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mostlysignssomeportents · 5 months ago

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All bets are off

When unions are outlawed, only outlaws will have unions. Unions don't owe their existence to labor laws that protect organizing activities. Rather, labor laws exist because once-illegal unions were formed in the teeth of violent suppression, and those unions demanded – and got – labor law.

Bosses have hated unions since the start, and they've really hated laws protecting workers. Dress this up in whatever self-serving rationale you want – "the freedom to contract," or "meritocracy" – it all cashes out to this: when workers bargain collectively, value that would otherwise go to investors and executives goes to the workers.

I'm not just talking about wages here, either. If an employer is forced – by a union, or by a labor law that only exists because of union militancy – to operate a safe workplace, they have to spend money on things like fire suppression, PPE, and paid breaks to avoid repetitive strain injuries. In the absence of some force that corrals bosses into providing these safety measures, they can use that money to pay themselves, and externalize the cost of on-the-job injuries to their workers.

The cost and price of a good or service is the tangible expression of power. It is a matter of politics, not economics. If consumer protection agencies demand that companies provide safe, well-manufactured goods, if there are prohibitions on price-fixing and profiteering, then value shifts from the corporation to its customers.

Now, if labor has few rights and consumers have many rights, then bosses can pass their consumer-side losses on to their workers. This is the Walmart story, the Amazon story: cheap goods paid for with low wages and dangerous working conditions. Likewise, if consumer rights are weak but labor rights are strong, then bosses can pass their costs onto their customers, continuing to take high profits by charging more. This is the story of local gig-work ordinances like NYC's, which guaranteed a minimum wage to delivery drivers – restaurateurs responded by demanding the right to add a surcharge to their bills:

https://table.skift.com/2018/06/22/nyc-surcharge-debate/

But if labor and consumer groups act in solidarity, then they can operate as a bloc and bosses and investors have to eat shit. Back in 2017, the pilots' union for American Airlines forced their bosses into a raise. Wall Street freaked out and tanked AA's stock. Analysts for big banks were outraged. Citi's Kevin Crissey summed up the situation perfectly, in a fuming memo: "This is frustrating. Labor is being paid first again. Shareholders get leftovers":

https://www.vox.com/new-money/2017/4/29/15471634/american-airlines-raise

Limiting the wealth of the investor class also limits their power, because money translates pretty directly into political power. This sets up a virtuous cycle: the less money the investor class has to spend on political projects, the more space there is for consumer- and labor-protection laws to be enacted and enforced. As labor and consumer law gets more stringent, the share of the national income going to people who make things, and people who use the things they make, goes up – and the share going to people who own things goes down.

Seen this way, it's obvious that prices and wages are a political matter, not an "economic" one. Orthodox economists maintain the pretense that they practice a kind of physics of money, discovering the "natural," "empirical" way that prices and wages move. They dress this up with mumbo-jumbo like the "efficient market hypothesis," "price discovery," "public choice," and that old favorite, "trickle-down theory." Strip away the doublespeak and it boils down to this: "Actually, your boss is right. He does deserve more of the value than you do":

https://pluralistic.net/2024/09/09/low-wage-100/#executive-excess

Even if you've been suckered by the lie that bosses have a legal "fiduciary duty" to maximize shareholder returns (this is a myth, by the way – no such law exists), it doesn't follow that customers or workers share that fiduciary duty. As a customer, you are not legally obliged to arrange your affairs to maximize the dividends paid by to investors in your corporate landlord or by the merchants you patronize. As a worker, you are under no legal obligation to consider shareholders' interests when you bargain for wages, benefits and working conditions.

The "fiduciary duty" lie is another instance of politics masquerading as economics: even if bosses bargain for as big a slice of the pie as they can get, the size of that slice is determined by the relative power of bosses, customers and workers.

This is why bosses hate unions. It's why the scab presidency of Donald Trump has waged all-out war on unions. Trump just effectively shuttered the National Labor Relations Board, unilaterally halting its enforcement actions and investigations. He also illegally fired one of the Democratic NLRB board members, leaving the agency with too few board members to take any new actions, meaning that no unions can be recognized – indeed, the NLRB can't do anything – for the foreseeable future:

https://www.npr.org/2025/01/28/nx-s1-5277103/nlrb-trump-wilcox-abruzzo-democrats-labor

Trump also fired the NLRB's outstanding General Counsel, Jennifer Abruzzo, who was one of the stars of the Biden administration, who promulgated rules that decisively tilted the balance in favor of labor:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/06/goons-ginks-and-company-finks/#if-blood-be-the-price-of-your-cursed-wealth

Trump is playing Grinch here – he's descended upon Whoville to take all the Christmas decorations, in the belief that these are the source of Christmas. But the Grinch was wrong (and so is Trump): Christmas was in the heart of the Whos, and the tinsel and baubles were the expression of that Christmas spirit. Likewise, labor rights come from labor organizing, not the other way around.

Labor rights were enshrined in federal law in 1935, with the National Labor Relations Act. Bosses hated – and hate – the NLRA. 12 years later, they passed the Taft-Hartley Act, which substantially gutted the NLRA. Most notably, Taft-Hartley bans "sympathy strikes" – when unions walk out in support of one another. Sympathy strikes are a hugely powerful way for workers to claim value away from bosses and investors, which is why bosses got rid of them.

But even then, bosses who were honest with themselves would admit that they preferred life under the NLRA to life before it. Remember: labor militancy created the NLRA, not the other way around. When workers didn't have the legal means to organize, they organized by illegal means. When they didn't have legal ways of striking, they struck illegally. The result was pitched battles, even bloodbaths, as cops beat and even killed labor organizers. Bosses hired thugs who committed mass murder – literally. In 1913, strikebreakers working for the Calumet and Hecla Mining Company started a stampede during a union Christmas party that killed 73 people, including many copper miners' children:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Italian_Hall_disaster

Workers didn't take this lying down. Violence was met with violence. Bombs went off outside factories and stately mansions. There was gunfire and arson. Bosses had to hire armed guards to escort them as they scurried between their estates and their fancy parties and their executive offices. The country was in a state of near-perpetual chaos.

The NLRA created a set of rules for labor/boss negotiations – rules that helped workers claim a bigger slice of the pie without blood in the streets. But the NLRA also had benefits for bosses: unions were obliged to play by its rules, if they wanted to reap its benefits. The NLRA didn't just put a ceiling over boss power – it also put a ceiling over worker militancy. Von Clausewitz says that "war is politics by other means," which implies that politics are war by other means. The alternative to politics isn't capitulation, it's war.

Trump has torn up the rules to the labor game, but that doesn't mean the game ends. That just means there are no rules.

The labor movement has many great organizer/writers, but few can match the incredible Jane McAlevey, who died of cancer last summer (rest in power). In her classic A Collective Bargain, McAlevey describes her organizer training, from a tradition that went back to the days before the National Labor Relations Act:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/04/23/a-collective-bargain/

McAlevey was very clear that labor law owes its existence to union power, not the other way around. She explains very clearly that union organizers invented labor law after they invented unions, and that unions can (and indeed, must) exist separately from government agencies that are charged with protecting labor law. But she goes farther: in Collective Bargain, McAlevey describes how the 2019 LA Teachers' Strike didn't just win all the wage and benefits demands of the teachers, but also got the school district to promise to put a park or playground near every school in the system, and got a ban on ICE agents harassing parents at the school gates.

This wildly successful strike forged bonds among teachers, and between teachers and their communities. These teachers went on to run a political get-out-the-vote campaign in the 2020 elections and elected two Democratic reps to Congress and secured the Dems' majority. McAlevey contrasted the active way good unions involve workers as participants with the thin, anemic way that the Democratic Party engages with supporters – solely by asking them for money in a stream of frothing, clickbait text messages. As McAlevey wrote, "Workplace democracy is a training ground for true national democracy."

Militant labor doesn't just protect labor rights – it protects human rights. Remember: MLK, Jr was assassinated while campaigning for union janitors in Memphis. LA teachers ended ICE sweeps at the school gates. Librarian unions are leading the fight against book bans.

The good news is that public opinion has swung wildly in favor of unions over the past decade. More people want to join unions than at any time in generations. More people support unions that at any time in generations.

The bad news is that union leadership fucking suuuuuuuucks. As Hamilton Nolan writes, union bosses are sitting on vast, heretofore unseen warchests of cash, and they just experienced a four-year period of governmental support for unions unheard of since the Carter administration, and they did fuck all with that opportunity:

https://www.hamiltonnolan.com/p/confirmed-unions-squandered-the-biden

Big unions have effectively stopped trying to organize new workers, even when workers beg them for help forming a union. Union organizing budgets are so small as to be indistinguishable from zero. Despite the record number of workers who want to be in a union, the number of workers who are in a union actually fell during the Biden years.

