What is fanfiction, and what is it not? Why does fanfiction matter? And what makes it so important to the future of literature?Fic is a groundbreaking exploration of. PDF | On Jan 4, , Maria Catwright and others published Read Dating You / Hating You By Christina Lauren. PDF | On Jan 1, , Rebecca Linares and others published Autoboyography by Christina Lauren.
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Christina Lauren is the combined pen name of longtime writing partners/besties Christina Hobbs and Lauren Billings, the New York Times, USA TODAY, and #1. Beautiful (Beautiful #10) - Christina Lauren - dokument [*.pdf] Praise for the Beautiful and Wild Seasons series by New York Times and #1 international. Christina Lauren- Beautiful Bitch - dokument [*.epub] Praise for the New York Times bestselling series An ambitious intern. A perfectionist executive.
Factors the article cited as possibly discouraging women from editing included the "obsessive fact-loving realm", associations with the "hard-driving hacker crowd", and the necessity to be "open to very difficult, high-conflict people, even misogynists". Herring , a professor of information science and linguistics, said that she was not surprised by the Wikipedia contributors' gender gap. She said that the often contentious nature of Wikipedia article "talk" pages, where article content is discussed, is unappealing to many women, "if not outright intimidating".
Reagle reacted similarly, saying that the combination of a "culture of hacker elitism", combined with the disproportionate effect of high-conflict members a minority on the community atmosphere, can make it unappealing.
He said, "the ideology and rhetoric of freedom and openness can then be used a to suppress concerns about inappropriate or offensive speech as "censorship" and b to rationalize low female participation as simply a matter of their personal preference and choice.
They concluded that Wikipedia provided better coverage and longer articles in general, that Wikipedia typically has more articles on women than Britannica in absolute terms, but Wikipedia articles on women were more likely to be missing than articles on men relative to Britannica.
That is, Wikipedia dominated Britannica in biographical coverage, but more so when it comes to men. Similarly, one might say that Britannica is more balanced in whom it neglects to cover than Wikipedia. For both reference works, article length did not consistently differ by gender.
It also reported, "Contrary to the perception of some, our data shows that very few women editors feel like they have been harassed, and very few feel Wikipedia is a sexualized environment. The authors found that the most likely Wikipedia contributors are high-skilled men and that there is no gender gap among low-skilled editors, and concluded that the "skills gap" exacerbates the gender gap among editors.
Their contributions were found to shift the Wikipedia content from pop-culture and STEM towards social sciences and humanities. The authors found that when editors determine if a subject is notable enough to include on Wikipedia, they hold women to a higher standard of notability, resulting in women on Wikipedia being slightly more notable than men on Wikipedia.
As for topical bias, biographies about women tend to focus more on family-, gender-, and relationship-related topics. This is especially true for biographies of women born before The authors also found structural differences in terms of meta-data and hyperlinks, which have consequences for information-seeking activities.
Kylie seems smart and reasonably good at her job, plus she puts up with Brad all day, every day. Her bullshit tolerance must be off the chart. Good skin, stark blue eyes, and severe bone structure. He reaches for a paper clip and his customtailored shirt stretches across the type of chest and arms you can only get from a lot of time at the gym.
A green smoothie sits on the corner of his desk, and despite my annoyance at being here, I inwardly smile. Team token is one of my least favorite Bradisms. John Fineman is a very wellestablished colleague in Features. Maybe throw him a pass once in a while. Something you hear, someone you have a hunch about. Keep him busy. He never corrected her.
And yes, John has lost two clients this year. Here we go. Field Day was one of the biggest box office flops of recent years, and I was the agent representing— and pushing for huge money for—the lead actor whose sign-on resulted in the entire project being greenlit.
It was so bad that both the film and my client won armloads of Razzies and became standard gossip rag fodder for the masses. My in-house legacy, ladies and gents. The worst part is that I was crushing it before that all happened. But with Field Day, my reputation—and confidence—took a major hit.
Brad seems to delight in the leverage it gives him postbomb. But did I let that happen? He stuck up for me when others thought I should be let go. Because your failures are my failures. And your wins. It has to still be at least seventy degrees where we sit on the patio, but Daryl is wrapped in a giant beige sweater and wearing sunglasses even though the sun set nearly an hour ago.
