#atlas shrugged read through

[atlas-plugged]

Atlas Shrugged Read-Through: PP 14-20

Our first introduction to the primary antagonist of Atlas Shrugged, Jim Taggart, is with him sitting at his desk saying "Don't bother me, don't bother me, don't bother me."

The unpleasant task that Eddie Willers has been facing is coming into Jim's office to tell him that a delivery of steel that has been delayed multiple times will be delayed again. Jim ordered the steel from his friend, Orren Boyle, who runs Associated Steel. Jim insists to Eddie that he won't hear of ordering the metal from the competing company, Rearden Steel, run by Hank Rearden. Taggart Transcontinental needs the steel because their Rio Norte line is too damaged to keep safely running trains on, and they are being outcompeted in the region by a small, local railroad called the Phoenix-Durango. Eddie is telling Jim to make a decision because the regional line supports the oil operation of Ellis Wyatt.

All of these are important characters and business that will come up a lot but they're not the real focus of this scene. The real focus of this scene is making Jim Taggart look like a big throbbing asshole, which is how you're supposed to think of him.

Here are a few of his lines from this brief scene:

"Who's thinking of giving up the Rio Norte Line?" he asked. "There's never been any question of giving it up. I resent your saying it. I resent it very much."

"Orren is my friend." He heard no answer. "I resent your attitude. Orren Boyle will deliver that rail just as soon as it's humanly possible. So long as he can't deliver it, nobody can blame us."

"Ellis Wyatt is a greedy bastard who's after nothing but money," said James Taggart. "It seems to me that there are more important things in life than making money."

"I think he's a destructive, unscrupulous ruffian. I think he's an irresponsible upstart who's been grossly overrated." It was astonishing to hear a sudden emotion in James Taggart's lifeless voice. "I'm not so sure that his oil fields are such a beneficial achievement. It seems to me that he's dislocated the economy of the whole country. Nobody expected Colorado to become an industrial state. How can we have any security or plan anything if everything changes all the time? [...] Yes, I know, I know, he's making money. But that is not the standard, it seems to me, by which one gauges a man's value to society. And as for his oil, he'd come crawling to us. and he'd wait his turn along with all the other shippers, and he wouldn't demand more than his fair share of transportation—if it weren't for the Phoenix-Durango. We can't help it if we're up against destructive competition of that kind. Nobody can blame us."

Jim Taggart is aggrieved. He is whiny, he doesn't accept responsibility for his actions, he resents people who are more active than he is (at least if they make demands on his time or cost him business by shifting their purchases to his competitors).

Jim is not written well, but the way that he is poorly written is interesting. Rand's big bad guy is an industrialist who doesn't take responsibility for his actions and who wants other people to do all of the hard work.

I'm going to get right to the big reveal in the middle of the book: Jim and the Moochers force through a law that means that nobody can compete with them. Other railroads shut down, new innovative companies have to give their capital to older businesses.

On the one hand, I think there's something clever that Rand is doing here. Jim and the Moochers use what is essentially "weaponized wokeness" (mealy-mouthed speeches about collectivism) to place themselves at the head of state-backed monopolies. They're not evil just because they're whiny and don't take responsibility, they're evil because they can use the power of the state to crush competitors, which also allows them to exploit workers and consumers.

On the other hand: I can't tell if Rand is being stupid or malicious in attributing the motivations for these actions to a collectivist impulse.

She clearly, obviously, deeply hated collectivism. But when each of her characters are revealed down to the nastiest, darkest parts of themselves it's revealed that their collectivist talk was meant to cover up personal greed. So I can't tell: stupid or malicious? Is she being stupid, and genuinely doesn't believe that anyone who talks about or works toward communal goods and shared resources actually wants those things? Or is she being malicious and suggesting that all people who claim to want to do things for the benefit of everyone are actually greedy and are trying to burn down the rest of the world so that they can stand on a slightly nicer bit of the ashes?

I haven't read much of Rand's non-fiction, or watched too many interviews with her, but I know that at one point she discussed the evils of altruism by saying that the Nazis were motivated by altruism. That seems like it's pulling a pretty bullshit rhetorical trick and defining "nationalism" as "altruism." And that's what she does with the evil characters in her books - makes them do terrible things while saying that they're doing so for the good of mankind when everybody knows the score. It's a bullshit rhetorical trick.

And this is how we're introduced to Jim Taggart. He's a wealthy industrialist who is whining to his sister's assistant that he can't be blamed that his friend is late with a delivery of steel. And I think Jim Taggart is a pretty good example of Rand being more malicious than stupid. We're going to learn a lot about his motivations and desires throughout the book and they come together to make a laboriously crafted strawman of an evil capitalist.

Anyway. Eddie walks out of their meeting after Jim insults his own sister; Eddie at that point finds an old clerk repairing a typewriter (one that has been repaired before and is made of inferior materials - planned obsolescence; a subject that I will have to yell about somewhere else) and asking Eddie if he knows where anyone can get woolen undershirts. Jim's office has been a break from the most visceral reminders of the bleak, slow-motion collapse of the economy that Eddie is confronted with as soon as he's out of the room again, and he is once again bothered by the question "Who is John Galt?" - the question that opened the novel in the mouth of a bum - as the introductory scene of the novel ends.

[mr-independent]

you know, its not brought up in fics often but ted is extremely well read. he doesnt brag about it, but hes read everything from f scott fitzgerald's b sides to ayn rand's doorstoppers to the sixteen book Ender series, etc etc etc. Ted reads about as much as we see Beard reading (which. in my head is a trait that was passed on, a new focus to sharpen the mind and keep him out of trouble and his mind off drugs, something Ted offered up as a coping mechanism for when his own dad died, a way to have fun and adventure and escape without ending up in jail like Ted himself had a handful of times before, scaring the bejeezus out of his ma.)

this turned into a mini fic and i lost my train of thought but point is, Ted reads So Much and more people need to pick up on this in fics please and thank you.

[daisywords]

Well I finished The Hands of The Emperor, and well it was by no means a perfect read or my personal favorite ever, I did enjoy it immensely. My main takeaway is that more books should be allowed to be really long and character focused and about retirement-age adults and have a bajillion little subplots

[captainkirkk]

✩ WEEKLY FIC ROUND-UP ✩

All the fics I’ve read and really enjoyed in the past week-ish. Reminder: This list features any and all ratings and themes. Please look at tags and warnings on ao3 before reading.

DC

Living Slow by kathkin

“Was that like. For real your mom?”

“Yes, Billy,” said Superman, with unwavering patience. “That was my mom.”

Billy looked at him for a long moment. He said, “Why?”

“Why?” Superman echoed. “What – what do you mean, why?”

Billy shrugged. “It’s a pretty simple question.”

“Well,” said Superman. “Be that as it may, I got no idea how to answer it.”

In the face of an extraterrestrial threat they don't fully understand, with all their usual hide-outs compromised, the Justice League are forced to go to ground. Fortunately Superman has a remote location where they can regroup. Less fortunately, it comes with some baggage.

Genome by JpegDotJpeg

Being Tim Drake-Wayne’s trophy husband and full-time sugar baby was hard work, but not without its benefits. Kon had gotten very used to getting whatever he wanted with Tim around. Clothes, tuition money.

Babies.

BNHA

someone blessed by blueseam

“Would you like to make a bet?”

It’s delivered in the same polite, measured tone Todoroki uses for almost everything, which only makes the offer more unsettling.

“Uh.”

If it will make him go away, Hitoshi might consider it.

__

Todoroki bets Shinsou that he won’t last a week in Class 2A without making at least one friend. He’s pretty confident he’ll get the money.

Too bad Midoriya only knows how to make friends by hurting himself.

ATLA

the dry grass catches fire by Anonymous

"Shoichi," Zuko says quietly, fighting to keep his voice steady. "What happened to Izumi?"

Shoichi is milk-pale. He shuffles on the spot, then opens his mouth. Zuko watches his lips move, hears the sound of his voice, and somehow does not fall apart.

"She was taken, my Lord," Shoichi says, and—

Every torch in the palace goes out.

-

A failed assassination attempt on Zuko results in his daughter being kidnapped instead. Zuko will stop at nothing to get her back.

i'll come crashing by ohmygodwhy

Li's scar is suddenly all Jet can think about. The scar, the scar, the old man’s hot hands warming his tea like he thought he could get away with firebending in the middle of a crowd.

or: After getting to know Li on the ferry, Jet sees Mushi heat his tea. Instead of assuming Li is also a firebender, Jet assess the situation and comes to a rather different conclusion.

House MD

Intensive Care by LadyEliza

Chase is sick. House won't leave him alone. The diagnostics team at PPTH has two cases to solve…

Clone Wars

a river runs through it by vizslasaber

There is a kind of fear that is unique to a Jedi.

(Cody and Obi-Wan. A lesson in attachment.)

[blue-jisungs]

SO BEAUTIFUL

author's note. can u tell what i was hyperfixation on when i wrote this?! a cookie for those who answer correctly (emoji) btw this song is one of my faves when it comes to ian :( right after violet crazy and scaredy cat.......... however his whole discography is just mindblowing so its hard to have a 1 fav song ngl <//3

summary. idk man just whipped prince!joshua ...

genre. atla-ish !! its not the main plot but there's mention of element benders lolzies, royal setting (prince!joshu, army general!y/n), situationship/non-established relationship between them

warnings. blood, wounds (kinda descriptive, im sorry), fighting, mention of war and killing people (i mean yn is in army so....), cursing, one suggestive joke but i mean,, it was there like... it was stronger than me..., not a warning but emphasis on fem reader, yn kinda has a breakdown :(

word count. 3878

joshua ran his hand through his hair, letting out a small sigh. he was reading a book but his mind seemed unable to focus as the words and sentences didn’t make sense in his head. 

“you’ve been reading this one single page for ten minutes now, your highness” he heard seungkwan’s teasing voice and just looked up at his friend. 

“i’m aware of that, seungkwan” joshua mumbled and put the bookmark between the pages, leaving the item on a small table. 

he bit his lip and looked outside the window, the sight of mountains bringing him some peace.

joshua’s mind was uneasy due to the late return of his army. and his absence at the battlefield. 

the news of victory brought by his right hand and good friend, minghao, definitely caused him to sleep better. but before that, there had been weeks of days filled with stress and anxiety. and now, for  unknown reasons the army’s arrival was postponed – and there was no message. 

“i’m sure general l/n has everything under control” seungkwan’s voice brought joshua back to reality and he subconsciously smiled upon hearing your last name. 

maybe that was the reason why he was constant concern. he was worried about you. no, it wasn’t like he doubted your fighting abilities it’s just… anything could happen on the battle ground. besides, you weren’t a bender. obviously, every caring prince would be worried about his subordinates. the matter was that it was your first serious battle all alone. usually he was there too. or at least seungcheol, who was his father’s military advisor – also very skilled in combat. but due to his injury and the medics sharp warning he wasn’t able to go. 

joshua sighed quietly and stood up, lazily walking up to his balcony. the cold air hugged his face, a refreshing breeze filling his lungs.

another cause of his stress was… well, you’re a woman. it’s not like women don’t hold high positions in society and are well respected in the water kingdom but… army was mostly men. who knew if any of the soldiers didn’t cause you trouble. 

“i don’t think that the ball is a good idea…” joshua mumbled, tracing shapes on the marble railing. 

“whether you like it or not, your mother had already decided. majority of our alliances arrived” seungkwan shrugged and turned around upon the sound of knocking. joshua looked through his shoulder, expectant. 

it was minghao. 

it must have been good news since he was shining. 

“they’re here” 

before the prince could pass him in the door, minghao cleared his throat. 

“y/n is resting though” 

joshua stopped in his tracks, not even realising there's a smile that appeared – dropped now slowly. 

“is she hurt?” he asked, worry in his voice. seungkwan closed the balcony door and joined the water kingdom’s prince's side. 

“no, no. not as far as i know. she’s just exhausted and needs to prepare for the ball. and the paper work, losses and such… it’d be better if you didn’t bother her” minghao suggested softly. “wonwoo is to your disposal though”

wonwoo, the lieutenant general. that’s fine, he’ll just ask about you. 

joshua nodded and left in silence. seungkwan and minghao exchanged playful looks. 

joshua could not sit still. his mother sent him numerous looks but his eyes weren’t focused at her at all. he scanned the crowd in search of you. 

his mother was oh so kind to postpone the ball to the next day, letting the soldiers rest. as he noticed, most of them made it. you surely would be here too, right? you were the general after all. 

then it struck him like thunder. 

there you were, in the midst of people. a flowy, light blue dress on your body gently falling onto the floor. he knew you got the access to the best sewers in the kingdom but this time… your dress really reminded him of water. maybe it was the silver linings in it? or just the lightness of the fabric? either way, you looked angelic. and with your hair loose, falling like waterfalls on your shoulders. 

as the great warrior you were, you sensed his gaze on you. sending him a small smile, looking from above your companion’s shoulder, joshua sighed dreamily. 

your lips moved and then you walked past the man you talked to, stepping directly into joshua’s direction. he cleared his throat, his sight on you. 

“my queen” you hummed and bowed gently to his mother first, then you held eye contact with him with another bow “my prince”

“general l/n, you’re truly the shining star of our army. we’ve heard the tales and i must say, i admire your vigour and dedication” his mother said. you bowed again.

“thank you, my queen. i’m proud i can serve our country” you nodded, smiling gently. joshua adored your face, not being able to get enough of it. especially after your three-months long absence. 

