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cooperjones2020 · 8 years ago

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Second City, chp. 1

Summary: Sometimes she worries she's settling — for a smaller job, a smaller city, a smaller life than she'd promised herself — but that was before she found out Jughead Jones lives in Chicago. That was before she found out the final secret of Jason Blossom’s murder.

slow-burn, eventual smut, eventual references to violence.

(ao3-->http://archiveofourown.org/works/11409360/chapters/25556550)

There are some weeks you eat lots of kale salads and açai bowls and only drink green tea. Then there are weeks where you eat grilled cheese for four meals in a row and main-line stale coffee. This week is one of the latter. Which is why she is so glad Mary has invited her to dinner.

Her move had not gone smoothly. A truck full of her boxes had somehow wound up in Kentucky, an unlikely outcome she refused to think too hard about because, really, that meant at some point the truck driver had to turn left and south instead of right and north but whatever. It’s fine.

It just means she is wearing rain boots and jeans instead of sandals and a flowy skirt. It is barely May but it is already summer in Chicago and the rubber is making her feet sweat.

But. but. Mary lives in a bungalow in Rogers Park, which is far north enough that people actually get to have yards and there are so many trees and everything is colourful and glorious and smells like flowers and barbecues and new beginnings.

She lingers a little, walking more and more slowly as she gets closer to the house, wanting to preserve this twilight in amber — the colors and the textures and the quiet and the utter peace she feels. Because, no matter how much of a disaster this week has been, no matter that she might have to wear ratty jeans to her first day of her new job tomorrow, this is the first decision she’s made in a long time that feels like it is really and truly hers. And that is something to celebrate.

Eventually the humidity gets to her though, and she doesn’t want to be late, doesn’t want Mary to worry she’s gotten on the red line the wrong way, so she knocks on the door while pulling a bottle of Syrah out of her tote bag.

Mary answers and immediately pulls her in for a hug. She clutches her own hands behind Mary’s back and lets out a sigh. After all these years, hugging Mary Andrews still feels more like home than hugging her own mother.

Mary had already been treated to the ongoing saga of Betty’s moving crisis — in fact, had calmed her down when she called crying because her dishes were in Kentucky so she couldn’t bring the casserole she’d promised for tonight. Mary made her promise to take a nap, and she had tried. She now knew she had 292 ceiling tiles in her bedroom.

So tonight is all about gossip and catch up and making plans for a new life.

“Did you get a chance to see my son before you left?”

Betty grins. “We had coffee last week. Did he tell you he has a date with Veronica?”

“Of course not. He doesn’t tell me about the girls he dates. I didn’t know you two had broken up until parent’s weekend of your freshman year when he introduced me to some girl named Lilah.”

Oh Arch, never change. “Well they ran into each other at fashion week and have been talking since — she’s a buyer for Bloomingdale’s now — she asked him out right before I left.”

Conversation continues in the same vein, punctuated by trips to the kitchen for more wine and plates of cheese and grapes and other little hors d’oeuvres the likes of which Betty normally only sees on Pinterest.

Around 9, a knock sounds at the back door and startles them. Mary walks through the kitchen to answer it, and Betty can just see her between the walls of the hallway and the doorjamb. When she opens the door, all Betty can see is that the visitor is tall with dark hair.

Then he opens his mouth.

“Hey Mar, is Mike home yet? I didn’t see his bike.”

Mary steps back and it’s Jughead.

She hunches forward, even though there’s no way he could have seen her. And—more than that—no way Mary would let her get away without saying hi. A million thoughts spin through Betty’s mind like tilt-a-whirl but they all telescope down to the refrains “is my lipstick smudged?” and “Jughead.”

“No. Jug, I wasn’t expecting you. Mike had to go to London last minute this afternoon, he must have forgotten to text you.”

“Oh that’s okay, we were just gonna work on the desk for a while. Do you mind if I still do—” She could hear him walking into the house, the sounds of a helmet being set down, a jacket shrugged off. She processes these details from a distance, as if staring at the sun underwater.

“Of course not.” Mary finally closes the door. “Here, come into the living room, I’m having dinner with Betty.”

He stops in the hallway, a sudden interruption to the quiet thump thump pattern of his feet on the wood. Her head is still hidden by the door. “Betty. Betty Cooper?”

But Mary is already pushing the door open. Betty tries to paste a nonchalant smile on her face.

“Of course Betty Cooper. Didn’t I tell you she was moving here?”

“No actually, I don’t think you did.” Is she imagining it or does his voice sound smaller?

And then he’s there. Taller than she remembers, maybe bigger too. Or maybe it’s just that she’s sitting down. She stands up, brushing her hands down her pants, trying to convince her stomach to stay where it belongs.

“Hi Jug.” She reaches a hand out for him to shake. That’s a thing people do, right?

“Betty Cooper.” He takes it but doesn’t shake. Maybe it’s not. Her stomach vaults back up into her throat.

Everything about him is so very strange and yet exactly the same. He is bigger. His hair is shorter. There is the slightest bit of scruff on his cheeks and down his neck. But he is still wearing a black t shirt and he still has a flannel shirt tied around his waist and she can see the beanie sticking out of his pocket. His eyes, all the colours of the ocean during a thunderstorm, still seem to cut right through her. She doesn’t realize she’s holding her breath.

“Can I get you some food, Jug?”

His eyes widen and he drops her hand. “Always, Mary. Do you even have to ask?”

When Mary turns back to the kitchen, Betty takes the moment to sit down, tucking her hands beneath her thighs. He follows suit in the chair across from her.

They stare at each other. This is going to get awkward fast.

“Did you say something about a desk?”

“A—? Oh yeah. Mike and I are restoring this turn-of-the-century roll-top desk Mary found at an estate stale. It was a gift when The Final Fissure hit the bestseller list.”

Her eyes stray to her purse, and the book just peaking out of the top. He must have seen her because when she turns back, he is staring at her purse and one corner of his mouth has quirked up. She blushes. Then she blushes more because she can feel herself blushing.

“If you ask me if I want an autograph, I’ll clock you.” He laughs.

“I would never.” But before she can stop him, he is up and pulling the book out.

“Why, Betty Cooper, no annotations? I’m shocked.” Could her face get any redder?

“Actually—that might be my second copy. I got to the airport way too early and, in a whirlwind of productivity, I’d already shipped all my books here—well not here, cause they’re in Lexington at the moment—but I didn’t have anything to read and I’d already finished the newspaper and it was on display in Hudson’s. I picked it up just to look at but before I knew it you’d sucked me back in. So I bought it so I’d have something to do on the plane.” God, Betty, stop talking.

“Hey you don’t have to justify buying my book to me.”

She wants to say I love it, Jug. I’m so proud of you, Jug. How did you get here from there, Jug? What happened to you when you left me? Do you know how long it took to put me back together? But the words get stuck in her mouth, repeating.

Mary comes back in with a plate piled comically high with food and the moment is broken.

“Here you go, Jug. Let me know if you need anything else.” He drops the book back into her purse, gives her a quick wave with the chicken leg already en route to his mouth, and disappears into the basement, and, presumably, into his furniture restoration.

She blinks and tries to mentally re-settle herself.

“So,” she begins. “Jughead?”

A tender look crosses Mary’s face. She is—apparently—oblivious to the current of electricity that seems to run from Betty to her purse and down the stairs to the flannel-clad man.

“That boy. You know it took me a year of inviting him over after he moved here to finally get him to come? I had to show up outside the library at Northwestern and ambush him. He was afraid I was just being polite because he and Archie hadn’t talked in a while.”

“A while” may have been an understatement but Betty doesn’t think this is the best time to correct her. To Mary, it’s just college that drove them all apart. Old friends on different paths. After all, that is what happened to Betty and Archie, and, as she learns when Mary continues, the end of college did bring Jughead and Archie back together.

But Mary, safely ensconced in her new life in Chicago, hadn’t seen the fall out of the Jughead-and-Betty break-up, hadn’t seen the broken pieces that sometimes still cause Betty to wonder if she’ll ever be able to sand them down far enough.

They can’t get back to the place they were before Jughead arrived, joking about Archie’s dating mishaps and all the new men to be surveyed in Chicago.

After an hour of stilted chatter and awkward silences, “I know you’re way too big for this now, but would you mind letting me braid your hair?”

Betty smiles. When she was little her mother had volunteered her and Polly as models when Mary wanted to learn to French braid. Polly could never sit still. But when it was her turn, Archie would bring her legos to play with and snacks. She had spent many afternoons on a bar stool at the Andrews’ kitchen island, constructing castles while her blonde locks were tugged and twisted.

“Of course.” She sets her glass of wine down and rolls off the couch to sit in front of Mary.

She cut it off before she left New York, into an angled bob that brushes the tops of her shoulders when straight, but skims her chin when she lets it air dry into waves and curls—a style she’s been trying to embrace lately — a more laid back version of herself she’s consciously trying to cultivate. A more laid-back city, a more laid-back Betty.

The activity makes the silence feel less awkward. And the soothing feeling of Mary’s nails scratching her scalp soon lulls Betty to sleep.

She comes to slowly. Her mouth feels fuzzy and there are voices above her.

“I was going to just let her sleep on the couch but I’d forgotten you were here. Maybe you could carry her upstairs.” You. You? Jughead?

“I’m awake!” She sits up and peels her eyelids open.

He smirks at her and her traitorous heart gives a single, loud thump. “Hey Pippi Longstocking.”

She’s confused for a minute but then remembers the braids, raising a hand to her head to confirm.

“No, Betty, you’re not riding the red line home by yourself this late at night.”

She tries to protest. It’s not like she has to switch trains, it’s not that late, it’s not that many stops. But Mary chimes in and she is outvoted and before she knows it, she is pushed out into the now-cold night and is strapped into one of Mike’s spare helmets.

Mary kisses her helmet, then Jughead’s, and then it’s just the two of them.

“So where to, Miss Daisy?”

She names the address.

“Of course you live in River North.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Ask me again in a month if you haven’t figured it out.” She rolls her eyes but secretly gloms onto “in a month” like he still expects to be talking to her in a month?

“And where do you live?”

“In Logan Square. And before you say anything, I lived there before the hipsters moved in.”

She gapes at him. “Really? Before the hipsters moved in? Well okay then. By all means, continue to proselytize on the ills of gentrification.”

He glares at her through his visor and for a moment, just for a moment, it feels light and easy. It feels like Sunday night milkshakes at Pop’s and swapping English homework in the Blue and Gold office. The thought makes her chest ache, and her self-consciousness descends like a blanket.

It is cold on the back of the motorcycle, colder, even, than she had imagined it would be. That is why she snuggles more deeply into the back of his leather jacket—brown not black. No embroidery. She’d double checked. He smells like coffee and cigarettes and petrichor. And that fucking kills her. How does a person get to smell like the morning after a thunderstorm?

She’s had that thought before.

When they pull up outside her building and she returns the helmet and finds her land legs, she reaches out. “Thanks, Juggie.”

Then she realizes what she’s done and presses her lips into a tight, white line.

He puts a hand on her shoulder and runs it down her arm until he reaches her hand on her own. He lifts it off and squeezes. “Night Betts.”

“Night.” Then she disappears into her building and turns back to watch him through the tempered glass. A moment later, the motorcycle slings its way around the corner and is gone.

#bughead fanfiction #riverdale fanfiction #bughead #betty cooper #jughead jones #riverdale #mine #second city #also using this fic to process my homesickness #cause Montreal in summer is nice #but CHICAGO #summertime Chicago #is the best Chicago #followed closely by Christmastime Chicago #I promise to stop using the tags to editorialize #at some point #maybe

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mcmansionhell · 5 years ago

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Coronagrifting: A Design Phenomenon

We now interrupt our regularly scheduled content to bring you a critical essay on the design world. I promise you that this will also be funny.

This morning, the design website Dezeen tweeted a link to one of its articles, depicting a plexiglass coronavirus shield that could be suspended above dining areas, with the caption “Reader comment: ‘Dezeen, please stop promoting this stupidity.’”

This, of course, filled many design people, including myself, with a kind of malicious glee. The tweet seemed to show that the website’s editorial (or at least social media) staff retained within themselves a scintilla of self-awareness regarding the spread a new kind of virus in its own right: cheap mockups of COVID-related design “solutions” filling the endlessly scrollable feeds of PR-beholden design websites such as Dezeen, ArchDaily, and designboom. I call this phenomenon: Coronagrifting.

I’ll go into detail about what I mean by this, but first, I would like to presenet some (highly condensed) history.

From Paper Architecture to PR-chitecture

Back in the headier days of architecture in the 1960s and 70s, a number of architectural avant gardes (such as Superstudio and Archizoom in Italy and Archigram in the UK) ceased producing, well, buildings, in favor of what critics came to regard as “paper architecture.” This “paper architecture” included everything from sprawling diagrams of megastructures, including cities that “walked” or “never stopped” - to playfully erotic collages involving Chicago’s Marina City. Occasionally, these theoretical and aesthetic explorations were accompanied by real-world productions of “anti-design” furniture that may or may not have involved foam fingers.

Archigram’s Walking City (1964). Source.

Paper architecture, of course, still exists, but its original radical, critical, playful, (and, yes, even erotic) elements were shed when the last of the ultra-modernists were swallowed up by the emerging aesthetic hegemony of Postmodernism (which was much less invested in theoretical and aesthetic futurism) in the early 1980s. What remained were merely images, the production and consumption of which has only increased as the design world shifted away from print and towards the rapidly produced, easily digestible content of the internet and social media.

Architect Bjarke Ingels’s “Oceanix” - a mockup of an ecomodernist, luxury city designed in response to rising sea levels from climate change. The city will never be built, and its critical interrogation amounts only to “city with solar panels that floats bc climate change is Serious” - but it did get Ingels and his firm, BIG, a TED talk and circulation on all of the hottest blogs and websites. Meanwhile, Ingels has been in business talks with the right-wing climate change denialist president of Brazil, Jair Bolsonaro. (Image via designboom)

Design websites are increasingly dominated by text and mockups from the desks of a firm’s public relations departments, facilitating a transition from the paper-architecture-imaginary to what I have begun calling “PR-chitecture.” In short, PR-chitecture is architecture and design content that has been dreamed up from scratch to look good on instagram feeds or, more simply, for clicks. It is only within this substance-less, critically lapsed media landscape that Coronagrifting can prosper.

Coronagrifting: An Evolution

As of this writing, the two greatest offenders of Coronagrifting are Dezeen, which has devoted an entire section of its website to the virus (itself offering twelve pages of content since February alone) and designboom, whose coronavirus tag contains no fewer than 159 articles.

Certainly, a small handful of these stories demonstrate useful solutions to COVID-related problems (such as this one from designboom about a student who created a mask prototype that would allow D/deaf and hard of hearing people to read lips) most of the prototypes and the articles about them are, for a lack of a better word, insipid.

But where, you may ask, did it all start?

One of the easiest (and, therefore, one of the earliest) Coronagrifts involves “new innovative, health-centric designs tackling problems at the intersection of wearables and personal mobility,” which is PR-chitecture speak for “body shields and masks.”

Wearables and Post-ables

The first example came from Chinese architect Sun Dayong, back at the end of February 2020, when the virus was still isolated in China. Dayong submitted to Dezeen a prototype of a full mask and body-shield that “would protect a wearer during a coronavirus outbreak by using UV light to sterilise itself.” The project was titled “Be a Bat Man.” No, I am not making this up.

Screenshot of Dayong’s “Be a Batman” as seen on the Dezeen website.

Soon after, every artist, architect, designer, and sharp-eyed PR rep at firms and companies only tangentially related to design realized that, with the small investment of a Photoshop mockup and some B-minus marketing text, they too could end up on the front page of these websites boasting a large social media following and an air of legitimacy in the field.

By April, companies like Apple and Nike were promising the use of existing facilities for producing or supplying an arms race’s worth of slick-tech face coverings. Starchitecture’s perennial PR-churners like Foster + Partners and Bjarke Ingels were repping “3D-printed face shields”, while other, lesser firms promised wearable vaporware like “grapheme filters,” branded “skincare LED masks for encouraging self-development” and “solar powered bubble shields.”

While the mask Coronagrift continues to this day, the Coronagrifting phenomenon had, by early March, moved to other domains of design.

Consider the barrage of asinine PR fluff that is the “Public Service Announcement” and by Public Service Announcement, I mean “A Designer Has Done Something Cute to Capitalize on Information Meant to Save Lives.”

