years: Nada(if you can call that dating), Calliope, Titania, and Thesally. Mervyn heavily implies in Brief Lives that there's been many others, but let's say for conveniences sake that he dates about three or four people every ten thousand years. And let's take billion years off his ten billion before he idk, matured, and also before intelligent sentient creatures formed. That leaves us with... 2 700 000-3 600 000 people(there's statistically no way all of these relationships failed right?!). And from what we're shown in comics, Dream is never the one to walk away from a relationship. It's always the other person breaking up with him. Whether the breakups were his fault or not is another can of worms entirely. I'd say most are, but not all, e.g., Kilala cheating on him.

Still, no wonder he doesn't take rejection well. I'm not trying to make excuses for him, but wow, a lot of his actions make sense now.

That makes Johanna's question "do you have any ex-girlfriends" sooo much funnier

I think we can go even further than that to be honest. Are we assuming that only Dream's humanish male aspect takes lovers? What about the Cat of Dreams? What about the weird robot version of Dream? What about the alien flower version of Dream that died in Overture? What about the female version of Dream? The huge stone head version of Dream? The version of Dream for every single different animal?

We only seem to see the lovers he takes that are human-ish in form and female-ish in gender. Arguably he takes many more lovers in all his various aspects. I think even Neil Gaiman said somewhere that Dream has taken many many lovers over his long life far more than we know about, so putting that into the perspective that his lovers always leave him, it certainly does go towards explaining why he is Like That.

#but hey #he only wants love if it's torture #ok ok I'll stop with the blank space references now #the sandman #character analysis #dream of the endless #also #taylor swift #for the lyrical references

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demonslayerunhinged · 21 days ago

Text

Unhinged analysis - Demon Slayer Mark Series d=(^o^)=b 💪

In Search of Acceptance - What Determines a Person's Worth?

Muichiro's character, journey, and development are some of the most underappreciated and overlooked in the series. This is a shame because I see his story as a commentary on gender expectations of young boys in the form of emotional repression and stoicism to be 'useful' in society.

So let's begin this analysis from the very introduction of his character.

Who is Muichiro Tokito?

When we first meet Muichiro, we're not given a lot of information about him, aside from the fact that he's constantly spaced out. He isn't shown to have any proper sense of identity, and along with his forgetful nature, lack of emotions, thoughts, and opinions about anything. But then we do see something, two things actually; when the Master reveals that Tanjiro has met Muzan and when Tanjiro interrupts the Master when he's addressing the Hashira.

He expresses interest in Muzan and annoyance at Tanjiro's disrespectful interruption, so much so that he's the only one who reacts by pelting Tanjiro with stones. So we've seen two emotions so far, curiosity and annoyance. He isn't completely blank, just muted. The strongest emotions are the ones that breakthrough is his love and respect for the Master and his hatred for Muzan.

Next let's move on to his character design:

Similar to Sanemi, there's nothing on his uniform that gives us a clue to his personality and identity outside of being a Demon Slayer. His uniform is practical in concealing his movements from demons, but aside from that it's plain and blank, pointing to his lack of identity.

We get more information about his personality from his reintroduction in the second episode of the Swordsmith Village arc. he gets into an altercation with Kotetsu, who refuses to give him the key to Yorichii Type-Zero, a prized possession and family heirloom. At Kotetsu's refusal, Muichiro gets to bullying him, first with words as he attempts to put Kotetsu in his place by stating the difference in importance between the swordsmiths and the Hashira.

“There is a vast difference between the value of your time and a Pillar’s time.” “Swordsmiths are unable to fight, they can’t save people’s lives either. Other than making weapons, they’re useless.” “Get a clue about your position before making a move. You’re no longer a baby.”

When this does not work, he then moves on to attempting to bully Kotetsu physically and is stopped by Tanjiro. Tanjiro notices that there is no hint of malice in Muichiro's words, which tells us that he's simply stating what he believes to be true.

So where does this mindset come from?

The Useless, Worthless Boy

One of the things that I noticed about the twins is how their differences tell us a lot about the gender expectations of boys in society. Yuichiro possesses qualities that are prized and encouraged in boys and men—He's tough, strong, determined, capable, and most importantly unemotional. After their parents died, he was able to take up the responsibility of taking care of the household and taking over his father's job as a woodcutter with the single-minded purpose of taking care of his soft-hearted 'useless' brother.

Muichiro on the other hand is soft and weak as seen in the flashback where he struggles with carrying just one log of wood whereas Yuichiro has carried a dozen or so. He mentioned in the light novel that he wasn't able to do simple chores like cook rice or even use a knife. He's optimistic, soft-hearted, soft-spoken, and emotional; possessing traits that society considers useless in a boy/man, a sissy if you will.

