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sixminutestoriesblog · 8 months

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the London Necropolis

It was 1850 and London had a problem.

All right. London had a lot of problems in the 1850s. Thanks to the Industrial Revolution, London had seen its population boom so quickly that the city didn't have time to make room for everyone. Housing developments and slums sprang up seemingly overnight, cramming as many people into a warren of rooms, and partitioned off rooms. as could be fit. Poverty ran rampant, cholera outbreaks swept through districts regularly, the conditions in the factories, where small children were often also employed, were deadly and the environment itself was a lung-clogging morass of soot and sewage. Some made their fortunes and managed to rise through the layers of society but many simply hung on to the bottom rungs of it for as long as they could before their hands were wrenched off to make way for others. And that didn't just apply to the living.

The dead didn't know rest either.

It didn't take long for the graveyards of London to hit full capacity with the population influx. Even with the body snatchers, working to retrieve bodies for local hospitals and schools as well as even more unsavory employers almost as soon as the grieving family left the plot, couldn't keep up with the massive amount of bodies that needed to be buried in the local cemeteries week after week, month after month, year after year. The problem grew to the point that gravediggers, hitting older coffins would simply continue digging, tossing rotted wood and whatever body parts were left into the dirt pile behind them, making room for the newest arrival in the plot. Graves got so shallow that the bare layer of dirt over them easily washed away and utterly failed to keep what was slowly decaying in the boxes covered. Church goers learned to bring perfume covered handkerchiefs to Sunday services, if they were lucky, to hold over their noses the entire time, trying to blot out the smell seeping under the doors and into the confined interiors of the buildings. Flies and other, even more unpleasant, scavengers were impossible to get rid of, lured by the ease of a quick meal and a place to take up residence. Health inspectors, and many Londoners of the time, blamed the miasma rising from the graveyards for many of the disease outbreaks that swept through the city. Something had to be done.

An amendment was passed in 1852 prohibiting most new burials in the more populous sections of London. The problem was - where did you put the bodies then?

In 1832, the Magnificent Seven, seven large plots of land outside London, had been remade into cemeteries. One business group had higher aspirations than that though. In 1854, the Brookwood Cemetery, the largest cemetery of the time, opened for business. It soon became know by a different name.

The London Necropolis.

And the London Necropolis Railway was there to make sure everyone, dead and alive, found safe transportation there.

Railroads and their trains were still new at that time. Loud and noisy, belching steam and smoke into the air, trains weren't seen as a dignified way for the dead to travel to their final resting place and eternal peace. Worse yet, travel by train might lead to a mixing of the classes, dead as well as living (gasps of alarm and swooning!). Who wanted their sweet genteel maiden aunt's body to ride in the same cargo car as some low level rake's corpse?! Why it was undignified (and very against the social divisions of the time)! Even in death, standards must be applied.

Trains, however noisy and undignified, did offer a distinct advantage. They were cheap. And they ran regularly on a schedule you could plan around, daily in fact, including Sundays. As for social distinctions - well, the LNC had a solution for that too. Depending on the money you were willing to spend, the rail offered first, second, and third class funerals, with separate train cars for each class, living or dead. Knowing that most passengers from other stations would be reluctant to ride a train that had carried dead bodies, the LNC bought new cars and engines specifically for the job, kept separate from the other routes of train travel. They laid track specifically for the job as well, so that only the necropolis trains traveled to one of the two separate stations in Brookwood Cemetery. Mourners left the Waterloo Station in London and road the train, with their unique luggage, to either the Southern Anglican Station or the Northern Station, where the 'nonconformist' section of the burial plots were. While the trains originally only ran for funerals, enough mourners wanted to return for visits to the graves of their loved ones and eventually, after about ten years, the LNC built a third station for that purpose. Almost immediately, a small hub of shops and services sprang up around the new station to cater to, and prey on, the arriving mourners. For fifty years, until 1900, the funeral trains ran on schedule, ferrying bodies, and their loved ones, back and forth between London and the Necropolis. Even after that time, the trains still ran 'as needed' until, finally, in 1941 the London Necropolis station was bombed during the London Blitz. It was the final blow to an already declining system. The station was never rebuilt.

By the 1950s, funeral trains were almost obsolete and the last one in England carried its lonely cargo in 1979. By 1988, the British Railway didn't carry coffins anymore. Time, and more efficient methods, had passed the Necropolis funeral trains by. The tracks overgrew with weeds where they weren't torn up for scrap and the only wistful train whistle left to linger in the chill evening air at the grey and abandoned gates was the long, low ghost of a memory.

#superstition #london necropolis #london necropolis railway #funeral train #LNC #brookwood cemetery #train #trains #funeral #funeral rites #history #victorian #victorian era

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ukrfeminism · 3 months

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Women in the public sector are quitting their jobs due to being blocked from working flexibly with three in ten seeing their requests rejected, according to a major new study.

Researchers at Unison, the UK’s largest trade union, who polled just over 44,000 women working across the public sector, found three in ten working in hospitals, schools, care homes, town halls, police stations and other key services had pleas to work flexibly denied.

Some women said employers told them to leave their job or use annual leave if they want to work flexibly, while others report their requests were immediately blocked on the same day they were put in. Struggles to access flexible working meant some women had quit their jobs, researchers warned.

Christina McAnea, Unison’s general secretary, said: “Too many employers are still turning down flexible working requests, which means the right to request is pretty meaningless for many women. The right to work flexibly from day one would be beneficial for staff and employers alike, and help bring workplaces into the 21st century.”

Helping women juggle work with childcare and caring for loved ones can enable workplaces to recruit for jobs which are tricky to fill and likely boost the quality of public services, she added.

Ms McAnea said: “It’s disheartening to see many employers continuing to deny their staff the opportunity to work flexibly. They have nothing to lose and everything to gain.

"But sadly many women who find they need to inject some flexibility into their working lives are coming up against employers with inconsistent, rigid and unimaginative attitudes. While there’s no one-size-fits-all solution, some form of flexible working is achievable in most workplaces.”

A quarter of those women who were informed they could not change their working conditions say their requests were rejected on a number of occasions.

Researchers also found more than two fifths of women were told they could not work flexibly because doing so would harm the service being provided, while almost three in ten were informed there would not be enough colleagues to cover for them.

A fifth had their request rejected due to managers saying doing so would result in colleagues making similar pleas, while around one in seven were not provided with a reason by their employer.

New flexible working legislation comes into force in April which gives employees a statutory right to ask for flexible working from day one at a new job. While this is an improvement on the current wait of six months to ask, Unison warn employers are too easily able to block flexible working requests.

Emily*, who works in the energy sector, said she only managed to get her flexible return to work from maternity leave agreed just before she was due to return to work.

“The process was horrendous,” she said. “I had to submit several requests and they were all turned down within days. I was stunned. I was caring for my baby and having huge levels of anxiety simply trying to get some flexibility at work. I was scared I’d lose my job. It dragged on so much I couldn’t sort out childcare. The process left me traumatised.”