“mother if you don’t mind, you’ll hear the stories later. now i’m going to kidnap general l/n for a minute” 

before you knew it, his hand tenderly interlocked with yours as he lead you to the dance floor. landing in the middle, below the silver chandelier that lit up your face in the prettiest ways possible, the prince placed a feather-light kiss atop of your hand. 

the music started, the royal sounds of cello and violins ripping through air; joshua led the dance, his ebony eyes scanning your face. his features were overtaken by the look of how much he missed you, you could tell it by his eyes only. the soft curve of his smile made your heart melt, fingers brushing against his neck. 

“so beautiful” he hummed deeply, heart almost aching with joy. why was it like this? he thought he thought it through but now he was just confused; why does his heart hurt when you’re finally within his reach? 

”so, so beautiful” joshua repeated, daring to glance at your lips “i missed you dearly” 

you huffed, letting him sway to the rhythm of music. because he was an excellent water bender, he was one with the flow – whether it was his element or music. he guided you through the sounds of instruments, which made you emotional. hearing the sound of them after months away from your homeland… 

“aren’t you tired? are you fine?” joshua asked, care in his voice. he had you so close yet so far. in his arms but unable to caress your cheek or kiss your lips. 

you shook your head, scanning his face. maybe you missed him too, after all. 

“i’m perfectly fine now” you whispered and his look was more expressive than words; he understood what you meant: you missed him too. 

the melody came to a halt and it was like a string snapped in front of your eyes, the sudden sound of chatter making you go back to reality. 

“i’m sure there’s plenty of young ladies willing to dance with you. i shall not keep you busy” you said. joshua opened his mouth, protesting. 

“let’s take a trip down a darker place, the garden has really improved when you were absent” he almost whined, begging with his eyes so you’d spare him even a mere moment alone. 

suddenly, wonwoo approached you. he leaned in to whisper something in your ear, concern on his face. you nodded, features getting colder than snow blasting in the harshest of winters. he knew that look, it meant trouble; it meant an approaching threat.

“i’d be more than willing to. however, there happened to be an urgent matter that needs to be taken care of. i…” you hesitated and sent a look to wonwoo. he understood since he left right away. only then quiet words left your mouth “i’ll meet you in your chamber later, shu” 

his heart skipped a beat, nodding. his eyes followed your figure, finally at peace that you’re back.

an outsider would never think that you’re a general, one of the skillest people in the kingdom when it came to combat. whilst being a non-bender, which was quite impressive. you were just so… flowy, glowing and gentle. oh, gentle you truly were… 

“...the fuck you mean we had a tail?” you hissed, poking wonwoo’s chest and then taking a deep sigh “well fuck me, that’s just fucking great!”

“i bet your highness would want to do that” wonwoo cleared his throat, your hand slapping his arm in an instant.

“lieutenant general jeon, i ask you to behave accordingly to the situation. there is a risk of coup, the life of the royal bloodline is on the line and you dare to make a joke?” you said coldly, making wonwoo shiver. then, you suddenly snickered “i do admire your timing though. and now tell me more” 

you and wonwoo were close, it’s not like it was out of his manner to joke like this. but the fact that there might be a spy in the castle right now… 

“chan came across the traces and him and others made an assumption we’re followed by an fire nation soldier who survived the battle” wonwoo gave you the details. 

your light dress rustled on the late afternoon wind, breeze running through its fabric. you closed our eyes, fingers tightening on the marble railing of a terrace. 

there were two choices in this situation: announce there might be a spy and transport the royal family into a guarded place, which may result in panic and rumours spreading (including those about your incompetence). however, the spy might run off or give in. the second option: stay silent and don’t let anyone suspect a thing, take care of the spy with your own hands. risks: people getting hurt, especially the king or queen. or prince. 

“do we know where they might be now?” you asked, looking through your shoulder at the crowded ballroom. chatter, dancing, music… people living to the fullest. and joshua being there too. 

“we do have suspicions that they might be nearby, we found some traces near your… your, um, house” wonwoo answered, your eyes shifting. 

“so they want me, huh?” you sighed. that was far better than the royals getting hurt. staring at the sunset, a wide palette of oranges and yellows melting into one, you nodded. “inform the guards, keep an eye on any suspicious activity. i’ll go check if they’re still around my place. report immediately if anything happens”

“yes, general” wonwoo saluted and walked away, feeling the breath of urgency on his neck. 

adoring the sunset for a little longer, watching it morph into a navy night sky; you decided to go before it got too dark. 

joshua was walking around his chamber, footsteps echoing due to the largeness of it. it was past midnight, almost 6 hours since you left the ballroom… did you change your mind? you didn’t want to come? 

he let out a deep sigh, plopping on his bed and staring at the book he was reading. 

joshua was a prince and enjoyed literature, he has read countless and countless books and genres. he especially found an interest in old romance but all of them had a similar scheme when it came to relationships: the woman was the one to be head over heels whipped for the guy. she’d blush when someone mentioned his name, she’d miss him dearly when he’s on his adventurous voyages, she’d dream of him even in her sleep. he never read a book with an opposite order of things. and yet… here he was, waiting for you like a lost puppy. while his heart sought after you, his mind was worried about your wellbeing during your army shenanigans, he longed to hear, see or touch you even for a mere moment longer. 

huffing like an displeased child, he laid on the bed. if you come, you come. and he’ll be asleep. that way, you’ll know he doesn’t cares that deeply—

knock knock. knock knock knock knock. 

joshua frowned, sitting up. it could be you but… it wasn’t your usual knock.

the door opened with a quiet creak. you were leaning against the doorframe , upper body leaning forward with hair falling on your face.

“took you long enough” joshua mumbled and stood up, when you suddenly started sliding down the doorframe lifelessly. he ran up to you, kneeling down and grabbing your hands. frighteningly cold hands “what’s wrong?”

his voice remained strong unlike his heart. you gathered all your willpower and raised your head, fighting the dropping eyelids. 

“my back…” you croaked out, leaning forward but only ending up in his embrace. 

he did not image your reunion like that. 

joshua gently moved his hands to your back and his fingers met with something… sticky…? the flowy material of your dress was ripped, the warmth of the liquid contrasting with the low temperature of your body.

“y/n, what happened?” he asked, voice stern yet revealing a hint of worry. 

“i’ll explain later just… help me, shu. please” you breathed out, the air tickling his neck. joshua gulped, his adam’s apple bobbing, and he grabbed you in bridal style. 

placing you on his queen sized bed, rolling gently to the side, his mind was racing with thoughts. what happened? were you attacked? was it a fresh wound? 

“i’ll rip the dress, only on the back. i apologize, ill buy you thousands of new ones just… breathe for me, alright?” he stuttered, putting on some light. 

only then his eyes saw how serious was your wound. he took a sharp inhale, throat going dry. 

there was a deep wound going across your back, left arm to almost the side of your right hip. it looked like a sword left such a mark. 

joshua quickly opened the handy tap he had in his chamber and didn’t bother to pour it into bowl. 

he bent water straight from the tap, focusing deeply. trying to connect with his inner peace and energy but his rapid heartbeat seemed to disturb him too much.

“focus, jisoo” he grunted to himself, slender fingers shaking “y/n, talk to me. you need to stay conscious” 

“won’t talking take my oxygen that i desperately need–” you started.

“yeah, you’re right. be quiet” he scoffed, trying to light up the mood. then he moved his hands slowly from the beginning to your wound to the end of it. very slowly, surely. still like water, his palms flat but fingers directing the stream of liquid. you groaned, curling your back. 

it wasn’t the first time joshua was patching you up but it definitely was the first time he knew it’s dead serious… and seeing you in such pain. 

another thing was that at the back of his mind there was a sprouting thought that he won’t be able to close the wound completely. not with his heart all over the place. 

joshua took a deep breath, focusing on the element flowing through his body. not on you… in pain… bleeding out on his bed… 

“’m sorry” 

at first, he didn’t hear it. only when he heard a sob, he realized that it’s you. 

“hey, no. don’t apologize, that’s an order. it’s a deep wound, i know it hurts but im trying my best and we’ll talk it out later. 

inch by inch, millimetre by millimetre, thanks to his healing abilities your skin started clasping the wound. he wasn’t sure which technique to use – layer by layer or pieces at once but the crimson liquid pouring out of your pale back made him chose the first one. which will lead to leaving a scar. 

joshua began to feel worn out, despite all the hours of training that prepared him for such situations. but he knew that if he stopped now, you could die. 

“shu…” you mumbled, shaking like a leaf. your voice was quiet, weak. he felt time slipping through his fingers. 

brows knitting, sweat dripping down his temple, joshua shook his head. despite strength leaving him, he promised himself to restore as much as possible. 

you looked through your arm, pearly tears shimmering in the moonlight. joshua’s heart ached, as if someone put a needle right through it.

“i know, i’m sorry but i beg, a few more minutes…” he croaked, feeling lightheaded. 

“you’re exhausting yourself, stop it” a whisper escaped your lips “shu, please” 

“no, you need to live” he grunted. you frowned and tried to sit up, causing him to gasp “are you insane?”

“give me the bandage and go call the medics. i don’t want you to pass out” you ordered, reaching for his hand. 

joshua put the last ounces of water and energy into your body, leaning to close the tap. then, he dug in one of his drawers.

you were still bleeding but far less than when you barged in. he handed you the material and wiped the tears, sweat and blood off your face. 

“i’ve got this now. go get some help, please” you sent him a weak smile. 

joshua cursed mentally and left quickly. you were probably right.

once he was back with jun, jihoon and seokmin, they took care of you. the oldest one gave you some herbs that would put you to sleep as they worked on your wound. joshua insisted that it all took place inside his chamber. 

they were done around 3am, leaving you two alone. the prince managed to get rid of the blood stained duvet and covered you in a blanket that was on his couch. 

them, he laid down next to you. the moonlight shone on your pale face, parted lips making an escape for soft snores. your chest was rising up and down a lot more calmly, joshua could feel your energy being more vivid that before. it was stable now, like a steam of water in the woods rather than dried out lake. 

“you always have to cause some trouble, huh?” he scoffed and reached his hand out, caressing your cheek gently. even in deep slumber after getting hurt you were so beautiful. 

he noticed your brows furrowing and fingers twitching. your breathing sped up, yet you remained asleep. joshua observed you cautiously.

“no… don’t… don’t kill him” you mumbled, shifting in your sleep. his eyes widened, realizing you’re having a nightmare “anyone but… but my shu”

joshua’s heart melted on spot, pleasant warmth flooding his insides.

“you can’t even get a rest, can you?” he huffed and shuffled closer, guiding your head onto his chest. you instantly nuzzled closer, arms instinctively wrapping around his body. 

with an uneasy mind, he caressed your hair. your breathing calmed down so he wondered if the nightmare went away. 

joshua stuck his gaze into the open window, unable to relax. stars barely shone on the navy horizon, covered by clouds. it seemed like the sky couldn’t sleep either. 

upon stirring awake you instantly knew (even without opening your eyes) that you’re in joshua’s bed. it was much more softer than your bed but above all, it had the comfort. you felt warm and secure; cozy in his hold. joshua had his arm wrapped around you, fingers tracing shapes on your skin. 

peeking an eye open you noticed he’s holding a book with his other hand, eyes tracking the text. 

you wanted to stay like this forever. 

then, a stinging pain ran through your back and you trembled, causing him to shift his worried gaze at you. he gasped softly. 

“you’re awake” joshua hummed and leaned closer, placing a gentle kiss on your forehead. 

you melted because of the gesture, nuzzling further into his neck. 

“how do you feel?” he asked, worry in his voice. 

“better, much better. thank you, shu. i apologize for the mess i made” you mumbled, resting his palm on his chest. he put his hand over it, caressing your skin. 

joshua missed this so much. he missed you. 

silence was hanging between you two, an unspoken question of “what happened?” hanging above your head. 

“may i see wound?” he asked suddenly. you nodded, your hair tickling his skin. 

he helped you sit straight and handed you one of his sleeping cloth to cover the front of your body. 

joshua gently moved your hair from your back, his fingertips ghosting over your skin. goosebumps covered your arms.

“you know… you always say i’m so beautiful” you started quietly. joshua hummed in acknowledgment to let you know that he’s listening. then, he shuffled something closer and put it on the bed “but i’m not. i’m so ugly, joshua. my soul is ugly”

“that is not true, y/n” he protested sternly as his delicate fingers worked on removing the bandage. his touches were soft, almost as if he was afraid to touch you.

“i’m a soldier, shu. i hurt people. and yesterday… there was a spy. he sneaked up on me, threatened to kill you. and that triggered me i just… couldn’t bare that thought. and i saw red… he used my distraction and tripped me, slicing in the back” you stuttered, throat going dry “i’m a failure. i almost let him escape, your life was at risk and i couldn’t control my emotions…”

his movement halted for a while, the quietness od the room making your soft pants sound much more louder than you’d like to. 

“you are not a failure. you had led our army to victory, several times” joshua resumed and you felt the calming stream of water. then, you felt a soothing sensation spreading over your wound. 

joshua was bending to recover your wound, or at least make it heal quicker and more effectively. 

“yeah but… i’m a bad person” you mumbled, playing with your fingers. 

he stopped bending and put a new bandage over your wound, it still not being clasped fully.  

joshua patted your arm and you put his shirt on, turning around. 

“you know why i always say you’re so beautiful?” joshua asked and once you faced him, he grabbed your chin gently “obviously i mean your looks too but above all, i treasure your soul. you’re such a pure, dedicated human”

you swallowed, his soft features warming your heart. 

