#indiana jones predictions

[somethingusefulfromflorida]

*I'm going to look like an idiot if it's not about time travel

[femme-foucault]

Whoaaaa Challengers for Score!!! Who are these people and what have they done with the Globes???

[tuttle-did-it]

John Rhys-Davies (Sliders, Lord of the Rings, Indiana Jones, etc) playing an racist, imperialist pig on Murder She Wrote.

'Night of the Tarantula' season 6, episode 7, aired 12 Nov 1989

Don’t watch this episode. It’s racist and gross. And has a woman in blackface.

[cjbolan]

Back from Indiana Jones 5! Funny as a kid I fancasted Antonio Banderas as Emily Windsnap’s merman dad. Which is pretty similar to his role in the new Indiana Jones. If you know you know 😆.

[awardswatcherik]

2024 Oscar Predictions: ORIGINAL SCORE (November)

[papasmoke]

2 out of 4 of the indiana jones movies have ended with nazis melting and those are widely regarded as the stronger films of the franchise, the other 2 didn't have nazis melting at the end and they mostly sucked shit, if this new one they're making does have nazis turning to butter at the end I predict it'll be a critical and commercial success and if it doesn't i think Harrison ford's going to feel so ashamed to have been part of such a worthless universally despised dud that he'll go and crash another propeller plane to cheer himself up

[itsbenedict]

Did anyone else play Cluefinders as a kid? They were these edutainment point-and-click adventures, sort of... Indiana Jones by way of Scooby-Doo? These were my jam back in the day, and I went back to them to see how they held up.

And the answer is... uh, there's a surprising range of quality!

Basic Cluefinders knowledge:

The Cluefinders are a group of mystery-solving teens, who, uh. It's not entirely clear how they find clients, but they're apparently world-renowned for it.

Joni, the redhead with the glasses, is the leader. She is spunky and belligerent and likes to punch problems until they're not problems.

Owen, the green shirt kid, is Shaggy. He talks in surfer dude slang and likes to eat. He's just Shaggy.

Leslie is Velma. Just Velma. That's kind of it. She uses big words and knows about science and things.

Santiago is also there. He has a phone? I think his trait is that he has a phone.

Laptrap is the mascot character and the game's menu. He is a hovering robot turtle thingy. His job is to be scared of things and complain about them. Both entirely reasonable reactions to the things that are happening! He is nonetheless treated as an embarrassing wet blanket and deserves better.

3rd Grade is weirdly the best one, I think? And the first one they made, indicating that the budget dried up at some point. It's this kind of mystery about an evil dragon that's been terrorizing a magic jungle full of living plants and talking monkeys and stuff, and it's got like 20 different educational minigames that teach and test various skills. The writing is like, very stupid and for-kids, but not offensively so. It all comes together with a twist villain that they foreshadow pretty well over the course of the game.

And there's musical numbers!

Fun stuff! I was kind of surprised by how well it held up. The others... did not, as much.

The fourth grade one is... bad. It has this structure where there's just four minigames, and you have to do them over and over and over and over again to get enough "Cairoglyphs" to proceed. Proceed how? An old man decrypts them and tells you clues. What clues? Don't even worry about it. Once you get enough of those, we switch to a second phase of the game that's also doing four minigames over and over and over again, this time to get gems to get past way too many doors in an ancient temple. It drags things out so much.

And the rest of it is... truly bizarre. Everyone's drawn totally off-model. It's narrated by a talking dog with a Brooklyn accent who's treated like a core member of the group despite never showing up again, and concerns... uh, a plot by an evil egyptologist to resurrect Set and take over the world? Maybe? It's very weird and loosely-sketched. Like... nothing connects.

The badguy is a comically extreme Dan Backslide ne'er-do-well, and he's the only part of the game that's any fun. I love him. He does not have a motive. He does not have a reason to kidnap "the professor" who the player's stated goal is to save. The professor appears to only exist for this guy to gloat to about how evil he is to. He dies almost immediately upon realizing his ultimate ambition when the evil god he resurrects predictably fails to recognize the authority of his summoner. Could not be more stereotypical, but the voice actor is clearly having the time of his life and the energy is infectious.

The rest, though... The Cluefinders' connection to this kidnapped professor is something it has no interest in describing, apparently banking on the audience's willingness to accept that they must just be walking in on an episode of a show whose background was established earlier (it wasn't).

It's hard to even describe how silly the climax of this one is. You... collect gemstones from talking mice on behalf of a sinister cat, who lets you into a temple where various ancient Egyptian gods congratulate you on being so smart and give you entirely useless superpowers.

Joni gets "bravery" (a costume change, she was already brave), Leslie gets "intelligence" (a costume change, she was already the Smart One), Owen gets flight (a costume change, useful precisely Never for any of the puzzles that involve finding a way to cross over a pit), and Santiago gets "strength" (a costume change, useful precisely never for any of the puzzles that involve finding a way past a heavy stone door). Then, in short order, you arrive at the villain's lair somehow, too late to stop his evil plan! But then, you do anyway! By, uh...

...you, um... it all happens in a cutscene, and I couldn't follow the mechanics of it at all, but there was some kind of mechanism in the temple? And they had Santiago lift up some pillars? And this somehow resulted in Set falling into a bottomless pit and that's the end?

I... I dunno, man. I dunno what happened here.

The 5th Grade one is pretty wild. There's like, a floating island that eats people? It collects castaways from across various time periods, somehow, and shlorps them down into some bottomless pits that appear out of nowhere, and you gotta figure out what's up.

The writing is like... weirdly... I wouldn't call it good, but the writers put their actual-writer hats on for it. There's one minigame that's like a reading comprehension thing, where there's all these lore journal entries from various survivors ruminating on their situation (and they're broken up into paragraphs and scrambled so you have to put them in the right order for the entry to make sense), and you get this kind of background on the culture clash of castaways from different time periods banding together to avoid being eaten by the island (and ultimately failing).

Gameplay's pretty bad, though. 3rd Grade had 20 different minigames, 4th Grade generously had 13, and this one's got eight. In terms of reusing content by making you do the same thing over and over to bypass arbitrary obstacles, it's one of the worst offenders.

There is this guy, though:

There's a minigame where... god, it's such an off-the-wall justification for the minigame, but- it's a geography minigame about reading maps and stuff. There'll be various cities or states or countries on a map, and you start at one and need to reach another target one, and you have a bunch of rules written down like "don't pass through Illinois" or "you must cross the Mississippi river twice", and then use a limited number of options to chart a path from point A to point B that satisfies all the conditions. Kind of fun, honestly.

But this guy- the fluff for it is that he's the notorious Cryptile Thief. He stole everyone's cryptiles, and to keep them safe, he threw them into, uh...

...this small grove of piranha plants. He knows how to get them back, because he knows some safe paths through the evil flytrap cluster, somehow. But he wrote down his paths in code, basically, in the form of those constrained maps. No explanation is given for how he mapped real-world geography problems to flytrap-safe loot routes, but supposedly it Just Works. Problem is, he got locked up by the villagers for stealing everyone's cryptiles, and can't get out.

(No, it is not explained why in the world the villagers had a bunch of cryptiles and why they valued them or what he was trying to accomplish by stealing them.)

But then while he was in the stocks the ground opened up and slowly devoured all the other villagers one by one, including the ones with the fucking key, so unless someone goes and saves them, he'll be stuck here forever. It's kind of grim! It's unclear how the time-warping aspect works, and how long this guy's actually been here. Is he immortal and he's been here for three hundred years, or did all this happen yesterday? He acts like it was yesterday, but there's also a crazy old man castaway who acts like it's been decades at least.

Anyway, 6th Grade was, if I recall correctly, about an underground army of sentient mutant plants plotting an invasion of the surface world, but this was apparently when they discovered 3D graphics and did a lot of experimental bullshit under the hood that no longer works on modern computers. It kept crashing on room transitions when it was trying to do fancy 3D effects. Womp womp.

The only other one of these I played (besides some sort of... weird day planner software that wasn't really a game) was Math Adventures, which I remember being my favorite as a kid but I couldn't tell you why. It was based around this logic cube thing, where- after completing minigames for villagers- you'd get clues that would let you eliminate possible culprits, until you got down to one and could corner them.

Culprits of what? There's this remote Himalayan village where the village's treasures have all been mysteriously stolen. Somehow the Cluefinders get wind of this and go to solve it, and then... you play eight minigames over and over again.

Structurally, it's very weird. You corner the culprit, and invariably it's one of the minigame host NPCs who just says "okay, yes, I took this thing and hid it here, but it's because I was being threatened by the yeti! So we're cool, right?" and then the village chief goes yeah, "we're cool, we're not going to have you face any consequences for this." (If they went to jail, how could you play their minigame fifteen more times?) Repeat, yes, fifteen times, until you've recovered all eight treasures. Yes. There's duplicates of these priceless unique treasures, for no apparent reason. I think they designed it around eight and then decided to double it to pad it out???

Some of the minigames are cool and challenging, like the one where ice blocks fall from a conveyor belt and you have to form them into valid math equations. Others are...

...a really shoddily-implemented breakout clone where you have to catch numbers to solve equations, but the game can only handle three numbers onscreen at once so actually being good at breakout is actively disadvantageous because breaking too many blocks at once just makes it harder to hit blocks later. Or... uh... the second one there, where, um... these blobs of purple goo with numbers on them come down a track, and you need to shoot them at these shelves to splat the right numbers into place based on the graph to the left. It gets insanely hard later in the game, because there'll be three rows of shelves and three graphs and the graphs will stop conveniently locking to the marked numbers so you have to try and eyeball whether that line on the line graph which bends between 20 and 30 is doing so at 26 or 27. If you ever get one wrong you instafail and have to reset. Ugh.