Some of the earliest offenders include cutesy posters featuring flags in the shape of houses, ostensibly encouraging people to “stay home;” a designer building a pyramid out of pillows ostensibly encouraging people to “stay home”; and Banksy making “lockdown artwork” that involved covering his bathroom in images of rats ostensibly encouraging people to “stay home.”

Lol. Screenshot from Dezeen.

You may be asking, “What’s the harm in all this, really, if it projects a good message?” And the answer is that people are plenty well encouraged to stay home due to the rampant spread of a deadly virus at the urging of the world’s health authorities, and that these tone-deaf art world creeps are using such a crisis for shameless self promotion and the generation of clicks and income, while providing little to no material benefit to those at risk and on the frontlines.

Of course, like the mask coronagrift, the Public Service Announcement coronagrift continues to this very day.

The final iteration of Post-able and Wearable Coronagrifting genres are what I call “Passive Aggressive Social Distancing Initiatives” or PASDIs. Many of the first PASDIs were themselves PSAs and art grifts, my favorite of which being the designboom post titled “social distancing applied to iconic album covers like the beatle’s abbey road.” As you can see, we’re dealing with extremely deep stuff here.

However, an even earlier and, in many ways more prescient and lucrative grift involves “social distancing wearables.” This can easily be summarized by the first example of this phenomenon, published March 19th, 2020 on designboom:

Never wasting a single moment to capitalize on collective despair, all manner of brands have seized on the social distancing wearable trend, which, again, can best be seen in the last example of the phenomenon, published May 22nd, 2020 on designboom:

We truly, truly live in Hell.

Which brings us, of course, to living.

“Architectural Interventions” for a “Post-COVID World”

As soon as it became clear around late March and early April that the coronavirus (and its implications) would be sticking around longer than a few months, the architectural solutions to the problem came pouring in. These, like the virus itself, started at the scale of the individual and have since grown to the scale of the city. (Whether or not they will soon encompass the entire world remains to be seen.)

The architectural Coronagrift began with accessories (like the designboom article about 3D-printed door-openers that enable one to open a door with one’s elbow, and the Dezeen article about a different 3D-printed door-opener that enables one to open a door with one’s elbow) which, in turn, evolved into “work from home” furniture (”Stykka designs cardboard #StayTheF***Home Desk for people working from home during self-isolation”) which, in turn, evolved into pop-up vaporware architecture for first responders (”opposite office proposes to turn berlin's brandenburg airport into COVID-19 'superhospital'”), which, in turn evolved into proposals for entire buildings (”studio prototype designs prefabricated 'vital house' to combat COVID-19″); which, finally, in turn evolved into “urban solutions” aimed at changing the city itself (a great article summarizing and criticizing said urban solutions was recently written by Curbed’s Alissa Walker).

There is something truly chilling about an architecture firm, in order to profit from attention seized by a global pandemic, logging on to their computers, opening photoshop, and drafting up some lazy, ineffectual, unsanitary mockup featuring figures in hazmat suits carrying a dying patient (macabrely set in an unfinished airport construction site) as a real, tangible solution to the problem of overcrowded hospitals; submitting it to their PR desk for copy, and sending it out to blogs and websites for clicks, knowing full well that the sole purpose of doing so consists of the hope that maybe someone with lots of money looking to commission health-related interiors will remember that one time there was a glossy airport hospital rendering on designboom and hire them.

Enough, already.

Frankly, after an endless barrage of cyberpunk mask designs, social distancing burger king crowns, foot-triggered crosswalk beg buttons that completely ignore accessibility concerns such as those of wheelchair users, cutesy “stay home uwu” projects from well-to-do art celebrities (who are certainly not suffering too greatly from the economic ramifications of this pandemic), I, like the reader featured in the Dezeen Tweet at the beginning of this post, have simply had enough of this bullshit.

What’s most astounding to me about all of this (but especially about #brand crap like the burger king crowns) is that it is taken completely seriously by design establishments that, despite being under the purview of PR firms, should frankly know better. I’m sure that Bjarke Ingels and Burger King aren’t nearly as affected by the pandemic as those who have lost money, jobs, stability, homes, and even their lives at the hands of COVID-19 and the criminally inept national and international response to it. On the other hand, I’m sure that architects and designers are hard up for cash at a time when nobody is building and buying anything, and, as a result, many see resulting to PR-chitecture as one of the only solutions to financial problems.

However, I’m also extremely sure that there are interventions that can be made at the social, political, and organizational level, such as campaigning for paid sick leave, organizing against layoffs and for decent severance or an expansion of public assistance, or generally fighting the rapidly accelerating encroachment of work into all aspects of everyday life – that would bring much more good and, dare I say, progress into the world than a cardboard desk captioned with the hashtag #StaytheF***Home.

Hence, I’ve spent most of my Saturday penning this article on my blog, McMansion Hell. I’ve chosen to run this here because I myself have lost work as a freelance writer, and the gutting of publications down to a handful of editors means that, were I to publish this story on another platform, it would have resulted in at least a few more weeks worth of inflatable, wearable, plexiglass-laden Coronagrifting, something my sanity simply can no longer withstand.

So please, Dezeen, designboom, others – I love that you keep daily tabs on what architects and designers are up to, a resource myself and other critics and design writers find invaluable – however, I am begging, begging you to start having some discretion with regards to the proposals submitted to you as “news” or “solutions” by brands and firms, and the cynical, ulterior motives behind them. If you’re looking for a guide on how to screen such content, please scroll up to the beginning of this page.

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If you enjoyed this article, please consider subscribing to my Patreon, as I didn’t get paid to write it.

#architecture #design #coronavirus #dezeen #designboom #capitalism

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odetogyus · 4 years ago

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ropes

↳pairing/s: boyfriend!seungcheol x fem!reader (w/ ceo!jaebeom on the side)

↳genre: angst

↳warnings: slight suggestive content, profanity, mentions of infidelity, mentions of death

↳song: apologize by timbaland

✎author's note: not my best work but this oneshot has been sitting in my notes for the longest time, and after hours of contemplating on whether or not I should post my works here.. well, I finally gave in. hope you find this, and I hope it makes you feel something.

—

It's been almost a year.

It's been almost a year since the last time she woke up next to him.

It's been almost a year since the last time he came home to her.

It's been almost a year.

Since the last time they kept their promise to each other.

“Seungcheol, don’t you ever break my heart. Don’t you dare break me.”

"The day I hurt you, is the day I die with the regret of breaking your heart, Y/N."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

But, Choi Seungcheol most definitely did not die with the regret of breaking her heart.

Instead, he watched her suffer from a good distance until she nearly lost everything– breaking from the inside out, with the regret of loving him.

—

The media and pretty much the entire country loved them as a couple, and after "careful" consideration, the two agreed that it would be best for the both of them to remain in the relationship– but just for show. And since Seungcheol believed that he had the upper-hand in the relationship, he paid little to no attention to his lover's feelings or opinions– leaving her with nothing but the name tag “Choi Seungcheol's Girlfriend”, highlighted in bold colours attached invisibly on her sleeve.

Their shared apartment was nothing but hollow bones and haunted memories.

Y/N L/N, who ended up keeping their once shared apartment after weeks of thinking about her boyfriend’s offer for her to stay, was tightly bound to shackles– the shackles that were everything Choi Seungcheol.

Being an editor for a men’s magazine had its perks, but Y/N never truly delved into the hole of the unfaithful. Well.. not yet, at least.

Meanwhile, Choi Seungcheol– full-time idol, rapper, and producer, lounged at his new place–an apartment unit right next to the one he once shared with his girlfriend. If you could even call her that.

Nothing seemed to bother the superstar other than the fact that he had to make tough choices every night when it came to who he was going to sleep with, and how long he would keep her around.

But, everything changes.

And they weren’t ready for that.

—

The photographers swarmed around the newly promoted editor-in-chief of the famous print, Men's Health Korea.

A tight body-con dress in fiery red hugged her body in all the right places. With her hair down and styled in loose waves, a sexy neutral lip, red bottoms, and a 6-figure designer handbag, no one would ever think that the glamorous and beloved Y/N L/N was a prisoner in her own relationship.

Except for one person.

Men's Health Korea's boss, and the youngest CEO in the editorial industry–the conglomerate son, Lim Jaebeom.

Standing next to each other at the podium set up right outside their headquarters, CEO Lim addressed Ms. Y/N L/N's promotion with so much passion and admiration.

“There is no one more deserving..” the CEO bit his lip and paused, staring lovingly at the beautiful woman beside him, racking his brain for words to say about his new editor-in-chief. “Than our lovely Ms. Y/N L/N. Congratulations! I cannot wait to work with the best of the best. Please give her love and wish her the best of luck. Thank you, everyone!"

And with that, the woman of the hour graced everyone with her presence by saying a few words of gratitude to the attendees of the surprise, and very last minute press-con.

“Wow.. I can’t really thank everyone enough for coming. I know that this was organized at the very last minute, but I would like to thank you all for coming. To my staff, my team, we did it. To every single employee working for Men's Health Korea, we did well. And to my boss, my CEO– our CEO, Mr. Lim, thank you for trusting me. I am looking forward to working right beside you from now on. Again, thank you all for coming! Please wish me luck, thank you so much."

Reporters and photographers from various media outlets desperately tried to get the CEO and the EIC's attention, and as expected from the ever charismatic and generous man that he was, Lim Jaebeom happily obliged to answer a few questions.

And.. maybe, he shouldn’t have.

But what was there to stop him?

He had nothing to lose.

But another man sure had.

—

Watching the news was never important to him, but it was now– after seeing another man stare at his girlfriend the way he used to.

Quickly grabbing the remote control next to him to put the volume all the way up, Seungcheol froze in place while his playmate from the night before straddled his lap, leaving dirty bites on his neck for breakfast.

Listening carefully, the celebrity’s eyes and ears never left the screen– his mind going through a million things by the minute.

Reporter: Mr. Lim, could you tell us a bit about the turning point for you in regards to Ms. L/N's promotion? And.. do you have a girlfriend at the moment, Sir? The people would like to know.

CEO Lim: Well, Y/N– I'm sorry, Ms. L/N– has been working for Men's Health Korea for 5 years now, and I have to admit, that I have never seen or met someone with the same drive as her when it comes to writing articles. She's truly an asset to the company, and to me.

Reporter: Mr. Lim, you have yet to answer the last question.. in regards to your dating life. Also, you referred to Ms. L/N as your asset. What exactly do you mean by that? And, a question for Ms. L/N, the press would like to know about your current relationship status. Your long-time boyfriend, Choi Seungcheol, was not present at today’s press-con, nor have we seen the two of you around together. Have you two called it quits?

At that very moment, Choi Seungcheol found himself in complete distress. Not only was his girlfriend being undressed and devoured by another man’s gaze, but their real relationship status was also at risk.

CEO Lim: Ah, yes. You're a quick one, aren’t you? Ms. L/N is an asset to me because let’s be honest here, shall we? If you’re ever in the same position as I am.. you know– blessed to know and work with someone as hardworking, bright, genuine, supportive, beautiful, and kind– would you not think of that person as an asset? Think about it.

Members of the press whispered amongst themselves and agreed with the CEO's positive remarks about his chief editor.

But the man in apartment unit 17 was not having it. He wasn’t ready to face the truth, and he wasn’t ready to lose her.

He just wasn’t ready for anything at all.

Reporter: Thank you, Mr. Lim. Ms. L/N? Would you like to answer the question?

Praying hard that his girlfriend would not reveal the truth about their status, SEVENTEEN's leader, Choi Seungcheol, felt his eyes prickle with tears as his old lover rose to the podium once more to finally answer the questions asked by the press.

“Please.. don’t,” Seungcheol muttered under his breath, not giving a damn about the woman from the night before that had already left his apartment in annoyance.

Smiling sweetly, Y/N held onto the microphone carefully, as if preparing herself for the worst. Her gaze was strong, but her tears were on its way down her cheeks.

That was the final straw, the last teardrop.

The end of the rope.

Editor L/N: Again, thank you all for coming. I think.. that this needs to be said, sooner than later. But, Choi Seungcheol and I are no longer together. I am now.. single, and I hope that answers your question.

Seungcheol's heart broke after hearing the painful words his girlfriend– now ex, just said.

Editor L/N: I will not discuss private matters with everyone, because my relationship with him remains between us only. But, I will say this. We all hold onto the ropes of life, and sometimes, we might just have to let go of some, especially if they’re hurting us. But no matter what, we should always choose the better climb for ourselves, and our future. To my former partner, thank you.. for everything. I wish you all the best, I truly mean that. Please continue to give Seungcheol and the rest of SEVENTEEN your love and support! Thank you to everyone that came today!

To say that he crumbled from the inside out was an understatement. He felt defeated– and boy, he really was, and it stung so much that the pain he felt was unbearable.

Everyone present at the press-con had their lips sealed, but had their eyes glued onto the face of the woman who no longer wanted to hold onto the ropes that bound her to a miserable life as Choi Seungcheol’s girlfriend.

It was a bittersweet moment for Y/N L/N– breaking away from the shackles that were once loving arms, and moving forward freely without any restraints.

No one dared to say a thing, and with every bit of confidence in his body, the conglomerate son stood from his seat, and spoke.

CEO Lim: Now that I think about it.. I believe I have one unanswered question.

Reporter: Apologies, Mr. Lim.. but, please.

CEO Lim: So, about me dating..

All eyes were on the CEO now, but Seungcheol only had eyes for her– watching his ex-lover’s gaze go up from the floor to her boss’ face.

It was the day he would dread forever, but he never prepared himself for that.

“Please don’t.. don’t love her, she’s mine,” he pleaded, but he could only beg a man he never really knew, from where he sat. In his living room, far from where she was– helpless, and wrecked to the core.

CEO Lim: I’m not dating anyone.. at the moment. But if you really want to know, I’ll tell you this much. The woman I am in love with had just been promoted as Chief Editor. She’s the one I would want to date, the one I want to give the world to. And, she’s sitting right there. I’ll let you guys put two and two together, but have a good day everyone, thanks for coming.

It was at that very moment, that Choi Seungcheol remembered the promise he had made a while ago. And seeing the hope in her eyes as she stared back at Lim Jaebeom, made him realize that it was just too late to undo everything. There was nothing he could do to stitch their love together, because the love they once had was dead and gone.

The day I hurt you, is the day I die with the regret of breaking your heart.

And so he relived the day where they promised each other the world– keeping his end of the rope that was long broken because of his mistakes.

Choi Seungcheol clutched his chest and cried himself to death– crying over a forgotten promise, and dying slowly with the regret of breaking her heart.

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crimsonrae · 5 years ago

Text

A Matter of Degrees

Chapter Two

Summary: Dr. Emil Hamilton had been fascinated by Superman, but not afraid. Five years after his death Clark finds out why.

Clark Kent x OC

Rated: Mature

A/N: I’m not a big Superman fan, but after watching Snyder’s films and Henry, I wanted to explore a more broken/healing Clark. Slowish build on this. Let me know if you want to be tagged. :) - Clark in the next chapter: promise.

Metropolis

Lois sighed as she finished the last paragraph of her report on the new Senate nominee. As far as reports go, this one was pretty bland and even she could admit that it lacked a certain...spark. Her usual wit was failing her and she only could thank God that the article wasn't needed for another two days, it would give her time to scratch and polish.

Scratch and polish.

She snorted quietly to herself and shook her head.

She couldn't remember the last time she had been ahead on her articles, had time to do more than a quick polish before handing it over to an associate editor for a good scratching and polishing. Addie was probably going to die of shock when she noticed how error-free all of her work had become... Or maybe not.

The overly pregnant editor had been taking on lighter loads of work as she moved closer to her maternity leave and had bullied almost every reporter in the building into proofreading their own work three times before submitting it to lessen her stress. Lois had been one of the last to conform to Addie's authoritarian rule – not because she didn't want to lighten the woman's load, but because she usually didn't have the time to be that editorial thorough. Perry was good at keeping her busy, knowing that she could handle more than one assignment if she didn't have a big story brewing. She would have been amazed that she had the time now, but she had noticed he had been handing her less and less.

Her stomach twisted sourly at the thought.

Lois had to fight to not look in the direction of Perry's office or toward the desk of a certain tall undercover superhero. Not that it mattered... he wouldn't be there. She hadn't missed the concerned glances from the staff and the undercurrent of worry that touched Perry's tone whenever they talked lately. The office knew something was up with her and Clark... they just weren't sure what.

