#and dangerous men being glorified guard dogs

[kakushino]

The Queen

Ryomen Sukuna x F! Reader

He never orders you around - rather, he requests.

Tags: slight gore, suggestive, fem reader, true form Sukuna Word count: 1,7k

Masterlist

AN: Fanart used in banner made by the amazing @innaillus - be sure to check out their divine fanart Written as a Secret Santa's gift for @zoyakuna - Merry (early) Christmas! (and pls stop slandering Giyuu, it's causing me undue stress)

There was little to amuse you in your secluded throne room underground. 

Correction - there had been little to amuse you out of your throne room, so you had retreated back into your palace - and even then, was it a palace, when there were no servants, no great halls, no music, and no consort?

Just you - the Supreme Sovereign - and your throne made of roots and vines. 

Which made it odd to hear a sound echo in your chamber. You feared nothing, no one, and your heart remained steady, not a beat out of place, your eyes closed as you rested from lifetimes of exhaustion.

“Who goes there?” you called out, not moving from your reclined position. 

You were it to him, the holy grail of his searching - the Queen of Curses. Your name was feared enough that it had been scratched out from all written sources, the feats accredited to you terrifying… yet thrilling to Sukuna. He had needed to meet you, though he knew not why… A deep hunger for companionship, another who could stand at his level, who could reign with him from his Shrine, a craving so consuming he nearly went mad with his searching. 

And he did find you, though hardly in the condition he thought he would.

“This is what You have become? The cynosure of all mortals reduced to a wretch.” 

The voice was rough, forceful - distinctly male - though the tone held a hint of remorse and confusion. “All beauty is short-lived,” was all you said, a slight irritation churning your stomach for the first time in - decades, centuries, millenia? Who knows?

“Not for curses. We are eternal.” You felt the way cursed energy swirled around him - violent, and intense. It lashed out at your own, but like water parting around a blade, yours did too, accepting and redirecting the angry force, dispersing it, and eventually absorbing it. It was like taking a deep breath of fresh air after being suffocated under the weight of the world, a drop of water quenching a soul-deep thirst in the desert of life.

You opened your eyes and sat up properly as you studied him.

The man - curse - was tall, broad, and regal. A king would be a title befitting his posture. His hair was a light color you could hardly make out in the darkness of your abode. The dark marks adorning his face stood out starkly against his skin, as did the shape of the disfigured flesh on the right side of his face. Four gleaming eyes were focused on you, four arms relaxed at his sides.

This man was fascinating, and beautiful; he could easily sway the hearts of humans, bring them to their knees. Too bad you were not human.

“Join me, your Majesty.” Despite the wording, it was a plea. How odd. 

“Who are you to ask anything of me?” You blinked slowly. You felt the way cursed energy swirled around him - violent, intense, … defensive, lonely. It enticed you, spoke to you in a language you understood all too well. It wasn’t in your nature to deny an honest request.

“Ryomen Sukuna, your Majesty,” he introduced himself. There was a sense of pride in the way he spoke, as if his existence was created, carved out, into the world by his own hands.

Perhaps Ryomen Sukuna would be the cure to your continued boredom. 

You stood up from your throne, your figure hardly atrophied as your cursed energy kept you in peak form. The roots and vines retreated into the cave walls, leaving no trace of your royal seat, the chamber empty again for centuries to come.

“Very well.”

Living with Sukuna was hardly boring. Each day, you felt your apathy falling away as you spent time with the King of Curses, until you smiled freely in his presence. The day you realized he softened you to this degree came all too suddenly.

His cruelty to humans who sought to undermine him was but a flimsy curtain of who he truly was. Like a displeased cat, claws exposed, he scratched up those daring to approach him, but with you -

With you he was as playful and borderline affectionate as the tabby you used to feed back in your human days. It warmed your heart, and your cheeks, to feel his eyes on your figure. It made you feel unsteady on your feet. It made you question who was the ruler of the other, who held the power over the other; the power imbalance slowly became a balance - your energy dimmed by the way he could play you like a puppet.

All these feelings weaved together and knotted around your heart, snaring you in a complex web too tight to escape, exposing your throat to him like a delicacy to be gorged upon.

Only if you let him know, that is.

You somehow felt that a man like him wouldn’t settle, and more importantly, he was a man; just another one of the hordes who wanted a demure consort, you could bet. You were not a dainty flower he likely sought; you were a weed - growing strong despite the harshest of conditions, clawing out a place for your existence where there had been none before. The Curse of Curses.

So you buried those feelings like a female buried herself under layers of junihitoe - though you refused to wear that monstrosity despite the latest fashion in Japan, as all the fabric was too heavy for comfort. You made do with the yukata you stole from Sukuna’s wardrobe. It was definitely not because it smelled like him. 

You kept away from the humans and the ruling in his Shrine, spending time with Uraume, him, or alone in the gardens - until you could not. He’d left you in charge of his Kingdom when he had business to do. 

Human men were deplorable, thinking you were just a weak curse to be manipulated and slandered. You didn’t raise your voice at all, yet it shut everyone up in the hall - save for one local lord thinking himself too mighty to listen. No amount of flattery would have kept him alive after that. A wave of your hand made vines grow out of his guts - burrowing through his flesh as easily as tearing paper apart; sweet-smelling white flowers bloomed from the mess of red-coated plant matter in the middle of the chamber. 

You sat in Sukuna’s throne of bones, regal and untouchable.

That was how he found you - presiding over his subjects like the Goddess you were, and bloody Spring sprouted in front of him, rubies glinting upon the stone floors like a grotesque decoration. 

At first, he had wanted to study you - the Queen of Curses, the Supreme Sovereign, older than him, wiser, more powerful. Forgotten, yet not forgotten enough for him not to find any sources mentioning your title. He had been curious about you, and then he became curious about the feelings you evoked in him. Your presence in his home converted from an adornment into an emollient to him, smoothing the rough edges and softening the spikes of his defenses against you, yet you remained the centerpiece of his attention, even when you weren’t in his presence. He found himself thinking about you in all his waking moments.

“Everyone, out.”

He could not hide his devotion to you if he tried now - it had grown roots in his soul and fed off of his life-force, yet strengthened it twice as much. His heart was set ablaze every time he laid eyes upon your form, the blood in his veins searing hot, branding him from the inside - a slave to you forevermore.

And so he knelt at your feet, the bottom two of his arms supporting him as he leaned forward, his top pair carefully reaching for your foot and raising it to his face.

The King of Curses kissed your ankle, closing his eyes in silent worship to his Goddess, his World. 

“Your Majesty,” he greeted you in a whisper, his lips caressing your skin.

Your eyes grew soft as you studied him, your posture proud but your expression fond. “Sukuna.”

Wet, hot tongue darted out to taste your skin, making you jolt and tear your leg from his grasp with pursed lips. The tabby was particularly impertinent today.

“You have no respect for your Queen, do you?” 

“On the contrary, I hold all the respect for you.” His smirk was mischievous, he knew as well as you did neither of you were serious about this. Just a harmless teasing, if a bit skewed. 

You used your foot to lightly push against his chest to tip him over onto his back - which he let you do, for he could have as easily resisted. Even falling down, he looked graceful. It made you feel warm inside your ribcage as you pushed a joyous smile down.

Sukuna turned the fall into a backwards roll, ending up on his knees again.

“At least you know your place - on your knees before me…”

“I-” he licked his lips, “I would gladly be on my knees for you all day, Your Majesty.”

Oh? It was your turn to give him a smile full of mischief as he slowly moved back to you. You remained silent.

“Has a cat got your tongue?” 

Sukuna shuffled forward on his knees, his top pair of arms resting on the bones of his throne as he came even closer. Palms trailing to your thighs and covering them with his hands - an easy feat with his size. 

You could do naught but marvel at the contrast of your limbs and his - each powerful and deadly in their own right, each in a different way. There was no tremor of fear in your muscles, only anticipation, even while he lightly spread your legs to fit his torso between them as you lounged on his throne.

“Let me feast on your nectar.” His voice, smooth like silk, a plea rather than an order, the nuance of his tone telling all you needed to know. He appeared unreadable to others, but he was as exposed and vulnerable as a newborn babe to you at this moment.

Even so, your lips parted in surprise at his request for you didn’t expect him to say it out loud at last. “Forward, aren’t you?”

His carmine eyes - all four of them - focused on yours with an intensity you were only just getting used to with him. Sukuna said nothing as he waited for your response.

The devil didn’t bargain, after all.