Indeed, some union bosses actually campaigned for Trump, a notorious scab. Teamsters boss Sean O'Brien spoke at the fucking RNC, a political favor that Trump repaid by killing the NLRB and every labor enforcement action and investigation in the country. Nice one, O'Brien. See you in hell:

https://www.theatlantic.com/politics/archive/2024/08/teamster-union-trump/679513/

Union bosses squandered a historical opportunity to build countervailing power. Now, Trump's stormtroopers are rounding up workers with the goal of illegally deporting them. Fascism is on the rise. Labor and fascism are archenemies. Organized labor has always been the biggest threat to fascism, every time it has reared its head. That's why fascists target unions first. Union bosses cost us an organized force that could effectively defend our friends and neighbors from Trump's deportation stormtroopers:

https://prospect.org/blogs-and-newsletters/tap/2025-01-28-trumps-lawbreaking-also-aimed-at-workers/

Not every union boss is a scab like O'Brien. Shawn Fain, head of the UAW, won an historic strike against all three of the Big Three automakers, and made sure that the new contracts all ran out in 2028, and called on other unions to do the same, so that the country could have a general strike in 2028 without violating the Taft-Hartley Act (Fain was operating on the now-dead assumption that unions had to play by the rules):

https://pluralistic.net/2024/11/11/rip-jane-mcalevey/#organize

A general strike isn't just a strike for workers' rights. Under Trump, a general strike is a strike against Trumpism and all its horrors: kids in cages, forced birth, trans erasure, climate accelerationism – the whole fucking thing.

A general strike would build the worker power to occupy the Democratic Party and force it to stand up for the American people against oligarchy, rather than meekly capitulating to fascism (and fundraising), which is all they know how to do anymore:

https://pluralistic.net/2025/01/10/smoke-filled-room-where-it-happens/#dinosaurs

But before we can occupy the Dems, we have to occupy the unions. We need union bosses who are committed to signing up every worker who wants workplace democracy, and unionizing every workplace in spite of the NLRB, not with its help. We need to go back to our roots, when there were no rules.

That's the world Trump made. We need to make him regret that decision.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2025/01/29/which-side-are-you-on/#strike-three-yer-out

#pluralistic #labor #nlra #nlrb #jennifer abruzzo #national labor relations board #national labor relations act #unions #organize #general strike #general strike 2028

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jungwnies · 2 months ago

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f1 grid | juno positions

୨ৎ : featuring : all drivers on the grid ୨ৎ : synopsis (requested by anon) : every driver and which juno position from sabrina carpenter's tour suits them >.>

୨ৎ : genre : suggestive... kinda smutty idk (i don't really write smut anymore so this is a rare one...) obv some are the same positions.. i couldn't sit through an 8 minute video of all the juno positions LMFAO ୨ৎ : tws : suggestive ୨ৎ : word count : 597

୨ৎ masterlist ୨ৎ

ᡣ𐭩 a/n : i couldn't help but post this so soon LMFAO it was such a fun request i couldn't leave it sitting there waiting to be queued ... too good ty anon <3

ʚ・red bull

max verstappen - standing doggy no time for nonsense, just efficient execution. aggressive, locked-in, and somehow still makes you feel completely taken care of. terrifyingly good at everything, including this.

yuki tsunoda - cowgirl tiny menace. gives full chaos and control. jokes around, then ruins you. he’s in charge, not you. don’t be fooled by the baby face.

ʚ・mercedes

george russell - legs up missionary textbook performance, but with precision and tenderness. prepped for this moment like it was a championship strategy. probably asks if you’re comfortable mid-way through.

kimi antonelli - bridge young but scarily talented. pulls it off like it’s nothing and casually shrugs after. doesn’t even realize how hot he looks doing it.

ʚ・ferrari

charles leclerc - reverse cowgirl quiet in interviews, dramatic on the radio. gives you “hopeless romantic who pretends not to care” energy. lets you take the lead but still makes it cinematic somehow.

lewis hamilton - spooning luxury. candles. playlist curated to the vibe. everything is intentional, soft, and meaningful. says “i got you” and means it.

ʚ・mclaren

lando norris - ballet dancer starts off laughing, then surprises you with full performance energy. twirls you around like it’s a rom-com, then bites your neck for fun.

oscar piastri - tucked missionary he’s calm, quiet, and absolutely calculated. very into the technical details. doesn’t make a fuss but has you clutching the sheets like ??? how???

ʚ・aston martin

fernando alonso - squatting cowgirl age is just a number. balances like a yoga master, keeps eye contact, and somehow turns it into a motivational speech halfway through.

lance stroll - one-leg-up missionary chill, not flashy, but shockingly good at this exact position. leans into it casually. acts like it’s nothing but has you seeing stars.

ʚ・williams

alex albon - kneeling oral sweetest boy alive. loves making you happy more than anything. says “tell me what you like” with the softest voice. gold star giver.

carlos sainz - doggy classic. passionate. in control. the man thrives under pressure and it shows. focused, intense, and somehow turns this into a performance worthy of applause. probably whispers something in spanish that short-circuits your brain. makes you feel like it was your idea the whole time.

ʚ・haas

ollie bearman - one-leg spoon baby boy energy. tries his best. a little shy but committed. accidentally makes it romantic. 10/10 would comfort you with snacks after.

esteban ocon - missionary starts off shy, but the moment kicks in and suddenly it’s like he’s been rehearsing this in the mirror. soft-spoken, maybe even a little awkward beforehand, but he’s determined to prove himself. will absolutely debrief the whole experience afterward like it's a post-race interview.

ʚ・racing bulls

liam lawson - splits unsuspecting menace. looks like he’d hesitate, then surprises you with flexibility and full commitment. asks afterward if he did good. he did.

isack hadjar - the arch absolutely shows off. confident, slightly cocky, but backs it up. makes eye contact while doing it and smirks when you blush.

ʚ・alpine

pierre gasly - reverse cowgirl he’s not doing the work — you are. but he’s there for the view, hands behind his head, sunglasses still on indoors. makes smug comments the entire time like, “yeah, just like that.” fully vibing while somehow still running the show. would wink at you mid-movement and say something unhinged in french.

jack doohan - cowgirl confident in theory, flustered in practice. lets you take the lead but lowkey panics when you actually do. tries to act chill but you can literally feel his heart pounding through his chest. afterward, he’s all pink-cheeked and smiley, like “that was great… did I do okay?” you reassure him. he did amazing.

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gloomwitchwrites · 5 months ago

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Hi! I would love an imagine for the boys that includes the reader getting held captive and they rescue her, maybe a little Angst to Fluff?

Love your work btw ❤️❤️❤️❤️

Only a little angst? Friend, I may have gone and made this more angsty with just a sprinkle of fluff. I can't help myself sometimes. So, fair warning to y'all, that it is angst-ridden with a bit of fluff at the end of each. Sorry?

For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE

Task Force 141 x Reader (can be read as gn!reader)

Content & Warnings (MDNI): angst, canon-typical violence, swearing, reunions, light fluff

Word Count: 1.7k

ao3 // main masterlist // imagines & what if masterlist

John Price

John’s heart is thunderous, beating so loudly it’s like a bass drum in his ears.

To be successful, to execute this rescue with precision, he needs to remain calm, to be the leader he knows he is. It’s not a lack of confidence, but a growing dread that he might be too late. There is no room to show fear—to let everyone in on how important this is.

Because it is important.

You are important.

Not just to the team but to him. Maybe the team knows. Laswell likely does, but the boys might not. Sure, they have suspicions, but you and John have always been discreet, have always tried to keep the relationship between the two of you private.

Now, with the mission ahead, all those secrets and subversion might overflow. Become known to everyone.

John breathes in through his nostrils, and exhales through his mouth. Box breathing. It’s helping. But only a little.

“We’re ready, Captain,” says Gaz, crouching beside him, gaze scanning the land before them.

There’s open ground and then a building. Someone stands guard near the door, head on a swivel. Soap silently appears next to Kyle, taking a knee. Simon is somewhere in the dark, ready to snipe every enemy in sight before they enter the building.

Price nods, and then speaks into the walkie. “You’re clear, Ghost.”

“Copy.”

Seconds later, the man guarding the door jerks like he’s been electrified before crumpling silently to the ground. A few more moments and a body plummets from the top of the building, landing with a sickening crunch.

“No signs of life,” comes Simon’s voice over the comms.

Soap snorts. “Cheeky bastard.”

John wants to join in, but you’re consuming his every thought. It’s only been twenty-four hours since you were taken, yet it feels like an eternity.

“Let’s move,” murmurs John.

They advance in unison with Simon emerging from the dark to bring up the rear. Entering the building is easy, but they’ll have to go slowly and silently inside. Up close and personal is the way to go in a place like this. One wrong move might spook the rest.

Kyle and Soap take the front, breaking necks and slicing throats. It’s clean. Efficient.

John signals with his hand and everyone shifts down a different hall, heading toward the internal bunker. That is where they’re holding you, along with other hostages.

A few more quick deaths and then John is kicking in the door.

There are screams. Shouts. Rapid gunfire.

John is already searching, seeking your face.

“Targets are down, sir,” shouts Soap.

There are cages. Rows of them. He searches each one, looking at every face.

“Contact base and tell them we need civilian pickup,” says John.

“On it,” answers Kyle, already leaning his head to the side to speak into his radio.

John searches. And searches.

“John.” Your voice cracks but it’s soothing. Soft.

He murmurs your name, going down on one knee, reaching through the bars to grasp your hand.

“I’m here,” he murmurs.

“I knew you’d come,” you reply, smiling. “I knew.”

With his back turned to the rest of his team, John silently mouths three little words. “I love you.”

John "Soap" MacTavish

Johnny is on the mission, but he isn’t. Not really.

He’s watching it all on monitors at a safe distance. Others are taking the lead. Others are executing the mission. And Johnny must step aside because while he is physically capable, he’s too emotionally invested.

