#Occasionally there would be a guest star episode

[beebobeebo]

Dickie and Dewie are horrible human beings, but I also would've watched 12 seasons of them just trying to make it through prison.

[incorrectbatfam]

Which TV shows or sitcoms do the Batfam guest star in?

(I'm a 2010s girlie if you can't tell)

Selina has a one-episode subplot as a prisoner in Orange Is The New Black where she acts like she's going to try and make a daring escape just to mess with everyone else

Luke appears in the background of a large gathering or party in Black-ish but the characters are too busy with the storyline to notice until the end when they realize it's legendary MMA fighter Luke Fox, except he's just there for the food

Bette would be one of the extras in The Good Place whose entire role is to give people the wrong frozen yogurt toppings while acting like the absolute nicest person who got into the "Good Place" for saving an endangered goat species

Alfred is a customer just doing his shopping amidst the Superstore chaos. He just occasionally appears throughout the episode and when they're like "You're still here?" he unfurls a comically long shopping list

Barbara appears in New Girl as an HR worker at Schmidt's place of work, where she slows him down with pointless bureaucratic procedures when he's trying to get something done quickly

Bruce would appear as a prospective business client in The Office and offers to buy Dunder Mifflin until he gets a tour of the place as it's literally going up in flames

Harper would be sitting in the back of the classroom in Community interjecting with her side commentary until the characters realize she doesn't even go there

Damian would be a student in Abbott Elementary who starts doing the teacher's jobs, and when the school tries to call home, he poses as his own guardian with a costume and voice training

Cass is a part-time cashier who gets hired on the spot at Kim's Convenience but quits after one day not because of the characters or storyline, but because she was just bored

Dick appears in Brooklyn Nine-Nine as a New Jersey police officer working an interstate case, and him and Jake competing for the spotlight and recognition can be summed up by "oh my God, there's two of them"

Jason also appears in the same Brooklyn Nine-Nine episode as the main suspect, and the whole joke is that he keeps insisting he and Dick know each other (being irl brothers) while Dick is like "I've never seen this man in my life"

Carrie guest stars in Parks and Rec as a very passionate (and very annoying) lone teenage activist with a picket sign who won't leave the characters alone until they hear out her (very valid) concerns

Cullen appears in Psych as another "psychic" racing against Shawn to solve a case, but really he just knows how to get the evidence he needs from social media faster than surveying the actual crime scene

Helena plays a substitute teacher in Derry Girls who keeps insisting that the characters do a dumb assignment that actually makes sense in the end

Tim briefly makes a cameo in Cobra Kai at one of the karate tournaments, where he plays a competitor from a dojo that's not part of the main cast

Kate appears in Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt for a minute as the characters trying to get someplace urgently, and she has a car or something they want to borrow but she's just like "uh, no, I don't know you"

Duke plays a tutor in Modern Family where the episode centers on school, and the session consists of him just trying to do his job while everyone else keeps interrupting

Steph cameos in Scrubs as a know-it-all med student who keeps trying to point out that a character is making a (harmless) mistake, only to get shut down until it happens and she's just like "that's what I was trying to tell you"

[nameless-jamie]

TARTT'S CORNER - Jamie Tartt x Y/N

Masterlist - Next Chapter

Chapter 2: The Star Player

It was Keeley who had orchestrated the meeting, her signature enthusiasm ensuring everything went off without a hitch. Y/N had received the text late the night before:

“Nelson Road, 2 PM. Jamie’s agreed! Don’t make him regret it. ;) xx”

Now, standing just outside the stadium she’d admired for years as a fan, Y/N couldn’t help but feel a pang of awe. Nelson Road wasn’t just a football pitch—it was hallowed ground. The stands she’d once cheered from as a die-hard supporter loomed in the distance, their steel frames gleaming under the afternoon sun. The faint smell of freshly cut grass and faint echoes of distant chatter filled the air, making her heart swell. But today wasn’t about her as a fan. Today, she was here on business.

She adjusted the strap of her bag and straightened her jacket, steeling herself for what she hoped would be a productive—and not overly intimidating—afternoon.

The reception area buzzed with activity as she stepped inside, and almost immediately, she felt eyes on her. A staff member walking past did a double take, then stopped mid-stride.

“Wait… are you Y/N Y/L/N? From Striker’s Corner?”

Y/N blinked, caught off guard. “Uh, yeah, that’s me.”

The woman let out an excited squeal. “Oh my God, I love your podcast! That interview with Jude Bellingham? Amazing! My husband still talks about how he flirted with you the whole time.”

Y/N laughed awkwardly, her cheeks warming. “Yeah, uh, Jude’s got… a lot of charm.”

This wasn’t the first time someone had brought that up. Jude’s cheeky flirting during their interview had gone viral on social media, spawning countless memes and teasing comments from fans. Ao Jamie won't be the first cocky striker she's interviewing...

“Could I get an autograph? Maybe a selfie?” the woman asked eagerly.

Before Y/N could respond, a small crowd of staff had begun to gather, whispering and pointing in her direction. Some approached shyly, others more boldly, but all had one thing in common—they adored her podcast.

As Y/N posed for selfies and signed a few stray notebooks, she couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity of the moment. She’d come here to meet a Premier League star, and yet she was the one being treated like a celebrity.

“I’m never gonna live this Jude thing down, am I?” she muttered to herself as another staff member gushed about that infamous episode.

Amid the chaos, a familiar voice cut through. “Ah, there you are!”

Y/N turned to see Sam Obisanya, his ever-cheerful demeanor lighting up the room. He was already grinning as he approached, offering her a warm handshake.

“Sam!” Y/N exclaimed, genuinely happy to see him. “It’s so good to see you again!”

“And you, Y/N,” he replied. “Though I must say, I wasn’t expecting to find you signing autographs in the reception area.”

Y/N rolled her eyes playfully. “Don’t even start. It’s your fault—if you weren’t so charming and funny on the podcast, maybe the Richmond people wouldn’t think I’m so interesting.”

Sam laughed, then motioned for her to follow him. “Come on, let me take you to Jamie. He’s… well, he’s Jamie, but I think you’ll manage him.”

As they walked through the halls of Nelson Road, Y/N took in every detail. The framed photos lining the walls, the faint hum of voices from the locker rooms, and the occasional glimpse of players and staff going about their day. It was surreal to be here, not as a spectator, but as someone with a purpose.

When they reached the pitch, Y/N spotted Jamie immediately. He was juggling a ball near the center circle, his movements smooth and effortless. He radiated confidence, his usual swagger evident even in something as simple as a warm-up.

Sam led her closer, then called out, “Jamie! Your guest is here.”

Jamie stopped juggling and turned to face them, squinting slightly against the sun. His expression was unreadable at first as he walked over, the ball tucked casually under his arm.

Jamie Tartt didn’t really listen to podcasts. To him, they were just people talking about stuff he could barely be arsed to care about. So when Keeley had mentioned some “brilliant podcaster” she knew, wanted to interview him, he’d just shrugged it off. He’d assumed it’d be some boring football nerd—probably middle-aged, glasses, maybe a bit awkward. Definitely not this.

As he approached, he tried not to let the surprise show on his face. Bloody hell, she’s fit. Like, properly fit. Way too put-together for someone who talked about football for a living.

He ran a quick hand through his hair, keeping his face neutral. He didn’t want to look like he was trying too hard. But, God, why had no one warned him? Sam had said something about her being “cool” and “easy to talk to,” but Jamie hadn’t expected a fucking supermodel to interview him about football.

Sam clapped Jamie on the shoulder. “Be nice, Jamie. Y/N’s good people.”

Jamie rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t worry, I’ll play nice.”

Sam shot Y/N an encouraging look before excusing himself, leaving her alone with Jamie.

“Right,” Jamie said, turning back to her. “So, you’re the podcast lady.” His voice carried a hint of mockery, and his eyes flicked over her, appraising.

Y/N held her ground, offering a polite smile. “And you’re the star player who doesn’t like interviews.”

Jamie smirked, clearly amused. “Ah, you get me. I'm flattered.”

