angels surround you.

indie & private multimuse. penned by jk.

[planetsorbit]

"ufos could take me home." additional solos: @junebye @oneszeroes

[egojock]

it's easy to feel lost in a place as big as california, no matter how blue blooded and ripe with opportunity it may seem. it was still all about who you knew, and who knew you. there were churches of various denominations scattered across the coast lines of north america, full of zealots who quoted scripture that fit their worldview best as well as honest pious people. and yet nate often had trouble discerning which was which. nate's always had a distrusting nature to him, capable of twisting the narrative and being his own lawyer when the holes in his memory failed him but that didn't make him immune to buying into a well-told lie. the performance, the costuming, the set design and all of that shit mattered. it's why he presented himself the way he did without any deviation. deviation that didn't occur from nate's own hand, anyway. nate wasn't sure what he was expecting going into this, but the father's tone is placid and full of unsubstantiated sympathy. nate's had bad preachers, bad football coaches advising him on the field as well as in life, but there's something more reassuring than what nate normally receives in the father's words, that the mere effort at trying to be better and do better is enough. it resonates a bit more than all of the other shitty rhetoric and aspirational life-stories that had little to do with anything but the men telling them, that was for sure. but there's one part of it that stumps him. "if it looks like kindness towards myself?" nate gnaws at the inside of his cheek, nerves still fraying a bit, but he huffs a laugh. not because anything about this was actually funny, but sometimes nate would rather laugh at the absurdity of it all than cry. spilled milk, wasn't it. one of the kindest acts he's ever done was giving jules' the tape back to her so she couldn't be retraumatized by all of it or called in for a court case she likely wanted no involvement in. that had definitely been a kindness to himself too. if it'd been nate, he wouldn't have wanted to relive that shit over and over again — but rolling on his own father and turning him into the police had kind of only really served to have him bent back over a barrel. the association still followed him, still planted seeds of doubt in the minds of business partners his father had previously worked with and their colleagues. all because nate wanted some semblance of vengeance, or something adjacent to justice. even if nate himself had plenty to beg forgiveness for. "that's more or less true. i have been very surgical about it. i've tried to cut it out like a malignant tumor, but it's like i still have this undiagnosed pain that never goes away. i try to numb it with other things but i'm the only one who knows it exists," nate admits, steepling his fingers together as he leans forward so his voice carries further. "i don't know which parts of myself are worth keeping and which are rotten. and not to make you uncomfortable, father, but have you ever woken up from a sex dream and felt completely nauseous? not really because of the explicit content, but, because of what it could mean for you." nate realizes he should probably redirect the conversation back to their Father, or the holy spirit, but this all lead back to at least one father. he couldn't really feel the presence of any father figure anymore, but what nate does feel is that familiar sense of nausea and panic bubbling up in his chest. shit. this was a really stupid idea. nate has to either swallow all of that back down or get out of this suffocating environment before he starts hyperventilating. "thank you for your time, i think — i really have to go now," he asserts, standing upright with all the grace of any startled prey animal and knocking an elbow against the wood of the confessional.

[planetsorbit]

he shakes his head at first, then remembering, clarifies: "you're not making me uncomfortable." it's an assumption fed fat by the strict rulings of old priesthood, equating the conservative idea of purity as irreversibly tied to sexuality. it is like all tempting pleasures, at risk of muddying the mind — but jud would say the same of cigarettes or liquor or adrenaline or sodium. (he makes a mental note to unpack this another day, to address it plain and sympathetic at his next open sermon. to partake in sex, however 'simplified' or 'complicated', for the sake of children or otherwise, is yet another neutral thing in a world of neutral things after all.) frankly, hypocrisy has needled it's way into the church — and jud hears the remnants of this belief in every shame-riddled ask, or guilt-seeped confession. he hears it in the young man's voice, in the discomfort bleeding. "before you go," he interjects, tone briefly pitching and desperate, "i have a sermon coming up, next sunday, at noon. i'll be available for confession at four, but if you'd like to sit in, you're welcome to join us." he'd initially hoped to hear the other's name, but considering the nature of this confession, and the speed to which he intends to run — jud holds his tongue shy. " — and if i can leave you with something to think about before you leave... nothing within you is rotten, only scarred. you may not be able to scrub the injury away, but you will learn to live with it, you will feel the weight of that regret, that guilt, and still recognize that you are a person worthwhile." then quieter, "i believe this of you already. however pressuring that admission may be." and jud recognizes that this sweeping 'assumption' may deter the young man from ever returning, that grace can feel like mockery, that forgiveness may sound like judgment, but he hopes that this moment they share now, sits memorable. he exhales, sitting back onto wooden seats. "...and thank you for coming. i hope to hear from you again, as you are always welcome."