“this situation must have made you feel upset and not worthy but you’re so appreciated. my your subordinates, friends… by me. as much as i admire your readiness to sacrifice for me but please, i beg, don’t do it next time” joshua hummed, his thumb moving in soothing manner “i’d rather die myself than live without you”

“don’t say that” you scoffed, shaking your head gently “our country needs a leader”

“and i need you” joshua replied, moving his hands to cup your face “please, y/n. you’re so precious to me… so–“

“if you say beautiful i’ll smack you” you let out a laugh and he couldn’t help but share a smile. 

“but it’s true” he grinned and closed the gap between you two, lips crashing on yours. you shared a passionate kiss, a one that lovers after reunion share. 

but truth be told, you were like all those lovers in old tales. 

and maybe this time, there’s going to be a flawless ending: making it official.

main masterlist | event masterlist

taglist. @mirxzii ,, @primoppang ,, @l3visbby ,, @nicholasluvbot ,, @planetkiimchi ,, @weird-bookworm ,, @slytherinshua ,, @kazmura ,, @laylasbunbunny ,, @dazzlingligth ,, @eternalgyuuu ,, @rubywonu ,, @haecien ,, @mine-gyu

[couldsewyouastitchandsavenine]

When It Rains [Javi Peña]

My entry to @undercoverpena April Showers Challenge that I discovered randomly after talking to @pedroschka about wanting to write something similar. And while, Jo kinda closed the challenge, it's still officially 30th of April where I am, so, voilà.

pairing: javi peña x reader

w/c: 1,5K ish

warnings: mild cursing but it's just a fluff, overall safe to read, Javier experiences love at first sight should be warning on it's own but oh well.

Javier Peña hadn’t thought that it might rain. But then again, no one in this city ever did.

And yet, as if to mock him, the rain finds him anyway. A shower of rain bullets as though the skies themselves were at war, drenching the thirsty asphalt and showing no mercy to anyone caught beneath its relentless assault.

Seeking refuge under the narrow awning of the closed fruit vendor across the offices, Javier's fingers, jittery with nerves, fumble through the cold to pull a cigarette from its nearly crushed pack. It is soggy and limp when he finally manages to do so, yet placing it between his lips feels like a minor victory, pathetic as it seems. His attempts to light it, however, fail miserably—the wind, too cruel, mocking his weak efforts with gusts that make the flame dance and die before it could catch.

Defeated, Javier stuffs the ruined cigarette back into its pack. Crans his neck upward, staring into the relentless downpour of the dark, wet sky, and curses again.

Javier knows it’s late. Absurdly so—the kind of late reserved for ghosts and the lost, and standing there, shivering slightly and with his patience fraying at the edges, Javier feels like neither. Because all he feels is longing to go home. Where, within the confines of his four walls, he can find some semblance of peace, even if it often feels like little more than a stage for his unrest.

But home seems like a world away tonight, his jeep abandoned around the corner on a street now succumbing to rising floodwaters.

And he knows he has no need to be out there, exposed and weary—a quick sprint across the street and a shove through a door would land him back in the bullpen. Yet, the thought of returning to that fluorescent-lit purgatory makes his skin crawl. The oppressiveness of it all—the endless paperwork, the sprawling maps of drug routes stretching across his desk like an atlas of despair, the corkboard plastered with faces that seem to mock his distance from the resolution he so desperately craves—repel him far more than any storm could.

“Hey!”

Cursing louder than he intended, Javier’s hand is quick to reach for his gun, tucked into the waistband of his jeans. But then, his eyes meet yours and he hesitates—not out of fear, but surprise when you grin at him and shuffle closer, lifting your umbrella to cover both of your heads.

And then you smile—soft, tentative, yet disarmingly warm. It hints at something brighter, something warmer, and for a moment, Javier finds himself wondering how it would look fully unfurled, in its most radiant form.

He blinks the thought away at the same time as you speak to him again. “What are you doing out here?”

Javier bristles at your voice, tinged with concern, and then makes a gruff noise as he sizes you up. “Who the hell are you?”

His reaction makes you look down at your shoes briefly, as if trying to shield your disappointment from his harsh gaze. “Oh, I guess you don’t remember me?”

“Am I supposed to?”

“Well, yeah—I guess…,” you trail off with a shrug as you look back up at him. “Intel Division,” you quickly supply, deftly producing a lanyard with your DEA credentials from beneath your yellow windbreaker. “We work—”

“—I know what Intel does,” he interrupts brusquely. And Javier knows that his tone is more abrasive than necessary, but something about you, your hideous yellow coat, and your behaviour is strangely disarming. He isn’t sure if he finds it weird, scary, or if it’s turning him on. So, in order to compose himself, Javier nods to himself. Wishes he had a cigarette he could smoke. Lastly, he asks, “You new around here or something?”

“Nope,” you reply, your smile returning briefly. “Been here for a few years now.” You stop as if trying to figure out your next words. “We usually have briefings together, so I thought you’d—well, nevermind. Why are you here?”

“We do?” Javier asks, curiosity getting the better of him.

“We do, what?”

“Have briefings together?”

Your answer is a nod. “Yeah. I often sit across from you.”

At this, Javier’s expression changes slightly, and with a mix of embarrassment and perhaps a tinge of frustration crossing his features he looks away from you. Then, with his brows knitted together, he glances back at your face—his brain sifting through his mental directory of mugs and names, quickly finding none that match yours.

You chuckle.

“It’s fine, seriously, don’t sweat it,” you reassure him with a gentle voice, “I know I’m not that memorable,” you joke, waving your free hand around your face, but Javier only frowns at that. But, you ignore him, tucking your exposed hand back into the pocket of your jacket. “So, why are you out here?”

Javier sighs. Runs a tired hand over his face in a frustration that never quite went away. “My car—didn’t look like it’s going to rain this morning.”

“It never does here,” you supply mirthfully. “Where did you park it?” Javier doesn’t answer, but simply waves his hand towards the general direction where his jeep sits. “Great. Let’s go then.”

“Where?”

“To your car,” you grin up at him, gesturing in front of you.

—

Unlike Javier, you seem almost indifferent to the storm, your demeanour unfazed by the downpour. Yet as a particularly heavy cloud bursts above, Javier can’t help but note the slight falter in your steps, the struggle to hold the umbrella over both of your heads against the rebellious wind.

“Here, let me hold it,” Javier declares more than offers, his hand reaching to take the hold of your umbrella before you can protest. And even though it’s a simple gesture, the brief hand contact sends a subtle, warm jolt through him—a sensation that lingers unsettlingly long. “Better?”

“Yeah, thanks,” you breathe out, returning his gaze.

Javier quickly looks away.

The outline of his jeep materialises in the distance, a dark silhouette against the hazy veil of rain, but the journey to it feels overwhelmingly long. Javier's mind attributes the stretch to the silence between you, an oppressive, stifling thing that seems to thicken with each step. And even though he has never been one for small talk, he finds himself wanting to fill the void, to somehow bridge the gap, but he struggles to find the right words. And the ones he finds disappear before they could form into coherent sentences.

"It's okay," you say softly, your voice cutting through his reverie, as if sensing his discomfort. "We don't need to talk. We can just walk."

So walk you do, until at last you arrive at where his car is parked, the lone steel frame glistening with a slick coat of rain. What follows is an awkward moment as Javier’s hands pat down his pockets in a frantic search for his keys.

"Fuck, I'm really sorry," he mutters, relief and frustration mingling as he finally feels the metal contours of the key in his grip.

A dismissive wave from you and a brief smile of his later, you step back to give him room to open the door. As smooth as possible and avoiding any more rain on his neck, Javier slides inside, shivering as his body stills against the cold seat. Then, he glances up to voice his thanks, only to see your figure retreating—silhouette melting into the rain, causing him to feel a sudden tug at his heart—an unfamiliar sensation that’s filled with a sudden, inexplicable reluctance to let you go just yet.

Thus, Javier finds himself cranking down the window with haste. “Hey!” he calls out; sharper and louder than intended. But, it makes you stop and turn; look at him, and Javier’s heart skips for just a beat as he offers a tentative smile, propelled by a rash impulse. "Come on. This rain isn’t letting up anytime soon. Let me at least get you somewhere dry."

You hesitate for a second, your gaze drifting to your shoes for a moment before meeting his eyes again. And then, with a small smile, you’re nodding and making your way back to him—the umbrella hardly more than a token shield against the rain.

With soft words of gratitude, you settle into the passenger seat, and Javier simply nods—a brief, uncertain smile flickering across his lips as he starts the engine. The familiar silence envelops the space between you again, yet this time it carries an odd comfort. One that Javier appreciates more than he cares to admit.

But while the quiet lingers, Javier’s mind races, sifting through memories, briefings, and faces of informants and colleagues—none of which align with yours. It’s frustrating and he hates it, thus, he finds himself stealing glances—once, twice, pulled by something beyond his control.

It's only when a red light forces him to a stop that he finally gives in to the urge to speak. “I’m Javier… Javi,” he says, as if to reaffirm his identity and anchor himself in familiar territory. “But, you probably know that.”

Glancing back at him, you give him a small, knowing smile. "Yeah, you were the topic of my first briefing when I transferred here. Also, you don’t need me to remind you that you've got a reputation."

Javier chuckles, raising an eyebrow. "Hope it's a good one."

Your smile only widens to the exact point where Javier wants it, confirming that it’s, in fact, unabashedly beautiful—just as he assumed.

"Depends on who you ask, I guess. Men think you're a hero. Women, on the other hand, not so much."

A moment of strange panic flickers through Javier, but you sigh contentedly, your gaze drifting back to the misted window, deliberately steering clear of that particular rabbit hole—at least for now.

"Look," Javier starts again, his voice a blend of confession and curiosity, "I gotta admit, I'm drawing a blank here, and I’m usually better with faces." He pauses when you wave him off, but then persists softly, "No, really—I should remember. Especially those pretty eyes like yours."

You snort, giving him a look that mixes amusement with mild rebuke, but he just winks, finding himself strangely comforted by your dismissal of his compliment.

"You’ll live, Javi," you tease before finally telling him your name. And Javier repeats it, savouring the way it feels on his tongue, a subtle pleasure tingling through him as he acknowledges how much he likes the sound of it.

Pausing briefly, Javier steals another glance at you. “There’s a little place not too far from here,” he suddenly starts. “Open all night. Their food isn’t half bad, and the coffee’s strong. Thought we could head over for a bit, to dry off? Unless you’re not up for it.”

A moment of hesitation flickers across your face before a smile emerges. "Sounds good. I usually can’t sleep anyway... but only if it's not out of your way."

Something inside Javier’s stomach kicks. A gut-punch of pleasure that lines his insides with warmth that he doesn’t bother to dismiss. “It usually is, but I feel like going out of my way tonight.”

—

tags: @pedroschka, @itscolleenhere, @idontcareihavenoidea

[penny-anna]

“There's something,” she said, running her hands once again up and down Lillian's thighs, “erotic, about a train. Don't you think?” “Enlighten me,” said Lillian, who had yet to lose her poise. “The strength of the steel,” said Dagny. “All the parts of the engine, moving in perfect synchronicity – the powerful onward thrust across the country – do you see it?” “I think,” said Lillian. “You need a man in your life.”

🚨🚨🚨🚨I WROTE THIS FOR THE BIT. I HAVE NOT READ ATLAS SHRUGGED. DO NOT BEAT ME WITH HAMMERS. 🚨🚨🚨🚨

so one of my friends has read Atlas Shrugged due to (best as I can tell) morbid fascination and as she likes to torture us with awful movies she made us sit through parts I and II. this in turn led to a conversation about Atlas Shrugged fanfiction which in turn led to this:

Friend who reads f/f content exclusively: what is the top lesbian pairing?

Friend who is morbidly obsessed with Atlas Shrugged: there's only one woman in Atlas Shrugged. there's no lesbian content.

Friend who reads f/f content exclusively: that's not true. what about that woman who gave her the bracelet?

Me, in a fit of madness: we could make there be lesbian Atlas Shrugged fanfiction

anyway then they peer pressured me into writing Atlas Shrugged toxic yuri. So here it is!!

[saintvainglorious]

Fics I Enjoyed in January

I was putting together a list of the best fics I read last year and was reminded of two incredible ATLA fics I read in February 2023 ((Never) Forget Who You Are by mindbending and up in the city (until the stars lost the war) by Madseason). Those two fics are absolute perfection and sent me down an Avatar: The Last Airbender rabbit hole this month.

I read an insane amount, for me, even more than I did last year in September/October, when I was chowing down Drarry longfics like a starving dog. There's approximately 993k words of fic in this rec list - if you assume the average novel is 90k, that's about 11 books!

half in the shadows, half burned in flames by r_astra Avatar: the Last Airbender | Gen | 4k | Not Rated

“They say you tried to kill the Firelord,” Hakoda says. "Why?" Zuko doesn’t know how to answer. Because I hate him. Because I love him. Because he wants to see the world burn. Because he knotted one hand in my hair and cupped flames against my face with the other. Because my mother is dead. Because my uncle is dead. Instead, he shrugs tiredly and says: “Someone has to.”

i am through finding blame by sokkaesque/@sokkagatekeeper Avatar: The Last Airbender | Gen | 6k | Teen & Up

Sokka was fourteen the first time he realized people didn’t apologize to him very often. Or, Sokka during The Southern Raiders.

a nation, held by snowdarkred/@snowdarkred Avatar: The Last Airbender | Gen | 6k | General Audiences

It doesn’t take long for the rumors to start. The Fire Nation prides itself on its civilization. It isn’t like the other, lesser, nations who throw their children away by sending them into war. They are to be protected, because children are the future glory of the nation. The crown prince is thirteen when his father burns his face in front of an audience of hundreds.

