#the word Interrogation crossed out and Interview written above it

[harukowitch]

So I’ve been reading by @meesterblu called “The Boy with the Moon on His Chest, and Other Tales.” It and it’s inspired me to draw a few scenes. Not finished with the other two yet but wanted to share some of it now.

This was a small scene but I still enjoyed it. It made me smile at the adorable sibling dynamic between Usopp and Reiju. She may think that she is still learning to be human but she has protective older sibling role down pat.

[theleafpile]

you know what, for you @pipiripipi101 and @thewollfgang I got out my hard drive and here's the old fic, titled "Twenty Questions," that might be just the thing you're looking for.

Originally published 01-02-2018, 6,065 words

Original prompt:

from @lucifermorningstarlux: "I would love for there to be an interview scenario between Lucifer and Chloe, like she gets to ask him twenty questions about anything. And he has to answer with no side distractions. And then Lucifer gets to ask her twenty questions and she has to answer truthfully. I can literally imagine all sorts here."

Summary:

Chloe and Lucifer play the game twenty questions… with some modifications. They get to each ask each other twenty questions, and have to answer honestly. They both know Lucifer doesn't lie.

The truth, however, requires trust. And belief.

[this was written when I was first discovering how to write fiction so be kind]

Lucifer pulled the chair out for Chloe to sit before dragging the other around to the opposite end of the steel table. The interrogation room lights shone above them mercilessly, casting no shadows. The sound of the metal chair, scraping across the concrete floor, scratched the inside of Chloe’s ears, but she kept her mouth shut in a thin line. Lucifer could have his antics, if it finally meant she could have answers. Of course, he didn’t notice the tension in her shoulders, the calculation behind her gaze. Instead, his eyes shone, dark and mischievous under the bright lights, his smile more similar to what she imagined a lion might smile like, its mouth coated in fresh blood.

He sat, crossing his legs and setting his folded hands atop his knee, the very picture of poise. She rested her forearms on the table, leaning forward.

“You may begin,” he offered magnanimously, lifting a hand as though he were a king, and she his subject.

Nuh-uh. Not today, buddy. “You know the rules?”

He had the audacity to feign boredom. “I think of something, and you have twenty questions to figure it out.”

She shook her head slowly. “Nope,” she said, the word popping off her lips. She caught the small tilt of his head, his curiosity piqued.

“No?”

“I ask you twenty questions, and you have to answer them all. Truthfully.” Something behind his gaze flickered, unsure. “C’mon,” she said, her voice low. “Aren’t you always up for breaking the rules?”

He leaned closer. “I’m always up, darling.”

She hid the smile at his innuendo, hoping that he couldn’t sense how her heart had jumped at the thought of him playing along. “Is that a yes, or not?”

He leaned back, his gray suit as impeccable as the rest of him. “Twenty questions, all answered truthfully,” he confirmed. She nodded. “And I get the same?”

The corner of her mouth lifted in a smile, thinking that she had far less to hide. “Yep.”

“Concurrently?”

“Why not?”

“You do realize that I don’t lie, regardless?”

She bit her tongue to keep it from lashing out. She was so tired of his half-truths, his omissions, that even if she didn’t get the whole truth of out him now, she could at least get a better sense of what to ask later. “Yep,” is all she would say.

He threw up his hands in mock surrender. “If it’s truly what you desire, then who am I to judge?” He looked her over hungrily. “And I can think of a few burning questions I want answers to, myself.”

Satisfied, she tugged a scrap piece of paper from her back pocket and smoothed it out on the table, pen already in hand. She drew a line, making two columns, and wrote “C” in one, “L” in the other.

“I can remember how many I ask, you know,” he huffed out, incredulous that she would go to such lengths.

“I don’t trust you,” she answered easily.

Too easily, he thought, even as she smiled teasingly at him. But how could be blame her for that? If he were being honest. The ordeal with the Sinnerman had left her walking away from him. Had left her nearly getting shot, only to be saved by… Cain. Of all people. His jaw clenched, and Chloe couldn’t help but wonder if it was directed at her.

“Who first?” she asked lightly, eyes downcast on the paper, pulling it back toward her.

“Why don’t you go ahead?” he said, feeling the dark cord of jealousy pulling tighter within him at the thought of her and Marcus – Cain – doing anything together. Even working together. Even being on the same planet together had his teeth set on edge.

“Okay,” she breathed out, suddenly nervous. There were so many questions, that she couldn’t be sure where to begin. She shyly lifted her gaze to his before steeling herself, pressing on. “Why are you upset right now?” she asked quietly, busying herself with ticking off a question under the “C” column.

He hadn’t been sure what he was expecting, but it wasn’t that. He heaved in a breath to answer, shifting uncomfortably. “I don’t trust ‘Marcus Pierce.’”

“You have to be honest,” she reminded him, setting down the pen.

“I am being honest.”

She nodded thoughtfully, and he could see the resolution in her expression, the sense of disappointment. He hated it.

“And I don’t…” he began again, and her eyes shot up to his, “I don’t want you anywhere near him. He’s dangerous.”

She took in his words. “It’s your turn,” she prompted.

“Do you like him?” he asked, steepling his fingers, elbows on the table.

“Really? That’s your first question? You’re as bad as Ella.”

He waited, an eyebrow raised. Chloe screwed up her mouth. This was going to be harder than she thought.

“I don’t know. And that’s the truth. He’s not the best boss I’ve ever had. He’s an ass. But he did save my life.”

“Once."

“Yeah. Once. It was enough to make me believe he’s got good instincts.”

He acquiesced, folding his hands in front of him. “You’re turn.”

She ticked off his box, trying to hide her nervous swallow. “Have you ever seen a therapist, or been institutionalized, before we met?”

“Why would I have been?”

“You can’t answer a question with a question. And you know why.”

“No. Despite countless horror movies depicting me as haunting abandoned hospitals, I have never been committed or seen anyone before Linda.”

Lenient parents was her first thought, but then she remembered – he always spoke of becoming the Devil after being kicked out of the house.

“When was the last time you had sex?” he asked, a cheeky grin firmly in place.

She really didn’t want to tell him that. Her hand darted out, slipping under his suit jacket – much to her partner’s surprise – retrieving his flask. His smile widened as she took a shot. She coughed at the burn of the alcohol. He made no move to retrieve it.

“Before Dan and I divorced,” she managed. Lucifer’s grin faded as his mouth dropped open. She had expected an immediate offer, or some comment about him barely going more than a day without, but there was only abject pity in his eyes.

“You poor thing. No wonder you throw yourself into your work.”

“I’ve always done that,” she weakly protested.

He suddenly leaned forward, eager. “When was the last time you orgasmed?”

“You know it’s my turn, right?”

He waved it off. “You’ll have two in a row, then. Answer the question, detective.”

She licked her lips. “I may have… orgasmed,” she said, looking directly into his eyes, “this morning.”

His gaze dropped to her lips. “How?”

She couldn’t tear herself away from his gaze, wondering if this was how those he questioned felt. But she felt no pull to dispel her darkest desires, or whatever. She was simply… captivated, by his attention, 100% on her.

“I woke up early,” she explained, her voice soft, drawing him in closer. She may as well have a bit of fun, and teasing Lucifer was always sure to be a good time. “Everything was quiet. Everything felt warm, and smooth,” she drew out, her legs rubbing together at the memory, so different from the hard lights and metal she found herself surrounded by now. Something in Lucifer’s gaze had become serious. She lifted a finger to her neck, trailing down to the skin of her chest, drawing down her v-neck blouse to between her breasts. His eyes followed the movement like a predator watching prey. Her finger drew small circles on her chest as she remembered. “I was dreaming about something, I don’t remember what, now. But I felt… loved. And,” her breath caught, and his body jumped at the sound. Her tongue darted out to wet her lips, her finger moving down over her stomach, disappearing under the table. She decided to be brave. “I wanted.”

“Tell me,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Is that a question?”

“If you wish it to be.”

Her heart raced in her chest, but she could feel it all the way down to her fingertips, pulsing. “You,” she whispered. “Or some version of you.”

She expected him to lean back, to gloat. He did not. Instead, he looked… Sad. Eventually he came back to himself, clearing his throat and moving away slightly.

“That’s five, now” he told her, tapping the paper at her elbow, breathing hard.

Dutifully, she wrote it down. They had breached from playful to serious, and now she felt she could really ask the questions on her mind.

“Why do you have sex so much?”

“Is it a lot?”

She decided not to count it, if he was only clarifying. “It really is an inordinate amount. Unsustainable.”

He breathed out his nose a short puff. “It’s fun. I’m good at it. Brings people pleasure. And me, obviously.”

She waited for more. He still couldn’t bring himself to look at her, surprised by the words coming from his mouth.

“Sometimes, in the midst of it, I catch them looking at me with this expression. Like, wonder, almost. Or… awe. I suppose it’s built into me, to want it.”

“Why?”

He huffed, shaking his head, his mouth pulling into a tight line. “No matter how far I’ve Fallen,” he said, closing his eyes for the briefest of moments, “I was an angel first.”

The silence stilled the air around them until he spoke again.

“Do you believe me?” he asked, finally lifting his eyes to hers.

“No. Do you need me to?”

“It would certainly make things easier.”

She couldn’t help a small smile at that, at seeing the man she was more familiar with returning.

“Will you ever have sex with me?”

Yep, he was back. “Ever?” she confirmed.

“Ever.”

She considered it. “I don’t know what the future holds.”

He smiled. It wasn’t smug. Just pleased.

“How do you unlock… everything. Handcuffs. Doors.”

“I am the Devil, darling. Comes with the package.”

“Why?”

“Because not even Hell can hold the Devil, let alone a few pieces of flimsy metal.”

“And that’s the truth?”

“Always. Now tell me,” he said, leaning in, “Did you really want the spawn?”

Chloe narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “Dan wanted kids more than I did,” she admitted. “He comes from a big family. But I knew one was going to be enough for me.”

“That’s not really an answer to the question I asked.”

She knew the answer, but had never said it out loud before. “I didn’t want kids. After the way my mom was… I wasn’t really sure what kind of mother I’d be. And I had a rough pregnancy. Not that it’s any of your business, but I ended up getting my tubes tied after Trixie was born. Dan and I fought about that a lot. But after I had her, I knew that I never wanted to be without her. I love her more than anything else.”

Lucifer sighed, obviously displeased. He leaned back, turning and throwing an arm over the back of the chair.

“Do you have any kids? That you know of?”

“Wouldn’t the world have ended, then? If I had fathered the Antichrist?”

“Answer the question.”

His gaze drifted toward the door, and she looked, wondering what he was thinking lay beyond it. “Not that I know of, no,” he answered, bringing himself back to her with a smile. “Surprised?”

“Actually, a little. Given your, you know. You-ness.” He smiled then, a little proud. She decided to try and lighten the mood between them. “What instruments do you play?”

“All of them.”

She shot him a look. He shrugged.

“What languages do you speak?”

“All of them,” he answered again, amused.

“All of them."

“Yep.”

“How?”

“They aren’t particularly difficult to learn, especially when you have an infinite number of test subjects to learn from and no time limit.”

“How many nightclubs have you owned?”

He studied his fingernails for a moment. “I haven’t really been on Earth long enough to get everything in order before now. Well, there was that one. You may have heard of it. Little place called Eden.”

“Where were you born?”

“I wasn’t born so much as created, but I first came into being in the Silver City.”

“Which is… Heaven.”

“Colloquially.”

Chloe stared down at the paper, keeping track. “And what was your name?”

He didn’t answer, so she looked up. “Why do you ask? Trying to run a background check? I assure you, I won’t be in any databases.”

“Yes,” she answered truthfully, feeling anger build itself in the center of her body. “If you won’t tell me the truth, then I’ll just have to find out for myself.”

“I am telling you the truth.”