Los Angeles, man. On the sidewalk just on the opposite side of the green railing, a woman walks by in a pair of three-inch platforms and a silk kimono. A car pulls up at the corner with an entire desert diorama built in its rear window. He knows all of our buttons. Steph nods emphatically, but I pop a piece of bread in my mouth and tilt my head, chewing. I open my mouth to tell both her and Amelia all about the party when I realize that if Steph is twentyseven, and Mike is twenty-seven, and Carter is the same age they are.
Six years. And twenty-seven versus thirty-three feels pretty significant. I thank the waiter when he puts my wine down in front of me, then turn to Steph. Daryl might know him, actually. Amelia and I exchange a skeptical look. I nod. You had fun. Why not call him? Would you give a second thought to dating a guy who was five years older than you are?
A younger agent. My brother, obviously, could not care less, and my parents. But Carter moving to Beverly Hills? Sweaters on trees, Carter. I saw someone walking a goddamn peacock the last time I was there, and when I stopped for coffee? This weird little hipster place sold yarn, too.
Coffee and yarn. Who the hell puts those things together?
There are weirder things in LA than coffee and yarn. Of course he did. I met her at a party. This makes me laugh. Call him. Callbacks get shuffled around and ranked in order of priority. A week is nothing. I gently remind clients of this truth on a daily basis. I remind them that no news is good news. Could we exchange numbers and make plans to see each other naked? The crime against humanity.
He knows me pretty well, apparently. Bonus points for being Harry Potter appropriate. But even I—a slovenly wreck of a man —know that that thing should be shot and put out of its misery. And for your information, I wore that same tie the day I had my scholarship interview, the day I took the SAT, and the night I got lucky with Samantha Rigby at freshman rush.
Quality items get better with age, and that tie is one of them. Did you really call just to hassle me? Then I started thinking about that tie. Hi stranger. Not to be a total creeper but, do you know an agent named Elsa Tippett? I did work with her, at Bradford. She was nice.
And hi back! Elsa worked at Bradford for four years, overlapping with me for three of them before I moved to LA. Some of the grosser men called her the Bone Collector for her propensity to sleep around the office. For the record: I never slept with Elsa, nor did I ever call her by that name. But the idea of her and Evie talking about me makes a nauseating hum take up residence in my blood.
I turn back to the open script on my desk. I read. I check my phone. Another minute ticks by. I glance at my phone again. Should I elaborate on my connection to Elsa? Say something else? Probably yes. Should I ask her out?
Think, Carter. My phone buzzes again. I emailed confirming tonight and happened to mention your name. Apparently she has a few Carter Aaron stories. Oh Jesus. Others, however. Heading out. Oh boy. Oh, God.
This is like meeting a Penthouse letter in person. She joined the firm about a year after I did. She may have. I am not one of those men.
Ugh I feel faintly queasy imagining what yarns she is currently spinning. Five minutes go by, then ten. Okay drinks are over. And yes her stories were really oversold. Also lol Evil Told you. And my phone autocompletes it. I was hoping for some dirt. I want to point out you called me sexy.
Do you want to grab dinner next week? Yes I do. So of course I immediately text Michael Christopher. Because of Carter? What am I doing with my life? And this is why the nerves are really starting to sink in. Romance is the subject of movies and books and practically every song on the radio. My parents—who had me later in life—are nearing their seventies.
I may be a terrible married person someday, but I know for sure I would be an even worse cat lady. If you hit it off, you tell me every filthy detail tomorrow. It took him two days to realize that the people calling his desk and asking for Daryl did not, in fact, have the wrong number. A little smile plucks at me.
So at least the view from my office door has greatly improved. My assistant, Jess, is a godsend, and I would cut down anyone who tried to take her. Of tiny, nitpicky, really irritating eccentricities. And the fact that Brad once outright fired an assistant whose heels clicked too loudly on the marble floors near the elevators. Being an agent is about a lot of things— balancing egos, coordinating projects, managing expectations, and above all, making money—but one thing it is never about is how something makes us feel.
And as Daryl and I each retreat into our own heads and I put on my headphones, something slowly dawns on me. And although our texts have grown increasingly flirty, I wish it had occurred to me sooner that this might really just be a casual workbuddy dinner, because I have very clearly not come straight from work. Do I look too eager? Too high maintenance? Which would be fine because I like his personality a lot.
