#this man deserves hazard pay and overtime at the very least

[bumblebeeplease]

Sam really is just doing all the work here single handedly reluctantly reuniting the USA. I just got the junk dealer’s gf back to him and Sam’s just told to keep going.

I’d say Sam needs a raise but I don’t think he gets paid.

This poor man needs a day off. I need to find more of those hot springs and force some time off for him.

[talesfromsiteredacted]

Revenge of the Clef

So... in leiing my Sugarbeard, I should have anticipated payback. It happened just a few minutes ago on the night shift.

I clock in for my night shift in my new office. It's kinda lonely without Trixie in reception, but... Dr. Glass is still here, I see. As I pass by, I notice there's two voices: Dr. Glass, and Dr. King. Another attack of the apple seeds, poor guy. Sometimes I think Dr. Glass deserves hazard pay, or at least double overtime. Not wanting to pry, I head to my desk. I've got mounds of requests and reports to slog through. Thank 343 for insomnia, in a way. I think trying to get my overactive brain to shut down for the night is the only reason I'm rarely too far behind on the dreaded stupid paperwork. It sure ain't as interesting as people expect.

I tackle the reports of the initial phase of the Anomalous Enrichment Protocol. Hand Drawn Cassie had a blast surfing in Oahu, especially with her surf buddy the dolphin. Turns out, 049 was joking about the game, he just wanted someone to hang out with for a bit. For a surgeon and medical professional, he's horrible at Operation, was kinda fun playing with him. Next week, I teach him Magic: the Gathering. Before long, I'm onto the requests.

No. No. Gods in multiple heavens, hells, and anyplace between, NO. No way are we allowing him that, bad enough he's still mostly homicidal. No. Fucking. Way. The Old Man is never getting online again, let alone on Twitch. I missed the Yahoo!Chat Incident, but it's not happening on my watch. Denied, with extreme prejudice. Next!

I reach for the pile on the right, and notice my right wrist has sprouted a new accessory: a garland of blue and white silk hibiscus. I laugh, only to realize there's two people sniggering with me. They're very obviously behind the open door of the supply closet directly across from my desk. I act like I hadn't noticed anything, turn back to work. I catch my sister slinking out, big grin on her face. Ah. There it is. The Cleffening. Was wondering when he'd get me back. Five minutes later, the closet speaks.

"Hey, Director Snow, what's an anomaly gotta do to get some enrichment around here?"

"For starters, stop lurking in closets like a even creepier white guy version of R. Kelly. Second, mysterious voice in the closet, my ears are here to bend, so come out, bend away." I resisted the temptation to look, instead focusing on my work.

"But, how do you know I can come out of the closet?"

"It's the SCP Foundation, we have people come out of almost anything except 3008, the Stairwell, and 682's stomach all the time. Plus, you gotta eat sometime, not to mention sleep and bathroom breaks. Closet seems small too. There's a nice comfy chair here, bet it beats sitting on a box of copy paper."

"What if I told you I have a surprise in here with me?"

"What if I told you my dad told me never trust the voice in the closet?" I sigh, pinch my nose. "I know it's you in there, Sugarbeard. No one sniggers like Alto Clef."

He's beside my desk before I know it, holding a box. He's got his usual "I've got something plotted but I'll be damned if I tell you what" grin on his face. O-okay, white box, blue ribbon, about a foot cubed. I untie the ribbon, take the lid off the box, rustle some red tissue paper, and pull out... a stuffed rabbit, white fur in a blue robe with snowflakes all over in silver embroidery. There's a note around its neck.

"Will you be my Snowbunny?" I read. I take a moment to think about it. "Hmm. Okay, but only if you'll be my Honeybunny."

"But... I like being your Sugarbeard." He wraps his arms around me. He brings his lips to my ear, slips the lei from my wrist. "May I, Snowbunny?" Suddenly, I'm nervous. Dunno why, this isn't the first time he's been this close. Maybe it's just the prank.

"As.. as you wish, Sugarbeard." He drapes the flowery accessory over my head, brushes back my hair. He leans in, stares into my eyes. That's... weird, even for him. All three are golden hazel, tinged slightly green in the edges of his irises. Before I can even think, his hand finds my cheek.

"Come sweeten up your Sugarbeard, Honeybunny." We're so focused on each other, we didn't notice Dr. Cimmerian walk in.