(Why is this happening in a library? What are we accomplishing? How does any of it help this woman remember a clue to the mystery? Not one second of thought is spared for these questions.)

Anyway the ultimate culprit was the only NPC who doesn't have a minigame and only shows up in the opening cutscene to loudly blame the stolen treasures on the yeti and insist that everyone give up on finding them. This was not even surprising to me when I was eleven years old. Very lame.

I never had any of the rest of them! I'm kinda curious to play them and see what I was missing, even though I kind of don't expect any of them to have been good.

Anyone else remember these things? Or know what was going on with the one with the scary clown rollercoaster or the evil toy store?

[atommadly]

𝐍𝐄𝐖 𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐎𝐋𝐔𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 | Nash Wells x Reader

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 | smut, explicit sex, fingering, semi-public sex, kind of angry sex.

𝘈𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘢 𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘨𝘰𝘦𝘴 𝘩𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘪𝘣𝘭𝘺 𝘸𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘨, 𝘕𝘢𝘴𝘩 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘢𝘯'𝘵 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘩 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦. 𝘈𝘳𝘨𝘶𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴, 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘶𝘭𝘵𝘴—𝘪𝘵'𝘴 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘢𝘯'𝘵 𝘣𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘳𝘰𝘰𝘮 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘧𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨. 𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘰𝘯 𝘕𝘦𝘸 𝘠𝘦𝘢𝘳'𝘴 𝘌𝘷𝘦, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘣𝘰𝘵𝘩 𝘥𝘦𝘤𝘪𝘥𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘯𝘦𝘸 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘰𝘭𝘶𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘵 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘢𝘯 𝘶𝘯𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦 𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵.

Masterlist

“You’re nothing but an irresponsible fool!” you shouted in the Cortex, your voice echoing through the room. “A selfish, egotistical jerk who cares more about your precious relics than the lives of your partners!”

“Oh, is that so?” Nash yelled back, his tone dripping with frustration. “And you’re nothing but a coward who doesn’t understand the value of rare artifacts!”

With that, you spun on your heel and slammed the door to an adjacent office, your anger simmering like an unchecked flame. Nash stormed off in the opposite direction, heading to one of the far-off labs, muttering under his breath. The tension in the room was palpable.

Iris and Cisco exchanged a long, wide-eyed glance, frozen in place. For a week now, this had been the new normal: shouting matches, scathing insults, and, on more than one occasion, objects hurled in heated anger.

Iris couldn’t wrap her head around what had gone wrong. When Nash had first arrived, you’d been ecstatic. Out of everyone on Team Flash, you were the most adventurous, the one with a thirst for excitement and discovery. A new Wells who strutted around like a grizzled Indiana Jones? You’d been thrilled, so much so that you’d immediately volunteered to go on a mission with him.

But whatever happened during that mission, nobody knew. From the moment you returned, things had changed. The camaraderie and curiosity that once lit up your interactions were gone, replaced by sharp words and cold glares. You couldn’t seem to be in the same room without tearing into each other. It wasn’t just tension—it was a storm that kept building, and no one could predict when it would finally break.

Iris decided to check on you in the office. The anger simmering inside you was still so intense that you couldn’t keep still. You paced back and forth, grabbing a tablet only to put it down again, picking up a pen and setting it aside, unable to focus on anything for more than a second.

“Y/N…” Iris began softly, her voice laced with concern.

“I’m fine,” you snapped, the words spilling out automatically, almost like a reflex.

“Really?” she replied, raising an eyebrow skeptically. “Because it’s been a week, and you and Nash can’t even be in the same room without tearing each other apart. What happened during that mission?”

You let out a heavy sigh, your shoulders slumping as you sank into the office chair. For a moment, you just sat there, staring at the desk, debating whether to open up. It was New Year’s Eve, the last night of the year, and part of you didn’t want to carry this anger into the next one. Maybe talking about it would help lighten the weight on your chest.

“It started off great,” you began reluctantly. “The mission, I mean. Nash was… impressive. So confident, so sure of himself. He was like a real-life action hero. I’ll admit, I thought he was kind of badass.”

Iris tilted her head, her curiosity piqued but tempered by concern.

“We were tracking down some kind of advanced technological artifact from the future. Everything was going smoothly… until I got caught in a trap.”

Iris’s brows furrowed in worry, her expression urging you to continue.

“I was stuck, but Nash wasn’t. I called out to him, asked him to help me get free.”

“And he didn’t?” Iris asked, her voice tightening with alarm.

“Oh, he did,” you said bitterly. “But not until after he secured the artifact first. The trap I was in—it started filling with water. I was screaming for him, terrified, thinking I was about to drown. But the artifact was more important to him than I was.”

Iris’s lips pressed into a thin line as she listened, nodding slightly as she pieced the story together.

That artifact had been critical in stopping one of the team’s most dangerous enemies. Without it, there could have been more victims, and Barry might not have been able to win. Iris knew firsthand the weight of such decisions—having led the team for so long, she had made her share of tough calls.

How many times had she put Barry in danger to save the greater good? She wasn’t proud of those moments, but she knew they had been necessary, and Barry had never held it against her. Was it possible Nash had been faced with the same kind of impossible choice during that mission?

She sighed, her gaze softening as she looked at you. Whatever his reasons, it didn’t excuse how much fear and pain you’d gone through. But maybe, just maybe, there was more to his actions than what you’d been able to see in the heat of the moment.

"Don’t you think that maybe Nash didn’t have a choice?” Iris asked gently.

The anger you’d been trying to suppress flared up immediately, but you held your tongue, letting her finish.

“Sometimes, we have to make tough decisions,” she continued. “Nash knew how important that artifact was for all of us, for saving lives. Maybe he wasn’t trying to hurt you—maybe he was doing what he thought was necessary.”

“So what?” you snapped, your voice laced with bitterness. “Are you saying he was right to leave me to a certain death?”

“He didn’t leave you, did he? He saved you, didn’t he?”

You fell silent, the words catching you off guard. As much as you hated to admit it, she was right. Nash had come back for you. He’d saved you, even if it wasn’t immediate. You’d been so terrified, so furious, that you hadn’t fully processed the moment.

He’d pulled you out of the water, wrapped you in his jacket to stop your shivering, and stayed by your side until you both made it safely back to STAR Labs. You could still remember the way his hand had gripped yours, steady and reassuring, as if silently promising that you were safe now.

Iris’s voice broke through your thoughts. “You should talk to him. Start the new year without this weight hanging over you. It’d be a good resolution, don’t you think?”

You sighed, the suggestion weighing heavily on you. But Iris was right. With another sigh, you stood up and made your way to the lab where Nash had gone to isolate himself.

The door was slightly ajar, and you saw him standing with his back to you, hunched over a workbench covered in gadgets and maps. He hadn’t noticed your presence yet, and something in your chest tightened.

From the moment Nash had arrived, you’d been drawn to him. There was something about his rugged confidence, his sharp mind, and his complete disregard for danger that had captivated you. He was brilliant in the field, always thinking three steps ahead, always finding a way out.

But now, that same boldness felt like a double-edged sword. You’d been so afraid during the mission—afraid that he wouldn’t come back for you, that you weren’t as important to him as the artifact.

“Nash?” you called out softly, unsure, as you stepped into the room.

He didn’t turn around, his shoulders stiffening at the sound of your voice. “If you’ve come to insult me again, I think I’ve had my fill for today.”

You clenched your jaw, your temper bubbling dangerously close to the surface. “I came to talk,” you said tightly. “But if you’re going to start like that, maybe I shouldn’t have bothered.”

“Then don’t,” he shot back without missing a beat, still not facing you.

That did it. The irritation that had been simmering for days boiled over, and you stepped closer. “God, you’re impossible, you know that?”

Finally, he turned, his face hard, his eyes flashing with frustration. “And you’re exhausting,” he snapped. “You’ve been angry with me for a week, and I don’t even know what the hell you want from me anymore!”

“I want an explanation!” you shouted. “I want to know how you could leave me there, Nash! How you could hear me screaming and still choose that damn artifact over me!”

His jaw tightened, his hands curling into fists at his sides. “Do you think I don’t know how scared you were? Do you think I don’t hate myself for it?”

“Hate yourself? Could’ve fooled me,” you said bitterly, your voice dripping with sarcasm. “You’ve been acting like it’s no big deal, like what happened doesn’t matter!”

“Because I don’t know how to fix it!” he roared, his voice echoing off the walls.

You took a step back, stunned by his outburst, but your own anger wouldn’t let you back down. “You can’t fix it, Nash! You left me there! Do you have any idea what that felt like? I thought you’d given up on me!”

“And you think that was easy for me?” he shouted, his voice breaking under the weight of his words. “You think I wanted to leave you there? Do you know how hard it was to hear you screaming and still walk away?”

“Then why did you?” you screamed back, your voice cracking with emotion.

“Because I didn’t have a choice!” he roared, stepping closer, his face inches from yours now. “Because I knew if I didn’t get that artifact, people would die—including you! And I couldn’t let that happen because—”

“Because what?” you demanded, your heart pounding, your voice rising even higher.

“Because I love you, damn it!” he bellowed, the words tearing out of him like a confession he couldn’t hold back any longer.

The room fell deathly silent. Both of you stood there, breathing hard, his words hanging heavy in the air. Nash’s face was red, his chest heaving as he realized what he’d just said.

You stared at him, frozen, your heart thundering in your chest. “What… what did you just say?”

He dragged a hand through his hair, his frustration palpable. “You heard me,” he muttered, his voice quieter now but still laced with emotion. “I love you. That’s why it killed me to leave you in that trap. And that’s why I’ve been acting like an idiot, because I didn’t know how to deal with any of this.”

