#The Pigeon Tunnel: Stories From My Life | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

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The many lives of John le Carré, in his own words.

An exclusive extract from his new memoir, The Pigeon Tunnel.

How I write

If you’re ever lucky enough to score an early success as a writer, as happened to me with The Spy Who Came in from the Cold, for the rest of your life there’s a before-the-fall and an after-the-fall. You look back at the books you wrote before the searchlight picked you out and they read like the books of your innocence; and the books after it, in your low moments, like the strivings of a man on trial. ‘Trying too hard’ the critics cry. I never thought I was trying too hard. I reckoned I owed it to my success to get the best out of myself, and by and large, however good or bad the best was, that was what I did.

And I love writing. I love doing what I’m doing at this moment, scribbling away like a man in hiding at a poky desk on a black clouded early morning in May, with the mountain rain scuttling down the window and no excuse for tramping down to the railway station under an umbrella because the International New York Times doesn’t arrive until lunchtime.

I love writing on the hoof, in notebooks on walks, in trains and cafés, then scurrying home to pick over my booty. When I am in Hampstead there is a bench I favour on the Heath, tucked under a spreading tree and set apart from its companions, and that’s where I like to scribble. I have only ever written by hand. Arrogantly perhaps, I prefer to remain with the centuries-old tradition of unmechanized writing. The lapsed graphic artist in me actually enjoys drawing the words.

I love best the privacy of writing. On research trips, I am partially protected by having a different name in real life. I can sign into hotels without anxiously wondering whether my name will be recognised, then, when it isn’t, anxiously wondering why not. When I’m obliged to come clean with the people whose experience I want to tap, results vary. One person refuses to trust me another inch, the next promotes me to chief of the secret service and, over my protestations that I was only ever the lowest form of secret life, replies that I would say that, wouldn’t I? There are many things I am disinclined to write about ever, just as there are in anyone’s life. I have been neither a model husband nor a model father, and am not interested in appearing that way. Love came to me late, after many missteps. I owe my ethical education to my four sons. Of my work for British intelligence, performed mostly in Germany, I wish to add nothing to what is already reported by others, inaccurately, elsewhere. In this I am bound by vestiges of old-fashioned loyalty to my former services, but also by undertakings I gave to the men and women who agreed to collaborate with me. It was understood between us that the promise of confidentiality would be subject to no time limit, but extend to their children and beyond. The work we engaged in was neither perilous nor dramatic, but it involved painful soul-searching on the part of those who signed up to it. Whether today these people are alive or dead, the promise of confidentiality holds.

Spying was forced on me from birth much in the way, I suppose, that the sea was forced on CS Forester or India on Paul Scott. Out of the secret world I once knew, I have tried to make a theatre for the larger worlds we inhabit. First comes the imagining, then the search for the reality. Then back to the imagining, and to the desk where I’m sitting now.

My Father: conman and inspiration

It took me a long while to get on writing terms with Ronnie, conman, fantasist, occasional jailbird, and my father. From the day I made my first faltering attempts at a novel, he was the one I wanted to get to grips with, but I was light years away from being up to the job. My earliest drafts of what eventually became A Perfect Spy dripped with self-pity: cast your eye, gentle reader, upon this emotionally crippled boy, crushed underfoot by his tyrannical father. It was only when he was safely dead and I took up the novel again that I did what I should have done at the beginning, and made the sins of the son a whole lot more reprehensible than the sins of the father.

With that settled, I was able to honour the legacy of his tempestuous life: a cast of characters to make the most blasé writer’s mouth water, from eminent legal brains of the day and stars of sport and screen to the finest of London’s criminal underworld and the beautiful creatures who trailed in their wake. Wherever Ronnie went, the unpredictable went with him. Are we up or down? Can we fill up the car on tick at the local garage? Has he fled the country or will he be proudly parking the Bentley in the drive tonight? Or is he enjoying the safety and comfort of one of his alternative wives?

Of Ronnie’s dealings with organised crime, if any, I know lamentably little. Yes, he rubbed shoulders with the notorious Kray twins, but that may just have been celebrity-hunting. And yes, he did business of a sort with London’s worst-ever landlord, Peter Rachman, and my best guess would be that when Rachman’s thugs had got rid of Ronnie’s tenants for him, he sold off the houses and gave Rachman a piece. But a full‑on criminal partnership? Not the Ronnie I knew. Conmen are aesthetes. They wear nice suits, have clean fingernails and are well spoken at all times. Policemen in Ronnie’s book were first-rate fellows who were open to negotiation. The same could not be said of “the boys”, as he called them, and you messed with the boys at your peril.

Ronnie’s entire life was spent walking on the thinnest, slipperiest layer of ice you can imagine. He saw no paradox between being on the wanted list for fraud and sporting a grey topper in the owners’ enclosure at Ascot. A reception at Claridge’s to celebrate his second marriage was interrupted while he persuaded two Scotland Yard detectives to put off arresting him until the party was over – and, meanwhile, come in and join the fun, which they duly did. But I don’t think Ronnie could have lived any other way. I don’t think he wanted to. He was a crisis addict, a performance addict, a shameless pulpit orator and a scene-grabber. He was a delusional enchanter and a persuader who saw himself as God’s golden boy, and he wrecked a lot of people’s lives.

Graham Greene tells us that childhood is the credit balance of the writer. By that measure at least, I was born a millionaire.

Sixty-something years back, I asked my mother, Olive, how prison changed Ronnie. Olive was a tap you couldn’t turn off. From the moment of our reunion at Ipswich railway station, she talked about Ronnie nonstop. She talked about his sexuality long before I had sorted out mine, and for ease of reference gave me a tattered hardback copy of Krafft-Ebing’s Psychopathia Sexualis as a map to guide me through her husband’s appetites before and after jail.

“Changed, dear? In prison? Not a bit of it! You were totally unchanged. You’d lost weight, of course – well, you would. Prison food isn’t meant to be nice.” And then the image that will never leave me, not least because she seemed unaware of what she was saying: “And you did have this silly habit of stopping in front of doors and waiting at attention with your head down till I opened them for you. They were perfectly ordinary doors, not locked or anything, but you obviously weren’t expecting to be able to open them for yourself.” Why did Olive refer to Ronnie as you? You meaning he, but subconsciously recruiting me to be his surrogate, which by the time of her death was what I had become.

There is an audiotape that Olive made for my brother Tony, all about her life with Ronnie. I still can’t bear to play it, so all I’ve ever heard is scraps. On the tape she describes how Ronnie used to beat her up, which, according to Olive, was what prompted her to bolt. Ronnie’s violence was not news to me, because he had made a habit of beating up his second wife as well: so often and so purposefully and coming home at such odd hours of the night to do it that, seized by a chivalrous impulse, I appointed myself her ridiculous protector, sleeping on a mattress in front of her bedroom door and clutching a golf iron so that Ronnie would have to reckon with me before he got at her.

Ronnie beat me up, too, but only a few times and not with much conviction. It was the shaping up that was the scary part: the lowering and readying of the shoulders, the resetting of the jaw. And when I was grown up, Ronnie tried to sue me, which I suppose is violence in disguise. He had watched a television documentary of my life and decided there was an implicit slander in my failure to mention that I owed everything to him.

For the last third of Ronnie’s life – he died suddenly at the age of 69 – we were estranged or at loggerheads. Almost by mutual consent, there were terrible obligatory scenes, and when we buried the hatchet, we always remembered where we’d put it. Do I feel more kindly towards him today than I did then? Sometimes I walk round him, sometimes he’s the mountain I still have to climb. Either way, he’s always there, which I can’t say for my mother, because to this day I have no idea what sort of person she was. I ran her to earth when I was 21, and thereafter broadly attended to her needs, not always with good grace. But from the day of our reunion until she died, the frozen child in me showed not the smallest sign of thawing out. Did she love animals? Landscape? The sea that she lived beside? Music? Painting? Me? Did she read books? Certainly she had no high opinion of mine, but what about other people’s?

In the nursing home where she stayed during her last years, we spent much of our time deploring or laughing at my father’s misdeeds. As my visits continued, I came to realise that she had created for herself – and for me – an idyllic mother–son relationship that had flowed uninterrupted from my birth till now.

Today, I don’t remember feeling any affection in childhood except for my elder brother, who for a time was my only parent. I remember a constant tension in myself that even in great age has not relaxed. I remember little of being very young. I remember the dissembling as we grew up, and the need to cobble together an identity for myself and how, in order to do this, I filched from the manners and lifestyle of my peers and betters, even to the extent of pretending I had a settled home life with real parents and ponies. Listening to myself today, watching myself when I have to, I can still detect traces of the lost originals, chief among them obviously my father.

All this no doubt made me an ideal recruit to the secret flag. But nothing lasted: not the Eton schoolmaster, not the MI5 man, not the MI6 man. Only the writer in me stuck the course. If I look over my life from here, I see it as a succession of engagements and escapes, and I thank goodness that the writing kept me relatively straight and largely sane. My father’s refusal to accept the simplest truth about himself set me on a path of enquiry from which I never returned. In the absence of a mother or sisters, I learned women late, if ever, and we all paid a price for that.

A trip to Panama

In 1885, France’s gargantuan efforts to build a sea-level canal across the Darien ended in disaster. Small and large investors of every stamp were ruined. In consequence there arose across the country the pained cry of “Quel Panama!” Whether the expression has endured in the French language is doubtful, but it speaks well for my own association with that beautiful country, which began in 1947 when my father, Ronnie, dispatched me to Paris to collect £500 from the Panamanian ambassador to France, one Count Mario da Bernaschina, who occupied a sweet house in one of those elegant side roads off the Elysées that smell permanently of women’s scent.

It was evening when I arrived by appointment on the ambassadorial doorstep wearing my grey school suit, my hair brushed and parted. I was 16 years old. The ambassador, my father had advised me, was a first-class fellow and would be happy to settle a longstanding debt of honour. I wanted very much to believe him.

The front door to the elegant house was opened by the most desirable woman I had ever seen. I must have been standing one step beneath her, because in my memory she is smiling down on me like my angel redeemer. She was bare-shouldered, black-haired and wore a flimsy dress in layer after layer of chiffon that failed to disguise her shape. When you are 16, desirable women come in all ages. From today’s vantage point, I would put her at a blossoming thirtysomething.

“You are Ronnie’s son?” she asked incredulously. She stood back to let me brush past her. Laying a hand on each of my shoulders, she scrutinised me playfully from head to toe under the hall light and seemed to find everything to her satisfaction.

“And you have come to see Mario?” she said.

If that’s all right, I said.

Her hands remained on my shoulders while her eyes of many colours continued to study me. “And you are still a boy,” she remarked, as a kind of memo to herself.

The count stood in his drawing room with his back to the fireplace, like every ambassador in every movie of the time: corpulent, in a velvet jacket, hands behind him and that perfect head of greying hair they all had – marcelled, we used to call it – and the curved handshake, man to man, although I’m still a boy. The countess – for so I have cast her – doesn’t ask me whether I drink alcohol, let alone whether I like daiquiri. My answer to both questions would anyway have been a truthless “yes”. She hands me a frosted glass with a speared cherry in it, and we all sit down in soft chairs and do a bit of ambassadorial small talk. Am I enjoying the city? Do I have many friends in Paris? A girlfriend, perhaps? Mischievous wink. To which I no doubt give compelling and mendacious answers that make no mention of golf clubs or concierges, until a pause in the conversation tells me it’s time for me to broach the purpose of my visit which, as experience has already taught me, is best done from the side rather than head on.

“And my father mentioned that you and he had a small matter of business to complete, sir,” I suggest, hearing myself from a distance on account of the daiquiri.

I should here explain the nature of that small matter of business which, unlike so many of Ronnie’s deals, was simplicity itself. As a diplomat and a top ambassador, son – I am echoing the enthusiasm with which Ronnie had briefed me for my mission – the count was immune from such tedious irritations as taxation and import duty. The count could import what he wished, he could export what he wished. If someone, for instance, chose to send the count a cask of unmatured, unbranded Scotch whisky at a couple of pence a pint under diplomatic immunity, and the count were to bottle that whisky and ship it to Panama, or wherever else he chose to ship it under diplomatic immunity, that was nobody’s business but his.

Equally, if the count chose to export the said unmatured, unbranded whisky in bottles of a certain design – akin, let us imagine, to Dimple Haig, a popular brand of the day – that, too, was his good right, as was the choice of label and the description of the bottle’s contents. All that need concern me was that the count should pay up – cash, son, no monkey business. Thus provided, I should treat myself to a nice mixed grill at Ronnie’s expense, keep the receipt, catch the first ferry next morning and come straight to his grand offices in the West End of London with the balance.

“A matter of business, David?” the count repeated in the tone of my school housemaster. “What business can that be?”

“The £500 you owe him, sir.”

I remember his puzzled smile, so forbearing. I remember the richly draped sofas and silky cushions, old mirrors and gold glint, and my countess with her long legs crossed inside the layers of chiffon. The count continued to survey me with a mixture of puzzlement and concern. So did my countess. Then they surveyed each other as if to compare notes about what they’d surveyed.

“Well, that’s a pity, David. Because when I heard you were coming to see me, I rather hoped you might be bringing me a portion of the large sum of money I have invested in your dear father’s enterprises.”

I still don’t know how I responded to this startling reply, or whether I was as startled as I should have been. I remember briefly losing my sense of time and place, and I suppose this was partly induced by the daiquiri, and partly by the recognition that I had nothing to say and no right to be sitting in their drawing room, and that the best thing I could do was make my excuses and get out. Then I realised that I was alone in the room. After a while, my host and hostess returned.

The count’s smile was genial and relaxed. The countess looked particularly pleased. “So, David,” said the count, as if all were forgiven. “Why don’t we go and have dinner and talk about something more pleasant?”

They had a favourite Russian restaurant 50 yards from the house. In my memory, it is a tiny place and we are the only three people in it, save for a man in a baggy white shirt who plucked at a balalaika. Over dinner, while the count talked about something more pleasant, the countess kicked off a shoe and caressed my leg with her stockinged toe. On the tiny dance floor she sang Dark Eyes to me, holding the length of me against her and nibbling my earlobe while she flirted with the balalaika man and the count looked indulgently on. On our return to the table, the count decided that we were ready for bed. The countess, by a squeeze of my hand, seconded the motion.

My memory has spared me the excuses I made, but somehow I made them. Somehow I found myself a bench in a park, and somehow I contrived to remain the boy she had declared me to be. Decades later, finding myself alone in Paris, I tried to seek out the very street, the house, the restaurant. But by then no reality would have done them justice.

Now I am not pretending that it was the magnetic force of the count and countess that half a century later drew me to Panama for the space of two novels and one movie; merely that the recollection of that sensuous, unfulfilled night remained lodged in my memory, if only as one of the near-misses of interminable adolescence. Within days of my arrival in Panama City, I was enquiring after the name. Bernaschina? Nobody had heard of the fellow. A count? From Panama? It seemed most improbable. Maybe I had dreamed the whole thing? I hadn’t.

I had come to Panama to research a novel. Unusually, it already had a title: The Night Manager. I was looking for the sort of crooks, smooth talkers and dirty deals that would brighten the life of an amoral English arms seller named Richard Onslow Roper. Roper would be a high-flyer where my father, Ronnie, had been a low one who frequently crashed. Ronnie had tried selling arms in Indonesia and gone to jail for it. Roper was too big to fail, until he met his destiny in the shape of a former special forces soldier turned hotel night manager named Jonathan Pine.

Working with Sir Alec Guinness

“We are definitely not as our host here describes us,” says Sir Maurice Oldfield severely to Sir Alec Guinness over lunch. Oldfield is a former chief of the secret service who was later hung out to dry by Margaret Thatcher, but at the time of our meeting, he is just another old spy in retirement. “I’ve always wanted to meet Sir Alec,” he told me in his homey, north country voice when I invited him. “Ever since I sat opposite him on the train going up from Winchester. I’d have got into conversation with him if I’d had the nerve.”

Guinness is about to play my secret agent George Smiley in the BBC’s television adaptation of Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy, and wishes to savour the company of a real old spy. But the lunch does not proceed as smoothly as I had hoped. Over the hors d’oeuvres, Oldfield extols the ethical standards of his old service and implies, in the nicest way, that “young David here” has besmirched its good name.

Guinness, a former naval officer, who from the moment of meeting Oldfield has appointed himself to the upper echelons of the secret service, can only shake his head sagely and agree. Over the Dover sole, Oldfield takes his thesis a step further: “It’s young David and his like,” he declares across the table to Guinness while ignoring me sitting beside him, “that make it that much harder for the service to recruit decent officers and sources. They read his books and they’re put off. It’s only natural.” To which Guinness lowers his eyelids and shakes his head in a deploring sort of way, while I pay the bill.

“You should join the Athenaeum, David,” Oldfield says kindly, implying that the Athenaeum will somehow make a better person of me. “I’ll sponsor you myself. There. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” And to Guinness, as the three of us stand on the threshold of the restaurant: “A pleasure indeed, Alec. An honour, I must say. We shall be in touch very shortly, I’m sure.”

“We shall indeed,” Guinness replies devoutly, as the two old spies shake hands.

Unable apparently to get enough of our departing guest, Guinness gazes fondly after him as he pounds off down the pavement: a small, vigorous gentleman of purpose, striding along with his umbrella thrust ahead of him as he disappears into the crowd. “How about another cognac for the road?” Guinness suggests, and we have hardly resumed our places before the interrogation begins: “Those very vulgar cufflinks. Do all our spies wear them?” No, Alec, I think Maurice just likes vulgar cufflinks.

“And those loud orange suede boots with crepe soles. Are they for stealth?” I think they’re just for comfort actually, Alec. Crepe squeaks. “Then tell me this.” He has grabbed an empty tumbler. Tipping it to an angle, he flicks at it with his thick fingertip. “I’ve seen people do this before” – making a show of peering meditatively into the tumbler while he continues to flick it – “and I’ve seen people do this” – now rotating the finger round the rim in the same contemplative vein.

“But I’ve never seen people do this before” – inserting his finger into the tumbler and passing it round the inside. “Do you think he’s looking for dregs of poison?”

Is he being serious? The child in Guinness has never been more serious in its life. Well, I suppose if it was dregs he was looking for, he’d have drunk the poison by then, I suggest. But he prefers to ignore me.

It is a matter of entertainment history that Oldfield’s suede boots, crepe-soled or other, and his rolled umbrella thrust forward to feel out the path ahead, became essential properties for Guinness’s portrayal of George Smiley, old spy in a hurry. I haven’t checked on the cufflinks recently, but I have a memory that our director thought them a little overdone and persuaded Guinness to trade them in for something less flashy.

The other legacy of our lunch was less enjoyable, if artistically more creative. Oldfield’s distaste for my work – and, I suspect, for myself – struck deep root in Guinness’s thespian soul, and he was not above reminding me of it when he felt the need to rack up George Smiley’s sense of personal guilt; or, as he liked to imply, mine.

Lunch with Rupert Murdoch

One morning in the autumn of 1991, I opened my Times newspaper to be greeted by my own face glowering up at me. From my sour expression, I could tell at once that the text around it wasn’t going to be friendly. A struggling Warsaw theatre, I read, was celebrating its post-communist freedom by putting on a stage version of The Spy Who Came In From The Cold. But the rapacious le Carré [see photograph] wanted a whacking £150 per performance: “The price of freedom, we suppose.”

I took another look at the photograph and saw exactly the sort of fellow who does indeed go round preying on struggling Polish theatres. Grasping. Unsavoury appetites. Just look at those eyebrows. I had by now ceased to enjoy my breakfast. Keep calm and call your agent. I fail on the first count, succeed on the second. My literary agent’s name is Rainer. In what the novelists call a quavering voice, I read the article aloud to him. Has he, I suggest delicately – might he possibly, just this once, is it at all conceivable? – on this occasion been a tad too zealous on my behalf? Rainer is emphatic. Quite the reverse. Since the Poles are still in the recovery ward after the collapse of communism, he has been a total pussycat. We are not charging the theatre £150 per performance, he assures me, but a measly £26, the minimum standard rate. In addition to which, we’ve thrown in the rights for free. In short, a sweetheart deal, David, a deliberate helping hand to a Polish theatre in time of need. Great, I say, bewildered and inwardly seething.

Keep calm and fax the editor of the Times. His response is lofty. Not to put too fine an edge on it, it is infuriating. He sees no great harm in the piece, he says. He suggests that a man in my fortunate position should take the rough with the smooth. This is not advice I am prepared to accept. But who to turn to?

Why, of course: the man who owns the newspaper, Rupert Murdoch, my old buddy!

Well, not exactly buddy. I had met Murdoch socially on a couple of occasions, though I doubted whether he remembered them. I have three conditions, I say: number one, a generous apology prominently printed in the Times; number two, a handsome donation to the struggling Polish theatre. And number three, lunch. Next morning his reply was lying on the floor beneath my fax machine: “Your terms accepted. Rupert.”

The Savoy Grill in those days had a kind of upper level for moguls: red-plush, horseshoe-shaped affairs where in more colourful days gentlemen of money might have entertained their ladies. I breathe the name Murdoch to the maître d’hôtel and am shown to one of the privés. I am early. Murdoch is bang on time. He is smaller than I remember him, but more pugnacious, and has acquired that hasty waddle and little buck of the pelvis with which great men of affairs advance on one another, hand outstretched, for the cameras. The slant of the head in relation to the body is more pronounced than I remember, and when he wrinkles up his eyes to give me his sunny smile, I have the odd feeling he’s taking aim at me. We sit down, we face each other. I notice – how can I not? – the unsettling collection of rings on his left hand. We order our food and exchange a couple of banalities. Rupert says he’s sorry about that stuff they wrote about me. Brits, he says, are great penmen, but they don’t always get things right. I say, not at all, and thanks for your sporting response. But enough of small talk. He is staring straight at me and the sunny smile has vanished.

“Who killed Bob Maxwell?” he demands.

Robert Maxwell, for those lucky enough not to remember him, was a Czech-born media baron, British parliamentarian and the alleged spy of several nations, including Israel, the Soviet Union and Britain. As a young Czech freedom fighter, he had taken part in the Normandy landings and later earned himself a British army commission and a gallantry medal. After the war, he worked for the Foreign Office in Berlin. He was also a flamboyant liar and rogue of gargantuan proportions and appetites who plundered the pension fund of his own companies to the tune of £440m, owed around £4bn that he had no way of repaying and in November 1991 was found dead in the seas off Tenerife, having apparently fallen from the deck of a lavish private yacht named after his daughter. Conspiracy theories abounded. To some, it was a clear case of suicide by a man ensnared by his own crimes; to others, murder by one of the several intelligence agencies he had supposedly worked for. But which one? Why Murdoch should imagine I know the answer to this question is beyond me, but I do my best to give satisfaction. Well, Rupert, if we’re really saying it’s not suicide, then probably, for my money, it was the Israelis, I suggest.

“Why?”

I’ve read the rumours that are flying around, as we all have. I regurgitate them: Maxwell, the long-term agent of Israeli intelligence, blackmailing his former paymasters; Maxwell, who had traded with the Shining Path in Peru, offering Israeli weapons in exchange for strategic cobalt; Maxwell, threatening to go public unless the Israelis paid up. But Rupert Murdoch is already on his feet, shaking my hand and saying it was great to meet me again. And maybe he’s as embarrassed as I am, or just bored, because already he’s powering his way out of the room, and great men don’t sign bills, they leave them to their people. Estimated duration of lunch: 25 minutes.

A meeting with Margaret Thatcher

The prime minister’s office wished to recommend me for a medal, and I had declined. I had not voted for her, but that fact had nothing to do with my decision. I felt, as I feel today, that I was not cut out for our honours system, that it represents much of what I most dislike about our country. In my letter of reply, I took care to assure the prime minister’s office that my churlishness did not spring from any personal or political animosity, offered my thanks and compliments to the prime minister, and assumed I would hear no more.

I was wrong. In a second letter, her office struck a more intimate note. Lest I was regretting a decision taken in heat, the writer wished me to know that the door to an honour was still open. I replied, equally courteously I hope, that as far as I was concerned the door was firmly shut, and would remain so in any similar contingency. Again, my thanks. Again, my compliments to the prime minister. And again I assumed the matter was closed, until a third letter arrived, inviting me to lunch. There were six tables set in the dining room of 10 Downing Street that day, but I only remember ours, which had Mrs Thatcher at its head and the Dutch prime minister Ruud Lubbers on her right, and myself in a tight new grey suit on her left. The year must have been 1982. I was just back from the Middle East, Lubbers had just been appointed. Our other three guests remain a pink blob to me. I assumed, for reasons that today escape me, that they were industrialists from the north. Neither do I remember any opening exchanges between the six of us, but perhaps they had happened over cocktails before we sat down. But I do remember Mrs Thatcher turning to the Dutch prime minister and acquainting him with my distinction. “Now, Mr Lubbers,” she announced in a tone to prepare him for a nice surprise, “this is Mr Cornwell, but you will know him better as the writer John le Carré.”

Leaning forward, Mr Lubbers took a close look at me. He had a youthful face, almost a playful one. He smiled, I smiled: really friendly smiles. “No,” he said. And sat back in his chair, still smiling. But Mrs Thatcher, it is well known, did not lightly take no for an answer.

“Oh, come, Mr Lubbers. You’ve heard of John le Carré. He wrote The Spy Who Came In From The Cold and…” – fumbling slightly – “… other wonderful books.”

Lubbers, nothing if not a politician, reconsidered his position. Again he leaned forward and took another, longer look at me, as amiable as the first, but more considered, more statesmanlike.

“No,” he repeated.

Now it was Mrs Thatcher’s turn to take a long look at me, and I underwent something of what her all-male cabinet must have experienced when they, too, incurred her displeasure. “Well, Mr Cornwell,” she said, as to an errant schoolboy who had been brought to account, “since you’re here” – implying that I had somehow talked my way in – “have you anything you wish to say to me?”

