#about nathan

[n-athanmatthews]

𝒩𝒶𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓃 𝑀𝒶𝓉𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓌𝓈

Pronouns: He/Him Birthday: 12th July 1992 (25) Species: Human & Hunter Alliance: Good - Resistance Occupation: Owner of ‘il Piacere’ (safe house/training ground for the Resistance) Location: Inside the dome

So What Happened?

Alright, it’s time to let the cat out of the bag. Nathan Matthews didn’t really ‘put a pin the map’ and happen up Havensdale Valley, Connecticut to build his new restaurant. No, Nathan had been researching Havensdale before he ever showed up on our doorstep. At first, it was strange, overheard, conversations in his New York locations. Then it was unbelievable and fantastical rumours. Slowly, surely and piece by piece, Nathan put the story together.

Something big, something supernatural, was going to happen in that town and Nathan had decided he was going to be a part of it. More seriously, a part of defending it. No, he didn’t have the details and he didn’t have an exact date, but if he’d learned one thing, it was to be prepared. Unbeknown to his customers, hidden in every nook and cranny of il Piacere were weapons to defend against supernaturals.

Having grown up in a lavish lifestyle, Nathan had trained in various combat styles, archery, fencing, horseback riding and more. In a way, he’d been trained like any bloodline hunter might have been-- just a little fancier. In the end, it was a good thing that he was. When Founder’s Day hit, Nathan knew that he had to fight.

Here’s the thing... The good guys don’t always win, right away. Those who survived had to adapt. It didn’t long for Nathan to hook up with the underground Resistance, using his refurbished, reinforced basement to help train recruits. More importantly, training humans on how to defend themselves against the supernatural. He does all he can to help the fight while keeping everyone’s heads on their shoulders.

Nathan Matthews will take risks, he’ll cause trouble and he’s not afraid to get a little bloody now for the cause. 100% ready to rumble!!

Wanted Connections

tba

[dirtyjvconfessions]

Why does the way he's aging kinda remind me of nathan fielder

[adeadlysong]

OOC: I do have a "canon" ship on this blog in the form of Nuriel Flame + Arlyn Icia. They've always been together since I created them and forever will be no matter what verse they're in.

If not romanced when RPing within verses, the following muses may possibly get together with each other as background romantic pairings:

Rafaele Baptiste + Lukas Usbeorn

Olivia Grimaldi + Nathan Richter

Note that this is highly dependent on the RP situation and how involved the above muses are in each scenario and/or verse. XD

[sodapopbuoy]

DAY 3 OF @jonmartinweek !!!! Recordings & Found Footage :] first time trying to actually finish something with these 2 digitally AND IM STILL RUMINATING ON THEIR DESIGNS AGH !!! wanted to jump in as soon as possible because i completely missed the first 2 days !!!!!

[gongyussy]

why are you as a man smiling like that at your temporary teammate who the nhl ships you with....

[cattoonxd]

Have you ever gotten everything you ever wanted?

[tiger-balm]

this is such a cool shot

[aardvaark]

i like how leverage throws in random details that are never elaborated on. hardison gets himself a front row seat at the oscars each year, but we only see that in a single throwaway flashback. parker broke a guy's fingers for touching her and it wasn't even a plot point, it was just one in a series of memories of stabbings and so forth. eliot continually knows extremely specific information which implies some extremely specific scenarios he's been in. the more we find out about sophie's backstory, the more questions it raises about what the hell is wrong with her. and the more we find out about nate's backstory, the more questions it raises about what the hell is wrong with him.

[daekiyu]

thoughts filled with pickles

[yakichoufd]

I just gotta say, I love the amount of pet names Scott uses for Nathan in your comics it's so wholesome 😊💕💕

I guess that's my one headcanon for them! Scott only uses pet names for his baby bean!

[prongcollar]

Dear Marni, I am so sorry, can you forgive me for this?

[adeadlysong]

New Muses: Olivia & Nathan

OOC: In the case that Araceli is killed off or stripped of her position (which will probably be many cases), I’ve created tertiary OCs that may potentially fill her spot. Their bios (listed below) are also on the NPC/minor muses page!

Name: Olivia Grimaldi

Olivia works at the Ilma Region’s castle assisting with administrative matters. She grew up in a family of magic users, particularly working with earth magic, and she also has those same powers. Olivia sometimes wishes she could try using other forms of magic, but she lacks the talent or gift for any of them. A major reason she ended up working at the Ilma Region’s castle was to avoid getting into any arranged marriages, unlike her older sisters. 