“Very well… Show me how you would worship your Queen, my King.”

dividers by the divine @benkeibear

network: @enchantedforest-network

[babybatscreationsv2]

A King on a Leash ch13

Marvel | Starker

Tony Stark is a powerful man with a beautiful husband and a loyal crime family, but it looks like he didn’t keep his husband on a short enough leash. After turning Peter lose on a Cuban gang leader, Peter’s life is  in danger. The real trouble is that Tony now realizes that Peter is the  only thing in this world that he cares about and he never meant for that  to happen.

Sequel to A Doll on a String

Rating: Explicit

Full Fic

A Doll on a String

Warnings under the cut*

warnings: violence, blood

Happy pulled the car up to the curb. Peter could see Harry through the window, waiting inside the cafe. There was a camera on the table beside him and across from him were MJ and Amy. He checked his coat to make sure his gun was hidden. He ran his fingers over the engraving and his heart gave a little flutter. How could he still be so damn in love?

"Thanks, Hap." Peter smiled at the man, his fingers curling around the door handle.

"No problem, kid. I'll be out here if you have a problem."

"I'm sure you will." He rolled his eyes. "I'm to assume there's someone already inside scouting the place."

"Oh yeah. Those two clowns aren't exactly on a date as much as they're trying to look it."

Peter looked again through the window and shorted. Sitting at a table by the window was a couple in their early thirties sharing a coffee cake. Only, they were dressed in black from head to toe and their coats were long enough to conceal a weapon in every flavor. They were so obviously mafia soldiers that the table across from them had shifted as far to the opposite sides of their chairs as they could and kept looking at them sideways. They were probably waiting for a shoot out. Peter hoped Chili wasn't feeling brave today. There was no way every crime lord in New York didn't know where Peter Parker was at exactly this moment.

"You sure I should go in?"

Happy turned around to look at him. "Now, you're being cautious?"

Peter chewed his lip. "I worry about Tony."

"How about you worry about having the correct number of holes in your head," he huffed, then he took a breath. "Sorry, I just wish you didn't insist on going out right now. It'll never be safe for you. Not with things how they are."

"I can't take being cooped up. Besides, I'm doing good work with Harry. We can't talk business with MJ here, but I need him to trust me."

"Try to not think of your friends like that, Pete. Harry is good to you. You be good to him to and not just for Tony's sake."

"What would you do for Pepper?"

Happy snorted. "If she told me to shoot a friend I'd shoot a friend, but do you know why?"

"Why?"

"Because Pepper wouldn't say a thing like that for fun. She would have a real reason."

"You're sounding pretty judgmental for a glorified babysitter," Peter snapped. He ripped open the door and climbed out. It slammed shut behind him and a few passersby looked up before walking a bit quicker. He crossed the sidewalk but he didn't make it to the door before an unfriendly sneer caught his eye.

Adrian Toomes stood puffing a cigarette, leaning against the brick of the cafe. Peter rolled his eyes. Great, another old man waiting to tell him why he's an idiot.

"You know it's rude to smoke in a doorway like that. Some people have asthma."

Toomes laughed. "Some people have no respect for family."

"Really? You wanna do this now?"

He shrugged. "I'm not here to do anything, Parker-"

"It's Parker-Stark now."

"Of course I know that you little harlot. How many powerful beds did you try out before you found one that would keep you?"

Peter's fists clenched. "You better watch your mouth-"

"Or what? Your daddy gonna gut me? I'm sure Fisk would like that." Peter heard a car door behind him. Toomes's eyes flicked up, probably looking at Happy, but Peter didn't turn his head.

"There's no Boss of Bosses anymore. Fisk doesn't get to tell anyone what to do."

Toomes smirked. "I bet you think he likes you because you remind him of Vanessa, but here's the thing, kid. Fisk woulda put her down like a dog if she ever did what you did. And you're just another bitch." He flicked his cigarette to the ground.

"If it's your goal to annoy me to death it's not working. You're just another ant on the sidewalk."

"Cute." He glanced into the cafe. "I see what you're up to with little Osborn."

"And what exactly is that?"

"You're playing him. Setting him up to owe your man, but it's not gonna work."

Peter smirked. "How much of Octavius's old territory did Harry take back from you? You must be really feeling the hurt if you came all this way to chat me up."

Toomes narrowed his eyes. He stepped into Peter's face. Happy was at his back in a flash.

"I think you'd better take a step back, Mr. Toomes," he warned.

Toomes's eyes flicked between their faces. "Couple of dogs aren't you? The guard dog and the house bitch."

"Sticks and stones, Toomes, but words are all you have because we both know you don't have the balls to lay a hand on me."

He stepped forward and Happy got between them, looking down his nose at the man like he was a rat. Peter laughed. "See you around, Mr. Toomes. I have a lunch date." He gave a little wave and stepped inside the building. He walked to the table where the obvious non-couple sat.

"Back Happy up and find somewhere else to stake out."

They both nodded. "Yes, sir," they mumbled. Peter watched them go, making sure Toomes backed off of Happy and no one came to his aid. The fact that he didn't have anyone else with him seemed odd. Tony and Wilson always had men with them. Did Toomes not have anyone he trusted to watch his back? Peter wished he could exploit that enough to stick a knife in it.

He caught his friends all stared at him from across the cafe. Peter plastered a pleasant smile on his face and strode over to them like nothing was wrong. He sat down next to Harry.

"Who was that?" Amy asked. Her hair was dyed pastel pink now and it brought out the permanent blotchy red of her cheeks. It was cute, though, like she was always blushing.

Peter waved his hand like it was nothing. "I've seen them around the city before and I thought I saw their car being towed."

"Really?" She turned and looked out the window. MJ put a hand on her shoulder and Amy shot her a questioning look as she turned back to the table.

"We've got big news!" MJ said, tactfully changing the subject.

Amy smiled practically bouncing in her seat. "Okay, it's not really news and it's not exactly big, but it is super cute!"

Peter laughed. "What is it?"

"Amy's cat has found the perfect sun spot in the new apartment," MJ said. Peter knew the look of 'I'm pretending to be excited for her sake'.

Amy giggled. "He's so cute! Every morning he lays down on the rug and stretches his little legs and curls up in the sun spot and he's so cute!" she babbled. MJ smiled at her, totally smitten.

"That sounds so cute," Peter agreed.

"When is Muffin getting a brother?" Harry said.

"We did talk about visiting the shelter some time this week." MJ shrugged. "Our apartment said we could have two so we thought why not?"

"We're getting a kitten!" Amy squealed.

"How about a grumpy old street cat who has seen some things," MJ suggested.

"Either way sounds nice," Peter said. He looked past them out the window. Happy caught his eye and gave him an OK with his hand before getting back into the car. He saw the man from before leaning against a mailbox, pretending to check his phone. He didn't know where the woman went. Probably across the street. He wondered what it was Toomes had wanted. Had he planned to scare him away from Harry? A couple of threats that he might tattle to Fisk were hardly concerning, but it wasn't like Toomes had a lot of cards to play. If he hurt Peter it would kind of make him a hypocrite and Peter wasn't technically breaking any rules by forming an alliance with Harry. The Bosses were supposed to be brothers so convincing Tony and Harry to help each other should be encouraged. Toomes was just pissed that he couldn't take advantage of Harry's lack of experience so long as he had Tony to call.

The girls left early to get back to couple stuff. Peter hugged them both goodbye and shook his head as they hurried off. MJ had her arm around Amy's shoulders while the pink-haired girl babbled excitedly. Then they were gone and it was just him and Harry.

"I gotta thank you for hooking me up with Brock," he said.

Peter shrugged. "That was all Tony. He always knows what to do."

"Yeah well, he's pretty solid. Who was he?"

"He was one of Tony's own soldiers. Don't know what gig he was running, but Tony was confident he would be able to help you out. He says the best Consigliere is an experienced enforcer with a little bit of morality. Like Happy."

Harry cringed. "Enforcer?"

"You'll get there." Peter patted his shoulder. "The first time someone points a gun at you, you'll be glad your men are experienced. I would strongly recommend you get your first kill under your belt sooner rather than later."

"You sound like Tony."

"He is a wise boss."

"You really admire him. It's sweet."

Peter shrugged. "For a couple of bloodthirsty killers, I guess."

"Does there have to be so much killing?"

"Eddie will help you out. Help you see the good in the ugly."

"You mean the money."

"That money is gonna change hands one way or another. Might as well put it in your own hands." Peter phone buzzed against the table top. He glanced down to see Tony's face along with "Daddy" on the screen.