"Well, I WAS going to see if Rabbit wanted to try my sister's cannoli with me, but after seeing that I've lost my appetite. Take the cannoli, but then I'm headed to Amnestics to see if I can leave the image." He leaves. Just like that, the moment is over. But... I did get a promise to resume after my shift.

[moocha-muses]

I May Have a Tiny Crush

Or, The Full Story of How Don Lothario and Darren Dreamer Ended Up Smooching.

(Frankly I don’t know if I can see these two settling down into domestic bliss together, but life’s short and I want to sail on every ship I can.)

Cassandra Goth was beautiful. Cheekbones like a pair of stilettos carved from some fine, dark warm marble, flushed with life. That mobile mouth, twisting instantly from a sullen frown to a distracted smile. Dark honey eyes and the untamed curls of an Italian shepherdess. Flashing. Remote. Untouchable. Moocha should have painted her, a slender nymph in a scrap of white silk.

He should have painted her.

She was beautiful as she stood there sobbing, mascara streaking down her cheeks, angry bunched fists ruining the expense lines of her wedding dress.

Don Lothario had muttered, “I’m sorry, Cass,” and left her standing up there alone. What kind of way was that for a man to end a relationship? Darren would have walked barefoot over broken glass to be the man standing with her under that wedding arch, and Lothario had just thrown it all away.

…

It would probably be the wrong moment to tell Cassandra that he loved her.

Don was seriously considering leaving town. If it wasn’t for all the work he’d put into establishing himself at Pleasantview General, he’d have packed his bags two weeks ago.

Half the damn town had been at his non-wedding, and the other half had heard about it, and the consensus was clear - they were two sides to this fiasco and they were all on Cassandra’s. Would it have been better if he’d just gone through with it when every cell in his brain was screaming at him to run? Cassandra Goth didn’t want a man to be married out of a sense of obligation, did she? She’d see that eventually.

Hopefully sooner than later.

Don had given up a huge fortune and the woman (okay, fine, one of the women) he loved just so that she’d have a real chance at happiness with someone else. He was practically a saint.

pasta, pasta, which brand do I like again?

He snorted. Okay, maybe a nomination to sainthood was a bit much too ask. But he didn’t deserve a complete shunning, either.

Even Kaylynn wasn’t return his calls. Too busy with her new girlfriend - Don still couldn’t believe the Pleasants had planned that seduction as a couple. He wondered if Cassandra would have ever been up for planning a fling with the maid.

are fresh peas really that much better than frozen? maybe worth trying

Nina was always happy to see him, but she was happy to see plenty of other people too. Don had wasn’t more than that. It was selfish, but he wanted to be the most important person in someone’s life. He wanted to settle down. It was why he had proposed.

So why had he left her, then? Because, Don reminded himself firmly, because he was in love with different three women and in that moment, he had realized he hadn’t cared which one of them was standing under that arch.

tomatoes? this one feels nice and ripe

Cassie deserved better.

She deserved someone who loved her like - “Afternoon, Dreamer.”

Darren Dreamer actually glared at him, which was a laugh. Don wouldn’t have expected a guy as passive as Dreamer to do anything more more cutting than pretend he was deaf.

Don cleared his throat.

“Do you need something?” Dreamer snarled.

“You’re standing in front the lemons,” Don said mildly.

Dreamer stalked off towards the bread in a huff. Don shook his head. Don barely knew the guy, but everyone knew Dreamer had been carrying a torch for Cassandra (well, everyone except for Cassandra, who was the most single-minded woman Don had ever met. She just hadn’t noticed other guys once she’d started dating him. It had been flattering - at least, until he’d gotten to really know her.)

(He had still enjoyed it.)

how do you check lemons? Do you smell them?

If Dreamer was so in love with Cassandra he should be fucking grateful they had broken up. Now at least he had a chance.

Don shrugged.

There was no helping some people.

what else was in the meat sauce recipe? I knew I should have written it down

Models were the flakiest damn species on the planet. Darren dropped the phone down on the receiver and swore. Heather sat on the sofa looking beautiful, bored, and totally at ease wearing nothing but Darren’s spare bathrobe.

He was going to have to put off painting and he would still have to pay Heather half her rate just for showing up and drinking his coffee.

Darren drummed irritably against the phone table, trying to decide if he could pose Heather solo and at least get a start on the sketches. Work on her back, maybe. He glanced idly out the window.

Don Lothario was jogging past outside.