A good portion of the office had been at his funeral and they had seen firsthand how close she was to the Kent family. To say that everyone had been shocked by Clark's return from the dead was something of an understatement. It had been an open casket funeral after all. Surprisingly, it had been Perry that had weaved the lie that allowed Clark to come back after Lois had revealed who Clark really was to him. His star reporter had fallen afoul of the criminal element while investigating another award-winning story. The destruction from Doomsday had created a golden opportunity for the Feds to fake Clark's death until those responsible for the threat against him were apprehended.

Somehow, Clark had produced a story from that packet of bullshit and that seemed to quiet most of the reporters at the Planet. The rest still asking questions were the ones that dealt with the typical page six news. They wanted the gossip.

How long had she and Clark been an item?

Had she been aware that he had faked his death?

She had been so distraught at the funeral, surely, she hadn't known – she must be furious.

Is that why they barely seemed to be talking? The tension could be cut with a knife.

If anything, those particular encounters had solidified Lois's empathy for people who had a distaste for reporters. She had told Victoria to mind her own damn business and to go chase after Bruce Wayne more times than she could count at this point. Still, she would rather have the gossip columnist's attention on her than on Clark.

Clark.

Again, she had to fight from glancing towards his empty desk. She had to fight the sharp pang that filled her chest at the thought of him. She wasn't sure if it was better or worse that he was away on assignment.

It had taken Lois months to admit that the man she had fallen in love with was gone... and she didn't mean dead. The relief, the joy that had overwhelmed her when the Justice League had brought Clark back had made her blind to the pain that encompassed him. She should have realized that coming back to life would be a traumatic experience, that there would be repercussions... She had just been so happy to have his gentle gaze and shy smile again... and he was Superman. She didn't think that he would be affected by everything so drastically. It was a stupid assumption. Clark wasn't impervious to the world, to emotion, if anything he felt it more than any ten people combined.

It took her two months to notice the nightmares. He stopped sleeping all together after she confronted him about it. She wished she hadn't said anything, because she was rather sure that the lack of sleep was what spurned the flashes of temper he had become prone to.

Nothing big.

Nothing violent.

At least not overtly.

It was little things, like his cell phone needed to be replaced on an almost constant basis. She had found it crushed to bits on more than one occasion. It was reports of restrained criminals packaged nicely for the police having to be carted to the hospital because their binds had been tethered a little too tight. There was a car thief that had limited use of the fingers in his right hand from a lack of blood circulation.

And she couldn't get him to talk about it. Whatever he was thinking, whatever he was feeling – she was sure it had to do with whatever he had experienced while he had been dead. But he had shut her out. Clark refused to talk to her. At first, he had smiled and reassured her that everything was fine that he was still sorting himself out. Lois couldn't pinpoint the exact moment she stopped believing that smile, but she had watched it become more brittle the more she pushed. He withdrew from her. And their relationship became something she couldn't recognize as a relationship.

She felt like a lighthouse on a dark foggy night, but the ship she was guiding was heading for the rocks anyway.

It took her ten months before she gave up and returned her engagement ring.

Eleven before he finished moving out of her apartment.

They were now on the official one-year anniversary of his return and he wasn't even here.

Lois swallowed against the sudden constriction of her throat. She wished Clark was here if only to reassure herself that he was at the very least physically okay, even if he wasn't mentally – emotionally. She missed him and it hurt.

It had hurt for a while now.

She sighed and sent her article to Addie. She would be taking the rest of the day off.

── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ──

Russia

It was ridiculously cold.

Rebecca clenched and unclenched her fists in her pocket in an unconscious attempt to keep her fingers from going numb. Even while sporting a fur-lined coat and gloves that would put a clown's to shame the icy chill of Moscow's winter still penetrated enough to lick at her skin. She usually didn't mind the cold, her body ran a little warmer than most peoples, but today that chill seemed to have a bite. She wondered distantly if she was getting sick... She hadn't thought she could anymore.

"You were just supposed to get pictures."

The reprimand was clear, the Slavic intonation making its owner's annoyance all the more apparent. Rebecca didn't move her eyes from the group of children receiving medical care not one-hundred feet from her, "Anatoli, tell me what would have happened if I had just taken pictures?"

Chocolate eyes softened as they studied the young woman before him. She had tucked her dark hair into a loose braid, her grey scarf musing the strands lose. She should be wearing a hat, he thought gruffly, but didn't say as such – she looked tired. He tried to remember if he had ever seen her smile, "You would not be leaving Moscow."

"And those children?"

Anatoli sighed, "Would be someplace else."

Her eyes blue, almost violet in color flashed as she looked balefully at him, "Starved, scared, orphaned. How much would they fetch to the right buyers, Anatoli? Someplace else... you don't need to sugar coat things with me. I know what that someplace else would be for these children. Still could be."

"They will be safe, my friend. I will find them good homes, I promise." He briefly spared the small group a glance, "You were reckless."

"No one saw." Rebecca whispered and pulled her gaze away when a small boy began to watch her curiously.

Anatoli snorted, "There was lightening. It was so bright and it made the truck stop. The mean man wouldn't move after it flashed... Don't tell me no one saw. I have ten little somethings that saw and in today's world such accounts would not be taken as a child's imagination."

Rebecca sighed, not wanting to admit he was right. She used to long for the day where people who were different, special, could be acknowledged, and with the appearance and resurrection of Superman, the arrival of the Flash, and Aquaman, Batman, Wonder Woman said people seemed to be coming out of the woodwork. In many places, even accepted for their differences, but there were more still where such uniqueness was seen as dangerous or worse valuable.

In the last half-decade, Rebecca wasn't sure how many suspicious labs she had stumbled upon.

Let's see what makes the freaks tick, she thought bitterly. Her fingers flexing as if she was about to discover she was in one such lab.

This time it wasn't a lab she stumbled upon, but it was something dark enough to make her stomach twist in knots. She still wasn't fully certain what had made her detour from the main city to the more industrialized sections. She felt like she had been called – like some sort of invisible tether had pulled her to the warehouse that had held the kids. It didn't take much to recognize the Bratva guard outside...they crawled all over the city. It took even less to deduce the children's purpose once she realized they resided inside. There had been no signs of the usual strangeness that seemed to attract her into these situations. No odd flares of light or smoke, no hum of different in the air. Just a feeling to come.

No. These children were normal, if not traumatized, and she hadn't been about to watch them be sold to whatever sexual sadist that lurked out there.

So yes, she had acted. She didn't regret it.

Except for the pair of icy eyes that watched her from the back of an ambulance. The little towheaded boy that hadn't taken his eyes off of her since being pulled from the truck. Rebecca had noticed he said less than the others – more observant, shy, wary. She was rather sure that little boy was the reason she had found them all. He certainly hadn't been surprised by her sudden appearance.

She pursed her lips as she studied him. There were no indications that he was other like her... nothing obvious anyway. She just had a feeling. A feeling not too dissimilar to what had led her here.

She held in a sigh, "Have the boy go to Marvin."

Anatoli raised a brow and followed her gaze to the ambulance, "He's like us?"

She nodded, despite the fact that she wasn't fully sure, but her gut rarely led her wrong. She cut her violet gaze back to the bear of a man next to her. A small stirring of guilt pulled at her and she smiled sadly, "I didn't mean to make trouble for you, Anatoli."

Moscow was Anatoli's home and he needed anonymity to help people, people who were different, find safe havens. She feared she had just shown a spotlight on his presence.

The older man snorted, an amused twinkle entered his chocolate eyes, "Agh, you come to visit, I know to expect some excitement. You lasted longer than I thought. I owe Marvin money now."

Rebecca rolled her eyes, "You two need a hobby."

"Who has time for hobbies?" Anatoli grunted before nudging her towards his car. He had packed her belongings in the back and made sure to have new travel papers for her. She needed to leave, now, before the Bratva came to inquire about her, "Take the car. Don't call me until your safe."

Reluctantly, she nodded. She hated to leave, she felt like she had left things half done, but she understood the immediacy of her departure. She climbed slowly behind the wheel and found the keys still in the ignition. Anatoli cast her a brief wave and her lips twitched in a subdued smile.

He was in her rearview in moments and her phone was out and on speaker seconds after that. She listened to the dull ringing for a dull moment before the connection came thru, "Hamilton, this you?"

"Hey, Sporty." She intoned quietly, "My trip to Russian's been cut short and it looks like I'll be stateside for a bit... was wondering if you had any work for me?"

There was a brief pause and the clinking of glass trickled over the line. She must have interrupted his lunch, "I don't have anything for you in Gotham. It's actually quiet here for once, but hold on. I'm having lunch with a friend from another paper, let me ask him if he's got anything."

Things went quiet before strains of muffled voices filtered to her. She raised a brow as she realized that Sporty had merely put his hand over the receiver. She wondered if he knew how to work the mute button. Abruptly sound rushed back as a smooth baritone greeted her ears, "Ms. Hamilton?"

"Speaking."

"This is Perry White from the Daily Planet. Sporty tells me that you're a writer – a good one."

Rebecca felt her brow arch higher, "Is there a question in there, Mr. White?"

"Yeah, why haven't I heard of you?"

"I publish under a pseudonym." She replied blandly, "Rachel Wisen."

There was a long silence and she could almost hear the dots connecting in this man's mind, "The travel blogger?"

She snorted and felt shades of her father hover around her. How many times had she heard him say those same words, "Yes, Mr. White... the travel blogger."

"Huh...Look, I don't have any reporting positions open, but one of my associate editors is about to go on maternity leave – I was actually thinking of having my travel editor take over her workload. I could use you to take over his position. It'd be a temporary arrangement."

"Daily Planet is in Metropolis, right?" Rebecca asked after a moment. She didn't know why. She knew exactly where the Planet was and that it was a city, she had no desire to visit. Shades of her father indeed.

"That's right."

Yet, she found herself saying, "Temporary sounds perfect, Mr. White. I can be there at the end of the week."

"Good. I'll get your contact info from Sporty and we can finalize the details when I get back to my office. Have a good day, Ms. Hamilton."

"You too -"

He hung up before she had a chance to finish. Rebecca sighed, remembering vaguely that Sporty was much the same when in business mode. She chalked it up to a newspaper reporter quirk but was thankful for the brevity. It was going to be an interesting few months.

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#man of steel #man of steel fanfiction #superman #superman fanfic #superman fanfiction #clark kent #henry cavill #lois lane #perry white #fanfiction #fanfic

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cheese-greater-official · 4 years ago

Note

The Great Gatsby .. I think antibucci Summary: Literally just the great Gatsby. Nothing else here. Absolutely no changes. Definitely use this for class, or reference. The Great Gatsby is public domain now after all. Anyways here's the totally unaltered and complete book of the Great Gatsby. I swear nothing was changed, most definitely. Of course credit to F Scott Fitzgerald for writing this commentary on both his life and the world he was in. A lot of this can still relate today, so keep an open mind when reading. Notes: I'd like to preface this by saying... This is really I mean REALLY just the Great Gatsby. I swear. There is nothing going here that is out of the ordinary! Nothing at all! Chapter 1 Chapter Text Then wear the gold hat, if that will move her; If you can bounce high, bounce for her too, Till she cry “Lover, gold-hatted, high-bouncing lover, I must have you!” - Thomas Parke D'Invilliers. In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I’ve been turning over in my mind ever since. “Whenever you feel like criticizing any one,” he told me, “just remember that all the people in this world haven’t had the advantages that you’ve had.” He didn’t say any more, but we’ve always been unusually communicative in a reserved way, and I understood that he meant a great deal more than that. In consequence, I’m inclined to reserve all judgments, a habit that has opened up many curious natures to me and also made me the victim of not a few veteran bores. The abnormal mind is quick to detect and attach itself to this quality when it appears in a normal person, and so it came about that in college I was unjustly accused of being a politician, because I was privy to the secret griefs of wild, unknown men. Most of the confidences were unsought — frequently I have feigned sleep, preoccupation, or a hostile levity when I realized by some unmistakable sign that an intimate revelation was quivering on the horizon; for the intimate revelations of young men, or at least the terms in which they express them, are usually plagiaristic and marred by obvious suppressions. Reserving judgments is a matter of infinite hope. I am still a little afraid of missing something if I forget that, as my father snobbishly suggested, and I snobbishly repeat, a sense of the fundamental decencies is parcelled out unequally at birth. And, after boasting this way of my tolerance, I come to the admission that it has a limit. Conduct may be founded on the hard rock or the wet marshes, but after a certain point I don’t care what it’s founded on. When I came back from the East last autumn I felt that I wanted the world to be in uniform and at a sort of moral attention forever; I wanted no more riotous excursions with privileged glimpses into the human heart. Only Gatsby, the man who gives his name to this book, was exempt from my reaction — Gatsby, who represented everything for which I have an unaffected scorn. If personality is an unbroken series of successful gestures, then there was something gorgeous about him, some heightened sensitivity to the promises of life, as if he were related to one of those intricate machines that register earthquakes ten thousand miles away. This responsiveness had nothing to do with that flabby impressionability which is dignified under the name of the “creative temperament.”�� it was an extraordinary gift for hope, a romantic readiness such as I have never found in any other person and which it is not likely I shall ever find again. No — Gatsby turned out all right at the end; it is what preyed on Gatsby, what foul dust floated in the wake of his dreams that temporarily closed out my interest in the abortive sorrows and short-winded elations of men. My family have been prominent, well-to-do people in this Middle Western city for three generations. The Carraways are something of a clan, and we have a tradition that we’re descended from the Dukes of Buccleuch, but the actual founder of my line was my grandfather’s brother, who came here in fifty-one, sent a substitute to the Civil War, and started the

wholesale hardware business that my father carries on to-day. I never saw this great-uncle, but I’m supposed to look like him — with special reference to the rather hard-boiled painting that hangs in father’s office I graduated from New Haven in 1915, just a quarter of a century after my father, and a little later I participated in that delayed Teutonic migration known as the Great War. I enjoyed the counter-raid so thoroughly that I came back restless. Instead of being the warm centre of the world, the Middle West now seemed like the ragged edge of the universe — so I decided to go East and learn the bond business. Everybody I knew was in the bond business, so I supposed it could support one more single man. All my aunts and uncles talked it over as if they were choosing a prep school for me, and finally said, “Why — ye — es,” with very grave, hesitant faces. Father agreed to finance me for a year, and after various delays I came East, permanently, I thought, in the spring of twenty-two. The practical thing was to find rooms in the city, but it was a warm season, and I had just left a country of wide lawns and friendly trees, so when a young man at the office suggested that we take a house together in a commuting town, it sounded like a great idea. He found the house, a weather-beaten cardboard bungalow at eighty a month, but at the last minute the firm ordered him to Washington, and I went out to the country alone. I had a dog — at least I had him for a few days until he ran away — and an old Dodge and a Finnish woman, who made my bed and cooked breakfast and muttered Finnish wisdom to herself over the electric stove. It was lonely for a day or so until one morning some man, more recently arrived than I, stopped me on the road. “How do you get to West Egg village?” he asked helplessly. I told him. And as I walked on I was lonely no longer. I was a guide, a pathfinder, an original settler. He had casually conferred on me the freedom of the neighborhood. And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees—just as things grow in fast movies—I had that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer. There was so much to read for one thing and so much fine health to be pulled down out of the young breath-giving air. I bought a dozen volumes on banking and credit and investment securities and they stood on my shelf in red and gold like new money from the mint, promising to unfold the shining secrets that only Midas and Morgan and Maecenas knew. And I had the high intention of reading many other books besides. I was rather literary in college—one year I wrote a series of very solemn and obvious editorials for the "Yale News"—and now I was going to bring back all such things into my life and become again that most limited of all specialists, the "well-rounded man." This isn't just an epigram—life is much more successfully looked at from a single window, after all. It was a matter of chance that I should have rented a house in one of the strangest communities in North America. It was on that slender riotous island which extends itself due east of New York and where there are, among other natural curiosities, two unusual formations of land. Twenty miles from the city a pair of enormous eggs, identical in contour and separated only by a courtesy bay, jut out into the most domesticated body of salt water in the Western Hemisphere, the great wet barnyard of Long Island Sound. They are not perfect ovals—like the egg in the Columbus story they are both crushed flat at the contact end—but their physical resemblance must be a source of perpetual confusion to the gulls that fly overhead. To the wingless a more arresting phenomenon is their dissimilarity in every particular except shape and size. I lived at West Egg, the—well, the less fashionable of the two, though this is a most superficial tag to express the bizarre and not a little sinister contrast between them. My house was at the very tip of the egg, only fifty yards from the Sound, and squeezed between two huge places that rented