“No, Lucifer,” she sighed, setting down the pen. “You’re just telling me more of the same bullshit I hear from you all the time. She let her face fall into her hands before smoothing back her hair, frustrated. “Why don’t you want to tell me your name?” she asked. “There’s got to be some reason. Some real reason. Were you in WitSec, or did you change it to get away from your dad, or –”

“I don’t go by that name anymore,” he interrupted.

“Yeah, I get that, and it’s not like I want to start calling you something else, because weirdly enough, you hear ‘Lucifer’ enough times and it becomes just like any other name. I just want to understand.”

He softened under her imploring gaze. There was no malice behind it, no searching for something she could use against him. “If I tell you, will you never repeat it?

She blinked a few times, surprised, but nodded all the same. He looked up and over her shoulder, toward the camera with its little blinking red light. She knew that footage was recorded, but Lucifer had quickly made friends with the officer who transcribed interviews and interrogations, resulting in a lot of the stranger occurrences and questions being left out of official reports. It wouldn’t take much for someone to dig deeper, but so far, they had been lucky.

“Can I tell you later?” he asked.

Her heart leapt in her chest at the thought, but on the surface she remained calm. “Of course.”

“Eleven for me.” He tapped the paper. “Fifteen for you.”

She noted it and ticked off another in her column. “When you wanted to show me proof of who you were, what stopped you?”

“I don’t know,” he started, then realized that wasn’t entirely true. “Someone… took it from me.”

“What were you going to show me?”

“My face. My true face.”

“Your… face.”

“Well, I couldn’t bloody well show you my…”

“Your what?”

He looked away, and she tried to figure out the expression on his face. “I’ve seen your everything, you know,” she said lightly, pushing at his forearm.

“Not everything, I’m afraid. Not this.”

“Not what?”

He hid any discomfort behind a neutral expression. “My wings. And I couldn’t show you because… because I had cut them off that morning. Little did I know they would simply grow back.”

She ran her fingers over her lips, thinking. “Do you often struggle with, um. Body modification?”

He gestured to himself. “Why would I need to change this?”

“People change,” she told him.

“Not inside. The outside. I mean,” he chuckled, then gestured down his body with body hands. “Perfection, am I right?”

“Do I have to answer that?”

“Yes. And I’ll even be generous and not count that as a question, considering you only have one remaining.”

She quickly counted her marks. Obstinate, she ticked off two more in his column.

“No,” she agreed. “Your body is very… nice.”

“Nice?” he repeated, astounded. “Nice?”

“I said very nice.”

“Oh, because very nice is so much better.”

She giggled at his outrage, and he relaxed. “Alright. You have eight questions left.” She looked at him through her lashes. “Use them wisely, cause I’ll probably never do this with you again.”

“Do you have any sex toys?”

“Nope,” she answered, making another tick mark. He shook his head, frankly disappointed.

“Have you ever been with a woman?”

“I messed around a little, when I was younger. Nothing serious.”

“If money was no object, where would you like to go? Anywhere in the world,” he added.

“Barcelona,” she answered, and he was surprised at how quickly she responded. “I don’t know. Ever since I was little, I always just liked the name. Always felt drawn toward it. Never found the time to go, I guess.”

“Is this,” he lifted a hand, gesturing to the empty room, “really what you want to do with your life?”

“Be a cop, you mean? I told you before. After my dad died, I just… knew. It feels right. To help people. To put away people who shouldn’t be on the streets.”

“Even if money was no object? Is this truly how you would desire to spend your time?”

She considered it. “Yeah. I mean, I wish I could spend more time with Trixie. I wish the job wasn’t so dangerous. But I know that I can do it. I’m strong enough to, and not everyone is. I guess I feel responsible, like I’m taking the burden off someone else’s shoulders.”

Slowly, his expression melded from one of disbelief to understanding. She wanted to ask why he did this, why he chose to help her, but something in her told her to wait. She only had one question left, after all. She knew he had been wronged, and that this was his way for making up for that. She wouldn’t probably get a straight answer out of him, anyway.

“Do you feel guilty about anything?” he asked.

She lifted a shoulder in a shrug. “I think we all have our fair share.”

“No,” he said desperately, shifting to rest his weight on his elbows, leaning close. “No. Really, truly guilty. About something. Something that weighs your heart down. A moment you repeat, over and over, wishing it could have gone differently, knowing that you are responsible for the consequences of those actions.”

She rested back, shocked at the fear in his eyes. She knew the answer, of course. It sat on her tongue, ready to be freed. “Yes,” she answered. His eyes widened. “For a long time I felt guilty about my dad, knowing that he was where he was only because he was doing something for me.”

Suddenly, he reached across and took her hand in his. “You mustn’t feel any guilt over that. None whatsoever.”

She stared at his hand covering hers, at the black ring that adorned his middle finger. A question sat on her lips – why – but she couldn’t bring herself to ask it.

“Is there anything I can do?” he asked softly. “To lift that burden?”

She huffed out a laugh, willing away the tears forming in the corners of her eyes. “The Devil himself doesn’t want me to go to Hell,” she said, lifting her eyes to his with a small smile.

He returned hers with a smile of his own, one that just barely reached his eyes. “No. He doesn’t.”

She breathed out. He made to pull away, but her thumb running over his stopped him. “I don’t think there’s anything you can do. Unless you want to promise me you’ll come break me out if I wind up there.”

“I would move Heaven and Earth to do so.”

She scooted closer, turning over her hand to hold his. He gazed at her softly.

“Do you believe me?” he asked.

“Yeah,” she admitted, studying their hands. “And that was your last question.”

“You have one left, as I recall.”

Unbidden tears welled in her eyes, and he shook his head, not understanding. “I already know the answer, I think,” she said, a tear trailing down her cheek as she offered him a smile. “But I’m not sure if you do.”

“Seems you should ask it, then.”

“Do you love me?”

In that moment, he understood. He understood why his wings were back, and his scars, gone. His Father had only asked one thing of him. To love humanity. And he never had. Before. When he decided to tell her the truth, he knew. Knew it with more surety than he had ever felt for anything else in his life. She squeezed his hand in his silence.

“I didn’t know that I could love anyone,” he confessed. “And honestly, I never tried. I never understood how someone could mean so much more than anyone else, especially given just how many of you there are, and knowing exactly the depths to which you are capable of sinking. Quite literally. I was always satisfied, but now I find myself wanting…” he trailed off, drawn in by the open sky of her eyes. “To be known. Truly. By you. I know that you think I’m crazy,” he told her hand, brushing off a tear that had fallen there. “And I know that hurts you so. Which I find myself no longer capable of tolerating.”

He let the wings gently unfurl behind him, not meeting her eyes. She squeezed his hand tightly with a sharp, surprised inhale.

“If I have ever loved anything. Anyone,” he said, dragging his eyes up to meet hers. They brimmed with unshed tears, and he watched as she brought her gaze over the wing and back to his. “I have loved you.”

He pulled her hand from atop hers and tucked his wings away. He stood. She stared.

“Samael,” he said, smoothing down the front of his suit jacket. “My name was Samael.”

The door shut quietly behind him, leaving Chloe alone in the silence. She lifted her hand, still warm from his touch, to her mouth to stifle whatever sound threatened to escape.

[ongaku-ato-kakikomi]

2 - Lucky Suspect

Prompt: #2 “You have no proof”

Fandom: Criminal Minds (Spencer Reid x Reader)

Word Count: 1002 words.

Summary: You’re in for questionning about a string of murders, and you just happen to find the questioner quite attractive.

You give out a long sigh of boredom, your (e/c) eyes looking straight at the wall with pure disinterest as you gently tap your nails against the table you’re sitting at. You don’t know how long you’ve been waiting for one of those federal agents to interrogate you, but it sure as hell has been the longest and most boring time you have ever spent in your entire life.

The door on your left opens, first sign of a change ever since you walked in here. You turn your head towards the room’s exit, almost expecting an old decrepit man to walk in, only for you to be surprised when a young man of your age walks in instead. You can’t help but let your lips stretch out into a grin as you watch him close the door behind him, your eyes barely noticing the dossier in his hands as you take in his facial features.

“Well, hello there, handsome.”

“Um…” He quirks an eyebrow at you, unsure of your intentions with those words, and he rapidly shakes his head as he approaches the table. “… thank you for waiting, Miss/Mister (Y/L/N).”

“Oh, no.” You carefully observe him sit in front of you with a large grin, gently putting your elbows against the table so you can hold your head up with your hands. “Thank you for interrogating me. I can’t remember the last time I laid eyes on such a pretty face like yours.”

The slightest hint of a blush appears on his cheeks, the man rapidly clearing his throat while he opens the dossier. You feel your grin turn into a smirk, a light chuckle escaping despite your closed mouth.

“Well… my name’s Spencer Reid.” He takes a pen out of his shirt’s pocket and clicks it open, his eyes averting your gaze as he reads one of his colleagues’ notes written on the marge of the dossier. “I would like to ask you a series of questions regarding a recent string of murders.”

“Ugh, how boring.” You give out a disappointed pout, a light of teasing in your eyes. “And here I thought you’d ask me out on a date.”

“I…” He seems at a loss of words for a moment, his head rapidly shaking to help him regain his thoughts, and he looks back into your eyes. “This is not a light-hearted situation, Miss/Mister (Y/L/N). Will you please take this seriously?”

“Why?” You give out a snort, letting go of your head so you can lay back on your chair. “Are you saying I’m a suspect or something?”

“That’s precisely what I’m saying.” You lose your grin upon hearing his words, Reid giving you a long look before he looks back at the dossier. “We have reason to believe you’re the one behind the murders.”

“Oh?” You quirk an eyebrow, a strange glint appearing in your eyes. “And why is that?”

“All the victims share similar features with your ex-boyfriend, Larry.” He takes a few pictures out of the dossier and lays them down on the table for you, your eyes falling upon a few of the murdered victims. “Now, a few witnesses told us he cheated on you a year ago, which is also when he happened to disappear-”

“A mere coincidence, if you ask me.” You cross your arms over your chest, your body slightly tensing up as you give out another smirk. “I was planning to break up with him anyway. He just gave me a reason to speed things up.”

“Speed things up?” He squints his eyes at you, trying to analyze your choice of words. “Are you hinting that you had already planned to make him one of your victims?”

“I’m saying I was ready to move on for someone better…” You tilt your head at him, your lips stretching out onto your cheeks as you gently nibble on your thumb. “… Spencer.”

His opens and closes his mouth a few times, sign that your relentless flirting is having some kind of effect on him, but he manages to ignore it by hardening his glare. “We know you’re the one behind the murders, (Y/N).”

“You have no proof of that.” You uncross your arms to lay them on the table, hiding a few of the victims’ faces in the process as you nonchalantly point at him. “Otherwise, wouldn’t you have already arrested me?”

He simply stays silent at your words, his expression hardening for a quick second. That’s enough to bring a larger grin, your eyes looking down at the victims’ faces.

“I’m curious…” You take a quick look towards the room’s exit, lowering your voice. “How much information were you expecting to gather with this little interview, huh?”

He doesn’t answer you, his eyes looking back frantically at the dossier in front of him and the door.

“An even better question…” You approach your face to him, your voice barely above a whisper. “… have I unwillingly given you something worth searching for?”

He continues to stay silent, which is enough to bring a larger grin to your lips.

“Well, if you don’t have any more questions…” Your chair makes a loud noise when you stand up, your eyes giving the young man a teasing glint. “I’ll be on my way.”

His eyes follow you as you walk towards the exit, your hand grabbing the door’s handle and turning it. You look back at Spencer just as you open the door, your lips still curled up into a smirk as you take in his look of desperation.

“Don’t look so down, Spencer.” He quirks an eyebrow at your words, which brings out a brighter glint of teasing in your pupils. “I promise you, next time you’ll see me, it’ll be in much better circumstances.”