The artistic soul was strong in Darren. In that moment, Don Lothario was no longer the bastard who had broken the heart of the woman Darren loved. He was just a very good specimen of the male sex, tall and lean with slightly unruly dark hair and warm brown skin.

Darren shot out the front door.

“Lothario! Hey, uh, Dr. Lothario. Are you free right now?”

               *                                              *                                              *

“You want me to what?”

“My male model canceled on me at the last minute,” Darren explained, “but I need to paint right now, while the image is still in my head. You’re a little old but you’ve got good muscle. Good flesh tones. Beautiful eyes. Green like Heather’s, which is too bad, but … you’ll do. I’ll pay you, of course. What do you have on under those track pants? You’re comfortable with nudity, aren’t you? You are a doctor.”

Don considered the phrase, ‘No fucking way,’ but he swallowed it. He considered. “You must really be desperate.” Don glanced over at the cute little co-ed on the couch. He could imagine worse company. And Darren Dreamer would probably be on his best behavior. “I guess I could help you out, Dreamer. For art’s sake.”

“Go ahead and strip then,” Darren said, shining with relief.

“I won’t even charge you. It’s not like I can’t spare the time. I’m newly single, remember?”

The shot missed. Darren was arguing with his other muse.

“You want me to work with a total stranger? What if he’s a creep?”

“Mr. Lothario, sorry, Dr. Lothario isn’t a creep, Heather. Would I ask a creep to model with you?”

“You don’t have to keep calling me doctor.”

“I want hazard pay,” Heather said firmly.

“Fine, I’ll give you your overtime rates. But that’s just for today. Don’t think this is a permanent raise. Now get that robe off so I can make sure your bruises haven’t smeared.”

“Yessir!”

Don began pulling his pants down.

“Let me retouch the one on your thigh. Okay, Lothario, Heather’s going to be strangling you. It’s a easy pose for a beginner because you can just lie there.” He smudged something purple onto Heather’s smooth white thigh. Don needed to either stop watching or put his pants back on.

“You’ll be lying prone on the floor, she’ll be crouching over you, hands around your neck. Heather can do the heavy lifting on expressions, so don’t worry about that. I want a 50s look, so I’ll need to put something in your hair … ”

              *                                              *                                              *

“Look, I get it,“ said Heather, "but I’m not flattered or interested.” She gave Don a second look and shrugged. “Not at the moment, anyway. Just try and think of me as a piece of furniture.” She shot Darren a look. “This is why I like working with Jimmy. He knows how to act professional.”

Darren frowned at Don. “No, don’t look embarrassed,” he admonished. “That’s not even close to the expression I want. The erections’s good, though. He’s supposed to be egging you on, so … Can you … ”

“Darren, if he touches me with that thing I am out.”

“I’m doing my best,” Don said. He sounded mortified.

“Hold it,” Darren said. “Let me just finish that part of the sketch - and mix some paint samples. I want to capture that color.”

“Artists!” Heather groaned, all her exasperation rolled up into one ball. Don looked like he understood.

“I can’t believe I agreed to do this again.”

Don was sitting on the counter in Darren’s kitchen in just his underwear, letting the other man comb pomade into his hair.

“I really appreciate it,” Darren said. “But I’m guessing you’re here more for the lovely Miss Huffington than for art.”

Don stiffened. Heather? The lovely, luscious girl in the other room? He hadn’t even thought of her when Dreamer had phoned him up and demanded he come back for a second sitting.

Don would have expected him to beg. He wouldn’t have guessed a man who still hadn’t tried making a play for Cassandra to have so much …

Passion.

Cassandra’s consuming, singled-minded interest in every new hypothesis, the way she’d stop at nothing to teach it to everyone else …

The way Nina threw herself headfirst into everything, no safety nets, no restraint . . .

Darren’s total absorption in his own work, death and blind to everything but the vision in his head…

Don liked passion.

He shook his head to clear it. “Don’t move,” Darren said gently. He put a hand on Don’s jaw to steady him. His skin was warm and dry. “You’ve got such thick hair,” Darren muttered. His eyes were far away. “ I should’ve have painted you in bed, mussed from sleep, stretched out against the sheets with the sunlight filtering down - no, moonlight - moonlight dappling over your skin-”

Had Dreamer’s voice always been that … husky?

Heather���s right, Don thought. He shifted just a little on the counter. I need to learn to control myself. Or at least keep it in my pants.

“There’s no way I can bend my arm like that.”