While Nadia*, a local government worker with a disability, was blocked from working flexibly even though she had medical notes written up by her doctor.

“I had a very supportive manager during the pandemic and we all worked well during that time,” Nadia, a single mother of two, added. “But as the situation eased, my new manager suddenly wanted everybody in the office all the time. Daily attendance then worsened my condition and I had to go off sick for a few months to recover. Being able to work from home on the days I’m struggling would make a huge difference, and also make it easier to look after my children.”

Helen*, a specialist nurse and single mother of three, explained she was repeatedly blocked from working flexibly.

She said: “I had to go down a pay band to get some flexibility, which put me and my family in financial difficulty. I was told if they allowed me to work flexibly they’d have to do the same for others. But others aren’t in my situation.

“I'm a survivor of domestic violence and have no family support. The process was awful and I was made to feel like a massive inconvenience. Now I don’t want to be a nurse any more and am looking for a new job in retail. I’ve had to take time off because of the stress and anxiety I experienced. It shouldn’t be like this as I do love my job.”

*Names changed

#Articles

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a-noone · 5 months

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I frequently think about an AU where Ferengi are not a culture that never outgrew capitalism. They just managed to make it work. Like, really, really work.

There's a minimum and maximum wage for every profession. Working for free is illegal for both the employer and the employee. Every business and every product is highly regulated in terms of both price and quality standards.

Nothing is free (except for every citizen's first bank account) and there are no safety nets, but every ten year old has both school and a state-arranged paid apprenticeship. By the time a Ferengi finishes schooling at 20, they have a nest egg, and are on track to have a career. Every graduate can afford a basic standard of living.

"Theft of labor" is an extremely serious crime. People working for free drives wages down, meaning less disposable income, and less potential for profit. Hell no!

Moogie isn't naked and enslaved inside the home. She does housework and childcare. Moogie gets a paycheck.

It isn't, "you force your females to wear clothing!" It's, "you don't even pay your OWN wife to watch your OWN children! ..... diss-GUSTING!"

As the spiritual goals of the society include prosperity for all, and putting every citizen to their best and highest use, the idea that considerations other than your talents and ingenuity should dictate your fate seems simply irrational.

During the occupation of Bajor, the Ferengi, who run most of the quadrant's hospitality industry, institute extra taxes, fees, and embargoes against Cardassia, and Guls in particular. When the occupation is over, labor officers from Ferenginar cut people who did unpaid labor a check.

It's not a hand-out, or charity. That would be despicable. No, it's just back wages that they took out of Cardassia's hide.

A popular children's show on Ferenginar is "Bogie's Warehouse." In this show, a cartoon business person (Bogie) running a discount warehouse that sells everything, faces weekly challenges in making profit.

One week, wheelchair users can't get in to make purchases, and Bogie has to make the warehouse accessible to sell them things and get their money. Another week, visitors from another world who are allergic to snuff beetles are visiting, but the employees still want to take their snuff breaks! Bogie has to think up a clever solution to accommodate both the workers and the customers.

Does this society still have problems? OH Yes. But it's more nuanced and explores the potentials and failures of capitalism in a more nuanced way.

#ferengi

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toshootforthestars · 3 months

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From the report by Beth Mole, posted 29 Feb 2024:

In a lengthy background document, the agency laid out its rationale for consolidating COVID-19 guidance into general guidance for respiratory viruses—including influenza, RSV, adenoviruses, rhinoviruses, enteroviruses, and others, though specifically not measles. The agency also noted the guidance does not apply to health care settings and outbreak scenarios. "COVID-19 remains an important public health threat, but it is no longer the emergency that it once was, and its health impacts increasingly resemble those of other respiratory viral illnesses, including influenza and RSV," the agency wrote. The most notable change in the new guidance is the previously reported decision to no longer recommend a minimum five-day isolation period for those infected with the pandemic coronavirus, SARS-CoV-2. Instead, the new isolation guidance is based on symptoms, which matches long-standing isolation guidance for other respiratory viruses, including influenza. "The updated Respiratory Virus Guidance recommends people with respiratory virus symptoms that are not better explained by another cause stay home and away from others until at least 24 hours after both resolution of fever AND overall symptom are getting better," the document states. "This recommendation addresses the period of greatest infectiousness and highest viral load for most people, which is typically in the first few days of illness and when symptoms, including fever, are worst." The CDC acknowledged that the eased isolation guidance will create "residual risk of SARS-CoV-2 transmission," and that most people are no longer infectious only after 8 to 10 days. As such, the agency urged people to follow additional interventions—including masking, testing, distancing, hygiene, and improving air quality—for five additional days after their isolation period. "Today’s announcement reflects the progress we have made in protecting against severe illness from COVID-19," CDC Director Dr. Mandy Cohen said in a statement. "However, we still must use the commonsense solutions we know work to protect ourselves and others from serious illness from respiratory viruses—this includes vaccination, treatment, and staying home when we get sick." Overall, the agency argued that a shorter isolation period would be inconsequential. Other countries and states that have similarly abandoned fixed isolation times did not see jumps in COVID-19 emergency department visits or hospitalizations, the CDC pointed out. And most people who have COVID-19 don't know they have it anyway, making COVID-19-specific guidance moot, the agency argued. In a recent CDC survey, less than half of people said they would test for SARS-CoV-2 if they had a cough or cold symptoms, and less than 10 percent said they would go to a pharmacy or health care provider to get tested. Meanwhile, "The overall sensitivity of COVID-19 antigen tests is relatively low and even lower in individuals with only mild symptoms," the agency said. The CDC also raised practical concerns for isolation, including a lack of paid sick leave for many, social isolation, and "societal costs." The points are likely to land poorly with critics. “The CDC is again prioritizing short-term business interests over our health by caving to employer pressure on COVID guidelines. This is a pattern we’ve seen throughout the pandemic,” Lara Jirmanus, Clinical Instructor of Medicine at Harvard Medical School, said in a press release last month after the news first broke of the CDC's planned isolation update. Jirmanus is a member of the People's CDC, a group that advocates for more aggressive COVID-19 policies, which put out the press release. Another member of the group, Sam Friedman, a professor of population health at NYU Grossman School of Medicine, also blasted the CDC's stance last month. The guidance will "make workplaces and public spaces even more unsafe for everyone, particularly for people who are high-risk for COVID complications," he said.