Too explosive. Too irate. Too volatile.

But this is about you. Of course he’s going to be angry.

Yet here he is pacing, gaze glued on the screens, listening to the chatter. Every muscle is primed for movement, ready for action, but Johnny cannot expel the energy. It’s building—shifting into anxiety.

“What’s taking so bloody long?” he growls.

Laswell glances over her shoulder at him. Though she appears calm, Johnny notices a small flicker of sympathy.

“They’re returning,” she replies. “Waiting on e-t-a.”

Johnny’s pacing worsens.

“You’re going to wear a path in the concrete,” says Laswell.

Johnny opens his mouth to reply, but the sound of helicopter blades reaches his ears. It’s not loud, just a hint of sound, but as it increases, his heartrate spikes.

Laswell doesn’t have to say anything. Johnny is already moving, rushing out to the landing pad, watching as the helicopter approaches and descends. The seconds pass in small eternities. Nikolai is in the pilot’s seat, and it is Captain Price who opens the sliding door just as the helicopter lands. Johnny is rushing forward, almost throwing himself inside in his search for you.

“Johnny.” It’s Simon, his large hand coming down on Johnny’s shoulder.

Johnny wants to tell him to move, to get the hell out of his way, but it is your voice that Johnny hears. As the helicopter blades slow, the air calms, and it is easier to understand—to recognize your familiar tone that Johnny has missed for all these days.

There’s a blanket around your shoulders and a sunken quality to your features that speaks to malnutrition. Other than that, you appear fine. Unharmed.

Johnny, no longer impeded by Simon’s hand, moves toward you, coming down on one knee. You immediately reach for him, and Johnny takes your hand. You’re cold, and it pains him. Placing both of your hands between his, he brings them to his lips, brushing kisses along the knuckles, attempting to warm them with his own heat.

You bend forward, and as Johnny glances up, you rest your forehead against his.

The fight is over. You’re here.

Simon "Ghost" Riley

There is a hunger in Simon.

Like the snake, he will consume his prey headfirst.

It is eerie how calm he is—how focused. A mission is a mission is a mission—until it isn’t. Until there is no target, no capture or kill, no sense of duty. This is all primal rage boiled down into a thick, viscus consistency. It is invisible, smeared over Simon’s eyes, drenches the world around him into a grey haze.

Simon could be the rapid dog let loose from a broken chain. Poisoned saliva. Bared teeth. Prone to biting.

The knife in his hand is bright and hot and burning. It itches for blood, for Simon to take these fuckers down a peg. He has it in him, but all Simon needs from his superior officer is the affirmative. And then, like the ghost he is, they won’t ever see him coming.

Come on, Price. Call it.

A part of him is missing—shredded. He did his best to protect you, to keep you secret from the world. Cruelty and deception move quickly though, and now your life is in danger.

Give the fucking word.

“Path is clear,” comes Captain Price’s voice over the radio.

It’s all the affirmation Simon needs. He is up and moving in seconds, a wraith in the dark, a silent shadow out for blood. His blade is his guide, sheering and cutting, leaving a trail of bodies behind him. There are no shouts, no cries of pain. Simon is clean, brutal, efficient.

But there is only one thing—one person on his mind. And that’s you.

A set of stairs. A hall. Rooms. More stairs.

Ascending. Ascending. Ascending.

The rest of the team isn’t far behind, but they stay back and leave Simon to it. They know this mission is for him. That he’s not only doing it for you but for himself.

It’s a wonder his knife doesn’t grow dull. It cuts true. Cuts clean. And it isn’t until the last enemy has fallen that some of the tension in Simon’s muscles melts away. He has consumed his prey, and there is only a singular door left to open.

There is the moment before he opens it, a space of breath that feels like eternity packed into single moment. The hinges creak, revealing a tiny room no larger than a walk-in closet. And there you are, on your side, ankle chained to the wall.

“Simon?”

You sound so broken. So…hollow.

As he sinks down onto one knee beside you, the unsteady confusion on your face gives way to hope. Simon’s arms reach out instinctively, wanting nothing more than to be around you. You throw yourself into him, and there is nothing sweeter in this moment.

“I’m here,” he whispers. “I’m here.”

Your sobs of joy nearly break him, nearly fracture Simon into pieces. But the fact that you’re alive, that you appear unharmed��at least physically—is more than he expected.

“I’m here,” he repeats, even as your tears stain his balaclava. “I’m here.”

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

It is impossible to measure the love you have for someone until they’re taken from you.

Kyle thought he understood. Yet for these last few weeks, he’s been a fractured creature. A small illusion. A flicker of a man.

But you’re not gone, just far away. Alive, he hopes.

Alive, is what he repeats. A mantra in his head. If he says it enough, it will be true.

Price, Soap, and Ghost are in front of him, moving like shadows through the building while Kyle brings up the rear. With them beside him, there is calmness in the chaos, a softening to his chaotic emotions. They are his support, the ground that he can stand on.

Price motions, and then Ghost kicks in a door.

There are shouts first. Then gunfire. Then silence.

Each of them enters, walking amongst the corpses.

Price digs around in the pockets of one of the men, and then tosses a set of keys over to Ghost. Kyle is already following, moving into position as Ghost unlocks a nearby door. He points the firing end of his gun inside, and then steps back.

He glances at Kyle, and nods.

Lowering his weapon, Kyle pushes the door wide, the light bleeding into the dark, revealing a shape he knows well.

Kyle’s surroundings melt away, leaving only you. He cradles your cheeks, thumbs rubbing away the dirt and blood and tears. You’re smiling, but there is red there, too.

“I knew you’d come for me.”

“Always,” he whispers, voice cracking in pain.

Captain Price appears at his shoulder, glancing down at the two of you on the floor, face grim. He speaks into his radio. “I need a med evac now.”

“You’re going to live,” reassures Kyle. “I promise.”

“Please don’t leave,” you murmur, fresh tears pooling in your eyes.

Kyle shakes his head. “Never. I’ll never leave again.”

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mcmansionhell · 2 years ago

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mojo dojo casa house

Howdy folks! Sorry for the delay, I was, uhhhh covering the Tour de France. Anyway, I'm back in Chicago which means this blog has returned to the Chicago suburbs. I'm sure you've all seen Barbie at this point so this 2019 not-so-dream house will come as a pleasant (?) surprise.

Yeah. So this $2.4 million, 7 bed, 8.5+ bath house is over 15,000 square feet and let me be frank: that square footage is not allocated in any kind of efficient or rational manner. It's just kind of there, like a suburban Ramada Inn banquet hall. You think that by reading this you are prepared for this, but no, you are not.

Scale (especially the human one) is unfathomable to the people who built this house. They must have some kind of rare spatial reasoning problem where they perceive themselves to be the size of at least a sedan, maybe a small aircraft. Also as you can see they only know of the existence of a single color.

Ok, but if you were eating a single bowl of cereal alone where would you sit? Personally I am a head of the table type person but I understand that others might be more discreet.

It is undeniable that they put the "great" in great room. You could race bicycles in here. Do roller derby. If you gave this space to three anarchists you would have a functioning bookshop and small press in about a week.

The island bit is so funny. It's literally so far away it's hard to get them in the same image. It is the most functionally useless space ever. You need to walk half a mile to get from the island to the sink or stove.

Of course, every McMansion has a room just for television (if not more than one room) and yet this house fails even to execute that in a way that matters. Honestly impressive.

The rug placement here is physical comedy. Like, they know they messed up.

Bling had a weird second incarnation in the 2010s HomeGoods scene. Few talk about this.

Honestly I think they should have scrapped all of this and built a bowling alley or maybe a hockey rink. Basketball court. A space this grand is wasted on sports of the table variety.

You would also think that seeing the rear exterior of this house would help to rationalize how it's planned but:

Not really.

Anyways, thanks for coming along for another edition of McMansion Hell. I'll be back to regular posting schedule now that the summer is over so keep your eyes peeled for more of the greatest houses to ever exist. Be sure to check the Patreon for today's bonus posts.

Also P.S. - I'm the architecture critic for The Nation now, so check that out, too!

If you like this post and want more like it, support McMansion Hell on Patreon for as little as $1/month for access to great bonus content including a discord server, extra posts, and livestreams.

Not into recurring payments? Try the tip jar, because media work is especially recession-vulnerable.

#architecture #design #mcmansion #mcmansions #ugly houses #interior design #bad architecture #2010s #2019 #Illinois

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dragonsondragons · 26 days ago

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Part 1 - That Look In Your Eye | You Should Probably Leave series

You make big, bad, Jack Abbot nervous in a way he really isn’t used to. He fumbles his first attempt to invite you to the party, so Dr. Ellis gives him a crash course in how to get the girl.

Word Count: 3.9k

Content: yearning!jack, medical social worker!reader, reader is Jack’s work crush, slow burn, Jack on his #healingjourney, awkward abbot, unspecified age gap, named reader because I dont like using y/n (named her Nel, short for Eleanor. And yes Nel will be friends with Mel)

Read the Prologue! / Masterlist / Taglist

Author's Note: Sorry this took me sooo long to get together! I have the next few parts mapped out well and and mostly written tbh but was struggling so hard with how to introduce their interaction and dynamic in this part. Also, I would highly highly recommend reading the prologue before this part. Anyway, hope you enjoy!

