#micing interview

[christakisbang]

[veryheartbarbarian]

Imagine being (in love) with someone for over a century and yall both lowkey shaming each other over dietary choices and then when he leaves you for a 77 year relationship with the guy who directed ur death (unknowingly), you don't say anything bc you knew he'd think you're lying and then missing him so much that you start to eat with his diet instead of yours

[thekenobee]

Employer: So where do you see yourself in 5 years?

*Me, a beginner actress, trying to get a job so that I can pay the bills*

[daisysmalia]

I’m so zen about everything coming for BuckTommy btw because of the fact that they filmed at Miceli’s for 806

[sofipitch]

*In Gideon the bone construct has many legs and a scorpion tail, in HTN there heralds are bees, in NTN the heralds appear moth-like. I think this means we'll probably get more big bug monsters

[ottoline-otter]

you know you're too british when the music from the latest hunger games movie just sounds to you like if madeline the doll from bagpuss sang songs about murder

[unproduciblesmackdown]

oh the broadway world review of summer stock (a) loved it as much or more than anyone (b) has as much or more info than anyone and (c) generally has the most vivacity thus far

Summer Stock made its world premiere at The Goodspeed Opera House to a most deserving enthusiastic standing ovation. Based on the 1950 MGM film starring Hollywood legends Judy Garland and Gene Kelly, Summer Stock is a spectacular production with phenomenal dancing, feel-good music, and a sweet story, all modernized for today’s audiences.

Audiences will recognize and love hearing classic songs by Irving Berlin and from The Great American Songbook, including “Happy Days are Here Again”, “Accentuate the Positive”, “I’m Always Chasing Rainbows”, “It’s Only a Paper Moon”, “Me and My Shadow”, “Red Hot Mamma”, “’Til We Meet Again", and “You Wonderful You”. Summer Stock’s writer, Cheri Steinkellner, takes the original film story to a whole new level that both contemporary and classic theater goers will absolutely adore. Steinkellner provides additional lyrics to upgrade the story to first class. It’s hard to believe that she “got the call” to write Summer Stock in October, completed the workshop draft by March, and had the rehearsal draft ready by June for a July opening. Steinkellner clearly works well under pressure - Summer Stock is a diamond.

In the Writer’s Notes, Steinkellner elaborates on the restrictions of bringing the film to stage (like how heavy farm machinery wouldn’t fit up on the Goodspeed stage) and how she tackled answering the many questions that the original film glossed over: “Why is a Shakespearean matinee idol starring in a musical in a barn? What happens when you make show-people wake up at sunrise to muck out the stalls?” and more. She repositioned and repurposed the film’s original songs like “Howdy Neighbor” and “Dig for Your Dinner”, so the classic elements that film fans are looking for are still there - only, frankly, much much better. Lastly, she addresses the challenge of “crafting a [contemporary] story to support a diverse cast of characters with intention, authenticity, and care.” Steinkellner rose to the challenge, knocked it out of the park, and created a great musical in record time.

The story is simple and sweet. Set just after World War II, we meet Jane Falbury (Danielle Wade), a doting daughter working the family farm with her father, Lt. Henry “Pop” Falbury (Stephen Lee Anderson). The Falbury Farm is in trouble thanks to the devious and ambitious Margaret Wingate (Veanne Cox), who has grand aims for a monopoly over the Connecticut River Valley. Scheming with her naive son, Orville (Will Roland), they will stop at nothing to own the farm. Meanwhile, Jane’s showgirl sister, Gloria (Arianna Rosario), has moved to The Big Apple to make it on Broadway. She wins a spot in the chorus line of Joe Ross’ (Corbin Bleu) brand new show. With his sidekick and music director, Phil Filmore (Gilbert L. Bailey II) in tow and a Shakespearean star, Montgomery Leach, ready to take center stage, they hit a snag when they lose their rehearsal space. Gloria suggests uprooting the show to rehearse in her family’s barn. Jane, who is fresh out of farm hands, reluctantly agrees to let the actors stay in exchange for earning their keep. The company’s tight harmonies might not charm Jane at first, but they certainly had us swooning. I won’t spoil the entire plot, but will say that hilarity ensues, hearts flutter, dreams are realized, and it’s wonderful.

When I first heard about Summer Stock, I cynically thought that it felt too familiar. The show is set on a Connecticut farm whose owners have fallen on hard times and risk losing their livelihood. They turn to their Broadway friends, who are amidst the usual uphill battle of making it big in show business, and agree to put on a brand new production in the barn to raise funds to save the farm. It’s based on the film of the same name, features music by Irving Berlin, and includes incredible tap numbers, and spotlights America’s sweetheart Corbin Bleu. Hearing that alone, I’d think this was a copy/paste of Tony Award-nominated Holiday Inn: The New Irving Berlin Musical, which opened at The Goodspeed in 2014 and went to Broadway in 2016. We’ve seen a number of Irving Berlin musicals, including White Christmas, and the most recent Broadway production Nice Work if You Can Get It, starring Kelli O’Hara and Matthew Broderick. So, what more is there to add to this Broadway subgenre? If you’d asked me before, I would argue there’s “Nothing More to Say”. I was very wrong. Summer Stock raises the bar with phenomenal choreography, clever storytelling and humor, beautiful orchestrations, and unparalleled performers.