As they continued to interact—Jamie occasionally tossing cheeky comments her way—Y/N could sense the guardedness behind his bravado. But every so often, his gaze lingered just a little too long, his curiosity evident.

When Y/N mentioned moving the briefing to a more private area for a little privacy, she motioned to a door with a little window that looked unoccupied. Jamie couldn’t help but laugh. “The boot room? Classy,” he quipped, though the corners of his mouth twitched in amusement.

“I mean, unless you want to talk out here with everyone listening…” Y/N shot back.

“Boot room it is,” Jamie said, smirking and grabbing her wrist to pull her inside.

The boot room was exactly as Y/N had expected—cramped, cluttered, and filled with the unmistakable smell of sweat and leather. Jamie plopped down on a bench, leaning back against the wall with his arms crossed, while Y/N gingerly perched on the edge of a nearby stool, trying not to touch anything sticky.

“This is cozy,” she said dryly, earning a chuckle from Jamie.

“Yeah, real five-star treatment, for Richmond's star striker and a global podcaster,” he replied.

For a moment, they just looked at each other, the air between them charged with unspoken tension. Jamie’s posture was relaxed, but his eyes were sharp, watching her closely as if trying to figure her out.

Y/N cleared her throat, breaking the silence. “So, Jamie, before we get into the details of the podcast, I just want to say I appreciate you agreeing to this. I know it’s not exactly your thing.”

Jamie shrugged. “Keeley’s persuasive. And Sam wouldn’t shut up about how great you are, so I figured I’d see for myself.”

Y/N smiled faintly. “Well, I hope I don’t disappoint.”

“You won’t,” Jamie said, almost too quickly. Realizing how sincere he’d sounded, he quickly added, “I mean, the verdict stills stands out, you know.”

Y/N suppressed a laugh. It was clear Jamie was putting up a front, but she could sense there was more to him beneath the exterior.

As they began discussing logistics for the episode—topics, format, and timing—Jamie’s initial cockiness started to fade. He still threw in the occasional cheeky comment, but Y/N could tell he was warming up to the idea. And when she mentioned her passion for football, his interest visibly piqued. They talked about who she already interviewed and her views on the Premier League at the moment.

"So, if City keeps playing like their defense is a brick wall, which it clearly isn't at the moment, Chelsea might have a shot at being number 1 this season." Y/N concluded her rant.

“You really study hard on that stuff, don’t you?” he said, almost grudgingly.

“I like to think so,” Y/N replied with a small smile.

Jamie nodded, his expression thoughtful. “Alright, podcast lady. Let’s see if you can handle me, live on air.”

Y/N grinned. “Oh, I can handle you, Jamie Tartt. The question is — can you handle me?”

For the first time, Jamie looked genuinely intrigued, a flicker of curiosity dancing in his eyes.

And just like that, the game was on.

As Jamie held the door open for her to step out of the boot room, he glanced at her one more time, something almost thoughtful flickering in his expression. Should he really bring back the prince-of-pricks to destroy such an important interview for your career, after you told him you built this podcast against all odds.

“See you at your studio then, yeah?” he said casually, though the edge of curiosity in his tone betrayed him.

Y/N nodded, a small smile playing on her lips. “See you there. Don’t be late.”

As she walked away, Jamie couldn’t help but watch her go, wondering—not for the first time that afternoon—what he’d just gotten himself into.

[remusicals]

It was about this time last year where I got a last second email from Matthew Patrick informing me he’d had an Ollie-related change of plans and needed to reschedule filming. He was super apologetic, but he hardly needed to be. Even (especially?) on set, things happen. Family comes first.

But it was indeed a wrinkle. We’d set up around a filming schedule for Nathan Sharp (who also famously Wants To Battle), and his own shooting calendar was now running headlong into MatPat’s proposed shoot dates. How could we accommodate the meticulous schedules of two important guest stars while still capturing every shot we needed?

It turns out, with great flexibility from them, and quite a lot of fun!

Matt headed straight to set with us only hours after wrapping up his Thankmas appearance, and was there to great Nate at our door partway through the day. Given the holiday season and travel involved, it was like a nostalgic little reunion. Honestly, we should have taken more behind the scenes photos and video throughout the day, but it probably would have strained the otherwise organic, wholesome opportunity of spending a day together. Besides, there were a lot of shots to get through.

Now, a year later, that footage has mostly been edited and released across four new episodes of ‘FNAF: THE MUSICAL,’ and it honestly feels forever ago that these two were in our (other) house, running lines and testing blocking. I wonder how they’re doing right now? I guess the fact that I haven’t checked up on them says what kind of friend I am! 😂

I don’t know when — or if — I’ll ever get MatPat and NWTB back on set together again, but I hope it happens. For as stressful as coordinating them turned out, it was still a little magical having them back. 🥹 I think we could all use that extra magic and nostalgia sometimes, and it’s wonderful to make things that — occasionally — help provide it. ❤️

[100gayicons]

During WWI, Van Johnson became a Hollywood star playing a freckle-faced soldiers, sailors, or bomber pilots who were the boy-next-door".

While making “A Guy Named Joe” (1943) Johnson was in serious car accident. His injuries required a metal plate inserted in his forehead and plastic surgery to try and hide the scars.

At the height of his career, Johnson was the second highest-paid actor (behind Bing Crosby) and MGM’s most valuable asset. He received 50,000 fan letters a month. But 1947, MGM Studio head Louie B Mayer became concerned about rumors that Johnson was a homosexual.

When asked about his love life or why he wasn’t married, Johnson joked that he was married to MGM

But Playwright Arthur Laurents wrote years in his own autobiography that Johnson been caught “performing” in public restrooms.

Mayer insisted that Johnson get married. The problem was that the only woman he would consider was Eve Abbott, who was already married to his best friend Keenan Wynn. Mayer blackmailed Abbott, threatening Keenan Wynn’s contract would not be renewed unless she divorced him and married Johnson.

So on January 25, 1947, Wynn & Abbott drove to Mexico and got a quickie divorce, then drove to Hollywood where Abbott and Johnson were married. Believe it or not, Keenan Wynn stayed friends with both of them.

(This is based on an interview with Abbott shortly before her death in 2004.)

Keenan’s father actor Ed Wynn once described the situation:

"I can't keep them straight. Evie loved Keenan. Keenan loves Evie. Van loves Evie. Evie loves Van. Van loves Keenan. Keenan loves Van."

By the 1960s, Johnson transition to mostly making guest appearances on Tv shows (including 2 episodes of Batman in 1966, playing the villain the Minstrel).

Johnson also pursued the theater, appearing in a number of stage musical, including “The Music Man” in London in 1961. This led to Johnson’s divorce to Abbott.

According to Abbott, in 1961, she discovered her husband was having an affair with the lead dancer in the London production of “The Music Man”.

Abbott son Ned Wynn wrote that his mother told him that Johnson had left her "for a man - a boy, really. He's the lead boy dancer."

The marriage was over but they didn’t finalize their divorce until 1968. Johnson himself said it was acrimonious, “the ugliest divorce in Hollywood history".

Johnson continued to perform in regional theater and occasional on television. He died of natural causes in 2008. (No word on what happened to that dancer from The Music Man.)

[porcupine-girl]

I think the thing that I was most not expecting when I started watching TOS is that Shatner is a legitimately good actor. Like he acts circles around half the cast. Nimoy is a decent match for him (I do think Shatner is better though), but the only people who outdo him are the occasional guest stars who are clearly trained on Shakespeare (including the guy who was literally doing Lear).

Which is good, because I’m not sure I would find Kirk all that sympathetic without him softening the edges a bit. Because the other thing I was not expecting was how shoot-first-ask-questions-never fighty Kirk is. Like, dude. We’re not through the first season and already there have been multiple episodes where if he’d actually sat down and talked to someone half the episode would’ve been avoided. So many times I’ve been like “Picard would have negotiated their way out of this in ten minutes.”

I have very limited patience for that kind of character, so it’s really only Shatner’s performance that makes Kirk likable for me.