Something inside you cracked wide open, the anger dissolving into something else entirely. But the tension didn’t leave—it shifted, charged the air in a new way.

He looked at you, his expression a mix of defiance and vulnerability. “Say something,” he said, almost pleading now.

But you couldn’t. Instead, you surged forward, your emotions spilling over as you grabbed him by the shirt and crashed your lips against his.

Nash froze for a heartbeat, shocked, but then he kissed you back with all the intensity of the argument you’d just had. His hands gripped your waist, pulling you closer as the kiss deepened, fiery and consuming.

It was messy, desperate, and everything you’d been holding back. His hands slid up your back, your fingers tangled in his hair, and the world around you faded, leaving only the two of you in the moment.

A clash of tongues ignited, each of you fighting for dominance in the kiss, the intensity rising with every passing second. A muffled moan escaped your lips, vibrating against his mouth, as all the anger you had harbored transformed into a scorching, uncontrollable desire. It was like an earthquake of pent-up longing breaking free, shaking you to your core.

Nash growled at the sound, his reaction primal, a deep rumble that sent an immediate rush of heat straight to his lower half. The tension between you crackled like electricity, impossible to contain.

He surged forward, closing the distance even more, and you stumbled back, dragging him with you. One step, then another, until your back collided with the cold, unyielding wall of the lab. You gasped sharply, the impact catching you off guard, but Nash seized the moment. He nipped at your bottom lip, tugging gently before his lips trailed down to your chin, tracing the sharp line of your jaw, and finally finding the sensitive curve of your neck.

“Nash…” you whimpered, your voice shaky, your head tipping back to grant him better access. A wave of heat coursed through you, your arousal building so fast it felt like fire in your veins. You could feel the damp evidence of your desire soaking through your panties, the intensity of your need almost dizzying.

He pressed his mouth lower, his lips brushing your collarbone before trailing to the swell of your chest. He kissed and licked your skin, his touch igniting sparks with every movement. Then, with a sharp tug, he tore your blouse open, the buttons flying loose and scattering across the floor.

You pushed him back, breathless but determined, and reclaimed his lips in a searing kiss. Your bodies moved together in a chaotic rhythm, the heat between you relentless. He let you guide him this time, his back hitting the edge of the workbench with a thud.

His hands tightened on your waist as he leaned back slightly, trying to catch his breath, but you weren’t about to let him regain control. You shrugged his jacket off his shoulders, letting it fall forgotten to the floor. Your hands slid under his shirt, your fingers skimming over the warm, taut skin of his stomach. His abs tightened instinctively under your touch, his breath hitching as you explored the hard lines of his body, your movements bold and purposeful.

Nash’s gaze darkened, his lips parted slightly as he stared at you, chest heaving. The charged silence between you was almost deafening, the only sound the shallow breaths you both struggled to take. 

With a guttural growl, he grabbed you and swiftly reversed your positions. Before you could fully register what was happening, you found yourself bent over the workbench, your stomach pressed against the cool surface and your ass raised toward him. His hands traced the curve of your backside before he abruptly yanked down your jeans, leaving you in nothing but your underwear.

He pressed himself against you, and you could feel the hard, heated length of his arousal straining through his pants, poised and ready. One of his hands slid around your body, grazing over your chest before coming to rest gently at your throat. He didn’t apply pressure, just held you firmly as he pulled you upright, your back flush against his chest.

“No mission, no artifact—nothing would ever stop me from coming back for you, Y/N,” he murmured against your ear, his voice low and gravelly, sending shivers down your spine.

He eased you back down onto the bench, and the sound of his zipper coming undone filled the air. A moment later, you felt the head of his cock glide teasingly along the soaked fabric of your panties, up and down in maddeningly slow strokes. Then, he hooked the damp material aside, his finger sliding into you with ease.

A moan escaped your lips as your back arched involuntarily, your body responding instantly to his touch.

God, you had dreamed of this moment for so long.

His movements quickened, his finger sliding in and out of you with increasing intensity before he added a second. The stretch sent sparks of pleasure coursing through you, your breathing ragged and uneven.

“Nash, fuck…” you gasped, your voice trembling with desire.

A low, pleased groan escaped him as he slowly pulled his fingers away and discarded your underwear. Without giving you a moment to prepare, he entered you quickly and firmly. Before you could even adjust to his size, he began moving in fast, deep thrusts. A soft gasp escaped your lips as you tried to find something to hold onto, knocking a few things off the workbench in the process. The metal surface beneath you creaked with the force of his movements.

"Oh, Y/N," he groaned, his head tilting back in pure pleasure. Being with you like this was everything he had imagined for so long.

Though the sensation of being inside you was overwhelmingly pleasurable, he found the position wasn’t quite right. He needed to see you, to feel connected with you in a way that let him watch your every reaction. He withdrew from you for a brief moment, just enough to shift you around. He moved quickly, positioning you so that your back was pressed against the workbench, and lifted your legs to better angle your body. With one of your ankles now resting on his shoulder, he held the back of your knee with his other hand, his grip firm and possessive.

You were completely his. Without hesitation, he thrust back into you, deeper this time, and you gasped in response, your head falling back as the pleasure intensified.

This new angle felt so much better. Nash was consumed with the desire to watch your reactions—the way your eyes fluttered, the way you bit your lip, the way your body moved with every thrust. He wanted to see your chest rise and fall, to feel the rhythm of your body as his own movements grew more urgent, each push of his hips bringing them closer together. 

You pushed yourself up onto one elbow, watching Nash as he moved inside you, feeling each of his deep thrusts. It was like he was made for you, filling you in all the right ways. You couldn't help but get lost in the feeling of it, overwhelmed by how good it was. You lifted your head to look at him, your heart racing. His brow was slightly furrowed, his expression a mix of concentration and pleasure. You couldn't decide if he was focused on you or lost in the moment, but whatever it was, it made him even more irresistible.

He ran a hand through his messy hair and leaned down to kiss you gently, his movements never slowing. His thrusts were firm, steady, each one making you feel even more connected to him. The way his body moved against yours, it was intense but so satisfying, and you couldn't get enough of it.

"I'm sorry," you gasped, your voice shaky as you caught your breath between moans. "For everything I said..."

He kissed you again, soft and tender this time, before resting his forehead against yours. His breath was shallow, but his touch was comforting. "I'm sorry for scaring you," he whispered, his voice low and sincere.

You looked into his eyes, feeling a knot in your stomach. "Promise me you'll never leave me."

His body tensed for a moment, and then he groaned in response. Without saying a word, he shifted you back down onto the workbench, his body pressing closer to yours. He looked down at you with that familiar, intense gaze.

"Never. I promise," he said firmly, his voice thick with emotion.

He kissed your neck gently, his lips moving down to your collarbone, trailing soft kisses across your skin. Then, his lips found the hollow between your breasts, and you felt a rush of warmth spread through you. His hands slipped underneath your bra, caressing and massaging your breasts softly, sending shivers through your body. His thrusts, still firm, became even deeper as he adjusted his angle, and the pleasure built inside you, stronger than before.

You let out a soft moan, unable to stop yourself from responding to him, feeling the way his body moved in perfect rhythm with yours. The feeling of him inside you, of his hands on you, was more than you could handle, and you gave yourself fully to the moment, completely lost in the sensation.

Nash wasn’t sure how much longer he could hold on. The feeling was too intense. He had always been independent, a man who didn’t rely on others. It had been so long since he had been with anyone. He’d made a promise to himself never to fall in love. The dangerous life he led wouldn’t allow for a relationship. But you… Oh, you were different. You were the exception.

He couldn’t help but love you.

He straightened up, his thumb pressing against your sensitive spot. You arched your back, gasping his name as he gently rubbed it in small, fast circles.

“Nash! Nash, oh my god, yes!”

You were so close, so close to the edge. He kept moving in and out of you, fast and hard. His thumb never stopped its rhythmic pressure, pushing you closer to your peak. Your moans grew louder, more desperate. Nash could feel the tension in his body, his own release building up. He was close.

“Oh god, Y/N.”

With a few more deep thrusts, a tidal wave of pleasure crashed over you, your body tightening around him as your senses exploded. Nash’s entire body went rigid, a low, guttural sound escaping his throat as he lost control. He thrust into you once more, his breath ragged, before finally surrendering to the overwhelming feeling, his release hitting him like a jolt of electricity. His body shuddered in response, the tension in him breaking as he emptied himself inside you, each tremor sending waves of pleasure coursing through both of you.

Outside, fireworks painted the night sky in vibrant bursts of color. It was New Year’s Eve. January 1st had already arrived.

Nash collapsed against you, his head resting gently on your shoulder as his body still trembled from his release. You ran a hand through his damp hair, your other hand tracing soothing circles along his back, both of you slowly coming down from the intensity. The fireworks outside bathed the dim room in flashes of blue, red, and yellow, casting their glow over your entwined bodies.

"Happy New Year," you whispered softly into his hair.

He lifted his head and pulled away from you gently, helping you sit up before wrapping you in his arms. This time, his kiss was slower, more tender, as if savoring the moment.

"Happy New Year, Y/N," he murmured, his voice low and sincere. "And my first resolution this year... stop pretending I don’t love you."