You send him a wink just before you walk out of the room, the sight of his red cheeks lingering in your mind on your way out.

Oh, this is going to be more fun than you thought.

[jungshookz]

miss cee pd i have a request!!!! how about e2l tae x y/n but they're in law school and they're always arguing and debating inside and outside of the classroom and tae being a little shit is like "you wanna kiss me so bad" and they both don't realise that there's mistletoe above them which jimin put because he was tired of watching them constantly argue and wanted to fiZzle the tension hehe and then they KITH,, i hope this isn't too long aha

➺ pairing; kim taehyung x reader

➺ genre; sfw!! enemies to lovers!! everyone’s in law school!! mostly y/n and taehyung bickering with each other and wanting to jump each other’s bones at the same time

➺ wordcount; 4.3k

➺ what to expect; “don’t flatter yourself. i would rather throw myself into oncoming traffic than kiss you, kim taehyung.”

                                     »»————-　❄　————-««

“-now, the particular case study that was assigned to our group involves a civil action for medical negligence and a criminal prosecution for gross negligence manslaughter, which means that there are seven elements that we need to hit when we’re acting out our simulation next class,” you explain, flipping to the next page of your notebook with a flick of your wrist, “firstly, the client - jimin - must be interviewed so that we may determine the facts that surround the claim/prosecution. secondly, we need to draft witness statements - from hoseok and namjoon - and assess the legal efficacy of said statements. thirdly, we must assess the propriety of police interrogation from officer jungkook of the defend-”

you pause when a crumpled piece of paper lands by your left foot and you clear your throat quietly before stepping over it and continuing to pace back and forth at the front of the classroom

your eyes skim over your scribbled words as you try to relocate your place

…

ah!

here we are

“-ant, seokjin, through all transcripts along with the custody record. fourthly, we move on to assessing the reports that have been produced by the forensic experts-”

another balled-up piece of paper hits your foot and your head immediately snaps upwards from your book before you twist around to face the room

“would you cut that out, please?” you snap, already feeling your blood pressure starting to rise from a single glance at taehyung’s smug face

“what? i didn’t know how else to get your attention!” he hums, his arm dangling in the air with a floppy wrist, “my arm’s been up for the past three minutes, and you would’ve known that if you didn’t have your nose buried deep in your book.”

the reminder that you wouldn’t last a day in prison keeps you from lunging forward to wrap your hands around taehyung’s neck and you press your lips together to stop yourself from saying anything too crass

the last thing you need is for some professor to walk past the classroom while you’re cussing up a storm

your self-control has really been put to the test ever since you met taehyung

after all this time, you still don’t know what the guy’s deal is

he’s been a pain in your ass since day one

and for what??

for WHAT?!

at first you just thought that being a complete prick was just his weird version of being charismatic, but then you realised that he wasn’t being charming at all and he was really, truly, genuinely being a straight-up asshole

and, for the record, you’ve tried several times in the past to try to make things better but nothing’s worked

you said that he looked nice in his suit = he told you to stop looking at him like a piece of meat

you asked him how he did on the midterm exam = he told you that it was his right to keep that piece of information private and that you were being a snake by even asking about it

you said happy birthday to him = he said, and you quote, “yeah. it was until you got here.”

the point is, you’ve waved many white flags of surrender and extended many, many olive branches to no avail

at this point you’re pretty sure taehyung just gets off on being a jerk to you

and it’s not fair because it’s literally just you that he picks on constantly

at first you thought that maybe he was just threatened by your presence because you made it pretty clear from day one that you weren’t here to play around

powerful women are intimidating!

you totally get it.

…but then you overheard him offering rosé some studying tips and you even saw him help wendy carry her books for her and everyone knows that rosé and wendy are two of the smartest girls in the class, so why wasn’t he threatened by them?

...

the point is, he doesn’t treat anyone else in the class like this except for you and you can’t seem to figure out why!

what makes it even more frustrating is the fact that his stupid face is very nice to look at, so whenever he’s being mean to you, your dumb girl hormones drown out the sound of his rich, honey-like voice and place floating pink hearts around his head instead

“i’m so sorry i wasn’t paying attention to you, mr. kim.” you force out before gesturing to the notebook cradled in the crook of your arm, “see, all my notes are in here and i’m just trying to make sure that i don’t miss out on any details,” you point out, “and… i thought i said to save your questions for the end, did i not?”

“did you? i guess i wasn’t listening. sorry, sweetheart.” taehyung chirps, folding his arms and leaning forward on his desk, “anyway- don’t you think it’s a little unfair that you get to play the hotshot lawyer in this simulation?”

“everyone gets a turn to be the lawyer - last week, it was jungkook. this week, it’s me. everyone gets a shot to play the hotshot lawyer because our roles rotate.” you shake your head in disagreement, “how am i being unfair?”

“you assigned yourself, like, the coolest case study.” taehyung scoffs, leaning back against his seat and crossing his arms, “i mean… medical negligence and a criminal prosecution for gross negligence manslaughter?” his left brow arches before he turns his head slightly, “jungkook, what was your case study on again?”

“my client parked in a no-parking zone!” jungkook beams, nodding to himself, “i didn’t mind getting that case, though. it was actually pretty fu-”

“you hear that, y/n?” taehyung turns his head back to face you before gesturing behind him, “jungkook also thinks his case was boring as hell- his client parked in a no-parking zone and you get to deal with corrupt doctors and accidentally-but-not-really-accidentally-run-over-by-a-car pedestrians.”

your jaw clenches in frustration and you resist the urge to take a heel off and bash taehyung’s skull in with it

being forced to wear nice shoes to school would be so much better if you were allowed to commit cold-blooded murder with them

“well, that was last week’s case, so even if jungkook thought it was boring…” you pause, turning to set your notebook down on the front desk before twisting back around, “he’s already had his turn. and now it’s my turn!”

“you could’ve given me this case.”

“oh, please.” you snort, rolling your eyes before leaning against the front desk, “you wouldn’t have been able to handle a case this big. this has my name written all over it.”

taehyung scoffs, rolling his eyes, “the only reason why it has your name written all over it was because you grabbed it with your grubby little raccoon hands before anyone else had the chance to-”

“i-!” you pinch the bridge of your nose before letting out a laugh of disbelief, “oh my god, i refuse to have this conversation with you again, taehyung- for the last time, it was a first-come-first-serve situation, and you probably could’ve gotten this case if you weren’t so busy watching netflix in class-”

“you guys-” namjoon clears his throat, his shoulders drooping when the two of you ignore him, “…never mind.”

this always happens

you guys somehow always find something to argue about no matter what

in fact, namjoon’s convinced that you guys could sit in complete and utter silence and still find something to fight over

“how long do you think the argument will last this time?” yoongi leans over, “i bet you ten bucks it’ll last longer than last week’s fight.”

“no way! last week’s fight was half an hour long-” hoseok chimes in, “…they can’t possibly argue for longer than thirty minutes… can they?”

“remember that time they fought over a sandwich?” jungkook sighs, leaning his cheek against his fist, “that was a forty minute argument.”

“they fought over a sandwich?” jimin frowns, turning to glance towards the front, “what was there to even argue about??”

“y/n said that the spread was dijon mustard and taehyung said it was horseradish mustard,” seokjin purses his lips, “…i actually ordered the same sandwich and i’m pretty sure it was just regular ol’ yellow mustard… but i’m too afraid to tell either of them they’re wrong about it.”

“oh my god-” jimin scoffs, “forty minutes arguing about mustard?? really??”

“yep! i even recorded the whole thing just because it’s actually pretty interesting listening to two people scream about mustard so passionately for so long,” jungkook pulls his phone out of his back pocket, the rest of the boys scooting in closer to his desk, “by the time we finish watching the video, they’ll… probably be done arguing with each other. maybe.”

“-ow thick is your skull, taehyung? were you dropped on your head as a baby??” you scowl, “if i was a teacher’s pet like you say i am, then i would’ve sweet-talked my way out of being in a group with you. also, you know what? i wasn’t going to bring this up, but the only reason why we’re here during christmas break is because it was your idea to practice during the holidays-”

“yeah! you get to practice your big show in a huge, empty classroom without getting nervous about someone overhearing you practice speaking in your dumb, professional lawyer voice-” taehyung gestures around at the spacious atmosphere, “if this is your way of being thankful to me, you have an awfully funny way of showing it-”

“do you know what i could be doing right now if i wasn’t here?” you scowl, placing your hands on your hips as you glare at taehyung

“hm, let me think…” he hums, leaning back against his chair before kicking his legs up onto his desk, “bending over and trying desperately to pull the fat stick out of your ass?”

jimin sits up a little straighter as he peers over the top of namjoon and seokjin’s heads to check and see if you and taehyung are done arguing yet

your ears are turning red and there’s an animalistic, frenzied look behind your eyes, so... nope. definitely not done yet.

after all this time, he still doesn’t know why you guys fight the way that you do

it’s like you enjoy pushing each other’s buttons and irritating each other until one of you inevitably snaps (you’re usually the first one to fall off the rocker because taehyung is alarmingly good at being irritating)

“ooh, hold on-” jungkook grins, pointing to the screen before whacking jimin’s arm in rapid smacks, “my favourite part is coming up, you have to pay attention-”

jimin looks away from you two and back down at the screen

“-the low acidity liquid gives dijon mustard that intensified heat and the classic pungent flavour which is very obvious in this sandwich!” you exclaim, peeling the top slice of bread off to reveal the inside, “and look at that colour! that is literally dijon mustard-”

“okay, fine! it’s dijon mustard.” taehyung responds while inspecting his nail beds

“no, you’re not listening to- wait… did you just agree with me?”

“yeah!” he sighs, crossing his arms, “the mustard used in your sandwich is dijon mustard. and also, the sky is green-”

“oh my god, you piece of-!”

jimin looks up again when he hears your voice rise a couple of octaves

this is the part of the argument when your ‘i’m-fine-don’t-touch-me-I’M-FINE’ voice comes out

“wow! you are-” you laugh, shaking your head as you lean down and place your hands flat on the surface of taehyung’s desk “you really are something else, kim taehyung. i-!”

you let out a yelp of surprise when taehyung suddenly reaches over and yanks at a section of your hair

“ow!” you whack his hand away before flicking your hair over your shoulder, “wha- what the hell was that for?!”

taehyung doesn’t flinch at your aggressive tone and he looks up at you, completely unfazed, before giving a half-hearted shrug

“it was hanging, like, right in front of me. i couldn’t not pull on it.”

“well, your tie is right there but you don’t see me reaching over and pulling on it to strangle you because it’s right in front of me-”

“oh, threatening to choke me, are we?” taehyung hums, “i’m suddenly feeling very unsafe. should i get one of the guys to call campus security for my protection, miss y/n?”

“do you guys think we should break things off?” seokjin glances over his shoulder at the escalating scene, “ideally, i’d like for this to not turn into a how to get away with murder scenario…”

jimin narrows his eyes slightly as the gears click-click-click away in his head, leaning back against his seat and reaching up to tap at his chin

there’s something about this situation that’s reminding him of something but he can’t quite put his finger on it

“oh my god, you are such a child-!”

jimin’s eyes suddenly widen in realization, a lightbulb appearing at the top of his head

!

does taehyung like y/n?

...

oh, wow

taehyung has a full-blown crush on you!

how could he not have noticed this before?!

taehyung is literally the bratty little boy pulling on your pigtails because he doesn’t know how else to get your attention on this playground!

a comment from a former conversation with you briefly flits through jimin’s mind as he continues staring at the two of you in awe

he doesn’t remember how exactly you guys started talking about it, but he does remember you saying these words to him:

“i mean… yeah. of course i think taehyung’s attractive. maybe in another universe where he’s not bullying me 24/7, i would be more open to admitting to myself that i might have a slight crush- i-i mean, i- what did we say we were going to get for lunch today?? sandwiches?? we should get sandwiches, the place is right here-”

how could he have forgotten you said that to him?!

it’s like he finally has his hands on the missing puzzle piece... and it’s up to him to finish this puzzle!