The Iconoclast by ranilla_bean/@ranilla-bean Avatar: The Last Airbender | Sokka/Suki/Zuko | 21k (WIP) | Explicit

After a protracted civil war, the victorious new Fire Lord sends a call for a new bodyguard across the four nations. A Southern Water Tribesman and a warrior from Kyoshi Island respond.

Life in Eden by WitchofEndor/@a-witch-in-endor Avatar: The Last Airbender | Gen | 14k | Not Rated

In which Ursa tries to be a better parent to Azula, and it doesn’t change very much. And then, quite abruptly, it changes everything.

While Mighty Oaks Do Fall by WitchofEndor/@a-witch-in-endor Avatar: The Last Airbender | Sokka/Zuko | 181k (WIP) | Teen & Up

The newly-crowned Fire Lord Ozai offers his firstborn son to service in the temple. This turns out to be a catastrophic mistake.

where the stars do not take sides by WitchofEndor/@a-witch-in-endor Avatar: The Last Airbender | Sokka/Zuko | 60k | Not Rated

When Azula is nine, she becomes an only child. She hears the Fire Lord call for Zuko's life, and in the morning, her mother and brother are gone. Azula may be young, but she isn't naive. She knows what happened to them. Which makes it all the more surprising when Azula tracks the Avatar down and fights his group of peasant friends, only to find herself staring into an eerily familiar face.

War Crimes by Lovely_Elbow_Leech/@lovelyelbowleech Avatar: The Last Airbender | Sokka/Zuko | 90k | Mature | Part 1 of All's Fair

Book one ends with two major differences: 1. Sokka went on the mission with Hahn (it did not go well) 2. Zhao survives the North Pole and that proves unfortunate for everybody (except Zhao, obviously). Imprisoned on Zhao’s war ship, Sokka and Zuko have to work together to survive. They are not very enthusiastic about this prospect. And they argue. A lot.

War Games by Lovely_Elbow_Leech/@lovelyelbowleech Avatar: The Last Airbender | Sokka/Zuko | 443k (WIP) | Mature | Part 2 of All's Fair

Sokka is aware that being friends with the enemy is going to bring complications, but he probably should have guessed that being friends with Zuko in particular, was going to be a bit like dunking your head repeatedly into a bucket of angry Fire Ferrets.

Below the Sun by CSHfic and VSfic Avatar: The Last Airbender | Sokka/Zuko | 25k | Teen & Up

Sokka is washed overboard while working on the fisherman's boat during the storm. He wakes on a deserted island. Or... mostly deserted.

Will We Last the Night by CSHfic and VSfic Avatar: The Last Airbender | Sokka/Zuko | 143k | Teen & Up

Chief Arnook never assigns Sokka to protect Princess Yue, so he goes to fight the Fire Nation with the other men. When the moon dies, and the ocean spirit takes its revenge, Sokka is caught standing on the deck of a Fire Nation ship. Sokka should have drowned… and he would have drowned, if not for a certain Fire Nation raft fleeing the North Pole. [An enemies-to-lovers season 2 rewrite, where Sokka is separated from the gaang during the Siege of the North, and travels the Earth Kingdom with Zuko instead].

[jkrockin]

Wait what guy who hadn't read Atlas Shrugged?

I was pretty sure I'd told this story here, but a cursory search suggests that I have not. Okay let's gooooo

Many moons ago, I worked in an emergency services call centre. I worked nights- I could get regular shifts, it paid well, and I am a huge freak, just like everyone else who works nights in a call centre. It is a lifestyle that attracts freaks. Some of my coworkers weren't full-time creatures of the night, but students or whoever who picked up occasional nights for the extra money, and one of them was Libertarian Shithead, who we'll call LS for short.

LS was a twentysomething white dude who wore a lot of name brand surfwear and designer sunglasses. I assume his parents were rich. LS loved nothing better than recreational arguing. Unfortunately, he wasn't very good at it; he had some of the most dogshit opinions I've ever encountered in the wild, and was terrible at defending them. He'd say some crap about how Gattaca-type eugenics is Fine, Actually, because if you let people make designer babies, the ~*Free Market will decide what traits are desirable! Racism and colourism and ableism and sexism and intersexism won't affect those choices at all! And I'd get mad, because I have principles to speak of, and we'd get into it, and WITHOUT FAIL, we'd get maybe halfway into an actual discussion about whatever horseshit garbage he was on tonight, and the second he thought he was losing, he'd say "oh, well. I'm an ~*Objectivist, so you can't really understand my perspective unless you've read Ayn Rand." Then he'd sigh, and change the subject.

At the time I had not read any Ayn Rand. Being fundamentally powered by spite, I withstood maybe three weeks of this shit before I pirated an epub of Atlas Shrugged, put it on my e-reader, and proceeded to slam through it at supersonic speed so I could finally get to finish an argument with this terrible boy.

Anon, I fucking hated Atlas Shrugged. The book is bad. It's way too long, every single character is an unbelievable douche, the prose sucks. Ayn Rand wants to fuck a train so so so badly, but the prose is so turgid I couldn't even get invested in how much she wants to fuck a train. And the core of the matter, the politics I was there to understand, are, y'know. Objectivist. Eye-bleedingly selfish and capitalistic, expressed in amazingly childish and blinkered terms. Even the bits where it seems like the shithead capitalist dudes want to fuck each other are too mired in the scunge of Rand's terrible views to be enjoyable.

But I read the fucking thing! I powered through it with only quite minimal complaining! I finished the book on the train to work, and when I saw that LS was on that night, I plonked myself in a seat by him, and metaphorically cracked my knuckles, ready to fuckin' party. In a perfect world, I would have been cool enough to have waited for the perfect mid-argument moment to drop, but I didn't. I think I lasted exactly until we were both off a call at the same time, and then leaned in as close as the desk dividers would let me, and said "So I finished Atlas Shrugged. I have some thoughts."

I cannot overstate how quickly it became obvious that LS had not read the book. For a hot second I thought maybe it had just been a while and the fine details had escaped him, but no; he didn't know who half the characters were, or key points of the plot, or even know any of the stuff in the John Galt speech, i.e. the big juggernaut of Here's How Objectivism Works near the end of the book about Objectivism that this fucking guy hypothetically based his Objectivist views on. It took me maybe five minutes, in between calls, to realise this, and another five for him to admit he hadn't actually read any Ayn Rand. He'd read her Wikipedia page.

ANYWAY I didn't speak to him for like a month after that, and I don't think either of us lost out there!

[hellfireloserclub]

Better late than never. I got at least one in for the holiday season!

Day 31 of @steddieholidaydrabbles new-year/resolution

Rating: T warnings: fluff, post traumatic stress, apocalypse I guess?

Doomsday clock

“New year, new me.” Steve grimaced as the clock clicked closer to midnight. As far as he was concerned this party should have been over hours ago, more of a wake for the traumatic year that was 86 than a new year celebration- hold on no they were seeing out 87 now weren't they -The apocalypse really threw off the concept of time.

It wasn't even like he could drink in the new year like the others.

Both him and Eddie were stone cold sober, thanks Vecna, as if destroying their lives hadn't been bad enough. He had to go and take away the comfort of alcohol to numb the trauma. But hey he had some awesome scars, that totally made up for it, right?

The rest of the party were enjoying the party. But he saw it behind their eyes, the childhood that had been taken away, the lost time, the lost chances.

He had slipped away so Robin could finally shoot her shot with Nancy.

He knew it should feel something, regret? Lost opportunity? But he felt nothing. Just empty. His best friend deserved the world, she didn't have to get dragged into this disassociated state with him.

Let her find love.

He had felt Eddie's eyes on him as he excused himself from Joyce's front room, desperately in need of nicotine and to shake himself out of the depressing fug he had dragged himself into.

It didn't surprise him when Eddie followed.

They stood in silence leaning against the railing,watching through the glass as the others passed around drinks, laughed, and smiled as the alcohol did what it was supposed to. Even the kids had been allowed drinks under supervision.

What did it matter, Hawkins was a lawless town. Erased from maps and atlas, a mystery that would disappear in a few years never to be spoken of again.

It didn't exist.

But they did.

The ones who survived. The damned. The cursed and forgotten.

He hadn't meant to utter his words into the silence between him and Eddie, but it had happened anyway.

“New year, new you?” Eddie always made sure that Steve could see his lips when he spoke, not hiding behind the lengths of hair that had slowly begun to grow back to the lengths that Steve had grown to envy, back before.

Before the end of everything. Before and After. Everything divided straight down a burning red angry line that had ripped the world apart.

Eddie watched as Steve stubbed out his cigarette before turning his attention back fully to Steve's face. Steve's eyes traced the scar that ran across the other man's chin, it was quiet enough outside in the frosty air for him not to need to look at Eddie's mouth as he talked to follow the words. But addiction is a cruel mistress.

And, ever since Eddie army crawled back from Hell itself, Steve had been just that. Addicted.

Eddie had buried under his skin and become as much a part of his life as breathing.

Obviously, Steve hadn't told him that.

Couldn't bring himself to burden the man with the shallow empty shell of what he used to be. Scared, broken, deaf and all the other fun stuff that came with being the human shield, one concussion away from the bitter end. Human chew toy, a disfigured jumpy twitchy mess.

“Yeah, new-year resolutions, traditional shit. New year, new me” Eddie stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray between them. Still watching Steve, as Steve watched him.

“Shame. I like, this you.” Eddie shrugged, hovering just outside of Steve’s personal bubble. Even now unsure if he should or would be let into Steve’s space. “What if you have a personality transplant and you turn back into a douchebag jock? That would never do. I have standards sweetheart. I could never…”

“You could never, what?” Steve watched as Eddie chewed on his bottom lip, his face schooled into the picture of innocence. Without the sound cues Steve was lost to read his expression, but there was something akin to mischief in the other man's eyes.

“It’s not midnight yet, my new year's resolution might change in the-” he glanced at the clock through the large glass doors. “-next seven minutes. You know me Stevie, I’m unpredictable, I zig when I should zag. Plus a New You might severely derail my immediate future plans."

Many things had changed in the After. Eddie was different, less opinionated, no need to fight for the attention of his peers, here in the ashes of a failed civilization, everyone was created equal. Yet sometimes he still spoke like he was leading a campaign or like his words needed to be deciphered with a cryptograph or a cypher. Used as a shield and a way to deflect. He talked in riddles, and tonight the topic of his enigmatic words was evidently Steve himself.

“When have you ever done anything because of me? Mr free will.” Steve found himself stepping forward, letting Eddie into his safe space. The other man seemed to be gearing up to something. So Steve waited.

Eddie tapped his lips in thought and Steve let the movement draw him in.

“Well let's start with a long time ago, in a galaxy far far away when I decided to not stab a bottle through your vocal cords. Kind of a turning point in my life that has sent me hurtling down a path towards this new years resolution if I’m honest.” Eddie stepped closer, it was getting harder for Steve to focus on his lips now, but it wasn’t for lack of trying. The way Eddie was looking at him now was almost animalistic, and Steve had never felt more like prey.

“I mean I chose to follow you out here at- “ he checked the clock again, “- five minutes to midnight and freeze my ass off- a commodity I have little to spare in the first place- to maybe, just maybe be in the right place at the right time for once. Each choice has brought me here. To you. So yeah, I’d say a lot of you, influences a lot of me. Especially your new year's resolution, if it means you’re going to go changing- ” he gestured wildly in Steve’s direction. “-Any of this.”

“Is that so?” Steve looked into the kitchen, his chosen family milling as they jostled to have a drink in their hand as the clock struck twelve. “So I have two minutes to change the world? Talk about a doomsday clock.”

“This isn’t about the world. It’s just about you and me. No doomsday clock needed.” Eddie stepped closer. “Just maybe a new watch battery, so I don’t run late for the date I was gearing up to ask you on. But you know that was the old Steve. Like I said, new Steve might be a douchebag.”

Eddie was stupidly close now.

“How about this?” Steve nudged Eddie's nose with his own, “I ask you out now? And neither of us make resolutions? They're kind of stupid anyway.”

Eddie's eyes studied his own. His pupils danced as he tried to focus on Steve who instinctively lent in.

“Hate to rush you Eds, but you have about thirty sec-” Eddie bit the end of his nose, causing Steve to jump back in shock.

“Don't you doomsday clock me Harrington.” Eddie warned a damn right dangerous look in his eye. Goddammit that shouldn’t do things to him but a blatant want was bubbling in the pit of his stomach.

“Twenty seconds.”

“I think I can just fit you into my busy schedule.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Fuck resolutions then.”

[halfway-happyyy]

into gold III {rooster bradshaw}

synopsis: rooster bradshaw’s emotional baggage could fill a cargo container ten times over. he is the single father of a precocious and bubbly six-year-old, and despite his best efforts, has fallen head over heels for someone arguably more damaged than him- his daughter’s first grade teacher.

characters- bradley ‘rooster’ bradshaw, frankie bradshaw, female ooc scout wallis (she/her pronouns)

word count- 3200+

or- the one where rooster can't cook, and lays everything out on the line for scout.

read part one and two

An aluminum wing catches a ray of flaming sunlight, rendering her momentarily blind. The moment passes and she catches sight of the plummeting aircraft expecting to see the words ‘LT Beau Wallis “Atlas”’ painted across the side, but what she sees instead is ‘LT Bradley Bradshaw “Rooster”’. A strangled scream tears at the tender flesh of her throat as she watches his FA/18 explode into the side of a mountain before he can safely eject from it. Another precious life snuffed out like a candle in the night. Another love lost forever. Her scream never materializes.