Belatedly, it occurred to me that I had indeed something to say to her, if badly. Having recently returned from South Lebanon, I felt obliged to plead the cause of stateless Palestinians. Lubbers listened. The gentlemen from the industrial north listened. But Mrs Thatcher listened more attentively than all of them, and with no sign of the impatience of which she was frequently accused. Even when I had stumbled to the end of my aria, she went on listening before delivering herself of her response. “Don’t give me sob stories,” she ordered me with sudden vehemence, striking the key words for emphasis. “Every day people appeal to my emotions. You can’t govern that way. It simply isn’t fair.”

Whereupon, appealing to my emotions, she reminded me that it was the Palestinians who had trained the IRA bombers who had murdered her friend Airey Neave, the British war hero and politician, and her close adviser. After that, I don’t believe we spoke to each other much. Occasionally I do ask myself whether Mrs Thatcher nevertheless had an ulterior motive in inviting me. Was she, for instance, sizing me up for one of her quangos – those strange quasi-official public bodies that have authority but no power, or is it the other way round? But I found it hard to imagine what possible use she could have for me – unless, of course, she wanted guidance from the horse’s mouth on how to sort out her squabbling spies.

• This is an edited extract from The Pigeon Tunnel: Stories From My Life, by John le Carré, published next week by Viking at £20. Order a copy for £15 from the Guardian bookshop.

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Text

Chapter 3

Title: Those Evil Ways

Pairing: OT7 x Y/N (female reader)

Genre: supernatural au, medical, fluff, angst, eventual smut, war

Word count: 9.500

Characters: Demons!BTS, human reader (with special abilities later in the story)

Warnings: pinning, swearing, drinking game, mentions of alcohol, demon references, angst, a dash of dirty talk, slight Dom/Sub dynamics (Soft!Dom Jin), dry humping, mentions of breast play, fingering, teasing, some fluff – if I have missed something please send a pigeon 😅❤️

Summary: Y/N is a third year medical student going through life like others do. On one unfortunate night she gets in unexpected contact with otherworldly beings who drag her into their world of violence, war and fight for power.

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"Was it really necessary to tell this fat lie?" Y/N yelled at Jin and threw at him the first thing she saw, in that case a pillow. The demon dodged it with grace and groaned.

"Do you think it would be better to tell them that you're the Spark? Are you stupid?" His annoyance grew by the second. In fact in that situation there was no right answer because whatever had been said they would still end up in a fucked-up situation. "Yoongi is on his way."

"Do you think he can fix all your crap?!" The young woman screamed and threw her hands in the air dramatically. "Stop calling him whenever a problem arises! You're that damn Agares or whatever! You're supposed to be smart and cunning and…!" Y/N was at a loss for words. At those moments when she was incredibly angry her brain was refusing to work properly. "You just talk shit without thinking first and then you call Yoongi to deal with that! That's what you do!" Her rant went on and on and the whole time Jin kept quiet. Almost the whole time. When he decided to speak up it agitated the girl even more.

"What in the name of sanity is going on?" Yoongi opened the door and stomped inside. "It's not even noon and everything has gone to shit" his demeanor was completely different, it seemed frightening. He was like a storm cloud ready to drop lightnings and drown them in the rain. Y/N stopped shouting and Jin's eyes dropped to the ground. Yoongi was not one to shout and curse but at those rare times when that happened it was like the doors of Hell were opening.

"I kind of said some things" the broad-shouldered demon began. It looked like the cat-eyed demon was the Master now not Agares. "Jimin and Hoseok came to the bathhouse. I tried sneaking Y/N out through the tunnels and-"

"The tunnels?! You're seriously out of your mind!" The other cut him mid-sentence. "They probably know the layout of the whole kingdom by heart!" Yoongi's voice became a low growl.

"What was I supposed to do?!" Jin hissed back. "I panicked!"

The other demon rolled his eyes and crossed his arms. "For one you could have just waited and pretend that she is one of the girls from the harem. Play it out like you need to have a private conversation with them and send her away" he said with a pretentious sweet voice stressing on the sarcasm in his words.

Agares looked at him wide-eyed. The realisation hit him at that same moment. Now the thing he did seemed stupid and foolish.

"Yes. Yes! I see it on your fucking face! You don't even have to tell me. I know I'm right" Baal crossed the room and neared Jin. They were standing face to face now, their looks never wavering. "I'm sick of you!" Yoongi spat in his face angrily.

"Watch your tone" was the only thing Jin managed to say. He knew that was the wrong thing to do but at that moment when the servant had rushed in he had lost all kind of rational thinking. “I couldn’t think of anything else then. My only thought was to keep her safe” he gestured towards Y/N. Her eyes widened in disbelief. It sounded like the demon was trying to drag her in some twisted way into this.

“Don’t” Yoongi hissed. “She has no place in this. Y/N doesn’t even know who they are. How dangerous they are, especially Hoseok. Once he sets his mind on something he doesn’t let go.” His voice sounded almost sad. Everything felt like it was getting out of hand and he couldn’t do anything. The cat-eyed demon felt powerless. “What did they say to you?” He finally turned to Y/N and his features softened. Yoongi wanted to hug her and reassure the girl that everything was going to be fine in the end.

“They-“ a hiccup tore through her and Y/N’s face contorted painfully in a pitiful sad expression. “They said something about this guy Kook who was a king and that he can make me the queen I deserve to be” the tears began rolling down her cheeks and Yoongi closed his eyes refusing to look at her feeling so torn apart. The demon bit his lip and tasted the metallic taste of the blood in his mouth. He was so mad. “He wants me to go to the palace and introduce myself to this man.” She cried out and her whole body began shaking. Y/N was scared out of her mind but anger was rising within her again. “You promised to keep me safe!” She screeched and crossed the distance between her and Jin in two big strides.

Slap.

The sound echoed in the room.

Jin turned his face to the side, his eyes cast down. In another situation this was impossible to happen, for someone to lay a hand on him but now…

“I’m so sorry…” the demon whispered.

“I know that means shit! You’re a demon and you don’t feel sorry!” The girl screamed and then turned to Yoongi. “Take me home. I don’t want to be near him a minute longer.”

He only nodded and gave Jin a meaningful final look before leaving.

…

The day of the Initiation

“That’s the place?” Hoseok frowned looking at the entrance to the cave.

“Yes,” Namjoon nodded and turned to face the others.

“Did you figure out why the previous ones decided to step down and pass the titles to someone else?” Jimin asked while fixing his belt.

“As far as I know it became a huge burden with the amount of work they had to do. Also having to go through so much trouble just to find out which sin goes best with each person was troublesome. Apparently the humanity nowadays is so corrupted that people develop a sin by themselves and then another and another and the whole thing turns into a huge mess. In recent years they had to go and actually fix the way a sin was developing, not planting it.” Noir went on, making the others become immersed in the story.

“Sounds complicated,” Jungkook noted and scratched his head.

“It is but we never shied away from work,” Jimin said with a smile.

They entered and saw Jin, Yoongi and Taehyung sitting on a pile of rocks. The three demons stood up and bowed. The Kings returned the greeting with a curt nod.

The inside of the cave was lit with candles and some runes were drawn on the walls. Seven bowls were placed on an improvised altar filled with transparent blue liquid.

"The oracle should be here any minute" Yoongi said quietly, looking at the entrance. "There are still twenty minutes left until midnight."

…

When the Oracle came in the air began to stir and the demons felt like static was passing through it. Those beings were truly exceptional. He had long white hair that reached his waist, neatly braided away from his face. The man was tall and slim wearing a grey sleeveless robe that was kept in place with a belt on his waist. There was a tattoo of a snake starting from his right palm, wrapping around the arm, continuing on the shoulders and ending on his left palm. Along with it there were some runes tattooed in different places including his neck and face. It was a weird sight to behold but beautiful nonetheless.

He stopped in front of the seven men and looked them over from head to toe. Nothing was said and they took that as a good sign. The Oracle then sat in front of the altar and inspected the bowls.

"Each one of you" he began "should come to me and bleed in a separate bowl. We should do it in the following order - East, West, North, South, then center, then the ones without a decided place." The man was speaking in a low hushed voice and looking down at the altar.

Hoseok approached first, cutting his palm. Then came Namjoon, Jungkook, Jimin, then Jin, Yoongi and finally Taehyung stepped forward.

The moon reached its peak a few minutes later and the Oracle looked up. The soft light bled over his face, he closed his eyes and began to chant in a different language.

The air became dense and felt suffocating. The demons were standing in a circle around him waiting for something to happen. The Oracle dipped his fingers in the first bowl.

"I pronounce thee Gluttony'' he touched Alasor's hand, smearing the liquid over his skin. The King of the East felt like he was submerging in ice-cold water and then the sensation went away as fast as it came. The Oracle continued. He did the same thing with the other six.

Namjoon got the sin of Pride, Jungkook - the Greed, next in order was Jimin and for what was worth his was absolutely reasonable and kind of obvious - Lust. Agares received the sin of Wrath, Yoongi that of Sloth and Gaap - Envy.

The Oracle said some more things in the strange language and then bowed at the altar, his forehead touching the ground. When the ritual came to an end the white-haired man stood up, gave them a nod and left without saying another word.

The demons looked at eachother.

"Do any of you feel different?" Hoseok broke the silence. He looked puzzled and out of place.

"Like I have an amplifier for my powers," Jin muttered. His eyes were shining in the moonlight.

"Something like that…" Corson stepped closer to the altar still examining the seven bowls. "That was the Initiation for you" he concluded.

"I was expecting something bigger. With more… I don't know what exactly but this was kind of lame" Jungkook frowned and started walking to the entrance.

"I hope all of you will perform your duties as newly named sins and not disappoint" Namjoon raised his voice and it boomed through the small space of the cave. No one said anything back.

…

"A gift?" Jungkook was surprised and his beautiful brown doe-eyes became bigger than usual.

"Yes! You will see!" Jimin added in a sing-song voice. The King of the South had decided to keep the secret about Y/N from Mammon until they met and Hoseok had agreed on that. "You will get it tomorrow."

The shorter demon needed to find out what was the deal with that girl that Agares protected so fiercely the other day. Maybe they could get her for themselves, maybe they could steal her from him. The word of the King was absolute and if Jungkook wanted to claim her there was no way around it. Jimin felt a shiver running down his spine. He was getting excited. Maybe she was something special, maybe she was going to tell them big secrets of the land she came from, maybe their kingdom could expand even more…

"She cries a lot though," Alastor huffed. He hated when people cried, he found that to be quite annoying and useless.

"If she is pretty when she cries I want her to cry more" the King of the North said with a sadistic smile that showed his sharp canines.

"Greedy" Jimin noted with a filthy look on his face and all the others laughed and the intended joke.

…

The problem Yoongi had now was not only the fact that Y/N had to meet the Kings but also that thing with possessing the sin of Sloth. That meant more work and more imaginary headaches for him.

"I don't know why I agreed to be a part of that…" he complained while riding back to the mansion.

"You didn't agree technically. I ordered you to do it" Jin replied with a nonchalant voice from the back of the other horse. At that remark the cat-eyed demon gritted his teeth. Agares was probably the most annoying of them all but that was because he was always spending most of his time with him.

Yoongi hated how he always had something to say even if that was completely unnecessary. You know that saying about the cats, how they never fall on their backs? Jin was the same - always coming out clean, always being the smart-ass who had to say the last word in every situation even if his opinion was wrong or not wanted.

"What are we going to do about Y/N? Is she going to go alone to them?" Baal asked.

"Do you have something else in mind?"

"Maybe I can go with her?" The proposition came out of nowhere and Jin gave him a puzzled look, his eyes becoming double their size.

"You? Why?"

"Did they specifically say that she should be alone?" Yoongi continued unbothered, having set his mind on going there too.

"No" Jin said with a low grunt, not pleased by the man having this desire to always stay by the girl's side. "I was going to actually join her but I have to travel East to check on one of the other properties. I got a message yesterday about some-"

"Spare me the details" the other man cut him off and rolled his eyes. "Then it's decided. Tomorrow I'm going to the Palace with Y/N."

"Whatever…" Jin said looking forward with furrowed brows. Oh, how he hated Yoongi for always being there when he couldn't. She was his in some weird way, he ordered for her to be taken to Doordale, he gave Yoongi permission to take her to his home and keep her there and yet… Agares was barely seeing her, safe for the times when they were having dinners together or talking "business".

…

When the maids came in the morning to wake her up Y/N was feeling beaten up and more tired than the previous night. The newly created situation was so stressful that the young woman couldn't sleep or eat properly.

"The Master said that we should get you ready immediately my Lady" Monna told her in a hushed voice while opening the curtains.

"I don't want to…" Y/N whined and rolled in the bed while wrapping herself in the sheets like a burrito.

"Let's take a bath first and then fix your hair and outfit for today. You will be the prettiest" the maid went on coaxing the girl with a soft voice.

An hour and a half later Y/N was standing in front of the long mirror looking at the reflection. For some reason seeing the final results made her feel way better than before. She knew it was wrong of her because it was not a good occasion she was getting prepared for but the maids put so much effort that she could not not appreciate it.

The dress they gave her was long and floaty in soft peach colour. It had a belt right under her breast to keep the skirt tightly in place at the top and let the lower part fall freely. The sleeves were off-the-soulders again following the same principle of flowing down her arms and being loose. The hair was done in a nice way and some small accessories were added that complimented the whole look. Y/N resembled a forest nymph and she enjoyed every moment of it.

…

"Don't forget to address them properly" Yoongi was talking while riding to the Palace. "Don't behave the same way you do to me and Jin. They are Kings."

"Kings my ass" the girl spat out angrily. Her previous excitement from being dolled up went away the moment she stepped out of the mansion. "They behaved like complete jerks to me the other day. Dragging me around like I'm a ragdoll, deciding for me what I should do and where should I go."

"They're Kings" the demon repeated with a flat voice. "That's in their job description."

The last part was added so Y/N can smile and she did. Yoongi looked at her and saw the cute way her lips curved up and her eyes crinkled. It was such a nice moment enjoying the company she provided.

"You actually adapted pretty well to my world," she said, still smiling.

"Thanks for the compliment," the demon grinned. Then he turned to look ahead. "We're here." A somber look overtook his features and Y/N's face fell too.

The inside was just as impressive as the exterior of the building. Gold and silver coated everything, the furniture was made of massive wood and marble and the servants were dressed well too.

A butler came to greet them and escort the two to the reception hall. Two guards were standing on the sides of the door facing each other. They opened it and let the butler walk in first announcing that the guests had arrived and then he moved to the side bowing deeply allowing Yoongi and Y/N to enter.

"Welcome" a loud voice boomed through the hall that made the girl jump.

The cat-eyed demon bowed and she followed suit mimicking everything he did. When they rose up one of the four men had stood up looking intently at the two.

"Yoongi. It's nice to see you again" the demon said smiling pleasantly but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Even though I find your company absolutely delightful I would have to ask you to leave for now since I want to have a private chat with our princess." The pleasantries were making Yoongi sick to his stomach because he knew that they were just a way to put up a fake façade for Y/N.

The King's word was absolute.

Yoongi bowed once more and gave a reassuring look to the girl, smiling slightly. She on the other hand looked terrified. Y/N wanted to cling to the demon and beg him to stay but knew by the way the other said those things it was not even remotely possible.

"Yoongi…" she whispered and her lip trembled slightly.

"Don't worry. I will be right outside waiting for you. Nothing will happen to you" he touched her arm and turned to leave. The moment he stepped out of the door and it shut behind him his face grew darker. He was more than worried.

"Come closer princess" she recognized the demon calling her. The one who actually proposed this charade the other day.

They were all dressed in black. Some were wearing fur, some - leather and their boots were all polished and the silver heels were shining in the light. Y/N noticed the rings adorning their fingers - each had a symbol engraved on it showing the part they ruled over. The demons were beautiful, all of them.

She was standing right in front of the low podium, trying to look as confident as possible.

"That's my present for you Kookie," he said, glancing at the man next to him. "Isn't she the prettiest girl you've ever seen? So exotic. The air around her is different." He waved a hand towards the girl but his look never left the other King's face.

"Is it true that you're a princess, love?" Mammon asked and leaned back in his seat. His lips stretched into a smug smirk and he tilted his head to the side. "Jimin here and Hoseok insist that you are but I want to hear it from you. Tell me your story."

Four pairs of eyes landed on Y/N. All of them waited for her to begin so they could decide whether or not the young woman was a fraud. She took a deep breath and said calmly "I think it's only fair for you to introduce yourselves first, my Kings. I'm not from around and I don't know you. I would like to know who I'm speaking to." Her tone was calm but the words carried a suppressed aggression in them.

They laughed.

The audacity to ask who they were…

"So be it." The one who spoke first nodded and took the initiative to begin. "I'm Corson, or Namjoon. King of the West" the demon sitting in the middle said.

"My name is Alastor. My human name is Hoseok as the others here call me but you should use my demon name. I'm ruler of the Eastern parts." Y/N already knew him from the other day. When he spoke she flinched at the memory of him dragging her forward through the tunnels and unintentionally stepped back. That made the King laugh wholeheartedly. "I see you remember me, beautiful."

"I hope she remembers me too or I'm going to be offended" Jimin looked at Hoseok and pouted. "I'm Aamon, Jimin, King of the South. You may address me as "My King"." He added with a playful voice and batted his lashes at Y/N.

The man on the other end leaned forward and gave him a dirty look. "You get your kicks out of this, don't you Jiminie?" Then the demon laughed and turned to Y/N intertwining his fingers and placing his hands under his chin. "And I'm Mammon. You're my gift princess. At least for today. I will decide whether or not to keep you after our time is over. I'm the King of the North and I also think I will be able to take you to my palace since I find you fascinating." Jungkook's presence made the girl feel small and overpowered. He sounded so confident and sure of the outcome of the events.

"Okay, love. Now that the introduction is over time to tell us who you are and why are you here in Doordale" Jimin spoke once more and Y/N looked at him wide-eyed like a deer caught in headlights. "Don't worry. We won't judge even if you turn out to be a fraud. Also we won't tell Jin. We want our friends to live happily in their own bubbles made of nice dreams" he added with a mocking grin. They were no friends and would never be. Agares was a pain in their neck and the Kings needed to find a way to teach the demon a lesson.

"Here goes nothing" Y/N uttered and took a deep breath trying to recall the story Jin came up with the other day. "As Agares said the other day I'm a princess. I come from a land called…" she stopped, they never told her a name of some place here in the Scarlet land. The young woman started to panic and then a new idea hit her. "I actually don't remember the name of my country of origin because I was an infant when my parents disowned me and sold me to the slave owners. I just know that it's supposed to be somewhere west of here. That's what I overheard one night while the keepers were changing." Y/N looked at the demons sitting before her trying to figure out whether or not they believed her story. Their faces were completely blank, not showing any emotions. Whatever thoughts were running through their minds nothing was done to show even a glimpse of them. "So I spent years going from household to household. When I was at the marketplace whenever someone richer heard that I was a princess they immediately paid the price no matter how high it was. Once they were tired of me they were selling me to someone else. I tried to escape numerous times but it was impossible. When Jin's guards bought me a few days back I hoped that I had finally found my place that I can call home. I'm tired of this infinite loop. I don't have a place I can call my own. I want Jin and Yoongi to keep me with them because I need to feel safe." She teared up unintentionally completely immersed in the fabricated story. "I don't care how people see me - as a princess or not. I'm all alone" the last part was actually true. The girl remembered her grandmother, her parents who were somewhere living their life and her best friends who were probably looking for her. "My parents are probably living their lives not giving a flying fuck about me. I have only those two demons waiting for me," Y/N sniffled and a stray tear ran down her cheek. Then she stopped speaking. Silence fell over the hall and only her laboured breathing could be heard.

"I see. That's fine. You've had a tough life but now that will change." Namjoon finally spoke in a flat tone. He found her story to be partially believable. The only thing that didn't ring true was the part where the girl didn't remember where she came from. Even small kids knew the names of places that were familiar to them. Maybe she was lying, maybe not. "I hope in time your words can prove their truthfulness," Corson nodded and gestured for her to come closer.

Y/N stepped on the podium and stood right in front of him. Their knees were almost touching. The King rose from his throne and looked at the girl. He was far taller than her and made her look small like a porcelain doll. He reached up and wiped her face from the tears.

That made the others gasp and clenched their jaws disapprovingly. Namjoon didn't pay any attention to them, feeling strange and enamored by her. Something felt off.

"Hands off!" Jungkook grabbed the handrests of the throne. "Jimin brought her here for me. Y/N is my present!" He was behaving like an angry and selfish child. His teeth were bared and an enraged look was distorting the pretty features of his face.

"Don't be greedy" Alastor interfered. "She is yours but you know that it's always good to share with the group" he laughed at his own joke. That made the King of the North even angrier.

"I will share if I want to," he bit back.

"Namjoon…" Jimin warned. That made the man step back and face the others. Aamon hated when the rules they had set were being broken.

For one they had decided when they took over as the new Kings that they would share everything only on the condition that everyone was fine with doing it. The things they wanted to avoid by setting this rule were misunderstandings and altercations between them.

Jimin also had brought Y/N here because he thought that would be a nice surprise and a good distraction from their duties for Jungkook. Mammon had a huge harem and enjoyed the physical pleasures a lot but recently he was feeling bored with the girls there. He was always declining when they offered to entertain him or pleasure him. Instead he preferred to read books or draw the greenery of the palace.

Jungkook was always organising feasts but not sparing a glance at the women swarming him. He preferred to drink, play noisy games, dance around and participate in those one-on-one fist fights with the guests who dared challenge him.

"I think it's best if we leave for now" Jungkook smiled and stood up trying to forget about the displeasure that brought his mood down.

Y/N looked at him and asked "Where are we going my King? Yoongi is waiting for me." She didn't want to be alone with him. The girl didn't know what to expect or how to behave. This felt the same way as when she met Jin for the first time. It made her extremely anxious.

"Yoongi will wait if he wants to," Mammon answered and stepped off the platform turning to beckon the girl to come to him.

"We will send him away," Hoseok added. "When your time with the King is over he will escort you home."

"Come on" Jungkook was getting impatient. His outstretched hand never wavered, still waiting for Y/N to take it.

…

"What do you mean they sent you back?! Where is she?" Agares roared and slammed his fist on the table. "She is alone with them! They can take her away from me!" His eyes became red.

"What was I supposed to do? They ordered me to leave" Yoongi explained. The situation made him angry too but he was dealing with it better than Jin. The fact that he wasn't breaking stuff and shouting like a madman didn't mean that he doesn't care. Not at all, in fact it was exactly the opposite.

The problem was they could only wait for her to come back.

Baal's eyes were sad and devoid of light. He hated himself for depending so much emotionally on the girl but he wasn't able to change this.

…

"You're so different," Jungkook mused while walking next to Y/N. There was something that he couldn't quite place but this only made him more eager to find out what it was. "What can you do?"

"Do? You mean as in what I'm good at and what skills I possess?" She asked.

"Exactly."

"I'm a medical worker. One of my masters was a doctor and he taught me everything he knew. I'm very skilled and experienced."

That impressed the demon. Not many had medical knowledge and it was unusual for the owners of the servants to teach them something. Those people often didn't care one bit about the lowlinks.

"Interesting. The guy must have been very fond of you" he replied and smiled. "You can be a good addition to my palace. I don't find someone like you everyday. I must thank Jimin."

"I'm not going to be part of your so-called harem. I'm not a whore" Y/N spat out and felt annoyance growing inside of her.

Jungkook whipped his head back and laughed. This was getting so fun and made his ego rise. Did she want him only for herself? "Then what do you want, princess? Do you want to be my one and only?"

Y/N rolled her eyes. So self-centred. "I want to go back to Yoongi."

That sentence made the King furious. Was that demon the only thing she was thinking about? Why couldn't she see what he could give her?

"I don't want to hear about that man."

"Why? Does that make you feel less important?” She teased. The fact that she could rile him up as easily as that made the girl feel more powerful like she got the upper hand.

“It makes me angry. I’m here right in front of you and since the moment you stepped at the palace the only thing you talk about is Yoongi this, Yoongi that. It’s annoying.” The man groaned. “I want you to see only me. Look at me only.” He added and his eyes flashed dangerously.

“So greedy. Do all demons feel that self-important?” She mocked and looked at him. Y/N had to admit he was handsome. Then the young woman felt this desire to touch his face and feel that smooth skin under her fingertips. He looked like a dream but his behaviour was like a nightmare. “Agares behaved the same way when we met.”

“Stop talking about them!” The King hissed and grabbed her wrist forcefully. They stopped walking and the air between them became tense. Y/N winced at the pain that passed through her whole arm.

“You’re hurting me” the girl whispered.

Jungkook released her and ran a hand through his long hair.

They continued down the path leading through the garden. No one said anything - she - still afraid of angering him and the demon - trying to calm his nerves.

A while later they reached a pavilion and sat there. Jungkook looked deep in thought but when a new idea came to his mind and his face lit up.

“I will hold a celebration, a ball. It will be next week. You will accompany me.” He smiled and his bunny teeth showed. The King could already envision himself standing in the ballroom with Y/N on his arm. “It will be on Thursday.”

Y/N nodded with a look of defeat. There was no way around it. At least there was something positive in the whole situation - having a bit of fun in the middle of this shit-show.

“My men will come to get you on Tuesday and escort you to my lands” he added. The King looked extremely pleased with his new plan.

“But didn’t you say that it’s going to be on Thursday?” The girl gave him a puzzled look.

“Yes but you will come to stay with me for a while. I will show you around and you will love it.” He was so sure of everything he said yet again.

Y/N didn’t answer. There was nothing to say about it. She just had to wait and see. Maybe once she managed to learn how to use her power she would be able to bend the things the way she wanted. Maybe she was biased because of Yoongi and Jin’s behaviour. This was a good chance to learn more about the Kings and what she could do and not do around them, find their strengths and weaknesses.

She remembered someone else at that moment - Taehyung, the General. Y/N was going to talk to him during their next training session and figure out a good strategy on how to approach the whole situation.

“As you wish,” she said finally.

Jungkook smiled and his nose scrunched a bit while his eyes began to shine. Y/N’s breath got stuck in her throat. Again - why did all of them need to be so good looking?

“I will send you back to your residence now, princess. I loved our first meeting. I know sooner or later you will be mine” he said and stood up.