"Sorry, Har." He picked up the phone.

"No problem."

He answered the call and put the phone to his ear. Tony spoke before he could say anything. He was breathing heavy.

"It's time, angel. I sent Happy the location."

"Nat found him?"

"Don't be late, angel, or I'll start without you," he purred. Peter felt that down in his groin. Time to do what they did best.

"I'll talk to you later, Harry," he told his friend. He stood and stuffed his phone in his pocket.

"Business?" he asked. "You need some help?"

"Yes and no," Peter smiled. "I appreciate the offer, but you're not ready for this one."

"Some other time, then."

"Call me." Peter slapped his shoulder as he passed, then he was out the door. Happy climbed into the driver's seat as he came outside. Peter got into the back. The man and woman joined them in the car with the man up front.

"You ready for this, kid?" Happy asked, cruising at ten over the speed limit.

"More than ready." He pulled his gun from his coat and held it in his lap.

"Put one in him for me. I haven't gotten any sleep in weeks," Happy grumbled. It hadn't occurred to him how much this had affected the rest of the family and he felt a little guilty.

"Sorry to put you through this."

"Not your fault, kid. Well, no it is, but Tony should do a better job of intimidating people if he's going to let you loose like that."

"I'm not a wild animal."

"You act like one. I heard about the other night, you know. You get off on this shit, the both of you. But I don't. I'm just doing what I'm good at, making a living. I'm not judging. I'm just asking you to think of the family before you go dancing on graves that didn't need to be there."

"Ya know, if I had just stolen the diamonds, they would have come after me anyway."

Happy shrugged. "Maybe the whole gig was doomed from the start. Or maybe nobody would have put as much work into finding you if it were just some stones they were mad about."

"Nah. They would have come after me."

Happy didn't say anything to that. Peter knew that he didn't approve. He never did. As much as Happy tried to be the voice of reason, he was in just as deep as they were. He didn't have to like killing, but he did have to jump when Tony told him to. Daddy says 'shoot', everyone fires. No questions asked.

They pulled into the back of a store boasting 'rare oriental rugs'. There were way too many cars in the rear parking lot for it to not be a front. Either cops in this neighborhood were dirty or they were blind. The man and woman went in first. Then Happy got out and scouted the lot. Peter sighed to himself while he waited. Then Happy finally came to open to his door.

They walked up to the building. Happy opened the door. The smell of fresh death wafted out. Peter went inside and nearly ran back out. There were bodies everywhere, blood on every surface, and through a door on the other side of the room Peter could hear more screaming. There had been a massacre.

[buckyskorpion]

hello what do we think of this

Nothing about this situation is good, but you are currently out of options and staying on your own was a certain death sentence. So you find yourself here, in the rooms given to this particular Kingdom’s palace guard. They are highly professional, lethally trained, and distrusting of any foreigner to step foot even near their Kingdom wall. And you had walked right up to the gate.

So, yes, the situation is not good. You are effectively a prisoner in a foreign, enemy kingdom completely on your own, and no one knows where you are. Well, not completely on your own. You have Mika.

“What’s with the dog?” the guard (soldier?) asks, sending Mika a look and reaching out his hand.  Mika growls low, baring his full set of lethal teeth, and the guard pulls back quick smart. You smile, protected by your veil, and bury your hand in Mika’s snow-white fur.

“He is a wolf, actually,” you say. Mika snaps his maw once, whining a little, and wiggles back into your touch on his back. Sure, he’s massive and dangerous and heavy as anything, but he’s a glorified puppy. A sook. These people didn’t need to know that.

“Right,” the guard says, sending you a look. “Now, I know you are not stupid. This is a holding cell, you have been arrested even if you aren’t wearing cuffs. You try anything and there will be punishment as per the laws of our Kingdom, your own laws be damned. Am I clear?”

You nod, but remain silent. You are very, very aware of the terrible situation you’ve put yourself in. You were at someone else’s mercy and that’s a place you hated being in more than anything in this world.

“Tell me why you’re here,” he demands more than asks. You clench Mika’s fur tighter, seeking comfort as your heart spikes in your throat.

“That is complicated,” you say, licking your lips, buying time. The man rolls his eyes, and you take a second to marvel at how free he is with his emotions. You wonder if everyone in this Kingdom is like this.

“Uncomplicate it,” he says, not amused. You bite your tongue to stop yourself telling him that isn’t a word.

“I came into some trouble on the road,” you say. “I was travelling home, to _____.”

“By yourself?” the guard questions. He doesn’t believe you for a second, if his raised eyebrow is anything to go by.

“That was the trouble,” you say, and you hope he can’t hear how hard you swallow past the block in your throat. “My guards… they were all killed. Being alone in these parts didn’t seem like a viable option.”

“You were attacked, while travelling, and only you survived,” the guard says. You don’t like his tone. He holds up his hands in an innocent gesture you read as mocking, and says, “I just want to get my facts straight.”

Before you can answer, the door to your ‘holding cell’ is opened and a woman enters. Her hair is braided long over her shoulder, the fieriest red you’ve ever seen, and she’s tiny but the man in front of you inclines his head as she enters. Mika cocks his head to the side, ears perked up at this new anomly.

“Wilson,” she says, voice husky. “What’s going on in here?”

The guard, Wilson, straightens up, throws you a look, and lets out an exasperated sigh. “Beats me, Captain.”

“Figures,” she says, but she’s smiling. This is all very strange. Are these people friends? The woman - the Captain, a female captain, dressed in highly decorated armoured gold - turns to you and asks, “You were with the armoured guard found dead in ____, weren’t you?”

“How-“ Wilson starts but is cut short immediately by the redheaded woman’s glare. In turn, you nod. The insignia on their breastplates matches the one on your coat, it’s not a hard conclusion to reach.

The Captain walks towards you, stopping only when Mika growls as she gets too close. She’s regarding you with a slight tilt of her head, green piercing like she can see through the veil you wear. Eventually she speaks, not to you, but she never once looks away. “Wilson, go get Steve.”

“Steve? But-“

“Just go,” she sighs, rolls her eyes so only you can see. You aren’t sure what to do with that. Wilson bows his head again, somehow sarcastically, and leaves the room. You feel a lot more unsafe alone in a room with this woman than any man so far. To you, finally, she demands, “No men are present. Remove your veil.”

You glance around, just to check she’s right and there are no windows or mirrors to trick you. There aren’t. You lift the black gauzy cloth from your face and let it fall back like a hood, attached to your coat with onyx-set clasps. Meeting your eyes for the first time, you find she’s a lot more striking without the film of veil to blur her features into something soft. Still, she smiles a you, small, and inclines her head.

“My men found a royal guard killed in the woods,” she says, and you stiffen. “I don’t want to presume, but that is a rather beautiful dress for a common woman.”

Lying isn’t an option because she already has you made, but the truth surely won’t be welcome either. You have Mika, sure, but no other protection is offered to you and you’re aware the danger you pose to these people. You’re a foreigner, completely unquantifiable to them, and you come bringing a trail of dead bodies behind you. Something will have to give, and it’s not going to be the stone-faced redhead in front of you.

“In my culture, we don’t have ‘royalty’ in the way you do,” you say, slowly, measuring each word. “But I suppose, for us to understand each other, royalty is a suitable term.”

“You are from ______,” the Captain says, almost a question as she tilts her head, regarding you in an expression you can’t read.

“Yes,” you say, “My title at home is ‘Valgt’ut’, it translates to-“

“Chosen,” she says, and her eyes flash with something that raises the hair on the back of your neck. You nod, surprised she knows your native tongue - not many do. That in itself is suspicious, and you suddenly regret telling her that name. That small piece of information was far too much. She blinks, once, then says, “Well, Valgt’ut, follow me. I’m sure my King will be very unhappy I’ve kept such an important, unexpected guest in a jail cell for so long.”

You almost laugh at ‘guest’, but you keep your face neutral. You reposition your veil and follow her from the room, Mika’s hulking form padding by your side giving the guards you pass pause. So far, you aren’t dead. But you have the distinct feeling your trials here have only just begun.