[wanderingmind867]

Season Two of my Batman show would feature Batman, Robin (Dick Grayson) and Batgirl. All the same supporting cast members return from Season One, although I might make Dick's Aunt Harriet an occasional guest star who pops up in two or three episodes. With Season Three switching gears to Batman and Jason Todd, Aunt Harriet can't be made too important. But she would still show up in Season Two, as my personal tribute to Madge Blake.

Season Two would also have a lot of the same villans from Season One. The Penguin, The Joker, Catwoman, Two-Face, etc. Hush wouldn't show up much, though. He might return for later seasons, but I don't think I can tell many more stories with him at the present time. And The Bookworm (a character I would use two or three times in Season One) is nowhere to be seen in Season Two. That's meant to help build up to that spin-off show about Bookworm, Ragdoll and The Music Meister that I want to make.

So yeah. A lot of old villains return, but some are absent. We'd also introduce some new villains for Season Two, though. Harley Quinn, The Riddler, Mister Freeze, Poison Ivy, etc. And I might drop hints at the Court of Owls. They'd be seen in Season One, too. The Court aren't a supernatural secret society on my show, though. No, the Court of Owls is just Gotham's KKK. A bunch of influential rich men who try to run foreigners out of town. Led by people like Hamilton Hill, Carmine Falcone, even Thomas Wayne, the Court is a group with many enemies.

Hush and the Children of Arkham were their enemy in Season One. The Original Riddler (the one from the telltale games) is their enemy on this show. As is the original Joker. But all of that is covered in a TV movie bridging the gap between Season Two and Season Three. Because to get to Jason Todd, Season Three has to do a time skip. So the Court of Owls movie takes place around a year after Season Two ended. The movie introduces Jason Bard to our universe. It also features the death of the Court of Owls (as The original Joker kills everyone but their Grandmaster). It's a bit of a darker movie, but it's still got some really light spots.

Anyways, the movie ends with the Court of Owls dismantled, meaning almost all of Gotham's criminal underworld has been destroyed. So the next few years were fairly peaceful in Gotham, as silver age style crimes were all that ever happened. The Joker, Penguin, Harley Quinn, Catwoman, Riddler and Two-Face were all still commiting crimes, but the insidious world of organized crime has been completely drummed out of Gotham. Or at least it was. Until after four or five long years, Killer Croc comes to Gotham…

And so now we're almost all caught up. Season Three of my Batman show begins with the long miniseries about Killer Croc and Jason Todd. And this miniseries takes place four or five years after the Court of Owls movie. By this point in time, Robin (Dick Grayson) is a first or second year college student. Batman is now working solo most of the time, and crime is getting dangerous in Gotham again. So now we pick up in the world of the 70s and 80s pre crisis comic books, with Batman and Jason Todd working together.

And new foes are introduced, too. Foes like Anarky, Killer Croc, Ra's al Ghul, Black Mask, and others in that sort of vein. This is also when the spin off show about The Bookworm, Ragdoll and Music Meister begins. Season Three is a momentous event for the show, and it's the point upon which this show finally hits the part of the timeline that it would stay at for the rest of the show's history. If people really want more stories of Batman, Robin (Dick Grayson) and Batgirl in the silver age era, though, i suppose i could make a second spin-off all about that, too. But that's only if people really clamour for that one.

[tgmsunmontue]

Season to Taste - 10/? WIP

Explicit Hangster - Celebrity Chef Bradley and Naval Aviator Jake Seresin who have a relationship spanning the globe before they realize how tightly bound they are to one another. Heading into this little world.

PROLOGUE/ONE TWO THREE FOUR FIVE SIX SEVEN EIGHT NINE

CHAPTER TEN – AN INTERLUDE

                Pete freezes, recognizing the voice even after all these years.

                No.

                It can’t be.

                It’s coming from inside the house.

                He follows the sound into the living room, finds Ice has left the TV on, one of those cooking shows he insists on watching these days. He’s always inviting Pete to join him, but he can’t stand reality TV except… As he watches, Bradley appears and he’s in chef whites, face grim, eyes flashing in annoyance and boy is Pete familiar with that look. An angry and in charge Bradley, but this time he’s barking out orders and other people in chef whites are jumping to follow his direction, snapping out sharp 'yes chef's and then Bradley’s stepping up to his own workspace, hands and knife moving so rapidly it’s a blur.

                Then the scene changes to someone else, and he doesn’t care about them. Wants to see Bradley again. Needs to find the remote control so he can find the name of the show. Wait. Google. If Bradley is on TV then there will be information about him there as well and he can find out all the information. While he knows Ice is in touch with Bradley he also knows that Bradley has asked for him not to pass things on to Pete. He remembers begging, asking for just the confirmation that Bradley was okay. That had made Ice give in, confirm that he had found him and he was safe and well and that there were people willing to look out for him.

                It’s a subject they don’t touch. A subject they disagree on, Pete holding his word to Carole, and to Goose over everything and he remembers Ice snapping Carole is dead Mav, Bradley is alive and you’ve just broken your relationship with him. Part of him knows Ice is right, but also he can’t undo his actions, and he would rather Bradley hate him than the memory of his mother. He knows that Bradley sends Ice an email every couple of weeks, sometimes the occasional phone call, that they have a relationship of some sort, even if it isn’t a close one. He doesn’t know if Bradley ever asks about him, and he’s not about to ask Ice.

                Okay.

                Google it is.

                It’s a wealth of information. Bradley has his own restaurant in New York. Tartaruga Blu. It has a Michelin star and is likely going to get another. He’s done four different TV shows, guest starred on countless other and has just finished filming a fifth. Pete guesses he’s going to watch reality TV now, wants to start with the oldest and maybe catch up on what he’s missed of Bradley’s life. The hurt isn’t sharp, but it is a deep ache inside him, and he also knows the blame is solely on his shoulders.

…            …            …

                He’s been dwelling on it, processing and all the while binge watching reality TV featuring his godson. He fast-forwards the bits with contestants, does more googling to find out which episodes Bradley is the guest judge for other shows. Learns there’s a corner of the internet that have pages of photos because apparently Bradley is hot. At least he now knows what parts of the internet to avoid. He’s settling down to dinner, and he looks at the poached fish and vegetables with a more critical eye. Realizes Ice’s cooking is suddenly another way he’s trying to keep Bradley close to him and the pain in his chest twists a little deeper. A little harder.

                “Ice… those cooking shows you watch.”

                “Mmm.”

                “You watch them because of Bradley…”

                Ice’s head snaps up and his lips are tight, eyes cautious, then he simply nods, once.

                “He asked me not to tell you, but I said I couldn’t control what you watched on TV… but you’ve really held out on watching any type of reality TV.”

                “You could have dropped a hint!”

                “The fact that it was me watching wasn’t enough of a hint?”

                “Huh. Okay. Yeah, you have a good point. Wait. Shit. So he’s… famous I guess?”

                “Yeah. I guess he is. He borrowed against the house. Got a couple of investors. He’s got a good team of people working with him.”

                “Baby Goose all grown up…”

                “Hmm. You think about telling him why?” Ice asks, and he doesn’t need to ask what he means. This is the point of contention they always circle back to in their arguments.

                “Do you think he’d listen to me?”

                “I… I think that maybe he would now. He’s made himself his own path.”

                “I’ll think about it.”

ELEVEN

[heich0e]

dinner and a show - miya osamu/f!reader (haikyuu!) part 9 in the bff!osamu series tags: angst, childhood friends to pining, mama miya deserves a netflix comedy special or a nobel peace prize, sometimes home is a person and sometimes that person wants you dead, finally a bit of communication i was about to call in UN peace keepers, things r getting FEISTY FROM HERE FYI this chapter is the literary equivalent of the elevator ride at the beginning of the haunted mansion

Mama Miya has always loved variety shows.

For as long as you’ve been coming over to visit the Miya house, if the family matriarch was present, there was a better chance than not that the television in the living room was on and there was some kind of spectacle unfolding on the screen—the louder the better, in her opinion. 

She’d told you once that she just loves the way people laugh on variety shows, so loudly and freely, and that there’s nothing better than the sound of a house filled with laughter—and you know from lived experience that the Miya household had never been one that was short of joy, nor of it’s own chaos, in much the same way as those outrageous shows she loves so much. 