As she and Nathan ended up training under similar mentors and have duties leaning toward administrative matters, both of them ended up working together frequently.

She can also play the harp and piano. She dances pretty well too.

Appearance: Olive skin, reddish-brown hair, dark brown eyes, petite build, wears a lot of dark blue and dark green, but also sometimes wears dark purple or brown.

Name: Nathan Richter

Nathan works at the Ilma Region’s castle assisting with overseeing day to day duties of the castle servants. He was raised in a huntsman family and was nearly expected to do the same. However, he got away with having more administrative duties later on after the rest of his family realized that he didn’t have the skill for hunting - something that Nathan is forever grateful for them realizing sooner than later. Despite his lack of talent in hunting he’s still capable of some self-defense and making traps.

As he and Olivia ended up training under similar mentors and have duties leaning toward administrative matters, both of them ended up working together frequently.

Nathan can play the oboe and saxophone, and has some skill in dancing.

Appearance: Olive skin, thin glasses, grey eyes, lean build, wears dark blue and charcoal grey, but sometimes also wears light violet clothing.  

[feelingthedisaster]

The King's Men's plot structure is genius.

TKM has been critized a lot for not following the conventional plot structure, because it doesnt end inmediatly at the resolution of the climax, like they taught us in class. But it actually has a reason behind it and it think that is what makes AFTG unique and Nora Sakavic an amazing writer. I'll explain.

So, we all know AFTG has a lot of chess metaphors, however i think it doesnt contain the metaphors, it is the metaphor. Each character represents a piece of the board (Riko king, Kevin queen, Neil pawn, Andrew knight, etc) and exy is the chess, but but but, a chess game not only involves the pieces, the game cannot exist without someone playing, the chess masters (which would be Kengo, Ichiriu, Nathan and all the mafia stuff).

So, AFTG is divided into two plots happening at the same time: what happens on the chess board (exy season) and what happens outside it (the mafia mess).

Of couse, the climax has to be about the outside out, because who cares which one of pieces move in which way if the players are pointing guns at eachother under the board? The guns are more more important. So who cares? The pieces on the board care, the ones that are being played with. And who is the narrator? The character that represents the pawn, the less important figure of the entire room.

Yeah, the 'outside of the board' plot is over half way into the book, but it doesnt matter because that happens outside the board, the chess game has not ended yet. The pawn cannot go back to rest in the box until the game is over, until the king dies. The book cannot be over until the chess game our protagonist is a piece of ends. The books have to end with the king's (Riko) death and that is exactly what happens.

If this isnt excellent writing and one of the best examples of know the rules so you can break them, i dont what is.

[griffithsucks]

The Rehearsal - Season 2 Trailer

[sakebytheriver]

Nathan Ford, my favorite Greek tragedy on cable TV, an Icarus with wax wings made of righteous anger and a moral code that he'll break any rule for, burned up in the hellfire of his own rage, a modern day Prometheus stealing fire from the gods and giving their power to the people so that they can burn down the thrones their oppressor sits upon sealing his own fate and dooming himself to eternal suffering while knowing if he was given the choice a thousand times over he'd still do it every single time

Nathan Ford, my favorite blorbo packed with every type of Catholic imagery you could give to one man, joined the seminary to atone for the sins of his father, left to serve a different master playing detective for an insurance agency before the loss of a son crumbled his whole world down around him like the walls of Jericho, and in his grief he was handed a burning sword by fate and told to Avenge. The archangel Nate Ford, given a flame of anger so hot it rained hellfire down upon those that would never fit between the eye of a needle, a violent saint on a righteous crusade soaking the world in blood and that will only end one way, he'll leave a graveyard behind him, but he will still have to dig one last grave when he's done

Nathan Ford, my favorite folk song hero, a Boston Irish drunk, the moral son of an immoral mobster, an utter bastard with anger management issues, and a control freak with a sadistic streak, who took all the pain and all the anger in his heart and used it for Good, the ballad of Nate Ford echoes through the world like a call to action, an inspiration for the future, the sacrifices he made to be the catalyst for a movement he'd make over and over again even if the nature of being the spark means you'll never see the fire

Nathan Ford, my favorite terrible horrible broken man content to drink himself into an early grave if it mean he'd get to see his son again until he was given a chance to ruin the lives of men infinitely worse than he could ever be and save even just one person the same pain he suffered and so he postponed his death until his rage burned his own heart into ash

Nathan Ford, a tragedy with only one ending, but by God if he wasn't going to cause some hell on his way down

[on-a-lucky-tide]

Johnny sings. Simon mourns.

cw: mcd, grief, suicidal ideation.