[jojotier]

What do you think of tsurumi and his general appeal? I really like him as a villain and I admit that he's a charming character but the people who worship him and say he did nothing wrong (even as a joke), honestly make me very uncomfortable.. I mean he's so awful and manipulative and abusive, and seeing people completely dismiss this behavior really irks me

This is gonna be split into two sections: What I find appealing about Tsurumi as a fic writer, and why canon both appeals and sickens me, since it’s being misinterpretted so heavily

1. In Fanfiction and AUs

I like him better in aus, to be honest. He’s really goddamn fun to write and read. I think me and fizzyspines are the only ones writing him as a villain in fics, but by God is it fun to slowly build up the tension and the plans, slipping that little niggling feeling of, “what if he’s telling the truth? Should we as an audience trust him and doubt the main heroes?” It’s an exercise in persuasion- through Tsurumi, can I as an author persuade the audience that these fucked up means are justifiable, or hell, even morally correct, to the ends? (They never are.)

And of course, because I am stupidly fond of this bastard, despite how much I hate him, there are a few aus I have where he isn’t a villain at all- he’s just a wacky extra, going through intense therapy and occasionally popping in to say hi. Aus like the modern au with Tsukishima having a dog sees him as settled down and working through shit, slowly working his way back to being somewhat like he was when he took on the name Hasegawa, and in the two theatre aus I have/share, he’s a Shakespearean method actor who uses his experiences and brain trauma to breathe new life into his performances.

He does have a certain versatility to him if you take the time to work out his backstory in different aus and provide support systems which keep him from becoming violent or mad with power. The best way to differentiate a villain Tsurumi and a normal-dude-going-through-some-shit Tsurumi is the true power that they hold- if he’s in any military position or guard post, he’s likely to become powerhungry, because he has the taste of holding power over soldiers/civilians/prisoners/etc. If he’s, say, just some actor who is dedicated to his craft and rose solely on his merits, he doesn’t really have a need for that power, and can thus be somewhat tamer.

2. Overall and In Canon: the Problem with Trying To Excuse Tsurumi’s Behavior

Honestly, Tsurumi is… an interesting case for me- mostly because, in most other respects, I positively love the 7th Division and the characters within. Everyone knows my stance on Koito and Tsukishima already (namely, I love them), but people tend to be a bit surprised when I say I love Nikaidou and Usami too, and Edogai (I’ve made peace with it) as well. Even Maeyama, as short-lived as he was, lives on as the extra of my heart. I even like Tsurumi as a character on his own, because he’s a Damn Good Villain.

But by God do I hate Tsurumi-and-the-7th. Especially in canon.

You’re absolutely right about that abusive, manipulative behavior, and not only does it irk me when people completely gloss over that fact- it irks me when people act as if Tsurumi is Only That Way because of his brain injury. Newsflash, that’s not how brain damage works! Especially not frontal lobe damage! I’ve been studying this stuff for a while in school, and while it is possible for emotionality to change drastically as a result of damage, so many parts of the brain deal in emotionality that damaging just the frontal lobes isn’t usually enough.

Tsurumi shows far too much capacity for differentiating between right and wrong, is what I’m saying. It’s fairly obvious that he has a sense of what different outcomes will yield, and indeed, still has a goal that he wants to work towards. It’s important to recognize that the brain damage didn’t change his goals, and the reason why he acts the way that he acts is because he still has a lot of the personality that he had before the brain injury- he just has far, far less inhibition and more impulsiveness. 

It’s also the reason why, despite Sugimoto going into psychotic breaks, he still generally comes back to his sweet, fun self. And as much as I love Tsukishima, I know that his warning to not become like Tsurumi isn’t the reason Sugimoto is restraining himself. The reason is that, in the end, Sugimoto’s original personality remains. Likewise with Tsurumi- it’s just that Tsurumi’s base personality is that of a piece of shit. The way Tsurumi treats his men, like dogs he’s trained, pisses me off so so much, you have no idea.

And we know damn well that Tsurumi has always been up to this manipulative shit- after all, he took Tsukishima off of death row and likely still holds that little fact over his head. He lied about Igogusa being alive for 9 years- and instead of, say, finding anyone else to work with him as translators (as I’m sure there were MANY available in the army) and setting Tsukishima free with perhaps the offer of helping him fake his death to give him a new shot at life (unsure of whether Tsukishima would take the deal, but if Tsurumi ever offered it, it would have been shown by now) he more or less traps Tsukishima with him. 

And then, right as he’s about to be confronted and found out, he uses the fact that they’re caught in an explosion to his advantage as an “aha, have you now” moment- “I’ve saved you, you need me,”, that sort of message. And that proves that he’s been premeditating his colonizing of Hokkaido for a long, long time.

As for his appeal, I have to give credit where credit’s due- the guy is a master planner and a damn fun villain, and the way he plays off of other characters is great. He’s a fascinating character, because in a lot of ways, when he’s shown alone, he isn’t nearly as interesting- like when he’s standing over the floor of skins before Karafuto arc. It really does speak to how much of his behavior around others is calculated to be just so. However, to dismiss all of these parts, or worse- to say that he’s actively helping all the men he comes across- is to deny him a great part of his character, and glorify him into being something he’s not. Then, all that does is suck the life out of any character that’s even standing next to him, and ignoring all the wrong shit he does. 

Moreover than all of that… it’s incredibly dangerous thinking. It both demonizes those with brain trauma and strips them of their responsibility in equal measure- by saying that Tsurumi is just the way he is “”because of his injury!!! dont be so ableist and mean >:(” is to say that all people who have parts of their frontal lobes removed are going to become violent, genocidal sociopaths manipulating any person that may even vaguely constitute a loved one. 

To say that it’s because of his injury also denies that Tsurumi is a cold, calculating individual, and excuses all his shitty behavior as “oh, well, he just doesn’t know how to function properly!! It’s Alright, he Cares, In His Own Way”. No he does not. And the idea that “oh, he doesn’t know how to function properly” is a piss poor argument in the first place- just because someone doesn’t know how to act (or “make friends” or whatever- I’ve seen this argument used with Ogata too) does not excuse NOR EXPLAIN FULLY the behavior that they exhibit. If these characters do not have the capacity to act and function in ways that don’t hurt people, and if they are not reaching out for help in some way and are not trying to actively better themselves, then they have NO BUSINESS being around anyone.

And let’s face it- Tsurumi loves being the way he is. He’s not changing for shit.

tl;dr: Interesting character, too bad people use his brain trauma as an excuse for the atrocities he commits when the trauma isn’t what ultimately causes him to do abusive, manipulative shit. Tsurumi’s a piece of shit, but he’s a fun piece of shit

[sassassanddaisies]

The #FireWifeLife... Or Just Life.

Disclaimer: Not a wife, yet 😉

Let me start by saying that that hashtag carries a certain stigma with it that makes me puke in my mouth a bit. It makes me think of those wives who mainly pretend to have it all together and glorify their spouses job. And at least around here, the trend is the more ya talk about it, the worse you probably are at it. Just the way that cookie crumbles. I make no effort to hide this shit show. If I did, well, I wouldn’t have anything to write about. So, as a collective whole can we agree that this life is anything but glorious and we’re probably all just looking at the clock and doing the mental math and counting down the hours until we’re reunited again? Because that. Is. Me. Let me tell ya, 24 hours has never felt longer and don’t get me started on 36. Some days we’re just ships passing in the night and miss each other by a few minutes. At the same time, I also really appreciate having the bed to just me and my dogs. It’s called balance, right?

Our story: Tom and I met while I was working at the local harness racing track for a trainer. He was on standby on the medic, and I had an little run in with a 1200lb animal, and the rest is history.

At that point in my life, (which was only three months ago,) I really wasnt looking for anything at all. I was happy being single. I didn’t have time for men. Dating was rough for me. Every guy that took me out was just missing SOMETHING. Wasn’t talkative enough, too talkative, too touchy feely, or, my favorite, would just flat out undermine me. I was working three jobs and was just tired of wasting my time and had honestly taken a solid break from men. It was the holidays and I was ready to spend time with my family and enjoy a much needed break from pharma and spend time with my four legged boys.

And so my first day of winter break, I let Tom take me for a drink. A drink turned into dinner (because I am never going to say no to a beer and nachos.) Dinner turned to coming home at 1am. A car ride filled with whiskey induced singing to Bowling for Soup and Frank Turner is really what won me over. Because let me tell ya, I was skeptical that he was too good to be true because the connection we have has been there since the very beginning. He claims he fell in love with me that night. What an idiot.

Whenever his job gets brought up in conversation, people are constantly taken aback and the average response is “omg that’s so dangerous, how don’t you stress or worry all the time?!”

I don’t let the stress of his job burden me. I don’t make a conscious effort to really worry about him or his safety. He’s a trained professional. Sure, the “what if’s” creep into my head sometimes, but I’m sure he feels the same way while I’m on top of a 1200lb animal and I’m alone. But we’ve both been doing it for so long it’s second nature.