But, the CDC argues that the threat of COVID-19 is fading. Hospitalizations, deaths, prevalence of long COVID, and COVID-19 complications in children (MIS-C) are all down. COVID-19 vaccines are safe and effective at preventing severe disease, death, and to some extent, long COVID—we just need more people to get them. Over 95% of adults hospitalized with COVID-19 in the 2023–2024 respiratory season had no record of receiving the seasonal booster dose, the agency noted. Only 22% of adults got the latest shot, including only 42% of people ages 65 and older. In contrast, 48% of adults got the latest flu shot, including 73% of people ages 65 and older. But even with the crummy vaccination rates for COVID-19, a mix of past infection and shots have led to a substantial protection in the overall population. The CDC even went as far as arguing that COVID-19 deaths have fallen to a level that is similar to what's seen with flu. "Reported deaths involving COVID-19 are several-fold greater than those reported to involve influenza and RSV. However, influenza and likely RSV are often underreported as causes of death," the CDC said. In the 2022–2023 respiratory virus season, there were nearly 90,000 reported COVID-19 deaths. For flu, there were 9,559 reported deaths, but the CDC estimates the true number to be between 18,000 and 97,000. In the current season, there have been 32,949 reported COVID-19 deaths to date and 5,854 reported flu deaths, but the agency estimates the real flu deaths are between 17,000 and 50,000. "Total COVID-19 deaths, accounting for underreporting, are likely to be higher than, but of the same order of magnitude as, total influenza deaths," the agency concluded.

(say no to raw dough: CDC)

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forgottenyear · 19 days

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[long text: ~1100 wds]

It is irrational, but I was wishing I could return to the hospital, last night. I wanted Angela close by again, but in the safe place of the hospital.

And this leaves me wondering if I push her away because I am unsure if I have the strength of will not to give in to her preference.

But I will be in a therapist’s office again by the end of the month, and we will begin the work to make us whole again. I hope.

It is a pattern that we find ourselves in conflict with authorities. We do not break the rules, necessarily, but we attract their anger anyway.

I played chess with a friend in the hospital. I described to her the challenges I find when playing games like chess. I do not have the focus for the game, but there is more to it than that.

When I play games with other people, I think of the game as a puzzle, and I want to solve the puzzle as a team with the other person. We do not solve so that one person wins and the other loses, but that we explore what can be done within the solutions.

I enjoy Scrabble most when we do not hide our letters but work to find the highest scoring words we can make of them together.

I work best with employers who do not lead from the top down. I work best with employers who lead as a team. This is why I do poorly in traditional employment organizations.

Authorities who imagine leadership in gradations of absolute power tend to see me as disrespectful of their authority. They tend to see the organizational structure as the last word on who is right and who is wrong. Then I walk in and size up the environment, as is our survival skill, and break implied rules willy nilly and unfound their authority. So, they entrench themselves over a point that is unsustainable, and that becomes the hill they will die on. They will bring me into line if it kills them.

I rarely understand why they have made such a great fuss over so little a point [“I” rarely understand, but I think the unfused part understands more quickly than I do], and neither does the rest of the world, usually. It tends to cost them credibility.

But, I can tend to be seen as attempting a coup.

The Tech Director of a theater. The Vice President of a small company. The Vice President of the next. Countless teachers. A smaller number of Sunday School Teachers. And now at least two doctors.

There is a definite pattern. And perhaps I flatter myself too much for thinking this has not come at a price to me.

As a child, we spent the most time with two friends. R was the leader because he would whine and complain endlessly if he was not. V was second because he would not be last. We followed.

But big decisions, or new ideas, tended to come from us. R and V would argue and find no compromise, then they would turn to us.

We led from behind.

At the theater, the (second) tech director over-designed sets and had the leadership skills of a four-year-old. He announced that we would work on our traditional weekly morning off before a matinee, so we said “I” would not. Nobody worked. (Between setting up for work, and then breaking down again, we could only have completed an hour of work anyway, so why not get rested up so we could do that work the next day?)

This did not blow over well, but we were employed the next season, when the TD was not invited to return.

In maybe a less than admirable way, however, we came to recognize when an authority was ready to pick a hill to die on. Experience taught us to make one hill more enticing for battle than another, then we would give them their victory. Except their battle and victory would appear unnecessary to everyone, and they would appear unreasonable and irrational as a result.

The authority figure would then need to regain credibility and to make amends, and they would be less likely to want to battle with me afterward. Or they would search for their next hill to die on. Either way, we would appear only an innocent target of their irrational anger.

While this was not the intent at the recent hospital, it may have been the result.

But no, I know that we picked the hill for the doctor to die on. This has the signature of the unfused part all over it.

I contacted a disability rights lawyer. The doctor assumed I would try to take him to court, and we both knew that my arguments would be insufficient to carry the burden of proof in a courtroom. But I kept him focused on the lawyer until I knew he had gone far enough to warrant an internal complaint against his actions. He had behaved poorly enough for the hospital to take notice, even after the lawyer had already closed out the file. The presence of the lawyer only increased the potential threat the hospital would have been under, should they condone the doctor’s bad behavior.

I initially said it was not the intent because it was pretty far from my intent. I can piece it together after the fact, to see that this had to have, at least at some point, the unfused part’s intent.

The doctor may have squeaked out of the complaint against himself easily, but we then filed a complaint against his superiors for permitting an environment in which a doctor could commit abuses. Regardless of the burden of proof, the hospital does not want risk going to court so needlessly in the future. Plus, it looks pretty bad when a doctor is allowed to freely contravene the explicit mission and values of the statewide organization that just bought them out.

We read the environment and protected ourselves from abuse. Primarily. We also gave the hospital impetus to bolster protections for those who follow. These are good things.

But I still feel the pattern of destruction that follows me. I still feel the wounds of battle.

My life would be so much easier if this was not the pattern.

We have encountered those who can see the pattern and manage to sidestep our “traps.”

Or they have been very lucky.

And then we do not protect ourselves. We do not do good things.

In these times, we walk away only with the wounds.

I take no more pleasure in victory than in defeat.

There is always a price to be paid.

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eleemosynecdoche · 4 months

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Anyways, when people say that the Palestinian situation is complicated and nuanced, part of what they mean is "I don't know what justice looks like here".

Consider Sheikh Jarrah, which was founded in 1865 and was a Muslim-majority, but with a substantial Jewish minority, area of Jerusalem. In the 1948 war, Sheikh Jarrah fell on the Jordanian side of the line, a massacre was perpetrated against a Haganah convoy to the Hadassah hospital on Mount Scopus, and the Jewish population were ethnically cleansed. The Jordanians then gave some of the confiscated Jewish homes to Muslim and Christian Palestinian refugees who had been ethnically cleansed from West Jerusalem, under some conditions by the UNRWA which were ignored on the ground.

Following the 1967 war, Sheikh Jarrah was under Israeli control, but the Israeli government informally indicated that the UNRWA deal would be respected. However, in recent years, Israeli groups have used the Israeli court system to try and evict Palestinians from land that had been Jewish-owned before 1948, and these evictions have in turn seen the houses taken be foisted off on people who have made use of the Law of Return without having substantial assets or guaranteed employment.

So, on the micro scale, what does justice look like here? Does it mean restoring homes to dispossessed refugees? Which ones? I think that in practice, the only acceptable option, one which doesn't endorse ethnic cleansing, is a prolonged arbitration to find a settlement that works for all parties. That's on the micro scale.