Main Taglist : @gabriella-aesthetic

[ultravioart]

Sources:

https://x.com/geesegoose_1/status/1846378569439891616?t=1w9lkW4_1xIJ8GdFc44H_Q&s=19

https://x.com/kirikokamoris/status/1846607767269712380?t=9gCdG-jAmnvBAlNV80g_zA&s=19

New overwatch lore came out and if it couldn't get any worse for Pharah, Helix is working with Oasis to enforce the "anticrime-ai-predictive model" in Morocco and its basically minority report... and Pharah still talks positively about Helix so. Genuinely I hate this. My rewrite will take out this horrible portrayal for Pharah(recast her VA NOW and make the VA actually Egyptian or from an indigenous nation that can represent Pharah’s father's side). How do you make Pharah enforce a POLICE STATE with her background. How is that a hero, let alone an optumistic future.

:(

It's also pretty much confirmed the Wayfinders Society was outbought by Oasis for the items the Wayfinders Society uncovered, which implies the Wayfinders Society ISN'T a finding+recovery effort of returning artifacts to the countries of origin, rather, the Wayfinders Society is most likely a "the adventure of finding treasure!!!" WHICH IS SO BIZZARRE CONSIDERING De:Classified mentioned the efforts of returning artifacts to the countries of origin as if THAT'S what the Wayfinders Society is about????

And this now makes sense. Venture is canonically a swash-buckling adventurer, but directly inspired by Indiana Jones-- and the idiots that wrote this don't realize that is PILLAGING and colonizing behavior to STEAL artifacts/treat cultural artifacts like treasure to pillage for. And to use arrow heads as the icon too???? Gross is an understatement. Indigenous people have been denied thier family's works, heirlooms, and artwork bc American museums refuse to allow indigenous people even SEE the items. They are stored away in boxes, collecting dust. It's a disgrace, and I would think since De:Classified mentioned this issue, an optumistic future would work to rectify this disrespect in the story.

It's such an honest let down for Venture's character... I wanted an archeologist that was exited about the HUMANITY within artifacts, and to bring that joy of celebrating culture to expanding Omnic lore. I absolutely did NOT want Venture/Wayfinders Society seeing the artifacts as some simple object exciting to find bc fame, money, or some detached history fun fact-aholic. If it was dinosaur bones, that's totally fine for having it be a "ooo treasure!!!! Did you know? (Insert fun fact)" hype but it is NOT okay to do that with cultural artifacts. For some reason in Overwatch, Greek artifacts have been taken out of Greece and are now in the Temple of Anubis. Venture is pillaging. HOW is that a hero. :/

It's actually super gross that Overwatch portrayed Greece as the 'low tech' map, portrayed it only as the tourist sections (that is not authentic Greek life, plus the maps mix up completely different areas of Greece together) and then not making a Greek hero despite the map and even Greek myth bp theme, and THEN having the gall to make Venture "save the artifacts from Talon bc no one else will!" (with horrible rep of artifact handling and collection mind you) as if the native residents don't exist. WHERE ARE THE GREEK PEOPLE. Did Greece get gentrified by Eastern Europe in overwatch???? Is Greece just a hollow shell of tourist traps bc all the natives left bc of economic disparity after the omnic crisis? (The Phillipines was hit hard, so was Spain and Portugal but they had the wall, so I can imagine Greece was hit hard too)????? That's genuinely so dystopian lmafo

And FYI, irl the British museum still refuses to return artifacts to Greece bc the people in charge ARE racist and think Greeks can't take care of thier own artifacts. So. I can not state how much the Venture comic pisses me off, having a non-native come in, state that no one is there to save the artifacts, and then take the artifacts outside of Greece while mishandling them (you do not drill into ruins, it would shatter terracotta. You do not barehand handle artifacts. Etc.)

Can overwatch make a Greek hero already so I can draw them giving the Wayfinders Society and Talon the middlefinger for pillaging Greek artifacts? Thanks.

Venture Overwatch, I will save you from this bs writting I refuse to have Overwatch's first trans rep be pillaging artifacts they should be PROTECTING.

[midnightsun-if]

If the MC was to dress up as something sexy for Halloween what specific costumes would cause the RO’s to lose all control the minute they saw MC in it?

Koda: I think he’d love to see you in something regarding like a homey feel, you know? Something that he could derive comfort in just by looking at you. Plus, it’s an added bonus that he knows the costume itself is comfortable too.

Scarlett: Your birthday suit? As it is her birthday and truly that’s the only thing that’d make the entire day better. Of course, it’d only be a sight for her. (In a more serious note, I think Scarlett would love seeing you in something that’d link you to her; even if it means she’d have to dress up in couples costume.)

Cyrus/Cyra: Anything to do with fire or fire adjacent characters. It’s something that’d bring them immense joy at seeing you in a symbol that means so much to them. They’d just have to show their appreciation for it.

Quinn: Honestly? If you dressed like you were going to yoga or on a run… That’d do it for them. They have a very low bar when it comes to those sort of things, but they can’t deny how they love seeing the yoga pants hug you just right.

Caden: I don’t know if they truly have a preference. Halloween has never truly been something they’ve paid attention to— probably due to being a Phantom and not needing to add another spooky thing on their list. As long as you like what you’re wearing? That’ll do.

Sloane: Maybe dressed as a biker? Seeing you in all that leather would definitely do things to them. But, I can also see them enjoying see you dress up as classic adventure characters too— Lara Croft/Indiana Jones (that sort of thing).

Blake: The classic sexy things… Sexy nurse, sexy angel, sexy devil, etc. They’re quite predictable in that way but you could be dressed as a nun and they’d still find you absolutely irresistible.

Regina/Reginald: They are a diehard comic book junkie and would absolutely die if the MC dressed up as a hero or villain. (Honestly they’d try to rope the entire dorm into going as DC Heroes/Villains or Marvel Heroes/Villains.)

[quixoticall]

This Could Get Ugly Track 1: Before the Beginning

Summary: It's 1983 and The Downsides need another lead singer and you just happen to need a band--it's a perfect match. The only issue? You have to pretend to be in a relationship with your bandmate, Steve Harrington, but you can't help but be drawn to the band's broody guitar player.

pairing: s.h. x fem!reader, e.m. x fem!reader, j.b. x n.w.

warnings: It's the Daisy Jones and the Six!AU, Enemies to friends to lovers, Love triangles, sex, drugs, rock and roll, etc., fake relationships, bad parents all around, era-typical misogyny and sexism, mentions of reader's looks (as being very beautiful), partially interview format, no use of YN

AN: Hi, if you're a longtime TCGU reader, please read this note from me explaining this new format. If this is your first time coming across This fic, welcome! Please enjoy my attempt at a Daisy Jones and the Six!AU with some Fleetwood Mac-messiness thrown in.

MASTERLIST🎸

Prologue 🎤

WC: 8.6K

***

STEVE: Right, so I just start talking into this microphone thing?

INTERVIEWER: Yes, but you need to introduce yourself first.

STEVE: You know who I am, we’ve known each other for—ah, okay, okay sorry. I’m Steve. Harrington, obviously. Former lead singer and guitarist of The Downsides. So, uh, where do I start?

INTERVIEWER: The beginning—tell me about how you first got involved with music.

STEVE: Right, okay, I can do that. I grew up kinda lonely. My dad was this big real estate investor but we lived in Indiana of all places, so he was always traveling. I don’t think I remember him ever being home for more than a month straight growing up… and my mom was there but she wasn’t there, ya know? She drank a lot and spent a lot of time in bed, that sort of thing.

***

1962-1972, Los Angeles California

Your childhood is a lonely one but it’s also a boring and predictable one.

Born in sun-soaked LA to a movie director father and his much younger model wife, two people who didn’t know each other well enough to either love or hate the other. They maintained a similar distance in their marriage as the one they tried to uphold in their individual relationships with you, their child.

So, your infancy was spent in a rotation of different nanny’s arms with your parents’ presence only dotting the periphery of your life. Who could blame them, after all? Infants are so contrived and boring compared to the big, wide, world of art that was Los Angeles in the 1960s.  Your parents were far too busy trying to cement their legacy in the art they created and inspired to spend too much time looking after you.

(Much later in life, you would find yourself wondering if your parents ever saw the irony  in the fact that your art ended up eclipsing their entire existence in the end and their only legacy was that of being your parents.)

As a child, however, you spent little time thinking of legacy and instead spent your time trying to feel less lonely.

***

STEVE: When I was a kid I would wonder why my parents even had me. Sorry, that’s like a total bummer thing to say during an interview. But it’s true. And you said to tell the truth. I never felt wanted by them. Until I got famous, and even then… but that’s not new,  a lot of kids grow up feeling lonely, right?

***

The employees who raised you were nice enough, but they saw you for what you were: a means to an end. A paycheck with big, sad, beautiful eyes that may beget sympathy, but they couldn’t get too close to.  The children you came to meet at your elite California private school seemed palatable enough at first, but the more you interacted with them, the more you found yourself at a loss. It was like they spoke a secret language you did not know—a language of price tags, and ever-changing hierarchies and thinly-veiled insults. One that your mother spoke perfectly, but never bothered to pass down to you.

You end up turning to books instead. The home library your father kept up for appearances’ sakes became your favorite room in the house and your teenage growth spurts were fed by any and all novels you could get your hands on from historical biographies to soapy romances, you read them all.  You loved them all, but you loved poetry the most— emotive and raw in ways you were unfamiliar with. You liked the way the syllables rolled gracefully into one another and how each word served a purpose—compact with meaning and so unlike the people around you who were so careless with their words.

As you began to age, and the meaningless mess of childhood shifted into the sharpness of adolescence, you began to write yourself. One day, somehow you had the idea of putting your poetry to music. If you could write songs good enough to be played on the radio then maybe you could earn people's adoration through your art like your parents had, you reasoned. Maybe you could even earn their adoration. You beg your parents for piano lessons, and they scoff at the thought.  “But what’s the point of having one if no one can play it?” You ask, referencing the piano in the grand foyer.