[egojock]

@planetsorbit: a confessional booth that smells like old wood. ( father jud & nate / i don't even have this character listed but we talked abt it vaguely and even if it isn't romantic ... the idea of nate going to a confessional when things are real Fucking hard ... seem like a moving one . father jud could also be kangdae if there's a preference for him to be in a specific priest verse - but EITHER WAY ... location could still be cali, perhaps a temporary visit/aiding the local community there )

everything kind of smells like lemon pledge and catholic guilt. suffocating, overwhelming to the senses and a little performative. if he thought too hard about it, this could all go south very quickly — not in the sense that he'd make a bigger mess than the one he's thought himself into in the first place, but it'd still be a set-back. nate needs someone to tighten the noose around his neck or sever it completely. cruelty or mercy, depending on who you asked first. he's always been raised around religion and despite his families' differing denominations, he knows they'd all come to an agreement on this being the first stop on the road before anyone would ever consider therapy. plus, it was free, and the conservative christian stock nate comes from was funny about things like that. you're paying a guy to tell you what's wrong with you? a street-walker could probably provide you with more valuable insight about life and also offer a real service. all of this to say, nate's already knocked his knees against the pews and he doesn't remember how to do this anymore. he clears his throat, the sound of it deafening and clumsy to his own ears. "good afternoon. it's been uh, way more than 365 days since my last confession." nate thinks it's a solid enough start and they have to land this fucking plane somehow. he thinks his story is trite and cliche, but they were cliches for a reason and nate doesn't know how to verbalize any of it, to open his mouth for oxygen without it feeling like he's drowning. "father, i think i've been performing for most of my life. i'm not a good person. i've been regurgitating fucked up rhetoric and sinning while marketing myself as someone or something else." nate sucks in a breath, sweaty palms running over the front of his slacks. it's humid and like a really funny yet not metaphor for his life — nate feels boxed in. "i feel like i've been running away for something that's eventually been going to catch up to me my whole life, and even when i do something to right the course it all goes wrong. i feel wrong." he can only confess to his sin in the abstract, there is no way he could walk out of this church otherwise. there is no way for him to admit that he knows his father is a rotten and flawed man but has loved him anyway. devotion that devastates, and nate has been waiting for an apology that he knows will never come nor be sincere. "do you think the world rewards you for your goodness? positive reinforcement?" his head tips back, swallowing back something thick and bitter. nate hasn't known it to be that way, but nate can acknowledge his world has been very small.

[planetsorbit]

it's quite easy to spot the differences in one's space, one's environment, when you're nervous or scared. in fact, it takes little if no effort at all, to absorb san fernando and kagel canyon, and exist stunned with how unfamiliar it all is. but perhaps there is additional reason as to why houses like these, churches of god and mary and the blessed saints, are common destinations (or stopping points) for the wayward children, and the lost. stepping inside, the stories that litter the windows, that climb the pillars wooden and stone, stay consistent and recognizable. the cross hangs high, disciples painted with reverent eyes, prayer candles, pews, a quiet. even the smell of aging wood and the careful darkness of the enclosure brings to jud comfort here. his attention doesn't spiral, his focus doesn't split, and in the aching he's privy to, forgiveness sits at the tip of his tongue. it is understandably vague, if the admission to one's overdue confession is of any value, and jud wants to assure the other man without frightening him. a complicated task, considering the question that follows. "i believe that the world is rarely ever consistent. it is unsteady and without structure, often because people make up so much of our world. people who can be irrational, who can be selfish, who can be hurt. because of this, because we are complex beings, i cannot say with strong certainty that goodness will always be rewarded." terrible things happen to kind people, and fortune — if viewed with a materialistic lens — favours the greedy, powerful, and selfish. there is no equation set that can distinguish why the world is the way it is, why being kind can feel detrimental and unsafe. to jud, this is where faith fits in. but to those who do not (as some cannot) see the church as a house of god, finding faith in being good for the sake of being good, and faith in humanity, in fellowship, is a self-sacrificing journey. one he merely offers, not as law nor as a prerequisite to happiness. "but if pursuing goodness gives you courage, or if it looks like kindness towards yourself — if doing the graceful thing allows the weight you carry to shrink just so, it is an achievement nevertheless." jud cannot distinguish much from voice alone, but he assumes him younger, painfully quick to dismiss his own efforts under surrounding judgment. he swallows, sympathetic. "when we carry guilt in our heart, we often focus on rectifying it in a way that is almost surgical. we cut out pieces of ourselves and we give them away, hoping that in return, we will receive something purer. it is hard to live with it. this was true for me as well, still is. but your efforts are not lost on me, nor are they even lost to the world. you may not see it in gestures, in the faces of other people, but that you're here... this is goodness too."