Yuichiro seems to think so too because he not only mocks Muichiro for his 'uselessness' but he also berates him after Amane's visit by belittling his abilities and desire to become a swordsman. This has been interpreted by a lot of fans as Yuichiro hating him or him just being an emotionally abusive dick.

But if we simply listen to his outburst, we'll see that Yuichiro is not simply being hostile to Muichiro. But as we see from his outburst, his actions do not stem not from any real malice but from his fear of losing his little brother just like he lost his parents. In his mind, kindness, and optimism don't have a place in this harsh, cruel world that took their parents away from them. Anyway, despite his true intentions the message was clear to Muichiro, and the damage was done; traits such as kindness, and optimism are worthless and by extension Muichiro is worthless.

Then we had the demon attack, which echoed the same sentiments to Muichiro—their lives were worthless.

*I'm sorry but every time I watch this scene, seeing Muichiro holding Yuichiro, them huddled in the corner with Muichiro shaking in terror looking so small and helpless, it brings tears to my eyes. They were just babies! Fuck that can-opener-hands-looking motherfucker!😭

Anyway, the demon saw them as easy pickings who would not fight back and would not be missed by anyone because after all, like just Yuichiro said 'What can a couple of 11-year-olds do?'. But the thing is that even the smallest, most conflict-avoidant creature will bite back when pushed to the corner, especially when it's to protect what's important to them.

Muichiro was successful in killing that asshole demon, but the damage was already done. Yuichiro had bled out and even though Muichiro was able to make it back to him, the adrenaline from fighting the demon wore off, leaving him too exhausted to go call for help. As he watched his brother bleed to death, I reckon that he felt a sense of guilt because the only reason he was alive was because Yuichiro protected him, putting himself in danger.

I bet that Muichira was thinking that if only he was stronger, if only he wasn't so weak, so…useless, then maybe Yuichiro would still be alive. His brother was right to hate him, he was useless and stupid things like kindness, optimism, and weakness have no place in this world and all it does is get people killed, his mom, his dad, and now his brother. To have those traits is to be worthless, and even when his memory fades away due to the trauma, he still has those beliefs. Subconsciously or probably even consciously, he adopted the traits Yuichiro possessed that he believes will give him worth.

He trains his body to become strong and skilled to match Yuichiro's inherent strength. He also adopts Yuichiro's seemingly cold, callous, and emotionally repressed nature, especially his lack of tact, which he uses to berate anyone who possesses any trait different from what he deems 'useful'. To him, those people are like the old Muichiro—worthless, and this is what he tells Kotetsu.

“Swordsmiths are unable to fight, they can’t save people’s lives either. Other than making weapons, they’re useless.”

The Significance of Muichiro's Fight with Gyokko

We all know that the fight between Gyokko and Muichiro is the least liked in the series so far and the most shat on, with fans calling it mid and lackluster. Especially when compared to the final battle against Gyutaro and Daki in the Entertainment District arc.

But I disagree. First off, not every fight has to be a spectacle. The best fights to me are those that tell a story or a battle of ideologies between the opponents that ultimately result in the development of the protagonist. Second, Demon Slayer is a character-driven story, so the plot is secondary to the development of the characters, and instead, we focus on their journeys, which include their battles. Demon Slayer's antagonists are usually a twisted or exaggerated representation of our protagonist's inner beliefs, fears, and desires. They serve as a mirror that forces the characters to look inward and examine and overcome their false beliefs and inner demons, so to speak.

Gyokko is a twisted representation of Muichiro's view on worth and usefulness. This might seem obvious, but the demons don't value human life, and with Gyokko this disregard is even more apparent by his usage of the swordsmen's bodies in his 'art pieces'.

We also see his disregard in the way he callously spat out the body of that poor swordsmith he ate in the beginning when he entered the village. Rest in peace random swordsmith dude, your only crime is that you had good taste in pottery 🙏🏼😔.

So anyway, Gyokko's view of humans as worthless and insignificant is a twisted version of Muichiro's personal beliefs about worth. This is why Gyokko's comments unlocked his long-buried memories because they were similar to the words uttered by the demon that attacked the brothers, and subsequently also mirrored the words said by Yuichiro.

But here's the thing, Gyokko's disregard for Muichiro and the major mistake that caused him the fight was that he underestimated Muichiro because all he saw was this tiny boy and these weak swordsmen. After all, what can two little boys and two human swordsmiths do against a powerful, old, immortal demon like him? It's just like that can-opener demon said—their lives are worthless. He considers them insignificant, so insignificant in fact that he puts little thought into his methods of killing, like trapping Muichiro in the water vase and sending his little fishies to attack Kotetsu instead of just killing them immediately.