“That piano is not meant to be played,” your mother explains, slowly, “it’s meant to be admired by our guests.”

She walks away from the conversation before you can even protest.

Instead of giving up, though, you went to the library and borrowed all the books you could on music and piano playing and slowly began to teach yourself. You were not very good, at first, and both your parents made a habit of reminding you whenever they were around to hear you practicing. Luckily, they were rarely around.

***

STEVE: My parents signed me up for every single activity and extra-curricular you can think of: karate, basketball, pottery.   The one that really stuck though, was guitar lessons. Soon, that was the only thing I wanted to do it was something I was actually good at. Not something I had potential in, not something I was passable at. It was something I was good at. My dad did not like the idea of me going into music at first—he wanted me to take on a “manlier” hobby—but even he couldn’t deny that I was talented, and he sent me to this specialized music school in Indianapolis. That’s where I met Robin. That’s when I stopped feeling so alone.

ROBIN: Robin Buckley, brass, bass, and synth for The Downsides.

I met Steve when we were thirteen, I think, at this fancy music school in Indianapolis. I was there on scholarship.  I’m not going to lie, he was obnoxious, but most thirteen-year-old boys are. Even then, though, there was something about him that made everyone want to be his friend. He was also really talented. He never had to work very hard to be good at something, but he worked hard anyway. I hated him at first, but he wore me down and we eventually became best friends.

***

1978

Your music became a good outlet for all your loneliness and anger and disappointment, but it was not a cure for any of those things. You craved friendship and commonality and to be liked beyond the surface.

One day, when you were towards the end of seventeen, you decided to go exploring. You had heard Emily Cooke whispering salaciously in the girls’ bathroom at school about sneaking into the Whiskey A Go-Go to see The Six playing and an idea began to blossom.

Your home was only a walking distance from the Strip, the aptly named piece of street that was lined with clubs and musical venues, so that day, after hearing Emily’s plan you decided to try your luck at the Whiskey. You loved music, after all, and you wanted to be good at it, like the musicians that played there. Plus, there were others that shared those interests and the was a chance that some of them would be more tolerable than Emily Cooke.

You waited in line, by yourself, donning an outfit that you hoped made you look older than you were in an organic, cool way. When you made it to the doorman, you smiled trying to look more confident than pleading. His eyes raked over your body once, then twice and you resist the urge to flinch away. You had known then that you were beautiful—mostly because it was the only thing your mother valued in you— but what you hadn’t known was how far just being beautiful could get you. The doorman had let you in the club, not even questioning when your voice wavered while you had told him you were older than you actually were.

***

ROBIN:   Don’t tell anyone I told you this, but Steve was my first kiss.

INTERVIEWER: Uh, Robin?

ROBIN: Oh, right…. Well, whatever, Steve Harrington was my first kiss. He was also the first person I told that I liked girls. I knew from a really early age that I didn’t find men attractive but when Steve kissed me at our high school dance I had this immediate realization and I sorta burst out, “Steve, I like girls.” It was a really great moment of self-awareness for me—growing up as a girl, they always try to put you in this box of like feminity and being whatever men wanted you to be, including an object to be looked at or pawned over. I didn’t know how being gay fit into all that, until that moment.

I don’t think it was that great of a moment for Steve, though.

STEVE: She told you about that? Well, for the record, it wasn't that I wasn't happy for her, it's just when you're a teenage boy and if your first crush admits she's a lesbian moments after you kiss her for the first time, well, it does not do your ego any favors, does it?

***

The moment you walked through that door, your life became severed in two: the before and the after. You watched, from the fringe of the crowd, as Billy Dunne crooned soulfully, and the audience sang his own words back to him.

You briefly imagine yourself on the stage, being someone that people would actually want to come see, someone that people would listen to. Someone people would love.  

***

STEVE: I always knew I wanted to be in music. It was the only thing that ever made sense. Wait, no, that’s not right… It’s the only thing that ever made life make sense. So, I started working at it, like seriously working it at, when I was 16. I bought as many records as I could, figured out what I liked, what I could do, and I practiced all the time. Like all the time. Robin did, too. I would play the guitar and sing, and she was insane on the trumpet and bass. I don’t think we ever sat down and had a conversation about whether we wanted to form a band or even what we wanted for ourselves in the future. We just always knew it was going to be the two of us, and we were going to be making music. Of course, you can’t have a band with only a guitar and a trumpet, so we had to start looking for more members.

***

1980

From that point on, your life had purpose.

You began to study everything about music—obsessively. You collected records, you played the piano until your fingers became cramped and sore or until your mother yelled at you to stop.

You filled notebook after notebook with lyrics, some good, many bad.

But you also kept your eyes on the tabloids and the gossip rags and the fashion magazines. To be a successful musician, you had to be good of course, but you also had to be well-liked. Growing up in the environment you did had given you a very unique perspective on this. Since infancy, you had seen hopeful artists-to-be approach your father for a chance, or ask your mother for advice. The most successful of them were not always the ones who had the best things to say, but those who said what they had to say in the best way.

 You practiced giving fake interviews in front of your mirror and in the shower. You stayed on top of trends and bought the best-fitting clothes. And most importantly, you tried to associate yourself with all the right people.

By the time you turned 18, you were well-known, even beyond the Strip. Photos of you standing next to the bass player/drummer/guitarist/lead singer of whatever band might have been riding a momentary wave of popularity at the time began to appear in tabloid magazines.

Most of them were men. Most of them wanted something out of you. You became a master in the art of giving just enough for them to think they had a chance with you if it meant that you could learn from them or convince them to listen to one of your songs. But every time you would even mention the idea that you wrote music, you would come hit a wall of patronizing, feigned interest followed by a grab at your chest.

Then came Jason Carver. Lead singer of the Letterman’s, Jason Carver. You dated him for a few weeks, right after you had turned 18. He was 25 and just charming enough for you to overlook his frequent condescension. Plus, he had promised that he would teach you a few chords on the guitar.

One day, you had come over to his apartment and he was getting all worked up because the band’s label was on his ass about writing a song and he couldn’t quite get it right. He needed to write a love song, something introspective and sweet but Jason could only churn out party anthems and songs meant to be played in dive bars.

Eventually, after hearing him gripe for what seemed like an eternity, you sent him off to take a shower and in the meanwhile compiled all of his shreds of half-lines and began to work filling in the gaps. Forty minutes later, you had a solid chorus and first verse to present to him for a song you thought should have been called “All At Once”. You thought that this would’ve made him happy, after all, you had gotten him one step closer to a possible song. (And maybe, you had secretly hoped, in all of his gratitude he could be swayed to give you a writing credit on the song).  Instead, he laughed at you like you were a child pretending to do an adult task and asked you to leave with a hasty promise that he would call you later that week. He never called. The hurt you felt was only a pin-prick. Six months later, you heard The Letterman’s on the radio: a new song by them called, “All At Once”. You tried to convince yourself for a moment that there would be no way that Jason could blatantly steal your song after having mocked you for even trying to write. But, boy, were you wrong. Those were, in fact, your lyrics, on the radio. Yes, the band had added another verse but, ultimately, your lyrics were all there. The same lyrics Jason had so easily dismissed six months prior.

That was when you realized if you were going to get ahead in the industry, you were going to have to play dirty, like Jason Carver.

***

 ROBIN: We met Argyle in Chicago. Once we graduated high school Steve and I started working as subs for small bands in the Midwestern circuit. Yes, it was as grim as it sounds, but it paid the bills and helped us meet people. Argyle was the drummer of some Reggae band that needed a bass player for a few weeks when their bassist got arrested on possession charges. I subbed in and was immediately super impressed by his skills. People always underestimated Argyle, to this day, because of the whole vibe he gives off, you know? But he’s smart and adaptable. Anyway, when his bassist lost his case, the band broke up indefinitely and I tried my best to convince Argyle to join Steve and me. There were two of us, we’d never played an official gig, and we didn’t even have a name, but Argyle said yes. Next was Nancy. We held open auditions for a keyboardist once Argyle was onboard. After five passable auditions, Nancy Fucking Wheeler walks in in this long skirt and bows in her hair. She had a book of Debussy sheet music for God’s sake. I almost burst out laughing when I saw her because I thought she must have been lost but then, in true Nancy Wheeler fashion she blew us all away. Ugh, was that woman talented. And gorgeous. Steve’s jaw had to be crane-lifted off the floor, it was love at first sight.

STEVE: It was not. She’s exaggerating.

1980

Ironically, you met Murray Bauman at one of your parents’ parties.

You knew he was a music producer for Starcourt Records because he kept loudly boasting to his date about it. The same Starcourt Records that the Letterman’s were signed on to.

You waited until he was two gin martinis in and standing alone admiring your father’s latest art purchase before you approached.

“Hello,” you said, brandishing a dazzling smile, your whole body angled and ready to perform this familiar dance.

“Aren’t you the producer for the Letterman’s?”

He shot you a grin that borders on swarmy and said, “why yes, I am and you look like you’re out past your bedtime.”

You didn’t react to his statement and instead marched onwards, “I loved their latest song, ‘All At Once’ right? It’s so romantic.”

“Between you and me, I’m not sure how Carver popped that one out, he’s a bit of a meathead if you catch my drift.”

He didn’t wait to see your reaction before laughing at his own joke.

“Yeah, actually, I’m not surprised to hear that considering I dated him,” your eyes flashed in a way that you hoped came off as dangerous, “and that I wrote that song.”

He regarded you for a moment before breaking out in a laugh. When he saw your expression remained unchanged, he stepped back in assessment.

“Oh shit, you’re being serious.”

You only nodded grimly.