In the Pitt, Jack was seen as a very confident man. He knows exactly what he’s capable of and precisely how to execute it most efficiently. It's one thing unshaken in all his years practicing medicine. No matter how low he’s felt– in war zones, in the pitt– he always stays steady under fire. Words and procedures are tools. He uses them to achieve a goal: keep the patient alive. Be calm, cool, concise.

It's something he learned in combat, that medics aren't just healers and fighters. They are a source of confidence for the whole platoon. They set the tone. A force multiplier. He was supposed to keep a level head and know what to do, no hesitating. If he stayed cool everyone else would follow suit.

He had to to seem confident on the outside, but never let himself feel it too much on the inside. If you feel too confident, you start to forget that there is just one critical moment, one mistake, standing between your patient and death.

Jack couldn't help but feel that way now, like he was one mistake from ruining his chances with you. Deep breath. No ones going to die, he repeats in his head. It's one of the constant reminders he’s had to give himself when anxiety spikes. Another deep breath.

He was supposed to be a confident guy. Asking out the girl you liked shouldn’t be so hard.

But there was a disconnect for him, between what was shown to the world– a self assured master of his craft– and what he felt on the inside. Analyzing every little mistake so that he can be better for next time. Never letting himself feel too secure, always striving for better. Battling between his desires and that loud voice inside, telling him to isolate.

Because of that voice his social confidence was a lot more shakey than his work persona. For the most part he can fake it till he makes it or keep enough distance from people that it doesn't matter. But then there was you, slowly drawing him out of his shell. Bit by bit so that he barely saw it coming until it hit him like a truck. He should have seen it a long time ago. But he likes you and there's no denying it now. He's decided he's gonna try and do something about it, and that requires some guts and smooth talking he’s not sure if he's capable of.

He pulls into his parking space in the hospital garage, yearning for you hard. He worked himself up all the way here and now that it's at the forefront of his brain he can’t resist the urge to be near you.

You’ve got the guts, he tells himself, willing it to be true. Just invite her to the party. Just be yourself? Is that who he wanted to show her? This fucked up guy who can barely work up the courage to ask her one simple phrase. There it goes again; his mind working against him.

He walked in through the ambulance bay, backpack slung over one shoulder. Immediately, he saw you. You were sitting at the hub checking the patient census that had just come into your inbox from the day shift and radiating something bright. Maybe it was just him who saw you as the sun.

Now or never. He walked towards the large central desk and slung his backpack under an inner counter. He leaned down on his elbows behind the computer you worked at, thrumming his fingers against the counter top. “Hey, You.”

His familiar greeting made your stomach flip and you couldn't help but smile. It had been a few days since your shifts had aligned. “Good evening, Dr Abbot,” you hum to him, eyes tearing away from your screen to look up into his hazel eyes.

Suddenly his pep talk to himself in the car flew out the window. With you sitting right before him, everything inside his mind was gone. You sure didn't mind gazing into Jack’s eyes, in fact you enjoyed it, but the silence was dragging on so you broke it.

“Missed you at lunch yesterday. I had to eat with Shen and he would not shut up about a big high pressure weather system moving in or something.” There was a pressure system building in Jack's chest. He wanted to respond but was caught up inside his mind. Missed you at lunch, echoed in his mind. She missed me? More pressure flared.

“Everything okay, Jack?” you asked, head tilting as you looked at him so caringly.

“Huh?”

“Seems like you’re somewhere else right now. And that look in your eyes, there’s something you’re not telling me.” She could always read him like a book.

He cleared his throat. “Uh, yeah. Sorry. Got a lot on my mind right now.” He was going to continue to deflect, as usual. But she was already onto him. This was his chance. Might as well just come out with it. “Actually I uh was wondering of yo–” Your pager screamed out through the ED and you looked down at it on your waistband. He deflated.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry, dayshift always has them on the highest volume.” You read the message coming in and started gathering stuff from the desk around you. “I have to get going to see this patient before discharge. What was it you were wondering though?”

“Uh… I, um. I was just gonna ask if you, um. Brought your lunch today?” Fuck. He lost all his steam when that pager went off.

“You know I always do.” You were standing up from the swivel chair now. “Same time as usual? Just page me if you're not gonna be able to make it?” He gives you one of his awkward thumbs up with both hands and says “See you up there,” as you turn to go see the patient. You smile back over your shoulder at him.

He leaned down and put his head between his hands on the counter top while chastising himself for his failed attempt at asking you out.

He hadn’t registered Dr. Ellis off to the other side of the hub during this whole interaction, having been so focused on whatever it is between him and you that draws him in. A laugh burst out that snapped him out of his pity party. “What the hell was that, Abbot?” said Ellis, thoroughly amused at seeing a guy like Dr. Abbot who is so typically composure and competence fumble. “You can do a REBOA in your sleep but can’t flirt with a woman?”

He lifted his head slightly and glared. “Who said I was flirting?”

“Well, you certainly weren’t successfully flirting. But it would take a fool not to see that you like her.” He laid his head back down and groaned at that. Despite his current embarrassment, Jack liked working with Dr. Ellis more than most other people. He appreciated her no nonsense approach and deft skills. And the fact that she's not afraid of him. She will tell it to him like it is. He knew that interaction was bad, but if Ellis was confirming… then it was really terrible.

“I don't know, I just… panicked.” How can he stay so calm when someone’s bleeding to death but couldn't do this one thing when faced with you.

“Did you bring your lunch?!” she echoed him. “That was really what you came up with? What were you really trying to ask her?” He hesitated. But Ellis seemed to already know so much about this whole situation. Guess he wasn’t as close to the chest with his crush as he thought. Maybe he should let her give him some advice.

“I’m having a party at my place soon, and I was trying to ask her to come,” he admitted.

Ellis raised one eyebrow. “You're having a party?” She never thought she would hear that come out of his mouth.

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever, I'm having a party for everyone from work, you’re invited. That's not the point. Point is I had my chance and I chickened out.”

“Yeah, you did. You have absolutely no game, old timer.”

“I have game, just… not in that particular instance. I'm out of practice,” he tries to defend himself.

“Clearly. But I can help you with that.”

“She totally can,” Dr. Santos interjected. Santos had been trying out a rotation on the night shift and had just finished up with a patient in curtain 3 nearby. Always the eavesdropper, she tuned in to the conversation between Abbot and Ellis as she had approached the hub. “Dr. Ellis has got mad game, trust me.” Ellis rolls her eyes at the overzealous intern. “Wait–we’re talking about you getting nervous around Nel right?”

“Wha-No. I don't get nervous around Nel.” Both women scoff at him. Jack’s eyes widen and turns to Ellis for a sidebar. “How do you both know about this? I don't want to make this a thing. If she's not into me I don't want her to be uncomfortable at work.” He can't be careless about this, needs to do it right.

“Abbot, be so serious,” she deadpans. “She’s totally into you.”

“You don't know that,” Jack huffs. How do they know if you're into him? He barely let himself know he was into you until therapy earlier today. Santos and Ellis share a look. Santos butts in again, “Dude, it's so obvious. Her eyes literally twinkle when you're in the same room.”

“Don't dude me right now, Santos,” Jack snaps. Do they? Twinkle for him? He hopes so. But he doesn't want to get his hopes up. God, this whole thing is putting him so on edge.

Ellis sees how uncomfortable Jack’s getting and jumps in. “The grownups are talking here, Dr. Santos. Guy over in North 12 needs his bowel dismipacted, go.” As she reluctantly leaves to go handle the literal shit that's been assigned to her, Ellis tunes back into the conversation with Jack.

“She's right though, it's obvious you're both smitten. You’ve just gotta shoot your shot, man.” He takes a deep breath to steady himself at the thought. “What are you planning to say?”

He hesitates. Drums his thumbs against the counter top again. “How about I'm having a party. You can come, if you want.”

“God, this is why I date women. You're useless.”

“You said you would help!”

“Look–that's way too passive. Sounds like you don't care if she comes or not. Women like when you're sincere and confident. Usually that's your forte, but I guess not when you’re nervous about your crush. Try to tune in to that Abbot, ya know, direct and to the point.”

If I say what I actually mean, Jack thinks, it will be ‘I think you're smart and caring and beautiful, and I like spending time with you at work. And more than anything, I’d like to see you outside of this hell hole…preferably…all the time.’ He’s staring off into the abyss now.

“Oh my god, you're so in your head. Just be normal, be yourself! Say Hey, I'm having a party. I would really like it if you came.”

“Got it, yeah. Be normal.”

She huffs at his nervousness. “If you don't grow a spine and ask her out, I will,” Ellis jests, giving him a little incentive.

“C'mon, give me a chance here.”

“She's hot, kind. Seems like a really great person. So you better snatch her up before someone else does.”

—

It was just before 1am when your stomach started to grumble, queuing you that it was almost your normal “lunch” time. You finished up your case note you were working on, grabbed your food from the breakroom fridge, and headed up to the roof.

Lunch with Jack was always a highlight of your shift. No matter how shitty a patient had treated you or how many problems you had encountered that day, sitting with him for just a few minutes always made it feel like you were free of the hospital. Returning to your shift after those moments with him, the fluorescent lights turned softer and long hospital hallways less suffocating.

It happened by accident really, the two of you becoming lunch buddies. You brought your lunch box up to the roof to get some air while you took a break. He was already up there, leaning up against the railing staring out at the city beyond the hospital. He wasn't expecting a visitor, didn’t encounter many others up there, but suddenly there was you. An angel of the night.