As you grew up, you came to invariably associate that particular type of television show with the woman who had raised you like a second mother; sometimes when you missed her—when you missed home—you’d put one on just to bask in the cacophonous familiarity. But watching a variety show alone in your Osaka apartment pales in comparison to watching them together in the tidy living room of the Miya home, tucked under the kotatsu, sipping tea and eating fruit and occasionally making jokes about which one of the handsome male celebrities joining that week’s episode as a guest would be a better husband—comparing their heights and their jawlines and their variously successful careers in the entertainment business.

But right now, you’re not looking at the dashing star of that new historical drama who’s trying to climb up a rock wall against a ticking clock.

Instead, you’re looking at Miya Osamu who is standing in the doorway to the living room of his family home, and he looks like he’s just seen a ghost.

Though, in his defence, you probably don’t look much better.

Cradled in your palm, your satsuma rests unmoving—frozen in place just like the rest of you. It’s half-peeled to reveal the soft, pale orange flesh hidden beneath the pith, but you barely feel the weight of it as it rests forgotten in your outstretched palm. The scent—the one that just moments prior you’d been remarking was so fresh, so bright—seems duller now. Everything that isn’t Osamu seems to slip away to grayscale and to background noise; unremarkable against the stark contrast of his painfully familiar face.

Neither of you even blink. 

Miya-san had just gone to the market to pick up a few things for dinner, after repeatedly insisting that you stay for a meal and eventually wearing you down. She’d left you in the living room watching TV, promising to make her trip to the store a quick one, and otherwise ignored your offers to join her.

She was supposed to be coming back soon, at any minute really, but suddenly you’re poised to flee. Everything in your blood is telling you, urging you, to run as quickly as you can—to preserve whatever tattered shreds of your sanity remain after the past six weeks of hell.

The six weeks that had felt more like a year. A war. A lifetime.

The six weeks that had seen you finally seek refuge in Hyogo under the guise of housesitting for your parents, who had gone travelling abroad—as convenient an excuse as any to escape Osaka and the troubles that plagued you there.

Little did you know that the troubles would have the same idea as you.

Your eyes flicker momentarily in the direction of the rear door of the Miya home, the one that leads out into the backyard—the yard that backs onto a little wooded grove where you used to play as children, running carefree and wild. The grove where you used to take naps in the shade on sticky summer days. The grove where you had once broken your arm. It’s foolish, you know, to even think about leaving; your shoes and coat are at the door, with only slippers on your feet and a thin sweater on your frame. Your own childhood home may be only a few houses down and around a corner from the one where you currently find yourself, a five minute walk at most even if your pace is leisurely, but dashing out the back door and making a break for it would be inadvisable—not least of all because there is a woman due home at any moment, one who has loved and raised you like one of her own, who is expecting you to be here when she returns. A woman who wants to share a meal with you and hear about your life. A woman who doesn’t know why you had come crawling back to Hyogo. 

A woman blissfully unaware of how much unresolved tension is currently polluting every inch of her living room.

Your conscience is already heavy to begin with. You’d avoided Mama Miya for the past week—having faked a cold for a few days to buy yourself some time alone when you first got to town. She’d called you every day to check in, and she brought you homemade soup and medicine more than once. The very least that you owe her is a proper visit. You can’t possibly leave now.

Osamu’s lips part, his eyes—his deep, infuriatingly kind eyes—meeting yours.

“Ma doesn’t know I’m in town,” he says, and the first sound of his voice feels like a knife between your ribs. “I can go and come back later after… after you’re gone.”

He knows, you realize. He’s watched and understood every terrible thought that has raced through your mind since the moment he entered the room play out plainly across your face. You’ve always loved that about Osamu—how you hardly need to say anything at all in his company, and he still understands your mind and feelings just by reading the lines of your features.

Now it makes you feel sort of sick.

You mull his words over belatedly, having been too shocked to digest them in the moment at which they were spoken. Slowly you nod, the slightest little dip of your chin signifying your agreement to his offer. Accepting, tenuously but decidedly, his olive branch.

He seems to deflate slightly, a flash of hurt behind his eyes.

But it’s all too late, anyway.

“Samu?” Miya-san’s voice rings out through the house, incredulous but noticeably thrilled, the sound of the front door closing punctuating the eager call like a question mark. You hear rapid footsteps and the woman appears a moment later with a wide smile on her pretty face. “What’re you doin’ here?” 

She sets her shopping bags down on the floor at her feet, wrapping her son up tightly in her arms and rocking him back and forth. You watch as Osamu smiles against the crown of his mother’s head—a gentle, peaceful look on his face as his eyes flutter shut—and you avert your gaze, because witnessing the tender moment is strangely and inexplicably painful.

“Just wanted to come home for a visit,” he murmurs, and it takes everything in you not to dwell too long on the way his figure towers over his mother in your peripheral vision—tall and broad and strong now, just the way she raised him.

“Did you two plan this?” the matriarch asks. She looks between the two of you as she finally pulls away from her son’s embrace, though her palms still gently rest upon his forearms.

“Nah,” Osamu laughs lightly, and to his credit he’s doing a very good job at acting like just being in the same room as you is not one of the most hideously uncomfortable moments of his life. “I had no idea she was gonna be here.”

“You didn’t tell him?” Osamu’s mother questions you, visibly surprised. And she’s right to sound so shocked, because if this was any other day—or at least any day that didn’t follow what had transpired between the two of you six weeks ago—Osamu would have been the first person you’d have told you were coming home. Would have been kept up to date, nearly to the minute, with any stop you made in your hometown or any variety show adventures you embarked upon with his mother. Would have known exactly what the two of you were having for dinner, how it was being prepared, and he would have received a photo of the meal when it was finally time to eat just to make him jealous (and because you know he likes to feel included on the visits where he isn't able to join you.)

“Oh, he knew I came home for the week,” you lie quickly, meeting Osamu’s gaze and suddenly hoping above all else that your thoughts are as clear to him as ever. He looks more startled by the sound of your voice than you expect him to. “Just didn’t know I’d be here today, since I stopped by so last minute.”

Osamu swallows, then nods. “Yeah.”

Mama Miya smiles and clasps her hands together. “Well, this is such a nice surprise! Tsumu’s not hidin’ somewhere waitin’ to scare me, is he?”

“’S just us, Ma,” Osamu laughs lightly, and she reaches up to pinch his cheek affectionately. You don’t miss the way his eyes flicker over to you when his mother turns her back.

You’re still holding your satsuma in your hand, but you no longer have the faintest desire to eat it.

“Needa hand with those?” you hear Osamu ask his mother as she picks her shopping bags up from the ground. You hear some rustling, and can only assume she’s elbowed him based on the way he yelps and then laughs. “Ow! I’m just tryin’ to help!”

“Ya hardly just got here yourself, bag’s still at yer feet and everythin'!” his mother chides him, but it’s full to the brim with love. “Just sit down and relax for five minutes, will ya? Yer lookin’ dead tired.”

His mother waves him over insistently in the direction of the kotatsu where you’re seated before she shuffles off towards the kitchen, the plastic bags in her hands swishing as she goes.

His mother is right: Osamu looks, without softening your words, haggard. He’s got shadowy rings under his bleary eyes, his skin looks dull, and his hair still has a faint ring indented around the circumference of his head from his trademark baseball cap. He looks like he did when he first set up his business—tired, stressed, wearing a little thin at the edges from the portrait of his usual self.

You wonder if you look the same in his eyes.

Mama Miya had remarked similarly on your own appearance when you showed up at her door earlier that afternoon, but you at least had the falsified alibi of having been recently ill to hide behind.

Osamu is watching you from the doorway, still hesitating to move any closer—like a man who stumbled upon a beast in the wild, and is equally parts fascinated and petrified.

You look away.

“Sit down,” you tell him, your voice quiet and slightly cold as you stare at the orange in your hands. “She’s gonna think something’s wrong.”

Something is wrong, you both know that truth all too well, but the last thing you want is for her to know that. This entire situation between the two of you is already bad enough without the shame of other people knowing. Without his mother, of all people, knowing.