[thiscoldheart]

"You're right. It's storytelling. And this church, it's not medieval. We're in New York. It's neo-Gothic 19th century. It has more in common with Disneyland than Notre Dame. And the rites and rituals and costumes, all of it." WAKE UP DEAD MAN (2025) dir. Rian Johnson

[planetsorbit]

what type of herb are you?

cardamom

you're lonely but it's okay. it's okay. it's okay. you've always been okay except you're not and somehow you've made yourself and everyone else around you believe that too. connection to anyone is harder than you could have ever dreamed when you were young and unloved and invisible to everyone who was supposed to care about you and save you from the voiding hollowness in your chest, in your throat. you smile and say you're okay and you are, or at least you tell yourself you are, but is anyone even worried? you tell yourself that they are or maybe that it's good they aren't. you'll be okay, one day. one day.

as tagged by my beloved: @egojock tagging: if you happen to pass by, steal from me!

[egojock]

he realizes he's kind of grasping at straws with that hypothesis, but it wasn't uncommon. it was bad when nate was the center of the attention, but necessarily good when the focus shifted to bragging about aaron at dinner conversations. punishment for bad behavior, or what his parents qualified as such. they gave their input on everything, including the girls nate dated, his sportsmanship. (without knowing why his teammates might have turned on him like a dime in the first place.) nate studies charlie unabashed, lips quirking up. "structure, huh. you've had plenty of that, i'd imagine. do you prefer it?" enough to consider it as that — structure and not control, is what can be read between the lines here. nate is commiserating, then deliberating when charlie flushes, either from the unintentional sentimentality or the beating rays of the sun. he's rather pale to begin with, now blushing like a red delicious apple. it's flirting, and that realization doesn't startle nate as much as it should. not when they both have so much to lose. mutually-assured destruction. nate laughs, head tipping back when charlie shares this anecdote about his baking gone wrong, endeared. "yeah? well, i say the filling is the best part too. a crust is a crust. and if our parents are to be believed, failure is the mother of success. maybe we'll compromise and make apple crumbles instead," nate implores, like two guys like them hanging out to bake isn't absurd or wouldn't spark rumors. it's innocent until you look it in the face and give it a name. nate finishes the popsicle, stick syrupy and abandoned to be stubbed out in the sand like a cigarette before he glances back at charlie. "would you feel like going for a swim?" an eyebrow raises, and nate gets to his feet, wiping his palms on the front of his khaki shorts. "it's hot today. we'll probably dry off fast," nate reasons with a loose shrug, already reaching for the hem of his polo to pull up and off over his head. his shorts follow suit, leaving them in a pile on the sand as he treks towards the shore in navy blue boxer-briefs. nate doesn't look back, merely waits for the sound of footsteps crunching in the sand alongside the cresting waves. he trusts charlie is either looking at him or following after him, and both options are just as well.