“i have a plan.” jimin whispers to himself before reaching over to grab onto jungkook’s wrist, “i know what i have to do!”

“huh?” jungkook frowns in confusion, pausing the video before looking over at him, “what are you talking about?”

“just-” jimin gets up from his seat quickly, the chair screeching against the floor, “just make sure they don’t stop arguing with each other while i’m gone because i might take a while to find what i need-”

“you know, i don’t think that’s going to be an issue,” yoongi snorts, everyone looking towards the front to see you glaring at taehyung like you want to rip his heart out of his chest and eat it raw, “check out that throbbing vein in y/n’s forehead.”

“forget about her forehead vein-” jungkook shakes his head, “has no one else noticed how tightly taehyung clenches his asscheeks whenever he’s pissed? those trousers do not hide anything.”

everyone’s eyes immediately gravitate down to taehyung’s ass, hoseok and seokjin bursting into giggles at the sight

“what the fuck is your problem?!” you scream, taehyung’s eyes widening at your sudden outburst, “you’ve treated me like shit from day one and i’ve literally done nothing wrong!”

“okay! i think we should all just take a step back and take a deep breath…” namjoon gets up from his seat slowly, “it’s getting a little intense-“

“nothing wrong?! oh yeah, because you’re little miss perfect-” taehyung spits out, “don’t play dumb, you know exactly what you did!”

“what did i-!” you throw your hands up into the air, “please, i am begging you to tell me what the horrible thing is that i did that made you decide i was public enemy number one-”

“i heard you talking shit about me at the very beginning of the semester when you didn’t even know me! we’d never met and you didn’t even bother trying to get to know me before you formed your own opinion of me based on the way i looked-” taehyung snaps, “you said that i looked like an entitled, obnoxious frat-boy who didn’t even know left from right and only made it to law school because his daddy gave the school a generous donation- so if we’re really going to talk about who the real asshole is in this room, i would suggest re-evaluating-”

you feel the blood drain from your face at the reminder of what you said about taehyung on the first day of class

...oh.

...

okay, yeah, you... might have said that stuff, but it was only because the other people you were sitting with at the time said stuff like that and... and you were so desperate to find a group of cool law-school friends that you were totally willing to say and do anything they wanted you to do or say!

it obviously didn’t work because you don’t sit with them anymore, so...

yeah, it was a bad move to talk shit about taehyung like that without even having spoken one word to him, but if this proves anything... it’s that peer pressure is dangerous!

“well, why didn’t you just-” you stammer, feeling your face starting to heat up from embarrassment, “why didn’t you just tell me about this earlier? we could’ve nipped it right in the bud-”

“i much prefer the bullying because the feeling i get after seeing the defeat in your eyes is equivalent to a full-body orgasm-”

“oh my god, you sick freak-”

“uh, you guys-” namjoon cuts in again, holding his finger up, “can i just s-”

“okay, fine!” you raise your hands in surrender, “i’m sorry, alright? i’m really sorry. what i said about you was shitty, but i don’t see how bullying me for months on end was a good solution-”

“can you two shut u-”

“oh, i never said it was a good solution, y/n,” taehyung purses his lips, “like i said - i just did it because it was fun-”

“guys, if i could just get one word in-”

“do you even realize how psychotic you sound right no-”

“HEY!” namjoon suddenly bellows, you and taehyung jumping and clamming up immediately in alarm

“what??” the two of you ask at the same time, pausing to glare at each other for a split second before looking back over at namjoon

“i…” he trails off, his eyes flickering upwards, “…know this is kind of awkward timing, but…”

you and taehyung look up simultaneously, your eyes widening to see a dinky little shrub of... mistletoe? taped at the end of a meter stick

oh no 

oh hell no

“kiss first, and then you can apologise for what was obviously a huge misunderstanding and you can apologise for being a huge prick later - pucker up, lovebirds!” jimin chirps, waving the stick a little and watching your eyes go side to side like a ping-pong ball, “don’t be shy! also, i know the mistletoe looks like a clump of grass that i tied a red ribbon around- just don’t look too closely at it-”

“ha!” you let out a laugh before shaking your head quickly, “no way! i don’t know what you people think is going on here, but it’s certainly not that- you can’t just dangle a plant over my head and force me to kiss him-”

“what’s that supposed to mean?” taehyung scoffs in offence, tilting his head upwards slightly, “anyone would be honoured to be under the mistletoe with me!”

“yeah. anyone out of their mind.”

“aw, c’mon, you guys…” hoseok pushes his bottom lip out in a pout before clasping his hands together, “kiss and make up! we all know that’s how it works. let the christmas spirit take over your bodies and fuel your weird hate-love for each othe-”

“the sooner you two kiss and make out, the sooner i can get the hell out of here,” yoongi interrupts, snapping his fingers, “c’mon! plant a fat one on each other!”

“the only reason why y/n’s getting whiney about it because she knows she’ll fall in love with me the moment she kisses me.” taehyung suddenly speaks up and you immediately look back down at him with a glare

fall in love????

with him????

it’s not going to take a single kiss to fall in love with taehyung - it’s going to take intensive exposure therapy to fall in love with him!

“don’t flatter yourself. i would rather throw myself into oncoming traffic than kiss you, kim taehyung.” you growl, smacking your hands down on taehyung’s desk so violently that it rattles beneath you

“now, now. there’s no need to lie…” taehyung chuckles lightly as he pushes his seat back slightly and rises to his feet

“i’m not lying! i don’t want to kiss you!”

“do too!”

“do not!”

“do TOO!”

“do NOT!”

“you know, you just sound like you’re trying to convince yourself that you don’t want to kiss me-”

“you’re the one who keeps pushing it-” you jab a finger into his chest, “maybe you’re the one who wants to kiss me!”

“you think i wanna kiss you?!” taehyung laughs, flicking your hand away from him, “now look who the delusional one is!”

“i thought this was supposed to fix the arguing?” seokjin mutters under his breath, jungkook offering him a shrug while keeping his eyes glued on you and taehyung

he was running out of things to watch on netflix and this makes far better entertainment

the only thing that would make this better was if you and taehyung had at it in a grimy boxing ring half-naked

“i can’t be the only one thinking that all of this could be easily fixed if they just boned each other.” jungkook snorts, the other boys turning to look at him, “…what??”

“i wouldn’t kiss you even if you were the last man on earth.” you snarl, your voice wavering slightly

“you really expect me to believe that?” taehyung tilts his head, “don’t think i didn’t catch the way your eyes just flickered down to my lips, y/n...”

you feel your heart starting to pound in your chest when he places his hands flat on the desk as well, the tips of his fingers brushing over yours

at this proximity, the little voice in the back of your head can’t help but point out how pretty taehyung’s eyes are... and how nice he smells... and how soft his lips look...

...do you wanna kiss him?

oh, god

do you wanna kiss kim taehyung?!

no, you don’t

yes, you do

what??

WHAT?? 

“you wanna kiss me so bad, and you know it, y/l/n.” taehyung taunts, leaning forward just a little more

at this point, your faces are merely an inch away from each other’s and it wouldn’t take much effort to just lean in and… you know.

“i hate you.”

“if you hated me so much, then you wouldn’t be making such a big deal over silly little mistletoe now, would you?” taehyung smirks, pulling away before making his way around the desk so that he can get closer to you, “you like me but you’re too much of a wimp to admit it!”

“i like you?!” you gawk, “more like you like me!”

“okay-” jimin huffs, lowering the stick before taking a step back, “i really thought this was going to work, but my arms are getting tired, so if you two aren’t going to kiss, then i- oh-” his eyes widen in surprise when you and taehyung are suddenly lunging at each other not a second later, your hands cupping his cheeks and his hands gripping your waist as you kiss far more feverishly than he thought you two would

oh

oh my

“see, what’d i say? sexual tension!” jungkook kisses his teeth, leaning back against his chair and crossing his arms, “all that pent-up energy from arguing has led to this beautiful moment-”

“you’re an- mm- you’re an awful kisser, by the way-” taehyung mutters against your mouth, lips turning up in a boyish grin when you retaliate by shoving at his chest

“so are you!” you pull away only for taehyung to pull you right back in to press his mouth against yours again, “’m hating ehvery minute of this-”

“ah… isn’t young love sweet?” hoseok coos, jumping in his seat when taehyung suddenly shoves you up against the front desk with a thud, “so passionate!”

“okay, we’re just going to-” namjoon gets up from his seat gesturing for the boys to get up as well, “we’re happy to see that the argument has been settled!”

he hurries everyone to the front door and turns to glance over his shoulder, “when you guys are done, just… let us know! we’re going to pop over to starbucks for some hot chocolate. so... text one of us. or call! or you could use snapchat- it’s up to you, really-!”

namjoon doesn’t get a chance to say anything else before yoongi’s yanking his arm and pulling him backwards, reaching over to slam the door shut

a moment of silence goes by in which everyone takes a second to process what exactly just happened

“take your shirt off-”

“you take yours off first!”

“i... can’t tell if my plan was a success or a failure.” jimin mutters to himself, reaching up to scratch the back of his neck

“hey, if it makes you feel any better, at least they aren’t arguing with each other anymore!” jungkook cheers, clapping his hands quietly, “it’s a christmas miracle!”

❄️christmas with cee 2020 masterlist 🎄

[causeiwanttoandican]

Harry, Meghan and me: my truth as a royal reporter

I've covered elections and extremism, but nothing compares to the vitriol I've received since I started writing about the Sussexes

By Camilla Tominey, Associate Editor27 March 2021 • 6:00am

It is probably worth mentioning from the outset that I never, ever, planned to become a royal reporter. I mean, who does? It’s one of those ridiculous jobs most people fall into completely by accident.

I certainly wasn’t coveting the position when I first found out how bonkers the beat could be after covering Charles and Camilla’s wedding in 2005. Desperate for ‘a line’ on what went on at the reception, journalists were reduced to flagging down passing cars in Windsor High Street and interrogating the likes of Stephen Fry about whether they’d had the salmon or the chicken.

Watergate, this wasn’t.

Yet when my former editor called me into his office shortly afterwards and offered me the royal job ‘because you’re called Camilla and you dress nicely’, who was I to refuse?

Having planned to get married myself that summer, and start a family soon afterwards, I looked to the likes of Jennie Bond and Penny Junor and figured it would be a good patch for a working mother as well as being one I could grow old with. Unlike show business, when celebrities are ‘in’ one minute and ‘out’ the next, the royals would stay the same, making it easier to build – and keep – contacts.

So if you’d told me that 16 years later, I would find myself at the centre of a media storm over a royal interview with Oprah Winfrey, I’d have probably laughed in your face. First of all, only royals like Fergie do interviews with Oprah. And since when did journalists become the story?

Yet as I have experienced since the arrival of Meghan Markle on the royal scene in 2016 – a move that roughly coincided with Twitter doubling its 140-character limitation to 280 – royal reporters like me now find themselves in the line of fire like never before.

We are used to the likes of Kate Adie coming under attack in the Middle East, but now it is the correspondents who write up events like Trooping the Colour and the Royal Windsor Horse Show having to take cover from the keyboard warriors supposedly defending the Duke and Duchess of Sussex’s ‘truth’.

Accusations of racism have long been levelled against anyone who has dared to write less than undiluted praise of Harry and Meghan. But even I have been taken aback by the vitriol on social media in the wake of the couple’s televised two-hour talk-a-thon, in which they branded both the Royal family and the British press racist while complaining about their ‘almost unsurvivable’ multimillionaire lives at the hands of the evil monarchy. And all while the rest of the UK were losing their loved ones and livelihoods in a global pandemic.