Then the second go to is “you poor thing, you must spend so much time alone!” Let me tell y’all, 90% of the time, I LOVE my alone time. I work alone and I also live alone besides my dogs. I love my ability to be independent. I live a life completely separate from his. I work my own jobs, on my own time. Sure we absolutely enjoy our time together and get as much as that together as we can, but if I didn’t have my own life outside of our relationship, I’d just be waiting for him to come home. Independence is key to making this relationship work. As I mentioned last week, I don’t have much time for anything other than work right now anyway. The balance in my life is so delicate, when it gets off by even a bit, it tends to throw the rest of my week off.

The “secret” to our relationship success from the beginning has always been open communication. About anything. Any time. 3am even. We talk about our work days. Our stresses and anxieties. Tom has a a lot of his plate- full time at the department, part time as a private paramedic, graduate school, air national guard, being a dad, and of course me. We’re never shy about how we feel. And that’s why this works. And we’re always there when the other needs us to be.

That’s not what’s going to make me a good FireWife. That’s what’s going to make me a good wife in general. I am so excited to see where he takes me. And I know that even short term, I may not get to be a legit FireWife. Tom finishes his MBA program in July and from there, who knows where we’ll end up. But for now, I’m endlessly proud and he deserves all the recognition and then some.

[problematicliberty]

Patriotic Liberty

The word 'patriot' has commonly meant 'poorly chosen word to glorify American extremist' who likely killed people. It should not be equated with the insurrectionists or Rittenhouse, but is in some circles across America. Patriots, in my most patriotic view, are people who fight for truthful stable liberty for all people... not for insulated hate groups to reign.

Part of why I detest partisanship culture is that it creates a "them" and "us" mindset when the social societal focus should be on the "we". Most Americans can get wrapped up in the political polarization drama to a degree, but seeing a bunch of lie-believing assholes go stupid in the head because of Trump... was stressful and yet strangely expected by many as an eventuality. After hearing the way he would lie and manipulate at rallies, an incensed mob [of some kind at some point] was anticipated by many.

The insurrection was not the gravest day in American history. It was shocking... but we are all to blame for allowing this president to be vague and constantly angry on his own terms (allowing hateful Americans to 'fill in assumed blanks' or 'hear dog whistles' he could cleverly deny later). Clever and stupid are his most defining traits. He has been obscene during rallies and then feigns ignorance about the aftermath while saying 'the appropriate thing' was obvious and clear the entire time.

This is what happens when the country backslides during social progress. We get one of those old ugly American types who think that control is the same as having ultimate power. When the power seemed to be taken from him, he cried to supporters (no matter how unstable) to come do illegal actions founded on the motivations of assumed conspiracies and lies. Many of which were seeds of deceit planted by Trump himself into the psyche of 'unstable America' and then reiterated by his support team.

The thing is...

Sometimes beating the bushes and exposing extremists can help curb future violence by putting them into the federal system and making strong examples of them. These aren't heroes. The current protective show of force by guards and police is not making me fear that we are living in a "police state". It makes me feel more safe. I also feel safer in a country where the Pentagon can deny a president from personally requesting military send-offs after inciting violence again. I say 'again' because Trump has emboldened 'unstable America' throughout his term. People have killed each other because Trump glorified the concept, thus reducing the fear of legal action because the vibes were coming from 'on high' in our country.

I don't think that Biden's life is more in danger than Obama's was overall, as president. I don't think a vast majority of America want anyone to blame. And after reading the Mueller report, I personally could not piece together that much evidence without painting it with my own opinions (and applaud the caution, approach and dedication to evidentiary duty). But the American people are still misinformed and dealing with years of boastfulness and idiocy after Trump decided that truth is what he says it is. Some, who even truly believe that Satanists are secretly running our country (depending on your definition or perspective on Christianity here, their warped sense of reality got the warp in partisanship. "Them" = "enemy" or in league with Satan. Which I used to believe was fear talking to the devils in men, like that. But now I recognize that a portion of our country's flawed sense of Godliness has come from generations of enabled sins in honor of 'our country' and being a 'patriot'. The rhetoric and attitudes Trump reintroduced... *smh*)

300 violent terroristic lie-fueling dolts do not represent our entire country. Thankfully, neither does Donald Trump anymore. Transitioning toward a country that can thrive beyond toxic truth handling will be interesting and I look forward to Biden inspiring us in non-hateful ways.

[thefortyeightlawsofpower-blog]

LAW # 24 : PLAY THE PERFECT COURTIER

JUDGEMENT

The perfect courtier thrives in a world where everything revolves around power and political dexterity. He has mastered the art of indirection; he flatters, yields to superiors, and asserts power over others in the most oblique and graceful manner. Learn and apply the laws of courtiership and there will be no limit to how far you can rise in the court.

COURT SOCIETY

It is a fact of human nature that the structure of a court society forms itself around power. In the past, the court gathered around the ruler, and had many functions: Besides keeping the ruler amused, it was a way to solidify the hierarchy of royalty, nobility, and the upper classes, and to keep the nobility both subordinate and close to the ruler, so that he could keep an eye on them. The court serves power in many ways, but most of all it glorifies the ruler, providing him with a microcosmic world that must struggle to please him.

To be a courtier was a dangerous game. A nineteenth-century Arab traveler to the court of Darfur, in what is now Sudan, reported that courtiers there had to do whatever the sultan did: If he were injured, they had to suffer the same injury; if he fell off his horse during a hunt, they fell, too. Mimicry like this appeared in courts all over the world. More troublesome was the danger of displeasing the ruler—one wrong move spelled death or exile. The successful courtier had to walk a tightrope, pleasing but not pleasing too much, obeying but somehow distinguishing himself from the other courtiers, while also never distinguishing himself so far as to make the ruler insecure.

Great courtiers throughout history have mastered the science of manipulating people. They make the king feel more kingly; they make everyone else fear their power. They are magicians of appearance, knowing that most things at court are judged by how they seem. Great courtiers are gracious and polite; their aggression is veiled and indirect. Masters of the word, they never say more than necessary, getting the most out of a compliment or hidden insult. They are magnets of pleasure—people want to be around them because they know how to please, yet they neither fawn nor humiliate themselves. Great courtiers become the king’s favorites, enjoying the benefits of that position. They often end up more powerful than the ruler, for they are wizards in the accumulation of influence.

Many today dismiss court life as a relic of the past, a historical curiosity. They reason, according to Machiavelli, “as though heaven, the sun, the elements, and men had changed the order of their motions and power, and were different from what they were in ancient times.” There may be no more Sun Kings but there are still plenty of people who believe the sun revolves around them. The royal court may have more or less disappeared, or at least lost its power, but courts and courtiers still exist because power still exists. A courtier is rarely asked to fall off a horse anymore, but the laws that govern court politics are as timeless as the laws of power. There is much to be learned, then, from great courtiers past and present.

THE TWO DOGS

Barbos, the faithful yard-dog who serves his master zealously, happens to see his old acquaintance Joujou, the curly lapdog, seated at the window on a soft down cushion. Sidling fondly up to her, like a child to a parent, he all but weeps with emotion; and there, under the window. he whines, wags his tail, and bounds about. “What sort of life do you lead now, Joujoutka, ever since the master took you into his mansion? You remember, no doubt, how we often used to suffer hunger out in the yard. What is your present service like?” “It would be a sin in me to murmur against my good fortune, ” answers Joujoutka. “My master cannot make enough of me. I live amidst riches and plenty, and I eat and drink off silver. I frolic with the master, and, if I get tired, I take my ease on carpets or on a soft couch. And how do you get on?” “I?” replies Barbos, letting his tail dangle like a whip, and hanging his head. “I live as I used to do. I suffer from cold and hunger; and here, while guarding my master’s house, I have to sleep at the foot of the wall, and I get drenched in the rain. And if I bark at the wrong time, I am whipped. But how did you, Joujou, who were so small and weak, get taken into favor, while I jump out of my skin to no purpose?

What is it you do?” “‘What is it you do?’ A pretty question to ask!” replied Joujou, mockingly. “I walk upon my hind legs.”

FABLES, IVAN KRILOFF, 1768-1844

THE LAWS OF COURT POLITICS

Avoid Ostentation. It is never prudent to prattle on about yourself or call too much attention to your actions. The more you talk about your deeds the more suspicion you cause. You also stir up enough envy among your peers to induce treachery and backstabbing. Be careful, ever so careful, in trumpeting your own achievements, and always talk less about yourself than about other people. Modesty is generally preferable.