“Are you saying you aren’t flexible enough?” Darren shook his head and tsked. “I knew I should have stuck to younger models.”

“Oh, I’m plenty flexible, old man-”

“I just bet you are,” Darren muttered.

“You should try yoga,” Heather chimed in from underneath him.

“I do yoga.”

“What, seriously?”

“Even if I could get into the pose,” Don went on, ignoring her, “I’d probably strain myself holding it. Don’t they teach you anything about basic anatomy at art school?”

“All right, Doctor. What do you suggest?”

“Well, if you really want to have that fold of sheet visible, then I could …”

“You’ve got some paint on your cheek.”

“Where?”

“Hold on, I’ll get it.”

remember to breathe

…

he’s a flirt. he flirts with everyone.

There still weren’t many people in Pleasantview who would invite Don Lothario out for a drink. He definitely hadn’t expected Darren Dreamer to ever be one of them.

“Well, you won’t let me pay you for modeling.” Darren got Marylena’s attention and ordered them both beers. He asked Don about an upcoming surgery he had mentioned the other day. Don got very eloquent about the use of internal splints to fix spine reticulation.

Darren divided his attention between Don and a sketch he was making on a cocktail napkin.

“What are you drawing?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever gotten the shape of your eyebrows right.”

Don snorted. “Should I keep my face still? Are my many medical exploits distracting you?”

“No, I like watching them move.” He made a few small strokes with his pen. "Actually, can you hold right there?”

Don didn’t know why he listened. He had no idea why he was doing a lot of things, lately. He watched Darren drawing quick sketches of his brow, his nose, his mouth …

“One of your models asked me out.”

Darren jerked to attention. “Heather? She didn’t break up with her girlfriend, did she?”

“Not Heather. Tiffany. The one with the obvious trust-fund. What’s she doing slumming as an artist’s model, anyway?”

“You’ll have to ask her on your date,” Darren said. He crumpled the cocktail napkin he’d been sketching on into a ball and started tearing small pieces off it. “Better take her someplace nice.”

Don sipped his beer. “I let her down gently. She’s a little young for me,” he said. He glanced carefully at the man on the next barstool. “What about you?”

Darren looked up. His own eyebrows rose. “Are you asking me out to dinner?”

Don choked on his beer. He coughed. “Have you ever gone out with one of your models?”

Darren snorted. “Of course not. If you’re too old for them, what does that make a fossil like me?”

Those girls aren’t that much younger than Cassandra, Don thought. You aren’t that much older than me. And the edge of both those thoughts stung.

Darren ordered them another round of beers. “Isn’t this supposed to be a good season for stargazing?”

Don perked up instantly. “It really is! See, the orbit of the moons …“

It was the fourth time he’d agreed to pose.

Darren didn’t know why Don kept agreeing. He didn’t even know why he kept asking. He liked young models. He liked the quality of their skin, the vulnerability of youth.

It was the difference between a sapling and a tree that had grown into, well, solidity. Maturity. That whole self-contained universe that trees get to be when they grow up.

No, that made it sound like he was starting to prefer older models.

darleen would have said i was finally growing up

Don said posing left him free to do nothing but think. That was what he liked about it. “Gives a chance to read through patient reports and new medical journals in my head.”

just a little blue there so the brown is more brown

cerulean? no, cobalt

Darren wanted to split his head open, pull out everything going on behind Don’s bright green eyes and set it against the deliberate sensuality of the pose.

He wanted to capture the passions, the dichotomy, the muscle and skin and mind of the man in front of him…

He wanted to capture the man  …

He wanted . . .

             *                                              *                                              *

Posing left Don free to look.

Darren Dreamer was absented-minded. He was terrified of spiders. He had the worst pollen allergy Don had ever seen. Ever surface in his house was covered in books and he was constantly picking one up (usually right in the middle of a conversation, sometimes when he was the one doing the talking) reading a few paragraphs, and putting it right back down. He lived completely off leftovers from meals his kid had cooked.

But put a paintbrush in his hands, or an idea into his head, and the man was transformed. Don had gotten addicted to watching him, mercurial, transfixed, enraptured, inspired, muttering to himself about color and light.

And he really could paint.

And when he was painting him, he looked at Don like he was most fascinating thing anyone had ever seen. Like he was an object, but a beautiful object. A treasured object. Something that existed just on Darren’s whim. It was almost a challenge.

Lots of people had been attracted to Don, and most of them had bothered hiding the fact, but no one had ever looked at him like Darren Dreamer looked at him.