Speaking of unparalleled performers, the cast is perfection. There’s not a single throwaway line or character. They’re all exquisite gems and I’m running out of words to compliment them all. The “city mice” dancers and ensemble features Erika Amato, Hannah Balagot, DeShawn Bowens, Ronnie S. Bowman Jr., Emily Kelly, Francesca Mancuso, Tommy Martinez, Corinne Munsch, Gregory North, Kaylee Olson, Jack Sippel, and Cayel Tregeagle. Danielle Wade sweetly croons just like Judy Garland and swept audiences off their feet. As I left the theater, I overheard two ladies praising Wade for her stupendous performance, saying it was perfect likeness of Garland, yet even more meaningful. Arianna Rosario, as the sugary sweet sister, is absolutely delightful. Stephen Lee Anderson, as  the veteran and father, tugs our heart strings. Gilbert L. Bailey II and Will Roland had the crowd roaring with laughter as the feisty music director and innocent corporate heir. Veanne Cox, as the melodramatic mother and CEO of Wingate Agricultural Corporate, had the crowd roaring with laughter from the moment she spoke her first line. Not to be outdone, J. Anthony Crane, as the over-the-top Shakespearean star, brought down the house with his entrance alone. Together, Cox and Crane generate instant heat, which is especially appropriate since they rock the stage with Red Hot Mamma. The cheeky, interspersed Shakespearean innuendo is fast-paced, clever, and had the audience hooting and hollering. I would see the show again for this duo.

Last, but far from least, Corbin Bleu, as the show’s director, gives the performance of a lifetime. Bleu radiates pure joy and leads with heart, inviting his scene partners to shine with him. Audiences instantly fell in love with his gorgeous, velvety voice, and, understandably, swooned. Bleu previously won the Chita Rivera Award for Outstanding Male Dancing in a Broadway Show for his portrayal in Irving Berlin’s Holiday Inn, and his transcendent tapping in Summer Stock shows he’s not stopping there. Bleu’s dancing is out of this world! You can’t miss his charming and virtuosic spin on Gene Kelly’s iconic solo dance, featuring the world’s most unexpected dance partner. Corbin Bleu is a national treasure.

The 8-piece orchestra, lead by Goodspeed’s resident music director Adam Souza, performs the remarkable orchestrations, by Doug Besterman, beautifully. The score is demanding, but the musicians don’t let us see them sweat. As much as I’m gushing, I would recommend shifting the show to one hour earlier and give it a little trim. Not a haircutter’s inch, but a discreet tidy-up. As it turns out, I was in slight agreement with the obnoxious subscribers behind me, who disrupted a precious moment to voice their complaints, “This is two hours and forty minutes? Way too long!” I nearly turned to fisticuffs in defense of this phenomenal cast, but chose to deliver an icy, yet effective, glare. I digress, but Goodspeed subscribers are truly spoiled with top-rate performers straight from the Broadway stage. In any case, we could use a couple more developmental scenes to fully flesh out the plot, and I’d be willing to sacrifice by shaving a bit off some of the longer dance numbers (“Everybody Step” and “Dig For Your Dinner”) and songs. (Not too much! Just an inch! And don’t dare recast any characters!)

That isn’t to say that the dance performances weren’t epic: Summer Stock has the best dancing I have ever seen, hands down. The virtuosic ensemble, lovingly called “city mice”, perfectly deliver wildly acrobatic displays all with impossibly high-energy and make it look easy. Director and choreographer, Donna Feore, has made an unforgettable, magnificent Goodspeed debut. Feore makes use of every inch of the stage, making it feel larger than life, and her attention to detail is unsurpassed. The choreography is out of this world! Wilson Chin, scenic designer, set the stage beautifully. The Technicolor New England farm-turned-theater is framed with classic red-sided barn, delicate florals climbing the walls, and hurricane lanterns lovingly displayed as accent pieces. Summer Stock is Goodspeed’s best original production ever. The 12, which opens next, has very big shoes to fill. Summer Stock has its eyes set on Broadway. Does Summer Stock deserve a Broadway run? Absolutely. In this critic’s opinion, it couldn’t get there soon enough.  Perhaps my favorite aspect of the production were the many comedic theater flourishes. Broadway audiences will cry with laughter when they watch the city mice (actors) learn how to play the part of farmhands: “What is the farmer’s motivation?” “E-I, E-I!” Frankly, I want an original cast album yesterday. Finally, when it opens on Broadway, you’ll wish you had seen it at The Goodspeed first.

[eocon-fr]

I always find it really cute that no matter if Esteban's fanbase kept comparing him to mices and rats, he always says in interviews that if he was an animal, he would be a cheetah

[dreaisgrayte]

Off the Record | Muzan Kibutsuji x fem!reader

warnings: NSFW, MDNI, food play (with wine), fingering, squirting (first-time ayyyye), oral sex fem! receiving, raw sex, rough sex, reader gets that good stuff, cum on chest

word count: 2.4k

a/n: guys I may have an addiction to the Demon Slayer cast... will I seek help for it...? Absolutely not.

His eyes gleam with the soft glow of the light over your head. Behind him are massive windows that show the cityscape of modern-day Tokyo, the twinkling neon lights like stars you could touch. You’d always dreamed of coming into this building, but never had you thought you’d be sitting here – across from the biggest name in Japan and quite frankly, the world. 