When you pushed open the door of the stairwell to see him staring out at the skyline, you remember thinking that this man looked like a beacon high up above the rest of the city, standing steady and sending out a signal. Looking out over the whole city and asking who’s there? Free in the dark of night to admit that he was seeking connection.

From the very first moment, you read him eerily well. And you approached. Because you were seeking the same thing.

You struck up a conversation with him and offered him half of your sandwich. Kept doing so until he started bringing his own food too, usually whatever had the quickest doordash delivery time. He made you laugh with his dry and dark humor. Shared silence with you when you were both too tired to speak, or listened to you ramble about the book you were reading or some movie you had watched. Sometimes he had questions. ____

“Have you ever heard of the Four Agreements?” he asked one night. You picked through some of the Chinese food he had ordered from the 24 hour place down the street, while he took a bite out of the apple you had packed. You chuckle a little at his question.

“Why are you laughing at me?” he asks.

“Sorry– it's just. As someone who works in a mental health bubble, the Four Agreements is like… the bible of self help. And it's a little cliche.”

“You’re calling Linda cliche?”

“Who’s Linda?"

“My therapist. She recommended it."

“Look at you, doing therapy.”

He gave you a little shrug. “Thanks. So I shouldn’t read it? If it's cliche."

“No, no, It could still be useful. Give it a try.” ____

He also surprised you with these bursts of intense vulnerability, sparsed out between his usually more gruff or sarcastic responses.

Whenever he was about to reveal something to you, you could almost see it coming. He would always position himself next to you, leaning over on the railing and facing out over Pittsburg like he was that first night you found him up here. He wouldn’t look in your eyes like he usually did. Would just stand next to you there and focus on some point, far out on the horizon. He’d be quiet for a while, and you would just wait, just being there with him.

____

“That guy we both saw today, the boarder in North 7?”

“Yeah?” you encouraged him to continue.

“I know him. Well not him, really, but his brother. We served together. He lost his brother the same day I lost my leg.” He pulled up the hem of his scrub pants a bit to reveal a glimpse of his prosthetic.

“Oh…Jack. I’m so sorry. That must bring up a lot of old memories.”

“It was a long time ago. Can’t change it now.” He wants to pull away from the exposure he felt at saying this to you. But you draw out something in him. Sharing with you is easier sometimes, and he doesn't know why. It's because he’s falling in love with you and hasn't let himself admit it yet.

“Doesn’t mean it can’t still hurt.” You’re always trying to encourage him to feel.

“Yeah... still hurts like hell. Hurts more because I hadn’t thought about Eddie in months, maybe years. I forgot about him.”

You turn your head to face him, frowning. He maintains his gaze on some faraway spot. “You can’t blame yourself for that. If you remembered them all every second of every day you would drive yourself crazy.”

He took a shaky breath in and just nodded. That was as much opening up he could take for the moment. “I gotta go back down there, check on the patients,” he says, letting the voice telling him to run win, for now.

You pause for a beat, trying to replicate his own incessant gaze that would always get you break and look up at him. The trick doesn’t work on its own master. He continues to put that distance between you and stares out at the city beyond the roof, then down at his feet.

“Okay. But just be careful with yourself, Jack. And if you ever want to talk more, I’m here.” You jutted your hip out to bump his, trying to coax him out of his unease, show him that it was okay to open up to you. He stood fully up from the railing, giving you a double thumbs up. That was becoming his signature move with you when he didn't quite know what to say. He kept doing it because it always made you smile. ____

Sometimes his appearances on the roof were just as scattered as his ability to show vulnerability. After times where he opened up you might not see him for days. He would go brood and throw himself into the work to get his mind off the memories, or off of you, when the way you were making him feel scared him a little too much. He would chastise himself for letting his feelings slip out like that. Would convince himself that you didn't want to hear anything about it, no matter how supportive and kind you were whenever he did share.

Deep down he longed for connection, even though he actively pushed everyone away.

Once you found him on that roof, finally someone was pushing back. You would come and find him if he didn't show up on the roof, or send him a message as you were heading up, pestering him to come join you if you could.

And the way you responded to him showing how he felt, admitting what ate at him inside, it started to show him that it was okay to reveal himself. It didn’t make it any less uncomfortable, but still he kept coming back to have lunch with you.

Tonight would be just like any of those other nights, he told himself as he hiked up the stairs to the roof entry. Just be normal.

You were already up there waiting for him when he came through the stairwell door. The light midsummer night breeze blew your hair around your face and he sensed something heavy on your mind. Brooding on the roof was usually his forte.

As he approaches you barely register his presence. He places a hand on your shoulder, which makes you jump and turn to him. “You good?” he asks gently.

“Yeah–fine.” You shake your head and give him a little smile but he sees it's not the kind that you usually flash, the kind that's earnest. He doesn’t push.

“Well, if you weren’t good I would offer some crab rangoons as a pick me up.” He lifts his takeout bag up. “But if you’re fine then you don’t need em.”

“Gimme that,” you snatch the bag from him and dig out the rangoons.

“That’s what I thought.” the corner of his mouth twitches into an almost-there smirk.

You two dig into the combo of takeout and packed food spread out before you. All of his nervousness from earlier in the day had dissipated. Up here, in the dark, just the two of you, he was calm. As calm as Jack Abbot could be these days. He lets himself think about being with you like this in the daytime. Somewhere else, like having a picnic in a park where you would admire the spring flowers and he would admire you with the same reverence.

He had to ask his question, because failing would mean missing that chance.

“You’re looking at me like that again.” you said.

“Like what?” he keeps his gaze locked on yours like if he blinked you would disappear.

“I don’t know. I just recognize that look in your eye.” It's the look I get when I admire you, he thinks.

“I’ll tell you what I’m thinking if you go first.” You let out a huff of a breath. “Fine. I just… I guess I’m tired– getting really tired of all the roadblocks in my work. People always need more than I’m able to give them. Shelters are always full or the patient doesn’t meet some eligibility requirement and there’s nothing I can do to change that.”

“You’re doing everything you can with what you have, that’s more than most people. You rock it in there everyday,” Jack responds.

“I know that, in theory. It’s just been harder and harder to believe it lately.”

“Well, I’ll keep reminding you.”

“Okay, your turn.”

He scratched the back of his neck, then forced himself to look at you head on. “Uh, I’m going to have everyone from work over at my place for a barbeque. But I wanted to, uh, make sure that you would be there, with me. And…maybe it will help you decompress from work and everything.” It was as un-awkward as he could possibly make it.

You found his subtle bashfulness cute. It was endearing to bring the steady Jack Abbot to jumbling his words. “I would love to come.” The biggest smile you've ever seen on him spreads across Jack’s face.

“When’s the next Saturday you’re off?” he asks.

“Two weeks from now.”

“Then that's our party then.”

You giggle. “Our party, huh?”

“Well you’re the guest of honor, I decided.”

“Oh, how gracious of you.”

The banter slows, both of you feeling the tension of crossing a new line that you can't go back over. It's quiet for another beat, then Jack speaks again, quietly.

“Ellis is gonna be proud of me for this one.”

“What do you mean?”

“She told me I had no game, earlier at the beginning of shift. I meant to ask you then but got too nervous. So she gave me some pointers.”

That made you blush. You had liked Jack Abbot for a while, but did not want to risk your friendship on making the first move. You didn’t want him to think that your support of him was conditional on him reciprocating feelings. You could see him deeply struggling and cared about him, just wanting to be there for him. So even though you had butterflies tingling in your stomach more and more after each encounter, you tried to keep the relationship as professional as possible. After this– him asking you to come to his party like that, admitting it made him nervous to do so. It finally showed you that you could want more with Jack. That he wanted it too.

It emboldened you, and you reached out to lace your fingers with his. “I like you the way you are Jack. It's okay to be nervous, but please just keep being you.”

He squeezed your hand and nodded his head. “I think I can do that sweetheart.”

#jack abbot fic #jack abbot x reader #jack abott #jack abbot fanfic #jack abbot #the pitt fic #the pitt fanfiction #the pitt hbo #dr abbot x reader #dr abbot x you #dr abbot fic #dr abbot #doctor abbot #you should probably leave #the pitt #shawn hatosy

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arkaiveofurown · 2 months ago

Note

Law, ace, sabo, and any other op men x f!reader who is very independent and never asks for help, comes to them for help.

I hope this is okay (I’m always scared to send requests to people)

The First Step

Pairings: Crocodile x Reader, Sabo x Reader, Law x Reader, Ace x Reader

You're known for your strength, your silence, and your ability to handle anything alone. Help is a word you never utter—until you find yourself standing before him.

Word Count: ~1,000 - 2,000 words

tags: fluff, pre-relationship

my masterlist here ♡

----

a/n: hi, thank you for your request. your request is definitely more than ok so need no be afraid-- i really appreciate you taking the time to send it. i've decided to make it pre-relationship and i hope that's alright with you. tysm :)

----

Crocodile

You had been working under Crocodile for over a year now. As one of the few operatives trusted enough to work directly with him, you executed your tasks with ruthless efficiency—never faltering, never complaining.

That’s what he wanted, right? Precision. Loyalty. Silence.