The moment she rose up he took her hand in his and looked into her eyes. The King bent down and brought the young woman’s hand to his lips and kissed the back of it, never breaking eye contact. She was entranced and felt lightheaded. It was a sight to see - his hair falling slightly forward, the movement of his lips, the way his expression changed from joyful to pure lust.

Things were getting more interesting by the day and also very complicated. How was she going to explain to Agares and Baal about the whole thing? They were going to get so angry. She on the other hand was seeing opportunities in everything. You had to adapt and overcome, that was the right way to go.

…

Yoongi was pacing back and forth through the room. He got back to his place a while ago and was going mad with anticipation. He couldn't wait for Y/N to come back. He hoped that she would be back. There was this nasty option of them demanding for her to stay at the palace and the cat-eyed demon dreaded the idea.

He looked at the clock. It was late afternoon. How much longer? Should he go to the palace again?

The door opened right at this moment.

Y/N ran inside and right into Yoongi's open arms. She was breathing heavily and was sweating. He nuzzled his face into the girl's hair and inhaled deeply, all his worries disappearing.

"You're back…" he whispered. "You came back. I thought they will take you away from me." His voice was shaky and low. The man ran his fingers through Y/N's hair soothingly.

"I was so afraid when they sent you away" she breathed out. "They looked so powerful and intimidating. I was so scared" the way the girl was speaking and clutching his shirt into her small fists made the demon's heart throb with pain and regret.

"I'm sorry for leaving you there" he squeezed his eyes tightly shut. The pain felt so real.

"You didn't have a choice."

"I'm sorry…"

…

A few hours later in the evening after basking in eachother's company for the rest of the day, Yoongi and Y/N decided to go and visit Jin. She had to inform him about the upcoming event and tell him what transpired earlier in the day.

"Sir, they came back" a maid came to inform Agares about the guests.

"Fucking finally!" He shouted and jumped to his feet running through the hallways. He opened the door to the living room and saw the two of them standing close to each other. "You came! I was out of my mind the whole day" the demon began and stepped closer. "Tell me what happened. Everything from start to finish" he was eager and impatient as usual.

They called for a servant to bring a bottle of whiskey and sat around the fire on the soft armchairs.

Y/N began her story and even though Jin had heard most of it from Yoongi earlier, now was listening carefully again. She explained how the story Jin told in the bathhouse had to be expanded because of their curiosity. The young woman carefully gave the details that were added and both demons memorized each word so there were no slips and holes if they were asked about it.

She told them about Jungkook and his fascination with her, the way he behaved and his proposition for a feast. The girl also mentioned the invitation for Thursday evening and that she was going to stay at his residence for two days before that. That made Yoongi ball his fists and narrow his eyes in disapproval while Jin looked more offended.

"You mean that we're not invited?" He wined with a dramatic expression.

Yoongi glared at him. "Do you think that's the biggest problem here?"

Y/N intervened trying to avoid the uprising argument. "I don't actually know. He asked me personally to be with him but it will be a big celebration. They should send letters to you I guess." She shrugged.

"I wouldn't count on that but only time will tell. It's only Saturday we should find something to do so the passing of time is bearable" the proposition came from Baal which made Jin look at him surprised.

"That's the first time in decades that you propose something like this" he noted and took a sip from his glass. "I would drink to that."

"What do you have in mind?” Y/N asked and leaned over the armrest.

Yoongi got quiet. He wanted to do something but didn’t know what. For the demons it was drinking till sunrise, eating until they burst open and sex. “I don’t know. If you have something in mind I would gladly listen.”

“Let’s-“ Jin began excitedly but the cat-eyed demon sent him a warning look that made him go quiet.

“Let’s do drinking games! We do that a lot in my world and I think you two will enjoy it” the excitement in her eyes made Yoongi smile and Agares nodded approvingly.

“That’s fine but can’t we just drink?” He asked.

“No we can’t. Right now we’re doing it and it’s not so special. Come on, I will teach you some things.”

Later they got some more liquor and moved to the playroom as Jin liked to call it. It had dark brown walls, thick black carpet and a small platform in the middle. Around it three tables with chairs were placed in a triangular formation.

Y/N was confused. “How is that a playroom?”

Jin laughed and waved a dismissive hand. “Even if I try to explain you won’t get it so let’s continue.”

“Do you have cards?” She asked and looked around the room. There wasn’t any other furniture except the tables and a small cupboard with locks. She approached it and tried to open the drawers but they didn’t budge.

“We use cards but they are very different from what you have in the human world” Yoongi said and leaned on the wall. “Something else?”

“Fine…” she got quiet trying to think of something else than truth or dare. “Let’s play never have I ever then!”

“What is that?” Jin got curious immediately at the new thing. “I have done everything!” He exclaimed and puffed his chest.

Y/N looked at him and smiled teasingly then licked her lips. "Well then big boy if you've done everything we're in for a treat."

Jin laughed and unbuttoned his shirt at the top but Yoongi raised a hand to stop him.

"Wait, wait. We haven't begun yet. Tell us the rules and how the winner is defined."

Y/N huffed and sat on the chair next to her.

"Basically you say this phrase "Never have I ever…" and then finish with something you haven't done so you don't get the penalty. If someone had done it they do the penalty. We're playing it in two different ways - you can either take one piece of clothing each time you have done something or take a shot. Your choice. The winner is the last person with clothes on them."

"Aaah! That's interesting… Let's do both!" Jin said with a wide smile that made his cheeks look like soft dough-balls.

"Yeah. Let's do both. We're demons, we never back out from a challenge" Yoongi added and came closer. "Should we get the servants to bring us armchairs instead of those nasty chairs?"

A few minutes later everything was set and they sat down pouring whiskey in the small glasses sitting in front of them. Y/N felt the excitement coursing through her. Back in England she was usually the first one to do the challenges and propose crazy things but here the girl felt so different. She couldn't believe the fact that those thousands of years old beings were going to play college games. It had to be written in the history books.

"Who goes first?" The broad-shouldered demon shook his fists in the air and looked at the other two.

"I will" Y/N chimed in and leaned over the table placing her hands flat on it. "Never have I ever hooked up with more than three people…" Both Yoongi and Jin laughed and their heads fell back on the headrest.

"Y/N we do that as a hobby, sweetheart" Agares said and reached for the first shot. Yoongi just shook his head.

"Ah-ah! First undress then you drink" she stopped them.

Yoongi smirked and touched his lips. He was enjoying this already and it was only the beginning. "You nasty girl…" both men stood up. Yoongi removed his vest and Jin slowly unbuttoned his shirt while maintaining eye contact with Y/N. Once Agares was done he threw it on the floor.

"I hope you're pleased with what you see," he whispered and sat down. Y/N's breath hitched. She felt the same way like that time in the bathhouse - mesmerized. Now she had to wait for Yoongi…

The cat-eyed demon went next. "Never have I ever regretted a decision I have made." Going in the deep too fast?

Y/N stood up and removed her shoes and as she sat down she reached for the small glass. Agares rolled his eyes at her. "Seriously? You regret something you did? So stupid."

Y/N stuck her tongue out and said "Not everyone is without a conscience."

"Oh, I have one, it's just that why would you make a decision that you'll regret later?"

Yoongi stepped in. "Because it might be influenced by someone else or you don't know what the consequences will be…"

He thought of all the times Agares made him do things he later regretted like when they killed two legions, or when he dragged Y/N into this mess. Despite that the man decided to keep quiet and not drink or share this secret of his.

"My turn then! You're so boring…" Jin frowned and continued "never have I ever pretended to be someone else." That was mainly directed at Yoongi but Y/N took off her socks too.

Both men looked at her surprised.

"What?" They said as one.

"I was at the hospital on a shift one night. A guy came and his finger was cut off. He was literally carrying it in a plastic bag. An accident at work he said so a surgery was needed. The main doctor was doing something else so I was the only person there. I'm still a student, but I had helped the professor many times during the practical classes… so I told him I'm the surgeon and sewed his finger back on with the help of one nurse." Y/N exhaled heavily. "It was a real shit-show."

"So noble," Jin teased.

The game continued on. They couldn't stop laughing and making fun of each other, everyone shared something darker or sad depending on who was answering. Clothes were flying around the room and the glasses emptied one by one.

At some point the results were these - Jin was left with his socks and briefs, Yoongi still had his jeans on and Y/N was in her underwear. Apparently Yoongi was either the best liar or the "lamest" one as Jin called him at some point. The topics of the question changed at the speed of light.

It was Y/N's turn again. She took a deep breath and put on her best seductive face.

"Okay, time for the bonus question. Never have I ever had a sexual fantasy with Y/N" the young woman said and rubbed her palms. Jin bared his teeth and exhaled loudly.

"Of course we had. It's obvious" he took off his socks and downed another glass. Yoongi stood on the opposite side quietly looking at the soft carpet like it was the most interesting thing in the universe. The other demon snapped at him "Don't lie you ass! I've seen the look on your face" then slid the shot towards the cat-eyed demon.

Y/N felt the soft buzz of the alcohol in her mind and combined with the private heart-to-heart atmosphere made her restraints melt away. "Come on kitty, take it off" she purred and winked at him. The way she spoke made Yoongi's jaw drop in shock. It was the first time he had seen her behave like this.

"Fine… whatever" he pouted and reached for the whiskey.

Jin laughed and ran a hand through his hair getting impatient. "Don't get all shy on us now. Y/N here looks intrigued" he pointed to the other side of the table at the almost naked woman and they shared a knowing look.

Yoongi shook his head in defeat and reached for the zipper.

"Let me help you" she stopped him, placing her hands over his, giving a sly side-smile. The breath hitched in the demon's throat and he pursed his lips. Yoongi squinted his eyes, adopting a calculating look, still reluctant to let go of his pants. "Come on. Don't ruin the fun now" Y/N wouldn't let go either. She kneeled at his feet softly nudging and spreading the man's legs with her chest and elbows.

Jin was immersed in the scene unfolding before him. A little bit of alcohol and a lame college game was doing magic for them. The filter of the speech was long gone, the restraints on their behaviour too. Agares was in for a treat tonight, he didn't care if she was touching Yoongi because he trusted him with his life and also the broad-shouldered demon could watch. He was also seeing a very realistic possibility of partaking in the upcoming activities.

Baal decided it's time to let go of his newly found modesty and behave the way he usually did. He let his head fall back and casted his lustful eyes down looking through narrowed eyelids at Y/N. His hands moved to the armrests and his posture visibly became more relaxed when the strain and tension in his muscles vanished. The girl smiled and worked the button and then the zipper pushing down the thick fabric.

The man lifted his hips so she could slide the trousers off and after she was done Y/N leaned down and kissed the insides of his porcelain thighs. He was so handsome and the vision of him barely clothed got her reeling. The demon looked so powerful manspreading with this filthy look only for her.

The silence was thick but comfortable. Y/N leaned on Yoongi's thigh and looked at Jin while smiling sweetly. "Jin, he is so pretty" speaking as if the other one was not in the room. "Can I kiss him?" She asked innocently like a child begging for a treat.

A deep growl ripped from his throat and he took a swing straight from the bottle. Jin found the situation to be quite entertaining and decided to play along. "Be a good girl. Do it. Give him what he wants."

At those words the other man closed his eyes and reached to grab Y/N's hair then lifted her up. She whined quietly and straddled him. The girl felt the growing bulge between Yoongi's things and rubbed herself slowly on it. He exhaled sharply and his fingers dug in the soft skin of her legs. Y/N lowered herself and nudged the demon's neck with her nose then licked up his jaw. She grabbed the sides of his face and looked at him through lidded eyes. A kitty lick followed over the man's lips and he tried to kiss her but she moved away at that same moment.

"What a tease. Naughty girl, I almost want to rip you away from Baal and have you for myself." Jin said from the back, his knuckles turning white around the bottle. Those words pushed Y/N to her limits and she threw away the plan to tease Yoongi until he bursted.

Their lips crashed with the force of tidal waves and it was all tongue, teeth and saliva. It was messy but both of them felt hot as if walking in a desert.

Yoongi bit her lip and the girl whined once more, rolling her hips and slowly, grinding down, trying to get more friction. "You're going to be the death of me" he whispered close to her lips when they broke the kiss.

"I have a challenge for you sweetheart" Jin chimed in and stood up. He came closer and stood behind Y/N, his bare torso touching her back. Agares slid a hand over her shoulder and up her neck grabbing the girl's jaw and turning her head towards him. "You may decide not to take it. It's all up to you."

Yoongi glanced up waiting for Jin to continue.

"The other day Yoongi here got the sin of Sloth. It's kind of a paradox because he does everything for me and is very hardworking but now I see an opportunity…" his lips stretched into a beautiful smile. "You can use him, rub yourself on him, use his fingers, face, mouth, whatever you want but he must not penetrate you or get any close to release. He can't. If he finishes you lose." Jin finished and rubbed her cheek with his thumb.

"And what do I get?" Y/N shot back with a pout.

"You get to cum of course. You will finally get to fulfil your dream of doing the indecent with your precious professor" he nodded towards the man sitting below her.

"Jin…" Yoongi tried to protest but Y/N and Agares snapped their heads towards him and she pushed him down in the soft armchair while the Master laughed maniacally.

"She is good. Gets the rules."

"I accept," the girl said with a devilish grin.

"Very well" Jin replied and stepped back.

Y/N looked at the cat-eyed demon, her smile stretching wider and wider. She wanted to do so many things but most of them were forbidden for now so she decided to stick to the rules.

Yoongi was completely motionless waiting for her to do whatever she had planned…

The girl leaned down once again and kissed him deeply then ran her nails down his bare chest leaving red marks in the way.

Shameless moans were falling from her parted lips and her hips never stuttered. Her offence continued and Yoongi bit his lip suppressing his own moans. She placed his hands on her breasts and said out of breath "Play with me. Make me come undone."

The demon gritted his teeth and with a determination painted on his face touched her clothed chest.

"Let me help with that" Jin intervened and his long fingers snapped the clasps open, removing the bra. The fleeting touch made Y/N close her eyes and lean into it. Both sets of hands got her mind spinning. Yoongi flicked the perky buds and that ripped another moan from her throat.

The next moment she decided to change positions and the girl swiftly straddled his thigh, their hands never stopping. Her moves were becoming a bit strained and Yoongi flexed his muscles while grabbing Y/N's hips helping her move.

"Good girl. Come on…" the demon whispered, his eyes roaming her lean figure. Jin had taken on the task to caress and touch her painfully slow. "Tell me what do you want me to do?"

"D-don't stop. Yoongi this feels s-so good" her words were a strangled whine. The eyes of both demons flashed with even more lust than before. "Touch me. T-touch me there!" Y/N added. He straightened in his place and his hand flew between her legs eager to please.

When his thumb touched her clothed clit he felt how wet the fabric was. His erection was pulsating almost painfully against the restraints of his briefs.

"My princess," he whispered "you ruined your panties. Dirty girl." Yoongi moved the fabric to the side and swirled his finger over the sensitive bundle of nerves. His speed picked up fast and Y/N leaned on Jin while lifting and moving her hips in perfect unison with the fingers of the demon.

"I see how wet you got her Yoongi. She's leaking all over your hand. Use your fingers, put them in" Jin growled. Those words made the girl open her eyes and nod while licking her lips.

"P-please, please. Do it!" She begged. Every inch of her skin felt like it was on fire. It was unbearable, she needed release.

Baal obliged immediately, his fingers slowly stretching her walls.

"She is so soft and warm inside" he looked at Jin and smirked. Yoongi thrived on this, he felt so mighty just because he got to touch her before his Master did.

Agares took a sharp breath and bared his teeth menacingly.

"Yoongi faster. Please" Y/N pleaded with him. He picked up the pace and with his thumb began making small circles over her clit. Jin bent down and kissed Y/N at the same time grabbing her for the throat.

She moved away in need for air and felt the knot tightening at the pit of her stomach.

"I'm so close" Y/N hissed through her teeth.

"Beg for it" Jin demanded and held her close.

"Please let me cum! P-please. Yoongi, Jin…" her moans were turning them on so much that the demons couldn't think straight. They wanted to ruin her, never let her go, keep her away from the Palace and the others. "Please, Master!" Jin's eyes widened at the name. It was doing it for him, he could get used to hearing that on a daily basis.

"Cum. Cum for us Y/N. Look at Yoongi and let it go."

At that moment her walls spasmed around the man's swift fingers and her legs started shaking violently. The orgasm hit her so hard she couldn't control her body, it became tense like an electric wire. One long whine escaped her lips. Yoongi didn't stop helping her ride it out until the girl started shaking, oversensitivity replacing the pleasure.

The demons were entranced by the view. They couldn't get enough of her.

"Good girl, good girl Y/N" the broad-shouldered demon was repeating softly while caressing the girl's hair and face.

Yoongi removed his fingers and while maintaining eye contact with the young woman licked them and smiled. "Tasty."

She had gone lax in Jin's arms but lifted a hand to slap the demon's shoulder. "You nasty…"

"Let's clean you up" Agares said and lifted her up in his arms.

"I guess" she rasped, "that I won and Yoongi and you lost." A blissful expression overtook her features. Jin smiled while carrying Y/N through the hall, she looked like a baby when she was falling asleep in his arms. The girl looked so peaceful.

They knew each other for a bit more than two weeks now and she was slowly becoming an inseparable part from Yoongi's and Jin's personal world.

Chapter 2 / Chapter 4

Masterlist

#those evil ways #bts demon au #bts fanfic #bts x reader #jimin #jungkook #taehyung #yoongi #jin #namjoon #jung hoseok #ot7 #bts smut #bts angst #bts fluff #finally some #chapter 3

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whatyougetisme · 3 years

Text

Those Evil Ways

Chapter 5

Title: Those Evil Ways

Pairing: OT7 x Y/N (female reader)

Genre: supernatural au, medical, fluff, angst, eventual smut, war

Word count: 9.000 ~

Characters: Demons!BTS, human reader (with special abilities later in the story)

Warnings: swearing, pinning, making out, inappropriate touches, angsty parts... pierced Kookie (is that even a warning? 😅), suggestive behaviour, Jimin is a needy little demon, mentions of blood (only slightly connected to a ritual they do), Y/N is confused af, demon talk -- if I have missed something please send a pigeon 😅❤️

Author's notes: I want to apologize for the big gap between the last chapter and this one but probably for a while now it will be that way since the new school year started. I'm a medical student so... Many things to read and study and many test coming the following three weeks. Please bare with me and thank you for reading ❤️❤️

In the morning when Y/N woke up she felt a strange sensation. There was something odd about the atmosphere of the room like it was buzzing with static. Her ears were buzzing too. She frowned in annoyance rubbing her palms over her face.

"Go away," the girl whispered. Y/N threw the covers away and went to the bathroom. She washed her face and began brushing her teeth while spacing out. The soft noise of the static filled her senses and her pupils dilated.

The moment her eyes focused on the mirror in the front she let out a blood-curdling scream and stumbled backwards. The reflection had raven-black handprint on the jawbone exactly when Jimin had touched her the night before. Y/N blinked and the vision was gone. Cold sweat began glistening on her forehead and the buzzing sound faded.

"What in the fresh hell?" She huffed short for breath.

"Y/N?" An insistent knock brought the girl back to reality. Jungkook was standing on the other side of the door, his brows furrowed in concern. "The maid told me she heard you screaming. Is everything okay?" His voice sounded like it was coming from the other end of a long tunnel.

She turned the doorknob and let the door slowly swing open. The King gasped and rushed inside.

The girl looked like she was about to lose consciousness any second. Her eyes were sunken and unfocused and sweat was covering her skin.

"I saw something. There was something wrong with the reflection…'' She reached out to grab the doorframe but lost balance immediately.

…

Later when Y/N opened her eyes again she noticed the room was different. Her vision was blurred but after a while the shapes came into focus.

"Your Majesty!" A voice rang out and she winced at the loud sound. "Lady Y/N is awake!"

Seconds later the double doors opened and the King came almost running to the girl's side kneeling near the bed.

"Y/N" he whispered softly then turned to the women standing close "Out! All of you!" The demon hissed, his eyes narrowing. After the bedroom emptied Jungkook looked at Y/N once more.

She was pale and weak. Such an inconvenience to be a human. There were some here in Doordale and they were usually the ones that died first in critical situations or wars. Annoying.

"What happened?" She rasped rubbing her temples.

Mammon laughed bitterly. "You don't remember? You literally saw me at the door, began blabbering something about the reflection in the mirror and lost it." The girl gave him a puzzled look and then the memories suddenly returned to her. She remembered what appeared in front of her and shivered.

Was it okay for her to lie once more and pretend that she didn't remember anything? Or maybe Y/N could get an ally?

"You know it was so weird. I was brushing my teeth and looked away for a moment. When I glanced at the mirror once more I saw my reflection but it was not really me" she frowned and looked at Jungkook to see if he believed her.

"Define weird," he urged.

"Weird as in I had a black handprint on my face. Like someone had touched me with a dirty hand. It was like paint."

The King froze and his face became unreadable with unblinking eyes. He got suspicious. That was something only…

He got up and stepped back, his demeanor changing from concern to anger.

"There are two options for this" he began trying to contain the negative emotions "one - you're lying for who you are and two - you're really in the dark about your identity. If you give me an explanation I'm willing to believe the second one but if you're lying…" the demon exhaled heavily and his tongue poked the inside of his cheek "you have to face the consequences."

Y/N got completely quiet, the breath got stuck in her tightening throat. The girl's mind began short-circuiting. Should she come clean now? If she did though it meant that Jin and Yoongi will be thrown to the lions too. That was not okay. She was willing to accept whatever the punishment was but not ready to take down the other two with her.

"I'm giving you this chance. Only once. Explain what's going on and I'm willing to forgive you." Jungkook stood staring down at Y/N menacingly. "I don't tolerate lies. No one can save you if I find out that you deceived me - not Agares, not Baal, not even the Kings."

His cold words scared the young woman to the bone. It was a fight or flight situation.

"If I tell you my secret you have to promise to keep it" there it is. The bargaining began. "I have to be sure that I can trust you."

Jungkook was furious. The audacity she had. His jaw clenched and he bared his teeth. "You were lying to me the whole time!" The demon roared.

"No! No! Wait!" Y/N screamed and tried to get up but another dizzy spell took over. "Ugh! Just let me tell you! You said you will listen and forgive me if I take this chance!"

"Y/N…" the King squatted down "I will give you this chance. Yes. I will be calm and I will listen but don't lie to me about anything else. Eventually everything will come to light and I hope for your own good that you will speak only the truth."

She straightened and nodded. "First promise me that you will keep quiet about it."

They stood in the middle of the bedroom facing each other. The air between the two was tense. Jungkook held out a knife and cut open his palm and handed it to Y/N. She did the same.

“With this oath I seal my lips and mind to anyone who might pry. Should I decide to tell a soul what I’m about to hear then let my voice disappear for all eternity.” They joined hands and the blood mashed together. The demon closed his eyes feeling their energies intertwining and forming the contract.

The girl felt weak kneed and her vision blurred.

When the ritual was over he let go of her hand and smoothed his hair. Y/N was relieved that her secret won’t come out even if he wanted to. Still she could die but at least Yoongi and Jin would be safe because she was going to keep them out of it. The contract didn’t state anything about her lying or the consequences that might follow if the truth was not told. Neat.

Of course a half truth was in line.

“So. Let me tell you what really happened.”

Mammon nodded and sat on the bed waiting patiently for her to begin.

“You see I’m not from around” Jungkook snorted at that but the girl stopped him “No, not in this way. I’m not from this world. Me and some fellow humans were bored out of our minds on Halloween. We were at a party in a club and being drunk and stupid we decided to use an old book the grandmother of my friend had given her. It had some weird spells in it and we thought that it was all bullshit.” The man stared at Y/N wide-eyed. So his suspicions were true, she was lying the whole time.

“Do Agares and Baal know about all this?” He asked, taken by surprise at the confession.

“I’m not gonna tell you shit if you interrupt me” she scolded and crossed her arms.

“Okay whatever. Continue please, m’lady” the demon mocked.

“For some reason nothing happened at first and we went home later. At some point around three o’clock I woke up feeling disoriented and realised that I was not in my room. Looking around I didn’t even recognise the place. I left the house without looking back. My god… The next thing I knew I was running through a dense forest and then some soldiers or guards saw me and caught me.

They accused me of trespassing their lord’s land and brought me in for questioning. Then I met Yoongi. I was scared out of my mind and I was crying and pleading for my life. He was kind enough to let me live and said that he will utilise me and brought me to Jin. I told them that I was from a faraway land. Told them I don’t remember anything. Jin was very suspicious; he wanted me dead thinking I’m a spy of the enemy, whoever that was.” Y/N exhaled in fake annoyance. “I begged for my life yet again and then he decided to let me live but on the condition that I will stay with Yoongi all the time under his supervision” she squeezed her fingers as a “quote and quote” sign. Jungkook was fully immersed in the story. “Then he took me in and later on his Master demanded that I should keep him company and entertain him. Jin began inviting me for dinners occasionally and at some point we started warming up to each other. On that fateful day he asked me to join him in his bathhouse. That’s the day the Kings came for a visit. You see, Yoongi was taking a really good care of me, giving me everything I needed and teaching me how to protect myself - sparring and fighting, those kinds of things.”

Mammon seemed to believe her words so Y/N got confident and went on. “Basically when You invited me here the one that was worried about me was Baal. Agares was jittery but not too much. His only concern was for you not to kill him if the truth came out. He said it was treason for whatever reason.”

The look on her face was questioning. The real goal was to find out if the two demons could be reprimanded or killed for this whole thing. Jungkook didn’t say anything. “Yoongi cares for me. We got close, friendly even. I’ve been living with him for two weeks now and I know it’s a short time but the closest thing I have to a family here is Baal. My friends are back in my world and my family is lost. I’m all alone there and here too” the memories of Lucas, Felix and Monica came back and the girl’s face fell this time for real. How she longed to see them. “Then in order for me not to get in trouble we came up with a believable story for my origins. I practiced telling it so I don’t get shaky and mess up. They want me here. I don’t know if I’m going to be able to go back.”

The young woman ended her story and sat on the edge of the bed. The King was still quiet.