And when he smiles, charisma just pours out of him and onto the sidewalk. He wraps his arms all the way around me, and I shiver a little when I feel the solidness of his body against mine. I know relationships are work. My mom reminds me of this all the time, and of the balance it takes for two people to combine their lives into one. But initially, being with someone should feel like the best and most natural thing in the world.
He smells amazing and holds me so tight, squeezing a little more just before letting go. Straightening, he gazes down at my face. Placing my hands on her hips, I bent to press a small kiss to the center of her mouth. Fuck, I needed more. No basements. Just us. You can talk all you want once I have my face firmly planted between your legs.
The entire drive to her place, she tickled her fingers up and down my thigh, leaned to lick my neck, slid her hand over my cock, and talked about the tiny red panties she put on this morning, needing that little confidence boost. The car behind me honked just when it was getting good: I needed to get her naked and beneath me. In the elevator on the way up to her apartment, it was wild.
She was here, holy fuck she was here, and I'd missed her so much; if I had my way, this night was going to last for three days. She pushed her skirt up over her hips, and I lifted her, stepping between her legs and pressing my aching cock into her. With a hesitating look, Chloe smoothed her skirt back down, and walked ahead of me into the hallway and toward her apartment.
My stomach dropped. I hadn't been back here since we were apart and I'd conned her security guard into letting me up to talk to her.
I'd ended up spending the entire time conversing with the outside of her door instead. I felt strangely anxious. I wanted to only feel relieved at our reunion, not think about everything we'd missed out on in our months apart. To distract myself, I bent low and sucked at the skin beneath her ear and began working on the zipper at the back of her skirt as she fumbled with her key.
She swung the door open, turning to me. Fuck, she tasted good, a mix of the lemon water she'd been drinking and that familiar taste she always had: My fingers teased at the back of her skirt but I lost my finesse, yanking the zipper down and shoving the fabric to the floor, immediately reaching for her blazer. Why the fuck is she still wearing this goddamn thing? Why is she still wearing anything? Beneath her deep purple dress shirt, her nipples hardened as I stared, and I reached out to circle one with a fingertip.
Her sharp gasp pulled my eyes to hers. I missed you. Would I take her here, fast and hard first, or would I carry her to a couch or chair, kneel down, and just taste her?
I'd been thinking about all of it for so long-playing out in my head how every scenario would go-and in the moment I felt a little paralyzed by the reality of her here, in the flesh. I needed it all. I needed to feel her sounds and her skin, lose myself in the comfort of her hand wrapped around me, watch the sweat bead her brow while she rode me, showing me how much she'd missed me, too. I'd see it in the way her rhythm would falter when she got closer, or she would clutch me when I would say her name in that quiet whisper she always liked.
My hands shook as I reached up and carefully slipped her top button free. It registered somewhere in the ever-shrinking evolved portion of my brain that I didn't want to destroy the buttons on the shirt she'd worn for her thesis defense. I also wanted to savor this.
Savor her. My hands faltered, and I lost my breath. My grin felt a little out of control. Whatever you have to say, I'm sure I won't hate it. It was the first time it occurred to me to take a look around her apartment. I stepped back in surprise; her place looked nothing like I expected. Everything about Chloe had always been impeccable, stylish, current. But her apartment could not be farther from that description.
The living room was tidy, but full of worn furniture and things that didn't look like anything she would own. Everything was brown and tan; the couches looked comfortable but like they were made out of the same material as a stuffed animal.
A small collection of wooden owls was clustered on a shelf near a tiny television and, in the kitchen, the clock that she'd glanced at had a big smiling bumblebee on the face with the words "Bee Happy! It was the same laugh she used to let out before she would verbally eviscerate me. Why was I still talking? I looked over at her and she had a hand over her mouth, laughing silently.
I love it, but you're right. None of this stuff is mine. When I was in school it just didn't make sense for me to sell it, or to get new things.
I didn't need a new couch. And I frequently needed new panties," she said quietly, meaningfully. Pushing her shirt over her shoulders and down her arms, I stared at where she stood in front of me, in only a red lace bra and matching underwear.
They were tiny. My mouth? My hands? Christ, I'm doing it all tonight but where does one start?