And the spider thing was actually kind of cute.

“Don’t move your head.”

“What?”

“You’re moving your head again. The wrapper’s going to fall. Hold still.“

"Yeah, all right.”

“I don’t see why you can’t hold still,” said Darren, a man Don had never seen sit still for more than about 10 seconds at a time. He surged forward in his usual impatient way and began messing with Don’s hair. He tucked the condom wrapper back into position where it could resume imitating a laurel leaf. Then he took a possessive hold on Don’s head and began twitching it back and forth. “We’re losing the light,” he complained. “There’s a certain light I want to paint you in. If I could just paint you properly-,” his finger skated over Don’s jaw, “-you’re too good for Dionysus, you’re-”

Don kissed him. His lips brushed against the corner of the other man’s mouth. He wondered which of them was more surprised.

Darren murmured, “What are you-”

his voice is fucking sexy

“I-” Don You - you reminded me of Cassandra.“ Wrong thing to say. Maybe the wrongest thing anyone had ever said.

Darren shoved Don right up against the wall and glared at him more intensely than he had ever glared over Cassandra. "You’re not getting out of this that easily, Lothario.”

And he kissed Don right back.

“If we’re going to do this,” Darren growled, “The only name you’re going to say is mine.”

[rocdesigns-blog]

Uniqlo- Report on a leading brand that allow their workers to work in inhumane working conditions

Uniqlo is a Japanese fast fashion, casual wear designer manufacture and retailer. It was founded in 1949 by Tadashi Yanai who is a Japanese billionaire businessman. The name comes from the words 'unique' and 'clothing' – simple and clever, just like our clothes, which are world famous for being high-quality, innovative, functional and affordable. Uniqlo emphasise on low-cost, everyday fashion that doesn’t go out of style and are more than 3,000 Uniqlo stores worldwide. 

UNIQLO does not focus manufacturing exclusively in China, they have factories in Cambodia, Indonesia, Myanmar and Sri Lanka, as well as six in India. UNIQLO sends a team of specialists called takumis, each with 30 years or more experience in Japan’s textile industry, to their factories. The takumis are closely involved in all aspects of the production processes from the inspection of yarn to the shipment of final goods, and they keep a sharp eye on a wide range of things, including materials and yarn, weave patterns, dyeing, sewing, texture, finish, and safety issues. UNIQLO’s products are manufactured in lots of about one million at partner factories. To ensure evenness in quality for such a large volume of products, problem-solving capabilities backed by experience and know-how are indispensable. This is where the skills of the takumis are making a major contribution. For example, in the dyeing process, to ensure that colors produced by tens of vats of dye, with a capacity of one ton each, are uniform, tasks do not stop at the confirmation of the process but must also extend to checking on the humidity and other environmental conditions accurately. The takumis provide advice to help make judgments regarding the subtle aspects of various dyeing processes and thereby pre- vent variations in quality. 

No matter your race, gender or even job is everyone deserves human rights and at Uniqlo factories the workers there are just not receiving basic human rights. On top of a 11-12-hour work day, workers are working between 112 and 134 hours of overtime on a monthly basis, which is not in line with labour law that prescribes a maximum of 36 overtime hours and at least one day off per week. Workers' pay falls far below a living wage and they are not paid in accordance with the normal standards set out in Chinese labour law. Also, workers have no platform to voice their concerns, and there is no such thing as a democratic body representing workers in negotiations with the management. In 2009 when investigators heard that workers were organising a strike for the low wages at the Pacific Textiles, the management hired gangsters to physically assault the workers', leaders and suppress the strike. In a later incident, the workers leading a strike against high temperatures on the shop floor were dismissed.

Uniqlo working factories are very dangerous for humans to be in especially working long hours everyday. Workers do not wear protective gear and work under hazardous conditions with high temperatures and flawed protective measures. Harmful and chemical-laden waste water regularly floods the factory floors and an article published in 2015 stated that a worker was interviewed and he had witnessed a fatal accident in which a man was electrocuted when waste water came in contact with electrical machines. This is showing that their factories are not being set up with protected gear for the workers or the machines and this shows how much HQ do not care for their employees. The factories have poor ventilation, with an inspection there was a high density of cotton fibre in the air, with a risk of causing serious lung disease (byssinosis). Also temperatures reach high levels and workers are forced to endure long hours of work in inappropriate conditions with temperatures measuring up to 38 degrees Celsius.