A minute passed in silence then he spoke. “I see. Well I could kill all of you for that but now it will become troublesome. Without anyone else knowing all of this it will seem like a killing out of spite or jealousy. A word has spread that I’ve taken a liking to you” he fixated the girl with his piercing dark eyes. There was disappointment laced in Jungkook’s voice. “My hands are tied. I’m angry that you lied. Also, I want to cut their heads off for playing this game too. The only good thing is that I’m not the only one being lied to since the two of them don’t know the full story either. I pity those poor bastards.” His tone turned sarcastic. Mammon really believed that the whole story was real. He thought that pressuring Y/N and threatening her made her honest to the bone but he was in the wrong again.

The girl let out a breath of relief but the demon got it the wrong way. “Must feel nice to let it out. Now I don’t know what to do with you.” On the contrary the real reason for this behaviour was that she managed to once again avoid the catastrophe.

“I think you owe me a lot.” He added finally with a thriving smile.

“What do you mean? I told you everything.”

The King bared his teeth. Now the fun was beginning. “Yes but you also lied to me. I didn’t hear a thank you for sparing your life.” He had the perfect punishment in mind. But first… “Actually you asked me about this thing with the mirror, let me explain.”

He was feeling generous and decided to let her in on a secret. “The reason I got suspicious of you was because of what you said. Usually when the demons are young they go through a transformation which happens in stages. The first one is this marking process.” Y/N stared at him in disbelief. This was on a whole new level of crap. Was she becoming a demon now? “We start getting those prints on the parts of our bodies that would be the source of our power. For example I got mine on the palms and forehead. I corrupt people’s minds with greed and jealousy. Also I’m physically stronger than the rest of the creatures here and another thing is my gift in arts.” Jungkook spread his arms open and smirked. “Everything is connected.” He never had the need to explain the transformation to anyone but now he had an audience and he was enjoying it. Telling the story of how you become a demon felt exciting especially when the listener didn’t have a damn clue about the ways this world worked. Y/N on the other hand was far from thrilled, more like terrified. Jungkook didn’t pay any attention to her though.

“Getting the imprint on your jaw and mouth means that your power must be connected to the speech and the words. Which brings the question how? You said you’re human.” He held his chin while thinking. The girl could see the gears turning in the demon’s head. “You must have someone in your family who was a demon because there is no other way to become one. You must have demon blood flowing through your veins in order to trigger this.”

Y/N’s face drained of blood once more. Those creatures were planting the seeds of doubt and distrust all the time and recently she began questioning if her parents were really connected to her by blood. “I-I… I don’t know. My whole life I’ve never heard anything even remotely connected to it. I’m a medical student and I live alone. My parents left when I was very young and my grandmother took care of me. She died and I-“

Mammon waved a hand in dismissal “They must have done something for you to become like this. Also it’s impossible to begin shifting if you’re being all nice and sweet. You must have done something wrong, nasty, something that will taint your soul.”

The student tried to think back of something but nothing came to her. What was the reason? Was it the constant lying? The schemes she was dragged into? She had to stop before things turned sour. Was it possible to revert it? Oh how she longed to see Yoongi now, his presence was like a breath of fresh air - comforting and reassuring. Her heart dropped when she felt the cold grip of sadness.

“Don’t worry. Not a lot of us had the power of speech. You’re unique.” Y/N wasn’t as excited as the King of the North though. Unique? Who would want to become a demon? Only an insane person. “Only Namjoon has it. That’s why he is kind of the leader you know? I’ve heard of some higher demons possessing it but they can’t control it well.” The words poured out of the man’s mouth and Y/N felt her head pulsing with an oncoming headache.

“Please stop. I’m not going to become one of you…” she interrupted weakly averting her eyes.

Jungkook frowned but decided to keep quiet for now. One day she would come to terms with it and embrace her nature whether the girl wanted it or not. In the demon’s mind their species was the greatest of all, strong and eternal.

The day of the ball

Hasty preparations began early in the morning. The staff at the palace had the whole day to get the place ready but were rushing to do it as fast as possible because the King didn't like it when people were lazing around.

After yesterday's events Y/N kept to herself and decided to skip dinner since she wasn't ready to face Jungkook again. It's not like he was going to do something nasty but the demon was still ticked off about the lie. He didn't look for her but told the servants to tend to the girl if she decided to come out and eat. He cared for Y/N in his own way.

She came out of the room in the afternoon on the day of the event. The maids brought breakfast and lunch to her earlier when she refused to go to the dining hall yet again.

"His Highness was asking for you m'lady" the short girl whose name was Lolla said while placing the tray on the small table near the window. "He wanted to know how you feel."

The mid-aged woman who was pouring freshly made apple juice slapped her shoulder. "Quiet girl!"

"But-"

Y/N smiled at them. They were always nice to her and caring. She was probably going to become friends with the young maid if they were in the human world. "It's fine. You can tell him that after lunch I will be walking in the garden with the pond." Lolla nodded excitedly. "By the way, when do the festivities start?"

"At nine sharp m'lady" the older maid said with a flat tone. "We will come to you two hours before that for a bath and to do your hair and makeup and dress you up." They both began walking to the door "Don't worry about anything. Leave it to us."

Jungkook was sitting cross-legged in front of the fireplace.

His mind was completely empty while watching the flames dance. Everyone was busy doing something but he didn’t have shit to do. The demon wanted to paint, wanted to ride his horse for a while but didn’t have the will to get up. He felt completely drained and irritated.

Could he really trust Y/N? All those years of meeting new people, leading wars, dealing with the problems of Doordale have taught him to not take anything at face value. Mammon was always second guessing each word he heard, never too trusting and always thoroughly evaluating the situation before making a decision. He was used to the demons (mainly) and the other creatures lying, playing dirty, it was in their nature, that’s their whole life, how their world worked. In order to achieve something everyone was going for a low blow, the way to obtain something was through intrigues, conspiracies and deception. The struggle for power and wealth was real but well-hidden behind fake pleasantries.

Jungkook slipped down the treacherous road of questioning his ability to assess the people and the things that were happening. Why didn’t he see through the lies? How could he not recognise the countless differences between Y/N and the humans living here? The King’s brain was running laps and he was wondering why he wasn’t mad but disappointed that she lied to him. He wasn’t expecting anything and still…

“What a load of crap” he muttered under his breath. “Was she even telling the truth now?”

It was a different story when he thought of the other two demons who supposedly didn’t know her whole story. He felt betrayed.

Long ago they were working together, the seven of them. Long before Hoseok, Namjoon, Jimin and him became Kings the men were inseparable. They fought together, drank together and did their demon work together. The demons fell apart a bit after their coronation but that's a story for another time…

The irritation made his skin crawl and he clenched his teeth. "I hate this shit" curses poured through Mammon's beautiful lips. Each time it was all the same - he remembered the old times and began seething with anger and frustration.

"M'lord" the proximity of the voice tore the demon out of his thoughts. He flinched, taken by surprise and turned around to face the person calling him.

"What?" Jungkook spat out unintentionally rudely. "What is it?" He tried a second time in order to sound calmer.

"Lady Y/N is taking a stroll in the back garden. You were asking for her earlier so-" Lolla tripped when the man jumped to his feet with determination, scaring the maid in the process. He needed to see her, check the state the girl was in before the gathering began so he could be sure that she was going to be comfortable and prepared. Jungkook was worried that if an issue arises Y/N wouldn't be ready and act irrationally.

He was so blinded by the girl but he himself didn't know it yet…

…

Agares and Baal were slowly approaching the residence. The pathway was lit by so many lights, they saw people nearing the gates.

The demons looked at eachother and nodded with determination. Without blinking Yoongi began shifting and so did Jin. The glass-like surface appeared over half of his face and crept down the demon's left arm and hand. The other one had a pair of short horns sticking out of the sides of his head and along with that the man's eyes became jet-black and glazed-over.

"I hate maintaining this half-assed form," the broad-shouldered one grunted. "He could have just said to dress in a weird way or something. I feel like an idiot - half human, half demon." His complaints were reaching Baal's ears but he wasn't really listening.

"You're going to get over it" the other replied flatly.

The worry and impatience to see her were making the mind of the cat-eyed demon run with a thousand miles per hour.

Is she afraid?

Did he pressure her to do something nasty?

...

Is she enjoying her time with him?

Is Y/N going to leave me?...

Jin on the other hand was concerned a little less about the girl and more about his own goals. The demon hoped sincerely that nothing was revealed in the past few days and that things would proceed smoothly. He had had a long conversation over a bottle of fine rum with Taehyung and the men decided that once Y/N was back from the Northern parts she was going to begin training her mind and willpower.

Yes… Agares had decided to come clean and explain everything to the General.

Almost… everything. Jin told him that she had a kind of a unique mind power that needed to be explored. He left out the part where she was from and how Y/N found her way over to their realm.

Information was provided to a certain extent.

Taehyung was stunned by the amount of details at first but finally he managed to connect the dots and fill up the blanks concerning the young woman. Later Gaap easily agreed to keep the secret but refused to take any part in other plots and schemes.

The two men were lifelong friends and the conversation had an easy flow. In the end they shook hands and the General left.

Now the only thing left was to get through the night without sparing a single thought about Y/N's time at the palace and their objectives.

Inside, the guests were slowly ascending the grand staircase leading to the ballroom. Everyone attending was from the high demon society - dukes, high military personnel, counts, some demons from the royal families, officials from the ministry and so on. They all had partially shifted into their alternative forms. The key in their opinion to look good was to choose an outfit which corresponded with the transformation. Horns, scales, feathers, tales, different colours of the skin - green, blue, grey… they had it all.

Agares smiled widely when he recognised one of the ministers standing on the side.

"Roven!" Jin clasped his shoulder. "It's such a pleasure to see you! It's been too long."

The man looked way older than him, like a guy in his late forties. His silvery beard was braided and had black silk entangled in the strands. The demon smiled back and hugged Agares.

"I haven't seen you in so long!" His face fell a bit while saying the next words. "How is the situation on the border? I heard that some issues had arisen."

Jin snorted. The fact that word travelled so fast managed to take him off-guard every time. Everyone was prying and it managed to irritate him as per usual. "I'm dealing with it. I have Baal to help me and I'm happy that there is someone so capable…"

The bearded demon laughed loudly. "I know that he does all the work. I know your virtues Jin. You can't fool me."

"Well… what can I say. You're right as always" Agares ran a hand through his black strands. He was proud of his demerits. After all, being a demon wasn't about being good and sweet.

"Come on we're late" Yoongi appeared behind him. His calm self was on display tonight. He was set on keeping it that way.

Jungkook stood behind the curtains on the balcony overlooking the ballroom. He carefully observed the people coming in through the door in pairs or alone. Everyone had observed the rules in the invitation, no one was in their human form, no escorts had been taken to the event and the King only saw the servants of the palace. Satisfying.

He couldn't wait for the time to introduce Y/N to the society to come. So many other things had happened in his lifetime, wars, detronations, power shifts, his own coronation, gaining of new abilities and whatnot and still… Mammon was feeling this urgency, impatientience and eagerness to show the girl off. He felt this inexplicable attachment to the beautiful human but the ugly head of resentment showed up. The King dreaded the thought of having to let her go back to Jin.

Jungkook felt this possessiveness and desire to lock Y/N here and spend every breathing second with her. The torment was so real and he loved it.

"King Aamon of the South" the butler announced jously and then Jimin entered. The room got quiet.

Jungkook's eyes fell on his most loyal companion. He was mesmerising - dressed in all red. The colour was dark like that of a fine wine, his silvery locks were slicked back showing his forehead and the King's heeled boots were making a loud echoing sound while hitting the tiles. Jimin's long tail was sticking from under the short cape, swinging slightly from side to side with his strut. The servants showed the King his place on the long table bowing deeply.

Then Corson and Alastor followed. Each of the Kings made the crowd gasp quietly in awe and lower their heads in respect. Namjoon wore a sleeveless top that exposed his strong arms and the shiny pitch-black layer of tissue that covered them. His clothes were a pretty deep purple colour that when hit by the light changed into shades of burgundy and marine-blue.

Hoseok, on the other hand, was dressed in a vibrant red suit. While walking in he smiled widely and stuck out his tongue that looked like one of a snake. Horns were protruding from under his black hair and the demon's ears were pointy. The other thing that was different were his eyes - they were completely white and small white scales covered the King's eyelids and cheekbones.

Out of the four of them Alastor was the most loved by the nation. Even though he was the cruelest and most liberated, his subjects loved Hoseok's powerful aura and sadistic smile.

"Lovely" Hoseok said while sitting down in his chair.

Jimin smirked and placed two fingers on his chin. "Let's see how good tonight can get. I'm expecting a huge show from Kook."

"I'm more interested in Agares and Baal" Corson added while checking the room. His gaze fell on Taehyung.

Their eyes met and the General nodded as a greeting. Namjoon only blinked once acknowledging the other's presence.

His military attire was different tonight. Upgraded with golden shoulder plates, leathery top and pants. The velvet cape reached the floor and made his nicely built figure stand out. He was a one of a kind sight.

Namjoon always thought that his potential could reach new heights if he got a bigger land, more undelinks and took over the whole academy. It was a proposition that won't expire but still… What a shame he was such a straightforward man following his principles without fail.

"Now as everyone has gathered" another man stepped forward to the middle of the hall "I would like to introduce the generous host of tonight's event - His Royal Highness - King Mammon of the North. Our prosperous and beloved leader" he bowed deeply and swiftly freed the way to the double doors.

Jungkook appeared in a flash.

The guests all turned to look at him and stood straight.

The demon walked in followed by two of his personal assistants. Quiet music began playing announcing the beginning of the festives.

He was walking tall and proud dressed in all black. The short cape covered his left shoulder and was decorated with golden stripes. The tight pants showed the King's muscular thighs perfectly. His leathery wings were folded halfway and the four horns had golden chains wrapped around them. Jungkook had rings all over his beautiful hands and earrings were dangling from his ears. New additions were the piercings on his brow and the snakebite on his bottom lip.

"Sin incarnate" Jimin whispered more to himself and his lips stretched into a proud smile.

"True" Namjoon agreed while looking forward to their companion.

The guests all bowed in a 90 degree angle while the three Kings rose from their seats. Jungkook reached the table and got to the chair in the middle between Noir and Aamon. Then the demon turned to face the crowd and lifted his hands in the air. "Good evening everyone! I'm happy to see you all here ready to drink and fuck the night away!" He laughed and the attendees clapped in unison. When the noise died down he continued "I'm glad to see that all of you had followed the rules I had mentioned in your invitations. With that I'm announcing the beginning of tonight's event!" Everyone began cheering once more and the four demons sat down.

"Kookie!" Hoseok leaned over the armrest and purred. "So… when are we going to see her? I'm getting impatient here…" he complained with a fake pout. The part about being impatient was true though. One thing Alastor was known for was his lack of tolerance and self-restraint. When he wanted something he had to get it right this moment.

"Patience, my fellow friend. You should learn that" Jungkook smiled teasingly. He loved that feeling of being the only one that got closer to the girl recently. He chose her attire for tonight, the food she received every day, the smell of the bath soaks… everything. Y/N proved to be a girl that needed a lot of attention if not all of it. The King of the North loved to give it to her… he… ah. There it goes… his mind blanked for a moment and he wondered if introducing her was right.

The initial desire to show off the gift Jimin brought for him quickly dissolved. What if someone did something bad to her, or said something indecent? Or… oh. Jungkook's doe eyes lit up in a second. The debate in his head was over the moment it began. He was going to cut off the hands of the culprit who dared touch the girl or cut out the tongue that bad-mouthed her.

Easy…

"M'lady" Y/N jumped slightly in her place and turned around only to see Lolla standing at the door. "It's time."

…

The celebration was going strong. The alcohol and food were overflowing, the music never stopped and the guests were conversing, laughing and enjoying their time.

The demons knew how to party and that was probably the best about them. Jimin was looking around the room waiting for the things to spice themselves up a bit.

He was expecting the final act of the night - between the sheets and thighs of someone. Sweet.

A servant approached Jungkook and whispered something in his ear. He nodded curtly and stood up. The clap of his hands echoed through the hall. The demons all froze in their places and swung their heads towards the King. The music stopped playing.

"I'm announcing the main event for the night. I called you all here because I wanted to introduce someone very special. I have known this person for quite a short time but they became an important part of my life very fast." Each demon stood there expectantly not knowing where to cast their eyes to. Then staff from the palace walked in through the doors and stood in two lines in the middle of the room clearing the way.

Two maids dressed in black appeared in the front, behind them a girl showed up with a veil over her face and after her two more women.

They slowly began making their way inside and Jungkook went to the front of the table.

Yoongi and Jin also rose from their chairs, feeling on edge. Finally they were going to see her again.

"Princess Y/N. Come forward." Jungkook called out loudly while extending his hand towards her.

The small procession was getting closer and the rest of the attendees were becoming more and more intrigued. All of the demons were trying to get a better look at Y/N but thanks to the veil it was almost impossible. The only discernible thing were some vague outlines.

Questions were swimming in their minds.

Jungkook was peeking into his subjects' heads.

Who is she?

Where is this woman from?

Maybe it's Mammon's future bride? He declined my offer for marriage long ago. Why did he choose this worm?

This is the main reason he gathered us here? I was expecting something more.

If she's pretty maybe I can get to fuck her if the King is generous. I'm a guy of a higher standing after all…

Disgusting. He felt like throwing up. Focusing again on Y/N he made a mental note of those who he heard. They were going to get it soon enough.

Mammon's face changed from pure irritation to trepidation in a matter of milliseconds. She was bringing light to the ballroom. He hated the light, he was a creature created by darkness and chaos but this…? He was ready to burn under her. It was the first time in his too long of a life that Jungkook felt so invested in anything. He knew the truth and even though Y/N had lied to him in the beginning he already had forgiven her.

Jimin leaned back while taking a sip from his glass lazily. He was seeing the tension in his friend's shoulders. Aamon was proud of himself for choosing well.

The maids in the front moved to the sides and then to the two in the back once they reached Jungkook. The four women dropped to their knees in a deep bow.

Y/N looked up expecting a new order from the man but instead he got closer and took her hand.

"I know you all want to see my companion for tonight! You know I'm a generous ruler and I will grant you this wish." With that he turned Y/N to the crowd and while standing behind her Jungkook's slim fingers lifted the lace veil.

Yoongi sucked in a breath. Being made up in the style of their land Y/N was stunning. The hair, her face, the clothes… it was like she was born to rule this world. Her presence was strong and the posture - confident. She was not a demon and yet the pressure over the hall increased tenfold. Baal saw how the demons' gazes emptied and they looked as if they were in trance.

Can't blame them though… he thought. She was mesmerising and the only sad thought scratching the inside of his skull was - now he had to share her attention and light with those lowly creatures.

The King led the young woman to their table and pulled the chair between his and that of Jimin. She tried to suppress an eye roll. Of course she would be sitting next to the indecent one.

"Such a pleasure to meet you again" Aamon chimed in while taking Y/N's hand in his and kissing the back of it.

"Thank You, your Highness." The smile she graced him with was close to genuine. There was nothing in particular that she disliked about The King of the South, Y/N didn’t know him well but the general unsettling feeling about Jimin made the girl keep at an arm’s length. Also the fact that he “gifted” her to Jungkook like she was just an object definitely didn’t give the demon bonus points.

"You look stunning,” Namjoon leaned over the table.

“Very true. You did well, Kookie” Hoseok added, blinking once in approval. Maybe he should have claimed her for himself? That was such a good thought but it was too late…

“Don’t even think about it” Mammon bared his teeth at the King of the East.

They all laughed in unison - a loud intimidating sound that made Y/N shiver in her place. “Someone is getting territorial” Jimin winked at her then touched the veil that rested on the back of the girl’s head.

“And someone doesn’t know how to mind their business” Hoseok bit back. "I don't care if you're mad or offended. My thoughts are mine alone."

…

The night was going fine. Jin and Yoongi were keeping out of sight so the Kings won't bother them with questions about Y/N or something else. The two demons were mingling when necessary and drinking during the rest of the time.

"Can we ask for a dance with her?" Agares joked and nudged Baal in the shoulder playfully.

The other demon rolled his eyes at those words. "Doubt it will be even close to possible. They are guarding her like hounds." Yoongi was bothered by how comfortable the young woman seemed in the four men's presence. He could see her speaking freely with Jungkook, laughing at the nasty jokes of Jimin and discussing something serious with Namjoon and Hoseok. The jealousy was spreading it's rotten roots in the cat-eyed demon's heart.

After a while the music picked up the pace and that was the cue for the guests to dance but they stayed put and turned to look at the King's table expectantly.

Mammon winked at Y/N and rose to his feet offering her his hand.

"Would you like to dance with me, princess?" His voice was suggestive and sticky like honey. The girl smirked and placed her chin on the back of her hand. "Is it okay for me to accept? People will hate me for taking their beloved King."

"How should I say it lightly?" The horned demon said pretentiously and then his eyes widened "Ah! I got it! Who gives a fuck?"

The atmosphere between the two was thick with unspoken things. She was warming up to him while the grip Y/N had around Mammon was tightening even more.

"Let's dance then!" She got to her feet and the tall demon led her to the middle of the ballroom.

They bowed to eachother then he got her by the waist while Y/N placed her hands on Jungkook's shoulders. There were no particular steps the two followed, just what they felt was right.

He was spinning her around, going back and forth, getting apart and then back together. To Y/N felt like the room was empty and it was only them in the whole palace. At one particular moment when he got her spinning out at an arm's length and then pulled her back towards his body Y/N's gaze fell on the guests behind Jungkook. On one of the tables in the dim light she recognized Yoongi. He was following their intimate moment with hooded eyes, filled with quiet rage. Her breath got stuck and the girl's lungs contracted painfully. She had forgotten about the two demons. The past few days here were littered with intense moments, some frightening, some heated or endearing. During that time Jungkook had made her forget about the duty to help Jin and Yoongi, about the need to perfect her abilities… Y/N felt free of everything that waited for her back in the capital.

Now guilt overtook the poor soul. Jungkook sensed the change in her stance and held her tighter leaning closer to her ear. "I know you saw him" his warm breath caressed the girl's skin. "Just say the word and I will whisk you away. You will never see him and he will never bother you. Ever…"

She gritted her teeth.

The music began to slow down as well as their step. The King bended Y/N backwards, dipping down towards her cleavage. At the last note their eyes met and he kissed the bare skin between her breasts.

At the feeling the girl's head fell backwards savouring the soft touch. They stayed like this for a couple of seconds before the room erupted in loud cheers and applause. Mammon leaned in when her fingers slipped over his cheek.

They bowed one more and got back to their table.

Hoseok looked ecstatic. The demon was jumping in his seat. "That was intense! I loved it!" He was shouting over the noise. Alastor's eyes were shining brighter than the chandelier. The King was genuinely enjoying the night and couldn't hide it.

At some point when the official part was over and everyone began doing their own thing Jungkook took Y/N to talk to some of the officials. They asked her many questions and to them she repeated the same things she had said to the Kings.

Mammon was always by her side keeping her away from prying hands and eyes and making sure no one disrupted the celebration. One of the ministers offered her to join them in a new campaign, the military officials wanted to take her to their hunting villas and so on. To each person she said "Thank you, I will think about it."

At some point she was left alone by the table with the appetizers when a familiar face approached the girl.

"Good evening Y/N" it was that deep voice she would recognize even at the end of the world.

"General!" She exclaimed, spinning around to face the man. "You're here!"

The warm smile he sent her way made Y/N melt. "Of course I am. Were you waiting for me? If that's the case I hope King Mammon doesn't hear because I will be in trouble then" he laughed.

Y/N got wide-eyed and looked around. That induced more of the velvety smooth sound and Taehyung shook his head. "You're so pure and simple."

Y/N pouted. "I'm not simple!" She whined. "I just… no. Whatever." To him the girl looked like a small child who was being tricked and then made fun of.

Sweet.

"I see you did well. You're quite…" he stopped and thought about the next word for a second. "Quite close with the King."

"Ah! Yes! He is actually really easy to talk to if you know how to approach him" she shared in a cheery voice. "Thank you for the advice. It was quite handy."

"I'm glad to be of help." The General tilted his glass towards hers and clinked them. When he began walking away with one final smile she stopped him.

When Y/N put a hand on his shoulder the demon froze. She spoke in a hushed low voice that he knew he could hear. "Please tell Yoongi I'm sorry."

Without answering, Taehyung walked away.

Dancers entered at some point during the gathering and the crowd cheered once more.

More liquor and more food was carried out of the kitchen.

Y/N was drunk already and her eyes were glazed over with a lustful glint in them. Under the table her dress had rolled up revealing the smooth skin of her thighs. The view made Jimin salivate along with Jungkook who were closest to the girl and saw first.

"You're so nasty. Provoking us… let us cover that for you sweet girl." Jimin purred and shared a mischievous look with Mammon. Their big hands shot down, grabbing at the skin.

"Mmm…" the low sound that ripped from Jungkook's throat made Hoseok and Namjoon turn to him.

"What the…?" Noir whispered through clenched teeth. His arousal and interest peaking right this second. "Jungkook. Stop it." He warned. "It takes an insane amount of self-restraint to not take her right here on the table and the sounds you make tell me that I'm missing out on a lot too. Don't be an ass and…" his words were cut short when Y/N adjusted herself in the chair and sent Corson a suggestive look.

A hand appeared out of nowhere and grabbed the girl by the jaw. "Such a disgusting girl" she was met with Jimin's silver-grey eyes. "Is that the reason why you were playing hard to get the other night? Because two cocks are not enough for you? You want four?" Filth poured out of his pretty lips and Y/N felt more conscious than ever. She ripped the King's hand away from her face and moved closer to Jungkook's body.

"Jimin" Namjoon's cold tone surfaced once more tonight. "She is Jungkook's. He never gave us permission to do jack-shit. Don't start something you can't finish." With that Aamon retrieved his other hand and straightened in his chair.

He was not one to cross those lines and yet being next to this woman triggered the man constantly…

Jungkook wasn't angry when Y/N peeked at him. He had a look of amusement plastered over his face.

"Should I continue to torture them?" He thought to himself and his eyes swept over the room absentmindedly yet again.