Osamu nods, and then approaches the kotatsu slowly. When he lowers himself down to the floor, he takes the seat opposite you at the small square table instead of beside you like he normally would. Something in that contrast stings a little bit, though you’re certain you’d be more upset if he was any closer than he already is—you’re suddenly exceedingly conscious of the possibility of your legs brushing underneath the table, and it makes you shift nervously, drawing your limbs as close and compact to your body as you can.

Osamu is so still on the other side of the table that it’s almost uncanny. Statuesque in a way that might make you laugh if this whole mess wasn’t so harrowing, if the wound wasn’t still so fresh. You’re not even sure he’s breathing.

“Just… be normal,” you whisper, finally setting your forsaken orange down and reaching up to rub at your temples where you feel the beginnings of a tension headache thrumming beneath the skin. You sigh, long and drawn-out. “I don’t want her to worry.”

He nods again.

The television show continues to play on across the screen beside you both, and while your eyes may be on the screen, you doubt either of you are paying much attention to it. You roll your half-peeled orange from one hand to the other idly across the tabletop, occasionally picking away at the skin.

Mama Miya appears with more plates of fruit not long after, having taken time to cut them up for you both even though she’s already busy preparing a meal in kitchen—the sounds of sizzling and her knife against the chopping board having filtered down to the living room while she worked.

“Sure ya don’t need any help in there, Ma?” Osamu asks, peering up at his mother as she cranes down to set a plate of apple slices in front of him.

“I fed you and yer brother just fine for 18 years, didn’t I? I know how to make a meal,” she jokes, returning to her full height and wiping her damp hands on the front of her apron. She glances over at you, smiling knowingly as she rests her hands on her hips. “Besides, ya haven’t seen this little thing all week—I’m surprised you two aren’t hangin’ off each other like ya usually do.”

Your eyes meet her youngest son’s, and you both quickly look away.

You can’t help but wonder if the woman before you suspects something then, even if she doesn’t say anything and in spite of your careful attempt to conceal it. But with two boys like hers, her sense of perception has long been honed to a fine art—she knows when trouble is brewing long before it strikes—and it wouldn’t surprise you in the slightest to learn that she’d known something was off even before that small slip-up. Maybe she’d known from the moment you’d shown up at her door that afternoon. Maybe she knew the second she heard from your mother that you were coming back to Hyogo.

Dinner is awkward. 

Maybe not overtly—there aren’t prolonged silences, or tense stares across the table, or any real moments of palpable discomfort—but it’s a careful balancing act between you and Osamu pretending to be up to date with each other’s lives, and neither of you navigate the steps particularly gracefully. You mention one of Osamu’s employees, asking how they are and what they’ve been up to at the shop since you’ve been home in Hyogo, only for Osamu to “remind you” that they had moved up to Sendai to go to school earlier that month. He mentions a project you were tasked with at work, and you awkwardly stumble when you explain that it had changed hands a few weeks prior. He didn’t know you were “sick”, you didn’t know he’d gotten a glowing review from a notoriously harsh food critic. Neither of you even try to mention Atsumu in fear of getting the wires of your falsified stories crossed. 

You try to keep quiet as much as you can, after that. You sit back in your chair, picking at your food and contenting yourself with watching the Miyas chatter away across the table before you.

Osamu and his mother eat the same. You’ve noticed it before, but now you have time to really dwell on the observation. They hold their chopsticks in the same slightly peculiar way, just a bit too far forward to seem comfortable. They pile food on their plates in the same order. They even occasionally reach to sip from their glasses at the same time.

How familiar it all is makes your chest feel achy like a bruise, because there’s an undercurrent of something being just slightly off. You’ve sat at this same dining room table a hundred times, shared meals just like this one too frequently to count them, but this time something feels different. 

Fortunately there’s plenty to drink to accompany dinner, and the alcohol helps balm the sting.

Mama Miya is pouring you another glass of sake when she asks, “So are you two drivin’ back to Osaka together tomorrow?” 

Osamu freezes with his chopsticks lifted half-way to his mouth, and the two of you share a glance from opposing sides of the table, trying to telepathically draft some kind of cover story. You had already told her that you were planning on heading back to the city tomorrow around noon, but you have no idea what Osamu’s plans are.

“Not sure yet,” Osamu says eventually, wiping at his mouth between bites of food. “We were plannin’ to play it by ear. I thought about stayin’ till tomorrow night since I made plans to visit Kita-san in the morning.”

Mama Miya accepts this lie easily, and the conversation continues on.

You resent how easy it is to slip into routine with Osamu. It’s been six long, terrible weeks since you last laid eyes on him, but soon you find yourselves finishing each other’s sentences, passing condiments across the table before even being asked for them, and filling each other’s glasses when they’re empty without thinking. It all comes back to you like second nature.

Because it is, maybe.

“Ya need a haircut Samu,” the woman at the head of the table says, her words a little slurred and her cheeks blazing bright pink thanks to the sake. Mama Miya loves to drink, but can’t hold her liquor for anything—it’s always reminded you of Atsumu.

“Do I?” her son reaches up and ruffles his hair absentmindedly, leaning back in his chair. “Got it under my cap so much I don’t really notice.”

His mother is right: Osamu’s hair is longer than he usually lets it get, as he tends to keep it short and easy to manage now that he’s working at the shop. It hasn’t been this long since you were in high school, and there’s a little tendril of dark hair that curls right beside his ear that you find you can’t stop staring at.

“Maybe I’ll buzz it all off,” Osamu finally says with a shrug.

You and his mother both make similar sounds of disgust.

“You and yer brother are my flesh and my blood, and I love ya more than anything,”—Mama Miya rests a hand across her chest dramatically, her expression somber—“but I’m telling ya right now yer heads were not shaped to sport buzzcuts.”

You can’t help but laugh into your hand at the impassioned remark.

“What about letting that little thing at ya again with a pair of scissors?” the woman beside you juts a thumb in your direction as she questions her son.

“Not a chance,” Osamu snorts, glancing fleetingly over to you.

You’d once cut gum out of Osamu's hair when you were both nine—a gift courtesy of Atsumu—and to the best of your recollection, you did pretty well for someone who wasn’t even tall enough to ride most of the attractions at amusement parks.

“I did a great job,” you gripe huffily as his slight.

“My hair was lopsided,” Osamu reminds you pointedly.

“Maybe I was going for something avant-garde, something high-fashion.” You roll your eyes as you reach for another piece of meat from the dish at the centre of the table—pinching it in two with your chopsticks and placing the other half onto his plate without thinking. “Guess I'm asking too much for a guy who wears that same baseball cap and cycles between three t-shirts day in-day out to understand my vision.”

Mama Miya cackles at the jibe, tipping her glass back to drain it. “Oh, you two crack me up.”

Osamu smiles a little, picking up the piece of meat you’d just given to him and popping it wordlessly into his mouth.

When dinner is done and the plate are cleared, Osamu washes the dishes and you dry them—assuming the roles you two have long claimed after sharing countless meals together. You work side by side at the sink in quiet, with just the clink of dinnerware, the sloshing of dishwater, and the sound of Mama Miya laughing along to a variety show in the other room to be heard between you.

She’s had enough sake now that you aren’t as worried about her picking up on things, so you can let the facade drop slightly—you can just exist in an uncomfortable quiet without fretting so much. 

You’re not sure which is worse: the pretend ease, or the very real discomfort.

“I’m gonna head out now,” you call to the woman laying on the sofa as you poke your head through the doorway to living room, all the dishes from dinner now dried and put away. Osamu shuffles past you to take a seat beside his mother on the sofa.

She stares at him like he’s grown a second head as he settles down next to her, her lips parting as her eyes remained glued to him.

“Aren’t ya walkin’ her home?” she asks, bewildered.

As kids, neither you nor the twins had been particularly concerned with walks home—or anything remotely close to etiquette. The three of you would stand at the corner half-way between your homes, exchange a few parting words and maybe an insult or two, and then go your separate ways—only to repeat it all again the next day. But that changed in your early teens, rather unexpectedly really, and the twins have never ever let you walk home alone since. 