It made your whole body buzz with child-like excitement. As an interviewer, you had to scrape by on nothing until the right opportunities presented themselves. When your boss specifically asked for you to hold the in-house interview, you knew this was your big break.

“So, Mr.Kibutsuji, the paparazzi have difficulty finding you.” He smirks, leaning back against the large couch he sat on across from you – only a table separating you from the mysterious man. 

He peers off to the side, studying a magnificent piece of artwork on his wall. “It’s because I don’t want them to.” He blinks the crimson of his eyes back on your sweet face. His answer is matter-of-fact and if he went on like this, the interview would surely be a bust. 

You laugh politely, looking down at your approved list of questions. The thumping in your chest tells you that this isn’t a good idea, but you set it firmly down on the table in front of you, grinning up at the worldwide star. “Is that so? Mind if I ask you some questions off the record?” You scoot to the edge of your seat, watching as the ravenette perks up at your question. 

It intrigued him. He asked for an inexperienced rookie to simply ask him the questions on the sheet and not pry into his carefully secluded life. Yet, here you were, the questionnaire already on the table with a perky smile on your lips. Muzan feels the corner of his mouth quirk into a grin. He blows out a breath, gesturing in a circular motion freely with one of his hands still strung across the back of the couch. “You’re going to no matter what, so why not give you what you want?” He hums, distracted by the way your knees part ever so slightly to position yourself more comfortably on his furniture. A jolt of electricity pulses through him, shocking him into meeting your intense gaze. 

Muzan Kibutsuji had spent a millennium disregarding the way women made him feel. Never had one interested him enough to break focus on his goals. Sex was something to break the silence of failure, not anything to spend his time on. But you… you were a carefully crafted complexity of sexual frustration. 

He runs his tongue along the inside of his mouth, suddenly parched for a taste of anything. The ringing of your laughter snaps him out of his daze momentarily. “Yes well, I’m known to be pushy when I want something.” 

Me too, Muzan thought. You open your mouth as if you’re about to start, but then you pause, screwing your lips shut. “Before we start, do you mind if we get something to drink? I’m dry as a mouse over here.” You mess with your fingers nervously wondering if that was the correct thing to ask. 

Muzan lifts a brow. “I was unaware mice got dry.” Nevertheless, he lifts himself off the couch. “But that is acceptable. If you’ll follow me to the kitchen?” He walks around the side of the table, offering you a hand. You gulp, tentatively putting your hand in his. 

He guides you to the kitchen island, pulling out a seat for you. You thank him with a nod of your head, gratefully climbing onto the stool. Setting down the tape recorder on the counter, you glance around the silver and white area. The kitchen is just as dim as the living room, the lack of light only making the slight brush of Muzan’s arm against your back send shivers down your spine. “I’ve always wanted to come into this building,” you blurt before cursing lightly under your breath. “Well, er, I mean to say… thank you. I’m grateful for this experience.” You ramble to cover up the embarrassing fact that you basically just admitted you’re poor. Muzan chuckles lowly, the sound rumbling around your head as he sets two wine glasses on the marble countertop. 

“Château Lafite 1869?” He lifts an expensive-looking bottle in the air. You catch a glimpse of the label, a detailed depiction of some sort of mansion with trees around it. He pours the red liquid into the cups, the noise filling the silence. When he’s done he picks both glasses up by the stem of their neck, setting one down in front of you. The aroma is divine. “My turn for a question.” Muzan leans against the lip of the island, staring into the pool of wine in his glass. He swirls it around, glancing up at you. “Just how thankful are you?” He questions.

You smile, bringing the glass to your lips and letting a bit of the wine fill your mouth. Muzan watches you with swept attention. The flavor is complex but you catch a hint of spiciness hit the back of your throat. You set the wine glass down, trying to think of a response. “You’ve done it all wrong,” Muzan’s brows are furrowed as he stalks toward you. He grabs hold of the glass, dipping his finger into it. Your eyes widen when he drags the pad of his finger along your lips. Subconsciously you part your lips, breathing shakily as you daringly dart your tongue out. 

His eyes light up like an inferno, capturing your chin his nostrils flare. “So thankful I’d do anything.” You sputter out against the hard grasp he has on your chin. He rolls his lips under his teeth, huffing out a laugh. 

His free hand grabs your ass, spinning you around on the stool so you’re straddling him. “Is that so darlin’?” He flings your head to the side, the motion making you fall against the back of the counter. “You figure you don’t have what it takes to succeed so you’ll suck my cock, is that it?” He mummers, dragging the back of his hand down your exposed neck. 

Your body heats as you narrow your eyes. “No, that not-” You shut your mouth when his gaze locks onto yours. 

His hands find their way to your thighs, pressing them apart and savoring how your skirt rids up the plush skin. “Oh come on, you even wore a skirt. You knew what you were doing. Off the record? Please, that’s so they won’t hear you screaming my name back at the office,” He squeezes the skin of your thigh, causing you to hiss out in pain. “But I can fix that.” He smirks, running his fingers over the bruised skin. 

You pant heavily as you watch him devour you with his gaze. “We,” You gasp as he somehow rips your shirt to shreds. You regard the fabric of the once nice shirt that covered your torso now falling to the floor – parts of it still clinging to your body. 

The man in front of you runs a hand through his hair, grinning at the sight before him. “That’s more like it,” He hums, plucking the clasp on your back apart, letting your bra slide down your shoulders. “By all means, if you were about to mention the interview, continue asking me questions.” He pushes further between your thighs, flicking your nipple. You groan, the sensitive bud growing stiff. Muzan scoffs. “Though I doubt you’ll be able to.” 