Scout Wallis jolts awake from her nightmare, her entire body covered in a slick sheen of perspiration. To steady her erratic breathing, she studies the movie posters that adorn the walls of Jake’s bedroom. Most of them are westerns; vintage, gun-toting shoot-em-ups that make her long for the simplicity of her grandfather’s cabin.

“Bad dream?”

Jake’s voice catches her off guard before she nods her head. He moves from his spot on the chair in the corner of the room to the bed, taking a seat beside her.

“Must have been out a little while,” She yawns. “Are you almost ready? What time did Rooster say to be over for dinner?”

Jake moves to brush a strand of hair away from her face. “Before we do anything, you and I have some unfinished business to attend to first, Wallis.” Scout suddenly feels the end of their time together looming close, like the ticking hands of an invisible clock. Silence settles a little too long between them before he finally sighs, “This isn’t going to work out between us, is it?”

And it breaks her heart a little bit because in every lifetime apart from this one, she can see herself with Jake Seresin.

She shakes her head, piteously. “I’m sorry, Jake.”

He lifts her hand from beneath his duvet and kisses the back of it gently. “No apologies, Wallis. Frankie’s crazy about you,” A sobering realization sets in behind those beautiful viridian eyes, a flash of something sorrowful passes through them and then it’s gone. Jake swallows hard and shrugs his shoulders. “Rooster is too.”

Scout watches him leave the room, wishing with a pang, that there were something she could do or say to make herself feel a different way, but if there was anything that losing Beau had taught her, it was the importance of letting go when the time came.

They meet on his front porch fifteen minutes later, both regarding each other with a thoughtful intensity. Jake’s the first to break the silence.

“I meant what I said the other night.”

Scout cocks her head in question. “What did you say?”

Jake sighs and squints into the waning daylight above. “That he’d take good care of you. He will take good care of you if you let him, Scout. And you deserve it.”

The inexplicable sting of looming tears pinches behind Scout’s eyes as she opens her arms for a hug which he reciprocates. They stand entwined for a couple of minutes, neither one of them wanting to part just yet.

Jake breaks away first and clears his throat. “Alright Wallis, get outta here.”

She steps down off the porch, walks the few steps toward her car, and then turns to face him. “I’ll see you around, Seresin.”

He grins. “Not if I see you first.”

~

Scout stands poised before Rooster’s front door. She considers setting the mason jar of shells down onto the frayed welcome mat and making a run for it, but no sooner has the thought crossed her mind that the door is opening, and Frankie is standing on the other side of it. She’s dressed head-to-toe like Jessie from Toy Story: cow print, a hat, boots, and all.

“Miss Wallis!” She grins and then excitedly follows that up with, “Papa they’re here!”

Scout hears a pot bang in the kitchen followed by a choice curse word and stifles the giggle that tickles the back of her throat.

“Well, let them in Frankie!”

She herds Scout into the living room and then peeks back out into the growing darkness of the late May evening.

“Where’s uncle Jake?”

Scout swallows hard; fumbles around for something appropriate to say when Rooster appears from out of the kitchen, his cheeks flushed.

“Hi.” He breathes out.

“Hi,” Scout's gaze drifts to the youngster. “You look spectacular Frankie. If I’d known, I’d have brought my Buzz Lightyear costume.”

Her eyes widen in delight. “You have a Buzz Lightyear costume?”

Scout nods.

Rooster rests a large hand atop Frankie’s head. “We’re going through a bit of a Toy Story phase at the moment.” He too, cranes around in search of Jake. “You by yourself?”

Scout nods slowly. “Yeah, Jake couldn’t make it.” Their eyes meet then, and somehow Rooster understands everything without a single word being uttered between them. “But I made sure to stop by to drop these off for you.” She hands Frankie the jar of shells and turns towards the door.

“You’re not staying?” Frankie asks.

Scout doesn’t miss the disappointment in the little girl’s tone. She turns back. “I don’t want to be a bother…”

Rooster shakes his head adamantly. “You could never be a bother. Besides, we’re having Frankie’s favorite.”

“Pancakes!” Frankie squeals and makes a beeline for the kitchen.

Scout sighs happily. "How on earth can I say no, then?"

“It wasn’t supposed to be pancakes,” Frankie licks a glob of maple syrup off her finger. It had been twenty minutes since they’d sat down, with Frankie being the first to break the silence. “But papa had an accident with the steak.”

Scout’s gaze travels to the charred piece of meat in a cast-iron pan at the back of the stove and giggles.

“Thanks Frank.” Rooster rolls his eyes and reaches over to pinch the apple of her cheek, playfully.

Scout swallows her bite and shrugs. “I tend to prefer breakfast for dinner over steak anyway.”

“Me too.” Frankie agrees.

While she’s in the washroom, Scout watches Rooster push the last of the bacon from his plate onto hers. “You full already?”

Rooster shakes his head no with a small smile. “But Frankie loves the stuff and that’s enough for me.”

Scout doesn’t allow herself much time to reflect on the things she looks for in a significant other, but watching Rooster sacrifice the last of his dinner to appease his girl, she can’t help but feel endeared to him more.

As soon as the eggs and bacon and pancakes have been devoured, Frankie turns to Rooster and asks if she can grab the ice cream.

“Why don’t we wait a little bit? Scout might be a bit full of dinner still.”

Frankie falters in confusion. “Your name is Scout?”

Rooster’s cheeks redden and he scrambles to explain himself, but Scout gives her head a soft shake.

“It’s simple Frankie. When you and I are at school together, you need to call me Miss Wallis because I am your teacher. But when we’re like this- or, if you see me at the beach,” She throws a wink Rooster’s way. “You can call me Scout. Does that make any sense?”

Doubt clouds her beautiful green eyes, but she nods her head regardless.

“And I would love you to grab the ice cream. My dessert tube is far from full.”

Rooster watches her head for the basement and then promptly apologizes.

Scout waves it off. “Not at all. It was bound to happen at some point. I’ve just found that it’s best to be as honest with them as you can- as is appropriate.”

Rooster watches her and she feels naked under his gaze but it’s a vulnerability that she doesn’t immediately shy away from. She reckons she could get used to it; likes how it feels akin to standing under a warm shower, or letting sunshine warm your frozen bones on a cold day.

“You do well with her.” He concedes after a while.

Scout allows herself thirty seconds to remember the seedling that had once grown in her belly and smiles. “She’s a wonder, Rooster. Truly.”

“Papa, can you help me please?”

“I’ll be right there sweetheart,” Rooster pushes himself back from the table with a happy sigh. “Frankie has helped prepare a very special dessert this evening. We’ll be right back.”

Scout takes this opportunity to fully drink in the beautiful space around her. The kitchen opens onto the living room which is all whitewash and navy-blue accents. A pair of sliding glass doors lead out onto a half wraparound porch, where a rope swing bench hangs from the second story awning. Open windows give way to the calming staccato of waves crashing against a shore nearby, and she decides then that her favorite part of the house (minus her two dinner companions) may just be its proximity to the ocean. It is entirely charming in its coziness. From her spot at the table, Scout can see that most of the wall space in the living room is hung with pictures Rooster collected during his time in the Navy, and of different stages of Frankie’s life. Her, as a fresh and endearingly wrinkly newborn, next to one that shows him and a toddler Frankie next to his beloved plane. Beside that picture is one of Frankie and Maverick at her kindergarten graduation. A warmth that had felt foreign to her for so long settles in next to her heart and refuses to budge.

“Are you ready Scout?” Frankie’s lilting voice, brimming with excitement, knocks her from her reverie and makes her smile.

“I’m ready, Frankie. Your dad said you worked extra hard to put this dessert together.”

Frankie, suddenly unusually shy, nods her head.

“Alright Frank, you grab the ice cream.” Rooster gestures to the rapidly melting tub behind him and carries a steaming dish of apple crumble to the kitchen table. He tops her plate with a heaping spoonful of the crumble and two healthy scoops of vanilla bean ice cream.

Scout takes a bite and lets her eyes fall shut, savoring the slightly tart taste of the warm apples on her tongue. “This is delicious, Frankie. You did a fantastic job.”

Frankie’s lips turn up into a toothy grin. “Thank you.”

They finish their dessert in silence, and when it’s over, Frankie tugs on the sleeve of Rooster’s t-shirt and leans up to whisper something in his ear.

Rooster frowns. “Why don’t you ask her yourself, Frank?”

Frankie turns to Scout, her expression bashful. “Scout, can I show you my seashell collection?”

Scout passes a napkin over her mouth and nods emphatically. “I would love that, Frankie. Lead the way.”

The rest of the house is just as charming as the main floor, and Frankie’s room is somehow exactly how Scout would have imagined it would be. A white, wrought-iron bed sits beneath a powder blue mosquito net, the top of it crowned with twinkling fairy lights. Behind the bed, a large whimsical rainbow takes up most of the far wall, and a sneaking suspicion tells her that Rooster had something to do with it. A lamp in the corner of her room emits a soft yellow glow, and an array of random wooden furniture takes up the rest of the quaint space. Frankie cradles her jar and points to a blue, paint-chipped shelf beside her bed.

“Mav made that shelf for me for my shells.”

Scout walks the short distance to the shelf in which she’s referring to and drops to her knees in awe. She’s sure Rooster had a hand in helping her organize everything, but even still, her collection is immaculate. There must be over a hundred shells on display- some ranging from the size of a quarter to some the size of a dessert plate.

“These are incredible, Frankie.”

The little girl carefully unscrews the lid on the jar and begins to add them to her collection, ranging in size and color.

“Thank you for helping me, Scout.”

Scout swallows back the sudden tide of emotion and smiles. “It was my pleasure, Frankie.”

“Do you have a favorite one?” she asks.

Scout sighs. They’re all so beautiful. After a while, she points to a small red starfish. “I think that one.”

Frankie grins. “That one’s my favorite too. It always reminds me of Patrick, from Spongebob.”

She’s not sure how long they spend huddled in front of the myriad of shells, but Scout reckons she could listen to Frankie talk about them for the rest of her days and never grow tired of it. A knock at her bedroom door pushes her from her daydream. She glances up to meet Rooster’s gaze, his head leans against the door frame.

“Hi.” Scout smiles.

“Hi you two.”

“Come look at the ones I added, Papa.” Frankie insists.

Rooster pushes himself from the frame and crosses the short distance to where they’re crouched down, planting his hands on her shoulders and leaning in to take stock of the priceless new additions. “You’ve outdone yourself this time, Frank.” He murmurs after a few moments. “But I regret to inform you that it’s time for bed.”

Scout doesn’t miss the exasperated groan that emanates from Frankie.

“Just a little longer, Papa?”

Rooster laughs. “It’s already past your bedtime, sweetheart.”  

Scout rises from her crouched position and places a hand atop Frankie’s head. “Goodnight my friend. Thank you for showing me your wondrous collection.” A thought crosses her mind. “When we do our last show-and-tell before year end, why don’t you bring some of your shells in? I’m sure the other kids would love to see some of them.”

Frankie’s eyes light up. “I would love to!”

Scout grins. “It’s a deal, then. Goodnight Frankie- and sweet dreams.”

She wanders back downstairs, not entirely sure if she should stay. She figures the least she can do is wait to say goodbye to Rooster. A picture on the mantle above the fireplace catches her attention. It depicts a very young Maverick, with his arm wrapped around someone who bears an uncanny resemblance to Rooster. Scout studies the photo; the smiles of the young men speak volumes of excitement and adventure, of youth, and the ability to believe that they would be safe in anything they set their hearts on. Rooster joins her then.

“Is this your father?” she asks, though she reckons she already knows the answer.

Rooster nods before clearing his throat. “Yeah, that’s him.”

Scout smiles. “He looks like you.”

Rooster shifts from foot to foot, as if crafting his next words with care. “I never really thought so, but my mother was adamant that he and I were cut from the same cloth.” He hooks a thumb over his shoulder. “Would you like to stay for a drink?”

Scout wants to say no. She wants to thank him for dinner, and for the companionship that he and Frankie had gifted her this evening, but she just can’t shake the feeling that she’s supposed to be here.

“Yeah, I would.”

“Is there anything you’d like? I’ve got wine, beer, whisky…”

Scout shrugs. “I’m easy. Surprise me.”

Rooster smiles and nods his head. “Alright. I’ll fix us something if you want to find a seat on the porch.”

She does as she’s told and settles onto the swing, reveling in the sound of the ocean nearby. Rooster joins her a little while later, offering her a tumbler of whisky which she gladly accepts. He takes a seat at the opposite end of the bench and raises his drink to her.

“I’m sorry to hear about you and Jake.”

She snorts around the rim of her glass, takes a sip, and shakes her head. “No, you’re not.”

Rooster’s expression is suddenly sheepish. “You’re right. I’m not.”

They’re silent for a moment, Scout already feeling the whisky warming in her belly, causing her cheeks to flame and a flush to start at the base of her throat.

“Can I ask you a question?”

Rooster gazes at her, his expression unreadable, and nods his head. “Anything.”

“Frankie’s mother, what’s the story there?”

A puff of air escapes his parted lips as if he’d been holding it all in. “Not much of a story at all, really. She, uh, left when Frankie was about a year old.”

Scout can barely fathom it.

“Her and I were young when we met. We figured that marriage and children were the next obvious steps, so we took them together and when life got real, she hit the road.” Rooster takes a deep sip and continues. “She tries to get a hold of Frankie every now and then. Always spews some bullshit about coming to visit her, but she never manages to materialize. Fortunately, Frankie and I do alright on our own.”

“You do better than alright, Rooster.” Scout murmurs.

“How about you?” He asks. “You ever been married?”

Scout hesitates before nodding her head. “Yeah, actually. I was married for five years before he passed away.”