rented for twelve or fifteen thousand a season. The one on my right was a colossal affair by any standard—it was a factual imitation of some Hôtel de Ville in Normandy, with a tower on one side, spanking new under a thin beard of raw ivy, and a marble swimming pool and more than forty acres of lawn and garden. It was Gatsby's mansion. Or rather, as I didn't know Mr. Gatsby it was a mansion inhabited by a gentleman of that name. My own house was an eye-sore, but it was a small eye-sore, and it had been overlooked, so I had a view of the water, a partial view of my neighbor's lawn, and the consoling proximity of millionaires—all for eighty dollars a month. Across the courtesy bay the white palaces of fashionable East Egg glittered along the water, and the history of the summer really begins on the evening I drove over there to have dinner with the Tom Buchanans. Daisy was my second cousin once removed and I'd known Tom in college. And just after the war I spent two days with them in Chicago. Her husband, among various physical accomplishments, had been one of the most powerful ends that ever played football at New Haven—a national figure in a way, one of those men who reach such an acute limited excellence at twenty-one that everything afterward savors of anti-climax. His family were enormously wealthy—even in college his freedom with money was a matter for reproach—but now he'd left Chicago and come east in a fashion that rather took your breath away: for instance he'd brought down a string of polo ponies from Lake Forest. It was hard to realize that a man in my own generation was wealthy enough to do that. Why they came east I don't know. They had spent a year in France, for no particular reason, and then drifted here and there unrestfully wherever people played polo and were rich together. This was a permanent move, said Daisy over the telephone, but I didn't believe it—I had no sight into Daisy's heart but I felt that Tom would drift on forever seeking a little wistfully for the dramatic turbulence of some irrecoverable football game. And so it happened that on a warm windy evening I drove over to East Egg to see two old friends whom I scarcely knew at all. Their house was even more elaborate than I expected, a cheerful red and white Georgian Colonial mansion overlooking the bay. The lawn started at the beach and ran toward the front door for a quarter of a mile, jumping over sun-dials and brick walks and burning gardens—finally when it reached the house drifting up the side in bright vines as though from the momentum of its run. The front was broken by a line of French windows, glowing now with reflected gold, and wide open to the warm windy afternoon, and Tom Buchanan in riding clothes was standing with his legs apart on the front porch. He had changed since his New Haven years. Now he was a sturdy, straw haired man of thirty with a rather hard mouth and a supercilious manner. Two shining, arrogant eyes had established dominance over his face and gave him the appearance of always leaning aggressively forward. Not even the effeminate swank of his riding clothes could hide the enormous power of that body—he seemed to fill those glistening boots until he strained the top lacing and you could see a great pack of muscle shifting when his shoulder moved under his thin coat. It was a body capable of enormous leverage—a cruel body. His speaking voice, a gruff husky tenor, added to the impression of fractiousness he conveyed. There was a touch of paternal contempt in it, even toward people he liked—and there were men at New Haven who had hated his guts. "Now, don't think my opinion on these matters is final," he seemed to say, "just because I'm stronger and more of a man than you are." We were in the same Senior Society, and while we were never intimate I always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own. We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch. "I've got a nice place here," he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly. Turning me around by one arm

he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep pungent roses and a snub-nosed motor boat that bumped the tide off shore. "It belonged to Demaine the oil man." He turned me around again, politely and abruptly. "We'll go inside." We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-colored space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding cake of the ceiling—and then rippled over the wine-colored rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea. The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor. The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless and with her chin raised a little as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in. The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room. "I'm p-paralyzed with happiness." She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I've heard it said that Daisy's murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate Miss Baker's lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth—but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered "Listen," a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way east and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. "Do they miss me?" she cried ecstatically. "The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath and there's a persistent wail all night along the North Shore." "How gorgeous! Let's go back, Tom. Tomorrow!" Then she added irrelevantly, "You ought to see the baby." "I'd like to." "She's asleep. She's two years old. Haven't you ever seen her?" "Never." "Well, you ought to see her. She's—" Tom Buchanan who had been hovering restlessly about the room stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. "What you doing, Nick

?" "I'm a bond man." "Who with?" I told him. "Never heard of them," he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. "You will," I answered shortly. "You will if you stay in the East." "Oh, I'll stay in the East, don't you worry," he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. "I'd be a God Damned fool to live anywhere else." At this point Miss Baker said "Absolutely!" with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. "I'm stiff," she complained, "I've been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember." "Don't look at me," Daisy retorted. "I've been trying to get you to New York all afternoon." "No, thanks," said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry, "I'm absolutely in training." Her host looked at her incredulously. "You are!" He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. "How you ever get anything done is beyond me." I looked at Miss Baker wondering what it was she "got done." I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before. "You live in West Egg," she remarked contemptuously. "I know somebody there." "I don't know a single—" "You must know Gatsby." "Gatsby?" demanded Daisy. "What Gatsby?" Before I could reply that he was my neighbor dinner was announced; wedging his tense arm imperatively under mine Tom Buchanan compelled me from the room as though he were moving a checker to another square. Slenderly, languidly, their hands set lightly on their hips the two young women preceded us out onto a rosy-colored porch open toward the sunset where four candles flickered on the table in the diminished wind. "Why candles?" objected Daisy, frowning. She snapped them out with her fingers. "In two weeks it'll be the longest day in the year." She looked at us all radiantly. "Do you always watch for the longest day of the year and then miss it? I always watch for the longest day in the year and then miss it." "We ought to plan something," yawned Miss Baker, sitting down at the table as if she were getting into bed. "All right," said Daisy. "What'll we plan?" She turned to me helplessly. "What do people plan?" Before I could answer her eyes fastened with an awed expression on her little finger. "Look!" she complained. "I hurt it." We all looked—the knuckle was black and blue. "You did it, Tom," she said accusingly. "I know you didn't mean to but you did do it. That's what I get for marrying a brute of a man, a great big hulking physical specimen of a—" "I hate that word hulking," objected Tom crossly, "even in kidding." "Hulking," insisted Daisy. Sometimes she and Miss Baker talked at once, unobtrusively and with a bantering inconsequence that was never quite chatter, that was as cool as their white dresses and their impersonal eyes in the absence of all desire. They were here—and they accepted Tom and me, making only a polite pleasant effort to entertain or to be entertained. They knew that presently dinner would be over and a little later the evening too would be over and casually put away. It was sharply different from the West where an evening was hurried from phase to phase toward its close in a continually disappointed anticipation or else in sheer nervous dread of the moment itself. "You make me feel uncivilized, Daisy," I confessed on my second glass of corky but rather impressive claret. "Can't you talk about crops or something?" I meant nothing in particular by this remark but it was taken up in an unexpected way. "Civilization's going to pieces," broke out Tom violently. "I've gotten to be a terrible pessimist about things. Have you read 'The

Rise of the Coloured Empires' by this man Goddard?" "Why, no," I answered, rather surprised by his tone. "Well, it's a fine book, and everybody ought to read it. The idea is if we don't look out the white race will be—will be utterly submerged. It's all scientific stuff; it's been proved." "Tom's getting very profound," said Daisy with an expression of unthoughtful sadness. "He reads deep books with long words in them. What was that word we—" "Well, these books are all scientific," insisted Tom, glancing at her impatiently. "This fellow has worked out the whole thing. It's up to us who are the dominant race to watch out or these other races will have control of things." "We've got to beat them down," whispered Daisy, winking ferociously toward the fervent sun. "You ought to live in California—" began Miss Baker but Tom interrupted her by shifting heavily in his chair. "This idea is that we're Nordics. I am, and you are and you are and—" After an infinitesimal hesitation he included Daisy with a slight nod and she winked at me again. "—and we've produced all the things that go to make civilization—oh, science and art and all that. Do you see?" There was something pathetic in his concentration as if his complacency, more acute than of old, was not enough to him any more. When, almost immediately, the telephone rang inside and the butler left the porch Daisy seized upon the momentary interruption and leaned toward me. "I'll tell you a family secret," she whispered enthusiastically. "It's about the butler's nose. Do you want to hear about the butler's nose?" "That's why I came over tonight." "Well, he wasn't always a butler; he used to be the silver polisher for some people in New York that had a silver service for two hundred people. He had to polish it from morning till night until finally it began to affect his nose—" "Things went from bad to worse," suggested Miss Baker. "Yes. Things went from bad to worse until finally he had to give up his position." For a moment the last sunshine fell with romantic affection upon her glowing face; her voice compelled me forward breathlessly as I listened—then the glow faded, each light deserting her with lingering regret like children leaving a pleasant street at dusk. The butler came back and murmured something close to Tom's ear whereupon Tom frowned, pushed back his chair and without a word went inside. As if his absence quickened something within her Daisy leaned forward again, her voice glowing and singing. "I love to see you at my table, Nick. You remind me of a—of a rose, an absolute rose. Doesn't he?" She turned to Miss Baker for confirmation. "An absolute rose?" This was untrue. I am not even faintly like a rose. She was only extemporizing but a stirring warmth flowed from her as if her heart was trying to come out to you concealed in one of those breathless, thrilling words. Then suddenly she threw her napkin on the table and excused herself and went into the house. Miss Baker and I exchanged a short glance consciously devoid of meaning. I was about to speak when she sat up alertly and said "Sh!" in a warning voice. A subdued impassioned murmur was audible in the room beyond and Miss Baker leaned forward, unashamed, trying to hear. The murmur trembled on the verge of coherence, sank down, mounted excitedly, and then ceased altogether. "This Mr. Gatsby you spoke of is my neighbor—" I said. "Don't talk. I want to hear what happens." "Is something happening?" I inquired innocently. "You mean to say you don't know?" said Miss Baker, honestly surprised. "I thought everybody knew." "I don't." "Why—" she said hesitantly, "Tom's got some woman in New York." "Got some woman?" I repeated blankly. Miss Baker nodded. "She might have the decency not to telephone him at dinner-time. Don't you think?" Almost before I had grasped her meaning there was the flutter of a dress and the crunch of leather boots and Tom and Daisy were back at the table. "It couldn't be helped!" cried Daisy with tense gayety. She sat down, glanced searchingly at Miss Baker and then at me and continued: "I looked

outdoors for a minute and it's very romantic outdoors. There's a bird on the lawn that I think must be a nightingale come over on the Cunard or White Star Line. He's singing away—" her voice sang "—It's romantic, isn't it, Tom?" "Very romantic," he said, and then miserably to me: "If it's light enough after dinner I want to take you down to the stables." The telephone rang inside, startlingly, and as Daisy shook her head decisively at Tom the subject of the stables, in fact all subjects, vanished into air. Among the broken fragments of the last five minutes at table I remember the candles being lit again, pointlessly, and I was conscious of wanting to look squarely at every one and yet to avoid all eyes. I couldn't guess what Daisy and Tom were thinking but I doubt if even Miss Baker who seemed to have mastered a certain hardy skepticism was able utterly to put this fifth guest's shrill metallic urgency out of mind. To a certain temperament the situation might have seemed intriguing—my own instinct was to telephone immediately for the police. The horses, needless to say, were not mentioned again. Tom and Miss Baker, with several feet of twilight between them strolled back into the library, as if to a vigil beside a perfectly tangible body, while trying to look pleasantly interested and a little deaf I followed Daisy around a chain of connecting verandas to the porch in front. In its deep gloom we sat down side by side on a wicker settee. Daisy took her face in her hands, as if feeling its lovely shape, and her eyes moved gradually out into the velvet dusk. I saw that turbulent emotions possessed her, so I asked what I thought would be some sedative questions about her little girl. "We don't know each other very well, Nick," she said suddenly. "Even if we are cousins. You didn't come to my wedding." "I wasn't back from the war." "That's true." She hesitated. "Well, I've had a very bad time, Nick, and I'm pretty cynical about everything." Evidently she had reason to be. I waited but she didn't say any more, and after a moment I returned rather feebly to the subject of her daughter. "I suppose she talks, and—eats, and everything." "Oh, yes." She looked at me absently. "Listen, Nick; let me tell you what I said when she was born. Would you like to hear?" "Very much." "It'll show you how I've gotten to feel about—things. Well, she was less than an hour old and Tom was God knows where. I woke up out of the ether with an utterly abandoned feeling and asked the nurse right away if it was a boy or a girl. She told me it was a girl, and so I turned my head away and wept. 'All right,' I said, 'I'm glad it's a girl. And I hope she'll be a fool—that's the best thing a girl can be in this world, a beautiful little fool." "You see I think everything's terrible anyhow," she went on in a convinced way. "Everybody thinks so—the most advanced people. And I know. I've been everywhere and seen everything and done everything." Her eyes flashed around her in a defiant way, rather like Tom's, and she laughed with thrilling scorn. "Sophisticated—God, I'm sophisticated!" The instant her voice broke off, ceasing to compel my attention, my belief, I felt the basic insincerity of what she had said. It made me uneasy, as though the whole evening had been a trick of some sort to exact a contributory emotion from me. I waited, and sure enough, in a moment she looked at me with an absolute smirk on her lovely face as if she had asserted her membership in a rather distinguished secret society to which she and Tom belonged. Inside, the crimson room bloomed with light. Tom and Miss Baker sat at either end of the long couch and she read aloud to him from the "Saturday Evening Post"—the words, murmurous and uninflected, running together in a soothing tune. The lamp-light, bright on his boots and dull on the autumn-leaf yellow of her hair, glinted along the paper as she turned a page with a flutter of slender muscles in her arms. When we came in she held us silent for a moment with a lifted hand. "To be continued," she said, tossing the magazine on the table,

"in our very next issue." Her body asserted itself with a restless movement of her knee, and she stood up. "Ten o'clock," she remarked, apparently finding the time on the ceiling. "Time for this good girl to go to bed." "Jordan's going to play in the tournament tomorrow," explained Daisy, "over at Westchester." "Oh,—you're Jordan Baker." I knew now why her face was familiar—its pleasing contemptuous expression had looked out at me from many rotogravure pictures of the sporting life at Asheville and Hot Springs and Palm Beach. I had heard some story of her too, a critical, unpleasant story, but what it was I had forgotten long ago. "Good night," she said softly. "Wake me at eight, won't you." "If you'll get up." "I will. Good night, Mr. Carraway. See you anon." "Of course you will," confirmed Daisy. "In fact I think I'll arrange a marriage. Come over often, Nick, and I'll sort of—oh—fling you together. You know—lock you up accidentally in linen closets and push you out to sea in a boat, and all that sort of thing—" "Good night," called Miss Baker from the stairs. "I haven't heard a word." "She's a nice girl," said Tom after a moment. "They oughtn't to let her run around the country this way." "Who oughtn't to?" inquired Daisy coldly. "Her family." "Her family is one aunt about a thousand years old. Besides, Nick's going to look after her, aren't you, Nick? She's going to spend lots of week-ends out here this summer. I think the home influence will be very good for her." Daisy and Tom looked at each other for a moment in silence. "Is she from New York?" I asked quickly. "From Louisville. Our white girlhood was passed together there. Our beautiful white—" "Did you give Nick a little heart to heart talk on the veranda?" demanded Tom suddenly. "Did I?" She looked at me. "I can't seem to remember, but I think we talked about the Nordic race. Yes, I'm sure we did. It sort of crept up on us and first thing you know—" "Don't believe everything you hear, Nick," he advised me. I said lightly that I had heard nothing at all, and a few minutes later I got up to go home. They came to the door with me and stood side by side in a cheerful square of light. As I started my motor Daisy peremptorily called "Wait! "I forgot to ask you something, and it's important. We heard you were engaged to a girl out West." "That's right," corroborated Tom kindly. "We heard that you were engaged." "It's libel. I'm too poor." "But we heard it," insisted Daisy, surprising me by opening up again in a flower-like way. "We heard it from three people so it must be true." Of course I knew what they were referring to, but I wasn't even vaguely engaged. The fact that gossip had published the banns was one of the reasons I had come east. You can't stop going with an old friend on account of rumors and on the other hand I had no intention of being rumored into marriage. Their interest rather touched me and made them less remotely rich—nevertheless, I was confused and a little disgusted as I drove away. It seemed to me that the thing for Daisy to do was to rush out of the house, child in arms—but apparently there were no such intentions in her head. As for Tom, the fact that he "had some woman in New York" was really less surprising than that he had been depressed by a book. Something was making him nibble at the edge of stale ideas as if his sturdy physical egotism no longer nourished his peremptory heart. Already it was deep summer on roadhouse roofs and in front of wayside garages, where new red gas-pumps sat out in pools of light, and when I reached my estate at West Egg I ran the car under its shed and sat for a while on an abandoned grass roller in the yard. The wind had blown off, leaving a loud bright night with wings beating in the trees and a persistent organ sound as the full bellows of the earth blew the frogs full of life. The silhouette of a moving cat wavered across the moonlight and turning my head to watch it I saw that I was not alone—fifty feet away a figure had emerged from the shadow of my neighbor's mansion and was standing with his hands in