So when something went wrong—a mission in the capital city of Arabasta, Alubarna, that left you limping and coughing up desert dust—you said nothing. You filed the report, cleaned your wounds, and showed up the next day like nothing happened.

But Crocodile noticed.

“(Y/N),” he said, his voice sharp, neutral. “Come in. Sit.”

You did, stiffly, eyes straight ahead. He took a drag of his cigar, exhaled slowly, then narrowed his eyes at you.

“What happened in Alubarna?”

“Nothing I couldn’t handle,” you replied quickly.

“That’s not what I asked.”

Your fingers twitched against your lap. You didn’t answer. You never lied to him, but this felt dangerously close.

“I read the report,” he said coolly. “Then I heard from someone else that you were bleeding through your uniform.”

You winced, jaw tightening.

“I don’t appreciate being kept in the dark. Especially by my right hand.”

You kept your gaze locked on the floor. “I didn’t think it was important.”

“It’s important to me,” he snapped, voice low but dangerous. “You think I’m so unreachable that you can’t come to me when you’re hurt?”

That hit you like a slap.

You looked up, stunned. “I—what?”

Crocodile's eyes narrowed. “You do everything perfectly. You never complain. Never ask for help. What is it? You think I’d punish you for showing weakness?”

“I just… I didn’t think it was my place.”

A moment of silence passed. Crocodile sat back, the frustration on his face softening—not by much, but enough to make your chest tighten.

“You’re not just another Baroque agent to me,” he said, quieter now. “You think I’d entrust you with what I do if I didn’t value you?”

Your lips parted, but nothing came out.

He looked away, exhaled smoke, then added, “I’m not good at this kind of thing. I’m used to being feared. But I don’t want that from you.”

“I didn’t think you… noticed. Not like that.”

He chuckled bitterly. “Of course I notice. You think I haven’t watched how hard you work? How careful you are to never cross a line?”

You swallowed hard, feeling something shift in the air.

“I didn’t think you’d care,” you whispered.

He scoffed. “That’s your problem. You underestimate yourself.”

You looked at him—really looked. His face was still stern, but his voice had lost its edge. The cigar burned low between his fingers, forgotten.

He looked at you—really looked—and his voice dropped to something almost unrecognizable: something vulnerable.

“I don’t want to be someone you look past.”

Your heartbeat thudded loud in your ears.

“…Alright,” you said, softly. “Next time… I’ll come to you.”

He met your eyes, and for once, he didn’t look like a warlord. He looked like a man who’d been waiting for you to say that.

The silence between you wasn’t sharp anymore. It lingered like smoke in warm air—thick with things unsaid, but understood.

He leaned back, gaze steady. “Good,” he murmured. “About damn time."

----

You’d faced worse. Bruised ribs. Sabotaged missions. Death threats disguised as trade proposals.

But somehow, knocking on his office door had your hands sweating.

This time, you weren’t bleeding. You weren’t limping. But your pride? That had taken a hit. The mission had gone sideways—intel was incomplete, agents scattered, and now Baroque Works was down a shipment with the client breathing down everyone's neck.

You’d stood outside his door for ten minutes before knocking.

No turning back.

“Come in,” Crocodile's voice called, deeper than usual.

You stepped inside, shut the door quietly, and stood there, hands at your sides.

He glanced up from his desk, cigar already lit. “Report.”

You hesitated.

Then, before your nerves could get the better of you: “I need help.”

There was a beat of stunned silence.

Crocodile blinked. Slowly, the corner of his mouth curled into something dangerously close to amusement. “Say that again.”

You fought the urge to scowl. “Don’t make me.”

“No, no—this is historic,” he drawled, leaning back in his chair like he had all the time in the world. “My right hand. The model of control. Finally admitting they’re not invincible.”

You rolled your eyes. “Do you want details or not?”

He chuckled—a real one this time, low and gravelly. “Go on.”

You stepped closer, setting a map and two sealed reports on his desk. “The client’s contact wasn’t where we expected. One of our junior agents panicked and blew our cover. I managed to retrieve most of the shipment, but I couldn’t get through the blockade on my own.”

Crocodile scanned the documents in silence.

You watched him quietly, noting the tension in his brow, the way his fingers tapped once against the edge of the paper—thinking.

When he finally looked at you, the usual steel in his eyes was tempered by something softer.

“You did the right thing,” he said simply. “Coming to me.”

You exhaled. “Still feels weird.”

“It should,” he said. “You're not the type to lean on anyone.”

You gave a half-smile, more vulnerable than you'd like. “I didn’t think you'd ever want me to.”

He let the silence sit for a moment. Then he stood, coming around the desk.

“I told you before,” he said, voice low, “I notice more than you think.”

You stiffened slightly as he stopped beside you—not looming, not imposing. Just there. Steady.

“I’ve watched you carry the weight of this operation like it’s your burden alone,” he continued. “But I didn’t bring you in to break you.”

You looked up, heart skipping.

“I brought you in because you’re the only one I trust to stand at my side.”

The air between you grew still.

“And if that means helping you when you ask for it—” he paused, eyes gleaming with dry amusement, “—well. I suppose I’ll survive the shock.”

You huffed, finally letting out a quiet laugh. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“Oh, absolutely,” he said, and the smirk that followed was slow and lethal and unfairly handsome.

But then he softened again, just enough to make your chest ache.

“I’m glad you came.”

This time, you didn’t look away. “I am too.”

He didn’t say anything more—didn’t need to. His gaze lingered just long enough to make your stomach flutter.

And as you turned to leave, his voice stopped you at the door.

“Next time,” he said, “don’t wait so long.”

You looked back, smiling faintly. “You planning to make a habit of helping me?”

That smirk again—this time more amused than smug. “Only if you plan to keep coming back.”

Your cheeks burned.

You nodded once, then slipped out the door, heart pounding harder than it ever had on a battlefield.

And behind that heavy door, Crocodile exhaled a slow breath, watching the space you’d left behind.

The warlord wasn’t used to softness. But with you?

He might just learn.

----

Law

You were standing on the deck, wiping the sweat from your forehead after a particularly grueling day of training. The pirates had spent hours practicing, and while you were proud of your strength, it was clear that you were pushing your limits.

But when you accidentally brushed against a sharp edge on the ship, you barely flinched. The cut wasn’t deep, just a scrape along your arm, but you knew you could handle it. You didn’t need anyone else to see it, least of all Law.

You quickly glanced around, making sure no one was watching. As the ship creaked and groaned around you, you quietly slipped off to the side, your back against a barrel. You rummaged through your bag and found some bandages and antiseptic, tending to the wound as best as you could. The sting was sharp, but you fought the urge to wince, not wanting to show any sign of weakness.

Your hands trembled slightly as you wrapped the bandage around your arm, but you told yourself it wasn’t a big deal. You didn’t need anyone's help. You’d been fine before, and you would be fine now.

You felt a small sense of satisfaction when you finished. Everything was under control. Your pride was still intact.

That was, until you heard a familiar voice behind you, icy but tinged with concern.

“(Y/N),” Law said, his tone sharp, “What are you doing?”

You froze. You hadn’t heard him approach. You quickly tried to hide your bandaged arm, stepping a little to the side. “Nothing,” you said, your voice a little too quick. “Just… just making sure everything’s alright.”

Law’s eyes narrowed as he stepped closer, looking you over in that calculating way of his. He wasn’t fooled. “Turn around.”

You swallowed hard. “I’m fine, Law. Really.”

“You’re not fine.” His voice was firm, cold, but there was an underlying concern that made your chest tighten. He stepped forward again, and you found yourself taking a small step back, unwilling to reveal what you were trying so hard to keep hidden.

“I told you before,” Law said, his voice lowering as he grabbed your wrist gently, “Stop hiding things from me.”

You looked up at him, and for a moment, you wanted to argue. You wanted to tell him you could handle it on your own, that it wasn’t a big deal. But when his gaze softened just the slightest, you felt something in you snap.

Reluctantly, you turned around, pulling your sleeve up to reveal the bandaged wound. Law didn’t say anything at first, his eyes scanning the bandage. When he looked back up at you, there was a flash of frustration in his gaze, but it quickly shifted into something gentler.

“You really should’ve come to me,” he said quietly, his hand reaching for your arm without hesitation. “It’s not just about being strong. It’s about being smart.”

You bit your lip, feeling a rush of guilt. “I didn’t want to bother anyone. It’s just a small injury.”

“It’s not small if you ignore it,” Law replied, his voice quieter but still stern. “You don’t always have to carry everything on your own, (Y/N). You know that, right?”

You looked down at your feet, unable to meet his eyes for a moment. The pride in your chest felt heavy, but so did the realization that maybe you didn’t need to shoulder everything alone.

“I’m sorry,” you muttered, your voice barely audible.

Law’s expression softened, and after a beat, he gently placed a hand on your shoulder. “It’s alright. But next time… come to me first. Got it?”

You nodded, feeling a warmth spread through you at his words.

You nodded, feeling a warmth spread through you at his words. Can I really do that..?

----

It had been a few days since the incident with your arm, and while you had hoped the minor injury would have healed completely, your body was starting to feel the strain from pushing it too hard. You’d been working through the discomfort, training like usual, but now, a sharp pain had settled in your back—something you couldn’t ignore anymore.

At first, it was a dull ache, easy enough to shrug off. But with each movement, the pain grew sharper, more pronounced. The muscles in your back were stiff, and the pain was starting to creep down into your legs. You winced as you tried to shift your weight, but the strain made it harder to stand tall.