[planetsorbit]

charlie shrugs again, honest even in his uncertainty. "there's comfort in knowing what's to be done. but all structure - even the necessary ones - come with their own limiting assumptions. if not yes, then no. if not correct, then incorrect. you know?" if they are as similar as charlie thinks they are, he imagines nate understands this. neither of them particularly comfortable with the idea that anything is certain, that all answers, all traits, all choices have a black and white. if that were true, there would be no saving him; the pair of them already chipped and angry and fibbing. there would be no recycling of burnt dough, no apple crumbles to save when the lattice breaks apart, no sympathy for when charlie looks nate up and down. "sure." he follows suit, lathering sunscreen generous and rushed over planes of exposed skin, each tug exposing another stretch of it. he's forcibly pale, not nearly as white as his brother changyu, but of all the things charlie envies, this isn't one of them. shimmying to his boxer briefs, charlie tails behind breathless, dark eyes spinning hazel in the sun. and with both heels in the sand, clothes kicking off behind them like mental baggage, the water arrives distinctly cool. he's relieved in seconds, breathing better once he wades himself neck deep. (which, where charlie hovers with his chin lifted, nate stands with exposed collarbones. he doesn't address it.) sighing, charlie submits: "i get it now. i get why so many artists sing about california summers. this is pretty nice."

[annori]

James Baldwin from Giovanni’s Room (1956)

[planetsorbit]

@egojock

[egojock]

he understands the songs need to present themselves as a unit, a consolidated familial force to be reckoned with, lest they be met with scorn and made to feel further alienation. nate understands the jacobs' family need for this a bit less though, in comparison. but then every time he recalls the existence of the tapes, nate supposes he does understand the need to put on a strong face-forward front. the hypocrisy of it drains him. but charlie, or chanjae as he's likely known to his mother — feels more familiar to nate than he arguably has any right to be. in california it is difficult for a man to forget where he is, nate reckons. although they may want to. he remembers a vietnamese kid in middle school with the surname tran telling nate it was the most popular landing spot for immigrants, asian-americans as a whole. nate didn't know what to do with that information at the time, stowed it away for future use as he does with most things alongside the reminder that the world was so much bigger than he's been lead to believe by older members of the jacobs family, still set in their ways. nate's eyebrows raise at this, the corners of his mouth along with it. he's never heard of such a thing. it always bothers him when he doesn't know something, obsessive and curious by nature. "so they did feed you. sounds as familiar to me as it likely does to you, though. what's next on the list? ceviche?" he teases, gaze flitting over charlie's face before lingering on the melting syrupy treat proffered back to him. it was in the 90s today, rationalizing it as seeking relief when nate puts it between his lips after a moment of hesitance. sweat rolls down his back. charlie didn't go to nate's school. most likely some place better, and therefore didn't know the rumors. it's all innocence, boys being boys, until the fruit of knowledge destroys that. nate plops down into the sand, damp enough to adhere to the back of his khakis as he sits on his haunches, slurping until the popsicle is down to the white and blue with the red sticking his mouth — messy and crude as nate lets the rest drip onto his fingers, heaving a sigh. "something or other about the lattice of the pie not turning out right. matters of great importance," nate says sternly, before a laugh bubbles out. or maybe he was just an ungrateful brat. they talked about anything and everything but what actually mattered, his family. or so nate thinks. "think maybe she was talkin' about me, without actually doing it. who knows?" nate looks off at the coast line, thinks about how nice it'd feel to be submerged in the water and letting the waves carry him to and fro. they weren't too merciless today, rising with just enough tenacity to potentially make him feel weightless if he stopped fighting against the tide.

[planetsorbit]

"i would accept ceviche. there's structure to that in comparison." unfortunately, they aren't wholly unlike their parents. they say things without saying them, address the unimportant subjects to infer the rest, lest being explicit about it cost them everything. in the same way his father and cal jacobs discuss the dos and donts of surfing, best air conditioning units, and luxurious seafood restaurants to reserve in the near future — nate and charlie talk breakfast. so the blunt hypothesis surprises him somewhat. it isn't so farfetched a comparison. mrs. jacobs dotes on the surface, all polite smiles and the occasionally fond-eyed re-telling of aaron jacobs at twelve years old. ('even then!' she'd said, 'he was a charmer! the girls wrote him so many valentine's letters, do you remember?' to which cal jacobs would smile stiff and tired like this too, is a job.) but like everyone else at this table of make-believers, she had a seat for a reason. a role to which she performed motherhood, traditional, upper-class, suburban, wine glass in hand and handsome sons moulded to fit the narrative. plus, charlie can read their exact brand of crazy because it isn't dissimilar to his own. he's sympathetic at least, heavy-headed with thoughts as nate returns the popsicle, cold but shrinking, to his lips. he can't tell if he's expected to peel back in turn, offer confessions of his own to mirror nate's, so he waits, watches the dye stain the corners of nate's mouth. "...yeah well. ask anyone, the taste of the pie matters most." again, charlie sidesteps saying the important thing aloud or with tender clarity. he trusts nate to understand him, adding: "i tried baking a pie once. the small sort that fits in a muffin pan. it fell apart in the oven, burnt at the crust." he shrugs, feeling a little red in the ears, "but i still ate it. it was bitter in corners and it looked like shit, but it was warm and filling and sweet inside." the metaphor runs away from him, tipping unintentionally romantic.