“Okay, well that’s a new one. Usually, girls come up claiming that one of those idiots impregnated them, not this.”

He regarded you again, searching for a trace of a lie. He sighed, “So let’s say that you did write the song, which, knowing what I know about those Neanderthals, I am willing to entertain the possibility of this being at least partially true, then what does that mean? You’re going to blackmail Starcourt? Do you want money?”

You gestured vaguely behind you, sure that he must have known who your parents were. “I don’t need money.”

“Then, what is it?”

“I write music. Obviously. I want to write for your label.”

A grin broke out across his face, “Oh, boy.” He started to laugh: a deep chuckle that floated up from his belly.

“You and every other Joe Schmoe in Hollywood, sweetie.”

“But not every other Joe Schmoe wrote a song for one of your most popular bands.”

Murray regarded you again, he gave you a look you’re all too familiar with. One that says he did not expect such a fight in such an unassuming package.

“Here’s the deal,” you start, taking his brief lapse to pounce, “all I want is for you to take my demo tape and listen to it, like actually listen to it. Do that and we never have to mention this again.”

“And if I say no to your little proposition?”

You smile at his question before offering a small piece of paper, “Then here’s the business card to my lawyer he’ll be reaching out.”

This, puzzlingly, makes the man burst out laughing once again.

“Let me get this straight, you just want me to listen to your tape? That’s the grand blackmailing scheme? No record deal, no music video?”

You shake your head in response, “No, I think my music speaks for itself. I just need to get it in front of the right person.”

Murray’s still chuckling to himself as he extends his hand out signaling for you to drop the tape you are now holding in his hands.

“Fine, but you are one shitty blackmailer.”

You were signed to Startcourt Records a month later.

***

STEVE: Once Nancy joined, we were a band, and so we needed a name. I suggested the Steve Harrington experience but the girls shot me down like, right away. We ended up fighting about names for like an hour. It was actually Argyle who ended up coming up with our name. The Downsides, he had said, since we were all so negative about everything. He had said this after Robin had said I was 'all hair and no brain'. Not the best of origin stories, I guess. But we liked it and that’s how we became The Downsides.

***

NANCY: Nancy Wheeler, former keyboardist for The Downsides.

  I had been playing piano since I was eight, it was just one of those things my parents signed me up for to make me more well-rounded for college applications but I ended up loving it more than they had hoped.

I auditioned for the band on a whim, I was going to Indiana State at the time, getting my teaching degree but I loved playing the piano more than I would ever love being a teacher. To be honest, when I auditioned, I didn’t think they were going to take me, not even after I saw they had another girl in the band. Don’t get me wrong, I knew I had the talent for it, I just didn’t necessarily give off Rock and Roll vibes, but they accepted me anyway.

  I had a feeling Steve liked me from the moment we met, I would be lying if I said I wasn’t attracted to him then. He’s Steve Harrington for God’s sake. Girls had posters of him up on their walls for the better part of the 80s. I just—I didn’t want people to think I got the spot because I was involved with the lead singer. I wanted people to know that I earned my place through talent. Steve was really disappointed when I turned him down, but he was always really respectful about it.

  That didn’t mean he stopped being interested or that I didn’t feel his eyes on me during every rehearsal in the summer of ‘81.  

1981

Of course, you knew that when you had been signed to Starcourt Records it wasn’t completely because of your talent.

You had started to wonder, however, if Starcourt had given you a shot because they didn't want to risk litigation or maybe because those record execs had seen your name floating around in a magazine or, more importantly, your picture.

The more you thought about it, the more insecure about your place you had felt, like an imposter among others who had earned their spots. But, after one week of rubbing shoulders with the musicians over at Starcourt, you realized that to be able to make it, you were going to have to ooze confidence, even if that confidence was fake.

***

NANCY: We started playing gigs together around the Midwest. In the beginning, we mostly played covers but eventually, we started writing our own music. I’m not a great songwriter and, to be frank, neither is Steve, so a lot of the stuff we were coming up with was pretty simple but it worked for us. We went from playing weddings to actually getting gigs that paid money. I mean it was barely enough to cover gas to get there but it was something. I guess, for the sake of transparency, there is one more thing I have to talk about while we’re talking about this time in the band’s life.

Steve and I spent a lot of time writing music together. It was great, being able to get close. I thought we were becoming friends. He was still a bit hung up, though and one night, when we were up late writing at his tiny apartment, he kissed me. And I kissed him back.

The next day, I told him that that couldn’t happen again. I gave him my reasons and he respected that but still, I could tell he was crushed. I think that between the kiss and us having this talk, he had begun to hope that something would happen between us.

I think that’s what made me and Jonathan hurt him so much more. 

1982

You didn’t necessarily like Murray when you first began to work with him but you did trust him. In the professional capacity at least. He never tried anything with you, which you appreciated although that bar was abysmally low.

You hadn’t known what to expect on your first day in the studio but you had a feeling that as far as the music was considered, you were in decent hands.

Boy, were you fucking wrong.

The moment you had stepped into the studio, Murray had handed you a stack of music, all unfamiliar and definitely nothing you had written.

“What’s this?” You had asked, eyes crinkling in confusion.

“A few contenders for an EP. The team over at marketing came up with some branding concepts and this is what we landed on.”

He then pulled out a thick folder overflowing with pictures of what you assumed the studio had wanted to mold you into. It was all bubblegum and teased hair and not at all what you had envisioned.

“Wait, Murray, I don’t understand.  I have a brand, one that I've spent a lot of time curating along. This isn't me and this is definitely not my music.  You said I could sing the music that I’ve written.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Murray hummed, condescendingly, “I never said that.”

“Well, if I can’t sing my music then I just won’t sing at all.” You were the full image of a petulant child, arms crossed and lips dangerously close to a pout.

Murray feigned concern for a moment before hunching down so that he was at eye level with you.

“You signed a contract,” he spoke slowly, “Starcourt owns you, and if you don’t like it, then talk to a judge.”

He turned away from you, leaning against the mixing console. He speaks again after what seems like an eternity.

“Listen, sweetheart, I’m not saying it’s ethical or right, but if you want to make it in music, you got to play the game. You can’t come in here, swinging your metaphorical dick around, calling the shots when you haven’t proven you can rake in the dough.

“Sure, you’ve got talent, but who doesn’t? Right now, there’s a line of girls around the block who can sing and write and are probably better at following directions, waiting to take your spot.

"Plus, I read the songs you sent over, you have some good lines but there's not a single song worth attaching Starcourt's name to. Take this as an opportunity to learn, to be better, to actually work for something for the first time in your life. You have nothing right now, so nothing is below you, not even this pop dribble they're giving you to sing.

"I’m not saying it’s always gonna be this way, but you have to prove to them that you can play before they take you seriously, and then if you got what it takes, you can start writing your own music. Hell, if you make them enough money, they’ll let you play the fucking didgeridoo and go out in a nun’s habit… well, maybe not the habit, but the point stands. So, can we stop acting like the spoiled princess we are for just one afternoon and get to rehearsing?”

You snatched the book of songs from his outstretched hand and with a smile on your face, tore it down the middle before stomping off.

It had taken five days of Murray, along with various other executives at Starcourt, pounding on your door at the Chateau Mormont—the hotel that was your permanent residence since you had turned 18— before you had even considered setting foot in Starcourt again.

All it took was a gift basket full of Champagne and half a dozen threatening letters from their legal team.

***

NANCY: Jonathan came on as our second guitarist. I remember when he came to the audition he was this quiet, super shy kid who barely managed to make eye contact, but once he had a guitar in his hands, he had this way of coming alive. He wasn’t a showman like Steve, but he was electric when he played.

We—I never meant for things to turn out the way they did but with Jonathan, it wasn’t much of a choice. I know this sounds so cliche, but we were drawn to each other. I remember, during rehearsals, even before we really knew each other, he and I would lock eyes from across the room and I would know exactly what he was thinking.

Soon, we were sneaking around together. We were getting more and more serious, it was only a matter of time, honestly, before the others found out. Jonathan wanted to come clean early on, he could tell it was causing me so much stress, but I didn’t want to tell anyone else. Part of it, was Steve, of course, but also, what Jonathan and I had felt precious and personal and ours. I wanted to stay in this bubble we had built for ourselves.

Of course, it was Steve and Robin who eventually caught us, making out in Jonathan’s car after rehearsals one day.

To say that Steve took it hard is probably an understatement. He skipped rehearsal for five straight days and when he showed up he had this new song he had written, this ballad called, “Regret You”.

“If I never had you, then why can’t I forget you / I hate myself because I could never regret you.”

Yeah, that was an awkward one to rehearse but, to his credit, it was a great song. It was the song that got us noticed.

1982

You had spent months recording your first EP, a five-song collection the studio had decided to name “The Setlist”. It was meant to be a play on your groupie status, or at least that’s what some intern over in the marketing department had claimed, a little too proud of himself for your liking.

While you couldn't ignore the sense of accomplishment that bubbled below the surface, you mostly felt empty. 

The whole thing made you think of your father, whom you hadn't spoken to in years but had a very staunch view on artistic integrity. He despised artists who 'carelessly churned out poor imitations of real art for money'.  "To make art is as close as one can get to being god," he had explained to you once, with self-important tears in his eyes, "why would anyone sell that off? Art should mean something to the artist. Otherwise, they are a peddler of fake divinity." 

Your father had never had to worry about money a day in his life. 

That empty feeling was only exacerbated when, the Friday after you had officially finished recording, Murray had invited you to lunch with a particular proposition in mind.

“No, Murray, not gonna happen. Over my dead body and all that,” you spat from across the table.

“Listen, I don’t want to pull the contract card on you, but I will,” he warned with no real heat as he swirled his gin martini in one hand.