He gathers liquid on two of his fingers, shoving them into your mouth. You squeak at the rough plunge, but your tongue sucks around the earthy tones of the wine. “Hmm, I think I’d rather like the look of you on my counter. Up you go.” You’re being lifted suddenly onto the island. Your skirt is around your hips, the cold of the counter on your ass making you squirm around. “Spread your legs.” He instructs, inspecting how you shyly part your legs, revealing your naked pussy. He scoffs again, tilting his head with a smug expression. 

You turn your cheek against the counter, flushing with embarrassment. “Don’t laugh,” You whine, pouting as the heat of his hand traverses up your leg. 

Muzan’s fingers graze the area of your inner thigh with lecherous intent. “Don’t be embarrassed, I don’t blame you for wanting to fuck me.” Your eyes flutter shut as he draws circles around your mound, playing with your emotions like they were an appetizer. “Besides, I’m going to fuck you real good,” His fingers slide into your pussy, exploring the new area. You groan, squeezing your eyes shut at the sensation. “Hmph, already so wet. You sure did come hot and slick.” He muses, using his thumb to press into your swollen clit. 

A hand clamps over your mouth as you writhe against his ministrations. “Fuck, sir-” Muzan shoves his fingers deeper, aggressively reaching for your throat. His massive hand wraps around the span of your throat, squeezing your windpipes. 

“Call me that again,” He commands, the fire in his eyes now dark and blown out. You huff out tiny breaths, nodding your head. He removes his hand slowly dragging it down your navel, before gripping the side of your thigh. His fingers curl deeper inside of you and your eyes widen. 

A panted moan falls from your lips as he continues. “Just like that, yes, please sir,” He smirks, pushing down on your clit. A yelp echoes around the kitchen at the sudden pressure. 

Muzan lavishes in the way your throat has a red ring around it, marks from him spotting your body in a gorgeous display of possession. “Such a good girl for me,” He growls, slipping his fingers into his mouth to taste your arousal. You watch him with the swell of desire wrapping its claws into your core. “What a wonderful pairing with the Rothschild.” He mutters, grabbing one of the glasses and swigging the liquid into his mouth. 

A devious grin paints his face as he lowers the glass, meeting your gaze. He tips the glass against your stomach, letting the dark red wine trickle tributaries down your greedy cunt. “Don’t worry, I’ll clean you up.” Muzan’s mouth is hungrily lapping at your folds, delighted noises streaming from him as he savors the taste. “Intoxicating,” He huffs, swirling his tongue around your clit before sucking hard on the sensitive area. 

Your throat is sore from the way whimpering moans string together shakily. Your stomach is pulsing with a sensation unlike anything you’ve ever experienced. If he didn’t stop, you felt like you might explode. “M-Muzan,” You begin, huffing out his name. He hums against your folds but doesn’t stop. “Ah, ah,” You start to shake against him, the ravenette pumping his fingers inside of you while licking your clit savagely. “F-ck, m’gonna, hngh haaa ahhh,” 

Muzan’s mouth curls deliciously as your back arches off the counter. Then, with a few bucks of your hips, wetness sprays from your pussy. You shiver as the squirting continues, your body twitching with untouched pleasure. Breathing seems impossible as Muzan licks his lips. “What a wonderful show, but unfortunately we’re still not done.” He pulls you down the counter, lining the apex of your thighs against the bulge in his pants. 

Your eyes widen, he can’t be serious. You were barely conscious after whatever just happened. Did he expect you to go all night? What was this man made of? He frees his cock, the tip slapping against your sensitive cunt. You squeeze your eyes shut. How is it that big? It didn’t feel that big when it was pressed against your thigh. Holy shit. Was he going to put that thing in you? “You’re gonna take all of it,” he begins, pushing the head against your slick. You blink open your eyes, pushing yourself up on your elbows to observe his length disappear inside. A strained hiss slips past your lips, Muzan rolling his hips into yours. “Fuck, your pussy should do all our interviews from now on, damn,” He groans, digging the nails of his fingers into your flesh. “You’re gobbling me up,” He meets your gaze, a growing rhythm snapping his cock into you. You throw your head back, moaning his name like it was a prayer. He felt like he’d been doing this a lot longer than any person you’d ever been with. 

Muzan pushes his thick length further, humming in satisfaction as your walls flutter around him. You couldn’t think, all rational thought was flung out of his huge windows the moment he pulled out that bottle of wine. “Ngh, f’so good, mmmngah,” 

He finds it delightful the way your pussy grabs his cock like it wants more. You had a magnificently fucked out face, your eyes rolled back in your head as your mouth hung open. With each compression of your chest, a hoarse whine pushes back out. Frankly, it was music to his ears. So he grabs the recorder you’d set down earlier, pressing the little red button. He grins as the timer starts ticking again. “Such a good slut for me,” He muses, slapping his balls against your ass as he pounds your pretty pussy. “Your cunt is lovin’ this,” He thrusts deeper and deeper until all you can manage is mewling little noises. 