Having covered Brexit, general elections and stories about Islamic extremism, I’ve grown used to being sprayed with viral vomit on a fairly regular basis, but when you’ve got complete strangers trolling your best friend’s Instagram feed by association? That’s Britney Spears levels of toxic.

Having a hind thicker than a rhino’s, it wasn’t the repeated references to my being ‘a total c—’ that particularly bothered me, nor even the suggestion that I should have my three children put up for adoption. At one point someone even said it would be a good idea for me to drink myself to death like my mother, about whose chronic alcoholism I have written extensively.

No, what really got me was the appalling spelling and grammar. I mean, if you’re going to hurl insults, at least have the decency to get my name right.

Yet in order to understand just how it has come to pass that so-called #SussexSquaders think nothing of branding all royal correspondents ‘white supremacists’ regardless of who they write for, or sending hate mail to our email addresses, offices – and in some cases, even our homes – it’s worth briefly going to back to when I first broke the story that Prince Harry was dating an American actor in the Sunday Express on 31 October 2016. Headlined: ‘Royal world exclusive: Harry’s secret romance with TV star’, the splash revealed how the popular prince was ‘secretly dating a stunning US actress, model and human rights campaigner’.

Despite my now apparently being on a par with the Ku Klux Klan for failing to acknowledge Meghan as the next messiah, it was actually not until the fifteenth paragraph of that original article that the ‘confident and intelligent’ Northwestern University graduate was described as ‘the daughter of an African-American mother and a father of Dutch and Irish descent’.

Call me superficial, but I was genuinely far more interested in the fact that Harry ‘I-come-with-baggage’ Wales was dating a former ‘briefcase girl’ from the US version of Deal or No Deal than the colour of her skin. A ginger prince punching well above his weight? This was the stuff of tabloid dreams. Little did I know then that covering the trials and tribulations of these two lovebirds would turn into such a nightmare.

The online hostility began bubbling up about eight days after that first story, when Harry’s then communications secretary Jason Knauf issued an ‘unprecedented’ statement accusing the media of ‘crossing a line’.

‘His girlfriend, Meghan Markle, has been subject to a wave of abuse and harassment’, it read, referencing a ‘smear on the front page of a national newspaper; the racial undertones of comment pieces; and the outright sexism and racism of social media trolls and web article comments’. Meghan’s mother, Doria Ragland, had apparently been besieged by photographers, while bribes had been offered to Meghan’s ex-boyfriend along with ‘the bombardment of nearly every friend, coworker, and loved one in her life’.

Suffice to say, I did feel a bit guilty. Although I hadn’t written anything remotely racist or sexist, I had started the ball rolling for headlines like the MailOnline’s ‘(Almost) straight outta Compton’ (referencing a song by hip-hop group NWA about gang violence and Meghan’s upbringing in the nearby LA district of Crenshaw), along with her ‘exotic’ DNA (which I subsequently called out, including on This Morning in the wake of ‘Megxit’ in January last year).

Omid Scobie, co-author of Finding Freedom, a highly favourable account of the Sussexes’ departure from the Royal family, written with their cooperation last summer, would later insist that the couple knew the story of their relationship was coming out and were well prepared for it.

I can tell you categorically that they weren’t, since I did not even put a call into Kensington Palace before we went to press for fear of it being leaked. (I did later discuss this with Harry, when I covered his trip to the Caribbean in November 2016, and to be fair he was pretty philosophical, agreeing it would have come out sooner or later. But that was before the former Army Captain decided to well and truly shoot the messenger, latterly telling journalists covering the newly-weds’ tax-payer-funded October 2018 tour of Australia and the south Pacific: ‘Thanks for coming, even though you weren’t invited.’)

The royal press pack is the group of dedicated writers who cover all the official engagements and tours on a rota system, in exchange for not bothering the royals as they go about their private business. It was a shame this ragtag bunch, of which I am an associate member, was never personally introduced to Meghan when the couple got engaged in November 2017.

I still have fond memories of a then Kate Middleton, upon her engagement to Prince William in November 2010, showing me her huge sapphire and diamond ring following a press conference at St James’s Palace with the words, ‘It was William’s mother’s so it is very special.’

I replied that she might want to consider buying ‘one of those expanding accordion style file holders’ to organise all her wedding paperwork. (Reader, I had given birth to my second child less than four months earlier and was still lactating.)

Not meeting Meghan did not stop royal commentators like me writing reams about her being ‘a breath of fresh air’ and telling practically every TV show I appeared on that she was the ‘best thing to have happened to the Royal Family in years’.

As the world followed the joyous news of the Windsors’ resident strip billiards star having finally found ‘the one’, the couple enjoyed overwhelmingly positive press culminating in their fairy-tale wedding in May 2018, which we headlined ‘So in love’ above a picture of the bride and groom kissing. I tweeted the wedding front page, along with the original story breaking the news of their relationship with the words, ‘Job done’. Yet, as Meghan would later point out in a glossy Santa Barbara garden, that was by far the end of the story.

According to the Duchess’s testimony before a global audience of millions, the seeds for their royal departure were actually sown by an article I wrote in November 2018 suggesting she made Kate cry during a bridesmaid’s dress fitting for Princess Charlotte.

Claiming the ‘reverse happened’, the former Suits star railed, ‘A few days before the wedding she was upset about something, pertaining to, yes, the issue was correct, about flower-girl dresses, and it made me cry, and it really hurt my feelings.’

She then went on to criticise the palace for failing to correct the story – suggesting that royal aides had hung her out to dry to protect the Duchess of Cambridge.

All of which left me in a bit of a sticky situation. As I told Phillip Schofield on This Morning the following day, ‘I don’t write things I don’t believe to be true and that haven’t been really well sourced.’

Having seemingly been completely bowled over by Meghan’s version of events, Schofe then went for the jugular: ‘I have to say, though, that’s all addressed in that interview, isn’t it, because she [Meghan] couldn’t understand why nobody stood up for her?’

Yet someone had stood up for her, on that very same This Morning sofa: me.

As I told Phil and Holly on 14 January 2019, as more reports of ‘Duchess Difficult’ started to emerge, ‘I think she [Meghan] is doing really well, she looks amazing, she speaks well. She has played a blinder.’

So you’ll forgive me if I can’t quite understand why Meghan didn’t feel the need to correct this supposedly glaring error once she had her own dedicated head of communications from March 2019 – or indeed when she ‘collaborated’ with Scobie, who concluded in his bestselling hagiography that ‘no one cried’?

Moreover, how did the Duchess know a postnatal Kate wasn’t ‘left in tears’? And if she doesn’t know, what hope has the average troll observing events through the prism of their own deep-rooted insecurities?

It appears the actual truth ceases to matter once sides have been taken in the unedifying Team Meghan versus Team Kate battle that has divided the internet.

Make no mistake, there are abject morons at both extremes spewing the sort of bile that, ironically, makes most of the media coverage of Harry and Meghan look like a 1970s edition of Jackie magazine.

It perhaps didn’t help my case that the day before the interview was aired in the US, I had written a lengthy piece carefully weighing up the evidence behind allegations of ‘outrageous bullying’ that had been levelled against Meghan during what proved to be a miserable 20 months in the Royal family for all concerned.

The messages – to my Twitter feed, my email, my website and official Facebook page – ranged from the threatening, to the typical tropes about media ‘scum’ and the downright bizarre. Some accused me of being in cahoots with Carole Middleton, with whom I have never interacted, unless you count a last-minute Party Pieces purchase in a desperate moment of poor parental planning.

Another frequent barb was questioning why the press wasn’t writing about that ‘pedo’ [sic] Prince Andrew instead – seemingly oblivious to the fact that no one would know about the Duke of York’s links to Jeffrey Epstein if it wasn’t for the acres of coverage devoted to the story by us royal hacks over recent years.

It didn’t matter that I had repeatedly torn the Queen’s second, and, some say, favourite son to pieces for everything from his propensity to take his golf clubs on foreign tours to that disastrous Newsnight interview.

Contrary to the ‘invisible contract’ Harry claims the palace has with the press, royal coverage works roughly like this: good royal deeds = good publicity. Bad royal deeds = bad publicity. We effectively act as a critical friend, working on behalf of a public that rightly expects the royals to take the work – but not themselves – seriously.

So when a royal couple preaches about climate change before taking four private jets in 11 days, it is par for the course for a royal scribe to point out the inconsistency of that message. None of it is ever personal, as evidenced by the fact that practically every member of the monarchy has come in for flak over the years.

If Oprah wasn’t willing to point out the discrepancies in Harry and Meghan’s testimony, surely it is beholden on royal reporters to question how the Duchess had managed to undertake four foreign holidays in the six months after her wedding, in addition to official tours to Italy, Canada, and Amsterdam, as well as embarking on a lengthy honeymoon, if she had ‘turned over’ her passport?

While no one would wish to undermine the extent of her mental health problems, could it really be true that she only left the house twice in four months when she managed to cram in 73 days’ worth of engagements, according to the Court Circular, in the 17 months between her wedding and the couple’s departure to Canada?

And what of the ‘racist’ headlines flashed up during the interview purporting to be from the British press, when more than a third were actually taken from independent blogs and the foreign media? The UK media abides by the Independent Press Standards Organisation’s Code of Conduct ‘to avoid prejudicial or pejorative reference to an individual’s race’, as well as by rigorous defamation laws. And rightly so – the British press doesn’t always get it right. But social media is the Wild West by comparison, publishing vile slurs on a daily basis with impunity.

Some therefore find it strange that such a litigious couple would claim to have been ‘silenced’ when they have made so many complaints, including resorting to legal action, over stories they claim not to have even read. There is something similarly contradictory about a couple accusing the tabloids of lacking self-reflection while refusing to take any blame at all – for anything.

In any normal world, informed writing on such matters would be classed as fair comment, but not, seemingly, on Twitter where those completely lacking any objectivity whatsoever are only too willing to virtue signal and manoeuvre.

As the trolling reached fever pitch in the aftermath of the interview, veteran royal reporter Robert Jobson of the Evening Standard called me. ‘Don’t respond to these freaks,’ he advised. ‘It’s getting nasty out there. Watch your back!’

Yet despite my general sense of bewilderment at the menacing Megbots, I can’t say it didn’t appal me to discover a close friend had received online abuse, purely by dint of being my mate. After discussing the lengths the troll must have gone to to track her down, she asked me, ‘Do you ever worry someone might do something awful to you?’ Er, not until now, no.

Of course it’s upsetting, even for a cynical old-timer like me. Worse still are people who actually know me casting aspersions on my profession on social media. Often these are the same charlatans who would think nothing of sidling up to me for the latest gossip on the Royal family, while publicly pretending that reading any such coverage is completely beneath them.

Most pernicious of all though – not least after Piers Morgan’s departure from Good Morning Britain following a complaint to ITV and Ofcom from the Duchess – is the corrosive effect this whole hullabaloo is having on freedom of speech. When you’ve got a former actor effectively editing a British breakfast show from an £11 million Montecito mansion, what next?

I cannot help but think we are in danger of setting race relations back 30 years if people are seriously suggesting that any criticism of Meghan is racially motivated. It’s the hypocrisy that gets me. When Priti Patel was accused of bullying, the very same people who willingly hung the Home Secretary out to dry are now the ones defending Meghan against such claims, saying they have been levelled at her simply because she is ‘a strong woman of colour’.

Of course journalists should take responsibility for everything they report and be held to account for it – but Harry and Meghan do not have a monopoly on the truth simply because the close friend and neighbour who interviewed them in return for £7 million from CBS took what they said as gospel.

If she isn’t willing to probe the disparity between Meghan saying someone questioned the colour of Archie’s skin when she was pregnant, and Harry suggesting it happened before they were even married, then someone must. There’s a name for such scrutiny. It’s called journalism.