But on the macro scale, things are much simpler- such arbitration will not take place, because Palestinians are formally nigh unto powerless to demand such arbitration or any measure of justice from Israel. And that is much simpler, in its way, in that justice on the macro scale, the freedom of Palestinians to engage in self-determination and have that be respected, is relatively straightforward, and it enables the thorny problems like Sheikh Jarrah to be addressed in a way that allows justice.

(I say that, but many people here believe, or claim to believe, that actually the solution is for Israelis to ethnically cleanse themselves voluntarily and peacefully following the establishment of a single Palestinian state. But I think this is an attempt to do an end-run around any of these difficulties by simply hoping for Israelis to universally concede them all, with a fantasy of this being possible without force.)

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chefshareuk · 1 month

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ChefShare is the UK's premier chef recruitment agency, catering to culinary professionals seeking employment and kitchens needing skilled chefs. Specialising in positions ranging from executive chefs to chef de parties and sous chefs, ChefShare facilitates the connection between talented chefs and the bustling hospitality industry. With an emphasis on both temporary and permanent placements, the agency prides itself on understanding the unique needs and pressures of the culinary world, ensuring the right fit for every kitchen. ChefShare is dedicated to elevating the standard of culinary excellence across the South West and the entire UK, offering a wide range of services, including permanent chef placements, relief chef services, and consultancy. Whether you're a chef exploring career opportunities or a kitchen searching for professional culinary talent, ChefShare provides a comprehensive solution, underscored by its commitment to service, quality, and the professional development of chefs.

Website: https://chef-recruitment.net

Address: 156 Newton Rd, Torquay, Devon, TQ2 7AQ

Phone Number: 01803 659 529

Contact Email ID: [email protected]

Business Hours: Monday - Friday : 09:00 am - 05:00 pm Saturday - Sunday : Closed

#Chef Recruitment Services #Chef Recruitment #Local Chef Recruitment Agency #Best Chef Recruitment Agencies

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servicestationnow · 2 years

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Hotel Maintenance Job Description

Hotel maintenance workers inspect and repair various energy systems, including heating and cooling systems, plumbing, lighting, and kitchen equipment. Apply to Hotel Maintenance jobs at Service Station. Hotel hiring is open for these positions.

#Hotel Maintenance Job Description #hospitality employment solution #staffing agency #hospitality jobs urgent hiring #hotel technician jobs near me #hotel engineer recruitment near me #maintenance engineer jobs near me

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inariter · 1 year

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Things Change-4 (Duskwood x Reader)

Masterlist:

Things Change-1

Things Change-2

Things Change-3

Things Change-4

Things Change-5

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Complications, fun little things life likes to throw your way. And you can either embrace them, find solutions, and resolve it. Or you can simply run and avoid it until it has finally hunted you down.

I’ve faced my fair share of complications. Most of the time, I’ve tried to ignore them, to convince myself that I’m fine when I’m anything but. I try to shove it so far down in some hopes it might resolve on it’s own.

Never seems to work no matter how much I try again and again.

And now...now, another one has been thrown my way.

Your heart is a funny thing, it can want so many things at once. It can sway either way, especially when it comes to something called love. Now they say if you’re going to choose between two people, always chose the second. Because if you’ve truly loved the first one, you wouldn’t have fallen for the second.

Now riddle me this, two people have walked into your life. One a wanted individual who can never truly be as open as you want them to be. Who can never be as present as you need them to be. But it’s clear they would do anything to keep you safe and secure, even if it means they risk themselves. In them, you always find a comfort unlike any other. And two, the new person, one who all you’ve heard were these bad things. But when you meet them, they’re anything but. Instead, they can listen for time on end. They make you smile and laugh more than you ever have. They make you feel alive...and they can be there. You know it’s only the start into what may be, feeling there is so much more there than meets the eye.

How I am to choose? How am I to know which one is best?

How do I not let any of this infiltrate this influence me? How can I ever focus on the case on hand?

I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore.

And nothing seems to help, only worsening it all.

Because here I stand, in the midst of this chaotic spider web. Trapped like a fly, waiting to be devoured.

Knowing that someone I’ve called a friend is out there, wrecking havoc on us all. It’s all coming together, my suspicions are only growing. It’s only a matter of time before I’m caught or he is.

It’s the only way any of this can end.

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And as the night finally quelled down, as the alcohol slowly left her system, (Y/n) could feel her mind begin to clear.

(Y/n) and Lilly able to piece together the puzzle Jake left behind for them both, now it was only a matter of time before it would come full circle. (Y/n) could see her reservations about the newcomer, understand where she came from. While she said water under the bridge, it would take time to really forgive Lilly for what she did.

And of course, how could she forget Dan, texting her out of the blue. She could imagine how worried he was and he had his own unique way of showing it. Something that warmed her heart to see, especially as they weren’t as different as they thought they were. As they were forming a relationship of their own, beyond the pressures they faced.

Leaving her with Phil, the conversations in person and online resonating deeply with her. Unsure what to think now, much less what to feel. Though she wondered if she gave anything away, if Phil might uncover her own secrets and what he may do with said information.

It was all banking on time now. To see how things may or may not unfold.

So it was as good as time as any to sort the mess of her head as everything began to simmer down for once. (Y/n) looked to her phone then to her portable evidence board. Trying to fill in the missing pieces with hypotheticals but her mind kept wandering back to the night of Jessy’s attack.

(Y/n) knew only a few people knew what Jessy was planning that night. Richy by default being the employer, Phil knew bits when he confronted her but he only knew the rumors surrounding (Y/n). The others, well Dan was in the hospital, Cleo and Thomas were breaking and entering, and Lilly didn’t want to be involved.

“It’s all coming together, Jax. It’s funny, how wary some of them were to me. But in reality, it’s a person closest to them that they should be most wary of.”

A few oddities seemed to be blatantly obvious now she had time to have fun and go see the world beyond her home and computer. It was really proved to be helpful.

“I understand why none of them were able to uncover what happened. Because none of them wanted to face the dirty truth. It’s only a matter of time now.”

Now, she had her growing suspicions and it seemed to go back to one person again and again. Whether she wanted to accept it or not was hard to say.

Especially given everything.

(Y/n) knew the others may not accept her suspicions, none of them wanted to think that one of their own could have done this. So for now, she decided to let it play out a bit longer. To see where this road is bound to take her and whether he would move again.

Maybe then, more evidence would present itself. Maybe then, they would be more open to this theory of hers.

Maybe...

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“This isn’t right, none of this is right!”

“That doesn’t matter right now. We have to look out for ourselves, (Y/n). You think they’re going to let us off the hook? You think it’ll be a slap on the wrist if we spill our guts? We aren’t dumb, little kids any more.”

“And this is the right thing? Can’t you hear yourself, right?! I mean, take a look in the mirror and tell me what you see right now.”

Gesturing at young woman, at all they were doing. For what? To cover their hides, to let someone else take the fall, so that they might have a chance at a decent life. She looked at the group, trying to find a single line of reason between them.