As you grow closer to your second climax, you rest your back on the counter, enjoying the way the cool stone feels against your sweaty back. “Come on darlin’, is that all you got? This why you wanted me off the record? To fuck you silent?” He chuckles, glancing at the recorder next to your trembling thighs. “What a sneaky vixen, is this how you treat all your clients mmm? Offering your pretty pussy with fluttering doe eyes?” He groans, nearing his own wash of pleasure. “Well, on the record, you belong to me now. Got it? You’re my whore whenever I want.” 

His thrusts grow rapid, burrowing his cock inside of you like his life depended on it. With this life of failure, he’d finally found something worth trying to succeed for. Muzan could feel the old vigor seeping into his veins. He pulls out, pumping his cock until a strangled moan escapes his lips, cum landing on your breasts. He’s a panting mess as he takes in what he’s done to you. A puddle of Rothschild and your arousal soaks the wood of the floor. He picks up the tape recorder, bringing it to his lips. “You hear that, Hashira scum? I made your bitch scream my name.” 

[jetblack4realz]

protector - haymitch abernathy

prologue

masterlist

haymitch gets interviewed about the pretty young granddaughter of his favorite mentor.

warnings: sexualizing, allusions to sa and gross people, spoilers to sotr, age gap of like 3 years

word count: .7k

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

haymitch hated july. he hated the reaping, his birthday, the hunger games, the capitol - all of it. and why was it so fucking hot all the time? he couldn't even walk from backstage to the damn interview couch without working up a sweat.

and he walked to that couch a lot.

"so, what is the rascal of district 12 up to these days?" caesar asked.

haymitch smirked and let out a low laugh, crossing one leg over the other as he held up his glass of bourbon. "take a guess, caesar."

the crowd laughed with the tv host as he reached for his own drink and clinked it against haymitch's. they both took a swig, caesar wincing dramatically as haymitch just breathed out contentedly.

"hopefully not brewing anymore though?"

"nah, i've got plenty enough funds to buy my own, thanks," haymitch answered with the same lazy grin he always wore in public.

"oh yes, of course you do," caesar said, waving a hand as he leaned forwards toward the young victor. "now, i'm so very sorry about your tributes again. they looked promising in the parade and behaved very well in their interviews."

yes. promising.

the girl had been practically naked and covered in coal dust - the stylist from 2 years prior's grand idea that became the new routine despite the revolving door of apparent fashion-experts assigned to the district - and the boy had the top half of miner's overall's with tiny black shorts. "it's like he fell in a cavern!" the stylist had told him. "it's innovative."

and then when they entered the roundabout parade their horses were slow and loud, their chariot covered in cheap black streamers, and the two fifteen year olds looked like two tiny mice rolled in coal dust and tossed into a cage of cats.

and the interviews? the girl was so nervous her hands shook and the strap of her hideous khaki and black dress kept falling down her arm. the boy kept trying to make jokes that never landed and insulted his district partner.

they then both scored 6s in the tribute center.

it was no wonder they both died within ten minutes of the initial bloodbath. haymitch told them to run and they did - just straight towards the cornucopia. straight towards the careers.

"they were good kids," haymitch managed to get out, taking another gulp of bourbon. "but they weren't built for the games. someone else was and so she won."

"yes, and what do you think of her? miss flanagan, i mean."

he paused, which only made caesar's smile grow wider. he caught sight of his old mentor backstage, her nodding once at him before disappearing behind the curtains again.

he sat straight and willed his grin back into existence, shrugging as he sipped from his glass again. "seems like a strong girl."

"a beautiful one too," caesar furthered, leaning towards the younger man. haymitch laughed lightly, nodding a bit.

"yes, she is," he agreed.

"have you gotten the chance to meet with her?"

"i have."

"and? anything noteworthy to report? any... connections found between you and the newest victor? we've all been waiting for our golden boy to find love again."

again. he hated how they flaunted lenore dove's death like it made him some tragic greek hero. he tried not to tense.

"she's absolutely gorgeous, of course," he answered, relaxing back in his chair as he shot a glance at the overexcited crowd. "no one can deny it. and she's... kind."

"kind?" caesar asked with raised brows. he grinned. "has she been kind to you haymitch?"

"more than any of the other victors, i'll tell you that," haymitch said with a gruff laugh. "alas, we're from different districts... i'll hardly see her except for once a year."

"do you want to see her more than once a year?" caesar teased, smiling at the audience like they were all in on some sort of secret joke.

haymitch paused, thinking back to the girl he'd shared a single conversation with prior to this interview - the one who resembled his mentor just barely and had skin bronzed with the district 4 sun. the one who smiled like the sun itself. the one who'd managed to win the hunger games only killing one other tribute and did it all in a desert void of any water that would normally kill a girl like herself. the girl just on the other side of that curtain, chewing her lip, with a target on her back that was placed there just because she was pretty.

"yeah," he decided. "i do."

[stephreynaart]

i'm so sad you ship billford.... im not gonna lecture you i just. sighs. i love your art so much this is really upsetting. :(((

We gonna have this conversation again?

At this point go take it up with Alex, cause it’s pretty much canon.

BOOK OF BILL SPOILERS BELOW

It’s REALLY hard to ignore all the language surrounding Bill’s relationship with Ford and how he pursues him, he follows the dating advice he gives in the book to a T

- Leaving dead rats/mice for Ford

- Ford is the only “partner” that Bill is openly vulnerable with and gives him some insight to his past and his experience (also referring to him as a partner)

- The “Love Cage” advice he gives, where he said go trap your date and sing them a song. And if you remember, Bill traps Ford in the Fearamid and sings to him “We’ll Meet Again”, which was a song written for WWII soldiers who were away from their lovers

“I’m Your Puppet” by James & Bobby Purify that Ford gets in his head, a love song, that also places Ford in his role in the relationship.