Oh… he met the annoyed look and another demon - Yoongi. He had seen everything that had just happened and was not even remotely happy about it. Jungkook couldn't care less on the other hand.

Just to rub salt in the wound he squeezed Y/N tighter, muscles flexing intentionally and without breaking eye contact he got closer to inhale the girl's scent from her hair.

When Baal wasn't able to take it anymore he turned on his heels and vanished in the shadows of the spacious room. He couldn't believe how easily Mammon managed to rile him up the whole night. It was so annoying that the cat-eyed demon wished to disappear right this instant…

With the passing of time the guests began loosening up. There were women sitting on the tables, with skirts riding up their legs, corsets - halfway opened and postures which were more than just suggestive.

Some men were sticking their tongues in other guests' mouths, others had their hands touching between the thighs of another demon or servant…

It was a promising sight that Jimin enjoyed. This was not something that could turn him on but tonight was more than special. It was the first time for Y/N to enjoy their feasts. The King was thrilled, excited and bursting with energy. At the corner of his eye he could see the young woman shifting uncomfortably in the chair, trying to hide her embarrassment caused by the behaviour of the attendees.

"Hey… uhm. Jungkook?" She called out sheepishly. The man leaned in to listen. "I will go to the bathroom for a second. I'm feeling stuffy here."

"Be back fast or I will come to look for you myself." He said while letting her go.

The halls leading to her room were empty, safe for the staff members who were running back and forth.

Y/N's mind emptied the moment she was alone and it was liberating. Until…

"Y/N…" a soft voice started the girl. Spinning around, she saw the crystal-like form of Yoongi walking in her direction. "Shh. Quiet." He motioned for her to follow. "Come." The two of them slipped into one of the rooms making sure not to get noticed.

"Yoongi…" Y/N began but the demon stopped her.

"No. Save it. Just tell me, are you okay? Is he being good to you?"

Unable to answer, the woman just nodded. The silence was heavy and Baal just stood there not daring to break it.

"I hope nothing bad has happened. Nothing slipped…" Y/N lifted her eyes.

"I haven't said shit you know. I'm lying through my teeth because of you. So I can save your sorry asses. Don't worry Yoongi. Your secrets are safe with me" the venom that those words were soaked with made the demon physically retreat. He was at a loss.

"I didn't mean that." That was just a pathetic whisper that enraged her even more.

"Then what? I saw how suspicious Jin was looking at me and I saw you - following my every move, checking my surroundings. Tell me what is that then?!"

The irony. Yoongi wanted to laugh at this whole mess. How wrong one thing can seem when it's seen from a different perspective. With a sad smile he approached Y/N and held her hand in his. "I was watching you because I couldn't be in his place. Do you know how bad I wanted to rip his hands off?" The man exhaled heavily, his nostrils inflating. "They all have you thanks to me. They can all touch you because I made it possible and yet… I'm the one that always comes last."

The young woman just watched and listened. She waited for him to finish and tilted her head. "So you want to tell me you're jealous?"

Baal's face was the epitome of shock for a second but then composed himself and nodded. "You can say that."

"That's way better" she purred and winked at him. "I have to go. He will be waiting for me but know this - I can never forget about you. At the end of the day you took care of me because of someone else's mistake. The thing I said to Tae - I mean it. I'm sorry. I'm sorry that you have to feel that way - wronged, neglected and used." What she was saying almost brought her to tears. Once she was calm and her emotions were not heightened the student could see and think clearly. Yoongi knew that this can't last forever but was happy that she kept thinking about him.

One final step got rid of the remaining distance between the two and he placed a loving kiss on Y/N's forehead.

"Don't cry because of me" he whispered. "I can smell the salty drops forming in your eyes." The demon moved away and smiled "I will see you very soon. Go to them now."

She opened the door without looking back, swallowing the bitterness. Why did it have to be that way?!

Y/N was torn and confused. It was like she was being two completely different people depending on who was standing in front of her. This was so wrong. Wrong on so many levels…

The only thing that was left now for Y/N was to play the role and give the rest of the guests something to talk about.

On her way to the ballroom she had decided to try and connect the seven men in the worst way possible. The trick was to use those undeveloped abilities to turn the odds in the girl's favour. Y/N's plan consisted of two things: one - make them go mad with rage and two - make them sit and talk the crap out then reconnect. Now for the first half…

"Your Highness" she leaned over to Jungkook, squeezing her breasts "unintentionally" in the process between her folded arms.

Jungkook grinned and immediately cut the conversation with Hoseok short. "Yes Y/N. Tell me what is it?"

"I was wondering what did King Corson mean when saying that you didn't give them permission for something?" The question was real, she wanted to know what that was and why Jimin stepped down so fast but the approach… There was the normal way and then there was the slutty way. Being drunk and chasing her goals Y/N had to utilize her charms.

"Ah. What a smart princess you are" Jungkook groaned and his eyes lit up dangerously. "That means they can't do this…" in a second he grabbed the girl below the thighs "and this…" the demon lifted her up and with the other hand swept the plates and glasses to the side. They fell and broke. "And then…" Mammon slammed Y/N flat on her back and bent over her small figure "this."

That got her breathless. "Also it's absolutely forbidden for them to do this" the King slipped one hand below the skirt and grabbed her ass. The next thing he did was to press his growing erection to Y/N's sensitive cunt which made her gasp. Jungkook took the opportunity and dived in for a deep searing kiss. They made out for a while, their hands roaming eachother's bodies, steamy sounds coming from both of them and once he gave the girl some space to breathe he saw how flustered she had become.

Once their bodies had separated completely Y/N became dangerously aware of the audience they had. All activities had ceased and tens and tens of eyes were on them.

"Ah… ahem" she cleared her throat awkwardly and tried to stand up but Jungkook pressed her down with one hand. "I think I got it." Nervous laughter shook her.

The rest of the guests hummed approvingly. Their King was claiming what was his and they respected that. Hoseok and Namjoon took a sip from their glasses sharing a look. They knew where this was going and smiled at eachother.

Jimin, sitting on the other side of the two performers, was more than agitated. His eyes were as wide as saucers and the King's plump lips were wet and slightly parted. Trying to ground himself he asked "Have you seen Taehyung? I caught a glimpse of him earlier but couldn't get to talk to him."

Namjoon extended a finger to the left side of the hall. "He's with Jin and the Colonel."

Before Y/N can even register he was gone in a flash. Jungkook didn't care one bit though. He had eyes only for her. He was set on finishing what they started a little while ago.

"Shall we take a walk? Let me show you the gazebo at night. The servants did a splendid job decorating it" first helping her stand then the King adjusted his cloak. He also wanted to let the girl out for some air since she was looking quite out of it.

"Lead the way."

With Y/N on his arm Mammon walked out...

Previous Chapter / Next Chapter

#those evil ways #chapter 5 #jungkook #jimin #bts #min yoongi #bts fanfic #bts jin #namjoon #hoseok #taehyung #fanfiction #bts x reader #bts smut #angst

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arielseaworth · 3 years

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The Pigeon Tunnel: Stories from My Life (John le Carré)

#I teared up when I was rereading this last night #book quote #The Pigeon Tunnel #John le Carré

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matthiasschoenaertsdaily · 3 years

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Matthias Schoenaerts full interview for De Morgen Magazine (original in Flemish, translated into English by @matthiasschoenaertsdaily)

Interview by Els Maes, published on November 28, 2020

Even a global pandemic will not destroy the optimism of actor Matthias Schoenaerts (42). Because he knows from his own experience how much beauty can emerge from the most hopeless situations. "I've had my back against the wall often enough, I'll always find a way out."

A bleak autumn day on a concrete square. There is lukewarm coffee, lukewarm Chimay and rolling tobacco. At dusk we see the silhouettes of fat rats that shoot past our ankles. And yet Matthias Schoenaerts will tell us in a glowing argument that this, here and now, is the very best place to be. That there is so much beauty to discover, he says. Le paradis c'est ici. As long as we want to see it.

"It's strange to say in this unpleasant period, but I've enjoyed the past few months enormously. It's the first time in ten years, since Runskop actually, that I'll be home for a long period of time. This is so beneficial: I am photographing, painting, writing. I can devote time and attention to the very simple things we'd otherwise race past."

"Seriously, look at that," he says, picking a leaf off the ground. "Those colors, that pattern. I can spend hours looking at the pure beauty of the things that surround us."

Above us a pigeon is wreaking havoc between the thinned out foliage. "While you are singing about the wonderful beauty of nature, that animal is going to shit on our heads," I say. "And that too will be a s-p-l-e-n-d-i-d moment," Schoenaerts answers.

Matthias Schoenaerts is Belgium's most successful international film star. But here and now, on a bench in his hometown, he is a technically unemployed actor, an all-round searching artist, but above all: fighter of cynicism. "I refuse to go along with all negativity and fear. The true battle today is cynicism versus courage. And I always choose the latter."

We're on the Oudevaartplaats, the square that everyone knows as the Antwerp Bird Market, and where Schoenaerts' childhood memories are waiting to be picked up. It comes into the conversation just like that: Brando, the cute chow chow that little Matthias got from his mom on this square, when here on the bird market puppies were still sold. "My dogs were my great loves. The home situation was often difficult, and with my dogs I found security. We had three chow chows, those fluffy lion dogs with a blue tongue. Brando was the first, I loved that animal."

"We lived in a small apartment with three dogs, anything but ideal. One day we let them go, to people with a large estate. That was heartbreaking."

There is a beautiful lesson in that, about love and letting go. It would have been selfish to keep your dogs if you could give them a nicer life elsewhere, wouldn't it?

"Absolutely, but I obviously didn't process that departure properly. Brando still appears in my dreams, after all these years. Then he returns home unexpectedly, and am I mad with joy.

"I often dream about my parents too: that reunion is so intensely beautiful and warm. Oh, there you are, finally! Those dreams are true to life, and the awakening is rock-hard."

Is that one of the reasons why you like being here in Antwerp, because here you feel more connected to the people that you loved?

"This is my home, my zero, I can't imagine a place in the world where I would rather live. When my mom was alive, and especially when she got sick, in between filming I tried to be with her as much as possible here in Antwerp. In the meantime I have an apartment here, my first permanent place of my own, but I've hardly been there in recent years. Now I can finally enjoy my home, I find peace, tranquility and inspiration there. I have seen fantastic sunsets on my roof terrace in recent months. So much beauty, and you can just admire it there, every day, for free. As long as you take the time to enjoy it.

"Normally I would have started filming again in April, and left for a hectic ride of at least two years, with projects that would follow each other quickly. I was at my limits, sooner or later I was going to bang my head against the wall. I feel how beneficial it is to slow down for a moment. David Lynch said that: 'Just slow things down and it becomes more beautiful'.

"As an actor you have to work in a big machine, according to a tight schedule. I have now discovered the pleasure of creating things for myself very spontaneously in my own cadence."

Is that work something you ever want to go public with?

"I want to do something with my photography someday, but I'm in no hurry. I'm also writing a film script, I've had an idea for a trilogy for a long time. It's a very personal project, and it takes time for it to crystallize into something very pure and proper. Maybe those films will come within ten years, maybe never.

"The most important thing is to keep busy. You have to look for something, anything, on which you can focus your passion, love and attention. Of course I would like to return to set, and those projects will come back later. But if I can't change anything about a situation, why worry about it?

"From a very young age I learned that there are not many certainties in life, I adapt easily to unexpected circumstances. There is one thing I can't stand, and that is feeling powerless. I never want to be the victim of a situation, I will always think: what can I do myself? Which way can I go? I have often enough stood with my back against the wall, I will always find a way out and take matters into my own hands."

So Schoenaerts decided to use this period to put Zenith - his artist name as a street artist - to hard work. Since the lockdown he has already created nine impressive murals, including one in the courtyard of the Oudenaarde prison, and one at the beginning of this month in the Antwerp Begijnenstraat, on the bare walls that form their furthest horizon for the prisoners. A moving event, he says. Not only by the touching conversations with inmates, and the forty-minute applause with which the prisoners welcomed him. "The mural contains a poem by my father. While I am there painting those beautiful words of my dad on the wall, I suddenly remember that my mom used to give meditation lessons to the prisoners there in the Begijnenstraat. I had completely forgotten about that until I stood there. How beautiful that is. Suddenly I felt my parents very tangible, very close to me."

It's a bit funny: a long time ago you were arrested for graffiti, now they invite you to prison to make a mural.

"I used to tag a lot, but I really don't like the vandalism that sometimes comes with graffiti. Defacing a facade, that's just ridiculous. But trains, bridges, tunnels.... frankly I think that's the max. Soon I'm going to do another oldskool graffiti wall, with some friends, back to the roots. But with permission, yes."

Scary dudes

The problems of the Belgian detention system are well known: outdated infrastructure, overcrowding and a system of pre-trial detention which means that some people are innocently stuck for years. Schoenaerts: "These are human lives that are destroyed by the Belgian state, isn't that scandalous?"

Schoenaerts' engagement started years ago, after meeting Hans Claus, prison director in Oudenaarde, who contacted him when he wanted to organize a screening of Le Fidèle, the film by Michaël R. Roskam starring Schoenaerts. Claus has been fighting for many years for a reform of our detention system, among others with the non-profit organization De Huizen, small-scale centers that are more focused on rehabilitation and reintegration of the detainee. How does Schoenaerts see his role? "Those murals are a kind of lubricant for me, to get attention for this problem. I am not the expert and I am certainly not a politician. This injustice touches me as a human being, and my message is clear: please listen to the people who have been working hard for decades to reform the system from the inside."

In The Mustang, your last feature film to be seen here before the lockdown, you take on the role of a prisoner who learns to tame wild horses and his demons. Has that role changed your vision?

"That rehabilitation program with mustangs really exists, and the chance of recidivism is almost zero percent. I had a conversation in the Begijnenstraat with the minister of Justice Vincent Van Quickenborne (Open Vld, ed.), and he told me that the chance of relapse here is 40 to 50 percent. Isn't that madness?

"That's what fascinates me most of all: what do we do with those detainees while they're stuck? How can we help to break the destructive patterns that put them in prison? Imprisonment is a punishment in itself, but someday we'll send those people back into society, so let's mainly support them in their self-development.

"In preparation for The Mustang, I visited prisons in the U.S., and talked to men who had been detained for 20, 30 years. Heavy guys: Aryan Brotherhood (powerful crime syndicate of neo-Nazis in American prisons, ed.), Mexican gang leaders... real scary dudes. You know what those say to me? That they live in fear every day, but they must not show weakness. Psychological counseling and things like that have their value, but that's often very cerebral. I especially believe in the healing power of art. Imagine that inmates can express all those fucked up emotions through art: I think that there is an enormous potential in this."

I heard you're playing with the idea of giving acting lessons to inmates?

"That's not a concrete plan yet, but I would love it if people from the creative sector would commit themselves to this: musicians, sculptors, dancers. Or writers who help prisoners put their own story into words.

"The cultural sector needs to start sticking its neck out. The sector is lying flat, and that's terrible. But we have to keep moving. We can all do something for the community, without being paid for it. Planting small seeds, doing something good for your fellow man, something beautiful always comes out of it."

Had you been to a prison before The Mustang?

"To visit friends, yes. In Merksplas, Hoogstraten, Hasselt, Dendermonde... We shouldn't talk about that any further. A prison is deep tristesse. Who dares to call that 'a hotel', shame on you."

This summer you painted an impressive mural in Paris in honor of George Floyd, murdered by American officers. And in Ostend last week a new mural was unveiled, with a 'decapitated' Leopold II. Is activism an important part of your street art?

"Graffiti used to be more of a style exercise for me, you want to create things that get noticed within the scene. But gradually I felt like communicating with a wider audience. I like to incorporate a lot of symbolism in my paintings, such as the cracks I photograph all over the world and then magnify them in another place. And the praying hands, a universal image of hope and faith in yourself. Art has the power to speak to our deepest emotions, and that is what binds us to the other. Connectedness, empathy, harmony, solidarity, that's the essence for me."

The corona crisis is one big exercise in empathy and solidarity. Sometimes we seem to lack that.

"I refuse to surrender to cynicism, and I surround myself with positive people who do beautiful things for others. This period would lead us to insights: how do we deal with each other? Do we help each other, or is it every man for himself? A human is such a wonderful creature, but we mess it up so much for ourselves.

"Yeah, I know. Some people who read this will think: this guy is smoking too many joints. (laughs) I don't smoke joints, and I'm not an unworldly idealist. But I will always focus my attention on the good, in spite of everything."

If you always want to see the good in people, are you sometimes disappointed?

"Yes, of course. I'm not a naive brat, I've learned to guard my boundaries. I can't please everyone all the time, and I don't let anyone rush me. I react badly when people put pressure on me because they want things from me. The perception of me that others have of me, I can't control. I don't let myself put out of balance easily anymore."

I saw that on your Instagram Stories you warned about fake profiles on social media, of people pretending to be you. That made you visibly angry.

"Really, that makes me angry. Every day I receive screenshots from people who have been tricked by crooks who approach innocent victims with my name and my pictures. There are stories of fans who have paid thousands of euros because they were promised a meet-and-greet with me. How disgusting is that? One person has transferred 14,000 euros to someone who pretended to be my manager.

"Of course, that raises questions about how gullible some people can be. But I've seen those chat conversations for myself: those criminals are terribly sneaky. They know how to play on the vulnerabilities of their victims in a very cunning way. This is manipulation and swindle of the filthiest kind.

"Really, I get physically unwell when I think about it. How can someone be so mean? If I ever catch these guys, I'm gonna bash their skulls in, I'm not kidding. Sorry."

Or: those crooks get a jail sentence, where you're going to give them acting lessons.

(laughs) "Okay, let it be clear that I think everyone should be punished for their crimes. My commitment to the prison system is not a plea for impunity, and I certainly don't want to romanticize crime.

"But when someone abuses innocent people's trust in such a cunning way, the question is: how did you derail so morally? And above all: how can we initiate a transformation in that person? Surely you can't lock someone up and expect that person to suddenly make better choices years later? First such a person has to take responsibility for his own actions."

Do you have something criminal on your conscience?

"No." (Thinks for a second) "No. Thank God. I couldn't live with that.

"I've probably hurt people in my life, like everybody else. Sometimes we just hurt people because of who we are, or because we can't fulfill what others want from us. But I have never harmed anyone consciously or criminally, no."

As a teenager you sometimes came into contact with the juvenile court, for vandalism. Do you think you could have ended up on the other side of the bars?

"Probably, a life can take strange turns sometimes."

What made you sit here today, and not get on the 'wrong' path?

"Wait... that's a good question. There's the one terrible dramatic event that caused a total turnaround in my life: when my dad went into a coma after a psychosis, and I was told he only had 24 hours left to live.

"I was 21 then, thrown out of school for the umpteenth time. I was doing graffiti and wanted to find my way creatively. But I was messing around, going with friends who... Anyway, there was latent danger, it threatened to go a little bit the wrong way.

"And then I got that phone call: come and say goodbye. Bam. The relationship with my father had been sour for years, we hardly saw each other. Until I stood there at his deathbed in intensive care... I only felt love, a wave of emotions that I had pushed down very deeply. That realization was rock-hard: this was it. My father and I will never get the chance to figure shit out, I thought.

"Long story, the rest is known: after 72 hours my father woke up from a coma against all odds. Like a plant: he could not speak, reacted to nothing or nobody. According to the chief psychiatrist, we had to accept that his condition would never improve. That was without the fighting spirit of my mother and me.

"It's because of that unlikely event that I've changed my whole lifestyle. For eight months, my mother and I went to visit my father every day. We talked to him, but he seemed to look straight through us. For hours we sat with him at the psychiatry department of Stuivenberg, how desperate those first months were also. We continued to fight, taught him to talk, to eat, to walk. A miracle, the doctors called it. Bullshit of course. It was love, dedication and stubbornness. Especially thanks to my mother, the lioness who kept fighting for him. And see how much beauty came out of it. My life then received an entirely different impulse.

"I suddenly think of an anecdote I've never told before. After a while we were allowed to take my father to the cafeteria once in a while, or to the garden. But he was absolutely not allowed to leave the hospital. Fuck it. I hid a bag of clothes for him, secretly dressed him in the toilet and took my father to the city. By bus, because I didn't have a driver's license. I wanted to stimulate his senses, test if any memories would come back. He was fond of Our Lady's Cathedral, so that's where I wanted to take him."

Matthiaske, why am I crying?

He plays it out. The written version here is only a dead script compared to the lived-through performance, right there on that dark square, just around the corner of the Arenbergschouwburg, where Matthias made his stage debut as a 9-year-old boy next to father Julien, as The Little Prince.

Matthias shows how he supported his frail dad, and how they shuffled in small, careful steps towards the cathedral. Dad looking at the ground to be sure not to fall. "I say, 'Dad, look up'. He looks up, and I see the tears rolling down his cheeks. I had never seen my father cry. 'Matthiaske,' he says, 'can you tell me why I'm crying?'

"I had already decided then that I would take my father into my house. Overconfident, yes, at that age, but they have become the most beautiful years of my life. Mom came by every day to help. Suddenly we were a bit of a family again, something we had only been for a short time when I was young."

It was at that time that you decided to become an actor. Why did you decide to become an actor?

"I had always resisted following in my father's footsteps. In my youth I mainly wanted to break away from my father, and seek my own path. I didn't want to have anything to do with him and all those loudmouths around him in the theater world. But most of all I was terrified that compared to the great Julien Schoenaerts I would never be good enough.

"Only now do I understand why I then decided to go to the conservatory. Not to become an actor, but to understand my father. We had so many years together, and now that we had been given a second chance, I wanted to get to know him as well as possible. By acting, maybe I could get closer to him." (pauses)

Sentimental fuss

He banishes the tears. It's one of the many things he has in common with his father, he says: they're both very emotional, but they hate sentimental fuss. "Come on, Matthias: breathe," he commands himself.

"Voilà, see how much beauty can come out of misery. What a chain of beautiful things came out of the fight my mother and I put up in the most hopeless situation. Who knows how differently my life would have turned out?"

"There are so many lessons in that. If we just talked about the rehabilitation of detainees, for example. It takes commitment. Not a workshop of two hours. You have to persevere, even in the event of a setback, with no guarantee of a happy ending. That's why I think it's so important to keep telling that story about my dad. Those are the values I believe in: dedication, stamina, attention, love. You can apply that to everything in life. Love is the fuel."

You often talk about your parents as if you want to keep them alive with your words.

"Because my mom and dad are the people I've loved most. With them I shared the most important moments, built the most beautiful memories. That loss is enormous. Life has been really fucking tough since they've been gone.

"That's what grabs me so much in this period. How many people have died of corona in Belgium?"

According to Google, today, on the day of the interview, the counter stands at almost 14,000 deaths.

"Fourteen thousand! Imagine how many people that has an impact on? How many people have suddenly lost their mother, father, brother, sister, best friend or neighbor? Behind those figures lie tens of thousands of poignant stories, of people who see a loved one torn from their lives. That is a mountain of unresolved grief, and far too little attention is paid to it."

Earlier during our conversation a guy had walked past coughing and maskless. It pissed Schoenaerts off: "And whining about masks or strict measures. Grow some fucking balls. Having to say goodbye to a loved one, that's the worst thing."

"Isn't that what this period teaches us? That our time here is limited? And what really counts in life: sharing moments of beauty with the people you hold most dear. All the rest is wallpaper. Having success, making movies, that's all fun. But the day you lie on your deathbed, you really don't think about the professional successes on your resume. No way."

#matthias schoenaerts #interviews #misc #by us

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perditaalottachocolate-blog · 3 years

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Caterwauling in the Rain

Summary: Marinette and Adrien share their very first kiss after their very first date. Chat is so overjoyed he’s ready to burst into song, albeit not all Parisians share the sentiment. Ladybug comes to investigate the complaints about a feline caterwauling in the spring rain. Luckily, it’s just her very wet boyfriend. A Miraculous Writer Zine story.

A/N: This is my piece for @mlwriterzine . I’m so happy I can finally share it! I feel honored to be among the chosen authors. I want to thank everyone, who made this zine possible, it was an amazing adventure! Make sure to read works in the zine collection, they're all a m a z i n g !

AO3

The whisper of wind in his ears, the tap of boots on the tin roofs, the pigeons nesting among the chimneys, cooing to the spring in his step. Chat Noir ran high over the streets, reveling in this late April evening, basking in the fading light of day.

Everything in his path was blooming recklessly, fueled by sunshine, turning the warmth of spring into an opulent palette of greens, whites, yellows, pinks, and every other color one could think of.

It wouldn’t have been far from the truth if Chat claimed he floated on the breeze. It certainly felt like it. Butterflies, the good kind, not the evil purple ones that’d been giving them so much grief, fluttered happily in his stomach. His chest swelled with affection as if it tried to contain all the smells and scents at once.

His heart was so full he was ready to burst into song any second now. And snugly pressed to his chest was none other than the bravest, prettiest, awesomest, and the most amazing girl he knew. The love of his life, sans the spots. Marinette Dupain-Cheng. His Lady. His girlfriend. His everything.

Her hair tickled the exposed skin under his chin, but he was too focused on carrying his precious cargo to utter a chuckle. It was her who giggled happily instead.

“I really could have gotten home myself, silly Kitty,” she murmured to his sternum. Only his enhanced hearing allowed him to pick up the words over the rush of air and the buzz of traffic.

“A gentlecat always walks the lady home after a date,” he countered, allowing a little bit of flirt to seep into his voice.

A date! he thought excitedly, his heart skipping a few beats. The very first real one, official and everything. Not that anyone paid attention to two goofy teens sharing an ice cream, walking down the banks of the Seine and doing all the carefree, silly things teens did. Bantering, picking flowers, playing tag just because. Holding hands, stealing glances, blushing. Basically half of Adrien’s bucket list went down on that date, more than he could ever hope for. It was still very fresh—the romantic side of their relationship, just like nature herself, coming to life with spring—yet he doubted the excitement of enjoying her company on both sides of their masks would ever ebb.