But none of them said a word. None of them could even look her in the eye.

“I’m not sure about you guys but I’m not living with this guilt. I refuse to let things go this way.”

“(Y/n)!”

“Come back! We’ll figure something out.”

“Please!”

Their words fell deaf on her ears as she continued pressing on. Finding her way back to the road, to the town she could barely call a home.

Not after everything, especially not after this.

And then, with a thump, things went dark.

Ring...Ring...Ring...

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The sound of her phone ringing woke the sleeping woman, for once she had an entire night of good rest. For once, she didn’t rely on her pills to guide her through a night of dreamless slumber. And for once, she didn’t feel like the waking dead.

And when (Y/n)’s eyes saw the caller id, she almost fell out of bed reaching for her phone.

“Jessy? How are you doing?”

“Better, my body still hurts but it’s not as bad as before. It’s also nice to hear your voice, (Y/n).”

“I’m glad. You know, I’m always here for you if you ever need anything.”

“I know. Though I had hoped our date would have ended better. I would have showed you around my house as we toasted to the night. Until, you know.”

“Jessy, I had a fun time. You got my mind off of everything and I can’t thank you enough.”

Though they both went silence, (Y/n) could imagine Jessy’s giddy smile gracing her face, capturing her many features just nicely.

“(Y/n), are you going to keep your promise? Are you going to take me away from this place when this is all over?”

“I am a woman of my word. I’ll take you away if you still desire it.”

“I want you to.”

“Then it shall happen, m’lady.”

She could hear that laughter that was like honey on the ears. Jessy was slowly becoming the best friend (Y/n) missed on having. While others may mistake it as more, (Y/n) knew where they both stood on these matters. At least (Y/n) hoped she did.

But if this friendship would continue growing, (Y/n) could only imagine where else it would go. How more their friendship would grow and blossom. Something she wouldn’t give up for the world.

“(Y/n), thank you. You’ve done so much for us...for me. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to repay you.”

“Don’t worry about it. It’s what any person with a heart would have done.”

“I don’t think so. Which is why I want to ask something of you. I want you to come to Duskwood, I want to see the woman who has done so much for us in person.”

“Jessy...I don’t know.”

“I guessed as much.”

“Look, I’ll think about it. There’s no promises but I’ll think about it.”

“I appreciate it. Talk later?”

“Yeah, talk later.”

Sighing, (Y/n) wondered how much longer she would have to put with this farce of hers. She knew it was only going to be a matter of time before word spread around this small town. Word of the new girl passing through and if they were smart enough, they would be able to figure it out.

And lies were no way to keep up the trust that was being built.

So she would only have to wait until the situation needed it so.

#duskwood #duskwood x reader #fanfic #mc #mc x duskwood

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walksamongstrain · 8 months

Text

I'm tired. There are days when I wish my illness wasn't a chemical imbalance but rather a missing limb. There are days I wish I could force people to live in my shoes for a week every time they dismiss what I'm going through.

Then again, I don't want anyone to suffer like I do, in silence, my illness and struggles invisible to everyone around me, but the symptoms are clear as day, there for them to throw away as laziness and excuses.

I already feel like an outsider in my own skin. Unable to control when, where, or how my body will decide to short change me, and send me into that dark space again. I see the looks of disbelief, I feel the eyes rolling even though I don't see them whenever I have to cancel plans due to my health.

Maybe if it wasn't so invisible, they would actually be able to see, to understand...

Hospitalization for cancer or amputation doesn't hold a stigma when it comes to employment if you can do the job... but it does if the illness isn't visible and is in the head.

But at the same time, I'm so ashamed of my mental health issues. Of the burden I am on others. I fear that if it were any more visible, my desire to exist would dwindle to nothing from shame alone. And for those who have the marks to show for the struggles and pain, they're judged just as harshly.

Where as an amputee or cancer patient is taken seriously when they tell you they're tired or struggling, I'm instead doubted if it's not seen, and shamed if it is.

I'm constantly told I'm the problem by those who never even try to understand, while told I'm not a problem, I'm not alone, and it's not always my fault by those who do.

So where does the truth lie?

I'm told I'm not alone. I'm told people support me. But when I look around... there's no one there. Being told you're not the only one suffering in silence from an illness no one can see isn't much of a comfort. It's like being told you're not alone by a passing boater as you tread water in the ocean with hundreds of others, trying not to drown.

How does it help knowing I'm not the only one struggling if we're all trying not to drown? No solution, just that I'm not alone?

And then you see people you looked up to, those who helped you get through your darkest times, those older than you, who lose the same battle... and you sit there and begin to wonder: does it ever get better?

#mental health #bipolar disorder #mental illness #bipolar type ii #bipolar depression #mental ill health #mens mental health #struggling #the strugge is real #invisible disability #invisible illness

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hostilecityshowdown · 1 year

Note

Shawn making chocolates to make up for a fight he started with Diesel, but it goes horribly wrong.

[ ao3 ]

It was pure coincidence that the next hotel boasted a small café-bakery as an offering of hospitality. Around thirty miles back, Shawn realised he had to do something to apologise to Diesel for the scene he caused. The trouble was deciding what to do.

Maybe it was their ongoing rise in popularity that convinced the boss to pre-book them one of the swankier hotels, something at least a full star above the typical motor lodge they could afford on their own dime. Maybe McMahon was just concerned about making a good impression on the new recruit, considering how swiftly Diesel had turned coat on WCW and jumped to the WWF only two months before. Or, perhaps, this was an attempt to dissuade Shawn, himself, from engaging in his usual illicit activities - whatever the reason, Diesel was down in the gym, taking full advantage of their accommodations. After their argument, the previous night had been rough, to say the least, with too much awkward shuffling around each other in the too-small room. Shawn was used to pushing the beds together, but Diesel didn't move the nightstand aside as he normally did. He showered, bedded down, and went to sleep, leaving Shawn standing in the ambient light of the hallway peeking under the door. Feeling like a lost puppy, he eventually crawled under his own bedspread and restless leg syndrome'd himself out of any real sleep until dawn. Diesel took off during one of the few hours his partner was unconscious, leaving a brochure opened to the gym's page on his bed to indicate where he'd gone.

Things were not good.

It was the first real fight they'd had, Shawn realised as he stared at the thick, day glow orange curtains, and he was doing a pretty bad job at making up, even though he resolved to do so en route to their current hotel. He bundled the comforter up against his chest and clutched it, sighing, racking his brain for a solution; he was determined not to let himself leave bed until a light bulb illuminated above his head. Metaphorically, at least, he thought to himself, already pacing from one end of the room to the next.

"So much for that," he grunted, tussling his hair furiously with both hands, leg bouncing every time he pivoted to pace another line. "It can't just be sincere, it's gotta look sincere. Believable, not like I got caught with my hand in the cookie jar and the thing I'm sorry for is getting caught. I gotta apologise for popping open the cookie jar in the first place."