his pockets regarding the silver pepper of the stars. Something in his leisurely movements and the secure position of his feet upon the lawn suggested that it was Mr. Gatsby himself, come out to determine what share was his of our local heavens. I decided to call to him. Miss Baker had mentioned him at dinner, and that would do for an introduction. But I didn't call to him for he gave a sudden intimation that he was content to be alone—he stretched out his arms toward the dark water in a curious way, and far as I was from him I could have sworn he was trembling. Involuntarily I glanced seaward—and distinguished nothing except a single green light, minute and far away, that might have been the end of a dock. When I looked once more for Gatsby he had vanished, and I was alone again in the unquiet darkness. Chapter 2 Summary: Just chapter 2 of the Great Gatsby Notes: (See the end of the chapter for notes.) Chapter Text About half way between West Egg and New York the motor-road hastily joins the railroad and runs beside it for a quarter of a mile, so as to shrink away from a certain desolate area of land. This is a valley of ashes—a fantastic farm where ashes grow like wheat into ridges and hills and grotesque gardens where ashes take the forms of houses and chimneys and rising smoke and finally, with a transcendent effort, of men who move dimly and already crumbling through the powdery air. Occasionally a line of grey cars crawls along an invisible track, gives out a ghastly creak and comes to rest, and immediately the ash-grey men swarm up with leaden spades and stir up an impenetrable cloud which screens their obscure operations from your sight. But above the grey land and the spasms of bleak dust which drift endlessly over it, you perceive, after a moment, the eyes of Doctor T. J. Eckleburg. The eyes of Doctor T. J. Eckleburg are blue and gigantic—their retinas are one yard high. They look out of no face but, instead, from a pair of enormous yellow spectacles which pass over a nonexistent nose. Evidently some wild wag of an oculist set them there to fatten his practice in the borough of Queens, and then sank down himself into eternal blindness or forgot them and moved away. But his eyes, dimmed a little by many paintless days under sun and rain, brood on over the solemn dumping ground. The valley of ashes is bounded on one side by a small foul river, and when the drawbridge is up to let barges through, the passengers on waiting trains can stare at the dismal scene for as long as half an hour. There is always a halt there of at least a minute and it was because of this that I first met Tom Buchanan's mistress. The fact that he had one was insisted upon wherever he was known. His acquaintances resented the fact that he turned up in popular restaurants with her and, leaving her at a table, sauntered about, chatting with whomsoever he knew. Though I was curious to see her I had no desire to meet her—but I did. I went up to New York with Tom on the train one afternoon and when we stopped by the ashheaps he jumped to his feet and taking hold of my elbow literally forced me from the car. "We're getting off!" he insisted. "I want you to meet my girl." I think he'd tanked up a good deal at luncheon and his determination to have my company bordered on violence. The supercilious assumption was that on Sunday afternoon I had nothing better to do. I followed him over a low white-washed railroad fence and we walked back a hundred yards along the road under Doctor Eckleburg's persistent stare. The only building in sight was a small block of yellow brick sitting on the edge of the waste land, a sort of compact Main Street ministering to it and contiguous to absolutely nothing. One of the three shops it contained was for rent and another was an all-night restaurant approached by a trail of ashes; the third was a garage—Repairs. GEORGE B. WILSON. Cars Bought and Sold—and I followed Tom inside. The interior was unprosperous and bare; the only car visible was the dust-covered wreck of a Ford which crouched in a dim corner. It had occurred

to me that this shadow of a garage must be a blind and that sumptuous and romantic apartments were concealed overhead when the proprietor himself appeared in the door of an office, wiping his hands on a piece of waste. He was a blonde, spiritless man, anaemic, and faintly handsome. When he saw us a damp gleam of hope sprang into his light blue eyes. "Hello, Wilson, old man," said Tom, slapping him jovially on the shoulder. "How's business?" "I can't complain," answered Wilson unconvincingly. "When are you going to sell me that car?" "Next week; I've got my man working on it now." "Works pretty slow, don't he?" "No, he doesn't," said Tom coldly. "And if you feel that way about it, maybe I'd better sell it somewhere else after all." "I don't mean that," explained Wilson quickly. "I just meant—" His voice faded off and Tom glanced impatiently around the garage. Then I heard footsteps on a stairs and in a moment the thickish figure of a woman blocked out the light from the office door. She was in the middle thirties, and faintly stout, but she carried her surplus flesh sensuously as some women can. Her face, above a spotted dress of dark blue crepe-de-chine, contained no facet or gleam of beauty but there was an immediately perceptible vitality about her as if the nerves of her body were continually smouldering. She smiled slowly and walking through her husband as if he were a ghost shook hands with Tom, looking him flush in the eye. Then she wet her lips and without turning around spoke to her husband in a soft, coarse voice: "Get some chairs, why don't you, so somebody can sit down." "Oh, sure," agreed Wilson hurriedly and went toward the little office, mingling immediately with the cement color of the walls. A white ashen dust veiled his dark suit and his pale hair as it veiled everything in the vicinity—except his wife, who moved close to Tom. "I want to see you," said Tom intently. "Get on the next train." "All right." "I'll meet you by the news-stand on the lower level." She nodded and moved away from him just as George Wilson emerged with two chairs from his office door. We waited for her down the road and out of sight. It was a few days before the Fourth of July, and a grey, scrawny Italian child was setting torpedoes in a row along the railroad track. "Terrible place, isn't it," said Tom, exchanging a frown with Doctor Eckleburg. "Awful." "It does her good to get away." "Doesn't her husband object?" "Wilson? He thinks she goes to see her sister in New York. He's so dumb he doesn't know he's alive." So Tom Buchanan and his girl and I went up together to New York—or not quite together, for Mrs. Wilson sat discreetly in another car. Tom deferred that much to the sensibilities of those East Eggers who might be on the train. She had changed her dress to a brown figured muslin which stretched tight over her rather wide hips as Tom helped her to the platform in New York. At the news-stand she bought a copy of "Town Tattle" and a moving-picture magazine and, in the station drug store, some cold cream and a small flask of perfume. Upstairs, in the solemn echoing drive she let four taxi cabs drive away before she selected a new one, lavender-colored with grey upholstery, and in this we slid out from the mass of the station into the glowing sunshine. But immediately she turned sharply from the window and leaning forward tapped on the front glass. "I want to get one of those dogs," she said earnestly. "I want to get one for the apartment. They're nice to have—a dog." We backed up to a grey old man who bore an absurd resemblance to John D. Rockefeller. In a basket, swung from his neck, cowered a dozen very recent puppies of an indeterminate breed. "What kind are they?" asked Mrs. Wilson eagerly as he came to the taxi-window. "All kinds. What kind do you want, lady?" "I'd like to get one of those police dogs; I don't suppose you got that kind?" The man peered doubtfully into the basket, plunged in his hand and drew one up, wriggling, by the back of the neck. "That's no police dog," said Tom. "No, it's not exactly a police dog,"

" said the man with disappointment in his voice. "It's more of an airedale." He passed his hand over the brown wash-rag of a back. "Look at that coat. Some coat. That's a dog that'll never bother you with catching cold." "I think it's cute," said Mrs. Wilson enthusiastically. "How much is it?" "That dog?" He looked at it admiringly. "That dog will cost you ten dollars." The airedale—undoubtedly there was an airedale concerned in it somewhere though its feet were startlingly white—changed hands and settled down into Mrs. Wilson's lap, where she fondled the weather-proof coat with rapture. "Is it a boy or a girl?" she asked delicately. "That dog? That dog's a boy." "It's a bitch," said Tom decisively. "Here's your money. Go and buy ten more dogs with it." We drove over to Fifth Avenue, so warm and soft, almost pastoral, on the summer Sunday afternoon that I wouldn't have been surprised to see a great flock of white sheep turn the corner. "Hold on," I said, "I have to leave you here." "No, you don't," interposed Tom quickly. "Myrtle'll be hurt if you don't come up to the apartment. Won't you, Myrtle?" "Come on," she urged. "I'll telephone my sister Catherine. She's said to be very beautiful by people who ought to know." "Well, I'd like to, but—" We went on, cutting back again over the Park toward the West Hundreds. At 158th Street the cab stopped at one slice in a long white cake of apartment houses. Throwing a regal homecoming glance around the neighborhood, Mrs. Wilson gathered up her dog and her other purchases and went haughtily in. "I'm going to have the McKees come up," she announced as we rose in the elevator. "And of course I got to call up my sister, too." The apartment was on the top floor—a small living room, a small dining room, a small bedroom and a bath. The living room was crowded to the doors with a set of tapestried furniture entirely too large for it so that to move about was to stumble continually over scenes of ladies swinging in the gardens of Versailles. The only picture was an over-enlarged photograph, apparently a hen sitting on a blurred rock. Looked at from a distance however the hen resolved itself into a bonnet and the countenance of a stout old lady beamed down into the room. Several old copies of "Town Tattle" lay on the table together with a copy of "Simon Called Peter" and some of the small scandal magazines of Broadway. Mrs. Wilson was first concerned with the dog. A reluctant elevator boy went for a box full of straw and some milk to which he added on his own initiative a tin of large hard dog biscuits—one of which decomposed apathetically in the saucer of milk all afternoon. Meanwhile Tom brought out a bottle of whiskey from a locked bureau door. I have been drunk just twice in my life and the second time was that afternoon so everything that happened has a dim hazy cast over it although until after eight o'clock the apartment was full of cheerful sun. Sitting on Tom's lap Mrs. Wilson called up several people on the telephone; then there were no cigarettes and I went out to buy some at the drug store on the corner. When I came back they had disappeared so I sat down discreetly in the living room and read a chapter of "Simon Called Peter"—either it was terrible stuff or the whiskey distorted things because it didn't make any sense to me. Just as Tom and Myrtle—after the first drink Mrs. Wilson and I called each other by our first names—reappeared, company commenced to arrive at the apartment door. The sister, Catherine, was a slender, worldly girl of about thirty with a solid sticky bob of red hair and a complexion powdered milky white. Her eyebrows had been plucked and then drawn on again at a more rakish angle but the efforts of nature toward the restoration of the old alignment gave a blurred air to her face. When she moved about there was an incessant clicking as innumerable pottery bracelets jingled up and down upon her arms. She came in with such a proprietary haste and looked around so possessively at the furniture that I wondered if she lived here. But when I asked her she laughed i

Feel free to delete the first one. I would do anything for you if post this. The Great Gatsby in all it’s glory

im aware i was probably supposed to read the whole thing to find out if you changed anything and tnhen find out you hadnt and id wasted an hour of my life but i am way too lazy to do that

#ask #im not gonna post the other one merely because of how bad i feel for my followers #long post

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chappedandfadedvds · 4 years ago

Text

Dec 1st, Tuesday 11:37

It was an odd feeling to walk through the hallways of his shool again, almost impossible to believe that it only had been a couple of weeks instead of month. Next week they even would have a couple of classes to attend again at school.

Jens took the stairs down, only one or two other students crossing his path on his way out. He never had seen the building this quiet and empty. At least not to his memory. It was pretty eerie.

Robbe and Moyo were already waiting outside by the gate, laughing about something when Jens crossed the school’s yard to join them on the pavement, immediately taking off his face mask. Finally. He was only just able to catch a glimpse of Luca sending his two friends a salute as she got on a bus.

„You made it.“ Robbe exclaimed proudly, the first to spot him coming closer, quickly followed by Moyo fist bumping him as he reached them

„Barely. I literally wrote the last sentence as the time was up. I couldn’t even proofread the thing.“

„You are not alone. Robbe had just told us that he gave up reading it over and over again halfway through, and just handed it in early. Same here, man. So if we fail, we fail as broerrrs. Together.“ Moyo finished his brief little speech, that didn’t really comforted Jens at all. They had been done with the test ten minutes earlier than him, he had seen them leave, while desperately writting his thoughts down. But at least it was well-intentioned, he guessed as all three of them sighed.

It wasn’t that Jens didn’t know French. He could understand and speak it just fine. It was just having to write and answer all these long ass texts in an awful short period of time that always killed him. So he probably would be fine in the end, wiggeling his way through well enough to pass. He hoped at least. Math on friday was a whole other beast to survive.

„I failed so hard.“ Aaron shouted whining from the courtyard of the school, as him and Lucas were on their way to meet them. Poor Aaron, Jens thought sympathetical, but still amused at the comical devastated face their friend made. And certainly he wasn’t alone, as the other two boys waiting next to Jens also grinned at Aaron stumbling over.

„Come on, it won’t be that bad.“

Moyo definitely had stepped up to be their motivational speaker today, trying to keep up the morale of the group. Even if he was quite shit at it to be honest.

„No it was super bad. Urgh. I don’t want to fail my last year.“

„You wont.“ His tone was rather matter of fact, as Jens caught Aaron’s gaze to sound and look as assuring as it was possible for him in that moment. At least it seemed to work a little, when Aaron nodded and even smiled gently, when Robbe patted his back lightly.

„That’s exactly what I told him as well.“ Lucas said, having also just written the German test with Aaron. Jens was so sure that his boyfriend must have aced it. He looked rather unbothered by the whole two weeks filled with tests ahead of them. Which probably stemmed from Lucas studying just as much, if not even more than them. Jens would know, sitting next to him at home, being easily distracted by everything, while his boyfriend miraculously managed to concentrate on his notes.

„So Geography tomorrow, huh?“ Moyo asked, recieving a positive nod from everyone in their little circle. Geography was managable. Jens wasn’t too worried.

„Oh fuck, guys, we should probably go.“ Robbe had just taken his phone out to check for something, apparently the time, when he picked up his backpack from the ground between his feet.

„We? Who is we?“ Aaron looked confused between them, as did only Moyo, unaware that it answered his own question, while wondering if he had forgotten aboout something important.

„Sander has his photoshoot today, and Lucas here promised to model, if you remember four weeks ago at the park?“

„Oh right. What kind of photos? Skating?“

Aaron actually seemed interested asking for Jens to explain further, who of course had no idea either. Sander didn’t really give anything away on sunday, other than the time and place to meet. Which was some apartment of a fellow student from the academy, the three boys had been told, cuddling on the sofa. And that was kind of it. Jens believed that not even Lucas had much more information, other than the clothes he would be wearing.

„It’s an editorial.“ His boyfriend provided, looking not quite convinced that he knew what he was talking about. So last but not least Robbe picked up from there.

„Basically their group is putting together a magazin this semester, one is doing texts, another layout, a third the cover and so on. And Sander takes the photos. He already did some studiowork for fake adverts and stuff last week. Today is a bit more fashion, a bit more...“

„Alright, that’s enough information.“ Moyo declared, stopping Robbe in his explanation, who did right away, not particular affronted by their friend’s dismissive tone. Still his best friend rolled his eyes at the tone Moyo had used. Sometimes this boy should learn to be a little less of an dick, Jens thought.

„We really need to leave anyway, so I guess we’ll see you tomorrow?“ Robbe said instead, followed by all of them bidding goodbye, promising to meet in front of the school at half past nine again.

„For sure!“ Aaron happily said, waving them goodbye, as the three boys turned to walk down the street, Lucas and Jens basically trusting Robbe to know where he was going.

Jens wasn’t even sure, what he would be doing the whole time, as he only had agreed to come too, when Lucas had asked him, rather nervous about the whole thing. So he guessed he’d just sit around and watch the boys doing their stuff. Hopefully it wouldn’t take to long. Lotte needed to be picked up by five today.

They had crossed a couple of streets by now, school far behind them, and Jens found Lucas taking his hand. It was, he believed the first time they did outside of their houses. He smiled.

__ __ __

tagged: @odi-et-amo85, @tayspots

#week 6 #wtfock #skam #vds #jens stoffels #lucas van der heijden #chapped and faded

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moonbeambucky · 6 years ago

Text

Helpless

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader Word Count: 5298 Warnings: fluff

Summary: Bucky doesn’t realize that the more he tries to be helpful the more he makes his girl feel helpless.

A/N: This is my submission for @kentuckybarnes Hannah’s 3k Writing Challenge. My prompt was Character A is told to stay in the car while Character B confronts a villain. Things go downhill. Character A drives the car into the villain. But didn’t leave the car. Thank you as always to my Sam 💕@buckyofthemyscira for beta reading! gif not mine

The story of Bucky Barnes is filled with immense sadness weaving its ways throughout the pages of his life. From Howling Commando to Hydra assassin, his mind was scrubbed clean of what made him; his memories, his morals. Bucky was forced to commit unspeakable acts, ones that keep him up at night trembling with guilt. He was given a new life while being robbed of his old one but now that he’s finally free of the tentacled grasp Hydra held him in, Bucky is working on becoming himself again, and for all the harm he’s done to the world he wants to give back and help.