Practice Nonchalance. Never seem to be working too hard. Your talent must appear to flow naturally, with an ease that makes people take you for a genius rather than a workaholic. Even when something demands a lot of sweat, make it look effortless—people prefer to not see your blood and toil, which is another form of ostentation. It is better for them to marvel at how gracefully you have achieved your accomplishment than to wonder why it took so much work.

Be Frugal with Flattery. It may seem that your superiors cannot get enough flattery, but too much of even a good thing loses its value. It also stirs up suspicion among your peers. Learn to flatter indirectly—by downplaying your own contribution, for example, to make your master look better.

It is a wise thing to be polite; consequently, it is a stupid thing to be rude. To make enemies by unnecessary and wilful incivility, is just as insane a proceeding as to set your house on fire. For politeness is like a counter—an avowedly false coin, with which it is foolish to be stingy. A sensible man will be generous in the use of it.... Wax, a substance naturally hard and brittle, can be made soft by the application of a little warmth, so that it will take any shape you please. In the same way, by being polite and friendly, you can make people pliable and obliging, even though they are apt to be crabbed and malevolent. Hence politeness is to human nature what warmth is to wax.

ARTHUR SCHOPENHAUER, 1788-1860

Arrange to Be Noticed. There is a paradox: You cannot display yourself too brazenly, yet you must also get yourself noticed. In the court of Louis XIV, whoever the king decided to look at rose instantly in the court hierarchy. You stand no chance of rising if the ruler does not notice you in the swamp of courtiers. This task requires much art. It is often initially a matter of being seen, in the literal sense. Pay attention to your physical appearance, then, and find a way to create a distinctive—a subtly distinctive—style and image.

Alter Your Style and Language According to the Person You Are Dealing With. The pseudo-belief in equality—the idea that talking and acting the same way with everyone, no matter what their rank, makes you somehow a paragon of civilization—is a terrible mistake. Those below you will take it as a form of condescension, which it is, and those above you will be offended, although they may not admit it. You must change your style and your way of speaking to suit each person. This is not lying, it is acting, and acting is an art, not a gift from God. Learn the art. This is also true for the great variety of cultures found in the modern court: Never assume that your criteria of behavior and judgement are universal. Not only is an inability to adapt to another culture the height of barbarism, it puts you at a disadvantage.

Never Be the Bearer of Bad News. The king kills the messenger who brings bad news: This is a cliche but there is truth to it. You must struggle and if necessary lie and cheat to be sure that the lot of the bearer of bad news falls on a colleague, never on you. Bring only good news and your approach will gladden your master.

Never Affect Friendliness and Intimacy with Your Master. He does not want a friend for a subordinate, he wants a subordinate. Never approach him in an easy, friendly way, or act as if you are on the best of terms—that is his prerogative. If he chooses to deal with you on this level, assume a wary chumminess. Otherwise err in the opposite direction, and make the distance between you clear.

Never Criticize Those Above You Directly. This may seem obvious, but there are often times when some sort of criticism is necessary—to say nothing, or to give no advice, would open you to risks of another sort. You must learn, however, to couch your advice and criticism as indirectly and as politely as possible. Think twice, or three times, before deciding you have made them sufficiently circuitous. Err on the side of subtlety and gentleness.

Be Frugal in Asking Those Above You for Favors. Nothing irritates a master more than having to reject someone’s request. It stirs up guilt and resentment. Ask for favors as rarely as possible, and know when to stop. Rather than making yourself the supplicant, it is always better to earn your favors, so that the ruler bestows them willingly. Most important: Do not ask for favors on another person’s behalf, least of all a friend’s.

Never Joke About Appearances or Taste. A lively wit and a humorous disposition are essential qualities for a good courtier, and there are times when vulgarity is appropriate and engaging. But avoid any kind of joke about appearance or taste, two highly sensitive areas, especially with those above you. Do not even try it when you are away from them. You will dig your own grave.

Do Not Be the Court Cynic. Express admiration for the good work of others. If you constantly criticize your equals or subordinates some of that criticism will rub off on you, hovering over you like a gray cloud wherever you go. People will groan at each new cynical comment, and you will irritate them. By expressing modest admiration for other people’s achievements, you paradoxically call attention to your own. The ability to express wonder and amazement, and seem like you mean it, is a rare and dying talent, but one still greatly valued.

Be Self-observant. The mirror is a miraculous invention; without it you would commit great sins against beauty and decorum. You also need a mirror for your actions. This can sometimes come from other people telling you what they see in you, but that is not the most trustworthy method: You must be the mirror, training your mind to try to see yourself as others see you. Are you acting too obsequious? Are you trying too hard to please? Do you seem desperate for attention, giving the impression that you are on the decline? Be observant about yourself and you will avoid a mountain of blunders.

Master Your Emotions. As an actor in a great play, you must learn to cry and laugh on command and when it is appropriate. You must be able both to disguise your anger and frustration and to fake your contentment and agreement. You must be the master of your own face. Call it lying if you like; but if you prefer to not play the game and to always be honest and upfront, do not complain when others call you obnoxious and arrogant. 

Fit the Spirit of the Times. A slight affectation of a past era can be charming, as long as you choose a period at least twenty years back; wearing the fashions of ten years ago is ludicrous, unless you enjoy the role of court jester. Your spirit and way of thinking must keep up with the times, even if the times offend your sensibilities. Be too forward-thinking, however, and no one will understand you. It is never a good idea to stand out too much in this area; you are best off at least being able to mimic the spirit of the times. 

Be a Source of Pleasure. This is critical. It is an obvious law of human nature that we will flee what is unpleasant and distasteful, while charm and the promise of delight will draw us like moths to a flame. Make yourself the flame and you will rise to the top. Since life is otherwise so full of unpleasantness and pleasure so scarce, you will be as indispensable as food and drink. This may seem obvious, but what is obvious is often ignored or unappreciated. There are degrees to this: Not everyone can play the role of favorite, for not everyone is blessed with charm and wit. But we can all control our unpleasant qualities and obscure them when necessary.

A man who knows the court is master of his gestures, of his eyes and of his face; he is profound, impenetrable; he dissimulates bad offices, smiles at his enemies, controls his irritation, disguises his passions, belies his heart, speaks and acts against his feelings.

Jean de La Bruyère, 1645-1696

SCENES OF COURT LIFE: Exemplary Deeds and Fatal Mistakes

Scene I

Alexander the Great, conqueror of the Mediterranean basin and the Middle East through to India, had had the great Aristotle as his tutor and mentor, and throughout his short life he remained devoted to philosophy and his master’s teachings. He once complained to Aristotle that during his long campaigns he had no one with whom he could discuss philosophical matters. Aristotle responded by suggesting that he take Callisthenes, a former pupil of Aristotle’s and a promising philosopher in his own right, along on the next campaign.

Aristotle had schooled Callisthenes in the skills of being a courtier, but the young man secretly scoffed at them. He believed in pure philosophy, in unadorned words, in speaking the naked truth. If Alexander loved learning so much, Callisthenes thought, he could not object to one who spoke his mind. During one of Alexander’s major campaigns, Callisthenes spoke his mind one too many times and Alexander had him put to death. Interpretation

In court, honesty is a fool’s game. Never be so self-absorbed as to believe that the master is interested in your criticisms of him, no matter how accurate they are.

Scene II

Beginning in the Han Dynasty two thousand years ago, Chinese scholars compiled a series of writings called the 21 Histories, an official biography of each dynasty, including stories, statistics, census figures, and war chronicles. Each history also contained a chapter called “Unusual Events,” and here, among the listings of earthquakes and floods, there would sometimes suddenly appear descriptions of such bizarre manifestations as two-headed sheep, geese flying backward, stars suddenly appearing in different parts of the sky, and so on. The earthquakes could be historically verified, but the monsters and weird natural phenomena were clearly inserted on purpose, and invariably occurred in clusters. What could this mean?

The Chinese emperor was considered more than a man—he was a force of nature. His kingdom was the center of the universe, and everything revolved around him. He embodied the world’s perfection. To criticize him or any of his actions would have been to criticize the divine order. No minister or courtier dared approach the emperor with even the slightest cautionary word. But emperors were fallible and the kingdom suffered greatly by their mistakes. Inserting sightings of strange phenomena into the court chronicles was the only way to warn them. The emperor would read of geese flying backward and moons out of orbit, and realize that he was being cautioned. His actions were unbalancing the universe and needed to change.