[egojock]

@planetsorbit: sender and receiver share a popsicle. ( charlie & nate / self explanatory but . homoerotic by the beach or something .... pretend family gathering OR charlie/nate just hanging out on their own ... weekend beach scenario .. )

cal jacobs loved throwing a family friendly affair. their chili-cook offs at the fair in east highland were infamous, or so his father said. the irony of it all is not lost on nate. his father's business partners were always invited, including their family and loved ones. charlie song was similar to him in that he was always dragged along to these events, incentivized to maintain the facade of a perfect family with successful lineage but nate could always see a weariness in the shadows of his face. his gait was like that of a chained doberman kept in the yard and only brought out to attack. whenever it was convenient. nate understood without anything having to be confessed to him at all. his mother is chattering away in his ear next to him about how the lattice on the apple pie hadn't turned out the way she wanted it to, crooked and imperfect, but nate's gaze is fixed on charlie as his mind wanders. marsha is talking about him without talking about him. he internalizes it and consoles her by saying if it tastes good, that's all that matters. then he breaks through the herd of people and approaches charlie, cutting in on what looks like a stiff conversation with a popsicle brandished in his hand — offering charlie's older brother an arrogant smirk. their families' dick measuring contest didn't just end with the adults. if charlie was the understudy, nate would steal him away to rehearse their lines. "hey, man. c'mon, the tide is high right now," he urges, unwrapping the bomb pop and leisurely placing it between his lips. patriotic, as if with enough confidence the world would finally give way to his whims. nate raises his eyebrows at charlie's brother, seeking forgiveness and not permission. they tread their way towards the beach with sand and bitterness between their toes, and nate isn't a surfer guy by any means but he likes the sting of saltwater hitting his face. the wind is a relief, as is the company and reprieve from the social niceties but the heat is oppressive enough to have the popsicle dripping sticky syrup over nate's knuckles on the walk over. he feels gross, deftly switching the popsicle to his other hand and then giving his knuckles a languid lick. the taste is salty and sweet on his tongue. nate glances over, his other hand outstretched to offer the popsicle like an afterthought. an eyebrow quirks up, the corners of his mouth along with it as he watches charlie expectantly. "did they even feed you before they paraded you out here?"

[planetsorbit]

his parents wouldn't dare express it so crudely, but they tolerate the jacobs out of necessity. even with all the money in the world (and then some), the songs understand that connections, reputable ones with larger than life families, are important stepping stones to proper integration. not integration for the sake of making friends, nor invitations to neighbourhood block parties, but to be a symbol. to appear a perfect family unit and the envy of the town as icons to aspire to. it's all embarrassingly cliché and old-fashioned, but the numbers speak, they transform chanbin song's 'foreign features' into respectable ones. because in the world of the ultra wealthy, even humanity can be bought. and with charlie's father sitting at the head of the proverbial table, changyu loiters beside him as rightful heir — their upturned noses near identical in the sunlight. unlike them, and unlike cal and marsha and aaron jacobs, nate sticks to him curious. he's taller than most, intimidating in expression and in stature, but somewhere in-between the overblown egos and the practiced smiles, charlie found him conversely familiar. they couldn't hide their distaste after all, nor their misery, nor the jabs too visible and sympathetic and mirrored. and though charlie resents having to be 'rescued', he relaxes when ushered away, the heat spinning up like a cyclone from the twist of his hair — easing gratefully. "my mother would've called them 'cornichons'. just pickles on some saltines, salted herring on the side if you so desire," charlie's eyes are pointed and comically ill, "it's as unnecessarily european as it sounds." (it's her new thing, exotic recipes that are conveniently healthy — authenticity and taste factors hardly present.) "i skipped the fish." an excuse of sorts, as charlie takes the popsicle to his own mouth. it isn't habitual; they don't cross these boundaries elsewhere, nor do they address it here, but in the same way nate pretends it's nothing, charlie follows suit. it's only trouble if they address it. (though troubling either way, when he thinks about nate's spit sinking to the back of his throat.) he hollows around it, just tight enough for his tongue to squeak against the underside, before pulling out. it looks the same still, shiny as before, colourful, rounded, only lewd from prior context. charlie hands it back, quietly challenging. "what's your mom on about? i could hear her yammering over the waves."