The public reserves the right to make up its own mind – with the help of the watchful eye of a free and fair press. But that press can never be free or fair if journalists do not feel they can report without fear or favour. I’m lucky that a lot of the criticism I face is more than balanced out by hugely supportive members of the public and online community who either agree – or respect the right to disagree. Along with the hate mail, I have had many thoughtful and eloquent missives, including those that good naturedly challenge what I have written in the paper or said on TV, which have genuinely given me pause for thought.

I am more than happy to enter into constructive discourse with these correspondents, who are frankly sometimes the only people who keep me on Twitter. I mean, let’s face it, I wouldn’t be anywhere near the bloody thing if this wasn’t my day job.

With the National Union of Journalists this month declaring that harassment and abuse had ‘become normalised’ within the industry, never have members of Britain’s press needed more courage. As Winston Churchill famously said, ‘You have enemies? Good. That means you’ve stood up for something, sometime in your life.’

Who would have thought that the preservation of the fundamental freedoms that we hold so dear should partially rest on the shoulders of those who follow around a 94-year-old woman and her family for a living?

If I’d known then what I know now, would I still have written the bridesmaid’s dress story?

Yes – doubtlessly reflecting sisterly sobs all round. But after two decades in this business, I am clear-eyed enough to know this for certain: whatever I had written, it would still have ended in tears.

[ladyonfire28]

Portrait of a Lady on Fire: An Interview With Céline Sciamma

I finally found that old interview that Céline did back in August 2019, that i had read many months ago and that I wanted to share with you all because it’s a pretty great one. So here’s the whole translation of it.

Portrait of a Lady on Fire: An Interview With Céline Sciamma

18th century. Marianne (Noémie Merlant) is a young painter who is commissioned to paint a portrait of Héloïse (Adèle Haenel), fresh out of the convent, in order to "present" her as well as possible to her future husband. The previously hired painter had not succeeded in completing the requested portrait, as the model did not want to submit to the exercise. In her fourth feature film, Céline Sciamma offers a reflection on the artist's gaze. She does not, however, overlook the romance and passion of the artist's gaze. And her characters embody themselves more than ever, with force. Meeting with the director at the Angoulême Film Festival.

From the very first shots, with these brush strokes, you seem to wonder about your own work. The film is called "Portrait" and, very quickly, a character asks Marianne: "Do you think you will manage to paint her?" Is this also your questioning as a director? The difficulty of a good portrait?

Céline Sciamma: Yes, but I don't know if I would call it a difficulty: I would call it research. The film very quickly, from the beginning, puts the question of the gaze. The first line of the painter's character does not so much evoke the question of her own gaze but evokes more the gaze of others. The very first line of the film is: "Take the time to look at me". The film is extremely playful with its means. It asks the question of what it is to look, in two places at once: the dialogue of love, and then the dialogue of creation, which brings into play the question of the gaze and allows us to renew the reflection around this question.

Marianne, the character played by Noémie Merlant, is almost in the voyeur's posture, she begins by observing in secret. Does this question you as a filmmaker?

Yes it raises the question of cinema.

Do we always have to question that?

I think we have to stay within this dynamic of interrogation. Not as something elusive, but as something that renews itself, that provides new ideas, new pleasures. In all my films, there is only one point of view, one main character, even if it's often not the dominant character. It is indeed difficult to create a hierarchy in this film, to affirm that there would be a first and a second role: there is one who is in all the scenes, in all the shots, and the other one is not, but I find that the film, strangely enough, manages to reopen the question of the hierarchy between them.

I always make films where the characters, female characters, are observant. In this one, the movement lies in the fact that the dynamics of infiltration of the gaze have changed. The pitch of the film could be: she looks at her in secret because she doesn't consent to be looked at, then she consents. The dramatic shift means that, very early on, the characters will look at each other. We're not in a voyeuristic dynamic, but in the illusion of a one-way scrutinizing. Heloise's gaze is oriented. In fact, one of Heloise's first glances is a look to camera, it indicates the fact that she sees everyone; she is looked at, and we, spectators, look at her too.

You talk about main and supporting roles and, indeed, in the title, there is mention of a lady. However, isn't the portrait to be taken in the plural?

Absolutely !

An idea that is illustrated in the two last shots, a shot/ reverse shot between two portraits, one freeing the other in a way. How is this shot made? How do you direct it, what do you say to your actresses?

Indeed, this plan raises a lot of questions. It is the last shot/ reverse shot of the film, and here we're back with a character who is watched without knowing it. The difficulty of the shot - which is also its purpose - is that it is a two and a half minute sequence shot, and of great technical complexity. The idea was to get close to a face, to successfully make the focus in an Italian-style theatre, while asking the actress to give a very big performance. You can't do that fifty times!

How many takes did you do ?

Three takes! Based on a fairly precise partition, a choreography basically, of which we had identified a few tipping points with the music. Adèle made the emotional journey.

What did you say to her ?

I told her in advance that there was a journey, made up of five or six steps, and that it was up to her to interpret them as she wished. That shot was never rehearsed. There was something written, quite literary even, there was this material in the script, but then it was reduced to five words, five steps - a path that she had to interpret.

During the first few seconds, you watch Heloise, but then, I think, very quickly, you end up watching Adèle Haenel, the actress, acting. This distance - which reminds us that this is cinema - leaves room for the spectator, and reminds them that they are also in a theatre seat. That they are watching a film.

Weren't you afraid to cross that line?

No, I think it's always important to ask yourself how you say goodbye to the film, with what very intimate feelings you want people to leave the theatre. I think about that all the time. Making room for people to think about their own stories. For me, creating an active viewer is part of the project. And it's true that sequence shots have that ability, because of the time, the tension and the danger they create. The viewer's gaze is what keeps the shot going, but it's also the shot that keeps the viewer going.

The spectator as subject is very important, especially for this film, which is obsessed with this question: how do you film only subjects? To film people, women, as subjects? We are often filmed as objects, we are educated to that, we take pleasure in it. It's a question of re-educating our gaze and creating new pleasures. And, even as a practitioner, I'm not here to lecture people: I place myself at the center of this issue.

Your films are all about identity, the individual at the center of a particular environment, conflictual or not. Is the individual always the core of the stories?

In any case there is always the desire of a character who is often isolated and who seeks to enter a group. And also a love dynamic. But this time, this dynamic is really at the center.

It wasn’t the case in your other films

No, it wasn't love stories that was experienced, it was love that was felt, and we were more in the story telling. But I believe that there is always, in love or friendship, a dynamic of emancipation. When you're with children or teenage characters, there's necessarily the idea of growth, but also, already, this dynamic. The individual is indeed at the center, but as a point of view. I don't make hyperlink films, there is always only one person watching.

As you've made your films, you've shown childhood, pre-adolescence, adolescence, and now it's about young adults. Do you find yourself a little bit in each of these heroines? Do you somehow feel you grew up with them?

Yes, absolutely. And it was the first time I wanted to write a story with adults, women, and a story that would have been really lived. I also wanted to work with professional actresses.

Including one who also grew up a little bit with you?

Yes, of course! That's what I wanted, and not inventing actresses. We're not in first-time stories anymore. Even if it's maybe the first time they love someone… It's another kind of intellectual dialogue, an additional expression.

How did you address the issue of language? Since the story takes place in the 18th century?

I wanted more literary dialogues, but I also wanted it to remain a fairly straightforward language, without any affinities, without seduction. The way it's set up creates a kind of shift, a movement - and it's pretty sexy... Then the actresses' tone, the rhythm they create, the way they use their voices, hold them in place or, on the contrary, cause them to overflow, and it's a score they played very finely.

I also enjoyed imagining verbal jousting, and above all imagining a dialogue in which there would be no intellectual domination - neither class nor language. On the contrary, there would be a horizontality, an equality in the exchange which, for me, beyond the political aspect, could be exciting because it’s not already written. It’s also because it’s a women's story that it’s not already written.

The sincerity of a project raises a question for Marianne in the film, especially in relation to the social conventions she has to integrate into her painting. As this is your fourth film, and as they are always quite intimate projects, do you also ask yourself this question?

It was less the artist's doing than the fact that she was asked the question. She answers with sincerity, but she is also stung to the core. It was more about the dialogue between them and the idea of collaboration. I'm quite collaborative in my way of working, so the idea of an authority being questioned is not necessarily the subject. It was a way of showing this dialogue between the actress and the director, between the painter and the model. It was a lively debate at the time, and it may still be relevant today: does the portrait rather require enhancement, or a resemblance, is it frozen for eternity? Is it a morbid thing that is enough to preserve from death? The portrait was a debate of the Enlightenment, so for me it was a way of being at the heart of the philosophical ideas that animated the time. But it wasn't necessarily an exploration of conscience on the issue.

Does this work of observing actors and actresses - experienced or not - seem inexhaustible to you?

I hope so! For this film, it was about filming someone with whom I have an ongoing, powerful, important dialogue, and whom I know well. At the same time, there was also that desire to meet someone new.

Did you film them the same way?

Yes.

You almost don't recognize Adèle Haenel at the end...

That was really part of the desire of the film: to present a new Adele, to look at her differently, with everything I knew about her, everything we know about her, but also everything that remains to be discovered. It's the only time when there's a form of romanticism: the one that consists in filming faces. It's still very mystical.

What did you want to do with this ghost figure, who appears through Héloïse dressed as a bride?

There are two timelines in the film: this chronicle of a love that is born in the present, and which we look at patiently, and the timeline of memory, the memory of this love. And the contagion of these two timelines is through this ghost. Marianne is - even though we are in the present tense - already haunted by the last image she will see of Heloise.

The film is a flashback, but aren't all love stories already haunted by their end?  Isn't that what makes us live and fear them at the same time?

Is the next portrait already in you? Have you already started working on it?

No, I haven't. I have a project for a children's film, an animated film, so it's necessarily a long-term project. But otherwise, I don't know yet: as long as the films are not released in the world, I have a hard time seeing what happens next.

I'm waiting to see the dialogue that the film will have with the world, the effect it will have. Then there is that moment when you allow yourself to dream, and that daydreaming is always a bit long with me. You have to collect ideas, images that sometimes have nothing to do with each other. At a given moment, there is a synthesis that takes place, and that makes you want to go there.

[willowcatkinblossom]

“Shi Ge,” Egg Waffle calls from behind him, “There’s a man waiting in the interrogation room for you.”

Lu Li frowns, “Is there a new case?”

Egg Waffle shrugs, “Yeah, he said he was here to report one. Want me to go with you?”

Lu Li shakes his head, “No—I’ll do it.”

He walks into the interrogation room and immediately two thoughts pass though his mind. One, the man is very, very sick looking. His face is pale. There are bags under his eyes.

“I’m Sergeant Lu, you’re reporting a crime?” Lu Li asks, taking a seat across from the man.

He coughs lightly into his hand, “Yeah—I want you to investigate a murder.”

Lu Li nods, pulling out a pen and motioning for him to continue.

“I want you to investigate my murder.”

The second thought is fleeting and obscure, and there’s a moment when he thinks he recognizes the other man.

It turns out that his name is Chi Zhen. Lu Li finds out in the ambulance on the way to the hospital. “Why didn’t you go to the hospital first?”

Chi Zhen glances up at him calmly and says, “If I’m dying anyway, I might as well find out who did it first.”

“Radiation poisoning can be treated,” Lu Li says unsympathetically, but there’s a part of him that wonders if he would do the same.

And then, because there’s an echo of something that is familiar, he asks, “Do I…know you?”

Chi Zhen frowns, “Where did you go to college?”

“I went to the police academy.”

“I’m a lawyer, maybe we’ve seen each other at court,” Chi Zhen says quickly, but it’s not dismissive.

But it’s only a few moments later when Chi Zhen starts coughing blood again and Lu Li’s frantically handing him tissues. He’s relieved when the vehicle lurches to a stop and Chi Zhen is wheeled away down the white hallways.  