The desire to help others took root within him at a young age. He learned from his father George, who was always quick to assist the neighbors on their friendly Brooklyn block, and Bucky experienced firsthand how good it felt to help others.

When Mrs. Davis from down the block couldn’t leave the house much anymore Bucky took it upon himself to fetch her groceries or mow the lawn. He never asked for anything in return for his service but she insisted, paying him a little something so he could treat himself to an ice cream. Instead, Bucky used the money to make sure the alley cats had a fresh dish of milk and cans of tuna each day. If helping was the lottery then Bucky hit the jackpot when he befriended Steve Rogers.

Steve became more like a brother and Bucky had his hands full looking after him. You see, Steve was just like Bucky when it came to helping others except the little punk didn’t know his limits. He picked his battles, every single one, no matter who was on the other end. Bucky would have to step in every time and throw a punch or take one; better him than Steve who would crumble at the slightest breeze.

Bucky couldn’t fight all of Steve’s battles though, but he was always there to help Steve get well from his latest bout with any and every germ that came his way. His poor friend was a scrawny thing, with an immune system more fragile than a butterfly’s wings. Bucky ran all over Brooklyn to pick up Steve’s prescriptions and even learned to make his mother’s homemade chicken soup recipe, anticipating he might be spending the rest of his life making it for Steve.

Helping was always in Bucky’s nature but when the war broke out he questioned his morals. Part of him wanted to sign up, his country needed help and he was ready to fight, but with his father no longer around it didn’t feel right to leave his ma and sisters. In the end Bucky decided to stick around, continue to help his family and Steve until he was drafted.

The fate of the world was safe, for today at least, and while Bucky had helped secure it from the threat of other worldly invaders once more he wanted to use his free time to help on a smaller level.

This is how he found himself at a local Habitat for Humanity worksite near the compound. There were a few dozen people crowding around the open space, with bright smiles and excited chatter filling the air until a skeletal man with a bullhorn calls everyone’s attention. Bucky keeps his distance in the back. Just because he wanted to help doesn’t mean he’s fully ready to integrate himself into society again.

Bucky prefers anonymity and after years of covert operations and life on the run he wears his best disguise to hide in plain sight, a baseball cap that casts a shadow over his features. His long dark hair is tied in a low bun at the base of neck and recognizable metal hand is covered by a construction glove.

He isn’t fully anonymous though, a sticker on his chest states his name but going by James provides him enough distance from his true identity. Bucky doesn’t want any publicity, even if it would counteract the daily editorials that criticize his morals. It’s another struggle he carries, learning to ignore the faceless voices that speak out against him. He’ll never please everyone but by helping, no matter what the cause, he knows he’s doing something good.

Bucky’s squinting from the sunlight, already strong despite the early morning. He pulls his cap lower to block the shine from his eyes while listening to the man with the bullhorn enthusiastically pump up the crowd. He introduces himself as Scully, a nickname Bucky supposes as his sticker says Ed. Could be a last name too though. Sometimes Bucky doesn’t mind being called Barnes. It reminds him of his time in the army, where he was fighting with one goal in mind, to help.

He shrugs off his memories, not wanting to think about what happened after the army. He regrets wearing a sweatshirt today as he’s already growing warm but unfortunately it’s the best way to hide that arm of his.

The group breaks with a round of applause and cheers as it’s time to commence work. The foundation for the house was already laid for them so everyone begins working on the assembling the framing. Bucky quickly swaps his baseball cap for a hard hat and walks to the truck with a few others ready to unload the lumber.

A burly man walks up the steel ramp on the back of the truck. His boots clank on the metal that shakes to support his large frame as he unlatches the door, allowing the foresty scent of fresh cut spruce to penetrate the crisp morning air.

Groups of two travel in and out of the truck carrying long beams and planks. Bucky grabs more than double, giving a simple nod to the burly man Frank, a silent nod that he’s more than capable of handling that amount on his own. Bucky could actually carry more, a lot more, but his one man show is already drawing enough attention, he decides he doesn’t need any more.

He follows the direction of another man who’s shorter than Frank but just as round, with a thick salt and pepper beard. Bucky drops off the planks at different workstations where others are reviewing the specs for measurements.

The air filled with a mix of sound as people begin to work; the dull thudding of nails being hammered down, power tools buzzing away. It brings him back to childhood when he and Steve took the train into Manhattan to watch as construction crews began erecting the Chrysler Building. The idea of having the tallest building in the world in their backyard fascinated the young boys who never imagined the sites they would grow to see.

He’s pulled from his memory by the shrill buzzing of an electric saw. It pierces his ear oddly as Bucky can hear the faintest wobble coming from a blade. He shuts his eyes to concentrate, waiting for the sound again until he’s certain of where it’s coming from.

A woman is focused on her work, gripping the handle of the miter saw and guiding it down to slice through the wood on the table. Bucky’s lips twitch to a smile as he watches her using the machine without hesitation.

The wobbly sound has increased in the span of the few seconds he spent ogling her and before the woman begins again Bucky calls out to stop her.

“There’s somethin’ wrong with the blade,” he declared after he caught her attention, walking closer towards her.

Between the glare of the sun and the protective goggles covering her eyes Bucky can’t read her expression. He worries she might be insulted, if in some way she interprets his concern as a question on her capability.

Bucky panicked, “I-It’s not you, I promise.” He flashed a nervous smile. “I… it’s just that I heard it in the blade, it sounded…”

“...Off,” she finished his sentence. “You’re right, I even felt it in that last cut.”

She removed her safety goggles and used her forearm to dab at the beads of sweat that collected on her forehead. Chewing on her bottom lip she stared bewilderedly at the faulty machine.

Bucky was staring as well, entranced by the woman before him. Now that he had a clearer look at her features his heart began doing flips in his chest. Her eyes were beautiful, sparkling and full of life.

The hard hat and baggy t-shirt added to her true beauty, the goodness of her soul that was eager to get back to work, to helping just as he wanted to. She scanned the machine for an obvious cause of the problem, wondering out loud what it could be.

Bucky found the nerve to speak up. “The bolt on the blade probably came loose. I can help if you want...” He smiled timidly as his eyes traveled to the name tag on her shirt, “…Y/N.”

The moment her name fell from his lips Bucky felt as if he was always meant to say it. Like pollen floating in the air her name was carried to his heart making it bloom with attraction.

She accepted his help with an enthusiastic smile spread widely across her face and Bucky was blinded once more but not by the sun. The light that radiated from Y/N’s gorgeous face was stronger and more beautiful than any star in the galaxy.

With a spring in his step he went to find some tools to help, anxious to get back to Y/N. By the time he returned she unplugged the machine and put her palm out, waiting for him to hand over the tools. Bucky was surprised, not expecting she only needed his help to fetch the tools.

“I’m not helpless you know,” Y/N playfully teased, smirking as she pulled back the blade guard and began to lock the saw into place.

Bucky smiled watching her work, unable to contain his smile and the bubbling feelings within of the woman who was as capable as she was beautiful.

Y/N let out a frustrated groan as she tried to remove the bolt that secured the blade. She twisted the wrench but it wouldn’t budge. Bucky was certainly strong enough to force the movement but he didn’t want to intrude, not unless she asked.

He didn’t have time to wait for Y/N’s permission as she used all her might to twist the wrench, forcing the bolt to fly off. The shaky movement caused the askew blade to come off its mount and nearly onto Y/N’s hands if Bucky hadn’t lurched forward and stopped it. The blade sat in the palm of his gloved hand, the metal underneath unharmed by the sharp object.

“Are you alright?” he asked as a visibly shaken Y/N took deep breaths.

“Yeah, ‘m good. I shouldn’t have forced it,” she huffed in disbelief, thinking about what could have happened.

Bucky placed the blade back and tightened the bolt properly, ensuring it wouldn’t wobble anymore. “It should be good now.” Bucky offered a proud smile, knowing he was able to help her.

Y/N returned the smile as she replaced the other screws so she could begin working again. “Thanks Bucky.”

The curve of his lips dropped down with confusion His name tag said James. He is supposed to be James. Incognito. He had a foolproof baseball cap. His eyes stirred with panic but the sound of her voice stilled his mind.

“Were you hiding or something?” Her tone was playful and the smile she gave him helped settle his nerves even more. Bucky was wrong to think he could go unnoticed, then again she was the only one to speak up.

“In a way,” he responded, “I wanna help, don’t want no fanfare about it.”

Y/N knew what the press reported on James “Bucky” Barnes but in all the articles she’s read none of them ever detailed the softness in his eyes. Seventy years of torture were held back behind a delicate wall of swirling blue emotion and yet he’s standing in front of her, stronger than she could ever imagine had she faced what he had gone through.

“Your secret is safe with me,” she winked.

A giggle fell past her lips and Bucky felt his knees buckle at the sound. From the moment it left her lips and floated to his ears the decision cemented itself within his heart, he would do anything to hear her laughter again.

Bucky continued the heavy lifting all day but the greatest strength he displayed was when he asked Y/N out for coffee and surprisingly she said yes.

They met up on Saturday afternoon after spending a few days together at the worksite. Y/N groaned as her stiff muscles carried her to the front of the coffee shop. Bucky stood outside looking incredibly handsome in a light denim jacket with a blue shirt that was sure to bring out the color of his eyes. His hair was loose with rich brown strands falling into his face as he pulled his phone out from his pocket and checked it.

She stopped to watch him, with a smile growing on her face at how nervous Bucky looked. She felt the same way, with the butterflies in her stomach adding to the aches and pains of her sore body.

Y/N was just as surprised when Bucky asked her to meet. She never imagined the day she would run into an actual Avenger let alone exchange numbers with them. With a deep breath she began walking towards him, trying to contain her nerves.

Bucky’s eyes lit up when he saw her. She strolled towards him in an oversized sweater and leggings that clung to her frame. Her hair was freed from the hard hat he was accustomed to seeing her in. He already thought she was beautiful in the sawdust covered clothes she wore and now his heart began to race at the sight of her.

Neither knew what greeting was appropriate as they said hello which led to an awkward should they, should they not kiss on the cheek or hug. She giggled again and Bucky sighed with content.

As Bucky held the door open for Y/N he heard a faint groan as she stepped up into the shop and proceeded to ask if she was alright.

She smiled at his question, “Yes, thank you. Just a little achy.”

Bucky smiled remembering the work she put in at the site, never shying away from any project. Y/N even tried to help lift the support beam that outweighed her many times over. Her disappointed pout was adorable, even if realistically it was a job meant for a crew made up of the strongest people. Bucky winked at her bringing the smile back to her face as they shared an unspoken truth, Bucky could have easily lifted the beam alone.

Hard labor was nothing for Bucky, in fact, he much preferred it over Steve’s intense training drills. He didn’t technically have a problem with those either but he’d rather go back into cyro than hear Sam’s whining every day.

Y/N would have more of a reason to whine over Sam who should be used to physical demands that come with being an Avenger by now, but even she isn’t. He can read the pain on her face, the tight smile and stiff inhales as she reads over the menu. After all the hard work she did she deserves to rest.

Bucky pulled out a chair for her from the nearest table. “Why don’t you take a seat and I’ll grab our orders,” he offered, feeling happy to help her.

They sat for hours getting to know each other, sharing a variety of sweet pastries. Bucky walked Y/N home and when it was time to say goodbye, something neither were keen on, they once again found themselves unsure of what they should do.

The caffeine searing through their veins combined with the growing affection they felt made both Bucky and Y/N extremely nervous. He was a blushing mess and she chewed on her lip, admiring his features by the golden glow of the setting sun.

Y/N took initiative, leaning forward with the intention of kissing him on the cheek. Bucky acted as well, excitedly lifting his arms up so he could wrap them around her for a hug. Unfortunately they did this at the same time and Bucky’s metal hand accidentally smacked Y/N’s cheek.

His heart stopped in that moment as Y/N held her hand firmly to her cheek. Bucky wanted to run away, to mutter an apology before he goes back into hiding, never to leave again. Negative thoughts swirl around his mind like a tornado making him question why he thought he would ever be good enough for her, telling him the world doesn’t want his help, that he only brings destruction and pain with every step he takes.

Suddenly the thoughts stop, swept away by the most beautiful sound in the world, Y/N’s giggles.

“Ouch,” she chuckled, rubbing the sting from her cheek while smiling at him.

The tension in Bucky’s shoulders released, allowing him to exhale. Still he apologized profusely but Y/N’s finger on his lips told him to stop.

“I know how you can make it up to me,” she purred, flashing a coy smile as her eyes traveled to his lips and back up again.

The lust in her eyes was evident and for once Bucky’s head and his heart were on the same page. He leaned in slowly as his tongue swept across his lips to wet them. The gap between them closed and Y/N felt his breath fanning against her skin.

Her nerves tingled with anticipation and the moment their lips met it felt like each one had turned into a firework, exploding with happiness. Y/N pulled apart first when she needed air though Bucky would have gladly given her every breath his lungs have yet to take.

“That’s better,” she sighed a heaving breath as she rested her forehead against his.

Bucky licked his lips again, tasting the sweetness of dessert lingering on her tongue though he was certain she tasted sweeter. His eyes crinkled as a smile stretched across his face and he whispered to her, “Happy to help.”

That day was the beginning of their relationship and Bucky couldn’t believe how lucky he was. He never imagined he would be romancing someone again and now that Y/N was with him he went above and beyond to make sure she knew just how much he loved and appreciated her.

Bucky would always be sure to hold doors open for Y/N, or pull out the chair for her to sit. Sometimes he would even help her assist her with putting on or taking off her coat; he couldn’t help it, hearing the voice of his father in his head, lessons he was taught from a young age about proper etiquette with women.

Y/N never had anyone treat her as kindly as Bucky did, always going out of his way to ensure she was properly taken care of. Sure, some of his sweet gestures may have been a little old fashioned but she understood Bucky was brought up in a different time. Besides, it was better than being treated poorly so for a while she let him woo her the way he thought was best.

After a few months of dating Bucky’s kindness started to become a little cumbersome. He would go out of his way to “help” Y/N even though she didn’t need it, like all the times he stopped her from putting on a necklace, insisting that he had to be the one to fasten the clasp even though she was more than capable of doing it herself. Or the many times when she would be washing the dishes and Bucky nearly pushed her out of the way so he could be the one to do them claiming he didn’t want her hands to prune.

Each time Bucky took over doing something for Y/N her frustration grew but she bit her tongue. She knew how fragile Bucky’s self-esteem was and she really didn’t want to hurt him. Bucky felt so good about himself when he did things for her, it was written all over his face so she stayed quiet and let it fester, ignoring the problem like a rumbling volcano.

It was a rough day. The moment Y/N got to work there were problems starting with the first phone all. A client spent twenty minutes screaming at her and while she tried several times to get a word in he wouldn’t let her. Instead she had to wait for his rant to finish before she could give him a simple solution that would have lowered both their blood pressure within a few minutes.

She was on edge from the call and because of that she knocked over her mug of coffee, spilling all of important documents, some of which now required new signatures from other clients who weren’t happy about having to come in again. By the end of the day Y/N was near tears when her boss called her in to talk, reprimanding her for indiscretions during the day.

Bucky was in her apartment waiting for Y/N to come home from work. He couldn’t wait to spend the night with her cuddling together and watching movies knowing in the morning he would be leaving for a mission, the first one he’s been on since they started dating.

The door burst open and Y/N stomped harshly on the wood floors, kicking one heel off wildly and groaning in frustration as she had to bend down and pull the other one off, throwing it hastily against the wall.

Bucky heard the commotion from the other room and when he walked to the living room he saw Y/N kneeling on the floor crying. The shoe had dented the wall, breaking the plaster. Bucky knelt down beside her and Y/N threw herself into his chest, crying even harder when she felt his arms wrap around her frame.

“It’s okay…” he whispered in her ear, placing a kiss to her crown. “Don’t worry about the wall. I’ll fix it.”

His words dried her tears but not because of his offer to help. The broken wall symbolized more than what it actually was. This minor inconvenience was the breaking of the own wall she had built up behind months of anger and resentment towards Bucky.

With a shaky breath Y/N pushed herself away from Bucky and stood up. She gripped the edge of the table to hold onto something as she unleashed everything that was buried inside of her.