Alas, their time had run out all too quickly. For unfathomable reasons their parents set a curfew and warned them not to break it. Yet Adrien refused to leave Marinette to return home by herself. He announced his arrival at the mansion, claiming he was exhausted after a busy day, and dashed off to his room. The door barely had time to close behind him when Chat Noir was already leaping through the window. He scooped Marinette into his arms and vaulted them high and away from the prying eyes of pedestrians. Just a little run and they were already on the little balcony of 12 Rue Gotlib.

It wasn’t dusk yet, although darkness already settled over the city thanks to the rain clouds that flocked from the west, keeping the last rays of spring sun to themselves. A silver half-moon peeked tentatively over the rooftops, picking up the slack.

Unexpectedly the sight filled him with nostalgia. “Anything can happen at half-moon,” Chat recited absently. He didn’t remember where he’d heard the verse.

“Anything?” Marinette frowned in confusion. After all, they had just spent a delightful afternoon together. Why would his mood turn wistful so suddenly?

He decided to play it off. He grinned cheekily. “Like maybe … a kiss?”

He was pushing his luck, he knew. They hadn’t reached that milestone yet, still tiptoeing around each other after the accidental reveal, still testing the waters, although neither of them was oblivious to the other’s feelings anymore.

To his astonishment Marinette fixed him with a coy smile and threw her hands around his neck. She climbed to her toes. “Maybe,” she whispered, her lips a hairbreadth away from his. Her eyes twinkled in the moonlight.

Chat released a ragged breath against her mouth. He shuddered from head to toe as he wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her flush against him. His body screamed for her, longed for her presence. But he wouldn’t dare to make the first step. He always followed her lead. He had to be sure it was what she wanted, even if he knew it wasn’t in her nature to tease him like this.

And then Marinette was kissing him. Sweetly, tenderly, with just a hint of passion simmering underneath. The gentle caress shrunk his world to just her and this moment.

He was sure he died, his heart flatlining out of sheer euphoria, his neurons fried from overjoy, his body coming apart at the seams. He floated to heaven and then her kisses brought him back to life. Back to the warmth of her embrace, to the flowery scent of her skin, and to soft kisses he knew he would never have enough of.

All too soon she withdrew, leaving his lips tingling and cold. He stumbled, dizzy with love in his heart and springtime in his lungs.

She must have thought he was being dramatic, because she ruffled his already wild mane.

“Goof,” she giggled. “Go home, before you catch a cold.”

“A cold?” He knitted his brows. “Why would I catch a cold now?”

“It’s raining, you dork.” Marinette bopped him on the nose and turned her hands up. A few plump droplets splashed on her palm.

Huh? How long did that kiss take? He hadn’t noticed when the rain started. Either those clouds had been moving faster than he’d thought, or he might have been more distracted than usual. Lately he tended to get tunnel vision in Marinette’s company, tuning out everyone and everything while soaking in her presence.

From behind the deck chair Marinette produced a black umbrella. She pressed it into his claws. “This is no dew, Kitty. It’s going to pour heavily soon.”

“Really?” He chuckled. She walked straight into this one. “I’m purring already, my Lady.” He grabbed her hand and put it to his chest. Then he released a rumble worthy of a thunderstorm.

“Besides, where I stand, the sun is shining all over the place.” He dropped the cheesy line with a flourish.

“See, you’re already delirious,” Marinette replied matter-of-factly. “Also, yes, I’m very proud of you for getting the ‘Singing in the Rain’ reference, you dorkasaurus,” she added, seeing his pout of indignation. “Now go, before you get wet for real.”

“Didn’t you mean furrrrr real?” he started, but dropped it immediately when she set him with one of Ladybug’s finest glowers. “A kiss good night, purrrhaps?” he asked hopefully.

Marinette grabbed him by the bell with such force, his hand slipped on the umbrella’s handle. She pressed her lips to his, but with more fire than sugar this time.

Snap! The black canopy sprang to its full size, startling them both.

“Sorry! Sorry!” Chat exclaimed, but Marinette just shook her head, launching into a fit of laughter. It was impossible not to join her.

“This umbrella is absolutely terrible,” she wheezed, clutching at her belly. “The ultimate killjoy.”

“You mean this is …” He trailed off, finally giving the umbrella a thorough look. Sure enough, he soon found the loopy ‘Agreste’ carved into the handle. “Oh, wow,” he whispered reverently. Marinette had mentioned the significance of that first rain they’d experienced together.

“Yup. And I want it back, mind you,” she added.

“This is an Agreste umbrella. You’d need to marry me for the name to check out, Princess.” Chat shot her with a toothy grin.

“Did you just propose on the first date, Adrien?” She raised a brow. “You might want to save something for the second one.”

“Ooops.” He feigned a horrified gasp. Incidentally, that absolutely had been on his bucket list. This was Marinette after all. “I’m gonna have to google some new ideas. But anyway, your answer would be …?”

Marinette shook her head again and thrusted her hand into his face. “You’re impossible. Just go home already before we both catch a cold.”

Right. He hadn’t noticed her shivering in the cold evening breeze, and the rain probably wasn’t helping.

“As you wish, m’Lady.” He bowed. “See you tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow it is, my Prince,” she replied with a curtsy, raising the imaginary fabric of a long dress with her fingers. Then with one last playful wink, she disappeared through the skylight.

Chat sighed in contentment, drawing in the chilly, humid air. He didn’t feel even a little bit tired, more like ignited after the spectacular afternoon of romance, flirting, and banter. He leaped to the railing and elongated his baton so that it hit the pavement. Then, like a leather-clad Mary Poppins, he floated down, startling a few passersby.

“Du-dudu-du, du-du-dudu-dee-dudu,” he hummed under his breath, setting into a leisurely stroll. The rain picked up a heavier rhythm, just like Marinette predicted.

“Du-dudu-du, du-du-dudu-dee-dudu.” He continued letting his inner Gene Kelly come out and play. He always wanted to perform that song, ever since he’d watched the movie with his father ages ago. And what better place to do so than the Parisian streets, a classy background to the classic number?

He already felt the tune bubbling in his throat. He couldn’t contain it any longer even if he tried. With a theatrical shrug he folded the umbrella and propped it against his shoulder. His lips stretched into a dreamy smile when he set off again. Then came the song.

“I'm siiiingin' in the rain, just siiiiiingin' in the rain.” His voice carried over the street, earning him a few confused glances. He gave his audience a little wink.

“What a gloooorious feeling, I'm haaaaaappy again,” he claimed, jumping onto a lampost. “I'm laughing at clouds. So daaaark up above. The sun's in my heart ...” Chat’s smile turned into something more smitten as he gazed upon a certain balcony looming in the distance, “… and I'm reeeeeady for loooove.”

“Let the stoooormy clouds chase everyone from the place.” He waved at a couple making their way through the rain, hiding under an already-soaked newspaper. They chuckled at his antics and clapped, rewarding his performance.

Encouraged, Chat turned his face to the sky while throwing his arms to the sides in a truly musical fashion. “Come on with the rain! I've a smile on my face!”

He resumed his walk, nonchalantly swinging the umbrella in large circles. “I walk down the lane, with a haaaaaaaappy refrain. Just singing, singing iiiiiiiin the rain.”

Chat spotted a few phones aimed at him and chuckled inwardly. People always looked for a scoop. Alya was going to be so angry she missed this. He could almost hear her gritting her teeth. Let's give them a show, he thought as his feet carried out the routine, a mix of waltz and tap dancing.

“Daaaaaancing in the rain,” he howled. “La-daaaa-da-da-di-daaaaAAA. I'm happy again.” He grabbed the umbrella as if it were a ukulele and struck a chord, making an elated face, as if he were Luka’s more handsome twin. “I'm singin' and dancing in the rain.”

More tap dancing followed. Chat finally found a way to release all the pent-up energy that had come from the afternoon spent with the love of his life. He tapped, he stepped, he pirouetted, for his joy and for the entertainment of a significant crowd that had gathered to witness his performance. The umbrella was his partner, his pendulum, his microphone and staff. Oh, how versatile a prop this was! Chat leaped like a very wet ballerina, jumped over the puddles or right into them, frolicking in a totally unfeline manner, splashing the water onto himself and all around. A reckless, unstoppable dancing and singing machine.

Slosh! A wall of cold water washed over him, effectively ending the show. He wiped the liquid from his eyes only to see a very familiar red-clad figure holding a polka-dotted bucket, which must have been the source of his unexpected and involuntary shower.

Concern marred Ladybug’s face. She breathed heavily—she must have been running fast to get here. But why did she have to be such a … what had Marinette said? Ah, an ultimate killjoy.

“Why did you go and do that?” he complained, frowning in accusation. Water dripped from his soaked hair right into his ears. Both pairs.

Ladybug narrowed her eyes at him. “The neighbors were complaining about some caterwauling felines and I decided to investigate in case there was an akuma,” she said.

Chat shook his head, trying to get rid of the ear leak. “Well, was there?”

His partner raised a brow and smirked, taking in his drenched form.

“Oh.” It suddenly dawned on Chat that maybe performing a musical number in a city regularly haunted by mind-controlling villains wasn’t the best of ideas. “Sorry,” he said sheepishly, then shivered. “I’m cold,” he added.

“Awww, poor kitty,” Ladybug cooed. She relaxed her shoulders, no longer alert. “I need to take you home.” She tangled her yo-yo around a chimney, grabbed him at the waist and in the next moment they were already soaring over the streets.

She stopped on a roof a block away from the mansion. Her timing was perfect, as usual.

“AAAACHOOOOO!” Chat’s sneeze was so powerful Plagg flew out of the ring, taking the leather suit with him. The little kwami didn’t look happy in the least.

“Awww, shucks.” Adrien trembled. “Now it’s even colder.”

“You don’t say,” Plagg grumbled. He was dripping wet.

Ladybug sighed in disbelief. She scooped the sprite into her hand and hid him in her pigtail. Then she proceeded to lift Adrien princess style and set off in the direction of his house. Unseen and undetected by the mansion’s security system, she slipped through the bathroom window and into the warmth of his room.

A true hero, the epitome of helpfulness, she grabbed a blanket from the bed and wrapped him tight. Then, with a towel she had taken from the bathroom, she gave Plagg the same treatment.

“I’m gonna leave you to change and go to sleep,” she finally declared. “No more clowning!” She pointed a finger at Adrien.

He gave her an innocent blink. Alas, Ladybug seemed to be immune to his charm. Or maybe it was just late for her. After all he had caused her to leave the dry room and investigate an alleged akuma attack. He decided to step up his game.

“Maybe a good-night kiss?” He fluttered his golden lashes hopefully. That always got a nice fluster out of Marinette.

“Haven’t you gotten like two already?” she frowned.

“Nuh-uh, that was Chat. Adrien didn’t get any,” he complained. “Besides”—he fixed her with the delightful smile of a teenage heartthrob, his voice lowering to a murmur—“three is the charm, as Lady Luck should be perfectly aware.”

Ladybug tapped her lip thoughtfully. “Well,” she drawled, stepping closer, “you do make a compelling argument …” Then she closed the space between them.

Meowrrr, the cat in him uttered. Three was definitely the charm.

- The End -

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kiatheinsomniac · 3 years

Text

Unwoven Fate V

[MASTERLIST OF CHAPTERS]

The trip with the courtesans had been a long once and she was glad that she had arrived so early in the morning at Monteriggioni or else she would have missed them. It was nice to have company. She shared her story with the girls along the way; from the attack on her childhood home, being raised by her Aunt and Uncle and that life-changing eavesdrop to her travels across Tuscany.

The young woman did her best to keep her body moving on the horse, trying to stay warm after she had lent her cloak to Lucrezia, an hour into the journey, who had been shivering violently and cursing the bitter cold. The courtesans were good company: they kept good conversation and were an entirely new type of people to (Y/n).

Her Aunt had told her that they were vile women, taking the easy way in life, that (Y/n) should be proud to be unlike them. (Y/n) had acknowledged that this was her Aunt's opinion but had never formed one herself, never having met a courtesan until this day. They had been kind and they paid her respect too, it seemed. And it was a different kind of respect, one she had not experienced before: it was not the obligatory respect that came with her family money and her fancy outfits, it was a respect that she had earned herself by respecting these women in turn, by sharing her generosity with them regarding her cloak and letting some of them ride her horse when their feet grew tired.

The rented horse was stolen by now: she had known that she wouldn't be back in the promised time when she rented it but now a part of her felt bad for taking it away from its owner. Either way, she needed the creature - until she reached Rome, anyway.

Upon arriving, some more girls were waiting at the gates to help carry bags of belongings and lead the courtesans of Monteriggioni to their new workplace in Rome. (Y/n) trailed along behind them, looking around as she travelled. Those same guards were here: the red uniforms with the bull crest. Those bull flags flew from towers, Roman ruins, homes and shops too.

Bull. . . Bull! The papal Bull! She resisted the urge to smack herself in the head: how had it taken her so long to figure it out? Was the Pope on a quest to conquer Italy? To divide or to unite?

Either way, she followed the courtesans, the group of girls patiently waiting as she left her horse discreetly in a stable, not wanting to pay to have it watched. Her money was running thin as it is.

After a while of walking (hearing the calls and whistles of men for the girls all the way), they arrived at a grand building, covered in Roses and seemingly recently restored. Courtesans waited outside and Lucrezia stopped at the threshold to hand (Y/n)'s woollen black cloak back to her.

"Thank you for your kindness and company, we've all enjoyed you coming with us." The blonde smiled, leaning forwards to give her an amiable hug. (Y/n) froze for a moment before returning the gesture, wrapping her arms around the woman and squeezing for a moment before they both pulled back.

"It's not a problem at all - I'm thankful that you let me come with you. Now the Auditores. . . ?" She replied, looking around the brothel to see courtesans and men all around, the place smelling distinctly of sleepless nights and roses.

"Who are you looking for in particular?" She quizzed, "Ezio, I assume?" Lucrezia replied, gesturing her hand to the hidden blade on (Y/n)'s wrist.

"Mario, actually. That was the name in the letter." The blonde woman's face dampened for a moment, her smile fading.

"He was killed in the attack." She replied sadly, "I'm sorry, I didn't realise that you were looking for him or else I would have told you."

"He mentioned some other relatives in the letter: a sister-in-law, niece and nephew. Are they alive?" (Y/n) questioned, biting her inner cheek and starting to pray that she had not come to Rome for a fruitless journey.

"I should hope so." A matured voice spoke up from the staircase. There, stood a woman in her late-middle-ages. Her hair was dark and streaked with grey, crows feet at her dark eyes. Her hair was styled up and she wore the sort of dress that (Y/n) was so accustomed to wearing herself. "What business do you have with my family?" The young woman assumed that this was the in-law.

"It's a bit of a long story. . ." She began, approaching the woman and bowing her head with respect, "I've travelled from the countryside near Forlì. From there, I've been to the city itself, then Firenze, Monteriggioni and now Roma."

"Then your journey has been a long one." She turned around and started walking up the stairs, "Come, rest in the office and tell me your tale." (Y/n) followed behind, hearing the faint sounds of the women working behind heavily closed doors.

The office wasn't too small, with a desk in the light from the back window, a bookshelf and a long screen dividing the room, seeing the posters of a bed behind the screen.

A young-looking woman, but older than (Y/n), was sitting at the desk with a quill in hand, a letter in another. She looked up upon the arrival of the two new women.

"Mother, who is this?" She asked politely, giving (Y/n) a small smile before continuing with her work.

"She says she has business with our family." The older woman replied. So this was the niece, (Y/n) concluded. The in-law gestured for (Y/n) to take a seat before taking one herself.

"I'm going to have to give you a bit of my life’s story for all of this to make sense but I'll try to keep it as short as I can." She began, looking between the two Madames of the brothel. "When I was a young child, my family home was attacked. My mother put me into the maid's arms and told her to run but I saw the attackers kill my parents. My Aunt and Uncle took me in after that and raised me as their own. But, a few days ago, I was walking past the room where my Aunt, Uncle and their guests were and I heard her. . ."

She took in a shaky breath to compose herself, the words wounding her just as deeply as the moment she first heard them, "I heard my Aunt say that she'd had my parents killed. . . And that she thought it was the best thing she had ever done." She could see the shock on the women's faces after saying this. "Since then, I travelled back to my childhood home in Forlì where I found a secret compartment containing this-" she showed her hidden blade and pulled Mario's letter to her parents out of her pocket, placing it on the desk, "-and this. I don't know anyone else who knew my parents except my existing family and Mario. I'm sure you can see why confronting my family was out of the question." Claudia had read the letter by now.

"Your parents were Assassins too?" Claudia spoke up and (Y/n) nodded her head.

"I never even knew until I read this. . ." She bit her cheek to fight the tears that threatened her eyes, "And suddenly I feel like I don't know anything."

"I think it would be best if you speak to my son, Ezio." The in-law spoke up, catching (Y/n)'s teary eyes, "He is acting as the Assassin Brotherhood’s leader at the moment and if he isn't already informed of your parents then one of his contacts will be."

"Thank you. . ." (Y/n) trailed off, looking between the two strangers and realising that she did not know their names still.

"Maria."

"And Claudia - I am sure that you know our surname well." She smiled, giving (Y/n) back the letter from Mario. She could tell that she was sad to let something go that had been written by her passed uncle, "My brother can be a hard man to contact but I have a meeting with him in three days, I can take you with me and you can discuss things with him then."

"Thank you." (Y/n) replied gratefully, "Until then, do you know any places nearby where I could rent a room?"

"You can stay here until then." Maria offered, "We will close off a room for you. There's one downstairs that serves as more of a supply cupboard than a workplace, I'm sure you'd prefer that."

"I'll take whatever you'll give." She replied gratefully and heard her stomach rumble, inwardly cringing and hoping that the other two hadn't heard her. It was now becoming evening and she hadn't eaten since Florence yesterday.

"There is a baker's nearby though." The younger Auditore woman smiled amiably, getting up from her seat, "Come, I'll take you."

⚜⚜⚜

The past three days had been spent at the brothel: spending much time talking to Claudia and understanding her job in the Brotherhood as well as the courtesan teaching her a few Assassin tricks: blending in, pickpocketing (it had felt very dishonest to (Y/n) but the last of her money had been spent on food and she knew that she needed it to get by - she also found that she was also very good at it). She was small and went more unnoticed than others when she bumped into someone and her fingers were quick, nimble from her years of violin-playing.

"We're heading to Isola Tiberina." Claudia had told her that afternoon. Claudia was wearing a fine red and gold dress and (Y/n) decided that she didn't want to feel underdressed compared to her, slipping on the deep blue silk dress that she had kept in her bag, the one not given away to that bastard tailor in Forlì. She kept her hair in the two dutch braids which had now become much more comfortable for her as they were easy to do, held fast and kept her long tresses out of the way.

She followed Claudia through the streets of Rome, keeping close and trying to memorise each detail in order to learn her way around the city by heart. Some streets were narrow and there were staircases that looked like an alley but turned out to be a door, tunnels were scattered around too and there were some small gardens here and there. Eventually, they reached a river and Claudia led the two of them over a bridge. (Y/n) looked up to a tall building that had a pigeon coop and stood in front of a small square of sorts.

Merchants and craftsmen called out to passers-by and the Auditore woman led (Y/n) down to a doorway, holding it open and motioning for (Y/n) to make her way down the stairs. Upon arriving, she could tell that the place was newly occupied: sparse furniture that looked as though it could fall apart at any moment, lots of repairs that needed to be done in the plaster and cobwebs in the rafters. But she could hear the crackle of a fireplace nearby as well, a sign that they were not too uncomfortable here.

"Claudia." The man gave Claudia a warm hug in greeting while (Y/n) stood by silently, waiting to be introduced. Though, someone else addressed her first.

"Emma?" The man was much older than (Y/n) and dressed mostly in browns and yellows. (Y/n) could feel her breath hitch in her throat. She hadn't heard that name in so long that it both killed her and brought her to life at once. Her mother's name. "No, you're far too young. . ." He glanced down at her wrist to see the dull metal of her hidden blade, "Who are you?" His eyes flickered between hers, brows narrowing. A tension seemed to fall over the room and suddenly everyone was suspicious.

"I'm her and Lorenzo's daughter. I. . ." She found herself stammering. This man had known her mother's face and clearly, (Y/n) had grown into it well. Her Aunt had never mentioned that. "I came here looking for answers." She cast a glance over her shoulder to Claudia, now accompanied by the man who had hugged her in greeting. All of the older people in the room seemed beyond astonished. The man spoke up once more, killing the silence that had now hung over the room for a long time.

"I think we would like some answers now too.” He answered solemnly as whispers broke out among the elders of the group.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean: you're supposed to be dead."

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kneipho · 3 years

Text

Submitted by: @mantrabay

–

Rush Amid The Rapids.

“Must I always be posting transactions?” I said to myself, Landon Croaker, accountant, adjusting my backpack as I rambled up a ragged winding woodland path.

A granite strewn gulag odyssey lay ahead.

There was the usual green stew of ornate plants.

Ancient Fir Clubmoss which grows into a chalice- like shape.

The St Patrick’s cabbage, with thick leather zig zag veins.

Hapless Fraochan and Whortleberry shrub’s pendant fruit so symmetrical.

I brought my notebook with me.

Closet novelist or bard one day?

Canopy of lattice branch springboards abound.

Shrieks

from stunned squirrels leaping in the arc of a trapeze with blue jay alarm signal.

Rustle of rabbits under slender stalks.

Puffball cloud and brown-dust spore floaters.

A wastrel I was within the wilds.

I was getting close to where my friends, a husband and wife team lived and ran a fringe publishing company.

They resided in a cherry wood log cabin with tongue and groove cladding and a pine timbered roof lantern peering down a mountain side.

Like a watchtower the mountain sat in sinister observance.

A fallow deer suddenly appeared.

It looked furtively with startled eyes as if it knew something I didn’t.

Within minutes it vanished.

Flies swarmed about, the spooky whistleblowers on this solitary hiker’s grazed cheeks.

My clothes were wringing wet from the sweltering heat.

The curious urban spirit drove me on.

Chambered cairns, those passage tunnels from the past that act as stone markers for the venturer were rife.

Platform mounds whose ribboned cracks and gouges play host to strongly rooted Chasmophytes.

There was a lurking presence as the cabin became visible.

“Hello, there. Fancy seeing you here.

Welcome back.”

Chelsea, in a croaking baby twang.

“Oh …you frightened me.” Landon said.

I nearly toppled.

Chelsea dashed towards me.

“A bit worried there, Landon.

What a surprise!

We like surprising people too.”

I paused and replied.

“It’s the unexpected that adds spice to this life business and others!”

Landon sardonically.

“You sound tired.”

Chelsea replied.

“We’ll change that. We’ll change everything about your life now you’re here.”

The ramifications of that would soon unfold.

“The last time I was here we talked about having children.

Any decision yet?

You could always adopt.”

I continued.

“Don’t have to.

Got my husband and he’s got me.” She said.

“We’re both kids at heart.”

Her sad voice trailing off.

“This location seems ideal but there’s schooling and everything.”

Chelsea hesitantly.

“Nothing that couldn’t be resolved.”

Landon in reply.

Croaker sensed Chelsea’s unease and didn’t continue.

“Hey, what’s this?” Croaker cried as two apples landed at his feet.

“Yahoo. You two.”

Chesney, Chelsea’s husband shouted.

“It’s been so long.

Doesn’t time fly?”

Chesney again.

While walking it dawned on Landon how dewy-eyed and child-like this couple were.

Entering the cabin seemed like something from a storybook.

Cartoon mosaics attached to fool’s gold borders, zip purse smashed purple bead inserts, and shredded comic strips.

“There are shrouds of deep mystery here.”

Croaker thought.

“Hey Snap.

What’s accountancy like these days?”

Chesney’s smug question.

“Nothing really changes.

Investment investment hazards and the like.

It’s a world I drifted into.

How about your company in paradise.”

Croaker sarcastically.

“Publishing is odd.

You almost become the stories submitted.”

Chesney observed.

“Birth and regrowth are gaining interest.

Am I boring you?” Chesney enquired.

“Well, it beats accountancy.”

Landon tactfully.

A salad of roasted lemon, fennel fronds and pomegranate was served with

guacamole dip based on chunky avocado.

After our meal we washed up

Chelsea’s phantom figure scurried outside with Olympic speed.

It was so redolent of the suddenness about.

A rapt cocoon descended around Chesney and Landon’s interaction.

Landon quizzed Chesney about the urban country rift.

Tranquil timberlands have their own stressors.

“See those creatures slumped awkwardly on fragile twigs?

They sense pending doom.”

Chesney observed.

“Can you really escape hectic city life?”

A querulous tone from Chesney.

“Maybe these divisions are fictional.”

Landon archly.

“Thud. What’s that?”

Chesney shaking.

Chelsea entered.

“Oh dear .. let’s say a homing pigeon.

They’re a strange breed.”

She said smugly.

“Very strange indeed.”

Chesney out loud.

Chelsea and Chesney exchange strained silent glances.

A circus of the wilds continued outside as species vied with species in an ego fanfare.

Chirping robin red breasts,

wing scraping crickets in high chorus.

Vulcan steam curtain as backdrop.

Horseshoe Bats that weave rainbow shafts.

Daddy long legs with their cancan dances on sodden patches.

“Excuse me …..ring a bell?” Chesney diverting Landon’s attention with a broken fragment.

Landon bought this autumn crocus crystal vase on a previous sojourn.

It slipped from his hands in a butter fingers incident.

Croaker uttered the words “my lasting gift” as it fell.

Cackles erupted but frustration for Landon.

“A hilarious keepsake after a fashion.”

Chelsea opined.

“Really?”

Said Landon embarrassed by this anecdote.

The hours passed and they were both tired.

Landon saw Chesney remove a letter from a ring pull drawer.

“Just an old bill. Must shred it.” He said.

“Why would Chesney explain that?

His face reddened.

Curious.” Landon thought.

Shuffling to bed Landon did notice

pink salmon eiderdowns, pillows with children sleeping under moonlit skies, and Milky Way throw blankets.

The night passed uneventfully.

There were some noises in the kitchen as morning approached.

Having woken sluggishly Croaker walked into the dinning area.

A sense of foreboding filled the room.

Landon grappled awkwardly with claustrophobia.