It wasn’t always both of them accompanying you—sometimes it was just one or the other—but one of the two always made the walk alongside you, no matter how short it was, or how late it had gotten, or if the weather was unpleasant. One of the boys always followed all the way to your door and waited until they knew you made it inside, without fail. At first you found this strange development overbearing, and then humiliating when you found out that their mother had told them it was something they had to do, but over time you found that you were grateful for it. 

You grew up in a very safe neighbourhood. You never felt any real danger making the short walk on your own. But doing it with the twins’ company made made you feel cared for, protected almost—even before you knew about all the terrible things out there in the world that made women need escorts home in the first place.

Osamu is quiet at your side as the two of you shuffle along towards the corner where your streets meet. He stands nearest to the roadway, with his hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket and his eyes on his feet. It’s the very same path the two of you have walked a thousand times in just the same way, no doubt your feet falling into the exact parts of the pavement they’ve already tread before. But the walk home has never felt like this. The two of you have never been so unsettled in each others’ company.

You stop when you reach the corner, your feet cementing themselves into place as solidly as the ground beneath them.

“This is far enough.”

Osamu stops, already half a step closer to your house than you are since he hadn’t anticipated your sudden halt. He looks at you, a furrow making itself known between his brow like your words aren’t quite registering in his brain. He’s never walked you just halfway before, and maybe that’s why he’s hesitating.

You blink hard a few times, then move to step past him and leave, already making plans to take an earlier train back tomorrow just to avoid running into him again. Your little neighbourhood is much smaller than Osaka, and Osamu’s presence is too loud here to ignore.

But you’re glad, at least distantly, that you made it through the evening relatively unscathed. Tender and bruised, certainly. But the wounds you’ve been trying so carefully to mend over the past six weeks seem, largely, to have stayed knitted closed.

You can see your house from the street corner as you step towards it, the windows dark and waiting for you. You’re looking forward to scrubbing the day from your skin and then crawling into bed, hoping you can forget all about—

“I’m sorry.”

Your body goes stiff, and your feet—without any conscious command—stop carrying you forward. You stand with your back to him, your shoulders rigid like raised hackles, but you know Osamu is still there.

Still watching.

Still waiting.

Your teeth bite down hard into the flesh of your cheek.

You muster every shred of resolve that you can, and weave the iron of your will into your throat to make sure your next words ring firm. “Osamu—“

“No, I need to say this,” he interrupts you before you manage to say anything at all, and he sounds desperate. “It’s all I’ve been thinkin’ about fer weeks.”

You’re angry. Furious, suddenly. A white hot rage boiling up in your throat that tastes bitter and revolting and wipes away any lingering trace of sake on your tongue. All Osamu has been doing lately is whatever the hell he wants, and it’s really starting to piss you off.

You just want to go home. You just want to throw the meagre amount of belongings you’d carted to your parent’s house with you into your suitcase, hastily dump too much water into your mother’s houseplants to hopefully get them through the weekend, and then get the hell out of Hyogo.

You don’t want to be here.

You don’t want to hear this.

“I know I’m bein' selfish. I know that all of this is because of how selfish I’ve been. What I did that night wasn’t fair.”

You’re listening to him in spite of yourself. In spite of the fury ringing in your ears. In spite of the pain in your gut that feels like stitches tearing.

“I know what I did was fucked up. That it… That I ruined somethin’. That even if you can forgive me, everythin’ will always be a bit different now because of what I did—and I am genuinely, from the bottom of my heart, sorry for that.”

You find yourself softening. Or maybe wilting slightly—withering under the warmth of his words. 

“But I’m not sorry fer how I feel,” Osamu’s soft words sound remorseful only because he isn’t in the way that matters most to you. “I can’t be. I tried ‘n I can’t.”

You feel yourself shaking your head, intimating the dissent you feel but can’t bring yourself to voice. Your feet are still stuck, keeping you there. Trapped by your body against your own conscious will. You’re so nauseated you think you might be sick.

Osamu sucks in a breath that shakes on the inhale. “I’ve loved you my whole life, y’know that? I don’t even know what it feels like not to, so callin’ it that doesn’t even feel right most days,”—there’s a waver in his voice that cuts through you like a blade—“And maybe it used to be different, or maybe it’s always fuckin’ been like this, but I have been a god damn mess for the past six weeks tryin’ to think of a way that I can do this without you and I came up with nothin’, because there’s not a single part of me or my life that isn’t the way that it is because you’ve always been there.”

You’re choking. You’re choking now. You can’t swallow. You can’t breathe. Your throat is a vice that you can’t pry open, that you can force neither air nor words through when you need to. Your heart is lodged, firm and unmoving and worn raw, in the hollow of your throat.

You finally turn to look at him, but your sight is blurring at the edges.

His face is so pale that part of you—the part that has cared for him for as long as you've cared about anything—worries he might faint. His expression so grave he looks like he’s in the throes of mourning. It’s unfair that grief colours him this way. That even in this moment, under the buzzing streetlight, with the world shifting underfoot, that he should still be so handsome. That he should still look like your Samu.

“I know that this is a shitty situation that I caused. But I couldn’t do it anymore. I needed you to know how I felt—how I feel—because it was eatin’ me alive. And even without Tsumu’s party it would have happened eventually. Maybe it woulda happened better, or maybe it woulda happened worse, but it still woulda happened—because no matter how I went about it or what I’m fucking up by sayin’ it, it’s true.” Osamu squeezes his eyes shut tightly, swallows, and then opens them again to fix you in his stare. “I’m in love with you and I always have been.”

“I lost you both, Samu,” your voice is quiet and brittle when you finally find it in the knot of your throat and let it free. “I know that’s partly my fault, but I just couldn’t look at Tsumu and not see you. It hurt too much. Suddenly the two most important people in my life just weren’t there anymore. That’s not fair.”

Because this is bigger than just the two of you. It always has been.

“I’m sorry,” Osamu says to you, but his words are so faint they risk being lost in the cool evening breeze.

“Please stop apologizing to me,” the only reply you can bring yourself to utter reflects every bit of your exhaustion—your voice is flat and lifeless when you speak the words.

The two of you stand there on the street corner, the half-way point between your childhood homes, and it’s so impossibly quiet.

“I don’t know where we go from here,” you say as you pull your coat a little bit tighter around your frame, and for the first time all night it feels like the only time you’ve been truly honest.

Osamu looks at you, and if you sort through all the emotions in his eyes, you know you see the same feeling reflected back in his stare.

On Sunday evening, Osamu makes his way back to Osaka alone, and the house you grew up in is dark and empty when he passes it. As he drives back to the city, he can’t quite shake the feeling that neither of them—not Hyogo, not Osaka, nothing and nowhere in between—feel quite like home to him the same way that they used to.

[stupidvillainousposts]

Streamer AU Facts Before I Fall Asleep

-Mabel was the one who introduced the idea (she approached Fidds, knowing he was the more likely candidate to agree, and pitched the thought that Fidds and Stan streaming would be a fun idea that would "bring them closer as a couple")

-Stan was hesitant at first, but eventually got into the idea after learning he could earn money if he and Fidds got popular enough.

-Stan and Fidds mainly stream about mundane things like their breakfast, dinner, or plans for the day.

-Every now and then they'll get a comment requesting they do something like kiss or do something extra romantic.

-Fidds likes to record Stan watching TV and adds silly commentary when Stan reacts to certain moments of Duchess Approves.

-This AU is set in a sort of Canon-verse, though Fidds is just starting to get some of his memories back.

-There were two incidents where Fidds had an "episode" on camera, leading their streams to end abruptly.

-Mabel occasionally takes the camera and sneaks up behind the couple when they're cuddling (this is their most popular content)

-Fidds once tried to make a random dish someone DM'd him. He accidentally set the stove on fire.

-Stan doesn't like it when Ford appears on camera, especially after an anonymous user made a particularly inappropriate comment regarding Ford's relationship with Fidds.

-Most of the viewers like to put silly filters on Stan and Fidds to see how the couple reacts.