Shawn's stomach growled. He stopped pacing, looking down at his abdomen as if it had spoken to him.

"... Cookies, huh?" That was… Perfect. That was-

“-why I need to use your kitchen, capisce?” Shawn was leaning both elbows on the counter, chin propped in one hand, chewing his gum furiously and bouncing one leg so hard he kept knocking his knee against the pastry display case. He’d spent extra time on his hair, pulled out some of his more understated jewellery, touched up his nails, even applied a little bit of makeup. Just enough to make his eyelashes more noticeable when he fluttered them pleadingly and to cover up the bruise on his temple beneath his bangs, something Shawn earned in his latest match before Diesel could interfere. It was one of the things they’d fought over, but he omitted that part of the story when he explained his dire situation to the barista working the hotel café. He was young, probably college age, with enough piercings and processed hair to make Shawn suspicious of how he scored a job in the hospitality industry but, hey, whatever, who was he to judge? He was a jacked, 6’1” dude trying to coerce this kid into letting him use his employer’s kitchen to bake cookies for a man he nearly kicked in the jaw because he was angry at himself, after all. To drive his point home, Shawn bat his eyelashes up at him and clasped his hands together pleadingly.

“I don’t know, man….” The barista’s name tag read ‘Silas.’ “I can’t let you back here.”

“And I understand that,” Shawn responded immediately, spreading his hands out, palms pointed down and fingers splayed. He nodded sympathetically. “This is really important, my livelihood- our friendship could depend on this. How ‘bout you give me the stuff and I’ll, uh, I’ll mix the batter, and you can… Cook it for me?”

After a few moments of silence that lasted an eternity for Shawn, Silas sighed, shoulder’s slumping. He shook his head and resumed cleaning the whipped cream canister tips. Poor kid, he was probably only holding this job down because he desperately needed the cash and would move onto the next shitty gig in the next shitty town as soon as he had the gas money. Shawn pulled out his wallet, licked a finger, and leafed through a few bills. “I can comp ya for it.”

“No, that’s, uh,” Silas mumbled, searching for the least offensive words. “Unprofessional. Can you wait here a sec?”

All too happy to tuck his wallet away, Shawn nodded vigorously and resumed his leaning on the countertop, practically dancing foot to foot. Silas’s eyes were dark and soft, warm, his sympathy genuine - he wasn’t just taking pity on Shawn, and he held up a single finger with chipped black nail polish before he disappeared into the kitchen behind him. When he returned, he was carrying a plastic mold and a few transparent bags. He laid them all on the counter and nudged them towards Shawn. “Here, you can use these. Bring back the molds and whatever you don’t use, please?”

“Uh, thanks?” Shawn replied, dumbfounded. He picked up the mold and turned it over in his hands, realising the shapes were… Little teddy bears holding hearts. The bags contained paper lollipop sticks, cellophane wrappers, and satin ribbons. “Hey, Silas, pal? What am I supposed to do with these?”

Silas winced before getting his face under control. A little too under control, unfortunately, his tone deadpan. “Chocolate lollipops.”

“...Chocolate lollipops.” Silas nodded. Shawn exhaled slowly and laid the mold down on the counter gently, as if fragile glass. “And how the hell am I supposed to do that?”

Looking taken aback, the teen shrugged a shoulder a first before catching himself. He held up his finger again, ducked back into the kitchen, and returned with a cookbook and notepad, the kind one would tear pages out of and clip to a turn style for a chef to snatch orders from. Placing the book on the countertop, he flipped to the index, trailing down the list until he found what he was looking for and tapped it, mumbling the page number to himself. After turning to it, he laid the notepad on the open page and leaned down so far over it Shawn thought he was going to put his head down and go to sleep. Shawn sort of wanted to do that, honestly, but instead he watched Silas copy the recipe down for him and accepted the paper when it was handed to him. Silas’s writing wasn’t sloppy, but it was sharp, with a flare that reminded Shawn of calligraphy and those moody goth albums Diesel liked. “I adjusted the recipe for you. If you follow these measurements, you won’t need another mold. Do you… Want some measuring spoons and stuff?”

–

Silas sent Shawn back to his room with a full box of stuff, including a hot plate, pot, silicone spatula, and all the ingredients. Initially, he’d tried to convince Shawn to buy the foodstuffs himself, but the fifty dollar bill Shawn somehow coerced him to accept changed his mind. Triumphant, Shawn fumbled with his key until he managed to open the door and tumble into the room, setting up his workspace on the window sill and nightstand in a near-frenzy. The analogue clock clattered to the floor, hotel notepad dropped behind the nightstand, the curtains haphazardly shoved aside. He’d left the do-not-disturb sign on the doorknob and hoped Diesel would heed the warning. Standing back with his hands on his hips, Shawn tapped his foot and assessed his battle station.

It looked perfect. He had already greased the mold and laid the sticks in their little slots, tossing the rest of the cooking spray and sticks on the bed. Beside the mold was powdered sugar, four cellophane wrappers, and four strips of ribbon. To the left were measuring cups, red, off-white, and dark melting chocolates, three metal pots, three piping bags, a pair of scissors, and a jug of water, all lined up on the windowsill. Against the wall left of the window, taking the place of the bedside clock was the plugged in hotplate, pot, three spatulas, and a chocolate thermometer. He couldn’t find any Fun-Tac, so he stuck the recipe to the wood paneling above the hotplate with his chewed gum. Shawn felt pretty damn proud of himself for laying everything out in a mildly coherent order. It took him a really long time, and he had to tie his hair back away from his neck. He almost broke a sweat there.

Pouring water into the pot and a bowl over it, then flipping the hotplate’s switch to ‘on,’ Shawn measured out somewhere around how much of the red melting chocolate was necessary and stood in front of the double boiler, staring. He shuffled from foot to foot. It was too quiet in the room, actually, and he crouched in front of the television set to fiddle with the dials, one hand carefully balancing the metal measuring cup. It was only when he heard the hotplate hissing that he remembered he was boiling water.

“Uh-oh-” Shawn bolted upright, lunging across the room to turn the heat off. It was a miracle he didn’t spill any of the chocolate discs. Without checking the temperature, he poured the chocolate in. It instantly melted into a dark red mess and he snatched up one of the spatulas, stirring furiously, but it kept clumping. “C’mon. What the hell?”

He tried to pick up the bowl but jerked his hand away, shaking his fingers furiously, the spatula dropped in the bowl. He didn’t have any oven mitts. “Ow. Damn, what was that for?” Shawn was almost whining as he carefully lifted the spatula, half the red chocolate stuck to it. It looked sort of… Melty, the silicone bending, looking soft. When he tried to give the muddy chocolate a stir, some of the spatula swirled into it. He was going to have to give Silas way more than a fifty to make up for this, he realised, jogging to the bathroom to grab a few hand towels. He emptied the whole affair into the trash bin and tried again, this time reading the recipe closely and actually measuring the temperature of the bowl before adding the chocolate. The thermometer was held with one hand, the other stirring with a more solid spatula- it took him a few tries to figure out which hand should do what, and more than once he nearly checked the spatula and stirred with the thermometer. Behind him, the television was playing an episode of Family Feud, volume too low to make anything out.