It was disrupted by the chatter of the chestnut -sided warbler.

An oak hook tip moth added charm with its zoom and flutter acrobatics.

“I’ve the creepiest feeling.”

Croaker reasoned.

“BUZZZ ……..Buzzzzz ……Boing.”

My old cell-phone’s text tone.

My boss. Wonder what he wants?”

Landon to himself.

“Dear Landon,

When you return I would like to speak to you about your future with this company.

I can’t go into further details

as it involves a lot of interested parties.

A wide -ranging discussion is in order,

Regards,

Tom Wright

Managing Director.”

Landon’s worst fears now confirmed.

“I’m confused.

Just how pressing is this or …. what is this in front of me?”

A letter from Chesney and Chelsea.

“Hi Landon,

We had to leave quickly.

Help yourself to whatever largesse there is.

Don’t know how long we’ll be.

You can hang around of course or leave.

Don’t break anything!!

Ha ha,

Ches and Chels.”

Incredible! Between the text and the letter who wouldn’t be alarmed?

Landon limped outside to an ear splitting din and a mist laden detritus that merged into pockets of streams steeplechasing each other.

A slimy frog vaulted and cast a damp viscous oil spray in Croaker’s direction.

Something ….a shadow.

“This has been the most peculiar visit I’ve ever had.

Intrigue seems encoded in it.”

Croaker’s anxiety growing.

A tap on the shoulder followed by a crystal shard at his feet.

“The vase remember?

Don’t be so serious ……..we’ve something to discuss with you.”

Chesney said pointedly.

“An Agatha Christie mystery novel has nothing on this.”

Landon fretted.

“We’ve been reflecting, Chelsea and I.

Your presence is an extraordinary coincidence.”

Chesney quizzically.

“We’d like to offer you a job as our accountant.”

Chelsea suggested.

Croaker now shivering.

“You know by now we love to jumpstart even our closest friends.

This post is tailor made for you.”

Chelsea once more.

“Your boss will understand.”

Croaker’s head was now in a spin.

“You like writing don’t you?

There’s plenty of stories here.”

Chelsea opined.

“All this trouble to offer me a job?” Croaker queried.

“We don’t do things by halves.”

Chelsea with Chesney nodding.

A carousel of thoughts flashed through Landon’s mind at this juncture.

He walked in a trance struggling with everything.

“What was in Chelsea’s sports bag I wonder?” Thought Croaker.

“Let’s go for a swim, Landon.

I’ve got swim trunks for us all.”

Chelsea tossed a nylon mesh swim trunks at Landon as everyone changed.

Something slipped out of Chesney’s pocket without him noticing.

It was that letter Chesney removed previously and read as follows.

“Dear Chesney and Chelsea,

As your doctor I regret you won’t be able to have children. It’s with a heavy heart I share this with you.

There are many reasons for this…”

The rest of the letter was creased and illegible.

It was subsequently swept to the river’s edge underneath a Crested Iris by a slight breeze.

Meanwhile, we were all breast stroking energetically while taking the occasional breather.

“You can make up your mind, Landon, at the end of this swim whenever that is and wherever it is taking us.”

Chelsea giggled as she circulated in the eddying stream.

We all started off again as we followed each other’s course.

“Awh, the child within!” Cried Chelsea.

As Landon pondered his fate the mountain looked down imperiously upon us all as the stray deer suddenly reappeared from nowhere.

Maybe that deer did know something after all!

Photograph and short story mantrabay copyright protected.

Many thanks for reading this and other submissions.

#mantrabay #submission sunday #submission #written word #short story #photography #photographers on tumblr #original photography #other #Rush Amid The Rapids

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lorei-writes · 4 years

Text

Fairy Tales for Bedtime

Two-Faced God

Kennyo x MC ( with a twist at the end) Fantasy AU (Fairy Tale-ish) Choose Your Own Ending*

Content Warnings: animal attack, injury mention (non-descriptive) Respective trigger warning are added before each ending. The story can stand on its own without them, so fear not.

Hello, friends! This time, I come to you with an unexpected story. I know Kennyo... Isn’t exactly popular to say the least. But, if you enjoy fantasy - I urge you to give this story a shot. I believe you may like it regardless.

*- Fluff or Angst

Long, long ago, in a land hidden behind a thick veil of mist, there was a city. It stood proudly in-between rivers, hidden in the cooling shade of nearby mountains, secluded from any and all outsiders. Life there was peaceful, or so would the citizens say – although nobody cared enough to see their faces and understand the emotion behind the sullen eyes they all had.

The city was governed by its own set of rules. Do not question the officials – do not speak ill of them. The prince shall be obeyed, his word being that of god. Be thankful for what you get and, most importantly, never seek a better day, for you’ll be rewarded according to your contribution. Never – never – venture out into the forest, least you wish to get banished – and then, your fate will be decided by the nature itself. Perish, as many would say, the woods being hostile and seemingly stretching up to the very horizon. It was never discussed whether it was good or bad, the very thought of even doing so being an offense of sorts. Fear rules stronger than compassion, as they stated – so fear it was, keeping them from ever aiming up higher, the few ones daring to reach for the sun being burned by the flames, their example serving as grave warning. After all, the familiar sorrow always seems safer than the unknown.

Yet, that isn’t to say that people wishing to disobey the order had ever ceased to exist. The reasons were many – poverty, being unable to meet the impossible expectations, lies stopping to satisfy, just to name a few. She was no different, the threat of impending betrothal stopping her studies hanging low over her head. She knew better than to rebel, letting the anger simmer inside of her soul – until she couldn’t contain it anymore, her feelings boiling over, choking her like molten tar. Dishonesty could carry her only so far, the disgust with her very own being overwhelming her. To loath yourself is a cruel fate – and so, she decided to stand against it. In secret, she collected her belonging, all fitting nicely in a tight bundle, and departed, abandoning her home of so many years.

The route outside of city led through shadows – although darkness she did not fear. Step by step, she came closer to the outer gates, cursing people responsible for her fate. Why was she the one running, while it was them, the system, who hurt her? When was she at fault in the dispute? She gritted her teeth, mourning all that she had to leave behind. Her entire old self – her studies, the books she cherished, countless hours of research – was all for nothing, as she was born a woman. The choice was hers only up until a certain point in time, and it appeared she had reached it.

Road stretched outside of the city and she followed it to the woods, never once looking back until stones under her feet turned to grass. She glanced around herself, assessing her surroundings carefully, eyes – or much rather, countless pairs of glowing eyes – staring back at her. She gulped, swallowing her fear. Holding her head up high, she ventured deeper into the forest.

The following days proved milder than she could have ever expected. Although certainly cautious, the wildlife appeared not to be hostile in the slightest, her tracks never once crossing with the predators. Wasn’t there any violence? She couldn’t believe that: cats hunt mice, smaller animals fall prey to the bigger ones. Nature needs carnivores equally to herbivores, all the species balancing each other out. How could a place where that wasn’t the case exist? She was soon to find out.

Winter days came, sun hiding behind the horizon seemingly not long after dawn. Yet, there she was – the sole survivor of banishment, even if self-imposed. She tore her way through the wilderness, hungry and dizzy from exhaustion. The snow that year had fallen earlier than usual, leaving her with little time to prepare for the cold – and so, she suffered the consequences of it. Forward and forward, she dragged her feet through heaps of white, dreaming of warm fire. Her vision reduced to but a narrow tunnel, she noticed a doe. She stopped in her tracks and prepared to shoot an arrow, her breathing slowing down as she focused what was left of her.

Some things she was unable to notice. A roar. She fell, tremendous weight crushing her against the ground as pain set her nerves on fire. Icy snow burning her cheeks, she looked up, thinking it would be the last time she’d do that – and yet, she felt something being lifted off of her. Golden light overwhelmed her, a tall figure stepping in front of her. The last thing she saw were hair black like wings of ravens, warm water pooling around her lulling her to sleep.

***

Who knows how many days had passed before she came to. Her head throbbing, she woke up slowly, too confused to comprehend anything. Instinctively, she tried to get up, pain instantly flooding her senses. “ Please, don’t move. You have to rest,” someone said, a gentle hand pushing her by the shoulder down onto the pillows. She let out a sigh, a sudden sense of peace calming her body. “ Where am I?” she asked in a weak voice, squinting her eyes in an attempt to see anything. Second by second, she forced reality back into focus. “ In my camp. You’re safe here.” “ Who… Are you?” she uttered, but didn’t hear the answer. Having just became clear, the world began to fade out, only a face with a scar letting itself be known to her.

***

Within weeks, she began to walk again, the man having spent all his energy nurturing her. He’d feed her fish and pigeon stew, never letting the fire die out, as to keep the cave warm. He’d redress her wounds with careful – although clumsy and unpractised – care, the ointment making her skin itch, its herbal aroma filling her nostrils whenever the jar was opened.

At first, she lacked balance and strength, dizziness overwhelming her just after few steps. However, she was able to sit up again – she wouldn’t let herself be discouraged by anything. Progress, even if gradual, was still progress… Perhaps she didn’t mind the company as well.

The man, Kennyo, claimed to be a pilgrim from a land far away, traveling in order to reach the state of harmony. Generally reserved and hardly radiant in his ways, he appeared to be grim, the scar splitting his face in halves seemingly supporting the notion. Yet, had somebody cared enough to truly look, they’d see something odd – a dim, almost shy, aura of tenderness surrounding him at all times. She couldn’t understand it at first either, his demeanor causing her to wonder what had happened to shape him like so. Yet, despite sitting with her by the fire each night, he never gave her a clear answer.

No less confused, but certainly stronger, one day she decided to test her limits and go for a walk. Slowly, she dragged herself up to the exit of the cave, holding firmly onto the wall with one hand. She squinted her eyes, outside world being brighter than she remembered – or was it? She blinked away any soreness, surprise taking its place instead.

It appeared spring had come while she was still in recovery, thousands of buds spread over the tree crowns preparing to finally grow and develop fully. She gasped in awe, first fresh flowers emerging from within melting snow. She looked up, but something wasn’t quite right. It wasn’t the sun that initially blinded her – no, it could hardly compare, its light coming from too far away. Her brows knitted together, she took a step forward, swaying as she tried to uphold her balance. Holding onto side of the mountain, she came closer and closer to the source of brightness.

She stopped, the scene unraveling before her seemingly begging her to just stand and watch in silence. There, a couple meters in front of her, was Kennyo, kneeling on the ground with his back towards her. A broken branch in his arms, he tilted his head back and said his prayers, liquid gold leaking from his scar, falling straight onto the dead plant. Her body froze mid-step – what was happening? She could only see so much. His shoulders moved. Kennyo dug out a hole in the ground with his hands and put the branch inside of it.

A gasp, one she couldn’t hold back. A tree began to grow, the cycle she observed for so many years occurring right there in the matter of minutes. Taller and taller, budding, blossoming, just for the leaves to turn red, whither and fall down, over and over again until it stopped, standing no different from its surroundings. Only then she managed to turn her attention away from it – and to notice him staring at her with regret in his eyes. “ Kennyo, what are you?”

***

If he could have chosen, he’d rather never tell her the truth. To be a pilgrim was easier than to be a god – much more one of two faces, at that.

His face was split in halves – well, at first glance. If somebody looked just a moment more, they’d see that one was bigger than the other, perhaps they’d understand that so was his nature. What they would miss was hidden deeper inside: which one was the dominant, that was his choice, for he, Kennyo, was god of compassion and ruthlessness alike. Yet, the other never perished, which he was gravely aware of.

They sat by the fire, spring winds humming outside their shelter. “ So, you were a god all along?” she sighed, at loss to what else she could say. “ But why are you here? Why do you live in a cave if you’re a god? Why didn’t you heal me and moved on?” “ Restoration steals time, and you humans already have little of it. I have nowhere else to be regardless,” he claimed, shadows playing over his face as he stared into the flames. “ You could live in one of the cities, right? Even…” she trailed off, averting her gaze from him. “Mine was more comfortable than the wilderness.” “ I can’t.” “ Why is that?” Kennyo inhaled deeply. Storm growing inside of him, his eyes became darker, black like asphalt lakes. “ Cities are created in the image of gods, one for each – but I have two and can enter neither of them,” he stated, covering one of his eyes with his hand. “ At least not anymore.” “ I don’t understand.” “ It’s only an ancient story of a being that is no longer there.” “ If it involves you, I have to know. I want to know.”

Only fire could be heard buzzing, even her breaths being muffled by the heavy atmosphere. “ Gods wage wars and so did I. I was fighting against the Lost God, the devil himself. I lost and he marked me so that I would never forget. The wound never healed and so, I became the Two Faced God. It split my city into two – perfect mirrored reflections of each other, both in values and structure. But I am fully neither of them, so both stay out of my reach,” he sighed, seemingly calming down. “ You should go to the other one once you recover. Many had taken refuge there.” She stood up, just to walk up to him and sit by his side. “ You know… If you don’t mind, I’m fine staying here. It must be lonely.”

Dream:

Content Warnings - Dream ending: implied impending death of partner, from natural causes (old age) - does not happen in the end.

Years passed and she did along with them, maturing and growing – and then, slowly beginning to wither. Her sight began to diminish, her hair turning silver as wrinkles spread over her face. Yet, she couldn’t bring herself to leave, not quite yet. Sometimes, she’d ask him to lay besides her and she’d trace his scar lovingly, her fingers showing her his face. “ Have I told you of what I did back at my city?” she’d say more than anything, already knowing the answer. Yet, she’d wait for it all the same. “ You can remind me,” he’d hum in reply. “ I was a student. At first, I learnt at a school and then moved to a university of sorts… You know, I loved studying – science and culture and everything in-between. Well, maybe I enjoyed learning, not studying itself…” she sighed, but, to his surprise, picked up her tale again.

“ There was one thing I’ve read about and never quite forgot, though. You see, there’s this technique, I’m not so sure how it works anymore… But, the general idea, was to connect broken pieces of porcelain with molten metal, so that it could become whole again. To think, I can’t even recall its name,” she laughed. “ This metal was ornamental.” “ I see. Interesting, indeed.” She seemed tired. Thinking she’d fall asleep soon, he kissed her forehead and was just about to leave when she burst out into laughter again. “ You silly, silly man. I’m not going anywhere, stop acting like it’s my last day.” “ You’re old, ____. Eternity…” “ Eternity can wait,” she cut him off. “ I’m only growing old to stop and grow young again – in this form or in other, I will return and haunt you until you’re sick of me.” “ I think you’d need plenty more lifetimes for that.” “ And I intend to use them all. Trust me, you’ll just blink and I’ll be back again. And again. And again.” “ And if I granted you life that never ends?” he suddenly spoke. “ Then I’ll take it all the same. You’d just have to blink a little less.”

A genuine smile lit up his face, one she so craved to see for so many years. “ Then so be it. Tomorrow,” he said. Kennyo got up and was just about to leave when she stopped him: “ Hey. You know… I think you’re like broken porcelain. One day you’ll be treated… And then, you’ll be even more beautiful. The god of acceptance...”

Wouldn’t you agree? Perhaps, perhaps all along you were just her.

Nightmare:

Content Warnings - Nightmare Ending: lethal injury, death of major character, death of lover, bad ending

She fell, icy snow digging into her cheek as something warm began to pool at her side. She blinked, not quite understanding what had happened to her – who? Hadn’t she experienced it all already? Her fingers curling up into fists, she looked up from her spot. Humans. She screamed.

Her shout tore air apart, causing the hairs on his arms to stand up. Perhaps he knew on his way there, perhaps he knew the moment he had heard it – and yet, he still prayed to whatever deities that were above him to spare her. Indeed, he was the tainted, the broken, god… But he only asked for her to be safe. Could that be too much?

His eyes rested upon her, his mind beginning to wail. Only half-aware of his movements, Kennyo took a step forward, golden aura surrounding him as he crouched beside her. He couldn’t hear the commotion around nor see the terrified figures. The world was red, covered entirely in thick aroma of blood. He took her in his arms, hugging her body to his chest. “ Kennyo,” she uttered. “ Don’t talk. Rest. I will …” he stopped, her hand touching his cheek. “ You’re changing.” A drop. Thick and black, it fell onto her face, just to slowly drip down her jaw. “ You can’t. Please,” she begged. “ Don’t. We need to…” And yet – no answer came, none was ever to come again.

Kennyo rose to his feet, letting her body, just an empty shell, fall to the ground. Substance alike to molten tar oozing out of his scar, he glared at the huntsmen in front of him. He looked, he looked deep into their souls, he searched for reasons, for answers… But whatever he came across, he could not believe. Only hurting himself, he let his tears evaporate before they spilled – and he hardened his heart, swearing he would never let it be torn apart again. Not after that day. “ That woma…” “ ____. You’ve slain ____,” Kenyo said, devoid of any emotion other than rage “ We..!” the voices stuck in their throats.

They couldn’t know and neither could you. However, even if by accident, even if none of that could have been prevented – it happened. Even more broken and with no desire to get better, that was how the god of revenge was born.

Tag list: @datenoriko, @nad-zeta, @tsubaki3192, @choi-jiyu, @missjudge-me, @ikemencrossedmyth, @plumpblueberry, @i-sleep-like-napoleon, @nimeryaa, @nuttytani, @thesirenwashere, @milas-imaginarium, @kisara-16, @yukas-clover, @alerialumina If you want to be tagged under my future works, let me know (any way works)! ^^ Also, if you have some preferences (for example: you’d rather not be tagged under some series, etc.), please, tell me. If you don’t want to be tagged anymore - please, do not feel bad about it, just say so :)

#kennyo #ikesen kennyo #ikemen sengoku kennyo #ikesen #ikemen sengoku #ikemen series #my writing #my ff

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mantrabay · 3 years

Text

Rush Amid The Rapids.

“Must I always be posting transactions?” I said to myself, Landon Croaker, accountant, adjusting my backpack as I rambled up a ragged winding woodland path.

A granite strewn gulag odyssey lay ahead.

There was the usual green stew of ornate plants.

Ancient Fir Clubmoss which grows into a chalice- like shape.

The St Patrick’s cabbage, with thick leather zig zag veins.

Hapless Fraochan and Whortleberry shrub’s pendant fruit so symmetrical.

I brought my notebook with me.

Closet novelist or bard one day?

Canopy of lattice branch springboards abound.

Shrieks

from stunned squirrels leaping in the arc of a trapeze with blue jay alarm signal.

Rustle of rabbits under slender stalks.

Puffball cloud and brown-dust spore floaters.

A wastrel I was within the wilds.

I was getting close to where my friends, a husband and wife team lived and ran a fringe publishing company.

They resided in a cherry wood log cabin with tongue and groove cladding and a pine timbered roof lantern peering down a mountain side.

Like a watchtower the mountain sat in sinister observance.

A fallow deer suddenly appeared.

It looked furtively with startled eyes as if it knew something I didn’t.

Within minutes it vanished.

Flies swarmed about, the spooky whistleblowers on this solitary hiker’s grazed cheeks.

My clothes were wringing wet from the sweltering heat.

The curious urban spirit drove me on.

Chambered cairns, those passage tunnels from the past that act as stone markers for the venturer were rife.

Platform mounds whose ribboned cracks and gouges play host to strongly rooted Chasmophytes.

There was a lurking presence as the cabin became visible.

“Hello, there. Fancy seeing you here.

Welcome back.”

Chelsea, in a croaking baby twang.

“Oh …you frightened me.” Landon said.

I nearly toppled.

Chelsea dashed towards me.

“A bit worried there, Landon.

What a surprise!

We like surprising people too.”

I paused and replied.

“It's the unexpected that adds spice to this life business and others!”

Landon sardonically.

“You sound tired.”

Chelsea replied.

“We’ll change that. We’ll change everything about your life now you’re here.”

The ramifications of that would soon unfold.

“The last time I was here we talked about having children.

Any decision yet?

You could always adopt.”

I continued.

“Don’t have to.

Got my husband and he’s got me.” She said.

“We’re both kids at heart.”

Her sad voice trailing off.

“This location seems ideal but there’s schooling and everything.”

Chelsea hesitantly.

“Nothing that couldn’t be resolved.”

Landon in reply.

Croaker sensed Chelsea’s unease and didn’t continue.

“Hey, what’s this?” Croaker cried as two apples landed at his feet.

“Yahoo. You two.”

Chesney, Chelsea’s husband shouted.

“It’s been so long.

Doesn't time fly?”

Chesney again.

While walking it dawned on Landon how dewy-eyed and child-like this couple were.

Entering the cabin seemed like something from a storybook.

Cartoon mosaics attached to fool’s gold borders, zip purse smashed purple bead inserts, and shredded comic strips.

“There are shrouds of deep mystery here.”

Croaker thought.

“Hey Snap.

What’s accountancy like these days?”

Chesney’s smug question.

“Nothing really changes.

Investment investment hazards and the like.

It’s a world I drifted into.

How about your company in paradise.”

Croaker sarcastically.

“Publishing is odd.

You almost become the stories submitted.”

Chesney observed.

“Birth and regrowth are gaining interest.

Am I boring you?” Chesney enquired.

“Well, it beats accountancy.”

Landon tactfully.

A salad of roasted lemon, fennel fronds and pomegranate was served with

guacamole dip based on chunky avocado.

After our meal we washed up

Chelsea’s phantom figure scurried outside with Olympic speed.

It was so redolent of the suddenness about.

A rapt cocoon descended around Chesney and Landon's interaction.

Landon quizzed Chesney about the urban country rift.

Tranquil timberlands have their own stressors.

“See those creatures slumped awkwardly on fragile twigs?

They sense pending doom.”

Chesney observed.

“Can you really escape hectic city life?”

A querulous tone from Chesney.

“Maybe these divisions are fictional.”

Landon archly.

“Thud. What’s that?”

Chesney shaking.

Chelsea entered.

“Oh dear .. let’s say a homing pigeon.

They’re a strange breed.”

She said smugly.

“Very strange indeed.”

Chesney out loud.

Chelsea and Chesney exchange strained silent glances.

A circus of the wilds continued outside as species vied with species in an ego fanfare.

Chirping robin red breasts,

wing scraping crickets in high chorus.

Vulcan steam curtain as backdrop.

Horseshoe Bats that weave rainbow shafts.

Daddy long legs with their cancan dances on sodden patches.

“Excuse me …..ring a bell?” Chesney diverting Landon’s attention with a broken fragment.

Landon bought this autumn crocus crystal vase on a previous sojourn.

It slipped from his hands in a butter fingers incident.

Croaker uttered the words “my lasting gift” as it fell.

Cackles erupted but frustration for Landon.

“A hilarious keepsake after a fashion.”

Chelsea opined.

“Really?”

Said Landon embarrassed by this anecdote.

The hours passed and they were both tired.

Landon saw Chesney remove a letter from a ring pull drawer.

“Just an old bill. Must shred it.” He said.

“Why would Chesney explain that?

His face reddened.

Curious.” Landon thought.

Shuffling to bed Landon did notice

pink salmon eiderdowns, pillows with children sleeping under moonlit skies, and Milky Way throw blankets.

The night passed uneventfully.

There were some noises in the kitchen as morning approached.

Having woken sluggishly Croaker walked into the dinning area.

A sense of foreboding filled the room.

Landon grappled awkwardly with claustrophobia.

It was disrupted by the chatter of the chestnut -sided warbler.

An oak hook tip moth added charm with its zoom and flutter acrobatics.

“I’ve the creepiest feeling.”

Croaker reasoned.

“BUZZZ ……..Buzzzzz ……Boing.”

My old cell-phone’s text tone.

My boss. Wonder what he wants?”

Landon to himself.

“Dear Landon,

When you return I would like to speak to you about your future with this company.

I can’t go into further details

as it involves a lot of interested parties.

A wide -ranging discussion is in order,

Regards,

Tom Wright

Managing Director.”

Landon’s worst fears now confirmed.

“I’m confused.

Just how pressing is this or …. what is this in front of me?”

A letter from Chesney and Chelsea.

“Hi Landon,

We had to leave quickly.

Help yourself to whatever largesse there is.

Don’t know how long we’ll be.

You can hang around of course or leave.

Don’t break anything!!

Ha ha,

Ches and Chels.”

Incredible! Between the text and the letter who wouldn’t be alarmed?

Landon limped outside to an ear splitting din and a mist laden detritus that merged into pockets of streams steeplechasing each other.

A slimy frog vaulted and cast a damp viscous oil spray in Croaker’s direction.

Something ….a shadow.

“This has been the most peculiar visit I’ve ever had.

Intrigue seems encoded in it.”

Croaker’s anxiety growing.

A tap on the shoulder followed by a crystal shard at his feet.

“The vase remember?

Don’t be so serious ……..we’ve something to discuss with you.”

Chesney said pointedly.

“An Agatha Christie mystery novel has nothing on this.”

Landon fretted.

“We’ve been reflecting, Chelsea and I.

Your presence is an extraordinary coincidence.”

Chesney quizzically.

“We’d like to offer you a job as our accountant.”

Chelsea suggested.

Croaker now shivering.

“You know by now we love to jumpstart even our closest friends.

This post is tailor made for you.”

Chelsea once more.

“Your boss will understand.”

Croaker’s head was now in a spin.

“You like writing don’t you?

There’s plenty of stories here.”

Chelsea opined.

“All this trouble to offer me a job?” Croaker queried.

“We don’t do things by halves.”

Chelsea with Chesney nodding.

A carousel of thoughts flashed through Landon’s mind at this juncture.

He walked in a trance struggling with everything.

“What was in Chelsea’s sports bag I wonder?” Thought Croaker.

“Let’s go for a swim, Landon.

I’ve got swim trunks for us all.”

Chelsea tossed a nylon mesh swim trunks at Landon as everyone changed.

Something slipped out of Chesney's pocket without him noticing.

It was that letter Chesney removed previously and read as follows.

“Dear Chesney and Chelsea,

As your doctor I regret you won’t be able to have children. It’s with a heavy heart I share this with you.

There are many reasons for this…”

The rest of the letter was creased and illegible.

It was subsequently swept to the river’s edge underneath a Crested Iris by a slight breeze.

Meanwhile, we were all breast stroking energetically while taking the occasional breather.

“You can make up your mind, Landon, at the end of this swim whenever that is and wherever it is taking us.”