[egojock]

nate can feel the weight of oliver's gaze still and he has to fight off the urge to wipe off his mouth with the back of his hand. not a personal affront to oliver, of course, but because nate was a bit of a clean freak. he can't expect oliver to know that the gesture was him trying to reciprocate oliver's undivided attention, so he swallows down the disgust alongside phlegm. nate hums, his gaze flitting away to the source of the raucous noise before returning safe and unwavering on oliver's features, quietly assessing. the gears in his brain are whirring, weighing the options and whether or not this could come back to bite him in the ass later. counting his transgressions on an internal abacus. oliver doesn't strike him as the gossipy type, so nate figures there wouldn't be much harm in inviting him in even further — that whatever incriminating or dubious thing he'd witness, he would keep to himself. "headed back to mine," he replies simply, lips quirking up with amusement. nate wants a cigarette. something else to occupy his mouth and attention with. nate simply wants. his hands pat the front of his pants before finding their way to the pockets of his jeans, muscle memory and reaching for something absent. "there is. you can come along too. provided you don't have any cop blood in your family," nate teases, a coy and mirthful look in his eyes. it's not necessarily all to nathaniel's tastes, because his friends had vices of their own and he knows once they arrive, there'll be weed and white powder on most of the clean surfaces of his home. enough bass booming from the stereo system to drown out rational thought, plenty of substances to let them indulge their baser instincts. there's something darker and heated in nate's gaze now, unguarded but prompting as he cocks his head to the side. the tension builds, frays at the edges. "are you? going to come." the word choice as well as the implication is deliberate.

[planetsorbit]

he's been wrong before, but oliver thinks the teasing in the lilt of nathaniel's voice isn't wholly insincere. it's flirtatious too. seductive, even a little yearning in between the drawl of his voice. it makes oliver's skin itch, his toes stiff and in need of curling. and though hunger eggs him on, half-begging to let his interest show, he forgoes a knee-jerk response for a calculated pivot. "need a cig?" (he'd seen photos of nathaniel with a smoke in hand, then others in which his friends are clutching a pack of marlboro golds. naturally, oliver had tried one himself, coughing until the dry heat felt familiar enough to swallow.) he wrestles the cigs in question from a back pocket — then slipping it like a gift into nathaniel's palm. there'd been several points of contact since, hell — they're practically side-to-side, shoulder-to-shoulder, but the skim of fingertips and the near threading of their extremities has oliver a little eager. the practiced hesitation that was offering a smoke, comes up shallow when he interjects: "i'll come, if that's — if you're cool with that." he's looking and then he isn't, muscle taut across the side of his neck. he's out of his depth again, a bland thing trying desperately to blend into an existing pattern. but until nathaniel squeezes him into nothing, oliver wants to believe in the spark of his gaze, the twinkle in his eyes. "...i won't go snooping," he adds, attempting comedy.

[egojock]

nathaniel's play seems to be effective. he barely knows oliver, sure, but nate doesn't truly know anyone and he likes it that way. but there's something in the near transparent shade of blue in oliver's eyes and unassuming demeanor, clear enough to make nate think him honest. and even if that turned out to not be the case, it'd only be more of an asset. nate comes to him like a well-intentioned thief in the night, shrouded and bare in nothing but the intimacy of darkness with the promise of a remedy for a cure to all ills. whatever void or absence of something that exists within the both of them, nate will try to fill it — give just enough crumbs of his real self away while leaving oliver wanting more. to ensure he stays, so that oliver sees this cause as worthy. all while preparing for the next album rollout, the next transformation, another vulnerable self-mutilation in the medium of his choice. music. everyone more or less grasps that concept that life is a bunch of interwoven stories, narratives weaved together from parents and cultural word of mouth. there's a reason the bible, the word of god has survived the grueling test of time. it's oratory. nathaniel isn't sacrilegious enough to be on john lennon's level, but fuck, he wanted to get there eventually. false idols would more than suffice when their real Father was avoidant and neglectful. nate would never forsake anyone devoted to him that hasn't forsaken him first. he offers a soft and unguarded smile to oliver before lowering his gaze to the other man's phone, skimming through the calendar and picking out a date that works best for his schedule. oliver's already prioritizing him, offering to move his shifts around selflessly. "done," nathaniel replies, and because oliver has passed every test of faith provided for him thus far, nate brings kiss lips to the phone screen before passing it back. later, when oliver picks up his call — nate predicts his cheek to brush against the same spot nate's mouth had been. "you know what? i think this is the beginning of a beautiful partnership."