It sometimes still feels surreal to her when she says it out loud. That someone could be so close to her for so long and mean so much to her, and then gone at the blink of an eye, keeps her up most nights.

Rooster’s face drops. “I’m so sorry, Scout.”

She swallows back the building emotion and offers a half-shrug. “It’s one of the costs of flying fighter planes for a living, isn’t it?”

Rooster’s eyebrows raise in surprise. “Your husband flew planes?”

“There’s a reason I told you I didn’t date men in the military.” she simpers.

They’re silent for a while, the only noise between them the calming sound of waves against sand.

“You’re lucky you live so close to the ocean.”

Rooster smiles, but there’s pain in the depths of his burnt-honey orbs. “My old man perished over the ocean in 1986, so I think I did it to feel closer to him.”

And Scout, maybe more than anyone, understands that completely.

“It’s fucked up, isn’t it?” He muses.

Scout shakes her head. “There’s no right or wrong way to grieve, Rooster. You do what you can.”

It is not lost on her how perfect this night has been, but she knows her time to go is fast approaching. She tips back the rest of her drink, favoring the way it scorches the delicate lining of her throat as it goes down and gets up from her spot on the swing.

“I shared more of myself with you tonight than I have with anyone in a long time.”

Rooster gazes at her. “I'm honored.”

“It’s time for me to go, though. I wanted to thank you for this evening, it was wonderful.”

“It was a pleasure to have you join us, truly.” Rooster follows her to the front door and leans on the frame for support. “I want to take you out, Scout.”

And there it is again. No bullshit. A man who tells her exactly what he wants, and it causes butterflies to take flight in her belly. She thinks of Beau and Jake, and the hell of it all is that she likes Rooster. God, she likes him so much. So she says the only thing that she can think of in that moment, and then regrets it immediately.

“I want to be friends, Rooster.”

And there’s so much more that she could say to him. I want to be friends to get to know you. I want to be friends before I scare you off. I want to be friends before we get in too deep. But the right words fizzle and fade before she can voice them.

Rooster walks her out to her car. He hasn’t said anything in the wake of her admission, and she wonders if she's already fucked everything up. But then he simply tells her, “I’ll take what I can get, Scout. Frankie and I aren’t going anywhere.”

And despite everything, she believes him.

[atlas-plugged]

Atlas Shrugged Read-Through: PP 11-14

As far as starting your novel in media res goes, it takes pretty big balls to make your opening line the motif that will haunt the rest of the book. The story starts out right away with "Who is John Galt?" and clumsily tries to catch up to it.

Our introductory POV character (the story is told mostly in first-person limited with occasional dips into third person omniscient) is Eddie Willers, who is undoubtedly one of the more likable characters in the book. Eddie is 32, straightens his spine with "self-conscious discipline" and we meet him as he's giving a dime to a panhandler on the street.

I like Eddie for that. Eddie is unnerved by the man asking him for change, and is unnerved at the constant refrain of the city that seems to be cadging dimes out of the pockets of the well-to-do, but Eddie doesn't pause. He is uncomfortable, but he gets the dime out of his pocket anyway.

Eddie is walking the streets of New York at sunset, trying to figure out what is causing the anxiety that's preying on his mind. He eventually settles into the realization that twilight is making him anxious.

This is because, in the context of the novel, the industrial world is in its twilight.

And this is because Ayn Rand was the least subtle person on the planet.

Further evidence of Rand's earth-shaking unsubtlety is the giant calendar projected on the roof of a skyscraper that will become a way of marking Serious Happenings in the novel. The calendar also makes Eddie uneasy, and looking at it gnaws on him for a page or two until he realizes that the calendar has made him think of the phrase "your days are numbered."

As Eddie walks through the street we are taken on a tour of his anxieties; he is unnerved by the increased frequency of people asking for cash, disturbed by the coming darkness and the numbered days of the calendar, and the fading brightness of the city reminds him of a lightning-struck tree that he saw as a child, one that was already rotted from the inside by the time it was hit in a storm.

There's a paragraph here that I almost like for its language, and that I actually like because of what it says about Rand. The paragraph reads:

The clouds and shafts of skyscrapers against them were turning brown, like an old painting in oil, the color of a fading masterpiece. Long streaks of grime ran from under the pinnacles down the slender, soot-eaten walls. High on the side of a tower there was a crack in the shape of a motionless lightning, the length of ten stories. A jagged object cut the sky above the roofs; it was half a spire, still holding the glow of the sunset; the gold leaf had long since peeled off the other half. The glow was red and still, like the reflection of a fire: not an active fire, but a dying one which is too late to stop (12).

What I almost like about that paragraph is the way that it's written. When I say that I find Rand's prose compelling, this is part of what I mean. The image of a glass skyscraper with half its reflection gone dark because it was unmaintained after all the effort to build it is arresting.

What I actually like about that paragraph is that it's not quite a full page into the book and Rand is already telling you exactly how much credit she gives her readers. It is not enough for her to imply that the buildings are poorly maintained, or to later comment on the number of closed shops or the rusty mechanisms of the streetlights, she has to make sure that you understand that things are bad in Eddie Willers' world, and that the city looks like a dying fire.

Eddie continues his journey, passing a busy street in which only 20% of the shops are dark. He walks down the sidewalk and feels protective of displays of competence (bright vegetables on sale at a stall, an expertly steered bus) and advances toward a meeting that he doesn't want to have.

The text is very clear about what kind of man Eddie Willers is. He is a man who likes productivity, a man who unflinchingly faces unpleasant tasks with his head held high and the knowledge that his effort will be of use to the people (and one specific person) who rely on him. He is not a fighter, he is not a brilliant engineer or a great thinker: he is a man whose existence is "a quiet, scrupulous progression" (13).

In the next segment (Atlas Shrugged is divided into three books of ten chapters, or 30 chapters that average about 36 pages each; each segment is typically divided into several segments with differing points of view) we will learn that Eddie is the "Special Assistant to the Vice-President in Charge of Operation, and his main duty was to be her bodyguard against any waste of time" (25). Eddie isn't a man who gets things done, he is a man who clears the path for other people to get things done.

We are meant to appreciate Eddie, but I also think we're supposed to be contemptuous of his passivity. He is a little man living his life and (explicitly) trying to do what is right, and in Rand's writing that's not enough to make him admirable.

In the matryoshka of cuckoldry* that would be a love triangle in another novel, Eddie is the outermost doll.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

Eddie is on his way to an unpleasant task: that unpleasant task is to tell the president of the company that he works for that they can't let a railroad line fail.

This is a novel about industrialists.

While it was written in the 50s it seems to have a kind of timelessness, or out-of-timeness to it. If it seems a little odd that the central conflict of a novel in the 50s would be about the failure of a railroad company, it is. The first recorded usage of "Jet Set" was in the late 40s to early 50s, and it seems, frankly, bizarre that a book published in 1957 would have trains this central to the story.

It is really, really difficult to over-emphasize how much trains matter to this book.

And, look, I get that transit is Super Fucking Important to how the world works - we have all recently experienced what supply chain interruptions can do to the world - but trains are more than transit in Atlas Shrugged. Taggart Transcontinental - the railroad that Eddie works for - is presented as a cultural symbol and a metaphor for freedom and UNIRONICALLY!!!!! an example of what determined individuals can do if unhampered by regulation.

So it doesn't read like a novel that is taking place in the 1950s, it reads like a novel that is taking place much earlier than that.

But: back to the actual text.

Eddie is determined in facing his terrible duty: speaking to his boss. Eddie walks through the Taggart Transcontinental Building, immediately comforted by its warm, productive atmosphere, and goes upstairs to talk to Jim Taggart, president of Taggart Transcontinental, who is the older brother of Dagny Taggart (the protagonist of the novel, and Eddie's direct supervisor).

Taggart's textual introduction is another example of Rand's writing actually being kind of okay:

"He looked like a man approaching fifty, who had crossed into age from adolescence, without the intermediate stage of youth" (14). That's good shit. It's evocative. It's followed by eighty words of description that undo all the wit of that zinger: "His posture had a limp, decentralized sloppiness, as if in defiance of his tall, slender body, a body with an elegance of line intended for the confident poise of an aristocrat, but transformed into the gawkiness of a lout. The flesh of his face was pale and soft. His eyes were pale and veiled, with a glance that moved slowly, never quite stopping, gliding off and past things in eternal resentment of their existence. He looked obstinate and drained. He was thirty-nine years old."

Everyone who has done even half a second of criticism Rand has noted that she is too wordy. It is practically a given. What people don't often discuss is that half of the words are good, they just get spoiled by the other half. Just like the dying fire example we looked at earlier, this description of Jim Taggart could be cutting, but she dulls her words by throwing too many of them at you. And that's not even getting into the weird body shit that will crop up again and again.

Or her obviousness.

Jim Taggart's sloppy posture is a misuse of his body that makes an aristocrat into a lout; Jim Taggart's misuse of his family's company makes him into a moocher instead of an industrialist. He is squandering his inherited gifts out of a sense of misplaced guilt over possession of those gifts; this is expressed in his physical person as well as in his business dealings.

Anyway, that's where I'm going to call it for today. We've met Eddie, we've seen the streets of New York, we're inside the Taggart Transcontinental building, and we've seen Jim but we aren't talking to him yet.

This chapter is called "The Theme" and that is apt because the themes are being laid out before we've even met or protagonist and before our antagonist has even opened his mouth.

There is one more thing I would like to highlight, though:

At one point in the chapter, Eddie remembers the answer he gave when asked what he would like to do when he grew up. His answer was "Whatever is right," and as he walks toward the Taggart Transcontinental building he reflects on this:

"He still thought it self-evident that one had to do what was right; he had never learned how people could want to do otherwise; he had learned only that they did. It still seemed simple and incomprehensible to him: simple that things should be right, and incomprehensible that they weren't. He knew that they weren't" (14).

Eddie knows that something is wrong in the world, and he attributes at least part of that wrongness to people wanting to do something other than what is right. Put another way, Eddie thinks that what's wrong with the world is that people want to do the wrong thing.

I think that Rand genuinely believed that a great deal of evil in the world was attributable to the conscious decision to do evil, and I think that that idea, that people choose to do wrong, is at the root of the flaws in her worldview.

One of the major flaws with libertarianism and/or objectivism is the unwillingness to concede that the choice to act in your own best interests may well do harm to others. This is remarkable, considering how terribly wounded the ideology is, and how much contempt it holds for self-interest in collective contexts.

*"matryoshka of cuckoldry" is the tag that will be used to mark posts that discuss the fascinating and bizarre world of sex and relationships in Rand's work. Eddie Willers is not Dagny's partner at any point in the novel but he is the most passive, distant, and mentally/physically/capitally weak of the men who love Dagny Taggart in the novel.

[comradekatara]

i am very curious about your thoughts on various utena/atla character parallels… every once in a while i see you offhandedly compare like.. korrasami and utenanthy and i’m like HOLD ON this is so true! if you have any further ideas about that i would LOVE to hear them. i honestly don’t know how big the audience is for rgu/atla analysis but i am definitely part of that audience. 😭

yesss i can't believe you're literally the first person to ask me this lately i've been making rgu references on like, every single post i'm shameless!!!!! over the summer i even wrote (like 95% of) an essay comparing sokka and nanami (tldr; they are meat) and i have yet to revisit it (bc i'm scared tbh) but i will post is eventually that is a PROMISE (for an audience of 5 people). also before we go any further my utena blog is @saionjeans and we have fun there. also, i have some utena/atla crossover art here and here, so check that out if you haven't already. the rest of this post will be scattered thoughts because my nanami-sokka essay will be doing a lot of the in-depth analytical work and i don't need to rehash that all now. but also, because i have never not once in my life heard of brevity, i did write a bunch of mini essays anyway, because of course i did.

korrasami and utenanthy: love and abuse

i compared utenanthy to korrasami a couple times, most notably in this post where i talk about how meaningful their relationship is despite being (arguably) underdeveloped, and then in the tags i still have to acknowledge that utena and anthy nonetheless did it better 17 years prior. but i do think that there is so much to be said for utena-korra and anthy-asami as two young women who are both set up to be "special" but in a way that denies and restricts them from their own humanity, cloistering them away from the outside world and making them more vulnerable to abuse. i talked pretty recently about how asami's abuse is really shrugged under the carpet in a way that pisses me off if i think about it for too long. rgu does such an incredible job of gradually exposing that abuse and its effects on society, not as a deviation from the norm (of the nuclear family, of the romance, of the school, etc.) but in fact a common symptom of it. lok does not critique the nuclear family in any meaningful way despite setting up so many different areas through which such a critique could be facilitated (made worse by the fact that atla sets such a fantastic precedent). but anyway, enough about lok (and how she disappoints me).