“Just a muscle strain,” you muttered under your breath, trying to convince yourself that it wasn’t a big deal. “It’ll pass.”

You attempted to stretch out your back, but the movement only made it worse. The pain flared up with every motion, leaving you gasping for air, but you didn’t let yourself crumble. You wouldn’t ask for help. You couldn’t.

“I’m fine,” you whispered, but the words felt like a lie now. You clenched your jaw, trying to suppress the flare of pain, but it was becoming harder and harder to ignore.

Law’s voice echoed in your mind—his words from the other day. “You don’t always have to do everything by yourself.”

The pride you carried, believing you could handle everything alone, had kept you from asking for help. But now, your body was telling you otherwise. You couldn’t push through this. It hurt too much, and the longer you ignored it, the worse it became.

And there was no one else you trusted more than Law. You had seen how he effortlessly took charge in situations, how he always knew what to do, how his calmness could instantly soothe any tension. He had a way of making everything feel manageable, and right now, you needed that.

The thought of asking for help had always felt like admitting weakness, but you realized that you weren’t invincible. The truth was, you could lean on someone—on him.

With a deep breath, you stood up, wincing as the pain flared. Slowly, you made your way toward the infirmary, your footsteps faltering with each one.

When you entered, Law was standing by the desk, scribbling something on a piece of paper. His head snapped up as he heard the door creak open, and his gaze immediately softened when he saw the way you were holding yourself, stiff and pained.

"What's wrong?" he asked, his voice already low with concern.

You hesitated for a moment, then exhaled sharply, your pride finally crumbling under the weight of the pain. "I… need your help."

There was a pause. Law raised an eyebrow, then stood up from his desk, his eyes scanning you carefully.

"You really should've said something sooner," he said, his voice tinged with something softer than usual, but not unkind. He was serious, but you could hear the care in his words.

You could feel the heat rise to your cheeks, embarrassment at how long you had let it go. "I didn't want to bother you," you said quietly. "I thought I could handle it."

He stepped toward you, a small but warm smile curving at the corners of his lips. "You don’t bother me, (Y/N)." The smile was faint, but it was genuine. "Now, let's get you sitting down."

You felt a wave of relief flood through you at his calm demeanor. The tightness in your chest, the worry that you had burdened him, seemed to ease with each step closer he took. You lowered yourself carefully onto the nearby chair, and Law gently placed a hand on your shoulder, his touch firm yet gentle.

"You've been pushing yourself too hard," he said quietly as he began to carefully assess your back.

You winced slightly when he pressed his hand against the tense muscles of your back, but his touch was soothing. He didn’t rush, moving with careful precision, and you couldn’t help but let out a small sigh as the pain began to ease under his hands.

“I’m sorry,” you murmured, not quite sure why you felt the need to apologize, but the words left your lips nonetheless.

He shook his head, his smile still soft. "There’s no need to apologize. You’re human, (Y/N). It’s okay to ask for help sometimes."

The words wrapped around you like a warm blanket, soothing the remnants of the tension that had been holding you together. And for the first time in a long while, you realized how much you’d needed that reassurance—not just for the pain in your back, but for the ache in your heart.

You met his gaze, the closeness between you suddenly feeling charged in a way you hadn’t expected. His hands, still on your back, were gentle, caring, and something about the way he was looking at you made your heart flutter.

“You really don’t mind helping me?” you asked, your voice soft, almost hesitant.

Law’s eyes softened, and his fingers paused for a brief moment. “Of course not. I care about you, (Y/N). I wouldn’t want you suffering alone.”

Your breath caught in your throat at the sincerity in his voice, and the distance between you seemed to shrink. Something stirred deep within you, something you had been trying to ignore—an emotion you didn’t know how to define.

As he continued to tend to your back, you couldn’t help but feel a growing warmth, not just from his touch, but from his words. You had never been one to rely on anyone, but in this moment, with Law so close, you realized how much you wanted to. And maybe—just maybe—you didn’t have to do everything on your own after all.

When he finished, he gave you a soft look, his fingers lingering for a moment longer than necessary before he pulled back.

“You’re all set. Rest for now,” he said, his smile now a little more knowing, a little warmer. "I’ll be here if you need anything else."

And as you watched him step back, his calm gaze still locked with yours, you felt your heart beat a little faster. There was something in his eyes—something that made you realize that maybe, just maybe, this was the start of something more than you had ever expected.

----

Sabo

You had been a member of the Revolutionary Army for a while now, and though you were always busy, there was a sense of purpose that drove you. Still, when the pressure started building up, you did your best to shoulder it alone. You could always rely on your fellow soldiers—Koala, Hack, even a few others—but you never went to Sabo.

Sabo, the Chief of Staff, had more than enough to manage. He was already overseeing countless operations, leading the army with so much weight on his shoulders. You could never bring yourself to ask him for help. There was too much on his plate already.

It had become routine: whenever you needed something, you turned to Koala, Hack, or another member. You didn’t want to burden Sabo with your problems, no matter how small they seemed.

But one day, you noticed Sabo was watching you from the corner of his eye, his usual confident demeanor replaced with a hint of concern. You continued working, pretending not to notice, but it wasn’t long before Sabo approached.

"(Y/N)," he said, his voice softer than usual. "I've noticed something."

You looked up, momentarily startled by his approach. "What do you mean?" you asked, trying to keep your tone casual.

“You’ve been asking everyone else for help, but you never come to me. Why is that?" Sabo’s eyes met yours, his usual smile absent, replaced by a slight frown. “I thought we were close.”

You hesitated. You didn’t want to hurt his feelings, but the truth had always been hard to voice.

"I… I just didn’t want to trouble you," you confessed, lowering your gaze.

Sabo’s expression softened, but there was a hint of sadness in his eyes. "Dont you trust me enough to ask for help?"

The words stung more than you expected. It wasn’t that you didn’t trust him—it was just that you didn’t want him to feel like you were relying on him for everything. But seeing the hurt in his eyes made you realize how much you had unknowingly pushed him away.

"No, Sabo," you said, voice trembling slightly. You met his eyes now, trying to find the right words. "It’s not that I don’t trust you. I trust you more than anyone. It’s just that… I didn’t want to pile my stuff on top of everything else you already carry." You hesitated, reaching out for his arm. "I guess… I was trying to protect you from having to take on my problems, too."

Sabo’s gaze softened, though there was still an underlying sadness there. He stepped closer to you, his tone gentler now. "I understand wanting to carry your own weight, but you’re not in this alone. I’m here for you, (Y/N)." His voice held that sincerity you knew well, the kind that always made you feel safe. "You don’t have to protect me from you. I want to be there for you, even if it’s just to help with something small."

You swallowed hard, the words you had been holding back finally surfacing. "I’m sorry, Sabo," you said, your voice barely above a whisper. "I just didn’t want to make you feel like you had to take care of me all the time. Like I was some kind of burden."

Sabo’s face softened as he reached out, gently placing a hand on your shoulder. "You’re never a burden, (Y/N)." His thumb brushed against your skin in a quiet gesture of comfort. "I want to be the one you come to. Don’t keep pushing me away." He gave you a small, reassuring smile, though his eyes still held a hint of sadness. "If you need help, don’t hesitate to ask me. I’m here."

You took a deep breath, your heart racing slightly as his words sank in. Slowly, you nodded, feeling the weight of the unspoken tension start to melt away. "I’ll remember that," you murmured.

----

The room was quieter than usual. You stood outside the strategy office, one hand hovering near the doorframe. Inside, Sabo was alone—no advisors, no briefings, no urgent calls for deployment.

You exhaled.

It wasn’t like you to hesitate, but everything between you and Sabo lately had felt… different. Ever since that conversation, the way he looked at you had shifted. Softer. Closer. And now, the weight you’d been carrying—internal, emotional—refused to stay buried any longer.

You knocked once.

He looked up immediately. “(Y/N)?”

You stepped inside, trying not to fidget. “Are you busy?”

“No. Come in.” He sat up straighter, eyes narrowing slightly in concern. “Something wrong?”

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you crossed the room, slowly, then stood a few feet from his desk. You didn’t sit. You just looked at him.

“…Something’s been bothering me,” you said, voice quiet but steady. “And I kept trying to sort it out on my own, but I couldn’t. So… I figured this time, maybe I’d ask you.”

Sabo blinked. The surprise was subtle, but it was there. You never came to him for help—until now.

“I… have to make a decision,” you said finally. “One I’m not sure I can make alone.”

That got his full attention. “Okay,” he said, setting his pen down. “Talk to me.”

You licked your lips. “There’s been talk about shifting personnel to the Southern front. Koala said I’d be a strong candidate to lead a small recon unit there. It’s a temporary post, but…”

Sabo’s brows furrowed. “You’d be gone for months.”

You nodded. “It’s a good opportunity. I know the terrain, and I’ve worked with the scouts before. But… it’s dangerous. And it means leaving this base. Leaving—” You stopped.

Sabo waited. Gave you space. Let the silence stretch, as if to say take your time.

You inhaled, then forced yourself to meet his eyes. “I always told myself I could handle things alone. That if I made my own calls, bore my own risks, I wouldn’t owe anyone. Wouldn’t need to ask. But… this one? I don’t know what the right choice is. And I keep thinking about what you said.”