THE FLIRTING “you can call me anything but late to dinner”, “I think I’m starting to like you” and saying the same thing then saying “jinx”. GET A ROOM

Both got jealous when the other thinks they’re with someone else. Ford thinking Bill’s “inspiring another scientist” when he doesn’t see Bill for a few weeks, and Bill calling Fiddleford a “third wheel”.

Then when they break it off, Bill goes on a sad drunken rampage. Which you don’t do for someone who you don’t at least care about, especially not someone who’s just a friend

Bill gives Ford 3 days to turn the portal on and asks himself “What was I, a saint? And why did I do it- some misplaced sentimentality”

Even Mabel basically said Bill has a thing for Ford “you’re like a super needy ex” “go crush on someone else’s uncle”

They were definitely more than friends, from what I see it was mostly one-sided on Bill’s part.

Maybe Ford did feel something, it was definitely a relationship that made him feel good, more in tune with his brain and body, and gave him a big boost of confidence. He went to Bill for comfort when he was stressed and vented to him about stuff. Bill made Ford happy…while it was good anyway.

Was this a healthy relationship? FUCK NO!

Bill was mentally and physically abusive, manipulative, and possessive (LITERALLY). He spiked Ford’s drink after Ford said no to having one and got him fucked up. Bill took Ford’s body on a joyride and did horrible things to Ford that we see in the pictures and thing we DONT see in the video. All to make him comply and get the portal running. Calling Ford his PROPERTY.

But it’s a good story of overcoming an abusive relationship, which is great representation tbh, Ford is happier and has his family to love him now.

Normally Alex is great at leaving things up to interpretation, but I can’t ignore the intentional and not at all subtle way he depicted Bill and Ford’s relationship. There’s even seeds of it in the interview with Hana and TGFF

Go take it up with Hirsch, cause I’m just using what he gave me

[cleolinda]

At a fundraiser in Massachusetts earlier this week, Walz went after Tommy Tuberville, the Republican senator from Alabama, saying, “I feel like one of my roles in this now is to be the anti-Tommy Tuberville, to show that football coaches are not the dumbest people.”

Once again, as an Alabamian I would like to apologize for Tommy Tuberville, the former Auburn coach and current U.S. senator who is dumber than a sack of wet mice—

In an Alabama Daily News interview after the election, Tuberville said that the European theater of World War II was fought "to free Europe of socialism" and erroneously that the three branches of the U.S. federal government were "the House, the Senate, and the executive." He also said that he was looking forward to raising money from his Senate office, a violation of federal law.

—but also a fucking bigot. Please review the lengthy “Tenure” section of his Wikipedia page as to why I hate him, for reasons including but not limited to: voting against the COVID-19 Hate Crimes Act; claiming that Democrats are “pro-crime” and want reparations for descendants of enslaved people “because they think the people that do the crime are owed that,” what the fuck; being an election denier and voting against a January 6th commission; being a climate change denier; being transphobic as fuck (a whole section); famously holding military promotions hostage over the issue of abortion availability for service members (yeah, he’s THAT guy); denying that white nationalists are “inherently racist” (“I call them Americans”); and calling Zelenskyy a dictator and supporting Putin TWO MONTHS AGO. Tim Walz, I bid you read this fuckstick for filth. Thank you for letting me vent. Roll tide.

[hussyknee]

Made in the USA: Wage Theft, Fraud and Hidden Sweatshops

Unrolled twitter thread by derek guy (@dieworkwear)

4 Oct 24 • Read on X

ALT enabled on all images. Video has closed captions but is not transcribed.

Not trying to create a pile-on here. But let's talk about why something might still be made in unethical conditions even though it bears a "made in USA" tag. 🧵

The first thing to understand is that not all workers are covered by US labor laws. You might assume that workers get paid a minimum wage (after all, it says "minimum"). In fact, many garment workers in the US toil under what's known as the piecework system.

Piecework means you get paid not by the amount of time you work but the number of operations you complete. This system should be familiar to many of you. As a writer, I get paid per word. The pay is the same whether it takes me 100 or 10 hours to write a 1,000 word article.

My situation is fine bc I get paid enough to eat. But for a garment worker, the pay structure can be peanuts: three cents to sew a zipper or sleeve, five cents for a collar, and seven cents to prepare the top part of a skirt. These are real numbers for LA-based garment workers.

Piecework is how companies skirt minimum wage laws. Among labor organizers, the term "wage theft" refers to the difference between what a worker should have earned under min wage laws and what they actually earned through the piece rate system.

This system is incredibly common. A 2016 UCLA Labor Center study showed the median piece-rate worker in Los Angeles scrapes together $5.15 per hour—less than half the state’s mandated minimum wage. Labor conditions are also very bad: poor ventilation, dusty air, rats and mice.

A Federal Department of Labor investigation the same year found that 85 percent of Los Angeles garment factories were breaking labor laws. In 2016, these violations amounted to $1.3 million in back wages owed to 865 workers in a sample of 77 factories. This is wage theft.

