#FUCK nathan though

[fingertipsmp3]

Reddit fountain pen drama is my favourite thing I swear to god

[skrunksthatwunk]

skwisgaar punished arc

[sodapopbuoy]

ACE GALATINE. CONSIDER

bonus second version of the last doodle under the cut smile

[falafels]

i am thinking once more about how Wymack is from Baltimore. and Nathan Wesninski presumably has been in Baltimore for a decent portion of his life to get the city in his Official Murderer Title. The EC (if i remember right) says Wymack left home at 14 and eventually dropped out of high school (later got his GED to go to college), but he was probably not doing great all things considered: violent household, parental neglect, homelessness TLDR schoolwork not really a priority or maybe he just told someone to fuck off. and Nathan is an asshole who knows when that started.

ANYWAY all this to say I think they were in the same after school detention. maybe even just once. and Wymack doesn’t really remember, maybe it comes back to him in Neil’s third year, when Nathan’s posthumous trial is public and Wymack sees a photo in the papers with a cruel smirk and a forehead scar that looks so familiar. He tells himself it must just be resemblance to Neil, but the memory does come back.

The boy at the desk by the window, twirling his pen with the absentminded smugness of somebody who knows they’re the smartest in the room. The boy who had watched intently as Wymack had pulled the his too-small scruffy hoodie over his face, not quite enough to hide the black eye he was sporting. The boy who has offered him gum once, seemed to recognise the two of them as the same in some sort of way, maybe the violence, maybe the detention. Maybe he’d just been entertained by Wymack’s squirrelly nerves and jumpy disposition.

And I don’t think Wymack would ever mention this to Neil. He doesn’t like to talk about Baltimore, neither of them do. But just to check, double check, he digs out an old yearbook and there’s the photo he was looking for. in the back, with miscellaneous candids of the school’s nobodies, the dropouts, assorted photos. black and white print, a few others in the background, one tall and scrawny boy startled, scruffy, and clearly uncomfortable, sat near a boy with wavy hair, a cutting smirk and air of relaxed confidence, twirling that pen in his left hand.

Wymack closes the book, pours himself a stiff drink (changes his mind and slugs down half the bottle), and never opens it again.

[d-e-a-d-f-a-c-e]

i may or may not have said this before, but i fuck with hatredcopter so much not just because it's the nickles love duet but OUHH THIS PART IN THE MV. i keep going back to this because of the way he looks.. his gums showing is just the sexiest and literally everything else PLEASEE DOES THAT MAKE SENSE

[christopher-bryant]

"which one is madelyne and which one is jean!?"

the fainter is jean. thats like a thing she's known for. she faints also preggo my eggo is cable's mom so...yeah the real jean shady cannot stand up as she's unconscious atm.

[babymorte]

how i found out the singer in my fave band since grade 9 follows me on ig

excuse me while my inner teen screams and cries

[puppypeter]

just watched a bunch of Cut's Truth or Drink videos and it's making me want to read a ted lasso fic where they do it as a team building exercise (being open and honest and vulnerable all that)

[desalvar]

citing all my sources of inspiration for Nikodemus would mean unironically putting Misfits 2009-2013 at the top of the list

[samwpmarleau]

Colin: Terrorizes Nate for months and never so much as acknowledges what he did let alone apologizes for it

Nate: Is rude to Colin once and apologizes for it in the very same episode

Fandom: NATE IS THE DEVIL. HOW DARE HE NOT GROVEL AT COLIN’S FEET. COLIN IS A SAINT FOR EVEN SPEAKING TO HIM!

[ech0light]

JUST WATCHED THE LAST 2 EPISODES OF PERSONS OF INTEREST SEASON 2 HAS ANYONE ELSE SEEN THIS SHIT PLEASE

[dreamsy990]

drew my dnd character who i made up on the spot the other day because i forgot to prepare anything (his character sheet was online)

turns out the sheet SAID he was a girl but i only read the name nathan and went 'okay thats a dude' so hes trans because i didnt read my own character sheet

[ruvviks]

so massively unwell about nathan x ru/vik

[k1ngj0ve]

Okay i done it, i got my Dethmancer OC up and ready to go, they are named Cove and they are the bands Yoko (in that they are just like there but the world wildly speculates about the various evil intentions they must hold to ruin the band forever)

[mads-is-tired]

i didn’t know what music to put on during dnd today so i went with the only “dnd” music i know, jrwi riptide by Nathan Hanover (no one else in the group has seen riptide)

which there were some more solemn scenes that lined up, also some combat lined up as well which was GREAT

but every time prophetic screwup came on i just lost it

[dxppercxdxver]

yeehaw!! (more of that collaboration with @chiropteracupola!!)

deep within, your hunger burns

The grandfather clock in the corner of Filomena’s study clicked steadily toward sunrise, keeping in lockstep with her sluggish, pounding heart. Reams and reams of paper sat as yet untouched upon her desk. Her night’s work was young, despite the hour, and the stacks of blank parchment spoke to the effort still the come, the anxiety wracking her body like an unseasonable winter’s chill. Looping scrawl disintegrating by the minute blurred before her eyes; her hand was beginning to cramp from the duration of her encryption, and yet, Filomena had far to go before she could rest.

While her task would be Sisyphean to anyone, the threat of discovery loomed heavy over her shoulder, sending icy chills down her neck. It would hardly do for one of her newfound teammates, or enemies, or friends, or whatever they would become to her, to find her here. Sighing, she drew her shawl tight round her shoulders, fingers worrying at the fraying tassels.

She would need to replace her candle soon.

There was a gentle tap at her door, the familiar sound of silver-bound fingers against an oaken jamb. Without looking up, Filomena already knew who was waiting for her.