Interpretation

For Chinese courtiers, the problem of how to give the emperor advice was an important issue. Over the years, thousands of them had died trying to warn or counsel their master. To be made safely, their criticisms had to be indirect—yet if they were too indirect they would not be heeded. The chronicles were their solution: Identify no one person as the source of criticism, make the advice as impersonal as possible, but let the emperor know the gravity of the situation.

Your master is no longer the center of the universe, but he still imagines that everything revolves around him. When you criticize him he sees the person criticizing, not the criticism itself. Like the Chinese courtiers, you must find a way to disappear behind the warning. Use symbols and other indirect methods to paint a picture of the problems to come, without putting your neck on the line.

Scene III

Early in his career, the French architect Jules Mansart received commissions to design minor additions to Versailles for King Louis XIV. For each design he would draw up his plans, making sure they followed Louis’s instructions closely. He would then present them to His Majesty.

The courtier Saint-Simon described Mansart’s technique in dealing with the king: “His particular skill was to show the king plans that purposely included something imperfect about them, often dealing with the gardens, which were not Mansart’s specialty. The king, as Mansart expected, would put his finger exactly on the problem and propose how to solve it, at which point Mansart would exclaim for all to hear that he would never have seen the problem that the king had so masterfully found and solved; he would burst with admiration, confessing that next to the king he was but a lowly pupil.” At the age of thirty, having used these methods time and time again, Mansart received a prestigious royal commission: Although he was less talented and experienced than a number of other French designers, he was to take charge of the enlargement of Versailles. He was the king’s architect from then on.

Interpretation

As a young man, Mansart had seen how many royal craftsmen in the service of Louis XIV had lost their positions not through a lack of talent but through a costly social blunder. He would not make that mistake. Mansart always strove to make Louis feel better about himself, to feed the king’s vanity as publicly as possible.

Never imagine that skill and talent are all that matter. In court the courtier’s art is more important than his talent; never spend so much time on your studies that you neglect your social skills. And the greatest skill of all is the ability to make the master look more talented than those around him.

Scene IV

Jean-Baptiste Isabey had become the unofficial painter of the Napoleonic court. During the Congress of Vienna in 1814, after Napoleon, defeated, had been imprisoned on the island of Elba, the participants in these meetings, which were to decide the fate of Europe, invited Isabey to immortalize the historic events in an epic painting.

When Isabey arrived in Vienna, Talleyrand, the main negotiator for the French, paid the artist a visit. Considering his role in the proceedings, the statesman explained, he expected to occupy center stage in the painting. Isabey cordially agreed. A few days later the Duke of Wellington, the main negotiator for the English, also approached Isabey, and said much the same thing that Talleyrand had. The ever polite Isabey agreed that the great duke should indeed be the center of attention.

Back in his studio, Isabey pondered the dilemma. If he gave the spotlight to either of the two men, he could create a diplomatic rift, stirring up all sorts of resentment at a time when peace and concord were critical. When the painting was finally unveiled, however, both Talleyrand and Wellington felt honored and satisfied. The work depicts a large hall filled with diplomats and politicians from all over Europe. On one side the Duke of Wellington enters the room, and all eyes are turned toward him; he is the “center” of attention. In the very center of the painting, meanwhile, sits Talleyrand.

Interpretation

It is often very difficult to satisfy the master, but to satisfy two masters in one stroke takes the genius of a great courtier. Such predicaments are common in the life of a courtier: By giving attention to one master, he displeases another. You must find a way to navigate this Scylla and Charybdis safely. Masters must receive their due; never inadvertently stir up the resentment of one in pleasing another.

Scene V

George Brummell, also known as Beau Brummell, made his mark in the late 1700s by the supreme elegance of his appearance, his popularization of shoe buckles (soon imitated by all the dandies), and his clever way with words. His London house was the fashionable spot in town, and Brummell was the authority on all matters of fashion. If he disliked your footwear, you immediately got rid of it and bought whatever he was wearing. He perfected the art of tying a cravat; Lord Byron was said to spend many a night in front of the mirror trying to figure out the secret behind Brummell’s perfect knots.

One of Brummell’s greatest admirers was the Prince of Wales, who fancied himself a fashionable young man. Becoming attached to the prince’s court (and provided with a royal pension), Brummell was soon so sure of his own authority there that he took to joking about the prince’s weight, referring to his host as Big Ben. Since trimness of figure was an important quality for a dandy, this was a withering criticism. At dinner once, when the service was slow, Brummell said to the prince, “Do ring, Big Ben.” The prince rang, but when the valet arrived he ordered the man to show Brummell the door and never admit him again.

Despite falling into the prince’s disfavor, Brummell continued to treat everyone around him with the same arrogance. Without the Prince of Wales’ patronage to support him, he sank into horrible debt, but he maintained his insolent manners, and everyone soon abandoned him. He died in the most pitiable poverty, alone and deranged.

Interpretation

Beau Brummell’s devastating wit was one of the qualities that endeared him to the Prince of Wales. But not even he, the arbiter of taste and fashion, could get away with a joke about the prince’s appearance, least of all to his face. Never joke about a person’s plumpness, even indirectly—and particularly when he is your master. The poorhouses of history are filled with people who have made such jokes at their master’s expense.

Scene VI

Pope Urban VIII wanted to be remembered for his skills in writing poetry, which unfortunately were mediocre at best. In 1629 Duke Francesco d‘Este, knowing the pope’s literary pretensions, sent the poet Fulvio Testi as his ambassador to the Vatican. One of Testi’s letters to the duke reveals why he was chosen: “Once our discussion was over, I kneeled to depart, but His Holiness made a signal and walked to another room where he sleeps, and after reaching a small table, he grabbed a bundle of papers and thus, turning to me with a smiling face, he said: ‘We want Your Lordship to listen to some of our compositions.’ And, in fact, he read me two very long Pindaric poems, one in praise of the most holy Virgin, and the other one about Countess Matilde.”

We do not know exactly what Testi thought of these very long poems, since it would have been dangerous for him to state his opinion freely, even in a letter. But he went on to write, “I, following the mood, commented on each line with the needed praise, and, after having kissed His Holiness’s foot for such an unusual sign of benevolence [the reading of the poetry], I left.” Weeks later, when the duke himself visited the pope, he managed to recite entire verses of the pope’s poetry and praised it enough to make the pope “so jubilant he seemed to lose his mind.” Interpretation

In matters of taste you can never be too obsequious with your master. Taste is one of the ego’s prickliest parts; never impugn or question the master’s taste—his poetry is sublime, his dress impeccable, and his manner the model for all.

Scene VII

One afternoon in ancient China, Chao, ruler of Han from 358 to 333 B.C., got drunk and fell asleep in the palace gardens. The court crown-keeper, whose sole task was to look after the ruler’s head apparel, passed through the gardens and saw his master sleeping without a coat. Since it was getting cold, the crown-keeper placed his own coat over the ruler, and left.

When Chao awoke and saw the coat upon him, he asked his attendants, “Who put more clothes on my body?” “The crown-keeper,” they replied. The ruler immediately called for his official coat-keeper and had him punished for neglecting his duties. He also called for the crown-keeper, whom he had beheaded.

Interpretation

Do not overstep your bounds. Do what you are assigned to do, to the best of your abilities, and never do more. To think that by doing more you are doing better is a common blunder. It is never good to seem to be trying too hard—it is as if you were covering up some deficiency. Fulfilling a task that has not been asked of you just makes people suspicious. If you are a crown-keeper, be a crown-keeper. Save your excess energy for when you are not in the court.

Scene VIII

One day, for amusement, the Italian Renaissance painter Fra Filippo Lippi (1406-1469) and some friends went sailing in a small boat off Ancona. There they were captured by two Moorish galleys, which hauled them off in chains to Barbary, where they were sold as slaves. For eighteen long months Filippo toiled with no hope of returning to Italy.

On several occasions Filippo saw the man who had bought him pass by, and one day he decided to sketch this man’s portrait, using burnt coal—charcoal—from the fire. Still in his chains, he found a white wall, where he drew a full-length likeness of his owner in Moorish clothing. The owner soon heard about this, for no one had seen such skill in drawing before in these parts; it seemed like a miracle, a gift from God. The drawing so pleased the owner that he instantly gave Filippo his freedom and employed him in his court. All the big men on the Barbary coast came to see the magnificent color portraits that Fra Filippo then proceeded to do, and finally, in gratitude for the honor in this way brought upon him, Filippo’s owner returned the artist safely to Italy.