In 2021, labor organizers won a fight to get piecework banned in California. But two years later, it's still incredibly common. I interviewed an LA-based garment worker who toils 12 hrs a day for $50. She sleeps in the corner of a kitchen. From my article in The Nation:

Currently, there's a new fight get piecework banned nationwide through the FABRC Act. I would link, but Twitter throttles threads that have outbound links, so I would prefer if you Google how you can support this legislation. Or follow @GarmentWorkerLA for more info.

The other reason why a "made in USA" tag may not mean much has to do with how the label is applied.

When you see this label inside your garment, what do you assume? Think about this before moving on to the next tweet.

The Federal Trade Commission has pretty strict rules on who gets to apply that label. For clothes, the item has to be cut and sewn in the US using materials that were made in the US. The FTC tries to match its rules with the common understanding of what "made in US" means.

If you're a giant company like Levi's or LL Bean, you may have lawyers who are advising you on these rules. This is why you see labels like "imported," which means the item was made abroad. Or "made in the US from imported materials" when they can't meet the MiUSA standard.

But it's incredibly common for companies to violate FTC rules. In 2022, the FTC fined the pro-Trump brand Lions Not Sheep $211k for labeling their t-shirts "made in USA" when the shirts were actually imported from China and other countries.

The company was basically importing blanks from China, ripping out the "made in China" label, screen printing the shirt in the US, and then applying a new screen-printed "made in US" label. CEO Sean Whalen claimed he was being persecuted for his pro-Trump views.

But the whole thing started bc Whalen made a video about how his customers are price sensitive, so he imports blanks from China. That's what kicked off the FTC investigation. So while this mislabeling is common, it's hard to get caught unless you make a video about your crimes.

The truth is that making a t-shirt in the USA according to FTC standards will result in a relatively expensive garment. Heddels and Velva Sheen both produce shirts in the US from US grown cotton. The first is $26; second is $90 for a two-pack.

Once you add things such as screenprinting—or if you want a more unique cut and not just basic blanks—the costs go up. This is why Bikers for Trump sourced their merch from Haiti. They knew their customers would not pay an extra $8 for true made-in-USA production.

Today, there are countless companies that make merch for other organizations. They source their t-shirts from a variety of places—some made in the US, most not—and then screenprint a design and fulfill orders. This way, the other org doesn't have to do any work but marketing.

When you see a screenprinted t-shirt for $20, ask yourself: Where was the material grown? Where were the yarns spun? Where was the cutting, sewing, and finishing performed? Where was the screenprinted done? What were the wages and labor conditions along these steps?

I'm not a nationalist, so I don't prioritize American jobs over foreign ones. But I do care about fair wages and labor protections. Just because something was made abroad doesn't mean it was made in a sweatshop. Just because it was made in the US doesn't mean fair wages.

Paying more for a garment is also no guarantee of ethical manufacturing. But when the price of a garment is so low, you leave little on the table for workers. Just because you see a $20 t-shirt that says "made in USA" doesn't mean it was made fairly.

Please don't harass the person who posted that original tweet. My intention is not to cause harm or stress for anyone. Only to help shed light on what goes into garment manufacturing, fair labor, and labeling. Hopefully, you will consider these issues when shopping.

For the inevitable question: "How do I make sure my clothes were made ethically?" This is very difficult to answer in a thread. My simplest answer is that we should elect pro-worker politicians, fight for pro-labor laws, and empower unions so workers can advocate for themselves.

--------------------End----------------------

TL; DR: Doesn't matter if it's the US, if it's not union it's probably a sweatshop. And not all merch is priced high because of fair labour conditions (looking at Taylor Swift and Beyoncé). Look for supply chain transparency.

[rederiswrites]

There was one question on the Master Gardeners entry interview that I think I got extra brownie points for answering promptly and confidently, though. And once you know it, it's very basic, but because of cultural biases, it sometimes takes longer than it should to be obvious, so I'll call it out.

The question was, "And why do you feel it's important to plant native plants?"

And my answer, immediately, was, "Well, for the insects! So the native insects can thrive, because they're the base of the whole pyramid. The plants are for the insects are for the birds and all the way up."

Native plants also feed birds and mammals directly, of course, but really there's nothing to compare to the ecological value of a healthy population of native insects, and you can't support native insects without native plants. The mice and the deer and the foxes and the hawks are very charismatic and I love them all deeply, but without the plants and their insects it all falls apart. And while many insects, birds, etc, are generalists and can get food from many non-native and even some invasive plants, many many more are specialists. They need the plants they were evolved to coexist with.

[falafels]

Partaking in WIP Wednesday!!

I don’t actually know what that means but anyway here are all of my aftg fic ideas that I either have in progress (material document) or in the incubation stage (intangible string of concepts that sometimes flashbang me in the mind while i’m out)

-Seeing Double: Nicky POV with some snippets or stories from when he became the twins’ guardian. this one i have actually posted a chapter of over on ao3 and chapter 2 still in progress but aaron threatens to kill himself to a customer on his first day ever having a job and andrew punches a hole in a load bearing wall so he can use it as a climbing foothold to reach the rum and chocolate nicky keeps on top of the cupboard

-Leave tonight or live and die this way: Mary Hatford story!! so named for tracy chapman fast car because i love tracy chapman fast car. follows mary from about 6 months after she and nathan got married, lore on inner circle, lola malcolm bashing, nathan wesninski playing jump rope with the line between diva and deranged (hints of Lestat if im being quite honest), mary believing herself to be the sole brain cell possessor while in fact having 30% custody of it at best, and french bashing.