“This is harder than it looks. That punk actually knows how to make these?” The Heartbreak Kid was muttering to himself, consulting the recipe again as he removed his earrings and threw them on the bed. “Looks like… I cool it down a little bit and put it in the piping bag next. That’s doable.”

By the time he looked down again, the chocolate was already starting to harden at the edges. He gave it a quick stir before pouring it into one of the piping bags, remembering his mother doing something similar when she’d make butter cookies on Saturday nights. Something about the memory made him miss Marty. Shaking the thought off, he snipped the bottom of the piping bag a little too wide, shuffled to the mold, and tried to be meticulous about filling the hearts the bears held. He overfilled the first one, nailed the second and third, and didn’t have enough chocolate for the fourth. Damn. “Big deal, Diesel wouldn’t eat four of these, anyway.”

He tossed the empty bag in the garbage, set the bowl aside, and realised how exhausting this whole process was when he looked at the dirty spatula. Next up was the white chocolate, so he’d use the clean spatula for that, but reuse the dirty one for the regular chocolate. The brown should cancel out the red, right? The process went more smoothly this time around, Shawn even getting the ratios right when filling in the little bows around the bears’ necks. Somehow everything went wrong the second he thought he had everything under control; Shawn forgot to check the temperature before adding the last batch of chocolate, which he suspected he measured wrong due to misreading the numbers, and he had to snatch the bowl up and stir like his life depended on it. The chocolate smoothed out thankfully and the spatula didn’t melt, but it was way too much, and when he glanced at the mold he realised he hadn’t let the white chocolate cool enough before pouring it. Only the last bear’s bow wasn’t deformed, and the first bear’s heart had expanded during hardening and oozed into other portions of the mold.

The chocolate in his hands started to harden before it was all melted and he got it back on the heat, trying to get into the rhythm of stirring and temperature checking again, but he kept forgetting the number and he was probably stirring too much and this was way, way too much chocolate and he was going to get Silas fired and-

A knock on the door made Shawn jump right as he was taking the chocolate off the heat. Luckily, he was able to make it tumble out of his hand towards the window sill, and somehow the bowl landed upright with a loud clang.

“Shawn?” Diesel’s voice came from the other side of the door. Shit. Shit, shit- “I’m coming in.”

“Wait-” Diesel didn’t wait, unlocking the door even before he spoke, and froze when he saw Shawn’s makeshift kitchen. Initially, his expression was vacant. Even with his sunglasses, Shawn could tell he was trying to process this, and Shawn didn’t know what else to do but stand there clutching the red-and-brown chocolate covered spatula, staring at Diesel helplessly. He was vaguely aware that the chocolate might harden before he could get it into the mold but wasn’t sure what to do about that. Diesel blinked. Shawn cleared his throat, voice strained, a little higher than he would’ve liked. “I’m, uh, sorry.”

“For… What? Are you making d-”

“No! God, no,” Shawn barked out a forced laugh and ran a hand through his hair, rocking on his heels. He felt sweat run down his forehead and his face flush. His face couldn’t decide if it wanted to smile or grimace. “No. I’m making chocolate suckers.”

“...Okay?” Diesel inched into the room almost cautiously and closed the door behind him, moving like Shawn’s delicious confectionery concoctions were wild animals that would leap out of the mold and maul him. Maybe there was something to that, with how bad Shawn screwed them up. “And you’re sorry for making chocolate lollipops?”

“Yeah- no- hold on-” Suddenly remembering the chocolate again, Shawn almost dropped the spatula and whirled around, snatching up the bowl and furiously shoveling the swiftly hardening chocolate into the cavities, foregoing the piping bag altogether. More accurately, he dumped the contents of the bowl onto the mold, positive he didn’t measure correctly as he watched the chocolate cover the entire surface even after filling out the rest of the bears. Some of the chocolate had hardened, creating little lumps here and there. Defeated, Shawn heaved a frustrated sigh and tossed the bowl and spatula on the windowsill. “Fuck.”

“Shawn,” his partner’s voice came from right behind him, fingers grazing his arm. Diesel spoke so softly Shawn almost cried, stomping his foot before pivoting on it, hands fluttering up Diesel’s arms, over his chest and up, hands settling on his neck. He felt jittery. He was so tired. He could run a marathon and sleep for a week at the same time, and he wanted nothing more than to twist Diesel’s arm until his elbow dislocated, except maybe drag Diesel into bed- “Shawn.”

“Whuh?” Shawn blinked, hard. His nose felt runny, his throat tight, face hot. He sniffed, blinking back tears and inhaling sharply. His chest felt like an airplane cabin that forgot to depressurise. At some point Diesel had pushed his shades into his hair and was looking at him with concern, hands hovering just under Shawn’s elbows. He was trying not to cringe at how hard Shawn was rubbing his thumbs against the sides of his neck, but when Shawn jerked his hands away, Diesel quickly clapped them back against his skin with his own hands. The leather of his gloves was so soft. It made Shawn want to cry. “Yeah?”

“You’re okay. Tell me what’s going on?”

“I screwed it up,” Shawn laughed. It sounded wet. Gross. “I screwed up, okay? I’m sorry, I’m an impulsive asshole and I never should’ve kicked you or got in your face and you didn’t do anything wrong, I’m just an asshole, and I’m supposed to be making it up to you and apologising but I’m fucking stupid and can’t read and-”

“Whoa,” Diesel squeezed Shawn’s hands, fingers pressing into his knuckles. He slid his grip down Shawn’s arms slowly, hovering over the junction of his arm and torso only briefly before grasping him more firmly, hands coming to rest over Shawn’s waist. He squeezed again and Shawn shuffled closer involuntarily. He was learning he loved when Diesel held him more than almost anything else in the world, maybe even more than rhinestones and gold camera flashes and- “Pump the breaks, Heartbreak. Let me get this straight: You’re making chocolate lollipops to apologise to me?”

Feeling a pathetic wave of shame, Shawn nodded. He couldn’t look at Diesel’s face anymore, laser focused on his Adam's apple. Diesel didn’t acknowledge it if he noticed.

“Okay. Thanks. I forgive you.” What? Shawn frowned, trying to process that. No, that wasn’t right. What? Diesel kept talking though, not giving him any time to parse what he was saying out. “And you’re making these lollipops, but it’s not going well.”

“Silas wrote the whole recipe for me and he gave me all this crap and I really, really should’ve just- just bought my own, because he’s not supposed to, but his handwriting is so stupid and fancy and-”

“Who the hell is Silas?”