“Nice try,” you mirrored his pose, martini and all, “but the contract doesn't cover this, only original work. Not duets. You know that, I know that, so why don’t you try again and give me one good reason why I would even consider a duet with The Letterman’s.”

Murray gave you a look you had come to familiarize yourself with—one that was equal measures of pride and annoyance. It was the look he gave you whenever you bested him.

“How about the fact that they’re one of the hottest acts right now and being on a track with them would guarantee you a spot on the charts which is a great place to be at any point in time, but especially when you’re about to release an EP?”

Your face dropped in the way it only did when you knew Murray was right about something you didn’t want him to be right about. A look he had been starting to familiarize himself with.

"Fine, I’ll do it, but I want to spend as little time as possible with Jason. He’s a pompous ass.” “No disagreements there, sweetheart.”

The day you were scheduled to record with Jason and the rest of his band, he was an hour late. You hadn’t doubted for a moment he had done this on purpose.

When he finally had shown, he pretended not to know you, a game you had quickly caught on to, and made sure to respond with, “It’s so nice to meet you, Jackson” after he made a show of introducing himself to you which made the rest of his band and Murray guffaw.

Jason narrowed his eyes at you, his voice struggling to stay level, and said, “Watch it. We’re the ones doing you a favor here, remember?”

“I did you one first,” you responded, your eyes meeting his gaze, “remember?”

It had taken 20 minutes for his bandmates to calm him down, but eventually, the two of you got into the booth.

Your only priority had been to do your best job in as few takes as possible because you did not know how much longer you could tolerate being in Jason’s presence.

In the end, after a two-hour session, Murray had sent you both home, either happy with the finished product or at his wit’s end with the tension. Either way, three weeks later you had a duet with The Letterman’s called “It Was You” and just as Murray had predicted, it was quick to climb the charts.

You were getting noticed.

***

NANCY: Not long after Steve wrote “Regret You” we got noticed by a scout from Starcourt Records. I think at first we thought it was some sort of scheme, but it was legit. They had us record a few demos and in something like six months, they moved us to a house in Culver City.

The whole thing had felt like some sort of fever dream. I had to quit school and tell my parents. They didn’t even know I was in a band. Or seeing anybody. Needless to say, they didn’t take any of it well. When we got to LA, we did more test recordings and they even had us playing some shows at a few clubs on the strip.

Like I said: total fever dream.

But, when you’re under the thumb of a label like that, there are certain stipulations. One of the first things they told us was that they wanted to make our sound more modern and pop. We kinda

had an alternative, experimental sound back then. They said synth was going to be the new thing so they wanted Robin to learn how to play the synthesizer which meant that on certain songs, Jonathan would have to take over for bass. Also, they wanted Steve to be more of a frontman and less of a guitar player. Steve could always work a crowd, and they wanted to use that, especially with this new sound they had envisioned for us. All of this meant we needed another guitar player and, believe it or not, the label already knew who that was going to be. Eddie Munson.

***

EDDIE: Okay, here we go.

 I’m Eddie Munson, lead guitar for The Downsides.

 I  grew up trailer trash in some town that no one’s ever heard of. My mom died when I was eight and my dad was in and out of jail pretty much my entire life--well, until those royalty checks started rolling in, but I'm getting ahead of myself.

  People always use the dead mom/jailbird dad thing to either turn me into a sob story or villainize me, so I generally tend to avoid talking about it but since it's you, I'll say this: the thing I remember most about my mother is her absence and there is not a single redeeming thing about ole' Munson Sr. but I don't think they're responsible for any of the ways I've fucked up over the years. Nah, kid, that was all me.

Let’s get to the good stuff, shall we?

At the tender age of ten, I was gifted an old beat-up guitar by my uncle. Clearly, something he had picked up at the local Goodwill to try and keep me occupied and out of trouble. The neighbors hated us after. They hated us, even more, when it turned out that I could actually play.

When I was 18, Uncle Wayne got the idea that I was ready to commit to a life of indentured servitude over at the factory and that did not sit well with me, at all. I wanted to be a musician. But, instead of talking to him about it, you know, like a rational person? I just ran.

I sold my van and got a one-way ticket to LA. The metal scene was starting to pop up on the strip and music—metal—was the only thing I was good at, so I thought, ‘what the hell!’ and booked it. I slummed it for a few months and then, through some stroke of luck, I heard about a band that was auditioning for a new guitar player since their last one got hitched and quit. The Metal Gods smiled down on me the day of the audition because that same afternoon they called me back and told me they wanted me on as lead guitar.

1982

“It Was You”, your duet with The Letterman’s peaked at number 6 on Billboard’s Top 100 in October of 1982.

Suddenly, everyone wanted you to be featured in their songs. Your EP did well enough, but it didn’t even crack the top 30. That didn’t keep you from being the hot new thing on the scene and a

huge part of that was your reputation.

Of course, people knew who you were because of your groupie days, and you unintentionally built a reputation for being romantically involved with different musicians. So, when you broke out on the scene with a romantic duet, people started talking, and the tabloids began to spin stories about you and Jason being romantically linked which only caused a buzz for the song. You, of course, hated this and vehemently denied being involved with Jason to anyone who would listen. Jason, meanwhile, played it coy with the press, only fueling the rumors and your rage.

“Listen, I hate the guy as much as you do, sweetheart, but you got to respect the strategy,” Murray had said after hearing you gripe about one particularly salacious headline.

Before the year was through, you had been featured in five other duets. All with male artists. All resulting in more and more outlandish dating rumors. And all enjoying a lengthy stay on the top of the charts.

Starcourt had begun to push you to take it a step further and Brenner had asked for Murray to arrange outings between you and whatever male artist you were collaborating with. The meetings—you refused to call them dates—were always somewhere that was strategically public, somewhere where there was always at least one paparazzi with their cameras locked and ready. The pictures they would take would always make it to at least one gossip magazine, which resulted in even more publicity for the song.

Your partners—you refused to call them dates—were, at their best, cordial and business-like, one or two of them even asked for your permission before holding your hand. At their worst, though, they were handsy, entitled, and rude. None of them ever tried to ask you out on a real date and you weren't sure what that said about you.

Soon you were racking up duets and notoriety in equal measures. Radio DJs would make jokes about you every time they would play one of your songs—and they played your songs a lot. Once, while you were walking around Rodeo, a woman stopped you in the middle of the street and told you, very brazenly, that you needed to stop sleeping around so much. Before you could even tell her off, though, she proceeded to gush about how much she loved your duet with The Letterman's.

It seemed like everyone seemed to see you in a similar light though: they thought you were some sort of despicable maneater but all they wanted was more of a reason to talk about how you were a despicable maneater.

Murray had his work cut out for him, “We just need to find a way for you to have this same buzz all the time.”

***

EDDIE: Things started to pick up with Corroded Coffin. We were playing shows pretty much every night.  As I said, metal was on the rise and we were at the forefront. Eventually, record label bigwigs had no choice but to acknowledge that.

Some of them got smart and started poaching bands early on, like Starcourt. Corroded Coffin signed with them in ‘82. We thought we were hot shit after that.

There’s a certain lifestyle that goes along with that, though, you know? A reputation that you have to uphold.

I'm not trying to make excuses for myself here, trust me. I'm just...trying to explain myself.

People always love to talk shit. They'll call you all sorts of names before they see you as an actual person. Trust me, I would know. But, these interviews are an opportunity to set the record straight, to finally be seen as an actual person.

So, there I was, a nineteen-year-old kid from Bumfuck nowhere, finally making it big, finally feeling like I belonged somewhere--like for the first time I wasn't a freak whose mom died or some trailer trash high school dropout--of course, I was gonna get swept up in it all. Of course, I was going to start picking up the bad habits and doing drugs. There was no one there to tell me otherwise.

It started out as something to get us through the madness that was our schedule: between the live shows and the studio time, we needed uppers just to keep us on our feet. Then, obviously, you needed the downers so you could fucking relax because the uppers made you so tense. 

I stopped enjoying the drugs pretty early on, but at that point quitting wasn't something that I was willing to put that much effort into. 

1983

The first time someone asked for your autograph, you were at a show at Whiskey a Go Go. Murray, acting as a sort of manager, had set up a photo opp with Charles Riva, your latest duet partner. He hadn’t shown that night but you never walked away from a live show.

Two girls, not much younger than you, appeared behind you as you were ordering at the bar and tapped you on the shoulder.

“See, I told you it was her,” the shorter one, a strawberry blonde with severe bangs whispered excitedly to her friend, a taller brunette.

Before you could ask either of them exactly what they wanted, the strawberry blonde spoke again, “Can we have your autograph?”

You could only nod dumbly as they handed you a cocktail napkin and a pen. You tried to think of something meaningful to write, but in your shock, could only come up with “Best wishes, xoxo”. You didn’t even ask them their names. The best you could do was offer to buy them a drink, which they happily accepted.

You regretted the offer as soon as you registered how young they looked underneath all that makeup, an observation that made you unsettlingly sad. You were reminded of your first days on the Strip: lonely and young and wanting someone to notice you for the right reasons.

Your thoughts became too heavy to deal with at that particular moment and you abruptly excused yourself, leaving the two confused girls behind. A shame, you thought to yourself, in another life you might’ve all been friends, but no one really wants to be your friend these days. They just want to tell people they’re your friends. Walking away saves everyone the disappointment.

You needed a drink.

By the time the main act had taken the stage, your vision had started to haze at the edges as a result of the multiple drinks you had procured for yourself. You watched, half-interested as a band you’d never heard of, Corroded Coffin took the stage, your eyes tracing after each member, eyeing the things only a fellow musician would: the models of equipment they had, the way the band queued each other up.