Price had put the bullet in Shepherd and Ghost had put the bullet in Makarov as they had agreed. That meant the business of the 141 had concluded. Without Johnny, Simon intended to disappear. Properly this time. There would be no crawling out of the grave he’d dig himself. There had been no tears shed, no outpouring of grief. Simon was completely and utterly numb. Like someone had encased him in ice the moment the light had faded out of Johnny’s eyes; any hope for Simon had died with him, leaving only the shell of Ghost to be puppeted by Price’s orders.

When Simon had pulled that trigger and Makarov’s body had hit the floor, he’d felt nothing. No triumph, no closure. Just an emptiness. A great, yawning void where emotions should be. Where Johnny should be. He’d learned long ago that revenge healed fuck all, so he wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting. But it had felt like just another kill. Just another fruitless step towards the inevitable darkness that awaited. Price had watched him in the back of Nikolai’s Black Hawk with a crease in the centre of his brow, but Simon had been lost in his own head.

Simon had little doubt Price had seen the writing on the wall and when he had summoned Simon to his office two nights before Simon was due to depart Hereford, Simon reckoned it would be a last ditch effort to get him to reconsider the plan he knew had been percolating on the inside of Simon’s skull since they had spread Johnny’s ashes over Moray Firth.

Simon knocked twice and waited for Price’s bark from the inside before he turned the handle. “You wan’ed to talk, sir,” Simon murmured through the mesh of his mask when Price continued to scribble on the paperwork in front of him.

”Yeah, Simon. Take a seat.”

Simon watched Price’s hand. Something weren’t right. There was a subtle shake to it, and Simon realised that it had been the thickness of Price’s voice that had drawn his attention there. Looking for reassurance in the strongest, most trusted pair of hands he knew. But, it was almost like he’d been—

Impossible.

The chair groaned under Simon’s weight and he scooted forward to the very edge of it, back straight, curled fingers on top of spread thighs.

“What ‘m abou’ t’ show ya, I need ya to know I had to make a decision to keep it to meself ‘til now,” Price said. “I needed ya focused. If ya never wanna see me again, I’d understand.” When Price looked up, Simon wanted to gag. Not from disgust, but because his body didn’t know how to process the quiver of horror that went through him at the remains of Price’s tears. His eyes were red, still glistening. His breath caught in his lungs and he had to force himself to let it out in a stuttering grunt.

“Whot is it?” Simon managed, finally.

“Ya need t’… we got ‘em, now ya need t’ start healin’. For him. Ya can’t jus’ throw away what he was denied, Simon. You…” Price pinched the bridge of his nose and trailed off, clearing his throat. Whatever this was, it was eating him alive. Price reached for his phone as he stood up to circle his desk, his thumb sweeping across the screen until he found what he was looking for. “Watch this. I’ll send it t’ya after. But I need ya to watch it here, olrigh’? I jus’—just in case, I can—fuck, jus’ watch it, Simon.”

There was that shake again and Simon took the phone quickly. The face he saw on the screen, frozen behind a large black play button, made a knot tighten in his throat. “Johnny…” His thumb hovered, his fingers creaking around the plastic case of the phone. Price reached down, his own thumb brushing over the top of Simon’s nail to help him those final few centimeters.

Johnny came to life before Simon’s eyes. ”D’ye really think he’ll wanna hear me croonin’ like a wee cat?” He asked the man behind the camera. Hearing his voice again lit a tiny pilot light deep in Simon’s chest and it was like feeling warmth again after being buried beneath ten feet of ice. A pressure began to build behind Simon’s eyes, but he swallowed it down so he could focus on the irreverent bastard that had given his life meaning over the last few years.

”Don’t you Caffliks sing ev’ry Sunday, la?” Price. That was Price. He only went a bit Scouse when he’d had a drink, and judging by the flush in Johnny’s cheeks, they both had. Simon glanced up and saw the pain on Price’s written in deep lines around his eyes.

”When…?”

”While you were away,” Price croaked. “Jus’ shut it. Watch.”

Simon looked back to the phone. Johnny was looking over his shoulder, the scruffy back of his mohawk facing the camera. Someone spoke—Garrick. “Weren’t you an altar boy? Bet those old priests helped you hit the high notes.”

”Get tae fuck ye filfy cunt.”

”Oi, oi, lads, now now, c’mon… fer Simon. E’ll love it.”