Interpretation

We who toil for other people have all in some way been captured by pirates and sold into slavery. But like Fra Filippo (if to a lesser degree), most of us possess some gift, some talent, an ability to do something better than other people. Make your master a gift of your talents and you will rise above other courtiers. Let him take the credit if necessary, it will only be temporary: Use him as a stepping stone, a way of displaying your talent and eventually buying your freedom from enslavement.

Scene IX

Alfonso I of Aragon once had a servant who told the king that the night before he had had a dream: Alfonso had given him a gift of weapons, horses, and clothes. Alfonso, a generous, lordly man, decided it would be amusing to make this dream come true, and promptly gave the servant exactly these gifts.

A little while later, the same servant announced to Alfonso that he had had yet another dream, and in this one Alfonso had given him a considerable pile of gold florins. The king smiled and said, “Don’t believe in dreams from now on; they lie.”

Interpretation

In his treatment of the servant’s first dream, Alfonso remained in control. By making a dream come true, he claimed a godlike power for himself, if in a mild and humorous way. In the second dream, however, all appearance of magic was gone; this was nothing but an ugly con game on the servant’s part. Never ask for too much, then, and know when to stop. It is the master’s prerogative to give—to give when he wants and what he wants, and to do so without prompting. Do not give him the chance to reject your requests. Better to win favors by deserving them, so that they are bestowed without your asking.

Scene X

The great English landscape painter J. M. W Turner (1775-1851) was known for his use of color, which he applied with a brilliance and a strange iridescence. The color in his paintings was so striking, in fact, that other artists never wanted his work hung next to theirs: It inevitably made everything around it seem dull.

The painter Sir Thomas Lawrence once had the misfortune of seeing Turner’s masterpiece Cologne hanging in an exhibition between two works of his own. Lawrence complained bitterly to the gallery owner, who gave him no satisfaction: After all, someone’s paintings had to hang next to Turner’s. But Turner heard of Lawrence’s complaint, and before the exhibition opened, he toned down the brilliant golden sky in Cologne, making it as dull as the colors in Lawrence’s works. A friend of Turner’s who saw the painting approached the artist with a horrified look: “What have you done to your picture!” he said. “Well, poor Lawrence was so unhappy,” Turner replied, “and it’s only lampblack. It’ll wash off after the exhibition.” Interpretation

Many of a courtier’s anxieties have to do with the master, with whom most dangers lie. Yet it is a mistake to imagine that the master is the only one to determine your fate. Your equals and subordinates play integral parts also. A court is a vast stew of resentments, fears, and powerful envy. You have to placate everyone who might someday harm you, deflecting their resentment and envy and diverting their hostility onto other people.

Turner, eminent courtier, knew that his good fortune and fame depended on his fellow painters as well as on his dealers and patrons. How many of the great have been felled by envious colleagues! Better temporarily to dull your brilliance than to suffer the slings and arrows of envy.

Scene XI

Winston Churchill was an amateur artist, and after World War II his paintings became collector’s items. The American publisher Henry Luce, in fact, creator of Time and Life magazines, kept one of Churchill’s landscapes hanging in his private office in New York.

On a tour through the United States once, Churchill visited Luce in his office, and the two men looked at the painting together. The publisher remarked, “It’s a good picture, but I think it needs something in the foreground—a sheep, perhaps.” Much to Luce’s horror, Churchill’s secretary called the publisher the next day and asked him to have the painting sent to England. Luce did so, mortified that he had perhaps offended the former prime minister. A few days later, however, the painting was shipped back, but slightly altered: a single sheep now grazed peacefully in the foreground.

Interpretation

In stature and fame, Churchill stood head and shoulders above Luce, but Luce was certainly a man of power, so let us imagine a slight equality between them. Still, what did Churchill have to fear from an American publisher? Why bow to the criticism of a dilettante?

A court—in this case the entire world of diplomats and international statesmen, and also of the journalists who court them—is a place of mutual dependence. It is unwise to insult or offend the taste of people of power, even if they are below or equal to you. If a man like Churchill can swallow the criticisms of a man like Luce, he proves himself a courtier without peer. (Perhaps his correction of the painting implied a certain condescension as well, but he did it so subtly that Luce did not perceive any slight.) Imitate Churchill: Put in the sheep. It is always beneficial to play the obliging courtier, even when you are not serving a master.

THE DELICATE GAME OF COURTIERSHIP: A Warning

Talleyrand was the consummate courtier, especially in serving his master Napoleon. When the two men were first getting to know each other, Napoleon once said in passing, “I shall come to lunch at your house one of these days.” Talleyrand had a house at Auteuil, in the suburbs of Paris. “I should be delighted, mon général,” the minister replied, “and since my house is close to the Bois de Boulogne, you will be able to amuse yourself with a bit of shooting in the afternoon.”

“I do not like shooting,” said Napoleon, “But I love hunting. Are there any boars in the Bois de Boulogne?” Napoleon came from Corsica, where boar hunting was a great sport. By asking if there were boars in a Paris park, he showed himself still a provincial, almost a rube. Talleyrand did not laugh, however, but he could not resist a practical joke on the man who was now his master in politics, although not in blood and nobility, since Talleyrand came from an old aristocratic family. To Napoleon’s question, then, he simply replied, “Very few, mon général, but I dare say you will manage to find one.”

It was arranged that Napoleon would arrive at Talleyrand’s house the following day at seven A.M. and would spend the morning there. The “boar hunt” would take place in the afternoon. Throughout the morning the excited general talked nothing but boar hunting. Meanwhile, Talleyrand secretly had his servants go to the market, buy two enormous black pigs, and take them to the great park.

After lunch, the hunters and their hounds set off for the Bois de Boulogne. At a secret signal from Talleyrand, the servants loosed one of the pigs. “I see a boar,” Napoleon cried joyfully, jumping onto his horse to give chase. Talleyrand stayed behind. It took half an hour of galloping through the park before the “boar” was finally captured. At the moment of triumph, however, Napoleon was approached by one of his aides, who knew the creature could not possibly be a boar, and feared the general would be ridiculed once the story got out: “Sir,” he told Napoleon, “you realize of course that this is not a boar but a pig.”

Flying into a rage, Napoleon immediately set off at a gallop for Talleyrand’s house. He realized along the way that he would now be the butt of many a joke, and that exploding at Talleyrand would only make him more ridiculous; it would be better to make a show of good humor. Still, he did not hide his displeasure well.

Talleyrand decided to try to soothe the general’s bruised ego. He told Napoleon not to go back to Paris yet—he should again go hunting in the park. There were many rabbits there, and hunting them had been a favorite pastime of Louis XVI. Talleyrand even offered to let Napoleon use a set of guns that had once belonged to Louis. With much flattery and cajolery, he once again got Napoleon to agree to a hunt.

The party left for the park in the late afternoon. Along the way, Napoleon told Talleyrand, “I’m not Louis XVI, I surely won’t kill even one rabbit.” Yet that afternoon, strangely enough, the park was teeming with rabbits. Napoleon killed at least fifty of them, and his mood changed from anger to satisfaction. At the end of his wild shooting spree, however, the same aide approached him and whispered in his ear, “To tell the truth, sir, I am beginning to believe these are not wild rabbits. I suspect that rascal Talleyrand has played another joke on us.” (The aide was right: Talleyrand had in fact sent his servants back to the market, where they had purchased dozens of rabbits and then had released them in the Bois de Boulogne.)

Napoleon immediately mounted his horse and galloped away, this time returning straight to Paris. He later threatened Talleyrand, warned him not to tell a soul what had happened; if he became the laughingstock of Paris, there would be hell to pay.

It took months for Napoleon to be able to trust Talleyrand again, and he never totally forgave him his humiliation.

Interpretation

Courtiers are like magicians: They deceptively play with appearances, only letting those around them see what they want them to see. With so much deception and manipulation afoot, it is essential to keep people from seeing your tricks and glimpsing your sleight of hand.

Talleyrand was normally the Grand Wizard of Courtiership, and but for Napoleon’s aide, he probably would have gotten away completely with both pleasing his master and having a joke at the general’s expense. But courtiership is a subtle art, and overlooked traps and inadvertent mistakes can ruin your best tricks. Never risk being caught in your maneuvers; never let people see your devices. If that happens you instantly pass in people’s perceptions from a courtier of great manners to a loathsome rogue. It is a delicate game you play; apply the utmost attention to covering your tracks, and never let your master unmask you.