[planetsorbit]

oliver stares unabashed when nathaniel kisses his phone, pursed lips and a grand profile to the flat of his screen. the pressure is invisible, no lingering wetness to serve as holy proof, only memory and some scant, assumed traces of bacteria. an exhale or some miniscule touch of spit, oliver's body and home sinking to the back of nathaniel's throat. his stomach feels a little hollow, head half-cloudy with feeling. (desire? disgust? despair?) he takes the device, thankful in speech, though he hesitates then, drifts in the quiet of their breathing until nathaniel's posse hollers loud enough to interrupt. they bring him back stubbornly to the world of the living, and oliver, as if powered to life, pushes— prodding a tad eager: "...yeah. so. what're you guys gonna do now? is there an after party for the after party type scenario?" he can't bring himself to ask if he's invited, but greed sits in the bead of his eyes.

[tragedyrich]

jiwoo has always had to keep her cards close to her chest, too much of a reaction or visible vulnerability can make a person like her feel burning hot with barely suppressed rage that needed to be consistently tempered, an ant under a magnifying glass trying to survive the heatwave. it may have been one day out of a year to people who didn't know the innerworkings of their family, jiwoo obstinate and unwilling to console herself with naively false reassurances when she felt like such a failure, too sensitive and private of a person to forget yewon's kind lack of pretense so quickly on a day as hard as that. sometimes, you can hear the ambulance sirens miles away, years before it ever actually arrives and it's still a shock to the nervous system. if her family doctors ordered an mri scan for jiwoo's brain after seeing yewon again, she'd be curious to see the findings. all of this to say, yewon was a difficult person to forget even amongst a sea of people dressed in their figurative sunday finest. jiwoo wants to laugh, because the sight of hyewon's face contorting when the shot doesn't go down smooth is beyond endearing, but she just shakes her head and bites her bottom lip instead. "you're silly. but you wouldn't be the first to think that. silverspooned frigid bitch, remember?" she says it with a tone that's steeped in as much pride as bitterness. something softer and a little more vulnerable breaks through, meeting yewon's gaze again. "you're the only one whose ever talked to me like a normal person, as far as i remember. same here, anyway, i was going to tease you about putting on a few more pounds — of muscle than when i saw you last." now she understands the complaints of being made the drink courier though, when it seemed like yewon wasn't the best at drinking. she looks like she could carry a few bottles without breaking much of a sweat, so it figures that it was something else. "don't feel pressured to drink if it's not your thing. i promise i don't bite," jiwoo reassures, the corners of her lips subtly quirking up as if that might not be the full truth.

[planetsorbit]

she's half tempted to apologize, clarify the assumption that yewon thinks jiwoo is anything but brimming with feeling. she doesn't, but her lips pinch in response, thin and flat with an argument on the tip of her tongue. she's grateful when it melts away, and when the conversation stretches onward, more familiar and rimmed with something prickly, yewon huffs, still flattered by the recognition. she means to up her numbers anyway, each tick another step towards another weight class, another challenge, another circle of competitors. "i better look different. i've been training for it." a thank you would've sufficed, but nothing about this reunion feels natural, nor predictable. (she's skimming deep water, flailing like it'll keep her afloat.) yewon's honest at least, when she waves the air in partial agreement: "yeah, i'm not drinking anymore. i just. — it felt like the right thing to do then, following your lead." then, because both shots feel slippery at the back of her throat, she adds, "but now i know. now — be careful of the unpredictable and teething jiwoo-nim." she means it like a half-compliment. she likes how little jiwoo resembles the stereotype, save for the sharp wit and sharper sense of humour. it isn't even at yewon's expense however (not wholly so), there are worse things to be, worse traits to cling onto, if the jealous-mean-girls are worth the comparison. the assurance of this has yewon slouching in her seat. "...do you want another? — we can ring down the waiter."