“Right, an’ ye sure ah can’t jus’ tell him over a tiext, maybe a… ye knoow, a water emoji…”

”Naw, naw, he’s a proper romantic, like. C’mon, look… I’ve got…” Price played a few chords and the camera shook. The picture turned upside down and then righted itself, and suddenly Simon was looking at the both of them as Price set his phone against something on a nearby table. Bloody wankered, the both of ‘em. Despite the pain balling in his chest, Simon’s lips twitched into a faint smile.

”Awrigh’, but if he rips th’ shite outta me, ‘m gonna pish in ye boots next op, sir,” Johnny said, squinting at Price. He lifted his phone from his lap and tapped at the screen. In the next moment, a grainy violin played a few notes and then… and then… and then…

…Johnny started to fuckin’ sing.

“Oh, my love seid tae me ‘will ye meet me by the sea? Ye c’n kiss me underneath the misty mo-o-on’. He is stunnin’, he is pretty, he's as warm as amber whiskey, and as bonny as the heather on the hill.” Price played along beneath Johnny’s voice, smoother than honey, warmer than an August evening. The smile that split over Johnny’s face as Price echoed ‘oh my love’ in his gravelly voice, still perfectly in tune, made something crack at Simon’s core.

Johnny drummed his fist against his thigh. ”When I was a young boy, my mother seid tae me, "find yerself a pretty lad, don't take his love fer free", from fields of Aberfeldy t’ the shores of Loch Maree, I knoow that he's the only one fer me.” His palm opened as he sang through the chorus again, his heel bouncing against the floor, his shoulders relaxing, his voice lifting as he stylised through another ‘oh, my love’ before breaking into the next verse. Larger than life, brighter than the sun. Simon’s next breath burned out of his lungs like it was made out of dragonfire. He—Johnny was singing to him—Johnny was—Johnny—

“He was dancin’ by th’ fire as a pi-per played a tu-u-une, he wrapped his arms around me an’ he asked, ’are ye my groom?’ A dram of amber whiskey an’ a twinkle in his eye, we danced beneath the Caledonia sky—oh my love seid tae me, will ye meet me by the sea, you c’n kiss me underneath th’ misty mo-o-on. He is stunnin’, he is pretty—”

The crack widened. Simon felt his chest quiver, his heart thundered, something weight-bearing gave way, a molten chill coursing through his veins, like glacial ice had melted away and now threatened to drag him under in the current as it searched for an exit. Johnny continued to croon through the chorus, his voice lifting and falling, his blue eyes crinkled at the corners. Simon’s entire world narrowed in on him, his cheeky smile, the handsome cut of his jaw, the stupid fuckin’ ferret fuckin’ haircut the fuckin’—the fuck—the fu—

The song ended and Johnny stopped the backing track on his phone. Price’s hand stilled on the strings, his whiskers twitching. “Well, bloody ‘ell, that weren’t ‘alf bad.”

“Man of many fucking talents! The bastard’s toast, mate.” Garrick called from somewhere off screen.

”Aye,” Johnny said, and then looked directly at the fucking screen with those bright blue eyes full of promise, and life, and love… looked directly at the—he was looking at the—“Be seein’ ye, L.T.”

Simon didn’t remember leaving the chair.

He didn’t remember staggering for the door.

He didn’t remember yanking his mask from his head as the balaclava suddenly felt suffocating rather than protective, stifling him like Ghost was trying to keep a stranglehold.

He didn’t remember when his hands began to shake, his fist threatening to shatter the phone, breaking the white plastic of his mask, or when his knees gave way. Only that Price was there to catch him when he began to fall apart, strong arms wrapping around his chest. Simon’s fingers scrambled into Price’s back, clawing at the firm bulwark of it as the first broken noises wheezed from his chest. “Johnny… Joh—Johnny…”

”I know, son. I know—i’s ok, i’s ok, I gotcha, let it go… s’olrigh’…”

Price held him so fuckin’ tightly, buried his face in Simon’s neck as they ended up on their knees, Simon’s manic scrambling too much even for Price to handle. Every raw emotion, every broken part of himself that he had pushed down to get the job done, poured out in the animalistic, shattered sobs that wracked through his entire body. Ugly, gasping, broken noises, with tears, and snot, each breath rasping from his burning lungs as he fought against the tsunami of agony that pulled him under.

Simon clutched the phone to his chest, like he could absorb the image of Johnny into his heart and use it to glue the shattered pieces together, his face buried in Price’s shoulder, blunt nails biting into the cotton of his shirt, howling like a wounded animal as everything he had lost, everything that he could have had, finally swallowed him whole.