Sabo leaned forward, elbows on his desk. “What part?”

“That I keep pushing you away.” Your voice faltered for half a second. “So I’m here. I’m not pushing you this time. I’m asking: what do you think I should do?”

For a long beat, he was silent. Then, slowly, he rose from his seat and walked around the desk to stand beside you.

“I think,” he said gently, “you already know what you want to do. You just needed someone to stand beside you while you said it out loud.”

You looked down. “Maybe. But… I still want your opinion.”

Sabo paused. Then, quietly: “I don’t want you to go. Not because I doubt your skill—but because I’d miss you. Selfishly.”

You glanced at him, surprised by the honesty. “You’re allowed to be selfish?”

“Not often,” he said, a little smile touching his lips. “But with you? I think I want to be.”

That made your chest ache. You stared at the floor again, suddenly unsure. “Would it be wrong of me to stay? Just because you said that?”

“No.” His voice was certain. “It’d be wrong if you ignored how you feel.”

“And if I said… I want to stay because I’m tired of acting like none of this—us—matters?”

Sabo tilted his head, expression unreadable. “Then I’d tell you it matters to me too. A lot more than I’ve let on.”

Your breath caught.

He continued, softer now. “I’m glad you came to me. Not as a soldier. Just as you.”

You didn’t reply. You didn’t have to. The silence between you wasn’t tense anymore—it was warm. A kind of peace you hadn’t felt in months.

So when you finally said, “Then I’ll stay,” it felt like the bravest decision you’d ever made.

And Sabo, still standing right beside you, just nodded—like he’d known all along you would.

----

Ace

You had always prided yourself on being independent. A member of the Whitebeard Pirates, strong and capable, you could handle almost anything on your own. But today… well, today had been different.

You volunteered to clean the deck after the storm, but the task was harder than you expected—debris everywhere, ropes tangled, and you couldn’t seem to get it done. But you refused help. You didn’t need it.

Ace, however, had noticed. He grinned as he leaned against the mast, watching you struggle with the ropes. “Need a hand?” he called.

You didn’t look up, too focused on getting it done. “I’m fine.”

Ace raised an eyebrow, a playful tone in his voice. “You sure? Looks like you’re about to strangle that thing more than untangle it.”

You gritted your teeth, your frustration showing. “I said, I’m fine.”

Ace sighed, pushing off from the mast, his voice still light but with a hint of concern. “You don’t always have to do everything by yourself, you know.”

“I said I’m fine, Ace,” you snapped, feeling the need to prove yourself even more.

“You’re stubborn as a rock, aren’t you?” Ace chuckled, watching you tug desperately at the rope. He stepped forward, gently placing his hands over yours, stilling your frantic movements.

You froze, your breath catching in your throat. His hands were warm, reassuring, but you didn’t know how to react. You wanted to pull away, but something about the way he moved, so effortlessly, made you hesitate.

“I don’t need help,” you muttered, quieter now, pulling your hands away, feeling embarrassed.

Ace grinned, unbothered. “Sure, you don’t.”

You both sat in silence for a moment, the tension still lingering. But as you tried to go back to work, Ace broke the quiet again.

“So, tell me something,” he started, watching you carefully. “Why do you never ask for anything? Ever?”

The question hit harder than you expected, and you paused mid-motion. You didn’t answer right away, and Ace didn’t push, giving you time to think. Finally, he pushed his plate aside and leaned in, studying you more intently.

“Okay, new guess,” he said. “You think asking for help makes you weak.”

You stayed silent, the weight of his words settling in your chest. Ace wasn’t wrong.

He leaned back, sighing. “You remind me of myself when I first joined the crew. Wouldn’t let anyone help me. Not even Pops.”

You glanced up at him. “Why not?”

He smiled wryly, the edges of his mouth curling up. “Because I didn’t think I was worth helping.”

The words caught you off guard, and you froze, your fork mid-air. His gaze softened as he watched you. “You’re not me, though. So, what’s your reason?”

You looked away, fighting the discomfort creeping up on you. “I just don’t want to owe anyone,” you muttered, standing up and walking away before your emotions could betray you any further.

You were alone on the deck, your mind wandering as you scrunched your face in frustration. It had been days since Ace’s words had settled in your mind. You’d spent hours in the galley, cleaning up, fixing small things here and there, but it was still there—the exhaustion.

You never asked for help. Never. The idea of it made you uncomfortable. There was a pride you carried with that, something deep-rooted. You could do it on your own. Always.

But as the days dragged on, you started to wonder if that was just an excuse.

Why was it so hard to ask for help?

The work was piling up. You had kept up the façade for so long—shouldering everything. But the weight? The constant pressure? It was taking a toll. And for the first time, you realized just how much you were stretching yourself thin.

Wasn’t this just… too much?

You had never questioned it before. Never stopped to ask if it was okay to ask someone for help. And then there was Ace’s voice in your head: "You don’t always have to do everything by yourself."

The truth was, you didn’t want to be weak. You didn’t want anyone to think you couldn’t handle it. But the frustration gnawed at you more than usual, and the longer you went without admitting it, the heavier everything felt.

You were on the edge. Standing there, with nothing left to prove. And then, in that moment, you just… stopped.

"I can’t do this alone anymore," you thought.

You needed help. There was nothing wrong with it. So why not?

----

You finally found Ace later that afternoon, standing by the mast as usual. He was talking with a few crew members, laughing with that easy charm of his, but you caught his attention when you approached.

Your heart raced in your chest, an unfamiliar flutter twisting inside you. Every step toward him felt heavier than it should, but you pushed past the uncertainty, past the pride that had been holding you back.

"Ace," you called softly, your voice almost betraying the nerves you were trying to hide. "Can you… can you help me with something?"

The moment the words left your lips, Ace froze. His eyes widened slightly, and the laughter that had been so easy before dropped into a stunned silence. His lips curved into a slow, knowing grin, his gaze softening.

"Finally," he said, his voice low, but warm. "I was wondering when you’d ask."

You swallowed, a strange mix of relief and embarrassment swirling inside you. “I didn’t want to bother anyone," you started, suddenly feeling very small under his gaze. "But… I think I’ve had enough of doing everything alone.”

Ace’s expression softened further, and he stepped closer, his eyes not leaving yours. There was no teasing in his smile this time, just understanding. He knew exactly what you meant.

“You never have to carry it all by yourself, you know,” he said quietly, his tone suddenly sincere, pulling you into something deeper than just casual words. He reached out, his fingers brushing against your arm as he guided you gently toward the task at hand.

You could feel the warmth of his touch lingering long after he pulled his hand away, and it made your heart skip a beat. "I’ve got you," he added, almost too softly for anyone else to hear.

You blinked, surprised by the tenderness in his voice, but his presence was grounding. You felt the weight of everything in your chest start to lighten. Maybe it was okay to let someone else take on some of the burden.

You hesitated for a moment, then finally allowed him to guide you as he took charge of the task. As he worked, he glanced at you, catching your eye with that same easy grin. But now, there was something different in it. Something soft.

"You know, you don’t always have to do everything yourself," he said, his voice playful but with a sincerity that made your heart flutter. “It’s not about being weak, it’s about being strong enough to let someone help you.”

You looked at him, really looked at him. His gaze was steady, like he was completely sure of himself—and of you. It made you feel lighter, like the world was a little less heavy.

“I didn’t want to be a burden,” you admitted, feeling your cheeks warm under his gaze.

Ace paused for a moment, his expression shifting to something softer, more protective. "You could never be a burden, (Y/N)," he said, his voice so quiet you could barely hear it over the sound of the waves. He reached out, almost hesitating, before gently placing a hand on your shoulder. “You’re not just some crew member. You matter. You matter to me.”

Your breath caught in your throat, and for a second, it felt like the whole world had stopped. His words were a gentle weight on your chest, and you couldn’t help the flutter in your stomach. You hadn’t expected it—hadn’t even realized how much you needed to hear it—but now, you couldn’t imagine hearing anything else.

His hand stayed there for a moment, warm and steady, a subtle but undeniable gesture that you weren’t alone. Not anymore.

“You don’t have to hide behind your pride, (Y/N),” Ace said, his voice softer now, but full of that quiet confidence you’d come to know. “It’s okay to need someone. It’s okay to let me be there for you.”

For a long moment, you stood there in silence, the weight of his words settling deep into your chest. And then, with a small, tentative smile, you finally let yourself relax, letting the tension you’d been carrying for so long slip away.

“I think… I think I’m starting to understand that,” you whispered, the words lighter than you ever expected.

Ace’s grin returned, this time without the teasing edge. It was sweet, sincere, and the look in his eyes made your heart beat just a little faster.

“Good,” he said, stepping closer, his voice full of quiet affection. "Because I’m always here when you need me.”

And in that moment, surrounded by the sea breeze and the warmth of his touch, you realized that maybe asking for help wasn’t so scary after all. With Ace by your side, it didn’t feel like weakness—it felt like the beginning of something new.

As he finished with the ropes, his eyes flicked to yours, and the smile he gave you was full of meaning. "You okay now?"

You nodded slowly, feeling a warmth spread through you. “Yeah,” you said, your voice soft but sure. “I’m good. Thanks, Ace.”

His grin widened, and as you stood together, side by side, you couldn’t help but feel that everything was starting to shift. In the quiet space between you, something beautiful was blossoming—and you were ready to let it grow.

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