They find a palladium isotope flowing in Chi Zhen’s veins. The doctor leaves after reminding Lu Li not to put him under any stress. Chi Zhen laughs and shrugs the warning off, “It’s a criminal investigation.”

Lu Li likes him immediately.

The walls of the in-patient rooms are a pleasant light green. And the window looks out to the brightly illuminated night city. The intermittently placed neon shop signs and streetlights color the rain like glossy oil, sliding past one another—but never meeting together.  

It’s when he’s interviewing Chi Zhen when they both realize.

“We live in the same apartment building? I can’t believe we’ve never met before,” Chi Zhen says in amazement.

“Oh, no, I remember you now,” Lu Li says, “You’re the guy with the sunglasses and you’re always wearing pajamas—my balcony is across from yours.” They must have crossed paths every day, leaving and returning home.

“Pajamas?” Chi Zhen sputters indignantly, “You’re the one who’s always killing your plants! Don’t you know that cacti die if they’re watered too much? I can’t believe you keep on buying more.” They’re two people who lived so close, yet never met until now.

And when the rain stops, Lu Li doesn’t leave.

Egg Waffle and Officer Wen track down a prosecutor who’s found with radioactive palladium in his home. He’s arrested immediately.

Chi Zhen takes it calmly when they tell him.

“Huh, I guess I won too many times,” he says with a grin. But after they leave, Chi Zhen’s face falls slightly. The bedside lamp gives off a muted yellow glow, but it’s not enough to color Chi Zhen’s pale face.

And the white, thin bedsheets aren’t enough to hide the clench of Chi Zhen’s fists or the slight trembles that travel up his arms. But even without those, Lu Li would know anyway.

He’s expecting hatred and rage born of a desperate need for revenge—revenge for himself.  

But Chi Zhen’s anger is nothing like that. It’s something like fortitude. A painstakingly built pyre cloistered and burning with the sustained grief of someone who has an endless patience.

“I just felt like, going to the hospital would be giving up. But going to the police station was a choice.” And they’re both reminded of the limitations of Prussian Blue. It only works if it’s taken before or right after exposure.

He must be wrong, because Chi Zhen doesn’t have the time to be patient.

When Chi Zhen coughs, there’s blood. His breathing is raspy and painful, and it feels like something in Lu Li shatters—something grounding and certain.

“You’ll get better,” Lu Li insists, and it’s not because there’s nothing else to say. It’s not because it’s false hope. There’s nothing he would wish for more.

When the sun finally rises, he’s convinced into taking Chi Zhen up to the roof. It’s warm outside, but clouds gather overhead, turbulent and pensive.

“I didn’t think it was radiation at first,” Chi Zhen says to the empty space in front of him. “It seemed really normal—like I was just tired, until I started vomiting blood.” Lu Li doesn’t need to look to know that Chi Zhen’s running his fingers through his hair. He doesn’t need to look to know that it’s falling out.  

“I’m dying.”

There wasn’t a point during which Lu Li wasn’t aware of it. He knew it the moment he walked into the room. As he turns to look at Chi Zhen, he can see the sickness and the fatigue on his face. But the look in his eyes is clearly one of someone who wants to live.

Because calm and content are written so clearly in the tone of his voice, but his eyes are fearful and desperate. And Lu Li wishes more than anything to erase it.

Suddenly there’s an unabated rage that rushes through him at a frightening speed. As he looks at Chi Zhen who doesn’t deserve this—doesn’t deserve to die like this—all he feels is regret.

Chi Zhen must notice because he leans into Lu Li’s side. And he’s warm and solid…alive.

“Do you think we would have met?” Chi Zhen asks.

“Probably,” Lu Li says wistfully. “Maybe…you would have forgotten your keys, or I would have come home earlier.” Because it feels inevitable.  

“We would have met somehow.”

Chi Zhen hums thoughtfully, “I feel like I’ve waited my entire life just to meet you.”

Lu Li nods because there’s a tight feeling in his chest and his intake of breath is unsteady and quivering when he tries to speak.

They’re both leaning against the cold metal railing of the roof. Yet it feels like the stretch of time that exists before them, looking over the vast city, is nothing compared to the impervious distance between their two balconies.

“You know, I didn’t like my balcony. I wanted one that looked over the city—like this view,” Chi Zhen says. “But now, I think it wouldn’t have mattered too much. Because I would have just ended up visiting yours anyway.”

Lu Li smiles and it’s hollow and bitter, and he knows they’re both thinking the same thing.

I wish we met sooner.

Because the physical distance between them was meaningless. They must have almost met so many times.

A light gust of wind pushes gently at Chi Zhen’s collar, but the sun shines brightly above them, carelessly eternal and timeless.

“Do you think you would have noticed? If I was gone?” Chi Zhen asks, and even though his tone is playful and teasing, there’s something vulnerable and hesitant as well.

It’s the way his mouth twitches slightly, and the way his face is turned away partly—the way his hand tightens imperceptibly around Lu Li’s.

“I won’t forget you.” Lu Li’s words hang, suspended in the air, too blunt. But Chi Zhen doesn’t seem to mind.

He smiles faintly, but the fear and hesitation are gone.

“I’m sorry.”

Because I think I could have loved you.

“Do you want to go back inside?” he asks as Chi Zhen reaches out to brush Lu Li’s hair behind his ear.

“No, I want to stay a bit longer.”

[hollywoodx4]

Sticking with the Schuylers (9)

It’s time for a sister-centered chapter…Peggy’s getting under Angelica’s skin…well, lately it seems like everything is getting under Angelica’s skin. And Eliza can sense it. Now she just needs to find a way to address the awkward silences that seem to be happening more and more frequently…

<Sidebar: So sorry this took so long…I’ve written ahead a few parts because I couldn’t quite decide what I wanted this part to be and of course I’m a perfectionist so it took a few tries to get this to a point I  was satisfied with. And then I got sick and have been sleeping 10+ hours a night…what a week! Hope you enjoy!>

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Coffee and Some Schuyler Side Eye:

              The Schuyler sisters were spotted on their usual tryst to class on Wednesday morning, arm in arm and heads bent close in that signature secretive chatter making all of Manhattan wish they were a sister. The three stopped at a nearby concessions stand to grab a coffee, then parted ways for school. But not before youngest sister Peggy pushed her hair back from her face to reveal some serious side-eye, aimed directly at Angelica. Is this older sister over-stepping? Or has being Manhattan royalty spoiled the baby of New York City’s royal family?

…

              “I’m right in front of you, I can clearly see that you’re ignoring me.”

              “You are, and I am. A coffee and two hibiscus teas, please.” The sisters stand by the cart, waiting for their order to be filled as an awkward tension fills the air between them. Peggy has been chatting incessantly their entire way here-the walk soon becoming insufferable as Angelica begins to make her feelings known. Elizabeth, stuck in the middle, became her younger sister’s sounding board as Angelica walked beside them, head up and staring straight with her lips sealed.

              Today, her sisters are not the best company to have.

              She shoots a quick text to Alexander-help, I’m drowning in sisterly tension!­-before Angelica hands her a steaming cup of tea.

“Do you want some sugar in your tea, Peg?”

“No thanks, I’ll take it cold and bitter, like you.” The youngest Schuyler puffs out her chest as her lips draw a thin line, eyes rolling away from Angelica with scorn. Her sister, in return, practically drops the paper cup of tea into Peggy’s outstretched hand, arms crossed and eyebrows raised in an expression she’d been using since they were kids. I’m the kid-boss, she used to say as she kept the two younger sisters at bay. You need to listen to me. I’m the oldest, so I’m the kid-boss.

“Really? You’re going to start?” Now, Angelica still considers herself responsible for her sisters; speaking for the three of them during interviews, fielding awkward questions, interrogating their boyfriends…

Which is where the argument between the oldest and the youngest had started this morning, Elizabeth recounts. When the car had dropped Peggy off at Eliza’s grouping of dorm buildings to meet her sisters she’d immediately began asking questions about her love life-polite questions, albeit a bit inappropriate for Elizabeth’s taste. But she’d laughed them off, ruffling Peggy’s hair and fighting away a blush as she reminded her sister that no, she didn’t know if he was ‘any good,’ they hadn’t even been on a date yet. This earns her a hard look from Angelica, who’s not as amused by the playful questioning.

“You’re being inappropriate, Eliza’s clearly uncomfortable so you might want to stop while you’re ahead.”                

This silences the youngest Schuyler, but only for a brief moment. The trio walks awkwardly, Eliza’s gaze shifting between her two sisters as they clear their throats and sigh for attention. Eliza shoves her cold hands in her pockets, biting her lip as she searches her brain for something to break the silence. But luckily-or, not so luckily- Peggy’s the first to speak up.

“So, Bets, you’ve been spending more time with Alex lately.”

“Yes.”

“Tell me more about his friend.”              

“Which one?” There’s an air about the youngest Schuyler, then, who lifts her head up and looks at the sky, as if searching for the answer as a playful grin graces her lips. She then tosses her hair, shrugging before turning back at Eliza with mischievous, shining eyes.

“I mean, all three of them are beautiful, so….”

“Peggy!”

“But then you remember when we were all there….” Eliza raises her eyebrow as she glances over at Peggy, a silent conversation ensuing. Angelica simply looks on, watching as their facial expressions change and morph until Peggy covers her face with her free hand, groaning.

“Okay, now I don’t know anymore!”

“I have a point about John though, don’t I?” It’s all very matter-of-fact; the way Eliza pushes her dark, silky hair over her shoulder before tilting her head toward Peggy lovingly. There’s a way about their middle sister then-head held high, expression a cross between nurturing and ‘I’m telling you so’-that has Angelica looking away, down at her phone instead of the private conversation going on next to her.

These things, of course, don’t go unnoticed by Eliza.

If any one word could be used to describe their fairer-skinned sister it would be empathetic. Large-hearted, Elizabeth Schuyler has always been one to read the people around her with a marksmen’s accuracy. It was a gift, when that ability was paired with her kind soul and gentle-mannered temperament. She was the peacemaker; often knocking softly on bedroom doors and sitting with teary-eyed sisters, rubbing their backs and soothing them with genuine words that reached her eyes until they transferred to their souls. A healer, that’s what she is. A healer who tended to put everyone else’s needs above her own. And, if asked, Elizabeth would give an ear-to-ear smile when presented with the question of whether or not it was worth it. Yes, of course, making people happy was always worth it.

Until this very moment. Until she sees the upset in Angelica’s body language; refusal of eye contact, slight bend of the fingers that curled nearly into a fist upon the presentation of the topic of conversation…She immediately itches to bring it up. It’s unbearable, really, to see the way her sister reacts when she brings Alexander into conversation. Especially when the trio heads back to Eliza’s room after Peggy gets out of school to get ready for an appearance at their father’s gala that night.

She unlocks the door and her sisters trail in behind her, throwing their bags on the floor before settling on her bed. Peggy lays upside-down, letting out an exasperated yawn while Angelica perches herself neatly, finishing off a text message. Elizabeth pauses at the counter of her little kitchenette, where her vintage-ornate vase is now filled with sunflowers. She smiles and moves toward them, thinking of her roommate and her genuinely kind albeit a bit obsessive boyfriend. But when she finally finds the small card attached to one of the flower’s stems, it’s addressed to her.

They don’t nearly brighten up a room as much as you do….

Tomorrow at 7,

Alex.

              She bites back a smile as she holds the card between her fingers, letting her eyes run across his hasty chicken-scratch handwriting as they bask in its familiarity. The same writing that adorns the letter she still keeps in her pocket, folding and unfolding as if his genuine nature is so much of a shock to need the consistent reminder.

              But then Peggy’s gasping, the sound of the weight on her bed shifting before Eliza feels her presence behind her. She gapes at the flowers, smacking her sister’s arm in excitement.

              “These are adorable but seriously, he talks like he’s from the olden days and he’s trying to court you.”