-Dipper, Mabel, Soos, and Wendy guest star on the streams on specific days (Dipper appears on Mondays, Mabel appears on Wednesdays, Soos appears on Thursdays, and Wendy appears on Saturdays).

[warningsine]

For the early punks, many of them white British blokes, their music was about declaring themselves outside the larger society. The Sex Pistols dreamed of “anarchy for the U.K.” The Clash howled for “a riot of my own.” To be punk was to give offense, to make one’s self unpalatable, to choose to stand apart.

But what is punk when your society has already made you an outsider? This is the musical question that the raucous, cheeky comedy “We Are Lady Parts,” returning Thursday for its second season on Peacock, seeks to answer.

The first season, back in 2021, introduced Lady Parts, a punk band of Muslim women in London: Saira (Sarah Kameela Impey), the caustic lead singer; Ayesha (Juliette Motamed), the fearsome drummer; and Bisma (Faith Omole), the earth-motherly bassist. Together with their manager, Momtaz (Lucie Shorthouse), a savvy Malcolm McLaren in a niqab, they recruit a reluctant lead guitarist, Amina (Anjana Vasan).

Amina is no one’s idea of a rock star, least of all her own. She is an introverted microbiologist who worships Don McLean, with a severe case of stage fright that causes her to heave her guts while performing — and not in a defiant, Iggy Pop way. (Vasan gives Amina an engaging nerd-hero energy, similar to Quinta Brunson in “Abbott Elementary.”)

Over the six-episode season, Amina finds that Lady Parts gives her a way of defining herself rather than being defined, whether by the conservative suitors who tell her “Music is haram” or by her free-spirited mother (Shobu Kapoor), who wishes Amina would wait to seek a husband.

The root conflicts of “We Are Lady Parts” are familiar rock-band woes — having no money, having no gigs, being judged by family and by hipsters. This is where making the series about Muslim women rockers accomplishes more than representational box-ticking: It makes an old story new and nuanced.

For Amina and the rest of the band, rebellion is complicated. It means being Muslim women musicians, with equal stress on both adjectives. (The name Lady Parts itself feels like an answer to the anatomical name of the Pistols.) It means owning their sexuality and spirituality, seizing the right to define what being Muslim means to them and affirming their Muslim identity, as reflected in their sly, effectively catchy songs (co-written by the show’s creator, Nida Manzoor).

“Voldemort Under My Headscarf” embraces the traditional garb as a badass statement as defiant as any ’70s punk’s safety pin. (“I’m sorry if I scare you/ I scare myself too.”) “Bashir With the Good Beard” addresses a certain kind of haughty, elusive boyfriend. (“Are my clothes too tight?/ Do I laugh too much?”)

The series has some resonance with the recently ended “Reservation Dogs,” though its sense of humor is more rowdy and brash. It, too, is a story about young people asserting their individuality while affirming their community rather than rejecting it. The first season’s climax, in fact, involves the band being mischaracterized by an article profile that labels them “Bad Girls of Islam.”

Season 2 finds Lady Parts in the flush of minor success. (The show also shows signs of having hit the big time, attracting guest stars including Malala Yousafzai.)

The band has finished a camper-van tour of England and is planning an album. Their fan base now includes not just Muslim kids, but Muslim kids’ parents, as well as middle-aged white people, whose cringey praise recalls the garden party guests from “Get Out.” Amina has mastered her stage fright and — with occasional wobbles — is embracing her confident “villain era.”

The show’s sophomore outing is as brassy as the first, but adds layers of theme and character. Early on, the band discovers it has competition in a younger Muslim band, Second Wife. (“That’s good,” Ayesha grudgingly acknowledges of the name.) Rather than set up a battle of the bands, “We Are Lady Parts” puts a twist on the “There can only be one” mentality that pits underrepresented artists against each other.

As the band progresses, and Amina grows into her romantic confidence, the season plays with the way a kind of fetishizing adoration can be as toxic as rejection, both artistically and personally. Being stared at because of your head scarf, in post-Brexit Britain, is alienating, but so is being asked to keep your head scarf on to protect your Muslim-punk brand.

Over six episodes, the season fleshes out its supporting characters, wrestling with who they are and what they want to say. Bisma, who is married and has an adolescent daughter, starts to feel typecast as the group’s maternal figure. (“I am Mommy Spice. I am Wholesome, Boring Spice.”) Ayesha is dating a woman but is reluctant to come out to her parents, which makes her worry that she’s letting down her gay fans. Saira, the most old-school-punk of the group, itches to branch out from “funny Muslim songs” and write more pointedly political material, but that risks hurting the band commercially.

It’s hard not to see this last story as a meta-comment, intentional or not, on what the series itself can get away with saying, on a major media platform, with these characters. There is reference, for instance, to Saira wanting to speak out on how Muslims are being persecuted around the world, but less reference to any specific conflict, be it in Gaza or elsewhere.

One striking scene makes this sense of invisible boundaries literal, as Saira struggles to put her politics into song form. She runs through a verse: “It’s like death and the maiden / Dancing with my corporation / I won’t mention the w—” The what? The world? The war? We never hear. Her mouth is pixelated as she tries to finish the line, over and over; she strains and screams but the word won’t come out. Whether “Lady Parts” chooses not to complete her lyric or can’t, the image of asphyxiating silence is potent. (The episode closes with a song by the Palestinian singer Rasha Nahas.)

Of course, getting silenced by the industry is another perennial tale of rock ’n’ roll, among other vocations. As in Season 1’s getting-the-band-together arc, the challenges of making it are superficially familiar from other music stories: What is selling out? How do you distinguish growth from compromise? Can you make it big without abandoning any of your mates?

But the execution and the details are captivatingly specific. What works about “We Are Lady Parts” is what works about great punk. You can still fashion something new out of the same old three chords. You just need a distinctive voice.

[blackynsupremacy]

If the whole Ross family were casted and starred in “Smallville”: A Thread

Disclaimer: These are MY opinions, inner thoughts, and head canons. Also, thank you all so much for the love and reblogs on my previous thread series “If I were to cast more black women in Smallville” ! 😘 This thread will also be a mix of canon and head canon. I had this idea because I like Pete Ross as a character and his friendship with Clark. ☺️ I’ve noticed in some episodes that Pete has mentioned his family such his parents and siblings. Pete and Clark have mentioned Pete’s brothers and Pete mentioned he had a sister. I recognize that the series has casted Bill Ross (Father) and Abigail Ross (Mother), but sadly not any of his siblings! I’ve always wanted to know what they would look like, their jobs, and personalities if they were recurring/guest roles on the series, so I made a fan cast of what could’ve been! The names and some background information for these characters also came from the Smallville Wiki. Pete’s sister’s name is originally Kathy, but I think Kate would be better suited if I hc her as his twin.

taglist: @afrowrites @tinyurlamd

i just thought of ya’ll because you’re both excellent writers and inspire me to get more smallville content out there especially for poc!😘

The Ross Family

1. Pete Ross - Sam Jones III

The youngest brother yet the older twin. He’s Clark Kent’s confident, witty, and loyal childhood best friend. Protective brother, respectful son and skillful athlete. He occasionally works for “The Torch” at Smallville High and helps to piece together the weirdness of Smallville with his friends. Pete’s the first person outside of Clark’s parents to know his secret.

2. Katherine “Kate” Ross - Tatyana Ali

The younger twin and the “baby girl” as Bill refers to her. Do NOT call her “Kathy” Kate will do. She’s also Clark Kent’s close childhood friend along with Chloe Sullivan and Lana Lang being her BFFs. She’s a bit more reserved than her twin, but she is amicable and empathetic towards her peers. An aspiring singer, straight A student, and avid shopper of the latest styles.

3. William “Bill” Ross- Dee Jay Jackson

The head of the Ross family. Once the owner of the Ross Creamed Corn Factory is now a well trusted lawyer in Smallville. (Formerly) married to Abigail and dotes on their 5 children. He can be stubborn, but he is loyal, understanding, and a natural leader.

4. Abigail Ross- Felecia M. Bell

The matriarch of the Ross family and former wife of Bill. She was born in Metropolis before getting her law degree in Kansas, marrying Bill, raising their 5 children, and becoming the county court judge in Smallville. Two things that she doesn’t play about: her family and serving justice for the people.