-kevin post psu fic where he moves to boston for his pro team and doesn’t know anyone, gets hammered at the first bar he finds and it turns out to be a college bar near harvard and there’s a trivia night going on. even face down on the bar kevin still grumbles corrections and someone there is highly amused by this so insists he join their team. and they like him so he’s invited to their library study session that week too. and kevin likes them so he goes along to it and realises they’re all harvard nerds and don’t have a clue who he is. and he makes actual friends based on something other than exy, but they all think he’s also a student and he doesn’t correct them. eventually they’re at a bar for a trivia night kevin couldn’t make and see a tv on and an interview of some sports thing and one of them squints and is like holdup. is that KEVIN?? scared of mice, sends emails to authors about typos in their books, probably needs glasses, drinks milk by itself KEVIN? anyway yeah don’t know what to call that one or do with it but i will get to it

-another kevin post psu idea, this time by a few years. again it’s just me inventing friends for kevin. so this one is he gets traded across pro teams (as happens) and it wasn’t that he particularly likes where he was before or who he was with, but he knew the city and he knew the deal, even if his teammates didn’t really like him. anyway, he gets traded across the country and swapped with another player, maybe a USC graduate or at least someone who would have fit in there. and that person reaches out to him to see how he’s settling in or adjusting or any of that, which is very nice but kevin would usually give the fine thanks 👍 or ignore, but he’s drunk and alone enough that he responds and calls them back. and they end up on the phone for hours. that seems to be the last of it and kevin is like ok one (1) person knows i am Cringe and i Feel but we’ll never speak again it’s fine it’s fine until the person checks in again the next week and kevin finds that it’s actually quite nice to have someone know you a little bit and genuinely care how you are, and they talk more about the transfer and kevin tries to impart wisdom about the city he was in (bookstores here and here, gyms here and here but don’t go to that one it’s shit, they sell good smoothies on fifth but don’t walk back down west ave. or you end up in a sea of high schoolers ditching and they are so so mean). and maybe eventually there’s some kind of pro exy event they’re both at and they get to hang out? epilogue where they’re traded to the same team? idk this is again just indulgent that i want kevin to have a friend

-Renee fic! untitled but it’ll probably be an ethel cain lyric when i find one suitable. one of the people incarcerated following the trial against the gang she grew up in is released on parole, disappears, and suddenly three little girls turn up dead. and she knows it’s him, of course it is, but nobody seems to be doing anything. and he’ll be working his way over to her, she’s part of the reason he went to prison, but he’ll kill a path there. so renee sets aside her crucifix necklace and decides to kill him first. god’s sword arm? or a matter of hunting? she doesn’t like to think of it as either, but she leaves palmetto with her knives and a look on her face nobody but andrew has seen before, calmly assures them she’ll be back in a few weeks at most, and dives headfirst. it’s like one of those moments where you hit the water so hard you think you’ll never breathe again, and it slows down a bit, and something changes. after grappling with the ‘healed way to kill someone’, renee gives herself more and more permissions to shift back into natalie shields behaviours, but catches herself before she catches the guy. she recognises that she’s doing that formulaically, but that ultimately what she’s trying to achieve here doesn’t actually conflict with any one of her values, and when she kills him it’s with a bible in her rucksack and a sparkly purple cat charm on her keys. idk a lot of the specifics of that might change but i chew on renee a lot and i think we all should.

-aforementioned jerejean au where jean is a firefighter and jeremy is at the seminary training to be a priest. not quite fleabag shit because i could never do that to jean, but very unlikely and somehow working. jeremy im giving you religious problems because i think they would suit you. jean im giving you being hot and sweaty and saving people because im a pervert. also something i like there about first responder/last responder. and how that’s kind of what each of them need? jeremy is the final breath and the calm reassurance, but there’s something in him that wants to run and scream and yell and have the stakes be as high as they can, be able to do something with an instant material result. jean is always under the most pressure he possibly can be, trying to keep everyone alive, and sometimes secretly wants a moment of quiet that he doesn’t think he deserves and would feel horribly guilty if he got. anyway jean being vaguely amused by closet adrenaline junkie trainee priest and jeremy fascinated by the tall french firefighter who refuses to forgive himself for being alive.

and i think that’s all of them for now!! my notes app is just this with various scenes and lines that i want to put in each one but would need to write 6 chapters to get to. bummer ANYWAY if you made it this far i am sorry and ily and i hope u have a great day <3

[fintan-pyren]

Fintante AU* where Bronte is a candidate in the United States presidential election and Fintan is a stray cat who somehow wanders onto stage during a presidential debate. Fintan is instantly beloved by the American people, and Bronte, who's been struggling with the public's perception of him as cold-hearted and not very likable, adopts him to gain favor with voters.

Unfortunately, Fintan is not as cute as he seems. This cat is a menace. He claws furniture, he bites Bronte, he leaves dead mice on his pillow, he spends nights yowling at the top of his lungs.

Fine, Bronte thinks. He'll just do a few photo ops with this thing and then find someone else to take care of it so he doesn't have to deal with it ever again.

Unfortunately, Fintan has become an internet sensation. Everyone loves him. Any time Bronte is interviewed or meets with someone, they want Fintan there too. He hates this cat, but he simply cannot escape it.

*platonic. obviously.