“I don’t want your help! I’m so tired of it, Bucky! It’s not about the wall, I can fix it my damn self!” she screamed.

Bucky stood up slowly, with confusion twisting at his features.

“You make me feel helpless! You never allow me to do anything. I can do dishes, I can carry bags. I can put my own damn coat on!”

Bucky opened his mouth but he couldn’t form any words. He was hurt. Everything he did for Y/N was from the heart, he didn’t realize how she felt about it. Maybe he was wrong about everything, that he was never ready for a relationship, that Y/N never loved him.

As Bucky stood silent Y/N saw the pain swirling in his eyes and realizing everything she said in her outburst made her feel worse.

She broke down again, “I’m so sorry Bucky. I love you, I mean it, I love you from the bottom of my heart. This is all my fault. I should have said something earlier. I never m-meant…” she whimpered, wiping the tears from her cheeks and sniffling.

“No,” he said softly, “I’m sorry. It’s been so long since…” Bucky trails off but they both know what he meant. “You mean the world to me doll, I thought if I could make anything easier on ya I would do it.”

“I don’t mind the help I just wish you would ask me sometimes,” she smiled sadly.

Y/N outstretched her hand towards Bucky and let out a breath of relief when he took it. She brought him closer and pressed herself against him again, relaxing as he embraced her fully.

They spent that evening together just as Bucky originally planned but now with a better understanding of each other’s emotions.

Every day for the month Bucky was gone Y/N was worried sick so the moment her phone lit up with a message announcing his arrival she screamed with joy. He arrived at her door a few hours later, holding a bouquet of beautiful flowers she did not care one bit about. Y/N jumped into his arms kissing him senseless. She could take care of herself in many ways but when it came to Bucky Barnes in her heart she knew she was certainly helpless.

They spent the weekend together hardly ever leaving her bed. Bucky opened up as much as he could to her about the mission which was a bust. They either had bad intel or their target knew they were coming and he disappeared. It was frustrating but Y/N’s soft lips against his skin made him quickly forget his worries.

For their one year anniversary Bucky planned a special night out to celebrate with Y/N. They both dressed nicely for the not too fancy but still classy enough restaurant they had reservations for. Bucky picked her up in a vintage car thanks to Tony and they enjoyed an intimate dinner.

Bucky pulled out a small gift from his suit pocket and handed it to Y/N across the table. The candlelight illuminated her beautiful smile as she carefully unwrapped the gift to reveal a jewelry box. Inside was a necklace with a small silver pendant in the shape of a house with a heart cut out in the center.

“Because we met that day building a house together and ever since you’ve held my heart and become my home.”

“It’s beautiful Bucky,” she beamed. “Will you put it on me?”

Her head tilts to the side as she smiles softly towards him and Bucky happily obliged. When the necklace was secured he couldn’t help but press his lips at the junction of her neck and shoulder making Y/N squirm and giggle. It was definitely time to leave the restaurant and neither could wait to get home.

On the drive home Bucky turned to face Y/N but instead his attention was on the car beside him and the driver that looked suspiciously like the target from their failed mission a few months back. He tried not to be seen by the man he believed to be Andrei Rudaski telling Y/N to stay low as he carefully followed the car.

While stopped at a light Bucky confirmed the target thanks to a signifying tattoo on his neck. He followed him for a few more blocks as he debated on calling the team. Bucky could probably take this guy down without making a scene but he didn’t want to endanger Y/N.

Andrei pulled over beside a warehouse on a quiet street that was mostly dark except for a few scattered street lamps. Bucky parked across the street, wishing he didn’t have a car that could blend better with the other empty cars along the road.

As Andrei opened the door to get out Bucky handed Y/N his phone. “Call Steve, tell him where we are and tell ‘im Andrei Rudaski is here.”

“What about you?” she worried.

“I’ll be alright doll. Just call Steve and stay in the car.”

With a quick kiss to her forehead Bucky took off. She chewed her bottom lip nervously as she watched his frame disappear in the alleyway by the warehouse though his shadow was visible on the wall for a bit longer thanks to security lighting mounted on the building.

For a while there was nothing but the sound of the occasional car pass by until an unmistakable gunshot rang out. Shadows on the wall began to dance in tussle and Y/N heard voices growing louder. She clutched her necklace when she thought she heard Bucky, more specifically the sound of him groaning in pain. Bucky was her home too and she couldn’t sit by and let him be injured or worse.

Sliding into the driver’s seat Y/N turned the key and hoped Bucky’s attacker was too preoccupied to hear the sound of the purring engine come to life. With her seatbelt fastened she grabbed the wheel and beelined right towards the alley.

Y/N spotted Bucky on the ground with a man standing above him, aiming a gun. With her foot slammed against the pedal she sped straight down with Andrei in her path.

It was surreal to feel everything happen at once and yet in Y/N’s mind each event seemed to play out in slow motion. She remembered the surprised look on Andrei’s face, the bright headlines that turned the darkness of his blue eyes into pinpoints that stared her down. He tried to aim his gun at her but she hit him first, the sound of the metal frame crashing against flesh and bone will be seared into his memory forever.

Glass shattered from the windshield in front of her to the high pitched breakage of the warehouse window. He had shot his gun after all. An airbag deployed unexpectedly and if she had been given a chance to think about it she would have known Tony Stark upgrades all of his toys.

The advanced airbag leaves little injury, the only thing sore is her chest, tender where the seatbelt held her upon the impact. She’s shaking, and doesn’t know if she wants to laugh or cry, but when the door opens beside her and she sees Bucky she does both.

“What the hell was that?” He reprimands her and rightfully so. Getting hurt is the last thing Bucky wanted to happen to Y/N. “I told you to stay in the car!”

“That was me saving your ass,” she groaned slightly, “And as you can see I am in the car!”

Her statement was followed by a chuckle, as if the car wasn’t crunched up against a wall, with a bloodied person in between it.

Bucky pinched the bridge of his nose, sucking in a painful breath thanks to the throbbing gunshot that pierced his side. “I thought I told you to call Steve.”

“I did call him,” she insisted, struggling to unlatch her seatbelt. “But I couldn’t sit by and let something happen to you.”

Bucky heard the worry in her tone, and truthfully Andrei had somehow gotten the upper hand. He doesn’t want to think about what would have happened if it wasn’t for Y/N.

With Bucky’s assistance she got out of the car and carefully they hugged.

“I’m sorry our anniversary was ruined. I wanted– ” Bucky began to say before a voice interrupted him.

“Can you tell me what else is ruined?” Tony sarcastically asked, as red and gold arms crossed over the lighted triangle on his chest.

Bucky smiled at Y/N before answering. “This shirt for one,” he joked clutching his bleeding side.

Y/N frowned as Bucky hissed in pain. Apologizing for the car as she passed Tony, Y/N helped Bucky towards the quinjet that was blocking the street and Bucky grabbed a medical kit which he held out towards Y/N. “Wouldja mind?”

He took off his shirt and laid on his side so she could clean and bandage his wound, but not before he had the small chance to send her a wink.

“Looks like I’m the helpless one now, doll.” he joked.

A/N: Thank you for reading! Reblogs, comments and likes are always appreciated :)

Perm. Tags (open): @all1e23 / @asphalt-cocktail / @badassbaker / @bibibucky / @breezy1415 / @bucky-smiles / @buckybabybaby / @buckybarneshairpullingkink / @buckyofthemyscira / @california-grown / @captcarolvers / @chameerah / @chrevastan / @crazyinspiration / @driftingtonystark / @everythingisoverrated / @fandom-addict-aesthetics / @hana1379 / @his-paradox / @holland-stan-posts / @jaamesbbarnes / @jamesbvck / @jbuckbrnes / @kentuckybarnes / @kenzieam / @lokissoul / @mizzzpink / @notimetoblog / @palaiasaurus64 / @piensa-bonito / @prettyyoungtragedy / @royallylazy / @sgtjbuccky / @stanclub / @supernatural-girl97 / @supernaturaldean67 / @suz-123 / @teamcap4bucky / @theassetseyeliner / @toongtii / @tropicalcap / @undyingart / @valhalla-ally / @wonderlandmind4 / @wonderless-screwup / @yknott81

#hannahs3kwritingchallenge #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes fluff

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ao3feed-mfmm · 7 years ago

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I don't know if this is allowed: I'm looking to become a Beta

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/2umcYAK

by Down_Memory_Lane

This is related to a class I'm taking for my masters degree "Editorial Techniques", so be warned that the work we'll do together will most certainly be viewed by my professor.

If you decide to give me a chance I promise to remain with you until the end of your story, not just until the end of my classes.

More information inside.

Words: 364, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Fandoms: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Trek, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Thor (Movies), Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Vampire Knight (Anime & Manga), Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries, Bones (TV), NCIS, Stargate SG-1, Elementary (TV), Original Work, Black Jewels - Anne Bishop, October Daye Series - Seanan McGuire, Cut & Run - Madeleine Urban & Abigail Roux, Naruto, Sleepy Hollow (TV), Fringe (TV), The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien

Rating: Not Rated

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Additional Tags: I don't know if this is allowed, I'll take this down as soon as I find my match, or too much time goes by, so like 3 weeks?, Is that enough?, I really hope someone considers this, that would really help me out, I'm making up a bunch of tags that don't exist, i'll stop now

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/2umcYAK

#IFTTT #ao3feed #fanfic #mfmm

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leonarddaly-blog · 8 years ago

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Last week I was invited along to a presentation to launch Victoria Beckham x Estée Lauder collection in Brown Thomas. This is Victoria’s second collection for the brand and it has grown hugely this time and I have to say it’s beautiful! We were told that there would be no photo opportunities so when the talk was over I quickly exited and made my way to the counter to have a proper play with the collection, you can imagine my disappointment when I saw other beauty press putting up their selfies with her, and when I checked my email the PR had emailed me to say to run back as she had come out for photographs. But my friend Hazel got word of this and very kindly used her photoshop magic and made me some photos that you can see on my Instagram.

“I always love coming to Ireland, and I’m thrilled to back at Brown Thomas to celebrate my new collection with Estee Lauder. This capsule really reflects my personal beauty vision, with lots of incredible new products, textures and shades – all inspired by my favourite cities in the world. I can’t wait to share it with my customers here today!” – Victoria Beckham She also told us that Harper took her first steps in Brown Thomas and of course we all rememeber that they got marred in Dublin too, so she really does hold some great memories here.

Victoria talked us through the whole collection yesterday and what really struck me was how much she knows about the range, I know that sounds outrageous but a lot of celebs/designers just give their name and take a pay cheque from cosmetic companies. But it actually seemed that products were made that VB (Victoria Beckham) couldn’t get her hands on. And as someone who is constantly in the public eye/paparazzi lens she knows what a girl needs to look good. And she loves makeup and it genuinely showed as she was talking about the range.

First up to tell you about is Morning Aura Illuminating Creme, this is part luminous moisturiser and part brightening primer and it promises is fresh glowing skin. VB talked about how when she gets off a long haul flight she is always met by the press, can you imagine getting off an 11 hour flight and and the paparazzi being there to greet you, I generally look like I have been dragged out of a canal after a long haul flight. I can’t imagine having to think about looking good for the cameras, but apparently Morning Aura makes your skin look fresh and healthy instantly. It was also part of last years collection and is in the signature collection this year. I did love it but found it made some peoples skin a little too illuminated, nothing a small bit of power can’t sort out. You can even apply it on top of your makeup if your skin is looking a bit tired dried out.

Above is the Signature collection, this is the core of the collection and includes Morning Aura. The mascara has sold out already, packed with loads of micro fibres it gives you lashes of dreams and it is also mink lash friendly, comes off with warm water. The Skin Perfecting Powder is a pore-blurring magical makeup setting powder. It has the softest yellow undertone, mostly translucent but that soft yellow brightens up your skin. The powder is so fine that you can reapply all day long as needed and it will never look too powdery. The Aura Gloss is a high-shine gloss with a golden pearl shimmer that catches giving you red caret ready looking skin, I wouldn’t stop at the skin using this product, apply in the centre of a matte lip to make your lips look healthy and youthful, if you want a more editorial looking eye makeup you can apply it on top of your eyeshadows it is a really versatile product. And with a €36 price tag it is one of the ranges most affordable products. I will report on the rest of the collection later in the week.

It comes in beautiful packaging, the whole collection is packaged in the most beautiful gold and black packaging, similar to Estée’s other uber luxe brand Tom Ford. Any of these products will look mega in your makeup bag!

I got to see @victoriabeckham talk through her VBxEsteeLauder collection last week, its mega Last week I was invited along to a presentation to launch Victoria Beckham x Estée Lauder collection in Brown Thomas.

#Estée Lauder #VBxEsteeLauder #Victoria Beckham

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behindthebeautylens · 5 years ago

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Barter Agreement: What's In It For Me?

Let me first start off by saying - for most of 2016 and 2017, I test shot nearly every weekend.

Every. Single. Weekend.

I wasn’t paid much for my beauty work and I’m not saying that I am now that I live here in Tampa, FL but I also no longer randomly test shoot to build portfolio or get better at beauty photography.

Collaboration is a great method by which to learn and grow while networking and finding your creative team along the way. It is an invaluable method to hone one skills with nearly nothing in monetary cost. But time is money as most people say. So are you using your time, photoshop subscriptions, camera clicks, lighting flash count appropriately and does the collaboration benefit you?

Over time, I’ve become a huge proponent for needing to have a suitable trade off for collaborating and creating that satisfies the needs of all parties, not just one. It might just be that I’m going through the maturing process in the field of photography and this is one of many gateways I’ll go through.

I do not believe in photographing a model, local celebrity, wanna-be influencer, etc for free if there’s nothing to be gained from the efforts. I’ve been burned too many times by these types of folks to justify taking the camera out and allowing them to not appropriately credit images created in collaboration or to not actually post images cause “oh they’re a model and they don’t like to post photos of themselves to their followers” or they simply “forgot” to tag the photographer, makeup artist, etc.

Well, what was the point then? Images aren’t meant to sit on a hard drive somewhere. They’re there to showcase as a visual representation of what it is that you actually “do” - which is make photographs so others can see.

But those types of people exist in this world and take advantage of what you offer without giving credit to the team for the collaboration efforts. Their promises are not kept and everyone ends up feeling used. It’s not a nice feeling.

So I now am implementing my own personal policies and sharing them with you:

#1. Collaborate with people who are going to help you grow and be challenged.

If testing in your local market doesn’t inspire you, then don’t do it. If you’re not challenged, then don’t do it. If you’re not learning, then DON’T DO IT. If it doesn’t benefit your portfolio, then DON’T DO IT.

Saying it louder for the people in the back…

To be honest, my challenge for beauty photography is in NYC, Miami, and Los Angeles. I don’t live there. I don’t even operate there on a monthly basis. But if I want commercial and editorial looks for my portfolio, that’s where I need to go. I don’t need to test every weekend like I did in Seattle if I spend three days in LA shooting beauty non-stop. Nowadays it’s the challenge of putting my portfolio out there for modeling agencies to review, finding the unique faces currently within the modeling world to work with, and creating well-planned photoshoots to add value to my portfolio. That’s the real challenge for me.

In 2016 and 2017, it was completely different. I wasn’t great at beauty photography and still don’t think I’m that good. I’m not making my living off of it (I actually am a full time military officer right now). But when I look 7 years down the future, it’s something I’d like to try my hand at when I retire.

My recommendation to you is to take time out to identify what’s a challenge to you and collaborate to create work that meets those challenges head on in order to grow and develop as an artist. It will help you focus on what’s important and artistic growth.

#2. Ask how the collaborative photoshoot is going to benefit you.

It’s a fair question and should not be taken lightly. I didn’t come into this world owing someone “something” just because they exist and I have an expensive camera and lenses. Just because they’re a pretty face doesn’t mean it warrants anyone a free photoshoot. I’ve learned this after working with so many models in Seattle that it’s just like - “thank you, next.” I’ve gotten to that point where I don’t feel pressured to “owe” anyone anything. If you want something more out of me, then you can pay me. Easy as that.

If you don’t see any benefit to doing this photoshoot, then charge what you would a normal off-the-street client. If you’re going to waste time pulling your camera out of your bag, driving to agreed upon location, photographing, and then spending multiple hours at home on a subscription based program (that you pay for) to edit these very images, and not really needing any of the images like what you shot for your portfolio - then you need to charge that client whatever your fair rate is.

It’s not a collaboration if you’re not getting anything out of it. So define what you want out of collaborative photoshoots and if an opportunity presents itself and doesn’t meet that criteria, kindly pass it on to the next photographer who might be a better fit.