You didn't know enough about metal yet to know whether you'd consider yourself a fan or not but even with the little familiarity you have, you can tell this band is good. Their playing is unpolished but overflowing with energy and the crowd is feeding into it, screaming the lyrics along with the lead singer.

All of it reminds you of your first show at the Strip—what seemed ages ago—and that memory summons a whole other thought entirely: the reason that you had gotten into music was to actually make music you liked, not to be a topic of discussion in a gossip magazine, getting no say in the music you created.

You don't even remember the last time you had even written a lyric.

You think to yourself that maybe you should wander backstage after the show, like you once did and talk to the band. Maybe you could pick their brains about songwriting. They clearly didn’t care about mass appeal if they were making metal music which means they were probably doing it for the art.

At the very least they probably had a decent stash of pills.

Either way, it would be worth it.

***

EDDIE: It was pretty much love, at first sight, the moment I saw her in the crowd that night at Whiskey a Go Go. I remember seeing her for the first time halfway through our set and it was like I went blind for a moment. I had completely forgotten what I was doing, I think I even missed a cue. After the show, I made a beeline for the bar where she was standing, trying to act as cool as I could but I was shitting it.

***

Once that band had wrapped up, you made your way to the dressing rooms. You maneuvered to the dressing rooms like you had dozens of times before, but the band wasn’t there.

You milled about for a bit, before growing bored and leaving wondering if maybe they had seen you coming and left.

***

EDDIE: I ordered a drink just as an excuse to get closer and it worked. She was even more beautiful up close and so, so kind. Told me she loved our show and even pointed out specific guitar solos of mine that she liked. She always had a way of making you feel special like that. Chrissy Fucking Cunningham. Even her name was perfect, not a syllable too few or too many.

I asked her for her number that night and we went on a date two days later, I could hardly keep it.

together having to wait two days to see her again. Then, after a few weeks, we were going steady, as the kids say. It was perfect. I never really had anyone to myself, you know? She was the first person that ever made me feel seen and cared about.

I remember one time; she was hanging out at my place while the band was in the studio. When I came back, she had done all my laundry. When I asked her why she had done that, she just said “I dunno, just because” then, all of a sudden there were tears streaming down my face. I couldn’t remember the last time someone had done something like that for me “just because".

My life had never been better--so of course, I fucked it up.

***

While you did not manage to meet Corroded Coffin, you couldn’t stop thinking about them, even days later. It was like seeing them play had awoken you from a daze you didn’t even know you had been in.

You spend a few days getting incredibly drunk by the pool after that. But no matter how much you drank or how many pretty dresses you bought yourself or how many pill you took, you could not shake the feeling.

A few mornings later, you had called Murray, “This stops now, Murray. No more duets or features or whatever else. I want to meet with Brenner. I want to do this my way.”

Murray, not used to being awake so early, gave a weak attempt at talking you down.

“No,” you urged on, “you said once I started making money, I could have a say. Well, now I’m making money and I’m tired of Starcourt just using me for that. So, I want something permanent and I want to write my own music, got it?”

“You have a contract,” Murray parroted back, half-heartedly.

“Yes, I do, and I plan to honor that contract but so help me God I will make life a living hell for you and for Brenner and any other exec that tries to get me to do another duet with Jason fucking Carver. In fact, I will find a way to lose Starcourt money if you don’t get me out of this. Am I clear?”

“Crystal.”

“Great, I’ll see you at lunch Murray.”

He signed, “See you then.”

***

EDDIE: My drug use was getting more out of hand. Chrissy hated it, but I couldn't bring myself to quit. Especially the things that I thought I needed to make it through the day.

Chrissy was a saint throughout the whole thing, until one night when she caught me in the dressing room of Whiskey with a girl who was not her. She walked away and I don’t really blame her. Out of all the regrets of my life—and trust me, kid—that was one of the biggest.

She moved out that day and refused to take my calls, moved in with one of her friends and I spent days just calling her, sending her flowers, the works.

She told me she wouldn’t budge unless I got clean. So, I checked myself into rehab. She was a good enough reason to quit. 45 days later, I checked out, clean as a motherfucking whistle.

Chrissy was gone though, I had no clue where she had disappeared to, but wherever she went, she didn’t want me to find her.

On top of that, my band was fucking pissed. I left the band for 45 days without telling anyone, right as we were finishing recording our debut album. Yeah, they weren’t happy. I was in something called “breach of contract” with the suits over at record label and they wanted to take me to court, and not the Star kind.

I definitely didn’t have lawsuit type of money back then, so it was in my best interest to work something out with Starcourt and jump back on fulfilling my contract. Problem was, Corroded Coffin didn’t want me back anymore, even though the guy they replaced me with wasn’t half as good as I was.

I thought that because my old band didn’t want me, that meant that I would be free of my contract. I was wrong. What actually happened was that my fate was then put into Starcourt’s hands and they could place me in whatever podunk production or band they wanted. They owned my ass.

And that’s how I ended up with The Downsides.

PLAY NEXT TRACK

[lowkeyclueless5137]

Spoilers for book 7 on jp :v

WE HAVE MACHO STRONK EPEL-

It looks so fucking uncanny, good job, twst, I have unlocked a new dream paralisys demon 0-0b

Also Indiana Jones looking mf-

And his room ain't helping it :v

I GET TO FIGHT AS OB VIL! MY AUS PREDICTED SHIT!!!

Also I get to fight this guy. I've been waiting to fight this guy for an eternity!

RSA has skewers for weapons-

Also sum extra ss I did for the funsies

[legionofpotatoes]

caught up with geoffrey's game awards (abridged)

thank you sean murray for the free starborn ship without making me do expeditions in no mans sky. i do not like doing those at all

split fiction and stage fright are our immediate most anticipateds. we're an overcooked and it takes two family

muppets went from annoying to surprisingly relatable in their progressive roasts. maybe they thought if they vocalized those very true and real gripes, people would feel the opposite? I know I didn't

absolutely rotten vibes from brandy pitchfork or whatever his name is. rancid, putrid vibes

speaking of videogame men I dislike. it's really annoying how good troy baker sounds in that indiana jones game. I dont like that man but he is frustratingly gifted

is the new team ico game gonna make me bond with and cry over a big robot head? that's so sick

warframe lady was best dressed of the night. I am such a sucker for tartan textures

an old prediction of mine came true - the flashy USPs of apple's $3500 headset were effortlessly repackaged into a software feature on a $300 oculus rift or whatever it was. womp womp

i really like tati gabrielle so i hope that new space game is good. with an unfortunate amount of brand placements for one teaser. and i do hope druckmann isn't writing it! he is isn't he!

swen baldursgate is the opposite of randy geared box in every way it seems like. great speech! also pedro eustache you will always be famous king

overall, video games are still a nightmare factory of burnout, sunk costs, and gambling, and are predictably barreling towards catastrophic entropy; but at least the nepo baby commercial slop awards show is marginally improving its year-on-year competency. and I genuinely do mean that! it's like always just a bit better. nothing too memable this time either. I'm sure chris judge was tied and gagged somewhere in the back rows

[will80sbyers]

I'm pretty sure the Hopper-Mike scene is real because how could Vecna even predict new Indiana Jones movie coming out in 1989? Lol

Easy, he can see the future like they hinted at with the Vision that he made Nancy see of the town opening up lol plus it's not important, they could be making it realistic to trick us and flip it anyway last minute and then they go back to the same setting after so basically the time jump is real but we see it two times with different scenes/dialogue

[terrence-silver]

RE: miyagi, considering the show's iffy at the LEAST take on japanese and where tamlyn tomita had to field her own advice about okinawa in season 3 which they only took enough to satisfy her, but not all apparently? i'd be fearing if they tried to make miyagi out to be a japanese war criminal and treating him as if he was a mainlander in the imperial army.

Honestly, considering the recent trend in Hollywood of turning all classically beloved and aspirational male movie heroes and legacy characters as a whole into sad, depressive, morally questionable versions of their former selves lack any zest, especially as they age, because all old people are inherently miserable, don't you know (Indiana Jones, Leia, Luke Skywalker, Han Solo, etc.) the idea of giving Mr. Miyagi some sort of ethically grey, sordid, ugly past he hid all of his life is fairly likely. In the vein of war crimes, yes, why not. Harming someone otherwise innocent because it was crucial for survival at the time? His family doing something he wasn't proud of? I cannot predict with certainty what it'll be, but I know it'll be weird and off.

[abusivelittlebunny]

this picture of Boyd Holbrook 😌 just in case you haven’t seen it 😘

I had a million witty horny captions for this but I feel like the picture speaks for itse- SIKE

Donald two seconds after meeting his team of mercenaries like

Steve "interrogating" cartel thugs like

Morpheus: the Corinthian is my masterpiece, a true dark mirror of humanity- *cut to said masterpiece on the daily by the docks letting entire armies run a train on him*

Interviewer: so how did you prepare to play such an iconic queer character? *cut to Boyd creating a mile long line outside the gas station men's room*

Queenie McKenna trying to fight the Predator like

Go to Texas if you want your weenie taken care of. Kentucky sloppy hits different.

Boyd's first audition tape.

Pedro Pascal: hi pleasure working alongside y- -> Boyd: *insert image above*

Steve: I know we have history but that does not deter the roles we are in now, you understand? -> Rodrigo: sure :) do your job, baby :) -> Steve: *insert image above*

Logan: h- -> Donald: *insert image above*

When Boyd is asked to break down his characters he just shows this image. It's also his Gribdr profile pic.

My predictions of Boyd's next character in Indiana Jones just like with the ones before