5. Mark Ross- Jaleel White

Bill and Abigail’s first born. A former football star and valedictorian of Smallville High, but he aims to follow in the footsteps of his parents by running his own law firm in Metropolis after he receives his degree at Harvard Law. He sometimes has to essentially play the “3rd parent” role to his younger siblings, but cares for his family nonetheless.

6. Michael “Mike” Ross- Ron Brown

The second son of the Ross family. Just like Mark and Bill, the best years of his life were playing for the Smallville High Crows. He received a full ride to play for KSU and study Political Science. The goal for the pro didn’t work out, he soon plans to run for office one day in Metropolis and give back to his community in Smallville. Sometimes he feels inadequate compared to his older brother, but is reassured he’s on the right path by his family.

7. Samuel “Sam” Ross - Nate Parker

The third born of the Ross Family. Another former athlete and alumni of Smallville High. He attended KSU to receive a BA in Criminal Justice to become a detective. He wants to resolve criminal issues and protect citizens in cities such as Metropolis, Smallville, and Gotham. He goes with the flow in some areas, but two things he takes seriously are his family and justice.

[mindovermuses]

I just keep thinking back to Asmodeus answering Braius's prayers for answers with a direct, face-to-face response and thinking the Critical Role and Beacon teams really missed an epic opportunity to create Beacon-exclusive content.

Brennan Lee Mulligan IS Asmodeus. Brennan Lee Mulligan also works for Dropout and has access to a green screen if he wasn't able to physically be at the studio when they were recording the episode to reprise HIS role. (I know it's Matt's world and he created everything, but we all know certain guests just stroll right in and rightfully claim a character as their own... Abu I'm looking at you here too, buddy!)

Imagine if you will, a Beacon-exclusive edition of that episode where, when the camera shifted back to Matt as he gave Asmodeus's responses, they edited in Brennan, in full character, wreathed in green screen flames as he reads a script of everything Matt said in the scene.

YouTube and Twitch get the Matt version. Beacon members get the occasional inserted clips of guest stars reprising their roles to read Matt's lines in the way only they can. It would even allow Ashley, Taliesin, & Laura to reprise their godly roles after the fact so the actual gameplay isn't affected in the moment.

Just a thought...

[delta-queerdrant]

Ce que j'ai fait, ce soir-là (Meld, s2 e16)

Let me begin this review with a compliment sandwich - "Meld" is an episode that packs a lot of acting chops. Our guest star is everyone's favorite weird little guy, Brad Dourif, paired with a really compelling performance from Tim Russ, who at last gets to demonstrate his range. Watching these two together is a treat!

I came to “Meld” with a lot of prejudgment, insofar as I belong to the You’re Wrong About school of media criticism and am skeptical of pop culture portrayals of criminality. Violent behavior is a sad and fucked up consequence of people being people, but I find that our attempts to depict violence in fiction usually say more about our hunger for monsters than about real-life monstrous behaviors.

We open in Sandrine’s, where the Voyager crew is making their own fun by betting on the outcomes of on-board particle counts. Thus begins a tedious multi-episode arc for which the viewer experience can be summed up as, “Tom Paris is a dumbass, but a boring one.” Eventually Chekhov's dumbass will go off, but until then, watching Paris get up to illicit shenanigans is so dull. Why can't this man adopt the persona of an interesting bad boy? The whole thing lands real weird in the aftermath of the "dear god, go to therapy" storyline of "Threshold."

The mood is lightened by the news that there’s been a murder on Voyager! There’s no sleuthing required, as only one person, Lon Suder, was at the scene of the crime. It turns out that Chakotay failed to share that one of his crew might be a serial killer (oopsy-doops). I feel like the fact that none of the former Maquis have passed a recent psych eval should have come up before now. Instead, intimations that they might not be thriving surface only occasionally, as in “Learning Curve” or “Meld.”

Suder confesses to his crime, and Tuvok and the EMH discuss his behavior, in a scene that betrays ignorance of even 90s-era psychology. “Psychosis” is considered, but only one possible diagnosis is mentioned: “bipolar disorder.” This feels pretty damn harmful at a time when there was so much stigma against a bipolar diagnosis. Based on Kes’s analysis of his medical history, the Doctor finally diagnoses Suder with, wait for it, “violent impulses.” Later, Tuvok describes him as having “an incredibly violent nature.”

I was frustrated by the choice of Suder for this case study of habitual violence. Are there people out there who are hyperviolent, don't have mental health disorders or known trauma histories, and can successfully mask their behavior for years at a time? Possibly - I am not a psychologist. But I don't think people like Suder are the norm. Why do we fixate on people with serial killer vibes when the abusive husbands-next-door are right there?

Apparently 24th-century medicine has no tools for treating anger management issues, so Tuvok proposes a mind-meld to share his emotional self-regulation techniques with Suder. I guess this is like Vulcan DBT? As a result, Tuvok starts to experience Suder’s violent thoughts. It’s an acting treat for Tim Russ, who delivers a compelling performance in which our even-keeled lieutenant commander absolutely loses it.

Suder, meanwhile, begins to find equilibrium. As a result, he wants to keep melding, and somehow makes it very sexy in a way that no one asked for. “Penetration,” he tells Tuvok, describing a mind meld. “Your will dissolving mine. The joining.” In response, the EMH kink-shames: “Anybody with an ounce of sense wouldn't share his brain with someone else. Would you? I certainly wouldn't.”

What makes Tuvok’s uncontrolled anger interesting is the way that it intersects with the question of criminal punishment. Early in the episode, Tuvok suggests capital punishment as a possible solution for Suder. After all, Voyager (which, again, apparently has no treatment for Suder's emotional problems) can only offer lifelong incarceration as a solution.

Now that Tuvok is full of rage, he's obsessed with the desire to violently punish Suder. The idea that criminal punishment is a manifestation of our animal aggression is certainly an interesting thesis, though I suspect it’s a lot more complicated than that.

“Meld” has some great acting and tries to address Big Human Questions. Maybe we weren't sure how to formulate those questions in 1996, or maybe I'm just not the right viewer for this episode.

3/5 radiogenic particles.

[blogdeepbelieverbouquetworld]

Georgia Tennant

David Tennant teases return of podcast 4 years after last episode The actor is back behind the mic for the long-awaited revival of his "side hustle.

David Tennant has announced the return of his long-dormant podcast, with the teaser for a forthcoming third season dropping on podcast platforms today.

The audio programme, simply titled David Tennant Does a Podcast with..., initially ran for two seasons, starting in January 2019 and dropping its thought-to-be final episode in October 2020.

Each episode would find Tennant in an extended and open conversation with another prominent figure, usually a fellow actor such as former co-stars Billie Piper and Catherine Tate, plus industry legends Ian McKellen and Judi Dench.

That said, the programme occasionally platformed those in other professions, including former Prime Minister Gordon Brown, American politician and activist Stacey Abrams and comedian Samantha Bee.

Now, it seems fans can get excited for another star-studded run, with David Tennant Does a Podcast with... season 3 confirmed to be on the way, although precisely when it will premiere is still to be confirmed.

A note on the programme's Spotify page simply states that it is "coming soon" to podcast platforms. A 12-second teaser titled "Is This Thing Still On?" has been released, in which Tennant can be heard making contact through distortion.

The title pokes fun at the long break between seasons 2 and 3, which come more than four years apart, with Tennant filling the interim period with roles in Around the World in 80 Days, Inside Man, Doctor Who, Ahsoka and Rivals, among other projects.

The actor also recently concluded a stage production of Macbeth with Cush Jumbo, who previously starred opposite Tennant in Channel 4's Deadwater Fell and was a guest on the second season of his podcast.

When the podcast launched back in 2019, Tennant explained to The Guardian: "It happened accidentally, starting with a conversation with my agent about my predilection for podcasts.

"Before I knew what was happening, I was in a production meeting, postulating who might take part. The people I asked were keen, so suddenly I had to do it. It’s been interesting to have this other life. A side-hustle."

Radio Times