#3. State the terms and conditions by which you will agree to collaborate and do so in writing.

Put. It. In. Writing. If someone will go through the efforts of actually reading a document and signing their name, then you probably know they’re legitimately worth their salt and understand your values as they probably have the same values.

Ask for what you want out of this collaboration. It might take some modifications and that is okay, but at least you state what you want upfront. If the others aren’t willing to compromise, then they’re the wrong people to be working with. This agreement not only holds them accountable for their half of the collaboration deal but also holds you accountable for producing the final images.

I recommend mocking up a barter agreement and get it legally vetted. Design Aglow has a great barter agreement that’s simple and straight forward and you can find that document HERE. We all deal with those unscrupulous characters that believe they can get commercial work for free if they frame it as an “amazing collaboration” that gives lots of “exposure.” We all know that exposure doesn’t pay the bills. If you want to keep someone in line with their stated agreement and terms of usage of images, this document will be especially helpful to retain - especially if they’re using that image to promote something, sell something, or otherwise violate copyright rules.

Side note, don’t also be persuaded by FREE anything. Not unless you really want whatever they’re offering for “free.” I would also not suggest giving any company, educational company, any images without written terms stated. Believe me, they will use your image to market their product and give you some “free” tutorial or gift voucher as compensation. No dear, they’re making way more money off your image than you’re led to believe. As a new photographer, it happened to me once and I paid for it three-fold.

Keep in mind, this is just one photographer’s opinion. There’s a ton of opinions out there but the big thing is you need to set the standards by which you will create by. You have to love what you’re doing first and foremost.

#barter agreements #trade shoots #collaborations

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fullspectrum-cbd-oil · 6 years ago

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Trump Heaps Another 5% Tariff on Chinese Goods in Latest Tit-For-Tat Escalation

U.S. President Donald Trump on Friday lashed back at a new round of Chinese tariffs by heaping an additional 5% duty on some $550 billion in targeted Chinese goods in the latest tit-for-tat trade war escalation by the world’s two largest economies.

Trump’s move, announced on Twitter, came hours after China unveiled retaliatory tariffs on $75 billion worth of U.S. goods, prompting the president earlier in the day to demand U.S. companies move their operations out of China.

The intensifying U.S.-China trade war stoked market fears that the global economy will tip into recession, sending U.S. stocks into a tailspin, with the Nasdaq Composite <.IXIC> down 3%, and the S&P 500 <.SPX> down 2.6%.

U.S. Treasury yields also declined as investors sought safe-haven assets, and crude oil, targeted for the first time by Chinese tariffs, fell sharply.

Trump’s tariff response was announced after markets closed on Friday, leaving potentially more damage for next week.

“Sadly, past Administrations have allowed China to get so far ahead of Fair and Balanced Trade that it has become a great burden to the American Taxpayer,” Trump said on Twitter. “As President, I can no longer allow this to happen!”

He said the United States would raise its existing tariffs on $250 billion worth of Chinese imports to 30% from the current 25% beginning on Oct. 1, the 70th anniversary of the founding of the communist People’s Republic of China.

At the same time, Trump announced an increase in planned tariffs on the remaining $300 billion worth of Chinese goods to 15% from 10%. The United States will begin imposing those tariffs on some products starting Sept. 1, but tariffs on about half of those goods have been delayed until Dec. 15.

The U.S. Trade Representative’s office confirmed the effective dates, but said it would conduct a public comment period before imposing the 30% tariff rate on Oct. 1.

U.S. business groups reacted angrily to the new tariff hike.

“It’s impossible for businesses to plan for the future in this type of environment. The administration’s approach clearly isn’t working, and the answer isn’t more taxes on American businesses and consumers. Where does this end?” said David French, a senior vice president for the National Retail Federation.

Trump is due to meet leaders of the G7 major economies at a summit this weekend in France, where trade tensions will be among the hottest discussion topics.

ABRUPT RESPONSE

The president’s announcement, which followed an Oval Office meeting with his advisers, fits a pattern of swift retaliation since the trade dispute with China started more than a year ago.

“He decided he wanted to respond. He was given a few different options on things he could do and ultimately that was what he decided,” a senior White House official said.

“He’s not taking this stuff lightly, but he’s in a fine mood and looking forward to the G7.”

Another person familiar with the matter said officials had to scramble to come up with options after Trump caught them offguard with tweets promising a response in the afternoon.

Since taking office in 2017, Trump has demanded that China make sweeping changes to its economic policies to end theft and forced transfers of American intellectual property, curb industrial subsidies, open its markets to American companies and increase purchases of U.S. goods.

China denies Trump’s accusations of unfair trade practices and has resisted concessions to Washington.

“We don’t need China and, frankly, would be far better off without them. The vast amounts of money made and stolen by China from the United States, year after year, for decades, will and must STOP,” Trump tweeted on Friday morning.

“Our great American companies are hereby ordered to immediately start looking for an alternative to China, including bringing your companies HOME and making your products in the USA.”

It’s unclear what legal authority Trump would be able to use to compel U.S. companies to close operations in China or stop sourcing products from the country. Experts said he could invoke the International Emergency Economic Powers Act used in the past for sanctions on Iran and North Korea, or cut offending companies out of federal procurement contracts..

The U.S. Chamber of Commerce rebuffed Trump’s call, urging “continued, constructive engagement.”

“Time is of the essence. We do not want to see a further deterioration of U.S.-China relations,” Myron Brilliant, executive vice president and head of the business group’s international affairs, said in a statement.

Trump also said he was ordering shippers including FedEx <FDX.N>. Amazon.com Inc <AMZN.O>, UPS <UPS.N> and the U.S. Postal Service to search out and refuse all deliveries of the opioid fentanyl to the United States.

China’s Commerce Ministry said that on Sept. 1 and Dec. 15 it will impose additional tariffs of 5% or 10% on a total of 5,078 products originating from the United States and reinstitute tariffs of 25% on cars and 5% on auto parts suspended last December as U.S.-China trade talks accelerated.

It was unclear whether a new round of talks expected in September would go ahead.

China Daily, an official English-language daily often used by Beijing to communicate its message to the rest of the world, said China’s tariff list is the result of “prudent calculation”.

“With the U.S. proceeding at full throttle with its beggar-thy-neighbor policy, China has no choice but to fight back to protect its core national and economic interests,” it said in an editorial on Saturday.

“China has taken the countermeasures so that U.S. decision-makers wake up and smell the coffee. And appreciate that until Washington follows the Osaka consensus, there can be no deal.”

AGRICULTURE, AUTO SECTORS HIT

The growing economic impact of the trade dispute was a key reason behind the U.S. Federal Reserve’s move to cut interest rates last month for the first time in more than a decade.

“The president’s trade war threatens to push the economy into a ditch,” said Mark Zandi, chief economist at Moody’s Analytics. “The president is hoping that the Federal Reserve will … bail him out, but if he continues to pursue the war, the Fed won’t be up to the task.”

Among U.S. goods targeted by Beijing’s latest duties were soybeans, which will be hit with an extra 5% tariff starting Sept. 1. China will also tag beef and pork from the United States with an extra 10% tariff, as well as ethanol with an additional 10% duty from December 15.

Although the Trump administration has rolled out aid to farmers stung by China’s tariffs, there is growing frustration in America’s agricultural belt, a key political constituency for Trump as he heads into his 2020 re-election campaign.

“The view from much of farm country is bleak and anger is boiling over. With bankruptcies and delinquencies rising and prices falling, the frustration with the lack of progress toward a deal is growing,” the bipartisan Farmers for Free Trade group said in a statement.

(Reporting by Judy Hua, Min Zhang, Se Young Lee, Stella Qiu, Hallie Gu and Dominique Patton in BEIJING, Yilei Sun and Winni Zhou in SHANGHAI, David Lawder, David Shepardson, Doina Chiacu, Jeff Mason, Steve Holland in WASHINGTON and Koh Gui Qing in New York; Additional reporting by Jason Lange, Andrea Shalal and Humeyra Pamuk in WASHINGTON and Tom Polansek and Julie Ingwersen in Chicago; Writing by Paul Simao; Editing by Alison Williams, Howard Goller and Sonya Hepinstall)

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filipeteimuraz · 6 years ago

Text

Low Hanging Fruit of Content Marketing: 10 Quick Changes That Will Bring Big Results

Do you know what the key to a successful content marketing campaign is? Well, it’s not what you are thinking. Sure, detailed content that is high in quality helps, but it won’t guarantee your success.

So, what’s the key?

It’s a lot of little things. They aren’t necessarily hard to implement. You just have to be willing to take the time to implement these simple tactics.

Here are 10 quick changes you need to make to ensure you do well with your content marketing:

Tactic #1: Cross-promote your Twitter profiles

Twitter will play a huge role in your content marketing efforts. Just look at how much traffic Twitter drove to Quick Sprout in the last 30 days:

By no means will Twitter make up the majority of your traffic, but what it will do is help influencers find your content. These influencers will retweet your content and, more importantly, share it with their readers on their blogs.

So, how do you maximize your Twitter traffic? One simple strategy is to cross-promote your Twitter profile with other people within your organization. Chances are you have a personal Twitter profile and a corporate one. At least a few of your employees have Twitter profiles too.

The way you would cross-promote is through your bio:

As you can see, I link to both my Crazy Egg and KISSmetrics Twitter profiles through my bio by using the @ symbol. I even link to my co-founder’s Twitter profile.

My co-founder does the same thing, and a few of our employees do this as well.

By having everyone on your team promote your Twitter profile, you will quickly gain more followers. That way, when you tweet out your latest blog post, you’ll get more traffic.

Tactic #2: Use the following keywords in your headlines

Most people think the most important part of content marketing is the quality of the content. And although it is true to some extent, if your headline sucks, no one will read your content.

A headline could mean the difference between a few hundred and a few thousand visitors.

If you aren’t sure how to create an appealing headline, just consider using some of the words below as they tend to get clicked a lot.

How to

[List-related numbers]

Free

You

Tips

Blog post

Why

Best

Tricks

Great

The keywords above work well, and if you also use them within your title tag, you should see an increase in click-through rates from your organic listings.

If you need even more help, you can always use these headline formulas from Copyblogger. All you have to do is plug in a keyword or two, and you will be good to go.

Tactic #3: Collect emails using Facebook Connect

RSS feeds used to be huge drivers of traffic to blogs, but once people stopped using them, most bloggers switched back to collecting email addresses. Why? Because you’ll never stop checking your email.

So, if you are looking to build your list at a faster pace, use Facebook Connect. It allows users who are logged into Facebook to subscribe to your blog with a click of a button. They won’t have to enter in their names or even email addresses.

You can create one of these opt-in forms through Aweber with just a click of a button.

The last A/B test I ran showed that using Facebook Connect for email opt-ins increased conversions by 24.1%.

That means by using Facebook Connect, you will roughly have 24% more people to email to every time you publish a new blog post.

Tactic #4: Ask a question at the end of your blog posts

Are you tired of writing blog posts that get no comments? I know I was, which is why I started testing different tactics to get more engagement from my readers.

Can you guess what the most successful tactic I’ve found to increase the number of comments is? It may sound obvious, but asking questions at the end of your blog posts will help.

If someone took the time to read your whole post, it means they are engaged. So, when they read a question at the end of your post, chances are they are going to answer it by leaving a comment.

Here are the results I experienced with Quick Sprout:

I receive 18% more comments on average when I ask a question at the end of a blog post.

When I end a blog post with a technical question such as “how would you prevent getting penalized by the Panda update?”, I tend to generate 11% fewer comments than when I use a more generic question like “how else can you get more traffic?”

You’ll have to test this out on your blog, but you should try asking generic questions at the end of your blog posts.

Tactic #5: Make your content skimmable

Have you ever noticed that all of my posts on Quick Sprout contain subheadings? I usually use a few within the body, and I use a heading Conclusion at the end of every post.

In this post, the subheadings are: Tactic #1, Tactic #2, etc. Using subheadings makes the content skimmable, which makes it easier for you to learn the important points from each post.

I never used to do this, but I found that it helps increase the time spent on-site for each blog post. My average time on-site for a blog post before I started doing this was 2 minutes and 41 seconds. Now my average time on-site for a blog post is 3 minutes and 26 seconds.

Through testing, I also found that using subheadings impacted average time on-site more than content length did. When I increased my blog post length from 1,000 words to over 1,500 or even 2,000 words, my average time on-site didn’t really go up. But having subheadings created more engagement. You are staying on the site longer, which means there is a greater chance that you are actually reading my blog posts.

If you want to increase the number of visitors who are actually reading your content, consider using subheadings.

Tactic #6: Draw your blog images

I was chatting with my designers at Digital Telepathy the other day, and they told me that blog posts that contained custom-drawn images got significantly more traffic. James from Super Fast Business is experiencing the same thing, which is why all of his blog posts contain custom-drawn images.

If you’re not a skilled designer like me, you can head over to Fiverr and pay $5 for a custom image.

Some people are claiming that they are able to generate double, if not triple, the amount of traffic by using custom-drawn images. I haven’t seen big lifts, but I have seen anywhere from 14% to 26% increase in traffic when I used custom images.

For those of you who use stock photography images like me: I haven’t seen an increase in traffic when using them.

Tactic #7: Share your content more than once

Tomasz Tunguz did an experiment on his blog to see if tweeting the same piece of content more than once would drive more traffic. He did this experiment because he felt the majority of his followers weren’t seeing his tweets.

What he found was that every time he tweeted the same piece of content again, it got roughly 75% of the retweets of the previous tweet. So, by tweeting a blog post 3 times instead of once, he was able to get roughly 131% more retweets.

If you want even more Twitter traffic, time your tweets because the time you post has a huge impact on how many people see it.

As you can see from the image above, tweeting at 8 am or 5 pm is optimal, assuming you want the most visibility. Fridays are also popular days to tweet.

Tactic #8: Don’t ignore the numbers

Although content marketing may not provide direct conversions, it does provide indirect conversions. The majority of KISSmetrics’ leads come from content marketing. It ranges from month to month, but at least 50% come from our content marketing efforts.

The one thing you’ll notice from content marketing is that you get more traffic. Whether it is organic, direct, social or even email traffic, you’ll see more of it. But with your limited time, which channel should you focus on improving the most?

Within your Google Analytics account, click on “conversions”, then “multi-channel funnels” and then on “assisted conversions.” Assuming you have conversion tracking set up, you’ll see an image like the one above that breaks down your revenue channels.

Based on that, you’ll know what to focus on. For example, I focus on increasing organic and referral traffic as those channels seem to be the most promising. I don’t focus on increasing direct traffic as it is less in my control.

By looking at your assisted conversions, you can focus on creating content that will appeal to channels that are causing conversions. For example, if I wanted to appeal to social media channels, I would blog more about Twitter and Facebook marketing. But because I want to increase my overall organic traffic, I focus on creating timeless content, such as How-To articles, that will do well in search in the long run.

Tactic #9: Use a content calendar

One of the biggest mistakes I made with my content marketing is not being consistent. When I was lazy and missed posting a few blog posts, my traffic tanked 21%.

So, how do you stay consistent? Using the editorial calendar plug-in will help.

By using the editorial calendar, you can quickly identify when posts will go live and if there are any gaps or overlaps. Although this tool is designed specifically for blog posts, it can also be used as a content calendar for your business.

Once your content marketing efforts kick in, you can always upgrade to Kapost, assuming you add more people to your marketing team. But for now, you can use the editorial calendar plug-in as it is free.

Tactic #10: Replicate what works

Are you struggling to find popular content ideas? Well, no need to struggle anymore. Come up with a list of 5 of your competitors, take their URLs and plug them into the Quick Sprout analyzer tool.

Once the report loads, click on the “social media analysis” tab.

What the tool will show you is all of the popular blog posts that your competitors have created from a social media aspect. You can then take the list and sort it by a specific social channel to see what post titles people like the most.

You can then generate your own version of that blog post with your own twist, so that way you aren’t copying your competition blatantly.

This will help you create more content that gets more social traffic versus writing blog posts that don’t get shared.

Conclusion

Content marketing isn’t all about the content. With a few small tweaks, such as adjusting the layout of your content or how and when you tweet it out, you can get more traffic.

It’s the basics that many of us forget. If you are going to put in the time to create content, might as well maximize how much traffic you are generating from it.

http://www.quicksprout.com/low-hanging-fruit-of-content-marketing-10-quick-changes-that-will-bring-big-results/ Read more here - http://review-and-bonuss.blogspot.com/2019/03/low-hanging-fruit-of-content-marketing.html

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