This is also why Haganezuka's lack of attention enraged him because it made Gyokko's presence insignificant. The demon wasn't worth the attention, which to Gyokko made him feel insignificant when it should've been the other way around.

In his attempt to correct things to their natural order in a sick version of 'notice me senpai!' he underestimated not only Haganezuka's intense focus on that autism-fueled sigma grind, but also underestimated Muichiro's abilities and Kotetsu's resilience. By the time he was ready to face Muichiro, it was too late. His hubris and underestimation of Muichiro, the swordsmiths, and the perseverance of the human spirit are what ultimately led to his downfall.

Muichiro's Mark

“For the sake of someone other than yourself, you can tap into an infinite strength.”

Remembering his past and most importantly his brother Yuichiro is what allowed Muichiro to unlock his mark. His core wound was that he as a person was worthless, which is why he adopted his brother's cold and callous attitude but upon revisiting his memories he realized that his brother never hated him and admired his kindness and even considered it as a strength that only the 'chosen ones' possessed which he tried so hard to protect it.

Nii-san did not distance himself from me on purpose, he treated me with importance even till his last breath. He said the “Mu” in Muichirou was the “Mu” in “Infinity”.

Yuichiro recognized his brother's worth and loved him for who he was, but it was his fear of losing Muichiro just like he lost his parents that caused him to lash out, to become hardened and angry. Then, when they got attacked, that was when his true feelings came out. Kindness is Muichiro's strength, when pushed to the brink, it was his brother and the need to protect him that gave him the courage to face and kill the demon.

It was also what made him save Kotetsu which in turn was what gave Kotetsu the resolve to save him too. While one might argue that he saved Kotetsu because of Tanjiro's words, I believe Tanjiro just planted the seed. It was Muichiro who decided to not just save Kotetsu but to protect him at the cost of his own life. He wouldn't have done that if he didn't have some semblance of kindness, even the most viable seed would fail to grow if the soil is dead.

Side note: When Muichiro unlocks his mark, it presents as two clouds on either side of his face. I believe that marks that manifest on the face are representative of the bearer's self-identity and perception. The fact that there are two clouds is representative of his connection to his brother, which I think is a really neat detail.

Revisiting our past and facing our trauma is hard as hell. It's probably one of the hardest things to do when undertaking therapy. While it seems comfortable to repress the trauma, doing so may also hold us back. By facing our demons and accepting the parts of ourselves that we, the people in our lives and society deem worthless, we would be able to unlock our true potential, and I think that's what the mark represents for Muichiro.

So What Does Determine a Person's Worth?

“I am no longer that Muichirou who is empty inside.”

Well nothing. Muichiro's journey of self-acceptance tells us that every one of us has inherent worth. I also believe that his story is a commentary on how boys are expected to repress their emotions from a young age. Boys are conditioned to believe that having and especially expressing traits like empathy, softness, and vulnerability is a sign of weakness, and to be weak, especially as a man, is to be worthless. The same goes for women and girls as well, where you have to display 'masculine' traits to be taken seriously.

Muichiro is a soft boy. He loves making origami airplanes, he is soft-spoken, sweet, and has adorable descriptions for his fellow Pillars even when he didn't have his memories. But he's also a badass who decimated a demon with his bare hands at 11 and became a Pillar in just 4 months. No part of him is more useful or worthier than the other, they were both instrumental in all his actions. When he realized this and his inherent worth as not just a warrior, but also a human being, was he able to achieve his full potential and most importantly to heal.

Perhaps he sensed the emotion in Muichiro's voice, because Himejima abruptly smiled. "Forget it. I don't think I need to worry after all."

In Conclusion, self-acceptance is the way to go, never underestimate anybody including yourself. No matter how weak you perceive yourself to be when the time comes for the sake of others, the people you love, and most importantly for yourself, you too can tap into infinite strength ❤🌫.

The quotes are from the unofficial translation of A Promise of Tomorrow

*Yay! I finally made a DS mark post! Sorry that this took so long, guys! 😖 This post went through many rewrites, fat trims and additions, like when I decided to add a 'title card' because I just love to make myself suffer. I might make edits because I'm sure there are some things I've missed and mistakes I've made, but anyway I'm glad to have released something a little substantial to start this series.

#demon slayer #kimetsu no yaiba #kny #kny spoilers #kny anime #kny meta #muichiro tokito #kimetsu no yaiba anime #hashira #kny muichiro #tanjirou kamado #yuichiro tokito #unhinged analysis #anime #swordsmith village arc #demon slayer anime #might make edits later

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