2. miki & kozue and katara & sokka: siblings and memory

in my sokka-nanami essay i talk about how various characters can be read to embody various analogues, but how my focus in that essay is primarily to draw a parallel between sokka and nanami by using the framework for gender/patriarchal logic rgu establishes. however, i also talk about how azula can be read as a nanami (or even an anthy) figure, as well as how katara and sokka can be read as miki and kozue (katara = miki and sokka = kozue, obviously) (and note that kozue and nanami are significant foils/mirrors too). i mean, they even have a similar light blue (to signify naïveté, innocence, childlike wonder) versus dark blue (to signify cynicism, jadedness, resigned subsumption into harmful norms) color scheme going on. the Special sibling and the afterthought. (although before going forward i do want to be clear that i am in no way alluding to any incestuous undertones wrt katara and sokka, and i would even argue that the allusions to incestuous desire between miki and kozue are more complex and nuanced than simply reducing it to mere perversion. but that's beyond the scope of this ask lol)

i know that some people might bristle at my comparing katara to miki (baby misogynist, little freak) but miki really exemplifies the trope of the "sunlit garden" in the same way that katara exemplifies that trope in atla. miki isn't the narrator of course (akio is), but the central motif of desire staked to an illusory formative memory since lost that defines a character's motivations and self-becoming is first properly introduced (not including the utena meeting dios intro) and defined through his obsession. in the same way, we are introduced to the world of atla through katara's formative memories, her desire that motivates her self-becoming also being an illusory formative memory, as well as a tale she longs to replicate ("the four nations living together in harmony"). katara, like miki, is defined by her naïveté and childlike innocence, her somewhat reductive desire to be noble and heroic, and her need to flatten everything into a clear-cut narrative wherein she is always its heroine. like miki, she resents her sibling for being transformed into a more cynical version of themselves in accordance with society's pressures (in kozue's case, it's the inescapability of patriarchy, whereas in sokka's case, it's... a lot of things), and longs for a time when they were "truly happy" and playing together (playing piano, playing in the snow, you get it).

both kozue and sokka heavily subscribe to patriarchal logic and comport and reduce themselves in accordance with the dictums of a world they consider truly inescapable. kozue seeks power within her limited frame, whereas sokka only seeks power insofar as it allows him to assume his very narrow role of protector, but they both assume those limitations to be ontological and fixed in a way that does not allow them to see past it. however, the lack of empathy both miki and katara refuse to attempt in understanding their worldviews, in no way making an effort to broach that misunderstanding instead of simply letting the chasm between them fester, nonetheless implicates them equally. after all, they too both adhere to their own limited worldviews, only in their worldviews they are fundamentally special and thus beyond reproach. sokka and kozue are both integral aspects of katara and miki's sunlit gardens, and their idealized return to a picturesque nostalgia involves a transformation (or regression) of sokka and kozue into their more innocent former selves. and sokka and kozue are in turn obsessed with katara and miki, the central figure around which their identity and actions revolve.

through this framework, aang thus becomes katara's anthy (aangthy, hehe), as the embodiment of katara's hopeful/nostalgic ideal of heroism, companionship, and the idealized promise of a distant irretrievable past. like anthy with kozue, aang "replaces" katara's longing for the softer, more innocent version of her brother with aang's friendship. like miki with anthy, katara possesses romantic feelings for aang despite his functioning as a replacement for sokka before he became a shell of his former self (or kozue before she became... sexually active). this is because katara, like miki, idealizes the patriarchal narratives that dictate that all significant relationships be either romantic or familial (or both). she wholeheartedly subscribes to this notion, hence why she attempts to subsume everyone who can meaningfully fit into her narrative framework as either a lover (aang, haru, jet, zuko for all of 2 seconds) or a pseudo family member (aunt wu, hama, pakku, toph, etc etc.), replicating those dynamics as many times as she needs to to make them fit within her two dimensional tapestry. and crucially, coming face to face with yon rha subverts that, because she recognizes the messy humanity spilling forth from the neat boxes she puts people in, and must thus contend with her own role in her narrative. of course miki, being a side character and not the narrator, certainly not the hero, does not get this luxury. and he must find a way to grow up anyway.

3. akio and ozai: patriarchy

there's something truly incredible about how both akio and ozai manage to inflict psychological harm upon every single character in their respective shows, even if they never interact with those characters directly. their reach is vast and spindly; it cannot be overestimated. and yet, ozai has only reigned for about six years. akio is only acting chairman of ohtori academy. they are not patriarchy itself, but merely its signifier. and obviously their modes of embodying patriarchy differ in many respects: a school is not a nation (despite the similarities), and a father is not a brother (despite akio being father-like). ozai is defeated by by being stripped of his technology of violence, whereas akio is not "defeated" in a literal sense (although i suppose anthy driving a car through his ghost and exploding him into a cloud of roses does make quite the statement), anthy merely leaves. and yet, in both instances, they are both forced to succumb to their own limited ideology regarding what constitutes power. if ozai lacks firepower, he lacks control over his subjects and the right to sovereignty. if akio's control is challenged, if people realize that they can just leave, that the ends of his world are entirely arbitrary, he no longer has the power to abuse and exploit and use others for his own ends.

the metonymic signification of patriarchy figured through both ozai and akio in dual ways further emphasizes their respective roles. ozai is both king and father, akio is both (acting) chairman and (acting) father. patriarchy dictates every aspect of [a patriarchal] society: from interpersonal dynamics to the nuclear family to the school to the state to the world. what makes both akio and ozai so brilliant in this regard is the fact that their influence is reflected in all these facets. ozai abuses every member of his family individually; controls them as a system; inflicts his (family's) propaganda onto the fn education system, rewriting history with (almost) no one to disprove him; inflicts his imperialist agenda both within the fire nation (ruining local economies through industrialization, forcing citizens to conform to restrictive roles, inflicting violence through occupation) and beyond it; he refers to the world as "my world," as if he is its creator, its owner, or its god. and in many ways, he is. akio similarly abuses everyone interpersonally (most notably anthy, touga, and utena); subsumes utena into his nuclear family system so that she cannot leave; uses the academy as a site of control in which adolescents are forced to comply with socially codified norms and thus made more vulnerable to the influence of adult authority figures (especially those who emphasize their individuality or inherent specialness when compared with the rest of the student body); operates ohtori as a sort of nation wherein patriotism is reified through the use of uniforms, affiliations, sociopolitical hierarchies, and an acting government (the student council); and defines himself as the creator/owner/god of his world. to be end of the world. to embody not an apocalypse, but a cage.

ozai and akio both fashion themselves the entire world, but it also makes them more vulnerable to resistance, to any mode of critique that points out the obvious: no, you're just one person, and the logic you use to dominate others is deeply, noticeably flawed. it's a logic that they exploit but that in turns exploits them, as they have so deeply internalized it that they can no longer immunize themselves against any kind of resistance. ozai claims that there is no room for an air nomad in his world, which is why aang defeating ozai through the pacifist values of his people and not through his greater power (which would nonetheless be subscribing to ozai's logic, and thus letting him win ideologically if not physically) is so crucial in shattering ozai's paradigm. just as utena, as someone who refuses to conform to the strict, arbitrary, and violently enforced norms of patriarchy, can so thoroughly disrupt akio's control by resisting him. just as anthy can by leaving. akio remains in his cozy little coffin, exerting meaningless control to uphold the hollow puppet of his ego.

people sometimes joke about how long it takes for zuko to recognize that the burning off of half his face was "cruel" and "wrong," but it's not that zuko didn't find it painful, it's not that zuko didn't fear his father, it's not that zuko idolized his father beyond reproach. he questioned his cruelty, in fact he did so constantly. he simply saw no other way to live. he had no conception of a world beyond ozai's defined limits, had no choice but to believe ozai's dogma and loathe himself for not sufficiently adhering to it. similarly, people often ask "if anthy could leave all along, then why didn't she?" because she, too, was trapped in a coffin of her own self-loathing. to leave an abuser is not as simple as simply stepping beyond the threshold and never looking back. first, you must locate the threshold. then, you must find the courage to look beyond it. i briefly touched on azula being an anthy figure before. well, i think that she is. just because she has yet to see beyond the threshold does not mean she does not find her limits. and yes, its not triumphant, and yes, her facade that masks her pain and fear is shattered, but ultimately, that breakdown is a good thing for her. because that's her first step to freedom.

4. the sunlit garden as mythmaking events

i talk previously in this post about the motif of "the sunlit garden" in rgu vs what i like to call "a mythmaking event" in atla, and i do want to elaborate on that slightly. i provided a link to a post on my utena blog going into what the sunlit garden "is" for each principal character, and atla has a similar mode of communicating these nostalgic desires and idealizations that motivate self-becoming, largely through flashbacks. for aang, it is quite obvious, as his memories of a before and after are (temporally, although not psychologically) fragmented by an entire century. that disconnect severs the two versions of himself quite neatly. those memories with gyatso and the other air nomads (as well as with child bumi, and with the mysterious kuzon) are his idealized past, his "sunlit garden," whereas the storm is his mythmaking event, the point in his life where his choices collide with his telos. there is no going back.

katara and sokka have a similar sunlit garden, their snowball fight being the last truly happy memory they have before the black snow falls and their childhood innocence is severed from them forever. kya's sacrifice and murder is katara's mythmaking event as she then chooses to assume the mantle of her mother who took her place, decides to become the greatest waterbender possible to compensate for surviving the genocide, and chooses to be a hero so that the collective memory and sacrifices of her people will not be in vain. like utena, she witnesses pain and suffering at a very young aged and is moved to become a hero so as to mitigate that suffering, even if her own formative tragedy can never be rectified. also like utena, she idealizes a seemingly utopian past wherein violence was more covert and thus presented itself as more ideal (the time of princes vs the time of harmony). her naïveté and persistent idealism are both her downfall and her greatest virtue. she refuses to accept the true state of the world to the point of blindness, but it is also that refusal to accept it that allows her to force the world into a kinder shape.

as for sokka, his mother's death was also a formative trauma, but his true mythmaking event is when hakoda leaves for war with all the other men of his tribe. hakoda tells him that "being a man is knowing where you're needed the most, and right now, that's here, protecting your sister." it's not a rose crest ring, but it may as well be. from that moment onward, sokka officially comports his identity into being his sister's protector, which is how he thus defines his manhood. and of course, being his sister's protector means being a martyr, because the precedent for "protecting katara" that has already been established is, well, dying for her. like aang being the avatar and the last airbender and katara being the last southern waterbender, sokka is thus defined by his necessity (ie, usefulness to others) as well as his isolation – not only the "last warrior/man" of the swt, but also via his own process of depersonalization and self-dehumanization as he attempts to fully embody his role as an eventual martyr.

zuko's mythmaking event is, of course, branded onto his face. in fact, zuko essentially assumes both katara and sokka's mythmaking events by first being irrevocably altered by his mother's sacrifice, and then being all the more transformed by his father's decree as he attempts to dictate what kind of man zuko needs to be. his "sunlit garden" is also shown to us in flashes: memories of a (literal!) sunlit garden, of turtleducks, of his mother's gentle guidance, of happier times on ember island, on his father's hand resting on his shoulder with pride instead of malice. it is unclear just how truthful these nostalgic memories are. obviously, his family was never actually happy. ozai had always been exerting control over them, even if his violence was once more obscured. we never see azula's sunlit garden, for instance (although i'd argue that she and zuko possess the same mythmaking events), and i cannot help but wonder whether it's because, like touga, she never actually had one.

finally, some honorable mentions must go to the following: toph, whose sunlit garden is also her mythmaking event, as she learns from badgermoles how to hone her gift and reject the rigid societal impositions that seek to limit, repress, and control her. hama, who never attempts to return to her sunlit garden in the swt with kanna, despite her freedom as established in her mythmaking event of teaching herself to bloodbend; she knows that she is irrevocably altered, and thus she can never go home again. appa, whose sunlit garden, of playing with the other bison at the southern air temple, occurs in conjunction with his mythmaking event of meeting aang and becoming the avatar's animal companion.

all of these events are depicted through flashbacks wherein the consecutive shots between flashback and present day mirror the character who is having the memory in the past and present, overlaying their younger face onto their current face with identical framing. i'm too lazy to compile a bunch of screenshots here, and i couldn't find the post i'd seen previously that had done so, but if you're as familiar with atla as i am, then you already know exactly what i'm talking about. this device is so effective particularly because it exercises restraint. every flashback in atla is crucial because it signifies either a sunlit garden or a mythmaking event that motivates the character its focalizing in the present day. atla is economical with its flashbacks, but not withholding. like with rgu, flashbacks in atla are used with a specificity of purpose, and illustrate their points in clear, precise ways. just because atla is not as overtly metatextual with its central themes of narrativization, nostalgia, idealization, bias, and storytelling, does not mean it is not present, and in fact, overt. ranging from katara's role as narrator to the fire nation propaganda aang attempts to correct in school, the use of memory and illusion is crucial in illustrating how atla functions as a narrative about heroism, legacy, and challenging dominant myths through preserving cultural memory under an imperialist regime.

5. final thoughts

obviously, i could go on forever. there is simply no limit to my ability to unpack and dissect these two shows (hence, my sideblogs dedicated to doing so). i haven't even talked about zuko as an analogue to saionji with regard to their latent homosexuality, misogyny, violence, and struggle to conform to a patriarchal ideal. and i barely touch on katara as an analogue to utena with regard to their naïveté, heroism, myopia, persistence, and somewhat misguided desire for justice (through her terms specifically), although like kozue and nanami as mirrors wrt sokka, her traits that i describe when comparing her to miki also map onto utena in many ways – except of course, utena, unlike miki, is also the "hero," and thus has the same destabilizing revelation regarding the banality of evil that katara undergoes in "the southern raiders." moreover, i only discuss one central motif in utena, because i think the sunlit garden is the trope that maps best onto the thematic work atla is doing, but i'm sure that there are many more frameworks i could compare. and yet, i only have so much time, and only so much space in which to ramble. so hopefully, for now, this suffices. however, if there any specific areas in which you would like me to elaborate, you know that i shall always be happy to do so.

[natalieironside]

Hey everybody if you enjoyed watching me liveblog my slog through Edward Gibbon's Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire I wrote down some of my thoughts and you can read them a week in advance for the low low price of one American dollar.