Chelsea giggled as she circulated in the eddying stream.

We all started off again as we followed each other’s course.

“Awh, the child within!” Cried Chelsea.

As Landon pondered his fate the mountain looked down imperiously upon us all as the stray deer suddenly reappeared from nowhere.

Maybe that deer did know something after all!

Photograph and literary piece by mantrabay copyright protected

5 notes · View notes

creedatelier · 4 years

Text

Rush Amid The Rapids.

“Must I always be posting transactions?” I said to myself, Landon Croaker, accountant, adjusting my backpack as I rambled up a ragged winding woodland path.

A granite strewn gulag odyssey lay ahead.

There was the usual green stew of ornate plants.

Ancient Fir Clubmoss which grows into a chalice- like shape.

The St Patrick’s cabbage, with thick leather zig zag veins.

Hapless Fraochan and Whortleberry shrub’s pendant fruit so symmetrical.

I brought my notebook with me.

Closet novelist or bard one day?

Canopy of lattice branch springboards abound.

Shrieks

from stunned squirrels leaping in the arc of a trapeze with blue jay alarm signal.

Rustle of rabbits under slender stalks.

Puffball cloud and brown-dust spore floaters.

A wastrel I was within the wilds.

I was getting close to where my friends, a husband and wife team lived and ran a fringe publishing company.

They resided in a cherry wood log cabin with tongue and groove cladding and a pine timbered roof lantern peering down a mountain side.

Like a watchtower the mountain sat in sinister observance.

A fallow deer suddenly appeared.

It looked furtively with startled eyes as if it knew something I didn’t.

Within minutes it vanished.

Flies swarmed about, the spooky whistleblowers on this solitary hiker’s grazed cheeks.

My clothes were wringing wet from the sweltering heat.

The curious urban spirit drove me on.

Chambered cairns, those passage tunnels from the past that act as stone markers for the venturer were rife.

Platform mounds whose ribboned cracks and gouges play host to strongly rooted Chasmophytes.

There was a lurking presence as the cabin became visible.

“Hello, there. Fancy seeing you here.

Welcome back.”

Chelsea, in a croaking baby twang.

“Oh …you frightened me.” Landon said.

I nearly toppled.

Chelsea dashed towards me.

“A bit worried there, Landon.

What a surprise!

We like surprising people too.”

I paused and replied.

“It's the unexpected that adds spice to this life business and others!”

Landon sardonically.

“You sound tired.”

Chelsea replied.

“We’ll change that. We’ll change everything about your life now you’re here.”

The ramifications of that would soon unfold.

“The last time I was here we talked about having children.

Any decision yet?

You could always adopt.”

I continued.

“Don’t have to.

Got my husband and he’s got me.” She said.

“We’re both kids at heart.”

Her sad voice trailing off.

“This location seems ideal but there’s schooling and everything.”

Chelsea hesitantly.

“Nothing that couldn’t be resolved.”

Landon in reply.

Croaker sensed Chelsea’s unease and didn’t continue.

“Hey, what’s this?” Croaker cried as two apples landed at his feet.

“Yahoo. You two.”

Chesney, Chelsea’s husband shouted.

“It’s been so long.

Doesn't time fly?”

Chesney again.

While walking it dawned on Landon how dewy-eyed and child-like this couple were.

Entering the cabin seemed like something from a storybook.

Cartoon mosaics attached to fool’s gold borders, zip purse smashed purple bead inserts, and shredded comic strips.

“There are shrouds of deep mystery here.”

Croaker thought.

“Hey Snap.

What’s accountancy like these days?”

Chesney’s smug question.

“Nothing really changes.

Investment investment hazards and the like.

It’s a world I drifted into.

How about your company in paradise.”

Croaker sarcastically.

“Publishing is odd.

You almost become the stories submitted.”

Chesney observed.

“Birth and regrowth are gaining interest.

Am I boring you?” Chesney enquired.

“Well, it beats accountancy.”

Landon tactfully.

A salad of roasted lemon, fennel fronds and pomegranate was served with

guacamole dip based on chunky avocado.

After our meal we washed up

Chelsea’s phantom figure scurried outside with Olympic speed.

It was so redolent of the suddenness about.

A rapt cocoon descended around Chesney and Landon's interaction.

Landon quizzed Chesney about the urban country rift.

Tranquil timberlands have their own stressors.

“See those creatures slumped awkwardly on fragile twigs?

They sense pending doom.”

Chesney observed.

“Can you really escape hectic city life?”

A querulous tone from Chesney.

“Maybe these divisions are fictional.”

Landon archly.

“Thud. What’s that?”

Chesney shaking.

Chelsea entered.

“Oh dear .. let’s say a homing pigeon.

They’re a strange breed.”

She said smugly.

“Very strange indeed.”

Chesney out loud.

Chelsea and Chesney exchange strained silent glances.

A circus of the wilds continued outside as species vied with species in an ego fanfare.

Chirping robin red breasts,

wing scraping crickets in high chorus.

Vulcan steam curtain as backdrop.

Horseshoe Bats that weave rainbow shafts.

Daddy long legs with their cancan dances on sodden patches.

“Excuse me …..ring a bell?” Chesney diverting Landon’s attention with a broken fragment.

Landon bought this autumn crocus crystal vase on a previous sojourn.

It slipped from his hands in a butter fingers incident.

Croaker uttered the words “my lasting gift” as it fell.

Cackles erupted but frustration for Landon.

“A hilarious keepsake after a fashion.”

Chelsea opined.

“Really?”

Said Landon embarrassed by this anecdote.

The hours passed and they were both tired.

Landon saw Chesney remove a letter from a ring pull drawer.

“Just an old bill. Must shred it.” He said.

“Why would Chesney explain that?

His face reddened.

Curious.” Landon thought.

Shuffling to bed Landon did notice

pink salmon eiderdowns, pillows with children sleeping under moonlit skies, and Milky Way throw blankets.

The night passed uneventfully.

There were some noises in the kitchen as morning approached.

Having woken sluggishly Croaker walked into the dinning area.

A sense of foreboding filled the room.

Landon grappled awkwardly with claustrophobia.

It was disrupted by the chatter of the chestnut -sided warbler.

An oak hook tip moth added charm with its zoom and flutter acrobatics.

“I’ve the creepiest feeling.”

Croaker reasoned.

“BUZZZ ……..Buzzzzz ……Boing.”

My old cell-phone’s text tone.

My boss. Wonder what he wants?”

Landon to himself.

“Dear Landon,

When you return I would like to speak to you about your future with this company.

I can’t go into further details

as it involves a lot of interested parties.

A wide -ranging discussion is in order,

Regards,

Tom Wright

Managing Director.”

Landon’s worst fears now confirmed.

“I’m confused.

Just how pressing is this or …. what is this in front of me?”

A letter from Chesney and Chelsea.

“Hi Landon,

We had to leave quickly.

Help yourself to whatever largesse there is.

Don’t know how long we’ll be.

You can hang around of course or leave.

Don’t break anything!!

Ha ha,

Ches and Chels.”

Incredible! Between the text and the letter who wouldn’t be alarmed?

Landon limped outside to an ear splitting din and a mist laden detritus that merged into pockets of streams steeplechasing each other.

A slimy frog vaulted and cast a damp viscous oil spray in Croaker’s direction.

Something ….a shadow.

“This has been the most peculiar visit I’ve ever had.

Intrigue seems encoded in it.”

Croaker’s anxiety growing.

A tap on the shoulder followed by a crystal shard at his feet.

“The vase remember?

Don’t be so serious ……..we’ve something to discuss with you.”

Chesney said pointedly.

“An Agatha Christie mystery novel has nothing on this.”

Landon fretted.

“We’ve been reflecting, Chelsea and I.

Your presence is an extraordinary coincidence.”

Chesney quizzically.

“We’d like to offer you a job as our accountant.”

Chelsea suggested.

Croaker now shivering.

“You know by now we love to jumpstart even our closest friends.

This post is tailor made for you.”

Chelsea once more.

“Your boss will understand.”

Croaker’s head was now in a spin.

“You like writing don’t you?

There’s plenty of stories here.”

Chelsea opined.

“All this trouble to offer me a job?” Croaker queried.

“We don’t do things by halves.”

Chelsea with Chesney nodding.

A carousel of thoughts flashed through Landon’s mind at this juncture.

He walked in a trance struggling with everything.

“What was in Chelsea’s sports bag I wonder?” Thought Croaker.

“Let’s go for a swim, Landon.

I’ve got swim trunks for us all.”

Chelsea tossed a nylon mesh swim trunks at Landon as everyone changed.

Something slipped out of Chesney's pocket without him noticing.

It was that letter Chesney removed previously and read as follows.

“Dear Chesney and Chelsea,

As your doctor I regret you won’t be able to have children. It’s with a heavy heart I share this with you.

There are many reasons for this…”

The rest of the letter was creased and illegible.

It was subsequently swept to the river’s edge underneath a Crested Iris by a slight breeze.

Meanwhile, we were all breast stroking energetically while taking the occasional breather.

“You can make up your mind, Landon, at the end of this swim whenever that is and wherever it is taking us.”

Chelsea giggled as she circulated in the eddying stream.

We all started off again as we followed each other’s course.

“Awh, the child within!” Cried Chelsea.

As Landon pondered his fate the mountain looked down imperiously upon us all as the stray deer suddenly reappeared from nowhere.

Maybe that deer did know something after all!

Photograph and prose poem Copyright Protected.

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#sketch art #slam poetry #sculptures.#video #pencil #photography #graphic #painting #art #song #submission

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justforbooks · 3 years

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John le Carré, writer whose spy novels chronicle how people’s lives play out in the corrupt setting of the cold war era and beyond.

John le Carré, who has died aged 89 of pneumonia, raised the spy novel to a new level of seriousness and respect.

He was in his late 20s when he began to write fiction – in longhand, in small red pocket notebooks, on his daily train journey between his home in Buckinghamshire and his day job with MI5, the counter-intelligence service, in London. After the publication of two neatly crafted novels, Call for the Dead (1961) and A Murder of Quality (1962), which received measured reviews and modest sales, he hit the big time with The Spy Who Came in from the Cold (1963).

Its publisher, Victor Gollancz, secured a puff from Graham Greene (“the best spy story I have ever read”), and the widely rumoured belief that the author was an insider in the secret world of intelligence helped his third novel become one of the great bestsellers of the postwar period.

Le Carré’s subject was the human and political ambiguities of the cold war. His book was gritty, stripped of glamour. Reviewers talked of The Spy Who Came in from the Cold as a grown-up answer to Ian Fleming’s James Bond novels. It was more than that. His taut, complex plot, strong storytelling gifts, and distinctive characterisation made his book a memorable literary achievement.

Yet Le Carré believed that literary London, with its longstanding apartheid separating literary fiction from its commercial ugly sister, genre fiction, never quite accepted his success. He was not a comfortable player in the metropolitan literary scene. When he was nominated for the Booker prize in 2011, within 45 minutes his agent issued a statement from the author: “I do not compete for literary prizes and have therefore asked for my name to be withdrawn.”

He was born David Cornwell, in Poole, Dorset, and adopted the pen name John le Carré when his first novel was published. His paternal grandfather was a respectable nonconformist bricklayer who became a house builder and served as mayor of Poole. Family life, with hovering Cornwell aunts, was dominated by piety and decorum, leavened by David’s black-sheep father, Ronnie, a noted con man and maestro of bankruptcies, financial crises and repeated brushes with the law. His explosive temper led to beatings for David, “but only a few times and not with much conviction”.

In 1937, when his mother, Olive (nee Glassy, and known as Wiggly in the family), ran off with an estate agent, David was told that she had died. He tracked her down years later, and they met on a platform of Ipswich train station. There was nothing to heal in their broken relationship, and, as he reported in his 2016 memoir The Pigeon Tunnel, she did not think very much of his novels.

He was raised in a bookless household, and left to find his own way to Sapper, the creator of Bulldog Drummond and Arthur Conan Doyle. Sent away to prep school, St Andrew’s, Pangbourne, and then to Sherborne school in Dorset, David became a modern linguist with a special interest in German. He detested the Anglican piety and rampant bullying at his public school, quickly learning the survival value of creating a legend that he had a normal family life.

He never knew when he went home for school holidays which of his father’s mistresses would be waiting to greet him, and deception and lying were the ways adult life seemed to work. He and his older brother, Tony, developed skills in observation and reading between the lines, targeted at their father. They read Ronnie’s letters, and rifled through his filing cabinets in the hope of uncovering their father’s complex web of lies. Passionate in devotion to his children, Ronnie in turn kept his boys under constant surveillance, listening to their phone calls, searching their rooms, opening their mail. Life with Ronnie was an apprenticeship in espionage.

In Single & Single (1999), Le Carré revisited the experience of fathers and sons spying on each other. The struggle against his father continued far beyond Ronnie’s death in 1975. “Until I die the father-son relationship will obsess me,” Le Carré commented in an interview in 1999. His 1986 novel A Perfect Spy, praised by Philip Roth as “the best English novel since the war,” opened a window upon his family life.

He toyed with the idea of writing an autobiography long before the publication of The Pigeon Tunnel, more an engaging collection of reminiscences than an exploration of his inner life – what was left out of his memoirs was striking. Yet the chapter titled Son of the Author’s Father, first published as In Ronnie’s Court in the New Yorker in 2002, is a troubled, brilliant and unforgettable portrait of his parents. His father’s judgment of other people, he wrote, “depended entirely on how much they respected him”.

Le Carré studied German at the University of Berne in 1947-48. A young Englishman from the right social background, approaching fluency in German, inevitably came to the attention of the Secret Intelligence Service (SIS, familiarly MI6), and he was recruited by a talentspotter in the British embassy in Berne.

Called up for national service in 1949, Le Carré spent time as an intelligence officer in Graz, interviewing defectors from the wrong side of the iron curtain. He found no heroes even among the most daring escapees from East Germany. After two years, his father persuaded Lincoln College, Oxford, to allow his son to be interviewed, although the college had already filled its quota for freshers, and he was accepted to read modern languages in 1952.

At Oxford he resumed work as an intelligence agent. He contributed drawings to Oxford Left magazine and compiled dossiers for MI5 on fellow students suspected of leftwing activity. Le Carré recalled these years with lighthearted irony in A Perfect Spy, but he accepted that communist subversion was a real danger to Britain.

In 1954 he married Ann Sharp. After his father’s spectacular bankruptcy that year, Le Carré was forced to leave Oxford, and taught briefly at Edgarley Hall, a prep school near Glastonbury, before returning to Oxford, and being awarded a first in 1956. He became a schoolmaster at Eton, where he taught German language and literature for two years, and found life laden with complexities. “I found I was involved in a kind of social war. One lived midway between the drawing room and the servants’ green baize door.” In a Paris Review interview he suggested that the worst pupils at Eton provided him with “a unique insight into the criminal mind”.

Le Carré’s CV became more interesting in the years after 1958. Officially, he qualified for a late entrants’ scheme at the Foreign Office, and in 1961 was sent to the Bonn embassy. He made frequent visits to Berlin in that summer, and accompanied Germans who attracted the attention of the Foreign Office on visits to Britain. He continued to scribble away at his novels, until the success of The Spy Who Came in from the Cold enabled him to resign.

Le Carré’s own later accounts of his career in British intelligence veered from flat denials to sharply limited acknowledgments that yes, he had been in British intelligence, but no, he would say nothing about it. His lifelong commitment to the omertà demanded of his counter-espionage work in MI5, and his time as an SIS old boy (“I am bound by the vestiges of old-fashioned loyalty to my former services”), could scarcely be sustained. The details began to leak out, and with the publication of Adam Sisman’s substantial biography of Le Carré in 2015, such denials were untenable. This cat was out of the bag, but the precise details of his work have never been spoken of.

He was a protege of the spy-catcher Maxwell Knight. His principal mentor at MI5 was the senior agent-runner “Jack” Bingham (who in 1961 succeeded as seventh Baron Clanmorris). Their relationship did not long survive Bingham’s resentment that Le Carré was cashing in on his secret service. Why, he demanded, would any decent person soil the good name of the service and provide encouragement for the KGB?

Le Carré devoted himself in MI5 to the patriotic duty of giving the Communist party in Britain a hard time. He ran long-term informants (“joes”) who were active trade unionists and Communist party members, disillusioned by Khrushchev’s revelations about Stalin’s crimes. There were interrogations to be conducted, phones to tap, and break-ins to authorise. It was all small-bore stuff, and he did not much enjoy it.

In 1960, for reasons never publicly stated, he applied to transfer to MI6, completing an initiation course in intelligence tradecraft the following spring. He was sent under Foreign Office cover to Bonn as second secretary (political). He was not declared to the BND (the German Intelligence Service). Bonn was an important posting, and his fluency in German made him a coming man.

The harsh Martin Ritt movie of The Spy Who Came in from the Cold (1965), starring Richard Burton and Claire Bloom, won four Bafta awards, including best British film. Le Carré’s account of the making of the movie appears in The Pigeon Tunnel.

After leaving the Foreign Office, he took his family to live in Crete, where he wrote A Small Town in Germany. It was a novel steeped in the hesitant British engagement in the European Economic Community, and the rise of demagogic rightwing populist movements in Germany. The world of British diplomacy has rarely seemed more threadbare, and in the aggressive, lower-class Alan Turner, Le Carré created a perfect foil for the self-deluded upper-class diplomats who proved easy prey for a mole.

American sales made Le Carré a wealthy man, as writers go, but his marriage did not long survive his transition to the life of a full-time writer. In 1964 he began an intense friendship with the novelist James Kennaway, and then an affair with Kennaway’s wife, Susan. The relationship is portrayed in Kennaway’s novel Some Gorgeous Accident (1967), Le Carré’s The Naive and Sentimental Lover (1971), and in The Kennaway Papers, edited by Susan Kennaway in 1981. Everyone came away with a trophy book from this complicated relationship.

The Naive and Sentimental Lover was poorly received. (“The book is a disastrous failure” – TLS.) Reviewers and readers knew what kind of book they wanted from Le Carré, and he was henceforth ruefully prepared to accept the reading public’s judgment.

Le Carré and his wife divorced in 1971 (“I think we should dissolve our marriage,” he wrote from Malibu), and he subsequently married Jane Eustace, an editor with his publishers.

The mole-hunting years, from the unmasking of George Blake to the uncovering of the treason of Anthony Blunt, left the intelligence community battered and discredited. Le Carré had certainly contributed to a new realism about spying, giving readers the strong impression that when spies went about their business they tended to leave their dinner jackets at home. Despite voting Labour and feeling despair at the war in Vietnam, he was not a natural fellow-traveller or much of a man of the left. He politely turned down being made a CBE from the government of Margaret Thatcher. But however clearly he saw the human and institutional failings of the guardians of western liberty, that did not make the KGB and its values any less loathsome.

The pursuit of the KGB spymaster Karla, who has penetrated the “Circus” and ruthlessly exploited its core values of liberal humanism, is conducted by George Smiley through Le Carré’s trilogy of novels, Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy (1974), The Honourable Schoolboy (1977) and Smiley’s People (1979). Smiley is an unexpected sort of a hero, “a committed doubter”, who has “sacrificed his life to institutions” but who is determined to protect what is worth protecting in a world of disintegrating values.

John Irvin directed the celebrated BBC/Paramount adaptation, starring Alec Guinness, in 1979. In 2009-10, BBC Radio 4 broadcast adaptations of the Smiley novels starring Simon Russell Beale. The Swedish director Tomas Alfredson’s austere remake, with Gary Oldman as Smiley (and in which Le Carré had a walk-on part, lustily singing the Soviet national anthem), was released in 2011.

Le Carré went about the business of being a novelist with journalistic care. Every potential location was visited and conversations, tones, accents, dress and the feel of a location found a place in his travel notebooks. The immediacy of his observations gave his novels an extraordinary visual precision. The publication of those notebooks would provide an extraordinary insight into the way he wrote. While working on Tinker Tailor in the early 1970s he made photographic studies of locations he planned to use (“partly to give me documentary help”), but in later years travel notebooks sufficed. When he visited Lebanon and Israel, doing research for The Little Drummer Girl (1983), he talked to Israeli generals and senior intelligence figures. A knowledgable raconteur with an operational background, Le Carré found unexpected doors open to him.

An account in The Pigeon Tunnel places Le Carré in Beirut, being driven blindfolded to an anonymous building, and then taken into a room to wait. Yasser Arafat enters. “Mr David, why have you come to see me?” I have come, Le Carré said, to put my hand on the Palestinian heart. At which, Arafat seized Le Carré’s hand, placing it on his chest. “It is here, it is here.”

He came to see a moderation in Arafat which confounded western propaganda. Arafat and other Palestinian leaders were unexpectedly forthcoming. The experience of visiting the Palestinian camps in Lebanon enabled Le Carré to see the Palestinians as victims, and not as terrorists. He was accused in Israel of being antisemitic, a claim heartily rejected by Le Carré, and by independent commentators. A review of The Tailor of Panama in the New York Times in 1996, implying that Le Carré was an antisemite, led to an ill-tempered exchange of letters with Salman Rushdie in the Guardian in 1997.

He had been writing for decades about the disintegration of cold war simplicities. The collapse of the Soviet Union in 1989 confirmed his sense that both sides were equally exhausted. The Secret Pilgrim (1990) introduces the first of a new variety of villain: Sir Anthony Joyston Bradshaw, a smooth-tongued amoral capitalist for whom the Thatcherite and Reaganite theology of free markets proved highly serviceable.

A new terrain was opened up by the worldwide typhoon of deregulation that followed the end of the cold war. Le Carré wrote with indignation about the international arms trade and drugs dealers (The Night Manager, 1993, adapted for BBC television in 2016 by Susanne Bier), the exploitation of Africa by the pharmaceutical industries (The Constant Gardener, 2001), and the sinister competition by capitalists worldwide to exploit the valuable natural resources of Africa (The Mission Song, 2006).

He found rich ambiguities in the world of private banking in Single & Single and of post-9/11 espionage in A Most Wanted Man (2008). The fate of the disaffected Muslim immigrant Issa Karpov, torn to shreds by competing intelligence agencies, British, American and German, did not fit into the emerging western discourses of terrorism. Alan Furst in the New York Times said A Most Wanted Man was Le Carré’s “strongest, most powerful novel” with “near perfect narrative pace”. The diatribes against Tony Blair and the British role in the invasion of Iraq in Absolute Friends (2003) were more enthusiastically received in Britain than in the US.

Le Carré always wanted to talk to the real spies, arms dealers, gangsters and crooked financiers. While visiting Moscow to do background work for Our Game (1995), he met a Russian mafia boss named Dima, in the nightclub “which he owned and which was guarded by young men with Kalashnikovs and grenades strapped to their belts. He came in wearing Ray-Bans with his hookers and his men and his people.” In Our Kind of Traitor (2010), he achieved the near-impossibility of making his fictional Dima, a Russian gangster and money launderer, into a complex and sympathetic figure.

The real enemies for Le Carré were not the Russian gangsters, for all their brutality, but the western, and particularly British, enablers and louche House of Lords and City corruptionists, with palms extended to take a share of the money, however obtained and from whatever source. The upper-class rogues who control “Great Britain plc” come quite high in Le Carré’s ranking of evil men. The Mossack Fonseca revelations of 2016 gave his novels of the past several decades a sharp timeliness.

A Delicate Truth, Le Carré’s 23rd novel, published in 2013, belongs to the brave new world of outsourcing, extraordinary rendition, and the war on terror. It is written with a ferocious anger. His bitter disappointment at New Labour, and its free market theology, made A Delicate Truth a testament to the continuing power of a writer by then in his 80s.

Hector Meredith, a security service trouble-maker, describes himself in Our Kind of Traitor as “a late-onset, red-toothed radical with balls”. It’s a good a self-description of Le Carré. “Now we had defeated communism, we were going to have to set about defeating capitalism,” reflects a character in The Secret Pilgrim. Virtually the same words were used by Le Carré in an interview in America.

A Legacy of Spies (2017) looks back to the world of The Spy Who Came in from the Cold. Agent Running in the Field (2019), set in the upheavals of Brexit, sustains the radical fury. When he was awarded the Olof Palme prize in January 2020 – he donated the resulting $100,000 to Médecins Sans Frontières – the Swedish organisers cited his “extraordinary contribution to the necessary fight for freedom, democracy and social justice”.

Since the 1970s Le Carré had lived near St Buryan, Cornwall, “a tiny, desolate part of England, where the real effects of what I see as terrible misgovernment – central misgovernment – can be felt in detail upon agriculture, fishing, communication, and transport, all of those things”. His sense of the indifference of the rich and the pervasive philosophy of greed in Britain aligned him with the great tradition of Victorian radicals and moralists. Like Dickens, he was a serious novelist, and a profoundly entertaining one.

He donated his archive of personal papers, letters and manuscripts (“filling the space of a Cornish barn”) to the Bodleian library in Oxford.

Le Carré is survived by Jane and their son, Nicholas (who writes as Nick Harkaway), three sons, Simon, Stephen and Timothy, from his first marriage, and a half-sister, the actor Charlotte Cornwell (upon whom Charlie in his 1983 novel The Little Drummer Girl was based).

🔔 John le Carré (David John Moore Cornwell), novelist, born 19 October 1931; died 12 December 2020

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thinking-about-writing-mm · 2 years

Text

Chapter 5

Title: Those Evil Ways

Pairing: OT7 x Y/N (female reader)

Genre: supernatural au, medical, fluff, angst, eventual smut, war

Word count: 9.000 ~

Characters: Demons!BTS, human reader (with special abilities later in the story)

Warnings: swearing, pinning, making out, inappropriate touches, angsty parts… pierced Kookie (is that even a warning? 😅), suggestive behaviour, Jimin is a needy little demon, mentions of blood (only slightly connected to a ritual they do), Y/N is confused af, demon talk – if I have missed something please send a pigeon 😅❤️

Author’s notes: I want to apologize for the big gap between the last chapter and this one but probably for a while now it will be that way since the new school year started. I’m a medical student so… Many things to read and study and many test coming the following three weeks. Please bare with me and thank you for reading ❤️❤️