[pomspurin]

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[tragedyrich]

@planetsorbit: i said one drink, and now i'm holding four. ( yewon & jiwoo / in which they're sat at the shared table of the 10th yr high school reunion and perhaps . the other 3 people at their table went to mingle w other tables so . yewon's breaking the ice with a joke abt the 4 drinks at the table (including hers)... )

it's not really much of a surprise that jiwoo had zoned out on her phone as soon as the more cunning and insecure girls she'd attended with had left, the herd thinning and socially circling the room. jiwoo hadn't been too ecstatic at the idea of attending with the risk of seeing the girls that'd made her already turbulent adolescence even more inconvenient. not that she saw them as a threat, really, but they say even poor company is better than no company. and god, she wishes she meant that in a classist way — but at least a quarter of the girls at school had been catty bitches regardless of their financial circumstances. at the recognition of a faintly familiar voice, jiwoo raises her gaze from her phone to meet yewon's, taking a moment to process the somewhat comical sight of yewon holding four shots of soju and a smile begins to bloom on her face. "oh, that's quite the conundrum. suppose we'll have to have an extra, then?" they barely knew each other aside from a few encounters, always within proximity but never best friends. yewon had always seemed different than the other girls, uncompromising on her principles and more confident in her skin. "let me help you out with those. but in my opinion, this is the opposite of a problem now that they're preoccupied. you've always been much more pleasant to talk to," jiwoo teases, tone a bit sultry as she reaches out to help yewon free up her hands as she sets them down on the table, then sitting back down to toss back hers. it looks like this reunion had the opportunity of becoming something more fun than a mere social obligation.

[planetsorbit]

it's been 3 years since they last spoke. the circumstances were stranger then, the funereal invite sudden and out of left field. jiwoo herself had been every shade of blue, stormy-eyed and hollowed in speech. but where her voice was trim and thin, she appeared stifled with feeling, overwhelmed with it, and yewon was misguided enough to think her interjections kind, if not helpful. ('if anyone says the cliche thing of: everything happens for a reason and she is happier now — i think you're legally allowed to gun them down with an m85.') morbid, considering the procession before them, and though yewon regrets her attempt at sympathy, jiwoo had still graced her with a smile. it's that exact look she remembers best, the gesture of it as selfless as she'd long believed jiwoo to be. it's simultaneously why yewon finds the red lipstick and borderline flirtatious teasing, flustering on reception. things are arguably different here, not formal nor casual, and yewon smiles a little wide-eyed when jiwoo tips back a shot, easy. she doesn't drink much herself (she's a bit of a lightweight, thankfully) but she follows suit, competitive and empathetic all the same. it's bitter and it burns, the less than preferable sting of it showing in the scrunch of her face. grimacing, she responds, "i didn't know that. i thought i've only ever stuck my foot in my mouth around you." then, because she's desperate to empty the glasses like medicine, yewon hands jiwoo a 2nd shot, before taking a 2nd of her own. she makes another face. "...hm. these are bad."

[dramastream]

HAN SO HEE AS YOON JI WOO

MY NAME 마이 네임 (2021)

[bvbblegvms]

☾ * ✶ |  han so-hee gif pack  

HAN SO-HEE ; MY NAME { #100 }  ━━  click on the source link to be redirected to medium gifs. so-hee was born in 1994 , was 28 when this was filmed , and is korean ! all of these gifs were created by me so please do not claim them as your own or include in other gif hunts. it would be greatly appreciated if you like or reblog ! if you enjoy my gifs please consider tipping me on ko-fi !

WARNINGS: blood & violent actions

[lomagiffing]

COMMISSION! in the source link, you’ll find FOUR HUNDRED gifs of the actor HAN SOHEE in MY NAME (SEASON 1). all gifs were made by me from scratch, therefore i’d appreciate if they are not edited, redistributed, added to other gif hunts or claimed as someone elses. if you enjoy or plan on using them, please like or reblog the post. if you enjoy my work, please consider buying me a coffee! tw: blood; guns; knives