***

Edward Gibbon’s The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire from the Age of the Antonines is, in no uncertain terms, the longest book I have ever read. It encompasses the 1st through 16th centuries of the common era, totalling roughly 1.8 million words and requiring approximately six days of my one human life to listen to the entire book on tape. To use one ignoble comparison, it’s more than twice the length of Ayn Rand’s Atlas Shrugged. This terrible fault is not helped by the fact that Gibbon was a most economical writer; every page is packed with detail and every one of the 1.8 million words seems to be in the right place.

Walter Bagehot relates in an anecdote that the playwright Richard Brinsley Sheridan, Gibbon’s fellow member of Parliament, once in a session of Parliament compared the British Empire’s deplorable treatment of the Indian subcontinent to the lupine behavior of sundry Roman emperors one might read about in “the luminous pages of Gibbon”; Gibbon, a man of many contradictions, was a staunch supporter of Indian independence, and was moved by Sheridan’s compliment, though Sheridan would later clarify that he’d misspoken, having meant to say voluminous.

Between its size and its scope, any attempt to reflect upon the luminous pages is necessarily a voluminous undertaking, and a comprehensive analysis is utterly out of the question; one might as well try to chronicle the decline and fall of the Roman empire from the age of the Antonines (absurd, I know). . . .

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[quillthrillswriting]

sooo.... anyone else ever wondered how different ATLA would have been if aang had been frozen at age 16 instead of age 12?

yeah... me too 😌 my multichap kataang fanfic "the teenager in the iceberg" follows the events of the show, but with only aang aged up, while everyone else remains their canon age.

to put it clearly, katara falls first, and aang falls harder 🤭 (and they both get a lil jealous hehe)

enjoy the excerpts from chapter 6!!! (the jet episode!!)

⁎⁺˳ ✧༚ ˎˊ˗ ♡ ˗ˏˋയ ✩

“We’ve got a big plan to score big against the Fire Nation.” Jet kept his face straight ahead, his hooks swinging, and Katara could see the bit of wheat he still held between his teeth over his shoulder. 

“Sounds…big.” Aang said the words somewhat sarcastically, earning a choked giggle from Katara, but Jet didn’t quite seem to catch the nuance of it all.

“Oh, it will be.” He hacked aside a final overhanging branch. “Here we are.”

“...A bunch of holes in the ground?” Aang shifted his weight and raised an eyebrow, only to immediately drop to a defensive position when Katara swatted him, hard, on the arm and gave him a glare. He raised his hands in a “don’t shoot” position, and schooled his features into neutrality by the time Jet turned around. 

⁎⁺˳ ✧༚ ˎˊ˗ ♡ ˗ˏˋയ ✩

Aang paused his movements at this, letting the water he was bending drop to his feet, coursing through cracks in the rock floor beneath them. “Katara. You can’t genuinely believe that. Sokka is an idiot, but he’s not dumb.”

Katara raised an eyebrow. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“That Sokka can be goofy, sure, but I trust him and his perception, 100%. He doesn’t miss things. If anything, he sees and notices things most people don’t. If he doesn’t trust Jet….” Aang sighed, resuming his bending forms. “I just feel like you’re getting too close to him. Jet, I mean.”

“And what would the problem be with that?” Katara could hear her voice rising, her temper flaring.

“He’s a bad guy, Katara.”

“You don’t know that!”

“He hurt you!” Katara shut her mouth at the raw emotion in Aang’s voice. He was breathing heavily now, his fists clenching as wind whipped around them. He bit his lip, took in some deep breaths. “He hurt you,” he repeated, this time more gently. “I didn’t protect you quickly enough.”

⁎⁺˳ ✧༚ ˎˊ˗ ♡ ˗ˏˋയ ✩

Tonight was different. She still couldn’t sleep, that much was the same, but as she rose to drill her forms by the river, she felt a hand clamp around her forearm. She almost screamed, but when she whirled around to face her would-be attacker, she exhaled in a whoosh, relieved that it was only Aang.

“My bad,” he whispered, cringing at his choice to grab her arm without warning. “Didn’t mean to scare you.” 

Katara dropped back down onto her sleeping bag, neatly crossing her legs. Aang did his best to ignore that she was only in her wrappings now, that the moonlight was sparkling on her bare skin, like a spirit in a painting of old. “I was just…wanting some air.”

“C’mon, Katara, don’t even try. You’re an awful liar.” He flashed a grin, and in the dark, the starlight set his teeth aglow. “I know you’ve been bending at night.”

Katara blanched at this. “How?”

“Light sleeper?” Aang shrugged. “Plus, you’re not great at sneaking out, either. You’ve stepped on me pretty much every time you’ve gotten up to practise.”

⁎⁺˳ ✧༚ ˎˊ˗ ♡ ˗ˏˋയ ✩

“I, um…” Aang trailed off, and even in the dark, she could tell he was trying to hide a blush, could tell he was embarrassed. “I got you something.” He quickly backtracked, his voice somewhat frantic. “If you want. You might not. Want it, that is. And you don’t have to, and I’m not sure if it’ll even-”

“Aang.” Katara caught his hands in hers, looking into his eyes earnestly. “What is it?”

⁎⁺˳ ✧༚ ˎˊ˗ ♡ ˗ˏˋയ ✩

♥ the rest of the (ongoing) fic can be found here!! ->

happy reading! <3

[sinkingteethinwhitenoise]

Limoncello - Chapter 12

Pairings: Nick Folio x OFC, Bad Omens x OFC

Warnings: Talk of injuries, tears, fluff

Word Count: 1.6k

Series Masterlist

A/N: Hello! Thank you so much for reading Limoncello! This is the last chapter and it means so much to me that you've stuck through this whole thing! If you enjoyed this story, keep an eye out for an announcement coming soon.

“I want to find your smile in the epilogue.” - Ghost Atlas, Tomato Red

For two weeks after the attack, Nick and Maeve were inseparable. Thankfully, Maeve was able to get someone out to fix her window the day after it had been shattered. Nick stayed by her side the entire day as it was repaired. She didn’t speak much that day, exhausted and shocked from the events the night before. Throughout the day, they occasionally talked to the window repair team as needed. When they weren’t doing that, Nick was watching Maeve as she tried to figure out the most efficient way to cover the large bruise spanning across her neck. She tried for hours to cover it with makeup, Nick around for support and encouragement. She ended up crying in Nick’s arms when she couldn’t cover it fully with makeup. Nick held her as she sobbed into his chest, rubbing her back and kissing her head. When she stopped crying, she was able to find a white linen scarf buried deep in her closet that she ended up wearing around her neck for a week until the bruise faded. 

They slept at Maeve’s house that night. No funny business. They just talked about anything that would distract her from the soreness of the knot on her head and the bruise on her neck; anything to distract from thinking about the previous day’s events. They spent every night together, switching between her house and his house with the guys depending on when the band had practice. When they did have practice, Maeve sat in the garage, perched pretty on a stool with earplugs in, watching and listening, with her delicate linen scarf tied loosely around her neck. 

By the second week, the bruise on her neck had faded into nothing and the knot on her head was no longer. It was a celebratory occasion in Maeve’s eyes when she didn’t have to put the scarf on. She walked out of the bathroom after getting ready for the day to see Nick sitting on the bed, on his phone, waiting patiently for her. “Hey,” she said softly, holding back a smile. 

“Hey,” he chirped, looking up from his phone. “No scarf today?” he asked, an eyebrow raised as he smiled at her. 

She allowed herself to smile. “No scarf!” She beamed. She strode over to him and plopped down onto his lap. “The bruise is, like, gone.” 

He instinctively wrapped his arms around her waist and his small smile turned into his signature, goofy grin. “I think that calls for a celebration, don’t you?”

“You read my mind,” she giggled. She leaned in and pressed a kiss to his lips. She laughed a bit when she pulled back and noticed the shiny, slightly glittery, pink tint from her lip gloss had transferred onto his lips.

“Let me take you to breakfast,” Nick murmured, pecking her lips again. 

And that’s what they did. They had a date every day that week, even on the days when the band had practice. He made the time. By the end of that second week, he’d fallen even more for Maeve than he thought possible. He was happy. He wanted to hold onto that happiness for as long as possible.

“I’m gonna ask her if we can make it official,” Nick said to Noah as he watched Maeve tend to her flower beds through the kitchen window. 

Noah chuckled, “You aren’t already?”

Nick glanced over at Noah and shrugged. “I mean, no? Not technically,” he sighed. “I just- I want to be with her. She makes me really happy. I hope I do that for her too.” 

Noah clapped Nick on the back. “Folio, if you’re worried she’s gonna say no, I don't think you have anything to worry about.” 

“I hope you’re right,” Nick stared out the window once more. 

“I know I’m right,” Noah said, following Nick’s gaze. “How are you gonna ask her?”

Nick shrugged once more. “I’m not sure,” he hummed. “I just know it has to be special, though. She deserves that.” 

“If you need help coming up with something, I’ll call a band meeting,” Noah suggested. “We’d be happy to help. I mean, we’ve been routing for you two since you two shook hands when she came over to introduce herself.” 

Nick furrowed his eyebrows and glanced over at him, “Really?”

“Yup,” Noah nodded. “Love at first sight if I’ve ever seen it.”

Nick suppressed a smile as he looked back out the window. “Right, okay.” 

“Dude you’ve literally got heart eyes watching her pull fuckin’ weeds,” Noah laughed and rolled his eyes. “Want me to call that meeting?”

“Yeah,” Nick murmured. “Please do.” 

A plan was in place after a quick band meeting. Nick wanted to carry it out as soon as he possibly could. He couldn’t wait. Immediately after the meeting he got ready and left to go run some errands, while the guys kept an eye on Maeve. It took Nick until the late afternoon to get back with everything he needed. Nicholas walked outside after hearing his truck pull in. 

“Need help with anything?” He asked, walking over to Nick as he stepped out of the truck. 

“Yeah, just grab some bags and help me take them to the backyard,” Nick said. “Where is everyone?”

“Jolly and Noah are learning how to make limoncello across the street,” Nicholas chuckled.

“Perfect,” He breathed. 

They unloaded the truck pretty quickly and got to work decorating the backyard. When they got done it looked like something straight out of a disney movie. There were soft, glowy fairy lights on every surface they could put them on. There were flower petals scattered all over the patio floor. A beautiful bouquet of sunflowers and greenery wrapped in brown paper sat on the patio table.

“Yo, what’s this?” Nicholas questioned, picking up a small, dark green, velvet jewelry box. “You’re not fuckin’ proposing already, are you?”

Nick turned to him with wide eyes. “Oh, no way dude,” he said quickly. “It’s a necklace.”

Nicholas let out a sigh of relief as he opened it. It was a thin gold chain with a dainty letter ‘F’ hanging from it. “F for Folio?” he asked, glancing up again. 

“F for Folio,” Nick repeated in confirmation. “I’ve heard that some girls dig wearing their guy’s initials. Let’s hope I got that right.” He let out a shaky sigh. 

Nicholas set the box down next to the bouquet where it had previously been. “Hey man,” he clapped his shoulder. “You’ve got this.”

“Thanks,” he sighed. 

Jolly and Noah were helping Maeve clean up the kitchen when Jolly’s phone pinged. He dried his hands to check it and then cleared his throat. “Maeve,” he said looking up from his phone. “Folio’s home if you wanna go see him.”

She set down the cutting board that she had been washing and quickly dried her hands. “Let’s go, then. These can wait,” she motioned to the dishes in the sink. She quickly made her way to the front door, Noah and Jolly close behind. When they were all outside, she locked the door and they all went across the street. Maeve was the first one inside. She hadn’t seen Nick all day, and to say she was excited to see him was an understatement. 

“Hey,” Nicholas greeted from the couch upon seeing her. “Folio’s in the backyard.” 

“Thanks!” She chirped before walking to the back door. 

She opened the back door and stepped outside. Her eyes widened and her jaw went slack when she processed the scene around her. Her eyes finally landed on Nick, holding the bouquet of sunflowers. “What’s all this?” she asked, her voice quiet and awe stricken. 

He walked up to her and handed her the flowers. “These are for you.” 

She took them from him and smiled. “They’re beautiful,” she whispered. “But really, what’s all this for?”

He reached up and tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. “I wanted to ask you something.”

Her breath hitched as she stared at him. “Ask away.”

He took a deep breath, looking into her eyes. “Can I be your boyfriend?”

Maeve’s smile grew to the point where her cheeks started to hurt and her eyes crinkled. “Um, absolutely,” she giggled, it was nearly a squeal. She threw her arms around his neck, still holding the flowers, and pressed her lips to his. 

Nick couldn’t help but smile into the kiss. In fact, he kept breaking the kiss because he couldn’t stop smiling. The kiss was slow, sweet, joyful, and so loving. 

“I have one more thing for you,” Nick grinned when they finally pulled away from each other. He reached into his back pocket, pulled out the green box, and flipped it open to show her. 

Maeve felt her eyes well up with tears. “Nick, that’s beautiful,” she whispered. She looked up at him, “F for Folio?”

He nodded, that huge goofy grin adorning his face. “Yeah, doll. Do you like it?”

“I love it,” she sniffled. “Will you put it on me?”

He chuckled, “Of course, baby.” He lifted the necklace out of the box and set the box to the side. He walked behind her and moved her hair to the side so that he could put the necklace on her. Once he fastened the clasp, he stepped back in front of her. “Wow,” he whispered. “That sits perfectly.” 

Maeve set the flowers down and wrapped her arms around Nick, hugging him tightly. “This is the sweetest thing anyone’s ever done for me,” she sniffled into his chest. “Thank you.” 

Nick hugged her tightly, as if she would disappear if he didn’t keep hold of her. “You’re worth it,” he murmured into her hair. And he meant it. She was so fucking worth it.