              “I think it’s sweet.” She replies in a more reserved voice, letting her fingers trace over the buttery soft petals of the sunflowers.

              “I forgot your date was tomorrow…” Angelica pipes up from her place on the bed, her eyes glancing up from the screen of her phone. Her sisters are huddled around the flowers, Eliza’s fingers still dancing around the petals while Peggy looks on, teasing. Eliza looks back at her comment and her features immediately change; her face falls, cheeks looking deflated as her eyes seem lost-saddened, even. Her fingers drop from the flowers and she turns around, making her way to the other side of the room as Peggy looks on.

              “You know if you have a problem, you can tell me.”

              “Bets,”

              “Don’t pretend that you’re not upset, Angie. I can see it. I can hear it…If I had known that my going out with your friend would upset you, I would have never even considered it. He could’ve been yours.”

              “That’s not…” Angelica pauses, then, and pats the spot on the bed next to her. Her middle sister hesitates, then complies, settling herself on her bed with her legs crossed, eyes cast down at the mint green comforter that adorns it. Peggy sighs, shaking her head before gathering her things.

              “This isn’t a conversation for me…I’ll see you at the gala, guys.”

              When the door clicks shut there’s a considerable amount of silence. Eliza finds the hem of her comforter between her fingers, tracing the in-and-out seam of the sewing. Angelica plays with her fingers in her lap, mind racing as she searches for a way to start the conversation.

              “I don’t like that you’re seeing Alex.” Angelica was one to be blunt, but the sentence she mutters lingers in the air between them like an open wound; something the two of them had known but both had been too timid to bring up.

              “I kind of figured that much. I had just thought that you and Church were doing so well, and,”

              “It’s not about my liking Alex. God, no.” She immediately refuses the thought, almost laughing at her sister’s assumption.

              “You’re just…you’re more similar to him. You have more in common. When the two of you talk it’s so fast, and it’s like you could skip paragraphs of things just to reach your point and he’d still completely understand you.”

              “We’re similar. That’s all. He’s good company.”

              “So if it isn’t that, then what is it? Why don’t you want me to see him?”

              Angelica sighs, putting a hand on Elizabeth’s shoulder. She’s reaching, now, her eyes searching an invisible bank of memories-things she hadn’t wanted to bring up-before deciding just how to get her point across.

              “When I started seeing John, do you remember how dad was?”

              “He was…distant. He didn’t like him. But he never likes anyone we see, Ang.”

              “There are things you never saw…things I wish I could take back; the way dad treats John, the way I treated dad…do you remember when dad told you I was selected for a scholarship weekend away? At debate camp?”

              “Yeah…and then the camp extended your stay to a week and you missed your senior semi-formal. And mom hung the dress in the back of your closet, and they talked a lot…and then you came back, and they never even asked you how camp was.”

              “I wasn’t at camp. I was with John.”

              “When…why didn’t you tell me?”

              “And then what? Explain what was going on to my 16 year-old sister? The one who could do no wrong?”

              Eliza’s taken aback at the comment; the way Angelica’s eyes are suddenly very dark-the way she looks past her, to the distance, in a glossed-over gaze that makes her stomach turn in knots. In a way that brings forth a slight twinge of betrayal.

              They’d always told each other everything.

              “Dad never liked John. He still doesn’t. He plays a good game, and it’s much better now than it was before, but it just kills him that John isn’t as rich as he’d like-that Church isn’t a name recognized by his friends and colleagues, so really he can’t show off or expand his name using me. I’d always felt like it was my job. It’s a pressure he never put on you guys, and I always felt so…special. I was the one that would carry on the name. I was the powerful one, the one that would prove everyone right about loving the Schuyler name. And I’m his only biological child…he made me. He chose you. There’s so much more that I have to prove…I have to make his legacy last.”

              “Angie…” Eliza is quiet; a hand reaching out to hold her older sister’s, facial features morphed into a contemplative mixture of pity and confusion. “Dad loves you…he’ll always love you. It may take him some time to come around but this is all so new to him-he’s realizing that his daughters are getting to that age where we’re not always going to be around. We’re not always going to just be here, and that might terrify him. We’ve always been such a tight-knit family…and mom and dad had to fight not only to get pregnant with you, but to get Peggy and I as well. For him, your choosing John….it was like the wake-up call he never wanted to hear.”          

              “It’s the one he’s going to have to hear. I may regret the way I handled things back then but I don’t regret choosing John. I don’t regret the path I’ve taken.” Angie stops then, letting herself find comfort in her middle sister’s hand in hers, the way she’s leaned her head on her shoulder so that Angelica could run her fingers through silken strands of brown.

              It’s reminiscent of their younger days; a crack of light would shine in from the hallway as the door clicked open, accompanied by the sound of Eliza’s tiny feet pattering across the hardwood floor. Angelica would shift over in bed and the middle sister would crawl in, wrapping herself around her older sister, seeking comfort. Sometimes she’d sniffle, then Angelica would dry her tears and soothe her. Sometimes it was the older sister who’d need consoling, then Eliza would hold her hand and recite a long list of things she loved about having her as a sister. And other times the two would say nothing at all, simply holding each other until they both fell asleep.

              “I don’t want you to make the same mistakes that I did. I don’t want dad to look at you the way he still looks at me sometimes.”

              “I understand that. And I appreciate that. But you’ve spent your whole life looking out for me…I learned everything I need to know from you. I don’t want you to have to worry anymore.”

              “I’ll always worry about you.”

              Angelica chuckles-an airy and reserved kind of laughter-as she pulls Eliza closer to her. It’s an embrace that suddenly sets the older sister’s lips into a thin line; her arms tighten around Eliza and she feels it, reacts to it by turning her head up in question. Angelica looks back at her, eyes hardened and serious.

              “The other thing I was going to say….are you sure you’re ready? After James,”

              “I don’t want to talk about that.” Elizabeth whispers, her eyes cast back down at the comforter and her body stiffening underneath her sister’s touch. So Angelica waits; listening to the shaky breath her middle sister draws in, before moving her hand through her silky hair once more.

              “He’s different.” Eliza doesn’t answer but Angelica can still feel the stiffness of her muscles. It’s heartbreaking, the way a name-one syllable-can change her demeanor so quickly. And suddenly they’re young again, Angelica holding her closer as the dimmed lighting and soft hum of activity outside her door are the only things tethering them to the world outside of their bubble. She’d known she wouldn’t be able to keep her little sisters free of harm forever; the reality of the world’s cruelty was all-too real to her. But in their bubble-in the safety of Eliza’s room, where she could just hold her-there was a realization.

              “There aren’t many people in this world who deserve your kindness, Betsey. But with the way he’s trying, the way he writes about you…Alexander comes pretty damn close.”

              Angelica Schuyler may not be able to shelter her sister from every bad thing that comes her way, but there would always be a bedroom; or a couch, a place to keep the bubble of security that surrounded them when they held each other. They’d always have each other. And as long as Angelica could keep her middle sister-her warm-hearted, trusting, pure of heart sister-wearing the hopeful smile she was managing at his moment…well, that’d be enough.

[gracedman]

The Book of Remembrance

Malachi 3:13–18 (ESV)

“Your words have been hard against me, says the Lord. But you say, ‘How have we spoken against you?’ You have said, ‘It is vain to serve God. What is the profit of our keeping his charge or of walking as in mourning before the Lord of hosts? And now we call the arrogant blessed. Evildoers not only prosper but they put God to the test and they escape.’ ”

Then those who feared the Lord spoke with one another. The Lord paid attention and heard them, and a book of remembrance was written before him of those who feared the Lord and esteemed his name. “They shall be mine, says the Lord of hosts, in the day when I make up my treasured possession, and I will spare them as a man spares his son who serves him. Then once more you shall see the distinction between the righteous and the wicked, between one who serves God and one who does not serve him.

We are sure to notice at some point the thoughts and words of those who stop drawing near to God. They and we, as well, will begin by reacting against those who do. But eventually when push come to shove, our thoughts and words are shown actually, to be against the Lord, himself. We have left the place of personal sanctification. We have reached a limit with our walk with God and do not care to really go further. We will perhaps seek out other believers who desire merely social relationships and not one that is based upon a spiritual rapport through a personal cross and honoring specific truth in our walk with God.

Maybe we are there right now. Perchance if God would have us in a personal interview, we would hear him say: “Your words have been hard against me.” The Hebrew word “hard against” means in this particular context to be “insolent, unrestrained, and without a proper filter.” Such a person reacts against God and treats him and his servants as an enemy or ignores them. And yet, in a cross-examination by God, we deny it. And we ask? What are you talking about, God? “How have we spoken against you?” And then his interrogation gets specific: God says: You have said these words, “What is the profit of our keeping his charge or of walking as in mourning before the Lord of hosts?”

There are some who say, or should I better say, we all have said: “It is a waste of time to draw near to God, to listen to his word, and to serve him wholeheartedly.” We want change now. God wants access to our lives first. He would change us inwardly before anything changes outwardly. We want privileges and blessings and God wants vessels of honor. God wants people who ring true because they have paid the price to build with God’s gold. We can get so disoriented to divine truth that we get everything turned upside down: “now we call the arrogant blessed. Evildoers not only prosper but they put God to the test and they escape.” Paul said this to Timothy:

2 Timothy 2:20–23 (ESV)

Now in a great house there are not only vessels of gold and silver but also of wood and clay, some for honorable use, some for dishonorable. Therefore, if anyone cleanses himself from what is dishonorable, he will be a vessel for honorable use, set apart as holy, useful to the master of the house, ready for every good work. So flee youthful passions and pursue righteousness, faith, love, and peace, along with those who call on the Lord from a pure heart. Have nothing to do with foolish, ignorant controversies; you know that they breed quarrels.

People, who are afraid of the God of all grace, will engage you with “foolish, ignorant controversies.” They love to be right. We can all use the bible to show others how we are right, and they are wrong, but God is looking for vessels of honor and not skilled debaters. He is looking for those who would “pursue righteousness, faith, love, and peace, along with those who call on the Lord from a pure heart.”

When we make the right choices, God takes note. Our initial verses speak to this divine awareness: “Then those who feared the Lord spoke with one another. The Lord paid attention and heard them, and a book of remembrance was written before him of those who feared the Lord and esteemed his name.” God doesn’t miss the details. He writes them in a book. We may think, I will never be able to have my life and testimony in the Bible. It is complete without me. But God is journaling every right choice and spiritual decision we make. He writes it all down in his ongoing “book of remembrance.” Hopefully we will fill several volumes because we are vessels of gold and silver.

I once had a customer whose children gave him a large book. It had his name on the spine as the author and an engaging title. But it was a gag-gift. It was very well bound and had gold lettering on the cover. But you opened it and it was empty. Every page was blank. Not too many years later, that father took his rifle and blew his brains out in a suicide. After it happened, I thought of his empty book. He did not know what it really meant to have a God who was journaling each and every one of his life events.

Yesterday, an American soldier was given a special honor. He was given the congressional medal of honor for service above and beyond the call of duty. He had risked his life to save and protect those under his command. He stood before a small group of people, his family, his fellow soldiers, people from the government and the armed services. The president of the United States told the story of his brave actions and personally placed the medal around his neck. As I watched and listened, I could not be touched at his honorable actions. But I also thought of a day coming, when Jesus Christ will do a similar thing. He will open his book of remembrance and give crowns to his treasured servants. Oh, I want to one. A vessel of honor, with a book filled with good decisions and actions of faithful service to my king. Listen to Malachi again:

“They shall be mine, says the Lord of hosts, in the day when I make up my treasured possession, and I will spare them as a man spares his son who serves him. Then once more you shall see the distinction between the righteous and the wicked, between one who serves God and one who does not serve him.”

Lord Jesus, help us to be those vessels of honor. Ones who build with gold and silver. Ones whom you can treasure and trust. Ones whom you can use in small and hidden ways as well as in the public arena. Amen!!!