“The barista, Diese!” Shawn stomped a foot and pat Diesel’s neck firmly, glaring, suddenly indigent. He could feel a tension headache forming as his eyebrows furrowed and a scowl threatened to twist his face. “Downstairs, in the- the bakery- thing! I bribed him to give me his shit and he copied the recipe for me and I fucked it up and now what am I supposed to do, huh?”

“Okay,” Diesel mumbled, squeezing Shawn’s waist again. Shawn’s leg was jittering, a staccato much unlike his stomps when tuning up the band. He didn’t like that but didn’t have time to dwell on it, thoughts coming to an abrupt halt when Diesel wrapped his big arms around him and squeezed. Shawn’s arms wrapped around his neck, Diesel’s stubble scratching against his cheek. Diesel huffed, the sound muffled by Shawn’s shoulder. “Alright. Let the chocolate cool and we’ll pry the lollipops out, okay?”

‘Kay,” Shawn whispered, voice cracking. He leaned all his weight against Diesel and played with the ends of his hair. He hadn’t gelled it back, his bangs parted in the middle, and the back was wavy but flipping up and out. It was soft, maybe a little frizzy from excessive flat iron use. That was Shawn’s fault, though. They stayed like that for a while, Shawn gradually gaining awareness of the Family Feud audio still quietly playing in the background. He muttered without realising he was even doing it until it was too late to stop himself. “Cowboys.”

“What?” Baffled, Diesel drew back from their extended hug, mindfully shifting Shawn’s weight back onto his feet. Shawn pointed at the television behind Diesel’s back as the speakers dinged, the word ‘COWBOYS’ displaying on the board. Forty-seven people had responded to the survey with ‘cowboys’, Diesel noticed as he turned around. He hadn’t even realised the game show was on. “Cowboys.”

“Cowboys,” Shawn echoed, nodding sagely. “‘Name something that Texas is famous for.’ Cowboys.”

“...Cowboys,” Diesel said again. He snapped out of his trance and turned back to Shawn with a raised eyebrow, patting his shoulder. “Why don’t we pop those suckers out?”

“You wanna help?” A grin threatened to split Shawn’s face, his mood deftly swinging upwards. Energy coursed through him again and he didn’t notice how tired Diesel looked as he spun, picking up the filled mold and holding it out to Diesel. Some of the chocolate had dripped over the edge during hardening, creating a single slab of chocolate with four sticks embedded in it. Shawn beamed despite this. ”I made them myself. D’you have a knife? We can carve them out.”

“I’ll get a knife,” his bodyguard assured him, examining the chocolate. “Wait here.”

While Diesel meticulously carved the chocolate bears out, Shawn laid on the bed, kicking his legs and flipping through the SkyMall catalogue he’d stolen from the flight he took to meet Diesel the first time. He hadn’t gotten the chance to look at it before then, and he tossed it onto the opposite bed when Diesel held up the four misshapen, heart-clutching bears at Shawn, freed from their chocolatey prison. Shawn rolled off the bed and landed on his feet, knees bent, springing to Diesel’s side in a motion akin to a leap. “Mission success.”

“These look great, big daddy.” He whistled, plucking only the best bear from Diesel’s hand and spinning it around. “Wrap ‘em.”

Diesel snorted and handed Shawn a second lollipop, along with two of the wrappers. Diesel was significantly more graceful when fitting his wrappers over his pops, Shawn struggling to hold both of them at once and muscling through it. He followed Diesel’s lead and twisted the ends around the sticks, apprehensively looking at the ribbons Diesel held out to him but not making any move to take them. After a few seconds, his partner took back the bear he handed Shawn, trading it for a singular, pink satin ribbon. Shawn beamed, leaned over the lollipops to give Diesel’s cheek an almost comical smooch, and went to work. He ended up having to sit down and wedge the stick between his thighs to tie the ribbon on prettily enough. By the time it was ready to present to Diesel, the big man had already tied off his three ribbons, sticks clutched between the fingers of his left hand. Oh.

Uncertain, Shawn held the lollipop out, brought it back towards himself, then fully extended his arm towards Diesel. The bottom of the stick was pointing at him. “Sorry. For being such a jerk.”

“Eh, you’re my jerk.” Accepting the lollipop, Diesel laid all four of them on the windowsill and opened his arms instead. Shawn didn’t hesitate, barreling into Diesel so hard he nearly toppled his chair backwards. “Oof. Launch a torpedo at me next time, why dontcha?”

Shawn laughed and covered Diesel’s face in obnoxious kisses, ignoring his protests.

“Fired?” Silas repeated, taking the notice from the hotel owner. She crossed her arms over her chest and frowned at him sternly, body language saying ‘I knew hiring you was a bad idea’ despite her silence. He scratched the back of his head, shrugged, and figured this would give him more time to focus on his band, at least. “That’s fair. Do I get comped for my PTO?”

#[ colour commentary ]#big daddy cool diesel #the heartbreak kid #[ voyager ]#:3c #[ seven ]#[ slater ]#mango provided the prompt but this one is for u guys. enjoy some of the only non-horror content i've been able to write for these two #featuring a special guy that i won't tag because i want it to be a surprise for mango #123kid #[ mango madness ]#[ requests ]#long post

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aquitainequeen · 2 years

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Homelessness has long been accepted as an inevitable fact of modern city life. But now a strikingly simple policy, first put forward by a psychologist in the 1990s, is making a dramatic impact in helping to all-but eradicate rough sleeping in cities around the world. The crux of the policy? Simply provide homes to people, without any preconditions. Then provide support tailored to their needs.

Since the US city of Houston adopted it a decade ago – when it had the sixth largest homeless population in the country – the number of people sleeping rough has dropped by 63 per cent. Utah in the US, and Vienna in Austria, have seen similarly transformative results. Helsinki in Finland is on track to entirely eradicate street homelessness by 2025.

These figures are particularly notable given that they are outliers among a much bleaker picture. Since the financial crash of 2008, homelessness has risen exponentially across the western world. In Britain, it has increased by 165 per cent since 2010.

While politicians in places like Hungary and the city of Tennessee in the US have responded by criminalising rough sleeping – resulting in a ballooning of their prison populations – others have taken a more radically progressive approach.

Called Housing First, the policy does exactly what it says on the tin: provides homes to people without preconditions, then wraparound support tailored to their needs. It sounds almost childishly simple, yet it is antithetical to the status quo. Most local authorities in the US and the UK operate what is known as the staircase model. Unlike Housing First, staircase expects people to be sober, engaging with support services, seeking employment, and have completed courses on managing a tenancy. Only then can one be considered housing ready.

Housing First is the brainchild of Dr Sam Tsemberis, a clinical psychologist who came up with the idea in 1992 after he saw patients he’d treated at Bellevue psychiatric hospital roaming New York City’s streets.

Since Houston first trialled it in 2012, they have moved more than 25,000 people from tents and park benches into houses. When they began, it would have taken a homeless veteran (one of the categories tracked by the government) 720 days and 76 bureaucratic steps to move from the streets into housing. Today the wait is just 32 days.