“Lady Helen,” she said, never staying her duty, not even for a moment. Long ago, Filomena had mastered the art of continually writing, no matter the distraction, and Helen valued her for it. It made her efficient. Helen did not abide idleness.

“Miss Pauling.” Despite her age, Helen’s voice was slick as oil, sturdy and cutting as any blade. Only the hour demanded the hushed tone in which she spoke, but her words still carried a weight Filomena had come to dread. “May I come in?”

“Certainly.”

Filomena placed her pen back in its inkwell, grateful for the moment to stretch her arms and listen to the joints pop in quick succession, before turning to where Helen stood, regal in her rich purple gown. Her bony fingers clacked against each other under the weight of her jewelry, hands clasped at her stomach tense as the sharp line of her mouth. Eyes narrowed, flashing gold in the firelight, she did not look pleased.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?” It was rare to hear from Helen nowadays. The war occupied much of her time, and the air of mystery she had worked so hard to cultivate around their hired band of mercenaries would hardly do to be shattered by too many sightings of her goings about the house, so when Filomena chanced to see her, it was always a relief and a warning in equal measure. The maddening quiet was over, but the news it brought was often a knife to Filomena’s stomach.

Helen laughed without humor. “I should hope you would be glad to see me no matter the cause.”

“Well, of course I am, my Lady,” under the force of her gaze, Filomena always felt herself floundering, a little girl scolded for staining the carpet again, “but given the circumstances, I would presume something is on your mind.”

“Hm. You presume correctly.” Eyeing the scattered papers, Helen raised a sharp brow. Filomena smiled, hesitant and apologetic. Taking a whistling breath through her nose, Helen inspected a long fingernail, flicking at it with her thumb. “Are they getting along?”

“You mean our houseguests?”

“You’re a smart girl, Miss Pauling,” Helen said. “What do you think?”

Shrinking against her mother, Filomena twiddled with her glasses. “Well, I would hardly call them friends, to be sure, but they are settling into their roles quite nicely.”

“Really.”

“Yes, my Lady.” Fishing through her files, Filomena selected two sheets of paper from her personal records, detailing her observations. She passed them to Helen, who skimmed them with a scowl, while she continued, “Monsieur Laurent and Mister Thornton have been more troublesome than most, but not nearly so much as we suspected. Their antisocial tendencies and… exuberance, respectively, have been rather tempered by the contract work and the company we keep. Extraordinarily hard workers, the lot of them. It is… commendable.”

Helen nodded, humming approvingly, before returning Filomena’s notes. “This is good news, indeed.”

“I should say so.”

When it became clear Helen had said her piece, Filomena slowly returned to her work, ears pricked for any further remarks. None came, and for a moment, she felt herself frozen in time, hours before sunrise, with nothing but hollow breathing for company. The scratching of her pen eased her back into a familiar rhythm. She had done alright for herself, she mused, and if Helen’s drawn conclusion was any indication, her mother thought so too.

“Do you think they suspect?”

The question reverberated around the study with all the deafening, omnipresent clamor of a church bell, batting Filomena about the head until it rang in harmony. Without the unequivocal reminders of the true nature of her job, she could almost pretend away the secret mission, the turning of knives in hands and the arrangements of the decks of cards; the forgeries, the lies, the killing. It stood to reason Helen would not allow her to forget.

Knot twisting in her stomach, Filomena’s hand froze.

“I sincerely doubt it,” she said, and found it to be an honest observation. The mercenaries taking up residence in the manor that had stood as her second mother since she was but a girl were too friendly, too naive, too stupid to know the purpose of their mission, and she was damn good at what she did. Her web was around them, and they would be none the wiser.

If they were, she would be dead. They were good at what they did, too.

This was how she knew.

“Excellent. Ensure that it remains that way.”

“Yes, my Lady.”

Clicking her tongue, Helen about faced and headed for the door, heels tapping staccato against the clock’s pendulum. It took Filomena longer than she would have liked to notice the off-beats of the cork abruptly ceasing.

“A word of advice, Miss Pauling?” Helen’s expression was stern, gray streak defiant against the inky black of her hair. Shadows played off the bones in her face, rendering it skeletal. When she spoke, her message crawled down Filomena’s spine and into her ribs, clutching at her heart with blackened claws. “Don’t get involved.”

Memories of joviality flitted forth, unbidden, as if reminding Filomena of her secret shame; wine around the dinner table, target practice on the expansive lawn, and games of cards in the library, among many other little pleasures she had allowed herself in the company of their guests. Their guests, who had been nothing but kind to her, even if she suspected a fair few of them never actually meant it. Their guests, who trusted her, who wanted her, who seemed to like her. A lump was fast growing in her throat, threatening to choke her.

“I won’t.” Filomena tapped the side of her nose. “Promise.”

With a conspiratorial wink, Helen said, “Good work, Filomena,” and disappeared into the hall, letting the heavy wooden door slam closed behind her.

“... Thanks.” All that answered was the empty, and the whistling of the wind outside. Beside her, the candle burned ever lower. The wax was beginning to pool atop her paperwork, and she pulled it aside with a huff, scraping it off as delicately as she could.

Damn this, she thought to no one in particular. Casting around the study, replacement candles were not to be found, and only then did Filomena remember she had run out the night before. While others could more than likely be sourced from elsewhere in the house, her legs ached, and her eyelids were threaded through with exhaustion heavy as lead.

“Damn this,” Filomena said again, as the candle winked out, leaving her in the darkness. Instinctually, she reached for the chain wended about her wrist, a token of appreciation from her mercenaries, more than likely stolen from the house of some New Jersey noblewoman. Her thumb quickly and comfortably found the etching in the bronze cross.

She was cut loose, swimming in the warmth of the metal in her palm, the euphoria of Helen’s admiration, and the grandfather clock simply continued its steady ticking march.